I own nothing to do with Oblivion or the Elder Scrolls franchise. I wish I did! I've wished for a lot of things lately but…..I digress.
The best techniques are passed on by the survivors.
Even with the sun beating down on me I feel cold, the pain is exquisite. I have been a veteran of the yellow team for 3 years now, I am facing the best the blue team has to offer and I am winning.
We circle each other again.
He's tiring, so am I but he's tiring faster. Heavier raiment and heavier sword have slowed him down and made him sluggish.
It is intense, starting to get undisciplined, verging on violent. We are both skilled combatants of the arena but to us this is so much more, this is an epic battle of skill with steel. We both catch each other's eye and see the same determination mirrored in our faces. We want to win.
We circle each other again.
The crowd scream with bloodlust beyond the tall arena walls. The moment has taken them, they know we're closing to a finish. I am vocal back, I begin to murmur under my helmet first and then below at the crowd to come back to the yellow team. If I'm going to beat my opponent I need everything the crowd can give.
Tiredness can wait. Fatigue is for the other team, not for me. I cajole those who need to be cajoled, break those who need to be broken.
I circle him this time.
The running battle with the blue team's combatant has been physical. He's stronger than I am, I'm quicker than he is. He's more skillful than I am, I can read his incoming strikes better. I need the head start though.
I continue to circle him, I'm looking to flank.
The arena is caked with wet sand, the mixture of blood, sweat and grit makes movement a problem. It makes us both heavier. Our boots are getting tougher to pull out.
The entire left side of my body is covered in my blood, he scored a hit at my ribs, which has refused to stop bleeding. It's a minor wound but he has first blood. His strength brought the blade there, my dexterity allowed me to jump away before it became too serious.
He's a mouth. He tells me he'll 'rip me apart', he'll 'break me down', he's 'just waiting for the mistake he knows I'm going to make'.
"You'll be waiting." I tell him.
He smiles.
I don't.
The next strike comes in too slow and I parry it clear. My hand feels swollen, the vibrations of his strikes on my blade. He's quick. Very quick. I'm breakable. All he needs to do is bring those brutal strikes again and again. The whole arena is in front of me and I reassure myself he won't catch me again. What this combatant has in strength he lacks in finesse, the same attack comes again. I predict the right counter, his blade is deflected harmlessly. He follows through with his mass this time and tries to head-butt me, I see it coming and counter again. He wins this one and follows through with his momentum, pushing himself forward he prepares for one more blow.
Got to get to his blade but for once I'm slow, I don't react quick enough and I try to stand off him. This has gone wrong and I have a bad feeling about this next strike, I see it flying above my eye line and here the blade's tip slice open my forehead. I curse my slowness and adjust my defensive stance, the wound is again minor, but the blood is now flowing down in to my eyes.
I can hear him crowing in my ear.
I can hear the crowd chanting their approval.
Everything moves in slow motion. Everything. Except me. From somewhere I find a burst of energy, my feet don't get stuck this time. I will not let him attack again. He prepares his defence, setting himself up for a parry. His legs draw back, I can see the muscles of his thighs bunching, ready to explode, he's going to counter and hammer me. He is not going to hammer me, he will lose this battle. I have reached the top of my arc but he has picked the right spot, now we await our blade's connection. He parries easily, driving both our blades down to the sand. He doesn't anticipate my follow through.
Only one thing is going through my mind. I come from his left hand side, launching myself. My left leg is tucked underneath me, my right extended, my blade is held low and I thrust up to beat him.
There is panic is in his eyes, he's already countering. With incredible strength he's dislodged his own blade.
I strain as much as possible, hoping, because this is my all or nothing move.
I do not want him crowing in my ear again. I want to stand victorious over his body. I want to smile at another dispatched blue team member. I want to hear the crowd scream my name with pleasure. I want the unbearable smugness of winning wrapped in a gossamer shell of blood.
As it turns out I will not have that pleasure. I get the first strike, split seconds before the blue team combatant gets his. So small is the margin that I feel my blade penetrate his skin, I am not aware of his connection to me.
I'm glad I've hurt him, his armour has not saved him. He recoils in time to keep the damage to a minimum but something's wrong. The crowd still screaming, I can't feel my legs, I look down to my blood escaping everywhere. I collapse to the ground, my legs can't support my weight. I try to find the wound that brought me down but there's too much blood in my eyes.
He steps up to me. He is in my ear. I don't hear him. I'm too distracted by all the light.
He moves behind me, the crowds are screaming for the final move. I know he'll please them, where is all that light coming from?
The final blow comes. Its not the end for me just yet, my head topples to the blood-soaked sand. I see my essence mix with the blood-soaked sand, the bloodworks have received another contributor to their name's sake.
The light finally starts to fade.
I am left in darkness.
A final thought echoes.
'The best techniques are passed on by the survivors'. I always thought 'survivors' cheapened that motto.