17th of Zi'Da 721
Word had come from abroad Bailey's Peninsula. Well, no, rather it was the lack of information that came in torrents of abyssal silence. The quiet was telling the Forbidden Post enough, really more than they wanted to know.
Bassett had sent out another patrol to wander the wilderness west of the Spit. In their travels, they must have run afoul of some danger or another. Or perhaps they were still in Etzos, whoring and drinking away the supplies and goods that Bassett had furnished them with. Even Eilleen seemed woefully ignorant of the state of affairs outside the Spit, and she was their communication means with the main hub of Etzos. How was it that a Fortress such as this could be so isolated, so separated from the head of its operations, and still maintain function?
The Forbidden Post, for better or worse at the moment, was little better than a headless chicken. The only difference was that between all the egos and turmoil within the Post, it had less agency within itself than even the proverbial headless chicken.
So they waited and waited, and when no word came back they assumed one of the two scenarios. So as the trials wore on, Rakvald became aware of the general mood around the fortress. Even a blind idiot could tell that the people there were losing their heart, losing their way. It was evident through every syllable that passed between them. And they said little to Rakvald. He just happened to overhear more than he meant to, at times. Bedeviled as he was sometimes by the Dubaebo's desire to let the echo of its senses explore his surroundings.
In the days after Brock had fashioned and fitted Rakvald's suit of armor that he'd commissioned, many of the men and women looked at him in envy. Perhaps they envied his wealth and resources. It didn't matter. Their anger in the training pit served him well enough, as a fierce opponent was a better teacher than a timid one.
It was one of these training sessions that Rakvald was set to participate in this trial. He and this particular contingent would be coached by Brock. It'd begin with simple exercises, simple drills, and motions that would strengthen their muscle memory. Brock had also promised, as if it were a reward, to take them all to the iron mines to gather more materials. They'd scouted a new delve just to the north of the surrounding wilds. It was in fact the status of that delve that the scouting party had been sent to find. Rakvald wasn't too worried. Not at all.
He found his way to the training pits that were occupied by Brock, his apprentices, and pupils.
There, Brock stood before them, hefting a large crow's beak hammer over his shoulder. "Now, we're all here. Good! We won't waste too much time on conditioning here, as ancestors know that you've had your fill of that during your duties. o, we'll mainly be concerned with sparring now. And what better way to suss out who thinks he knows most out of all of you than with a good old massive melee?"
Rakvald couldn't help but grin beneath his mask, his fangs digging into his lower lip as he did so. He'd been aching to let off some steam, ever since being apprehended by the wolves of the Houndmaster. Now he'd get a chance to channel all that aggressive energy on one of the hapless trainees. Brock might've seen the gleam behind the red-tinted lenses of his mask, or else judged him to be too much a threat to afford him a fair chance against the others. Tot hem, he gave steel-tipped maces. To him, a chair leg was thrown.
Rakvald growled beneath his mask, "What gives? Why are they getting real weapons and I'm getting this scrap of wood wrapped in padded cloth?" He was getting nerfed!
Brock crossed his arms over his chest and looked skeptically at Rakvald. "Look at you soldier, then look at them. One of these things is not like the other. Plus you have the benefit of heavy armor. Let's see how well you move in it." Brock grinned.
Rakvald looked at the other trainees, envy gleaming in their eyes, with a fair degree of fearsome malice. He had to admit, they did look the pack of striplings next to his magnificent body and physique. Alright, he'd give Brock that much credit for noticing...
So having decided to the man's terms, he scooped up the padded wooden chair leg and began moving it in a figure-eight motion, alternating between that and a nice even middle guard.
Rakvald lifted his left hand, its tentacles beckoning for the other trainees to approach him, and have a shot.
The first steel-tipped mace came at him with surprising celerity. But the trainee's mistake was going straight for the nose of his helmet. Rakvald could sense the intention behind that move, to blind Rakvald by turning his visor. But he was quick enough to lean back from the attack.
This retreat emboldened more of the trainees, as now two of them were attacking at once. Rakvald lowered his pauldron to absorb the shock of one of the steel maces. With his own wooden leg, he rapped against the knuckles of the next man to close measure. He used a measured amount of strength into the blow, limiting its hurt so it wouldn't crack the bones. But it was still hard enough for the trainee to lose his grip.
Rakvald by now was beginning to gain confidence in the protection his armor offered if not only the general lack of skill or tactics that his opponents were displaying. He lowered his shoulder and began piling into them, giving them no reach or quarter as his padded chair leg bopped them on the shoulders, the heads, the arms one by one. Pretty soon the melee degenerated into a mess of men falling over, and the song of steel maces hitting cobalt plate.
Yet as the moments wore on, Rakvald began to become aware of the weariness setting into muscles that he normally didn't feel during the usual exertions of the day. Brock had warned him of this, that the armor would need getting used to before he could build confidence as an armored fighter. Yet, he persisted in wearing it during all of the conditioning they undertook in the mines, at the fort, around tasks handed down from Bassett or one of his lieutenants.
Yet for all that conditioning, nothing compared to the abject thrill and energy expended in combat. He was gassed already, having only disabled two of his opponents. Perhaps Rakvald was getting rusty.
Something began happening with Rakvald's clarity of vision about half a break into the training spar. Bits of golden flecks began appearing in the reddened embersteel lenses that protected his eyes, over the helmet. Rakvald struggled to see, more and more, as he battled the other soldiers.
Eventually, it got bad enough that they began raining blows down on him with him unable to get a counter in, for the difficulty seeing. The golden flecks in the red lenses eventually overcame the entire material, at which point it was reduced to dust. Rakvald blew his breath through his mask, dispelling the corroded lenses.
But it was too late to turn the tide of the melee. They reduced him to a bruised and battered heap of flesh, knocking on his back like it was a rug-beating contest. At the end, it all came to the point of them piling onto him with their bodies. But at the last moment, before his knees were about to buckle, he felt a gurgling in his stomach, as his hunger awakened. The buckle of the Swine King activated, granting him strength beyond his ordinary state, as he rose up and tossed them aside at once. This done, he tossed aside the wooden chair leg, and began pummelling them with his fists.
He nearly lost himself in that moment, driven to a berserker rage like he hadn't for cycles. It was the booming voice of Brock that warned him against continuing.
"Rakvald! Stop soldier, stand down!"
Rakvald felt the voice more than he heard it, but he relented his assault upon the hapless trainee with some reluctance. He stood up, and left the training area, his retreat followed by a befuddled gaze of Brock and several of the trainees.
Besides, soon it would be time to get ready for the expeditions to seek and rescue if it came to that. And Rakvald suspected with every break that passed without word from the outside, that it would. And he would be ready when the time came to let loose.
He would be there, ready to make the ultimate grasp for his freedom of this place. He'd learned much in his time, but there was a wide world out there just waiting to be discovered.
Rakvald wanted to explore.
