AC Finals: Erirag The Poet

[Silence Sei]

Apologies for getting this up late. You have two weeks from 12:01 PM CST to complete this thread. The 24 hour rule has been waived for the finals. Can our favorite full blooded orc overcome the odds Pode set before her? Good Luck!

[Erirag the Poet]

Erirag just should stay with Kon, the bard found herself thinking as she shuffled though the trees and brush. By the time she’d thought of it, it was too late. Erirag had turned and spun, trying to track where her newfound friend had gone but Illara had vanished without a trace. She cursed herself for her cowardice, for deciding she wanted to go home when the going got tough. Still, it wasn’t a bad plan, or an unreasonable one. What use was an orc just flown from the nest against a goddess?

As she scanned the treeline, her grubby fingers dragged through matted brown hair and set rodent skulls clacking against each other. Her mouth was dry and her body felt tired but there was still a trek ahead of her. She could drink back at the camp, and from there find her way out of the Lindequalmë. Turning back to where she was sure the path had been, Erirag began moving, checking the ground for evidence that she’d trampled there once before. From her left where the woods were thick with vines and saplings, a wall of red and deep green, Erirag heard a low growl. At first she almost thought that it had been just the shudder and whisper of pine needles in the wind, but something tugged at the deeper instincts within her. She stopped, stilling her breath so that she could better listen.

The wind blew again, and a gust pulled a handful of crimson leaves down from the canopy. They were falling and swirling around Erirag, movement in air and the trees around her confusing her senses and she couldn’t quite pinpoint where the sound was coming from but it was there again. The low warble promised disquiet and death. Erirag snorted, baring her teeth. She didn’t fight plague and paladins to be felled by a simple wolf.

“Come, Durr Taygin!” she said, muddling the language of the elves. “Erirag not have time for this. Erirag gonna go home and let whole elfhome burn.”

The creak of trees filled the air. It sounded as if many branches were bending, or the old oaken joints of a puppet sliding into place after a century spent with winter warping wood millimeters from where it once fit perfectly. When the creak stopped, the rustle of fern and dead leaves caught her attention. Now there was no confusion. She knew exactly where the creature was coming from. Erirag leapt to meet it, moving fast though thorns and vines clawed at her ankles. As she finally saw the wolf ahead, bounding and leaping over low branches and fallen trunks, she had an idea. Her hands moved low and scooped vines from the ground, wrapping them around her fists. The tiny thorns tried and failed to break her tough orcish skin, their youth buffering their danger.

One lone orc fresh from the nest had no business challenging the Lindequalmë. Maybe, though, she could use the Lindequalmë as a weapon against itself and make it home alive.

[Erirag the Poet]

When Erirag and the Dur’Taigen clashed, there was a murderous roar and the ripping of skin and fur. They tumbled, rolling in the fallen leaves and needles, sending pinecones flying and thrashing against the gnarled roots that looped and draped over the earth. Somehow in their struggle, Erirag managed to wrap the vines she’d collected around the throat of the wolf. She could hear the suckers beginning to feed where the thorns were able to bore into the soft underside of the beast’s maw. It squealed and screamed and the orc bore down her weight, hundreds of pounds more than that of the wolf, on her foe. She would need to kill it quickly, lest more of the ravenous dogs came for her. When it finally went limp, she stood.

The creak and growl of the wolf on her scent that she’d heard was multiplied now as the forest was coming awake. The wolves were hungry for murder, and they wouldn’t be satisfied with the corpse of their kin. Erirag did the only thing she knew she could do. She ran. The bard was not graceful in her flight. Her thick feet stumbled over roots, her body crashed through vines. Some of the blood vines were large enough to try and take hold, but she ripped and tore and ran until she was free. The path that she followed opened up before her almost by design, as her clumsiness was always saved by ground where she could gain a good footing before barreling through another barricade. The musician ran until she couldn’t hear the wolves anymore, finally stopping for breath when her lungs burned and her side felt as if it would split. The trees were growing more thickly here. She could barely fit her shoulders through head-on.

Swinging her lute from where it was strapped to her back, she strummed a few tunes. Almost feeling herself wish that she had the gift of magical song that Illara had demonstrated, the orc threw back her head. She breathed deeply of the wet leaves and damp earth here. The canopy was thick enough that sunlight couldn’t penetrate. There was less brush here. Instead, the ferns had receded and thick moss grew, covering the earth and the exposed tree roots with a thick, soft carpet. Maybe it would be safer, she thought. Maybe she would be closer to getting out.

Don’t be so foolish. the voice said. The hair on the back of the orc’s neck rose and she could feel a growl rising up in her throat. She hadn’t heard the voice of doubt since her battle with the ancient Bladesingers. She thought once she’d killed the green eyed paladin who had appeared to her before when she fought the thrall that had once been Ciato, she would be rid of the hallucinations. It appeared she’d been wrong.

“Erirag no fool,” she said, her voice wavering, higher than normal. Could voices in your head hear your fear?

“We’ll see, child of Aesphestos.” The voice replied, the last words of the woman’s tone fading away like perfume on the breeze.

[Erirag the Poet]

Her song on the lute led her on. As she walked, she sang old epics telling of the orcs and how they came to be. They were songs she learned as a child, but hadn’t sang or thought about for some time. Finally, as the woods pressed around her and she had to put away Thingur as the trees grew too close to play the lute, she came to the line that explained the first of the orcs, the children of Aesphestos. When the voice had whispered the name, it had stirred recognition in Erirag’s heart, but she wasn’t sure where. Now she knew, but she still felt confusion as she reached up to clear a curtain of vines and flowers that blocked her path. She was an orc far removed in generations from the first of her kind. Surely she had no bond with the god of brutes.

She stopped as the first bunch of greenery that she ripped down and tossed to the side revealed another layer in the foliage. A large, purple flower sat on a vine, fruit held in the center like a poisoned plum. Spirit Flower, Erirag thought. She’d heard of this blossom, even before she set foot on Raiaeran soil. It held the power to poison the soul, paralyzing the body, and forever trapping it’s host so that it could feed on the very spirit of the person. The bard waited, sure that she would be taken down any moment. How foolish of her to paw through vegetation like she were working the most benign of gardens.

Yet, her demise didn’t come. The orc furrowed her great brow and thought back on everything she’d been told about the Fealotë. The fruit within the petals was gravid, heavy with a captive soul still contained. Creature or person, whatever it had fed on was likely to be long dead now, the paralyzed body open prey for any of the villainous wildlife that stalked the trail. It was only right to release the soul to peace. Erirag reached up and grasped the flower in her palm. It had a weight that didn’t match the delicate appearance, as if each velvet petal were made of lead. Curling in her fingers, Erirag ripped the blossom from the vine, letting the fruit be crushed in her grip. Juice that shone with some inner light not fed by the sunlight creeping through the red ceiling above began to drip down her arm. As the shining light dribbled away, all that was left was a rosy stain. After a moment, the orc threw the blossom to the side and continued on her path.

It was lined with more Soul Blossoms, every few feet a lethal lilac waiting to be smashed. Her hands were stained with light and blood. The path grew thinner, harder to traverse and Erirag had to leave a wake of broken trunks smudged with the juice on her hands. She imagined the souls were released, and she wasn’t leaving behind traces of them, but still with each crush she began to pray that the spirits would reach the Great Mountain anyway. Finally the path opened up so that Erirag could move comfortably and finally she spilled out into a grove of trees.

The sunlight bore down into the copse, and the leaves above her danced with fiery light. Erirag froze, her amber eyes wide and her breath still. The natural beauty of the grove was only surpassed by its inhabitants. The grove was filled with a garden of sorts. Crystal monoliths of quartz and amethyst towered towards the sky, a head taller than even Erirag. Carved into their faces were small inlets so that the pillars were also thrones. In each throne sat elves who were graced with such beauty that even Erirag could not find disgust in her heart. Each elf was crowned with a spray of white roses in bloom with a single violet blossom at their temple. Their eyes were open, unseeing.

Erirag stood in the grove of Podë’s exquisite dead.

[Erirag the Poet]

Erirag found herself standing in front of the tallest pillar. It was white quartz, the glassy stone flecked with pyrite like golden stars. The elf that was throned here was a man. He looked young, even by the standards of the fair folk. His eyes shone bright green despite his fixed gaze. His skin was alabaster, his hair like wheat shimmering in the sunset along the plains. He wore some uniform, a deep green jacket and pants with leather boots and black gloves to protect his hands. At one point there may have been a sword at his waist but his belt was empty of it now. Erirag reached out to hold a silken lock of hair before a voice startled her and she let the honeyed strands slide from her soul-stained fingers.

“How odd.” Erirag turned to face the speaker. From somewhere at the edge of the orchard, Podё had chosen to show herself, or at least one of her thousand faces. Erirag heard other adventurers and would-be heroes talk about the illusionist’s many forms when she’d first arrived. She was sure that she’d never see the true face of the scarlet witch. They mirrored each other in more ways than one. Podё was beauty and lies, while Erirag was brute honesty.

“What problem?” the orc asked, nonchalantly. Once more she swung Thingur from her back. Tuning the lute hid the tremble in her hands. The orc towered over Podё, a green wall in front of the lithe woman before her. The Forgotten One was clad in leather armor, beautiful floral motifs edged and burnt down the umber pieces. Her mahogany hair was pulled back and held in place with steel roses. Erirag didn’t shake from fear as much as she was moved by such beauty. The witch’s youthful face was hard to focus on for the gaze of huge brown eyes. Erirag was reminded of a doe, watching with large warm eyes as wolves mauled a traveler and there was no mistaking who the traveler was.

“Of all the heroes who could stumble onto my pretty collection, it had to be one of Aesphestos’ misshapen beasts. I would have hoped your kind to be all but wiped out by now.” She smirked and stepped forwards, pulling a weapon that was half staff, half spear from her back. The wood was blackened beyond recognition, ancient runes burned down the length. In the right light, they shimmered, almost as if they were still holding the fire that had long ago wrought them.

“Maybe,” Erirag started, her fingers moving along the strings of her instrument. “Maybe you might wanna try.” She bared her tusks and started to play a song, the melody wandering and lost but slowly coming together. Podё grinned and then licked her lips. Erirag looked for resolve within herself. She had only meant to go home. Now she was luring a predator from the shadows.

“Play your song, bard.” The witch said. “It will do you no good. You’re surrounded by Bladesingers who sought to remove me. My forest is filled with their graves. Still I stand here. If you run away fast enough, maybe you won’t have to join them.”

Erirag’s amber eyes gleamed. Podё was an elf problem, and as a rule she didn’t care much for elf problems. On the other hand, she didn’t care much for a rule of fear from the shadows. It stank of cowardice. She didn’t care much for the trouble she’d gone through either. The orc was staring down her only option: She’d drag Fear out into the light. Then she would punch it until it was dead.

[Erirag the Poet]

“Llatur vosha horizat, ashim drunat foshu timeri.” Erirag began to sing. Her tone was an accusation, her words a call to judgment. One foot stepped in front of the other, crushing garnet blades of grass beneath them. The orc stopped in the shadow of the rock she’d been standing before, and waited for the Forgotten One to come to her. “Prali mogoshat opashob,” Erirag continued.

There was a spark of recognition along Podё’s face. The woman’s eyes widened, then narrowed again. Erirag supposed she wouldn’t be able to please everyone.

“Of course Aephestos would give stupid beasts the tongue of gods.” the witch muttered. Erirag pressed on. Podё was the deceiver. The armor before her was likely as much of an illusion as anything else, making Erirag believe that the woman was not as well protected as she should be. Was the face that she gazed on, the features that pressed even the dispassionate bard into lust, even the true face of Podё?

“Ahno lat dig buri oro armaukri ajog matob gujat kaf.” Now as Erirag sang, the witch seemed to get angry, the smug look of superiority melting from her features. The orc never saw it coming. In the split second, the time it took to breathe to sing the next line, the witch held up her fist. Perfectly manicured nails pierced her palm and blood glistened amongst the nails. It was the only catalyst needed. A bright light, iridescent as dew on sunrise-kissed grass, exploded from the bloodied flesh. To Erirag, it felt as if the light were made of thousands of tiny arrows. She threw up her arm and shielded her face but the impact knocked her to the ground. Her body was covered in minute cuts, stinging and hissing as she moved to stand from where she’d been bowled over on her back.

Thingur had been knocked from her grasp. The lute lay a few feet away now, the elfskin stretched carefully over the frame riddled and pocked with cuts. The strings were frayed, and one popped even as Erirag looked upon it.

“You’ll die now,” Podё said. “You have little time to live. Even if you feel fine now, you’re torn up on the inside. When the end comes, it won’t be pleasant.”

“Never is.” Erirag spat, her phlegm flecked with blood from her tattered lips. Still she took a breath, coughing just barely as she filled her lungs with the Lindequalmё’s air. “Do mariz nudrikas prali. Mat nar timer Erirag. Pardrogatim kurrauzrim gajun illa sul mat.”

This time the spell that was loosed from the witch’s fingers was like being hit with a flaming sandbag. The force knocked Erirag back, away from where she’d been advancing on her quarry. As her shoulder hit the quartz tower behind her, and the skin along her arm and chest began to sizzle at the blow, the bard knew she was no match for the goddess before her. Podё was right. Bladesingers much more powerful than her had fallen before, and Erirag didn’t even have magic in her song. What good would she be against such ancient an evil?

But Erirag was an orc and she’d been raised not to be a Bladesinger. Songs were rarely sung alone around a fire. Some refrains were meant to be a chorus. Rolling to the side, Erirag now leaned against the quartz, the rough stone points piercing into the cuts on her palm where she’d shielded her eyes from Podё’s attack. She stared into the unblinking eyes of the Bladesinger for but a moment. This was a Coronian fairy tale she knew well by now. As she leaned in and the edges of her tusks barely grazed the elf’s cheeks, she whispered, “Wake up, stupid.” One thick hand reached up to crush the violet flower at his temple. Glittering sap spilled from her fingers, droplets falling on his cheek like wine-infused tears.

Slowly, like a blossom unfurling with the morning, he woke up.

[Erirag the Poet]

He finally looked as if he saw her and cringed. A struggle raged behind his eyes. In his confusion and the feeling of freedom that seeped back into his bones, he wasn’t sure if the orc before him was friend or foe. He flicked his verdant gaze around, to the pillars, the other sleeping elfin soldiers, and finally onto Podё. He gasped, and jumped up, moving past Erirag and muddling through the glade as he searched for his weapon. It would be long gone, Erirag knew. The bard didn’t want to soothe his flowery soul, fresh from the cage of the Fealotё. She wanted him spurred to action, so she did the only thing she could think of. She continued her song.

“Lat nar gikatoran amal Erirag prak or amat Erirag.” Her voice was filled with more confidence now, even as pinpricks of red bubbled on her skin. She looked as if she were a great green plant, kissed with crimson dew. Remembering the witch’s red mist, maybe it was fitting. “Pralim nudrokasub laturishi. Pralim nudrokasub laturishi.”

Her melody had been picked up by the Bladesinger. His baritone carried it even further. He didn’t know the words, but he knew the rhythm now. She started again with the first line. “Latur vosha horizat ashim drunat fusha timeri! Prali mogoshat opashob ahno lat dig buri oro armaukri ajog matob gujat kaf.”

Erirag wasn’t alone, but the song wasn’t a chorus just yet. The witch hissed, her nose crinkling as she stepped forward and let another spell lose from her fingers. The burns down Erirag’s chest tingled for just a moment and then exploded with pain. The blood on her skin began to run in small ruddy rivulets, but she didn’t let it stop her. The orc was no stranger to pain. Life in the Alerian mountains used pain as a foundation for strength.

Podё shrugged, shoving a stray strand of auburn hair out of her hate-filled eyes and struck again. A ball of light zoomed outwards but this time the orc was prepared. As Erirag rolled to the side she could feel the heat and power, like a sizzle of static, rush past her. It hit an amethyst pillar. Purple stone and crystal exploded from the impact, shards flecking the orc’s body like hot shrapnel. She grunted and instead moved towards the impact rather than away. The elf that had been sitting there was a lump in the grass, crystal fragments scattered over their uniform. Grabbing a handful of dark hair, Erirag ripped their face up. It was a woman, almost as lovely as Podё herself. In a quick movement, Erirag crushed the flower that anointed her and kept moving. She needed to wake up as many of the mages as she could, and maybe they would stand a chance to bring the witch to her knees.

“Do mariz nudrokas prali. Mat nar timer Erirag. Pardrogatim kurrauzrim gajub illa sul mat.” Her feet flew along the channels between the towering thrones. As she moved, she crushed. More voices joined the song. More power pulsed in the glade.

[Erirag the Poet]

The Red Witch Podё had faced down an army once. When midnight struck, the ground was stained dark with blood, even more pitch than the night sky above. That was before she’d been brought down and sealed to five fragments of herself. What she faced now was but a fragment of an army, though. Her face was a mask of calm, the sweat at her brow only serving to make her shimmer. The Beauty of Wars smirked and stepped closer to Erirag. The five mages the orc had woken stood behind her, still humming the tune she’d been singing in the black speech.

“One by one I will wear you down,” the ancient evil spoke. “Every champion you have has fallen before. Now they are without weapons, and the song you sing? It belongs to no school of magic. It’s the simple words of a beastly species.”

“That what you say,” Erirag spat back. “No weapon for you too. Just stupid, think that steel is power.”

“True,” the brunette whispered. She watched with brown eyes older than the dirt below their feet. It was little wonder that this being had warped the great forest to her will. “And I will kill you, and then reclaim the art you’ve ruined. I’ll capture the elf girl you fought with and bring her into my collection, but you… no you will be pushed into a ravine just outside of my home. Too hard on the eyes, unlike the others who fight the same battle you do.”

Anger bubbled up, hot and white in Erirag’s gut. Her ears blossomed with crimson and she grit her teeth before shaking her head. “Erirag not gonna die in elfhome.” Now it was Podё’s turn to rage.

“Elf home? This land doesn’t belong to them. It never did. And if I have my way, it never will again!” Seething, the sky above them began to boil over with power. What sky had been peeking through the thick clumps of leaves overhead darkened as clouds rolled over. The wind picked up, bringing dirt and shards of crystal to the air as it whipped through the copse. The witch was preparing to show Erirag the power of a Forgotten One, even fractured, and the decimation it could bring down.

[Erirag the Poet]

The orc swallowed hard and raised a bloodied arm to protect her eyes as she rushed towards the witch. It was starting to get difficult to move, and her sprint through the grove to wake up the soul-frozen elves hadn’t been helpful to her own health. She lunged at Podё, grunting in surprise when the body she expected to hit was gone and instead she stumbled to the edge of the woods and fell into a tree. The bark scraped against her skin, creating sparks of pain that crackled, like popcorn bubbling across her bleeding body. The smell of fire caught her attention and she whirled, expecting another burning blast from the witch’s arsenal. Instead, she saw singed footprints leading away, still smoking in the grass.

They came from Podё’s feet. No real fire burned from the leatherbound beauty. The heat was power, shimmering and gathering around her form. Erirag had made her angry, and now they would all pay for it. The Bladesingers behind her seemed to have sensed the same urgency and began to hum louder. The one she’d woken with a kiss, the man with the impossibly green eyes, lifted his hands as if he were calling to his brethren. His voice was powerful, unflinching, and he began to sing in earnest.

“Llatur vosha horizat,” he sang. Erirag’s eyes widened. With an elven tongue, even the black speech sounded beautiful. She almost couldn’t believe he had memorized her song in just the few minutes he’d been woken. “ashim drunat foshu timeri.”

The sky seemed to screech above them, and Erirag could see flashes of lightning flirting between clouds. Podё’s storm was coming to a peak. The debris in the air only flew more urgently and suddenly, it began to rain. At first, Erirag though it was simply rain, water dark with the anger and wrath of a goddess and nothing more. Once it began to hit, she knew differently. It felt as if tiny blades were held in each droplet, not rain falling but the very judgment of the Forgotten One. The orc’s already abused body flinched, and she rolled and dashed, trying to get away from the falling attack. Other Bladesingers were singing in Elvish now, their hands waving above their heads and iridescent waves began to roll over them. They were creating shields, keeping themselves safe, ignoring Erirag herself.

Her skin was ripping open, her back coating with more blood than what had bubbled to the surface after Podё’s previous attacks. No matter how many times she hurled herself at the witch, she was gone, leaving only dark marks in the grass where she’d been standing. Erirag’s frustration was growing, and she wished she had the power to fell every crystal throne in the glade so that her foe would have no place to hide.

“Prali mogushat opashob ahno lat dig buri oro armaukri ajog matob gujat kaf.” The elf sang behind her. Many things in this glade should have died long ago, the orc mused.

[Erirag the Poet]

The thunder shuddered overhead and rang throughout the forest. The trees were shaking burgundy leaves to the ground, and the crystals were gleaming with wet. The midday storm had turned the day into darkness, but for the break of light as the clouds swirled and thinned before they gathered and shut out the bright over and over. Erirag had been racing, dancing around pillar and mage in an effort to find and take down Podё. She never felt fast enough, and the coughing was coming stronger and more frequent. She remembered what the witch said about her insides, the tiny cuts her spell had placed. Brow furrowing over amber eyes, Erirag glared down the space where she’d last seen the woman. She was determined not to die until she’d killed the goddess’ fragment, the spectre of beauty that haunted this glade.

Suddenly, as if her gasping breath had summoned her, the witch appeared. Erirag found herself staring at the beautiful monster, several of her. There was an image of her behind each Bladesinger, and they were armed with knives. “Just illusion,” the orc grumbled. The proclivity of the woman to illusion and deception was an annoyance and nothing more, she’d told herself. Almost in reply, the images leaned forward. They wrapped their arms around the Bladesingers, and drove the blades into their necks.

As the elves Erirag had awoken all stiffened and then collapsed, blood spewing from the gaping wounds hacked into their necks, the images faded. The only one left was the one beside the mage who had been singing in black speech. His song had faltered as he saw his brothers and sisters fall, but Erirag knew that he was safe, at least from a blade. The true Podё had no blade, but could she conjure one if she so easily armed her illusions?

“Do mariz nudrokas prali. Mat nar timer Erirag. Pardrogatim kurrauzrim gajub illa sul mat.” He continued to intone, and the orc decided that Podё would not escape her grasp again, and would not interrupt the song. She moved faster than the pain within her wanted to allow. Meaty fingers buried themselves in the elegant bun. One of the metallic flowers that graced the pins bit into her palm but she didn’t care. She only grasped tighter, driving the edge into her flesh. The silken hair was courser than she thought it would be, and Erirag used the texture to anchor herself to reality.

“No picture-lies,” the orc said, and ripped the woman towards her by her hair. She spun and moved, whirling Podё around and then down to the ground. As Erirag raised her fist to hit the Forgotten One, Podё’s hand reached out and settled on her neck. Immediate pain flared, the smell of burning flesh filling Erirag’s mind as she inhaled the smoke of her own flesh ignited.

She almost let go, but something within helped her to hold on even harder. Angry, spittle dripping from her tusks, Erirag began to rip and pull. Clumps of auburn hair were coming away in her hands, wrapped around her fingers like snakes. The witch screamed, and behind her shrieks a spell was being cast. She wasn’t the only mage in the glade.

“Lat nar gikatoran amal Erirag prak or amat Erirag.” The Bladesinger was coming to the end of the song. Soemthing flashed in Podё’s dark eyes. The pain of her burning touch was lessening and Erirag felt something shift. She felt herself growing stronger, as if some invisible hand had raised her up and placed her on equal measure with the aspect of the goddess.

“I’ll not be destroyed by a brute,” the witch hissed. “I’ll…”

The witch went silent, her eyes wide.

“Pralim nudrokasub laturishi.” The mage finished. White light filled the glade.