“This should be fun to watch,” commented Voltaire. The person entering was obviously one of his clansmen. Serra had not seen any other clan use the red markings as abundantly as the Achylles clan. “That is Vandor, my cousin. He’s a lot of fun to watch in the circle, more flamboyant than his older brother Vladen, though definitely not as skilled. But still I think he should make short work of Raxon out there.”
Esmie rapped on her big friend’s head three times. “And I was wondering myself, by chance is there anyone in your clan that has a name that doesn’t begin with a V, hmm?” Esmie added a whimsical purr to her last words. Voltaire only grunted at her in response.
Serra observed intently as Vandor did make short work of Raxon. And Voltaire had been right, he was quite flamboyant, it was as if he was trying to impress the onlookers, like he had something to prove to not only himself but to them. She decided to take a stab in the dark. “So where is his brother Vladen? I bet that would be a good fight.”
In that moment, she could feel the wistfulness etching off Voltaire. “He was lost at the beginning of the war, one of the first casualties actually. Vladen was the leader of a group of warriors sent north on a diplomatic mission for all Vallance. Only Kylynne and her brother Willem survived the ordeal. Vandor is still trying to fill the shoes of his brother even today,” offered Voltaire. Serra nodded to this, deciding not to press a painful subject further.
Vandor nodded to the crowd as they cheered. Raxon exited the circle as Kascha searched for another participant. She did not have to pick one for a combatant stepped up on their own.
“Oh goody!” exclaimed Esmie. “It’s Fahn! She is going to show those men what’s what out there!”
Serra smiled as a young woman made her way to the middle amidst warm cheers. The Ro’Nihn, soon to be one of Serra’s travel companions, wore the green hues of her McLynne bloodline. Her tunic was short sleeved, and she wore shorts that were fashioned to resemble a skirt or some sort. Shapely, light legs wore almost knee-high boots and knee pads. Her arms wore the familiar arm guards common to just about every Ro'Nihn from Axiter. She walked and carried on with a certain shyness that Serra found very endearing. Serra also noticed that she fidgeted with her hair as she made her way to the center almost absently, much like Serra herself was guilty of doing. Serra found this somehow amusing and comforting at the same time.
Fahn of the McLynne faced Vandor in the middle. For a moment, the two simply circled each other, Kascha’s staff standing between them in silence. It was Vandor who commenced the action. Rushing forward, he used the staff to propel himself, foot first toward Fahn. Easily she dodged this, and combat ensued.
“Tell me about Fahn.” Serra wanted to know about this shy, soft spoken warrior who volunteered to go on this journey with her. Serra grimaced as Fahn was flipped onto the ground but relieved as she watched Fahn roll with the fall and recover her feet quick enough.
Esmie responded between cheers. “Oh Fahn? She is quite the sweetie. Trust me on this one. Though I’d have to say she is a tad on the quiet side and really shy-”
“–Now that’s a hair-fidgety understatement.”
Esmie growled as she continued. “Thank you, Voltaire, for the assist. Now shoosh it. Young ones these days. Where was I? Oh yeah. Well she is a tad quiet and really shy. I hear she is quite the writer too actually. So um, what else? Oh yeah, she is so sweet. And she is a tad–”
“– on the quiet side and really shy?” Apparently, Voltaire couldn’t help himself.
“Aye Dios Mio! Do they teach you to shoosh over on your side of Axiter or what, Achylles? I mean is that all you know how to do, just talk and talk and talk, hmm? I swear, Voltaire, if I didn’t feel some sort of sympathy for you and your rambling, I would be quite manic. And to think I even–”
“Dear pot, this is the kettle. Guess what? You’re black!”
Esmie shook her fists at her friend. “Ooh, curse you again! Curse your rambling, young one, curse again the day the gods saw fit to grace me with you as punishment and curse the time I...”
Serra did her best to zone out the two bickering friends for the time being. The fight in front of her was coming to an end. In a close battle, Fahn had finally counteracted Vandor’s flamboyant attacks by getting in close to him. Even so, the momentum still switched back and forth. Somehow in a reversal Vandor got behind Fahn and was attempting to put her in a lock or choke that would make her concede victory. However, in that moment Fahn had bent forward, reaching between her legs, grabbing one of Vandor’s own legs in her hands. As she did this, she started to roll. The outcome resulted in both fighters on the ground, but Fahn had Vandor’s leg in a lock, and Vandor was forced to tap her leg three times and concede victory to her.
Serra clapped earnestly as Fahn stood back up. For some reason, she knew she was going to like Fahn. There was something about her that seemed pure and untouched to Serra, something in her eyes and reactions that made her unique and loveable. Serra continued to clap as another young woman entered the fray. After a few minutes, Fahn was the victor once more. Again, Serra clapped as Esmie and Voltaire hollered out encouragement.
The contest went on for over an hour. Fahn was eliminated by Willem, who in turn eliminated two more before his sister hopped out to face him. Through some dirty tactics and inside sibling knowledge, Willem was also able to defeat Kylynne. She accused him of cheating with a sister’s affection as he theatrically bowed to the crowd. She watched as Willem was taken out of the fight not long after and looked relieved to be done and finally relaxing again. The warrior who eliminated him then went on a run of five eliminations.
Serra realized then that she had been silently spellbound for some time. She looked over to Esmie and Voltaire, who were still dishing out the punishment to one another. “Who is that? He’s pretty good.”
Esmie shivered, as if her next words revolted her. “Oh him? That’s Tyon of the Redgrove. A good warrior so you’ve seen, but not the most popular in terms of candor or friendliness, that’s for sure,” said Esmie with a little tinge in her voice. "His fighting is sound, but quite unconventional. His personality, even with his fellow clansman, is reserved at best. His temperament is...unreliable to say the least in terms of diplomacy, but alas, he fulfills his agendas just about always.”
Voltaire interceded. “What she means to say, Serra Landring, is that Tyon is a dirty fighter, a jerk in all aspects, but is prominent enough and deadly enough in his clan to get his way. But if he were to take a long walk off a short cliff, the mourning time would be minuscule at best.”
Esmie winced as she scratched her head above her mask. “Such an eloquent rendition there, boy-genius. And that is why they call you the sophisticate.”
“I do try,” said Voltaire smiling.
Serra watched as Tyon beat five fellow warriors. Nothing in his reactions gave much in terms of respect before, during, or after each fight. His last confrontation saw him getting the win by throwing a handful of ground debris into the face of his opponent. Using the distraction, he scored a takedown and a submission. This was met by a series of boos that seemed to bother Tyon not at all. Serra found her own anger rising after each subsequent fight.
Apparently, Esmie was feeling about the same. “Ooh, that scoundrel! Someone needs to show him what’s what!” She looked in her friend’s direction. “Voltaire, you get in there and teach him a lesson. Show Serra that chivalry and nobility are not dead. Chop-chop, young one.”
At the remark Voltaire chuckled as the skull mask on his forehead hovered uselessly. “Yeah, I see that working out real well there, Esmie. There is a ton of other would-be heroes on the scene...find another one.”
“Oh, quit being such a baby, ya big lug! Off with you now!” Esmie gave Voltaire an encouraging push into the circle. As he stumbled forth, the crowd erupted in laughter and polite cheers for perhaps the biggest warrior Axiter had to offer. To Serra, Voltaire seemed awkward and out of place in the fighter’s circle. This idea was reinforced as
she saw Tyon smiling easily at his new opponent.
“Well, crap,” said Voltaire as he looked around the crowd and then toward Tyon. He reached up and removed the mask on his head and with a less than careful toss, he flung it at his friend Esmie. “Hold this for me. And thanks a lot, by the way.”
Esmie smiled back earnestly. “Oh, believe me, dear, it was my pleasure.”
“I’m sure.” Voltaire made his way to the middle of the circle where Tyon awaited him.
Serra regarded Esmie. “That wasn’t very nice.”
Esmie smiled back at her. “That is true, but it’s still quite amusing. And it’s just adorable when he fights like this.”
“Is he good?”
Esmie chuckled as she said her next words. “Oh no, dear, not at all.”
“Oh boy,” said Serra with mocking enthusiasm.
Esmie had been quite right. Voltaire was out of place in the circle. He fought clumsily as he tried to keep up with Tyon. The crowd laughed and cheered him on, and it wasn’t to ridicule Voltaire. Serra could easily see they loved the guy. Voltaire seemed extremely caring and friendly and it was obvious that many knew him either personally or by reputation. And as earnestly as he was trying out there, with his unwillingness to give up was more reason to like him. Serra soon found herself laughing and cheering Voltaire on as well.
In the end, despite the good fight he tried to produce, Voltaire had to concede victory to Tyon. The crowd erupted for Voltaire as he sauntered out of the circle. He put his hands together and waved them over his head and the crowd ate up the comedic showmanship. With heavy steps, Voltaire went back to face the firing squad that was Esmie.
“Um, Voltaire, now when I sent you out there in the name of honor, chivalry, and all that kind of thing, that is not quite what I had in mind.”
“Yada yada,” said Voltaire as he snatched his mask back from Esmie and plopped down next to Serra. Serra did her very best to subdue the laughter that threatened to boil out of her.
Tyon put his hands in the air triumphantly. Of the veterans choosing to fight today, he had been the victor. The crowd gave a mixed reaction, with most of the cheers coming from the Redgrove families present. Tyon made his way to Kascha’s staff. As he put his hands around it, Kascha began to look again into the onlookers present. Tyon pulled the staff from the ground and faced her triumphantly. As he did so, Kascha pointed into the crowd with complete, commanding certainty. “You! To the circle. This contest has one more participant,” she declared.
The crowd turned to where Kascha was pointing. So did Tyon. As all eyes met the last participant, there was a moment of revered silence. As Tyon put the staff back into the ground angrily, the crowd burst into a resounding uproar. Even Esmie and Voltaire were cheering enthusiastically. It took Serra a moment to catch up, but soon the revelation caught up to her as well.
Entering the circle with reluctant acceptance was Rynsik of the Jacoi.
“Yay! At last some justice! Give him what’s what, Rynsik!” Esmie was hopping up and down as she cheered. Serra found her enthusiasm quite surprising.
“Now we are in for a show!” Voltaire clapped earnestly, returning to his feet for the next and final round of combat. The people behind him were of course displeased by this.
Serra watched as the excitement spread through the crowd like a wildfire. Rynsik seemed to pay no mind to it, but with each step he took, Serra swore the fever of her surroundings increased. Apparently, she was in for a surprise, but she could not stop herself from asking questions. With great care, she looked to Esmie to see if she could get some answers before the onlookers made it all but impossible to engage in conversation.
“Wow. Esmie, this is amazing. What gives anyway?”
Esmie gave Serra an exasperated look. “What gives? ‘What gives,’ she asks!” Esmie threw her arms into the air before pointing toward the circle. “‘What gives,’ my dear, is that you are about to see perhaps the best fighter Axiter has to offer. You are about to see Tyon have his hands full with someone a third of his age. You are about to witness a rare spectacle, even here within Axiter. There is going to be uproar like you’ve never seen and the only thing you can ask is ‘what gives?’ My dear, what more can you ask for?”
Serra shook her head as she smiled at her melodramatic friend. “And this is a rare spectacle because?”
Esmie leaned closer so that she may be heard. “Um, well, Serra, it’s kind of like this. Rynsik is a rare addition to these little festivities, and even then, he can be hard to find. So, if you have a day when Rynsik is here and Kascha can point him out and get him to participate, then, my dear, history has been made, and you have a spectacle.”
“And a damn fine spectacle to see,” added Voltaire.
Serra nodded, still watching Rynsik’s approach to Tyon. “I see. Then you are saying that you think Rynsik is the best fighter in Axiter? That’s a pretty impressive endorsement.”
“Oh no, my dear. Don’t misunderstand. We’ve seen Rynsik in combat before, real combat mind you. At 17 he has already rivaled every warrior in terms of skill, including his father. Just look at Tyon out there. Does he look as confident? He knows he can lose now. And it is hacking him off but good.” Voltaire turned his head toward Esmie, smiling at her as she continued to speak. “In fact, there is only one thing in this world that is holding back Rynsik of the Jacoi.”
“And what’s that?”
“Rynsik of the Jacoi,” Esmie and Voltaire spoke the line in unison.
“How do you mean?” asked Serra as she arched an eyebrow.
“Just watch, my dear,” said Esmie.
Serra averted her attention fully back to the fighter’s circle. Rynsik was almost to the center where Tyon waited. Rynsik’s steps were so sure they were almost reluctant. His face was determined and distant at equal lengths. And though is eyes bore their usual intensity, his features gave no admittance of feeling or purpose. Serra somehow in that moment could not feel anything but a spark of sympathy for the young man.
And after their previous encounters, this glimpse of sympathy angered her slightly.
Tyon went into a defensive stance, and once again the crowd erupted. Rynsik did not move, but neither did he take his eyes off his opponent. They remained this way, standing with the dragon staff between them for long moments. The sunlight shimmered easily off the blue chest plate and mask of Rynsik, who stood against a man who had him in terms of age, reach and weight. Serra Landring found herself holding her breath as Voltaire and Esmie cheered.
Tyon lunged forward, and with one deft motion grabbed Kascha’s staff again. Tyon spun on his heal, and by the time he had completed his rotation, he was in striking range of Rynsik. Using his momentum, Tyon swung the staff. The staff in a blow meant to hit Rynsik in the head. Rynsik shifted his upper body backwards without moving his feet. The staff missed inches from his face. Tyon continued the pressure, sending three more attacks with the staff, meaning to take out Rynsik as quickly as possible.
“That’s cheating!” Serra could hardly contain herself.
Voltaire shook his head as he replied. “I wish it were, Serra Landring. Few warriors choose to use it in the circle, but anything you can get your hands on in there is fair game.” Voltaire’s words were quick and absorbed. He too was very into the match and despising every inch of Tyon’s actions.
“The brute!” Esmie exclaimed.
Rynsik dodged every single attack, yet all were mere hair lengths away from hitting him. Still his face was detached and aloof as he evaded with pure precision. Tyon’s strikes were nothing short of merciless, and it was obvious he was holding little back. Tyon meant to win this fight by any means possible, unleasing another barrage of strikes meant for any score he could land off of his younger, smaller adversary. Four more staff attacks shrieked toward Rynsik. Evading the first three, Rynsik made a quick, deft move to close the distance on the fourth attack.
With this movement, Rynsik came easily enough inside Tyon’s downward slashi
ng, two-handed attack. Pivoting, Rynsik’s shoulder met into Tyon’s chest. Taking Tyon’s arms in his own, Rynsik used Tyon’s momentum to flip the larger man over his shoulder and onto the ground. As Tyon hit the ground, Rynsik rolled forward and over Tyon. Mid-roll, he took Kascha’s staff in hand. Standing again, the staff was in the possession of Rynsik. The crowd erupted and Tyon rolled backwards and onto his feet once more.
Only a few seconds were wasted before Tyon shot in at Rynsik with almost blinding speed. Serra found it difficult to keep up with the motions. This time Rynsik took every strike that Tyon sent and either dodged or redirected it. Finally, one of Tyon’s blows was strong enough and fast enough to send Rynsik forward with its might. Rynsik rolled out of harm’s way, and Tyon saw his opportunity as Rynsik regained his footing. He sent in a kick meant for Rynsik’s temple.
Rynsik’s response was quick and up to the challenge. Raising his right hand, Rynsik’s arm went under Tyon’s driving foot, raising it out of striking range. As Tyon’s foot continued forward, Rynsik’s hand closed the distance between the two combatants quicker than Tyon would have wanted. The hand struck between Tyon’s legs, forcing Tyon to go with the momentum to reduce the force of the impact, which was already considerable. Tyon rolled toward the floor again and away from Rynsik. As he did so, his left hand found in its possession another handful of the circle’s debris.
Kneeling, he tossed it at Rynsik’s face, the cloud catching him completely. Rynsik’s hands shot to his eyes in self-preservation. The crowd expressed extreme displeasure over the tactic. With Rynsik’s back facing him, Tyon saw his chance to end the confrontation decisively. Taking three quick steps, he shot into the air, his foot cocked to kick Rynsik in the back of his head.
This was, of course, exactly what Rynsik had wanted.
With Tyon only inches away, Rynsik of the Jacoi uncovered his eyes and shot underneath the airborne body of Tyon. He had been on to Tyon’s tactic and was more than ready. With his elbows extended upward, he raised his body toward the descending body above him. When they met, Tyon was knocked to an unintended angle. His body spun and he connected to the ground back and head first, trying to roll to take some impact from the crash. It helped even less than he had vainly hoped. Landing rather unceremoniously, he let out a grunt as he cursed.
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