[center][h2][color=slategray]Ordric[/color][/h2][sub]
Interacting with: No one.[/sub][/center]


Two pillars as dark as midnight, entwined with one another, jutted forth from the earth, thrice the size of any Drakkan. They formed a striking image among the desert landscape, like a great twisted horn, the early morning sun gleaming softly off the dark stone. It was an old shrine to Drun, seldom used these days in favor of more modern temples or personally kept effigies. Ordric noted the damaged parts of the shrine where stone had chipped away, most likely from exposure to the elements. He placed a hand along it's edge to inspect it further.

The stone was smooth and cool to the touch, Ordric ran his fingers absently down the pillar, the shadowy skyline of Železna Kri absorbing his attention and occupying his thoughts. He had a choice to make today, a tournament was to be held as part of the celebration and those receiving brides were required to make an appearance, whether spectators or participants. Although Ordric relished the idea of refusing the summons, one didn't refuse the royal family lightly. [color=slategray][i]I bloody well made my way to this shit heap of city didn't I? Why must I now attend this farce.[/i][/color] His eyes grew hard and his brow knitted together in a frown as the sun crested the top of the city, flooding the landscape in harsh light. He knew all too well that he couldn't be a spectator, there was no place for him among those on high, he had to earn it and the thought of those [i]entertainers[/i] put him on edge. As a boy growing up in Železna Kri he recalled a blacksmith whom had told him his mother had most likely been as much. A lie most like, but Ordric never really knew the truth of it and that had troubled him for most of his life.

He broke his gaze away from the city and stared down at the palm of his free hand, observing it under the rising light. He ran his thumb lightly over the calluses and traced the small scars he had earned from his travels. The skin was the color of ash and looked both strong and youthful, yet as he looked closer under the sunlight he could swear that there was the faintest glimmer, perhaps a trick of the eyes. With a frown he clenched his hand into a fist. Dropping it to his side and out of sight.

He leaned a moment more on the pillar, staring out at nothing in particular. A sigh escaped his lips and he turned to face the shrine, seeking out what he had come here for in the first place. Bloodroot. The object was attached to the pale white flowers that decorated the earth around the shrine, a bulbous root which in turn was attached to a gnarled black vine that ran beneath them. These vines were found alongside all the old shrines to Drun and were believed to be sustained through his will. The flowers only flourished when warriors seeking favor, or headed to war, spilled their own blood in honor of the war god, watering the earth and nourishing the vine.

[color=slategray][i]Blood of the ancestors.[/i][/color] Ordric dug his hand beneath one of the flowers, cupping the root as he pulled it free from the sands. [color=slategray][i]Lend me your strength.[/i][/color] The old prayer resounded in his head as he snapped the flower stem from the root, wrapping both pieces of the plant up separately in square cloths before placing them within his satchel. If he was to fight this day, he'd prepare for it accordingly. With his work done Ordric crouched beneath the shrine, pulling free his knife from its sheath and pressing the blade to his palm. Running its edge downward he watched as blood welled to the surface, crimson tendrils snaked down his fingers to fall as droplets to the ground, the sand greedily drinking in his offering. With a satisfied grunt, he stemmed the flow and wrapped a makeshift bandage about the wound. He rose quickly and turned with purpose toward the city, beginning the small trek back.

In a dark room beneath the pits Ordric unrolled his kit by the light of a wall sconce. It was a small cell with a dirt floor and no real doorway to speak of, one of many that ran along the curve of the arena above, serving as public preparation areas for those who were to fight. Undoing a few clasps, Ordric let his attire fall to the floor, his naked flesh prickling in response to the cool air. Once settled he sat down, crossing his legs and set to work on making himself ready. He begun by mashing up the bloodroot from earlier, with a mortar and pestle, til he was left with a thick, red ochre paste. Normally he would of had peeled the root, and allowed time for it to dry out and become a powder to be used in various vision rituals, but today it would serve a more aesthetic purpose.

With two finger he applied the paste to his body, decorating his face and neck before marking out runes of protection and strength upon his chest and arms. With that done he laid the bowl aside and rose to collect his choice of weapons from the walls. After a little deliberation he settled on an oaken shield and blunted axe. [color=slategray][i]These should serve me well as any.[/i][/color] Returning to his seat with the bundle in his lap, Ordric awaited his time.