Let's do this.

[Mr. Robot]

Ok, I read the rules and stuff and I think I'm ready (Not really). Now, I'll set up a challenge to anyone who wants a battle. Mind you, I'm still a beginner, so this would be like ''practice''. I want someone who would keep me entertained throughout the battle.

So,...any takers?

Oh and one last thing, I don’t care if you’re a mod or a really good battler. I want ANYONE who can keep me entertained.

[Repster]

There was a slight shift in what might have been a ornament at first glance. No man should be able to fit in that suit of armor,but it seemed one did. The precisely six foot form of full plate mail upon layer upon layer upon layer of cold hard unforgiving iron leaned there. Another slight shift in the helmet. Such a waste of good men. Thousands dead, thousands gasping for they're last breath and joining the dead. Few, a tenth of a fraction of a part, staggering towards the battlefield medics. Even they were patched up and in horrid shape. The situation would be much the same on the other side. Neither could afford another confrontation, it would only drag on... both sides would be crippled for a decade. Well, not quite. The rabid one never needed an army. Why had he sent the armored one here, to command such a force. No better trained then militia against twice again they're number... No matter. He was sent to wrench victory from the jaws of complete annihilation, and so he would. There was a groan as the blood stained armor began it's lurch forward. By the sun's set this would be over.

There was a gurgling shriek as Knight's spear took the first in the throat. He had warned them. Surrender, or die. How haughty and brave and bold they had been as he stepped into there camp alone. He did not even notice as he weapon shifted, spear to axe it shattered to next one's shield, armor, and bone alike. Fools, all of them. Throwing away there lives with one cry or another. Screaming out the names of cities and loved ones, and loyalties alike. Axe to chain, down went three, and chain to staff as he cracked they're skulls. He pressed on. They came at him as they could, alone or as a group, and down they went. He was a soldier. This was his work, and he was accounted very good at his job.

Suddenly he could feel it. A challenge. Mayhaps an officer, a raw recruit, mercenary, or possibly even just someone that had been at the very wrong place at the worse of time. As men fell like wheat at his scythe, he had a thought. If this one were to be defeated, it might just have the effect that a month of constant battle had not. He needed these men broken if any were to live past dawn. Few things broke men as seeing one accounted of great skill being slain. A pity, but the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few, and his duty that of the many. So onwards the armored on walked death in his wake, death to come to his quarry.

Ooc: You'll notice the distinct lack of battlefield. If you've got a specific one in mind, feel free to implement it. If not... we shall see how it forms to our needs, shall we not?

[Mr. Robot]

(OOC: I like to make dialogue if that’s ok, so my character will speak a few times)

The rocky terrain became quiet as Bryon carefully observed his opponent who took down the men quickly. His weapon changed with each person he hit, he wore armor that seemed difficult to move in. However, his opponent moved in it easily, as easy as breathing. Bryon’s left hand ran through his brown, long hair as he thought of a simple plan. He wasn’t dumb enough to jump into battle, especially when his opponent was that strong. Bryon, unlike his opponent, didn’t wear a battle attire or armor, he wore normal clothes. He had a light brown leather jacket with white feathers on the collar and under the jacket Bryon had a white shirt with a silver necklace around his neck. Along with all of this, he had blue jeans and black shoes. On his back a sword was strapped to it, the hilt of the sword resembled a revolver’s handle.

A smile crept on Bryon’s face as he came up with his plan, if you can call it a plan. A strong gust of wind engulfed Bryon’s body and soon he disappeared with a blink of an eye. The same gust of wind that swallowed Bryon blew in front of his armored opponent. The wind was cold and blew dust from the rocky floor and soon the wind started to form a man who was none other than Bryon himself. Bryon’s left hand moved his bangs away from his eyes and his right hand slowly went and grabbed the hilt of his gunblade . He indolently looked at his inscrutable opponent and smiled at him.

''My name is Bryon'' said Bryon with a rough voice that had hints of a German accent.

''Please tell me yours, after all…I want to know the name of the person I’m about to kill'' Bryon said flaunting his strength.

As soon as Bryon said those words he ripped the gunblade from its straps and got into his battle position, ready for anything his opponent would throw at him. He had his right arm stretched out and held the sword in a horizontal position, pointing it at his opponent’s body. Bryon’s index finger laid carefully on what seemed to be a trigger in the blade’s hilt. His left arm was hanging down and his elbow was bent so that his arm was leveled with his waist. With his left hand balled into a fist, the smile slowly disappeared and his dark blue eyes became more visible as the sun slowly went down, calling night to come.

[Repster]

"Knight. For that is what I am." the armored one's voice intoned, a slight echo of itself coming from the helm. The voice was much of that one would expect if raw iron could speak.

He stepped forward towards Byron, unconcerned with the odd weapon between them. Some sort of alchemical crossbow sword fusion of some kind, as he saw it. He watched, still closing the gap, as the bladed weapon slashed down. He down right ignored the strike, ignored the sparks that flew, ignored denting ever so slightly. It was the all to familiar feel of a blow used to dealing with inferior protection.

His heavily gauntleted hand, more so then the other even if that seemed impossible, clutched the back of it throwing it wide. Odd that gauntlet, the metal was different now for some reason. He kept his grip on the gunblade, and yanked forward. Knight own right fist going straight forward. No reeling, no hooking, nothing fancy. Just a single straight punch, and with his mass behind it, while Byron's own came the other way, the man who lacked armor was not going to enjoy the meeting of cold iron to leather. Byron's ribs would be especially unappreciative of it.