Cage Number Two

[Serilliant]

At the tip of a descending staff stood a tine of solid mythril. Its form was flaccid, gripped uneasily by a frail nobleman foolishly lusting for the thrills of past adventures. The man's gaze that skipped apprehensively down the shaft of his weapon and a short distance across the floor of the arena landed upon the forms of men and women twisted in combat. It was a sound strategy, he had imagined, to keep sidelined, back pressed tightly to the mesh of the enclosure with lance erect and primed to be brandished to fend off any who may approach. In his head was pictured a grandiose figure clad in robes of brilliant azure with weapon readied. But in the eyes of the rabid observers stood an emasculated form in haughty attire with nothing more than a slack strut.

****

It was on the bow of his sailing vessel two days prior to the start of the tournament that a member of his crew asked of him, "Serilliant, why risk your life in a cage of strangers when you have nothing to prove?" He pondered that question for a few moments, and after drawing deep a breath of sea air responded, "because it's not the aristocrats I want to please anymore; it's the warriors and the adventurers who refuse to take me seriously. I once slew a hydra, and now the best I'm known for is a brand of mercantilism. It's not who I am." With that, he drew in one more shallow breath before turning away from the sailor and retiring to his bedchambers.

That night, he dreamed of the Cell. He toyed with images of a giant clad only in a sheepskin draped precariously around his waist. The monster's one single eye was fixed fearlessly upon him. Over its horned head it raised a spiked club doused in the blood, sinew, and flesh of his competitors. The crowd cheered wildly as it lurched closer. Serilliant looked to his right and spotted his sword thrown violently to the side of the arena. It had broken. He looked down and could see his armor pierced, a lance driven cruelly into his gut. He looked back up again and the beast was bringing down his cudgel. Right before the abominable impact, Serilliant awoke.

****

There were no giants of men in this arena now. The feeling of the dream's ominousness persisted, however. He watched a cruel female half-elf as he released three projectiles on three approaching men. For a moment, Serilliant saw her with one eye. When he blinked, the image was gone. He hoisted his partisan more defiantly now, and kept it tuned in the direction of that woman. His eyes darted untrustingly around the arena, looking for an approaching attacker hidden in the shadows. He felt increasing pressure on his back as he pressed harder into the mesh walls, fighting to take in as much of the scene as possible. Unrecognized faces adorned the bodies of all those around him, and Serilliant surveyed their scabbards for any sign of weapons capable of outreaching his. With lance fully erect, the young nobleman held steady, hoping to escape notice and relying on the length of his weapon to keep any potential attacker at bay.

This game was not one of killing, but one of survival.