by MoRueran would eventually wander back through the somewhat misty areas in the Eastern Forest where he had previously participated in a free-for-all battle, only to find the place mostly abandoned with the exception of a few fighters. The usual hosts of these matches seemed absent this time, and in their place was some sort of dispenser that happened to dole out tokens that were similar to the goddess medals he had seen before. To his surprise, the childlike fellow managed to find a familiar face among the small groups of new combatants. The young man named Morumotto, still wearing his straw hat and brown combat uniform, was fighting against what appeared to be a puppet, a roughly human facsimile of some mage or spellcaster that was somehow moving autonomously.
The ax-wielding mercenary was moving with practiced precision, as though every action and reaction he made had been performed and relived over and over again. Despite how efficient and vigorous the warrior's fighting style was, his face during periods where he stood in place long enough told a different story. The mercenary's expression was that of one who has relinquished all hope and only knew of constant weariness, any remnant of joy or cheer was buried in the depths of cold prevailing resentment and silent anger. The ever whimsical Mo would approach the axeman and would flail his arms in his usual exuberant greeting. If the new medals were anything like the old ones, they were sure to buy him a good supply of yummy sweets after Billiam helps him in converting the trinkets into jewels.
Heaving an exasperated sigh, Morumotto would dismiss the magical training dummy and had every intention of just collecting what few medals he's earned and walking away when the bare-knuckle brawler remembered to use a well-known but unofficial way of challenging the hire-hand --and the other no-longer-present competitors-- to a duel. Moru would ball one of his gloved hands into a fist before relaxing it, turning around to glare and the red-clad oddball and then reciprocating the gesture to signal his acceptance to the bout.
The two combatants would circle each other, making light and non-committal exchanges to test and probe their opponent's defenses and contemplate upon what approach would be most appropriate. Morumotto would be the one to take the initiative as he broke into a swift run, his speed and dexterity being particularly remarkable despite lugging around his heavy weapon. Various runes and talismans, as well as equipment and weapons that were refined or enchanted, greatly bolstered and enhanced the abilities of the otherwise normal human. As soon as he came close enough, the soldier of fortune would leap and use the forward momentum of his broken dash to propel his mid-air kick.
MoRueran, his fists aglow in red light and serving as the focused delivery points of his immense strength, would answer the first strike with a heavy right straight that connected with his adversary's booted foot. Being repelled through the air but recovering just as quickly, the arena veteran would toss a spherical object a good few feet before batting it right in Mo's direction, causing it to careen through the air a considerable distance. Intuitively, the apprentice baker opted to try and evade the projectile hurtling towards him rather than meeting it head-on, his instincts proving correct as the revealed bomb made a small explosion upon colliding with the plot of ground where the unarmed contender once stood.
Their clash would continue like this for some time, growing in greater intensity the longer they were locked in this dance of beat-or-be-beaten. The two were becoming more and more fatigued as the struggle to take in air with their ragged and labored breathing was beginning to set in. The next blow they would each deal to the other would be the one to decide the victor. Knowing this, Mo roared in determination while Morumotto, now smirking, channeled potent energies into his weapons as his attacks would now be dyed with streaks of dark-red power.
Before their one-on-one could even reach its proper conclusion, the ever-present clock that decided the continuance or cessation of the Arena's activity with immutable governance halted any further action and negated the reality of other acts as they were in the process of happening. For the first time in a long while, Morumotto would speak. "Well played..." The young man wearing the straw hat would walk away, only stopping to look at a familiar sorceress standing who was spectating the fight from the furthest and most elevated seating portion of the arena. The mercenary would turn his neck to glance back at MoRueran and smile with his eyes filled with a renewed drive, "My chase continues..."
Waking up after having unknowingly passed out from exhaustion, the eccentric youth in the red coat realized that the mist covering the arena had cleared and made the surrounding forest more visible. It also revealed an odd abnormality, as the previously pristine and well-kept architecture of the arena itself moments before was now in a state of decay and disrepair, with wild overgrowth taking over in some parts and indicating that the place hadn't been used in a long time. Before returning home and confirming he had only been gone for a few hours, he waddled past what appeared to be Morumotto's ax, only it was now worn out and rusted.
Word count: 899
The ax-wielding mercenary was moving with practiced precision, as though every action and reaction he made had been performed and relived over and over again. Despite how efficient and vigorous the warrior's fighting style was, his face during periods where he stood in place long enough told a different story. The mercenary's expression was that of one who has relinquished all hope and only knew of constant weariness, any remnant of joy or cheer was buried in the depths of cold prevailing resentment and silent anger. The ever whimsical Mo would approach the axeman and would flail his arms in his usual exuberant greeting. If the new medals were anything like the old ones, they were sure to buy him a good supply of yummy sweets after Billiam helps him in converting the trinkets into jewels.
Heaving an exasperated sigh, Morumotto would dismiss the magical training dummy and had every intention of just collecting what few medals he's earned and walking away when the bare-knuckle brawler remembered to use a well-known but unofficial way of challenging the hire-hand --and the other no-longer-present competitors-- to a duel. Moru would ball one of his gloved hands into a fist before relaxing it, turning around to glare and the red-clad oddball and then reciprocating the gesture to signal his acceptance to the bout.
The two combatants would circle each other, making light and non-committal exchanges to test and probe their opponent's defenses and contemplate upon what approach would be most appropriate. Morumotto would be the one to take the initiative as he broke into a swift run, his speed and dexterity being particularly remarkable despite lugging around his heavy weapon. Various runes and talismans, as well as equipment and weapons that were refined or enchanted, greatly bolstered and enhanced the abilities of the otherwise normal human. As soon as he came close enough, the soldier of fortune would leap and use the forward momentum of his broken dash to propel his mid-air kick.
MoRueran, his fists aglow in red light and serving as the focused delivery points of his immense strength, would answer the first strike with a heavy right straight that connected with his adversary's booted foot. Being repelled through the air but recovering just as quickly, the arena veteran would toss a spherical object a good few feet before batting it right in Mo's direction, causing it to careen through the air a considerable distance. Intuitively, the apprentice baker opted to try and evade the projectile hurtling towards him rather than meeting it head-on, his instincts proving correct as the revealed bomb made a small explosion upon colliding with the plot of ground where the unarmed contender once stood.
Their clash would continue like this for some time, growing in greater intensity the longer they were locked in this dance of beat-or-be-beaten. The two were becoming more and more fatigued as the struggle to take in air with their ragged and labored breathing was beginning to set in. The next blow they would each deal to the other would be the one to decide the victor. Knowing this, Mo roared in determination while Morumotto, now smirking, channeled potent energies into his weapons as his attacks would now be dyed with streaks of dark-red power.
Before their one-on-one could even reach its proper conclusion, the ever-present clock that decided the continuance or cessation of the Arena's activity with immutable governance halted any further action and negated the reality of other acts as they were in the process of happening. For the first time in a long while, Morumotto would speak. "Well played..." The young man wearing the straw hat would walk away, only stopping to look at a familiar sorceress standing who was spectating the fight from the furthest and most elevated seating portion of the arena. The mercenary would turn his neck to glance back at MoRueran and smile with his eyes filled with a renewed drive, "My chase continues..."
Waking up after having unknowingly passed out from exhaustion, the eccentric youth in the red coat realized that the mist covering the arena had cleared and made the surrounding forest more visible. It also revealed an odd abnormality, as the previously pristine and well-kept architecture of the arena itself moments before was now in a state of decay and disrepair, with wild overgrowth taking over in some parts and indicating that the place hadn't been used in a long time. Before returning home and confirming he had only been gone for a few hours, he waddled past what appeared to be Morumotto's ax, only it was now worn out and rusted.
Word count: 899
