[IC] Black Mountain Tournament: Sigurd vs Gigue

[MelonHead]

The Northman hunched just past a great stone gate that bared signs of recent activity. The snow was immediately sparser beyond the door which had stood as an impasse to his progress before his battle on the Windswept Cliffs. Blood dripped onto the ground as he carefully cleaned his blade with a piece of cloth from his knapsack. There was a look of forced concentration on Sigurd’s face as he worked, the look that often marked those who worked to forget. Sighing, he applied snow to the meagre burns on his left leg, noting the damage to his boots and leggings with a shrug. It would be of little consequence, or so he believed.

Hefting his Dragon-scale shield the tall man stood resolute once more. He slid slightly marked steel back into its scabbard and resettled his belt, the axes resting there jangling as if eager for use. Time for business then, the path ahead meandered further up the mountain yet the snow was thinning. To a man accustomed to such climes it had the edge of magic to it, the snow should grow thicker and icier, more compact and unforgiving. Yet as his long stride carried him forward dirt and moss prevailed under foot, he climbed higher, his purpose burning in his breast.

The Stoneheart was starting to see patterns in the path he walked, though one would perhaps think it unlikely if they gazed upon the loutish horned helm of the warrior that an observant mind was contained therein. The path ahead was narrowing, forcing him into another combat, to shed the blood of another unfortunate who climbed the great mountain. Almost forced to turn sideways to push through the narrow entry point due to the bulk of his iron and leather armour. With one last effort he stumbled onto soft mud and moss, and it was as if he had entered another world. His eyes lit up in rare enjoyment as he took in the impossible forest around him. It was quiet, serene even, and it shouldn’t be there. His lips turned in a smile, before the reality of the situation once again dawned upon him.

He stood awaiting a foe who would match him, test him, and perhaps even slay him if the gods demanded it.

[Vordak]

As with Sigurd, there would be a sort of bleakness in Gigue's demeanor: resentfully slouching up the mountainside, he tried to distract himself with the view, eyes lazily rolling over from left to right and right to left, spotting rock, moss, mud and trees. Last round had left a bad taste in his mouth, and he didn't want that to carry over to the next; his hopes were up high that with the weaker warriors filtered out, he'd be provided with more of a challenge than his previous opponent - a cure to his discontentment. Too easily had he won, and what was meant to be a clash of might, now felt like a visceral slaughter. Perhaps, the environment favored his fighting style to much, or his the man was poorly equipped to deal with Gigue's tactics - who knows? The guy might as well have given up: at least then, his blood and brain matter wouldn't be splayed on the rocks.

Preoccupied with the details of his surrounding, he couldn't help but notice that the steep slope was starting to flatten out - a telltale sign that he was approaching another arena. Brushing off his gloom, Gigue straightened up and pulled his mask back down: enough fresh air for now - what he needed more was a fresh battle to rekindle his fervor. The tournament was far from over, and if he were to lament every opponent that crumbled to dust before his might, it'd be defeating the purpose. A more challenging fight would be the more enjoyable one, and chances were, he'd have it delivered. Only the better half the batch would've made it this far, after all.

A few steps further in, and he was proven right, as a ghastly blue suddenly rippled through the air behind him, cutting off retreat. "So be it," - Gigue muttered under his breath, hands wrapping around the brass knuckles, and switched his pace from the leisurely to stern and brisk, pressing his weight down into the mud with each step. When the river came up, he simply jumped over it and pressed on with his powerwalk: whoever was on the opposite side of the arena, he'd come right towards them and waste no time on greetings.

[MelonHead]

Sigurd’s style was cautious, careful, defensively minded. It was why he was still alive despite the extreme danger of his chosen profession. The first step in any coming conflict was to acquire ground, good ground. The position one acquires preluding the onset of battle could be argued the most important factor in devising victory. In every combat Sigurd found himself a part of he always strived to adhere to this rule. Hence, like previous, he had immediately headed towards the middle of what he expected would be the bordered region.

His journey had been cut short by two things, a stream cutting off further southern travel and the approaching form of his enemy on the other side. He stopped himself just five feet from the edge, controlling the earth as it were. He watched beneath his helm, observing quickly while he could what it was he faced. The man was large, with no obvious weapons and no shield, bulked out with some form of armour. Without further ado Sigurd plucked one of his well weighted throwing axes from his belt and chucked it into the air, catching the handle deftly as he watched his enemy’s approach. He planned to meet him if he crossed.

[Vordak]

Reckless aggression at first glance, Gigue's first move was in fact a well calculated one, both snatching the initiative and probing out his opponent's fighting style with a bold provocation.

Same as Sigurd, he had briefly inspected his adversary's equipment, yet his glare was aloof as he stowed away the information, without sparing time to analyze. His mind would resurface it, but at a later time, when those details - the placement of the metal plates on Sigurd's armor, his unsheathed longsword, spare axe on his belt - would come into play. The rationale behind this was that Gigue had been seeking out not a vague impression, but something much more definitive, which stood out: stood out enough to define the way he would approach this fight.

However, his eye caught none such features, so he changed his mode of thought to a different one.

About 8 yards away from the stream's edge, he suddenly broke out into a run, charging right at the warrior, and having picked up some speed, leapt. The intention was to land right in front of Sigurd, their feet less than an arm's distance away, thus putting them both inside the range of each others' weapons - a move brash and wholly nontraditional. There were a myriad of ways the man could react to this - and which of them Sigurd chose would be quite telling of his mindset, giving Gigue a robust foundation for his battleplan. After all, it was when a split-second decision had to be made, that a man's instincts stood out most.

Whether this would lend him any other sort of advantage was up to debate, but he was confident that he wouldn't be doing his opponent a service either. From the moment his feet left the ground, he ready to adapt at a moment's notice and make sure that whatever the man did, he would at least break even.

[MelonHead]

Sigurd’s eyes widened momentarily as he watched his foe carry out something he had truly not expected. A frontal charge against an enemy with a ranged weapon, with every intention of his feet leaving the ground where manoeuvring would be possible. Perhaps he thought Sigurd a complete incompetent, and that he would either miss or his axe would not penetrate? Perhaps, but unlikely, Sigurd had pierced iron plate with his steel tipped axes in the past, there was no reason today would be any different.

His shield side was forward as he held the axe aloft in his free right hand, his muscles bunching in preparation. The Tall man burst forward with a sudden speed and his feet left the ground, at which point Sigurd reacted in turn. His right arm curled as his forearm snapped forward whip-like, the iron grip on the axe-handle releasing at the perfect point, the armour-piercing weapon shot through the air to meet his foe. With no shield in his enemy’s hands there was no need for any special precision with the weapon, it could crush bone and rupture armour, destroying flesh with ease.

The axe revolved only once over such a paltry distance, perfect range for an axe throw in many respects. The steel-tipped head of the axe was presented towards his enemy’s centre (or solar plexus if you will) as it reached him, perhaps luck, perhaps testament to Sigurd’s skill at judging his weapons effectiveness. How Gigue would react to the sudden axe-throw was uncertain, but having taken relatively poor precautions beforehand and with his feet off the ground, remaining unscathed would be a tall order.

For Sigurd’s part he had no intention of standing and waiting to see the effectiveness of his weapon. After releasing regardless of the effect on the target he would side-step leftward on his back foot, and drag his front after it, effectively strafing his foe and his intended landing point. As he did this, his right hand sank to his waist to grab his second and last axe.

[Vordak]

The brawler's answer to the axe throw was simple: bending his torso slightly inwards and tucking the right arm under his chest, Gigue took it to his arm, the blade leaving a shallow wound, with small fractures and a single chip in the ulna, instead of what could be a winding blow with lasting damage to the diaphragm.

While for some other fighter this may have been a last-second defense, for him, this was a calculated risk: Hyperarmor could've spared him the pain, which now forced him to keep his right arm out of play until it subsided - but it would've slowed him down as well, giving Sigurd enough time to gain distance. Gigue suspected that the axe throw was not a one-off action, but rather, part of a tactic, and his theory seemed to be confirmed, the warrior stepping away and pulling out another of the same weapon, rather that unsheathing his longsword.

All in his favor, as the risk he took would pay off, buying him the few precious seconds he'd need to rush in and shut down his opponent's game. Keeping one at a distance, whittling their defenses down and waiting until they either panic and start making mistakes, or simply are maimed enough to take down easily - a sound tactic, yet one that could also easily crumble when unveiled.

Gigue landed smoothly, with the left arm bracing, back turned to Sigurd, but eyes locked onto him, the cold glare now laced with a mocking awareness of the warrior’s gingerly approach. However, his opponent's jeering attitude would proabaly be the least of Sigurd's concerns, as the hulk of a man sprung immediately into action once again, pivoting on the heel of his right foot, pushing off with the left and taking a massive stride, closing distance between them two, making it even less than an arm's length.

There would be a subtle moment of hesitation, Gigue idling for but a second to let his momentum be absorbed into the ground, before his weight would slightly shift to the ball of his now leading foot, the left. His front arm would snake out, aimed at Sigurd's shield, as if intending to latch on and initiate a grapple, yet there was none of that on Gigue's mind: he knew better than to take a risk twice in a row. The fingers of his hand were curled inwards, and palm ready to bend back, striking with the heel against the shield's surface, thus preventing any damage to himself should his hand be met with a heavy shield bash.

Sigurd's seemed like a man with both wit and patience, choosing to avoid an immediate melee confrontation against his bigger and bulkier adversary, so it would only be rational to expect a modicum of cunning him.

[MelonHead]

Sigurd, bearing no knowledge of the Hyperarmour and its potential use in the river confrontation, had planned for his large enemy’s defence. It was not unreasonable to sacrifice ones arm to parry an otherwise lethal attack and although one would expect a rational and calm individual to throw their weaker arm, usually the left, into the path of the attack it was often the dominant arm that reacted in times of crisis. Sigurd had guessed all of this, and had stepped leftward appropriately, forcing his enemy to reach further and pressing his advantage on the man’s weaker side. The thump of his great weight slamming into the slightly treacherous ground beyond the stream was audible as he dropped to the ground. Unconsciously, as Sigurd’s battle trained eyes swept the scene he saw the glint of the axe-head poking out of the mud by the stream’s edge where it fell.

As the Northman had always intended, his hand was reaching for an axe as his enemy dropped to the ground and composed himself. Now he had relatively full mobility and could use it, making an axe throw more difficult for Sigurd. With that in mind, more elaborate methods were required to weaken his enemy further before attempting to slay him with a sword. He would come at him fast, using his weight and evident strength to close the distance to a grappling situation. Sigurd led with his shield and his left side, so the man’s first target would probably be the shield, perhaps grabbing it to wrest it from his grip, perhaps striking it to open the line to Sigurd’s body. Sigurd’s side step had the desired effect, gaining him additional time and space to prepare for the charge to come. His pale eyes narrowed. He was not to be disappointed.

The man leapt at him, closing the distance in a single great bound as his body movements revealed his left arm was indeed to be launched at Sigurd’s shield. Sigurd however had his own designs, a single step back on his right foot parallel to the stream and his left to follow, giving Gigue that extra distance to contend with. His hand would fly into open air as the shield jerked back, the edge facing Gigue and revealing in full the axe in Sigurd’s free hand, held aloft and ready to throw. Sigurd’s arm jerked forward violently, as if to launch the weapon full force directly into Gigue’s exposed left side as he stretched across Sigurd’s own body to strike at his shield. However, the act was one of subterfuge, with the axe in hand he had all the power so long as his enemy feared its bite. It was not a threat that could be ignored.

[Vordak]

Sigurd's feint would be a threat to no one should he throw it out, as Gigue would've already repositioned himself by that time. He had no doubt that his opponent would deny him a chance to grapple and put minimal commitment into the palm strike, anticipating the warrior's reaction to it rather than the results of the attack itself. Thus, he was more than ready to chase the man down: Sigurd took a short step back, without switching the leading foot, while Gigue answered to that with a large passing step, shrinking the distance to point blank and putting the tips of their toes on a single line.

The step would also carry him to his right, Sigurd's left: this would've been a good moment to start a true offensive, throwing a quick jab to the back of the head to dazzle him; unfortunately, Gigue's closest arm was the right, which was still imbibed a dull, irksome pain, and he didn't want to disturb it yet. Instead, the brawler drew in his left leg and turned around slightly, so that his front knee would be facing Sigurd's back, rather than turned away from it. A subtle shift of weight onto the rear leg, and he'd consider himself ready, having moved in even closer and taken a fairly advantageous position. Now he had to just wait, see and adapt to his adversary's next move.

That, or he'd win enough time for the wound to calm, opening up the option of a head-on assault.

[MelonHead]

His enemy charged forward like a common brawler, seemingly without real finesse. Passing footwork had brought many a man to his doom in the past, it was reckless. Sigurd side-stepped again, this time rightward, maintaining distance and continuing to strafe the man by moving anti-clockwise. His move carried him a good three feet from the man’s eventual stopping point, and almost brought Sigurd into direct line with both Gigue and the stream behind him. Sigurd had looked at the terrain he was fighting in carefully, he knew how far he could back up before he ran into a tree and how much space he had to work with. Surprisingly he had found that thus far he could move with more agility than his foe, which suggested he did indeed rely upon brute strength, though he couldn’t keep avoiding him in this specific fashion forever. Eventually he might get smart and do something to cut off an obvious escape route such as the one he had seized.

Fortunately the man had approached on his left side, where the shield stood to protect him from attack, he turned slightly and regained his form, left foot forward, right back, the shield at an angle half a foot from his body. The man would no doubt charge again, Sigurd took another half step backwards perhaps simultaneous to the man’s own, though a slight bunching in his right leg would suggest he did not mean to stay there for long. He shook the axe with menace.

[Vordak]

Gigue had intended to take stance right after the step, but his opponent was persistent in their tactics, still trying to gain distance on him. And so, rather than putting his left behind the right, he drew both feet together and took a chasing step with it, and even with Sigurd continuing his retreat, the man would only gain about 4 feet to work with.

The pith of Gigue's tactics seemed to be aggression, yet for some reason, he suddenly halted his approach - but for a second, of course. His right foot shifted towards the left, toe in line with its heel, and stopped there, leg slightly bent. The result would be a spring-loaded, explosive stance, from which he could move quickly and move far; as a tradeoff, his balance would be easily disturbed - but it was doubtful that Sigurd's would have the guts to take it after showing such a cautious mindset.

Thus, the brawler stood still, patiently awaiting the warrior's next move, as a sprinter waits for the gun to fire. The longer his opponent hesitated - a second, two seconds - the better, as the pain form his wound had subsided, finally letting Gigue relax the tensed muscles and open up his arm's constricted bloodflow, a prickling warmth washing over it and bringing relief. Soon, he'd have it in working condition again.

[MelonHead]

Another half step backwards, the slight tenseness in his leg a prelude to things to come. The Northman shook his axe, however without another moments pause his intent became more than clear. The back right leg provided sufficient force as his right shoulder threw itself into another throw. Not overextending by any means, Sigurd let fly his axe over the top of his own shield, aiming dead centre to give himself the best chance of biting flesh. However, his hand did not pause as the haft left its grip, sinking low and leftward in one move so fluid it must have been practiced countless times. The right foot brought him forward as his right hand clenched itself into a fist around the hilt of his blade.

In one final simultaneous motion his right foot landed on the soft earth and took the lead from the left as his blade was drawn from its scabbard with a leathery rasp strangely unsuitable for the intensity of the act. To compliment this drawing his left hand twisted rightward and the shield in his hand turned horizontal to allow passage for the blade under its form. If his enemy remained in range the point of the longsword would sweep across his body with significant force, the end close enough to pierce a few inches into his lower right side or arm if it blocked the blade’s path. However, expecting his foe to have the speed necessary to escape the arc, or even advance upon it should he be mad enough to risk sacrificing his body, Sigurd intended to finish with his right hand parallel to his side, the blade pointing forward and between the two warriors. If the unexpected occurred and he was in position to however Sigurd’s blade work may well change.

[Vordak]

Sigurd backed off - Gigue stepped in. His left foot hovered inches from the ground, sole brushing against the grass, and when the axe throw came, he stomped down, halting his advance; yet not its momentum. His torso jerked forwards, chest crunched to the knee and then the entire body was thrown into a dive, right leg straightening fully - an engine piston, propelling the machine. The axe still impacted, yet unlike last time, its target wasn't barreling straight towards it, ducking and swerving out of the way. Hitting his bulging trapezius, the bottom of its blade bit into leather, before slipping out and flopping to the ground a few feet behind - one glancing blow out of many more to come within the next few seconds. With this, Gigue smoothly transitioned into a shoulder roll: together with his step forwards, this would have brought him right in front of his now unarmed adversary, from where he could follow up with a multitude of attacks - all equally bold and aggressive, now that the warrior had his bite taken out of him.

However, Sigurd made one foolish - unexpected, for sure - but nevertheless foolish move. All this time, he had been keeping his distance, and for a good reason. What good would it do to suddenly throw all this caution to the wind?

Gigue came out of his roll to first meet a pommel to the face and slam his chest into the man's knee. For such harsh treatment, however, his body held up rather well, the daredevil that was its owner getting off with just a sickly grogginess and fuzz in the eyes. What could've easily been a knockout strike simply dazzled, metal striking metal, two rounded surfaces glancing off each other and the white paint scraped off Gigue's mask now stuck on the pommel of Sigurd's sword. The impact to his chest was icing on the cake, so to say, in the sense that it added insult to injury, yet did not make the situation substantially worse.

In fact, neither of the two were enough to stop him. The warrior had caught him by surprise, indeed, yet failed to take one thing into account: point-blank was the territory where tactics passed the reins over to instinct for Gigue. A wrestler with years training, the basics deep ingrained into his brain, this man would weather it all just as expected from someone of his gargantuan stature and go in straight for the grapple: vision blurred, ears ringing, but he felt the pressure from Sigurd's knee on his sternum, which was more than enough. Should his opponent try to move away, he'd know immediately and adjust, reaching out further to guarantee he got it.

Willpower puppeteer-ed his body past the clouded, panicked mind, and both arms moved in to scoop around Sigurd's leg, hugging it tight to his chest. This would do for time being, allowing Gigue to recuperate without letting his prey slip out of range again.

[MelonHead]

It was not the most impressive of clashes, Sigurd had but a moment to appreciate his opponent’s dogged recklessness as his axe bit and glanced away from Gigue’s shoulder and the large man propelled himself into a dive toward him. The Northman was committed in a sense, his right foot making firm contact with soft earth and his blade whistling out of its sheath. However he was not quick enough and a resounding clunk of metal on metal rang out as the pommel struck his enemy’s mask. Had he neglected to bring head protection this would have been quite fortuitous for Sigurd, unfortunately it served only to slightly daze his enemy and impede his own draw. He was adjusting to a steeper angle and finishing unsheathing his blade even as the expected occurred and his right leg shot back a bit from the impact, followed by his entire body. His left leg settled backward to stabilise himself and he resisted the urge to immediately attempt to drag his forward leg away from danger, knowing it was too late and to lift the foot off the ground would only be helping his enemy.

Instead he did the opposite, placing further weight on his right leg as Gigue’s hands wrapped around it. Time was of the essence, his enemy was a brawler and a wrestler by the looks of things and strength was on his side. All Sigurd could claim was that he was not dazed or debilitated by any wounds as of yet, so at the very least he may be able to deliver a blow before his enemy had time to gather himself and throw him onto the ground. That had to be avoided at all costs. Fortunately to that effect only one of Sigurd’s legs was captured, which should allow him to remain on his feet for much longer than would have been the case if both legs had been grappled.

Sigurd reacted in much the same way as Gigue as the grapple initiated, tactics gave way to instinct as split second decisions wracked his body. The sword wasn’t quite drawn and was unsuitable for a quick strike at close range, which left only his left hand. He could drop the shield and deliver a heavy blow with his stone hand, but such would take valuable time he may not have. The solution then was simple, he had to slow Gigue down any way he could, hurt him, disable his body if possible. The shield in his left hand straightened as Sigurd turned his palm to face him. The moment the metal rim was in line it would be simplistic to drive it down into the back of Gigue’s neck or upper spine, making use of the hard edge and the terrible strength of his magical arm.

Meanwhile, as the shield hurtled down (an act which fortunately could be performed in fairly horrible conditions, as was likely to be the case when Gigue made good his grapple) Sigurd’s blade had cleared its sheath and he held the hilt wide at his right side, the blade angling slightly down and to the left, ready for a follow up that may never come.

[Vordak]

Same as Sigurd could perhaps say in regards to swordmanship, Gigue's experience in wrestling spanned throughout the entirety of his life, save for childhood: thus, even in his current state, the subtle shifting of weight onto the grappled leg did not escape him. That could only mean one thing: rather than struggling in vain to escape his grasp, the warrior made the better decision of retaliating, with the purpose of weakening Gigue even further.

Unfortunately for him, there was far more than met the eye to the mammoth brawler. Not just savvy, thanks to which he found his way in grappling range like fish in sea, but also knowledge of the sacred arts: magic. Knowing that his opponent would not idle, Gigue peeled his gaze from the ground, and while his vision was blurred, the shield was too large of an object to not see. His eye captured the motion, and mind instantly reacted; body still too sluggish to move in time, he instead activated the charge of Hyperarmor he had been saving. The shield's rim impacted his back, a spike of pressure and sharp jolt of pain coming through, before an impermeable sheen of magic spread atop his skin, halting it in the nick of time.

It won him a couple seconds, and in that time, he somewhat recuperated - enough for a quick takedown. Wrapping his right arm tight around the shin, he hooked his left onto the man's belt and pushed off with both legs, falling flat on his back, while bringing Sigurd down as well. Though, unlike Gigue, he'd land face downwards, from where taking a proper swing or stab would be nigh impossible; the brawler knew this, and would use this as an opportunity to rest, right after he had his opponent's position the ground secured. Right already securing one leg, his left hand reached out to grab the other, after which he'd tuck both underneath his armpits, making sure that he trapped them above the knee and not below, as to further restrict Sigurd's range of movement. That would make him relatively safe: trying to land a hit on Gigue, the warrior risked hitting himself on the leg instead; moreover, he simply would be able to muster a hit strong enough to penetrate the leather armor, which covered all but the brawler's hands - a tricky target to hit.

With that done, he'd take a breath in, breath out, wait until his head stopped aching from every exertion and then gulp, forcing the bile back to his stomach from the throat. All in all, just a couple seconds, before he'd finally bring the pain.

[MelonHead]

Sigurd’s shield slammed into what could only be described as a magical aura, though users of ward spells were not uncommon enough for the Northman to be completely taken aback. However, though he had failed to do the blunt damage he wished for in a certain sense his ultimate goal had been achieved. Sigurd was only trying to earn himself time to utilize his blade, the weapon by which he could finish the fight. He had done that, as Gigue’s hyperarmour froze him momentarily a second passed and Sigurd’s shield was dragged away, even as his hand released on the hilt of his blade and span beneath, seizing it in an ice-pick grip. Gigue was right in thinking he was relatively safe from the blade at close range, however there was something Sigurd could do to take advantage of his current height advantage over his stationary foe.

Simultaneous to Gigue’s shield slipping and his action of grabbing at Sigurd’s belt the Northman would be ready, first lifting the hilt of his blade high and over his grappling foe, before plunging the point down with all his might. It was an all or nothing strike in a sense, as his enemy’s great strength would take hold in a matter of moments. Gigue’s lifting motion would disable Sigurd’s defences, but it was like for like, even as Sigurd was thrown forward he’d complete his downward thrust, aiming the point through Gigue’s left shoulder near the neck, with enough force to punch through armour and flesh to the vital organs beneath.

The fate of his thrust would dictate Sigurd’s future, though at the very least he had the foresight to turn his point so he wouldn’t fall on the edge of his own blade.

[Vordak]

Gigue's roll was already set into motion - a sluggish move, catering to his weakened state and relying more on weight than muscle power to perform the takedown. However, the sudden feeling of a sword's point pushing through the leather padding and prickling the skin acted as a spur to his body, evoking a guttural fear that struck with a sudden shock, bunching muscle, and left the taste of metal in his mouth. This was a response of the subconscious: his mind remained calm, seizing control over the situation right after to turn what would be a panicked jerk into a seamless, forceful and calculated motion.

His entire body, from feet to shoulders, twisted clockwise; legs straightened, pushing him backwards and slightly upwards; spine arched. This accomplished several different tasks at once, the total sum of which would be the sword slipping, its tip glancing off one of his ribs and screeching against the shoulderblade, and Sigurd being tossed to the ground face downwards, Gigue crashing down on top of him.

The first, instinctive impulse would be to move his body away from the direction of the force - which he accomplished well enough. The torquing of his torso moved it enough to disrupt the stab and take away some of its power, while arching backwards steepened the angle between his ribcage and the blade, helping it glance off the bone. The next step - transforming this into a throw - was most simple to execute: pushing with both legs, he lifted both himself and his adversary upwards, shoving Sigurd's own knee into the man's chest and towing him along by the belt as well. Together with his spinning momentum, it would be enough to sweep the warrior off his feet, armor and all.

There was little the victim of such a grapple could possibly do, so as he landed, Gigue was already thinking of how to follow it up. The man would be pinned, most likely stunned by the impact, so he'd a snippet of time to further tilt the clutch in his favor. Quick to pick out the best available options, he placed his bet on securing a rear naked choke: grabbing one of the horns on Sigurd's helmet would allow him to easily expose the man's neck, wrenching his head backwards - quick, and usually effortless.

Right now, Gigue felt like his swelling muscles were heavy stones rolling under the skin, limbs leaden with weight, movements slowed and imprecise - but as hell was he going to let victory slip from right under his nose. The mammoth heavyweight was here to win, and he'd let nothing stand in his way, not even his own weakness.

[MelonHead]

Sigurd’s blade cut a bloody path down his enemy’s back, but he had seen the assault coming once again and minimized the damage sustained. Time was running out for the Northman, everything he attempted was scuppered either by magic or instinct, and the take-down was coming. He felt himself lifted by his enemy’s sudden jerking movement, the belt at his waist straining under his own significant weight. As he felt the unstoppable flow of his centre of gravity falling forward his left hand jerked the shield away to splatter on the ground off to his left, instinctually removing the impediment where it would serve no further purpose. Unfortunately he could not do the same with the blade, but with the edge turned it should cause him no additional harm, even as he was near effortlessly dropped on the floor. The Northman had guessed his enemy was strong, but the action was still carried out with frightful power.

What Gigue perhaps could not count on was Sigurd had his own strength advantage in the form of the stone arm, as his body dropped onto the earth the left arm was outstretched in such a way that would have broken an ordinary appendage. Not fully extended by any means, but enough so that when Sigurd landed his right arm bore less of the force of his collapse and his body was off-tilt, just for a moment. It still took his breath away in a great gust, but adrenaline and near panic overwhelmed pain and discomfort, replacing it with a desperate strength he shared with his larger foe. With impressive speed and reflex Sigurd pushed off with his left arm upon landing, spinning his body anti-clockwise even as Gigue collapsed upon him. That was not all however, the act of rolling also shot his left arm back and into a vicious elbow strike that Gigue would find more unpleasant than any he had experienced before, the hardness of the stone and the magical strength of the arm more than sufficient to shatter ribs. The move complimented Sigurd turning his upper torso to face his foe, at the very least he would look into the masked face of the man who would kill him.

[Vordak]

One of his ribs gave in with a meaty crunch, splitting, the rest just bruised - wearing armor paid off for how stuffy it was to wear a couple inches of it over his casual attire. A hair's breadth away from pinning down his slippery opponent, yet thrown back once again, Gigue felt a volatile mix of frustration and desperate urgency well up in his soul, overflowing quickly and surging through his body with a feverish heat. The mind held strong though, unyielding to the urge of plummeting into a berserk rage: instead, he focused on the current circumstances and how he could adapt to them.

Gigue's left side had crumbled down under the onslaught pain and gone numb for the time being, left arm barely moving from the elbow upwards; the right was in much better condition, almost in perfect working condition from the copious amounts of adrenaline diluted in his bloodstream, the body trying to keep up with its piled up injuries; so it was fortunate for him that the elbow strike knocked him onto his right side, where he could put the arm under and lift himself slightly off the ground. But better yet, he had completely healthy legs. Bending both and setting his feet flat on the ground, his pose became to look as if he were more of a breakdancer than a fighter: just one arm holding up his weight, the legs loaded with tension, ready to kick off at any moment.

Which would exactly what Gigue would do: springing up into the air, he'd flip his body around and then slam down buttocks first onto Sigurd's stomach. It would be quite the unpleasant sensation, considering that that would be the muscleman's whole weight bearing down on his innards - but what followed was guaranteed to be worse. Right after pushing off, the brawler would snap his legs back into a cocked position, land, brace himself with the right arm once again and fire off - the difference this time being that his feet were not against the ground, but turned towards his opponent's head, two steel plated heels heading off towards the warriors chin in what could easily be a clean knockout hit. The immediacy of his kick would be ferocious too: if Gigue managed to get the pin, then not even a second would pass before he launched it - even someone with the combat acumen of Sigurd would be left grasping at straws.

[MelonHead]

Wrestling was not really Sigurd’s strongest area of fighting but he was not a complete amateur. In simpler, happier times he had often competed in bouts with friends and rivals in his home village, it was a popular past time in the rather martial society he belonged to. Still, if he could stick to striking it would be ideal. One could argue everything Sigurd did upon entering combat had been an attempt to maintain this advantage, that range where he excelled. However his foe had pinned him, in a metaphorical sense at least, and he was going to be forced to play his enemy’s game for a while. The mud beneath him was slightly wet and made movement a more difficult prospect than it needed to be, but he still managed to roll to face upwards with success. There was even a sharp crack as his elbow drilled into the big man’s ribs. The Northman had a glimmer of hope then, the moment he had felt his enemy’s great strength he knew that should he get a hold of him it was over. Rolling onto his back had two effects for Sigurd, one he was able to see what he was doing, two he was able to enact a plan of escape using the tools available to him.

The Northman was surprised upon facing skyward and then turning to look for his foe that he had been knocked clear off his back. He was down-right confused when he witnessed the large wrestler conduct some strange form of hand-stand, supporting his weight with his right hand as his legs were planted upon the soil. Sigurd had no fucking idea what his enemy was doing, essentially.

Still, the Northman was acting on instinct rather than a careful analysis of the fight, so while he had no idea that his foe was transitioning and preparing to drive his weight down into the Northman’s gut, Sigurd was still able to react in a fashion that could change the events to follow. Upon spinning onto his back the Northman’s right arm came free from under his body, and as if by magic a longsword materialised. Still clutched tight in an ice-pick grip Sigurd used his weapon in an incredibly unorthodox fashion worthy of facing his enemy’s own improvised assault. Using the momentum of his roll, the Northman simply continued to throw his weight leftward by rolling his shoulders. The effect of which was fairly evident, as Gigue completed his transition he would be faced with an evident danger, should he collapse upon Sigurd he would risk injury as Sigurd drew the hilt (with the end pointing at him) of his blade across his body as if carrying out a very short-range haymaker. As he also rolled leftward the end result was a strange form of cut in an arc directly in front of Sigurd, ending with about ten inches of the point of the blade crashing down towards Gigue’s waist. Should he still choose to dive upon Sigurd he would risk life and limb on the edge of his sword, not to mention the Northman’s stone arm had rested low over his torso to ease the passage of the cutting sword, and would prove a powerful obstruction.

[Vordak]

He knew Sigurd was guarding with his stone arm and he saw the sword strike coming – yet neither would deter him from going for the pin. Gigue would now enter the area of his own dominance, where it could all be finished in a single move; if he were to let it become a war of attrition, then Sigurd would have already won, so it was a top priority for him to circumvent even the possibility of that happening, instead, shooting for a fierce and decisive blitz.

Another streak of red on his crisp white costume; another wound, the blade almost cutting straight to the femur. Good thing he wouldn’t need his left leg; wouldn’t need it to go in for the kill. Gigue had thought of showing the warrior mercy before, planning to knock him unconscious with a kick, but alas, that was an option no more. However, he saw another opportunity to claim victory and had no qualms in taking it by blood - after all, neither of them had arrived expecting to leave with hands unmarred.

The solution was rather simple: bending his right leg, he'd place its heel square on the man's left shoulder, pinning the it to the ground and having his leg block Sigurd's stone arm form reaching over to protect his own body. Then, a situp, during which Gigue would slip his right hand underneath his tuxedo - and immediately after, a viper quick stab, a knife in hand, held in icepick grip, targeting the neck. The irony of it - a bodyguard trying on the role of an assassin - but who was to say that it weren't a sneaky, and most importantly, deadly move?