User blog:Leolab/Leolab's Battles/Part 7

Hirai Norio v William Vigiles
Hirai Norio walked through a tunnel, resting his hand on The Exiled’s Companion, sheathed at his waist. By his side was what appeared to be a human, though wrapped from head to toe in red robes, with a green mask obscuring its face. “So I go in, I kill whoever’s facing me, and you give me coin?” Norio asked, a slight twinge of disgust entering his voice.

“Yes,” The robed figure said, sounding male. “While vigilante justice is romantic, you can’t eat gratitude.” The figure then stepped into a small side hallway, motioning for Hirai to continue onwards without him. The rōnin continued walking straight ahead, and eventually stepped through a stone arch and stopped in surprise. There was soil under his feet, and grass. Casting about, he saw the green of the grass stained in places with the blackish red of dried blood. He also seaw his kanebo lying in the grass to his left, The Twins sheathed on his right, and Broken Oath, a bowstring, and a full quiver leaning against the wall behind him.

''Wall? Wasn’t that just a…''

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” A voice said, cutting off his train of thought, “Welcome to the first round of the tournament.” Norio looked up and saw another red-robed figure with a differently-shaped green mask speaking into a contraption. “First up, we have Hirai Norio, a rōnin sponsored by Cfp, fighting Willium Vigiles, a city guard sponsored by Alock.” Norio turned his gaze back to the arena and, sure enough, there was a plain, forgettable man wearing plate, chain, leather, and a helmet holding what looked like a wooden club.

Willium Vigiles held his club in front of him, looking warily at the tall, dark-haired stranger on the other side of the arena. Taking mental note of the longsword – sheathed and stabbed upright into the ground – on his right, the dagger lying in the grass on his left, and the unloaded crossbow leaning against the wall behind him, he took a few tentative steps forward as the voice rang out again:

“Ready…. Fight!”

Norio advanced slowly, drawing his blade as he walked. He pointed his blade downward to the knees of his foe, angling it slightly to the left and taking the modified gedan-gamae his master had taught him. As soon as he got within striking distance he launched into an attack, sweeping left and right at the thighs and a quick switch to chūdan-gamae for a swift chop to the head. He parried a ponderous swing of the truncheon, and a swift flick of the wrist moved into a shoulder blow. As Vigiles recovers, Norio slid low around him and delivered a slice to the hamstrings, swiftly stood and delivered an overhead chop, which was deflected off the helmet. He retreated a couple steps as his opponent rose, examining the strikes he had made.

Vigiles groaned as he regained his footing and turned to look at his foe. He took a step forward and grimaced behind his faceplate; the blows hadn’t penetrated his armor, but they still stung. He winced as he moved forward and swung his truncheon again, aiming at his foe’s legs this time. He followed his training, going for the limbs to disable an armed opponent. As the samurai batted each strike away, he couldn’t help but get the feeling he was being toyed with. Gone was the immense speed at which his foe had first moved; where Vigiles had initially struggled to follow the swish of the man’s ponytail, Norio seemed to have more openings and slower movement. As Vigiles swung back for a strike to the head, however, his foe put on a burst of speed.

Norio quickly sliced towards the unprotected neck of the guard, only to strike the mailled fist his foe brought up to protect himself. Sliding the blade across the metal, he once again maneuvered himself behind his foe and launched a stab at the back of Vigiles’ neck. The guard, however, put on an adrenaline-fueled display of agility as he ducked under the stab, turned around, and slammed his truncheon into the samurai, just under the ribcage. Vigiles straightened and prepared to deliver a few more strikes to his winded foe, only to see Norio already several paces away and uninjured. Norio breathed out, his armor having absorbed the blow almost completely, and charged back in, swinging.

Norio forced Vigiles on the defensive, aiming cut after cut towards the guard. The samurai allowed himself a thin smile; his foe’s only strength was his armor. As their mysterious announcer said, their foe was an average city guard. In contrast to Norio’s swift, economic wrist movements, Vigiles moved his whole arm in each swing, telegraphing his movements and wasting his energy. There was only one way this could end; the only question was when.

Vigiles quickly felt himself beginning to tire. His truncheon, never much effective against his opponent, started moving slower and slower with each swing. He blinked the perspiration out of his eyes, and remembered the crossbow behind him. That should penetrate without tiring me any more, he thought, and resigned himself to having to kill his foe. He threw the truncheon at Norio’s face, and the samurai bats it aside with a quick motion of his katana. The blow was the final straw for the wooden weapon, which shattered.

Norio instinctively flinched away from the oncoming shower of splinters, which gave Vigiles an opening to ram a palm into Norio’s shoulder. The additional force brought by about 300 pounds of armor and man amplified Norio’s backwards momentum, knocking him flat on his back. As his foe struggled to right himself, Vigiles lumbered laboriously towards where his crossbow lay.

Norio pulled himself to his feet, using his katana as an anchor. He winced at the pain in his right shoulder and looks towards his foe, who has fitted a crank to his crossbow and started to pull the string back. He charged Vigiles, who noticed and dropped his crossbow. Vigiles groped for his longsword, keeping his eyes on his charging foe while he fumbled for the grip. He grabbed it as Norio launched into a stab, and started to draw as he saw Norio coming up short.

Norio turns to the side and takes a step forward with his left foot, letting go of his katana with his right hand while turning it parallel to the ground and extending further. This gives him enough extra reach to pierce through Vigiles’ faceguard, slicing deep into the man’s skull. In one swift motion, Norio takes a half-step with his right foot, places his right hand back onto the hilt of the Exiled’s Companion, turns it and slices diagonally through Vigiles’ face and out his neck.

Norio does a quick flick of the blade to clean the blood off, and bows to his dying opponent and the audience. He turns and walks back the way he came, seeing that the doorway had returned. He steps into the tunnel and spares a glance back at the arena, seeing one of the red-robed figures unceremoniously dragging Vigiles through the other doorway.

Oliver Moreau v Sir Bors of Newcastle
Sir Bors of Newcastle stalked through a tunnel and turns a corner. He halted abruptly, watching as a man dragged the bleeding, dead body of what appeared to be a city guard towards him. The man passed by him without a word, and Bors followed the crimson trail towards a doorway. As he stepped onto the grass, the doorway vanished behind him. He drew his longsword and unlimbered his targe while looking around him. He spotted his halberd lying to his right, a disarmed and unset mantrap to his left, and his crossbow leaning against the wall behind him.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” a voice resounds, drawing his attention to a figure in red with a green mask speaking into a contraption, “Our second match is Oliver Moreau, a French fugitive sponsored by Winter, against Sir Bors of Newcastle, an English mercenary sponsored by Elgb.” Bors looked across the arena and saw a tallish man opposite him, wielding some sort of exotic spear. A foppish fugitive Frog indeed… he thought as he flipped the visor of his bascinet down and prepared for the fight.

Oliver Moreau took another look around him, noting his cutlass to his left, katars to his right, and his bow leaning against the wall behind him. He whipped the sheath off of the tip of his naginata and readied it as the voice rang out once again.

“Ready… Fight!”

Moreau and Bors both charged, the former keeping his naginata moving in tight, controlled circles. Moreau struck first with a sweeping slice, the length of the naginata giving him an advantage. Bors, however, blocked the strike with his longsword and held the parry as he charged forward. His sword hissed as it ran along the wooden shaft, while he brought up his shield and held it before him at chest height.

Moreau quickly unclenched and reclenched his forward fist and used the onrushing sword as a pivot, moving smoothly around the spike that had threatened to pierce his armor. He maneuvered himself behind his foe, and lashed out with a quick strike to the underside of Bors’ shield arm. To his chagrin, however, the strike barely left a dent.

Bors attempted to wedge the naginata between his arm and chest, but moved too slowly. He pivoted, trying to get his foe back into his narrow range of vision, and hurredly raised his targe to block another strike from the naginata. He advanced towards his foe, who in turn retreated and struck at him. Bors smiled under his helmet. Looks like that miss might still help… he thought, noting that his foe was very conscious of distance.

Moreau moved carefully as he tried his best to stop his foe from coming close. He took a quick glance behind him and saw that he was nearing wall where Bors’ weapons lay. He then swung his naginata horizontally. Bors raised his targe, having figured out by now that the naginata uses long, sweeping motions to generate power. To his surprise, however, Moreau broke off the swipe into a swift, straight stab aimed at his chest. The blow strikes home, denting Bors’ armor, but it fell short of penetration. Bors staggered at the shock and dropped his longsword. Moreau moved the pole, and the surprised and unprepared Bors went tumbling down to the right. Moreu made a dash back towards his weapons while Bors recovered.

Bors ripped the polearm out of his armor and tossed both it and his shield away. He reached over his head and grasped the shaft of his halberd, which he then stabbed into the ground and used to pull himself up. Panting, he peered through the narrow eye slits in his helmet and saw his opponent loosing an arrow. The shot punctured through his armor, but left only a shallow wound. Bors roared in rage, swept his halberd into fighting position, and charged towards his foe.

Oliver fired another arrow, but this one glanced off of Bors’ bascinet. He dropped his bow and picked up his katars as the Englishman swing his halberd in an arc, trying to decapitate Moreau. Bors noticed too late that his movements were becoming sluggish due to the venom on the arrows. His swing was weak enough to be deflected by Moreau’s right katar, and he punched the left one into the dent and pierced through Bors’ armor.

Disoriented by the venom and the pain, Bors’ arms went slack and he dropped his halberd. Moreau thrusted again, and his other weapon ripped through Bors’ plate. This bought the Englishman to his knees, gasping as the blood leaked from his wounds. Moreau let go of his katars, walked over to his naginata and picked up the spear, holding the weapon with one hand as he walked back towards Bors. He forced the visor to his foe’s helmet open and thrusted his spear through Bors’ head, and the man convulsed and lay limp.

Moreau yanked his naginata free from Bors’ still-twitching corpse and turned around, walking through the newly-opened doorway back down the hall he entered through. He spared not a glance for his foe, leaving the bloodied body for the corpse-collectors.

Gaius Leopold v Jacob Bauer
Jacob Bauer walked through a hallway with his zweihänder slung over his shoulder and came to a halt as he neared an intersection. He watched as a short, lean man dragged a corpse across, using the katars embedded in its chest as handholds. After the bizarre pair passed out of sight, he followed the blood trail in the opposite direction and stepped through a doorway, which promptly vanished. He saw his katzbalger and warhammer lying on the grass to either side of him, and his crossbow leaning against the back wall.

Gaius Leopold stepped into the other side of the arena, Salt sheathed at his waist. He breathed a sigh as his greaves sank into the grassy soil; fighting on even ground was always easier than on the tumultuous deck of a boat. He glanced next to him with his right eye, noticing his halberd, war axe, and shield lying in the grass next to him. A glance behind him showed him his bow. He flipped his shield over with his foot, bringing it handle-side up, as a voice rang out across the arena.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, our third match is Gauis Leopold, the…” the voice broke off, and both contestants to glanced up at the red-robed figure above them. Its green mask turned in a glare at another red-robed figure, this one wearing a blue mask. “Motherfuckin’ Pirate Merc King,” the voice continued, dripping with sarcasm and scorn, “sponsored by Skully, against Jacob Bauer, a Landsknecht. Ready…” the figure said, which prompted Gaius to draw Salt and Bauer to take a combat stance with his zweihänder. “Fight!”

Bauer and Gaius advanced, circling each other as they slowly closed the distance. The three eyes flickered as they studied their opponent’s guard, both trying to find an advantage. Bauer noticed his first; Gaius studiously kept his right eye facing his opponent, due to his missing left eye. He was also careful to keep his sword in view, which had the effect of leaving the left side of his body open. Bauer seized the advantage, slipping quickly to the right and swinging his zweihänder in an arc towards Gaius’ eyepatch.

Gaius moved Salt to the side quickly, beating back the blade as he turned and stepped in towards Bauer. The elderly mercenary jumped back in surprise and pivoted his sword into a parry, barely stopping Gaius’ return blow before it sliced through his scar. He used the blade lock as a pivot point, sliding around Gaius’ strike and put on a burst of speed as he brought his sword into another strike, this one aimed at the neck. Gaius bent back at the waist, and the zweihänder swept above him as he let go of Salt with his right hand. He lashed out in a side sweep as he regained his balance, a clumsy swing meant to create distance rather than do damage. The pair took their guards again; the exchange lasted but a few moments, but each man now had the measure of the other.

Bauer groaned inwardly; his foe was skilled. He realized that technique wouldn’t break through his foe’s guard, which left him with only one option. He let out a bellow and charged, bringing his zweihänder in a vicious overhead chop. Gaius parried, but Bauer rode the momentum into another swing. He rained swing after swing after thrust on the pirate, driving him back until he finally landed a glancing blow on his foe’s gauntlets. Gaius loosened his grip slightly from the blow, which left him open for a sideswipe from Bauer to knock Salt out of his hands. Bauer smiled maliciously as he brought his zweihänder for an overhead chop at his foe’s unprotected head.

Gaius sidestepped the blow, as he did so he turned and punched the zweihänder with his right gauntlet and brought his left into a haymaker which smashed Bauer in the jaw. While the mercenary reeled from the blow, Gaius quickly retreated and grabbed his axe and shield. Bauer spat out blood and several tooth fragments and turned his eyes back to his foe. He saw Gaius charging in with his axe held in a low sweep. He blocked the blow, but Gaius simply bashed him in the face with the rim of his shield.

Bauer moved more carefully, careful to keep his distance from the younger fighter. He struck his foe’s shield several times, and dented the wood without quite breaking it. Gaius swung again with his axe, and Bauer retreated slightly to avoid it. He was caught by surprise, however, when Gaius stepped back forward and brought his axe in a backswing, spike aimed square at his chest.

The blow punctured the chestplate and broke the skin, but failed to do any actual damage. As payback for the previous strikes, Bauer slammed his zweihänder’s guard into Gaius’ face. Gaius let go of the axe, and Bauer brought his sword into a series of several overhand chops. On the eighth stroke he broke through Gaius’ shield and struck the gauntlet. The metal dented and broke, slicing into Gaius’ forearm. Gaius grimaced, in great pain, and kicked upwards with his foot. The greaves slammed into Bauer’s unprotected groin, and the old mercenary gasped and staggered back as Gaius tossed his broken shield aside and ran to where Salt lay.

Gaius scooped up Salt as Bauer recovered and planted his zweihänder in the earth. He grabbed the axe embedded in his armor and pried it free. He then hurled it overhand at Gaius, who ducked the blow and charged as Bauer brought his sword out and used it to fling a clod of dirt and grass at his foe. Gaius swerved around the clod and the clod who threw it and brought Salt into a thrust, and sliced deep into the inner thigh of his foe. He twisted the blade and brought it into the other thigh and withdrew a few steps, watching as his opponent bled out.

Bauer rapidly lost his strength, and collapsed to the ground within seconds. Gaius turned the man over and gently rested Bauer’s head on the shield he had broken. As the mercenary gasped out thanks for his kindness, Gaius brought Salt down in one swift motion, shearing through Bauer’s neck and sliced a furrow into his makeshift chopping block. Bruised and bloody, Gaius cradled his injured arm as he walked back out through the now-open doorway.

Ganzorig v Tiberius Proditus
Tiberius Proditus walked through a hallway and stopped short just before an interection, looking down. A severed head had just rolled into his vision. A man walked past, dragging a headless corpse and tossing what appeared to be tooth fragments into the air and catching them. An expertly-placed punt moved the head out of the intersection, and the macabre scene continued down the hall. Tiberius headed in the opposite direction, following the bloody trail out into a grassy field. He noticed that his pilum and plumbata lay beside him, and his pugio was against the wall behind him.

Across the arena, Ganzorig took similar stock of his own weaponry. As he unlimbered his bow, he took notice of the scimitar to his left, the mace to his right, and the guan dao leaning against the wall behind him. He noted his foe across from him and started stringing his bow as a voice thundered out above them.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the red-robed, green-masked figure in the stands says, “Our fourth match is Ganzorig of the Chagatai Khante, a bastard son of a Khan sponsored by Wass, against Tiberius Proditus, a traitorous Roman Legionnaire sponsored by EA. Ready…” At the cue, Ganzorig finished stringing his bow and Tiberius unlimbered his scutum and drew his spatha. “Fight!”

Tiberius charged as Ganzorig nocked, drew, and fired an arrow in one swift motion. The arrow embedded itself next to the boss of the shield, and Tiberius kept running unhindered. Ganzorig nocked and drew another arrow and moved to the side. He fired from that position, and the arrow sheared through the scutum’s outer rim. It grazed Tiberius’ face, and he widened his eyes at the pain. Ganzorig took advantage of this to open up further distance, and fired another arrow as Tiberius turned and brought his scutum up to block it.

Ganzorig fired twice more as he tried to open up distance, and quickly realized his bow wasn’t going to help. Now on the opposite side of the arena from where he started, he dropped his bow and grabbed one of the unfamiliar projectile weapons that lay near him. Ganzorig lobbed Tiberuis’ plumbata at him as the Roman raised his shield against his own weapons, and the three darts did nothing to hinder his charge. As Tiberius closed in, Ganzorig lifted and threw the pilum and, not waiting to see if it hit, grabbed his bow and dashed to the other side of the field while he fired a sixth arrow blindly behind him, trying to keep his foe off-balance.

Tiberius, bleeding from a fresh graze to his nose, shook his scutum off his arm. The shield was now useless, thanks to the iron shank of the plumbata that hung off of it. He swapped his spatha to his off-hand and scooped up one of his plumbata as he charged in a zig-zag to throw off Ganzorig’s aim. He flung the dart underhand, attempting to distract more than anything, but the lucky throw snapped Ganzorig’s bowstring. Tiberius completed his charge as Ganzorig rolled out of the way and picked up his mace.

Tiberius swung his spatha at Ganzorig, who barely got his mace up in time to deflect the blow. A stab got through Ganzorig’s defenses, and pierced his lamellar, but the silk vest held strong and the blow barely broke the skin. His third blow was brought up short as Ganzorig slammed his mace into Tiberius’ chest, cracking a rib and winding him. Another blow from the mace was weakly blocked by the recovering Roman, and his spatha spun out of his hands. Tiberius ducked under another blow and spotted a weapon similar to those he had seen in his childhood: Ganzorig’s scimitar.

Tiberius drew the weapon and swung. The blow sliced deep into the bridge of Ganzorig’s nose, and a follow-up bit through a gap in the armor and into his forearm. The Mongol backpedaled, attempting to get more distance. The two warriors recovered their focus quickly and glared before they resumed combat with a shout.

Tiberius struck first, and hacked away at his foe. He attempted to blend his memories of watching fights as a boy with his training, but received mixed results at best. He landed a few blows, but they glanced off of Ganzorig’s lamellar. Ganzorig put up a good defense, and as the battle wore on he gradually began to take the initiative and went on the offensive. A series of rapid, strong strikes battered Tiberuis, who was barely able to fend off his foe. The Roman was forced into a retreat as his foe gained the advantage.

Tiberius parried yet another blow from the mace, which sent a shock up his arm. Another blow came, which slammed into his side. He rode the impact with a grimace, trusting in his maille to keep him going. He took another step back, and Ganzorig noticed an opening. He swiftly brought the mace down onto Tiberius’ unprotected leg, shattering the shin.

The Roman roared in pain and fell to the ground as Ganzorig loomed above him, sure of his victory. The Mongol brought his mace down towards Tiberius’ face, but the Roman did a half-roll to dodge the blow. He fumbled on the ground, grabbing one of the plumbata that lay nearby. As Ganzorig swung again, he rolled out of the way and swapped the dart into his left hand. He then grabbed the Mongol’s wrist and, fueled by pain and adrenaline, pulled his foe off-balance as he brought his left arm up, impaling Ganzorig through the brain with the plumbata.

He sank back down into the earth, gasping, as his foe staggered back and collapsed on the ground, dead. He lay there for a few minutes, struggling to stay conscious as the cheers erupted from the stands around him. His eyes came back into focus to see a man extending his hand towards him; he brushed it aside, recognizing the corpse collector who had passed him in the intersection earlier, and pulled himself to his feet. Bleeding and limping, he dragged himself through the doorway and heads towards the infirmary.

William Vigiles v Sir Bors of Newcastle
Sir Bors of Newcastle sat bolt upright in a state of panic. He scrabbled at his chest and face; the last thing he remembered were wounds there. He found none and dismissed the events as a dream. His focus then turned to the rhythmic rasping, as he noticed a short man sharpening a blade that appeared to be coming out of a gauntlet. “Who’re you?” Bors asked, and the man turned and looked at him.

“The corpse collector,” he answered, looking Bors in the eye. The mercenary flinched, noting that the man’s eyes were solid black. “And yes,” the man continued, “the fact that I’m the corpse collector means that getting stabbed wasn’t a dream. Get armed, you’re up again.”

“And if I refuse?” Bors asked impudently. The corpse collector grabbed hold of his sword and quickly brought the point to Bors’ throat.

“You die. Permanently, this time. Now get going.” Bors nodded and grabbed his longsword and targe, noticing that he was already armored. He follows the blood-caked trail out through a doorway and onto a grassy field. A quick glance showed everything as he remembered it, and he peered across the arena to see a forgettable man doing the same.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice resounds, “Our fifth match is Willam Vigiles, a city guard sponsored by Alock, against Sir Bors of Newcastle, a mercenary sponsored by Elgb. This match is part of the loser’s bracket, so all deaths are permanent.” Bors and Vigiles both shook off their confusion at their apparent resurrection; this was the time to fight, not be confused. “Ready…” Bors drew his sword, unlimbered his shield, and slammed down the visor on his bascinet while Vigiles simply held his truncheon out in front of him.

“Fight!”

The two lumbered forth, brandishing their weapons. Sir Bors lashed out first, and brought his longsword in a horizontal arc which skittered across Vigiles’ breastplate. A follow up strike bent the maille on his foe’s arm, but failed to penetrate. Vigiles, weighed down by his armor, finally managed to get in a ponderously slow swing of his truncheon, but Bors simnply brought up his targe and deflected the blow. Bors punched forward with his targe, which staggered Vigiles and created some distance. He took a step back and then charged forward, holding his targe flat in front of him.

The spike hits the iron breastplate and pierces it, followed by the maille, and finally boring through the leather to leave a small scratch on Vigiles’ skin. The guard took advantage of the proximity to land a blow on Bors’ side, which dented his plate armor. Wincing at the metal digging into his flesh, the mercenary wrenched the targe free and backpedaled. With the newfound distance, the two took their stances again and charged back into the fight.

They traded blows, neither able to get past the other’s defenses. Bors remembered his halberd and smashed the pommel of his longsword against Vigiles’ helmet. The guard staggered back, as he clutched his head and swung his truncheon wildly, attempting to buy time to recover. Bors moved back towards his weapons and threw down his sword and shield, and then grabbed his halberd. He advanced towards the recovered Vigiles. He swung the axe head, which dented his foe’s breastplate but did not penetrate.

Grimacing in exasperation, he steps to the side and swings the halberd in a tight circle, which brought the spike to the other side of his foe. The spike dug in, and the extra momentum threw his foe to the ground. The guard flailed as Bors approached and placed his foot on his chest and drew out the halberd.

As Bors walked out of his range of vision, Vigiles tried pushing himself up off the ground, but his armor weighed him down far too much. He was forced to lie there like an overturned turtle, helpless to do aught but wither under the scornful gazes of the figures in the stands. Bors came back into his view, and he had his visor up and was holding his longsword by the blade in his left hand.

Bors knelt and, wincing at the pain in his side, drove the crossbar of his sword between the bars of Vigiles’ helmet’s faceguard. Grabbing the ricasso and steadying the top of Vigiles’ helmet, he pushes, slowly prying the faceguard off the helmet. With a snap, both the faceguard and Bors’ longsword go flying, both landing outside of Vigiles’ view. Bors sighed and walked over to Vigiles’ weapons, and scooped up a dagger. He walked back, drawing the blade as he did so. He straddled the fallen guard and raised the blade overhead, only to stop as the man made one last plea.

“Please… don’t. I have a family.”

“I need to eat,” Bors replied, and plunged the dagger down, ending Vigiles’ life. Bors stood and turned, and walked out the now-open doorway.

Jacob Bauer v Ganzorig
Gaius Leopold sat in the stands, watching as the next two combatants walked out. Hirai Norio sat next to him, also examining the two. Both had grim expressions on their faces; each had seen a foe they had killed rise from the grave to do battle again, and knew the same fate awaited them should they fall. He stole another glance at the short, black-eyed man sitting on the bench to the right. The corpse collector seemed composed, studying the stances of the two before him. A red-robed figure in a green mask stepped up to a contraption and started to speak.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the figure says, “the sixth match is Jacob Bauer, the Landsknecht known as Spada il Fuoco, sponsored by BG, against Ganzorig of the Chagatai Kahnate, sponsored by Wass. Just like the last match, this is part of the Loser’s Bracket. All deaths are final! Ready…”

At that cue, Bauer took a combat stance with his Zweihander while Ganzorig held his bow in front of him as his hand rested on an arrow.

“Fight!”

As the match started, Bauer charged. He knew he had to get in range to do anything, and fast. Ganzorig drew and fired an arrow as he moved, which glanced off his armor. Another arrow grazed his armpit, prompting a murmur from the announcer in the stands. Bauer, however, continued to charge, ignoring the scratch. He swung his Zweihänder in an arc, but Ganzorig bent at the waist while drawing an arrow with his upper body. He blind-fired his third arrow at Ganzorig, who was already preparing for another swing.

The arrow grazed the man, and he took an instinctive half-step back, which gave Ganzorig the time to drop his bow and grab his Guan Dao. The Mongol moved around him and brought the spear in a slash as he turned to follow. A quick motion of the zweihänder deflected the blow, but Ganzorig continued his flurries. Bauer had no reprieve as Ganzorig rained down blows, and he moved his zweihänder in a desperate attempt to parry the blows.

He finally gained some room as Ganzorig made a retreat before he crouched and charged back in, Guan Dao poised for a thrust. Bauer made a swift diagonal cut, which impacted the Guan Dao just past the join. The wood splintered, and when Ganzorig struck with a stab the shaft splintered. Ganzorig dropped the now-headless spear and rode the momentum forward, smoothly dodging Bauer’s follow-up stroke.

The Mongol grabbed his mace and slammed it into Bauer’s side as he turned. Bauer moved to get room, and nearly slipped on the blood from his wound. That motion saved him, as Ganzorig’s mace swiped right past where his head would have been. The Landsknecht continued trying to get distance as he held his zweihänder in an awkward defensive posture. Ganzorig kept on charging, and swung his mace left, right, and center as he did so.

Bauer continued to back up as he tried desperately to regain momentum. Ganzorig refused to let him and pressed his advantage. Bauer realized he wouldn’t be able to regain momentum as is, so he took an opening to push the flat of his zweihänder forward in a strike. It struck, and Ganzorig was force back a couple steps. Bauer tossed his zweihänder aside and ran back to his weapons. In the few seconds he had, he grabbed his Katzbalger and swiped at his foe.

Bauer, however, noticed his movements growing sluggish. He was feeling oddly exhausted, and his foe had stepped back. He teetered and fell, blood pooling out at his feet. He looks at his side, and realizes too late that he had been killed once the match started. The arrow that grazed his armpit had nicked his brachial artery. His last strength flowed out with the blood, and he closed his eyes.

Ganzorig looked at his dead opponent with mild surprise; he hadn’t expected the old man to last for so long with that wound. As the corpse collector came for his foe, he turned and walked back out the now-open doorway.

Hirai Norio v Oliver Moreau
Hirai Norio walked through a hallway, unaccompanied this time. He followed the bloody trail left by the corpse collector and stepped out onto the grass, looking around. He spotted his weapons lying nearby, in the same positions as he remembered form his first bout. Across from him, Olvier Moreau also stepped out into the grass, naginata slung over his shoulder. The sight prompted a startled laugh of incredulity; the naginata was a dowry weapon, meant for a wife to defend the household. Seeing one in the hands of a western man was nothing short of amusement.

The laugh was cut short with a snarl of anger as he recognized the weapon as the dowry gift his patron had given to his daughter when she had married off. So that lot wasn’t satisfied with killing him, they had to dishonor his family, too? he thought, and unsheathed The Exiled’s Companion “You bastard…” he growled, taking his stance.

“Well, it looks like at least one of them is ready to go,” the masked announcer said, “So let’s skip the introduction this time. Ready…”

Moreau hurriedly unsheathes his naginata and readies it. He didn’t understand what his foe had said, but the glare and tone were enough. He was in for a rough bout.

“Fight!”

Norio charged, and Moreau swung, intending to halt his foe’s charge. Norio, however, brings his katana up, twisting his body to strike the oncoming blade with the flat of his own. The impact batted the polearm aside, allowing him to slip past as he brought his sword in a horizontal chop aimed at Moreau’s head. The Frenchman ducked and rode the momentum of his deflected naginata, and spun behind Norio.

He quickly moved back, and created just enough space to bring his naginata in a swipe. The movement gave Norio enough time to pivot on his leg, and he blocked the strike. The large rōnin attempted to close again, but his foe retreated to the side while bringing his naginata in another arcing cut to the other side.

The pole hit Norio square in the ribs. His armor absorbed a good chunk of the blow, but it still left him winded. He spotted Moreau going for an overhead strike, and weakly deflected the blow as he recovered. He spotted a chance and lashed out with a swift stab. He attempted to further close the distance by holding the katana in one hand, and turned the blade parallel to the ground.

The strike dented but otherwise skittered off of Moreau’s breastplate, and the Frenchman attempted to create distance once again. Norio, however, brought his hand back to the katana’s hilt and put a swift, powerful chop that bit into Moreau’s breastplate. The blade stuck in the plate, but did not penetrate flesh. As Moreau choked up on his naganata, his aim to stab his foe point-blank, Norio planted his foot on his foe’s breastplate and kicked.

Moreau was thrown to the ground, and Norio freed his katana. Before the Frenchman could recover, the rōnin reverses his grip and stabs straight down into Moreau’s neck. As the mercenary bled out from the neck, Norio withdrew his katana and sliced again at Moreau’s neck, severing it. Norio flicks his blade, splattering the blood on the grass, and reaches for his foe’s weapon.

A hand blocks his grab, as he looks up and meets the eyes of the corpse collector. The man shakes his head, and gestures for the rōnin to leave. After a brief glaring contest, Norio withdraws through the now-opened doorway. He’d get his hands on the weapon after he won.

Gaius Leopold v Tiberius Proditus
Tiberius Proditus walked through the blood-splattered hallway leading from the waiting room to the arena, examining his surroundings. He didn’t care much for being put into this gladiator combat; those were always more fun to watch. He stepped out into the grassy arena, and took stock of his weapons once more.

Gaius Leopold did the same, across the arena. He considered this to be just one more job; nothing worth getting excited over. He looked up to the stands, where the masked announcer stood. Taking notice, the figure spoke into the contraption in front of him.

“Ladies and Gentlemen. First and foremost, I apologize for the delay. Now for our seventh match, we have Gaius Leopold, the bastard son of a king sponsored by Skully, against Tiberius Proditus, a right bastard sponsored by EA…” the man trailed off, causing a couple glances of confusion. “Scheiße, I used that joke already. Whatever. Ready…”

At the cue, Gaius unsheathed Salt, while Tiberius drew his spatha.

“Fight!”

At the signal, both Gaius and Tiberius charged at each other. Gaius swung at Tiberius, who deflected the blow with his scutum and attempted to retaliate with his spatha. The sword failed to dent his foe’s armor, however, and he quickly raised the scutum again to bat away a follow-up strike. Gaius lashed out again and again, but the massive shield repelled all his attacks. Tiberius bashed forward with his shield, pushing Gaius back. Gaius attempted to maneuver around the shield, and dashed to the right.

Tiberius simply pivoted, taking another strike from Salt on the scutum. Gaius slashed to the right in a feint and slid back left, and brought another strike from Salt towards his foe’s flank as he did so. The attack didn’t have enough power behind it, however, and failed to do much damage beyond rending a few links in the maille. Gaius exhaled sharply as Tiberius pivoted back, and decided to try a new tactic.

Gaius transitioned to wielding Salt with one hand, and used his free hand to grab Tiberius’ scutum. The Roman tried stabbing with his spatha, but the iron blade skittered off of Gaius’ steel armor. Gaius pried the shield back, and exposed Tiberius to attack. The pirate brings Salt down in an overhand chop, which dented Tiberius’ helmet. As he brought his arm back for a stab, Tiberius aimed a thrust at his unprotected face.

Gaius swerved, and the spatha only grazed his flesh. He disengaged, taking a few steps back as Tiberius returned to his guard position. Another few swings were deflected off of the scutum as before. Gaius, realizing he needed to pry the shield away from his foe, dropped Salt and grabbed his axe and shield. Tiberius closed the distance in that time, and lashed out with the scutum.

The blow failed to knock Gaius off his feet, however, and the pirate slid around the legionnaire. Tiberius turned to follow, and raised his shield to ward off a strike from the axe. Gaius beat out a fighting retreat, moving and giving himself some distance. As he neared the center of the arena, he feinted a strike with his axe, only to grab and hook Tiberius’ raised scutum out of the way.

Tiberius wound up a strike with his spatha in an attempt to force his foe to disengage. It was brought up short, however, by Gaius lashing out with his shield; the pirate had punched the rim into his foe’s face. He allowed his foe no recovery time, as he slammed the shield again and again into the man’s face, buckling the helmet where he hit. The repeated trauma smashed bone, and by the time Tiberius fell limp Gaius’ shield was stained with blood, bone, and brains. As his foe fell, for all the world like a puppet cut from its strings, Gaius tossed his weapons aside and strode over to pick up Salt. His sword at his side once more, he sauntered through the now-open doorway, chased by the cheers of the crowd.

Oliver Moreau v Ganzorig
Ganzorig walked through a bloodstained hallway, moving towards an open doorway. He stepped out and looked around, taking stock of his weapons. Across from him, Oliver Moreau did the same. The two did their best to stare the other down until a sleepy voice rang out above them.

“Round Nine is Oliver Moreau, the failed French assassin sponsored by Winter, against Ganzorig of the Chagatai Khnate, the bastard son of a Kahn sponsored by Wass. This is the loser’s bracket, so all deaths are final. I’m tired, now, so make this one quick. Ready…”

On cue, Ganzorig grabbed and nocked an arrow while Moreau brought his naginata up to a guard.

“Fight!”

Can’t hurt to oblige him… Ganzorig thought as he drew and aimed at his charging foe. He let the arrow fly, and Moreau stopped dead in his tracks. The Frenchman brought his hand to the shaft protruding from his eye as his mouth worked in a silent scream. Ganzorig rapidly grabbed, drew, and fire several more arrows, hitting his foe in the other eye, the throat, and the nose. A fifth arrow pierced through the skull, and Moreau collapsed, dead.

Ganzorig turned and walked out the door, and spared not a glance back towards his fallen foe.

Tiberius Proditus v Sir Bors of Newcastle
Sir Bors of Newcastle stepped out into the arena and looked around, spotting his weapons. He’d arrived early, before his opponent. He took the opportunity to grab one of his mantraps and start setting up, getting the chunk of steel armed and set before a voice whispered in his ear.

“I’m willing to overlook it this time, Bors, but anything further and you’ll lose by default.”

The large Englishman jumped and looked around wildly, drawing laughs from the crowd, until he looked up and saw the announcer waving cheerily at him. He scowled at the stands as Tiberius Proditus walks out, and the announcer gave his customary greeting.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, for Round 10 we have Tiberius Proditus, the traitorous Roman, versus Sir Bors of Newcastle, the dishonorable knight who decided to try and get a head start this time. This is the Loser’s Bracket, so all deaths are final. Ready…”

Both men readied their shields and drew their swords, taking their combat stances.

“Fight!”

On cue, Bors and Tiberius advanced cautiously, each trying to bait the other into charging. Tiberius, having experience in this respect, snarled out a few choice phrases in Latin. Bors wasn’t a monk, and didn’t understand the language. The tone, however, was enough to mark the words as an insult. He charged, battering at Tiberius’ shield with his longsword.

The recklessness he showed should have been the end of him, as Tiberius skillfully turned aside each blow. After a couple strikes, his Spatha shot forth in a stab, perfectly aimed at Bors’ open vitals. The iron skittered off of Bors’ breastplate, however, and left a dent. The noise and realization of how he’d left himself open brought Bors back to his senses.

He took a step back and brought his shield back up, remembering his trap as he does so. He moved back as he attacks, beating a fighting retreat. As he neared his trap, he relaxed a little and left himself open, hoping to bait his foe. Tiberius took the initiative in an unexpected way and lashed out with his Scutum, striking Bors square in the chest.

Bors was sent reeling by the bash, and a follow-up strike sent him flat on his back. The force of the blow flung his weapons out of his hands and forced his visor up. He saw Tiberius advancing, sword pointed down, and hurriedly closed his visor. He groped around nearby for something he could use to defend himself, and grabbed what felt like a steel bar. A quick glance told him all he needed, and he pulled himself to his feet and lashed out, swinging his impromptu weapon in an overhead smash.

The trigger of the mantrap hit Tiberius square in the helmet, and the jaws snapped shut, shearing through skin, flesh, and biting into the spine. Tiberius toppled like a felled tree, his arms and armor crashing around him. Bors looked up and around at the stands, which had fallen silent for a couple moments. The announcer then let loose a dry, dark chuckle, and started a slow clap. That broke a dam, and the crowd followed suit.

Chased by the applause, Bors turned and walked through the now-open doorway.

Sir Bors of Newcastle v Ganzorig
Ganzorig stepped out into the arena, looking at the opponent before him. The previous match had his new foe beat the Roman who had killed him previously. He studied the Englishman warily, as that same foe had also shown the tendency to cheat. Bors returned the wary gaze, as Ganzorig has defeated the Frenchman that had stabbed Bors in the first round.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” a weary voice resounds, “Our eleventh match is Sir Bors of Newcastle, sponsored by Elgb, against Ganorig of the Chagatai Kahnate, sponsored by Wass. Ready…”

At the cue, Bors readied his shield and drew his longsword while Ganzorig grabbed an arrow from his quiver and knocked it.

“Fight!”

Ganzorig drew his bow as he brought it up and let loose, sending an arrow flying towards Bors’ head. Bors, however, had dropped into a crouch as soon as the match started, bringing the Targe up in a defensive stance. He held his sword behind him as the arrow flew where his head was moments ago and charged straight at his foe.

Ganzorig fired two more arrows at his foe, who simply raised his shield and blocked. As he had the third arrow knocked, Bors reached him and swung. Ganzorig flinched back and barely dodged, suffering merely a scratch on his armor from the tip. His bow, however, caught the full brunt of the swipe. The sword sheared through the wood, horn, and sinew, and sent the weapon flying.

Ganzorig grabbed his mace in a rage and whipped it at Bors. The Englishman blocked it with his shield, but Ganzorig kept on swinging, raining blow after blow on the armored man. After several more strikes, the shield simply gave way. Bors tossed it aside and dodged another strike from the mace as he grabbed his sword with two hands and swung it in a chop towards Ganzorig’s head.

Ganzorig sidestepped the blow and smashed his mace into the elbow joint of Bors’ off-hand. Bors attempted to draw back for another swing, but found that the blow had locked the joint in place. He tried to bludgeon the Mongol with his arm, swinging the immobilized limb like a club encased in steel. Ganzorig, however, simply ducked under it and brought his mace down on the shoulder joint, immobilizing that limb.

One by one, Ganzorig dodged, parried, and immobilized Bors’ limbs. A simple palm strike to the chest sent Bors toppling down, and Ganzoring straddled him. Still enraged at the destruction of his bow, he ripped open the visor on the Englishman’s bascinet and held his mace in a reverse grip. He smashed down, brought the mace up, and pounded Bors’ face again. He repeated this strike, pounding Bors’ face with his mace until the man stopped twitching.

Ganzoring got up, threw his mace down, and stalked out of the now-open doorway.