[07:55p]
WaylandSmith : No.
[07:57p]
WaylandSmith the terse answer should have sufficed but the normally taciturn smith found himself compelled to speak further. Normally not given to grand speeches, the Kurri's divining of his lack of understanding needled him. In truth he was generally easy to read because he cared little to hide his perceptions of others but this day the frankness of his nature seemed an injury to all mankind.
[07:58p]
WaylandSmith : Whilst one man stands tall, there will be hope for all. Tis the spirit of mankind that will not be quenched... demon!
[08:01p]
WaylandSmith The last word was spoken in the same manner as one might spit the bile that burns one's throat. Raising his sword straight up he saluted his enemy and strode forward feeling the weight of the human race on his shoulders. He would defeat the creature of nightmare, that was his resolve, even if legend held it took 6 men or more to safely dispose of just one of the Kurri.
[08:02p]
WaylandSmith : Kurr: Fool! You will die in great pain and with you the hope of your race.
[08:07p]
WaylandSmith The two antagonists closed at speed, like dancers moving on the ball of their feet they moved in a deadly synchronicity intent to assure the other's downfall. The fleetness of foot and lightness of their movements belying the bulk of their bodies; they moved to a deadly clash. Feet left deep imprints in the sodden ground even if it seemed that they levitated rather than walked.
[08:11p]
WaylandSmith In line with its ferocious nature, the Kurri slashed two great arms in quick succession with a strength to decapitate the unwary, its movement timed to coincide with the slashing motion of the smith's sword. The flailing arms however, hit only air as Wayland ducked under them twisted around on his left heel and stabbed a piercing blow into the back of the calf of the creature. He knew his weapon well, having wrought it long ago over the fire in his forge. A gladius was a piercing not a slashing weapon.
[08:15p]
WaylandSmith Turning once more on his heel Wayland smiled wryly as he saw his opponent stumble from the gaping wound in his leg. Flush with confidence the smith returned to the fray reckoning that the creature was possibly not as tough as legend made it out to be. Just as they clashed again, an image of his father returned to haunt him: clad in the red of his caste he had led his on to a young tarn specially chosen from a nest of four. Wayland had stepped forward with the same confident feeling he felt just now
[08:25p]
WaylandSmith recalling his deep shame as the tarn not only refused to let him climb onto its back but struck forward intent to kill him. He had rolled to the side in a most undignified manner not once but several times to avoid the murderous intent of the bird. Shaking his head he realised that he was making a dangerous re-enactment of the past - whatever had happened as they clashed the second time had not gone in Wayland's favour and he rolled to left and right to avoid deadly slashing claws.
[08:28p]
WaylandSmith The recollection of his failure to achieve red-caste impinged upon his fighting ability - the look of pitying disappointment on his father's face more damning than the killing blow of the young tarn would have been. Rolling away for a fifth time he almost gave in to the feeling of nihilistic futility - almost but not quite - the runes of his trade etched by none other than the smith himself, trembling before his eyes as the sword blocked another potentially fatal blow of the Kur.
[08:38p]
WaylandSmith A disappointment to his father and his people he might have been, but this sword was his creation alone and he knew it was a weapon of quality. Scrambling with little dignity but sufficient speed to evade the murderous beast he rose to his feet again - satisfied to see the slavering mouth transform into am annoyed scowl. Once more the beast was cheated of its prey, once more he lived to fight on, and once more he drew breath and defied the odds.
[08:41p]
WaylandSmith The fight now grew cagier as each adversary had the other's measure, the Kur driven by relentless animal-like cunning and brutal strength; the man trusting to his instincts, the strength and dexterity that was granted to him. They fought silently, neither giving quarter nor expecting it, minor and graver wounds were inflicted and each breathed heavily from the exertion.
[09:12p]
WaylandSmith Tough still light-footed the smith realised the Kurr would outlast him in stamina, it was necessary to strike a killing blow and soon lest he be ground down from sheer exertion. Though few matched his constitution, it was the end of an already long day, he had multiple wounds and slashing claws or snapping jaws struck ever closer to his vitals. A few more ehn of this could mean the end of combat - sidestepping another rushing stroke of his opponent the smith harked back to duels of his father.
[09:15p]
WaylandSmith Even at great age Wayland Sr. knew a feint that drew an opponent to open a path to his chest and twisting round in a movement fast as lightning led to a fatal stroke over the collarbone through the neck. Picturing the stroke in his mind's eye and infused with new energy he struck... Unbidden the sardonic disappointed face of his father floated before his eyes - the Kurri evaded his telegraphed moved and viciously slashed the length of his left arm. Blood spouted from a sectioned vein...
[09:20p]
WaylandSmith The spiked buckler fell from a nerveless hand, the arm hanging uselessly by his side pumping out his life's blood in a lethal tattoo. The Kurr knew his opponent was near collapse and struck in a flurry of lightning blows each sufficient to kill a lesser man. The smith blocked, once, twice, three times and more before being head-butted by the kurr. Staggering back he sought to distance himself and recover his composure.
[09:22p]
WaylandSmith had he truly grown or always been so inept? He saw the blood flowing down his left arm and knew it spelt his doom. He would bleed, weaken, slow and then he would die - he cursed himself for a fool and determined to face death on his feet at least. The two combatants clashed again and again but it was obvious the larger heavier one now had the upper hand - eventually the inevitable happened. A jarring blow to the shoulder struck the smith's blade from his grasp, it flew wide far away from him.
[09:25p]
WaylandSmith stepping back lest he be killed right where he stood, Wayland's heel hit a stone and he crashed down on the ground. The wheezing breath he was drawing blown out of him with the force of his fall. The colossal creature now towered over him, raising its arms in victory and uttering a bone chilling cry to signal the end. Its face drawn into a rictus grin, it pulled the blade from its eye socket and flung it aside with speed and strength. There was no fight left in the smith and he lay back expecting the end.
[09:27p]
WaylandSmith the Kur roared one more time, its fur matted with blood from wounds both grievous and light testimony to the brutality of the encounter. Certain of its victory it made to strike down to finish the fight.
[09:28p]
WaylandSmith Wayland did not close his eyes; he would take the killing blow with dignity at least - but it did not come. Instead of ripping sinews and shattered bones he saw the Kurr fly through the air as it was butted by his bosk in a bone crushing stroke from behind.
[09:30p]
WaylandSmith Mouth agape he saw the creature fly several feet through the air before landing heavily, ere it could do so much as draw breath the enraged bosk gored it with his horns and whipped it once more into the air before trampling over it. The Kur lay still breathing shallowly, its legs dislocated at such an odd angle that surely the hip and femur must be shattered.
[09:30p]
WaylandSmith : Big Jim, whatever got into you?
[09:34p]
WaylandSmith His bosk was a creature of unusual placidity and had never in the smith's experience harmed so much as a fly and yet here it came to the rescue of its master in the hour of his most grievous need. With no other weapon at hand than the stone he had tripped over, Wayland picked himself up and rammed the stone against the forehead of the Kurr, next he took rope to tie its arms behind it and yanked ankles in loops to be drawn high and up. Finally he added the small smithy anvil to the triangle of bonds.
[09:35p]
WaylandSmith Any movement of the arm would pull on the anvil and each in turn would draw taut the lines around the ankles. Any tension brought to bear there would communicate irrevocably to the shattered femur and hips and impair any ability for mischief.
[09:37p]
WaylandSmith Wayland's face was white, exertion and loss of blood were taking their toll but there was more to be done. The wound in his left arm was fatal unless treated - he didn’t need to be green caste to know it. To his relief it seemed that the vein wasn’t fully sectioned and with a tight bandage combined with a sling for his arm he counted on being able to survive for the nonce.
[09:39p]
WaylandSmith This done relief surged through his body and with it a feeling of infinite weariness and nausea. Bending over Wayland retched the contents of his stomach as well as acidic bile - repeatedly. Dizzy and weary he took stock of his surroundings. The sound of painful cries of his bosk finally reached his consciousness - with an effort he rose to unsteady feet to soothe the beast.
[09:41p]
WaylandSmith as it turned out he found the small knife thrown so careless aside by the Kurr firmly planted in Big Jim's broad buttocks, it seemed the knife wrought long ago by TC - whomever he was - had saved his life twice over. Once when he plunged it into the Kur's eye and twice when it enraged his bosk by wounding it.
! Totes respect to that Big Jim! 
