When the Blood Runs Dry

[Iriah Caitrak]

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The Citadel.

Iriah stood in the middle of the grand set of stone stairs that led up to The Citadel, Althanas' great battle arena run by the Monks of Ai'Bron. She'd been here before, walked its halls before and fought within the confines of its illusionary worlds. It had been a life changing experience for the Falleni warrior. Her opponent had not taken his defeat well and had tracked her down in the streets of Radasanth to enact his revenge and kill her, permanently. He had almost succeeded, but something in his conscious had nagged him and in the end, forced the man named Malagen to save her from wounds inflicted by his own sword. She tracked him down after that and they spent some time together. Beyond their fighting, there was a natural attraction between the two of them and Iriah gave herself to the barbarian, the first man she'd ever been with. The only man she'd ever been with.

After that, they began a sordid and interesting relationship that led to them training on the icy plateau of a mountain together. Only to fall in love with one another.

Except the love had not been enough for Malagen. Being a man of ice, born and bred to be a killer, the feelings she had unleashed in him had been too much, and he had left her in the end. She could have stopped him. She could have turned his face back towards her and asked him to stay, perhaps even begged him. But Iriah had her own foolish pride and she would never beg, especially for a man. Perhaps if they'd been able to over look their own stubborn natures, things would have been different between them. But they hadn't. She regretted it. She wished she'd done it differently. She missed him terribly.

What am I doing here?

Her swirling, quicksilver eyes took in the magnificent peak of the stone roof, following the harsh, diagonal lines down to the huge, oak doors, plain in their decoration. The Citadel needed no artistic flare to invite people within it's walls. Everyone knew what they came there for. Everyone except her. Iriah had merely found her boot encased feet walking up the familiar weather worn steps, the slap of the hard soles lost amidst the chaos of dozens of people moving to and fro. Several of them bumped into her, jostling her in place. She ignored them and the looks they gave her, the foreigner with dark skin and purple hair, and clothes of a deep red colour. Her loose fitting beige pants shifting about her legs as she finally made the next step, taking her higher up that staircase. Her tight fitting top, cut short and revealing her stomach and the lines of hard won muscles covering it, as well as the white scars that marred it. She had many of those, too many to even bother counting nowadays. Some of them were even from Malagen.

At the top of the staircase, with the expanse of Radasanth behind her, Iriah paused. She didn't know if she wanted to go in. No, she knew she didn't want to go inside, but perhaps she needed to.

The heavy door in front of her opened, and the Falleni stepped aside as a man covered in leather armour came walking out, his eyes never even glancing her way. She quickly slipped within before the door closed and she could change her mind.

Within a coolness settled over her. There was no sun to stream into the building, The Citadel had no windows. There was just the cool darkness, broken by torches and lanterns and candles that created this soft, orange glow. Somehow it all chased away the pitch black until it lingered in the corners, overlooked by the vast majority of people that briskly walked within the large, stone halls from one location to the next.

She saw it though. Perhaps because that darkness lingered in the corners of her soul as well.

Moving past the desk, the lone monk behind it with his balding head and plain brown robe too busy to even notice her, Iriah slipped into the crowd of warriors. If one could call them warriors. Just like the last time she had graced this place, the denizens within had not changed at all. Men strutted around like peacocks, with the armour shimmering int he torchlight and their mammoth swords slung across their backs. They tried to emulate great warriors like Letho Ravenheart and Damon Kaosi, warriors that she knew and had fought alongside. Among many other that had yet to carve their names into the pages of history. Maybe one day, even her name would lay amongst theirs.

As her lithe form slipped through the lanky boys carrying borrowed swords from their fathers, arms shaking with nerves, the noble men with their pressed and colourful outfits and the brutes who only knew how to throw their mass around, Iriah spotted something she never thought she'd see again. A long, black coat amidst all the colour. It swept just above the dusty floor, kicking up little swirls of dirt as the hard, black soled boots moved with a set purpose. Her heart beat quickened within her chest as her eyes travelled up and between the roving bodies, she saw straight black hair on broad shoulders.

With a purpose now, Iriah pushed through the people. Some of the men grunted in surprise as her much smaller form shoved them aside with relative ease. Coming up behind him, she reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder, pulled him to a stop and back.

“Mala—” Her words were cut off as the man turned around. Instead of the hard, chiseled planes of a face she knew and loved, she saw a man she'd never seen before. What she originally thought to be long, black hair, was in front dark brown and unkempt. Even the trench coat was torn and stained and looked nothing like the pristine clothing that her barbarian had worn.

The man looked at her with muddy brown eyes.

“Sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

Before he could say anything to her, she slipped passed him and moved to a stone recess to collect her thoughts. A lone torch hung in the alcove, illuminating the grey walls and the worn, wooden benches. She sat down on one of them, shoulders slumped as her short purple hair fell forward to cover her face. What was she thinking? Malagen had left her and he wasn't coming back. Even if she ran into the barbarian, which she doubted she ever would again, he'd probably want nothing to do with her. She was alone. Like she'd always been. She needed to get over it. She needed to get over him.

[Siegfried]

“Well, we’re here m’ Lord,” smiled the weary wagon owner to the reformed High Elf.

“You are too kind,” Siegfried spoke, his deep tones smooth and melodic. “but spare me the titles; we are no longer in Raiaera.”

The older gentleman cracked a wry smile. “Certainly, anything for your past services.”

Siegfried dismounted from the old peddler’s wagon. Chainmail rang from underneath his elaborate, white uniform as polished ivory boots firmly planted into Radasanth’s cobblestone streets. The High Elf soldier spent a moment to rid his porcelain trousers of rogue dust, followed by the ritualistic adjustment of his blade’s scabbard along his belt.

“Say, would you do a tired soldier one last favor?” Siegfried asked as he adjusted his attire free of wrinkles.

“I suppose these grey hairs could spare you some extra time,” he mused with a dry laugh and tussle of the white mane tucked messily between his pointed ears.

“I recall you mentioning that Radasanth has a history with attracting warriors and adventurers. Could you point me in the direction I may meet a few?”

“Ah yes, good idea. It’s called the Citadel. I’ve been there in my younger years, and its beauty has stayed true all these years. It’s not the biggest spire in town, but you certainly can’t miss it. Just follow any youth with a polished blade strapped to his back – you know, the ones that have yet to see the blemishes of battle? They’ll lead you right to it.”

Siegfried raised a brow to the elder’s advice. He only returned the intrigue with a wrinkled smile and a crack of the reigns.

“You take care now, lad. I hope you find what you are seeking!” the fellow shouted over the racket of wood wheels upon cobblestone streets. Just as his voice faded over the chatter of nearby conversation, so did his wagon of goods in the shifting sea of bodies.

“A youth with a virgin blade will be my guide?” he thought to himself. Running the words through his mind, he made closer note of the types of people skittering about the city streets. Surprisingly, the meaning became clear within seconds. Countless men and women strutted to and fro with an inflated sense of purpose. Human children in their adolescent years stood in small social circles, over animating their stories to one another. Polished blades were swung about in combat with imaginary foes as others stood wide-eyed in witness. Siegfried loosed a warm smile upon his lips, and began to step with the flow of the crowds.

“He ran me through! I swear it! But I awoke just seconds later, perfectly fine!” the elf overheard in trade speak as he ventured.

“Like, first I was in that nasty room, then Bam! I was on a mountain! The Ai’Brone are amazing!” he caught from another excited conversation.

The trail of excited adventurers and warriors was easy enough to follow. His wise merchant friend certainly knew the right words to bring him to the central hub of the chatter: The Citadel.

For a building with such a grand reputation, its aesthetic paled in comparison. Simple stone walls, tiled steeple, and oaken doors gave the appearance of a church, but the traffic gave it a feel of a marketplace. Siegfried’s hazel gaze fell upon the stands and shops surrounding the structure. Merchants shouted to anxious warriors, waving weapons, armor, and goods about for their attention. Such life and energy was a strange sight. It was vaguely familiar, and a warmth of better timed welled in Siegfried’s chest. He smiled, knowing well that this warmth was a bitter sweet reminder of his home in Eluriand before the war. The elven survivor took a deep breath of the musty city air, reveling it its embrace before he braved the Citadel’s steps for the first time.

“Welcome stranger,” beckoned a hoarse voice from behind a wear-polished wooden counter. The source commanded Siegfried’s attention and gave him direction through the flowing rapids of the building’s patrons. “Welcome to the Citadel, I don’t see many elves as refined as yourself here. Is that the symbol of the Bladesingers?” Siegfried arrived to his curious interrogator, a man just beginning to show the wear of time upon his thick, peppered hair and chiseled features.

“Yes it is, I’m impressed,” the Raiaeran commented to the robed monk.

“Don’t be, we see many walks of life through here. Those tattoos on your face… Are they—“

“Easy there,” Siegfried interrupted with a raised hand, “some assumptions are best left unsaid. This is my first time in Radasanth, I was told I could find some young and able adventures here.”

The monk bowed in respect to his guest’s wishes for secrecy. “You certainly came to the right place. Many blades both new and old come here to test their mettle.” The monk paused. A brow raised before he continued, “What, may I ask, are you looking to find here?”

“Willing men to aid me in the purge of the Corpse Horde,” Siegfried responded with a deep conviction.

No sooner after he gave the Ai’Brone a shocked expression did a passing patron place an elbow in his back. The elf staggered a step forward to the monk who prepared for impact. He spared the unnecessary collision with a shift of weight and turned to face the blur of violet hair responsible. The sound of metal dashed against the traffic-polished stone floors redirected his aggravated gaze to several pieces of gold. Before rogue hands could rob the loosed currency, Siegfried knelt to collect the coins.

“Did you say Corpse Horde?” the Ai’Brone inquired after a bout of composure.

“You’ll have to excuse me, father.” The Bladesinger rose to his feet, and with gold in hand, moved through the dim halls of the citadel. He snapped his eyes back and forth between the different shades of hair atop each passerby.

“There.”

He pushed through the crowd to the violet hair that fell responsible for the interruption. As he struggled against the current of bodies, he watched the small frame turn a man toward her. The glimmer of light from nearby sconces faded from her hopeful expression and the familiar look of despair replaced it. He was not able to free himself from the crowd until she had retreated to a dark corner, head hung low. He approached his aggressor with gold clenched tight in his fist. The closer his steps brought him, the less he felt frustration. What was going to be a lecture, declined swiftly to concern.

“Miss,” he began with vibrant hazel eyes struggling to look at hers through purple locks, “I believe you may have dropped some gold running into me back there.”

The Raiaeran produced the three gold he collected.

“May I ask if you are alright? You seem distraught,” he voiced in his deep melodic tones and eyebrows pressed together in concern.

[Iriah Caitrak]

Never before had Iriah found the cracks that lined a stone floor so interesting. The intricate weaving of small and large coming to together to create a spider web intrigued her mind. Or at least, intrigued it enough so she could try and not think about what just happened, about what her heart had hoped for a brief moment and how that hope had crumbled to dust and slipped through her fingers.

He's not coming back.

It was not the first time she had whispered those words to herself. By Suravani, she had screamed them within her own mind in a desperate attempt to convince herself it was true. But her heart seemed at war with her mind. Logic and emotion constantly fighting one another for supremacy. Right now, the emotion was winning, beating her down. Malagen was completely right in that sense it seemed. Emotion was a weakness. It was eating at her right this very minute and if she let it, it would eventually destroy her. How wrong she had been when she'd told him emotion was a a strength. How wrong indeed.

As her dull, grey eyes roaved across the floor, a set of heavy, black boots entered her vision. Iriah blinked the pool of water forming along the rim of her eyes, as if they caused some strange kind of illusion, but the mysterious footwear remained.

“Miss, I believe you may have dropped some gold running into me back there.”

The lilting sound of his voice cut through the strangled music of The Citadel. Iriah looked up into the vibrantly hazel eyes of an elf and felt her breath catch in her throat for the briefest of moments. She choked it down and tried so hard to concentrate on what he was saying and not the contours of his face, or his long neck, or the way his clothing hung off his body, just barely concealing a well sculpted form. Instead, she attempted to remember just when she had run into this man, but could not. In all honesty, she'd been in a strange daze since entering the building. She could have stumbled into Letho Ravenheart and may not have recognized her old friend.

Slowly, like one of those mechanical contraptions from Alerar, Iriah reached out her hand. The man dropped the three gold into her palm and she stared at the dull coins as they tinkled against one another.

“Th-thank you...” She mumbled in surprise.

Her hand stayed extended between them for far longer than it needed to. Feeling a slight blush of embarrassment colour her cheeks, Iriah quickly secreted the coins away into a pouch around her waist.

“I don't even remember dropping them.” She muttered apologetically.

Pushing herself up, Iriah found herself nearly coming eye level to the mysterious man in front of her, but felt off put by how close they current were. On nimble feet she shifted around him slightly, moving towards the opening of the alcove. His question had many answers to it, most of which were not what he would want to hear, a stranger to her and her problems.

Glancing from him to the safety of the crowd and back again, Iriah cleared her throat. “I am quite fine. You need not concern yourself with it, siahd.”

The truth could not be far from it, but to say she found the presence of this man disconcerting was to say the sun felt warm upon the midday call out in the dessert.

Inclining her head, she watched from the corner of her eye as a break appeared in the crowd. Without a second hesitation she took it and called out in her wake. “Thank you for your concern.”

The break lasted for a mere moment and then a ground of people carried her along like the wave of an ocean. She became entangled in their presence, in their bodies and the long form of their arms in tune with the marching of their feet. They pushed her deeper into The Citadel when all she wanted to do was leave this place.

Why had she opened that door in the first place?

She had she ever even walked in here all those months ago?

No, she knew the answer to the second question. Never had Iriah regretted her decision to come here and the meeting with Malagen. Though her heart may be broken now, she had grown with the man and in time would be able to look upon their meeting with a sad smile and perhaps a fond memory or two. He had made her a woman. She had made him a human.

The crowd dispersed, leaving her standing in front of a plain, wooden door. Without hesitation, Iriah grabbed the cool metal handle and pulled, stepping inside. She just wanted out of this place.

[Siegfried]

He couldn't help but offer a warm smile at how flustered she became. Though her initial impression bumping into a stranger came off as a woman with little manners, the color of her cheeks and the iridescence in her eyes sang a different tune. She took the gold with hesitation, heated by Siegfried's presence. She even rose to meet him eye to eye. Her sweet, yet wild aroma came upon him in their proximity. The red of her cheeks also sent a tingle across his skin. The prospect of a woman reminded him of his year of solidarity. His smile persisted, but she quickly changed the mood of the encounter.

His question remained unanswered and she fell into recession. Her enticing sent and melodic voice escaped him as she nimbly maneuvered her supple frame around him to a position of departure. With eyes now filled with a pain, a yearning for something, she uttered a vague goodbye and slipped into the seas of moving people. The wisps of violet hair vanished as quickly as they stood out to him.

"You're welcome miss..." he lead on to an empty audience. Another women, completely strange to him, offered a curled lip and pretentiously gave him her back. She clearly misunderstood the context.

Defeated, Siegfried let out a long sigh, straightened his poise, and washed the girl from his mind. His personality came with flaws and often, those flaws came with rejection. As the last of a dying breed and far too obsessed with his own vengeance toward Xem'Zund, these were details he held as facts to his existence.

"What are you lookin' at pointy ears?" commented a tusked orc to Siegfried's blind stare.

"I do apologize. I had a lapse," the elven soldier replied with a faint bow. The orc offered a robust grunt, and trudged down the hallway with the droves of others.

Though entranced by the prospect of meeting another who shared the same pained expression as he, Siegfried came to this human capitol to seek able bodies. He could not be bothered with pretty faces and romantic interests. The elf soldier collected himself and joined crowded halls. His steps sounded heavier than before, and the rigid posture to which he carried now felt imperfect.

“There you are!” called out the hoarse voice from earlier. Siegfried waded towards it, regaining his focus on the task at hand.

“Sorry for the rudeness father,” the Bladsinger commented with a slight bow of his head. The elder man replied with a chuckle.

“Being a good Sumerian is hardly rude, my boy. It’s a rarity given the changing times. Now, where were we?”

Seigfried paused. The images from the encounter raced his mind once more. Then, he continued.

“Father, I am seeking to recruit able bodied men to my cause. I wish to wash the blight from Raiaera. I was informed that this place holds the best potential of meeting said recruits.”

As the elf spoke, the old man scrunched his brow. Siegfried watched the monk analyze him, but could not figure out his sudden obsession with his face. It summoned an unease in the soldier as though a blemish might be prominent. The busy air grew awkward in the silence.

“I see,” was all the Ai’Brone replied. He brought a rough hand to his own chin and framed his face. Then, he gave a nod of affirmation.

“What is this old bastard up to?” Siegfried thought, pressing his own brows to a concerned furrow.

“I can certainly get the opportunity you want, but it will have to be through battle.” The monk smiled, but the context further coaxed caution from the elf.

“Are you suggesting I pass a trial?”

“No, no.” The Ai’Brone chuckled. “This is a battle arena. Your recruits will be your opponent, and it just so happens that a room just opened up for a contender.”

Siegfried narrowed his hazel stare on the man. The confusion welled in his expression and the monk replied with smiles and laughter. Though it did make sense given the overheard chatter and stifling popularity, the idea of battles occurring indoors did not compute. This was not an arena or a coliseum. Given the flood of people, dim lighting, and hundreds of doors, magic was the only explanation to support the monk’s notion.

“Then, I imagine there are rules and procedures in place? No honed edges, fatal magic, et cetera?” Siegfried inquired.

Again, a smile and a chuckle.

“It’s much better to show than to tell,” the robed elder remarked cryptically. He then paced a few steps to a plain oaken door behind him. The wood was well maintained, but the handle was worn to a dull sheen. Promptly, the monk opened it to the elf and coaxed with the opposing hand for him to step in.

Siegfried hesitated. The others that came to and fro paid no heed to the monk’s actions. The normalcy to the public did little to calm the elf’s suspicion, yet he stepped toward the door.

“It’s harmless, I assure you,” the Ai’Brone spoke in a playful tone.

The Bladesinger stepped firmly within. A cot stood idle in the corner with fresh, white linens professionally lain atop. Along the grey, stone walls protruded a series of hooks for which one might hang gear or equipment. The corner nearest contained a simple brass wash basin. The room had all the makings for a night’s stay at an Inn. All except for the other door on the opposing wall.

“So, I fight in this little room?” Inquired the Bladesinger.

“No no, you fight in the next room. Good luck.” The monk began to close the door.

“Wait--!” The sound of iron locking into place cut him off, and he was left in the dim flicker of a flame’s light. Siegfried snarled. He came here to recruit men, not to fight them, but there was a sound logic to the idea. The elf could test those he wished to rally to his cause, and a confidence welled within him. He routinely adjusted the leather belt at his waist, tested the fit of his ornate vambraces, and brushed off his white, High Elven uniform to the faint jingle of his chain mail. Though the air was still thick with uncertainty, he gathered that the monk’s intentions were pure. Popularity is rarely won with ill intent, and this Citadel clearly held popularity.

“Aurient, Galatirion, watch over me,” he muttered as he opened the far door.

His senses were overloaded, and everything went white. His ears rang, skin tingled, and eyes burned. The smell of aged stone and smoky torchlight disappeared. Then, like a hammer, he was hit with new sensations. The change was too much, and he fell to a knee to combat the disorientation. Sight was the first to return and immediately, his eyes grew wide as purple locks grew into focus.

[Iriah Caitrak]

Iriah hit the dirt hard. Her body rolled across the uneven and dry surface. Rocks and pebbles dug into her, and the exposed skin along her arms scrapped along the rough ground before she forced herself to a stop. A cloud of dry earth sprayed up around her, coating her, and filling her mouth and lungs as she drew in a ragged breath. She coughed, trying to expel the foreign substance, while her ragged breathing only drew more in.

Pushing herself onto her hands and knees, she peered through the dusty debris, even as it stung her eyes. Her opponent didn't look like anything special. He was only slightly taller than her, with a medium build and plain clothes. Even his face, long and lean, had no special qualities to it aside from a nose broken and set one too many times. It was the kind of face you'd glance over in the street without even noticing. Muddy brown hair covered his head and fell limply over his face almost concealing his flat, brown eyes, and the slight impression of a scar along his forehead. Despite appearances though, the man could fight.

A sword hung from his hand lazily. The point drooped towards the ground as if he assumed her no threat at all. She'd been bare knuckling it up until a moment before, when he'd slammed a boot into her and sent her rolling into the dirt. Now he'd drawn steel and an amused glint lit his eyes.

Feeling the corners of her lips pull down into a frown, Iriah pushed herself back to her feet. A layer of beige covered her once pristine clothing, but she barely noticed. Her quicksilver gaze held only him.

Moving her right hand slightly away from her body, she channelled energy at the same time. With a quick thought her Naginata formed in the loose hold of her long fingers. The long pole was nearly on par with her own height and ended with a curved blade just over a foot in length.

Her opponent hesitated. She didn't.

The muscles in her legs tensed and she pushed off the ground. Her feet kicked up another storm of dust, but she paid no heed to it. Two feet from the man, whose name she had not bothered ti ask, Iriah planted her right foot, skidded to a stop and brought her weapon forward. With her left hand further down the pole and her right arm extended, she brought the Naginata out in a sweeping arc straight across his middle. A test really, to see how he'd react. He stepped back rather than parry her blow. Then, with the flick of his wrist and a strong arm, he swung the blade of his sword towards what he assumed to be her exposed right side.

Iriah twisted. The steel clanked against the metal shaft of her weapon and deflected away. He came right back at her, trying to push her into a defensive position, as he thrust his weapon toward her stomach. She shifted and used her left hand to bring the blade around, slamming it into the side of his sword. It went careening off to the right.

She hesitated for the briefest moment. A second where the instincts Malagen taught her warred with her persona.

It's only The Citadel.

Her weapon broke at the middle. A blade formed on the end that once held nothing but blunt metal. Exhaling the breath burning in her lungs, Iriah twisted her wrist and thrust the honed metal towards him. The long curve caught him at the neck. Skin parted. Blood sprayed out. It coated her skin and her clothes all up her arm. She could even feel some of the thick liquid sliding down her cheek.

His eyes locked with hers before he fell to the ground. A pool of crimson formed around his neck, slowly being sucked up by the greedy earth.

Iriah took two steps and knelt down next to him. His eyes were already void of all life, but because of the monks, no soul rose from his body. A pool of red ringed his head, creating a macabre halo that soaked into his hair and clothes. He was a good fighter. She'd just been trained by a better one. A man who taught her to exploit weakness and show no mercy, concepts she still struggled with.

"Bhavan iccha udaya bhuyas..." She whispered softly to him, even though he was beyond hearing any of her words.

Standing up, she waited for The Citadel's illusory world to come to an end, but it didn't. Seconds passed and nothing happened. The crumbling buildings to her left remained. Their brick and mortar rising from the ground to try and blot out the sun in the wasteland her opponent had created. Strangely enough, it reminded her of Irrakam on that fateful day the Harpies descended from the sky and laid waste to all they could see.

Tilting her head towards the bright blue sky, Iriah's mouth drew down at the corners.

It should have ended by now.

Hearing the crunch of stone behind her, she whirled around to find the elf she'd met earlier standing off to the side.

"You...but..." Her mind stumbled for the words to say.

Her body tensed even as her brain stuttered. Her eyes narrowed and her fingers tightened on the cool metal of her Half Swallows, but she made no move to use them.

[Siegfried]

Touch soon followed sight. Warm arid winds bit at the high elf's skin. It stung at his face and forced him to blink the dryness from his eyes. Then the scent of stale, dirty air – an aroma of wastelands. Some say smell is the strongest trigger of memory. Siegfried's skin flushed a lighter hue as images of the undead hordes slaughtering his kin flooded his mind. His stomach churned. Siegfried closed his eyes to concentrate. The new environment weighed heavy on his mind, yet his legs mustered the strength to stand.

“You...but...”

The terrors of past times washed away at her voice. Siegfried opened his eyes. Ruins surrounded them, and in the center stood the coin girl from earlier. Her admittedly attractive form contrasted against the grey of stone behind her. He remembered her fair features, sad eyes but beautiful eyes, and strong yet soothing accent.

“The girl from earlier,” he commented. His mind was still fogged with a haze from the Citadel's magic. “What're you --”

His senses righted themselves enough to notice the blades she held to each side. The fresh crimson vitae dripped freely from their edge. She was a killer or a victim of assault. Either way, her eyes were focused at him. Siegfried flashed his hand to the pommel of his weapon.

“Who are you? Why am I here? What happened?” he asked. His voice wavered. The greatest fear is of the unknown. At present, Siegfried had too many questions, and his uncertainty fringed on terror. While his eyes spoke the truth of his feelings, his rigid stance and rehearsed posture spoke of a warrior's calm against the gales of a storm.

“No no, you fight in the next room...”

Siegfried tighten the grip on his blade.

“I can certainly get the opportunity you want, but it will have to be through battle...”

His blade sang as it drew from the scabbard. The fear washed from him.

“This is a battle arena. Your recruits will be your opponent.”

Siegfried brought his feet in, bent slightly at the knee, and readied.

“I see now. So, he was your last opponent, then?” The Bladesinger gestured with his chin towards the corpse. “You come here to kill for sport?”

The rules of engagement dictated a soldier to never attack unless first attacked. The situation held many variables, but the given context did not bode well. Would the legions of the Corpse Horde have hesitated? The High Elf steeled himself in wait, against his better judgment.