Howland watched as the competitors almost effortlessly defeated their seemingly formidable opponents which ease, making their way to the victor stands just near Rask. He needed to be up there if he wanted to pursue his life as an adventurer but who would compete against him? It certainly could not be someone as mediocre as the other competitors who were easily beaten, he needed to make a decent first impression. The room still smelt of shit from the spectacle Wretha displayed earlier, leaving Howland hyped after what Mordrag and Wretha just did to their opponents but made him nervous, realizing he needed to be next. 

[i]As quick as a shadow lynx, as sly as a fox.[/i] He encouraged, quoting the faded words his younger sister gave him when he conspired to steal a sweet roll from farmer Jak many years ago. Howland could remember the old, auspicious farm where he was once called his warm home. A muddy, dust-filled place that brought to him - a pranging feeling of both nostalgia and despair which ached his heart in a egregious way almost similar to being punched in the gut by a large Gothi brute. He could not return to that place, even the thought of his mother who he failed to protect would leave him in a state of turmoil, would soon flood his mind with darkness that wrenched the young man's heart at even the closest thought of it. The pangs of longing and despair, Howland realized, are far worse than any of the afflictions of physical pain would ever bring to him and the emptiness which followed afterward. His mother, a nurturer and fond friend of his and his sister, who drowned herself in her many books with him. The feelings of home could easily pierce the heart with either joy or plague it with an unrelenting sickness which deprived him of meaning. Howland then closed his eyes to console himself for a brief moment, realizing that he had not arrived here to mourn the dead or become homesick and slowly began to unsheathe his dragon sword, holding he dragon-carved, ancestral pommel in front of his nose to pray to his Gods. 

[i]Gods above, bless me the strength to carry this blade in my hand and the will to yield it.[/i] He prayed silently to himself. Howland paused for a moment and began to hear a horde of roaring laughter to his left only a few feet away. When he opened his eyes he realized that the laughter was towards him and was inclusively perpetrated by one woman who Howland would most certainly tell was from the the further east from a small providence in the Trattican Empire. She was a tall, beautiful brunette woman behind her freshly-made red war paint who was comprised of green-hazel, almonded shaped eyes and short, curled hair. Like the others, she was big, muscular and formidable. Her ragged leather armor which was slightly exposed and its style, would easily give away her appearance as a Rothka tribesmen of the Ruby Shore of the southern forests to the east, a place once home to the mighty Dragons according to legend before being killed off by invading barbarians. 

The Rothkai were known for their incivility, "Shield Maidens" which the Gothi also auspiciously called their women warriors, and a sense of brute, barbaric humor which she most certainly had displayed to the leftover men of the audience she tried to impress behind her. Surly the gods had most certainly chosen a worthy adversary and not one which was prone to boasting and falsely dubbing themselves as a great warrior. Even the way she approached him was different from the other amateurs Howland has faced and defeated in his time. 

[color=7ea7d8]"Do not mock my gods."[/color] He asserted, while a crowd of people soon turned towards them. He stood up to meet her on eye level. 

[color=ed1c24] "Fuck yer gods, I shit on your gods."[/color] She spat on the floor, her accent thick and sounding malicious nonetheless, it was almost as if she were looking to pick a fight in the ring with him. 

[color=7ea7d8]"What's wrong with my gods? Let me remind you that Mushar, your God, the God of Strength and War failed to protect your people from the Trattican Peoples who invaded your lands. I doubt he could even protect a weakling like yourself, seeing that he could not protect your own people while he let your men be butchered and your women raped. What a shame, I guess he really does protect the strong."[/color] His words were cold but defensive and the tall shield maiden breathed out heavily like a bull does before a charge as veins popped from her forehead and possessed a look with the intent of ripping him to shreds for mocking her people and her god. 

[color=ed1c24] "How about we fight in the ring and figure it out?"[/color] She suggested, grinding her teeth together to calm herself. [color=ed1c24] "Then we will see whose Gods are truly protecting us."[/color] Soon enough, both competitors entered the ring, eager to win the preference of their new employer while the smaller crowd around them talked among themselves and made wagers. The sounds of conversations flooded the room and soon faded as more began to speak and Howland could no longer make sense any wager as it was lost in the sea of other conversation. Both Howland and the Shield maiden readied themselves for battle. 

[i]As quick as a shadow lynx, as sly as a fox.[/i] Howland took a briefmoment and guided his Longsword just above his nose with both hands on the handle, leveling it with his eyes. If they both had anything in common, it was their methods of fighting, their quick cunning ways of finding exposed weakness in order to strike with lethal intention and their disdain for metal armor, using speed as their advantage to tire their enemy out. [i]It is gong to be a tricky situation. May the Gods be pleased if I find myself out of this.[/i] he thought to himself as others around them chanted for the battle to commence. A clash of steel on steel followed afterwards as each competitor trusted or slashed their swords, only to be blocked or dodged. 

A series of clangs from their collided blades and chanting came from the room around them as both warriors fought for their position among the pedestal of victors above them. After a while, the battle seemed to be going nowhere as both were almost equally matched as it waged for a few minutes afterward. Howland then backed away to catch his breath while the Shield maiden took hers, crouching protectively behind her wooden shield which was patterned with steel that covered the outer portions and red war paint as she held her sword, still firmly grasped in her leather gloves.  

Howland darted toward again, thrusting his pointed blade in one arm towards the cunning warrior who had managed to dodge the incoming blade, just barely missing the top of her dirty brunette head. The warrior then spun around and crouched below him as Howland frantically pranced back, his stomach pressed inward to avoid the blade but not quick enough, the sharp had abruptly sheered through his leather armor and his sensitive flesh below, forcefully cutting through it like a butcher slices through bloody raw pork meat. A intense, searing feeling in his stomach followed shortly after, leaving Howland in agonizing pain as tickles of blood began to flow down his lower abdomen. But he had to stay standing, relentless and willing to fight. He then pranced backwards and stood on guard, realizing the barbarian had a sly jester of a smile on her face as she then realized she could easily finish him. 

[color=7ea7d8]"Tis but a scratch."[/color] He said, thought it was much more than that judging but the pain. The tall shield maiden chuckled through her teeth as if wanting to bit him and go for the throat like a rapid wolf. Howland pending for her to strike, which would most certainly end in him losing this battle if he did not think quickly, tried to think of a way to out maneuver her. Howland braced himself as the warrior woman approached him. 

[i]As quick as a shadow lynx, as sly as a fox.[/i] Howland moved as quick as he could, trying to dodge her shield bashing with her every move before letting her sword do the work, leaving a part of her shield arm exposed. Howland finally had the upper hand as he left his knife he had just pulled, slice its way downward, cutting the warrior's shield arm deeply. The maiden then let out a subtle cry of pain before jotting backwards and casting a throwing knife in his direction which Howland just barely managed to block with his Longsword. The throwing knife bounced from his sword and dug its way into the sand below him while the warrior made her way almost hopelessly toward Howland. With a few blocks, Howland patiently waited for the opportunity to finally strike when an opening was left wide open. Howland then grabbed the central ridge of his blade with his left hand and letting his right take the fuller portion of the blade and held onto the blade of his sword before striking down on the head of the brute with a considerable force with his pommel. 

A loud thump followed afterwards which almost certainly meant a concussion as the crowed shrieked behind him, knowing she was done for. Howland moved back to see what she was going to next as the warrior let out a small grunt before her eyes turned back into her head before falling to the floor half conscious, just catching herself with her sword hand. Without hesitation, he moved in for the kill while the Shield maiden grabbed a hold of her blade and tried to swing, just missing Howland's legs by a foot. She could not tell whether or not Howland was approaching her from a foot of even and a few hundred feet away, everything was faded and unclear to her until the young man grabbed a hold of her sword arm and kicked her shield from her reach. Howland placed the point of his sword towards her neck while spectators asked for blood behind him. 

[color=ed1c24]"Mercy, please."[/color] She cried, just barely managing to utter words from her tired lips. Her daunting look soon turned to concern as Howland removed the blade from her throat as blood trickled down her neck where the blade once ly. When he let go, she clumsily grabbed her items and ran out of the tavern, injured and shamed. 

[color=7ea7d8]"Is that good enough for you?"[/color] He asked calmly before making us way to the stands near Rask, clutching his stomach wound with both hands and uttering a few incantations he learned from the White Mages who taught him a few minor healing spells to heal his wounds. It was said that the Rothkai people dipped their weapons in cow manure before going into a battle in order to assure that their victims would die form infections. Howland sat in the chairs above the small stands to heal himself with great effort and hopping that was just a rumor.