This battle will end in 17 days. Best of luck to both competitors.
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This battle will end in 17 days. Best of luck to both competitors.
I love sitting in trees. There's something utterly peaceful about being cradled in strong arms and watching the world go by beneath you. It's peaceful listening to the birds bustle by, and in a tree as big as one, it almost feels possible to join them on the wing and touch the blue expanse of the sky. Granted, flying here would hardly lead to the pure freedom of the outside world.
Then again, right now the freedom of flight wouldn't settle my mind; even the swaying branches beneath me bring no peace in their gentle rhythm. I don't know why I told Chris Knighton that I'd join Cipher Nex. I don't know if helping him accomplish his goals would just be trading one evil for another, potentially greater one. Not that I see how the current situation and Salvar could get any worse in the first place.
It all sounded so good when he told me what he wanted to do. His were grand dreams for change, change that would stop the sense massacres plaguing the nation now. But...the more I look back on that moment, the more I'm sure I saw something in his eyes that rung false. I don't understand what has me so uneasy about the decision I made. I don't understand. I'm a simple girl, I know that. I want Salvar to change. I want for the frightened people to be safe in their own homes. I want to know that no matter what, my little blonde ward is safe. But I don't. I might never. Unless I help Chris.
But what about this makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle every time I think about it? What about it do I doubt? I can't answer that, not for sure. Not yet.
I guess that's why I'm here. It seems that every time I have doubts haunting me, I find myself in the massive ziggurat that looms over Radasanth and whispers its deadly promises. I always seem to get my head handed back to me, but that's a small price to pay. Every death here prevents one in the outside world, where there is no promise that the dead will return unharmed. I'm not afraid to die, here or out there, but I do have someone else that needs looked after. I need to live for that. But do I need to kill for it?
I'll know soon enough, by the end of the day at the latest. Battle always clears my head, and when my head is clear, my path is obvious. Even if I don't like it. The only way to go on any path is forward, and I know that all too well.
I've been waiting in this ancient ash for at least an hour, my staff ready beside me like a faithful friend. To pass the time, I've been splitting leaves as long as my arm and plaiting them into a basket. Apparently the monk who assigned me the arena had a specific opponent in mind; words and symbols have grown into the thick bark on the trunk and branches. Some of them are dots, curves and dashes in a tongue completely alien. Others stare back at me like scornful clansmen, the runes I'd relied on to see the future and channel magic before I witnessed the end of the world.
I see Thorn, Rad, Ken, Hagall, Sigel, and Lagu scattered about the tree. Elemental runes, they once gave me some power over plants, wind, fire, hail, lightning, and water. They were never good allies; even in those days I depended on my ability to fight more than on them. Praying in the middle of a fight is too slow; a solid punch works almost instantly.
I shift for the millionth time, the rough bark digging uncomfortably into my skin like a goad.
It's time. I don't know how I know, but I do. Something in the air has changed; I can almost taste it. Standing up, I stretch out legs that are cramped from the long wait, and they release their stiffness as though shrugging off weights. My bare feet grip the bark, connecting with and embracing it so much better than the smooth soles of my boots. The basket I was making falls, forgotten, through the branches; the weight of my staff fills my hands instead.
I'm ready to fight. I've been fighting in some way or another since the day my mother died. It's time, time to once again look death in the eye and spit in its face.
He's finally coming.
I can feel it.
Sorahn took a deep, shaky breath. He couldn’t recall ever being this nervous before a battle before. As a warrior, battles were a part of his life. He had sparred with his teacher back on Ranoa, and since coming to Althanas he’d fought in more battles than he could count. Each was fought with the same determination and confidence.
But now the confidence was gone. All of his previous battles were for himself. Whether he initiated them, or he fought for his own survival, they all revolved around him. This battle was different. For the first time, he wasn’t fighting just for himself. He was fighting for his clan. There was a whole tribe of people living in a town outside Radasanth relying on him. They looked to him as their leader and they needed to see the embodiment of strength and courage; someone they could put their faith in and rely on to lead them through hard times.
That was what mattered to him. He didn’t care about himself. He had never been one to seek fame and fortune or any other personal gain at the expense of others. What mattered was he would soon enter an arena and fight for the honor of his clan. Death didn’t bother him; he’d died before, and by the grace of Ronah he was resurrected. But bringing shame and dishonor on his clan through his own failure; the thought alone terrified him.
He had been lucky in the first round of the tournament; passing to the next round by default. But he knew he wouldn’t be so fortunate this round. Only the seasoned warriors had made it to the second round, so his opponent was guaranteed to be fierce. He wasn’t sure he would make it.
“Sorahn...”
The voice pulled him back to reality. It was the soft, sweet voice of his mate, Rehnahlia. Together they walked through the streets of Radasanth. He turned to look at her, only to find her blue eyes full of worry and concern. She of all people could tell when he was acting strangely. He tried to comfort her with a smile, but the best he could manage was a nervous, half-hearted smile, leaving her unconvinced. He gave up and looked down at the dusty dirt road; watching it crunch beneath his feet.
Without a word she took his hand in hers and he felt her warmth shoot up his arm like fire, comforting him simply with her presence. Instantly his attitude changed. He reminded himself of why he was fighting, instead of what would happen if he failed. He was fighting for his clan, his loyal clansmen, and his beloved wife, all of which he cared about much more than himself. A fire of determination was ignited within him. He would fight for these things more than his life, giving him a passion and ferocity unlike any of his other battles.
With a renewed sense of purpose he marched toward the citadel, his hand firmly grasping that of his mate’s. For the first time he noticed his surroundings. Birds were chirping; sitting perched on the rooftops of the tall buildings lining the streets. Tradesmen were busy unloading their carts, eager to sell their goods to the local merchants. A soft breeze blew the dust off the streets, causing chaotic swirls of dirt suspended in the air for just a moment.
But Sorahn felt an odd sense of detachment. As if all the sights and sounds of the city were for someone else, perhaps some idle passerby, but not him. He had a purpose, a goal to achieve, and the pleasantries of the world did not apply. Instead he focused on the giant structure directly in front of him, standing proudly above all the other buildings in the city. It was the epicenter of violence known as the Citadel, and it was waiting for him.
Many times he had walked these streets and entered its endless halls in search of battles. The reasons varied as much as the outcomes, but the fire and intensity of the fight was always there. The warrior in him longed for that feeling like breath. It was only in battle that he felt a true purpose. Now that he had such a strong determination to win, that sense of purpose would only grow stronger.
He walked through the doors and into the main hall, feeling like he had arrived at home. Everything was so familiar and thus so inviting to him, despite the pain and death that this place represented. It was odd feeling so comfortable in a place so full of death, but to him this was a place where pretentiousness was stripped away, and all that remained was skill and passion. He was in his own element, and it welcomed him.
“Lord Sorahn, we have been expecting you. Your opponent has been waiting. Please follow me.” A short monk approached him and beckoned him to follow.
Sorahn turned to Rehnahlia. True to Ranoan tradition, he showed her no fear, and she returned her stoic support. “Shehnaseth rahn Ronah mehnethahs.” She said softly and kissed him on the cheek. He simply nodded and turned to follow the monk, leaving her behind.
The monk led him through endless halls and corridors lined with doors until finally stopping before one large wooden door. He unlocked it and the door swung open with a creak. And with a soft “good luck”, he was gone.
Sorahn stepped through the door, and once again he was amazed by the monk’s creativity in magically creating battle arenas. His foot landed on a thick branch of what may have been the largest tree he had ever seen. The branch offered plenty of width for him to stand on, and the trunk was so large it might as well have been a wall.
As he walked across the branch he was suddenly thankful for his tail. It offered him cat-like balance, greatly lessening the difficulty of moving around in this massive tree. Instantly, his strategic mind began examining the branches and gauging how difficult it would be to jump between them.
Realizing his opponent must have heard him enter, he decided to wait for him to appear. As he waited, the anticipation began building up. His tail swished behind him impatiently; the desire to begin welling up in him.
For the Red Hand…
Out of Character:
A muffled thump signals the arrival of my opponent...but where is he? If he's about my size, then his landing on a branch would not shake the giant ash. I can't hear him moving, and that means he must be waiting for me.
Waiting in ambush...
We'll see about that.
Wherever he is, it isn't in my line of sight. Above, all I can see is light filtered through the spear-head shaped leaves; below, only branches. Everything is suddenly still, too still, as if the arena itself felt the tension of the moment. The sudden silence makes the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end, and I look around swiftly, searching with my eyes despite knowing that I'll see his attack before it comes, if he's planning an ambush. Like the tree, I hardly dare breathe.
What sort of predator am I up against that so great a tree would still itself to avoid danger?
I hate doing this, it always feels so strange...
Closing my eyes, I focus. Anxiety will not help me in this fight, stillness will. Every living thing has its own aura, and the brightness of the aura can tell an experienced seer just what it is. Plants are dim, animals bright, and people very bright. It just takes some concentration to be able to see them.
When I open my eyes, only the feeling of bark beneath my feet tells me that I'm not really floating in the air. The tree I'm standing in is not alive, never was alive, no matter how much it looked, smelled, and felt real. I can only see it now by the faintest hazy shimmer, and not at all just a moment ago. It's almost like standing on air, which is one of the most nerve wracking experiences I think I could ever come across.
I see him easily now, on the other side of the tree and down about fifteen feet. He's standing there, seemingly patient, except for one part behind him that lashes about like an eel trying to kill a fish.
...is that a tail?
I shake my head to clear my eyes of the odd vision, crouching down for a moment as the world spins sideways and upside down. It calms after a moment, and I run from branch to branch, each wide enough for two men to walk abreast, going to my opponent instead of making him come to me.
When I finally catch sight of him, I'm still about six feet above him, but that's easily remedied with a hop to bring me to his branch. He's a pooka. Sort of.
That's a tail.
He looks like a cross between a rabbit, cat, ram and man, and if he'd had a look of mischief about him, I'd have started running. Chris Knighton and Salvar are not worth getting afoul of a pooka, if they even exist. They're among the most playful of mythological beasts when they're happy, but I can think of a hundred other creatures I'd take a grudge from before angering one. That includes a dragon. At least those just eat you.
But this man is not a pooka, despite the resemblance. He's something else entirely. The writing on his arm matches the style of the alien symbols that have grown into the tree. Whatever they're there for, they're obviously for both of us.
I realize I'm staring at him after a moment, but from my experience, that's about normal for a first meeting in the Citadel. Rushing headlong into combat is always unwise, and when an unbalanced tumble could mean certain death...
I know he's staring at me, too. Trying to figure out what to make of me, like I'm trying for him. Every creature sizes up its opponent, from the snarling wolf to the prancing stag. I can feel his gaze running over my weapons and analyzing the way I stand. Despite the rabbit's ears and horse's delicate muzzle, his eyes are a more like a wolf's. He is battle hardened, but so am I. Doubtless we could both spend hours telling the stories of our scars.
But I came to fight, to live or die by the strength in my arms and the speed of my blows. Staring after a few moments becomes inappropriate, and stories, if they are to be told, can wait until we have tested each other in the cradling, treacherous limbs of the mighty tree that could call us chipmunk and chickadee.
whsssshh...
The tree stirs again, leaves muttering to each other as though wondering if the white and black squirrel and little red goldfinch within would ever move, or if the sight of each other had made them statues to forever perch in its branches.
"I am Karuka O'Sheean, daughter of Faylinn. I fight you this day."
My voice is disruptive, almost too much so. After the long, tortuous silence, a human voice seems unreasonable and out of place, as though it had just shattered something without a thought to its sanctity. But it did its job. It was too calm before to fight; now we're forced to stir, and the tree's branches will shake with the force of our blows and leaps.
"Sorahn un' Rohnahmeh," was the soft response, and I gave him a slight nod. I can respect this opponent with his brief response and sharp eyes. It will be no dishonor if I lose to him, and a great honor if I win.
The fingers of my right hand tighten around my staff as though to lift it, but my left hand bolts to my belt where I keep my knives. I send one humming through the air at his chest. I don't think it will hit; I trust him to block it or dodge it. But it's important to see how he moves now, because when he attacks me, I'll be seeing more than enough for two people.
The silence was becoming suffocating. Sorahn stood perfectly still, save for his slowly swishing tail. His sharp hunter eyes scanned the branches for any signs of an opponent, while his large ears listened carefully for any out of place noise. A few birds high over head whistled a happy tune, joined by the tree herself as the soft rustling of leaves swaying in the breeze, creating a woodland chorus in the perfect harmony of nature.
The Ranoan waited. His muscles tensing with time, like a coil wound tight, ready to explode with energy at the slightest inclination. A surprise attack seemed imminent, and he was ready. He made no movement; no sound of his own, listening intently to what the tree would tell him.
Suddenly the perfect symphony of nature hit a jarring note. A sharp rustle of leaves from above created a discord that could have only one cause. Sorahn quickly turned toward the source of the noise, and finally his eyes met those of his opponent’s.
For a long moment they simply stared at each other. Just as always, Sorahn looked her over, trying to get any information about her that he could. She was a human, with athletic build. He could tell instantly that she was no novice. Little things such from the way she stood with confidence to the way she looked at him told him about her abilities. But more than that, he could just feel it. A warrior just knows when he meets a like kind. This girl had fought many times before, and no doubt she had the skills to show for it.
More than that, Sorahn also noticed how she had approached him. Where some enemies would use the element of surprise to get in a cheap shot, she chose to show herself and begin on equal ground. She fought with honor, a trait Sorahn held above all others, and in return she deserved his respect.
As more seconds passed, it occurred to Sorahn that she still had to adjust to his appearance. He couldn’t fault her for staring. He and his mate were the only two of his kind on Althanas, and as such he knew he looked strange to humans even by the most liberal standard. During the years he’d lived here he’d grown quite used to the stares and odd looks from people.
Finally she introduced herself; another formality he thought was too often neglected. It was a gesture that only served to heighten his respect for her, and he responded in kind.
Both of them knew what came next. Again his muscles tensed and his senses grew sharp. The tweet of the birds and the rustle of the leaves grew faint. He was focused; ready for the inevitable, and he didn’t have to wait long.
A throwing knife came sailing toward him, whirring as it cut through the air. The gleaming blade flew with deadly precision, thirsty for blood. But he knew the knife was not supposed to kill him. He watched her reach for it, saw it flying toward him, and had ample time to prepare. This was another way of feeling out an opponent. Watching how he reacts to attacks can say a lot about his fighting style. She knows what she’s doing.
Grinning, he decided to show her one of his newest tricks. With a wave of his hand the small instrument of death altered course, sailing harmlessly to his right, deadly only to the leaf it sliced through on its way out of the tree. It gave her no insight into his fighting style, but definitely showed her that there was more to him than meets the eye. He considered it fair warning.
Now it’s my turn… He thought as he slowly shifted into a fighting stance. He clenched his right fist and with a cloud of smoke, in it appeared a black spear. It was the indestructible spear forged from his very pain and suffering by Ronah himself, the god of Ranoans. It fit him perfectly and felt like an extension of his arm; perpetually clouded by black smoke and razor sharp.
In an instant, his tightly wound muscles exploded, launching him in the air toward his opponent. He twisted in the air, swinging the black blade in an arc down the girl. He landed with a soft thump, leaving the leaves shaking in his wake, and quickly readied himself for a counter attack.
If she had as much experience as he thought she did, he was fairly certain his blade would meet nothing but air, just as the knife aimed at him. But this battle had to start sometime, and he knew that from this point, it would only get much more intense.
I don't know what I want to about my opponent; I know something potentially much more valuable. He either has air manipulation or telekinesis, meaning that I need to watch out when branch hopping. If Sorahn is desperate to win, perhaps even honor wouldn't stop him from treating me like he did my blade.
Malchadan!
You never can tell with these Althaneans. One moment, you think they're unarmed, the next they pull a spear out of the air. What else can this pookamorph do?
The instant I see the spear, I see it start sweeping for me despite its bearer's stillness. In the instant before the attack begins, I see that my options are to jump branches or vault over my opponent, because I know that his strength is much greater than my own.
Then the spear moves for real, longing to strip flesh from bone. Sorahn's muscles ripple under his dense fur, adding more power to his attack every moment. Power that will be to my benefit if I use it right.
The instant the pre-image of the spear touches me, I leap forward, slamming my own spear down on the haft of his and shoving with all my might. In an instant I am airborne, flying upside down and starting a slow twist and tumble. Hair flows into my face like fresh blood, but through it I can still see my opponent's horns.
One hand keeps tight hold of my staff while the other launches up...down? my side to grab another knife and loose it at his head while my body rotates in the air. Not my best throw, and not the best place to aim it, but it'll keep him on his toes.
The world rights itself during a long moment, and I feel the branch shiver a little under the force of my landing as something jabs mercilessly into my right foot. Without thinking, I take a step backward, whipping my staff in front of me to guard against any attacks that might be unexpectedly fast, and glance down to see a pair of lines connected by a diagonal.
Hagall. I'd accidentally landed on one of the runes that had grown into the tree, and as I snap my gaze back up, a ball of ice the size of my fist arcs toward Sorahn's shoulder.
That's interesting...
I'll have to keep in mind that the tree has some surprises of its own in store for us. If the runes react to me, then maybe the lines and dots will react to him. I'll have to watch for that.
Watching's what I do best.
Time seemed to move slower than normal, as if it needed more room to contain all that had happened in less than a second. As Sorahn turned in the air, he was amazed to watch his opponent sail over him, using his own spear as leverage. Their bodies passed within inches of each other as they flew, and Sorahn shifted his weight to land facing her; the massive trunk of the great tree now to his back.
As soon as he felt his feet hit the branch a “thunk” resounded next to his left ear. Slowly turning his head, he saw the shiny silver of a throwing knife, mere inches away from his face, still ringing softly into his ear. A stinging sensation began slowly forming on his left arm, and a quick glance down told him his bicep was bleeding from a minor wound.
Suddenly a mix of emotions swelled up in him. He felt thankful the blade had missed its target, and impressed by his opponents skill. But most of all he was angry with himself for being so careless. A mistake like that could cost me everything… never again.
He slid his leg out to a wide fighter’s stance and readied himself. His eyes narrowed as a fierce determination showed on his face. Seemingly out of nowhere a ball of ice flew toward him. With a slight twist it sailed harmlessly over his shoulder. Glancing down at the strange rune from which it came, the realization quickly dawned on him. He looked toward a nearby branch and saw more of the runes, as well as ancient High Ranoan writing. Wow… the Citadel monks’ creativity knows no bounds… How did they know High Ranoan anyway?
He shrugged it off and forced himself to focus. These elements would just be one more tool he could use to gain his victory. He tightened his grip on his spear. No more mistakes. The time for “feeling each other out” was over. He could feel the adrenaline begin to surge in his veins, like liquid fire consuming him and driving him. His own heavy breath was loud in his ears as he stared at his opponent, flames in his eyes.
In instant he reached behind him with his left arm, ignoring the complaints from his damaged bicep, and slapped a string of symbols carved into the trunk: “Tehlkath”. His own ball of ice launched toward Karuka, and he followed close behind it. Hoping that the ice would get her off balance, he unleashed a string of attacks. He sliced down then followed through with the blunt end of his spear, only to spin and bring it back up again. Just like he was taught, and through years of practice, his movement was perfectly fluid. Each strike flowed into the next, like an artful dance of battle.
He struck quickly and ferociously. Karuka was fast and obviously skilled, so he would need to take the offensive now, and keep it, if he hoped to win. It was close quarters now. The true test of a warrior’s skill and determination comes when his blade crosses another’s.
The ball of ice flies at me, but that isn't really what I'm paying attention to, and a careless flick of my staff sends it on its way. A little ice ball doesn't worry me; I'm concerned about my opponent's strength and speed.
His attacks flow into one another, and thanks to my pre-cognition, I can watch each movement before it comes and respond in time. He moves fast, and for the first few blows, each block comes up stiffly, swiftly, trying to keep his greedy blades away from my body. The sheer force shakes my arms and entire body, making the branch rattle and pushing me further from the solid trunk despite my efforts to not give ground. The skin of my feet tears slightly against the rough ash bark, but I ignore it. Here and now, nothing is more important than keeping my unblinking eyes on Sorahn and his unyielding spear, lest I die without my answers.
He's not really that fast.
The realization strikes me abruptly after a few exchanges. Despite the apparent swiftness each of his slashes and strikes comes with, each of my overly clumsy blocks meet his blows with plenty of time, and they wouldn't if he was as fast as I thought he was. I don't even need to see the future to respond to what he's doing.
He's faster than most people I fight...but not as fast as me. The power of his blows comes more from the strength of his arms than the speed of his swings. And in battle, strength is worth nothing if you can't hit your target.
Immediately, the stiffness leaves my returns, and each end of my staff moves up and down smoothly, easily blocking what he sends at me. Up, down, left-right, it seems to come in a pattern as he rains blows upon my staff. He's strong, a lot stronger than I am, but not much stronger than what I'm used to. Each time I block, my arms shake, but it isn't unbearable yet.
I can take him.
A grin pulls my lips back from my teeth. I can take him, in or out of a tree, with or without runic help. I'm strong enough on my own, for the first time in my life.
Blocking one last blow, I let him pull back before speeding up and launching my offensive. My staff whirls in my hands, lashing left and right without mercy. Each blow means to hit him; I want him to fall before me like I've fallen to so many others within these walls. Like the blades of his spear sought my blood, the spike on my weapon seeks his, seeks to dig into his flesh and release the crackling white serpent that's coiled within it. I wish I could see how he would react defensively so that I could beat him to the next motion, but at least I can see his counter attacks.
Restraint... I dance with him, against him, more than half again the speed my normal adversaries could maintain, but I hold myself back from that extra bit. If I need it later, I want it to come out fiercely. I want him to think that this is my all.
I can feel the blood pumping hot through my veins, but it doesn't burn yet, it doesn't boil. I hope it isn't over soon...because I've only barely started.
The clack of staff meeting staff resounded through the leaves and branches as swing after swing of Sorahn’s spear met with a quick block of Karuka. Like two dancers they stepped and moved in time. Sorahn attacked swiftly and every time he was deflected. She’s so fast… He clenched his teeth as he struggled to move faster, but his efforts proved futile.
Sorahn was known for his speed and until now he had not met an opponent as fast as he was. Every time he felt the solid jerk of his spear connecting with a well-placed block, it drove him further to the depressing realization that she was simply better than he was.
As soon as the thought crossed his mind, the momentum shifted, and instantly he was on the defensive. He responded quickly, meeting Karuka’s attacks with his own blocks, dancing the same dance only changing lead. His instinct began to take over, as he reacted instantly to each swing. She moved with incredible speed, but she didn’t have the edge yet. An intense drive swept over him; that all-too-familiar fire that consumed him. Even if he was outmatched, he wasn’t defeated yet.
No… she’s not better; faster maybe, but there’s more than just speed.
He quickly deflected one blow with a sharp force to buy him just enough time to leap to the next branch over. Landing gracefully, he looked toward his opponent and a smirk crossed his face. I still haven’t showed you all my tricks.
He held out his arms and a stream of black fire began to swirl around him. The hungry flames singed the leaves and heated the air. With a wave of his arms the jet of fire sailed toward Karuka, leaving destruction in its wake.
The realization that his opponent was faster than he was only served to drive him more. He knew he would need to fight with every ounce of his being in order to win, but that was how much he was willing to give. I will win… for the sake of my clan.
With a massive leap he sailed into the air, grabbing on to an overhead branch and feeling the bite of his claws sinking into the soft wood. He swung forward and launched himself over to a limb opposite Karuka and instantly sprung off it and toward her. The air rushed through his fur as he flew, bringing his spear into position to crash down on her with his full weight.
I will not be defeated.
I curse to myself as the gray wisps of Sorahn's flame start to form in my mind's eye.
Why does everyone on Althanas have some sort of magic or other? Back on Earth, we got along just fine without it.
The flames form for real, and as the fireball races to embrace me in its deadly coils, I do the only thing I can do - fall. Black engulfs the branch above, devouring it like a starving animal, but it will take more than a tiny candle flame to annihilate this brother of Yggdrasil, the World Tree.
Brown and green stream past me as I tumble slowly through the air, a quiet and peaceful constancy in this sphere of war.
WHAM!
"Unh..." I didn't plan my fall very well, and so slam into the next branch down gut-first. Pain blossoms throughout my body, and for a moment I can't breathe. But I still pull my way up and onto the branch. If Sorahn wants to make this harder, he's more than welcome to. I'm still better than he is, and it'll be hard for him to surprise me.
I look up to see him flying toward me with his big black spear, and a snarl pulls my lips back from my teeth. I can hear my blood start to sing in my ears, louder and louder, and higher and higher. It's time now, time to show this stranger who he'd come to face this day.
I slam my foot down and to the right, feeling the lines of Sigel press in hard as a little trail of electricity flies to intercept my opponent. I'm right on its trail, bounding up the branches. When we meet again, I speed up that last bit, whirling my staff at him, up, left, right, down, jabbing for all I'm worth, trying to pierce through his fur with the spiked cap I'd placed on the end.
No quarter.
I will give no quarter.
There's no space for it, even in a tree this huge.