The battlefield is becoming the sort of place where Bylgja can come and let loose.

As always, the air smells like blood. Bylgja licks her snout. Her jaw clicks and she glances about, drawing her axe with a practiced movement and giving the weapon a spin. The runes carved in the axehead now glitter blue, dyed thoroughly and stained to shine. Perfect.

With a low noise, Bylgja puts the axe away. Not all wolves have axes, after all. They're missing out, but that can't be helped. It's not her fault.

Paws dig into the dirt of the battlefield.... and then Bylgja bellows her challenge, letting the call carry loud and strong.

Beauregard has met wolves of different paths, including Garm who had stirred the memories of his grandfather, Bjørn. The old, scarred wolf was a figure that Beauregard could not forget from his birth pack. A foreigner, as many had been at one time that settled there, his grandfather was different from any other wolf. His accent thick, his body scarred, an eye torn away in battle, but despite his advanced age, whenever those of the Empire dared try to conquer the pack, the man met them in battle with a ferocity that protected his family and packmates from harm. He was a respected warrior, the head of their defenses, and respected by wolves young and old for his battle prowess. It was his drive to protect his loved ones, and his unwavering spirit, that had inspired Beauregard on his path of wanting to be a protector as a boy. He couldn’t help but wonder… What would the man think of him now? Now that he was an alpha, now that he had completed his pilgrimage and was creating a family of his own? Would the man be proud of what he had become?

Beauregard knows compared to his grandfather he is not as fierce nor as ruthless a fighter. But as he steps onto the battlefield, he feels the importance of keeping his skills in top form. Challenging different opponents, working to keep his people safe. He could not falter. His claws bit into the bloodstained soil. He thinks of the wolf that attacked his mates. If any wolf dared threaten his family… he had to be prepared to do whatever is necessary to ensure they would not return a second time. If that meant he would have to kill, then he would need to do so. He drew in a breath, steadying himself. “Grandfather, if you are with the spirits, if you can hear me now… please, lend me your strength.” Beauregard speaks softly. He must protect Norad. He can’t fail them. He can’t fail himself.

The wind picks up around the ashen cream wolf and Beauregard lifts his gaze. A heartbeat later the call of challenge sounds across the battlefield. The call… His eyes light up and a smile touches his lips. “Thank you.” He feels that his grandfather has heard him, and that this call was meant for him. Beauregard tilts his head back and releases a call in response. He is coming to answer her call. And with him, he brings his companions. Blind trots at Beauregard’s side as he hones in on the woman who sought a challenger, and, in the skies, Trill keeps an eye on things from above.

The woman he sees is much like his grandfather once was. Scarred, marked with things that he does not understand, but in a way that Beauregard remembers in seeing on his grandfather’s own form. He never asked the man how he came to their pack, nor did he ever get the answer for how such an old wolf had been able to have a child. But perhaps he didn’t need to know. That was his grandfather’s story… and he needed to focus on his own.

Beauregard stops several wolf lengths from her, widening his stance, digging his claws into the soil. He gives her a nod, ears slipping back to protect them in the fight to come. His head lowers, aligning with his spine, and likewise his tail raises to do the same. Defenses that are second nature to him. The wind brushes over his fur, over the leather wraps on his legs. His blue gaze meets with her own. This is a warrior that was worth every bit of respect and strength he had to offer. She would not only be able to handle him and his companions, but Beauregard felt confident he could learn a thing or two from this woman.

“I am Beauregard Ravenwood of Norad. I will meet your challenge.” His gaze drifts to her axe. Unsurprising she would have a weapon on her. “I do not mind if you choose to draw your weapon, but I would ask that our fight be an honorable one, one that we may both walk away from.” And if she chose to draw her weapon he would do the same. His dagger was not as large as an axe, but it had been crafted by his grandfather himself. He was confident in its durability. Blind cast a look at him, scoffing.

“Yes Beau, get an ear chopped off. I’m sure your mates will LOVE seeing that.” The fox grumbled. The man tilted his chin towards his chest, a rumble leaving his chest. “Do not judge her a savage just because of her scars, Blind.” He doesn’t look at his companion, gaze never once leaving his opponent. “You have the first move, if you wish it.” That was to the scarred woman. He wanted a fight that would push him to his limits, and he didn’t doubt that this one would do just that.

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Beauregard vs Bylgja for Spar
Round 0/?
Age: Over 1 Year
Size: Extra large
Build: Medium
Offensive Battle Accessory: Curved blade
Defensive Battle Accessory: Leather arm wraps
Companion 1: BlueJay, Female - Perception
Companion 2: Arctic fox, Female - Battle
Skills: Expert Fighter & Expert Intellectual

"Speech" 'Thought.'

Here is her opponent. He's a man with a noble build; bigger than she is, with about the same amount of bulk distributed. Bylgja eyes him quietly, because the man looks like he has something to say and she's not about to interrupt him. No, there's no need to interrupt him. She is a woman of battle and snapping teeth, but battle is a ritual, even here on the strange field. Beauregard approaches, and he gives his name, and Bylgja raises her chin, staring at the man with a strange intensity before her lips curl into a toothy, sharp smile. Her mannerisms are not entirely relaxed, but she is not overly hostile, either. She's a fighter. That's the best way to sum it: she's a fighter, and this is a fight, and she is ready for it. Her tail even wags, just a little.

"Bylgja Hausakljúfr." Her name comes between her teeth, clicking against her jaws. The broad-bodied woman twitches somewhat, enough to jostle the sheathe for her axe, and she draws it with a singular motion, practiced, easy. She holds the axe before Beauregard, adjusting her grasp just-so, ensuring that he can see her expertise with it. She is not a woman of political acumen, nor is she overly smart in the way of intellectuals, but there's an art to the way she holds the blade. She's many things, and foremost of those is this: a woman of violence and pride. Adjusting her grasp, she tilts the blade, letting Beauregard see the runes carved into the steel. Her smile is broad, confident. All of her is confident. When she speaks again, Bylgja speaks before throwing the axe into the air, letting it topple head over heel, three mighty turns before it thunks into the ground at her side, buried sharp side down in the blood-soaked earth. She says:

"It means Skull-Cleaver." Her heavily accented voice rumbles forth; Bylgja does not posture as she speaks. Instead, she just speaks. The words come from her as if she is making conversation. There is no boasting, not really. Here, on the Battlefield, she is met with a man who introduces himself and speaks of honor, and in turn, she discards her axe. Simple. "I am from Heiðinn, Norad-Man." Perhaps he doesn't know of her pack. She doesn't mind. They make their own truth. They forge their own legacy. Bylgja will educate him, if he does not know. The painted woman grins once more. Hungry. Wild. She does not speak with pride, but there is pride in her; in the way she holds herself, in the way she so readily discarded her weapon. As if she is reciting facts about the weather, Bylgja continues. "Raven-Wood." She does not know the language too well; her accent cuts it, and Bylgja is clearly feeling her way through his last name. "You fight well and I send son to fight you too! Hah! He needs learning." There is a joke somewhere that she does not elaborate on. Her tone is jocular, though. Merry.

He does not know her, of course. He does not know of Strai, who had been crushed by prey, and he does not know how Bylgja heaved Astraios to safety. But Bylgja has determined in the moment that if this man fights well, Sir Ravenwood, then she will send her son to battle him, because Beauregard surely fights in a way that differs from the wolves of their pack. And, perhaps, they will surprise him together, so that they may truly test this stranger.

She thinks of Strai facing this particular man, with all of his stripes against the bone spurs, and chuckles low in her throat. Bylgja steps forward, then, her head up. She spits into the dirt, grinds it in with a paw, and eyes Beauregard with a look that is not so much wary as it is eager.

There are things she wants to tell him: in my pack, I am a healer, but she does not. Instead, Bylgja stretches out her limbs, one leg after the other, and for the first two limbs -- her right back leg and left front leg -- nothing happens at all.

But when she finishes stretching out the right front leg, when she finishes wriggling her toes as if teasing Beauregard with the promise of blood, when that paw hits the dirt below her, Bylgja launches herself forward without a warning. Her battle-cry doesn't even start until she's taken two steps; sure, he's bigger than her, but she's tenacious, and Bylgja has not earned her last name by standing idly by when faced with a larger foe. Her attack is a simple one, but it is an effective one. This much the woman has learned over the years. She charges forward, and tries to lock her forepaws about Beauregard's neck and shoulders so that she can bite at his snout, his face, his cheek, whatever she can reach. It is a tried and true tactic.

Something about this man's approach makes Bylgja feel as if she must truly batter him. It's nothing against him. He has done nothing wrong-- but he has a spirit about him that Bylgja appreciates, and that means she wants to wring him to the dirt and seize him with her teeth and celebrate what they are: alive, breathing, red-blooded. She wants to spill his blood because when she spills blood, that is a celebration, an act of worship. Too many wolves lay down and die when they're faced with hardship. Bylgja has fought revenants in the skin of her family. Of her loved ones. This fighting is not that. This fighting is the celebration of flesh and blood, the joy of sinew, the snapping of primordial teeth.

She intends to draw the fight out. Intends to see Beauregard truly tested, because he carries himself so strongly. He is, as she believes, worthy of such a fight! And so, Bylgja laughs deep and brassy, delighted to have joined with such a foe. Perhaps, later, she will meet him again and he will understand her view-- or maybe not. Who can tell, eh? Not her.

"Bylgja"

Bylgja vs Beauregard for Spar
Round 1/2
Age: Over 1 Year
Size: Large
Build: Medium
Offensive Battle Accessory: Metal Rune Axe
Skills: Intermediate Fighter & Intermediate Healer

The woman before him has let him speak, and regards him with the readiness of a warrior. She does not relax, but nor is her posture that of hostility. He sees her lips curl into a toothy grin and she gives her name. Her name, much like that of his grandfather and Garm, has a foreignness to it. Just as she has given him silence and patience regarding his words, he listens to her now. He also watches the display of her axe, awe within his eyes, respect for the skill in which she holds it. The weapon is beautiful, and has she carries it is an art in and of itself. He gives a nod of understanding at her next words; Skull-Cleaver. “You handle your axe with grace and skill. I’ve no doubt you’ve earned that name.” Beside him Blind huffs, giving her wolf partner a look. Not a savage, huh? With a name like that?

The pack name, Heiðinn, is not familiar, but the man stores the name for later. He has little doubt Bylgja will fight well, and give him the sort of battle he needs. At this he gives a respectful nod, keeping his posture respectful. Here on the battlefield there are no ranks; only two warriors that, while they walk from different backgrounds, seek to fight and show their strength as one in the same. At her jest Beau’s lips curl up in a smile. “If he comes to test his mettle, he is welcome to spar with me. As are you, should you wish for a second round after today.” It is now that Beauregard shifts his body into the familiar battle ready stance that he has used all his life. His stance is widened, shoulders rolled forward, and his claws bite the blood stained soil. His tail lifts behind him and his head lowers to align with his spine. His ears lay back, his eyes narrow, and his hackles raise. Lips peel back in a battle ready grin and he tucks his chin down to guard his throat. She is shorter than he is, and leaving his throat exposed is a good way to lose this spar quickly.

He did not flinch away from the aspect of having blood drawn. He also knows better than to underestimate an opponent. The woman lunges forward, and Beauregard chooses to brace himself. He will let her come, get a feel for her power. His idea is not to avoid her attack, but rather to attempt a counter of it. Above him Trill, his bluejay, circles the skies as she calls down to him. She is his eyes from above, a way to warn him in case the woman has companions of her own waiting to jump into the fray.

But no such call comes. The femme rears up and as she does Beauregard pushes on the ground. Her forelegs wrap around his neck and by pushing forward the man seeks to off balance her before she has a chance to recover from her attack. Fangs find his cheek as Beauregard snarls and tilts his head up to snap at an ear. He is trying to use his larger size to overpower her. First blood might be hers, but Beauregard does not falter, does not shy away from the pain. No, he attempts to push through it and show Bylgja what he is truly made of.

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Beauregard vs Bylgja for Spar
Round 1/2
Age: Over 1 Year
Size: Extra large
Build: Medium
Offensive Battle Accessory: Curved blade
Defensive Battle Accessory: Leather arm wraps
Companion 1: BlueJay, Female - Perception
Companion 2: Arctic fox, Female - Battle
Skills: Expert Fighter & Expert Intellectual

"Speech" 'Thought.'

And the winner is...

Beauregard

Due to not posting within the time limit, Bylgja loses by default. They must give up by submitting, fleeing or passing out.