Open Duel The Trenches Fight Club

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

Had Arthur meant any dry humour in his comment it was lost on Berchar, who shot the marten an anxious glare. Watching cat and fox brawl had set his own teeth on edge, fuzzy tailtip puffed with worry as he considered his friend enduring such torment merely for his sake. He knew Coddy to be a bully and no renowned scrapper himself, only big enough to overpower the jerboa and intimidate him, but even so he had youth on his side. As much as he wanted to trust that Arthur was no fool it was difficult not to shake concerns after having seen his injuries of late.

Furthermore, what was this even going to mean for his future? He nibbled on a claw, already mentally rehearsing excuses he would have to give his friend if he darted home now to begin gathering his belongings. Coddy, were he to be beaten, would be certain to be in a foul mood for the next week. What an absolute mess tonight would be.

Berchar had no time to voice his concerns: the match was over and the preparations ran away before him without the opportunity to interject. Crowded between baying onlookers, still jostling and bantering over their wins and losses from the previous betting session, the jerboa watched on with bated breath.

Codtail for his part made a great show of playing up to the crowd in the hopes that he could curry favour with their support to bolster his own nerves. The oldster seemed uncertain of what he should be doing and the weasel had at least witnessed plenty of matches in these places to follow expectations: he waved to the baying assembly with bared fangs, bouncing nimbly on his paws as though well-versed in the art of combat. It was all for show. “This is yer own fault, oldster!” he taunted. Then, presuming Arthur’s inexperience, decided to offer no space for thought and launched himself at the marten before any formal start could be called, sailing in with a jab for his jaw.

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Arthur's fur bristled as Coddy entered the ring, the marten's eyes locking on him with spite. How anyone could hurt such a kindhearted beast (and such a small one at that) incensed him. Several choice words came to his mind -- but he shook his head and discarded them. They'd be wasted on a beast like Coddy, and would only compound his hatred of his roommate. Coddy would only understand violence and fear.

The next match seemed to begin without demarcation. Coddy simply stepped into the ring with him, and began flouncing about. Arthur felt like a geriatric watching a dibbun with endless energy. Old age and treachery would overcome youth and skill. The crowd seemed to favor his antics, but Arthur didn't put much stock in their assessment of things. He'd learned to not care what the world thought of him some time ago.

...hadn't he?

"Miserable cur!"

The words echoed in his mind, and for a critical moment, Arthur was in another world. Reality brought him back with a sharp jab in the face. His head snapped back -- more from the shock than anything -- and he tasted blood. The moment of distraction had bought Coddy an opening, but it would be the last hit he gave for free.

Best bet's to ground him.

Regaining his footing, Arthur lowered his head and lunged forward, arms spreading wide to catch the wirey beast. There was a ferocious speed with which he lunged, a brutish strength underlying his movements. Coddy would beat him in a foot race, to be sure. But no beast moves faster than Arthur Barrett over short distances.

 

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

That the hit connected almost surprised Coddy as much as it had Arhur; the weasel, in his excitement, did not follow up nearly quickly enough to capitalise on having struck his elder so squarely.

Knuckles burning (for he was not practiced on proper technique) it was almost within a split second that he found himself caught in the marten’s grasp with considerable impact. Coddy was winded, and, furthermore, far less used to bouncing back when struck. Most often his modus operandi was to run or whine and wheedle out of danger: here in the ring neither was an option. Survival instinct kicked in and Codtail panicked, battering blindly with fists and claws at whatever he could get a grip on, thrashing and squirming as he gasped to catch his breath.

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Arthur felt his shoulder connect with Coddy's hip. Instantly, he wrapped his arms around the weasel's legs, and took him down into the dirt. "Mmmmgghhh!!!" he growled in pain, feeling the blows land on his recently stitched shoulders. For a second time, the stitches tore loose -- and if Coddy thought Arthur moved fast, he moved even faster when (quite excellent) sutures were ruined.

Driving his weight forward, Arthur pinned the beast to the ground. A mad scramble ensued, which must have looked pathetic to the experienced beasts who fought in the last round. Once the marten was able to turn and shield his back however, the blows didn't seem to bother him as much. Though Coddy was able to wriggle his way free, Arthur wouldn't let him go far. Clutching a pawful of the weasel's pelt to keep him still, the marten threw two or three hefty blows in a downward arc toward the weasel's face.

 

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

Any relief was short-lived in the undignified scramble of fur and snapping jaws which writhed in the centre of the ring. He’d clawed at something which had given, that much was known, but if it impeded his opponent they weren’t letting it show. For all his age, Arthur was big and he was powerful: enough that Coddy realised, very quickly, how much trouble he was in.

Distance. He needed distance. The marten wasn’t about to provide him with any. Blind hammering at Arthur’s back had turned to a desperate scramble to free himself but the stranger’s grip remained firm in his pelt; there was no time to think on it, because the next thing he was seeing were stars. Coddy’s head snapped back, bumping painfully against unforgiving ground; he barely raised an arm in time to deflect the full force of the blow from striking him again. Blood fountained from his snout.

Instinct bid Codtail to better shield himself, try and curl up from the raining blows. It was all he could do to gasp expletives and try to bunch up his lower body, aiming to kick at Arthur’s stomach to try and free himself. It was well past trying to harm the older beast: it was about trying to survive him.

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Though Arthur could have kept raining blows down on the weasel, he was worried that too many to the head might kill him. That would be quite the charge to explain, wouldn't it? But there also wasn't much sport in beating Coddy's face to a pulp. It'd just be more work for Berchar, anyways.

But ribs? Arthur wouldn't mind if a few of those broke. The marten loosed his grip as if Coddy were going to escape, before crawling after him and driving his knee into his side.

"Holler 'nuff, you dumb brute!" he panted out. Despite only being in the ring some sixty seconds, the exertion was quickly catching up with him. Not to mention, his bleeding shoulders.

With the force from the blow, Arthur lost his grip on the slippery beast.