01-21-2012, 07:25 PM
The crowd around the ring lurched. Coins, the currency in the place, were thrown around. Bets were placed; on the huge, adult bull-mastiff in his secui form, mostly. The brute was huge, rippling with muscle, and he easily outsized and outweighed the little blonde child in front of him. The little blonde child clutching a wooden stick. Achilles was no child, though. Looks could be deceiving, as they said. Though he was physically a boy, mentally he was a warrior, and he could hold his own in battle.
It was over in seconds. The mastiff lunged. Achilles lunged to the side. The mastiff fell straight into the crowd, and someone hauled him back into the circle. He snarled, and lunged again. Achilles did the same thing, except this time, once the mastiff was thrown into the crowd, Achilles span around and smacked him round the head with his stick. The boy was little over 6 months old, and he had beaten a full-grown adult male through simply wit and cunning.
The crowd was shocked. The dog that organized the fighting, Joe, was not surprised however. This was how the boy made a living. Joe pressed coins, the prize, into Achilles’ paw and the blonde boy nodded curtly, and then pushed his way through the crowd. He walked away, to the corner of the town square, and was about to sit down on some stone steps when he was confronted by a nasty looking coyote.
“Where did you learn to fight like that, boy?” asked the old luperci. Achilles scowled. “I’m not a boy, I’m a-” he was cut off sharply. “A girl?” asked the hardened coyote, his muzzle wrinkling in discontent. “No, but” at this, the coyote looked outraged. He spat on the floor and took the young boy by the neck, fingering the loose skin and fur and tightening his grip, his eyes growing edgy and fierce. Achilles did not react. Had it been a different situation, he would have smacked the coyote and disarmed him, thrown him to the ground and tasted victory, but there was something in this man’s eyes. Something chilling, and it scared him. Achilles had never been scared before. Not since-
“A man never says but to his elders. This just proves my point, boy. You are nothing but a boy. A wild, dirty boy. You smell. You stink. And you’re scared. I could make you cry out whenever I wanted. I could make you hurt” the coyote snarled, dripping saliva down onto Achilles’ chest. The young wolf raised a lip and his eyes flashed silver for a second, as if he was going to give in to the petty bullying and snide remarks, but instead he fought back. “You’ll never hurt me.” he growled defiantly, pushing up with the palms of his paws and thrusting his weight into the lock-position, body-slamming so the coyote gave up his hold on his neck. He gave a kick of his heel and sent the old man stumbling backwards, and then crossed his arms.
To his surprise, the man merely laughed. A crooked, gnarled sound that had the edge of death to it. Confused, Achilles clenched his paws into fists, ready to fight when the time came. This was merely a distraction. But no. “I don’t like you, but you ‘ave some guts.” said the coyote, spitting on the ground once more. He sniffed his pointy, ugly muzzle and wrinkled up his nose, straightening up. He didn’t appear to look very harmed for an old man that had just been slammed into and kicked. “Keep fighting.” said the old man to the boy. “Keep at it, boy.” he advised. He pulled out a silver chain from seemingly nowhere, and pressed it into Achilles’ hand. And then the man was gone. Achilles was left alone, confused out of his mind, standing solemnly in the square.
It was over in seconds. The mastiff lunged. Achilles lunged to the side. The mastiff fell straight into the crowd, and someone hauled him back into the circle. He snarled, and lunged again. Achilles did the same thing, except this time, once the mastiff was thrown into the crowd, Achilles span around and smacked him round the head with his stick. The boy was little over 6 months old, and he had beaten a full-grown adult male through simply wit and cunning.
The crowd was shocked. The dog that organized the fighting, Joe, was not surprised however. This was how the boy made a living. Joe pressed coins, the prize, into Achilles’ paw and the blonde boy nodded curtly, and then pushed his way through the crowd. He walked away, to the corner of the town square, and was about to sit down on some stone steps when he was confronted by a nasty looking coyote.
“Where did you learn to fight like that, boy?” asked the old luperci. Achilles scowled. “I’m not a boy, I’m a-” he was cut off sharply. “A girl?” asked the hardened coyote, his muzzle wrinkling in discontent. “No, but” at this, the coyote looked outraged. He spat on the floor and took the young boy by the neck, fingering the loose skin and fur and tightening his grip, his eyes growing edgy and fierce. Achilles did not react. Had it been a different situation, he would have smacked the coyote and disarmed him, thrown him to the ground and tasted victory, but there was something in this man’s eyes. Something chilling, and it scared him. Achilles had never been scared before. Not since-
“A man never says but to his elders. This just proves my point, boy. You are nothing but a boy. A wild, dirty boy. You smell. You stink. And you’re scared. I could make you cry out whenever I wanted. I could make you hurt” the coyote snarled, dripping saliva down onto Achilles’ chest. The young wolf raised a lip and his eyes flashed silver for a second, as if he was going to give in to the petty bullying and snide remarks, but instead he fought back. “You’ll never hurt me.” he growled defiantly, pushing up with the palms of his paws and thrusting his weight into the lock-position, body-slamming so the coyote gave up his hold on his neck. He gave a kick of his heel and sent the old man stumbling backwards, and then crossed his arms.
To his surprise, the man merely laughed. A crooked, gnarled sound that had the edge of death to it. Confused, Achilles clenched his paws into fists, ready to fight when the time came. This was merely a distraction. But no. “I don’t like you, but you ‘ave some guts.” said the coyote, spitting on the ground once more. He sniffed his pointy, ugly muzzle and wrinkled up his nose, straightening up. He didn’t appear to look very harmed for an old man that had just been slammed into and kicked. “Keep fighting.” said the old man to the boy. “Keep at it, boy.” he advised. He pulled out a silver chain from seemingly nowhere, and pressed it into Achilles’ hand. And then the man was gone. Achilles was left alone, confused out of his mind, standing solemnly in the square.