01. A Warrior's Tale

He wasn’t born here, but it felt like home.

The dominant aroma that combined bodily fluids and victory seemed to offset the pungent stench of death and failure. The parading screams that echoed violent around the ceiling-less dome created an ambience that was seemingly unchallenged within Reim itself; this could even extend to the world as a whole. Truthfully, noting came close to imitating the depth and history of the mythological Coliseum. The heroes, the fallen and the stories all shared one unique singularity—they couldn’t be replicated anywhere else. Issues of more tenacious importance: politics, love, war and all in between paled in comparison when the rays from the sun shimmered down and the combatants took their rightful place in the annals of history.

Few won and many, well many suffered fatal losses. Their very life force stripped from their being; for the sport itself. This was entertainment at its finest and many gathered seemingly daily to watch the genocide that was painted positively as performing art. In truth, the coliseum did something that was rarely seen in this industrial time. It called to the human heart’s darkest side and exposed the fraud that was false empathy. It manifested the most malicious intentions in everyone that spectated looking to gain coin and celebrity. Needless to say, it was the realist demonstration of how far everyone had come as a people—and it wasn’t very far.

But a Huang had to be earned somehow. Nothing was free, not even freedom itself in some areas. And while Reim prided itself on abolishing Slavery as a practice and trade, its security didn’t stop the Fanalis from being smuggled in as such. Likewise, his freedom was also false. He had to work in such a hellish field to supplement the modest lifestyle he maintained now. It was a sad reality. Someone would have to lose—others would have to die—for the crimson-haired warrior to remain whole. To remain complete in his ways for now. The irony came in the form of, no matter how free others perceived him to be, Azrael was still chained by the legislative institutions and the overwhelming master of the world—the Huang.  

As such, he did as instructed. Leaving his treasured blade behind and proceeding towards the massive gateways that ushered in fragments of light through its square-openings. Donning the traditional wears of any Gladiator, the Fanalis moved with a controlled pace before removing himself from the silence, and into the lion’s den. Instantly, he was bombarding the mountainous cries of the crowd, begging for their next fix. Adjusting his eyes to his environment, Azrael sighed, knowing fully what was expected of him next, and from the opponent who stood at the opposite end of the Coliseum’s interior. Scratching the nape of his neck, Azrael projected himself forward, casually closing the gap as the opposition did the same. Soon enough, they were mere meters (15) apart.

Rufi was an old, stubborn soul who never knew when to put the sword down. He had the physiology of a mere human, but the spirit of a Fanalis. Azrael found himself admiring the man and his numerous conquests; he even found solace in the warrior’s defeats. Nothing came in perfection and everyone and thing worked towards such progression as the ending station. Rufi merely fought because he enjoyed the combative climate. The red-haired swordsman could understand such a rush fully. Hopefully he could provide the old bat with something similar before his eventual defeat. Azrael didn’t plan to leave her empty-handed. No, his goals placed him on a higher pedestal; victory was his only concern for now.

It wouldn’t take long for the two to interlock in combat. Without hesitation, Rufi would leap forward, his Forward cleave aiming right for the center of Azrael’s body. His speed, while impressive, however, didn’t compare to that of the Fanalis. It took just little effort for the young man to advert the attack as he stepped aside, and without a second thought, sent Rufi flying some meters away with an outstretched kick to the elder’s midsection.

Quickly pouncing on the man while he recovered, Azreal found himself mounting the individual, unleashing another devastating blow—this time, in the form of a punch—to the opposing warrior’s stomach. Rufi gasped, releasing a small trace of blood from his lips before knocking Azrael aside, his shield forcing the Fanalis from his frame as his blade followed suit. A bent of his body backwards allowed Azrael to avoid the impending decapitation, however, his face was slashed right across.

Leaping back several meters (2), the red-haired warrior smiled, his curiosity peaked as the elder found new resolve and pressed forward. The fight, however, was over sooner then it had begun as Rufi collapsed, his body buckling beneath the pressure of Azrael’s fist, that had met its mark before the man could defend. The two previous blows had taken much from the elder swordsman and while a defensive juggernaut, his talents would become obsolete by an opponent who was both his physical and tactical superior. Rufi fell unconscious upon Azrael’s arm, who gently laid him down and exited the arena. The crowd cheering his name in the process.    

[870/800]
[Stamina 195/195]

round 2:

A few hours had passed, and Azrael found himself contemplating his previous actions. Sure, he had won, but at the expense of a man who only favored the thrill of combat. Nothing more, nothing less.  There had to be a loser and a victor to counteract such an outcome. A idol of his, the Fanalis was proud he was able to fight Rufi as a true competitor of the Coliseum, being his conqueror, however, was an issue of entirely different proportions. It didn’t help that the man did little to heed the wishes of the crowd, sparing Rufi’s life in the process. While of a savage clan’s descent, needless killing never favored Azrael. Especially of a man who had done nothing to him but inspire his fighting spirit.

“You’re up next kid,” the guardsman informing Azrael of his impending match—his second of the day—the Fanalis waved him off. Such a demonstration was nothing more than a gesture meant to indicate compliance. Coming to a complete stand, reaching full height, the warrior would make his way towards his home once more. His steps, like before, were calculated and without much effort, made his way into the bright lights from the sun once more. His name had become the dogma of the audience, who didn’t know his past, but anticipated his present and wished for his future to vanish here. He was trash to them, folly beneath the masses and meant as a toy to be played with.

“Tch,” He snarled, looking around, analyzing the crowd before settling his sights upon the distant figure. Her attire was vibrant enough to perceive from such distance and as he stepped forward, she did the same. Much like his previous fight, Azrael met his opponent in the center of the grand stadium, though this time, twenty-five meters separated the two. Bringing his prized weapon to the fight in Damocles, Azrael smirked when he noticed the two gigantic fans she fashioned. They weren’t made of any traditional fabric and from the sharpened ends, it was palpable to assume they were designed for lethal intent.

His brow lifted, however, in a kneejerk response to two impending items being flung at him. Giana’s Rising Moon came without warning, however, he wasn’t concerned, having had enough space between the two and recognition to see their approach. In reaction, his body would curve to the side, moving forward in the process as he circumvented one, and thus the other wasn’t a factor at all. Missing his body completely, Azrael intended to close the gap between the two well before we flying blades of destruction could redirect themselves and return to her side.

His approach couldn’t be halted. Moving at alarming speeds, Azrael’s advance could only be matched by the drowning waves of screams that penetrated through from the crowd. They had saw several fights today, and one ending surprisingly fast as Rufi met his demise. However, it seemed this woman, who was of royal blood, would present the Fanalis with a challenge unrivaled this evening. Nonetheless, she was only human and her limitations would be tested and not succeeded on this day. Not while Azrael was her opponent.

Drawing Damocles from his back, the massive blade glistened in the early afternoon’s rays; its beams radiating against the blackened steel. Grinning excitedly, the warrior prepared himself for an attack while her weapons still trailed behind him. Also certain they wouldn’t succeed and passing him by, the Fanalis lifted a single brow in confusion as one of the two fans grazed his shoulder opposite his dominant hand. Skillfully moving aside just in time, the man was able to alleviate some of the damage, however, he needed to act fast as Giana seemingly came into positon of one of her dual weapons. Quickly and without hesitation, Azrael would lash out with a slash horizontally at the woman in attempts to cleave her in half.

It wasn’t enough, however, as a whirlwind of a move in Resting Moon deflected his strike, sending Damocles flying in the process. “Damnit, he winced, stopping completely in place as he remained weaponless; his eyes fixated on the woman who grinned readily before him as she lifted her weapon high overhead. “Have any last words, cutie!?” she beckoned, announcing herself as victor of today’s bout. All the while, the Fanalis couldn’t drown out the quiet buzzing that echoed behind him.

Without warning, his free hand reached back, quickly grasping the second fan that finally made its way within their proximity. Before Giana could bring her weapon down, she would find her stomach exposed; the edge of her weapon shredding her garments, and thus her flesh as Azrael brought the weapon around and across her frame in one fluid motion. “Get some medical attention,” would be his final words to the woman as she fell to the ground, her fans now placed alongside her bleeding visage as the Fanalis relieved himself of such a tool in the process.

Something, however, had awakened within the Fanalis. His primal need to continue fighting. Repeatedly kicking Giana with all his might would usher in similar results of pain as the woman cried and begged for assistance. Still, it wasn’t enough. She used one hand to grip at her open wound, and the other, to clasp at his legs, attempting to shake herself frame of his presence. Nonetheless, nothing worked. It wouldn’t be for another singular kick that would lift the warrior from the ground, sending here several meters back that Azrael returned to his senses. His blood-crazed frenzy somewhat subsided, he sighed, knowing this fight was over the moment she relieved herself of both her weapons.

Walking over to grab his own blade, the man would make his way back into the bunkers to seek medical attention while various other individuals raced out to try and preserve what life the royal combatant had left.

[983/800]
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