Lucien esh feth'Irani

Lucien Galen’odel strode calmly to his place in the Circle, his long platinum hair pulled back in an intricate braided pattern and his violet eyes staring coldly at the orc on the other side. Lucien was tall for an elf, almost as tall as most men, yet this orc stood half again as tall. Where Lucien wore light and somewhat form fitting armor made from the ore the elves called mis’thranu, the orc wore only a loin cloth of tattered furs and a bulky sleeve of crude armor on his left arm, leaving his dark brown flesh exposed. Lucien carried his ceremonial blade, the Thivir b’elv Korel, where the orc propped himself up casually on an enormous metal club of a pentagonal shape with slightly concave sides.

As Ushu b’el feth’Irani, it was Lucien’s duty to defend his village against all challengers. The elves had largely abandoned the concept of war as many shorter lived races know it long ago, favoring largely ritualised duels to settle conflicts, often without any bloodshed. While the ceremony was fairly common among elves as a means to resolve disputes, occasionally, invaders who felt they had a particularly strong champion would accept the offer of a duel in the Circle. It was a tempting proposition, of course. Should the invaders champion be victorious, the elves would acquiesce to any demand without objection.

And so it fell to the Ushu to defend the elvish lands, and Lucien to defend feth’Irani once more.

Around the circle sat the elders of the village, overseeing the ceremony out of obligation more than genuine interest. Many of them seemed more interested in the frail looking, yellow orcish shaman that sat behind and to the left of the orc in the Circle. It was customary for additional representatives of the outsiders to watch the ceremony, but a duel in the Circle, which dispelled all spells and enchantments within, was hardly a thing most magic users found appealing. The shaman sat on the floor, against the wall in silence, the only noise being the occasional rattle of the plethora of animal bones adorning his crude staff.

Gal’Hadreth, most honored elder of feth’Irani and weilder of Bor’ineth Tru’Nashindra, the sacred blade of the leader of feth’Irani, raised his open hand. He quickly lowered it while clenching his hand into a fist, the signal to begin.

The brown orc is incredibly strong but Lucien’s elven speed allow him to easily avoid what would surely be lethal blows. Lucien deflects a blow with the blade in his left hand. Having underestimated the power behind the blow, he is sent stumbling back four steps before he regains his balance. A quick look confirmed that, while his blade was still intact, its edge had a sizeable ding in it from the parry. Lucien danced around the orc’s blows attempting to tire his foe, but he showed no sign of fatigue.

Switching tactics, Lucien let loose a flurry of attacks from all directions. The orc used his armored left arm as a shield and blocked many of the attacks, but not all. Lucien felt his heart begin to beat faster as he felt the sword in his right hand make solid contact on a slashing blow across the orcs chest. With a look of smug satisfaction, Lucien began to turn, expecting to see the orc clutching his chest just before his lifeless body would fall to the floor.

His expression quickly turned to one of confusion with a hint of fearful curiosity. The orc stood in the middle of the Circle, grinning. Unlike most orcs whose teeth were yellow and rotting, the brown orc had teeth as shining and black as obsidian, each a sharply pointed fang. From behind the menacing grin, a faint red glow began to show through and thin wisps of smoke snaked their way in between the tiny cracks between teeth.

Lucien had heard stories of foul beast such as the one he now faced, but had never seen one in person. He was a Chosen, a foul union of orc and demon. The Chosen were thought to be long banished from the world as no one had seen one in over a millennia, since the orc tribe from which they originated was believed to have been exterminated.

Composing himself, Lucien once more went on the offensive. His strikes became much more focused and controlled as he probed the orcs body for weak points. It appeared that every inch of the orc’s hide was as hard as stone, though he landed many strikes that would have killed or maimed any other being, not one drop of orc blood had been spilled.

Breaking off his attack for a moment, he slowly circled the orc, visually inspecting every inch of his body for any sign of vulnerability. For what seemed like minutes he found nothing. Then Lucien spotted it. On the right side of the orc’ muscled neck was a thin green scar. If he has a scar, then he’s been wounded before.

Once more unleashing a brutal hail of strikes, Lucien brought down an incredible, spinning blow with accuracy that would impress even the greatest of elven blade masters. Unlike his other attacks that had just bounced off of the orcs hide, he felt no resistance. He heard a thud on the floor behind him and turned to see that the orcs head had been removed from his body, his face frozen in that same terrible grin.

Any satisfaction in his victory was short lived as the orc shaman standing along the wall, staff raised in both hands, began convulsing and shouting. “Mog thun rakka. Mog Thun Rakka. MOG THUN RAKKA! MOG THUN RAKKA!” As the chanting continued, arcs of lightning coursed from the staff to all corners of the room. A few of the elves present tried to attack the shaman with their blades only to be thrown back by a bolt of electricity.

In a surge of energy, a dozen lightning bolts struck forth around the circle. Where each bolt struck, there stood a monstrous  Chosen.

In the split second of shock that followed, screams from the elves outside could be heard. It was clear that the orcs had planned to attack all along. The duel was only an ploy to get the rest of the villagers to let their guard down. The Chosen around the Circle began striking out with all manner of weapons at any elf they could reach. Lucien had an eerie, detached feeling as he noticed that none of them would enter the Circle to strike at him. Surely they knew of the magic of the Circle and did not want to risk being so exposed should their own wards and enchantments be dispelled.

From out of the chaos, Gal’Hadreth stumbles into the Circle, gripping Lucie’s arm tightly. It was then that he realized that the elder was using his arms to hold himself up as, protruding from his left breast were two black and twisted looking arrows.

“Stay here, honored elder. I will protect you.” Lucien said trying to convince himself as much as the Gal’Hadreth.

“No. That is not your duty.” Gripping Lucien’s chestplate tightly, Gal’Hadreth pulled him closer. He shoved Bor’ineth Tru’Nashindra into the Ushu’s arms. “Your duty is to defend your people. So long as Thivir b’elv Korel and Bor’ineth Tru’Nashindra are in the hands of an elf of feth’Irani, your people live on.” Placing a bloody hand on Lucien’s head, Gal’Hadreth uttered one final phrase. “Suk Hoffmein.”

The room around Lucien flashed in a blinding white light. When his vision cleared, he was standing in a dimly lit room. Sitting at a short but sturdy desk was the equally short and sturdy figure of a gray haired dwarf. With a bit of a start, the dwarf turned and took notice of Lucien. Other than surprise at his sudden appearance, the dwarf seemed as though he fully expected to have an elf simply appear in his room.

“Sit down boy,” the dwarf said in rough elvish. “You’re safe now. Tell me what has happened.”

“Who are you? Where am I? What…” A thousand questions were running through his mind.

“Oh how rude of me.” The dwarf stood and straightened his beard and shirt as best he could. “My name is Heinkel, and unless you are the most unlucky elf to ever live, feth’Irani has been overrun and Gal’Hadreth has sent you here.”

“How do you know all of this? I was just there, in the Circle.” The reality of it all was slowly sinking in. “If we were in the Circle, how the Gal’Hadreth cast a spell?”

“Ho no great mystery there. Who do you think drew the circle to begin with child? Surely if he wanted a single dwarven spell that only he knew to be cast within a Circle he drew it would be no great feat for a wizard as great as Gal’Hadreth.” Heinkel spoke as though he had known all along this day would come. “I know all of this because this was his plan all along. And you have brought it with you.” The dwarf’s eyes lit up when he saw the swords in his hands. “Good lad!”

“Why do you talk to me as if I’m a child? And what do you know of elvish blades?”

“My boy, the last time I was in feth’Irani, my beard wasn’t white and you were not even born. And those may look like elvish blades but they are as dwarvish as I am.” Heinkel picked up an ax from along the wall and presented it to Lucien, pointing to a small set of markings. He then grabbed the three blades from Luciena and pointed out a set of identical markings. “Maker’s marks. MY maker’s marks. I’ll be happy to answer all your questions but it is late and you’ve had a rough day. Have some tea and get some rest.”

Heinkel handed Lucien and cup of pleasantly warm tea. From the smell, it was an elvish tea he had had before but dwarvish herbs had been added to it and masked exactly which kind it had originated from. After a couple of sips, Lucien’s head hit the pillow and he was fast asleep.