ORIGIN

The Sentinel--during his healing sessions behind the arena--had thought about his next match. He'd strategized, even.

"AND FOR OUR NEXT MATCH..."

Thus far, the combat had come down to sizing up the opponent, seeking a weakness, and attempting to exploit it while also trying not to die. The first battle with Nemesis had been one of the hardest in his life; he'd come a hair's breadth from becoming sentinel-paste.

"...THE SENTINEL OF DRACO..."

An idea had occurred to him. A potential tactic. He'd considered it, turned it over in his mind. It came with a risk: he'd be unable to size up his opponent before combat began. Yet, if it succeeded, it would give him that "surprise edge" that was so important in a battle: the first strike, first blood, throwing the enemy onto a weakened position from the outset.

"THE BLACK HOUND OF CHAOS..."

And so far as he could tell--having mentally pored, again and again, over the Deathmatch initial introductions--there was no rule against it.

"-The fuck was his name again? JUST--THE SENTINELLLL! THE GUY WITH THE SCYTHHHE! -THING! GIVE IT UP!"

He stepped into the dust again, the sense of danger and churning adrenaline already feeling like habit, like familiarity. And instead of pacing farther into the arena, making room for his opponent... he slipped to the side. He raised his halberd, angling it slightly downward and outward, and pressed against the wall, and braced himself.

The moment whoever-it-was moved through the gate, he would strike: an attempt to thrust that halberd straight through their chest, to impale them with its horrid blade.

It might be the swiftest, most cunning win in Deathmatch history, for all he knew.

Of course, it might also backfire horribly.

The Sentinel stood tense and ready, every muscle a taut wire, and waited to see which it would be.

He had time to hear part of the announcement--"The Forsaken Revenant"--and time to wonder, if only briefly, who that was. As his mind hastily searched for a face to put to the title, Vakornol herself appeared.

He'd lunged, impaled, before he truly registered who he was attacking: reflexes hit before thought caught up. He felt the punch of metal through flesh, scraping bone; felt the heave and toss of a massive body, smelled the hot metal stench of blood.

And then--belatedly--it registered that he had Vakornol like a shark on a hook, grinning back at him and towering above him, and all the Sentinel could think was at least it is not Draconua. Small consolation, considering the behemoth now grasping the haft of his spear.

For an instant he was at a loss: the what next, if his enemy did not immediately keel over dead, had tragically not been considered. A very dangerous lesson to learn now, at least, and he hoped that his initial strike would cover that failing. He considered, briefly, trying to knock her legs out from underneath her--so she couldn't retaliate easily, or give chase--but gave that up as impossible the moment the thought occurred: she was too big for that. Vargas, at least, had spindly long limbs: Vakornol's were strong and thick.

And so, even though it did not make for the best fight--it wasn't heroic, violent, it would never be worthy of applause--the Sentinel simply tried to run away. He let go the halberd's haft and skittered back, dropping to all fours to gain a little distance, watching Vakornol warily.

He had no witty retort, either, no banter to give back: after his initial vicious strike, the fight might just become one of attrition.

With luck, attrition that wouldn't last very long: he could only hope that he'd hit something vital.

He found himself... grateful (is this gratitude?) for the fact that Vakornol called him back so quickly. It saved him an embarrassing sprint halfway across the arena for no reason, and undoubtedly rescued some of his dignity in the process.

The Sentinel been rather thrust into the Deathmatch without realizing just how violent it would be--not that it would have deterred him, and not that he wasn't fairly warned--but it is difficult to reconcile the words 'death' with the bloody, thrashing reality. All at once, he felt tired: the Chaos was roaring through him, demanding blood, but logically he was pleased that this grinning beast would not die before him.

And-... 'Proud'a you, goo' job.'

No one had ever spoken to him so; the Sentinel was not the emotional sort, but the phrase still ticked something within him. It was something about the candid way that she'd delivered it--it held none of Vargas's studious premeditation, or Oliver's hopeful simper. Vakornol simply... was, honest and cheerful, and he could take her words at face value.

A little baffled by his own reaction, that snarling Chaos still threatening vision and mind, he stumbled his words after her: "...-Thank you."

And then he hesitated. He did not know what else to say, or do, but-... He would need that halberd back.

He faced the stands, and looked to Nemean for approval, and his dismissal, and he called out--as Vakornol had requested--"THE TRIED-AND-TRUE DESIGN, THE UNKILLABLE, THE UNTOUCHABLE, THE FORSAKEN REVENANT, HAS FORFEITED." Thankfully, his subconscious had hammered her titles straight into his brain.