19th Ashan 719
Lair, it's own little secluded corner of Quacia, filled with all sorts of material and momentary pleasures. In a city so heavily dominated by its religion, he'd not expected to see anything like this. While the architecture and design was much the same was the rest of the city, stone houses and cruddy shelters, it housed all sorts of facilities and services not available anywhere else within the walls. For instance... Three of his most favorite things in all of Idalos; Ale! Wine! Meed! Sold in nearly every building! Here, he would be able to worship Ilaren, even if it were in secret and quieted down significantly. Entire buildings, filled with men and women that would satisfy more carnal desires for a small fee dotted the village like corner of the city. While the promise of booze and a good time almost lured him in, the hulking Lothar managed to peel his eyes away and press on; he was after one thing... A fight. It had been a good few trials since he'd knocked out the teeth of a two-legger and he was itching for more. Be it his spark's desire to assert himself as an alpha or the mark that stretched across his chest, they were ebbing his restraint, drawing him to a brawl... He couldn't ignore it much longer. There were asses to kick and faces to punch.
So, he merrily made his way through the sinful streets, watching the sorts of people he passed while he walked with his slave in tow. Fridgar stood seven feet and four inches tall, taller than most members of his race. The thickness of his body alone must have weighed him in at something close to five-hundred pounds. His bones were dense, thick and heavy, which reflected in his walk. He all but dragged his massive paw-like hands and his feet too. He was slouched over like some sort of bipedal animal. Encasing those strong bones were vast sheets of hard, rippling muscle that covered every inch of him, all wrapped in tan, scarred-to-hell skin. His arms were littered with acid burns, various lacerations, punctures and gnarly scars. In some places, there were rings of lighter flesh that stretched all the way around his limbs; places where his arm or such had been cut or bitten off and needed regrowing. His chest was plastered in slashes, claw marks and punctures... Some of them even in lethal areas around his heart and lungs. His legs were much the same, covered in stab wounds and deep cuts, markings from where he'd magically regrown his dismembered limbs.
Each scar told a wild and brilliant story of how he'd almost lost his life, from skilled swordsmen to wild animals and monsters, many had tried to kill this man, all failed. And what did he wear to hide these tales? An extremely comfortable Stekir skin loincloth and a Feldorei pelt that draped over his shoulders. The animal skin was long and dragged along the floor for a couple feet behind him. It was beyond doubtful that any of the Citizens recognized his trophies unless they were raised in Gauthrel or spent considerable time in the eastern plains. He had yet to meet another Jeger in these parts, besides Alistair, of course. Under his arm, he carried the skull of the Same Feldorei that he wore in his back and in his hand was a medium sized leather bag that sagged with the considerable weight of whatever was in there. This man, this monster, was headed to the fighting pits.
And in his company? A small Wyvarnth Ithecal with bright orange scales, littered with brown patches. She had a bright green eye on her left side and a blind, dead, scarred eye on their right. Loque was her name, and she shared his disdain for clothes, walking around with nothing but her ragged pants to wear and a small purse of allowance that Fridgar had given her. Of course, female reptilians didn't have mammary glands, so they almost looked boyish around their chest area. Walking around shirtless was fine. She was his slave as of yestertrial and he already got along quite well with her. She was quite the interesting Lizard and seemed to understand his struggles as a 'less-than-civilized' person. So, she wanted to come with him totrial, even if she was just spectating all the happenings.
When he found a promising building, a large stone structure with sounds of cheering from inside and a large, brawny human stood at the front, he made a b-line for its entrance. The human at the front, who was easily a foot and a half shorter than him at the very least, was brave to be fair to him. As Fridgar approached, the man stepped in front of the door and held up his hands, saying something in Vahanic that he didn't understand. "Let me handle this." he spoke with a glance to the Wyvarnth. If Fridgar had really wanted too, he would have walked over the man and entered anyway, but for now, he humored the tiny male. "Common?" He asked the single world, which was quickly climbing to be one of the most frequently used words in his vocabulary. "You fight?" The man asked with a thick accent. Could he be any more dense? "Yes. I fight." The Lothar returned with a guttural growl. "For who?" The human asked in response. Fridgar quite sarcastically looked to Loque before looking back to the human's eyes. "Me." he all but snarled as he stared the tiny human down. Did he dare insinuate that he was working As Loque's slave? Was he retarded?
Fridgar must have been growing red with rage because the human looked away and submit to his glare after a few trills of locking his gaze with the man. "Oke." The man spoke as he lifted his arms up to distance himself from the Lothar and kept his eyes on the ground. "...Lizard?" He asked, doing his best to avoid the crushing gaze of the fierce Lothar. "She's watching." He explained a little easier, giving the human room to breathe. "On left. You go." The human instructed. Fridgar exhaled hard through his nose, then walked in with a duck of his head. The sound of cheering and clashing was even louder inside the small stone room. A wrinkled old woman nodded as she looked up from her chalkboard and looked to Fridgar a glance. "I hear. You fight, ya?" She asked. Fridgar nodded, hopefully a universal affirmation. "She watch?" She asked, to which Fridgar nodded again. She seemed to understand the first time, after all. "Name?" She asked bluntly as she looked to the chalkboard. "Fridgar." He said simply, cooling off from the encounter at the front slowly. "On left, read rules." She instructed, pointing to a larger chalkboard on the wall. Fridgar looked, then took a couple steps toward it before squinting and ducking a little. There was a set of rules in vahanic, then another set in common bellow that, but the handwriting was terrible. Still legible.
Most of the other challengers looked upon him with fear, some managed to keep their calm in his presence, mostly other Lothar and a few Thiussum Ithecal. Fridgar paid them no mind, he'd have plenty of time to size them up in the ring. So, he sat between a heavily armored Thiussum and a shorter Lothar and put his bag on the floor. He carefully undid the tie of his pelt and let it drop behind him. Then he reached into his bag and collected to black gauntlets, shining subtly with a sheen of deep purple. The two were incredibly well crafted, the work of nothing less than one of the finest blacksmiths in all of Gauthrel. They were fashioned from Terrendyte, the ultra-dense, strong metal from the rich earths of Uthaldria. These gauntlets were crafted specifically for him and cost more than a small house to produce... that was each individual gauntlet. In the past, these gauntlets hand punched a tree into splinters and didn't yield so much as a scratch, let alone any buckling at the joints. He'd seen lurkers dent worn-down Terrendyte, but never even seen blades of this quality dull, let alone break.
The gates opened and the battered, bloodied and bruised participants of the last fight all walked free of the battle field. Some were dragged as bloody, unconscious messes. Meanwhile, the spectators all gathered their things and chattered among themselves as they left the room. No doubt some of them would be forking over another ten gold just to come and sit down again for the next fight. Hopefully, Loque listened to his instructions and took a seat in the room too, only time would tell. Fridgar took the opportunity to equip his gauntlets while the previous fighters walked out, all wounded in some way or other... That was until the previous winner walked free without a scratch on them; a small Wyvarnth Ithecal of green scales with two daggers tucked into their belt. They passed him a glance, then a sly grin before taking their seat in the holding area again. They must have been some rich person's slave and apparently kicked ass. They were probably built for speed, he'd have to be careful, even if he was pretty fast himself.
He waited there in the holding area while the seats filled.... Who else would be joining the stands and the pits?
Lair, it's own little secluded corner of Quacia, filled with all sorts of material and momentary pleasures. In a city so heavily dominated by its religion, he'd not expected to see anything like this. While the architecture and design was much the same was the rest of the city, stone houses and cruddy shelters, it housed all sorts of facilities and services not available anywhere else within the walls. For instance... Three of his most favorite things in all of Idalos; Ale! Wine! Meed! Sold in nearly every building! Here, he would be able to worship Ilaren, even if it were in secret and quieted down significantly. Entire buildings, filled with men and women that would satisfy more carnal desires for a small fee dotted the village like corner of the city. While the promise of booze and a good time almost lured him in, the hulking Lothar managed to peel his eyes away and press on; he was after one thing... A fight. It had been a good few trials since he'd knocked out the teeth of a two-legger and he was itching for more. Be it his spark's desire to assert himself as an alpha or the mark that stretched across his chest, they were ebbing his restraint, drawing him to a brawl... He couldn't ignore it much longer. There were asses to kick and faces to punch.
So, he merrily made his way through the sinful streets, watching the sorts of people he passed while he walked with his slave in tow. Fridgar stood seven feet and four inches tall, taller than most members of his race. The thickness of his body alone must have weighed him in at something close to five-hundred pounds. His bones were dense, thick and heavy, which reflected in his walk. He all but dragged his massive paw-like hands and his feet too. He was slouched over like some sort of bipedal animal. Encasing those strong bones were vast sheets of hard, rippling muscle that covered every inch of him, all wrapped in tan, scarred-to-hell skin. His arms were littered with acid burns, various lacerations, punctures and gnarly scars. In some places, there were rings of lighter flesh that stretched all the way around his limbs; places where his arm or such had been cut or bitten off and needed regrowing. His chest was plastered in slashes, claw marks and punctures... Some of them even in lethal areas around his heart and lungs. His legs were much the same, covered in stab wounds and deep cuts, markings from where he'd magically regrown his dismembered limbs.
Each scar told a wild and brilliant story of how he'd almost lost his life, from skilled swordsmen to wild animals and monsters, many had tried to kill this man, all failed. And what did he wear to hide these tales? An extremely comfortable Stekir skin loincloth and a Feldorei pelt that draped over his shoulders. The animal skin was long and dragged along the floor for a couple feet behind him. It was beyond doubtful that any of the Citizens recognized his trophies unless they were raised in Gauthrel or spent considerable time in the eastern plains. He had yet to meet another Jeger in these parts, besides Alistair, of course. Under his arm, he carried the skull of the Same Feldorei that he wore in his back and in his hand was a medium sized leather bag that sagged with the considerable weight of whatever was in there. This man, this monster, was headed to the fighting pits.
And in his company? A small Wyvarnth Ithecal with bright orange scales, littered with brown patches. She had a bright green eye on her left side and a blind, dead, scarred eye on their right. Loque was her name, and she shared his disdain for clothes, walking around with nothing but her ragged pants to wear and a small purse of allowance that Fridgar had given her. Of course, female reptilians didn't have mammary glands, so they almost looked boyish around their chest area. Walking around shirtless was fine. She was his slave as of yestertrial and he already got along quite well with her. She was quite the interesting Lizard and seemed to understand his struggles as a 'less-than-civilized' person. So, she wanted to come with him totrial, even if she was just spectating all the happenings.
When he found a promising building, a large stone structure with sounds of cheering from inside and a large, brawny human stood at the front, he made a b-line for its entrance. The human at the front, who was easily a foot and a half shorter than him at the very least, was brave to be fair to him. As Fridgar approached, the man stepped in front of the door and held up his hands, saying something in Vahanic that he didn't understand. "Let me handle this." he spoke with a glance to the Wyvarnth. If Fridgar had really wanted too, he would have walked over the man and entered anyway, but for now, he humored the tiny male. "Common?" He asked the single world, which was quickly climbing to be one of the most frequently used words in his vocabulary. "You fight?" The man asked with a thick accent. Could he be any more dense? "Yes. I fight." The Lothar returned with a guttural growl. "For who?" The human asked in response. Fridgar quite sarcastically looked to Loque before looking back to the human's eyes. "Me." he all but snarled as he stared the tiny human down. Did he dare insinuate that he was working As Loque's slave? Was he retarded?
Fridgar must have been growing red with rage because the human looked away and submit to his glare after a few trills of locking his gaze with the man. "Oke." The man spoke as he lifted his arms up to distance himself from the Lothar and kept his eyes on the ground. "...Lizard?" He asked, doing his best to avoid the crushing gaze of the fierce Lothar. "She's watching." He explained a little easier, giving the human room to breathe. "On left. You go." The human instructed. Fridgar exhaled hard through his nose, then walked in with a duck of his head. The sound of cheering and clashing was even louder inside the small stone room. A wrinkled old woman nodded as she looked up from her chalkboard and looked to Fridgar a glance. "I hear. You fight, ya?" She asked. Fridgar nodded, hopefully a universal affirmation. "She watch?" She asked, to which Fridgar nodded again. She seemed to understand the first time, after all. "Name?" She asked bluntly as she looked to the chalkboard. "Fridgar." He said simply, cooling off from the encounter at the front slowly. "On left, read rules." She instructed, pointing to a larger chalkboard on the wall. Fridgar looked, then took a couple steps toward it before squinting and ducking a little. There was a set of rules in vahanic, then another set in common bellow that, but the handwriting was terrible. Still legible.
- Rulz
- No kill
- No magic
- No team
- Win = 200gn
- Watch = 10gn for 1 person and fight
Most of the other challengers looked upon him with fear, some managed to keep their calm in his presence, mostly other Lothar and a few Thiussum Ithecal. Fridgar paid them no mind, he'd have plenty of time to size them up in the ring. So, he sat between a heavily armored Thiussum and a shorter Lothar and put his bag on the floor. He carefully undid the tie of his pelt and let it drop behind him. Then he reached into his bag and collected to black gauntlets, shining subtly with a sheen of deep purple. The two were incredibly well crafted, the work of nothing less than one of the finest blacksmiths in all of Gauthrel. They were fashioned from Terrendyte, the ultra-dense, strong metal from the rich earths of Uthaldria. These gauntlets were crafted specifically for him and cost more than a small house to produce... that was each individual gauntlet. In the past, these gauntlets hand punched a tree into splinters and didn't yield so much as a scratch, let alone any buckling at the joints. He'd seen lurkers dent worn-down Terrendyte, but never even seen blades of this quality dull, let alone break.
The gates opened and the battered, bloodied and bruised participants of the last fight all walked free of the battle field. Some were dragged as bloody, unconscious messes. Meanwhile, the spectators all gathered their things and chattered among themselves as they left the room. No doubt some of them would be forking over another ten gold just to come and sit down again for the next fight. Hopefully, Loque listened to his instructions and took a seat in the room too, only time would tell. Fridgar took the opportunity to equip his gauntlets while the previous fighters walked out, all wounded in some way or other... That was until the previous winner walked free without a scratch on them; a small Wyvarnth Ithecal of green scales with two daggers tucked into their belt. They passed him a glance, then a sly grin before taking their seat in the holding area again. They must have been some rich person's slave and apparently kicked ass. They were probably built for speed, he'd have to be careful, even if he was pretty fast himself.
He waited there in the holding area while the seats filled.... Who else would be joining the stands and the pits?
