Selection Tournament (2)

Ignoring the obvious taunt, Cyran made his way onto the arena floor trying his best to keep his nerves in check. His upbringing had always had him believe that women were to be protected so the idea of fighting a woman contradicted everything he was taught. Though his mother had never needed saving, more like his father was the one in constant need of aid.

Vanya took her position opposite Cyran. She was a beautiful woman, petite and lithe, almost as though she were a dancer before she decided to take up arms. "Hi there, I'm Vanya, nice to meet you," she smiled at him. She could not have looked any older than Cyran yet her particular face had childish qualities that had him doubting he could even strike her.

"Umm... y-yeah. You Cyran, I'm too," he replied nervously. Mouth agape, before the horror of what he had just said could settle, a loud thump focussed his attention. Vanya had brought out her weapon. Along one arm coiled a long dark chain that snaked to the ground and ended in a metal ball covered in spikes.

"How on earth does she use tha-" Cyran was abruptly cut off as the gong had sounded, Vanya wasted no time and flicked the ball towards him. He narrowly brought his blades up in time to block yet the blitzkrieg attack left his posture lacking. Stumbling backwards, he saw that the ball was now orbiting Vanya. A smirk had appeared on her face, transforming the innocent aura into that of a trickster.

With time to compose himself and gather his thoughts, Cyran had looked for a way to close the distance. She had the advantage in range and she knew it. Swiftly wrapping her spare arm around the flailing chain and pulled it, changing the arc of the mace like tip. It wound around her elbows and she spun elegantly causing the mace to swipe out in a wide arc. Cyran ducked down and swiped up with his sword, batting the mace off trajectory. Using this brief opening, he charged towards Vanya who had viciously pulled her weapon back. Holding the mace head in one hand and wrapping the chains around her other hand saw her parrying Cyran's well timed strikes with hand to hand combat though this meant she had lost her reach and was always on the defensive. The two combatants continued their furious exchange when Cyran had finally overpowered her, knocking the mace head from her grasp. He spun the blade in his hand and thrust hilt first to Vanya's face when she shrieked and cowered from his strike. Cyran abruptly stopped, hesitant to act. The woman's look of terror turned into a smile, with her trap set she was ready to spring. Cyran staggered back, the wind blasted from his chest as her foot connected.

The young woman had vaulted into the air and, with the distance again in her favour, began to put her weapon into motion. Cyran cursed to himself for falling for such a trick, "If Dad gets wind of this, I will never hear the end of it so I need a new plan. That won't work on her again. I need to stop that damn booger she is throwing about." Vanya quickly launched the ball at Cyran who began to evade, forcing the muscles in his legs to the point of breaking.

"I'm having such fun, ya know?" she yelled in between giggles, "please keep entertaining me!" Cyran was running the arena in a slalom, beads of sweat slaking from his brow, before abruptly coming to a halt. He positioned himself to intercept the next strike which Vanya gladly obliged. Cyran swatted the weapon to one side forcing Vanya to pivot with the momentum and swing the ball back at Cyran in another wide reaching arc. Grinning, Cyran knelt down and plunged a blade into a crack of the arena floor just as the arc reached its peak, wrapping itself around his sword. Without missing his cue, Cyran drove his foot onto the hilt plunging the blade even deeper and rooting Vanya's wicked whip like weapon before propelling himself towards his opponent.

Like a bullet, Cyran flashed across the arena floor at a speed that brought the look of surprise from his opponent into view rapidly. In one smooth movement Cyran slashed the chain tethering her to his grounded blade, freeing her and upheaving her at the same time. Cyran watched his opponent flounder on the floor, scrabbling for anything she could use as a weapon. Walking towards her, Cyran locked eyes with her. He saw his reflection in her eyes as he advanced, her pupils wide as though she were reliving some long forgotten memory. The vacant look suddenly shifted to unbridled rage as she leapt at him in an almost feral way.

"Get away from me!" she screamed, determined to injure Cyran in any way she could. Grabbing her wrists and twisting saw Cyran throw her over his shoulder and flat onto her back, allowing him to straddle her to pin down her thrashing body. Cyran simply sat there and endured, waiting for the fires of whatever past she had lived through die down into embers. Eventually, once the rage had left, her struggling had lost its potency and Vanya broke down into fitful sobs.

Galaeron stood and announced Cyran as the winner causing another eruption of cheers and jeering fans of the beauty he was sat on. Looking down at his opponent, he felt only pity for her. "It's okay Vanya, I'm not going to hurt you." he softly spoke as he stood and offered her a hand, "you really had me on the ropes there for a while." Taking her hands away from her face for a moment, he could really see how dishevelled she had looked, yet she sniffled briefly before smiling warmly. A completely different smile to the one she had offered Cyran at the beginning of the match. A more genuine smile.

"Thanks," she croaked. Eyes puffy, she reached a hand out and Cyran pulled her to her feet. Catching her gaze once more, she pulled away and swiftly exited the arena without another word said. Cyran sighed, not feeling quite cut out for fighting with women just yet. Walking back to pick up his blade from its earthy prison, he examined the blade.

"Not a single scratch or blemish. Just who helped Dad to make this? Not to mention it sliced through that chain so easily," he wondered to himself. Sheathing his newly prized possessions, Cyran left the battleground knowing that his match was over for the day. Instead of returning to his seat so he could spectate further bouts, his feet guided him home and straight to his bed.