141 Chapter One Hundred and Forty-One – A Beating (1/2)

The sounds of beatings being applied weren't particularly unusual in the training area. Such encouragements motivated the inept and lackadaisical to focus better, and the threat of them kept the motivated more driven.

Too, beating the shit out of people you didn't like was freely allowed here. Either they got better or they washed out, and were replaced with others who either fit in, or fought back successfully and started their own round of beat-downs.

There weren't too many people who asked for a beating here, but Errant was one of them.

He was in low horse stance, hands clasped before his chest. Four men with wooden rods were standing around him, and they were beating on him.

It wasn't having much effect. The loud impact of wood on flesh drew more and more attention, and eventually the other men sparring or lifting weights or doing exercises paused to turn and watch the runt of the Gilderalz take a beating.

Repeatedly.

There was no restriction on targets. At first, the blows went on muscles, gut and back, legs and arms. When there was no appreciable reaction, the focus began to shift to bones and joints, slamming down on shoulders, elbows, spines, cracking across the back of his neck, and then hitting his skull, jaw, even around his temple and eyes. Finally, even his nuts and groin were targets.

Sometimes his skin split at the impacts. He might move an inch, but rapidly corrected his posture.

Smoke visibly rose from the injuries, and promptly sealed any cuts, warded away any bruises.

Hard men swallowed. They could see how hard those clubs were hitting, and where, and how. Errant was just a boy and should have been a pile of bruised meat on the floor, not even conscious, barely alive, if at all.

He was just taking it all...

He was taking the second instance of the Power Feat, Roll With It. Currently, he was a Six, with DR 2/Silver from his Warlock Ward Resist Mastery, + 3/- from Way of Iron stacking with all other DR, Roll With It going to 4/- stacking with Way of Iron, and converting Expertise/3 into 10 more points of DR.

They weren't getting through DR 19/- with those little clubs, and even a crit was just gone in seconds with his Wrath at /3, Purity at /3, and Healing Wrath thus at 6/round. Naturally he had already completed his Internal Fortification alchemically, and minimized his vulnerable areas down to null.

His Vajra was as hard as steel throughout his skin, every impact diluted across the whole of his body, reducing the shock of impact considerably, venting a good portion out his feet. The attentive might have noticed the sand moving away from his feet, but it had been lost in the initial blows, and now there wasn't any being kicked out from under his soles to show what was going on.

His eyes were closed, he was focused on their positions, reading the way their feet were posed and shifting to judge where the blows were coming from. Shadows danced across his skin, he registered the shifting in light, and mated the two to determine where the blows were coming from, shifting his Vajra ever so slightly to anticipate the coming impacts. It was a dance and melding of mind, body, and soul, driving his combat awareness outwards... and also reaping Karma, as he defeated these four men simply by exhausting their willingness to beat on something that simply was ignoring them.

He heard the hoarseness of their breathing, and the waxing eagerness of their blows began to fall off as not even repeated blows to his forearms dropped his hands more then an inch for a moment. Eventually, they just tapered off, and he opened his eyes.

His four tormentors were breathing raggedly, looking at him in disbelief. He cracked his neck once as he straightened up, worked his shoulders once, and audibly popped his ribs and fingers as he turned right and left.

”Thank you, gentlemen. Same time tomorrow.” They nodded dumbly as he stepped out from between them, and the brawny men there gave way to him.

After all, what were they going to do, punch him? He could take a weighted club to the head... and it basically bounced! They consoled themselves that it wouldn't work with a knife or sword... or would it?

”Boy, I have a massage for – urk!”

The brawny, bearded men in the light armor of a guard stopped talking when the cold steel of Errant's sword nestled up against his throat, while removing half his beard.

”What did you call me, guard?” Errant asked dismissively, not looking at him as he toweled himself down with his other hand. He naturally recognized this man, Pwent, as one of his oldest brother's toadies, er, supporters among the guardsmen. He had also beaten the man at swordplay multiple times.

The man knew he was about to die, the sword held very firmly and creeping up. ”My-my apologies, young master. I spoke hastily...”

”Indeed you did. Gentlemen,” Errant's voice rose. ”Ready your clubs again. Give this guard five minutes of your time, if you would. I wouldn't want anyone to think you were being soft on me.”

There was a murmur, followed by some quiet, dark laughter. He might not have the support his brothers did, but he had more true respect from these men then they did, for all that, because he could beat them without resorting to powers they did not have.

Pwent's forehead broke out into a cold sweat. He knew the beating that was coming was going to be brutal and vicious.

”Worry not, I'll stay here and watch it all. I'm sure that you will be able to deliver your message afterwards.” The four men nodded slightly at his words, and he tilted his sword, moving the unwilling guard in that direction, backing him into the circle of four men slapping heavy clubs against their hands meaningfully.

Unlike Errant, Pwent didn't last very long. The beatdown was merciless and precise. He did try to defend himself after the first couple of blows came in and the sword was withdrawn, but his legs were rapidly hammered out from under him, and he dropped to the ground. The sound of wood meeting flesh was now synchronized with shouts and cries of pain.

Errant waved them off after two minutes, and they backed away from the battered, bruised man curled up between them. They had avoided any permanent injuries, and the head, but he was going to be black and blue all over for days, if he didn't get any healing magic.

”Well, I imagine you've set a good example for everyone who thought I was getting off easy. Out with it, now.” He snapped his fingers above Pwent.