Seszil: Lean
Seszil leans against the ravine’s base, feet propped up on a small boulder, as it watches the fight. Two Maroe duel for the lead position in a Guard Marovet squad, and when using Pressure to force each other to the ground with sheer will didn’t work, they resorted to the sword and mace. Each is using Reave, Seszil notes, and it tallies up how much damage the two are doing to the Western Trace Market with the hex extensions coming off their weapons. Food, pottery, rugs, furniture, and clothing all go flying through the air as the umber and burgundy extensions thrash the vendors’ booths.
Both Maroe have carved out a wide berth, and the rest of the market waits for them to finish their battle. Even this removed from the fight, Seszil has an unimpeded view, as after 50 years even the youngest Maroe knows the strange crystal thing on two legs is important whether or not it can kill anyone.
This is the sixth fight today, and the Orb is just now overhead. This will be a busy day, and not the way these poor merchants hoped. Shame.
Seszil glances at the ruined items broken and trampled into the dirt, estimating how much it’s all worth, but stops.
Doesn’t matter now, does it? Paying for it all didn’t change a thing. If anything it encouraged them.
A bone crunches off in the distance, and Seszil focuses back on the fight. Umber’s left arm hangs limp against her side, swaying in the currents her wings generate. She darts back from Burgundy, the larger, mace-wielding Maroe intent on keeping his position. Umber hesitates, brings her sword up into a one-handed guard, and braces herself.
Sixth death today, then. That makes…62 just this cycle. They’re getting more aggressive. That’s quite concerning.
As the mace rises into the air, Burgundy pauses, clearly gathering his strength to finish his opponent. The air ripples around the wounded Umber as the other uses Pressure to keep her pinned in one place.
Ah. Clever, that.
Yet the Pressure isn’t enough to keep Umber completely still. Dropping her sword, she sneaks her hand around, loosens a pouch at the small of her back, and a thick stream of flash dust spills across her cupped palm. The sparkling material trails Umber’s hand as she puts everything into a wide throw. Burgundy’s maw widens just before the dust explodes in a dazzling display of colors. Burgundy and the crowd screech in pain as the flash sears their eyes, but Seszil only leans back to enjoy the fluttering sparks and beautiful contrails of light.
Cleverer still, that one.
With a flick of its tail, Umber blindly beats her wings to gain some altitude. Burgundy’s mace barely misses her, slams to the ground, and detonates against the dirt. Dust fountains into the air, mixing brown soil with the flash dust’s glittering remnants.
Broken arm trailing behind her, the younger Maroe quickly ascends and disappears over the ravine’s top, leaving the victor to shriek and beat the air with his wings.
A good show, and yet hardly worth the cost to everyone else. This needs to change.
Teaching the Maroe advanced construction techniques, how to effectively treat their wounds, and bettering the care of their whelps improved things around the periphery, but Seszil’s intent to change the Maroe’s core identity was constantly frustrated. The fights continued, and with each generation, the Krysar began to realize, they were getting increasingly reckless. Turnover on the Marovets is becoming nearly constant, and work on Ohu Mond’s most important infrastructure is beginning to slow. The situation is only more acute in the outlying cities.
It’s time for something grand. If they can’t—won’t—stop fighting each other, then it needs to be more than just mere violence. It needs a greater purpose attached to it.
Calling the Over Marovet to council takes more effort than in prior years, thanks to the increasing distrust. Now, as each of the seven members enter the domed chamber where two ravines intersect, they stare at each other warily. Each still leaves their weapons behind and drinks of the Archmazan potion to cut off most talents, so any fights will involve only fists and claws. However, as Seszil can attest after fleeing multiple sessions, fists and claws are still effective weapons.
The Krysar stands in the chamber’s center, underneath stalactite carved with symbols and representations of Nihil, the Maroe’s highest god. Behind the carvings, a deep purple liquid called Lmanzolar glows and casts intricate designs across the rough walls. These shadows, all paying homage to the god of death, blanket the seven evenly spaced cutouts where the Marovet members coil during the meeting. Only the glinting of seven pairs of eyes, and the thinnest of hissing breaths, tell Seszil where it should look as it speaks.
“Your graces,” Seszil begins, having settled on the word when it discovered the seven never had a proper title, “I believe the time has come to institute an idea I have been pondering. The violence in the city is beginning to spiral out of control. It is interrupting your basic commerce. It is ruining the livelihood of your citi—”
“It is our way of life, Krysar,” rasps a voice from the center cutout—the senior member’s position. Krazguno, covered in scars, leans out of the dark shadow. “Would you have us make peace like a wingless whelp?”
Seszil bows, arms and hands spread wide. It holds the position for a long moment.
“No, your grace, I would not,” Seszil continues, straightening up. “I would ask you to restrict when and where you fight.” The Krysar hurries on, speaking over the surprised hisses and shouts. “I would ask you to set up a tournament whereby the Maroe of this city may settle their scores away from places of commerce and residence, thereby keeping the populace safe and the city intact. A regular schedule will allow for the city’s Marovets to operate efficiently and perform their duties as needed. I humbly submit this idea for your consideration.”
Silence greets the Krysar as it finishes. For the first time in quite a while, it notices the seven Maroe have all edged out of their cutouts. They are looking at it with more curiosity than hostility, judging by the set of their maws and the twitching of their wings.
“What is a tournament?” asks the Maroe on the far left, Ashkalor, the newest member. “We fight in one, yes?”
“Yes, your grace. A tournament is when Maroe would sign up to fight—even say who they wish to fight—and they do it in a designated area where other Maroe could watch. Usually walls and higher seats protect the audience and give excellent vantage points.”
The Over Marovet members glance at each other. Their wings collectively sway from side to side, fluttering in the shadows.
They’re dithering. Unsure. Time to sweeten the pot.
“Often there are bets placed on the outcome of each fight, your graces, in addition to an admission fee to the arena. The Over Marovet could certainly claim a cut of both to finance its ongoing operation.”
Seven heads snap up, eyes narrowed intently at the Krysar.
“Is ‘is so?” asks Krazguno.
“It is, your grace.” Seszil bows deeply, holding it far longer than necessary. “Also possible is the claiming of greater glory in combat. Strong Maroe such as yourselves would have a huge audience when you claim not only the prize purse, but another victory to bolster your fame.
“I would only suggest having a new Marovet organized for the tournament’s operation, another to maintain the arena, a third to handle the betting, and expanding the Potions Marovet in order to produce more Archmazan to keep the audience from becoming involved. The existing Guard Marovet should be adequate to maintain control of the crowd, in this case, and they may collect weapons at the gates.
“Naturally, this is all conjecture on my part, your graces. I only submit it—humbly—as a proposal for your wise judgment.”
“We understand,” Krazguno says, clenching and unclenching his hand.
Ah. Perhaps I went a bit far in my obsequiousness.
Slithering from their cutouts, the Over Marovet begins debating the proposal in pairs and shifting small groups. As odd, whispered consonants rustle along the wall, circling Seszil and filling the chamber, the quiet debate goes on for some time.
Six Maroe return to their cutouts. Krazguno rests in front of his, drawing himself up to his full height.
“‘e Over Marovet approves your proposal, Krysar,” he says, adopting the deeper intonation when the senior member speaks for the group. “We will explore how to carry out this tournament in a barred session. You will wait in the greeting chamber, should we have need of you.”
Seszil bows deeply again, putting more focus into making it as smooth as possible. When it effortlessly turns on one heel after straightening back up, a quick flash of giddiness runs through its mind.
Practice is paying off.
Two guards flow under the low door Maroe prefer, but before they reach Seszil it is already moving past them, nodding in a familiar manner. It smoothly plants one foot on the other side of the door, ducks down, and swings its body through to the other side in one easy motion. Standing at its full height, Seszil brushes a nonexistent speck of dirt from its shoulder and steps aside as the guards glide out.
When the guards move back to their assigned stations, the Krysar returns to the low opening, crouching down to listen for the familiar sounds of Maroe fists striking Maroe flesh. After a long while, the Krysar pulls back. The sounds never come.
They’re actually considering it. Interesting. There could be something to this tournament idea after all.