Wyvern vs Marid - Sanguine Sacrifice Deathmatch

[Malkavia]

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A six-foot pit is located next to the ring. Nine pig carcasses and a butcher's knife are suspended over the pit. Victory can only be achieved by placing the opponent in the pit and exsanguinating one of the carcasses to cover them in blood. There are no other rules.

―

Credits

Credit for this intro goes to the thread's authors, Hills and ihateocrecolors!

Through unevenly paneled walls and dust-stained windows, blinding streaks of light stab through Mr. Halloween's study. The storm outside howls and roars, but as the host of the night patiently waits, the storm peaks and begins to dissipate. Jagged spears of crooked lightning that overwhelmed all vision dim to distant flashes and half-seen sparks. Deafening cracks of thunder that shook the house peak lower and lower until they become naught but distant rumbles. Now audible, Mr. Halloween addresses the camera once more, slowly turning the page of his book.

"At last, the thunder fades, its monarch proclaimed, and our tale continues. Four chapters yet remain ere we reach our climax. A storm dissipates, a story swells. Let us turn our attention to the ground. What walks upon it...what rises from beneath...and what cuts it through. Rivers will flow, but I fear there shall be no water to slake our players' drought. Not that they shall mind, I suspect. Ambition, after all, is a red thirst. For those in our audience seeking harmless chills and carnal thrills, I'm afraid our paths part ways here. There is naught left in the cards that will offer you the safety you so desperately crave. But for those with the fortitude to bear witness to the end...I promise, it will not disappoint."

The camera angle shifts, granting the audience a view of the new chapter's title:

A Sanguine Sacrifice

Beside the open book, a twisted ceremonial knife lies, glinting and sharp in contrast to the worn surroundings. A gnarled finger traces the inlays in the blade, a nostalgic tone creeping its way in to the ceremony master's words.

"An old favorite of mine. The road to the pinnacle is paved with sacrifices. Now, these so-called 'sacrifices' take the form of offerings of time or friendship, but in times long past, the word and world was more...literal. Rivers of blood were spilled to appease fickle patrons, not for favor but merely to fend off their wrath. Questions were answered in entrails. Haruspicy for the weak. Anthropomancy for those of conviction. Alas, our entertainment tonight lacks the will needed for the latter. As for its replacement..."

As Mr. Halloween turns the page again, the camera returns to his face. In the distance, panicked squealing is briefly audible. Without looking, the narrator of nightmares hurls the sacrificial knife in his clutches to the side. A final squeal, cut off by a wet impact, preludes the mansion's return to silence.

"In filth, in wit, in succulence. Truly, the humble pig is humanity's perfect mirror. And they shall take center stage in our next conflict. Nine sacrifices, hung but not yet butchered or bled. A pit to serve as the final resting place, dug deep with room for ten. Once begun, the bell won't ring again until one of our players is left within and buried beneath the tide of the winner's offering. Speaking of whom..."

Mr. Halloween snaps his fingers. Sweeping in from off screen, crows deposit a pair of display jars, one to either side of him on the desk. He raises a hand, indicating the one to his right. Contained within is the desiccated, clawed foot of a large reptile, its black scales marred by a dozen scars.

"A warrior, escaped from hell. A starving beast, hungry for prey. A sable tincture born of a herald's charge. A giver and bearer of scars. The woman known to us as Wyvern has claimed to be many things, but is it not her actions that we should mind? She has flown into viridian storms, fought queens and nobles, chased thieves and imitators. The strength to be seen. The weakness to be humbled. She's seized name and fame enough to be worth defeating, but can she ever rise to more? History is littered with would-be conquerors and rabid animals who choked on the blood they sought to spill. Tonight, we shall see if she can reach the crest or if she is fit only to be a supporter on another's arms."

One hand lowers. The other raises, like the platforms of a scale. In the opposing container, an ornate dagger hangs suspended from some invisible thread.

"Who better to slay a beast than a hunter? Marid Fortier. Born of warriors, trained in the ancient ways. Raised to exceed, to excel, to extinguish. A conquerer already when he was barely more than a child. Gifted titles to go with his lineages. "Al Rahim." The Merciful. For what is mercy but a swift death? "La Yuqhar." The Invincible. Strength incarnate, earned not through the brute force of an animal but the patience and skill of a venator. His prey's name has attracted him, her accolades fed his thirst for the glory she might bring. Will he be the first to walk away from the wyrm's claws unscathed? Or will her venom prove too potent for even the purest blood?"

"Two players, both alike in dignity. Two hunters. Two natures. Let blade and claw tear open flesh and reveal the truth beneath. I do hope they leave whatever remains behind...the crows grow so hungry this late at night..."

[Hills]

Wyvern's Entrance Theme

After a short delay to complete preparations for the coming contest, smoke billows across the stage at the end of the arena. Rather than a full cloud, it forms and eerie layer over the surface, as well as spreading out in a light mist over the nearest rows of the audience. The stadium's lights go dark, the only illumination coming from the night sky above and a few dim lights from beneath the fog to keep it opaque. There's a tingle of anticipation running through the crowd. This was the final match of the night to include no current or former champions. Many thoughts are already turning to the fights ahead, ignoring the one about to occur. To them, this was a lull, a last chance to make ready before the final and most exciting segment of the program. When the music starts, however, a raucous, inconsistent cheer starts up. It is faint, just barely audible over the blaring music of Wyvern's theme. The Scarmaker's fans form a minority, but they are loud. Her attitude may not have won her many followers, but her tenacity and viciousness has. For those who want blood, she provides.

Red lighting begins strobing, obscuring the whole of the stage even further as the first wrestler of the match makes her entrance. A hooded outline appears, backlit against the opening she emerged from. The usually unceremonious wrestler is dressed in a long raincoat, its thick hood concealing her features at first. Taking a moment to survey the arena, she begins to stride forward. The mist parts as she does so, as if compelled from her path by some unnatural force. Coming to the edge of the ramp leading down to the ring, she pauses, then draws her hood back. Every camera in the arena is focused on one countenance. The face of Wyvern. Cold, impassive, and focused as ever, the grim-faced wrestler begins walking down the ramp at a brisk clip. Her music begins to fade away, giving the announcer room to speak.

"The following contest is a Sanguine Sacrifice Deathmatch, and cannot end by pinfall or submission! Now making her way to the ring...fighting from the First of the Seventh, and weighing in at 137 lbs..."

Ignoring the announcer and without pausing her stride, Wyvern begins pulling off the coat, revealing her usual ring gear below. Folding it over one arm, she ignores the ring for now and circles behind it. Mat gives way to dirt under her feet as she comes up on the match's unique feature, a macabre sight that towers over her. Dangling from a metal scaffold are the bodies of nine pigs, hung scant inches over a deep, circular pit of loose earth. Placing a hand on one of the bodies, Wyvern familiarizes herself with the texture and resistance of the skin. After a moment, she pushes it away, then reaches into the cluster with her other hand. There are nine pigs. But there are ten chains.

"...the Demon of Drogheda..."

Finding what she's looking for, the Dame of Damnation withdraws a jagged, ornate knife, attached by the hilt to a chain over the center of the pit. Lifting it and getting a feel for the heft, she runs it across one fingertip, coating the edge in a razor-thin layer of blood. She looks closely over the blade before finally finishing and stabbing it to the hilt into one of the adjacent carcasses.

"...WYVERN!"

Lifting her coat off of her arm, Wyvern looks over at the audience members nearest the pit and scaffold. Holding the raincoat by the collar, she tosses it over the barrier and into them.

"You're going to need this."

With that ominous proclamation, Wyvern finishes her circuit and climbs up into the ring, taking a seat on one of the turnbuckles and directing her attention back to the stage.

[Hills]

Hunched over with her elbows on her knees and her fingers laced together between them, Wyvern sits stock still throughout Marid's entire entrance. To an outside observer she might appear nervous or uncomfortable, but her stillness isn't a tense one and her gaze never leaves her approaching opponent. Indeed, her thoughts are contemplative. This is the first time that she's been the target, not the hunter. Her reputation, it seemed, had swelled to the point that a victory over her was a notable achievement. She herself wasn't any stranger to that line of thought; after arriving in LAW, she had gone after anyone she'd heard was strong, looking for good fights and the credibility to sue for great ones. Glory meant nothing to her, but for a wrestler, reputation and history were inescapably important. A different person might have felt gratified by their rising stature, but for Wyvern it's a piece of trivia to be filed away. An understood quantity of little direct meaning.

When Marid pulls himself up into the ring, Wyvern stands and slowly approaches, halting a few feet away as he gets ready for the upcoming exertion. She rolls her shoulders and neck, similarly loosening up. When she's satisfied, she takes a combat stance reminiscent of Muay Thai. Her weight is placed on her back foot, a defensive variant of the form that leaves her front leg free to kick but prevents her from moving forward without a short delay to realign her balance. Throughout all of this, she meets Marid's stare unflinchingly, red-shrouded pupils corresponding with his green. Behind her eyes is nothing. Neither fire or ice, simply a dead void that absorbs the intensity of Marid's glare and leaves nothing behind. She takes everything in, and lets nothing out. No passion. No anger. No mercy. Not even a hint that she recognizes her opponent as a human rather than a pile of meat and bone. Her lips quirk up into the barest glimmer of a mechanical smile.

"Last chance to walk out of here intact."

[Hills]

Wyvern offers no response to Marid's declaration of intent, apparently convinced that all that needs to be said, has been. Nearly imperceptible shifts in her weight distribution are the only indication of how tightly wound she is, balancing on the razor's edge as she waits for the ring of the bell. Her initial stance is revealed to be a bluff scant moments before the match, as she reverses her weight and places it all on her forward foot in the stance's aggressive version the instant the refereee turns away to call for the bell. In practice, the move is timed to near perfection, a single fluid motion that launches her foward at the same time Marid springs into action.

Despite her slender body, Wyvern's charge will almost certainly set off Marid's instincts as she leaps into action. The Demon of Drogheda carries herself like a bull or rhinoceros, an unstoppable force unused to meeting superior strength or sufficient durability to arrest her advance. Her attack itself, however, is as direct as can be: a twist of the shoulders and hips, a potent cross punch delivered with hellish power. The move is just slow enough to give Marid time to react, however, and pick how he wants to deal with the monster bearing down on him.

[Hills]

While she was perfectly willing to make use of subtler tactics such as her earlier feint to get an advantage, this was where Wyvern thrived: direct, brutal combat. If she could turn the match into a battle of endurance and an exchange of heavy strikes, she was nearly invincible. Moreover, it was fun. That, more than anything, was what she wanted when she stepped into the ring. Those were the rules she always tried to play by, and she was very, very good at them.

Marid quickly shows that he has no interest in playing her game.

The agile wrestler evaporates away from Wyvern's blow like smoke, vanishing from her sight. A twinge of pain pulses through the muscles of her shoulder as she overextends, unprepared to meet no resistance at all to her blow. The brief moment of vulnerability from the wide swing is more than long enough for Marid to exploit, weaving into the gap in Wyvern's defenses and pulling her off her feet with a perfectly executed takedown.

As quickly as he struck, Al Rahim fades away, pulling out of the grapple and recovering to his feet with shocking speed. His instinctive retreat proves to be wise; a tight swing of Wyvern's elbow passes through the space his head had been mere instants ago, close enough that he can feel the displaced air blow over his cheek. The blow is flung on instinct; as Marid springs up, he can see that Wyvern's eyes only find him after the elbow's momentum carries her onto her back and slams into the canvas. Her prey in sight, Wyvern flips over with a powerful shove, coming to a kneeling stance with her eyes on Marid. She wipes at her mouth with her forearm.

"Not bad."

[Hills]

When it becomes clear that Marid isn't planning to immediately pounce on her, Wyvern slowly rises to her feet. The Scarmaker is just as wary of Marid as he is of her, her entire body tensed to erupt should he try anything, and her eyes darting across his form looking for even the tiniest tell for what he plans to do next. Her movement remains slow and purposeful throughout, never visibly speeding up or slowing down as she first finds her feet, then assumes her combat stance. Once again, cold eyes lock onto Marid's own.

The center of the ring was the most even ground possible in a wrestling match. There were no ropes to make use of, no hardened surfaces to weaponize. Here, the results of a clash would come down to pure skill. From the first clash, Wyvern estimated that Marid was weaker than her (hardly unusual) but significantly faster and more agile on his feet. Her usual unrelenting aggression wouldn't serve her well in this fight. A change of tactics was due.

Wyvern lowers her right fist, bending her arm to leave her forearm parallel to her waist while leaving her left arm up in its usual position. Flattening her feet to the canvas, she begins inching towards Marid, shifting closer and closer without making any overtly aggressive moves.