Adventure of Herrid 2

Above the awning, the shimmering arcane construct brightens until every eye turns upward. Its voice rings over the registration line, crisp and merciless.

The Clerk straightens at the register, lips pressed thin as the rules settle over the crowd. Some beastmasters mutter. Others clutch their gear a little tighter.

Nog shifts his weight, ears twitching toward the gate. Anoa lifts her chin, offended on principle. Jar stands immovable, clay shoulders squared toward the lane.

The first moving dummy rolls fully into view beyond the open lane gate, its path clear and waiting. If Herrid wants respect, this is where the judges start measuring discipline instead of strength.

Herrid steps in close to his team and lowers his staff, using the shaft like a cue instead of a weapon.

Nog answers with a heavy nod, shoulders loosening as he leans toward the lane gate.

Anoa sniffs, still proud, but her ears soften as she glances from Herrid to the moving dummy.

Jar tilts forward, clay fists flexing once, then settling. The first dummy clacks on its track, close enough now to make timing feel real.

Herrid shifts the plan into place in a low, quick gesture, and the three creatures adjust at once.

Jar answers by stepping a half pace ahead, broad frame angling toward the lane like a wall. Nog sidles behind that cover, fists loosening, ready to slip out on cue.

The nearby onlookers lean in as the first dummy rattles closer, its track clattering through the awning’s hush. The clerk’s pen pauses over the registry, watching the team settle into roles.

Herrid feels the cost immediately, a thin strain in the timing of the lineup, because Jar’s cover will force sharper calls and Anoa’s restraint leaves less room to recover mistakes. Still, the formation holds, and the lane now has an answer.

Jar gives one sharp nod and settles deeper into guard. Nog relaxes his shoulders instead of coiling to charge, and Anoa stops preening at the edge of offense, measuring her breath like a budget.

The first dummy hits the lane line with a harsh clatter, and the team does not rush it. They wait one beat, then another, letting the rhythm of its approach reveal the safe opening instead of chasing the first chance.

A watching official at the awning lifts her brows, then marks something on the registry sheet. Kaelen's warning about timing lands fully now, because the formation is not just holding, it is teaching the lane how they intend to fight.

For the first time since the rules were named, the no-items restriction stops feeling like a loss and starts looking like an edge. The dummy keeps coming, and the next call is still theirs to make.

Herrid gets the answer cleanly, but the lane clerk scratches the registry too hard while listening, leaving a dark tear in the parchment. The official notices, frowns, and smooths it flat with an irritated thumb.

Around them, the dummy's tread shifts at the edge of the lane, turning the advice into something practical. Rhythm is not just speed, it is when to yield space and when to take it back.

Jar angles his shield a finger-width outward, Nog rolls one shoulder loose, and the team starts testing the shape of that cue in silence, waiting for Herrid to name it.

The clerk's scratched hand stills at the registry, while the first dummy reaches the lane mouth and starts to rock into its new pace. Herrid's words settle the team into a real plan, not just a pose.

Jar shifts half a step in front of Anoa, creating a pocket for her casting. Nog drags his shoulders loose and plants where he can charge the widest line.

The official's thumb presses the torn page flat, but the tear remains visible. The setup is accepted, and the margin for error is thin.

Jar gives a slow, grinding nod and angles his body toward the lane mouth. Nog snorts once, then starts measuring the first dummy like prey. Anoa settles deeper behind the shield line, her attention sharpening on the same mark.

The first moving dummy rocks into range, and the official lifts a hand over the torn registry page. The lane's pace is no longer a test in theory, it is here, demanding the team's answer.

Herrid's directive lands cleanly. The team settles around it, no longer guessing at the pattern, but the course is already running.

Herrid cuts the air with two fingers, then a third. The team locks on instantly, the simple count landing harder than a speech.

Nog thumps his chest once and shifts his weight toward the lane. Anoa tilts her horns forward, already reading the spacing. Jar settles deeper, ready to let the first blow break on him.

The moving dummy hits the mouth of the course and the pace change bites into the lane. The old scramble is gone. The team meets it as one shape.

Herrid answers the course with restraint instead of haste, and the formation holds under the faster tread. Around them, the torn registry page and the clerk's hand make the moment feel official.