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Kellehendros -> RE: =EC 2014= Factory Arena (8/16/2014 14:50:53)
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The great ice bear did not like the city of Bren.
It was large, far too large, truth be told. Its streets teemed with masses of beings. Dwarves, elves, humans, drakel, creatures that he had never seen before coming to this strange land, so far to the west of the frozen tundra of his home. A stranger assortment of creatures he had never seen, and never imagined, though the old Vastaa was never remarked by his contemporaries as having a particularly active imagination.
It was a city filled with barbarians.
They packed the streets and avenues, living cheek-by-jowl with one another, piling structures one atop the next, constructions that reared up to claw at the sky. The city was confining. It pressed close around him as though seeking to trap him within its confines, and pressing its inhabitants upon him by virtue of the crowded locale. Those inhabitants rushed and scurried, fighting through the press about their unknown business, and treating each other in shockingly discourteous fashion. But then, what could you expect from barbarians?
No, he did not like the city, and he had the distinct impression that the city did not like him. For one thing, it was hardly suited to a person of his size. Towering over most beings that he encountered when standing on his hind legs, he found that he had to stoop low through doorways, and duck the exposed beams and supports of ceilings. Once, he had clipped his head on a low hanging sign outside an apothecary, and in a fit of frustrated rage smashed the sign into splinters. The shopkeeper had taken one look outside at the resulting fuss, and decided it was safer for her to countenance the loss of the sign than face down the growling Vastaa.
If going about on two legs was frustrating, going about on four was hardly an improvement. On four legs he was forced face-first into the crowds, experiencing at close proximity their rather appalling foreign odours. Doorways still vexed him, for even though he was short enough on four legs to pass through the door, his broad frame required him to sidle through apertures in a way that was apparently hilarious to look upon, judging by the laughter he had evoked in the patrons of one tavern. The laughter was short-lived, of course. Being on the receiving end of a murderous glare from half a ton of yellow-white fur, bone, and muscle was unnerving, to say the least.
He had given up on the city after two days, having had his fill of the sights, sounds, and people. All along the road to Bren, the people the ice bear had encountered had spoken highly of the city, of its amenities, its craftsmen, and always, always of the Arenas. It was his conclusion that the lot of them were soft-headed fools. The amenities were small, the people were rude, and the stench was horrific.
But the Arenas…
Ah, the Arenas were something else entirely. The Vastaa had to concede that, despite the annoyances of his foray into what these barbarians insisted on calling civilization, it might all have been worth it to lay his old eyes on the Arenas. While the complex of the storied Elemental Championship was just as busy, if not busier, than the rest of Bren, the ice bear found the place oddly soothing. There was a power here, old, ancient, yet purposeful. It reminded him of the great glaciers he had once seen, far, far away to the north, beyond even of his far northern home. It was a power that preserved and endured, even though it could erode a mighty mountain into gravel.
Still, as pleasant and as interesting as the complex had been, it had not been enough to induce the Vastaa to remain in the city one moment longer than was necessary to conclude his business. He had found the place where the entrants were to register for the combat, and had placed upon the required papers a massive, inky pawprint that blotted out most of the words on those inscrutable legal documents. While doing so, he questioned the clerk about the rumors he had heard concerning the competition, and finally emerged from the city well satisfied.
Making his camp well outside of town, the ice bear had settled down with his gear and waited. They said that the mightiest warriors in the world entered the Elemental Championship, and some whispered yet more fantastic rumors of entrants from other worlds entirely. So far as the Vastaa was concerned, that was more foolish claptrap, but if the fighters were half so skilled as rumors claimed, then he might at last have what it was he desired.
Kriege Marns Thalarctos waited with the other entrants at the gate to the Factory. Standing on his hind legs only, the Vastaa was easily a foot and a half taller than any of the others, and he used that to his advantage. Since coming west he had learned that most people found his size to be unsettling, and it was never bad to induce a little doubt into one’s opponent before a battle, so he stood and loomed, a menacing giant encased in heavy armor.
Lifting his gauntleted right hand, the ice bear adjusted the helm that covered his head, the chainmail sheathed about his neck, linking the helm to the main body of his armor, tinkling and clinking softly at the shift. Kriege’s remaining small, rounded ear, the left, flicked slightly, and his dark eyes moved, following the form of the official as he moved to the barred entrance, working the lock placed upon it.
The right hand descended passed a spiked pauldron, claws scratching at the thick iron plating that covered the Vastaa’s torso, as if the black flesh encased beneath the heavy protection of metal and age-yellowed fur could feel the rake of those claws. He reached across himself, using his right hand to adjust one of the plates that scaled down his left arm, whose armor was surmounted by a short, stabbing blade. The heavy iron covering continued down his torso, and then gave way to further swathes of chainmail that clinked and clattered about his knees as he shifted his weight.
While the official poked and prodded the lock, Kriege let his gaze wander over the other entrants. They were an odd lot, and he did not spend too long in consideration of any of them, for his eye was caught by a slight, shimmering movement. The ice bear tilted his head slightly to one side, squinting at the skittering, tiny… thing. Whatever it was, it was interesting, some sort of burrowing rodent, if the Vastaa was not mistaken. He had never seen such a thing, despite his long travels, and he wondered about it. It must take great heart to go through a world so big and be so small. That thought made him think of his second wife, and he smiled to himself quietly.
Further reminiscences were interrupted, as the official finally managed to unlock the gate, hurling it open and revealing the Arena beyond it. The ice bear had just enough time to catch the faintly glimmering streak of the rodent blurring past the official and into the Arena before he was assaulted by the sights and sounds of the space itself. Immediately, Kriege’s ear flattened against his head, and he let out a soft, bubbling growl of displeasure.
He had not known what a factory was, and it occurred to him now that a factory was everything he disliked about this land and it’s so-called “civilization.” The floor was a welter of criss-crossing bars and stanchions that promised poor footing and entanglement. Such he could deal with, for he had fought in enough forests and trodden mires, though none quite so… extensive. The air was filled with a cacophony of clashing sounds: an unknown humming, the clicking and clattering of metal against metal, and an almost omnipresent whirring that he could not place. This too he could cope with, for he had fought enough battles to know how loud and unpleasant they could be. The stench though…
The foul pool of liquid lurking below the grate in the center of the Arena gave off a potent, malodorous miasma that stung and offended his nostrils. Kriege had smelled things particularly unpleasant before: the dead, wounds going stale and bitter, but this was new. It was sharp, acrid, and stabbing; the scent almost aggressive and demanding, refusing to be ignored.
Kriege growled again, louder this time, and started forward at a walk, his armor grating and clashing as he moved. He set his paws with surprising delicateness for one so large, entering the Arena and then turning immediately to his right, moving towards the lazily turning cog that sat in the corner of the Factory. Halting about halfway between the entryway and the cog, the Vastaa turned back towards the gate. Lifting his gauntleted hand and forming a fist, the ice bear slammed fist to chestplate three times, producing an infernal racket, which he added to, briefly cutting through whirr and clatter with a deep-chested, bellowing roar. “Let the one who passes into death unknown find only everlasting shame; I am Kriege Marns Thalaractos, warrior of the northern tundra!”
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