| |
|
|
|
|
|
|
Display using:
|
|
Prizefighter
Posted: 24 Jan 2005 07:01 PM |
RAFE BROSS
The room darkened as he hit the floor. Within the creaky canvas covered planks of the ring, a large boom resounded as his skull bounced off the mat. I think I need a Vacation... he thought, as his mind swirled and he strained to focus on the roar of the crowd.
Urk! Rafe gargled as he received a full kick in the ribs, and was tossed up against the cage wall. As his opponent began to beat his body against the iron bars, his awareness blurred around the edges, and his vision went red and white with the sting of pain. The crowd hushed as anticipation for the end of the match grew. His opponent then turned to the crowd and raised his hands high, and the cheer erupted again. He began to circle Rafe, taunting him with vulgar gestures, waiting for him to stand.
Rafe crouched low… catching his breath and spitting blood out on the mat. Slowly, he took his hands off the ground, and rose on two legs, raising his fingers to the sides of his lowered head, and twisted lightly to one side, letting a sharp popping noise fill the smoky torch lit depths of the subterranean arena. Fans up on rickety balconies tossed confetti on the stage, the audience relishing in the standoff, anxious to see the fight resume.
Rafe brought his arms up in a guard, and the bout began again, as he edged towards his opponent cautiously. His opponent, a hulking dark skinned sailor, brought his guard up, and began to circle Rafe’s approach with equal tenacity. As soon as he was in reach, Rafe brought up a long left flying roundhouse, his wrapped leg flying up towards his opponents head with fierce speed and conviction. The sailor, anticipating a strike, was barely able to duck his head back and toss the leg across the air in front of his face, narrowly avoiding contact with the broad side of Rafe’s extended foot. Rafe quickly used the momentum to spin again, bringing a backhand out and catching his opponents chin with a sharp smack to one side.
Without hesitation, Rafe was suddenly spinning the opposite direction, collapsing towards the ground and evading the large hook his sailor had been throwing, and an extended leg swept out, catching the calves of both of his opponent’s legs, and sweeping them off the ground. Upsy-daisy. Rafe stood and jumped back as his opponent landed on his back with a sickly crunch, then began to circle his fallen foe with steady sidesteps.
The sailor rose with a grimace on his face, a pale silvery scar standing out on his face in the torchlight as his eyes flared. He threw a sudden long cross, which was caught, and countered with a palm to the chin, snapping his head back and pushing him away. Rafe ran rapidly to one side of the sailor while he was stumbling back, and ran up the cage wall, flying off with a kick headed for the side of his opponents head, who turned and saw the approach and barely caught the kick, tossing Rafe to the ground. Flipping up on his feet quickly, Rafe received a knee to the jaw, and then another one to the chest, and regained his balance, stood up face to face with his opponent.
What was a split second seem to stretch, and the moment became long, and the voices became dim, and even Rafe’s eyes no longer needed to see. When the hook came for his ribs, his arm was already coming up. No. His fingers clasped around the wrist milliseconds before the impact landed in his right side. Instantly the wrist was yanked down, the momentum of his punch sucking his opponent off his balance, and the sailor stumbled down towards Rafe’s legs.
His hand still locked on his opponent’s wrist, Rafe’s left knee came up and caught the sailor in the forehead, his head bouncing and recoiling back from the blow. As fast as it was up, Rafe’s left leg was already on the floor and his right knee came up towards the arm he held as his pulled the wrist down across, hyper extending the elbow on his knee with a sickly snap. The sailor yelped and Rafe planted his right leg down in front of his opponents legs, and his left arm came acrossed, grabbing the back of the Sailor’s neck, and tossing him over his legs. Rafe held the sailor’s arm, twisting back as he pushed it high and acrossed the sailor’s back during the fall.
As soon as he landed on the floor, Rafe’s legs seemed to come up of the ground. His right hand still clamped on the wrist, and his left palm came down, cupping the elbow. Both legs wrapped around the shoulder joint, in what looked like a cross-legged sitting position, one foot applying strong pressure on the head, and the other entwined over it in support. The Sailor began to twitch and yank, and Rafe’s hold on the arm tightened, his hands wrapping around the sailor’s massive arm in a vise lock. Barely moving, Rafe slowly tightened the grip as the sailor’s squirming became more frantic. Say it… Rafe listened, waiting for his opponent to give in, as the crowd grew quiet in horror of the pain Rafe was inflicting on the sailor’s tremendous shoulder. It will pop out of joint if you don’t say it soon…
A *crunch* peeled through the arena.
Rafe suddenly stopped applying pressure… something had gone wrong. The man went limp under him, and Rafe loosened his legs. The man’s neck had snapped… likely from the squirming and, earlier kick trauma caused by the side of Rafe’s foot near the beginning of the match. Damnit...
Rafe slowly set the arm down, his feet landing on the ground, and stood up slowly. The room was in utter silence. I hate it when they die. The crowed erupted with cheer, sirens went off… the winner was announced as Rafe stood over the warm corpse… a grim look on his face. I need a vacation…
RAFE BROSS
Human Male; Age 22
Origin: Port Royale
Occupation: Unemployed
Talents: Unarmed combat, Street Smarts, Keen Senses.
Quote: "Weapons are Dangerous" |
The Legacy Saga |
|
  |
|
|
Re: Prizefighter
Posted: 25 Jan 2005 11:28 AM |
| ((I like this one. Well done, Veran.)) |
My name is Byron Lorian....I am the Last Son |
|
|
|
|
Re: Prizefighter
Posted: 26 Jan 2005 08:20 AM |
Some people fight with skill.
Some people have the power to take any weapon they pick up and turn it into a deadly weapon, bobbing and weaving, making excellently placed strikes, making each hit count.
Some people can wave their hands around and say some stupid words and make fire eat you up, or acid burn you down, or ice freeze you, or whatever.
Some people can put an arrow through the center of a coin. Even if you toss it up into the air.
I've seen all this stuff. I've seen people more than proud of their accomplishments. Good for them. Really.
I just happen to think it's all a load of crap if you ask me.
My name is Jake Hudson. I work in Port Royale. My job is to be the biggest, meanest, angriest person in town but I only have to be bigger, meaner, and angrier than the person standing across from me and only long enough until the other guy's unconscious. Or dead. Neither really bothered me more than the other.
My favorite fight? I don't know. I never really think about it. It would be like asking a scholar his favorite book, or asking ranger his favorite hunt. I've been in so many fights. I guess one or two really stick out, though.
I had to fight a paladin once. That was a pretty weird night. I walked into the ring and this scrawny guy in Plate Mail walks right inside. The entire crowd went completely silent. We all expected him to be some part of the guard's raid, come to clean us all up. But to our even greater surprise, heh.. He just took his helmet off, threw his weapon aside, and put up his fists.
What could I do, really? This guy was some hot-shot with something to prove, I wasn't gonna take that away from him. It's funny. You can really start seeing the conviction in a man's eyes before a fight. Unfortunately, no matter how much you want to win, there can only be one winner. So somebody's going home disappointed.
Anyway, when the crowd realised this guy was in for the fights, they started whispering to each other. Everything was so weird. The silence really made it hard to concentrate. But I had to fight. It was my job. So I start walking up to the guy. I wasn't even playing up the "Big tough guy act." I just strolled right up to him, watching his eyes. They went wide, and his pupils went small.
He threw a punch at me. Right for the chest. I let him have it. I needed to see what I was up against and unless he planned on punching through me, I could afford him one or two good shots.
The funny thing about wearing plate mail is that, sure, while it'll keep your hide safe from swords, daggers, arrows, and most other manners of weapon, depending of how high grade quality it is of course, it tends to be really heavy and if you're not prepared or trained to wear fifty pounds of metal and throw a punch, it can really bog you down. So I'm just standing there and he's throwing punches left and right at me, and I'm barely feeling them.
So I finally decide "Okay, I've had enough. This guy needs to go back where he came from. I'll send him a warning shot." I leaned over and picked him up in both arms. He started flailing about wildly and screaming. It was pretty pathetic. I threw him across the cage, sending him right into the wall. Meanwhile, the whole place was still completely silent. It was getting on my nerves. I turned around to the crowd and screamed, trying to egging them on to start cheering. Biggest mistake I ever made.
I felt cold steel bite into my back. I dropped to my knees, and then turned, noticing my own blood on the floor. And on the knight's sword. The whole room had gone completely silent again.
I don't mind fighting with weapons. I really don't. But I kinda like being warned that I'm in a weapon match. But at that moment I didn't care. I didn't care about anything but saving my own a$. Nobody was about to step in to stop him, either.
You know, the funny part is, I grinned a little bit. I yelled. Something like "You wanted a fight, well now you've got it, little man." I screamed. I ran at him.
For a few minutes we traded blows. I knocked him down a few times and he struck me a few times. I was mostly naked, and he was wrapped in metal, AND he had a sword, so he had the upper hand, really. I was bleeding pretty bad. I figured death was right around the corner. I stood up, prepared to make one final attack.
I don't really remember what happened after that. I woke up in the Cross Cutlasses covered in bandages but everybody's story is different after that. Some people say I went into some blinding rage, others say I was filled with Gruin's might, a few say I went mad for a minute or two, and still others are convinced that I turned into a full-blown monster. That part is always disputed. The second part is a little more clear.
They tell me I went absolutely berserk and rushed the Knight. He stuck his sword out in defence and I actually impaled myself on the stupid thing, but I picked him up off the ground and...
I always thought the term "tearing a guy limb from limb" was just a saying. I never though that anybody really ever did it. If they hadn't, I was the first. From what I hear, they had to bring the guy out in a sack. Pretty gruesome.
Still, I won the fight, and won myself a pretty nasty reputation. But how do I feel about it? Knowing that I ripped a guy apart with my bare hands?
I dunno. I don't feel the least bit guilty, really. I don't even remember it. It's just one of the hazards of the job, I guess. He stepped into the ring, he got what he asked for.
My name is Jake Hudson, the Bonecrusher. Some say I'm a monster.
And maybe I am. |
- [Rob], Balthor, Jake, and Thomas. |
|
|
|
|
| |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|