Right, I'm tired. I'll post the builds when I'm actually a functioning human being.
In the mean time, thoughts? Reviews to me are water to a thirsty man in a desert.
The Fire Wound I
Breaths, both shallow and deep, howled within the room, easily matched the cheers and howls of the audience above. Fifteen were grouped inside such a small room the size of a tomb for for a minor lord, but with the care of a hated peasant's, barely held together by mud and stone - two doors on either side, one barred with steel and locked on the other side, and the second created by simple planning and preparation: thin iron bars, rusted with time and a simple lock.
No one tried to exit the second door, after all, it led to a place of death.
It also wasn't part of the plan.
A sharp beat of three crashed against the iron bars.
"Fire Wound!" Roared the guard, High Valryia pouring out of his mouth. "You're next!"
The breaths quietened, eyes of different age and stages of injury look to the Fire Wound.
He was not a man of age, four years below what his people back in Westeros considered an adult, yet he towered over everyone in both height and width: his fellow slaves, the ones that considered themselves his masters and mistresses, even the tourists and free men were small compared to him, a commodity to the slave masters of Volantis.
For five years, the Daughter of Valyria was his home. Taken from his ship in a storm and grabbed by a passing Meereenese cog blown off course - as if the old storm god punished his family line one final time for events that transpired multiple millennia ago.
The Fire Wound strode forward, his single left eye of green meeting all of his brothers in chains with a strong stare, and a determined nod.
"Be ready." He said, with a voice that almost deafened the men, but they gulped down their fear and all gave a nod of confirmation.
They would await the signal.
The barred door squeaked open and The Fire Wound turned back to his brothers.
"Today." He spoke. "Today, we will be free men. Today, our fellow sisters will be free women. I promise you that."
No more unneeded words were spoken and The Fire Wound turned, his feet pushed up sand, step by step as he entered the arena of flesh and urine. The crowd roared as the hate-fueled sunlight illuminated the lightly armoured two and ten giant - covered in leather with pieces of hurriedly forged metal on his forearms and shins, a shaved head of both black and blonde atop a face of half burned flesh.
The Wound focused on his opponents, three men covered head to toe in armour - all made by the same Smith, for the armour had been moulded in the style of old Valyrian warriors; steel dyed black, spaulders in the image of dragon wings, dragons and dragonlords etched onto the cuirass.
A hush came over the arena of Volantis. The nobles shut their mouths as a representative of the Tigers faction rose up from a central platform above a tall wall of blackened stone that circled the dull yellow-grey ground - spikes of the same metal sprouted from the walls in rows of three. The Representative was a man of such fatness that The Wound thought he could have swallowed two other men - bone and narrow included - and still be hungry.
The arena with perfume stacked ontop of strong soap, hoping, and failing, to cover the sweat and rank that wafted from him. Even down in the arena floor, The Fire Wound could smell the putrid scent of the bumbling beast who thought himself Valryian, despite not having the same skin tone, for it was dusky; the same eyes, for they were a deep brown; nor the infamous white hair, for it was clearly dyed from the natural black.
"Nobles of Volantis!" Cried the man who called himself Maelor, flowing his hands in such a way, The Wound imagined the Volantines thought it a superior way of body language, but to him, it just looked like a child acting out. "Today, we have a special event for us! Here, we see disgraced, and heriatical traitors, to our way of life!" Maelor raised a hand towards the man in Valryian-styled armour. "They have talked about change, but what change would be needed for our great city, the Firstborn of Valyria?!"
Noises of all ages rose in unison, united jeers aimed at the excommunicated - some threw wasted food, or tiny stones, down towards the sand - The Fire Wound couldn't help the smirk at the childishness on display.
"They are stricken from the families that gave them such prestige and glory, but they can regain their honour, and their names! They are of Valryian blood, and so we give them this chance to show our generosity!" Maelor then threw a hand towards the Wound. "They must fight and kill the gladiator champion, The Fire Wound!"
Jeers and hisses turned to cheers and screeches of delight.
"Wound!" They chanted as if he were some prized warrior in a Skyrim tavern brawl. "Wound! Wound!"
"It will not be an easy fight! But surprises have been shown in the arena." Then for the first time since the speech began, Maelor looked below, a glee-stricken smirk across his face.
Noises of audience members hurling insults and encouraging yelps in equal measure pulled The Wound to acquire eye contact with his opponents.
The three men were of age older than the Wound yet still young, the youngest being only six and ten with the oldest being twenty. All drew longswords that were made with Andal knights in mind, handles fit for only one hand, a straight blade of nearly three and a half feet with pommels of a roaring dragon head. Once drawn, the men pulled shields of darkened metal and wood, kite in shape and etched with more Valyrian iconography, from their backs.
The Wound nodded and the men, and they answered with a mirrored action.
Reaching back, The Wound pulled a greatsword from the sheath on his back, six feet in length and an ugly slab of metal only maintained by the one who wielded it. The Wound always wanted to name the blade, a need from a childhood that died seemingly decades ago, rough and dents alongside its edges and fullers - not even the guard nor the pommel were save from scars, memories of other men hoping to cut off fingers or to force the greatsword out of his hands came and went in an instant as the three men in front slowly marched forward.
"It is a good mixture between strong and light footwork." The Teacher would always say, advising on fighting multiple opponents. "Keep your legs and arms loose to easily control them, but not too loose that your legs are easily tripped nor your arms be taken advantage of, or even your weapon taken from."
The Teacher's advice was sound, and hard enough, to arouse the muscle memories of Uthane the Half-Giant Breton, Champion of the Empire, Companion to the Last Dragonborn, Rider of Arvak, Slayer of Ten Thousand Altmer and many more titles that the Wound couldn't be bothered to list. And the rest? The Wound did admit to having his life, or more accurately to say his third life, being thrown upside down at the revelation that he, a Prince of Westeros, was nothing more than the third in line. After a peerless swordsman and battlemage, and a fat oaf of a commoner - both from strange worlds and yet the two couldn't be entirely different. One being a land of Tamriel, inhabited with a fantastical range of different species, of men and mer - then there was the Commoner's world, a world of industry and hardship of a different nature, where instead of just monarchs and triarchs being the rulers, it was those who owned the industries: politicians and those whose mind, not blood, who ruled the Commoner's land of Britain - the Royal family becoming more of an attraction for foreigners and outsiders.
"Without further ado, Gladiators! Fight!"
The three in front immediately rushed into action, all three charging forwards and once they were only twenty feet away, The Wound lunged forward with a simple but controlled overhead swing, leveraging his weight and the heft of his blade to strike strike central one's shield - a thunderous crack and screech sounded through the arena, over the cheers and cries of pure exhilaration - The Wound was sure that even those wandering about outside of this pit of violence and pain could have heard his strike.
Two halves of a shield fell to the ground and the central noble paused and fell back, crying out of pain and checking on his arm, making sure that it had not been split in half or damaged beyond repair.
The ones at the side, each thrusted or swung in quick succession one after the other, aiming for the neck, elbow or under the arm. All were deflected with a simple tap or parry until an opening was generated, the central noble looked for events and sloppily gave an overhead strike of their own, only for the attack to swish pass The Wound as the giant flowed around the blade, spinning to heave his weapon down towards the left noble. The blades met and the left noble fell to his back with a breathless grunt, even when he tried to add the shield to block the strike.
The central noble stumbled forward, still reeling from having his arm nearly becoming lesser. Taking advantage, The Fire Wound pulled his full strength back from the push kick, only twenty percent if he used his numbers, not enough to kill the noble but enough to make the man practically collapse onto his front.
Turning to the final noble, The Fire Wound gripped the sword, blade first, many would assume this to be a foolish move - having your hand bleed.in an environment as harsh and diseases fueled as the arena would be paramount to death for anyone, especially for a gladiator in a city ruled by uncaring tyrants.
Fortunately, for The Wound, he was not a normal man. He was more. The blade did not cut the man, never coming close to piercing, or cutting, the skin, and with a flick of a wrist, the blade snapped cleanly. The experiences, power and knowledge of his two previous lives, though more from Uthane, had given The Fire Wound an edge in survival, in leading, in teaching, in healing. Yet the lives from before did not…feelthe same as The Wound felt now. While Uthane was indeed a commander and peerless warrior, The Wound wondered if this sensation is what Savaja, the Last Dragonbor believed in her body and soul.
Frozen from the unnatural counter, the noble did not react in time for the fist that crashed against his nose. Blood leapt from his face as he fell to the sand, unmoving.
Jubilation was high in the air.
"Kill them!" Many chanted.
"Slaughter them!" Said a few.
"Don't!" Came from a single mother, hair white as snow but with eyes of a deep brown. "Spare then, please!"
The Wound stared up towards his…owner, Maelor. The grin of self-indulgence on the master's became a shadow of greed, of delight and utter sadism. He raised a hand, his thumb horizontal that paused the crowd, the Commoner would've compared this to something called a Roman Emperor, and The Wound bristled at the reminder of one's life being decided by the whims of a single madman.
The thumb turned downward and savage merriment drove The Fire Wound to nearly madness, only pulled back by his will and the future that he had planned for he and his fellow slaves.
Shifting to face the noble, whose nose was flattened, The Wound kept his body forward, but his lone eye towards the section that held Maelor, and the woman behind him.
She was tall, the only person taller than he, The Wound had counted her to be at least nine and a half feet tall. Buxom but slender, and extremely exotic to the nobles of Volantis, a slave like the Wound but not the worth of a gladiator. No, she was a woman, a beautiful one that reached further than any mortal man, and so, must be nothing more than an attraction and indication of Maelor's status, unspoiled as marvelled at from far away.
Hair? A long, dark brown that was black in certain lights. Skin? Dusky, sun-kissed is what some would say, a warm olive tone if he were to use a food analogy. And eyes? Large, as if fit for one of innocence, but the golden determined gaze as he and her met did not speak of youthful naivety. She, like the nobles he faced, was older - five and ten his senior but appeared only half that.
Lalita gave the signal, unsheathing a dagger previously hidden underneath her coverings, in her hands it was the size of a toothpick, and twirled the weapon left and right. The sun blinking off the blade and just as the third flash ended, Lalita fled the platform, the guards not caring and Maelor not noticing.
'They will die.'He proclaimed to his brothers and sisters in the shit-covered outhouses there were their homes, in the halls in secret, in the arena pits where they were scouted for the day's event.'All who wish to own a man, woman or child to use and throw away as they please shall die.'
The Fire Wound had done something that he had awaited for five long years. Five years since he was taken by the storm, since the ship that carried him was torn apart, since he was sold to Maelor, since his eye was taken from him.
He disobeyed his master - no, he defied him.
The Wound pulled at himself. At his anger, his wroth, his lust, his sadness, his hope, his love, his happiness. Everything that washim. Faces of a long distance clawed back into his head, into the realm of remembrance: His mother, Cersei Lannister, and father, Robert Baratheon, looking on as he and Joffrey, his big brother, played together - smiling and happy. His uncles, Jaime, Tyrion, Renly and Stannis; Jon Arryn, a grandfather figure that was both stern and fair, He had not seen them for five years. He, that of Steffon Baratheon, Second of his name and Prince of the Sunset Lands, poured his memories into one spot. His soul. His zii. His thu'um.
And Shouted.
"Tubī, dombo dohaeriros! Tubī, dombo āeksia! Tubī, īlon issi dāez! Tubī, īlvon vēdros! Fus Ro Dah!"
A/N:Okay, I feel the need to explain, basically this is the second jump (Generic ASOIAF Fanfiction V1.0 Jump) with the first being the Elder Scrolls Jump. So, the MC has powers and abilities from the Elder Scrolls jump combined with the abilities gained from the Generic ASOIAF Jump. I also used the Universal Drawback Supplement V1.13 for some extra points and fluff. Links below.
I'm unsure if I've used the Universal Drawback Supplement correctly, I just chose the Drawbacks that I felt could work in the story.
So, the MC (The Fire Wound/Steffon Baratheon) is the third life but is separate in thoughts and feelings to The Commoner (the person who made the jumpchain, or The First Life) and Uthane The Half-Giant Breton (The One from the Elder Scrolls Jump, or The Second Life). Think of it like a twisted version of Regeneration from Doctor Who. Same person, different face and all that but the twist is that they aredifferent people with different faces.The only thing that is the same is their soul, experiences and powers/abilities that are passed on to the next life (next jump).
Translation for what the MC said at the end:
"Today, no more slaves! Today, no more masters! Today, we are free! Today, Ours is the Fury! Force Balance Push!"
These websites all translated this into lify./EnglishtoValyrianTranslator
Word for Slaves:
https/wiki./index.php?title=High_Valyrian_Dictionary#O
Dovahzul/Dragon Language Translator:
https//translator.php
Universal Drawback Supplement:
https/docs./document/d/1F8knC7zuTWavQ5eQrjXiaw-41-udkzD5KUScSv_c8F8/edit#
Skyrim Jump:
https//r/JumpChain/comments/7ycvef/skyrim/
Generic ASOIAF Fanfiction V1.0:
https//r/JumpChain/comments/iftziy/generic_asoiaf_fanfic_v10/