Description: Warriors come in many forms. A modern-day Knight Templar and a Japanese lacrosse player clash at the Stuttgart Beer Festival, she fighting to prove herself to Strolheim, he to match the terms of his own high confidence. Their stylistic differences are obvious, their philosophical differences less so, but both give their all in a bout for the ages... set to a pounding techno soundtrack and the smell of stale booze. (Winner: Ichiro)
The Strolheim Teacher/Student Tournament may serve several purposes; to promote a high level of fighting skill throughout the world, to showcase talented warriors of all levels, to highlight the brutally noble reputation of Wolfgang Krauser's venerable family, and... to show just how much better Germany is than the rest of the world.
This tourney may not yet be an established annual event, but the spirited nature of many of the combatants is clearly reflected throughout the proud European nation - from north to south, east to west. Nowhere is this so vitally exhibited as in the country's festivals, numerous giddy gatherings of souls that take place throughout the year. This very night is the last chance to party for those attending the very much established, and inarguably annual, Cannstatter Volskfest... the Stuttgart Beer Festival.
This being the final fling, spirits are high and the people are higher. The entirety of the sprawling site reeks of sweat, alcohol and spices both local and exotic. The atmosphere is heady everywhere, from the child-friendly traditional tents packed with local bands and rosy-cheeked men in lederhosen to the outlying regions where the youth have taken over. Music is thumping on one particular rise overlooking the central part of the site, and the festival's trademark, disturbingly phallic column of fruit. A squat marquee sits on the hillock amidst the rays of the setting sun, a golden haze suffusing the gathered crowd of hot young teens and twenty-somethings with added passion they hardly need, lost as they are in the pounding techno rhythms spreading waves from within the tent.
An open stage has been set up just yards from the source of the pounding party, watched by officials and cameras as it's cleared for the arrival of the next event. Courtesy of Strolheim. Like the beautifully wasted spectators, the air around the stage is practically toxic, but perhaps this is just part of the challenge? Getting up there is tough in itself - it would be so much easier to just get drawn into the throng, to join the Teutonic teenagers throwing silhouetted shapes on the ridge.
And this is where we find Amy. Keen to do herself proud in this tournament, to /deserve/ the personal invitation she has received to enter the castle and learn from its master - by proxy if not directly, though she can certainly hope - the youngest of the Knights Templar might at any other time throw herself in with the crowd. Instead, she slips through them rapidly, bending this way and that around dancing bodies to make her way up to the wooden platform. Her outer clothing has already been removed, leaving the woman in boots and long-limbed leotard. She's even ditched the beret she tends to leave in place, tying her lengthy black hair into a high ponytail to remove it from her vision.
All in all, as she springs up onto the stage and silently takes up a position against the blazing sunset, she couldn't seem much more displaced from the surrounding revelry. Dark and brooding, the maiden of mist may be heralded by the thumping bass of the DJ... but she's all business.
COMBATSYS: Amy has started a fight here.
Tournaments are a bad influence. First there was Jinchuu, where, do to the ship sailing on international waters, Ichiro was allowed to drink his fill of champagne. It didn't end well. And now here he is, attending the Stuttgart Beer Festival for the second fight of his second Tournament. Luckily for the lacrosse captain, Ichiro learned a thing or two about drinking from his last experience and he's not about to make the same mistake twice... would he?
"YES! This is awesome!" Ichiro yells as he dances his way through the mass of sweaty bodies with a large duffle bag slung over one shoulder and a large mug of beer (It comes in PINTS?!) clutched in his left hand. Sweat beads off of the athlete's shirtless body as the omnipresently thunderous techno beat carries him through the crowd and towards the site of the next challenge in his young fighting career. Slinging his duffel up on the wooden platform, Ichiro pulls himself up, very carefully so as not to spill his delicious beer. "Ah... I am TOTALLY coming back next year!" Ichiro exclaims as he tips the mug back and drains the rest of the heavenly draught. Give him a break; it's only his second beer! He's barely even buzzed!
Passing the mug down to a random stranger in the crowd, Ichiro finally looks over toward his opponent and gives the girl a quick once-over. "Wow, she's pretty hot!" Ichiro exclaims aloud as his inner-monologue betrays him. Okay, he's probably pretty well buzzed. Staring admiringly at the slightly older woman's obviously lithe and athletic figure for a while longer than is normally considered polite, the slightly drunk teen is suddenly shocked back into the real word as the hypnotic techno's spell is suddenly broken by the DJ mixing in a breakdown consisting of a man speaking in deep guttural German. "Oh, uh... hi! My name is Ichiro. Ichiro Oe," The captain of Taiyo High's Lacrosse team says with a wave as he introduces himself a touch awkwardly.
"I just need a second to get ready, then we can start," he adds as the boy bends down and unzips his bag, pulling out a pair of streamlined and almost futuristic looking shoulder pads, at least compared to those bulky things that American Footballers wear, and a terrycloth towel, which he uses to wipe away the hodgepodge of sweat from his athletically muscular chest, arms, and stomach (rock hard tasty abs glistening in the sun). Slipping the pads over his shirtless torso, Ichiro reaches down and scoops up a hockey-style lacrosse helmet and a long stick with a pocketed net on the end, better known as a lacrosse stick or 'crosse' from his bag before nudging it out of the way with his foot. Plopping the helmet on his head and leaving the chin straps to dangle loosely under his jaw the lacrosse player wipes his palms on his olive drab cargo pants before giving his stick a quick twirl and nodding to the girl before him. "Ready when you are!"
COMBATSYS: Ichiro has joined the fight here.
Enthusiasm comes in many guises. Despite a stern outward appearance, Amy's heart is racing as she stands sentinel at the far side of the stage. The music rushes up through her legs in waves, compelling her to activity she dare not assume before the appointed time. Before everything is in place. Cries from the crowd washes to meet her also, breaking past ears that will listen only for the approach of her opponent. And hear him she does, before she catches so much as a glimpse of his half-naked form.
The waiting woman takes a sharp breath, casting her gaze over the twisting, gyrating forms that seem to melt in the dying light. Were he not as tall and muscular as he is, Ichiro would be an easy figure to spot; Asian, younger than the majority of those present, and.. apparently far too keen for his own good. Not that he's the only excitable boy present, but quite like this? Amy's immediate reaction to his ogling is a curved brow, lips proceeding to twitch upward into a faint smirk as she ponders those staring eyes. She doesn't move any further until Ichiro does, revealing his true nature as he stumbles over the introduction.
"Amy," the raven-haired Englishwoman responds, flashing her teeth in a swift half-grin, "Amy Johnson." It's her turn to add something a beat later, eyebrows lifting once more as she turns her head to glance askance at the youth, "You can, uh, take all the time you need." As if he hasn't already.
She watches him a moment longer before she lowers her gaze and shifts her stance. Her own preparation consists of flicking out the ankles and wrists, and bouncing lightly off her heels, springing a little higher with each exertion. Hard bootheels crack against the stage, as she lands in a loose stance, arms raised about the chest with fingers tensed comfortably against the air. It's barely perceptible, but she continues to move in time with the music as the pace picks up, a cascading torrent of loops thrown in by the exuberant DJ. No announcer cuts in, and no officials make a move to quiet the music. The music is the entire point; the fight is merely a bonus, much as it means to the combatants and - truth be told - a fair quantity of those dancing.
Instead, Ichiro's declaration of readiness precedes a natural start to proceedings. The music reaches a crescendo, the record spins, and bursts into a loud, dissipating explosion of noise. Those high to the eyeballs throw shapes into the sunset, and at this peak, this dizzying finale, Amy breaks into action with a call of, "Good luck, Ichiro Oe!"
She moves like a swaying reed, sliding a whole step forward to move around the gathered momentum. Twisting at the hip, she raises her right arm in a smooth uppercutting motion, knuckles tensing for impact far too many yards off for impact to come. Beneath her feet, the very atmosphere seems to stir, orange-gray fronds of dark light billowing across the stage. She locks her eyes upon Ichiro's, favouring him with a penetrating stare as the very abrupt ballet of energy reaches him, a single whiplash of chi breaking away from the wood underfoot to grasp at a leg and pull him in for a tight, crashing impact.
If he's good enough, he'll understand what just happened. If he's not, it may well seem as if she can drop a man with a look. Surely it would take more than a mild buzz for /that/ to happen...
COMBATSYS: Amy successfully hits Ichiro with Quagmire.
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Ichiro 0/-------/-----==|=------\-------\0 Amy
Ooh, eye contact. Though it is probably among the most innocent and simplest interaction you can experience with another human being, nothing else is quite so exhilarating and instantly intimate as deep, prolonged eye contact with an attractive female you hardly know. Well, among the stuff that is legal to do in public anyway. A crooked smile buoyed by the fuzzy comfort of his beer-addled brain floats on Ichiro's lips as he lingers on Amy's gaze after her uppercutting motion. Sure, her stare is fairly aggressive and quite piercing and probably not at all flirtatious, but Ichiro isn't really concerned with that at the moment. To the passionately burning spirit that smolders deep in Oe's chest an intense, challenging glare from a lissome, athletically built female is just as alluring as a wink and a giggle from a voluptuous tease. Plus being a quarter pissed and feeling fine don't hurt either.
Unfortunatly for Ichiro, Amy's uppercut wasn't simply the opening pose that he took it for. It was an all out attack. The energy grips the unsuspecting boy by the leg and yanks him to the floor of the wooden stage with a hollow crash. Staring up at the sky from his supine position on the floor for a brief moment, Ichiro wearily lifts himself up on his elbows and regards Amy with a slightly bewildered stare. Maybe it WOULDN'T take more than a mild buzz for that to happen. "Alright, I see you mean business," Ichiro says with a small grin as he pushes himself to his feet and reaches into the pocket of his cargo pants. Pulling out a hard rubber ball that is slightly smaller than a baseball, Ichiro gives the object a resonating bounce on the wooden stage before catching it in the net of his lacrosse stick. "Its game time," Ichiro tells himself aloud as he forces himself to focus his attention, using his finely honed and practiced focus to piece the slight fog that clouds his thinking; letting his features relax and his eyes squint attentively at his opponent in the waning light of the setting sun. Alright. It's on.
COMBATSYS: Ichiro gathers his will.
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Ichiro 0/-------/-======|=------\-------\0 Amy
"Always," comes the reply to Ichiro's observation that the Templar means business. Though spoken softly, it carries that same edge of menace evident in her eyes. Not brutal or predatory; focused, intent and promising of further danger. But Amy remains in position after her opening attack, arm relaxing against the shoulder, opposite hand flickering just below the elbow. Watching, interpreting, and somewhere in her mind? Wondering exactly how - despite what she has seen and heard - Ichiro has turned lacrosse into a combat art.
She does not tarry long on idle thought, giving the Taiyo sportsman only a few seconds before she pivots on the balls of her feet. Wordless this time, her relatively slow return to movement soon reaches full force, the gentle pivot turned into a rapid spin that carries her through three hundred and sixty degrees. Her raised arm whips about to curl beneath the other, that left hand thundering forward in a deft palm thrust toward Ichiro. It's game time.
A cry escapes Amy's throat, and the palm upturns. What follows can be felt even by some in the audience, rhythms thrown to the wind as their senses prickle. The energy omnipresent in the surrounding area /explodes/ into visible life, the fog in Ichiro's brain nothing compared to the fog that suddenly encompasses the stage. Though not particularly thick, it glows unnaturally in the dimming sun's rays, twisting into fraying ropes that can easily deceive the eye.
Which may well be unfortunate, as the mist-shrouded Templar tightens her stance, throwing another briskly slicing uppercut from the hand already raised, the mirror partner to that of moments before. At it's zenith, she seems to flicker and fade, form only partially discernable as movement erupts at Ichiro's rear flank. A grayish fist launches itself around toward his gut, a ghostly hook that.. may not feel like any physical blow he has experienced. It appears they both possess an unorthodox style.
COMBATSYS: Ichiro overcomes Night Errant from Amy with Break Shot EX.
- Power hit! -
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Ichiro 0/-------/------=|-------\-------\0 Amy
"Wha..." Shivering slightly as the fog bank suddenly springs to life around them and blocks out what little remaining sun there is left in the sky, Ichiro can't help but rub at his biceps with his free hand as goosebumps rise up all over his skin. "Nnngg... Doesn't anyone punch and kick anymore?" Ichiro asks rhetorically as he shakes off his shudders and grips the crosse in both hands. It seems like everyone he fights these days is constantly throwing chi at him. Well, two can play at that game.
Squinting dangerously as the gray fist launches at him, Ichiro quickly raises the pocket of his crosse behind his head and breaks into an all out dash towards Amy. Crying out gutturally as the ghostly fist and athlete close in on each other, the ball in the pocket of his crosse suddenly bursts into blazing golden flames a moment before Ichiro flings the ball towards Amy, crashing through the fist and rending it to nothingness as it courses on its way towards Amy's chest.
COMBATSYS: Ichiro successfully hits Amy with Break Shot EX.
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Ichiro 0/-------/----===|==-----\-------\0 Amy
Turnabout is fair play; and Ichiro earns respect from the outset by keeping himself trained upon Amy. His projectile closes in, and the Templar's half obscured arm sweeps dramatically downward, her form poised to make use of the gathered force from this gesture. But the attack flies true, striking like a thunderclap and forcing the woman back in a barely controlled skid. /This/ momentum is not wasted. Teeth gritted, the Templar is already making with the footwork, left turning upon its heel and right leading the moment she comes to a halt, lithe body bending forward into a sprint that carries her within striking range of the younger warrior. She tenses and swings to one side, skidding a half foot past him with arms lashing out across his stomach and chest.
There is but an instant before the nature of this attack emerges, in which Amy once more has her deep gaze riveted upon the schoolboy's. Reading the intent in any movement he should make, striving to read his very soul for the slightest sign of emotional investment in the battle. Despite the serious goal in her actions, though, she does appear to grace him with a small smile -- a gesture perhaps more a trick as deft and dextrous digits seek his own hands, striving to secure a grip only strengthened by the presence of the crosse before she lifts her arms in a quarter-circle.
If the gambit pays off Ichiro will be forced to take an uncomfortable seat on the stage... though he will receive another smile, one that actually reaches the woman's eyes as she steps back and into a steady aikido stance. "What do you hope to achieve in this tournament, Ichiro?" She asks over the music, and through the cloying mist.
COMBATSYS: Ichiro fails to interrupt Fast Throw from Amy with Cross Check EX.
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Ichiro 0/-------/----===|==-----\-------\0 Amy
Holding Hands! This relationship is getting serious!
His eyes narrowing as the girl rushes him, Ichiro's muscles tense as he prepares to spring into action. Raising his crosse with the intent of clocking the young Templar upside the head with its metal haft, Ichiro soon realizes that putting yourself off balance isn't really that smart when your opponent is trying to upend you and send you to the ground. "Oof!" Ichiro grunts as he twists and is send down onto his butt on the wooden stage. "What do I hope to achieve?" Ichiro repeats as he throws his weight backwards over one should and rolls back up to his feet. "The same as anyone else, to win," he replies with a shrug. "...uh, I guess so anyway." Ichiro hadn't really thought about his motives for signing up, really. He'd decided that he wanted to be a fighter and fighters enter tournaments, right? "Well, I guess I really just want to see how well I can do. To push myself and to make myself stronger. Iron sharpens iron, forging yourself in the fire of combat, and all that, ya know?" he adds with a grin.
"To win?" The Templar echoes the statement with an air of incredulity that may be misinterpreted; a teenage tendency that has persisted throughout the growth of greater patience and understanding. Her lips remain faintly parted as she considers Ichiro, watching him while he explains himself. An occasional twitch of a finger betrays her pent-up energy, but she listens in spite of this, phasing out the festival atmosphere. 'Iron sharpens iron' she makes particular note of, glancing down toward her palms, flexing fingertips and feeling the muscles shift in her arms.
"I've seen some of the names in the lists," she replies when the recovered youth stops speaking, beginning to step slowly toward him "Ever think you might be a little too confident?" Dark eyes narrow, and her pace quickens with sudden intent. Despite her seeming focus on softer arts, it is an elbow that rises as she closes on Ichiro, sleek black of the leotard clinging to lithe musculature. The right arm comes across to brace the left, palms locking with tensed fingers turned outward, and on a lowered stance Amy shoots forward, seeking to drive that hard bone into her opponent's solar plexus.
"After all," she declares, reversing her stance with equal speed, ponytail whipping violently behind as her entire frame bucks with tension. Booted feet gain a powerful hold on the stage while arms part and the woman's right hand lashes out, bearing a harsh palm-thrust toward the gut. "You have yet to get past me!"
COMBATSYS: Ichiro fails to interrupt Fierce Punch from Amy with Savage Combo EX.
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Ichiro 0/-------/---====|===----\-------\0 Amy
Too confident? Ichiro blinks and looks puzzled at this comment. There are levels of confidence? You mean there are levels higher than his normal supreme confidence in himself and his abilities? "Ummm... nope, can't say that I have thought about that, to be honest." Lashing out with his crosse to try and tangle up one of Amy's legs and send her to the ground, Ichiro may have spoken too soon as the woman's palm smashes right into his midsection and sends him doubling over. "Hnnngg... You're right, I do have to get... past you..." Ichiro admits as he attempts to regain his breath. "But if I'm going to win I WILL get past you, so I should be confident that I'll come out on top, shouldn't I?" he asks with a playful smirk. It's simple logic, really.
Following the brutal extension of her arm, Amy remains in her offensive stance, hand quivering briefly before she retracts it with a deft twist and sways forward. As Ichiro fights to recover precious air she begins to circle through the mist, posture raised and form tight, arms gyrating in an energetic satellite guard about her chest. Her breathing is heavier now, drawn and released deeply, and when she starts forward with a shake of her head there is a long, sharp expulsion.
"True enough," the words are naturally breathless, but share some element of playfulness to echo Ichiro's question, dimly visible in those dusky blue eyes. The emotion may be hard to discern in the obscurity, visual and aural, and it is this the Templar uses to once more cover her approach and assault. Twisting into the final step, she springs off the ground into a supple rotation, knee tucking beneath her as a leg lashes out in a whirring back kick.
"Haa-" The blow is pulled. Where Amy's boot should impact against the collarbone it merely comes to a slide and rest, the other leg extending to catch Ichiro about the other side. "-ngh!" Her torso continues to lower until she spins another full circle, this time planning - with the hold maintained upon the Taiyo sportsman - to launch him toward centre-stage with a flex of conditioned legs. Leaving her to fly through billowing tendrils of gray and land in a wide crouch yards away, palms gripping the floor for balance.
"And admirable," her voice rings out, clear and passionate, "Where did you learn to think like that?"
COMBATSYS: Ichiro dodges Amy's Medium Throw.
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Ichiro 0/-------/----===|===----\-------\0 Amy
Flinching away from what appears to be Amy's initial back kick, a puzzled look flashes across the young lacrosse player's face as the blow never connects. "Huh?" the rich teen inquires dumbly just as Amy's other leg closes in and clutches him tight in a scissor grab. Tossed through the air by Amy's twisting, Ichiro does a little maneuvering of his own, letting his natural athleticism take over as he twists himself into position and tucks his shoulder, hitting the stage floor with his shoulder pad before rolling into a crouch.
"I didn't /learn/ it anywhere," Ichiro explains from his predatory crouch, "It just comes naturally I guess. To be a true athlete on the top of his game you can't just /believe/ in your abilities," he adds as he springs through the preternatural mist, swinging his crosse like a baseball bat as he arcs through the air toward Amy and tries to smack her upside the head with it's metal shaft. "You have to KNOW."
COMBATSYS: Amy interrupts Slashing from Ichiro with Wyrm Waker.
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Ichiro 0/-------/=======|=====--\-------\0 Amy
Impressive. On landing, Amy has little idea of what just happened; not for the moment it takes to become accustomed to her position and Ichiro's presence on the field. Truthfully, it is not until he begins to surge forward that she realises how ineffective her deceptive grapple really was. At this point the mists expand and contract as if moved by a greater will, or some intake of breath from an underlying creature. Power cracks the sweat-soaked, rhythm-filled air. The Templar's gaze deepens.
When Ichiro's crosse thunders forth to a potentially devastating impact, it's path is mirrored by the woman upon the stage floor. Boots creak a protest as she moves swiftly, with enough contained force to shake the wooden foundations. "Knowledge," she murmurs, maintaining eye contact with the younger warrior, rising to her feet with a thrust from one hand, the other circling upward, "Is power." The very mist surges alongside her, shrieking in from all around the battling pair. Her fingers close over the crosse.
"Haaah!!" The cry is accompanied by a tremor of effort that rocks the Templar's frame, as she soaks the gathered force and turns it upon its creator, pulling Ichiro in toward her and down. His chin and chest are inches away when her other hand lifts, wrist clicking an unheard protest and grayish tendrils whirlpooling toward the opening palm. A clap of silent thunder, Amy launches herself to one side, evading impact with the boy only to windmill her arms and bring them in a harsh hammer blow toward his back. It is the mist that strikes, twin whips of energy following her motions to plunge her opponent into the stage with harsh, board-splintering finality.
One moment Ichiro is flying through the air, and the next... he is not. Very much not. Groaning pitifully from his newly made nest of broken boards and splinters, Ichiro pushes himself up from his prone position on the stage and staggers back a couple of steps wearily. "Nnnh... you sure do have some... fancy moves..." Ichiro admits as his gaze is drawn down to his shirtless stomach by a piercing pain. "Ow... gross..." the Taiyo High student laments as he reaches down and slowly pulls a three inch long wooden splinter out of his abdomen, his face contorting in annoyed pain as he extracts the small spike that luckily decided to enter his skin at a parallel angle rather than straight in perpendicularly. Dropping the piece of bloody wood to the ground, the lacrosse player brushes at the well-muscled abs showing below his shoulder pads in a vain attempt to dislodge the hundreds of tiny, normal sized splinters that have made their home in his epidermis. It seems like Ichiro is being outclassed by yet another dedicated fighter. Maybe the kid should stick to lacrosse. "The game isn't over yet..." Ichiro tells himself, his voice a touch darker than normal as his facial features lose any sense of mirth or amusement that they'd gathered over the course of the fight. The Game Face is back.
COMBATSYS: Ichiro gathers his will.
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Ichiro 1/---====/=======|=====--\-------\0 Amy
Leaping backward after her counterattack, The Templar takes in a deep breath, lungs straining against her ribcage. Wary eyes watch Ichiro recover and pull himself together -- or apart, as the case may be, while the woman continues to move backward, reaching the edge of the stage in swift paces. The scattering of blood causes her momentary pause, head canting to one side as she seems to consider apologising, and then brushes it aside, turning the gesture into a respectful nod toward her opponent. His own passion tells her there is no need for tender words; he must understand.
In fact, no words at all are forthcoming. Amy holds back a moment longer, waiting for any signs of action from the younger fighter before she starts to almost stroll forward, arms swinging up and into a loose guard. Then, with a grunt of extertion, she lowers her centre of gravity and slashes a vicious 'x' in the air with tensed arms, parting a wide swathe in the mist as she breaks into a sprint toward Ichiro. Her long strides rapidly quicken, her forward storm showing no sign of abating. She is throwing herself completely into the final stages of battle... dedicated is about right.
COMBATSYS: Amy strains her body to its limit.
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Ichiro 1/---====/=======|=======\-------\0 Amy
A sick grin breaks through the stony glare of Ichiro's game face as Amy cuts a path through the eerie mist that separates the two fighters and begins to charge straight for the Taiyo athlete. Oh, it's on. Standing absolutely motionless for a split second as the young templar closes in, Ichiro would almost look like a statue if not for the steam rising from the youth's warm shoulders and evaporating into the cool evening air.
"Hyaaaaaaaaa!" Ichiro cries out as he suddenly launches himself forward, hoping to cut off Amy's advance by pressing on with a barrage of his own. Throwing his body forward towards the older girl, Ichiro attempts to knock her off balance with a stout shoulder tackle before thrusting two strikes up toward her stomach, first with his right knee, then with his left as if he were Roberto juggling a soccer ball. Should everything go according to plan the lacrosse player will then grip his lacrosse stick in two hands like Shoma choking up on the bat to swing for the fences just as the stick bursts into bright flames of golden chi, physical manifestations of his inner burning spirit. After wailing on Amy's chest a few times with his spirit-infused crosse, he'll tie up the present with a nice big ribbon in the form of a brutal helmet-on-head headbutt. That is, if everything goes according to plan.
COMBATSYS: Ichiro successfully hits Amy with SDF Lacrosse.
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Ichiro 0/-------/-------|====---\-------\0 Amy
That fearsome incoming shoulder is met with Amy's own, her teeth gritting as she twists her upper body in an attempt to tame her wild dash. This forceful transmogrification into an equally unfettered defence is ill-judged, however, and the crack as flesh and bone compacts can be heard by the crowd over anything the tenacious DJ can offer up. The collision threatens to spin the woman around, before she is pinned in place by Ichiro's penetrating blows. Leather boots leave the floor with a shriek, and the Templar is too easily set up for the finale...
Driven backward, it is all she can do to retain any form of focus, blood lighting the whites of her eyes and breath utterly escaping her. The nearby mist twists in an unnatural sympathy, expressing the agony of its mistress in facing the spirited youth's own torrents of energy. The headbutt is mere icing on the cake, though it does draw a crimson gash upon the woman's head. Her cautious ponytail erupts open, spilling raven fronds out in a crazed halo as she is launched away, arms and legs dragging against the bent momentum of her body. Only the whipping upward motion of that tiny, silver cross about her neck seems to remind her that this fight is not over, dark blue eyes focusing upon it and suddenly snapping wide open.
Raging through the pain, forcing instinctive concerns away, Amy manages to draw back a forearm in order to plunge it to the fore as she lands, the opposite limb taking up a position along the stage to keep her facing Ichiro as she skids yet further from him. Her lips open in a scream, tense and high-pitched, spittle flecking into the outlying fog; which billows in tandem with the snapping of dextrous digits into that extended, shuddering palm. A thousand motes of gray-white chi explode around the woman, obscuring her completely from view and sending a terrible shockwave through the mists.
When the dark light fades, Amy is nowhere to be seen... and the empowered wave has not reached her opponent. Instead, it triggers the appearance of perhaps a dozen apparitions of ghostly murk. All simulacra, resembling the Templar to a tee; at least in the haze. Some approach high, some low, and one from the rear, each flying toward Ichiro with an eerie fist outstretched.
COMBATSYS: Ichiro blocks Amy's Preserving the Myth.
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Ichiro 0/-------/------=|=======\-------\0 Amy
Coming to a stop a few steps after sending Amy flying backwards with his brutal onslaught, Ichiro stoops over slightly as he observes the young lady skidding away from him dramatically. "Hnn.." the lacrosse player winces softly as he clutches his ribs with his left arm, his right balancing the crosse on his shoulder in a manner that would almost look casual if not for his battered and weary appearance. "...don't think I'll ever go a day without at least three broken ribs..." he comments to himself with a wry grin before glancing up at Amy, giving her his full focus rather than just letting her float on the perimeter of his vision just as she screams. A look of alarmed concern briefly crosses the teenager's face at the shrill wail; though Oe loves to fight, he doesn't really take pleasure in brutalizing his opponent. The brutality is just a side effect of his fighting style.
"...damn, what now?" he asks as the young templar thrusts her palm at Ichiro yet again, causing the eerie fog to billow and fly towards the captain of the lacrosse team. Switching his crosse back into a two handed grip, Oe raises the improvised weapon across his body in a defensive stance as he crouches, preparing to try and take any unexpected blows on his protective gear or to dive and roll out of the way if need be. "...you are an interesting girl..." Ichiro calls out to the wind as the techno beat drones on in the background, glancing around and peering at the approaching fog as he hopes to catch sight of the templar. "...a little creepy, but interesting..." he adds with a slight grin; a grin that is soon wiped from his face as ghostly copies of his opponent suddenly materialize from the gloom and launch themselves at the boy.
Retreating backwards a step, Ichiro slashes his crosse at the first spectre to reach him, but the stick passes clean through causing the misty image to swirl and go insubstantial. Spinning his crosse into a reverse grip as the next mist wraith approaches, Oe thrusts the staff at it's head, but the cross check too passes through. "Where are you?" he asks quietly as the next few copies attack harmlessly. Time seems to slow down for the teen as his focus shifts into the 'zone' that all athletes know so well, giving Ichiro time to scrutinize the mist forms for a split second until his eyes suddenly open wide in recognition. "Got you!" he exclaims as he spies a spray of raven black hair peek out from one of the simulacra's form. Lashing out with his crosse in a reverse-grip as the real attack closes in, Ichiro manages to deflect most of the force from the strike while trying to hook the lacrosse stick behind Amy's back and reel her in towards his own body to meet his knee being thrust up violently toward her gut.
COMBATSYS: Ichiro successfully hits Amy with Light Kick.
[ \\\\\\\\\\ < > ///// ]
Ichiro 0/-------/------=|=======\=------\1 Amy
The spiritual fog is deceptive, seeming to waver before all but the utmost height of scrutiny. Its very nature makes Amy stronger as a fighter, and - she she believes - as a person, their relationship a close synergy in which both must trust the other absolutely. Such an attitude appears to work, each of those forms a near perfect mimicry of the woman, and she so closely shadowing her chosen point of cover that they seem one and the same. Leaping behind the wraith's approach, body ready to spring in to punish her opponent, this very talent may be her undoing. She has assumed she is invisible, assumed he will not be able to unveil her...
And indeed, this /is/ her undoing. As the spirit-fist closes for impact with Ichiro's cheek, her very real leg lashes out, pulling her body into a tight spin that would set her up perfectly for a second, yet more direct blow. A close to this intriguing bout. Instead, she is pulled from the air with a gasp, mouth twisting into a surprised scowl as she swings about to face Ichiro for the barest moment before his knee hammers into her. She flips backward, trying to roll with the strike and land on outstretched palms, but quivering arms fail her and she hits the stage in an uncontrolled bundle.
Or almost uncontrolled. Swiftly she hauls herself to a kneeling position, weaving to one side, fighting not to pass out. Somehow she clings on, and a mere second has passed. Dark eyes seek the lacrosse star through their mistress' summoned mists, and she smiles. Faintly, quietly, respectfully and yet... it is somehow a promising gesture. Her lips move, framing a single syllable, and once more the air obeys. Thick, obscuring ropes and gently shifting tendrils all close in upon one another, the gray overwhelming as it moves at first softly, and then with great power. The mist binds, wraps and crushes, seeking to drag Ichiro in for a final embrace.
And then, it explodes with unleashed potential. A searing light reigns, a klaxon horn sounding somewhere in the nearby crowd as the electronic backdrop spirals into a digital maelstrom. It becomes sheer static, pitched to sear the eardrums whilst the explosively diminishing haze sears the retinas and the soul.
COMBATSYS: Amy can no longer fight.
[ \\\\\\\\\\ <
Ichiro 0/-------/------=|
COMBATSYS: Amy successfully hits Ichiro with The Dragon's Breath.
[ \\\ <
Ichiro 0/-------/----===|
A grimace of pain floating on his features as he tries to balance deep, exhausted breaths with the sharp stabbing pain of broken ribs, Ichiro Oe fights the urge to bend over and rest his hands on his knees to try and regain his wind. Every athlete knows that this is a big 'no-no' as it constricts your airflow and makes it harder to regain your breath, no matter how good if feels. Instead, Ichiro recalls the advice of his past coaches and crosses his hands behind his head and lets the rejuvenating air flow easily into his lungs as he slows down his breathing.
That had to the end, didn't it? His last knee wasn't particularly vicious, but it was solid, and he could sense that the girl didn't have much left in the tank. Not that Ichiro is much better off, to be honest. Glancing down at his fallen opponent, a flash of darkness crosses Ichiro's face as he watches the templar haul herself up to her knees. "You fight until the game is over. I respect that," Ichiro replies honestly, without a trace of mockery or sarcasm, though he also expects the same out of himself, the boy can't keep a touch of weariness out of his voice as he speaks; the game is not over yet, but it has been long and it has been hard.
Her promise of a smile is met by a dubious look; Ichiro has no reason to suspect that she is going to ease up, not now. The look flashes to panic as tendrils begin to materialize from the air and grope for Ichiro. This is like something out of one of those horror movies with the ghost girls that crab walk backwards down stairs. "No!" Oe exclaims fiercely as the tendrils wrap around his arms, forcing him to his knees. His finely honed biceps bulge and strain as he pulls against the preternatural and inevitable strength of the mist as it reels him in, the ghostly gloom threatening to choke him as it surges in through his mouth and nostrils once it begins to envelop him. His panic grows stronger as he is trapped in the tangible mist. Ichiro is quite fearless when it comes to the physical word. His confidence in his strength and abilities almost borders on lunacy at times. But there is nothing natural about this mist. And you can't fight claustrophobia with balls and sticks.
Clenching his now useless eyes shut, Ichiro does everything he can to steel himself. He calls upon all of his inner strength, his training. His Burning Spirit. "Hnnnn.....yaaaaAAAAAYYY!" The boy bellows as he strains at his bonds, encouraged by the feeling of the tendrils losing their web-like grip on his limbs. He is almost free...
...then the damn thing explodes. Flung aside by the explosion, Ichiro blacks out for a moment, but soon the world comes rushing back to him as he coughs up mist. "Wasn't... expecting that..." he admits as he drags himself to his feet, though his broken ribs almost send him back to the ground for good.
COMBATSYS: Ichiro takes no action.
[ \\\ <
Ichiro 0/-------/----===|
COMBATSYS: Ichiro has ended the fight here.
Weathering her own storm, Amy is poorly placed to observe the reaction of her opponent. All senses are screaming, her vision blotched and flickering long before the extent of her potential destroys it. But she makes out that bold cry, and knows well enough what the younger warrior is experiencing - she learned through fear of her abilities, not from within herself but by observing others as the power began to subconsciously develop. Nothing is more cowing than a confrontation with the unknown; in time, anything can become familiar, comfortable, but the mist holds a mystery of its own. A mystery the Templar has yet to fully unravel.
Ichiro's terror may manifest before a strange entity, but ultimately... it is human. Amy knows this because she has been trained to capitalise upon it, even revels in doing so- in showing herself and those she fights that some things are pure illusion, and others occupy a higher state, rooted in very real psychology. More mind-boggling still is the belief - the knowledge - she sees fit to share with few, knowing that scant indeed are those who might understand. Knowing, even, that she is not truly among them.
She reflects on this, feels it, as Ichiro fights his personal battle across the stage. She feels also that her companion energies' grip is beginning to loosen, picking up a familiar eerie prickle at the fore of the mind which overrides all other concerns. At this point her eyes, closed against the raging light, flutter open. Visibility returns as if expelled from a vacuum, allowing the crosse-bearer to stand and retune his own senses as Amy quickly becomes reaccustomed with hers. Releasing the Dragon's Breath is an essential step at this point, but it comes no less a relief.
In the backdrop, the DJ's swan song plays, an oscillating bass thrum that sounds at that border of hearing, deep in the gut. In an odd way, it aids recovery, for the two fighters... and for their audience, who appear framed in the retreating pale-sear, silhouettes before they become properly visible. Most frozen, a few swaying in an only partway drug-induced rapture. As the music fades, cheers break out - at first uncertainly, then in full force as Ichiro's upright posture is revealed to all and sundry. For a few blissful moments the youth is given his due; victory is acknowledged.
And rightly so. Amy's condition is equally apparent, as she remains upon her knees, arms limp at her side and back hunched. Blood falls thickly from the gash in her forehead, pooling on the stage in swift drips. Her visage is pallid, pupils dilated and lips flushed. It's some moments before she is even able to move, and when she does it is at first with a desperate shake of the head, damp ebon locks whipping with the motion. Confusion reigns a few seconds more, eyelids flickering as the Templar glances about.
Finally she focuses upon Ichiro, and manages another smile, weak but somehow still imbued with the vigour embodied in her martial style. True passion exceeds the body's limits. "I almost had you," she states distantly, not making a question of it - there is no need to. "You're still too confident but..." Trailing off, she lifts a hand, brushing gore from around her right eye and glancing toward the subsequent stain before that gaze alights back upon her opponent, "Not half bad. Good," Amy punctuates this assessment, the single word spoken so vaguely, with a hazy nod, "Good."
Her chin lolls toward her chest, and a beat later she folds forward, forearms limply bracing the upper body in an awkward foetal position. The party in Stuttgart is far from over, the soundtrack soon resuming to kick proceedings back into full swing. But for the Templar, this might be all she wrote.
Log created on 00:18:24 10/13/2008 by Amy, and last modified on 17:02:10 10/15/2008.