Fate - First Reply Out in the wild

[Koltûn]

~ The Blightlands ~​

It was shaped like a bird of celestial blue, though its form was ethereal, and not of the flesh. It shone in a pale azure glow against the Blightlander darkness, though the light it gave faded out quickly against the surrounding gloom.

- “You’ll find none better m’lord.” - The trader’s upper head spoke. Koltûn looked the merchant up-and-down. The Blightlands - especially outside of the Blighted Plateau - were filled with all manner of strange beings. Truth be told however, this peddler looked outlandish, even by Blightlander standards. Not one, but two independent thinking beings, joined at the upper back, like some sort of bizarre conjoint twins, with a peg leg, spindly fingers and grotesque features, the merchant, or rather, merchants, had such a frame that it left the half giant wondering whether they had been born naturally, or if they were instead the result of profane magical experimentation.

Or maybe just ugly.

- "A trapped soul; harnessed." - The top head clicked its teeth as it spoke the word. - "It will ward off... unfriendly charms." - The merchant smiled a deformed smile, its toothy grin flashing a row of sharpened, pointed teeth at the half-giant.

A wail came from somewhere within the peddler's baggage, only to die off as the top twin swivelled his thin arm around to hit the rucksack the twins had hoisted upon their back. Silence fell once more - that unnatural silence that seemed to permeate the wastes of the Blightlands; a quiet broken by neither beast nor weather.

He exhaled softly, and casually pulled a gold coin from his form. He glanced at it momentarily, his gaze falling upon the strange markings and script that adorned the yellow metal; one of his prizes looted off of the Savannah tribes. He took it in his hand before throwing it at the merchant with a flick of his thumb.

The bottom twin bit on the coin as he caught it, while the top one smiled his toothy grin, letting the ghostly bird out of its cage.

- "You won't regret it my Prince." -

The bird took flight and soared through him, leaving only traces of faint turquoise glow as a reminder that it had ever existed to begin with. Beneath his skin though, Koltûn felt its protective embrace pulsing through his veins at the rhythm of his beating heart.

- "The enchantment won't last forever," - The top twin said, as he stashed away the gold coin. - "but it might be the difference between life and death in these accursed lands." -

As if on cue, the sepulchral silence in the background was broken by a rustling of vegetation some distance away. Koltûn's hand instinctively shot to his side, where the Fyrestone stood leaning against a rocky outcropping.

Unnatural silence was the natural way of the Blightlands... until it wasn't - and then you had a problem.​

 

[Gerra]

“Where I have passed, the grass shall never grow again.”
​

The sparse yet hardy scrubs of the blightlands gave but scant protection from view.

The bushes could not long disguise he who came into view. Tall he was and broad of shoulder, wearing a cloak of brown worn ragged and rough.

Lo, hither came Gerra, red of hair and his skin an ash hue, ember eyed and foul of temper, to trample the proud beneath his heel.

He wore no circlet nor crown yet his posture was that of one used to command and he held it with an ease and aura scarce in the world of men.

Upon the nine fingers of his hands glittered nine rings, once the fabled Ten Rings of Amon-Thun with which he’d brought down Drakormir himself.

Chainmail glittered beneath Gerra’s cloak and he sported a mace at his hip that glowed with an unnatural light, for it was Annuk’s Scepter.

“Two of my brothers have I slain in the past,” he rumbled, and then it became clear that the brown stains dried upon his cloak and armor were those of crusted blood.

“You shall be the third.”

 

[Koltûn]

A blaze flared up from the head of the Fyrestone as he held it, momentarily lighting up the features of his opponent - as well as his own - against the receding darkness.

As the flash of light surged, the strange merchant scurried away, dissipating as quickly as the glow faded.

Koltûn though, stood motionless as a statue carved out of ashen marble. His face betrayed no sense of surprise, nor - for that matter - any emotion whatsoever. His features were as still as the night sky; all apart from his thin lips, which seemed to curl faintly upwards in the dying of the light - a flickering, predatory grin.

He saw the light reflected upon his half-brother’s face, and he heard his words.

No quarter was offered, none would be asked for either.

- “Your delusions will crumble quicker than your throne, brother.” - He spat out the last word as though it were a slur.

He called upon his arcane fire. Rings of flame materialised around his fingers, the blaze twisting and turning around his pale skin in iridescent hues. They seemed to mirror Gerra’s Kaliti bands; or better, they did not merely mirror the rings of Amon-Thun - they were conjured in mocking imitation of them.

All the arcana in Amol-Kalit wouldn’t save Gerra now.

He projected his arm forth, propelling his ring-like flames forwards through the air against his half-brother. As opposed to immediately scurrying towards the other half-giant however, his flaming projectiles instead flew erratically around his opponent, describing curved lines and half-circles before even coming close to the chainmail.

Koltûn knew well enough the flames wouldn’t tear Gerra’s skin anymore than they would his own. His rings-turned-darts however, had been made out of his arcane fire: they would explode the moment they came into contact with anything material. At best, they would sunder Gerra’s chainmail, and at worst their impact ought to disorient him for long enough for Koltûn to close the space between them.

As his flames flew towards their target, he lunged forth in their trail, an unnatural speed to his pace as he charged towards Gerra, the Fyrestone in his hands, blazing in the full pallet of the rainbow.​

 

[Gerra]

Gerra’s head tilted to one side and he let out a snort.

Ah, he recognized him now. The brat Koltun, whose mother thought so highly of her whelp. When last Gerra had been at Molthal, Koltun had been nothing more than a child. Even now he was just a stripling youth.

And Gerra? Ah, Gerra. Hands hardened by years of conquest. The blood of thousands upon them. His sinews knew well the ways of war.

The motes of flame came down upon Gerra and he knew no fear, for what could fell fire do against the Ash King’s Scion? The motes struck true and ignited his brown robes at once. The mail beneath weathered the barrage with no sign of damage but patches of molted, half-twisted and glowing links where Sheketh-forged steel withstood the heat.

As the fire consumed his robes around him and young Koltun charged forth Gerra snorted with derision and extended his hand. A band of gold inset with a ruby glowed bright in the night, then a thread of energy whipped out and connected the two of them. Gerra began to draw upon the very life force of Koltun, sapping away his vitality with the Ring of Sekhem. So similar to the art practiced by Thakathi sorcerers it was near indistinguishable.

“What nations have you conquered?” Gerra asked of the foolish boy. “What thrones have you taken?”

Gerra took a step out of the charging Koltun’s path as the boy surged forward.

“You are nothing. Nothing but a pawn of Menalus.”

 

[Koltûn]

He felt the pull as he charged. It looked strangely familiar, and yet, he couldn’t precise a time when he’d felt something similar. It was a sense of numb discomfort - not strong enough to cause him searing pain, but intense to the point he could feel it chipping at him.

Before he could fully grasp what Gerra had been attempting, a surge of ghostly blue light shot outwards from his chest, projecting itself against Gerra and his rings, breaking the energy link between them, and the hold of the Sekhem - at least temporarily. He felt flickering energy simmering through his veins - weakened, but still there.

The merchant’s soul charm. It had disrupted Gerra’s attack, though Koltûn couldn’t be sure whether the ethereal charm would hold as well - or at all, for that matter - a second time.

At that moment though, he had more pressing concerns. As Gerra sidestepped his attack, he ground his charge to a halt, his boots burying in the mud, as he swivelled the Fyrestone backwards to strike again.

As he turned, he heard Gerra’s taunts.

“What nations have you conquered?”

“What thrones have you taken?”

- “And where are yours now?” - He tilted his head backwards haughtily. - “Crowns and conquests.” - He scoffed derisively. - “Do you think tricking desert savages makes you worthy?” -

He sent a fireball flying ahead of his warhammer. The blaze split into a half-a-dozen smaller parts, their behaviour mimicking the earlier fire rings as they sought their target - flying erratically through the air.

“pawn of Menalus.”

The words pierced through his mind like a knife through butter.

Annoyance flickered through his features. It was infuriating enough to be called his father’s pawn, but to have Gerra - of all of his siblings - call him as such felt beyond mere insult. The coward Gerra who had fled before the Ash King’s wrath after his abysmal failure at Irithul - he now dared call him a puppet of the King? A pawn?!

- “What does that make you then?” - He hissed, low, cutting fury seeping into his tone. He steadied his step, as he rectified his combat pose. The Fyrestone flared up again, coating both of them in a bright light of changing hues. - “You who withdrew before the dwarves of Belgrath; who retreated in shame to the desert wastes, who fled before the knights of Torleon - what are you then?” -

He sneered at his older brother.

- “You can’t even deal with me without your trinkets.” -

Gerra​

 

[Gerra]

“Aye,” replied Gerra, finally unlimbering his mace from his hip and swatting aside motes of hurled flame with casual disdain.

More impacted his torso and his robe charred to cinders around his frame. The links of Sheketh steel beneath - forged in the heart of a volcano in the ancestral home of the Fire Giants - held, glowing an ominous red-orange where they were struck.

“I’ve won and lost more battles than you’ve numbered years on this world.”

Gerra snorted as the boy whirled about his magic, over large warhammer and whined about trinkets whilst employing the very same.

“But I did them by my own hand.”

He smote aside another hurled ball of flame, showering him in sparks.

“Not at the beck and call of the Ash King like a loyal, kicked dog.”

Gerra stood his ground, not yet going on the offensive, watching the young boy tire himself out with so much use of magic and whirling of his hammer. Experience in battle told its tale once again. Not until you’d fought for true in the shield line would you know what it was to expend all your energy in a matter of furious seconds, or the exhaustion which followed.

In a fight, endurance was nearly everything. Endurance and experience.

“My name is known throughout all Arethil. In praise. Disdain. Dread,” he pointed his mace at the young half giant, “you? You’re not even a footnote in history.”