Fantasy RPG Forum - Standing Trials

8th Trial of Vhalar, Arc 720

Idalos was no place for the weak. Rharne was - for all Roz could see - a peaceful place as long as she wasn't involved in a way. She could tavern hop or even go to the most criminal (as Rharne gets) area and still be shunned. Though this time was different. She'd barely walked to the particular bar the night before when all eyes had zoned in on her, and yes, she didn't have superiors senses other than night vision (at least, none that she remembered) but she could feel eyes and hear whispers and she had only walked in seconds before. For all she was worth though, she couldn't find herself to be more than annoyed. Any other time yes, she would be angry. That night, however, the only thing she had was loneliness and exhaustion. She wasn't much of a fighter as far as she could remember, but she did- in some deep part of her subconscious- reveal a bit in their wary or sometimes scared looks. It gave her confidence that left her sick afterwards...

What kind of person lives off fear? Why did it make her stride hardier and more pronounced? Why did she feel such accomplishment for something so disgusting? She shoved the thoughts away though, tonight she would drink herself silly and try to forget, only to try again the next week she would reach her limit.

That night though- many drinks later with a buzz and less inhibition- she would be wronged in a way she couldn't stand down from. Normally more docile - yeah, strange for her kind but true - a spilled drink would get them a tell and a shoo. The man who spilled the drink was clearly not right of mind, he catcalled her after all. His friends tried to talk him down and away, but his mouth worked faster than her anger. And that's how she ended up kicked out, angry, and bet placed. Being called a harlot.. that was new. But she had a fight tomorrow to prove her more than just a woman to ogle.

It was with annoyance and vengeful spirit that she headed to the Pit the morning after. People parted for her, but not because they were afraid of her, no. They were afraid of her race. As they should be- she shook her head to free her thoughts. Such things had no place in her mind. She wasn't some wicked devil who preyed on anything that moved. Still, she waited until the man came into view with another before she sneered.

"More to spectate? We are not so easily- I, am not so easily frightened." She corrected herself quickly, but she often found herself never liking the word 'I'. More often than not she slipped up and just kept going, but not today. She wanted to be more than some barbarian woman in there eyes- even if only for a moment. "What are the terms of this fight? I'm willing to agree to any if they are fair."

The urge to become violent was never so prominent as when this man spoke. She wasn't particularly strong but such a slight at her was unforgivable- she growled, enraged but nodded eagerly. She would show him what a harlot was capable of. She was expecting a fight- wanted, a fight. But her opponent walked off, leaving behind a man with less of an intimidating presence.

He stood before her, sleeves rolled, weight shifting on his feet but he didn't immediately move to strike at her he waited. Was he giving this fight to someone else?! Rozkia watched- annoyed and angry as the boss of this man - this lackey, waited for her move. The insult would not so easily side, but right now she could see the bigger man.. placing bets? How dare he-

"You have insulted us, we will not take this lightly." She hissed out. She had little experience- she could remember next to nothing about herself or her skillset. And yet a part of her was sure she had some kind of experience. Fight to live? Was that said to her often? No, now wasn't the time. She nodded, and squared herself in front of the man she hoped to beat.

"I accept these terms," was all she said as she focused her attention on the dark haired man. He seemed bigger now that she was in front of him- did he have skill? Did she? Fight to live, her mind supplied. Well then, no weapons. She felt inclined to flex her clawed fingers, but she curled her hand into a fist instead.
Knock out or pass out.

She stepped forward slowly, and sped up as she got closer- confidence, feign confidence. She pulled back her left fist with her last step forward, hoping to go for the neck or the face. Somewhere painful to hopefully give her the advantage.
If she couldn't win outright perhaps she could convince him to surrender.

Unprepared, sloppy, weak, and wasteful. Her fist connected with the flesh of his arm, and she winced temporarily from the force. Her claws dug into her palm with the force- she could feel the telltale dribble of blood down from her palm. The mistake, the lack of consideration, would cost her. The human male seemed to be fast, at least decently experienced. She went to take her arm back, recoiling and opening her first to flatten her palm. The man lifted his knee, extended his leg, and gave her a blow to the shins that shook her. She hissed in pain, but tried to force her leg to stay straight.

She took a step back, pained, but moved forward after a trill. If she couldn’t curl her hands, she’d just use the flat of her palms- despite her anger at whatever the man leering at her was to him, this.. rundown man wasn’t the subject of her ire. She didn’t wish to harm him too badly. For a moment she hesitated, the words in the air and the blood in her ears seemed familiar in a way- the need to survive, the need to win, was ingrained in her. She shifted her weight, preparing to aim for his stomach as her mind jolted back into action.

Looking at his eyes, she could see it. He wouldn’t hesitate, he wouldn't think twice about pummeling her at the command of his boss. And so she would stele her resolve as well, no matter how badly it ended.

Pain. Red hot and throbbing in her temple. Ezner threw a might straight and had Rozkia seeing stars. If, by some odd miracle, she could've won, she gladly would have. But as it was, she had not only wounded her own pride, but she felt trapped. Closed in... She didn't like it. She realized after a bit that she was kneeling in the dirt where she had temporarily blanked.

Ezner's boss, the wretched man who would meet her fury someday, jeered at her with the crowd. In that ment she was so ashamed of her weakness that the fight was forgotten. Pride be damned, but she refused to be some entertainment for such a disgusting human being. Copper in her mouth, she spit at the man, an insult he probably wouldn't take lightly, before something strange happened.

In a moment of clarity she focused her energy into her shadow, the projection of which would encompass the area. It was weak, pathetic, a wound to her capabilities, but in that moment of clarity she knew her best course of options.

Survival. Flee.

And with the grace of the shadows, she slipped away until she could no longer project the darkness on the crowd. Drained, confused as to what she'd done, she made for home. She wiped at her face, feeling a trickle of liquid. Apparently that blow had managed go take some skin, and a headache and exhaustion were setting in- she couldn't tell which was stronger.

The next time she saw that man and his lackey she would be ready.