nihil
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K7gn-byX94A
Plop...Plop...Plop...Plop.
Water drops fell from split pipes, the occasional gush of steam flowing freely across the walls of the large and relatively empty room. Spot lights shined beams across the logo of a raven upon frayed tapestry, hues of dark red glittered with specks of blood and stains of dirt and stripes of black. It was quiet, spectators giving the silent contemplation that their bets deserved, as they congregated in spectacles of murmured pockets outwardly from the large ring. It was a tad bit bigger than the typical fighting location, a place reserved for a more prominent display of prowess. After all, the closer the audience was to ring, the closer the participants were to violating the no kill policy. Even if it were against the rules, Gabriel considered the notion of such things.
As his footsteps clacked against the cold and wet cement, he gave an almost threatening head tilt to the outer ring of flesh puppets that now blocked his access. He wasn't here to watch, though he did thoroughly enjoy the concept. Though the lack of killing and maiming was disheartening, he let such things go. Not the time place, he told himself, these were potential allies. Their blood could be spilled on the battlefield for far superior purposes. No, he was here for the sport and the teaching that could be dealt from the deliverance of pain. He the Envoy, his new pupil the recipient. It was time to discern where their journey would begin in an almost ceremonial ritual of bloodletting and injury. Given the slightest smirk, he parted the betting sea with seemingly biblical ability, walking to the red ring drawn in red paint. This wouldn't be our limit, he thought, as his gaze shifted down to the circle. No, this would be a far more active partaking of this ancient form of dance.
He wore armor for the moment, but that was quickly to change. His right hand idly drifted down the buckles, clanking as they split, before he loosed the mixture of armorweave and prhik and alloy. Dropping it to the ground, the sound of metal against cement echoed through the room, as he revealed a body marred in countless tattoos and scars that couldn't be covered by the greenish tinted black ink circling his torso, arms, and neck in tribal formations. A call to his people, the ones he had spent so much time forgetting, given the most intimate of respect for their capacity for damage. Without armor, he was merely a man now, albeit one seemingly cut from stone and graced with black braided hair and the blossoming of a salt and pepper beard. But unsurprisingly, his singular crimson eye was his most entrapment characteristic. It cut and it pierced and it penetrated, far deeper than any weapon he could have brought to this fight. His was an aura of blood lust, a drive to pick the flesh from bones, and the need to see the assuage of weakness through the infliction of misery and torment.
From his hip, two cylinders of little distinction. Pulling one from the waist hip, he tossed it underhanded across the rink and placed the other within the grip of his right hand. Now, it was time to make good on promises.
The announcer gave way to his name in drawn out tones, something which mattered very little to him, as he drowned out the distractions with a brazen smile. But the name REVERANCE was boldly spoken in an almost hushed respect, no booing, no hackling, no cheering. Lights shifted from the tapestry to the ring, awaiting the entry of his opponent, [member="Logan of Little Coruscant"].
Sabers and powers and flesh only, the announcer screamed across the soundwaves. Gabriel cracked his neck and waited.