AnimeCon Harem Bonus Part: Order of the Sovereign Swords (Patreon)

“Hah, wow. Can’t believe you paid twenty-five bucks for this,” Idren snorted. Glancing across the hall, he was unable to see anything but foolishly dressed weeaboos and social embarrassments.

“Well, that’s how much it costs to get in,” Sulric griped in exasperation, fidgeting with his tunic. “How’d you get a badge, then?”

“Press badge,” Idren laughed, twirling the pass on its lanyard around his finger. “Didn’t cost me a thing. You needta start using your head, buddy.”

“Press badge? How’d you get a press badge?” Sulric frowned.

“Said I had a blog.”

“Do you?”

“Sure. Haven’t been on it in, what—six years? But that’s their problem. The tards running the show here’ll give these fuckers out like candy,” Idren confided.

Idren and Sulric—these were their Daegonhir monikers—didn’t stand out much from the varied cosplayers sprinkled throughout AnimeCon. Idren was tall and muscled, with a shaved head and a grim pair of deeply-set eyes that accentuated his perpetual scowl. He wore a padded medieval gambeson over a black linen tunic, carried a tall tower shield, and wore a stubby-looking mace hanging from a loop of leather on his belt.

His shorter and heavier-set companion, Sulric, wore a blue and white tunic that didn’t manage to hide his growing paunch of belly fat. Both his hair and beard were neatly trimmed, and though he carried a viking round shield and had a short-sword sheathed, his physique brought to mind a farmer or merchant, rather than a warrior.

Unlike the many cosplayers around them, these two were wearing medieval garb, rather than costumes. Costumes were assumed to be made strictly for appearances—flimsy facsimiles at best, whereas they considered their garb to be more like sportswear; made for rigorous use, for fighting in, running in, being knocked down into the grass and mud in, weathering through brawls and scuffles.

“That’s kinda not cool,” Sulric shook his head. “Not, uh—you know, honorable, right? You at least gonna write ‘em up a review or something?”

“Review?” Idren scoffed, leering at a pair of cosplayers dressed as schoolgirls as they strode down the concourse. The girls had their backs to them, and they were leggy—shapely calves and thighs bare all the way up to the loose sway of impossibly short pleated skirts. “Two outta ten, would not bang, how’s that for a review? These girls’re all junkies and whores—just look at ‘em.”

“...Actually, I’m pretty sure the girl on the right was Sakuro, from Key Catcher Sakuro. Not sure ‘bout the other girl. Probably from the same series?” Sulric guessed.

“Uh, akshully,” Idren mocked, “they’re trashy white girls cashing in on culture trends. They’re here to tease attention outta all these pedophiles and pencil-necks obsessed with anime cartoons.” One of the young women who’d been walking in the same direction as them made a face at what she heard and slowed down, allowing the two guys to stride on well ahead of her.

“C’mon, it’s not that bad,” Sulric argued, looking around them in embarrassment. “Most everyone looks fairly normal. It’s an anime convention; they’re anime fans.”

“Christ, not you, too. There’s nothin’ normal about it. Anime ‘toons, they’re full of all kinds of sick shit—ever heard of one called Boku no Pika?”

“Ah, don’t even start,” Sulric shuddered.

The two were at AnimeCon for an enormous cross-gaming event, where a dozen different live-action battle gaming, re-enacting, and live-action roleplaying organizations from the area were all coming together for the first time. Although the idea made for a harmonious union on paper, the reality was anything-but; individually, each of the various groups was using AnimeCon simply as a venue for garnering publicity and recruiting back to their respective organizations.

The basic compromise after months of arguing and deliberation turned into an entirely new system, devised specifically for the convention; the Order of the Sovereign Swords. The new rules were built first around safety (or rather, what the convention center would let them get away with), and then ‘pick up and play’ value—being simple enough for interested bystanders to understand easily and join in playing immediately.

This meant the seasoned players of the various groups had to subject themselves to a new, rather disadvantageous ruleset, and so incentives were offered to lure veterans into attending AnimeCon so that they could help out. In their case, Idren and Sulric were each promised an increase in rank if they travelled over and made a good showing for Daegonhir’s Belltania realm—otherwise, they’d have likely never attended an anime convention.

“Still… it is kinda interesting,” Sulric said as they worked their way through the crowd and filed onto one of the escalators that led to the upper area. “Maybe after a couple good matches I’ll wander ‘round a bit and check everything out.”

“You’re not gonna play all the pick-up battles?” Idren asked, surprised.

“...Nah, prolly not,” Sulric winced. “Sovereign Sword rules say ‘poisoned blades,’ right? Getting hit with a weapon, anywhere on the body—instant death.” In their system of Daegonhir, only a solid blow on an unarmored torso would kill instantly, while strikes to their arms or legs only counted as the ‘loss’ of the hit limb. Adjusting to play where any and every tiniest scratch is immediately fatal? Sounds like a pain. All I see happening is a bunch of quick-tapping at each other, stuff that wouldn’t count for jack shit in a realistic battle.

“If they let us use our shields, we’ll sweep ‘em all easy,” Idren pointed out.

“Which, of course, means they won’t let us use them for pick-up battles,” Sulric grumbled.

“Eh,” Idren shrugged. “We’re still more than good enough to steamroll newbies. And maybe the LARPers. It’s really just the SCE and the local Daegonhir dudes from Stormheart we’d have to worry about.”

“I dunno if that’s really my thing,” Sulric said. “I want an honest melee, with people who all know what they’re doing, not just... morons running around playing tag with padded sticks.”

“Them’s the breaks,” Idren grunted. “This’s a recruiting gig.”

“Hah, some recruiting. I mean, yeah they’ll be plenty of people interested, and probably some even joining. But if they do, odds are they’ll go to Stormheart or Arken, y’know, whichever Daegonhir area they live in. How many people are gonna drive two hours all the way over from our area to a con like this?”

“Who knows where the hell all these freaks came from?” Idren muttered, scanning out across the sea of attendees. The escalators led to a broad terrace on the upper level that overlooked the exhibition hall, giving them an impressive view. “But, there’s a fuckin’ lot of ‘em. Hundreds. Thousands, maybe?”

They made their way across the upper level towards the rear of the convention center, already beginning to see the crowds of anime fanatics, cosplayers, and photographers thin out. When they’d passed the bulk of the upstairs panel rooms, it became apparent that many of those walking in this direction were dressed in medieval garb as well, and both Idren and Sulric began sizing up the ones that were obviously there for the fights.

“Coooould you beat that one?” a petite Chinese girl in a light blue blouse leaning against the railing of the overlook asked, pointing at a passing man dressed as a dwarf and wielding an enormous foam battle-axe.

“Yep,” the guy standing with her to her replied casually, not giving the dwarf much more than a glance. “Fantasy dweeb. Looks like a pushover.”

“What about that one?” She pointed to Sulric as he passed, amusement evident in her eyes. “Could you beat up him?”

“Yeah, no problem,” the guy laughed. He was a twenty-something-year-old young man wearing a trenchcoat, standing next to the Chinese girl—in fact, it looked like he was casually resting his hand on her butt. “Historical dweeb. More of an armchair general than someone who leads from the front, by the looks of it.”

Cocky prick, Sulric snorted, shaking his head.

“How about... him?” She pointed next at Idren. “Could you beat that guy?”

“Hmm,” The guy in trenchcoat actually seemed to evaluate seriously for a moment. “I don’t know... but I kinda want to find out.”

“Hey, anytime, brother,” Idren called over, an edge beneath the enthusiasm in his voice. “I’m up for matches or pick-up battles all day.”

Sulric and Idren finally left the terrace behind and entered the atrium, where the Order of the Sovereign Swords was based. A lattice of support beams high overhead formed a dodecahedron shape of glass and steel, and although less than half the size of AnimeCon’s main lobby, the area was formed into a broad amphitheater more than large enough for the hundred or so people who’d already gathered. The main stage was empty, likely cleared for the pick-up group battles later on, while the two smaller stages on either side were being used for SCE and Daegonhir demos.

“Hope he comes in and gives it a try,” Idren muttered as they instinctively ambled over towards the side of the room the Daegonhir demos were on. “His little girlywog can watch me put him right into the fuckin’ dirt.”

“Right into the carpet, you mean,” Sulric corrected, scanning through the sword-fighters for any familiar faces. “Gonna be weird, fightin’ indoors for a change. Glad I wore my kneepads under this.”

“Nah, ‘poisoned blades,’” Idren pointed out. “We’re on Order of the Sovereign Swords’ turf now, remember? One-hit kills. You take one to the leg, you don’t go down on your knee—you’re already dead.”

“Ha, you’re already dead,” Sulric growled. It was the catch-phrase of the wandering martial artist from Fist of the Seventh Scar, one of the few animes he was able to freely quote. To his disappointment, Idren didn’t appear to recognize the reference at all.

“I’m not seein’ any familiar faces here,” Idren said, glancing around again.

“Yeah, me neither.”

“You guys Stormheart?” A gangly, stubbled fellow with a padded longsword balanced over his shoulders approached.

“Belltania,” Idren grunted.

“Southern belles, huh?” The guy chuckled. “Waivers and weapons check’s up by center stage. Weapons that’ll pass for Daegonhir might pass for Sovereign Swords, and they might not. The LARP guys’ve been saying they still hit too hard.”

“Fuck.” Both Idren and Sulric both made disgusted faces.

“Hah, yeah,” the gangly swordsman nodded. “We’ve got lotsa loaners for the pick-up battles, but they’re all extra-safe ultra-lights, that got made up in a big batch.”

“You know if we can use our shields in the battles?” Sulric asked, frowning at the stacks of cheap foam-padded swords displayed on one of the folding tables.

“No clue,” the guy shrugged. “Brick's downstairs, and Miss Mara’s still not here yet. The other Order organizers are all LARP clowns or SCE people. Ask them anything Daegonhir-related and they’re like, bwuuuuh?”

“Fucking great,” Idren spat onto the carpet. “Miss Mara, huh?” They moseyed through the growing crowd towards the weapons check table, where an enormous fighter in a chainmail shirt and coif was waiting for them.

“Hail fellows, well met,” the huge guy bellowed, gesturing to pass over their weapons for inspection. “Stormheart brothers, are we?”

“Belltania,” Sulric corrected.

“Bell… tania?” the weapons checker gave them a blank stare, then glanced around to see if anyone else had ever heard of it.

“The Daegonhir realm south of Stormheart,” a guy wearing a Stormheart tabard explained, fetching them a pair of waivers from a stack on the next table. “You guys need a rules packet?”

“We read ‘em online,” Sulric said, accepting the waivers. “Uh, you got a pen?”

“Cripes, those arses walked off with our pen again,” the Stormheart member swore, leaving his station behind and picking through the crowd in search of it.

“Daegonhir brothers, then! Welcome to the Order,” the giant in chainmail exclaimed with enthusiasm, hefting Sulric’s sword in his hands. “A fine blade—I’ll sticker it right away.” A round orange sticker with stamped firmly onto the pommel of the sword, and he passed it back to Sulric.

“This one’s a no-go, though,” a scrawny young man with long hair called out from beside the man in mail as he probed his fingers across Idren’s mace. A full two feet shorter than the other weapons checker, they hadn’t noticed him at first—despite him wearing a brightly-colored tunic with a flashy cape. To Sulric and Idren, it was immediately obvious by appearances alone that this was one of those LARP kids, just as the giant who’d first greeted them was clearly an SCE adherent.

“A no-go?” Idren scowled. “And, why’s that?”

“Just feel it—this thing’s like a brick,” the LARPer shrugged in a hapless manner, giving the blunt surfaces of the mace another squeeze. “You can’t hit people with this thing.”

“Are you kidding me?” Idren spat on the carpet again. “I hit people with that all the frikkin’ time. Every weekend I hit people with that thing. I’m constantly hitting people with it.”

“Uhh, well, maybe it’s just hit too much, and the foam got all compressed over time,” the LARPer shook his head. “Foam’s very stiff, and it’ll hit way too hard.”

“Is there—is there an actual Daegonhir weapons-checker around here?” Idren demanded, looking around in frustration. “If the foam was any softer, they’d be feeling the fiberglass core inside everytime I swung, idiot.”

“Whoa, whoa, we’re all brothers here today,” the enormous main draped in chainmail interrupted with a hearty laugh, taking Idren’s mace from the other weapons-checker. “Why don’t we set this one aside until Lady Mara herself can have a look at it?”

“Works for me,” the LARPer agreed. “Miss Mara does Daegonhir, she’ll know for sure.”

“Well, where’s this Miss Lady Mara at, then?” Idren challenged.

Both of the weapons-checkers regarded him with a moment of stunned surprise before exchanging a meaningful look with each other.

“Lady Mara should be here… soon,” the man in mail said.

“I think Dwelin said an hour ago that she was already on her way,” the LARPer nodded. “Dwelin! Where’s Miss Mara?”

“Parking, last I heard,” the Stormheart member finally returned to where Sulric and Idren were waiting impatiently at the weapons-check booth. “We’ve been texting her nonstop. She had to park like, a mile out because all the garages around the convention center are already full.”

“Did you find a pen, at least?” Sulric asked.

“Nah, it’s gone,” Dwelin replied in exasperation. “Here, I’ll text Miss Mara and see if she can bring one.”

“What a sorry shitshow,” Idren mumbled under his breath.

“Can we use shields in the Order of the Sovereign Swords?” Sulric asked, equally aggravated with the poor organization of the event.

The answer, unsurprisingly, was that they were once again all waiting on this Mara woman to decide—as apparently she was the only head organizer who cross-gamed in all of the different groups that were represented here.

“Fuckin’ A,” Idren hawked and spat on the carpet as he and Sulric headed over towards the table where the loaner weapons were piled. “What a waste of an entire Saturday.”

“And twenty-five bucks,” Sulric muttered with a sigh.

“Jesus, look at these little things,” Idren laughed, waving one of the thin loaner swords in the air, and then taking it in both hands and starting to bend it. “What a joke. Four-ounce feather-weight fairy wands. They wouldn’t pass for weight or flex in Daegonhir. Bet I could snap one.”

“Please don’t,” a heavy-set woman in a cloak at that table warned. “Actually, you need to sign those out before you can use them.”

“Yeah? You got a pen?” Idren sneered.

“We—um, we let the guy with the waivers borrow it,” she said, frowning at his attitude. “He never gave it back.”

“Perfect,” Idren laughed, tossing the sword haphazardly back onto the pile heaped onto the table. Several of the thin swords tumbled off the other side and across the floor.

“Hey! That’s—there’s no need to be rude!” The woman wearing the cloak huffed.

“ORDER!” A voice roared throughout the entire atrium—and everyone inside turned to look.

The scattered crowd of medieval miscreants within the amphitheater quickly parted to reveal a young woman striding forward. Her hair was a wild tangle of coppery, reddish-brown, and the blue-and-green tunic she wore was decorated at the hem with an elaborate celtic weave pattern. A viking round shield was slung onto the baldric over her shoulder, and the sword and axe hanging from her belt were of distinctly Daegonhir make, not the hard rattan of the SCE or the thinly-padded boffers the LARPers favored.

“COUNCILORS, TO ME,” she swept the chaos in the enormous room with her steely gaze, frowning in disapproval. To Sulric and Idren’s surprise, each and every one of the people who’d been manning the booths throughout the area dropped what they were doing and obediently clambered over to assemble in front of her.

“...And who the fuck’s this chick?” Idren whispered to Sulric. The noise within the atrium had dropped precipitously.

“Dunno,” Sulric replied, peering over for a better look. The girl wasn’t particularly captivating, but nor was she homely. If anything, her face looked rather plain—easily forgettable. She was a bit taller than average for a woman, around the same height as him, and she was outfitted and armed much better than the average Daegonhir player, but that was it. If not for her making a big commotion upon arrival, he’d have never given her a second glance.

“I get it. Look at her gear,” Sulric chuckled, working up yet another wad of spit in his mouth. “Must be some local big-shot’s girlfriend, all dressed up to show off and boss fuckers around.”

“A non-com?” Sulric guessed. Non-combatants did exist around the fringes of a combat sport like Daegonhir—often girlfriends, spouses, injured players out for the season, or even just the unassociated friend who was available to drive players out to an event or practice.

“Yeah, no doubt,” Idren sneered. “Remember Spiker’s girlfriend Cassie? Wouldn’t even sit down in the grass and leaves, let alone fight. Just a fuckin’ trophy to bring along. Ooh look, everyone! I’ve got a girl! What a fuckin’ joke.”

* * *

“This is a joke,” Mara decided, her voice stern. “Where’s Leafy Jack and Brick-cloud? Bones, you’re running weapons check?”

“Yes, my lady,” the enormous man wearing the chainmail affirmed. “Corvus Cantrip and I have—”

“Move the weapons check and the table for waivers to the entrance of the atrium,” Mara ordered. “We’re liable for everything that goes on in here, I don’t want any unsafe weapons inside, and I don’t want to see any weapons in the hands of anyone who hasn’t signed a waiver. Period.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Have you ever run an SCE event before?”

“This is my first.”

“The Order rules are simple, but announce them out loud to everyone every hour or so,” Mara said. “And I mean, out loud. I want everyone in the Atrium to hear you. People are going to be coming and going. If you see anyone goofing around with the swords, ask for their names and then give them a warning. No second warnings—any offenses after their first, you ask them to leave, or escort them out.”

“Uh, well you see, we were told we could use Daegonhir and SCE weapons, if they were just for demo matches…” the gangly Stormheart member chimed in.

“We’re using orange stickers?” Mara observed, glancing at the sword Bones wore at his hip. “Write a “D” on the sticker if it passes for Daegonhir, an “S” for SCE. If it’s safe to use for everything else, leave the sticker blank. Keep an eye on things.”

“About that—there aren’t any, ah, well there weren’t even enough pens to use for people signing waivers…” another Stormheart, the one in the tabard started sheepishly before trailing off.

“No pens?” Mara sighed, turning towards the LARPer who’d been at the weapons-check table. “Corvus, you were in charge of bringing the print-outs and pens. There’s a panel on Japanese calligraphy somewhere downstairs—they should have pens to spare. Be polite, don’t interrupt their panel, and offer to leave them something as collateral in exchange. Go.”

“What should I use as collateral?” Corvus flustered.

“Something important to you,” Mara replied, frowning. “You told me at the Blood Hills Campout that you were ready to be a part of the Council, and I’m not seeing your sincerity. Don’t disappoint us again.”

“Marina, you have the first aid kit?” Mara continued on.

“Yes, Miss Mara,” the woman in the cloak nodded. “I’ve also been taking care of the loaner weapons.”

“Leave that to someone else—I want ice. Someone is going to get hurt today, somehow. They always do. There’s concession stands downstairs, I want bags of ice for swelling, and a bucket or something to keep them in. If they end up charging you, keep track of the cost, and we’ll compensate you from the treasury later.”

“Yes, Miss Mara,” the woman nodded and hurried off immediately.

“Who here’s a part of the Red Wolves?” Mara asked.

“I am,” a teen in leather scale armor volunteered.

“You helped make all the loaner swords?”

“Uh… well, no. My buddy Isaac did, though. I know how to make them.”

“Then, you’re either going to run the loaner table, or find someone better than you to do it. Name check-ins aren’t going to cut it, either—take cash collateral, or hold onto their cameras, or cell phones or something. They’re not allowed to fight while carrying those, anyways. If anyone tries to argue, ask if they already signed a waiver. It’s all printed on the waiver.”

“Wow,” the guy in the Stormheart tabard chuckled as he watched the Council disperse. “You really put the order in Order of the—”

“Which I shouldn’t have to,” Mara sighed in exasperation, clapping him on the shoulder. “Where’s the rest of the Stormheart higher-ups? Why wasn’t anyone taking charge?”

“Downstairs, I think. Gavin’s with his girlfriend, and Brick-cloud’s going ‘round trying to drum up interest. Can’t wait for you to see his new helmet.”

“It better not have dumb horns on it,” Mara chuckled, taking the time to leisurely look around those gathered at the venue. Her fierce expression slowly gave way to her typical sleepy look.

“Hey, is this all actually going to work out?” the guy asked, arching an eyebrow at the different crowds of LARP players, live-action battle gamers, and historical re-enactors.

“Well, you know what they say,” Mara answered in a drowsy voice, stifling a yawn as she stretched her arms out wide in the air. “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it sink.”

“Can’t make it…” the guy gave her a dubious look as they headed over towards the central stage. “Sink?”

“MAAARA!! Come out and face me, you lily-livered lubberwort! Do you dare?!” The barbarian barrelling into the Atrium was enormous, his horned helm towering high over the rest of the entrants making their way into the atrium. He wore little else besides a leather kilt and fur wrappings upon his feet, and boasted a physique positively bulging with pure muscle.

“Why wouldn’t I dare, you hedge-born, skamelar son of a sow?” Mara challenged, stepping out away from the group she’d been walking toward. Upon catching sight of her long-time friend Brick-cloud, however, her face immediately clouded with scorn. “What. Is. That?!”

“Ha! Look at this wicked wench! Look at her eyes glow green with envy,” Brick-cloud preened, proudly lifting his chin high and tilting his head back and forth to show off his new helmet.

“You know how I feel about horns on helmets,” Mara warned, stalking towards him through the gathering of fighters.

“Obviously, they make you horn—agggch?!” He staggered, head forcibly canted towards one side, as Mara used one of the curved horns on his helmet as a handle and climbed up his enormous body. A chorus of familiar hails and cheers sounded out from the Stormheart members at the sight of the much smaller girl seating herself upon Brick-cloud’s shoulders.

“Hmm,” Mara hummed to herself thoughtfully, gripping a horn in either hand. “Maybe they’re not as bad as I thought. Forward, beast!”

“Ho!” Brick-cloud bellowed, striding forward with an awkward gait. Attendees in tunics and plain clothes alike quickly made way for him and his rider.

“You cabbage-eating bespawler,” Brick-cloud laughed theatrically. “Look at how late the hour has grown! You were supposed to be here at sunrise.”

“Oh? Sayeth who?” Mara arched an eyebrow from her high vantage-point atop Brick-cloud as he carried her towards the center stage. There, the giant man in chainmail, Bones, was shouldering the entire weapons check table up into the air.

“The illustrious Council of the Order of the Sovereign Swords,” he answered in a mocking tone.

“Impossible,” Mara said, aggravated. “I told everyone I was working ‘till six, and wouldn’t be here until at least seven. I’m already here hours earlier than I should be, and only because something came up.”

“Well met that you’re here, then, the—”

“No, turn, turn.” Mara chided, slapping the top of his helm. “Beastly thing, why aren’t you turning?”

“You’re not steering!” the huge man protested, staggering to a stop.

“I am steering, sod-wit,” Mara insisted. “Can’t you feel my boot pressing here? You guide a mount with your feet, not these unseemly handlebars. You want me to accidentally break your scrawny neck?”

“Scrawny?!” Brick-cloud roared. “SCRAWNY?!” He bucked and twisted in an attempt to dislodge his rider, and those nearby scattered to give him space. Mara easily kept her balance with an amused smile, hardly even swaying. His neck was the thick, muscular trunk few besides professional body-builders could ever attain.

“Excuse me, ladies,” Idren interrupted with a scowl. “Is one of you running this mess? We were told someone competent enough to check Daegonhir weapons might be attending today.”

“Oh?” Mara narrowed her eyes, looking down at the fighter from her perch, and guided Brick-cloud closer. She planted her hands and carefully dismounted, now standing several inches shorter than Idren. “Weapon.”

He passed her his weapon, the short but brutal-looking mace. It had the basic shape of a baseball bat, but was crowned with stubby flanges of thick, cloth-covered foam.

She looked at it thoughtfully, and then, to his surprise, ran through a quick but complete check of the weapon. Gently twisting the pommel to make sure it was secure, carefully examining the foam compression along the haft with her fingers, and finally, giving the flanges along the striking surfaces a squeeze. Unlike Corvus, the short-statured LARPer who’d found the foam too stiff to squish... Mara’s fingers sunk in deep with her casual test of the flange’s firmness, momentarily deforming the entire shape of the weapon.

“It’s fine,” she decided, passing the weapon back. “Balance is a little wonky—I like my bludgeons nice and top-heavy—but it’s safe enough for Daegonhir.”

“Right,” Idren replied, rolling his eyes. “Can I get it tagged?”

“Bones!” Mara shouted. “Give this man a sticker with a D.”

“Why don’t I give you the D?” Idren snorted rudely, chuckling to himself as he turned towards his stockier friend Sulric. Though Idren was obviously the kind of un-self-aware jackass who said whatever popped into his mind, Sulric noticed everyone around them going quiet in a hurry.

“C’mon,” Idren prompted. “Let’s get some warm-ups going.”

“Whoa there, friend,” Brick-cloud wore an unsettling smile as he slapped a broad hand onto Idren’s shoulder. “...Why don’t you have your first match with me, instead?”

“Sure, why not?” Idren smirked. “Idren, of Belltania.”

“Brick-cloud, SCE Breakers’ brigade and Daegonhir Stormheart legion. Both of the rings are still clear, let’s go.”

“How about you?” Mara asked, turning her cool gaze towards Sulric. “Up for a match?”

“Yeah, sure,” Sulric nodded, hefting his shield. “M’lady.”

With an odd lingering sense of trepidation, Sulric followed her towards the smaller sparring ring at the left-side stage of the atrium, while he saw Idren being led towards the right-most stage. He was sure his friend would be alright, even up against that big guy, but was beginning to worry they’d wind up defeating the whole purpose of them coming here with his rotten attitude.

This isn’t a tourney or battle event, Sulric shook his head in dismay. Antagonizing everyone at a recruiting demo, how’s that gonna make us look? Do you HAVE to go around offending everyone who ticks you off?

“Also Belltania?” Mara asked, evaluating him without seeming the slightest bit intimidated.

“Er, yes,” Sulric affirmed. “Sulric of Belltania, Knight apprentice.”

“You’re a long way from home,” Mara remarked.

“Two hour drive,” Sulric winced. “You’re Stormheart?”

“Arken territory, one hour’s drive away,” she smiled. “These Stormhats don’t know how good they have it.”

Unexpectedly, none of the growing crowd of Stormheart fighters following them towards the sparring ring batted an eye at her calling them Stormhats, and Sulric looked around uneasily. Something was… off.

Actually… why the hell is everyone wandering over to watch THIS match? Wouldn’t the fight on the other side, between Idren and that huge dude seem a lot more entertaining?

Across the broad amphitheater, Idren hadn’t noticed anything out of place.

“That chick back there, she your girlfriend or something?” Idren asked, spitting onto the carpet again. With his tower shield at one side and the stubby mace at the ready, there was little else for him to prepare.

“Christ, kid,” Brick-cloud pulled off his helmet and passed it to another of the waiting Stormhearts. As a sudden blow catching on those horns would surreptitiously do actual harm to the vertebrae in his neck, he wouldn’t wear it in actual combat. He hoisted up a large, overpadded glaive and gave it a swishing swing through the air. “Even I ain’t that brave.”

In the remaining ring on the far side of the central stage from them, Sulric and Mara needed even less time to get prepare. She simply passed her round shield and axe into a pair of waiting hands—it didn’t seem to matter whose, and stepped to one side of the ring.

She’s not even gonna use her shield? What, am I supposed to go easy on her?

“Tap swords,” the herald who would be acting as referee instructed, gesturing to both of them. The two fighters advanced a pace, tapped their swords against one another in respect, and then stepped back again.

“Three… two… one… lay on!” The ring’s herald cried out, initiating their fight.

Sulric loosened his shoulders and raised his shield to a ready position, ready to slowly stalk forward while sizing them his opponent, as he’d done countless hundreds of time in the past. But, he never got the chance.

Are you kidding me? The rather plain-looking young lady in the linen tunic was already hurtling towards him in an enormous leaping bound. The very instant the herald had cried out lay on, Mara was extending herself into a lunging, one-handed thrust.

Leaning reflexively into a forward stance, and bracing his round shield against his shoulder for the imminent impact, Sulric raised his sword in preparation to cut down the instant she was in range. In his split-second evaluation, while she was fully invested in a foolish, charging stab, she’d be completely unable to block; this was going to be an incredibly quick match.

The timing of his counterattack was perfect—but she was just too fast. The tip of her padded sword decisively caught the bottom edge of his shield, then she controlled the recoil from that jab bouncing back by rolling her wrist, spinning the sword up with unbelievable speed to neatly intercept his own sword strike, cleanly parrying it away.

Their entire first exchange lasted only a split second, but Sulric stumbled back, narrowly avoiding a deft riposte that followed the insane parry she’d performed. He felt a cold sweat begin to creep up his back, and he righted his shield back into place. Fuck, she’s good. Better than Idren, maybe.

When her first thrust had caught the bottom of his shield, he’d felt the entire viking shield pivoting down away from his shoulder, with his punch-style grip at the center becoming a fulcrum that would open him up to her follow-up. In fact, in that bare instant following her first stab, his upper arm, shoulder, and neck had all been completely exposed. If he hadn’t already been proactively striking out and necessitated her parry, the match might’ve already been decided by her.

Cursing himself for not having constructed his foam-padded plywood shield another six inches larger, Sulric dropped into a lower, slightly uncomfortable stance so that he could stabilize his shield from the top with his shoulder, down to his knee bracing the bottom. It wasn’t going to wobble on him now, but before he could formulate any further plan of attack, she was upon him in a dizzying flurry of blows. Fast left, sweeping right, twisting her sword around for an unexpected stab coming from above, a sweeping slash from below that immediately followed—he didn’t even know how, and it was all he could with both his shield and sword to batter and bash the incoming barrage away from reaching him.

Something was going terribly wrong here. His own padded sword was a few inches longer than hers, and it should have been heavier, too—yet in each actual exchange where he crossed swords with her, his was consistently being knocked askew, while hers barely seemed to budge. His shield, shuddering beneath the torrent of impacts, felt like it was bruising his shoulder, and he’d already been forced to break his forward stance by pulling back his leading foot, or she’d have already scored points on it.

Shit—and I can’t read her, at all, Sulric realized as he watched her sword flash and snap into him from every angle. The standard strike positions he was accustomed to—up, down, left, right, the diagonals, and thrusting stabs—simply weren’t coming anymore.

Mara would begin a strike to his side that, with an elegant twist of her wrist, came instead from above or below, her sword sweeping first in crescents and arcs, then increasingly complex parabolas that became impossible for him to predict. He was certain there was a flow to it all, some sort of pattern, but with her incredible speed, it felt like he was opposing several enemies at once. Each of her strikes followed the next in a fast and fluid flow that turned into an unstoppable chain of hits before he even realized he was backpedalling desperately.

It’s like I’m chicken-scratching out in manuscript, and she’s drawing cursive into me like some kinda goddamned calligraphist.

Ordinarily, going up against a girl of such slight stature, slinging such lightning-quick strikes at him, his first instinct would’ve been to shield-rush her. A solid body check to either slam into her or shrug her aside. Knock her off of her feet, or at the very least back her off; break her momentum and give him a chance to counter, some breathing room. However, the thought of shield-rushing this girl never occurred to Sulric—because while her blitzing arcs of fanciful swordplay looked light as a feather, they were hitting way too goddamned heavily.

The smack of cloth-covered foam hitting foam resounded out impossibly loud throughout this entire side of the convention hall, with the sort of volume Sulric didn’t hear often on any of his normal battlegrounds. Each strike was a thunderous crack slapping down that made him flinch. The unbridled, bone-rattling force behind each blow made it feel like he was squaring up against a much larger opponent—one wielding a slablike two-handed greatsword, not this girl who was casually flicking a short-sword into him from every conceivable direction with practiced ease.

After what felt like another eternity being battered beneath the unstoppable onslaught of this girl’s attacks—the entire fight thus far in fact lasted about nineteen seconds—Mara ended it. Sulric’s shield was hammered out and away from protecting his body, and she struck—his left leg, his right arm, and a strike to the chest. All light taps, contrasted sharply to the downright murderous hits he’d endured up until that moment. He couldn’t even tell which of those hits landed on him first.

“Good match,” Mara said politely, nodding towards him.

Sulric exhaled slowly, feeling his shoulders sag down and struggling not to collapse to the carpeted floor. In twenty seconds, he was completely exhausted. In fact, it felt like he’d fallen from the top an impossibly tall tree, attempting to block and parry every branch on the way down. Did that... just happen?

“Match in favor of Mara, the Nightmare, realm Marshal of the Arken territories!” the nearby herald proclaimed in a loud voice. A hearty roar of screams and cheers followed, rising up from more people than he’d have imagined would be watching a small one-on-one match like this.

Wait, Realm Marshal? I fought the ARKEN REALM MARSHAL?! Doesn’t that Arken area cover, like, three different states?!! Sulric bowed low, the look of humiliation on his face quickly turning to one of horror, and he shot a searching glance over for his friend Idren. Damn. Idiot still hasn’t finished his match.

“Thank you,” Sulric finally said in a humble voice, letting out a self-mocking chuckle. “Can’t really agree it was a good match, though. Felt like trying to fight a Tazmanian devil, a—a tornado, or something. Wasn’t no fight at all.”

“Thank you! Here, give ‘er a try,” Mara offered with a clear, bright laugh, spinning her short-sword handily to present it hilt-first to Sulric. “You’ll see why.”

It was a beautifully crafted, if somewhat wide-looking sword, constructed along careful lines to give the illusion of tapering to a point. In the instant he reached out his hand to grasp her sword, he became aware that everyone nearby was watching him, some discreetly, others rather blatantly, halting mid-conversation to turn and watch.

He grasped the hilt, Mara let go of the blade… and Sulric stared, dumbfounded, as the sword dipped down sharply to point towards the ground.

Fuck me. The foam sword was heavy, feeling in fact far heavier than any padded weapon—of any length—that he’d ever held. This is as heavy as a real goddamn sword. How the hell did she safely weight this?

“Over twenty-nine ounces,” the girl announced proudly. “Exceeds our minimum weight for glaives and polearms, but at less than a third of their typical length. Balanced nicely, too, no?”

Sulric grimaced, hefting the sword up and giving it a slow, impossibly awkward swing through the air. It sluggishly swayed back and forth, looking nothing like he was trying to execute a proper sword strike. Embarrassed, he let her sword drop back down. Jesus. JESUS. She was swishing this thing at me like it was a goddamn fairy wand.

“Unfortunately, I have to reblade the whole thing just about every other practice, because the foam compresses into these awful dead spots so fast with that weight—but it packs a real punch, doesn’t it?” Her eyes were eager and enthusiastic, and he cursed inwardly again at realizing just how young she actually was.

Realm Marshal, at that age. Fuck me. She really IS a Realm Marshal. Sulric remembered being overawed by Marshall Wolfe’s skill back in his home territory of Belltania... but he couldn’t even begin to imagine Wolfe triumphing over this girl. Girl? This terrible force of nature.

“Er… yeah,” He admitted with a nervous laugh, passing the sword back to her with reverence. “But, uh, how do you actually manage to swing that thing around?”

“Same as with anything else; practice,” Mara replied, lazily swishing the short-sword to draw a pair of figure-eights in the air at incredible speed. “Lots of practice.” The glimpse of her arm he caught within her sleeve wasn’t gigantic, or masculine or anything, but it was definitely well-defined. As she swung and twisted her wrist through different forms, muscle corded like steel flexed briefly into view like sketched lines of strength upon her lovely forearm.

“Christ, are you ladies gonna stand around flirting all fuckin’ day, or are you ever gonna fight?” Idren complained, finally shouldering his way with his tower shield through the enormous audience that’d gathered. His deeply-set eyes flashed, bewildered by the calm scene he was taking in over here.

“We—uh, our fight’s over already,” Sulric admitted, sheepishly glancing towards Mara. She said nothing, instead cooly appraising Idren.

“And you lost?” Idren seemed to realize, furious disbelief hardening the lines of his face. “Sulric—are you fuckin’ serious?”

“Well. It looks like it’s you and me, then,” Mara observed, watching Idren seriously and taking several slow, measured steps back to her side of the ring. The chattered discussion filling their side of the enormous Atrium seemed to fall to a hush.

“Yer goddamn right, it is,” Idren growled, pushing towards the ring with a snarl. “Outta my way.”

“Idren, no!” Sulric called out in warning. “She—”

“Shaddup,” Idren growled. “Fuckin’ apprentice. First fuckin’ match, and you go and embarrass Belltania. I’ll deal with you in a minute.”

“No, she’s…”

“Mara!” Brick-cloud called out over the crowd, the huge man once again donning his horned helm. “You want your shield?”

The auburn-haired girl narrowed her eyes at his concern, realizing after a moment of surprise that her big friend Brick-cloud had actually... lost his match against Idren.

She turned her full attention to size up this new opponent as he entered the ring. Idren was a full foot taller than her, and sported the craggy face, angry scowl and shaved head one might expect of a prison convict. Beyond that, she saw nothing more than his raised tower shield, a five-foot tall rectangular slab of plywood and foam, bound with an off-white, somewhat battered-looking cloth cover.

“...No need,” she decided, forgoing use of her shield once again as a handicap. He was, after all, already approaching her, shield-first. Not even willing to tap swords with her in a show of respect. Mara rolled her shoulders, set her feet, and then nodded towards the Stormheart acting as this ring’s herald.

“Alright, three! Two!” The eager Stormheart shouted, “One! Lay on!”

Idren took the initiative with a charge, immediately pushing forward with his shield up like a rushing wall. As it reached her, there was a tremendous thundering crack, and the shield inexplicably bucked backwards. Sulric could see that Mara was now in a forward stance all of the sudden... and her padded blade only became visible to him as a blur after it began to slow down following her strike.

...Holy hells.

Pushing forward again, Idren was in return stopped dead once more by the force of Mara’s blows, the large tower shield shuddering and quaking in a way Sulric had never seen the thing do before. Mara’s sword arm seemed to vanish with each of her swings, her speed transforming it into an obscure gray shape of repulsive force that denied her opponent every inch forward he tried to gain. Each of his attempts were met with instant and unrelenting punishment, her crushing blows correcting the tower shield’s position back to the far edge of her sword’s range.

The sound of the sword meeting shield was deafening, turning the heads of those few in the atrium who hadn’t already gathered close around this fighting stage.

“Light!” Idren called, bracing the tower shield forward. “Light, light!”

“This isn’t classed as a polearm,” Mara waggled her sword for him, amused. “You don’t have to call ‘light.’”

In Daegonhir, weapons of a certain length and weight were decided to ‘disable’ shields after two consecutive heavy hits, putting the shield out of play. Calling ‘light’ was part of their honor system, where the defender had the right to insist the attacker’s blow wasn’t sufficient enough to count for a shield breaking hit. A handful of the Stormheart fighters scattered around the periphery of the small stage began to laugh, and Sulric grimaced.

He’d been on the receiving end of those hits of hers just minutes earlier, and subconsciously mistaking her strikes for smashes from a polearm wasn’t far-fetched at all. They hurt, down to his very bones, regardless of how he was blocking them. I’ve let glaives that didn’t hit anywhere NEAR that hard 'break' my shield in field battles.

“Light!” Idren either hadn’t heard her, didn’t care, or—more likely, was taunting her as he continued to edge forward, tower shield holding rigid beneath several more of her calamitous hits.

With a grin, Mara hopped backwards, eliciting gasps from her collective audience, and then sprung forward, putting what Sulric was sure must have been her entire body weight into a flashing strike that buckled the tower shield, bending and then folding the thing in half.

She broke his shield, Sulric openly gawked as his friend swore and tried to pull his arm free from the straps of his sagging shield. As it was hurled aside, everyone could see the plywood had split in a jagged line right where his arm had been buckled in. She broke it. Just like that. She couldn’t ‘break it,’ so she BROKE IT. Holy fuck! Is that even legal?!

No one seemed inclined to stop her. She waited patiently while Idren struggled out of his shield, standing with the indomitable confidence of a goddess of the battlefield. Shields and weapons did often break or become unusable throughout the course of a Daegonhir skirmish, it happened. But, Sulric had certainly never seen it happen in such a... purposeful way.

Despite turtling behind his giant shield against a smaller, and shield-less opponent, not only had Idren failed to gain any ground—his endeavor was shut down the moment she seemed bored with it. Realm Marshall of the Arken territories. Maybe even IDREN can’t beat her.

“Pah,” Idren spat loudly, livid with rage. “Yeah, alright, come on, then!” He pounced forward, and his mace flew into Mara so fast that it seemed like a flicker. Unlike their real-world mace counterparts, heavy, slow, bashing things, in Daegonhir they were known as a rather cheap weapon to use—often labelled speed bats.

It was, after all, the simplest possible thing to wield; some padding on a stick. Rather than being balanced or shaped into a blade, which would have an ‘edge’ and a ‘flat,’ the entire head of the mace was all considered legal striking surface. It could be carelessly swung in every direction without form, without worrying about how or where they were hitting.

And Idren was hitting, striking out as fast and furious as he could lash out, his mace cleaving through the contested space between them in an unrestrained, all-out offense. His weapon had become a difficult-to-catch blur of speed matched only by Mara’s own sword, which twisted and turned through the air to meet it with cracking clashes that sounded too loud to possibly come from padded weapons.

“C’mon, then,” Idren roared. “That all you’ve got?!”

The copper-haired young woman shifted from foot to foot with elegant grace for each deft block and twirling parry, finally seeming pressured. Idren loomed over her, making up for his mace’s stubby length with the reach of his much longer arms. But, at the same time, even Idren’s practiced speed and simple strikes were still being turned away, each hit flicked aside with Mara’s startling finesse.

Afraid to blink for fear of missing a sudden and abrupt conclusion, Sulric held his breath as the competing fighters hacked and slashed at each other, almost too fast to follow—Idren’s larger frame lunging in with his mace, Mara stepping and countering everything he could throw at her in a whirl of her blue-and-green tunic.

“Is that it, little girl?” Idren shouted, his bald head beginning to bead with perspiration as he forcefully cut and stabbed. “Got anything besides blockin’ and dodgin’?!”

“Of course.” Mara calmly reached out with her free hand—plucked the mace from Idren’s grasp, and tossed it over her shoulder.

It hit the floor and tumbled to a stop at the edge of the ring amid shocked silence. Gaping in stunned astonishment at his now empty hand, Idren froze as the onlookers surrounding their ring exploded into a roar of surprised screams and cheers.

Sulric felt his mouth falling open, and watched in startled stupefaction as his fellow Belltanian edged nervously back from the unexpected turn of events, looking at Mara as if she’d suddenly sprouted hydra heads. Then, Idren fled the ring, turning and forcing his way through the people pressed in behind him with a pushing shove. The stubby mace and broken tower shield remained, laying discarded on the floor beyond Mara, the only proof that another fighter had ever been there.

“How did—how the… what did you just do?!” Sulric demanded. He didn’t even recall rushing forward towards Mara as the ringside devolved into chaos.

“I disarmed him,” Mara blinked at him, a beautiful smile appearing across the young woman’s features. Nothing about her seemed in any way plain to him, anymore.

“Disarmed him?! You—”

“I’m sure you think your friend is a great,” Mara cut him off with a shake of her auburn curls, “but he’s not a sword-fighter. He might be good at playing to win, and he might be considered competitive in Daegonhir— but again, he’s not a swordsman.”

Rendered speechless by her response, Sulric couldn’t muster any argument. To him, Idren had always been a brilliant fighter. An impassable wall of an opponent he just couldn’t beat, no matter how much he practiced.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Mara rolled her eyes. “He’s a reflex fighter. He wasn’t paying attention to my footwork, and he wasn’t reading my stances. All he was doing was focusing everything on swatting attacks out as fast as he could, at me, and my sword whenever he saw me swing. That’s not proper melee-combat—that’s high speed whack-a-mole, wearing garb. He trained himself to hit at a reflex. So, when you raise your hand up all slowly…”

With a slow, unhurried motion she brought her hand up and patted Sulric’s head.

“...it doesn’t register at all. Because he’s not thinking, he’s just reacting, straining himself to catch the fastest strikes. Completely focused, but only on pushing his reflexes to their limit. He wasn’t sword-fighting.” This girl was clearly several years younger than him, but it didn’t feel that way at all, and Sulric was still paralyzed with shock when she shook her head at him and strode away into the jubilant crowd.

“Well, sure looked like magic to me,” Sulric muttered to himself in a daze as he watched the girl climb back up onto Brick-cloud’s shoulders. Somewhere amid the shouting someone had begun to chant Nightmare, Nightmare, Nightmare!

After stooping down to retrieve Idren’s forgotten mace from the floor, Sulric raised it high in the air and joined in the rallying cheer as well.

* * *

Foxy had just been leading Mary down from the upper level veranda when Idren barged out of the Atrium, knocking over a young woman in a hoodie and bashing another cosplayer in a Folken Tail outfit down into a stumbling spin.

“Hey—!”

“What the hell, dude?!”

“Watch it!”

Red-faced and utterly livid with fury, Idren stomped on. He had no apologies for any poor souls who got in his way, he seemed to be on a rampage across the upper level. Chasing after someone Foxy didn’t see, or—more likely, running from something he couldn’t contend with. So, Foxy did what came naturally to him; he caught the eye of the tall, tabard-wearing guy with the angry scowl and smirked at him.

That got Idren’s attention, and it wasn’t much of a course change for the enraged Daegonhir fighter to charge in Foxy’s direction, thrusting a one-armed shove intended to knock the smaller man down. Unfortunately for him, Foxy actually stepped in to the shove, slamming his back into Idren with a twist of his upper body and gripping that extended arm with both hands. With a forceful yank and a whirl of trenchcoat tail, Foxy threw the fighter over his shoulder, sending the bald man crashing forcefully into the ground with a thundering boom.

“Oh my—oh my God,” Mary breathed in shock, both hands clutching her face. “Is he—”

“Yeah, the guy from earlier,” Foxy said, deftly pinning his knee against Idren’s back and pressing him into the floor.

Although everything had happened fast, Foxy was embarrassed to admit his throw had been pretty sloppy. It had worked, certainly—but he hadn’t kept perfect balance while he was pivoting, and was in no way certain this maniac would come through that abrupt collision with the floor as... unharmed as he’d intended. He’s not moving, at least. Should I check for a fuckin’ pulse?

“Ah, well,” Foxy composed a nonchalant sigh, willing his heartbeat to return back to normal. “Thought he might’ve been a good challenge… but from the looks of it, he was just another sore loser all along.”

“Are you okay?” Mary asked, bewildered.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” Foxy replied, giving her a cocky smile. “Wasn’t my fault, this time. Is that security I see, running this way? Let’s, uh… let’s head back downstairs.”