PM to join [Fighter's Pit] Riffraffs Aplenty

[Aren]

Syliras, Bittern District, Winthrop Alley, Anthonius Fighter's Pit: 34th of Winter - Noon Aren could have sworn he had heard the clash of metal when he had wondered through this particular area, a day earlier. He had, but he had also erroneously attributed the sound to that which emerges from the local smithy on a regular basis. As he thought more and more about it, though, he came to realize the slow, steady rhythm of blacksmiths pounding swords and shields into shape was nothing like the chaotic symphony of the battlefield. And that is what he had heard. At first, the Akalak suspected it might have been an armed street brawl, or some poor slob having crossed swords with the knights; possibly one which then led into the other. Either way, Aren hadn't heard about anything like that happening in the general vicinity, which meant that probably wasn't it. As the curious wanderer returned to the spot where he thought he had made out that peculiar cacophony of sound, he found that there it was again: the suspicious din of blade clashing against blade; of wooden shields shattering as they failed to hold fast against the power of an overwhelming blow. This had to be some kind of local attraction, the warrior thought. No way the knights would let people fight unsanctioned battles that could be heard from the street. That firmly entrenched stick simply wouldn't allow them to let people resolve their own problems, least of all through violence. Only they were allowed to do that, hypocritically enough. “But… where is it coming from?” Aren absentmindedly mumbled. Syliras was basically one gigantic castle, but there were areas which were more open to the air than the rest of the city. Winthrop Alley was one such area, and as such, sound didn't travel as well here as it did in the more enclosed sections of the fortress. This meant that wherever that hubbub was coming from, it had to be relatively nearby; all he had to do was follow his ears and let his feet do the rest. Eventually, Aren found what he was looking for. It wasn't easy, given that the city was always busy with people going about their business, even in the middle of winter, but ultimately the Akalak’s senses prevailed. As he strode into the midst of the few brave souls who did not allow the cold to put off their pursuit of physical perfection (or at least improvement), the blue skinned giant felt their eyes fall upon him. They inspected him from every angle, in much the same way an ornery predator might scrutinize the appearance of a rival in its territory. He, in turn, couldn’t help but do the same; it was the instinct to assess your foe’s capabilities inherent to any warrior. “Some of these people look about as capable of defending themselves as an infant still suckling on its mother’s saggy tits…” Seros volunteered, his trademark crass absent even a hint of pity for what he perceived to be idiotic fools who had deluded themselves into thinking that swinging a sword around a couple of times would turn them into fighters. “It takes dedication to train in the cold. Some of them might surprise you.” Aren replied, fortunately not one to share his brother’s utterly bleak outlook on others, and life in general. “Like THAT guy?” Seros queried in mock sarcasm, indicating a skinny, bean pole of a man who looked even more flimsy than the dulled spear he was attempting to heft. “Well… maybe not that guy.” The dark Other’s brother was forced to admit that the specimen in question did provoke thoughts reminiscent of the runt of a particularly scrawny litter. Yet, certainly there had to be someone here who at least looked like he belonged. This was some kind of training arena, after all. There were racks of weapons and shields about the place, and there WERE people engaging in their use, even if not particularly well. No one had asked the Akalak for a fee as of yet, which indicated the usage of the grounds and perhaps even the weapons might be free. This might explain the great abundance of riffraff, but not the absence of skilled combatants. Even professional mercenaries and soldiers often found themselves sufficiently in need of coin that a place like this might be very convenient indeed. Despite the fact that all of their prospective training partners might be amateurs, a free, wide open area where one could practice their martial skills was likely a rarity in a crowded, enclosed city like Syliras. There had to be someone.

[Heddar]

The curved blade of the tulwar flashed in the bright light of this frigid winter morning. Bakr raised it above his head before bringing it down in a swift slash. He then shifted his weight and brought it back for a series of attacks that, in the hands of a master, would have been lightning fast. But Bakr was no master, only a layman of the sword. Nevertheless, this was how he would one day ascend to a place of true mastery. Ambitious, he thought, for the son of a shepherd.

Bakr secretly hated the frigid chill of the northern winters. In Eyktol the winters were a windy sort of cold, and dry. Here the cold was wet and carried with it disease. Even in his clothes and armor, he could feel the iciness of Morwen’s touch. He had pushed through his exercises faster in an effort to work up a sweat and keep warm. He was not alone, of course. An array of Sylirans had come out to do their own work in the Fighting Pit. Men of varying skill and style were all around him, swinging or jabbing in their own right.

Bakr moved to an open area away from a majority of the others to practice his circles. The circles were the term his father had used for footwork. He shifted from guard to guard, all the while stepping around imaginary opponents. His strikes came with force generated from his core as he moved. But more often than not the attacks were mobile swipes designed to land damage and have the wielder be moving past the enemy before retaliation is possible. The tulwar was all about movement.

Bakr caught a flash of blue as he stepped. The halfbreed stopped short and turned back to find a towering blue giant of a man observing the assembled fighters with a critical eye. Though he had not seen any this close, Bakr had heard about the grassland midnight warriors as he passed through that land so many years ago. Bakr watched him until he noticed the man looking at him. He inclined his head slightly then turned to go back to his routine.

[Aren]

"But, how about THAT guy?" Aren rebutted, his gaze suddenly being drawn to one particular young man who had taken center stage whirling his curved sword about. He may have seemed a little rough around the edges, this human, at least to the Akalak's eyes, but he did not look to be without skill. More than that, the style of combat he was practicing seemed to be the diametric opposite of the one Aren himself used. It sparked all kinds of interest in the azure wanderer to imagine facing a much more fluid, defensive opponent with a focus on many individual slashes as opposed to a quick, offensive form designed to kill with as few strikes as possible. That's what Aren thought best characterized the movements he had briefly observed, anyways. It could have been that the bronze skinned youth was merely practicing a more conservative set of moves at the moment, or these could even have been nothing more than a basic practice routine not necessarily indicative of a more practical product. In a lull between his sets, however, the two exchanged a glance that told the Akalak everything he needed to know. If there was anybody worth training or sparring with in this place, this guy was definitively it, and they both knew it. Taking a stroll over to his new potential training mate, Aren made sure his approach never fell within the man's rapidly shifting blind spot, lest he find an inadvertent gash somewhere on his blue body. He only needed to get close to have a conversation with him amidst the tumult of the arena, but that could itself be a dangerous undertaking. The azure mercenary spoke once he felt he was as close as was necessary to overcome the noise that permeated the air, "Speed is an asset that has served many a warrior well, allowing them to land a hundred blows to their foe's one, until that one kills them." Although a bit of an adversarial statement, Aren knew that it was also true. Speed meant nothing if you couldn't defeat your opponent, just as power meant nothing if you got killed before you could bring it to bear. A good fighter generally possessed a mixture of both, sometimes leaning more towards one or the other, but one in abundance absent its opposite was often nothing more than a recipe for suicide. "Though I have been known to be wrong, on occasion." The Akalak admitted, smiling to show that if he gave any insult, he did not mean to. ""A little on the short side. And kind of skinny. But, I suppose we don't have any better choices." Seros stated, his disdainful tone an unpleasant baritone echoing around in Aren's skull. SorryChat distracted me... since 3 in the morning T_T

[Heddar]

“It is a fault that all but the gods above possess. Personally, I hope to never meet that one blow.” Bakr smiled. The man unsettled him. He was unlike any that even Bakr had ever seen. The blue-hued skin and wildly yellow eyes spoke to his heritage. The midnight warriors of the Cyphrus plains were well known, though he had not seen one. They did not put on airs about their martial prowess.

What’s more, this one carried a huge scythe with him. If such a massive, imposing weapon was his choice instrument, Bakr worried. Men did not survive with such weapons by being mediocre. He would have to watch himself with this warrior. Where Bakr had been raised by a shepherd who had grown tall wielding the tulwar in defense of his lands and herd, this man almost certainly had been raised by men who made combat their lives. He probably did the same.

Granted, all of his information on the race of blue warriors was secondhand at best. He had gleaned much rumor and embellishment with fact on his years abroad. Learning to discern the two was a cultivated skill that he had not yet mastered, especially when concerning bored caravan guards or merchants trying to impress. But none of that mattered here and now. This man clearly wanted a fight. Bakr was unnerved that he had approached him out of everyone present.

He stood straight and lowered his blade to his side. “Would you give me the honor of a bout? I have heard stories of the prowess of the Rivarians. Perhaps I could learn from it.” As he said it he raised the blade in front of him and set his feet a bit wider. The Akalak had the benefit of seeing his movements before the spar, but Bakr would have to make due without. He had never faced an opponent with such a weapon.

Hopefully he could learn fast.

[Aren]

"True enough." The Akalak humbly conceded the point with a slight tilt of his head. Certainly even the best trained, most skilled killers could be felled by a lucky blow from a fortunate opponent. In truth, the only thing one could really do is condition one's mind and body to offer the best chance of survival on the battlefield. "My name is Aren, friend." The mercenary offered, and continued, "I don't know about honor, and I have not lived amongst my people in so long that I doubt I represent any sort of prowess they may possess, but I would be glad to face you." On these words, a large, blue hand reached up to his chest and undid the strap which held Aren's scythe in place; his other hand was simultaneously already poised to stop the falling object's descent. With a twist of his wrist, the Akalak brought the weapon to the fore, his stance taking a similar approach as his opponent. Once it was clear that the pair were about to face off, it seemed the entirety of the arena took notice. Those with a modicum of skill stopped what they were doing knowing that this could quite possibly be a fight worthy of watching and studying. Those without merely went with the flow, doing what those better informed than themselves were doing. As silence abruptly replaced the noisy din of incoherent voices and the clattering sounds of objects, all eyes locked on the center area. It seemed like a mismatch to almost all who looked on, seeing the giant wielding a scythe that looked capable of cleaving a man in two. His opposite was a brave (or foolish) soul, thinking he might stand against the colossus, but that curved blade might have just as readily be used as a toothpick by his opponent. This was the mistake of the layman, however. Size, strength, speed... even skill; none of these guaranteed victory. They were nice advantages to have on the battlefield, to be sure, but even all stacked on one side did not ensure a victorious outcome. Ingenuity, intelligence, determination, sheer will; these, and other, unquantifiable attributes could tip the balance in favor of one side or the other. Being an experienced warrior, Aren was not so foolish as to underestimate even the most unassuming of combatants. Whilst this was a spar, an exercise, it was one being performed with very real weapons. Blood would almost certainly be spilled, but carelessness could lead to loss of limb, or even life. Minor wounds might be unavoidable, and even expected, but anything else was not. Besides, it would be disrespectful not to give his opponent the caution he deserved. Had that not been the case the azure mercenary would not have bothered approaching him in the first place. "Try not to kill him. Who knows how those knights will react. And try not to die in front of all these people, either. That would just be embarrassing for both of us." Seros suggested, his rudeness thankfully confined to the inside of Aren's head. Smiling eagerly, the Akalak's hands gripped the snaith (the staff part) of his scythe tightly as he prepared to strike. He wanted to allow his adversary the first move, but felt it unfair to force the green eyed young man to attack into an unknown. By contrast, the azure-hued giant had already witnessed some of his foe's skills, and thought it only equitable for the opposite to be true. And so, taking a quick step forward, Aren jutted the haft of his weapon towards the midsection of his opponent. A blow to the point where the upper and lower torso met could often knock the wind out of a man, but it was also a move that was easy to transition out of. Success or failure, it was a simple matter to return to a more neutral stance from whence to defend or press the attack.

[Heddar]

Bakr saw the other smile, an excitement only a warrior could feel, and knew they had begun. He eyed the long, vicious looking blade that now hung in front of him. That crescent was capable of ending him if the Akalak so chose. But this was just a friendly bout, a workout? Something told him that the foreign warrior would not treat it as such.

He almost didn’t have time to react as the scythe flew forward. He twisted his torso in an effort to minimize his opponent’s target. At the same time he used the momentum to bring his blade down on the snaith’s (didn’t know that!) end in an effort to divert the blow. His move was partially successful. He shifted the blow, but not enough. The end of the scythe caught him in the side and forced him back hard. As Bakr stumbled and fell onto his back he was thankful that none of the blade had caught him.

But he knew being on the ground with a much shorter range weapon was the death of him. He groaned as he used the backward momentum to roll back onto his hands and knees. Bakr hastily crawled back to create some distance so as to climb again to his feet.

Stay on your feet! Move your feet!

Mobility and speed, deflection and counterattack. These were what would win the day for him. He forced himself not to grimace or rub his side, though he knew that the blow had given him a deep bruise. Luckily it had not been on his sword side. He stepped forward to square up with Aren again. The warrior looked to be in far better standing than Bakr. But hopefully he was not so proficient in his use of that huge weapon that he could outstrip the smaller man’s speed.

Bakr stepped forward and tested his opponent with a quick horizontal slash of his tulwar. The probe was not meant to damage, but to set pace. He didn’t want to let the combat get stale or give his opponent too much time to think. Bakr snarled and slashed upwards from below with his blade, an attempt to push the scythe away. He followed up with the attack with a light step forward to press the offensive.

oocSorry about the frequent change in coding, still trying to find Bakr's style

[Aren]

Aren returned to his default stance as soon as his blow had landed. Had that same hit knocked down a less mobile target, he might have pressed his attack, but he had seen his foe's capacity for movement. The opponent additionally being lightly armed and armored, the Akalak knew that it would simply have been unwise to tempt his luck by trying to get greedy. Instead, he held back, waiting for the inevitable counter attack. It was sure to be swift, if what he had observed of his adversary was any indication, and necessarily close. The first slash came quickly, but it was obviously nothing more than a feint meant to keep his opponent on the defensive. A wise move, but because its purpose was inherently harmless, Aren did not bother expending any effort trying to avoid an attack that was clearly not meant to hit him. Instead, he focused on the young man's feet. If speed was the cornerstone of his style, they would tell Aren if he need to move, and how. Figuring that a smart opponent would immediately try close the distance against a foe that had the greater reach, the Akalak thought that perhaps dissuading him from the idea might be prudent. So, even before the second slash came, the scythe wielder was taking a small step back in order to deliver another haft blow, ideally placed in the same region as before. He cleared his opponent's obstructing blade, but unfortunately, as he moved forward to give the blow some momentum, Aren's foe also rushed in, preventing him from getting any traction on the attack. "Oh?" Was the only warning the scimitar wielding would get. Forced to improvise, the Akalak figured that since he and the much smaller man were now practically nose to nose, it might be a good opportunity to test which of the two possessed the thicker skull and the stronger neck. Seros' bet was generally on his brother in this department, and as Aren's blue forehead came crashing down towards his unsuspecting victim, the darker Other hoped they wouldn't have to pick up the poor boy's brains off the ground. Possessed of an excited, somewhat childish looking smile, it might have been unsettling to see that face up close as it barreled towards you, but it was to be taken as a compliment.

[Heddar]

The move inward was met with a step forward by the opposition. His second jab with the scythe was awkward and ineffective due to the close proximity of the two, but neither could Bakr get a proper slash in. The result was that he was more or less eye to eye with the Akalak. The big giant grinned again. In a flash Bakr knew what was coming, what else was there? He began to bring his knee up, in an effort to strike against the man’s torso as he was slammed in the face by the other’s headbutt.

Bakr couldn’t see. He was sprawling backwards. His feet were fumbling under him. Eyes watered, face burned. It was all he could do not to drop his blade. He clung to it like a vice, as if its mere presence in his hand would save him. Bakr waved it violently, blindly in front of him as he brought the other hand to his face. When he managed to focus his eyes he found dark smears of blood on his hand. It came from a shallow gash on his forehead, just above the left eye. He felt the live essence oozing down his face, dripping over his eye. He hastily wiped it clean.

He peered at the Akalak. That petcher really gave it to him. The man had a bit of blood smeared on his own forehead, near the top where he had struck.

“Hey, you’ve…you’ve got some shyke on your forehead, friend.” Bakr said with a tired, forced laugh. He spat on the ground and sighed.

Square up. You’re still in this fight.

He told himself he still had a chance to save face here. For the first time Bakr became aware of the crowd surrounding the two. A few men were smiling at him, shaking their head. The desert-born noticed some copper flash as it was dropped into a palm. So these shyke-heads were betting then? Wonderful. For some stupid reason he found himself feeling a bit guilty knowing that he would cost anyone who had a bit of faith in him some money today.

Bakr growled and stepped back into it. He lunged forward. A quick first strike was aimed to deflect the scythe, a subtle angling of curved blade against polearm. The second strike was meant to move beyond the crescent bladed defense and strike horizontally across the chest. He groaned with the effort and cursed his eye. Bakr’s small wound was producing a not so small portion of blood. Most of it was running down his face and impairing his left eye now.

[Aren]

As skulls clashed, Aren felt the energy of his own blow recoiling back on himself. He had taken a knee to his lower abdomen, but in all honesty his own headbutt seemed to cause more damage. As he took a step back, senses momentarily blurred by the rattling of his brain, he thought that perhaps this hadn't been the best idea. The notion was soon dispelled when he saw the effect it had on his opponent, however. The green-eyed youth before him fell back in pain and shock. Shaky on his feet, eyes watering, blood streaming down his face; the Akalak, at this point, suspected he might have gotten the better end of the deal. Normally, Aren might have pressed his advantage at this moment, but the erratic sword waving his sparring partner thought would protect him was rather amusing. Instead, he figured they could both use a little time to regain themselves. Prompted to rub the spot where blue and bronze had collided, the mercenary could feel the liquid which coated his skin, "Your's or mine, though?" He smiled, knowing that the answer was only relevant to those people he had noticed were starting to exchange coins around the arena. "How do you figure we're stacked?" Aren mused, honestly wondering just exactly what kinds of odds they were getting on whatever various bets were going around. First blood had been drawn, which was probably the subject of some payouts, but if even the combatants were not exactly certain whose blood was whose at this point, how did the betters? They seemed significantly more skilled at gambling on fights than actual fighting. Before too much banter could get underway, the young bladesman seemed eager to get back into the fray. Blood obscuring his vision and pain befuddling his senses were not, apparently, good enough reasons for him to bow out. Aren had to respect his determination, his sheer grit. Again, another attempt to entangle his scythe, yet again the Akalak did not pursue an attack with his blade, but instead pulled it back. He had taken a grazing cut on his forearm for his efforts, but it was too dangerous now to try to use the killing end of his weapon. If his opponent failed to defend himself properly, and if Aren's reflexes were even fractionally slower from his own headbutt, who knew what the result of such a strike could be. Instead, the mercenary decided to intercept his opponent's second slash, which he suspected was imminent, if the pattern held; from what he had observed, his foe liked to follow a defensive strike with a more offensive one. Staying to his left side, in order to take advantage of the blood seeping down on that section of the young man's face, the mercenary tried to anticipate the cut. Aren's attention focused on the shoulders, hoping they would indicate how the blade would move. When it came, he prayed he'd guessed correctly. Stomping his snaith against the ground off to one side, the curved edge of the sword rang as it struck the metal pole that had momentarily acted as a shield for the Akalak. Knowing that his window of opportunity would be brief, at best, Aren immediately used the haft of his weapon as a balance so he could unleash a sweeping kick to the left side of his opponent's abdomen. It was a technique that had served him well in the past, and hopefully the blood obstructing his adversary's vision on that side would make it more likely to succeed, but it was a risky move. It left him exposed even upon success, but failure might mean the loss of a limb in a real fight. It was something to preferably be done against larger, less mobile opponents, or when an advantageous situation presented itself, as it did now.