Chapter Text
The arid, sandy dorm of Savanaclaw shines down upon MottledClaws’ tanned face. The sprawling building of sandstone is settled calmly upon the sands. The scents of smoke and roasting meats waft from the open windows and skylights. The sun set coloured area seems to be bathed in a warm yellow-orange tinge.
Crags of rocks loosely resembling a fence stand around the sprawling rooms. Two large ones loom over the mirror entrance, accentuating the gate. A tree right infront of a boulder has the Savanaclaw insignia hung off of it, the lion staring down the new dorm mates.
A huge skull with dirty ivory tusks sits heavily on the sand, the empty eye sockets look ominous. A few clearly older cubs sit there, leaning forward to stare at the younger ones hungrily. MottledClaws looks away, now looking at the young kits around him.
His teal eyes take over the animalistic ears of his younger dorm mates, the ears serve the same as the ones the elf folk sing ballads to have; and the same as the creatures of the lands sport. Though a few have grand feathered wings, beautiful plumage spread silky. Mighty horns crown some of the heads in the crowd, small and sharp, large and threatening, both are beautiful.
Oh the ballads the bards and elves would sing of the features of the young students. It would be wondrous and grand. Perhaps I should take up the lute again. MottledClaws turns to look ahead at the one with rounded felidae ears. Listening to the words he speaks. His voice is mature, a bit low and clearly well bred.
The rules of the dorm are laid out, “the weak are below the strong. The strong are above the weak. If you disobey the order, life will be disrupted. Tonight after supper, the tournament shall begin.” His emerald eyes stare down the rowdy children. He looks away, tired eyed and stalks away, tail slinging low, “now don't bother me,” he growls.
Then the cubs start breaking off, racing and meandering towards the scent of food that wafts by. MottledClaws is one of the last ones to split off, having scented around to find claims of territory or little bits of vital information. The inside is decorated with colourful tapestries, patterns of gold inlaid in red.
A waterfall rushes down from a higher spring, landing in a pool of clear blue water lit up by unknown lights. Plants and reeds settle around the edges, palms and small shrubs litter the ground and walls. Rugs and chairs are spread out on the ground, covering the sandy and rocky floor.
Nearing another room is where the main scent of smoke and meat is coming from. The tan ground is devoid of many rugs, especially around the crackling crimson flames. The juices of the roasting feast would ruin and burn the fibers. The rugs are soft though, perhaps enchanted with a self cleaning incantation. It would be easy for even a new magician to use.
The crowds of rowdy cubs have already raced to fill up plates of meat, usually ignoring the vegetables, fruits, and tubers. Except for the few with spiraling horns and some of those with grand wings. Those had fresh fruits and some sort of salt roasted insect piled, and promptly eaten.
The Werecat inches up last, having barely any meat due to the other carnivore’s appetite. Even some of the bones are gone, probably collected for marrow or the shards itself. Even so MottledClaws nabs what is left, the little fatty bits, the bones, and the a bit too charred meat in the bottom.
The Könungr abr Völlar sits atop a ledge, back turned and is eating just about the best cuts. So MottledClaws slinks around the sides, finding a dimly lit corner to settle against and watch. The chatter is loud and rambunctious, those who are finished go ahead and begin scuffling, throwing others to the half carpeted floor in a mock battle.
The laughter had gotten to a climax, near everyone was done (sans maybe three) and the anticipation of the tournament ramps up. Setting every cub on edge. The dorm leader has finally finished, turning a furry ear to listen to the cubs. He stood up, MottledClaws sees the expression of his, admittedly handsome, face. It is one of mild annoyance, the sounds are loud to the Werecat’s ears. So why not the king’s?
“Quiet,” he roars, effortlessly shutting every rowdy cub up. “Good, now clear the pits and prepare the arena,” he commands, sitting back down with crossed legs and his cheek cradled by his left hand; watching the freshies and co. scamper around to clear the area.
MottledClaws is not one of those people. He sits there in the dark corner, doing nothing but watching. His spot is just under and to the stage left side of the dorm head’s outcropping. On a rock just above the ground level, allowing his short stature to look just above everyone's heads.
The students had run out of the building, being guided by the older cubs. Off further in the distance, but still an easy jog, is a field with lines and a goal high up on a pole. There's a group of stands around the stage left side if looking from the closest pole. With the other having perhaps an announcer stand close to the pole. Then there is an entrance with a large strip of cloth hung up between two stands for opposite teams.
The freshies stand at the two team stands, practically vibrating with excitement. MottledClaws look at the young cubs, crossing his arms as his gaze washes over the “arena”. It's clearly a multipurpose field/stadium, thanks to the hoops at each end and the sports coliseum seating.
The king stands at the front of the older group, looking at the freshman with indifference. “How this will work. It will be a bracket tournament.” His tail flicks as he paces. “You will all be brawling to compete with and win against your dorm mates for a rank.. Then you will fight until you are incapacitated or sent out of bounds.” He turns, sharp green eyes glaring at the cubs. “And I shall tell when you are out of bounds.”
So there is no definite boundary. MottledClaws looks at a magically floating board keeping score of who's out and who's in; looking for a vague mention of his name in the foreign text. His name and headshot is coincidentally next to another’s, one who fixes his gaze at the Werecat with silent intensity. His wild black hair is smooth, fixed over some of his face in wayward streaks. A long black horse tail swishes calmly behind the foal.
The foal looks at the Werecat, a huff sounding from his nose. MottledClaws looks at the horse beastman with intrigue, a stoic nod to the dark horse.
This surely will be fun. He cracks his knuckles, looking over his claws, to which he and the other follows an upperclassman to where the two will fight. But the foal leaps first, before the Werecat can even step a paw into the area. The Werecat jumps out of the way, letting the long haired boy skid to a stop on hooved feet.
The cat chuckles, crossing his arms, his fangs showing in a smile. The foal grins a toothy grin, snorting and leaning down. Nodding at MottledClaws. “I am Bora Kula. Mayest I know your nomenclature alongside thou knowing mine?”
MottledClaws nods at Bora, “I am MottledClaws, a gallant warrior under HalfPaw.” The foal nods once again, putting up his fists and shaking his head to remove the hairs infront of his eyes.
MottledClaws looks at Bora, shaking his head, shaggy hairs waving alongside the motion. He grins, sharp fangs glinting in the fading light.
“Dear little foal, what shalt you do when I beat you?” The Werecat asks, looking the tall freshman up and down. Bora looks back at the other, dark eyes glittering behind a swath of silky hair.
“Thenst I shalt serveth thee. Forsooth thou wouldst win. And the opposite of the deal unto thou. Wouldst that serveth thee well?” Bora replies similarly, nodding his head.
MottledClaws nods as well, stretching out his hands, brandishing his claws. “Then when the signal goes, we shall start.” Just as he had said those word a shout came from Leona’s mouth, signaling the brawl.
The Werecat leaps, though his claws are sheathed.