Colosseum Throw Hands- A Gauntlet

[DocDoctor]

Catskull rose and unsheathed his blade as the newcomer entered the private property of the House Maclung. He had been meditating on the Way of the Sword, but something had hung in the back of his mind, like a fart in an elevator. His uncle had forgotten to close and lock the gate.
No doubt any number of intruders would wander in, whether by intention or by accident. Oh well.

The weather was as miserable as a man with advanced Parkinson's disease walking up an escalator with a pitcher of Hawaiian Punch in each hand. An icy mist carpeted the grass, bruised clouds squeezing out direct sunlight. Catskull gripped his blade with both hands high on the hilt, left over right, and assumed a plow stance, right foot leading as his left slid back over the grass, marking a furrow in the dirt. It was unusual to see a swordsman apply both hands to his weapon even as his right arm bore a small spiked roundshield. Even more unusual was his haircut. A black bowl cut, the kind of shit you'd see a stable boy or an abbey shithouse cleaner wearing. He most likely cut his own hair, and with an actual bowl too.

At any rate, this occured before the other man would arrive to within fifteen meters, and from there Catskull hailed the intruder.

"Hark, yonder peasant! Begone from this, the territory of the House Maclung, lest ye' incur the wrath of I, Catskull Maclung! Thy days shall be cut short if thou shalt advance into mine measure."

 

[Thanny]

((Apologies are in order for my delayed response. A lot has happened in a short amount of time, and all of a sudden I am swamped with work and activities. I will strive to post every two days, however.))

Stipho stepped into the miserable landscape of icy mist and damp grass, meeting no resistance after stepping through the front gate of this esteemed and enticing manor. He quickly sized up the man before him, sensing what he felt could be the welling potential of a great fight. His stance, his figure, his mannerisms, his very name once he was stopped short by a hail -- everything rang of power, and it was power which brought him to this location, for he sought it greatly.

Unbuckling the shield from its carrier strap in one fluid motion and draw of leather, he set himself up for a fight. Stipho did not smile much, though part of him seemed to be very interested in duking it out with a formidable foe, and that brought about an odd light in his eyes that screamed satisfaction.

"I did not come to turn tail or flee, but to fight a good fight with the proclaimed owner of this . . . small home. Rumours tell of him and his exploits. I suppose you will know who he is?"

He said all this while affixing his rounded shield to his arm, his spear already at the ready in his hand since arriving at the gate. He did not take a stance, meekly standing there in aim for an answer, but his muscles were primed for quick movement if the need arose. Instinct yelled at him that the man was right in front of him, but he wanted to make sure.

 

[DocDoctor]

Thanny

Catskull huffed and sized the man up with a quick glance, in particular taking note of the way he gripped his spear.

"Thou hast found thy man, but nary shall ye' find a 'good fight' so much as a dreary place for dying. Prithee speak no more, for nothing more needs to said, O wandering spearman."

He skipped forwards, weight evenly distributed and footing sure, crossing six meters in a moment, moving in quickly on Stipho. He was almost like a panther, large, dark, and dynamic, a shadow with speed and mass. At full swing that foreign, long-hilted blade could probably hew through a young oak.

 

[Thanny]

DocDoctor

Stipho allowed himself the joy of a smile, thin-lined or not, and after speech was set aside for action dropped down into a stance. His shield was forward, his spear primed to the immediate side of it, and his bow and quiver rattled against each other behind him. Catskull moved with feline grace and carried a pretty blade. He had to be cautious and not allow his spear to be cut, meaning quick jabs and immediate actions on cleaving motions.

With a remaining nine meters between him and his enemy, he made a quick first move and closed the distance with a balanced foot, thrusting the blade of his spear up towards Catskull's left shoulder. Should it meet with a shield, he would retract. Should it meet with the weapon itself, he would get even closer, attempt to keep the blade locked behind the spear's reinforced body, and bash with the iron shield toward's Catskull's right ribs before attempting a dash backward. He did not expect anything to come from the stab, but a shield bash to the ribs might open things up later.

 

[DocDoctor]

Thanny
As Stipho moved into measure Catskull slid his right hand down towards the pommel, creating a space between his hands on the hilt as he continued his swift, controlled advance. He hadn't seen any langets on the spear, and as he'd taken notice of the way the man held his weapon earlier, he'd be assuming that Stipho had a single handed grip on the middle of the shaft for quick, balanced thrusts. It'd be awkward to control otherwise.

Catskull's blade had a current reach of three feet, six inches, comparable to the spear's reach, give or take an inch or two. The difference was that catskull held his in a two handed grip. By levering the long hilt between his hands, he could manipulate the stiff, imposing Dane sword with a deceptive speed that may be greater than Stipho had initially anticipated.

As Stipho thrust for Catskull's shoulder, the sword flickered down in a hot white inside arc, curt, efficient, and practical. It'd be closer to its mark than Stipho's shield at that point as well, making interception unlikely. Stipho may have been anticipating a cut, but the swordsman's attack was ruthless and untelegraphed.

Snicker-snack. A gout of blooming agony that'd soon dull into a heavy, throbbing pain.
The partially extended blade scythed down a sparse foot from its held position, tracing the spear shaft on its course to almost certainly shear off Stipho's right thumb, Catskull seeking to deprive his enemy of the ability to hold a weapon. In the same motion this counter would also serve to deflect the thrust off to the left of its intended target, causing the spearhead to pierce nothing but air. Catskull immediately stepped off-center afterwards with his rear left foot behind the right a shoulder's width apart, presenting a narrow target and with the spiked targe at the ready between them. He'd stop short, planting his feet where he was after that, fully aware that one doesn't need a weapon to land blows. Even if his counter succeeded, Catskull wouldn't take this foe lightly. If he'd disarmed Stipho, he'd drop his Dane sword into a fool's guard, point held down near the ground.

 

[Thanny]

DocDoctor

The catlike reflexes were indeed there as Catskull slashed down at his unprotected hand, or so it was thought that it was unprotected. With Stipho wide-eyed, the iron-banded shield's arm dove forward and around to protect its brother, and metal met metal before the thumb could be cut off.

Stipho bounced backward from the narrow save, wrapped sandals digging into the mildly algific grass, and he observed the man with the bowl-cut with a studious eye. This was no run-of-the-mill swordsman. It seemed to him that his strength lay in counters and traps -- this man was perhaps a cunning strategist as well as gifted with the blade. He would have to be cautious and not make false moves that would not ring true.

The targe before Catskull was spiked, but beyond that it was likely meant to catch blades. A tricky shield, and one which did not allow much for grapples or kicks. He decided to bide his time and keep at the ready, adjusting his hand up the length of the spear half a foot to allow for easier deflection and counterspin if need be.

((In short, dodge and wait.))

 

[DocDoctor]

(My opponent has conceded over PM.)

 

[DocDoctor]

(First Fight Resolution)

Catskull drifted back, putting space between him and his opponent. This seemed like an honest, good man of reputable birth and current worth, and thus Catskull wanted to first gauge the fellow's reaction to losing a body part before pushing any further. It would tarnish the reputation of the House Maclung if he drew needless noble blood.

Cutting his losses, Stipho seemed to be leaving, even as another intruder far larger and less handsome came into sight. Catskull raised a sharp eyebrow at first, aknowledging the man's size. Then, as the intruder drew nearer, Catskull's other eyebrow rose. He held quite the sword in his hand, a hooked monstrosity that may have weighed fairly twice that of Catskull's own blade.

"Hark, peasant! The likes of ye' be not welcome upon these estates! Thine heathen soles doth insult the ground itself! Begone, for ye' have wandered into the presence of Catskull Maclung, and upon mine own property no less!
I shall not stay this blade for thy sake, subhuman."

 

[Mankest.Dedes]

It had been watching from a distance like a predatory bird, a hunger for battle aching in its core. No blood had been shed between the two combatants, and the giant warrior hungered for battle. The insatiable thirst for battle was worsened as the coward began walking away from Catskull, and in a blind rage the Butcher leaped forward with his enormous scimitar in a glistering arc of fury.

With one devastating blow he cleaved the weakling in half from shoulder to hip before he could yet react to his sudden and ferocious explosion of wrath. With the dirty deed done his breathing slowed back to manageable levels and he unhooked the harness from his left shoulder. Dropping the armguard and shoulder pauldron to the ground with one action, and reaching down to unfasten the harness from his waist. His leggings fell away in a wooden clatter, heaped onto the bloody welter of gore that was once known as Stipho.

"Catskull Maclung. I be the Devil Butcher." He dipped slightly and crossed his left arm, sword still in hand, across his torso in mockery of a dignified bow. "You be meat."

 

[DocDoctor]

Mankest.Dedes

Catskull did not bow back. Seeing the vulgar display had changed his temperament from cool to arctic. He glared icicles at the brute, shifting his grip on the Dane sword and assuming an unorthodox side stance. He now held the upmost portion of the ricasso with a right overhand grip, his left hand near the pommel, and the spiked targe thusly positioned over the blade whose horizontal point was leveled at the Butcher's center mass.

It was a strange adaptation to half-swording, but the black garbed swordsman seemed to have confidence in it. As before he took the initiative and quickly closed in, soon entering the Butcher's measure.

 

[Mankest.Dedes]

DocDoctor
With the sword to his left side and his body bent forward the brutish warrior had put himself in a somewhat precarious position. His head was exposed, his arm was not in the best position to strike, and he was not upright. Like all good warriors, he knew that to expose himself like this was to leave himself at the mercy of his foe. He was prepared for this situation, otherwise he would not have put himself in harms way.

The gargantuan metal plated shield on his left arm clinked for a single moment as he turned his shoulder towards his foe. Metal sheared against metal as he aggressively dragged his hooked scimitar across the edge of the shield. Sparks and a metal screech filled the air as he lunged several paces forward with the shield held broadly covering his torso and the sparks leading in front of him.

He aimed to slam his shield face first into the shield of Catskull and use the sparks to distract his vision for a single moment. As well as rear his right arm outwards to prepare for a follow up swing.

 

[DocDoctor]

Mankest.Dedes

It happened so fast, like the merciless orchestration of a head on collision on a freeway, but with such precision and efficiency of motion that it was almost machinelike.
His glare contemptuous of the sparks, Catskull stepped forwards and off center with his rear left leg while the Butcher struck with his shield. The broad inner rim of the plated shield struck and skidded on the outer rim of Catskull's horizontally held targe, and without a moment wasted he adjusted his aim around the shield and thrust the hilt forwards like a pool cue, letting the ricasso slip through his other hand.

Catskull's blade was the silver tongue of a great serpent, darting in and out with a mortal flicker that left hasty souls still wondering what had killed them in the first place. The piston point of the Dane sword would be angled under and a little to the left of the breastbone, whereupon it'd potentially lance the Butcher's dark heart like a boil.

Due to the targe's positioning it'd be difficult for the Butcher to see the thrust coming in the first place, as well as how Catskull's proximity and the way he positioned himself to his opponent's right obscured much of his left flank.

The deadly thrust required little commitment, and so if for some reason the hooked sword still swung in or the brute survived to further assail with his shield, Catskull would be ready.

 

[Mankest.Dedes]

Though a brute he was by no means a fool, he'd seen Catskull ready himself and was not so forgetful as to neglect the position of a blade before charging. The clamor of metal against metal did nothing to deafen him to the beating of his own heart in his ears, or the painful vibrations drilling up his left arm. The Butcher drove his left arm forward with the momentum of the mighty collision and shoved the edge of his hoplon against the flat of the oncoming blade. Using the force of the impact to obfuscate the clear line that he'd initially had at his heart.

At the same time he turned at the waist to drive the sword further away, while simultaneously lifting his left leg up to deliver a knee blow to the side of his opponent's right leg. His right arm still reeled back and prepared to swing the devastatingly hefty blade upon his opponent if the chance were to arise.

 

[DocDoctor]

Mankest.Dedes

When the rim of the hoplon forced the point of the Dane sword off course, suddenly the pressure receded, like the tide going out. Catskull recoiled almost as a mongoose would from a snake, and slipped backwards out of measure and the potentially unmanageable reach of any monster swings or point blank attacks, an ominous hunch to his figure and eyes narrowed to glittering slits. The knee brushed against the front his thigh as he retreated but made no solid contact.

Should this occur, there was little doubt the Butcher should like to chase him down, and so anticipating sustained aggression Catskull darted forwards into measure again to either catch his opponent off guard or to pursue them if they thought they had a sparse moment to recuperate. The smothering tide flexed back out towards the Butcher, flowing in low, liquid, and murderous. What occured next depended upon how the Butcher reacted to Catskull's retreat.

 

[Mankest.Dedes]

DocDoctor
Retreat was the only option for Catskull, a wise decision. Pulling away from the Butcher before he could get his hooks in you was the best way to avoid a swift and painful death. As he backed away his footsteps were watched carefully by the Butcher, the way he moved his legs in retreat. A movement he'd memorize carefully, and keep in the back of his mind.

Though monstrous and maniacal, the Butcher raised his shield and let the middle of his blade rest against his shield. Lowering his blade to prevent his arm from becoming tired. Oversight of one's own abilities was suicide, and death was for meat, not the Butcher.

Instead of charging towards Catskull, he took very slow and measured steps. Never crossing his feet in front of the other to open himself to being tripped. Neither did he lower his guard for a moment. He concealed the bulk of his frame behind the gigantic shield, with only the top of his head leering over the edge towards his prey.

Weakness most strongly manifests in the moment following self doubt, Catskull would certainly have believed himself to know the Butcher's behavior, and the sudden shift would shake that foundation.

 

[DocDoctor]

Despite the Butcher's patience, Catskull didn't hesitate. The only alteration he made to his strategy was to flip his left hand into a reverse grip, besides that his guard was visually the same as before.

He'd cover the distance with sure footing and a low center of gravity, and were the Butcher not to attack immediately, Catskull would close in and bring his targe up to plant it against the Butcher's own shield, still half-swording, mirroring his opponent's stance with presumably the right leg in front, applying substantial pressure but not with all of his weight. His left hand, the hilt, and the crossguard would be visible between them.

Catskull doubted his foe would try any preemptive attacks with that hook sword to keep him at the edge of his reach. He seemed to favor being within shield bash distance, as it was too awkward to safely attack or check with the jumbo blade unless the victim was vulnerable. To that degree it made sense to Catskull that the Butcher applied knees and kicks up close. The murderer was going to rely on turtling up when out of effective killing range, while trying to set up his cleaver blow with short range strikes when the victim was near.

The Butcher had a definite size advantage over Catskull, and thus if he so desired he'd be able to not just match the force being exerted by the dark swordsman but exceed it.
It certainly seemed like Catskull was taking an unecessary risk, as a more traditional swordsman would have noted the drawbacks of the hook sword and stayed further back.

Mankest.Dedes

 

[Mankest.Dedes]

Catskull moved in and put shield to shield in an attempt to force the Butcher into a reckless attack, he changed his grip and was likely preparing for a retaliatory swing. So, when shield met shield, the Butcher pushed down and to the left with his shield. Simultaneously opening both of their guards by moving the shields out of both of their ways.

But where Catskull was moving in, the Butcher was immobile and raised his right leg in a forward straight kick to the middle of Catskull's torso. Just below the ribcage to knock the wind out of him with a blow to the solar plexus. He would follow through by dropping his foot down with an advancing step directly down onto the reeling man's foot to hold him in place. (Sorry for the wait. I got occupied with work.)

 

[DocDoctor]

Mankest.Dedes

Catskull wanted to provoke the Butcher into attacking, as expected, but his plan had been a bit more specific than that. He'd been anticipating his opponent's own next move, and the reason he'd met shields was so he could feel the motion beginning with the Butcher's next attack. The reason he'd switched guards was to destroy the legs of his enemy. Never try the same trick twice in a row against a master.

From right to left. During the Butcher's last attack he'd also performed a similar trick, deflecting force and attacking with his leg using the torque. That was why Catskull had switched to a reverse grip. He guessed that his opponent would try a similar technique again.

Catskull's reverse halfswording meant that the crossguard and hilt were roughly around eye level, and the razor sharp awl of the Dane sword was down past the knees. After all if he was pressing his shield against his foe's, and if his right hand held the ricasso, his sword would be upside-down.
Feeling the oppressive force of the Butcher's shield against his own, Catskull abruptly eased up and briefly retracted his own shield, sliding his lead right foot off center to his foe's left and bending at the knees while sharply twisting the Dane sword counter-clockwise between his hands from his enemy's perspective, the vertical length of gleaming, tempered steel ascending into a quicksilver horizon with the unprecedented ferocity of a bear trap in deep snow.
As the Butcher had already moved his shield to his left it'd be in no position to intercept the cut with it.

Catskull had moved himself away from the direction of the attack, supposing it would come from the direction of the Butcher's momentum and countered with a low to high upwards slash broad enough that it'd be able to meet and slay virtually any variety of kicks, even as he made himself as hard a target as possible to strike. The same concept can be found in professional fighting; to avoid getting rocked by your opponent's power shots, you need to stay on their weak side.

In this case the blade swept up under the Butcher's knee after the apex of the momentum of his kick, the foot whizzing past Catskull's upper left flank as he dipped to the right. A direct hit would have been bad.

Not only might the counter sever the tendons behind the Butcher's knee, but it'd snag his right leg in the air as if someone had just grabbed it for a takedown. If the strategy worked Catskull would immediately plant his feet and explode forwards, seeking to bowl the Butcher onto his back while he was still on a single leg, before he had time to muster any kind of half-decent thrust or slash with his hooksword. Not only was the Butcher wielding that seven pound thing in one hand, but he'd be off-kilter to boot if his leg got hooked.

One moment the Butcher had seemingly forced Catskull down with his shield, following up with a front kick. The next the lowered blade arced up under his knee to cripple him in the midst of a brutally efficient takedown.

 

[Mankest.Dedes]

Though monstrous and maniacal, the Butcher raised his shield and let the middle of his blade rest against his shield. Lowering his blade to prevent his arm from becoming tired. Oversight of one's own abilities was suicide, and death was for meat, not the Butcher.

A fatal mistake, Catskull was inattentive, and had forgotten the positioning of the Butcher's blade. He had not lifted the blade in his downward shove, nor had he released. He had simply left the sword to rest against the shield, and his arm with it. The series of events would have unfolded differently had he not ignored the position of the great hefty blade.

Catskull deftly avoided being struck by the kick, and managed to prevent the Butcher from stomping down on his foot to follow through. The kiss of the sharp edge of the dane sword spilled the Butcher's blood and hooked him into a proper takedown. If he hadn't totally exposed his head, and dropped his guard.

If his blade had been raised, he could not have slashed. If his blade had been lowered, he could not have slashed. But his blade was resting on the rim of his shield and the only motion required to sever Catskull's head from his shoulders was a horizontal slash. The Butcher used the force of the takedown to drag his wicked blade from left to right.

With his shield locked in contact with the hoplon, his blade hooked under the leg of the butcher, and his takedown motion pushing him straight forward there was no direction that his head could be pulled to avoid being hacked into by the colossal cleaver. Now, unfortunately for both the Butcher and Catskull, it was a slash that was only half the full extension of his arm. So the chances of the blade passing entirely through the neck or head were low.

 

[DocDoctor]

Mankest.Dedes

It was said of the swordsman Catskull Maclung that he knew his blade as well as his body and his body as well as his blade. Just as he knew to hold his dick when he pissed, he knew to hold the ricasso. From anus to forte he knew the effective function of each part of his weapon. He knew what the crossguard was for too, and he hadn't overlooked his opponent's weapon. He reacted almost immediately to the backswing, at rapt attention and with a counter in mind.

It was true that Catskull was in the midst of pushing forwards and could not manipulate his blade adequately from the ricasso at that moment to protect himself, but he had muscles he'd been saving. No, not literal reserves of extra strength, but the fact that when he started pushing for the takedown, his strong right arm that had aided in levering the blade up had been free to straighten out at any time, capable of stiffening downwards to change the axis of the blade from horizontal to vertical, the dark swordsman's ass jutting out as he did so to place his neck behind this line of steel. In doing this the Dane's blade wound about the Butcher's upraised leg as the hilt fell like a pendulum. More specifically blade moved from below the knee to nearly the right side where the sword's leverage couldn't be effectively countered.

What had been a clear shot suddenly veered into a black pit of uncertainty, a distorting haze of death cloaking the surroundings and leaving only the two of them. Now Catskull was able to preserve himself with a motion that wouldn't have before. His lips puckered and his eyes narrowed to nitrous yellow slits as he twisted sharply at the waist angled towards his right side, just enough that the slash would strike his lower ricasso and glance down into the crook of the Dane sword's crossguard, missing Catskull's fingers inches above.

No moment to waste, the mortal clock slows for none.
"SHAH!!"
He ducked beneath his foe's uplifted leg in the process of hurling him, placing all of his weight on the spinning ball of his right foot. This propelled his next attack, left leg cutting in like Leonardo DiCaprio on prom night, a sweeping roundhouse with no perceivable technical imperfections. Should it land it'd blast the Butcher's left foot out from under him and send him onto the back of his head even as Catskull completed his downwards slash, further mutilating his opponent's leg and whirling away clockwise, actually turning his back to the butcher the moment he fell, but only for a blink as he swept out of his foe's effective reach. If this all came to pass, then what occured next would happen fast, through a haze of disorientation and pain.

 

[Mankest.Dedes]

This warrior Catskull's reaction was impressive, he'd managed to prevent his head from being separated from his shoulders despite being caught aloof. A collision of steel against steel rattled the arms of the Butcher but absolutely rocked Catskull. The force of the blow pushed against Catskull's arms and shoved him away the full length of the Butcher's arm and blade. Separating them in that moment and leaving him teetering, suddenly having to support his own weight again on one leg as he gently dropped the wounded leg to the ground to pick his weight up again.

Sticky blood dripped down his leg as he tenderly pressed his foot to the ground. The sword had not severed the tendons, and instead had lashed the inner part of his lower leg with back and forth motions. An accordion of meat and blood was left behind after the interaction, tender and painful but he could still move the knee and that was good. Each time he put pressure down on it he winced and ground his teeth together.

The Butcher was never pleased to be opened up, to be filleted like some lower animal.

He raised his guard, letting his right arm rest hanging with the tip of his blade against the ground. The shield covered his left half and he began to pace backwards away from Catskull. Until he became numb to the pain in his leg he would not risk a charge, or even a grapple. It was too much of an unnecessary risk for him to commit to something like that.

 

[DocDoctor]

Catskull's blade had moved from six o'clock to nine o'clock to twelve, his timing adept. He was about to pivot on the ball of his foot to boot out his opponent's other foot, but the hooksword clattered fiercely against his guard, harder than Catskull had been prepared to easily account for. His footing wasn't optimal at that point and he staggered backwards three paces with the sound of ringing steel in his ears. It had been jarring. His glare slid down to the hooksword, eyes widening as he reevaluated its size. He then glanced back up at the Butcher's face, staring at him as he would a complete madman. "Now that I, Catskull Maclung, look more carefully, the weight of thy blade must be nearly half a stone. Even the dread two-handers of the Scotts had less mass. Perhaps thou mayst be compensating, barbarian oaf?"

The swordsman's right hand slid back towards the hilt and the Dane seemed to right itself, Catskull adroitly maneuvering the hilt in his hands as he assumed his next stance. His fighting style was fairly clear at this point. Every assault was a killing rush performed with a different guard after each disengagement, a pounce in a game of cat and mouse. He was in a by-the-book plow guard now, left hand gripping the hilt below the crossguard and the right above the pommel. The pommel itself made light contact with Catskull's right thigh, making the guard look tight and compact. Unlike when he initially fought his first opponent, his left foot was leading instead of the right. Almost out of measure, the tip of his blade pointed up towards the Butcher's face as the dark swordsman's shoulders squared towards his opponent. This was the most complete stance he'd yet assumed and the Butcher would be able to immediately feel that something was widdershins right off the bat. Undoubtedly this guard was more simple and direct than the ones prior, but there was a puzzle piece missing, an uneasy air of mystery, something that disconnected between them. Was it emotional? Intangible? No. Something else, something physical that could be accounted for, like when Catskull himself misjudged the force his enemy's weapon had generated.

Should nothing more of note occur, then with no further delay Catskull began another brisk, controlled advance on the Butcher, fully extending his arms just as he entered measure to walk the point right up to the big stinker's schnozzola and pick a booger out for him with the very point. It wasn't fast but deliberate, a coercing move.

 

[Mankest.Dedes]

I've reached the time limit on my posting limit twice. I'm not gonna ask you for a second extension, I apologize for failing to finish up the fight but concede that I'm the one in error for failing to reach the post limit.