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Round 1 Fight 8 Part 1
🕑 Added 2020-02-11 16:45:32 +0000 UTCThere was much commotion going on in the Dragon’s Heir throne room after I had whisked the queen away. I had heard that Kishke and the others had tried their best to keep our dwarven diplomats happy. Still, the initiation of the Tournament of Pleasure seemed to put everyone on edge. I found that out when I reappeared in our guest cavern, carved out recently by tired miners and filled with all the mushrooms and furs and chiton we could muster. So, when I emerged in the room, I expected a pack of happy dwarves ready to hear my proclamation. What I got was a surly hodgepodge of grumpy old men.
“Where have you been galavanting off to, lass!?”
“The fights are still goin’ on. What are you doin’ here?”
“I demand to speak to the queen! I don’t care if you are the Herald of this god tournament!”
Among the complainers, there was but one dwarf ready to speak with me. The younger one whom I had ‘met’ upon my arrival to pick up Tikana for her battle. His curly red hair and big blue eyes felt much more inviting than the straight, long, and braided beards and the gray, drunken eyes of his compatriots.
“Forgive my fellows, Herald. We dwarves aren’t used to having our negotiations interrupted by divine intervention. My name is Trosh. Allow me to extend my deepest condolences and...”
I didn’t listen to the rest of Trosh’s droning speech, as the Stick of Champions glowed in my hand. I lifted the warmed artifact up, waving it around the various dwarves as his explanations and excuses continued on and on. Finally, I settled on resting the Stick in front of him, confident that I had found whom I sought.
“And we would very much like to learn all that we can about your magical study, miss Tik Tik. If that is alright with you.”
“Okie doke!” I said, bouncing on my toes.
“Just like that?” he asked.
“On condition!” I responded, holding up one finger for him. He stared at that claw, following it as I pointed at the Stick of Champions. “Come with me for Tournament. You are Champion.”
He stepped back, waving his hands in front of himself. “N-no, there must be some mistake. I am no champion.”
The dwarves all around him nodded in agreement, grumbling and conferring with themselves.
“Is that what Trosh want?” I asked, poking the Stick against his chest. “Or does Trosh want learn firsthand? Need okay from old men to do what Trosh want?”
Trosh looked back towards his diplomatic “peers,” but I knew the look in his eyes. I wrapped my free hand around one of his thick fingers, and I whispered to him. “Trosh need push. Let’s go. It’ll be fun!”
Where the Stick took us was not fun. The metallic tang of blood hit my nose, and the din of battle erupted around us. The sun was choked with smoke as distant fires provided the only light. Never had I considered a place where the aboveground would look so much like the caverns below. There is usually an infinite sky above, illuminated by an unceasing ball of angry fire. Here, the roof of the clouds made me feel comfortable, yet on edge at the same time.
This place is not in its natural state.
A roar rose up behind us, and a bald, green figure, filled with scars and dripping with blood, rushed us with a wild and spiked ax. Trosh planted his feet and clenched his fists, his inexperienced face turning into a mask of discipline and determination. Before he could defend either one of us, a bright light burst out from the bestial fighter’s eyes and mouth, and he collapsed onto the ground, a smoldering ruin.
The mask of Hanioc appeared before us, and his voice comforted me much upon hearing it. “No harm shall come to the champions beyond what they deem necessary in their battle.”
“This is no tournament ground,” Trosh spoke up. “This is an orcish war zone! What sort of competition is this?”
A terrible and ferocious howl rose up from over the hill, a thing of frustration beyond all consideration. Hanioc’s mask turned to face it, and the angel said. “Go and see for yourself.”
We made our way over the hill to see a valley below. The ground was muddy, and there were many more of the orcs there. Each of them surrounded a singular figure, mountains of muscle, with bounding over her breasts and a large loincloth. She wielded a giant ax and howled, swinging it towards one of the others. Another fighter rushed up behind her, swinging his spiked blade, only for a bright light to fell him, as well.
“Cursed masked bird beast!” The lone figure snarled. “Let Brutlra have a battle!”
“Your battle,” Hanioc continued. “Is not with these. You are a champion of the Tournament of Pleasure. You shall not fight for your life, but for your enjoyment, and your opponent is over there.”
Brutlra looked over her shoulder, her eyes a mask of white and red. Her tusked mouth curled up into a toothy grin as she gripped the shaft of her weapon harder. “Ahh…” she growled. “A dwarf! An excellent opponent to crush!”
Trosh gulped. “Excuse me, oh great Hanioc, s-should I really be facing a real warrior?”
Brutlra hefted the ax over her shoulder, sauntering on over towards us. As she did, I noticed something else about her, a monstrously large appendage barely covered by her loincloth. I had to dab the drool off my chin after seeing it. What would it be like to experience such a dick? I had to envy Trosh, but also, I felt concern for him. He did not stirke me as one to take such a thing.
“You need no more pretense here, Trosh, son of Drosh.” Hanioc says. “You are judged worthy by the gods. Your social constructs no longer limit you. You are a Champion of Pleasure, just as this orc. Let the trappings that hinder you leave you, as the world comes to know you as you are, not as you present yourself.”
Trosh took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his hands. “W… well then, lass. If that’s the case you want to go for a wrassle?”
The orc stopped, then she snorted, but then she dropped her ax. “Hand-to-hand combat? You’re mine.” She growled, her grin widening to a field of white sharpness cutting through the green scarred face.
