The Althygames, pt 2

Since my money is burning a hole in my pocket, I'm going to be posting a series of games designed to test your mettle as character and writer. Since this is my personal nonsense, all judgments will be completed by me and any complaints can be taken up with John's fists.

But participation is not without its rewards!
Place first, and you have won my respect. Also 150gp
Place second, and you get a sweet 75 gold
Place third and I will send you a PM(The pm will contain a deep dark secret of John's)! (a 50gp value! can be traded in)

PROMPT: Arm Wrestling! Your character is going up against the meanest, angriest, biggest orc this side of Dehlos! What (if any) underhanded and otherwise unscrupulous tactics does your character use in order to win, or does he concede defeat, like a weenie?????? Extra points for creativity here.

WHAM.

The crowd roared as Vince raised his arms triumphantly, beating his chest. “Eat shit! Told you I could do it!” The orcs in the bar howled angrily as their leader rolled on the ground in pain. The tiny human had managed to beat every single one of them in a fair arm wrestle. Finally the chief had waltzed up talking some big game, only to be taken out on the word go.

“I! AM! UN-FUCKING-STOPPABLE!” The scholar howled as several man pounded on his shoulders in congratulation. Several drinks were forced his way, which he downed with gusto. It was rare for him to get to show off this way, so he was taking the time to really soak it all in.

“Is that so?” A voice called out.

The scholar’s eyes shot to his would be challenger and his heart sank. Rayleigh Fucking Ashton sat across the table from him drink in hand and a smirk on her lips. The men all howled in laughter behind him, how could such a small woman ever hope to compare to their hero?

Vincent knew better though. He downed his drink and locked eyes with her for a moment before setting his elbow down on the table. The mechanic winked and took his hand in hers, giving it a playful squeeze.

“You’re going down Vince.” The mechanic grunted locking eyes with him. The referee slapped the table and shouted.

“Three!”

Do I let her win?

“Two!”

If I let her win she’ll get mad at me for holding back!

“One!”

But if I go all out I could-

Thump!

The scholar stared wide eyed at his hand resting on the table. The bar was silent for a moment, before all the orcs roared. Their foe had been so lost in thought he’d been bested. The men of the tavern stood in awe of the mechanic, and there was a rush to get drinks to the new winner who kept politely declining. Vincent simply sat there, wordless. He’d flown too close to the sun with waxen wings, and now he’d melted.

He looked up to catch a glance from the mechanic as she shot him a wink and his whole body ached. That woman was going to be the death of him…

How, by his own damn divinity, did Fenn get roped into this?
That was right, he thought to himself dryly, his chin in his hands as he stared upward. He had just followed the call of coin.

A burly man stared him down, each sitting at one end of a gnarly wooden table. Or, rather, an orc, not a man. An enormous, simply enormous orc with yellowed ivory tusks and a rather stupid squint. His muscles were thick and intimidating. You could see them shift under his skin with every movement he made, that was how huge they were. Gulp. Worst of all, there was a wager at stake here; both Fenn and the orc had set aside a heavy bag of coins for the contest, and the winner would take all.
That was right. Fenn was going to arm wrestle an orc.

The orc’s nostrils twitched. “Not sure if Krunck should wrestle you, on second thinking. Very puny,” he remarked to Fenn, lisping a little through his thick tusky teeth. “Not much challenge. Tiny elf boy gets hurt.”
A squat orc by the name of Ludgor resided over the proceedings with a heavy scowl. “Both agreed to challenge a minute ago. No take-backsies.”

A few beads of sweat dribbled off of Fenn's forehead and froze to his neck. On one hand, he really wanted the prize money that would come of beating this bloody orc. It would buy plenty of adultly drinks for a brief celebration, and good snacks. On the other hand, he had his own qualms about the potential for Krunck to snap his bones as easily as one breaks a twig.

But, the money...

He shrugged up at Krunck sheepishly, concealing his nervousness with false bravado. Fenn rolled up the sleeve and made a muscle. The orcs faces were at an unimpressed deadpan. With a sigh, Fenn dropped the act and held out his hand for Krunck to take.
The orc seemed almost apologetic as he took Fenn's hand in his. “Elf boy skin feels like ice,” Krunck muttered bashfully. “Fragile as snowflake.”

Ludgor bobbed his head curtly, and began the match. “One,” he shouted, “two, three... GO!”

The match began!
…slowly.

Fenn was flabbergasted that his arm wasn't immediately slammed down onto the table top, an instant victory to the orc. Bit by bit, the orc ever-so-gently pushed Fenn's hand down. What? Recovering from his initial surprise, Fenn resisted Krunck’s immense strength, which didn’t do much but slow the inevitable descent of his hand. He was losing, and his opponent wasn’t even trying!

Fenn was being treated like a baby. Like a child. Normally, that was okay. That usually had some benefits to it. But here, it was practically a slight; the other orcs coughed and looked away, evidently embarrassed on Fenn's behalf. He was being humored, not taken seriously. A distant chill gleamed in Fenn’s empty green eyes. His magic pulsed in response to his frigid irritation, creeping out in a light frost that trickled over Krunck’s palm, up between his fingers, and over his arms.

“Frost tickles,” Krunck said, grinding his teeth together to hold back giggles, squirming in his chair as he did so. His grip slackened and shook, and it was no longer just because he was going easy. “Elf boy, please-”

A ruthless excitement lit up Fenn's face. Literally now, he knew he had the upper hand in a match that had seemed hopeless seconds before. Relentlessly, he shoved with all the might in his tiny body, him at his strongest against Krunck at his weakest. Thwump. It was over in an instant. When the burst of frost flakes around the scene cleared, his hand was pinning Krunck’s down.

For a moment, there was dead fucking silence on Fenn’s side of the room. The orcs on the other side roared as some other intense match met a surprising end.

Krunck stared in shock, his eyes darting between the miniscule Fae and their hands. “What,” he said, his jaw gaping open. A few other orcs around leaned in to get a better look, loudly guffawing and roaring. What a scene!

“Tiny elf boy beat Krunck,” Ludgor grunted back, incredulous. “That is what.”

Fenn beamed slyly up at the orc gathering and hopped off his chair, practically dancing in excitement. His arms flailed over his head in VICTORY, and he eagerly grabbed for the bags of money. “Not fair! Puny elf cheat.” Krunck bellowed, slamming his fists on the table, which splintered and cracked under the blow. But it was too late; Fenn was already scuttling off with his winnings, the bags of money dangling triumphantly from his hands as he streaked towards the bar.

He knew how he was going to spend this!

“Beer here! ‘Oy, this skinny shit can’t lick a stamp! Two hundred crowns this slick-haired screw can’t take me!”

The bar erupted as the raucous half-orc pounded his massive hamfists upon the thick mahogany drinktop. Steins rattled as about eight pounds of bone-in meat smashed hard upon the surface, the brutish man beast sneering through a green-hued underbite and horrific, death-eaten breath.

Shit, these goddamned Raiaerans are so thin skinned. Bunch of huge, thickly-muscled pussies.

“Take it easy, big fella…” Storm smiled and walked smoothly back from the bar as he finished a round glass of warm mead. The honeysuckle soothed a throat which was scorched from far too many cigars. The brew made the words come out smoother, both literally and figuratively. “But I know you non-humes and your fondness for finger-pointing. We square up in here, and half your crew tries to jump me. I wax the lot of you like the inbred, hog-faced imbeciles you are, and then the wanted signs have MY beautiful f*cking face plastered all over the walls of city hall.”

The large bar erupted at the boasts, as Storm stood a full foot and no less than three hundred pounds less than the looming monstrosity that was the half-orc. Sneers and handfuls of discarded food rained down on the mage from across the bar as many screamed at his refusal as cowardice.

Small room full of half-wits and booze. Half dozen barrels of whiskey by the door, itching for a spark to send this place half-way to meet Diablo. I guess we have plan ‘B’ for when this shit goes sideways.

“Alright, sugar-tits, I’ve got the idea!” Despite Storm's smallish stature, his booming voice was deep and smooth in spite of his tonality. “Why don’t you come over here and shut me up? Just bring those crowns, I don’t take I-O-U’s from slack-jawed retards like yourself.” Spinning gracefully, Veritas stood behind a high-top table for two, his elbow thumping upon the table, raising an open hand as he gestured for arm wrestling.

“Bah! You damned fool! Where’s the rest of you? Not enough hand for me to hold, little boy! Someone better get the medics on hand in advance, for after I take the whole arm off at the shoulder!” An olive arm of impossible circumference thumped upon the table, stretching back to allow hands to meet in the middle.

Despite Storm’s athleticism, his angular, lithe arm was literally half the thickness of the orc's. It seemed like the randomly twisted vein upon the monster’s forearm was as vast as Veritas’ entire bicep. Drumming excitement, Storm pulled back from the first clasp, spinning to the audience.

“Get your coins ready! Who’ll hold my two-hundred!?” The electromancer’s hand rifled into his front pocket, emerging with a fistful of bright golden coins and a simple steel ring upon his middle finger. He smacked them upon the table as the bar owner came by holding the stacks that both orc and man had generated.

“You’ll bring no law in here for your own stupidity! You lose your arm and that’s your bloody problem, you hear in front of the many?” The barrel chested owner was amused by the spectacle, but worried about liability.

“Fair enough; make sure big, green, and ugly over there doesn’t have any legal team on retainer.” A salacious smile spread across Storm’s thin lips as he spun the ring about his finger; a nervous tic.

The buzz in the bar was deafening as the circle formed tightly about Storm and the big Half-Orc. Claps on his back were usually joined with words of encouragement such as “Dumbass”, “Goodbye”, and “Your Funeral”.

Their lack of faith disturbs me. Bunch of goddamned rubes.

His normally large, thin-fingered hand disappeared entirely within the massive paw of the beastly orc-man, his muscles twitching with fast-fire energy and sweat beginning to bead at his forehead. It was exhilarating, and it appeared he was the only one to recognize how simplistic it would be.

“Ready your hands; I’ll release on three.” As the owner clasped their hands together, Storm’s eyes narrowed into thin slits as he focused singularly on the ring he had just placed. The metal was rich, magnetically charged, and ready to go; he tested it with tiny pulses that felt to the orc like a posturing push.

Not too fast; has to be believable.

“Three…” the owner counted as Storm felt the buzz of noise grow into a larger white fuzz all about him.

“Two…” his pulse was controlled, uninterrupted, and concentrated. He could hear the clenching of his opponent’s teeth as his focus narrowed to the edge of a razor.

“One…” all was ready as he began the slow push.

“Guurrrrhhhhh!! FAAHHHH!!” The orc roared and gave a tremendous drive, his arm met and push stopped within an inch. Pushing back the metal field was no less difficult than walking on water; futility grabbed him as his eyes widened in fear. Storm Veritas simply raised his glare to the half-orc, his silver-blue eyes wide, focused, and angry.

“For mine is the strength of God’s Greatness!” A nonsensical display accompanied Storm’s near-effortless push, as the magnetic field was slowly driven backward to press the orc-man’s hand firmly to the table. His own sinewy arm simply went for the ride, and he enjoyed the maniacal angle of religion justifying his power.

”Thump.”

The eruption of the crowd nearly razed the bar that night, as a newly fraudulent evangelist was minted.

CLOSED!

judging soon

BEHOLD! The great and powerful judger is upon this thread with judgments for the Althygamers!

First place goes to Fennik! I said extra points for creativity, and you've gathered them all by defeating the great and terrible orc, Krunck Armbender, single-handedly(getit?)! Who knew orcs were ticklish, eh? You have won my respect, tiny thing, and a mountain of gold!


Close between second and third, but STORM scores second....again? YEAH AGAIN! What a venerable trend of podium placement for the master of electrons! Surely a rousing defeat of a great and badass orc feller, himself felled by our greater feller! A feller like you, frightfully fantastic, is fronted 75gp!


Last but definitely not least (wait that saying doesn't work here). AHEM. Last but definitely not BAD is FRED! A short post for sure, and not much meat on the story, but who needs story when you've got Rayleigh sauntering up and down the room, sashaying before a Vincent who has neither the age or the sense to look away or deny her a victory. Such a saucy tale nets you Either 50 gp or a deep and dark secret of John's!