Blood Of My Blood, Flesh Like Mine Own
(Snippet)
275 AC
Skulgarth crouched, the handle of his greataxe leaning against his shoulder as he gripped some sand before his feet and rubbed his palms together, eyeing the gate across from him in the dying sunlight and growing torchlight and moonlight. One more, he thought to himself. Freedom. With his muscular midriff exposed bare to the eyes surrounding him, he rose from his position, picking up his axe with him. A detailed leather war-belt adorned his waist, designs of large stones and waves displayed in a brighter color than the rest of the brown-gray belt. A dark pleated skirt hung from his hips and brown sandals wrapped around his feet. Shoulder length dark red curls adorned by occasional braids sprouted from his head and a decently sized bush of a beard of the same color sat on his jaw defiantly, cold black eyes staring forth with an unwavering intensity reminiscent of Death itself. Scars littered his body and tribal tattoos wrapped around both shoulders, encompassing biceps, pecs, upper back and top ribs. The tattoos, dark as night and littered with a blood red, took on the form of black weirwood trees with its red leaves and a black inkblot like face pattern bleeding red from eyes and mouth over his solar plexus.
"Gods of Tree, Gods of Rock, Gods of Forest. Gods of Sea and Land, Peace and War, Blood and Birth. May my fate be great," The young Sagart in training muttered to himself before a loud noise and obvious occurence drew his attention elsewhere.
The dark wooden gates opposite the young Skagosson rumbled, opening with a thudding roar as the Meereen crowd met it with their own roar of excitement and approval. The smaller Meereneese man stepped forth from the shadows, smiling under the admiration of his people, staring right past Skulgarth. Garmahl na Kazdu strutted with a confidence that could only be attributed to a seasoned fighter of brash background, his whip-like rope trailing behind him. At the end of it, a blade with a hook on either side, all edges sharp, and a dagger upon his waist. Brown hair, eyes and skin adorned a lithe, lean body with nothing but a pleated skirt and sandals on. The Meereen native strode forward until he was but fifteen sandy, hot feet from the larger Skagosson and then smirked.
"A sight for sore eyes friends! A tree sprouts from the sand! But alas, I find not my opponent!" Garmahl calls out, smirking humorously as the arena laughs, all save but Skulgarth himself who stands silent and still until the crowd and the warrior wait expectantly for some remark.
"Bring your rope, find your open, and be strung from this tree by midnight if you've the valor," Skulgarth booms, no attempt at yelling but purely the carrying of his deep voice from his 6'9" frame. His opponent loses his smirk momentarily before spreading his feet and shrugging.
"So be it."
"So it is."
The two men eye each other for what seems but a moment to spectators but an eternity to combatants before Garmhal rears back a bit with his right side and whips his blade and whip out before him quickly. Despite his size, Skulgarth ducks with ease under the strike and leaves his axe up to catch the rope. Once the whip has wrapped around the axe shaft the Skagosi raider and future Sap-Veins rises and turns, ripping the axe and rope in the direction opposite his enemy. The Meereen man jumps forward with his weapon, ducking under a spinning back fist from his much larger adversary before spinning away and ripping the rope in such a way it loosens from the axe and strikes up, opening a long gash along Skulgarth's back.
The audience applauds wildly and Garmhal smirks, expecting a retribution satisfying noise from the man before him. In response, Skulgarth merely clenches his jaw tight and shrugs backwards, stretching and cracking his back. The large youth turns to his couple year older adversary and stares coldly, prompting the two to initiate battle once more. Skulgarth steps forth, swinging his axe as Garmhal bobs under, stepping back. Skulgarth spins with his next step, twirling axe overhead as he brings it down in a deep swoop. The Meereen man hops back, dodging the blow and responding with a straight flick of his weapon, sending the whip in a straight line. The Skagosson turns his shoulder, dodging the rope and blade and jabbing with the dull top of the axe, hitting his opponent in the chest and knocking him back. As the elder warrior stumbles before managing to regain his balance, his younger opposition steps forth and sends his large foot and sandal forth in a mighty kick, connecting squarely with Garmahl's chest and sending him flying back while knocking the wind out of him. No sooner had Garmahl hit the sand than Skulgarth was upon him, smashing down with his one-sided axe. The smaller fighter scoots back quickly, sliding through the sand and dodging the killing blow. Skulgarth brings the axe around again, with the same result as sandy dust begins to fill the air.
Skulgarth, noticing the increasing stability of Garmahl's form, ceases his onslaught and jumps back just in time to miss the intended effect of the handful of sand thrown in his direction, meant for his eyes but instead creating a momentary cloud before his eyes. Caught off guard, Garmahl's whip cracks through the ear and catches Skulgarth over the left side of his face, whipping his head to that side. Blood flowing down his face, Skulgarth steps low to avoid a side blow from the whip and rushes forward, letting go of his axe and tackling the smaller man to the ground. The two rolled, each vying for the top position, attacking any possible opening.
Eventually, Garmahl managed to wrap his legs around the neck and right shoulder of Skulgarth, in a triangle. Squeezing, he attempted to straighten out the right arm of his opponent while also pulling his head down. For several moments it seemed the fight was over and the foreigner would perish between another man's legs in the cool night air. The people in the stands went quiet. In response, the Skagosson plants his feet and squats before rising, curling his arm to keep it from being straightened and lifting the Meereenese into the air high enough to reach eye level with the much taller man when at his full height.
The arena sat in silent awe at the display of raw, reckless power and Skulgarth dropped down, slamming Garmhal onto his back though with a noticeable lack of strength due to a combination of injuries, weariness from the day's fights, and stress. The smaller man's legs unwrapped and he attempted to gather his breath, rolling and grasping for anything. Eventually, he finds the axe of his opponent and rises in a dizzy, black-dot filled haze and turns, only to be caught unaware by the rope of his whip wrapping around his neck and the blade at the end digging into his windpipe. The large Skagosson's cold eyes stared through those of his adversary with a cool, collected and concentrated violence.
"GET OVER HERE!" The young warrior roars, ripping the smaller man toward him and spinning him, the blade on the whip ripping out of the throat while using just enough power to drag the an forth. Stopping just short of his better, Garmhal drops to his knees, letting go of the axe in his hand and spitting a small amount of the blood bubbling in his throat, now dripping down his chin. A large hand reaches down past him, gripping the shaft of the axe and picking it up as Skulgarth also steps past, now in front of the Meereen native.
"Go with the Gods, brother," Skulgarth states sympathetically, placing the edge of the axe blade against Garmhal's chest before pulling back and swinging the axe as if chopping down a tree. Breaking through the chest of the man and opening it, Garmhal dies instantly. Skulgarth pulls out his axe and reaches down, sticking his hand into Garmhal's chest and gripping his heart. Ripping it out, Skulgarth looks at it a moment before taking a bite.
"With the Gods, oh Warrior Brother. Blood of My Blood, Flesh Like Mine Own."