TotF: Erirag the Poet vs Artifex Felicis

[Hysteria]

“Dammit, get it done man!” shouted Jack as he slumped back in his chair.

It had been weeks since his failed attempted at earning a few extra coins, and Jack had spent nearly everything he had deflecting the local law from throwing a noose around his neck and hauling him half way up a tree. The golden haired tiefling pushed himself up out of his chair and tugged on the lapels of his jacket to straighten the lines. This current venture would claw back some of his lost funds until he landed a bigger score. People loved to gamble, and throw in a bit of uncontrolled contraband sales and a knack of manipulating odds and one could make a pretty penny. Jack’s furled face twisted into a broad, toothy grin as he walked to the door and two words slipped from his mouth.

“Show time.”


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“Welcome lovers and fighters to the first annual Tournament of the Fist!” Roared Jack to as he thrust his arms into the air to solid cheer that greeted him.

The crowded that gathered were a mixture of citadel regulars and pro-spectators. Like most shows that occurred at the citadel, it promised more than broken teeth and mercy rules. When one’s opponent would be brought back to life, it allowed one a bit more freedom than would otherwise be granted in polite fighting circles.

Jack twisted on the spot and waved his arm over the small rings that had been set up behind him. Each was a standard boxing ring with thick ropes enclosing a fifteen by fifteen foot ring. Spectators were free to move around the outside of the rings, but only the chosen combatants would be allowed to enter.

“Those of you competing listen for your numbers, I don’t want any of you arses to miss your call. For those spectating, go and bet to your hearts content!”


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Ring 9 was marked with its namesake in single large red number. The ring was the same as the others, fifteen feet long wide with thick ropes surrounding it and a slightly padded floor. The monk in charge of this ring was an old man, marked with a short white beard and a perpetually furled brow. A younger monk shouted for numbers 22 and 74 to take their spots.

The rules had been drummed into everyone that entered, ‘No magic and no fancy weapons’. Knives, swords, shields and the like were carried openly by competitors, although a few seemed to carry theirs under thick cloaks for reasons unknown.

Feel free to add more detail to the spectators, but don't use them to intervene in the fight directly!

[Erirag the Poet]

Twenty Two was a brute, and everyone knew it. There weren’t as many whispers about her size this time, Erirag noticed. The last time she’d been in a tournament, it had been Lornius. She and Otto had been corralled into an arena more primitive than this one and were told to fight for their lives. That wasn’t a problem; Erirag had been fighting for her life from the moment her life formed high in the mountains of Alerar.

The time was the problem. It had been years since she’d fought more than the horrors of Lindequalmë or simple bandits. There was once when at least some of the spectators knew who she was, but she’d gone quiet, and then gone west. She watched the crowd as she moved to the ring, stepping over the ropes with a swish of her grass skirt. The padded mat creaked and shifted under her weight, and with was with a slight bounce of her enormous frame that she strided a few steps to the center.

Now her ambers eyes scanned for movement, barely listening to the rules. They didn’t matter to her anywhere. She’d come with bare fists list mallets, covered in scars and callouses. She’s come without magic, without hope, only a lust for blood that pounded like a drum from the moment she rose from deathly sleep in Raiaera.