With somewhat unsteady movements, Bast swung a metal sword, one carefully selected from the array of weapons, most smelling of putrid iron and its ilk. It had been easy to choose a sword, since he had no clue about what half of the weapons even WERE. He would have loved to check out the armor section, given the massive array of various suits of armor, including massive, bulky pieces that seemed more like animated golems than actual armor. Unfortunately, it reeked of iron, far more than the weapons did, so much so that he had to skirt the section by several yards in order to reach the weapons.
Sadly, he had to content himself with a single sword. The weapon had plenty of hilt to wield with two hands, but short enough to be used with one. It had a sharp taper, perfect for thrusts, and was a good match for his preferred fighting style. It was also probably some form of treated silver, and though weaker than iron, it wouldn't burn his skin on contact. He was busy performing the third of seventy-three sword forms, the Demigod watching from a chair he had summoned for himself, curious as to the reasons for the recent Armyr players to seem so unaccustomed to their bodies in Phasmia. It was quite the quandary for the being, as he was fairly familiar with the code that made up the world. He'd helped make it, after all. It was truly strange to see someone so obviously accustomed to the sword, but seemingly lacking in physical prowess, which only added to the strangeness of the most recent batch of players.
The boy in question was almost focused on adjusting to his new strength, though his mind wandered a bit, worrying about his current situation. He felt weak, and it was extremely uncomfortable. Supposedly he could increase his "Strength Stat" after killing some monsters, which should alleviate the problem, but what would happen when he reached a strength beyond what his mind could properly handle? All important questions, but ones that would not sate the fury that was starting to harden in his gut. He needed to fight something before it buried itself inside him, a hidden torment that would plague him for a lifetime.
After twenty minutes of practice, one which left him very dissatisfied, Bast felt he was ready enough. He finished the last portions of the twenty-seventh form, before making his way to the orange man, rough brown clothes stained with sweat. The man in question rose, before moving to the arena, and slipping between the red ropes. Bast followed, sword clutched in sweaty, nervous hands. He knew that the fight ahead would be far different from his many practices. It would be blood that splattered the stone tiles, rather than the defeated's pride. And the thought made his heart pound with excitement.
The Godling strode to the center of the stage gesturing to the monsters that remained motionless outside the arena. Four creatures hearkened to the summons, entering the arena to face Bast. The smallest was a gangly grey humanoid, covered in mangled fur, and clutching a crude iron ax. He knew it was iron, from the putrid smell it exuded. All the Fae knew the smell of iron, and knew to fear it. But rather than an overwhelming sensation, the smell was muted, much like the feel of his tail or magic, as if in another world entirely.
The second creature was the bastard child of a pig and a man, thick pink skin hanging from its humanoid form, drool pouring from its mouth, coating its two sharp tusks. Fortunately, it only wielded a wooden club, and should be a simple opponent to slay, or so Bast thought.
The third and fourth were a bit more troublesome, one a five-foot tall boar, the other a man-sized snake. Bast had experienced many mock battles, but most had been against humanoids. There was little expectation of humanity to return to the days of shamanism, summoning multitudes of monsters to fight at their side. The prospect of fighting those last two beasts was leaving Bast with a cold sweat. He might not have to worry about dying, but the scroll had mentioned nothing about pain.
The orange man grinned down at the young boy, giving him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. "Alright, boy, before we begin, let's go over the basics. First-" Impatient, and peeved the giant thought he didn't know how to fight, the young boy interrupted the man, holding his sword at the ready. "I have no need for a combat lesson, Master Windless. Send the first opponent, and watch my skill."
The man just shook his head in mild exasperation, before gesturing to the small rat-like creature. The grey monster leapt forward, short legs flailing against the ground to fling the overly large upper body forward. Bast just sneered, not bothering to take a single step as he waited for the creature. The monster probably thought the boy was scared, as it squeaked in delight, raising its ax in the air as it prepared to slay its prey. With effortless ease, Bast took a step forward, and thrust his sword forward, skewering the rat through the throat, the entire motion done with liquid grace. The sword slid through the large ratman's neck like it was butter, but Bast leaped back in surprise as a small series of numbers superimposed themselves above the creature's head. And though disconcerting, the sight was nothing when compared to the ax that buried itself in his chest, the living, somehow, ratman's eyes gleaming as it continued to move, despite the wound that should have left it completely crippled.
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Though Bast reacted fairly quickly to the sudden turn of events, the rat had already gotten past his long blade, removing any chance of using a longer reach to his advantage. Rather than try and gain some distance, Bast used one hand to grab hold of his own blade, the other still grasping the handle, and used the pommel as a makeshift mace, bashing it into the face of the ratman. Another series of numbers appeared over the monster as it stumbled back, clutching its face, but the wild combination of fury, fear and pain removed any thoughts of yet another mystery of the mind-boggling realm.
Stepping back from the distracted foe, Bast regained his reach advantage. He returned to his usual two-handed grip, winding up for a massive swing, cleaving the blade across the beast's chest, ignoring the neck as it appeared to be an ineffective target. The blow caused the monster to explode in a shower of glass-like fragments, and another strange illusion appeared in its place, a large blue scroll, complete with gold trim, floating in the air above where the creature once stood. It boldly declared;
Kill Successful!
Slain Foe: Ratling Man Hybrid, Level 2
Total XP: 65
Contribution: 100%
Rewarded XP: 65
Congratulations,
Bonus XP: 130
The message was interesting, but not one of concern at the moment. There were more pressing issues. Such as the bleeding wound on his chest. Wounds from iron weapons were not something to be trifled with, and the young Fae sought out his distant magic, preparing to close the wound, but he stopped at the strange sight of the wound. Instead of charred flesh and gaping innards, there was only a cheery red line on his chest, a small amount of blood flowing from the wound. The sight was yet another oddity in this realm, the wound looking more like a makeup artist's rendition of a wound for a play, rather than the disgusting mass of ruined flesh that usually marked a serious wound.
He turned to the orange man, a dozen questions on his mind, but his face flushed in embarrassment at the sight of the man's giant grin. Bast groaned, remembering how he had cut off the man as he had tried to explain the workings of battle in this weird realm. The man probably meant to explain the differences between real combat, and battle in this realm, and he'd cut the man off, assuming the man meant to belittle his combat experience. The embarrassment was far more important than the small amount of pain coming from his wound, and Bast bowed to the Demigod, preparing to express his sincere apologies. He was about to speak, but was stopped by a pat on the shoulder, one that made all the pain from the wound vanish. Bast took a quick glance at his wound, noting that it had completely vanished. Not a surprise, given the obvious power of the being. The Godling just grinned down at the boy, amusement sparkling in his eyes, rather than mild ire.
"I assume you've figured out that your combat skills aren't the end all in this place? Ready to hear this old man do his job and tutor you?" The young Fae nodded, unable to meet the man's eye. He knew he was in the wrong, and if the realm he now resided in were less merciful, he'd be suffering from a serious wound. There were times to be stubborn, hiding your weakness from others, but now was not such a time. "I'm sorry, Master Windless. I will try my best to avoid making stupid mistakes in the future."
And he would. The boy, though sometimes foolish and hot-headed, knew how to learn from his mistakes. One doesn’t go through the rigorous combat training of his people’s guardsmen without learning to avoid making the same mistake twice. The Commanders of the Nytha Watch are, well, let us just say they do not look favorably on those that fail to fix bad habits.
Nodding, the large man gave the boy a pat on the head, letting out a little chuckle. “All people make mistakes. It takes a good man to admit to them, and an even better man to help others with their failings without making judgement. Of course, I’m not a good man, so I’ll be judging you quite a bit. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll start over again. After you run twenty laps around the field, that is.” Though the last bit was spoken with a jolly tone, the boy knew an order when he heard one, and didn’t hesitate to take off running after sheathing his sword. One does not question a superior’s choice of punishment. Whether the Godling counted as his superior, well, the boy supposed that a fifty-foot giant capable of flying through the air probably deserved the title of superior.
And so, Bast began the slow and dull challenge of a five-mile run, all while feeling like he was walking through water, every motion a drain, lacking any substantial strength. It didn’t even occur to him that the giant intended for him to get used to his new state. But knowing or ignorant, the run helped tremendously, and after he finally finished the last lap, body covered in sweat, Bast had managed to grow mostly accustomed to his current state. And with his punishment complete, it was time to learn how the hell that ratman could survive a thrust through the neck. And what he would learn was so absurd, he would weep tears of frustration.