Round Three - [Gladiator] - VS - [Lance] Judge - Omac

[Omac]

Wormeater Woods
Fight VS Fight
Judge Omac

The cool air of the forest was filled with both the energy of freedom and life. It was the kind of place that preyed on your inner creature. Demanding that you strip away the laws of your humanity and give in to your truest desires. That feeling pulsed through the forest like an overactive heartbeat. Much like how a fallen tree may not make a sound, the forest itself did not either. It was more of a calling. It was like a parasite slowly eating away at your very soul, if such a thing did exist. The forest breathed with all of that and carrying the cold chill that only death could carry with it.

It was endless. Trees were surrounding other trees. Branches that interlocked with other branches. Each tree looked different than the last, and even more, every tree seemed to change shape with each passing glance. The trees wore beetles, flies, and millipedes alike, but the wasps came to feed on them. The forest itself smelled of rotten flesh and death, and yet there was no sight of dead animals anywhere. There weren’t any animals in sight. They were there. The forest wasn’t empty. The trees wrapped around like a maze, and it made it hard to see beyond the tangles, but in the shadows was the faint glare of the beasts hiding beyond the darkness. They were both watching for their prey, and terrified to approach.

Travelers should be warned to watch their step. The woods are both traitorous and filled with dangerous animals that may strike at any moment. The birds have already started circling the trees waiting for death. Under the grass and into the dirt, live thousands of hungry worms. The bird would wait for the worms to reveal themselves to devour them, and the worms would wait until the birds died before eating at their flesh. It was always a waiting game for the birds. Observing, waiting, and striking. I only took a few moments for the worms. There were so many that if even a few of them worked together, it could take a mere few seconds. Now though, the birds soared eagerly and the worms peaked just under the surface. They knew death was upon them, and for them, that meant food. It was the natural order of Decay.

The silence broke with a single pull of a refile. Ash hit the air absurdly pushing away any sense of freedom and safety the forest once gave it. At the end of the shotgun stood a man with no notable features. The only thing he wore was that of a wicked grin and those demonic red eyes that brought light to the shadows. He stood with confidence. He felt no need to hide his true self. He also didn’t hide the scar running down his chest. He held the refile loosely in both hands, floating his finger around the trigger. The worms crawled out of the dirt as they wiggled in between his toes and under his feet. As they did, they started to blend until they fit loosely like shoes. It was almost unrecognizable to a regular off-colored pair of sneakers, other than the faint movements.

One of the animals broke through the restrictions of the trees and ran towards him. While one came to him from behind, the larger one knocked the gun from his hands. He turned, grabbing the tiger by the throat as if it was no more then a small kitten. With a simple snap, the beast fell. The man spun it around viciously as he uses the claws of that same tiger to slice into the bear, it’s roar being silenced with a second stab. The man moved so fast. He sliced and diced. More creatures ran at him. He didn’t stop. When he was finished, their bloody bones and wasted meat laid in the dirt as the worms started to feast. The man then wore the fur of the animals. The bear as a cheeky hat, still dripping blood down the sides of his ears. The feathers of a crow at his waist. He wore the tiger’s skin as a cape and used its fangs as nothing more than a toothpick. He was now dressed to occasion.

He picked up his refile as the Gladiator and Lancer could move freely. They had been more of shadows, or whispers, only able to witness the forest as it withered away. Now they could move. Now they could face each other. “Oh come on ye little worms! Come out and play.” He aimed the shotgun at both of them, somehow at once, as he moved so fast it was almost as if he was holding two separate weapons. “I used to want a show. Magic to do. Now that’s over, yes yes. I’m getting hungry, I want to feed the Decay. Hop along little bunnies. Fight like lions. Roar like wolves. Die like warriors.” He shook his head very slowly. “Give head start, I will. Kill one another, you will. Run, run, run.”

Kozzar looked to the bugs as they ate at one of the nearby trees, digging into the hollow until it forced the tree down in a single snap. He brought his finger to his lips, “Shhh. Be vewy vewy quiet, I'm hunting wabbits.” He started to chuckle. It was almost childlike, yet sinister. He looked back at the two opponents. “One will die by the end of the night, or we’ll feed ye to the fright, see.” He turned slightly away from them so that only half of his face was still in view. “This forest isn’t used for hunting, no-no.” He turned back to them as the other half of his face was now ripped down the side, bloody, and covered in worms. He aimed the refile at them and echoed his laughter. “This forest is used for hunting you.”

_____

There will be a judge post after the second round and after the forth. You must fight like in any normal arena, but you must also be ready for what the hunter (Kozzar) will throw at you. Unlike the previous stages, nothing here is an illusion. Use what you have. Utilize what's around you. Survive. Win the fight. Via a coin toss, Lancer will go first.

[Holeypaladin]

"That field hath eyen, and the wood hath ears."¹
Canterbury Tales. The Knightes Tale. Line 1524.

Gytha Smyth, a veteran who could no longer be considered a young girl, found her in a strange place. At first glance it seemed like a forest... yet it was like nothing like the forest near her home. It was far too quiet... the woods always had an ambiance of sound, ranging from the song of birds, the flowing of water, and the various songs of insects... yet this forest seemed to be devoid of them all.

She knew that she was well and truly lost... she knew neither the way home from her current location, nor the way she got there in the first place. As for her memories... the last thing she remembered was the day she killed her first bandit... but that, too, seemed like a distant memory. Twenty years had passed since then... presumably, twenty years in service of the Lancers, as evident by the well crafted armor that she wore, and the sword-staff that she carried in a way that made it clear that she knew how to use it.

Yes... she was a Lancer. This much, she knew. A Lancer who should be retiring, soon to be free of her oaths. But what place was this? Something told me she wasn't even in England anymore... perhaps not in the mortal world at all. Had she died, then? Was this the afterlife.. Purgatory, perhaps? But what sins had she committed that deserved purgation? She had killed, true... but as far as she remembered, every man she had ever killed most certainly deserved to die... and it was not a sin to kill in self defense, or to save the life of an innocent. She had no recollection of violating her oaths of service and chastity... but this meant little, as she had no recollection of the past twenty years of her life.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a very loud sound. Turning her attention to the source of the sound, the woman saw that she was not alone. Someone... something else was with her. With how fast it moved, there was no way this... thing... could be human. A demon, perhaps? One of the foul denizens of Purgatory, here to torment her until her sins were purged and she could move on to Heaven?

The sound had come from some sort of weapon... but the Lancer knew not what a refile was, nor did she know what a rifle was. She had no idea what a shotgun was, either... though the fact that the creature's weapon could somehow change forms defied all logic, as did everything else about him. She did know what the sound was, though... in all her studies of war and battlefield strategy, she knew of the hand cannons used in the war against France, and the creature's weapon sounded very similar to one.

Though her armor was most certainly able to withstand a shot from a hand cannon, the force behind such shots was incredibly painful, and might knock her off balance and vulnerable to other attacks. Therefore, when the creature aimed its exotic weapon at her, she took cover behind one of the many trees. It seemed this logic-defying creature wasn't the only other thing present, however... as it spoke not only to her, but also to a very large, very muscular beast man... a cat of some kind, though his particular breed was not one she was familiar with.

Regardless, it was clear she would need to defend herself. While the demon with the hand cannon had not yet fired at her directly, it was clearly raving mad, and could at any moment open fire upon her, the beast man, or both. It also seemed as if the creature wanted her to do battle with the beast man... and while she held no particular hostility towards the creature, she couldn't guarantee the same lack of hostility in return.

Taking a defensive stance with her weapon raised and pointed halfway between each opponent, she slowly backed away in order to assume a more defensible location. As she did this, she appraised both opponents. The logic-defying creature that she presumed to be a demon, and perhaps the lord of this forest, had a ranged weapon... and if it was anything like the hand cannons she knew, it would be inaccurate beyond short range. So long as she kept her distance, it was unlikely the weapon would be able to hit her... or so she hoped.

As for the beast man... he was bigger, faster, and several times stronger than her. If this creature had been selected by the demon in order to be her opponent in some sort of duel... it was an obvious mockery of her, as the cat's weapons were vastly inferior to hers in both reach and lethality, and he lacked any sort of armor to speak of, in stark contrast to her own heavy plate armor. Clearly, she was being given a significant handicap to make up for the fact that she was a woman. It wasn't the first time she hadn't been taken seriously, though... and perhaps she could use this to her advantage.

"Art thou friend, or foe?" she warily asked the beast man as she raised her sword-staff defensively. "Verily, the demon is the greater threat than myself... for I am but a feeble woman. If bloodshed by thy wish, perchance ye should eliminate the greater threat first?" She directed the tip of her sword-staff in the direction of the crazed Kozzar, indicating to the panther that it would be better to eliminate him first... though she wasn't sure the beast man even understood the King's English.

As she spoke, she backed up to a raised area devoid of trees. This was the best defensive position she could find, as she was well aware that the terrain vastly favored the beast man over herself, and she need a bit of room to wield her weapon. If the beast man wished to approach her... he would have to cross the demon's line of fire, which would leave him vulnerable to a hand cannon shot to the flank. As she suspected both men were opponents, this was the most tactically sound decision to her.

Despite her smaller stature, she knew that a single blow from her weapon was all it would take to incapacitate her opponent... while her own armor's plates would be impenetrable to the beast man's katars. She did have vulnerable points in her armor, of course... but every bit of the beast man's body was vulnerable to her weapon, so she had far fewer in comparison. To complete the ensemble, she also wore a helmet, as head protection was by far the most important thing in any battle.

Lowering her weapon, the reach advantage was very clear. She would wait for her opponent to come close... but the long shaft and blade of her weapon would prevent him from getting too close. There was no way she would let someone so much bigger and stronger than her get close enough to strike with his ridiculously short-ranged weapons... her own polearm would prevent such an advance, and she held the pointy end of the blade directly at her opponent.

[Mystress of Shadows]

Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt.

- William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, Act 3 Scene 2

---

A figure swung in the air, the large body obscured by a mass of vultures as they plucked and fed on the free meal.

Another of Osei’s “reminders”.

This person must have died in the arena, their remains now strung up in the training area for the birds that have grown accustomed to the easy meals.

Skinned and disgraced.

Marcos approached against his better judgement, wishing to know who had fallen this time.

His blood ran cold as he caught a glimpse of the face through the flapping wings.

Despite the mutilation, despite the bits of flesh ripped from the skull, Marcos recognized his own face.

He lost. He died. Now he paid the consequence.

His body, strung up by his neck, decayed further with each passing moment. The stench swelled in the humid heat of summer’s day, and flies and maggots found their short-lived home in his openings and crevices. His fellow slaves and gladiators passed by with disturbed, revolted glances, knowing this would be their fate should they lose.

Frustration and anger rippled through Marcos’ veins. This. He hated this. This was not supposed to be his fate. This was the very thing he fought against. The very thing that fueled his ferocious, relentless attacks. The very thing that pushed him through broken limbs and fatal wounds. The very thing that-

---

Marcos jolted as his consciousness arrived in the present moment. The cool air relaxed his wound up senses as he registered his new surroundings.

Woods.

Knotted, tumbling, twisting, thick forests swarming with moss and mist. It had been many, many years since Marcos had the opportunity to set foot deep within the trees, free from the sting of whips and cries of battle. In that moment, he felt a release. He felt freedom, and the urge to relinquish himself to animalistic pleasure, true to his form. It was like a dream. If this was life after death, he would not mind it. The peace in this brief moment was worth Osei’s punishment and those years of slavery.

He inhaled the crisp air with shut eyes, wondering why he had feared death so viscerally before.

His eyes snapped open as he finished drawing breath, his peace shattering within him.

Something incorporeal gnawed at his insides, suffocating and chilling him just as Kozzar had in his fight against the dwarf.

The peaceful freedom he had experienced moments before falsified his belief of death, but the suffocating pressure that encompassed the area now returned him to reality. This was death. This is what he feared. This agony. This misery. This overwhelming decay. Osei’s tyranny could never compare to this.

How did I get here? He reflected on the end of his previous battle, how he had been abandoned by judge and audience alike, left to rot in a dusty, desolate auditorium. He, in his blinding rage, attacked Bri ruthlessly, but from there, he did not remember.

Looking at his surroundings a second time, he noticed how the trees and branches seemed to twine and twist as though shifting positions and appearance like the dance of predator and prey. Equally so, the dance of predator and prey resounded through every inch of the woods. To die meant to be eaten, and to eat meant to live. It echoed his own life and his own beliefs. The weak are eaten so the strong may live.

Crack.

Marcos was not the strongest of these woods.

The alpha of these woods presented himself at the end of a gun, the splintering, thunderous noise startling the animals of the woods as they responded to this new figure. From the worms forming his shoes to the vicious fight between the predators and the man, every creature in the woods seemed to shudder in his presence.

“I used to want a show…”

Kozzar.

Marcos recognized him in an instant. He who abandoned him. He who lead him to believe he would die. Before, Marcos did not understand his previous opponent’s distaste for him. Now, he understood.

He was worse than Osei. Osei did not toy with death. If you failed, you died. There was no chance of coming back. If you succeeded, you lived. There was no chance of being strung up for the vultures.

Marcos snarled at Kozzar, his mounting rage seeking a release. However, there was another person with them, the second person Kozzar pointed his gun at.

Her silver armor shimmered in what little light seeped through the entangled branches, stark against the dull green surroundings. She wielded a sword-staff whose length dwarfed her height - as she was not a short lady - and she wielded it with experience. She was not the dainty flower his previous two opponents had been; she was a veteran, someone who had seen much of battle. Perhaps more than him.

That fact almost made Marcos excited for the battle Kozzar thrust upon them. Almost. In the end, though, he had previous experience with this demon. He knew it would not be a pleasant fight. Kozzar had other things planned.

As Kozzar finished speaking, his opponent in turn spoke to him, asking if he was friend or foe and mentioning going after Kozzar first. Her english was strange, thick in an unfamiliar accent and laced with words that were both familiar and not. She must be European, Marcos thought, spotting her fair skin and hair beneath her helmet.

“Whether I am friend or foe depends on you, valquíria.” This woman reminded him of the valkyrie of lore, Norse women who strode into battle, chosen for their honorable deaths. In a way, Marcos envied those legends, but the name was befitting of the warrior in front of him.

As he spoke, Marcos circled around until his opponent was between him and Kozzar, recognizing that she would lose her situational advantage should she move to prevent it. He also did not fear the gun pointed at him at that moment. Kozzar had spoken of a head start, meaning he would not fire immediately. On the other hand, he would not wait forever for bloodshed and death.

“I wish for nothing more than an equal fight of skill, not a deathmatch. However, until that demon is gone, a deathmatch is what is required of us.”

Marcos settled for a half guard just outside his opponent’s reach, his leading left hand extended towards the sword-staff while his right protected his chest and neck. He wished to show caution without aggression, perhaps opening his foe to the possibility of an alliance.

At the same time, Marcos studied his opponent further. Her armor appeared to be full plate, which could be annoying. The katars, originally crafted to pierce chainmail with ease and later refined to many styles including the ones Marcos wielded, could pierce steel armor with enough force. Most creatures did not have the force to adequately pierce through steel armor, but Marcos, being a panthera, possessed the needed strength and agility. The katars also sacrificed the full mobility and finesse that held daggers did, instead opting for a stronger, marginally thicker blade to avoid breaking while piercing armor.

Working around her weapon would be more problematic, however. She had significantly more reach, and she intended to use it unlike his previous opponents. While he could block strikes with his katars, the force may be too much for even him to handle head on. He would need to disarm her, get deep within her range, or somehow get her to move to a less advantageous position if he wished to dominate the battle.

“I can’t get close enough before he shoots. If you distract or hold him in place somehow, I can deal the final blow.” He spoke low, barely loud enough for her to hear. His eyes flicked towards the trees as though to indicate that was how he would strike.

Part of what Marcos said originated from truth. He did wish for a fight of skill between the two of them, but he knew there was no defeating Kozzar, no matter how much he wished to. He could freeze them in place, transport them as he pleased, and even conjure up an entire army of shadows without batting an eye.

From the way this woman spoke, she knew none of this. Marcos hoped to entice her into suicide, or at the least into a disadvantageous situation. Regardless, due to the bit of truth in his statements, he would appear genuine, as though he truly planned to take down Kozzar if she agreed.

Worst come to worst, she would attack him instead, but that would bring her out of her defensive guard, which would only be of benefit to him.

---

*valquíria - valkyrie

[Holeypaladin]

"Ther n’ is no werkman whatever he be,
That may both werken wel and hastily.
This wol be done at leisure parfitly."¹

-Canterbury Tales. The Marchantes Tale. Line 585.

---

Gytha was a young girl... perhaps twelve years of age. Still intent on becoming like her father, she dressed as a boy so as to hide her figure... but this was becoming increasingly difficult, as her feminine attributes became harder to pad down as she aged into adolescence. In this particular memory, she was studying various weapons from a book on arms and armor, intent on memorizing every single weapon, as well as its purpose on the battlefield.

The majority of battlefield weapons were polearms, and for good reason. Not only did they work well in formation, but they rendered it virtually impossible for anyone not using a polearm to get within striking distance. Of course it also rendered infantry vulnerable to missile fire... but this was rectified by having the front ranks of spearmen using a one handed spear and a shield to protect against arrows.

When it came to individual combat, the armor of the day made it difficult for knights to fight each other with the sword and shield ways of the past. Not only did advancements in plate armor render a shield mostly redundant for the heavily armored knights, but swords stood no chance of penetrating plate armor. Swords had become a sidearm, meant to be used once the knight was unable to use his main weapon... which was typically a pollaxe or bec de corbon, as the heavy impact provided by the hammer head was much more effective against plate armor than any piercing or slashing weapon.

In choosing her own weapon, however, she had found a certain Norwegian weapon to be much more aesthetically pleasing. It lacked the armor piercing ability of a pollaxe or halberd, but against lightly armored or unarmored opponents, such as the bandits she would be facing as a member of the Order of Lancers, it was more effective than a weapon designed to be used against heavy armor, as it could cut and thrust, while preventing her opponent from closing to sword range.

With this brief reflection on an early memory in mind, Gytha examined the beastman. There was much to learn about one's opponent, or potential opponent, based on the way he equipped himself. The weapon he used was a sort of bladed fist weapon, the likes of which she was unfamiliar, despite her extensive knowledge of the weapons and armor of her time. Most likely, then, it was of a distant, foreign origin.

His lack of armor was suicide in a battlefield, and when factoring in the short range of his weapon, it was clear he his combat style was more civilian in nature than it was military. A duelist, perhaps... but more likely, an assassin. In fact, assassination tactics seemed to suit his kit perfectly... while armor was necessary on the battlefield of honor, it rendered stealth essentially impossible.

The Lancer knew better than to take an assassin's word at face value. Though his words were in some sort of foreign accent, difficult for her to understand and not in any dialect of English she had ever heard, the fact that the foreigner knew any English at all meant he was more than a simple beastman.... he was an intelligent predator. And despite her heavy armor, it must appear to this predator of a beastman as if she was prey.

Additionally, the beastman was able to analyze her stance and position and determine that he would be at a disadvantage if he tried to rush her... which indicated he had a clear knowledge of how difficult it was to close the distance with a heavily armored polearm user. His superhuman speed and agility may help him some if he did attack her... but she wagered it was still highly unlikely that he could get close enough to use his fist knives against her without suffering an injury from her sword blade... and considering his lack of armor, a single sword injury could easily end the fight in her favor.

She tried to make sense of the words he used as he spoke to her. Strange though his dialect was, it sounded as if the demon was demanding the two of them fight to the death... and yet, he hinted at the possibility of teaming up against him. Gytha, however, was loathe to trust the word of an assassin at face value... and yet, it made the most sense to eliminate the demon first, if it was possible to do so.

"Thine voyce, 'tis strange to mine eares,"² she responded to the beastman. His accent was certainly not English, nor was it French. She had called him valquíria, which indicated he knew the valkyries of the Norwegian mythology... the same warrior women often portrayed to be wielding her choice of sword-staff weaponry. The pronunciation sounded as if it originated from the Iberian peninsula... but from which of the four major kingdoms, she could only guess. "Be ye frome Aragon?"

It sounded as if he wanted her to make the first move and attack the demon.... but to move from her defensive position was tactically unsound, as it would expose her to a flanking attack from the assassin himself. Her defensive position was her best bet when it came to fighting someone six times as strong as her, and undoubtedly much faster as well.

"Shouldst thou striketh oure enemie firste," she said, "Thou hast mine werde of honor as a knighte. I shall join the fyte." She was trying to tell the beastman that if he struck the demon first, presumably in ambush from the shadows, or from one of the nearby trees, that she would join him in taking down the demon... though it was entirely possible that he would have a harder time understanding her English than she had understanding his. "'Tis best I remaineth fare from oure enemie. His handgonne, it has shorte raynge."

It crossed her mind that it may be easier to talk to the beastman in French or Latin, both of which she knew as well as she knew English... but she preferred the language of her own people instead. Regardless, she was completely clueless when it came to the Spanish, Arabic, and Portuguese languages of the Iberian peninsula.

"I haf no desire to fyte," she spoke, "But I shall defend mine selfe if necessarie." She wasn't moving from her spot until the beastman attacked the demon, her sword-staff in perfect position to deal serious injury to anyone who attempted to get close to her.

---

1. "No workman can work both hastily and perfectly at the same time." Essentially, this means "Haste makes waste."

2. Gytha speaks an intermediary dialect of English between Chaucer's Middle English and Shakespeare's Elizabethan English. The spelling is meant to reflect the fact that this dialect makes her difficult to understand to a Modern English speaker, and the apparent misspelling of her words is intentional. Every letter in her dialog is pronounced, including the usually silent E at the end of Modern English words.

[Kris]

Sadly Mystress of Shadows has not responded in time.

Holeypaladin (Lancer) moves on to the Gold Match.