ORIGIN

And in the other.

"...WE HAVE THE SKULL-FACED HOUND, THE HARBINGER OF DEATH, THE SSEEEEENTINEEEEL OF THE BLACK SPIIIIIRE!" -Elaborated on, and most certainly not by him. He was not here out of a blood-hazed rage, a desire to fight, or even on his Master's orders: he was here simply to gain a ranked title so that others of the Forge could not command him and thus disrupt his ever-important sentry work.

Work that consisted, mostly, of The Sentinel standing silent at the Aperture, staring down an empty tunnel.

Interrupting that? Unforgiveable.

So here he was, stepping out, blinking in the spotlights--each time they passed he was near-blinded, so that he almost missed Nemesis barrelling towards him.

He had taken stock of the other fighters as they'd gathered, careful to note down what he'd considered potential strengths and weaknesses, in the hopes of saving himself that half a second's worth of time. Unfortunately, the only thing he'd really come up with in regards to Nemesis was a mental note of "avoid the horns, and pray it does not get paired with me." He'd already fought Abaddon, and nearly lost; he certainly hadn't won, and this thing was even bigger, even nastier looking than he. The Sentinel had, at least, learned a few tricks from that fight.

Shadows swathed him; they swathed his black metal halberd, too, and whispers seemed to shroud them both. As she charged, he attempted to step aside, to move quickly out of her barrelling path--and to thrust the spiked point of his halberd back toward her. It would be a quick jab, deep if he could manage it but brief--nothing that'd get his weapon (he hoped) torn away.

His dodge was... barely enough; he felt the arena floor vibrate with the thunder of her feet as she swept just past him, the wind of her gallop almost enough to unbalance him on its own. And around him the sounds of the crowd, the flash of the spotlights, the dust, the screeching music--he struggled to pull back, to rebalance himself and focus on Nemesis alone.

To not get trampled into bloodied dust.

Even his empty heart was feeling the adrenaline thump--fear? Was it fear?

He did not really have time to wonder. All he knew was that the behemoth before him was shifting, twisting, moving for him.

A plan--if vague, instinctive--was forming in his mind. Do as much damage as quicky as possible--and then avoid her. If she were bleeding (and he were not) then it was only a matter of time before exhaustion and blood loss took her.

He hoped.

The chanting of the crowd was a distant roar as he gathered himself, as he tensed down and inhaled, bracing. There was the power that Emuh's visit had granted him: could he use that to turn the tables? To take this monster's goring horns, and inflict her damage on herself? Limited, of course, but--at least it wouldn't be him.

At first he made no effort to dodge the strike--braced as he was--and it was only as Nemesis shoved right for him that he realized nothing had happened. It probably looked to her--and onlookers--that he had braced as if he'd though the could physically repel her ton and a half weight, somehow; it was only a last-second scuffle to one side that prevented him outright dying. But her horns caught across his chest, his abdomen, thudding over healing ribs, leaving deep tracks of torn flesh that at once bled Oil.

The Sentinel wound up on his back, stunned, a pained wheeze of air sucked into his lungs.

Had he not been so wounded, The Sentinel might have tried a simple dodge: a roll away from her bulk. A bulk that seemed to hover there, slowed, giving him time to see the light gleaming off her hide, the sheen of blood where he'd struck her, the measured ferocity in her eyes. Her words were heard, but not yet understood--there was no time to really listen to their meaning. Beyond their sounds, he was calculating.

Not cold, logical--but last-ditch grim reflex. The wind was knocked out of him already, and he bled--no time, then, to roll--but he still had his halberd. As she crashed down toward him, he jammed its butt to the arena floor, lifting it as vertically as he could beneath her; the next seconds would dictate if she would crash her own weight down to impale herself upon it, whether she would throw herself aside at the last instant... or whether The Sentinel would be crushed utterly beneath her.