Round 1: Relt Peltfelter Vs Quentin Boone

[Silence Sei]

You each have two weeks to complete your battle. May the best man win!

[Relt PeltFelter]

Relt gazed into the abyss, and the hippo stared back into her.

She had seen gladiator movies before. They had, in fact, heavily informed her decision to enter this crazy tournament. The displaced San Franciscan had drifted into a reverie, imagining her five-foot-two, mocha-colored frame stripped to the waist and standing atop a hill of slaughtered lizardmen, a defiant ululation howling from her bloodstained lips. It was only a mercy that she hadn't appended "the Destroyer" to her name on the entry form.

So she was familiar with the arena's basic setup; a ring of dusty soil surrounded by high stone walls seperating the action from the spectators. There were plenty of the latter as well, settling into their seats before the bloodsports really got going. A couple of vendors were hawking sweetmeats, whatever the hell those were. Relt was also aware that gladiatorial arenas often had vicious beasts chained up, waiting to tear some poor fucker to pieces, to the delight of the children. Generally, however, the animals were something a bit livelier than the four sluggish hippos chained at each compass point of the ring. The one nearest her eyeballed her lazily.

"Looking good, hoss," Relt smirked, hiding her concern under sarcasm. She was glad that she'd been let in first, having expected some kind of big iron gate or pit of spikes instead of the quite airy little walkway she had been ushered down. It made her feel a bit better to have some time to clamber around the arena, testing the dusty floor with her flip-flopped feet. It seemed pretty straightforward, very Conan. Not for the first time, however, she wondered if there wasn't something she had failed to take into account.

In her brief career on Althanas, Relt had tangled with a legion of parasitic barnacles, mysterious men in black, and demonically reanimated peasants, but she had not actually done a great deal of fighting, much less against real human persons. And now, standing here, in her stained t-shirt and stolen Viking helmet, holding a switchblade as if it were a Crusader's claymore, Relt felt slightly inadequate. This was a place where men built like brick shit-houses carried around swords as long as she was tall (and twice as curvy), a place where magic was done by crazy old wizards and mysteriously alluring sorceresses as opposed to Vegas performers with unsettling goatees and dead-eyed assistants. Relt was all for having fun here, but it had begun to dawn on her that fun may not include being ground into delicious guacamole by a man who is probably, like, half of a dragon. She wasn't even sure she could bring herself to kill a dude, dragon-ness notwithstanding.

What's more, now that she looked, she was beginning to become very suspicious of the battleground. A big wooden platform, square and at least half as big around as the probably hundred-foot diameter of the arena proper, sat with an air of menace in the center. How a square of sodden lumber could contrive to look menacing, the girl had no idea, but somehow it did. A couple of huge sluice pipes stuck out of the high walls, and they stank like an oyster's asshole. Relt stared at them with concern, from a distance. A thin brine was trickling from one of them, leaving a briny trickle on the back of one of the hippos, which could not be described as thin.

She was shaken out of her reverie by the sound of a rendering plant exploding. The nearest hippo's stomach was rumbling. It must have been starving. Ravenous. Hungry, even.

Hungry hungry.

"Well fuck," Relt muttered, trying to remember if it was hippos or rhinos that were the most dangerous animals in Africa. Probably both, she thought morosely. The crowd roared; evidently they knew something she didn't. Relt hoped that it was her opponent entering the ring, and not, for instance, a fuckload of tiny white marbles being released into the center.

[Quentin Boone]

What Quentin really wanted was a cold, fresh ale to take the edge off. He'd not had a real drink since the first night of his week-long journey across the large island of Corone and was now feeling the effects of his abstinence - that bloody do-gooder just had to make him not drink. And so it was with slightly-shaking hands that Quentin placed the steel 'dusters on his fingers while being guided down the narrow but airy, dark corridor that led to the arena. While the breeze was refreshing, it carried the nauseating stench of stale sweat, blood and piss: Clearly not everyone who walked this path was as confident as the tall, muscle-bound mercenary. Rather than being overtaken by the odour, Quentin let his mind focus on the ale he'd be able to drink with the prize money he'd hopefully win from this tournament.

As the light of day consumed him upon exiting the narrow corridor, the masses let loose a raucous collective roar to which Quentin instinctively responded with a confident raising of his hands. His exposed muscles bulged and the blood-lust-driven joy of the crowds sitting high on rows upon rows of stone benches high above the arena swelled, their roar getting even louder. The mercenary was an experienced fighter - having spent the fifteen years of his life he could remember as a hired sword - and had participated in several such arena battles, so appreciated that the populous were mainly interested in being given an entertaining show with superfluous amounts of bloodshed and pain from both parties. Even if bets were in place and personal favourites were chosen, the crowd would be satisfied so long as someone got hurt.

As his eyes adjusted to the light after waiting in the dark, Quentin first noticed the chained hippos, each of the four appearing lazy, one even opening its massive gaping maw in what looked comically like a yawn. They were certainly an interesting, if unorthodox, choice of extra entertainment. After all, their reputation as slow-minded, docile animals only served to belie their viciousness, the mercenary took note of the length and thickness of the chains that bound the beasts - on first impression, the hippos wouldn't be able to escape but had been given considerable leeway. Quentin almost-tentatively walked close to one of the creatures, looked it in the eye and grinned, "Those teeth won't do ya much good 'gainst mah sword."

With a momentary chuckle, he walked on past the hippo and laid eyes on his opponent for the first time. He stopped, brown eyes widening, then roared with laughter. The crowd joined him as it became clear the size difference between each participant was more than significant. "I'm supposta fight YOU?! Girl, I'm going to crush you!"

He shouted the words, further continuing the show wanted by the still-laughing crowd, and intoned them with obvious mirth. Indeed the opponent was a little slip of a thing: obviously young, well over a foot shorter than the mercenary and less than half his weight. Quentin threw his head from side to side to crack the bones in his thick neck. "You'd better give up, little lady. I'll not be goin' easy on ya just 'cause you're a young lass."

And with that warning, accompanied by the hungry, nearly-animalistic cheers of the crowd, Quentin drew his sword, swung it around his body in a figure-eight pattern and pointed it at the young girl. With the anticipation-fuelled adrenaline rush of the upcoming fight, the shaking of Quentin's hand was so reduced that it was unnoticeable now he had the sword in his calloused, experienced grasp. He rubbed his beard with his left hand, clearly thinking for a second. "In fact, if ya don' forfeit, I'll let ya try hittin' me first."

The crowd's laughter accompanied Quentin's own amused chuckle as he took this opportunity to take a closer look at the battleground. Apart from the hippos, the arena was fairly standard - the high rock walls made sure the spectators wouldn't be hurt during the course of the battle, the ill-preserved wooden slats in the centre of the arena might just hold his weight and likely had a considerable drop beneath them, the dusty floor was nicely compacted to give a firm surface and drainage pipes were too high to impale people on. The chuckle turned into a rather nasty smirk as Quentin mused, while waiting for the submission, that the kid before him was probably light enough to throw up there.

[Relt PeltFelter]

There is a certain magic in the air when a person encounters someone who offends them all the way through; from the carefully manicured surface of societal nicety and stiff-upper-lippedness to the firey molten core of reptilian rage, lust, and hunger that throbs in the back of the human brain like an embarrassing grandparent. There is an itchiness of the fist, a subtle calculation of odds, and, rather less often than should be the case, a leap for the throat. It is the polar opposite of love, a distaste so profound as to make the chemicals of attraction run backwards. Like love, it brings people together; unlike love, it usually results in a net decrease in the amount of person left. Fractions are useful to calculate this outcome.

Relt hated this man. A fire of loathing burned behind her eyes, as her fists itched and she fought a bizarre impulse to tear out the man's throat with her bare hands. Everything about him made her guts grit their teeth. Her self-doubt vanished in an instant, burned away by the sheer intensity of her automatic hatred, like mist as the desert sun is rising.

She wanted to punch him in the dick.

"Shut the fuck up, you huge dildo," Relt shouted, approaching him with the circumspect sidle of an experienced schoolyard pugilist, "I don't need your fucking charity. Normally I'd tell you to go pull your pole out and stroke it somewhere else but fuck you, this is fucking happening, so I guess I'll just punch you in the dick,"

The hippo across the way, somewhat behind her opponent, blinked stupidly at her. She half suspected it didn't approve of her language, but she stopped as she saw it yawn and reveal the nastiest, toothiest mouth the girl had ever seen. It was like someone had filled a bear trap with raw hamburger, then decided the only thing missing was a complement of tusks that would make a walrus bristle with pinniped shame. It takes a long time for a hippopotamus to yawn. There's so much mouth to move.

Inexperienced though she was in formal combat, Relt knew an opening when she saw one. She felt a bit stupid about accepting the big lug's free hit offer despite her protestations, but she very much was in favor of hurting him. She eyed him carefully, tiny fist held aloft. Maybe if she caught him a good blow on the face and, like, swung her legs into the back of his legs, she could send him tumbling into the hippo mouth. Would the thing bite down? Probably. That'd be pretty boss. It would look like stepping on a cherry Capri-Sun while wearing golf cleats.

Relt leapt with what she hoped was very little warning, the hollow smacking of her flip-flops ringing out as she ran across the wooden platform in the center. She jumped as she neared the smirking warrior, firing her fist at the broadside of his smug, beardy face.

[Relt PeltFelter]

Unexpectedly, Relt tumbled to the dirt on the other side of the arena. She skidded a few meters, her mouth filling with dry soil. She stood up, sputtering and dazed, and looked around; her opponent had just...disappeared. He hadn't dodged, he wasn't flying above the arena, and he didn't seem to have teleported or anything. A line of footprints led from where he had started (though a big portion of them had been smeared by Relt's emergency landing) to where he had been standing when Relt attacked, but now...nothing. Relt wondered if maybe he had just turned invisible, but then she would have still hit him in the face.

The girl scratched her head. She was alone in an arena with four hungry but sluggish hippos. Hippos were mostly aquatic, so at least she had that going for her. Spitting out the last of her impromptu soil-based breakfast, Relt went and sat on the wooden platform in the center of the arena. She flopped back, staring up at the sky. She could hear the crowd jeering; they'd come for blood, and they had yet to be satisfied. But what could Relt do about it? So she lay back, and started to take a nap until someone came to let her out.

Up in the highest point of the stands was a private box, in which sat two representatives of the tournament organizers. They were currently engaged in an elaborate game of "cough-a-lot-and-look-away-from-each-other".

Finally, one of them spoke. "Well, that was hardly something we could plan for," he murmured.

"You think?" his compatriot spoke, her voice so full of strained sarcasm it was in danger of undergoing spontaneous nuclear fission, "It's not like 'spontaneous opponent existence failure' happens often! I mean he was here, he was about to shove that sword through that little girl's face, and now he's not here. Where is he?!"

"It's okay, we can handle this, right?"

"If by 'handle' you mean 'refund', then no," the sharply-dressed woman retorted, "We can't give all those people their money back, the boss will skin us alive! And then wear the skin. In an erotic context. Frequently. With multiple partners,"

"No no no, we don't give them their money back, nooo-ho-ho. But I mean, we do still have that little...mid-fight enhancement,"

"What good is a mid-fight enhancement without a fight?"

"Well if we sent...give me a second..." the man pulled a pen and sheet of paper from his suit jacket, scribbling excitedly, "...this down to the announcer's booth..." The woman snatched it away from him irritably and read it like a contract. Her expression went from a scowl to a single raised eyebrow of grudging concession that, yes, this could work. Her partner grinned rakishly (or at least, trowelishly) and snatched it back, only to hand it to an anonymous assistant, who quickly scuttled out.


- - -

"Ladies and Gentlemen and Lizard-People!" the announcer shouted. He was feeling somewhat relieved; it had been a frantic twenty minutes since the male combatant had vanished into thin air.

His announcement rattled Relt out of an uneasy doze.

"We have a slight change of line-up tonight!" the announcer continued, "Evidently our Quentin Boone had other duties to attend to!" The audience laughed, as such audiences do when something shaped like a joke is told to them. "Instead, our other competitor, Relt Peltfelter the Destroyer-"

"Oh shit, I guess I did write that part..." Relt murmured, scratching at her sleep-tousled hair.

"-has agreed face a trial by ordeal for her very life!"

"Wait. What?" Relt said, standing up. The hippos had evidently taken her nap as an opportunity to become restless. While she had dozed, a few brave men had come into the arena to beat them with wooden paddles and get them fired up.

"The very arena comes to life with its lust for blood!" the announcer roared, to general applause.

The platform on which Relt had slept shuddered and issued a groan of wood on stone. Relt fell over as the platform began to lift up into the air. The briny smell of the sluices intensified as they began to belch forth some slightly used water, previously held in the rain basin on the roof for entirely too many weeks. Mosquito larvae bobbed about in it like grains of rice.

"The spirit of fighting awakens to test this would-be opponent, who so bravely agreed to face every trial that your humble tournament organizers can throw against her!"

"Whoa. Whoa whoa, wait!" Relt shouted, "The dude just went AWOL, so I win right? I didn't agree to shit!"

The hippos seemed even further invigorated by the cool, stagnant water. It reminded them of a home they only mistily remembered. What's more, they now felt sufficiently energetic (and sufficiently paddle-beaten) to become irritated at the small screamy thing in the middle of what was, by default, hippo territory. They began to inch closer to the platform as it teetered just above the rising water level.

"Oh my god, could this get any worse," Relt muttered, realizing quite acutely how much damage the switchblade in her hand would do to a hippo (re: none whatsoever).

As if on cue, the arena gates slid open. A trio of small sailboats drifted into the arena, firing loud but blank rounds from their cannons. They were crewed by some very well-paid and theatrical goblins, waving their blunt swords at each other in mock anger. One of the boats drifted too close to a hippo, which overturned it with a savage roar and began trying very hard to eat the panicking goblins. The boat caught fire. A hippo bit the edge of her platform with its unbearably long fangs. A drunken spectator tore off his shirt and began trying to climb into the arena.

"Four river beasts from distant, terrible lands! Three gunships, crewed by bloodthirsty goblins! One fighter, stern of heart and strong of arm! Well folks...who do you place your money on?"

Relt stared at the chaos. She carefully removed her sunglasses from her pocket and put them on. "Never," she said, "Never ask if it can get any worse,"

[Silence Sei]

Relt Peltfelter Advances to Round 2! You hungry hungry hungarian, you.