It started one morning...

Dain found himself following Teo back out to the marketplace, towards the parade of people. Mostly Xohulu, though he was sure the Clubbers had non-Xohulu fans among them. Yet this was not just a group of fans, but a heated rallying cry among Xohulu. He was swept along with the crowd, not daring to go against the wave of people marching through the marketplace.

And, as he went along, the number of npn-Xohulu he spotted seemed to dwindle. Dain threw up the hood of his cloak once again; a poor disguise for sure, but the only thing he had that might hide his race.

Tempers in the street were rising, the chants echoing, and then...

Then there was the Xohulu mage, shouting from atop the temple, gone in a blast of smoke.

Dain's stomach tightened, and chaos erupted around him.

He ducked one thrown brick, but a stone clipped his arm by the time he heard Pidru's shout. Wall.  Almost instinctively, he knew what it meant. He joined the throng of people taking refuge behind the Clubbers before things got any worse.

(Edited to be less racist, because Kaye didn't understand a thing)

@JazzyJ

"Of course, of course!" Anku replies quickly, wanting to get off any awkward subjects.He and Clara press on (or more like Clara presses on and he follows), eventually going up a small street leading up to the Grand Bazaar. It's lively as always, but there seems to be a tension in the air as they walk past the Grand Temple. Some Xohulu are gathering in what looks like to be a parade, and as they approach, Anku can hear the calls of "Give our families a voice!" He reaches out toward Clara to steer her away from what is undoubtedly a situation forming.

And then it got worse. A guard dies, a magician disappears. Even fast-talking Clara notices it. They are about to be in the center of a riot, with its participants almost every person in the Bazaar.

"Wall!"

Anku, for a microsecond, considers. He can run into the gaps closing in the Clubber's Wall before it's too late, if he's alone, at least.

Clara would almost certainly die. If she didn't, she would not come out of this unscathed.

He'd lose his meal ticket. He'd lose his new friend–

He stops thinking and pulls Clara's arm, running towards the Wall for dear life.

Pidru didn't have time to think about the fact that his "Wall" was only five men strong. It was clearly having an effect in giving people hope. As soon as he gave the call, several scared Xohulu ran behind him, and following soon thereafter was every non-Xohulu in the street. A good 15 people gathered behind his wall of five, who stood like proud warrior statues against the angry faces in the crowd. Now was time for Pidru to take action.

He looked at the marbled panoply of faces in their little crowd, and boldly issued the best, most compelling invitation he could improvise. "Any able-bodied men who wish to make their families proud, be part of our wall and protect your community! Any mages, bolster your friends and neighbors who are today your warriors! Be part of what makes your city strong! Any tradesmen, give these warriors the tools they need to defend you from the chaos of rebellion! Your city needs you all! Your city needs you now!"

@JazzyJ @Llena

In the crowd gathered behind the wall, Dain could see others on the street running for safety. His heart was thumping painfully in his chest, accompanied by a feeling of breathlessness. Through the crush of people he could make out more running towards the wall, a Xohulu man, dragging a woman behind him. The gap between the clubbers was closing. Dain reached out and grabbed the Xohulu man by the arm, pulling him into the fold behind the wall.

He ignored the shout to call more men to the wall; he had already been beaten enough today, and was not likely going to find another Prophet the next time his bones were broken.

People, both Xohulu and not, flood to the safety of the 'Wall.' Many seem torn at first, though. To some, the Clubbers' wall seems like part of the sudden rebellion. To others, it's obvious safety as the market square erupts into chaos. The guards, however, see the gathering of Xohulu and 'lowly people's' as a threat, you all soon see. You see some guards shooting down overzealous rebels with their crossbows and muskets. This makes the chaos worse. Some charge the guards, others scramble to any kind of safety. But most of the guards are coming your way, seeing the growing horde of poor as the biggest threat. More brave men and women step forward to bolster the wall. Whether you want to or not, it seems that you will have to confront this squadron of guardsmen.

Somewhere out there, a retired soldier in a beer-soiled tavern tells stories about the chaos of war. He once told Pidru through too few teeth with a sour, raspy tone that "in war, in battle, you cling to your discipline. You need to. You see, war is an earthquake that tears the whole world apart. But where you stand with your men, the world holds firm. Keep them firm."  Somewhere out there, a retired soldier hears the  chaos in the marketplace and says "Keep them firm, Pidru. Keep them firm."

Or maybe not. Pidru's imagination gets the better of him sometimes.

And the world really does feel like it's falling apart. Right before his eyes, Xohulu men are striking out and killing town guardsmen, and getting killed in turn by the city's archers and musket-men.
This is not Clubs. This is war, and the men feel it. Behind him, people looked to them all for hope. For safety.

Keep them firm, Pidru.
How do I do that, tavern man? We're just standing here, making ourselves into a big, easy target.
Keep them firm.

Not five meters away, a young man, still a boy really, bursts out of his wall with a knife. Like he wants to be the Knife in some deranged Clubs game. Instantly, the boy is shot. He falls, dropping the knife to the ground.
Keep them firm.
And what, do nothing? A young man just died, and now all of the guards are staring at him, watching him, trying to decide whether Pidru's group are more rebels who need to be put down. The young man with the knife lies dead on the ground.
If this were Clubs, Pidru would know exactly what to do. Advance his wall, pick up the knife, make an opening, and plunge into the opponent's side of the field. He looks around, he considers it. He could do it. He might die, but it would prove a point, wouldn't it? And it might put an end to this riot.
Keep them firm, Pidru.
Fuck you, old man, you're not real, and I don't know what that means. "WALL! ADVANCE!!"

He had to get out.

In the crush of people, and the sound of shots being fired and bolts whizzing through the air, that was the only clear thought Dain had. He needed to get out.

But how? His animal instincts were telling him to break free and run, get out anywhere but here. Until the second a young man tried to do just that, and was shot dead for his attempt. Dain found himself rooted to the spot, bile rising in his throat. Running was no longer an option. Maybe if there were a small group...

Before he had time to finish that thought, Pidru called for the wall to advance.

Oh, gods, they were moving. They were going forward.

He had no choice but to be moved along with the crowd, staying behind the wall's dubious protection.

Dain whispered a silent prayer for a way out unharmed, or, if not that, forgiveness.

And the wall advanced.

@SamHarr
The smell of blood, smoke and sulfur fills your nose and stings your eyes. The screams of the both the terrified and the furious fill the air. The guardsmen rush forward with their swords, spears, and bayonets, but you think you see the doubt and fear in their eyes as well. These green boys weren't expecting a riot, a battle in the market streets. The Xohulu in the guards seemed to be split between charging blindly forward to assert their loyalty and hesitating, fearing for their kinsmen. "What do we do, Pidru?!" Manku says to you, barely concealing the fear in his voice. The zealous guardsmen continue to move forward at a frightful clip, while the rest coming at you are clearly a bit more cautious, and hesitating.

"Yo, ya pussies!" a shrill voice shouts from your wall. Why there was a prepubescent boy standing in the wall while there were grown men cowering behind it was a bit beyond you. But nonetheless, there he was, shouting taunts and brandishing a nail filled cudgel. "Come on already! I wanna beat ya fuckin' skulls in already!" The little boy swings his cudgel at a charging guards' kneecap, knocking him flat. There are spears coming for your face, for your gut; there's fear and anger in the eyes of your attackers. You may actually have a chance here.

@Kaye
The guardsmen are looming upon you, with their swords and their pikes and their bayonets strapped on their muskets. "We're going to die..." you hear someone within the terrified crowd whimper. "I'm not a rebel!" another yelped. You feel, for a moment, a firm hand on your shoulder. "Stand firm, cousins," the speaker says, looking to the fearful masses around you.


He gives you a smile and puts something in your hand: a makeshift spear. "If they feel fit to attack us, then we must defend! Stand firm behind the line with your spears and fight back! Defend or die, those are the only options we have been afforded!"

@JazzyJ

As the guards loomed Anku tried not to panic. What would happen to him? Even if he got out of this alive, he would be branded a rebel. Whether legally or via rumor would make no difference. No Magocrat would buy from an artisan trying to overthrow Areloma's overlords.

He was entirely fucked.

And that meant he was entirely free.

For if a man has nothing, then he has nothing chaining him.

He didn't want to die, so he was going to fight. He was going to fight tooth and nail against them. He was fucked anyway.

He didn't hate the guards. He thought the riot was a mistake. In fact, if he had heard about this from the corner crier he would have thought that the people in the Wall were fools who shouldn't have done something so suspicious. But now he was here, and he could hear the fear and dread all around him. He had done nothing wrong, these people had done nothing wrong, and now they were going to die if they didn't fight back.

He scrambled through the front pocket of his crafting apron (as Clara didn't give him time to take it off before they went), and pulled out a small hammer for shaping metal. Not much of a weapon, but it would have to do.

He glanced at Clara. She was a Magocrat's kid; she might fire her spells at the crowd instead of the guardsmen. But he hoped that she was different, that she thought people like him were worth something, if only a bit. That the guards killing them wouldn't just be a piece of news, it would be a tragedy.

He clutched the hammer, ready to move on her if he needed to, as he spoke to her.

"It's do or die. Are you with us?"

No way out.

If Dain tried to run, he'd be dead. If the wall and the guards kept moving closer - as they were - he'd be dead. If he tried some heroic gesture, like he'd read about in stories, he'd be dead and a laughing stock.

His lack of options were giving way to panic, so that when a spear was given to him, his first thing that sprang to his lips was, "The bloody hell am I supposed to do with this?!" For someone who still turned pink when he heard cursing, it was strong language.

Still, he accepted the weapon, long and heavy in his hands. He'd had some fencing training, of course, but this was entirely different. Nor would this be a bloodless competition.

But there was something about a smile from a beautiful stranger that would embolden a man, even during times like these.

Dain hefted the spear, imitating the way the guards ahead of them held their polearms.

Time to defend or die.

Pidru felt a heat like he had never felt before. It was a flush behind his face, a fire in his chest roaring up from the bellows of his lungs refilling after every scream. It was a burning coal, plunged deep in his system, that he could only vent by forcing the fire out his eyes.
 His father had done that once, and the image has always been seared into his memory.

But this fire was not Pidru's alone. He was surrounded on all sides by brave men and women, and even a spritely boy with a spiked cudgel. Their spirit was infecting him, stoking the blaze that kept him roaring out orders and cheers.
 "Advance! Advance! Meet them on their grounds!"

The guards had grouped together. Their weapons stuck out in front of them like so many spikes. The city's guard had never look so weak. They huddled together as if for safety, crowded by fear of the chaos. But this chaos was theirs, their fear was of their own doing. Pidru felt no pity, only despise.

Though under constant fire by the bolts and missiles of the men sworn to protect them (from what, themselves?) the wall continued its advance. He felt a bolt whiz by his ear, accompanied by a hot sting (fire? or is that just what it feels like to get shot?), but what he did not feel was fear. He couldn't even look behind him to see what poor, innocent soul may have been impaled by that cowardly strike. His eyes were on the prize. Until his foot stuck on something.
 Pidru did not stumble, but he looked down and saw the young man who ran ahead, still alive, despite the bolt driven deep in his body, and extending that little knife up to Pidru's hand. He took the knife, held the young man's hand firm, looking into his eyes to see the embers of life just barely burning still. Then he looked ahead to the guards, whose spears were suddenly at arm's length and closing. He clenched the knife, tucked it behind him, keeping it hidden from the much more heavily armed guards, and drew his long club to the the ready.

It was time to engage.

-Pidru
The guards charge forwards, the fear and desperation of battle clear on their faces. There is a mighty crash of flesh and metal as they meet the wall with an almost overwhelming amount of strength behind them. The guardsmen on the forefront hack at your shields violently with their swords and macuahuitl, tearing at the hide and wooden things a frightful amount. While desperately trying to defend, you watch as one macuahuitl slashes through Manku’s shield and gouges at his forehead. He winces and falters, leading to a spearman jabbing him viciously through the shoulder. Temporarily blinded, and with an arm weakened and bleeding profusely, he becomes a clear target.

---

-Anku
Clara looks around, wide-eyed and terrified at the violence. You can see the realization dawn on her; you can almost hear each one hit the girl like a hammer blow. ‘You’ll never be allowed back in the Academy after this,’ ‘You’ll be disowned by your family and the Magocracy,’

“B-but… I’m not a traitor…” she muttered fearfully under her breath. “I’m not… I’m not Xohulu…” She looks around at the crowd surrounding her, and realizes she’s decidedly in the minority in the group. Then a different fear overtakes her; she looks to you with your hammer in hand and begins to shake in terror. “Please… please don’t hurt me! I’ll do what you want… just… please…”

A man at the front of the line falls as the guards attack in true earnest; a guardsman’s spear swiping frightfully close to the terrified Clara. She screams in horror and reflexively casts a spell, throwing an honest to god fireball directly in the face of the poor spearman. She seems a might… jumpy…

---

-Pidru
As Manku falls to the ground, you watch as a little blue and white marble whizzes towards the guards. You find yourself thinking about your father explaining offensive magics to you when you first became of age to be drafted into the army.

“The color of a fireball is purely cosmetic,” he’d told you as you beat upon the practice dummy in the backyard with your club. “But the one thing you need to remember is that they start off the size of a marble, or a pearl, and then explode into fiery energy once they hit their target. Boy! Are you even listening to me?!”

Well, hey, as what must be a surprise to both of you, you WERE actually listening. You can even protect your eyes from the sudden flash of light as that marble rapidly turns into a burst of blue flames. You hear the screams of surprise and pain from your opponents. You smell the acrid smell of burnt flesh and bubbling fat. That man is almost certainly dead, and the people directly around them are almost certainly on fire.

“Yo, boss!” a shrill voice says loudly, directly behind you. It’s that boy with the nail-bat. He motions at Manku. “He dead or dying? I can help if he ain’t dead!”

---

-Dain
Everything is happening around you so quickly. Even so, the tattooed man stands firm behind the Wall with his longspear. You can see a macuahuitl strapped across his back. He glances quickly towards you, smirking slightly at your outburst. “Brace the butt of the spear on the ground,” he says matter-of-factly. “They’re going to run straight into it. All you need to do is hold the spear firm, alright príncipe? Don’t drop that spear. That spear is your life.”

You hear the grunts and screams of swords and macuahuitl hacking through shields and leather. You see blood flying from swung weapons on either side of the conflict. Then a man of the wall falls to his knees and a moment later, the sound of a large explosion. The stench of burning flesh fills your nose. This is absolute madness.

Now both sides have an opening. The tattooed man winks at you, wearing a grim smile. “Wish me luck, príncipe!” He hastily unfastens his macuahuitl and dashes into the fray, a whirling dervish of sinew and obsidian.

Dain did as the Xohulu man had told him, driving the end of the spear into the flagstones and holding it firm. In as much as he could manage, with his arms shaking as they were.

He was aware of every breath he took, his heart pounding so hard it might burst from his chest. And then there came the blood, more than Dain had ever seen in his life. The sight captured his attention, so much so that he found he couldn't look away, much as he wanted to. He tried to clamp down his nausea at the sight. Keep the spear firm. He could do that.

And then there came the fireball, from somewhere on his side of the crowd, burning a bright blue and white until it exploded as it hit its target.

It wasn't the sight of blood that got to Dain; it was the smell of cooking flesh. Like meat being seared.

The scent wafted over the crowd, and Dain's nausea won out. He retched, shoulders heaving.

Somehow, he managed to keep the spear in hand, his grip tightening on it as his body rebelled against him.

He was no warrior, no hero. He was just a man who wanted to live.

When he straightened, he once again planted the spear firmly into the ground.

There are many magical practices. Fire is generally the most sought after for its flashiness. Foresight is another that is very highly regarded, as it allows practitioners to be more useful to the empire, and therefore it is the pathway to greatest success for students of great aptitude. Pidru's father was a practitioner of what is called "Smoothing", a practice that, in short, makes risks less risky and reduces the chaos in a given situation, down to a certain degree. When Pidru took up the life of a Clubber, he knew that his father would disapprove; driving the Wooden Melee was the polar opposite of everything a Smoother stood for. And yet, there was something about that chaos that Pidru was drawn to. Even as a youth, when he fantasized about mastering magic, he imagined himself as a practitioner of Time magic, the most undisciplined of disciplines, a practice that can only work in those chaotic situations whereupon the linear weave of time unravels and frays.

A Smoother like his father would never be able to make this situation any more survivable, but a Time practitioner like Fantasy Pidru would be epic. Instead, he had a mysterious Fire practitioner somewhere behind the wall, javelining fireballs at the guards. Nearby was a kid, who... claimed to be a healer? Is that for real? Maybe. Probably not. But maybe; this chaos couldn't feel any more surreal. Pidru was starting to wait for the guards to sprout wings and horns.

Those guards look like they're on the edge of panic.
One solid charge and their line will break.
So fuck it. Here's the plan: Shout, then run forward.

"Chaaaaaaarrrge!!!"
Then run forward.