---Combat---
---Khr’kowan’s perspective---
My hands grip the rope handles halfway up the doors of the floor to ceiling cabinet.
I pull them open to reveal a polished wooden mannequin, standing my height from the ground.
Atop its head rests a thick, wide brimmed helmet in polished iron, glittering even in the dimness of my chambers.
Hanging from its shoulders is the pale grey cloak in which, most recently, I butchered my father.
Upon its chest is an iron cuirass and hanging from its waist is a pale grey battle skirt, iron plates set across the crotch.
“Hello old sister…” I say, reaching out to place the flesh of my left palm against the cool metal of the breastplate “…I’m afraid I have need of you today.”
Though I polish and oil it regularly to keep the metal from tarnishing, the campaigns of my early generalship all ended in such crushing victories that I’ve not had cause to don this armour for some years… a relatively unprecedented span of peace…
I begin unfastening the belts that hold the front and back halves of my cuirass together.
---Jackson’s perspective---
The spider women place my frame down onto the coarse sand of the arena floor and set to work loosening my hands and feet from the silk mittens they’re wrapped inside.
This place definitely seems better as a gladiatorial coliseum than it was as a courthouse(!)
The top of the stone divide between the stands and the floor is manned by a ring of large, spear wielding women that weren’t here yesterday… apparently in case I get any ideas about attacking the audience.
They don’t need to worry.
I’m actually really curious about how I stack up to the spider queen when she isn’t blindsiding me!
Once I beat her, then I’ll think about returning my attention to the ones I came to this planet for… If I beat her…
I look over at the giant woman, dressed in shining metal, medieval knight armor with horns poking through a Spanish conquistador looking helmet and hate in all eight of her eyes!
She’s definitely one tough bitch, I know that now!
Even if it was with the advantage of having me think she was some spun glass, gardenworld pushover at the time, the way she knocked me the fuck over and pinned me down was something truly impressive!
She’s too strong for me to take head on… Too heavy to allow any possibility of her being able to get herself on top of me.
Distance and maneuver are going to be my friends in this fight!
I drop to the ground in the middle of my frame and walk forward, stepping out of it before its carried away by the women who brought me here.
I bring my claws to my lower face and slice through the muzzle I’ve had on for well over a week at this point.
“Would both combatants come forward to select their arms.” instructs the seven footed judge, gesturing to an array of blunt force melee weapons laid out on a purple cloth in front of her “Due to the nature of the material from which the defendant’s body is made, thanatite blades have been ruled impermissible in this trial, for the risk of their loss… The defendant has the first choice…”
I inspect my options for a few moments before bending down to reach for a 7ft bo staff.
I pick it up and, for a moment, am fooled into thinking it might be all metal, for its weight and solidity, before realising that, while there are metal caps at the ends and a few metal bands around it, the staff itself is just very dense wood.
I give it an experimental spin.
Good heft!
I follow that up with a 10 second long combination breakdance-martial arts display with the weapon.
I’m certain no one could ever replicate it without a robot body.
I finish by slamming it into the ground.
“Now there’s the perfect stick I spent my entire childhood looking for(!)” I laugh triumphantly.
“The defendant is reminded that he is still in court and asked to comport himself with greater respect.” sneers the judge.
“Or what, toots?… You gonna fine me(?)” I shoot back.
She ignores that, realising that she’s got no leverage, and just says “Prosecutor Khr’kowan is asked to select her weapon.”
The spider queen immediately bends down to pick up a thick club, its bulbous head covered in metal studs.
Exactly like I’m playing to my strengths here, it seems she knows hers as well… she’s playing to her power and momentum…
The unchosen weapons are bundled up in the purple cloth and taken away by one of the attendants and the judge announces “Combatants are reminded that, if their weapon becomes broken, it will be deemed to have been the will of the Weaver that it broke. No stoppage will be issued and no replacements will be offered. In that case the combatant will have the option to fight on or concede defeat.”
Some choice that is for me when ‘conceding defeat’ means letting myself be executed(!)
“Combatants are asked to take their marks.”
The queen and I wheel about to take position across the arena from eachother.
The (heavily guarded) exit is to my left with the judge’s platform to my right.
Between me and my opponent is the testifying square. It’s stone and sits about 2 inches proud of the sandy arena floor.
I briefly think about tactics involving making her trip on it before realizing, with eight legs, she’s not likely to be tripped by something like that.
I’ve still got to be careful I don’t trip on it though!
I look past her to where my attorney is looking at her concerned.
“Hey yo, Kirk!” I shout.
The fluffy spider femboy starts and switches his attention to me.
“Don’t feel bad if your wife kills me… You were the best lawyer I ever had, no contest!”
His face twists with a complex web of different emotions.
I turn from him to the queen across the arena from me and ask “Don’t suppose you’re planning to concede at all, are you?”
“I’d sooner die than allow you to escape the Weaver’s justice!” she snarls back with cold fury.
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“Yeeeeeah… Thought so… Although, you might change your tune later… Funny how quickly getting beaten mostly to death can readjust a person’s outlook(!)”
She doesn’t answer.
I bend my legs and begin idly spinning my staff around my body.
“Hey, old timer! Hope you enjoy the show(!)” I shout to the man who ripped off my arm.
“I’m certain it will be unpleasant.” he responds with infuriating calmness, speaking in English and just loud enough for his voice to carry to me.
The judge raises an arm and shouts “May the Weaver guide your hands and render justice done!”
There’s a protracted pause.
Then “BEGIN!”
The queen surges forward!
---Khr’kowan’s perspective---
This man is purportedly a killer near equal to Taylor, Hunter, Arran, Tuun and their teacher combined!
I cannot underestimate him!
I’m also told that his unnatural body does not tire… meaning I’ll be at a greater disadvantage the longer I allow this fight to continue…
I know, however, that, no matter how strong or fast he may be, he’s only around half my weight!
If I can just hit him fast and hard enough, I can pin him down like last time and take my time in ripping him apart!
He hasn’t moved from where he stood, only placing the end of his staff against the stone edge of the courtroom floor.
I raise my club for a swing and it… cleaves through the air where, the instant prior, his head was!
At the last moment, he dived, feet first, between my pedipalps and pushed himself under me, off the side with his staff.
Before I can wheel around, I feel a hard impact against the inside of my back left two feet.
It’s painful as the force is transmitted through the joints but I manage to keep myself from stumbling as I endure it, spinning around with another unsuccessful swipe of my weapon.
If he’d known anything about my species’ anatomy, he wouldn’t have attacked my thanatite feet and would have used the opportunity to strike at my exposed flank or higher up my leg.
As if reading my mind, he aims his next staff strike at my front left leg.
I bring my club down to parry and am certain I’m about to break his weapon but, just in time, he pulls back enough of the force to allow it to bounce off mine and be recovered with an arrogant flourish!
This man… I hate this man!
This man killed my father (and the Weaver only knows how many others besides) and then proceeded to treat the trial which was given him, the trial which he never gave a living soul nor dead ones either, with arrogance and contempt!
But… I am a warrior… the finest warrior of all the Vrakhand!
I know that that hate is not my friend…
An opponent who is beneath you enough to be overcome more easily by a hateful rage is one whom you would have beaten in any event… When fighting one who might be a match for you, hate makes you sloppy, rage makes you careless… gives them openings they would not otherwise have had!
I must do my best not to let his arrogance needle me…
The next few moments is a whir of his staff and my club.
He continually aims halfhearted probing attacks at me while my every counter is aimed to kill.
I know he’s trying to tire me out but there’s little I can do about it.
Allowing desperation to guide my strikes would be unwise.
His staff connects with my left pedipalp, hard, causing searing pain to burn through my body.
Searing, but not blinding, for, in that moment, I see an opening!
He’s over extended himself and placed his right wrist within the range of my left hand!
I seize it and yank him toward me, my substantially greater weight making the action irresistible!
My club smashes down on his right shoulder, severing the arm.
There is no scream of pain (as I’ve heard from all prior whom I’ve dismembered while they still drew breath) but, rather, the action that answers is a clawed left hand shooting out to rake the right side of my face, ripping through the scutes and causing me to roar and recoil back in pain!
I raise my club between us to guard against him while I back off to assess the damage.
He’s put out the two rightmost of my auxiliary eyes but… I feel relief as the vision returns to the main eye.
He only clipped the cornea!
The pain of that plus the pooling blood just momentarily robbed that eye of vision.
I briefly glance down with my main eyes (keeping my four unblinded auxiliaries on my opponent) and inspect the damage to my pedipalp.
It’s cracked and bleeding but still relatively intact… It won’t stand up to another impact like that, though!
The pain of my eyes and palp should be excruciating but my mind is suppressing it to a dull pounding… only until this fight is over, I know…
---Jackson’s perspective---
I sigh.
Cracking a nonloadbearing foot and putting out a quarter of her eyes was not a fair trade for an arm!
I got cocky.
She’s warier of me now though. She hasn’t attacked yet.
I step on the wrist of my smashed off limb and bend to pick up my stick.
Standing back up and pointing it at her, I ask “What is it with everyone and ripping off my right arm(?!)”
“Apologies…(!)” she sneers back, coldly “…I’ll endeavour to make your head next!”
I wiggle my staff towards the gashes that go from the right side of her forehead to the middle of her right cheek and retort “Yeah, try not to lose any more eyes doing that, sweetheart(!)”
She doesn’t respond.
With how much she clearly hates my guts, she’s amazingly resistant to being goaded!
Well… someone’s got to restart the fight!
I rush forward.
I can’t afford to hold back while she tires herself out anymore, now I’m down an arm!
I unleash a flurry of attacks, attempting to overwhelm her defense.
She struggles to move her heavy weapon fast enough to block my lighter one but manages it, just about.
She’s carefully keeping that injured foot away from me.
I guess another strike to it would be pretty catastrophic for her.
She goes on the offensive.
I wheel and spin acrobatically as I dodge.
I see an opening.
She’s about to put that foot into my range!
I aim a strike for where it’s gonna be when…
*GOOOOONG*
…I’m looking at sand with one eye while shards of wood and metal fall around my head.
Immediately, I roll back to standing and see her clutching the handle of her club, the end now an exploded mess of splinters.
I try to reboot my left eye but it’s no good, the strike she connected with my temple has made it completely inoperable!
She finishes examining it and tosses it away, determining what’s left to not be worth holding onto.
She starts advancing, slowly, her six remaining eyes darting over me, intensely.
I back off.
Even though she doesn’t have a weapon anymore, I don’t like the way she’s looking at me!
She’s cornering me against the side of the ring.
Before I’m completely out of options, I aim a strike at her which she… catches!?
She rips the staff out of my hand and offbalances me before breaking it over my left shoulder.
That arm stays attached so I aim a strike at the bare flesh of her throat.
My hand stops, an inch from connecting, three armored, insectoid digits wrapped around my wrist and a hateful face glaring down at me.
I aim a kick at her but she catches the ankle and, in the same tenth of a second, drops the wrist and spins my upper body away from her, still holding me by the lower leg.
I’m smashed into the ground and feel her other hand grip my other ankle.
I’m lifted up by centrifugal force as my remaining eye sees the arena fly past me.
I feel her release me a second before I impact the stone side of the ring, head first.
Not dazed or winded by that the way I would be if my body were still flesh and bone, I scramble around, only to find her way closer than I thought she’d be!
I aim another, desperate strike at her throat which she, again, catches.
This time though, her left arm wraps around the defenseless right side of my torso.
Holding me in place, she pulls out my left arm with her right in a twisted parody of a ballroom dance where she’s leading.
Over extending it, she keeps pulling while my feet franticly search for something to sink their claws into and my durasteel teeth gnash for something to bite, both finding nothing!
With a metallic wrenching sound, my forearm is ripped off at the elbow.
She throws me away from her, onto the ground.
With my two and a half remaining limbs, I try to get up… failing.
Panic floods into my mind as I relive the day I lost my original arms and legs.
I scramble to push myself away from her as she advances, her face leaving no doubt as to what she’s about to do.
Before I can stop them, desperate pleading words spew from my mouth.
“Listen! Your Majesty! I’m sorry, OK?! I’m so sorry about what I did to your dad! I get it, OK?! I know what it's like… Please! Spare me! Send me back to prison! I’m SORRY…!!!”
She bends to grab my ankles again and folds my legs, enough to put her face inches from mine, as she looms over me and sneers “I don’t want your apologies… I want my father back!!!”
She stands back up, lifting me to dangle in front of her while I continue to plead and beg.
She places the prongs of her unsmashed stiletto foot against the bottom of my jaw and leans her upperbody backwards.
As I feel her place my entire body under tension, from my throat to my ankles, I flail my left stump and thrash my feet, still begging.
I try to tilt my head far enough back that her prongs slip over my jaw but it’s no good. They’re wedged there!
My body graunches from the strain until, all at once, I cease to register anything at all from it as my head skips across the sand in a way I’ve never experienced before.
I’m still begging, still pleading and still clanking my metal teeth, my last (completely useless) weapon.
I’m able to hear the horrified gasps of the crowd at the macabre spectacle of a disembodied head still begging for its life.
I hear the heavy thud of the spider queen dropping my body behind me.
The sound of her feet stabbing into the ground approaches.
A hand grasps the top of my skull like a dodgeball and lifts me up.
I’m forced to meet her eyes as she holds me up by her left hand and extends her right to the bottom of my head where there’s got to be a hole directly to the cavity my brain case is in.
The last thing I experience is a three fingered hand gripping something inside my skull and squeezing, tight!
Lyla… Sophie…