CH 25.1
25.1 - Immaturity and Slavery
To make it through the 3rd round of the Armament Festival was a great achievement for any warrior-smith pair, serving as irrefutable proof of the former’s strength and the latter’s skill.
Especially in Do Banga’s Pit, even if they weren’t the final victors, the semi-finalists would earn fame and bragging rights for at least a couple of years.
“…”
Had any other smith been in Primera’s position, they would have been overjoyed.
However, it was hard, even for the young girl herself, to determine whether she was happy or sad.
Certainly, she had achieved her objective – a warrior using equipment she had painstakingly forged had defeated the warrior that was using her sister’s equipment.
How do you like that, huh?! I’m better than you!
I won’t ever let you talk down on my mother or me ever again!
She thought that with this victory, she would have felt vindicated. Redeemed.
And yet… why did it feel so hollow?
[…]
After the day’s fighting was over, Primera had returned to her workshop, carrying with her the armor and sword Bash had used.
Her gaze darkened as she looked at the equipment laying on her workshop’s table.
Picking up the sword, the girl brought it up to her eyes to have a closer look.
This was a weapon Bash had used in three different fights, and yet…
Yet, it looked the same as the day she had given it to the Hero – straight and sharp, with a dull shine on the cutting edge.
It hadn’t warped like her previous attempts did during the preliminaries.
In fact, it had barely even a blemish on the steel, let alone a bend.
Had she improved her skill over that short period of time? Had her perseverance and efforts finally paid off?
That wasn’t it.
Primera lowered the sword, looking back one of the gauntlets she had laid out on her workbench.
It was crumpled up like a piece of paper.
A gauntlet, naturally, was designed to protect the user’s hands and wrists.
The young smith had forged them especially thick to match up with the strain Bash would put on them.
During the preliminaries, the metal fittings came loose, but there had been no real damage to the actual material.
But now, the iron sheets that made up the gauntlets were cracked and torn, as if they had been run over by a horde of Dwarves rushing to a bar during happy hour.
[He hit his opponents with the gauntlet…]
Bash hadn’t used the sword.
Primera recalled that after the first round, she had to fix up not his weapon, but his gauntlets.
The Hero had earned victory during his fight with Gorgol by smashing apart the Ogre’s gigantic sword with his fist.
[I told you to be creative, but…]
To beat up an opponent using armor…
Rules-wise, it was as gray as it got.
In the Armament Festival’s tournament, the only allowed weapons were swords.
The purpose of this was to keep a semblance of a level playing field between the participants and keep the focus of the celebrations on the warrior’s prowess and the smith’s skill. After all, if the rules were slackened, how long would it take until a crafty Dwarf brought in a cannon, calling it a riff on a bow and arrow?
As such, using armor as a weapon was technically a foul.
However, there are many cases where it became impossible for a fighter to exclusively use his sword in battle.
Elbow strikes, kicks, punches and headbutts were all standard fare in the arena.
Dwarven officials were not so stingy as to call out all of these as fouls.
In other words, performing barehanded techniques using a limb that just happened to be covered in armor was, in practice, allowed.
Of course, if the armor in question was obviously designed to be used as a weapon, as in the case of spiked shoulder pads or steel-clawed gloves, that was grounds for disqualification.
Primera’s gauntlet design was nothing out of the ordinary, so there was nothing to worry about on that end.
Still, it remained that armor – equipment made to protect, was used to attack.
These gauntlets were not intended to be used in this manner. They could be repaired, but never completely restored.
The materials would eventually reach their limits and break down.
An unused sword.
A repurposed gauntlet.
As a blacksmith, nothing was more humiliating.
Bash’s actions were essentially telling her that the sword she had painstakingly crafted was so weak that he had to resort to using armor as a weapon.
Primera was not so foolish as to be proud of this victory.
“?”
At that moment, someone knocked on the workshop’s door.
Three knocks resounded through the otherwise silent room.
Was it Bash and Zell? No, they had gone out to the taverns to celebrate their victory. It was still too early.
Orcs were well known to love liquor almost as much as Dwarves did and would drown themselves in alcohol until daybreak if given the opportunity.
Primera’s body stiffened.
Among the eight participants of the next day’s battles was Barabara Do Banga, eldest son of the Do Banga clan.
Could the clan have possibly sent some thugs to intimidate her to make sure he won …?
But the young girl quickly rid herself of that idea.
[No, if that were true, why would they knock?]
The Do Banga clan and its affiliates were not known for their subtlety. If they wanted to scare Primera, they would have done it overtly – like kicking down her door, smashing up her equipment, and waltzing out triumphantly.
That’s what they would have done.
With that in mind, Primera slowly opened the door, just enough to peek out.
“…!”
An unexpected visitor.
No – calling this individual’s presence here unexpected would be a lie.
Primera had been daydreaming about this moment for years.
She had imagined beating this individual in the Armament Festival. She had imagined defeating them publicly, humiliating them, and to see them cry, kneel and apologize.
“Sis…”
“Yo…”
There stood Primera’s sister, Carmela Do Banga.
But far from being on her knees, or even in tears, she simply stood there, arms crossed, wearing an awkward expression.
“What are you doing here?”
“I…wanted to tell you something, now that the results are in.”
Bash’s opponent in today’s third round – Koro, the Beastkin warrior, had been defeated in a single blow.
Carmela had not made it past the second day.
Primera did.
The younger Dwarf had proven her elder sister wrong.
“I’m sorry for everything I said. I underestimated you.”
With those words, Carmela unhooked a bottle of liquor from her waist, presenting it to Primera.
Both congratulations and apologies were best paired with alcohol, as per Dwarven custom.
Accepting the gift meant she had forgiven her sister.
[…]
But Primera could not bring herself to reach for the alcohol.
“You’re not going to forgive me, are you?”
Carmela gave her sibling a bitter smile, withdrawing the drink.
Primera’s fingers twitched as she restrained her conflicting feelings.
“…”
She had desired this for so long.
She had imagined herself standing triumphant over her older sister, grabbing that bottle of liquor, and, telling her, “Don’t you ever badmouth my mother again!”
And yet she couldn’t bring herself to reach for it.
“Anyhow, congratulations on reaching the top eight.”
“Mhm…”
“I thought you’d be happier about this, but you look terrible.”
It was a fact that Bash had beaten Koro – Carmela’s warrior.
Even so, was this truly Primera’s victory?
Her sword had bent. Her armor had crumpled.
She could tell from how Bash was quickly mowing through his opposition.
He was holding back.
In order to win the championship, the Orc was trying his best to keep his strength in check – a delicate balance between beating the enemy and preventing damage to the equipment.
Armor was meant to protect the user, not vice-versa.
Primera was ashamed of herself.
Where in the world would you ever find a warrior trying to protect his armor?
“Leave already…”
“…Haaaah… are you being sulky again? This is why I keep telling you you’re immature. Making armor for a first-class warrior isn’t an easy task. I don’t know how famous that Bash character is, but I can certainly tell from the way he fights that he’s very strong. Just like how father was never satisfied with the work of other blacksmiths, you can’t just give the finest fighters average armor and call it a day…”
“Just go already!”
“This is why you’re…!”
Carmela held back her words, swallowed her anger, and took a deep breath.
Tears were spilling out from the corners of Primera’s eyes.
Her younger sister was never someone who often cried, thought Carmela.
Even as a child, no matter what was said to her, she would just either grit her teeth and endure it, or get angry and defensive, but she never cried.
“…alright, I’m leaving.”
Carmela said, as she about-faced and began walking away.
She took a few steps, before turning back around.
“But Primera, you’ll only be hurting yourself if you don’t admit it soon…”
And with those parting words, she was gone.
Without bothering the watch her sister leave, Primera returned to her workshop and stood, once again looking at the equipment she had made for the Orc Hero.
There laid a shattered right gauntlet and a left gauntlet bearing marks of repair, along with a wide sword that would most likely bend if Bash ever swung it.
“What am I supposed to do…?”
Primera muttered to herself, sniffling.
To make it through the 3rd round of the Armament Festival was a great achievement for any warrior-smith pair, serving as irrefutable proof of the former’s strength and the latter’s skill.
Especially in Do Banga’s Pit, even if they weren’t the final victors, the semi-finalists would earn fame and bragging rights for at least a couple of years.
“…”
Had any other smith been in Primera’s position, they would have been overjoyed.
However, it was hard, even for the young girl herself, to determine whether she was happy or sad.
Certainly, she had achieved her objective – a warrior using equipment she had painstakingly forged had defeated the warrior that was using her sister’s equipment.
How do you like that, huh?! I’m better than you!
I won’t ever let you talk down on my mother or me ever again!
She thought that with this victory, she would have felt vindicated. Redeemed.
And yet… why did it feel so hollow?
[…]
After the day’s fighting was over, Primera had returned to her workshop, carrying with her the armor and sword Bash had used.
Her gaze darkened as she looked at the equipment laying on her workshop’s table.
Picking up the sword, the girl brought it up to her eyes to have a closer look.
This was a weapon Bash had used in three different fights, and yet…
Yet, it looked the same as the day she had given it to the Hero – straight and sharp, with a dull shine on the cutting edge.
It hadn’t warped like her previous attempts did during the preliminaries.
In fact, it had barely even a blemish on the steel, let alone a bend.
Had she improved her skill over that short period of time? Had her perseverance and efforts finally paid off?
That wasn’t it.
Primera lowered the sword, looking back one of the gauntlets she had laid out on her workbench.
It was crumpled up like a piece of paper.
A gauntlet, naturally, was designed to protect the user’s hands and wrists.
The young smith had forged them especially thick to match up with the strain Bash would put on them.
During the preliminaries, the metal fittings came loose, but there had been no real damage to the actual material.
But now, the iron sheets that made up the gauntlets were cracked and torn, as if they had been run over by a horde of Dwarves rushing to a bar during happy hour.
[He hit his opponents with the gauntlet…]
Bash hadn’t used the sword.
Primera recalled that after the first round, she had to fix up not his weapon, but his gauntlets.
The Hero had earned victory during his fight with Gorgol by smashing apart the Ogre’s gigantic sword with his fist.
[I told you to be creative, but…]
To beat up an opponent using armor…
Rules-wise, it was as gray as it got.
In the Armament Festival’s tournament, the only allowed weapons were swords.
The purpose of this was to keep a semblance of a level playing field between the participants and keep the focus of the celebrations on the warrior’s prowess and the smith’s skill. After all, if the rules were slackened, how long would it take until a crafty Dwarf brought in a cannon, calling it a riff on a bow and arrow?
As such, using armor as a weapon was technically a foul.
However, there are many cases where it became impossible for a fighter to exclusively use his sword in battle.
Elbow strikes, kicks, punches and headbutts were all standard fare in the arena.
Dwarven officials were not so stingy as to call out all of these as fouls.
In other words, performing barehanded techniques using a limb that just happened to be covered in armor was, in practice, allowed.
Of course, if the armor in question was obviously designed to be used as a weapon, as in the case of spiked shoulder pads or steel-clawed gloves, that was grounds for disqualification.
Primera’s gauntlet design was nothing out of the ordinary, so there was nothing to worry about on that end.
Still, it remained that armor – equipment made to protect, was used to attack.
These gauntlets were not intended to be used in this manner. They could be repaired, but never completely restored.
The materials would eventually reach their limits and break down.
An unused sword.
A repurposed gauntlet.
As a blacksmith, nothing was more humiliating.
Bash’s actions were essentially telling her that the sword she had painstakingly crafted was so weak that he had to resort to using armor as a weapon.
Primera was not so foolish as to be proud of this victory.
“?”
At that moment, someone knocked on the workshop’s door.
Three knocks resounded through the otherwise silent room.
Was it Bash and Zell? No, they had gone out to the taverns to celebrate their victory. It was still too early.
Orcs were well known to love liquor almost as much as Dwarves did and would drown themselves in alcohol until daybreak if given the opportunity.
Primera’s body stiffened.
Among the eight participants of the next day’s battles was Barabara Do Banga, eldest son of the Do Banga clan.
Could the clan have possibly sent some thugs to intimidate her to make sure he won …?
But the young girl quickly rid herself of that idea.
[No, if that were true, why would they knock?]
The Do Banga clan and its affiliates were not known for their subtlety. If they wanted to scare Primera, they would have done it overtly – like kicking down her door, smashing up her equipment, and waltzing out triumphantly.
That’s what they would have done.
With that in mind, Primera slowly opened the door, just enough to peek out.
“…!”
An unexpected visitor.
No – calling this individual’s presence here unexpected would be a lie.
Primera had been daydreaming about this moment for years.
She had imagined beating this individual in the Armament Festival. She had imagined defeating them publicly, humiliating them, and to see them cry, kneel and apologize.
“Sis…”
“Yo…”
There stood Primera’s sister, Carmela Do Banga.
But far from being on her knees, or even in tears, she simply stood there, arms crossed, wearing an awkward expression.
“What are you doing here?”
“I…wanted to tell you something, now that the results are in.”
Bash’s opponent in today’s third round – Koro, the Beastkin warrior, had been defeated in a single blow.
Carmela had not made it past the second day.
Primera did.
The younger Dwarf had proven her elder sister wrong.
“I’m sorry for everything I said. I underestimated you.”
With those words, Carmela unhooked a bottle of liquor from her waist, presenting it to Primera.
Both congratulations and apologies were best paired with alcohol, as per Dwarven custom.
Accepting the gift meant she had forgiven her sister.
[…]
But Primera could not bring herself to reach for the alcohol.
“You’re not going to forgive me, are you?”
Carmela gave her sibling a bitter smile, withdrawing the drink.
Primera’s fingers twitched as she restrained her conflicting feelings.
“…”
She had desired this for so long.
She had imagined herself standing triumphant over her older sister, grabbing that bottle of liquor, and, telling her, “Don’t you ever badmouth my mother again!”
And yet she couldn’t bring herself to reach for it.
“Anyhow, congratulations on reaching the top eight.”
“Mhm…”
“I thought you’d be happier about this, but you look terrible.”
It was a fact that Bash had beaten Koro – Carmela’s warrior.
Even so, was this truly Primera’s victory?
Her sword had bent. Her armor had crumpled.
She could tell from how Bash was quickly mowing through his opposition.
He was holding back.
In order to win the championship, the Orc was trying his best to keep his strength in check – a delicate balance between beating the enemy and preventing damage to the equipment.
Armor was meant to protect the user, not vice-versa.
Primera was ashamed of herself.
Where in the world would you ever find a warrior trying to protect his armor?
“Leave already…”
“…Haaaah… are you being sulky again? This is why I keep telling you you’re immature. Making armor for a first-class warrior isn’t an easy task. I don’t know how famous that Bash character is, but I can certainly tell from the way he fights that he’s very strong. Just like how father was never satisfied with the work of other blacksmiths, you can’t just give the finest fighters average armor and call it a day…”
“Just go already!”
“This is why you’re…!”
Carmela held back her words, swallowed her anger, and took a deep breath.
Tears were spilling out from the corners of Primera’s eyes.
Her younger sister was never someone who often cried, thought Carmela.
Even as a child, no matter what was said to her, she would just either grit her teeth and endure it, or get angry and defensive, but she never cried.
“…alright, I’m leaving.”
Carmela said, as she about-faced and began walking away.
She took a few steps, before turning back around.
“But Primera, you’ll only be hurting yourself if you don’t admit it soon…”
And with those parting words, she was gone.
Without bothering the watch her sister leave, Primera returned to her workshop and stood, once again looking at the equipment she had made for the Orc Hero.
There laid a shattered right gauntlet and a left gauntlet bearing marks of repair, along with a wide sword that would most likely bend if Bash ever swung it.
“What am I supposed to do…?”
Primera muttered to herself, sniffling.
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