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Shadowy, hulking men put their weight into levers in the arena's southern tunnel. Pulleys worked with a series of cranks, metal grated on stone and the gate opposite Ertai's slid upward. A built man with flowing white hair strode into the sun, his boot heels crunching the sand underfoot. His combat boots were similar to Ertai's, armored all round with sharp spurs on the heels. Greaves stretched all the way up to his hips to guard his knees and thighs. A loincloth and cup shielded his genitals.

He was bare from the waist up and moved like a wrestler.

Gauntlets with stone-encrusted spiral designs on the backs protected his knuckles; plates stretched across his forearms. The broadsword sheathed at his back slapped against his lats as he walked. His right hand rested idly on the hilt of the side sword buckled to his right hip as he approached at a steady pace, his emerald green eyes aglow as they swept over one of the most worthy of adversaries, taking in his enemy's similar appearance. Both were built like gods.

At Ertai's beckon, he dashed forward expressionlessly, nostrils and hard cheekbones flaring. Sand kicked up in his wake. He moved to the right in his sprint, verdant gaze trained on Ertai's hips, legs, and any arm movement as he strafed him, withdrawing the side sword from its sheath. The weapon was about the same length as his opponent's rapiers, its length combined with his forty-five-inch reach providing him with a total reach of eighty-seven inches. He swerved in, the grip on his weapon relaxed but firm, and brought its point to level with his adversary's head.

He caught the glint of the wire around Ertai's wrist and, making use of the variable resolution his dragon eyes granted him, spotted the hook that secured his opponent's blade to his grasp. Ertai dashed toward him and Corourke's blade remained in place, held level. Before impact, in control of his momentum, Corourke pivoted to his right and continued to strafe his adversary, pushing the point of Ertai's left rapier away from his chest with the flat of his shortsword while Ertai's right rapier smacked his own blade. With the point of his sword still aimed at Ertai, he made a brief leap outward, leaning away while raising his level, and stabbed toward the left side of his opponent's neck. He'd land still strafing, and continue to circle from the outside.

Corourke braced his left gauntlet before his tucked chin and the side of his throat. Past training and combat experience had drilled into his skull the fact that leaping in combat was a big no-no, but for the skilled adept, sacrifices and risks could be taken, even openings intentionally provided for an opponent, to pave the way for counterattacks and create openings for oneself. As he made the short, controlled leap and shoveled the point of his blade toward Ertai's neck, his eyes tracked the movement of Ertai's left hand, a third blade making its presence known as it shot toward his neck. The spike on the weapon's pommel bounced harmlessly off the back of his gauntlet. Ertai tumbled, guarding his back with the blade in his right hand, which the point of Corourke's bared weapon speared into. He landed and darted backward, avoiding Ertai's spinning left fist. The faintest of coy smiles graced Corourke's features as he circled out of striking range, biding his time and waiting to bite. His confidence boosted after that first short exchange, he pivoted again, this time juking inward with all the grace of a gazelle, and stabbed up and under toward Ertai's chest before the man could retrieve either of the blades he had thrown.

His blade parried to the outside, he juked back, narrowly avoiding the punch to the face as Ertai's wired rapier whistled past his nose, grazing flesh and taking a chip out of the bridge. He fought to keep his eyes open, wincing through the hot pain as gouts of blood bubbled to the surface. He snaked his right arm back to the inside, his left hand joining the right at his shortsword's grip, and attempted to plunge the blade of his weapon into his opponent's torso ********. If one of them died, hopefully they would be able to be revived by healing magic from a cleric on-hand or...something.

"Under the present circumstances, this minor show of skill is all I have to offer. I work best as a footsoldier under pressure," he spat back through clenched teeth as his blade sunk toward Ertai's midsection. His chin remained tucked and his body poised like a puma ready to spring. If his blade tested flesh, he would twist it inside to tear up his opponent's internal organs, then hammer toward the spine with a curt stiff-arm from his right palm. His eyes squinted through the pain in his nose, and he remained wary of the smoldering tip of his opponent's blunt.

His blade again parried to the outside, he weaved left and right away from his opposition's punches, the ring singing past his mouth as he narrowly evaded it and the pain that would ensue should it hit him. He simply stared Ertai down, still wincing from the hot pain of his chipped nose, knowing that it would all be over after combat, win or lose. Even as the adversary mocked him, his voice growing heavier, darker, like that of a demon's, enchanted power glyphs on the back of Corourke's gauntlets glowed with a multitude of colors; as he stepped back, creating space between them, he seized his broadsword by the hilt and brought it into play with a downward slash from the draw that would cleave into Ertai's skull.

The point of his sword (gripped in left hand) slammed into the earth, his neck pivoting as his emerald eyes craned to follow the sharp movements of his adversary, who had tossed his rapiers into the sand and side-stepped only to deliver a punishing knee into his left flank. He released his hold on his broadsword, leaving its point and part of its edge in the earth it had cleaved into, and tucked his left elbow in as he circle-spun to face his adversary with his hands up, the knee having knocked him aside. Even as he threw a tight hook with his gauntleted right hand, attempting to catch Ertai in the left cheekbone (while still gripping the blade in that hand), it occurred to him that no matter how many times it happened, he still hated being hit.

Ertai's right punch catches him in the bottom of the left elbow; luckily, said elbow is tucked protectively into Corourke's side, restricting the leverage needed to hyper-extend or break the joint. The punch grazes his gut and rattles his funny-bone, however, and he fights back the wince ensuing from the twang of pain that shoots through the sensitive area.

He shakes the arm out.

With his left hand, Ertai grabs the broadsword by the hilt, holding it in an awkward stance.

Swoo~

Corourke's hook whistles past Ertai's head, hitting him in the left shoulder. Ertai snakes his hand in a feint toward Corourke's right elbow; Corourke pulls the limb back. Ertai does some pivots or spins and attempts to slam Corourke with his shoulder and get behind him or something. Corourke steps back on his left foot for balance, possibly wheeling to keep Ertai in his sights should the foe try to circle behind him, and pushes from the ball of it, trying to push-kick Ertai in the high point of his chest with his right boot to set him off-balance and knock him away, hopefully jarring him during the behind-the-back hilt-to-right hand exchange. The shortsword's reared back in his right hand, its glinting point angled toward his foe's neck--wherever he circles or falls to--and he quicksteps forward on the ball of his left foot after kicking with and planting the right, trying to get inside the broadsword's arc and impale Ertai with a single thrust. His left hand hovers between his head and his midsection and he lowers his stance, ready for the broadsword swing that could potentially cut him down.