The Tournament of the Plain. Part 2

Vild lay on the grass, his back throbbing from the blows, but he turned toward the beastlike girl. Her tiger ears twitched, her yellow eyes regarded him with astonishment, and her dark hair, streaked with reddish strands, fell across a scratched face.

He rose, his trembling hands reaching toward her, and rasped, "Tel'quar… sin'eshar? (You… okay?)" She nodded, her tail swaying slowly, and extended a clawed hand, revealing a gash on her palm.

Vild rummaged in his pocket—there was a scrap of cloth Tal'vir had given him, rough but clean. He carefully wrapped her hand, his crooked, clumsy fingers shaking as he worked, his rasping breath mingling with her faint hiss.

She watched him, the fur on her arms glinting in the sunlight, her fangs peeking from beneath her lips. "You… who?" she said in broken human speech, her voice low and edged with a growl.

Vild froze, a flush creeping up his face, and he croaked, "Vild… I… elves…" His words tangled, his voice growing muddled, and he dropped his gaze, heat flooding his neck.

They sat in silence—she touched the bandage, he watched her tail lazily swat the grass. "I… Rrasha," she said, jabbing a claw at her chest, then added, "You… strange."

He nodded, unsure what to say, and rasped, "You… too." She snorted, her ears flicking, and that was their first exchange—awkward, aimless, but alive.

Something bloomed in Vild's heart—not like with Tekra, not like with Kaelka, but new, unfamiliar. Memories of his old life surfaced—lonely nights, sketches of beast-girls in notebooks, dreams of something he'd never seen.

He'd never spoken to girls beyond his sister, never thought of fetishes, but Rrasha—her ears, her tail, the strength beneath her fur—sank into his mind. His breath quickened, his eyes stung, and tears—happy, foolish—spilled down his cheeks.

She noticed, her yellow eyes narrowing, and prodded his shoulder with a claw. "You… cry? Why?" she asked, her tone sharp but curious.

Vild wiped his face with his sleeve, his voice quivering: "I… glad… to see… you." He couldn't explain—not to her, not to himself—but the feeling was a spark that refused to fade.

Rrasha tilted her head, her tail stilled, and she said, "You… strange… but kind." She patted his back, her claws grazing lightly, and it marked their first act of mutual aid.

They sat on, she chattered about the grass—"green, prickly"—and he listened, nodding, his rasping laughter rare but genuine. Inside, he thought, "This isn't a sister, not Kaelka… this is mine," and the tears dried, leaving warmth in his chest.

***

The conversation between Vild and Rrasha flowed softly—her growling voice spoke of the wind that "smelled of iron," while he nodded, rasping mutters about the cave. The grass rustled beneath them, but the distant clamor of the crowd swelled—the tournament was drawing near.

Rrasha lifted her head, her tiger ears twitching, and said, "Soon… fight." Her yellow eyes flashed, her tail lashed the ground, and Vild realized—she would be competing.

He groaned, his hoarse voice betraying envy: "I… want… too." His body, trained by the elves, trembled with the urge to prove he was more than a shadow.

Footsteps approached from behind—heavy, assured—and their guardians arrived. Tal'vir, the scarred elf, his dark skin gleaming with sweat, and an orc with tusks, his bark-like hide taut, both stared sternly.

The orc—Rrasha's keeper—barked, "Rrasha, time." His voice rumbled like a hammer striking an anvil, and she stood, the fur on her arms tensing, her claws glinting.

Tal'vir crossed his arms, his ashen braids swaying, and fixed Vild with a look: "Sin'eshar vadis tel'quar? (You want to fight too?)" His tone was sharp, but a flicker of interest danced in his eyes.

Vild nodded, his crooked face tightening, and he rasped, "Tel'vani… sin'tara. (Yes… I want.)" He clenched his fists, feeling faint sparks of mana quiver in his fingers.

Tal'vir snorted, his scars twisting into a smirk, and said, "Nara sin'vethar esh'tal. Tel'quar vadis sin'eshar. (One weakling dropped out. You'll take his place.)" He slapped Vild's shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance.

Rrasha glanced at him, her ears flicking, and huffed, "You… weak… but brave." Her words were blunt, yet carried a hint of respect.

The orc dragged her toward the arena, his massive hand gripping her shoulder, while Tal'vir nodded to Vild: "Tel'vani nara! (Let's go!)" Vild rose, his legs shaky but resolute, and followed the elf, his heart pounding.

The tournament awaited—roaring crowd, mana thick in the air, the scent of sweat and steel. Vild thought of Rrasha, her claws, and himself—could he stand beside her in battle?