Register a free account today to become a member! Once signed in, you'll be able to participate on this site by adding your own topics and posts, as well as connect with other members through your own private inbox!
As [member="Azrael"] finished his response and prepared for combat, Betna heard a familiar voice call his name. He managed to turn around just in time to catch his wife's embrace for a moment before she was gone. Everyone knew the stakes here. That one of the combatants could die was very, very much a fact. Family and friends on both sides knew that this duel could end in great joy over a victory or a time of mourning their loss.
As he watched Anija take her place in the crowd Betna turned back to the ring and his opponent. He noted the drawn beskad Azrael wielded and nodded once, mostly to himself. From his belt he pulled Shuk'buy'ce, the war ax [member="Ijaat Akun"] had forged him. It was simple weapon, if ornately designed. It bore no energy fields, featured no alchemization or imbuement. It was a simple ax, albeit forged from the Iron for which the Mandalorians were renowned for.
He hefted the weapon and swung it a few times to loosen his arm, the weapon shimmering in the very air from the tropical sunlight as the gilded metal caught and reflected the sun's rays. In his off hand, Betna flicked his thumb over the activation switch on the Dinu'ul. In a mute crackle, the energy shield came to life in a flash of light. As the shield flashed a tiny light to show it was fully activated, Betna brought his ax into a ready position and raised his shield up. He picked up the pace of Azrael's circle and matched it, armored boots slowly shifting across the sand of the arena.
Tradition did not dictate who would strike the first blow and Betna had to admit, if only to himself, that it seemed fitting for the challenger to strike first. But he knew his opponent was no Primeval soldier or Sith warrior. He was fighting an elite Mandalorian warrior. This was no question of skill or martial prowess.
It was a question of who would make the last mistake.
There had been many landscapes in battle, many arenas in which Azrael had contested his foes; from lush jungles, to arid wastelands, urban city sprawls, and even in the depths of space. Every arena had benefits and detractors that would have to be considered and used for their strengths. The Mandalorians trained in simplicity, to be able to adapt to all environments. Mandalore itself was home to a litany of various ecological establishments, allowing for nearly every viable place for combat to take place. However, in their ability to adapt, one of the more notable prospects was the circle of sand. A thin layer of course grain atop earthy soil without attachments, obstacles, or any true environmental advantage. There was nothing here to rely on except a warrior's own skill, and their tactical prowess - which was exactly the right mix of circumstances that would lead to understanding who the greater warrior would be. This was their way, originally the way of the Taung that the strongest and most renowned warrior among them would rise to that mantle and take the burden and the honor of Mand'alor.
While the admiration and respect of the onlooking vode was a boon to the resolute spirit of both warriors, Azrael forced himself to shut out the background in totality. Understanding they were there was enough for the salvager, but focus was paramount here, and it rested fully on the pilot that had now drawn his starting weapons for this duel. Anyone who'd been with the Mando'ade in the last few years recognized by design those that had forged weapons, and armor alike. The intricacies and special craft that each smith put into their creations was akin to a signature or a stamp that would herald both the integrity of the object, and give credence to their abilities. Ijaat's forged ax was no different, ornate and deadly - the simplistic and lethal weapon had all the hallmarks of the Rally Master, and he didn't doubt that it may have very well been made on the island on which they stood. Moments into the start of this center-less orbit brought two combatants into a pace and rhythm that would only break once the first action had taken place. Azrael had been both on the side of defense and offense, preferring neither above the other, but using judgement to make a decision either way. Several more steps were taken in careful stride before his footwork shifted, and the approach was made.
From the even pacing of a methodical sidestep, the brisk sprint across the short chasm came with the warrior's blade held at the ready. Azrael led the charge with his left shoulder coming first, and the blade held in a diagonal fashion, both to protect and for a potential cut. The lean was a feint though, and only a few steps away from Arrbi, the footwork changed into a circle side-step that would pivot the half-blood on the heel of his right foot, while turning him from the expected angle from both attack and defense, leveraging a small gap of space in which to strike at a counter angle. The blade rose in a sweeping arc from his right hip to left shoulder as it's target was the joint of Betna's right shoulder to both disable and destroy chances of using that Ax further in the duel. The cut though wasn't the only action, it was the catalyst to a series of movements that would flow in concourse with the previous and the next into a rhythm. The beskad moved through the motion coming straight down to parry a counter measure that he expected from the mercenary all before the foot plant followed by a shoulder check to potentially knock Arrbi from his sure footing and onto the sandy circle with great force.
Everything Azrael knew about combat came from a litany of sources - those warriors from Mandalore and several others from the Galaxy that he had personally sought out to strengthen his abilities, and expand his skill-set. While he was not native to Mandalore, or accustomed to the life as a verd'ika, the salvager had worked tirelessly to put into practice everything that was offered, and commit it to complete muscle memory. It was to note though, and something that Azrael had pondered since the request had come to him from the Field Marshal - that Azrael had personally never seen Betna take to hand to hand combat. In every instance of war, Arrbi was the man in his starfighter wrecking fleets, bombing armies, and laying down heavy suppressive fire. It was both unnerving and intriguing that the first time he'd ever seen the man enter the circle of physical combat was to fight for the crown.
It was true that Betna did most of his fighting from a starfighter or at range in the past. In fact, most of his previous training focused on ranged combat and combat support. Lately, though, his training had expanded into melee and hand to hand. His clan were known for their hand to hand prowess and, through time and training along with the help of friends such as [member="Shepard"] and [member="Ijaat Akun"], among others, he'd built up the skill and familiarity with such weapons to hold his own on the field of battle.
His choice of weapons was a tactical decision based as much on personal choice as it was on practicality. A standard energy shield was a form of armor and often stacked atop the physical armor of the wearer. The Dinu'ul, however, was a little different. As much a weapon as it was armor, the handheld energy shield didn't stack atop the armor, but rather projected in a disc and was held by the emitter itself. Able to parry and block, the shield could stop physical weapons and even deflect and block lightsabers. However, it was also capable of being used offensively, something that Betna was quick to utilize in the heat of combat.
He spotted Azrael's charge and sidestep, realizing the threat the attack posed. Betna's response was measured and simple, born of countless hours of training until action became reaction. He set his feet and twisted his torso, bracing the rear of the Dinu'ul on his left hand, elbow, and shoulder to provide the maximum amount of stability possible. He then knelt slightly, bringing his torso lower to the ground. The move appeared odd, but was natural to Betna. The twist brought the edge of the shield into play, easily blocking the attack [member="Azrael"] had launched at first. Dropping lower to the ground slightly meant Arrbi's arm moved little, maintaining stability, while also ending the arc of Azrael's attack slightly premature of a full blow, meaning that the attack wasn't at complete full force. Betna still felt the impact of his opponent's beskad hit the edge of the Dinu'ul and his torso rocked slightly from the force of the blow, but the block held and he was none the worse for wear.
As his opponent recoiled from the attack, Betna held his own strike back. He knew trading blow for blow would only render the two warriors hacking into each other until one or the other's armor gave out or, more likely, someone managed to make a mistake and the other took advantage of it. Instead, Betna recovered behind the shield and raised it just below his eyes. He braced himself behind the shield and burst forward, meeting Azrael's shoulder check head on with the scorching face of the Dinu'ul's ray shielding. The impact slammed the shield back into Betna's hands, but he pushed on. Between the two warriors, Betna knew he had Azrael in both mass and height. With this in mind, he shoved hard, attempting to push the Mand'alor back across the sand.
Now was the most dangerous part of the fight. Both were skilled warriors, both were experienced veterans. It would all come down to the wire starting now.
...he'd been hiding in the background for a time now watching the posturing and listening to the speeches but the truth of it was Garrus was never really that interested until the initial blows were made, those first attacks were a tell all to the Warrior who went about gauging [member="Arrbi Betna"] and [member="Azrael"], challenger and Mand'alor. Moving out of the background he came around to stand beside his brother, [member="Strider Garon"], at which point he'd have canted his head in the direction of the two men fighting. Others may have kept the peace, remained silent but the Field Marshal didn't seem much reason for that when he said..."Our Mand'alor reminds me of someone I knew once."...a passionate man who had probably died in the same arenas where Garrus had thrived before returning to the fold of Clan Garon...
...standing there now Garrus looked more like a farmer than a Field Marshal, all he wore was a tunic that hung down to the middle of his thighs alongside a thick leather belt that held it in place and heavy boots that kept his feet comfortable and protected. On his right shoulder was slung his own Beskad, he carried it with him everywhere and in both hands was a flask he raised to his mouth and drank from before passing it over to Strider..."Betna reminds me of someone too."...that axe and shield could be a versatile combination if an individual knew how to use them well and watching as Azrael swung into action it was only a matter of time before Garrus got to see how his challenger handled himself...
Lisette had left behind her mother, when she had still lived, to answer the call of the Mandalorians during their time of need, and had tolled away her time doing small jobs here and there - never truly fitting in with the rest of these warrior people, even though she was very much a fighter herself. Standing quite a bit away from where the action would take place, Lis wondered just how many lives had been snuffed out in duels such as these over the centuries - not simply those of the Mandalorians, but of the other various cultures as well. She recalled the tale of her mother contesting her own master for the right to live, to replace her as a Sith Lord, and though being related to such an evil person had irked her, she had chosen the best man to calm down those raging emotions. But with her mother's passing, she wasn't quite certain if she'd be welcome home as she had been in the past - it wasn't really home anymore, really. Two half-sisters, a step-father that she'd royally annoyed on his wedding day, and probably a dozen pictures of a woman with red hair scattered around the place. It was days like today, where she lost herself in the fighting and the blood and dirt, that Lisette forgot how confusing and demanding the real world could be. To be Mandalorian, to her, was to live in an isolation that sheltered her from the craziness of her extended family, and though today she would watch one or two families break apart at the potential loss of their greatest warriors and leaders, it was much less weighting on her conscious than it was to even venture out of this quiet but action-filled space.
As far as her preference for the victor? She tried not to care about politics, so either would be just as good to her as the last.
What the Mand'lor lacked in size and mass, compared to other more sturdy and mighty vode, he made up for with a physicality that had been carved out in the harsh conditions on Ord Mantell. He had been a fairly averaged size boy, and yet in the trials of working as little more than an indentured servant, that had quickly grown into building a range of strength in his muscles that only came from hard labor. Nearly two decades in the scrapyards had put together a formidable brute - if he had only had the training to back up the physical power he could produce. Apart from the power of flesh and blood however was Azrael's resolute and stubborn tenacity to never concede. Personally he did not relent when in the heat of battle - though he may have called a tactical retreat for the Mando'ade as a whole - his own personal fights were met with grit and determination that he would persevere in any situation. In Mando'a they called this ramikadyc - that he could do anything, endure anything, and accomplish his goal. This was normally the difference between himself and those he faced - and yet in this arena he faced someone with like resolve.
Sparks flew as the beskad's teeth shredded against the energy construct that kept Arrbi's form safe from the slice. A second later the shearing sound of Mandalorian iron meeting the energy discharge of the outer particle shielding came in full contact. Betna's strength and size, combined with the lower stance was using the force of his legs and upper back to push into the charge, slamming the shield back into his grip. For a moment, the Mand'alor's feet slid along the sand before pausing while the servos of his mechanical prosthesis revved up and resisted the force. Azrael's own strength out-classed by the alchemized metal as it bore forward, making the press Betna had to endure all the more punishing. It however did not last long. In the realm of combat, the longer a stalemate went on, the more taxed and tired the opponents would become. Stalemates were a physical manifestation of pride, neither one relenting - but it wasn't always the most tactically sound option. Azrael had other ideas, and with the increased press, meeting Betna's own forward thrust, the salvager shifted his weight and whipped to the side, letting his blade sing in a horizontal slash. Not only would he attempt to parry a counter to the sudden offset of the body check, but it was a calculated slash to lance against the kidneys of his crouched foe. Simple physics demanded Betna would need to adjust the strength of his forward momentum to recover first.
In an instant after the swipe, the blade changed hands, falling into the bionic grip while his right slid a second weapon from his arsenal. Wrapped about his waist in a manner that would uncoil with a specific flick of movement was the chain link weapon that Arrbi had once shown him. Meant normally for the purpose of defending against multiple attackers, it was still a solid piece of simple hardware for a single foe. Let out like a whip's crack, the besbriik launched through the air, aiming to first crash against the back of Arrbi's leg before curling in order to ensnare it's target. Ever since the invasion of Empress Teta, Azrael had taken to the weapon, and learned to use it effectively. Betna had been the instructor for the initial demonstration, but the salvager had put many man hours into wielding it into his own style of combat. He didn't doubt that the Field Marshal had seen the iron chain wrapped around his waist, but that was hardly a cause for concern. What he needed to be concerned with was how to counter the weapon being used against him by someone trained in it's unique operation.
Jaster stood in the distance of the chalange area, he wear a full body Cloak with his clans symbol showing on his shoulder. He was here only because he was the D'facto Clan Leader of Clan Awaud, one f the ancient clans that had to swear their alligence to the champion should the Mand'alor loose.
After his grandfather and elder brother died in the battle for Wayland, along with nearly half his clan, Jaster was named their Clan Leader. He had no choice, and his younger sister went missing after the battle, so as the last living member of the original bloodline, he was given no choice. He left his company, his alliances, and his dreams to watch his kin fight, possibly to the death. He didn't truely support either of the members of the challengers, both paths lead to wars, they couldn't possibly win alone. After the fall of Wayland, many of the clans cried for blood, and deeper cried for the blood of the Primeval, but truth was, they didn't have the manpower anymore. If they did, a small nation like the Primeval wouldn't have stood a chance against the Mandlorian war machine. Also, opening a two frount war, asking for more trouble them the nation needed.
Again, Jaster was a Dar'Mando, he couldn't voice his opinion even if he wanted to, which he didn't. Jaster was in the buisness of peace, more peace treaties and Jaster would be able to get moretrade runing. Being a Mandlorian, many didn't understand how a warrior like himself would wish for peace, truth was, the money.
Yet here he stood, covered in heavy rags, in the head and watch his People's unified leader fight. He crossed his arms and did his best to stay away from anyone, last thing he needed was to be recognized and forced to face a discussion as to why he was allowed back home after being exiled. He just wished to follow his Clans Tradition and represent his family though they could not attend.
The two men met in the middle, the shield separating them as Betna shoved hard. He could feel [member="Azrael"] slowly slide back, the sand shifting under the assault. When the slide stopped, he figured Azrael had gained purchase, perhaps on firmer sand below. When the resistance against Betna increased, however, and forced him to apply more pressure, he figured he knew what was going on. His opponent was bringing the greater strength of the prosthetic arm into play. He kept the pressure up, however, knowing that one of two things was going to happen: Azrael would shift and let Betna stumble before attacking or the Mand'alor would shove back, attempting to push Betna back to the edge of the ring.
When Azrael ducked to the side, Betna's guess proved fairly accurate. Rather than let himself stumble as he attempted to remain upright, he let himself fall forward into the sand. He pulled his limbs in and tucked his right shoulder down just before impacting against the sand. Letting the inertia he'd built up carry him through, he rolled away and onto his feet as sand trickled off his armor and sparked off the face of his shield. As he turned to face his opponent, he spotted Azrael flick something from around his waist. Recognizing the weapon he'd designed after the fighting on Empress Teta, he realized keeping his distance was going to be fairly impossible so long as Azrael held the bes'briik.
Poised and ready, Betna took a step forward a moment before he spotted the telltale movements of his opponent. He knew that wielding a shield was only effective so long as you maintained your footing. To be brought prone meant a shield, more often than not, became an obstacle rather than an effective weapon or defense. When the beskar chain whip started to arc, time slowed down for Betna, or so it seemed. For a brief moment, he could see the glint of light on iron, hear the tiny clink of chain link on chain link, and heard the rush of air as the weapon flickered towards him. He remembered what had happened when Anija had done something similar to play a prank on him, how he'd landed on his shebs and laughed it off. The only difference was there was no laughing here, not now. Not in this fight.
The step forward was for stability, his poise was for balance. He was ready and waiting for a potential game changer and here one was. As the bes'briik slashed across the air across the sand, Betna did the only thing he could reliably do.
He leapt.
Booted feet left the sand in a small cloud of grit before metal links cut the clouds in two. His dinu'ul was held to protect his body, but his right arm had moved back, the ax held firmly in hand. As his jump closed the gap, Betna knew he had to time it just right. The shield swept from his body outwards, attempting to deflect any hasty slash or thrust from his foe. As the energy disc moved, so did Shuk'buy'ce. The ax arced up and over Betna's shoulder, striking in a fierce, downward blow. Arrbi aimed the strike for the vulnerable point of most Mandalorian armor: the small gap between helmet and torso armor. Even if the ax failed to bite through, the impact would still be easily felt.
That is, if the blow landed.
OOC:
Roll forward to avoid horizontal slash
Regain footing
Dodge bes'briik aimed at legs by leaping up and forward
Sweep dinu'ul across from right to left to attempt to foil counterattacks
Bring ax down hard, aiming for a blow between helmet and torso on the neck
Clouds of white dust kicked up with every movement, and every attack, painting the scene in a dull haze or course grains swept back and forth by every breeze that cut its way across the arena. Among the crowd there was cheers and and loud proclamations of glory in their native tongue, and yet for the two warriors locked in heated combat - action was their only communication. Each one silently observing the other while calculated strikes whipped by each other with razor precision. For now Azrael was the offensive player, attempting to reduce his foe to defeat by means of the skill and precision of his strikes. The Mand'alor was quick on his feet, even despite his armor, utilizing quick footwork patterns that would keep Betna on his toes, attempting to right himself in the direction that Azrael would strike from next. Internally the thrill of the fight, and the rush of adrenaline empowered the salvager - gave him great clarity of mind, and brought his decisive spirit to the fray. While the gravity of the situation was apparent, and his own reflections on what this challenge fully entailed were given their due time, Mandalorian combat was above all else; honorable and welcomed. A trait not exclusive to the Mando'ade, as it was shared with people like the Echani of Eshan, and even the Genosian culture with their massive coliseums. Still, as much as this fight was physical in nature, it was also a political move for the Mandalorian people - except that the vode would soon tire of speeches and debates - as they craved the action and thrill of the fight.
Agile in his own right, Azrael watched the mercenary somersault forward into a fighting stance even before the links of chain cut through the air in an arc to sweep his legs. The understanding of the weapon surely gave Betna a fighting advantage in countering it's own abilities, knowing the few ways to defend against the attack. A quick step forward indicated the direction before Betna's leaping form rose over the initial strike. Momentum was key with the weapon, keeping it in a moving arc, to which the salvager pulled the dart back around, angling it to return within range. In the same instance as Betna's form flung forward to close their current gap, the beskad held in his bionic grip shifted into an assassin stance, inverting the blade to bring it's non leather edge to brace against the metallic forearm. Even without the aide of the Force, wielded even by some Mandalorians, the position and movement of the battle seemed to allow Arrbi's form to hang in mid air, akin to some kind of slow-motion holorecording. In reality only split seconds of action were happening, but it was all coming together in a very deadly dance.
Betna's trajectory, while in air, was linear - a path that couldn't be altered save for the assistance of a jetpack - and yet neither carried one. Azrael's form shifted to the side, bringing the chain back around to whip above his head while he took a hard shoulder to the sand and preformed a quick dodge to the side, letting the shield sail by his buy'ce. Forcefully redirecting the angle of the shimmering links of the iron chain, Azrael lanced the bes'briik into an overhead strike at the point in time and space where the Ax wielding hand would slice clean into the sand beneath where his form was a second ago. The thick metal dart overshooting the wrist by about an inch so that the tail end would have enough momentum not only to bite against the joint of Arrbi's wrist, but also have a chance to snap around the limb and imprison it within the weapon's clutches. The salvager's form crouched, but poised for more motion. There was a center line of combat, one that if controlled and manipulated would lend to your own advantage, and Azrael sought to alter it at every pass so that for now, his opponent would have to keep second guessing his own motions to turn the tide of battle.
He had come, as had many of the vode, to watch the historical event. It was one thing to hear the tales of past battles that men and women had fought for the title of Manda'lor and the right to lead their people in war. It was altogether a different thing to see it with one's own eyes. So standing among a group of mando'ade Derek found himself silently watching as the fight and the possible paths of the future of Manda'yaim and her children unfolded upon the sands of the volcanic island.
Red eyes gleamed as he observed each move, each strike, how precision and measured strength was carefully meted out in controlled bursts of violence, each action deliberated through plan and honed instinct that was second nature to the warriors engrossed in combat, Derek shifted slightly, his armored boots creating gouged impressions in the sand. An Idle thought of how this fight, this conflict, here and now would creat an impression for the future of the mandalorians and her allies for years to come.
So he watched intently as the as of yet, untold story of this momentous occasion unfolded before his crimson eyes.
Mac had arrived just prior to the battle commencing. He'd seen [member="Ijaat Akun"] walk the circle and place the sword in the dirt. His armor was one of the only ones not shined up for this event. Not because of a lack of respect for whoever left as the Mand'alor, but rather as a symbol of respect for the hard dirty work it would take to win. He was armed very sparsely, as he carried his Strill 2000 in a low ready and approached Ijaat. "Vod, I seriously doubt you'll need it, but you 'ave my gun for 'elp keeping t'e peace..."
He didn't really wait for Ijaat's response, as Mac simply nodded in salute and made his way around the circle and gathered 'ade. He came to a stop next to [member="Anija Betna"], and nodded, "Well, looks like your man is focused today. I sincerely 'ope t'is is a good 'ard fig't. But most importantly, I 'ope t'at neit'er of t'em is seriously 'urt. We need all t'e Vode we can muster..."
Mac personally didn't have a horse in this fight as the saying goes. He'd follow either man, they were both honorable and capable. Each one has his own positives and negatives, and Mac felt deep in his soul that this battle would only strengthen the Mando'ade, no matter who won...
A'den had never witnessed anything like this. It was exciting to watch as two men battled for leadership of their people. The young verd did not get why it had to be this way, as his mother had not raised him to follow the resol'nare. His duty to the culture had only been pressed by his father now that he was responsible for his upbringing. The hound of Keldabe had made his own opinion known about the battle. He wanted the current Manda'lor to end the fight quickly.
Eyes scanned the crowd, and on the other side, to the left, sat his friend, [member="Mesh'la Hokan"]. He waited for her eyes to find his, and gave her a wave. The two had met a couple of weeks before, and had a friendly competition of their own, over who could catch the most fish. The results were very satisfying, as eating the fish had been the true reward. The other reward had outshined the fish though, as A'den had made a friend near his age. Within 18 months both would have gone through their verd'goten, at least that was the plan.
Mesh'la Detta Hokan was excited to see what would happen this special day in the history of her people, though she was also nervous. Having never been in and around live combat before other than controlled training exercises, the young Mando'ad would be getting an astute education in the real deal Mando style.
Mand'alor [member="Azrael"] and Field Marshal [member="Arrbi Betna"] were going to fight it out to see who would be the sole ruler of the Mando'ade. Mesh'la only hoped that it be a fair fight and no one died, especially her friend's buir. She knew how it felt to lose a parent and didn't wish that on anyone, especially [member="Mirshko Betna"].
The young blonde gave [member="Briika Hokan"] an appreciative nod when her expecting mother gave her a reassuring look, then Mesh'la smiled up at her adoptive father, [member="Graad Hokan"], when the rugged Concordian joined them on the sideline where they stood. She was glad he was back safe and sound from his last merc job.
Mesh'la's blue eyes went wide when the first moves of combat began; again the young girl full of excitement and anxiety. But it seemed to spike when those same eyes came upon [member=A'den Dral'] across the way, who was standing with is own buir, [member="Strider Garon"]. She gave a little wave back to the boy, then continued watching the match in awe.
"Perhaps sometime over drinks we can talk more ," she turned to him with a smile before going back to the fight at hand. This was a fight to see whom would be king so figuring out more about his heritage would need to wait. Kenna was sure he would have no issue going to the cantina later and chatting. They seemed to do more of that, now a days.
She didn't know either of the men fighting but it wasn't hard to see that both were skilled veteran warriors. Each man's skills were quite impressive and she knew neither of them were going down easily. This was going to be a bloody battle indeed. It was nice of him to share this little part of him with her.
Betna landed on both feet and felt the ax chop down into sand. A miss. He'd seen his opponent shift to the side, dodging his attack entirely. The whistling-clinking noise of the bes'briik cutting through the air alerted him to yet another attack. He felt the weapon lash at his right arm, felt the impact of metal on his forearm. The metal of the chain whip brought sparks from the strike, but didn't hold. It had struck the metal vambrace on Betna's right forearm and slithered off, leaving what could possibly become a bruise later, but leaving him uninjured.
Betna stood, his legs bent at the knees one ahead of the other and faced Azrael's kneeling form. The Dinu'ul snapped up and forward to Betna's torso where it could easily shift and move where needed while braced on his left hand, elbow, and shoulder. His ax stood ready in his right hand, poised for a strike or parry, but still for the moment. Arrbi knew that [member="Azrael"] was attempting to control the fight, to force the movements into his favor. That was what the bes'briik was designed to do, after all.
He knew he had to think fast or constantly remain on the defensive, but he knew his options were limited. Taking only a split second to decide on an action, Betna moved. Sand and grit kicked up as he dashed forward at Azrael with ax poised and ready and shield before him. This fight would come down on who made the last mistake, but in the meantime it was a game for whoever dared the most.
OOC:
Missed leaping strike
Took bes'briik attack on right armored vambrace, no entanglement
As unruly and violent as the Mandalorians were known for being; fearless in the face of danger, and heralded for taking out their opponent with their litany of skills; at times the one on one combat scenario could look downright chaotic. For the average spectator that might have been used to holovids, or sports matches - there was no real choreography in true tests of strength and might. Vantage points from the sidelines could construed that there was no real plan in action, but just random bursts of aggression and lethality being displayed by both seasoned warriors. There might have been a morsel of truth in that mindset for others, but there was certainly purpose behind everything that the two Mandalorians were putting together. The stalwart warriors surrounding the ring would certainly know better, being able to pick out the actual cadence and rhythm applied to the brawl; spaces of pause between the combatants into another fury of attacks and counters would fall into the picture once more. These pauses were crucial, allowing the other to anticipate and plan in the seconds between movement - giving scope to how much of a mental exercise this was, as well as the physical. It was the combination of both mind and body that would furnish the landscape with the proper strategy - but the vode took it one step further. The spirit had to be there as well; the mandokarla that separated the 'ade from the rest of the Galaxy. For Azrael and Arrbi, they both had that in spades.
Moments after the iron chain cracked against the protective vambrace, and lost hope of a potential snare, Azrael locked his gaze onto Betna while the pilot rose in defiance. The chain snapped back like a serpent falling into the grip of his crushgaunt, grasping the links of the segmented weapon into a single fist-full. Beneath the buy'ce a smile spread from the lips of the half-blood, with a knowing gaze of how things were playing out. They were still testing each other, measuring the value of their combined experience and prowess. Neither had ever encountered the other in the battlefield - and while they had trained together in the past, their relationship had been very much a professional one. There was no denying the respect each had in the other's eyes - but they weren't very close. It led to a partial mystery on how each other thought, and that was the biggest divide between their respective fighting styles than anything else. Each trying to suss out the unknown 'x-factor' that would be able to bend and adapt to the changing circumstances. There was weight in that stare, and the salvager kept a silent vigil waiting for the next burst of action, rather than charge in as he did at the onset. Mutely touching a device on his belt in the space of their silence.
Not having to wait too much longer, a mad dash of booted feet hitting the sand in his direction snapped the Mand'alor back into action. Shield and Ax raised in approach, and a pace that quickened to sprint across the arena towards his opponent. Calculated timing and movement came in match the warrior's mettle, drawing the assassin grip of his beskad forward, though in a feint, as the hold allowed for one of Azrael's mechanical adaptations to take hold. Shot like a bullet atop Azrael's forearm, the grappling spike tore through the space between himself and the warrior, dragging a dual strand monofilament cable in tow to stab deep into the arena, just passed Betna's advance. The rest of the cord angled upwards to cross the path of his shins and knees, avoiding the torso block of the energy shield.
Launching forward, and turning in a tight circle to the right, the strength of his bionic arm came to capitalize and make contact with the pilot's forward advance in order to throw him from his feet and make the warrior potentially face plant into the dirt. However, once contact was made, or the cord was breached, Azrael released the iron chain again, and whipped it through the air for another strike - this time aiming for the small of Betna's back. He knew at some point he'd be getting in close to Betna, and he wanted something to work with - some kind of fatigued joint or point of his anatomy to target once things became more close ranged.
Betna's entire being embraced this realization as his opponent did more or less what he'd expected to do. This meant that the tide of the fight, ever changing - ever flowing - had now shifted, seemingly into Betna's favor.
The biggest threats to a warrior using a shield was attacks against the legs and attacks from behind. With only one opponent, attacks from behind would be sporadic and easily dodged or spotted ahead of time. That left the legs, something that Azrael's previous attacks had shown he knew quite well. Knowing this, Betna had charged ahead, committing fully to the attack.
He'd planned ahead, however. He'd no way to expect a grapple spike and line, but he'd expected the chain whip to slice out once more along the same lines. Betna did what he'd planned ahead to do and launched himself headlong over the spike as his foe darted forward. He cleared the mono-filament line, landing and rolling from his shoulders to his knee in the sand. [member="Azrael"] had dodged to Betna's right and between the two moving closer coupled with Betna's jump and roll along with Azrael's step to the right, Arrbi found himself in striking range once more as the chain whip, aimed for where he'd have been had he tripped, met only sand once more.
Sparing no time and moving in a fluid movement as he rose from the sand from the roll, Betna lashed out with his ax. Shuk'buy'ce blurred out, aiming for Azrael's knee. Betna would follow the attack through before arcing the ax once more in a back swing aimed higher on Azrael's torso, sand and grit shifting off Betna's armor as he rose fully with the swings. The attack was simple: compromise the knee while his opponent was committed to the whip and grapple spike attack and then pitch his foe onto his back with the blow to the upper body. From there, all Betna had to do was pin Azrael down and hack through the weakpoints of the armor, but that relied on the blows landing.
OOC:
Continue charge
Leap over spike and line, land in a forward roll
Lash out with ax from kneeling position at (presumably) Azrael's right knee
Stand while arcing the backswing of the ax towards Azrael's upper torso
[member="Mac O Shenanigans"] [member="Arrbi Betna"] [member="Mesh'la Hokan"] [member="Anija Betna"]
A faint frown and a look of worry etched Mirshko's face as she watched the duel. She'd never witnessed anything like it, and to see her Da in the ring facing off against the Mand'alor, made her nervous. She knew Da was a decent melee fighter, and that he could easily hold his own in a fight like this. Didn't mean she had to enjoy it. For now, she stayed close to Mom, and slipped her fingers into Anija's as she continued to watch. She could feel Mesh'la's gaze on her and waved briefly for a moment before turning her attention back to the combatants in the ring. As she continued to watch, she felt a cold wet nose nudge her hand. Cat'ra, one of her parents' strill, nudged Mirshko's hand again. Sighing softly, Mirshko turned to bury her face in the creature's fur for a moment. She started slightly when she heard Mac's voice. She'd never met him before really, but knew he was a friend of Mom's. She looked sideways at him and waved shyly as she looked around for anyone else she might know. That took a little longer. But soon she spotted Muad nearby, watchful as always.
She did not want to see this. It was a reality that within their culture a challenge could be given at any time by anyone. It could end in death, or defeat.
She had been watching this carefully [member="Azrael"] was a friend someone she cared about more than he knew.
And [member="Arrbi Betna"] was married to her clan sister [member="Anija Betna"] they were both daughters of [member="Ordo"] . This was not the first challenge she had seen.
It seemed so long ago that she sat next to Arrbi watching [member="Verz Horak"] be challenged by Gil. She had so many questions then. And then Gil was dead, and Az battled for the position among the countless. And now this.
With each movement of either man Arla felt her insides clench tight. But this is what they had to do.
She knew inside she shouldn’t feel it like this feel each attach as it choked her, what if one of them died no, no she couldn’t handle that. Not one bit.
Conflict was essential for growth. An often spoken proverb for any in the culture, from the youngest verd'ika to the eldest clan patriarch. It brought glory, honor, and wisdom to rise through the storms of life, turning problems into opportunity at every turn. Tenacity and determination grit heavily into the teeth of every vod, while they both participated and observed the concepts of battle. Normally such expressions of might and valor were taken in the concepts of spars, and while they were still very dangerous in their own right - none was more so than when a challenge was on the line. For a Mandalorian to announce their candidacy for the throne, there was no greater risk - for a reward that surpassed all else. There was honor in such a claim, the highest that the Mandalorians could afford one of their own. Taken by force, that was their way - to prove your merit and your mettle was to lay waste to any competition and earn that title.
Azrael had understood that paramount importance in the great hall when he was named successor in the wake of his father. What he hadn't fully grasped was the gravity of the situation and the burden of the so-called crown. From the onset, leadership had been a struggle, something he'd adapted to over time, and grown into the position with each passing day. Honestly, he was surprised that none had challenged him sooner, when his own doubts were clouding the salvager's mind. Now, however, he had fully ingrained himself into the role and was working on ways to defend the vode from the forces of darkness that rode for them, and their legacy. This was the next storm he would weather, and until he was no longer able to withstand - Azrael would fight to retain the honor, and prove himself once more to the children of the Manda.
Agile and fierce - Azrael's opponent showed himself to be continually capable of being a step ahead of the salvager's movements - anticipating lines of thought while still missing his own mark in trying to pin the Mand'alor down. Lines cut into the sand now in various places where the iron chain bit into the course grains, missing Betna's form by inches and seconds. It was a dangerous tool to be in the cross-hairs of, and the pilot was doing a solid job of making sure to avoid the more perilous positions that Azrael attempted to lead him into. Another aerial somersault, leaping over the grappling line and skirting away from the segmented bes'briik told of the warrior's fortitude and preparation. Once the dart made purchase, carving the sand in its wake - the half-blood tugged back on the chain while Betna advanced with Ax raised and shield presented. Shifting the tide of battle and throwing himself into close range for an offensive measure of force. An immediate detachment of the grappling line let it shed the metallic hold falling to the sand. Drawing back his left leg into a more solid stance, presenting only the right leg as the viable target, Azrael stood in contestation of Betna's advance.
The flat of a beskar forged blade came with solid connection towards the armor plates, and yet a mere inch before collision, an energy field materialized into semi-transparent status. A flicker of a teal lattice work shimmered with a wave of energy as the Echani combat shield unfurled from the strike, diverting the energy and path of the weapon akin to a glancing blow. To the second pass and continuation of Betna's movement, the reverse grip on the beskad intersected in a flash of movement to meet the crux of the Ax's back end with its own handle, preventing the backlash and transforming the attack into a locked parry. In the same motion, Azrael lifted his right foot and swung it backwards, pivoting on the heel of his left until the shoulder cap of his bionic arm would press to Betna's flank, pitting the warriors shoulder to shoulder. The beskad keeping the weapon locked and immobilizing a counter as his frame kept his opponent from facing his own, or utilizing the shield arm for any advantage.
Leverage was on the salvager's side, stashing the chain on his belt in a single swipe of his right gauntlet. This was not a contest he wished to keep baiting the man into further and further encounters. As Strider had wisely declared with bravado, he was intending to end this particular showcase quickly. The two pronged counter attack came just as quickly as his body had moved to adjust their stance had shifted. The salvager's left leg swept back and rocketed forward to jam into the rear of Betna's right calf, just within the curve of muscle where nerves would send the warrior to the dirt. Azrael's bionic digits shifted the beskad grip to side free from the Ax to curve the blade's edge just under the warrior's helmet lip. His right hand freed to move without reprisal came as an aide of his torso to block if necessary while he put pressure into the stance of putting Betna on his knees with the razor sharp sword to threaten the pilot's jugular.
