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Melkire Melkire Find all posts by this user Gruff Gutterborn Murder Hobo Posts:2,470 Joined:Mar 2014 Character:Osric Melkire Server:Balmung Reputation: 505 Timezone:UTC+4 To Check [Story] | #1 06-19-2015, 08:22 PM ~Thirty-Odd Cycles Past~ The young midlander male scratched at the back of his head as he stared down at the arrangement of pieces on the…. He could not rightfully call it a “board,” not even in his thoughts. What lay before him on the stone surface that served as their table was not a square field but a circular progression of three concentric rings. The device was carved of a wood foreign to him, as were the various pieces, each shaped roughly after a demonic figure. Tall men and short women of various poses, horned and tailed one and all, adorned the field. He’d understood the dilemma at the heart of this game from the moment he’d first sat down to it, suns ago. From the center, one could strike out at the rest of the board swiftly and easily… but gathering one’s forces at the center also meant that retaliations could come from any quarter and at any time. Subsequently, many of the worthy stratagems he’d learned since arriving advocated a series of feints, bluffs, and maneuvers to disquiet the opponent and unnerve them into taking a foolish misstep. Perhaps they position poorly, perhaps they fail to gather adequate strength at a key juncture. Inevitably, a mistake is made, so best to provoke the other army into erring first. Then, with all due haste, one could strike decisively and claim the center in order to hunt down the remaining pieces of one’s opponent. The trick, then, was not to control the center or the outer fringe, but rather the strip of land between them. He glanced up at the… thing… that sat across from him. The demon – the tall, living and breathing demon - grinned at him. No ill intent there; though his first glance had had him reaching for his sword, he’d come to understand that the foul appearance of these folk was… not foul at all. A preconception, based on his own experiences. Bias, if one got right down to it. He couldn’t afford bias. Not if this ploy to play merchant and enrich his life was to succeed. An aspiring businessman needs customers, and he’d come halfway around the world in search of them. Most traders who left Aldenard by way of Vylbrand, he’d learned moons ago, sailed west. The Mamool Ja were there, among others, the flow of commodities was steady and assured, and profit was decent. The more venturous would sail east to the island nation of Thavnair, and stop. From there, they would return with much that was rare, valuable, or fashionable in the city-states of Eorzea. He’d assessed his options, gauged his chances, and decided to take boldness to the point of insanity. He had hired the most boisterous, daring crew he could find… and had them sail him even further east. Here, now, the demon across from the midlander shifted in place, knees on his elbows and his long tail slowly swishing back and forth in the grass. His dark scales glistened in spite of the pitched tent that sheltered them. A crowd comprised of others of this one’s clan had surrounded them, male and female, and even now they were hooting and jeering and placing bets. Strange items passed hands: strings, strips of leather, bones, and the occasional gem. The demon’s grin faded, and he made that odd jerking motion of the head off to one side and back, like a nod that suddenly swerved until the skull was horizontal, the motion that the midlander had come to understand was a gesture of impatience, a gesture that signaled the impending use of a demon’s horns. Move, or I’ll run you through. “Wishes you to choose. Many moments have passed.” The crowd fell silent. The midlander turned his gaze slowly to regard the other demon, the larger one sitting to one side who had been watching the game play out with the excitement and interest of a child who’d just learned that magic was real. This one, the male that had been serving as his translator since his arrival, wore his hair long and in matted coils. The length of his horns spoke to his age, and the scars that adorned his arms and his chest spoke to his experience and prowess in battle. There were precious few scars on this one’s back. “Mönkhbaatar,” he responded, “the herd-need is not upon me yet, and so I choose to graze.” This, he’d been taught, was the polite way of conveying that he was deep in his considerations. The Baatar shrugged. “Dusk Mother will not wait forever. Neither will Khudus.” “Khudus did not issue challenge, I did. He would lay claim to my wares without trade.” “Demanded proof before Dawn Father. Wishes to see worth. Whether more than mere beast.” “As did the five others before him,” the Hyur grumbled. “Yes, this I know.” The midlander sneaked a glance at Khudus. “Then why must I make haste?” Mönkh pushed himself to his feet and stretched to his full height, all seven fulms of him. “Herd-need is upon him. Has set eyes on prize. Gerel. A beauty, that one. Khudus believes wares will win her--“ The tall demon blinked. “Accent fen? Adder sun?” The midlander looked up and squinted. “…attentions? Adoration?” Mönkhbaatar barked a laugh and suddenly dropped to his knees, impacting the dirt and the grass with a large, dull thud. “Yes.” The Hyuran man scoffed. “Must I go through this with each and every one of you? I came to trade, not to play!” “Our way. Our… path.” “But surely, you do not issue challenges to each other this often! I’ve seen you trade together. Gamble, even! And not once a game.” Mönkh stared at him as if he were insane, or perhaps a wild jackal on the outskirts of one’s homestead. “You are outsider. You are…Hyur. No choice. You must challenge. We are clan. We are Malqir. Challenge for Malqir is choice.” “Is that why you refuse to game with me?” The Baatar harrumphed. “Kharaqiq not sacred, but close. To play is to challenge. To challenge is to boast skill of mind. Lose, and you are less. Win, and you are more. He who wins most leads. Head of clan. Head of clan, lose?” The demon shook a hand, his peoples’ gesture for dissent. “Clan comes first. Clan needs Mönkhbaatar. Will not play. Not with… Hyur. You are not….” “…Xaela,” finished the midlander with a sigh. “Unheard of. Clan disgraced beneath Dawn Father, cursed by Dusk Mother.” “…for Xaela, for Malqir, challenge is choice.” “Yes.” “For Hyur, for outsider, no choice.” “Yes.” “I am not Xaela.” “No.” The man turned his emerald eyes on the demon across from him. On Khudus. “…what if I were Malqir?” The tent erupted in chaos. Jeers and banter turned to insults and heated debate. Some of the males began throwing their weight around, quite literally. The females pressed in against each other and crowded around the Baatar and spoke in whispers, some harsh as granite, others smooth as silk. The young midlander could not help but laugh; that he could not grasp their tongue, but these folk could understand his… for the first time in suns, he did not find himself at a disadvantage. Mönkhbaatar barked a few words, and the Au Ra fell silent. He looked to Khudus… who was stone-faced. The younger demon had gone rigid at the question. Mönkhbaatar chattered his teeth, and Khudus jumped, surprised. The clan-head sighed and turned back to the Hyur. “Khudus tests you. Now you test clan in turn. I say let Gerel come forth, and choose.” Whispers started up again as a young female pushed her way out of the crowd. She was small, with hair as black as night and dark, curved horns that framed her face. Her eyes were the color of sapphires. She took one long look at the midlander, then another at the board. To Khudus she did not look, not even once. She spoke, many sentences, an occasional inflection here and there. She ended on a question. The Baatar nodded. “Gerel speaks. She says, few lose to Khudus. To lose to Khudus? That is low. Lower than a beast. Yet even Khudus knows Kharaqiq well. Better than most Xaela. Are you man or beast?” The midlander smirked. “What if I can win in three moves?” Mönkh translated for him. The female squinted, then spoke. “Then not so low as beast.” The Hyuran man leaned forward where he sat and met the woman’s eyes, emeralds on sapphires. “What if I can win in one?” The Baatar blinked. He translated. She blinked. She spoke a single word. The large male hissed, but clapped once. “Show her.” The man who’d crossed an ocean to make his fortune reached out to the piece he’d been eyeing earlier, a smaller, lesser demon that shared blue limbal rings with the rest of his pieces. He picked it up and moved it across the board, through a gap between two large demons with red limbal rings, and placed it just inside the center circle, on the spot closest to Khudus. “From here, he must fall back to deal with my scout. To do so is to open his flank to me, and I would carve him for my meat. To ignore my scout will lose him the Baatar the very next turn, and without his hero, mine will crush his tribe. There is no third outcome. From here on out, I win, regardless of his choice. The decision is mine.” Shocked silence fell upon the audience as they inspected the board, eyes roaming over it, playing the game out in their heads. Moments stretched until they felt like bells. Then Gerel giggled and shattered the still air like glass. Khudus grunted and his shoulders sagged. Mönkhbaatar turned to the Hyur and regarded him for a further eternity. “You play well, Cenric of Thanalan,” spoke the clan-head at last. “Gerel acknowledges you. Malqir accepts you. For you, now, challenge is choice.” The midlander - who would, within a moon, set sail to Vylbrand and, once there, fall in love with a serving wench - gave Mönkhbaatar his best grin. The Auri male grinned back.

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