In the Meat Pit: Bumps On the Road to Fame

[Christoph]

It wasn’t a day to be late.

Christopher Knighton rushed along the seashore, his feet kicking up pebbles and creating small clouds of dust in their wake. Flocks of gulls circled overhead, mocking the chef with a chorus of irritating squawks as they swooped between the weathered coastal rocks that lined the shore like a set of jagged teeth. The harsh afternoon sun swathed him in a smothering embrace, glaring off of his blue Prevalida gauntlets, burning through his tattered chef coat and summoning large beads of sweat on his brow as he ran. His heart pounded harder than it should, seeming to catch in his throat.

Something about being late and nervous brought every fear, anxiety, and insecurity to the forefront of his mind. Every dark stain on his soul pushed into his consciousness. All had been his constant companions for a very long time, and for good reason. The sorrow of his mother’s death still hung heavily upon him, and the blood on his hands from murdering an innocent Ethereal Sway priest in an attempt to avenge her never seemed to have washed away. It merely took hectic, stressful moments such as this one to weaken his repressive mental barriers.

Doubt and uncertainty were the last things that the Pagoda Warrior needed. He had a job to do, involving a very important appointment. Ironically, Chris had never been one to take his job at the Dajas Pagoda seriously in the past.

He had stepped through the temple’s hallowed doors once prior to gaining his position on the Hierarchy during a quick stop in Scara Brae on a cargo ship from Corone to his home in Salvar. He’d visited the great warrior temple out of boredom, and wound up fighting none other than the legendary Dan Kross. With a combination of cunning and luck, he even won. It had been one of his proudest moments. He was sad to leave so soon afterwards.

As it turned out, by the time Chris returned several months later, the monks hadn’t forgotten him. His victory against Dan Kross had made quite an impression. When he finally visited the Dajas Pagoda again, the Monks recognized him immediately, and even offered a job. They even built an arena to his exact specifications: a massive slaughterhouse, one hundred meters by forty meters, with rows of hanging meat slabs filling two-thirds of its length and several massive meat ovens lining the far wall.

The chamber had even been enchanted so that the area occupied by the hanging meat was always cold enough to freeze one’s breath, even though the air near the ovens could blister skin. In between, they had placed a large, blood-covered worktable crafted from fine oak. It was almost like home, perhaps even better. How could he refuse? He hadn’t anything better to do or anywhere else to go. It was hardly his chosen calling, though, and as such he rarely put forth more than the bare minimum amount of effort needed to fulfill his duties as Warrior.

This time, however, he had a very special challenger: Sir Leopold Lord Stevens, the former king of Salvar. At first, Christopher hadn’t believed it when he read the challenger’s name on the parchment, but once the Monks confirmed the man’s identity, the chef made certain that this high-profile challenger was sent to his arena. Leopold Stevens was on a very short list of individuals that the young Knighton greatly wished to meet. He’d spent the entire morning getting ready; he would not meet Lord Stevens unprepared.

The Warrior picked up the pace as he crossed the last bridge leading into the city. The thought of coming up against such a renowned individual intimidated him. The notion of such a challenger waiting, bored, in Christopher’s unsettling arena was even worse. It wasn’t a day to be late!

[LordLeopold]

Leopold Stevens slowly walked down the staircase, making each step a deliberate stomp that rattled his body, loosely swinging his walking stick at his side. As he reached the bottom of the stairway, the polished hall came into view from under the sloping ceiling. The hallway unfurled interminably into the bowels of the Pagoda, wooden benches lining the side at regular, wide intervals. His brother, Anthony Stevens, was seated on one of them, his back slouched against the wall, smoking a freshly-rolled cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Stevens sighed as he lowered himself from the final stair, his footsteps echoing in the hall, and paused for a moment, gathering himself.

"You don't seem pleased. No luck, eh?" Anthony asked as his brother approached and lowered himself onto the seat. Stevens frowned but didn't respond, and his brother snorted a puff of smoke out of his nose. "Not surprising, if the monks here are as intransigent as the ones at the Citadel."

"I'm not sure that was entirely it," Stevens replied after a moment. The barbed comment by his brother had resurfaced the feelings of abandonment he'd felt after learning the monks of the Citadel, for years his comfort in this foreign land, had left him more or less for dead during a battle in Radasanth. He fled from the subject, leaping onto another. "Apparently the monks here have some kind of association with Max Dirks. I knew him once, many years ago, when we both worked in the Bazaar together. Odd man..." Anthony murmured noncommittally and Stevens continued, feeling a tinge of sentimentality. "Apparently he's something of a drunk, now. He has a mansion in Radasanth, near the merchants' quarter, but he doesn't really live there. Last I'd heard it was going to seed: Some sort of street gang was living in it." The two sat in silence, Anthony taking a drag from his cigarette. Cocking his head as he pulled it away from his mouth, he watched the tip of it burn, the smoke curling from its red ember mixing with the bloom coming out of his mouth.

"You sure you don't want a huff of this?" he asked Stevens, whose eyes had glazed over, his mind racing back over the past several weeks. He had left the Entente behind, despite the fact it was probably the only thing that might stop Althanas falling to the armies of evil. Great darkness was poised to fall over the world, and any chance he had to take part in its redemption seemed to have passed. The Army of the Light had collapsed, and he hadn't even turned around to see its remains burning... But now, the cigarette.

"Eh? Oh, no old boy," he replied, waving the smoldering stub away. "I can't say I don't miss it, but I'd like to think I've come a long way since my school days. Waiting to take your turn, dragging on half a cigar in the w.c. and all that." Anthony shrugged and lifted the cigarette to his lips, finishing it off. After savoring the last lungful of smoke, he blew it out through his nose.

"What," he said, slowly, "are we doing here?" Stevens looked at his brother, who was quizzically arching his eyebrows, and frowned again without answering. "If you're feeling guilty about leaving the Entente behind..." he continued. Stevens opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak the light faded to nothing around him, darkness descending over the pair. Briefly shocked, Stevens realized after a second that he was still conscious, and that he had automatically leaped to his feet and twisted his swordcane out of its sheath.

"Can you see?" he asked Anthony, silently chastising himself for irrationally fearing blindness while simultaneously waving his hand in front of his own face.

"Not a jot," Anthony replied. "Hold on, I have some matches somewhere..." But before he could strike one, the light returned in a jolting flood that singed Stevens's eyes. As he squinted against the antiseptic glare, he felt his skin lashed by a shocking cold, like metal pressed against his flesh. Opening his eyes fully, his vision still blurry, he could see steam rising from his own mouth and Anthony, his teeth already chattering, shielding his eyes with his hand.

"My Lord," Stevens said, looking around, "This is a meat locker." And so it was. Flanks of steer and entire sheep were dangling from the ceiling like flayed, hanged men. The floor was brushed clean, but still had a grimy look from ingrained old flesh and frozen blood. That blinding light was coming from dozens of exposed bulbs hanging from the ceiling, a few glowing dull yellow but most piercing white. An orange glow, advancing and shrinking on the floor, was projected from crackling ovens on the far wall, on the other side of a huge wooden carving table. "This is what the vegetarians tell you about." Stevens quipped. Anthony poked a steer's ribcage and watched it swing lazily back and forth, grimacing.

"What exactly is this?" Stevens's brother asked, "Did these monks trick you into some sort of battle?"

"Hrm," was the duke's only response, as he felt the bottom of his stomach collapse at the idea. I stopped this years ago... he thought to himself. And here I am again, at the most repugnant part of Althanas. Instead of voicing his fears, though, he simply stepped towards the ovens, looking for a doorway out.

[Rayse Valentino]

All parties are party to the party.

A small trail of smoke had risen to the ceiling, hitting it and spreading around until it was invisible to the naked eye. At the base of the trail was a cigarette, held in place by none other than Rayse Valentino's lips. Smoking generally causes the body to become colder, and in such a freezing setting, any normal man would be shivering. However, Rayse had long since forgotten the feeling of cold and the calming of cool. Even the frost around his feet had melted just from him standing in it. Upon hearing the clanging sound of the large metallic door opening, Rayse pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and flicked it to the side. There was a reason he was standing in this meat locker, and it wasn't for prime rib.

It hadn't been very long since he attended a meeting with Christopher Knighton, rising star of the prize fighting world. The young chef had made many acquisitions lately, and Rayse was not one to squander opportunity. The building and contracts that were sold to Rayse? He basically ripped off Christopher, but it was still a tidy sum that felt like a hole in The Contractor's pocket. In short, he wanted the money back almost immediately after giving it up. It was after the meeting that the chef mentioned his upcoming challenge against a familiar name, and how favorably there were people betting for him. That was when Rayse formed his plan, and that is what brought him here today.

He knew Leopold from the news of his brief stint in Salvar, where he was a figurehead monarch for some organization that didn't last very long. It was a very odd period of history for Salvar, and Rayse never thought much of it. However, he had never heard of Leopold's fighting ability. Judging by the betting that's been going on, apparently nobody else has either. He was just a legendary name, a forgotten king, and whoever was fighting him today could very well be some sort of imposter, trying to cash in on the legend. It wasn't a bad plan in Rayse's opinion, but he couldn't imagine what sort of things could be gained by it. Whether or not he was the real deal didn't matter right now.

Standing still as he heard the two sets of footsteps, Rayse had to wonder why he heard so many. He almost assumed the worst as he thought that maybe Christopher and Leopold had found each other, but he assured himself that it could not possibly be the case. After all, there was a reason why he was standing here and Christopher wasn't. A reason that had a very large axe to grind. Setting aside his traveling bag, he figured that he had to be ready for anything. He kept his left hand on his sword's hilt, ready to pull it out at any moment. Waiting around wasn't doing any good, so he took one last look at the ovens behind him and walked forward. Taking a few steps around the hanging carcasses, he came into view of the two men.

His expression changed to a smile, and his hand came off the sword's handle. Christopher wasn't here, so he masked his worry and tried to loosen up.

"Thanks for making it!" he said, his left hand now waving sheepishly at chest level. "Sorry for not knowing what you look like, but... which one of you am I facing again?" He tried to squint to make out the features of the men standing twenty meters away in the dim light, but then suddenly slapped his forehead in disgust. "Oh, how clumsy of me! Let me introduce myself." He bowed and put his right hand over his heart, as if he was addressing royalty. "My name is Christopher Knighton."

[LordLeopold]

Stevens stepped back slightly as Knighton appeared from behind one of the pieces of meat. With his aging vision, the duke could only vaguely make out that the figure was a man, and most likely armed. Unsure of how to respond, he turned to Anthony, whose lips were pursed tightly below his moustache.

"Bloody blazes..." was all he could force through his thin mouth, but it seemed to Stevens that he was slowly backing away, trying to put a slab of meat between himself and the new arrival.

"Don't scoot away too fast, old boy," Stevens said, peeved. "This man just might be our ticket out of here." He turned to Knighton, lowering his blue-black blade but his muscled still tensed. Even after a few years, he could still vividly remember what horrible surprises could be in store if one didn't expect anything during a battle. The duke thought back over what the monks had said to him just before he had wound up here. Had they given any hint of this? No, it had been hard to get them to say anything. He couldn't imagine there being any double meanings in their words.

But he couldn't remember, now, exactly what they had said, and the memories of their faces, their voices, the clothes they had worn were already fading in his mind. Some kind of magic, he thought, Maybe this Knighton is a sorcerer... or has a friend who is. His eyes darted around the maze of carcasses, searching for any possible conspirators waiting behind a flank, sword in hand. Seeing no one else, not even indistinct smudges at the end of his sight, he focused back on Knighton.

"Good afternoon, my good man. Leopold Stevens, at your service. This is my brother, Anthony. We're merely wanderers, passing through the Pagoda on a whim; neither of us is looking for a fight today. What a dismal place, eh? Ha, ha!" He ran his tongue over his teeth, waiting for a reply, or an attack. When none came, he continued: "I say, maybe you know the way out of here?"

[Slayer of the Rot]

"Feh. Rats with wings..." Something cut sharply through the bright afternoon sunlight from the pale hand of Dan Lagh'ratham. A second later, one of the gulls swooping through the air over the end of the last bridge to the city made a quick, crooked spin, and dropped from the air. The slayer watched it long enough to see it tumble bloody and lifeless down into the steep canyon the bridge had been built over, and then immediately lost interest.

Things had not been going well since his defeat at the hands of the chef boy. Despite the shrewd, hawk-like man's influence, he'd been removed from the Pagoda through a quiet and bloodless exchange of well written paper work. Conflict in Raiaera had been minimal since the seige at Eluriand and the battle at Anebrilith. Not only had the Black been keeping him to simple fetch missions, but any new leads on Meredith's location had all but slowed to a desert trickle. He'd come to blame that boy, Christopher Knighton for his bad luck. Within the past month, he'd killed four random chefs, two in Corone, one in Salvar, and one here in Scara Brae itself. The sight of the coat and the hat always turned blood red in his tired gray eyes.

Grunting, the slayer stooped down and scooped a pebble up. The mid day heat was beating down on the back of his black coat, but he was as unflinching as the bloody eyed wand embroidered on his back. Squinting one eye shut, Dan unthinkingly ran his tongue over his sharp teeth, filling his mouth with the taste of blood. It wasn't even a distraction; his index finger snapped smartly across his thumb, and another of the gulls jerked violently and dropped out of the air. This one crashed loudly into one of the trimmed yew hedges that lined the rest of the path to the city.

It wasn't all bad though. Good fortune had stumbled across the slayer recently, in the form of an arms dealer from Salvar. One of the co-founders of The Company, the only clan that had stood with the New World Order in the slaughter of Imperial had contacted him with an interesting job...one his blood thirst could never pass up. The coins weren't yet in his pocket, but they held little importance to him.

No, there was only one thing that would sate him now.

He'd begun to bend over for another pebble when the faint sounds of rapid foot steps happened upon his ears. Eyes widening with glee, Dan looked up, towards the beginning of the bridge, and saw a flash of white. When they focused, they should him a man in his early twenties, brown hair and eyes, in a tattered chef's coat. Instantly, the Saraelian felt his heart swell with joy. With an immense grin, Dan lunged onto the bridge, and lifted one leg up high into the air, the foot hovering over his head for an instant. Then it dropped with the viciousness of an executioner's axe onto the stones of the bridge.

The bridge had been built many, many years ago as a luxury; otherwise one would have a hour and a half hike to find the end of the canyon, only to be put ten miles off the usual trade route the bridge followed. If a man was foolish enough to try and rappel down the canyon wall to climb the other, they'd find a river with a strong and cold unforgiving stream.

The entire structure shook from the slayer's blow as white washes of energy radiated from his foot. The rock buckled and shuddered under the impact, but sagged refusing to give. Spider web cracks crawled across the surrounding stones. Scowling, Dan summoned up a great axe of shining white mythril into his hand. The already massive weapon suddenly surged in size, the head of the blade titanic and heavy. Cocking it over his shoulder, he swung it in an enormous arc, tearing through wooden railing and the fractured stone. The bridge sagged further as clouds of dust and splinters clotted the air, and then with a great groan, escalating to a chaotic roar, the last quarter of the bridge collapsed, tumbling in a great rumbling mess into the canyon beneath. The earth seemed to swallow the broken wood and rock back into itself. Moment's later in that darkness, several muffled splashes sounded silently. Deftly, Dan hopped backwards from the carnage, avoiding the fall.

"You won't be getting to work today, you peice of trash. I'm going to cut your heart out for supper," Dan Lagh'ratham hissed through his jagged grin at Christopher, axe still clutched tightly in hand.

Here as requested by previous three parties.

[Rayse Valentino]

A couple of days ago...

After being redirected by the headquarters of the power group New World Order, Rayse now found himself... here. Where was here? It was in the northern regions of Nirrakal, where the glass begins to thin somewhat and make way to scattered plateaus and a bunch of sandstone formations. At the base of the seventh plateau, a few jags of glass at the entrance of a cave look like broken teeth. This was the alleged lair of Dan Lagh'ratham, and it looked like some sort of terrible beast lived here. Although, given what Rayse had heard about him, maybe it was fitting. Those jags of glass were more like large spikes that protruded over two meters out of the ground, and they really gave the cave the look of a beast's maw. As Rayse got closer, he wondered what kind of creature Dan was to want to live in such heat. It didn't bother The Contractor that much, as fire and heat were like second nature to him.

As he stepped up to the cave's entrance, he already heard the sound of something coming towards him. Rayse put his hand up to his eyes to try to make out the figure in the cave with the sun shining down on him, but then he grinned as he determined the figure at least looked human.

"Dan Lagh'ratham?"

The figure stayed still, as if waiting for whatever else Rayse had to say. Dan had actually just finished hauling in a bunch of stolen crates, so a stranger's intrusion was highly suspect. However, he didn't immediately kill Rayse because he recognized him.

"Ah, you remember me. Good, I didn't feel like introducing myself again."

Some time ago, the organization Dan worked for and The Company had a joint contract, and due to the favorable results Rayse not only gained access to NWO's HQ, but also various parts of their information network. It was what allowed him to find this place. Even though they had good history, Dan was apparently still suspicious of Rayse given the circumstances, which was understandable.

Rayse put his left finger to his temple and tapped it twice, "I'm just wondering, do you know a 'Christopher Knighton'?"

Dan came into the light, his pale complexion looking pretty much impossible in this sun. The name seemed to annoy him, as Rayse expected. He replied very simply, "Why?"

"Well," said Rayse, putting his hand to his chin as though he were contemplating. "I was going to ask you to do a job for me, but considering how badly he beat you last time I'm starting to have second thoughts."

Dan changed very visibly from that comment. He was obviously a man of great pride. His eyes grew sharper, his fists were half-clenched, his breath was deeper and longer. He tried to brush Rayse off, "That little scrag got himself a spot of luck. I only came at him with a third of my full power...and if you don't watch your tone, I'll need that singular third alone to butcher you."

Rayse smiled, putting his hands at his sides and reaching into his pockets. He raised his head upwards as if he was looking down on Dan and then stared right into his eyes. In a taunting voice, he said, "Oh really? I think you're bluffing. I think that little scrag got the best of you and you just can't handle it."

Those words were like the match to a gas can. The man in front of Rayse was no more, and now a roaring beast-like figure charged at The Contractor. Dan had produced a sword, and was looking to run past Rayse with the sword horizontal to the ground, cleaving him in half. As Dan charged through, the sword cut through Rayse's body but it was like cutting through fire, with flames being dispersed from the place that was cut. Dan's ferocious charge didn't stop until he was ten meters behind Rayse, with several of the glass spikes in the path chopped completely through. It looked like the beast's maw needed a dentist. Rayse simply pulled one of his mini-molotovs out of his pocket, already lit, and tossed it behind him. It exploded, sending sand and glass shards flying in all directions.

He turned around, staring into the smoke caused by the blast, still grinning. It wasn't that easy to take down Dan Lagh'ratham. From the smoke a blurred figure ran out with an enormous great axe in hand, as if he wanted to for sure hit Rayse this time. The Contractor used one of the newly-created glass stubs to jump in the air as Dan swung his axe, putting him several meters above The Slayer. Rayse reached into his pockets and picked out six molotovs this time, lighting them all simultaneously between his fingers. He threw the molotovs down, causing a much greater series of explosions and almost causing a fog of smoke to engulf the cave's entrance. He was somewhat curious what had happened to Dan this time as he stared down into the blast zone, but then the next thing he knew, Dan was floating in mid-air behind him, sporting big red leathery wings.

Dan's grin was almost too wide for his head as he chuckled, "Was that supposed to hurt?"

Rayse turned around right as he started falling, revealing yet another mini-molotov. "Maybe," he said, before the molotov exploded and shrouded the two in black smoke that spread throughout the air and then dissipated into the sky. As the two men landed several meters apart with smoke trailing from their bodies, Rayse conceded, "I guess the punk did get lucky after all."

* * * * * *

That brought Rayse to where he was now, staring incredulously at his alleged opponent. He didn't think that this Leopold guy would turn chickenshit this quickly. How was he supposed to throw the fight if the other guy didn't even want to try? It was why he knew Dan Lagh'ratham would go along with this plan. He wasn't trying to beat Leopold Stevens, he was trying to lose. Dan would ruin Christopher's face, while Rayse would ruin his reputation. If Leopold won here and the chef somewhat managed to get away from Dan, he would still be in such a condition that nobody would believe that the old man hadn't thrashed him. Although, the best case scenario would be that Dan simply killed him for revenge as he was planning to, making Rayse's plan work without flaw. Well, it would be without flaw if Leopold was more cooperative.

After the initial shock of Leopold's words, Rayse pulled himself together for the latest query. Taking two of his throwing knives out of his pocket, Rayse walked toward the two men and addressed them, "Come now, sir. We both know what you're after here, so how about having a little bit of sport? We'll have some fun, and then we can go laugh about it over a nice drink." With a knife in each hand, he aimed and said, "Decide quickly now, whichever one of you is going to fight me! The only way out of this room is through me!"

With that, he threw the knives, both aimed at Stevens, and continued walking towards the two men. While it didn't seem likely at this point, there was still the possibility that one of the men there was the former king of Salvar. Someone like that would definitely not be one to take lightly. He put his left hand back on the handle of his sword, his thumb pushing the blade slightly out of the sheath, ready to draw it at any moment.

[Christoph]

Chris never saw it coming. One moment, the chef was blindly jogging across the bridge, hectically trying to reach the Pagoda. The next, he the bridge gave out beneath his feet, and the unfortunately Pagoda Warrior lost his footing and tumbled off the collapsing bridge and into the muddy, violated water.

He struggled desperately against the churning, debris-strewn river. Chunks of floating wood and falling rock bombarded him, knocking his body about like a child’s toy as the rest of the bridge crumbled. He fought the current helplessly, weighed down by his sword and gauntlets. Finally, he dug into the rocky riverbank, clinging on with the clawed fingers of his gauntlets. With an exerted effort, he dragged himself from the raging maelstrom of mud and rubble, and climbed, gasping, onto the grass… and to the feet of a demon. Dan Lagh'ratham. Shiiiit…

Christopher Knighton would recognize that demon’s face anywhere. He hadn’t expected to see the former Hierarch again so soon. This was something of a setback. Oddly though, Chris felt none of the fear he remembered from their first encounter, even though he now lacked the luxury of being safe from death and permanent harm. Even the shock of the surprise encounter bounced off the chef’s psyche like pebbles off a brick wall. After all, he knew that this day would come. The fatalistic nature of the situation provided tranquility and acceptance, and with it, courage.

The chef had faced death so many times that it rarely frightened him anymore. He had risked destruction and dismemberment at the hands of the vilest creatures imaginable. He had stared into the eyes of a real demon, Zerubeal, that had invaded his mind, and beat it back and trapped it with nothing more than his will. How frightening was the demon standing before him compared to the demon he saw every time he closed his eyes? Christopher scrambled to his feet in an instant, brushing the wet hair away from his fiery eyes and smiling widely. If this bastard was going to make the chef late, he intended to make the bastard pay for every minute.

“Ah, Daniel, it’s great to see you again,” he condescended. “You must have come for some private lessons.”

With a scarcely readable flick of his armored wrist, the Pagoda Warrior unleashed a fiery attack, its suddenness surpassed only by its sheer power and brutality. Magical energies surged through Christopher’s Prevalida gauntlets. In the blink of an eye, a torso-sized, devastatingly explosive sphere of blue fire sprang from his open palm. It flashed with the blinding light of a second sun and churned up a gust of dirt and sand once it detonated.

Without waiting, the chef drew his sword. The burning runes sang, thirsting for blood. Already, his mind worked like the gears of a machine as he quickly gained his bearings in the unexpected situation. Mumbled arcane formulae spilled from his lips as the winds of magic surrounding him swirled around his potent aura, bent to his implacable will. Even the gulls fled, their animal instincts telling them what was about to take place between the two warriors.

[LordLeopold]

Stevens stumbled back as something knocked against both his thighs. Nearly toppling to the floor, he looked down at his legs to see what unseen thing had slapped them. Feeling his left leg with his spare hand, he felt a spreading wetness that was greater than the sweat beading on his palm. His pants were torn, as if he had been struck by a snake, and his skin was cut underneath, although not badly. Touching the other painful spot on his right, he couldn't feel any blood: There was no cut, only an already hardening bruise. Down beside his foot, a throwing knife bounced on the concrete and lay still, the tip of the blade snapped off.

"Quick, Tony, hide behind something!" the duke cried, darting behind the remains of a steer. Looking to the next row of meat, he saw Anthony already firmly lodged behind a flank, chewing his lip. Looking back down at the knife, Stevens reached out his sword and with a flick of the blade slid the weapon to his brother's feet. "Here, take that." Anthony stooped rigidly and picked up the knife, finding the right balance for it in his hand.

After collecting himself for a few seconds, Stevens peeked around a cloven joint down the meatlocker at the approaching enemy. Knighton was merely a blur at the end of an increasingly indistinct hall of frozen beef. The duke ducked back behind the meat, snorting in frustration. "Tony," he whispered, and his brother looked up from the knife. "Could you look out there and tell me what that man's doing?" Anthony scrunched up his mouth and furrowed his brow, folding his face into a contortion of confusion.

"What? Stop buggering around, you just did," he snapped, incredulous. Stevens lightly sighed, his face reddening, and half-frowned apologetically.

"Please, I couldn't get a good look at him." Anthony's face remained folded in frustrated surprise. Stevens shrugged, not wanting to explain, and his brother groaned.

"What, you're shortsighted now?" He said. Stevens didn't respond, instead looking down at the tip of his sword. His brother's face smoothed over with recognition, but he seemed no less frustrated or angry. "My God, that is it! Christ, Leo, how long has this been going on?" Giving his brother a hunted look, Stevens began to shrug again and caught himself, straightening his back but feeling no less sheepish.

"Oh, several months," he said, trying not to say the sentence like a question. Anthony slapped the heel of his fist against the frozen meat, but didn't say anything. Stevens stared out into space, feeling embarrassed at being caught in trying to hide the symptoms of age, but feeling even worse that he had any to hide in the first place.

"You blind bastard," Anthony muttered, gripping the knife in his hand more tightly. "Alright," he said, and Stevens focused his eyes back on his brother. Screwing his shoulders straight and shaking his head slightly as if dislodging cobwebs from his hair, the younger Stevens leaned out, peering around the edge of the meat for a fraction of a second before whipping his head back, fearful of more throwing knives. Breathing heavily, he smiled and turned to his brother. "He's just walking this way." The duke digested this information, nodding slowly to himself.

"Well, old boy," the duke said after imaging the layout of the meat locker in his head. "This fellow intends to fight at least one of us, I'm afraid. But we may yet get out of this without a fight. If we go out a few rows..."

"Wait just a minute," Anthony cut in, waving his hand as if cutting Stevens's words in half in mid-air. "When did you become our chief strategist? Didn't you get us in this situation?" Stevens, taken aback, needed a few breaths to recover.

"Well, Tony," he replied in as even a voice as he could manage, "I just have more experience with this kind of thing, eh what? And after all, I am the older broth..."

"Now hold on!" Anthony exclaimed, nearly leaping into the open space between their meat shields and chopping his free hand up and down wildly. "What is this, afternoon cricket on the back lawn? That might have worked when I was about twelve, but let's be reasonable!"

"Alright, alright!" Stevens replied in a husky whisper, worried Knighton would hear them arguing and figure one or the other of them to be better targets. "I'm sorry Tony, but I do have more experience with this than you. Agreed?" Anthony rolled his eyes and raised his hand in a sort of resignation, and Stevens nodded. "Agreed. Alright old crumb, what I think we should do is run out a few rows, then move down the aisles until we're even with this chap, then move in from either side. Half these warriors are amateurs or cowards. Hopefully he's one or the other. Or both." Anthony reluctantly nodded, then glanced down at his brother's jagged pants leg. Stevens looked down at it, the blood on his skin visible through the cut. "It's nothing, it's nothing," he said, waving the unspoken question away. "Now on my lead. Mum's the word and quick's the action."

With that, the duke spun around and trotted four rows of meat over, about twenty five feet. Stopping to make sure Anthony was following suit, he saw his brother rushing in the opposite direction and then turn at ninety degrees, running toward the ovens on the far wall. The duke paralleled his path, half-running in Knighton's direction. He was limping; his assurances to his brother hadn't been entirely truthful, but despite his bravado he had been obviously worried, and there was already enough stress in a battle as it was. The duke's shoulders already felt stiff, and he was breathing a little more heavily than he remembered from his last battle in the Citadel. He was sure this opponent had at least twenty years on him. Another reason I don't like doing this, anymore...

Before he realized, he found himself even with Knighton, and skidded to a stop in the same row as the warrior. Without checking to see if Anthony had appeared, four rows to the other side of Knighton, he called out "Hullo! You! Raise your sword!"

[Slayer of the Rot]

"Come on. Don't make this boring for me. Get out of the god damned water." Gravel crackled and crunched under the slayer's feet as he lazily followed Christopher down the river, following his lackluster progress through the water with cold gray eyes. The enormous axe had vanished, having already well lived its current usefulness, replaced with a little slip of white paper. A mound of fresh tobacco appeared in the middle of the slip's fold, and Dan quickly rolled it, wetting the paper with a quick flick of his tongue past his monstrous teeth.

"Come on, come on! It's a fucking river! For someone that defeated the Red Beast, you're doing a pitiful fucking job against some fast running water!" Clamping the cigarette firmly between his teeth, Dan lit it with a flick of a summoned match, and then immediately called his gun to his hand.

"Slow! Your efforts are shit. This is boring!" The revolver cracked and bucked in his hand as it spewed fire. The bullets slapped loudly around the floundering chef, who finally seemed to find his strength as he grabbed hold of the embankment, spitting and gasping as he pulled himself ashore, right at the slayer's toes. Smirking, Dan dismissed the gun and took a deep drag off his rolled cigarette, staring down at the drenched Christopher.

"Well, well, well, found your balls, huh? Fuck, I would have been pissed if you would have just drowned. After all, I gotta thank you properly. You shooting me in the head finally woke me up." Despite having taken a shocking and cold dip in the river, the chef found the energy to instantly become annoying. His snide little jab came with a sudden surge of heat and light, and instantly, Dan vanished and reappeared right at his side as the sizable azure fireball burst from his gauntleted hand and exploded with incredible fury. Lashes of hot wind whipped the river bank as the arcane power tore apart the ground the slayer had been standing upon a moment before, even managing to brown and wither the grass in the immediate area.

"I'd grown fat and overconfident with my power. It'd been a while since; I'd been killed - well, subdued, I should say. Waking up with the monks at my side suddenly made me realize how hollow my blood lust had become...after I'd torn and burnt and shot my victims, they would come back without a scratch on them. How useless! I'd become a fixture in a child's playground," he hissed angrily as his cigarette smoldered in his teeth. Christopher scrambled to his feet, rising off the charred ground as he drew an impressive new sword, covered with glyphs and other odd symbols. Dan arched his eyebrows, raised his right hand, and with his left, began to roll up his sleeve past his elbow.

The air in the shallow divide suddenly became thick and oppressive, but it wasn't the slayer's doing. Cocking his head, he watched as the chef's lips moved rapidly, the words soft and unfamiliar. "It's about time, you little shit...I was worried you were going to disappoint me." Something suddenly began to crawl and squirm beneath the flesh and muscle of Dan's forearm. Suddenly, the limb twisted violently to the right, and a slick white knob burst from his elbow in a bloody spray. His arm snapped back to normal as he pulled a grotesque sword from his body.

"Now come on...let me taste my first death match in so many long empty years, Knighton!"

[Rayse Valentino]

To Rayse, there were only two certainties in this world: One was that nothing was certain; the other was that the perfect plan would leave no doubts in the planner's mind. Despite their apparently contradictory nature, Rayse followed this mantra up until this day. There were doubts in the young contractor's mind... many looming thoughts of death and destruction. On the surface, he was a doubtless man content in wringing destiny's throat to do his bidding, but underneath all that he was always thinking, always considering all the possibilities. What could go wrong? What could go right? Would he always live with these troubles? He wanted to get away from this life of needing hope, or specifically, needing the perfect plan.

Scratching his head, he blinked incredulously at the new vacant spot the two men occupied, "Eh? Did I... hit him?"

He was too far away to be sure, since the moment the weapons hit, they vanished. From such a distance, his aim was almost abysmal... or so he thought. He may have scared them off.

"False bravado sure seems to have gotten me far..." he mumbled.

If he was to get Stevens to fight him, would he not have to make himself presentable? If strength isn't the way, was it weakness? Always used to playing the tough guy, pretending to be weak was difficult for Rayse. Where would he even start?

Rayse's sword was already drawn as Stevens popped out beside him. He held it low, the tip of it dragging along the ground. His expression had changed to a more destitute one, his chin raised to show superiority to Stevens. He immediately noticed Stevens' movement was off. The knife... it did hit him. Yet, he came here to challenge Rayse. What kind of man was this? It was becoming increasingly apparent that this man...

"Tell me," he started, dropping his act and speaking in a tone of both curiosity and revulsion. "Are..." you the real Leopold Stevens? His mind completely the sentence that his mouth couldn't. This sort of question was meaningless, what did it matter to Rayse whether he was the real deal or not? Why would Rayse even care? Could someone of Leopold's former position be any of use to him? Well, he could know something about... No! This was a plan for money; which would bring him one step closer to his greater goal. After all, he was an impossibly ambitious man. He knew that he wouldn't stop at Radasanth. In any case, Leopold Stevens wouldn't go down this easy. It was proof enough, or at least it should be.

Rayse followed Leopold's command and raised his blade. The only way to settle this was with a test. He had to project weakness. So, he did something sloppy: He reeled his right arm back, and then swung down widely upon Leopold. What Leopold didn't know, however, is this specific Damascus longsword created small explosions with moderate concussive force and light burns on contact. It could do this three times per day.

[Christoph]

Sorry for the wait.

“Heh,” laughed Chris, his lips forming something that resembled both a grin and a sneer. The energies swirling around him poured into his body. Under the power of his arcane charms, his muscles tightened and his skin hardened to supernatural strengths, and the world around him seemed to grow strangely sluggish. “If you try any harder at acting tragically sinister, I won’t be able to keep taking you seriously.”

The chef knew that he should attempt to escape and get to the Pagoda as quickly as possible. His sword burned in his palm, however, willing him to strike. He lacked the chance to worry about the blade retained a malignant influence even after the demon had been expelled from it. Chris could only trust it and his own powers to keep him alive. If Dan expected his supposed vengeance to come easily, then he would be sorely disappointed. If the Saraelian truly did desire a good fight, well, then Chris would beat the disappointment into him before the bout finished.

His attack came suddenly, possessing both calculated finesse and savage brutality. Power surged through his veins and fire flared up from the runes of his sword with every swing. Every strike had behind it the strength of six men and streaked through the air in lightning-quick azure blurs. No sound came from his lips; even his breath was eerily silent. Only a single-minded, bloody determination appeared on his face.

He hoped that the sudden ferocity of the attack would catch the demon-man off-guard. The tactic was astoundingly different than his maneuvers in his first duel against Dan. The last time they’d ‘clashed blades’, their blades barely even clashed at all. The chef relied on wit and desperation to stay alive and deliver the killing blow. He hadn’t been nearly as powerful back then.

His flurry of attacks lasted only a couple of seconds. The chef pivoted, his black shoes sinking a bit into the muddy grass, and lashed out again. He fainted at the last moment, drawing his blade back and spinning around again, driving a gauntleted left fist forward.

The strike was no ordinary punch. Hidden under the potent Prevalida covering his hand was a custom-made force ring. The small, ornate metal band had cost him a small fortune, but it contained enough kinetic force to blast apart a brick wall from five feet away. He could only imagine, as he thrust his fist toward the man-demon’s chest and unleashed the trinket’s formidable power, what damage it would do at point blank range.

[Slayer of the Rot]

A hungry excitement distorted the slayer's features as the chef came at him in earnest. Squeezing the bone blade tightly in his fist, Dan felt the bloody euphoria swell inside of his chest. It was a sensation he had been missing for years; the determination in Christopher's eyes pulled even harder at his mad grin. His wide grey eyes flicked to the dark incoming blade; the motions were notably faster, and he grunted as he brought an arm up to deflect the blow. Without a second's hesitation, the chef brought in another swift stroke, and the slayer hopped backwards and jerked his neck back as the soles of his shoes slipped slightly on the grass, and the glinting tip of the blade missed its meal by centimeters.

'Did the fucker pump himself up with magic?' The thought burned in his mind angrily as he twisted at the waist and brought his own blade up against Christopher's. The bone jerked violently, but did not snap. Growling low in the back of his throat, he stepped forward and aimed a stroke at the chef's neck, but spun his wrist painfully to parry another strike from the fiery sword. The flames licked at him as their smothering heat passed over, tracing streaks of ashes across his arms, and singing his face. With a grunt, Dan lunged away, spinning the bone sword into a new grip.

In a mere moment the blade had swelled to the size of a long spear, and the slayer cocked his arm back and hurled it with ferocious strength. It tore through the air past Christopher's head, and he spat on the ground, cursing under his breath. The chef came rushing at him again, and once more, Dan dodged backwards, his eyes on the sword. He saw the quick jerk of it and reacted with war honed reflexes. If he hadn't retreated once more, he wouldn't have had the room to respond. Twisting hard at the waist, he launched a fist forward with helm splitting speed and power, and connected with the chef's armored fist.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed harder on his arm, and pressed further into the earth beneath him as the blast of concussive force washed over him. He felt his bones creak and shudder as the flesh across his knuckles split in a bloody spray. Finally, Dan rocked backwards, just slightly teetering on his feet, and began roaring with laughter.

"So far in such a short time! Incredible...this means I can already move forward!" Drawing in a deep breath, Dan set a hand above his stomach and suddenly drove his fist into it with brutal force. A dense little dark green packet, held inside the tenebrous depths of his body by slick purple veins collapsed slowly in upon itself. One of the strength leaves he'd purchased at an auction many months ago, and absorbed into his body promptly after, suddenly broke up into peices, spilling their chemicals into his blood stream. The breath that came from the slayer's lungs was laced with odd green light, and when he opened his eyes, the irises had gone white, and the pupils were no larger than the head of a pin. Strange branching veins suddenly swelled up on his temples.

Without bothering to pause for an explanation, the slayer reached around his waist to the sheath strapped to his belt. The curve of prevalida glowed in the sunlight as the kodachi rapidly grew into a larger, heavy sword. The motion brought the weapon up over his head, and he quickly brought it down in an enormous cleave. "Maybe I'll let you go with a few missing limbs, boy!" Laughing voraciously, the slayer pressed into the chef, with two more of the stone crushing blows.