PM to join Peace and War [Razkar]

[Markus Andres]

Markus' sword struck the gladius and let out a loud clang that resonated through the training area. People had turned to see the fight already. The brief respite after the first bout had given people enough time to gather around the two fighters. Markus did not notice any of this, for his attention was solely on the myrian before him. At some point, a knight simply ceased to be amazed by the speed of the non-Syliran savages. This particular savage was showing that nigh impossible quickness time after time. Nimble body stepping forward into Markus' attack. Blocking the feint so easily and pushing Markus' sword up and to the side. Markus' strength might not have been in this attack, as it was a mere diversion, he still found it troubling that the myrian with such ease had stopped and deflected his attack. It required a change in tactics. A very drastic change. Markus saw the myrian's right shoulder moved. Which meant the axe was coming in from the side or above. It was not above, for the arm and muscles did not move right for an above the head style of swing. In either case, he couldn't let that devastating arm strike him. He had heard and felt the impact on the shield. This myrian packed a punch with that hand axe. When the axehead made its appearance above his shield without any real speed behind it. Not enough to break Markus' guard, at least. It worried him, for he instantly realized the tactic employed. The only reason you'd ever want to hook an axe over a shield during combat, was to tear it down and open up the defences for others. It was skilfully action to accomplish, especially during combat. There was no doubt that this myrian knew how to handle a tool like an axe well. There could be no more finesse and attempts to outsmart and test the opponent with different ploys and tricks. He knew all he needed to know about this opponent. The opponent had speed. Markus certainly knew he had the strength on his side. The myrian had experience on his side. Speed and experience was a dangerous cocktail to be facing. Markus had strength and superior defensive minded weapons and gear. Perhaps a better tactical mind. At least his ego feed him that part of the equation. - His opponent lacked the same armour that Markus wore. It aided in his speed, but to Markus' advantage, it meant Markus didn't have to strike with the full strength of a swing. Even a short range lounge or sweep might cut him and injure him. Most regular fighters would back away from such a close range exchange between a gladius and a bastard sword. Get out to a more comfortable range. That is also what Markus would have taught any student of his, get out and try again. As per Markus' reckless aggressive nature in fights, that did not fit well with himself. He was a man born into the school of offence. It was time to utilize that strength. Markus' violently pulled his shield back with a grunt and very powerful pull and pressure on the floor. Sheer strength. Hooked axe or not. Markus would pull the shield to him. If the myrian had intended to open Markus' right side up for an attack. He had succeeded for the shield was pulled a good foot back from it's original position. If he had intended the young knight to give a petch about his compromised defence, he was painfully wrong. Markus had always excelled at turning defence into attack. Had always been his primary goal in battle, attack and defend at the same time. Markus had not withdraw his bastard sword, instead he used the violent twist of his torso and feet for a very close range diagonal sweep. Using his strength to just press the sword down onto Razkar should he resist with the gladius and then into his exposed skin. Hoping Markus' violent pull of his axe to first throw him off balance and weaken his focused defence long enough that Markus might succeed in cutting the myrian warrior and pressing his defence out of the way. Little did he know that the myrian would not be maintaining his pressure on the bastard to keep it away. Instead opting for a strike at Markus. The lack of any resistance on the part of the myrian surprised the young knight. He was too committed to the attack to stop it then but the very lack of any counterpressure was a problem. For the bastard could slash in unopposed. He felt and saw why the myrian had stopped the pressure on his sword. The myrian had gone for a very attractive target. Markus' elbow joint. It was naturally protected by more than air and tight muscles and tendons, but a good swing could bruise and injure the joint. The gambeson worn under the armour and attached plate would take the brunt of the force. Despite the armour Markus felt the jolt when the gladius connected. It had been a very short range swing, yet the myrian fighter had packed a punch and redirected Markus' diagonal swing to be aimed at his left shoulder in a much steeper angle.

[Razkar]

Everything changed within the space of a breath, battle flowing first one way then another, and Razkar found his mind pounding against itself once again.

The reaction time of the human... it was something to behold. But it spoke more to him of resolve and personality than it did just training. The Knight was simply and utterly unwilling to allow the Myrian to dictate the dynamic of battle. Before Razkar could even land his second, hopefully crippling blow, the armored colossus was already moving, adapting, fighting back and denying him the initiative.

The Myrian would have smiled again, if he'd had the time. As it was, he had a falling sword to worry about.

Just as he'd aimed to distract the human, the same happened to him when Markus jerked back viciously on the shield, ripping it back to his body as Razkar had pulled it away, and pulling the hooked Myrian with it-

-twisting and turning as he went, dragging Razkar's center of gravity towards him as the Myrian aimed at his elbow-

-bastard sword swinging down-

-and Razkar felt a satisfying crunch as his blade hammered into that weak spot, nothing broken, perhaps, but now there would be a dull, steady ache in the human's arms, a numbness and pain at the same time, second-guessing his own body.

He grunted mentally. Yeah. Because the human is acting so predictable thus far, right?

His gnosis burned and lent him precious fractions of a tick, slivers for him to use and improvise. Razkar knew that adaptability, speed... utilizing the flow of battle to his advantage... that would end this fight in his favor. Going for a quick, crippling wound, ending the fight theatrically, decisively... no... he was fooling himself.

Battle is like water, he remembered his instructors' as his gladius connected and the sword came down, aimed sharply at his shoulder, it flows... and thus, your own movements and technique must flow. They must change from one blow to another before the first has even fallen, endlessly adapting and willing to morph into what is necessary to win.

No time and too close to parry; too close to back up, too. So, what did that leave him? As he felt himself pulled back by the Knight's shield, he had his answer-

-let himself flow with Markus' momentum, the way he was being pulled with his ax-

-tightening his grip on the bone hilt of the weapon, using it as an anchor as he half-slid and was half-carried to Markus' left, the direction the shield was pulled back in-

-away from the bastard sword's strike, but not completely-

-so Razkar twisted at the same moment, almost throwing himself to his left, hurling his shoulder out from under the bastard sword.

Some of the crowd murmured at the Myrian's strange, almost-athletic move, so far removed from the pounding and hammering of the sparring Knights they had seen. As Markus' body twisted, his shield pulled back and his sword came down, the Myrian appeared so cling to him like a limpet, but he clung only with the hooked ax, sliding and falling and jumping and swinging to Marku' left as the bastard sword parted naught but air-

-feeling the ax slide free from the shield and pulling it free, landing on both feet at Markus' left side, his shield side-

He has size, strength... and weight. Lots of weight.

-and immediately let his legs turn to jelly, going low in a crouch, body still twisting from his impact-

-left leg sweeping out with his teeth gritted, shin aimed at the back of Markus' armored legs. Goddess knew it would petching hurt, but the armor would be weaker there... and properly done, it would knock the big bastard away, or even down.

'Would'. Big word in a fight. Like 'if'... or 'victory'.

The bastard sword flashed down to Razkar's left, that blow aimed at his shoulder missing and the momentum keeping it going. He lashed out with as sideward backhand from his gladius, another short blow but sharp enough to rattle bones as he aimed at the metal just above the Knight's wrist. Even if he didn't knock Markus down, he'd at least give him something to think about-

-then roll backwards the moment his shin had connected and followed through, lest the big human hammer him with that shield, which he knew was a possibility.

He knew his art and his craft, this one, and they were far from finished.

[Markus Andres]

A god would have to explain to Markus how the Myrian managed to escape his sword every time. The acrobatic Myrian evaded his blow again. Ingenious his method, using Markus' violent pull to heave himself out of the way of the attack. For Markus had felt the extra weight he was pulling, not the quick pull of an axe being torn from its hand, but a weight he felt constantly. At the same time, managing to strike Markus arm. There was no doubt any more, this man was master at his craft and his craft was war. Their battle was a constant shifting of who had the initiative and the crafty Myrian was the only to land any blows on Markus. Both were insignificant in the long run, still, Markus had not expected there to be ordinary people in the world who were capable of such a feat. Another reason to stop being an arrogant ass. It was like fighting his master Ser Mason again back when Markus had been a worse fighter. Constantly being out-played. His own initiative denied by the Myrian, his sword hopelessly hacking down through the insubstantial air. Eyes tracking the rapid movements of the Myrian fighter. He was moving close by, Markus could shove his shield out, but his balance was off for such a manoeuvre, only destabilize it further and he would, at best, only get a glancing blow on the slippery Myrian. But allowing the Myrian to escape was unacceptable. Fortunately this time, the Myrian escaped to the side Markus was already turning and the direction his upper body was moving. That was the fortunate part, the unfortunate part was that he could not hack his sword after the escaping Myrian. It was already too late to turn his sword arm to follow the Myrian as he escaped. Thinking he was going to retry his trick from before, slipping by Markus to get to his exposed backside again. Thinking the Myrian had made a critical tactical mistake escaping to Markus' shield side, the side where Markus knew he could deflect any blow. Markus' feet shifted. Heels lifted and the front of his feet turned on the hard surface, brought his stance from right leg leading to left leg leading and meant he was now facing almost the complete other direction. Perfect defensive position, but Markus expected an attack to his rear, so it was ideal change. It turned Markus a good 150 degrees around with a simple shift of his feet. Which in turn moved his entire body to follow the legs. Unfortunately, Markus knew he was giving ground by shifting to a more defensive stance, handing the initiative over to the Myrian. Unless of course Markus had completely misread the Myrian fighter. Which he had. The first sign of something being wrong, was the deceptively fast gladius swinging out in a backhand towards Markus' sword arm. Another strike to the sword arm, the tactic of the Myrian quite clear to Markus. Every single strike thus far had been at the weak spots in the armour. Markus pulled his arm back. Hiding the arm behind his right side of the body. The Myrian's sword would swing harmlessly by and for once, it was not Markus who hit naught but air. That alone was a small victory in itself. For when his shield moved out of the way, he saw the Myrian. Right there. Before and below him, one leg kicking out. That was when Markus felt something strike his now leading left leg in the front. To his surprise, the Myrian had not done as before. Instead, he had opted for a low kick at Markus' leg. A low kick that now connected squarely with the front of Markus' strongly armoured shins. Markus' weight had been on that foot. Keeping him anchored as the Myrian struck hard. Markus felt the vibration through his body as the armour absorbed the force of the strike. But Markus did not budge an inch from the kick. It was rare that Markus owed his life to his armour for the second or third time in a fight that had only lasted for a short bout, but today he was in love with his armour. The young knight had not expected the Myrian to stick close, not expected him to drop low. There were limitations to Markus' field of view when fighting with a helmet. This was one of those times where it was unfavourable to wear a helmet. But he wasn't going to complain, for the Myrian had just decided to kick Markus' metal shin and he must be hurting from that mistake. Bone shin against metal plated shin, Markus had tried that, he had been limping for a week afterwards. But this Myrian was undoubtedly made of stronger stuff than Markus, or else he would cover himself in armour like the young knight did. The Myrian tried to roll away then, perhaps realizing the perilous position he was in. Markus would not allow him to escape. That had been a prime objective when he had turned and twisted to face him again. Not let him escape unscathed, at the very least. Markus did something he rarely did wearing armour. He kicked. Sacrificing ground control in favour of the opportunity to strike hard against his opponent. The kick was not well aimed nor was it in any particular way fancy to look at, it was as if he was about to kick a rock lying on the ground and send it flying, clearly showing that Markus rarely kicked. But it did have the brutal advantage of Markus' foot being covered by metal boots. Technically it was not a boot but a sabbaton. In the end, no matter what name it had, it would hurt to be directly struck by the kick. Swinging the right leg past the left. His aim was simple, hit the Myrian fighter's upper body. Arms or torso didn't matter - the Myrian would be in for a world of hurt did he get struck by the kick. Markus follow up should the kick miss was placing the foot on the ground. Transitioning himself from a defensive into a offensive stance. Thrust the sword directly forward at the shape of the Myrian.

[Razkar]

Not so much as a tremor. Razkar might as well have tried to kick down a pine tree, for all the good it did. A pain grunt choked its way out of gritted teeth as his shin smacked into Markus' armored leg, doing naught but send a spasm of pain up the Myrian's own.

Keep to the plan!

Cursing mentally, Razkar rolled backwards, arms splayed out so he would not grind and slash himself on his own weapons, trying to get some distance from the knight. But even as his body went arse over tit, circle of onlookers and the sky itself becoming a blur, he felt the vibrations on the stones-

-heard the clank of metal-

-knew that when he righte himself, still in a half-crouch, weapons coming back up-

-the Knight was be back on the attack. An armored foot - far larger than his own, flesh burnished with thick metal, pointed at the tip - swung upwards and Razkar swayed backwards instinctively. It was no lunging strike, though, aimed at knocked him back-

-more a vertical swing upwards, aiming for his breastbone, capable of splintering bone like kindling-

-but Razkar avoided it-

-mostly-

-barking out at the tip ripped into his chest, carving a short but ragged gash into his left pectoral. The sheer impact of so much fast-moving metal knocked him back a few more steps, feet finally remembering to dig in, stop the momentum, Myrian panting through the pain even as Markus' foot came back down-

-and his sword thrust out-

-but that, Razkar could deal with.

His gladius flashed diagonally from his left, knocking the thrust up and to Markus' right-

-but the parry morphed immediately into a short, sharp strike at the underside of Markus' forearm, just under where he gripped the sword.

At the same time the Myrian lunged forward, just a step, enough for his ax to swing round hard sideways-

-hammering towards the broad, protecting shield, battering it once with every ounce of his own flesh and every ethereal advantage the Malediction runes could grant him, knocking the Knight to the side, forcing him off balance-

-giving him a moment to drop down nearly to one knee, snapping back his ax and then bringing it slashing diagonally down, aiming for the side of Markus's left leg, his shield side-

-gnosis burning, giving him that precious breath of speed to hammer into the side of Markus' knee before he could jerk the shield down to stop him.

That was the plan, anyway, and Razkar knew that against such an opponent, it was a hopeful one at best. He would keep his gladius ready to block or parry, if he could and whether he struck or not, Razkar would straighten his legs fast and jump backwards immediately after, using his speed, making more distance, more time... more time...

The Myrian smiled. More time under hot and untrammeled Syna...

Sweat rolled gently down the savage's almost-bare body now, mingling with the blood from his chest and soothing, if only for a tick, the sting of his battered muscles. He would circle the Knight, if he got away, flick a glance at the burning, merciless Lady of Fire above them all. It was still sweltering Summer in Syliras, before ailing Autumn sucked the humidity from the air and heralded Winter's frigidity.

Razkar was born and raised in a climate hotter than this, yet only now was his body noticing it, and that was mainly due to exertion. But Markus, encased in Goddess knew how many pounds of armor, with padding under that, clothing under that, spending long chimes swinging steel, avoiding his enemy's own blows, ducking, twisting, pushing and pushing...

He would not laugh. He would not disgrace his opponent nor this hallowed place of warriors... but he would spare a tick to point upwards with his gladius... and wink into the black slit he knew Ser Markus watched him from.

Getting tired? Don't worry. You will be. I'll make sure of that

The long game. Something unfamiliar to Razkar, but faced with the gleaming metal monster before him, he was beginning to realize that was the strategy required. Not as flashy of exciting, nor the stuff of bardic legends nor barroom bragging... but it ended the same way.

Victory. All the sweeter for the patience it requires...

[Markus Andres]

The satisfying feeling of a foot connecting hard with the opponent was not something Markus was familiar with, he rarely if ever kicked opponents. He was too worried about his balance to sacrifice a leg for pressing an offensive. This man, left him no choice. It was Markus' first solid hit. In fact, it was his only hit on this opponent. Markus had not expected that he would have to be playing the long game, nor had he expected to be on the defensive more than the offensive in this fight. Instead, every other attack he made was swept away with seemingly ease while the other half of his attacks hit nothing but air. It was a solid morale booster to finally strike this opponent. But it had come at a price. Prolonged combat had turned Markus' armpits into a hellish place to be. Warm and sweaty from the many strikes and desperate strikes. The knight simply wasn't accustomed to this kind of intensive battle and he knew that no matter if he won or lost, the soothing waters would be next on his agenda. The fight was far from over, endurance wise, but the knight could tell that the spar thus far had taken a toll on him. His sword was parried away and Markus recognized the movement of the Myrian's arm. It was that same flick of his sword that would strike at his arm. Markus turned his arm so the bottom was facing up. Arm further raised by the Myrian's strike to the stronger armour of the gauntlet provided him. Eyes narrowed when he saw the axe come in for his shield and Markus braced himself for impact. What came next did more than surprise Markus, it was astonishing to say the least. He felt the unreal and very unnatural power of the axe collide with the shield. He had begun to guess at the power of the Myrian, his strikes were fast and that was where he had thought the strength was inherently located. Everything, was revised with that strike. For Markus did not just lose his balance. No, he was very much pushed aside and away from the Myrian like no one could have foreseen. Markus felt like Xalet had just decided to show up out of nowhere and kick him directly on the shield and his arm simply gave way into Markus himself who was then pushed aside. Feet quick to keep up and try to remain standing. The only reason Markus did not lay sprawled on the ground like a turtle on its back had more to do with sheer luck than any particular skill on his behalf. There was something supernatural about that axe which made Markus wonder why the Myrian had not used that more often. Petching farmer tool... The Myrian, seemingly not wanting to follow up on his success had retreated rather than press his advantage. All the better for the knight who spent the time opening and closing his left hand. It had been stunned momentarily by that insane strike. Making sure nothing was broken or sprained. Shield and armour and he had still felt that one. That or the muscles had just been worn from attempting to block such an insanely powerful strike. There was something very very unnatural about this grotesque warrior. His breath, heavy. Feeling warm air strike the helmet and be pushed into his face again. He had to find a way to defeat this damn man. The advantage he had hoped would decide it in his favour, the pure strength, was unreliable at best, especially now that he had been flung aside like a ragdoll by the strike of an axe. Everything told him that this was a lost fight. His only true, advantage, the armour, was soon turning into a very severe disadvantage as the goddess kept her rays upon him. But the armour had proven its worth already. Although the prospect for victory was slim, Markus had no intention to give in or fall for defeatism. It was when everything went against him that fighting was the greatest. That was when he enjoyed it the most. Being brought to the brink of defeat and then attempt to claw yourself out of the situation. Markus took a deep breath of warm air and then his focus went inwards. Desperate times called for desperate measures. It was a skill he so rarely used that it was a wonder that he'd even remembered he still had it in him. His stance relaxed. Left leg leading, defensive stance with the shield in front of him. Right arm raised ready to strike down should the Myrian venture close. A sudden shift in Markus' style ought to catch the Myrian by surprise. Defensive rather than offensive. Conserve his strength. Syna's rays would still be there, but that he could handle. Guard duty had made sure of that. However, there was a play of deception. Markus shield was lowered a bit and shaking a little. As if the strike had injured his arm. Weakening the shield side. It was a deception, for his arm felt okay, a little beat from that strike, but nothing hindering his performance. It had been a while, thus when he felt the spark, the touch of his own magical essence it felt a little odd. Like a friend you had not seen in a while, familiar yet different. But he could feel the djed, at the moment it was coursing the natural pathways, going where it thought it was most needed. The largest activity at the moment was going to and from his abdominal area. The diaphragm to be more specific. Aiding in the respiration of tired muscles. He only maintained a readiness to use it when it was required. Particularly, when the Myrian tired of their waiting game and attacked. But when he had attempted to use it against Ball, his control had flickered. He could not afford that now, but he did not have the time to test if he could properly maintain the control. He would have to wing it on demand. The sudden shift in tactic was against his very nature, defensive was not something he liked, but he had to break the vicious cycle of near-defeats every time he attacked.

[Razkar]

The long game... the long game... the long game...

A growl, beast-like and frustrated, rolled from between the Myrian's lips, peeled back from sharp white teeth. He knew, intellectually, that this was the right and intelligent tactic. Wear him down. Keep him moving. Use Markus' armor against him, capitalize on his existing weariness and injuries, grind grind grind...

But his training, his experience, his very blood rebelled against it. Such was not the way of the Children of Myri at war. Speed and brutality were their weapons: ambushes from the fetid, impenetrable jungle, a volley of arrows, darts, bolas and spears to demoralize and decimate their targets and then a charge, screaming, whooping, yelling until throats were roar as they ran in close-

No. Not here. You are not in the jungle. You are fighting a larger, stronger warrior made of metal. Rushing in close will leave you bloodied in ticks.

Then Razkar's eyes narrowed as the labored creaking of the Knight's chest armor stilled. Armored feet, one of them winking wetly at him with his own blood, slid across the stone and metal plates shifted into an unmistakable defensive posture. Shield forward, sword high and to the right, ready to defend and counter-attack in the same breath if he needed to.

He knows what you're trying to do... but he can't exactly shed his armor in the middle of a spar. And...

The glare shifted to a tiny, knowing smile. Ah, was that a tremble he spied in that shield? Very good, considering he'd botched that juicy chop to the big bastard's knee. Razkar wasn't one to believe in thing's going "too well", but the sheer power in his ax had knocked Markus out of range of its follow up. It could have crippled him, at least for the fight.

Such are our plans, and how often they fail. Look to the present and the future, not the done and dusted past. Now move!

Move the Myrian did, but not as the Knight probably expected. He began to circle the defensive metal warrior, clockwise, walking swiftly outside of his range. With every step he felt his heart beat faster, his gnosis thudding along with it, a steady pulse of latent excitement and the thrill of combat-soon-to-be. Markus turned with him, unwilling to let the Myrian get on his shield-less side. Razkar's eyes never left him, noting the strange... balance, that seemed to radiate from the man.

Exhaustion is not so easily wrought on these Knights. You've seen them on guard duty for bells at a time, enough for you to run your errands from noon 'til Syna's slow fall, and be in the same spot, same armor... with nothing but a few beads of sweat to signify their strain.

Force it... but be cautious. You have the advantage-

The Myrian clutched his weapons tight, deciding his next gambit within the space of a breath-

-now press it home.

Razkar darted at Markus' sword side, ax cocked back across his chest, aiming a furious backhand from the rune-etched weapon at the lower half of the raised broadsword, hoping to knock it to Markus' left, in front of his chest, perhaps, opening up his right side-

-bereft of shield or steel to protect it-

-but it would not be his torso he would aim for-

-his gladius would swing around in Razkar's left hand, aiming for the side of Markus helmet, hard and vicious, strong enough to bounce the Knight's skull around in its metal box, deafening, blinding, disorienting-

-and he would slide away again. Two quick, furious hits, fueled by his own lack of armor, his natural speed and, of course, the Blessing of Myri Herself throbbing and coursing through him. The long game... getting his hits in fast and brutal, but staying out of range of retaliation.

He didn't pay much attention to the shield, judging it weakened by that trembling...

Somewhere, after what happened was clear to him again, the Myrian would swear he could hear faint, feminine laughter reverebeating throughout the aged and silent stones of the Training Grounds. His Goddess-Queen, it seemed, still had something left to teach him about deception.

And through such an odd tutor, as well.

[Markus Andres]

It was irony that the Myrian would be taught a lesson in deception from a self-perceived honourable knight. The attention to details was important. It sounded more like something an arrogant starving artist would say to promote himself. Markus was not an artist, he was a warrior and he did not say it because he was full of himself. He said it because when he had not paid attention to the details, he had ended up bleeding from a cut or his face becoming a punching bag and his delicate skin was torn. He caught the subtle shift in the Myrian when Markus played his trick. It was fortunate that he wore a helmet, or his smile might have betrayed his intent. That was why his eyes were vary as the Myrian started circling him. What was the detail he was missing? Why was he circling him, what was the end goal? He turned his body and legs slid across the ground to continuously face him. He would not expose his backside to this grotesquely great fighter. Not again. Every instinct told him to attack. Attack. Attack. Attack. Destroy him. Seize the initiative. But the pragmatism stopped him. He had to adapt to this man. Adapt to his attacks. His speed. Improve upon himself. Learn to read this fighter. Expand upon the tactics used by the Myrian and then find a way to crush him into the ground. 'Beware of the axe. Dodge, not block.' - Easier said than done. The Myrian continued the circling of a hunter trying to unnerve its prey. Markus' eyes just looked right back at those orbs of black death. Awaiting the judgement on his defensive stance. The power roared in him. The djed that productively went around his astral pathways. Supplying each crucial place with the energy needed to boost his performance. It was crucial that he was ready for the counter attack when the Myrian struck. He had seen his strikes, they were lightning fast. Essentially, he had to hope that the Myrian would prove less adept at attacking as he was counter attacking. Although, Markus doubted someone so grotesque looking would not savour the opportunity to attack the deceptive knight. Then the Myrian struck. Struck with that blasted enchanted farmer's tool of his. But his target was not Markus and because of the speed behind the Myrian's attacks, Markus was simply reduced to instinctive counters. His sword went out to block the weapon before it reached Markus. In hindsight, Markus would find this reaction foolish. Pulling back was infinitely better. The attack was no threat to his well-being, he realized that too late. Steel connected with the perceived farmer's tool. Fingers deprived of the Bastard. Markus treasured blade being forced from his grip by the incredible power of the Myrian. '... Petch... Focus. Adapt. Adapt. Adapt. Counter!' - Desperation was a fine teacher. But the Myrian was not done and despite Markus' incredible setback, he was not about to give up. Never surrender. In that regard, he was like the favoured children of Myri, a fighter 'til the bitter end. This stubbornness came from two things, one he wouldn't know when he would meet a fighter as experienced and talented as this man again, make the best of it, secondly: Not when he was having this much fun. Markus swung the shield around, much faster than his feigned injury ought to allow him. Much faster than even he could do in his prime. Inside the body of the young knight, djed was pushed into the core muscles at his thigh. Empowering the muscles used in most power strikes. Markus had just not expected that he was going to be using the djed on a defensive manoeuvre. Rotating the upper body faster. The shield brought in the path of the attack. But hardly in a controlled fashion. Like any trained warrior, Markus' timing and precision was based upon years of hard work, the sudden shift that the flux inevitably caused upon that timing meant that his timing and direction was off. It was not the controlled and measured response to the Myrian's attack that Markus normally would have responded with. This was closer to a wild haymaker moving up from below and rather than blocking the weapon, the metal edge was instead unintentionally aimed at the lower left arm, close to the wrist, of the Myrian warrior.

[Razkar]

Victory and defeat came and went so fast that they were almost as one to the Myrian. But even with time seeming to slow, sluggish and crystalline in the furious, frozen moment of the duel, Razkar had time enough to feel the fierce joy of the first and the bitter sting of the latter.

His ax lashed out savagely but to his surprise it was the human's sword that it struck, Markus attempting to parry the overwhelming blow, unknowing of the precise and unreal power Razkar's blade possessed-

-only to hear a bark of savage satisfaction from the ink-covered warrior as the broadsword was knocked from his gauntlet-covered hand, clattering on the stone a few yards away, robbed of his main weapon-

Razkar felt his face grow taut, even strained as his grin widened. He could hear the stunned, awed gasps of the spectators, novices and squires and even full Knights who could not believe and armed and armored example of the Shields of Syliras had been disarmed.

He could taste his victory; it was so close, and his passion, his confidence blinded him-

-as the human whirled around on his heel, but even as he spun, Razkar's grin froze; it was not just from the impact of his ax, it was... almost controlled-

-sun gleaming, dancing, bursting off the faded but still-brilliant plate armor, making the Myrian wince even as he started to backpedal, eel of uncertainty squirming inside him-

Fast! How can he be so-

-Markus' shield was held straight out in his arm, edge angled slightly, jagged metal teeth biting down towards him even as he struggled to get away, smirking vitory crumbling in shock-

-and then he screamed, felt his forearm go numb, a second blade joining the longer, heavier first on the stones as his gladius was hammered from his hand, brief and thin squint of blood splattering after it as the top of his wrist was laid open by those damnable gnashers lining the human's shield-

Razkar stopped. Markus stopped. Each down to one weapon, both panting, surprised, and the crux of the duel was being decided in those still, wide-eyed and unbending figures. Neither would relent, even missing a weapon; their bodies were the real weapon, and they knew it-

You take too long! Strike! Seize the initiative!

Don't let him get a hold of that sword again!

This is victory masked in temporary defeat! He wields only a shield and no blade; you have an ax gifted by the Power of Bones!

Razkar screamed; a sound so abrupt and primal it blew around the hallowed stones like the death cry of something far removed from the civilization of Syliras. A few of the onlookers flinched at the sound of it... but all Razkar heard was those competing, confusing voices drowned and stifled-

-and his course was clear again.

I cannot go back. I cannot submit. One blade, two, none or crawling in my on blood... I fight on. With whatever I had. Wherein, victory is born.

The cry was still rattling around the yard when he burst forward again, left arm numb but right almost vibrating with power, strength, rage, whatever you wish to call it, and all were goaded on by the growling gnosis at his neck.

The Myrian came in at the human's left, his shield, the less predictable option sine Markus' right was now without a weapon as well as a shield, swinging horizontally, wide and-

-obvious-

-a feint, which he would pull back from, not trusting his eyes as much as he did mere ticks ago after the human's deception, knowing or suspecting some fatal trickery still to come-

-stopping his flat horizontal swing before it connected, drawing out the shield-

-pulling back his ax and lashing diagonally out with his left foot, stamping down on the human's right knee, seeking to hobble and wobble and unbalance the knight-

-then hammering diagonally on his shield yet again, full power of that rune-worked chopper only adding to the shattering force, but now reinforced by the snarling figure behind it, eyes wide and furious, lips pulled back from sharpened teeth in an inhuman grimace-

-and Razkar would finish his swift, bruising combination by dropping lower, knees bent once both feet were back under him, swinging low with his ax at the Markus' armored left shin, too low to be protected by the shield and hopefully staying that way with the Myrian pounding so hard on it, distracting him-

All were plans; all were sound and thought out in the fraction of a tick, bred from years as a warrior and a hundred skirmishes he had survived with cunning and skill and animal brutality.

But logic was beginning to desert Razkar, much as his well-trained mind was rebelling against it. The necklace of djed-crafted lion teeth was vibrating loud and insistent on his chest, making his ribs rattle and lungs ache... begging to be released with all the rage the shade of that animal had left.

Razkar threw himself forward, heedless, bent on vengeance and victory both.

[Markus Andres]

It was only as the shield dug into the Myrian's wrist that Markus fully realized that he had been disarmed. The Bastard had been flung from his hand as if he had been a mere novice. It was almost inconceivable. But Markus had drawn blood. But the fierce look on the Myrian's face told him that this fight was far from over. A toothy smile responded to the Myrian's defiance. For Markus felt the same eagerness to continue their deadly dance until either was soundly defeated. Feeling exhilarated from his defiance Markus' right hand gripped the strapping on the shield. Or at least, that was what he wanted the Myrian to believe, for Markus was not entirely disarmed. For above the empty Bastard's scabbard, was a smaller one holding a simple dagger. Although Markus' proficiency with this weapon hardly matched that of the Bastard, it was better than being unarmed. He would want the Bastard back, but he could not divert his attention from the Myrian long enough to retrieve the blade. Markus stepped back, feeling acid burned at his hips. Right. Flux might mean he could exert more power, but still drained the muscles. Markus fingers felt a little numb from the weapon that had been forcefully flung from his grip. He could not recall when that had last happened. Not in seasons, if not years. Markus felt the djed pulsating through the pathways. Or was it the rapid pace of his heart beating that he felt. Doing its best to keep up with the unreasonable demands of the mind. The Myrian fighter had also been recovering from Markus' counter attack. Having lost his gladius. Still. That cursed handaxe was still there, with its diabolic power. Rather have had that weapon lost for the Myrian than the gladius. But beggars can't be choosers. The Myrian let out a piercing howl and Markus felt the energy as he, to his own surprise he let out a defiant howl as well, challenging the Myrian. Not to be outdone by this Myrian warrior. Markus limbs, battered and beaten from the prolonged combat. Beginning to get weary, as his mind hungered for more battle, for a greater clash. A mind dulled by the adrenaline still pumping steadily in his veins. Everyone is watching... Everyone is looking at us go at it. Petch them. I will win this fight, I will bring the honour of victory to the knights. A stubborn trickle of sweat moved down his cheek. No matter what. Pragmatism dictated he stand his ground. Await the time to counter attack. But petched be pragmatism. He was too animated too moved by the flaring emotions this fight evoked in him. The ferocity he felt emanating from the Myrian had him licking his lips in anticipation of what was to come. He could not be on the defensive, not with that axe ready to tear any block apart with ease. He had to attack. Attack and let his aggressive nature drive home the offensive. Markus would not let the Myrian dictate the fight. As the fighter moved to Markus' shield side, Markus legs got to work. Powerfully he pushed away, the power of djed pushing his muscles beyond the natural inhibitors would allow him. But the muscles were big, the tendons strong from years of work. - They ought to be able to take the stress. Markus was now the one eager for a very close range fight, where the axe was less effective and Markus' shield and dagger became the dominant force. The axe being swung was spotted, but he hoped to close the distance so the handle and not the axe-head struck his shoulder. - But it didn't not connect with him. He felt no supernatural strength. It had been a feign? Markus felt the real attack sting on his right leg. Teeth biting the pain and tears away. Balance was crucial to Markus' attacks and this Myrian had just severely weakened his sense of balance, the left foot touched ground and Markus regained a small measure of balance. Enough for him to continue the charge. Close the distance between the two. Using the shield to ram directly into the Myrian's chest. Force him off balance in turn. Right hand drawing the dagger and in the same fluid motion, his arm swinging the dagger in a low arch around the edge of the shield at the Myrian's stomach as he forced the shield aside to first bash away the Myrian's right arm and then to keep it in check as Markus continued to push at the Myrian. The plan was simple, keep his right arm locked with the shield, hammer away with with the dagger in increasingly ferocious strikes. He gritted his teeth as he put weight on the right leg to keep up the pressure of the offence. Petch it. He would live and he would fight!

[Razkar]

The armored titan wobbled as Razkar struck home, but he had little time to capitalize on his minor victory. The Myrian shook his head quickly, wet hair scattering droplets of sweat in a stinking halo around him.

His plan for the long game was all well and good, but Syna's increasing heat bore no love for either of them. In Markus' case, however, it was only made worse by the several dozen pounds of metal he wore-

-not that they seemed to be stopping him.

Razkar had little time to celebrate before the Knight was moving again, as unused to defense as the Myrian was, charging in with his shield locked before him, hiding his other arm-

-making the Myrian wary, didn't he see another blade there-

-but there was no time, no time! Syna was steadily blotted as Markus relentlessly advanced, leading with his right foot, nothing to Razkar's eyes but a broad, tall shield capped by glowering eyes encased in a helmet. The Myrian gritted his teeth and swung his ax into it with a bark-

-and felt the raw power of the aforementioned metal augmenting the warrior's strength, pushing him back even as his ax hammered into the shield, growling through his arm with kinetic energy and the howling spirit of that dead Akalak, rattling the human's body as much as his shield did Razkar's-

-but it was not over. The shield kept moving, but up, drawing Razkar's arm away, other arm becoming visible-

-holding a dagger-

-slashing towards Razkar' stomach in a low arc-

-and the Myrian flung himself down and backwards out of instinct, not wanting to risk his wounded left arm further, instead tumbling backwards, rear landing hard on the stone floor, tucking his knees up, feet planted over his head, coming up in a crouch-

-a half-dozen feet from the now-rearmed Knight, the crowd around them cheering as their champion once again had the advantage. A feral snarl twisted the Myrian's lips, realizing he was once again on the wrong foot. Wounded, lacking a weapon... all he had left was the long game.

But Markus wasn't having that. He kept on the pressure, knowing his strength and power were his greatest advantages over his smaller, unarmored opponent. That damn shield came up, locked and ready, protecting his thighs and torso, and the dagger slashed and thrust, forcing the Myrian back-

-not wasting time parrying, just backing up and up, sliding away from the Knight-

-seeing a glint on the ground, familiar and yearning for him-

-and Razkar screamed out loud again, roaring out his anger and sliding fast to Markus' right, his dagger side, spinning his ax in a complicated figure of eight as he came, keeping the human guessing-

-until it came up to his left and he backhanded at the human's side, hoping to force the dagger to block or parry-

Make this work, boy.

But regardless of whether or not he struck, Razkar would throw himself down and forward, rolling past Markus, under his blade and shield-

-coming back up to a crouch where his gladius was, what he'd been working towards as he'd spent time avoiding the Knight's powerful strikes, letting him wear himself down further with his vicious but short-range dagger strikes-

-then spinning around with his mother's treasured weapon back in his left hand, ax ready in his right, ready to launch another attack, barely giving the human time to realize he'd reclaimed his gladius-

Razkar would rush forward, then slide to the Knight's left, at his shield, unexpected he hoped, swinging hard at that damned barrier with his ax, then lashing out with his gladius when Markus retaliated with his dagger-

-but not at the weapon itself; at his hand or wrist, robbing him of yet another weapon if all went to plan. Which was no guarantee... but...

Razkar felt a shiver of predatory satisfaction as he began to roll/dive past the human, the stench of sweat and soaking under-clothing so strong it battered his keenly-developed senses. Ah, already exhaustion was beginning... then he saw the arc of blood his arm left behind on the sand.

For both of us. Time to end this.