Elromior Tathviel stood in shock as the nearly two-foot taller creature stepped into his gang’s warehouse. His anger flared as the rough and mocking voice of the gnoll known as the Clawed King stepped in without a hint of fear.
“Dag Glora, the fuck are you doing in my territory? What horse shite is this about a challenge?” Elromior stood taller as his men slowly started to circle around the monster. Not one of them spoke, but only glared at the intruder with him. “We aren’t a clan who deals with that honor shite. We follow our own rules, we set.”
“Heeh… You bloody fools. My Matriarch wants to own this scrap of land. Houh, you think that we’re afraid of your weaklings?” The gnoll’s claws extended, a dark gleam in falling sunlight. “I hoped we could sell your men’s services after we won your, hehe, organization.”
Each man shuddered, none of them but the boss and his lieutenants were a warmup for this monster of the fighting pits. But they had their own sense of honor to the gang that accepted them, if not the family loyalty that the clans cultivated.
“I don’t know why you want this scrap of the merchant district, nor are we as informed as the rest of the gangs or guilds. But we know the rumors Dag.” Elromior stepped closer to the gnoll, drawing a baton from his belt. “You got locked up. Party too hard while groping up call boys in the red lantern district. Couldn’t even fight off a pair of guards.” Elromior spun the baton in his hand, spinning it between his fingers as the gnoll stood arrogantly in front of them all. “Your clan head is scary, but she doesn’t fuck with us grunts. And you, I’ve seen and fought you before. You’re a pit fighter. A dueling specialist. We ain’t in the ring right now. And we ain’t gotta treat you fairly.”
All but one the men of the Bruisers were close quarters, thug fighters normally. They made their names as “security” for their ‘clients.’ Most of the gang were decent fighters, and could probably square off with a city guard one on one. But they excelled in situations where their numbers towered over others. A single fighter like the gnoll was deadly to one, two, five, and maybe even ten of them. But the gang was much larger than that. Even if over half the gang was out doing street work and collecting coin, there were thirty strong fighters, two lieutenants and their boss, a reputable fighter in the pits on his own. This was going to hurt the gnoll, but killing him would show just how strong they were. It could be the thing they needed to rise and swallow some of the smaller street and block gangs. And with a silent order, most drew ranged weapons, mostly light crossbows, to ensure most of them survived the fight.
The gnoll looked around at the men and spread his lips in a feral and manic grin.
“Oh this, hehheh, will be fun.”
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The gnoll, the Clawed King of the Pits looked around herself at the nearly thirty thugs. She took in the look of their eyes and general determination. Her experience told her many would flee if she started to dominate, but just as many were determined to fight to the end. She was partly surprised by this. Most gangs didn’t have this level of true loyalty but were rather afraid of their bosses just as much as their clients were afraid of them.
She cast aside her thoughts as distractions when the two lieutenants of the gang stepped forward in front of their boss, not afraid of the conflict at all. She was impressed by the stances the two thick thugs took up.
Her lips opened into a grin as she spoke her words of excitement, and in a near blur of speed, she crashed forward with a speed almost unnatural to the gang around them. She was on top of the two thugs before they had managed to register and react to her flight.
With the outstretch of her arms, and a spin of her body, the dark, thick, and razor-sharp claws whirled through the air. One claw nicked the First Lieutenant, the other catching the Second with a deep slash into his shoulder and chest. Her claws ripped from the Second and nicked the First in the side as she spun to a stop behind them and between them and their boss.
To the credit of the Lieutenants, they didn’t panic or scream in pain. They spun with her and began their simultaneous attacks. Two drawn wooden clubs swing down, both crunching down into both shoulders of the gnoll. She let out a hiss of pain and managed to grab and ruin the two's attempt to repeat the coordinated attack.
The loading and release of four crossbow bolts forced the monk to step and free herself of the clubs. With a bend and swirl under the crossing of bolts aimed at her chest. Her dexterous arm reaches out and snitches one of the two bolts fired from her right. The other sails past and buried itself into one of the bandits who also fired at the monk.
As the gnoll came up from her spin, she aimed the bolt between her fingers like a throwing dart, going to throw it into the throat of the First Lieutenant in front of her. When a dart catches her near in the throat. A fifth man had held back his shot, waiting a second to better land a hit, and he succeeded beautifully.
A bolt struck home between her shoulder blade and neck, pouring blood as she let out a fierce howl of pain. But with her years of battle experience, she didn’t allow herself the freedom of further distraction. Two more thugs, looking to be dressed in stolen guard armor rushed up and attempted to swing their longswords down atop her. She stepped back, allowing them to slam into the ground between her and the Lieutenants, before they tried to swipe up with their remaining momentum, only to be easily jumped over and met with a spinning strike like the ones their Lieutenants just faced. Catching the right most soldier along his exposed guts.
The two soldier thugs stumble back, one in pain and one avoiding the spinning strike, pressing back against their Lieutenants in a failure to observe their surroundings.
When suddenly, from the shadows of the two men come two thick, squat and hefty goblins. Both wielding two daggers spinning and catching the gnoll by surprise. But she managed to pull back, leaving only one of the four blades having caught her across the shin.
Before she could catch her balance, two quick twangs of bows rung out and whistles of arrows flew and buried into the wooden floor. Before there could be any more reactions from the gnoll, she spun, catching one of the two additional longbow arrows right into her side, mimicking the bolt in her shoulder as it poured free dark, brackish blood.
Surprising the gnoll as she took in her surroundings again, from behind her near the gang leader, came screaming a wild, orcish war cry of aggression. Spinning just in time, the gnoll slid under the falling great club, interposing herself between the brutish orc and her other melee assailants, keeping her between the slab of muscle of the orc, and the cool and calm looking gang leader, who hadn’t reacted until that point beyond affixing a buckler to his arm from somewhere on his belt.
A breath passed as all the fighters registered the actions, they had all witnessed, and saw their leader step forward and swing his heavy guard baton with an enraged abandon. One swing comes up, forcing the gnoll to push back against the orc, dodging by a hair. The second a lazier one across, not meant to truly strike, but guide the gnoll into the perfect position to slam into them as they are forced between him and the orc. And with a two-handed grasp and swing, the baton whistles through the air, right at the skull of the gnoll.
There is a flash of sandy fur as she ducks down, missing the strike, but the orc, so caught up in trying to catch the slippery gnoll he found suddenly pressed against him like a lover, took the blow to the head instead.
The skull crushed, split like a gory watermelon. There is a moment of true motionlessness from everyone one on the room.
The two factions of the gang, those truly loyal, and those who were cowards at heart, all had two very different reactions. The former grew angry. Truly enraged. The gnoll had positioned their innocent and foolhardy orc, a giant orcish child mentality, and orchestrated their gang leader to kill him by his own hands. An act of brutality and disrespect that called for nothing but a blood feud to be started then and there. The remainder, they panicked, fear gripped their hearts. They were scared, horrified by the tactics of the gnoll. No one who knew any mercy would try such a tactic, and it burned an image of her into all their souls.
The monk however felt a soft pang of pity at the rage in all their eyes around her. She had a flash of times when she went too far and harmed her siblings in a spar and felt empathetic for these men. Accidentally killing a pack member like this, was a tragedy of great proportions. But she didn’t have the luxury to take pity on all the men around her. She needed to strike now, while she could, and began.
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Elromior stared in disbelief as the giant, stupid orc, Grone, a dumber than rocks orc who was little more than an oversized child, fell to his knees and then his chest. His skull was crushed and split, leaking the horrid smell of blood and brain that stuck in the nostrils and refused to leave. Elromior collapsed to his knees and grabbed his gang member’s oversized hand and great club. His adoptive boy would be avenged for this tragedy… And if he and his men survived, he was sure his life would end by his own hand that night.
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The goblin known as the Matriarch watched her gnoll daughter begin her fight with the gang. They had noticed something was wrong with their monk since this morning’s ‘break out.’ Their daughter’s movements had been slower, harder, louder. The goblin had seen this type of difference in their daughter once, and that was nearly 18 years ago. The difference was between their daughter forming their bond with ki, and their lack of the bond.
Glora was not aware that this was possible for monks. But they feared that what they saw was proof of it. The gnoll no longer held a connection, or at least an active connection with her ki. Something on display when she made no use of it during the fight. She even made a mistake with the crossbow bolts, leaving herself open when she grabbed the bolt that missed her, and tried to move as if ki was going to empower her, but didn’t, leaving her open to the last crossbowman.
“She’se grew too reliant on her’se magic…” The goblin looked down at their revolver, hanging under their jacket. “We’se all have grown reliant on power external to our’se… You’se will disappear on me’se too old friend…”
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Their wrinkled hand patted the softly pulsating revolver under their jacket before their eyes were drawn to the rafters above the head of the gnoll.
“Oh Tanny… you’se truly love you’se sister... You'se foolish children... But many things are foolish things of the young…”
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The gnoll ignored the gang leader as his shock consumed him, even if she tried to kill him in that instant, she knew she couldn’t. There were more immediate threats to tackle. Her large eyes narrowed on the two swords men. Her fangs bared and she lunged with strength and speed at her targets. Her foul jaw opened wide and clamped around the throat of the enraged and injured street soldier. He barely had time to react before his head was ripped from his body with a bone grinding crunch. The monk’s claws were in motion as her jaw snapped shut, both clawed hands dug deep in and pulled free from his squishy confines a trail of organs.
The thug lieutenants didn’t hesitate once the gnoll was on the move again. They moved, one going in to draw her attention with close, quick strikes, one managing to nick her thigh and hold her long enough for the second to stab her quickly, if only lightly. The darker blood began to pool under her feet as it drenched her sandy fur.
Again, the bandit thugs fire in tandem, four with one holding their shot for the right moment. The monk spun, knowing they would be trying the same tactic again. She stepped forward, sliding between the two lieutenants to give the last crossbowman a harder shot. The overconfident goon fires, catching his first lieutenant in the arm pit, sinking down to the fletching.
The pressure continues to mount as the goblins slip in again, moving around their Lieutenants’ feet. One slides up in front as the other takes aim with their own crossbow. The twang of their string and the flash of the twin and rusted daggers fly out, both missing their mark as the massive gnoll flits around with the grace of a demonic fairy.
When the next stage of the dance came, the elves, two strong and stout elven scouts moved along the ranks of their crossbow holding companions. They fired in sink, forcing the spinning gnoll into a position between their Lieutenants again. With a look between themselves, their second flight flew out, both striking hard and deadly. One buried itself in the side of the gnoll, limiting her movements more than the blood loss was beginning to do. The second, it slid through the hair on the gnoll’s chest, grazing the chest before plunging into the chest of the second lieutenant, barely missing his heart.
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The burning hate for the arrogance, the smoldering frustration and anger, the suffocating loss of his men and the pain they were enduring for his sake, Elromior stood and watched as the blood of his best friends, two lowly thugs who had been by his side since the creation of their little street gang almost two decades ago, mixed with the foul and tainted blood of the gnoll, a clan prodigy, who was only strong because of their family’s deep pockets, sought to steal everything from him and his men. The color of red seeped in around the target of his anger and rage. Soon, even the broken body of the young, dumb, and lovable orc faded. Only the red of rage and vengeance remained.
His old body burned with strength he hadn’t had in decades. He didn’t see, couldn’t see, anything but his target. His first swing of his baton whirled out connecting with the back of the hunching and hurting gnoll. His second swing wasn’t fast enough as he rushed forward, it slammed down into the softness of something he had pushed aside in his mad rush. Drake and Josh were dying and this bastard of a hyena and their worthless whore of a goddess was to blame. He raised his buckler and slammed into his unprotected back, forcing the bitch into a grating slide across the floor. He stepped forward, his boots squelching in the viscera of blood and organs below him.
“You, will, pay.”
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The monk was not quite dazed as her body shuddered from the impact. She needed to move, but the pain and multiple projectiles puncturing her body made the prospect difficult. The energy of her body, the ki that once filled her, she tried to reach out and touch it, calling on it as she used to do with such ease, such will and control. It was like an arm had been removed and her fighting abilities were in free fall.
With only a second on the floor, she could hear the drawing of crossbows, bending of bows and approaching feet over the panicked breaths of dying and frightened men. With a roll forward, she sprung up into the air, a fallen dagger from the goblin crushed under the baton of the leader had slid close enough to grab and toss. It struck true in the throat of an injured crossbowman, sending him to his knees as she drove her clawed hands into the hearts of the staggering and struggling thug lieutenants. Both falling with gasps as she was once again face to face with the gang leader.
“You, houhou... Chose this fate...”
The gnoll dove forward as the barrage of projectiles flew towards them, all at once. One bolt lodging in the unarmored shoulder of the leader, but no one seemed to notice as the two gladiators tussled. Quick strikes in moments, perries and redirection of fists before the leader slammed the monk once again to the floor with a roar of rage. But none cheered as again, the fighters had their chances.
For the monk there was nothing for a long moment. Only a feeling of empty, hollow and fickle power once held, but no longer kept. For all the gnoll’s years as a monk, they had an unshakable, unbreakable bond with the ki around herself, in herself, and all things. It was something she thought impossible to lose a true connection with but had felt slip away in a moment of failure, of betrayal.
Dagger was once a child, filled with a drive so many of the young held, a passion for their loved ones and those they most cherished. Her dedication to the goblin who saved her, her love and respect for the tabaxi who became her sister in title and depth, her goblin brother who bloomed from a scared baby into a fount of confidence and charm, even her youngest siblings who she fought and trained endlessly to never allow themselves to fall into the clutches of another. She swore her oath of ki to the connection, the protection and prosperity of her clan and family, her one, true pack. Yet in a night, she ruined it. Cast it aside, and would die a shame, a waste, a broken and worthless tool to the people she loved as her pack.
She was a monk of broken oaths, but felt herself doing something no monster, no prideful or truly selfish being could do. She hoped, she begged, she promised something to the ki she knew was within her, around her, and even within the men trying to kill her this very moment.
“I will not... fail them... fail it... again...”
Her mind pulsed, her heart beat like war drums in her chest, and her blood poured from her body as she felt the world narrow. No, not narrow, as if in rage, but mellow. The colors, the scents, the motion and flow of everything around them, changed. Her heart drummed in time as she moved. She watched as she stood, rolling forward and closing the distance to the leader. She felt the hiss as bolts passed by, two struck her from either side, and one directly from behind. Next was the swings of the leader’s batons, barely connecting as all the pain, the emotions, the fear, washed from the gnoll like the waterfalls she learned to meditate under.
This moment, this sensation, this state of being and mind was to the gnoll, felt like she was drawn free from a sabered, and allowed to let fly as a true weapon of war. She was a focused, honed, a tried and tested weapon of slaughter and war. And she felt nothing from it, it was like her eyes were opened from a decade long meditation, and the ki surrounding her, was there to be devoured, to be used as fuel for her climb and showing.
Her body rose up, two strikes flying from her fists. A swirl of grey that seemed to suck the very life from the leader as they connected. The grey sunk into him, and dragged back out, a part of his makeup, his very ki. And was pulled into the gnoll, pouring into her like a wine skin poured out onto the dunes of sand beyond the walls. She drank it up with greed. A blissful sense of wholeness filled her as the next barrage began.
The monk moved like water, shifting around her foe and dodging his strikes as it all seemed to wash away. She did not notice the new bolt lodged between her breasts as she sought to drag the very life from the gang leader before her once again to fuel herself. She snatched a bolt that flew towards her skull and with a flick, returned the projectile to her annoyance’s throat.
The ki flowed through her body, pumping it with vitality as she struggled to stand and fight. Decades of training, an unshakable will, and a madness for battle fueled her dance of war more and more.
She struck out again, a sweeping claw struck across his arm that both numbed the shield bearing arm, while robbing him again. It was a euphoric sensation, but she remained focused. One slip, one failure to respond and she would fail, fail her family once again.
She drew her eyes across the room in a spin, seeing the staggered volley of men. Ducking under the swings of the leader, she missed each bolt and arrow, watching as six other fighters spoke with nods to each other and three broke away to surround her again.
She didn’t give it much thought; time was running out and her blood loss could only be partially accounted for by the influx of ki.
The gnoll didn’t give the brave, but foolish men a chance to raise their blades to strike as they approached. With a swirl of grey soaked claws, she slit the throats and chests of the men, feeling their life and ki pour into her. Her spin didn’t land her in the same place, bringing her around the smaller leader and away from the frantically slashing goblin.
The remaining archers fire in rapid succession, staggering and plotting. They will not hit their leader again. But their shots can’t connect. Swinging through the air, the gnoll weaves, jumping up and onto the rafters above. Her legs come up, and with a kick out, she deflects an arrow down and into the archer across from the sender.
As she comes down, the leader bashes her across the back, sending her skidding into the blood and bodies below her.
With a roll, she comes up, slamming her claw into the frenzied goblin rouge. Killing and drawing his life force into herself again.
“I am, heh.. heh… sick of you archers…”
The gnoll draws from the length of her loincloth, two darts. One a simple dirty brown, the other a malicious bright blue. With a flick, one goes out, lodging in the throat of the wounded scout, the other flying out. The second scout manages to duck around a pillar, but the dart follows her movements, and buries itself in their spine, before releasing a lethal shock.
The gnoll stood, glaring down the man in front of her, his body mostly whole, but his mind was in a red fog of denial and hate. A rage great enough to rival a true berserkers. And his last fighter, the crossbowman with nearly half a dozen bolts buried inside the gnoll, all sourced from him.
“You could have died alone Elromior Tathviel … heeh… heeh… you killed two of your own men, by yourself… submit, the blood price is high enough…”
The gang leader’s eyes lose the haze of red. His gaze shifts across the floor. A dozen of his men lay stepped on, ground under foot and paw. Half his crossbowman lay with something through their throats or their chests. Half his gang are scattered in fear across the street, watching the bloodshed. He has lost everything. Everything but the best sniper his district of the city had produced in his lifetime, Bolt, still stood with him.
“You… You are the King of the Pits for a reason Dagger Glora… But my gang dies with me. I’ve already lost all but one of my closest, I have nothing else. I, we die, or you.”
“Houh, Fair... houh, enough…”
The two melee fighters dash forward. The released bolt aimed at the gnoll’s eyes forces her to step, nearly crashing and tripping over a body that manages to catch her. The baton flashes down with two quick strikes against her back, whiting out her vision for a moment.
She bounced down into a pool of blood but caught herself on all fours. With a feral snarl, she spins and lunges up, and with a full clawed palm strike, slams into the forehead of Elromior, stunning his senses for precious seconds.
With another leap, the gnoll was a top the crossbowman, tearing into him with her jaws and swallowing his blood, flesh and ki. There was no time for finesse, no time for grace or mercy, only survival. Only violence for the very survival of their groups.
With flesh and blood trailing down her chest and legs, she lunged for a final time, slamming into and knocking prone the recovering man as her claws and teeth ripped into his body.
Her claws tore deep, rending cuts through his stomach, his leathers, his chest and organs. She was a feral beast tearing into a ferocious challenger, and didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, until her energy was drained, her ferocious strength seeping away from her, and she sat, straddling a mash of human flesh.
She had won… She was once again, the Claws of Glora… And the world faded to black.