Christoph
02-24-07, 02:43 PM
A deafening roar exploded from the Citadel as the crowds cheered with excited anticipation. The audience packed every inch of the surrounding stands, looking down at a rare display of opulence. The massive floor of the arena in the center was nowhere to be found; in its place was an impressive man-made lake. The stadium had been completely flooded with water, filled to just below the lowest row of audience seats. Eight smaller, single level replicas of Corone naval vessels occupied this newly created aquatic amphitheater, arrayed so that two with matching flags floated idle in each corner. The thunder from the horde of spectators was ascending by the banging of gongs, the beating of drums, and bold fanfare of trumpets, calling out for the crowd’s attention. Once the audience quieted slightly, the dark, haunting tones of the flanking and hunting horns came through under the trumpets to create a majestic and triumphant chord. Finally, a great voice boomed from a box at the far end of the arena.
“People of Corone, travelers, and adventurers!” addressed the voice to the audience. It was a deep, male voice that had a hint of the impression that the speaker was used to being listened to, and added dramatic tones for his own sake. Still, the crowds ate it up and answered with an enthusiastic applause. “You have come here to see the greatest spectacle of your lives and you will not be disappointed! For we have assembled the greatest display of warriors and scoundrels to grace our humble arena in some time for your entertainment! Shall I introduce the forces fighting for great riches?” The crowd cheered in agreement.
“Ah, yes! I can see that you are all raring to get this started! I like that!” The booming voice laughed heartily. “Very well then. In the north-eastern corner, we have the scoundrels of Concordia: The Rangers!” A mixed and uncertain reaction followed as spectators tried to decide whether they were supposed to show support or disdain for the team meant to represent the Rangers. The voice was not troubled, though.
“And in the north-western corner, from all parts of the world, we have the men with no loyalties save that of the coin: the merciless band of mercenaries!” About one third of the crowd laughed, another third booed, and the final third cheered. “In the South-western corner, we have our very finest: the great navy of Corone!” A thunderous, and to an extent obligatory, cheer followed.
* * * * *
Christopher stood quietly on the damp wooden deck of one of the boats in the arena. He stared blankly into the distance, rarely blinking, as the music played and the announcer made the introductions. He clenched his teeth in a vain attempt to keep from shaking. His entire appearance was utterly miserable; his face was cut up and dirty, his normally white chef coat was wet, dirty, and covered with bloodstains, and his hair was in a similar state. What in the hell am I doing here? He asked himself this as the announcer finally finished.
“And finally, in the South-Eastern corner, we have the scoundrels from the east! I give you, the pirates of Hooligan’s Cove!” A round of boos directed in Christopher’s general direction followed and he couldn’t help but roll his eyes. How nice. The irritating announcer continued. “Who will prove victorious? Let the battle begin!”
“Oh right, I remember,” said Chris quietly to himself as rowers on his boat slowly began propelling the craft forward. It started when he’d left his home town in Salvar three months prior to take care of some business on behalf of his mother’s tavern. (Striking deals with suppliers, warehouse owners, and shippers) Everything was going fine until he left Scara Brae and arrived in Corone. Soon after enter Radisanth, a girl tried to rob him, resulting in a scuffle in an alley – with knives, swords, and whips, of course.
Apparently, the guards don’t take kindly to that sort of thing. They promptly tried arresting the two of them, but they ran off. He thought it would be safe to return to the city a week later and quietly see to his business before returning home. Unfortunately, fate decided to give the chef a cruel smack in the face that day; one of the guards recognized him and the girl. After trying to run again, Chris did the noble thing and allowed the guards to catch him so the girl could escape. Looking back, he couldn’t understand why he would have done something so stupid. He had hoped that he’d only be thrown in jail for a few days. Unfortunately, given the current civil unrest in Corone, they were significantly harsher; he was to be made an example of. They gave him a choice. He could either spend a full year in prison, or he could take part in an “upcoming event” at the Citadel.
Chris sighed. That was looking like a very poor choice as well. A year in a prison was better than dying! He didn’t want to die here! He calmed himself; he couldn’t panic or else he would most certainly not survive this. True, he’d been in life or death situations before, but those were never self-inflicted and usually involved running away. His favored dueling sword and chef knives had been confiscated. The people in charge of the fight gave him a small throwing spear that he barely knew how to use and a falchion with a weight distribution and shape that was significantly different than his light, balanced dueling blade. He would need to keep his wits to survive.
“People of Corone, travelers, and adventurers!” addressed the voice to the audience. It was a deep, male voice that had a hint of the impression that the speaker was used to being listened to, and added dramatic tones for his own sake. Still, the crowds ate it up and answered with an enthusiastic applause. “You have come here to see the greatest spectacle of your lives and you will not be disappointed! For we have assembled the greatest display of warriors and scoundrels to grace our humble arena in some time for your entertainment! Shall I introduce the forces fighting for great riches?” The crowd cheered in agreement.
“Ah, yes! I can see that you are all raring to get this started! I like that!” The booming voice laughed heartily. “Very well then. In the north-eastern corner, we have the scoundrels of Concordia: The Rangers!” A mixed and uncertain reaction followed as spectators tried to decide whether they were supposed to show support or disdain for the team meant to represent the Rangers. The voice was not troubled, though.
“And in the north-western corner, from all parts of the world, we have the men with no loyalties save that of the coin: the merciless band of mercenaries!” About one third of the crowd laughed, another third booed, and the final third cheered. “In the South-western corner, we have our very finest: the great navy of Corone!” A thunderous, and to an extent obligatory, cheer followed.
* * * * *
Christopher stood quietly on the damp wooden deck of one of the boats in the arena. He stared blankly into the distance, rarely blinking, as the music played and the announcer made the introductions. He clenched his teeth in a vain attempt to keep from shaking. His entire appearance was utterly miserable; his face was cut up and dirty, his normally white chef coat was wet, dirty, and covered with bloodstains, and his hair was in a similar state. What in the hell am I doing here? He asked himself this as the announcer finally finished.
“And finally, in the South-Eastern corner, we have the scoundrels from the east! I give you, the pirates of Hooligan’s Cove!” A round of boos directed in Christopher’s general direction followed and he couldn’t help but roll his eyes. How nice. The irritating announcer continued. “Who will prove victorious? Let the battle begin!”
“Oh right, I remember,” said Chris quietly to himself as rowers on his boat slowly began propelling the craft forward. It started when he’d left his home town in Salvar three months prior to take care of some business on behalf of his mother’s tavern. (Striking deals with suppliers, warehouse owners, and shippers) Everything was going fine until he left Scara Brae and arrived in Corone. Soon after enter Radisanth, a girl tried to rob him, resulting in a scuffle in an alley – with knives, swords, and whips, of course.
Apparently, the guards don’t take kindly to that sort of thing. They promptly tried arresting the two of them, but they ran off. He thought it would be safe to return to the city a week later and quietly see to his business before returning home. Unfortunately, fate decided to give the chef a cruel smack in the face that day; one of the guards recognized him and the girl. After trying to run again, Chris did the noble thing and allowed the guards to catch him so the girl could escape. Looking back, he couldn’t understand why he would have done something so stupid. He had hoped that he’d only be thrown in jail for a few days. Unfortunately, given the current civil unrest in Corone, they were significantly harsher; he was to be made an example of. They gave him a choice. He could either spend a full year in prison, or he could take part in an “upcoming event” at the Citadel.
Chris sighed. That was looking like a very poor choice as well. A year in a prison was better than dying! He didn’t want to die here! He calmed himself; he couldn’t panic or else he would most certainly not survive this. True, he’d been in life or death situations before, but those were never self-inflicted and usually involved running away. His favored dueling sword and chef knives had been confiscated. The people in charge of the fight gave him a small throwing spear that he barely knew how to use and a falchion with a weight distribution and shape that was significantly different than his light, balanced dueling blade. He would need to keep his wits to survive.