Germanicus
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Howdy hey, good people. Like I said, I'm back, and before i get to the good ole literature, some quick blurbs;
1. I will, unfortunately, no longer pursuing Revenge of the Hawk. I enjoyed the story, but I've kinda moved on.
2. I will be starting a new story, one more original. The basic details; the setting is a place called Empire City. The premise is that most of the main characters are professional Elemental Martial Artists (EMA fighters) who have the ability to...well, you'll see.
And that's all I'm saying for right now! I hope to have the complete, three part introduction done over the weekend. But for now, let's celebrate new beginnings with a little teaser. Please leave your comments and any criticism; I appreciate all the help I can get! Enjoy!
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The roar of the crowd, engulfing the arena in an earsplitting, wordless shriek, echoed throughout the building, people rioting at their satisfaction of the cold, bloody business about to be conducted before them. Flashing florescent lights beamed from above on the two men beginning to circle the ring, one grinning barbarically and flaunting his immense, powerful muscles to his fans, his tan and built body towering well over eight feet, a giant in all respects. Many of the front row spectators bombarded him with their approval.
“GLOCK! GLOCK! KILL!! KILL!!!”
It was true, as well; the fighter Glock had literally blown the head of the last fighter he had faced clear from the man’s shoulders. The choice whispers which floated around the usual rumor mill of fights in The Pit were that he was the most physically powerful man to ever walk the depths of the hellish arena, and maybe even in all of Empire city! Most people bet that he would be the one to represent them in the coming tournament, the crowning fighter to champion the slums of the city against the nobles and the Elite division. Especially considering that his opponent was at least two feet shorter and nowhere near as well defined.
The man who opposed Glock stood nonchalantly on the other side of the ring. He didn’t gesture or pose with the grandeur worked for by his adversary, but merely bounced on the balls of his feet, nimbly working his legs, and throwing a few short practice punches at a variance of forms and speeds. The warm up was essential, as the man knew; he hadn’t missed it once since his very first fight. He was thin, but toned, muscles clearly visible on his well built body. Though he was short, he appeared athletic, his raven hair hovering just above his serene, hazel eyes. He appeared as though he would sooner be running a marathon as opposed to battling grizzled opponents in a ring. Glock waltzed over to him, his steps assured and his face cocky, his ebony eyes glinting as if the triumph was already his. He bumped the minuscule man’s right shoulder with his fist, sending him back a few steps. “Heh..heh heh…” his laugh was guttural and slurred, his voice deep and droning. “…don’t die too fast, tiny man. Glock wanna smash you up good, but boss says you gotta last at least three rounds…so don’t make me look bad.”
His opponent said nothing, not even acknowledging the brute’s taunt, which led to a feral snarl from the giant. Watching from the sky, in a luxury box (the only one to be afforded in the dinky arena of the poorest sector of Empire City) two men gazed on. One, a well trimmed, pale tan man in a parlor white suit, with just a few wrinkles etched across his face, chuckled lightly at the show. “Haha, bet you’re scared for your boy down there, huh?” He smiled tauntingly at his companion; an elderly gentleman with a dark bowler hat atop his head, and with even more wrinkles across his dirty, pale face. His eyes were sunk into his head, as though he were a walking corpse, and his mouth twitched every now and then from a peculiar, irritating nerve disorder. He made a dry coughing sound which could be interpreted as his own laugh, in a very pitiful fashion. Being arena manager in this town didn’t pay well. But then again, that wasn’t why he ran the place.
He looked over with a skeletal grin at the man from the inner city, and nodded. “Oh yeah, Baldwin…I really hope Glock doesn’t get his ass kicked before the ten second mark.”
The gentleman known as Baldwin recoiled back at that, his eyebrows lifting in shock. Was the man mental? There was no possible way…
Ding Ding!
The starting bell. The two fighters took on ready positions, with Glock standing upright, a tower pounding his fists together in anticipation. The other warrior merely kept bouncing back and forth, his eyes never blinking, never becoming distracted. The noise in the arena had reached a fever pitch, each individual not able to hear their own wild cries for violence. Glock rolled his head back, and, letting loose a primal howl, charged, lumbered towards where the man was, and smashed both hands down in a great, simian-like slam….
…To meet only ground with his fists. Darting his eyes around, confused and disoriented, he gasped in pain as his opponent bashed from the blind spot in between the man’s massive chests and his long arms. The man’s punch fired like a rocket, and Glock reeled back in agony, not understanding how the smaller man had been able to do damage. Not resting for a moment, the fighter blurred and was upon Glock with an inhuman level of speed. Punches rained, by the thousands it seemed, every second upon the giant’s torso, and he continued to drive Glock back, his technique unstoppable even by the giant’s massive levels of strength.
Baldwin was sweating profusely, not sure if he should believe what he saw. That speed, that technique…it was unreal on so many levels. A person from the slums should never have been able to achieve that kind of training. The arena owner cackled in ghastly fashion, and leaned over the box rails, pointing as Glock was bashed against the ring’s rails. “Hohoho…take a close look here, we’re about to see the finisher.”
Glock, howling in frustration, wildly swung with his dominant left hand, channeling every monstrous bit of his four hundred pounds of weight into the onslaught…his eyes nearly popped out of his skull as he saw the ‘tiny man’ flying through the air towards him, his right fist outstretched towards Glock’s head.
The fighter grinned, for the first time breaking his composed expression, and muttered shortly, so softly that there could be no way any person in the arena could hear the words in the explosion of noise the arena existed in. And yet the words were spoken, pouring confidently off his lips.
“Fire fist; Fire Storm.”
The man’s hands lit in a blaze, fire extending on his fist in a blight flash of scorching ember. The fist met Glock right in his chest, and the man only had moments to gasp before a twister of flame erupted from the fighter’s hand. Glock yelped as he flew out of the ring, landing with his head on the ground, his body trembling, and, with only a moment of fleeting understanding, the giant fell to black.
The ref quickly hoisted up the fist of the victor, a bright and animated look upon the fight judges face. “WIIIIIIINEEEERR!! AND STILL CHAMPION!!”
As the crowd erupted into astonished throbs of cheers and jovial celebration, Baldwin looked on in disbelief. “The Fire Fist….you mean?”
The question was directed at the arena director, who merely beamed in triumph and nodded. “Aye.” The simple expression seemed to suffice, as Baldwin mulled over a glass of dark, crimson wine for a moment. Before long, he pushed further.
“…So who is this guy? What’s….what is his…how come I…”
The arena boss looked at him, seemingly intrigued by the question, a spark of life flashing in his cold, dead eyes. “Do you really want to know? It’s not a simple story…or a happy one.” Baldwin, taking a long draught from his glass, nodded vigorously. “Yes…tell me everything.”
The arena manager grabbed up a cane he kept next to him, spinning it around animatedly. His voice took on a tone of happiness, and he gestured towards a large picture on the wall. Two men sat face down in the dirt at the bottom, and on top, encompassed in an arc of flame, stood a fighter with one hand outstretched to the sky, as if in victory, yet with a face oddly tinged with sorrow. “In that case…” the arena manager beckoned.
1. I will, unfortunately, no longer pursuing Revenge of the Hawk. I enjoyed the story, but I've kinda moved on.
2. I will be starting a new story, one more original. The basic details; the setting is a place called Empire City. The premise is that most of the main characters are professional Elemental Martial Artists (EMA fighters) who have the ability to...well, you'll see.
And that's all I'm saying for right now! I hope to have the complete, three part introduction done over the weekend. But for now, let's celebrate new beginnings with a little teaser. Please leave your comments and any criticism; I appreciate all the help I can get! Enjoy!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The roar of the crowd, engulfing the arena in an earsplitting, wordless shriek, echoed throughout the building, people rioting at their satisfaction of the cold, bloody business about to be conducted before them. Flashing florescent lights beamed from above on the two men beginning to circle the ring, one grinning barbarically and flaunting his immense, powerful muscles to his fans, his tan and built body towering well over eight feet, a giant in all respects. Many of the front row spectators bombarded him with their approval.
“GLOCK! GLOCK! KILL!! KILL!!!”
It was true, as well; the fighter Glock had literally blown the head of the last fighter he had faced clear from the man’s shoulders. The choice whispers which floated around the usual rumor mill of fights in The Pit were that he was the most physically powerful man to ever walk the depths of the hellish arena, and maybe even in all of Empire city! Most people bet that he would be the one to represent them in the coming tournament, the crowning fighter to champion the slums of the city against the nobles and the Elite division. Especially considering that his opponent was at least two feet shorter and nowhere near as well defined.
The man who opposed Glock stood nonchalantly on the other side of the ring. He didn’t gesture or pose with the grandeur worked for by his adversary, but merely bounced on the balls of his feet, nimbly working his legs, and throwing a few short practice punches at a variance of forms and speeds. The warm up was essential, as the man knew; he hadn’t missed it once since his very first fight. He was thin, but toned, muscles clearly visible on his well built body. Though he was short, he appeared athletic, his raven hair hovering just above his serene, hazel eyes. He appeared as though he would sooner be running a marathon as opposed to battling grizzled opponents in a ring. Glock waltzed over to him, his steps assured and his face cocky, his ebony eyes glinting as if the triumph was already his. He bumped the minuscule man’s right shoulder with his fist, sending him back a few steps. “Heh..heh heh…” his laugh was guttural and slurred, his voice deep and droning. “…don’t die too fast, tiny man. Glock wanna smash you up good, but boss says you gotta last at least three rounds…so don’t make me look bad.”
His opponent said nothing, not even acknowledging the brute’s taunt, which led to a feral snarl from the giant. Watching from the sky, in a luxury box (the only one to be afforded in the dinky arena of the poorest sector of Empire City) two men gazed on. One, a well trimmed, pale tan man in a parlor white suit, with just a few wrinkles etched across his face, chuckled lightly at the show. “Haha, bet you’re scared for your boy down there, huh?” He smiled tauntingly at his companion; an elderly gentleman with a dark bowler hat atop his head, and with even more wrinkles across his dirty, pale face. His eyes were sunk into his head, as though he were a walking corpse, and his mouth twitched every now and then from a peculiar, irritating nerve disorder. He made a dry coughing sound which could be interpreted as his own laugh, in a very pitiful fashion. Being arena manager in this town didn’t pay well. But then again, that wasn’t why he ran the place.
He looked over with a skeletal grin at the man from the inner city, and nodded. “Oh yeah, Baldwin…I really hope Glock doesn’t get his ass kicked before the ten second mark.”
The gentleman known as Baldwin recoiled back at that, his eyebrows lifting in shock. Was the man mental? There was no possible way…
Ding Ding!
The starting bell. The two fighters took on ready positions, with Glock standing upright, a tower pounding his fists together in anticipation. The other warrior merely kept bouncing back and forth, his eyes never blinking, never becoming distracted. The noise in the arena had reached a fever pitch, each individual not able to hear their own wild cries for violence. Glock rolled his head back, and, letting loose a primal howl, charged, lumbered towards where the man was, and smashed both hands down in a great, simian-like slam….
…To meet only ground with his fists. Darting his eyes around, confused and disoriented, he gasped in pain as his opponent bashed from the blind spot in between the man’s massive chests and his long arms. The man’s punch fired like a rocket, and Glock reeled back in agony, not understanding how the smaller man had been able to do damage. Not resting for a moment, the fighter blurred and was upon Glock with an inhuman level of speed. Punches rained, by the thousands it seemed, every second upon the giant’s torso, and he continued to drive Glock back, his technique unstoppable even by the giant’s massive levels of strength.
Baldwin was sweating profusely, not sure if he should believe what he saw. That speed, that technique…it was unreal on so many levels. A person from the slums should never have been able to achieve that kind of training. The arena owner cackled in ghastly fashion, and leaned over the box rails, pointing as Glock was bashed against the ring’s rails. “Hohoho…take a close look here, we’re about to see the finisher.”
Glock, howling in frustration, wildly swung with his dominant left hand, channeling every monstrous bit of his four hundred pounds of weight into the onslaught…his eyes nearly popped out of his skull as he saw the ‘tiny man’ flying through the air towards him, his right fist outstretched towards Glock’s head.
The fighter grinned, for the first time breaking his composed expression, and muttered shortly, so softly that there could be no way any person in the arena could hear the words in the explosion of noise the arena existed in. And yet the words were spoken, pouring confidently off his lips.
“Fire fist; Fire Storm.”
The man’s hands lit in a blaze, fire extending on his fist in a blight flash of scorching ember. The fist met Glock right in his chest, and the man only had moments to gasp before a twister of flame erupted from the fighter’s hand. Glock yelped as he flew out of the ring, landing with his head on the ground, his body trembling, and, with only a moment of fleeting understanding, the giant fell to black.
The ref quickly hoisted up the fist of the victor, a bright and animated look upon the fight judges face. “WIIIIIIINEEEERR!! AND STILL CHAMPION!!”
As the crowd erupted into astonished throbs of cheers and jovial celebration, Baldwin looked on in disbelief. “The Fire Fist….you mean?”
The question was directed at the arena director, who merely beamed in triumph and nodded. “Aye.” The simple expression seemed to suffice, as Baldwin mulled over a glass of dark, crimson wine for a moment. Before long, he pushed further.
“…So who is this guy? What’s….what is his…how come I…”
The arena boss looked at him, seemingly intrigued by the question, a spark of life flashing in his cold, dead eyes. “Do you really want to know? It’s not a simple story…or a happy one.” Baldwin, taking a long draught from his glass, nodded vigorously. “Yes…tell me everything.”
The arena manager grabbed up a cane he kept next to him, spinning it around animatedly. His voice took on a tone of happiness, and he gestured towards a large picture on the wall. Two men sat face down in the dirt at the bottom, and on top, encompassed in an arc of flame, stood a fighter with one hand outstretched to the sky, as if in victory, yet with a face oddly tinged with sorrow. “In that case…” the arena manager beckoned.
“Let me weave for you the tale of the Prizefighter Inferno…”
