Maximillion vs Eliska Resnik

At 1:08 AM on the Jack Bates oil rig, the oil repositories broke open and were lit aflame by a negligent worker's cigarette butt. The internal structure has been completely engulfed in flames. The crew has used all life boats to escape the blaze. Only the fighters are left for unknown reasons. The deck is devoid of flames, but the fire will begin to spread above after 15 posts. 10 posts after, the entire structure will have caught on fire.

Flames roared all around the broken oil rig, dark acrid smoke billowing all around, blowing hot, searing fumes all around the rig. All of the sailors and workers who had been working this rig had been evacuated, even the manager of said rig, and they surely thought all had been removed from the place, as it was about to be engulfed in brilliant flame. Yet, there was still some time until the rig went up.

A lone figure seemed to stand amidst the smoke, eyes shielded with dark sunglasses that covered the entire expanse of his unnatural eyes, and his heavily reinforced leather outfit around his body, boots that allowed for full flexibility yet full protection of feet from harsh environs underfoot, and his identically reinforced gauntlets - they looked more like leather gloves that went as far up as the elbow on each arm - gaze his arms a comfortable degree of both comfort and reinforcement.

Each slow step he took towards the other end of the rig brought him closer to the one he knew was to be his adversary, for that was how this kind of thing worked. He wasn't entirely certain whether his opponent would be of Supernatural or Mundane origin, what kind of training they'd had prior to this engagement, or what their philosophies on life were. He had no idea what kind of education they had, or if they'd ever picked up a book in their entire life.

All he knew was, he had to leave this rig in one piece, and they must not be allowed to.

The instant he'd seen the silhouette of his opponent, he'd locked onto her location, breathing inwardly just a little, but just enough for his supernaturally heightened sense of smell to catch whiff of her scent, for his unnaturally-imbued eyes to catch sight of the form, and to get an idea of what kind of arms she carried with her. His own pistols were carefully hidden at his sides, beneath the long jacket that was heavily reinforced brown leather with darker brown embroidering, which was beneath the dark brown, rustic-looking cloak he wore that had the cowl drawn up, covering his head with an in-built covering the entire lower half of his face, giving him an appearance like that of some kind of brown-clad Ninja.

A small explosion sounded nearby, probably nothing more than a fire extinguisher exploding under the pressure of the heat around it, and the ensuing chemical reaction... but said miniature explosion rocketed a bit of the metallic frame that had held it in, and as it clattered before Maximillion's feet, he regarded it quietly, then knelt down for a split second.

"rginufinisufiqufiauwfhioqgnjoghinjf....wriufiwfuwf.." would seem to come from his mouth, but his mouth was traveling with the speed of his thoughts, and although he was literally enunciating every vowel and consonant, the speed of his speech had been known to mentally paralyze people whose minds couldn't help but try and decipher what he'd said. What he'd actually said was that the piece of shrapnel was about 36 inches long, as thick as a tire iron, but was badly bent and mangled. However, he'd deduced aloud, it was solid enough that he could get a few solid whacks with it before it fell to pieces, and that was all he needed. He reached out a gauntleted hand, wrapped his fingers around the piece of metal, then stood up slow enough to give the illusion of mortal speed, then hefted it over his shoulder while chuckling under his breath.

"This should prove interesting," he said, this time slow enough for mortal ears to hear. As he began moving towards his foe again, he tapped the piece of metal against his shoulder as he whistled a tune under his breath (see the music video above).

He stopped once he was finally about twenty feet away from the other figure, unsure whether or not they had even seen his approach, as he'd carefully concealed his movements amongst the billowing smoke. Drawing his free arm under his cloak, he would wrap the fingers of that hand around the handle of his Zaliska, after unhooking the clasp with his thumb, then would slowly draw it out from beneath his cloak, not bothering to bring it beyond the cloak, and keeping it well out of sight, yet tilting it to where it was trained on the location of this opponent he would face, the only other person left on this rig other than himself.

Should they try to rush him, he'd wait until they were within fifteen feet, more than close enough for him to squeeze off an easy, surefire shot, then put a few feet between him and his foe, the shot only aimed at forcing the foe to be a little unsure on their feet as they approached.

If the foe tried the approach Maximillion did, hiding himself amongst the smoking wreckage, then he would simply bide his time, easily sorting through the various intense smells, sounds and potential distractions around him to those sounds, smells and vibrations coming solely from his opponent.

The hunt was on...

[[Firstly, you cannot state where my character is in the fight. Only I can dictate that. Secondly, with all of the toxic fumes, burning oil and general smoky chaos, I highly doubt you would be able to smell me in any way unless I was right on you.]]

Well, this is a right fucking clusterfuck.

The rig was billowing out below decks flames and fumes and smoke the colour of ink and all she could think about what how goddamn bored she was. There was an entire hellish world of chaos around her, and yet it all seemed so incredibly tedious, so dull from where she was sitting.

The burning, mangled mess of steel was falling apart as she watched, some parts sagging under the weight of metal no longer supported by sturdy foundations. She was sitting atop a structure not far from a watchtower that was slowly sinking into the rig, the embers of its demise swirling up to her on wind created by the heat whipping around the decks below.

She was sitting on a beam, one high enough to not need worrying about just yet, one leg bent whilst the other kicked along in the air, well over sixty feet between her and the deck. Her frothy white mane eddies around her face, and she brushes it back with one scarred hand as her icy eyes stare down below her. Where something was moving. Something other than smoke and shadow.

Cocking her head to the side, she watches through the fumes and pouring smoke as this figure stalks about the deck, almost halfway across, catching glimpses of him, then full views as the hot wind tears through the rig. The man – she’ll just call it a man, and why the hell not, “man” can be gender neutral, right? – wanders about for a bit, ambling along until he reaches a scrap of shrapnel recently left lying. He hefts it, speaking aloud, then continues on his way, rooting along like a pup looking for teat.

She’s too high to understand what he said, but it doesn’t particularly matter. This is a combat zone. He was an idiot for saying anything at all before first contact. Her eyes narrow then, as the man begins to…whistle? What the fuck? Was he serious? Those cold blue eyes roll in her head as she huffs out in annoyance; why is it always the talkative ones? Christ, she just wants someone who will fight and cut the fucking chit-chat.

And now…he is stalking something. From her vantage point, she could guess what he was going after; it wasn’t her, that’s for damn sure. But there was a section of torn deck – most likely from an explosion – that mimicked the human form rather well. So he was preying on a heap of scrap and some shadow.

Not the sharpest dumbfuck she’d seen all day.

Not the worst. But close.

The other one had the decency to swing at her in silence.

Oh blessed, prayed-for silence.

Whatever.

So here she sat, lounging about, waiting for him to realize his mistake. His hand retreats into his coat, and from its position, she can either guess blade or gun. She’ll guess gun to make some sport of it. Which meant, of course, she would be staying out of his way. For now.

Which is exactly what she planned on doing. Let him figure it out, no sense in her rushing him; if he wants to hunt down shadows and ghosts, let him. Eventually, he would start shooting, or talking again – Jesus, she hoped not – or maybe both. Regardless, she would wait for his next move, cautious still of his gun, wary at any time he may figure this little “game” out.

Oh, and she was very mindful of the structures around her. Should anything not feel just right, she would drop to another section of the rig, most likely one still high enough to gain good vantage.



[[Posts until the deck goes up: 13]]

Eliska is declared the winner due to Maximillion being banned.