Round 2 Team 8

[The Mongrel]

Bladesinger and Spellsinger advanced on me, mirror images of the pair who attacked Erirag. The Spellsinger raised her hands for the first time in Stars only remembered, raising dusky voice to the heavens to call upon the powers that fuelled her. ”Aaye Megillion,” she started, calling on the Silver-Star to strengthen her companion’s arms and swiften his feet so he could slay the enemy who had encroached upon Belegwain i Beleg and purify it from her breath.

Racist bastards. You’re out of touch with the world and definitely not calling upon the Stars right now. My sword seemed to agree. The starlight that lingered in it from the earlier fight in the Dur’Taigen mansion tinged an angry red and rippled up and down its length.

I had little time to worry about the mage. The Bladesinger stepped toward me, a wall of mythril plate and military training. Though just awakened from centuries of slumber, his steps were sure and straight, his sabatons stamped upon the ground, driving me back before he ever leveled his longsword at me.

We stared at each other over our blades, watching for the slightest flinch or weakness. His golden eyes flashed contempt for the mangy halfbreed who dared challenge him, with her flimsy armor, her half-trained stance, and the rage in her face. I stared at him, noting the winged helm, the fact that every aspect of him still gleamed after gods knew how long asleep, the confidence in his posture and the stern set of his face.

”How fitting you should meet your death at the hands of one of my eminently worthy brothers-in-arms,” Siegfried’s voice spat into my ear. ”I never could tolerate you enough to put you out of your misery myself. And how I tried.”

“Shut up.” I wasn’t sure if I was speaking at the Bladesinger’s judgmental glare or my brother’s words.

”You don’t think I protected you from Father for your benefit, do you?”

“Shut up.”

”And don’t think I didn’t see you shadowing me, trying to be me. How could a wicked, weak little worm like you ever think you could rise above the ground?

“SHUT UP!” I raised my sword, slashing at the armored figure who stood before me. Each of my blows struck with vicious speed, seeking vital organs. I didn’t care of this armored son of a whore was my brother, or one of his esteemed ancestors, or someone completely lost to history. He would fall before me like a birch before the lumberjack.

Except he didn’t. He brushed off each of my enraged attacks with stoic indifference, sweeping me aside again and again. He barely shifted his stance, matching my swiftness as though he was outmaneuvering a slug. He didn’t attack, merely defended. Behind us, lost in the staccatto of violence, the Spellsinger kept droning on.

Suddenly, her voice fell silent. The world rushed and warped around me, as though I was under water. The orange and blue that gleamed from the Bladesinger’s armor in an intricate dance sped up to angry, blinding blades of light. My feet and arms fought through the air like it was molasses, and a thought slowly dawned on me.

She wasn’t invoking speed for him. She was taking it from me. That seemed to be the Bladesinger’s cue; he batted my sword aside as if it were a bee, then brought his sword around.

His fist and pommel smashed against the side of my head, sending bright lights exploding across my vision. My equilibrium failed and I fell, crashing and tumbling with all the coordinated grace of a wheel of cheese through the musty dead leaves and twigs that scraped and scratched my face. I ended up with a root stabbing into my spine, dizzily gazing at the branches overhead.

“Mousie forgot promise,” a sad rumble murmured into my ear. “Mousie die here. Not come back to Mutt. Not come back home.”

My heart broke into a thousand pieces at my mate’s lament. Where Siegfried’s taunting had only enraged me, I had no armor against Mutt, so his words cut right into my core. I laid in the leaf litter, dazed and deserted, bleeding and broken. Distantly, I could hear heavy boots crunching ever closer.

You were supposed to come with me. You promised.

“Cannot come so far as you. Mousie should have stayed in Corone. Mousie does not deserve all that Mutt gave her.”

“No,” I whispered, watching a stern silver soldier slowly fill my vision. “Mousie deserved nothing.”

I waited for the stab that would end me. Be careful, brother? Did you mean that I should take care to die?

[Erirag the Poet]

Whether it was by the Spellsinger’s magic or the rage of the fever, Erirag thought she could see thick vines rising from her wounds, glistening with her blood. The elves would trap her in this forest to die as all things here died. Eventually she would be nothing but flowers and dirt. As Illara fell across the short yard, Erirag saw the gilded greaves of the knight move to where her massive sword had been cast. It was over, they were dead. The bard found herself thinking that it would be nice to rest, to succumb to her illness and fatigue and fall asleep on the forest floor. Her death may be more merciful that way.

Nar mat kordhishi.

The orcish phrase was one she had not heard in some time. The voice was familiar and as Erirag raised her amber eyes from the scramble of dirt and grass, she saw a figure standing before her. The grey orc before her was clad in iron armor, a spear grasped in a heavy hand. It was the image of Otto Bastum as she remembered him, when they faced foes for Lornius. She pursed her lips, growling at the image. She had thought of Otto as her brother, but her death in front of him at the hand of Ciato Orlouge had pushed her to hide away. It had been years now, she thought. She’d humbled herself, sure, but he didn’t have the right to judge her. As the elf began to step towards them, Erirag grew angry, and ashamed, but mostly confused. Was this elf coming for her now, or Otto? She didn’t know, or care. She wasn’t letting her win.

“Vanwacca innas atsa alyё sûl sui gwÎ..” the incantation was dying down and the image of Otto solidified, as if before he was simply the fog rolling in the morning before a hurricane. Now the half orc felt real and stepped toward Erirag.

“You disgust me. I thought we were equals. You’re just a beast.” He said.

It felt like the words she’d been saying to herself, but coming from him it felt stranger. Perhaps it was the time or the distance, but she wasn’t sure if it were something he would actually say. His presence felt shrouded in darkness, much like her own. Maybe this was how life ended, Erirag thought, with all your regrets coming back to haunt you. That thought made the orc furrow her brow and lift herself off the ground. What exactly did she have to regret? That she had found brotherhood in unlikely places? That was worth celebrating. The fog that came with the Spellsinger’s magic made her feel as if she needed to surrender but there was a force stronger than the illusion of defeat. Orcs were practical, their sense of honor bound by orcish reason. The feelings inflicted on her were those of humans and elves, and for a moment Erirag had lost herself. In Otto’s last words she found her true spirit. The illusions wanted a beast? She would give them a beast.

As the knight faced Erirag, the orc raged and gnashed her teeth. She grunted loudly and then reached for her opponent. The elf maiden danced out of her grasp and brought the pommel of her gigantic sword down to Erirag’s head. The orc caught the blow with her shoulder, brushing off the pain and shot her hand out. Meaty fingers grasped around the faceplate of the mythril helm and while Erirag couldn’t crush it in her grip, she managed to rip the millinery right off the head of blonde hair. It was discarded, thrown aside as it tumbled and clanged on the tiled walkway that led and slowly sank into the forest. The sound of metal on stone echoed through the trees, punctuated only by the heavy heave of breaths the opponents took and the rustle of wind in the leaves. Erirag hardly paid attention to it. Her ears were filled with the pounding strike of her heartbeats and the leftover whispers of doubt the spell had placed. Bright blue eyes watched her, exposed without the shadow of armor to hide them. Erirag had been right. She did know this face.

This was the same elf that stared at her before her dreamed death just days before. This was the elven face that knew her name. Now she said nothing, merely lunged, slamming her forehead into the orc’s chin. As Erirag was pushed back by the force of the assault, the paladin once more brought her blade over her head to strike. Erirag twisted, moving around the dropping edge. Faster than she could have imagined moving in her state, fueled by the chaos that raged inside of her, Erirag found her grip around the maiden’s throat. She jerked. She twisted. There was a snap, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a gasp, and the Bladesinger fell, the green light that had engulfed her weapon dying out as she did.

It was as if she could feel a weight drop off. Looking down, she saw the vines and mist she’d seen pouring from the open slash on her forearm were gone. A jet of heat and bright light jetting past brought her attention back to the fore. The Spellsinger was still alive, moving back as if he meant to hide behind the marble hall. How dumb this mage, Erirag thought to herself with a zealous grin. He couldn’t hide. None of the ancient Bladesinger, not a single one of the Canad, could hide from her wrath. And why should they? They were only going to die. It shouldn’t be something to run from. There were worse things than death lurking in the crimson light pouring through the trees.

[The Mongrel]

A blurry figure filled my vision, looking down on me. Through the warping and distortion of the Hinder spell, the blurred vision that accompanied the new dent in my skull, and the hostility of the forest itself, I could almost see my half-orc lover standing over me, ready to punish me for the sin of leaving the land of his rest.

See the shape of truth!

A woman’s whisper resounded through my head, chasing away the pain and the fog. The world stabilized in my vision, the unnatural weight fell from my limbs. Urgency and command rang in her tone; I couldn’t not focus.

Cold, hard metal pressed down on my ribcage, forcing a breath from my lungs. The Bladesinger glared down on me from beneath his gaudy winged helm. His sword hovered over my chest, ready to drop the fatal blow. When he spoke, his voice might have been sharper than his weapon. “Have you any final words, Tel’gothra?”

What a gentleman, wanting to hear me beg for my life before he took it. I opened my mouth to swear at him instead, to curse him and his ancestors and his descendants. The words that fell from my lips were far different than I intended.

“Though shadow wraps around me, I stand in woundrous light. The Stars shine bright above me; I do not fear the night.” It was a prayer to Aurient, the Star-Mother, invoking her protection against the forces of evil. The blue and red light cast by the mausoleum vanished, replaced by a silver-white blaze. The entire clearing glowed with the light of ten thousand stars.

The Stars were listening… and they had answered me. I guess sometimes even the gods are forced to use what’s available, even if it’s not their first choice.

The Bladesinger’s eyes widened, his sword lowered, and the weight on my belly lightened. I took his surprised recoil for all it was worth, wrenching my body away and darting up the gnarled and twisted remains of the corrupted ash tree I'd landed beneath. Both elves stared up at me, naked shock written upon their features. The Spellsinger raised her hands once more, starting to weave her arcane words.

“Aaye Megillion doesn’t work when you’re praying to Pode.” I sheathed my sword, grabbing my bow from my back and nocking an arrow. Below me, the Bladesinger gripped his sword and started to chant, so I retracted the grip on my boots and kicked off, sliding away as though the branch had been greased.

My brother’s voice murmured in my ear, desperately trying to distract and discourage me, but I pushed him aside, just as I had earlier, just as I had half a century ago. I am not an Alfheim, and the Alfheim have no power over me.

I lined up my target and let fly three shafts, one after another. Aaye Cuarye, Swift-Star, Nimble! Let my arrows fly true. My target - the mage - dodged one humming bolt and blocked a second magically. The third spun through her eye and burst through the back of her head. I let out a whoop of triumph and leapt from the tree, executing a graceful backflip just because I could.

My sword - glowing as brightly as the consecrated building - came to my right hand as my feet touched the freshly shining marble, followed by an iron dagger in my left. The Bladesinger glowered at me, equal measures confused and angry, but he started marching forward, sword held defensively in front of him.

“Let me show you how an Aaye Megillion really works, whoreson.”

[Erirag the Poet]

“You friend know Erirag, how?” she asked as she advanced on the Spellsinger. He flipped the daggers his hands, letting them spin and dance as if they had life of their own. She couldn’t see his mouth, but with elves you can see their sneer radiate from the eyes as if their contempt was a spell in itself.

“Podë has given us many gifts,” the Spellsinger hissed, the sound muffled from beneath his mask. The garnet set along the bridge of the nose gleamed for a moment and then flashed as brilliant silver light erupted from the right. The mausoleum was glowing as if it had been filled with stars, and the elf before her raised his hands, using his arms and robes to shield his vision from the light. The bard saw her opening and moved forward, blindly seeking the mage. Her fingers brushed the soft robes, buried themselves though she could feel the unyielding plate of armor beneath them. Sneak elf, she thought as she wrapped her hand around his upper arm and jerked him closer so that she could grab at his face as she had his partners.

His knives whirled out, trying to cut her neck. The sharp bite of blade on her cheek distracted her, and she waved away his attacks, not wanting to lose her eyes. Erirag could see better now, the form of her opponent beneath her coming into clarity. She was sure he was recovering more quickly, and as the point of one of his enchanted daggers buried itself in her wrist, she let him go and stepped back reflexively. The mist swirled from that wound as it had her arm before, though smaller. In her mind, the doubt made another surge. The orc found that this time, however, her resolve was strong enough to banish the guilt, the uncertainty, and move back to her purpose.

“Po-day not smart,” Erirag taunted the elf, brutalizing the witch’s name. “Smart boss know important gifts not worth giving to worms. Keep gifts for self, squish worms. Worm only know how crawl on box. Never really open it.”

The Spellsinger growled and lifed his chin and hands to the sky. As he began an incantation that would surely reduce the orc to nothing but a memory, Erirag leapt forward. She landed in a crouch and reached for the only thing she could reliably grab, the longsword at his side. As she ripped it out of it’s sheath, it pulled the elf forward. He stumbled right into the orc’s forward stab. The blade found itself resheathed in his neck, his song cut off with the awful sound of a wretch and hollow gasp, blood spurting from beneath the mask as it bubbled out of his mouth. Erring ripped the weapon from the body and raised it high, hacking down at her victim as he slumped to the forest floor. The edge bounced off the armor beneath his ribs, sounds of metal clashing ringing out sharply until finally Erirag aimed her blows and began to hack away at the back of his neck, intent on removing his head.

[The Mongrel]

“Aaye Megillion, Celebelen, Astald!”
Hail Megillion, Silver-Star, Valiant!

We closed, slashing at each other quickly and viciously before backing off. We circled, me low and loose, him tall and forceful. One on one, he would never match me for speed or agility; there are advantages to leather over full plate. If I was quick enough to catch him in the armpit or the knee, I had a chance. If I let him get a good hit on me, I was done. There are advantages to full plate over leather.

“Hyandamin naa Aman thar llie gothrim.”
Bless my blade against thine foes.

My sword sparkled and gleamed, responding to the ambient, ancient magic and the incantation that unlocked it. In response, the Bladesinger started humming, a low tune in an ominous minor key. Red and orange flushed along his blade, granting him whatever boons the Witch could grant. I took a little comfort in the consternation that slipped through his cold countenance; her power wasn't granting him the utter and immediate victory he wanted.

“Cora talwiamin e'dagora salka.”
Direct my feet in the dance of battle.

We closed once more, swords clanging and scraping across each other with blinding fury, ten times faster than our first clash. My blade sang and his crackled, Star magic and Forgotten magic fighting for dominance in the microcosm of individual combat while gearing up for the forest's soul. When the sun set on the Day of Burning, would it still be the Lindequalme, or would Belegwain i Beleg be born anew?

“Naia pustamin a'sina thaur ndengin!”
Guide my blows to destroy this abomination!

The Bladesinger's song rose to its crescendo at the same time as my invocation ended, and I shoved myself away from him, sliding across the mildly-cracked marble as though it were ice. Even so, a blast of air that sliced sharper than steel slashed the skin from my knuckles as I dodged back.

I was back on him before he could start another song, a barrage of starlight and skill. My swords struck at him faster and faster, testing his skill and maneuverability to the limit. He presented himself as a fortress, but I wanted to crack him like an egg.

His life of swordsmanship and the blessings of Pode gave him an edge, let him block me or deflect my strikes off a well-armored arm or shielded shoulder, but I was wearing away at him like spring's thaw melts winter's ice. With each exchange he grew less cautious and more frustrated, with each futile swing he extended himself more.

Finally, he sent me skidding back, an embodiment of impotent rage. He was using his fine mythril blade as a machete, not as a fine instrument of death.

Messenger takes Tower.

With a final burst of celerity, I rushed him. He swung for me – of course he did. My shortsword screamed against his longsword as I blocked it. I leaned back, letting momentum take me through his legs. My dagger plunged into the opening between his groin and his thigh, digging in and carving along the armor's groove.

His blood washed the courtyard's tiles, red as the mist, red as the trees, bitter and metallic and slick. He looked at the blood, then at me. He would not recover from the injury I gave him, but in his mind, he still had a chance at taking me with him.

“Don't. It's over. You're too slow to hit me and you'll pass out in another minute or two. You'll only die tired. Die again, anyway. The ancient consecrations have been restored; you won't be getting back up in a hurry.”

He tried mumbling a song, but as his blood rushed from his body, his voice failed him and he fell to his knees, still glaring at me. Still wishing me to die. I wasn't sure if it was because his resurrected instincts told him I was an enemy, or his living training giving him the same conviction, or if he felt betrayed that the gods of his life answered me and failed him.

“You aren't half of what you think you are, worm.”

“And I'm not a quarter of who I will be,” I answered. “I don't blame you for this, Bladesinger. You didn't ask to be raised by an enemy. You didn't ask to be her pawn. I hope you walk again in starlight, if you earned it during the life you lived.” I had won; I could afford to be charitable.

Eventually he collapsed beneath the weight of his own restored mortality. In the mausoleum's starlight, he was again a guardian of his people. Perhaps that was all he ever wanted to be. Maybe he was just trying to defend his home from the orc and Alerian who intruded, and Pode gave him that chance.

I cleaned my dagger. The sounds of carnage coming from behind the crypt sang of Erirag's success; neither of us had died this day. We had slain smarter, stronger opponents. We lived. We were strong.

But I wished I hadn't led us to the light. Stars still danced on my sword, each asking a question for which I had no answer.

Why would they choose me? The Lindequalme crawled with Bladesingers and heroes, the worthy. I was an impure mongrel, an outsider, a criminal. But twice now, the Stars had let their magic answer my call. Something had removed the Hinder spell and healed my injuries.

Why?

[Erirag the Poet]

“How Kon never say she do this? Kon make lots bad go away.” Erirag’s voice called out as she emerged from behind the building, nothing but a bloodstained mythril mask buried in one meaty fist. She was staring at Illara with wonder on her face, her large square jaw gone slack. Shaking her head she stepped past the porch of the tomb and towards her accomplice. There were a lot of questions on her mind, as well. Why would Podё send her the vision of this Bladesinger? How could she know that Erirag would stumble upon the tomb, and furthermore why would she care? If it weren’t for the healing light of Illara’s star spell, Erirag would be dead by now, she knew. Somehow the festering wound of her leg was gone, save the fetid wrappings that still clung to her thigh beneath her skirts. The small slices from the daggers the Bladesinger bore were nothing compared to the wound that Ciato Orlouge had left. Still, Erirag wasn’t sure if she should be grateful or afraid.

“Po-day,” Erirag started, gesturing with the helm. “She strong. She have many snagaz – these not most strong. Lulgijak in some bad trouble, too many troubles for Erirag and Kon fix.” She paused, thinking back on the spell that Illara had cast that seemed to give them an advantage over mages far more powerful than they. They had no right to come out alive in this fight, and the ease at which they’d dispatched their foes gave Erirag equal measures of pride and unease. To top it off, as she gazed at her partner, she saw a glint of silver in her eyes. It was as if all the starlight stored up in the sword, in the mausoleum, in the spell that Illara had woven was sleeping now in her sight. At least, Erirag was sure they’d been green before and eyes didn’t just change like that, did they? Maybe they did for elves, and it was just something she’d never known.

“Well, Kon maybe okay. Kon got magic like luljigak but heart like urukhai. Kon uruk, just look too much like elf. That okay. Lots things more important before beauty anyway.”

She scratched her head, looking back at the mausoleum. There were plenty of options in front of her. She could continue on in the quest to cleanse the Red Forest to see what happened, to gather material for the epic she would write, to die honorably in battle against the Red Witch. She could loot everything she could and go home with a bag full of mythril and gems to sell and be filthy rich, or at least rich enough not to have to raise any more barns in Corone for a few seasons. The second option sounded better the longer she dwelled on it.

She had plenty of enemies here in Lindequalmё, sure. The Red Forest was a brawler’s paradise as Podё continued to raise the damned and the dead. In the end, she just couldn’t compel herself to care about the elves. They’d made this mess. This sort of awful never happened in the mountains of Alerar, as far as she were concerned. Erirag was a practical, straightforward orc, and she could tell that this would get muddy with politics once the witch was felled. No, she thought, she would much rather leave the elves to their own doom and find a better story somewhere else.

“Erirag come to see Red Forest. It ugly. Too many elf problems. Erirag gonna go home.” She finally said to Illara. Even as she said it, something inside of her choked up with dread. Podё was certainly a manipulator or a liar, but one thing she’d gotten right was that Erirag wasn’t really sure where home was anymore, or if she even deserved to have one.

[The Mongrel]

“Kon have no magic,” I explained to Erirag, though I was not sure she would believe me. “Tomb have magic, old magic put on it by very powerful shamans.” Star priests, but the idea was the same. “Kon know the words to make the magic work, but it is not part of Kon.”

Then again, how would I know? Out of fear and bitterness, I had never made an effort.

More important in the moment, I had been accepted as an orc by an orc. There was no higher praise Erirag could have offered me, especially since I'd just been another lulgijak such a brief time before. “Erirag give Kon much honor. Kon would gladly fight with Erirag again.” I thumped my chest, a staccato beat of sincerity.

I looked to the south-west, deeper into the heart of the Lindequalme. Pode lay within, as did her minions. If I turned around, I would likely survive. I'd be reamed out by the sergeant for not completing the task assigned to me, and then if my brother made it back to camp he'd tear into me as well, for going to fight when that wasn't his intent for me. Even though he'd summoned me to Raiaera for the Day of Burning. (Brothers don't make any sense.)

I wiped a stray lock of hair and about a gallon of sweat from my brow. “Kon can't go back with Erirag. Kon have questions, Kon have... Kon not know word. Kon not know what. But Kon need go in forest. Maybe to death.” Probably to death.

I looked to my companion, who nodded in silent understanding. Sometimes alliances ended abruptly, and that was all right. It didn't make the fire we'd faced worthless. “Kon have home in Radasanth now. Have tribe all across Corone. Not born into tribe, tribe formed by blood. If Erirag go to big city in Corone, go to bad part of town. Ask around for Mongrel. Kon's tribe will find Erirag. If Kon live, we will eat much meat and drink much mead.”

“If Kon die in forest,” the green giantess mused around her tusks, “Erirag sing to tribe of victory here.” The orc turned to go, making her way to the trail that had led us two urukhai to the crypt in the first place. Within a few steps I could no longer see her, a few seconds after that her footsteps faded into the eerie rustling of the forest.

Utter stillness fell upon the clearing. A cool wind blew, lifting the Lindequalme's oppressive heat and sending the blood-read leaves skittering over the cracked marble tiles. It bent back the branches overhead, letting sunlight flood the little clearing for the first time in gods only knew how long. The life-giving light kissed my face and hair, then concentrated into one bright spot on the edge of the clearing. A path unfolded before my eyes, and I knew that I would follow it to whatever end it led. My mouth went dry and suddenly my light leather armor seemed oppressively heavy; I had no death wish. I just couldn't see another way forward.

My eyes drifted from the path to the crypt, to the figures carved around its broken doors, to the inscriptions that warded off evil and the silver light that still sparkled across its glass. Then I drew my sword and began my journey anew, this time asking the gods' protection.

What could it hurt?

“Though shadow wraps around me,
I stand in wondrous light.
The Stars shine bright above me;
I do not fear the night.

Though I walk into peril,
Though waves roil from the deep,
The Stars shine bright above me;
I do not fear to sleep.

Though death stalks with his sickle,
His minions I defy.
The Stars shine bright above me;
I do not fear to die.”

Finito. Spoils Requests:

Erirag: An ornate mythril helm, set with seven carats of garnet.

Illara: Star-kissed sword: Illara's mythril sword is imbued with starlight. It will glow when drawn against undead, evil, or cursed creatures, and does twice its normal damage when it strikes them.

Star-lit sight: Illara is able to see the safest route through wilderness.

[Max Dirks]

This was the best written thread of the second round. Mechanical mistakes were minimal and your clarity score was only hurt by some semi-colons. There were certain places, Mongrel, where a connecting word (like but) would make the writing flow better than ending the thought with a semi-colon. Other strengths included persona and communication. The ongoing banter between Illara and Erirag was excellent. Mongrel, you truly showed the depth of your character as you adapted to Erirag's manner of speech. Storywise, the major fault was the ending. After your romp, it was disappointing to see the characters go their own way. It was anticlimatic. Another area for improvement is action. As I mentioned on the way to Boston, it was somewhat unclear who was attacking who during the primary battle with the dual Blade and Spellsingers. You also could have improved both your communication and action scores here if you would have combined efforts.

Team 8 Judgment

Story: 5
Setting: 5
Pacing: 6
Action: 5
Communication: 6
Persona: 7
Mechanics: 8
Technique: 6
Clarity: 7
Wildcard: 5

Total: 60/100

Erirag the Poet receives 767 EXP and 96 GP
The Mongrel receives 767 EXP and 96 GP

You both advance to the finals!

[Lye]

EXP & GP Added!