Division 2: Izvilvin vs. Hushpuppy

[Ther]

This match-up will last until 8 P.M. E.S.T. on 2/23/07. Remember, if you finish your battle early, I can score you early - and finishing early is a good, good thing always.

Best of luck!

[hushpuppy]

There are two places where a terrible smell and puddles of blood are considered commonplace. One is the executioner's yard. The other is a food market. That the first ends life and the second sustains it is one of the accepted anomalies of human existence. The surroundings of a death are often little different from that of a birth. You can wear the same suit to a christening and a funeral, and chances are that unless you're a lucky - or poor - man you'll have to pay taxes when either becomes necessary. Don't mention this to very many people. Once they realize it, they'll wish you hadn't brought it to their attention.

The day was damp and chilly. Clouds tumbled across the sky, jostled by a far, high wind. Against the ground the air was still and choked with noise and odor. The market was crowded with people, old and young alike, grabbing at food on the stalls with smudged fingers, flicking back the bits they didn't want, keeping the hunks that looked edible. Blind fish stared out in stacks at the lonely legs of sheep and cows. Separated from their three brothers, each individual flank swayed back and forth on its cruel hook, blood pooling underneath. Live chickens clucked in bamboo cages. Piles of vegetables, a thin veneer of green coating mountains of brown, rotted as they waited for buyers. A dog dipped his nose into a vat of water and was swatted away by a thirsty man who dipped in a ladle, licking his dry lips.

The street was dirt, churned into a red and brown sludge by thousands of cloth-wrapped feet. At either side of the road, stalls clutched at the ground, covered by sagging tarps. Flies buzzed eagerly in the air. Although this was the liveliest part of the nondescript gray city sprawled out at all sides, it still seemed suppressed, its people muttering instead of chattering, skulking instead of skipping, a dull sense of dread replacing the ecstacy that a day at the market with friends could bring. Men and women were indistinguishable, as all were cocooned in wool and hemp shawls that turned them into shuddering lumps. The few birds in the air were crows and grackles, no cheery warblers or robins. In the main square, out from which the market spread, a somber statue stared down from a high pedestal. Beggars were huddled around its granite plinth, one strumming the strings of a long-necked instrument.

One man was unconcerned with this dour scene. Dressed in faded red and blue pantaloons and vest, he feebly danced up and down the market's streets, groaning a song about lobsters. A strap around his neck held up a large wicker basket, hanging like a monstrous gourd down his front to the middle of his thighs. Painted over with pitch, it was obviously onerously heavy. Water sloshed from its rim with each step, dribbling down the waterproofed surface and soaking the man. A sign hanging down his back and another tied to the outside of his basket declared "Lobsteres - Freash." If anyone had cared to look down into the dingy water, they would have seen half a dozen pathetic lobsters, brown and dying, bouncing around in the basket. Although the man must have been strong to support the weight, his face was yellow and sickly, his hair thinning, his hands corded with thick veins.

As he rounded a corner, three indistinct flashes shot through the mud, splattering his trousers. Green, brown and white, they disappeared up his pants' leg. He stopped in mid-step, his basket lurching, a great wave of fetid water splashing to the ground. Shivering, he seemed about to become ill. No one around him stopped to inquire. Most moved a little closer to the moldy oranges or scowling pigs' heads they were inspecting, putting another inch between their backs and his quaking body. The street seemed a smidge relieved as he gave a shallow gasp like a dying body and began walking again. He didn't jig or whisper a hollow tune. He simply strode into the square at the middle of the market. He surveyed the bums and shoppers, frowning, and then spoke:

"One of you is here to fight a tournament. You are here to fight me. Come out."

[Izvilvin]

Izvilvin looked on from a distance, lavender eyes moving studiously to examine the humans as they went about their business. He could smell the sweat even from here, where he'd gazed thoughtfully at the bazaar in search of the man he would fight. The organization of the tournament confused him, but even more confusing was how he was expected to find the man here, in this rugged old village. His instructions had been cryptic and sketchy, so he merely watched the scene for now.

Ever since the Cell and Rheawien's betrayal, Izvilvin had developed a distaste for tournaments, for recreational battle altogether. If the chanting of a thousand bloodthirsty, rabid humans was all it took to sever a relationship, what good would it do him to enter such a scene again? Times had changed, though, and Izvilvin was beginning to think he'd need protection. Winning a tournament could grant him the funds he needed to defend himself, if not wipe out those who sought him altogether.

He didn't know whether the building he was in was abandoned or occupied by a poor family. That was the extent of poverty in this city, he realized, and with a grim smile left five pieces of gold on the table, blackened as if it had been burned in a fire some time ago.

Never had Izvilvin felt so easy to distinguish -- a feat, considering he was often the only Drow in the cities he visited. The humans of the village were dressed alike, wrapped in white shawls and cloth as if all part of a single tapestry, and he was the focal point. He was the large, black object against a backdrop of brown dirt and red brick. Izvilvin wasn't surprised to see heads turn as he made his way into the main road, the shifting soil stopping as feet went still.

He was used to stares, but these seemed different. Izvilvin couldn't figure it out, himself, but the humans were jealous of his vitality. The Drow practically radiated an aura of strength, though of course such a thing was purely perception. He was taut with muscle and fit as a horse, in his prime, as he would remain for at least another century. Somehow the humans sensed this and despised their rotten fruit and stale bread. Once or twice a year a Drow passed through, and he would soon leave them to their lives.

Whispers did not go unnoticed, for Izvilvin could hear far fainter things than any human, but he didn't understand the words. For once, he was thankful, and merely walked through the bazaar on his way deeper into the town.

By the time he reached the center of the market, a fragile shell of a man had taken it upon himself to speak to the crowd. His voice was emotionless, as if he was reading from a parchment whose contents didn't concern him. Others seemed to notice the strangeness of his tone, not to mention the cryptic challenge he'd uttered.

Izvilvin didn't understand what he'd said, but the Drow knew enough about voice to realize something was wrong. The blankness of the disheveled man's eyes revealed nothing. Too much nothing, as strange as it was.

His hands dropped to his belt and Izvilvin made his presence known. As if he didn't stand out enough among the white-clad humans, he raised his head and barked out the Drow word for challenge. It didn't occur to him that he was a cat among dogs.

((I think I know where you're going with this.))

[hushpuppy]

The lobster monger's face was impassive. Unpricked by fear or surprise, he turned at the growling word. Although he had never heard it before, its meaning was clear. This was a response to his challenge. He fumbled at his back for the buckle that held the basket's straps in place, and after a few moments pressing and pulling with unwieldy fingers, snapped it open. The heavy wicker hit the mud, sloshing gallons of slime and the forlorn lobsters. They rolled across the ground, weakly waving their shriveled claws in the air. He looked down at them coolly. A clutch of men standing at a beet stand grumbled at each other and looked up at the monger, his shoulders and back pulled rigid. Turning to the drow and back again, they pulled more tightly together, clumsily pulling away down a side street. An old woman selling lukewarm chestnuts from a sack stepped out of the main square, tucking her bag under a flabby arm. Other loiterers and merchants began to follow her lead. Duels were rare but well remembered, even here.

The man's face was still fixed, betraying nothing of the tumult behind it. Within him, his very essence was shifting and folding upon itself, desperately trying to flee from prying foreign fingers. Three pairs of spindly hands were poking into his memories, his feelings, his thoughts, yanking them out of place, creasing and tearing them into new shapes, pasting them together into new and more useful forms. It was as if maniacal editors had been let loose in a library, and were now rushing from book to book, tearing books from shelves and disemboweling them with scissors, pasting the chapters into a better story. Even as the custodians of these intimate tomes tried to hide a shelf or distract the marauders, an unseen hand would reach around them, smashing their deception and pulling out the next book to be eviscerated.

What rhyme and reason this effort had was fleeting. Although three pairs of hands were at work, they were not guided by the same brain. One pair tore fiercely, another snipped daintily, the last yanked until the spines snapped and entire volumes collapsed into uselessness. Their snippets were pasted one atop the other, more a collage than a manuscript. Whatever final goal there was, appeared to be chaos.

Thus, despite his stoniness, the man seemed uncertain. He kept staring at the lobsters in the muck, watching them drowning in air. Those in the crowd who noticed him and the drow were still nervous, but no longer flighty. Perhaps the old lobster salesman was only joking, and this beast had frightened him back to his senses. And yet, his wares were dying on the ground. A hound loped out of the crowd, sniffed at one of the lobster's speckled shells. Grinning monstrously, the dog snapped its jaws into its tail and dragged it back into the forest of legs and carts. One of its legs fell off as it vainly flailed on its way to digestion. Watching the dog drag its dinner away, one of the cutting hands in the salesman's soul's library seemed to win out, its clippings overcoming the others', and he looked up to the drow again.

"You're something different," he said, slightly slurring, and pointed to the black-skinned drow. "You're not like these others." He slowly moved his head, as if it weighed several tons, looking across the bazaar, taking in the living and dead meat scattered about. "No, indeed." He stepped forward, somewhat unsteadily. One of his feet came down on a lobster's back. He ground down with his heel. Squelching mud and snapping shell ended another minute life. "Maybe you shouldn't be fighting me, my dandy darkie. Maybe we should be fighting them," he licked his lips as his eyes moved from the drow's face to a muddy pool of blood beneath a stack of headless geese. A man in the crowd had a dirty bandage wrapped around his forehead. The bloodstains on its edges were the same color. These people could be wallowing in their own blood and not know the difference. They probably wouldn't care. He'd find out if they would. Moving closer to the drow, he flattened another lobster's back with his heel.

"They don't flinch when I mention it. How many could we stab before they scream? Would screaming stop us?" He was lowering his voice, almost seductively, a course whisper coming from his lips. If anyone could hear him, they were unmoved. When the threat had been two men slaying each other in front of them, they had shrunk away. The thought of being the targets themselves didn't seem to disturb them. Perhaps it would be an acceptable break in the monotony, without the subsequent emotional and social demands that murder in the street beside you might bring.

[Izvilvin]

Cold, uncaring eyes all around him had stopped taking notice of the Drow, at least for the time being. Similarly, more and more of the surrounding humans had turned away from the talking man, either bored with his words or his slow, emotionless voice. They were simple folk, set to live their day as if it was any other, flittering from stall to stall to purchase whatever food or stock they could afford. The presence of a Drow only warranted a moment’s attention before they continued their routines. Izvilvin took notice, and wondered briefly whether he was disappointed or not. Did he miss the attention, the clamor, the fear, despite how negative it all commonly was?

Izvilvin's eyes didn't move from the withered figure, but he approached to meet him halfway. The crunch of lobster seemed louder than any talking in the bazaar, which was unusual. It was as if the peoples’ spirits had been killed long ago, and now they merely existed because it was one of their obligations.

It occurred to him then that his hands were still on his weapons. He didn't move them.

Izvilvin was struck by the coldness of the man's eyes from up close. The way he looked about at the surrounding humans, who'd returned to their chores. The few words that Izvilvin understood were foreboding and somehow evil, yet he couldn't quite grasp what the man was proposing. It was beginning to become clear to the Drow that this might not be his opponent at all, but a beggar or teller of doom. All the same, he suddenly wondered if killing the citizens of the town could actually be considered murder; perhaps it would be merciful, saintly.

He took a moment to sweep his eyes over the nearby humans, entertaining this new thought. They seemed unconcerned with what the man was saying, though they were easily close enough to hear him. A breeze blew through the dusty road and sent dirt flying about their feet, an ominous hum filling the elf's ears. He felt infected with the thoughts, but couldn’t shove them aside.

Finally, the seductive tone of the human got to him, he detected the man was trying to sway him in some way. Izvilvin drew the enchanted blade, Icicle, an explosive vapor erupting from the sheath, finally freed. Around him, a few of the humans detected the cold and turned to witness the weapon, before once again returning to their business.

"Dos telanth 'zil natha faern, drill Usstan orn naut vok. Malar uns'aa nin, ka nindel's vel'bol dos ph' ghil ulu xun, lu' ori'gato udossa tlu xunor xuil ol!" he said, his words like fire gushing from deep in his belly. He was demanding that if the human was here to fight him, that's what he should do. The Drow doubted the words were understood, but knew the tone of his voice would make it clear.

The sound of his voice seemed to stir up some fear among the people around him. Izvilvin immediately regretted speaking with such fury, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He'd feared that because he was the odd man out, the battle could turn into a bloody hunt for him. However, the stringy people of the town seemed either too uninterested or too feeble to bother with him.

The Drow held out his mystical blade, the representation of his old friend Laix, who'd died at the hands of Sasarai the wizard. Mist wafted up from the weapon and climbed up between the lanky man's face and his own -- It looked as if he was peering over a pot of brew.

"Fight or leave me," Izvilvin spoke, the words choking out of him as if he were an infant desperate to communicate with his parents. He couldn't guess at whether or not this man was the one he sought, but knew he needed to get his answer quick and retreat from the spotlight. This wasn’t the Citadel, and one couldn’t be too careful.

[Max Dirks]

Izvilvin advances to round two!