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Deitric wasn't an analytical genius, but it didn't take one to figure out that when Damon moved his hands - especially when they weren't in punching range - around, it meant he was going to try and exert whatever manner of invisible force he had been manipulating throughout the fight.

The warrior's reaction was automatic - perhaps because he had already planned the action; it was only being set into motion a little earlier than he intended. Having not got into punching range, Deitric's right arm was still set forward, but it didn't shift to block. He had fast hands, but the brave was rarely one to bother with anything beyond the shortest, most efficient line from Point A to Point B.

Without pausing to ponder exact nature of his opponent's attack, Deitric closed the gap in a sudden burst of speed that was far beyond his physical capacity, even at a full sprint - the warrior, standing just a few steps away from his opponent - suddenly exploded forward in motion.



The silver haired psychic was going to find his 200+ pound opponent shredding the last couple of feet between them like a human bullet, aiming to smash his left knee - and the "lip" of the metal greave that protected the knee cap - into his stomach or solar plexus of his opponent in a thunderous flying knee. The attack intended for his thigh would catch his rising greave futilely, having little effect on the considerably greater force of the champion's flying body. Just like before, the attack was all power, no shock - more physical trauma and force, with minimal amounts of electrocution. By turning Deitric away from direct use of electricity, the psion was trading one poison for another.

Damon's right arm was angled between them, and his right was free, meaning he might possibly intersect or block the attack, but being the heavier and faster moving of the two, the black-haired Khasmin man had a bit of an advantage in sheer force. He knew his opponent was agile, but bobbing under a punch or thrown sand was a lot easier than getting out of the way of a human freight-train flying across a less than five feet in a split second to try and bodily collide with you. Deitric knew the man might do something, or attempt to retaliate - and that was exactly what he wanted.

"Hrgk--" Deitric let out a half-wheeze, half-grunt as he felt his opponent land on his back. Not exactly what he was expecting, but things rarely went to plan, and he had been choked before. It was nothing new - unlike the greener fighters, he didn't panic. At his size, it was really somewhat of an advantage, so long as he could maintain control.

Tucking his chin as best he could to help keep himself breathing, the warrior's right reached up to latch onto Damon's arm, while the other clamped on to the man's leg,as if he were going to hold the psychic onto his back on purpose. That, in and of itself, was a little far-fetched, but crazier things had happened. His right, of course, did pull at the man's arm, but it was still gripping like a vice.

Without missing a beat, the tribesman clambered forward a few steps, turned on a dime, and slung himself backwards--

THUNK

--Smashing Damon bodily into the giant, flaming log that helped make up their ring-out circle. Specifically, the small of his back. The smaller man might have tried to escape - but Deitric's own hands were keeping him in place like iron manacles as he turned and fell, his grip super-powered by the excess of energy he wanted - no, NEEDED - to burn off. Even so, it was unlikely the psion was going to anticipate something quite as crazy as that; most people didn't willingly throw themselves into a fire.

Being smashed by 250ish pounds of muscle against a giant log aside, being burnt alive probably wasn't going to be the best feeling Damon had ever encountered. Luckily, neither of them were technically out of the ring. They were both on the boundary, with their heads and legs away from the burning flames. Only their torsos were being burnt, and Deitric's was protected by way of having someone under him taking the heat.

Assuming his opponent was sufficiently pinned between a rock named Deitric and a hard place otherwise known as a giant flaming log (and still maintaining his choke), the champion's hands were going to get to work. His right, already gripping the forearm of his opponent, would begin to pull with monstrous, superhuman strength.

With nowhere else to pour his energy, Deitric simply began to burn it up, manifested it as raw, physical strength. And there was a whole lot of it to be used. With any luck, he could loosen the man's grip, and get in more oxygen With his chin tucked, he could still breathe in small wheezes, but that wasn't enough.

Meanwhile, Damon - if he could get past the sensation of being burnt alive and compressed beneath Deitric's weight - was going to start feeling sharp pains all through his left thigh as the tribesman's hand flashed along in a blur, aiming to slam a good 8-9 inches of steel into the psion's thigh near the buttock and tear it right down, aiming to saw the razorsharp blade through the thigh, right down to where the greave would have stopped him.

The psychic could try and keep playing at the same game, but with fire blazing across his back, ready to consume him, and a knife tearing apart one of his thighs, it wasn't likely that the idea of choking out the tribesman was going to continue being feasible for very long. Certainly, not long enough to get a win from the maneuver.

Deitric felt his knife gouge into the muscles of the thigh, but any sense of elation that might have come from the successful attack was doused when a gout of fire swirled to life like an angry storm over the two. The warrior had one major saving grace: a leather jacket wasn't terribly flammable.

In fact, most modern leather was fairly resistant to heat - you could throw a jacket into a fire, and while the inside might burn, the leather itself would "curl" before finally catching fire. Deitric's was zipped up, which saved him from a lot of it. Denim, on the other hand, was fairly flammable if given a few seconds. While the heat caused his eyes to tear up and gave him indirect burns, his hair and face weren't going to actually be caught aflame - doing so would have done the exact same to Damon; not a smart move. Because there was no feasible fuel to "catch", the fire was still running on air, which was comforting in the same way that you would rather be hit by a motorcycle than a semi.

While he being caught on fire in he literal sense, he did have a huge fulcrum of spinning fire lapping over his body, and that was more than enough to cause serious pain, not to mention pump his body so full of adrenaline it would have made a thrill-junkie jealous.

The tribesman was in a dire position. The fire hadn't caught to his clothing yet, but he was being burnt badly, and no one really had a whole lot of time when it came to dealing with turning into a human tiki torch. His opponent still had the choke, and the only things Deitric had in his favor was adrenaline and more excess energy than a lightning storm. He'd kept trying to expend it all match, but never got the chance to fully do so. He didn't have a plan, nor did he have time to make one. The brave did, however, have a whole lot of "oomph" he could put somewhere.

Leaving his knife in the psychic's thigh, Deitric's arms shot behind his head, each one catching onto Damon's head, palming the man's face - but only for a tenth of a second. While he might of been able to do so if he used the excess energy as a strength enhancement, he wasn't trying to crush the man's head like a melon; he just needed to touch his face for a moment to get a feel for where the warrior was. Or even his opponent's shoulders - it didn't matter. All he had to do was get his hands behind him, and even then for only a millisecond.

Without warning, the area around the two men erupted in a cacophony of sound and fury, a devastating force unlike anything Deitric had ever unleashed on any opponent - or ever likely would.



Not just one of Deitric's most powerful abilities. Two. Twins, to be exact; albeit with no "strike", just the "reversal" and release. Like the fury of a mad, raging God, the floodgates for every single ounce of raw, metaphysical power the champion had captured were opened through the palm of his hands, blasting a spectacular, as-of-yet unseen level of raw force and electricity between the two men - specifically, downward in the space between their bodies and over Damon's whole form, expanding outward in dual blasts of metaphysical might that would consume the area for ten feet in every direction. Just twelve or so shy from the crowd, who would no doubt back up significantly at the awe-inspiring sight.

With the expulsion of so much force between their bodies and over Damon's, the two men were blasted apart as if someone had wedged a few sticks of dynamite between them (or, similarly, a considerably more explosive wall of force, like what Damon had made earlier), if everything went according to plan. With Damon being pushed down, and Deitric up, it would have been impossible for them to stay in the same place, as the explosion of force wouldn't allow the tribesman to stay down, nor would it allow the psionic warrior to go up with his opponent.

The psychic would be smashed downward with enough force to bisect the log they had been laying on, while Deitric was blasted upwards and forward, sailing up a good fifteen feet, and nearly thirty forward, back to the center of the ring. The flames that had been raging above and below them were both summarily blown out by the billowing cloud of sand and gale winds that had come to life around them.

The sly psion, however, was going to get a much, much, much worse deal than the champion. Raw emission of force aside, there was enough electricity in the area that it would have been impossible for his gauntlets and greaves to absorb it - not to mention, said armor was infront of Deitric, whilst the blast originated between them, and therefore behind his body. Meaning that, in all likelihood, Damon was going to get the full force of every bit of supercharged electricity his already weakened psychic shield couldn't absorb - and there was a lot of it.

One Maelstrom Spiral with the punch could end a fight from sheer electrocution - and had, in fact, against a weakened Ebris. Two was toeing the line of fatality awfully close. Shock aside, he'd be dealing with the stab and whatever wounds or broken bones might have come from being smashed through a log and into the sand. It wasn't only a show of force - it was enough to put someone out of commission, very nearly permanently so.

Deitric, one the other hand, wasn't really in good shape. "Better" and "worse" at this point were relative terms that only the crowd could understand; it was unlikely that either fighter was going to feel better than the other.

The tribesman smashed ground-side with a dull thud, rolling a few feet in the sand like a ragdoll before coming to a stop. For a few seconds, the warrior lay on his back, gasping mouthfuls of air, visibly smoking and crackling like a dying ember. He managed to weakly roll over, his hair falling around his head in a mess of black before he retched, blood splashing across the sand in a spill of crimson. He had barely ever reached such a level of energy pooling, let alone expulsion in TWO massive, simultaneous releases, and his body was lashing out against him as it was smashed against its limits.

Blood-mingled-sand caked the right side of his face, and where the two had been forcibly torn from each other one could see that Damon's gauntlet had managed to shred the skin of Deitric's neck, leaving it swollen, bruised, bloodied, and ghastly looking. Both of his hands smoked a fair bit more than the rest of his body, the acrid smell of burning flesh threatening to make him retch again. His gloves had been burnt away, and the skin of his hands was black and peeled across the back of them, blood welling up and dribbling from the raw and abused appendages.

He kept himself up on one hand and his knees in a half-kneel, staring weakly across the fighting area where his opponent should have been laying. His knife was probably off in the space between the ring and the crowd, waiting to be collected by a fan. Getting up was a slow process; putting his feet beneath him wasn't the best idea for the time being.

For now, the crowd could only roar at the display of such a magnitude of raw power, and wonder when the sand settled if the psychic would manage to draw himself up to continue the battle after such a devastating blast of electricity and tumultuous force. If anything, Deitric had earned the nickname of "The Thundering Tempest" in the past few moments.

"H-heey!"

Deitric ignored his opponent's call for the time being, reaching with both bloody hands to grasp the gunstock club handle, pulling it free and jamming it upside down into the ground to push himself up to a standing position. His palms weren't terribly burned, meaning he could still grip and hold things, or otherwise make a fist. Not that it felt too great elsewhere on his hands; the burnt skin audibly crackled when he took hold of his weapon.

The warrior used his club to hold himself up like a cane, his chest rising and falling heavily as he tried to relax his body and re-focus his mind to its previous state of calm. The brave's long, black hair was a mess, unevenly burnt in some places and stuck up from sand, blood, or electricity in others, framing his face in a wild mane that made him look more beast than man. The mere act of standing could only be attributed to the lack of injures to either leg, and his sheer force of will.

Burnt - no longer smoking, thankfully - and moreso exhausted than battered, the made a wheezing sound in the bottom of his throat as he tried to keep his senses clear and directed on his opponent. The area around his body was saturated with residual energy from his blast off, some laying dormant in his knife and tomahawks, some bleeding off into the air around him. It wasn't energy he could absorb, - it was just the remnants that had "clung" to him upon release, unseen to everyone and only felt by the energy's user.

One hand on his club, the other wiping away a bit of dribbling blood from his lips, the warrior stared the psychic down. If he had any energy reserves left, he couldn't feel them. It was possible he could have generated more energy, if he wanted to. But the way his body had reacted, the brave knew he'd be walking a thin, thin line, one that he didn't want to cross.

For now, he watched, slowly advancing a few, wary steps at a time. The slower he went, the more composure he regained, the better off he was. After Damon's exclamation, he didn't expect the psion to give in, so he wasn't going to stand around and see if his opponent would keel over unconscious. At the same time, he wasn't in any hurry - every moment helped.

If Damon could do something, he'd need to do it quickly, assuming his injuries didn't overtake him before Deitric found a way to.

Deitric regarded the man for a moment, standing with his right side facing the psion, his club dug into the sand a few scant inches while his right hand - and some of his weight - rested on the top of the handle. His features, because of - or perhaps in spite of - the sand and blood were still as unreadable as ever, and seemingly collected and focused. He was still exhausted, bloodied, and more than a little bruised, but he was calm at least.

When the other man spoke, the tribesman merely shrugged, shifting his left side forward as if he were going to face the man with his shoulders squared.

In the same moment, his left hand lashed forward, sending a tomahawk spinning end over end towards the semi-downed psychic, hurtling through the air towards him. The reigning champion - retaining some clever streak as ever - had used his side profile to hide his left hand pulling the tomahawk free while Damon spoke. Had he thrown it edge first, it could have been fatal, potentially catching the battered brave's opponent in the face or chest, but he had thrown it reversed, so that if it struck the counterweight would hit, not the actual axe-head.

Of course, that didn't mean it wouldn't hurt - the throw was more than hard enough to leave someone cross-eyed for a few moments if it caught them in the face, or short of breath if it hit them in the chest. Kneeling as he was, Damon's torso made the best bet; he'd just be an unlucky individual to get hit in the face.

"Then sleep."

Deitric's face remained icily calm. He figured his opponent would do something if he had the energy to. That was fine - he wanted to force the psychic to exert himself as much as possible, physically or mentally. When Damon stopped the weapons, the tribesman didn't even quirk a brow. Not such a good move.

The warrior lifted up his hand calmly, palm out. When Damon threw the tomahawk, it miraculously flew right into the brave's palm, as if he had his own psychic powers. Of course, appearances were deceiving - every metal object Deitric owned had been over-saturated with his electric charge from the previous charge and release, meaning he could recall them as he pleased. Doing so didn't require an exertion of energy, so much as just reconnecting to any charge present. With the same, casual, calm, the knife followed suit, and in a second the champion holding both weapons in a one-handed wide grip to accommodate their handles.

"Thank you," the warrior commented idly, jamming the knife and tomahawk both into his belt where they belonged as he continued forward. Now, both hands came to grip the handle of his gunstock club, holding the wicked looking bludgeoning tool in front of him as a silent threat when he came to a stop just four or five feet from his opponent.

"Concede, warrior," Deitric offered, his voice rough and throaty from the crushing pressure that had been applied earlier. The proposition was clear enough - give up, or get whacked in the face with a hunk of wood that looked like it could put the fear of God into just about anyone.

It was an offer of respect; the dark skinned man's voice never held a hint of arrogance to it before, and it didn't now. If anything, it seemed moreso that he simply didn't see a point in continuing - else Damon would have a lot more trouble fighting next round if he had to take repeated blows to the head from the gunstock club in this round.

Deitric, luckily, was holding the club in front of him, so as to make it obvious what his intent would be. That meant that the handle and his hands would take the blow. His groin was safe for the time being.

Unluckily, however, his hands were burnt. Very, very burnt. And, up until a split second ago, fairly numb.

Not so anymore, as some of the burnt skin came peeling away with the blast, opening them afresh and reminding him just how badly they were burnt.

Deitric wasn't able to cheer or raise his hand in victory when his opponent fell back, as he was too busy leaning forward on the club, a low, growling wheeze hissing from between his lips as he fought to keep from screaming a multitude of swear words in Khasmin or Common. A long, barely audible "FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF" of inarticulate pain. His hands pressed tightly to the hilt, as if applying all the pressure in the world to the palms would take away the pain.

The tribesman would probably remain hunched over on his club for support, using it as a third leg of sorts to keep himself from falling or letting his hands move too much behind keeping a grip on the handle. Rivulets of blood rolled down his hands and along the weapon, but the owner of those ragged, bleeding hands remained standing, if only by virtue of the fact he was holding a weapon to prop himself up.

Fortune favored both men, as medics would begin to weave through the crowd and climb over the fire. Had they not, the tribesman might have taken to beating Damon's unconscious form for shredding his hands further.

For once in his fighting career, the champion wanted a drink.

[/End]