Book III: Shale's Rampage (Unoffical Ropeplay Version)

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[You do not need to read this all but if you wish to join this RP there is more than enough Detail for you to pick a spot and witness at least one event and join in right as chapter II begins.]

Chapter I: Twenty Years
Freedom

James' shoulders were bleeding, the dust and soil from the prison cell were grizzled into his many scars. He had come a long way. No opponent, no person, nothing now was going to stop him from achieving his ultimate goal. To survive.

The iron gates cranked open and the roar of the crowds rang through the air. This was his last fight. If he won this one he'd win his freedom. The only problem was the champion was someone no one had ever bested before. He gripped his blade. He'd just have to trust in the blade in his hand and the courage in his heart.

The telltale announcement rang out: Let the bloodshed begin!

James looked at the warrior before him: it seemed a little unfair the champ was covered in armor, but it was no time to fret about the details, only to win.

James thrust forward with a surprise attack, surprise by the level of speed he possessed more than the move which was a mere hook with his right handed roman short sword strait for the armpit.

It seemed over, the blatantly forward attack would have never been expected from someone with his level of experience, however the champ was much more than James could have ever perceived.

The champion, with speed that somehow surpassed that which was even human stepped back and twisted making the attack flat out miss.

James was no idiot, he knew the best time to attack was now, while a novice would have spent a fifth of a second dumbfounded and in awe, James made no such fatal error and was already pushing against the champ going with the champ's momentum to knock him down.

This however, also failed.

The champion threw his sword into the ground almost as if to say it wasn't even needed and pressing at a glancing angle shoulder-to-shoulder, tackled back against the tackle causing them to spin.

Before the jarring sensation of steel pauldrons colliding was over James was facing his back to his opponent his sword stripped free from his own hand. It was over he thought, only a matter of time before the ice cold stab of death could be felt in his back.

Little did he know the champion's back was also facing James, but this was no mistake. A tight strain ripped at his armpits as the leather straps of James' pauldrons dug into his skin and lifted him off the ground. All he had time to see was his body being ripped off the ground and twisted half a circle over the helmet of the champ before getting slammed down on the ground followed by a steel ax kick that snapped his collarbone like a twig and held him down on the ground.

The champion raised his thumb sideways indicating whether the crowd wished this one to be spared. This is outrageous James thought, he's already posing the question and I'm not even defeated yet. James tried to use the muscles in his stomach to force a sit up, but the champion moved his foot sideways similarly to someone trying to rub something into the ground and forcing him back down flat on his back, the collarbone ringing in pain.

With the sun in his eyes he could not tell or see what the crowd was indicating, however the dark silhouette of the champion's thumb turned down. Moments later a battleaxe planted into his face.

The Champion

"Twenty years..." remarked Pellius Ontraius. "And not a single man has ever bested him." He pushed his wine glass out of the way to count his coins, brushing his light curly wig. In all honesty Pellius yearned for the champion's defeat. Betting was intended to be the primary source of income, but no one placed bets anymore. The stadium was full of many things, however, suspense was no longer one of them.

"What is his name?" bellowed the deep voice of Havrengaurd, his face somehow resembling the black mane of the lion he casually had leashed at his side.

"Nobody knows," answered Pellius. "He is the only man to join the coliseum freely. No slavery, no bonds, even came in with his own armor. No one has even seen his face or heard him speak."

"I have found someone." It is all Havrengaurd said.

"You mean?" Pellius' face lit up.

"Yes, someone to best your champ." Havrengaurd, stepped to the side and ripped off a decorative map destroying part of the wall. Pellius had only time to remove his silver wine goblet before the mighty barbarian slammed it down on the table. "Here." A large finger strolled over to the Kolkafar mountains. "There is said to be a man who would not only kill this lion with his bare hands, but would eat it too."

Pellius' face wrinkled into a perplexed disgust. "You can't be serious?"

Havrengaurd's face remained as stoic as if it were made out of stone. "Do I look like the type to joke with you?"

Even had his guards been there at the time Pellius would still have been intimidated into agreeing with this man. "No but it just seems so absurd... and... and how are we supposed to get this man; that is, if he even exists?"

"Leave that to me." And with that Havrengaurd gave a tug of the leash and led his lion out of the room.

The Contender

Havrengaurd strode up the mountain, his pet lion at his side. Each step seemed angry and powerfully placed, loosing no momentum despite the wear and tear the journey had put on his body.

"Halt lowlander!" bellowed the mighty voice of a woman who stood arms crossed looking down from the top of the hill. "What business do puny folk of the south have coming here to the mountains?"

Havrengaurd looked up at the woman, she was tall, with brown hair and reddish skin. "Silence woman! I have little time for your games. Get out of my way before I feed you to my lion."

She remained staring steadfast. "Speak," she demanded more like a man than a woman.

"That's it, you were warned." he slapped the rear of his lion, which seemed already aggravated and ready to fight, with two mere strides it covered the distance and was lunging upon the hapless woman. Havrengaurd, was not one to give second chances, anyone or anything that got in his way was food for his lion. Lucky they were if it was the lion and not Havrengaurd himself that was sent forth. Nothing, no one, ever stood in his way.

That's why it came as such a surprise when a clap like thunder boomed followed by the roar of the lion as it went tumbling down the hill. Havrengaurd turned back stunned. The woman had punched it. He was once more stunned to find his lion was not crippled, it was dead. "I said, speak." the woman repeated.

Perhaps it is because Havrengaurd had never known fear that his voice did not change. "I have come looking for a warrior. Said to be able to kill a lion, stories were told about him that he had an influence in the great war around forty years ago." Havrengaurd stood somewhat taken aback. "You don't intend to tell me you are that warrior?"

The female barbarian smirked. "Hmm clearly I can kill a lion, but I do not think I am the one you speak of. If lowlanders like you know of him, then it is probably my brother you speak of."

Havrengaurd suddenly felt a sense of wonder, to think if this was merely the sister, it was hard to imagine what sort of man this person could be. He felt small, surprised the world still kept any secrets, still had legends to offer. "Could you lead me to him. I am in search for a gladiator to contend with the champion. We have not had a successor in twenty years."

Clans

Havrengaurd followed the woman, who gave a gruff nod that she would lead the way.

"Lucky you are lowlander, that it is summer, for your weak bones would otherwise not likely survive the frost." It was not clear if this was a joke or an insult, for every word she spoke was dull and hateful.

In truth Havrengaurd was a quarter mountain barbarian himself, it was thusly so that he was able to bully his way through life throwing around his weight and strength like a bear, but he was nothing compared to this woman. He knew where they were heading. To the Wolf Fang clan. In the past they would have been mortal enemies. His grandfather was that of the Bear clan, but he somewhat felt connected to these people now, having only lived in the lowlands his whole life, he was curious to see his people for the first time.

Atop a high cliff the woman stopped and rubbed the dead skin off her lip. The icy winds had a way of chapping the lips. "We are here."

The area was mostly deserted, except for a few tents made of animal skins and some anvils and other blacksmithing equipment laid down on the ground. "Bjorn!" Havrengaurd called out, the Viking name for bear. "I have come to test your legend."

"Bold this lowlander is?" A large man, blond with a roughly shaved chin that exposed a massive scar across his lower jaw stood above Havrengaurd. Havrengaurd was a large man. Weighing in at two hundred and fifty pounds, but this blond must of outweighed him by sixty and his jaw looked like it got in a fight with a sledgehammer and won.

A slightly darker skinned figure came out, looking to be only half barbarian. His eyes immediately set on the newcomer and to the woman beside him. "Sister, who is this that you have brought here?"

Several barbarians stood with their arms crossed, the wind blowing their thick uncombed hair.

"He is some meager lowlander, I do not know his name. But he has an interesting proposition. Interesting enough that I would tolerate his weakness to hear him speak."

One of the larger individuals let out a low grumble and Havrengaurd came to realize why very few people knew of these warriors that lived on the tops of the Kolkafar mountains. "Let's skip to the chase. There is a gladiator match to be had and of course a reward to be taken."

"Gladiator?" asked the slightly darker skinned one. "Hmm interesting." His eyes shifted over to his sister, the one whom had just killed a lion earlier.

"It is said that this gladiator has not been defeated in twenty years." She smirked, almost as if knowing something more.

Did they really think this was just a game? Havrengaurd had to ask himself. They can't just assume they will win, are they really that arrogant? He disregarded the thought. Such things were not his concern, only to his advantage. All the better to get them to come along.

"The reward?" asked the darker skinned barbarian.

"A solid two pounds of gold." Havrengaurd answered. "Assuming you kill him of course."

"I will not need it. I ask only that you provide me with full chainmail and that I can use my own sword." He rubbed an itch on the side of his nose, bored and waiting for an answer.

"Done," Havrengaurd smirked with his gritty teeth. "Now unless you've any last words to give your family it's best we be off."

A few barbarians gave a hearty chuckle at the thought of a lowlander defeating one of their own. Bjorn couldn't help but smirk a little himself as he shrugged his sword over his broad shoulder and followed the man down the hill.

Coliseum

Loud footsteps could be heard behind the double door, which suddenly burst open explosively, handles of both ends leaving deep marks in the wall.

Pellius hated this, it was Havrengaurd no doubt, the overgrown man had a knack for destroying expensive things. Things Pellius collected from the finest artists at prices that put a dent in even his supple gold supply. Pellius hastily strode forward to lecture the man and inspect the damage but stopped short, seeing a tall figure that outsized even Havrengaurd, standing beside him. "You found him?" Pellius had to remember the reason he tolerated the man. By whatever means dirty or fair, if there was a task, Havrengaurd always got it done.

"I told you leave it to me did I not?" His eyes then shifted over to the mountain barbarian. "But we will see if the man lives up to the legend."

Whether the barbarian smirked or scoffed was unclear given his face was covered in chainmail. "Where is my opponent?"

Pellius looked up. The barbarian carried a massive sword, it was clear by the dents and dings in the thick blade that it had seen many battles. "I believe he is in his quarters, hammering away at his armor no doubt. The champion is always hammering away on his free time. I sometimes think he takes more pride as a blacksmith than a fighter."

"Hmm... take me to him." The barbarian waited for a reply.

"I'm afraid that's most impossible. The champion never sees guests or speaks. As a matter of fact the only time we see him is when he fights." At that Pellius became excited. "As a matter of fact there is going to be a fight very soon. A prisoner is to be executed in the ring by our champion in no more than two hours. Care to see what you are up against?"

The barbarian gave a low grumble indicating some inpatients. "Very well, come get me when the fight begins."

The white stands were filled to the brim with people today. It was a festival for Ceres the god of farming. And chariot archers were picking off lowly peasants accused either falsely or truthfully of stealing or other petty crimes. The bottom line was money and guards were paid heavily to bring in these people for the entertainment of the crowds. The stands were loud with feasting drinking and gambling. Pellius loved it all, loved how the crowd loved him. It was finally time for the champion to enter the ring. He wanted to see the look on the barbarian's face when he saw the capability of his champion. For whatever reason, Pellius did not like the barbarian. He somehow seemed arrogant as if he had already decided himself the winner. Pellius was not so fond of the idea of his champion continuing to cut down all the competition but was less fond of this man showing up and should he win acting like it was nothing. He was all too aware of these people and of their extreme racism to the other people which they considered weak and called lowlanders.

The gates cranked open and the champion stood waiting holding two sledgehammers, one in each hand. The prisoner slowly strode out of the shady side of the coliseum into the roar of the hungry crowd. There was little hope and it was written all over the prisoner's face.

"Let the bloodshed begin." announced Pellius.

Nervously the prisoner moved forward and took a careless swing at the champion, but the champion was not paying attention to the prisoner he was looking up at the edge of the stands.

The champion merely stepped to the side of the swing, well aware of the attack, the overbalanced prisoner putting so much effort into the swing that he nearly toppled himself over.

Pellius's eyes followed the champion's gaze to the side of the ring. There stood the barbarian standing next to Havrengaurd both looking down at the fight.

The champion pushed back against the prisoner with the butt of his hammer stepping back not taking his eyes off the barbarian.

"So you knew I wouldn't wait?" the barbarian smirked before jumping off the high stand falling nearly thirty six feet and landing without breaking a bone.

Many in the crowed cried out in outrage but even more gasped in shock. By the time the crouched legs of the barbarian could fully absorb the shock and start coming back up to a stand, a twirling sledgehammer was launched with deadly force and the precision of an arrow aimed right between his eyes.

Man or Legend

A leathery hand reached out, snatching down upon the mallet, clasping the weapon like a child's toy. "Hmm..." Under the chainmail the barbarian was smiling.

The prisoner so afraid and still unfocused thought the gasps to be something of his doing and seeing the champion cautiously back stepping mistook the notion for fear. Not knowing quite what to do he slowly approached the champion only eventually realizing that it was not he but someone else who was causing the uproar.

Sensing the shadow, the prisoner turned around only in time to see the barbarian casually swing the hammer in the manner of a backhanded slap, catching him in the gut and sending him flying through the air to land dead sliding on his back stopping a good dozen feet back from where he'd been standing.

The barbarian tossed the sledgehammer away, taking a second hand upon his sword, if it could be called one. It was clear that his preference lay in weight, for his weapon seemed more like a slab of iron with a handle than anything designed for cutting.

The champion took his last back step then sprinted blindly forward. The speed of which seemed impossible even had he not been wearing armor. The champion leaped in a predictable manner directly at the barbarian. This was most unlike him. All the weight seemed to be focused in the slam of the hammer.

The barbarian patiently waited, then brought his sword up from a low position to meet the hammer flicking the lighter weapon and person behind it into the air.

The champion remained strong keeping full weight on the hammer, he could not afford to let the sword push it out of the way and get to him, even if it meant that he's have to be set flying as a consequence. The failed attack wasn't purely a waste though. With the ability to think and react at an accelerated rate the champion let go of the hammer and wrapped his fingers around the dull edge of the sword.

It was clearly a weapon for smashing not cutting and with armored gloves holding onto the blade was no problem at all, at least in the instant before he was to be smashed into the ground and it was coming fast, but not fast enough for the champion. The champion slung his whole body under the blade and kicked for the balls of his opponent. This served two purposes. Not only was it a good attack, but because of the length of the barbarian's weapon it was nearly impossible to hit anything closer that two feet.

Havrengaurd stood in awe of the champion, while most would have never even suspected their opponent could carry their weight hanging from the end of a sword, the champion had already judged the opponent correctly and taken advantage of it.

However the barbarian seemed less than surprised by the uncanny tactic and a balled fist slammed down on the body in between him and his sword connecting squarely at the heart with such a thud that the chest plate was dented and the champion brutally slammed into the ground. It didn't seem possible that a mere fist could make such a loud sound. The impact seemed clearly fatal but the crowed underestimated their champion.

As the barbarian lifted his hand back up the champion remained hanging from it and at the precise moment launched two devastating knees into the neck of the barbarian. This had the big man flinching. The champion took this moment to draw a blade he kept at his side, but letting go of the barbarian's arm allowed him to accelerate an elbow at the face of the champion at the same time as grab a foot with his other hand.

Pellius' feeble mind could barely comprehend what he saw. The sheer forces and difficulty of the moves these two fighters performed were something he could not weigh or scale to any experience he had ever had in his life. Those in the crowd who were performers, acrobats, and retired fighters could only begin to grasp at the magnitude of their capabilities.

As the elbow struck the champion he was sent away stunned and loosely dangling by the leg like a whip in the barbarian's mighty grip. The heavy man leaned to the side bringing the whole body of the champion over him like a rag doll and slamming him on the ground before changing direction and lifting up in a sideways manner that would snap the champion's bent knee and cast him aside like garbage.

The tossed champion went skidding on the dusty floor, the metal on his back acting like a sled atop snow. However the champion was neither dead nor his leg broken and stood up quite uninjured. "You still hit as hard as ever," finally spoke the champion.

"Twenty years?" asked the barbarian. "And you still haven't gotten bored of killing lowlanders?"

It was impossible for most of the crowd to hear what they were saying over their own roar, but some could see that the champion finally spoke and were in awe.

"I had to make sure if was you with that first swing," said the champion. "I'm surprised you blocked it."

"And what if it was someone else?" asked the barbarian.

The champion lifted up the mouth guard on his helmet so the barbarian could see his smile. "Then they would have died."

The barbarian removed his mask and strode towards the champion. The champion then removed his helmet and hugged the barbarian and revealed something the crowd did not expect. 'He' as they had previously thought, was a girl.

Unconventional Defeat

She appeared no older than sixteen, yet that was impossible considering she'd been fighting for over twenty years. However her skin possessed not a single flaw and her hair was as healthy and shined as if it were still damp. "You don't know how long I've waited to take this thing off," she groaned as she ripped the leather straps binding the front and back sides of her cuirasses in half. "My boobs barely fit in here."

The barbarian laughed. "Still crude and un-classy as ever."

"I am YOUR daughter after all," she protested.

"I know. That's why I came all the way down from the mountains to see if you still had it. You didn't think I'd come all this way for the chance to fight a mere lowlander did you?"

She smirked. "So you knew as well? That's why you dressed in that mask. You wanted to see me fight you without holding back."

"A gladiator champion who's been alive twenty years? Who else could it have been?"

"Same thing I thought when I overheard that lummox Havrengaurd speaking of yet a bigger lummox than him living somewhere in the mountains." She smiled teasing him. "And bringing your sword? Anyone could recognize that thing from a mile."

He glanced at the obvious give away. "To be honest I was hoping more that you wouldn't know I knew it was you. I don't think I could-" He stopped short interrupted by a sudden angry sputter from above.

"What is this?" demanded Pellius unable to hear their conversation. "If I will not have my gladiators fighting in the ring than I will surely have my archers tear them apart!" Pellius, had to stop to catch his breath from his long winded shout. "I will not have my festival ruined!"

"Get a load of this guy." The tall barbarian smirked.

"Archers!" shouted Pellius.

"You don't intend to shoot your own champion after twenty years of service?" asked Havrengaurd. "Your audience would likely have your head put on a stake."

Archers lined the wall arrows drawn pointing down at the two. The barbarian's smile only grew wider.

However the archers were looking shaky and nervous, not out of fear, but because many had known the champ the majority of their lives and to be the one that fired the arrow that killed their own hero was something none of them wanted on their conscience.

"Fire!" demanded Pellius, expecting the rain of arrows to demonstrate what it meant to rebel inside the arena.

Most of the archers had to look at each other none of them wanting to be the first to do anything. Feeling brave one of them with a particularly angry wrinkle on his nose turned around and pointed his bow at Pellius himself.

A few of the archers already had their bows aimed and ready to follow orders but seeing their brave comrade act out what they were all thinking lessened the draw on their bows to face their governor. Two archers rang out arrows at the same time.

Pellius who was sipping wine to try and lessen his growing level of stress had his arm staked to his chest, the other arrow landing not too far below causing him to buckle forward his wig sliding off his balding head to drift into the crowd as he slumped dead and behind his short white marble balcony rail.

"Get out of here champ." The guard who'd fired the first arrow smiled. "You've served our arena twenty years and brought a sense of pride to our city. We can find another governor who will sip just as much wine in less than two days, a fighter like you only comes once in a life time."

The tall barbarian turned his neck around to see another guard opening a gate for them to escape, although it didn't seem there was any pressure. It was more like ceremony considering the crowd cheered at the sight of their champion living on to survive yet one more ordeal.

The female warrior smirked. "Thanks, but it wasn't needed. He and I would have made it out of here just fine, you could count on that." She gave a bit of an evil grin before bending down on one knee to pick up her helmet that lay on the ground. "But I appreciate the respect and I guess seeing as we aren't enemies at the moment here's a reward." She tossed the archer her helmet. "Consider it a gift for standing up for what you believe in, an honorable trait amongst all kinds of peoples."

Return back Home

It was a good two minutes that he managed to keep his mouth shut and she had to give him credit, for she knew what was coming, at least she could be impressed that he had the tact to wait till they were out of earshot of the others.

It started with a laugh, one he'd been holding back for quite some time. "Consider it a gift, for standing up for what you believe in," he mocked her. "All hail the brave and righteous champion. Hero of the lowlanders."

She gave him a guilty look and a punch to the shoulder that would have probably broken a normal man's arm.

He could barely wipe a shred of smugness from his face. "That was pretty heroic, that whole symbolic helmet thing."

The woman turned red, keeping her mouth shut as to not encourage him more, but he saw right though that and immediately went on.

"I must say I'm a bit impressed. They really seem to like you they even turned on their own governor. Though I'll admit, I was a bit disappointed, I was really looking forward to the chance of taking them all on and showing them what a real warrior is made of."

"I know you were, the excitement was written all over your eyes."

The large barbarian tapped his sword against his shoulder in a frustrated and bored manner. "If you knew that then why didn't you just attack when that politician gave the orders? We could have turned that city upside-down."

She couldn't help but shake her head at his ridiculousness. "Sorry, forgive me if I value life and I'm not a battle-hungry jackass like you."

"Says the one who kills people for a living."

She bit her lip in a touché manner. "Alright I'll give you that one, you got me there."

He finally decided he'd had enough fun teasing her. "So how have you been? What are you now forty six? I haven't seen you in forever. Anything happen while you were gone?"

"I have plenty of stories to impress the lowlanders but none that would ring any interest in your ear I'm afraid. I've been bored out of my mind to be honest. I've been keeping my identity secret incase some people have a problem with a female gladiator. And even though I can easily take the armor off, I still have the problem with my ears possibly drawing too much attention in public. So I haven't really talked to anyone in a long time."

He nodded. It would be easy to tease her but twenty years of silence was no joke, it was a prison and he decided to keep his mouth shut about the matter.

"Farming and blacksmithing have been my only company in a long while. It gets pretty lonely, but living the life of a gladiator lets me keep my skills sharp or at least slows the rate at which they dull here in these peaceful times." She gave a humble smile.

"You've filled out." The dark skinned barbarian laughed. "You're not the flat-chested daughter I remembered having from so many years ago."

"Dad? What sort of compliment is that?"

"I'm just saying I haven't seen you in twenty years... it's really something you notice." Before letting her jump in he continued, somewhat to the satisfaction of cutting her off. "You're still trying to get him are you?" He gestured his thumb behind him at where the arena would be. "That's the point of all this right?"

The woman bit her lip, at one point she had thought so at least, but twenty years had a way of leaving one wondering if what they were doing was following a goal or just repeating a habit to the point where they didn't know what else to do. "Yeah," she finally answered. "The one that got away."

"Heh... I think all that posing as a man has got you thinking like one."

She recounted what she said with a trace of faint amusement. "So where's mom? I couldn't hear her hiding anywhere in the crowds."

"Actually she's been gone two weeks. Traveling with a band of scouts that believe they've found something quite scary." His eyes seemed rather grim. "I've been staying in the mountains, fate should have it this Havrengaurd should show up just then. I have the utmost confidence in your mother, but these missions still make me nervous even to this day. Finding you gave me something to take my mind off the stress."

Having lived with this man long enough, it was easy to tell when his tone was being serious. "What sort of enemies is she facing?" There was one that lingered in the back of her mind, half of her wanted it to be something else, the other half knew better than to assume otherwise.

He nodded, having read her mind. "Dark elves."

Chapter II Darkelves:
Newcomers

Dark elves wove their plans like spider webs, intricate, invisible, covering all paths and connecting everything. When getting stuck in one of their plots, one has to wonder with every action they took, whether they were getting themselves out or just getting themselves more tangled up all together.

The death of Pellius barely rang a whisper in the busy lives of the many people in the city. But five hundred miles away in the underground city the news was as loud as thunder.

Everything was calculated down to a human's behavior based on mood. Sometimes elections were won based on merely how well someone felt that morning and what sort of breakfast they ate. Dark elves were notorious and took delight in moving around random objects within people's houses, placing them in places that would relay directly to the mind through someone's subconscious and influence their thoughts based on what they were doing and who they were worrying about in a guided manner. To a human, such tactics, would be considered obtuse and imprecise. Notions of such subtle things being done would be brushed away before even considering the complications of how to sneak into such a place unnoticed. But dark elves were a different breed all together, and while most citizens could really care less who was to be the next one to control their lives without their say in the matter, the dark elves were already plotting against their fellow breed. Such were their actions, that none ever trusted each other, and should one of them agree with some plan from another it left doubt in their mind to what greater plot they sought.

Right now it was a scramble, the race to see which one could plant which person, with the right delusions into power that might someday benefit themselves directly. While dark elves seldom agreed on much, there was one thing that most agreed on. Killing elves, it was perhaps the one instance in which they could work together, assuming the fight wasn't staged as a way to knock off one of their own.

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