Grim Views

This conflict arose the same way most of Gundnir's "incidents" began: alcohol.

He awoke in the corner of the Rest Inn Peace, the cursed tavern that so many frequented with their problems. Gundnir always made it a point to remain a mere observant to Blood Elf whines and Forsaken machinations, always simply grunting with a smile and drinking his thoughts away.

A clatter and grunt marked Gundnir's presence in the corner long before he was seen. It was dark, and when the Blood Elf Talestril entered, the light from the outside revealed Gundnir sprawled on the floor. A score of empty bottles and flagons made it obvious what the day's activities had consisted of. The Blood Elf peered down at the somewhat conscious Shaman.

"Are you okay, Orc?" His voice was smug, arrogant. Almost amused at the "creature" that had been drinking all day.

Typical Blood Elf.

One reddened eye peered upward at the query, and Gundnir managed to right himself to a sitting position.

"Nothin' ta concern yerself with, Elf." The Orc rummaged around, shaking several bottles in hopes of finding one that still had drink within. On cue, Talestril revealed a full, frosty stein of Dark Iron Ale.

"Though I don't think you can drink anymore." Still smug. The Blood Elf stood over him, as if looking at an ant hill while holding a magnifying glass. Gundnir's bloodshot eye widened, and he swiped the Ale.

Damned Elves.

"What's this? Ya challenge Gundnir?! Surely ya jest!" He heaved himself to a stand with much effort, a few bottles falling from his lap. With a growl, the Orc slammed the Dark Iron Ale to a nearby table, sending the froth and bubbly contents flying from the flagon. With an expert move, Gundnir lifted the stein upwards, catching every drop and taking a rather unhealthy pull. After several audible gulps, the few drops that escaped were wiped from his maw with a backhand. The Shaman felt better already.

The Elf looked unimpressed.
"Fetch me your strongest drink, and we shall see."

The Orc eased himself into a nearby chair, propping boots atop the table and leaning heavily back against the wall. His bone pipe was pulled out from his belt, and a thumbful of Swiftthistle was lit in the bowl. A wooden match lit the ground herb, and the sudden ember gave his face a menacing glow. Sweet, acrid smoke rose from the corner of his tusked maw, and he produced his own drink; a finely polished oxen horn. A pop of the steel cap revealed a thick, frothy dark brew within. He swirled it around, inhaling the aroma. Delicious. Without even looking up, Gundnir replied to the Elf, and set into motion the aforementioned "incident.

"Fetch it yerself, whelp. I am not yer maid."

Talestril fumed within, and his skin reddened slightly. Though he did a fantastic job of keeping his calm in his voice. The Elf regained his composure.

"I have no desire to become intoxicated in the morning hours, anyway. Besides, I have a business proposal for you."

Gundnir cracked a half-grin, a savage jeer as he downed a few mouthfuls of his own brew. He glanced outside, at the still dark sky. When had it become morning? He had been out of it for longer than he thought.
"I do not do business wit' yer kind. And if I did, I wouldn't do it without a drink first. Can't trust ya if ya can't hold yer brew."

Talestril fumed within once again, though the moment was soon over. Oddly enough, he pulled out a stopwatch. Flipping it open, the crazed Elf actually spoke to it.

"Kilz! Where are you?" And again, oddly enough, as if on cue, the so-called Kilz made his appearance. A hulk of an Orc, he was clad in menacing plate. Sword and axe were his weapons, and his already savage face was framed in a spiked jawguard. Talestril seemed pleased.

"Kilz, persuade this one to join our cause." Calm words from the calm Elf. Gundnir, meanwhile, relaxed back into his chair, balancing his pipe between jutting tusks.

"You serve this Elf?" Gundnir asked. His cold gaze went from the Orc, to the Elf, then back to the other Orc, and he suddenly erupted in a boisterous, cacophany of laughter. He was taken by surprise when the larger Kilz came upon him, lifting him up with ease by his shoulder, and pinning him against the wall. Gundnir's laugh melted away, and was replaced by a sneer. The walls shook with impact, but the Shaman managed to keep his pipe balanced in his teeth. He looked the other Orc up and down, and, snorting, he brought his horn-flagon to his mouth.

"Cheers, whelp." A simple cheers, but one that did not help the situation at all. The Warrior Kilz punched Gundnir with a fist that seemed to be forged from iron, landing the knuckles square in his gut. Gundnir doubled over, still pinned against the wall. His head snapped back up, and he spit blood to the side, his pipe clattering to the floor. All amusement had washed from his visage, and his eyes now blazed, his voice a horrible growl.

"Insolent fool! I am watched by a legion of souls! Warriors past guide me actions, and tha strength of me ancestors course through me veins! You know not what ya do...."

The Elf's thug merely shrugged. "I do not care about this." And another fist of iron was driven into Gundnir's chest. But the Shaman was a trained soldier, and he anticipated the blow. He reeled with it to lessen the impact, and used the force of the attack to aid his own arms that drove upward and broke the hold. Gundnir stood face to face with Kilz, or as much as he could. The Warrior stood several inches above the Shaman, and bested him by an estimated hundred pounds.

Still, Gundnir did not waver.

"Gundnir calls fer yer blood, traitor. Yer challenged to a Trial of Honor."

Kilz, looking down at Gundnir, simply grinned.

Gundnir inhaled deeply, taking in the scents of dried blood, sweat and dirt. The smell of the old arena was almost intoxicating.

Gundnir's second home.

Kilz was not far behind. It was hard not to hear him coming, clanking plate armor and weapons jostling with every step. Still the Warrior seemed to carry the heavy equipment with ease.

Gundnir turned to face his foe, arms spread wide in open challenge. He began a slow pace to the side, sizing and measuring Kilz. From his back he unharnessed a massive warhammer, the shaft and head reinforced with steel. It was comfortable in his hands, perfectly weighted long ago, and Gundnir wielded it with ease. A swing of the hammer was taken around his head in a flashy challenge, and a cold wind followed the weapon.

The Warrior began his own circle, opposite of Gundnir, both sword and axe brandished. He seemed calm, relaxed, confident that the battle was already over. The Shaman's eyes flared, and he began the duel.

Gundnir closed their distance with surprising speed. Muscles tensed, and the hammer was reared high. As it came down, the skilled soldier changed its direction at the last moment, feigning for the chest but swinging with much force downward, towards a knee. If the larger opponent could not walk, he could not fight. At least, not fight as well.

But Kilz was no stranger to battle, either. He was taken offguard by the sudden move, but he managed to bring up a sword to parry. The force of the hammer was too great to be completely turned away, though, and it landed with a satisfying crunch atop the Warrior's armored knee. Kilz showed no pain, no reaction, and while Gundnir was left open by the hammer swing, his own axe whistled through the air, shredding through leather and chain armor and slicing through the Shaman's flesh.

The force of the hammer was great, and Gundnir used the momentum to spin fully around and put a few steps between him and his opponent. He felt his belly, and his gauntlet-clad hand came back sticky and wet.

He actually grinned, relishing the pain. It kept him sharp, reminded him of mistakes. He would not allow his belly to be exposed again. Kilz seemed uneffected by the hammer blow to his knee, and showed no favoring of one leg or the other. Gundnir would have to change tactics, keep the other guessing and constantly changing defenses.

The Shaman called upon those that kept ward over him, that gave him strength. An open palm was thrust forward, and flame lept from his hand, engulfing Kilz in the burning wrath of warriors past. But once again, Kilz seemed to shrug it off. He charged through the inferno, eyes burning red with Orcish blood fury. Smoke sizzled from plate armor, and Kilz attacked, intending to finish the fight quickly.

Gundnir managed to deflect the swift axe attack with his hammer, sending the blow ricocheting to the side with a shower of sparks. But the sword still came, aimed at his abdomen. To lessen the attack, and to survive the blow, Gundnir did the only thing he could. His mangled, gnarled hand, broken and shattered in a past battle, was extended to catch the blade. And though a strong gauntlet protected the gnarled hand, the sword still cut deep. Blood ran in rivulets down his arm, and Gundnir grunted, mustering all his strength to keep the sword from cutting a fatal wound.

Shoving the sword back upward, Gundnir roared. His hammer was cast aside, dropped in favor of his elemental weapons. Pushed off balance, Kilz was left open. Both fists were driven upward into the Warrior's plate mail, and Gundnir's eyes blazed with blue flame. Energy arced between both fists, and bolts of lightning ripped forth from the shaman, tearing through the Warrior, conducted through his armor.

Kilz howled in agony, and smoke arose from singed flesh. But then he did the unexpected. Eyes burned red, and Gundnir recognized all too well a berserking stance. Kilz dug his heels and drove a steel-plated shoulder into the Shaman, lifting him off the ground and charging him back. Gundnir's breath escaped his lungs as he was slammed into the caged wall.

The Warrior did not let up on the assault, completely overtaken with blood fury. He balled a steel-clad fist, and it rang hard against Gundnir's jaw. A savage tusken tooth fell to the floor. Kilz released the charge, letting Gundnir fall to his feet. The Warrior whirled, both blades extended, whistling through the air. One edge caught the Shaman under the knee, spilling more blood and bringing him down to a kneel. He was wavering, crouched there. Breath came in ragged, forced bursts, and blood poured from multiple wounds.

Kilz, caught still in the frenzy of battle, went to capitalize. The look in his eyes was one of confidence, and hatred. He was certain the battle was his at the outset, and now he could affirm it. He stood to the side of the kneeling Gundnir, sword raised. It was held there, briefly, in mid-air, savoring the moment. And with a grin, he swung down. The blade whistled, tore through the air, aimed for a head-severing execution. But his confidence was his downfall.

Gundnir ducked, pushed away at the last moment. He rolled through the sand and blood, both fresh and dried. Both hands clutched his warhammer, and he rolled to his feet. Blue eyes blazed once again with flame, and the Shaman called on every last ounce of strength he could muster. The spirits of war imbued within his hammer "hummed" with anticipation, and elemental energy pulsed around the weapon. The Shaman lept, fueled by his own fury, and swung with unforgiving force.

The hammer flared and met its mark. Bones crunched and the force from the blow knocked both combatants back. Dust flew into the air from the impact, fueled by chilled wind behind the hammer.

But when it settled, only Gundnir stood.

He was torn, bloody and beaten, but he was standing. Kilz was not. And that was all that mattered.

"Gundnir is satisfied, warrior. Ye've bled me, proven yerself. I'll salute ya." A nod and a grunt, and Gundnir limped away, using his hammer to keep himself upright. No help was offered, no apologies. Kilz was a warrior, as Gundnir was, and he would not wish anything of that sort. But Kilz had proven his worth in Gundnir's eyes, and hopefully Gundnir had done the same.

Respect through combat. Glory through bloodshed.
Gundnir's code.

Rather than call upon the spirits that guided him, Gundnir preferred to let his body heal naturally and slowly, so long that the lack of battle allowed him the luxury. The pain and open wounds each taught him a lesson to be learned, mistakes to correct, and kept him alert.

He strode into the Grim Hall, strips of cloth bandage staunching several blood-stained openings on his flesh. Leaning heavily on an ashen staff for support, Gundnir cracked a toothy grin. He held a broken tusken tooth high in an open palm for all to see, its stump still visible in his grinning, swollen gums.

"I need a blacksmith."