Blood and Sand [Solo]

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Considered one of the most mysterious cities in Mizahar, Alvadas is called The City of Illusions. It is the home of Ionu and the notorious Inverted. This city sits on one of the main crossroads through The Region of Kalea.

Blood and Sand [Solo]

Postby Ulric on September 14th, 2011, 1:49 am

14th of Fall, 511 AV

Ulric sat on a bench of rough granite, heaving a sigh as he rested his head against the stained, crumbling plaster of his holding chamber far below the crude arches of the colosseum. The clamor of the crowd set the dust of sundered dreams sifting through the rafters. He could feel their lust for violence rising. The last fight had ended some time before, or at least that was what he’d assumed from seeing the cripple hauling a corpse through the tunnel, leaving a dark streak on the stones. He wasn’t sure what they did with departed souls, though he knew it didn’t lead to burial. Shale probably fed his beasts on them. If he was shrewd enough, he’d keep the bones for any maledictors that might be lurking the chimeric quarters, figuring they might be good for something.

Down here, far from the cheers, there was only a harsh, brutal calm. The dreamers were dead. That was one delusion that did not abide. The scores of brash lads that strode through the grates came back with faces graved from stone, or in pieces. That was the way of things. Taking a life changed you. That wasn’t to say that death was the same for every man, of course. There were many that didn’t seem to care. Those fighting for riches, or even for a stale crust, had to be cruel to survive. They had to be ruthless and hard. They could not spare a scrap of sorrow.

And yet, every soul reaped was another link forged upon a chain, every day there was that burden to bear. Ulric had borne his for years, and if the crushing sorrow had taught him anything, it was that there was no meaning in death. He cared not for glory, revenge, nor power, for they came to naught when faced with the understanding that every man went back to the mud.

But not him.

No, he would live forever. That was his blessing and his curse. The blood of an elder god coursed through his veins, coruscating with the strands of a divine power that was fated to awaken him as Ur-Xhyvas, master of an empty throne. He hadn’t wished for that destiny. No, he’d only wished to spend his days walking the strand, but Glav had made him wonder. Why is the world so cruel? He’d raged as the usurper took over his mind. Why can’t we be more than we are now? There were no answers. That was the problem, for they were in his charge. Ur-Xhyvas wished for the same thing as Glav Navik, yet here he was, resting his fledgling head as he prepared to mete out ruin.

Now that was a cruel irony.

Beside him, the torch abruptly guttered. He glanced up to behold a towering figure, the features dark and strange, straps of leather binding heavy, bronzed plates to the left shoulder, arm, and leg. “Akalak,” he grunted, observing the bluish hue of its flesh and the elongated ears, even as the pale eyes regarded him.

“So you’re to be my foe?” Rumbled the Akalak. “You are either very bold, or very stupid.” Ulric thought for a moment. He hadn’t seen many of their kind, let alone spoken to them. Not that he cared.

“You’re letting in a draft,” he gave a shrug, using his head to gesture toward the empty doorframe. As far as he knew, the absent planks had been fed to the fires, or used as a stretcher.

“Uan abdb oohe at badb ubuvad vwen yastd bdaod,” snarled Desank, whose sharp, angular face was dominated by hooked nose. A pair of curved tusks erupted from slender lips. Not pleased by the abrupt presence, the Gasvik began to move from the corner in which he’d been napping. [color=blue]“Saub adub aodfb and ayyewn dobfb weonwe.”

“Shok,” Ulric growled. Desank got his meaning and retreated, leaving the Akalak to raise a brow.

“What’s that, a cough?”

“No, but I do have the squirts.” Ulric gave the Akalak a forced grin. “You should yield.” The Akalak took that as a joke. That was only in his favor, for as the hulking thing began to chuckle, Ulric knew he was in for a fight. He glanced over the large tulwar, studied the bulge of dusky muscles, the grace of those large, booted feet as they echoed on the stones. His face went blank. “You should yield.”

“You jakri eating fool. I’ve fought eleven bouts on these sands, and yet I remain undefeated.” The Akalak thumped a fist on his chest. “I’ve heard that you are a great warrior, but why should I fear you? I strangled a glassbeak with my bare hands. I’ve fought every sort of beast on the plains and sparred with the best of my brothers. I am not frightened of you.”

“I’m not asking you to fear me,” Ulric gave a shrug. “I wouldn’t care if you did. I just don’t want to fight you for their sake.” He’d fight, of course. He only came here because he wished to get stronger, but he detested the ring of stones, the crowd, and everything for which they stood. He’d rather give up his life for a whisper of greater purpose than provide a moment of diversion to a frenzied rabble. Xhyvas would’ve never approved of this, for what was the use? The drunkard could be so many things when separated from his jug. The cobbler could craft another set of shoes instead of idling. The gladiator could walk away from the sands and begin farming a furlong of land.

There was nothing gained in death.

“Don’t want to fight me?” The Akalak snorted. Though he seemed outwardly scornful, the pale orbs were slanted with a trace of confusion, as if trying to seek the measure of the fighter that sat before him. “You aren’t craven,” he spoke at last, “but you are starting to annoy me with this talk of yielding. I may even enjoy strewing your brains over the sands.” Just then, there was an echo of uneven steps in the tunnel. Step, scrape. Step, scrape. Ulric choked back a retort. Step, scrape. Step, scrape. Step, scrape. The noise grew louder, then came to an abrupt halt when a blunt, squished face peeked around the empty frame. The gimp was back.

“Renakal, not s’posed to be in here.” Ulric couldn’t help but grimace as the slack lips parted when the gimp began to speak, spewing flecks of spittle over them both. He saw that the head was set at an angle, right side a large, pink concavity that was no doubt the result of the impact of a mace. The reason for the shuffling gait was obvious. There was a pair of blackened metal plates fastened to the man’s thigh and lower leg, bracing the knee.

“Go away,”[b] sighed the Akalak, and then he spread his arms, turning to regard Ulric. [b]“Why shouldn’t give them what they desire? There is no greater feeling than to have your name known by thousands, to be loved, or even feared for how you conduct yourself on the sands.”

“You talk too much,” Ulric grunted. Desank raised his head in the corner, baring his tusks in a semblance of laughter. The Akalak just gave a shrug. The only person to seem concerned was the gimp, who kept jerking on Renakal’s arm.

“Master waiting,” he mumbled. “Must fight.” Even with his broken leg, his frantic efforts were quite effectual, goading the other combatant into the tunnel. Renakal glanced back.

“I’m eager to face you, barbarian. I hope that you do not disappoint.” Then they were gone. Ulric gave a harsh laugh.

“Barbarian,” he snorted, ever derisive of the false pageantry that reigned on the sands. He seemed a brute; of that much he could confess. But did wearing silks and satins, and drinking fine wines, make a man less of a brute? Men just were. The heft of your purse didn’t mean shyke. The names of your parents didn’t mean shyke. There was no denying that much, at least.

Bitterly, he awaited the gimp’s return. As he strode down the tunnel, bearded axe ringing against shield, scaled armor shifting over his shoulders, he couldn’t help but see wraiths from his past again. They came with him onto the sands, hauled by the ends of so many rusted chains. He didn’t know if they lusted for revenge, or just an end to the dismal carnage so they could be freed, but he wouldn’t release them. He couldn’t bear to do that. He worried that if he ever forgot the faces, he’d lose himself entirely.

When he reached the grate, it seemed as if the sides of the tunnel were closing in on him. He coughed on the haze of acrid smoke curling from the torches. He wasn’t eager for this fight, yet his pulse began to quicken. His mouth was suddenly parched, sharp tendrils of fear running down his spine. That was normal, though. Every man feared. Those that didn’t were lying or dead.

The grate squealed.

Ulric shifted to dispel the tension in his lower back, took back his helmet from the lackey, and headed for the center of the ring. “Stay here,” he mumbled to the Gasvik. He couldn’t deny that the burden of his armor was bothering him. The layers of plate, scales, leather, and padding didn’t hamper his style or footwork that much, but he was unused to how they hung on his broad shoulders. Renakal was already pacing around, tulwar and lakan raised as he played to the crowd. There was a wide grin on his dusky features.

The crowd began to jeer.

Emerging, he didn’t even bother to curse them. Just kept on walking. “And now, from the frozen wastes of the north,” went the usual roar, which proceeded to explain that he enjoyed sawing off noses and defiling maidens, among other obscenities. “My, my,” he gave a disgusted grunt. “I’ve been a very naughty man.” Then Renakal was charging at him. The crowd erupted.

Ulric threw his weapon on the ground, raising a scant cloud of dust, and took a knee. He reached a hand into the sand, bowing his head as the dark, coarse grains sifted through his gauntleted fingers, while the crowd began to murmur. He kept a keen watch on his opponent, though. Renakal had paused, frowning, but now as the jeers began to grow louder, he moved forward, throwing back his head to roar with anger.

Ulric let out a feral chuckle. Then he made a fist.

He surged forward at the last moment, eyes fever bright as he grasped the axe’s haft, and swung a low, scything blow. There was a sharp curse from Renakal. The large humanoid danced back, tulwar beating feebly on the raised shield, lakan rising to protect his unarmored side. Rather than press forward, Ulric took a few steps back. “Don’t yield, then,”b he snarled. He wasn’t stupid enough to think that he’d had a chance of dispatching his foe just then. Renakal hadn’t been lured in by his trap, even though it had seemed a close thing. You’re a clever bastard, aren’t you? Ulric snarled as he strode to the side, trying to control the distance. Almost as soon as he’d sprung his own trap, the Akalak had tried to ensnare him. Rushing in would’ve only exposed him to the lakan as he twisted the axe back across his body, and the shield stayed engaged by the tulwar.

Renakal lunged, cleaving with his tulwar. Ulric moved back, trying to negate the power of the swing. There was a clangor as the leather wrapped shield absorbed the brunt of the blow, only for the shock to numb his arm up to the elbow. He cursed, trying to hook at his foe’s bracer as the tulwar drew back, yet at the same time, he had to dance to the side to avoid the thrusting lakan. Then tulwar beat down again, but now he managed to angle the blow so it didn’t do as much damage. However, the lakan got even closer. Ulric didn’t try to hook just then, but waited for the moment when his foe had to recover to go for his eyes, seeking to score them with the curved spike set on the head of his axe. Renakal ducked to the side, which gave Ulric the chance to bash with his shield. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the reach. The tulwar hissed, scraping against the bulwark. The lakan got through, though – making a deep, scraping gouge over his breastplate. Ulric was driven back again by the blows, but he dug his feet into the sand, a snarl emanating from the depths of his throat. Renakal had neglected his own defense. He swung the axe downward, heard it crunch against his foe’s plated greaves, then jerk suddenly, making him lose his footing.

That jerk probably saved his life. As he began to stagger, the lakan swung past his head, the handle punching against the cheek guard of his helmet, beating him aside. Ulric toppled upon the sand, hauling back on the handle of his axe. Renakal was larger and stronger, but he bulked enough to yank the warrior’s leg out from under him, bringing him to a knee. Ulric brought up the shield, deflecting a quick thrust of the tulwar, and scrambled to his feet, out of the lakan’s range. His chest heaved, but his mind was racing.

Renakal was slower to regain his footing. Ulric risked a quick glance, saw that he’d managed to hack through the greaves, staining his foe’s leather boots with dark blood. “That wasn’t bad,” growled the Akalak. “But then again, I could be mistaken.”

“Why don’t you find out?” Ulric kept his shield high, moving laterally as he made a feint at the injured leg. Renakal swung the lakan, trying to angle it up beneath the rim of the shield, while he lurched forward, slicing back with the tulwar. Ulric grunted as it dealt jarring blow to his thigh, though he didn’t know if the edge had been turned, or cut through to gash the flesh. Now that was agony for you. He made to twist around, hacking vainly at his foe while the lakan scraped against the side of his helmet, then threw his head back, swiping with the rim of his shield. Renakal jerked back, blood flowing from the weeping weal on a dusky cheek. The tulwar swept past him. Ulric whirled back around, deflecting the blurring lakan, and sought to drive a boot into the injured leg. Renakal just tried to cut it off. Taking a step back, he hooked at the tulwar. That didn’t go well, either. The lakan just flicked over, catching him below the shoulder, wicked point delving through a gap in the scales to sink into his flesh. He twisted away, felt the spurt of hot blood down his arm, gathering in the tips of his gauntlets. The tulwar came at him again, so he raised the shield, felt the blow drive him back. Then a large, bronzed gauntlet grasped the edge of his shield, tearing it aside, while its mate rose, smashing the handle of the tulwar into the front of his helm. The nasal bar took the brunt of the blow, but even so, the force made his head snap back. Ulric’s head swam, yet even though he couldn’t see clearly, he knew enough to twist away from the tulwar as it whirled back around, keeping a firm grip on his shield. Relakal wasn’t about to let go, either. So he just took a higher grip on the axe, directing a quick hack at his foe’s gauntlet. Relakal swept his hand away, cursing. Ulric danced to the left, swiftly bringing up his shield to turn the descending tulwar. He grimaced as the jarring impact ran through his body again, dark eyes widening when he saw the lakan lodged between plate and scales.

And yet, he was losing.

Ulric sought to hack at his foe’s side, snarling as the curved head went awry, then ducked under the slashing tulwar and bashed with his shield. Relakal stumbled, threads of deep crimson lashing from a crushed nose, but recovered quickly enough to jerk away from the hooking axe. Ulric felt the tulwar clang against his shield again, desperately seeking to cover his exposed side, but Relakal spun and finished with a crushing knee that shook his bones. He lurched away, gasping for breath. Again, the tulwar clove down on him. Ulric whirled with the shield, deflecting the curved sword, and swung his axe wildly, trying to get Relakal to back away. But the Akalak, sensing victory, would not budge. The gauntlet rose again, dealing a crushing blow to his head. Ulric swayed forward, spat blood from a torn lip. The tulwar’s handle banged against his armored shoulder. He drove an elbow into his foe’s gut, sought to hack at down on the back of his leg, got tangled.

Relakal just shoved him back.

Ulric grunted as his back crashed upon the sand, swiftly bringing up his legs in a crude tumble so he ended up on his feet. Highly disoriented, he sought to raise the shield, only for the tulwar to smash into his chest, denting the sturdy plate. He was cast aside, nearly falling again. His chest heaved. Hot, stinging sweat beaded on his brow, making him blink constantly. He was swiftly tiring from the punishment he’d taken and his foe’s incessant onslaught. However, he raised the shield quickly enough to deflect a two-handed swing of the tulwar, though it nearly dashed the thing from his hand. So he kept moving, snarling as he vainly sought to land a hack. Relakal just took a step back, smashed at the shield again. Ulric made as if to circle, then sprang forward, hacking, missing, and knocking the tulwar away again. He sought to land a thrust, hook, and a shield bash, but the cagy Akalak just kept his distance, using his superior reach to rain a flurry of blows on the shield. Ulric’s arm was slow to rise, for it was almost completely numb. He was frustrated by not being able to control the distance, and judging by the clenching of his jaw, coupled with the sinking in his gut, he was scared of dying on these sands.

The thing was, he couldn’t let that happen. He’d been tortured, hurt, tied up, and badly beaten, but he’d always managed to find a way to endure. He would do that now. He had to do that, or else Xhyvas’ last, desperate gambit would be for naught.

Ur-Xhyvas lifted his head.

And roared.

He lunged at his foe, kicked up a spurt of sand. Relakal took a step back, but Ur-Xhyvas would not let him get away. Though the hack was short and the edge of the shield swept past those dusky features, the helmet crunched into his foe’s mouth, splintering bone and incisors. Relakal spat blood, but even so, he landed a thunderous elbow that sent Ur-Xhyvas reeling again. The tulwar scythed around, but the impotent godling was already ducking away. The shield swept around, caught the Akalak in the side of the face. As the towering warrior staggered, Ur-Xhyvas took a step to the side and thrust out his axe, managing to hook the sword hand. He yanked back, scoring a deep gouge into the dusky flesh and ripping away the tulwar. Then a greaved boot came out of nowhere, caught him in the chest. He went sprawling, the axe spiraling across the sands. Had the shield not remained strapped to his arm, he might’ve lost it, too. Relakal was on him before he thought to roll away, blunt features a mottled, weeping wreck. The gauntlet descended with enough force to send blood gushing from his nose. Half choking, he vainly tried to defend his face with the shield, but his foe just jerked it away and struck him heavily. A flash of colors burst through his head, and he spat blood. Then hard, cold fingers were being thrust at his eyes, trying to press them back into his head. Ur-Xhyvas writhed around on the sand, screaming as he grapped with the hand. But it was no use; his foe was too mighty. So instead, he reached for his knife, heard the edge scrape against the sheath, and buried it in his foe’s back, just below the kidneys. Then he scythed it around. Relakal gasped and went rigid, the strength draining from his limbs. Ur-Xhyvas forced away the hand, crawled across the ring to snatch up his shield.

When he rose, Relakal was already up, tulwar dangling from his slack hands. Ur-Xhyvas hesitated for a moment. He peered into the eyes of his foe, thought he was a gleam of potential. Relakal was a great warrior. Was it right for him to perish on these barren sands, or endure to perform some noble deed?

Ur-Xhyvas gave a shrug.

Charging, he evaded a weak thrust of the tulwar, then brought his shield around with both hands, knocking his foe to the ground. Relakal just lay there, face bloody, pale eyes half closed, his great chest heaving. Every now and again, his fingers jerked of their own volition. There was a shout from the stands.

“Finish him!”

There was one voice at first, then another, and soon close to half the spectators were on their feet, crying out for a death.

Ur-Xhyvas just let the shield slip from limp fingers. He glanced up, feeling only sorrow when others would feel triumph. There was no use. Then he began to walk away. For a moment, an uneasy quiet hung over the ring. There were a few jeers. Then objects began to fly onto the sand. An overripe tomato struck his shoulder, spattering his face. Desank sprang forward, tusks bared. Ur-Xhyvas ducked a leather sandal, frowning. There was a low groan. Turning back, he saw Relakal cringing from a shard of rock, and the culprit shaking with rage from his seat in the front row of the stands.

“You lost me a fortune, you blue bastard!”

Ur-Xhyvas roared.

“What is this?” He shouted so loudly that a few spectators jerked back, jogging to stand before his injured foe. Another rock whistled past his face, this from a different angle. The jeers began to intensify. That was enough to make his seething rage crest its boiling point. He sprang forward so that he was just below the edge of the stands, grasping the front of the spectator’s robes. “What do you know of war?” He snarled, and before the shaking man could speak, hauled him over the ledge. His gauntleted fist rose, pulping the nose, opening a deep gash over an eye, tearing at a cheek. Then he felt strong hands on his shoulder.

“No,” warned Desank.

Ur-Xhyvas stayed his hand. He stared at the limp spectator, discerned the same spark of potential he’d seen before. Then he felt his rage sluice away. “What good do I serve?” He spoke softly, releasing the spectator.

Relakal was hurt, perhaps dying.

Ulric went to him.

Amid a hail of rocks and rotted fruit, he carried his foe to safety. There was no glory in war.

RIP Andy Whitfield
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Ulric
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Blood and Sand [Solo]

Postby Fallacy on September 14th, 2011, 10:31 pm

XP Award!


Name:Ulric
XP Award:
  • Philosophy- 3
  • Rhetoric- 2
  • Bearded Ax- 5
  • Shield- 5
  • Unarmed Combat- 1
Lore:
  • Reality and Delusion
  • Every man fears
  • Fighting an Akalak
  • Seeing an opening
  • Scared of death
  • Confronting the crowd
  • Sparing a life
  • No glory in war
Notes:

Oh wow, what a great thread. Once I started reading I couldn’t stop. You are an amazing writer, and I’m glad to have got to grade this thread. You really put effort forth into your posts, and your heart is there. That is always rewarded.

Any questions or concerns about the rewards gained please send a PM :)


12 hour shifts have started, and Im working 6-7 days a week mandatory overtime. My replies will be slow until I can adjust to this new groove.
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I think you're crazy just like me.
 
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