Chapter 01 - Introducing: The Brawler!

A Half-Orc named Bace battles a Troll in a tournament.

Chapter 01 - Introducing: The Brawler!

 

Two contestants fought in a sand-pit arena - one was a man, the other a beast. The man was a Half-Orc, but he was short and stocky with pale skin decorated with battle scars. His head was topped with long, ginger hair, which was one of his trademarks (very unlike the usual dark olive skin and black hair of his Orc brethren). His adversary stood well over twice his height. It was a Troll, but was almost sickly green, and its gangly muscles made it seem like it was starved. The chains that wrapped around its neck, arms, and ankles clanked while it moved.

The Half-Orc, named Bace Gurat but affectionately called “The Brawler”, pummeled at the Troll’s stomach. The bladed gauntlets on his fists magnified the damage, but didn't penetrate its tough skin. The crowd in the stadium roared in approval. The Brawler grinned, swinging harder at the beast. In defense, the Troll raised its arms. The Brawler’s gauntlets opened crevices that spurted dark green liquid. It lowered its arms long enough to return fire with a furious heavy fist, slamming into Bace’s jaw. The audience groaned in dismay. Damn, he thought, He’s stronger than he looks!

“And the Troll bashes into The Brawler’s face!” the announcer shouted into the microphone, “What a hit, ladies and gentlemen! What a hit!”

Bace lunged at the behemoth before him, grappling him and bringing him crashing down into the sand pit. The Troll countered, snatching The Brawler by the face and flinging him twenty feet in the air. By the time Bace had returned to the earth, the Troll was standing. It caught him by the arm midair and slammed him into the ground. The crowd gasped.

“Ladies and gentlemen, things do not look good for The Brawler!”

Bace coughed, a new cut in his lip leaking down his chin. The audience began to chant, “Braw-ler! Braw-ler! Braw-ler!” A deep crackle of a laugh resonated from the Troll as it bent over to grab Bace by the arm. Much to the monster’s surprise, The Brawler seized it by the wrist and used its weight to hoist himself up, while at the same time throwing it to the ground. Taking the opportunity to counterattack, Bace began pounding the Troll in the face, decorating it with cuts and bruises.

“Woah! What a comeback!” the announcer screamed with a sort of giddiness, “The Brawler is beating the Troll senseless!”

As the Troll faded out of consciousness, the crowd went wild. Then, as if it were a trophy, Bace deadlifted the Troll over his head, sending the crowd into hysterics. With a sharp-toothed grin of victory, The Brawler thought to himself, If they scream any louder, I think I might go deaf!

Two of the arena guards rushed to the Half-Orc to assist him with the Troll. A young informant followed not far behind.

“Y’know, yer really strong fer bein’ so short!” the kid said, beaming happily.

“Shut up, Novar,” Bace snapped, shoving the Troll onto the guards. He wiped the blood from his face and then cupped his hand over his eyes to keep the sun from blinding him as he peered into the stadium. “Big crowd today,” he said, and then waved and smiled at the spectators. Their volume increased tenfold before he dropped his hand to his side and followed the guards to the exit.

Novar shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned back as he walked next to Bace, “Yup. Yer bound to attract attention when ya fight somethin’ twice yer size!”

“Oh, shut up,” Bace smacked Novar in the back of the head, “You’re supposed to be telling me about my next opponent.”

“Ya know I can’t do that this time, Bacey,” the kid laughed, caressing his now bruised head. The guards stopped at the iron gate to hoist the Troll’s arms over their shoulders and wait for it to open.

Bace groaned in exasperation, “For your own sake, you should really stop calling me that.” After a loud clunk, a screech resonated over the crowd, a signal that the old metal gate was opening. After a few seconds, the guards dragged the Troll to its kennel. “Anyway,” Bace said, walking down a long hall filled to the brim with monsters in cages, “You’re my informant. It’s your job to tell me what I’m going up against in the next round.”

“Yeah, but I’m not allowed ta tell ya who yer fightin’ in the Semi-Finals or th’ Finals round!” Novar sighed, “Besides, it’s not like I need ta tell ya who yer fightin’. You seem ta be able ta fight anybody without any problems.”

“It makes it easier when I know who I’m fighting,” Bace rubbed his jaw where he had been punched by the Troll, “Who made up that stupid rule, anyway?”

Novar shrugged, “I dunno.”

At the end of the hall was a large opening, leading to the Orcish city of Uunk. The paved road was filled with spectators and fans of the mighty Orc Tournaments, and many of them were Orcs themselves. One man seemed to stand out to Bace more than any other. He didn’t look any different from anybody else, he even wore the same tattered burlap shirt, but he was out of the ordinary. Almost like the scene was a painting and he was cut and pasted there from another, very similar painting.

Bace was soon distracted by Novar running off to collect his winnings at one of the dozens of stands bordering the road. The Half-Orc followed close behind, “Which battle did you bet on, kid?”

“There’s this one fight between an Elf and a Minotaur,” Novar replied, scratching his head, “A Drow, I think he was. Or she. I couldn’t really tell. Anyway, th’ odds were fiddy ta one against th’ Drow, so naturally I bet.”

“I’m assuming you won the bet?” Bace chuckled.

Novar scoffed, and spoke to the Orc attending the stand. Bace turned to see if he could find the mysterious man, but his efforts were in vain. “I’m going to the inn. I’ll meet you there,” Bace said to Novar, who shooed him away while he talked with the Orc attendant.

Not two minutes after walking toward Uunk, Bace was stopped by several young Orcs, all of which were holding markers and imitations of broken Elven helmets. One of them asked, “Uhh, Mr. Brawler, sir? Can we get your autograph?”

“Umm,” Bace mumbled, “Sure.” He clumsily took one of the markers and drew a crude eye on each helmet. “There you go,” he said, handing the young Orc his marker back.

He said, “Thanks, Mr. Brawler! You’re the best!” and then scurried off into the crowd with his friends.

Most of the walk into the city was interrupted by eager fans waiting for signatures, making what should have been a twenty minute trip last over an hour. Just inside the city was the building he was looking for; the Rotting Hide. As he approached the Inn, he recognized the all too familiar features: tattered walls, cracked windows, and a collapsing roof. You’d think old D’urk would patch up the place, Bace thought. The Innkeeper, D’urk, waved at Bace as he opened the door. “Looks like that Troll gotcha pretty good, eh?” he shouted through his beard, followed by a deep-bellied chortle. D’urk always shouted, although nobody was really sure why. Bace waved him off with his heavy gauntlet and went up the creaky stairs to go to the room he had been using for almost a month now.  He knocked on the door before opening it, revealing the torch-lit room. An oak chair, a nightstand, and a ratty old bed (which Novar was sulking on) decorated the room.

“What’s wrong, kid?” Bace asked with a wry smile on his face, “You’re quiet for once.”

Novar flopped backwards onto the bed, hiding his forest green eyes with his arm, “I don’t wanna talk ‘bout it.”

“Come on, something’s bugging you,” Bace unclasped his gauntlets and threw them onto the nightstand next to the bed. The gauntlets landed with a loud thud on Novar’s coinpurse, which appeared to be empty, “Did the attendant at the stand rip you off?”

“Nah,” Novar said, sitting back up.

“Well what is it then?” Bace sat down in the chair across from the bed and started unlacing his boots, “And why don’t you have any gold left?”

Sighing, the kid stood up, his shoulders hunched, and said, “The Drow I bet on used magic… He was disqualified from th’ match.”

Bace kicked off his boot, flinging to the other side of the room, and began untying the boot on his other foot, “People these days are getting pretty bold, what with casting magic and all.”

“And at a tourney, too…”

“Yeah,” the other boot landed next to its brother after a short trip across the room, “What’s with that?”

Novar let out a sigh, “It don’t matter, Bacey, we’re broke now.”

“D****t, how many times do I have to tell you not to call me that,” Bace growled, “before you get it through your thick skull?”

Novar thrust himself back onto the bed, “And I’m usually real good at bettin’, too…”

“Oh, quit your whining. By the time I win the tournament, we’ll be rich enough to buy the Inn, plus all the other Inns around Uunk,” Bace stretched, “I’m going to get some sleep. You can do whatever you want for the rest of the night, just be back before it gets dark.”

With an eyebrow raised, Novar looked at Bace quizzically, “Isn’t it yer turn ta sleep on th’ bed?”

“You can go ahead, kid. It’s been a long day.”

And with that The Brawler slipped into a deep slumber.