[Slag Heap] Tournament of Fists

by **Fallon** on April 30th, 2014, 7:39 pm

88th Spring 514 AV

Fallon clicked her neck. The air thrummed with life, the whispers of sounds hissing out behind the pungent scent of sulphur. Teeth parted, a long whistle as she sucked in the bitter taste. Hair had been pulled back, the features clear and steady. Wounds that once marred the flesh had lifted, the body recovered the worst of its pains and the stitches leaving now only the fine pink lines. Fingers wriggled in the gloves, the blue green gaze sweeping across the scene as she took it in. It would be as good of a place as any to host such an event. It was free territory after all, a visage of what Sunberth was all about. Chaos, anarchy, and burning. The mercenary only cocked an eyebrow at such a thing.

Behind her the shadow of the Slag Heap loomed, the wind blowing past her hair and sending the billowing black northwards. Not that it did not matter too much, she was not here to bask within the warm heat or admire the nature of this local pride. The brow lowered, and her head snapped round once more, the fingers of the right hand teasingly feeling the pommel of the tulwar. It was still tender to use it - but for the most part it had recovered like her leg. Only scars, reminders of the past existed there now. And that was exactly how she liked it. Another step, her toe kicked away the broken glass upon the ground.

It was in a state of rest that Fallon proposed the idea, the forming of such quickly growing. A spark, a gathering, to double up as a meeting between members but also serve in other fashions. Gathering, testing, the encouragement of growth. Healthy competition between those who existed within it. Of course, there was an incentive to allow such thing - not that any of them perhaps realised it just yet. There was another suck in of the air, her shoulders rolling. She would not partake, she was serving as the host after all, the leader within such a small group and she was still recovering from her earlier escapades. But, it was a start, she knew that.

Lips broke into a curl, the eyes raising to take on the scene. It would be a good day for a fight, a bright day for a tournament of fists. She felt the gentle jingle of coins in the pocket inside of her coat, safely nestled against her gut - perfectly hidden until needed. Boots pressed onto the earth, the hands moving away to tap upon the bracers. Those of the Scars knew what was going on, they knew this would be a day of challenge should they wish to step up to it. And it was up to her to make sure they did not over step the boundaries. Fighting, combat, the very idea of it already sent her blood bubbling with anticipation.

Who would lose, or better yet, who would win? She knew one wished to fight as her 'champion', but what of the others? Would they be able to match that ideal in par? Or would they simply lust for gold. It did not matter, she was going to have fun watching it regardless. And when it was all said and done, she would simply assess and continue. Besides, it carried a hidden weight that she was not just about to share it with them. Eyes came down into a narrow and the gaze lowered when she felt the massive head of Orvin brush against her leg. For a moment he gave a snort, disgusted almost by the noxious fumes that escaped. A scratch of the fur, a press down upon his head to silence him.

There was another kick away of some glass, the space gradually being worked around to create a safe space. In plain observation of the people of the city. Who knew whether they would come over or not, it did not matter - if it built reputation and they sunk into local knowledge it was useful. Eyes blinked, a rock on her heel as she finally turned her gaze down to the wolf. The crisper accent of Bitzer made itself known, a mirth filled grin looking down onto her companion but speaking to no one in particular. Even the flickering few people began to turn up their attention, the mercenary letting her presence be known, "Let's have fun with this, eh? A true tournament of fists!"

Hands came clapping together, eyes bright and the look of an idea unfolding upon her face. Even the few heads lifted to take in the sudden action of the floater. She focused, the silver tongue clicking as she brought the thoughts forward into words, "Do you hear the sounds of fists a-flyin', of crunch of bones and flesh? Do you want to rise up to the challenge and prove yourself to be today's best?" A draw back a turn, the eyes meeting the few that gave a sheepish glance to her, "Or will you refuse to meet the wager, because you're afraid of something major?" A laugh, the side of Bitzer came into play properly and truly, "Shall we?"

OOC Rules and Regs :

by **Noven** on May 1st, 2014, 9:29 pm

He could hear her voice sailing over the crowd, luring them in with taunts and bloodied promises. Even if they weren't planning to enter themselves in the contest, the sundry of ragtag citizens drew near all the same. None would turn down a chance to see free entertainment.

Nov made a slow course toward the front, blending into the rest of the crowd with his over-worn coat and unwashed face. Wolf girl was putting on a real show. She was using that persona he'd termed "Business Woman Bitzer" again, all crisp words and gestures to get the attention of her hapless victims. Course, Noven and the others had been informed ahead of time of this little tourney, but all the non-Scar citizens wandered close like flies to rotting meat.

Thinking about his fellow members put a bit of a damper on his otherwise unusually livened mood. It'd been a long, long time since the cook had a right and proper fight. Not beating Daggerhands to senseless pulps or slugging fists around in the Pits, as much as he enjoyed those. Real fights. Ones in which his opponent posed a challenge, made him doubt he could win. Ones that sent his blood singing as the exchange began in earnest and every blow landed was a triumph in both skill and wits. There was nothing else quite like it, pitting your abilities against someone who was good enough to make you sweat and bleed and weep for the shining title of victor.

And this tourney of fists had seemed like just the thing he'd been craving. A chance to test his mettle, work some of the stagnancy from his veins, and maybe even earn a nice heap of gold.

But then he thought of the others, and he felt that old, familiar clash between reckless excitement and basic interest in survival.

What did he really know of his fellow Scars, anyway? Nov hated going to Tall Johnny's arena blind, and this was no different. He preferred having whatever meager preparation he could muster, either through drink or coin or overly chatty whores. Brawling in a tavern was one thing, but a competition against someone with a reputation--or none at all--was a whole different animal.

Not to mention a few of them were women. And, though he had the distinct feeling both the blonde and the Myrian were about as vulnerable as his iron-fisted, Isurian proprietress, it made him...uncomfortable. More because he knew such a stupid concern would be to their advantage than anything else. Almost all the decent folk in his life had been women: Nona, Calyn, Dina and Mira. Hell, even Jillene, when she wasn't giving him shyke. And somewhere in the murky depths of his nonexistent past, he could remember a loving caress, gentle whispers of comfort and assurance. Ghosts that should have had no influence over his current life, but there they were. Swimming around and creating subtle direction without his knowing.

Suffice to say, he just didn't like the idea of hitting a girl.

And then there was the issue of his curse. He couldn't even be sure if it was cheating without exposing himself in front of what might as well be all of Sunberth. So far he'd kept his dark ability a secret; no one save the closest around him knew, and those were few and far between. Blowing his cover now, even for 50 gold mizas, wasn't worth it if it ended up alerting the Daggerhand boss he'd been hunting. Better stick to the basics for now.

As Bitzer ended her last word of invitation, Nov finally made it to the front of the crowd. He didn't say anything to indicate his presence, though he stood within clear view of her challenging gaze. They would have to see who else had decided to show up. Then, presumably, their wolf girl would decide how to proceed and the fun would start in earnest.

by **Buras** on May 4th, 2014, 10:34 pm

Buras was out for a walk, just a walk. He got his daily chores done, stole from one or two people, getting only a few silvers overall, and that was about it. Now, he was out looking for something interesting, which seemed to happen a lot more when he walked about.

He had his hat with the three white feathers and one black on, of course, but left his quarterstaff behind. Interesting people seemed to avoid him when he had that with him. But other than that, he was dressed like any other spring day.

Eventually, his wandering led him to the Slag Heap Fire, still smouldering after all this time. What he saw there, though, surprised him. For some reason, a girl cleared out a space and was giving a speech about fighting or watching a fight. Someone already seemed to have volunteered to fight, but everyone else stayed back, more interested in watching then fighting.

'Ah, what the hell' Buras thought wryly to himself before elbowing through the crowd and saying, "Sure, I don't mind a fight every once and a while. Besides, I got nothing better to do."

by **Fallon** on May 11th, 2014, 2:48 pm

If there was anything that Fallon would have likened the situation to, it would have been like bees to honey. The crowd came in, lured by her sudden out bursts of words. There was a grin, hands spread wide to the audience before her, a few mumbles as they waited for the first to come up for this free entertainment. Eyes looked over the faces, teeth flashing the wolfish smile. Crisp indeed, the husky tones barely left her lips, before the first of those looking for a scuffle made himself known. Noven, no less.

That predator grin flickered upon her face for a moment, her eyes swimming through the crowd as she signalled him forward and into closer view. A nod of respect, nothing more or less. Before her gaze once more swept across the people and looked for answers or other volunteers to pick out. A shuffle a moment of reluctance. It was the picking really, the starting of the first two that would set off a scale of events to get it going. And whilst it was useful to have a member of the Scars there as a representative – ignoring herself as the organiser – it would have been useful to have a few more turn up in the crowd. Increase their knowing after all.

An inhale, and once more she raised her voice. With a hand gesturing to Noven did she stare among the people, ”Do we not have a challenger for this tiny red robin? Do we not have one who deems themselves an eagle?” A laugh, her eyes sweeping out to see the gazes back. Torn, they just needed that final push, that bit of encouragement, ”Or are we more just sparrows?”

Another spoke up. Turning her head she looked upon the black haired stranger. A pause, she looked at him as he pushed himself through the crowd. Eyes blinked down onto him – his lacking height was the first noticeable thing – and the lacking of anything distinctive. Nostrils flared, a blink, and then a smile. Another gesture for him to step forward and then her attention turned to the crowd, ”So there we have it ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. We have our first two brave birds stepping into the dirt, for fists and for coin!”

Sucking in the stench, she felt the press of Orvin against her legs and then watched the creature slink round. Firstly behind the new face, to which he sniffed with some fascination, and then round to Noven. From there he simply looked up at the man with large eyes and a lolling tongue, waiting almost for some form of attention. All the while, Fallon spoke, ”So, gentlemen of fists. You’re the first two up for today’s antics. No weapons I’m afraid, going to have to leave your stick to one side.” She gave a shrug, ”Same to the no armour. Rules are rules. Now, here’s how it goes. Punch each other stupid. If you’re on the ground, and you don’t think you can take any more, tap thrice. This is a fist fight, not a blood sport.” It was at that point she slipped a hand into the red coat, her fingers pulling out the coin pouch that held the fifty golden mizas, ”So, simple stuff right. Winner gets the pot. However, if you want it, you’ll have to keep fighting for it until the end. Once you’re out though, that’s it.”

Clapping her hands together she returned the pouch, a step away from the men. It was a start, it would have to do. Shooing the crowd back slightly, and giving Orvin the firm nudge to move to the side, the woman opened her lips once more to address the people, ”So! We have the Little Red, and the Giant Black- ” Impromptu nicknames if she ever made them, ”- See the strikes and the blows, the hisses and the hurts. Who will rise victorious out of these two combatants? So, shake hands, bump fists and begin!”

by **Noven** on May 14th, 2014, 10:11 pm

He ground his teeth a little in silent protest. Tiny red robin?

...what the petch was a robin anyway?

Whatever it was, it didn't sound all too fierce. Though the red was beginning to match his mood as Wolf Girl continued to spew out bird comparisons. Nov scratched at the side of his neck, trying to hide his prickled pride. It sounded as though his role was that of some enticing prey to be snatched up by giant, razor sharp talons, what with the way she was going on about sparrows and eagles.

But it did give him something of an advantage. That much Noven had to admit. Because, while he was not quite infamous enough to be known by all within the crowd, the part cook, part merc was not utterly obscure either. Not anymore. Not after all the heads he had bashed in and ships he'd help set afire and scenes of human butchery he had stumbled out from. Maybe these poor sods in the crowd knew who he was. Maybe they didn't. Either way the rather castrating nickname ought to make him seem practically harmless in spite of whatever rumors his antics may have sparked. Krysus, between his work with Jillene and his involvement with criminals, Myrians, and Scars alike, it was becoming almost impossible to remain invisible these days.

Which was bound to happen, the sole contestant reminded himself. It had been part of the plan, after all. He wanted the Daggerhand boss who had slit Nona's throat to hear his approach.Wanted to know that slivering piece of slime was quivering in some corner. Cowering. Ready to shyke himself as promises of the worst agony imaginable closed in on him. Desperate for a way out, but aware deep down in his rotted pit of a soul that it was too petching late for redemption.

In order to do that, though, he needed a reputation. And that was exactly what he planned to build, starting with this little tourney of fists. It would be slow at first. Small acts here and there to gain momentum. But over time, Nov intended to become something of a nightmare. A living terror coming straight for the Daggerhands themselves and with nothing to stop his blood-soaked path.

Nov blinked once out of his vengeful reverie as a sudden gesture and change in Bitzer's tone caught his attention. Someone had stepped up to the challenge; a dark haired fellow with a careless air about him. Joining in just because he had nothing better to do. So, there was going to be a proper fight after all, and with a complete stranger instead of a Scar.

Interesting. Not what he expected, but still worth a shot.

To the cook's complete lack of surprise, Bitzer's wolfish companion began a careful inspection of both contestants. Well, careful in terms of the new comer anyway. By the time Orvin came around to Nov the wolf's tongue was hanging out and his strangely pup-like eyes staring up with guileless expectation. Huffing a small sigh, Noven lowered his gloved hand to scratch at the beast's snowy head. When he had gone from potential dinner to tolerable human with petting abilities the merc hadn't the faintest idea. But it was a good improvement so he wasn't one to complain.

None too soon, Bitzer announced the rules of the fight. No weapons, no armor. Nov was ready as ever and shed his coat for added measure. He tossed it to the side of the now widening berth around both contestants, trusting no one would bother stealing such a ragged piece of clothing. The man had nothing else on him anyway, neither dagger nor coin.

He rubbed the heel of his boots against the ground and studied his opponent. Shorter by at least a whole hands-width. Long, black hair. Brown eyes. All in all, nothing remarkable to behold. But after all his years spent throwing punches on the streets, Nov knew better than to judge by appearance alone. Anyone who survived past their teenage years in this city was by their own right formidable and not without multiple tricks up their sleeves. The cook himself was hopeless when it came to underhanded tactics, but even he knew a thing or two.

Desperation was a good a teacher as any.

Little Red and Big Black...sounded like an adult play. A poorly written one at that, which plenty of bare flesh to make up for its shyke craftsmanship. Flicking his thumb under his nose to hide a sudden grin, Nov walked up to his opponent to initiate the pre-fight tradition. He held the other man's hand firm and stared unblinking in to his eyes, trying to make one last gauge of skill before moving away again.

The cook settled into his usual stance preceding a fist fight. Knees spread shoulder width apart, bent and limber, while his arms and torso turned to face his rival. A nervous thrill ran through his veins but he kept his hands steady and expression sober.

"Ready when you are, brother," Nov announced, his tone rather friendly.

Too friendly.

And then, without warning, he lunged and threw his first punch, straight for the nose, giving the other contestant no time to verbally respond.

by **Buras** on May 16th, 2014, 12:55 am

'Little Red? Giant Black? What a strange sense of humor.' Buras thought to himself as he shook "Little" Red's hand. At a distance, he looked as tall as Buras, then again everyone does. But this close, Buras had to almost crane his neck to meet his eyes. They had a bit of a staring contest then, but broke it eventually and took a step back.

By now he took his hat off. He got in a fight like this once before, and got his hat stepped on. He wouldn't let that happen again. So before they gave the hand shake, Buras took it off and threw it at the girl who started this. As it was sailing through the air to hopefully be caught, Buras says "Please don't let nothing to terrible happen to that hat."

"Ready when you are, brother." Buras heard. He didn't like how that was said. But before anything could be said, Red lunged forward with a jab at his nose. He didn't expect it, but he was able to trade a broken nose for a good punch to the jaw.

Staggering backwards, Buras works his mouth. This man knew how to throw a punch. But then again, he didn't seem to know the first rule of a fight. F**k fair.

Deciding to try and return the favor, and then some, Buras closes the gap between them. He fought a man that was taller then him before. 'See how they like not being able to get their whole body into it'. Now one of his arms lengths and closing fast. Buras stops, pivots on his left foot, raises his right, aims for the stomach, and kicks. All in rapid succession. Wether he landed the kick or not, Buras closes the distance to now a half his arms length. He planned to stay there for as long as he could, giving punches to the ribs ans stomach, and a few shots below the belt, as fast as he could.

This was exciting. Buras went out looking for something interesting to do, and now he was fighting a total stranger for 50 gold, if he won. But then again, he lost nothing but maybe some blood and a tooth or two. In his mind, the reward was much greater then the risk.

by **Noven** on May 23rd, 2014, 6:25 am

oocapologies for the slowness

Clever little shyke, Nov grudgingly admitted as his opponent avoided the bloody mess of a broken nose by trading it for a single punch to the jaw. Well, it was a good sign, at least. From the looks of it "Giant Black" was smart enough not to go down with the first blow. Which meant there would be an actual fight. Which, in turn, meant more fun for everyone.

To his further surprise, Giant Black started coming closer, looking as though he meant to give Nov a taste of his own medicine. What came next happened fast. One tick an arm was going for the cook's stomach, and the next a foot was flying for his face.

Noven managed to not let the first feint smash in his face and raised his arms in time to deflect the kick. But the rest of Black's maneuvers he wasn't so fortunate with. The cook took at least two punches to the ribs and stomach, wincing at the knowledge they would hurt like hell come next morning. He ignored such consequences for now and did his best to dodge the rest of the blows.

So, speed was this guy's game. Recently deemed Red was no lightning fast hitter, so fighting fire with fire was not the smartest of counter measures. Instead, Nov decided to continue dodging for a while, testing out his opponent's strength and getting a feel for his speed. Perhaps Black would even get worn out over time. Perhaps not. Either way, Nov chose to play it safe, not wanting for one lucky punch to knock his lights out for good.

Or, maybe he just wanted to draw this out for as long as possible. Because he fucking loved this feeling.

Noven was a man plagued by guilt, frustration, and nightmares. Nothing he could do--not drinking, whoring, or working--or even the things he couldn't do, like sleeping, helped alleviate those burdens.

But sometimes, fighting made him forget. Just for a little while.

When he fought, he only focused on the now. The sweet, delicious, danger ridden present. Everything else fell away from his vision as irrelevant or insignificant. It was just him and his opponent, with nothing but their brains and their fists. He relished every moment he stole, every tick of freedom from those dark, clutching memories that lurked eagerly in the depths of his consciousness. Fighting let him feel alive. Feel free.

After the initial onslaught, Nov was a bit winded and bruised, but not yet defeated. And he wore a ridiculous grin on his face. The temptation to use his mark still fluttered through his mind, but he ignored it.

Alright, mine turn, he announced to no one but himself. Let's see what you're made of, Big Bad Black.

He watched as his opponent continued to throw kicks and punches in rapid succession, focused almost completely on where the next one might land. Once he had that discerned, Nov took a punch to the arm as he blocked. Then he lifted his knee to aim straight for Black's stomach. He moved his leg as fast and hard as he could without any previous momentum, hoping to pull of a counter jamming of the other man's attacks.

Not half a tick after Nov moved his guard arm to aim once again for Black's face. He cared neither for flare or creativity, only for what would work. And two punches to the face, in his mind, would be far more effective than just one.

by **Buras** on May 24th, 2014, 10:01 pm

Red suddenly kneed him in the stomach. It wasn't much, but it was enough to slow Buras down. A punch aimed at his face was what was next. Ducking it, he takes several quick steps back to avoid anything else. This man was determined to beat him. He had to fight smarter than that. Taking off his shirt, which revealed a scar on the upper left side of his chest, Buras holds it in his hands.

"Comon, is that the best you got?"

Taunting may get him killed, but his idea depended on it. He had to judge this right or he would certainly get hit, and probably hit hard. What he was planning, was that when Red swung, he would dodge to the side, wrap Red's arm up with his shirt, and then deliver a few swings to the side. And if that didn't work, a quick kick to the legs to try and knock Red over would have to do.

by **Noven** on May 31st, 2014, 8:59 pm

The quick little bugger dodged his second punch and, of all things, removed his shirt afterwards. Nov eyed with nothing less than the deepest of suspicions. Black didn't seem like the type stupid enough to strip himself in the middle of a fight just for pure machismo. Though only subtly distracting, the fact that it was distracting at all put the cook even more on guard.

And then came the taunt.

Noven blinked once before his lips stretched into a leer. "You're wastin' your breath kid," he responded matter-of-factly. He'd been dealing with insults all his life; it would take more than that to get him riled up.

All the same, this was taking too petching long. The cook couldn't even remember the last time he had a fight that lasted for more than ten ticks. Deciding he ought to speed things up a little, Nov went in for another punch, fast and hard and without warning as usual. Except this time, he watched. That shirt was still in his opponent's hands instead of on the ground, like clothing often was after being removed. It might have seemed trivial in the moment, but he was not one to ignore risks.

And just as he had more or less anticipated, the shirt came into play. As soon as Nov swung he found his arm swathed in fabric and Black's fists coming right for him. The merc took a blow or two to the shoulders, ignoring their impacts, and focused on his trapped arm. Within the fabric, he clenched his fingers around a sizable portion and yanked, attempting to throw Black off balance.

They were connected now and there was no reason not to use it to his own advantage. Nov pulled as violently as he could to get his opponent closer. If he could close the gap enough a well timed slam of his head to Black's might end the fight prematurely.

If not, well then they would just have to see.

by **Buras** on June 1st, 2014, 9:11 pm

'I can't believe that worked' Buras thought as he rapped the shirt around Red's arm, and landing a few hits on his shoulder. In all honesty, he thought he would get hit, or Red would slip out of it.

But, his victory was short lived, because Red must have gotten a grip on the shirt, and gave it a good yank, throwing Buras off balance. What came next simply wasn't necessary. Red, for some reason unknown to Buras, decided to instead of punch or kick him, slam him in the head with his. Head reeling backwards, Buras sees spots. But he kept a good grip on his shirt, he was close, he could use his size to his advantage here. Buras decided to try and return the favor, he had to jump a little, but, eh.

Hit or miss, and if Red didn't decide to do something to him while he was in the air, Buras landed on his feat and went right back to aiming blows at Red's side and occasionally the head. While he was doing that, he tried to get his leg behind one of Red's. If he could trip him, he could end it. No one likes to be pinned down and hit a bunch of times.

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