Fortunes and Fights

Characters: Drystan, Heskra

The Juskaskor camp is its usual nighttime hive of activity, and one lone, very out-of-place golden fox has infiltrated to the center, standing in the glow of the main campfire before the chieftain himself. "I leave the portents to them who has the Sight!" calls a grizzled hag, apparently as shocked by the audacity of this newcomer as much as everyone else seems to be. "The Sight," Drystan agrees, nodding as he steps a bit closer and peers into her pot of steaming refuse. "Sight enough to tell you that when the White Madness strikes a child of the Juska, great power lies just beyond the horizon?" It's phrased as a question, but it has the stink of prophecy.

Stabbing the spiked end of his flail into the ground, Heskra folds his arms and sneers at the golden fox, shaking his head. He ignores the obvious attempt to get him interested in the prophecy, instead snapping at the uninvited guest. "'e White Madness don' bring nothin' but death an' sorrow! Yer speakin' nonsense!" Naturally Heskra is suspicious of such a claim. After all, had his own foresight not been terribly quiet for the longest time, and the Juskaskor unimpeded in their goals and left to their own devices? What could this golden fox see that Heskra himself could not? The idea that his Sight failed him fills the ex-seer with dread.

"I have seen it," Drystan replies calmly, his paws still resting in his trouser pockets, completely unperturbed by the chieftain's outburst. "In the bones. In the water. In the stars." A paw points upward toward the sky where the lights of the nighttime keep their silent vigil, the other subtly flicking something into the fire, which bursts into a green flame. "In the fire," the fox adds, verdant light dancing in his eyes. "The White Madness brings death, but with it comes opportunity."

The fires eruption into green flames draws some impressed gasps from the rest of the Juskaskor, who are used to the far more quiet and subtle preditions of their own chieftain. After years worth of watching what appeared to be an empty body suddenly come alive and proclaim the future, something as bombastic as green fire is enough to get them to believe the golden fox's claim. Heskra, for his part, seems suspicious of the claim, but is unquestioning of the 'magic' that he thinks he sees. He is, after all, a notoriously superstitious beast. He stares down his muzzle at Drystan, grimacing at him. "An' ye've seen all 'is 'bout our tribe? Yer not Juskaskor, why should ye see anythin' 'bout us?"

"The Sight is not chosen by those who See," comes Drystan's response, blue eyes narrowing, one paw outstretched to the green flames still leaping into the sky. "I do not question the visions; I merely speak them." The fox looks back the way he came, that sly grin still playing about his face. "If you do not wish to hear them, I will leave." Almost as if on cue, the oddly-colored fire extinguishes and is replaced by the ordinary orange blaze.

Were Heskra's eyes to narrow any further, he'd have them shut tight. He's familiar enough with all the half-statements and lies that a seer will tell, and the bait that makes them seem appropriately mysterious. Hellgates know that he used enough of those sorts of lines himself back when he still lived on the coast with his original leader. Still though... it seems at least somewhat possible that the other fox might have some manner of sight of his own, and perhaps he truly had seen something that pertained to the Juskaskor. Heskra's curiosity overcomes him, and he growls to Drystan, "If yer goin' t'tell us anythin', 'en get 'round t'it."

"In the shadow of the White Madness," Drystan begins, turning back towards the fire and gazing into its embers, "A claimant will appear. Taggerung." The word is enough to send a ripple of shock through the camp, murmurs beginning to pass from mouth to mouth. "Whether the claim is true, I have not yet Seen. But there is one who makes it."

The idea of there being a Taggerung, and for the prophecy to be delivered to the Juskaskor, hardly the mightiest of the Juska tribes, is enough to cause even Heskra's eyes to widen, and he stares with clenched teeth at the golden fox. It's more than he can believe, too good to believe. In fact, it's so good that he argues out of pure instinct. "We all know 'e story of 'e last Taggerung. 'twas a disaster fer 'e tribe 'at tried t'make 'im theirs! A false Taggerung! Surely 'is un's a lie!"

"And a lie it may be," Drystan admits, with a casual shrug of his shoulders, unconcerned by Heskra's argumentative response. He spreads his paws wide, keeping them at waist level. "But great honor and power be to the Juska that unveils the liar, or claims the Taggerung as their own." It's a valid point. "And the Sight has granted you this chance at that honor. I have heard whispers of where you might find such a one, from the Spirits of the Forest. Their tongue is strange and hard to tell," he stipulates, "but it can be told: by blood, and by fire."

Heskra turns away, placing his paws on his hips as he stares out into the distance, deep in thought. Try as he might to call on his own foresight, he sees nothing, just the same pitch blackness that the woods fade into past the range of the fire. This news, if it's true, gives way to feelings of blindness, of an inability to rely on his foresight as he once did. Purely to keep his paws busy, he opens his sporran and pulls out his pipe, filling it with bracken and lighting it with steel and flint. He puffs heavily on the pipe, letting the smoke billow into the air as he turns back around. "Vulpuz 'imself whispers into my ear, an' puts visions of 'e future 'fore my eyes. Yet Ah 'aven't seen nothin' 'bout any Taggerung, true or false..." He shakes his head. "An' 'ave ye paid blood an' fire t'yer Spirits, or are 'ey still waitin' fer it?" The question is as much a barbed inquirey into whether or not the other fox is going to lead the Juskaskor into danger with his visions as anything else.

"I have," Drystan replies, raising his paw and spreading his fingers to display the ragged slash still healing across his palm. "The Forest Spirits are fickle things, and their magic is waning," he explains, slipping his paw back into his pocket. "They could not tell me everything you might wish to know; not yet. But they have heard that one called Taggerung is dwelling to the north, near the river." The whispers around the fire continue, and as the fox waits, they die down once more. "Whether they be false or true, you will find them there."

Quick as a flash, Heskra lashes out, trying his best to grab hold of Drystan's paw to inspect the cut, as if he sees some sort of significance in it, or perhaps he's just trying to make sure that the cut isn't just painted on to keep up with some manner of ruse. Whether he can inspect it closely or not, he decides that the cut is real enough, and he frowns at the continued vagaries that the other seer spouts. This is all so familiar. It feels like the sort of thing that Heskra himself would have said to pull the wool over his old leader's eyes. Regardless, he can't ignore such a thing, he can't let an opportunity like that pass him by even if it smacks of falsehood! He huffs and nods his head. "'en 'e Juskaskor'll figure it out! We'll find 'is Taggerung an' Ah pity 'e beast if 'ey're spreadin' falsehoods 'bout 'is!"

The cut is, in fact, real, and the jagged, uneven surface of the skin is ample evidence of that, before Drystan frees his paw and returns it to the safe embrace of his trouser pocket. "That is the word that I have brought to you, Heskra of the Juskaskor," the fox concludes. He looks around the campsite and grins. "Thanks for having me."

Grinning faces in the wrong situation often look very punchable, and indeed Drystan's is beginning to take on that feature. It takes some considerable restraint to avoid doing just that, and instead grins back at him, showing off more teeth than necessary, right before launching into a means to provide the Juskaskor with some insurance against lies. "We're pleased t'ave ye. So pleased 'at we want t'keep ye 'ere longer. Would ye accept our hospitality fer a time?"

The grins and easy smiles Drystan doles out are certainly borderline insulting to such a rough-and-tumble crowd, the vast majority of which are more likely to grasp wrath than charm from influential figures. "Of course," he replies, nice white teeth on free display.

Indeed the Juskaskor do respect strength rather than honeyed words, though at the very least they needn't worry about Heskra's wrath... at least not until something is done to earn it. None of the Juska seem to consider him the kind of horrifying leader they need to tiptoe around for fear of being butchered at the first word out of line. "Good. An' ye can stay so long as ye earn yer keep. Takes work t'keep a camp like 'is afloat."

The mention work causes what is perhaps the first flutter of uncertainty that Drystan has not managed to contain. "Oh, yes, of course," he answers, paws still tucked in his pockets. He had been hoping the show of green fire would be enough to set him above all that, but it's always hard for one charlatan to fool another. He reaches down into Cookey's stew, wincing at the heat of the liquid, and pulls forth a silver spoon. "For you," the fox announces, passing it over to her and wiping his paw off on his pantleg.

Perceptive as Heskra is, the apparent dread of work that Drystan shows doesn't pass unnoticed, nor does the rather unenthusiastic-sounding answer. It's quite at odds with how he speaks at every other occassion. Producing a spoon seems to only cheapen his act further in Heskra's eyes, and the every practical Cookey doesn't view it as anything more than a way to get a new trinket to trade. She practically rips it out of Drystan's paw and stuffs it into her clothes, saying, "Thanks, love." before going back to her work. Heskra decides to dig just a little deeper, or perhaps twist the knife a bit further. "What weapon d'ye fight with? 'ow skilled're ye?"

"Weapon?" Drystan smiles again, giving his head a soft shake. "Oh no, none of that. I have this dagger, here," he continues, patting at his leg and indicating the handle protruding from one of his boots, "but that's more a tool."

That smile isn't something that Heskra particularly likes to see when talking about weapons, and he gives himself a mental reminder to keep an eye on this new fox if the time should ever come where the Juskaskor have to fight. He doesn't think that Drystan would stick around for that and instead try to run... it seems like it'd fit. Heskra himself smiles when he sees the dagger, but it's more the smile one gives to an idiot child or some incompetent who doesn't realize that they're being foolish, the notion of being /that/ unskilled as to view a dagger as a tool rather than a weapon the equivalent of claiming to still have a favorite blanket to Heskra. "Show it 'ere?" Heskra holds out his paw for the dagger.

"Of course," Drystan replies, reaching down to pull the dagger from his boot and popping it up into the air, the blade turning slowly, flames playing down its polished surface, and catches it by the hilt about arm-level. "Here you go," he says, holding it out to the older fox, fingers pinching the tip of the blade between forefinger and thumb. The hilt is a simple affair, a round steel pommel, indented wooden scales for a handle, and a curved crossguard. The blade itself is a straight, simple style with the wavy patterning of Damascus steel, a bit shorter than his forearm.

Heskra holds the blade in his paw, turning it over and looking at it, such a different weapon than Heskra's own massive flail, and something that requires more skill to use than Heskra thinks that Drystan actually has. Naturally there's plenty of Juskaskor who make their living with knives, like the twisting pair currently in the sparring ring... but this fox looks far too much a dandy to be compared with such grizzled characters. Heskra holds the blade and passes it back to Drystan, then goes to the ring, a twitch of his head telling the other pair to vacate the ring. He holds out his paw and one of them passes Heskra his knife. "Well, show me what ye can do. Ah don' b'lieve yer much fer fightin' 'til ye perform."

Drystan takes his knife back, shoving it back into his boot. "I'm not really much for the whole fighting scene," the fox reasons from the outskirts of the ring, managing to keep up the appearance of self-confidence. "That's also not the service I came here to offer. I'll work if you need me to work, but I bring the Sight, not a sword."

If Drystan intended to save face while declining the challenge, it doesn't work. Immediately there's a series of derisive hoots and laughter from the other Juskaskor, the group calling him coward to his face and decrying what they see as an obvious lack of fighting skill. Heskra spreads his arms to indicate the other Juska. "These're all fightin' beasts. Skilled killers all. An' none of us 'ave much patience fer a dead weight beast who hides when 'ere's a battle. Fightin' is workin', an ye already promised 'at." Lowering his arms, Heskra takes one side of the circle, pointing at the other with the tip of his knife. "Now ye can either show me what ye know, or Ah can teach ye somethin' 'at migh' save yer life." He doesn't bother to tell Drystan that he intends to take the golden fox along with him when it comes time to find the Taggerung.

Well, sometimes life gives you lemons. Often, in Drystan's experience. Determined to make some lemonade, the shorter fox climbs into the ring, popping that simple dagger up into his paw again, adopting a reverse grip and lowering his stance a little. "Let's do it, then."

The stance Heskra takes is decidedly lower, nearly a squat with one leg extended slightly forwards, both arms reaching out towards Drystan, the knife held standard and pointed towards him, while the other hand with the gauntlet is balled into a fist. "Rules're firs' blood t'torso or yield. Or t'kill if ye don' know t'quit when yer done. Ah suggest ye stop afore 'en." Seeing their leader in the ring, most of the Juska who aren't busy with other tasks have started exchanging bets while they watch the match, most of them distressingly enough betting on whether or not Drystan dies or not, or at least how long he lasts. Whether it's from loyalty or practicality, the Juska are unanimously cheering for Heskra, with various calls sounding out. "Mess 'im up, chief!" "Carve yer name into 'im!" "See if his blood's blue to match 'is clothes!"

Of course, of course this would happen. Bring a prophecy the whole tribe has been waiting on for seasons, get carved up in return. Luckily, the body can take a lot of stabbing before death, so the odds of walking out of this alive are fairly good for the little golden fox. It's probably a decent idea to match Heskra's stance, so Drystan does, flexing his knees more into the semi-squat. He doesn't have any fancy armor, and his clothes are not suited for this; he realizes too late he should have shed them.

At the very least Heskra's arm is the only armored part of his body, and Drystan won't have to stab through any metal to get at Heskra's chest or his legs. Naturally Heskra, wearing nothing on his upper body and only a kilt below, has full range of movement, and demonstrates it immediately by scuttling towards Drystan and opening the engagement with something simple, stabbing towards his chest with enough speed to do some damage if Drystan isn't careful. It seems that Heskra's going to deal with Drystan in the same form as the two sparring beasts that were fighting before. He immediately takes a step back afterwards in preparation for a return blow.

The best way for dealing with a knife is to dodge it, really. There's not a lot there to block, and likewise not much to block with. Quick on his feet, at least, Drystan makes a swift move back, moving his chest out of the way, and taking two stuttersteps in before angling a thrust in at the bigger fox's side, the dagger already shifted in his paw to face the tip first.

Indeed, knives aren't much good for blocking, and Heskra likewise dodges to the side away from the blow. Letting it pass inches from his waist before striking back, aiming a thrust at Drystan's face, and not one that's terribly brutal or difficult to avoid. Rather, it's a feint, a distraction so that Heskra can kick out with his forwards foot and hook it around Drystan's angle, trying to trip him up while he's trying to dodge the stab to his face.

Drystan dodges the stab at this face, jerking his head to the right, wide eyes studying the blade at the end of his nose as time slows to a crawl. His feet move to get his face to safety, and so the hook, rather than pulling him flat, tugs him into a half-split, from which he lashes out viciously at the fox's torso, remembering the rules for victory, before allowing himself to collapse onto his rump, where he half-rolls, half-scrabbles back to his feet.

The hook doesn't work half as well as Heskra had hoped, and instead seems to have blown up into his face. The stab to his torso is prevented the only way that Heskra can react to. He sweeps his arm down and knocks the dagger's blade away from his torso, but unfortunately the arm he has to use is not the protected one. The blade slices across his flesh as he knocks it away, making the Juska wince in pain, though he doesn't give voice to the pain that flares up from the cut. Immediately blood starts to drip from his arm, soaking his fur. In a move that's more of a retalliatory flail than a truly disciplined punch, Heskra aims a blow at Drystan's brow with his free hand. His gauntleted hand.

A grunt escapes as the gauntleted fist smacks into Drystan's face, clipping his jaw near the chin as the todd pulls his head up and back in an attempt to dodge the blow. His head moves with the fist, snapping sharply to one side, but his feet remain planted, his short stature playing to his advantage for once. He presses in again, trying to rob the bigger, older, likely stronger fox of at least the extra reach Heskra has, jabbing a few times in the direction of the torso.

Heskra swears as the blow glances off of the fox's jaw rather than knocking out Drystan with a blow to his brow. As Drystan tries to close the distance, Heskra sees his opening. He grins as he bullies up on Drystan, closing the distance even further and slipping past his thrusts, intending to grapple with the other fox and bring him down to the ground, pushing against him and intending to make use of that superior size and strength to take him down.

It's too late when Heskra finally realizes his mistake. While he'd intended to tackle Drystan and pin his arm, he fails to do so before the other fox's arm starts to move wildly looking for Heskra's back. Thankfully, he's at least able to ensure that he doesn't get seriously injured. The second that he feels the knife push into his back, his arm whips behind him and grabs Drystan by the wrist, pushing his hand away from the knife and climbing rapidly off of him. Letting out a hiss of pain, Heskra turns, the knife half-hanging out of his back. Reaching behind him, he pulls the dagger out and tosses it point-down into the ground, then tosses the unbloodied knife that he was using to its original owner, who catches it. The entire tribe has gone silent after seeing their leader defeated in the ring by, of all things, a newcomer. Losing to a fellow tribemate is one thing... losing to a dandy seer is something else. It's unsure whether the snarl on Heskra's face is more from losing, from pain, or from anticipation of the long stitching session. "Well, ye won. 'grats."

Drystan stays in the dirt for now, lying flat on his back. His clothes are thoroughly dirty, and some of Heskra's blood spots his shirt. The little fox pants away, blinking in surprise at his unexpected victory. It still doesn't quite make sense to him, something further aggravated by the soreness in his jaw and the ringing in his head from smacking against the ground so hard.

Through sheer determination, Heskra avoids touching his wounds, instead perfectly satisfied to let them bleed all over the place rather than to show even more weakness than he already had. Hocking back a wad, Heskra spits on the ground, leaving the ring and instead going to the spot he was sitting by, taking a large swig from a bottle of damson wine that likely falls into the category of ill-gotten-gains. Addressing Drystan, and letting him lay on the ground for as long as he pleases, Heskra growls begrudgingly, "We'll give ye yer award tattoo t'morrow."

"Lovely," Drystan mutters, staring up at the treetops. Eventually he's regained his breath and gets back to his feet, plucking his bloody dagger from the mud and smearing it clean on the dirt, then on his trousers. Dirt doesn't stain like blood does. It goes back in his boot, the pommel still peeping up over the top.