Evening on the 4th of Cylus 721
It was the Eve of Woe's birthtrial, or what he always supposed was his birth trial. The fifth, tomorrow. He was going to go screaming into his 34th arc on Idalos in spectacular fashion, by fighting against Fleaface, practicing his unarmed techniques against an armed opponent. He didn't expect to do well.
Fleaface was a master with a club, and could easily match Woe while he used a whip, let alone using nothing but his fists. The Mortalborn hadn’t gotten much better at hand-to-hand combat since learning the basics in Etzos, among the street fighters and ruffians that populated Westguard. It was, ironically almost, the way he’d come across Fleaface to start. Fleaface had sicced his bigger cousin on him, in a fight to defend his honor and shame Woe.
The Westguardian oaf was big and had been strong, but overall Woe had come out on top by his cunning over the strength of arms. Later that season, Fleaface came to Woe’s service, through his mother. What bargain Fleaface had struck in order to attain his mother’s favor, to the point where she attached him to her son was subject to some speculation for the Mortalborn. He didn’t know but suspected he’d been sent along to keep an eye on Woe, and make sure he did not dishonor Sintra in the future. And Woe, for the most part, hadn’t. He had in fact been rewarded with adoration from his mother, what he’d always wanted. Hadn’t he?
He stood in the middle of the Gymnasium. The rest of the city was cleared out of the Fitness Center. Something to do with a grand ball in honor of Treid, or some such. Nothing that Woe was interested in. The only ball he’d experienced had turned into a debacle and had no inclination to witness a repeat of that auspicious occasion. Nothing good could be had of a gaggle of drunken idiots joining hands to dance and fondle each other. It was one of the grotesque affectations of life.
Fleaface came in from the shadows, smiling menacingly as he brandished a small cudgel. He was ready, would Woe be?
They didn’t waste time on words. They each knew what was happening here. Fleaface would perform one last job, scouting ahead of Woe into Scalvoris, to ascertain the situation on the ground and fix his place in Egilrun before Woe took over, and began his new life in the Island. Fleaface still held a grudge toward the Mortalborn, for the humiliation, for using him, for making him a petty servant of Sintra. Fleaface made it plain his intentions to make good on Woe’s promise in his will, that he would leave the house in the Citadel to him. Woe intended to make good on that promise, as thanks and payment for all of Fleaface’s work and aid.
There were no more words between them for now. Fleaface had only agreed to leave Woe bloody and broken, but take him to his home where he might slip underneath his magic blanket, that provided healing. To rest of the tribulations of this night and awake into the first of his latest year of life, with fresh eyes.
So it began.
Woe took a defensive posture, holding up his fists, one before the other. Fleaface came forward fast, with a strike meant to elicit a reaction from Woe. Woe brought his forearm up to absorb the impact, blocking it off from his temple. Gods but the man was good with a cudgel, the shock of it traveled through the sleeve of his gambeson, into his very bone.
Woe stepped into the next attack, leading with his left now to jab at Fleaface. But he was too quick, too skilled. The etzori peasant rapped him about the knuckles, cracking the bones in his hands twice, thrice, four times before he was able to retreat.
But Fleaface wasn’t finished there. He continued the assault, pressing it. He was faster, even as agile as Woe was. He could only dodge so much before getting winded. Fleaface began jabbing the point of his small jack club, under Woe’s arm, into his ribs. He hit him so many ways from all directions, that Woe had trouble figuring which way the last attack had landed, let alone the next.
Some trills into the beating he was receiving, Woe began weaving under blows, and he detected Fleaface beginning to tire down from the first wind of combat. He took full advantage of the lull, dodging here, deflecting the club there.
