Round 2: Lute and Hammer Vs League of Nightmares

[Abomination]

Draug couldn't help but notice his partner's attack while he was making his death march. This was the first time he had seen Ciato fight, and he expected something different. It occurred to him that he would much rather be fighting the giantess than this shorter orc, but he could easily see himself fighting both of them. In fact, the Mystic was just in his way. He was hoping the loudmouth would find himself pulverized enough for Draug to take over without worrying about him messing everything up. That seemed like a good justification for letting him do this, the larger opponent could incapacitate Ciato sooner. While he was under orders to protect Ciato, it was not against himself. If he chose to act poorly, Draug saw no need to interfere. That was the gambit his mother was playing with the Mystic's life. She had no intention to be used by the Mystic, it was she who was using him.

The orc before him was armed with a spear and shield, an arrangement more commonly found in the armed forces of Salvar or Corone. The Homunculus was somewhat familiar with spear combat, but the range of his experience was limited. As he drew closer, he noticed that the orc's skin was more gray than anything, and his long arms could likely allow for thrusts far outside Draug's attack range. He was built well for a spear user, and it was clear that he meant to keep Draug away from him. The Homunculus would have no part of that. The orc's mistake was assuming he was human.

As the orc thrust forward with the spear, Draug made no attempt to deflect the weapon. Keeping his free hand ready, he stepped into the tip of the spear and allowed it to pierce into his body, causing a burst of poisonous blood to erupt from the wound toward the orc. He felt a streak of pain course through his body, but pain was a welcome friend to the monstrosity. He immediately went to grab the shaft of the spear with his left hand to pull it further into his body with his inhuman strength, digging his feet into the ground and trying to drag the orc off-balance. His sword-wielding hand was already at work with a wide swing from his side. Despite the thinness of his arms, the compressed muscles within held an enormous amount of strength, and he meant to test the orc's own strength. He was going to teach the ugly beast the mistake of coming here, of encountering the champion of The Cult of Blessed Torture.

[Erirag the Poet]

Despite the fact that her knuckles met only the sandy floor of the arena, grit scratching at her fingers, Erirag couldn't help but smile. The mystic before her did fight like an elven lord, his swift feet leaving little room for errors. However, even as he danced away through the dust that her smashing strike had kicked up she grinned and laughed. The deep chortle rolled through the filthy haze and she stood enshrouded in a golden mist that dissipated almost as quickly as it had puffed upward. Before she could call back to her friend, the swordsman was before her. Engulfed in a halo of rage and hatred, he struck. As shards of glass and clay slithered across the powdered arena floor, the thin point of the rapier was flashing and jutting out at her.

It wasn't the first time that she'd suffered a stab wound. The elves were like that too, and more than one bladed tip or arrowhead had buried itself in her body. Again, she thought of Otto's remarks on Ciato's fighting style. Even as she tried to dodge the random points of the sword, swatting at them as angrily as she might swat a fly, she could smell her own blood bubbling to the surface. It was crisp and clean in her mind, a striking contrast to the smell that had been seeping through the arena since the doors had opened to welcome them to their fates. Now that she could compare the two she understood what Otto meant about bad blood. That smell was growing stronger, almost pouring from behind her. She hoped that it meant Otto had taken out the other human. It was then that she made a terrible mistake. Twisting, she turned to ensure that Otto was fine, a nagging feeling in the back of her mind telling her that the fear she smelled heavy in the air was not entirely from the crowds that pressed their faces to the fencing.

The vision she saw didn't seem quite right. The human was skewered, like meat ready for the fire spit. The pleasure she got lasted only a split second until she saw it slide the spear deeper, as if it was little deterrent from making it to her companion. Rage bubbled up in her, pulling a growling roar from her throat. If anything needed to be smashed, it was this other human. She'd almost forgot about the Orlouge behind her until a sharp immediate pain exploded in her side. Midstep, she stopped and looked down and to the side under her arm. Blood dripped down her biceps from where she'd taken slices and stabs at his earlier attacks, but now it was pouring from between her bottom-most ribs. The rapier was firmly wedged in her skin, almost like a thick silver hair that was begging to be plucked.

It was a lucky shot, but she would ensure that this man would not be so lucky again. "Lulgijak!" she hissed through a pained breath. Flowers-in-the-Blood, it meant, a reference to the elven way in which this man fought, in which he lived. The arrogance was almost too much for one orc to take. She and Otto were iron and rock, and no velvet flower could withstand their assault. She would have to trust her amber-eyed friend for now. As she whipped around to meet the noble, she grabbed frantically at the blade in her side, hoping to pluck it out and away from him before he could withdraw it. Every movement was agony, but not as much as she planned on giving to him if she could take his sword and beat him soundly with it.To edge him away, her free fist swung again, around and upwards. His jaw was just begging to be knocked off.

[Otto]

The spear landed dead on target, piercing flesh with ease. What Otto didn’t expect was for a jet of blood to spurt out like juice from a burst Bradbury lemon. With the large gap between them, Otto had enough to time to jerk his shield into place before the drops landed. He could hear them pitter-patter on the other side upon the oak.

With his head hidden behind the shield, he did not see Draug’s next move. Worried that his opponent would try to sever the shaft with his sword, Otto tugged at the shaft weapon without success; the spear was being held firmly in place. He went for a second pull - but his opponent reciprocated first, and dragged the Orc in. Otto swung his shield out wide and used it as a counterbalance in a drunken pirouette. He let his knees bend further and ducked down low, levering against the spear to push himself back. In the space of half a second, his heart clenched tight at the sight of a steel sword swinging in a wide arc from the opposite direction... then it skimmed over the crest of his helm, and the shaft came free in his hand with a crack. Otto whirled backwards a step, heavy feet kicking up a spiral of sand, and the world twirled by in blurry glimpses to show –

– the crowd, quickly running out of improvised ballistics –

– a bloodied Erirag with a sword between her ribs –

– and the lax features of the blonde-haired devil. Otto hopped back a couple more steps, still regaining his balance, and glanced down at the severed length of oak in his palm. The wood had been chopped through in one swing. He looked up from the frayed end of the shaft and in to the black eyes of the man before him, and there it was: the better part of the shaft still embedded in his chest. Otto stared for a moment. Then he flung the stub at Draug.

Something was bubbling up inside him, hissing through the cracks. A fortnight ago – hell, even just a week – it hadn’t existed… but Erirag had come to cast a new light on battle for him. She was resurrecting in him the joy of combat which had died in the face of the civil war and all its mindless, indiscriminate violence. The crowd stamped and screamed to a bloody tattoo pounding in his ears. He could not believe he was about to do it, but he was.

Otto began to sing.

He sung one of the first tunes that Erirag had taught him, an earthy ditty with an uplifting melody. It was the Orcish equivalent of Coronian folk songs about home, family, mother’s Yarlborough pie, and carefree frolicking through the countryside.

“Golog maush ambal, shara maush pasun. Bur-Uruk, Gru-Uruk - karg maushat sha kragor!".

It wasn’t well sung, and Otto only hit the general area around the notes, but Erirag would probably be the only one able to tell. She was in a bad way; the smell of blood in this place was only getting more suffocating. He dared not turn his back on the homunculus to go and help her, but he would not let her think she was entirely on her own. While he bellowed out, slow and strong, he unhooked the hammer at his waist, hefting it in his right hand, and readied his shield once more. The diseased one was toying with him, which may have been the only reason Otto was still upright; there must have been a lot of strength in those arms to cleave through a rod of oak in one swing.

"Pau lumri ob gijak! Baj malri ob kafakri! Bajrak ashtri flo-ub, na mal-maj.

"Mirdautas vras!", he roared. Sand jumped around his feet as advanced towards the homunculus, sheild at the fore and hammer at the ready, preparing as best he could to meet his opponent's attack.

---

Translation: Elf meat is sweet, man meat is rich. Brothers, sisters - tear flesh with fang! Drink rivers of blood! Build mountains of skulls! Our bones will rest, at the summit.

[Ciato Orlouge]

He could hear his father’s voice telling him to get up and try again. He could feel the shameful stare of his mother’s eyes upon his form. The tactics that this disgruntled and despicable demonkin demonstrated dripped with desperation. The Mystic released the sword for a moment as the she-orc came swinging at him, both blows stopping just inches from his features. As the air began to crack and create spider web like fractures around him, he looked at Draug’s progress. His partner’s opponent was now singing something that sounded more like the beast was howling in pain. Ciato smiled at the thought of his ally finishing off the horrible creature.

He turned back quickly towards his female foe, his frantic and fantical frenzy finally starting to fade at the sight of the female's full form. The air around him shattered into large fragments of glass that surrounded his form, hovering as if they were crystalline soldiers ready for their orders. The nobleman quickly grabbed at the hilt of his sword, still implanted in the beast, and pulled with all his might. He had hoped the maneuver would cause the gross and ghoulish green skinned goliath further pain. Ciato’s face continued its cheshire grin as he heard the sloshing sounds of the rapier exiting flesh.

“The one named Otto,” Ciato said, the fragments flung forward from their formal formation and flew through the air, hurtling at speeds similar to a hawk swooping down to acquire a mouse. Ciato’s Mystic Protection spell allowed him to designate a target, to which the magical glass would implant every bit of itself into said targets weakest area. Ciato knew that by the way these two had talked to one another, that they must have been lovers. More so than his weapon impaling her, the loss of this ‘Otto’ would surely hurt Erirag more. Even with his armor, the Mystic was certain that a few shards would make their way to exposed spots. any pain felt by Otto would probably be just as emotionally damaging to Erirag.

Thoughts of Asterodeia, Ciato’s own lover and wife filled his head. He could still recall the warmth of her body against his, the feeling of her breath as she purred against his neck. Most importantly, he recalled the empty feeling in the pit of his stomach when he had lost her. His heart had always felt as though it pumped blood at half capacity now, and his motives were usually driven by nothing more than routine. Now, Erirag would know the same feelings of suffering that Ciato had bottled up inside for years. This would be a pain far greater than any that the middle child Mystic would ever be able to inflict on his sibling.

And that thought brought with it a great joy to Ciato's heart.

[Abomination]

The orc's reaction time was fast enough to avoid Draug's attack, but his spear was not so lucky. As the Homunculus cleaved through the oak shaft, there was a loud crunching sound and bits of wood fell to the ground. Now instead of pushing his half of the spear further into his body, he ripped it out completely, but unlike the initial penetration, there was no explosion of blood from his chest. Blood was clotting around the wound since the impact, and while there was still a gash of red that could be seen through his ripped clothes, it was clear that the damage had been mitigated. The orc threw the remains of his half of the spear, which Draug knocked away with the other half. Blood dripped down from the spear's tip, mixing with the liquid already on the ground below him. While Draug could have pressed the attack, the orc's singing made him curious. It looked like there was a dark enjoyment to gray-skinned beast's battle. Draug had no such concept of fun, he only had his orders and to fulfill them at his own pace. He tossed aside the broken spear and held up his sword once again with one hand, narrowing his eyes at the sight of the orc retrieving a hammer.

Before he could make his next attack however, he noticed a hail of glass shards heading towards his direction... no, not his direction, Otto's direction. In the back of his mind, a dormant emotion surfaced to the fore. His warning last round had gone unheeded. Mother always taught him to punish those that would resist the will of the Cult, and that applied to his own will as well. Before the shards met their target, Draug dashed passed them, dropping his sword and nearly flying at Ciato with his usual blank scare eclipsed by an affronted glare. The battle between him and Eriag didn't matter. Before Ciato could open his mouth, Draug was at his side, with only his arm in front of the Mystic. The Mystic felt his voice disappear as Draug's inner elbow met with his throat, lifting the Mystic up into the air and carrying him several meters before the Homunculus stopped and let him tumble to the ground.

Cassandra's champion then lifted his hand and slammed it down on Ciato's head, clasping the Mystic's skull but not squeezing on it just yet, "I thought I told you not to interfere." There was no emotion to his voice, no anger or resentment, but Ciato knew that somewhere in Draug's mind, he was enraged. It didn't help how much Ciato reminded him of Sei, his mortal enemy in the Ixian Knights. Using the same techniques also triggered Draug's kill switch.

"Damn it you stitched-up corpse, don't you know where we are?!" he said while on his back, unable to see and putting his hands on Draug's to try to pry it off his face. The back of his head was gnashing against the sand. "This is a team tournament! We're supposed to fight them together!"

"The last one was alone," Draug shot back. With his back turned to his enemies, this seemed like a much more important matter to the Homunculus than the battle itself.

"That wasn't intentional! His partner disappeared! Will you let go of me already?!" Draug paused for a moment, then released his grip from the Mystic, getting back up and looking down on him with clenched fists. Ciato brushed himself off and got back up, reaching back and feeling a new lump on his spine. With a hoarse breath, his own eyes had anger in them. "Look Draug, I know you want to fight them, that you were ordered to fight all the competitors in this tournament, but you never received an order to do it alone! I hear all about how the Cult is there to give the freedom to pursue any desire, no matter how twisted, and I'm a member now too. Do I not have the right to pursue my own desires? I want to win this thing as well."

Draug didn't answer. There was truth to those words, and it was the reason that he didn't just walk around killing Cult members and harvesting their organs.

"I understand," said the Homunculus. Ciato wanted to kill them, but Draug was merely ordered to do so. To accomplish that desire, Ciato needed him.

"Then we will cooperate from this point on. I want their heads to roll."

Turning back to his opponents, he took off his coat and tossed it aside. Extending his arms, he grit his teeth as the very flesh on them started to grow and form tumors. His arms grew fatter and bubbled, and then his arms split into three identical sets of arms. With six arms total, all coming from the same origin on his shoulder, the two top arms retrieved a steel sword each from his throat, both of them bloody from scraping his throat. Two more swords were retrieved from under the middle pair of arms, also bloody from ripping through the flesh. The bottom two arms pulled swords out of his hips like he was made of mud, the swords sliding out of the skin but leaving the flesh intact. The blood dripped down all over his arms and swords, making even his missed swings poisonous as the blood would likely splash around everywhere. From his spine another bloody weapon was produced, it was his enchanted mythril kunai that produced ice burns on contact. It fell to the ground at Ciato's feet.

"I see," Ciato mused. "You want me to find an opportunity to use this." The kunai was also covered in Draug's blood, but the handle was clean. Ciato could use it to poison his opponents.

Draug thought out loud, "A pile of orc body parts..." Ciato grinned, because he knew that Draug was now serious. The crowd went wild at the sight of Draug turning out to be an even more horrifying monster than the orc competitors. However, there was one dark hooded member of the audience who was standing quietly with his arms crossed.

Draug charged at Eriag, all of his swords ready to strike and cut apart the over-sized orc.

[Erirag the Poet]

Too much was happening at once for the orc. As she feebly whipped at the rapier, her fist stopped by some unseen shield, the swordsman took his blade from her flesh as easily as an ancient king pulling his birthright from a stone. A sharp thunder of pain reverberated through her ribs, and Ciato stepped away with his weapon. The crowds had found a way to launch bottles into the arena now, sailing them high above the fencing. Most of them hit the top of the chain link, clanging with a metallic echo before they clattered back on the drunken throng. A few were aimed well enough to launch over the edge of the barricade and dash upon the floor. Despite the thick layer of sand, the stone floor somewhere below the grit shattered them, and brown glass scattered and left lines in the darkly stained sand. The pattering of shards and the chime of glass on metal was the perfect percussion to Otto's baritone, as off as the song was. It was almost comforting, the way he missed the notes and sang the words just off time. It meant he was alive, he was well, and he was strong. It was a good song to sing, and a good day to sing it. In a roar of approval, Erirag tensed to attack the mystic before her again before something caught her attention. His voice was nearly drowned out by the stadium, the crowds, the song and the adrenaline, but she caught one word - Otto.

The glass around him that had appeared from nowhere to stop her fist had been hanging almost lifeless. She'd missed it at first, too distracted by pain and the cacophony of battle. Now she could see the glittering fragments zoom like bees, and there was no doubt in the bard's mind that they would sting just as heavily as any angered Alerarian hornet. The lanky human she'd never paid much attention to wasn't dead, but moving past her at a strangely inhuman speed, ignoring that Otto was slammed by the glass. Had she heard a gasp from her friend? Letting Draug overtake Ciato, Erirag instead was focused on moving towards the other orc as he clutched at his helm, hissing in pain. She tripped on an unbroken bottle that had fallen and rolled between them, sliding in towards Otto on her knees. Her thick skin protected her here, but the glass in the sand still poked and sliced at her shins.

"Otto!" she called, trying to peer into his visor to ensure that he was okay. She gave a grunt and a huff before cursing their opponents. "Zanbauri." It almost made her want to spit, how tricky the humans could be for a race so stupid and frail. She tentatively spoke, trying frantically to remember the grammar lessons Otto had given her while glass, alcohol, and pebbles rained down around them, tiny missiles thrown by a crowd mounting in excitement and confusion over Draug's apparent attack of his supposed partner. "Humans think they so smart but these just little cuts, like no things. We make them learn, then they be sorry. Lots sorry." The angry, hushed voices from a few yards away had ceased and Erirag grinned as she reached out, finding the discarded end of the broken spear. It was thick with gore, and the off smell of blood. Erirag was beginning to understand what Otto meant by bad blood. It was fresh, but it smelled like it came from something left in the sun for too long.

"This sad day for humans," she said, pushing herself off the ground to tower over Otto and give him a reassuring nod. She turned in time, however, to see that she had been vastly mistaken. What she faced was not human. Her eyes widened, pools of honeyed mead that seemed to gape at the sight of the now six-armed man that came towards her. She'd heard tales, somewhere, of exotic gods from far beyond the horizon who fought with many hands that held blades, skin blue and eyes red. This was no god, but a monster. Brandishing the spearhead in front of her she menaced him with it while slowly scooting back. He was coming for her, she knew, and there may be nothing she could do against so many flashing blades dripping with too dark blood. She did what she could to keep putting distance between herself and this man, and herself and Otto. Inching towards the edge of the arena, her foot slid back into something sharp and hard. She took her eyes off of Draug for but a moment so that she could glance down.

An amulet was in the dirt, piled with the remains of a mug that had been thrown with it. It seemed to flash in a way that had nothing to do with the mirrors placed around the pit, almost as if the light that touched it was dark in some way and bore no resemblance to the reflections of sunshine that they'd been bathed in. She had no time for pretty things, however, as Draug's movements brought him closer and droplets of blood were flung from the tips of his blades at her. Where they touched her arms, cut from blocking Ciato's burst of jabs, it stung in a way that no mere blood should. Erirag almost felt sick. She tore her mind from the amulet, where it kept wanting to return and bore her teeth at the abomination before her. One more step back, she decided, and she would take the risk and rush him with the spear. Before she could move, however, her foot came down on the copper, and she heard a strange crunch through the soft 'shiff' of sand moving beneath her heel. A sting like a current went up her leg and she felt the most incredible sensation come over her.

Staring down Draug, despite the fear that she knew was pouring from her like a dam bursting from pressure, she felt almost elated. She felt like singing. So, the orcish bardess began to prepare a song, striking up a tune in her heart, the beat pounding on adrenaline and anticipation as those blades drew ever near.

[Otto]

"Loratuurz sha armaukri, loratuurz sha raaaurrgh!".¹

Contrary to to common opinion in the audience, the final wailing screech was not more Orcish, but a rather agonised scream. While Otto had approached the monster before him, he had seen the sunken, black eyes dart to focus on a spot somewhere over the Orc's shoulder. Otto dismissed it as a crude tactic - even wounded, Erirag would not let the other one past so easily - and had continued to sing as he closed the gap. Thus, it was a complete surprise when the homunculus darted past him. Otto had halted and brought his shield to bear to begin with, before turning to strike at the rapidly fleeing back of his opponent when no attack on Draug's part became apparent.

It turned out to be something of a mistake.

He thought, at first, a particularly large shard of glass from a bottle had slipped through the fencing and delved straight into his eye; a dozen smaller jabs through the links of him mail went unheeded against the torturous magnitude of the pain in his skull. Worse than that, he was blind. Otto's hands went immediately around the sallet, while he stifled the scream from continuing; it escaped as a hiss instead, not unlike the noise of an Aleranian steam engine shortly before it turns into a smoking crater. Instinct kicked in, took the reins and clawed through the shock in several stages.

Step one: clutch painful area, and swear (bonus points awarded if it is in Orcish).

Step two: regain basic sentience. Realise that you are blind, with your guard down, and your enemy has a sword. Better flail around with that hammer; you might buy yourself a second or two.

Step three: hold on. That thing was running towards Erirag.

"Damn!".

Otto prepared for a final charge, almost certain that Erirag had been dispatched after a single moment of brilliant coordination on the other team's part. By now the pain had largely been transformed to rage, and he felt able to open his eyes at the same time as he birthed a guttural, wordless warcry from deep within his chest.

"Raaaarr...rrgh?", he said, and the roar deflated at the sight of Erirag skidding through the sand towards him. His right eyes was fine, thank Trisgen, but the vision in his left was heavily blurred. The gummy orb felt like someone was constantly fanning it with grit from the arena floor; it ran heavily, and his nose too. Still, they functioned well enough to see the red leviathan's eyes pierce his helm.

"Zanbauri", Erirag spat, then she proceeded in a more encouraging tone. "Humans think they so smart but these just little cuts, like no things. We make them learn, then they be sorry. Lots sorry".

A glistening hand dipped into the sand, to emerge with the remains of Otto's cast-off spear. There were perhaps four, four and a half feet of it in one piece there. Otto blinked back involuntary tears as he replied.

"Tul biub",² he stated, simply. The past had shown that, when Erirag told him that he was strong, she was right. She stood up, and nodded.

Then, movement. Their foes had rallied and the devil, the drok, advanced in a yet more nightmarish form. And where the hell did those other swords come from?, Otto wondered. Whatever had happened during Otto's bout of fumbling sightlessness, he did not know - and he did not have time to figure it out. The homunculus was running in now, while the other one was yet to approach; Otto's good eye made out the shape of something small and metallic in the latter's grasp, and the professional armourer in him identified it as a kunai. Otto was thankful for his shield... but Erirag had no such defence.

"Erirag, human has hodhug thauk!",³ he yelled, then as Draug bore down on her, "Hogg drok, like kopak! Like hashatug a, damn, a karmaz!".⁴

Otto wanted to keep an eye on Ciato; he kept himself several feet to Erirag's right, and let her focus on keeping the homunculus at bay while he split his attention between both their opponents. Through the haze of his ravaged oculus he noticed Erirag suddenly halt, and his heart skipped a beat - what had he missed? His good eye swiveled around to see her falter, and then Draug moved in, poisoned blades a-spinning.

Zouk'hai. 'Mine', 'all', 'greater'. Us.

This time, the warcry did not die in his throat. He raised his shield and ran full tilt at the drok in a bid to wedge himself between its swords and her.

That was when he heard the music.

---

1) lit.: "Blessed with enemies, blessed with - oh, gods! My face!"
2) "They shall fall".
3) "throwing knife". Might literally translate not as "knife for throwing", but rather, "knife which throws".
4) "Hit demon", "club", "stabbing" and "lake", respectively.

[Ciato Orlouge]

His throat throbbed from Draug’s savage hold on it. He touched the reddened marks that seemed even more obvious upon his naturally pale features. The orcs were too busy with the love medley that they had prepared for one another to be too concerned about the inner turmoil between the League of Nightmares. The audience, however, seemed ecstatic that there was now a potential for three deaths in this round rather than simply two. Cat calls and other verbal jabs were being called out now to both teams at an alarming rate. The Mystic’s nose crinkled, almost as if he could smell the foul breath of the rowdy rabble-rousers overhead. It reminded him once more of the previous round, wherein he had been forced to endure the confines of a prison. Both the prisoners of Terrinore and the audience of Lyridia's fight club were very similar in the way they cheered for just about anything.

It was disgusting.

The nobleman kneeled down, sheathing his blade and placing the small kunai in his hands. He was no stranger to the feel of other weapons, the small knife feeling just as lightweight as his own sword. He gave the blade a few quick tosses into the air, careful to catch it by the handle with each toss. He grinned as he looked to his partner, noting the resolve the creature now held for finishing off the two warrior bards. He cocked his head to the side as he watched the beast get to his work.

Draug seems to have this well in Hand. Or, rather, in –hands- Ciato mused over allowing the homunculus to handle the situation. He strolled over to the opposite end of the arena, far away from both the orcs and his Cult brethren, and sat down. He whistled some strange Mystic tune as he watched the play unfold before them. The orcs -did- seem to have a better flair for the dramatics than they did for actually fighting. Are these two ever going to actually fight?

He watched the female grab an amulet that had come out of nowhere, and raised an eyebrow as the giant examined the thing. He pondered the orcs tenacity, wondering how long she would last with the gaping hole in her side. A trail of blood stained the sand all the way up to where he had left his mark on her. Draug would expose that weakness and turn it into one ofhis greatest strengths. Ciato gave Erirag a full fifteen seconds against Cassandra Remi's favorite son.

The other one, Otto, had apparently been pretty wounded by Mystic Protection. The fact that the gray skinned warrior seemed so injured brought a smirk across Ciato’s features. Draug would be able to finish him off now in a hurry thanks to the efoorts ofthe Mystic noble. He juggled the dagger once more, awaiting his opportunity to use the weapon his friend had bestowed upon him. Once more, the action of the arena was taking a back seat to theatrics.

It was something that, according to the screaming crowd, the people did not appreciate too much.

[Abomination]

The short, hooded figure stood behind the fence with the other spectators.

"Enjoying the show?" he asked to his neighbor, who looked like he couldn't tell what was going on inside the pit.

"Huh?" he answered, almost not hearing the question. He had short brown hair and looked no different from any of the other humans on Lornius. "Y-yeah..." The pit had its fair share of contestants, but it was clear that having it be featured in an LCC match made its competitors a cut above the usual crop of gladiators.

The hooded man's face was obscured, with only his nose and mouse visible. He had a slight overbite with elongated incisors that hung over his bottom lip. "Wouldn't you like to get in there yourself for a piece of the action?"

The brown-haired man lifted his hand and waved it left and right, "No, that's okay. W-wouldn't want to get in the way, you know?"

"What is your desire, then?"

The brown-haired man blinked, "What? The hell is with you?"

"Do you want to live or die?"

The man got up and backed away from the hooded one, "You're creepin' me out here!"

The hooded man also got up, flicking a few bangs out of his obscured eyes. From the side of his hood he actually retrieved a hidden dagger, which was concealed in his hand. He took a step toward the brown-haired man and before the other man could react, he stabbed him in the gut with the dagger. None of the other spectators in the crowded stands caught in the furor of the match noticed the altercation. The brown-haired man was in shock, the pain causing his eyes to roll back into his head. The dagger was laced with poison.

"I know your desires," said the hooded one. "It is not unlike many here, but none of you act on them. You are content living through others, merely observing the pain that you wish you could inflict. We have no use for cowards like you in the Cult." The stabbed man fell to the floor clutching his stomach, his skin turning purple. "As for the rest of you..." He pulled a small jar out of his cloak and smashed it below him, letting an invisible gas spread throughout the spectators' area. "Let your desires run free." The crowd became more and more aggressive, tossing everything into the pit that they could find. Their eyes were bloodshot, sweat was dripping from their faces, and their voices were starting to go hoarse from the yelling. Many charged the fence, putting their hands on it and shaking it as hard as they could. Their inhibitions were let loose and their desires were being made manifest.

With the orcs backing up to the fence, Draug knew that they realized they weren't fighting mere humans, not that the realization helped them any. His arms grew longer bit by bit, their length making them look more like spider legs.

As he ran, he received a telepathic message from the hooded one, "Champion, we may have found Letho's location."

Draug continued running, his eyes darting around the arena to find the source of the message. He spotted the hooded figure for a moment and then focused back on the orcs. It was one of Cassandra's messengers. He didn't know how to respond, so he tried doing it through thought.

So?

"If you leave now, you may be able to catch him." Draug didn't know what to make of this. His orders were very clear, why was this being told to him?

Do I have orders to pursue him?

"No, but you are free to do so if you wish." This almost made Draug stop in his tracks, but it was not enough to impede his death charge at the orcs.

I don't understand.

"Your orders are to pursue your own will in this matter. That is the Dark Mother's request."

I don't understand. What are my orders?

"I just gave them to you. Farewell."

The next time Draug glanced at the spectators, the hooded one was gone. How could he have an order to pursue his own will? That was not a command. That was the opposite of a command. He could feel a slight pull in his chest near his still fresh wound, a feeling of uncertainty. It was true that his battle with Letho was not finished yet, but neither was this battle. Not being able to make a decision one way or the other, he simply continued what he was doing before, unfortunately for the singing pair.

The one named Otto was in his way. His arms were as long as the orc's now, maybe even longer, but a simple shield was not going to stop him. Extending all of his arms, the blades were homing in on their target. As he bore down on the orc, his object was to charge right into him, allowing his arms to go around the shield and impale the orc six different ways, with two swords going for his legs, two for his hips, and two for his neck. After that attack, he would cut the larger orc up into so many pieces that maybe he could distribute them to the spectators as souvenirs.

[Otto]

OOC:

Permission to bunny Erirag given here. Bunnies approved retrospectively by Homunculus in chat.

---

The speckled burning sensation along Erirag's arms seemed to grow in severity, not diminish. She reflected - briefly - on how right Otto had been to warn her about this human-thing at the start of the match, even as she realised it was too late to heed it now. Her thoughts sprung immediately to her tongue, where they rang out to the rhythm of her pounding heart.

"Daumab drautan fukishamum", she sung, as she swung the broken spear around wildly. Each word was accompanied by a thumping jolt from the copper at her heel, as though it were setting a tempo in response. The feeling of elation grew, and slowly washed away the fear. She stood firm, and prepared to hold her ground when a harmonically-pitched warcry marked the arrival of the young smith; her foe casually regarded Otto, shifting his focus from Erirag, and proceeded to match the obtrusive Orc's charge. Blood and iron glimmered with each thumping step beneath the harsh lighting.

* * *

Otto launched himself forward, twisting his shoulder around to try and catch the homunculus in the chest and bear him down. The shield sat high, and caught two incoming blades while something yielded with a terrific crack - from the feeling of it, Otto's arm. The third and bottommost of Draug's right-arms slipped underneath the shield and rammed deep into flesh of Otto's left thigh. At the same time, the homunculus' set of left arms nicked the sturdy iron bevor at Otto's throat, while the lowest, foiled by Otto's last-second change of posture, struck its blade fruitlessly into a loose flap of mail skirt. The centre limb was right on target, though, and Otto became excruciatingly aware of a steel edge as it sawed against his bottom rib on its way through his abdomen. The pain had seized his vocal chords; his tusked maw popped open to scream, yet he could only emit a blood-flecked huff.

The two slammed against each other. Draug was much stronger, but Otto had the combined mass of his body and armour behind the high-placed barge. They teetered for a moment, and then Draug fell backwards into the sand, with Otto tumbling down on top of him.

There was a burning edge to the stab wounds, Otto came to notice. He tried to move, and failed; when the muscles in his stomach went taut against the steel which remained in his belly, the pain came back fresh and strong. He set one good eye on the homunculus' gold-rimmed pupils, and noticed brilliant white specks had started to swarm in front of his vision. He saw the shoulder shift, felt the steel inside him begin to twist upwards - and then he was free, the world before him spinning round and round.

* * *

While Otto and the drok crashed in to each other, Erirag took the opportunity to pick the trinket up from the ground; she closed a giant fist around it, and the copper warmed rapidly against her palm. Its regular pulse ran through the fire in her arms, up into her skull and down her spine. It resonated through to the tip of every toe, finger and strand of hair.

"Marr daumab!", she bellowed. A large foot kicked Otto unceremoniously off the homunculus, and he rolled away. He left an ample trail of blood behind him on the sand, and came to a stop with his face down in the dirt. The crowd screamed and hooted, redoubling their efforts to rip away the caging near to where he had rolled to a halt. With each push, the metal fence swayed in a little further.

"Shof miruurz!".

The spear immediately lanced diagonally through Draug's chest, driven deep into the sand by Erirag's massive strength. Her face tightened with focused rage, and she raised a leg high to stamp heavily down on the pinned man's face.

---

Translation: "Pain illuminates (reveals) strength. Take (accept) pain, see goodly (clearly)".