Lómëdor, Sargtlin Olath was familiar with the name of this city and the city itself, especially the dark and bloodied corners of it. He went there often because of the market and the pubs and bars, he could get any item he needed there, and he could easily find of job in one of the pubs. He didn't care who it was that hired him, just who they were hunting and how much he was paid, for he was a bounty hunter. But this day he wasn't just wandering around looking for a job, someone to hunt and kill; no, instead he was walking with steadfast and determined steps, each one bringing him closer and closer to his final destination: Termáre Dagor, the Battle Stand.

A few days before he had heard of a small tournament going on there, and he wished to do some real fighting, not just the hunting which he enjoyed. He didn't care about prize money, but any he could get would help, but what he did care about was the vicious, brutal combat. He loved a close quarter brawl, and in a tournament area was perfect for his needs. He had jobs that he needed done for people as well, but he let Vhid, his Lupine minion that had joined with him, do the hunting that day.

When he arrived near the Battle Stand, the first thing that he noticed was that it was larger and more impressive than he had expected. Even with all of his time in Lómëdor he still had not seen the Battle Stand. It oval, stone structure rose high in the air and covered a large area on the ground that it rested on. It had many entrances on the outside, more than seemed necessary to him.
"Impressive, this should prove to be an interesting battle, a very interesting battle. Hopefully I will be pitted against someone skilled in battle, someone who knows how to fight up close." he thought, as he walked through one of the stone archways that were the entrances. He went up to a man who was resting his elbows on a wooden stand, Sargtlin noticed a small, locked wooden box sitting next to him.
"You there, where do the warriors who wish to compete sign up?" he said to the man as he walked towards him. The man jumped as he heard the sudden and deep voice and then the imposing figure walking towards him.
"You may sign up here, sir. What is your name?" he asked the Drow before him.
"My name you ask? Sargtlin Olath, that is my name." he said as he watched the man write his name down on a piece of parchment that was before him. He then waved to a young boy who led Sargtlin through the dark stone corridors into a small room with a gate at the end, a room for him to prepare for the battle that was soon to begin. He checked his weapons placement, made sure that his chainmail was ready. He was surprised at how soon the gate that was at the end of the room opened. When he saw the steel bars start to go up he let his left hand grip the top of his sheath, then he walked out into the open arena hearing the boos and the shouts of the crowd. He cared not for the crowd, only for who was about to enter the arena through the gate on the other end of the open field. Before the gate opened, he glanced around the field, it was just an open field with dust and dirt under their feet. But there was one thing that he noticed, the color of the ground, for all of the ground was a reddish-brown color. It was stained that color from the blood of those who fought and died in that tainted arena.

Termáre Dagor, the Battlestand; a place that Furion had become so familiar with, one could think that he had been there his entire life. However, this was not the case. His village was slaughtered and his comrades and he were captured and sold without question to the battlestand for public entertainment. His pride and joy, his family, was all gone now; just pieces and pieces of dust swirling around in the Anfauglir Desert, the place where his village was located. For over three years, the Warloving one that had come to be adored and hated by the thousands of fans watching him had fought endlessly and ruthlessly, but never had the chance at freedom. He had many thoughts of escape, but today would not be one of them. After killing so many people, Furion had came to not despise what he did nearly as much as before. He loathed staying in solitude and peace anymore, he took pride in knowing that he was the toughest gladiator around, able to kill many people, even when the odds are against him. Once a fight was finished, a spectator could even make the inference that he actually loved killing and shedding his opponent’s blood. One could even say that he lusted for it.

Nowadays, Furion emanated an aura that seemingly called out for the crimson liquid that had stained the dust-filled arena red. His eyes grew bloodshot as he would go a very long time without sleep, just lying down on the hardened mattress in the small, cramped room that he was given. The Warloving one grew impatient waiting for the next battle to take place, paranoia taking its strangling hold on his subconscious and mind. All he could ever think about anymore was just fighting, killing, and once again, the aroma of that too-sweet liquid. As he thought about what had been happening to him while staring up at his stone ceiling, he heard the too-familiar knock at his door, followed by the gruff voice. “The tournament is about to start, get stirring lazychops!” Furion never got the chance to actually meet the person that is always banging on his door, and wondered what he was actually like as he began to subtly move. He had cuts, scrapes, and scars all over his body, and all that he had to wear at the moment were a pair of shoddy pants.

Furion was not the kind of person to exercise and stretch vigorously before a match; he preferred to stay quiet and not do very much moving. To a passerby, he would seem half-asleep, but he was wide awake and ready for the upcoming match. He shuffled over to the far wall of his living quarters to retrieve a sheathe for his sword, buckling it on steadily to his left side. Next, he grasped the hilt of his blade and pulled it from its gentle hanging on the wall, shoving it crudely into the holster. With a great push, he opened the heavy stone door that barricaded him into the room that he had come to despise greatly; it’s dim lighting that they never managed to relight more then once a day, it’s cold, stonework floor, and even the mattress beneath his sleeping body after an exhausting day of gladiatorial exhibition matches. Word had gotten around today that there was going to be a tournament held in the battlestand, and the seating would be particularly full today, much to Furion’s distress. A big crowd meant big noise, he always said.

As the door parted, a beam of translucent, gold sunlight bolted into Furion’s eyes, temporarily blinding him. All around him were hustling around, desperately getting food and drink from venues and trying to meet some of the combatants. One man walked up to him, but could see the look in his eyes, and smartly backed away before it led to confrontation. Today, his bloodlust had gotten worse, he now walked hunched over with his arms hanging solemnly, and his feet dragging on the ground, without even bothering to pick them up. He was always like this, save for during a match. One again, the gladiator was about to enter a match without any armor on at all, and only one weapon, the Speyr-style sword granted to him so many years ago. Blood had permanently been frozen onto it, because it hadn’t been cleaned since his capture. As he ambled up to the holding gates, only one word was going through his mind, which you could probably guess. His expressionless eyes looked up faintly to see if he could envision his opponent, but he could not see anything from him. As soon as he stopped moving, the gates began to open, and the crowd could be heard cheering. His bare feet shuffled idly on the blood-bleached turf of the arena as he walked slowly into the middle. His blinks were longer then the normal humans, and his breathing was long and drawn out. He rapidly licked his lips, wondering how his opponent’s blood would smell like after being smeared across his blade. This was going to be a battle that would take the combatants through hell and back. Luckily, that was Furion’s department…

As Sargtlin stepped onto the bloodstained dust, he breathed deep of the air. The smell made him even happier to be there, for after so much blood being spilled there, the air had a permanent scent of blood.
"So, who do I get to fight today?" he thought, looking down the field as the other gate was opening. He was slightly surprised by what he saw. The man he was to fight was a Human, he appeared to be fairly average in Sargtlin's eyes, though he wore no armor at all to this fight. Sargtlin didn't have much, but his helped and did not significantly hinder his movement, for all he wore as armor was a shirt made of chainmail. But over that he wore a shirt and behind him his cloak. The man wore no shirt, only a cloak, and barely anything else.
"Dressed like that, for a close quarters fight?" he thought as he saw his opponent. But that did not matter that much to him, all that mattered was the man's skill. He slowly walked towards the man, waiting for the tournament's signal to fight. As his boots were making their slow, methodical movement, he drew his two-handed sword and held it so that he could block a swift attack.
"And who do I have the chance to fight today?" he shouted to the man, above the din of the crowd. He was taken a little by surprise at how loud the roars, screams, shouts, boos, and various other noises put together were. They deafened all but the loudest of noises that a single person could possibly make, and he wasn't to sure that the man would be able to hear his question. Sargtlin expected this fight to be extremely hard, and he hoped that it would push him to his limits to win, for he enjoyed it when that happened.
"So, I wonder why this man is here? He must be a gladiator, captured and put here to fight, otherwise why would he come without anything but what he has right now?" he thought, then he heard a bell, one that was used in this particular tournament to announce the fight to begin. He dropped into a fighting stance and waited, waiting for his foe to make the first move.

(Sorry the post sucks and took so long Sargtlin.)

He could feel his opponent’s eyes looking him up and down, as if inspecting him with a fine-tooth comb. Furion could barely hear what he was saying over the roar of the crowd, his ears containing a massive ringing from the headache he now possessed. As he stopped moving, his eyes opened from their previous stature, now glaring directly at Sargtlin. His opponent was obviously a drow of some sort; not being full blooded because he could easily function in the sunlight, or at least that was what he had thought. His hair contrasted oddly with his skin, as it was long and white. His eyes were of a blue tone, also looking rather odd to the human as he inspected his adversary. The Warloving one’s eyes flickered randomly as he continued, noticing that this combatant was also around a foot taller then him, and much heavier. This man was obviously built for combat and battle, and he looked as strong as he was large. For clothing, he had on a shirt that looked somewhat dark-green, and pants that didn’t look very brown anymore. Chainmail could barely be seen from beneath his shirt, but the warrior’s keen, battle-trained eyes could pick up traces of it.

Body armor eh?... this could be tough… I will have to strike where he is not so… protected… he accessed bleakly to himself. The roar of the crowd began to die down and be replaced with boos, because they had been standing there for awhile now, and nothing had happened. Bets were being placed on the combatant that they thought was going to win, some of them on Furion, and the other half were on the new combatant, the drow. With sluggish speed, his right hand made its way to the hilt of his blade, and he pulled gently, releasing it from his sheath. Like always, the blood refracted a rainbow of colors in the brilliant sunlight, plastered on like glue. Suddenly, a bell sounded, which was new to Furion, as he had never heard it before. He stood there with his sword half withdrawn, half still sheathed, contemplating on what it actually meant. Soon enough, his sharp eyesight picked up what his opponent was doing, and decided that it meant for the match to officially begin.

The warrior opposite of him dropped down into a fighting stance, waiting for Furion to do something to him to initiate the match. This was a foreign concept to the Speyrn warrior, as he figured that someone of his size and build would be the aggressive type, trying to overpower him with his sheer strength. However, this was quite the opposite, him now playing a defensive battle. Luckily for the Warloving one, quite often had this happened; not because of them wanting to stay defensive, but for the fact that they were afraid of him. He resumed taking his sword from the adapted belt that he wore and held it low to the ground, deciding what he should do first. Now that the match was expected to begin, he regained his full height, rolling and cracking his back softly. The crowds now died down, eager to see what the gladiator would do. With slow, cautious steps, he inched his way forwards, closing the gap between the two ever so slightly, thinking about everything that he was doing. Soon enough, there was only about ten to fifteen paces between the two, which could easily be closed in a few second’s time.

With that, Furion stopped, looking at his opponent dead in the eyes. Years of torture and pain had resulted in a body to die for; his muscular physique better built then almost all of the others that he had went up against in this very arena. The emanating and almost realistic aurora of bloodlust began to dissipate and leech onto Sargtlin, foretelling him what the gladiator was like. He licked his lips once again, hoping that the match would be ended quickly so that he could enjoy his victory all the sooner. With sudden ferocity, Furion charged forwards recklessly, holding his blade angled downwards and behind him. He dropped low to the ground as he ran so that he could use many options when he reached the other person in the arena with him. When he came within a blade’s length away from the drow, he began to attack. He extended his legs sharply, gaining furious momentum. He controlled the blade in his hand so that it would slash upwards; the tip dragging in the soil before the strike. His whole body moved as the keen sword whistled through the air, intent on causing bodily harm to the drow he was matched up against. The crowd’s cheering and jeering stopped fatefully as they waited to see what would happen.

Sargtlin was intent on winning the match between the two fighters. He did not know how good this fighter was though, and hoped that he was good, otherwise Sargtlin wouldn't have the chance to enjoy the fight. Sargtlin watched the man draw his sword from his belt.
"What kind of sword is that? I haven't seen any like that one, it looks odd. Perhaps it's a sword from the desert?" he thought, remembering that he had seen some odd weapons from the desert. As he began thinking his foe ran at him, his sword tip pointing back and to the ground.
"What does he plan to do with his sword there? An upwards cut, that is most likely what he's going to do." he thought, lowering his sword enough that he could quickly drop it down to block. He saw the man push his legs out, increasing his momentum by quite a bit. As he did he brought sword upwards, dust flying up as the tip dragged the ground beneath. Sargtlin smiled as he dropped his sword tip down, touching the dirt and dust beneath him as he angled it, letting the man's blade hit the flat of his own blade and slide up to hit his sword's crossguard, only making steel on steel contact. Sargtlin quickly twisted his sword, attempting to catch the man's blade between his own blade and his crossguard to disarm him, then he quickly pivoted his body all the way around into a spinning sword slice, aimed for the man's abdomen.
"I wonder what tricks he has up his sleeve, for he's going to need some." he thought as he spun, trying to catch him before he would react.

((OOC: Don't worry, considering that mine is also delayed and really bad, sorry about the quality))

A load, deafening clang of middle split through the air as steel made contact upon steal in a vicious strike. Furion did not expect to maim his opponent, but wished to test him. That was usually what he did in a situation like this where he couldn’t comprehend what his opponent just might do. The Lómëdor sun beat down unfortunately upon the crazed human warrior, while his vision began to blur and everything went blank as he had a flashback right in the middle of the fight… He looked up dimly at the Anfauglir sun, shielding his eyes from its intense rays. The brilliant sunlight had illuminated the antecedently light-less morn abruptly. The battle’s losses were presented before the warrior like a deli platter. Rows and columns of those that he once loved and held dear to his heart were strewn throughout the entrance to Speyr, acting as hundreds of marks of failure and shame to the now saddening fighter. He thought of this as he was brought back suddenly into the heat of battle, the drow warrior doing a complex maneuver, hoping to disarm him. However, he was not going to let this happen.

Unfortunately for him, before he could react to this, the man pivoted on his heels, spinning his giant self around in a circle, gaining enough momentum to cleave his entire body in half with just one chop. Furion remembered his flashback and decided then and there that this man stood between him and his conquest for vengeance, and that he needed to die soon. His throat was beginning to dry, as he had not drunken anything that morning, and was very parched. It was not fear’s icy fingers that gripped Furion, only restlessness; a heightened sense of things going on around him… His digits clutched his one and only weapon, his Speyrn sword, tensing and waiting, waiting for the right time to strike back at the drow. When the time came that his opponents blade was about to hit the Atani, he quickly lurched to the ground, his heart pounding like a war drum. His opening move had been one of mild force and cleverness; he would need to multiply that by at least three to be able to topple over this man.

The blade whooshed past Furion’s head, trimming across his hair powerfully as he got down into a crouching position. With the Lómëdor breeze coolly kissing his sweaty and bloodstained flesh, a few birds cawing out, and the motivation to take down an army by himself, he gripped his weapon harder then before, and lashed out with his left foot, attempting to make his opponent think that he was only trying a feeble trip-like maneuver. Many also didn’t notice that he shifted all of his weight on his back foot, so that he would have more space to execute a strike in such close quarters. As soon as he placed the sole of his foot and the ground between Sargtlin’s legs, he pushed forcefully up from the ground, bringing his blade with him. His face was contorted into a mixture of rage and fierceness, his muscles idly tensing and relaxing. Using all of the force that he could muster, he aimed a powerful strike straight towards the side of Sargtlin, and in a situation like this, it would not be an easy one to dodge or block for a man of his girth.

This was when Furion realized what this actually was… This was no simple battle between two combatants, this was war in its truest form…