4boards

The drunken crowd offers cheers and jeers in equal measure to the two fighters down in the pit who lay into one another a with crude, yet undeniable earnestness. The air is thick with the stench of cheap ale and old sweat, underscored by the metallic tang of blood.

"Such is the curse of talent," you remark conversationally, observing the fight. "Both were the undisputed champions of whatever provincial arena they hail from. Stronger, faster, able to end fights quickly and decisively. Never felt the need to learn proper fundamentals. Never-"

"OOOOAAAAAHHHH!!!" the crowd's roar shakes the arena as the smaller brawler, the half-elf, suddenly slips behind the half-orc and suplexes him into the ground. But the latter immediately breaks the hold and roll to his feet, with the two fighters back to facing each other, sweat pouring from them and their chests heaving.

"Never learned to pace themselves either," you finish the thought, then finally turn to face the pair who sat down at your table.

The first and most boring one is a middle-aged human male whose traveling cloak hides his attire, but the gold-wrought amulet peeking out from underneath the hem and, more importantly, the cloying, prickling aura of borrowed divinity identifies him as a mid-ranked priest of Bahamut. No more than a few drops of dragon blood flowing through his veins, but enough skill and persistence to rise to where he has.

The second of the pair is a proper half-dragon by your reckoning, though her face a curious mix of human and elf features, fully fleshed, with only a hint of scale around the cheeks. She also conceals herself with a cloak, though there is no hiding the pair of ridged, swept back horns amid her dark, cropped, or her sheer size, easily seven and a half feet before she sat down. And you did catch a flash of gold when her cloak billowed, briefly revealing the tip of her tail, as well as the muted clink of chain when she sat down.

That would be her then. The paladin.

The two of them stare at you for a long moment, apparently confused by your unprompted monologue. When it becomes clear no immediate reply is forthcoming, you turn your attention back to the pit, where the fight has degenerated into an exchange of wild haymakers, each one sloppier than the last.

"You... you are Yria, correct?" the paladin is the first of the pair to speak, her voice surprisingly soft for someone her size.

"And you are Ismene Berohn," you reply, your eyes still on the fight that refuses to end. "Savior of Lastrum, Red Flame of Hope, Devilbane, Karingorim, Tirn o Dur, Shield of Bremme, Radiant Blade, Liberator of Westmarch. And lest we forget: the youngest ever Claw of Bahamut. An impressive list of accomplishments for someone not even six years out of novitiate."

(1/3)

NFT

#0124

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