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Deitric ignored the rumbling sound of the helicopter blades chopping the air outside the vehicle, reclining in his seat almost lazily. The cabin provided was big enough to fit four people, but had little in the ways of lighting beyond the natural sunlight, and lacked any sort of amenities. With his face cast in darkness, it was impossible to tell whether or not he was awake.

The tribesman seemed content to wait quietly until they reached the supposed destination. Not even the slightest hint could be found to suggest what he was thinking, or if he was thinking at all. Unless he was spoken to, he intended to remain quiet for the duration of the trip.

"That's right, you were in the semi-finals, weren't you?" Deitric responded, calling out over the din of the engine and whirling helicopter blades. It wasn't like a plane; in a helicopter, the noise permeated everywhere and made it difficult to communicate in anything more than the occasional shout.

When they began to descend to the island, the warrior felt it before he saw it out the window; a sort of sinking feeling, as if you were slipping beneath the surface of water or going down in an elevator. He could only make out the water around the island and glimpses of the actual landmass, but it couldn't of been too big.

"Landing in ten seconds," the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom as the vehicle lowered itself towards the ground.

The brave reclined in his seat for a moment until the chopper set down properly, reaching up to grab ahold of one of the pull-up handles and haul himself out of his seat and out of the helicopter. Immediately, the vehicle begin to rise again, casting out torrents of wind and mist in its wake as it rose into the air.

Deitric gave himself a moment to study the island. The island was mostly stone, with outcroppings of tough grass that managed to sprout in the cracks of the plateau's surface and slopes. At the very least, it provided good footing. The downside (or upside, possibly) was that it seemed small, at least half or less the size of the usual arena.

With his back turned, Reyin wouldn't get the chance to catch the blue arcs of electricity that danced along the warrior's fingers; when he did face the Khasmin tribesman, the champion looked calm and relaxed, with his hands at his side. While his stance was hardly combative, his hands were brushing along the heads of both of his tomahawks - danger enough for just who didn't have a metal plate in their skull.

"Whenever you're ready."

Deitric's eyebrow twitched up at the man's antics. It wasn't altogether strange that Reyin would of given himself a way to try and work around his opponent's abilities, but it was the first time someone had ever actually gone out of their way to do so. Then again, if he was taking time to put on gloves, he was giving time to let Deitric generate more energy to work with.

The defending champion looked content to let his opponent take his due time with laying the bow away and loosening up. Meanwhile, the air around the tribesman seemed to tingle and buzz almost imperceptibly, warping with the changes his electrical charge wrought. The fine mist of water that caught in the breeze and rushed over him cackled, tiny arcs of azure power jumping from his person into passing mist. The more time he had to work with, the better. Beneath his bandanna, the warrior had already began to sweat from bringing his powers to bear.

His own physical "warm up" seemed considerably less impressive and a whole lot less involved. The warrior clasped his own gloved hands together in front of him before applying as much pressure as he could; every muscle along his upper body pulled taut. A camera behind him would have caught his upper back widening and stretching the leather of his jacket as his back muscles tightened and stretched out, like an animal sucking in air and growing larger. As quickly as the sudden stiffness had come, it melted away, leaving him loose and relaxed again.

"Let's light this candle."

The black haired tribesman cocked his head to the side at the choice of phrasing, but took it in stride when he stepped forward to meet Reyin's approach. Not much for conversation, the warrior moved forward to help close the distance and reached out with his right hand..

..And looked to have been trying to slap his palm against the top of Reyin's left hand, while his own left stayed curiously down near his waist and beyond any semblance of a fighting guard. If anything, it could have been taken as a curiosity about the gloves; whether or not rubber could stand up to what he could do. Of the same token, it was a pretty common move in close quarters, tapping your opponent's hand to test find the relative striking ranges. His face didn't betray any sense of what he might have been thinking, but it probably wasn't very nice, and there was certainly more to the movement than all appearances.

Mirroring Reyin's movement, the tribesman pulled his own hand back after his opponent's hand retracted. He couldn't quite tell if the fighter was skittish, or just considerably warier of Deitric's powers. In the latter, he'd be one of the few who were; almost every opponent prior had done little to slow down his surge of electricity.

Luck was on Deitric's side for their first exchange though; his left arm was sitting pretty at his side, as opposed to the typical boxer guard. That meant that all he had to do was turn the arm and raise it just a little, and his opponent's kick would impact against the bracer he wore on his forearm, instead of catching his ribs or flank. If the kick was the start of the fight, then the tribesman was going about to go off like a gunshot.

Without pausing to see if his opponent's leg was worse for wear after whacking the armguard he wore, Deitric half kettle-hopped forward and torqued at the waist, slinging his right arm forward in a wild overhand right, putting his weight behind the punch to try and slam the metal shod knuckles home into Reyin's chest or guard. He wasn't the fastest around, but when the distance was only a step, it wasn't hard to cover. The idea was to try and catch him at the worst point of a kick, when the leg was still up in the air.

Given the brave's leaning for ambuscades and his personal brand of cleverness, the punch could never be just that. By itself, it would of been pretty painful. After all, having a 240-250 lb pound man kettle-hop into a punch was bad enough, worse was when he put his weight behind it and really wanted to make it count. There was more to meets the eye though, unseen beneath the man's skin.



What would have been a normally painful punch was really more like an electrically charged sledgehammer, rocketing right for Reyin's torso with enough pent up energy to knock a man of Deitric's size on their asses - and that was with both of their feet firmly on the ground. If the lightning charged fighter managed to catch his opponent square in the chest or the guard, he was probably gonna take a tumble. The potential electric shock was going to the least of the other man's worries.

Deitric let out a grunt when his opponent suddenly got a hold on his leather jacket. He had already put his weight forward, when Reyin grabbed while riding some of the excessive force behind the brave's punch, it forced Deitric to lurch forward a step, inadvertently putting his face and the punch on a dead course with each other.

A dull, leaden smack accompanied Reyin's fist catching the darker skinned fighter just an inch or so beneath the right eye, right along the cheekbone, and a white-light flash burst into his vision. While it might not have been the most technically appealing punch around (and really, how many fighters managed to throw those kind of punches?), it managed to catch him with his guard down, as his punching hand had instinctively moved laterally, aiming to grab onto the wrist of Reyin's right arm. Getting hit in the face when you didn't see it coming hurt a whole lot more than when you did see it.

The tribesman's head jerked to his left as if pulled by an invisible string, his upper body following suit in a minute emulation of sideways whiplash. That wasn't exactly what he had been expecting - getting a face full of fist hadn't been what he was looking forward to. But if it looked like the punch was going to leave the bigger man reeling, it was quickly proven to be otherwise. His right eye's vision swam and his felt a bit like a miniature mule had kicked him in the face, but he wasn't wet behind the ears; as unorthodox as he was he had some fighting instinct to carry him along.

The left arm had shifted to turn aside the kick, and the hand was dangerously close to his belt buckle. Not because it was a magical defense mechanism, but because jostled into those belts was a razor sharp length of steel; a fighting knife that Deitric could put to painfully effective use in close quarters combat. In-fighting with the hands, knife, and tomahawk were all too common amongst his people, and he was no different.

When he surged back from getting socked in the face, his left hand snaked out in the foot or two between their torsos, knife in hand. And like a coiled snake, when it came out, it went fang first, aiming straight up into the triceps or bicep of arm he had (hopefully) trapped.

Deitric wasn't the sort for wanton brutality, but as a fighter he could only fight with what he knew. He knew two things; "take what you can get," and "end it before they do it for you." If anything, the attack mirrored his previous fight with Omi; if the tribesman was making such forward attacks, it spoke of respect for the other fighter's capabilities, not malice towards them. He wasn't going to waste time in a fight with someone who could possibly waste him.

Deitric's blade met some resistance, but not as much as he was expecting. Getting hit in the face had thrown off the aim of his counter-attack a bit, but it was still good enough to score a gash. He probably would have been better off attacking his opponent's flank or side with the knife when he had the chance, but the possibility of hitting an important organ and killing Reyin would have far outweighed the advantages in his mind. Not that the tribesman really had the time to think about all that, but he was always mindful of the rules of engagement.

Something flat pushed hard against his torso and forced the larger fighter back with a "hoof" sound escaping his usually-closed lips. The Khasmin man was forced to relinquish his own grip while stumbling back to catch his footing, his left hand still held at the ready with blade in hand. He was hoping to stay close and put his knife to work, but it looked like he wasn't going to get his chance.

While his opponent might not have wanted to keep the fight in close, Deitric did, and he wasn't going to let his momentum slow down any further. As soon as he got his footing, the leather and denim garbed tribesman advanced again, this time armed with the knife in his left hand, and a wickedly sharp looking tomahawk in the right.

Eyes aglow with the same power that grew unseen beneath his skin, Deitric immediately returned to the offensive, swiping the tomahawk out from left to right, aiming to try and catch Reyin's right shoulder with the biting edge of the axehead. The tomahawk was deceptive, having more reach than the woodsman's hatchet, and being lighter than one would have expected from an axe that had been put to use splitting skulls and hewing shields.

The tribesman didn't need a reprieve to worry about his split cheek or the swelling around it, and he didn't intend to give Reyin one to worry over his own wounds, either.