The next day, the village was abuzz with the news that a tournament would be held to decide the gauntlet's wielder. On the training grounds, the village's warriors and crafters assembled to prepare for the event—an arm wrestling tournament.
As the midday sun shone bright, a small crowd gathered around a platform in the village's training grounds to watch the competition. Ebonheim stood by the crowd, her hands on her hips, watching as the match was about to begin.
In the middle of the platform, a rustic table, waist high, had been erected. Built of gnarled ashwood, its sturdy top was lacquered to a rich, dark shine that gleamed beneath the sun's tender touch.
Two rectangular pads on either side, stuffed with straw and upholstered in worn leather, served as resting places for the elbows of the combatants. They were discolored from use, their rough texture imprinted with the memory of every elbow that had dug into them over the years. Just beyond each pad, a cylindrical peg rose, as if sprouting from the tabletop. Towards the edge, on each side of the table, was a lowly block of wood wrapped in the same rawhide as the elbow pads.
Engin climbed onto a makeshift platform and began to explain the rules, his tone firm and measured. "Remember, this is a test of strength, not a brawl. No elbows off the pads, no kicking under the table, and definitely no biting!"
Laughter echoed through the crowd at Engin's stern admonition. The rules seemed simple enough, but the stakes were high.
Engin coughed and continued. "First, both competitors grip each other's hands. The thumb knuckles must be visible, and the wrists must be straight. The aim is to pin your opponent's hand to the pad. The match can be restarted for fouls, such as a false start or lifting the elbow off the pad. If the grip slips, we go to the straps—binding the hands together to ensure a fair contest. Lastly, the one who pins the other's hand to the pad is the victor. Any questions?"
The first contenders took their places—a beastkin warrior named Torald and a human soldier named Regan. Both men seemed equally confident as they settled their elbows on the table's pads and grasped the table's handles.
Ebonheim sat on a stool in front of the gathered crowd. She was tasked to commentate on the matches, though she had little knowledge of the sport.
Ivera's leaf-like wings fluttered, and her small form settled on Ebonheim's shoulder. "And we have the first match! Torald the beastkin leatherworker versus Regan, the stalwart guard!"
Ebonheim glanced at her with a raised eyebrow and remarked, "You're quite excited, aren't you, Ivera?"
Her visit had been unexpected, but as soon as she got wind of the tournament, she had pestered Ebonheim to let her observe the event and commentate. It was more surprising that such a small figure could have such a loud voice—must be fae magic.
Engin eased the combatants into the starting position, and the crowd hushed. After a moment, Engin asked, "Ready? Go!"
Instantly, the two combatants flexed their biceps and strained against each other's grip, the strength of their arms, their shoulders, and their muscles visible through the thin fabric of their tunics.
Torald surged forward, trying to pin Regan's hand. However, Regan, perhaps realizing he couldn't match the beastkin's strength, went for a slip—letting his hand go limp to avoid being pinned. The crowd gasped as Engin, true to his word, called for the straps.
Ebonheim leaned over to Ivera, whispering loudly enough for the crowd to hear. “I don't know what he did, but it seemed like a smart move, don't you think?”
Ivera squinted at the contestants and nodded. "Yes, indeed. It's always important to avoid being crushed in the first seconds of a battle. Prolong the fight, tire the enemy, and then attack. Classic strategy."
"Or he’s just sweaty with nerves," Ebonheim chimed in. "Wait...since when did you become an arm wrestling expert?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Ivera puffed out her chest and answered, "I asked the human named Bjorn and he happily shared his wealth of arm wrestling knowledge. But enough of that! Watch! They're now strapped together which means that Regan won't be able to slip away from Torald's grip now."
Once the leather straps were tightly bound around the contestants' hands and wrists, Engin positioned them to a fair start again.
"Ready?" Engin asked. As soon as the two gave their consent, Engin resumed the match and the crowd cheered.
Regan focused on turning his hand over his opponent's to bring the beastkin's wrist beneath his. But Torald retaliated with another surge, his powerful arm turning inward, his bulk leaning into the movement.
"Look at that! Torald's arm is bending like a bear hugging a tree!"
Ebonheim replied, her brows furrowed, "That's... not the same thing, Ivera."
Torald, his hand shaking, muscles bulging, managed to turn the tide, forcing Regan to arch his back to try and resist the beastkin's power. It was no use—the beastkin pushed through, the crowd cheering as he brought his opponent's hand down onto the pin pad with a loud thud.
"And that's a win for Torald! It seems the beastkin has more than muscle in him!" Ivera exclaimed as she flew into the air, waving her hands to encourage the crowd to clap.
The crowd erupted in cheers as the beastkin roared in victory, his muscles flexing with exertion and triumph.
Ebonheim clapped, her eyes sparkling with delight. “Now that was exciting!”
Ivera nodded. "It is indeed! Now, it's time for the next match."
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The tournament continued, each contestant pushing his or her own limits as they endured match after match, until, after a few hours, the finalists came down to three—Bjorn, Thorsten, and Serrandyl. Bjorn had to face off against Thorsten in the semi-finals, while Serrandyl earned a bye to face the victor in the final match.
The match between Thorsten and Bjorn promised to be thrilling. Both men were renowned for their strength, yet each had a distinct advantage.
A veritable mountain of a man, Thorsten’s shoulders seemed to crowd out the world around him. His arm rested upon the rough-hewn table, his muscles bulging against his skin, straining at the seams. He was a warrior by nature, his strength the testament of many battles fought and won. This time, however, his arena was different. His opponent was not some snarling beast or marauding brigand, but Bjorn, the grizzled veteran with forearms like Ebonwood.
Thorsten glanced at his opponent, lips curling into a good-natured smirk. “Bjorn, I hope you’ve said your goodbyes to that gauntlet,” he said, flexing his arm for effect.
Bjorn shot back, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Remember, Thorsten, it’s not just about brawn. Technique matters, too.”
Thorsten had expected as much. Bjorn was notorious for his grip, a vice-like hand that could bend iron as if it were as pliable as dough. He had to work smart, not just hard. As Engin reiterated the rules, he found himself calculating, strategizing.
Engin's hand wrapped around their knuckles, ready to commence the match. Thorsten took a deep breath, readying himself for the herculean effort this match would demand.
"Ready, go!" Engin's hand lifted, and the world seemed to narrow to the table, the arm wrestling match, and Bjorn. Thorsten tried to start off with a hook technique, curling his wrist and pulling it towards his body. But he soon realized that while his arm might be stronger, Bjorn’s wrist and hand strength made the technique ineffective. Bjorn's grip didn’t waver, his eyes twinkling with a triumphant gleam.
So, he switched tactics, using his shoulder press. He pushed down, trying to use his weight to his advantage, and forced Bjorn's arm closer to the table. But Bjorn's grip strength was a wall he couldn’t break through.
“Guess I’ll have to beat you at your own game,” Thorsten muttered to himself. The situation was dire but not hopeless. He had to rely on his raw power, the brute strength that had felled enemies on the battlefield.
Every tug and push seemed to resonate through the crowd, drawing excited shouts and cries from the onlookers as their battle intensified.
Thorsten shifted his focus, targeting Bjorn's arm and shoulder. He couldn’t let Bjorn dictate the pace of the match and eventually allow him to roll his hand over Thorsten's.
In the end, as his wrist was being strained to the breaking point, Thorsten decided on a desperate gamble. He knew he couldn’t win in a straight contest of hand strength. So, he allowed his hand to slip from Bjorn's grip. Despite Bjorn's iron-like vice, their sweat-slicked hands came loose, and Thorten's hand managed to slip out.
Thorsten massaged his hand and forearm as he looked over to see Bjorn doing the same. He didn't like fleeing from their war, but sometimes, retreating was the only way to win a battle.
“Guess I'll have to tie you down to beat you, old man,” he quipped, a grin spreading across his face. The crowd erupted into laughter, and even Bjorn chuckled, despite the high stakes.
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Bjorn couldn't help but chuckle at Thorsten's tactics, even as the straps were wound around their hands. He saw the smug satisfaction in his eyes, as if victory was now assured.
"Still full of tricks, aren't you, lad?" Bjorn teased, grinning at his opponent, his grip tightening around the strap.
Thorsten was indeed strong, his biceps like solid steel. The very muscles Bjorn once boasted in his youth—although Thorsten wasn't that much younger. Yet, experience had taught him strength wasn't the only factor in a match like this. He had the stronger hand, the stronger wrist, and a reservoir of patience honed by countless bouts just like this one.
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Engin secured the straps around their wrists, effectively binding them together. The crowd roared with anticipation, each person praying for their respective fighter's victory as the two men prepared for the second round.
With the signal from Engin, they were off again. Bjorn immediately felt the pressure of Thorsten's arm, a powerful force that sought to crush his resistance. But he held on, maintaining a defensive stance. He knew he needed to pace himself, let Thorsten exhaust his energy before making his move.
And so, he held on. He let Thorsten strain and push, gritting his teeth as he felt the pressure building on his wrist. But he didn't yield. He couldn't. He had a village to inspire, a gauntlet to win.
Thorsten seemed tireless, pushing and pulling with a determination that would have unnerved a lesser man. Yet, Bjorn saw the subtle signs of fatigue creeping into his opponent’s movements. His breaths were becoming ragged, sweat beading on his forehead.
Biding his time, Bjorn finally made his move. As Thorsten made another push, Bjorn twisted his wrist, forcing Thorsten's hand to open. The top roll. His grip strength came into play here, allowing him to control the direction of the match. Thorsten struggled, but his weariness was starting to show.
The crowd watched with bated breath, the tension palpable. This was no longer just a bout, it was a battle of wills. Bjorn, with his years of experience and sheer endurance, against Thorsten, the young warrior with his impressive strength and indomitable spirit.
With one final surge of effort, Bjorn drew from his deep reserves of energy. He felt Thorsten's resistance falter, felt the hand under his slowly give way. With a triumphant roar, he brought his opponent’s hand down onto the table.
The crowd erupted into cheers, the air filled with jubilant shouts and applause. Thorsten, defeated but not dishonored, managed a tired smile. “Well fought, old man,” he said, clapping Bjorn's shoulder.
Bjorn raised his arm, acknowledging the cheers of the villagers. His heart was pounding with exhilaration. The victory was sweet, not for the promise of the gauntlet, but for the respect and camaraderie he shared with his fellow villagers.
But the tournament was far from over, he had to face Serrandyl next at the final match.
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After a brief break, the final match of the tournament began. Serrandyl marched towards the table with her chin held high. She stood, feet planted wide apart, her lean muscles on display, her waist-length crimson hair cascading down her back like a majestic mane.
Bjorn strode to meet her, his powerful body moving with a natural grace, the heavy stomp of his steps masking the subtlety of his movements. While he was a man of quiet power and wisdom, Serrandyl was a wild cat—a coiled spring ready to pounce on her prey.
They both took their positions, their arms resting on the padded table, gripping the pegs firmly with their offhand. Engin carefully adjusted their positions to ensure a fair start.
"No cheating, no breaking bones, no excessive growling, please," he instructed with a stern, yet playful smile.
Bjorn grunted in response, a confident smirk playing at the corners of his lips. Serrandyl, on the other hand, let out a purring chuckle, her ruby eyes gleaming with excitement and a hint of ferocity as she bared her sharp teeth in a feral grin. "You're on. Just don't cry when you lose, old man."
Bjorn chuckled heartily, his demeanor steady as a rock. "I've seen more winters than you have, lass. This won't make me shed a tear."
Engin's hand lifted in the air. "Ready, go!"
Serrandyl put every ounce of her strength into her first move, muscles rippling under her tribal tattoos. She surged, her fierce eyes never leaving Bjorn's. But the experienced warrior didn’t budge; he held her back, his calm exterior belying the strain of the battle. His seasoned hand on hers was like an immovable rock.
The match continued, Serrandyl’s lion-like tenacity meeting Bjorn’s unyielding strength. But just as Bjorn seemed ready to pin her, Serrandyl's hand slipped, and she let out a low growl of frustration.
An uproar from the crowd followed, a mixture of gasps and shouts. Engin quickly intervened, calling for a pause. "Hold on, hold on!" he cried, restoring order. "There was a slip. It's only fair we restart."
"Is that a Beastkin strategy, or are you just avoiding defeat?" Bjorn teased, his voice booming over the chatter of the onlookers.
"Neither. My hand is just too sweaty," Serrandyl retorted, her smirk mirroring Bjorn's.
Despite her bravado, Ebonheim saw the slight tremble in Serrandyl's hand and the glint of worry in her eyes. She turned to Ivera, whispering, "Do you think Serrandyl can win this?"
Ivera tilted her head and tapped her chin in thought. Her eyes lit up, and Ivera flitted off Ebonheim's shoulder, flying over to whisper something in Serrandyl's ear.
Serrandyl's eyes widened for a moment, before she burst into laughter, causing the crowd to turn their attention towards her. Ivera flew back to Ebonheim, her tiny hand on her waist as she let out a self-satisfied smirk.
"What did you say to her?" Ebonheim asked, her eyes narrowed.
Ivera merely shrugged, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "Just a little fairy secret."
Engin once again set Bjorn and Serrandyl's hands in position, but this time he bound their hands and wrists together in a leather strap.
The tension in the village square grew as Serrandyl and Bjorn locked hands once more. This time, Serrandyl had a secretive smile on her face and a newfound confidence in her posture.
Ivera must have told her some winning strategy. What could Serrandyl possibly do to win? In terms of sheer strength and experience, Bjorn had her beat by leagues. There had to be something more, some other advantage Serrandyl was playing to.
"Ready, go!"
Once Engin gave the signal, Bjorn surged forward, using his superior strength and size to his advantage. His tactic was direct and forceful, akin to a battering ram storming a gate. Serrandyl struggled to maintain her hold, her sinewy muscles straining against his power.
"Oh! Serrandyl's in trouble! Bjorn's pushing through!" Ivera cried, her voice rising over the crowd's excited exclamations.
"Come on, Serrandyl!" Ebonheim shouted, her fingers twining with the fabric of her dress.
Thorsten, who stood behind Ebonheim, flicked her on the back of her head. "Oi, you're supposed to be impartial," he reminded her, his voice gruff and low.
"I am impartial," Ebonheim shot back with a pout, "I'm cheering for everyone equally. Go, Bjorn and Serrandyl! Woooo..."
Bjorn continued his onslaught, pulling Serrandyl's hand lower and lower onto the table, but despite her faltering grip, she refused to yield. For a moment, the match hung in the balance—Serrandyl's hand hanging over the pin pad by a few finger widths.
As if sensing her dwindling chances, Serrandyl leaned in, gritting her teeth against the effort. Despite her wrist bent back, she surged with the strength of her arm and shoulder, the muscles and sinews beneath her skin bulging with the strain to bring the match back to the center.
A sudden, mischievous glint sparked in her ruby-colored eyes as she leaned in closer, putting her weight behind her arm, and shifted her stance—causing the beautifully crafted cylindrical swath of fabric that wrapped securely around her chest to slip down, exposing a tantalizing glimpse of her generously endowed bosom.
Bjorn, despite his focus, couldn't help but take a sudden glance at the unexpected sight. Serrandyl noticed this and grinned, flexing her arm and pressing her chest forward to emphasize her generous curves. Her top slipped further down, exposing her firm, enticing bustline and hinting at the delicate peaks beneath the fabric.
For a moment, Bjorn's eyes flickered down. His usually calm demeanor crumbled into surprised confusion. He had been preparing for a test of strength, not a test of self-control. His grip faltered, his momentum slowed, and his eyes widened.
And it was that moment of distraction that Serrandyl needed. She summoned all of her strength for a final surge, pressing her arm back down with enough force to smack Bjorn's hand to the pin pad.
The crowd erupted in cheers. Some laughed, others clapped, while still others cheered and whistled in appreciation of Serrandyl's antics.
Ebonheim groaned as she realized what Serrandyl had done and quickly covered her face with her hands, too embarrassed to watch any further. Thorsten, on the other hand, gave a low wolf whistle while clapping his hands in admiration.
"That was your advice?" Ebonheim asked Ivera incredulously.
Ivera cackled, fluttering in joyous circles around Ebonheim's head. "It worked, didn't it?"
Serrandyl beamed triumphantly at the crowd. "How does it feel to be defeated by boobs?" she teased, giving Bjorn a playful wink as the crowd cheered her on.
Bjorn, slowly recovering from his shock, managed to let out a sheepish laugh as he facepalmed. "That was a dirty trick," he told Serrandyl, though there was no malice in his voice. "Shouldn't that be against the rules?"
Engin chuckled and shrugged. "No rules were broken here. There's more than one way to win at psychological warfare."
Bjorn sighed, nodding his head in agreement. "That there is. Well done then, lass. That was a match."
Ebonheim spotted Argoran in the middle of the crowd, his hand over his face, his ears flattened against his head. Meanwhile, Bjorn's wife marched over and dragged him away by his ear—no doubt to give him some, perhaps undeserved, scolding.
The moment finally caught up to her, and Ebonheim burst into a fit of giggles, clutching her stomach as she struggled to breathe between wheezing fits.
"And with that, we have a winner!" Engin's voice cut through the laughter and cheering, and the crowd turned its attention towards him. "Serrandyl, the... ah, how shall I put it? Brazen, yet clever warrior, will now be the owner of the Gauntlet of the Storm Giant!"
Serrandyl let out a victorious whoop and leapt into the air, her hands raised high in triumph, her tail thrashing wildly.
Ebonheim wiped the tears from her eyes and made her way towards Serrandyl, clapping as she went, still recovering from her bout of laughter. "Congratulations, Serrandyl. That was...something else."
Serrandyl grinned from ear to ear as she rubbed her hands together with glee. "I told you I'd get the gauntlet," she declared.
"You sure did," Ebonheim agreed. With a smile, she raised the Gauntlet of the Storm Giant, casting its mythical silhouette against the dimming twilight. "By the power vested in me, and by the will of the villagers, I declare Serrandyl the rightful wielder of this divine artifact."
She handed the gauntlet to Serrandyl who took it reverently and bowed her head in gratitude, her face split by a triumphant grin. The crowd cheered, clapped, and whistled, their voices blending together into a celebratory song.
Gently, almost reverently, Serrandyl slid her hand into the gauntlet, and a gasp echoed through the gathering. The gauntlet, massive and intimidating, began to morph and alter its size. It conformed, wrapping around her muscular forearm and adjusting its fingers to align with her clawed hands. It reshaped itself, as if it was made for her.
A powerful rush of energy surged through Serrandyl, as if she'd been struck by lightning. It coursed through her, surging from the tip of her tail to the top of her head, tingling along every vein, every nerve, every muscle.
Ebonheim glanced at the screen that displayed the gauntlet's properties:
[Name] Gauntlet of the Storm Giant
[Item Type] Epic Artifact
[Base Weapon Damage] 12 Kinetic, 10 Electrical
[Effects] The wearer acquires: +22 Strength, +8% Hit Chance (Unarmed, Natural Weapons), +4% Critical Hit Chance, +20 Arcane/Divine Defense vs Electric Damage
Storm Summoning: The wearer of the gauntlet can summon a fierce, raging storm in a five-kilometer radius, which lasts for three hours. After its activation, the power cannot be used again until a week has passed.
Lightning Control: The gauntlet provides the wearer precise control over lightning, allowing them to direct lightning strikes against specific targets during a storm. Each lightning bolt has an Arcane Attack rating of 35 and deals 80 Electrical Damage. Only one lightning bolt can be conjured every five minutes.
Lightning Blast: Outside a storm, the wearer can discharge a bolt of lightning from the gauntlet with an Arcane Attack rating of 30 and dealing 40 Electrical Damage. The gauntlet stores five charges before requiring a week to recharge.
Wind Warden: Once per day, the wearer can evoke gale-forced winds, either as a concentrated blast or a wide-area effect. These winds can deflect projectiles, granting an 18 Damage Reduction against Ranged Kinetic Damage for ten minutes, push back enemies, or triple the wearer's jump and leaping distance for one hour.
Serrandyl looked up at Ebonheim with a startled expression, but her eyes soon lit up with excitement, a toothy grin stretching across her face as she pointed at her. "Ebonheim! I challenge you, for the right to rule over th—"
A firm smack on the back of Serrandyl's head from Argoran ended that little proclamation.