Zel gave a faux-pained grin back. The fact she’d fallen for Red’s deception back during the extermination mission could entirely be explained by the fact that Red wasn’t actually the one speaking, but Zefaris still wouldn’t let her live it down… Despite her, Strolvath, and Alcerys all having had the opportunity to stop her. Upon the group’s return to the arena, the roles were somewhat reversed. It was Jorfr who arrived to find his opponent already there, and it was Zelsys who received Svend’s glare as she sat down.
She flexed a few particular muscles and put on a toothy grin, causing her face to momentarily twist into a harshly-defined grimace. An iota of Pneuma to make her eyes flash completed the intimidation tactic, briefly startling Svend to her great self-satisfaction. Victor had been uncharacteristically quiet since his breakthrough, but Zelsys could tell that he was fine; most likely consumed by thought and still adjusting to his newly-expanded senses. She wagered his sight superseded her own in terms of the arcane, though that wasn’t saying much.
“I really should figure out how to see ghosts…” she thought for a moment, though her attention soon turned to the ring.
Considering Rikke’s power even in her uncontrolled two-beast state, Zel wondered what Jorfr would do to snatch victory. Nowhere in her mind did it occur that he might lose. She just felt it in her gut that he had changed somehow, that he had undergone some breakthrough he hadn’t told anyone about.
She noticed what it was. That Ring was new.
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Some time earlier, just after Jorfr’s return from the burial hall…
Yvonne stopped him dead in the hall. His heart nearly dropped into his stomach, the instant realization that she saw the change inside him striking him with the force of an avalanche.
“That…” she uttered, visibly stopping herself from saying anything. Then, she smiled.
“Well done,” she said to him. “Don’t tell Fryg.”
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Jorfr and Svend faced one another down. The arena’s ground had been repaired, holes filled in, cracks mended. It was more solid than before, but still not good enough for Jorfr’s liking. He would fix that.
The agreement was no outside weapons, and so it would be; Jorfr had left his hammer with Zelsys, and he wore no armor to begin with. He had left his boots behind, as had Svend, both men stripped down to the waist. That spoiled show-dog thought it would give him the advantage, thinking Jorfr to be reliant upon his hammer. How terribly wrong he was. Every weapon ever wielded by a Hulson stood at his disposal; he needed but invoke it and give it form. He could feel them all, tales once embedded in memory now blades, spears, hammers, all waiting.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Both of them partook of a dose of their respective group’s Vitae Elixir. The Smoke Witch’s brew burned in Jorfr’s stomach, its scent rising into his nose and its warmth flooding through his body. The rune hammered into his forehead thrummed as he drew in a breath and exhaled Fog. His technique was the very same basic one detailed in Sturmblitz Kunst 0, but he’d mastered it to the best of his capabilities; more than most of his countrymen could claim.
Soon the druids cleared the cups, bottles, and other such accouterments away from the circle, bringing them back to both their respective groups.
The pre-battle minute of final preparation came. Unlike in Zelsys and Rikke’s case, theirs was started by one of the druids, calling out and striking a stone gong. It rang out as if made of metal. Jorfr still found it to be an unsettling noise all these years later.
Jorfr made a blade of ice from his thumb and cut himself on the chest, painting a network of bloody runes upon himself in a blur of gestures. Ten seconds didn’t pass before he was finished with his chest, semi-translucent skin slathered in bloody glyphwork. Ten more for his arms and back. The entire time he recited a tale whilst drawing the spirits of ice from beneath.
In that time, Svend, too, underwent his own transformation. His musculature became unnaturally defined, skin shrinking down to his body; his hair turned to a bright, almost yellow shade of blonde, standing on-end. A dense coat of fine, bright-yellow fur sprouted down the entire length of his arms, spreading over his torso such that, paradoxically, only its front remained hairless. With the snapping of bone, Svend’s arms and fingers both reshaped on the inside, becoming one-fifth longer and their joints taking on a knobby, bulged appearance. The heir’s face barely changed at all, merely growing a short, pointy beard and a mustache made up of two small patches; his heretofore nonexistent sideburns grew in and joined his beard to form a complete frame ‘round his face. This all took place over the course of less than half a minute.
As for his eyes, only a subtle change occurred; his sclera turned pitch-black… As had his gums, a fact revealed by the snarling expression he gave as he crouched down, wrapping his arms around himself, flexing, grunting with exertion.
Two more arms erupted out of his back, covered in a thin membrane, bloody, still growing as they emerged.
Jorfr knew that animal. A Manslayer Ape. A four-armed beast with so much explosive muscle power and such violent impulses that its young were known for punching their way out of their mothers in litters of three. Proving their resilience, the mothers nearly always survived this and took it out on their children, who would fight back as soon as they were out. The apes’ fingers were long and their joints built specifically for finger-based attacks, be they ripping, clawing, or thrusting.
Svend’s lower body followed; his legs grew in size to a thickness twice the original, his toes lengthening and becoming almost like fingers, with an extra sixth toe erupting from each of his heels, all of them shod with curved metal claws. A huge tail as long as Svend was tall followed. It ended with a long, crescent-shaped blade that sang like cold-iron.
It was undeniable; the other Beast Self was a Crescent-tailed Binturong. That tail was unmistakable, and what was worse, four more identical blades burst forth from the backs of Svend’s hands.