Stranger Games NPC (stranger_npc) wrote in strangergamesrp, @ 2012-06-10 17:46:00 |
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Entry tags: | closed, event, gin charlie, log, observable |
[Event Log] Dogs of War
Who: Gin Charlie
When: June 8th
Where: The Games
What: Gin Charlie’s come back to the ring. Let the blood run, let the bodies fall.
Warnings: Gore, language
Open or Closed: Closed
Observable: Yes!
‘ANTONY: Blood and destruction shall be so in use
And dreadful objects so familiar
That mothers shall but smile when they behold
Their infants quarter'd with the hands of war;
All pity choked with custom of fell deeds...’ -- “Julius Ceasar,” by William Shakespeare
“Now Is The Time (Ravenous)” by 10 years, lyrics here.
Gin Charlie knelt and tightened his sandals. The leather straps tightened against his calves, giving only a little to flexing muscle. The weight of the broadsword at his side was too familiar to bother him. He always checked his sandals before stepping into the ring. It was a slow ritual and no-one rushed him. The scientists stood quiet, eager.
None of them now had ever seen him fight in person. Out in the stands, there were grandfathers and great-grand-mothers who had brought tickets for their children, their descendents, to see a legend return to life. Gin Charlie had not fought for years. He had begun to hope, a little, that they had forgotten about him.
Of course they hadn’t. It was a foolish hope.
No matter how old he got, he couldn’t stop hoping.
That was being human, still, he guessed.
He picked up his round shield, and settled it on his arm. A shield, his broadsword, his long dirk. The wide leather belt, the battle kilt that ended above his knees, his chest and head bare. The ash drawn on his cheeks and the tattoos all over his back and shoulders and chest. He was battle-ready, proven and true. No helmet or armor beyond the shield and the belt. He adjusted the shield, the targe on his arm, and stood. He walked out into broad daylight.
The crowd was mostly silent as he stepped out into the sand. The did not cheer for him, not yet. But he would make them scream his name before the match was over. He would give them what they wanted, give them the violence they so hungered for, and when they were sated he would be their darling. He would be their beloved, as he had been before, and prove himself again and again and forever and aye on their bloody soil. He looked around the arena. It was not so large that it couldn’t be crossed, but it would take a long damn time. There were two horses tethered to the only post on this side of the sand - a beautiful white horse with a flowing mane and tail, and a blood red bay. Across the area, his opponent had similar choices, and was mounting up. Gin Charlie snorted.
He pulled out his long dirk and grabbed the first stirrup-leather. He slashed it through and threw the iron on the ground. He circled the white horse and repeated the action. He did the same for the bay, and the took their bridles off. He shoved at their shoulders. The bay, armed with battle armor, took a few springing steps, snorting. The white horse, in a parade outfit with lighter armor, took a single step sidewise and eyed him curiously. Easy to see which horse was the battle-horse. Gin Charlie switched his dirk to his left hand, and drew his broadsword.
His opponent was almost halfway across the arena, mounted on a lovely black horse.
He swatted the white horse on the haunch with the flat of his blade.
With a startled squeal the horse sprang away. The bay grunted, leaped, and charged down at the black. The white horse followed, and the black? It was no battle-horse. It shied violently, got bitten by the bay and leapt through the air. Its rider jolted sideways, got a leg clipped by a kick, and tumbled to the ground. Gin Charlie kicked into a sprint, hearing only absently the rise of sound from the crowd.
The man was scrambling to his feet, winded, when Gin Charlie descended on him. The first clash of blades - he was armed with a short-sword and a metal shield - had him staggering back. Gin Charlie darted in and sliced his shoulder open. The man roared, and thrust in. Gin Charlie angled it off his shield, twisted his wrist to whip the dagger up into the man’s arm, and hewed at his ribs with a shortened stroke. Bone crunched and the man went down again. Gin Charlie stood over him dismissively, and with a practised flick of his wrist, opened up the man’s belly with the tip of his broadsword. The leather armor parted like butter. Gin Charlie stepped back, took one running step and kicked the fallen man. Guts and blood everywhere, and the man tried to scramble up, frothing blood at the mouth. Oh, too easy. With an effortless hewing stroke, Gin Charlie severed his throat and half-removed his head. He went down again, sand darkening.
The crowd was screaming. Five more fighters were coming across the sand. Gin Charlie knelt, laid his sword down, and curved his first two fingers into the pulsing flow at the man’s throat, warm dead skin flexing softly under his fingers. He reached up and streaked the blood over the ash already on his cheeks, down his nose, over his chin.
He gripped his sword again, warm blood trickling through his fingers, over his skin, and rose. Who in this group would fight together? Those three, hanging back, and Gin Charlie nodded. The first two were focused only on him, one a little faster than the other, and Gin Charlie stepped up to meet the charge with an unhurried and deliberate stride.
One attack and then the other, just too far apart. The first’s sword clanged against Gin Charlie’s shield, and with a sharp thrust he gashed the man’s thigh open through the leather breeches. Blood gushed as the great artery was opened - a dead man now. Gin Charlie whipped the broadsword back and blocked the second fighter’s descending blow. The other three were closing the gap now, running for his exposed back. Of course. Gin Charlie twisted his blade, flicked the other’s sword aside, and stabbed. He caught the man between the plates of armor, and wounded him in the armpit. As he staggered back, Gin Charlie whirled on a heel to face the charging three.
He did not turn to the right but to the left, shield tucked close. He blocked two blows, though one glanced free and nicked his bicep, even as his hacked the knee out from under the first. The man stabbed and nicked Gin Charlie’s wrist as he went down. Gin Charlie kicked out and hit another in the knee, sending him staggering. The third was already coming in with another strike, and the one who had been stuck in the armpit was closing from the opposite side.
Gin Charlie got ready, angled his shield...and at the last moment skipped out from between them, buried his dirk in the third fighter’s shoulder, and used that to propel the man straight onto the other’s sword. Gasps and cries from the crowd redoubled. Gin Charlie yanked his dirk free, and charged down on the man he’d kicked in the knee, who was recovered and looking fairly furious. Gin Charlie parried with his broadsword, moved as if to kick him again, and instead stabbed him in his sword-arm with the dagger when he flinched. The man howled but did not lose his footing, twisted his blade free and thrusting for a stab. Gin Charlie arched to the side, let the blade whisper past, and stabbed the man in the shield-shoulder. He leapt back before Gin Charlie could slit his throat, smart man.
The armpit-stuck one was up and coming, and the one with the ruined knee was trying valiantly to rise. Gin Charlie whirled, ran across the darkening sand, and with a furious set of attacks drove armpit-struck back until he staggered over the dead body he’d just left. Gin Charlie whipped his broadsword around and hacked the man’s wrist, breaking it instantly and gashing his arm open. He turned on a heel and charged back, blocking the swordstrike from the one he’d just stuck in the lung and laid his side open like a carved roast. Blood sprayed and Gin Charlie danced nimbly back. He drove in again, sword swinging, arm rising and falling tirelessly. The man parried the onslaught furiously, panting for breath - already his chest was filling up with blood and air. Gin Charlie kept the gashes light, quick, slowly taking him to pieces while the crowd began to chant his name.
“Charlie, Charlie, Charlie!” It built into a crescendo as his opponent staggered to his knees.
Gin Charlie did not finish him off but instead turned to face the one with the broken arm, sword held in his left hand, terrified determination on his white face.
Gin Charlie acknowledged the grit to get up and fight by killing him just as slowly. Stroke by stroke the blood ran and the crowd screamed its ecstasies over the sacrifice. A slow brutal death to appease the god of entertainment and butchery, the nameless crowd that roared their approval with every cruel strike.
From warrior to mercenary to gladiator...and a butcher in every single way.
He was their priest, he was their god, he was their beloved.
Gin Charlie moved across the field to finish off the one with the ruined knee. The man tried to scrabble away in a flurry of panic. He nearly got to his feet, which was impressive, but it was also cowardly and unacceptable. Gin Charlie sneered, and pinned him to the earth with the broadsword thrust through his other knee.
He dropped to his own knees and set to work with his dagger.
When he rose again blood was sprayed thickly down his chest and thighs. The crowd’s roaring was a solid unceasing thunder. People were standing in the seats, fists in the air, throwing popcorn and drink bottles down into the arena. They cried for blood, more blood, and Gin Charlie raised his broadsword in a salute, turning in a slow circle to honor the entire crowd.
Then he turned, and walked slowly, steadily back towards the gate he’d come through.
He had won.
They had no further need of him.
Until the next time they wanted blood - then he would serve them again.
For ever and ever, world without end. Amen.
If this was not hell, then what was?