Ficlet Contest: Beatdown

[Jolstraer]

The whip crack through the cold air brought another ragged shout. Wrists flexed in their bindings out of reflex, the rest of the body hanging from them against the crossed wooden posts.

"Why do you persist?"

The whip cracked again, and another pained shout. Blood trickled.

"Your strength has no value here."

Jol screamed out again as whip peeled flesh. Wind picked up, blowing ice shards into his exposed flesh and sending a wracking shiver down his back - making the pain worse. The red that hit the snow was eerily complimentary to the pennants flapping in the cold Northern wind.

"N-n-nae..." he pleaded, though it came out in no more than a whisper.

"What was that, paladin?" the voice asked, the whip pausing in mid air.

"N-nae moah, please," he said, cracking.

"This?" The whip was held up before his sweat-soaked face, right in front of both eyes so that the question was unmistaken.

"Y-y-ea..." he tried, weakly.

"As you wish." Leather rasped against cloth and chain, and when it settled there was the sound of steel rasping against leather. "It would be more appropriate, this way. The Light reckons that a deed must be punished accordingly, yes?" The grim, balding man that crouched before him yanked Jol's face up to meet his gaze.

"Ah...ah ne'er--"

"You broke your oaths," the man in scarlet spat, pure hatred in his eyes. "Because of men like you, our land is lost. We will reclaim it. But debts must be paid, yes? Balances maintained."

Jol's bedraggled, unshaven chin sagged in the man's grip. His eyes were locked on the blade as the point was rested against his cheek with little pressure.

"An eye...for an eye."

Jol's eyes widened until nearly no more color could be seen in them. "We wurr...undah...ordahs...!"

The balding man before him made a soothing sound, though the effect was lost when combined with his vicious eyes. "Of course you were. From the Damned Prince. Not the Light. The Light will wash away your sin, paladin. But not before your debt is paid...in full."

Jol screamed hysterically before the blade began cutting into his flesh.

[Lansiron]

Things went wrong about when the abomination burst into the square we held. It went down under a barrage of arcana, but more came. The effects of our abjurations were nothing to them. One by one, my charges, each one a promising aspirant of the Kirin Tor, died, eviscerated.

I was hurled down, my spell broken by a sudden, bone-cracking impact. I was able to glimpse the death knight that was to be my demise, as he dismounted.

"Devon." My husband. A chill set over me."You died at Lordaeron."

"Mary." I'll never forget his voice. "I...recovered."

"But, why?" It was all that came to me. I was going numb.

"I've seen it. This is the only way." He grimaced, "But, I'm sparing you this. You die clean, and I'll see your ashes scattered so that they don't make a mockery of you." There was something like sympathy on his face. "I'm glad I found you."

He raised his runeblade. I was frozen.

But then, there was heat, and sensation returned. Devon spat curses. He'd been hit with a fireball, his sword flying, landing with a bell-like clang beside me. He turned, and I heard a scream. It may have been one of my own students. Given that they can be credited for my continued existence, it's a shame I never knew who it was.

I grasped at the runeblade, using it to stand. He turned to face me, his seared face already reconstructing itself. It was grotesque. I can't remember if I said anything, or just screamed. I don't even remember his last words as I plunged that blade into his abdomen.

Nothing compares to the sensation that came, then; absolute cold, followed by blistering heat; bones mending, flesh knitting back together, life returning; channeled through the sword.

I stood, the weapon in hand. I was surely in shock. It was later I would register the total loss of everything meaningful to me, then, which would affect my later decision.

Before the blackness, I remember one thing: Arthas Menethil, moving through the ashes, amidst the bodies of the fallen, a lord among his subjects, and meeting my gaze.

"You'll do."

[Nykkolaia]

((OOC: Hey all. This isn't actually mind but from a friend of mine I've written stuff with before that y'all have seen here and you may have seen her in and about perfidy. This isn't for the 'contest' part of things, but she liked the challenge and wanted to give it a go, so I told her that I'd post her ficlet here. Enjoy.))

"You will begin your training as a Priestess just as I did at your age, Riahana. There is no room for debate on this, child," Arheya scolded the girl. In any other society, Riahana would have been a young woman at the age of twenty, but she was barely more than an adolescent amongst the Kaldorei. "It is your destiny, if not your family calling."

The rich, deep, calming voice of Teldrian filled the room, "Your mother is right, little one. You come from a long line of Priests and Druids. Your destiny is to serve Darnassus."

Ria's eyes narrowed, "It is my destiny because you say it is, Father?" She looked to her mother, "I do not have the gift either of you have been blessed with, or are you forgetting?"

"You are young yet, child, it may still come," Arheya countered.

"May!? And if it does not? What then? Wash the feet of a spoiled preistess? Play runner for a sentinel?" She shook her head, "No. Elune may not have called me, but I know I am meant for something far greater. I will follow my own path, and make my own way."

"How, child? And where will you go?"

"I will go where the wind whispers, or follow the forlorn bird who beckons me. I will go where Elune sends me," Ria offered.

Teldrian spoke, "You speak of Elune when you are turning your back to her? You do see the irony, do you not?"

Anger welled up in Ria, "I am not turning my back on Elune, Father. It is she who has not called me. That neither of you can accept it is beyond my control. Do not belittle me. I am young, yes, but I am no fool."

Arheya smiled wryly, "All who are young are foolish. How you will live? Where will you sleep?"

The girl replied, "I can fish and cook. Radnaal taught me to skin, and Nadyia taught me how to make clothing from the skins. I can live off the land."

"What of your time with the rogue Syurna?" Arheya said the name with distaste, but saw the surprised look on Ria's face. "I see more than you would give me credit for, child. I do not like your chosen path. You will find a cruel world out there, one where Night Elves are not welcome."

"So you say, but Syurna has seen the world. She has told me of grand adventures to be had of..." Ria started to protest, only to be cut off.

"GO, then. If you are so taken with the world Syurna has told you of. GO, child, and find your place in it. I will not have such foolishness under this roof!" Arheya's scowl twisted her face into something menacing. She said nothing more, but pointed to the door.

Stunned by her mother's reaction, Ria left.

[Bricu]

(Winners and updates posted here later today! Sorry for the delay...)

[Bricu]

WINNERS of Gems:

Everyone.

I've stocked and saved as many big gems as I could, and I found mysel having a hard time picking. Given tht I have the mats, I decided to run with saying thank you to everyone who participated.

As for reserving Bricu time, the following people get dibs first (but all participants get something outta him)

In order:
Jolly
Illa
Illi

--

Now then, keep posting beatdowns. Bricu's is incoming.

[Bricu]

Bricu's story:

Bricu tapped the bar, letting Lohan know he needed another refill on his bourbon. Much to the chagrin of Eric Lohan, Bricu had taken his "free" drinks at the Blue Recluse seriously.

"That's it mate." Eric said as he filled the tumbler full of the brown liquor.

"Then jus' leave me the fuckin' bottle 'fore I go back there an' take the shite yeh keep behind the bar." Bricu slurred. "Wanker."

Lohan put the bottle on countertop and walked away from Bricu and his increasingly belligerent mood. Bricu filled his glass as the bar grew quieter.

"You that fuckwit named Bittertongue?"

"I prefer ta be called a witty fucker."

He spun on his bar stool, expecting one or two angry people. Instead, Bricu stared into a sea of angry faces.

"Why fuck me sideways! Yeh lot are the very picture o'the Alliance. United in diversity!"

The tallest among the crowd, a bald night elf whose arms were as thick as the branches of Teldrassil, spoke up.

"You're the Plaguefather's uncle?"

"So yer past time is genealogy then? Want ta see me family's Codex. It traces our roots all they way back ta when I fucked yer mum."

"Did he die at Sorrow's Pass?"

"Read all 'bout it in the daily press or have one o'yer gits read it ta yeh." Bricu started to turn his back to the crowd when someone put a hand on his shoulder. Bricu grabbed this person's arm with both hands and slammed the elbow down on the table. The attacker, someone Bricu had seen in the bar before, screamed in pain. Bricu grabbed his tumbler and drank half of it in one gulp.

"Now then. Who's next?"

The night elf reached for Bricu, his skin rippling as he changed. Bricu threw the rest of the liquor into his face, then smashed the empty glass into the temple of the nearest attacker. The crowd kept coming. Someone grabbed an arm. Another person grabbed a leg. He struggled and cursed while calling on the light to shield him. He didn't feel any pain, but that didn't stop the crowd from pulling him into the center of the room. The night elf, now a bear, held Bricu down with his paws. His jaws wrapped around Bricu's head.

"This could have been easy on you," Bricu heard. "We just wanted to hear he was dead. Now? Now we'll take the death of our families and friends out on you. One of your bones for one of our losses."

The bear held him while they kicked him til his bones snapped. Broken, bleeding and drunk, Bricu wished they would finish the job Uthas started.