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Post by Sandegar on Aug 11, 2009 14:38:11 GMT -7
Vermin crowded the streets of the Western Settlement, corsairs and pirates reveling in the twilit glow. The sun was long gone behind the horizon, but the sky remained illuminated with streaks of blood and coral, stretching out and fading to the dark, star-speckled shadows of the eastern sky, mysterious and hazy.
The Guardian known as Sandegar worked his way past countless pedestrians, pulling his thin cloak close. His dark eyes flitted over unfriendly faces, but to their credit, they were in large part only shrewd peddlers and merchantmen, hardly the criminals he'd expected. Among them he felt out of place, lost in the unfamiliar world of the harbor town after dark, a world he'd never explored before.
The tall hare moved quickly to weave through the crowd that flowed against him, somewhat to his disappointment. He noted, with amusement, that the further he moved from the tavern, the thinner the crowd became. It was only logical, he supposed, but he hoped that some would be as foolish--for he could hardly describe what he was about to do as wise--as him, with the same intent.
That intent was obvious in his choice of destination, for he was heading to the Arena of Blood. As he followed the path, it petered out from hard, packed dirt to looser sand, winding someways uphill to the formidable fighting ground. He'd once thought it inferior to the Fort's training grounds, yet those days were gone. To some extent he had still abhorred and detested violence then, and seen it only as a duty to those he had sworn to defend.
He'd changed.
Violence is power.
An unwelcome truth, but truth nonetheless. He'd gone from hating it to condoning it, and now? He sometimes even enjoyed it. He had gone above and beyond the call of duty in his honor-bound obligation to defend and to exact justice, and adopted violence as his way of life. And when that way of life had been taken from him, he had fought to take it back. But he'd lost the edge that had won him his reputation--a reputation long since faded into obscurity, as he noted with bitterness--and he'd come to reclaim that too. The edge, and maybe the reputation along the way.
He stepped through the crumbling archway of the arena entrance, hearing the crunch of sand and gravel beneath his boots. He walked surely and slowly toward the center of the ring and threw his cloak back over his shoulder, notably with his left hand while his right arm remained limp at his side. The plain baldric that had once found its seat on his right shoulder was now on his left, and held a sabre distinctly unlike the longer arming sword he'd previously called his own. He wore armor too, light and scaled but armor nonetheless, a new addition to his gear that remained mostly hidden under a corsair jerkin.
Perhaps it was too much to hope that he would find an opponent here, but he had to try regardless. He'd come to fight, and for that he'd left the fort with little care for his useless arm, to a place where it would win him no mercy; from self-proclaimed hero and villain alike. To him it did not matter what manner of beast he would face, if any, as long as he had a chance to practice skills long dormant. He hoped for a contest - in fact, he anticipated one with glee. He needed reassurance that he could still reclaim his honor in violence.
He stabbed his sabre into the sand and looked up into the gloom. He smiled.
"Right," he announced. "Any of you fellas out there, nice guys that you are, up to a bit of rumbling with a rusty old hare?"
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Post by Crystal M. V. Rosepaw on Aug 12, 2009 7:18:30 GMT -7
ooc;; Decided I want to be the one to fight Sandegar. :3 But I'm not sure if I'll use Crystal or Zorra. Probably Zorra - I need some practice with her fighting style. Ferking whips and whatnot.
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Post by Sandegar on Aug 12, 2009 15:25:01 GMT -7
OOC:
Bring it. *scary face*
Yah, I'm sure my input doesn't really mean much, but I'm going to poke you in the direction of Zorra. *poke*
As in, I can't wait to inflict pain on a way-out-of-practice Sandegar. xD With whips. Even better.
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Post by Crystal M. V. Rosepaw on Aug 14, 2009 14:41:23 GMT -7
occ; Ha. Forgive me if this is weird... Cassie and Zorra are the same person, but nobody knows this but her. :3 And she's hackin' insaaane. I've never wrote as Zorra, only Cassie, so this might be crap. xD
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A snarl burst from the shadow's lips, but not one of anger, it was a noise of exhileration. The hunter loomed over the town, metal mask flashing in the odd half-lit places, crouching in the shadows. The being stepped confidently through the shadows on the roof of the tavern, leaning again the chimney, cape catching in a light breeze. Zorra had nowhere to be tonight - all her jobs were done and it was time to lay low for a while. Yet she had become addicted to the sensation of the cold metal encasing her face, the constricting feeling of her corset oddly tightened beneath dark clothing, causing her to look like a boy. Her long hair was tied back in a long, high tail to keep it out of the way. The fox's face was heavily covered, her eye color shadowed by the carefully crafted plate on her face.
Cassie Shayde and Zorra were two completely different types of creatures. Cassie was a gentle, kind, womanly creature who had fled from an a country far off under a dictator who would dance at the tavern for money. The vixen was known to like fancy clothing and was extremely romantic. However, nobody knew she was a liar - she had really left home when she was almost arrested for her antics. Zorra had tried to steal from the queen's chambers, and had made it out. Before they could pin down that miss Shayde was a petty thief, Zorra's blight stopped. Soon after, Cassie faked a marriage with a servant, and went to start a life with him elsewhere. The cruel mistress had his tongue cut out so he could no reveal her idenity. As soon as they landed in Mossflower, she killed him and hid the body carefully. Nobody would ever figure her out.
"Watch, fools," Zorra whispered, winding around the chimney as if dancing, "I'll pick your pockets clean, and then you'll wind up dead. The greatest thief to walk the land - is it a vixen, or is it a dog? is it a poor beggar, or is it one of the rich? I", she crowed softly, taking her whip from her belt, "am Zorra." She cackled and cracked her whip, still unseen by the people below. She heard confusion below, a child shouting to his mother what the noise was. The fox smirked, quickly winding the rope up and clenching it in her jaws. She scuttled down from the peek of the building, gently leaping to a new roof. She would walk the town this night, for the last time in a few weeks. She would be in her best for, the true form. Cassie had become the illusion - Zorra was the reality.
As the end of her high path, she jumped down from the roo, having no more to walk on and carry her out of sight. Where to go? Everyone in the town knew Zorra, they ethier feared the phantom being, or wished to join her. Where was a place where only the cruel would gather, and the weak were easily to prey upon? She took her whip into a gloved paw, cracking it absently. The Arena of Blood sounded like as good of a place as any.
Her feet hit the ground with quiet thumps, her eyes glittering beneath her mask. The metal was molded to the shape of her face, the eyes shaded by metal curling up over them. The only part showing was her lower lip and chin, ending at her hair line, and the whip cable tying it to her face was thick. Her quick senses didn't allow her to be unmasked. Her paws were quick, her claws sharp under her gloves, and her fur with dirt rubbed in. Her corset was tight around her chest, loose around her waist, making her look skinny and flat. She ran a finger over her weapons; a short sword at her hip, two knives (one could retract into the handle), and, of course, her whip.
As she reached the top of the arena, a hare jabbed a saber into the sand, beaming up at the few gathered beasts. Torches flarred around the ring, creating odd shadows. The hare called out for a challenger. Zorra paced down the steps, shoving a rat that jumped up back into his seat.
"I will," she cried, her voice monotone, those around unable to tell her gender. A few of the lesser beats let out small gasps. Zorra was in their midst, going to spar in their arena. Only a few had ever laid eyes on the infamous creature. Her rough paws sank into the sand, her fangs gleaming in the firelight. She cracked her whip and smiled. This would be fun.
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Post by Sandegar on Aug 16, 2009 5:50:15 GMT -7
"I will!"
Such was the answer that greeted his challenge. Sandegar looked up sharply, searching for the source of the flat voice. He heard the gasps from the hidden spectators, but when he saw his contestant, he only wondered why. Masked with metal that obscured their features and possessed of a slender, boyish figure, it was hard to tell anything more than that the creature, a fox by his best guess, was quite young. Judging by the fact that despite that youth they were in the Arena of Blood, the challenger was probably male.
The hare looked over his opponent, noting the weapons he could see: a whip, a shortsword, and knives. The presence of the whip cast doubt on the fox's gender once more, for somehow Sandegar felt that a young challenger eager to prove his worth in such a way would carry a whip as a weapon. However, what he knew for certain was that a whip could, in the right hands, be used as a formidable weapon over a longer range than conventional close-combat arms; and if the crowd's surprise was justified, this particular wielder was a capable combatant.
On the other hand, even out of practice, the hare knew himself to be a force worth reckoning with. He was fast and agile, by merit of his leporid nature, and with luck, he was at least equal to even a young fox. The fox had the advantage in range, so let him (or her, he thought), have the offensive. He still lacked his finesse in attacking, and he would benefit from staying on the defensive. Let the fox give chase, and the hare would evade.
Acknowledging his challenger with a nod, Sandegar wrapped his fingers about the wire-bound hilt of his sabre and lifted it from the sand. He held it right against the crossguard as he was accustomed to, yet it still felt strange in his left-handed grip. He bent his knees and leant forward, pushing his left foot through the sand into the lead. His right foot rested lightly on the sand behind him and against his better instincts he let his right arm hang limply at his side. The tall hare held the sabre from below the level of his hips, pointing down and grazing the surface of the sand. It was a low guard he knew as the "Fool's Guard", one that he hoped would not justify its name.
The anticipation rose in him, coloring his sharp vision with the clarity of deadly exhilaration, and worries seemed to dissolve, washed away by the exciting prospect of a challenge. He grinned smugly, daring his opponent to make the first move. Oh, this would be fun.
"Take the lead, sah, go on, wot?"
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Post by Crystal M. V. Rosepaw on Aug 21, 2009 15:26:23 GMT -7
ooc; Sorry for not posting. First week of school and I was busybusybusy. Also, I'm not going to be able to get on tomorrow night, so I'm going to try to write a couple posts now. :3 And you have no idea how amusing it is to write a weird character with gender issues.
Also. Warning to some: this is going to have a bit of... adult content? But everyone knows that girls have, uh, more mass on their front than guys do. At least, the average of each.
Also, Sandy, sorry for fail writing. Rushed.
bic;;
Unlike the elder's lust for the fight, Zorra was a sly, cruel creature. Instantly, as soon as the hare met her eyes, she was certain he knew he did not know her face, or her name. Perhaps her gender, maybe, but the way his eyes scanned her feature, she doubted it - as the pathetic female creature, she wanted to snap at the drunks in the bar to stop looking at her chest and focus on her face at times, but played the act of a weakling well. Then again, it came with the job, the fox supposed.
With one paw, she pulled her cape off, twisting it in the air, holding the whip in the other. With a flourish, Zorra threw it down outside the ring, telling a burly looking ferret to hold it for her, her own voice gruff. He held it with bright eyes, bobbling his head stupidly, clutching the folds of the black fabric. Rolling her eyes, she looked back at the hare, her tail twitching at the tip with dull amusement. Would he prove to be worthy of her challenge, or would he fall into the dust like the rest of these worthless cowards she had fought in this arena? A wicked smile crossed her face as she recalled the last time Zorra had come here; she walked soundlessly away, the crowd too stunned to do anything about the otter calling out for help as he thrashed his arms after being hamstrung by a few artful flicks of her wrist. She was quite sure he had nearly bled to death.
Ugly business, fighting, but it was sure as hell amusing.
The hare took up his sword, holding it loosely at the crossguard in able paws. She noticed without taking thought to it that he was holding it in his left paw, ad wondered why for only a second. It wasn't often that a beast could fight with their left paw without practice. She, herself, was originally better with the right, but had forced ability into the left as well. He told her to make her move, and she had to focus to not cackle aloud as he called her 'sah.' The fool had no idea her true identity. She looked at his weapon, then focused of his formal-sounding speech, and lack of the typical marking of the riffraff around the area.
"You're a Guardian, ain't'cha," she asked dully, but with enough emphasis in it that she really wanted to know. He didn't smell like the typical pirate either - no sea salt and rum. "What's your name, hare?" Without waiting for an answer, she quickly began to act.
Zorra's grip on the whip tightened, the gloves providing a good hold. She slashed the handle by her chest, flashing it's tip past his face and then twisting her wrist quickly, causing the cord to double on itself in the air and emit another thunderous crack. Her other paw, the left, had moved in this time, darting down to her hip and producing the short bladed sword. Cracking the whip again, this time close to the hare's paws and close enough to maybe sting him, she used the distraction to twist with all her grace and aim a quick jab at the hare's ribs, rocking on her feet away from him again.
Miss Shayde might be helpless, but Zorra was cruel and a killer.
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