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Post by Event Admin on Jun 20, 2016 13:23:21 GMT
Contenders: Grenal Black (Syne) vs. Solomon Moon (RLR)Arena:Half Plains/Grassland, Half IceRules: Each participant has 10 posts each to prove their skills as hunters, less if one participant has no way to escape a certain loss. Stats, HP totals, and MP totals do not exist. Dust is provided. The arena environments are not affected by Semblance. There will be no Godmodding, Metagaming, or Powerplaying, every action made must be reasonably justified. Participants have 24 hours from the time of their opponent's last post to post or themselves or face disqualification. Final posts must be an exit post that includes the bell that ends the match. The match MUST begin today, June 17th 2016. For every day the match doesn't start, both participants will lose one post each.Battle Start!
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Post by grenalblack on Jun 20, 2016 19:48:05 GMT
Grenal black, for all he's done, shouldn't be in a tourney between schools, but in prison or dead. Not that it mattered. The silver-haired bastard of Syne was here, and knew he had to do something. He was wearing his normal clothing, his white shirt which was buttoned perfectly. He wore tight, black pants. He then wore combat boots, which he rarely did. He knew, though, that he couldn't avoid this combat. He walked into the fighting area, and noticed it was seemingly straight out of a fantasy book. Half of it was ice, half of it was plains. How he wished there was some kind of water, as then he could have a true advantage. He wasn't sure exactly how the fight was going to go down, as it was a complete mystery.
Not that he cared. He could he still use the ice to his advantage. He did have a singular advantage, and that was that his bloodlust, which was neigh always there, was out on full show. You could even feel it in the crowd. Not that he figured it mattered. He was sure the other fellow he was to face was certainly strong. Probably more then he. He'd have to use his smarts to win this one, and that was if he'd get lucky. He doubted he'd get lucky and get a scrawny weakling. Not that he, himself, was a weakling; Hunter's were just an entire new bred of physically strong most of the time. It was bothersome at best.
Most muscle-heads he knew, weren't exactly the smartest. Or at least, they were rarely on his level. If they were, he usually lost the fight. Not that it wasn't about 50/50, as even when matched, Grenal is much, much more ruthless when it comes down to something like combat.
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Post by Solomon Moon on Jun 21, 2016 6:39:56 GMT
The stadium breathed like a living creature, or better yet a hive, the murmuring of what seemed to be a million voices blurred into a single low tone that seemed to buzz in the air, the stands, the floor, and the walls. Somewhere distant, a single voice rose above the rest on the electronic wings of a PA system, announcing that the first of the contestants had entered the arena, and that drone hitched and grew, like a radio briefly picking up interference and static, as all together the crowd grew tense in anticipation of the second. Solomon could feel that ominous pulse of expectant legions through the vibrations of the concrete against his back, and though only a few shorts steps would carry him into the sight of countless thousands, they seemed so very far away as he supported himself against the wall of the contestant aisles that fed into the arena.
He was staring in the direction of the nondescript concrete of the path, single eye unblinking, gaze set as if to pass right through the opaque barrier, and he allowed that rumble, like the tremors of a distant earthquake, to fill him, to flow through him, until for a moment it was all he was aware of. Until for a moment he felt as if the rapid beating of his heart, fluttering in his chest like a hummingbird taken wing upon a hurricane, and that dull roaring thunder were one and the same.
"Solomon..." Came a familiar voice, as strange hands grasped his right forearm through the sleeve of his shirt, a sensation reported to his brain as if over a long distance, "Its time... Are you alright?"
A golden eye, that gleamed like steel fresh off the forge, as alone in that moment, is desolate and isolated as the moon for which the young man and his house were named, rose to regard the blue gaze of his second in command. Colonel Warren Dallas was a bookish individual, who looked on the surface to be ill suited to a military career, while garbed in a deep navy blue uniform, adorned with the braided golden lace typical of naval distinction, that looked large on him despite being impeccably tailored, but a single glance at the numerous medallions that populated his lapel was enough to prove the misconception false. The way he was peering up at Sol, who stood several inches taller and weighed in at least as many dozen pounds heavier, through the glass of half rimmed reading glasses, gave him even more of that bookish impression, along with a suggestion of patronly concern for the sudden and dangerously distant look in his ward's solitary halcyon orb.
Solomon drew a deep breath, anchoring his gaze to the grey-blue hue of Dallas' eyes, as if doing so would be enough to keep the warring emotions within him from carrying him away like flotsum in the storm, and then he exhaled and did so again, and again, until he was certain that he could continue to do so no matter what happened next. It was just nerves, that's all it was. Just nerves. After all, he'd faced worse. He'd been on the front line in fire fights, he'd lead men into battle, he'd faced down the creatures of Grimm, and he'd faced many other demons besides as well. This was nothing compared to any of that. This amounted to little more than a sparring match, no one's life was on the line, no one would be maimed, in fact there might not even be any blood before it was all over... But why then did it feel like his heart was in a vice, and that his mind was trapped in a glass jar and separate from his body. This wasn't like being afraid. Any good soldier embraced fear, and came to know it as well as an old friend, and of soldiers, Solomon Moon was among the best. No, this was like being a round, cocked and loaded in the chamber, just waiting for the firing pin to strike, or maybe, being a calf caught in the cattle aisle lead to slaughter, without any room to turn around or go back. There was no way to know what it would be until he was out there. Just nerves, just nerves, jus~...
*SLAP*
Sol saw sparks, and dark specs flared in his vision and he realized he was suddenly staring towards the arena from which the murmur was originating, instead of towards Dallas. His cheek stung, and with his tongue he poked along the outside of his molars to see if he was bleeding. With his senses returning he craned his head back towards Dallas, who was rubbing furiously at the fingers of his left hand in an attempt to work away the sting that striking that iron trap that passed for Solomon's jaw had caused him.
"I've got another hand, and two boots, if that's what it takes Solomon. Are you going to do this, or are you going to make me force you out there one kick in the ass at a time?" Dallas hissed, sounding every bit the drill sergeant who had overseen the majority of Sol's private tutoring since the latter was old enough to lift a sword over his head.
Sol grinned coldly, as the pain radiating through his jaw seemed to solidify his surroundings, and he briefly remembered the first time he'd landed a blow against the bespectacled soldier, before harnessing that remembered satisfaction to quench the desire to strike the man back.
"Yeah.." Sol said, as he let out a breath he did not know he had been holding, causing his deep baritone of a voice to take on a breathy lilt. He levered himself off of the wall and cracked the knuckles of his left hand against the palm of his right, "I think I'm ready."
He took a few steps, before glancing back over his shoulder and adding, "Thanks."
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Sol was rubbing his left hand idly against the stinging of the right side of his jaw as he stepped into view of the stadium for the first time. All at once the murmur of the crowd became thunder surrounding him, as faces beyond count all seemed to turn to him at once, beholding in unison the infamous heir to the most prolific Military Contractor in Atlas.
Master Solomon-Daton Moon; First and only son of the war-hero and martyr, Terrel-Daton Moon; Lord Commander of Moon Military Contractors; Once said to be this generation's most promising Atlesian swordsman, at least until the tragic military catastrophe that claimed his father's life and drove him into hiding for nearly a year; A young man whose mere arrival at this tournament had nearly sparked a riot, whose name was synonymous with the might of the Atlesian military among some, and with the persecution & mistreatment of faunus among others; Born with a sword in one hand and a silver spoon in his mouth; was not even legally an adult and had as many titles and rumors surrounding him as men triple his age, and he certainly looked worthy of the distinction of his most well known moniker, The One-Eyed Dragon.
A face of chiselled plains gave his statuesque features a grim quality, a severity only further enhanced by the patch of leather and red chord where his right eye should have been, while the open grin of his lips might have passed just as well for the baring of teeth. His eye was a golden auger that caused those within the crowd who were near enough to see it clearly, to flinch away as it passed over them, despite the honeycomb force field that separated the spectators from the combatants, and along with his gaze as it settled upon his foe seemed to come a physical weight, like that of a guillotine blade suspended just over head, or the subtle pressure of a blade poised against the flesh of one's neck. A strong square jaw, and a powerful neck that hinted at the prominent physique that must hide beneath his attire, rose from the folded down high-collar of a swallow-tail waistcoat in the azure hue of deepest midnight, trimmed in thread of gold, which hung open over a hauberk of segmented steel straps that gave his midsection the suggestion of a great serpent's scales. The sleeves of his waistcoat bulged around the silhouettes of thickly muscled arms, as twin embroidered serpents of the same gold thread that punctuated the seams, spiraled down his forearms toward charcoal black leather gloves that seemed flawlessly tailored to conceal none of the shape of his broad fists. Upon his back, between shoulders as broad as that of the heartiest laborer, his coat bore the emblem of his noble line, rendered in stunning clarity with silver thread that seemed to twinkle in the many spotlights that tracked his entrance, none other than the fractured moon of Remnant itself, along with the form of a one eyed serpent with the claws and mane of a lion coiling through the wreckage, each in such detail that it seemed that the silver fragments might fly apart, or that the dragon might leap to life at any moment. Apart from the hauberk, and a set of greaves, also sporting a stylized rendition of the moon engraved upon their polished silver braces, the only other protective consideration of his garb seemed to be a boiled leather paldron, affixed over his right shoulder.
Upon his hip in a sheath of overlapping red scales around a semi translucent blue core, he bore his sword, "Whisper", a single edged slightly curved blade with a minimal pommel and a hilt designed for optimal use in two hands but balanced for use in one as well, though with the predatory grace with which he moved, and the way violence seemed to encircle him like a cloak of shadows, it seemed almost an afterthought. He did not seem to need any weapon, just by looking at him, because he was, from head to toe, a sword tempered in the very heat of battle, and quenched in the blood of his enemies, forged by a lifetime of precise hammer-blows that had yielded a living, breathing engine of bloodshed and destruction.
He placed himself across from his foe, focused as an arrow drawn to the cheek in a bow, taking his spot on the other side of the concrete pad that punctuated the center of the arena. A quiet stillness fell over the stadium as even the mighty engines of the Amity Colosseum seemed to hold their breaths.
With a series of dull cracks he cocked his head to one side, and then to the other, for a moment looking the snake mesmerized by the tune of a brave or foolish flutist, before setting himself in his stance, left shoulder towards his target, hand resting on the mouth of his scabbard, just below the hilt of his sword, body turned to the side to present as little a target as possible, as his feet spread to match the width of his shoulders, poised to spring ahead or away, and his right arm cocked casually in a half bent, half dangling, posture that might have been an afterthought, or might not. He looked for all the world to be just as a coiled viper waiting patiently in the grass, with only the fire burning in his golden eye to suggest he was not simply a decadently expensive statue.
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Post by grenalblack on Jun 21, 2016 18:52:52 GMT
"Why so tense? We're going to be here for a good while. There's no point in not properly introducing ourselves to each other. My name is Grenal Black, student at Syne Academy, and general nuisance to mankind. Also, let's be real here. This fight's going to be over very, very fast. Who'll win? Who knows."
Grenal shrugged, simply looking at Solomon. Grenal decided that, if he were to win, he couldn't be wearing this dreadful shirt. He unbuttoned it, keeping his glance at Solomon. After about a moment, his shirt came off to reveal a reasonably toned body, but it was clear that he didn't spend all his time on it. After all, he didn't have a burling physique or even a large body. Grenal only stood about 5'11", not even breaking six feet. It was his aura, the one that was blazingly obvious, that made most not fight. It seemed his opponent wasn't phased. Darn. He thought he'd have an easy opponent.
"So. You wanna go to neigh death or what are we doing here? Do you wish to fight in the forest or on the ice? I mean. I'm fine with either, although I think that the Ice would make for a much more interesting fight. If I'm being honest."
He walked onto the ice, using his semblance to maintain perfect balance. Well, not so much balance as his feet stuck so that he didn't slip. After all, he could walk on walls and water. He could even walk up a wall, built shoddily. It was a simple fact that he had the advantage on the ice, and in the forest. He was made to fight in a room full of obstacles. He simply had a better way around them. He, after walking onto the ice, brought out his razor. He flipped it open, and looked over to Solomon.
"Come on then. Let's fight."
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Post by Solomon Moon on Jun 22, 2016 0:58:19 GMT
Something wasn't right, of that Sol was sure. Not in the way that he didn't trust the supposedly genial nature of his intended foe, and not in the way that he rightly distrusted the thousands of strangers that had grown quiet when he had entered the arena. It was something much more basic than such considerations that bothered him at that very moment as he met eyes with his enemy. If not for the way that the individual introduced himself, Grenal Black, as if Sol was supposed to recognize that name, the one eyed swordsman would have believed that the man were simply some peasant who had become separated from his tour group and had wandered into the arena at the absolutely worst possible moment, but this was not so, this man, unarmed and unarmored, without a single stitch upon him to suggest any manner of affluence, and utterly unremarkable in even the most rudimentary sense, (even his aura was nothing more than one might expect of someone who had been academy trained, in fact Sol was sure he had seen animals with just as much ability to manifest aura), was to be his match. The very thought, the very suggestion that this, this peon, (even in his mind the word dripped with disgust), was in any way a worthy opponent for Solomon Moon was not merely laughable, it was actually insulting.
Sol had not risen as far in his studies, and had not climbed the ranks of his family's company as a simple matter of nepotism, (Terrel had never played favorites, and Sol had earned every honor bestowed upon him), and in spite of a temper that was legendarily incendiary, he could not have achieved what he had without being able to control his bouts of fury. The Atlesian Military, as well as Titan Academy, had no patience for a loose cannon after all. But as Grenal began removing what little scrap of protection from the elements he possessed, exposing himself indecently and continuing to chit-chat at the seasoned warrior as if they were long friends, Sol had to turn all of the willpower he could avail of himself towards the united purpose of stifling the earth-shattering, borderline hysteric acrimony that clawed at him fr purchase.
His face was a mask of barely contained fury, eye so wide in outrage that an unbroken white border surrounded the broad golden disk that lay in it's center, and he began to look around at everything but the chattering commoner as if suddenly disbelieving the absurdity of his surroundings, as if searching for the one who would leap out and declare that this was all just some poor excuse for a joke. But he saw that the crowd was just as stunned as he, and already he could hear jeers and boos from the distant bleachers.
"You're a mockery." Sol spat in a voice that was every bit as loud and blunt as Grenal's had been soft and smooth, sound rising from deep within his barrel chest like smoke climbing from the stack of a massive furnace, infused with not simply authority by the expectation of respect and the right to pass judgement, "This is not some piss-soaked back alley, and I am not just some drunken rough."
His voice echoed, easily audible to those in the first few stands, and enough to set the masses murmuring among themselves, but let them talk Sol thought, let them hear his words.
"THIS IS AMITY COLOSSEUM!" He declared as he swept his left hand out to indicate the splendor of the artifice upon which the both of them stood, a marvel of the modern age, and shining symbol of mankind's achievement that deserved more than some shirtless wretch making small talk as if there weren't entire nations watching the proceedings, "YOU INSOLENT CUR." He stressed ever individual word, with so much ire and venom that they seemed to leap from his mouth like the acid spit of a great taijitu, infusing every syllable with as much of his anger as he could until it seemed that the air itself much catch fire around him.
"Not only do you insult me, but you insult the nations of Remnant herself with your shameful behavior." He continued, face growing redder by the word as he stalked towards the edge of the concrete pad like a great cat towards a cornered rat, "YOU THINK YOU CAN INVITE ME TO FIGHT YOU?! Forfeit immediately and I will spare you the savage beating you deserve, and you may depart with what little honor remains to you, but if you force me to punish your arrogance myself, you will not be able to open your fool mouth ever again."
Despite his justifiably aggravation, Sol was still smarter than to take the bait and be lured out into a battlefield of his opponent's choosing, never minding the fact that the unadorned pad would have been his first choice for a battle and the grassland his second before risking the ice. He saw no weapon on the man capable of harassing at a distance, and saw no reason to endure the risk when he himself could engage safely from sure footing. Besides, despite his attitude, Sol fancied himself a honorable warrior, and as he saw it his offer, despite the exact wording, was a generous one. After all, any gentleman would offer an outclassed opponent the opportunity to bow out without the need for violence, as it was a practice that would allow both parties to avoid the necessity of embarrassment, in the case of the foe he might avoid the shame of a defeat, and in the case of the one making the offer he might avoid the shame of having to do violence upon someone much weaker than himself. Nothing Sol had seen of the man, who could not even be bothered to keep the rags he already wore, convinced him that Grenal was anything nearing a threat upon himself, and he was not about to waste the effort of the man if it could at all be avoided.
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Post by grenalblack on Jun 22, 2016 5:48:53 GMT
"Sure, it is. However. You seem to be under the assumption that I'm a complete fool. I also see that you aren't. The fact is, I've probably killed a few more beings then you. Please, end me." Grenal finishes, and shifts into a more docile stance, albeit this very stance was a false thing. It was more so that, as much fun as this was, if this was his first opponent, he was undoubtly done for. He clearly was outmatched in skill, and most likely in strength. Everything in him told him that he should run. But. He at least had to leave like a normal human... and first get beaten. No-no. He'd be undoubtedly beaten to either a pulp, or death. This was a rough question, and one he had to actually think about.
Grenal, putting his hand to his chin, walked towards the wall, and then stood completely parallel to the ground. He turned towards Solomon.
"I'm completely outmatched in combat. You might even be able to match my pure ruthlessness. You know what. I think I give in. Ta-ta. Just know. I'm not a fighter of honor. I'm a complete asshole, who on more then one occasion, has lost a fight because he had a shred of humanity left. I no longer do, I just don't want to test my limits."
He walked up to the crowd, and stood in front of them, crouching.
He spread his arms, and then put them across his chest.
"Win it for me, Solomon."
He turned his semblance off, falling head-first onto the ice, instantly unconscious. If one would go look, he'd have a smile on his face. He knew what he was doing.
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Post by Event Admin on Jun 22, 2016 18:49:24 GMT
Victory to Solomon Moon
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Post by Solomon Moon on Jun 23, 2016 4:31:18 GMT
Sol sharpened up his stance as his opponent responded to his demands, taking every errant twitch of the shirtless madman to be a precursor to potential assault, wisely treating the enigma that was Grenal with as much caution as the man rightly deserved, in spite of his appearance. A quick knife between the ribs killed the affluent as soundly as it did the powerless, and Solomon was wary of that possibility even as Grenal seemed to submit to the obvious misfortune of this match up. The assertion that this plain individual, a man of neither note nor title, had taken more lives than the Lord Commander of a private army, (not even counting the people who had died in skirmishes under his command) was just ludicrous enough to make a wild grin spread across Sol's face for a brief instant, and the one eyed lordling was not sure if it was meant to be an attempt at humor, or perhaps a more cleverly concealed dig at him personally what with how Grenal pleaded for him to "end it".
Whereas he could have been called poised before, he stiffened like a drawn bow as the mouthy man casually strode a few paces up a vertical wall, as such a display of such a unique talent could only mean that there was surely some sort of attack to follow, and everything else had just been a ploy or stalling maneuver of some description to put Sol off balance. However, Grenal's words made it sound as if he were indeed surrendering, and the dissonance was more than enough to stun the young warrior to inaction as he waited for the reveal with baited breath and every muscle in his body balanced so perfectly on the cusp of action that he seemed a coiled up snake preparing to strike, or perhaps a wolf slowly circling a strange animal that it had never seen before.
And then, as if it hadn't been absurd enough, the shirtless man, Grenal, simply stepped away from the vertical surface upon which he had perched himself like some unsettling spider, or rather whatever force had secured him to that plain seemed to fail, and he fell head first into the ice to the stomach churning crunch of skull striking a much harder surface. For one of the few times in his relatively short life, Sol was rendered completely and truly speechless as the truth of what had transpired slowly dawned upon him like the first rays of a mocking sun cresting the distant horizon. Grenal had not simply surrendered, he had inflicted the finishing blow himself, without so much as a weapon drawn by either man. Sol's arms fell slack to his sides and the only reason he did not gape openly was that he was too busy grinding the caps off all his teeth in frustration and confusion for his jaw to unlock enough to make such an expression of honest baffled bewilderment possible.
A quick glance to the massive video screen that provided statistics regarding aura levels to the spectators verified that Grenal was not only without any aura, but indeed, fully unconscious, and as no little surprise, Sol was not the only one scrutinizing the thirty foot tall display with wide eyed expressions of disbelief. It seemed that the majority of the crowded spectators were having just as much difficulty coming to grips with the events as Solomon himself. But like a drop of blood slowly spreading through a cup of water, understanding rolled through the stands, and no one was pleased with the answers that their senses reported.
Sol could feel the slab on which he stood beginning to vibrate as the first of countless hundreds of voices rose up in outrage. Slurs and curses, and oaths not merely uttered but yelled at the top of the lungs rose from the mouths of thousands in chaotic unison. There were accusations of foul play, of Sol using his influence to induce his foe to take a dive, along side the justifiable anger that the fight many had paid well to watch had come to an end with little more than some strong language shared between contestants, while others were trying to maintain order to varying degrees of success. Arguments were breaking out, objects from drinks purchased at concession, metal beverage containers and even glass bottles, to seats and whatever else could be found close at hand, shattered against the hexagonal patterned force field that surrounded the battleground, in an ironic twist, now serving to protect the combatants from the wrath of the onlookers, and the PA system tried it's best to be heard above the storm.
Sol licked his lips, and found his mouth dry as he looked into the faces of hundreds, no thousands, of faces twisted by rage and all focused directly upon him. He'd never felt as small, as vulnerable as he did in that single unspeakable moment, and it took all the courage he possessed not to flee the accusing declarations and gazes of that sea strange faces as quickly as his legs could carry him. He had no doubt that if they could get at him, they would try to spill his blood in retribution for his part in the preceding events, and whether that was true or simply a result of a military career that had taught him to see swords in blades of grass was not even a consideration as the united boom of a thousand voices calling for his blood deafened him from every side like a physical wall trying to crush him.
He did his best to control his breathing, as all the color rushed from his face and he turned as smartly on his heels as he was able and marched towards the exit in his best attempt to not look like he was being hurried by the riot brewing to his back. He was gripping his scabbard so tightly that the joints in his hand creaked, and he was acutely aware of just how limited his supply of dust was should the shield not be there to keep the fans from reaching him.
Two days and he had started no less than two riots. It would have been impressive, were it not so terrifying.
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