Mountain Monarchies (closed to red)

[Erirag the Poet]

The wind was a howl. It whipped around her, threatening to toss her off the edge. As if she could be tossed, Erirag thought haughtily. She was over seven feet of solid muscle, wrapped up in olive skin freckled with chartreuse scars. Tiny bones danced in her thick brown hair, the grass skirts around her hips rustled and hissed as they were flicked back behind her body. She faced the wind and waited, alone for now.

The portal had dumped her on a small plateau. She had walked the edges and knew they were a sharp dropoff, but had no idea how far down the fall was. After all, there was only the thin, freezing air and a wispy fog that tried to hide the edges and curled around her legs. Less fog, she knew, more cloud. As far as she was concerned, though she’d walked in from a hallway in the Citadel, now she was on top of the world.

Waiting for the next person to be transported to her little ring, wreathed in death, Erirag stood strong against the wind. Muscles tensed, eyes on the clearing before here, watering as the air stung them. The orc had come to the Citadel to greet death and find release in pain and rage. The Citadel rarely disappointed.

[redford]

John dropped into his arena, immediately noticing the bounds thereof. It had become second nature for him to look for the edges, walls, and hazards of an arena immediately upon entering.

The arena was a circle, suspended or supported in air, all else was an endless sea of fog that stretched until vision failed. John absently wondered, as he often did, if the illusion would fail after a while, or if there were lands out beyond the clouds, or under them. Wind gusted at him, and tiny waves of the cloudstuff cascaded across the arena, temporarily obscuring a little of the arena before it dissipated.

It was then that he saw his opponent.

She was naked from the waist up, which was quite unexpected, and an orc, which was also surprising. John raised both eyebrows, shoving one downward as he saw she wore no weapons. Though not uncommon for an orc, it painted her as a brawler; much like him. She had a brutal sort of beauty, with brown, nearly-black hair streaked with faint red, and eyes just the same. Her tusks, while not quite pronounced, were still clearly visible, giving her the classic orcish ferocity.

Without a word, he took off his shirt, revealing a torso covered in metal armor, almost like a second skin. He concentrated, closing his eyes, and it receded down his chest, stopping just above his waist and covering down mid-calf, which showed through holes in his patchwork trousers. His chest, now devoid of the metal, showed the scars of burned flesh, like a network of rivulets going up his chest and extending to both his wrists, as if fire itself flowed in his veins at one time.

He pointed a thumb at himself, not sure if she knew the common tongue.

"John," he said simply, raising both hands. She was big, nearly seven feet tall, if not over that, but she was still smaller than he.

But she's still pretty big, a voice in John's head stated.

There was a tugging upward at the edge of John's mouth as he sank into a stance, favoring his back foot to dodge and counter.

This is going to be fun.

[Erirag the Poet]

To be towered over was a new feeling. Very rarely did the orc ever have to lift her jaw to look into the eyes of her foe. Something fluttered in her chest, a feeling alien and exultant. It was hard to put a name to it, but it was vastly different than the anhedonia that had been clinging to her since she’d taken breath once more in Raiaera. It wasn’t joy, but it was close.

Her grin sprang to her lips, revealing even more tusk when he introduced himself and immediately settled back into a fighting stance. He was of a culture much like her own, she decided. He knew the ways of an orc, of a warrior. Without the need of human chivalry and small talk, she could be herself as well.

“Erirag Lulvarasan,” she grunted in return, giving him her title as a matter of respect. “Ashdautas vrasubatlat…” her greeting trailed off as she glanced down where she could see the shimmering armor had slithered away, hiding beneath his pants. “Shakalakogug Gajol-John.” The human name felt alien in his new orcish title – John of the Glittering Crotch.

Not one to keep her opponent waiting, Erirag launched forward. He was big, taller than she could have imagined, but he seemed to be human otherwise. His bones would break like a human, his flesh would rend. A massive fist snaked out like a hammer, leading her body as she put her weight behind the punch. The wind was at her back, blowing the clouds across the arena floor with her. The air was filled with fog, and for the split second that she moved there was no ground or sky, just Erirag and her fist.

[redford]

John didn't know much orcish, just enough to get him into trouble on occasion; so most of his opponent's greeting went past him without understanding.

Aside from the reference to his nethers of course. He had just enough time to raise an eyebrow before she lunged forward, thrusting a fist at his face. John leaned forward a little in anticipation of their collision and tilted his head to the left.

Her fist sailed past his head, skimming his ear as their bodies hit each other with a dull but resounding thud. the half-giant's vision shook as her body slammed against his violently, and he staggered back a pace in slowing her. He instinctively wrapped an arm around her chest and lifted, pushing forward to slam both of them on the ground behind her. He growled at her as they hit the ground, and grappled with her for a moment before swinging a huge elbow at her tusked mouth.