(I started to write this after last match, so it's not really up to date.)
Chapter 11
Sturgar sat in his room, mulling over the last's match's events. It was no surprise the witch had won, though both contestants had far outperformed his previous expectations. He resolved not to underestimate the rest of the fighters. He revisited the battle mentally, seeing Imilia's psychotic smile and laugh as she stabbed the minstrel to death, and then some. That one was ruthless, and far more violent than she let on. It was disappointing that for all the magical bravado, the spells, fire, and explosions, a simple stabbing had quickly ended the fight. Well that wouldn't work on him. No metal had yet to pierce his outer layer, and none lasted longer than a minute in close combat.
He rose, heading for the door. It didn't do well to dwell on such things, and he could use some training. After ensuring that Nartheus' door was locked, bolted, and had guards posted outside, he left the fortress and went out onto the grounds below.
The sun shone through a pure, cloudless azure sky, warming the ground and glimmering off of Sturgar's body as he roamed about the grounds, looking for someone with whom to train. Rounding about to the training ground, he saw Sir Killian, the hunter knight, slashing away at a dummy with his greatsword, carving off chunks of wood with wide, powerful swipes. The knight paused, panting in the heat, before turning and noticing Sturgar standing at the edge of the grounds.
"Can I help you?" He shouted, setting down his weapon and wiping the sweat and dust from his brow. "Do you need some money for the market?"
Sturgar shook his head as he approached, pointing at the knight's fallen sword with his own.
"Oh, you'd like to spar?" Killian raised an eyebrow at Sturgar's mute experession. "Very well."
Sturgar nodded, unsheathing each of his weapons with a flouring, putting himself in a ready position. Killian hefted his sword, adjusted his chest plate, and lowered himself into a similar defensive stance. "Well, let's see what you've got."
Sturgar immediately leaped forward, cutting off the hunter knight, and unleashing a barrage of slashes, thrusts, and blows. He needed to eliminate his opponents as quickly as possible, especially the magic users, so aggression was the key. The knight blocked and parried with surprising speed, despite the size and perceived weight of his weapon, and counterattacked with a series of heavy swings. Sturgar ducked the first one, aimed at his head, deflected the next with the stem of his mace, and seeing an opening, let the third attack clatter off of his shoulder as he lashed out with his heavy mace, taking advantage of the knight's lack of balance, striking his knee hard. Killian grunted as the head of the mace smashed into his kneepad and staggered, but did not fall. Impressed, Sturgar stepped back momentarily, rolling the shoulder that had taken the blow. As the knight rose into a ready position once more, Sturgar flipped his sabers, testing their weight, before whipping them at his opponent and quickly charging after, axe and mace at the ready. The lightweight sabers whistled through the dusty air, spinning a few times before they found their targets. One thudded into a wooden dummy behind Killian, missing his face by a hair. The other found it's mark in the seam between the knight's pauldron and chest piece, sinking in a couple inches. As Killian gritted his teeth, pulling out the sword and throwing it to the ground, Sturgar whirled about, lashing out with his two remaining weapons. Killian leaped back, escaping the flurry of attacks, before winding up and, with a mighty swing, sent Sturgar staggering a foot back with a crushing blow to the abdomen. The dragonborn looked at the knight, then his chest. The armor bore no scratch, but he'd felt that blow. It would have killed an organic being, and he thanked Zordroth for his armor.
"Well done!" Killian tossed him his sabers, smiling. "You've impressed me. Let's have one more bout, before I must return to my duties." He winced, the wound from earlier throbbing. "And get this wound tended to." He shifted back into a protective stance, and waited.
Sturgar rolled his neck, picked up his swords and threw himself at the knight, smiling. This was getting fun. The two danced back and forth, trading blows, kicking up a cloud of dust. Although Sturgar unleashed strike after strike, the knight's blows were heavy and devastating, and both combatants began to tire. Sturgar spun one last time, a whirlwind of steel and blades, dragging his mace in the dirt to obscure Killian's vision. The knight deflected a few more blows, eyes watering, then finally hit the ground from a hefty body check.
Sturgar stopped, offering his hand.
"Thank you." Killian couched again, taking the dragonborn's outstretched hand. "You fight well." He winced again. "I need to get these tended to. I bid you luck in your upcoming fight, and please," He winked "Don't tell my men you beat me."
Sturgar nodded and with that, the two men set off on their separate ways.
Back in his room, Sturgar prepared for his match. He activated the heated crystal once more, taking comfort in it's scalding heat, then turned it off. He carefully removed the sword Nartheus had given him from beneath the mattress, removing the cloth wrapping almost reverently, and slashed the air a few time with it, smiling as the mercurial blade shifted from shape to shape. Finally, knowing one long touch from Arha might mean death, he spread a thin coat of clear, shimmering oil on his armor. It would serve to deflect any blows, having them slide right off instead of connecting, and would shine with a blinding light in direct sunlight, hopefully blinding his adversary. He checked on the duke one last time and settled into a chair besides the duke, nodding off. For the first time in days, Sturgar slept well.
Conscience grimaced, the hot tea scalding her mouth. She was walking out of her room on the first floor, heading to Mimosa’s tower to practice magic. Not looking at where she was going, Conscience tripped over a bump in the floor, falling and spilling her black tea. Rolling out of the puddle, she stared straight up into Imilia’s smiling face.
“I guess I never congratulated you on your victory.” Conscience said, blushing at seeing Imilia’s face so unexpectedly.
“Thanks. A strange position you appear in.” Imilia smirked.
“It’s called tripping.” Conscience noticed that Imilia was being less, well, excited, in her demeanor. Holding the outstretched hand of Imilia, Conscience pulled herself up, Imilia’s hand feeling extremely cold. “What was that necromancy you used?”
“A little trick I know,” was all Imilia said, before turning and walking away. “I’ll see you around, Conscience.” Sighing, she turned away from Imilia, heading back towards Mimosa’s tower. Her black tea was almost all gone, but a few drops still remained. Tipping the tea backwards, she continued walking forward, the dregs draining into her mouth. Not seeing where she was going, she ran into a body, slightly larger than her. Stumbling backwards, she dropped her tea mug yet again, and miraculously, it didn’t shatter, however, the dregs ran out. Looking up to see who she ran into, she stared into the face of Lyuben. Just who I wanted to see.
“Hello, Lyuben,” she said.
“Hi, Conscience. If you’re ok, I have to go do…something.” He was obviously being evasive, and as he moved to pass her, she grabbed onto his arm.
“No you’re not. It’s cute how terrible you are at lying,” she said, smiling.
“I-,” Lyuben started, but paused before being dragged onto a bench.
“Prince of Malterra??” Was all she had to say.
“I think I’ll be going,” he said, again, ignoring the question. Moving to get up, Conscience punched him in the shoulder. This stopped the movement upwards, and he moved to rub his shoulder, the punch obviously taking effect.
“Fine. Yes, I’m the Prince of Malterra.”
“Malterra. What a foul country.” Conscience scowled, her face twisting in disgust.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Lyuben said.
“I figured. You never mentioned it before, so that implies you ran away, or something similar. Why, though?”
“My father never approved of me, and killed my boyfriend to ‘cure’ me.” Lyuben face’s became sad. “He was always smiling, even in death.” Looking like he was expecting mockery, he turned to Conscience, resignation written all over his features. Instead of the mocking smile he expected, there was a look of slight understanding.
“I guess I sympathize. I’m attracted to both men and woman, and I hide that because it’s a weakness in my armor, if you get what I mean.” Suddenly realizing what she said, Conscience immediately looked slightly scared. “Never tell anyone that. If you do I will literally kill you.”
“I guess I should expect that. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.” Standing up, he turned to walk away. “I’ll see you around, Conscience. And don’t stress over your battle, I think you got it.” He paused, then walked away.
Training. Right. Conscience began the trek to Mimosa’s tower, Lyuben’s vote of confidence ringing in her ears.
TO BE CONTINUED
(Written with the help of @shadow123 , tysm for helping!!)
Arn sat outside the fort's confines keeping tabs of what he observed from the matches so far and from what he had gathered from the most recent match his unnoticed observation earlier was right, the puppet that the witch carried did serve a purpose.
Necromancers were nothing new to Arn as in this new age of magic all manner of entities proliferated all manner of planes. Arn had slain necromancers before but nonetheless he knew they were no mean feat to beat. He tossed the dagger remembering what all the contestants who had won so far had in common, and he came to the conclusion that they all had an understanding of their capabilities, with the exception of that pale one called Lyuden which acted guarded all the time. Arn sat on top of a tree for a couple more hours, observing unsuspecting citizens passing through the nearby path before deciding to pay Mizor a visit.
Upon arriving just moments away from Mizor's cottage he had commotion ensue. Some men roughly five of them, thug like in appearance and very displeased congregated at Mizor's house and were trying to force themselves in. Arn decided to watch for a while before interceding and deduced that they were here for some sort of debt the old man hadn't paid in a while. They carried jagged bludgeoning tools and just as they were about to use them to break down the door, they were thrown back by a blast of abyssal magic turning into withered husks in minutes. From the blast emerged a deformed figure cackling with madness who then fired again at Arn's direction grazing the tree Arn hid behind.
Mizor: "I know you are there demon! Show yourself before I make you"
Arn walked out with hands outstretched and laughing uncontrollably.
Arn: " I assure you, you are making a big mistake"
Mizor more bold in his new power, fired a barrage of abyssal energy while taunting Arn as Arn dodged each shot almost subconsciously.
Mizor: "I was so scared of you that I forgot what I wielded" (Blast)
Mizor: "So scared of letting my guard down or I would go insane" (Blast) Mizor: "Always having to take care of a fragile world" (Blast) "Then I realized after finally making a breakthrough for the first time in a while" he said now stretching his hands wide open "Why should I give you the power when I can take it all from myself?" he chuckled to himself drunk with power. Mizor then tore off the left index finger with a slight grimace as a demonstration before piecing it together as the wound seared itself shut on his now pale skin. He fired a few more shots towards Arn who dodged them all with ease before exclaiming "I am immort..." followed by gurgling noises as a dagger found its way in his throat. Mizor was so busy monologuing that he failed to notice that Arn had thrown a dagger towards his direction until it found it's way in his throat.
Mizor attempted to pull the dagger out but Arn rushed at him quickly and grabbed his other hand pushing the dagger deeper into his vocal cords as he spouted out a black ichor, the mage attempted to use his left hand to fire a blast at Arn but Arn used his other hand to grab it and snap it like a twig upon his knee as Mizor attempted to scream but couldn't due to his vocals being obstructed.
Arn then let the corrupted mage fall to the ground struggling as he placed a foot in the mage's thrashing right hand. He observed the twisted left hand untwist and mend itself together as the bones here attached themselves underneath Mizor's skin.
Arn: "Interesting"
Noticing that Mizor's skin was becoming a more bluish pale and his right hand was becoming weaker Arn pulled the dagger out of his throat and watched as his throat mended itself together.
Arn: "Such a shame, I really did think you had attained immortality" Arn said for the first time in a while showing actual disappointment "Well the deadline is over and I see you found something of use to me." Arn stepped away from the downed mage.
Mizor: " I woun't tell you anything" Mizor spattered back coughing and holding his throat.
Arn: "Have you given up on your family? Or perhaps you have finally gone insane."
Mizor: "I killed them" Mizor spoke plainly catching Arn off guard for a while "Yea that's right, they were too much of a hinderance to me so I killed them" Mizor began laughing to himself before his laugh got interrupted by a more devious laughter that shook even his corrupt mind,
Arn: "Well then" Arn's tone shifted ominously "I guess we have a change of arrangements then" Arn said as he pulled out his daggers and rushed at Mizor once again.
Mizor overpowered by his fear more so than his madness began firing a barrage of blasts at Arn each of them being caught and deflected by Arn as he coated his hand with his wild magic. Arn then fired a blast of wild magic launching the mage at the cottage walls as Arn used wild magic to make the wooden beams restrain the mages's upper torso all the way to his neck except for his hands.
Arn then slowly walked with his dagger out and knelt near Mizor's hands and began severing each of his fingers one by one beginning with the nails, then the flesh as he repeated this and let them grow back all the while ignoring the mages pleas to stop. Soon screams littered the surroundings as morning turned to dusk and dusk turned to night. Arn finally stopped and let the pleading mage free when he promised that he would tell Arn all that he had learned about the abyss broken and in tears.
Mizor knowing better than to run disposed his full knowledge about the abyss, he told Arn about how he had almost attained immortality and of how if he had a little more time maybe months he could perfect the ritual and make Arn a god. Mizor turned at Arn and saw a mask and for some reason he knew Arn was satisfied.
Arn: "You have been very useful Mizor" Arn said looking at the crazed old man.
Mizor: "Does that mean, I am free to go now?" Mizor asked nervously
Arn: "Yes, you are free to go" Arn said pulling out his dagger.
Arn walked through the stained cottage, observing decayed corpses of what he assumed to be the wife and the child , through the trashed kitchen littered with silverware, then out of the cabin into the cold night air. He took the research papers and stuffed them in his pockets before wild shifting and flying off as the cabin spontaneously erupted in flames.
“Yes. Yes it does, and I highly suggest you don’t,” a voice replied sarcastically.
Lyuben and Ayden laid side by side on the damp grass under a pink cherry blossom tree. They gazed up at the twinkling stars and the silver moon that bestowed its calming rays down upon the plane. In front of them was a large still pond that reflected the stars’ colorful lights like a perfect photograph.
Ayden laughed a little bit. “Prince of Malterra?? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because...it wasn’t that important? Why?”
“Malterra is one of the most influential kingdoms in the far northeast! And you just thought you should omit that from your life story?”
“There are things I don’t want to remember, okay?” Lyuben said sharply.
“Like what?”
“It’s not important. Really.”
"You know, I used to be like you," Ayden started, "I hated myself for who I was. For who I was becoming."
"You're-"
"Gay as well. Yes."
Lyuben winced upon hearing the word "gay". It had caused him so much pain at the hands of his father. He thought his mother had stood up for him. Apparently not.
Ayden continued, "I used to hate myself as my family hated me for it. I was disowned. The only thing that kept me going was doing what I loved. Fighting that pain even if it reminded me of the past."
Lyuben felt somewhat happy finding out that Ayden was like him. Lyuben felt somewhat sorry too.
Ayden sighed and turned his head to look back up at the stars. Lyuben stared at Ayden wishfully for a few more seconds, then turned up to look at the sparkling night sky.
“See there?” Ayden pointed up at a pattern of stars above them, “They call this constellation ‘The Fallen Friend’. That girl is named Akuma. She died mysteriously over twenty-five years ago after getting into a violent fight with her best friend. Many suspect it was suicide.”
“Suicide, why?”
“It’s unclear. But we know this girl was from a foreign place. When her last friend left her, there was no one left for her. She felt alone. The betrayal of her best friend piled up on her failures in the Vosanovan war. Some think that all the emotional pressure led to her death. The feeling of failure. The feeling of being alone.”
The mention of failure and isolation was something Lyuben was all too familiar with. He looked away from the beautiful golden constellation. His head was turned away from Ayden too.
“Why are you telling me this?” Lyuben asked.
“Because you asked me more about Akuma’s past.”
“No, why did you point out that constellation out of all the other ones in the night sky? Look at that one! Siansa, Friyena’s second champion! Or how about-”
Lyuben felt Ayden’s warm hand find itself in his hand. Lyuben immediately quieted down. Both of them watched in silence as a single pink petal from the tree slowly fluttered to the ground. Then, Ayden looked into Lyuben’s brown eyes. Lyuben couldn’t help but feel happy and safe even in his most vulnerable moments next to Ayden.
“It’s because I care.”
“You care?”
“I’m worried about you, Lyuben. I have been ever since the first day I saw you. I noticed something was wrong. Who would immediately cast a spell on someone that tapped their shoulder in such a lively area like that town square. I see the sadness pent up behind your eyes. I see the silvery trails left behind from dried tears of the previous night. I see the immense potential you have and the many dangers that may lie ahead. I only want the best. The best for you.”
Ayden gulped, but to his surprise, Lyuben smiled. For the first time since his parents' betrayal he felt safe around a person, but Lyuben didn’t know why. He smiled just like the others.
Could this just be some random story about care like my mother’s? Why does he make me feel safe? Why does he make me feel happy? Why can’t I get myself to fully love Ayden? I love him, right?
Lyuben scooted a little closer to Ayden. They were still holding hands and Lyuben’s head rested gently on Ayden’s shoulder. They both laid in the comforting silence of nighttime. The shadows seemed to curl around the two teenagers, creating a protective sphere around them.
“Thank you,” Lyuben whispered, “Thank you for being here with me.”
“There’s no need to thank me. I enjoy being with you too.”
Lyuben felt as Ayden’s hand gently tilted the prince’s head up so that their eyes met. Lyuben looked lovingly into Ayden’s hazel eyes. Then, Lyuben moved in closer to Ayden, feeling a rush of love and passion he hadn’t felt since his boyfriend was killed.
Lyuben suddenly stopped. Lyuben could feel Ayden's gentle breath on his pale face. Lyuben could feel the pain inside him as he stopped. He could hear voices inside his head trying to hold him back from his only love. Lyuben wanted to wash away the pain of his dead boyfriend so badly. He wanted it all to be over. But he couldn't.
“I’m sorry,” Lyuben stood up quickly. “I- I can’t do this. Not yet. I just..can’t…It hurts too much…”
Lyuben ran off into the distance, leaving Ayden alone in the lonely shadows.
“Lyuben? Did I do something wrong? Did I say something?”
Lyuben slowed down to a walking speed as he reached the dark forest. The trees provided a dark shelter for him to think.
Another day, another pure cerulean sky, where the golden midday sun shone as brightly as ever without a coverage of a single cloud. The day was mildly hot thanks to the constant sunshine, encouraging bugs to buzz in the grass and in the reed beds that surrounded the island. Only a moderate breeze offered a bit of coolness to those who were working hard on the fields, in the market, or in the Werther Fortress. Young soldiers were running to the stables and to the courtyard, preparing the horses, two caged wagons, and the carriage for the tournament guards, hosts, and contestants. Sturgar climbed into the first wagon, which caused the wooden wheels to creak a bit from his weight, and Arha silently climbed into the second wagon. Since the third wagon wasn't prepared, the contestants could guess that the match was about to be hosted in one of the nearby arenas. Judge Gaspar, Captain Rheinallt, priest Kara, and spellsmith Rezar stepped into the carriage. The smith didn't want to miss the match, as he was clearly impressed by Sturgar's metal body, and couldn't wait to see it in real action. Sir Killian, Rodolf, and the guards mounted onto their horses while the sound of chains echoed from the gates as they were slowly being opened. Rodolf was speaking with one of the leading guards for a moment, then he rode his horse right next to Killian. "Follow me to the ruins," the assassin said. "I want to show you something before the match starts," then he immediately galloped his horse through the gate while Sir Killian followed with his Rusty, leaving dust and everyone else behind.
The two rode through the sunlit forest, where the birds sang, colorful butterflies fluttered, and hundreds of bright green leaves rustled thanks to the breeze. "Stop watching the scenery and catch up," Rodolf shouted from ahead as he turned his horse and rode along the abandoned road, where the broken white pillars stood. The closer they got to the ruins, the taller the pillars were. It only took a mere moment before their fast horses arrived to the arena. The wooden stands were empty, from people and from dust. Servants had cleaned them before the day's match. Rodolf and Sir Killian unmounted next to the stands, tied the reins around wooden posts, then the assassin beckoned to the knight while he walked in a hurried pace towards the center of the arena. "Come look at this," Rodolf said to Killian, then they reached the spot where Iseabel had died. Only dried puddles of blood remained on the grass and the white stone tiles. "I was here two nights ago," the assassin said and pointed at the largest bloodstains with both of his hands. "Iseabel was lying here, and her undead brother was still watching over her. I didn't get too close, only watched from afar. But early this morning, when I was escorting the servants here to prepare the wooden stands, the necromancer and her brother had vanished." Sir Killian examined the pillars and the vines.
"These cuts," the knight said as he drew lines along numerous pillars and broken vines with his fingers. "These are fresh, made by a sword. They didn't happen during the first match."
"Exactly," Rodol exclaimed and walked a bit further away, towards the edge of the arena while pointing at the ground. "Broken branches and bent grass. Something, or someone, has been dragged along the ground. And footprints! Too big for Kaigan's feet." Sir Killian watched as he followed.
"Hmm... I count three people at least," the knight said thoughtfully, then the duo walked to the edge of the arena, where the temple ended and the forest's deeper parts started. Large bushes blocked the view, but someone had walked through them some time ago. "Did you check where they came from?"
"Naturally," Rodolf said, but then he sighed. "I followed the tracks until I reached the road, and that's where I lost them. I didn't find anything along the way either; no blood, threads, crumbs, nothing." Then they walked back to the center of the arena. They could hear the ruckus of the approaching tournament caravan in the distance.
"It seems like some kind of struggle ensued here," Sir Killian said while opening his gambeson a bit from the chest thanks to the heat of day. "But there's no body parts or new bloodstains. Iseabel was most likely taken by a group of three people, and Steaphan tried to stop it in vain."
"And now both of them are mysteriously gone," Rodolf said as he looked at the woods in the distance while shrugging. "Who thought this up? What are they going to do with the two? Perhaps I don't want to know."
"Yet we must find out," Killian said in a serious tone as he turned to look at the riding guards who were rising from behind the hill. "Or at the very least, keep eyes and ears open for any hints as we go on."
"Eyes on the contestants and on the threats," Rodolf mumbled in a silly low tone and closed one of his eyes while the other was wide open. "One eye at the shadows, the other at the road. And put on a hood so they don't see your crooked look!"
"Come on, we need to open the caged wagons," Killian said while walking towards the tournament caravan, ignoring the following assassin's nonsense. "Otherwise the contestants can't get out."
"Good! Let's give them spears so they can poke at each other from inside the cages. Now that would be a safe match! Make the hosts proud!"
"Ah, shut it already!"
"Alright, more meat for the grinder, then," Rodolf whispered quietly as he approached Arha's wagon and took an iron key from his pocket. He unlocked the cage's door and opened it while Sir Killian opened Sturgar's cage. The two contestants stepped out, and everyone was dazzled by Sturgar's extra shiny metal body when it bathed in direct sunlight. Everyone except blind Kara, who approached the two fighters. He silently stood in front of Sturgar for a moment.
"I can't grant this fighter a mark," the priest whispered. "I sense no suitable, organic canvas on him. Endure pain, but avoid death at all cost." Then Kara walked to Arha. The elf knight offered her left palm to the priest. She gasped from the stinging pain as the priest drew the black symbol with his fingers, then quickly walked away once he was finished. Everyone found their places in a moment, so Captain Rheinallt cleared his throat.
"Welcome to witness the sixth match of the tournament! On the left we have golden soldier with a metallic body that contains a dragon's heart; Sturgar, Alloyed Blademaster!" People cheered for the shining fighter, then Rheinallt raised his other hand. "On the right we have a mage-knight from the elven kingdom of Qan Maris; Arha, Knight of the Basilisk!" A loud applause echoed in the ruins while Rheinallt turned to look at both contestants with a jolly smile in his face. Finally, he raised both of his hands.
The spring days still had some chill to them. Many were pleasant enough, and some were even hot enough that Kaigan went shirtless, but there were days where he keenly felt the slice in his shirt from where the sword had cut him in his first duel. The medics here were great, and he actually had felt better after going to them than before, but still. He had to do something about his clothes… these were his only set.
Sighing, he got up from his meditations on a rock and stretched. Sometimes limbs would fall asleep during meditation; he’d never notice until afterwards. As the tingling faded away from his tail and left arm, he started out towards Captain Rheinhallt’s office. The Captain had let it be known that he’d be providing funds to the contestants, and while this wasn’t quite part of the list of purchases he had mentioned, Kaigan hoped that it would be seen as a reasonable request.
The Captain’s office was a small hut in the courtyard of the keep walls. He could have had any room in the keep proper, but he chose a place outside it. It was rather nice inside the hut actually; and as Kaigan entered, Rheinhallt looked up.
“Ah! What is it?” The captain hurriedly rolled up the map he had, protecting the information on it from being seen. Probably something to do with the locations of the next rounds, but it could also be military secrets or- well, or a lot of things.
Kaigan looked at Rheinhallt. The man was going grey with age, but put off an aura of fitness, strength, and wisdom. He didn’t appear too stressed out either; no wrinkles from frowns or despair on his face. The face looking at him smiled slightly, and Kaigan felt at ease.
“You had been offering a bit of money for contestants to help improve their gear. Well, uh. It’s not proper gear, but I could kind of use some new clothes. I only have the one set, and they kinda got messed up in my first match. I won’t wear the new clothes to future matches; these still mostly work. But on the colder days the slice… well. You get it right?”
Rheinhallt laughed. “Of course! I was giving examples of what it could be used for, not forcing it to only be used for that. The keep doesn’t have it’s own shop for clothes; most soldiers here get theirs from families in the town you all came from. We can’t send you out on your own for sure, but I’ll be more than happy to let you go in with Sir Killian and get a couple of outfits. He could use the trip anyway and you’ll be safest with him. So when do you want to leave?”
Kaigan took a second to think about this.
“Uh. Probably right after the next tournament. That way no one misses anything important, and we can be back before the one after that? Hopefully?”
“I’ll do what I can to arrange it. Sir Killian will be here about 15 minutes after the match ends. Speaking of which, it’s starting in only a couple of hours. Might want to get ready for it.” Rheinhallt offered Kaigan a medium sized pouch full of coins. It tinkled eagerly, as if it wanted to be used.
Kaigan nodded his thanks, and beat a semi-swift retreat out into the sun and chill air again. The match was Nilfi against Noah. A solid fight probably. The words Nilfi had said to him about going in fully rang in his ears. A pity he hadn’t had the chance to talk with Noah yet; but maybe later.
(Skipping to the end of the match…)
As the crowd dispersed and went back to the keep, Kaigan thought over what he had seen. Nilfi had looked to be on the back end all the match, not being able to handle the constant duplicates that Noah was able to make, but still ended up winning. It was impressive, really. Noah’s skill was certainly a high level, even if his techniques were somewhat lackluster offensively. Then again, focusing on two weapons was always going to be harder than one. Either way, it was a good match, especially as no one had died.
He still was upset about the way his match had ended. He had won fair and square, and then she had… well, basically committed suicide. Sure there was the chance he didn’t escape, but that was abysmally low. She had to know that.
The ride back to the fortress was pleasant enough, and by the time they arrived, Kaigan had shaken himself out of his funk as much as he could have. With the weather being as bright as it was, his gloom couldn’t last, and he was looking forward to the trip. Sir Killian had been very busy on the way to the fortress originally, and he hadn’t spent any time with him afterwards. Even so, he fully believed what the knight had said when he had first met all the contestants. The conviction and force of that man would be hard to deny by any means.
Kaigan disembarked from the wagon and immediately headed to the hut-offices of Captain Rheinhallt for his appointment. Standing there was the horse of Sir Killian, but the knight himself was nowhere to be found.
Kaigan had never been around a horse before. Yes some had been pulling the various transports he had been in, but he hadn’t really been around them. It was way larger than him and way more… well, more than he thought. When close to it, he reasoned, you couldn’t just ignore it as you could from a vehicle. He gently patted the horse’s side, and it turned to look at him. They locked gazes for a second, then the horse turns back and begins to chew. Kaigan chuckled nervously and leaned against the cool stones of the hut, waiting.
Sir Killian came out a few minutes later, and chuckled. His voice was deeper and more baritone than anyone else Kaigan had spoke with so far.
“A trip to the village for new clothes eh? I’d normally not be willing to do a trip for something so inane… But you’re lucky. You ever ride a horse before?”
“N-no sir. He’s pretty big….”
“Rusty? Ah well. He is to you for sure. I’m gonna put you in front of me as I ride him, and you just need to focus on staying on. Don’t be afraid to hold his mane; he won’t like it but he won’t do anything but nicker a little.”
Having said that, he picked Kaigan up and sat him on the horses back. Kaigan immediately leaned forward and began to hug Rusty’s neck for safety, and Sir Killian mounted behind him. With a flick of the reins, he prompted Rusty off at a solid trot.
Most of the trip was eventless, with Kaigan growing a bit more confident and comfortable on the back of a horse, with a few words from Sir Killian to guide him on how to properly ride a horse. They arrived in the town in the late afternoon, and the townsfolk seemed quite pleased to see both of them. A couple cheered even when they saw Kaigan. Evidently, word about the cute competitor had gotten through. Some people were less than pleased though. No one was impolite, but there were plenty of less friendly glances at him. Sir Killian didn’t seem to mind the cheers or the darker looks of the citizense though.
Kaigan waived at the cheerers, happy that some people liked him. In doing so, he nearly fell off the horse though, so he settled back to holding on with both hands. Killian smiled softly at this, and tied his horse up at a post in the square.
“What sort of clothes are you even looking for? Something like what most of the commoners wear, or something more fancy?”
Kaigan giggled. “Nothing fancy. I mean. I need to be able to meet with the nobles I guess if I win, but probably something loose and flowing, and warm? Oh, and with pockets. Those things are so useful!”
The normally stoic knight can’t help but chuckle at the enthusiasm of the kobold.
“Fair enough. Probably this shop here then.”
He walks Kaigan into the shop of a merchant offering premade clothes. The man hurried to come out from behind the counter, but Sir Killian waved him back.
“No need to bother. We’ll browse.”
Sitting back down, the shop-keep sets back to doing whatever he was doing. Kaigan is busy looking at everything. Most of the sizes were for adult humans, so everything was comically large for him.
Eventually Kaigan found something fitting. A set of extra small pants worked as fairly loose, although they needed a tail hole to work for him, and then a tunic that was just slightly too big combined with a sash to tie in the front worked well enough. The clothes were kinda silly on heir own, but when combined together worked really well, and was enough that it could even be slightly formal. The pants even had the pockets that he wanted! When he took them to the store owner, the man chuckled quietly as he rang them up.
“Total is 23 silver.”
Opening the coin purse, Kaigan found that he didn’t have silver. Only gold. Confused, he turned to Sir Killian.
Gratefully, Kaigan placed a coin on the counter, and two silver got slid back to him. Putting it in the pouch carefully, Kaigan asked for the hole to be made for the tail in the pants. The shop-keep complied, and then Kaigan and Killian head out. It was fairly late, so the knight suggested that they have dinner. While there weren’t really proper restaurants, the market was still open, and a simple meal of bread, cheese, and an apple worked as well for both of them. They sat in public, balanced on the ledge of the fountain, watching busy people do their various work and relaxation. Both were silent. Sir Killian was almost always silent it seemed. Kaigan was fine with that though; it was a companionable silence, not a cold one.
He took his time looking at the citizens as they went about their lives. There were the merchants, working to make ends meet, selling their wares to farmers, who were there to buy stuff for planting and selling. There were the guards, making sure everyone behaved. There were children playing around, some fighting, some running. There were people everywhere. People with lives entirely separate from the tournament. Many of them still wouldn’t know him, even though there were clearly some that did. And yet, he was fighting to become their champion. To help protect them from, well… everything. Or anything.
This was the reward even, of surviving. It was the end goal of the tournament. Each of these lives improved in some small way. Prossh had sent him here to spread her influence and power. And just as she protected the kobolds, he would protect them. Until of course, he was called home. But that was if he won. He had other things to do before then. Since the clothing was so cheap, he might go talk to the blacksmith back at the fortress.
Sir Killian rose from his spot, done with his food. Kaigan, almost finished, hopped up and followed as they went back to Rusty. Placing Kaigan back in his seat, the knight mounted and rode out into the falling night.
“Wouldn’t it be safer to stay at the inn?”
“Yes, but I need to be back early tomorrow. There’s things I have to do. We’ll be fine anyway; I’ve seen you fight, remember?”
Kaigan nodded, blushing a little as the knight conferred what he saw as a high honor upon him. They rode through the night, arriving at the fortress late. The guards let them in, and Kaigan said farewell to the knight as he headed to his room with his new clothes.
“Are all these really necessary?” Hadid asked as he tightened a strap on his padded body armor and bracers.
Sir Killian continued pacing to the opposite end of the dusty training ring, twirling a practice spear experimentally. As he reached the starting marker, he rolled his shoulders under his worn gambeson and turned to face the mage. He relaxed into a steady stance with the blunted wooden point inclined toward Hadid.
“Not very talkative, are you?”
“Not during combat,” the knight grunted. “Every time you open your mouth you give more of an edge to your foe.”
Hadid started to respond but Killian shook his head sharply. “Enough. You asked to work against the spear, so let’s work.”
Hadid scanned the training ring. The packed-dirt field was open and featureless save for the starting markers and roughly-hewn wooden fencing wrapped around its perimeter. No obstacles or hiding spots meant combatants were forced into close quarters engagements. Nullify my advantages to strengthen my disadvantages, the mage resolved.
He was jolted from his assessment by a glint of sunlight off the wooden spearhead. Sir Killian closed the distance between them with quick strides, thrusting once, twice with the spear. Hadid leapt backward, judging the strikes and keeping just out of their reach. The knight continued to press forward, backing Hadid toward the ring’s edge with the spearpoint. As Hadid bumped against the fence, Killian darted in and drove the spear forward.
The mage swiftly summoned a small portal in the blade’s path. The spear’s tip emerged from a matching gate that opened beside the knight at the same moment. Killian threw his head back to avoid the point as it blistered past his face. He withdrew his weapon, spinning it around himself to reset his stance. He bounced lightly on his feet before switching his grip, slashing the spear in a diagonal stroke.
Hadid leaned awkwardly to avoid the strike, scraping against the wood planking as he gathered mana. As Sir Killian swung the spear back across, the mage summoned a portal under his own feet. Dropping through it, he sprung up directly behind the knight, prepared to throw a punch. Instead, he hastily tumbled backward out of the way of a blindingly fast swipe of the spear as Killian pivoted. The knight angled the spearpoint to the ground as Hadid regained his footing. “No offense professor, but you seem a bit slow on the draw.”
“Age and treachery will always outdo youth and enthusiasm,” Hadid huffed as he brushed dust from his sparring gear.
“Then be treacherous.” Killian spread his arms wide. “Don’t do the obvious.”
Hadid considered this briefly then nodded and adopted his ready stance, exhaling slowly.
In a flash, Sir Killian was on him again. Hadid twisted slightly to avoid a direct jab toward his chest then ducked low as Killian slashed across in a scything motion. The wooden spearhead arced high as the knight transitioned the slash into an overhead cleave. Hadid quickly conjured a portal beneath himself and slipped into it to avoid the blow.
Sir Killian sighed with disappointment as he heard the subtle pop of a portal opening directly behind him. Turning with blistering speed, he slashed the mage as he appeared.
Or, would have appeared. His spear whistled as it sliced the empty air with terrifying force.
For the briefest moment, Sir Killian was uncertain. His eyes darted around the empty ring before realizing the play. He tucked the spear against his body and dove forward, narrowly avoiding Hadid’s thundering kick as he fell from overhead. Lightning crackled around the mage’s booted foot as dust swirled away from the point where he landed. Another portal hovered in the air above where Killian stood moments before. Hadid’s breathing was heavy and ragged as he resumed a ready stance and faced Killian.
The knight tightened his grip on the spear. There may be hope for the old man yet.
“Remember, your portals won’t work on broad swings like these.” Sir Killian demonstrated the attacks slowly. “You’ll have to watch for thrusts if you hope to redirect them.”
Hadid sat against the base of a tree, wiping a damp cloth across his neck. He took deep breaths through his nose as he recovered his stamina. His arms, chest, and one unlucky spot on his forehead ached from the times that the spear that found its mark. The well of mana he pulled from that was normally so rich felt like it had been drained to the dregs from the volume of spells he’d cast.
The knight tapped the spearpoint against the tree trunk. “Hey, you with me?”
Hadid started to nod, then paused. “I’ve been meaning to ask, you’ve... fought abyssal monsters?”
Killian nodded gravely.
“Do you believe they can be stopped?”
“You saw what happened while we traveled in. Akons fall like any other.”
Hadid shook his head. “I mean more permanently.”
Sir Killian stared intently at the mage as he propped his weight against the haft of the spear. His voice came out low and even. “Have you heard the legend of ‘The Great Failure?’”
“I’ve heard a great many stories, but I’d rather hear it from one who’s more experienced in the matter.” Hadid mopped at his brow with the cloth. “And I wouldn’t mind a few more moments to rest.”
The knight huffed as he laid the spear across his shoulders. “According to the earliest tales, the first caretaker of Avelaide saw a vision - a portent of destruction for the world. In hopes of stopping the destruction, He turned to the Abyss, the greatest force in the realm. He conquered it to harness its power for Avelaide’s protection. However, as he gained more control over it, the Abyss also gained more control over him, eventually consuming him. At that moment -” Killian snapped his fingers. “- the Abyss was released into the world, violently destroying all life in its path. The other gods banded together to trap it beyond the Gate to the Afterlife but not before it wrought untold havoc.”
The mage listened wide-eyed, enraptured. The knight planted the spearpoint in the grass at the base of the tree as he continued. “The caretaker who sought to control the Abyss became trapped within the dark realm, eternally locked in torment between life and death. His name is forgotten but, just like the Akons, it is believed that he will also return… as the abyssal avatar that will ruin the world. They now call him ‘Septhis.’”
Hadid shivered at the name. “He became the fulfillment of the prophecy he tried to prevent.”
The knight nodded again. “If the tale is true, then there was a time when there were no Akons and the Abyss wasn’t a violent, all-consuming force. A world where it served some other purpose, had another nature, and perhaps even had another name.”
The mage leaned forward excitedly. “Then there may be a way to return the Abyss to the way it was before.”
Sir Killian shrugged as he shook his head. “It’s just an old tale. We defend against encroaching darkness because we must.”
“But if the Abyss was harnessed in the past there surely we could -”
“The Abyss is part of Avelaide now and dreaming that it isn’t is a waste of time.” The knight pulled the spear from the grass and brushed the blade against his sleeve. “Speaking of wasting time, we’re burning daylight.”
Hadid sat back, deflated. He tucked the cloth into a pocket, mind spinning as he processed the story. “You are worthy of your title, Sir Killian. You fight with the skill and ferocity of a whole battalion.”
“And you... find ways to make up for your shortcomings.” Sir Killian pulled an arm across his chest in a stretch.
Hadid laughed softly. “That bad, huh?”
A small smile tugged at the corner of the knight’s mouth as he surveyed the cloudy sky. “The day is yet young.” He stepped out of the shade and paced back toward the ring. “And you still have much to learn, teacher.”
Hadid took a deep breath and pushed against the tree trunk, rising once more.
Conscience continued her walk towards Mimosa’s tower, mulling over what Lyuben has said, and more importantly, why she had shared that. It was strange, she decided. Something strange is happening to me. It’s like…things are being replaced. Still, no time to continue thinking about the strangeness, and time to think about winning the battle. In order to win, I have to practice, since I haven’t had time to practice magic yet.
Walking up the steps in Mimosa’s tower, the creaking was amplified by the small area. A strange sense of unease filled her, and as she reached a door at the top, wooden and closed, strange liquid sounds coming from behind, darkness swept over her vision, for a moment.
Blood running across the floor, two bodies lying d-
The vision snapped away, and Conscience swayed, almost tripping over the last step. Opening the door, the sense of unease grew, and whatever vision had appeared before her was completely forgotten. The room was covered in shelves along the edges, rare ingredients and books lining them. What appeared to be potion making tools sat lying around benches, scattered across the room. A small woman stood near the middle of the room, young, blonde hair and a black dress, stood before a bubbling, acid green liquid, contained within a cauldron. The typical appearance of a witch.
Looking up, she saw Conscience, and a small smile of recognition appeared.
“Conscience, right? You’re one of the champions.” Her voice was tinted with a slight accent, but Conscience couldn’t figure out where from.
“Mimosa, no? I came here to train my magic. I heard you would help train us that way.” Mimosa stepped away from the cauldron, hands beginning to glow with magic.
“Getting straight to the point, then. Shall we?” She gestured, and her magic responded, clearing a large circle in the middle of the room. Both woman walked over, taking opposite positions on either side of the circle.
“Let us begin, then,” Conscience said, before leaping to the side to avoid a blast of acid Mimosa fired. She edged around the circle, attempting to get closer to Mimosa, however, Mimosa followed her motions, keeping the exact same distance between them. Neither made offensive moves, until Conscience suddenly dashed forward, a gathering of magic around an outstretched fist. Mimosa pulled up a magical shield, however, at the last moment, she realized the other girl’s true intent.
The forward punch had been a feint, leaving Mimosa’s left side open. Conscience’s other hand filled with magic, and she hit Mimosa’s side, pushing out the magic and enacting a debt. Mimosa’s face filled with confusion, as Conscience backed off, arms held defensively.
“Wha-what was that?” Mimosa asked, very confused.
“That begins the end of the duel,” was all Conscience said. Mimosa scowled, before pushing her hand forward. A conflagration of many-colored flames appeared before her, and she sent all the magic flying at Conscience, who barely managed to dodge. Mimosa continued to sling extremely powerful spells, but the toll began to appear. Magic drained at a faster rate, and a bruised Conscience got up after a multitude of attacks. Raising her hand, purple-ish magic gathered, and wove around her hand. As it finished gathering, Conscience paused, her body about to release it, noticing black streaks in the magic. Suddenly, like before, her vision filled with black.
Blood running across the floor, two bodies lying dead on the ground. She raises her head, noticing a man with a bloodstained sword, and a throne, made of a white material, seemingly marble. The throne glows with black light, small holes forming black pools. The man, upon closer examination, appears to be tethered to the black light. She looks down again, seeing similar black magic swirl around her. The presence of it unnerves the man, she can tell. Even if his face does not show it, his aura does. Lifting her head, yet again, she is filled with grief at the death of the two people lying before her, and a third lying off in the distance. The man begins to speak, not in a language or tone of anything found in the mortal world, but something dark, of the Abyss. Somehow, she understands.
The voice does not sound from this man’s mouth, no. It sounds from the void, a place where night does not exist, for night does not begin to describe the endless darkness that exists within this dark hell.
The figure speaks again, repeating himself, and the little girl feels the memory slip away. The bodies. Gone. The throne. Gone. The man. Gone. All that remains are the black wisps of magic, and a coat of arms that rests above all, a raven, a coin, and a black sword engraved upon. She can feel a force (Was it a man?) wiping away the black wisps, the memory of any black magic stemming from her (Has that ever happened?), and something else appearing (Conscience. Conscience, that was her name.) The force moves to remove the coat of arms, but the little girl clings to it, refusing to let go.
Suddenly shaken from the darkness, Conscience looked up, seeing a figure standing above her. Mimosa! That was right. She’d been dueling, then gotten another blackout.
“You okay?” Mimosa asked.
“Yeah. This just happens sometimes.” Conscience got up, taking the helping hand.
“There’s something dark about it.” Mimosa looked slightly unsure of herself, as if the blackout had caused something strange to trigger. “It’s like…your being drawn to something, then forgetting. Can you remember anything, somehow, from during the blackout?”
“No. I have to go, thank you for the duel.” Conscience said abruptly, turning around to leave.
“You know, if you stay focused, you can easily win the battle!” Mimosa called to her back. Conscience didn’t reply, simply leaving.
Mimosa’s question brought on one, not quite memory, not quite vision. Something that she just, unexplainably, could remember.
A coat of arms bearing a raven, a coin, and a black sword.
Right when the match began, Sturgar and Arha dashed towards each other with their weapons ready, then they clashed. Arha blocked Sturgar's scimitars with her spear, but the metal soldier still had two free arms, and he swung his axe and mace at her. Arha deflected the heavy blade, and quickly jumped away from the falling mace. Crack! The blunt weapon broke a white tile on the ground, and Sturgar crushed it even further as he stepped on it while approaching Arha. The elf kept pointing her spear at the tall opponent while slowly backing away. One wrong movement, and Sturgar could shred her into pieces. It was also hard to keep track of the metal soldier's arm movements, as they were polished and oiled to reflect sunlight like a mirror. A swooshing sound, and Arha ducked, dodging the horizontal swing of the mace, which hit a pillar instead, causing it to topple and crash onto the ground. A cloud of dust spread from the fallen pillar, concealing Arha from Sturgar's sight. The dragonborn couldn't even hear the agile opponent, but the elf could easily hear the metal soldier's heavy footsteps. She quickly leaped from the dust cloud, thrusting her spear at Sturgar's side. Or so would have happened if the metal soldier's axe didn't suddenly transform into a shield, which he used to block the thrust. Arha landed onto the ground vulnerable thanks to her imbalance, but Sturgar couldn't take advantage of the situation as he backed off quickly, startled by Arha's surprise attack. The metallic dragonborn played it safe, for he didn't want to risk getting hit by the elf's petrification magic.
After regaining her balance and noticing her opponent's hesitation, Arha charged at Sturgar. The shield shifted into a long blade as the metal soldier thrust it at Arha's torso, but the elf dodged it. A mace swing was directed at the knight's side, but she jumped over it with the support of her spear. When Arha was midair above Sturgar, she turned, unsheathed her sword, and slashed her opponent's neck. Clink! The curvy armor caused the blade to bounce off. Sturgar quickly turned around as Arha landed behind him, swinging the momentarily liquid blade and one of the scimitars at the same time. The blade solidified into an axe before it hit the knight's spear, which she placed firmly on the ground to block both of the weapons. Knock! Snap! Arha ducked to avoid the axe that cut off the spear's tip, but she managed to stop the scimitar. The elf bit her lip as she quickly ran behind a pillar before Sturgar could attack her with the mace or the other scimitar. Stomp! Stomp! The dragonborn approached the pillar, then he raised his foot and slowly toppled the stone column by pushing it with the foot. Vines rustled as the heavy structure started to lean, so Arha escaped before it crashed onto the ground and broke into large stones. Another cloud of dust surrounded the two contestants, and the dust covered Sturgar's oily armor, coloring him grey.
He looked around, but couldn't see Arha anywhere, even though the dust had gone with the breeze. Sturgar, who was no longer reflecting sunlight thanks to the dust on his armor, walked around the pillars with his weapons ready. Stomp... Stomp... Then Sturgar saw Arha's broken spear on the grass and heard as small rocks fell onto him. He looked up and saw the elf, who was standing on top of a leaning pillar with her sword sheathed in its scabbard. She stomped with both of her feet, causing the pillar to fall onto the metal soldier. Sturgar dropped his mace and shifting blade, raised his upper hands, and grabbed the pillar. On that moment, Arha quickly leaned down and touched both of Sturgar's arms, turning them to stone in seconds. The stone arms shattered, since they weren't strong enough to hold the heavy pillar, so it fell upon Sturgar head, causing him to collapse onto the ground. The pillar broke into a pile of stones as it hit the ground, and spread yet another cloud of dust.
Sturgar would have groaned if he could as he stood up from under the white rocks. Arha immediately jumped onto his back and placed her hands onto his chest. Panicking, Sturgar activated the orange crystal in his chest, causing his whole armor to turn red and hot while humming. Arha screamed as she felt burning pain all around her body, and she jumped off of Sturgar's back. Her clothes had blackened a bit, and her palms had red first-degree burns. Then she looked at Sturgar. His torso had turned to stone, and he couldn't deactivate the crystal. Time was running, so he readied his scimitars and charged at Arha, who in turn unsheathed her sword. Cling! Clang! The two parried and dodged each other's blades while Sturgar turned even brighter and hotter, smoke emitting from the gaps of his stone torso. Arha grunted, then after yet another parry, dove between Sturgar's feet and slid on the ground until she was right behind the dragonborn. After a few seconds of wondering, Sturgar turned around, and saw as Arha picked up the mace with her both hands, then charged at the scalding soldier. Sturgar dashed towards her, then they swung their weapons once again as they passed each other with clashing sounds.
Both contestants stopped, then they just stood for a moment, their backs turned towards each other. Sturgar's scimitars ringed quietly and Arha breathed heavily. Then the elf dropped the mace right before Sturgar's petrified torso armor crumbled. Blood flowed from Arha's chest and stomach, and she fell onto her knees while turning to look at Sturgar. The dragonborn's outer layer plate had broken, but he was still standing. He turned the crystal off and approached the elf. "I can't beat you," she said calmly, even though she was exhausted and holding her hands over the bleeding wounds. "You win." Sturgar nodded, then he sheathed his scimitars and offered his remaining right hand to the knight, but she shook her head while smiling. "No no no, I'm not falling for that. You're still searing." The metallic dragonborn pulled his hand away, then placed it on his face in embarrassment.
Sorry for taking so long again. I fell asleep in the middle of writing, but I hope the finished match was entertaining and stayed true to your visions of both characters!
@theirintheattic - Sturgar crashed his way to the 2nd round! You may create a new version of him or a new signature/companion card, but this time the maximum mana value of those cards is increased to 5!
@SpellPiper2213 - Arha lost, but you may write a concluding chapter for her tournament journey and post any cards you had planned for her!
"What on earth did that elf do to you?" Nartheus hurried up to Sturgar as he left the arena. The duke shed the layer of plate mail Sturgar had forced him to wear while he fought, leaving it strewn on the grass as he walked. "Your arms just crumbled! My word, if you weren't careful, that pillar could have crushed you! I'm starting to think this wasn't a great idea."
Sturgar shook his head, carrying his weapons with his two remaining arms.
"Well, lets go pay Zordroth a visit, I'm sure he'd appreciate the coin. You're in a disastrous state!" The duke shook his head, adjusting his long, burgundy coat. "Although he may not like how years of work have been destroyed in a single fight."
"What in the hell?!" Zorrdroth dropped his hammer, staring at Sturgar. "The f... How did that even- You know what, this one's gonna cost you extra. That took me four years!"
"Zordroth, good to see you." Nartheus threw the smith a heavy sac of gold. "Here's two grand. We need him fixed up as soon as physically possible. Put all other projects on hold, if you please."
"Hard to argue with coin." Zordroth shrugged, sweeping a handful of other contraptions off the workbench and cracking his knuckles. "Lie down, metal man." He grabbed a massive set of clamps, latching it onto the remnants of stone on Sturgar's breastplate. "This might hurt a bit."
The next morning, fighting to stay awake, Zordroth stepped back from the workbench, collapsing into a chair. "Done. I'm..." He sighed. "F***ing done. You come back in here like that again, it's four grand minimum, got it?" Zordroth grabbed a kettle full of coffee, draining it at once. "Gods, I need to sleep."
Sturgar sat up, examining himself in the mirror on the wall. It was as if the fight had never happened. He once again had four arms, and his chest piece was back in place. He spun his arms about, making sure they moved properly. He looked down at his hands, twisting his wrists and flexing his fingers slowly, before clenching his right hand into a fist. He heard a whistle, then a shunk, as a hooked blade at the end of a length of thick wire shot out from the top of his wrist, slicing through the air in a flash and embedding itself in the far wall, cracking the plaster. Shocked, he unclenched his hand, and the grapple immediately retracted, slipping silently back into his forearm.
"I made some changes." Zordroth cracked his neck and rubbed his tired eyes. "There's that on your two upper arms." He gestured at Sturgar with the kettle. "Your lower arms got blades, 'cuz Nartheus told me you dropped the weapons or something." He mumbled tiredly, yawning. "Now get outta here so I can get some sleep."
Sturgar balled his lower arm into a fist, and sure enough, from his forearm protruded a foot-long pointed steel blade. He slashed the air with it twice, feeling it's weight, then retracted it with a flourish. He stood and looked once more in the mirror. On his right cheekbone there remained one last trace of the battle, a tiny crack shaped like the letter Y. He touched it gingerly, smiling. The first and hopefully only scar this body would ever receive. He contemplated having the blacksmith fix it, but shook his head. This one, he would keep, as a memory, to remind him never to hold back, always be on his guard, and treat every foe as an imminent threat. He tossed an extra gold coin to Zordroth, who caught it with his eyes closed, and left the basement. He stepped into the war air, staring up at the dazzling sun. It was a beautiful day.
Both characters were awesome. I hate to say it but I was rooting for Sturgar but on any other day it would have been Arha. I hope you stay to observe the rest of the tournament.
I'm definitely staying to see the tournament through. It's a pity that Arha's gone, of course, but I'm not entirely surprised by it. Sturgar's a great and unique character, and I look forward to see where he and the other contestants end up.
There have been lots of thoughts in my mind today, and I need a good rest to clear it. Otherwise I can't focus. I hope it's okay if I move Match 7 for tomorrow, 15th of April, 16.00 Central Standard Time.
Thanks a ton everyone! Everything is in order for Match 7, except that FourEyesIsAFish needs just a bit more time to work on Tika's story segment. In order to finish it before the match, I will give 24 more hours before I host it on 16th of April, 16.00 Central Standard Time. This also gives me more time to prepare for a certain event that will happen after this round ends. Thank you for your patience!
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Chapter 11
Sturgar sat in his room, mulling over the last's match's events. It was no surprise the witch had won, though both contestants had far outperformed his previous expectations. He resolved not to underestimate the rest of the fighters. He revisited the battle mentally, seeing Imilia's psychotic smile and laugh as she stabbed the minstrel to death, and then some. That one was ruthless, and far more violent than she let on. It was disappointing that for all the magical bravado, the spells, fire, and explosions, a simple stabbing had quickly ended the fight. Well that wouldn't work on him. No metal had yet to pierce his outer layer, and none lasted longer than a minute in close combat.
He rose, heading for the door. It didn't do well to dwell on such things, and he could use some training. After ensuring that Nartheus' door was locked, bolted, and had guards posted outside, he left the fortress and went out onto the grounds below.
The sun shone through a pure, cloudless azure sky, warming the ground and glimmering off of Sturgar's body as he roamed about the grounds, looking for someone with whom to train. Rounding about to the training ground, he saw Sir Killian, the hunter knight, slashing away at a dummy with his greatsword, carving off chunks of wood with wide, powerful swipes. The knight paused, panting in the heat, before turning and noticing Sturgar standing at the edge of the grounds.
"Can I help you?" He shouted, setting down his weapon and wiping the sweat and dust from his brow. "Do you need some money for the market?"
Sturgar shook his head as he approached, pointing at the knight's fallen sword with his own.
"Oh, you'd like to spar?" Killian raised an eyebrow at Sturgar's mute experession. "Very well."
Sturgar nodded, unsheathing each of his weapons with a flouring, putting himself in a ready position. Killian hefted his sword, adjusted his chest plate, and lowered himself into a similar defensive stance. "Well, let's see what you've got."
Sturgar immediately leaped forward, cutting off the hunter knight, and unleashing a barrage of slashes, thrusts, and blows. He needed to eliminate his opponents as quickly as possible, especially the magic users, so aggression was the key. The knight blocked and parried with surprising speed, despite the size and perceived weight of his weapon, and counterattacked with a series of heavy swings. Sturgar ducked the first one, aimed at his head, deflected the next with the stem of his mace, and seeing an opening, let the third attack clatter off of his shoulder as he lashed out with his heavy mace, taking advantage of the knight's lack of balance, striking his knee hard. Killian grunted as the head of the mace smashed into his kneepad and staggered, but did not fall. Impressed, Sturgar stepped back momentarily, rolling the shoulder that had taken the blow. As the knight rose into a ready position once more, Sturgar flipped his sabers, testing their weight, before whipping them at his opponent and quickly charging after, axe and mace at the ready. The lightweight sabers whistled through the dusty air, spinning a few times before they found their targets. One thudded into a wooden dummy behind Killian, missing his face by a hair. The other found it's mark in the seam between the knight's pauldron and chest piece, sinking in a couple inches. As Killian gritted his teeth, pulling out the sword and throwing it to the ground, Sturgar whirled about, lashing out with his two remaining weapons. Killian leaped back, escaping the flurry of attacks, before winding up and, with a mighty swing, sent Sturgar staggering a foot back with a crushing blow to the abdomen. The dragonborn looked at the knight, then his chest. The armor bore no scratch, but he'd felt that blow. It would have killed an organic being, and he thanked Zordroth for his armor.
"Well done!" Killian tossed him his sabers, smiling. "You've impressed me. Let's have one more bout, before I must return to my duties." He winced, the wound from earlier throbbing. "And get this wound tended to." He shifted back into a protective stance, and waited.
Sturgar rolled his neck, picked up his swords and threw himself at the knight, smiling. This was getting fun. The two danced back and forth, trading blows, kicking up a cloud of dust. Although Sturgar unleashed strike after strike, the knight's blows were heavy and devastating, and both combatants began to tire. Sturgar spun one last time, a whirlwind of steel and blades, dragging his mace in the dirt to obscure Killian's vision. The knight deflected a few more blows, eyes watering, then finally hit the ground from a hefty body check.
Sturgar stopped, offering his hand.
"Thank you." Killian couched again, taking the dragonborn's outstretched hand. "You fight well." He winced again. "I need to get these tended to. I bid you luck in your upcoming fight, and please," He winked "Don't tell my men you beat me."
Sturgar nodded and with that, the two men set off on their separate ways.
Back in his room, Sturgar prepared for his match. He activated the heated crystal once more, taking comfort in it's scalding heat, then turned it off. He carefully removed the sword Nartheus had given him from beneath the mattress, removing the cloth wrapping almost reverently, and slashed the air a few time with it, smiling as the mercurial blade shifted from shape to shape. Finally, knowing one long touch from Arha might mean death, he spread a thin coat of clear, shimmering oil on his armor. It would serve to deflect any blows, having them slide right off instead of connecting, and would shine with a blinding light in direct sunlight, hopefully blinding his adversary. He checked on the duke one last time and settled into a chair besides the duke, nodding off. For the first time in days, Sturgar slept well.
Part 7: Information
Conscience grimaced, the hot tea scalding her mouth. She was walking out of her room on the first floor, heading to Mimosa’s tower to practice magic. Not looking at where she was going, Conscience tripped over a bump in the floor, falling and spilling her black tea. Rolling out of the puddle, she stared straight up into Imilia’s smiling face.
“I guess I never congratulated you on your victory.” Conscience said, blushing at seeing Imilia’s face so unexpectedly.
“Thanks. A strange position you appear in.” Imilia smirked.
“It’s called tripping.” Conscience noticed that Imilia was being less, well, excited, in her demeanor. Holding the outstretched hand of Imilia, Conscience pulled herself up, Imilia’s hand feeling extremely cold. “What was that necromancy you used?”
“A little trick I know,” was all Imilia said, before turning and walking away. “I’ll see you around, Conscience.” Sighing, she turned away from Imilia, heading back towards Mimosa’s tower. Her black tea was almost all gone, but a few drops still remained. Tipping the tea backwards, she continued walking forward, the dregs draining into her mouth. Not seeing where she was going, she ran into a body, slightly larger than her. Stumbling backwards, she dropped her tea mug yet again, and miraculously, it didn’t shatter, however, the dregs ran out. Looking up to see who she ran into, she stared into the face of Lyuben. Just who I wanted to see.
“Hello, Lyuben,” she said.
“Hi, Conscience. If you’re ok, I have to go do…something.” He was obviously being evasive, and as he moved to pass her, she grabbed onto his arm.
“No you’re not. It’s cute how terrible you are at lying,” she said, smiling.
“I-,” Lyuben started, but paused before being dragged onto a bench.
“Prince of Malterra??” Was all she had to say.
“I think I’ll be going,” he said, again, ignoring the question. Moving to get up, Conscience punched him in the shoulder. This stopped the movement upwards, and he moved to rub his shoulder, the punch obviously taking effect.
“Fine. Yes, I’m the Prince of Malterra.”
“Malterra. What a foul country.” Conscience scowled, her face twisting in disgust.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Lyuben said.
“I figured. You never mentioned it before, so that implies you ran away, or something similar. Why, though?”
“My father never approved of me, and killed my boyfriend to ‘cure’ me.” Lyuben face’s became sad. “He was always smiling, even in death.” Looking like he was expecting mockery, he turned to Conscience, resignation written all over his features. Instead of the mocking smile he expected, there was a look of slight understanding.
“I guess I sympathize. I’m attracted to both men and woman, and I hide that because it’s a weakness in my armor, if you get what I mean.” Suddenly realizing what she said, Conscience immediately looked slightly scared. “Never tell anyone that. If you do I will literally kill you.”
“I guess I should expect that. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.” Standing up, he turned to walk away. “I’ll see you around, Conscience. And don’t stress over your battle, I think you got it.” He paused, then walked away.
Training. Right. Conscience began the trek to Mimosa’s tower, Lyuben’s vote of confidence ringing in her ears.
TO BE CONTINUED
(Written with the help of @shadow123 , tysm for helping!!)
Chapter 7 (Tournament) - Abyssal Madness
(Graphic content ahead)Arn sat outside the fort's confines keeping tabs of what he observed from the matches so far and from what he had gathered from the most recent match his unnoticed observation earlier was right, the puppet that the witch carried did serve a purpose.
Necromancers were nothing new to Arn as in this new age of magic all manner of entities proliferated all manner of planes. Arn had slain necromancers before but nonetheless he knew they were no mean feat to beat. He tossed the dagger remembering what all the contestants who had won so far had in common, and he came to the conclusion that they all had an understanding of their capabilities, with the exception of that pale one called Lyuden which acted guarded all the time. Arn sat on top of a tree for a couple more hours, observing unsuspecting citizens passing through the nearby path before deciding to pay Mizor a visit.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Upon arriving just moments away from Mizor's cottage he had commotion ensue. Some men roughly five of them, thug like in appearance and very displeased congregated at Mizor's house and were trying to force themselves in. Arn decided to watch for a while before interceding and deduced that they were here for some sort of debt the old man hadn't paid in a while. They carried jagged bludgeoning tools and just as they were about to use them to break down the door, they were thrown back by a blast of abyssal magic turning into withered husks in minutes. From the blast emerged a deformed figure cackling with madness who then fired again at Arn's direction grazing the tree Arn hid behind.
Mizor: "I know you are there demon! Show yourself before I make you"
Arn walked out with hands outstretched and laughing uncontrollably.
Arn: " I assure you, you are making a big mistake"
Mizor more bold in his new power, fired a barrage of abyssal energy while taunting Arn as Arn dodged each shot almost subconsciously.
Mizor: "I was so scared of you that I forgot what I wielded" (Blast)
Mizor: "So scared of letting my guard down or I would go insane" (Blast)
Mizor: "Always having to take care of a fragile world" (Blast) "Then I realized after finally making a breakthrough for the first time in a while" he said now stretching his hands wide open "Why should I give you the power when I can take it all from myself?" he chuckled to himself drunk with power.
Mizor then tore off the left index finger with a slight grimace as a demonstration before piecing it together as the wound seared itself shut on his now pale skin. He fired a few more shots towards Arn who dodged them all with ease before exclaiming "I am immort..." followed by gurgling noises as a dagger found its way in his throat. Mizor was so busy monologuing that he failed to notice that Arn had thrown a dagger towards his direction until it found it's way in his throat.
Mizor attempted to pull the dagger out but Arn rushed at him quickly and grabbed his other hand pushing the dagger deeper into his vocal cords as he spouted out a black ichor, the mage attempted to use his left hand to fire a blast at Arn but Arn used his other hand to grab it and snap it like a twig upon his knee as Mizor attempted to scream but couldn't due to his vocals being obstructed.
Arn then let the corrupted mage fall to the ground struggling as he placed a foot in the mage's thrashing right hand. He observed the twisted left hand untwist and mend itself together as the bones here attached themselves underneath Mizor's skin.
Arn: "Interesting"
Noticing that Mizor's skin was becoming a more bluish pale and his right hand was becoming weaker Arn pulled the dagger out of his throat and watched as his throat mended itself together.
Arn: "Such a shame, I really did think you had attained immortality" Arn said for the first time in a while showing actual disappointment "Well the deadline is over and I see you found something of use to me." Arn stepped away from the downed mage.
Mizor: " I woun't tell you anything" Mizor spattered back coughing and holding his throat.
Arn: "Have you given up on your family? Or perhaps you have finally gone insane."
Mizor: "I killed them" Mizor spoke plainly catching Arn off guard for a while "Yea that's right, they were too much of a hinderance to me so I killed them" Mizor began laughing to himself before his laugh got interrupted by a more devious laughter that shook even his corrupt mind,
Arn: "Well then" Arn's tone shifted ominously "I guess we have a change of arrangements then" Arn said as he pulled out his daggers and rushed at Mizor once again.
Mizor overpowered by his fear more so than his madness began firing a barrage of blasts at Arn each of them being caught and deflected by Arn as he coated his hand with his wild magic. Arn then fired a blast of wild magic launching the mage at the cottage walls as Arn used wild magic to make the wooden beams restrain the mages's upper torso all the way to his neck except for his hands.
Arn then slowly walked with his dagger out and knelt near Mizor's hands and began severing each of his fingers one by one beginning with the nails, then the flesh as he repeated this and let them grow back all the while ignoring the mages pleas to stop. Soon screams littered the surroundings as morning turned to dusk and dusk turned to night. Arn finally stopped and let the pleading mage free when he promised that he would tell Arn all that he had learned about the abyss broken and in tears.
Mizor knowing better than to run disposed his full knowledge about the abyss, he told Arn about how he had almost attained immortality and of how if he had a little more time maybe months he could perfect the ritual and make Arn a god. Mizor turned at Arn and saw a mask and for some reason he knew Arn was satisfied.
Arn: "You have been very useful Mizor" Arn said looking at the crazed old man.
Mizor: "Does that mean, I am free to go now?" Mizor asked nervously
Arn: "Yes, you are free to go" Arn said pulling out his dagger.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Arn walked through the stained cottage, observing decayed corpses of what he assumed to be the wife and the child , through the trashed kitchen littered with silverware, then out of the cabin into the cold night air. He took the research papers and stuffed them in his pockets before wild shifting and flying off as the cabin spontaneously erupted in flames.
Conclusion
Chapter Twelve - Under the Stars
“Does it hurt? To die?”
“Yes. Yes it does, and I highly suggest you don’t,” a voice replied sarcastically.
Lyuben and Ayden laid side by side on the damp grass under a pink cherry blossom tree. They gazed up at the twinkling stars and the silver moon that bestowed its calming rays down upon the plane. In front of them was a large still pond that reflected the stars’ colorful lights like a perfect photograph.
Ayden laughed a little bit. “Prince of Malterra?? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because...it wasn’t that important? Why?”
“Malterra is one of the most influential kingdoms in the far northeast! And you just thought you should omit that from your life story?”
“There are things I don’t want to remember, okay?” Lyuben said sharply.
“Like what?”
“It’s not important. Really.”
"You know, I used to be like you," Ayden started, "I hated myself for who I was. For who I was becoming."
"You're-"
"Gay as well. Yes."
Lyuben winced upon hearing the word "gay". It had caused him so much pain at the hands of his father. He thought his mother had stood up for him. Apparently not.
Ayden continued, "I used to hate myself as my family hated me for it. I was disowned. The only thing that kept me going was doing what I loved. Fighting that pain even if it reminded me of the past."
Lyuben felt somewhat happy finding out that Ayden was like him. Lyuben felt somewhat sorry too.
Ayden sighed and turned his head to look back up at the stars. Lyuben stared at Ayden wishfully for a few more seconds, then turned up to look at the sparkling night sky.
“See there?” Ayden pointed up at a pattern of stars above them, “They call this constellation ‘The Fallen Friend’. That girl is named Akuma. She died mysteriously over twenty-five years ago after getting into a violent fight with her best friend. Many suspect it was suicide.”
“Suicide, why?”
“It’s unclear. But we know this girl was from a foreign place. When her last friend left her, there was no one left for her. She felt alone. The betrayal of her best friend piled up on her failures in the Vosanovan war. Some think that all the emotional pressure led to her death. The feeling of failure. The feeling of being alone.”
The mention of failure and isolation was something Lyuben was all too familiar with. He looked away from the beautiful golden constellation. His head was turned away from Ayden too.
“Why are you telling me this?” Lyuben asked.
“Because you asked me more about Akuma’s past.”
“No, why did you point out that constellation out of all the other ones in the night sky? Look at that one! Siansa, Friyena’s second champion! Or how about-”
Lyuben felt Ayden’s warm hand find itself in his hand. Lyuben immediately quieted down. Both of them watched in silence as a single pink petal from the tree slowly fluttered to the ground. Then, Ayden looked into Lyuben’s brown eyes. Lyuben couldn’t help but feel happy and safe even in his most vulnerable moments next to Ayden.
“It’s because I care.”
“You care?”
“I’m worried about you, Lyuben. I have been ever since the first day I saw you. I noticed something was wrong. Who would immediately cast a spell on someone that tapped their shoulder in such a lively area like that town square. I see the sadness pent up behind your eyes. I see the silvery trails left behind from dried tears of the previous night. I see the immense potential you have and the many dangers that may lie ahead. I only want the best. The best for you.”
Ayden gulped, but to his surprise, Lyuben smiled. For the first time since his parents' betrayal he felt safe around a person, but Lyuben didn’t know why. He smiled just like the others.
Could this just be some random story about care like my mother’s? Why does he make me feel safe? Why does he make me feel happy? Why can’t I get myself to fully love Ayden? I love him, right?
Lyuben scooted a little closer to Ayden. They were still holding hands and Lyuben’s head rested gently on Ayden’s shoulder. They both laid in the comforting silence of nighttime. The shadows seemed to curl around the two teenagers, creating a protective sphere around them.
“Thank you,” Lyuben whispered, “Thank you for being here with me.”
“There’s no need to thank me. I enjoy being with you too.”
Lyuben felt as Ayden’s hand gently tilted the prince’s head up so that their eyes met. Lyuben looked lovingly into Ayden’s hazel eyes. Then, Lyuben moved in closer to Ayden, feeling a rush of love and passion he hadn’t felt since his boyfriend was killed.
D̸̢͊o̷̅ͅ ̶̺͋y̶̝͋o̵͉̕ũ̶̫ ̸̺̊f̵͓̅u̸̞̽l̴̞̈́l̷͈̏ȳ̴̹ ̸͎̀ť̷͕r̷̪̅ű̸̫s̷̭͒t̴͙̃ ̶̪̊t̶̛͖ḩ̶͘a̴̗̋t̴̠͛ ̵͎͂b̶̀ͅò̶͜ẙ̶̺,̶̫͂ ̷̝̓L̷̤̊y̷̤͠ű̷͈b̷̠͛ē̶̻n̴̜̈́?̶͔͒ ̵͙͛Ǎ̷ͅr̷̙̊ė̵̬ ̷̛̙ỳ̷̼ỏ̷͚u̷̻͋ ̵͚̀s̵͎̋u̸̪͠r̴̞͒ē̵̞ ̵̥̿y̵̥͝ò̴̗u̵̙͘ ̸͇̽w̷̭̍a̴͇̍n̸̖͑t̶̰͋ ̶̝͋ẗ̷̲́o̶̫͗ ̴̥̊d̴͙̈o̶̮̒ ̴̘̽t̷͚̍h̵̬̄i̵̬̾ś̸͚?̷̖͋
I- I…
Lyuben suddenly stopped. Lyuben could feel Ayden's gentle breath on his pale face. Lyuben could feel the pain inside him as he stopped. He could hear voices inside his head trying to hold him back from his only love. Lyuben wanted to wash away the pain of his dead boyfriend so badly. He wanted it all to be over. But he couldn't.
“I’m sorry,” Lyuben stood up quickly. “I- I can’t do this. Not yet. I just..can’t…It hurts too much…”
Lyuben ran off into the distance, leaving Ayden alone in the lonely shadows.
“Lyuben? Did I do something wrong? Did I say something?”
Lyuben slowed down to a walking speed as he reached the dark forest. The trees provided a dark shelter for him to think.
Ǵ̵̲o̴͈͌o̸̙̚d̷̫͑,̸̡̀ ̴̋͜g̴̞̎ơ̶̫o̷̘͆ḍ̷̽.̴̖́ ̸̖̒Ẇ̸̧ḩ̸̚e̴͇̅n̴̳̑ ̵̛͇y̵̰͝o̴͙͝u̸͙͠ ̶̺̇c̵̻͆ȁ̵͈ņ̵̾'̶̖̊ṱ̶̕ ̴͉̔t̵͙̓r̶̦̈ụ̵̕s̶͇̃ẗ̸̬́ ̸͓̽a̷̰͒n̶̡͑y̷̦̏o̶͎̒n̸̡̅e̶̯̒,̶̠̇ ̷͚̑y̶̳͆o̶̼͝u̷̫̐ ̶͖͊w̷͍̋i̷͙̾l̸̙̓ļ̴͑ ̴͉͆f̸̩̅ĭ̸̜n̸͕͐a̸̋ͅl̶̝͛ḻ̸̄y̵͙͊ ̴̠͗f̵̀ͅḯ̸ͅn̸͆ͅd̴̨͋ ̷̧̎s̴̢̓o̵̗̓l̷̜̈́a̷̱̓c̴͇͊e̸͖̒ ̶͕̆i̴̹͌ǹ̷͈ ̸̘͑t̵̘͋ȟ̷̤e̴̘̕ ̴̢̈́d̶̳̄a̸͠ͅr̷̙͘k̸̪̽n̶͔̚é̶͜s̶͇̍s̵̠̍ ̷̤͆y̷̹͌ỏ̵̞u̵͉͆ ̷͇͛b̵̝̋e̷͍͋h̸͇̓o̸̥͝ḻ̵̿d̶̨͌.̷͖̉
Why do you have to ruin everything? Why?
I̷̟͒ ̸̢̈d̵̟̃i̶̡͘d̷̻̿n̷̪͝'̴̧̓t̶̹̎.̷̮̊ ̴̢͝Y̸̬͌ŏ̶̮u̵̪͐ ̸̞̎d̴̪̍î̵̪d̸̻̉ ̷̠͊t̴̟̓h̴̥͒i̷̜͌ș̶̅ ̶̣̃ẙ̶͜o̴̩͌u̸̠͗r̵̖̓ṣ̷͊e̶̺̒l̵̼̕f̵̩̕.̸̟͒ ̷̫͠I̵̳̎ ̸̰̄j̵̏ͅu̴̗̅s̶̟͠t̴̰̚ ̷̲̕r̷̥͗ê̵͔m̶̹̈î̶̝n̷̢͑d̶̨͛ë̴͍́d̴͉̄ ̸͚͘ÿ̵͍ö̷̮ȗ̴̳ ̷̳̊ő̴̰f̴̠͝ ̸̭̇w̵̗͐h̵̼́ö̶̼́ ̷̥̀Y̶̨͒O̷̝̒Ǘ̴͙ ̵̯̄a̷̗͝ṟ̴̈e̷̪͗.̸̦̄
I’m not who you think I am! I can be strong!
O̷͎͌h̵̄ͅ ̵̺̿y̷̞̓e̷̙̊s̶̻͋.̵̘͠ ̵͍̔Ý̵̪o̶͈̓ů̸̟ ̷͈̈á̸͔r̶̨̅e̶͍͊ ̵̡̚š̷̫t̸̆͜r̶͇̂ȏ̸̺n̷͙̂ǵ̸̨.̶͈́ ̵̞̅Y̵̹̾o̵̺͒ü̸̡ ̷̧̉h̷̼͗a̷̝͂v̸̢͠ë̴̱ ̸̭̄t̸̞͛ẖ̸̔ḛ̷͒ ̶̦̽p̷̖͆ǒ̸͜w̸̥͌e̶̥͝r̸̲̎s̴̭̀ ̵̲̿ò̴͍ḟ̶͔ ̶̯͗R̶̳͘a̸͉̎k̵̬̈́h̴̾͜a̴̧͑d̴̫̚î̸͉.̴̩͝ ̷̰́T̵̖͗h̷̠͗ẻ̷̗ ̵͓̂ō̸̠n̵͍͒e̴͙͐ ̶͍̓w̷͌͜h̸̍ͅo̶͊͜ ̴̛͔c̷̡̑h̴͖̔a̶͊͜ĺ̶͙l̷̪̆é̷͖ñ̵͙g̶̭̑ȅ̴͍ḓ̴͋ ̷̨̉t̴̝͊h̵̤͌e̷̜͑ ̷̦̆g̴̗͊o̸̱̎d̴͍̕s̸͖͑ ̴̙̀t̷̗͆ḧ̸̼́e̵̞͒m̴͙͌s̷̨̐e̸͈͒l̶̨̐v̴̦̀ě̴̪s̴̥̓.̵̤͌
I don’t want to be Rakhadi! I want to be Lyuben!
W̶̱͊h̸͉͝o̷̫͂ ̸̢̐i̷̹̔s̸̩̆ ̸͎͐L̷̻͐ŷ̸̠ü̶̬b̸͔̈́ę̷̋n̷̪̐ ̸̧͛t̶̳̿ḩ̵͛e̶̡̐n̷̹͒?̴͓̆
I’m...I’m...I don’t know…
T̸͈̒h̶̡͊a̴̖̕ẗ̴̠'̴̹́s̷̖͘ ̶̡̾r̴̗̽i̷͖͐ĝ̸̮h̵͚͘t̵͔̿.̸͇͐.̸̫̾.̸̲͋m̸͔̄a̶̠̕y̸̨̕b̵͍́e̶͓̓ ̵̪͛t̵̳̋h̵̗̏ḛ̸͛ ̶̮͠ạ̷̀b̷̼̅y̴̯̓s̸͔̅s̸̛͎ ̵̯͗w̷͋ͅi̴̛̱ĺ̵͍l̷͂͜ ̵͎͒s̴̪̄ḧ̶͖́o̸̡̊ẅ̷̪ ̴̯̀ỹ̸͓o̸̼͐ǔ̵ͅ ̵͉̿ẃ̸̤h̷̡̿ŏ̶̤ ̴̟̈́y̵̝̏o̸͇͑u̶̡͘ ̶̪͗a̷̧̓r̵̔ͅẻ̸̯.̴̠̎ ̴̮̈W̶̗͝ḥ̵͊ǒ̶̬ ̴͖͗ỹ̸̜o̶͍̍ṳ̶̃ ̷̮̄w̴̳̓ì̶̥l̷͕͐l̴̬͌ ̴̤̓b̷̖̎ĕ̸̦c̵̜͑o̷̡̅m̷͍̑e̷͕͌.̷̘̒.̶̻̍.̸̡̊
First Round
Traces and Sixth Match
Chapter 10: A Wealth of Sorts
Chapter 10: A Wealth of Sorts (cont.)
Chapter 10: A Wealth of Sorts (cont.)
Lessons (1/2)
“Are all these really necessary?” Hadid asked as he tightened a strap on his padded body armor and bracers.
Sir Killian continued pacing to the opposite end of the dusty training ring, twirling a practice spear experimentally. As he reached the starting marker, he rolled his shoulders under his worn gambeson and turned to face the mage. He relaxed into a steady stance with the blunted wooden point inclined toward Hadid.
“Not very talkative, are you?”
“Not during combat,” the knight grunted. “Every time you open your mouth you give more of an edge to your foe.”
Hadid started to respond but Killian shook his head sharply. “Enough. You asked to work against the spear, so let’s work.”
Hadid scanned the training ring. The packed-dirt field was open and featureless save for the starting markers and roughly-hewn wooden fencing wrapped around its perimeter. No obstacles or hiding spots meant combatants were forced into close quarters engagements. Nullify my advantages to strengthen my disadvantages, the mage resolved.
He was jolted from his assessment by a glint of sunlight off the wooden spearhead. Sir Killian closed the distance between them with quick strides, thrusting once, twice with the spear. Hadid leapt backward, judging the strikes and keeping just out of their reach. The knight continued to press forward, backing Hadid toward the ring’s edge with the spearpoint. As Hadid bumped against the fence, Killian darted in and drove the spear forward.
The mage swiftly summoned a small portal in the blade’s path. The spear’s tip emerged from a matching gate that opened beside the knight at the same moment. Killian threw his head back to avoid the point as it blistered past his face. He withdrew his weapon, spinning it around himself to reset his stance. He bounced lightly on his feet before switching his grip, slashing the spear in a diagonal stroke.
Hadid leaned awkwardly to avoid the strike, scraping against the wood planking as he gathered mana. As Sir Killian swung the spear back across, the mage summoned a portal under his own feet. Dropping through it, he sprung up directly behind the knight, prepared to throw a punch. Instead, he hastily tumbled backward out of the way of a blindingly fast swipe of the spear as Killian pivoted. The knight angled the spearpoint to the ground as Hadid regained his footing. “No offense professor, but you seem a bit slow on the draw.”
“Age and treachery will always outdo youth and enthusiasm,” Hadid huffed as he brushed dust from his sparring gear.
“Then be treacherous.” Killian spread his arms wide. “Don’t do the obvious.”
Hadid considered this briefly then nodded and adopted his ready stance, exhaling slowly.
In a flash, Sir Killian was on him again. Hadid twisted slightly to avoid a direct jab toward his chest then ducked low as Killian slashed across in a scything motion. The wooden spearhead arced high as the knight transitioned the slash into an overhead cleave. Hadid quickly conjured a portal beneath himself and slipped into it to avoid the blow.
Sir Killian sighed with disappointment as he heard the subtle pop of a portal opening directly behind him. Turning with blistering speed, he slashed the mage as he appeared.
Or, would have appeared. His spear whistled as it sliced the empty air with terrifying force.
For the briefest moment, Sir Killian was uncertain. His eyes darted around the empty ring before realizing the play. He tucked the spear against his body and dove forward, narrowly avoiding Hadid’s thundering kick as he fell from overhead. Lightning crackled around the mage’s booted foot as dust swirled away from the point where he landed. Another portal hovered in the air above where Killian stood moments before. Hadid’s breathing was heavy and ragged as he resumed a ready stance and faced Killian.
The knight tightened his grip on the spear. There may be hope for the old man yet.
Lessons (2/2)
“Remember, your portals won’t work on broad swings like these.” Sir Killian demonstrated the attacks slowly. “You’ll have to watch for thrusts if you hope to redirect them.”
Hadid sat against the base of a tree, wiping a damp cloth across his neck. He took deep breaths through his nose as he recovered his stamina. His arms, chest, and one unlucky spot on his forehead ached from the times that the spear that found its mark. The well of mana he pulled from that was normally so rich felt like it had been drained to the dregs from the volume of spells he’d cast.
The knight tapped the spearpoint against the tree trunk. “Hey, you with me?”
Hadid started to nod, then paused. “I’ve been meaning to ask, you’ve... fought abyssal monsters?”
Killian nodded gravely.
“Do you believe they can be stopped?”
“You saw what happened while we traveled in. Akons fall like any other.”
Hadid shook his head. “I mean more permanently.”
Sir Killian stared intently at the mage as he propped his weight against the haft of the spear. His voice came out low and even. “Have you heard the legend of ‘The Great Failure?’”
“I’ve heard a great many stories, but I’d rather hear it from one who’s more experienced in the matter.” Hadid mopped at his brow with the cloth. “And I wouldn’t mind a few more moments to rest.”
The knight huffed as he laid the spear across his shoulders. “According to the earliest tales, the first caretaker of Avelaide saw a vision - a portent of destruction for the world. In hopes of stopping the destruction, He turned to the Abyss, the greatest force in the realm. He conquered it to harness its power for Avelaide’s protection. However, as he gained more control over it, the Abyss also gained more control over him, eventually consuming him. At that moment -” Killian snapped his fingers. “- the Abyss was released into the world, violently destroying all life in its path. The other gods banded together to trap it beyond the Gate to the Afterlife but not before it wrought untold havoc.”
The mage listened wide-eyed, enraptured. The knight planted the spearpoint in the grass at the base of the tree as he continued. “The caretaker who sought to control the Abyss became trapped within the dark realm, eternally locked in torment between life and death. His name is forgotten but, just like the Akons, it is believed that he will also return… as the abyssal avatar that will ruin the world. They now call him ‘Septhis.’”
Hadid shivered at the name. “He became the fulfillment of the prophecy he tried to prevent.”
The knight nodded again. “If the tale is true, then there was a time when there were no Akons and the Abyss wasn’t a violent, all-consuming force. A world where it served some other purpose, had another nature, and perhaps even had another name.”
The mage leaned forward excitedly. “Then there may be a way to return the Abyss to the way it was before.”
Sir Killian shrugged as he shook his head. “It’s just an old tale. We defend against encroaching darkness because we must.”
“But if the Abyss was harnessed in the past there surely we could -”
“The Abyss is part of Avelaide now and dreaming that it isn’t is a waste of time.” The knight pulled the spear from the grass and brushed the blade against his sleeve. “Speaking of wasting time, we’re burning daylight.”
Hadid sat back, deflated. He tucked the cloth into a pocket, mind spinning as he processed the story. “You are worthy of your title, Sir Killian. You fight with the skill and ferocity of a whole battalion.”
“And you... find ways to make up for your shortcomings.” Sir Killian pulled an arm across his chest in a stretch.
Hadid laughed softly. “That bad, huh?”
A small smile tugged at the corner of the knight’s mouth as he surveyed the cloudy sky. “The day is yet young.” He stepped out of the shade and paced back toward the ring. “And you still have much to learn, teacher.”
Hadid took a deep breath and pushed against the tree trunk, rising once more.
Part 8: Memories
Conscience continued her walk towards Mimosa’s tower, mulling over what Lyuben has said, and more importantly, why she had shared that. It was strange, she decided. Something strange is happening to me. It’s like…things are being replaced. Still, no time to continue thinking about the strangeness, and time to think about winning the battle. In order to win, I have to practice, since I haven’t had time to practice magic yet.
Walking up the steps in Mimosa’s tower, the creaking was amplified by the small area. A strange sense of unease filled her, and as she reached a door at the top, wooden and closed, strange liquid sounds coming from behind, darkness swept over her vision, for a moment.
Blood running across the floor, two bodies lying d-
The vision snapped away, and Conscience swayed, almost tripping over the last step. Opening the door, the sense of unease grew, and whatever vision had appeared before her was completely forgotten. The room was covered in shelves along the edges, rare ingredients and books lining them. What appeared to be potion making tools sat lying around benches, scattered across the room. A small woman stood near the middle of the room, young, blonde hair and a black dress, stood before a bubbling, acid green liquid, contained within a cauldron. The typical appearance of a witch.
Looking up, she saw Conscience, and a small smile of recognition appeared.
“Conscience, right? You’re one of the champions.” Her voice was tinted with a slight accent, but Conscience couldn’t figure out where from.
“Mimosa, no? I came here to train my magic. I heard you would help train us that way.” Mimosa stepped away from the cauldron, hands beginning to glow with magic.
“Getting straight to the point, then. Shall we?” She gestured, and her magic responded, clearing a large circle in the middle of the room. Both woman walked over, taking opposite positions on either side of the circle.
“Let us begin, then,” Conscience said, before leaping to the side to avoid a blast of acid Mimosa fired. She edged around the circle, attempting to get closer to Mimosa, however, Mimosa followed her motions, keeping the exact same distance between them. Neither made offensive moves, until Conscience suddenly dashed forward, a gathering of magic around an outstretched fist. Mimosa pulled up a magical shield, however, at the last moment, she realized the other girl’s true intent.
The forward punch had been a feint, leaving Mimosa’s left side open. Conscience’s other hand filled with magic, and she hit Mimosa’s side, pushing out the magic and enacting a debt. Mimosa’s face filled with confusion, as Conscience backed off, arms held defensively.
“Wha-what was that?” Mimosa asked, very confused.
“That begins the end of the duel,” was all Conscience said. Mimosa scowled, before pushing her hand forward. A conflagration of many-colored flames appeared before her, and she sent all the magic flying at Conscience, who barely managed to dodge. Mimosa continued to sling extremely powerful spells, but the toll began to appear. Magic drained at a faster rate, and a bruised Conscience got up after a multitude of attacks. Raising her hand, purple-ish magic gathered, and wove around her hand. As it finished gathering, Conscience paused, her body about to release it, noticing black streaks in the magic. Suddenly, like before, her vision filled with black.
Blood running across the floor, two bodies lying dead on the ground. She raises her head, noticing a man with a bloodstained sword, and a throne, made of a white material, seemingly marble. The throne glows with black light, small holes forming black pools. The man, upon closer examination, appears to be tethered to the black light. She looks down again, seeing similar black magic swirl around her. The presence of it unnerves the man, she can tell. Even if his face does not show it, his aura does. Lifting her head, yet again, she is filled with grief at the death of the two people lying before her, and a third lying off in the distance. The man begins to speak, not in a language or tone of anything found in the mortal world, but something dark, of the Abyss. Somehow, she understands.
L̴̡̳͈̮̥͚̝̼̰͆̐͛͋͠i̴̧̛̙͈͕̱̔̀̄̎̈̐͗̀̇͘̚t̷̨͉̤͔̺̰͔̱͓͕̻̬̞̮̏͜t̵̢̢̻̱̲̠̫̙͍̖̙͖̽̿ľ̸̡̧̡̤̱͕̥̼̱͔̟̄͐̂͑̍͗̿́͛ę̵̨̡̛̬̺̫̟̻̫̣̺̽̆͑̐̅̀ ̵̛̬͓̏͗͌̽̔̈́̆̆̓̓̾́͘͘ǧ̷̮̖̺͎͓̯̆̆̌̆̅̎̅̚͘̕͠ȋ̷̧̡̬̼̮̂͊̒̅̑͆̐́̇͘͜͝͝r̸̢̘̼̫̍͊̆̉̒͋̈́̌́̌̓̋͝l̶̢̢̪͍̫̘͓̦͎̜͚͎̉,̸̥͎̹͍̍͐͑̓̃̽̕ ̷̤͎̤̬̮̹̱̞̲̹͙̥̬̈́̈́̄̓̏̾̾͘̚͜͝r̸̮̗͐̾̃̃́̇̔̚ͅu̷͉̙̮͈͐͠n̵̨̧̜̯̳͓͉͓̖̥̄̊̿͗͌̈̏̿̅͛̀͂̕͘.̷͔͚͕͉̠̦̄̾͠ ̴̟͇͎̩͙̥̱̙̱̤̹̝̔̿͋̔̈́̄̽̀͑Y̸̧̢̯̞̼̤̰̘͕̠̅͗̀̅̈́̊̆̋̎̒͝ỏ̶͙̦͚̩̙̓̇̈ͅư̷̧̟͚̝̬̻͓̞̦̊̒͐̉̾̔́̇͝͝ ̷̡̨͙̫̞͔̻̪̩̬̮̃̂͗́̍ą̷͉̘̺̻͙̳̻̲̹̹͈͍̱̱̉̈́̊͐̆͛̒͋r̴͇̗̭̹̩̽̉̀͌̎͒e̶̥̤̱͇̠̫͉̬̙͑ͅͅ ̸̧͔̦͖͈͎̿̋͐̍̇͛̑̑̈͑́͌̚͜͝ǹ̸̖̟͈̭̬͈͗̿͌̓̾̈́̌̚͝ŏ̶̧̡̧̮̗̰͇̊̑̉̅̊̌̕͝͝͠t̸͚̭͉͕̄̿̾͑͐̒̋̑́́ ̸̘͓͇̜̮͇̦̝͈̐̀̀͌̒̏̉̎̑̅͑̀̕͜͠y̸̡̛̛͎̭̘̳̣̟̳͂͐̃̒͂̈́͝ͅͅe̷͉̻̹̖̪̖͍̬̰̫̽̇̀t̵̩͉̭̲̩͉̳͙̹̠͙́́̔͒̾̀͊́́̂͒̒͂͑͐͜ ̷̛̳͙̗̯͙̰̺̩̹̮̜̒͆̔̇́͠r̸̨̛̻͉̜͚͎̪̻͓͈̗͙̱̫͉͊̅͂͋̎ȩ̶̭̻̩̰̩͔̞̣̋̈́̂̐̑̅̿̒̿̕͠͠a̷̡̞͈̤̟̹̹̱͋̒̑̓̌̓d̸͕̩̯̺͍͔̙͔͙̩̓̎̋́͋͗͜y̵̨̨͙̺̪͙͇͓͇̳̜̥̩̐̀͒̀́͗͑̅̆̾̊̊̏͐̋͜.̵̝̙̼͕͈̮̣͈̟̔̑̋̅̄̅̌́̀̌͘͝͝
The voice does not sound from this man’s mouth, no. It sounds from the void, a place where night does not exist, for night does not begin to describe the endless darkness that exists within this dark hell.
Y̸̡̢̱̣̖̞̻͍̺̝̫͈̣̚͜ơ̶̢̧̤̠̺̪̦͎̖̣̗͇̯͇̦̈͂̌̀̇̾͐̍̃̒̔͝ǔ̶̲̭̮̹̦͓̎̽͒͆͊̔̀͝ ̶̛̹͗̾̀̍̅̾̕à̵̩͉̪̮̥̗̠̜̂̐̓̈̽̓̑̀̈r̷̡̛̮̭̬͕͎̼̔͐͗̌͒̆̓͗̈́̈͠͠͠e̴͙̙͇̫͍̗̲̟̗̤͚̪̅̌͊͆̃̏̈́̃͜͝ ̴̙͚̝̿́͝ṋ̸̢̜̩͓̻͖͚͔͖̟̜͔̈́̔̋̂̅̑̈͊̔̔̈́̂̾͐̕o̵̧̡̡̞̗͕͚͕̥̬̗̮͙̓͌͆̈̆̉͆̊̓͆̉t̵̨̨́͌̆̅̊̀͐̒̉ ̷̨̢̛̛̙̟̼͔̳̘̽̇̽͌͛̈͗̈́̾̕͝͝r̶̬̗̲̟̺̤̞̳͆̋͑̈̂͑̈́̕̚ȩ̶̢̛͔̰̮͕̭̿͒͛̌̂̍͒͒̈́̇͑̕ͅͅà̷̛͈͛͝d̸͈͚͔̳͛̔̅̅̚͝͝͠͠ȳ̷̢̘̪̰̩̺͚̘̟̼̰̽͒̌̀͋͋͘̕͜ ̴̨͇̗̼̰͕̞̊͑̈́̊̈̃t̷̼̤̱̘̯̻̿̒͗ớ̶̡̧̖̙͖͓̰̞͕̟̠̪͕̤͕̍͝͝ ̶̢͕̲̳̗͈͔̭͖͕̂̊̎̚ͅŗ̴̡̞̮̦͖̏͗̇̄͊̕͝ë̴̩̠̺̬̮̬̎̽̂̚͝͝m̸̛̼͕͎̼̩̰̬̃͆̃͑́̾̇́̋͝͠͝ẽ̵̛͉̙̐̆͑̌̓͆́̍̾̇͘m̷̗̫̯̝̹͓̥̖̱̻͈̯̟̾̾̽̂́̓̋͜͝ḇ̸̧̧̧̜̣̝̎̅̽̌̇̈̆̌̌̓̂͘͘͝͠e̵̡̯̩̞̞̤̞̮̜͎͌̐̌͌͌̓͑͝ͅr̵͉̞̱̲̗̤̹̞̮̰̬̓͂̈́̈́̅̂͆̂̾̋̈́͝.̶̛̛͚̳̦̗̺̰̂͑̓͗̕
The figure speaks again, repeating himself, and the little girl feels the memory slip away. The bodies. Gone. The throne. Gone. The man. Gone. All that remains are the black wisps of magic, and a coat of arms that rests above all, a raven, a coin, and a black sword engraved upon. She can feel a force (Was it a man?) wiping away the black wisps, the memory of any black magic stemming from her (Has that ever happened?), and something else appearing (Conscience. Conscience, that was her name.) The force moves to remove the coat of arms, but the little girl clings to it, refusing to let go.
Suddenly shaken from the darkness, Conscience looked up, seeing a figure standing above her. Mimosa! That was right. She’d been dueling, then gotten another blackout.
“You okay?” Mimosa asked.
“Yeah. This just happens sometimes.” Conscience got up, taking the helping hand.
“There’s something dark about it.” Mimosa looked slightly unsure of herself, as if the blackout had caused something strange to trigger. “It’s like…your being drawn to something, then forgetting. Can you remember anything, somehow, from during the blackout?”
“No. I have to go, thank you for the duel.” Conscience said abruptly, turning around to leave.
“You know, if you stay focused, you can easily win the battle!” Mimosa called to her back. Conscience didn’t reply, simply leaving.
Mimosa’s question brought on one, not quite memory, not quite vision. Something that she just, unexplainably, could remember.
A coat of arms bearing a raven, a coin, and a black sword.
First Round
Sixth Conclusion
Signature // Arena // Signature
Sixth Result
Sorry for taking so long again. I fell asleep in the middle of writing, but I hope the finished match was entertaining and stayed true to your visions of both characters!
@theirintheattic - Sturgar crashed his way to the 2nd round! You may create a new version of him or a new signature/companion card, but this time the maximum mana value of those cards is increased to 5!
@SpellPiper2213 - Arha lost, but you may write a concluding chapter for her tournament journey and post any cards you had planned for her!
The Tournament Bracket has been updated!
"What on earth did that elf do to you?" Nartheus hurried up to Sturgar as he left the arena. The duke shed the layer of plate mail Sturgar had forced him to wear while he fought, leaving it strewn on the grass as he walked. "Your arms just crumbled! My word, if you weren't careful, that pillar could have crushed you! I'm starting to think this wasn't a great idea."
Sturgar shook his head, carrying his weapons with his two remaining arms.
"Well, lets go pay Zordroth a visit, I'm sure he'd appreciate the coin. You're in a disastrous state!" The duke shook his head, adjusting his long, burgundy coat. "Although he may not like how years of work have been destroyed in a single fight."
"What in the hell?!" Zorrdroth dropped his hammer, staring at Sturgar. "The f... How did that even- You know what, this one's gonna cost you extra. That took me four years!"
"Zordroth, good to see you." Nartheus threw the smith a heavy sac of gold. "Here's two grand. We need him fixed up as soon as physically possible. Put all other projects on hold, if you please."
"Hard to argue with coin." Zordroth shrugged, sweeping a handful of other contraptions off the workbench and cracking his knuckles. "Lie down, metal man." He grabbed a massive set of clamps, latching it onto the remnants of stone on Sturgar's breastplate. "This might hurt a bit."
The next morning, fighting to stay awake, Zordroth stepped back from the workbench, collapsing into a chair. "Done. I'm..." He sighed. "F***ing done. You come back in here like that again, it's four grand minimum, got it?" Zordroth grabbed a kettle full of coffee, draining it at once. "Gods, I need to sleep."
Sturgar sat up, examining himself in the mirror on the wall. It was as if the fight had never happened. He once again had four arms, and his chest piece was back in place. He spun his arms about, making sure they moved properly. He looked down at his hands, twisting his wrists and flexing his fingers slowly, before clenching his right hand into a fist. He heard a whistle, then a shunk, as a hooked blade at the end of a length of thick wire shot out from the top of his wrist, slicing through the air in a flash and embedding itself in the far wall, cracking the plaster. Shocked, he unclenched his hand, and the grapple immediately retracted, slipping silently back into his forearm.
"I made some changes." Zordroth cracked his neck and rubbed his tired eyes. "There's that on your two upper arms." He gestured at Sturgar with the kettle. "Your lower arms got blades, 'cuz Nartheus told me you dropped the weapons or something." He mumbled tiredly, yawning. "Now get outta here so I can get some sleep."
Sturgar balled his lower arm into a fist, and sure enough, from his forearm protruded a foot-long pointed steel blade. He slashed the air with it twice, feeling it's weight, then retracted it with a flourish. He stood and looked once more in the mirror. On his right cheekbone there remained one last trace of the battle, a tiny crack shaped like the letter Y. He touched it gingerly, smiling. The first and hopefully only scar this body would ever receive. He contemplated having the blacksmith fix it, but shook his head. This one, he would keep, as a memory, to remind him never to hold back, always be on his guard, and treat every foe as an imminent threat. He tossed an extra gold coin to Zordroth, who caught it with his eyes closed, and left the basement. He stepped into the war air, staring up at the dazzling sun. It was a beautiful day.
no problem at all
oooooooooh
innnnnnnteresting