OPEN | Blood And Ice

[northcliffpass]

Civil Blood

I. News from the West

The story of why gets twisted and distorted between its departure from the Crags and its arrival in Northcliff Pass, but the town criers maintain consistency on a few points: Althea of House Jessamy, Duchess of Black Rock, has at last thrown down the gauntlet against the Duke of Cliffside, and has called on her vassals to rally their bannermen. It seems there will be war within the borders of Maireglenne for the first time in a hundred years.

Given the state of the roads leading through the pass, it is understandable that the news is a few weeks’ stale by the time armed soldiers sporting Duke Galein’s colours march (or gallop, if they are astride a horse) past the village walls and garrison themselves on the festival grounds. Anyone objecting to this new arrangement is encouraged by the soldiers to bring their objections to the garrison commander (who, rumor has it, personally oversees the flogging of objectors himself).

Like it or not, the regiment is here to stay, at least until they receive orders instructing them otherwise. On the bright side, the soldiers did the hard work of clearing the pass for the season; travel between Northcliff Pass and the city of Cliffside just got a heck of a lot easier this winter.

II. Cold Snap

And it’s highly likely that those orders will be as delayed as the news, for the regiment has hardly been within the city walls a week before the temperatures plunge to dangerous lows. This is not the seasonal frigidity accompanied by blustery blizzards that encourage snowball fights and a bit of ice fishing down by Sands Creek, but a cold so biting and bitter that any prolonged period spent outside in it runs the very real risk of hypothermia and death. This is the kind of cold that leaves the air clean and clear, with nothing to impede the watery white light of the sun for the few hours it spends above the horizon each day before setting again; it cuts the lungs when inhaled and bites straight through to the bone. Many of the village’s poor are brought within the sturdy walls of the Town Hall and the chapel, because the alternative is finding them frozen solid in the streets.

The silver lining to this development is bare indeed; avoiding the cold means that, for a time at least, the village residents and soldiers are too preoccupied hunkering down to endure the cold to be at cross purposes.

III. A Howl in the Night

On the third night of the deep freeze, an animal’s piercing howl shatters the oppressive silence that has settled over the village.

It’s not a wolf’s howl; it is far too shrill and keening, and comes from a great distance away, that much is clear. The few villagers brave enough to risk exposure to the cold will find nothing of immediate danger within the city walls--but should they lift their eyes and look to the gossamer clouds near the summit of Gods’ Reach, they will glimpse the dark silhouette of a massive winged beast circling the mountaintop in search of a safe place to roost.

Comments

OTA

[ferruginous]

I.

No one is quite sure how the rumor started.

Some say it came from a drunken encounter at the tavern, or as joking grumblings between soldiers that escalated to reality, but what seems to be going around town is this: if you fight the smithy and win, you get a free new sword. Maybe it’s the anticipation of war, the stir-craziness of being stuck snowed-in for so long, or just good-ol’ pent up aggression, but Fíadh has been dealing with a fair amount of fisticuffs. Mostly soldiers, but even a couple townspeople have taken their chances and lost. Yet no one has been able to win their free prize.

Of course Fíadh could stop this at any time … but curiously enough she just allows it to keep going. So, anyone want to chance their bets on some sweet loot? Even if you lose, you get punched in the face by a buff lady.

II.

As always, Fíadh’s forge is open as a heat source for those who need it. She’s even begun tending to it at night to ensure that it’s available to anyone at all hours. Of course there’s the risk that someone would steal from her unattended shop during that time, but then again who wants to risk angering her? Only an idiot. Still, someone could likely run into her during her working hours or at night as she comes to check on the flames.

I

[wardsdottir]

Pippa knows what she's good for, and while she can throw a decent punch and can hold her own in a street fight if she's got to, she knows a lost cause when she sees one. That free sword will never be hers--at least, not unless Fíadh decides to take pity on her and grant her one out of the goodness of her heart.

But in the meantime, Pippa has plenty of interest in watching some of these abrasive newcomers get knocked down a peg or two. That's what she's doing at the moment: hanging out near the smithy with her hands stuffed into her pockets, watching with rapt interest while Fíadh introduces her latest challenger to her fists.

[ferruginous]

Today's current contender is a rather trim young fellow, probably around Fíadh's own age. He had approached her with a few of his fellow soldiers, full of bravado, swagger, and confidence. Nevermind by that point she'd already beat down at least four or five other fighters, no, he looked convinced he was going to win.

Well, with the way the match has now been going, he wouldn't.

Fíadh's fist connects with his already swollen jaw in a ferocious uppercut and blood spurts from his mouth, likely from biting down on his own tongue. He stumbles backward and collapses to the ground. Lethargically he begins to scramble with his hands, pushing himself up, only to be shoved down once again by Fíadh's boot on his chest. Through one good eye and one very blackened eye he angrily stares up at her, met only with her bored gaze and a raised eyebrow.

"Finished?" Fíadh asks. He doesn't reply, but he doesn't move either. Fíadh nods, removes her boot and holds out her hand to help him up. The soldier pointedly refuses, pushing up on his shaky arms and stumbling like a fawn to his feet. His brothers-in-arms laugh heartily, maybe also a little in awe and fear, as they help him limp off. Fíadh's face remains impassive as they walk off, but there is certainly some sort of spark in her eyes as she trains them on Pippa. Of course she's noticed the other woman watching, many people have stopped the watch, but the fact that's she's staying is the most curious part.

"Do you want to fight too?"

[wardsdottir]

"Do you want to fight too?"

Listen, there's something immensely satisfying about watching a powerful woman sock a man in the jaw so hard he fountains blood, but there's also no socially acceptable way to communicate this without coming across as a lunatic. So instead, Pippa's eyes widen and her jaw works a time or two without producing any words. Then she straightens up and smooths a couple of wrinkles out of her shirt, like she's about to be inspected by a drill sergeant and wants to do her best to impress. (Next time, put on a clean shirt; that jam stain is visible a mile off.)

"How'd you learn that?" she asks, a little awed, then gestures with one hand at the spot on the ground where the blood is now drying. "To fight like that, I mean."

[ferruginous]

Fíadh pays no attention to Pippa's state of dress, focusing only on her face. The spark in Fíadh's own eye is practically reflected back at her, and in that moment she comes to a decision: she likes whoever this woman is. Still her mouth retains its straight line and she glances over to the blood.

"My friends taught me." There's a brief pang at the thought of the men who raised her, but it passes just as quickly. That's getting better.

[wardsdottir]

"Could you teach me?" All the introspection and the heartsickness that flickers across Fíadh's expression is too subtle for Pippa to read, and her heart is already set on a different objective: learning how to make a man cry 'uncle' in three punches or less. She steps away from the wall and comes closer to Fíadh, the beginnings of an inquisitive smile on her face. "I'm all right with a sword, and I don't think I'm that bad in a scrap, but I've never been able to, well--"

She gestures at the blood stain again, admiringly.

[ferruginous]

"Hm."

Fíadh's focus finally shifts to Pippa as a whole, taking in the scrappy young woman. She can't be much younger than Fíadh herself but in Pippa's stance, manner, and speaking it betrays inexperience. But then that's why she's asking Fíadh for help, right?

"All right. But I'll need to see what I'm working with."

[wardsdottir]

That is precisely why Pippa is asking Fíadh for help. And the moment she consents to be her teacher, even just this once, a bright grin lights up Pippa's face from cheek to cheek.

"But I'll need to see what I'm working with."

"Okay! What do I need to do?" Already she's trotting closer to the forge and starting to shrug off her jacket, because naturally that will get in the way.

[ferruginous]

Fíadh allows Pippa to shrug off her coat and takes the time to shove aside a table for more room. She then motions Pippa to stand in the middle of the space.

"Imagine I am about to come at you. What stance do you take? Don't overthink it, just do it."

[wardsdottir]

"A stance? Um--" Pippa frowns a little, bemused, then frowns again, this time more determined. No, don't overthink it, just do it.

She brings up both fists in front of her chest and shifts her feet so that one foot is slightly ahead of her body, the other behind. She looks a bit like an amateur boxer, standing like that, but Fíadh had told her not to think. Uncertainly, she looks to Fíadh for her feedback, eyebrows raised as though to ask like this?

[ferruginous]

It's not a bad start, actually, Pippa's got good instincts. Fíadh shifts Pippa's elbows slightly inward and kicks her feet to a good shoulder-width distance. There, looks better.

"Throw a few punches."

[wardsdottir]

She wobbles as anyone might after having their feet more or less kicked out from under them, but recovers quickly. Then--

"Throw a few punches."

Pippa balks, dropping her hands some, and looks at Fíadh uncertainly. "What, like," she starts, then nods the taller woman's way, "right now? Where?" Like, at her face, or...?

[ferruginous]

"Where? You just-" Fíadh lets loose a frustrated stream of air. "Imagine someone you want to punch is in front of you. Now punch them."

I

[howryanow]

This was an outrage, a downright travesty, and offense on all levels--that someone had staked a bet on beating up Fiadh to prove their toughness and not him? Waen could hardly stand the thought.

Now, fair enough, he had given up fighting after his last dalliance with the girl from down the way. And he hadn't actually fought anyone in town since well before Fiadh had taken over the smithy. And there is no way those soldiers could have heard tell that he was the tough fellow in town.

But that didn't make any of it sit better with him.

He'd been stewing all day, cooped up with the dogs, and the dogs were just as annoyed and snappish as he was. By the gods' he'd have to close up shop for the duration of the weather if he didn't sort this out.

And so, without much more deliberation, Waen put on his heavy coat and strode out into the cold toward the smithy. When he arrived it was with little fanfare, just three sharp knocks on the door and a quiet huff of frustration.

[ferruginous]

Fíadh's in the middle of polishing a finished product when she hears the knocks. It's direct-sounding enough that she quickly straightens up before setting aside her task and striding to the door. Throwing it open she finds ... a man. A very average, nondescript man. But slowly she recognizes him as one of the townsfolk, not a soldier, and a slight surge of disappointment sinks through her. He won't want to fight, pity. Still, here's here for something.

"Hm." It's a grunt of acknowledgement, but also a question all wrapped in one. What do you want?

[howryanow]

"G'd'evenin', 'm Waen Hickson, pleasure to make y'r acquaintance," he says all in one long breath and an even monotone as though he doesn't expect a response; he's perfunctory and polite in equal parts.

"I'm here fer' an old fashioned donnybrook."

[ferruginous]

His accents leaves her catching up for a second, but when she does she ... well, no she's still confused.

"Donnybrook? A-" her eyes light up in hopeful understanding. "Oh, a domhnach broc?"

[howryanow]

"Hm," he replies with a hum that is between a grunt and an actual word. He nods once.

Then, after a beat, it occurs to him that he is speaking to a lady...even if she's a lady he intends to fight.

"If you're amenable."

[ferruginous]

Whenever Gregor spoke of a domhnach broc he always made it seem like a tussle between groups of men, while Fíadh sees just ... one. But a fight is a fight, and she's pleased her initial evaluation of him was wrong. She steps outside her shop and closes the door silently behind her before turning back to him.

"Here? Or what?"

[howryanow]

Waen makes a face at the suggestion, like she's said something uncomfortably crude.

"On the property?" He asks, a bit aghast. "Don't fight on the property, bound to break things."

He jerks his head to the side to gesture to the wide space of the slightly snowy street out away from the front wall of the smithy. He's not here to break windows or shutters on accident, he's here to punch and be punched.

"There's better," he decrees and steps out of the way to let her go first.

[ferruginous]

Well she wasn't planning on breaking anything, but maybe Waen has trouble controlling himself that much. Not that Fíadh cares, that's just something to use against him. But she shrugs one shoulder and makes her way out to the street. She'll fight here, she'll fight there, she'll fight anywhere.

[howryanow]

Waen stops at an appropriate distance, just a few strides into the street, and takes a look at Fiadh. She hadn't bothered to put on a coat which was, frankly, understandable. She worked in a room with a forge. Seemed unfair though, that he ought to have padding on when she didn't. Waen hums and shrugs off his own coat, setting the thick wool and cotton garment aside.

He straightens the set of his own shirt with a tug and then squares up. He lifts his fists casually and gives her another look. It was sporting to give her the first punch, even if he was the challenger...but she was also a smith and he was a merchant. She could definitely hit with force.

Let it never be said that Waen was not polite.

"Alright then."

[ferruginous]

Fíadh settles in and waits patiently as Waen prepares himself. She furrows her brows in confusion as he throws off his coat, but maybe it's to have a better range of motion? If everything goes well she'll end this quick enough that neither of them will work up a sweat.

As he takes form, Fíadh too raises her fists and bends her knees, ready. She gives a curt nod to him in reply and stays paused. Thinking. The wind begins to pick up, a snow flurry billowing beautifully around them. Somewhere out there, Ennio Morricone is running to get his trumpet. But that's not in this universe, not right now, so th-

Fíadh throws her punch. Hard. Straight toward Waen's jaw. Let's go.

[howryanow]

Waen doesn't lean into it, he's not an idiot, but he does give her the first shot. Her fist hits like a hammer and the blow twists his head and nearly knocks him off his balance. It has been quite a long time since someone hit him with a no-nonsense punch like that. He squeezes his eyes tight and blinks twice and, very quickly, Waen has recovered.

He swings an answering punch up, using the momentum to straighten up as he hits the side of her torso. He'd been aiming for the stomach, but it's not a terrible miss. His vision is still swimming a bit.

He hasn't thrown a punch in a while but, all things considered, it was a respectable one. He followed it up with what weight he could throw behind it and brought his other fist around, aiming for her head.

[ferruginous]

Fíadh's lungs expel in a loud 'oof' as she stumbles back on her foot. She blinks in a bit of surprise as she pauses a moment, just a moment, to assess the damage. Huh. Okay, he's deceptively quicker than his large frame would suggest. Time to reassess.

Fists squarely back in front of her she feints to the left, looking to aim high at his face once again before ducking down at the last minute, sending her own blow to his solar-plexus. Sure, she gets the hit off, but damn if that doesn't burst some blood vessels across her knuckles and smears blood against Waen's shirt. What is this man made of, rock?