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Bernard Cornwell vs Castlevania (Pana & Boyo)

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Panakananana

Panakananana

Super-Earth
Joined
Jul 5, 2014
With much more enthusiasm than Andros would expect from those were his higher up lackeys in the kingdom, the competition requested by Porthos had come along smoothly and with haste. Noella is unable to leave the castle because of the sun, but nonetheless is doing what she can there. Andros steps out to the arena and speaks to everyone with his great voice "I have invited you all here in search of the very best, those who rank highest will get the chance to join me in a quest and if successful, unimaginable riches would be yours. Sign up and go the waiting area, fighters, everyone else...enjoy".

The arena is built in a large circular area with a sandy floor and no covering, the speaking is left to another man as the Blue Knight himself goes out to the arena and awaits the first challenge.
 
"Lord Derfel Cadarn", the man said to Andros as he walks into the arena. Wielding a long sword and shield Derfel took a ready stance before Andros.

The Blue Armor was heavy, but Andros learned he could move in it quite easily once he wore it for awhile. It made him like a thick tree, or wall, where he could be battered over and over, though he would still stand at the end. Still carrying his sword and whip kept the saber on a sheath over his back, the broadsword stayed there as well when unneeded. Andros could see directly in front of him, that was the problem with the helmet, it did not give him a good view to the sides, and it was hot. Derfel, as long as he was in front of Andros, was not going to get any good blows in.

Derfel, however, was light on his feet. Covering the space between them quickly, the shield coming to bash his broadsword while the long sword swept his feet. The greaves took the brunt of the sword, the blade stopped with a ringing sound, Derfel stopped as if he had hit a wall then stepped back. Fortunate to raise the long sword the blades struck, sparks flying where the two blades met. Derfel pushed at Andros with the shield, the front of it bound iron on hide, yet it was solid enough to flatten against the broadsword and push Andros' arm back. Taking a step forward Derfel struggled to keep Andros still, but the armor gave him some leverage, and weight, that pushed Derfel back. Andros was sweating within the armor, the sun beating down on him did not help, while it was great protection he thought he would die of heat before they could finish their battle.

They lunged, parried and thrusted blades at each other, Derfel striking Andros with the shield when possible. Getting to the side of Andros the long sword swept around the helm and broadsword, the loud clang ringing heavily in his ears while Derfel looked upon Andros with amusement. Though Derfel was also sweating he seemed to have an easier time of it than Andros.

"End it soon Blue Knight and you can take a bath if you can get out of that kettle," Derfel said humorously as they parried and met blades again and again.
 
As Lord Derfel Cadarn throws out small insults like that one, Andros feels himself become more and more angry, to a point where Andros is quite positive that this explosive, bloodthirsty, rage is not from within him. Though covered by his helmet, Andros could feel the blood rushing to his eyes. Andros vision becomes red and he cannot convince himself if his rage is from a remnant of Dracula's curse, him going crazy from what he's seen, or if his helmet was actually cooking his brain. "Getting hot in there, Blue Knight. There's no shame in surrender" says Derfel humorously again.

Andros meets the smaller blade of Derfel's with the broadsword, then with a second strike from the longsword, Andros parries it forcefully to the right and, in the same motion, shoulders Derfel's shield with his full weight and aiming slightly to the right, causing the shield to veer to the left. Before Derfel can recover, Andros hurls his broadsword at the shield and as he rushes toward Derfel, Derfel brings back his blade as fast as fast as he can only to have it grabbed by Andros, Andros forces the longsword down and uses his free hand to punch Derfel's face. Derfel hits the floor, though he is not done yet "I'll bet you wish you had a kettle of your own, get up if you are able".
 
Derfel smiled, taken off guard by the Blue Knight's size slowly stood up. "I don't think I have ever seen a kettle move that fast. Were you enchanted by Merlin perhaps?" Shaking his head, "no matter, fate is inexorable."

Stepping forward with the shield before him to take the broadsword as the Blue Knight advanced, Derfel stepped aside moving quickly to the left the shield held up. The Blue Knight turned, as Derfel feinted and slipping the sword under his shield moved the blade low. The Blue Knight stepped back, to avoid the point of the blade instinctively, Derfel knew from his last strike it was not going to work, the armor was too strong for his blade. The Knight did not seem to be used to using it as a shield and he hoped to take advantage of the Knights unfamiliarity. Instead, as the Knight was off balance he moved, slamming shield and blade into the side of the Knight, intending to knock him over and take his blade.

Instead it felt as if he had hit a wall, the shield coming up hard. The gauntlet held the shield in place, then to the side where Derfels arm slid from the straps. Catching his feet and with the blade swung out, to find the Knight had finally become comfortable in the armor, or was too crazed to care. The armor resounded with the edge of his blade, the arm sliding down the edge and then the armor was on top of Derfel and he felt the air leave his lungs as the Knight fell on top of him. They both fell to the ground, Derfel losing his blade. Such a melee was of no use to him, and he would lose, Derfel raised his hands in supplication.

"Well fought Blue Knight, well done." Clasping hands, Derfel retrieved his sword and shield and walked with heavy shoulders out of the arena.
 
The Blue Knight removes his helmet and gasps for air "stick around, it's been awhile since I have met an equal in combat. If not for my powerful armor I would have no doubt lost the match. I could use your help in my quest to rid this land of evil creatures, starting with Dracula".

"Round 2, Derfel versus Eren Jaeger" A voice announces.

It's somewhat of a mystery how he got to this continent, but Eren is here for the opportunity to help the world famous knight in his quest. Eren would keep his hidden talent hidden until absolutely needed. Eren walks out in the arena to meet Derfel with a bow, then he unsheathes his sword, his only weapon, and stands at the ready. Eren has leather padding along some parts of his body and boots, he also carries the manuever gear equipped to his belt, an alien technology to the people of Europe. As Derfel's sword comes at Eren, Eren blocks with his blade, an unusual sounding clang comes from Eren's blade as he backs closer to the wall each time the blades clash "it's a hardened steel used to kill titans".

When Eren is almost cornered he uses the maneuver gear to hoist himself far up and to the side, then flies at Derfel.
 
Derfel turns as Andros removes the helmet, "well, as long as I don't need to fight you again." Derfel smirks and places his sword back at his side, adjusting the straps on his shield as he waits.

As Eren entered the arena Derfel tried to take his measure, the boy was young, slightly built. Short black hair and piercing, intense eyes, yet there was something about the boy that worried Derfel. As they crossed blades the long blade that Eren held gave an odd sound from the metal, Derfel was used to the usual clang that came from a sturdy blade, or the hollow sound of one that was about to crack. This sound was unnerving in its unusual solidness. What was more unnerving was Eren moving back to the wall then with a motion at his belt two lengths of line flew out, above them and Eren was dragged into the air and around, the lines retracting then others bringing Eren back to Derfel.

As Eren flew through the air, arms raised the sword the line making a loud whine in the air. All of it was distracting and unnerving to Derfel who got the shield up in time, Eren's sword slicing through the material and barely missing Derfel's chest. Eren sat on the shield a moment, Derfel pushed the shield out and ran out, Eren touching the belt again, as the feet left the shield Derfel moved it to the side. The sword dragged off to the edge, Eren pulled the blade free but seemed out of balance as the lines dragged him through the air, hitting the other wall hard and falling down to the ground. Derfel rushed in, blade pointed out and down as the side of the blade touched the shield, striking the wall beside Eren the lithe boy rolled aside, the sweat on his foreheard flying up and glistening on the shield's surface.

Following Eren, keeping him off balance, Derfel came at him with blade and shield. "I know not about your magic belt, but its magic seems to be spent." Derfel taunted as he followed Eren who rolled and swung the blade to meet Derfel. Feeling the rush of the fight Derfel came at Eren with the joyous smile of the fight, "if not for all the running this would be more enjoyable."
 
Eren becomes enraged, taking Derfel's comment as a verbal assault. He charges after Derfel with a centered pierce of his sword that, once parried by Derfel's, turns around into a rushed slash attack, Derfel deflects it with his sword and then, taking advantage of the very short recovery period that Eren takes, slams his shield into Eren's face. Eren is knocked on his ass with a broken nose and blood dripping from his face to the sand. As Eren looks up at the smug expression on Derfel's face, he quickly realizes that he will not be able to beat such an adept swordsman in his current state. Eren stands up and sheaths his sword, he grabs his broken nose and wrenches it, he quickly grows and changes into his titan form and with the area still full of Eren's steam from the change, brings his foot down to step on Derfel. Hearing no scream or any other noise, Eren assumes that he has crushed Derfel and with that Eren unhinges his jaw to let out a loud roar in indication of his victory, standing 15 meters tall.

Andros sits in the waiting area with the other fighters, watching the fight in the shade, he seems impressed that such a sorcery is possible and considers the possibility of adding Eren to his team. A muscular, old fashioned, warrior looking man bearing the crusader's mark on his clothes, steps beside Andros. "I have witnessed Defel fight before, do not believe that he is finished. My names is Simon Belmont and I would like to be the one to fight the winner". Andros look at Simon "talk to the man in charge, Porthos.
 
Derfel wondered at this new development. "First you run around like a spider, now its mist," shield and sword at the ready he heard the growling in the air around him. "By Merlin's beard what sort of magic is this?" The mist separated and he saw the figure before him. Standing up and tall, the boy had grown into a giant, and one like he had never seen before. A foot came down and he dodged it easily.

Coming behind the figure, still in its own mist, Derfel moved Hywelbane across the back of the giants leg. Normally the blade would bite deep, skin and sinew would separate under the edge of his sword. Now the skin of the giant resisted, it marred but the bite was not deep. The leg was tall and impossibly thick. Another foot came down as another scream of rage came out. The giant noticed him now and angry eyes looked down on him. Derfel knew he should be scared of it, the heat of battle was upon him and as he launched himself into innumerable shield walls and enemies he was committed and ready to die under his blade if he needed to; though the rules of this contest forbid such an outcome.

"Come them big one," he taunted. Angry warriors always made mistakes, no matter how big they may be. A hand came down and covering himself, kneeling to gain a purchase Hywelbane met the hand, the blade biting deeper this time. The long mark across the palm of the hand as the giant pulled back, the hand thrust into a fist as another roar came. There was no obvious way to defeat the giant, unless it made its own mistakes, which was all Derfel could hope for at this time. With Hywelbane able to bite he had his chance, maybe with numerous cuts or one in the right place the giant would fall and it would end.
 
As Eren roars loudly at Derfel, his hand and leg both exude steam until his wounds heal about one minute later. He pounds his fist into the ground, where Derfel stands, his fist smashes down so hard that his hand explodes into the sand. Derfel evades the attack and gets away with only blood spatter on him, which quickly evaporates into steam. Seizing the opportunity, Derfel races toward the injured hand and pierces into the exposed meat with his sword, just as Eren lifts the arm and Derfel hangs onto the hilt of his sword and hitches a ride up to Eren's face. Once Eren notices what Derfel is doing, he reaches out with his good hand and slaps Derfel to the sandy ground, but not before Derfel kicks off of Eren's arm, pulling his sword out and cuts Eren's face 4 times in a split second before he is swatted. Derfel travels nearly 15 meters downward at a diagonal angle, slides along the sandy surface, burning him deeply, and uses his sword to stop his movement and flip himself to his feet. He looks up and sees the steaming X with a cross in it begin to slowly heal, as well as Eren's wounded hand. "Nothing smartass to say this time" Eren gets out in a struggled voice.
 
"Didn't seem to mean much to you," Derfel retorted. Swinging the sword next to him as if loosening some tightness in his arm.

Eren looked down covered in steam, the body healing as quickly as Derfel could wound him. Though large the body was relatively slow, as if relying on fear of the size to stun or slow an opponent down. While Derfel felt uneasy standing before, and under, the large figure he was used to odd magic. Such magic as this though seemed far beyond him, and what he didn't understand he ignored for the moment. Eren moved quickly at times, though the size and length of his arms and legs made the attacks far too clumsy. Against an agile foe Eren's size was an impediment and while Derfel scurried about to avoid grasping hands and stomping feet he could make no decisive attack that could end the fight with the giant.

"Since it seems that I can't wound you," Derfel began and moved aside as Eren again came at him, "and you can't swat me to insignificance why don't we call this one a draw."

Eren stilled a moment, the anger on his face, the dark hair wild. Derfel realized fighting many opponents like this would be far more difficult to survive, and counted his blessings from the Gods he only needed to face one such as this. After a moment Eren nodded, the body disappearing in a cloud of steam. Derfel sheathed Hywelbane and held out his arm, they clasped and he could see Eren thinking of trying some last trick. A grin back at the body as he clasped harder they laughed and stepped off the circle.

From the other side of the arena the large viking steps in, in each hand a large battle axe. Svein of the White Horse bellows across the arena, the thick furs around his feet and chest are enough to be a simple armor but the large size displays power as the muscles ripple under the furs as Svein looks scornfully across the empty arena. "Who challenges Svein?"
 
Eren unhinges his jaw and lets out a loud roar, then composes himself and looks down at Derfel "I came all of this way to display my abilities to the Blue Knight and lend him my gifts in combat" letting off a lot of steam, Eren transforms back to his human form "and I believe that I have done so, you are clearly the superior fighter though. This victory should go to you, I'll be around, see you soon I hope". Eren looks disappointed but walks off with dignity.

With permission from Porthos, Simon runs out to the center of the arena to meet Svein of the White Horse, the brown leather pants that he wears do not hide the muscularity of his legs. He wears little in terms of armor, some leather boots and leather pad around his chest and shoulders as well as a steel helmet that offers no protection to the face, only to the head and ears. Without a word he sprints toward Svein, armed with several small blades, a whip, and a single steel knuckle on his right hand. Simon extends a leg, high enough to hit the viking's face, the boot is blocked by an axe. Kicks continue to fire off by Simon's leg, 6 per second and each with enough force to thrust his own body forward a few inches. The axes catch the first few before they are knocked out of position, the next few strike the fur on his chest until a final kick almost straight up to Svein's face. Svein, the behemoth of a man, miraculously still stands, and as Simon forcefully drops his leg into Svein's body, Svein grabs the leg and throws Simon back. Svein stops to recompose himself as Simon glares at him.
 
Svein laughed heartily, "you are quite the fighter. No viking of course," Svein moved forward faster than his bulk looked. The axes swinging in and jutting out forcing Simon to block with the steel band on his wrist or move out of the way. "No viking, but adequate," he chided as Svein stopped as Simon leaped backwards the whip cracking on the ground before him.

Grinning as Simon stood still for a moment, judging the distance between them. Svein did the same. He was a brawler at heart, like most Vikings. Ready at a moments notice to meet fist with fist and bloody nose with bloody nose. His own had been broken when he was younger more times than he could count. As Simon launched in again, like a sparrow from a tall limb. The body almost a blur as the whip cracked to the side as a distraction. Svein held the blade of one axe out, and the point of the other before him as a shield as he readied to absord any attack that Simon wished to try. First the hand punched, met by axe. The foot came up to kick, each time met by axe. Only the small blades after came through, two of them knocked aside, by axe, the third in his shoulder.

Looking over with a grin Svein rolled his shoulder, stiffening the muscle as he did so. As if waking from a nap, his body roiled and swelled with muscle, like a cat stretching its back, Svein's chest and back muscles tightened then rolled. The small blade from his shoulder slowly slipped out and fell to the ground. The small pinch of the skin caught his attention as the blood welled within the dirtied fur. Tightening his hold on the axes Svein gave Simon a malicious grin, "first blood to you, but not perhaps the last."

With a loud shout Svein spun towards Simon, the blades of the axe spinning in the air about him. A line of death that flashed out as Svein stepped himself closer and closer to Simon, Svein's eyes boring holes into the man. The berserker fury was about him now, the blood staunching as he moved while it seemed only the arms moved Svein leaped forwards towards Simon the axes lashing out, the blades glinting in the sunlight. Each edge of the large axes reaching out for Simon, the steel lusting for his blood.
 
Simon ducks and rolls backwards under the axe and rolls off of his shoulders into a back flip to narrowly avoid the other. Upon landing, a large axe comes crashing down on Simon almost immediately, Simon blocks it with an uppercut from his steel knuckle. Using the heavy axe pushing down against his steel knuckle, as leverage, he flicks his alchemist's whip upwards to deflect the other incoming axe, and starts to spin like a top, cutting at Svein's armor each time. Faster and faster Simon spins until a large portion of Svein's furry armor is cut off. Svein is unable to counter, every attempt only results in more cuts to his flesh. Simon stops, and with the final swing of his whip, tosses three small throwing knives that remained between Simon's fingers the entire time, into Svein's quadricep. Svein kneels for a moment, planning his next attack as he removes the knives. "Your purpose here is to prove your worth in defending your country, now get up, Dracula's forces would show you no such courtesy" shouts Simon before cracking his whip on the ground.
 
"I have no idea who this Dracula is," Svein growls as he pulls the little knives out. Glaring at the man and his fancy dance and whip, it was a different weapon that Svein was used to fighting, but it was not that difficult. "But I know a little prancing pony when I see one."

Svein moved forward, the thick layers of fur that had served as his armor also slowed him a bit, that he knew but accepted it as a price for its protection. Now he was close to Simon and Svein thrust the ax's at him, swinging down to slice at Simon's calves. Simon moved aside quickly, each ax swing striking air, or the ground. Each one infuriating Svein further. Beginning to curse in Norse and growling louder and louder the blood from the knives making him lose control Svein launched himself on Simon.

Ax swing after ax swing, as they closed Svein swing his head, a foot, even a leg at Simon. His entire body a weapon Svein closed and swung, his hands and feet striking air as much as each ax. Simon looked at the enraged viking placidly, the dance around the arena ending before it was begun. Only the stubbornness of Svein prolonged it all. At the end as Svein was ranting, striking, and growling it only took one swing of the whip, that coiled around the neck. Pulling the man back as Simon punched once, and hard, into the face. Svein felt the blow before he noticed the hand was coming towards his face. The blackness that descended over his eyes came quickly, a slight pain before everything blacked out and the large body dropped to his knees.

A low moan escaped his lips as Svein dropped the ax's, the clang of the blades echoed in the arena. The silence of expectation as the body fell forward slowly, as if time slowed for that one instant. Then the arena erupted in cheers. Two fur clad men came out and pulled Svein away, each of the men taking an ax in one hand, and Svein in the other, dragging the huge body outside as the crowd cheered for Simon.
 
A man begins to move toward the center of the arena, dressed in a noble's outfit from the 1800s, a red blazer, white pants, a silk undershirt, white gloves, and a black top hat. As he moved, the man takes no steps, but instead hovers inches above the sandy ground. "Being a traveler of time, I am strictly forbidden to meddle in any affairs related to destiny. However, I have heard that this competition is held with nothing at stake, so let the next apponent be me". He reaches into thin air and pulls out a time appropriate rapier from another dimension and holds it in a proper stance, wiggling his nostrils along with his blonde mustache while doing so.

"There is no threat here people, I'm here for the sport of it".
 
Cnut walked in to the arena as if he owned it already. Slim form, rippling with muscles, under the thick leather jerkin and breeches. Arms glittering with rings of silver and gold, the colors of which matched his long hair and beard. Long steps brought him close and around Saint Germain, the wary eyes of the viking glittering in the arena as Cnut held his long blade, Ice-Spite at the ready. "Your dress is odd," Cnut was unsure if this man was a fool or something else. If a fool, soon to be a dead one. If not, then it may be an interesting fight.

Walking around, eyes probing the man's clothes for anything that Cnut may need to worry about. Sensing about the man, from stance or movement how good a swordsman he would be. They stood roughly about the same height, with arms that looked to reach about the same. The other sword was thin and weak looking, but the confidence in Saint Germain's eyes spoke more about it than the form. A swing out to meet blades confirmed it. Swiftly Cnut moved, his feet moving him around Saint Germain while his arm and Ice-Spite moved to swing, thrust and parry in a blur. All of which Saint Germain met.

"Very good," Cnut answered him with the same confidence, "let's see how well you bleed though."

Thrusting forward Ice-Spite moved gracefully, the long sword was supremely balanced. A work of beauty, and a tool of war. The perfect sword for him, long and graceful, a strength in their core. Cnut moved swiftly and silently on the floor of the arena, enjoying with a slight smile under his mustache and long beard. The metal blades met and sang in a swift arc of protest as the men fought, their bodies slow but their arms moving with a speed and grace unmatched in the previous matches.
 
The two blades repeatedly clang, Ice Spite rams into Saint Germain's unnamed weapon as Saint Germain uses his rapier to guard in an almost flawless fashion. To no avail as the attacks of Saint Germain are guarded equally as well. Each fighter has knowledge and experience with their weapon to keep the other from making a decisive strike, and to keep each other on their toes. Seemingly this fight would end as a battle of stamina, but that doesn't seem good enough for the traverser of time. As Saint Germain bounces off of Ice Spite with the rapier a final time, landing in a weightless pose floating just above the sand floor "I had hoped for this to be a fair fight...but I'm kind of a sore loser...".

Saint Germain's body dissipates into the air and after a few moments of confusion, he reappears at a random side of Cnut in the midst of another strike. This repeats a few times, Cnut is quick enough to keep up with Saint Germain's widened dimension of attack, but just barely, and there is apparently a limit to Saint Germain's ability in those otherworldly movement as he has to stop. Cnut is kept sharp as Saint Germain randomly and occasionally moves in that same fashion to attack.
 
Cnut watches as Saint Germain vanishes in the blink of an eye, to appear off to his side. The thin blade, stronger than he first suspected, is able to keep up with Ice-Spite. Not something he had seen in many years. It was a fight, and a good one to revel in. Enjoying the competition, his senses heightened and alert as the man vanished and reappeared to his side of behind. Almost sensing when the man would disappear Cnut defended himself and scanned about him quickly, knowing he would only have moments to react.

"No need to be a sore loser," Cnut answered bravely, knowing the battle could not continue like this. Even his own brow was beginning to glisten with sweat in the heat of the day. "Just don't lose," he chided the man. Sliding Ice-Spite down low when the man appeared, trying to get under the guard of the blade.

It did not help, Cnut knew it could not continue, even he was beginning to tire of the endless strikes parried and defended. As Saint Germain appeared behind after vanishing Cnut launched himself and the blade at the man. Seeking to gain purchase with one or the other, either the blade would strike home, or his fist. Quickly closing the distance Cnut grinning, knowing that even if he took the other's blade it would be worth the strike. One did not fear death, and to arrive in Valhalla with a sword in his hand, blood on its edge, that would be a victory worth singing about.

"Let's end this," Cnut yelled as he came close to Saint Germain fist and blade striking at the figure. Quick feet underneath him as Cnut could smell the sweat and something else on the man.
 
Saint Germain had made a split second decision and moves his rapier to slice Cnut's shoulder as the fist lunges at him, the shoulder that is carrying Ice-Spite. Saint Germain's obvious choice to avoid the blade leaves him to accept the unavoidable strike of the fist, but not before Saint Germain cut Cnut's shoulder, Saint Germain had been gambling that Cnut wouldn't go for it, but he apparently lost the bet. Saint Germain take the fist right in the jaw, that spins his body in a half circle and puts him in a daze. Though Saint Germain had taken punches before, he had never expected the absurd strength of Cnut. Taking advantage of Saint Germain's complete lack of guard, Cnut switches sword arms and pushes Ice-Spite through Saint Germain's abdomen, revealing the first bloodthirsty sentiment of the day. Although it is frowned upon to kill in these fights it is not against the rules.

The well dressed man drops to his knees to accept his final breaths, his top hat falls to the sand as he watches Cnut sit down to rest. "At the very least, I hope you had the fun you were looking for" says Cnut.

"On the contrary..." Saint Germain struggles to put on his hat and coughs up blood "It's far from over...now time reverse" Saint Germain's wounds disappear and he rises to his feet, pointing his rapier toward you.
 
As Cnut watched the man take his sword, through the stomach, Ice-Spite's point coming out the other side, the fight seemed over. Cnut had never lost, and no one had every walked away, Ice-Spite had drawn so many souls into its blade that he had lost count. Now another was within the steel, satisfied that he had won Cnut stepped back watching the blood trail down to the point. The river of blood slowly trailed down the edge of his blade, like so many before, Cnut smiled and took a deep breath unsure of how much longer he could have gone on.

When Saint Germain stood, taking the odd hat and wearing it again, the wounds and blood disappearing Cnut felt at first cheated, then fear. Cheated of the hard won fight, of whatever this contest was about, he was no longer a part of it. Fear for this enemy that could come back from a death thrust, and calmly prepare to face Cnut again. As his limbs trembled he shouted to cover his deepest emotions, it did not matter. The shout covered nothing, as the slim blade met Ice-Spite again. Cnut had nothing left to give, it was only a few sword thrusts before Cnut felt himself fall, his own blood trickling out from innumerable slices and stabs, to soak into the dry ground of the arena.

"Winner, Saint Germain," a voice called out as Cnut felt his vision darken and fade. A slow sensation of earth moved beneath him as he felt himself wrapped in the sweet embrace of oblivion, his eyes closing in the bright sun that had faded to night in his eyes.

Richard Sharpe looked out on the arena, growing up in the slums of London he knew an arena when he saw one. The tell tale trails of blood were enough of an indicator, but it was the air that said it more than anything. That sense of expectation, like the air before a thunderstorm when it felt as if the world was in a lull. Stepping into the light the long barreled musket held ready and primed before him, the heavy calvary sword at his hip. The only comfort he had in this strange place was the green coat and uniform of the 95th rifles, a member of the King's Sharpshooters. Warily he stepped into the arena the rifle ready, a quick mental check of his powder horn, pouch of cartridges and the familiar heft of his rifle.
 
"Time reverse" and Cnut is revitalized. Saint Germain drops on one knee and his nose drips with blood "I cannot mess with another man's destiny...not too sure how much longer I could've kept that up anyway...keep it up, and good luck with Dracula". Saint Germain gets up, tips his hat to you, and disappears through a dimensional rift.

A man in a blue suit of armor who calls himself the blue knight, steps into the arena. The crowds in the bleachers boo as this imitation blue knight walks out into the arena. He pierces the sharp edge of his triangular shield into the ground and rests against with his broad sword over his shoulders. This man's armor, shield, and sword are all one, and can transform into other weapons. "Ready when you are, Richard Sharp" seeing your gunpowder device that he is vaguely familiar with the concept of from his time spent traveling the world, deems it a bad idea to charge him.
 
Richard looked at the man in the armor. His eyebrow rose in slight confusion. He'd certainly seen armor like that before, mostly in the few manor homes he'd been into during the war, and he' heard about them in museums. Not that gutter trash like him would ever be welcome in a museum, but ti see someone wearing it was odd. He was sure the bullet would go through, the few times men had worn a cuirass, officers mostly, the bullets still went through. Pacing the arena Richard though he might get off two or three shots with the rifle before the other man closed. He was fast, but the man could be faster than he looked.

Grim faced he watched as the man put the shield in the ground, the heavy sword in hand, then waited for Richard to make the first move. Walking back and forth Richard decided he might as well begin. The rifle hung loose before him he walked to and fro, his eyes squinting from the glare of the sun above. Feeling its heat through the thick woolen coat, opening his collar slightly to let the dampness out as he in one motion brought the fun up, kneeled, with an instinct honed on the battlefields of Spain and France the gun came up and fired.

Instantly his vision was blocked as the powder exploded, he felt the lurch as the bullet left the muzzle of the gun. Without worry he stepped aside, already pulling out the cartridge, ripping it apart with his teeth, tasting the salt of the gunpowder in his mouth as the tap loaded the gun, ineffective for a long shot but the man would close and it would be enough. Stepping aside as he loaded the gun stepped outside the sour smoked raising the rifle again as he looked across at the knight to see if the shot had made him more, of if he'd hit the shoulder that was his aim.
 
The Blue Knight reaches beneath the hinges of his shoulder armor and pulls out a multi layered alloy plate that had absorbed the bullet. His armor, except for his boots, kneecaps, shoulderpads, along with his sword, shield, and the alloy plate all meld together into a long alloy spear. The head of the spear has two blades in the middle for piercing, and two shorter blades on the outside that sit in an outward curve, the wood of the spear is replaced with alloy. The Knight wears a black silk cloak and his face is not quite human. Taking advantage of the time it would take to reload, he sprints toward Richard and stops a few feet out of range with his spear.

The imposter knight slowly steps around Richard, studying him. The knight twirls the spear above his head, gracefully into a double-handed grip with the spear held vertically above his head. He slams the head of the spear onto the ground with such force that Richard is launched back, Richard reaches his arms back to catch himself and flip onto his feet. The suprising force of the knight's weapon had caused Richard to drop his projectile weapon.

"No one is that strong, there has to be a trick to this".

As the knight bends to lift the spear, he reveals a reversed cross on his back.
 
Richard knew the rifle was lost, at close range it was more effective as a club unless it was primed and with the knight close by there was no chance of that. Pulling the heavy cavalry sword out stood holding it before him as a shield, it was large and bulky, a clumsy weapon in his hands but he had the instincts of a street brawler honed in the gutters of London. He also took chances, ones that no sane man would do. That surprise trick had brought him close to death numerous times, but he was still here, strong and tough. He knew how to handle the blade, there was little finesse with it, the blade was made to be swung from a horse like a cleaver against running infantrymen, like himself, but it was an effective cleaver in his own.

Looking at the cross on the man's back narrowed his eyes in thought, "odd, to have something like that." He thought. Though the whole arena seemed odd to him, he'd only taken a turn in an alley after entering yet another ruined Spanish city, and here he was. Never one to stand back from a fight he rushed forward, swinging the huge blade down to chop the knight. The spear caught the huge blade, stopping his swing, his shoulders shook from the shock. The pain raced up his arms as the force rushed back through him.

A yell and he pushed, the knight stepping back as Richard let his anger take hold, pushing and jabbing with the huge blade. The strain of it held by tight muscles across his back that echoed his scream by a burning pain across his shoulders that added fuel to his own swings. The two of them meeting and slamming blades against each other, the spear jabbed but knocked aside by the huge sword. Richard kept it moving, hacking, cutting, jabbing. Each motion moved the sword between them, using its weight as leverage to push the knight back and look for an opening to use its point or edge to strike.
 
The knight remains collected as he struggles to keep up with Richard's rage. No opening could be found by the knight that wasn't a gamble, so he goes for it and thrusts a kick into Richard's stomach. The kick was meant to push Richard onto his ass but only pushes him a few yards back and causes him to nearly lose balance. Suprisingly, the knight finds that his leg is still attached to him, he takes a few steps back as Richard regains his balance.

Just as Richard starts to run back to the knight, the imposter hurls the spear in a long, space clearing swing, nearly catching Richard if it weren't for his animal like reflexes. Flowing into the next attack, the imposter takes two steps foward while turning the entirity of the spear 360 degrees vertically, ending with the blade being brought straight down forcefully. A sidestep by Richard and Richard goes for the same type of overhead strike before the imposter has a chance to pick up his weapon. An unexpected clang is heard as the calvary sword is knocked back by the opposite end of the spear, followed by a double space clearing swing before Richard can maintain a grip on his sword, forcing him to back out of range. The knight tries hard to keep Richard away from the rifle.
 
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