The Paths Above the Fetid Waters

[Hailwing Of The Citadel]

(Closed to Artifex)

It was not possible to remain silent on the creaking, haphazardly-strung-up boards spanning the space between these trees. Each step produced some manner of crack, wince or whine from the aging wood. That was alright; Hailwing, of the Citadel, was not a creature of stealth.

He stood out against the backdrop of lush, green leaves and moss, standing on a wooden pathway several meters up the trunk of a thick, heavy tree. Planks of wood jut out from it, surrounding it in a circular walkway, its perimeter framed by the occasional vertical beam - a braided rope, frayed and yellowed by time, drooped in between these beams and surrounded the platform. Hailwing did not imagine it made an effective railing.

There were bridges as well, composed of similar wooden planks and held together by the same fragile cords. These led to other platforms around other trees, for Hailwing stood on but one of many in a large network of interconnected plateaus. He imagined these existed all across the arena, but the trees here also had leathery, thick leaves, the smallest of which as big as his head - the warrior could only see so far.

And below the elevated paths, as far as could be seen, a swamp of green water sat waiting. Though occasionally broken up by soggy-looking mounds and rows of higher ground, there didn't look to be much room for standing. Not comfortably, at least. Every so often, a bubble would form on the surface and pop, releasing steam and an indescribable, pungent odor.

Hailwing, surrounded by a constant cool breeze, figured that the arena would be muggy and heavy to the average fighter. For once, he had a small advantage in the arena, for he felt light and comfortable.

Taking special care with his steps, he moved to the edge of a long bridge which reached twenty meters over to another platform in the distance. He put his hands on the ropes lining the side of it, gave a gentle tug, and stared across in anticipation. The bridge shook in response.

[Artifex Felicis]

“Why.”

The cat’s face wrinkled as he stepped through along the planks of wood. He would have sworn his paws sank into the fetid wood, the slick wetness of humidity doing little alleviate his concerns. A massive paw wiped at his brow, his hair already beginning to frizz up and poof out. He didn’t need to look behind him to see his tails nearly three times their normal volume. It was places like this that sent Leon on vacation to the northern tundra of Salvar.

He cursed as each step stressed him out, the wood bending under his weight and squeaking. The cat could hear the mocking tones in that squeak, the promise it was going to break and damage his already waning desire to participate in this arena. His heavy jacket, with its armored plates and thick fabric, was cooking him alive. Carrying the rest of his armament was even worse. He had to retie the handle grip on his sword twice already since he had been unceremoniously dumped into the arena. Whatever the former grandmaster had done to the monk that brought him to this awful arena, it must has been personal. It was almost worth just getting stabbed to not have to be here anymore, with its dead yellowing trees and the bubbling cesspool below him.

By the time Leon had finally found the man, he was fully drenched in sweat and his face in a perpetual expression of disgust. Battles in the Citadel weren’t supposed to be torturous, long affairs where you wandered around the bunghole of a swamp for hours. At least they could have dumped his opposite number a little closer. He began to shrug off his weaponry, patience at its absolute end. He produced yarn, coiling the near useless spear around one of the lower branches of his tree. For a moment, he debated leaving the sword behind as well, but decided against it. The way he was fluffed up, nobody could take him seriously without something sharp on his person.

He crossed to the edge of the bridge, looking out and over at the man standing there. The cat’s tails swished and he didn’t blink, locking eyes with his opponent. There was a temptation to just cut the rope of the bridge, watch the man fall into the cesspool below him and wait the four or five minutes to drown, but Leon had too too many odd things on Althanas to trust that particular method. This man before him probably has wing-gills, and could fly in contact with water. He had seen weirder.

“Apologies for the wait,” He starts to walk across the bridge closing the distance. Each stepped creaked ominously, but Leon knew that no matter how intimidating a fighter he was, nothing could overpower this first impression of a fluffy cat walking towards the man waiting for him.

[Hailwing Of The Citadel]

Leon presented Hailwing with a new experience, a new type of opponent. As the creature walked into view, standing out in stark contrast to the dreary mud-green palate behind him, the Citadel warrior didn't know what to make of him. Hailwing was not a creature of mirth. In fact, he had no concept of humor or of why Leon's current appearance might amuse others. He was the template of a fighter, a largely personality-free beast of combat who lived, died, and lived again within the Citadel arenas.

Leon's appearance was strikingly unusual - he looked too long for his physique, as if his spine shouldn't possibly be able to hold his torso aloft. White fur burst from his body in all directions like a sort of cleaning implement, doing a fair job of hiding the Nekomata's actual girth. As much as he might have looked silly to come, Leon's current situation was creating a fair bit of confusion for the experienced Hailwing, who was preloaded with a wealth of information on many races and fighting techniques. He couldn't quite figure out what Leon was.

This opponent could attack from anywhere within that bundle of hair, and Hailwing would need to be prepared for that.

"No need," he called. "My title is Hailwing. Let us begin."

Humor wasn't the creature's only shortcoming. Hailwing was also devoid of fear, a virtue which was both a positive and a negative, depending on the situation. He stepped onto the rickety bridge and began to move forward, slowed only by the sudden swaying of the ramshackle platform. Leon was much more suited to battle atop the terrible construction, but Hailwing had no way of knowing it. Still, he did an admirable enough job of moving along without toppling over, his hands gripping the ropes and sliding along to maintain balance.

It was only when he was nearing Leon that Hailwing realized he couldn't remove his hands from the railings, not without severely compromising his balance and the integrity of his placement on the overpass.

[Artifex Felicis]

"Just hurry up."

The cat waited, a bare foot tapping with wet slaps against the rotting ground. a sigh escaped him. The walking fluff couldn't even express his frustration without a comical show. Leon paced, his body turning as his eyes stayed locked on the odd Hailwing. Old scars ached in remembered pain, warning him of the possible things to come. If nothing else, the oppressive hellscape of a battlefield kept the cat awake and ready for what would come. He completed several impatient turns, wanting the strange being before him to just hurry up.

"Fine, take your time. That's fine," Leon's exasperated tone was so much shorter than it normally was, nearly coming out a feline hiss. He turned his back on the creature before him, crossing the small island quickly to the spear he had hung not moments before. The yarn uncoiled in plain view of Hailwing, obviously of a supernatural sort. The spear fell into Leon's paw, the polished wood sliding in his grip before he caught it. Leon couldn't resist twirling the spear that had slain a dragon as he turned back to Hailwing with a much more playful expression. This was more comfortable than trudging through the murky swamp, and still had some promise.

"Catch," The cat nodded, handing a blur as he lightly tossed the spear in the air. The point arced, catching the light as it began to point towards Hailwing. Then there was Leon, three steps closer than he had been a moment ago, the air singing with his brief speed. His body tensed, grabbing the spear as it fell forward and launching it at the creature before him. The point was twisting, aimed low and into Hailwing's abdomen.

Leon's eyes were wide, and his mouth opening into a wide smile. There was always a secondary benefit to fighting within the Citadel. There was hardly ever long term repercussions to the brutal carnage that would ensue.