The Stroke of Death
Posted 27 April 2008 - 08:45 AM
The tough skin on the bottom of his naked feet was ripped to shreds as he skidded backwards on the asphalt, only to lose balance and fall heavily backwards.
Like cheese over a grater, his skin peeled and scraped over the rough asphalt as he rolled backwards. The wounds he had taken on his back from his battle with Mark had reopened and were now filled with thousands of chunks of sharp gravel. The result was a bloodied mass of flesh, looking as if he was fresh from a harsh biblical flogging.
Pain racked his body like wildfire.
He had to ignore it, he had a battle to fight.
With some new strength he jumped to his feet in readiness for Z's next attack. Fresh pain from the raw skin of his feet stabbed him anew, and he grimaced. He had to ignore it.
Z was marching toward him like some sentinel of death, his sword held at the ready. The gleam in his eyes seemed to Okereke to say, "you sit still now while i carve you to pieces."
Well he wasn't going to sit still.
Okereke decided he had to disarm him. he would have to flank him first.
A knife gripped in each hand, he swiftly darted to his opponent's right and then dived forward for an attack at the upper body, trying to catch Z off guard.
Posted 27 April 2008 - 06:15 PM
The hoarse grunt of pain was barely heard over the crash of the massive sword falling to the ground.
This opponent was considerably more skilled than Shazza, he was very adept at identifing a foe's weaknesses. A bit too adept; Z would have to do something about that. He'd use a tactic that he used against Shazza; quickly reaching out with his uninjured arm, he grasped the hand that Orekeke had successfully plunged in the knife with. He then tried to crush it, hoping to remove the knife from his shoulder in the process.
Posted 28 April 2008 - 02:50 AM
Quickly, he backed away clutching his hand, trying to ignore the searing pain that was coursing through his nerves.
He looked at Z. Fortunately, the large man, in his slow powerful style, was not advancing. He only stared menacingly at Okereke, probabaly planning his next course of action.
Good. He had disarmed him and most likely disabled his dominant arm in the process. Everything he had wanted and more.
His own now useless hand stifled any feeling of triumph however. Everything comes at a cost.
Making sure to stay between Z and his sword, Okereke stood his ground, and waited for Z to make his move.
He would try to surprise him with another low attack.
Yes, Z didnt like those.
Posted 28 April 2008 - 09:58 AM
There was only one solution; surprise Orekeke before he could attack. The best way to do this came to him eventually. While Z couldn't jump incredibly high thanks to his armor, it should be enough. Running as fast as his armor-bound legs could carry him -- which wasn't overly fast, but enough to give momentum -- he got close to Orekeke, then jumped at him for a jumping-tackle. Hopefully this would either knock him off his feet or crush him, if he didn't get over his surprise quickly enough to dodge.
Posted 12 May 2008 - 09:33 AM
Z landed mostly upright, but the time it took to regain his balance was just the window Okereke needed.
With force and precision, Okereke used his good leg to land a solid kick into Z's throat.
Stumbling backwards, the man's eyes widened as he gurgled a cry of pain.
His massive body thudded to the concrete like a huge sandbag.
Okereke knew he couldn't be dead, he was unconscious or in a coma, either one. It didn't really matter.
it was over.
And Okereke suddenly found that every inch of his bloodied body was in pain.
if he could stop getting so beat up he might enjoy the next match.
Posted 12 May 2008 - 06:50 PM
"That's it! Game! I hereby declare Okereke Fathom the victor over Dreadlord Z by means of Knock Out!" Wiping the sweat off his brow, the official silently curses the idea of making their uniforms black and raises the victor's hands to the delight of the visible crowd. Perhaps he was getting far too old for this excitement.
Whatever, at least he had a few days break before his next assignment.
....congratulations Ransom, and good job both of you. As stated in Clone's thread, next match up will be Chihana Isamu vs. Awn aring, at "the Docks." Steel, Goose, both of ya'll need to report there by this Friday, May 16th, 2008.
See ya then.
Posted 13 May 2008 - 02:22 AM
He tried to walk out the door, which led to the above situation. This was to be a long and perhaps arduous journey, just to get to the place where he was to fight. But he went onwards and forwards, out into the street.
"Awn Daring, reporting for duty." He said to a rhino at the zoo.
"Awn Daring, here at last." He said to a lightpost
Awn smelt fish. Something fishy was going on here, he knew it. The place smelled like fish. Fishy Fish. He kept walking, and fell off a pier. He'd arrived at the docks.
"AWN DARING!" he shouted as he spluttered around in the water, trying to keep afloat. He could now open his eyes. He was ready to fight.
Posted 13 May 2008 - 11:49 PM
Isamu lay, stretched out on top of the flowery comforter of his hotel bed, thinking about the match tomorrow. He had made it past the first round, yes, but only barely. His opponent had been tough, and he had nearly lost his life. Though the extensive wait between matches had grown tiresome, it had, at least, given his wounds time to heal completely. He would be able to fight his opponent at full strength, and for this he was grateful. The advantage was with his enemy, as Awn had been able to see his fight, observe his style, his weaknesses, while Isamu had not been able to see Awn's. The match would be difficult, of that there was no doubt. He yawned and rolled over, glancing at the red digits on the alarm clock beside his bed. 00:31. Eight hours till the match. He needed sleep, but there was too much restless energy in his body for that. He sighed and sat up, then turned so he was sitting on the edge of his bed. He slowly got up, pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a singlet, and left the room.
Marion found him, half an hour later, on the roof of the hotel, holding a one armed handstand.
"You really need to be sleeping you know."
He grunted and released the position, gracefully returning to an upright stance.
Marion nodded sympathetically. She couldn't sleep herself. Isamu walked over to the edge of the roof and sat down, his back against the concrete wall. Marion joined him. She looked up at the stars.
"You know, sometimes I wonder whether advances in astronomy have really done all that much good."
Isamu looked at her quizzically.
"Look at the stars. Scientists tell us they're just flaming balls of gas, but I remember when the stars were signs of hope and promise . . . whenever I felt down as a child I used to look up at them and remind myself that there was something bigger than me and my problems, something which danced and twinkled sheerly for the joy of it . . . but they don't. The twinkling is caused by atmospheric disturbance, and their movements are the result of the earth and galaxy moving, not them."
Isamu gazed upwards. Orion . . . the hunter. He had been watching that night . . . the night they took her from him. For Isamu, the stars were a constant reminder of his vow to find those responsible for her death, The Hunter an eternal post-it note in the sky, a note which told him that he must hunt them till he made them pay for what they had done to her. For, in the end, was that not what this was about? A test to see if he was truly ready to defeat the man who had killed her. No, Isamu saw something very different from what Marion saw in the stars. There was not hope or wishes, or even flaming balls of gas. The one thing Isamu saw was the grinning, scarred face of the one who had taken his love from him.
Marion, unaware of his thoughts, yawned and laid her head on his shoulder.
"You . . . really . . . need . . . to get to . . . sleep . . ." Her eyes slowly closed, and she drifted off into the realm of the sandman.
The next morning
Isamu woke at dawn and gently carried Marion back to her room. He returned to his own room and pulled the katana case from under his bed. He opened it, checked the blade for any nicks or scars, and then changed into his customary fighting costume. It was but a short journey to the docks and Awn had already arrived, and seemed somewhat wet. Isamu took up his position at the marker in the ground and waited for the referee's signal.
Posted 21 May 2008 - 06:41 PM
It's a rather dark, broken down looking place, ironically since the facade hid the most advanced and up to date machinery available for such a place, but frankly, that stuff just didn't "look right" according to the ones who designed the dock. A large ship sits in the water near the largest jutting structure leading to the sea, a decent facsimile of the actual ships that usually sit in that spot. Large canisters and cargo holds sit along the hard, wet, concrete floor of the area, as workers, both genuine and actors, walk about on either their daily duites or merely to "spice it up." As with the Court, here, the audience is, in fact, not hidden at all, as they gather on board the various boats about the dock eagerly awaiting the action, or behind the chainlink fence with razor wire atop that seperates the dock from the rememnant jungle before it, to seperate it from the rest of the island. More Stand and watch from the tops of the square, blocky gray warehouses scattered about, and more still from the catwalks within said buildings. Glancing about at the verious peices of machinery and vehicles littering the area, the woman referee sighs again as she notes the two competitors arriving. With a cough, she clears her throat and announces to the ever present cameras,
"This Second Match of the Second Round of the Stroke of Death between Chihan Isamu and Awn Daring is set to begin! Heed the rules of the tournement, and may the best fighter win!"
...all righty. Ya'll have from right this very second until Sunday, May 25th, 2008 to fight. Goose got here first, so he gets heads.
Tails. Go on Steel.
Posted 21 May 2008 - 09:07 PM
A glimmer on one of the ships holding audience members caught his eye. Someone had brought opera glasses . . . Hitomi loved opera glasses. She collected them, one of her few pastimes that did not involve fighting. Sometimes he caught her, when he came to her house to spar, standing in front of her mirror with a pair on, giggling uncontrollably at her appearance. She thought she looked ridiculous in them. Isamu thought she was gorgeous, but then, he always thought she looked gorgeous, especially in the middle of battle, when her face was flushed from the exertion and her hair clip fell out, allowing her gorgeous long black hair to cascade down her back . . . He shook his head. Painful memories had no place in battle, he should know that by now. Forgetting it had almost gotten him killed once already, and he could not afford any distractions if he was to win this battle.
The shrill cry of a gull split the air.
The referee spoke.
"This Second Match of the Second Round of the Stroke of Death between Chihan Isamu and Awn Daring is set to begin! Heed the rules of the tournement, and may the best fighter win!" A pause.
"Come. Meet my blade." Isamu said, so softly only Awn and the sensitive camera microphones could hear it.
The crowd seemed to be holding their breath.
Isamu's blade was already three quarters of the way out of its sheath by the time the referee's "t" fades away. This was a test of his opponent's reflexes. The blade arced like lightning across the small space between them, aimed for the tendon which connects Awn's sword arm to his chest.
Edited by Steel Samurai, 24 May 2008 - 11:20 PM.