Evening, Day 6
The Bannor statesman’s belongings had finally reached the top of the queue. The head bandit, the leader of the Guild, as it were, riffled through his belongings, skillfully extracting the items of value and mentally computing the complex arithmetic involved in marginal cost and marginal benefit in recycling vs. trashing the raw materials. The man fancied himself an economist, after all, a job equally detrimental to society, if not more.
His eyes glanced the letter - there it was, in the official seal of the Bannor king. Dared he rip this open? It was the biggest haul yet. He felt like a man who was starring on an episode of The Greatest Catch, and now it was really him. His mind kicked in - perhaps he could ransom it off to the king? He ran to the arena himself...
Meanwhile, night had fallen. The Raider walked out first, clad in exotic clothing. The yuppie crowd loved how authentic his Genuine Raider Armor (tm) was. He was wearing layers of fine clothing, and a veil, all of which were the color of light sand, which presumably gave him the edge in artificial selection - after all, the gods choose who live and die. Strapped to his right hip was a quiver of arrows; strapped to his other hip was a scabbard, inside which was, presumably, a sword. He clutched a bow in his right hand. The Raider gave a dashing smile to the crowd and played a little Malakim folk song known as "The Light of Lugus." At least, that’s what he said, and the ears of more than a few Malakim in the audience flushed red.
Hard pressed to top the Raider’s performance, the Marksman strolled out gallantly. Unfortunately, the Ranger had already occupied this niche, so instead he looked like a huge poser. He was clad in simple, leather vestments and wielded a wicked looking bow. He had a hat with a little feather on it like Robin Hood. He wiggled his pointy ears for everyone, which scored a few points with the crowd, but his reputation was already tarnished, especially to the Ranger, who made a cutting motion in the air with his index finger across his neck.
Bells crashed, and the combatants were transported to a desert. The moon was huge like people unknowingly following the Atkins diet, hanging low on the horizon. Stars glittered like precious gold coins. A wind rustled, blowing up streams of sand. It was almost peaceful except for the fact that the two men - sorry, sentient beings - were supposed to kill each other.
Both of their pupils expanded, drinking in what precious little available light there was like men dying of thirst. They both crouched low to reduce their presence on the sand dunes and notched an arrow to their bows. Then they waited. They were undergoing complex psychological warfare, each other tense. If they were cats, their fur would have bristled. As it was, they were waiting for the other to give a crack in his façade. Just a small one, and the other would have attacked. Unfortunately, to the audience, who could only appreciate physical warfare, not mental, they were just sitting around taking a break.
A bead of sweat ran down the Raider’s face, which glistened almost imperceptibly in the moonlight. The Marksman struck, letting loose an arrow. The Raider’s ears heard the whistle of the arrow before his eyes caught the projectile, and he glided across the desert sands in the same way that a bowling ball wouldn’t. The arrow buried itself harmlessly in the sand and the Raider returned with his own shot. The Marksman didn’t even flinch as the arrow violated his personal space, sticking itself into his hat without permission. Calmly removing the arrow, the Marksman kept his eyes on the Raider, who let another arrow fly. The elf calmly moved a bit to the left and let the arrow hit the ground. He then backpedaled, slowly but surely, to a hiding spot behind a rock. The Raider lost track of his target. He scanned the desert in search for his prey. It was just like raiding a caravan at home, he had to find it first, it was just that this time the caravan was missing supplies, wagons, and hired guards. Actually, it wasn’t very much like raiding a caravan at all, he thought upon further reflection. The Raider didn’t really, like, have a way with, you know, words.
Suddenly, an arrow manifested itself in front of his face. He leaned to one side and caught it with his hand, then strung it to his bow and fired it back, wildly. The Raider thought that he should rethink his strategy and knelt down, becoming one with the desert sands. A short period of nothing ensued as the Raider inched closer to the Marksman and the Marksman tried to target his enemy. Perpentach could be loudly heard snoring. The elf detected movement on his right - how had the Raider gotten over there? And let loose an arrow. The movement accelerated towards him, and the arrows he kept sending in that direction did nothing to deter his enemy.
All of a sudden, he noticed movement on his left too. He suddenly saw two images of the Raider bearing down on him, both clutching a wicked-looking sword, with a ruby encrusted. He notched two arrows to his bow and let them both fly true. One struck the image on his right and sailed through, causing that image to dissipate like sugar molecules in water. The one that flew left surprised the Raider, who was unused to this unorthodox technique, and it struck him in his right shoulder. Nonetheless, his assault had born its fruit, and with a cry that echoed throughout time, he struck. The arc it sliced through the air missed the nimble elf, who had ducked, notched, and fired an arrow in record time. This projectile penetrated the left foot of the human, having pierced through the armor. Unflinching, he struck again, but the elf leapt back. Unfortunately for him, the dune he was on was rather steep, and as a result of landing on the slope, he toppled backwards. A sandslide threatened to bury him alive, but when he reached the bottom of the hill and got back up and barely got out of the way. Meanwhile, the Raider had ridden the sand down, having sheathed his sword and pulled his bow and arrow out. Taking advantage of his opponent’s momentary preoccupation, the arrow pierced its target in the side.
I lied, however. In fact the sandslide had never happened, but it was rather amusing to watch the elf slide and jerk around, having a seizure whilst standing up. The blow had coldly awakened his senses though, and he saw the Raider’s moronic grin as the man disappeared like a Cheshire cat. Cursing, he notched his bow and drew back on the bowstring. He was ready and waiting.
There! Behind him! He whirled around just as the Raider materialized his attack, cocking his right arm back with the sword poised directly towards his enemy, left arm pointed straight forward, as if painting a target with a laser. The sword lunged forward as the arrow left its home to seek a new one. As the sword buried itself into the Marksman’s chest, the arrow was busy with the Raider’s neck. The elf staggered back with the sword in tow, dropping his hat on the ground in the meantime, while the human reeled, his hands at his neck. Cursing, the elf drew another arrow, coughing some blood onto the tip. The Raider lunged forward to withdraw his sword from the stone of the elf’s body. He reached for it, but the elf deftly moved his bow into position and shot the sand warrior's hand cleanly, which flew back. The rest of his body, however, kept moving forward due to Newton’s Third Law, and his hand grabbed the Marksman’s neck. Dropping his bow, the elf engaged in a grapple with his enemy. Suddenly, the Marksman unceremoniously coughed blood into his enemy’s face. The body that the enemy’s face belonged to kicked in retaliation, which drove the sword deeper into the elf. Seizing opportunity, with a last burst of adrenaline, the Raider pounced on his enemy, pushing him into a conveniently placed cactus. The elf was impaled by the thorns as well as the sword, which made enemies with the cactus, and hanged from the air. With his eyes, he caught the Raider looming in his vision, preparing to make a final blow. Unfortunately, the Raider’s strength deserted him and he collapsed onto the floor. The elf struggled weakly to free himself from the cactus, but his crucifixion was complete. He was dead.
The bells clashed, and the officials scurried to tend to the Raider.
Spoiler :
The pompous officials was already halfway across the grass when the litter carriers and medics rushed the still-breathing Raider off the scene, apparently he was taking no chances to be delayed this time. He rolled out his parchment, cleared his throat, and spoke.
"The coming morning we will see the Druid fight for the second time in an arena of his choice, this time facing the Ritualist."
Final Vote Tally:
Ritualist : 7 (1st voter: Archmage ; 2nd voter: Runekeeper )
Druid : 4 (1st voter: Satyr ; 2nd voter: Luonnotar )
Assassin : 3
Brujah, Ghost, Lich, Lizardman, Overlord Speaker, Prior : 2
Engineer, Illusionist, Ranger : 1
Morning fight: Ritualist vs Druid, Druid gets arena choice.
Current Vote Breakdown:
Spoiler :
It is now night.
Marks, send me your choices for the evening combatants.
People with night abilities, send me PMs.
Betting is open for Ritualist vs Druid. Place your bets in bold dark orange.
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