Tournament of Lost Champions (WoW RP - Dameon x Feral.Desires)

[Dameon]

Azeroth had many beautiful things to offer, dangerous and otherwise. Rolling fields of grass and flowers, caverns of gems and metal that create new colors and hues never seen by mortal eyes. But the desolate landscape that touched the top of the world was no such mark on the world.

It was more like a cancerous tumor, full of death and dying. Jagged mountain tips, ice splintering and crashing continuously as permafrost attacked everything with and without a pulse that settled in it's borders. More often then not even the sunlight seemed to scared to slink across it's landscape.

But even in the frosty death maw there were settlements, many in league with the undead, but a few against. One such bastion was the Argent's consecrated grounds. It was half military base, half fair ground, with various merchants shucking their wares, animals caged and chained for use in events, and numerous large tents that served as what can only be described as Faction headquarters.

Stables, jousting grounds, combat practice arenas, even large groupings of tables for meals and stands for audiences to hear speeches all surrounded the greatest insult to the Scourge hordes that crawled around the frozen rim like an infestation.

The Argent Coliseum.

Inside champions tested their mettle against man, beast and all manner in between. Horde and Alliance, living and dead, traded blood, sweat and viscous fluids in efforts to show who was the greatest warrior worthy of the greatest honors.

This week was one such tournament, but was without games or tricks. No special horses, no per-ordained teams, no plots from giant insects to collapse the stadium in on itself in the name of an undead king. It was a free-for-all battle between all comers. No special rules, simply a last-man-standing battle royal.

The winner would be declared a champion, earning elation and respect from all on lookers, as well as a choice reward that would be enforced by two representatives from either major faction and one from the Argent themselves.

It was here that a lone, large, masked Orc warrior trodded, waiting before the locked gates. The heat poured out from beneath the mouth guard like licks of flame, his face invisible save for the glow of red eyes beneath his helm. Inside the great circle was being cleaned by both servants and enchanted brooms, but the blood of champions and their victims both filled his nostrils as he flared them and inhaled. He turned his back to the gates and headed towards the stables, watching as the rather uppity blood elf and human stable hand tried to wrangle an unruly red Proto-drake back into it's nearly undersized stable and he chuckled.

This was a place where lives changed forever.

 

[Dameon]

As the support beams groaned at the new weight planted square atop the stables and the Orc's amusement carried on a bit further as the tall, Draeneic female began posturing to the hired help. It was always a sight to watch the less warlike races trying to act imposing with their brandished blades and bulky armor. No matter how much the 'fairer' races tried, they always seemed like children trying to bare capped teeth to him. Even the harshest times of war for the allied races that opposed the Horde rarely equaled the harsh, daily life of those that lived in the hellish mesas of Durotar where poisonous creatures the size of horses lucked beneath the dust and sand, demons and cultists try to sacrifice your infants and the threat of constant starvation and dehydration.

He watched as the female Draenei watched as her, what he assumed, was her companion settled in with his new roost. He looked towards his own dire wolf that was still clad in armor with his family's crest burned into the neck guard. The large beast made eye contact with the Orc and he smiled behind his mouth guard. It was a very misleading scene, the great beast was resting comfortably in a pile of hay, a haunch of stripped meat and gnawed bone resting beside it (meat that the Orc couldn't remember giving to the beast, so either the hands had fed it, or he had made the meal himself but the lack of smeared blood on his coat suggested the first possibility). It's breath steamed the snow, and occasionally it's tail would flop in a small display of happiness at the sight of it's owner, almost like a pup.

But earlier that day, on the very trip to the tournament grounds, that happy wolf had ripped several frost wyrmlings wing from wing while his master dealt with some surviving cultists. It was a killing machine, as well as a loyal companion. Was the Proto-Drake so controlled? It seemed unlikely, but with such a fair handed owner it wasn't a surprise. He snorted as he walked beyond the frightened stable hands and towards his mount, his pack resting beside the beast, not locked or even hidden as he had no fear of thieves as long as his hound remained nearby. "You should put a leash on that lizard. If the tournament is delayed because it has a little tantrum more than stable hands are going to be trying to shove it into a wooden box." He rumbled.

Even for an Orc he was tall, although it was only his voice and build that let anyone know his race. His body was covered from head to toe in armor so much so that not even a fleck of skin could be seen. He looked as much like a Demolisher made out of ebony steel as an Orc. Two massive axes with hooked blades slung over either shoulder as he attached two smaller, single handed ones (still large enough to need two hands were it to be used by a slighter race) attached to either hip. He eyed the female, and took note of her blade, as well as the hum to her voice. She obviously had some kind of magic air to her existence, but he was no caster of tricks and illusions, he only knew that magic users tended to go down faster with an axe to the throat then those that swung steel.

"You might want to just head back to Dalaran." He snorted derisively as he thought of the city of robe wearing librarians. "I'm sure there's a Gnome that could give your horns and hooves some polish, take your pet to have a couple of biscuits. I'm sure his feathers are particularly ruffled." He moved to head back towards the gate of the Coliseum once more, not caring if there was any rebuttle, the gates would be opening soon and he had no care for idle chit chat or wastes of time and energy in the ring either.

 

[Dameon]

When the gate opened he could feel his muscles tense. He had almost the same tells as a wolf watching a family of deer roam into an open field. His pupils dilated, his mouth watered and he could already feel his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. There was a human male sputtering off words as his kind so often liked to do, and the rows of seats in the Coliseum were packed leaving standing room only, and even then there were more than a handful of spectators standing shoulder to shoulder to see the bout.

The events of the previous tournaments, including the ones that were attacked by the once and former Lich King's soldiers became stories that soon became myths as stories so often have the fortune of being. It drew people that would have previously had no interest in such blood sport simply for the chance to see great warriors of the Horde and Alliance possibly come to blows with some great hidden evil that might still be lurking, even though the Lich King's forces had been reduced to rabble and disjointed clumps. It didn't matter their reasons for being here, this was going to be a spectacle, and one that would lead to great stories. Stories that would be so memorable, so outstanding that they would not turn to myth, they would not need to.

The rumbling of blood became ever louder, like the sounds of a great shore crashing against the cliff faces of Durotar. His breath became labored and his muscles strained against the plate of his armor. Part of him wished to strip off the weight feeling it press against his chest, almost confining him in his own skin but he knew better. There were reasons beyond protection that he wore this armor.

It was an heirloom, one that had been refitted, reforged and repaired again and again through his life. The axes were both heirlooms and spoils of combat, twins in a set. The rest was simply pieces he had made himself through the years from smelted goods either mined or pried off the corpses of fools. His only regret was that he wouldn't be allowed to lay claim to the salvage he'd leave behind him when he brought down his quarry here today.

Again the rush of blood through his veins drummed against his bones. The time was getting closer as the last of the stragglers made their way into the ring and the gates closed. There were still words spewing from the pale lips of the human male, but there was only one that he heard, and it was as clear as a bell with no other sound mattering.

"BEGIN!"

There was no hesitation, or jockeying for position from the Orc. He had already slipped both axes from their braces across his back without realizing it, but once he registered the weight was there he made use of it. The axe's teeth quickly bit into the side of the nearest combatant, a blood elf, he thought. He didn't pay much mind since the man, or woman (He could never tell them apart in their clothing), was sent flying with the weight of the strike. He was on to the next, the sole of his sabaton dug into the frosted dirt of the stadium floor and he launched himself forward. He may not be the swiftest in the melee, but he was no slouch, and while he may take a moment to gain momentum when he did it took nothing short of a very large Tauren to give him proper resistance.

A lesson a pair of Gnomes were quick to learn as he trampled them underfoot. With both axes drawn he cleaved his way through the meat in front of him, the more he could catch in his stride the better, and all the while the sounds of battle and cries of the ravaged were being further drowned out by the thrum of the battle drums in his ears.

 

[Dameon]

There was blood, and plenty of it. The Argent did their best to ensure the safety, or at least the continued life, of their combatants, but it was very really combat and in combat, people bleed. There was a mist of crimson that wafted the air with every swing of his axe, it's fangs bloodied and hungry. He smiled, it wasn't a smile of malice, or blood lust, but a genuine, content smile. This was where he belonged.

He wasn't a politician, or a hunter, or a scholar. He spoke with blood and steel, the only thing he was fit to kill was that which he'd call enemy, the only thing he could teach would be dismemberment and murder. Another breastplate crumpled beneath the bite of his axe like cheap tin, and he placed his boot against the Dwarf's shoulder to brace himself as he ripped it free, earning a pained cry from the hairy little half pint as a spell whisked him away for quick and proper healing. It wasn't his concern if the little scrub was crippled for the rest of his life, but it still urked him that the weak were being saved after being crushed by the strong. It was as if they were filling their future blood lines with weakness and failure.

He flared his nostrils as a putrid stench filled the air around him and he whirled one of his axes to cleave in an arc as he turned to what stood behind him. A cloaked forsaken lurched for a moment as both of his arms, each of which had clasped a dripping dagger, flopped to the ground limply. There was a moment where he considered taking another swing and splitting the walking corpse in two, but it seemed that removing his hands was enough to warrant him getting a ticket out of the arena. The other fighters were now giving him a wide berth, and it was around now that the weak would begin to have momentary treaties to take out the stronger warriors.

He wasn't about to give any of them that chance. He might draw more attention to himself, but that was usually unavoidable with someone his size and presence. He swam in the ocean of rhythm and rage inside his own head, the blood lust ready to drown him in fury and joy, but he held back the tide. It would do him no good to turn into a slothering animal in the midst of people who train to destroy all the mindless undead in the land all over this place. He caught out of the corner of his eye a pair of Goblins who flanked him, one armed with a comically over sized rifle, the other gathering up his...or her?...presence to cast a spell.

He grunted, and unbuckled one of the axes from his belt, hurling it full force towards the caster. There was a loud thunk, and it toppled backwards, the rifle wielding goblin taken aback by the sudden reversal, and as it turned it's attention back towards the Orc, he had already swooped in upon the smaller green creature, feeding a powerful boot into it's rib cage. A sickening crunch erupted as it rolled limply across the dust before evaporating in the white light of the Argent healers.

A familiar scent wafted, and the Orc cast his gaze on the female Death Knight as she danced past another hooved warrior, watching him clumsily lodge himself into the wood of the arena. It was shameful, but also a bit amusing. Oh well, no time for jokes. He picked up the throwing axe from the dust where it laid, it's former target whisped off by the magic of the arena, and without even bothering to wipe off the blood, he charged into the fray again.