Fortunate Son

[Dietre san Luthgarde]

Fingers tightened into a fist, knuckles going white as a meaty hand balled up to deliver a bone-jarring jab to the jaw of the body before him. His strike was followed by an inhuman growl released from his throat, and Dietre felt his lips pull back into a snarl. His entire body was taught, muscles tensed and expectant. His stance was low, shoulders bunched and angled to allow the smallest target possible to his opponent.



- -

It wasn't exactly ideal, this new situation he'd found himself in, but ever since being brought back from the hell of his cold sleep, he'd taken to his new life with a hunger brought on by loss. Loss of time, loss of freedom, loss of everything. He was on a ship with people who were - what he'd been able to understand in his short time of acclimation - not exactly on the better side of those who held power in the galaxy. Not that he supposed that mattered. From what he'd been able to glean from the Ravenwing woman... Arya... his slumber in Hutt territory had been through some rather interesting times and events. Which made him old. He didn't really care. His time was usually spent learning the Basic, the normal language that it seemed everyone in the galaxy knew and used.

It was awkward going, at best.


- -

A huff of pent-up breath, and he caught the telltale sign a moment after it was too late.

His own head rocked back, a burst of sharp pain in his brow from the delivered strike.

He shook himself, taking a step back to recover before hunching forward again, watching the one before him with intense eyes.

No other move came, and the Lupine took advantage of the short moment to snort another breath out through his nose.

He darted in again to deliver a punch to the side, just beneath the ribcage.

In this moment, he felt alive.

[Jaassuuvi Ageerrodarr]

The thuds and cracks echoed off the walls, piercing a moment of silence as thousands held their breaths in anticipation; only to explode into a frenzied roar as more blood was spilled upon the sand. From raised box seats the rich and powerful waved banners or tossed trinkets to their favorite champions. Beautiful scarves, bangles of shiny coins, and trinkets of the Sun Goddess. The crowd roared, screaming for blood and urging the combatants to keep going; and from the mass rose a name on the wind.

Jaas! Jaas! Jaas! Jaas!

In the pit his opponent was barely standing, avoiding putting weight on an eviscerated leg. Blood was everywhere. It was the nature of the spectacle. A'ziir Traai'jaari was a fighting style built around claw strikes. It was a battle of endurance as each opponent was cut and bled. It was as much a trial of strength as agility, as they fought for control of each other through submissive holds that allowed them to strike their opponent without retaliation. Most preferred to go for the chest, throat, and face but he preferred to cripple his opponents one limb at a time until they could no longer fight back.

His opponent had not come prepared. He never had a chance. Squaring up the final blow was landed, and the gladiator was powerless to resist as he was shouldered to the ground and pinned; too exhausted to stop the claws from pinching his throat. There was but a moment of hesitation before his throat was removed, and in that moment he did what they all did in the end. He yielded. Victory.

There was no feeling like it.

- - -

But this came close.

There was no roar of the crowd. There were no trinkets at his feet. Those were never important. In the end they were distractions. Lovely, wonderful distractions. This was all that was important; just him and his opponent.

The strike came because he let it. The impact felt like it rattled his bones. Perhaps not the smartest strategy. Still, it brought his opponent closer as he could wrap his arm around his and pull the Lupine closer. It was like holding on to a serpent of pure muscle; writhing and pulling; threatening to break free at any moment, but not before he could deliver his own counter attack. No claws. The blood would make Arya mad. Instead he punched into the center of mass, letting go as he did so sending his opponent staggering backwards.

It was only a brief respite. He knew he would come back for more, and he took the moment to hold his side. Dark Goddess below it hurt! For such an old geezer he sure could scrap. It was like he was never frozen in the first place, and it was leaving Jaas to feel his own age creeping in.

[Dietre san Luthgarde]

His gut felt as though it'd been hammered with a stone-puncher, and Dietre couldn't help the ghuffhh of exhaled breath as he pitched away. The pain radiated outward, through muscle and bone, and the Lupine let his shoulders rise and fall in a heavy, controlled motion before hitching back, his bare chest swelling with a deep inhale. The lines of his body had mostly been preserved by the carbonite, but the reactions, the strength, it was all slow to come back. He could feel himself returning, but the going was not as quick as he would've liked. Jaassuuvi had seemed more than willing to help him regain those more bruising tendencies. The solid form of the hulking Cizerack was like some unmoving statue that refused to be dislodged, and Dietre had taken to the challenge of driving his opponent to the ground with little success.

"You are havink de knuckless of de stone-rock," he grunted out. "Iss like fightink... kheh'seh'a... biggesst hill?"

Again he heaved a breath, his fingers tightening his hands into white-knuckled fists, preparing for another go.

[Jaassuuvi Ageerrodarr]

With a shake of his head he dislodged sweat and blood, and brought focus back to his eyes. He could feel his ear swelling from an earlier hit. With a heaving chest and sore arms, he squared his stance once more and brought his hands to bare once more. Not guarding fists held high like some bar brawler, but hands held out away from his body, fingers straight. A traditional A'ziir Traai'jaari stance, meant for attacking and almost never for defense. There was no spectacle in defense, after all. As was the core tenant of the form, he prepared to plunge in once more, to never give his opponent a moment's respite.

Dietre's words caught him off guard. With that horrible basic it took a moment to even begin to grasp what he was trying to communicate. It sounded almost complimentary. Unless he was alluding that Jaas was getting fat.

"jI've been called worrsse."

Taking a sharp step forward he planted himself as long developed instincts took over. Fingertips dipped in like knives. Even with his fingernails blunted his strong fingers were still capable of muscle destroying precising strikes. With his left waving ahead of him like a smokescreen before falling back to allow for a powerful right jab with the synchronized step designed to put as much force behind the strike as possible. Like the driving of a spear, aimed in reciprocating at the soft organs beneath the rib cage.

It was a gambit, one he had employed many times to end a fight before it had even started. It was risky to use at this stage of the fight, and he knew it. Jaas wanted to showboat.

[Dietre san Luthgarde]

The force of the blow took him off guard, as he'd been concentrating on the hand meant to distract him. It was a trick that worked disturbingly well, and Dietre couldn't help the sharp puff of air that popped from his lungs, up his throat, and out his mouth. His insides suddenly felt compacted, and the old Lupine growled out his displeasure before one hand clamped around Jaas' wrist in a vice-like, unyielding grip.

He pulled the felinoid close, very nearly into a crushing embrace.

A snorted breath of hot air.

And the next moment, his neck muscles corded as his head snapped forward to deliver a bruising headbutt to the bridge of his opponent's nose.

[Jaassuuvi Ageerrodarr]

The gambit paid off better than he thought, and he thought for sure he had just won the match, but instead of folding up and shutting down like many an opponent, instead Dietre stayed on his feet. The counter attack took Jaas equally by surprise as he found himself suddenly caught in the Lupine's grapple. He struggled against so equally strong an opponent, trying to wiggle his arms free, trying to create space to maneuver even as he waited for the submission throw to come, as was common in A'ziir Traai'jaari.

The throw never came, and instead his face became a blossom of pain as the ruthless headbutt came in. He felt, and heard, the crack of cartilage as his head snapped back from the blow. Blowing hard to try to clear the passage and lessen the discomfort, he immediately angled his head back down, chin to collar bone, to stop anther headbutt from connected with anything but his own forehead. Redoubling his efforts to break free he began snaking his feet behind Dietre's knees and pushing forward with his chest to knock the Lupine off balance.

[Dietre san Luthgarde]

The dogged determination that Jaassuuvi clung to was admirable, and with an animal grunt, Dietre braced himself against his larger opponent. Leg muscles strained against the weight of the hulking Cizerack, and the Lupine's grunts turned into determined growls as he pushed back. He felt a heel just behind his knee, and the next moment his stance seemed to wobble. There was no preserving his once-sure stance, and with a huff, his arms locked around Jaassuuvi the moment before he rolled backwards, crashing inevitably towards the deck and bringing his sparring partner with him.

It was a folly however, as his mind realized what would happen mere moments before his back hit the deck. Of course by then it was too late, and Dietre felt the air struck from his lungs as he hit, then the Cizerack's larger body landed atop him and pushed out any remaining breath that might've been left inside.