"Despite how much I disdain directly risking my well-being, no, you will not be alone," Mori responds to Darath's comment. He doesn't seem the type to boast; he's probably simply stating a fact. "As long as someone can be expected to take care of their formidable regenerative abilities, I am confident enough in our chances of survival."
Lysira let her taunts slice through the air, slipping into her preferred stance as she did. Taking only a moment, she pounced. Her fist flying through the air.
"It's not a question of bark." says Arren, his deep voice slowly growing deeper and developing into a rumble. He takes a step back from Lysira as she pummels him with her fists, grunting just a bit as he moves away from her. His skin ripples and then a coat of thick black fur springs quickly along its surface. His face and hands grow darker and sharp, thick claws extend from the ends of his fingers as they retreat somewhat into his hands, gaining a pawlike shape.
"It's a matter of..."
He lets out a savage roar, opening his mouth and baring his teeth at the witchwolf, extending his body forwards and his hands back.
"...roar."
As Lysira lands the first blow, the crowd cheers! (first strikes of a combat round are an automatic performance combat check fyi :) )
Lysira currently has the upper hand in the view of the crowd watching. Arren's fans roar in answer, defiantly supporting one of the Coldborn tribe's most auspicious heroes.
Arren is in full werebearkin form now, his black fur sleek in the dancing firelight of the longhouse. Across from him, as opposite as can be imagined, Lysira Silvercoat mimics the movements of a hunting wolf, conjuring to mind a darkly forested scene and a mortal battle taking place under the leafy canopy. The tribal leaders have taken notice of the challenge by now, and have paused their deliberations to watch the fight.
Saipres looks back and forth between Darath and Moriarti during their exchange, his mind racing. It had been silly of him to jump to the conclusion that the Nightsulk would have attacked someone there, it wasn't their style at all. The stakes of this Moot felt so high that he was imagining conflict where there wasn't any. Was he also ignoring it where it actually was? The idea that Trolls would attack during the moot seemed far-fetched. He'd never known them to be so bold.
He decided that it would be best not to take any chances, and addressed the two skinwalkers at the same time. "Listen. We may not always see eye to eye, but you're still kin, and I'll do everything I can to make sure that neither of you are hurt. Now, tell me, how do you know there are trolls? And where are they?"
"Sounds like someone had his morning porridge stole this morning." She flashed a grin moving in close, actions still aggressive. She moved to strike, swiftly giving two punches. Aiming for openings.
Multiple Hits: If a combatant has more than one attack on her turn and hits an opponent with at least two of those attacks, she can make a performance combat check as a swift action. She gains a +2 bonus on this performance combat check for every attack she hits with beyond the second.
Unfortunately I don't think either of those hits landed so no check needed.
After the first blow landed, Arren adapted his defensive posture slightly, dodging out of the way of the wolf-woman's punches - though the second punch missed by just a hair, eliciting a collective gasp from the crowd.
Arren growls and pulls his spear off his back. The weapon slides out of its sheath easily and the coldborn pivots, spinning to strike the woman with the flat of his spear's blade or the wood of the shaft.
Unfortunately, she saw the move coming and danced out of the way, and Arren missed by a long shot. Following his miss, Arren crouches backwards, taking cover behind his shield in anticipation of the woman's next flurry.
Lysira let out a laugh as she danced away. Oh, was this coldborn determined. Quickly she sent a hard kick, followed by a punch his way.
A few seconds too late for it to be a good comeback, Arren roars at Lysira as he swings at her again. "You LOOK like you don't ever HAVE morning porridge!"
Arren's clumsy efforts at hitting the nimble young witchwolf are painfully obvious to the spectators as not boding so well for his chances in this battle. Speed may not best power on its own, but Lysira had both, and it concerned the older coldborn.
She just gave him a grin. A quick punch was followed by a snapping kick. "Awe... did she do more than eat your porridge."
Arren snarls. She does NOT talk about...about women that way to him! He savagely swings his spear at her, looking to jar the breath out of her mocking lungs and the smile off of her self-entitled face.
Kenna stood up and stepped up to the Nightskulk, the duel was going very much according to her expectation: "So you're saying there are trolls nearby. I didn't notice anything. And there has been no alarm. Don't the Coldborn set up guards?", she shouldered her sword, "Do you think they are any cause to pause the festivities, or should we just slip out for a moment to take care of them? I could use the sport, after our fanglord friend refused."
"Oh, did I strike a nerve?" With a fanged grin she gave him another punch kick combo aiming for openings. Though it was quite fun to see him get enraged.
Harthresh watches the duel with half-lidded eyes, hunched over the table in front of him.
He tilts his head slightly as he catches some of the banter from those around him in the midst of the cheering. Turning slightly, Harthresh pulls back his hood, giving them his full attention.
Mori smiles disarmingly at Saipres. "I must protect the integrity of my sources," he lies.
"Anyway, all I know is that they are here now, and someone outside was just attacked." The Fanglord seems a bit taken aback by the revelation that his kin are being attacked as they speak and the Nightskulk remains calmly seated. "Yes. Outside. Just now." Mori repeats into the look of incredulity. "Unfortunately, the scream was too faint to pin-point the location."
As he says this the Witchwolf not currently engaged in a duel rises and approaches Mori. "My dear, if I had to list all the things other skinwalkers didn't notice that I did, we would probably be here for several years," he says matter-of-factly if a bit arrogantly. "To answer your question, though, I cannot say for certain whether or not this is worth interrupting the festivities, but if we would like to retain the option, it stands to reason that slipping out to at least investigate the situation would be prudent."
At this he rises and heads for the nearest exit, his face elongating and fur sprouting all over his body as he slips into the darkness.
Saipres stares hard at the Nightsulk, clearly having no idea where the truths end and lies begin. 'Perhaps I haven't spent enough time with their tribe.' he thinks fleetingly, knowing there isn't time to focus on it now. He pauses for a moment to listen to the outside, but the noise from the duel is distracting and he can't hear anything over the shouts of the others. He nods to the Nightsulk, deciding to trust its judgment. "Very well."
Already in his bestial form, he waits patiently for the others to shift, and watches the duel for a few seconds, wishing Arren the best, and hoping that this is only a false alarm caused by a bored and mischievous Nightsulk.
"No, but I might strike one of yours!" roars Arren as he casts his shield off, drops his spear, and lashes out with a clawed fist.
Capping the third of his extracts with a stopper, Darath stores it and the others before grabbing a last mouthful of food and rising to follow the rat-kin outside. Darath, for the moment, has no reason to doubt the Nightsulk nor anything more to add. Once they had a better idea of the situation... then would come the strategy.
Kenna's features start changing as she follows the nightskulk with a low anticipatory snarl coming from her sharp toothed grin.
Watching the few exiting, a ripple passes across Harthresh's face, beneath the skin. He waits a few moments as the others exit the gathering, then quietly rises.
After a moment, he sheds his cloak at his seat and quietly moves to follow.
Outside the longhouse, the Representatives find a pair of Coldborn guards speaking with another Coldborn in the light jacket of a runner scout - his horse is just behind him. The scout is in the middle of relaying details of some sort of injury - a bite wound, from what you can hear, to the leg - when you approach.
Lysira and Arren dance around each other inside the longhouse, spurring on the bloodlust of the crowd around them. Lysira, bolstered by the cheers she's receiving, lunges at Arren with two quick strikes, but Arren is warmed up, and dodges them, striking her with a counterattack slash of his ursine claws.
Ah, I did.'
"Oh Goldilocks must have gotten you good." She wasted no time returning his attack. Two swift punches. He might of hit, but that didn't mean he had beat her.
Like Lysira's previous strikes, the first one is easily dodged, only to be followed by a painful second strike that hits home. Arren stumbles slightly, then adjusts his stance. The fight isn't over yet.
Frustration! Arren's growl is continuous now, and he lashes out savagely with his claws.
Unfortunately, the agile woman was more than able to dodge Arren's clumsy blows and poor rolls.
Oh, she had riled him up good. She laughed as she dodged his attacks before returning with two punches.
"I will defeat you!" Arren roars as he responds with a pair of slashes.
His clumsy efforts, combined with his brazen confidence, only serve to push the crowd further against him.
"You have to hit to do that." She taunted as she dodged his claws. She proceeded to send a punch and a swift kick his way.
Arren's jaw is whipped to the side with a swift snap as Lysira's foot collides with his face, and the coldborn drops to a knee and a hand.
He rubs his jaw for a moment. 'Foolish old man. This is what you get for challenging a younger, fitter opponent. The pride of the tribe was at stake and what did you do? Fail.'
Struggling to his feet, his fur slowly ripples and withdraws itself into his skin, along with his claws and his elongated snout. He extends his hand. "A good bout. I apologize for resorting to more deadly blows, my temper got the better of me. Do you require magical healing?"
Lysira Silverclaw's fans in the audience give a great war whoop and a cheer, and Josun chuckles as he counts out coins to the winning betters. The majority of the Coldborn fans are more subdued, but are nodding in respect to the Witchwolf's strength. Over at the Chieftains Table, Ceyne Twoclaws is ignoring the celebrations, while her consort roars in triumph and stands on his chair momentarily, spilling his wine on his mate.
"Better luck next time, eh, Arren?" Shiro, one of the spectators of the fight, approaches him with a great mug of sweetwater, drawn from the cold springs high up in the mountains - after the two combatants separated. You see the Coldborn's ears perk as the door leading outside of the longhouse closes on Harthresh Cald's back. "Wonder what your other representatives are up to...figured they'd want to see the end of the fight. Know anything about them?"
Arren drinks deeply of the sweetwater, a few rivulets of it running down his beard as he does so, before responding. Taking a big gasp of air, he thanks Shiro, hands back the mug, and says, "The other representatives? Not for the most part, although one's of 'em's some a!!&+~* Fanglord called Saipres."
Seeing Shiro's shocked expression at his profanity, Arren lets out a single laugh before he clarifies. "He's a friend of mine. Strong warrior, but prideful and naive."
He begins to walk, motioning to Shiro to follow him, a "walk-and-talk" kind of deal. "Perhaps it'd be a good idea to see what they're doing. Harshuk! Get your face out of that Bloodmarked swill and come with me!"
Saipres ran quickly to the Coldborn outside, demanding answers before he'd even stopped moving. "What's happened here?"
As Arren went down, she smiled. Zeita joined in on the cheers of the crowd, celebrating her masters victory. She stayed momentarily in her stance before she left it, touching the claw marks, inspecting them. As Arren stood she gave him that fanged grin of hers. "That was fun." She took Arren's hand when he offered it, and while her grin was feral and triumphant, there was a hint of respect in her eyes. "It's just a scratch. I believe you took more of a beating than I did."
She glanced over to where the other representatives had been, "Perhaps, Kenna managed to talk one of them into a challenge. Or... they found something worth looking into. And yes." She looked to Arren. "We should do this again." As Arren began to walk off, Lysira moved to follow them after them, Zeita joining her on the way out.
'Maybe Kenna sniffed out a fun fight.'
Harshuk, Lysira, and Arren emerge from the longhouse just as Saipres and the rest of the representatives arrive where the guards are stationed. The Fanglord is demanding answers.
The guardsman who looks in charge, a large, white-haired man carrying a greataxe and wearing ringed armor, glances from the scout to Saipres. Before answering him, he mutters "Deliver your report to Hauma." the scout nods, snaps a quick salute, and rushes past the Representatives toward a large building next to the longhouse.
The guardsman sizes Saipres up, and replies, "Honored Representative. Thank you for your concern, but this is a minor matter that you needn't concern yourself with...ah," he trails off when Arren and Harshuk arrive, bowing. "Sirs! Hello."
He turns back to the Fanglord and says, "Regretfully, I..." but he is cut off by the sound of another scream off in the distance, a male one this time. It came from the east. Outside the din of the longhouse it's easily heard by all. The guardsman glances at his compatriot, who nods at him - they both shoulder their weapons and run off in that direction without another word.
Darath glances backwards towards the tent as Saipres verbally assaults the guard, noting that both combatants and another Coldborn were exiting. Well, that was fast... It was hard to tell from the distance at first, but as they drew closer he saw that the coldborn seemed a bit more winded than the other. It appeared that the Witchwolf had won.
He has little time to ponder that however, as a scream emerges from the distance. For a moment, Darath stands still... but only until the guards are out of earshot. "I believe they just invalidated their last statement," he states calmly before starting to jog after them, clinking slightly as he went.
Arren shifts again, only slowing momentarily to do so, and his ursine features are once again quite visible.
He clearly hears the scream, sees the other Representatives, and lopes after them as they move towards the sound. His back is hunched and his face is close to the ground, sniffing. His shield and spear are back on his person and in his hands, and he moves as quickly as he can to keep up with the other skinwalkers.
Hearing more skinwalkers approach, Mori glances back at the door to the longhouse. The Coldborn and Witchwolf had apparently finished their duel, and the look of exultation on the latter's face was clear; she had been victorious.
As a new scream rings clearly for all, Moriarti fixes the guardsman with a look that unequivocally conveys how unimpressed he is by such an obvious lie. "Yes, it would appear so," he responds to Darath as he takes to the shadows in pursuit of the guards.
There's troll-stench on the wind, and the acrid stink of fear - and smoke. You're running for perhaps a hundred yards, past several rows of central Coldborn domiciles, before you see a plume of black smoke rising another hundred and fifty or so yards or so ahead. The white-haired guardsman splits his comrade off to the side as he sprints forward, his battleaxe held ready.
The moment she heard the scream Kenna turned and drew her sword in a single motion and sprinted towards the source. The only sounds coming from her, the sharp sound of metal as the blade slid out of its sheath and the rapid movement of her feet as she dashed off.
Harthresh watches the others interact with the guardsman, following a fair distance in their wake. His eyes narrow at the sudden commotion, fading from human-green to a sickly reptilian yellow.
As the others begin to run toward the plume of smoke, he tenses. His jaw distends with a wet pop as dull fangs grow to protrude from his mouth. His skin ripples and darkens, taking on patchy patterns of gnarled scales and ridges.
After a moment, before the others can get completely out of sight, he makes after them, keeping his distance.
As the guards greet the others, Saipres notices Arren approaching out of the corner of his eye and turns to greet him, noticing that the bear doesn't look like he's doing well. 'Lost the fight. Might be best to avoid him for a bit.' Saipres thinks. Before he can greet his friend, the guards take off. Saipres quickly gives chase. Seeing the smoke, he lets out a load roar, moving even faster towards the source.
The Representatives follow the guard down the rocky cobblestone road toward the outskirts of the Coldborn capital, following the smell and sight of smoke up ahead.
Suddenly, the guard stops short - you've reached the site of the smoke's origin. Up ahead of you, among the hardy evergreen trees of the region, is a Coldborn residence - and it's on fire. Illuminated by the blaze are huge, hulking shapes, horrifying in their grotesquery. They're throwing firebombs at the burning building, and laughing in gross voices.
When the guard stops short and exclaims in rage, the troll-creatures turn to you. They look over their shoulders stupidly at some smaller creatures behind them, who screech and stamp their feet. In obedience the trolls growl and advance toward you.
Roll for initiative!
Harshuk downs the swill in one long draught and slams it down.
"He gets testy after losing." He apologizes on Arren's behalf as he rises from the table and moves to catch up with the representatives that went to investigate.
At the scream, Harshuk comes to alertness and unslings his antler-bone shortbow, and follows the group at a brisk pace.
His lips draw back as he growls, preparing to draw on the monstrous arsonists.
"I am not too prideful to ask for help," he snarls, "if you would stand with us, then help us drag these thugs into the blaze they've set. Let them burn with it, dead or alive!"
Standard Action: Inspire Courage (+1 Competence to Attack and Weapon Damage rolls. +1 Morale vs. Charm and Fear)
Arren silently berates himself for not preparing any fire magic that day and steels himself for a rough battle.