A fresh spray of crimson painted the packed dirt of the pit. There was a palpable miasma of sweat and old blood, an oppressive and yet familiar perfume for arena lovers and warriors alike.
The defeated man, already spitting two of his own teeth into the grime, now cradled a nose that had been pulped into a bloody ruin.
Defeated Man: "PLEASHE! PLEASH SHTOP, I GIVE UP, ARBITER...!"
From the grated iron catwalk above, a man whose face was a roadmap of old scars looked down, his expression one of utter disinterest. He wore battered plate, and both hands rested on the pommel of a great warhammer whose head was grounded on the metal walkway.
Arbiter: "Better luck next year, then. This fight is ended -- bring the next one in!"
With a thunderous, downward thrust, he slammed the head of the warhammer onto the catwalk. The resulting clang echoed through the pit, a final, metallic sentence. The warrior below halted his next strike, turning away as the beaten man scurried out of the arena, leaving a trail of blood and tears in his wake.
Proctor: "This next one is named... Cancus."
The arbiter leaned over the railing, a flicker of interest finally piercing his professional boredom. The previous victor had already departed, leaving the pit empty for a moment before the next challenger strode into the harsh sunlight. This one... this one had a different quality. He was tall, his severe, handsome features partially obscured by a black eyepatch over his left eye. He was well-built, the muscles of his arms and torso clearly defined beneath a simple leather tunic, and he moved with a cold confidence that seemed to dwarf that of the arbiter's own proctor. As if that wasn't enough, he wielded a menacing, large training zweihander, to boot.
Proctor: "Arbiter Chalymen, we stand ready."
The two warriors now stood at opposite ends of the pit, sizing each other up.
Chalymen (Arbiter): "The Proving Pit sees its thirteenth fight of the day. Candidate Cancus, this is your one and only chance to impress me and enter this year's Grand Melee. Better make it count...!"
He punctuated the announcement with another deafening slam of his warhammer. The battle was joined.
Proctor: "Best of luck to you."
Cancus did not reply. His face was a veil of cold stone, his single visible eye a chip of ice.
The proctor, wielding a sturdy shield and a heavy mace, advanced with the cautious, balanced steps of a professional. Cancus mirrored him, his own approach slow, deliberate. He adjusted his grip on the two-handed sword, one hand on the hilt, the other halfway up the blade, shortening it for greater control in close quarters. His gaze was unnervingly steady, dissecting his opponent's every shift in weight, every twitch of muscle.
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Suddenly, the proctor lunged, driving his shield forward in a brutal bash. Cancus moved with a fluid, lethal grace, pivoting on the ball of his foot. He let the shield's edge glance off his shoulder, using its momentum to spin him low to the ground, his back just clearing the wooden rim as he swept his leg at the proctor's ankles. The man was ready for the attack, hopping over it and bringing his mace down in a crushing overhead blow.
Cancus grinned. He raised his sword, blocking the strike with the flat of the blade. Metal screamed against metal.
Chalymen: "Not bad... Not bad at all. But I remain unimpressed. Less dancing and more hitting!"
The proctor put his weight into the clash, muscles straining, but Cancus' strength was deceptive. With a grunt, he pushed upwards from his kneeling crouch, deflecting the mace aside and creating an opening. He drove his shoulder hard into the proctor's chest, the raw force of the impact sending the man stumbling back, his footing lost for a fatal second.
Cancus pressed the advantage, thrusting his sword forward. The proctor's instincts screamed, and his shield came up just in time. But it was a feint. Instead of completing the thrust, Cancus used the forward momentum to launch into a devastating spinning kick. His boot slammed into the shield with the force of a battering ram. The proctor was thrown from his feet, landing hard on his back in a cloud of dust.
Chalymen: "There ya go...!"
Like a lion, Cancus gave him no quarter. He shifted his grip, both hands now on the hilt of his greatsword, raising it high for a final, cleaving blow. The proctor, desperate, flung a handful of dirt at Cancus' face. The grit stung his eye, forcing him to abort the attack and stagger back, as the proctor himself started to rapidly crawl backwards and away from him, too.
Cancus: "Hmph...! Took you for a honorable fighter."
Proctor: "Apologies... No such thing in a real fight."
An ear-to-ear smile, sharp and cruel, split Cancus' face.
Cancus: "So do all weaker men say."
He reached up to his eyepatch, ready to tear it away.
Cancus (muttering): "Tch. Not even worth it."
He stopped himself. Instead, he gripped at the massive sword with both hands and, with unforgiving grace, spun it around using all his might. The zweihander flew off his hands, a spinning blade of death encroaching on the proctor, who was now getting back up to his feet.
Proctor: "M-madman...!"
The blade flew at an angle not easy to deflect without injury: spinning vertically, it could hit either his head or lower legs. The man was forced to remain crouched, reducing the exposed areas of his body to a minimum, behind his shield.
CLANG.
The heavy blade hit the shield right in the centre, the vibration of the shield propagating throughout his entire body. He felt nothing, besides that, a sign that the blade had not managed to damage any part of his body. With renewed anger, he readied to finish his unarmed opponent off. As soon as he removed the shield that covered his face, he was met with a rapid, deadly foot to the face. The head on impact sent the man flying backward, the back of his head landing hard against the ground, dazing him further.
Cancus: "There is a method to my madness, you know."
Cancus grabbed the sword from the ground, as he stalked towards the man again. He raised his shield once more, a last, desperate defence. But Cancus drove the tip of his sword forward, fast and merciless. The rusted blade punched through the old wood with a splintering crack, the point stopping mere inches from the proctor's face.
Cancus: "Better push that shield back with all you've got."
In a move of brutal ingenuity, Cancus planted his right foot on the shield, driving the blade deeper. The proctor cried out, his hands scrambling to somehow deflect the intruding steel. It was useless. Cancus pushed off the ground with his other foot, putting his entire weight onto the shield. The wood groaned, then collapsed inward, driving the man to the ground. The rusty blade, now free, plunged deep into his torso with a sickening, wet squelch that was audible throughout the pit.
Chalymen: "Well, that's enough then! Warrior Cancus makes it to the Grand Melee. Proctors, see to it you help clean up."
But Cancus wasn't done. The sick grin remained etched on his face.
Proctor: "ARGH...! The fight is over, you animal!"
Cancus: "A real fight's not over just because someone says it is."
He began to jump on the shield, his full weight driving the blade deeper with each impact. The proctor's cries turned to gurgles. Other proctors rushed into the arena, but it was too late. The sword had impaled the man completely, its tip now buried in the hard-packed earth beneath him.
Cancus stepped back and, with the blood of his victim still dripping from his face, offered a deep, theatrical bow. The other proctors scrambled to the dying man, struggling to free him from the steel that pinned him to the floor.
Chalymen: "Bah... What a waste of a perfectly good fighter."