It had been three days since Gunmar had entered the camp’s brawling pit and he hadn’t left yet - not to sleep, not to eat, and definitely not to socialize. He was a roaring tower of fevered rage and it showed in how brutally he contested against each combatant. Bonechard could only watch with mild intrigue as the troll went from one fight to the next, seemingly without tiring. Impressive.
Two other figures stood outside the ring, murmuring to each other as they watched the fights progress. Bonechard grinned and strolled up to them, standing beside the chief opposite to his changeling advisor. Orlagk paused mid-sentence, glancing down at the purple stone caster.
“Heh, I can see now why yeh made him a general,” the caster remarked with a grin. “The brute’s built like a mountain with the energy of an angry ocean!”
“Yes,” Kodanth drawled snidely, glancing at the short terum troll. “Now if he could use that energy to do something other than debilitate half the army, that would be astounding.”
Orlagk growled, his claws digging into his folded arms. “Lad’s in season,” he growled, squinting at the snarling warrior. “He won’t come out of it ‘til the fever’s broken.”
“And he won’t take any of the mares,” Kodanth grunted disdainfully. “He prefers to fight them than rut them.”
Bonely frowned and stroked his chin with a claw. “Prefers fightin’ teh ruttin’ huh? Well now, that I think I can help with.”
Orlagk raised an eyebrow while his advisor sniffed derisively.
“You? Wrangle him? He’s put more than a dozen trolls twice your size in the bonemender’s tent! You wouldn’t possibly—”
The changeling was cut off with the raise of a hand from Orlagk. The chieftain had seen him spar, seen the match between him and Gunmar not even a fortnight ago. “Think ye can handle him, caster?” the warlord mused, eying the caster curiously.
“Wouldn’t make the offer if I didn’t,” Bonely replied, rolling his shoulders. “We’ll see how long he lasts against the tenacity a’ Harth’Terum.” And with that, the cocky caster slid down into the brawling pit, grinning as he readied himself for a fight.
The brawl was spectacular and drew even more of a crowd than expected. Shards and piles of obsidian littered the arena as the general plowed through another black stone construct. Bonechard was a blur of purple and indigo, using his natural roundness to become a rolling boulder of destruction. He’d managed to clobber Gunmar from the back and sides, bruising the giant before his timing was figured out and took a full clenched fist to the face.
The blow sent him skidding across the pit, stars dancing in front of his eyes. The crowd of soldiers was let out a mix of amused cheers and sympathetic oohs as the caster tried to push himself to his feet. He sniffed, purple-black blood dripping down from his nose. That was new. Never had he been struck so hard as to draw blood by someone outside his tribe. This guy was strong and catching him mid-roll was incredible!
Bonechard’s thoughts were interrupted when he felt a hand grip his back and shove him back into the ground. He could hear the other’s heavy, ragged panting, feel the slight tremble of exertion, but more than that, he could almost feel the general’s triumphant grin as he pinned him in place. Bonely wriggled under the hand gripping his scruff, trying to get purchase on the pit’s dirt floor. No luck. The floor of the pit was as soft and churned as a farmer’s freshly plowed field and his claws passed through it as if he were clawing through sand.
“I have you now, caster,” Gunmar laughed, looking down at the terum troll. “No tricks can save you now!”
Bonely growled, and squirmed again. Of course he’d gloat. Bonechard was the only one in the entire camp he’d have satisfaction in besting in combat. With the tricks he played in arm wrestling, the surprise magics in their first fight Bonely would’ve been surprised if the blue-runed brute didn’t take a moment to bask in his victory - especially one as hard won as this.
“Savor it while it lasts, Gunmar, ‘cause it ain’t gonna last—”
The terum troll froze as he felt claws brush against the ridges of his tail, strumming the invisible strings inside him. His tail lifted briefly as a shimmer of blue and indigo stars sparkled in the grooves of his runes, his magic racing through him and making his stony skin tingle. Suddenly the grips on his mane and tail released and the two combatants stared at each other in such shock that the fight had completely left their mind.
Gunmar looked from Bonechard to his hands and back again, shock and confusion written all over his face. The caster followed his eyes and then let his ears fall as horrified realization dawned on his face. He took in a sharp breath and ducked his head before darting off toward the edge of the ring, his stone flushed almost purple.
“Bonechard!” Gunmar called, raising his head to go after him, “Bonechard, wait! Bonechard!”
Falling to all fours, the young general clambered out of the ring and through the parting crowd. Why did he have to be so fast? Turning his head, he sniffed deep to try and find the terum troll’s scent. South. With his nose on the trail, Gunmar charged down the way after the smaller troll but was soon turned around by the many scents and trails they led. Where had the caster gone?
The general let out a frustrated bellow and pounded his fists into the ground. He wouldn’t be returning to the brawling pit. Not until he found the caster and they discerned just what in the name of Mother Mountain happened in that pit.
