From his perch on high, Ulric watched the people come and go. They spoke loudly, with bold voices, forming a fairly full wash of sound echoing across the expanse. Oftentimes hand gestures accompanied expressive conversations, exuberance and energy abounding. A vital bunch, sculpted by their environment and tradition equally to root out weakness. Men and women alike took up the labor, there were no slackers. Nowhere did Ulric see a beggar or sedentary laggard. Everyone worked. Those who worked slowly found a boot applied to their person to encourage speed. Overall, he could see why this lot was a tough nut to crack. They knew they were all they had, against all the great world, so far as they were concerned. Admirable. It was the kind of attitude adopted by his countrymen in the Before, only they’d been goaded to it by looming threat of extinction. Not so different for these wildlings, now Ulric thought of it.
As he watched, one man took issue with another, hot words exchanged, that Ulric couldn’t make out from this distance. He observed the fight break out, fists striking, swarthy men wrestling for position, elbowing, headbutting, all was on the table. When one man went down, legs rubber from a clean blow to the temple, his assailant dragged him off to share a mug. They were back at work together not fifteen minutes after the blowup, as if nothing had happened. Fascinating people. And vigorous, he noted a half dozen couple copulating in the not quite open, though obvious enough to any who happened to be watching from on high. Given the absence of notice any paid to those, it must be common practice.
Idly, Ulric wondered what the population growth rate looked like, and tried to calculate the estimate for when this obsidian shell would extend all the way to the darkness below. He came up with a rough four centuries, assuming sixty year generations, unlike the thirty odd ones of his world. People lived about twice as long on Varda, maybe a bit more if they didn’t get eaten, so it seemed a safe number.
Satisfied with his inspection of the M’rakur in their natural habitat, the Reforged set about assembling a heavy roll of items for sale. He included some samples of [Azure Cedar] to be sold in bulk. He didn’t have time to sit around nickle and diming, this layover was already too far out of his way. With the hide wrapped baggage in tow, Ulric went in search of one of those dedicated haggling rinks that interspersed Umberholdt.
Ignoring the bounce of rolled wood, beast cores, carved fangs and bones, and all other oddities scoured from the plains in his Springtime jaunt through endless kilometers, Ulric kept his eyes scanning, his alertness high. Umberholdt was not a safe place, not for an outsider. Somebody was bound to try something, given how frequently they fought with each other.
No sooner the synapses joined together for that little bit of pessimism than reality mirrored it. Almost as if called, some asshole stepped into his path, hands on hips, beard well kempt, and dark hair braided in short dreadlocks. The unwelcoming scowl on his face and forward tilt to his posture made the words he offered unnecessary, but that didn’t stop him venting them from his mouth anyway.
“Hold there stranger, ye ain’t paid the tithe on trade goods. One sixth the total, given for right to trade with the M’rakur.” The man said, not because he was greedy, but because putting your hands in another man’s purse was a good way to start something.
Ulric hitched the baggage up and looked behind the man, eyes widening at the horrifying sight imagined, and he started to turn away to flee.
The asshole turned to see what was the matter and Ulric soaked him in the jaw with his elbow, sending the man boneless to the hard stone floor, the bounce of his face on the rocks very satisfying indeed. Misdirection was a part of any fight, and it wasn’t a sucker punch if the other guy was initiating the combat. Perhaps a nap and a little difficulty eating would remind him to keep his eyes on a man with whom he wanted trouble. It warmed Ulric’s heart that the barroom classics still worked on Varda. Some things never change, apparently.
“Keep the change, prick.” Ulric told the vanquished man, stepping over him while he breathed loudly through a nose broken on the fall.
Carrying on, Ulric worked his way down eight or so levels of stairs and ramps to a deep cut interior passage that opened up into swirling chambers. This place had to have been made by water, it was far too…smooth, too flowing to have been made by human architects. A big central plaza held a pool of water, fed by a small but steady water fall from the ceiling, the pool drained away in a narrow fissure. Interesting. He was walking toward the pool, drawn in by curiosity about the feature when a rough grip on his shoulder turned him abruptly.
“I saw what ye did to Mensen. Ye think ye can do that to a real man, ye got another-“
Ulric slid his foot hard along the ground, scooping the man’s ankles together to take his legs from under him, a trip Taipan loved to use for its efficiency and unexpected effectiveness.
A proper follow through turned his newest dance partner sideways in the air a moment before gravity took hold, and the M’rakur landed hard on his side. Ulric tossed his burden aside, secured a mount and punched the barbarian four or five times before he recovered, knocking sense from his eyes. Strong hands wrapped in the leather vest the newest challenger wore raised him, and Ulric brought his forehead down sharply ramming him between the eyes, blasting him back to the ground.
He lifted a fist high to absolutely punish the man, and the barbarian held up two fingers together, index and middle in a gesture of surrender. At that, Ulric loosened the clenched fist, and raised up, letting his most recent victim go.
Onlookers barely even took notice of the fisticuffs, continuing to haggle goods between them, to carry water, or to occupy their hands with their trade. Glancing around, none seemed keen to intervene, nor did he receive any indication that anyone was hostile, despite the beating of their kin. Ulric rubbed his bruised knuckles, the ache from their abuse reminding him that these lads were tough. It took some doing to put a hurting on the enhanced physiques of the Vardan humans.
“You want I should help you up, or do you want to lie there a time and think on it?” Ulric inquired of the defeated barbarian.
“I think I’ll take a spell to ponder it, if ye don’t mind. Give the ceiling time to stop spinnin’ too.” Answered the man from his back.
Fair enough.
“Right then, I’m on my way.” Ulric said, and took up the bundle to continue his search.
He made it to his destination unmolested from that point on.
Hustle and bustle marked this spot in the wide, sweeping curves of the water cut chamber, deeply violet nigh unto black volcanic glass smooth under his boots. Everywhere he looked men and women of the M’rakur, clothed in their leather, fur, and linen kilts vests, and knee boots carried on their mundane doings. Everywhere he looked, those mundane doings were, as often as not, facilitated by some youth standing nearby with sweat soaked face and a look of intense focus on their faces, boys and girls alike, channeling their core’s energies to aid the task.
A nearby Weaver’s looms cycled the flax linen manipulated on tall frames, her apprenticed helpers using Caelum guides to hold things frictionlessly while the weaver’s deft hands pushed the threads into precise arrangements according to marked grooves on the frames. It was a simple but difficult application of wind magic, creating replacements for wooden harnesses and heddles. The weaver employed a polished bone shuttle to arrange the fibers and signaled the lift and lowering of weft and warp with her feet. The girls holding the magic took spells and Ulric watched long enough to see an exquisite rug add an extra meter to its length.
The labor served as a kind of clock, the stroke of wind magic and fibers ticking a steady beat to life in the hold.
To the side of the weaver another woman displayed finished woven goods on her stand, indicating the quality and styles of each item.
That seemed as good a place as any to Ulric to set up his own little shop. He settled into an empty space that appeared to be left vacant for the exact purpose, and unwrapped his bundle. Carefully, Ulric placed his completed carved pieces such that the finer cuts and shadows would catch the bright orange light of braziers burning here and there. Light from the Twins fell down through the central shaft of the sinkhole, but this nook was a fair bit inside the substrate of the rock and in perpetual shade without the flames.
Ulric’s nostrils noted that this smoke smelled of actual wood, not the pervasive sagey odor of buffalo chip.
A passing man with a big woven hamper on his back scooped wood chips from the hamper into a nearby brazier, replenishing its supply of fuel.
“No shot,” Ulric said aloud to himself, “How can so little fuel be expected to keep this joint lit?”
The departing strides of the kilted fire tender provided no answer.
The woman attending her counter next to him did.
“It has been soaked in the mana of Incendere an’ German, New Face. Never been to Umberholdt before, cousin?” The matronly M’rakur weaver asked, grey hair and lined skin bespeaking her age.
In contrast to her obviously advanced years, she had a sultry voice, full of energy and timber, and hell to pay. She’d probably made a guy do anything she liked back in her hayday, and that was any guy she wanted.
Ulric couldn’t help but smile at the thought of this ‘ol gal running the joint and answered “Not hardly. It is a hell of a lot to take in. Not what I expected at all when Harlan said I should come to the heart of M’rakur land.”
A sage nod accompanied the observation.
“’Twas eighty an’ more cycles of the seasons when I first came here with my husband. An impressive sight then, an’ more now. Where do you hale from, young man?” Asked the weaver woman, head propped upon one hand, casual as a cat.
Ulric continued working on his little set up as he told the woman, “A plateau far, far from the lands most men live. Most don’t even know that a man can live there, what I’ve heard.” Ulric said, saying nothing untrue but not being so specific as to dial it in.
He wasn’t sure, but he had reason to believe that everyone on the continent was at least passingly aware of the forbidden plateau deep inside the territory of the Elves, guarded by a fearsome beast of renown.
“But, I been most recently from the lands of the Legranel. They held a Moot, first in a long span, and I stopped over there on my travels. Since then, it’s just been grass, far as the eye can see for weeks, crossing the plains through Spring’s rain and mud.” Ulric babbled, keeping conversation while he organized his wares.
Satisfied that all was arranged to his liking he parked himself cross-legged, his sword by his side.
“Fair hike.” The Weaver woman commented, “You do it alone? No rumor of a clan coming for visit running through the byways.”
He grimaced at the memory of the long, long trip.
“Yeah, I did. Unfortunately. My wife had matters to tend in her homeland, couldn’t make the journey with me like we planned.” He answered truthfully.
At the mention of a wife the woman raised from her somewhat bored slouch, ready to feed on gossip of hearth and home.
“A hard thing to be parted from a young wife. Better mind yourself around here, especially without her nearby to lay her claim. This time of year, some of the M’rakur lasses are getting their laces loose, looking to scoop up a young man on the fly. You’ll find yourself caught before you know it.” She warned him, with a pointed look around at some of the young women and not so young women scattered around the chamber.
He hadn’t been paying attention, because his attention had been occupied with not getting his ass beat, but many of the female species were preening and strutting, making their intentions known when something caught their eye. A few of the unattached made eyes at him when his met theirs.
Well, damn, Ulric cursed to himself, now he felt awkward. He was about to say something along the lines concerning not having time to spread wild oats but he realized the Weaver woman lacked the accent he’d been hearing since he’d come into contact with the tribesmen.
“You’re not originally of the tribes are you?” He asked the older woman, eyes trained on her completely, hoping to deflect from any matchmaking attempts by just not looking at any of the demonstrating lasses.
A knowing smile graced the lined face as she replied, “No, indeed. I met my boy when he led a caravan through Whitecap, a small seaport along the Vatyn. He swept me off my feet, into his wagon, and I never looked back.”
The Weaver rode fond memories awhile. They faded, taking with them the joy as something harder turned her features.
“Twenty years later, two babes fresh on my hip and two others not so fresh, he got press ganged by a Magister. I found out later they accused him of smuggling and ‘evading the tax accords’ and that was the last I heard of him until a few years after. A deserter happened through here and word reached me he’d had his throat cut one night by a Brownie, him and the others in their camp. That hell tiger Geyrt Iriel, doing her bloody work clearing Prosper’s soldiers from the border, probably.”
Ulric tried not to appear overly involved with that sad tale. It wasn’t anything unusual, and that was sadder still.
“Every time I hear of something touched by Prosper, I can’t help seeing it turned to sorrow. Seems like the Merchant Lord’s men breed bitterness like flies breed maggots.” Ulric told her.
A hand waved away the sour thoughts, like dispelling a foul smoke.
“It was long ago, I got my crying done before you were a drop in your father’s trousers, lad.” She said, regaining her good humor.
“Still. If you ever get a chance, maybe put that fine blade over there through a set of white and gold robes on my account, heh?” She teased, one hand indicating about chest high where he should place the point.
“At the earliest possibility, madam.” Ulric replied, joking along with her, but dead serious.
“Uh oh, young man, you’ve got some trouble.” The Weaver said, a single finger lightly pointed ahead.
He turned to see the problem and it was a hundred eighty centimeters, brown hair, rosy cheeks, and an hourglass figure. The blue eyes holding his stare held nothing but mischief.
“I know that one, you’d better run for the Jaggeds.” Advised his elder.
This was the third such whose attention he’d gathered, was he a magnet for predatory females? Like a crippled calf, the she wolves just couldn’t help themselves. He must reek of inability to stand his ground against cleavage or something.
Well, not anymore sisters! He had received training of the most arduous kind, being exposed to the full glory of Iriel’en flesh, a field of flowers of untold beauty for as far as the eye could see in those splendid baths. And, atop them all, stood the Apex, Taipan, daughter of Bald’rt and Vedyr, the pinnacle of female form, at least as far as he was concerned. All others stood beneath her, including this catwalking hussy before him.
Alright, alright, she wasn’t a hussy, probably, but she was definitely catwalking! And Ulric resolved himself to hold firm, no discounts! Not even when she approached close and leaned in on him, watching with keen eye to see if his attention slipped to a rather low cut of her lace shirt, beneath a plunging narrow cut of the tight vest. The damned thing functioned more like a corset than a vest, pushing her assets into weapons grade territory.
But he would not be moved, and he was prepared for this battle.
“Greetings, patroness, I have wares for your perusal! These carvings I made with my own hands, these others, are the work of my mate, all fine scrimshaw upon beast ivory. The cores are but recently taken from this season, harvested myself from their owners on the plains. If you like, I can describe their mana attunement, and make suggestion for uses.” Ulric hawked, using the sales pitch he’d been working on while he rode in the wagon to prevent her from opening fire on him first.
What? A man got bored riding fifteen hundred kilometers through endless grassland, no matter how vigilant.
Brief disorientation flashed over her features before she shook off his attempted distraction.
Glade Chief uses confusion on a wild Barbarian Femme! It misses!
“I saw ye trade words with Mensen and Grelt.” She stated, summoning her dark powers to erode his will.
“A sharp wit, and fast hands, ye have, stranger. An’ a fine bottom, if I might say. We could compare, if ye like, to see whose is finer.” She offered boldly.
Ulric kept cool, stayed in character, and avoided looking down her shirt as she leaned ever forward.
“Alas, I’ll grant you the victory on that last score.” He told the girl, not wanting to insult her and, it really was an aces bottom on the lass, so he was willing to offer a compliment for a compliment.
“So far as the other, wits and hands both I don’t have enough of to keep my wife from pulling my guts out of me if I go around eating every dish that wanders my way. I’m afraid I’ll have to stick to business while I’m about, if I want to sleep sound.” He told the adversary truthfully.
A pout of lips, full, and devilry in her heart, accompanied the next assault on his courage.
“Oh! Married already? The good ones always are, of course. But ye’re too young to be settled so deep in yer track.” She argued, before pleading her case thusly, “I won’t compete with your wife for yer heart, pretty man, just for a few hours of time. Time spent well and until we both reek of humping.”
What a fastball this gal had! Straight down the pipe and pure gasoline. A lesser man would have been packing his stuff to go for a roll around. And, in his current predicament, too long in the wild without the touch of his mate, he at least allowed himself to imagine. But only for a millisecond. His parents had both drilled one thing into an adolescent Ulric’s thick skull: be faithful to your spouse, or there will be hell to pay later. Some lessons stuck with you.
“As much fun as that sounds, and, I won’t lie to you, everything about you says I’d enjoy rolling you around until we both collapse, my bond is held. Were my lass here, we’d take you in and show you stars, but fate has decreed it not to be. Not today, at least.” He riposted, hoping he wasn’t making himself more of a target by rejecting her attentions.
“Figh then! If ye’ll not fuck me, at least let me find out if ye’re hands are as fast as they looked.” The tight bodied woman said, raising up to her full height, the false pout replaced by an eager grin.
He made a sidelong glance to the older woman selling woven goods and she raised her eyebrow in answer. Okay, so she had warned him.
The M’rakur tribeswoman committed to bothering him stretched, pulling arms over her head and back in a way that made Ulric’s shoulders feel dislocated just to see it, though she evidenced no discomfort, even as she gave him a stare down.
“Ye properly made a half-wit o’ Mencen, an’ that’s not so special, even if it were well done, but that leg sweep was a trick I’ll be stealing.” She added, making clear her intent.
Where he wasn’t certain that turning down a lay was going to get him in trouble, turning down an honest fight was a sure path to being seen as a lesser man amongst the M’rakur. They sparred and scuffled as a matter of course. He wouldn’t be fitting in if he was too reserved. Besides, it might be fun. Kind of like sparring with the Royal Guard or Taipan. Rising to his feet, Ulric clenched a fist, settling the bones in his hands with a light pop before shaking them loose. Too tight and you lost speed, not tight on impact and your bones broke instead of theirs. These things and so, so much more had he learned from the Iriel’en.
“Alright miss, that’s a bit of fun my wife wouldn’t object to,” He said, resigned but not so remorseful, “Besides, if I win you got to buy one of my carved daggers. I think the [Amberfang] blade has just the right curve to slip into your belt.” Ulric challenged, putting some of the troublemaker’s skin in the game.
She laughed at him, glad to up the stakes, confident in herself as she gave answer, “Fair enough then, seeing as how I’m interrupting yer hawking. But ye’ll have to down me first, an’ there’s not many around here with the stones to do it, or the talent. No weapons, no Arts, just meat and mind.”
By no Arts Ulric was guessing she meant no magical horseshit. Fine by him.
“You got it, lass. Don’t get mad if I have to rough you up some.” Ulric agreed, getting himself ready, falling into the Undan by habit, “Say When-“
“When!”
A tornado of blows blew in on him. A leg tried to sweep low, to take his legs as he’d taken the tribseman before, rebuffed by the solidity of his Undan, but leaving a painful bounce off of his booted ankles for the failure. He was going to respond but the same leg arced high in a crescent kick at his temple that would have knocked the daylights out of him if he hadn’t leaned back from its path. His next attempt to engage was similarly cut off by folded knuckles jabbing for his eyes, that turned into a back fist to only just able to graze his chin when he’d thought the blocking hand that turned aside the jab might be able to punch back.
Tense seconds rolled by, glacial, while he focused every thought and sense on staying upright and unpummeled. He played defensively, weathering the storm, patiently getting his feet into an angle, the way Idra’se taught, creating incrementally better positions while he kept anything solid from landing.
His chance came on another of those high kicks.
Ready for it, thanks to noticing that his opponent telegraphed by lowering the opposite hand a half second before her weight shifted into the strike, he stepped into her stance, an arm under thigh, the other hooked over her shoulder, hands linked behind her in an over-under bear grab. He rolled her weight over him, arching back to suplex the woman to the stone floor. Because it was stone and he wasn’t trying to brain her, he released his hold, turning the slam into a toss. Cat agile, he had to watch in amazement when she managed to tuck her legs and rotate to land on her feet in a low crouch.
“So that’s how it’s going to be eh?” Ulric questioned, halfway shocked by the unreal body control of the M’rakur woman.
Rising to resume her ready, she leered at him, “I’m regretting already not getting ye into a tumble, now I had ye’re arms around me. Are ye sure I can’t have a ride? What if I win, huh?”
She almost got him then, put him off balance with the sally, and he ate a pretty solid hook that seemed to loop over his slow blocking hand. Only instinctive covers, literally beaten into him by Taipan saved him from immediate doom. He took a half dozen lesser shots in the intervening moments, and was close to having to do something desperate but he kept the Dance in mind. Feet turned, half steps, small adjustments, changing the straight angles into oblique ones to keep her power from ever reaching him, frustrating her when she stood on the cusp of victory. Over aggressive, his adversary made another mistake, left a straight punch hanging and Ulric used his own legs, a short sharp kick with toes pointed that dug into her side with force, even while he took another hard left to his cheek that hurt more than a little.
Back stepping, taking a second to clear the cobwebs from that parting shot, Ulric knew he’d won, even when the woman made to come forward and renew her aggression, her face suddenly balling up in pain and she went to her knees, agony silvered jagged shards through her after that small delay.
Liver kicks were one of those things that had to be felt to be understood. Pain that stopped the body from listening to the brain’s commands, no matter how tough. He’d gotten it clean, and he was a strong bastard, so he knew it would stick.
Stance abandoned, Ulric made a slow approach, not wanting to leave himself vulnerable to some kind of late bit of unsportsmanship. You never knew, sometimes folk were sore losers. Not so the nameless M’rakur woman. She accepted a helping hand to stand upright, wincing at the pain that wasn’t quite letting go its hold.
Squinting at him suspiciously, fighting back against the ripples of agony, she accused, “You don’t fight like a tribesman at all. Too shifty, an’ what were all those weird steps ye were on about? We weren’t dancing, ye know.”
Ulric nodded but disagreed, “That’s exactly what we were doing. Everything is a Dance, and all that we do should circle towards victory through it.”
He quoted Idra to her, knowing that it was unlikely this Barbarian of Prespang’s Outer Reaches had ever had chance to take in the wisdom of the captain of the Deep Woods Aesir’s Royal Guard.
“Sounds like something a Knife ears would say.” Remarked this impressive warrior woman.
That observation almost made him give away the game.
“Maybe. But the strongest fighter I ever met said it, and not me, you, or any man amongst the M’rakur could lay a hand on him, not if their lives depended on it.” Ulric told the Barbarian girl with certainty.
Idra’se had slain an archmage cryomancer, after dispatching the assassin sent to claim him in a moment, and had paid for that conquest with only an eye. There was a very good chance the swordmaster of the Iriel’en was the greatest pure fighter on the continent of Aesvartheim.
“I didn’t catch your name, you smoky voiced hooligan.” Ulric said, turning aside from the serious.
Recovering her posture, the liver blow’s effects fading somewhat, his adversary told him with the tone that suggested he should have already known it, “I am Efreet, of the M’rakur.”
Turning serious eyes on him, perhaps for the first time since they’d met, she returned the question, “And who do I stand before defeated, warrior not of the M’rakur, though you bear our likeness and something akin to our seals.”
Fair was fair.
“I am Ulric Einar, [Lord of the Ancient Glade].” He told the femme fatale in leather and fur.
She blinked blankly at him a few times before throwing her head back to laugh heartily. When she regained some measure of composure, brushing aside a tear from the corner of her eye, she looked up at him, not far mind, the girl was nearly of a height with him, and put her hands on her hips assertively.
“It would be my luck to pick a fight with one of Varda’s champions, an’ a married one at that. This day was not meant to be mine, now, was it?” She asked rhetorically.
He shrugged apologetically. You just never knew, Varda was a world that liked to keep people on their toes and guessing.
“If it makes you feel better, I once dreamt of a life of peaceful scholarship. That probably will never happen now. Varda’s winds blow fickle.” Ulric said, with not a little bitterness.
This second chance at living was not to be a peaceful repose for the once peaceful engineer of metallurgical applications sciences. Reforging had brought him into the world fighting tooth and nail to stay alive against all manner of things and peoples. With no end in sight.
Now it was Efreet of the M’rakur’s turn to comfort.
“Don’t be a soft ass, ye got strength, an’ there’s many who had their tale cut short for lack of it. Be glad yer story goes on, hard that it may be at time.”
Wise words, Ulric had to admit.
“Aye, that’s fair and true, I’m bound to grant you. Especially not if it keeps a man as pretty as me from getting his bones jumped by hungry tigresses like yourself.” He conceded, getting in another jab.
“Oof, fine, I come on strong sometimes.” The high-octane Efreet admitted, before defending herself, “But ye would also if ye hadn’t seen a fresh buck in a year an’ these lads around here are getting skittish of me. Ye wouldn’t believe what I got to say about them to get them riled enough to throw some hands.”
Was that the gladiatorial equivalent of First World Problems? Can’t find somebody willing to fight so you just occupy yourself with sex? He was regretting intensely that Taipan wasn’t around so he could find out if this hellcat of a wildling was as able a lover as she was a fighter. He’d bet his arms she was and, sonofabitch, what disappointment that he’d never know.
“Look on the bright side, fair Efreet, you have earned yourself the right to buy one of my hand carved daggers.” Ulric said, indicating to the fangs carved to Scandinavian ground edges, polished and sharpened to scary hair popping keenness.
A laugh, a toss of short, braided dread locks, and the girl left the past behind to peruse for her favorite amongst the weapons, eventually choosing the one he thought the best fit for her. In spite of himself, Ulric found himself giving ground to the wiles of the lass, and she got the dagger for sixty percent of what he’d intended to ask.
He put the coin in his purse, eighteen Sil knights. If that sounds outrageous, keep in mind that you have to pry the fang of a one and a half ton sabre tooth to get the base material and have tools that were on par with carbide bits to cut it. That demanded strength of hand, to hold and apply the pressure needed to cut the enamel, and skill not to lose fingers in the process or ruin the piece.
The Barbarian girl wasn’t displeased, by the way she tucked the knife into her belt in place of the old one, and said happily, “I’d love to sit around an’ swap tales, but I might have to go piss blood an’ I’m needing a new sheathe. Ta ta Cousin, introduce me to this wife of yers sometime.”
Just like that, the girl picked her way somewhat gingerly through the throng of her kin, disappearing up a stairway.
Ulric immediately heaved a sigh of relief. Wow. What a firecracker. His face hurt from the glancing, and not so glancing blows, and his thigh wanted to cramp from a vicious knee thrown to his groin that he’d only just blocked with said abused meat.
“Told you she was trouble.” Sassed the aged Weaver from next to his stand.
“Aye,” Ulric agreed, “To her fucking toenails. Nice girl though, for all of that.” He thought aloud.
“I’ll just bet that wife you mentioned is some piece of work to keep you under wraps.” Guessed the matronly Barbarian.
He chuckled at that observation. Oh, if only they knew.
From his perch on high, Ulric watched the people come and go. They spoke loudly, with bold voices, forming a fairly full wash of sound echoing across the expanse. Oftentimes hand gestures accompanied expressive conversations, exuberance and energy abounding. A vital bunch, sculpted by their environment and tradition equally to root out weakness. Men and women alike took up the labor, there were no slackers. Nowhere did Ulric see a beggar or sedentary laggard. Everyone worked. Those who worked slowly found a boot applied to their person to encourage speed. Overall, he could see why this lot was a tough nut to crack. They knew they were all they had, against all the great world, so far as they were concerned. Admirable. It was the kind of attitude adopted by his countrymen in the Before, only they’d been goaded to it by looming threat of extinction. Not so different for these wildlings, now Ulric thought of it.
As he watched, one man took issue with another, hot words exchanged, that Ulric couldn’t make out from this distance. He observed the fight break out, fists striking, swarthy men wrestling for position, elbowing, headbutting, all was on the table. When one man went down, legs rubber from a clean blow to the temple, his assailant dragged him off to share a mug. They were back at work together not fifteen minutes after the blowup, as if nothing had happened. Fascinating people. And vigorous, he noted a half dozen couple copulating in the not quite open, though obvious enough to any who happened to be watching from on high. Given the absence of notice any paid to those, it must be common practice.
Idly, Ulric wondered what the population growth rate looked like, and tried to calculate the estimate for when this obsidian shell would extend all the way to the darkness below. He came up with a rough four centuries, assuming sixty year generations, unlike the thirty odd ones of his world. People lived about twice as long on Varda, maybe a bit more if they didn’t get eaten, so it seemed a safe number.
Satisfied with his inspection of the M’rakur in their natural habitat, the Reforged set about assembling a heavy roll of items for sale. He included some samples of [Azure Cedar] to be sold in bulk. He didn’t have time to sit around nickle and diming, this layover was already too far out of his way. With the hide wrapped baggage in tow, Ulric went in search of one of those dedicated haggling rinks that interspersed Umberholdt.
Ignoring the bounce of rolled wood, beast cores, carved fangs and bones, and all other oddities scoured from the plains in his Springtime jaunt through endless kilometers, Ulric kept his eyes scanning, his alertness high. Umberholdt was not a safe place, not for an outsider. Somebody was bound to try something, given how frequently they fought with each other.
No sooner the synapses joined together for that little bit of pessimism than reality mirrored it. Almost as if called, some asshole stepped into his path, hands on hips, beard well kempt, and dark hair braided in short dreadlocks. The unwelcoming scowl on his face and forward tilt to his posture made the words he offered unnecessary, but that didn’t stop him venting them from his mouth anyway.
“Hold there stranger, ye ain’t paid the tithe on trade goods. One sixth the total, given for right to trade with the M’rakur.” The man said, not because he was greedy, but because putting your hands in another man’s purse was a good way to start something.
Ulric hitched the baggage up and looked behind the man, eyes widening at the horrifying sight imagined, and he started to turn away to flee.
The asshole turned to see what was the matter and Ulric soaked him in the jaw with his elbow, sending the man boneless to the hard stone floor, the bounce of his face on the rocks very satisfying indeed. Misdirection was a part of any fight, and it wasn’t a sucker punch if the other guy was initiating the combat. Perhaps a nap and a little difficulty eating would remind him to keep his eyes on a man with whom he wanted trouble. It warmed Ulric’s heart that the barroom classics still worked on Varda. Some things never change, apparently.
“Keep the change, prick.” Ulric told the vanquished man, stepping over him while he breathed loudly through a nose broken on the fall.
Carrying on, Ulric worked his way down eight or so levels of stairs and ramps to a deep cut interior passage that opened up into swirling chambers. This place had to have been made by water, it was far too…smooth, too flowing to have been made by human architects. A big central plaza held a pool of water, fed by a small but steady water fall from the ceiling, the pool drained away in a narrow fissure. Interesting. He was walking toward the pool, drawn in by curiosity about the feature when a rough grip on his shoulder turned him abruptly.
“I saw what ye did to Mensen. Ye think ye can do that to a real man, ye got another-“
Ulric slid his foot hard along the ground, scooping the man’s ankles together to take his legs from under him, a trip Taipan loved to use for its efficiency and unexpected effectiveness.
A proper follow through turned his newest dance partner sideways in the air a moment before gravity took hold, and the M’rakur landed hard on his side. Ulric tossed his burden aside, secured a mount and punched the barbarian four or five times before he recovered, knocking sense from his eyes. Strong hands wrapped in the leather vest the newest challenger wore raised him, and Ulric brought his forehead down sharply ramming him between the eyes, blasting him back to the ground.
He lifted a fist high to absolutely punish the man, and the barbarian held up two fingers together, index and middle in a gesture of surrender. At that, Ulric loosened the clenched fist, and raised up, letting his most recent victim go.
Onlookers barely even took notice of the fisticuffs, continuing to haggle goods between them, to carry water, or to occupy their hands with their trade. Glancing around, none seemed keen to intervene, nor did he receive any indication that anyone was hostile, despite the beating of their kin. Ulric rubbed his bruised knuckles, the ache from their abuse reminding him that these lads were tough. It took some doing to put a hurting on the enhanced physiques of the Vardan humans.
“You want I should help you up, or do you want to lie there a time and think on it?” Ulric inquired of the defeated barbarian.
“I think I’ll take a spell to ponder it, if ye don’t mind. Give the ceiling time to stop spinnin’ too.” Answered the man from his back.
Fair enough.
“Right then, I’m on my way.” Ulric said, and took up the bundle to continue his search.
He made it to his destination unmolested from that point on.
Hustle and bustle marked this spot in the wide, sweeping curves of the water cut chamber, deeply violet nigh unto black volcanic glass smooth under his boots. Everywhere he looked men and women of the M’rakur, clothed in their leather, fur, and linen kilts vests, and knee boots carried on their mundane doings. Everywhere he looked, those mundane doings were, as often as not, facilitated by some youth standing nearby with sweat soaked face and a look of intense focus on their faces, boys and girls alike, channeling their core’s energies to aid the task.
A nearby Weaver’s looms cycled the flax linen manipulated on tall frames, her apprenticed helpers using Caelum guides to hold things frictionlessly while the weaver’s deft hands pushed the threads into precise arrangements according to marked grooves on the frames. It was a simple but difficult application of wind magic, creating replacements for wooden harnesses and heddles. The weaver employed a polished bone shuttle to arrange the fibers and signaled the lift and lowering of weft and warp with her feet. The girls holding the magic took spells and Ulric watched long enough to see an exquisite rug add an extra meter to its length.
The labor served as a kind of clock, the stroke of wind magic and fibers ticking a steady beat to life in the hold.
To the side of the weaver another woman displayed finished woven goods on her stand, indicating the quality and styles of each item.
That seemed as good a place as any to Ulric to set up his own little shop. He settled into an empty space that appeared to be left vacant for the exact purpose, and unwrapped his bundle. Carefully, Ulric placed his completed carved pieces such that the finer cuts and shadows would catch the bright orange light of braziers burning here and there. Light from the Twins fell down through the central shaft of the sinkhole, but this nook was a fair bit inside the substrate of the rock and in perpetual shade without the flames.
Ulric’s nostrils noted that this smoke smelled of actual wood, not the pervasive sagey odor of buffalo chip.
A passing man with a big woven hamper on his back scooped wood chips from the hamper into a nearby brazier, replenishing its supply of fuel.
“No shot,” Ulric said aloud to himself, “How can so little fuel be expected to keep this joint lit?”
The departing strides of the kilted fire tender provided no answer.
The woman attending her counter next to him did.
“It has been soaked in the mana of Incendere an’ German, New Face. Never been to Umberholdt before, cousin?” The matronly M’rakur weaver asked, grey hair and lined skin bespeaking her age.
In contrast to her obviously advanced years, she had a sultry voice, full of energy and timber, and hell to pay. She’d probably made a guy do anything she liked back in her hayday, and that was any guy she wanted.
Ulric couldn’t help but smile at the thought of this ‘ol gal running the joint and answered “Not hardly. It is a hell of a lot to take in. Not what I expected at all when Harlan said I should come to the heart of M’rakur land.”
A sage nod accompanied the observation.
“’Twas eighty an’ more cycles of the seasons when I first came here with my husband. An impressive sight then, an’ more now. Where do you hale from, young man?” Asked the weaver woman, head propped upon one hand, casual as a cat.
Ulric continued working on his little set up as he told the woman, “A plateau far, far from the lands most men live. Most don’t even know that a man can live there, what I’ve heard.” Ulric said, saying nothing untrue but not being so specific as to dial it in.
He wasn’t sure, but he had reason to believe that everyone on the continent was at least passingly aware of the forbidden plateau deep inside the territory of the Elves, guarded by a fearsome beast of renown.
“But, I been most recently from the lands of the Legranel. They held a Moot, first in a long span, and I stopped over there on my travels. Since then, it’s just been grass, far as the eye can see for weeks, crossing the plains through Spring’s rain and mud.” Ulric babbled, keeping conversation while he organized his wares.
Satisfied that all was arranged to his liking he parked himself cross-legged, his sword by his side.
“Fair hike.” The Weaver woman commented, “You do it alone? No rumor of a clan coming for visit running through the byways.”
He grimaced at the memory of the long, long trip.
“Yeah, I did. Unfortunately. My wife had matters to tend in her homeland, couldn’t make the journey with me like we planned.” He answered truthfully.
At the mention of a wife the woman raised from her somewhat bored slouch, ready to feed on gossip of hearth and home.
“A hard thing to be parted from a young wife. Better mind yourself around here, especially without her nearby to lay her claim. This time of year, some of the M’rakur lasses are getting their laces loose, looking to scoop up a young man on the fly. You’ll find yourself caught before you know it.” She warned him, with a pointed look around at some of the young women and not so young women scattered around the chamber.
He hadn’t been paying attention, because his attention had been occupied with not getting his ass beat, but many of the female species were preening and strutting, making their intentions known when something caught their eye. A few of the unattached made eyes at him when his met theirs.
Well, damn, Ulric cursed to himself, now he felt awkward. He was about to say something along the lines concerning not having time to spread wild oats but he realized the Weaver woman lacked the accent he’d been hearing since he’d come into contact with the tribesmen.
“You’re not originally of the tribes are you?” He asked the older woman, eyes trained on her completely, hoping to deflect from any matchmaking attempts by just not looking at any of the demonstrating lasses.
A knowing smile graced the lined face as she replied, “No, indeed. I met my boy when he led a caravan through Whitecap, a small seaport along the Vatyn. He swept me off my feet, into his wagon, and I never looked back.”
The Weaver rode fond memories awhile. They faded, taking with them the joy as something harder turned her features.
“Twenty years later, two babes fresh on my hip and two others not so fresh, he got press ganged by a Magister. I found out later they accused him of smuggling and ‘evading the tax accords’ and that was the last I heard of him until a few years after. A deserter happened through here and word reached me he’d had his throat cut one night by a Brownie, him and the others in their camp. That hell tiger Geyrt Iriel, doing her bloody work clearing Prosper’s soldiers from the border, probably.”
Ulric tried not to appear overly involved with that sad tale. It wasn’t anything unusual, and that was sadder still.
“Every time I hear of something touched by Prosper, I can’t help seeing it turned to sorrow. Seems like the Merchant Lord’s men breed bitterness like flies breed maggots.” Ulric told her.
A hand waved away the sour thoughts, like dispelling a foul smoke.
“It was long ago, I got my crying done before you were a drop in your father’s trousers, lad.” She said, regaining her good humor.
“Still. If you ever get a chance, maybe put that fine blade over there through a set of white and gold robes on my account, heh?” She teased, one hand indicating about chest high where he should place the point.
“At the earliest possibility, madam.” Ulric replied, joking along with her, but dead serious.
“Uh oh, young man, you’ve got some trouble.” The Weaver said, a single finger lightly pointed ahead.
He turned to see the problem and it was a hundred eighty centimeters, brown hair, rosy cheeks, and an hourglass figure. The blue eyes holding his stare held nothing but mischief.
“I know that one, you’d better run for the Jaggeds.” Advised his elder.
This was the third such whose attention he’d gathered, was he a magnet for predatory females? Like a crippled calf, the she wolves just couldn’t help themselves. He must reek of inability to stand his ground against cleavage or something.
Well, not anymore sisters! He had received training of the most arduous kind, being exposed to the full glory of Iriel’en flesh, a field of flowers of untold beauty for as far as the eye could see in those splendid baths. And, atop them all, stood the Apex, Taipan, daughter of Bald’rt and Vedyr, the pinnacle of female form, at least as far as he was concerned. All others stood beneath her, including this catwalking hussy before him.
Alright, alright, she wasn’t a hussy, probably, but she was definitely catwalking! And Ulric resolved himself to hold firm, no discounts! Not even when she approached close and leaned in on him, watching with keen eye to see if his attention slipped to a rather low cut of her lace shirt, beneath a plunging narrow cut of the tight vest. The damned thing functioned more like a corset than a vest, pushing her assets into weapons grade territory.
But he would not be moved, and he was prepared for this battle.
“Greetings, patroness, I have wares for your perusal! These carvings I made with my own hands, these others, are the work of my mate, all fine scrimshaw upon beast ivory. The cores are but recently taken from this season, harvested myself from their owners on the plains. If you like, I can describe their mana attunement, and make suggestion for uses.” Ulric hawked, using the sales pitch he’d been working on while he rode in the wagon to prevent her from opening fire on him first.
What? A man got bored riding fifteen hundred kilometers through endless grassland, no matter how vigilant.
Brief disorientation flashed over her features before she shook off his attempted distraction.
Glade Chief uses confusion on a wild Barbarian Femme! It misses!
“I saw ye trade words with Mensen and Grelt.” She stated, summoning her dark powers to erode his will.
“A sharp wit, and fast hands, ye have, stranger. An’ a fine bottom, if I might say. We could compare, if ye like, to see whose is finer.” She offered boldly.
Ulric kept cool, stayed in character, and avoided looking down her shirt as she leaned ever forward.
“Alas, I’ll grant you the victory on that last score.” He told the girl, not wanting to insult her and, it really was an aces bottom on the lass, so he was willing to offer a compliment for a compliment.
“So far as the other, wits and hands both I don’t have enough of to keep my wife from pulling my guts out of me if I go around eating every dish that wanders my way. I’m afraid I’ll have to stick to business while I’m about, if I want to sleep sound.” He told the adversary truthfully.
A pout of lips, full, and devilry in her heart, accompanied the next assault on his courage.
“Oh! Married already? The good ones always are, of course. But ye’re too young to be settled so deep in yer track.” She argued, before pleading her case thusly, “I won’t compete with your wife for yer heart, pretty man, just for a few hours of time. Time spent well and until we both reek of humping.”
What a fastball this gal had! Straight down the pipe and pure gasoline. A lesser man would have been packing his stuff to go for a roll around. And, in his current predicament, too long in the wild without the touch of his mate, he at least allowed himself to imagine. But only for a millisecond. His parents had both drilled one thing into an adolescent Ulric’s thick skull: be faithful to your spouse, or there will be hell to pay later. Some lessons stuck with you.
“As much fun as that sounds, and, I won’t lie to you, everything about you says I’d enjoy rolling you around until we both collapse, my bond is held. Were my lass here, we’d take you in and show you stars, but fate has decreed it not to be. Not today, at least.” He riposted, hoping he wasn’t making himself more of a target by rejecting her attentions.
“Figh then! If ye’ll not fuck me, at least let me find out if ye’re hands are as fast as they looked.” The tight bodied woman said, raising up to her full height, the false pout replaced by an eager grin.
He made a sidelong glance to the older woman selling woven goods and she raised her eyebrow in answer. Okay, so she had warned him.
The M’rakur tribeswoman committed to bothering him stretched, pulling arms over her head and back in a way that made Ulric’s shoulders feel dislocated just to see it, though she evidenced no discomfort, even as she gave him a stare down.
“Ye properly made a half-wit o’ Mencen, an’ that’s not so special, even if it were well done, but that leg sweep was a trick I’ll be stealing.” She added, making clear her intent.
Where he wasn’t certain that turning down a lay was going to get him in trouble, turning down an honest fight was a sure path to being seen as a lesser man amongst the M’rakur. They sparred and scuffled as a matter of course. He wouldn’t be fitting in if he was too reserved. Besides, it might be fun. Kind of like sparring with the Royal Guard or Taipan. Rising to his feet, Ulric clenched a fist, settling the bones in his hands with a light pop before shaking them loose. Too tight and you lost speed, not tight on impact and your bones broke instead of theirs. These things and so, so much more had he learned from the Iriel’en.
“Alright miss, that’s a bit of fun my wife wouldn’t object to,” He said, resigned but not so remorseful, “Besides, if I win you got to buy one of my carved daggers. I think the [Amberfang] blade has just the right curve to slip into your belt.” Ulric challenged, putting some of the troublemaker’s skin in the game.
She laughed at him, glad to up the stakes, confident in herself as she gave answer, “Fair enough then, seeing as how I’m interrupting yer hawking. But ye’ll have to down me first, an’ there’s not many around here with the stones to do it, or the talent. No weapons, no Arts, just meat and mind.”
By no Arts Ulric was guessing she meant no magical horseshit. Fine by him.
“You got it, lass. Don’t get mad if I have to rough you up some.” Ulric agreed, getting himself ready, falling into the Undan by habit, “Say When-“
“When!”
A tornado of blows blew in on him. A leg tried to sweep low, to take his legs as he’d taken the tribseman before, rebuffed by the solidity of his Undan, but leaving a painful bounce off of his booted ankles for the failure. He was going to respond but the same leg arced high in a crescent kick at his temple that would have knocked the daylights out of him if he hadn’t leaned back from its path. His next attempt to engage was similarly cut off by folded knuckles jabbing for his eyes, that turned into a back fist to only just able to graze his chin when he’d thought the blocking hand that turned aside the jab might be able to punch back.
Tense seconds rolled by, glacial, while he focused every thought and sense on staying upright and unpummeled. He played defensively, weathering the storm, patiently getting his feet into an angle, the way Idra’se taught, creating incrementally better positions while he kept anything solid from landing.
His chance came on another of those high kicks.
Ready for it, thanks to noticing that his opponent telegraphed by lowering the opposite hand a half second before her weight shifted into the strike, he stepped into her stance, an arm under thigh, the other hooked over her shoulder, hands linked behind her in an over-under bear grab. He rolled her weight over him, arching back to suplex the woman to the stone floor. Because it was stone and he wasn’t trying to brain her, he released his hold, turning the slam into a toss. Cat agile, he had to watch in amazement when she managed to tuck her legs and rotate to land on her feet in a low crouch.
“So that’s how it’s going to be eh?” Ulric questioned, halfway shocked by the unreal body control of the M’rakur woman.
Rising to resume her ready, she leered at him, “I’m regretting already not getting ye into a tumble, now I had ye’re arms around me. Are ye sure I can’t have a ride? What if I win, huh?”
She almost got him then, put him off balance with the sally, and he ate a pretty solid hook that seemed to loop over his slow blocking hand. Only instinctive covers, literally beaten into him by Taipan saved him from immediate doom. He took a half dozen lesser shots in the intervening moments, and was close to having to do something desperate but he kept the Dance in mind. Feet turned, half steps, small adjustments, changing the straight angles into oblique ones to keep her power from ever reaching him, frustrating her when she stood on the cusp of victory. Over aggressive, his adversary made another mistake, left a straight punch hanging and Ulric used his own legs, a short sharp kick with toes pointed that dug into her side with force, even while he took another hard left to his cheek that hurt more than a little.
Back stepping, taking a second to clear the cobwebs from that parting shot, Ulric knew he’d won, even when the woman made to come forward and renew her aggression, her face suddenly balling up in pain and she went to her knees, agony silvered jagged shards through her after that small delay.
Liver kicks were one of those things that had to be felt to be understood. Pain that stopped the body from listening to the brain’s commands, no matter how tough. He’d gotten it clean, and he was a strong bastard, so he knew it would stick.
Stance abandoned, Ulric made a slow approach, not wanting to leave himself vulnerable to some kind of late bit of unsportsmanship. You never knew, sometimes folk were sore losers. Not so the nameless M’rakur woman. She accepted a helping hand to stand upright, wincing at the pain that wasn’t quite letting go its hold.
Squinting at him suspiciously, fighting back against the ripples of agony, she accused, “You don’t fight like a tribesman at all. Too shifty, an’ what were all those weird steps ye were on about? We weren’t dancing, ye know.”
Ulric nodded but disagreed, “That’s exactly what we were doing. Everything is a Dance, and all that we do should circle towards victory through it.”
He quoted Idra to her, knowing that it was unlikely this Barbarian of Prespang’s Outer Reaches had ever had chance to take in the wisdom of the captain of the Deep Woods Aesir’s Royal Guard.
“Sounds like something a Knife ears would say.” Remarked this impressive warrior woman.
That observation almost made him give away the game.
“Maybe. But the strongest fighter I ever met said it, and not me, you, or any man amongst the M’rakur could lay a hand on him, not if their lives depended on it.” Ulric told the Barbarian girl with certainty.
Idra’se had slain an archmage cryomancer, after dispatching the assassin sent to claim him in a moment, and had paid for that conquest with only an eye. There was a very good chance the swordmaster of the Iriel’en was the greatest pure fighter on the continent of Aesvartheim.
“I didn’t catch your name, you smoky voiced hooligan.” Ulric said, turning aside from the serious.
Recovering her posture, the liver blow’s effects fading somewhat, his adversary told him with the tone that suggested he should have already known it, “I am Efreet, of the M’rakur.”
Turning serious eyes on him, perhaps for the first time since they’d met, she returned the question, “And who do I stand before defeated, warrior not of the M’rakur, though you bear our likeness and something akin to our seals.”
Fair was fair.
“I am Ulric Einar, [Lord of the Ancient Glade].” He told the femme fatale in leather and fur.
She blinked blankly at him a few times before throwing her head back to laugh heartily. When she regained some measure of composure, brushing aside a tear from the corner of her eye, she looked up at him, not far mind, the girl was nearly of a height with him, and put her hands on her hips assertively.
“It would be my luck to pick a fight with one of Varda’s champions, an’ a married one at that. This day was not meant to be mine, now, was it?” She asked rhetorically.
He shrugged apologetically. You just never knew, Varda was a world that liked to keep people on their toes and guessing.
“If it makes you feel better, I once dreamt of a life of peaceful scholarship. That probably will never happen now. Varda’s winds blow fickle.” Ulric said, with not a little bitterness.
This second chance at living was not to be a peaceful repose for the once peaceful engineer of metallurgical applications sciences. Reforging had brought him into the world fighting tooth and nail to stay alive against all manner of things and peoples. With no end in sight.
Now it was Efreet of the M’rakur’s turn to comfort.
“Don’t be a soft ass, ye got strength, an’ there’s many who had their tale cut short for lack of it. Be glad yer story goes on, hard that it may be at time.”
Wise words, Ulric had to admit.
“Aye, that’s fair and true, I’m bound to grant you. Especially not if it keeps a man as pretty as me from getting his bones jumped by hungry tigresses like yourself.” He conceded, getting in another jab.
“Oof, fine, I come on strong sometimes.” The high-octane Efreet admitted, before defending herself, “But ye would also if ye hadn’t seen a fresh buck in a year an’ these lads around here are getting skittish of me. Ye wouldn’t believe what I got to say about them to get them riled enough to throw some hands.”
Was that the gladiatorial equivalent of First World Problems? Can’t find somebody willing to fight so you just occupy yourself with sex? He was regretting intensely that Taipan wasn’t around so he could find out if this hellcat of a wildling was as able a lover as she was a fighter. He’d bet his arms she was and, sonofabitch, what disappointment that he’d never know.
“Look on the bright side, fair Efreet, you have earned yourself the right to buy one of my hand carved daggers.” Ulric said, indicating to the fangs carved to Scandinavian ground edges, polished and sharpened to scary hair popping keenness.
A laugh, a toss of short, braided dread locks, and the girl left the past behind to peruse for her favorite amongst the weapons, eventually choosing the one he thought the best fit for her. In spite of himself, Ulric found himself giving ground to the wiles of the lass, and she got the dagger for sixty percent of what he’d intended to ask.
He put the coin in his purse, eighteen Sil knights. If that sounds outrageous, keep in mind that you have to pry the fang of a one and a half ton sabre tooth to get the base material and have tools that were on par with carbide bits to cut it. That demanded strength of hand, to hold and apply the pressure needed to cut the enamel, and skill not to lose fingers in the process or ruin the piece.
The Barbarian girl wasn’t displeased, by the way she tucked the knife into her belt in place of the old one, and said happily, “I’d love to sit around an’ swap tales, but I might have to go piss blood an’ I’m needing a new sheathe. Ta ta Cousin, introduce me to this wife of yers sometime.”
Just like that, the girl picked her way somewhat gingerly through the throng of her kin, disappearing up a stairway.
Ulric immediately heaved a sigh of relief. Wow. What a firecracker. His face hurt from the glancing, and not so glancing blows, and his thigh wanted to cramp from a vicious knee thrown to his groin that he’d only just blocked with said abused meat.
“Told you she was trouble.” Sassed the aged Weaver from next to his stand.
“Aye,” Ulric agreed, “To her fucking toenails. Nice girl though, for all of that.” He thought aloud.
“I’ll just bet that wife you mentioned is some piece of work to keep you under wraps.” Guessed the matronly Barbarian.
He chuckled at that observation. Oh, if only they knew.
