Dying in the Dark

[Arden]

Years came and went. Lives spent and moments lost. Arden could not remember the last time he had come to the Citadel to simply fight. This time, there were no ulterior motives. There were no grand schemes. There was no revenge to claim or rage to vent.

“I want to spar,” he said to the monk patiently awaiting instructions behind the counter.

That was all the Ai’bron needed. No justification was needed to prepare an arena for two opponents to seek death or glory. They made ancient promises and they kept them.

“Follow me, Arden Janelle,” he replied after writing the swordsman’s name in a ledger.

Arden smiled warmly. The Ai’bron always knew the names of those who sought fame and redemption in its halls. Try as he might, he could never fight here in obscurity. A thousand faces and a thousand names would not succeed in besting their insight.

As they walked across the grand hall he took a moment to prepare himself. At his side, The Fang waited patiently in its scabbard. His yellow tabard and chains trailed after him and his booted feet padded over worn flagstones stones.

“Your opponent awaits,” the monk said as they came to a door.

Arden stopped and glanced over his shoulder. He looked back at his guide, confused. Not once in centuries had they spoken before opening the iron bound doors. He stared, red iris sparkling with inner fire.

“Thank you,” he replied.

The doors cracked open. Chains as thick as tree trunks dragged the iron portcullis that barred the way and through a small tunnel, Arden could see daylight. Through his one good eye he could make nothing out. He stepped forwards into the unknown and turned to ask the monk a question.

“Of course you’re gone…”

Alone again, Arden turned to walk along the corridor. The air stagnated and the sound of a boisterous crowd faded. The candles that floated in the tall reaches of the Citadel’s dome cast a shadow as the swordsman advanced. As he unsheathed his blade a wolf howl erupted from its edge and echoed thunderously out into the unknown.

[redford]

John usually fought in a circular, marble courtyard in broad daylight, but as of late he had gotten the sense that he wouldn't always fight in daylight with no obstacles. To this end, he had been trying to fight in more varied arena styles, to better prepare himself for real fights he'd be in. When the monks had been asking for his arena preference, he'd been saying 'something unexpected'. They had certainly delivered this time.

The room John found himself in was perhaps forty feet by forty feet, with a high ceiling and a large column in the center. It was dimly lit by the torches scattered about the place, and as soon as he entered, he began to hear it. There was a great battle, or at least the sounds of a great battle, coming from somewhere outside the room. Though it had no doors or windows, the clang of steel on steel, and the cries that went with it, were all around as if a great battle raged right on the other side of the walls. John looked around again, and saw shelves set on the edges of the room, as well as around the central square pillar. Upon all of them was the largest collection of weaponry John had ever seen. Knives, spears, maces, swords, and axes sat piled on the shelves of every shape and size imaginable. Suits of armor, hide and steel alike, stood at one edge, along with shields stacked high. John smirked a little as he looked around the room at the many varied weapons that were on the walls.

All of these weapons, and I cannot use any of them.

He'd learned long ago that any weapon in his hands was more or less useless, and any training was fruitless, bearing no increase of skill or speed with blade or shield. The monks seemed to have intended irony today.

A green flash lit the room with an eerie light for a second, and a figure stepped out of it. His opponent. With any luck, he wouldn't be using any of the weapons on the walls either.

John settled into a stable posture, his knees bent and his arms outstretched, his armor sliding up to his shoulders. It was cold as it moved, but soon his arms were metal-clad, and his knuckles bore studs. The time for preparation was over, the time for action was nigh.