Hold on Forever

Fighting Without A Net

Pyrrhus

Pyrrhus was off-balance, dancing around the fact that he knew - knew - he was not at his best. It was nothing he could name, nothing he could point to and say that is where the rhythm fails, this is the rock in his boot, over here the place his armor is weak. He at least knew mounted was not his best option, and so he slid down, taking deep breaths, readying for the fight. His first real fight - not a spar, not a training session, not a directing of battles from above - since Mistress. Since the mountain.

The outlaws were still on horseback, so they had to come back to him, leaning far out in order to strike at him with blade and spear. A few of them had bows, but their shots missed and the thunder of Caleb's peculiar flamewand silenced them thereafter.

These opponents - these people - were as skilled as kittens compared to previous enemies of Pyrrhus'. They were hard men, of course, and certainly dangerous to the mortal peoples of the South - but they might have been brand new initiates compared to Pyrrhus' practiced martial skill. None of them carried essence of any kind.

It was easy to dance around between and under the glittering steel and thudding hooves, even off-track as he felt. He caught an arm here, a leg there, a belt, pulling his foes from their saddles until their horses stood confused and directionless. Their masters struggled to their feet around him.

Pyrrhus was from a place where showing his true nature was a death sentence, so he had never developed the instinct to flare his anima as he'd seen other, less endangered Solars, do. But the ability was there, and he knew the way to flex his essence just... right...

The flash was gratifyingly startling. The horses bolted, bunching together in a tight herd and heading back into the gorges. Their riders could either fight him now, or run after their mounts and be shot down by Caleb. They turned to him.

One, two, three... nine. Nine men total, against the two of them.

It wouldn't have been a fair fight against anyone else.

Pyrrhus' focus expanded, hypervigilant. He heard Caleb laughing, throwing himself off Dirt and onto the back of one of the outlaws with a thud as they both tumbled to the ground. Heard Dirt snort and draw back, herding Rain away from the fracas. The angry squeal the stallion gave and then the sharp scream of a man who'd just been bitten reminded them all there's a difference between a warhorse and a simple riding mount.

The men had mostly kept hold of their swords and swung at him now all together, thinking to overwhelm in numbers what skill would not avail them. Pyrrhus hadn't summoned his swords and still did not - he couldn't have told you why, in that moment, only that he needed to hit with fists and knees and the whole of his body and not behind a wall of steel. He felt the misstep jangling in his spirit as he threw himself into the fight.

The first blade descended; Pyrrhus ducked under the blow, inside the man's reach. He caught the wrist, twisted to break the grip, and followed with a punch to the wind with all his not-inconsiderable strength behind it.

More blades crashed down on his shoulders, his back, and twinges of phantom pain - whips, lashes, claws - erupted across his nerves even as his Arbiter armor deflected the edges. Not as many as there could have been, as a little less than half were off pummeling Caleb. Six men now - no, five, the first punched man had fallen wheezing in the dust, he was not getting up soon enough to matter. Pyrrhus' gaze flicked over them, picking out features and stances - Brawler, Beard, Flashy Coat, Lip Ring, Scar.

Pyrrhus dropped onto the balls of his feet, one leg kicking out to sweep the nearest - Coat - onto his back. The next - Beard - over-extended when the resistance against his sword vanished; Pyrrhus grabbed the man's wrist to haul himself back upright and toppled the bandit onto his friend as he did. Three down - one for a while, the other two for only as long as it took to disentangle themselves. Three left.

Pyrrhus whirled, ducked again within Brawler's arc -

- straight into the man's other fist. The discordant jangling of his broken rhythm roared in his ears.

Blood erupted from his face. Pyrrhus grunted under the impact and staggered back into Scar.

"Ow, fuck--"

"Doin' all righ' over there, Zenith?" came Caleb's sing-song voice above the racket of the other Solar's battle.

Scar wrapped an arm across Pyrrhus' throat, cutting off his protest. Pyrrhus twisted to one side and jabbed an elbow into the man's ribs, his other hand wrapped around Scar's arm, trying to drag it off from crushing his windpipe. Brawler went for him, but Pyr put his weight on Scar's arm and kicked off Brawler's chest, throwing him and Scar backwards into the dirt. The man's hold on him loosened with the impact and Pyrrhus rolled sideways.

Brawler recovered and aimed a kick of his own at Pyrrhus, who snapped away and back to his feet. The man telegraphed his movements a mile out, and if Pyrrhus had been paying attention earlier, he would not have gotten his nose broken for his trouble.

Pyrrhus took a moment to pause, watching the others. He wasn't centered, wasn't ready for this - but he could fake it long enough to defeat them. He stepped into the kata the Arbiters called meditation on the enemy, essence pouring through the stance and fixating on the five men before him. He felt some of the discord soothed away, its cracks filled in with Solar might.

Beard and Coat had managed to get back up but were staying out of reach, more wary than the others. Pyrrhus scrubbed the blood from his face with the back of his right hand and beckoned for Brawler to advance as if they stood in a training arena.

It was over in a few more exchanges, hard-driven fists against bone and flesh, now he had his grounding. The five lay collapsed around him, senseless or nearly. He let go of his Arbiter armor; the hardened essence melting away like ice into his anima.

Caleb sauntered by with an unconscious outlaw slung over his shoulder, blood streaming down his face but otherwise cheerful. He dumped the man with Pyrrhus' five then systematically started going through their pockets. "I admit, I was right worried there for a tick. But that was a good fight. You hurt?"

"Just my pride." Pyrrhus leaned over, and with essence trailing from his fingers like foxfire, pulled his nose straight. A fresh smatter of blood hit the sand.