Lords of RPG

Torvi stood on a small stage in the freak show.  She was in her “wild woman of the north” costume, which was just a skimpy halter and loin cloth made of furred bear hide.  It was just past twilight, newly dark, but the carnival was lit up by a hundred or more torches lining the wide avenues.  Between the torches and oil lamps hung on poles, the carnival and the visitors were bathed in a golden glow.

The young Targ woman squatted on her haunches, settling the over-sized wooden yoke carefully on her shoulders.  Hanging from the ends of the yoke were large wicker baskets connected by thick hempen rope.  Each basket contained a pair of carnival-goers, usually local children. For this ride, however, each basket contained a pair of courting couples.  Torvi scowled. 

The ticket-sellers at the gate charged the same price for children as adults, despite Torvi’s constant complaints.  They routinely ignored her requests to have two sets of prices.  They would roll their eyes and explain once again that it was too complicated to keep track of such things.  They couldn’t be bothered.  She sighed to herself.  Why should they care?  They weren’t the ones having to lift four grown adults a dozen times per night. 

If I knew the Professor wouldn’t be cross, I’d take those ticket-sellers aside and give them a set of lumps, she thought.  She shook her head.  Quit bitching and get on with it, she thought resignedly.  She tensed, and with a grunt, lifted the yoke to a standing position.

The couples whooped in delight and fear as Torvi lifted them up.  Between the height of the stage, and Torvi’s seven-and-a-half-foot tall stature, the baskets were suspended several feet off the ground. Making sure she had a good grip and firm stance, she began to gently swing the baskets around in circles.  The gathered crowd cheered as she spun faster and faster, until finally slowing down and gently lowering the baskets to the ground after a minute or so.  As the riders disembarked, more people lined up with tickets to ride the “Giant’s Merry-Go-Round.”  Torvi sighed and stretched the muscles of her back.  It was going to be a long night.

Hours later, after the last ride was given, Torvi toweled the sweat off her as she climbed down from her small stage.  Although her show was over, the carnival was still in full swing.  Dozens and dozens of people milled about, laughing and talking, taking in the sights and attractions.  Discordant but somehow cheerful music came from a pipe organ down the way.  Children hid behind their parents’ legs in fear, pointing and whispering to each other as they passed the freak show.  Listening closer, she heard gasps and exclamations of shock and wonder from the Big Top.  Judging the time, Torvi guessed that the acrobatic troupe, the Flying Graysons, must be in the middle of their show. It was always a crowd pleaser. 

The smells of food coming from the Midway made her stomach rumble and reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since lunch.  She started to head back to her tent when she heard a man’s voice behind her.

“That was an impressive display,” it said.  “More impressive than your fighting earlier in the day, to be honest.”  In addition to feats of strength, carnival-goers could fight Torvi in a bare-knuckled fight during the day.  There were always a few tough guys in each town who thought they could beat the Targ in a fight.  Torvi enjoyed teaching them the error of their ways.  Perhaps a little too much.

Torvi turned, and seeing who the voice belonged to, let out a low, guttural growl.

“You!” she spat.  “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here.”

Thorvald, the leader of the gang known simply as Thorvald’s Boys, grinned and held up a piece of paper.

“Hey, I bought a ticket, just like the rest of the rubes,” he chuckled in a deep voice.  The thief was tall for a human, just over six feet, and bulky with muscle.  His dark hair and beard were both cut short.  He had handsome features, despite a cauliflower ear and a slightly bent nose.  He wore a leather curaiss over well-made, loose-fitting clothes.

Torvi gave a derisive snort.  “You should be able to afford it after you shook down the carnival for your protection racket!”

Thorvald shrugged.  “It was just business.  The Professor didn’t seem that upset about it.  Why are you?”

Torvi glowered at him but didn’t answer.  She didn’t want to think too much about that line of inquiry.  If she examined the question too closely, she might realize that she had feelings for the Professor.  And she knew a sophisticated, urbane man like the Professor would never look at a Targ as anything but a savage.  She changed the subject instead.

“What did you mean that you were not impressed by my fighting skills?”

Thorvald gave the tall woman an appraising look before answering.  “You’re strong, I’ll grant you that, lass,” he said.  He walked up to her confidently, a slight swagger in his gait.

“But you’re slow as molasses in winter, and it’s clear you’ve never been trained to fight,” he continued. 

Torvi gave a snorted chuckle.  “I’ve never lost a bout.”

Thorvald walked around her, causing her head to swivel as he circled.  “Oh, yes.  Very impressive.  Farmers, miners and drunks who think a bar fight make them warriors.”

Torvi reached out and planted her hand on his chest, stopping him.  “You think you would fare any better?  Care to find out?
 

The thief smiled up at her.  “I thought you’d never ask.”

---------

The air whooshed out of Torvi’s lungs as she landed flat on her back in the dirt.  She cursed and jumped to her feet but Thorvald had already backed up out of reach.

“Lucky,” she growled and balled up her fists.

Thorvald shook his head and tsk, tsked the young warrior as he warily stalked the fighting circle.  “You don’t think past your strike.  You have to know what your next move is.  Anticipate what your foe will do as well.”

“You talk too much,” she said and lunged towards her foe.  Thorvald ducked under her swing and countered with a devastating blow to her gut, stunning her briefly.  Taking advantage of her momentary disorientation, he stepped to the side and swept her legs out from underneath her with a powerful kick to the back of her calves.  She landed on her back again with a resounding thud.

She shook her head to clear it and saw Thorvald leaning over her, grinning.  He reached a hand down.  “And you don’t listen enough.”  Torvi grasped his hand and let him pull her up.

“Show me how you did that,” the Targ said.

----------

Torvi turned out to be a quick study.  Half an hour later, both she and Thorvald sported bruises and were bleeding from nose and mouth.

Thorvald bent over, hands on knees, and caught his breath.  “Not bad, lass.”  He chuckled.  “Much improved.”

Torvi wiped her nose with the back of her hand.  “Why are you doing all this for me?  You’re a scoundrel and a thief, or so I thought.”

The thief stood and stretched, wincing as he did.  “Oh, I am all those things, and more.  As to why?  Well, you didn’t seem like the type of woman who would appreciate a bouquet of flowers.”

Torvi walked over to him, looming over the thief.  She wiped her face, smearing the blood over it in a fearsome red mask.  “Do you have lodgings nearby?

“Yes.”

She grabbed him by the front of his leather vest.  “Then take me there and fuck me.  Now.”

--------

The pair spent that night, and the whole of the next day in Thorvald’s rooms. Thorvald had his men bring them food and wine, left outside his door.  The young Targ woman seemed to be in no hurry to leave.  Later that night, as the mists rolled in and yelling and shouts echoed through the town, Thorvald raised his head as he lay next to a sweaty and exhausted Torvi.

“What is all that?” he asked.

Torvi slid over and straddled him, glaring down as she did.

“If you try to leave this tent without fucking me again, I will kill you.  I swear it on my ancestors,” she said.

Thorvald grinned.  “I’m sure it’s nothing.”