His hit struck home. Jarring down his arms, running through his body like a thrill. The whisper of the halberd grew to a roar in his ears, demanding blood, demanding more. It threaded insidious through the roar of the crowd and blended with the Chaos in his blood until everything was violence.

Had they had time, the Sentinel might have fought it off, backed away, asked if the creature downed before him--clutching a wound, unarmed--surrendered. It would have been smarter, even, to back away and let his enemy bleed, rather than risk getting in close again when it wasn't necessary. But even without the threat of Draconua looming overhead, there was still the promise of Nemean. He did not expect her to go any easier on them. He couldn't afford to draw this out.

And in any case, this was Deathmatch. The expectation was not that of a spar. Not that of extending out a hand to help up your opponent.

Still, he hesitated--not for Hunter's sake but for that split-second needed to steel his own mind against the madness always encroaching on it. And when he brought the weapon around again, it wasn't for a killing blow, a beheading, an impalement. It was a twist of the halberd even as it screamed in his mind, as it whispered audibly.

The Sentinel brought the halberd down in an arc, turning it before it'd strike--would Hunter even be there, anymore? What would win out, that remarkable agility or the seeping wound?--in an attempt not to kill but to smash into one of his legs. To shatter a bone, perhaps.

To--without a doubt--remove his opponent from the battle.

It smashed down, crashed into--dirt, sand, nothing, a movement of the mustelid-creature or a failure of he himself leaving it slammed into the arena floor.

Vulnerable, for an instant, to attack--if his opponent was still ready for it.

The halberd whispered, loudly audible, its words coiling in the Sentinel's ears.

They weren't very creative words, mostly along the lines of kill and end it and the like. The Sentinel, with a force of will he'd long grown used to, ignored it. Not that it was easy, not that his many eyes didn't gleam with bloodlust as he studied Hunter.

It conceded.

He stepped forward, and offered it one many-clawed hand, to aid it back to its feet. He had no way to help the bleeding, nor did he particularly care to, but there was genuine respect in his gesture.

"It is a terrifying beast," he informed Hunter. And for all the ludicrousness of calling what by all appearances was a short, soft and sweet creature a 'terrifying beast,' the Sentinel seemed to very much mean it. The loose skin and the pure ferocity--he was quite certain that it would have torn him apart, had he not undergone the intensive training that he'd had. "It should join its strength to the Forge."

This was probably not the immense compliment he'd intended for it to be, but ahh well.

The Sentinel released his grip once the wriggly blue creature had made it to its feet.

It was not dying and that was good; it was not even chrysalizing, and the Sentinel looked it up and down, fascinated for a moment by its resilience.

He didn't know about the existence of mustelids. Had he, it might have explained some things.

He opened his jaws to speak, but then the crowd--illusory and not--had become a roar. He twisted his head back to look around him, and felt the twist and pull of Chaos at his veins. "It should visit," he said, the words he'd intended now spilling from his skull-face but he wasn't aware that he'd actually managed to utter them. Instead all his eyes were fixed on the stands, on the displays and the lights.

Violence tremored through him.

And then there was nothing: the roar fallen to a hush, into silence. The stands empty. The arena, dark, a blue silence with drifting dust and settling shadows.

The Sentinel blinked, and took a few steps away: to Hunter, to the crowd, it probably looked as though he'd lowered his halberd a bit and simply... wandered off, back toward the gate.

Reality snapped back a moment later and he blinked again, looked around, found himself. And strode--more securely this time--in that direction. He was almost alongside Hunter: he had no reason to go anywhere but back to the backstage, either, though along the way, he lifted the halberd high.

A crowd-pleaser, perhaps, for those who cared.

Ahh-... but Vargas was cheering at him, and he realized they would want more, perhaps, from their new Champion.

He paused, nearing the exit to the arena. Blue wings sprouted from his back, and he shot skyward, hovering there some twenty feet above the arena floor, parallel with the crowd.

He raised his halberd, and looked across those still sober enough to see him. And the Sentinel bellowed, a wordless cry empty of emotion, meant to imitate a roar of triumph.

He hung there, giving the crowd his due; and when a few moments had passed, he lowered himself to the arena floor, and strode out--and away.