Jon Potter
First Post
[Realms #404] Aftermath
Morier eyed the flickering mage then lowered his hands, offering himself up in a fully undefended position. The expression on his face did nothing to hide the contempt in which he held Huzair.
"If this is the way you will have it, you honorless piece of crap, then have your best shot," he growled, his mouth wet and red in his paper-white face. Of course, to the Blinking Huzair it sounded like: "If * is * way * will * it, * honorless * of *, then * your * shot."
Shamalin was the first to step out of the sunken hut at the sound of fighting and she watched the brawl unfold with utter disbelief. The insults she'd witnessed being exchanged between Huzair and Morier since she'd joined the party had become so commonplace that she found herself taken aback to find it had escalated to the next level. She stood for a long moment in stunned silence as her two companions traded blows, then as the action wound down and Morier stepped back from Huzair, she started up the steps, but a hand tightened on her bicep. She turned to see Ayremac shaking his head.
"There is a lot of tension between friends and sometimes men need to work it out with fists," he told her and she was surprised to see the beginnings of a smile touching the corners of the holy warrior's lips. "We won't let anyone get 'really' hurt." Scowling, she jerked her arm free of Ayremac's grip and stalked off down the street.
"I'm not wasting a healing spell over this!" she shouted at the combatants as she went.
Premarch D'rach stepped out into the sunshine, taking in the scene with a glance from his numerous eyes. "What is going on?" he asked, clearly shocked by the turn of events.
"Premarch, please excuse this outburst," Ayremac offered, angling his head slightly in the direction of the pugilists. "These two are schoolboy friends and I think they have a few things to settle. Shall we leave them be or do you enjoy a good fight?" The Premarch turned a shocked face to Ayremac.
"Fighting is not permitted in New Mellorell," he said simply then turned to look at Shamalin's retreating form. "And the priestess should not be wandering around without the proper escort. The Sovereign must be notified." He then moved lithely up the steps and moved after the cleric at a walk that bordered closely on a run.
Huzair deactivated his Ring and grinned cruelly at Morier. "Would you mind repeating that, Whitey?" he snarled and Morier wiped his knuckles across his bloodied nose.
"You're quite fierce hiding safely behind the knowledge that your opponent won't kill you," the eldritch warrior hissed and Huzair waved the comment away.
"That's only because I know you do not have the balls to get into a death match with me," he retorted. "I would take you out so fast you would not know what hit you." Morier snorted at that.
"If you had half the balls to fight this hard against an opponent who didn't care if you lived or died, we wouldn't have to be having a discussion about any of this," the albino shot back and Huzair's expression became shocked.
"Are you saying I do not fight hard? Why do you think I study my spells so much? And I certainly carried my weight in the tests. I am as much a target as you against the spell using creatures," Huzair snapped, wiping blood from his lips. "You ought not to downplay the power of magic; it is what makes your thunderstrike attack so strong. If you actually worked at spell casting, your power would even be better than mine... No wonder ap-Llewellyn is so disappointed in you, ilhar-vith!"
At the last word - a vulgar bit of undercommon that was probably the only term Huzair knew in the language - Morier's eyes narrowed to crimson slits. He held the wizard's gaze for a second and then shook his head and turned his back. "I'm finished with you," he said.
"You cannot even take down a weak little wizard like me in a fight" Huzair went on, following Morier as he stepped away. "It scares me that you are our front line fighter. Karak would have broken me in half by now. You have finished nothing."
"Feel free to further prove your cowardice Huzair. You've accomplished nothing," Morier said, waving the wizard off. "I refuse to be a party to your particular form of idiocy any longer."
"I am not the one walking away, coward," the wizard pressed, keeping pace with the albino. "Your words started this, Morier. You wanted me to attack you and when you see I fight back... you quit. That is a coward."
That's when Karak exploded into their midst, an animalistic snarl ripping from his barrel chest.
The dwarf's thick left hand snatched a fistful of Morier's cloak arresting at once the albino's retreat even as his other hand latched onto Huzair's left forearm with enough force to cause Huzair to wince in pain. Kara's face was livid, his ears a scarlet nearly as bright as the blood smeared across Morier's face. Veins bulged like azure ropes across his forehead and spittle foamed at the corners of his snarling mouth. An anger as hot as any forge burned in his eyes.
"I grow tired o' this!" he bellowed, shaking Huzair so easily and fiercely that the wizard may as well have been made from sticks and straw for all the effort it required on the dwarf's part. With a finally violent thrust, he sent the mage onto his backside in the mud. "Chaos surrounds us, and you waste time attacking Morier. If you want to fight someone, go out in the woods and slay some transmogrified beasts. Slay the taint that encroaches this land."
Huzair started to say something, but Karak cut him off with a axe-like chop of his arm. "I don't know who raised you or where you come from, but in my clan, you do nae strike a fellow clansman!" the dwarf growled. "A strike upon such fellow is a strike upon the clan itself. May the very rocks that stand bear witness to this statement: fighting a fellow is met with the ultimate punishment, and if it happens again I will mete that punishment out upon you, Huzair, or die tryin'."
"And you..." the dwarf said, turning so suddenly that even the steely nerved albino twitched in surprise. Karak flexed his arm, tugging Morier off balance and sending him ultimately into the mud beside Huzair. "A fighter with a powerful sword ye be, but to allow a half-naked wizard whup ya in hand-to-hand combat is an' elf-kissin' crime! Why me baby nephew coulda done better!" He paused long enough to spit a thick glob of the phlegm he always seemed to have in such ready supply. He sliced his hand through the air with finality.
"An' that's it. I have laid low in the martial training o' this group until now. Ayremac has smartly asked about martial skill and I can see now you need more of it too," he squinted at Morier, his lip curling behind his mustache. "I will teach ye dwarven tunnel fightin' if ye have the courage and skill to learn it." He looked up at Ixin and Ayremac and added, "That goes to all of ye. Anyone wantin' to learn how to fight - I mean really fight - then I'll train ye!"
He didn't wait for an answer before he looked back at Morier, who remained on the ground, stunned by the dwarf's outburst. "The swordsmanship ye be trainin' Shamalin in I do nae agree with, but I'll admit it is a fightin'' style. It's just nae dwarven," he said shaking his head in disgust. "But this... getting yer arse kicked by a wizard who used no spell? I can barely stand to look at ye. Now get up and get ye some armor. Yer training begins later."
Then Karak stamped the thirty feet back to where he'd buried his waraxe in the ground, picked it up and flicked the mud off of the blade with a single sharp motion of his arm. Then he stomped off in the direction that both Shamalin and Premarch D'rach had gone, a muttered litany of dwarven curses following in his wake.
After a few moments, Ayremac and Ixin moved toward the two former combatants. Ayremac offered a hand to Morier, but the eldritch warrior ignored it and clambered unceremonious to his feet. Without looking at any of the others he walked away, in a direction different from the one that the others had taken. Ayremac looked from the albino's back down to his own hand still extended uselessly. The hand curled into a tight first and a shadow clouded his inhumanly beautiful face for a moment before he spread his wings and took to the air.
Huzair watched him shoot skyward as Ixin hauled him to his feet, asking, "What were you thinking?"
"I was thinking if I got him from behind, I could knock him out quickly," the wizard replied, snidely. He gingerly touched his bloodied lip. "I should have focused more on the head shots." Ixin shook her head in disgust.
"You know what I mean, Huzair," she said, her forehead creased with consternation. "What could Morier have possibly said to make you attack a comrade?" Huzair looked away, toward where Morier had disappeared among the other huts.
"He insulted my father," the mage admitted. "I do not even know who my parents are. He knows that and was being cruel." Then the mage's face hardened and he looked back at Ixin. "He also knows that I do carry my weight in the party. Who was attacked first by the theives? Feln and I. Who did the octopus monster attack in the water test? Me. I am in danger as much as anyone. But if I were going to go hand-to-hand, I would wear some godsdamned armor!" This last he shouted in the direction that Morier had gone and Ixin sighed.
"How do you suppose it looks to our hosts that we attack our own?" the drakeling asked, gesturing around to the other huts. "How can we expect them to trust us when we can't trust each other?"
"Probably bad. But it was just a fight," Huzair said. "You are right, though; I do not trust Morier's judgement with regards to battle. He runs in like the dwarf, but does not even think to wear armor. If he wants to be a fighter, he needs to dress like one. Then, perhaps, he would not need to monopolize Shamalin's healing."
"And whom do you suppose will heal you now, my friend?" Ixin asked as Huzair looked at the wetness slicking his fingertips. He snorted and wiped his hand on his cloak.
"I will take care of myself," the mage told her. "I guess I better go stock up on potions. I could use some nice new clothes too, while I'm at it." Ixin wasn't ready to let Huzair change the subject so easily, however.
"I don't see how that display has solved anything between you and Morier," she said, crossing her muscular arms over her not inconsiderable chest. "Have you considered actually talking with one another?"
"Talk?" Huzair scoffed. "Bah! He is so full of himself - cannot see the trees from the forest." Ixin shrugged and laid a hand on the wizard's shoulder.
"Sounds like you need to say some of these things to your old friend instead of to me in a language he can't understand," she said sagely. "Morier is a good man. He would listen if he knew how you really felt."
Morier eyed the flickering mage then lowered his hands, offering himself up in a fully undefended position. The expression on his face did nothing to hide the contempt in which he held Huzair.
"If this is the way you will have it, you honorless piece of crap, then have your best shot," he growled, his mouth wet and red in his paper-white face. Of course, to the Blinking Huzair it sounded like: "If * is * way * will * it, * honorless * of *, then * your * shot."
Shamalin was the first to step out of the sunken hut at the sound of fighting and she watched the brawl unfold with utter disbelief. The insults she'd witnessed being exchanged between Huzair and Morier since she'd joined the party had become so commonplace that she found herself taken aback to find it had escalated to the next level. She stood for a long moment in stunned silence as her two companions traded blows, then as the action wound down and Morier stepped back from Huzair, she started up the steps, but a hand tightened on her bicep. She turned to see Ayremac shaking his head.
"There is a lot of tension between friends and sometimes men need to work it out with fists," he told her and she was surprised to see the beginnings of a smile touching the corners of the holy warrior's lips. "We won't let anyone get 'really' hurt." Scowling, she jerked her arm free of Ayremac's grip and stalked off down the street.
"I'm not wasting a healing spell over this!" she shouted at the combatants as she went.
Premarch D'rach stepped out into the sunshine, taking in the scene with a glance from his numerous eyes. "What is going on?" he asked, clearly shocked by the turn of events.
"Premarch, please excuse this outburst," Ayremac offered, angling his head slightly in the direction of the pugilists. "These two are schoolboy friends and I think they have a few things to settle. Shall we leave them be or do you enjoy a good fight?" The Premarch turned a shocked face to Ayremac.
"Fighting is not permitted in New Mellorell," he said simply then turned to look at Shamalin's retreating form. "And the priestess should not be wandering around without the proper escort. The Sovereign must be notified." He then moved lithely up the steps and moved after the cleric at a walk that bordered closely on a run.
Huzair deactivated his Ring and grinned cruelly at Morier. "Would you mind repeating that, Whitey?" he snarled and Morier wiped his knuckles across his bloodied nose.
"You're quite fierce hiding safely behind the knowledge that your opponent won't kill you," the eldritch warrior hissed and Huzair waved the comment away.
"That's only because I know you do not have the balls to get into a death match with me," he retorted. "I would take you out so fast you would not know what hit you." Morier snorted at that.
"If you had half the balls to fight this hard against an opponent who didn't care if you lived or died, we wouldn't have to be having a discussion about any of this," the albino shot back and Huzair's expression became shocked.
"Are you saying I do not fight hard? Why do you think I study my spells so much? And I certainly carried my weight in the tests. I am as much a target as you against the spell using creatures," Huzair snapped, wiping blood from his lips. "You ought not to downplay the power of magic; it is what makes your thunderstrike attack so strong. If you actually worked at spell casting, your power would even be better than mine... No wonder ap-Llewellyn is so disappointed in you, ilhar-vith!"
At the last word - a vulgar bit of undercommon that was probably the only term Huzair knew in the language - Morier's eyes narrowed to crimson slits. He held the wizard's gaze for a second and then shook his head and turned his back. "I'm finished with you," he said.
"You cannot even take down a weak little wizard like me in a fight" Huzair went on, following Morier as he stepped away. "It scares me that you are our front line fighter. Karak would have broken me in half by now. You have finished nothing."
"Feel free to further prove your cowardice Huzair. You've accomplished nothing," Morier said, waving the wizard off. "I refuse to be a party to your particular form of idiocy any longer."
"I am not the one walking away, coward," the wizard pressed, keeping pace with the albino. "Your words started this, Morier. You wanted me to attack you and when you see I fight back... you quit. That is a coward."
That's when Karak exploded into their midst, an animalistic snarl ripping from his barrel chest.
The dwarf's thick left hand snatched a fistful of Morier's cloak arresting at once the albino's retreat even as his other hand latched onto Huzair's left forearm with enough force to cause Huzair to wince in pain. Kara's face was livid, his ears a scarlet nearly as bright as the blood smeared across Morier's face. Veins bulged like azure ropes across his forehead and spittle foamed at the corners of his snarling mouth. An anger as hot as any forge burned in his eyes.
"I grow tired o' this!" he bellowed, shaking Huzair so easily and fiercely that the wizard may as well have been made from sticks and straw for all the effort it required on the dwarf's part. With a finally violent thrust, he sent the mage onto his backside in the mud. "Chaos surrounds us, and you waste time attacking Morier. If you want to fight someone, go out in the woods and slay some transmogrified beasts. Slay the taint that encroaches this land."
Huzair started to say something, but Karak cut him off with a axe-like chop of his arm. "I don't know who raised you or where you come from, but in my clan, you do nae strike a fellow clansman!" the dwarf growled. "A strike upon such fellow is a strike upon the clan itself. May the very rocks that stand bear witness to this statement: fighting a fellow is met with the ultimate punishment, and if it happens again I will mete that punishment out upon you, Huzair, or die tryin'."
"And you..." the dwarf said, turning so suddenly that even the steely nerved albino twitched in surprise. Karak flexed his arm, tugging Morier off balance and sending him ultimately into the mud beside Huzair. "A fighter with a powerful sword ye be, but to allow a half-naked wizard whup ya in hand-to-hand combat is an' elf-kissin' crime! Why me baby nephew coulda done better!" He paused long enough to spit a thick glob of the phlegm he always seemed to have in such ready supply. He sliced his hand through the air with finality.
"An' that's it. I have laid low in the martial training o' this group until now. Ayremac has smartly asked about martial skill and I can see now you need more of it too," he squinted at Morier, his lip curling behind his mustache. "I will teach ye dwarven tunnel fightin' if ye have the courage and skill to learn it." He looked up at Ixin and Ayremac and added, "That goes to all of ye. Anyone wantin' to learn how to fight - I mean really fight - then I'll train ye!"
He didn't wait for an answer before he looked back at Morier, who remained on the ground, stunned by the dwarf's outburst. "The swordsmanship ye be trainin' Shamalin in I do nae agree with, but I'll admit it is a fightin'' style. It's just nae dwarven," he said shaking his head in disgust. "But this... getting yer arse kicked by a wizard who used no spell? I can barely stand to look at ye. Now get up and get ye some armor. Yer training begins later."
Then Karak stamped the thirty feet back to where he'd buried his waraxe in the ground, picked it up and flicked the mud off of the blade with a single sharp motion of his arm. Then he stomped off in the direction that both Shamalin and Premarch D'rach had gone, a muttered litany of dwarven curses following in his wake.
After a few moments, Ayremac and Ixin moved toward the two former combatants. Ayremac offered a hand to Morier, but the eldritch warrior ignored it and clambered unceremonious to his feet. Without looking at any of the others he walked away, in a direction different from the one that the others had taken. Ayremac looked from the albino's back down to his own hand still extended uselessly. The hand curled into a tight first and a shadow clouded his inhumanly beautiful face for a moment before he spread his wings and took to the air.
Huzair watched him shoot skyward as Ixin hauled him to his feet, asking, "What were you thinking?"
"I was thinking if I got him from behind, I could knock him out quickly," the wizard replied, snidely. He gingerly touched his bloodied lip. "I should have focused more on the head shots." Ixin shook her head in disgust.
"You know what I mean, Huzair," she said, her forehead creased with consternation. "What could Morier have possibly said to make you attack a comrade?" Huzair looked away, toward where Morier had disappeared among the other huts.
"He insulted my father," the mage admitted. "I do not even know who my parents are. He knows that and was being cruel." Then the mage's face hardened and he looked back at Ixin. "He also knows that I do carry my weight in the party. Who was attacked first by the theives? Feln and I. Who did the octopus monster attack in the water test? Me. I am in danger as much as anyone. But if I were going to go hand-to-hand, I would wear some godsdamned armor!" This last he shouted in the direction that Morier had gone and Ixin sighed.
"How do you suppose it looks to our hosts that we attack our own?" the drakeling asked, gesturing around to the other huts. "How can we expect them to trust us when we can't trust each other?"
"Probably bad. But it was just a fight," Huzair said. "You are right, though; I do not trust Morier's judgement with regards to battle. He runs in like the dwarf, but does not even think to wear armor. If he wants to be a fighter, he needs to dress like one. Then, perhaps, he would not need to monopolize Shamalin's healing."
"And whom do you suppose will heal you now, my friend?" Ixin asked as Huzair looked at the wetness slicking his fingertips. He snorted and wiped his hand on his cloak.
"I will take care of myself," the mage told her. "I guess I better go stock up on potions. I could use some nice new clothes too, while I'm at it." Ixin wasn't ready to let Huzair change the subject so easily, however.
"I don't see how that display has solved anything between you and Morier," she said, crossing her muscular arms over her not inconsiderable chest. "Have you considered actually talking with one another?"
"Talk?" Huzair scoffed. "Bah! He is so full of himself - cannot see the trees from the forest." Ixin shrugged and laid a hand on the wizard's shoulder.
"Sounds like you need to say some of these things to your old friend instead of to me in a language he can't understand," she said sagely. "Morier is a good man. He would listen if he knew how you really felt."
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