In reply to Yamaile (msg # 1):

Chapter the First: The Trodden
Shandaal cursed aloud and she dipped a toe into the icy, fast-moving current of the shallow stream. The water felt as though it had scarcely melted since its long journey from the Ered Mountains to the north. They had crossed into Ilmanor two days prior, and the refugees had been floundering through a vast wood-scape since the Panderati border.

She loathed the forest almost as much as she had loathed the mountain before it and the brutal Ashlands before they. How many indignities would she be forced to bear before she could rise once more to crush the many weaklings who had slighted her?

She reminded herself that all was a test of worthiness on her path to glory.

Trying to see the positive, she mused that the forest was so dense that it kept many seclusions.

It had been a long time since Shandaal had had the opportunity to bathe...
Checking once more and satisfied that she was truly alone; she removed her dark vestments and slowly wade into the water. Her alabaster skin immediately erupted into gooseflesh, her mammary hardened and she felt the air driven from her lungs. A treacherous algae film on the bedrock caused her to lose her footing and be submerged momentarily, the water carrying her a few more metres downstream before she could recover her balance.

Hastily, she produced an abrasive stone she had found and began to tease-out the worst of the burs and twigs which had come to reside in her raven locks. She preferred to wear her hair shorter, but it had grown long and unruly in the months of flight. As she focused upon the task, the water became somehow more bearable. Shandaal slowly drifted as she washed and took (as she often did in these moments), to brooding and scheming.

It had been ten long years since the defeat of the Death Queen Vanacuiel. Less than eight seasons had passed by her reckoning that her people; the once mighty Throđin had been betrayed and driven into the Ashlands by their former allies, the Fornari.

It was not an uncommon story as Shandaal had learned along the road from many of the other refugees fleeing similar plights. Absent of the strong, domineering presence of the Death Queen, the people of Vancumar had quickly degenerated into a multitude of squabbling factions. Unable to stand against the vile Imperial aggressors who had brought about the end of Vancuiel, the Empire had reasserted its presence in her country and reverted the territory to its ancient name: Pandarat.

The absurdity of the name itself was enough to put Shandaal in a dark mood, to say nothing of the droves of Vancu who had flocked to the Imperial banner, forsaking their true Queen.
Those who had remained loyal and demanded reform were equally pitiful. How quicky they had all turned upon each other, demanding reform or twisting the teachings of Vanacuiel.

They had all been added to the ever-growing grudge-tome; subjects to be punished and brought to heel when Shandaal took the mantel of power she was owed. For owed she was, having been stripped of the chance to follow in the footsteps of her mother, who was a Priestess of Eternal Shade; sorceresses loyal to Vanacuiel. Shandaal herself had been in line to become a priestess and pass the blood rites to join the Sisterhood until the invasion of Vancumar. If only she had been born but five years earlier, she would have proven herself worth of being trained in the Death Queen’s own magic lore!

It was said and told (mainly by Shandaal herself) that her family lineage could be traced back through generations to Vashkiri, the mother of the Death Queen herself. Though she could not substantiate this, Shandaal could feel the ancient Drowzan blood in her veins which called her to lead… called her to dominate…

It had become apparent to Shandaal some months previous from her dank cave in the Ashlands of former Vancumar that she could no longer rely on the Vancu to build a foundation for the base of her empire. She needed a place still under the domain of sympathetic interests… If she could not have the Death Queen Herself, then why not the Shadowmage? After all, he was the firstborn son of Vanacuiel and the worthiest successor of her Logurti.

She needed a land to foster and unlock her inert magic and bend it to her will… If it could not be Vancumar, then why not Daenor?
She needed strong, proud servants. Loyal to her cause, but pliable enough to bring to heel… Servants less useless than--
“GARVAAL?!”

The thin figure of her kinsman stepped out from behind a large Elm tree to the edge of the stream. How he had managed to approach across the leaf-strewn forest-floor undetected was beyond Shandaal, though it did seem to be one of the man’s few talents.

She instinctively moved to cover herself which caused her to again slip on the slimy rock below her feet. How many more indignities would she be forced to suffer?!
“Have I caught you at a bad time Lady Shandaal?” Garvaal said, as she clambered up the bank toward her discarded clothing.  The thin-lipped smirk on his sallow, heavy-lidded face turned her shame to fury in an instant.

“AVERT your eyes VERMIN; they unworthy to gaze upon a Priestess of the Eternal Shade!”

This was technically true from a doctrinal standpoint. Though Garvaal was also of the Throđin, he was of a lower caste, little more than chaff to Shandaal’s wheat.

Technically of course, Shandaal was never an ordained priestess and technically the doctrine ceased to apply after her order had been obliterated, but Shandaal remained ever a purist. Also, as the only other Throđin clansman currently at her disposal, it paid to keep some semblance of hierarchic power dynamic with Garvaal; for both of their sakes.

Obediently, Garvaal turned away, though the smirk did not dissipate, just visible between lanky strands of his matted blonde hair.

As she donned the last of her clothing, feeling the moisture from her still sodden body being absorbed into the delicate fibres and sensing a discomforting harbinger chill in the spring air, she snapped:

“What is it then? I suppose you haven’t come to bathe that oily head of yours, so report!”

Turning back toward her, Garvaal aimed a mock-bow in Shandaal’s direction and replied:
“As it pleases Milady! I merely came searching for you to inform you that our merry band of pariah have been recently met by a rather sizeable cohort of soldiers bearing the crest of the Shadowmage his self.

I was further dismayed upon speaking with them to learn that, rather then welcoming us with the open arms which we surely deserve after a long and arduous flight; we are instead to be escorted to various internment camps around Ilmanor. It is there that our contribution to the regime will be further determined.

They will march as of morning, and should we not elect to be among them and caught further inland, we may be dealt with a good deal more harshly. My purpose in coming here, aside from the unanticipated benefit of the circumstances was to ask how you would like to proceed?”

It seemed that the fresh feeling of being presentably clean again for the first time in days was destined to be fleeting. Not much else had gone right for Shandaal the past few days, or the past few weeks, months, or years either when it came right down to it. Her mood was quickly going from brooding to sour.

“Well Garvaal, if having to share a tent with your plucked-chicken of a body was not enough misery, you need to lay this at my feet? Is it not possible that just once, you bring me tidings less ill than your complexion? I should have suffocated you in your sleep if I knew what a bad omen it was taking up travel with you!”

“On that topic Milady, I may have some small courtesy,” said Garvaal, producing a mid-sized leather pouch and tossing it to Shandaal, the smile having crept back to his face. “I have managed to procure us some small sum of wealth while you dallied about with cosmetics.”
Catching, the weight and hearing the giveaway clink of coinage, Shandaal greedily snatched at the strap

“Why, you devious little rat! For the first time you have proven cleverer than you look. This is a substantive amount of coin! How did you obtain it?”

“Well you see, I couldn’t help but notice that some of the members of our escort retinue seemed to hail from the country formerly known as Gaellia. I assure you the tales are true; these Folk are as large and clumsy as they are stupid—”

“Too true,” muttered Shandaal, still counting the coin “They are THE worst,”

“Indeed… Well as such, using no shortage of my own cunning and deftness, I cut the purse strings from right off the oaf’s belt undetected and came straight to you!”
Garvaal stood as a dog, smug, satisfied, awaiting the praise of his master after a successful hunt.

“Do not stand there and simper,” Shandaal remarked coldly, wiping the look off of Garvaal’s face, “Our new plan shall be to get back to the camp, collect our gear and steal off by night to the nearest village. We shall then cut a few throats, steal some clothing, and pose as Illmanori Locals! This coin shall be the first brick in the wall which builds MY empire!”

“Yes! This coin will be the first brick in the wall that builds OUR Empire!”
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:51, Thu 17 June 2021.

Part II: The Trodden

The refugee camp had been erected near a small lumber camp which appeared to have been inactive for some time but had several stout wooden cabins for shelter and a plethora of pre-cut wood for fuel against the damp chill of Ilmanor. Initially the refugees had taken up residence in the structures, however the arrival of the soldiers had forced them back out into a tent village which had been set up in the area previously cleared by the woodsmen.

Shandaal quickly set to work, bullying Garvaal into starting a fire, which, after several failed attempts resulted in him being sent off to beg for some embers off some neighbouring Ta’Bhari Ashlanders who seemed to know what they were doing. Shandaal recognised them as having joined the caravan shortly after she and Garvaal.

Though the camp consisted predominately of human denizens of former Vancumar, there were also small pockets of Ta’Bhari, some Tanhai loyalists and even a brace of enigmatic Drowzan elves which Shandaal had been careful to give a wide berth.

Despite being former allies under the banner of the Death Queen, there was little else to unify the refugee peoples and the fragmented camp members kept largely to themselves. Even the Vancu majority were made up of predominately the cowardly, conniving, or opportunistic factions. They could hardly be trusted to have anyone’s back and Shandaal has privately decided that the only way any of them could have any value was, naturally as subjects under her stewardship.

With the fire finally sufficiently flickering, Shandaal ordered Garvaal to pack their meagre gear and stash the coin he had stolen in the hollow nearby tree stump that they could easily find in the dark. Afterwards, she huddled close to the fire to dry her sodden robes, careful to stand downwind so as not to have her clean skin reek of the smoke.
Garvaal returned sometime later and tried to make annoying small talk while he boiled their meal (fermented oat stew for the third day running), but Shandaal hardly paid him any heed as something had caught her attention.

Four large men with great beards and locks twisted into warrior’s braids were wandering among the scattered groups in the tent village, asking questions and sometimes rummaging through the bags of the denizens, aggressively upturning them onto the ground. Their garb and black armour emblazoned with the batwing icon labelled them as Daenorran soldiers, though their size and features identified them as Gaellians; original natives of Daenor many of whom had been conquered and fallen under the sway of the Shadow Mage for generations.

Though not specific, current enemies of the Vancu, Shandaal had read in one of the ancient grudge texts of her Eternal Shade Order that the Gaellians had taken up arms against the Death Queen prior to being subjugated by the Shadowmage. As such, she found them to be weak-minded and contemptible, though they were alleged to be good soldiers and labourers.

It seemed that Garvaal had grossly exaggerated his own skill and wit… How unsurprising?

“Oh Garvaal Darling?” she asked with a voice both sweet and cloying, “Those Gaellian thugs you robbed; they wouldn’t happen to be the same group currently haranguing our countrymen over yonder would they?”

Garvaal looked over at the band and if possible, what little colour remained in his face drained.

“They cannot be allowed to know it was me!” he whinged, casting around nervously as though for some place to hide. “These barbarians will kill us BOTH!”

“I know that, fool,” Shandaal hissed back, seizing him by the collar “Which is exactly why you will let me do the talking! Try to look innocent and watch my back; understood?”
Browbeaten, Garvaal only nodded his agreement, and proceeded to look unimposing and decisively guilty as two of the soldiers approached their campfire.

The captain, an absurdly broad red-haired man barely able to fit into his armour was the first to speak:

“Stand up,” he barked to the two Vancu as he approached. “My colleague and I are making an inspection of the camp. We will be checking your goods for contraband and some items belonging to our soldiery which have recently gone missing.”

Unceremoniously, he ambled past, shoving Garvaal aside and knocking over the small lean-to which they had constructed for shelter. He produced Shandaal’s pack and began to play at the strings, prising them open and overturning the contents upon the wet earth.

She bristled at the indignity of this invasion and started toward the large soldier, only to be blocked off by his shorter, though no-less wide companion.

“Be careful Kennam,” the second soldier said, with an unsettling grin on his pockmarked face, “It seems this one means to cause trouble,”

“Eh?” replied Kennam, now examining a small, ornate urn of Shandaal’s which contained the Ashes of the former High Priestess of her Order. He glanced up and surveyed the scene from Shandaal’s murderous stare to Garvaal’s shifty ambivalence.

“They do seem a particularly untrustworthy pair do they not?” he motioned to Garvaal, “I think that I remember this one lurking about earlier on… Perhaps a pat-down is in order?”

“With pleasure!” the wide soldier’s grin spread even further.

“Hold Lom,” the soldier called Kennam said authoritatively. “I will do the girl; you start over there with Titchy.”

The second soldier’s face soured, but he obeyed the evident hierarchy and moved off to check Garvaal’s person.

Shandaal was furious by this point and it became too much when the barbarian aloofly instructed her:

“Raise your arms and spread your legs,” while reaching out to check her.

“Beware Gaellian, you do not know with whom you trifle!” Shandaal spat after him, mustering as much menace and contempt as she could into the words and producing a small steel nettle-dagger from her boot as he advanced, which she kept sharpened for special occasions.

“Hmph… Put that threading tool away outlander, or I shall be forced to beat your effeminate friend over there and then use it to darn my socks.” His tone was stoic and matter of fact. The frankness annoyed her even more than the arrogance and the violation.

“And why not strike Me, soldier boy? Is it a woman or a Priestess of the Eternal Shade that you fear to raise a hand against?”

“Do I look like a Huani savage to you Vancu? Besides, you would not even stand up to my third wife in a fight.”

“A boon for you that she is not here then, for I would hate to have to make you a widower, Gaellian…”

Kennam blinked twice, looking almost taken aback.
“But she is here of course…” Kennam looked back over his shoulder to where a large group of the soldiers had taken respite and were setting up camp, “Elva Mi Gharia, you must come and hear: This little Vancumara Frithgi with the butter-knife had something she wished to say concerning your husband’s honour!”

A woman, wearing a green tunic with red Gallic patterning and studded leather armour stood and began toward her husband. As she did so, Shandaal became uncomfortably aware of the woman’s height, which nearly matched that of Kennam; almost a full head taller than herself. She had a very feminine, yet powerful looking physique, graceful movement and a healthy bronze complexion that spoke of years patrolling in the outdoors. Her blonde hair was braided tightly to either side of the head and tucked beneath a fur pelt which had been slung over her shoulder against the evening chill.

Her expression looked murderous, and the mammoth woman’s hand already rested to the sheath longsword strapped to her belt. Glancing swiftly back over her shoulder to the small fire which they had lit, Shandaal noted that Garvaal was suddenly nowhere to be found. She made a mental note to afford her Throđin ‘cousin’ an entire chapter of her grudge-tome if she survived to see tomorrow.

Sensing the tension, many of the other soldiers and other onlookers had begun to gather, the probability of sport generating instant interest.

Standing now before them, the Gaellian woman spoke:

“What of her my love? Has she frightened you with that little point she carries? Shall I take it from her and use it to clean my teeth?”

Many of the onlookers gathered began to laugh.

“Aye,” said Kennam, playing into the joke, “Quite a fright she gave me and then issued a challenge to me as though I would strike her. I was of course too cowed and refused to accept, so she threatened to slay my wife instead…”

“Indeed, my Love?” Elva turned toward Shandaal, sizing her up, “You know sister; ever since the fall of Vancumar, we Gaellians have referred to the Vancu as ‘The Vanquished’… Challenges of this sort have not recently boded well for your people.”

“Then lucky that it is no mere Vancu who stands before you today, but a Throđin Preistess of Shade! One cannot vanquish that which is Eternal!”

“What difference does it make if you name yourself The Vanquished or the Trodden?” the Gaellian woman queried, raising an eyebrow and eliciting another healthy round of laughter from the Daenorran soldiers and a few of the more cowardly among the refugees. “They mean one and the same thing here in Ilmanor.”

Shandaal could feel her pride getting the better of her, but she was sick of her current standing; sick of the humiliation.

“You would do well to keep your tongue in your mouth, Gaellian dog; I can smell your breath from here!”

“And You, would do well to follow your own advice, lest I cut yours from your mouth and make my evening meal of Vancu sow’s tongue!”
Drawing her sword, Elva started toward Shandaal who did her best to scurry to the far side of the small fire.

Internally, Shandaal was now terrified and certain of the Gaellian woman’s sincerity, but her pride would not let her flee or stand down. Backing up slowly as her adversary advanced, Shandaal took the one gamble left she could see available under the limited circumstances:

“Easy for you to cut down a defenseless refugee with a sword in hand, plate of armour, and a troop at your back,” Shandaal said while putting as much distance between herself and the sword as possible, “I had heard Gaellians were more honourable than that!”

Elva paused, suddenly aware of the large group of onlookers. Weighing the options quickly, she decided it would look poor to start cutting down refugees by daylight. The unrest in the camp was already high, and she didn’t fancy receiving a Vancu dagger in the back while she slept.

“Very well then,” said Elva. She thrust her sword into the soft earth and undid the leather ties on her cuirass and greaves, casting them aside along with the fur cape and her sheath. This left her in the belted tunic and calfskin soldier’s boots which cut-off at the knee. Her long legs and arms were bare, though this only further served to emphasize her athleticism and imposing physique. “I challenge you, unarmed, woman-to-woman to maintain the honour of my fifth husband! He shall be my Second in this challenge; name yours!”

Shandaal glanced around, frantically. There was no trace of Garvaal, and she privately wondered if she would want the swine for a Second even if her were there.

Just then, a voice spoke up from over Shandaal’s shoulder:

“I shall be her Second.”

A Tanhai man, past middle age stepped forward. Shandaal had not recognized him previously among the refuges at the camp. He bore the dark features of his people and a once-handsome face, though his beard and hair were now flecked with more silver than black; the years on his face gave him a battered appearance, as waves erode a strong cliff side.

“Very well then,” interjected Kennam, addressing the old Tanhai, “We reconvene at dusk, and the Vancu is to be put under watch until then. I won’t have her steal away and deprive my wife her conquest.”

Her new weathered ally nodded once, and the crowd began to disperse temporarily. Shandaal could already see surreptitious wagers being placed.
The Tanhai gave her a long, appraising look and shook his head.

“I certainly hope you know what you have gotten yourself into, girl” He remarked as the shadow of the trees around the clearing crept ever closer to dusk...
This message was last edited by the GM at 10:11, Tue 21 Sept 2021.

Part III: The Trodden
The nerves building inside her had served to make Shandaal jumpy; a lateral disposition when compared to her standard irritability.

She had been in a few minor physical altercations back at the temple as a young girl and had never been shy about handing out an appropriate thrashing to a willful or incompetent serving girl, but these were not true fights and she had a feeling that the Gaellian may pose more of a challenge.

The two orc soldiers that had been assigned to keep watch of Shandaal did little to alleviate her nervous feeling, staring as they were with uncomfortably beady red eyes sunken deep within thick brows.

Shandaal understood the necessity of effectiveness in employing orcs into service; after all, the Death Queen herself had counted many clans among her ranks, but Shandaal could never look toward them as true allies. It was clear that they did not think or operate on the same wavelength which gave them a strange and alien feel.

In this opinion at least, she was not alone. She had even noted that the Daenorran soldiers who counted themselves among the menfolk of Parzifica kept completely apart from their Orcish counterparts, though their livery bore the same insignia of the Shadowmage.

Shandaal decided that they had been assigned to her watch deliberately to make her uncomfortable and put her off; a low Gaellian tactic if ever there was one!

The Tanhai man who had agreed to be her honourable Second for the duel looked completely unconcerned by the greenskins looming over them. He sat on a fallen tree, scraping off the gnarled bark with a knife and carving symbols into the wooden surface which Shandaal did not recognize.

Looking for anything to shake off some of the descending dread, Shadaal began applying a black paste to her lips and around her eyes, attempting to make herself more intimidating as was custom for a Priestess of Eternal Shade prior to marching to war.

As the silence lingered, she decided to engage him:
“You. Tanhai. Why did you involve yourself in my affairs?”

The man ceased his carving and paused some time before answering.

“It is simple, really. You are more interesting to me alive for now. No one else would volunteer to be your Second. With no Second, nothing is to stop that guardswoman from beating you to death. Now, with a Second, she has a good reason to stop bashing or perhaps I kill her…”

His voice was unremarkable and he did not command any specific charisma, but the slow, deliberate inflection he put into his words seemed to indicate that in his rare moments of speaking, he need not yell to be heard.

“You are leaving out the possibility that I beat her.”

“…It is possible,” her replied, after giving it some thought and shrugging his shoulders.
“Are you so certain that I am to lose?” Shandaal attempted to phrase the question as a haughty remark, though it was difficult to disguise the slight whinging squeak that came from the intonation.

“Nothing is certain.” the dark man replied, “If I had coin to bet, I would place it on your opponent…”

“And I suppose that if—when I win you shall wish to bed me as a gratuity? I will inform you now that you are unworthy! I am a Priestess of the Eternal Shade!”

“Alas girl; I do not wish to bed you. I am celibate; belonging forever to the Lady that was taken from me…A cruel joke the fates have played that I still live these years hence… I merely find you interesting, which bears further study,”

A great sadness seemed to pass over the man, and he returned to his carving.

Wishing to pry further, her curiosity growing, Shandaal opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by three resonating thumps on some mighty drum. Her heart skipped and her shoulder jerked involuntarily.

The two orc sentries immediately were on either side of her, each taking an arm and walking her forcefully toward the sound. Suddenly, it seemed every soldier and refugee were marching along the same path, toward a makeshift circle in the clearing which had been designated for their arena.

Elva awaited already within the confines of the circle, fists clenched and rested on her hips. She initially appeared exuded a cold confidence, though Shandaal could see just the slightest twitch of nervous energy pulsing in her bare arms and thighs.
By contrast, Shandaal was visibly shaking, her heart seemed to be doing its best to break from her chest.

The orc watchmen shoved her roughly into the clearing and causing her to stumble. Glaring back, she stood up coiling to face her adversary in case an attack was imminent.

Instead, the large redheaded soldier called Kennam stepped forward and placed his hands upon his wife’s shoulder in an affectionate gesture and whispering something to her ear.

The Tanhai man also entered the circle, standing face to face with Shandaal. He examined her briefly and then removed a leather tie from his own hair, placing it in her hand. Understanding, Shandaal gathered her wild raven locks and cinched them behind her head. She then removed her ebony cloak, leaving her in a tunic, travelling boots and gloves which covered her lower arms. All were black with a violet hem and pointed tailoring at the shoulder, a remnant of her homeland which identified her as a woman of status…once.

His skeptical look did little to bolster her already faltering resolve.
“Attack her legs if you can and knock her over,” the man muttered in a low voice. “Perhaps you stand a better chance on the ground then upright…. Perhaps”

“Come, Tanhai, let’s get on with this!” The voice of Kennam called out from the other side of the makeshift ground. “You cannot teach a Vancumara rat to fight in a lifetime, let alone an afternoon… Hark; the day wanes… I wish to have some light left to gaze upon my victorious vixen during our congress this arvo!”

This elicited cheers and whistles from the soldiery at hand. The next comment he directed at Shandaal directly, brandishing a finger in her direction. “Any funny business and I won’t hesitate to step in and cut your throat!”

“Step in uninvited and I will not hesitate to cut yours!” Snarled the Tanhai back, managing to match Kennam’s ferocity.

“Hah, then we are agreed! Let the better woman win!”

The red-maned Gaellian immediately turned and strode from the circle. Elva dropped into a strong combat stance.

Shandaal’s Second clapped her on the shoulder and parted with the most encouraging words he could muster: “Try not do die!”

Elva started forward and Shandaal scurried to circle counterclockwise, avoiding her opponent. Immediately, the audience erupted in a cacophony of noise, jeering, shouting advice, screeching, but at that moment the rest of the world shut out for Shandaal.

As the two women circled, the contrast was as apparent as night and day. The tall, tanned, and athletic looking Elva resplendent in red, green and gold, whilst the shorter, more curvaceous Shandaal had only her pale alabaster skin to interrupt the black-on-black-on-black of the rest of her hair and garb.

Seeing a perceived opening, Shandaal jerked forward attempting to surprise her opponent with a left-handed strike, this being her dominant hand as with all the Shadow Clergy.
Unfortunately, before she even had a chance to see it, her blow was deflected, and a fist clapped into the side of Shandaal’s head. As she backed away, a long-legged kick lashed out from Elva’s right leg, catching Shandaal in the armpit between her body and left arm.

Serval exchanges followed, each with the dark-haired woman coming out worse. Even the strikes and claws which Shandaal managed to land felt as though she was hitting and scratching at stone.

Getting desperate, and remembering the advice of her Second, she lowered herself and charged at Elva’s legs, hoping to tackle the taller woman and bring her to ground… She collided and managed to drive the blonde back a metre or two but could not take her down.

Her momentum stalled and slowly reversed as the stronger woman shoved the back, digging in her heels into the sodden earth and gaining a bit of separation which exposed the Vancu woman’s upper torso and head. Shandaal was now truly in trouble, as her vengeful opponent began picking her apart with swift, rotating blows to her body and face.

She fled backward away from the onslaught, but ran out of space, crashing disoriented into a wall of Daenorran soldiers who had bullied their way to the front of the audience. Jeering, they shoved her directly back toward Elva, who caught her with a knee to the midsection, driving the air out of Shandaal’s lungs. She collapsed into the body of Elva clamping her arms around the larger woman’s waist and clinching to the long blonde braids which fell behind her head.

Elva beat down on Shandaal’s back with her elbows, while the raven-haired Vancumara pulled painfully on her hair, but she was now inside the range of Elva’s most effectual blows.

Snarling in frustration, the Gaellian arched her core forward, clasped the sides of Shandaal’s tunic near her generous hips and began whipping the shorter woman’s body about. It took three or four attempts, but upon the last, Shandaal felt the hair she had been clutching slip from her grasp, though she took a good fistful with it. Another heave and she was thrown free, like a stubborn sheet in the wind and landed unceremoniously on a root some distance away.

She attempted to rise, but her rapidly breaking body was no longer fast enough, crawling only onto her hands and knees before the murderous Elva was upon her, sparing none of her strength into the next kick, and the next.

She did her best to cover her face and head, allowing Elva’s long calfskin boots to find purchase in Shandaal’s soft midsection, ribs, and thighs as her tall foe aimed kick after relentless kick. An involuntary whimper escaped her between gasps and wheezes for air and she fell to her stomach.

Seizing upon the weakness, Elva stooped to the ground, driving her knee into the small of Shandaal’s back and locking her right arm around the throat of the dark-haired woman while wrenching upward.

The iron grip of the Gaellian woman tightened the chokehold as her weight pressed painfully onto the small of Shandaal’s back. The Vancu’s vision began to darken and dance around the edges.

“You are finished, whelp. Submit before me and this ends here!”

Shandaal had no choice in the matter. Her gamble had earned her a beating but may have spared her life.

“Ack.. alright… SUMBIT,” she croaked in a register far lower that her normal vocals were accustomed. “I SUBMIT!”

As the grip eased, she felt Elva’s head press against her own, the larger woman’s lips mere inches from her right ear:

“Let me give you a friendly piece of advice,” she hissed into Shandaal’s ear “Your folk are now the table scraps of this realm… If you wish to live to reach your next inception day, do not stick out this slim Vancu neck out any further than it needs to be, or your next opponent may prove less charitable.”

With that, the blonde warrior stood, driving Shandaal’s face into the mud of the forest earth and walked over top of her pointedly, smirking as she stood upon Shandaal's back and muttered:
“Hmph, see now? Trodden…”

She triumphantly marched over received by her cheering comrades and beaming husband, lording in the conquest.

As her consciousness ebbed, the last fragmented thoughts of Shandaal had something to do with indignity, suffering, and a book of grudges…

The man known as Badger waited calmly as the crowd dispersed, vigilantly ready to ensure that no further harm came to his defeated Charge.

As anticipated, the fight had gone poorly for the little dark-haired Vancumara, but aside from some cuts, bruises, and perhaps a broken rib, the young woman would be fully healthy again in a few weeks. The outcome could have been far worse, albeit he was sure that Shandaal would disagree in her current state. Badger could only hope the experience had humbled her...

The soldiers had left now, carrying away their champion. All that remained of the audience were a couple of raggedy Vancu refugees who had the look of scavengers, leering about and looking to search Shandaal for valuables before she awoke. As ever, the Vancu were a truly treacherous breed. Badger stepped noisily toward the fallen priestess, which scattered the remaining onlookers.

Then, and with a tenderness that belied his appearance, he gathered her into his arms and began to carry her in a direction away from the camp.

The night had now fallen in earnest, and Badger passed almost unnoticed, save for some sentries who moved initially to challenge him. Something in his look unsettled them however, and he passed into the deeper woods heading east, unmolested.

Unbeknownst to him however, the quiet, awkward figure of Garvaal slunk silently after the two at a safe distance, stopping only briefly to extract something from a tree stump on the way and following them into the night.
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:15, Tue 21 Sept 2021.