Thread: Tournament of Lost Champions (WoW RP - Dameon x Feral.Desires)

When the gate opened he could feel his muscles tense. He had almost the same tells as a wolf watching a family of deer roam into an open field. His pupils dilated, his mouth watered and he could already feel his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. There was a human male sputtering off words as his kind so often liked to do, and the rows of seats in the Coliseum were packed leaving standing room only, and even then there were more than a handful of spectators standing shoulder to shoulder to see the bout. The events of the previous tournaments, including the ones that were attacked by the once and former Lich King's soldiers became stories that soon became myths as stories so often have the fortune of being. It drew people that would have previously had no interest in such blood sport simply for the chance to see great warriors of the Horde and Alliance possibly come to blows with some great hidden evil that might still be lurking, even though the Lich King's forces had been reduced to rabble and disjointed clumps. It didn't matter their reasons for being here, this was going to be a spectacle, and one that would lead to great stories. Stories that would be so memorable, so outstanding that they would not turn to myth, they would not need to. The rumbling of blood became ever louder, like the sounds of a great shore crashing against the cliff faces of Durotar. His breath became labored and his muscles strained against the plate of his armor. Part of him wished to strip off the weight feeling it press against his chest, almost confining him in his own skin but he knew better. There were reasons beyond protection that he wore this armor. It was an heirloom, one that had been refitted, reforged and repaired again and again through his life. The axes were both heirlooms and spoils of combat, twins in a set. The rest was simply pieces he had made himself through the years from smelted goods either mined or pried off the corpses of fools. His only regret was that he wouldn't be allowed to lay claim to the salvage he'd leave behind him when he brought down his quarry here today. Again the rush of blood through his veins drummed against his bones. The time was getting closer as the last of the stragglers made their way into the ring and the gates closed. There were still words spewing from the pale lips of the human male, but there was only one that he heard, and it was as clear as a bell with no other sound mattering. BEGIN! There was no hesitation, or jockeying for position from the Orc. He had already slipped both axes from their braces across his back without realizing it, but once he registered the weight was there he made use of it. The axe's teeth quickly bit into the side of the nearest combatant, a blood elf, he thought. He didn't pay much mind since the man, or woman He could never tell them apart in their clothing, was sent flying with the weight of the strike. He was on to the next, the sole of his sabaton dug into the frosted dirt of the stadium floor and he launched himself forward. He may not be the swiftest in the melee, but he was no slouch, and while he may take a moment to gain momentum when he did it took nothing short of a very large Tauren to give him proper resistance. A lesson a pair of Gnomes were quick to learn as he trampled them underfoot. With both axes drawn he cleaved his way through the meat in front of him, the more he could catch in his stride the better, and all the while the sounds of battle and cries of the ravaged were being further drowned out by the thrum of the battle drums in his ears.