Lets Rumble

[OneManWolfPack]

(Trying out 1st person, bear with any grammar edits and confusion please)

"Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork," I paused and looked my monk usher dead in the eye. "Give me a fuckin break, pal, I just wanna fight. Can't we skip the foreplay and get to the main event."

The monk hesitated, nodded and hummed, but finally followed with a timid "well, alright but I need one more signature right..."

"Here!?" I interrupted the shrimpy fuck with left hook that would've sent N'Jal flying back to whatever damp sinkhole she had crawled from.

Not more than a moment went by before my world went black.

What feels like hours later I awake to the smell of damp wood and piss in a cell barely wide enough to house an elf-dick, let alone my bulky physique. Judging by the boiling in my gut there was magic a foot. The one constant in my life is that I hate magic. I always had. Always will. It was a long, boring story really. One that involved dark sorcery, bondage and random erotic encounters.

And pain... lots of pain.

A fit a raw power and rage later I managed to burst from my wooden cage to a scene that made me wish I hadn't.

Fucking monks. I spat and took my first step into the wind. This is going to be a long, dirty day.

[Isylle]

BANG

The noise of a wooden box being sundered raced across an infinite expanse of a sunflower field. The yellow dials pointed towards the warm yellow sun in a heartachingly blue sky. A few whisps of white clouds covered the firmament like a desperate comb-over. The 8-foot stalks swayed to the wind in gentle ripples that raced from one yellow horizon to another.

While Cruz blinked in the sudden brightness, the all-suffusing song of countless unseen insects changed tone. There was the faintest rustling noise, then a vision of red, white, and green appeared. She was statuesque, curvy, and dressed in a white blouse, red waistcoat, red skirt, black stockings, and a yellow ascot. A pleasant, maternal smile radiated from that triangular face, framed by loose, auburn hair. She had apparently come mostly unarmed, bearing just a furled, light-pink parasol. Tender green sprouts pushed up from the ground about her black shoes.

"Good day." What a cheerful voice! But why do the calls of the insects suddenly fade away into ear-popping silence, as if shrinking from some mortal danger? "My name is Isylle, Master of the Flowering Seasons, of Tenger Jerhal. It is nice to meet you! May I please know your name?"