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Zhaerack ran to the crowd of mandos to witness the historic event that was about to unfold. Excited to see what will happen Zhaerack watched eagerly to see the two warriors fight for the greatest title a mandalorian could ask for. The feeling of watching two people he greatly respected was overwhelming as he didn't know how the battle would turn out. This was Zhaeracks second battle he witness that would decide who will become mandalore so the size of the crowd that came to watch surprised him greatly. Excited to see what happens next he he tried to get a good view and study how the two masters in his eyes battled so he could learn.
Standing in the darkest corners of the arena, hidden partially in shadows were a few people. They seemed to be standing around in an odd half crecent. Unbeknownst to the onlookers, those of the Daemon Clan stood the way they did, as a protective circle of sorts. For hidden from sight, and sensor, thanks to his Cloak of Nuun alongside the underlying thermoguard body glove, which to covered his Beskar'gam, was Damien Daemon. Founder of the Clan, and thus far its uncontended head.
He had come to do something he had been unable the last time an event such as this happened: be present to witness the next Leader of the Mandalorian. He had attempted to be there during the previous, however was to far away to reach the fight in time, having gone to look for the Holocron of Lord Ergast.
This time however, he had been in deep meditation a few days prior, when the vision came of such, so he moved swiftly. He had put everything on hold; what else was he to do? This was a monumentous proceeding.
Betna had learned to trust many things over the years. He trusted his vode. He trusted his skills. He trusted his wargear. He trusted his armor.
It would take more than the touch of a razor sharp blade to threaten or shake him.
The kneeling, however, was something he couldn't exactly avoid. Physics being what they were, he felt his knee hit the sand for a brief second before reactive training kicked in, honed by years on the battlefield.
He ripped a hand up, letting the Dinu'ul rest in his palm and used his gauntlet to try and shove the blade up and away where it would skitter off his beskar helm. At the same time, the other hand reversed the ax so that the head of the weapon faced down in his palm, the blade facing away from his body. A quick movement and he shoved the weapon behind and to the outer side, then with a mighty pull forward he attempted to catch [member="Azrael"] by the back of his knee to bring him to the ground as well.
It was a simple technique and a basic tactic. When one was left at a disadvantage, the goal was to gain the advantage once more or, failing this, to level the playing field. With both warriors brought low, the field was leveled and the deadly dance of achieving victory could begin anew.
OOC
Drop to one knee
Push the blade up and away with shield hand as best as possible
Simultaneously attempt to use the ax-head to pull Azrael's knee out from under him.
For what it was worth, the silence between the two combatants was testament to their skill, battle prowess, and understanding of the landscape. Every time that it shifted and altered the balancing act between defense and offense was both seen and taken in. Neither of the Mandalorians needed to speak in order to give credence to their actions, or define the terms to which they were progressing forward. This was innate, ingrained in each warrior - and while there were certain nearly cosmic differences between the pilot and salvager, there was still a bond that held fast. They were brothers, family brought together by the Manda, and called to be the children of such a great nation of warrior people. It was a high honor just to be named among the 'ade, but even more honor was bestowed time and again on their respective duties and lives. This duel, for instance, was another one of those time honored traditions that would be looked upon with pride and respect for those who would stand up for their beliefs and their roles. Each was vehement in personal goals, believing that they each had the right of way, but understanding that it would only be proven by this contest. For Azrael, the movements had been a call for concession, silently giving Betna an opportunity to honorably concede - although he certainly didn't expect the mercenary to yield. The offer had been there as a favor - but it wasn't something he'd offer many more times.
In height and weight, the slightly older vod out-classed the Mand'alor, and yet that didn't seem to matter much. In his days serving under Verz Horak - he'd bested, defeated, and killed a raging Terentatek that had been using five story buildings as rubble armor. A few inches and a dozen or so pounds wasn't going to concern the salvager - nor would he put too much stock in the physical measurements in the conflict at hand. The half-blood had a history of getting into fights with those that were bigger than he was, and he still stood his ground - opposing each. Betna was a different flavor, for certain, but he wasn't the greatest challenge he had faced, nor would he likely be the last one that Azrael would have to contend with. For a Mandalorian, as long as life was in your body, and breath was in your lunges - conflict was right around the corner and welcomed as a symbol of growth and glory.
Strategic, even in the heat of the moment, Betna's counters were tactically sound - bringing the beskad in a slight twist to edge the blade's razor sharp cleaving ability up across the pilot's visor. A dozen sparks leaping across the tinted visor as beskar met its mate and slipped right up the sloping form of Arrbi's buy'ce. A sound and methodical approach to combat his Echani shield was also at play, as the Ax did not swing with the force provided previously, but sought only to make contact with the bent appendage of Azrael's right leg. Armored for certain, but still exposing crucial joints for the Mandalorian to make use of. Each movement timed to coincide with the other, and make a simultaneous strike in disabling a crippling position into a more advantageous respite. Though cunning as the moves were, they were also not completely going to take Betna from out of the woods, so to speak. Azrael was just as quick in reprisal to furnish an even more damaging position from the onset of Arrbi's retaliation.
While his bionic arm swept upwards and over the helmet, Azrael's right concentrated on the Ax hand that came out in striking position in an attempt to pull the salvager off balance and turn the tables. With free range of motion in his right hand, Azrael moved to clasp the crushgaunt directly onto a space of armorweave, between the beskar plates that protected the pilot from dubious harm. The force of which intending to pause the motion of the Ax to a grinding halt, to cause the impact of the blade's curved edge to lessen by the immediate shift of his booted foot in the sand. Then came the movements that would make the situation all the more dangerous. Whipping over and then behind the pilot's head, Azrael's bionic arm came with force to slam the butt of his sword's hilt directly into the back of the helmet near the neck joint - seconds before the coup de grace. The shock-glove webbing that had been melded perfectly within the crushgaunt of Azrael's right hand emptied a devastating charge of electricity directly into the pilot's flight-suit. While armorweave was great for dissipating blaster bolts - the concentrated and hands on delivery of a high amp charge wouldn't fare so well. It wouldn't fry the flesh beneath, but it would easily course through the entire body of the victim paralyzing every nerve ending for the few seconds it'd take to slam the warrior directly into the dirt, nose first.
In a move to herald complete capitalization, Azrael made haste to leverage himself up and then to the back of the warrior, in and effort to not only pin Arrbi on his stomach, but also to maneuver himself into situation that would invoke dominance on the battlefield, and clear and prime position for a striking blow, should he see the need to dispense justice in the conflict and end it - in whatever way was necessary. Certainly he had no desire to kill the man, but if death was the only way to end such a venue, he'd take the measured steps to ensure the contest would be decided.
Betna was many things. A father. A husband. A chieftain. A Soldier. A warrior.
He'd fought in jungles, in tundra, in snow and ice. He'd fought on board ships and in the void of space. He'd fought at range with a rifle and crossed blades with the enemy face to face. He'd fought Jedi and he'd fought Sith. He'd fought, perhaps, more than a normal man should have fought in a single lifetime. A lifetime of war; of fire and blood.
Adopted into the Betna clan at a young age and brought up a farmer, he'd been taught to defend his home, his family, his life from all comers. To fight for what he felt was right and to stand by his beliefs until the very last. As a teen he'd laid down his spade and plow and took up the rifle and the sword so that many of his clansmen and women didn't have to. He'd taken to the stars and fought and learned and saw the galaxy.
Today, he felt both weighted down by the universe and yet uplifted, taken skyward. This fight, this duel of fates, was possibly the most important and profound conflict of his life, despite how dangerous and lethal it could possibly be.
His HUD let him see all around him, giving him a 360 degree view within his helmet. He saw the movements of his opponent, saw the arm reaching down to grasp his, saw the hilt of the beskad as it moved to slam into his neck. Time seemed to slow for a moment and inched by ever so gently until, for the briefest of moments, it seemed to stop. Just for him, just for that brief, minuscule second - a minute and indecipherable point in time - everything stopped.
He felt his heartbeat in his chest, echoing up within his veins. He heard his blood roar in his ears, the sound reminding him of great waterfalls he'd seen on a dozen planets. He felt the weight of his armor, how he carried it with the ease and practice built from years of use. The ax in his right hand, now frozen in his mind, and the shield in his left felt like the weight of years in his palms. The galaxy itself bore down on him in that moment, a figurative burden of immense proportions that threatened to crush him and smash him down.
But this was not the weight of despair, but rather the weight of the moment. The weight of the task at hand and the possible tasks of the future. Now was a moment of doors and halls and endless outcomes, not just for him but for all those who were present and those who weren't. It transcended whatever fate held in store for Betna as it did for Azrael, for compared to the whole even the lives and beliefs of a Mand'alor, named or aspired, were as dust to be scattered to the four winds. The hopes, the dreams, the future of the Mandalorian people did not rest on the shoulders of one warrior, but on the many. Not on one leader, but those who were led.
The Mand'alor was considered the greatest warrior of a culture of warriors, but he only held the position out of respect, not out of prowess. Skill played a part, true, but it meant nothing if the Mandalorians as a whole turned their back on their leader.
Betna knew now, more than ever before, that this was more than just a duel. More than just a conflict. Both combatants, he now saw, had a part to play in the coming days; in the coming darkness and, perhaps, the dawn to follow.
Certain of his task, he realized that this fight, this duel, was becoming one based on tactics. A dance of achieving the higher ground rather than a test of skill or, rather, faith. Faith in oneself and faith in one's cause. He cleared his mind, felt his center, and let his consciousness relax.
All of the plans, all of the tactics, all of the predetermined steps he'd placed himself upon the path to attempt to attain washed away, the surface wiped clean for what had been thought to be stone was, instead, white-gold sand. He'd spent so much time, so much energy and effort to mold his own ideas and concepts of the future into one direction that he'd forgotten the one singular and most important aspect of the Mandalorian people and of his own culture.
Adaptation.
Nothing was certain, everything lay open. What was today could be gone tomorrow. The stone of yesterday became the dust and sand of today. It was so simple, and yet complex.
He felt the weight lift off his shoulders and slither off his limbs as so much stone finally crumbling away to sand. His mind was clear, his center found. It was now time. Not for death, not for victory, for those things yielded to concepts and ideas.
It was time for progress and the future. The future of his people. Of Azrael's people. Of Strider's People. Of the Mandalorian people.
For together they were a culture, an idea; a Civilization. Alone they were merely warriors; perhaps the best of the galaxy, but only warriors at the sun's setting.
Betna's eyes snapped open, only then realizing that he'd closed them in that endless second of epiphany. He let Azrael's gauntlet grasp his arm, but moved it at the last second so that the crushgaunt gripped the unyielding beskar of his vambrace. He immediately felt the shock of the glove, but he'd held against far, far worse at the hands of Force lightning and, though difficult, it was possible to move, but he let his arm still for the briefest of moments.
Gone was the 'Master Plan' to determine victory or defeat. Gone were the tactics and the plots and the quest for the 'higher ground'. Now was for action and the future. Not for himself or for Azrael, but for their people.
Sand shifted underfoot as Betna forced himself upward, the weight of his self imposed shackles and chains falling with the movement. He moved into the blow Azrael gave with the hilt of the weapon, shifting slightly to take the blow on his shoulder. He felt the flash of pain, but shrugged it off as best he could. It would hurt a great deal later, but shortening the blow paid off with no severe injury.
Now he moved. Now he acted. It was difficult and extremely painful - the whole process was as electricity coursed its way through him - but he moved now with the future, not the chains he had worn; had forced himself to wear unknowingly. He fought through the pain and yanked his right arm around as his body twisted to follow it, rotating his arm in his opponent's grip just enough to grip Azrael's wrist in turn. He dropped his Dinu'ul to the sand, letting it deactivate after a moment as the safety features shut it down with no hand holding it and the grit sparking against its face. Instead, his left hand whipped around with the spin and sought Azrael's arm.
With a great heave, Betna put his full strength into the move. He knew his opponent's attack, knew the advantages and disadvantages of their positions. He knew the risks and the rewards. Gone was the desire for absolute victory or to achieve dominance. Instead, it was replaced with resolve and determination, not for himself, but for all of them.
If successful, he would throw Azrael across the sand and onto the ground and, from there, perhaps both could achieve victory. For Mandalore. For the Mandalorians.
Tenacity and resilience were hallmarks of the Mando'ade. Triumph without adversity was rarely an option, and did not bring as much glory in the tales of battle than when you faced the storms of life and still conquered the challenge set before you. These traits had been the harrowing legends that a freckled faced much younger version of the Mand'alor had heard in the taverns and casinos during his upbringing before the salvage yards had called his name. Spacers and gamblers alike told many tales to pass the hours while enjoying the sounds of money chimes, and the hazy light filled atmosphere of the credit traps where they whittled away their free time. Azrael's mother had been a waitress at one of these dives, and her young son, born out of wed-lock had been left to wander around listening to whatever stories these men and women would often tell. The house favorites were normally exaggerated, but there was an eerie reverence paid to any story with a Mandalorian as the subject matter. Attention was paid to these in more earnest affairs, lighting up the gray eyes of the young boy, and they ingrained themselves in his memory. Well before he had set foot on Manda'yaim - or met the two that would rescue him from Ord Mantell's life of servitude, he had known about the culture to the degree of awe inspiring legend.
Some twenty years later, the salvager turned Mand'alor hadn't forgotten those tales, understanding far more now than he ever hoped to in the scrap yards about the culture. He had heard about their glory, but now he felt it, lived it, and sought it like every next breath. What had once been tales was now his life, and even when presented with the challenge of combat and conflict, those memories that he'd become what he once heard never seemed to dampen in his mind. Azrael had beaten the odds, re-rolled the chance cubes of fate - and found himself, through hard work and determination, standing at the forefront of history, and being part of the legend he had always admired. A sense of resolute thankfulness had washed over him time and time again - and even now while he worked to best his vod in the time honored tradition of mortal combat. Grateful to the Manda for his adoption and calling, and even for the opportunity to lock proverbial horns and prove who was that right and worthy leader of their people. Betna also displayed such resolute willpower, fighting with every inch and with every breath. There was no surrender on the personal level, as they bought toiled to bring about the change necessary to further the Mando'ade. While their purpose and drive were for a similar goal - their paths were contested, and only one could outweigh the other.
Azrael felt the giving motion, while Betna rolled his shoulder and absorbed the blow from it's original trajectory to his plated shoulder blade. The movement didn't yield the intended result, in pushing the warrior down to the dirt itself. Instead of paralysis, Arrbi locked his muscles and resolved to turn the tide and stand with great effort and strength befitting his rank. Admiration would come later in a more full sense, but he still had to agree that the opponent he faced was going to be a far more meaty challenge than that of those who didn't understand the ways of their people. A flick of attention caught the powered energy shield dropping to the sandy floor, as did the Ax while the larger man's right hand moved to ensnare his own wrist. With the weapons depleted from their source of expertise, the realization that hand to hand combat was to become shortly the main stage, Azrael shifted his tactics to adapt to the ever changing landscape of this bout. In quick faction, the beskad was slid into the sheath with practiced ease while sacrificing a momentary lapse of movement allowing Betna to right himself and sling his left arm for the salvager's pinned right arm. It was a calculated risk, and for what came next, he found it far suitable.
Focus was driven onto the single arm, which in the hands of Betna would certainly be recipe for a calamity if not addressed. The disadvantage to the pilot though was it left the more worrisome appendage of the half-blood unattended, and free to move. Before the motion of the tug, and shift of the man's hips - the brutal bionic fist came to make quick contact into the under-arm socket of Betna's right arm. A powerful blow that was intended to not only dissolve the idea of tossing him into the air, but also to facilitate a release as Azrael shifted momentum and tore his right arm backwards. Footwork shifted along the sand in concord to stabilize his own frame while making the center of his gravity that much harder to accomplish the throw. The iron grip of two hands on his own right arm would certainly add in a the problem of a worn shoulder, and tired wrist, but he could manage with that setback. Within the immediate onset to this new field of battle - Azrael moved into a stance that might have never been seen by the vode, in their time fighting side by side.
During his days as a Rally Master, Azrael had taken it upon himself to travel through the Galaxy absorbing new facets that the stars had to offer, and one such arid world had drawn the path into the infamous form of martial arts known as shockboxing. Trained in this deadly sport by someone who certainly had taken the sport out of the art itself. This was not about some contestation of a belt and credit worthy prize - this was about survival. Kaiden was one of the premier shockboxing aficionados of their time, and he'd taken Azrael under his wing to re-shape the man into a prime fighting specimen. The pair had spent many days and knights training on the acid rain world, and going round for round in the Broken Tusk's training ring. The training was intense, giving no room for error, or for weakness. Now more than ever, Azrael was thankful to have that store of knowledge and experience built up as his stance shifted into southpaw favoring the power of his left arm while leaning on the speed of his right. Azrael and Betna were about to throw down in the sweet science.
Betna felt the impact of Azrael's fist on his bicep. It was a sharp, yet blunt pain that shot up and down his arm. A nearly numbing feeling that told of massive, deep bruising later, but with the lack of the familiar sharp, blinding pain of broken bones he knew that he was still functional.
Despite the blow, the electricity had stopped flowing as Azrael released his grip and Betna forced his arm to work through it all. Even Azrael's sudden yank on his grip wouldn't thwart his determination. He kept his hand locked on Azrael's wrist like his life depended on it.
Because it did.
His strengths were in his size, strength, and training. Azrael's strengths lay in his agility, dexterity, and mechanical augmentations. Their training differed, this much was clearly evident from the moment the fight started. He didn't know fully what Azrael's capabilities were in unarmed combat, but he knew the style at least. Stories were stories and if there was one thing Mandalorians loved more than a good fight, it was a good story with ale in one hand and a fire before their feet. He might not know the skill his opponent had, but he knew Azrael preferred Shockboxing.
That was fine with Betna. He could deal with it easily enough.
With his right arm latched on to Azrael's right arm, it would negate his opponent from using both hands, restricting Azrael to using primarily his prosthetic arm. While formidable in its own right, Betna knew that bionics were always limited by biology. An arm may lift metric tonnes, but the bones it was attached to didn't. It would hurt - it would feel like a jackhammer with each blow - but he'd survived a falling building and limped away. He could handle it.
With his right hand latched, his left immediately drew back a short distance. He pulled at Azrael's arm suddenly, just as his foe had done a bare second before, and slammed his left fist forward aiming for the elbow joint to break it.
[SIZE=12pt]It was a fight that lasted longer than the one between Verz and Gil. Each movement on the part of the other still twisted Arla’s insides.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from shouting out in favor of one or the other. This was not a feud over land or property it was the right to lead.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]Leadership was defined on many levels. What did it take to lead the mandalorians? Was it fierce pride? Strong kinship among the Clans? The ability to pull them together when needed?[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]There were many other things that she could have thought of just then, but then the question was what kind of Leader was she looking for?[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]Did either possess the things important to her?[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]Her gaze went from one to the other as she began to consider what she knew about each one.[/SIZE]
It had started when he was young, when he was six or seven years old. Even with such a distinct memory as it was when his mother had jettisoned herself from the planet, in exchange for his life sold to the scrapyards - he still wasn't sure exactly how old he was when his life dramatically changed. The young boy knew barely a handful of people by name except for his mother, and even less about the work that he had been sold for. All the young half-blood did know is that he was lost, alone, and completely at the mercy of the credits exchanged to sell him into a life of servitude. As a young boy he had never been particularly strong in the physical traits, but he was a quick learner when it came to problems of the mind. This gift for understanding the job ahead of him had warranted a certain downside that while it was a constant trial - it had also prepared the young boy for something many years in his future. Weekly a gang of brutal thugs had zeroed in on the youth and had been determined to bolster their own self worth by routine beatings of the stranded orphan. That's what they had called him, among other insults, and while it wasn't entirely true in the most technical of senses, he surely didn't have a parent around to turn to. Ord Mantell was a harsh world - but it had taught him so many things in his life - lessons that would harden his resolve, steel his mind, and most of all allow him to weather these storms of life.
Taught to minimize casualties and work through the tougher situations in life, the instinctive muscle memory of practiced defense mechanisms snapped into action without need for calculating thought or analyzing of the situation. He didn't have time for that - and if he needed to focus and decipher every clue, he would have never made it to this spot in the sand - or as far as he'd come as Mand'alor. Betna was resilient - able to push through damaging blows and crippling nerve strikes to still force his body into obedience and submission to every command. What the pilot was facing though was someone who had cut off his own arm in order to survive. Azrael was willing to do things most would think insane in order to push forward, but he hadn't reached that point yet. Beneath the buy'ce, a grit of his teeth came to gnashing while he stepped forward instead of pulling back, throwing his weight forward and bending his right arm at the elbow. Arrbi's clenched fist slammed into the joint, but with the alteration of landscape would clip the edge of Azrael's gauntlet, lessening the impact and saving his bone from being smashed. If it meant getting a better angle, he'd take the blow - as it had been said, you never exchange sure footing for a killing stroke.
The disadvantage of being locked into a death grip with the pilot was the advantage Betna had in size and strength, keeping his arm more or less in his court, and yet that was also an opportunity. With a closer proximity, Azrael moved swiftly preform a reverse side step, in the attempt to utilize the lock on his right in spreading Betna's arm out to his side. His bionic left came in, and instead of a simple and direct punch, those taloned digits struck out to seize purchase on the bicep. Throwing his left shoulder forward, not only would it be nearly impossible to fight the angle, by trying to out turn Azrael, but it mean turning Betna's arm into a lever. The fulcrum being the metallic hand that came to claim the appendage close enough to the shoulder to force Betna's anatomy to pitch forwards. If his opponent abandoned his own right arm, he'd gain a moment of leverage back in his court, but Azrael would still remain behind him. If he kept the death grip, at the worst his shoulder could be thrown out of socket, and at the least, be immobilized on Azrael's left side, to which a host of other possibilities would open up in the salvager's favor. If he wasn't going to have both hands free to enter into a boxing match, Azrael would settle for another maneuver to further immobilize and pin down his opponent.
Betna was a simple man. Action to reaction, season to season. A lifetime on the battlefield and a childhood of combat training usually left that outlook on folks. Thankfully, when push came to shove Betna had just as much combat experience, if not slightly more, than Azrael did in some respects. He might not have the years and years of dedicated experience to the same areas of fighting that his opponent did, but he'd taken care to throw himself in the hottest fires he could find to learn what did and didn't work. Some help from friends did wonders, too.
Thankfully, the long time sparring and training with his friend @Shepard had given him a unique outlook on hand to hand and a style few, if any, had seen before.
As Azrael shoved hard, Betna stepped back. As Azrael stepped to the side to get around Betna, Betna turned, ending up facing Azrael's side. As Azrael reached out with his arm to grip Betna's arm, Betna let him and ignored the dull pain of a crushing grip as best he could. This was a grappling match and, though the move to use Betna's arm as a fulcrum to threaten dislocation was a smart move, it was also the wrong move.
As the Mand'alor passed, Betna's left arm moved. It snaked out, not to strike or punch, but to grab and grasp. Not at an arm or limb, nor a throat or joint, but for something simple, yet never truly attacked in such a manner.
Betna grabbed for the back lip of Azrael's helmet. A simple move, but an effective one. One that left his opponent with a small number of choices: dodge the attack and try a different approach, lock in a full grapple with each other, or try something brash and risky. As far as Betna was concerned, all three were advantageous, though admittedly some were more risky to him than others.
What happened now would decide the course of the battle. These were the final steps. He could feel it.
OOC:
Give way before the shove to remove the majority of the force of the attack
Sidestep with Azrael to give a better angle both to attack and mitigate the attempted arm-bar for a moment
Take left arm grip to bicep
Reach for Azrael's helmet to grip and hold the back lip tight with his left hand
Neither the pilot nor the salvager had ever witnessed the fight style of their current opponent in the fields of battle before, nor had they engaged in a duel with each other in the past. They had certainly heard stories, and watched glimpsed each other on the fields of battle, though certainly not enough to make a study of their individual tactics. Arrbi was a pilot in Azrael's eyes, and a valiant one at that. While he never expected the man to be an easy victory in this kind of an arena, he also wasn't banking on how resourceful and studied the man was in the art of hand to hand combat. There was so much he was learning about Arrbi in this trial by fire that he hadn't seen or anticipated. While he already saw great worth in the man currently locked in the ring with him, edging forward to dominate in the field of combat, he was learning just how fierce a resolve and cunning a mind that the human had. He could brave the winds of change, raze the very levels of every Corellian hell, and stand against the storms that were coming across the Galaxy. If anyone was to succeed him as Mand'alor - he was glad he was being challenged by this man. That however didn't mean for a second he was looking to make that path a reality.
A tight left turn, utilizing his own right shoulder as the anchor point circumventing Azrael's own turning back peddle forced the combatants back to a face to face confrontation. Another shift in the paradigm of this match as Betna's right arm lay now victim to the bionic grip, and his continual grasp on the right gauntlet of Azrael's armor immobilized that arm, pressing it as the only barrier between himself and the pilot. The provision however came in the fact that both the savlager's arms were kept at bay, leaving Betna to come forward with an open strike - and yet he feigned an assault and came for a grapple to the Mand'alor's buy'ce. It was evident that Betna was going for traction, getting a purchase on the half-blood in order to use him as leverage which was foreseen peril, and would only lead to downfall if he was allowed to gain full advantage with his strength and size. For the ability to break the hold, the idea of sacrifice was a plan in the making. There was a theme among the Mandalorians, one that rang true in every heart. They didn't need weapons, they didn't need armor, they could fight in any circumstance with any disadvantage. If there was one thing that they were known for above all else, is that they were ready to fight in any condition.
Within an instant, a reprisal of simultaneous action presented itself in the physical rebuttal to Betna's new tactic. From left to right, a series of events unlocking and yet orchestrated together into a seamless answer. Bionic digits, sharpened to razor tips and enhanced in both strength and durability by the alchemization process dug like talons deep through the armorweave, to shred right into the flesh of Betna's right arm. Even if the protective clothing could dull some of the sharp flesh tearing claws, the strength of the servos would certainly cripple the right arm if it was moved within the grip. Then the right gauntlet, activating with a hushed command whipped out the concealed beskar blade to add insult to injury if Arrbi's fingers tried to stand in the way of the bladed edge. The entire intent was to release Betna's hand as a massive heel kick raised up to plant directly into the diaphragm of the warrior's armor and send him back several feet, and hopefully land him square on his back. The sharpened talons of his bionic arm allowing the movement, and possibly taking a section of armorweave and flesh as a parting gift. The price for these actions? Azrael dipped his head forward releasing the neck seal and letting Betna's left take his helmet right off his head as a souvenir for the trip he intended to thrust him into.
It was a calculated risk, but it was far less a a troublesome position to be in than letting Arrbi have any continued grip near his neck or head. Still, the pilot would be retaining all of his beskar plating protection, including the helmet, while Azrael would stare down his opponent in the naked gaze of his gray eyes. Expression open to the masses that stood and watched, while the reading of Arrbi's face would be continually concealed.
Crushing, aching pain shot up and down his bicep. He could feel the armorweave give underneath the talons of Azrael's bionic claw, the cloth shearing under the strain and the razor points of the claw puncturing the flesh beneath. Warmth began to slowly spread down his arm telling him he was bleeding.
He had little time to worry about his arm, however. While his bicep coursed pain, he felt the icy lick across his fingers. Ice slowly turned to warmth and he knew, once more, he was bleeding. He couldn't see what it was, but figured Azrael had a concealed blade in his gauntlet.
Azrael's grip crushed and Betna bled, but the real blow came a split second later when the force of a blow came to Betna's chest. It knocked the wind out of Betna and he felt himself rise slightly from the sand with the kinetic force, but he stayed on his feet. Come hell or high water, he knew his only hope at this point was to hold on. To lose his grip was to potentially welcome death itself upon him.
In desperation, mice become lions.
Breathing hurt, bringing about a grating sensation in his chest. A cracked rib, possibly broken, he wasn't sure. His arm hurt, his hand hurt, his chest hurt. Moving hurt, breathing hurt, existing hurt.
He let the pain fuel him, he let it fill him. The Jedi and the Sith had it so very, very wrong when it came to power.
The Jedi taught to calm emotions, to hide them and chain them down immobile, to prevent them from affecting the mind and the actions of the body. Tranquility fueled them, they believed. A mind at peace opened all doors and allowed the flow of the Force into all things.
The Sith taught to let certain emotions rise and rage. Anger, hate, passion, and all manner of powerful emotions were allowed to run riot. They fueled massive Force attacks and enhanced the body, letting the wielder smash all opposition with brutality and force all comers to kneel before their might. Raw emotion, they believed, lent power and only through power was all possible in the Force.
The Mandalorians believed a little differently. Emotions were not to be locked away or hidden from sight. They were to be brought out and shown, to allow the warrior to feel as he or she will on the field of battle. However, never should they rule the warrior. A warrior fueled by endless waves alone is a furious figure in combat, a storm of primal fury and hate that few can stand against, but rage and hate often overwhelm reason and logic. A warrior must not lock away his emotions, nor should he be ruled by them. He must find balance between the two and constantly seek to maintain them, to chain them down, not out of sight, but as a master chains a hound.
Betna was no Force sensitive, but with the Mandalorian way, sensitivity was not required. He let the pain fuel him, let his emotions run within him. He let his hopes and dreams come to the fore, not for himself, but for his people. A united Mandalorian people and a united cause. He let it all flow and grasped it, forced it down and condensed it within himself. He kept it contained and let it harden, felt the weight within himself as it formed a lump within his chest like a chunk of newly cast beskar. From there, he took that lump, that ball of emotion and hope and perceived future and ground it against the whetstone of his soul to a razor sharp edge.
From there, the rest was simple.
His chest hurt and his lungs burned as the injury there grated and ground. His hand and arm ached as the wounds there bled and wept. He knew it was time to act and, thankfully, Azrael had given him what he had needed.
With a primal roar Betna's head darted forward, the armored faceplate seeking Azrael's unarmed visage in a brutal headbutt. Regardless of whether it connected or not, Betna's left hand swung up and over. He'd kept a hold of Azrael's helmet, the beskar weight heavy in his hand. Before it had protected his opponent's head from attack. Now it was a crude bludgeon in Betna's hand. Seemingly heedless of his current injuries, Betna's hand used Azrael's helmet like a club, striking repeatedly with forceful blows at Azrael's unprotected head.
He couldn't fight like this for long, but perhaps he wouldn't have to.
Combat came down to moments, measurements of time that while technically short were filled with purpose enough to fill chapters in the holorecords. It was in these microcosms of conflict when real change was taking place - where choices came to fruition and the battle was won. Timing, precision, cunning and tactics all played a part, but in every fight there was a time where a single few grains of sand would fall through that metaphysical hourglass in which victory was achieved. There could be many turning points, but there was really only one shift in power that would dominate the last blow, and render the verdict in how a battle would be decided. When it came down to it though, the science of battle was often only part of the equation - as the reason for it held so much more weight. Both warriors had a great deal on the line, staking not only a claim to the title, but also proving their worth to their family, their clan, and the Mandalorian heritage. This was not about personal conflict - for neither Betna nor Azrael had an issue with each other. There was no grievance, this was only a statement. A statement that would be written in blood.
The ferocity by which Arrbi continued to persevere - despite his injuries was a testament to the creed of the Mandalorians. His struggle was real, and he'd been fighting on the defense throughout the match. Azrael's own purpose in this duel was to dominate the competition, to show no passivity. He wasn't going to hold back, not simply because it was the expected mentality of such an occasion, but as well that if he didn't give this his all, he would surely lose to someone so skilled and honed in the art of battle. He had to give it his all in order fully prove both to himself and to those that watched this display that he was just as worthy of the title as the Mando'ade had supported during his tenure as Mand'alor. A new direction was needed, Arrbi had spoken the truth in his address to both Azrael and the gathered Mandalorians watching and vocalizing their bravado for such a contest of strength and power. The Mandalorians would soon be encompassed on all sides by factions vying for their territory, for their resources, and to overtake them. The Republic wouldn't be able to assist them if it came down to a struggle, and with the shadow of the Sith's talons growing larger by the day, it was going to take a new effort on their part to strike and tear apart their competition. Azrael knew this was true, but he also believed in his very soul that he could lead such a campaign with the Mandalorians bringing their A-game into the heat of battle.
They had stumbled, and they had fallen in months prior, mistakes made and visions changing. Mistakes however were just opportunities if you had the right mindset. Like the unsuccessful plot Azrael had delivered to break the strong grip of his foe - he too was at a distinct disadvantage. The helmet sliding off his head was meant to simply be a ruse for a grip in order to send Betna across the ring and onto his back. He had overestimated his own abilities to break that stronghold, and now he was going to pay for it. Beskar metal slammed into his forehead with ferocity flinging his head back from the blunt force trauma. The bridge of his nose sported an immediate cut from the visor's shelf curving between his sinuses while the vision blurred before his eyes. The Keldabe kiss disorienting him for a moment in time. While his senses were hazy, he did clock the incoming movement, of Betna's left hand righting his own buy'ce as the instrument of victory. Azrael didn't have the advantage of a completely clear head at the moment, but his body still reacted on instinct.
Azrael's right hand curved to clasp along the vambrace of Betna's wrist, locking the grip akin to Betna's own hold. Crushgaunt digits moved to dig against the metal for firm purchase. His bionic arm came quickly to clasp along the other side while his feet gave way. Dropping immediately, his frame falling to the flat of his back to the sand. The sweep of Betna's reach narrowly avoided as the helmet buzzed just above Azrael's head seconds before he hit the sand. The grip that had been meant to pin and immobilize his right hand now came as a pricey retaliation, for even if Betna did relinquish his grip, there were now two methods of hold placing to the man's arm. With gravity as his ally, Azrael's falling form would physically jar the pilot from his feet if he made contact. The second tier to this reactionary plot came with a slowly clearing head. Both feet rose to slam upwards and aim for the stomach region again, in an attempt to plant, lift, and then flip the warrior directly overhead. With both the power of his bionic hand, the force of gravity, and the leverage of two beskar boots - the motion to flip Betna head over heels directly overhead was a singular action in an attempt to lay the warrior on his own back about a foot from his own body.
