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.

Round: 1/5
Attempt: Attempt a "surprise impale" on Vakornol as she enters
Defense: ...vaguely hidden. none really
Injuries: Probably sore from the last match

@Vakornol

Content Warning
This post contains potentially sensitive material:

gore

"STANDING AGAINST HIM..."

Vakornol rolled her shoulders, a rigid smirk upon her toothy Cheshire face, bouncing on her toes. Baokrish had been an interesting competitor, and it'd been a damn shame to put the thing out of commission when he'd been... well, a fish out of water. Had such a match been held in the Black City, the big brute would've been the one putting her out of commission.

"... A TRIED-AND-TRUE DESIGN..."

No use dwelling on that though, especially when just about every mark he'd laid onto her was taken care of through some good 'ol fashioned magic.

"... THE UNKILLABLE, THE UNTOUCHABLE, THE FORSAKEN REVENANT..."

There's her cue.

The Valkhound took to a loping gallop, chartreuse eyes bright and set dead-ahead. Orion's starlight and Nemean's extravagant additions of confetti and a thousand spotlights hit her face, blinding her briefly, and a stifled giggle filled he—WAIT.

Toxic eyes flicked to the side, as well as her head; all a moment too late as a honed-sharp Talon struck into the flesh of her chest. Even with the nearly perpendicular angle, its blade cut through flesh, punching its way through to a lung. The abused organ spasmed around the weapon, all too eager to fill with blood.

"HOLY SHIT!!!"

Vakornol let out a gasping wheeze and a faint, wavering laugh as she scrambled to at least grip the corrupted spear—so the Sentinel might, perhaps not get a chance to tear it back out and exacerbate the wound. "Didn't know any'a you—" GASP-WHEEZE "could be so brutal."

Really. Who would've conceived of this that was raised in this generation?

The Valkhound was nothing but impressed, even as an agony she hadn't known for a while tore through her. Taking advantage of her confidence... a Sentinel after her own heart.

ROUND 1/1??

50%

ATTEMPT: ... not getting impaled three seconds into a fight
INJURIES: Impaled through the chest (punctured lung, internal bleeding, ouch)

@The Sentinel

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.

Round: 2/5
Attempt: Run a little bit away
Defense: none
Injuries: Probably sore from the last match

@Vakornol

Were she not already greying out from the loss of blood and the stinging corruption of the poleaxe (apparently soaked in pure Chaos, apparently?!) Vakornol may have laughed again at the widening of eyes, the moment of realization dawning on a snout as the Sentinel debated what to do next. The last thing she expected was for him to just turn tail (literally) and run (also literally).

"Hol' on," she wheezed after his departing form. "I kno' how this goes: If I g'won, I'm done for." A spluttering, suppressed cough rattled her chest, and her eyes pinched upward in a wince.

The Valkhound tipped her head upward to regard her opponent down the bridge of her own nose, then smiled weakly again. "Can't yell loud enou' for M'ster Mayhem to hear me ov' the music." Her arm quivered where it was trying to hold the full length of the spear steady, but she pressed onward. "Tell her I'm hittin' the bricks. Real winners quit. Com' get y'spear later. Proud'a you, goo' job."

With that, she gave the Sentinel her (current) best impression of a mock-bow and turned to shamble to the backroom—for a quick session of taking this spear out of her chest without killing herself in the process, and subsequently slipping into a chrysalis.

Shame that they'd have to operate with one less judge, but what can you do?

ROUND 2/2

50%

ATTEMPT: None
INJURIES: Impaled through the chest (punctured lung, internal bleeding, ouch)

exit vakornol (unless stopped)
@The Sentinel

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.

exit the Sentinel

DEATHMATCH

Tiny knuckles whitened as Nemean gripped the miniature armrests of her tiny throne. Vakornol. Her some-time drinking buddy. The fiercely grinning pal. She who had owned this Deathmatch arena, back in the day, back before her long sleep'd made her sluggish.

-Would Nemean be furious? It was like she was debating it, her face frozen for a moment. Then, she broke into amplified guffaws (though if they were real could be anyone's guess). "LOST YOUR TOUCH, VAK? -Don't bite me," she added, and then another peal of laughter sounded. "ANYWAY, we have our WINNER!" And off went the typical fanfare, the falling confetti in the color of blood, the thudding of drums and screaming of metal. Music, but also actual metal. Nemean glared daggers at the asshole who'd done her friend all dirty (really, what was that sucker punch crap?!)... but rules were rules.

"THE SENTINEL OF DRACOOOO!"

_____________

DEATHMATCH WINNER: THE SENTINEL

Character: The Sentinel Age: +5 (13 Cycles, Capped) Magic Level: +7 (Transcendent Champion) ROUND 1 Attempt: +14 Penalties: - ROUND 2 Attempt: +19 Penalties: - Total: 45

Character: Vakornol Age: +5 (119406 Cycles, Capped) Magic Level: +1 (Fledgling) ROUND 1 Attempt: - Penalties: - Total: 6

NUMERICAL WINNER: The Sentinel