Cage Number Two

[Ther]

(Roster:

Rheawien
Zerith
Walter
Serilliant
Izvilvin
Krugor
Falcon Darkflight
Witchblade)

It was the greatest moment of Mendan Kinnity's life.

For the young dramaturge, hosting The Cell was the culmination of two decades of hard work, a symbol of his transformation from a sickly child of privilege to a well-muscled, handsome young poet, arguably the greatest of his young generation thus far.

Twenty years ago Kinnity had fled from his ancestral home on the outskirts of Radasanth, upset over the prolonged physical abuse he suffered at the hands of Cantinil, the longtime elf servant of his family. Wandering the streets of the great city, he came across a man promising tales of magic circlets and dragons, tales of bravery and boasting. After searching through his pockets, the boy produced a coin he had stolen from his home, and was admitted into the theater. There, like the rest of the audience around him, the impressionable Mendan was transfixed by the tale of a knight, who, instead of training for a tournament he had entered, spent his time bragging about what he saw as his guaranteed victory. The knight, of course, was slain in the first round.

When the story had ended, the audience left the theater satistifed - everyone, that is, but Mendan Kinnity. The boy stood frozen in one spot until Dalo Smaith, the owner of The Swift Hart, saw him there standing alone. When the old man asked the boy what he wanted, Mendan replied that he wished to tell stories like the one he had just heard, an answer which caused Smaith to laugh aloud. Smaith told the boy to go home, but when Mendan lied and said he had no home and no family, Smaith grew concerned and offered to let the boy spend the night in the actors' quarters.

One night turned to two, three, and then a week. Smaith, having married his craft at a young age himself, noticed that the boy was boosting the morale of his troupe and eventualy took Mendan as his own son, training him to be both an actor and a poet. Because Smaith's plays often involved mock battles, Mendan also learned how to handle a blade, hardening his body in the process. And when Smaith died fifteen years later, there was no doubt that Mendan should be the one who took control of the theater, and indeed he did, boosting the size of his audiences with his historical plays, violent melodramas the likes of which had never before been seen on the Radasanthian stage.

So when Mendan had heard that The Cell had no promoted this year, the playwright decided he would organize the event himself, hoping to spread awareness of his work in the theater. He had spent The Swift Hart's entire treasury in promoting the tournament, but no man knew what the people of Radasanth wanted better than Mendan Kinnity, and it was therefore no surprise when all four amphitheaters hosting the tournament sold out. If all went well, the theater would see its investment returned tenfold.

With the crowd anxious in their seats and the warriors locked inside the cage, Mendan rose from his balcony seat high up in one of the ampitheaters, dressed merely in the simple colored tunic and trousers of an actor. With his booming stage voice, the young playwright made his first of five speeches that day.

“Friends, welcome to The Cell,” he said, bowing and pausing for a minute to allow the crowd its applaud. “My name is Mendan Kinnity, and I am the director of The Swift Hart Theater. I wish to thank you, the unified people of Radasanth, for coming out this day, and for making this tournament the largest gathering of citizens ever for an event outside the city’s gates. Today we will see competitors from all over Althanas, men from as far as Salvar and men from exotic Fallien, competing with one another in a steel cell for fame, wealth, and most importantly, for honor. These men deserve your respect and your adulation for risking their lives today, and I have little doubt that the fine folk of Radasanth will give that to them. To the competitors I have only one message: mercy is shown in life to those who act merciful towards others. Victory need not come at the expense of another man’s life – there is equal honor in accepting a yield from a broken and battered opponent. But as wiser men than I have said, ‘Words find glory only in partnership with deeds,’ so let The Cell begin!”

[Izvilvin]

The roar of the crowd didn't help Izvilvin to calm his nerves. The Drow, dressed in a sleeveless linen shirt of black and thin, light cloth pants-- also black-- had his toned black arms crossed over his chest as his eyes stared listlessly at the floor of the cell. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot, disturbing the thin layer of sand that covered the concrete base, but he just couldn't help the tendency. The feeling of the crowd's roar was a sensation beyond anything he'd ever experienced. And though Izvilvin was very much outside, he couldn't have felt more trapped.

The attention reminded him vaguely of his days training under the harsh hand of Ryld Zauvirr, the short haired instructor of the military recruits in Alerar. The Drow felt as if once again he was the center of attention, as he struggled to prove his ability. If there was any place he could do such a thing, it was in The Cell.

Izvilvin looked up and searched the cell with his eyes as a young human began to speak. The crowd's volume died down as the boy's voice rung out, amplified by some magic, Izvilvin supposed. He could see Rheawien, the delightful human woman who had become a good ally to him. The Drow figured that a free-for-all melee was exactly what the name suggested, yet hoped he could form a quick alliance with the female warrior to ensure each other's safety.

As for Witchblade, Izvilvin wasn't sure how they stood. His experience with the odd telepathic woman had left him confused about their relationship. They were on good terms, but in the Cell, did that really matter?

The monks of the Citadel had been insistent that he join the tournament after his long streak of battles within their establishment. Izvilvin showed promise in his skills, a fact that one particular monk was looking to exploit, betting big on the lithe Drow after encouraging him to enter the tournament. Of course Izvilvin didn't know that's what had happened. There was still so little about this world outside of Alerar that he understood.

The young human ended his speech with a powerful word, spurring the audience into a roar louder than any collective sound they had made up to that point. This was the cue to begin, and Izvilvin knew it.

Drawing two of his heavy iron sai, the Drow shook away the nerves and focused on the task at hand, stepping slowly to the center of the Cell. He turned and carefully eyed the other combatants, taking a measure of the ones he had not yet met. The lavender orbs fell upon Rheawien for a split second longer than the others, but there was softness there; he did not want to fight her.

Prepared to shift to his toes at any moment so as not to be caught flat-footed, Izvilvin raised a sai to shoulder level and waited, patiently, for the first spark of battle to ignite. The crowd was a nothing but a dull buzz in the back of his skull for the time being, blanketed by his focus.

[Rheawien]

Rheawien was already in a dour mood even before the announcer started to address them in a rather pompous manner, but when his little presentation speech was done, she was fuming. “Today we will see competitors from all over Althanas” mister Mendan Kinnity spoke from his elevated platform. “...men from as far as Salvar and men from exotic Fallien...” Men this and men that, as if this was a pissing contest where the men were dominant and the women would be better of at home, washing socks and taking care of their bastard children. Rheawien came here to compete with her peers, to cross blades with the best that Althanas has to offer, but now she decided she wouldn’t just aim to put up a good fight. Now she wanted to win.

This, unfortunately, sent the white-haired female even more wayward from what she was supposed to do in this tournament. The truth was that Rhea was in trouble, and it was the kind that got people killed in the darkness of some back alley. Her debts at the local shylocks started to go through the roof, and with the destruction of the Brotherhood she had no money influx that could tip the scales the other way. So she made a deal, or rather a deal was forced upon her. Instead of winding up at the bottom of the sea with a millstone tied to her neck, the loansharks came up with a proposition. She was to enter the Cell and the get obliterated in the first round by the weakest opponent in the cage. They would bet their money on her failure, earn a hefty sum and she would get a clean slate. It was that easy.

Only it wasn’t. They told Rheawien to bend over and she had too much steel in her backbone to do just that. People always talked about male pride, how stubborn it was, how unyielding it could get, but women had that same bone running through their body. Some got their browbeaten by the society, some were too afraid of the consequences that might transpire if they stretched their own, but some – like Rhea – refused to bow down. Even if the noose was so close to her neck that she could feel it biting into the soft skin of her pale neck. There would be no backing out, no throwing in the towel, no free rides for those that stood in her way. What awaited her once the carnage inside her cell was done was something she would deal with when time for it came. Right now she would stand against them all and make them bow before her. Alive or dead, it mattered little to the half-elf.

For the time being though, Rheawien kept her anger in check, allowing it to display itself only in a form of a thick frown above her keen eyes. Her back was propped against the steel mesh, the metal upon the bare skin of her back a comforting cool sensation. She had no bitter thoughts about the cage in which she were coffined with seven others; they were, after all, nothing more then beasts. In many ways, the thirty-two contestants that applied for the Cell were no better then mutts that were about to participate in dogfights. And such things had to be restrained, had to be put behind bars so they wouldn’t hurt the poor innocent folk that only came here for a bit of fun. Yellowbellied bloodthirsty scum as far as she was concerned, all of them in the audience, the portentous bard announcer included. People that had no guts to take a blade in their own hands and shove it into someone’s chest shouldn’t be allowed to see the blood and the anguish and the desperate empty gaze of a dying warrior.

But that was what they would get today and she was eager to be the one spreading death to the other seven like candy. On the two belts that stood crisscrossed at her curvaceous waist, three glaives were waiting to be tested in combat for the first time. Accompanied by a pair of swords that stood safely strapped to her back and a dagger at her waist, Rheawien was an image of somebody who was most definitely ready to wreak havoc and who most definitely wouldn’t take a fall. In her hand was a confirmation to that, a wordless statement of her determination that borderlined with domination; a leather whip neatly rolled in her itchy fingers.

Despite her anger that culminated with the introduction speech though, Rhea wasn’t a nitwit when it came to combat. Stepping in the middle of the cage was pretty much the same as placing a target sign on your back, with seven opponents more then eager to hit the bull’s eye with something sharp and pointy. So when the announcement was done and the auditorium roared like a beast hungry for slaughter, she remained stationary. Letho was a bullheaded brute that would charge in like a buffalo and take them all out in one sweep. Unlike him, Rheawien knew of terms like finesse and subtlety, and she knew when the situation required their usage. Let them move first. Let them make a mistake. And she would make them sorry for doing so.

However, the first one to do this was the only combatant that Rhea was acquainted with; a drow warrior named Izvilvin. They were allies once upon a time in the desert realm of Fallien, even rather peculiar bedfellows. Could they be the former today? Rheawien was reluctant in answering that question. If they fought side by side and conquered the cage, they would still have to face-off at the end. Murdering a stranger in cold blood was one thing. Murdering a friend was another, much more grievous thing, competition or no competition. Could she do it?

“Izvilvin.” she shouted towards the drow, pushing against the cage wall with he back and taking a pair of deliberately slow steps forwards. Could she kill him when the time came?

“You and me...” the half-elf continued, her finger pointing at Izvilvin then at herself. She knew that he couldn’t understand her, but her sign language improved drastically during the ordeal they went through in Fallien. Her fingers next made a circle around the cage, pointing at the remaining six combatants. “...against the rest?”

Rheawien’s acrimony told her that she could finish him when the time would come. Whether or not that was the truth was something the following minutes would answer.

[Falcon Darkflight]

Canen Darkflight closed his eyes, slipping into a preoccupied silence as the crowd's rumblings shook the very foundations of the amphitheatre. Had it really been a month since he had left Lyridia, it's deepwater urchin beds, and the reclusive life he had cultivated for two years behind? Something like that, he guessed. So much mental and physical distance had been traversed since then and now, it was sometimes hard to keep track. There had been the quiet, sad sailing home from the island of Lornius upon a lowly merchant ship, his meeting with Raelyse, the formal resignation from the position of Grand Commodore. There had been a number of reservations and doubts about his ability to compete at the highest level, a two way street of affairs filled with potholes, cracks and inevitable internal collisions that had thrown his esteem into disarray. Only his fidelity to the commitment of self preservation and determination to succeed had overcome his second thoughts about raising his blade to another living thing again for whatever reason.

All of this had preceded his entry to The Cell, a severe, dangerous tournament populated by equally severe, dangerous contestants whose antagonism towards him he knew would be relentless and merciless. Although the contestants he was facing today, such as his most recent acquaintances Izvilvin the Drow and Zerith, were hardly indignant warriors they would bristle the front line of assault and wouldn't view Canen in any friendly light, and would certaintly let him know it as fully as possible and at every opportune moment. That didn't matter though. The reception Canen was going to give his 'acquaintances' was hardly going to consist of a hug and the offer of a friendly drink. After the embarrassment he had suffered in Lornius, and the weeks afterwards enduring relentless critiscm from all ranges of people, he was ready to redeem himself here today with extreme prejudice.

He admitted he knew little of Kinnidy, who had given a rousing speech to his crowd, and wondered why it was his decision to host this tournament but he still found himself caught up in the poetry of his words. The excitement that buzzed like a streak of lightning in the theatre somewhat complimented the feeling of anticipation, of anxiety that each of the contestants would now be feeling, and the line "words find glory only in partnership with deeds" could not have suited this situation any better.

"Hear me, people of Radasanth..." He exclaimed to the crowd from within the cage, glancing out from beneath the veil of steel mesh to the excited faces surrounding him. "I am Canen Darkflight, the former Grand Commodore of the Grander's Order."

The crowd listened expectantly, and the rest of the cage's occupants mostly followed their own reactions.

"Once, I considered myself the liberator of evil, a warrior of the free. I fought alongisde many fallen brothers, I led the Red Dragons who eventually defeated the Castigar rule. But today, before you, is a weakened man..."

He continued, clenching his fists. "But as the good Mr Kinnidy put it, words find glory only partnership with deeds...I, Canen, the last Nocturn alive to compete today, will fight to the death to redeem my honour. I want to dedicate this match to two special people, the Silvets who made me realise that there is more to life than brutality and hostility, dispair and greed...Kaiser and Kaiserin Nightwind. My true..."

Another pause followed. Canen momentarily flinched, choking back the flooding memories of his missing best friend and his daughter.

"My true friends. So now, I stand before the people of Radasanth asking to be redeemed, and I shall find my glory here. I can feel myself changing...changing for the better. And I intend to uphold the memory of a friend who would have given his life for peace and honour, and the living legacy of his daughter..." His tone staggered, sounding almost tearful as his emerald eyes trailed off into the curious stares of the audience.

Bright sequins of torchlight around the theatre helped add to the rare emotional display by the Nocturn as he unsheathed The Valiance from its ivory sheath strapped to his back, levelling the sword point at the infamous Izvilvin from the far side of the cage. He was now of a mind to enjoy this challenge, sadness turning quickly to desire, weakness slowly metamorphasising into strength. He was drawing on every internal source of energy to drive him to a victory that would not soon be forgotten.

He was, finally, ready.

[Witchblade]

It had been countless years since she’d last seen the inside of a stadium, countless years since she’d last participated in a tournament. She’d lost that one but it was so long ago she could barely even recall what had happened, she couldn’t even recall who she had lost it to. The inside of the Citadel was not a place for her like so many of the bloodthirsty ‘warriors’ of Althanas liked to call it their home, though she craved the blood of humans upon the blades of her weapons she tried to control The Malice within her and not let it turn her into a mindless killer. After all, one cannot enjoy the killing once they are mindless.

With her eyes closed against the sight of the multitude of bodies crammed into the stadium, Witch was mainly focused on keeping her sensitive hearing to a level that didn’t give her a headache. The announcer was babbling on and on about stuff she really didn’t care about, she was here to fight not listen to the pointless words of humans. The one thing that did piss her off though was his continual mention of the word men. She’d been put on the backburner plenty of times before because someone thought her an innocent little woman who couldn’t fight worth a damn. Of course, those were the people who lived the shortest but as of right now she couldn’t attack the announcer, perhaps once she broke out of the cage she’d give him a run for his money.

When the speech finished and the noise in the stadium reached a deafening level Witch slowly cracked her eyes open, giving them time to adjust to the light. She didn’t have her cloak and her hood to protect her against the sun, not that she really needed protection from it she just found it annoying. She’d thought that the material would get in her way and she’d also left Daegun behind. The young dragon wasn’t old enough to be thrown into the melee of a battle and she didn’t want him to get hurt. So before a crowd of a few thousand people Witchblade leaned against the steel mesh of the cage she was locked in, the two daggers in the small of her back digging into the skin from the pressure. She didn’t care.

To her the crowd didn’t exist. They were but a background to this battle, a dance of eight warriors against each other and everyone. They played no part, only a distraction. As one of the participants in the cell addressed the crowd the Half-ling glanced at her other competitors. She only recognized one person, Izvilvin. She’d met the Drow not too long ago in Salvar and though they’d started off on rough terrain she could call him an ally she just wasn’t too sure where she stood in his mind. The only other female in the cell was addressing him with words and with her hands, probably her only way of communicating with him and it seemed like she wanted to partner up with him against everyone else.

She didn’t want to hurt the Drow she liked his company but she didn’t see any other way around it. She was in a tournament where one fought and perhaps even killed the other competitors. If she was lucky someone else would take him out before she was forced to. However, when the annoying human who was addressing the crowd stopped speaking Witch watched him pull his weapon and level it at Izvilvin. Her eyes narrowed, and she coolly stepped away from the mesh wall. Even with all she’d said to herself before hand about the tournament and someone else taking him out before she was forced to she couldn’t help her actions. He was an ally and the only ally she’d had in a long time. Everyone else she’d ever known on Althanas had seemingly gone to the wind and disappeared and now the one person she did know had a blade pointed at him. Witch couldn’t help but protect him, it was what she did when she considered someone an ally even if he didn’t need it or want it.

Stepping between the human and Izvilvin, Witch reached behind her and removed her mythril dagger from its sheathe. The familiar sound of ringing metal, the familiar feel of worn leather in her calloused hand and the familiar lust rising in her blood to kill. Her lips, though sown together, curved into a smirk as she looked over her newly chosen opponent. She didn’t make assumptions of him, she didn’t know whether or not he would be an easy kill she was just going to enjoy this to its fullest.

[Falcon Darkflight]

The metal mesh rattling with the force of the crowd's cheering, Canen stepped forward towards his new opponent. This female, who had pretty much been a part of the scenery compared to most of the other competitors he had been locked up in the cage with, had paced forward to stand between himself and the Drow, as if protecting him from the threat of The Valiance's point parallel with Izvilvin's form at the far end of the cage. There was, he quietly observed, a number of people who seemed ready to throw themselves into the frey for the Drow warrior, either out of friendship or blind cowardace. It would be a mistake on their part to over indulge such a bond for too long in such a tenacious tournament, and Canen was rather hoping they would soon find that little fact out the hard way to make his own life a little easier. It did not pay dividends to be the universal enemy in this state of affairs.

"Oho.." He said in a serious tone, sharpening his eyes into a glare "...so it's like that, is it? You would block the path of an enemy you don't even care to know to save the skin of another enemy? Perhaps you have forgotten your position here..."

Canen gestured an open palm outwards to the warriors standing in their various positions, some of them shuffling from side to side cautiously, but each of them paranoid of the other.

"Each of these men and women are here for the same thing. I would bet that each and every one of those same men and women want to win this event, as do I. How long do you think your petty and fragile alliance will last here? Until the time where Izvilvin decides you have served your purpose...that's when."

The corner of his black lips turned up slightly at the corners as his cautious pacing became slightly quicker. He danced slowly from side to side in a ballroom manner, picturesque of a midnight waltz, yet as un-nerving as the silent creep of a black widow spider until his form finished the movement to the woman's left side, only a couple of metres distance between them. He noticed through the corner of his eye her daggers, calculated her estimated reach and stopped dead, as if there had been an invisible wall dividing the two. He stood not a toe over the line of his calculated area.

"And you know what they say..." He dropped his voice to nearly a whisper, barely audible over the background noise of the crowd. "Fools..die young."

As if the end of the sentance had triggered a massive chemical reaction inside the black garbed body of the Nocturn, Canen roared into life, accompanied by the roar of the crowd as the first assault got underway. His strong arms pounded into action, clasping the hilt of The Valiance and arcing it from his nearside right to left, a vicious swing that was aimed specifically at the woman's left shoulder. The edge of the blade sparkled momentarily in what light was available and Canen's creased brow turned into a sickly smile.

Fools die young. A lesson you should never forget.

[Izvilvin]

Something broke through the droning noise. It was Rheawien, calling out to him. Izvilvin turned his head just enough to look at her, watch her motions and nod his head in silent agreement. The fact that she was thinking the same way as him brought a smile to his face.

The Drow turned back to observe a human man -- Canen, he remembered -- as he addressed the crowd. Izvilvin found it to be a surprisingly long-winded speech given the circumstances, and was shocked as the audience actually silenced themselves to listen to the babble. Weren't they here to witness war? And they were satisfied by this speech?

The two had worked together in the desert of Fallien not long ago, on a journey for Step to attain a staff of some ancient power. Then, Izvilvin had developed a slight distaste for the human, but now it had grown to become a great annoyance. The Drow was not opposed to answering the challenge posed by Canen's pointing blade.

But before he could take a step, Witchblade whisked between Izvilvin and his likely adversary, drawing a shining dagger of magnificent metal from behind her back. She was defending him. His face lit up with the realization.

Had he the ability to comprehend the man's words, Izvilvin would have simply marveled at how inaccurate Canen's assumptions of him were. But that was the stigma which followed him, being a drow elf. His kind were greatly evil by nature, and so he was associated with that evil, regardless of the fact that Izvilvin had many more good tendencies than bad.

Then, like a flash, the beginnings of battle erupted as Canen brought his sword to bear, attacking one of Izvilvin's only worldly acquaintances. Pure instinct spurred the Drow into a run, dashing past Witchblade altogether to aid her against the huge human. Both sai flashed quickly, two brutal swipes intended to rip the innards from Canen's stomach, then Izvilvin was beyond them both, turning to face Canen's back so that he and Witchblade would have the man pincered.

"Udos shlu'ta uxxahuu d' usstan queelas!" He called to Witchblade, knowing full well that her psychic abilities would deceifer what he was trying to get across. "Nindol shlu'ta doera natha xonathull tu'fyr udos llar!"

The idea was to eliminate Canen with all speed, then focus on the other combatants, leaving just Izvilvin, Rheawien and Witchblade to battle to the finish. The Drow had no problem with fighting his friends as long as it was in the interest of contest, but to ensure one of them winning, teamwork was necessary to eliminate the others.

Honorable it was not, but Izvilvin couldn't care less.

[Walter]

One of the unknowns in the second cage was a scrawny, ragged-looking man with tangled black hair and dark eyes. Jon Walter wasn't physically impressive, and he had almost no weapons to speak of. While some crazy white-haired bitch was loaded for bear, all Jon had on him was a knife. One knife. What goddamned reason did he have to be in the Cell, surrounded by seasoned warriors?

Seasoned freaks was more like it. Once Jon had been situated in the mesh cage with the other fighters, it didn't take him long to figure out he was in a coop full of nuts. Women! Pointy-eared mutants! Skeletons! It was enough to make Jon sick, all this Cell was about was pitting deformities against eachother. After all, Jon was hardly normal either. But that's why he'd signed up in the first place.

No matter what happened, Jon Walter would be the last man standing. That's all that mattered to him in the end. It didn't matter how strong any of these freaks were; in the end, he'd be standing on their fucking graves.

*****

The fight was off to a slow start. The announcer and the crowd were too damn loud for Jon, and he wanted to yell back at the cheering people of Radasanth to shut their yaps. The noise was distracting; it made working up the necessary blood lust difficult. And Jon didn't even want to get started on that announcement; he heard 'mercy,' 'honor' and 'glory,' but didn't buy into any of it. This was going to be a fight. He knew best that those usually involved pain, blood and death. Where was the honor in that?

Jon had no idea that anyone was planning on teaming-up; the idea hadn't even occurred to him. He preferred the idea of the free-for-all anyway. He ignored the white-haired lady and her drow friend while they signalled to each other. His attention instead was captured by Canen Assflight, whatever his name was. The man's speech was stirring, all right. It made Walter want to wipe all that talk of honor off his face. And here he was, in the Cell, about to do just that.

Somebody got to it before him. First some stitch-lipped broad and then the dark-skinned freak he'd spotted before. Jon wasn't going to let them have the satisfaction of ganging up on Assflight, he decided. While the drow was turned to flank his target, his unarmored back was completely exposed. Jon decided it was time for him to start fighting.

He ran across the flat, enclosed space, feeling uncomfortably warm as his blood began to boil beneath his skin. That was the feeling of the rage, and it was the only other edge Jon would have. He'd jump on the drow's back and show no mercy as he stabbed into that dark flesh, wild like an animal. Whipping out his knife, Jon Walter was about to get the drop on one of the Cell's mighty warriors.

[Rheawien]

That was what she got for trying to make an alliance with a man. Even though Izvilvin seemed to respond to her proposal affirmatively, nodding his head mutely and even offering a meek smile, he proceeded to join forces with another female. Another female that wanted to be the alpha female of this cell. And Rheawien would have none of it. The imposing woman stood between the drow and another man that flapped his gums, trying to make himself more important then he really was and succeeding only in making a larger ass out of himself. Men and their speeches. Mendan Kinnity did one, this black haired bastard did one and she was becoming more and more certain that Izvilvin would make one if anybody understood what the hell he was talking about.

To hell with coalitions and treacherous allies. No reason to play it the nice way, no reason to play it any other way but the bloody one. Rheawien put away her whip, tucking it into her belt before her hands produced a pair of damascus glaives, shined to perfection and glistening menacingly. She wasn’t a very good shot with them, but thanks to her improving telekinetic powers, she didn’t have to be. Regardless of how awry her throw might prove to be, she could correct it, direct it and made it find its new home in the flesh of her opponents.

However, before she got a chance to fling her pair of projectiles, another man stepped into the fray. With his attire tattered and worn, and his black hair tousled and unkempt, he looked like a genuine bum to Rhea. His entry and initial attack only further confirmed her assessment since he charged from behind with nothing but a knife in his hands, aiming at Izvilvin’s back. Rheawien, whose sentiments towards the drow quelled rather rapidly once he picked the other female as his sidekick, opted against stopping this backstabbing attack. Instead she waited for the hobo-looking man to finish with his infuriated strike, her hand merely slipping towards the holster at her hip to produce another glaive.

Three glaives. Three men. And then she would show that bitch what real combat was all about. The pale hands of the half-elf rifled the three glaives in rapid succession, sending them towards three separate targets rather sloppily. But the second all the departed from her fingers, the forefinger of her left hand joined the middle finger, producing a telekinetic hold over the three projectiles. They sailed through the air at blistering speed, spinning with a high-pitched wheezing sound. The first was aimed at the swordsman’s right shoulder. The second one went for the bum’s lower back. The third one went for Izvilvin’s neck.

Nobody double-crossed her.

***

The crowd cheered raucously once the white-haired woman joined the heat of the battle, their roaring screams welcoming each thrown glaive with a deafening hoot. Only two figures sat still, though their anxiousness seemed to be seeping through their very pores, displayed in the unrest of their feet, in the jittery movement of their itchy fingers. The one on the right, a voluminous fellow with a bald bead and a nose as red as a pepper, looked at his companion in dismay.

“A-Are you sure she’s taking the fall, boss?” he asked, his eyes darting from the cage to the scrawny face with a pointy nose that sat beside him. The gray haired man didn’t get his keen azure eyes off the battle below as he responded.

“Yes. She can’t be stupid enough not to.”

[Izvilvin]

Izvilvin didn't even have time to see if his weapons had done any damage. He'd heard the scuttling of the man behind him, but had become aware of the approach too late to avoid the man's onslaught. The Drow nearly buckled under the weight of the man, who literally leapt onto his back and hung there. To his horror, Izvilvin felt the cold steel of a blade plunging deep into his shoulder blade.

A roar of intense pain escaped him as flesh was pierced, but even in the wake of the sudden attack, Izvilvin had the sense to drop one of his sai and reach back, grabbing the wrist of the man before he could do any more damage. He wasn't much bigger than Izvilvin, so it wasn't particularly difficult to ignore the pain in his shoulder and flip the ragged bum over onto his back.

The crowd roared like ravenous vampires at the sight of Izvilvin's blood, savages for the thrill of the fight. The battle had started out slow, but blood had been spilled only a moment into the fight, sparking a chorus of cheers. No one seemed to mind that the attack had been from behind and rather shamefully accomplished. Already loud bets were being called out, as spectators began to wager on Izvilvin being the first combatant to die.

The Drow staggered backward, away from the man and his own fallen sai, and reached back to lay a hand on the wound. Blood stained his palm, bringing a sneer to the usually placid face of the warrior. The pain was immense, almost paralyzing, though Izvilvin tried his best to deal with it. The shock of being stabbed, more than anything, was what had him so off balance.

Something caught his eye, demanding his attention and commanding his composure to return. Izvilvin threw up his weapon, deflecting the glaive aside before it could carve through him. His eyes, wide with shock, went straight to Rheawien. He knew she carried those particular weapons with her, but why would she attack him?

He watched her for a moment, a flurry of different emotions overtaking him as he studied her face. Eventually he tore his eyes away. If Rheawien wanted to betray him, he wasn't going to make it an easy decision for her by returning the attack. Besides, perhaps it had all been an accident.

For now, he had this man to deal with. Izvilvin felt like an idiot for letting him get in an easy attack, but he would fight through the pain and make sure his mobility was not hindered. He replaced the dropped sai with another one from his belt and beckoned the man to fight him face-to-face. The Drow would pay him back in spades.