PM to join Until That Day (Merevaika)

[Konrad Venger]

Midday, 50th Day of Winter, 516AV
The War Storm Pavilion

He hadn't killed since Three Eyes; he hadn't even swung a blade in anger against another man for even longer, but he still felt the pull. He'd learned to trap and track, skin and butcher, make camp fires and brush down a horse, but he never went anywhere without at least two of his blades.

He wasn't a sellsword anymore, for how many days or much of a season can you say you're something without doing any of what that career entails? But that was just one season, and Konrad had been living that life for decades.

In the shade of a pavilion, the Sunberth man lounged on the grass like a great cat, still and watchful. Occasionally a skin of water moved from his lap to his lips and back, but aside from that, he was conserving his energy. His hands were still dirty from his morning's work. Checking and emptying his snares, skinning and gutting the prey they'd caught, then assisting Sedon with the cooking, feeding and brushing Dapple, maintaining his weapons...

The man snorted softly in the shade, for a moment ignoring the riot in front of him. Feels almost like an honest day's work.

His eyes moved back to the endless cacophony of movement and contest in front of him. The space outside and surrounding the War Storm Pavilion was alive with men and women training, straining, and hurting. This was where the warriors of the Drykas prepared themselves, although Konrad had seen that all Drykas were, to one degree or another, trained in war. This was just the place where those who made it their livelihood came to practice.

The Watch, they're called.

Like any good group of soldiers, they didn't over-specialize. Battle was fluid, unpredictable; mastery of just one weapon wasn't a guaranteed winner. Spears, bows, swords, knives, wrestling, axes, a few more... there were groups of Drykas - classes, maybe? - spread out in front of him. He had but to move his gaze from side to side to catch some new sight.

A woman hip-tossing a man taller than her with an ease that spoke of endless training. The others kneeling around them were impressed and amused in equal measure.

A class of sword-wielders going through katas with simultaneous movements and shouts, led by a woman bearing a sword nearly as tall as she was.

A man with shaggy hair and two axes, whirling and spinning and fending off two enemies at once, until he dispatched each with precise kicks and ax handles to skulls.

Arrows whistling through the air at a line of targets, one of the Drykas starting every shot with his back to the target, notching and drawing and turning and firing all in the same tick. He was hitting far more than he missed.

Konrad smiled and took it all in. Felt almost nostalgic at the sight of it. It reminded him of home, in a way. The training grounds of the Sun's Birth. Useful bastards, they were. You never knew what you might learn from watching, and Konrad was always open to the idea.

Besides, he thought, hiding a smirk with another sip of water, never hurts to know how a man you might have to kill one day fights.

The skin was halfway back to his lap when he was snapped out of his thoughts. The numerous little scenes and the classes and the whole portrait of martial training vanished and Konrad was aware that he was being singled out by someone. A hand was beckoning him over, and his eyebrows snapped up his brow.

Someone wants to have a bloody go.

[Merevaika]

Merevaika

The gleam of the blade, the soft tapping as it bounced against her leg, the sharp noise as she drew it. Her scimitar still fascinated her, everything about it still fresh. The woman held it steady in her hand, the weight pleasant yet still so unnatural. She had fought with this. It had protected her, in multiple occasions. Against slavers, against zith, she had drawn blood with it. She had stolen it from the pirates, from her sister. It was hers.

So why couldn't she use it? The woman had a clue - it wasn't part of her. Not like her bow. Not like her arrows. She couldn't fight well, not at close range. It was her weakness - and one she hated. The woman rapped her fingers across her weapons, wanting to feel connected to them. Connected in a way that meant she could use them properly. To fight - to kill.

That was why she had come here. The War Storm pavilion was know for its teachers and its training, both which she was looking for. If anyone could teach her, they would be here. Her eyes searched the area, wondering whether she would give up her pride to ask someone to teach her, or would just wait for someone to suggest it. Her pride was not something she was willing to give up, not just like that.

Then an ugly thing caught her eyes, and she decided she wanted a fight. Not instruction. Somewhere where she could hurt someone, land blows that were meant to damage. And this walahk seemed like a good pick. He was just as ugly as before - if not more - ugly snarl on his ugly scarred face. Ugly hands gripping an ugly waterskin. Everything about him could be summed up in one word: ugly. He almost repulsed her, like he repulsed everyone else. No one would care if she hit him, hit him hard.

Her hands slipped to the knife, glad she had that as a weapon too, before raising a hand, flurry of signs towards him. He wouldn't understand them, she made sure, knowing even a real Drykas wouldn't be able to make them out. Sloppy, speedy signs to get him to come.

Then one that every idiot could know - the simple beckoning of come. Followed by another, very briefly, fight. Her eyes, glittering red and green, stared him down, her posture was challenging, with a firm stance and arms crossed firmly across her chest, and the faint flickers of a smile on her mouth. "Come on, walahk. Don't dawdle," she beckoned to him once more, shifting her stance to show him the weapons. Weapons waiting for his. For him.


"Pavi"
Grassland sign
"Common"

[Konrad Venger]

Ruros' Balls, this one again.

Mental curse aside, Konrad couldn't help but curl his lip at the sight of the wild-and-ragged female beckoning him over. How could he forget her, after all? The dark to Jasmine's light; stoic, silent suspicion where that blonde Drykas had been all soft words and understanding when first they all met Sloane.

Merevaika, that was her name. Her eyes were on him the whole time at the ruins of the caravan. The whole trip back, she'd sneaked glances at him. As if certain he was some beast on the cusp of rabies, a bad tick away from savaging them all unto Dira.

When that hadn't been the case, she he'd kowtowed and Sloane - by far the finest booty from that trip - had been promptly taken in by the Firelash clan, she'd looked almost disappointed that he'd not challenged them. But Konrad knew when to pick his fights, and waging war on a dozen armed Horse Lords was not his style.

Namely, losing. That was never his style.

"Steel look good," he said, voice low and calm, suspicious in and of itself, he'd wager. Any chance to practice his Pavi, of course. He perused the selection she had, meager as it was, hand drumming a little tattoo on the handle of his kopis. "You want me for practice, hmm?"

They had an audience, but Konrad had fast gotten used to that. It seemed only in blackest night were things done privately in Endrykas, and even then, one was never certain. Looking around casually, Konrad could see a score of onlookers sizing up the situation. The scarred daemonic walahk. The bristling warrior-woman radiating naked challenge.

They want a show. Give them one.

Konrad chuckled to himself and decided to do just that.

"Not hurt small girl." He spoke slowly, making sure his chopped-up Pavi was clear enough for eyebrows to raise and smirks to be hidden behind hands. "Not fair, hmm?"

A spear, like the Kelvic's. A knife, short and simple and reminding him vaguely of the one Sloane carried, that he'd trained her with. And a bow, of course. A permanent attachment for the woman, he'd learned. But they were up close, now. Separated only by a handful of feet of gently swaying grass, and beyond them the watching peons and the warriors dedicated to their training.

Konrad held nothing. He clasped his hands and twiddled his thumbs. An easy, open stance... at least, that's what it looked like. He'd learned long ago, in locales far seedier and smellier than this, that true lethality often sprung from such a genial guise.

"Mayhap when you get big," he said, laying it on thick and baiting the trap one more time. Body primed for her to make her move. "Then come find me. Girl."

[Merevaika]

Merevaika

He had his weapon, that other blade that she didn't know the name of. Good. Give him a fighting chance. The woman looked him up and down, knowing her skill was little and that the greatest it became was when she acting all cocky. So she was planning to make the most of it.

The ugly walahk was not just focusing on her. He had noticed the onlookers, just as Merevaika had. She hoped, for her sake, that the encounter would go well, or that they would get bored. There was nothing more embarrassing than being made a fool of in front of an audience. Clearly, the man was factoring that in as well.

Two could play at that game.

His chuckle and following words were well aimed. Little girl? Little girl?! She was none of that. Her face grew angry, hands flying to her weapon, and with a stubborn stomp, she just about managed to stop herself from drawing it. That was what he was hoping for. A little show, a little girl throwing a tantrum and attacking him with pure annoyance. She couldn't let him win. Not quite yet anyway.

Taking an anchoring breath, the woman moved her hands away from her weapons and took a step closer, breaking the distance that had separated them. The air disappeared, and she was right next to him. He was taller, but not by much at all, and the woman had all the strength and firmness in her stance that made all the difference. She could feel the heat from him, his breath, rasping and ugly like the face inches away from her own.

"Mayhap when you get big. Then come find me. Girl." His words were ugly, his voice was ugly. It took everything in her not to fall into his trap, fighting the impulse to reach out and snap. Any one of her claws would work.

"Scared?" she tried to match him, keeping her voice as cold and cool as she could, yet it was lined with the fierceness she was trying to restrain, for now, "Scared of a little girl?" She gave a rough laugh, looking at the audience around them. "Just a walahk, what did you expect?" Turning back to him, she let her green and red eyes snap to his, letting her gaze lie on him a little. "These walahk would be scared of a butterfly."

Coaxing him with every word. She wanted him to attack her. Her hand lay ready on her weapons, while the other lingered to snap up and block his fist. One leg shifted back, just slightly, to balance herself. She was ready. Let him be the one to snap back.


"Pavi"
Grassland sign
"Common"

[Konrad Venger]

Hmm. Interesting.

Gods, he could taste how much she wanted to deck him. Her face nearly cracked with thunder, her brows knitted tight together, and when she surged up close to him his whole body went tense, expectant, ready for-

Nothing. She held back. Leashed her rage and dragged it back, noticing the crowd observing. Hardly a night at Tall Johnny's Casino, but enough for word to spread, he'd wager. So now they were both playing to the crowd, and he knew that because a few ticks later-

"Scared?"

Konrad kept the smirk on his face, only it became something a little more than a pantomime prop as she laid it on nice and thick. Oh, he could tell just how badly she wanted to pull that weapon and lash out, but no, she wanted him to start things off. Well, he had no problem with that... but not on her terms.

Rule number one, he reminded himself, always tilt the odds in your favor. All of them.

After a few more quips and barbs she was standing before him, one hand on her weapon, another... and her leg... tensed. Braced. Ready to move like a cobra's strike. Just like he'd been moments ago, only he'd hidden it a little better.

So he waited... watched... sighed... until the tension would maybe make her a touch antsy nd then finally he would move his hand-

-up-

-to-

-take off his hat-

-and fan his face with it.

"No thing for to do?" He said in his chopped up Pavi... and mayhap made it more chopped than usual. Let her ponder on what the hells he was saying rather that what he had planned next. "Have horse? Need brush? Do. Do thing, not make trouble big person."

He judged distance and timing as he spoke. Decided and set his course as sure as a meteor heading across the sky.

"Not fight. Hot. Have bet-"

He moved ot just in mid-sentence, but mid-word. His hand flicked his hat towards her, tossing it at her face like he would a wooden hoop at the tall, straight targets at the carnival game. Not with speed or force in mind, but that it would whirl and fly where he wanted it to, swallowing up her vision and-

Whether or not she struck out to block the punch she thought was coming, it was a moot point. Before her hand had even finished batting his hat out of the air, Konrad would have swung out with his right foot-

-powered by his swinging pelvis-

-and smashed the heel of his boot onto the bottom of her thigh, just above her kneecap, on the leg closest to him. That would be enough to obliterate any feeling in it, save for pain, sending her down to her knees with only one working leg. But ah, if she avoided it? Well, always a possibility, and Rule Number Two was a marvelous help there:

Never assume. Until they're dead.

If he missed, Konrad would sweep out with his other leg the moment his kicking leg hit the grass, aiming to knock her feet out from under her and put her on her arse. Not that he thought he'd need it, but still... it helped to be prepared.

Don't Make Me Repeat Myself.

[Merevaika]

Merevaika

Her whole body tensed with every movement, watching him as he moved his hand up. Took his hat off. Fanned himself.
What was he playing at?

Then he spoke, and she couldn't make sense of any of it. Pavi, chopped beyond recognition, a flurry of random words she couldn't piece together to form coherent sentences. Something about horses, brushes, heat, fighting. What was he doing, a challenge, more baiting? Nothing he said made any sense at all.

She frowned, bringing her hand into a fist and starting to throw it up, before he caught her, completely off-guard and not expecting any action from him.

A large hat caught her face, blocking her vision and the woman threw her arms up automatically, trying to block the hat, the man, anything. With wild punches and movements, she tried to save the situation, grasping out in the air, before he struck her, this time with force and a real blow.

It hit her hard, just above the knee and her leg crumpled, the Drykas falling onto the other leg as she tried to catch her balance. Her hands landed against the dirt, and she rolled quickly, moving out of the way without thinking of it. Lying on the ground at an enemy's feet was never a good idea. As she stumbled to regain some sort of footing, she drew her scimitar, extending it to give herself space as she tried to rise.

The hit leg shook as she put pressure on it, and she quickly shifted her weight, realising it was risky to try fight like normal. Gritted her teeth to ignore the pain, she stared the walahk down, wondering if it was wise to wait for his next move or to make her own first.

The latter. Of course the latter. Baiting him, she had just proven, was a dangerous game - far more dangerous than she had expected. With a quick side step to her left, she lunged forward on the good leg, thrusting the scimitar forward as best she could with a sharp snarl on her face. Following that, she had her knife in the other hand, and slashed again.

Her tries were wild, and not at all synchronised, the latter simply an afterthought of the former. He could duck out as easily as she could ride, but she had to do something. Show him she wasn't worthless, even though he had practically beaten her in a blow and a half.

What else could she even do?

"Pavi"
Grassland sign
"Common"

[Konrad Venger]

Looking back on it, Konrad would have guessed that he could have done it empty-handed. That would have really ground the bitch into the ground. Humiliation-wise, at least. Sword and knife filling her hands, and yet the smirking walahk with not a gram of steel in his still gets the best of her. Oh, that story would make the rounds sharpish, he damn well knew.

But it was a stupid risk. Didn't even occur to him at the time, when her curved blade slid from its sheath with an angry hiss, and she wasted a precious couple of ticks trying to balance on one good leg. Konrad was too old a dog to go taking stupid risks, and his street instincts had his own kopis in his hand the moment she pulled her own.

Better safe than sorry, after all. No sodding way was he getting killed by his ego.

Not that Merevaika gave him much time to gloat. With a snarl that was barely sentient she lunged at him, and Konrad's koipis was already sweeping to the side to knock her scimitar off-course and away from his chest, metal clanging on metal as he parried-

-but she still had something left. He wasn't seeing a lot of skill there, just rage and desperation, but an extra blade to fret about wasn't nothing, and as the knife came slashing for him he-

-swayed backward and let it fly past his chest, left and empty hand shooting up diagonally to slam into her elbow as kit went past, sending shocks up and down her arm, keeping her momentum going, off-balance, off-target, barely-controlled-

-and as she spun, his left kicked out again. Hips twisting as he swung out his foot, a sweeping blow rather than a stomp, aimed at knee-height. Not enough to break or even dislocate, but certainly hard enough to... worry.

And that was if the leg was unblemished. Which it wasn't. Mere had struck forward on her good leg, of course, but Konrad still had eyes for her back, her bruised and useless limb. Her reckless strikes had bought her close enough for a kick that could send her crashing down to the grass, with Konrad standing over her. Smirking, naturally.

If not - and Konrad knew that was definitely a possibility, as tough and petching pissed as she was - the man would slide back fast, boots fairly hissing across the grass, kopis held up in a light guard. Smirking. Always smirking. Feeding off her outrage and her impotence.

"Come, girl," he'd say, either with her glaring up at him from the ground, or from her feet. "Do better. Silly girl. Not fight like man can."

Don't Make Me Repeat Myself.

[Merevaika]

Merevaika

All of a sudden he had a blade in his hands, and she was almost scared. Almost. She had fought worse, and one ugly walahk wasn't going to hurt her. Not in front of a crowd of Drykas, anyway. The worst that was going to happen was embarrassment - and she wasn't going to go down easily enough for that to happen.

And he slammed, the woman shaking at the impact in her elbow and finding herself lose control of her body. Then another impact - somewhere in her leg, she could no longer tell - and she crumpled to the floor, breathing heavily as one hand caught her from her face smashing against the dirt. Grass brushed her heavy limbs, and she couldn't tell what hurt and why for a moment, the breath knocked from her.

She could hear his words, over the ringing in her head. Something about her being a girl. Something about how she can't fight like a man can. Who was he, some crazy walahk who didn't understand that man and woman meant nothing for the fight? Yes, that was it exactly. At least woman could fight as well as men in the Drykas, even if the pavilions weren't theirs to keep.

They could fight better. How many men had fought in the mines? Almost none, compared to the women.

She had to show him. Had to.

Looking up from where she lay, as subtly as she could, she could just about see the boots of his in the corner of her eye. Sure she was down and hurting all over, but she wasn't going to stop. She was a Stormchaser - she was Merevaika - and staying down wasn't an option.

With a quick movement, she swung her leg round, reaching her arm out to grab his other leg and heave it back as she attempted to knock the other down. Throw him off balance. Something. Would he be looking? Most likely. Would he be ready? Probably. Would it work?

It was the first thing she thought of to try, and even if it didn't, she pushed herself back, finding her feet with a lot of pain. Far too much pain. He probably wouldn't even need to hit her to get her down again. Her legs were ready to do that for him.

Looking him straight in the eye, she snarled. Spat. Wondered if he had a weak spot.

She hadn't had the chance to even think about finding it.

"Pavi"
Grassland sign
"Common"

[Konrad Venger]

It was flawless, and talen by itself, Konrad was pleased. He felt that feral growl rattle his heart without ever passing his lips as the girl went down hard, a tangle of bruised limbs and useless steel. She was brave, but bravery didn't win fights, no matter what the bards chirped about. Skill and experience and the willingness to be a right rotten bastard did.

All of which, fortunately, you have in abundance.

But the fight was not just the fight. As Merevaika crashed down yet again, he could hear a hiss like a nest of enraged cobras from around him. A quick gaze at the watching crowd and the Sunberth man could feel their mood shifting, like a vial of quicksilver tipped the wrong way. Smirks and amused glances were becoming frowns, glares, shaking heads, even hands straying close to sheathed blades.

Konrad scowled right back, but didn't take long to understand the change in mood. Teaching some uppity brat a lesson about respect was one thing, and a thing maybe the men watching could respect. But beating her mercilessly, dominating her without hope of retaliation... that smacked too much of simple abuse to them.

Konrad understood, even if he did sneer inwardly at them for such weakness. How lucky for them, to have such an idyllic view of the world. Back home, he didn't think they'd last too long.

He stepped closer, waiting for her to find her lungs and get some breath back into her... and she had other ideas. But she wasn't the first Drykas woman to play possum with him; the hawk-girl had tried something similar days before, and Konrad got an eyeful of dirt that still made him wince at odd times.

So when the prostrate figure lunged into life, grasping and kicking, Konrad was half-expecting, and all-ready to-

-step backward sharply, boots grinding across the dirt and out of reach, desperate leg that would have taken out his own swinging at nothing-

But buying her space. Ticks. The things she needed to roll away and up, swaying and shaky, but still holding her weapons. She looked him in the eyes, and Konrad cocked his head to one side like a curious dog. Still so much fire in them. All the bruises and thumps hadn't lessened that one bit, and as she glared-

TOOF

Konrad's eyebrows shot up as the pathetic little glob of spittle spattered onto the dirt between them. Stringy and weak, barely with the energy to foist it out of her mouth... but her hands were steadying. Her legs were weak and her arms were heaving with her chest, but her grip was the same.

The sellsword smiled. Ah. This was much more interesting. As big of a laugh as it would get would he say it out loud, Konrad didn't have use for pointless sadism. Inflicting pain simply because he could was not the way to fill his purse, nor stoke his passions. But a true contest, a challenge, an opponent worth his time?

"Put dat little one away," he said, gesturing idly to Merevaika's dagger with his own blade. "Yer better of wi' yer sword, but only just, ye ken? Tryna' use both at once, jus' makes yeh sloppy. Ain't gonna learn shyke that way."

He'd have to give her a moment, of course. Probably more than just the one. Ticks before he'd been a merciless engine of ruination against her body, and now his voice was level, calm, instructive. Even his stance was different: relaxed yet poised, but without the crackling edge of latent violence he held before.

Then Konrad stood a teacher, not an enemy. Or at least, he hoped he did. He waited and he watched and hopefully the girl took the hint. He didn't like beating her down without a challenge, but he had no problem doing so if she kept on at him. The crowd would understand that, too, he hoped.

If the dog won't be taught, then you put it down.

Once her dagger was sheathed and her stance focused around her sword, Konrad would slide into a defensive posture of his own, kopis raised perpendicular, ready to parry, slash or stab as he needed to. Then he'd just nod and wait for her attack to come crashing in...

... or maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she was more stubborn than he hoped, or he'd pushed her too far. Maybe she'd come at him again, swinging and spinning, even less cohesive and coordinated than before. If that were the case, his kopis would swing out to block her slashing scimitar-

-his forearm would lash out and smack into her own forearm, above where she held that dagger-

-and his boot would crash out and up between her legs, folding her up into a sniveling, purging pile of crud as sure as if she had balls in his breeches.

Konrad hoped she was smarter. Like he'd told the hawk-girl, you didn't learn shyke from beating the useless and the weak. You only got better by fighting better... or in this case, the smarter.

Don't Make Me Repeat Myself.

[Merevaika]

Merevaika

Her attempt failed, miserably. It was as if he could read her mind, sense that she was going to kick out and moved before she had even thought of the idea herself. He danced out of reach and she fought back a yell of frustration, staring him down.

Why were her arms trembling? Her legs? Why did she look so - feel so - weak? She could fight him, she knew she could. She could match him and more, she could. He was just a walahk. She was Drykas - she was more than that. With a rough movement, she felt the back of her hand against her lips, dragging against them and wiping herself clean. There was blood in her mouth. She couldn't even remember it being there. But there was and it lined the spit, red as her starbursts.

His words broke her frustration, and she almost jumped out there and then, brandishing her weapons like a mad woman. Like she had done before. But he had things to say. There was something instructive in his voice, as if he wanted to help her. She had no reason to trust him - no reason at all - but he was a better fighter, no matter how much she didn't want to admit it, and he was winning. Maybe he did have something useful to say.

At the very least, it was another insult she could shoot back at him, because she could do that part of the fighting, at least.

It was instructions, although not in a nice way. He spoke about her relinquishing a weapon - and as much as she wanted the support from an extra blade, he did have a point. With two weapons, she was thinking too much, trying to work with both when it wasn't fitting. Her blows were two separate blows, in the space of one, and that just wasn't working.

He stood, waiting, and it became clear that it had been just an instruction, not a distraction to attack. Slowly, she moved down and returned her knife to its place on her belt, hands lingering on it and a glare steadily fired at the walahk as she refused to admit he was right. Moving her other hand to the scimitar, she found it was easier with two hands. Less heavy. More control. Her legs shifted out to adjust to the new grip and she slanted it to one side, ready to slice and slash at him.

Her eyes flickered back to the ugly man, who was standing ready. She couldn't just attack him like that. He was ready and waiting for her move, and that was awful. She couldn't attack him straight on. She had to come up with something better.

Her eyes narrowed in on the distance, hoping to distract him with a long gaze at something other than herself. In their corner, she marked out a spot towards the left of him, planning to hit that spot. Then she dived forward, acting wild and reckless and stepping towards the left...

Then she ducked and sliced in the opposite direction, landing on her leg more sharply than she expected. As she slashed, she gave out a wince of pain, realising she was hurting herself more than she was hurting him. Hopefully, at least, her attempt at changing attack mid-strike had confused him, even a tiny bit, before he managed to block him.

Because she knew that she had never been skilled enough to pull something like that off. Her bruised leg told her that with another sharp shock of pain.



"Pavi"
Grassland sign
"Common"