Post #1
Walden withdrew his sword from the chest of a thug, a clumsy fighter who overextended himself one too many times and found out what silver covered in blood looked like. Even as the life was fading from his opponent's eyes, Walden was withdrawing a handkerchief to clean his blade in preparation for his next opponent. Walden's insistence on putting himself on equal ground with whatever opponent he was facing required him to put significantly more effort into each mook he faced. Still, that last one marked Walden's third in a relatively short span of time. Still, it was a result of the numerous assailants being brute thugs, easily dodged around and defeated. There was something exhilarating about the scene of chaos. Perhaps it was the sheer number of spirits being released by the slaughter of so many men, and some in horrifying ways.
Within the first few minutes, Walden had seen a man strangled by chains of blood. Still, that did little to match the raw power that had sent men flying through the air like rag dolls. For a few moments, Walden had wondered why they bothered to pull themselves to their feet again. It was clear that their efforts would be in vain. The seemingly endless din of screams of pain mixed with the sickening crunch of bone and the splattering of blood was enough to disturb Walden. Perhaps these men were clones, however. Bred to die, conditioned for this task. It had soothed his conscience and alleviated his worry about the company he seemed to be keeping. To a degree, at least. Walden doubted the truth of his hope.
As the thug fell to the ground, dead, Walden saw the next thug behind him, already coming in at a charge with his knife glinting dangerously in the various lights illuminating the slaughterhouse. There were fewer combatants for Walden to have to pay attention to, as he had taken up a position behind the frontline, facing off against those who moved around in an attempt to flank. But these were dumb brutes of men, and the thought of moving around didn't occur to as many as one might have expected. Instead, they seemed content to line up to die in droves before the other Gladiators.
Oh well, it required less effort on Walden's part to keep his defensive line of wolves up. The pack was out, enforcing Waldens' dueling nature by keeping the other thugs at bay, allowing Walden to focus on his fight. Just as the pack of thugs was decreasing, however, Walden's own pack was beginning to dwindle, as he was forced to take in more and more of their essence to keep him fighting at peak form. It would take some time to recover himself, Walden knew. He could feel the exhaustion, where the essence was necessary. So thinned was the pack, then, that the aforementioned charging thug was able to get through, slashing with the blade of his knife.
Walden took a short step backwards, avoiding the attack, and then lunged at the thug, aiming for the heart.
Post #2
The blade found its mark, and the ritual repeated itself. Remove the blade. Clean it, turn to find the next opponent. Except, this time, as he took the time to look around, Walden found the number in the warehouse to be severely diminished. It wasn't unexpected, no, but it still seemed shocking how the population had fallen so quickly. The tiredness in his bones forced Walden to take in another of his wolves' essences. How many remained? Walden didn't stop to check. Instead, he turned to face the next he had identified as his opponent.
The man was drawing a pistol, apparently deciding that now that their numbers were greatly reduced, it was safe enough to use it. Or perhaps it was because of the reduction that he was willing to use the pistol, not out of concern for his fellows, but out of his own desperation. The look of bloodlust and confidence he had first seen in the thugs was gone.
"We shall have this duel as gentlemen." Walden declared to the man, drawing his own pistol. "We shall meet in the middle, each of us shall take our ten paces, and then we shall turn."
The thug seemed struck dumb for a moment at Walden's declaration, but being within a (increasingly less secure) perimeter of spectral wolves seemed to sap his resistance to the idea. Walden and the thug walked, meeting in the circle the wolves paced.
"What is your name?" Walden asked, feeling regretful at not having the time to ask the previous one's name before their brief fight.
"Jeremy." the thug replied.
"Very good. I am named Walden. I hope that our duel shall be as honorable as the others. And, of course, if you try to shoot me in the back, my pets will stop you." Walden said. "Now, as your pistol has a significantly higher capacity than my own, I shall call the turn, and it is most likely fire the first shot. Understood?"
Jeremy the Thug nodded, and the two turned their backs to each other, and each took ten paces. Walden called for the turn. He fired the first shot. It was all very quickly done, efficiently, almost civilly. A stark contrast to the carnage that was winding down around him.
Walden paused, then, returning his blade to its sheathe, and using the reformed cane for its evident purpose, resting at wary ease, as the will of the others to be fighting seemed to be fast fading before the fury of the fighters.
