Visualizing Zalanthas, in text!

[Hek]

I'll submit this to the stories on the documentation site when I get around to it, but until then, here's something I wrote up once when there was a discussion about fighting styles and never got around to posting it anywhere. Just thought some might find it mildly interesting. Changed a few parts slightly to make minor improvements.



The mercenary thought he had the advantage. Two years of training with the T'zai Byn, a set of sturdy chitinous armor, a large round shield and a mace with a heavy obsidian head. He had crushed skulls with that mace, shattered the shells of scrab and mantis, broken shields into splinters with a single blow; when a contract had taken him to the dark alleys of the Labyrinth he wasn't as afraid as he was told he should be.

He turned left at a junction, circling around an old statue covered in filth and graffiti. The alleys had been quiet lately since the gith came up from the sewers by the thousands, everyone - even southsiders - knew this. As he paced down the adjacent alley heading for a seedy tavern a noise whirled him about. A grin split his craggy face as he saw a lone elf lowering into a loose stance, wearing nothing but shabby leather and sandcloth rags and armed with mere obsidian daggers, chipped and nicked. Although his adversary was towering two heads above the otherwise tall mercenary he tightened his grip around the shaft of his mace and took a brisk step forward, shortening the ten cord gap between himself and the longneck.

As he closed in on the elf, ready to initiate the fight with a fearsome swing of his brutal mace, an abrupt motion from the opponent caught him by surprise. Before he could realize what had happened a handful of sandy gravel was flung into his face, blinding and confusing him long enough for the elf to dive forward with a flurry of stabs, impossibly fast and unpredictable. He caught the brunt of the attack with the shield and the thick vambrace of his left arm while blinking furiously to recover his sight, but as he swung his mace with a grunt the elf twisted to the side and avoided the attack with ease. The mercenary grew agitated and swiped his shield at the elf, attempting to throw him off balance, but yet again his attack was evaded without much difficulty and the elf thrust out a long leg, tripping him. He fell clumsily and landed with a thud, disadvantaged by his heavy and cumbersome armor. The elf wasted no time as he planted a dagger in the mercenary's thigh, easily penetrating the leather between two plates of desert beetle shell. He cried out in pain and anger, attempting to roll away and recover his footing, but the elf landed a fierce kick in his gut.

Blows were exchanged, the mercenary receiving several lesser cuts and scrapes as he scrambled to his feet. Blood seeped from his injured thigh but he regained his composure and shifted his stance to swing at the elf again. With only one dagger left, the other stuck in the brutish man's thigh, the elf planted his feet further apart and turned his side to pose a smaller target. Lightning-fast footwork and a greater reach of arm had given him an advantage so far but the mercenary launched a wide-arced swing against the necker that he was sure would connect and win him the fight. As his mace swept through the air the mercenary had already planned a riposte should the elf attempt to dodge another time, but yet again he was caught by surprise when his enemy performed a speedy maneuver: catching the mercenary's arm by the wrist with his free hand, the much weaker elf managed only to slow the swing but for long enough to catch the human on the elbow with the pummel of his dagger. A burning pain stabbed through his arm, numbing his muscles as the wooden hilt connected with the correct nerve. He lost his grip on the mace and it stumbled to the ground, and before he could even register what had happened, the elf lunged forward and thrust his other dagger deep into his abdomen.




The sparring hall filled gradually with heady smoke from the Chosen Lord's pipe as he sat in an easy-chair, watching with anticipation of the pending match between two of his slaves. A lazy smile curved his lips as he reached into a bowl of honey-coated candies, his gaze lingering on two identical twins clad in the same suit of fire-hardened wooden armor. Both carried shields and dull-edged shortswords held passively by their sides while they stood in a ring painted on the baobab floor. After a short while the nobleman nodded gently, and both combatants assumed their stances, facing eachother with their shields held firmly to cover their torsos.

Sharp nods were exchanged between them and the match began, the twins trading blocked and parried blows for almost a minute before one struck the other on the shoulder with a hollow thud of bone on wood. The second slave retaliated instantly, performing a maneuver of four swift, beautifully executed strokes with only one failing to connect with his brother's body, easily deadly if not for the blunted edge of his light sparring sword. The Lord nodded in approval and clapped his hands together a single time, and the twins parted to assume their initial stances again. Soon the clash of weapons sounded as they met once more, duelling with the beautiful finesse of a lifetime's training. Every stroke and swing was calculated and artful while deadly and swift, coming in bursts of masterful flurries.

After a final combination from one twin, an expertly performed trio of rapid thrusts, the highborn raised his hand to signal the end of the match. This was no display of random, brutal hacking that you'd find in the pointless bloodsports of the south but a demonstration in skill both beautiful and efficient, and the Chosen Lord took great pleasure in spectating this artform. His men at arms were all highly trained and disciplined, and - most importantly - proud.



The venerable spice sifter frowned faintly as a sandstorm kicked up as abruptly as a mul goes mad. One moment he could see for leagues across the endless dunes, easily able to pick out the silt deposits that held the unrefined spice, and the next he couldn't make out the silhouette of his kank as it stood mere cords away. But the ranger wasn't caught by surprise; a lengthy life in Red Storm Village leaves a man with certain skills. He gathered up his sifter and slung it over his back, heading in the direction of his mount. Although he couldn't see he knew which way was home, just as he could sense the direction of the silt sea, the city-state of Allanak, and the salt flats. Fifteen years as First Hunter of House Kadius lay behind him and careful saving had allowed him to settle down in his home village, retired at the old age of forty-four. Few lived as long as he, and indeed he owed much of it to his extensive knowledge of desert survival.

Just as he prepared to mount the insect he heard a faint scuttling sound, practically inaudible through the deafening roar of the sandstorm. He reached quickly for his scimitar and prepared, knowing already that a scrab was approaching him. He had experienced this countless times before, but as old age stole his strength and dulled his reflexes he knew that one time had to be his last. Determined that this would not be that time the old hunter dipped into a poised crouch, his eyes closed despite the impending danger; he could see nothing anyway and wanted to avoid the distraction of sand in his eyes.

Where most men would have been defenseless victims the weathered man met the scrab's attack with his scimitar, fending the insect off with pure instinct and exceptionally keen senses. He could determine the position of the predator just by minimal sound and knowledge of the animal's habits. He knew how it would react to aggression, to defense, and he knew how to defeat it with his eyes closed, as it were. His trusty scimitar intercepted a jab from the scrab's chitinous limb, wounding it slightly. He retaliated quickly, catching the insect on the thorax with a vertical sweep, and rolled to the side as it sped forward to bite him with its powerful pincers. A short, primal battle raged for moments only, the ranger wounding his opponent another time before using a pause in its attacks to fling himself onto his kank and speed away. The scrab was wounded and wouldn't follow, and killing it would be pointless since skinning a beast in a sandstorm tends to yield inedible meat. In his younger days he may have defeated it just to bolster his pride, but the elderly man no longer took such risks.




The half-elf looked up onto the stands. It was only half full today, the spectators talking amongst eachother as they waited; he wasn't the main attraction, and although he was a capable fighter he knew that the citizens were here for the final match of the tournament where a popular Borsail mul would make a flashy but ultimately effortless mess out of some criminals.  Still the breed took some pride in his work, after all it was the only thing he had left. A death on the Highlord's crimson sands was an honor of sorts, he rationalized, as he stared grimly toward the closed gate. It was twenty-fourth match to the death and he had come this far simply on talent and the hands-on training you get from being pitted against opponents sentenced to Allanaki justice: fight to the death.

He had been seized by the soldiers one day three years ago and hauled to the jails for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. You had no rights here, especially not as a half-breed, flawed by design. He wasn't innocent, because that fact was up to the templar's whim, but he had done nothing. The fate of many. The templar had made a quick judgment and he was actually lucky to have been sent to the slave pens instead of the corpse pile on Meleth's Square, and now he stood ready as the gates slowly opened. He was protected by a light cuirbouilli cuirass, a studded leather skullcap, and a loincloth. His right hand held a razor-sharp obsidian scimitar and his left a forked bone dagger meant to catch an opponent's blade moreso than to injure, although it could do so in a pinch.

A trio of rag-clad men stumbled through the gateway, looking more confused than anything else as they were ruthlessly shoved into the arena. Each held a cheap bone dagger and nothing else. The slaver probably hadn't even bothered to inform them of today's program as they hardly noticed the armed half-elf standing in the middle of the fighting pit; an argument erupted between the three and one was stabbed in the stomach before the show had even begun. The gladiator nearly chuckled at the sight, loose laughter was heard from the spectator's stands as the prisoner crumpled to the ground with a cry, and the two remaining finally noticed their adversary. There was a brief exchange of words between them and they reluctantly approached, nervous in expressions and movements. The half-elf gladiator lowered his stance, weapons held ready by his sides as the two drew closer, and he scuffed his right boot a few times against the gritty sand. They were still ten cords away when he darted forward abruptly and launched a swing mid-stride against one of them. He missed narrowly but came around with a wild rebound, slicing the prisoner on the hip with his obsidian edge before the other managed to attack. A weak, untrained thrust with a bone dagger was easily caught by his parrying blade, and he twisted it to the side, forcing the weapon out of the sordid man's grasp. The wounded had barely recovered before the breed swung again, felling him with a vicious slash that left a grievous gash from shoulder to sternum. The other recovered his dagger and proved only slightly more resistant before succumbing to a barrage of wild, violent attacks. The gladiator turned to the nobles' stands, unscathed, and bowed.

[Ghost]

Excellent.

Thanks.

[Agent_137]

loved them! makes me want to play a warrior again.

[Gimfalisette]

Those are awesome. Great writing.

Except, why are all the fighters male?

[Ghost]

Except, why are all the fighters male?

because fighting is men's thing

doh

[Hek]

Except, why are all the fighters male?

Don't know, really. That's just how it came out, I never thought about it.

[Aruven]

Except, why are all the fighters male?

because fighting is men's thing

doh

Why does she bother asking?

And Hek, good stuff.

[Zoltan]

This was pretty damn cool, Hek.

[Gimfalisette]

Just to show fighting is for real women:

The Gith Are Coming

[Ghost]

that is not how it works sister