The Aislinn Chamber

[Silence Sei]

Round 2 will began Friday Night/Saturday Morning at 12:01 AM. This chamber will have the following competitors.

Warpath
Amber Eyes
The Hound
Aurelianus Drak'shal
Resolve
Roht Mirage
Hysteria

Ladies and Gentlemen It's......Showtime!

[Silence Sei]

The rats scurried away as they heard the approaching footsteps. Dozens of people, some spectators, some Mystics, and at least two enforcers. The six that had advanced to this Chamber had proven their mettle, and such tenacity meant that more firepower would be needed to quell any upstart who tried to attack the crowd. There was just enough light to make out someones features from about three feet away. The Ixian Knights dungeon was typically home to the Reformation Team; criminals trying to do right to redeem themselves. The members had been asked by Sei to remove any valuables and personal belongings so as not to lose them in the coming melee. This time, the barrier would erect after all of the combatants had entered, sealing off the two outermost adjacent cells on each side, and the steps that lead above and below the dank chambers.

Each jail cell was twelve by twelve feet, the barred doors left wide open for competitors to duck in and out of. The cages were each sealed off by a thick, four by four foot room that held the bathrooms. Most men would condemn Sei Orlouge for giving known criminals and thugs the luxury of private restrooms, and even something as extravagant on Althanas as indoor plumbing. Sei had spent weeks, if not months, out in various wildernesses, however. He knew how bad it was to not have such accommodations. He had even provided small sunroofs for his prisoners, the beams of light pouring in the dead center of each cell. The bars had been refined to fit criminals of different abilities. Some would sine the purple glow of prevalida if magic neared it, other would hold some of the strongest Althanas offered with their titanium bars. The cells themselves would be nigh impossible to tear down, a challenge Sei was confident that some of his fighters would put to the test.

"If you can hear my voice," Sei's telepathic messaged boomed to the six competitors chosen for the Aislinn Chamber, "It means that you have advanced from round one. All combatants should now be fully healed, their abilities restored, and are to report down below for the second round of the tournament."

The space between each cell was a good ten feet, and within each of the rooms contained a bed, a door leading into the restrooms, and a single steel bar connected from wall to wall in case the prisoners wished to work out. While it was a change of scenery from the flat, empty arena above, the cells and the tight space within the 'Blue Mile' (As Sei had come to name it) would provide ample challenge for each fighter. It would soon begin again, the horrible bloodshed, and the spectators who would be blocked off by the Mystic barrier piled in, sitting on the stairs above, and walking down the mile to the stairs below that lead to the catacombs known as Sei's Tomb. Each of the two protected cages of each end were filled to the brim with people ready to take bets, and watch.

Today, there would be blood.

[Hysteria]

I don't know why I decided to visit The Cell. I told myself that it was to see inside the Ixian Castle, watch some of the heroes of Corone compete in martial contests of skill and experience to show who was stronger. Looking back I feel like a child, crawling between the legs of adults and thinking I stood tall.

My name is John, I run a weapon shop in Radasanth. I won't bother to tell you any more about myself, that’s not why you are reading. I was just some guy wanting to see what all the fuss was about. The first battle I watched was the one with the most Ixian Knights. I am a fan of them, well at least I was. I am not sure what I am not. I had expected to see chivalry, to see the weapons that I spent my days making and selling used in beautiful combat. Instead I found blood and gore. It was messy, it was dirty and there was no honour to be found. At the end I was nearly sick with the amount of blood and limbs strewn across the ground.

I remember walking with the crowd, looking back I was in some sort of zombie stupor. The dark halls under the Ixian Castle were a claustrophobic's nightmare. Dark, damp and there were so many rats. There were many people moving on to watch the next round, their feet echoed down the small stone corridors until the walls broadened into the line of Cells. I considered myself quite knowledgeable in the Ixian Knights, my heart skipped a beat when I realised that we were standing in the reformation lodgings. I wasn't one to think that a man could change his spots so easily, once a thief always a thief in my book. The fact that this sort of thing even worked at all I felt attested to the strength of Radasanth's saviour.

The first of the fighters walked out towards the centre of the room. The easy, slow foot falls clicked with each step. He was so small, dressed mostly in a pair of black pants and a t-shirt. I can't say I approved of his informal attire. The simple cloths were unmistakably that of Talen Shadowalker. The youth had fought in the last battle with a mask on, but it was him. What I knew about the kid captain was mostly rumours. He couldn't be any more than fourteen years old, and a skinny one at that. It was a sort of morbid curiosity that made my eyes lock onto his small frame. I had seen him up close near the end of the last battle before he disappeared, there were worlds of difference between that monster and this child. The rumours were thick and fast. Monster, a living shadow that stalked through the streets and exacted Ixian justice on those that would do them wrong, they stopped short of suggesting that he was a supernatural goat. I blinked my eyes, trying to see something that wasn't there. At that moment as he walked passed the cells he looked like a child that needed some milk and a bed.

I found out later that two of the healing mages that had fixed everyone up after the first battle had lifted their hands into the air near where Talen disappeared. There was a flash of light and bam! He appeared. Talen ran a small hand through his hair as I watched. He failed to carrel the wild tufts into anything more than a black mess. He walked easily, I wanted to cuff him over the ear for being too nonchalant. His casual attitude was juxtaposed with his attire. I meantioned before his t-shirt and pants. Slung across his back were two swords, nearly as tall as him. Two thin chains were coiled around his belt, just behind his right pocket and he carried an odd looking repeater crossbow. The hand that ran through his hair was bare, but his other was covered from shoulder to finger tip with a gauntlet. The fact that there were long blades, cruel even, jutting from his fingers sent a chill down my spine. On his left leg, almost as an after thought was a pouch with the tips of bolts just visible.

He didn't stop walking until he had reached the far side of the arena. He twisted on a spot, a small flourish of his limbs that I did not approve off. The kid lifted the crossbow across to his right hand fresh from being defeated by his wayward hair. I guessed that he had decided that he needed his right hand free of the black gauntlet to operate the crossbow. I got a good look at his face for the first time. It was cold, not aggressive, just cold. I felt like I was looking at another mask, this one moved when he did. I felt another shiver go down my spine. Who were these people?

[Roht Mirage]

The darker halls of Ixian Castle rumbled with footfalls, shaking loose what little grime was allowed to collect on the stone walls. Stranger still, the air hummed with excited voices, tempered only a little by the fact that many of the spectators were entering a dungeon for the first time in their lives; temporarily, of course. Yet, a few seemed unusually wary. Their eyes scoured the dark corners or traced the bars. Seeing those bars from the wrong side would forever change a person, some said, make them squirm in tight spaces or jump at the sound of a lock. The sudden sound of wood bouncing off stone had the same affect, apparently. A few furtive-eyed men visibly jumped among the dozens that streamed down the hall in their out-of-place celebratory attire. Some wary glances were shot their way by the other spectators, and everyone held their gambling pouches a little tighter. The fallen staff rolled lazily underfoot, rousing a line of whispered curses from those who nearly tripped on it. They were further incensed when they had to walk around two woman standing statue-still in the middle of the hall.

“Wha- what are you...,” Raylene croaked. Her eyebrows climbed as far as they could against the burn scar that claimed her forehead and part of her scalp. “Roht?” she added when the tattooed woman who hugged her responded only by hugging tighter, fingers clenching in Raylene's long dark-brown hair. Her own hands were stiff at her sides, and her fingers were splayed as if someone had poured water down the back of her festival dress.

“Astarelle,” the Fallien woman said quietly as if she had been crying, “Call me Astarelle.” With a sniffle, she released the Coronian woman and stepped back, her grey eyes wet and suddenly timid. “I don't know why... I barely remember who you are. Raylene, right? I just- I thought I owed you a hug.”

Raylene inched a hand forward to feel Astarelle's temperature, but it hung in the air as if the intricate design on the woman's desert-kissed forehead might shock her. “You're sure you're okay?” Worry lines creased her face where they could.

“Pardon me,” Astarelle heard someone say sweetly as they bumped her into the wall. She blinked away a remembrance and turned to find an old woman shuffling past on the froth of increasing traffic. If not for the large, frilly hat above her holy-day best, the woman would have been diminutive. She nodded and apologized again as heavier feet and broader, less-adorned shoulders bustled her along the crypt-dark hall.

Finally, the Fallien woman blinked the last of her reincarnation fatigue away. “This place is insane,” she mumbled under the din of eager spectators, “Grandmothers dress up for festival days, not bloodspo-”

Raylene grabbed her arm. Her cheeks colored in exasperation. “You're the insane one if you don't get out from underfoot,” she snapped, then quickly pulled her hand back. “Over here.” She ducked down a side passage occupied by a solitary enforcer. The darkness reigned stronger, turning to near-pitch behind the broad man as if he guarded a pit. His armor rattled and his helmet creaked up as he raised a hand to redirect them into the flow. “A moment,” Raylene requested with a hint of venom in her voice.

“I do sound insane, don't I?” Astarelle sighed. She pressed a bare shoulder to the wall -cool and just a bit clammy- with her back to the enforcer's shadowed eyes. “This is going to sound very strange. But, I don't know why I'm here. I remember you a little. I kind of remember Master Kotra.” She read the recognition on Raylene's face. Good. So I'm not just spouting random names. She smiled, which strangely made Raylene's worry lines return. She dropped the smile self-consciously and looked down at her empty hands.

With wide-eyed concern of her own, Astarelle reached out one hand toward the human river. A bracelet of woven reed rattled against the bracer that encased the rest of her forearm, and a line of surprised shouts rang out, particularly from one woman whose dress suddenly flared. A staff, made of the same reed and as tall as a man, shot from amid harried feet and into Astarelle's waiting hand. Annoyed faces turned her way before passing, the enforcer gave an amused grunt, and Astarelle shot Raylene a sly grin. It was returned.

“I remember you tying my braid,” she said as she reached back to make sure the Ai'Brone hadn't ruined the intricate work. It bit her. “What the!” She brought her hand forward. Blood ran from a deep prick in the soft pad of a finger. The ball of forbidden memories shivered, and a small morsel fell. “Barbed wire,” she whispered. The ribbon woven into the braid hid a length of barbed wire. “Bury me, did I make you-”

“It was a good idea! If they grab your hair, you know,” Raylene said with hands raised expressively, “I didn't mind.”

“Your hands,” Astarelle breathed. The poor woman's fingers looked as if she had spent an hour picking nettles.

“It's nothing,” Raylene snapped awkwardly. She hugged her hands to herself.

“She's experienced far worse,” Master Kotra intoned in fallien as he extracted himself from the roll of bodies. His plain white shirt, long enough in the arms to almost cover his hands, was rumpled from moving against the flow. Effortlessly, he switched to tradespeak as he turned to Raylene. “The brothers and the ferals are in the next side hall.” He gestured with his brown, balding head. “The brothers might not be able to keep them from running out.”

“On it,” Raylene chimed a little too eagerly, stepping back toward the crowd. At the last moment, she stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Good luck, Ro- Astarelle.” Then, she disappeared into the flow of blood-seeking brutes and here-to-be-seen socialites.

Astarelle waved weakly as her mind roiled. “I remember the ferals,” she muttered. The ferals were the most recent group to stumble into Kotra's school. They had been a gang of miniature pickpockets that operated more like a swarm of locusts. These days, they reserved that behaviour for meal time. Supper at The Hawk of Zaileya always had at least one split lip for desert.

“And the brothers,” she continued in a daze. Dahvim was the younger, a round-faced boy under a scrap of unruly hair. She remembered him reaching for her hand once, and her own hand viciously swatting him away. Disgust stirred the contents of her stomach. The memories of Tabin, the elder, were disjointed and, shamefully, even more violent. “Did I fight Tabin?” Astarelle asked, her cheeks coloring where they could be seen through the dune-like tattoo that ranged from cheekbones to elbows to corseted bosom.

“You 'sparred',” Kotra said pointedly as he stepped closer. The language of their shared homeland sounded almost unfamiliar. Even his appearance seemed alien after all the time she had been in Corone. This close, she could make out the deep lines of his face. They looked as if the vicious desert wind had shaped them, only for him to re-purpose them as a permanent display of some wry, personal joke that he dare not voice. “I ended that match when you kicked him through a wall.” Those wry lines deepened at Astarelle's gasp. “It will be a long time before he forgives you for that.”

“I thought the stories of last night were bad...”

Kotra coughed and waved one billowy sleeve. “What a grown woman does in her leisure is none of my business.”

“... but to abuse children.”

His stern gaze locked onto her's, making her shrink back against the wall. “Roht, listen to me.”

“Astarelle,” she squeaked.

Kotra blinked, then continued as if she had said nothing. “Those children all experienced the worst this world has to offer before coming to my door. Jya herself knows, I'm no father to them, and you were no friend.” He added softly, “Though Raylene seemed to think so. Broken girl.” He spoke as one would regarding an overturned cart or a blunted axe. Astarelle had to remind herself that, in all likelihood, she was the only one who could understand him. The enforcer's head creaked forward, nonetheless, as if he was curious. Kotra crossed his arms over his wiry chest. “What you are -were- was someone who would conquer the Cell in their name. That would have meant a great deal to them. Whether or not you can do that as you are now...” Astarelle already knew the answer.

“What happened to me?” she interrupted.

The master's old eyes scanned the faces around them as if he just realized they were not alone. Still speaking fallien, he stepped closer and whispered, “Kaleidha.”

Astarelle leaned in, desperately inquisitive. “What does that word mean?”

“Unbound. A technique used by my tribe. My old tribe. It takes a fighting man and removes the 'man' part. I don't know how you crossed them, or why they didn't... tend to you themselves. But, you somehow made it across the ocean and found me; the only person in Corone who would understand it. Fortuitous, no?” The final question hung dangerously in the air as his eyes dug into her's.

Astarelle tried to meet his gaze. “I remember... I wasn't 'unbound' in Fallien,” she said meekly. His eyes widened, smoldered, and drew the rest of her words out in a torrent. “It was in an alley. Radasanth. Someone had men looking for me. I stopped one, but then -he- got me.”

“What did he look like?” Kotra drew closer, his words almost a blade against her throat.

“I- I don't know! I just saw a dark glove in front of my nose. He snapped.” She lifted a hand to demonstrate, but froze. She looked at it warily, then lower it. “And I woke up in round one of this travesty.”

He searched her face for one hot, too-long moment, then turned. “Go home,” he ordered quietly, “Wherever that might be.”

“Wait!” she grabbed his loose sleeve. “We have to stick together.”

He shook her off, but refused to look at her. “I brought you here to give you a target for your aggression. The mystics made that unnecessary, somehow. Probably just stupid luck that their magic undid the effect. Go thank them, then be on your-”

Astarelle seized his wrist as tightly as she could and hissed, “Listen to me, sand-brain, you're-”

Just as quickly, her own arm was twisting in Kotra's grip. Her elbow was pinned high against her suddenly-heaving chest. She tilted sideways and gave a whimper, her eyes pleading. “You really are no longer Roht Mirage,” he said. His voice rattled with surprise, perhaps even disappointment. He released her and let his sleeves fall back down over his arms; too late, though. She had seen. From his wrist to his elbow, if not farther, his sun-browned skin was darkened in spots. It looked like an infection or a reaction to some itching plant. She knew the truth, though.

Bruises... the Cell was a last option to find me an outlet. What in the depths have I been doing?

Astarelle stepped closer, almost on his toes. The shame welling up in her stomach had yet to extinguish the determination in her face, and she clung to it. “I have my own 'tribe' problems. The Kar'Roh are hunting me. I was able to hide, but then this... Everything Roht Mirage has done publicly is an insult to them. Her -my- behaviour last night, these clothes.” She gestured to the dark corset and long skirt, a slit cutting so far up the front that it might as well have been a stage to showcase her legs. Kotra rolled his eyes. “Even the name is designed to taunt them.”

“I will deal with my history. You deal with yours,” he growled.

“They plan to stick a knife through my heart and march me back home.”

Kotra rolled his eyes again. “You have the order wrong. Don't tell me I remember our language's form better than you.”

Astarelle stepped around him, blocking his escape into the crowd. She saw the enforcer emerge from the shadows. A gravelly, “Take your blood feuds elsewhere,” emanated from his helmet.

As they were jostled into the current, she hugged her staff to her chest and spoke with all the authority she had in her. “When the Kar'Roh claim their kills, Death himself has to wait to scavenge the scraps.”

The old master squinted and looked away. “By the depths, girl, if my tribe could find water the way you find trouble, we wouldn't have need of the kaleidha.” He didn't stray from her side, though. With a burly ox of a man on their right and a gaggle of harping teenagers on their left, they let the flow direct them. The stone above glistened slightly in the limited light, making it ripple as if they were just two morsels being fed down a stone beast's gullet with the rest of the meat. “How far away do I need to send you for them to leave me and the children alone?” They passed the next branching in the castle's bowels. Two passages yawned darkly at either side. Kotra raised an arm and waved, then quickly lowered it before the sleeve fell too far. The faces of scarred Raylene and lanky Tabin, glaring as usual, appeared to join the crowd behind them. The presence of the younger brother and the ferals was implied when the bodies behind them shrank back as if toothy dogs had been released around their knees.

I hope he at least bathed them, Astarelle sighed. The ferals resisted water as vehemently as they resisted individual names. That memory had come back so quickly that it seemed remarkable she ever forgot it. Her eyes played back over Tabin's face -his glare was utterly justified- and Raylene, who still seemed very bewildered. I'll be a snake for this, Astarelle thought with another sigh as she turned back to Kotra.

“If they know that Raylene was close to me...”

Kotra did not look at her, but his shoulders tensed as the cunning seed took root. “I'll watch over my own. What will you do to help?” he rumbled. They were still speaking fallien, but Astarelle saw from the corner of her eye that Raylene's worry turned to suspicion at the mention of her name.

“I'll keep being Roht Mirage,” she offered with a bitter grin, “I'll keep their attention on the match. You watch for anyone who seems 'off'. Don't go anywhere alone.”

All she received was a dark glance. “There's no Roht Mirage left in you, Astarelle.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling a breath of older, unfogged memories. “I've spent more years than you would expect just... becoming whoever I need to be.”

~

Astarelle had to imagine the echo of her footsteps down the nearly-empty hall of the prison block. She had to recall the dankness of Zaileya caves just to approximate what she expected of the setting. It was too surreal, too unnerving, to see the bars and empty beds while listening to the relentless din of spectators and smelling the distinct lack of staleness. The powerful of Corone were displaying one of their darkest pits in its most pristine and most dishonest form.

I guess, to someone, this is more than just a bloody game. It's about sending a message. I can play that, too.

She turned a slow circle in the center of the hall. Cells stretched down either wall with light shafts beaming down into them, saying “come in” just as surely as the barred doors, deceptively ajar, said “keep out”. Astarelle looked up to the higher level where bodies lined the stairs. She could make out Master Kotra. His brown skin clashed with his white shirt in a negative reflection of all those around him. Small, beady eyes leered from around his knees. The ferals really did seem more gremlin than human, at times. She looked away from her... allies? At the very least, those who had tolerated her at her worst.

To the rest of the spectators, she gave a long, expressive inspection while perching her staff across her shoulders. With one hand, she pointed straight into the air, then lowered it to point at her forehead. The mark above her brow looked like an extension of the rolling brown-to-gold-to-white tattoos. They seemed to have actual dimension, as if they were more than just a mural of dunes running over her slim shoulders and framing the flesh pouted up by her corset. Only the Kar'Roh would know where the sand tattoo ended and the divine Roht mark began, and she wanted them to know that she knew they were there. Or, rather, Roht Mirage would have wanted that. Astarelle Set'Roh's stomach, ever the terrible actor, was doing flips like a groom who had taken a horse kick to the face.

Sighing, almost shuddering, she lower her hand to the outstretched end of one open cell door and clasped onto it. She feigned it as a test of the hinge as she squeaked the door back and forth by small degrees.

One opponent so far, she warned herself. However, a glance to the far end of the block did not reveal the young man she had glimpsed on her entrance. The few torches were too sparse to call the arena's central hall 'lit' by any measure of the word. Warily, she kept an eye on the shadows. Others would surely arrive who could use the cover better than her, if they hadn't arrived already.

[Arden]

Arden Janelle was old.

He had walked the long road for five hundred and thirty six years.

He was created, not born. He thus valued life for its simple fact, and not the onset of inevitable death.

He would live forever.

He would always be.

“So why am I afraid?”

His words echoed through the cell. He opened his eyes, stared upwards at the poky hole in the roof, and sighed. His pupils, deep, crimson, and glistening, picked out the detail of the chamber’s solitary light source. The daylight danced with gold and yellow, but gave nothing away as to where he was.

“…why am I so very afraid?”

His question echoed in the cell, danced out into the beyond, and faded into the immensity of the underground arena. After his success in the surface dome, the swordsman has simply sat, meditated, and reflected on his actions. He was still uncertain how he had gotten here. He took a deep breath, and in the stale air, he tasted the Aibron’s all too familiar scent.

The same magic stitched bone and sinew back together in the Citadel. He felt admonished, born again, and ready for whatever madness awaited him. He pushed himself upright in a mix of curse words and armour scrapes, and began to stretch. His swords were resting lengthways on the cell’s bed, and his gauntlets rested next to them.

With the thought of failure fresh on his mind, a fate far worse than death, he clicked his spine into place. He lengthened his crimson cloak with a mental whim, and stepped towards his beloved Kerria. In the gloom, and the silence, and the unknown, the Hound prepared himself to commit to the hunt. He had advanced without killing another but now, he was free of those chains. As he pictured his blade cleaving muscle and bone, he shuddered.

Now he knew why he was afraid.

“I’m afraid of the Hound I will become in the madness…,” he muttered.

He pulled on a gauntlet, flexed his fist, and tightened it until the skin whitened.

[Amber Eyes]

She was running. City streets stretched before her and each step splashed cold water against her thighs. Panic filled her heart as she reached the end of the lane. Which way to go? She glanced down the street to her left, then quickly turned right, making her way into an alley she’d never seen before. Her breathing seemed to fill whole city and surely her heartbeat could be heard for miles. She looked back, sure something would be there.

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A hand grabbed her arm and Kyla pulled it from the unknown grasp with all her might. Her eyes were clenched closed with terror and her stomach churned as though she might vomit.

“Get up! You’re going to be late!” The mystic opened her eyes bit by bit, afraid that at any moment she would be again on the cold streets of Radasanth. Three faces came into view, each one wearing a different expression; each one expecting something from her.

The voice belonged to Anita, the second-eldest sister. She was a pretty thing, shining hair falling half-way down her back, her curves hidden beneath her typical blue dress, a ribbon tied in her hair that made men think they should feel guilty for noticing her. She was old enough to catch the attention of a man, but Kyla wasn’t going to be the one to tell her---Or Sei for that matter.

Emma looked tired, Kyla was sure she’d been up all night playing possible scenarios of the battles in her mind, and would surely want a recap of each blow from her big sister. She was blonde-haired and blue-eyed, a beauty in her own right. She took after Kyla a bit more, showing some skin from time to time, but mostly she was focused on becoming the greatest warrior Althanas had ever known.

Ella just looked like Ella. Full of joy at all the things life might have to offer, that innocence that so many lost too early still evident in her eyes. Sei had made sure she was sheltered from most things, unfortunately he had neglected to shelter her from Kyla.

“Leave me alone damnit! I died ten minutes ago!” The girl sat up, throwing the feather-filled white blanket off of her much harder than necessary.

“Swear jar!” Ella’s voice squeaked, filled with entirely too much pleasure at the thought of her and Akiv’s spending money growing.

The mystic’s head screamed at her with each movement, something she’d come to expect after being healed by the Ai’bron. The girl was convinced it was a personal vendetta, no one else had ever complained of the same issue. Of course no one else blew themselves up quite as often as Kyla Orlouge.

“Oh, screw your damn swear jar.” Kyla mumbled, fumbling her way out bed and quickly throwing on her battle gear. She had never seen the need for armor, it made her feel clunky and slow, her clothes were just thicker fabrics in her typical style. She pulled on her boots, lacing them slowly as Emma began to tell Ella to shut it.

The younger two bickered as they headed down the stairs. The girl’s stomach began to knot, tighter with each step. Emma opened the large white door that led to the courtyard, the scene of this morning’s defeat. The sunlight hit the still-drowsy mystic like a punch to the face, and the screaming of the crowd seemed to find a home just at the most sensitive spot in her head. Anita steadied her, leading her by the arm into the crowd.

As they entered the square one of the newer recruits brought her a glass of something green that Sei always insisted she drink before exerting herself. The mute had done his best to force the concoction on the whole army but it was one of the few things the generals had drawn a line in the sand about. It tasted how she imagined the bottom of a swamp would, but she wasn’t going to push it today, not in Sei’s own tournament. She gulped the thick slime down, attempting to pretend it tasted like anything else. With a final swallow to rid the feeling of goo from her mouth Kyla attempted to focus on the task at hand. “What’s the name of the Cell?”

There were people crowding around the cellar door that led to one of the many entrances to the tombs below the castle, fighting for a glance at those inside. Kyla’s mind raced, trying to take in the chaos. Two boys dueled with wooden swords, their father too busy placing a wager to notice. She pulled her eyes away just as the smaller boy slammed the sword into the other’s mouth, drawing blood and a few screams from those nearby.

Emma stepped forward to take the glass and smiled. “It’s Aislinn.” She seemed to think it was a good omen. Kyla had never believed in such things.
The mystic pulled four coins from her pocket and handed them to Ella, giving her a pat on the head for good measure before focusing on the thick metal door that stood between her and what would prove to be the battle of her life.

Ella counted the coins—“You gave me one too many…” The elder sister held up a finger to hush the child.

“Anita” Kyla turned to her sister, “Make sure Aislinn is the one to patch me up after this, not those damn monks.”

Ella smiled, content that she’d earned her monies.

“You’ll be great Kyla!” Emma handed her a tie for her long curly hair which she quickly pulled up. A quick tug at Sophia’s Mane and a deep breath were all the stalling she could get away with while everyone watched.

The mystic entered the dungeon doors, eyes quickly glancing around to see who she was up against today. As she took careful steps down the steep cement steps, familiar faces came into view, “You’ve got to be shitting me!”

“Swear jar!”

[Warpath]

Rauk became aware of the light first.

It filtered into the room through a sheer curtain, casting everything in a golden haze that cooked away the night’s chill from the outside in. The air smelled like ancient tomes and the knowledge therein, and the faint hint of fried eggs. Luned knew his habit of eating a dozen eggs at a time, and accommodated his tastes without complaint. It happened sometimes that she woke before him, though he rarely slept so late into the morning. The kitten napped in the sun, curled up between and beneath his pectorals, tiny and trusting.

And then he lurched suddenly to the side, and when he opened his eyes in furious panic he saw that there was no sun and no books and there would be no eggs. He retched in agony, and then gallons of warm black rainwater poured out of him over and over again, splashing against the uneven brick floor, spreading outward and tracing the mortar lines. Finally, when the last of the water was expelled, the man dragged in air and shuddered. It felt as if someone had lit an inferno in his chest, and it would consume him. Despite the pressure in his head, despite the thundering of his heart and the blackened edges around his vision, he did not want to try and breathe again. The air only fed the flames.

“You must breathe, young man,” someone far away said. “You’ve had no taste of oxygen for some twenty minutes. It will burn mightily, but it is a good pain. It will fade as you become reacquainted with the living world.”

He reminded himself of who he was. Not Rauk, but Flint. What was pain to Flint, good or bad? Flint forced himself to breathe, taking in the deepest lungful he could manage. He reveled in the burn, cherished it, and called it a cleansing flame until it faded. He had lifted his hand to catch the kitten when he’d suddenly turned, but of course it was not here. It was safe in Luned’s library, blissfully ignorant of this place – of all places beyond those sun-warmed walls.

Flint touched his fingertips to where the phantom kitten had slept. It was the same place that Joshua Cronen had forced the point of a blade through Flint’s body. Just as there was no ball of fluff, nor was there a gaping wound. He lifted his eyes again, the blur fading, and saw four robed men there. Three of them were younger and visibly exhausted, pale-skinned and sweating, and they looked at him with thinly veiled annoyance. The fourth man was older, bearded, and looked down on Skovik magnanimously.

They were in a small stone room lit by low torchlight. He was draped over a plain cot, and the thin sheet beneath him was soaked through. His skin was clammy, half-dried, and he could not remember ever feeling so numb. When he ran his fingers through his beard, they came away wet. Gradually the true memories came back to him.

“I drowned,” he croaked.

“You were also impaled,” the greybeard said. “It is difficult to say what took you through the veil, exactly.”

“Citadel monks,” Flint muttered, doing little to conceal his disgust.

“Yes. I must tell you, there was…some doubt to the outcome here today,” the greybeard nodded at the three exhausted men opposite them. “You seem to have enough breath now, Miles. Go inform the good master Orlouge that this man yet lives, after all.”

The boy crawled to his feet with some difficulty, cast one last baleful look at Flint Skovik, and then left the room on unsteady legs.

“If I might be so bold,” the greybeard continued to Flint, “it may behoove you to…erm…take further precautions against the veil. While we of this esteemed order are practiced, we are sadly not infallible. Here, this will help you recover.”

One monk handed a mug to the greybeard, who in turn tried to thrust it at Flint. He dismissed it with a cruel slap, which sent the mug airborne until it exploded against a far wall. “I’ve had enough water,” he growled.

The old monk rubbed his hand, and had difficulty concealing the outrage in his eyes. Flint ignored him, reaching up to press tentative fingers to the left side of his face. The skin was whole again, and it didn’t feel as if he was deformed. Indeed, even his beard was grown back evenly, and when he covered his right eye the left went on seeing. He touched his shoulder, and there was no scar where a knife had entered him.

He might have thought the first round of The Cell a peerless nightmare or an illusion, if not for the proof that it wasn’t. His skin smelled of rainwater, and there were stubborn streaks of dried blood on his stomach, and he could feel mud on his back.

If you can hear my voice, it means that you have advanced from round one. All combatants should now be fully healed; their abilities restored, and are to report down below for the second round of the tournament.

Flint flinched away, turning his head one way and the other to figure out the source of the voice, but the volume and voice never wavered or changed.

“Ah,” the greybeard said brusquely. “You hear the summons. It appears you have been chosen for another bout. Be sure to heed my advice, lest you end up in our hands again.”

Flint sneered, but otherwise ignored the threat. “A mistake,” he guessed. “I died.”

“That is of little consequence. You were an amusement, and as such you will be expected to go on fighting until you are the last one standing, or you cease to be amusing.”

“Twisted southerners,” Flint muttered, swinging his legs around. The soles of his boots squished when he pressed them to the floor, and he felt water well up between his toes. “Cronen?”

“I believe he also advanced, yes.”

Flint grunted and lifted himself up. The numbness was fading as his blood began to move in his veins again, and he felt as capable as he had when he first woke in the morning. He flexed his fingers and tightened them into fists, relishing the way his muscled forearms strained against the inside of his gauntlets. The needles bit deeper into his veins, and he squeezed a fresh rush of blood into them.

“Good,” Flint said. “We have something to settle, he and I. Show me to him.”

The greybeard shrugged. “I do not know the way, I’m sure. There is an armored enforcer outside, however. He will escort you to the appropriate place.”

The brute looked the greybeard over. On the cot the old man had been tall and looming, dangerous in his confidence and his mysterious wisdom. Now Flint had six inches on him, and was broader across than the man twice. He was tempted to snap the old conjurer’s neck just to prove his magic lacking, but thought better of it. Part of him would rather die than have magic worked on him again, even to restore his broken body, but a larger part of him wanted every opportunity the world could give him to throw his might against the Breaker. Flint would re-earn his old moniker, and render Joshua Cronen the Broken.

Without another word or action against the monk or his lackeys, Flint quit the room and left wet footprints to mark his passing.

The two remaining apprentices exhaled when the door swung closed again, and looked up at their teacher. “There’s something wrong with him,” the first declared. “I did not botch the incantation…not once, certainly not twice.”

“Nor I,” said the other.

“Be assured, my students,” the greybeard said kindly, “you both performed admirably, as did young Miles. No, ‘twas not any failing on your part that caused this peculiarity. Indeed, I fear that if not for those strange machines he wears, even our combined powers would have fallen short to the task. He would have stayed beyond the veil.”

“But we were taught that no body resists life, Master.”

“And no natural one does,” the greybeard said. “No, ‘twas not life this one resists. Indeed he cleaves to it. No, not life…but the forces we wield to give it.”

“How…?”

The greybeard almost laughed. “Stubbornness.”

----

The crowd parted as much as it was able. Men and women pressed their backs to the walls on either side of the staircase, and Flint had to turn himself sideways to slip past many of them. He was blind to their faces and finery, deaf to the children who asked their parents about him, insensible to either awe or distaste. He stared forward with single-minded intensity, seeking out only one face.

Cronen.

The crowd suddenly stopped and the enforcer stepped aside to let Flint pass. He straightened his hulking back as he examined his surroundings, and he let himself think. It was dark here, and dank, but he could see a long hallway in the gloom lined by barred cells, all open to receive. Flint scoffed. A trick?

“No cage can hold me,” he announced to the enforcer, just in case Sei Orlouge had thought to revive him only to contain him.

But no, there was an audience here, and the brute became aware of other silhouettes standing apart in the shadows. This was an arena then, he gathered. Flint smiled, thinking back on all the times he’d struggled and killed in cell blocks just like this.

But where was the Breaker?

[Resolve]

Bunnying privileges extended to Warpath and Aure.

Satisfied with the dark elf's cooperation and Aurelius' grisly fate, Resolve allowed herself to sleep.



The darkness lifted slowly, chill of cold earth giving way to the warmth of the sun. She felt softness against her skin, sheets, and a gentle hand brushing hair from her face. "Mm, Rosie," she sighed contentedly, rolling onto her side and stretching out with a long leg and an arm to pull the voluptuous woman into her cozy embrace.

The cot was narrow and she would have rolled off face first if someone didn't catch her, smaller girl struggling to keep them both from going down. "Resolve," she said, her tone soft but insistent. "Wake up! You're in the infirmary."

Pale eyes blinked open to meet a flustered, freckled face, and her jaw dropped. Securing herself, she propped herself up on an elbow and donned her most unimpressed glare. "You said you weren't coming," she sneered, "you said––"

"Of course I was coming," Luned sighed, the ghost of a smirk teasing at the corner of her lips. "I just didn't want Flint to know."

The exorcist pursed her lips. "Why? Shouldn't you be with him now, nursing his wounds?" A picture of maturity, she laced the latter comment with a heavy note of pure smarm.

"He'll be fine, I'd just distract him. I wanted to see you," she said, barely containing a smile. "I'll admit, when I saw Aurelius in there, I just about lost it –– but that finish? I just… wow," she laughed, burying her face in her hands. "Thanks, Rez. It was beautiful."

"Wait," Resolve said, sitting up. To her delight, the monks had done their job well, and no hint remained of the tiefling-induced trauma. She stretched luxuriously before crossing her legs, leaning forward with suspicion toward the scribe. "You watched my chamber? What about Flint's?"

Luned frowned, hands drifting to smooth her chestnut hair over her blouse in typical anxious fashion. "I started there," she said sheepishly, fidgeting. "But once things got rolling, I realized that I wasn't sure if I was mentally prepared to watch him get hurt. After all we've been through, I should be used to it by now, but it never gets easier to see him like that."

"Aww, Lune," the exorcist fawned for a moment, then rethought. "But… does that mean you don't mind watching me get torn to shit by some asshole? Thanks, thanks a lot. Good friend."

The girl rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on. You were fun to watch. And I truly appreciated the gesture," she smiled, reaching out to straighten her friend's blood-stained sari. As she did so, Resolve glanced to the ceiling, all of her friend's words lost to the telepathic interruption. The exorcist found herself fully enveloped in the congratulations and instruction of the announcement, welcoming its good news with heart. Maybe that Sei wasn't so bad after all.

"Second round," she muttered, then looked back to Luned with wide eyes. "Second round!" She hopped up off the cot and dragged her friend into a bouncy hug in one fluid motion, her squeeze as rib-crushing as it was joyous. "Please come watch, please! Oh, Lune, you have to!"

Luned gasped, ineffectual in her attempts to to pry herself away. "Alright, alright! I can't breathe!"



As Resolve descended the stairs into darkness once more, she breathed deeply and steadily in an attempt to calm herself. The exorcist knew well that anger made her stupid; this vice had been the cause of her downfall mere minutes ago. She couldn't let it happen again. Wouldn't.

It was of small consolation to her temper that, with Aurelius' participation in the tournament, Resolve found herself a bit less focused on concocting some gruesome fate for Flint. She had a new arch nemesis, one she shared with her best friend, and it inspired her to channel her energy into something which might allow the last of the rift between her and Luned to finally heal.

But what were the chances of seeing either of them this round? She had no idea if Flint had moved on, nor any inkling of his performance in the first, and to be paired with Aurelius again would be more fate than coincidence.

Still, she couldn't help herself. Feeling cautiously optimistic, she entertained the thought of being able to kick both their asses, and it painted her lips with an unsettlingly vicious grin.

The shadowy dungeon might have cowed some, but it offered her a stark advantage. Resolve's smile grew as she entered the prison, forcing the bustling throngs of spectators from her mind as she buckled down to concentrate. Immediately, she reached out with her sixth sense to scour the battlefield for presences, memorizing each of their signatures so she could track them through the mayhem. A row of prevalida bars hummed violet as she strode past, their glow drawing out the contrast of the white designs scrawled across her bared skin. For the briefest of moments, she ceased being a woman and became a specter, ethereal and ominous as it flickered, then fled back into the darkness.

Some of the competitors were new to her: a child, a woman, a soldier. Some were familiar: a mystic, and, to Resolve's delight, a brute. An idea pulsed through her consciousness, a deliciously mischievous ploy, and she grasped it with enthusiasm. The exorcist brushed off nearly all extraneous presences on her way to greet him, offering only the other Fallien female a cursory glance of curiosity before she approached Flint.

"Been a while," she grinned, pearly teeth Cheshire-like against her dark skin as they glinted from the shadows. "What do you say we double team these sorry sons of bitches to clear the field for a proper showdown? I've been waiting for a rematch."

[Arden]

Taking a deep breath, the growing anxiety began to subside. Pulling on his second gauntlet, the swordsman began to find himself. The cell he occupied was dark, damp, and fetid, but he felt life and vibrancy begin to seep into the Cell.

“You can have something better to chew on this time,” he said softly. His lips parsed, his eyes danced with fire, and his chest pounded.

His pauldron, ensorcelled with the spirit of a mastiff, growled in a low hubris of contentment. Its edifice seemed to move in the shadows, despite it being nothing more than steel hammered into a cruel mockery. It would serve as Arden’s inspiration, mascot, and companion for the remainder of the tournament. He would abandon him no longer to whims and ideals of his supposed masters.

“Let’s walk,” he clucked.

He picked up the sword, sheathed it across his back, and turned towards the cell’s door. With slow, cautious steps, he advanced out onto a promenade. He turned left, and sighed. He turned right, and sighed. In the gloom, he could see shadows. Distant and silent figures began to appear, some close, some far apart. The openings leading to the other cells, all open, were far from inviting.

With a brief pause, he extended the crimson cloak around his shoulders until it almost touched the floor. It curled around his shoulders and veiled his armour, a dog shaped bulge on his shoulder the only indicator he was anything more than a weary traveller was. He approached the nearest shadow, a creature darker than the arena itself, and prepared to temper the fire of the Dragon Oni that consumed his heart.

[Aurelianus Drak'shal]

I deleted and re-submitted my post, seeing as no-one else had posted after me yet; This was simply to reset my 24hr limit to a later time, so I don't get DQ'd if I'm delayed at work tomorrow.

Wake up, you pikin' lazy bastard!

C'mon, get your sorry sod arse up and move!

Consciousness returned slowly to Aurelianus, emerging from the darkness like a corpse surfacing in a lake. Endless nothingness surrounded him, a complete lack of sensation hard to imagine unless one were experiencing it themselves.

Bugger off, he thought calmly. I'm dead.

He remembered, with perverse satisfaction, taking his own life to rob the Mage Hunter of the honour, the privilege of killing him. It brought a warm smile to his formless, drifting mind. He was brought out of his reverie by the.. voice? It didn't speak, didn't express itself in any way recognisable to the paltry human senses.

You're not dead, you pikin' addle-cove.

Course I am, he reasoned, waving a non-existent arm about in front of where there should have been a face. See? No body. Dead as a door-nail.

There was a brief pause, and Aurelius was overcome with the feeling of an irritated sigh somewhere close to.. whatever space he currently occupied in the nothingness.

We both know where you're 'eaded when you wind up the dead-book, mate, and this ain't it.

Another pause - Aurelianus let that thought wash over him, stark realisation hitting him like a slap in the face. A single thought resounded through the core of his being.

This isn't Hell.

Now you're catchin' on, the other presence pulsed. So, now 'ow about you be a good lad and--

"Wake up!"

The tiefling shot bolt upright in a creak of leather, his senses returning in strobe-light flashes of memory and sensation, hitting him like the waves of the ocean. He groaned, raising a hand to his head, seeing the black blood congealing on his fingertips. Bright light stabbed his eyes, making him wince, hissing softly between clenched teeth.

"Bloody 'ell, that was rough," he spat, tasting more thick clumps of blood on his tongue.

"Easy now, take it easy," reassured a voice from nearby. When the black spots cleared from his vision, Aurelius turned his inhuman eyes, glancing up and down the two men standing next to him, swathed in monastic robes, their faces gleaming with the tell-tale shine of sweat.

The youngest, his face looking weary, chest rising and falling as if he had just finished a sprint, lowered his hands, and looked over the warlock's body. Drak'shal did the same; he could see the ragged holes and tears in his armour from where Resolve had shot him, but through the punctured leather he could see his own alabaster skin, covered in the intricacy of his tattoos. He was healed.

"You're alive again, back here at Ixi--"

"Piss off," the half-demon snapped, swinging his heavy boots off the hard cot he had been lying on, the white sheets stained black by his own blood. "I know where I am, and I remember why I'm 'ere."

The man looked up at his colleague, who offered a simple shrug in response. The young monk, his face tight with irritation at the curt dismissal stepped back from the cot, wiping his brow with a small piece of cloth.

"Alright then. In future though, you may want to show a little more gratitude to the men who saved your life," he added as he started to walk away, off to tend to another of the casualties in the little stone room.

The plane-touched was on his feet faster than the man could follow, a blood-stained fist catching the front of the robes, twisting them in a knot as the monk was dragged closer to the tiefling's fanged visage. He swallowed lightly as he watched a forked black tongue trail over the top row of sharp teeth, the harsh light of the room reflecting from the four glossy horns emerging from the creature's brow.

"An' you might want to watch your pikin' mouth around someone who could take you--"

If you can hear my voice, it means that you have advanced from round one. All combatants should now be fully healed; their abilities restored, and are to report down below for the second round of the tournament.

Staggering from the force of the thoughts, surprised and even a little dismayed at the ease in which they penetrated his mental defenses, Aurelius let go of the monk, turning his cold gaze to the rest of the room. A wry grin spread across his mouth, hideous in its utter joy. So, I made it through after all. No surprise there, he smirked. Giving himself the once over, making sure his weapons were all in place and summoning a ball of black fire to his palms before banishing it with a thought, he nodded, satisfied. Everything was in order.

The door at the far end of the room opened, admitting an Ixian guard, resplendent in his gleaming armour as he pointed to the mohawked-malcontent.

"You there, report to Aislinn Chamber at once. The round is about to begin."

Tracing his fingers lightly along the sides of his shaved scalp, the warlock nodded back to the man, gesturing for him to take the lead.

The man led him through the corridors of the castle, never once even deigning to look at the tiefling following behind him. It was only when he realised with a start that the man had stopped that he turned to face him. A manic grin was plastered all over the.. freak's face, a posting of the competitors in each chamber held tight in his hands. Aurelius turned his eyes over the paper one more time, making sure this wasn't some sort of practical joke. Their was a name there he recognised. A name there that sent his pulse racing through his temples.

Flint Skovik.

Laughing merrily at the synchronicity of the planes, the Anarchist set off again towards his chamber, literally shaking with adrenaline. Again and again his tongue slid hungrily over his fangs.

The guard led him to the top of a staircase, and pointed him down while trying his best to clear a path for the blade-festooned tiefling. Not that Aurelius took any notice; he simply barged through the people who didn't move for him, the barbs and hooks adorning his armour snagging more than a few of them. Curses and taunts followed in his wake, but his pointed ears never registered any of it. The murderer's mind was entirely focussed on what - or more precisely who awaited him down here.

He marked the cells instantly, bringing himself out of his knife-point concentration and glanced around.

"Well," he grinned, having a good look at the arena from the edge of the crowds, "'ome sweet 'ome."

It was yet another little irony, having Aurelianus Drak'shal of all people fighting in the cell-lined dungeon. How many times had he seen the inside of places exactly like this? How many times had he found himself in places worse than this?

Resting a hand on the hilt of one of his Baatorian knives, he did a quick scan of the crowds, basking in the atmosphere - the gambling, the excitement, the tangible bloodlust of those gathered was intoxicating, and the half-demon drank it in like wine. But, much to his sadistic amusement, his eyes alighted on a slender, pale figure, her face shining in comparison to the dank dungeon. His eyes easily cut through the gloom, but he knew it would be difficult for a mere human to make out much in the sparse spatterings of light present in the underground chamber.

Sliding through the crowds, approaching the chit from the back, Aurelius' keen senses perked up at the hint of her scent; he had first sampled this particular little beauty back in his jaunt in Ettermire, but he had taken to torturing her like a duck to water, savouring her misery like it was the sweetest nectar. Leaning in close, his fanged mouth almost brushed the girl's ear.

"You 'ave no idea 'ow 'appy I am to see you," he hissed sibilantly into the ear of Luned Bleddyn.

The girl whipped round so fast, her eyes so full of disgust and sheer loathing, that it made Aurelianus' mouth water. He had changed his appearance slightly since last they had tangled, at the parlour of Agnie, a mutual acquaintance of the pair, but there was no possible way she could not recognise the subject of so many of her nightmares. She opened her mouth, more than likely to form some sort of scathing retort, but he shushed her with a finger pressed against her lips. This close, to his heightened senses, the musky smell of Flint, and the slightly spicy scent of Resolve stung his nose. So she had seen them both, and recently. It had to be more than mere coincidence; the pair of them, here with him? The powers worked in mysterious ways.

"No need to say a word, luv. I'm not 'ere to toy with you today. In fact, I'm much, much 'appier knowin' you're 'ere to watch your man-toy and your little bitch friend."

He took his finger away from her lips, chuckling at the small fingerprint left marring her pristine skin with his inky blood and the way she viciously wiped it from her mouth. Luned turned her head away just long enough to spit, trying to clear the bitter-sweet taste from her lips.

But by the time she turned back to face him, Aurelius was already gone, leaving her to curse him under her breath once again.

Slipping into the shadows as naturally as one who'd been doing it since birth, the plane-touched guttersnipe made his way through the arena. The darkness was no impediment to his demonic eyes, and he had in fact been lurking in shadows like this since he could remember. His nose led him to his intended victim like a bloodhound, the scent burned into his memory from their encounters.

Standing there, talking to Resolve, was the man himself. Shorter than Aurelius, but easily twice as thick, stood a Salvaran legend in the flesh.

"Well well," he crooned from the darkness, ignoring the presence of the chit who had shot him not an hour ago, "if it isn't my favourite bald basher."

His smile was anything but friendly, serpent eyes shining a lambent yellow in the darkness.

It was time for the fun to begin.