Round 2: Christoph Vs Chosen of the Gods

[Silence Sei]

You have 2 weeks to complete your battle, may the best man win!

[Chosen of the Gods]

The stink of a prison cell was unlike anything else Ahk’Ran had let pass his nostrils. There was the odor of the unwashed, the filthy rot of food discarded, and the sheets soiled with hundreds of people who had dared to lay their heads upon the burlap fabric. The smell of the ocean not far off made the stink worse, giving it a tang that forced it to linger longer than one would have enjoyed. With a sigh, the warrior looked out to see the vision from his caged window, three iron pillars built into the mortar of the stone building.

He sighed as he thought about how he had even ended up in this prison cell, turning to the chained bed that hung against the wall. Each link, rusted with orange taint, flaked into dust onto the pillow that at one point had been an immaculate white. Several ships at the port similarly exuded the taint of aging. Even the iron banding around the barrels by the piers showed the corruption of time. After all, he had been well acquainted with them not more than an hour ago. He had been tossed into them by Teric Barton, intending to test his mettle against ‘The Bloodrose. He had attempted to persuade the mercenary into a sparring contest to see just how large the gap between skill truly was. In the end, he had learned a valuable lesson about self control and tampering his emotions, and that ‘The Bloodrose’ was not a man to be trifled with.

The Fallien native had felt bitter disappointment at his ineptitude, but was humbled that his gods would show him his own failings. To make up for his shortcomings he had rushed forward to the aid of Teric to ensure the mercenary could gain passage to his boat. However, while helping him escape, his weapon had found purchase in the faces of three men from the Coronian guard. Within moments they were swarming him as Ahk’ran watched Teric’s boat set sail.

He decided to look out his window instead, as his current view had little new to report save a rather plump rat that gnawed away at something. Through the small hole, he had his own little view of the world. He could see a large stadium, masterfully erected with several large wooden support beams. It seemed to eclipse the buildings beside it, and even the tall towers of the Citadel seemed to match its height. Though it was clearly miles away, he could hear the roar of an audience as clear as if he were a participant himself. He could even feel the tension and excitement, leaving curiosity to nibble at his tired bones. At long last the wooden door creaked open, several armed guards stepping into the small prison hold.

“You are Ahk’Ran Kopec?” asked a built man with long blonde hair. A black pointed beard surrounded his mouth and his blue eyes scanned the desert native with keen interest. Ahk’Ran nodded in response to the question. “You were seen aiding Teric Bloodrose escape our authority for destruction to port property of the Viceroys. Normally we’d have you shackled until your sentence is up, but I think a better opportunity has presented itself.”

The guard next to leader stepped forward and tossed the bronze weapon Ahk’Ran usually carried around with him to the ground; the guard seemed to care little as it clattered loudly on the floor before him. The clang of metal against metal rang in the air as a guard pulled out a metal ring, picking out a long skeleton key. He lifted it up and turned the lock, the iron groaning as it opened. Ahk’Ran’s eyes narrowed in concern, but the man merely lifted his hand to calm the warrior down.

“As you probably have heard, there is a mighty construct nearby that is overseen by the Monks of Ai'brone and within Empire control. It is nothing more than a publicity stunt to pacify the growing concerns over the fabled civil war that everyone keeps spreading rumors about. The massive war scenario is nearing its end, and after seeing your skill with that interesting weapon I have thought of a way for you to repay your debt to his majesty in a manner that I think you’d have no qualms with.” There was a mischievous smile filled with a set of white teeth as the man beckoned the bronzed warrior forwards. Slowly and cautiously, he did so, and the man turned to lead him out the prison cell with the guards flanking him.

“What idea has your mind think?” Ahk’Ran asked, his terrible understanding of common causing the man to laugh lightly.

“I think,” he teased, “that these people just watched a great massive battle, but now some personal clashes of champions would be fitting to entertain the crowds.”

“Kim’Luk,” Ahk’Ran said while nodding his head in understanding. “A…a spar.” The guard turned to him and nodded his head appreciatively. “Kim’Luk is an honorable fight of men. No killing, but very violent. A way to test warriors!” The Fallien warrior looked forward and found a carriage pulled by two black stallions, breeds he was all too familiar with, as they had been imported from his desert lands. An attendant opened the carriage door and only the leader walked into it, gesturing for Ahk’Ran to join him.

“I have heard of those battles. Yes, this will definitely be a test of your skills. This man has fought a demon and lived long enough to watch him die. It was glorious combat to watch!” When the man had mentioned he had killed a demon, Ahk’Ran frowned before nodding his head.

“I too seek out demons and wish to destroy them. If this man killed a demon then his strength must at least be equal to mine!” The idea started to grow on Ahk’Ran as he felt a tingle of anticipation shoot a chill up his spine. He twitched in excitement as the man let out a riotous laugh.

“Oh yes, he’s at least your equal Ahk’Ran.” His grin managed to widen as he lifted a hand to pull out a small box of cheese, offering some to the desert native. He took a hunk and thanked the man, as he had not eaten since his imprisonment. The guard popped a grape into his mouth, the sphere bursting open with a loud squish before lowering the vine and smiling again. “Have you heard of Elijah Belov, or the Dajas Pagoda? It’s been a while since the establishment has seen activity, but the fights there were certainly well known.”

“I am fear I have not.”

“No matter then,” the guard mused as he stifled a laugh. “I’m sure this will be a contest that will truly test your mettle.” The cart suddenly stopped abruptly and Ahk’Ran almost fell out of the seat. The man had to place his hand on the desert warrior’s chest to prevent his collapse as he stood and opened the door. There were new guards now, all dressed in fine armor that made the seaport guardians look second-rate. The polished silver reflected the light that bounced off the bronze kopesh and their demeanor was stern as they saluted the captain. The man gave a halfhearted reply as the sudden explosion of noise hit Ahk’Ran like a wet towel.

He had not realized they just traveled to the Citadel – the one he had looked at through his small window. To stand before it was to feel like an insect before a dragon. It’s scope was impossible for him to take in, and he lost his breath as he heard vivacious roar of the audience. The guard’s laughter at the desert warrior’s reaction was drowned out by a cry for more. Led by the pristine guards forward, he took in every sight and sound he could until he entered into a dark tunnel. He could feel the tremors of the stone building as the people jumped and stamped their feet. He kept walking, a headache beginning from the cacophony as he held his weapon tightly.

At last, there was light in the tunnel. Two portals slowly opened as the warrior lifted his weapon to block out the early afternoon sun. What lay behind the veil of Ptra, the god of the sun, was a mystery that made the desert warrior lick his lips.

[Christoph]

((OOC: Sorry about the delay. I got Starcraft II working again. The rest is history. XD ))

*
Sunlight flickered across Elijah's face, stirring him from unconsciousness. His mind floated wistfully between sleep and waking; numbness gripped his arms and legs. Sudden panic flared. Where am I? Then, he felt tingling warmth spreading up from his fingers and toes, like the first rays of morning's light. Life returned; realization dawned. Belov had fought in the Citadel and Dajas Pagoda enough times to recognize the kiss of A'Brone magic, the secret art of the Citadel monks, breathing vitality back into him. It tasted like cool mint on his tongue. A man could die a hundred deaths and never get used to it.

He opened his eyes to find himself lying on a stone slab in small wooden chamber, with a white linen sheet draped over his legs and midsection. A chittering yellow bird rested on the sill of an open window, haloed by warm light. So peaceful. He felt at ease even as the memories of battle came trickling back: raining arrows and shattered spears, his sorcery burning hundreds to ash. Amazing, that the Monks could create such a sense of tranquility in the wake of violent chaos. Six thousand warriors had fought and bled in the mud mere hours before.

Approaching footsteps brought Eli to full consciousness. They stopped at the head of his bed. A woman's voice spoke, as warm and clear as a summer stream. "Alas, here lies Elijah Belov. May he rest in peace." She stepped into view, her smiling face framed with golden hair. Belov could not help but grin back.

"Small chance for peace with you here, Sarah." He chuckled.

They had first met six months prior. She had approached him the day he defeated a prominent Pagoda Warrior, bubbling with flirtatious flattery and overenthusiastic interest in his career. Elijah had never cared for sycophants, but the fire in those green eyes changed his mind. The idea of a cute assistant amused him, so it worked out. She earned his trust over time, and even became his student in magic. He always expected her to leave and find a different mentor after his recent defeats and setbacks, but she never did.

"You look good for a dead man," she said. Eli instinctively ran his fingers along the side of his head, where a lance had pierced his skull earlier that day. He recalled a hundred phantom wounds that the monks had healed in his countless fights.

"The monks have gotten enough practice with me over the years." Finally finding his strength, Eli started getting up, only to realize that he was naked under the white linen. He aborted quickly and instead sat on the stone slab's edge, the sheet bunched awkwardly about his waist. Sarah quirked an amused eyebrow.

"Mmmm... lucky monks." Her sly tone and subtle smirk brought a slight blush to Elijah's face. She dressed far more modestly than he, with a dark green scholarly robe and white cloak. Gold-framed spectacles matched her wavy hair. She rolled her eyes put a rolled parchment on his lap. "You must have impressed somebody today, because they want to see more of you today."

"I'm a victim of my own success." He sighed and adjusted the sheet as he read the words. The red ink summoned him back to the battlefield to compete in 'additional exhibition matches.'

"My heart bleeds for you, truly."

"I thought you were working. I didn't expect you to be here."

She shrugged. "The Academy was a ghost town. Apparently half the city came here to watch the battle." She sat next to him on the slab, too close for normal teacher-student propriety. Those boundaries had been slowly eroding over recent months; neither of them seemed to notice or mind. She smelled faintly of vanilla, fruit, and ink. "Besides, I could never miss your events, especially one like this. My job at the Academy is important, but I never would have gotten if not for you."

"Your keen intellect got you that job more than my tutelage." He could see through her false modesty as clearly as she could see through his.

Her laughter was a summer breeze. "I must say, I rather enjoy being on the receiving end of flattery for once. I can see why you enjoy fame so much."

"Yes, I'm never short of cute flatterers after my fame," he replied, rolling his eyes.

"Is that not why you do this?" she asked, elbowing him playfully. "The fame and the money and the girls who chase you for it?"

"No." The sudden somber edge in his voice cut a long silence between them; he knew that she had not expected that answer. Normally, he would have played along with a coy or sarcastic response. The recent battle left him feeling more somber, calling up memories from the civil war in Salvar, his home. He sought fame in Corone and Scara Brae so that one day he could return home with the resources and support to set the cold kingdom right. He wondered how Sarah would react if he told her.

"I..." She rarely hesitated to speak during their conversation, even in the face of Belov's annoyance or ire. "I would call that a good thing. And to be fair, we first met before your oh so glorious rise to fame."

Eli's smile returned. "Yes, but you were also betting on my future prestige."

"That, my dear Elijah, merely makes me smart."

"I've always liked intelligent women," he laughed. "Unfortunately, most are too smart to stay involved with me for long."

* * * * *

Within half an hour, Elijah returned to the battlefield, dressed in black trousers and fully recovered, with Sarah at his side. Funded jointly by the Corone Assembly, the Citadel, and private investors, the New Imperial War Games required an entirely new staging area. They raised massive wooden stands to surround thousands of meters of countryside. Thousands of warriors had fought in a pitched battle for roaring crowds; most assumed that the government hoped to both placate the masses and to prepare them for dark times to come. While Elijah found such propaganda distasteful, he accepted the initial invitation to rekindle his waning fame.

"A smaller affair," Sarah noted as they stepped into the light at the end of wooden hall. In the open, a square wooden platform had been raised, three meters off the ground and fifty feet to a side. Sharpened wood spikes jutted from the ground for all around the arena.

"But no more modest." He nodded toward half-circle of hastily-raised stands surrounding the arena. There, about two hundred of the rich, famous, and influential in Radasanth sat to watch the day's remaining diversions while the rest of the city returned to work. The scarred battlefield stretched beyond, mud and blood drying in the late afternoon sun. Eli spotted the huge burned swath where he had halted an entire enemy company and defeated two mighty wizards earlier that day.

"Good luck, Eli," said Sarah. She learned in and kissed him on the cheek. "These are the right people to impress." She left his side and took her own seat, leaving Belov to climb the steps and face his opponent. His heart thumped in his chest. What mighty foe awaited him?

[Chosen of the Gods]

Ahk’Ran had to shield his eyes from the sun as he stepped forward, the enormous roar of the crowds making his body tremble and heart pound like a drum. Tingles of energy danced along his nerves, making him shiver in delight. This was so much like his desert-pit spars from home. The arena within was what suddenly made him narrow his eyes in concern.

“Those are death weapons!” Ahk’Ran shouted, pointing to the stakes that rose with the wooden podium, seeming to grow toward the heavens. The commander behind him merely shrugged as he placed a reassuring hand on the desert warrior's arm. He gripped the muscle between the neck and arm, his own amusement making his voice speak in a beguiling manner.

“Oh yes they are! Thirty Coronian redwoods chopped down and cut to shape for just such an occasion. Don’t worry though, Ahk, you’ll be fine.” He passed a grin that was even more discomforting and only served to furrow the warrior's brow in displeasure. The desert native lifted his weapon up to his side and approached the circular chamber. It seemed to hover above the ground by at least a foot while a small wind torrent blew dust in circles around it. “Just think of this as the Citadel – just…a little more painful,” the captain offered with a fake smile, turning his back to his guards and motioning for them to move back out. Ahk’Ran was left with just one choice. Steeling his courage, he lowered his hand to the dirt and filled his palm, particles of sand and other debris softly sifting through his fingers and blowing behind him.

“Praise to the Sun God, who gives me the strength for a new day.” His words were spoken with reverence and care as he took his weapon and shallowly cut along the inside of his right arm. Lifting the remaining sand and dirt to the sky, he shouted the name of his god, lowering the smooth-feeling powder and grit to his wound and rubbing it in. The feeling of a thousand bee stings made his flesh tingle as if it were on fire, but as he bit his tongue to keep from crying out the pain slowly subsided. In a matter of moments the familiar golden glow of his god’s blessing created an aura around his right arm, and the weight of his kopesh was featherlike in his enhanced grip.

He lowered himself to the ground and grabbed more of the fine powder, cutting along his left arm this time. “Praise be to the Earth God, who is the foundation of my soul!” In the same manner as before, he lifted the offering up to the sky, and with practiced ease he ground it into the bloody opening of his flesh. The pain became unbearable and he let out a moan of agitation. However, like before, it was a temporary and invigorating pain, leaving his body aglow with the faintest of green auras once it passed. Fully blessed for this battle, the desert native bowed his head and dropped to his knees in supplication before kissing the earth and thanking Ge’Heb for granting him his protection. Rising up with weapon lifted high he screamed a warrior's cry of battle to the sun, the bronze weapon glinting with the illumination of Ptra in the air in a dazzling manner.

“I am Ahk’Ran Kopec, Chosen of the Gods! I offer this Kim’Luk as an offering to please you! Watch this fight and see the courage of men in honorable battle!” Though most of the people in the audience could not hear him, they found his little pre-battle ritual entertaining, and several of the crowd cheered for the Fallien warrior as he calmly and confidently stepped forward onto the small floating dais that lifted him up towards his foe. Whoever Elijah Belov was and what he had accomplished meant little now. The only way to prove who was superior was to take all their wisdom and experiences and apply it in the crucible of battle.

[Christoph]

His slender prevalida sword resting on his shoulder, Elijah watched the Fallien native's ritual with unveiled interest. Though he had read about the desert nation's strange religions, he had expected them, like most things found in books, to be much more mundane in reality. His opponent betrayed his expectations. What an odd display. He shook his head, wondering why anyone would wound themselves before a duel.

Then he felt it: the subtle stirring in the air, the tugging at the threads of reality. Something moved in the winds of magic. He felt a surge of excitement as he closed his eyes and awakened his mage sight. When he opened his eyes however, his enthusiasm evaporated like a morning mist. In place of empty air, Belov now saw the currents of sorcerous power flowing all around them in a river of radiant multicolored light, brighter even than the glaring sun. He squinted reflexively. The green and yellow ethereal motes of life and vitality flowed into his opponent, but only as a choked trickle.

Something is wrong. The hairless man had the look of a soldier, but paled in comparison to others to cross blades with Eli, such as Teric Bloodrose and Letho Ravenheart. He could have passed for a wizard, but Belov's mage sight revealed the limits of his hairless foe's supernatural power. A dozen thoughts ran through his mind, but one word rang out above the rest. Weak.

He spared Sarah a quick glance; her concerned confusion mirrored his own. Was this a jest? A trick? Perhaps the Fallien native concealed his true power. Eli took a deep breath and actually sheathed his sword as his foe completed the foreign ritual. He grasped the threads of magic with practiced ease, weaving tight the red and orange ethereal strands. He drew the power inward. His face felt hot and he tasted cinnamon on his tongue.

"Begin!" The duel warden's shout seemed a distant echo.

Currents of heat swirled about him. Flames flickered about his feet, at first as faint as stirred up dust. Pale smoke rose from the symmetrical web of scars covering his chest. Eli focused his will and unleashed his spell. He could have unleashed a fiery holocaust with enough power to leave half the arena a smoking crater, but he held back, not willing to fall into any traps. Instead, he conjured writhing flames into his palms. He jerked his arms forward and the orange fire erupted from his hands. It surged through the air, expanding into a fifteen-foot chaotic mass and grabbing at his opponent like infernal claws.

[Chosen of the Gods]

“Majicks,” Ahk’Ran muttered dryly as he watched the flames whip around Elijah. The flickering fire moved around the conjurer in a deadly dance as he sang them a tune, bending and weaving the flares to the will of the maestro’s song. They moved upwards in a crescendo of power, a large pillar forming much to the awe of the crowd as people cheered at the hero. Yet all the desert warrior could do was look down upon the area he entered, glancing at the captain who talked him into all this.

“Oh yes, he’s at least your equal Ahk’Ran.”

'I must really improve my understanding of common so I can detect sarcasm,' Ahk’Ran thought dully as his weapon lifted to his side. He would have to remember the insult later, but for now, he had matters that were more pressing. At the rate the inferno traveled, Ahk’Ran would soon be fried. Remembering a lesson from his teacher about desert storms, an idea spawned as the warrior turned to his left and ran.

The huge conflagration moved towards him like a leering jinn of flame. Claw-like appendages that glowed yellow and orange chased him like a jackal after prey. There was little time, and he was still too far away to make the move, but with one last burst of speed he bolted outwards. The flames licked at his back and calves, singing him and telling him it was time to take his leap of faith. He dropped his kopesh, jumped forward and rolled on the wooden dais, sliding along his stomach and leading his feet to fall over the edge. The green glow of his chest had protected him from splinters as if he had worn armor, and aided in the smooth ride.

In one swift motion his body dipped over the abyss and he fell for a brief second. His golden hand had caught the edge of the platform, his enhanced strength gripping the ledge and leaving tiny dents in the wood. The crowd screamed in excitement as the flames passed over him, his other hand gripping his wrist as he dangled, slowly teetering left and right as his feet stared at the world below. The desert warrior felt the heat washing over his fingers, but the sun god Ptra’s blessing would not burn him, for the sun was fire itself. That did not, however, help with the overwhelming wave of heat. Sweat dripped down his brow as if a damp rag had been squeezed over him. Even his time in the sands of Fallien had not prepared him for such heat.

He muttered his praises to the gods as he willed himself to ignore all the pain and strain, and within moments the fire was gone. The crowd still cheered loudly, those on the side of Elijah clapped and whooped, thinking the warrior obliterated and that only his weapon remained. Yet the people on his side knew better, and they eagerly cheered him on. There was a certain power that Ahk’Ran felt, to be cheered for in such a manner. Pride swelled within his heart as he lifted himself up with both hands, the wood still hot from the flaming attack.

When he rolled back onto the floor he quickly stood up, leaning down and picking up his kopesh in his enchanted hand. Even though the weapon’s metal was hot to the touch, his blessing protected him. He just had to be sure not to let the heated bronze touch any part of his skin.

That cautionary thought split off into a darker thought as he grinned in anticipation, moving towards Elijah in a run. The Bronze weapon would only retain the heat for a brief time, but would it be long enough to leave a few marks for Elijah to remember the Fallien native by?

[Christoph]

((Bunnies approved.))
*

Elijah's mage sight faded as he watched his foe scramble to evade the fiery spell. He let out a disappointed sigh. What is this nonsense? He recalled his past foes: Teric Bloodrose, the Red Beast Dan Kross, Letho Ravenheart, wizards of the Radasanth guilds, and others. Those foes had tested Belov's limits at the Pagoda and Citadel in amazing displays of power and skill. Even matches; honorable combat. This fight, though... His pride bristled. This fight was a joke, and he wasn't laughing.

The audience cheered as his foe narrowly escaped scorching doom; this seemed to hearten the foreign man, but the Pagoda Master knew well the subtleties of applause. He could hear the first traces of mocking laughter tainting their encouragement. That distinct sound jogged a four year-old memory. He had been conscripted into a mock naval battle in a flooded amphitheatre at the Citadel, put onto the side meant to lose -- meant to lose entertainingly. The crowd now urged the Fallien native on not to excel or win, but to prolong their own amusement. Elijah clenched his teeth against the first spark of anger.

Eli's attention snapped back to the duel as his foe regained his feet and ran forward. The sorcerer pushed aside his distractions and tugged again at the ethereal strands of creation. He remained still this time, making no sweeping arm motions or flicks of his wrist to hint at his sorcery. His eyes focused intensely on the air in front of him, which rippled slightly like a slave recoiling from his master's wrathful glare.

The Fallien man charged with a manic grin and Belov made no move to evade or even draw his sword. The moment seemed to drag on and the crowd actually quieted for an instant. His foe came within eight feet and then crashed into an invisible barrier. The empty air wrinkled with shockwaves of distortion like still water struck by a stone. The crowd abandoned all pretenses and erupted in braying laughter.

"Why are you even here?" he shouted to his opponent, smoldering with annoyance. "There is no honor in this fight, only humiliation for both of us. Why are you here?"

[Chosen of the Gods]

Ahk’Ran let his chest rise and fall as he fell onto his back, the only part of his body that his enchanted armor aura did not cover. Bits of wood had got stuck and pricked him after being warped by the blazing inferno. His Gods' blessings were slowly fading with each second and after running head first into an invisible brick wall, the desert native had swallowed his pride and accepted that he was not just outclassed – he was being used for sport. His opponent spoke with anger-filled words and he could detect agitation by the inflection.

He had come to wonder what exactly the lesson was in this particular fight. His gods were always testing him, always pushing him to a higher level of performance. Yet this time he had no clue what to think the lesson was. One could not expect an infant to topple a giant, and as it stood now, this task would have one conclusion. He looked to all the people, their cries and jeers and laughter mocking him endlessly. Here he was, a warrior on a platform fighting to the death, and they…laughed.

A dark root managed to fester within Ahk’Ran’s heart, his eyes watering at being hurt in such a manner. In Fallien, nobles and commoners saw this sort of combat as well, but nobody laughed. Nobody insulted the warriors who risked their physical health for their entertainment. The fact that they had even dared to taunt him so casually agitated the desert warrior. If he were to face them in an arena of this nature, they would not be laughing as hard as they did now. Yet he closed his eyes and let the sun wash over him, the warming rays of heat feeling good as the sun god kissed his flesh. He let the noise slowly fade out of his mind, and then suddenly the lesson he had not understood became as clear as the sky above.

Sobering from his depression, he slowly lifted himself up using his kopesh as a cane, digging it deeply into the wood and leaving scars behind. His two auras had faded, but he did not care. They were not going to change the drastic difference between him and his opponent. He stood up and stretched his back before scraping the bronze weapon against the ground, then raising it up and into a ready position.

“I am Ahk’Ran Kopec, Chosen of the Gods,” Ahk’Ran at last answered in a calm manner. “And I am here to make a fool of myself.” Ahk’Ran paused, touching his chest. “And you, too,” he finished, pointing to Elijah. “In front of all these people," he said, letting his finger point to all those around the entire arena. "But do not think me wrong!” Ahk’Ran warned with a grin. “I am no fool, and I will fight with all the honor I have.”

This was the lesson that Ahk’Ran had learned: stay true to his convictions and his honor, even in the face of despair and hopelessness. He would die fighting the way he was trained, and no matter how he was treated, he would fight with his all.

[Christoph]

"I am Elijah Belov of Salvar, and you are a honorable man," Eli replied, his voice confident and noble, like it once was when he commanded warriors in Salvar. He took a step toward his far outmatched opponent. The crowd's laughter died down. "I could continue this charade and humiliate you utterly, surely gaining the favor of these pampered highborn, but you deserve better than that."

"The foreigner is a criminal," called the duel warden. Middle-aged and dressed in silvery robes, the man maneuvered through the sea of wooden spikes surrounding the platform. "He fights in this spectacle to repay his debt to our nation. Carry on with the duel."

Something subtly snapped in Belov's mind and soul. Years-old memories, already inflamed by this humiliation, flooded back in force. Dark, dingy cells and bloody clothes; hunger and chill. It was the first time that he remembered feeling truly powerless. "What more do you want from me? I did what you required! I fought in your Citadel battle, and I won. I won, damn it!" "Yes, you were very impressive, foreigner. Tell us why you, a Salvic national were harboring Ranger fugitives?" "I'm just a chef! I don't know anything about any fugitives. I've told you a dozen times!" "And still I find your answers unsatisfactory. You will fight again. The crowds will laugh when you die. And you will die, again and again, until your answers improve."

At least the Monks had arranged suitable opponents for him; this Fallien native was not so fortunate. If a man commits a crime, fine him a sum of gold or make him work and toil in honest labor. The theft of the foreigner's honor filled Eli with disgust. That his foe accepted it so stoically only angered Belov further. This is a good man. A spark of rebellion flared up in his heart, again harkening back to Salvar's war.

Eli turned his fiery glare to the warden. "Criminal or not, he is a true warrior in spirit." The sorcerer's voice grew louder, resonating across the stadium. Smoke rose from smoldering wood, its bitter smell stinging his nostrils. "If you wish to disgrace this man, put him in a stockade and be done with it! I will have no part." His eyes shifted to the crowd, the rich and powerful of Radasanth. He looked at the men and women with the resources and influence to give him everything he needed and sneered, shouting, "What you seek to watch here will be all you ever achieve for your country. Humiliation!" A deathly silence gripped the audience and Elijah spat with disgust.

"May we meet again one day as more deserving adversaries," he said to his foe, before walking to the arena's edge. The crowd's murmur sounded like a swarm of nervous flies.

"Elijah Belov, you must finish your bout!" commanded the warden, voice wavering. In response, Eli unstrapped his sheathed sword and hurled it over the rows of spikes. It landed on the trampled grass in front of the stands, and Sarah quickly scurried to retrieve it.

Without another word, the Pagoda Master walked off the arena beneath a thousand angry eyes. Red fire licked up behind his shoes with every step, spreading hungrily across the wooden platform. Outraged shouts and curses poured from the crowd as flames consumed the arena. "He's a coward!" some yelled. "Go back to Salvar!" Eli deafened his ears to their taunts. Sarah fretfully ran to his side before the angry mobs could mobilize, and the two left with a towering inferno behind them.

[Chosen of the Gods]

Ahk’Ran watched as the man known as Elijah parted ways with the arena. He had spoken his piece and brushed his hands clean of this façade of a battle and it would be a lie if the desert warrior did not admit he felt some form of relief. Many a jab and insult were slung towards the Salvarian, but deep down inside he knew the man would take no sport in this fight. It spoke much of his character and with a polite, respectful nod of his head in the man’s direction, the Fallien native closed this chapter of his life.

Behind him, the sound of metal clanked softly as footsteps creaked against the wooden platform. He turned to see the captain of the guard approach him with a look of irritation as he lifted one closed fist to halt the soldiers behind him. A portly guard lifted a hand to his side, pulling out chains as he fought to release them from the leather satchel. The heavy kopesh in his hand was lowered to his side as he looked to the man who glared at him with the full fury of one who felt cheated.

“This is not absolving you of anything, Ahk,” the guardsmen said loudly in a challenging manner. “You still owe a debt to the Viceroys. Elijah Belov taking his ball and going home will not change your sentence.”

“But of course,” Ahk’Ran nodded in a polite manner, bowing low to his captor. “I must ask, what did these people wish to see?” He lifted a finger accusingly. “What did you wish to see?” His eyes narrowed on the disgusting blue eyes of the guard master. The man stepped forward, his hand gesturing to the crowd.

“What are you, a naive child? These people wanted to see blood – a massacre! They wanted to witness death before them in a display of a contest.”

“But this was not a fair fight. Surely this would anger them?” Ahk’Ran mused with a smile. The man shook his head with a snort of irritated mirth. He looked over the audience and scowled as he grabbed Ahk’Ran’s arm and shoved him towards the edge so he could get a better look of the mob. Each face looked so different, but each expression told the same story: they were angry, hurt and betrayed.

“Do they look like they give a rats arse about your simpleton pride? Do these people seem like they care about an honorable duel? They all came here to watch a slaughter, even if it was a lamb versus a dragon! And you and that shit for brains Elijah, the coward, ruined everything!”

“You answered only one question,” Ahk’Ran muttered loudly, his voice growing darker as he spoke the words carefully. He made sure to use all his knowledge of common not to slip his intentions. The man’s answer greatly interested him and his eagerness to hear it made sure he spoke clearly.

“I wanted to see someone die!” he roared. “I set you up against that idiot so you would get blown to pieces or impaled on the spikes below. I knew you would be a great candidate because your useless sense of honor and pride would make sure you’d get up regardless of the wounds he inflicted on you!”

There was a moment of tension between the two as Ahk’Ran learned the true nature of this man’s heart. It was vile, cold, and corrupted. His own pride was tarnished, perhaps for a good reason, or a set of circumstances that led to the conclusion of his hatred. How he handled the situation was the exact opposite of Ahk’Ran. Where Ahk’Ran held onto his convictions no matter the cost, this man cast them aside. This key difference was what he wanted to know.

He turned to face the guard master with a glare. They looked to one another like mountain goats about to collide as sparks flew between them. The grip on his weapon gave the warrior a wicked idea. With a casual manner he spoke up again. “We are in a citadel, correct?”

There was a momentary pause before the guard answered, his anger clear as he ran his mouth, wiping a gauntlet through his blonde hair, pulling it softly as the masses got more and more restless. He knew they wanted action, and his options were narrowing. He looked to the Fallien native with a scornful look.

“Yes, this is technically a facility of the Citadel, like I mentioned earlier, you moron. What of it?”

“Was there ever a fear of permanent death?” He inquired more, fingers slowly curling. The guard master nodded his head.

“Yes, that is why Elijah’s attitude confuses me. This was a simple task to just smite some trash and show off. He is such a fool.” Ahk’Ran shook his head as he set his plan into motion.

“Elijah is not a dishonorable dog like you!” He spoke loudly, yelling to the masses so they all could hear. Some lowered their tones to hear what was being said, silencing those around them. “There is no sport in hunting a fish trapped within a barrel. So it should be of no amusement to you to see a warrior going against impossible odds. You cast aside your pride, while I keep it tightly!”

“Shut your damn mouth!” The master turned to see a few members of the crowd start to whisper and point at his location. The feeling was wholly uncomfortable as the masses began to actually listen to Elijah’s point.

“If you had any sense of honor, you would relish the chance to show your skills in front of people against a foe who can truly challenge you! Yet you seem content to throw scraps to this hungry crowd instead of sate their hunger! I shall correct this and give these people what they want!”

Confused at the last words, the guard master gritted his teeth and turned, lifting a hand to slap the bronzed warrior and hopefully push him off into the death spikes below. It would certainly solve one of the problems he was having today and the more he thought of the action the more he wanted to act on it. He placed all his force into his fist and spun.

He never saw the kopesh cleanly swing through his neck muscles and snap the bone of his spine. His last sight was the two burning eyes of the Far Ka’Lad warrior’s face filled with righteous fury. His body collapsed awkwardly to the floor, the head rolling before his feet. The viscera splattered the wooden platform and a silence descended upon the crowd. Sharp gasps and confused gaping mouths hung open, the guards a mere few steps away simply look dumbfounded. In the silence, Ahk’Ran bent over in a simple manner to the crowds, bowing respectfully before lifting his weapon upwards to the sky and screaming the name of his gods.

This sent a shrill wave of excitement that was soon echoed by the masses as they cheered loudly, at long last seeing what they wanted. They clapped and screamed his name in a chant that boomed throughout the amphitheatre and Ahk’Ran grinned proudly. Humbly, he turned to the guards, dropping his weapon gently on the ground before his feet and held his wrists out to them.

“Well, I do think that satisfies the masses.” He smiled. It took a moment for the guards to think of what to do, before the portly man stepped forwards, placing the cuffs upon the warrior with a wide smile.

“I do think it does, Ahk’Ran Kopesh. Come, I do not think the captain will be able to see you off,” he joked. Ahk’Ran let himself be escorted back to prison, a soft chuckle building within him as he listened to the people shout his name as well as his gods’ names.