Quarterfinals: Letho v Toy Soldier

[The Lounge, minutes prior to the beginning of the third round...]

Letho was purposefully drunk and he was in that state of intoxication for the majority of time between the two rounds of the Serenti Invitational. The purpose, however, wasn’t to forget about Myrhia. No, he had enough wisdom to know that liquor doesn’t have the magical property to efface somebody from the memory. If anything, the limited capacity of a poisoned mind tends to focus on the most prominent thing, amplifying it to unbearable heights. That was why Letho was drinking. He didn’t want to forget about the willowy redhead and the pain he caused her. He didn’t want to forget the fact that in the last round of Serenti she got caught in crossfire between Seth and him. He didn’t want to forget the discomfited glare in her emerald eyes when she heard the words that he uttered, the words of betrayal, the words that placed her life on the table like a bargaining chip. No, he wanted to remember it, wanted to etch it into his mind so he would forever bear the scar and the memory of the love he traded for his foolish pride.

So even today, minutes before the commencement of his third round battle, he sat at the bar with his head resting on his clutched fists. His eyes glared into the jigger, seeing about three concentric circles that designated that somewhere below him there was a glass filled with hard liquor that would soon trickle down his throat that became numb to the fiery sensation. He thought of her, of course, of the way she would hold him during those cold winter nights, how desperate the clutch of her tiny hands was, how soft and velvety her fingertips felt, her sweet her muffled moans were as she fought some beast in her dreams. He thought of her and how he would probably never experience any of those things ever again.

“What part you don’t understand? LEAVE ME ALONE!!!” she shouted at him on that day. But it wasn’t her words that struck like a backstab of a knave on a cold night. No, it was her eyes and the terrible combination of pain and anger that flared from the usually docile emeralds.

From that point on he pretty much made The Lounge his second home. The drinks were free, Reven - the lovely elven barmaid - kept pouring the liquid fire as long as he remained tame and contained his violent outbursts, and between conking, regurgitating and wassailing, the time between the two rounds was efficiently killed. He wasn’t going to bail out of the tournament though. No, all this mess with Myrhia was because of the accursed tournament and he paid his participation with the loss of her affection. He would compete in it until the end, he would fight and slice and shatter bones, and he would do it all not to win, but because this was the role he had to play. He cooked his own stew and now he had to eat it. And if the main ingredient of it was pain, he would gladly accept it because it was a small price to pay for his ever evasive redemption.

“You really think it’s wise to compete right now, Ravenheart?” the amber-haired elf asked him with profound concern in her voice. She looked at him destroy himself with alcohol for days on end and even she started to feel sorry for the big lug.

“Nope.” she replied in a slurry voice, his lips adding a haggard smirk just before he downed the shot glass that rested before him.

“Then don’t do it. You will surely see at least two of your competitors in your current state.” she added, leaning a bit closer to him. He lifted his head wearily, like a punched out boxer at the count of five, asking for advice from his corner, and then winked sloppily at the maiden.

“Lady, I have two swords, one for each of them.”

With that said, he woozily regained his footing and staggered off to his next bout.

[Serenti Invitational, Round 3...]

“Hurray for small victories.” his mind commented in an indifferent tone as the drunken swordsman stood with his back propped against a rugged stony wall. He was in a mineshaft wide enough for at least fifteen men to walk abreast with a railroad track running through the middle. The whole complex was a maze littered with shaky ceilings, dead ends, and vertical tunnels that seemed to gaze into the empty bowel of the earth. Flimsy tools, derailed carts, forgotten machinery, it was all a part of the would-be battlefield against... Well, Letho didn’t know and didn’t particularly care. He seemed to overhear something about his opponent being a mere kid, but in his delirious state, with the booze coursing through his veins instead of blood, that little factoid could be completely false.

Either way, he was there and completely not ready for the strife that was about to ensue. His small victory was the fact that the light was dim at best here, flickering above their heads from the magical tubes that seemed to go on and off at irregular frequency. He thanked the gods again for this. His head would have certainly exploded if his battle were to take place in some picturesque piece of landscape with a myriad of sounds and a frolicsome sun dancing on top of his head all the time.