Roadwork is unquestionably your least favorite part of training.
That doesn't mean you don't do it, of course. You are a Boxer, and you'd be a piss poor one if you got gassed right away. But it doesn't mean you have to like it.
Birds tweet from the branches above, rabbits scamper through the underbrush and the sun's rays create a dazzling mosaic of nature's undimmed splendor.
And you are fucking jogging, so you can't enjoy any of it. Your feet pound a monotonous rhythm as you stomp down the forest path.
"Ogres aren't meant for this," you grate out between wheezes, eyeing the next segment of trail with heartfelt regret.
Z doesn't have a snappy comeback, and you start up the switchback, kicking your knee up with each step.
Yurn, in the absence of any actual coaching knowledge, has settled for watching just about every boxing stream that's ever been released. The verdict is unanimous, jogging is crucial. But just for a moment you let yourself daydream about a world where it's all a cruel hoax, and you hire a real coach and they say you don't have to do this shit anymore, and you set Yurn on fire.
Up to the top of the hill, and it's time to start back down. Halfway down the upcoming slope is an entrance into the Lair, and it always feels just that little bit worse when you have to pass it by.
It's unnatural to run past comfort and towards anguish.
You start down the slope, only to squint in astonishment. The glare of the sunshine conceals your visitor's identity for a moment, but there can be no doubt that someone is waiting at the entrance.
An excuse to stop! And also news or whatever, but mostly a reason to stop!
You recognize Mwekkum before you get to him. That's strange. He wasn't supposed to be back before this evening. Something must be up.
"Mwek!" you call out.
He acknowledges your approach with a frenzied wave, and proves himself the very best among your followers by offering you a swig from his little jug as you jog up.
You bend over and pour something sticky and sweet back into the cavernous gullet of your mouth.
"Syrup?"
"Yep! I was gossiping with a young willow and, well, one thing led to another. Her tender hasn't been by like he should be, and I'm afraid that I, being a gentlegnome, you understand, have certain obligations in situations whe-"
You shake your head, stretching your upper arms up behind your back while your lower pair brace your hips. You twist to the left and the right, getting your muscles used to the jog being over. Mwekkum's droning provides a nice counterpoint to the buzzing in your ears as you stretch.
"Why'd you come back so quick?"
You break into the flow of his anecdote, which by this point had wandered well afield from where it started.
"The Old Acres are abuzz! The Duke's men ride in force, as though it were Autumn once more. The old cycle is broken, and everyone is talking about what to do about it. I figured you'd need to know immediately, if not sooner, so I turned my steps home-ways, and that's when I crossed the orchard where I-"
You shake your head, firmly.
"The Duke's men? They haven't the iron, nor the flesh. They were broken at the Solstice, as always they must be."
Within this part of the outlands, the Way and the Wild sway back and forth in constant harmony. When Autumn holds primacy forth the patrols of the cities beat back the beasts of the deep Green. When Winter hardens the hearts of the Lords they overreach, and inevitably provoke a brutal reprisal. In Spring the land belongs again to the untamed fae. In Summer they grow too bold, and prey once again upon the people, who call out to their masters for aid, and the cycle turns round once more.
"The Old Acres aren't known for the fidelity of their info, boss, but it sounded like meddling from the Blender Plex. Outsiders reaching out to the Sheriffs and Reeves, giving them iron and tech, swains and chattel, in open defiance of the circle of things. The Hanging Tree whispered that Sir Thadd has a second hand once again, and that he's taken to riding his charger once more, without respect to the humbling you handed him. And he's far from-"
You clench a fist, the Mark surging within you. This could be bad.
Ever since you'd visited the Plex and loosed the Redmasks in the midst of their plenty, your mind had been gnawing at this worry. Seeing the Wealth they threw about so casually, where a few hours plunder had yielded greater rewards than whole seasons in your own lands, you'd known that they had the strength to impose consequences upon you.
"…not just one of the Way's luminaries, this seems to be a broad effort, with resources getting funneled to anyone who so much as smells civilized. The Honest Man actually ended up with a new charger, and he fights on our side as often as he fights against us. Whoever is behind this doesn't have the local lay of the land, and they don't seem to be bothering to learn the details of…"
You take another swig of Mwek's syrup, smiling involuntarily at the sickly sweet taste. There really isn't much to beat pure sugar. Energy for the body, delight for the tongue. Let your chums laud the joys of their bedroom dalliances to the sky, you'll still stand and salute the simpler pleasures every time. Sugar on the lips, rest when tired, and the chance to frighten the smallfolk. An Ogre's lot was simple one, but you'd never felt shortchanged.
"…almost certainly routed through Blender Plex, but there's nothing saying it couldn't be from further afield. You've registered now, bossman, and that means that you are on everyone's radar. If someone else has their own Wyke, they could have found you by any number of criteria. Your upcoming bout will draw watchers from anyone with an interest in the Four…"
You shake your head. This doesn't feel like 'further afield', to you. Feels like a direct payback. But from who? The list is dizzyingly long. Silverspoon family at the head, of course. Wyke's hack made their security company look feckless and inefficient. Then you had the Pack, hazing on a fellow predator in an attempt to force you into their fellowship. Or the Flock, acting out their automatic resentment for any Boxer who wasn't as squeaky clean as their membership professed to be. It could be Nhexx, getting a jump on her next challenger, her enmity drawn by the Black King. By the 3B (praise it), this might even be those stream stealers you jacked the mics off of. Basically anyone in Blender Plex had the resources to spit on your life like this.
"Going to be a close run thing, even in Springtime. The Wild is still recovering from the Solstice War, and no one is going to want to band together out of season. This is supposed to be our time, but with the Way pressing so fiercely we'll have to-"
It isn't you who puts a stop to Mwekkum's muttering, but rather the opening of the entrance way into the Lair. Yurn, your tormentor in the flesh, pushes his way out into the sunlight with a sound like a riverbank collapsing.
"Coach," you say, "Mwekkum was just giving me some news about our homeland. I'm sure you'll want to hear his report."
Yurn frowns dourly at you.
"Aye, and by the time I finished with yon chatterbox you'd have scarped off to who knows what part of the Lair, and left your roadwork all undone? Play not your games with me, brother."
"The thought was far from my mind," you lie, "You know my fondness for training, do you not? I'd sooner bed in briars than shirk a rutting second."
You brush your palm across a thorn as you say so, pricking yourself before the Wild decides to take you up on your liar's oath.
"Big man, bide a moment. I'd come to stop your run anyway, news from abroad or not. I've a report from the shadowed one to give you, and you'll hear it ere long."
You lean against the same bramble tree you'd just pricked yourself on, your thick ogre hide proof against its worst efforts. You pass the emptied flask back to Mwek.
"Let's hear what Wyke has to say."
"Doro 'Messy' Messmacher. She's a cybeast, she's seen 24 summers, her beast half is a bird, and her tech half runs on heated water. She's close to being as fast as you, close to your strength, but her defense is still green. She gifts her Mark with her fury, makes talons of her gloves."
You nod, considering.
A nickname like 'Messy' came from her last name, sure, but you'd bet an eye it was supposed to refer to the condition of her enemies. She probably took the fight with you for the highlight reel. Knocking down someone who overtopped her by two feet would be impressive.
"You ken the bit about the name? She picked it before first match, yeah? Means it wasn't an accident she got that knockout."
You let a chuckle out, bemused despite yourself. If 'Messy' thinks she's knocking you out, then her form isn't the only thing science has twisted.
"What else did Wyke find out?"
"She went downstairs in her first knockabout, yeah? Deep downstairs, cheap shot. Didn't get called for it. Got a Fixer and a Cut-man, no Coach. Uses her wings to fan the steam from her turbines around, proper Wild. Doubt she can stick the four, expect her to come hard at you in the first or the second round. Don't let her at your face! No room for any more ugly on there."
"I think your brother added that last part on there. Not that Wyke couldn't tell how hideous you are, of course, but they don't seem in any hurry to comment on it, probably because you are paying them and so they have no incentive to bring up the whole thing where you are so ugly. But really impressive stuff otherwise, that's, what three special moves found out and you were already gonna win anyway, this Boxing thing ain't shit and would it be ok for me to maybe lay a wager on you where if you win in the first round, say by knockout we maybe get paid a bit and then the-"
"We don't have a Fixer, pint size. Big Bro doesn't need your mischief, not with someone out there making a mess of the seasons-like."
Wyke had a terrifying facility for gathering information. That had to be all her special moves, her Seconds, and her likely game plan, all neatly bundled up and handed over. You were gonna win anyway, of course, but now you didn't even have to work for it. In fact, maybe it would be ok to...
"I ken that look," said Yurn, "And you still have to finish your running. This labor isn't just for the birdette, you got fights beyond this one to think on."
You roll an eye and turn back towards the hill, already grimacing from anticipation.
*Hold on a tick*
Mwekkum and Yurn head back inside, your brother with a solemn scowl and your minion with a cheery wave.
*Milos is coming out, he's firmed up the match and needs you to give you some input about match order.*
You lean back against the tree again, happy for any excuse to delay the torture.
It really is a nice day. It isn't just the Wild speaking through you, Spring is really quite pretty in the outlands. The plants are in bloom, the sky is almost frighteningly blue, and the grass is short and still showing the bright-green of new shoots.
The Way would truss all this up. They look at your wilderness, and they see the market in Blender Plex in embryo. Anonymous landscapes, covered in buildings and tents, the brooks turned into fountains and the mountains shifted to become the bones of their endless tenements.
You scoff. An Essentialist would say that your side of things was predetermined, but you just know that even if you'd been born a Knight or Noble, you'd have swapped over to the Wild.
The door opens.
"Boss, I've just heard from the committee. We've got a date for your fight! And you are going to be part of a Challenger's Carnival, so the purse should be a bit bigger than we were looking for."
*You daughter-of-locusts!*
The Black King is wearing his running gear, and he has a water bottle fastened to his shoulder.
Z's chuckling fills your context as the two of you start up the hill.
Jogging at your own pace was annoying, tedious. It ate away at your endurance, at your stamina.
Sticking with Milos was another matter altogether. The dogman's stride positively devours the distance, and he scarcely seems to notice. It is unthinkable for one of your minions to outdo you, of course, so you are forced to try and match his monstrous pace.
"They are doing a bit of a gimmick this time, calling it 'The First Step'. They've grabbed up the four rookies, that is, zero stars and zero matches, that have the most buzz right now, and you are right up there! It's a stellar card, all four of you challenging one star defenders. Gonna be a hell of a night. Even if I wasn't your Second I wouldn't miss it."
"Who… are the… other rookies?" you grate out. Milos slows down just the slightest bit when he's talking, and it also drowns out some of your quieter grunts.
"No points for guessing that the Silverspoon heiress is first among you, but the other two might be a bit of a shock. How much do you know about the Mythos?"
"You…mean…the Old Ways?"
"Yeah, 'that is not dead which can eternal…' that stuff?"
You notice a tuneless humming drifting along your context, and look off to the side, denying Z her eye candy in petty revenge.
*hey!*
"I know a bit."
"Well, I don't want to say the name, but that's the guy. Squid head. I saw Zasha had one of his plushies."
"How does THAT work? He's taller than a castle, right?"
"I guess we'll see. The Mark can do wondrous things."
"So we've got me, Threnody, the Great Old One and…?"
You trip over an uneven section of the trail and narrowly save yourself from wiping out. You catch yourself on a tree limb and keep your stride, reluctantly returning your gaze to the trail ahead.
Zasha, wisely, doesn't say a damn thing.
"Crocodile Cybeast named Gowa. His gimmick is he's the Pack's 'Young Master'. Their faction leader is preparing to graduate to the Eight, so he's being groomed to take over."
You make a rude noise.
"Can't all be winners. But anyway, that's the card. The four of you taking on four one star boxers who are, basically, sacrifices. All eyes on you, boss!"
You reach the top of the rise, and Milos, blessedly, stops for a moment.
"What…need to…choose?"
"They asked me what match order I preferred, you know? Four matches on the card, where do we want to go? Best spot is last, but no way is that not the human, you know? Second best is probably first."
"Before…drives audience mad."
"Well, I just meant that in general if you can't be last you want to be first, but that's another good point. But another way to look at it is that the Boxers are getting better as they go along, so we'd want to be third. That's the more traditional approach, you know?"
"Sure…after me….forget about the Pack!"
"Yeah, that's a great point. Going later lets you eclipse the earlier performances. Everybody remembers the last thing they saw after all. Plus it's more money as the night goes on."
Milos, bless him, sits down on a rock and looks out over the Lair. You immediately hurry over and slump down beside him, careful to keep your breathing even and slow. You are fairly sure Milos knows that you are tired, and that he knows that you know, but you don't think he knows you know he knows you know, and that's an illusion worth propagating.
"Oh," he says, "And they wonder if we have a slogan?"
"A slogan?"
"Ideally it should tie into your nickname and the theme of the event, 'The First Step'. They are doing posters and theme streams, where the rookie slogans will be on one side, and the veteran slogans will be on the other, you know? Could be good for your rep."
"I'll…think about it."
The Wild needs help this Spring, in open defiance of the usual cycle. Now that you are a Boxer you can't fight yourself, but maybe there's some way to help?
[] Give a substantial monetary donation. This will be a big burden, going forward.
[] Give a much smaller monetary donation, with commensurately less consequences.
[] Send the Redmasks out to do their part, will deny you their aid for a while, but they are a fierce fighting force, and should set the Way back on their heels.
[] Dispatch Mwekkum to do what he can. Your counsellor's wisdom may help the Wild pick the 'right' battles, and he might be able to suss out which denizen of Blender Plex is behind this.
Wyke's scouting has born fruit, and you know some of Doro's tricks! Which one of these attacks will you put training time into countering?
[] Low blows. The height discrepancy between the two of you means she could really tee off downstairs, and with no Fixer on your side she's probably got free reign to do so.
[] The steam smokescreen. Your reach advantage should ordinarily dominate the match. But if she can reduce visibility down she could maybe turn that around. You don't want to slug it out at close range with a cybeast if you can help it.
[] The cutting punches. Anyone who picks their nickname after a technique is going to use it as much as they can. If she gets your face bleeding, the ref might call it, particularly if he's been paid off. You can't let her slash you up.
The Black King has booked your first match. You are a part of a Challenger's Carnival, a card of four consecutive matches. Which one would you like him to try and schedule you into?
[] First (Second best for exposure, worst for money)
[] Second (middle choice)
[] Third (Second best for money, worst for exposure)
[] Fourth (Best for money and exposure, extremely unlikely to get this)
The Carnival wants a slogan from you, something to do with your nickname, "Four Fists of Death", and the event's theme "The First Step". Could maybe help, probably can't hurt.
[] Write-in
