Into the Woods

[Otto]

Day break has just lit the sky in Radasanth, with tones of pink and scarlet easing their way above a sliver of gold across the horizon in the east that was barely visible behind the mountains. From the stone steps leading to the Citadel a chilly breeze comes in from the water. It carried the pungent mixture of fish in various states of decay, salt, and, of course, blood. The latter wasn't so strong at this time of the day, but it never really went away either. It was serene; quiet, for the most part, with the exception of the wind which ushered over the distant cries of gulls from the docks. Something about their forlorn cries only made it seem more lonely on the long staircase. Otto flared his nostrils against the stench, always tempered with the odours of poor sanitary practices in the city, and climbed. The iron links of his hauberk clinked against each other with each step.

The ambience changed as Otto approached the Citadel. The smell of sweat - salty, but of a markedly different character to the sea - grew stronger, and his nostrils flared. Mostly it was the sweat of simple exertion, rounded off with adrenaline and edged lightly with a touch of fear. The abilities of the healers allowed for particularly vicious combat, and often it didn't matter if a participant knew they would be restored without a scratch after a round. Otto had suffered his share of stab wounds, sliced limbs, and broken bones, and still didn't much care for any of them. He reached the entrance of the great arena and was greeted by an Ai'Brone monk. Otto nodded in greeting.

"Welcome back," the man intoned. "The usual, today?"

"Aye," Otto replied. "Thank you."

A short time later, Otto was sitting cross-legged on a gentle dirt incline. Thin stalks of bamboo (not that he knew the name of it) towered up, forming a lambent canopy. Fat white clouds drifted lazily against a lapis sky and occasionally blotted out the sun. There was enough room for two move abreast between the shoots, but not much more. There was an occasional hazard - a foot-sized rock jutting up here, a broken stem forming a horizontal barrier there, and small trenches marking an old watercourse down the hill at other spots - but mostly it was sun-dappled soil and some degraded plant debris. A slight breeze rustled the canopy and made the shoots shiver. It smelled of dew and humus, free of animal scent.

The monk had done well; Otto had never been in an arena quite like it before. He allowed himself a quick survey of the area, but no more, and settled back while he waited to be matched with an opponent.

[Erirag the Poet]

Corone was a good fit for Erirag. The island nation was a far cry from her home in Alerar. Here, there were the same disdainful looks from the humans that milled about the cobblestone streets that she'd grown used to seeing among the Drow and dwarves in Ettermire. Yet, underneath the haughty disapproval lay something else. The humans reeked of fear. She could detect it as she meandered through the streets, crowds splitting before her as they watched in awe. Children's eyes danced along the edges of her necklace, counting the bones. Her scars held a certain fascination for the crowds as she passed. Here and there, she caught the hushed whispers. Yet, it failed to bother her. Instead, she'd been intoxicated by drinking in all that this new place had to offer. Her favorite place rose before her as she made her way down the street. The temple of torment, the steps of the ziggurat known as the Citadel gleamed in the morning light. The first taste of battle she'd had there made her soul sing.

She'd chosen her arena without much care. As her green hand pushed on the door, bidding the heavy wood to swing wide, she'd grinned. Beyond, the room rattled with the sound of the wind through leaves. She could feel the cool brush of air as she stepped in, her feet meeting soil and grass. Green and brown stretched up around her, the stalks of bamboo rattling as she began to move from the door and further into the room. She knew now from experience that the door behind her would disappear, as if it had never been there. Stepping through the forest, weaving around the random bunches of bamboo, her steps were careless. Under her tough soles, twigs and pieces of stalk snapped and crunched. Her toes brushed against the dirt and sent small pebbles scattered before her. The bones around her neck rattled, and the dried grass of her skirt shook as her hips swayed. Subtlety wasn't her strong suit, and as she began to see a figure sitting through the foliage, she called out.

"Mirdautas vras!" her voice rang deep and clear. Her steps, however, faltered as she began to make out more of her opponent. The closer she got, the more she noticed the grey hue of his skin, the wiry hair and the telltale flash of two tusks much like hers. It hadn't been since she left Alerar that she'd seen another orc. It was a shock, after being among humans, to see one of her own kind, though he appeared to be a different tribe. As the sun shone down on them, the daylight dappling the scene as it came through the canopy, it almost felt as if this meeting were blessed in a way.

She'd spoken wisely, Erirag thought to herself. It was indeed a good day to kill.

[Otto]

For once Otto was not looking forward to a fight today. He should have been warming up, preparing for the match. Instead, with the shackles of sleep still leaving their trace on his mind, he had felt the desire to sit back and relax for a bit. Maybe close his eyes while he was at it. His spear across his lap, hammer at his belt, and shield in his left hand, Otto rested against the bamboo and let his eyelids drop. There was no noise but the hypnotic susurration of wind through the canopy. The breeze's earthy, almost herbal scent was a much needed respite from the crowded stench of the city, and even the sharp smells of the forge that he was otherwise accustomed to.

Then there was the familiar creak and slam of a door, followed by heavy footsteps thudding against the dirt along a direct line in his direction. Otto frowned - he had no idea how long he had been sitting there, and suspected he had started to fall asleep. He was angry with himself. Another few minutes and he would have been out cold, unawares and completely helpless. He was aware of the tripping hazards, the loose drifts of leaves, but had missed the less tangible threat that complacency had posed. The crackle of foliage underfoot grew closer. Otto collected himself; his eyes shot open, fingers like unshaved sausages clenched his spear and struck it's base into the soil. Hoisting himself to his feet, he looked up.

And up.

Eventually his gaze locked on to two amber eyes, not unlike his own. Otto had seen Orcs around Radasanth - he'd seen most things around Radasanth - but had never known any personally. Yet the one before him was different. Most Orcs in the city had adopted popular styles of clothing and customs, such as the particularly human concept of modesty. She (it was quite obviously a she) had not. Bizarrely, given her wild appearance of grass and leather clothes, bone and shell ornaments, she had an underbite that gave her an oddly human appearance. Otto realised the newcomer had just shouted something in his moment of distraction, tried to recall the clarion cry, and failed. Now confused, surprised, and trying to spot the other Orc's weapons, Otto felt compelled for the first time in a long while to speir a host of questions. Not for the first time, he could not find the words for them.

He struggled, gave up, and settled for "What?". Eyes still settled on Erirag's, he adopted his standard defensive stance; knees slightly bent, left foot forward with the slight majority of his weight, shield hefted in his left arm and facing the opponent, body at a slight angle to them, and the spear in his right hand leveled firmly forward, nestled in the nook of his arm. Otto left the visor of his sallet up, preferring the enhanced visibility and feel of fresh air on his face.

[Erirag the Poet]

His own confusion spread like a tumor, infecting her as she heard the gruff rumble of Tradespeak tumble from between his lips. The question wasn't what she'd expected of him, and her idea of their greeting was quickly slipping away. As if her carefully laid plans were a life raft, and she were in the middle of the ocean, she watched for a moment as they slipped away, bobbing on waves as the current took them further from her grasp. Finally, as her gaze slid over his face and armor, she scratched at her chin.

"What?" she repeated, the words a thick slurry in her mouth, her lips not used to forming common speech even after her time spent in the cities. Her thoughts were spinning around the word, looking for the right answer to give him. It should have been so obvious, and yet she was still struggling. Perhaps, she finally thought, he had been among humanity long enough to forget the words of his people. After all, he was the first orc she'd encountered clad in armor, holding the weapons that the watchmen that patrolled the streets often had strapped to their sides. She wondered if his armor would be as easy to crush as theirs? She recalled a night where she slipped into a pub, only to be met with an unfortunate misunderstanding of her intent. A drunken soldier had tried to strike her with his blade, only to find the the poor quality of his breastplate was easy to dent, shoving into his body as his ribs cracked under the pressure. Somehow, though, she doubted it. It may have been a bias that was set startlingly strong in her mind, but even though she'd never heard of an orc in armor she felt very strongly that somehow orcish armor would be better.

"I will kill you," she said, forcing out the words in common for his courtesy. It was unfortunate, she thought, that she felt as if her tongue were binded. She would be able to impress him, surely, with her wit and humor and the stunning glory of her words if only he could understand her. Instead, she would have to struggle along in a foreign tongue, dumbing down her words so that she would not get them wrong.

"You so tiny," she giggled, flashing a toothy grin before balling her fists up and readying them at her side. "But tiny piece of glass kill when in food." Having shown respect to her opponent, she was ready to fight.

[Otto]

Otto noticed that Tradespeak came awkwardly from the giantess. Whatever she had roared out before was still reverberating back and forth down his spine; the unfamiliar words bypassed his conscious brain and struck home in some dark, primal corner. It promised shattered limbs, rivers of blood, and living flesh torn from the bone. Strangely enough, he found her laugh to be similarly daunting. Otto eyed those sledgehammer fists warily, acutely aware he had now leveled a six foot tug-of-war pole at a seven foot Orc warrioress with arms like stacked kegs. He tried to rally.

"'The bigger they are, the harder they fall'. Or so the dwarves often say." And I should make damn sure that I'm not underneath if that happens. Look at her! Who isn't tiny compared to that? "In which case, I will try and land you somewhere soft, giant one."

Think: she's unarmoured, so a blade would be ideal - which I don't have. I'm fit, but I'm also wearing near my own body weight in iron, so she'll outlast me. I can keep her at bay with my spear, but only if she doesn't grab it. And if she risks splitting a fist on my armour, one of her punches might be able to lift me off my feet. Maybe I could go for her kneecaps? And is this how those dwarves feel all the time?

Otto tried to use his peripheral vision to assess their positioning while keeping his eyes trained onto Erirag's. He had to take advantage of the mild slope and keep to higher ground. Keeping his distance for now, Otto carefully circled his foe upslope, wary of the bamboo shoots and the ground beneath his boots. At the same time he tried to remain aware of the position of the war hammer in it's hoop upon his right hip in case things got a little close for comfort. A fresh gust flowed in from the summit and pressed against his spear, though the blackened point never swayed from it's target.

Sometimes, opponents would casually cajole, banter, or chat amicably throughout a match. Otto had the feeling this was not one of those times.

[Erirag the Poet]

The spear was brandished at her, and she stared at the tip for a moment before she began to turn with him. The glint of light against the dark metal flickered as the iron moved through the dappled sunlight. She was suddenly and acutely aware that she was unarmed. Turning her eyes downward for a second, she clenched her fists, noting the way the knuckles lightened as she did. There had never been a time when she'd felt inadequate with her hands, raining destruction with her fists as surely as she might hold a hammer. Yet now she faced an opponent she felt she could respect, and the jaw she'd like to break lay beyond a length of iron and oak.

She felt that she should make this a fair fight, mostly. Perhaps her opponent was not skilled at hand to hand combat as she was. She knew nothing of where his tribe may be from, but his ease in the iron cage of armor and the polearm in his strong hands spoke that perhaps it would be cruel of her to force their fight close. No matter what the humans may say about orcs, they were not above honor even if their code was one written on rocks with old blood as the dark and crumbling ink. She reached out, verdant fingers closing around a stalk a few shades lighter. There was a crunch and crack as she tore at the bamboo, the four inch thick tube splintering in her meaty grasp as she ripped it from the base. It was rougher than it appeared, and sliding along thinner skin might have left splinters. The orc, however, was unphased by the deceptive brutality of her newfound weapon as she shuffled her hands down it's length. Her fingers wrapped firmly around it, one of the many knobs along the shaft resting between two fingers for stability and she turned the end of it on her opponent as he turned his spear on her. The tip of the bamboo was level with his spear-tip, though much less steady. With the wind and her hands, unused to using tools as much, the end shook and rattled at him. Still, she continued to grin. She felt she was evenly matched with him now, and they could rip each other to shreds, as friends did.

With a small grunt, she lifted the bamboo and moved forward, bringing it down to try and smash at him.

[Otto]

It was all he could do to keep circling and not stop to gawp once Erirag tore out the stalk. When Otto had first seen bamboo come through the workshop he'd thought it was a solid piece, much like the oak they usually worked with; if that conception hadn't been dispelled by now then the sight of a seven-foot warrior effortlessly leveling a four-inch thick culm at him would have been seriously off-putting. It looked like Erirag wasn't holding it entirely steady, though how much of that Otto could put down to her unfamiliarity with polearms and how much to the natural flexibility of the material, he wasn't sure. Was she toying with him? Probably, if that grin was anything to judge by. The giantess appeared to be enjoying herself, and, Otto realised, so was he. Just then he put his foot down on a loose rock - Otto paused for a moment to adjust his footing, and Erirag struck.

The blow should have been easy enough to counter: a well-telegraphed, straight downward strike from overhead. Given that Erirag had moved towards him, then a strong forward step and thrust by Otto would have exposed him to the mid-region of the bamboo shaft (with significantly reduced impact) while, combined with the momentum of both combatants moving towards each other, the spear should have skewered his opponent through the stomach. That scenario is actually pretty far from what happened. Rather, it went like this:

Though Otto saw the blow coming, her sheer strength meant Erirag was able to whip the light material around with the speed of a snapping cobra. Otto was still shifting his weight and had no chance of moving in for a strike. Instead, he raised his shield towards the incoming blow, angling it so that the bamboo would slide off to the side harmlessly. Not quite fast enough, the bamboo tip slammed down on the sloped oak surface with enough force to upset Otto's counter-thrust. His spear swung a little and lost some of it's stopping power; an unarmoured opponent would be in trouble if the return strike managed to catch them, but it would be impeded somewhat by leather and hadn't a hope in hell of piercing decent mail. Otto had regained his balance and now stood slightly angled towards Erirag with his right side forward from the thrust, his left hand bringing the shield back into position.