Fantasy Anthroterra (1:1, closed, scantilycladsnail & ThieviusRaccoonus)

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim’s shoulders eased, just a fraction—just enough to be seen by those who knew her.

She stepped forward, quiet on the stone, until only a breath of space remained between them. Her gaze lifted to meet Eryon’s, unwavering and bright with conviction, though tempered by something softer—something deeply personal, and rarely seen.

“You’ve stood with us through storms that would have broken lesser men,” she said, her voice low, steady. “You’ve carried more than your share—through grief, through fire, through silence.”

Her eyes didn’t leave his. “I want you to know this trial… it’s already decided, in truth. Not by favoritism. Not by politics. But by the weight of what we know.”

She exhaled slowly, and the cold air curled between them like steam from a waiting forge.

“Orlin is guilty.”

It wasn’t a question. Not a speculation. A truth, spoken plainly and without apology.

“He deals in shadows. He weaves poison with words and calls it trade. He’s just clever enough to hide behind others—but we’ve seen enough. We know.”

She glanced away only briefly, her gaze drawn toward the temple arch behind them, toward the statues of judgment carved in the mountain’s face.

“You are not being asked to prove what is unknown,” she continued. “You are simply helping the city remember what it already knows, in a way it will not be able to ignore.”

When she turned her attention back to him, there was no armor in her tone—no command. Just honesty, quiet and certain.

“You don’t have to worry, Eryon. Not about this.”

She reached out—unusual for her—and placed a hand gently over the one he had laid across his chest, her fingers light but firm, the gesture private, sure.

“You have already done more for me than I will ever be able to repay. This... this is not the test. This is the truth.”

A faint smile touched her lips—rare, real.

“Thank you, for carrying it with me.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Eryon listened, silent as stone, his expression unmoved—but something shifted in the set of his shoulders, subtle, like a weight acknowledged rather than carried alone.

When her hand touched his, he bowed his head slightly—not in submission, but in respect, deep and earned.

“You have never spoken to me as less than I am,” he said, voice low, steady. “For that, I owe you more than duty.”

A pause, then his gaze met hers—firm, unwavering.

“I will fight, Lady Ephraim. For you. For what is right.”

A simple nod followed, final and absolute.

“Let it be done.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The Coliseum of Umbrafane—long dormant—rose like a stone cathedral from the cliffside, its silhouette a ring of barbed spires and pointed arches, every inch carved with devotional grotesques and crumbling saints of justice. Wrought-iron gargoyles perched like vultures along the upper ledges, their corroded wings outstretched as if mid-prayer. Ivy clung to the eastern wall, black-veined and silver-frosted, crawling along the ruins of a stained-glass mosaic that once depicted the Three Tenets: Wrath, Vengeance and Mercy.

The arena had not held blood in over two years. But today, the old chapel-bell tolled again.

And the kin came.

The stands, tiered in shadowed stone and aged mahogany pews, were packed with onlookers, their breaths misting in the early chill. Flickering gaslights, housed in wrought iron sconces shaped like thorned lanterns, cast golden halos through the gloom. Above, a cathedral dome of glass and black lattice loomed high, fog clinging to its edges, filtering sunlight into a fractured, smoky glow.

The crowd was silent.
Not out of reverence.
But anticipation.

At the highest point of the grandstand, on a raised dais draped in deep violet velvet and tarnished gold fringe, sat Ephraim.

Her attire was the stuff of funeral royalty—a high-collared coat of jet black wool, adorned with silver-threaded filigree that mimicked tree roots and veins, blooming across her chest like a dying star. Her gloves were lace, tight at the wrist, her hair bound in a low knot and veiled in sheer black gauze from crown to cheek. The insignia of Umbrafane—a broken crown bisected by a sword—rested against her sternum in obsidian and pearl.

To her left, Mordecai, equally draped in shadow.

Beneath their dais, the arena floor stretched wide and grassy—a strange, living contrast to the stone above. Imported moss and thistlegrass from the northern barrows had been laid by druidic artisans, and where the blades bent beneath the wind, sigils burned faintly beneath—wards etched in bloodwax and buried bone, now stirred by purpose.

At either end of the floor were two great archways—vaulted stone doors carved with angelic visages, blindfolded and weeping. Blackened chains were wound through the pillars on either side, engraved with the names of those long executed by this rite. Both doors were sealed—for now—but even closed, the rot-iron bars within pulsed faintly with spelllight.

Behind the western gate stood Eryon.

And across from him, at the eastern gate,—unseen, unnamed—Orlin’s champion waited.

Paid. Cloaked in secrecy. The crowd buzzed beneath their breath—some speculated mercenaries, others whispered exiles.

A hush descended.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai sat beside Ephraim, his legs crossed with an air of casual ease, though his grip on the cane betrayed otherwise. Fingers moved slowly along the silvered skull of a goat atop the handle—rubbing the bone-smooth surface with a rhythm that was not idle, but calculated. He sighed, eyes closing briefly, as the fur around his neck began to bristle. A flicker of red lit behind his eyelids—a pulse of heat, of wrath held at bay—and the cane in his grasp answered with a soft glow, blood-red and fleeting.

When his eyes opened again, they were colder. Still. The shadows at his feet curled inward, slow and patient, as his canine tail draped across his knees like a coiled thread of dusk.

He was clad in a suit of deep black, cut to form—Victorian in style, austere in its lines, accented by a dark velvet tie, the color of old blood. Silver chains hung at his waistcoat, catching flickers of light with each subtle breath.

Beside him, Castara and Rhea sat with composed stillness. Castara’s gaze shifted, not to the arena, but to her parents. Studying their expressions, measuring the moment. Then, without a word, she turned back to the field below.

---

Elsewhere in the stands, Silvano plopped down with theatrical ease, a large, striped paper cone of fried corn in his lap—where he acquired it, no one knew, nor dared ask. He threw a fistful into his mouth, chewing noisily.

“Well, well, well! A performance today, yes! One truly of action! HUZZAH!”

Several heads turned, annoyed. Silvano grinned wider, utterly unbothered.

---

Behind the western gate, Eryon stood like a carved statue, motionless, his battle axe grounded at his side. One hand rose to the braid woven through his mane—the one bound with strands of Jen’s hair. A quiet breath. A touch of memory.

He was ready.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Trial of Truth – Combat System (Narrative Overlay)​

Overview:
Two combatants engage in a sacred rite beneath the gods of Umbrafane. Each round is a clash of fates, a test of divine favor. They do not merely fight—they invoke, counter, reveal. Their chosen forms become a spiritual language, a debate in blood.

• Each player selects one of three secret moves:
  • The Blade (Wrath)
  • The Grasp (Vengeance)
  • The Guard (Mercy)
  • 

Interaction Logic (RPS Rules):

• Blade cuts through Grasp.
• Grasp breaks the Guard.
• Guard deflects Blade.
• Same Form = Stalemate, and a new round is added. (Can exceed 10 rounds this way.)
• First to 6 victories determines Judgment: the loser can no longer stand.

---

From the shadows of the towering Eastern Gate, the figure emerged—broad, silent, and deliberate.

Noyre.

A lionkin encased in blackened iron, his armor was less ornamental than brutalist—functional, battleworn, and heavy with purpose. Chainmail sleeves clung to thick arms, leather belts crossed his chest in practical restraint, and the dark steel of his pauldrons gleamed like a storm cloud caught in moonlight. The helm he wore obscured his expression entirely, save for the squared muzzle and golden mane spilling beneath the iron, like a lion carved from vengeance itself. His presence didn’t demand attention.

It took it.

The crowd turned immediately, their roaring excitement choked into a hiss of recognition—and then, louder:

Booing. Jeering. Hissing.

They knew him. Not for loyalty. Not for honor. But for blood.

A warrior not of Umbrafane, not of the noble courts or mountain clans—but bought. Hired. Sold. A blade with no oath, no banner, no cause but coin.

And now, standing in the sunlight of the coliseum’s center, he radiated menace like heat from a forge. He raised no weapon. He didn’t have to. The gauntlet-clad fists at his sides spoke enough.

Up in the southern wing of the field, housed in a reinforced viewing cell, Orlin gripped the iron bars, breath short, eyes wide. He leaned forward, fingers white-knuckled with tension. He had spared no expense.

This was the best his coin could buy.

But as the boos from the crowd grew louder, as dust settled around the boots of the unflinching lion knight, even Orlin looked unsure—for the one thing more dangerous than a killer was a killer with no allegiance.

And Noyre had none.

Just iron. Just wrath. Just a price, already paid.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Eryon stepped from the western gate, each footfall heavy and deliberate—less a stride, more a revelation. His war attire bore the scars of a life earned, not given: aged leather straps weathered by time and battle, a heavy loincloth draped over his legs, dyed in the earth tones of Brakarholt and marked with symbols of Umbrafane—threads of old and new, woven into one.

His chest, broad and unarmored, bore ritual scars etched long ago, and his shoulders held the weight of more than war—they held memory. His axe rested in both hands, the blade dull with dried blood, polished only by use.

He advanced, silent as stone, his presence meeting Noyre’s in the arena’s heart. When he reached his place, he halted. Unmoving. Mountain-born.

His blue eyes fixed on the lion across from him—watchful, unreadable.

Then, slowly, he inclined his head—not low, but enough, a gesture not of deference, but of recognition.

“A battle between warriors,” Eryon said, voice low, rough as the mountains of his kin. “Let it be fought with honor, whatever path it takes.”

He looked upward, his gaze locking with Ephraim’s in the stands. He offered a single, measured nod. A promise. A vow.

From the arena’s western edge, the silence shattered.

A deafening roar erupted—Brakarholt war cries, sharp and wild, echoed by Eryon’s warriors in the stands. It was no chant of spectacle. It was respect. An offering to the moment. A song of blood and stone, called across time.

Above, Mordecai watched the lion step into place, his eyes narrowing. His thumb rubbed slow circles across the skull atop his cane.

“Interesting…” he murmured, voice low as the shadow curling at his feet.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Noyre did not speak at first.

The lion stood still, his frame a sculpted monument of muscle and steel, the dark sheen of his armor swallowing the morning light. Where Eryon moved like earth given form, Noyre stood like something unearthed—old, sharp, and unwilling to rust.

His helmet turned—slowly, deliberately—to regard the Brakarholt warrior. The slits of his visor were empty save for the cold gleam of amber eyes behind them, unreadable but not unfeeling. He said nothing when the crowd jeered. He said nothing when Eryon bowed.

But now—he raised his chin just slightly.

Then, with a single motion, his gauntlet thudded once against the center of his chestplate. A hollow sound—like the closing of a vault door. A knight’s answer. Not of honor, but recognition.

He took one step forward into the center of the arena, letting the weight of his body press into the soil like a brand.

And then, in a voice that rumbled like distant thunder from beneath the visor:

“Honor is for those who expect to survive.”

The words weren’t mocking. They weren’t cruel.

They were a truth.

He drew his weapon from his back—a heavy-headed flanged mace, brutal in its simplicity. No elegance. No ceremony.

Just the promise of judgment.

Noyre rotated his shoulders once, the metal of his pauldrons grinding softly like old machinery reawakening.

“I will not hesitate.”

---

Ephraim rose from her seat, the black fabric of her high-collared coat cascading around her like shadow given form. The crowd stilled, heads turning toward her as the dusk-touched sunlight haloed her silhouette above the arena’s blood-stained floor. Behind her, the royal crest of Umbrafane fluttered in the chill wind—half-wreathed in brambles, half-carved in flame.

Her voice rang clear and absolute, untouched by the din or dust below:

"Kin of Umbrafane. Witnesses of this tribunal. Today, by right of ancient decree and by the law of the mountain, we gather to invoke judgment—through trial by combat."

A hush rippled across the stands—no cheering, no whispering. Just breath, held.

Her gaze swept the arena floor where Eryon and Noyre stood like statues cast from two truths—one born of loyalty, the other of gold.

"This is not spectacle," Ephraim continued. "This is not vengeance alone. This is the hand of Wrath. This is the will of Vengeance. And this—" her voice dipped, quieter, reverent—"is in the memory of Mercy, who no longer answers."

A ripple passed through the crowd. Old enough to remember… knew what that meant.

“Let this combat decide the truth. One shall fall. One shall remain. The gods will have their verdict—and so shall we.”

She raised one gloved hand—still, deliberate.

"Begin."

And the horns of judgment sounded, shrill and shivering, echoing across the high Gothic spires of the coliseum as the gate behind her slammed shut.

Let steel speak. Let fate listen.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The blade

 

[scantilycladsnail]

BLADE.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

ROUND 1-STALEMATE.
The two clash.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Steel clashed like thunder made solid.

Eryon met Noyre’s charge head-on, eyes narrow beneath the furrow of his brow, axe gripped firm in both hands. The lion’s mace came down in a crushing arc—a blow meant to end—but Eryon was already moving, not with speed, but with purpose. He stepped into the strike, not away, angling his body low and into the force.

His axe haft caught the mace’s head with a jarring clash, the wood groaning but holding. Braced against the weight, Eryon let out a guttural cry—a sound born of Brakarholt war rites—and twisted hard, forcing the mace wide.

In that heartbeat of imbalance, he surged forward, slamming the butt of his axe into Noyre’s chestplate with raw force, knocking the lion back a pace. Before the armored giant could recover, Eryon’s axe came around in a brutal side-swing, the blade scraping across Noyre’s pauldron in a shower of sparks, cutting through the shoulder strap with a satisfying snap.

Not fatal. But telling.

Eryon exhaled through his nose, steady, the edge of his axe low and ready.

No wasted motion. No fear. Only judgment in motion.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Noyre staggered back, the force of Eryon’s strike driving him down to one knee, armored gauntlet pressed hard to the grass as his breath heaved behind the slits of his helmet. The torn strap of his pauldron dangled, useless, exposing the underlayers of his armor like peeled bark from a tree. He growled low—not in pain, but frustration.

The crowd erupted. Not in triumph, but in awe.

From the cells beneath the arena, Orlin lurched forward to the iron bars, eyes wide, panic rising sharp in his throat. This wasn’t how it was supposed to begin. This wasn’t the warrior he paid for.

Above, Ephraim remained still—expression unreadable, but her fingers curled lightly over the edge of the marble railing.

Noyre rose slowly, breath steadying. He rolled his shoulder once, the damaged armor falling with a clatter to the blood-dusted floor. His chest rose and fell, not with exhaustion—but with awakening. One round in, and already the weight of Brakarholt pressed down upon him like a memory of war long forgotten.

And across from him, Eryon stood unmoved, axe glinting dull in the muted light. No words. No boast.

Only the promise of what was still to come.

Round Two: Eryon claims the first strike (ERYON 1- NOYRE 0)

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Blade

 

[scantilycladsnail]

GUARD

The lion moved like a coiled trap—wounded pride kindling into sudden violence.

Before Eryon could press the advantage, Noyre surged forward with a roar muffled behind steel, one heavy boot cracking against the arena floor. He didn’t swing the mace. He didn’t strike with blade or edge.

He slapped him.

The armored back of his gauntlet crashed across Eryon’s face with a brutal clang, metal on flesh, the sheer force of it ringing louder than any warhorn. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t knightly. It was raw insult, delivered with the full weight of a predator’s fury.

A collective gasp rippled through the coliseum. Gasps, jeers, shouts—half in awe, half in disbelief.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The blow landed with brutal finality.

Metal crashed against flesh, and Eryon’s head snapped to the side under the force. Blood welled immediately from a split along his cheekbone, trailing down into the fur of his jaw like war paint drawn by an enemy’s hand.

The crowd gasped. Shouted. Roared.

But Eryon didn’t stagger.

He turned his head back slowly, eyes locked on Noyre—unshaken, unflinching. His jaw tensed, the cut dripping red, but he made no move to wipe it away.

Instead, he smiled—cold and calm, the kind of smile that lived in old war songs and the quiet before ruin.

“Steel for a greeting?” he rumbled, voice rough with scorn. “Then I will answer proper.”

His grip on the axe tightened.

Up in the stands, Mordecai did not move. Not a word, not a flicker—only his eyes shifted, pupils tracking the blood, the balance, the pace of fate slowly tipping.

Round Three: Eryon claims the first strike (ERYON 1- NOYRE 1)

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Noyre came fast, fury behind every step—a storm in iron, his mace raised high to break.

But Eryon was ready.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t retreat. He braced.

With a roar from deep in his chest, Eryon planted his hooves, gripping the haft of his axe like the roots of a tree gripping stone. The mace came crashing down—but met not weakness, not hesitation, but wall. Eryon caught the blow against the thick haft of his weapon, arms locked, shoulders coiled like braided steel. The shock shuddered through his frame, dust kicking up around his stance—but he held. Unmoving.

Then came the answer.

With a guttural cry—a voice older than the coliseum’s stone—he shoved upward, throwing the mace aside with brute force, and swung low in the same breath. His axe cleaved across Noyre’s thigh-plate, metal grinding against metal in a shower of sparks. The force knocked the lion back a pace, dragging one boot through the grass and soil.

From the stands, the donkeykin roared as one—another Brakarholt war cry, sharp and fierce, a song of kin and blood, echoing Eryon’s strike with pride and fury.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The blow rang true.

Eryon’s axe struck just beneath the curve of Noyre’s plated thigh, where the armor overlapped at the joint. It didn’t break through—but it bent, hard. The screech of steel and the sound of shearing rivets pierced the coliseum air as the lion staggered, his knee buckling with a jolt that forced him to drop back on one leg, weight thrown off-balance.

He grunted—sharp, clipped—and braced himself before hitting the ground, his gauntlet driving into the soil to catch the fall. But the damage was done. A plate hung loose. Blood seeped beneath it.

In the stands, the crowd’s divided voice swelled—Brakarholt chants booming with triumph while other sections jeered or watched in stunned silence.

On the field, Noyre rose slow—not broken, but wounded. His tail lashed once behind him, his breath loud inside his helm. That was twice now. Twice he’d been outmaneuvered. Twice he’d tasted the edge of a warrior who didn’t need flair to prove dominance.

Round Four: (ERYON 2- NOYRE 1)

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Blade

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The air shifted.

This time, Noyre didn’t posture. No raised mace. No bellowing challenge. He dropped low—dangerously low for a knight his size—and charged.

His armored form surged forward like a battering ram, the slit of his helm locked on Eryon’s knees. The donkeykin had braced high, expecting another overhead blow—but this wasn’t honor. This was intent to break.

A roar ripped through the coliseum—not of glory, but of surprise—as Noyre swept in beneath Eryon’s reach. One gauntlet shot out like a piston, slamming square into the back of Eryon’s knee with brutal precision.

The limb buckled.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Eryon grunted—a sharp, guttural sound torn from his throat as his knee collapsed beneath the force, slamming him down onto one leg with a crack of impact against the earth. Pain flared sharp and immediate, but he held—gods, he held—one hand planted into the soil, the other gripping his axe so tight the leather wrappings bit into his palms.

He didn’t fall. He knelt—and only because he was forced.

Dust rose around him, blood from his cheek mingling with sweat, breath hissing through clenched teeth.

Still, he looked up—not at Noyre, not yet—but to the dais. To her.

Ephraim.

Their eyes met—only for a flicker of a second—but it was enough. No shame. No apology. Just resolve.

Eryon pushed back to his feet, slow but unyielding, axe dragging against the ground before he hefted it once more, shoulders squared.

His eyes locked on Noyre. Cold. Focused.

Round Five: (ERYON 2- NOYRE 2)

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Eryon’s breath thundered in his ears, blood pulsing hot behind his eyes. Pain throbbed through his knee like fire in the joint, but it was distant—a noise beneath the drumbeat of battle.

He charged.

Hooves tore across the earth, scattering soil, and as Noyre braced to meet him, Eryon twisted at the last moment, muscles coiling like a spring.

With a vicious grunt, he kicked—both hooves driving backward into the lion’s chestplate with the crack of steel on steel, the force lifting Noyre off balance, shoving him back in a stagger of armor and weight.

Eryon didn’t stop.

He spun with the momentum, axe already high, and with a thunderous Brakarholt war cry tearing from his throat, he brought it down hard, the blade hammering into Noyre’s side with a clash of sparks and dented metal.

The crowd roared, but Eryon only snorted, breath steaming from his nostrils. His eyes narrowed, teeth grit.

He stood tall. Ready. Unbroken.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

GRASP

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The strike hit hard.

Noyre had seen the twist—but not the kick. The donkey’s hooves slammed into his chest like battering rams, sending him reeling backward with a metallic grunt. His boots tore gouges in the dirt as he stumbled, armor groaning under the force.

He barely had time to recover before the axe came down.

CRACK.

The blade slammed into his side, right between the pauldrons and breastplate. Sparks flew. Metal shrieked. The force bent his torso sideways, air punched from his lungs in a sharp, involuntary bark. The lion staggered again, one knee dipping, breath ragged through the slits of his helm.

He snarled.

Not from pain—but from humiliation.

Noyre straightened with effort, armor dented, chest heaving. His mace trembled slightly in his grip—not with fear, but with the bitter weight of defeat in this moment.

Round Six: (ERYON 3- NOYRE 2)

 

[scantilycladsnail]

GRASP

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

GRASP