| abstract | - Somehow, the swirling. pulsing and restless sky of Icecrown paled when the crowds in the stands let rip their cheers. The stamping of hundreds of pairs of feet on wooden stands and the ceaseless waving of the different cities' banners were so similar to sights seen in Orgrimmar's Ring of Valour that it seemed irrelevant that all of this was happening in the Lich King's cradle. The spirit of competitiveness that the Tournament brought on would, in these moments, momentarily cast aside the horrors of Icecrown, and the merciless sting of loss. However loaded with racial hatred and political tension the games were, they were still a respite from cruel and tragic death. For Gulgrim, it was electrifying. The orc swung his Horde lance away. It was no use to him anymore, now that the jousting was over. The clan had once again come out victorious, and the frenzied applause from the sections of the audience made up of members of the Horde compelled him to punch his fists up high into the air. He bellowed a war cry, but its words and meaning were lost in the flood of noise that had washed over the coliseum. The crowds were doing all the shouting for him. It was amazing the way even the spectators competed against each other. The loudest cheers, the funniest banners, the most elaborately decorated stands, and the highest number of attendees who scrambled in despite not having any tickets: these were the awards up for grabs outside the main one that everyone was here for. And Gulgrim, in the hazy way he sometimes felt between battles, wondered if within this chaos there was a means of cooperation between races, between factions, between ideologies. This line of thought didn't survive for long, because there was battle to be had. After the jousting came the close quarters combat of a proper gladiator match, the part of the tournament that the orcs liked the best. A three-on-three battle of strength, agility, and magic, and joining Gulgrim in his corner were his fellow Sergeant Ryzarhn, and the shaman's on-and-off apprentice Rinraja. He looked over to them, as they did to him. The long clash of lances and steeds that had preceded this had obviously frustrated Ryzarhn, and his lack of technique when it came to jousting had played its part in tiring him. But whatever the orc's temperament, he still clutched his Warsong Axe as if it were a brother he would never be prepared to separate from. He nodded over to Gulgrim, and then returned his malicious gaze back to the Dwarf, Human and Draenei that made up the opposite side. He did not taunt them. He simply watched their movements. Rinraja was show boating. The orb of water that served as his elemental shield made detours between his legs, looped around his left arm, and spun upon the tips of his fingers. It swooshed and it dove, and the shaman himself wore an expression of confidence. But behind these carefree crowd pleasers was something else. He was looking directly at the Draenei shaman; the one known as Colosos. There were trollish mind-games at work here, which the Draenei regarded with a stoic glare. Anticipation had reached fever pitch. The shame born of losing would be hard to bear, but the winners would find great rewards there for the taking. Not a single member of the coliseum's audience had their eyes or thoughts set anywhere else but the fight at hand. It was hard to tell whom was the receiver of the majority of the crowd's affections, but there was a noticeable, undeniable rise of volume whenever Rinraja's Water Shield performed another clever trick. The animated Horde, adamant on victory against the static Alliance, who seemed cautious and unsure of themselves. There was a roar from Ryzarhn which to Gulgrim's ears sounded like, 'Enough!' and the reckless warrior bolted at the three champions of the Alliance. The crowd went as wild as the rabid hyenas of the Barrens. and almost as wild as Ryzarhn himself. All three of his adversaries were finding it hard to dodge the terrible onslaught that Ryzarhn and his brother the axe were expounding. Gulgrim shouted a one word command to Rinraja - 'Heal! - and then went in for his own assault against the enemy. His arrival into the thick of it did not deter Ryzarhn's wide swings and long thrusts, which was typical of Ryzarhn's bloody mindedness and refusal to help those who couldn't help themselves. On the bright side, it did mean that the Draenei of the group was too preoccupied with parrying Ryzarhn's relentless strikes to dodge anything of Gulgrim's. One of the first things the orc had learnt when he had joined Dagger and Totem was to get the healer over and done with first. It applied in many, many battle situations. Without a healer, there was nothing keeping the rest of the soldiers alive, other than their own self-defence, which could always be broken, with a little orcish brawn. Colosos, then, was top of Gulgrim's hit list. Greed and Pride. The two weapons that the Chieftain had handed down to him. He'd often felt they had a life of their own, but now he was certain. Every time he made to punch the Draenei, the weapons went that little bit further. So as Gulgrim aimed jabs at the Draenei to soften him up and preserve energy for when the retaliation started, Greed rocketed into the Draenei's side, the impact enough to brutally shove the Draenei away from Ryzarhn, and away from his peers. Pride's contributed by slamming itself into the alien shaman's stomach, its teeth easily cutting into the purple tabard that he wore proudly. This act of defacement earned a rapturous rumble of crowd approval, and a look of horrified shock from Colosos - a look that suggested he didn't deserve any of this. Typical Alliance. The Draenei knew he was on the back-pedal, and that Gulgrim possessed all the speed and power. There was no chance he'd win like this. So he called to the elements - who were, in their own way, watching the fight very closely - and they responded in kind. Colosos's magnificence manifested itself, all the more powerful now it was coming back from an absence. From his lean, otherworldly figure came a light show starring a group of lightning bolts. For a few moments, the Draenei was like a humanoid light-bulb, and the coliseum was the room he brightened. It was an unstable, crackling source of light, and then there was the explosion. In the eye of the storm, Colosus was unharmed. But Gulgrim was sent cartwheeling back into the arena wall. The crushing sensation he felt in his lungs as he smashed against the wood and stone was almost enough to pass out for, but the shaman's resolve kept him conscious. He tried getting up as quickly as possible, but his body wouldn't allow that. He realized he couldn't feel his legs. He realized his hands were twisted. He realized that by now the Draenei would be charging towards him, even if his eyesight was too blurry with a head injury to see it. His ears, however, heard 'Ribbit'. And then the elements were upon him. Rinraja had called them to assist, and they were just as willing to help the Horde as they were the Alliance. Often, the most soothing moments of healing came from treatment of the worst, most painful injuries, and this was one of those moments. Gulgrim felt his lungs pump in excited pleasure, and not only could he feel his legs again, but he felt as if they'd never been stronger. He darted to his feet, and saw with once more clear eyes that where they had been a Draenei, there was now a frog. Gulgrim took a moment to glance up at Rinraja, who gave his fellow shaman a nod and a thumbs-up. That was all that needed to be said, or indeed could be said, since the Draenei-Frog was now making a very concerted effort to hop away from danger. Gulgrim followed, and couldn't help noticing that the human who Ryzarhn had been attacking was now flat out on his back, his limbs spread in a way to suggest he was completely out for the count. His armour had been dented in almost a dozen places, a product of Ryzarhn harbouring a vendetta against his race. But Ryzarhn's work was continuing, and in every possible way the dwarf woman was fighting back. Her weapons were obviously specially made for this particular battle - they were new, and she had no trouble at all using them. They'd probably been produced in the Great Forge itself, wretched factory of Alliance military toys it was. She weaved a web of frustration directly around Ryzarhn's mind, ducking and dodging out the way of every one of his attempted blows, and not doing him the honour of going on her own offensive. Her weapons were doing a job of pure defence, as if she held in her hands two impregnable shields. More so than her allies, this one was showing initiative. Annoy the orc. Make him burn away his precision and awareness in a fire born of anger. Gulgrim let her get on with it. There were other fish to fry, preferably with lightning bolts of his own. The frog was still persisting in making a getaway, which Gulgrim felt really quite pathetic. And it appeared, from this Horde-dominated side of the arena, that the audience agreed. They jeered and booed and demanded, in unison, that Gulgrim beat him to Hellfire and back. The orc shaman was delighted to adhere to this order, and called for a Frost Shock to slow the the Draenei's escape. There was another 'Ribbit.' It sounded more shocked than terrified, and unless Gulgrim was reading too much into the vocals of green tree frogs, there was a hint of resignation in there as well. He nevertheless advanced, not feeling pity for any of these emotions, and clashed Greed and Pride together. As he pulled them away from each other, he felt the magnetic pull, and saw the tiny elemental storm brewing between the weapons. With such awesome power to smite his foe with, the shaman drove Greed and Pride down into his hexed victim. The Draenei was freed of his confines, but found that life back in his usual form wasn't much fun at all. A much more hostile kind of Air than what he was used to violently shook the inside of his body, as if his organs had been placed inside the fuel tank of a Mechanohog. His vision too was embroiled in the same vortex of shivers and shakes as the rest of his body, which made his foe's task of upper-cutting him with a weapon imbued with fire that so much simpler. It was a good punch, Gulgrim considered. It was forceful enough to knock the Draenei off his feet. Much of the crowd got up onto their feet. Gulgrim's heart thundered twenty to the dozen as he realized that his Warchief had joined in with the wave of rising figures. It was an immensely good punch. On the other side of the coliseum, Rinraja was met with similar cheers as, before Gulgrim's opponent had even hit the arena floor, he called for an Earth Shock. Crouched low, he pushed his palms outwards, as if rolling an invisible boulder. The effect on the Draenei was immediate. He felt Earth itself, once a solid, dependable ally, bash into every side of him. He felt it slap the back of his head, collide into his crown, ram into his stomach, and crush his limbs. Even his toes were racked with agony, as if Earth itself had formed into a hammer to smash each one. The two shamans of the Horde met eyes with each other, and beat their chests in a brotherly salute. That had done it; the Draenei was done and thoroughly dusted. The way he twitched his unsettling blue eyes suggested that the Alliance's Clerics of Light were going to have an almighty task on their hands when it came to getting him back up and running. Last came the dwarf, who was very much aware that this fight was turning out very badly for her team. Her tactic of delaying the battle between she and Ryzarhn for so long that the orc would make a rage-fuelled mistake was now redundant, and with no other options apparent to her, she made a last-ditch attempt to get a consolation prize. Both her hammers were put to swift and deadly use as she rammed them into Ryzarhn's plated legs, absolutely determined to send the orc to his knees. Ryzarhn's staggered face was proof of her strength. Each blow rattled his lower body and quickly reduced him from a vengeful warrior to a peon without working legs to stand on. He slumped down, but his joints still had enough spirit to them for him to collapse completely. With one knee all that was keeping him from slumping down onto his face, he snarled in defiance against his darkly grinning aggressor. He saw now that something coated her weapons - something green and lush and venomous. That substance he knew had seeped in through the tiny gaps in his armour, gaps so tiny that even daggers couldn't fit in. The poison was wrestling control from his body, and this annoyed him. He threw his arms forward, and with a very orcish refusal to be defeated informing his actions, he laid both hands upon one of the dwarf's two hammers, and yanked it out of her grip. She too was dragged forwards, and stumbled into the hard metal hilt of the weapon. Dwarven forehead cracked against Dwarven craftsmanship, and the result was shame for dwarves everywhere. However skilled the assassin usually was, this was not one of her finer moments. She let out a soft groaned protest, and then dropped unceremoniously to the side. The crowd erupted in catharsis fuelled by a litany of emotions. Glory was the main protagonist, but it was joined by a cast that included disappointment, surprise, amusement, and awe. Into the arena itself flew confetti that could only ever have come from Azeroth. People were chucking in their weapons, their empty flasks, their well-earned but easily-distributed gold, their banners, and even their armour. Someone had seen fit to chuck in their entire suit of mail armour, although Gulgrim could not see who that was. All he saw were faces. Faces that had watched he and his allies achieve a flawless victory. He felt Ryzarhn, renewed due to healing from Rinraja, place a heavy hand on his shoulder. 'Acceptable losses!' the warrior shouted, his lungs on a high after the restoration the elements had provided him with. 'We didn't lose any!' Gulgrim replied. He saw the gates open, and the entourage of Argents fill the arena floor. He saw the black iron box of rewards being carried towards them, and the Argent Crusade's healers rushing towards the fallen Alliance contenders. 'Like I said, acceptable!' boomed Ryzarhn. He nodded at the Argents laying down the box, and shouted something at them, too. They nodded emphatically, but it was pretty clear to Gulgrim that they didn't hear, and didn't particularly want to share a conversation with Ryzarhn anyway. They retreated back through the coliseum gates. 'Idiots,' Ryzarhn commented, who was perceptive enough to notice this as well. Rinraja had already opened the box, and slowly looked up at the two orcs he had competed alongside. His face suggested something that he had just seen something incredible. Gulgrim raised his eyebrow in question. 'Ya gotta see this!' Rinraja screamed, his voice excited enough to be heard over the incessant noise of the coliseum's audience. Gulgrim shrugged, and walked over to the treasure chest. What he saw inside made him gasp so highly one could be forgiven for thinking he was a pixie. 'They're... beautiful,' he said. Rinraja nodded, and slowly took them out, making sure to be careful. Ryzarhn had his eyes on them too. 'Hellscream's beard, they're like nothing I've ever seen. They must come from higher beings, I'm sure of it.' Rinraja laid them down in front of Gulgrim, and bowed his head. 'Only right dat day go to you, Sergeant. Ya did well tonight.' Gulgrim eyed Rinraja, as if to determine that the troll was being true to his word. If there was jealousy there, the orc was prepared to forfeit his claim to these scrumptious, beautifully crafted boots. But next to such majesty - next to such perfection as the Scale Boots of the Outlander - there could be no ill thoughts. Even the Alliance trio that had been so solidly beaten were now being escorted out of the arena with smiles wrapped around their faces. They were overjoyed at getting the chance to be in the presence of the greatest pair of boots ever made. The orc shaman turned to Ryzarhn next, who issued his fellow sergeant with a curt nod, saying nothing. Perhaps he had finally learnt the golden rule: if you cannot say anything nice, don't say anything at all. Or for that matter thump them. With this in mind, Gulgrim stepped into his new possessions. His new boots. His new way of life. Later, when the three were resting in one of the the coliseum's many changing rooms, Gulgrim stroking his new footwear, a group of their clan-mates stepped through the silk doorway. The orc shaman blinked in confusion at the sight of one of them. Aenon was wearing a pink dress. 'Silly git threw 'is armour inta da arena,' explained Nelai, who was also wearing a dress, but the crucial difference inherent to this was that hers made her look threatening and respectable. Aenon, no matter how much he rolled up his sleeves, just looked like an utter pillock. 'Lucky I still had my dresses here!' said Seera, who was wearing her old Argent Crusade tabard again, just for the night. 'Yes, "lucky" me,' said Aenon. He was shivering. The cold was everywhere in Icecrown, not least in Ryzarhn's perturbed eyes. 'Ya lot were 'reet great, by da way,' said Nelai, sticking a finger up. 'Da rest o' da clan can't wait ta make dey own praise.' 'I'm glad, Nelai,' smiled Gulgrim. He stood up from the bed he was sitting on. Inside of his comfy boots, he wiggled his toes. It felt just right. Spirits, how had he survived without these? 'Though I could do without praise from the one in the dress there,' said Ryzarhn, growling lowly. 'Aenon, please go.' 'No.' 'This is just the icing on the cake, Aenon,' said Ryzarhn, scratching his chin, and snorting. 'I never liked you.' 'Oh, do be serious, Ryzarhn,' said Gulgrim, shrugging his broad shoulders. 'This should be a day of joy. The clan has won a battle in front of its Warchief, and a great prize has been awarded to us.' Gulgrim glanced down at his boots. 'Can you seriously say that there is a place for argument and strife in their presence?' Ryzarhn had no answer to that. Just looking at the boots made him realize any retort would be an exercise in pointlessness. 'We be off anyway,' said Nelai, starting to walk towards the door. 'But Gulgrim?' she asked, stopping. 'Yes, Nelai?' 'Ah wouldn't show talk to the Chieftain 'bout ya new boots,' she said. 'Why?'
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