A clash of fists boomed throughout the village. The excitement of the arena had reached its peak as two half-orcs exchanged blows one after another. The first looked more human than half-orc, his long brunette hair floated along with his movement. Looking at him, it was hard to tell he was even a half-orc, if you discount the two massive tusks forming from his mouth. In contrast, the second half-orc had a rugged, scarred face. He was clearly much older, and in turn much wiser. The crowd roared with excitement as the two combatants circled each other, their muscles tense and ready for the next clash. The older half-orc spoke.
"This is childish, Gazgoh. You and I both know this is meaningless." Gazgoh's eyebrows wrinkled with frustration. He clenched his fist, bent his knee and launched forward. Without hesitation, the older half-orc unleashed a spell, coating his arms bright magical barrier. He swiftly halted Gazgoh's strike just with the palm of his hand. He held Gazgoh in place for a moment.
"Strength alone isn't enough to make you a warrior! You of all people should know this after what happened to your father!"Gazgoh retreated in an instant, and shouted in an irate voice.
"My father was a fool!" The half-orc frowned and studied Gazgoh with a solemn expression.
"Fine, have it your way." In the blink of an eye, he lunged forward, delivering a solid hit directly in the center of Gazgoh's torso.
Gazgoh didn't even have time to let out a yell.
He was sent flying into the wall of the arena, falling face first into the sand beneath him. It was obvious the fight was over.
The cheers of the audience had began to shift into murmurs as crowd dispersed. People started moving from the stands to leave, others stayed to discuss the next match, and a select few came to talk to the combatants.
Gazgoh ignored the concerned whispers around him and pushed himself up from the ground. He swiped the blood from his split lip and stared at the half-orc with defiance in his eyes. A few other villagers had already entered the field to talk to the older half-orc.
"Did ye really have to go so hard on em, chief?" The village chieftain glanced at Gazgoh, then back to the people.
"If he insists on being a trouble maker, I have no choice" the village chieftain walked by the concerned audience, and stops directly in front of Gazgoh.
He spoke in a stern voice. "You are to leave this village, and you will only be allowed to return once you can beat me properly." Gazgoh's eyes locked with the chieftain for what felt like an eternity before he stomped away.
"I already planned to do that."
As Gazgoh exited to arena, he passed by the center of the village.
The half-orc village in particular had culture deeply rooted in combat, everyone knew how to fight to some extent. Even the children of the village would play pretend as warriors until they day they were able to learn proper combat.
Gazgoh was no exception. His mother was always busy around the village, but his father taught Gazgoh everything he knew. But now, Gazgoh had to be on his own, being just shy of 20. He wasn't young enough to play pretend, but he wasn't old enough to be an experienced warrior. As the village chief knew, this was the most important time for Gazgoh to learn properly. But Gazgoh refused. He often thought ill of the villages teachings. What point was there in training his mind? He'd learn combat instinct through experience, not from books or lectures.
He made his way back to his house. An old, worn down shack. Inside was his bed, alongside a small, but sufficient kitchen and a table. Leaning against his bed were the things he would take with him as he left. He knew the outcome of the fight before it had started, he had just gotten things ready ahead of time.
From his bed, he grabbed new clothes; a rugged pair of tan pants, a harness that could holster his weapon, a belt that could hold several pouches, and his favorite pair of sandals. The last thing he needed was his mace.
"mace" hardly defines it. The handle was well crafted, it looked sturdy and polished, but the blunt of it looked like anything else. It looked almost if he had taken a pile of rocks and had stuck them together on the end of the stick. Gazgoh had found this around the outskirts of the village while on an expedition with his dad, it looked like it was meant to be a street sign rather than a weapon. But Gazgoh saw it as an opportunity. He picked up mace twice the size of the child Gazgoh, and would practice day in and day out. He would pick it up, swing it around, try with just one hand even. He would do whatever he could to push his body to its limits. Surely then he would never lose a fight.
He had everything he needed, and left his house. He stood outside of the village, staring into the place where he grew up. He felt no shame. He felt no sorrow. All he felt was rage. As he stared into the village, he noticed the village staring right back at him. The chieftain could be seen by the village gate. He gave Gazgoh a hard look, speaking to him without any words.
Gazgoh knew.
In this village where combat was part of their culture, their everyday life, thousand of words could be exchanged by a single clash. Gazgoh turned and walked away from the village, down the mountain towards the forest. The image of the village chieftain was stained in his mind: telling Gazgoh to grow strong.