Actions Speak Louder Than Words

[Lady Anais]

Closed to Nihjar Yrene

If you're reading this, just stop now.
This isn't going to be one of "those" stories. There's not going to be a good guy, and a damsel in distress, and a bad guy. There's not going to be a big battle for virtue and justice and what's right. The good guy won't save the day. The bad guy won't be vanquished. The girl doesn't get rescued. Save yourself the trouble. Turn back now. It can't end well.

If you keep going, what you'll see could be glorified as a bold woman, a warrior and a noble; torn and conflicted, put at odds by cosmic forces beyond her control, forces even she doesn't believe in. But reality isn't that grandiose. In reality, it's really just barely beyond a scared little girl, confused and lost. No one to lead her. Nothing to guide her. The butt of a cosmic joke, a battered puzzle piece for an interdimensional game played by the gods. A time bomb of unimaginable power wrapped inside a ceramic egg with chipping paint.

The damsel in distress. Only the villain is herself. Her uncertainty, her confusion. Aimless, all she has to go on is cryptic words. Words whispered sweetly to her that now echo inside her like a savage monster, gnashing teeth and spitting blood. Howling, formless noise. And listened to at the right time, they say one thing:

FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!

The elegant vagrant. Nobility without the wealth. An heiress with no home. A wasted artifact of a different society, a different era. In the rolling sea of Her, there are only the words of another to guide her. She must prove herself against man. They will be watching. The eyes of N'jal are upon her. It is time to show her worth. Otherwise... there is no road. The small tether that gives her some form of direction vanishes. From here, it's nothing but an open sea, swallowing her whole. Tides ebbing and flowing, pulling in every direction. No indication of where land is.

But how do you prove yourself to someone else when you don't even know yourself? How can you show your power when you still deny it?

Like I said: It can only end badly. Turn back now.

What follows is the story of a battle. Where this foolish girl cleared out her room at the hostel in Underwood, took everything she had upon her back, and went to the Dansdel. Where she had to spend three times as long registering to fight as anyone else because she couldn't tell the registrar any of her information and had to resort to a mix of pantomime and slowly spelling it out with fingertracings. Where she- not thinking about anything but the fight- left the challenge open.

This led to her being herded into a room full of other fighters, with a large window along the far wall. Rough men walked on creaking planks; a grease spot in the middle of the floor made from dozens of dirty, sweaty, pacing feet, dark like the mouth of some deep sea monster. Men with knuckles caked in dried blood, weapons dingy and unshined. Slabs of meat, the lot of them. On display through the window, lined up to be chosen by whichever butcher wanted them. Against them, her polished armor seemed to shine. Her clean hair, her unscarred face, she looked almost as out of place as she felt. A porcelain doll amidst a den of wolves.

Beyond here... well, you've been warned.

[Dalasi]

A warning was only a warning if you possessed a modicum of fear in your veins, in your blood, in what remained of your heart. Nihjar was a lost soul and took no stock in such emotions, long abandoning them to petulant paranoia over dark ramblings in the mind. What notion had brought him here, to this sickeningly beautiful realm of narcissism and egotistical dreams he could only guess, but drawn was he to the Dansdel, and all the hubris it contained.

The crowd in the palisades surrounding the simple wooden arena were already baying for carnage, having watched a tirade of battles that morning. He remained calm beneath their expectant stares, his dark skin anathema to the bright dyed wooden struts and jade green canopy which blotted out all but the most determined of sunbeams overhead. His heavy blade was embedded, tip first, into the soft grass before him, and he stood perfectly still and eyes set on the far door.

The druids had announced him by the only description he had given at the parlour registration. "A mysterious warrior from the underdark", and the guess-work which padded like a light-foot through the crowds caused the air to tingle with excitement. Who was he? What is his drive, what is he? Free of the expectation of title and legacy, Nihjar took one last soulful breath before letting the last dredges of his calm fade into battle ready nerves. It would be a momentary glimpse of a better, simpler time for the battle hardened warrior. No more bloodshed in Salvar's frozen wastes...no more dark dealings with the Thayne N'Jal's dominion or her pupils...just for a moment...

He curled a lip and ran a single digit along the tattoo on his bare chest, which lingered with a faint inner light. His heart beat vibrantly and heavily, each thud echoed by the growing cheers and heckles of the spectators. The Son of Stone and Sorrow thought of the outcome, then cast it aside; all that mattered now was stealing away the crowd's enjoyment, by gutting whatever wretch came through the yonder entrance in a simple, brutal eviscerating rage.

All that mattered now where the consequences of his actions, overpowering all notion of mercy, mettle and oratory wit.

[Lady Anais]

One of the fight coordinators had come into the room and waved Anais out.

"You've been selected. Get ready."

He led her along a series of thin corridors to another, smaller room. Outside, the sounds of the crowd echoed past the doorway. One of the druids stood cloaked against the side of the room, he looked from behind an ample hood obscuring his face.

"Your fight is coming up. Are you ready?"

Anais nodded, looking around the room. The room reeked with the stink smell of fear and anticipation. A hundred other fighters before her, standing, heart pounding in their ears. Each drop of sweat that rolled off them to the floor had left the smell behind, and each subsequent had only served to strengthen it. Even now, the smell of dirty flesh tore at Anais' nose.

"How would you like to be introduced?" the veiled figure said.

Anais just looked at him. Even if she could speak to him, there was no point in giving an answer. No introduction would be needed. Afterall, actions were louder than words.

Keeping this firmly in mind, Anais shook her head negatively, trying her best to indicate no introduction. She closed her eyes a moment, focusing.

First impressions are everything. Which means I either have to make sure my opponent is worried about me... or underestimates me. Which means I need to overdo it.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the next fight of the Dansdel Arena! This match will pit a mysterious warrior from the underdark..." The announcer's voice bellowing outside the door paused, a mix of cheers and goading from the crowd rising.

Lady Hieras' eyes crept open slowly. Her eyelids stopped halfway into opening, and a clever grin crawled across her face. Removing Vendetta from the binding straps on her back, she held it with one hand, letting the blade end hang back onto her shoulder. The door in front of her opened to the blinding burst of light outside it, and Anais strutted out of the holding room like a freshly preened peacock.

"..his opponent, a silent warrioress who has declined introduction. Which of these enigmatic and cryptic figures will emerge the victor? For your entertainment, let us see!" the announcing voice roared with a triumphant tone.

Walking with deliberate swagger, Anais let Vendetta slide further along her shoulders, until it rested behind her neck, parallel to the ground. One hand loosely hanging over the shaft, Anais stopped her cavalier walk a few feet outside of the holding room. Though outside had been much brighter than the holding room, the overhead canopy had dimmed it enough that her eyes adjusted quickly, and fell straight ahead on the onyx-skinned drow in front of her. Her mind raced through battle readiness as quickly as she could while she still kept a grin of arrogance and her head bobbed in deliberately looking up and down her opponent.

Swordsman, average build... large weapon, thick armor, heavy. I'll need to outrange him with the glaive, and use my lighter weapon and armor to get the mobility advantage. Midsection is unarmored... will need to remember that as a weak spot.

After a few seconds of her eyes tracing over her opponent, she guffawed deep in her throat. Pressing her lips together, she blew air out between them to make a razzing sound, then parted her lips to a broad grin. A hissing laugh escaped between her teeth, playing up the overconfidence as she made mocking noises to her opponent. Taking swaying, deliberate steps, she sashayed with her weapon still dangling over her shoulders. Each exaggerated step flattened the soft grass beneath her boots, leaving faint footprints in a trail to the center of the ring.

Rolling her eyes, she cocked one eyebrow challengingly at the drow as she stopped in the center of the arena. Jutting a hip to the side as she stood, she extended her free hand out into the air, her expression almost daring him to come shake her hand.