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

There was blood, and plenty of it. The Argent did their best to ensure the safety, or at least the continued life, of their combatants, but it was very really combat and in combat, people bleed. There was a mist of crimson that wafted the air with every swing of his axe, it's fangs bloodied and hungry. He smiled, it wasn't a smile of malice, or blood lust, but a genuine, content smile. This was where he belonged. He wasn't a politician, or a hunter, or a scholar. He spoke with blood and steel, the only thing he was fit to kill was that which he'd call enemy, the only thing he could teach would be dismemberment and murder. Another breastplate crumpled beneath the bite of his axe like cheap tin, and he placed his boot against the Dwarf's shoulder to brace himself as he ripped it free, earning a pained cry from the hairy little half pint as a spell whisked him away for quick and proper healing. It wasn't his concern if the little scrub was crippled for the rest of his life, but it still urked him that the weak were being saved after being crushed by the strong. It was as if they were filling their future blood lines with weakness and failure. He flared his nostrils as a putrid stench filled the air around him and he whirled one of his axes to cleave in an arc as he turned to what stood behind him. A cloaked forsaken lurched for a moment as both of his arms, each of which had clasped a dripping dagger, flopped to the ground limply. There was a moment where he considered taking another swing and splitting the walking corpse in two, but it seemed that removing his hands was enough to warrant him getting a ticket out of the arena. The other fighters were now giving him a wide berth, and it was around now that the weak would begin to have momentary treaties to take out the stronger warriors. He wasn't about to give any of them that chance. He might draw more attention to himself, but that was usually unavoidable with someone his size and presence. He swam in the ocean of rhythm and rage inside his own head, the blood lust ready to drown him in fury and joy, but he held back the tide. It would do him no good to turn into a slothering animal in the midst of people who train to destroy all the mindless undead in the land all over this place. He caught out of the corner of his eye a pair of Goblins who flanked him, one armed with a comically over sized rifle, the other gathering up his...or her?...presence to cast a spell. He grunted, and unbuckled one of the axes from his belt, hurling it full force towards the caster. There was a loud thunk, and it toppled backwards, the rifle wielding goblin taken aback by the sudden reversal, and as it turned it's attention back towards the Orc, he had already swooped in upon the smaller green creature, feeding a powerful boot into it's rib cage. A sickening crunch erupted as it rolled limply across the dust before evaporating in the white light of the Argent healers. A familiar scent wafted, and the Orc cast his gaze on the female Death Knight as she danced past another hooved warrior, watching him clumsily lodge himself into the wood of the arena. It was shameful, but also a bit amusing. Oh well, no time for jokes. He picked up the throwing axe from the dust where it laid, it's former target whisped off by the magic of the arena, and without even bothering to wipe off the blood, he charged into the fray again.