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Premise: With half of the participants remaining, GTB is now halfway through with a few more rounds until its conclusion. Through a series of three rounds, fighters have proved themselves of their prowess and ambition to win thus far, and move one step closer to their destination: the championship. However, as the numbers dwindle down, the competition increases, as the best are narrowed down and each comes with an equal amount of skill. It is going to take experience, intelligence, and even luck at this point to determine who goes on and who goes packing home.

Midus Sonners has also decided to increase the presentation of the fighting arenas that the fighters are going to be taking place in for the duration of the tournament. While keeping with the Colosseum theme, Midus will be including variations of themes to keep things interesting and not as boring as a plain sandy ground with some walls and people watching you. That is why he has sent all the fighters to another venue for their fights. This time, with all fighters on board a plane, the crew flew themselves to the southern coast, a place caused Myamu Beach. Normally a vacation resort, the entire span of the beach has been reserved for the entirety of round four. People will be scattered around each fighting site to watch the fighters go at it in a nightly beach arena. While to them it seems like entertainment, to the fighters this is life or death.

Description: The sun has set, bringing about the darkness of the night over the entirety of the beach. Instead of artificial lighting being used, natural fire has instead become its substitute, bringing about a constant changing hue of orange overlaying the beach and its occupants. The beach spans for a good amount of distance, so each fight will take places in its own "section" which will make it seem separate from the other far away fights.

Each fight takes place in a ring of fire, which is basically a large circle of the sandy beach. Outside this fire, spectators watch, either standing or sitting in chairs, laughing and talking as they enjoy their drinks, food, and conversation. While this may be a competitive tournament, this scene of "entertainment" has placed increasing obligations on the fighters themselves to keep the audience entertained. Unlike the normal arena, the people are closer than before and their boos, cheers, and comments can be heard a lot clearer and louder. This means the fighters will have the psychological element added to the fight, much like the closely watched fights such as wrestling and boxing. Expect a noisy atmosphere.

Field Measurements: The ring of fire has a diameter of 45 yards, which is 135 ft. For those who need a comparison, just look at a football field and see the distance from one touchdown line to the 45 yard line. On the boundary of this circle is a series of lit fires on wood, which are as tall as only one to two feet. Spectators are spaced twenty feet away from this boundary in order to avoid possible injury from the fight.


Ten Count Boundary: Going outside the ring of fire will result in the starting of the ten count. The flying rule remains intact.

Added Penalty: Harming spectators is a no-no. Any intentional action against them that ends up hurting even one will result in a DQ. This can be either direct (going up to one and hurting them) or indirect (using a very dangerous attack that has a possibility of hurting the spectators). Accidents will be gauged to see whether it counts as an accident or was considered recklessness by the user.

The crowd had gathered, jostling to get a better look. The locale only offered a select few thousand to gather at each fight location to watch their favored participants, while others were relegated to watching from boats or television. Like an amorphous creature, the crowd seemed to shift and move around the stage, as if fidgeting in anticipation. From far beyond the crowd - and well under the sheer level of volume they were outputting - a low, animal rumble sounded from the copse of tropical trees at the very edge of the beach.



An unnaturally bright light came to life opposite the ocean, casting a pale luminescence over a small section of the crowd. The light intensified as the guttural jhuhjhuhjhuhjhuh of an engine grew in volume, catching the attention of the outermost layers of the crowd.



A monstrous looking motorcycle came into view, tearing up the beach as it sped closer. The beast of silver chrome and black steel roared, spinning its wheels to gain traction as it tore forward towards the crowd - and the ring. It wasn't speeding, but it was fast enough. The crowd began to unfold in anticipation, slowly unhinging from itself and creating a passage way like the parting of the Red Sea.



As the machine drew near, the cries of the crowd grew louder in response. The dark rider atop the motorcycle became identifiable, and the dark skin and long hair only pointed to one person; Deitric Jocasta, the reigning champion and other half of the fight's match-up. The warrior didn't wear any sort of helmet as he rode, and his features didn't suggest anything beyond his usual stoic calm.



The motorcycle rode along the sand, giving no indication as to how it managed to keep traction on the easily shifted material. Dozens, hundreds of faces peered at the riding warrior as he drove through the clearing the crowd had made for him, but he kept his gaze forward. People cried out to him, and a few dared to reach out and slap him across the shoulders as he passed, but the leather clad fighter didn't seem to notice.



Deitric broke through the crowd, the headlight of his motorcycle shining almost painfully bright in the torch-lit dusk of the beach. He rumbled forward on the motorcycle, and for a moment it looked as if he were going to ride right over the flaming barricade and into the fighting area. Instead, he fish-tailed and the vehicle swung around, sending a spray of sand outward with its back wheel as it came to a stop, parallel with the nearest flaming log.



The brave swung a leg over one side of the metal beast and stood infront of the cycle for a moment as the crowd erupted around him. The rumble of his vehicle's engine died away and the blindingly bright light from its headlight following suit. He walked forward, planting a boot solidly on the burning hunk of wood, knocking off a few smoldering embers. Flames licked at his legs and boots, but they didn't pose a problem as he stepped through them calmly, remaining unscathed as he made his way into the inner circle of the ring.



Deitric stood at 6'3'', an impressive height for just about any human, and even in the leather jacket and jeans it was apparent that his athleticism played a part in his fighting as much as anything else. From all appearances, many fight commentators had suggested that the brave weighed around two hundred and twenty pounds, but he had never been weighed officially. Beyond his tomahawks, bracers, and greaves, he appeared unarmored, but looks were always deceiving.



Now that he was beyond the ring of fire, the light behind him cast a silhouette over his features, making it impossible to determine what he was thinking. Only his eyes were visible, glowing a visible shade of almost lightning-white. With the same level of unnerving calm as always, the black haired brave continued forward, coming to a stop only fifteen feet or so away from Damon. He didn't bother contemplating his previous fights - or lack thereof. He remained intent on the present, and it showed in his body language. No regret, no remorse, nothing that could single out the idea that he was going to hold back or second-guess himself.



"Whenever you're ready."

Deitric didn't need to see psychic energy to know what those sort of hand-waving movements meant. He wasn't the most supernaturally inclined or educated fighter on Gaia, but he had had his fill in his due time. On at least one occasion, he hadn't moved, and in turn was set on fire.

Expecting some sort of gout of flame from the man's mouth or something similar, the tribesman moved forward, as if he were shooting for a take down on an invisible opponent between he and Damon, left leg stepping forward while he dropped his center of gravity closer to the ground and swept his right forward under him to continue forward at a lower elevation. However, the brave hadn't gotten off scot-free.

Because he couldn't see the projectile - beyond some mild distortion of dimly lit air or smoke - he couldn't know where it was. The spiraling burst of psychic energy lashed a thin, crimson line along his temple while passing by his lowering form, sending a twinge of pain through the right side of his face.

He could fight fire with fire, though. When the tribesman swooped forward from his starting position, the fifteen feet between the two immediately became seven. And when he came up in the next step, he was still moving, both fists held up with his right side forward.

And out came a handful of sand from his right hand, flung right for Damon's eyes.

And right behind the sand was the larger of the two fighters, barreling forward across the last few feet of sand smoothly, the right half of his face painted in thin rivulets of blood. Deitric held at least two advantages - he was stronger, and he had years of experience at fighting in little to no light. In short order, it looked as if he were going to be using the former advantage, with his left fist back and ready to explode.

[Note: Would have posted earlier, but I was partying last night and then I had to take care of a hung over friend today.]

?!

Deitric felt something more than a little unnatural grip his leg, yanking it out behind him. He wasn't for sure what sort of magical forces were at his opponent's command, but now they were beginning to wear at his usual stoic nature. An uncommon occurrence - but not impossible.

The warrior managed to keep his weight forward, his left hand flying out to catch him on the way down in an extremely forward leaning kneel, his left leg tucked under him for balance while his right seemed to still be flung outward towards Damon for the exact same reason.

Deitric had managed to cut the distance to seven feet, and Damon had side-stepped, but not backed off from his downed opponent - a mistake the psion might find regrettable. With Deitric's right arm still flung out from throwing the sand and seemingly keeping his balance, it shortened the distance between them further. Five feet.

Caught off surprise, but not about to stop fighting - especially due to the fight's circumstances - Deitric's retaliation sprung to life as soon as he touched down in the spare space between them. He didn't have a weapon in his hand. All he had was air, and five space between the two of them. However, there was one thing that Damon - even if he studied every fight of Deitric's - wouldn't know about.

The champion's ability with his lightning now manifested full tilt - range was no longer an issue.

KRAKATHOOM~

A bolt of lightning shot out from Deitric's right hand with a flash of brilliant light, screaming across the scant five feet or so of distance between them, immediately followed by an earth rattling thunderclap. The warrior's face twisted in a grimace as blood flowed freely from his nostrils from backlash of his abrupt power use, and acrid smoke curled up from the leather sleeve of his jacket. The pain was well worth it, however.

An athletic human at full sprint could cover ten yards - thirty feet or so - in a little over a second. How fast, one might wonder, could a lightning (albeit not going the speed of light like a true thunderbolt) blast cover the distance of around five feet? Combined with the bright flash of light, Deitric hoped the speed and abruptness of the onslaught would catch his opponent off guard, catching him with enough force to send him hurtling backwards several feet, severe electrocution aside.

Assuming Damon was caught unawares, Deitric would quickly pull himself up, letting his eyes re-adjust to the darkness. Chances were, they were both blinded for at least a second, hit or miss. The fighter blinked away the spots of light as best he could, trying to refocus on his opponent - where-ever he might have been. Electricity cackled too and fro in the air around him, but it was notably less than in previous instances - an indication of further control, despite the nearly unheard of level of abuse the Khasmin man continued to put himself through.

The warrior's right arm was smoking heavily, bits of burnt glove crumbling away from his singed hand, and blood dribbled down his face from his nose and the side of his head. But chances were, if he hit his psychic opponent head on with his blast, or even half-way caught him, the other man was probably going to be a lot worse off than the champion was. Getting cut up and tripped was something you could walk off. Getting a blast of force and high-potency electricity right to the center mass of your body was a whole other ball game.

Deitric could still half-see - there were spots, and the edges of his vision were hazy. How his opponent wasn't suffering the same problem would have been beyond him, but the tribesman seemed to have larger problems at hand. The warrior rose to stood and--

--THUNK--

--Something caught him squarely in the chest. The larger fighter was knocked back almost ten steps, backpedaling as the force smacked into his center mass. The only reasoning behind the tribesman's ability to still stand was his weight and will. Despite being knocked back several feet, the warrior hadn't fallen over.

Beneath his jacket lay an unseen layer of armor that helped absorb the punishment, but the blast had enough force to still knock him backwards and leave his torso aching and bruised. As soon as the blast hit him, the electricity seemed to dissipate for reasons unknown.

The crowd seemed taken aback as the champion stumbled to a stop, his arms held out from his sides as if he were trying to keep his balance, his chin nearly resting on his neck; the dark skinned man almost looked out on his feet. Murmuring whispers rolled and weaved through the crowd.

Deitric didn't fall, or waver. Beneath the wild mane of hair falling around his head, the brave's lips pulled back in a wide, almost teeth-gritting grin.



The champion raised his head, staring the psychic down with the black-tooth grin. What had once been a low, almost imperceptible glow in Deitric's eyes had become a blazing inferno of lightning white, visibly lighting up the bloodily macabre features of his face while electricity cackled between his teeth. The air around him buzzed, louder than the crowd around them, and the smell of burnt ozone permeated the area where he stood. Minute tendrils of smoke curled from his body, as if he were about to catch fire at any moment.



Damon had managed to counter the lightning bolt, and in turn even make an attack, but he had made one, single, massive misstep that his foresight could never account for. Deitric could absorb outside sources of electricity, which served to jump-start his generation of energy and give him a pool to work with. This worked even better with one large, lump sum, as opposed to a constant current. If Deitric's powers were a fire, and he took a stick away to account for the attack, then Damon had just turned around and dumped gasoline into the fire, which was veritably blazing by now.

If the champion looked worried, he didn't show it. The black haired warrior stopped in his tracks; loose limbed but otherwise not in any manner of orthodox fighting stance. The air around him coiled and warped as if a heat wave blew through, the smell of ozone becoming thicker than ever.

What Damon had taken for a smile was moreso a rictus-grin; somewhere between a facial expression and something more along the lines of an animal baring its teeth. Unlike his opponent, Deitric only had so much of a capacity for the power he could generate before he had to expend it. It grew and grew, and could tear him apart if he wasn't careful.

However, he seemed willing to take the risk. The only motion offered was the same as previous, a quick, taunting wave of his hand, as if he were daring the psychic into trying to attack him. It was hard to guess why he wasn't going on the offensive - it was obvious that the warrior had both the energy reserves and physical ability to do so; he was hardly in a state that could be considered "injured."

Why he chose to stand and let the other man attack was a hard notion to grasp - perhaps not even the tribesman understood his own reckoning, or the rhyme and reason behind it.

Flesh and cloth might have parted easily for Damon's psi-blade, but Deitric's leg was protected from the ankle up over the kneecap by a single, well-wrought piece of metal formed into a muscled greave, which was more than enough to stop the attack in its tracks.

The armor acted as a stabilizer as well; it might have twisted or shifted with the attack, but it also absorbed force, leaving less of it to be transferred to the actual limb. A roundhouse could buckle unprotected knees, and stomps could break them, but the knee was protected and the attack hadn't been a stomp. A slight torque in the one's footing towards the attack could effectively aid in "checking" it. Considering the way Deitric was siphoning off his excess power to turn it into raw, physical power, it wasn't too surprising that he could stand up to the attack.

The bloodied tribesman's response?

Without pausing to see his opponent's reaction to his attack hitting, or the inevitable one following it that Deitric - beneath the cover of night - was wearing armor on his limbs, the warrior's right leg lashed out, using the torque of his slight check as a means to start his own lightning-fast counter, the speed and power of the attack fueled by the energy his body was demanding he burn off. He had plenty to spare - so the brave intended to lay a whole lot of "umph" behind his attack.



A thundering soccer kick, aimed directly between Damon's legs - right for the metaphorical jewels. The tribesman wasn't a fool - he knew that his opponent could apparently counter his electrical abilities without fail. What he couldn't counter, however, was Deitric's ability to power his attacks to generate astounding amounts of force. So, it only made sense to take any energy that would have been used for a "blast radius" of electricity to be put into the attack, not to mention the excess of energy he could still access. A typical Thunder-Drum strike could knock loose teeth, break noses, crack ribs, and generally put people on their asses.

This one was more or less the bigger, meaner cousin of that usual attack, pumped full of anabolic steroids and ready to "unleash the beast" all over the nearest person or thing that so happened to piss it off. Nearly three times as powerful as the usual Thunder Drum, the attack had power to waste - it could easily crush physical armor; shearing through a metaphysical barrier wasn't going to slow it down a whole lot, if at all. Not that Deitric was cognizant of the fact that his opponent had such a shield - he was just looking to deliver a decisive, painful blow as quickly and efficiently ash e could.

As it turned out, the family jewels and pelvis were going to have the beast unleashed all over them, and then some. Getting a metal-covered, souped-up shin smashed into your crotch with enough force to shatter a bull's skull and then some probably wasn't going to do a whole lot for your chances of having kids, or ever walking again.

The pelvis bone wasn't the thickest or toughest around, and with sufficient force (more than present in Deitric's kick), it could be broken or shattered, leaving the person nominally crippled from the waist down. In all likelihood, there was enough force for Damon to be physically lifted off the ground and sent back a few feet.

With any luck, Deitric would catch the silver haired man off-guard and off-balance, with one foot off the ground and unable to draw too much physical power elsewhere, and with the speed and force of his own response. If he didn't, his leg was still protected, and taking the kick to any other part of the body was still going to be fairly harmful.

One way or another, the kick was probably going to hurt. A lot.

Deitric's booted foot didn't catch much beyond a bit of cloth and air before some invisible force abruptly ballooned up between the two fighters, flinging both men back. The brave found himself tumbling backwards across the sand a good fifteen feet after hitting groundside on the seat of his pants. Given that he was a fair bit heavier than the usual Gaian fighter, it was rare that he ever really "flew", but rolling along like an overly large, leather-clad armadillo wasn't out of the question.

Catching his hands in the sand as quickly as he could manage and extending his arms and legs to arrest his movements, the warrior threw himself up into a crouched position a good twenty feet from his opponent, and still some distance away from the fire - he was much better at tumbling like a rock than he was at flying like a slingstone. He grimaced slightly, spitting out a bit of bloody spit; a byproduct of his own power, rather than any offensive his opponent had launched.

Deitric was set apart from the typical Gaian fighter; he didn't exhaust his power supply, it exhausted him. Theoretically, he could generate and use it endlessly. However, theory was rarely reality, the fact was his ability to generate, control, and use his power was based on willpower and just how much abuse his body could take. It was question of how long he could push himself before he pushed himself over the edge.

The warrior dug his fingers into his palms until they bled through his gloves, and his lips twisted in annoyance. He wasn't burning off the store of energy he had; without hitting a hard target there was no transfer of large amounts of force or energy, meaning it was still screaming through his body, threatening to burn him up. Cloth and air didn't do much for the expenditure of energy, though shearing through whatever shield or force had been put between them to make the attack had helped bleed some of it out. Still, though: it was worth cutting down his generation to a minimum until he could try to release some of the energy he had already stored, lest he do his opponent's task for him.

Beyond that, he found a few needles of frustration pushing against his usual patient nature - tripped or staggered, he was being kept away from his opponent but nothing was going one way or the other. In one moment, his opponent was advancing, then trying to get away. A steady constant of combat was hard to come by, but neither man was getting no where fast.

Not one for small talk, the Khasmin man didn't seem content to stand around - as soon as he came up, he began advancing, this time at a quickened pace. Twenty feet was hardly a considerably distance - less than ten yards. It'd only take a second or two to get across, with his long legs.

Assuming he was allowed to advance, Deitric would quickly pump his right arm out, aiming a quick, short punch for Damon's face. His pace slowed as he got into range, but it didn't look as though he were going to entirely stop - he might, or maybe he wouldn't. It was hard to say; much like the attack itself, his forward movement or lack thereof could be a feint. It was already apparent that the tribesman could now throw lightning - would he do so again to quickly expend the energy threatening to overwhelm him, or did he have another card up his sleeve, waiting to stack the deck in his favor?