Defiance (solo)

[Ulric]

51st of Fall, 511 AV Akeldama Colosseum Ulric whirled, bloody lips curled back in a snarl, and smashed his shield into a dark, screaming face. The crowd roared. The warrior grunted. Then crumpled around the heavy, iron-scaled knee that drove into his gut before the helmet crunched into his face. “Bastards,” Ulric growled, dancing away from the toppling, crimson-spewing warrior, as the dervish slashed at him again. The dervish was raw, barely trained, but he couldn’t just end the fight. He kept seeing chances, though when the odds were one to four, you had to be careful which ones to take. At least the Myrian was down. For now, at least. Grunting, he hacked wildly, forcing the “knight” to back away slowly, ponderous in a set of heavy, ornate armor, then raised his shield to deflect one, then both of the dervish’s tulwars. The point of a spear flashed past the cheek guard of his helmet. “Bastard,” he rasped, seeking to draw breath into his aching lungs. Ulric whirled again, going low to avoid the next thrust. He risked a quick, scything blow with the bearded axe, making the dervish leap to the side as he skimmed the edge of his shield against the sand, carrying up a stinging cloud of dust. The dervish choked as he lurched forward, pawing at his face. “Bastard.” Ulric bashed him in the face, driving a shoulder forward as he knocked the dervish to the ground and turned to face the knight. He turned the sword with ease, sought to hook at a gauntlet, and jerked the man off balance, shifting his weight back at the last moment. The spear thrust under his shield, deflecting off his plated chest. “Bastard.” Ulric brought his elbow down on the shaft, snarling as he felt the wood snap, and sought to drive a boot into the man’s chest. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the range. Cursing, the spearman let the spear slide through his hands, reaching for the short sword at his hip as he leaped back. The absurd, fish-crested helmet glinted in the sun. Ulric swung with all of his might, saw the chips fly from the knight’s shield, even as he brought his own down on the groaning Myrian’s head. This time, the warrior didn’t seek to rise. Just lay there, whimpering. The knight swung again, clumsy but deadly. Ulric ducked away, deflecting with his shield, and feinted a poke at the spearman. The man’s head snapped back, barely evading the curved spike, and then he went low and to the side, diving with his sword extended. Ulric just staggered back, seeking to control the distance as he blocked another of the knight’s slashes. With a grunt, he lashed out, weaving the axe into a subtle pattern that struck a dent in the knight’s pauldron, traced a thin crimson line across the spearman’s chest, made both gladiators shy away. The force of the spurt brought him up to the rising dervish, so he just kicked the man in the head, sent him flopping on his back. “Alvadas, are you not amused?” He growled, spreading his arms wide, letting the sun glint off his armor. They came at him again, spreading out to either side. They were learning. But not quickly enough. Ulric lunged at the spearman, taking him out of range of the knight’s sword, and hooked for the man’s leg. He raised his shield, felt the short sword scrape against the leather covering, and then the curved axe caught on the back of the man’s left greave. Heaving back and to the side, he jerked the spearman’s leg out from under him, then whirled around. His shield struck the man’s back with a bone-shivering crunch, sending him to his knees amid a cloud of dust. By the time the knight caught up, his thrusting sword just skittered off the shield again. “Bastard,” Ulric grunted. He cleaved down, felt the knight’s shield splinter beneath the force of the blow, and then bashed at the man’s helmet, lunging forward so the sword glanced off his shoulder. The end was nigh. Taking a deep breath, he spun, heaving the round shield so its edge struck the spearman in the gut, making him sink back to the ground. Ulric’s axe swung up and around, dashing another chip from the knight’s shield, and then he was empty-handed. Roaring, he seized the man around the hips, flinching as the sword’s pommel smashed down on his helmet, and heaved him off the ground. Head ringing, burly muscles straining under the crushing burden of a fully armored warrior, he twisted to the side, then bodily flung the knight onto the sand. Crunch. The man’s head lashed back, and then he just lay there in a daze, pawing feebly for his missing sword. Ulric glanced at the crowd. “Bastards.” Once again, he ducked through the rusty grate and headed through the dank, sloping passage, choking as he drew the torches’ acrid smoke into his lungs. Though he hated drawing out punishment in the desolate ring of stones, he knew that broken legs and a smashed faces were kinder fates than death. The second stage was over, but the third was about to begin. Following the winding passage to his dank, crumbling holding chamber, he immediately sat down on the bench, armor clanking. He was suddenly very weary. Head aching, legs cramping, arms leaden. He fumbled with the straps of his helmet, yanked it off and let the burnished metal clang on the cracked rocks, and slowly began to work on his gauntlets. Hands freed, he ran clumsy fingers through his spikes of short, damp hair, wiped beads of sweat from his dirty brow. There was a clay jar of wine on a ledge, and he reached for the tapering neck, drank greedily. The sour red trickled through his beard and down his neck, but it quenched his thirst. He winced as he came up for air, for the wine was harsh, more like vinegar on his cracked lips. There was a distant roar from the surface, a sifting of dust through the unmortared rocks. Ulric took up a greasy rag, began to wipe his axe with long, careful strokes while he waited for the handlers to come for him. The last thing he expected to pass under the arch was a girl, slim and dark. Her eyes were quick and shone brightly in the dim, dismal chamber. “What are you doing?” he grunted, putting aside the weapon so he could support his elbows on his knees. “Looking around, ser.” Her words were frank and to the point, and though her way of speaking was clearly that of the wealthy and landed, she spoke with a nervous quaver. As it should be, he thought. For to her I am monstrous, a drinker of blood, a howler at the gate. He watched her shift her weight to one foot, clearly torn between staying and turning around. “What’s your name, girl?” He forced a wan grin, tried to hold it on his lips. “Don’t be shy.” “Shira,” he replied, with a vague tug of a curtsey. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, ser.” The scowl returned. “Shira, you are a sweet, talking bird,” he sighed. “Spare me your rehearsed courtesies.” “Ser?” That came out as a squeak. “Fair enough,” he grunted, eyes narrowing. “Then perhaps you should turn around. These chambers are no place for a girl.” There was a spark of anger, her cheeks going pink. “I’m twelve, not two.” “Then you should know better than to go wandering around places like these. There are many dangerous beasts down here,” he growled, taking another swig that he swished around his mouth, trying to rid it of the lingering tang of blood. And I’m not talking about the ones with claws and sharp fangs. He kept scowling as he probed at a loose, aching tooth. “Would you like some wine, Shira?” “No thank you, ser,” she blurted, her words sharp and clear, rankling at his retort. “My father wouldn’t want me drinking with strange men.” “That’s good advice, I suppose.” Ulric reached for the rag. More than can be said of wine, too. “My father trades in casks of wine,” she continued. “He used to have a ship, a big hulk with two masts.” “Used to, just like I used to be a god.” “What?” The girl sidled closer, frowning as she glanced at him, the stub of her nose flaring. “You’re just japing around with me, aren’t you? You’re not a god. You’re just an oaf, a huge, dumb brute in a suit of metal scales, and you bleed that same any other man.” Ulric snorted, trying to fight back the deep chuckle that threatened to erupt from his throat. “Oaf, yes. Huge, now that’s mostly a matter of opinion, but as for dumb? That hurts my feelings.” He put the rag away, reached for a gauntlet. “You might’ve named me a craven, or even a turncloak, and I wouldn’t have argued the point, but dumb?” Shira’s lips curled back, displaying a row of pearly teeth. “That’s just opinion, right?” “Ha, what a clever jape.” He scowled. “Now get out of here before you get raped.” He rose, began to force his way to the door, but the girl wasn’t done speaking. “Ulric?” “What?” “You aren’t a very good man, are you?” “Good men die every day,” he growled, taking up his shield. “And do you know what? Nobody ever remembers their faces.”

[Ulric]

Ulric vaulted over the barrel, crying with rage, and thrust the spike on his axe at the barbarian’s face, a gambit that was easily evaded. There was a spray of sand as his boots struck the ground, a clank of shifting armor, the rasp of a grunt escaping from under his dented helmet. The roar of the crowd was thunderous, but he could scarcely hear for the ringing in his ears. The lashing blow had caught him by surprise, and he’d been trying to recover ever since. He lifted his shield to deflect the large, top-heavy sword that flashed toward his face, clove vainly at a fur-lined joint of armor over a knee, and then bashed against the rounded shield that rose to obscure his vision. He promptly scrambled away, feigning another poke as he cagily sensed the scything blow at his ankles before he even caught the wink of metal, then danced back in to swipe at a mailed shoulder. Take that, you bastard. There was a clangor of metal, and then the barbarian was knocked off balance, though only for a moment. Don’t let down your guard, he told himself, pressing forward with a flurry hacks that nearly put the man down on his arse. Make sure you determine the distance, because then you control the fight.

The counter came sooner than he’d expected, but he was ready. Even before he’d finished his backswing, he was hurling himself to the side, taking a heavy blow on his shield, landing one in return. The sand shifted under his feet as he bulled forward, drove the man back with the force of his bulk, heard rather than felt the impact of the sword’s handle on his scaled shoulder. Ulric grunted, sought to hook at the barbarian’s shield as the man staggered back, but the curved head of his axe just whistled past, and then the sword was thrusting at his throat. He’s fast and strong, and even cunning, but not enough to force my defeat. He ducked aside, flinching slightly as the wicked edge sang past his cheek, then drove his boot into the man’s gut, checking his momentum. The shield, which had been bashing at his face, halted just short of his nose, and with a curse the barbarian took another step in retreat. Ulric, whose center of gravity was already moving back, hooked with his axe, felt it catch on the soft wood on the back of the shield. Then he was jerking with all of his might, bringing a foot back to steady his frame so he wouldn’t drive himself even further out of balance. The barbarian cursed, but kept hold of the shield, the sudden momentum bringing him forward. Having been caught by surprise, the man neglected to do anything with his sword, leaving a spark of opportunity.

Ulric didn’t waste any time in responding, bringing his shield around so that it crunched into that snarling, startled visage, making the blunt nose yaw to the side in a spurt of crimson. There was a yelp. Then he was in close, feeling the sword arm strike his shoulder harmlessly, driving his helmet into the man’s cleft chin. There was a dull, satisfying thud, followed by another as he brought his knee between legs thick as tree trunks. The blow didn’t have much of an effect due to the obscuring skirt of mail, but it did make the barbarian tumble away, tripping over himself as he spat a flume of blood on the sands. Badly shaken, desperately using his sword to keep from falling, he was easy prey.

Or so you think, Ulric told himself, but he was already moving, feet dancing over the sands, hips twisting around, leading with his left shoulder as he swept the axe around, using the long handle to take out those large legs. He growled as the barbarian landed heavily on his back, eyes cloudy under a heavy slab of brow, and kicked him in the side of the head. Fight over.

Five foes vanquished thus far, no deaths. Glav, aren’t you proud of me? Ulric cocked his head, found a wry grin on his lips. He spun slowly around, stretching out his burly arms as he let the cheers and jeers suffuse his head, briefly closing his heavy, bruised lids. He was weary, but there was only one more fight.

Sucking in a deep, rattling breath, he shuffled to the heavy iron grate, heaving a sigh of relief when the acrid dark closed around him. That didn’t last for very long, though. Shira was in his chamber. “What are you doing here?” he grunted, standing in the doorway while Desank peered over his shoulder.

“Waiting for you,” she said. “Did you win?”

“Yes, that I did.”

“That’s good.”

“Why?”

“Why what?” She quirked a brow.

“Why is it good?” Ulric ducked under the arch, took hold of the jug of wine. The rough clay felt lighter, and he gave the girl a wary look before taking a swig. Tastes like piss, he scowled. But then again, it tasted like piss before. He took another drink.

“Why d’you have to speak in riddles?” Shira stamped her tiny, sandaled foot, and made what seemed like the feigned ‘angry face’ that wealthy children used to get whatever they wanted. “Didn’t you want to win?” Ulric just felt like giving her the back of his hand.

“Everybody wants to win,” he gave a shrug, laying down the shield, which he’d only just remembered was hanging from his arm. I must be more tired than I thought, he grunted. “Matters to me, but why does it matter to you? Why should it mean anything to the bastards out there?” He jerked his thump up at the ceiling, which was directly below the ring of sand, spat on the dirty floor with scarcely bridled disdain. “Have you ever looked at the sands, girl? Ever really looked at them? There are so many grains, so vague, so insubstantial that you’d never be able to count them, not even if you crawled around for a hundred years, marking them down on a slate one by one, your hand cramping into a leathery claw. That’s humanity. There’s so many of us, so many souls hanging in a dismal balance, or shackled by chains of their own making, that we are as nothing.”

“You’re so morbid, always thinking you know more than everybody else, feigning to be some wise old greybeard.” Shira’s voice was growing shrill, and any moment Ulric was expecting her handlers to come running. Surely she had handlers, for no father would let his daughter roam unescorted around such fierce, hardened fighters – not to mention the ravening beasts of the pits. “What do you really know? Why are you right, and everybody else wrong?”

Ulric hunched over, flexing the bruised, aching fingers under his scaled gauntlets, staring down at the floor. “Why? Doesn’t matter. Everything is shyke in the end, just lies and reeking, smearing shyke, ensconced in silk and wafted with the finest perfumes.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” he groaned, hearing the clunk-scrape, clunk-scrape of the gimp coming for him again. “You know, I used to think that when people died, they just went away. I was certain of that, but they don’t stay dead.”

Shira frowned. “Like ghosts?”

“Worse.” Ulric shook his head sadly, fingers grasping for an empty torch bracket to haul himself up. “They become part of you.”

[Ulric]

There were two of them, and they fought just like him. They were quick, cunning, brutal, and nearly as good. Together, they were lethal.

Ulric lurched under the spiked mace, trying vainly to hook at Lorik’s legs, while his shield rose to deflect the swing of a sword. Lorek was there, driving a boot down onto his armored thigh, sweeping the axe toward his face. Ulric jerked his head aside, felt the edge scrape against his helmet, trying to veer away as the mace came around again. Everything was happening so far. And yet, as he clove with his own axe, scantly managing to beat away the deadly arc of the mace, he scarcely even saw the shield that smashed into his face. The blow sent him back, dark threads of crimsons spewing from his mouth, stars bursting in front of his eyes. He raised his shield, felt the sword smash down, felt the mace crunch against the curved surface, the shock coursing up to his elbow, making his forearm entirely numb. There was a jolt as the axe hooked around the edge of his shield, jerking him forward, his balance completely gone, and then the shield bashed into the side of his face again, leaving a fiery graze that he hardly noticed. He could barely see, couldn’t even hear, the roar of the crowd just a low murmur in his ears, no louder the drone of a wasp. He wouldn’t back down, though. He never backed down.

Barely conscious, he lurched forward, trying to hold up his heavy shield, trying to hack the twins to pieces, but he couldn’t. The spiked mace crunched into his plate armor, leaving a gaping dent, forcing what breath remained from his lungs. And then, before he could recover, the axe swept around, hooking his legs, putting him down on his back.

Eyes staring up, at the pewter-gray sky, like a newborn babe regarding clouds for the first time. I’ve lost, he thought faintly, the image swimming before him. Now that’s a pity. Then a shadowy formed crossed his vision, and a shining length of something rose skyward.

Ulric waited for the end. Even gods die, he thought, strangely detached from his fate as another shape emerged from the turgid, ripping gray current that flowed around him, hurtling into the other.

GET UP

What?

XHYVAS

That’s me.

What do you want?

Then he was crawling, though he didn’t know how, or even why. There was vague hiss against his cheek, a scraping of metal, something warm flowing into his eyes, from the ground a spurt of sand.

He just tried to take my head off.

Ulric shifted sluggishy, somehow managing to evade another blow. What’s going on? Shaking his groggy head, the world wreathed by an impenetrable curtain of gray mist, he wildly swiped away another blow and lashed out with his foot, felt it crunch upon something that gave. There was a grunt, a curse, a clanking of armor. Why aren’t I dead? Mind slowly clearing, he spun over the sands, felt his fingers close around the haft of his axe, saw the edge of a sword blurring toward his face. He desperately brought up the shield, his chest heaving frantically, and swept the axe around. There was a scream, a spurt of crimson that didn’t cease, the gleam of white bone. Then the severed, mangled arm flopped into his lap, a gauntlet clanking against his skirt of leather-backed scales, speckling it with tiny red beads. He might’ve just sat there, gaping at chunk of disembodied flesh, but he’d unconsciously risen to a half-crough, and now he brought the crushing force of his backswing down on the back of the screaming man’s legs. Lorek? Lorik? The name didn’t matter. The curved head bit through mail and leather, into pale flesh, sawing through tendons, crunching deep into bone, making bloody spray again.

“Did he just… what?” Ulric tenderly probed at his busted lip, surveying the blotchy, swaying crowd as if from a distance, and lifted the rim of his shield so it caught Syna’s glare. There wasn’t much time to recover, though, for the other man was swarming over him again, a blur of blue over his shoulder. We’re fighting, then. Lurching forward, Ulric sought to bash with his shield, nearly stumbling as the spikes streaked past his face. That errant stagger probably saved his life.

The screams weren’t stopping either. Why doesn’t he just die already?

Ulric lashed out, the haft of his axe looping around to smash into the man’s helmet, making the blackened metal ring. That got the man’s attention, but it was the swift, brutal kick to the groin that put him on the sand, despite his skirt of leather. Ha, got you, bastard, he snarled, and swung the axe around, carving a deep gouge into the helmet, sending sparks flying.

Then it was all over. He would never truly piece together the end of the fight, for it was reduced to fragments. The man prone on the sands, the uneasy murmur of the crowd, the black specks before his eyes. I wonder if he died, he groaned, lurching against the Gasvik’s strong, scaly shoulder as they made their way down the tunnel, heading to that dismal chamber where Shira sat waiting for his return.

“Uasb aodnfn qubdib onad,” growled the agitated Desank, making to clear her away so there could be calm, but Ulric placed a comforting hand on his elbow. “Yasun?”

“Not now.”

“Kjas ubadb norn, uabf ibad yvaw opq iadbf? Aindia uqb byzv oadub yvqwyv bay adfs oja ubad weib uad byvsdk!”

“Who are you talking to?” Shira frowned.

“Just don’t,” Ulric sighed. He sat down heavily, drawing off the heavy, sand-coated helmet and placing his head in his hands. He took deep, wracking breaths, the enormity of what had nearly occurred suffusing his body with dread.

“Did you win?” The girl was eager, not understanding what he knew with a better certainty. He heard it in the quaver of those few words, the spark in her eyes. There wasn’t any use speaking of how he felt.

There wasn’t even a prayer that she’d understand.

“No, I lost.”

Go on, weep for the dying, or cheer them as they strut eager onto the sands, clamoring to win glory and fame at the edge of a sword. Go on, for when those few, brief instants are over, the crowd forgets. They don’t care that your life has been snuffed out, only that they sat in witness.

Play the drums, sing your songs.

There is no purpose.

“There is nothing else for me here.” Let us go, Desank. Let us go away from this place, and never set foot again on these sands.

Because the best fight is the one you never go looking for.

Because the best fight is the one you have against a muddy road, or the weeds threatening to choke your crops. Not your brothers.

[Distortion]

Ulric Awards : Skills Shield +3 Bearded Axe +3 Unarmed Combat +2 Philosophy +2 Rhetoric +1 Lore Using Tactics to Defeat Superior Numbers Using Terrain to Your Advantage Playing to the Crowd Nice Guys Finish Dead The World is Shyke Winning the Day Through Persistence The Best Fight is the One You Never Go Looking For Other 4 GM for your performance in the arena if Ulric wishes to collect from Shale 10 Points in the arena, toward rank Overall: Another excellent thread. I liked very much the contrast between the events in the ring and Ulric’s bleakly nihilistic musings in the aftermath. Please let me know if you have any questions or concerns about the XP or Lore awarded.