There are many ways in which a man may prove himself. Some may seek adventure, others will hunt riches. Some will succeed, and some will fail. A man can only truly make his name on the field of battle, where his peers and his enemies can see his true skill displayed in honourable combat.
Xeraph Tollan stood before the mighty oak doors of the Citadel in Corone, taking a moment to gaze at their exquisite workmanship… the detail was extraordinary. Reaching out, his callused hand brushed against the door panel, and with his blue eyes closed, the detail seemed to leap out at him all the more. He had heard much of what happened behind these doors… all comers, be they experienced veterans, mere children or simply fools with a disregard for their own being, were welcome to come and take part in battles between equals… or not, if some foolish newcomer challenged someone far beyond their ability to handle.
He took a single, deep breath, and then pushed the door open. It swung silently on well-oiled hinges, and he stepped quickly inside. He had no idea of what to expect, having never been to Corone, much less The Citadel. That didn’t mean he hadn’t heard of it… who hadn’t in his line of work. It was considered to be the ultimate test of skill for any mercenary. Underneath his travelling cloak, one hand closed around the hilt of his longsword… he was sure of himself, but still, it paid to be cautious. The possibility of death here was very real, and Xeraph had no intention of dying here, not with so much left to do with his life.
As he began to move forward, he noticed something. There were almost two distinct groups of people… those who congregated, congratulating themselves on having bested some punk who thought they could handle the stress of combat.
Of course, thought Xeraph, bypassing one such group on his way forward,defeating a child who stole a sword to prove himself worthy of being called a man is nothing, compared to beating someone who truly offers you a competition.
The other group were those like him. They were loners, who stood in dark corners and said little to those around them. Xeraph had enough experience with this group, and they were the ones who would require watching. It seemed everyone here came with different skills. Archers, mages, swordsman… of all races, colours and creeds. Truly, a place where like-minded warriors could meet.
As he passed by a high vaulted archway, he was hailed by a monk, one of those who helped to create the battles, “May I assist you, sir?”
Xeraph took a good look at this monk… it was obviously he had seen combat in his time. But, as a monk, he was not a possible opponent, “Yes, I’m looking for a field on which to do battle.”
“What sort of field are you looking for?”
“Something that requires not only brawn, but brains, in order to win.”
The monk thought for a moment, and a thin smile passed over his features, “I believe we may have such a field. Please, follow me.”
The monk turned on his heel, and Xeraph, glancing round to see if anyone had been listening, taking an interest in his queries. Then, without a word, he followed after the monk, who was moving rapidly through the halls and almost vanished on more than one occasion. Eventually, the monk stopped at a door, and twisted a key in the lock, “An opponent will join you momentarily… please, be patient. You have as long as you wish.”
Xeraph nodded his thanks, and stepped into the field…
It was quite astonishing. The field was a ruined settlement, a large square in the centre, but buildings dotted around. Lots of places to hide, and plently from which to fight. The grass was a light green, but brown in patches, a result of the pounding sun. A light breeze flitted through the settlement, ruffling Xeraph's unkempt blond hair. It was a place where you could fight in the open, or you could use the cover to your advantage, and attempt to assassinate your opponent that way. For his part, Xeraph was not concerned. The point of battle was to defeat to your opponents, and the ends would always justify the means as far as he was concerned.
He leaned back against a crumbling stone wall, undoing the clasp on his travelling cloak so that it hung loosely on his shoulders. His hands delved into his pockets, withdrawing his pipe and a book of matches from his tunic. He brought the pipe to his mouth, sniffing the end to ascertain which tobacco he had left in there before he lit it, taking a deep breath in, and exhaling through his nostrils, “Ah, apple.”
A distinct meow sounded from around his ankles, and he looked down, “Tabitha, I though I told you to stay at the dock, I wouldn’t be long.”
The cat rubbed herself against his leg, purring gently, and he couldn’t help but grin, “Alright, but stay out of sight. I don’t want my opponent picking on you.”
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