The priestess' speed was surprising as she managed not to die moment after moment. Like an animal, Strygwyr followed up relentlessly, living in the present at every second, yet she seemed to preempt each movement. Her gods and her magic were helping her a great deal. He'd have to put an end to that. He gasped as she hit him with a spell that sent him flying back almost as far as Broding could throw him. Clutching his stomach, he steadied himself. Pain slowed him, detracting from the benefits of the wounded around him.

He was recovering quickly, but he couldn't let that keep happening. Looking up, he saw Shrekia waving her hands in preparation of another spell. "Oh no." He said, refusing to allow whatever she was planning. Then, interrupting her, he stomped his foot in her direction, letting out something between a roar and a bark that was actually a spell of his own. Although it didn't hurt, initially, Shreika felt her adrenalin suddenly release. She became suddenly stronger, faster, wild, like an animal, and crazed with a bloodthirst that was so intense she couldn't even speak. Overwhelming raw physical power filled her body, distracting her. It would drain her energy the longer it lasted, but for the moment, she felt like she was a monster and could simply eat anyone.

Strygwyr stood back a moment to watch the spell's affects, laughing softly as a trickle of his own blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. He often used the spell on himself to completely overwhelm his foes. On him, it was godly power, but when used on a typically weak caster, the power amplification wasn't much of a threat. The silence however, was debilitating.

Lord Polvark had dropped his weapons and ordered a surrender. Strygwyr frowned as he realized the battle would soon be over. He himself wasn't a one man army, and without war, there was no reason for him to remain present. The Gutra had promised a warrior's mercy to Polvark and his men, which meant that they would be slaughtered by the barbarians. It was going to be a bloodletting that a hound of the flayed ones wasn't expected to be involved in. He didn't need the entire barbarian army turning on him, but he'd at least kill this priestess before he left.

Although his sides ached from the blast he had taken, the bloodseeker moved forward with a slight limp. "And now, you know my thirst, priestess."

"Then bring it, little man!" Flames burn in Broding's eyes, and the ebony giant stands firm. A gash in his side from the Bloodseeker's blade. Both hands sliced and bruised. An arrow in the shoulder from the barrage. Blood runs down his face from the wound in his forehead, and it pools on the floor beside him. Broding feels no pain, and despite the wounds covering him he simply keeps moving. Stepping forward, his fist shoots forward, and Broding knows that this blow would end the man's fight. He would die a warrior's death, defeated by the black giant who was now steadily turning crimson. It would take more than just this much to take down Gutra, and Broding could almost already feel the spine shattering beneath his fist.

Searing pain, and the taste of blood.

The blow had missed, and Broding realized his vision had blurred. The man was inside his reach, and from the new source of pain, Broding knew the axe had hit him in the shin. Struggling not to fall down, Broding struck out again, putting his full force behind the blow. Once more, the blow should have blown the man's head off. Broding held the experience and skill of a hundred warriors, he was a master. And yet, as the crimson knuckles merely grazed his opponent, Broding recognized the fire in the man's eyes. It is said that the eyes are the windows of the soul, and Broding could see the flames of determination, even as, once more, the axe struck deep into his flesh. A strength not entirely of this world guided the blade of the axe through bunched muscle and inhuman endurance. Each step seemed to shake the world, and Gutra knew this was not a battle of skill, not a battle of worth. It was a battle of spirit.

Making use of his opponent's pure offense, Broding launched Lord Polvark backwards, a single swing nearly crushing his skull. The power of the blow would have knocked most men unconscious, from either the pain or the concussion. However, as Broding had thought, Polvark stood up once again, and Broding still stood tall. He grinned, and this time it was not the smile of a predator. He could feel it, the tension in the air, as he realized that, in this battle, Amun favored them both equally. "Little man, you fight well. Put your spirit behind each blow, little man, and we shall see who is left standing!" Laughing, the massive hulk of muscle crashed forward. Blood loss, pain and muscle damage had left him unsteady on his feet, but he remained standing as he swung his fist forward. If he got in one more good blow, this fight would be at an end.

Jacques felt ecstasy and sorrow in equal measure, as his body gorged itself on primal energy. Instincts had swamped his rationale, and it seemed to him that he had forsaken a lifetime commitment to peace and compassion for a bloody hour of battle; killing and dying for a cause he no longer savoured, for an Emperor he no longer favoured. The savage giant, riddled with injures as he was, came to Jacques in a speed that defied his stature.

"Why is mother crying, father?"

"You know why, you little shit, you ungrateful fucking demon spawn!"

"Father, I don'-"

"I SAW YOU, did you think I wouldn't find out?"

"What did you se-"

"To think, Frandalmir the Great, famed warrior and legendary commander, sprung from his manhood an afflicted brat. How the Old Gods mock me."

The giant's fist surged forwards as if carried by a tempest, and Jacques for the first time realised his peril. He was no warrior, he had floundered through this fight on a mixture of adrenaline and forlorn hope. His enemy, towering above him, and constructed from the souls of a thousand warriors like a patchwork quilt of fallen heroes, was going to kill him. There was nothing to be done. Jacques closed his eyes, and clenched the axe tightly with both hands. It would be over soon.

"Polvark! Polvark! Polvark!"

The crowds lined either side of the street, making way for an immaculate chariot of burnished steel and prized mares.

"Polvark! Polvark! Polvark!"

Pox ridden faces, with toothless mouths, yelled their applause to the man that had broken the Emperor's heavy taxes.

Jacques brought the axe up at the last second, and his enemy's fist, almost as large as his head, crashed into the weapon's shaft. The sheer force of impact was enough to send him flying several feet until the solid stone of the keep's wall broke his flight. He fell to the floor in a heap; his body surged with lightning, as his muscles and bones quickly registered the innumerable busted blood vessels and torn fibres.

"The Emperor will not take kindly to your popularity with the mob, he will see your charitable actions as an effort to undermine him."

"The Emperor is not as pitiful or as tyranical as you think, Wizard, he favours my actions, he has told me so."

"I have known that man since he was a child, if there is one thing he does not favour, it is someone whose name is shouted more than his."

"Enough. I have two more hospices to visit before the day is done, we will talk of this later."

Curse the Emperor. That aged, withered crone with half the mind worthy of his station. People could sing to the high heavens that it was the Emperor's Bane, that brought the Empire to its knees, but in truth it was all traceable back to that one miserable wretch. If only Jacques had been in a position of strength, if only he had seen the world for what it was those few years ago, then maybe he could have made a difference. Had his assignment to the Empire's frail frontiers been the result of his inaction?

The giant stalked towards him mockingly, stopping to show a hint of disappointment that Jacques had given up the fight too early. He struggled to his feet, and saw with dismay that the axe was out of his reach. He looked down at his fists, and clenched them.

"We fight as equals, barbarian, and the Gods will decide who is stronger," sneered Jacques. He spat blood and teeth onto the tiles beneath him, and stalked forwards.

The giant seemed almost amused at Jacques' suicidal proposition, though there was also something else in those evil eyes; respect maybe? He grunted, and moved to meet him. A large fist came down from above, and Jacques moved to avoid it, coming across on the giant's left and launching his own into the monster's rippling torso. They were good, strong hits, but they were ultimately ineffectual. Jacques scooted backwards, avoiding a clumsy counter jab. He noticed that the giant appeared to be tiring, and even his feet were starting to lag with the accumulation of his many injuries. Seizing the advantage, Jacques shot forwards, ducking another powerful but ill-coordinated swing, and brought his right hand up into the giant's chin.

The impact made an audible click, and the giant stumbled backwards. Jacques could hardly believe his luck, and for the first time since the fight had started, he saw a window for victory. It was narrow, and horribly blurred - but it was there. He moved in again, but this time the giant did not swing; instead he seized Polvark by the shoulder and lifted him off the floor with a snarling growl. Jacques fought desperately for release, and wailed on the giant's face with several hooks, but the iron grip did not ease - it only tightened.

It was respectable indeed, a man who was able to look into impossible odds with such fire in his eyes. Even injured to such an extent, there was no way Gutra would lose to an unarmed man, no matter what the gods decided. His fists didn't have the oomph necessary to deal any damage, despite the little man landing several decent hits. The pain was negligible compared to his earlier injuries. It would have been sad, had Broding not been able to feel the earnest force behind each blow. His eye broken, his bones shattered, his muscles torn, this man's body should have stopped moving ages ago. The fellow didn't notice it at this point, but Broding was an expert in injuries, both dealing them and recognizing them. Lord Polvark would later realize that by all rights, he should have been unable to move. His body was motivated not by any biological function of the body, but he was held up by sheer willpower. Nothing more, nothing less.

After several unsuccesful attempts, Broding managed to get a hold of the small foe, who had darted in and out of his guard. Holding Lord Polvark up to his face, Gutra looked into those flaming eyes. "The Gods have granted you their favours for your valiance and courage, Polvark. You have earned the title of warrior. Even if you discard every name your feeble empire has bestowed upon you, even if you have lost all the glory you obtained as his servant, know that here you are recognized. You faced Gutra, and you have won my respect. Every man present here knows of your deeds, and you will live on into the realm of legend." The man's fists rammed into muscles like steel, flesh hardened beyond that of most men. It was useless, but he fought until the end. "Know that you have died the best death that a man can wish for, for you died with eyes of fire, and a heart forged in steel."

The men around the fight were silent, witnessing this event. There were few who received praise from Gutra, even among the most skilled of warriors and knights. He had faced far more powerful opponents than Polvark, and devoured their hearts. To see such lavish praise granted to one who could barely wield a weapon was unusual at best, and yet, those present would all know why. The tale would certainly be told around campfires for many winters to come, inspiring the many warriors who would one day challenge Broding for the position of Gutra.

The crimson giant pulled back his left fist, staring Polvark into the eye. Among the Gun, it is dishonorable to turn away from a dying man, for none deserve to die alone. Your opponent is also your companion, and a bond forged with steel is the strongest bond among men. With a final smile, his fist shot forward, aimed straight for Polvark's heart, as soon that spirit would become a part of Broding. Then-

Pain arched across the side of his face, and Broding fell backwards. A guttural roar of agony echoed through the chambers of the fortress, seeming to make the very stones tremble. Blood flowed like a river down the side of his face, covering the hands that clutched the now ruined eye socket. Pain clouded Gutra's mind as he staggered backwards. It shouldn't have been possible, that blow. And yet, Broding realized, that he had been struck in the eye. A wound that would last for the rest of his life, a mark of defeat that could never heal. Dropping to his knees, Broding roared once more, as much from pain as from humiliation.

The hound barked and a spell shot from his open mouth. A crazed look overtook Shreika’s eyes as she allowed herself a sadistic grin. She could feel the power of the hound coursing through her veins and the rage and primal spirit that came with it.

The spell she had prepared was fired off early as she lost control of herself, and a crackling black net, formed from the abyss itself was flung up and into the air. The priestess’s magic was lost but she refused to be beaten, struggling to overcome the animalistic feelings that were invading her thoughts. Even without her magic, a Priestess of the Abyss was not defenceless.

In this wild state she noticed the form of the hound limping towards her. She saw him open his mouth to speak, but the words didn’t register. Acting on impulse Shreika leapt forward and pulled out two small, claw like weapons from within her robes. The karambit felt natural to her; as if they helped her further the process of becoming the beast she was forced into being.

She clawed at the hound, who even weakened could dodge the priestess’s attacks and was even able to retaliate, cutting through Shreika’s robes with his strange bladed tonfa. Though small in size, the karambit were no less deadly than her opponent’s weapon, a curved and sharpened claw, emerged out of the base of her fists and pointing forward with a razor sharp tip.

Bringing her blades down Shreika tried once again to connect with the evasive dog, but failed, leaving her open for a strike to the chin, launching her backwards and colliding with one of the barbarians. On instinct she started shredding through the warrior, who could only receive the enhanced attacks helplessly.

Standing above the corpse, Shreika was suddenly released from the debilitating magic. Her body however was crippled with pain, the wounds that had previously gone unnoticed returned with a vengeance as her robes were now stained a deep red.

With her magic returned, she quickly threw a shield around her body to allow her a brief respite. The magical energies of the abyss would absorb anything that struck the shield for at most twenty seconds and block all light from entering or escaping, hopefully allowing the priestess enough time to heal the worst of her injuries.

Even though she had been silenced, the black net of void magic still took shape, falling atop the blood hunter that very same moment. It was unavoidable. Strygwyr cried out as the the net crackled with energy, shocking him. The edges of the net fixed themselves to the ground, preventing him from running. He struggled, pulling against it. The net restricted his movements, but even still, he managed to parry through it and return a strike to the priestess' chin. As she fell backward, he collapsed forward, leaning on his weapons, exhausted. Panting, he tried to cut the net, but it did not work. Inside the keep, the battle had been reduced to the two champions, Broding and Polvark. The slaughter was over, and without bloodshed, the hound of the Twins was losing power. Knowing it was well past time to depart, Strygwyr growled in frustration. He had been caught and was likely going to die for it. He lifted his head as he heard Broding expel a roar of agony. He blinked under his mask. An eye? The Gutra was a very good killer. Strygwyr contemplated as he took a moment to rest under the net. The twins would have been pleased to have him... and they would not require his eyes.

Human beings were an amazing race. They were survivalists, and everything they did propelled them to their one and only goal: continuation. It was perhaps this birth right that had taken hold in the Lord's mind, as he dangled helplessly, waiting for death. He had fought the good fight, drawing on strength that would have put his father to shame, but Jacques Polvark the Afflicted had reached the end of his meagre tale. As the hulking giant pulled back its hand, readying to rip his heart from him, he felt a surge of revulsion. To think that he would not truly die, but instead, would be trapped in a prison as a murderer of thousands used stolen knowledge to plunge the world further into chaos.

Polvark saw his chance, and went for it. With his hand stretched, as if his fingers were claws, he swiped at the giant's face, catching its eye and digging deep. With a brief sickening gurgle, he tore the enlarged orb from the face of his enemy, and the grip that suspended him in place loosened. Fighting with the strength of an angry God, Polvark broke free and dropped to the floor, even as his foe released forth a deafening roar - or was it a scream?

Standing to his full height, Jacques looked his opponent in its one working eye, "my name is Jaques Polvark, and it is within me to build a better world."

Rushing forwards, he planted a series of bone-crunching jabs and hooks to the dazed giant's exposed torso. One fist after another, battering away at an impervious wall of muscle - but this time, his assault yielded results. The monster recoiled, half blinded, and heavily diminished, batting away at Polvark with panicked throws of its meaty arms. Sensing an opening, the Lord put everything he had into an uppercut, making contact with the giant's chin, and sending it stumbling backwards. Not willing to lose his advantage, he shoved his enemy, and with a loud crash the hulking mass fell backwards.

Before he knew it, he was upon the giant, wailing on its face repeatedly, his knuckles feeling as if they were contacting with stone. Again and again, his attacks thundered on his enemy, sending splatters of blood over the stonework.

"Die, die, die!" Polvark screeched between hits.

Something akin to a treetrunk smashed into the side of his head, and he rolled several feet from his adversary. Blood dripped from his ear, and his already bloodied vision became studded with stars. He had little doubt his skull had been cracked, and that death was a strong possibility even in the event of victory, yet still Polvark felt energy surging through him. An energy not driven by magical powers, or divine blessing, but of raw adrenaline - the hammer and the anvil of all mankind.

"On your feet, monster," coughed Polvark, spitting a mixture of blood and teeth onto the floor. "I've enough... I've enough in me yet to rid your evil from this world."

Broding spat blood onto the floor. He was battered and broken. The loss of blood was going to make even him lose consciousness if he wasn't careful. It was drying on his skin, although his dulled and jaded senses couldn't feel it. It was overwhelmed by the pain from his wounds, no other sensations could penetrate the thick fog of blood loss. His vision was swimming, blackness filling the edges of his sight, and it became hard to decide which way was up. He had hit the man by chance, a lucky blow. While the punches didn't do much to his hardened body, when they struck wounds, he could severely damage the muscles beneath. Every part of his body was battered and bruised, a state that he had never expected to find himself in. Around him was pooled not the blood of his enemies, but his own blood, flowing down from cuts and gashes all over his body. He could feel it down into his bruised bones, a feeling that was new to him. It pressed down to him, sank it's teeth into his mind, a feeling both foreign and oppressing, something that Gutra should never feel.

Broding felt defeat, clutching his heart in it's hand. He could feel the weight of fear, the knowledge that he had been equalled and outdone by an opponent. It was laughable, the idea that a small figure such as Lord Polvark could possibly defeat Gutra, strongest of Gun, chosen of Amun. And yet, as his opponent spoke, the conviction in his tone was obvious. He could feel a willpower, tempered in the fires of hate and adversion. A man who had been pushed down by the world, beaten into a corner, as one by one the pillars of his world view had become corrupted. And, now, all that pent up anger, all that frustration, was being focused into one fight. It was like a berserker rage, a state in which one felt no pain, and no fear. Such a thing was considered to be holy among the Gun, the ultimate warrior state, the ability to transcend human limits and to become a predator of man, a reaper of souls.

Slowly, the giant rose to his feet. He laughed, he couldn't help it. It wasn't a mocking laugh, for indeed his opponent had won his respect and more. It was a laugh directed at the stupidity of this situation, the fact that he had been bested by the man who would surrender for the lives of his men. In many ways, the little man was different from Broding. In his beliefs, in his morals, and in his view of this world. He thought differently from the Gung, and didn't abide by the warrior code that presided over their culture, he wasn't even a warrior. And yet, in one important way, Broding had found a reflection of himself in the little man. The man fought for his goals. He had decided what he wanted the world to be, and he had fought to forge the world into that image. The will to try and change the unchangeable, to try and fight the unfightable, to stand in the face of the greatest dangers and scream your defiance. It was something Broding could learn from.

"I must admit defeat, little man. You have bested me. By law of the Warrior Code, you may take my lands, my title, my wives, and my life. All are yours to do with as you see fit. You have earned the name of Gutra, and, having been defeated by such a small man, I can no longer wear that title with pride." Broding's voice was deep and heavy, and yet it was filled with an almost childlike sense of exhileration. A happiness that, while seemingly completely inappropriate for the situation, filled the former Gutra's heart. For in this defeat, in his first loss in this world, he had found something of far greater importance than victory. He had found an opponent, and a goal. "If you take my life, as is your right, the Gung will allow you out of this castle. However, if you leave me alive, I shall lead them out of this castle. If you truly wish to rebuild the world, then take up your arms and do so, little man. It would be a shame to see such a fiery soul die."

As Broding spoke, hushed whispers went through the observers. Gutra had renounced his title, and possibly his own life. Without Gutra to lead them, the Gung would need to select a new leader. There was no time for a massive tournament, for warriors to compete to be the one to take back the title from the iron man. As such, it was the duty of the High Shaman to apoint a new leader, and yet that same shaman was still at their home town. They would be left leaderless, although, with control of the great walls of Castle Rivergate, they could hold their position for months on end.