The Arena

(IRON LEAGUE)
(OPEN)

John stood in front of his friend and listened to the man pontificate about this new “Iron League” that someone in the back hallways and hidden recesses of the massive Citadel had dusted off for the first time in centuries.

“I’m telling you, John, it’s great! Now that more people are showing up for fights we can start holding actual Iron League matches! We can let people watch the matches from just about anywhere on the grounds, including the courtyard.”

Naturally, the man was right. Brother Jor had been a monk since before John had been coming to fight, but the half-giant still knew what was going on. More publicity and a ranking system meant more people, and more people meant more money and more fights.

“Interesting. What are the details? What do I get out of this?” John inquired, leaning up against one of the obsidian-colored walls next to the courtyard. Jor waved a few people through the entrance.

“I knew you’d like it, John. As for you, nothing happens differently. A few monks will judge how well both of you fought, and assign scores to you both. If you fight well, there might be a little gold in it for ya, eh?” he said, nudging John in the ribs with his elbow. “And plus,” he continued, holding up a medallion on a chain. “There’s bling.”

John tried not to smile, but it spread across his face slowly, and he chuckled, wiping his face with his hand in exasperation. He knew what Jor was doing, of course. The half-giant had been quite a sight in the citadel of late, and people would pay to see more of him in battle, if he agreed to fight in the League.

“Alright, I’ll join.”

It didn’t take too much convincing.

“Sweet! I’ll set up the arena. You’ll get the first fight of the league, man, it’s gonna be great!” He exclaimed, slapping an iron medallion in John’s palm, already turning to head inside the courtyard, where the sounds of booths for bets and food could be heard and smelled. He jerked to a stop, turning quickly. “The arena good for you? The one with the stadium seats?”

John smiled at Jor’s exuberance. The blood of the citadel seemed to just, slip through his fingers without sullying them. His excitement was untarnished by the rough men around him.

“Yeah, that’ll be fine, Jor.”

The monk turned to weave his way through the crowd, and John followed in a much more lumbering and disruptive stride. After a moment, he was led through a long, dark, familiar hallway. He almost had to stoop his head, it was so low. Either that or John was unusually tall.

A light appeared and John strode towards it, and as he did, it expanded into a doorway. He emerged from the hallway, blinking, and crossed a five-meter drawbridge across a pit that was for all intents and purposes, bottomless. His feet crossed from wood to stone, disturbing a thin layer of dust that was always present when one entered the Coliseum right after the monks constructed it. In stadium seating around a massive circle of limestone were scattered people. John guessed them to number around three thousand. A sheer wall across from the moat rose ten feet before the seats began. As he entered, a small cheer rose from the crowd, more born of anticipation than conflict or joy, and the drawbridge closed itself, leaving the bottomless moat around the fifty meter platform unbroken. He walked forward, almost to dead center, and turned to watch for the other fighter to come through the only entrance or exit.

With the groan of cold ages, the chains rattled uneasily. Clunking through their massive mechanisms they strained as their load was slowly lowered. Thud, shudder, thud, they went as they moved at straight and direct angles, the places where they were fixated into the wood doing all they could to not break. To never break.

Bang.

The end of the drawbridge impacted with earth, and the chains could finally breathe. Relaxing, they took this rare moment to become slack and welcome the rest that was granted. Instead it was the massive wooden base that was undergoing stress as two hooves and four paws trudged across it, the sounds of 'clop' and 'patter' their melody.

Slowly Philomel van der Aart lifted her head out of the glaring sun and stared across at her rival. She sighed raised her eyebrows as she was faced with that steady but formidable foe, whom she knew well out of rumours and interactions - John, the half-giant.

Darting her eyes left and right she saw what she had sensed in her surroundings earlier - a bottomless void, cascading to endlessness. This drawbridge would lead to the small and unbordered island that was set as a monument to the floating beauties of far off fantasy worlds. Looking back to the giant of a man, the faun felt like smirking a little, in form of a greeting but the daunting prospect of being trapped between him and an emptiness was the hellhole of her stomach.

Gently, she stepped off the drawbridge and ignored the screaming chains as they retook up their burden. Also she deliberately disregared the thousands of people in the stands around them. They were not why she and Veridian were here. They were not her enemy today. No, instead they were just a distraction - an annoying one at that, whom she hated in a battle such as this. Apparently people became exceptionally bored in Radasanth and simply had to satiate their bloodlust with a view of champions battling one another.

Rolling back her shoulders Philomel greeted the half-giant with an upraised hand containing a white mythril blade. One that partly matched the near identical one in the other hand. As she did she merged her mind with Veridian's, the two of them becoming a close identity. They did not need to speak: both of them knew why the other was here. So as per normal, Philomel spoke, giving the greeting of both of them (at least, the two of them for now).

"Greetings, John, yes? We have met before."

She moved her hooves into a balanced fighting stance.

"I am Philomel, this is Veridian. I presume you are here to begin the Iron League also?"

(Please let me know if my description of the swords and of the fox)

Another small cheer arose from the crowd as a faun entered. Lithe and nimble, Philomel approached, the soft click of her hooves on the stone became audible as the crowd's cheer died, the peoples' excitement replaced with anticipation.

Seems I'll be fighting acquaintances today, he absently thought, remembering his unexpectedly challenging battle with the boy Fennik. This opponent, however, might be even more challenging, and John felt liquid metal rise to coat his arms and legs, stopping and hardening in a uniform coating of titanium. A gasp from the crowd followed, and John raised his hand, displaying a muscled bicep and forearm. A mild cheer rose from them, interspersed with laughter, and John smiled. If there was anything he learned in his banishment, it was how to fight for coin. And fighting for coin meant crowd-pleasing.

The faun, not to be outdone, raised her arm as well, a white mythril straightsword in her hand, a nearly identical sword in her off-hand (save a slight curve to the thing). They were elegant, costly things, built for lightweight slashing and stabbing motions. So long as she kept with her little bony skewers, she'd have a tough time making the half-giant hurt. He lowered his arm and focused, growing two six-inch spikes at the end of his fists, flattening the protrusions to a razor's edge.

The fox next to her looked up at him, something like recognition and memory in its eyes. The thing was small, especially compared to the faun it stood next to and the half-giant it opposed, but it seemed undeterred, and held an intense, fiery look to match its mildly crimson-orange coat. The edge of John's mouth upturned in a smirk as the faun addressed him. He responded by growing the armor over his head, his vision and hearing flashing black for a split second as the armor somehow adapted, communicating his sensory information unhindered by opacity or substance. The faun would find no spot under his patchwork, soot-stained tunic, or under his thick pants that did not have protection. The half-giant addressed her, placing himself between her and the center of the circle.

"Twice, Philomel. Have you forgotten me already?"

He spread his arms and frowned a little, which quickly turned into a smirk. Honestly he could understand, the first time they'd met she had sold him a lady for the evening. But as Vincent commonly said, "the show must go on!", and so John continued his act.

"Why, I might just cry, friend."

He cut off the rest of his speech, he could save it for later. He shifted his weight to his right leg and propelled himself forward, breaking into full speed another stride later, and aimed a massive, spiked left hand at Philomel's chest. If she was good, she'd dodge it, and if she was very good, she'd hit him back.

We'll see which is which.

Thump, thump, thump.

Damn, was her first thought. He had gotten fast ...

Quickly, sucking in her breath Philomel pulled her and Veridian's resources, without permission reaching for their bond. The constraining floor, which was perhaps no more than thirty metres in diameter, restricted where they might go, but it was the only try possibility for now. The decision was made in a split second, as she knew the man's strength and saw him coming possibly even faster than herself, rapidly thundering over the dusty ground like an oncoming storm -

The ground opening up beneath them Philomel and Veridian vanished in a swirl of dirt and breeze, sucked in through the portal which she summoned. It left John to slice at emptiness, for they disappeared mere half a second before his blow struck. Re-entering the arena and the quiet murmurs of the crowd, as well as a base line of some fell boos, the faun and fox came up where John had begun, watching his blow come to nothing. Strike to nothingness.

Damn, she repeated, and Veridian entirely accepted her thoughts.

Fire? he suggested and she sighed, nodding, lowering herself into a ready crouch, steeling herself for the likelihood of John coming at her again.

Yes. That may be of some help, she said. I suspect even my strength as the goat ...

It was Veridian's turn to agree. Not even she has the strength to defeat him. Use swords for now. I will ...

With a lithe twist of his tail he began to sprint away from Philomel. He showed her an image of him, running at the same time as spurting into flame. Even though strength and speed could not work against Cromwell in this fight, it still might be possible that the throes of flame and ash might have some effect. In this run, as fast as a simple fox could be, Veridian would grow, doubling, tripling, quadrupling, quintupling in size until he was as huge as a wild horse and just as stubborn. Though his strength would be little compared to the half-giant, there would still be fire aplenty, as well as a distanced bite that may, or may not, give them some advantage.

Philomel could see the plumes of smoke beginning to billow from his coat. She nodded with approval, fixing her jaw into a state and preparing to have to stave off John - at least for a short while. If she remembered him well he was very well armoured, to almost every degree. Her mythril blades, if she could find a way to get past his array of vigorous, agile bolows, could do some damage against him, but it was likely his head that they would need to go for.

Pah, we are aiming directly for his eyes this whole battle, Philomel advised, sending her awareness into the ground for ... anything. Grabbing the first small root she found - the beginnings of a simple dandelion weed - she began abstract communication with it as a last resort. Eyes.