O
nce again, the clear chime of stricken glass resounded through the cool stone of the crimson-lit garden. The excited murmuring of those gathered quickly died down into soft, rustling silence, as a man stepped forward from the mass of bodies. He was tall, elegant, and bore a striking resemblance to the Duke Morose – a son or brother, surely. His eyes scanned the crowd, lips turned in a knowing smile. With a nod, he drew breath and his audience held theirs. “Shall we play a game?”
Collectively, they – those that spoke Vahanic – replied with an amused, “And what game shall we play?”
With a gasp of mock shock, the man shook his head, hands upon his hips and expression now a wide grin. “Why, a sport of sorts!”
“And what sorts have you in mind?”
“Blood and battery, of course!” Here, the audience broke into laughter and applause, murmurs here and there mingled together in general noise that slowly died down as the man raised a hand to still them. “Tonight, blessed by the crimson lights of the Wounded God’s gifts to us, I offer up to you all an exhibition of entertainment.” Polite applause. “Now as with all good things, they come with time.” There was a general nod throughout the crowd that, yes indeed, they agreed with such a statement. “So, as an appetizer might tempt the palate, so too will this bout whet your appetite for what is to come!”
With a grand wave of his arm, seven torches were lit at once by seven servants, filling the courtyard with light and electing a gasp of pleasant surprise from the onlookers. About ten wide strides across, the circular arena was twenty shallow steps down below the natural surface of the earth. There was room enough to manoeuvre, but the space was limited in design to force those who stepped into the ring towards aggressive rather than defensive tactics. Each of the seven gathered combatants stood by their own corresponding torch, but it was where their similarities ended.
The speaker stood at the northernmost end of the arena at the top of the descending steps. Directly in front of him stood a demure, dark, crop-haired woman in dark leathers. She held her curved sword comfortably, easily, and her steady, dark gaze suggested it wasn’t the first time she’d faced others in such a fashion. She was the shortest of the competitors, standing no taller than five feet, but that didn’t seem to trouble her.
To her right quaked a young, scrawny man with bright red hair that rivalled his torch’s flame. He was dressed simply – cheaply – in ill-fitting leathers. In his hands, he gripped his shoddy metal spear so tightly his knuckles trembled white. His pale grey eyes darted about in his sunken sockets, panic and anxiety sloughing off of him in such quantities one could almost smell his fear.
To his right, large enough to obscure his torch’s light completely for those observers positioned opposite him, an impressively built mountain of a man stood hairy, muscled, and fanged. His wrists were bound with heavy looking iron shackles, though they weren’t attached to anything at the moment, and his clawed hands flexed and relaxed in time to his breathing. He wore only a pair of tight-fitting leather trousers and wielded no weapon. Standing at what was, at least, seven feet tall, by far the most physically intimidating of the newer arrivals, his lack of weaponry somehow made him seem all the more dangerous rather than what one might expect of someone unarmed. His eyes, almost black, were fixed upon the woman, who, in turn, stared right back, unintimidated in the least.
Next was another, taller woman who was a sizeable six feet tall. Her entire head was shaved, leaving nothing but skin that had been inked with a snaking, crawling pattern that was not dissimilar to the creep itself. She was clothed in thick, crimson robes, though from the bulk of them, it was suggested there was an armour underneath – most likely metal. She held an iron, spiked mace in one hand and a sturdy shield of the same in her other. Though she too seemed experienced enough, she eyed the nervous man with a very distant echo of her uncertainty – and she seemed to make it a point not to even chance a glance at the towering Lotharro at all.
Directly below where Mathias and Liliana stood, he couldn’t make out the details of the man’s face; his hair, however, was of a chestnut brown, cut long, and tied up near the back of his head to stream down in a waterfall of curls. He was armoured in leathers as well, and he held a dagger in each hand. He stood somewhere between the nervous man and the woman with the shaved head in height, but no one seemed to be paying him much attention at all.
At the next torch, a twitching, grinning man stood at the ready, two slender axes in hand and wearing little more than the cloth rags one might find on any Heap on the streets – only, his clothes were clean and just vaguely reminiscent of the stench of poverty that most associated with such garb. He was slightly balding – from mange, it seemed – and his dark, mousy hair was left in patches about his scabbed skull. In spite of his state of dishevelment, there was something in his pale green – almost yellow – eyes that was decidedly disturbing – and dangerous.
Finally, as Liliana had predicted, the Duke’s man stood by his own torch, leathers and greaves and an odd, impractical looking pair of clawed weapons covering his hands. Dosan’s excitement was clear – and Mathias had no doubt the man was Quacian born and bred. Though Liliana didn’t say anything, her own dark eyes were fixed on Dosan, lips turned in a slight curve of amusement as her gaze took time to flick towards the Lotharro and back.
“Seven,” the speaker began, holding up a hand to quiet the chattering speculation of the audience, “Will dance for you all tonight. If one remains? That lucky winner shall progress to this evening’s main event, which, I assure you, will be absolutely delicious.” Again, there was a brief rise of voice all various levels of excitement, but they quickly died down as the man waited for silence before continuing. “Now, I am certain you are all quite bored of a simple, bloody death match of skill and luck and chance, no?” He grinned wide at the mixed replies. “A game is hardly a game without rules, though, can we not agree?” The general acceptance of his statement presented itself in a wave of nods and shrugs.
The servants who had lit the lights now pulled wide leather straps from around their arms, holding them high enough that most could easily see them.
“Our first rule for this evening is each combatant must wear a blindfold!”
The was a general sense of excitement coupled with laughter at that.
“Our second rule,” he raised another finger, and the servants, who had just finished tying the blindfolds about their respective combatants – save the young woman who had been paired with the Lotharro who still struggled to communicate to the large man what was happening – produced small glass vials filled with a clear liquid. “Is that each of the seven will be completely numb to pain.”
This elicited a far more surprised round of whispers among the party goers.
“And finally,” the man folded his hands behind his back, smile wide and eyes glittering. “A select few of you were given yellow ribbons upon your arrival at this party. When you cast the ribbon into the ring, the combatants will stop their fighting and you may request a single of the seven to be repositioned as you like.”
Amusement swelled, and, rather than whispers, loud hearty questions were asked of neighbours, everyone eager to know who might hold so much sway over the exhibition.
All combatants drank from their vials as they were handed to them – the Lotharro was given a mug of it after several more servants had worked together to wrap several blindfolds around his head – and each took their ready stances as the servants hurried out of the arena. Though there were still those chattering away, most of the audience had quieted enough that the man seemed content.
“Now then,” his voice grew loud and booming. “For the Wounded God!”
All gathered, Mathias and Liliana included, roared back, “For the Wounded God!”
OOC Note: For this fight, please keep Dosan's actions limited to a single action and reaction without definite outcomes, as Mathias will be interferring in the fight.
