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

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?

[howryanow]

He lifts to block but she snaps down and hits him hard in the side. He can take it, thankfully, but he'll have a hell of a bruise later.

She's lunged forward, followed through on that punch, and he bends, gets his arms locked around her torso, and lifts. Waen isn't usually one for scrapping, tossing and dropping people, but he will take the opportunity when it presents itself.

Getting her on the ground might put an end to their scuffle quickly and he's keen to be the winner.

[ferruginous]

Fíadh lets out an 'oop' of surprise as she's suddenly lifted upside-down into the air. It's ... been a long time since anyone's ever handled her like this, and despite the precarious situation she's mildly impressed.

She swings her own arms back to grip his torso as best as she can and swings her legs forward, hoping the momentum will throw him off-balance. Sure, they might both go down, but she's prepared for the landing.