Enter the Combatants
Horns went blaring, overcoming the volume of the steadily growing, unruly behavior in the crowd. It was the sign they had waited for. At the command of the trumpets, the great doors to the arena were pulled open. The aged hinges flung dust into the air as a lone pair of foot steps could be heard heading from the dark, stone corridor. The impatient audience was quelled and now deeply focused on the gateway, anxious to see one of the combatants. As the cross was made from the shadows into the gleaming light, the revealed figure staggered in his step, holding a massive claw over his eyes. As the thing hung over, waiting for its eyes to adjust to the bright surroundings, the spectators struggled with identifying just what they were going to be watching. From what they could initially tell, it was some breed of little people donning ripped and torn rags. Rising from the stoop, the frail, short fiend was studied by the crowd, from its three digit limbs to its bizarre weapon. Quiet murmurs arose among small groups of onlookers as they debated to its origin, checking the program fliers for verification.
"Strike it all," roared one of the goblins louder than the rest, seated at the edge of the arena, "what lies are these? They said a goblin 'uld be fightin' today. Dis be no goblin! 'Thas a bleedin' tail!" Anger consumed the green skin until his common tongue slipped worse and worse, gradually fading back to his native language. Self conscious, Bimblesnaff looked back at his sweeping tail wrapped in bandages. The harm of the words from his lowly relative did not stay long, however, as he knew, or at least thought, that Ghoblings, being the progenitor to the other's kind, were the superior breed. He rationed the words were fueled by jealousy for his terrific fifth appendage.
"What the-? This isn't a tavern," uttered the "challenger" upon finally viewing his location. Even his simple mind could tell that a wide expanse of white sand differed from the stools and tables of his favorite hangouts. "That guy lied to me," shrilly whined the goblin, of sorts. Indeed, he was lied to. As the second gate began to open, the devious mastermind behind this scheme rubbed his hands together greedily, knowing full well that no one would emerge from the door. Several sounds of the horns were called to bring forth the gladiator, but no one showed. It was quite a simple plan, really: stick a warrior of mild fame in a fight against a goblin. No one would bet against the greenless one, save for the blinded ones of the green race and, of course, himself. The odds would be terribly stacked high against the foolish goblin, as would coin be from his unexpected victory. Within moments, a disqualification would be declared, and the huge prize would be split between the two con artists. Originally, the plan called for a three way split in profits, but, upon discovering the chosen goblin to be too stupid to even comprehend the plan, he was merely tricked with promises of booze, which, much to the man's pleasure, he found did not have to purchased by him or even real.
Hisses and jeers poured from the audience as well as half eaten food stuffs when the coordinator emerged into the arena floor to declare a victory by disqualification. They were in dire opposition to a win being handed over without any blood. Most vocal on the subject was the gathering of goblins who, although they personally did not consider the combatant to be one of their own, knew that stupid tall folk would blame their kind for rigging the bout.
The temper of the crowd steadily rose as they chanted in unison. They demanded blood. They demanded it now.
The award for the competition was already being delivered by the master of ceremony, a squat man holding a sack of coin. This sight was the mark of the end for the day's fun, stirring greater anger. For one man, an elf to be more exact, this was too much. Outraged, he left his seat with bow in hand and approached the arena floor. If no contender was showing himself, Lasius Morandel would supply competition.
Sizing Up
Bimblesnaff's head cranked side to side while trying to keep up with the commotion of his unexpected situation. The reason for the sudden flux in the crowd's response from disapproval to joy was not apparent to the little, green one. Seeing a man walking towards him with a bag of money was even more confusing.
"Did... did I win some sorta contest he'e?" the goblin stammered, believing that to be the only explanation. There was another possibility, but it consisted of him being so beloved that the people of the land felt like holding a grand celebration in his honor. This was his second choice since he knew these surface worlders were too ignorant to appreciate his splendor. Despite his disagreements with this kind, he would be more than pleased to accept their meager offering to him. The approach of the payment bearer was paused by an abrupt end to an overbearing noise. A howling goblin changed his cry to a thin wail as a missile struck his mouth, spraying blood on his companions. Their reaction could not be deciphered between outrage, protest, or delight. Their differences aside, those of green skin had to stick together when the greenless began picking trouble. Tracing the flight of the arrow back to its origin, he spotted the originator of the assault.
"A-ha! Ya shall taste m' blade, knave," Bimblesnaff cried out as he scurried forward while unstrapping the crooked blade from his back. In a single bound, he soared through the wide, open arena air. Swiftly sailing down to his mark, he swung his sword. Crashing to the ground on three of his dirty claws, half of his target soon fell down, too, behind him. Turning back to ensure its demise, he witnessed the cleaved torch laying pathetically on the sandy floor, dimming into smoke.
"Wait a thought, he'e," pondered the goblin. "How'd a torch shoot an arrow?" He stabbed his weapon into the loose floor, leaning upon it while he contemplated the situation. "No, no. I dun think pixies are to blame for this one," he falsely considered. Muttering under this breath, he grumbled, "Damned freaks. However, there was another he'e, wasn't the'e? Wunna ya agree," he hissed, pivoting to seemingly no one, "invisible wizard!" In a futile jump, the crazed lunatic tumbled against the sand, attempting to find the non-existent foe he sought to battle. Eventually rolling to his knees, he wildly clawed at anything within his reach; however, this proved to be only air. After the short amount of time it took for him to grow frustrated and tired, he finally started looking for other reasons. Little did he know, very little, that what he sought was right in front of him. Really. Right there. Just standing there.
"Elf!" Snarling, the Ghobling sprung backwards, digging his sharp nails into the desert fill. Spotting the large bow in the possession of his most loathed of enemy, he drew the logical conclusion. "So, ya dainty waisted, mama's boy, ya have a bow? That can only mean one thin'," the maniac accused. "Ya took the murder's bow so that ya could take claim for killin' m' brethren. The'e's no way one of ya tree humpa kinds could ever take out a green. Ya chose yer fate, tho', fop, so now ya must face yer punishment!" With a roar, he lifted his heavy Hook Blade over head and charged the green clad elf as an uproar of glee came from the at last pleased audience.
"Taste the pureness of elven light," decreed the archer, setting an arrow in string. Its head glistened in a majestic light which streaked in its path towards the goblin's heart.
To Be Continued... Right Now!
The shimmering bolt travelled faster than anyone's speed to react, making its hit almost a certainty. However, as all should know, nothing is certain.
The rusted blade swung down before the goblin, shattering the head and shaft into splinters. A roar rang from the astonished crowd at the amazing skills of the competitor. The many praises caught Bimblesnaff's attention, pulling his mind out of the thought that had currently grasped it. Not being able to clearly identify any of their words, he returned to his prior task.
"Wow, I never knew I could see m'self in m' blade before," he admitted, staring at his dulled reflection. This fact had caught his eye when he first hoisted his weapon up for his charge. Quickly forgetting the purpose of this dash, he further investigated this two dimensional doppelganger. He was saved from a good skewing by sheer dumb luck. Normally, he only has the prior to spare. He would have spent longer gazing at himself, but the odor of elf snared his nostril, feeding his memory.
The clouds masking his focus cleared as the dual against his natural antagonist was recalled. Finishing what he had started before, he reinitiated his ancient, Hook Blade technique. After a few paces with his sword held high, the heavy piece of metal dropped to the floor. As contact shifted from the arch to the corner, the momentum of his body was catapulted over it, hurtling him and his wielded nightmare into the air. From there, he would drive the point of the blade into his opponent's skull like a pick into a baby. An uncalculated circumstance was not factored into this battle maneuver, that being the sands of the arena. Without stable ground to support his weight on top of the weapon, his form faltered. Therefore, instead of delivering a devastating blow to the enemy, his spinning body was now uncontrollably rocketing forward at the foe.
With his quick, natural reflexes, the bowman bent out of the way. Contemplating his last effort, a new plan was thought by the elf to counteract his opponent's poor grasp on the battle. Drawing up some swift calculations, he planned to attack from above, dropping it from up high. As his arches aimed to the sky, the woodland man laughed outloud to his own genius as a glittering bolt was fired upward.
That would work, but...
The annoying chortle of the elf grated the goblin's long, sensitive ears. With fangs reared, he began to trudge toward his adversary, dragging his blade through the loose bits. Much appreciation had to be given to the woodland wuss's talents. The thought put into foretelling the missile's trajectory was dead to the mark, even taking into consideration air flow. Sadly, this mark was where the goblin was standing. Since the green skin was not fastened to the ground, he was still capable of movement. After a single step, the deeply considered plans were meaningless. Considering how much the archer was able to speak, there was some time for him to escape its range of threat. A whistle grew behind him, ending in a plop. Bimblesnaff recognized the noise as being that of an arrow's feathers slicing through the air.
"Aye, ya think ya gonna hit me like that?" he shouted with discolored saliva flinging from his maw. Hatred became the only object of his thoughts, creating a vivid tranquility that only blood lust can provide. "You make me laugh," he hissed through a demonic grin. "Let me show ya how it's done." Taking in a deep breath, an earsplitting cackle boomed from his gullet. The sound was maddening, forcing the distant audience to shield their ears. The laughter did not cease as he continued his advance. Normally, it brought great discomfort to those unlucky enough to be caught within its radius, razing concentration. An elf, however, had much more delicate hearing. Bimblesnaff never had the chance to use it on an elf before. He expected the results to be delectable.
Flailing in pain, the elf kin toiled with haste to tear his own garment apart. Wadding up balls of cloth, he stuck them in his ears to dampen the sound. Even if just a slight amount, it would prevent him from losing his mind. He knew that eventually the shrieking gullet would become exhausted. Until then, the goblin was charged with a bow loaded, but this condition was not to last.
First Blood
The green skins had long since been in rivalry against the pointed ear kin. They had developed many tactics useful in evading their flying sticks. The feat of hitting their wiry frames and small bodies with such projectiles was already a complicated task for the bowmen enough without such battle maneuvers. For this reason, Bimblesnaff direly regretted slipping out for drink when being taught these vital basics.
"Bracken florj!" Twisted cursing croaked from his tired throat, sore from the intense laughter, in a nefarious tongue as he clutched his side. Most of the spectators dismissed it as painful exclamation but the few goblins watching fell silent at such strong language. Pulling his large hands away from the arrow, protruding straight from his flank, he witnessed in horror as a crude liquid poured from the hole in his coat. "What sort of vile fiend are ya, chorlak?" Pulling open his ragged coat, he yanked out the arrow with a large chunk of his own flesh stuck on the head. A deflated vessel, dripping a dark, viscous fluid, hung around the shaft. "Ya bastard! How could ya do that to m' ale skin? Ah, she still had a good half quart of draught in her." The goblin held the punctured alcoholic sack gingerly, staring at it with quivering eyes. The open wound on his side wept at the same pace as his eyes, both leakings going unnoticed to him. The layer of thick liquid seemed to have aided in slowing down the arrow's flight by a little, but the fact that he was hit had not even been recognized by the lunatic. "Ya'll pay fer yer atrocity, elf kin," the goblin swore in a raspy voice while taking a knuckle to the face in his unobservant state.
With his opponent closer, Bimblesnaff hoped to score a blow against the archer. Drawing blood would not be the aim of his next attack, although not avoided. In his wide, wild sweep of the Hook Blade, he hoped chiefly to cleave his equipment. The power of an elf was held in their archery skills, which was one of the few facts he did learn from his brief training. A grazing blow that clipped a bow string or severed the strap to a quiver would render the woodland inhabitant harmless since their fists were hardly furious, not even possessing sharp nails. Snapping their beloved bow in two would not only be most effective but be damaging to pride as well. Attempting to stay in close quarters with his enemy, the goblin swung with the full reach of his tiny arms, holding his weapon with the point outward to aid in its snagging or plunge into flesh.
Clearly seeing the blade heading towards him, the elf dropped to the sandy floor in a flash. The setting sun, it would appear, brought out the glow in the good creation's eyes, trailing light in their fall. While the goblin was still in his attack, a handful of arrows was charged with golden energy and thrust forth by the hands of the archer.
Coming Darkness
The actions of the elf seemed to never fail at amazing Bimblesnaff. Withstanding the Maniac Laugh was a feat but understandable, given the distance and swaddling, but to stoop low enough to remove himself from the path of a blade wielded by an individual who did not span four feet in height with such speed was more angering than admirable. Now was the goblin's time, however, as the vile sun had hidden itself behind the horizon. With that glaring nuisance removed, his favored element would be ushered in. Bimblesnaff had spent his life in darkness, as had all of his kind or any subterranean creature. Without the smoldering rays blinding him, he foretold a shift in tides for this battle.
As the forest dweller drove his gleaming arrows forward, they found no skin to pierce, not that they probably would anywise. A hand thrust shaft would not be too effective at such, let alone a bundle of six. Seeing the body fall below his weapon and failing an attempt at lowering the height of his sweeping blow to catch anything at all in his blade with a bend at the knees, the goblin set another plan into motion, utilizing the momentum his body generated from the heavy swing and his current pose. As he pivoted on one bent leg, his other naked talon scooped up sand from the arena's floor in its wide, shovel-like sole. His breed are well adopted for clearing out mud and dirt to fashion a quick hole by using all four of their clawed appendages at once. This feature was amazingly helpful when dodging a roving band of elves, creditors, or old girlfriends.
Uncoiling his knee before completing a full circle, the goblin performed a short hop forward into the air, just rising over the arrows in time. His short height meant shorter legs, which offered a very limited range they could serve as a target. Meanwhile, his other foot launched the accumulated grains at the crouching elf's face and eyes as it whisked by, nearly scratching his forehead with his rear toe. Normally, this particular Ghobling battle technique was performed in a more familiar, mud-covered environment. However, this time, the sandy floor added in its execution and effect if anything. As his twirling body barely rose above the outstretched elf and plummeted back towards him, the lunatic positioned his sharp-angled weapon beneath him, feeding off of the same drive from the original hack. There, he caught the crotch of the bent arsenal with the arch of his foot, forcing down the corner of the blade with the whole of his weight. The spinning "V" shaped formation was stabilized, his claws steadying the wicked device at the handle and curved point, with a just a few quickly vanishing inches between the point and the mark.
Quickly rolling to his back with shut eyes, as all his actions were, the bits of sand fell harmlessly over his face. The archer then pushed for his arms to attempt a grab at the hook blade that was heading towards him.
O... kay
Bimblesnaff had pondered whether the effects of his mind warping chortle were just now beginning to take effect on the woodland bowman, for he seemed to not be thinking straight. The full force of his body and his hefty weapon were bearing down onto the elf from above in a spiraling motion. Ghoblings, although short, are dense for their size, like most other dwarfed races. Additionally, his metal blade held at least half of his weight in itself. It was this diving force, this dropping, spinning chop, that the archer of inconsiderable build had tried to grab, catch, and hold over his body. As soon as the falling blade was within reach of his fingers, Bimblesnaff could feel the elf begin to attempt and pull the blade out from his possession, which several factors would seem to prevent.
The weapon was not only firmly secured within three of his claws, but the hanging chain wrapped about the hand clutched to the handle for added security, as is the point of having a chain at the end of a weapon. Those elements were on no one's mind, though. The more prominent and much more obvious variable preventing it to be pulled from his hold was the fact that he was crashing downward onto his hands with a sharp edge. There was nothing for Bimblesnaff to even do. The sword was physically held in the elf's hands as if welcoming approaching doom. In no more time than it would take to begin a thought, not finish it, the blade would have sliced through the unfortunate pointy-ear's hands, if not more of him.
The roar of the crowd burst forth, seeming to make the elf more joyous. Their praise was not going out for his daring maneuver of taking hold of the edge. They were cheering because they very shortly expected to see someone cleaved in twine before their eyes or at least lose his hands as he was trying to catch the sharp edge of a blade that was speeding down upon him with his hands.
The bowman was very confident in his abilities and with good cause. Releasing his fingers from the metal surface, the elf rolled across the ground. In his departure, he tossed down a present to welcome the goblin's landing. It was none other than one of his enchanted arrows.
Flash Action
Scarcely missing his target, the goblin struck the desert floor with an explosion of grits into the surrounding air. The cleaver elf had a left a surprise waiting for Bimblesnaff on the ground. His foot dropped down onto the blazing shaft, wrecking it into splinters.
"How did that fool expect to hurt me with the back side of an arrow?" pondered the green skinned fiend in a blink as he tore it asunder. Simple physics would position the heaviest part of an object, in this case being the arrow head, beneath the rest. With the enchantment lying within the head, the worse the Ghobling could obtain from smashing the tossed projectile was a few splinters. His feet had developed a thick callus from a lifetime of barefooted travel, so these minor splints would not be painful enough to earn acknowledgement against his well worn soles.
This speedy archer was trying the lunatic's nerve while also greatly supplying his xenophobic desires. He had witnessed the elfin kin narrowly escape a well deserved splicing, noting his route of his departure. Before even dismounting his ridden arsenal, the goblin flipped himself around in a flash, moving in the direction he had seen the elf slip away. With the aid of swift execution and the low floating veil of loose particles over the adversary, the under lurker prayed to catch some part of the elf on the broad side of his jagged edge which he swung over head, smashing toward the floor in a mighty chop.
The elf now thought that he could trap the goblin but not without sacrifice. Freezing himself in a stance, he started arcane chanting, picking up strong winds. From the distance, he summoned upon his avian friend from the forest, a black falcon. It soared regally over the arena walls with streaks of sunlight, diving to its mark. To keep the spell from breaking and the goblin in check, however, the full force of the jagged blade was absorbed into the side of his chest.
Something Completely Different
"Day already?" The thought raced through Bimblesnaff's mind as fast as his recent actions. "But we haven't been fightin' for long, let alone a day. Must be one o' them sun blockin's I've heard o'," he reasoned in disappointment as the harsh edge of his sword met flesh, grinding into the foe's ribs. "Sure wish the moon stuck 'round longer. Woulda been nice to have the shade." His thoughts started towards why he was suddenly running when having taken no steps, but he had more important things to be wary of.
One event of caution, aside from the sudden reappearance of the sun, was the abrupt, strong gale. Something about it seemed to call out to him. This possibly was the elf who was calling out. The familiar language burned in his ears with the goblin's hatred for the race. Propping himself over his handle, he thrust downward on his blade to sink it further into the wound with his whole mass. He leaned into his weapon as well, applying pressure forward to align himself with his cutter at a lowering angle. His body and blade slid to the floor just as a sharp rush of air blew his tattered hat off. The goblin, too, could multitask.
Unlike his opponent, Bimblesnaff's ears were still perfectly unclogged and functional. A bird's flight is not silent even in spite of the rushing wind and chanting. The elongated, slender ears could distinguish the avian's approach. He might have ignored it if not for the elfin words. The Ghobling knew little about the language of his rival aside from loathing it, but he did know a few words. Largely, this vocabulary consisted of words for attacks or insults, picked up as he fled battalions of the good doers seeking to utterly crush him. While the words were not exactly clear to him, its meaning was understood well enough. In conjunction with the sound, a spell was assumed. He drove his sword and himself down further scarcely as the animal darted overhead, whipping the hat from its place about his crown. Without the torso of the goblin preventing its course, however, the racing falcon had nothing obstructing it from colliding into its master.
The hooked beak of the sky hunter bore into his flesh, spewing blood. As the elf tightly clutched his two fresh wounds, he cast an eye upon his green foe. While amok with hatred and loathing, a small sense of respect was also present. The foul creature had proven himself a worthy opponent.
"May we create a compromise between elves and goblins," he softly declared, wincing from the blinding pain in his ribs, "and we shall end this battle with no more blood shed than that which was already shed. I shall no longer harm you small one... after this." Pulling out his bow, one more dazzling projectile was released.
Unlikely End
"Like hell we ever will!" screamed Bogg in response. In a final testament to his people, the goblin released the bulky blade from his hold as he pushed himself up with one side of his limbs and kicked out with the other. The green skin was propelled at an angle in a rolling tumble forward but away from his foe, narrowly dodging the missile aimed straight at him. With the disproportionately applied force of his start, the ball gained an inward spin, curving it back in to the elf. When a direct line could be drawn in Bimblesnaff's path, he thrust his arms outward, catapulting himself into the air with his grimy feet sailing toward the bowman first. Honing into his mark by arching his back, one of his oversized claws struck the wounded side of the enemy's ribs. As the archer groaned in pain with the tightening of the nails, the other foot sped forward to smash into the woodland man's chest with enough drive to bounce the goblin back to the point where the projectile had landed.
The elf let out a cough of more blood than breath as he swayed in his stance. Stooping to reclaim his discarded weapon and hat, the lunatic stabbed the end of his hook blade into the sand to recline upon. The audience looked on in awestruck silence as the Ghobling stared down his red-weeping opponent, rapping his fingers on the hilt of his sword during the wait, which loses all effect when one only has two fingers to strike with. The wobbling eyes of the elfin kin rolled back into his head as he crumbled to the sands beneath him. A huge uproar went out from all the races in the seats. Some cheered to the gripping battle or to the defeat of a racial advisory while others celebrated the fight just being over. The event coordinator, who was still standing in the arena far off to the side, timidly approached Bogg. Outstretching the awarded prize in quivering arms, the short kobold scoffed the offer.
"What? Ya think I need that?" scolded the green skin. Tossing a finger at the figure lying in the crimson pool, he added, "There's my reward. I dun need anythin' else." Turning a low shoulder to the human, Bimblesnaff started off to the nearer, opening gate as the shouts and clamor fell onto his ears deafly. His only hope was that some of the ladies in the crowd witnessed his "selfless" deed and desired to offer their own prize later. As the tiny fiend vanished into the shadows of the corridor amidst the cries, the crimpled body rose from the sanguine puddle in a warm glow with most of the bleeding stopped.
"Fool," the elf spoke to himself in a steady pose, "did he honestly think I would fall that easily?" Drawing back his bow string, he let loose an arrow down the dark hall.
Only one sound resonated from the passageway, a shrill voice cursing, "Dammit!"
