Round 2 will start midnight Tuesday, CST. Good Luck!
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Round 2 will start midnight Tuesday, CST. Good Luck!
He turned his sword towards the ground, dragging it around to make small little spirals in the sand. He could hear the cheering from outside. The crowd was compromised of people who were no better than animals, not understanding the significance of the blood curling screams. Ciato Orlouge sat upon the wooden bench; a bench that had been filled with many warriors early in the day, now only filled with Draug and himself. The two men had been patiently awaiting their opponents for the second round of the Lornius Corporate Championship, after a successful defeat of the great Letho Ravenheart in the first round.
The cave-like entrance opened with a groan, shedding the first rays of light the two vicious combatants had seen since the last poor soul went out to get slaughtered. Looking at his partner with a nod, Ciato stood and made his way outside into their arena. His eyes could barely make out the crowd above the ring due to the bright lights of the arena. He could hear bottles and mugs slamming against the chain link fence that kept things from getting in or out. His eyes shifted towards the ceiling, the Mystic's blue orbs noticing that the metal links covered them in a dome-like fashion.There was a copper like smell in the air, blood that had recently been spilled, staining parts of the sand at their feet. He kicked the grit around, causing a minuscule twister to arise; there was only about an inch of sandy grains beneath them.
“This is all very reminiscent of The Cell,” Ciato noted, before aiming his sword into the air, rousing a loud cheer from the audience. In his time outside of Orlouge Drantrak, the Mystic had discovered that the masses had a penchant for those who pandered to the crowd. The nobleman was also completely aware that feeding into the masses would not be the monsters strong suit. As such, Ciato pointed his sword towards the opposite end of the arena in the most elaborate way possible.
“I am one half of the team that beat Letho Ravenheart!” Ciato’s words cut through the crowd, deafening the cheers as if they were hanging on his every word now, “Is there anybody that thinks the League of Nightmares will fall?!?!”
A huge ‘Hell NO!’ was shouted in unison from the public. Ciato extended his arms, as if to beg his opponents to show up and attack him. At this point, the Mystic felt as if there was absolutely nothing that could stand in his way.
The arena had about a thirty feet diameter to it. It was perfect for close quarters fighting, as there was nothing but dirt all around them. No hiding spots, no way to talk ones way out of it, absolutely no escape. It was exactly everything Ciato and Draug could hope for in an arena. The Mystic kneeled down, taking a few grains of sand in his hand and letting the earth sift through his fingers.
“Hope you’re ready, Draug,” Ciato stood up with a smirk. “Because this nightmare is just starting.”
The light poured in from the mirrors cleverly placed to reflect sunlight in a wide arc across the arena. While it was bright in the fighting circle, Draug could barely see the masses of raving spectators beyond the metal fence in the darkness. Was everyone in Lornius this crazy? He should have recruited this whole damn island for the Cult. They were in the massive cellar of one of the largest bars in Lyridia, refurbished into a prizefighting pit. As he stepped out in the dirty, sandy floor, he looked down at his hands, flipping them over and over again.
Ciato noticed the strange action of the Homunculus, "I'll be damned if I can ever see some emotion out of you, but now I'm starting to tell when something's on your mind. Care to share, partner?"
"He's still alive, I know it," grunted Draug. They had to leave Terrinore before they could confirm Letho's body in the rubble, but there was the distinct possibility that the ranger was still alive. In fact, Draug was sure of it. "I haven't killed him yet."
"Don't worry about it. You'll get your chance someday, I mean the guy practically leaves a trail of destruction. Anyway, do you have any information on our opponents? I've never heard of them."
Draug looked at Ciato and shook his head slowly, "Orcs. Both of them." Even the Cult's sources were rather light on details aside from those released by the LCC commission. After a pause, Ciato took the hint that Draug knew nothing else and turned around to continue enticing the crowd. He seemed to enjoy being the center of attention.
The Homunculus coughed, tasting blood on his lips. He put his hand up to his mouth and wiped off the dark red liquid, staring it at with prejudice. Despite all the available victims in Terrinore, he did not take the time to replace his dying organs. He still had a while to go before they started to fail entirely, but the symptoms were starting up already. Soon his needs would be satiated by having to rip organs out of some hapless victim. Maybe his opponents would be kind enough to share some of theirs.
"Kitotat hoshat vadokan gologri..." Erirag's voice faded out as the percussion from feet stamping in the stands above them picked up. As they'd waited their turn in the pit, she'd taken a moment to pull out her lute and pluck at Thingur's catgut strings. The battle on the beach in which they'd stood in fire and rain had her expecting more of the same from the second fight in the Lornius. Yet, they found that this time around they'd been ushered from the wilderness to a more urban jungle, one in which buildings and crowds made her think about the songs she'd written about cities. Though she was working on teaching Otto a song that compared a night-time cityscape to the bones of an elf laid out in the moonlight, this place was anything but quiet and moon-touched.
The door rattled open, disturbing the notes of her lute and the echoing voice of her partner. While Otto didn't have the fine grasp on tune that the bardess did, the way he'd stumbled over the orcish words made her feel proud. She was bathing in the elation of sharing language with one of her own when she was washed in the reflection of the midday sun from the mirrors that had been placed through the arena. Metal clanged as mugs and bottles ricocheted off the fencing between the pit and the stands, it shuddered and rattled as meaty fists grabbed at the wire and shook. The song she'd been patiently repeating to the shorter orc was overtaken by the enthusiasm of their audience.
Standing up, she smoothed her grass skirt around her and set the lute to the side where the rest of their personal effects had traveled with them. From the entry, she could see the sandy floor that they would grapple and struggle on. She could see the form of their two opponents move across the empty space as the people of Lornius called for blood and the death of the orcs. Most of all, she could smell. She smelled blood and sweet, alcohol and tobacco. Most of all, she smelled death. A grin stretched across her face and she turned her large olive form to Otto before giving him a tentative thumbs up, a signal she'd taken to mean that all was ready if her observations of humanity meant anything.
"This day," she said, trying her best to enunciate her Tradespeak words as Otto had been trying to teach her. "It good day to kill."
With that, she turned and began to stalk into the arena. Her hips swayed, the bones and shell strewn around her hips and neck rattling as she moved. The rodent skulls in her hair bounced as she whipped her gaze back and forth from Ciato to Draug. Erirag's confidence only soared as she noted that their opponents were nothing like orcs. Victory was almost assured. As she flexed her muscles, preparing for an attack, she made a mocking bow.
"Me Eriag!" her voice was lifted, the strong projected echoing of an entertainer well rehearsed in reaching a raucous audience, "You die now!"
"... Kuli nagraufrom; Sapat ashtri armaukob", Otto's brow furrowed with effort as he dredged up the next line of the song, courtesy of Erirag's tutelage. Towers grow; dead baby bone hampers. Or something like that - between her imperfect Tradespeak and his own practically non-existent Aleranian Orcish, some things had almost certainly been lost in translation. Oddly enough, when she'd first begun to teach him the songs of her people (though an Orc himself, his upbringing had been too far removed for him to consider them as his own), it wasn't his mangling of the language that had made her wince and cuff him over the head. He knew he had a terrible voice so he had taken to singing under his breath; paradoxically, he had begun practicing for performances that nobody would be able to hear. Three inspirational lectures on Erirag's part and a mild concussion later, Otto finally broke the habit and sung his first song from start to finish. For his trouble he had been rewarded with a surprising rush of elation and a rather fixed smile of encouragement upon Erirag's glazed-over face. Every day, though, more and more of his caterwauling was being replaced with something that passed for music, and it was always nice not having to hammer out the dents in his helmet quite so often.
Otto cast a questioning look towards Erirag to see if he had gotten it right this time, but the giantess was not paying attention. The noises of the crowd had jumped in pitch and volume: the battle was about to start. He turned to the large door as it opened, lighting up the antechamber with an intensity which surprised the younger Orc - he had been expecting gloom and guttering torches for the underground fight. Yet the brightness had nothing on the soup-thick stench which roiled out from the pit. There was sweat, smoke, ale, even a hint of piss, and as usual with these sorts of institutions, those aromas were overrun by a smell of blood so thick, you could leave out a bowl of porridge overnight and come back to black pudding in the morn. He locked eyes with Erirag, who gave him a thumbs up.
"It good day to kill", she said, and Otto nodded in agreement. As far as Erirag was concerned, it usually was.
With spear and shield in hand, he trailed a short way behind his partner on their way in to the arena and took up a position several feet from her left flank. Since he had a much shorter gait, Otto normally found himself lagging behind the giantess. It was not something he particularly minded; he did his best to keep his gaze straight and level most of the time, but when his concentration lapsed his eyes would usually end up resting on Erirag's sashaying hips. Consequently, he had taken to keeping the visor on his helmet down when in these situations - but not today. He liked to sniff out a battleground first in order to get an impression of the place which his eyes and ears alone could not provide. What he smelled now, while Erirag was putting on a show, was nothing much out of the ordinary: the pit had seen much violence in it's time, its aroma of blood formed of progressively-aged strata. He toed the sand underfoot; soaked in blood and battle, it was just the sort of thing Anvil would love to fold into a sword. A fine blade it would make, too.
That's odd...
He sniffed the air again and caught a hint of fresh blood. Very fresh. And... wrong. Otto looked to the other side of the arena where their opponents loitered. The white-haired fellow bore a steel rapier, the mark of a precision swordsman. He even looked familiar... Otto did not think they had met before, but after the fight, he might ask the man whether he had any kin in Corone. Then Otto looked into the eyes of the other, and had to suppress a surge of fear. It came not from any one attribute, but various subtle - and not-so-subtle - signs which, combined together, suggested that the golden-haired combatant was not altogether human. Otto turned his head slightly to the right and spoke to above the din of the crowd.
"There is... gijakob, uh, raum gijakob", he hazarded. Even if their opponents could hear him, hopefully Erirag would be the only one to make sense of his fractured Orcish. "It smells off. Bad. Not mir gijakob. Be careful."*
With that he hefted his shield and spear, ready to follow Erirag's lead.
*Otto thinks that the words translate as follows: gijakob = 'blood', raum = 'new(ness)', and mir = 'good'.
The closest thing Ciato Orlouge had ever seen to an orc at this point was his older brother Steppenwolf. When the Mystic set his gaze upon the beasts, his sword was lifted into the air without hesitation, prompting another rowdy cheer from the drunken mules above. He watched carefully as the miniscule male member of the matching monstrosities spoke in a foreign tongue. Ciato quirked an eyebrow at this, his mind trying to race back to his schooling.
Mystic’s had a pretty well adapted education, and for a family as high up on the social hierarchy as the Orlouge clan, that education was triple enforced. Ciato’s mind thought back to his days of translating the language of the orc, and more specifically, trying to pinpoint the dialect. Blood. He definitely said blood….what was that other word…fresh? Known? Not ….well blood? Is he talking about Draug? Ciato looked back to his partner, a slight smile gracing his gentle looking features. The tone in which he had spoken hinted at hesitation, and hesitation would always lead into fear. A fear of the mish-mash of man-made parts that called itself Draug was an opportunity Ciato could not afford to pass up.
“Draug, think you can handle the man?” Ciato used his free hand to slide across his hair. He wanted to show his opponent’s that they were truly not even worth his time of day. The fact that Ciato could roughly translate the words of the orcs meant that he held an advantage over the creatures. He just had to make sure not to show his hand to his opponents, and this round would be his. Yet another stepping stone in the glorious legacy of Ciato Orlouge.
Draug nodded, and Ciato turned to face the female. The Mystic had not felt this excited about taking down an opponent since he and Draug bested Letho Ravenheart in the previous round. Compared to the gun slinging Marshall, these two giants seemed like a nice vacation from the stiff competition. Orcs are huge, but they’re naturally slow, and they play dirty. It’s just like a training match against Steppenwolf.
Ciato leapt from his position, his sword pointed outward as he made the dash. A dust cloud rose up from the ground upon Ciato’s take off. He knew that he had to strike fast, and strike hard. As he came closer to the lady-orc, he could smell the odor of her natural scent, undaunted by the civility of perfumes and other fragrances. It was almost overwhelming enough to send the nobleman on the retreat. He pushed through the stench however, and aimed the tip of his sword towards the exposed breasts of the behemoth. “A souvenir for our second round victory, my dear” he taunted.
First, a quick test of abilities, Ciato thought, then the real fun will begin
Draug wanted to avoid talking to Ciato as much as possible. The man infuriated him, whether it was his arrogance, pride, or delusions of grandeur. It was however not unlike other members of the Cult. They all had selfish desires, but the difference was that Draug was under orders to cooperate with him. It was the first time he wasn't directly under the command of his mother, and something didn't sit right with him because of that. It was possible for him to consider the orders the same as hers, but he was starting to understand The Dark Mother and her true desires. Despite his slight frustration, he didn't have the capacity to question the situation. All he could do was follow his orders and fight.
He started to walk around the arena in a circle around the smaller orc, Otto. Of course, he had no concept of their disgusting language. He had never fought one of their kind before, and the height difference was strange; One was like a monument, while the other was shorter than Ciato. Deciding to test the waters, Draug's mouth opened wider than any human's would. His right hand reached into his throat and pulled out a steel sword, covered in blood from the blade gliding across his swollen throat tissue. The poisonous blood dripped from his mouth and from the tip of the blade as he lowered it. He only needed one hand to hold the sword and swing it with enough strength to cleave a man in two. Unlike Ciato, Draug took things slow. He wanted to savor every cut, every crunch of the orc's bones. The Cult taught him to relish the moment.
"Crush that green-skinned freak!" came a yell from beyond the fence. Like a chorus, the crowd erupted in jeers, taunts, and insults. Draug was more accustomed to screams of terror and gurgles of pain than someone actually encouraging him to murder, but he was too focused to care about the spectators. He kicked up the sand as he walked, the strength of his gait belying his lanky appearance. The smells did not bother him, the sounds were like echoes in his mind, and in his vision he could only see the orc, his target and source of life-giving body parts.
He dragged the blade across the ground, causing a grating sound. He intended to walk right up to Otto and swing his sword in an upward diagonal arc, casual as can be. He was no different from a butcher coming in to kill an unsuspecting animal.
Otto's words rolled by like the shadows of fish moving just under the surface of a darkened pond. The din of the crowd was mounting as tension and intoxication danced together. She caught the broken orcish - more easy on her ears than the common tongue of mortals. She had to admit that the man was learning the language of her Alerarian tribe than she was taking up ttradespeak, and she felt a surge of pride even as her mind tried to work out what her comrade was hinting at. Of course there was a smell of bad blood in the air; not only did blood gush on the sands of the arena but surely organs had spilled bile and filth as well. However, Otto thought it was new and wrong, and she trusted the armored orc completely. Another glance as their opponents spoke still just showed a couple of humans, however. She glanced over her shoulder and nodded at the blacksmith, assuring him with complete confidence that as orcs, they were far superior in every manner.
"Smicopul sharaobi nar daumab zouk'hai." The word zouk'hai was said carefully, as if it were the most important word she could find to give him. In a way, it was. It was the word for "us" that she'd begun to use after their previous fight in the Lornus, and it meant everything that was hers - but better than anything else of hers. A word of kinship, she'd taken him as one of her own tribe despite his short stature and proclivity to clad his skin in metals. What importance was his armor? She'd grown up on the mountains of Alerar, her feet and her heart resonating with the metal deep within. Otto was simply an orc that was the mountain, a force that would not be moved or bowed. While he may have felt uneasy in Draug's presence, she knew that he could not be humbled by these little flits of nothing before them.
The crowd reacted to Ciato's movement and voices rang out, frantic and fevered. Erirag's attention snapped back to the arena as the mystic charged at her. She snorted in derision and brought her arm up to the left, fist clenched. His blade met her mid-forearm and was pushed to the side. She meant to break his face in for daring to pierce her heart, though as she moved her body forward in her attack she was distracted by a sharp pain on her arm. Her leathery skin, thick enough to protect from the elements, had been cut and bright bubbles of ruby welled to the surface around the edge of the sword that still sunk into her flesh. It wasn't a terribly deep cut, but it enraged her. She'd been wrong about this fop of a man. The way he held himself, so different from her companion, had made her sure that his sword would be blunt and uncared for. With blood falling on the sands, the crowds began to howl in approval. The chain fencing clanged and rang as more debris hit it. A full mug of mead had been thrown in enthusiasm and the cold suds splattered across the ground and Erirag's back.
Fueled by her anger over her own mistake, she continued to move into the attack ignoring that flesh was rendering as his sword moved with their steps. Her other hand pulled back and moved forward in a rushing punch, the hammer of a hand almost the same size as Ciato's skull. She stared down at him, brows furrowed in a glare as she snorted a grunt with effort. Hot air rolled from her nose over pursed lips and bared fangs. He may be able to sting her, but she was still assured that the well-prened mystic was but an annoyance.
Quote:
Orcish translation:
These little scraps of human cannot hurt us.
One single minute in the confines of the arena, and Otto's nose was already blocking itself shut against the pungent fog of the place. His ancestors had come from the wilderness, leading lives much as Erirag had done, where a stray gust of wind might carry the merest hint of blood for a mile and spell the difference between a meal and a hungry night. Spending too long in the stifling and crowded air of the pit was the olfactory equivalent of staring too long into the sun; Otto's poor nostrils had to shut themselves tight lest the combined stench of old blood, vinegar sold under the guise of mead, and unwashed sailors who had in tow half of Lyridia's dockside whores begin to dissolve his sinuses. That was just the beginning of it, too.
The crowd-pleaser was occupying himself with Erirag, which left the creepy one trained onto Otto. Those black-and-yellow eyes weren't that disconcerting by themselves as one did not grow up on the streets of Corone without seeing the weird and wonderful variety which life had to offer - and as far as that went, strangely hued eyes weren't all that outstanding. His sense of uneasiness changed to apprehension as he watched the man distend his maw wide, made a brief detour through morbid fascination when a hand reached inside his mouth, and finally stopped dead at mild terror as it slid sword out from bloodied throat. All the while Otto did not see a single flicker of pain mar those flat, dead features.
For some reason, he couldn't help thinking that it far outstripped anything the fop or Erirag had done so far in terms of performance.
Erirag saved him then, perhaps. "Smicopul sharaobi nar daumab zouk'hai," she said, and Otto broke free of the trance. Us. He was one half of a team, of which the other half had been the only one apart from his family to willingly share any sense of kinship. For the conscript, that had been as an oasis in the desert. It meant there was no excuse to let her down.
"It's him", he said, and made a short jabbing motion with his spear towards the approaching homunculus. "Bad gijakob".
The smell of befouled blood was clear even to Otto's malfunctioning nose, since the sword was slick with the stuff. There was no way he wanted that on him: Otto's shield hand set his visor down and he delayed his charge, planning to test the creature at range with his spear. He noted the way the sword was dragging through the sand, and the slow gait... whatever it was, it knew how to capitalise on its appearance.
In contrast to the slow-moving horror, the fop had just made a brave assault on Erirag. Otto risked a quick glance at the other pair and saw his partner's predicament.
"Sharp edge weaker than sharp point", he said, turning back to Draug. His tenuous hold of Orcish had almost deserted him, so he adopted a simplistic form of Tradespeak. "He fight like gologri".*
A rapier was a good thrusting weapon, and deadly even against armoured fighters since it was suited to seeking out and piercing weak points. Erirag had been relatively lucky to catch the edge of the blade since they lacked the sheer chopping power of their thicker, heavier cousins. If the giantess heeded him then she should have no problem taking out the little dandy - especially if she pretended that her opponent was, in fact, gologri.
Otto kept his knees bent and his centre of balance low, the speartip tracked his own opponent's circle round the outside of the pit until its target came to a halt. Now he was closing the distance, still moving slowly, still dragging that sword through the sand...
Otto didn't want to play games. When Draug was just out of reach, the Orc took a step forward and thrust high towards his opponent's chest. His jab was aimed at the opposite side to his opponent's sword-arm, to increase the distance his opponent would have to swing the blade so as to swat the spear away.
Gologri = 'elf/elves/elven' (?)
Ciato did not react to his sword only scratching his foe. He intended for the blow to kill, and anything else left a tinge of disappointment throbbing within the Mystic’s heart, but his body would show no indication of such pain. As the bare-breasted and brutal behemoth brought down her giant club of a fist, Ciato hopped backwards, the punch meeting with nothing but the ground and causing an even bigger cloud of dust to arise. The crowd cheered as their ‘hero’ evaded the attack of the ‘villain’. What irony that I would slit all of their throats if given the first opportunity, Ciato mused.
As for her, Ciato kept nimble on his feet, hopping around the dust cloud that Erirag had created, causing his own smaller puffs of brown to kick up into the air. There is something vaguely familiar about everything she's doing. From the calling me a 'scratch of a man' to the smash first and think later fighting style. The question is, who… His eyes widened as he reached his conclusion, the smile on his face turned to a dropped jaw and his brows lowered in anger. Erirag’s fighting style was that of the one man on Althanas that Ciato Orlouge hated more than anybody else.
“Steppenwolf,” he muttered, his grip on his sword tightening around the hilt. His heart pounded; time itself seemingly slowed down with each throb the organ produced. Ciato had spent years fighting his younger brother, Steppenwolf Orlouge, but the nobleman had always found himself coming up short against his kin in physical match-ups. Ciato’s eyes now focused more intently on the cloud, his mind reminding him of loss after pathetic loss, his body beaten upon the ground, pools of blue forming around his form as the pink haired sibling laughed with such annoying mirth.
The crowd began to get rambunctious, throwing their items with a greater force and urgency. He ignored the riots that had begun to start due to the lack of any real action. A few had begun to change their choice of champion and opted to cheer for the oddly sized orcs instead. Ciato swallowed hard, his mind was now fully concentrated on the form he saw in the middle of the cloud, a form whose silhouette looked more like a ghost from the Mystic’s past.
Ciato screamed a declaration to the heavens that silenced even the rowdy crowd for a few moments. His hands were biting into the handle of his weapon so hard, small trickles of azure had begun running down his arms. His eyes lost color as he landed from yet another short hop, jumping straight and attempting a stab. He moved to the side, stabbing again, each thrust carrying with it a scream as it tore through the wind with a wild warrior conviction. Sweat began to drip down his features, each little bounce in the nobleman’s step joining with a quick thrust. There was no method to the attack, and it lacked any good form or grace that Ciato Orlouge was typically known for in combat. The thrusts were like that of a magician's assistant jamming swords into the box that contained her boss. The cloud would hopefully settle into the visage of an orcish corpse and a Mystic's victory, ratherthan an unharmed magic man.
All he could see was Steppenwolf Orlouge, the man who always beat him. It mattered little to him now if he advanced in this tournament or not. He just wanted this orc dead, and he would now stop at nothing to make sure that such a thing became reality.
Draug couldn't help but notice his partner's attack while he was making his death march. This was the first time he had seen Ciato fight, and he expected something different. It occurred to him that he would much rather be fighting the giantess than this shorter orc, but he could easily see himself fighting both of them. In fact, the Mystic was just in his way. He was hoping the loudmouth would find himself pulverized enough for Draug to take over without worrying about him messing everything up. That seemed like a good justification for letting him do this, the larger opponent could incapacitate Ciato sooner. While he was under orders to protect Ciato, it was not against himself. If he chose to act poorly, Draug saw no need to interfere. That was the gambit his mother was playing with the Mystic's life. She had no intention to be used by the Mystic, it was she who was using him.
The orc before him was armed with a spear and shield, an arrangement more commonly found in the armed forces of Salvar or Corone. The Homunculus was somewhat familiar with spear combat, but the range of his experience was limited. As he drew closer, he noticed that the orc's skin was more gray than anything, and his long arms could likely allow for thrusts far outside Draug's attack range. He was built well for a spear user, and it was clear that he meant to keep Draug away from him. The Homunculus would have no part of that. The orc's mistake was assuming he was human.
As the orc thrust forward with the spear, Draug made no attempt to deflect the weapon. Keeping his free hand ready, he stepped into the tip of the spear and allowed it to pierce into his body, causing a burst of poisonous blood to erupt from the wound toward the orc. He felt a streak of pain course through his body, but pain was a welcome friend to the monstrosity. He immediately went to grab the shaft of the spear with his left hand to pull it further into his body with his inhuman strength, digging his feet into the ground and trying to drag the orc off-balance. His sword-wielding hand was already at work with a wide swing from his side. Despite the thinness of his arms, the compressed muscles within held an enormous amount of strength, and he meant to test the orc's own strength. He was going to teach the ugly beast the mistake of coming here, of encountering the champion of The Cult of Blessed Torture.
Despite the fact that her knuckles met only the sandy floor of the arena, grit scratching at her fingers, Erirag couldn't help but smile. The mystic before her did fight like an elven lord, his swift feet leaving little room for errors. However, even as he danced away through the dust that her smashing strike had kicked up she grinned and laughed. The deep chortle rolled through the filthy haze and she stood enshrouded in a golden mist that dissipated almost as quickly as it had puffed upward. Before she could call back to her friend, the swordsman was before her. Engulfed in a halo of rage and hatred, he struck. As shards of glass and clay slithered across the powdered arena floor, the thin point of the rapier was flashing and jutting out at her.
It wasn't the first time that she'd suffered a stab wound. The elves were like that too, and more than one bladed tip or arrowhead had buried itself in her body. Again, she thought of Otto's remarks on Ciato's fighting style. Even as she tried to dodge the random points of the sword, swatting at them as angrily as she might swat a fly, she could smell her own blood bubbling to the surface. It was crisp and clean in her mind, a striking contrast to the smell that had been seeping through the arena since the doors had opened to welcome them to their fates. Now that she could compare the two she understood what Otto meant about bad blood. That smell was growing stronger, almost pouring from behind her. She hoped that it meant Otto had taken out the other human. It was then that she made a terrible mistake. Twisting, she turned to ensure that Otto was fine, a nagging feeling in the back of her mind telling her that the fear she smelled heavy in the air was not entirely from the crowds that pressed their faces to the fencing.
The vision she saw didn't seem quite right. The human was skewered, like meat ready for the fire spit. The pleasure she got lasted only a split second until she saw it slide the spear deeper, as if it was little deterrent from making it to her companion. Rage bubbled up in her, pulling a growling roar from her throat. If anything needed to be smashed, it was this other human. She'd almost forgot about the Orlouge behind her until a sharp immediate pain exploded in her side. Midstep, she stopped and looked down and to the side under her arm. Blood dripped down her biceps from where she'd taken slices and stabs at his earlier attacks, but now it was pouring from between her bottom-most ribs. The rapier was firmly wedged in her skin, almost like a thick silver hair that was begging to be plucked.
It was a lucky shot, but she would ensure that this man would not be so lucky again. "Lulgijak!" she hissed through a pained breath. Flowers-in-the-Blood, it meant, a reference to the elven way in which this man fought, in which he lived. The arrogance was almost too much for one orc to take. She and Otto were iron and rock, and no velvet flower could withstand their assault. She would have to trust her amber-eyed friend for now. As she whipped around to meet the noble, she grabbed frantically at the blade in her side, hoping to pluck it out and away from him before he could withdraw it. Every movement was agony, but not as much as she planned on giving to him if she could take his sword and beat him soundly with it.To edge him away, her free fist swung again, around and upwards. His jaw was just begging to be knocked off.
The spear landed dead on target, piercing flesh with ease. What Otto didn’t expect was for a jet of blood to spurt out like juice from a burst Bradbury lemon. With the large gap between them, Otto had enough to time to jerk his shield into place before the drops landed. He could hear them pitter-patter on the other side upon the oak.
With his head hidden behind the shield, he did not see Draug’s next move. Worried that his opponent would try to sever the shaft with his sword, Otto tugged at the shaft weapon without success; the spear was being held firmly in place. He went for a second pull - but his opponent reciprocated first, and dragged the Orc in. Otto swung his shield out wide and used it as a counterbalance in a drunken pirouette. He let his knees bend further and ducked down low, levering against the spear to push himself back. In the space of half a second, his heart clenched tight at the sight of a steel sword swinging in a wide arc from the opposite direction... then it skimmed over the crest of his helm, and the shaft came free in his hand with a crack. Otto whirled backwards a step, heavy feet kicking up a spiral of sand, and the world twirled by in blurry glimpses to show –
– the crowd, quickly running out of improvised ballistics –
– a bloodied Erirag with a sword between her ribs –
– and the lax features of the blonde-haired devil. Otto hopped back a couple more steps, still regaining his balance, and glanced down at the severed length of oak in his palm. The wood had been chopped through in one swing. He looked up from the frayed end of the shaft and in to the black eyes of the man before him, and there it was: the better part of the shaft still embedded in his chest. Otto stared for a moment. Then he flung the stub at Draug.
Something was bubbling up inside him, hissing through the cracks. A fortnight ago – hell, even just a week – it hadn’t existed… but Erirag had come to cast a new light on battle for him. She was resurrecting in him the joy of combat which had died in the face of the civil war and all its mindless, indiscriminate violence. The crowd stamped and screamed to a bloody tattoo pounding in his ears. He could not believe he was about to do it, but he was.
Otto began to sing.
He sung one of the first tunes that Erirag had taught him, an earthy ditty with an uplifting melody. It was the Orcish equivalent of Coronian folk songs about home, family, mother’s Yarlborough pie, and carefree frolicking through the countryside.
“Golog maush ambal, shara maush pasun. Bur-Uruk, Gru-Uruk - karg maushat sha kragor!".
It wasn’t well sung, and Otto only hit the general area around the notes, but Erirag would probably be the only one able to tell. She was in a bad way; the smell of blood in this place was only getting more suffocating. He dared not turn his back on the homunculus to go and help her, but he would not let her think she was entirely on her own. While he bellowed out, slow and strong, he unhooked the hammer at his waist, hefting it in his right hand, and readied his shield once more. The diseased one was toying with him, which may have been the only reason Otto was still upright; there must have been a lot of strength in those arms to cleave through a rod of oak in one swing.
"Pau lumri ob gijak! Baj malri ob kafakri! Bajrak ashtri flo-ub, na mal-maj.
"Mirdautas vras!", he roared. Sand jumped around his feet as advanced towards the homunculus, sheild at the fore and hammer at the ready, preparing as best he could to meet his opponent's attack.
Translation: Elf meat is sweet, man meat is rich. Brothers, sisters - tear flesh with fang! Drink rivers of blood! Build mountains of skulls! Our bones will rest, at the summit.
He could hear his father’s voice telling him to get up and try again. He could feel the shameful stare of his mother’s eyes upon his form. The tactics that this disgruntled and despicable demonkin demonstrated dripped with desperation. The Mystic released the sword for a moment as the she-orc came swinging at him, both blows stopping just inches from his features. As the air began to crack and create spider web like fractures around him, he looked at Draug’s progress. His partner’s opponent was now singing something that sounded more like the beast was howling in pain. Ciato smiled at the thought of his ally finishing off the horrible creature.
He turned back quickly towards his female foe, his frantic and fantical frenzy finally starting to fade at the sight of the female's full form. The air around him shattered into large fragments of glass that surrounded his form, hovering as if they were crystalline soldiers ready for their orders. The nobleman quickly grabbed at the hilt of his sword, still implanted in the beast, and pulled with all his might. He had hoped the maneuver would cause the gross and ghoulish green skinned goliath further pain. Ciato’s face continued its cheshire grin as he heard the sloshing sounds of the rapier exiting flesh.
“The one named Otto,” Ciato said, the fragments flung forward from their formal formation and flew through the air, hurtling at speeds similar to a hawk swooping down to acquire a mouse. Ciato’s Mystic Protection spell allowed him to designate a target, to which the magical glass would implant every bit of itself into said targets weakest area. Ciato knew that by the way these two had talked to one another, that they must have been lovers. More so than his weapon impaling her, the loss of this ‘Otto’ would surely hurt Erirag more. Even with his armor, the Mystic was certain that a few shards would make their way to exposed spots. any pain felt by Otto would probably be just as emotionally damaging to Erirag.
Thoughts of Asterodeia, Ciato’s own lover and wife filled his head. He could still recall the warmth of her body against his, the feeling of her breath as she purred against his neck. Most importantly, he recalled the empty feeling in the pit of his stomach when he had lost her. His heart had always felt as though it pumped blood at half capacity now, and his motives were usually driven by nothing more than routine. Now, Erirag would know the same feelings of suffering that Ciato had bottled up inside for years. This would be a pain far greater than any that the middle child Mystic would ever be able to inflict on his sibling.
And that thought brought with it a great joy to Ciato's heart.
The orc's reaction time was fast enough to avoid Draug's attack, but his spear was not so lucky. As the Homunculus cleaved through the oak shaft, there was a loud crunching sound and bits of wood fell to the ground. Now instead of pushing his half of the spear further into his body, he ripped it out completely, but unlike the initial penetration, there was no explosion of blood from his chest. Blood was clotting around the wound since the impact, and while there was still a gash of red that could be seen through his ripped clothes, it was clear that the damage had been mitigated. The orc threw the remains of his half of the spear, which Draug knocked away with the other half. Blood dripped down from the spear's tip, mixing with the liquid already on the ground below him. While Draug could have pressed the attack, the orc's singing made him curious. It looked like there was a dark enjoyment to gray-skinned beast's battle. Draug had no such concept of fun, he only had his orders and to fulfill them at his own pace. He tossed aside the broken spear and held up his sword once again with one hand, narrowing his eyes at the sight of the orc retrieving a hammer.
Before he could make his next attack however, he noticed a hail of glass shards heading towards his direction... no, not his direction, Otto's direction. In the back of his mind, a dormant emotion surfaced to the fore. His warning last round had gone unheeded. Mother always taught him to punish those that would resist the will of the Cult, and that applied to his own will as well. Before the shards met their target, Draug dashed passed them, dropping his sword and nearly flying at Ciato with his usual blank scare eclipsed by an affronted glare. The battle between him and Eriag didn't matter. Before Ciato could open his mouth, Draug was at his side, with only his arm in front of the Mystic. The Mystic felt his voice disappear as Draug's inner elbow met with his throat, lifting the Mystic up into the air and carrying him several meters before the Homunculus stopped and let him tumble to the ground.
Cassandra's champion then lifted his hand and slammed it down on Ciato's head, clasping the Mystic's skull but not squeezing on it just yet, "I thought I told you not to interfere." There was no emotion to his voice, no anger or resentment, but Ciato knew that somewhere in Draug's mind, he was enraged. It didn't help how much Ciato reminded him of Sei, his mortal enemy in the Ixian Knights. Using the same techniques also triggered Draug's kill switch.
"Damn it you stitched-up corpse, don't you know where we are?!" he said while on his back, unable to see and putting his hands on Draug's to try to pry it off his face. The back of his head was gnashing against the sand. "This is a team tournament! We're supposed to fight them together!"
"The last one was alone," Draug shot back. With his back turned to his enemies, this seemed like a much more important matter to the Homunculus than the battle itself.
"That wasn't intentional! His partner disappeared! Will you let go of me already?!" Draug paused for a moment, then released his grip from the Mystic, getting back up and looking down on him with clenched fists. Ciato brushed himself off and got back up, reaching back and feeling a new lump on his spine. With a hoarse breath, his own eyes had anger in them. "Look Draug, I know you want to fight them, that you were ordered to fight all the competitors in this tournament, but you never received an order to do it alone! I hear all about how the Cult is there to give the freedom to pursue any desire, no matter how twisted, and I'm a member now too. Do I not have the right to pursue my own desires? I want to win this thing as well."
Draug didn't answer. There was truth to those words, and it was the reason that he didn't just walk around killing Cult members and harvesting their organs.
"I understand," said the Homunculus. Ciato wanted to kill them, but Draug was merely ordered to do so. To accomplish that desire, Ciato needed him.
"Then we will cooperate from this point on. I want their heads to roll."
Turning back to his opponents, he took off his coat and tossed it aside. Extending his arms, he grit his teeth as the very flesh on them started to grow and form tumors. His arms grew fatter and bubbled, and then his arms split into three identical sets of arms. With six arms total, all coming from the same origin on his shoulder, the two top arms retrieved a steel sword each from his throat, both of them bloody from scraping his throat. Two more swords were retrieved from under the middle pair of arms, also bloody from ripping through the flesh. The bottom two arms pulled swords out of his hips like he was made of mud, the swords sliding out of the skin but leaving the flesh intact. The blood dripped down all over his arms and swords, making even his missed swings poisonous as the blood would likely splash around everywhere. From his spine another bloody weapon was produced, it was his enchanted mythril kunai that produced ice burns on contact. It fell to the ground at Ciato's feet.
"I see," Ciato mused. "You want me to find an opportunity to use this." The kunai was also covered in Draug's blood, but the handle was clean. Ciato could use it to poison his opponents.
Draug thought out loud, "A pile of orc body parts..." Ciato grinned, because he knew that Draug was now serious. The crowd went wild at the sight of Draug turning out to be an even more horrifying monster than the orc competitors. However, there was one dark hooded member of the audience who was standing quietly with his arms crossed.
Draug charged at Eriag, all of his swords ready to strike and cut apart the over-sized orc.
Too much was happening at once for the orc. As she feebly whipped at the rapier, her fist stopped by some unseen shield, the swordsman took his blade from her flesh as easily as an ancient king pulling his birthright from a stone. A sharp thunder of pain reverberated through her ribs, and Ciato stepped away with his weapon. The crowds had found a way to launch bottles into the arena now, sailing them high above the fencing. Most of them hit the top of the chain link, clanging with a metallic echo before they clattered back on the drunken throng. A few were aimed well enough to launch over the edge of the barricade and dash upon the floor. Despite the thick layer of sand, the stone floor somewhere below the grit shattered them, and brown glass scattered and left lines in the darkly stained sand. The pattering of shards and the chime of glass on metal was the perfect percussion to Otto's baritone, as off as the song was. It was almost comforting, the way he missed the notes and sang the words just off time. It meant he was alive, he was well, and he was strong. It was a good song to sing, and a good day to sing it. In a roar of approval, Erirag tensed to attack the mystic before her again before something caught her attention. His voice was nearly drowned out by the stadium, the crowds, the song and the adrenaline, but she caught one word - Otto.
The glass around him that had appeared from nowhere to stop her fist had been hanging almost lifeless. She'd missed it at first, too distracted by pain and the cacophony of battle. Now she could see the glittering fragments zoom like bees, and there was no doubt in the bard's mind that they would sting just as heavily as any angered Alerarian hornet. The lanky human she'd never paid much attention to wasn't dead, but moving past her at a strangely inhuman speed, ignoring that Otto was slammed by the glass. Had she heard a gasp from her friend? Letting Draug overtake Ciato, Erirag instead was focused on moving towards the other orc as he clutched at his helm, hissing in pain. She tripped on an unbroken bottle that had fallen and rolled between them, sliding in towards Otto on her knees. Her thick skin protected her here, but the glass in the sand still poked and sliced at her shins.
"Otto!" she called, trying to peer into his visor to ensure that he was okay. She gave a grunt and a huff before cursing their opponents. "Zanbauri." It almost made her want to spit, how tricky the humans could be for a race so stupid and frail. She tentatively spoke, trying frantically to remember the grammar lessons Otto had given her while glass, alcohol, and pebbles rained down around them, tiny missiles thrown by a crowd mounting in excitement and confusion over Draug's apparent attack of his supposed partner. "Humans think they so smart but these just little cuts, like no things. We make them learn, then they be sorry. Lots sorry." The angry, hushed voices from a few yards away had ceased and Erirag grinned as she reached out, finding the discarded end of the broken spear. It was thick with gore, and the off smell of blood. Erirag was beginning to understand what Otto meant by bad blood. It was fresh, but it smelled like it came from something left in the sun for too long.
"This sad day for humans," she said, pushing herself off the ground to tower over Otto and give him a reassuring nod. She turned in time, however, to see that she had been vastly mistaken. What she faced was not human. Her eyes widened, pools of honeyed mead that seemed to gape at the sight of the now six-armed man that came towards her. She'd heard tales, somewhere, of exotic gods from far beyond the horizon who fought with many hands that held blades, skin blue and eyes red. This was no god, but a monster. Brandishing the spearhead in front of her she menaced him with it while slowly scooting back. He was coming for her, she knew, and there may be nothing she could do against so many flashing blades dripping with too dark blood. She did what she could to keep putting distance between herself and this man, and herself and Otto. Inching towards the edge of the arena, her foot slid back into something sharp and hard. She took her eyes off of Draug for but a moment so that she could glance down.
An amulet was in the dirt, piled with the remains of a mug that had been thrown with it. It seemed to flash in a way that had nothing to do with the mirrors placed around the pit, almost as if the light that touched it was dark in some way and bore no resemblance to the reflections of sunshine that they'd been bathed in. She had no time for pretty things, however, as Draug's movements brought him closer and droplets of blood were flung from the tips of his blades at her. Where they touched her arms, cut from blocking Ciato's burst of jabs, it stung in a way that no mere blood should. Erirag almost felt sick. She tore her mind from the amulet, where it kept wanting to return and bore her teeth at the abomination before her. One more step back, she decided, and she would take the risk and rush him with the spear. Before she could move, however, her foot came down on the copper, and she heard a strange crunch through the soft 'shiff' of sand moving beneath her heel. A sting like a current went up her leg and she felt the most incredible sensation come over her.
Staring down Draug, despite the fear that she knew was pouring from her like a dam bursting from pressure, she felt almost elated. She felt like singing. So, the orcish bardess began to prepare a song, striking up a tune in her heart, the beat pounding on adrenaline and anticipation as those blades drew ever near.
"Loratuurz sha armaukri, loratuurz sha raaaurrgh!".1
Contrary to to common opinion in the audience, the final wailing screech was not more Orcish, but a rather agonised scream. While Otto had approached the monster before him, he had seen the sunken, black eyes dart to focus on a spot somewhere over the Orc's shoulder. Otto dismissed it as a crude tactic - even wounded, Erirag would not let the other one past so easily - and had continued to sing as he closed the gap. Thus, it was a complete surprise when the homunculus darted past him. Otto had halted and brought his shield to bear to begin with, before turning to strike at the rapidly fleeing back of his opponent when no attack on Draug's part became apparent.
It turned out to be something of a mistake.
He thought, at first, a particularly large shard of glass from a bottle had slipped through the fencing and delved straight into his eye; a dozen smaller jabs through the links of him mail went unheeded against the torturous magnitude of the pain in his skull. Worse than that, he was blind. Otto's hands went immediately around the sallet, while he stifled the scream from continuing; it escaped as a hiss instead, not unlike the noise of an Aleranian steam engine shortly before it turns into a smoking crater. Instinct kicked in, took the reins and clawed through the shock in several stages.
Step one: clutch painful area, and swear (bonus points awarded if it is in Orcish).
Step two: regain basic sentience. Realise that you are blind, with your guard down, and your enemy has a sword. Better flail around with that hammer; you might buy yourself a second or two.
Step three: hold on. That thing was running towards Erirag.
"Damn!".
Otto prepared for a final charge, almost certain that Erirag had been dispatched after a single moment of brilliant coordination on the other team's part. By now the pain had largely been transformed to rage, and he felt able to open his eyes at the same time as he birthed a guttural, wordless warcry from deep within his chest.
"Raaaarr...rrgh?", he said, and the roar deflated at the sight of Erirag skidding through the sand towards him. His right eyes was fine, thank Trisgen, but the vision in his left was heavily blurred. The gummy orb felt like someone was constantly fanning it with grit from the arena floor; it ran heavily, and his nose too. Still, they functioned well enough to see the red leviathan's eyes pierce his helm.
"Zanbauri", Erirag spat, then she proceeded in a more encouraging tone. "Humans think they so smart but these just little cuts, like no things. We make them learn, then they be sorry. Lots sorry".
A glistening hand dipped into the sand, to emerge with the remains of Otto's cast-off spear. There were perhaps four, four and a half feet of it in one piece there. Otto blinked back involuntary tears as he replied.
"Tul biub",2 he stated, simply. The past had shown that, when Erirag told him that he was strong, she was right. She stood up, and nodded.
Then, movement. Their foes had rallied and the devil, the drok, advanced in a yet more nightmarish form. And where the hell did those other swords come from?, Otto wondered. Whatever had happened during Otto's bout of fumbling sightlessness, he did not know - and he did not have time to figure it out. The homunculus was running in now, while the other one was yet to approach; Otto's good eye made out the shape of something small and metallic in the latter's grasp, and the professional armourer in him identified it as a kunai. Otto was thankful for his shield... but Erirag had no such defence.
"Erirag, human has hodhug thauk!",3 he yelled, then as Draug bore down on her, "Hogg drok, like kopak! Like hashatug a, damn, a karmaz!".4
Otto wanted to keep an eye on Ciato; he kept himself several feet to Erirag's right, and let her focus on keeping the homunculus at bay while he split his attention between both their opponents. Through the haze of his ravaged oculus he noticed Erirag suddenly halt, and his heart skipped a beat - what had he missed? His good eye swiveled around to see her falter, and then Draug moved in, poisoned blades a-spinning.
Zouk'hai. 'Mine', 'all', 'greater'. Us.
This time, the warcry did not die in his throat. He raised his shield and ran full tilt at the drok in a bid to wedge himself between its swords and her.
That was when he heard the music.
1) lit.: "Blessed with enemies, blessed with - oh, gods! My face!"
2) "They shall fall".
3) "throwing knife". Might literally translate not as "knife for throwing", but rather, "knife which throws".
4) "Hit demon", "club", "stabbing" and "lake", respectively.
His throat throbbed from Draug’s savage hold on it. He touched the reddened marks that seemed even more obvious upon his naturally pale features. The orcs were too busy with the love medley that they had prepared for one another to be too concerned about the inner turmoil between the League of Nightmares. The audience, however, seemed ecstatic that there was now a potential for three deaths in this round rather than simply two. Cat calls and other verbal jabs were being called out now to both teams at an alarming rate. The Mystic’s nose crinkled, almost as if he could smell the foul breath of the rowdy rabble-rousers overhead. It reminded him once more of the previous round, wherein he had been forced to endure the confines of a prison. Both the prisoners of Terrinore and the audience of Lyridia's fight club were very similar in the way they cheered for just about anything.
It was disgusting.
The nobleman kneeled down, sheathing his blade and placing the small kunai in his hands. He was no stranger to the feel of other weapons, the small knife feeling just as lightweight as his own sword. He gave the blade a few quick tosses into the air, careful to catch it by the handle with each toss. He grinned as he looked to his partner, noting the resolve the creature now held for finishing off the two warrior bards. He cocked his head to the side as he watched the beast get to his work.
Draug seems to have this well in Hand. Or, rather, in –hands- Ciato mused over allowing the homunculus to handle the situation. He strolled over to the opposite end of the arena, far away from both the orcs and his Cult brethren, and sat down. He whistled some strange Mystic tune as he watched the play unfold before them. The orcs -did- seem to have a better flair for the dramatics than they did for actually fighting. Are these two ever going to actually fight?
He watched the female grab an amulet that had come out of nowhere, and raised an eyebrow as the giant examined the thing. He pondered the orcs tenacity, wondering how long she would last with the gaping hole in her side. A trail of blood stained the sand all the way up to where he had left his mark on her. Draug would expose that weakness and turn it into one ofhis greatest strengths. Ciato gave Erirag a full fifteen seconds against Cassandra Remi's favorite son.
The other one, Otto, had apparently been pretty wounded by Mystic Protection. The fact that the gray skinned warrior seemed so injured brought a smirk across Ciato’s features. Draug would be able to finish him off now in a hurry thanks to the efoorts ofthe Mystic noble. He juggled the dagger once more, awaiting his opportunity to use the weapon his friend had bestowed upon him. Once more, the action of the arena was taking a back seat to theatrics.
It was something that, according to the screaming crowd, the people did not appreciate too much.
The short, hooded figure stood behind the fence with the other spectators.
"Enjoying the show?" he asked to his neighbor, who looked like he couldn't tell what was going on inside the pit.
"Huh?" he answered, almost not hearing the question. He had short brown hair and looked no different from any of the other humans on Lornius. "Y-yeah..." The pit had its fair share of contestants, but it was clear that having it be featured in an LCC match made its competitors a cut above the usual crop of gladiators.
The hooded man's face was obscured, with only his nose and mouse visible. He had a slight overbite with elongated incisors that hung over his bottom lip. "Wouldn't you like to get in there yourself for a piece of the action?"
The brown-haired man lifted his hand and waved it left and right, "No, that's okay. W-wouldn't want to get in the way, you know?"
"What is your desire, then?"
The brown-haired man blinked, "What? The hell is with you?"
"Do you want to live or die?"
The man got up and backed away from the hooded one, "You're creepin' me out here!"
The hooded man also got up, flicking a few bangs out of his obscured eyes. From the side of his hood he actually retrieved a hidden dagger, which was concealed in his hand. He took a step toward the brown-haired man and before the other man could react, he stabbed him in the gut with the dagger. None of the other spectators in the crowded stands caught in the furor of the match noticed the altercation. The brown-haired man was in shock, the pain causing his eyes to roll back into his head. The dagger was laced with poison.
"I know your desires," said the hooded one. "It is not unlike many here, but none of you act on them. You are content living through others, merely observing the pain that you wish you could inflict. We have no use for cowards like you in the Cult." The stabbed man fell to the floor clutching his stomach, his skin turning purple. "As for the rest of you..." He pulled a small jar out of his cloak and smashed it below him, letting an invisible gas spread throughout the spectators' area. "Let your desires run free." The crowd became more and more aggressive, tossing everything into the pit that they could find. Their eyes were bloodshot, sweat was dripping from their faces, and their voices were starting to go hoarse from the yelling. Many charged the fence, putting their hands on it and shaking it as hard as they could. Their inhibitions were let loose and their desires were being made manifest.
With the orcs backing up to the fence, Draug knew that they realized they weren't fighting mere humans, not that the realization helped them any. His arms grew longer bit by bit, their length making them look more like spider legs.
As he ran, he received a telepathic message from the hooded one, "Champion, we may have found Letho's location."
Draug continued running, his eyes darting around the arena to find the source of the message. He spotted the hooded figure for a moment and then focused back on the orcs. It was one of Cassandra's messengers. He didn't know how to respond, so he tried doing it through thought.
So?
"If you leave now, you may be able to catch him." Draug didn't know what to make of this. His orders were very clear, why was this being told to him?
Do I have orders to pursue him?
"No, but you are free to do so if you wish." This almost made Draug stop in his tracks, but it was not enough to impede his death charge at the orcs.
I don't understand.
"Your orders are to pursue your own will in this matter. That is the Dark Mother's request."
I don't understand. What are my orders?
"I just gave them to you. Farewell."
The next time Draug glanced at the spectators, the hooded one was gone. How could he have an order to pursue his own will? That was not a command. That was the opposite of a command. He could feel a slight pull in his chest near his still fresh wound, a feeling of uncertainty. It was true that his battle with Letho was not finished yet, but neither was this battle. Not being able to make a decision one way or the other, he simply continued what he was doing before, unfortunately for the singing pair.
The one named Otto was in his way. His arms were as long as the orc's now, maybe even longer, but a simple shield was not going to stop him. Extending all of his arms, the blades were homing in on their target. As he bore down on the orc, his object was to charge right into him, allowing his arms to go around the shield and impale the orc six different ways, with two swords going for his legs, two for his hips, and two for his neck. After that attack, he would cut the larger orc up into so many pieces that maybe he could distribute them to the spectators as souvenirs.
OOC:
Permission to bunny Erirag given here. Bunnies approved retrospectively by Homunculus in chat.
The speckled burning sensation along Erirag's arms seemed to grow in severity, not diminish. She reflected - briefly - on how right Otto had been to warn her about this human-thing at the start of the match, even as she realised it was too late to heed it now. Her thoughts sprung immediately to her tongue, where they rang out to the rhythm of her pounding heart.
"Daumab drautan fukishamum", she sung, as she swung the broken spear around wildly. Each word was accompanied by a thumping jolt from the copper at her heel, as though it were setting a tempo in response. The feeling of elation grew, and slowly washed away the fear. She stood firm, and prepared to hold her ground when a harmonically-pitched warcry marked the arrival of the young smith; her foe casually regarded Otto, shifting his focus from Erirag, and proceeded to match the obtrusive Orc's charge. Blood and iron glimmered with each thumping step beneath the harsh lighting.
* * *
Otto launched himself forward, twisting his shoulder around to try and catch the homunculus in the chest and bear him down. The shield sat high, and caught two incoming blades while something yielded with a terrific crack - from the feeling of it, Otto's arm. The third and bottommost of Draug's right-arms slipped underneath the shield and rammed deep into flesh of Otto's left thigh. At the same time, the homunculus' set of left arms nicked the sturdy iron bevor at Otto's throat, while the lowest, foiled by Otto's last-second change of posture, struck its blade fruitlessly into a loose flap of mail skirt. The centre limb was right on target, though, and Otto became excruciatingly aware of a steel edge as it sawed against his bottom rib on its way through his abdomen. The pain had seized his vocal chords; his tusked maw popped open to scream, yet he could only emit a blood-flecked huff.
The two slammed against each other. Draug was much stronger, but Otto had the combined mass of his body and armour behind the high-placed barge. They teetered for a moment, and then Draug fell backwards into the sand, with Otto tumbling down on top of him.
There was a burning edge to the stab wounds, Otto came to notice. He tried to move, and failed; when the muscles in his stomach went taut against the steel which remained in his belly, the pain came back fresh and strong. He set one good eye on the homunculus' gold-rimmed pupils, and noticed brilliant white specks had started to swarm in front of his vision. He saw the shoulder shift, felt the steel inside him begin to twist upwards - and then he was free, the world before him spinning round and round.
* * *
While Otto and the drok crashed in to each other, Erirag took the opportunity to pick the trinket up from the ground; she closed a giant fist around it, and the copper warmed rapidly against her palm. Its regular pulse ran through the fire in her arms, up into her skull and down her spine. It resonated through to the tip of every toe, finger and strand of hair.
"Marr daumab!", she bellowed. A large foot kicked Otto unceremoniously off the homunculus, and he rolled away. He left an ample trail of blood behind him on the sand, and came to a stop with his face down in the dirt. The crowd screamed and hooted, redoubling their efforts to rip away the caging near to where he had rolled to a halt. With each push, the metal fence swayed in a little further.
"Shof miruurz!".
The spear immediately lanced diagonally through Draug's chest, driven deep into the sand by Erirag's massive strength. Her face tightened with focused rage, and she raised a leg high to stamp heavily down on the pinned man's face.
Translation: "Pain illuminates (reveals) strength. Take (accept) pain, see goodly (clearly)".
Out of Character:
Draug didn't expect the orc to be able to push him back. As Otto was punted off, the Homunculus found himself a bit light in the weapons department. The swords that didn't strike the orc were discarded and the rest rolled away with him. Draug tried to respond to the impending attack by moving his body, but found himself impaled into the ground by the stub of the spear again. It punctured his lung and made him breathe blood instead of air, every gasp causing blood to drain out of his mouth, which he opened as wide as he could. As Eriag's leg went up, a dagger flew out of Draug's throat. The giantess barely avoided it as it grazed the side of her throat, but it was enough to cause her to stagger backwards and drop her leg back down to balance herself.
Draug used this opportunity to put all six of his arms on the spear and pull it out of his body yet again, throwing it aside as he lifted up his legs then had his body follow them, jumping from the ground onto a shaky stance. He didn't have time to recuperate however as Eriag was already back in action and throwing a big fist aimed at the side of his head. Before impact, Draug's skin shook and tightened, and when the fist smashed into his head, half of the force of the hit recoiled back into the orc's hand, breaking her knuckles. The Homunculus nearly tripped from the blow, lucky that a helmet was integrated into his head and kept his skull from shattering. It still cracked, momentarily causing his vision to blur and spin, his knees feeling almost weak enough to buckle. He couldn't maintain his concentration and his excess arms fell off, leaving him only with his original two. If he was a human, such an attack would've rendered him helpless.
But he was no human.
He had made contact with her, his unique body accepting her very being into his mind. He assimilated bits and pieces of her memories, of her orcish, of her song. All the speech before suddenly made sense, and now he had some words for her as well.
"Lat viz. Viz mat."
He saw the rage in her eyes and clenched his fist, but before he could make a move, Eriag stopped her next attack when she felt a sharp pain in her back followed by a cold burn that caused her to yell out in pain. She turned her head and saw Ciato out of the corner of her eye. The Mystic was smiling mischievously as he pulled the kunai out, jumping backwards to avoid her retribution.
This time, Draug knew that his partner was not in the wrong. He took the opportunity to throw a right hook that planted itself into Eriag's face, sending her stumbling back. He followed it with a haymaker with his other fist that struck her in the ribs that knocked the wind out of her. Then came another punch from him, then another, until there was a flurry of fists making new bruises all over her body. The effect of the gas was making the crowd go wild, causing them to shake the fence so hard it threatened to topple over completely. They had even started fighting amongst themselves, starting fistfights that echoed the one being had inside the pit.
Eriag was not defenseless. Draug only had the use of one lung, so soon he started running low on air which made his punches weak. She started blocking the attacks with her forearms and even mounted a counter-attack with a strong right swing, but Draug was prepared as he caught it in his left hand, clasping down upon her fist and pulling her in order to headbutt her forehead. The attack disoriented her as she reeled back, and the Homunculus continued his onslaught of fists, kicking up sand and splashing blood and sweat with every hit. His knuckles were so bruised from the barrage that they were entirely covered in his own blood. His skin was rumbling in his shoulder blades, his wrists, and his chest.
"Koh fund!"
After a particularly devastating swing that nearly knocked Eriag down, he ripped daggers from his shoulder blades, wrists, and chest. Each blade found a new home somewhere on Eriag's body, puncturing her stomach, breasts, legs, anything that looked big and squishy. The poison she made contact with earlier was making her nauseous, and she couldn't tell anymore whether the pain was from the poison or her wounds. To finish the job, Draug reached into his chest and pulled out a bloody mace, getting ready to knock Eriag's head off once and for all like it was a melon mounted on a stand.
It was then that the fence finally gave way, sending dozens of crazed spectators into the pit. Their fear was completely gone, and they all decided to challenge Draug. Within moments they had surrounded him, and he had to use his mace to dismember the audience members one by one. He couldn't even see Eriag anymore, who he assumed collapsed from the damage. He thought he could rush through them, but the damage he sustained from the spear was still not repaired. He couldn't start sprinting, in fact he was barely standing up anymore. Blood was still pouring out of his mouth from attempting to breathe. Such damage could not finish him, even if it did slow him down. If he had to go through every single one of these interlopers to get to his opponents, he would kill every single last one of them.
"You (are an) insect. Insects die."
"Time (to) end (this)!"
Bits of sand danced up Otto's nose with each shallow breath; he didn't know why, but this irritation seemed to stand out from the others. His mind was starting to swim, whether from blood loss or poison, he also wasn't clear on, and the pain had started to fuzz out. Even with his bad arm pinned beneath the weight of his body, Otto felt as comfortable as he could be at the moment. The pain he was in now would have nothing on what would afflict him should he move.
The ground jumped, grains arcing up through the air, as something landed with a crash. With an approaching cacophony of lighter thumps and thuds, members of the enraged crowd sprinted past the prone Orc. Sprinting towards Erirag and the others.
The music had stopped.
Zouk'hai. Otto tried to push up, but the broken bones in his left arm grated against each other. A pathetic whimper flew from his lips. He felt sick now, and to make things worse, the pain had flared up again.
Marr daumab.
He gritted his teeth, and pushed again, with all the weight placed upon his right arm. Slowly, unsteadily, Otto swayed back into a kneeling position. This time he didn't just whimper; Otto failed to choke back a single, loud sob, which seemed to echo back and forth inside his helmet. The wound in his gut ached every bit as bad as the numerous other stabbings he had suffered at the Citadel, and the few genuine ones courtesy of the war. Pain like that was not just an inconvenience - it let you know something was truly, deeply wrong.
Daumab drautan fukishamum.
He stood up. Then he swayed a little, staggered, and landed on his knees again. The agony became his world.
Daumab drautan fukishamum!
He stood up. Then he swayed a little, staggered, and lurched forwards. His booted feet dragged through the soil, leaving twin snake trails behind them, and his broken arm swung loosely at his side - the shield he had left behind, unable to bear the weight. The crazed mob had pressed up against something that Otto could not see through the throng of bodies. Judging by the crunching sounds and flying blood, it was probably the drok and his partner. His eyes fell upon the stricken body of Erirag; whatever the former spectators were doing, it seemed that they were more interested in the upright and moving. He shuffled over to see for himself the extent of Erirag's injuries.
"Erirag", he muttered. His voice was hoarse, wheezing, apologetic.
Marr fukishamum.
The song was one more thing which had started to blur together for him. He put the hammer away, and noticed the glint of metal over Erirag's body - daggers. Poison, he thought, pulling them out one by one. Then he grasped a thick green wrist, slick with blood, and pulled. His grip slid free and he fell backwards once more, to land on his back. The air went out in one wracking cough; Otto would have cried some more if he had the breath. After a few seconds, he was able to gulp down some more air. Strength returned to his limbs, even as his mind continued to falter. A little slower this time, her rose up, took the wrist once again and pulled. Slowly, but surely, they made their way backwards.
Dragging the behemoth through the sand tested every part of Otto's remaining strength. With each pull, the muscles in his stomach relived the pain of the sword going through, the blackness around his vision grew and the migraine pounding the inside of his skull became a little more painful, a touch more sickening. Halfway to the antechamber doors through which they had entered the arena, Otto threw up. Blood, bile and healf-eaten chunks sloshed around in the iron cup of his bevor, soaking his beard, splashing up his nose and burning his lips. Otto choked and sputtered inside the fetid iron cage - but he continued on. His left leg had almost given up, and he could only push with his right, but he continued on.
In the last few feet of the trek, the gates swung open for the sorry pair. Otto hardly even noticed. He was too busy with making sure he moved the correct foot in time, or that he didn't let go of Erirag's wrist. He dragged her on for a few more steps through the portal, and the last thing he saw before the heavy gates clanged shut was a glimpse of the drok's black eyes... and then the rough, grainy surface of the doors blocked the view.
Shof miruurz.
Otto let himself collapse. He didn't even bother trying to get up again, although his hand did fumble it's way along Erirag's arm. He tried to find a pulse, and to his tired surprise, he found one - it was strong, too, and throbbed up her entire arm. Her hand had clenched tightly shut, and that was where the pulse was strongest. However, the oddity of this failed to strike home in Otto's weary, blood-starved and poisoned brain.
This was it, then. Otto waited. Soon, the far door - the entrance to the waiting room, not to the arena - would burst open, and shuffling footsteps would mark the arrival of their tenders. It was entirely possible that they would be dead by then; Otto would not mind that, so long as the smell was gone. Consciousness was transient, pouring rapidly through his fingers.
He closed his eyes, and slipped away.
He had seized the opportunity the second it presented himself before him. The blood that splashed out from Erirag’s open wound left a wide smile upon the Mystic’s face. He could only imagine how the combination of pain, poison, and cold burns felt upon her exposed flesh. Between that and Ciato’s first impalement of the giant orc, he thought that there was no way that victory could belong to Lute & Hammer.
Just as he finished the blow, Draug capitalized and began another assault. Ciato could hear the sound of metal breaking coming from above, the excited crowd now wishing to participate in the blood sport as well. Ciato unsheathed his blade, his left hand still holding the enchanted kunai, and extended his arms as if to tell his audience to try and attack him. He had, after all, hoped that this very moment would come.
The fence gave way and dozens of people started pouring in. They acted as though they were ants whose bed had just been kicked in. They came wielding anything that they could hold; broken glass bottles, twisted pieces of chain link fence, even sticks and stones were held in the hands of the people who moments ago were satisfied merely viewing.
His blades whistled through the air, an orchestra of violent melodies as they easily tore through flesh and cloth alike. The sand quickly was turning into a deep shade of crimson due to his onslaught, but Ciato’s eyes were focused elsewhere. He had found Erirag amongst the heaviest of the rioters, getting pelted by God only knows. The nobleman ran for her, his weapons thrusting and slashing their way past anyone impeding his charge. Erirag fell around the time that Ciato had arrived, almost causing the Mystic’s eyes to roll into the back of his head from pleasure.
She was breathing, but bloodied and beaten as well. Ciato’s eyes remained the same as he found the perfect area to mark the woman, the kunai being dug deep into her inner thigh. He licked his lips as he carefully turned the blade, running it down into a curve. He withdrew the dagger only to drive it back in to the beast. Blood splatter onto his face, which only served to match the color of his stained vest and pants at this point. He continued to carve, making a full circle into the flesh of this woman who reminded Ciato of so much pain.
C.O. Ciato Orlouge.
He stood up to admire his initials, his mind hoping that even with healing, they would scar over and be with Erirag forever. He hoped that she would carry this weight for the rest of her life. His eyes shifted around, settling upon the form of Otto as he stumbled towards his partner. Ciato vanished into the thick of the crowd once more, his weapons once again raising a concerto of gore. He maimed, dismembered, cut, impaled, and ripped through the bystanders until the floor of sand was replaced by organs and limbs, a very arena of death.
These people, as well as Ciato’s opponents, now saw what it meant to get involved with the League of Nightmares.
((Final post from Ciato. Good fight))
Spoils request:
Quote:
Erirag would like to claim the mysterious amulet as spoils. I am not aware of the details, but it will be used in relation to her bardic skills. Specifics will need to be resolved at a later date, though.
"Tch," Draug spat. No matter how many he cut down, they kept coming. He managed to break through the mass of bodies to where he was fighting with Eriag, but the only remnant of the towering orc was a fresh blood stain. Now he had two unfinished fights in this damn tournament!
The spectators closed in, at least those that weren't fighting amongst themselves. Some of them were chanting for blood, for flesh, for a piece of anything they could find. Draug then noticed the invisible gas that now spread throughout the pit. Something like that didn't affect him, but he could feel it on his skin. Blood finally clotted in his damaged lung to let him actually breathe reliably again, even if it was only off one lung. Draug realized something about these maniacs. While they didn't wear dark robes or worship Cassandra Remi, they were behaving like Cult members. The only difference was that their desires were not focused, they were sporadic and uncontrollable. That is what the Cult offered- a controlled outlet for those desires, to spread the true freedom of will.
"I see," he muttered. "Mother is trying to teach me." His own will... he never considered having one. Was mother trying to change him? He couldn't experience what these people were feeling, but he understood their impulses. Lifting his mace up high, he declared, "Anyone who manages to land a hit on me will be taken to the Cult! I am Draug, I am Her son, I am pain!"
Reports circulated around Lornius of the massacre in Lyridia, a violent riot orchestrated by the Cult of Blessed Torture. Most of the spectators were found dead in the cellar arena. The ones in charge were slowly starting to lose control of the people of Lornius. Crime increased, and many of the suspects were caught singing praises to a woman known as The Dark Mother.
[Judgment temporarily redacted for training purposes. Original saved on my laptop and to be replaced after - Shinsou]
Experience and gold added.