Beyond Chaos – A DiceRPG

Kal Fadi understood he couldn’t go too far, not when the only Iyrman who had showed him so much politeness was opposite him. His drew both his blades and stepped forward, the blades not glowing their most vibrant purple hue as of yet, but at the same time, he understood the consequences of not going all out. As his blades, dark as night, and yet sparkling with the stars of the same night sky, flowed through the air, his sabres seemed to move in some kind of dance, and yet though his opponent could see them move so slowly, it was as though he fell into the sabre’s pace.

Fakrot had already expected Kal Fadi to be a foe that would be difficult to face, and as his rage slipped through him, the ache of the flashing might of Kal Fadi’s blades filled through him, slipping through to his bones, the great might of such fine magical weapons rocking through his body. It was not just the might of his weapons, but the might of his Oath, the might of his smites, which rocked through the Iyrman’s body. Yet, Thirsty Sanguine flashed, for as it was a decent enough axe in the hands of a typical warrior, when one was even slightly wounded, the axe itself flashed to life, and eagerly drank up the blood of its wielder’s opponents. Yet, even so, Kal Fadi’s sabres managed to force the axe away.

’He has not fought in so long,’ Jarot thought, watching with his arms crossed, his eyes upon the back of the young man. He was skilled enough, certainly a Master, but during the time he spent in his meditations, and even if he did end up fighting all manner of beasts, real, nightmares, or otherwise, it had been a long while since he had clashed steel with another.

Fakrot stood, though not quite tall and proud, more so low and desperate, his axe cleaving through the air, as though trying to bring death to a beast.

’He is too excited,’ Gorot thought, seeing the desperation within that axe, a desperation so familiar. ‘Brother Fakrot…’

Kal Fadi did not shirk away from the wall known as Fakrot, his sabres once more dancing the dance of steel, this time forcing the Iyrman back, and he had managed to strike viciously, and his smite rocked against the Iyrman with an even heavier blow, the kind that could strike down the typical expert. He was certain of it, even as a Master, Fakrot would…

Ah.

He was a Rot.

Fakrot panted, his lungs burning with effort, but as the gazes remained upon his back, he inhaled sharply, and stepped forward. He was not just any Iyrman. It was he who was the son of Sarot, who had managed to step further than even the Mad Dog, the man who held such pride he stepped out for the sake of the Iyr, and died for its sake. He was that Sarot’s son, and even if it meant disrespecting the Faro, he needed to step forward.

The Iyrman’s wild swings forced Fadi back, whose arms throbbed, thankful the blow had only clipped his sabres, and even then, such a heavy blow threatened to shatter his bones. As they continued their dance of steel, Kal Fadi stepped forward once more, and rocked Fakrot with greater magic, with the thought that, certainly, the Iyrman would fall under such a heavy blow. It was not just any blow, but the kind that would have-,

Kal Fadi brought up his sabres, skidding backwards, his arms now brought behind him, and he leapt backwards further out of the Iyrman’s range. Fakrot remained hot red with rage, and with the wild swings of a beast, threatened to cleave the Kal’s neck.

“I have felt the might of your-,” Kal Fadi began, wishing to stop the bout there, for the pair were both at a blow’s end, but he clasped his sabres tighter, flashing a deeper purple, ready to receive the terrible blows.

“Uncle,” called a voice, causing Fakrot to pause, and as the Iyrman paused, he clasped his axe tighter in hand, the axe of the Rot family.

“You fought well,” the old Iyrman said, causing his nephew to sigh, letting out his frustrations.

“Thank you for the fight, Kal Fadi,” Fakrot said, his heart aching, for certainly, one or two more rounds, and he could have…

Kal Fadi let out a soft sigh too, but sheathed his blades, clasping his palms together. “It was my honour to face against the axe of the Rot family.”

“I am too weak to say I represent the axe of the Rot family,” Fakrot returned, his entire body still tense. If he had picked up his axe, shouldn’t he have fought in a way that left no doubt, even to Kal Fadi?

“It was fine enough,” the old man grumbled, feeling the annoyance rise within his heart. “If you were going to be this upset, you should decide to reach Paragon for your father’s honour.”

“…”

“Since you are your father’s son, you will reach that realm if you wish it.”

“Not even father reached such a height.”

“Brat! Do you think it is easy? No! Even so, your father surpassed even my power! Do you think he did so by crying and moping?” Jarot growled. “If you wish to die, I will kill you-,“

“Babo!” Jirot called, her amber eyes so full of anger. “How can you threaten my baba! Who gave you such courage!”

The old man paused, wincing. “To think you even stole my greatdaughter from me!”

‘Lord Noor, please deliver me to safety!’ Faro al-Yasin thought.

‘Why are they fighting?’ Kal Fadi thought, feeling as though his eyes had opened a world beyond the world that he knew. ‘Did they really think I would lose against a…’

However, even he couldn’t lie to himself, for he had only managed to claim a draw against Fakrot, who was, apparently, a newly birthed Master.

“Did you see?” Adam asked, pulling his twins closer to his chest, their cheeks rubbing together.

“I saw! I saw!” Jirot assured, and little Jarot nodded too, his head resting against his father’s shoulder.

“Even though your baba is a whole realm below Kal Fadi, and even though Kal Fadi wields such great magical weapons, they still fought to a draw.”

“If baba can hit first, he can win,” Jirot said, for a moment before his rage, Kal Fadi had managed to strike Fakrot. If Fakrot had managed to rage first, before the great blow of a smite, then Fakrot certainly would have won.

Baba would have won.

“That’s right!” Adam declared, his entire body brimming with pride.

Kal Fadi felt the ache through his body. He had expected the Iyrman to give him quite a fight, but to think the Iyrman had taken him to the brink, to the edge. “May I ask for your father’s name?”

“My father’s name was Sarot,” Fakrot replied, now finally calm, though his heart continued to ache. “Though some in Aldland called him Stone Wall Sarot.”

“I do recall the name, though I am unfamiliar,” the Kal admitted. However, if he had been a grandmaster, which apparently he was, then he should have heard of the Iyrman. ‘They say the only place with more hidden dragons than Aswadasad is the Iyr…’

“He was half retired within the Iyr, and did not step out.”

“Your name should be well known too, for your blows were great.”

“Unfortunately, I only stepped into the realm of a Master only recently, and only through the Iyr’s heavy care.”

“It is still impressive.”

“Impressive? Perhaps if I was a decade younger, for at least that long ago, my cousin, Jurot’s father, Surot, had already stepped into that realm.”

“How strong is he, this Surot?”

“He is a step above a Master, though not yet a Grandmaster.”

“How old is he?”

“He is either forty six or forty seven, but he was so when he stepped out at forty, or so. He was a Master at thirty one or thirty two, and he stepped forward by thirty six or thirty seven.”

“It is no wonder his son is so talented.” Kal Fadi’s words were not spoken lightly, for even now, feeling the overwhelming presence of the young Iyrman, yet twenty five or so, and apparently already a Master, as powerful as this talented man before him.

“Even cousin Sonarot was a genius, for she could have stepped into the realm of a Master by thirty if she wished, and her brother,” Fakrot motioned his head to Tonagek, “is already a Grandmaster.”

“He is a Grandmaster?” Kal Fadi asked, his eyes turning towards Tonagek, who held Konarot’s gaze, but eventually relented, cutting fruit for the girl.

Fakrot smiled, for Tonagek was still in his mid forties or so, and had stepped into the realm of a Grandmaster, which was something even talented warriors reached at sixty or so. Kal Fadi, himself, was sixty something, barely a few years younger than the Mad Dog.

“Of course, if we are to speak of talent…” Fakrot sighed, for when one spoke of talent, wasn’t there a benchmark within his family? “My uncle, Jarot, was a step away from Grandmaster at thirty.”

“What?” Kal Fadi asked, having heard the Mad Dog was strong, but…

“My aunt, Flame Brand, was the same.”

PATREON LINK

I keep forgetting how insane Jarot and Gangak rolled on their checks when I made them.