Place Your Bets [Warfields]

by **Pulren Marsh** on January 17th, 2016, 6:48 am

26th of Winter, AV 515

Crouched against the cool stony corner of the urban maze, Pulren gathered his breath. It had been a long evening and Syna was slowly slipping away completely, leaving the shadows to stretch into the complete landscape. The dangers of the Warfields were becoming downright deadly. All the while, he knew that the Three Bads were up there, taunting and calling on the contestants. His eyes closed, his shield tucked in close to his body, he listened for one of the others. His trident was in his hand on the ground, its tines already stained with the blood of the less than fortunate.

Several Bells Earlier

Maybe it was something about being a mercenary. It was probably about being a Wave Guard. Pulren couldn't just avoid a situation that seemed like someone was in trouble. When it was clear and decisive that a criminal was to be punished or something along those lines, he would not only look on but absorb the lesson of the day, whatever that meant. However, when someone was being bullied or threatened, something inside of him turned on and he had to stick his nose in. Usually it cost him somehow, be it in flesh or mizas. Still, if he walked on and ignored it, he quickly felt like he was no better than any of the lowest of the low.

Having spent some time down at the docks to meditate on Laviku and the depths of the sea,Pulren found himself facing a situation that he was surprised he hadn't faced upon arrival to Nyka, a city he was beginning to loathe more and more with each awakening of Syna. A trio of monks were surrounding a group of men and clearly were intimidating them somehow. As he slowly approached the small crowd, it should have been apparent to him that he was the only person doing so. In fact, if he had paid any attention at all, he would have noticed that even the few fishermen and stall keepers in the area seemed to just go away as the arguing continued.

Nykan monks. What a pain. If it wasn't clear right away that they ruled the roost of the City and controlled almost everything in it, it surely became apparent in a hurry when you were facing them down. The worst part of it was that, just like with almost any other organization, there were always bad apples that made the reputation of the monks that much worse. The three in their robes around the gathered men were exactly this kind of vagik. Bullies with power, throwing around their weight with no oversight from superiors. The worst of the worst, in Pulren's opinion. Of course, that opinion being so unfavorable made it remain a thought opinion rather than a spoken one.

The Present

The heavy breathing and the scraping of the large weapon brought Pulren's senses to the forefront. The Ax was near and while he was wounded and winded, he was no less dangerous. Maybe more so, like a blinded bull in tight quarters. The faux streets were becoming even darker now and the Bads were doing something in another part of the maze, their laughing echoing from a strange angle. The sound of the scrapes of the large chopper brought their jeers closer with every tick. He could guess then that the noise would also bring some of the others closer, short of whoever the laughing was about. He knew that he would be in trouble if he didn't keep moving, even worse if he didn't take out one of his opponents. It was time to get to work.

Standing slowly and quietly, careful not to make any undue noise with his weapons or armor, Pulren shot a glance around the corner. The large man was resting on a small planter, wiping the sweat from his face. Looking across the gap to the other alley, Pulren could see that it was maybe as wide as his trident for a good fifteen paces before turning another sharp corner. A plan was forming in the Zeltivan's mind, so he got to it before the circumstances changed things on him as they were apt to do. Watching the Ax, with his bald head and greasy beard, he waited for the next face wipe and quietly moved between the walls, shooting the gap into the narrow alley.

Looking around, he put his trident against the wall and turned his round and wooden shield so that it pointed toward the ground, making a shallow bowl of sorts. Concentrating and forming the green Res from his soul, small drops of it formed and began to rain into the inside of the shield, turning into stone pellets as he willed his affinity of Earth into the small globules. Once he had a good number of them, say fifteen or twenty, he stepped back to the corner and glanced again. Unfortunately, the wiping was over and the Ax caught at least a glimpse of him, his attention pointed at the movement.

With little time to spare, Pulren quickly squatted and spread the pellets out over a three pace spread a few paces in from the corner. With the size of the opponent and the narrow width, he expected the loss of mobility to make it an easy win over the beast and close the gap to victory somewhat. His shield and trident in hand, he looked at the ground near the corner and listened for the labored breathing. It came along with a wide arc of the battle axe, its head ringing off of the stone around the corner as the man squared up and brought his great heavy weapon back into his grasp. "Good thing I'm not a corner, eh vagik?" His jeers were as pointed as his tines. He wanted the man's attention to stay on him, not the ground. Just a few more paces, you fat bastard. Clapping his tines against the shield helped to anger and focus the beast. It did shyke for his stealth. "Come on, vagik. Your axe against my trident. See if you can win in that fair fight you cried about earlier."

That did the trick.

by **Pulren Marsh** on January 17th, 2016, 7:54 am

Earlier

It had turned out that the three monks were of Uphis, the demigod of blades. Anything longer than a survival knife was only meant for the hands of the chosen and while most visitors grudgingly agreed and surrendered their arms, the guys that the monks were talking to weren't into it. With the state of the docks and the ship that they had come in on, there was little choice but to stay in Nyka until the end of Winter. Sucked for them. It actually sucked for Pulren as well, so he sympathized in a way. Brothers in suck. From his closing observational point, he could see that there were four foreigners in question. They looked like mercenaries. Actually they looked like a gang of Sunberthians, their dress as much dirt as cloth and their eyes dead with hate.

A large beast of a man, the sun glaring off of his bald head as much as the blade of his large battle axe, dominated the group's profile. Alongside him was a dark skinned man who wore a round buckler shield and a sword, a thin man with at least two daggers obvious and a woman with a large curved sword of some kind. She also had a darker skin tone, but not as dark as the Buckler. He could only guess at their point of origin, his appearance and proximity apparent as the group's bickering slowed to a grinding halt and suddenly the three Bad monks had their attentions fully on Pulren.

Their faces partially obscured by the cowls, the largest framed of the Bads smiled, though what he did with his scarred face and jagged teeth was more the mockery of an actual smile. "Look here, brothers. Another foreigner with an opinion." the other two cowls chuckled in a divisive and sinister way, a beard jutting from one as it pointed at Pulren. "That's the merc that went after the shark with the blue man." The big Bad seemed to really be happy about this fact, closing in and clapping Pulren on the back with a meaty hand. "The Gods smile on us today, brothers. We have found a hunter. What is your name, hunter?"

Unsure of what he just walked into, Pulren shot a glance to the others who were immediately sizing him up with scorn and hunger. As if he were reading a sign with little emotion, he answered, "Palaren Marshall, Gentleman of the Zeltivan Martial Society."A clear face of feigned importance came across the big Bad's face. "Well, lah dee dah, a gentleman of society. How quaint. I am sure you will get along just fine with these fine folks that you'll be hunting tonight for our sport and leisure, Mister Gentleman Marshall." An eyebrow cocked in the direction of the cowls. "Are you sure I will be hunting tonight?"
The answer was simple.

"Either you hunt or join the hunted. It makes little difference to us, Mister Gentleman."

Presently

A scowl of hatred came with the trumpeting shout of anger from the Ax, his war axe rising above his head as he charged in for the obvious kill. Pulren raised his shield in preparation for the strike while quickly jumping back a step or three. The wind of the hefty blade whistled through the air as it cleaved where Pulren had just stood, again striking cobble. Lifting the weapon just enough to make it a kind of lance, he kept coming. His feet found the pellets first, just as Pulren had hoped. The face of anger quickly became one of shock as the force of his weight brought him to the cobble faster than he had intended, the axe skittering between the Zeltivan's legs with a terrible clattering.

Lifting the trident, he looked up at the shadow he already knew was above. The monks were standing on the walls of the urban maze to watch their money and officiate as much as a secret hunt could be officiated. "Do you yield, fat man? I would guess if you didn't that the gentleman shall skewer you most heinously." A raise of hands from the ground seemed to signify the yielding, so Pulren put his shield down against the narrow alley wall and picked up the great axe. Reaching up with it, he handed it up to the Uphis monk. "Could you take this out of the fight?" The shadow leaped down and joined them landing between Pulren and his felled opponent. "I'll take them both out. Nice work with the pellets, gentleman hunter. You've changed the odds." Looking over Pulren's shoulder, his face widened as he added, "Or..."

Two Bells Earlier

The hunt was to commence at the Warfields, a sprawling maze on the outskirts of Nyka. It was apparently used for the martial monasteries to practice urban combat in, but on this gray evening it seemed as if no one was in sight, save for the three monks. Pulren had been given time to return to the hostel and prepare himself for the hunt, taking the time to gather his armor, his shield and trident, his fur cape and of course, his trusted straight razor. He had also taken the time to eat his rationed food and give himself the time to digest and be prepared, emptying his bladder before arriving. Nothing made a fight annoying like the urge to pee during.

Approaching the outer wall of the great maze, he found the other less vocal two monks climbing up to the tops of the walls as the Big Bad approached him and nodded, clapping his hands in a slow and mocking fashion. Circling him and tracing his thick mitts over the wool of the cape, he continued to jeer. "Ah yes, you do make quite the fanciful gentleman, Mister Marshall. I do hope that you will give us pleasure with your thrusting and cavorting. The others are inside already. They were told what I will tell you. One time. The Warfields are not a killing ground but it does happen. While our bets are for you to win against the others, winning means defeating your opponents and making them yield. Yes, unconsciousness or death is included in yielding, but we would greatly appreciate not having to take bodies all the way out from inside. Much easier to do from here. So be a good sportsman and get to it. We are watching."

The whole thing sounded weighted and slick. Not wanting to get on the bad side of what passed for law in Nyka was his main concern as Pulren made his way inside the maze.

by **Pulren Marsh** on January 17th, 2016, 9:19 am

Now

Pulren only had a breath to grasp the shaft of his trident and step back with it as he pushed the blunt wooden end out toward the danger. It turned out to be the woman, who would have surely sliced him well with her heavy sword if not for the slight warning by the monk. While his weapon also made no purchase, it put some space between them. he looked down at his shield as he turned the shaft in his hands so that the tines faced her. She passed the sword from hand to hand, her eyes set on him, the shield, his feet. She was a tested fighter like himself and he could not afford to give her any mercies. She would occasionally look past Pulren, no doubt as her friend was being escorted away. It left him cornered in a polite sort of way, though he intended to gain dominance again.

"Back up, bitch." She sneered a broken smile at him, her eyes bloodshot in the waning light. "You're no gentleman at all like they said. No matter, you won't have balls soon either." He turned the placement of his feet as they were planted firmly, his side the only thing facing her. A few testing jabs went out toward her, easily smacked away with the heavier weapon. In fact, she didn't seem to be on the offense at all, merely holding her place. Was he now the one being baited?

Allowing a brief glance backward, he could see that the monk and the Ax were gone, a gap allowing a retreat, though he couldn't make out his own pellets against the grainy cobble underfoot. Falling to his own trap was wrong on so many levels, so he looked back, catching the glint of the blade as it swung in an angle toward his hands. Unable now to dodge the slash, Pulren changed the position of his hands, the sword catching a sliver of the shaft and getting hung up a little. The immediate catch was a kind of trigger for the seasoned trident carrier, his weight pushing left and up with the wood, slamming her sword arm into the wall. The impact freed her weapon but the sudden new angle of the trident toward her legs made her jump backward herself, nearly to the wall behind her.

"I said back up!" His movements becoming more practiced and warlike, he didn't hesitate to scoop up his shield with his left arm, gripping and tossing it until it was fitted properly. Now he was an impassable wall of wood and steel, his momentum pushing him toward her. She moved quicker than he expected and turned to run, his tines only scraping the backs of her calves as she moved down the next hallway with a quickness. Turning the corner, he went to give chase and was nearly strangled by his own cape. The tension and pull meant one thing: Someone had stepped on his cape from behind.

A Bell and Some Change Before

Upon entry to the maze, it seemed clear that some of his supposed prey had the idea to end the fight early, choosing numbers as their game. It was a solid play, provided they were salty enough to make it happen. A small courtyard was the opening to the maze, three distinct alleys going off straight and to the left and right. The large Ax man and the darker man with the Buckler were whispering among each other as Pulren stepped into the light. The Buckler pulled a rather large sword from his sheath, though it looked like what some called a bastard sword. It could be held with one or two hands, the buckler providing some limited defense while allowing for the change in stance and grip.

"The Gentleman Hunter's here. Ready to become the prey, Hunter?" An electric kind of current passed through the Zeltivan's body as he was primed for battle. He fully expected an ambush from the left or right alleys and the Buckler was nearly in attack stance. That left big man, who was too busy smirking to have that executioner's weapon up and at the ready. As a fellow polearm wielder, he would have to teach the man a quick lesson and set the tempo of the fight properly. The monks, not even completely gathered on the walls, could be heard bickering and snickering about the fate of the gentleman. It was now or never to make a move. Sorry, Fatso.

Running up to charge, Pulren stabbed the Ax in his belly with the trident. He didn't pull or twist, which could have made the wound much more grievous, he simply pulled back and then stabbed down at the man's big feet. Thsi brought the bastard sword down in a quick block and got the Ax sort of tumbling backward in surprise as he smacked at the bleeding holes in his gut. "What the petch? That wasn't fair at all? I thought it was supposed to be fair?!" Nearly forgetting about the Ax as an opponent and more a large baby, Pulren pulled the trident out of the arc of the sword and began parrying and jabbing at the Buckler.

"Yeah, because your ambush was totally fair, vagik."

The Buckler proved a fair swordsman, the added force of the two hands apparent as Pulren had to push off the heavier strikes with his shield rather than the trident. The telltale heaving and grunting of the Ax behind him told Pulren to sidestep. Had he not done so, he would have most likely worn the axe balde as a shoulder brace, the blade sinking down into the stone of the courtyard. He stepped backward and left into the man and thrummed his wound again with his shield, bringing a cry of pain from the beast. This seemed to really anger the Buckler, who came again with more fury and less precision.

Violent slashes came with the free hand causing Pulren to jump and dodge until his shield could come back into the fray, one slash catching him in the bicep but it wasn't too deep, the studded leather arm brace taking the brunt of it. He winced and shoved into the Buckler hard, though, knocking him down on his arse. He took the moment not to gloat or taunt but to retreat and regroup, choosing the left alley to run into. Turns and twists came, leaving the others behind him.

by **Pulren Marsh** on January 17th, 2016, 10:19 am

Now

The sudden stop in motion and direction surprised Pulren, something he was not fond of experiencing. His anger rose in his chest as well, but his logic stayed prevalent as he could feel a hand grabbing the cape as well. The trident tossed aside, his now free hand chose a thumb to push up between neck and tie. This gave him the space to duck his head under the supposed noose and let the cape fall behind him, his shield coming up to block what he expected to be the bastard sword. No such luck. The thin man, daggers in hand was what was found instead. He could have just enjoyed a thorough stabbing in the back by this guy. Now the vagik had a cape.

No time for greetings as he had to split his eyes down each alley. The woman had not run away at all and was positioning herself. The thin man was looking at Pulren as if he might date him as well as stab him. It was stupid and silly. The woman moved in a little closer. "Herschel? Is that you?" The thin man smiled and looked over in that direction, calling out while rubbing his thumbs on the hilts of his daggers. "Nah, Lane. It's Reddy!" So now he knew their names. He didn't care about the Ax's name. It was good because he could maybe negotiate as long as Herschel didn't come into play.

"Herschel!!! We got him cornered!!" So much for that plan. Looking over, Reddy sucked at his teeth and made a coy tilt of the head. "Did you put those little pellets on the ground? You're so dirty, boy." He looked like a slimy bog reed that had been given life by the Gods. A gob of spit in Reddy's direction hit his cape instead. The guy rubbed it in with his foot. "Spit on your own fine cape? I'll have to clean it when I wear it home." The good part of this was that Herschel would have to join in with one of the others. If he joined with Reddy, it would be in the narrow alley where they would be easier to manage. If he paired with the woman, Pulren would have to go to Reddy as two swords was not too much, but until this third was gone, it sort of was.

A kind of calm came over Pulren. It was not a relaxing and meditative kind of feeling, but something he had experienced a time or two in Sunberth. It was a sort of chill that settled over his bones and brought the coppery taste of blood to his lips. He felt a distinct pull toward Uncle and he wasn't so sure that he was going to resist. After all, would the monks stop these people from murdering Pulren. Not at all. Probably would make a good win haul for one of the three Bads. He looked one final time at Lane a she continued to holler for Herschel. Looking back to Reddy, he drooped in the holding of his weapon and shield for a moment, a feigned sign of defeat that brought the scumbag closer and his features more pleasant.

"Ready to give? It's probably the smart play, gentleman. Maybe they will let us all go and you and I can enjoy other pursuits tonight." Pulren returned his smile, though his eyes sort of hollowed out. "You motherpetchers are probably going to die tonight. If you don't back off, I will be your killer." The shield and trident came back and snapped into form just as a tearful and happy reunion could be heard along the other alley. The three were together and soon they would make their play. The shimmer of red floated across Pulren's vision as the need for violence arose in order to preserve important things such as his own lifespan.

Leaving the sight of the swordsman duo was first. A simple press and walk, the shield at chest level and the trident high on its edge, facing down at an angle. The tines shot out at face, then chest, then arm, then leg. Different combinations came as Reddy did a fine job of ducking and diving. The pellets had been swept aside but they really didn't matter anymore. Uncle wanted blood and Reddy was full of it. A firm walk became a spirited jog and Reddy soon had to turn. He was already out of the alley, so he did a strange kind of twist of his body and ran back, no doubt in the general direction of Herschel and Lane. Pulren would have waited and seen what happened next. Uncle gave chase, the trident stabbing around each corner before the shield and trident carrier followed behind.

Sadly for Reddy, he was not nearly as good a navigator as he was a sneaky petch.Wherever he had come from initially, he was no longer being afforded the time to prepare for an ambush, the trident of blood seeking him wherever he tried to dodge or hide. In fact, at one point, he had actually doubled into a dead end and had to run back past Uncle. This gave the mercenary joy as the flat of the tines caught the lad in the upper thigh. Mobility meant cloth and a sweet tearing of cloth and more came as he passed, a womanly shriek leaving his lips. Uncle was up on the guy in a moment, stabbing into his legs and hindquarters with a quick precision.

"Mercy! I yield! Merccccyyyy!" It echoed through the maze and Uncle stood before him, twirling the tines before his tear stained cheeks. "Yield Gentleman!" Pulren heard it from above, choosing to taunt Reddy with a few more mock jabs before moving back the way he had come. He didn't bother looking up at the referee. Petch the referee. He wanted his cape back. A few twists and turns and he could see the blood trails of the Ax man and the familiarity of his narrow alley. It was nearly full night now and the cape blended in well, just being a slightly darker spot on the ground. The corner seemed very natural. The feeling of a blade behind it was almost guaranteed.

by **Pulren Marsh** on January 17th, 2016, 11:44 am

Finale

Once more, he bent down to one knee, his shield arm at the ready to deflect an incoming strike. When he reached out to take his cape, however, nothing came. A sly grin and a small titter came from Uncle's lips. He stepped into the alley and saw Herschel at the end of the alley before the courtyard opened behind him, no doubt containing Lane. Shaking his head and laughing, Pulren put his shield down at his feet, the trident placed against the wall, tines up. Pulling his cape up, he gave it a shake and slung it back over his shoulders. Tying it properly, he bent down and picked his shield up, fixing its spot on his arm and looking down the darkened alley.

Herschel said, "No worries, my friend. Unlike you, we are all not heartless killers. We have morals and honor. Once you feel prepared, my wife and I are ready to make you scream for mercy." Uncle nodded and smiled, taking up the trident and making his way toward Herschel and the courtyard behind him. "I didn't kill anyone, Herschel. Not yet, anyway." He didn't necessarily want to kill them and he wasn't sure if the monks would allow it. If it would be allowed, he would probably kill the wifey, let Herschel think on his harsh words for the rest of his painful life. Until then, if it was an honorable fight he wanted, it was an honorable fight he would be denied.

Once the area was breached, it appeared to be a oval shape with a large double alley running of into what would be the northeastern corner, though Pulren was unaware of his current orientation. Lane was next to it, as if to guard his escape. In fact, once Pulren passed Herschel, the bastard moved to block the alley from whence he had come. So they had the exits covered. Good for them. A booming voice from above challenged, "Ah, your escape routes are blocked, Gentleman. What shall you do?" It was clear that the monks were all gathered, a glance in their direction showed them sitting on the wall comfortably, ready to be entertained. The thought of it gave Uncle his quiet reply.

"Give you a show." The answer brought a resounding cacophony of claps and laughing, some bickering over odds. Uncle kept his attention on the couple, moving himself between them in an equidistant direction so that the round curve became his new corner. Blades were drawn and the couple moved in. Backing to the wall gave him both rear and frontal defenses with his shield, stopping them from circling like a pair of hungry buzzards. It was time for battle of every sort. He knew that Herschel had a penchant for emotion when his friends were concerned, so surely he would also lose his head if his wife was injured. He found their lack of banter, once combat was initiated, soothing. He didn't really want to trade quips anymore, only steel.

It was Lane on the trident arm and Herschel on the shield, which was fortunate considering the opening two handed strike by the husband that landed fully on Pulren's shield arm. he had to push him back with it once repelled, the wife doing her best to fill in the gap like the tide into an open spot. Planting the trident firmly against the ground, he tilted himself back, her strike missing. He gave her a good sock with the blunt end in the cheek for her trouble, a thing that brought a groan from both of them. Hurt one and hurt both. Beauty.

"Are you alright, my love?" Herschel's distraction toward his even more than usual blushing bride brought a full turn from Uncle and a retort of the trident, stabbing out at the man's torso. It also missed but it dropped his two hands to one handed, which would in turn bring his power down. Again, the angry bitch took a swing for her man's defense, this time fully catching the shield. She continued to chop and swing madly at the shield, threatening to destroy it with the heavy blade she chose to wield. He was nearly done with her but he would have to lose the shield to make it count.

First he had to distance the husband. A flurry of foot grabbers came for Herschel, the shield held up at a moderate angle, catching hits and throwing splinters laterally and vertically. The volley of strikes put Herschel back at least ten paces as he reset himself and took up the blade in two hands. It was a dangerous gamble but Pulren needed to steal a few precious moments with Lane. He saw both anger and desperation in her face as she brought the blade down with both hands and he threw the shield as hard as he could into its defense. The desired effect literally took hold as the blade breached the wooden shield, tearing through his sleeve and cutting his shield arm a little. It was all worthwhile, however, as he turned the shield and disarmed her, throwing sword and shield behind her down the double alley.

Taking the trident into both hands, he quickly turned and sidestepped the violent and angry swing of Herschel, relying on his emotion to throw him off. he chose not to take the easy strike on the man but to pursue Lane as she bumbled off in the dark toward the tangled weapons. "Lane! Leave it be! He's behind you!" She stopped and turned, her arms coming up. Uncle took a firm strike against the side of her knee, bringing her down to them in a swipe before placing the tines at her throat. Turning his body toward Herschel, he lifted his chin. "Drop your weapon and yield for both of you or I'll bleed her dry." A soft poke into the flesh of her neck and its resulting cry brought him the victory he sought. Herschel cried for mercy for both man and wife and Pulren relented. As the pair were reunited, they were escorted out by the monks who asked Pulren to come meet them out front.

Once he had managed to get the heavy blade free of his battered shield, Pulren did indeed make his way out into the moon covered courtyard at the beginning of the Warfields. He found little trace of his opponents, save for some vague blood trails that led away into the darkness. He didn't feel bad for any of them. Their fates were sealed by their illegal blades and their refusal to disarm themselves. The Big Bad stood alone at the entrance, bowing before Pulren. "A fine show indeed, Gentleman Marshall. Now, you will remember to keep this little show under your fine cape there. You are still only a visitor and a foreigner. You showed mercy and honor today along with the viciousness that we appreciate. Perhaps you should consider taking up the robes?" The man laughed. "Probably not. Nevertheless, you are free to go back to the Hostel now. Take care, Mister Marshall. There are many unsavory types out at this hour."

No shyke.

by **Elias Caldera** on January 23rd, 2016, 8:46 pm

Behold, Your Just Reward!

Pulren Marsh

Graded as part of the Weekend Challenge!

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Solo Place Your Bets [Warfields]