Beyond Chaos – A DiceRPG

“What a grand carriage,” a man mused, lean, a cream shalwar, a grey turban, a red scarf around his shoulders, the sword at his side, long and thin.

“The Amira expects us to treat them with great respect, those who stop out from gilded carriages,” another replied, a larger man, a bull of a man whose muscles bulged through his cream shalwar. His grey scarf fell down towards his chest, for his shoulders and torso were so large, he was like a man who had eaten another man, save for the fact he was rippling with powerful muscles. He wore an axe on his back, one that was almost as tall as a typical man.

“To think she would not even turn up to watch us,” the other stated, tutting. He was a man who wore a cuirass of scale over chain, and carried a shield upon his back, and a sabre at his side, the kind formed of such fine steel, and had been enchanted centuries ago by a dragon. The sabre had been passed down from father to son, uncle to nephew, all down the line of his family until it was within his hands. It was he who inherited such a title from his ancestors, and thus, the man could speak so poorly of the Amira so brazenly, as long as she was not nearby, and as long as he did not mention it so directly.

It was then the figures stepped out of the carriages.

“…”

“…”

“…”

The three men remained silent, for why hadn’t the Amira warned them that their foes were to be Iyrmen?

Yet, were they not all... too young?

The eyes of the trio of men gleamed brightly, for certainly, if they were young Iyrmen, did it not mean their fathers and grandfathers were so strong?

“Akh Hakam, please watch carefully, for I would like you to speak to your grandfather as to how powerful I am,” a particular fellow said, a half elf, who wore no armour, who carried no shield, who carried no axe, only adorned in the audacious smile he revealed to the men before him. A particular amulet lay over his chest. “I am Mo Adam!”

‘I am Mo Adam!’

It was those words which had caused them to show a great respect, but it was then the half elf revealed himself to them.

It was those words.

“So, which one of you is the strongest?” Adam asked, beaming brightly towards them, his eyes holding a certain look, the kind of look that suggested they were his prey, the smile of a beast upon his lips, and yet as they glared down towards him, it was one who spoke up.

“My cousins here are all so powerful, it would be difficult to suggest which one of us, each between Master and Grandmaster, could consider themselves the strongest, but I am Scholar Half Sword,” the lean man with the long and thin sword at his side greeted, smiling respectfully, for though the half elf had spoken so disrespectfully to them, and even chuckled at his response, he was still a Mo and worthy of respect.

“My name is Mo Adam, and though I know it is rude, but I would like to face you.”

“You wish to face me, Mo?”

“That’s right,” the half elf said, holding up a hand, and he beckoned the man to face him. “You see, it just so happens I am quite an audacious young man, and so rude, and therefore need to be taught a lesson, because I have defeated so many great warriors, that my ego may reach the sun, and as the great warriors who worship Lord Noor, you should beat me well!”

The Scholar Half Sword remained silent for a moment, but as the man beside him shook, a gentle smile formed upon his lips. “It would be my pleasure, Mo.”

Adam laughed, and as he stood opposite the old man, he held out his fingers and beckoned him to attack him, giving him the first move.

‘My name is Mo Adam, and though I know it is rude, but I would like to face you.’

It was these words which should have told Scholar Half Sword what he should have done.

'I know it is rude, but I would like to face you.'

It was the joke after which had disarmed him, but he should have known better, for if it was this fool of a half elf, who carried such a smile, and was surrounded by so many Iyrmen, he should have realised.

The half elf allowed him the first attack, and the Scholar Half Sword, with such a swift sword, and such a swift step, was upon him at once, his blade blurring through the air, and as he struck the half elf, he almost forced the half elf in place, and yet he managed to shrug it off.

‘Impressive,’ Hakam had to admit, for when it came to those who fought with steel and fist, there were few who were as powerful as Scholar Half Sword. He was no Scholar Muh, but he was a man that was only two steps behind, for Scholar Muh, considered a Paragon, was still someone who needed to respect Scholar Half Sword, and yet the half elf fought him with such…

Huh?

Hakam blinked as the half elf forced Scholar Half Sword back, the older Aswadian wincing, and with his eyes wide, for the glowing fist had threatened to knock him unconscious, and even his two companions were utterly surprised, for the half elf seemed so calm and relaxed, and even beckoned the warrior, who was a step above Master, forward.

Except that was not why Hakam was so confused.

He was certain the half elf had mentioned he wore steel armour and carried with him a magical axe, one that was no less grand than the sword at the sides of the two Iyrmen nearby.

Yet, where was his axe?

Where was his steel?

Where was the shield, which was known to be wielded by the Rot, one kept at the side of his brother.

He, a man who fought like an Oathsworn, adorned in full plate, a shield, an axe, was fighting the likes of Scholar Half Sword, and even suppressing the man who would perhaps one day reach Grandmaster, without his steel armour, without his shield, without his magical axe?

Hakam stared at the half elf, as though he was forbidden by the Divine to even blink, as the half elf, leaping backwards away from the swift sword of the Scholar Half Sword, then spun, and, with a swiftness expected of a half elf, he spinning back kicked the Scholar Half Sword, his leg glowing bright white upon striking the fellow against his side, who tried to duck under the kick, but it followed him, and clipped his temple.

Scholar Half Sword swayed, fell upon his knees, his eyes rolling back into his skull as he fell before his two friends, each considered equal to him.

“Ha!” Adam half exclaimed in worry, and quickly leapt towards the Scholar Half Sword, placing his hand upon the man’s temple.

Lay on Hands: 45 -> 30

The warmth jolted through Scholar Half Sword’s body, and he jerked to life, the vision returning to him, glancing up at the familiar faces of his two companions, and the memories slowly waltzed into his mind, tilting his head, then turned to face the half elf, whose very appearance caused him to wince. As he began to shuffle upon his feet, he turned to face the half elf, completely bewildered, until he blinked, and the blur of the kick entered his vision, and he reached up to his bloody temple, feeling the lack of the wound.

“Are you alright, ahm?” Adam called. “I’m sorry! I was trying to wield my grandmother’s technique, but I didn’t mean to hit your head.”

“I am… fine…” Scholar Half Sword’s head was half empty from the throbbing, half full of the half elf swallowing his vision, and it was then he looked up, still seeing the half elf, and it was then he realised he had been defeated by him, and what his name was, and what had happened to get him to this position. “It was a great honour to face you, Mo.”

“I am glad you are well, ahm,” Adam said, letting out a sigh of relief, and though he made to speak, he realised how disrespectful his words would be. “Please, take a seat.”

“Yes…” Scholar Half Sword sat, but he continued to stare at the half elf, considering their bout, and he took a moment to realise he had been defeated so thoroughly by the Mo, as the thoughts continued to slip into his mind through the small fracture of pride.

“Do you have a martial epithet, Mo?” the large man asked, who remained on edge, staring at the half elf with such a curious gaze, and yet, within his gaze he realised something else.

“Oh, sorry, I thought I introduced myself,” Adam replied awkwardly, chuckling. “I am Mo Adam, Executive of the United Kindom, its High Alchemist, but many within the martial circles know me as the Crazy Father.”

“Ah!” the bull of a man replied, reaching up to his hair, running his hand through it, putting his turban back on. “Then it is no shame at all for akh to have been defeated by you.”