NFG Season Two - Odyssey R3 - The Ultimate Warrior

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Description: Seeking to avenge the death of his beloved friend, Patroclus, Achilles has sought out Hector in the ruins of Hisarlik. Let's hope when these two legendary warriors face off that it won't be too much of a drag. Nobody wants it to all end in tears!

Hawksley Moore is experiencing an extreme case of deja vu. Not only has he been scheduled to fight on the same site as the first round of The Odyssey, he's also playing the same character, Achilles. This is actually pretty handy, since he still has the costume. As such, once again he finds himself with shoulder-length blonde locks and wearing leather and metal armour based on that of Brad Pitt's, when he starred as the Greek warrior in Troy.

His opponent for today though is very different. He won't be facing off against the pretty purple-haired posh girl that is his girlfriend, Coco. Instead he will be taking on the might of Big Buford Maclanky in the role of Hector.

The battle between Achilles and Hector is a legendary Greek myth and one that was portrayed in the aforementioned movie, Troy. Hector killed Achilles' dear friend Patroclus. Seeking revenge, Achilles comes after Hector. In the story, it was the former who had proved victorious but who knows what will happen today.

Hawksley has made his way up the hill to the ruins that sit atop it and is sitting on a stone wall, swigging from a bottle of 'Lucky's Fiery Ale'. The sun is shining down and the temperature is a pleasant twenty six degrees celsius. His last fight had fallen on Saint Patrick's Day. This one is on Easter Sunday. The Irishman can't help but think of what he'd be doing if he was back home in Cork. An appearance at the local catholic church, followed by a couple of drinks in the pub with his cousins and mates before heading back to mammy and da's house for a massive roast dinner. A film would probably then be stuck on but nobody would pay it much attention. The adults would be chattering away to each other and his nephews would be running around high on the sugar from the vast quantities of easter eggs they'd consumed.

Looking down the hill in the direction of the Menderes River, Hawksley shields his eyes from the glare of the sun, wondering when Hector will put in an appearance.

"Hm Hm hm, surprised you'd be awake so early!"

Thus comes the burbling chortles. The tall and round frame of the towering Canadian strides alongside the wall, looking up at Hawksley with his lips curled in disgust. This time, Buford was successfully fitted in a set of classical period armor, greaves and all. Despite this, Buford makes a clear point to wear his fedora under his helmet, its brim crumpled and showing through. His great heaving gladiator build sways from side to side, as he clutches the hilt of his blade in its sheath. He was wearing sandals, and it seemed that the costume was straining at the nuances of his frame. Buford, however, continues to stare up. Certainly, on a day like this, he would be his own easter work, researching various fan art of top fighters and video games following an easter bunny theme. "So you are supposed to be Achilles. I'm not sure if you understand the classics, but that means you are apparently the hero of this fight. Hmph."

"But it seems they have made the mistake of casting me as the villain of this story."

Buford pulls at the strap, the man already sweating up a storm in the heat. "Really, Hector? A normal and, dare I say, -sober- fellow like myself should be held up as the hero." Buford adjusts his straps, top and bottom, searching for something, before he glares back up at Hawksley. "Are you going to come down and do our fight? Or are you going to finish up your 'pint of the black stuff' or what not." He finally finds it, and with a pull, draws it out from the corner of his armor. It was a small half sized bottle of Red Alert Mountain Dew. Unscrewing the cap, he guzzles it down whole throatedly. Wiping the dribble from the beard on his neck, he tosses the bottle on the ground.

"Really, I can't believe you'd abuse your body with that poison."

"I've been awake for hours, fella." Hawksley claims. He'd had to make the trip here after all and he'd wanted to call home before his brawl.

He watches as Buford strides towards him, taking in all the details of the Canadian's costume. "Ah, you're looking grand, so you are. You make a fine Hector. They reckon he was a big fella like yourself, like."

He gets up from the wall and walks towards his opponent for today, holding out a hand to shake if he should wish to do so. "I've been waiting for this for a while. I've heard all kinds of shite about you but I reckon you don't know the measure of a man till you're up close and trying to punch his lights out. Or stab them out in your case, I suppose."

The whole hero and villain thing doesn't mean much to the Irishman. He doesn't see himself in either role. If he were a wrestler, he'd probably be classed as a tweener and that's exactly how he likes it. It means he can be versatile in his violence.

"I've got to admit, I wasn't much into the classics before all this but I have seen Troy, hence the costume." He gestures to the garb he's wearing. "I tell you something though, it's fecking heavy ain't it? I could do without it all in this heat. I'm used to fighting with my top off, so I am."

Draining what's left of his fiery ale, he grins at the other guy. "It's not Guinness, it's Lucky's Fiery Ale. I can get you some freebies if you like. I've got feck loads of the stuff. Although you can get it for nothing in The Mermaid bars too, so you can probably just be about doing that now."

He eyes the bottle of discarded Red Alert Mountain Dew as it drops to the ground. "I reckon we're both gonna be buzzed. Shall we crack on with the brawl?"

COMBATSYS: Hawksley has started a fight here.

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Hawksley         0/-------/-------|

COMBATSYS: Buford has wandered into the fight here.

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Hawksley         0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0           Buford

"Hm mm mm. Ah ha. How crude."

Buford states with a haughty air. "To describe boxing as anything like the refined and honorable katana arts. I suppose in a way, boxing is not unlike a true martial art, in that it is a way of attacking someone. But true martial arts were inventing in Japan, as you should know, and are best defined with the blade, not with one's fists." The Canadian smirks with his thick, blubbery lips. And then, with a fat, dirty palm, he wipes his cheeks, before placing the back of his hand to his forehead. "I do agree with this heat. But I would rather not fight in the nude again. I have been asked to carry some restraint by my beloved." Buford muses longingly, burping loudly. "But yes. We shall 'crack' it, as you might say." Buford places a hand on his hilt, and leans forward.

And he strikes first.

Lashing his blade from the hilt, he unleashes a single, smooth swipe, tearing through the air with speed and power. HE gives a second swipe as he staggers forward, stamping his feet as he charges at the Irishman. He carries the momentum to stuff his blade back in the sheath, ending with a rough shoulder check at Hawksley, attempting to either bowl the man over with the superior size...

As well as use the impact to better balance himself after the assault.

COMBATSYS: Hawksley just-defends Buford's Fierce Strike!

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Hawksley         0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0           Buford

"Doesn't karate use the hands?" Hawksley questions. "That's a pretty fecking popular Japanese martial art from what I'm aware of." He raises his thick dark eyebrows at Buford. "Aikido and a feck load of others too."

He shakes his head, causing his blonde locks to bounce. "I appreciate you not going naturist on me. That wouldn't be a smart decision when you're waving that bloody blade around, beloved or no beloved."

He doesn't even blink at the burp, accustomed to the company of men whose manners are somewhat lacking. Instead he watches the hand in which the Canadian holds his sword. As such, when the samurai strikes, he's fully expecting what comes. Thrusting his muscular (and currently thanks to his Achilles costume armoured) chest out, he blocks the swipe, seeming unfazed by the attack. Likewise, the shoulder check is shrugged off.

"Ah come on now, fella. You can do better than that." The Cork cruiserweight taunts. "Let's see how you handle this."

The flask appearing causes cheers from the few fans who've made the trek up to the ruins to see their idols today. Swigging from it, Hawksley turns around to wink at them, before facing his foe again and spitting the spirit in his direction, igniting it with his inner fire en route to the ronin.

COMBATSYS: Buford dodges Hawksley's Hedonism.

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Hawksley         0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0           Buford

"Tch. Karate barely counts as a martial art."

Buford burbles, amused that the Irishman would even come to a conclusion like that. "And Aikido is more of a woman's art, to make sure she is fit and suitable for housework." As his robust opening assault is neatly cheated by the armor that was provided, however, the Canadian scowls furiously. "Of course, the -real- martial art wouldn't have protective armor like that." He fumes, as his final shoulder check doesn't even seem to work very well on the well-trained boxer. As he is taunted back, Buford begins to turn red. As people cheer for him, it's the last straw. The man takes a swig, and Buford does the same to his hilt. Sucking on the hilt, he bubbles up a deep breath. And when Hawksley lets out his spit?

Buford spits back.

A blast of mist, deeply scented with what seems to soap, catches the flames. The flames quickly overtake the mist, of course. But as they jet forward, the towering man seems to have disappeared in the cloud. Buford is moving much, much faster than someone his size ought to be moving. Swiftly surging at Hawksley's flanks, the crimson-faced Samurai hurls himself at the Irishman in a full forced tackle. Should he catch him, the swordsman would heave up Hawksley, and then slam the man hard on his back right in front of the wall. The intent? To corner him, and trap him.

Just in time for his slashing follow through.

COMBATSYS: Buford successfully hits Hawksley with Medium Throw.

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Hawksley         0/-------/-----==|=------\-------\0           Buford

"My mistake then." Hawksley murmurs in amusement. "So aikido is good for housework then? Maybe I should suggest to Coco Pops that she takes it up." Of course he's joking but whether or not Buford realises this is another matter.

"As for the armour, it's not my idea, fella. I'd sooner fight topless any day. It's all part of the Achilles look though, along with the golden hair and brutish attitude." Well, maybe that's just the Irishman's usual persona.

As spit comes flying back towards the scrapper, he starts to laugh, admiring the cheek of the fella. "Ah, fair play. You're the first to do that back to me, so you are. Nice fast footwork too." He praises.

To prove this further, the swift samurai is soon upon Hawkilles and he's tackled into the air before coming down to earth with a bump. His head smacks into the stone wall, causing a trickle of blood to run from beneath the blonde wig. His dark eyes stare up at Hector's considerable height with dismay. Before he can do a damn thing to prevent it, the slashing sword strikes his shoulder. The very one that shrugged Buford off so coldly in the last round.

"Grand work, fella." He says, grimacing with the pain. "I can see I've got a battle on my hands."

As he slowly gets to his feet, he watches the other man warily, wondering what his next move will be. As for his own next step, he plans to get up in the bigger lad's face and show him just how fierce fists can be.

Hawksley aims upwards, attempting to deliver a left-handed jab into a right cross to break open the swordman's guard and try and put him off-balance. If he's able to pull this attack off, he will grab Buford's shoulders and pull him face-first into his rising right knee.

COMBATSYS: Buford dodges Hawksley's Buzzkill.

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Hawksley         0/-------/-----==|=------\-------\0           Buford


That is what Buford unleashes as he -slams- Hawksley... incorrectly. He didn't want to hit him into the wall -that- hard. He actually felt a little bad to hurt him that bad. Blushing, the man's lower lip quivers as he looks down at the Irish. He felt a little bad.

But only a little.

"A point of advice, sir." Buford lectures, as he draws another hilt, just as Hawksley rises. When the boxers steps in, the swordsman exhales another soapy cloud of choking mist, point blank. The jab catches wind, and the right cross carries the same. The Canadian moves like the mist, his shadowy frame flickers against the cloud. As Hawksley moves to grab the shape, the swordsman mutters in the fog, above him from on top the wall.

"Found In A Cereal Bowl
Do Not Use A Spoon"

Buford strikes like lightning, his movements a blur. Tearing through the fog in a singular swirling downward slash of his blade, tumbling through the air like a hedgehog in heat. Once he lands on both feet after his drop, he almost immediately tears across afterwards, unleashing a dramatic and savage two-handed strike out from the cloud. A terrible two-fer of assault, blitzing as fast as possible. He was getting sweaty, sure.

But the scent of irish-themed soap only empowered him more.

COMBATSYS: Buford blitzes into action and acts again!

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Hawksley         0/-------/-----==|=------\-------\0           Buford

COMBATSYS: Hawksley blocks Buford's Bury The Light.

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Hawksley         0/-------/----===|=------\-------\0           Buford

COMBATSYS: Hawksley interrupts Bushido Of The Blade EX from Buford with There's A Star.

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Hawksley         0/-------/---====|=====--\-------\0           Buford

"You're full of it, aren't you, fella?" Hawksley gives the other fighter a wink. "Advice that is."

The brawler is baffled by Buford's haiku and bewildered by the speed of the swordsman. He seems to step away from the Eire man's strikes with simple ease and startling grace. He recalls the ronin's rapid movements from The Rumble, though he'd long left the ring by the time the Canadian had had his chance there.

As the attack comes from above, Hawksley holds his arms up in front of his face, earning a slash on one of his forearms for his trouble. He's by no means out of the woods yet though, as a second strike swings towards him, accompanied by the strangely soothing scent of Irish soap.

Conjuring a ball of fire in his hand, Hawksley holds it there briefly before starting to swirl it through the air, creating a fiery trail that resembles a shooting star. As he steps in close to the samurai, he slams it into him with his palm.

The Flames of Ireland consume the Mists of Canada.

As the final slash comes, the blast of flame knocks Buford clean out of the charging slice. The fires dance in the air, the soapy mist becoming consumed by the fire. Slamming against the wall, Buford lets out a high-pitched groan as slumps. Now he was the one that's cornered. Pressing against the wall, he puffs his chest out. Adjusting his helmet and fedora underneath, he grips his hilt with both hands. And then, begins to rub it into the corner of his mouth.

"Yes, I am full of it." Buford states proudly, reasserting himself.

"It's what I came back to do, in fact. To guide and mentor the newest crop of fighters. These young fighters, these swordsmen, are practically babies, ignorant and foolish. My genius is incomparable. Even now, against a boxer like you, I am carrying out the most advanced of boxing tactics. For you see, it's a soap on a rope." He shakes his toosh against the wall, as he twists the hilt deeper into his lips. He begins to puff hard, billowing up a thick and hearty cloud of mist around him. In between breathes, he continues to yammer. "Those young fighters are like lost kittens. Like they have lost their mittens, and did not know where to find them. To them, I see myself as the dutiful father cat, wise and patient. And So when they see a Samurai of my caliber, they can feel safe knowing that an absolute truth. That these kittens will be well groomed by their dadd- *COUGH COUGH COUGH*!"

Buford begins to boof wildly, puffing back together a thick and protective fog.

COMBATSYS: Buford pushes himself past 10% of his strength and chokes on his fattest cloud yet...

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Hawksley         0/-------/---====|=======\-------\0           Buford

Hawksley listens to Buford's speech. The swordsman seems sincere despite his slightly suspect use of language and super inflated ego.

"So you're really into all this sensai shite then? I mean, I'm happy to help the new genners wherever I can but I certainly don't see myself as some expert or genius or whatever. I have got heart though and that can take a fighter a long way."

The brawler is a bit bemused by the whole soap on a rope comment. He dearly hopes that Buford isn't gonna suggest they shower together.

"Well there seems to be plenty of blade users this time around, so there does. You'll probably have your pick of them. Which one would you most want to share your words of wisdom with?"

The Cork lad coughs on the cloud as it's puffed out, joining in the chorus alongside the Canadian. It's probably a good time to be punching a fella, given he seems so distracted. Or...

Looking around the Irishman notices a loose piece of stone on the ground. For all he knows it could be several thousand years old but right now he's more interested in the fact it looks like a grand thing to be smacking Buford with. Placing it in the palm of his hand, he then moves his hand towards the samurai at speed, seeking to shove it into his face.

COMBATSYS: Buford dodges Hawksley's Small Random Weapon.

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Hawksley         0/-------/---====|=======\-------\0           Buford

Buford continues to prattle on in his protective mist, choking and gagging in the cloud.

"*COUGH COUGH* I've given up on teaching females the art of the blade. My last student, Ichika, was far too smug and disobediant." Oh, she was his student then? "Albert Braendel is the one I am most interested in guiding on the proper path. A western knight, feh. Only Japanese Knights, the Samurai, are worthy of imitati- *GOURGH*!" He chortle choughs, as the stone comes surging in. It hits a shadow, driving into the mist. The Canadian is moving, coughing and laughing in gasping breathes.

The fog churns.

Buford actually comes before the blade, the large man attempting a full on body slam into Hawksley as an opening play. Should it connect, he would immediately give that flash of steel, a worrying slash right across the chest at the Irishman, followed by a second backslash. Crude form, reckless movement.

But raw power behind every blow.

COMBATSYS: Hawksley blocks Buford's Crushing Strike.

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Hawksley         0/-------/-======|=======\-------\0           Buford

"I don't remember Ichika being your student, Buford. Are you sure you didn't dream that, fella?"

His piece of ancient stone misses the bigger man's face due to his swift movement but Hawksley seems to take it in his stride, carrying on with the conversation.

"Albert huh? That's the German lad. I've not met him but from what I've seen he's got great potential. You could do a lot worse than getting him to work with."

Buford manages to body slam Hawksley, his sheer heft knocking him right off his feet. As he's getting back up he throws out his arms for balance and Buford's blade strikes the metal and leather of his gauntlets.

"You're fecking fierce, fella." He compliments the Canadian.

Slipping forward with a smile on his face, Hawksley twists into a left snap elbow to try and put Buford off-balance. If he's able to, he will pivot into a devastating right-handed haymaker, aiming for the swordsman's centre of mass with the intention of trying to knock him backwards.

COMBATSYS: Buford dodges Hawksley's Detonator.

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Hawksley         0/-------/-======|=======\-------\0           Buford

"It is too complicated for a simple mind like yours to understand."

That's how Buford avoids confronting the reality of the situation. Certainly, Buford was not uncomfortable with continuing the conversation otherwise. Sometimes the only time he gets to speak aloud, as opposed to online, was when he got into these fights. It's not like his internet girlfriend can always do voice chats after all. As his followthough after the body slam catches leather, he was already slipping back into the choking mist. He wasn't coughing so hard now. A left grazing a flabby, wet cheek, and when the haymaker comes, it catches only fog. All while his looming shadow actually dances admist the mist. "Besides, she was polluted by hanging around the wrong crowd. I have had much more success with Germans, so I am encouraged." There is the sound of a foot pushing off the stone, as the voice comes overhead. "ANd yes, I am fierce indeed. ALl thanks to my mentor, Abigail, and my friends, the Mad Gear." The ronin of rationality descends once more on Hawksley, his hands tightly gripping his sword as he is raised overhead. He was shooting down like a comet again, bringing his full force of his katana down -hard- at the Irishman in a horsekilling strike. It was certainly a powerful attack.

Though he probably shouldn't have spoken before attacking.

COMBATSYS: Buford successfully hits Hawksley with The Last Blade EX.

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Hawksley         1/------=/=======|=======\-------\1           Buford

Buford's taunting words have Hawksley laughing. "Whatever you say, big fella." He's aware what Ichika really thought about her fellow swordfighter but he's not gonna start a slanging match. Physical fights are a lot more fun.

He can't help but comment on Buford's assessment of the company the Japanese girl was keeping though. "You mean like Chevy and Buck? Two of the nicest people I've met?" He shakes his head in disbelief. The Irishman seems far more inclined to defend his friends than be concerned about the diss he was given. "You've breathed in two many of those fumes is what I reckon."

The mention of Abigail has him softening slightly though. Hawksley is a fan of the Mad Gear man and has only had positive experiences on the few occasions they've met. Perhaps it's being caught up in memories that allows Buford's blade to draw blood. Or perhaps despite all the taunting that his opponent has taken in this contest, the Canadian is actually a pretty fantastic fighter. Most certainly it's the latter.

Unlike in his usual attire, Hawksley hasn't got many exposed areas where his bare flesh can be broken. The skilled samurai strikes him on the upper arm however, causing the cut to start gushing red liquid.

"Ah feck, you got me." He groans, flexing his fist to try and slow down the flow. If he still wants a chance in this fight, then the pugilist is gonna have to push past the pain and carry on.

Wanting to give his upper body a rest for the time being, Hawksley kicks out at Buford with his booted foot.

COMBATSYS: Buford interrupts Improvised Kick from Hawksley with Dewy On The Mist.

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Hawksley         1/-======/=======|====---\-------\0           Buford

Really, it's a good question about how much brain damage Buford has inflicted on himself from the misty fumes.

"Chevy? Buck? Hrmph! I dare not discuss how betrayed I am by them." Buford lands hard with his slash. But he wasn't stopping, though.As the mist clings around them, the swordsman keeps moving. The moment he lands down, he doesn't lose his balance. Stepping lightly, he continues to throw himself at Hawksley. When the kick comes out, the hefty Canadian powers through with size, speed, and momentum. Hurling himself violently into the kick, he leaps up. Flipping through the air, he slashes into the Irishman once, twice, and three times, the whirling blade dispersing the mist all around him. The fog is thin, as Buford begins to land again. Almost immediately, he brings his hilt towards his mouth. "I refuse to dwell on the past. The only friends I need now aren't my NFG compatriots."

"It's only Mad Gear for me!"

Perhaps there's stuff going on that Hawksley isn't aware of between Buford and the former Thunder fighters. Despite his defence of them, he's not gonna get in to a full on debate and he personally has no beef with Buford, despite the behaviour that he's witnessed via streaming services of his matches. There's a part of him that wonders if the Canadian plays up to the camera and intentionally turns himself into the heel. Right now however, Hawksley has the major matter of this battle to deal with and he's taking a bit (a lot) of a beating.

Is the Irishman surprised by how much damage he's taking at the hands of the swordsman? Not for one minute. Those close to the boxer know he is insistent upon the fact that people should never assume any victories when it comes to violence. He's not one to study form and match records, he simply shows up on the day and does his best. So despite being down and very nearly out, Hawksley fights on through the foggy atmosphere.

His kick is thwarted by the agility and finesse of the mall samurai. As the weapon strikes him three times, the force is enough to slice away the very armour that protects his chest. This might be good news for fans of the fighter from Eire's fit form but the brawler knows it's very bad news for him. He's bleeding profusely now from his arms and torso, and there's still a trickle of blood on his forehead, staining the blond of his wig. He pulls it off, freeing himself from the extra weight and shakes off what remains of his armour, leaving him standing in just his leather lace-up skirt and boots.

"You know I'd be happy go for a pint with you, Buford." The Irishman informs him. "Or a Mountain Dew if that's your preference. I'm not saying we will be best buddies but I've not got any ill will towards you."

A strange statement perhaps, considering what Hawksley does next. Stamping his foot against the ground amidst the ruins, he sets it alight with flickering flames that fast become more fierce. They form into a ring of fire that starts to spread to surround both men. The scrapper than springs forward at speed, seeking to deliver a lightning-fast punch to send Buford flying through the flames.

COMBATSYS: Buford blocks Hawksley's Burn Baby Burn ES.

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Hawksley         0/-------/----===|=======\-------\0           Buford

Buford almost was perfectly assured that he was right and totally unblemished.

But as he savours the aftermath of his assault, soaking in just how impressive he was to Hawksley, the Irishman does something the samurai was not prepared for. It wasn't the armor damage. Certainly, he was ready to cut away the armor. It was a special samurai technique. Sure, he wasn't trying to do that, but the fact it happened just showed Buford how brilliant he was that he didn't even have to think in order to perform armorbreaking techniques. No, he was prepared for his own undeserved brilliance. And it wasn't the counter attack that Hawksley unleashed either. When the stamp comes, Buford braces himself. He actually brings a bracer just in time for the punch, the impact absolutely shattering it to pieces. It also did a terrible purple bruise on his forearm, which was the least of his worries. The wave of fire, though, absolutely washes over him, roasting his hams as it devours any leftover mist. Even so exposed, burnt and battered, his center was mostly safe. He had experienced flames before, and he was prepared for that. No, the one thing he wasn't prepared for sunk into his head slowly. It was what Hawksley did before that. Invite him to hang out, and be happy about it.

That hits him harder than any punch from the boxer.

Buford's lip actually quivers as he staggers from the singular punch. Face scrunched up, tears build in his eyes. Was it the pain of the defense? He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "I... I might be... willing to go out with you..." The Canadian chokes, shivering as he tries to recompose himself. "Mmm'yes, thank you for the offer," He purrs softly and too quickly, as he grips his sword with both hands. Frowning profusely as he fights against just bawling in the middle of the battle, he girds his loins as he begins whipping the blade before him, faster and faster. "I am s-s-s... S-s-s-s... Sorry for being so rrrrrrraaaaaaaagh!" Face turning red, he howls at the end, shutting his eyes tight.

And then he charges at Hawksley, hoping his chopping cuisinart of an attack catches the Irishman in.

COMBATSYS: Hawksley fails to interrupt Soul of the Edge from Buford with Numbskull.

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Hawksley         0/-------/---====|=======\-------\1           Buford

COMBATSYS: Hawksley has reached second wind!

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Hawksley         0/-------/---====|=======\-------\1           Buford

Hawksley's dark eyes go wide as he watches Buford bravely battle his blaze. The big man is bruised and burnt but far from broken and the Irish lad feels a strange sense of pride in his opponent.

"You're a fecking warrior, fella." He grins, blood smeared across his tanned face. This truly was turning into an epic fight and despite the fact Hawksley can fast feel it slipping away from him, he's still having fun.

As for the tears, they don't deter him. As far as he's concerned expressing emotions just means you feel deeply and that's a damn fine thing. "That cruise ship won't know what's hit it when we go on our lads night out." He laughs cheerily. "Do you like karaoke? I'm a shite singer but I give it a good go."

He's so caught up in the chattering that for a second he almost forgets he's fighting. That's when the Canadian charges at him!

In a desperate attempt to save himself, Hawksley hurtles forwards head first, trying to trap Buford's arms before giving him a 'Glasgow Kiss'. Apparently Buford isn't feeling in the mood for smooching though because the brawler can't get a hold of him. In the attempt, the boxer slips and bashes his head into the bladesman's burly chest, before falling backwards with the impact.

He swears he's seeing stars as he smacks down to the ground amongst the stone ruins. Blinking upwards at the towering figure of Hector, Achilles would love to take a rest but he realises he can't give up. He still needs to get his revenge for the death of Patroclus.

"You're gonna have to try again, fella." He slurs and swaggers but this time from being beaten up rather than boozed up like in his last match with Buck. "No hard feelings. Hit me with your best shot."

Buford only opens his eyes when he realizes, when Hawksley tells him to try again.

All the other words come, and he listens. ANd yet, with his eyes shut, he couldn't even see Hawksley try to steal a 'kiss' from him, Glasgow or otherwise. He was too busy being praised for being a warrior. Someone who was worthy of respect. This is exactly why he preferred men over females now. Only men could -truly- appreciate Buford. Eyes opened wide, the man blinks as he watches Hawksley looks at him. He could critique, brag about his superior form and lifestyle. But he felt embarassed. "I would... like karaoke... though it's actually pronouced karoke you know." Buford corrects, almost half-heartedly. As Hawksley struggles back up, he averts his eyes. Almost ashamed that he was still standing, and he opponent wasn't. Yet. He was told to finish him. What was it specificially?

His best shot.

Buford continues to blush, as he clenches his blade with both hands. He begins to slice through the air again. But this time, with control. Focus. Intent. Nodding his head, he surges at Hawksley, slashing into a wild frenzy as he cut, cut, cuts in a frenzy. This time, his hacking assault would finish with a singular, executing overhead slash. Not with the edge, though.

With the flat, aimed right upon Hawksley's head.

COMBATSYS: Hawksley blocks Buford's Tenderless Reaper.

[                           \\\  < >  ////////////                  ]
Hawksley         0/-------/-======|-------\-------\0           Buford

"Is it now? Well there you go, fella. I've learned something new today. Karoke." He repeats, trying it out. "It sounds fecking weird to me like but that's probably because of a lifetime of saying it the other way."

As Buford meets his challenge and comes for him, Hawksley is seeing double. He fights to focus on the sword as it starts to slice towards him and staggers backwards as the samurai speeds up. He's too slow though and is struck one, two, three times, blood oozing from the wounds on his bare skin.

Despite his horribly injured state, some instinct kicks in for the Irishman and he throws his hands upwards, blocking the blade and preventing it from crashing into his skull.

"Nearly, fella." He half laughs and half coughs. "I'm still standing though."

Not only does he remain upright, his fists and arms are now ablaze. The orange glow lights up his face and with how messed up it looks right now, Hawksley kinda resembles a movie monster.

As he moves forward, surely out of sheer will alone, he throws out a chain of hooks and crosses at whichever part of Buford he is able to connect with. Then for his grand finale, he will aim a flaming punch right at his face.

COMBATSYS: Hawksley successfully hits Buford with Burn Out.

[                             \  < >  //                            ]
Hawksley         0/-------/-----==|=======\-------\1           Buford

To be fair, it's not recommended to take any Buford advice to heart.

Yet, in the samurai's mind, as he unleashes the final downward slam, he walks past Hawksley, and sheathes his blade. Back turned, he lowers the fedora under his helmet, and dips it low. And standing fast, he immediately states aloud, a final haiku, what he knew would be reported in the after-action play by play as his cool new win quote that will dominate the highlights.
"Irishman's Honor

Be Remembered For All Time
"Wait What Did You Say-"

And Buford takes the punch in mid haiku.

The relentless combination is unleashed, ripping into the Canadian as he tries to adjust. There is no sword, it's sheathed. So the hulking man is forced to try and evade it. To only the barest of avails. Swaying and stunned, he seems -shocked- that his coup de grace lacked both the coup and the grace he had anticipated. Sure, he held back. But that couldn't have made the difference. Could it? But such thoughts come to a halt when a flaming fist hammers him squarely in the face. The Canadian -screams- in rage, as he hurls his full force at Hawksley head first. Should he connect, the hulking ronin would scoop up the boxer, and power bomb him straight down...

And then, finish the job he started.

COMBATSYS: Buford can no longer fight. Is this the end of lovable Buford?

[                             \  <
Hawksley         0/-------/-----==|

COMBATSYS: Hawksley dodges Buford's Hellish Quarter.

[                             \  <
Hawksley         0/-------/-----==|

Buford obviously thought he had his victory signed, sealed and delivered. He hadn't counted on the sheer bloody minded insistence of the Cork brawler to keep on fighting till he's forced to stop. The lad has always been the same, be it in the playground, the pub or on a professional fighting stage. He can have lost blood, been burned, bruised, sliced, slashed or stomped on and he will still get up to take more if he's capable of doing so.

He hears the haiku, something that the samurai is famed for. It sounds a lot kinder on him than some others that have been dished out to opponents of the Canadian. He never gets to hear the end though, because he's too busy silencing the reciter with his sequence of punches.

The blazing blows connect one after the other, concluding with the straight punch to the fedora wearing fighter's face. It's met by the anguised cry of Buford, perhaps feeling betrayed by his new ally's assault. All is fair in love, war and friendship though and the raging ronin is not shy in seeking his revenge!

Hawksley spots his imposing form coming towards him and knows that should he take any more damage, then his already badly battered body is done for as far as this fight is concerned. He decides to take a leap of hope, lurching left to land on one of the stone walls of the ruins. Once he knows he's made it out of harm's way, he looks back towards Buford to see what state he's in.

Buford slams into the wall.

Without a Hawksley to catch him, or rather, to be caught, he throws all his force into the wall, slamming it savagely headfirst. The helmet shatters, falling into two pieces as it falls to the ground. Blood pouring from his crown, dribbling down his forehead. His fedora, fortunately, was unharmed, if a bit wrinkled. Eyes dazed, the ronin of rationality staggers, eyes crossed as he staggers around. Facing Hawksley directly, he holds there, blinking stupidly. A long silence takes place. And then, he tips his fedora at the Irishman, before falling backwards, slamming into the wall once more head first, before collapsing into a heap at the bottom.

Sitting on the remains of a bottle with a sharp -crunch-

Hawksley watches the big guy fall in what seems like slow motion.

"Hawksley Moore takes the victory!" An announcer calls out, who had apparently been hiding behind an ancient archway the whole time.

The Irishman can barely believe it. Not that he'd ever bet against himself but in this fight, above any other, he'd been sure that he'd more than met his match. The samurai had been skillful, graceful and damn tough. He's honoured to have snatched a win from the jaws of defeat.

He rushes (as fast as a man his state possibly can) towards the collapsed Canadian, bending down by his side and shaking his still hand. "It was grand to brawl with you, fella." He praises. "You and I will go for that karoke session and a few drinks." He promises. "You've witnessed a warrior in action today." He calls out to the cameraman, who has moved in closer to get the shot. "This man gave me the fight of my life."

He remains in place as he awaits the arrival of the medical team to treat his opponent and as he sits there, something liquid drips from his face and on to the body of Buford. Perhaps it's blood or some sweat from his brow. Or maybe, just maybe it's a tear, like the ones Achilles shed for Hector after he had bested him in battle.

Log created on 17:46:51 03/29/2024 by Hawksley, and last modified on 07:23:14 04/16/2024.