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Dota 2 short story

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  • Dota 2 short story

    Hey, just decided to throw this here. I have no idea if this is the right forum for this or whatever, so I apologize if it isn't. I've just started writing a really gay cool short story somewhat detailing what Bristleback was doing before he became an 'enforcer' at a pub, ran into Tusk, lost and went on to become a Dota 2 Champion of Newerthetcetcstupidjoke.

    So, if you feel like reading it, feel free to let me know how much it made you want to have sex (or don't. I don't really care, I'm only posting it here to have it somewhere so some friends can read it and then we can dress up in furry costumes and jerk off on a picture of Clinkz)

    Anyways, here's the first half so far. Enjoy (or don't!)


    Quick disclaimer: There may be some typos or other things I change sometime later after originally posting this. Or there may not be. It's all a mystery.


    Other quick disclaimer: Upon posting, I see this forum has destroyed my indents and spacing. Oh no.




    “The Brawl”

    A cheer broke out that seemed to reverb so loud and fierce that it shook the dirty brick walls that made up the sides of the tall, moon-lit buildings of the wide alley-way that was currently clogged shut by a crowd of clapping, raving on-lookers. The cheer in question was signaled by the seconds-short flight of a fighter who was currently both unconscious and without a single in-tact bone in either of his arms, his time spent flying through the air being the courtesy of the large, bristled fighter currently raising his arms in victory as he absorbing the vibes and excitement of the cheering crowd.

    The crowd formed a loose circle around the action, serving as a ring of sorts for the back-alley brawling. It was the middle of the night, but citizens of the city had learned to all but abandon the area around the alley that was reluctantly known through-out the population as ‘The Hall of Bruises”. The local law enforcement had also learned their lesson seasons ago, and was more than content to let whatever happened in the so-called Hall of Bruises stay there.

    And so the punch-drunken and their loyal onlookers were free to fight, shout and party on through the muggy, warm summer nights, each brawl simply intensifying them until the morning sun peaked over the distant horizon of the Wailing Mountains, and sent the crowds home for the day.

    The sound of soft white rock scratching yet one another of hundreds of tallies marking the wins for the fighter currently in the lime-light of the crowd on the side of the blackened stone wall was drowned out completely by the cheering and clapping, as the peculiar victor slammed his fist into his furred chest, shaking his spiny head and gritting his teeth, driving the crowd on.

    Suddenly, the entire alleyway did shake; and with it, came quick silence from the fanfaring crowd. From the far back, stomped a huge, four-legged beast, the others in the crowd either moving or being shoved out of the way completely by the bulk of the creature that was easily thrice the size of anyone else in the mass of bodies.

    Walking into the ring, the beast stomped its hooved feet with both anger and impatience, a rippled snort erupting from its human-like visage. The bristled fighter instantly stopped his show-boating, as his feline-like face grew serious and calculating. Then, the silence returned as both fighters and their crowd stood, everyone feeling the weight of the sudden tension. A third body stepped into the ring quickly, straddling its short legs over the moaning body of the recently beaten contender who was still lying on the ground, bent into what could only be an incredibly uncomfortable position. As the small newcomer reached the middle of the ring, making his way between the two fighters who dwarfed him like a lion to a mouse, he cleared his throat, no more than a rough squeak; and spoke.

    “Ladies and Gentlemen!” he announced in a professional manner that sounded almost comical to the high-pitched voice it was spoken in; yet no one laughed or interrupted, the crowd that was whipping into a rage just moments ago was now deathly still and silent.

    “We have a new contender tonight in the Hall of Bruises!” continued the diminutive speaker. “From the high grounds of Druud, from the killing ring of Omexe; the hill-shaker, corpse-maker, life-taker himself; Stonehoven the Centaur champion!”

    At this, the huge monster roared with pride and blood-lust, his cry making the tiny fight ref fall to his knees. The crowd gave only half-hearted cheers and applause, but if the centaur took notice of it, he didn’t show it. With one huge fist he pounded on his bare humanoid chest, his other hand gripped tightly around an iron mace that was held to the starry sky above, the centaur lifting the heavy mace with total ease.

    The ref, getting to his mousey feet again, cleared his throat once more and held out a tiny hand towards the bristled fighter who looked upon the centaur with relative boredom. Speaking once again, the ref went on; “And here, a warrior who needs no introduction! The city of Ghul’s very-own pin-cushion! The lord of the Hall himself, you know him, you love him, and you might have even been given a concussion by him! Rigwarl, the Bristleback!”

    The crowd exploded. It was always the same introduction, the same recited words that the ref gave every single match that Rigwarl participated in, but the crowd never got tired of it. The centaur seemed to notice this too, and his massive jaw clenched in annoyance as his dirty tail swatted back and forth. He slowly trotted up to Rigwarl, sending another snort of dirty air down at the smaller fighter. The centaurs grubby, fleshy lips parted into a scowl as he regarded Rigwarl. “These fools will not regard you so highly once your skull is smashed.” The centaur boomed.

    Rigwarl smiled. Speaking for the first time that night, Rigwarl retorted back. “Oy, I s’pose I don’t needa tell you they won’t regard you highly, seeins’ as how they already don’t, n’all.”

    Rigwarl let his smile turn into a full-fledged toothy grin as the centaur sprung to his front legs, kicking them with enough strength and force to break three men in half. The ref disappeared once again into the throng on on-lookers, as the beaten fighter from the previous match was finally drug off to receive some medical attention.

    Without an announcement, the match began. Stonehoven brought his hooves down hard, the old stone pavement of the street being crushed into pebbles and powder. Rigwarl simply ducked around the centaur’s right side, where the left hand’s mace couldn’t reach. Stonehoven turned as sharply as possible to keep up with the agile Rigwarl, but for the many accolades and respects the centaur people were known for, their speed and grace was not one of them.

    Rigwarl got off a few solid punches to the centaur’s relatively tender sides, bombarding the un-armored ribs of the side and belly. This did very little over-all, though, and Stonehoven soon had a hand around Rigwarl’s shoulder. The hand gripped like a vice, and Rigwarl felt himself almost instantly leave the ground. He didn’t get far, however, for it took only a slight arc of Rigwarl’s back to perforate the wrist of the centaur in several inches-long quills.

    The crowd cheered again at this, but you wouldn’t have known it from sound alone, as Stonehoven’s cry swallowed any cheers whole. Rigwarl took the moment to lay into Stonehoven’s flank a bit, pelting it with punches that would have broken the bones of a smaller fighter.

    Growling, Stonehoven kicked hard, but Rigwarl avoided it completely. With speed accented with desperation, the centaur turned quickly to face Rigwarl. Stonehoven shook his arm a few times, but when that failed to loosen the quills, he roared again, dropped his mace, and simply ripped the barbed quills out. Rigwarl waited, catching his breath a bit.

    Picking the mace up again, Stonehoven spat; “You fight with little honor.” And then, adding as an after-thought, “And little body!”. Laughter like crushed thunder sounded as the centaur amused himself at his own joke.

    “Rather’d it be little body, than little brains, m’self.” Rigwarl responded.
    The centaur retorted with no more words, but simply swung his mace hard and fast at Rigwarl. Rigwarl dodged the swing- mostly. The very round tip of the mace struck Rigwarl in his side, and although it was hardly even a glancing blow, it sent the bristled warrior spinning, landing on the ground some way away.

    The centaur wasted no time in galloping over to his felled opponent, lifting one tree-like leg up; and then bringing it down.

    At first, the centaur wore a look of triumph, but then he suddenly realized that his leg wasn’t quite on the ground. In fact, it was as if his leg were actually being pushed the opposite way. In fact, it was as if he couldn’t seem to push down on it, that he was being overpowered.

    And in fact, it was true. The ground was now chanting in unison, filling the alley with calls of “Rig-Warl... Rig-Warl... Rig-Warl!”. With heaving grunts, Rigwarl lifted the leg of the centaur up, first, at only chest-level, but then, soon he had the limb above his head.

    The centaur wore a look of emotion that one rarely ever lived to see dawn the face of such fearless, steady creatures. Worry.

    Rigwarl fought both against the weight of the centaur, as well as the throbbing red pain in his side. But the crowd worked him into a fury, and their chanting drove him on. Stonehoven, on the other hand, was having trouble keeping his balance. With one leg off the ground, it was hard to simply keep standing, let alone maneuver. And when a centaur fell down, everybody knew about it.

    Gritting his teeth again, Stonehoven pushed with all his weight and might against the bristled contender, his worry parting into a slight smile as he felt himself push Rigwarl back a bit.

    Bit by bit his weight slid Rigwarl back. So far back, that the crowd themselves had to move. Not so much because they didn’t want to interrupt the fight, but because when Rigwarl strained, it wasn’t uncommon for a quill or two to pop off like arrows; and it wasn’t uncommon for someone to not return home the next day because of it.

    But, after minutes of intense mano-a-mano, something finally gave, and that was the back legs of the towering centaur.

    Having dropped his mace in order to focus on keeping his balance, Stonehoven had also sacrificed a few hundred pounds of weight. And Rigwarl’s increased defiance against him was verified proof that the centaur alone wasn’t enough to cut it against the Bristleback’s legendary might.

    With one last, screaming heave from Rigwarl, the centaur went vertical, and then smacked down onto the earth behind him; his heavy head unfortunately finding the heavy head of his mace.

    A shake like an earthquake rocked the streets and chips of rocks and brick scattered off the tops of the buildings in a rainfall of dust and debris. Stonehoven grunted out a deep moan. Rigwarl, only slightly doubled over in pain, raised his fists to the air once again.

    The crowd went berserk.

    They screamed Rigwarl’s name, his title, other similar things, but after a few moments another familiar chant took over the crowd as everyone joined in to turn their collective voices into a storm.

    Bristles!... Bristles!... Bristles!

    Rigwarl smiled again, and nodded and bowed to the crowd as they broke into cheering. Walking almost casually over to the centaur, Rigwarl flexed his bristles, and with one last cheer from the crowd, jumped back-first onto the centaur’s back leg.

    Instantly, the centaur jolted up, bellowing in pain. As at least ten quills were buried into his flank. Galloping back through the crowd, which had thankfully parted quickly enough that no one was trampled by the fleeing giant, Stonehoven tore through the streets, smacking into buildings and other obstacles in his dazed escape, causing miniature chaos as he rushed to the city borders.

    There were more fights scheduled for that night, but not a single one of them happened. For hours straight, it was simply manic, wild celebration. Immediately after the centaur’s departure, onlookers fled into the ring, fighting amongst one another for one of the several quills pulled out of the centaur’s arm earlier in the fight, wanting them as souvenirs of the match.

    Another throat-wrenching cry went out as another tally was added to the wall of Rigwarl’s wins. His Four-hundredth consecutive win.

    It took six men to haul the massive mace left behind by the centaur into the back area of the alley where it was out of the way. Someone shouted “A trophy for Bristlebacks’ four-hundred!” and, like that, the mace became known as the champion’s trophy. For years, even after Rigwarls’ departure from the city and its fabled Hall of Bruises, the mace would sit there, sinking slowly into the crumbling stone below it. Many fighters and spectators would touch it for luck, or just to say they did it. It was decided that the mace would be dedicated to Rigwarl, only to be passed on to someone else should they ever beat Rigwarl’s fight record.

    Needless to say, no one ever did.
    Last edited by BadFanFictions; 06-19-2013, 07:35 PM.

  • #2
    Edit: A new part. The next will be the ending.

    The next day, Rigwarl woke in his usual room, at the usual inn he boarded at during the days with money he’d won from his nightly matches.

    Though, it was really more of the next night. Rigwarl sprung up from his small cot, leaving behind a few quills he’d have to pull out before he slept again. He left the inn and headed to the third place he was often seen to be around: the pub.

    Rigwarl hadn’t spent a single coin on brew in months. His quills alone were enough to buy him as many rounds as he liked, the prolific things more valuable than money to collectors. After getting drunk enough that he fell down twice and joined in with a song singing about the ‘good old days’ of being a young girl in the spring time, Rigwarl wiped his face off and headed for the door. It was nearly sun-down, and that meant the Hall was soon to be full of cheers and punches, with himself at the center of it.

    As Rigwarl stepped out the door into the warm dusk, he felt a hand cautiously grab him from behind on his shoulder. Turning around with more haze in his eyes than if he were under murky water, Rigwarl belched and spoke at the same time.

    “Er, now, what be your fancy?” Rigwarl spoke, trying to look the small human man in the eyes.

    The human was quite for a few moments until an impatient wrinkling of Rigwarl’s feline nose reminded the man what he’d stopped the quilled fighter for. Speaking quickly, he said, “You are Rigwarl, right?”

    Rigwarl turned to fully face the man, now. His pawed hands gripping into fists. “Oy. Ya’heard right’um. I’m he. What do you want?”

    The man gulped. After another few tense seconds, he continued. “L-look. I own a little out-of-the-way pub, along the Feral Road. It’s called the Wolfsden, and-“

    “Nope, never heard’f it.” Rigwarl interrupted, burping again.

    The man nodded quickly and continued on. “Right, right. It’s just, the coin I make there is good, because so many different, erm, characters show up, but the problem-“

    “Oy! The point, mate! Get’to it!”

    “O-ofcourse! Sorry! I need an enforcer, someone to keep the peace…. Someone to break a few legs here and there.”

    Rigwarl smiled and slapped a shaky hand on the man’s shoulder. “Ah, now that’s my language, mate! Why din’t ya say so!”

    The man, aching a bit from the slap on the shoulder, smiled none the less. He expected to leave the bar with a bruised gut and no enforcer. If he left it alive at all.

    “Great, great! I actually have the paperwork right here!” The man said smiling, as he produced a small, scrolled piece of parchment from within his plain leather tunic.

    Placing it down on one of the tables, the man presented it for Rigwarl to read. Which Rigwarl did not. Both because he had drunk enough alcohol to poison an Ancient, and he couldn’t read, anyways. He knew enough to know it was a contract, though, and he needed to sign it.

    The man, smiling, asked “Will you sign it?”

    Rigwarl, dazed for a moment, shook his head to clear it. “Y-yeah, wh’tever mate.”

    The man clapped his hands together. “Perfect, perfect! I’ll fetch a pen and some ink!”

    “Bah, no’need, no’need.” Rigwarl said, dismissing the man’s offer to obtain writing utensils. Reaching behind himself, Rigwarl plucked a quill from his back, but made sure to pull it by the very root, drawing a bit of blood.

    With a quill for his pen and blood for his ink, Rigwarl scribbled across the entire paper in slurred, chicken-scratch;

    “Rigwar”

    Dropping the quill to the ground and burping once again, Rigwarl stood.

    “Um. I suppose this…. Counts?” The man said, looking at the contract whose binding legal words were currently obscured by the splattered signature that ran the length of the paper.

    “Good, good, mate.” Rigwarl said. And then, without another word, turned and left the pub.

    By dawn the next day, Rigwarl had added a dozen new wins to his streak, and sobered up.

    The crowd cheered and wailed their usual praises and graces to Rigwarl, who made his usual show of bowing and beating his chest. The dewy light of morning began to evaporate the void of night, and the city around the alleyway began waking. Time to call it a night.

    Rigwarl bowed a few more times to the shouting crowds as he exited the alley, stopping at the mouth of it to turn back one last time to shout, “There’ll be plenty’amore where that came from! Rigwarl’ll always be around for a scrapper!”

    Rigwarl marched away from his stomping grounds with his head hung high, as the echoing chants of him name grew softer and softer behind him.


    *****

    “What?!” Rigwarl cried, flipping over a table- and its occupants.

    “I-it’s just, you signed it…” the man said, cowering, holding out the parchment that had Rigwarl’s scribbled signature on it.

    Rigwarl snatched the paper out of the man’s hands and read it, not that he could read, of course. He just saw his scribbled signature. He’d signed it.

    “It means you agreed to work for me.” The man said, with less than a confident tone.

    Behind Rigwarl, a group of his fans and fellow fighters alike had pooled together. What was going on?

    “I re’mber’ what it says!” Rigwarl snapped back. Of course, he barely remembered anything before his third fight of last night when he knocked out four small keen with a single punch.

    Rigwarl grunted a few times, when someone behind him spoke up.

    “Hey, now, obviously this guy got the Bristleback to sign whatever this is when Bristle was steamin’ drunk! He manipulated ‘im!”

    Everyone else in the group nodded and agreed, with more than a few nasty glances thrown at the man, and more than a few fists were being cracked and concealed weapons being pulled from pockets.

    The man started to sweat. “N-now, he agreed to it- but, it’s okay, I’m sorry, I d-didn-n’t know, it’s fine, it’s okay. Forget the whole thing, I-“ the man tried to reach for the contract to take it back, but Rigwarl kept it out of reach.

    “No.” he said, holding his free arm out to stop his advancing posse. “If I got right and blinkin’ sodded, then I take res’ponsabladie’ fer’ what I agree’d to.”

    The group behind Rigwarl suddenly stood down, dejected and confused. The man’s look of fright and despair lessened up a bit.

    “Fer’ now on, I am in the employ’a this fine bloke.”

    The entire bar, Rigwarl’s gang and otherwise, broke into a quiet frantic.

    The Bristleback was leaving? With some stranger who duped him?

    With that, the man, almost white as a ghost, lead Rigwarl out into the street.

    “But Bristleback, what about the Hall?” came an almost child-like complaint from a grown man with several deep scars on his face.

    “Tell’em I’ll be back, eventually.” Rigwarl hated to admit it, but he’d grown very fond of the city. Before now, he’d often just drifted around, living on fight to fight. But then he’d found the city of Ghel and its infamous alleyway, and he found a place he really enjoyed scrapping in. Almost like it was one big, illegal racketeering of back-alley fights family.
    With a command, the assembled left to spread the news of Rigwarl’s leave. Rigwarl simply followed the man who he’d sold his employment to without a word, while the man stopped at an inn to pack his few belongings.

    By the time Rigwarl and his employer reached the final turn to the gates of the city, it was nearly sun-down. As the pair crossed the final stretch and the gate came into view, both man and quill-beast saw a sight that made both of them stop in their tracks.

    Hundreds of people were gathered at the gates. There were men, women, children, trolls, keenfolk, oglodies, even a few things Rigwarl didn’t recognize. This was far more people than what showed up in the alleyways. This had to be easily half the blooming city.

    It sort of sunk into Rigwarl, then. He was more than just a back-alley fighter. He was famous, and his fame and the privilege to watch or face him in fights had attracted countless people to the city in his time of residence.

    He wasn’t important to just the fighters and underground betters. He brought tourism to the city. He brought business to it. The owners of every pub and bar in the entire city were there. The inn-keepers, (who, in recent years there had been a need for more of them, with all the people coming to and from the city) the owners of almost every business.

    Rigwarl, with an almost embarrassed face, approached the crowd.

    The man was some ways behind Rigwarl, much too ashamed to be seen with the fighter he’d unwittingly tricked into service.

    As he approached, everything grew silent. Rigwarl stood. The people stood. Rigwarl looked out among them, faces young and old. Faces he knew, faces he’d never seen before. Faces that came here to bid him goodbye.

    Rigwarl swallowed. Aw, he wasn’t going to actually cry, was he? Nah, he thought. But he’d better do something.

    A quick snort the only sign of his emotion, Rigwarl simply shouted into the dying light of the sun, holding his fists up. Most of the crowd returned the gesture, with those who didn’t choosing to simply clap instead.

    After expending his lungs, Rigwarl added a quick, “Keep the Hall clean fer’ me, I won’t be out long!”

    The crowd clapped and cheered again, and the all-too familiar chant began as Rigwarl let loose another shout and ran, almost triumphantly, through the city gates. He’d return to Ghel. Someday.

    "Rigwarl!... Rigwarl... Rigwarl!"

    Far behind him, the man trotted along. He was just counting himself lucky the crowd was so enamored with Rigwarl that they didn’t have time to club him in the head.

    That night, the barkeep and the fighter traveled to the far-off, secluded house in the woods that was the Wolfsden Tavern, but back in the city, back in Ghel, in the Hall of Bruises, people laughed and jested and shared their personal stories of the hell-bound scrapper they knew as Bristleback. No fights went on that night, something that had never happened before or ever again, and everyone there had unanimously and without any argument decided on something.

    No longer would they fight and cheer and swear and hurt in an alley known as the Hall of Bruises. Instead, with the memory of Rigwarl fresh in all their minds, they christened the alley The Hall of Bristles, and many, many fighters came and went, testing their mettle in the infamous alley. But not a single one of them ever came close to beating the streak of the man whose title was the alleyway’s namesake.
    Last edited by BadFanFictions; 06-19-2013, 09:39 PM.

    Comment


    • #3
      Remember when I said this was the last part??? I LIED HAHAHAHAAHHA. One more part after this and that's all, I promise.



      It had taken eight days to walk the path to the Feral Road, and reach the remote pub.

      The pair had reached it by mid-noon of the day, the heat of the sun beating down on both of them as the relentless light parched the winding road more and more. The trip had been mundane, no encounters or anything special, just travel and occasional resting and eating the meager rations the barkeep had brought along.

      Rigwarl stood, sizing the building up. “So, this’sit in, then, eh?” he regarded.

      The barkeep passed Rigwarl and unlocked the door. “It’s not much, I know, but it gets busy.”

      Rigwarl snorted. He’d see soon enough for himself if that was true.

      While the two were definitely not friends, they’d passively bonded a bit on the week-long trek to the pub. The barkeep, Dresdein, had excited Rigwarl with stories of the folks he had pass through his taps. Rigwarl had fought oglodies and even an occasional centaur, but it sounded like he was going to fisting it with all kinds of characters.

      Who said signing away yourself when you were impaired by drink was such a bad idea?

      Rigwarl sat and drank back a few tankards of nasty brew that tasted like the inside of a barrel mixed with dirt and grass. Not bad, by his tastes. Dresdein was hurrying about his pub, setting everything up to re-open after many nights of not being able to service the local patrons.

      Dresdein had warned Rigwarl that the patrons would be especially difficult that night, as many of them have had the displeasure of being sober for far too long. Rigwarl just cracked his knuckles and belched.

      Before Rigwarl knew it, he was off-the-chair drunk and it was opening time. Perfect.

      The first night wasn’t so bad, actually. In fact, Rigwarl hadn’t had so much fun in as far as he could remember.

      His first bit of business was a forest troll who hadn’t paid his tab in over a month, the aggressive, tusked humanoid obviously bullying the meek Dresdein into extending the tab.

      Rigwarl simply invited the troll outside, which the troll was happy to accept as a challenge.

      The fight only lasted minutes, but Rigwarl broke all of the troll’s fingers, shattered both tusks, broke his nose, crushed an elbow and ripped out most of his hair.

      Everyone else with outstanding tabs paid in full.

      Rigwarl made a show of jamming one of his quills deep into the wooden bar of the pub, sticking it in firm. Then, taking the scribbled notes of tabs that were still out, Rigwarl stabbed them through the quill, creating an easy go-to list for who was next in line for a beating.

      The third night a rock golem actually showed up. After hearing the pub didn’t stock any mead he demanded, the golem literally tossed several others through the bar, smashing one table and breaking four glasses.

      Rigwarl attacked the golem, but that only made things worse. Patrons fled from the building and Dresdein hid behind his bar, for all the good that would do him. Eventually, Rigwarl found himself thrown through the air as well, crashing through a window.

      The golem, in turn, smashed through the wooden wall of the tavern, roaring. Rigwarl stood up, blood gushing from a left eye that didn’t seem to work anymore.

      The golem charged again at Rigwarl, who grabbed tight onto the fist of the rocky giant. Pulling with everything he had, plus quite a bit of rage, Rigwarl slammed the golem head-first into the ground.

      The ground, however, was quite soft, and the golem was merely stuck. But that didn’t deter Rigwarl. With bashes that did almost more harm to himself than the golem, Rigwarl bombarded the rocky creature with fists.

      Eventually, the golem screamed in pain from underneath the earth, as a chunk of his stone flesh broke off. Rigwarl, not missing a beat, immediately picked the piece up and started slamming it against the golem, turning his own body against him.

      By the time the golem managed to get up, he was missing most of both his legs.

      The golem sat, scowling as much as its rocky face could at Rigwarl. Rigwarl approached the golem, the same stone in his hand that he’d been using to bash the monster with. Leaning in close, Rigwarl whispered into the large creature’s face. “Rock’er off to ya, mate!”

      With that, he bashed the golem’s head into pebbles with one last smash.

      The bar was smashed up fairly bad, but no one was too badly hurt, save for Rigwarl’s eye, which he couldn’t seem to even feel anymore.

      The first to approach the lone fighter was the barkeep, Dresdein. Looking at the scene of Rigwarl standing before the great, smashed golem. Soon, the others gathered round, shocked and silent.

      Rigwarl just stood, gave them all a quick look with his one eye, and turned, to re-enter the smashed pub.

      He was getting himself a drink to clear his head, when his ears picked up on something.

      It was cheering.

      Slowly walking back outside, the bar-crawlers and even Dresdein were cheering, clapping. They were doing it for Rigwarl.

      Rigwarl simply tilted his head back, smiled, and screamed in victory.

      The pub was closed up for two nights, as Dresdein and Rigwarl repaired the damages. While they worked and repaired, Rigwarl discovered that the damages the pub received were rather very common.

      It was then, that Rigwarl’s biting curiosity got the better of him, and he found himself asking the question without really meaning to.

      “So, eh, Dresdein.” He started, with the barkeep raising his head up from nailing the table back together to regard Rigwarl. “Don’t take this the wrong’way er’ nuffin’, but what’s a fella like you doin’ with runnin’ a place like this?”

      Dredein sighed at that, and set his hammer down, sitting up. “Really? I don’t know. My father, he built this place, way back. When I was a kid, yeah?”

      Rigwarl just nodded and shrugged.

      “He thought that he could get rich, real quick, if he sold of alcohol to the people going up and down the Feral Road. Figured, he’d be the only one here, and it’d be easy money.”

      Rigwarl snorted. “What happen’ to the bloke?”

      Dresdein sat back. “One day, we were serving oglodi from the red mist army.”

      Rigwarl’s eyebrow raised.

      Dresdein fidgeted with the hammer, tilting it back and forth on the ground. “When it came time to pay, they told my father they weren’t going to give him anything. He threatened to get authorities involved, so they…”

      Rigwarl sighed silently. “Sorry I asked, mate.”

      Dresdein’s mouth turned straight and tight. “I never saw his head again.” He added, almost adding a half-hearted chuckle.

      “So why’isit you’re still here?”

      Dresdein let his head fall back, closing his eyes and sighing. “I suppose, because, I don’t really know anything else. My father put everything we had into this pub, his dream of owning a wealthy pub was one he achieved, but we weren’t ready to deal with the kind of people we got.”

      Rigwarl snorted again, sympathetically. “Obv’iously, mate.”

      “That’s why I needed someone. Someone like you.”

      Rigwarl said nothing.

      “I couldn’t just let my father’s pub die, I had nowhere to go, anyways. I just needed to save up enough money to go out and find an enforcer. Someone who I could, well, have to protect the bar. Keep the peace. You know.”

      “Right.”

      Dresdein suddenly changed the subject. “How is your eye holding?”

      Rigwarl rubbed at it absent mindedly, having tied a bit of cloth over it for now, in the form of some weak bandage. “It’s not.”

      Dresdein let his head fall. “Oh.”

      “Forget about it.” Rigwarl said, hopping up.

      Walking over to the barkeep, Rigwarl continued. “Ya’know, I never knew my pa.”

      Dresdein looked up. “Really?”

      “Nah. Bloke ran off when I was cubbie. Mum always figured that’s why I fight’so much.”

      Dresdein waited for a moment before replying. “Do you think she’s right?”

      “Naw. No way. I’d be like this whether me pa was ‘round er’ not. She just liked to pretend the only reason I turned outta’ be so mean was cuz’a that. But I knew betta’. I’m just like this, is all.”

      For a few moments, neither said anything, before Rigwarl spoke up again. “Lissen’. I was’t around ‘ere when your pop got it, but now I am.”

      Dresdein just nodded a few times slowly, unsure just what the fighter meant.

      “And if you’ah able to stick around, then by damn, so am I.”

      Dresdein smiled. “Thank you, Rigwarl.”

      “Pah, not’ta mention it. Now c’mon, no more slacking. We need to get this bar back up, I got tabs to collect.”

      Dresdein just nodded, and continued repairing the table.


      ****

      It had been a little over a year now that Rigwarl had been in the employ of the Barkeep. His eye was now covered with a few colored sashes, the orb long since lost. At his side, he kept a new toy of his, though. Something he found he preferred whacking people with as opposed to his bear fists.

      By a dirty, but sturdy, old rope, he’d crafted a make-shift mace from the rock he’d knocked off the golem all those moons ago. It helped him keep the peace; as well as break the bones.

      Rigwarl’s quill still stood on the bar, the written records of tabs still outstanding still poked down through the quill.

      Through the months, every single one of the original tabs had been either paid up- or its owner no longer among the breathing. All except a single one.

      Currently at the very bottom of the stack, sat a tab of a northerner who had taken the tab out some many years ago, while Dresdein’s father was still running the place. It had very little information on it, none of the usual dates, descriptions of the patron, what specific drinks they owed for. Nothing like that.

      Instead, it was just a name and a gold amount.

      “Ymir. 207 Gold.”

      Months back, Dresdein suggested just tossing the tab. It was unlikely the person in question would ever come back, or that they were even alive anymore.

      But Rigwarl refused to just throw it out. He was the enforcer, and as long as someone had a tab that needed to be enforced, he wasn’t going to let them get out of it. He was a professional, after all.

      It was some weeks later still, before Rigwarl got his chance to have the tab covered.
      Last edited by BadFanFictions; 06-19-2013, 10:49 PM.

      Comment


      • #4
        And here we go, the last bit. I'm tired as shit right now so I'm sure this bit is littered with typoes. Uguu.

        It was a night like any other. Rigwarl had just gotten done breaking an Ogre’s leg who had insisted to keep picking a fight with a table of Frost Brigade men. It wasn’t so much that Rigwarl wanted to protect the brigade, he just didn’t want to let them have the fun of beating the ogre.

        Other than that, a fairly boring night at the Wolfsden pub.

        And then, he arrived.

        Stepping through the door with a merry laugh escaping his thick black lips that outlined two large, sharp tusks came a furry white creature that Rigwarl had never seen before.

        The man was jovial, to say the least. With laughs, he greeted everyone he passed, even if they returned him nothing but an odd, insulted glare. Sitting at the bar, the man suddenly ordered an entire round for everyone.

        That sure changed some moods.

        Rigwarl couldn’t help but notice the stranger’s thick, northern accent.

        When Dresdein asked for payment, the man simply raised a gauntleted hand in the air and said “Oeh, I’vah tab open ‘ere, I believe.” With a curious look, Dresdein began searching through the tabs. “Been a’while, heh heh, I admit. But I’d reckon it’s there somewhere.”

        “Right, right. We’ve kept them all.” Dresdein said, nodding.

        Curiously, the stranger looked at the quill holding the tabs. Placing a hand on the bar and leaning his head in to get a closer look, the stranger turned to Rigwarl, and asked, “Saaay, this is im’pressive. Is this one’ve jours?”

        “It is. It’s where we keep the tabs.”

        The stranger laughed. “I’d better pay my tab by the end of the night, you look pretty tough.” The stranger said, laughing.

        Dresdein smiled at it, but Rigwarl let his mouth sink into a tight scowl. To anyone else, it was a friendly, passing comment. But Rigwarl knew a laid challenge when he heard one. The stranger was being subtly sarcastic.

        Dresdein suddenly asked, “Excuse me, sir, what was your name again?”

        The stranger slapped a hand down on the bar and answered. “Oy, my apahlogees, the name is Ymir.”

        Dresdein searched the tabs, but flipped through all of them without seeming to find the man’s tab. It took Dresdein just a few moments to realize the spelling of the name ‘Ymir’.

        With raised eyebrows, Dresdein pulled the tab off the quill, wrote down the round of drinks, and then served everyone.

        Ymir tossed a glance to Rigwarl. “Yew know, I included that round to hafe a drink for yew, tew.”

        Rigwarl just frowned. “Ey don’t drink on tha’ job, mate.” Which was a lie.

        Ymir shrugged. “Suit’n yourself, friend. It’s okay if you don’t drink.”

        At this, Rigwarl started. “Oy, oy! I didn’t say I didn’t drink, mate, but I’m on the job. And I don’t drink on the job.”

        Ymir disregarded him, drinking his brew. “Shure, shure.”

        Rigwarl’s teeth clenched. Suddenly, he slapped the brew out of Ymir’s hand, spilling the nasty, foamy beverage all over the bar and Ymir.

        Ymir simply turned his head back to Rigwarl with disinterest. “Is thare something wrong?” he asked passively.

        Rigwarl slapped the table. “’Course there’s something wrong. Ya gotta tab ta pay.”

        Ymir scratched at his fur chin. “I dew, I dew.”

        Rigwarl’s freehand tightened around his makeshift flail. “So’en go on and pay it, mate.”

        Ymir simply gestured to order another brew. “When I’m done.”

        Rigwarl’s green eyes flashed red for a few moments.

        “If it’s a fight you’re picking, you only need’ta ask.” Rigwarl added, threateningly.

        “No thankayou, I’m saving myself for this fighter in the city of Ghel, they say he’s undefeated, and I am’a aiming myself to’a change that.”

        Rigwarl screamed loud enough to cause everyone to stop what they were doing. “I’m that fighter, you bloke!”

        Ymir just furrowed his eyebrow and shook his head. “No no, ya see. He’s a fighter in Ghel. Not some bar lackey in tha’ middle a’ nowhere.”

        Rigwarl then preformed his people’s most staunch, sacred insult. An insult meant for only the most dire of situations, when no other form of word-flinging or physical action would cover the sheer amount of spite you wanted to express to something (In other words, this happens quite often among the bristle people).

        Rigwarl stuck a pawey finger to one of his nostrils, and with the other nostril, blew out as hard as he could.

        A blob of gooey, putrid snot flew all over the bar in front of Ymir.

        “Your tusks offend me, sir.” He said in a low, deep voice.

        With this, Ymir laughed. Laughed heavy and heartily with more than a few ‘woops’ and chokes minced in with it. He laughed for some good minutes straight, until everyone in the pub was fixated on the strange northern creature.

        “It is’a true what they say.” Ymir began. “The Bristled’ beast never does turn down’a fight.”

        Rigwarl pointed a thumb at himself, and began “Now ya’ right damn straight ab-“ but got no further, as he was suddenly belted across the chin and thrown into a near-by table full of Frost Brigade grunts who were young, drunk and recently deprived of their free drinks.

        Jolting up, Rigwarl swung his flail wide, smashing a chair to splinters. “Alright, mate. Time to pay up.”

        Dresdein simply stepped outside.

        The two clashed again, fists and flail flying everywhere. The Frost Brigade grunts suddenly threw themselves into the clash only to all be instantly tossed out by either fighter. At this, a drunken captain of the Brigade took serious offense and slurringly ordered all men to join the fight, before falling over backwards and throwing up on himself.

        With that, it seemed everyone in the bar was brawling. Chairs and tables turned to broken pieces, which in turn, turned into make-shift weapons. One oglodi was thrown so hard into the bar, he simply broke through it as entire racks of clean beer steins fell on him, breaking to shards on the floor and the oglodi’s thick skin.

        Rigwarl grabbed a Frost Brigade man by the neck and tossed him through what was left of a table, swinging his flail high, his eyes on Ymir, who was currently throwing a small keen all the way across the room.

        With those distractions out of the way, Ymir and Rigwarl clashed again.

        The oglodi from before was up off the floor, strangling a Frost Brigade grunt before a small golem broke a wooden beam over his head and sent the oglodi slamming to the ground.

        Even the Frost Brigade gave up to the chaos and just started pelting one another. It had turned into a game of ‘Beat up the person who insulted me’ into a mess of ‘everyone against everyone’, and at the center of it was Rigwarl and Ymir.

        One by one each of the contenders dropped, and didn’t get up. Soon the room was almost empty of conscious minds, with Rigwarl and Ymir still trading blows here and there between scrapping with others in the messy brawl.

        Ymir suddenly felt a Frost Brigade jump on his back. A quick strike to the face from Rigwarl’s flail sent the now blacked out soldier flying almost half way across the room.

        “Why, I say’a, thanks.” Ymir chided.

        “Shut up.” Rigwarl shot back.

        Finally, with no one else stirring, the two locked back into it. Rigwarl punched Ymir square in the nose, which sent twin streams of crimson flying out of the northerner’s nose. With a smirk, Rigwarl took a step back to reposition himself for another punch.

        However, the air suddenly grew dark and cold, a chill took over the small tavern and even Rigwarl felt himself slow. What was going on?

        Ymir, seemingly unaffected by the chill, wound up his fist.

        Rigwarl spat, and growled again, brandishing his flail, he swung it fast and high, intending to strike the man before him in the temple of his head.

        Flail came down. Fist came up.

        What happened at that exact next second, no one could tell you.

        In a flash of light and a sound like thunder striking mountain, Rigwarl was sent flying both through the wall of the tavern and through at least two trees in the forests behind him.

        The sound was enough to wake half of the fighters up, and send Dresdein back inside to discover what was going on.

        The bar was in ruin. Nothing, literally nothing, was left in one piece. The bar was broken, kegs of alcohol were smashed on the floor, the different liquids mingling with one another in inches-high pools across the floor.

        The fighters themselves didn’t look much better.

        Dresdein suddenly found himself saying “What happened, here?”

        Ymir, the only one both conscious and still able to speak, turned and said. “My apolowgees.” Bowing, he added. “I can’not help but promote fights.”

        “Right.” Dresdein said, falling to his knees at the damage.

        Suddenly, Rigwarl burst through the door of the tavern. Each step he took was slow, ragged and determined.

        Rigwarl marched right up to Ymir, holding his flail high, but not with enough energy left to spin it. Pointing at him with his free hand.

        Ymir stood his ground, not looking much better.

        “Now, I-“ Rigwarl began. But then, without another word or action, fell immediately to the ground, out cold.

        The Bristled Bruiser, the Quilled Contender, the Prickled Perforator. The man who’s legendary alleyway fights earned him a recorded streak of over four-hundred wins, the man who beat a golem to death with his bare hands, who had served as an enforcer for one of the toughest taverns the world had known- had been beaten.

        The fighters who had risen suddenly felt fire back inside of them, because already most of them were approaching Ymir again to pick another fight. Dresdein had already had his tavern smashed, he didn’t need the building itself broken, too. At least, not any more than it already had been.

        “W-wait!” he shouted, addressing Ymir, who was looking more than happy- if not also weary- to take on the challengers again.

        “Mhmm?” Ymir regarded back.

        “Why are you fighting?” Dresdein pleaded.

        “It’sa what I do. I am sorry, lad, yea.”

        Dresdein might have left it at that if it didn’t mean his tavern may not exist in a few hours. Instead, he found the courage and the cleverness to offer the northerner a bit of a… wager.

        “Ye-yes, but you only, only fight at little taverns. Don’t you?”

        At this, Ymir raised a brow. “What is it to yew where I do my passtiming?”

        Part of Dresdein wanted to spit out, “Because you’re in my bar right now, you stupid oaf.” But he thought better of it, and instead, continued.

        “Because, it’s as if you’re wasting your talent, you know?”

        Ymir’s brow raised further. “Hmmmm?”

        "I propose you fight a real battle. A real war. A real, you know. Life or death ordeal. A real fight."

        Ymir was now completely disregarding the others, focusing now only on the barkeeper and his odd new proposition.

        “Go out, seek the biggest battle you can find, survive, and win it for whichever side you choose.”

        “And the stakes to this bet?” Ymir asked, with determination.

        With a weak smile, the Dresdein offered, “The next round of drinks.”

        Without another word, Ymir simply vanished, leaving the tavern and it’s punch-drunken occupants. The tab sat on the smashed bar, still pierced through the quill.

        Days later, Rigwarl awoke. He was moved back to his small room at the back of the tavern, where Dresdein’s cramped living quarters were. At first, Rigwarl didn’t move or get up. He just played through the last moments of the fight that he managed to remember so well.

        What had happened? What went wrong? How did he lose like that? Take that kind of hit?

        Whoever this Ymir guy was, he had powers beyond the scope of what Rigwarl knew.

        Days later, Rigwarl was finally fit enough to move, and began the process of helping Dresdein rebuild what they could- which wasn’t much.

        A month passed and Rigwarl had healed up- mostly. The bar was looking at least half-way normal at that point, though they hadn’t been able to get anymore alcohol.

        Rigwarl approached the quill that had been embedded in the bar for over a year now. Regarding it for a few moments, his eyes burning on the last remaining tab on the quill. The tab that went unpaid.

        Ripping the quill out, Rigwarl read over the amount of coins written on the tab. Stalking back to his small room, past a confused Dresdein, Rigwarl grabbed a small leather pouch, and slammed it down on the bar as he walked back out.

        “That about covers the tab.” Rigwarl said, as he walked out the door.

        Dresdein ran up behind the quilled fighter. “Where are you going, Rigwarl?”

        Rigwarl spat on the ground as he stepped out into the daytime sun. “I’m going to get my money back.”

        Dresdein simply let he jaw grow stiff. “Give him one for me.”

        Rigwarl went deep into the forests for a time, secluding himself to focus on something he’d never done a single day in his life before.

        He focused on training.

        Whatever this Ymir guy was, it was clear that Rigwarl had a thing or two to learn before a rematch was going to happen. But that was fine.

        After some time alone, Rigwarl discovered something about himself he’d never thought quite possible. When he was under enough physical pressure, one or two quills involuntarily shooting off was common, but now, he found if he compressed the right muscles and arched his back in just the right way, that one or two quills wasn’t nearly all he was capable of.

        Two large Ursine warriors fell dead, covered in dozens of quills each. Rigwarl regarded them with one red eye. A smile peeled back from his teeth as he flexed his quills. Yes, turning his back to a fight might be just the thing…

        With his training seeming to be completed, Rigwarl set out, across the world. Ever since he’d left the tavern, his dreams had been seemingly invaded by what, at first, was completely inaudible and impossible to understand sounds and visions, but as days went by, these strange dreams became clearer.

        He was drawn to something he realized was an Ancient. Something that he, somehow, knew that the one called Ymir had also been drawn to. Find the Ancient, find Ymir. Easy enough.

        Rigwarl had finally lost a fight, but if he hurried and defeated this Ymir fellow; who would there be to really know about just one little loss?
        Last edited by BadFanFictions; 06-20-2013, 01:02 AM.

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        • #5
          ;-;

          Comment


          • #6
            Well, not our fault that you just can't jerk off to a skeleton while wearing furry suits. Use appropriate attire.
            Heroes this user should seriously reconsider ever picking again.

            THE DOTA 2 LORE MEGATHREAD IS TO BE UPDATED BY JULY 5TH

            Visit the Dota 2 Lore Megathread. Renovation ongoing.

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            • #7
              yes. but did u like story? thanks, rate 10/10 sub for more.

              Comment


              • #8
                Alright then... Hoh dear, I never really thought that Dota 2'd have a properly written fic in under four years' time. Was wrong. My only qualm here is that the plural for Oglodi is Oglodi. And the fact that I doubt trolls would live in a city populated by other races and that I really don't understand how golems can drink. That's it. Nearly perfect otherwise. Thoroughly enjoyed that one. Looking forward to more, if there are any.
                Heroes this user should seriously reconsider ever picking again.

                THE DOTA 2 LORE MEGATHREAD IS TO BE UPDATED BY JULY 5TH

                Visit the Dota 2 Lore Megathread. Renovation ongoing.

                Comment


                • #9
                  Well, I figured if Tiny can drink from a bottle, golems can drink.

                  I mean, they have mouths. I would assume they intake sustenance on some degree.

                  And, in the case they don't actually drink and instead obtain moisture from absorbing it through their skin like a bug or something, I respond with: IT'S MY FANFICTION I CAN DO WHAT I WANT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!angryemote


                  Anyways, I wanted to write more but I'm not sure what. I might do the assassination of Riki's family, or Skeleton King.

                  ????who knows????
                  Last edited by BadFanFictions; 06-22-2013, 03:34 PM.

                  Comment


                  • #10
                    Okay, posed the question wrong, sure, Tiny can drink, yes, buying that. But why do they need to drink so much as to come to a tavern... Well, yeah, you made your point.

                    And better go over the big rivalries first. They're easier.
                    Heroes this user should seriously reconsider ever picking again.

                    THE DOTA 2 LORE MEGATHREAD IS TO BE UPDATED BY JULY 5TH

                    Visit the Dota 2 Lore Megathread. Renovation ongoing.

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                    • #11
                      I don't know, I just picture the idea that lots of things in the Dota universe like to get drunk.

                      Also, rivalries are easier (and make for an easier-to-make-interesting story), but I have a pretty good idea for Skeleton King that I just know everyone here would love to take a quick glance at and then downvote and leave once they see it's longer than two paragraphs long.

                      Comment


                      • #12
                        Hey look at this stupid necrobump. Maybe Valve will see my writing and hire me away to write Portal 3 erotica for them and my dreams will come true.

                        Comment


                        • #13
                          A Dota 2 lore competition would be amazing, the community has the potential

                          Comment


                          • #14
                            Originally posted by BadFanFictions View Post
                            Hey look at this stupid necrobump. Maybe Valve will see my writing and hire me away to write Portal 3 erotica for them and my dreams will come true.
                            Yes pls.
                            Originally posted by whiners
                            Help! <game mechanic> is ruining MUH WODOTA! Remove pls!
                            Fun is always allowed. Always...

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