Arena The Galactic Shockboxing Tournament

[Seldan Rourke]

​

Seldan braced himself as the bell rang. Ronhar charged, fast, loud, and all business, like a gunship breaking atmosphere. The first flurry hit hard, sharp jabs rattling his guard. A hook slipped past, thumping against his ribs and making him grunt. Another blow caught his shoulder, sending a hot pulse of pain down his arm.

The crowd loved it, roaring with every crack of glove on flesh or metal. Seldan kept his footing and his eyes steady. He'd learned long ago that the trick to staying alive was knowing how to take a hit, riding the impact rather than trying to stonewall it. Ronhar possessed reach, power, and speed, but Seldan brought the stubbornness of a trench soldier who'd endured tougher battles.

Then, mid-combination, Ronhar's arms just… dropped. Dead weight. For a heartbeat, Seldan thought he'd scored an unseen knockout. But no, the man's eyes were still locked on him, face twisted in frustration. Cyborg, Seldan guessed. New limbs, maybe, or a glitch in the wiring. Whatever the cause, it was a gift, and Seldan didn't waste the opportunity.

He surged forward, cutting the distance, his gloves a blur of body shots, uppercuts, and a heavy overhand aimed to rattle that chrome frame. The crowd's roar sharpened, sensing blood in the water.

But Ronhar wasn't done. His arms came back online faster than Seldan expected, and one of them rocketed upward in a brutal arc. The blow smashed into Seldan's chin, and for a second the world went white. Electricity crawled through his jaw, danced down his spine, making his legs feel like they were standing on liquid.

He staggered back a step, breath hissing between clenched teeth, his vision narrowing to the cyborg across from him. This wasn't going to be a quick finish after all. Ronhar hit like a tank, and Seldan knew he'd have to dig in, weather the storm, and then find his moment.

The hum of the charged cage felt louder now. The fight had only just begun.

Spoiler

Roll 1 - 10/20
Total - 10

OOC: I'll write the 20 roll on the next post.

Ronhar Tane​

 

[Adonis Angelis IV]

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​

Adonis's punch landed clean, the jolt from the shockgaunt flooding through his fist and up his arm. He didn't envy Ragos Terrek , or his jaw, after that one. But the victory in that moment came with its own price. Even the small movement from his injured left had sent a white-hot flare tearing through his shoulder again, the kind of pain that made you feel like every muscle was snapping in sequence. If he won this round, it would be on grit alone.

He made the next call in an instant, his wartime reflexes kicking in. He knew he couldn't lose momentum now. The next exchanges would decide everything. He hadn't taken a clean shot yet, and right now he had the advantage, but that advantage only lasted as long as he kept control. One good counter from Ragos and it could all come crashing down.

"Screw it." The word came with a hard swallow. He bounced on his feet, building rhythm, feeding power into his stance. He needed to hit before Ragos could steady himself. One more push, maybe two, and he could lock the match before the tide turned.

Adonis surged forward, unleashing three sharp punches in rapid sequence. The injury slowed his left, denying him the perfect tempo, but he poured every ounce of force into the combination. It was less about flawless technique now and more about capitalizing on the impact of that first hit, pressing into the confusion it had left behind, and refusing to give his opponent a second to breathe.

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​

 

[Artam Macek]

ATTN: Elara Veyran

​

He entered without music.

Others came to fight, came to boast, bout, show their strength. Artam had come to kill, to destroy. His opponent was much smaller, weaker, and not as fast as him. And more importantly, he was a trained killing machine. In the cockpit- and in shockboxing.

His coaches and his staff lead him into the arena. He was draped in the visage of the Empire, and was the very epitome of physicality. Every muscle fiber was brought to fold. His jawline, his hair, his stature. He was a near-perfect representation of the human race, let alone the Empire. His presence gave the impression that even the Imperial pilots were like him.

"Time to bleed."

He rolled his fists together, staring his opponent across from him. He said not a word after. He made not a sound. His gloves hummed to life. He touched them together, letting them arc against each other. He sneered- his mouthpiece hiding his teeth behind a blood-red facade of vampire teeth. He was terrifying, to say the least- to the untrained, untested opponent.

And his opponent- a representative of the democracy that he so hated. He did not give pause, he did not give anything other than a step forward as a warning as to his arrival- other than the launching of a brutal, hard, fast-moving right hook to his opponent's left midsection- aiming right at her kidney.

 

[Ronhar Tane]

Spoiler: Running Total

First Roll: 19
Second Roll: 18 (Rerolled)
Third Roll: 7

WHAM!

Ronhar barely had enough time to avoid the latest haymaker from Seldan Rourke , just barely blocking the blow with both of his forearms. For someone fully organic, he hit like a repulsortruck, and Ronhar hadn't been able to take full advantage of his supposed cybernetic superiority.

Ronhar jumped back, studying his opponent for any sort of opening. He couldn't find one, no matter where he looked. Perhaps it would be better to batter his opponent down until he was out of stamina, and then go in for the knockout blow? Yet there is was no telling when Ronhar's arms might start acting up again.

Ronhar didn't really have a choice. If he wanted to win this thing, he needed to get hits in on his opponent, one way or antother. Ronhar advanced once more...

And that was when all hell broke loose.

Ronhar's arms suddenly started going completely haywire, Ronhar having not even a modicum of control over them. They spazzed about with no apparent direction or purpose as Ronhar desperately tried to will them back into control. Had a hit from Seldan's shockgauntlets sent Ronhar's arms into overdrive, or was the malfunction the result of Ronhar's low prep time with the new cybernetic arms? Ronhar wasn't sure, but either way, things were most certainly not looking good!

Since he had no effective control over where his arms were going at the moment, Ronhar adopted a more defensive stance, trying to keep his stance as far away from Seldan as possible. Thankfully, Ronhar's legs were at least working as intended, so he should be able to dance around the ring until his arms came back online.

Perhaps a bit boring for those spectating, but Ronhar didn't really have a choice. The last thing he wanted to do was take hits from Seldan while he couldn't effectively guard himself or fight back, so he would have to maintain his distance. Still, it wasn't a complete loss: once Ronhar regained control over his arms, he might be able to bait Seldan into charging at him while still pretending not to have access to his cybernetics. Then, when Seldan got close, unprepared to properly defend himself while he sought to take advantage of Ronhar's spastic motions, he would counterattack with perfect accuracy, ready to regain momentum of this match!

​

---

OOC: Seldan Rourke rolled a natural 20 in his last post. To reflect this, I have rolled at disadvantage, meaning I have rolled twice and taken the lower number, than being a 7.

 

[Skyria Kyrtan]

Objective: WIN!!
Location: Tapani Arts and Sports Complex, Vyncinyth
Outfit: Fighting Unitard
Tags: Tyrant 4

"Sorry, I am a little chatty while I am getting into the flow. Your all business is going to have to take a back seat for the moment," Skyria smiled slightly as she bounced back and forth and shifted her head side to side trying to shake off the effects of the first blow.

All of Skyrim's fighting in the last couple years was sparring with fellow military or helping Teckla test Quasesitorum initiates. In those cases playful banter was much more approved and had a way of creating comradely for once the fights were over. It seemed these fighters weren't going to be friends.

Sky raised her defenses again and threw a few jabs. Mostly though she added a bit of circling to her movement. Her opponent was ready to try to end things immediately, so Sky would try to make her think about the whole ring. It was much easier to hit what stood right in front of you.

Another issue for Skyria, was the tingling sensation she felt in her right leg. It was no injury or cramp. It was the desire to use the foot as a weapon. Boxing was not her normal form of combat sport. She was used to everything goes. So for this competition she had to hold back. Throwing one last jab, Shyra took took steps left and threw a right hook at her opponent's head.

Left was the wrong direction, her movement put her straight in the path of her opponents heavy punch, which landed clean on Sky’s cheek. The blonde fighter’s own punch going wild scoring at best a glancing blow. Skyria didn’t even notice that result as she doubled over, her side burning from Tyrant 4’s second punch.

Skyria backed off quickly hoping to create space. She needed to figure something out quick. Expecting to be the smaller fighter in any fight she had focused on movement and speed in her abbreviated training. It seemed her opponent matched this and Skyria would need more.

 

[Corr]

Corr was swept aside from the clean, wide-arc slug of a fist from the Herglic. If the physical strike was not enough, the surge of electricity added onto the pain. His entire frame, small enough as it was, tensed and contracted each and every muscle as he came skidding to a halt on the far side of the ring.

He groaned and spat something fierce in a strange, hardly comprehensible dialect before deciding it was best to repeat the same move as before: rushing in for another wide overhand, though this time with some added jabs for good measure.

Isur

 

[Seldan Rourke]

​

Seldan pressed forward, heavy boots thudding against the electrified grid. Each step closed the space Ronhar was desperate to keep open. The cyborg's arms flailed wildly, sparks and jerks erupting from them, completely out of control. The crowd's excitement soured into jeers. They hadn't come to see a dance, or to watch one fighter backpedal across the cage while the other stalked him down.

None of that mattered to Seldan. He wasn't here to entertain, he was here to win.

He cut off the ring, shoulders squared, and forced Ronhar back against the wall. A quick jab slipped past the flailing arms, snapping Ronhar's head to the side. A follow-up cross hammered into his ribs, the shock surging through the cybernetics with a hiss and crackle. Ronhar staggered, and Seldan felt the match turning, the crowd's restless energy shifting back toward bloodlust.

Then, the Imperial devil came back to life.

Ronhar's arm lashed out, sudden and violent, faster than Seldan could reset his guard. The punch crashed into his cheek, and lightning flooded his vision. His knees buckled, and the world tilted sideways. The crowd's roar exploded into a frenzy at the clean, unexpected hit.

Seldan spat blood onto the glowing floor, his jaw burning. He hated this. Hated the unpredictability of it. He'd fought men, beasts, and war machines, and they all had rhythm, patterns he could read and break down. Ronhar had none of that, he was a mess of glitches and bursts, all jagged timing and chaos. That made him dangerous, and harder to beat.

He staggered back two steps, but only two. He wasn't about to give the cyborg any space to seize momentum. "Not a chance," he growled through clenched teeth, steadying his stance.

Seldan came forward again, gloves flashing. He threw a series of feints, half-punches meant more for reaction than damage, and watched the arms twitch, searching for tells in the chaos. Then he dropped low, attempting to drive two hooks into Ronhar's body, just under the ribs. If the arms were fragile, maybe the power housing deeper inside was too. Maybe if he hammered hard enough, he could make more than just the man glitch.

The crowd roared again, hungry and electric, sensing that the fight was teetering on the knife's edge. He wasn't about to let Ronhar, or his unpredictable limbs, take control. Not here. Not tonight.

Spoiler

Roll 1 - 10/20
Roll 2 - 20/20
Total - 30

Ronhar Tane​

 

[Tyrant 4]

Skyria backed off quickly hoping to create space. She needed to figure something out quick. Expecting to be the smaller fighter in any fight she had focused on movement and speed in her abbreviated training. It seemed her opponent matched this and Skyria would need more.

Skyria Kyrtan

Cypher pressed the attack as her opponent backed off, trying to create space. Cypher didn't intend to let her. Teeth clenching down hard on her mouthguard, she darted in, closing the distance. Just like a dogfight - attack, attack, attack. Never let your opponent think. Don't even give them room to breathe.

Just a heartbeat ago she'd slipped those jabs or met with solid blocks, but the girl kept talking. Cypher didn't have time to talk, too focused on winning.

She hadn't made it off a backwater world in the middle of nowhere and joined the best starfighter squadron in the galaxy just to get beat by some prissy imperial brat. Cypher closed the distance with a one-two-one-two combination, jabs and crosses flicking out like bolts of lightning Cypher planned to pummel this girl into the ground. Whatever it took. They always told Cypher she was reckless. But what did it matter if you won.

Air rushed from her nose as she torqued her body, arms fully extending with each thrown punch, sparks crackling around her mitts.

OOC: 6 rerolled to 11.

 

[Elara Veyran]

"Magnum Praeceptum."
Artam Macek ​

Elara steps through the gate, chin tucked, shoulders loose, eyes flat as a razor. No colors, no crest. Sweat, tape, steel. She rolls one wrist, kisses the plates together—blue-white spit arcs between knuckles—then lifts her gaze to the Imperial statue across from her.

"You're pretty," she says, voice low and stern. "I do have a thing for Imperials."

The floor buzzes under the balls of her feet. She keeps light. He does what big men do: cuts distance like a bulkhead slamming shut and sends a right hook at her left side with bad intentions and good mechanics. She sees the shoulder twitch. She turns with it—ribs hard, elbow shaving down, exhale like breaking glass. The shock bites up her flank and sets her teeth ringing. She rides it into the canvas's give, stealing what she can from the blow, feeding the rest to motion.

She grins, feral and humorless. "Cute. I wish we could resolve senate disputes like this."

Her left forearm posts just enough to feel where his weight is—then she slides half a step off his centerline, heel barely ghosting the grid. Head off the tracks. Hips load. She makes herself small and mean in the pocket, shoulders stacked, chin stapled to the chest. The crowd roars; she tunes it out like bad weather. A feat considering his size and stature.

"Time to work, sweetheart."

Elara snakes the right from the floor up—just legs through waist through shoulder in one clean spool—and drives a short, vicious uppercut toward the base of his sternum, looking to saw the breath from his lungs and force his frame upright. Then she's already ready to melt away or eat the return, eyes laughing, mouth bloody, alive in the dirt where she belongs.



OOC: Original roll was an 8. Rerolled to a 6, damn!

 

[Artam Macek]

ATTN: Elara Veyran

​

The punch went sailing by his face, and Artam couldn't help but simply stare for a second.

He dropped his left hand across his midsection, diagonally, and his right came up to his chin. He had to fight a little awkwardly, what with her being nearly a foot and some change shorter than him-

But nonetheless, a smooth, brutal straight punch went right for the woman's exposed face.

 

[Elara Veyran]

"Magnum Praeceptum."
Artam Macek ​

The straight blazed in—clean, mean, textbook—and smashed through her guard. White heat. The jolt from his gauntlet ran up her skull like a welding torch; stars burst and hissed. Elara's head snapped, feet skidding a half-step. The crowd went feral. She tasted copper and ozone at once, the floor's hum flirting with her heels as she caught herself on the balls of her feet, chin stapled back down, shoulders tight.

She laughed. It came out ragged and delighted. "There it is," she rasped, spitting pink to the side without looking.

Her left hand stayed home, a tight shutter over her cheek as she rolled her neck once, resetting the horizon. Pain narrowed the world into clean math: his right shoulder loaded again, stance wide, weight a touch heavy on the lead from following through. Big man's gift. She refused the backpedal—too much heel, too much lightning— and instead stole a sliver of angle, a half-step outside his lead, toes whispering the grid. She could feel the voltage waiting like a grin under the canvas, begging for a flat-foot.

"Thought you'd shut me up?" Her smile went cruel. "You'll need to bring the entire Imperial fleet for that."

She dipped, not deep—just enough to take her eyes off his hands and onto the seam of his ribs. Hips coiled like wire. She drove a single left shovel-hook toward the liver, short and brutal, palm half-turned, knuckles lined to cut a slot under the floating rib. All legs, then waist, then shoulder—no arm-wrestling with a man who could bench a landspeeder. In and mean, head tight to his chest to smother the return, ready to vanish the instant after contact or eat the next shot with her bones stacked right.

 

[Artam Macek]

ATTN: Elara Veyran

​

She hit him. And it hurt. A little. The pain of the electric shock was more than her punch itself. She was just... small. Despite her efforts, bravado, bravery, tenacity, and skipper can-do attitude, she was just outclassed, outmatched, and hilariously underweight to fight him.

And standing over her, looming even, was Artam. 6'6. Over 250 pounds. Muscle. Trained for on years, compounded by years and days and time spent on each muscle group to perfection.

She was a Senator. She was a bookworm with an attitude.

So, he pushed with his left forearm and arm- the same one that could dumbbell press half her body weight or more alone, and with the other, came snapping, flying, speeding towards the side of her face again. He said nothing to her taunts, to her words. He found them irritating, like the Senate she served.

 

[Elara Veyran]

"Magnum Praeceptum."
Artam Macek ​

The shove came first, a wall of forearm pinning space, and the follow-up blurred for her temple—heavy enough that, if it landed, it would switch the lights off. Elara's chin snapped down, knees soft. She folded under the line of the punch, a tight weave that shaved canvas, shoulders brushing his hip as the glove hissed past. Just a half-step to the outside of his lead, heel barely kissing the grid before she was on the balls again. The floor's charge purred, waiting for a mistake; she kept light, breath steady, eyes on his center, not his face.

He was built to mow down men his size. That left gaps. From the new angle she saw the open seam: weight committed forward, ribs flared for a heartbeat, guard split by the push. She didn't waste it. Hips coiled, uncoiled—legs through waist through shoulder, no wind-up—and she sent a compact straight right toward the solar plexus, a drilling shot designed to punch through air. Then she was already shading left, elbows tight, cheek tucked behind her lead glove, ready for the return.

 

[Isur]

Isur was happy with the way he was moving. An enforcer, boarder, Matukai. He could hit, that was one thing he KNEW how to do. The rest, he figured out on his own. A nice clean hit to the smaller soft-skin.

“Come.” Isur said as he looked at the smaller human, who did, indeed, come at him. Grinning with those many rows of teeth, there was blood in the ring.
And be it his or the other’s, there would be more!

Another big swing.

 

[Ragos Terrek]

Ragos was ready to put this chit away and move on. Even in his years away from actual ring time he hadn't lost his power.

He ain't learn nothing neither.

Something fucking exploded in his head and his whole world went black.

"If you like having one…Move your fucking head!" Bellowed his trainer for the thousandth time.

Ragos didn't see the big deal. Yeah, his sparring partner and had touched him with his glove but that dude was currently napping on the mat and Ragos was using his teeth to bite away at the tape around his wrist

With a huge gasping breath, Ragos was torn back to the present. He still couldn't see. Not all the way. The edges of his vision were still black as the void, he was looking down a tunnel and a storm of fists was flying at him.

He made an attempt to retreat only to find that his legs were made of jelly, and it seemed, from the warm sticky sensation on his chest that his nose was cooked. That chit was busted to hell and pouring blood all down his front.

There was no choice for it. He planted his feet, standing as firm and as solid as he could manage, he knew one way out and that was to win, Rag torqued his hips and unleashed the strongest round uppercut he could manage, praying to The Most High that his timing stayed strong, other wise he was as fucking cooked as his nose.

Adonis Angelis IV

 

[Skyria Kyrtan]

Objective: WIN!!
Location: Tapani Arts and Sports Complex, Vyncinyth
Outfit: Fighting Unitard
Tags: Tyrant 4

The crowd did not seem to care for Skyrim's tactics. Hisses were thrown in her direction as she danced about the ring. Some even yelled at her to stop running, but they didn't get the pleasure of a shocking blow if they just stood pat. So Skyria paid them no mind.

Her opponent seemed equally unsatisfied by her defensive attempts. Every move Sky made her opponent followed. Was it confidence? Did she think Sky was a wounded animal that needed to be put down quickly? The reason didn't matter. Having Tyrant 4 chase was something Sky could work with.

When Tyrant 4 was in position to attack again Skyria would attempt to dodge the first punch before quickly shuffling to her left. From there she would counter attack.

It seemed like some of the rust had shaken loose. Her opponent’s punch whizzed by the only the sound of electricity in Sky’s ear to encourage her own efforts. From Tyrant’s right side, Sky lunged in with a heavy right hook to the body. The electricity in her hand causing a smile on her face. Now the fight could truly start.

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Kayla Ordo-Shan

Her opponent seemed cute enough. Under different circumstances, Scherezade would've probably invited her to join a weird gang run in Hutt Space. Under different circumstances, in which she would know the woman was a Mandalorian, she would try to kill her. But thankfully, these weren't those circumstances. It was just the two of them here to fight each other.

"DING MOTHERKRAKKING DING!" Scherezade yelled out. She lunged forward like a predator uncaged, leading with a sharp jab with her left arm aimed for the other woman's face that meant to rattle more than hurt, her legs already ready to dance away if need be. If she landed that first jab, she would have the upper hand.

But she didn't waste time hoping. Hope was for people with no plan. For her, the world had narrowed to a tunnel: fists, volts, and the promise of someone hitting the floor before she was done.

Her body was ready!