Seszil: Dust
Expectation, dust, and buzzing chatter hang in the air as the first tournament is about to begin. Maroe, their wings twitching to and fro as they fidget, rest on hard stone benches cut from the crater’s walls. The last stragglers must force their way in, as it’s elbow-to-elbow in the stands. The Guard Marovet use axe handles and sword pommels to bring the more unruly ones to the ground, as they’re strictly forbidden to kill today unless necessary. Additional guards patrol and hover over the stadium’s rim in case a fighter tries to flee.
Seszil stands behind the seven Over Marovet members in the council’s special box—right above the fighting floor—and takes it all in. Two months later and this vision has come true.
Now it only has to work. At least they’re still interested.
As the Orb rises overhead two heavy gongs echo out into the stadium, silencing all conversation. Two trap doors carved into the ground pop open, disgorging two fighters and a pair of guards for each. The guards, heavily armed and armored, escort the pair to the round arena’s center. One Maroe—Seszil cannot remember her name—freely slithers toward the starting point, grasping a spear in one hand. The other, a smaller, completely anonymous male, is forced along by two guards. They drop him at the starting point, throw a short sword in front of him, and retreat.
When the guards leave the floor and the doors shut, a single gong rings out. The deep note hangs in the air, gently reverberating off the crater walls. Every Maroe is still, and not a wing flutters. Seszil waits with as much anticipation as anyone else, though it knows how this fight will play out: it selected the first event’s roster personally.
Everyone can hear the begging once the gong’s note dies out. The male has thrown himself to the ground, and pleads for his life with every other word. The female cocks her head to one side, adjusts her grip on the spear, and pulls back.
The male screams and tries to block the blow with his hands. The scream dies out along with its owner. Hands impaled on the shaft, the spear’s tip jutting through its head, the new corpse goes limp, and blood begins to pool on the ground. The female simply drops the spear, letting her opponent crumple.
Laugher shatters the air. Most of the audience is pointing at the corpse and shaking their heads in bemusement, Seszil notes, but plenty are disappointed as well.
Welcome to the world of Draeg dining, people of Ohu Mond. You cannot start a banquet with a main course. Appetizers must come first.
The victor glances up at the Over Marovet’s box and bows, spreading her wings and hands. Krazguno returns the gesture on behalf of the entire group.
Guards reappear to escort the victor off the arena floor, while a group of small, unarmed Maroe free the spear from the corpse’s head, toss the remains onto a stretcher, and haul everything back through the trapdoor. A straggler beats its wings and thrashes its tail a bit, covering up the pool of blood with fresh sand. After a few moments of work, the arena has a pristine surface once more.
Seszil ignores the Over Marovet’s narrowed glances, and chooses not to hear their mutterings about competence.
Perhaps this will teach a lesson about pacing themselves as well. One can only hope.
The next few fights are barely elevated from an Ohu Mond street brawl. Pairs of Maroe angrily thrash about with swords, axes, maces, knives, and the odd poleax as they try to dismember their opponents as violently as possible. Unaccustomed to having fighting space, and with no obstacles or civilians in their way, the fighters show no restraint. Blood fountains out, wings get lopped off, and someone inevitably meets Nihil on the other side—both fighters in one case—but it’s all over so fast it doesn’t entertain. Seszil sees boredom in the swaying wings above the Over Marovet box, and even inside it. Krazguno has resorted to tapping his fingers against the stone wall and fixing Seszil with a hard stare.
Seszil looks beyond the scarred senior Maroe toward the arena floor, as two fully armored males rise up out of the trapdoors. Mnarzam and Ivargash dwarf their escorts. Both are rising stars in the Guard Marovet, with a grudge to match, and were among the first to sign up for this tournament.
The Krysar can only trace its jaw with a thin, fragile finger, wishing it could smirk like a Maroe.
The main course is served, everyone. Ah. I do hope you enjoy it.
After their escorts leave, and the lone gong sounds, Mnarzam and Ivargash stand still as statues, their wings not even twitching. Both hold giant swords, and the heavy points rest against the blood-spotted sand on the arena floor. Both are barely breathing as they wait for the smallest opportunity.
They move as one. Twin flashes of steel rise above their heads as they bring the blades around for the first blow. Neither connects, and it is the first step in a heated, lethal dance they have performed many times in Ohu Mond.
The bright orblight precludes any Shade use, and the speed with which Mnarzam and Ivargash move takes Smite off the table. It is only when Ivargash brings his blade down, sinking it into his opponent’s pauldron, that Reave comes into play. Mnarzam thrusts his sword forward and hunter green hex pierces the air. Ivargash jukes, avoiding the thrust, and responds by igniting his own deep blue hex. He counters with his extended blade, grappling Mnarzam’s green with blue.
Blood begins to fleck the sand as the fight continues, hex and steel leaving gashes and punctures in both flesh and armor. Mnarzam manages to get Ivargash backed into the arena wall, and when the trapped Maroe dives and rolls to avoid a particularly particularly strong slash, the hunter green hex annihilates part of the wall. The crowd ripples as spectators dodge the attack, but one unfortunate soul gets in the blade’s way. His upper and lower halves tumble to the arena floor.
Hm. I hadn’t considered that. Rather unfortunate, really.
The weakening screams of the dying Maroe fill the arena. The audience is rapt, Seszil realizes. Every single one is leaning forward, silent in contemplation of the scene before them. Even the spectators near the collateral damage have returned to their seats, ignoring the splashes of blood and gore.
The Krysar had expected cheers and roars, but this is near reverence.
Unexpected, that, and it doesn’t appear we need to worry about crowd safety overmuch.
Steel continues slicing through dust clouds and Maroe flesh as the fight goes on. Mnarzam and Ivargash weaken from blood loss and exertion, while shock begins to work its way into their bones and erode their Will. Mnarzam’s chestplate is torn away. A deep gash runs across his chest, exposing pink muscle and white bone. Ivargash is no better off, as a deep cut to his tail has left him dependent on his wings for movement. He hops and dips across the arena floor, leaving eddies of sand in his wake.
Dozens of other wounds crisscross both fighters’ bodies, and their hex barely projects from their blades. A sense the end is coming has every Maroe leaning forward, maws tightly clamped in anticipation.
Mnarzam starts the endgame when he brings his sword up in a feint, seemingly trying to catch Ivargash under the arm. As Ivargash tries to backpeddle, Mnarzam reverses his grip, amps his Reave attack, and shreds Ivargash’s wing. The wounded Maroe spins in the air, howling with pain.
Mnarzam doesn’t wait a moment. Thrashing his wings and speeding behind his opponent, Mnarzam swings his sword, chest straining to power the heavy steel through the air and Ivargash’s back. The heavily wounded Maroe drops to the ground on his side silently, blood fanning out from the deep cut.
His tail is still. His spine is severed.
Mnarzam circles his longtime opponent, adjusting his grip on his sword while Ivargash prepares to meet his fate. There are no words between them; only a single nod.
Raising the blade above his head for Smite, Mnarzam fully spreads his wings, covering Ivargash in shadow.
It is exactly what the wounded Maroe had hoped for.
Ivargash clenches his fist, and solid black shadow spikes shoot through Mnarzam’s torso, erupting from his armpit. He shudders, losing his grip on his sword. The heavy weapon tumbles forward, thumping to the ground next to Ivargash. Smiling, Ivargash twists the shadow weapon in his opponent, and enjoys the river of dark blood that flows from Mnarzam’s mouth.
Quickly dying, Mnarzam’s wings fold, and the shade Ivargash used to kill his foe disappears. No longer supported by his weaponized shadow, Mnarzam sags to the ground.
Half numb fingers wrap around the sword’s grip, and Ivargash is able to lever himself up on his one good wing to aim the blade at Mnarzam’s neck. Smite isn’t needed for this attack; sheer Maroe strength allows him to strike Mnarzam’s head from his shoulders.
Silence completely rules the arena. Everyone stares at the head of a Maroe who, moments ago, looked to be the victor in this bout. The glassy eyes of the newly dead stare back.
Ivargash glances from the headless remains, to his sword, and to Mnarzam’s head. He slumps back to the ground as adrenaline, Will, and strength itself flow out of him as fast as his blood. There’s enough left for one last action, however, and his chest heaves as he thrusts the bloody sword into the air and shrieks in victory.
The crowd ignites. Hundreds of voices take up the call, ravaging the air with a pitch so high Seszil cannot make out individual voices. It’s the singular sound of ending a life and adding glory to yours. Seszil can feel the sound waves press against its crystals, seep into their small gaps, and bathe every atom of its being with appreciation.
They may not cheer for me, but I gave this to them. I am why they scream like this.
Maroe pound their chest and beat their wings as guards and members of the Healing Marovet rush toward Ivargash. Although he still holds the sword aloft, it wavers in ever growing circles as his life begins to follow the Will, adrenaline, and blood leaving his body. The healers carefully place him on a stretcher, sure to hand the sword to a guard, and quickly hurry Ivargash away.
Just before they make it to the trapdoor, Ivargash pumps his fist into the air and the spectators howl. It’s nearly as overpowering as the first explosion, and Seszil’s crystals buzz against each other thanks to noise and pleasure.
There are so many victory bonfires burning in Ohu Mond that night their glow stretches from one side of the crater’s rim to the other. Seszil stares up at the dark orange glow, and it’s refracted a dozen times inside its crystalline eyes. Standing in the middle of the arena, seeing the pinpricks of light hanging in the sky over it all brings the realization home.
I did something, and it was grand.
Dried pools of blood still dot the sand, and in the darkness they are only deeper shadows. It is a stark contrast to the city, where there are no fights this evening. Drums sound out, bonfires crackle, tankards clank against each other, and Maroe rehash the fight as drinks flow through their systems. Never mind Ivargash died before making it to the hospital; he will live on for generations as the first great tournament victor.
Seszil crouches down, running its hand through the sand, scooping it up and letting it flow through its fingers.
I planted an idea here today, and it has taken root. May it grow over the decades and its fruit save these people.