[Judged] [ROUND 1] SPEARS SHALL BE SHAKEN, SHIELDS BE SPLINTERED [TOURNAMENT]

[Jahin]

Fight Type: BATTLE
Prize: Progression in tournament
Contact Made: Yes

Character #1: @Jahin
Bonded: Realistic Female King Cobra
Magic: No
Armor: No
Weapons: Davke Spear
Current Health: 7
Current Attack: 13
Current Experience: 23

Character #2: @Apolonia
Bonded: No
Magic: Illusion
Armor: No
Weapons: Hurlbat
Current Health: 10
Current Attack: 10
Current Experience: 21

---

---

eyes that fire and sword have seen
and horror in the halls of stone

When Jahin paces through the dark tunnel towards the daylight streaming forth from the entrance to the arena, he is distinctly aware of the sound of his cloven hooves echoing and the clashing smell of sweet roses and metallic blood. Scarlet droplets of blood glitter upon the cobblestone like precious rubies, intermingled with crushed rose petals cast forth by cheering spectators. He wonders briefly whose blood it is and how much of his own he may spill on this day. 

His Davke spear bears a wreath of snow white roses; gifted to him by a shy young maiden with hair the color of summer wheat. She had approached him at the last moment just before he had entered the tunnel, as if it was all she could do to muster the courage to present him with her token of admiration. A younger Jahin would have swelled with pride and bravado at the prospect of fighting and spilling blood to impress Makeda or any other number of eligible bachelorettes. Coming into his eighth year, however, Jahin can’t help but wonder if he is playing at a younger man’s game. He can only pray in earnest to Solis that he won't make a total fool of himself in the battle to come. 

Jahin doesn’t entirely know what possessed him to scribble his mark (he can’t spell his name yet, despite the endless reading and writing lessons) on the entry scroll. He would like to say that his motivations are purely for supporting Solterra’s uplifting revival but that would be a lie. The moment the fighting tournament was announced to the public something had stirred in his heart, as if a sleeping ember had been stoked into spontaneous flame.

Sometimes Jahin yearns for the days of his youth, when he lived fast, hard, and unapologetically. Lesser complications and responsibilities; the thrill of living one day to the next without any concern for what the following day might bring. But the days of his passionate youth and his life among the Davke are like a rapidly fading mirage in the sweltering desert heat; a dream he can glimpse lingering temptingly on the shimmering horizon behind him. Jahin knows the only way is forward, towards the rising sun and the future he has pledged himself to in Solterra. He cannot return to a life that once was, no matter how real and promising the mirage may seem.

Jahin takes a steadying breath, adjusts his spear, and strides forward into the sandy arena as he hears his name announced. The roar of the crowd crashes upon him in surging waves--the energy of the colosseum is more electrifying than a midsummer desert thunderstorm. He blinks against the harsh midday sunlight; a drop of sweat trickles from his brow and falls to the sand. Rose petals shower down around the Davke warrior like rain, dappling his back and tangling in his flame-like hair. He stands in the grandness of the arena, plain and otherwise unremarkable but for the spear strapped across his back and his wild hair braided back in traditional Davke warring style. 

Despite the disciplined calm and steadiness Jahin exudes, his heart pounds--boom, boom, boom to the drums that announce his entrance. His blood thrums faster, faster, and faster in his veins. Sahar twists and coils on his back, hissing excitedly as she takes in the view of the marble walls rising up proudly around them on all sides. He has been in the Colosseum before, he met Teiran here within these ancient walls, but nothing in all of his life could have possibly prepared him for the Colosseum in all of its true, intended glory. The crowd cries thunderously and he realizes they are chanting something. 

Blood, blood, blood. 


J A H I N
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known

@Apolonia

---

---

Summary: Jahin enters the arena, wondering if he's a little out of his league these days.

Attack Used: 0 (UPDATE THIS WHENEVER YOU USE AN ATTACK)
Attack(s) Left: 2 (UPDATE THIS WHENEVER YOU USE AN ATTACK)
Block Used: 0 (UPDATE THIS WHENEVER YOU USE A BLOCK)
Block(s) Left: 1 (UPDATE THIS WHENEVER YOU USE A BLOCK)
Item(s) Used: LIST ANY ITEMS USED, IF ANY

Response Deadline: 6/12
Tags: @Apolonia, @Sid, @inkbone, @Layla, @nestle, @aimless

[Apolonia]

i wanna chain that make my body feel all hefty

O walks into the colosseum whistling.

She does not think of how it might look, or what it might make the crowd think of her, a little girl walking into a field built from decades-old spilled blood. Perhaps they will think it is arrogant of her. And perhaps it is: really, O has no more experience fighting than the next teenager. Tuchulcha has never even been used in the way it was meant for.

But she is bred from a long, long line of overconfidence. Bexley and Acton couldn’t produce anything else. It is a lilting, clear and sweet whistle that follows her as she saunters through the darkened hallway and tower the light at the end of the tunnel, a halo of warm yellow that will inevitably turn red with blood or sunset. But that song is drowned out by the roar of the crowd. Even without looking, O knows the stadium must be filled spectators; the chant of blood, blood, blood is so loud it makes the sand underneath her feet tremble.

This has passed the line from surreal into too real, from fantasy into an imminent and throat-crushing reality, and the world has turned from black and white to color: standing at the threshold of the colosseum, her heart pounds faster than she can keep track of, her pulse thrashes like an animal at the bars of her clenched teeth. Every inch of her body is sparked to wakefulness by a wave of adrenaline, swell after swell of a feeling that alternates between buzzing heat and frigid cold, and still the whistling never stops or slows. Sunlight floats down in stripes of cold yellow and white and spills like mercury over the cobblestone, the red-flecked sand, her neatly pale hooves.

Blood, blood, blood.

The time must be near. O’s stomach turns over and over, then falls straight through her and into the floor, to some dark place underground where she might never recover it. On her hip, Tuchulcha murmurs: be not afraid. 

Her mouth curls in a dry, jaded smile; her eyes narrow sleepily, falling half-shut as the adrenaline begins to exhaust her. When have I ever?

Then go.

O rolls her lip between her teeth. Blood, blood, blood, the crowd roars in cadence. The rise and fall of their voices is unceasing. Blood, blood, blood, repeats Tuchulcha, hissing softly, and O forms her mouth around the sound of the whistle again and straightens her narrow shoulders and—

Walks into the belly of the beast.

She does not recognize the opponent who waits for her, though something tells her with gnawing insistence that she should. Stalking through the packed sand with a casual lack of effort that speaks of being raised in this kind of graveyard, she looks him up and down, makes notes like a scientist: taller than me. Older than me. Three striped scars on the bridge of the nose, a horn that spirals out like a sword. His eyes, O notices, with a kind of admiration, are the deep and bruisey purple of a morning glory.

Be not afraid. When have I ever.

She stops short, something like ten paces away from him, and watches with a dark, easy gaze. The crowd falls silent. The whole world falls silent. Who could be left alive in a place as still as this? It all feels apocalyptic. The wind stops, her heartbeat disappears; the only sound left is the pant of her breathing as she looks at him, a dry sound, rasping in and out, like wind blowing over water or shifting the sands.

O dips her head in the usual respectful greeting. Then she glances up to meet his eyes with a gaze as dark and cold as winter, and in one lightning-fast gesture sends the hurlbat spinning out at him, a flashing arc of steel aiming to slash him open at the place his shoulder slopes into his neck.

When it flies out of her grasp, she bolts sideways as quick as she can, then curves back, hoping that the sound and sight of the whistling blade will distract him from the way she darts back toward his side.

"Speaking."

credits

---

---

Summary: O steps out into the colosseum and acknowledges Jahin as respectfully as a teenage girl can manage. She throws the hurlbat, aiming for his shoulder or leg in order to hinder his mobility, and then darts to position herself perpendicular to him, hoping that he's distracted enough by her weapon not to turn away from her.

Attack Used: 1 
Attack(s) Left: 1 
Block Used: 0 
Block(s) Left: 1
Item(s) Used: Weapon

Response Deadline: 6/13
Tags: @Jahin, @Sid, @inkbone, @nestle, @aimless, @layla

[Jahin]

eyes that fire and sword have seen
and horror in the halls of stone

She is young.

Too young, many would say. The soft, gently sloping planes of her face suggest youth but her keen golden eyes (three of them, he realizes with an inner thrill) do not match the girlishness of her slight, graceful figure. He admires her curiously; no hint of fear lingers in her bold gaze. In fact, he does not see anything that might suggest what she is thinking or feeling. He can only guess.

She is young, or so they may say. Jahin remembers his first battle as distinctly as he can smell his own sweat beading his dust-stained skin. He was not yet a year old. His mother was already gone; bones picked clean by vultures, scattered by the howling wind, and bleached by the sun because the desert and the Davke do not forgive, not even their own. 

He remembers the bitter, metallic taste of blood in his mouth from biting his own tongue--so hard--in the hope that the pain would overwhelm the shadow of fear in his heart. He remembers struggling to hold back an onslaught of tears; he remembers everything, even now, years and years later as a grown man standing in the vast arena of Solterra's Colosseum. The Davke pit their youth against each other--survival of the fittest. But Jahin knows he wasn’t the fittest, strongest, fastest, or the most talented. He only survived the Davke because there was no other choice. Survival was the only option, even when that didn’t seem possible.

So Jahin is not entirely surprised that a young girl with three fearless eyes faces him across the Colosseum today. Do you have something to prove? he wonders, bowing in return as she dips her head in greeting to him. Or do you hope to feel something, anything? I can relate. The pain had been the only thing that had mattered to Jahin when he had been young, scared, and alone. The pain from every blow, every battle, every trial meant he was alive. It meant he might make it another day; it meant he might become something--someone--he could not otherwise be.

Most would underestimate her but Jahin knows better. Many underestimated him, too. Ultimately, that is why he has survived this long and they have not. To be unassuming and underwhelming an be one's greatest, unexpected weapon.

She is fast, almost too fast. He is ready and light on his hooves but she has the deadly speed of a young viper lashing out and she does so without warning and without any theatrics.

He hears the whistle of the hurlbat slicing through the air and is momentarily blinded by the metal flashing in the sun. Sahar hisses, coiling in his hair in an agitated manner. He reacts instinctually, almost in the same heartbeat in which the three-eyed girl sends the deadly hurlbat spinning his way but his reaction is just that--a reaction. A hair’s breadth behind and he pays dearly for being the reactor instead of the attacker. The razor sharp hurlbat slices his shoulder open and whistles on by (only to come spinning back through the air moments later, returning eagerly like a loyal dog to its master). So much for his hope of her weapon lodging uselessly out of reach into the soft sand some yards away. She gives the screaming crowd what they demand--blood flows from his wound like spilled wine from a goblet.  

Jahin grits his teeth and bites his tongue until the familiar metallic taste floods his mouth. Adrenaline surges in his veins, sending every cell in his body a single message: survive. Despite the ugly flesh wound, Jahin has been mildly rewarded by not discounting the woman-child (she is neither girl nor woman, but lingering unhurriedly somewhere in between, much like the transition from winter to the tentative bloom of spring). He’ll need stitches. That’ll leave a mark, he thinks, grimacing as he flexes the muscle in his shoulder. The loss of blood pouring from the wound and pooling onto the hot sand makes him slightly light headed but when he tests the muscle it springs taut to attention, like a well-trained soldier. My turn.

He swings his spear down from his back, holding it lightly in his grasp as she darts lithely around his side. Every muscle in his body ripples over bone like water over river stones. He blinks slowly, allowing himself to sink into the haze of battle, instinct, and raw physicality. It has begun. They are like two cobras dancing in the sand, both wielding the advantage of weapons that are meant to distance the user from the fight. His spear is simple but made with fine craftsmanship. While her hurlbat is fast and dangerous, he is considerably relieved that she doesn’t have a shield where the reach of his spear could be rendered largely ineffective or even shattered.

He moves with the practiced, easy grace of a feline--wielding the spear lightly, cloven hooves hardly brushing the ground as he whirls in the sand, lashing out with with the spear in a smooth, fluid movement towards her vulnerable, exposed flank as she tries to dart around him. His attack is fast, precise, and unexaggerated. Too much unnecessary frenzied, stabbing motions of a long spear only exhausts the user prematurely. Not to mention, sticking your spear in someone is much easier done than pulling said spear out again. 

Rather than trying to impale her like a stuck pig, like most novice spear fighters, he keeps a light handle on his spear and strikes in a flashing, slicing motion, intending to rend open her flank in a long gash (similar to the one she dealt him) before whirling out of reach to assume a defensive position, spear-tip poised carefully towards her. Sahar uncoils from his mane and winds down his leg until she hits the sand. The albino snake slithers around, facing opposite Jahin and their opponent positioned in the middle. Davke warrior and King Cobra are coiled taut like a spring, ready for action. Who will the three-eyed girl-woman choose? 

He hopes, as young as she is, that she might be a hot-head--Solis knows I was. Jahin plays the long game. He’s patient and unperturbed, despite the blood pulsing onto the sand like a red river. His shoulder hurts but the pain is familiar and he welcomes it like an old friend.
 


J A H I N
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known

@Apolonia

---

---

Summary: Apolonia's hurlbat slices open his shoulder. The muscle seems to be unharmed but the wound is bleeding heavily. When Apolonia darts around his side, he reacts by attacking her in a swift, slicing motion with his spear, aiming to lay open her flank as she passes by. He repositions defensively and Sahar positions herself opposite Jahin, with Apolonia in the middle.

Attack Used: 1
Attack(s) Left: 1
Block Used: 0 (UPDATE THIS WHENEVER YOU USE A BLOCK)
Block(s) Left: 1 (UPDATE THIS WHENEVER YOU USE A BLOCK)
Item(s) Used: SPEAR

Response Deadline: 6/16
Tags: @Apolonia, @Sid, @inkbone, @Layla, @nestle, @aimless

[Apolonia]

i wanna chain that make my body feel all hefty

It is only when he dips his head and blinks those deep-purple eyes to acknowledge her that O recognizes, with a start, who it is that she has been pitted against.

Jahin. The regent.

She tries hard to keep her expression steeled; but her third eye, less thoroughly trained than its counterparts, widens slightly in surprise. The blue of it shimmers and blinks against the streaming sunlight. O is startled, but mostly thrilled: her heart sings and quivers in her chest, letting loose another ice-cold wave of adrenaline that slams through her veins with unexpected strength.

She knows, logically, that it means nothing. Isn’t the whole point of the tournament to match its contestants at random? But someone must have made the pairs. (If they really didn’t think she could take him, O reasons, something would have been done about it; post-Zolin, the Solterran regime is not so savage as to kill a child, at least not publicly.) 

And—if not Orestes, or Aghavni, or one of the other festival organizers—then perhaps it is Solis Himself smiling down on her, with a lion-toothed grin that says I believe in you. 

O even dares to smile as she thinks of it. But the reckless curve of her lips is quickly fought back into the corners of her mouth, gone completely (but not forgotten) by the time she bolts toward him.

Because the moment her hooves leave the ground for that first stride the world falls away completely.

 No more sunlight. No more anxious heartbeat. No more chants of blood, blood, blood. Now, it is only the thrilling burn of muscle as her legs strike out to hit the sand; the gasping sound of her breath; the roaring thump of her pulse growing louder with every stride, rising in tempo and pitch, blooming closer and closer to a fever until the rush of it threatens to turn her vision black.

This is it, O thinks, her breath rasping in her chest, her body already preparing for pain. This feeling. This is life.

Tuchulca comes whistling back to her, summoned as quickly and obediently as a bat out of hell; and she is relieved to feel blood on its edge, a warm sap that drips down onto her leg as the hurlbat comes to rest in its usual spot against her hip. Good job, O whispers. The axe lets out a satisfied hum. 

But there is no time to savor her victory, no time to get distracted. Jahin is already turning back toward her. O throws her head up to look at him out of the corner of her eye, working hard not to let it break her stride. Every step is an effort (though it likely comes off casual) to hit the right spot at the right time, to remain out of reach, to twist just when necessary.

Her fault, then, is that she is too focused.

O is so distracted by containing her still awkwardly long limbs that she does not notice the metallic flash of Jahin’s until it is far too late. It is less than a breath, less than a heartbeat, between the moment she sees it light up in the sunlight like an exploding star and the moment she feels a long, bright line of pain arc over her flank. She grinds to a halt in front of him; a sharp noise of surprise escapes as she watches blood pour from her hip down into the sand.

Breathe, Tuchulcha says. Think.

Jahin stands directly in front of her, tall and calm. His skin glints like copper in the sunlight. (In a different context he might even be beautiful.) From the corner of her eye, O can see his snake coiled patiently just behind here. The world rushes back in: blood, blood, blood. She is trapped. Blood oozes from the gash in her thigh. She is trapped. 

At first, it is only an accident. This kind of thing happens often when O feels as though she is too tightly contained. The air around her starts to shimmer as though it is being rent into pieces; the sand tumbles and shifts; for a brief moment her eyes seem to switch places, change colors, disappear completely. 

Then she realizes what is happening—what a great and godly gift her parents have given her. Realization dawns all at once. The panic fades. O’s magic covers her in a cloak textured like sand, letting her blend into the ground, and a heartbeat later, they blink into existence: two perfect carbon copies of the little girl with the axe, so that now there are the three of them, exactly alike, arranged in a neat line. 

All three of them lunge to bite at Jahin’s throat, viciously realistic, unbearably solid-seeming. 

But it is only the teeth of the girl on the right that have any weight. 

"Speaking."

credits

---

---

Summary: O is too distracted to avoid Jahin's hit, and his spear slices her open across the flank, leaving a long semi-deep cut. She grinds to a stop in the sand between him and Sahar. After pausing for a moment to collect her thoughts, she uses her illusion manipulation to create two more identical versions of herself that all reach to bite for his throat in order to confuse him and his companion (though only the real her, on the right end, could possibly make any real contact).

Attack Used: 1 

Attack(s) Left: 0 

Block Used: 0 

Block(s) Left: 1 

Item(s) Used: Magic

Response Deadline: 6/19

Tags: @Jahin, @Sid, @inkbone, @nestle, @aimless, @layla

[inkbone]

Congratulations!

Due to @Jahin not responding by the deadline, they forfeit the fight and @Apolonia wins!

This thread will be locked and moved to the Archives shortly. The characters' official experience has been updated to reflect these changes (along with any signos rewards sent), so there's no need to post in the Experience Updates or Signos Redemption threads!

This thread cannot be claimed as a "completed thread" for signos redemption.

---

APOLONIA
Participate in a Battle or Challenge: +1 EXP
Winning a Battle or Challenge: +1 EXP
Winning a Battle or Challenge: 25 Signos
TOTAL: +2 EXP, 25 Signos

JAHIN
No "Participate in a Battle" experience is gained if fight is forfeited by lack of response.
TOTAL: +0 EXP