Javax
The Shadow
"The Road to Friendship
and death
a lot of death
I'm talking like... alot"
- Fed 2k20
and death
a lot of death
I'm talking like... alot"
- Fed 2k20
Last edited:
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Fantasy The Road to Friendship [Closed]
Javax
The Shadow
A thumb pressed into her left palm, massaging the stinging ache through the makeshift bandages wrapped around her hand. Spears of pain shot through her hand and arm, and she winced every time her thumb brushed too closely to her newest injury. The ripped cloth she'd scavenged from her tunic had already been soaked through with blood, and now it was stiff from the sticky dried fluid. Her healing efforts had proved rather useless; the pain continued and the bleeding seemed to never cease, though it did slow slightly. It wasn't enough to fix the injury, however. She supposed that was why she never pursued the role of a healer.
Roxii tilted her head back and allowed it to rest against the rocky wall of her cell. She still had no idea exactly where she was. The Esararri—known as the Blackshade in the common tongue—seemed to have their hideout in some sort of cave system, from what she could gather. The group of bandit-like cultists had eluded the authorities' grasp for decades. She'd heard tales of them robbing and murdering lone travelers and caravans alike, pillaging and burning down villages, taking in slaves for their own personal amusement... They were not the average gang of bandits that most were familiar with. The Esararri were skilled, intelligent, and harbored a secret weapon that made any mission look like a walk in the park: Xeigin.
Xeigin was a language that the wolf-elf didn't understand in the slightest. She'd never heard of its like before. The Blackshade spoke in it as their common tongue, but it held a sort of power that made even the blind woman shiver with fear and anxiety. It was a smooth, song-like language, similar to that of Elvish, but it had a guttural and gravelly undertone that reminded her of a grindstone. An ancient language naturally imbued with magic, she'd deduced. Its power was beyond her comprehension, shattering even the most complex of spells. And she yearned to learn it.
But they would not teach it to her, understandably so. She tried to understand their conversations, using context clues to understand their meaning and even repeating some of the words herself, but it held no resonance within her. In fact, it felt as though her shadows rebuked the words. There was some sort of dissonance within her, something that prevented her from attaining the true potential of the magical language of Xeigin. It frustrated her, to fail at something that seemed so simple, but she continued to try in hopes that one day it would provide results.
Roxii winced when her thumb got caught on the makeshift bandage. The cloth pulled on the open wound, and the bleeding resumed. She cursed under her breath and ripped off another portion of her dirtied tunic, silently hoping that the wound wouldn't get infected. She began prying the bloodied cloth from her hand, hissing as it peeled the scab away. The cloth was discarded to the side and her fingers prodded lightly at the stub where her ring finger had been just a couple days ago. They severed the finger just below the knuckle—a clean, decisive cut that left nothing protruding from the wound. It was odd how painful the punishment was compared to other injuries she'd sustained; perhaps it had something to do with the abundance of nerves in fingers.
The Lythari woman tightly wrapped the cloth around her hand multiple times, hissing every time increased pressure was put on the wound. She'd disobeyed the Esararri, actively retaliating to prove a point. They sought to take advantage of the wassik-kesir while she was in a tired state after being thrown into another Pit fight, but she'd fought back against them. She even scratched one of them on the cheek after knocking off their mask, which was what warranted the punishment. They'd given up after that, satisfied with the entertainment they were able to glean from the blind slave.
Her uninjured ear swiveled towards approaching footsteps. They echoed off the walls of the cavern, and it was somewhat difficult to pinpoint how far down the "hall" they were, much less discern how many there were. She focused on the footsteps, concentrating on the source and disregarding the echoes. There were two sets—heavy, belonging to two males. They moved with a purpose, and she knew that her cell was their destination. Within moments, they were standing before her cell, unlocking the door with a simple spell: "Oupis," one of them muttered in their unknown language.
Roxii sent out a pulse of shadows, revealing to her the two men. They were large and burly, easily able to overtake her if she proved to put up a fight. They wore leather armor like the others, favoring the lightweight material over any heavy garb. With their skilled expertise in the powerful weapon that was Xeigin and their need to move with ease, the Blackshade felt that they did not need anything offering more protection, not even chain mail. They both wore full-face masks made of an unknown material. She'd initially thought it to be a clay or some sort of metal, but the masks gave off an odd magical essence when prodded with her magic. It wasn't the same feeling she experienced when she toyed with Xeigin, so she concluded that the mysterious material was infused with its own magic. Whatever it was, it didn't allow her shadows to get past, to see their facial features.
One of the Esararri men entered her cell and tossed a pile of clothing in front of her. Leather armor, she realized. "Sok xrittix, ittiri," he snarled. Her brow furrowed, and it wasn't until the man aggressively gestured towards the armor that she understood the command. Roxii scowled at the man but obeyed, strapping the leather armor on her person. She winced every time she strained her left hand. Using the now-disconnected muscles and tendons stung, but it didn't distract her from the fact that grasping things felt unnatural and odd. She felt the phantom finger trying to grasp the armor, but there was nothing there to obey the command.
She wondered if the armor had anything to do with the "special fight" that she'd heard about. There were whispers and mutterings of a special Pit fight, one that she was to participate in. It was possible, but why would they give her armor? They'd never provided her with any sort of protection in previous battles. Perhaps they wished to not lose their Champion? If so, then who was she to go up against? Was her foe to be so formidable that they would dress her in protective armor? Would they care if she perished in the arena? Perhaps not. Not for her life, at least; they would be more upset about losing their entertainment than a skilled, rare hand.
"Sok iv," the Blackshade man commanded. Roxii's face scrunched up at the man's authoritative tone and remained on the ground. A moment of silence passed, and the blind woman could practically feel the seething hatred radiating off the man. He reached out, grabbed the wolf-elf underneath her arm, and angrily yanked her to her feet. "Up!" An inhuman growl came from the Lythari woman, but she didn't retaliate. Her lips were pursed, hard lines creasing her face, as she waited for the man to continue. Despite the mask he wore, she could tell that he was glaring daggers at her. "Behave."
The two men led her through a maze of cavernous tunnels. She never did figure out where the exit was, much less where to start looking. The cavern was an abandoned mining site connected to ancient ruins, that much she knew. There were remains of structured shafts leading throughout the cave, connecting various open spaces. Lamps were used as the source of light within the tunnels, and though they did not use oil anymore, the Esararri used some of their magic to keep the light sources burning indefinitely. There were a few times that she heard the sound of an underground stream, though she couldn't tell if it was the same part of the stream, different parts of the same stream, or different streams altogether. She had no idea where she was, and she suspected she'd never know.
About a half hour had passed before they dropped her off at a room she'd come to familiarize herself with. The Champion's holding room was devoid of other contestants, as usual. The room was small, roughly circular in shape and spanning only about 15 feet in diameter. It was empty save for a wooden bench against the wall furthest from a dark tunnel. The tunnel led to the Pit, she knew. She'd be called to go down the tunnel when they were ready, she'd walk through the iron gate, and then the gate would close behind her, sealing her fate to whatever lay ahead.
The iron door closed and locked behind her, and she moved towards the bench. There was something laying across it, she realized. Upon closer inspection, she realized it was a sword. Simple in design but sturdy. Whatever opponent waited for her in the Pit was not one to be trifled with. The Blackshade almost never provided her with weapons; they enjoyed seeing their snaga struggle and fight for her life. If they were clothing her in armor and giving her a means to defend herself, then that meant that she was expected to fight and fight hard. It was possible this was a show of their strength against an outsider; not just a show of entertainment for the ever-working bandits.
Roxii gripped the sword and weighed it in her hand. It was crafted rather well, though not exactly expert blacksmith quality. It would hold up in a battle, though. She switched the sword to her left hand, trying to get used to the lack of phalanges gripping the hilt. Would she ever get used to the feeling of having a phantom finger? She had to. She got over the phantom flames, the stinging agony from lashes, and the ache of her torn ear. She would get over this. She had to.
The rogue practiced sparring with air to pass the time, switching the sword from left to right, right to left, attempting to acclimate herself with the need for a different grip in each hand. She practiced her footwork, her steps light and airy, as if she were walking on fragile, paper-thin glass. She practiced using her shadows to her advantage, creating distractions with tricks of the eye, enveloping the weapon in the intangible substance for more damage, and masking the sounds of her movements to make her maneuvers silent. She was the Shadow. She would act as such.
And then she heard him: the leader of the Blackshade. "We bring you a very special show tonight..." His voice floated from the dark tunnel, and Roxii took her cue to cease her practice and begin walking down the tunnel towards the arena. She found it somewhat odd that he was speaking in the common tongue; he generally only spoke in Xeigin unless he was speaking to those outside the Esararri. "...I present to you our very own Champion, Dha Feilxyrri!" The gate slid open just before she reached it, and she stepped out into the open. The crowds roared, and she flinched at the raucous clamor. It was louder than usual; there were more people in the audience than previous times...
"Our Champion will be fighting against a single foe this time, but not just any foe. She will be fighting my dear friend's own Champion: The Dragon!" Roxii paused. She was to fight someone other than a prisoner or Blackshade warrior? An outsider? Another Champion, nonetheless! She knew it was odd that there were no other fighters in the Pit; it was normally a battle royale in the arena, though she viewed it as her against them. Who exactly was this "Dragon"? Were they so menacing and capable that the Blackshade felt the duel would be sufficient? Did they feel she could not stand her ground against her opponent without protection and a weapon? Things were starting to make sense, but there were still questions that would not be answered until she met her opponent.
Roxii stood on her end of the Pit, feeling the warmth of the sun peeking through a hole in the cavern's roof. It brushed against her cheek delicately, reminding her of the gentle caress of a mother's touch. It calmed her nerves, and she gripped the sword at her side. She waited patiently for her opponent to make their self known, and poised herself into a defensive stance when she heard their approaching footsteps from the opposite tunnel. They wanted a show? They would get a show.
Roxii tilted her head back and allowed it to rest against the rocky wall of her cell. She still had no idea exactly where she was. The Esararri—known as the Blackshade in the common tongue—seemed to have their hideout in some sort of cave system, from what she could gather. The group of bandit-like cultists had eluded the authorities' grasp for decades. She'd heard tales of them robbing and murdering lone travelers and caravans alike, pillaging and burning down villages, taking in slaves for their own personal amusement... They were not the average gang of bandits that most were familiar with. The Esararri were skilled, intelligent, and harbored a secret weapon that made any mission look like a walk in the park: Xeigin.
Xeigin was a language that the wolf-elf didn't understand in the slightest. She'd never heard of its like before. The Blackshade spoke in it as their common tongue, but it held a sort of power that made even the blind woman shiver with fear and anxiety. It was a smooth, song-like language, similar to that of Elvish, but it had a guttural and gravelly undertone that reminded her of a grindstone. An ancient language naturally imbued with magic, she'd deduced. Its power was beyond her comprehension, shattering even the most complex of spells. And she yearned to learn it.
But they would not teach it to her, understandably so. She tried to understand their conversations, using context clues to understand their meaning and even repeating some of the words herself, but it held no resonance within her. In fact, it felt as though her shadows rebuked the words. There was some sort of dissonance within her, something that prevented her from attaining the true potential of the magical language of Xeigin. It frustrated her, to fail at something that seemed so simple, but she continued to try in hopes that one day it would provide results.
Roxii winced when her thumb got caught on the makeshift bandage. The cloth pulled on the open wound, and the bleeding resumed. She cursed under her breath and ripped off another portion of her dirtied tunic, silently hoping that the wound wouldn't get infected. She began prying the bloodied cloth from her hand, hissing as it peeled the scab away. The cloth was discarded to the side and her fingers prodded lightly at the stub where her ring finger had been just a couple days ago. They severed the finger just below the knuckle—a clean, decisive cut that left nothing protruding from the wound. It was odd how painful the punishment was compared to other injuries she'd sustained; perhaps it had something to do with the abundance of nerves in fingers.
The Lythari woman tightly wrapped the cloth around her hand multiple times, hissing every time increased pressure was put on the wound. She'd disobeyed the Esararri, actively retaliating to prove a point. They sought to take advantage of the wassik-kesir while she was in a tired state after being thrown into another Pit fight, but she'd fought back against them. She even scratched one of them on the cheek after knocking off their mask, which was what warranted the punishment. They'd given up after that, satisfied with the entertainment they were able to glean from the blind slave.
Her uninjured ear swiveled towards approaching footsteps. They echoed off the walls of the cavern, and it was somewhat difficult to pinpoint how far down the "hall" they were, much less discern how many there were. She focused on the footsteps, concentrating on the source and disregarding the echoes. There were two sets—heavy, belonging to two males. They moved with a purpose, and she knew that her cell was their destination. Within moments, they were standing before her cell, unlocking the door with a simple spell: "Oupis," one of them muttered in their unknown language.
Roxii sent out a pulse of shadows, revealing to her the two men. They were large and burly, easily able to overtake her if she proved to put up a fight. They wore leather armor like the others, favoring the lightweight material over any heavy garb. With their skilled expertise in the powerful weapon that was Xeigin and their need to move with ease, the Blackshade felt that they did not need anything offering more protection, not even chain mail. They both wore full-face masks made of an unknown material. She'd initially thought it to be a clay or some sort of metal, but the masks gave off an odd magical essence when prodded with her magic. It wasn't the same feeling she experienced when she toyed with Xeigin, so she concluded that the mysterious material was infused with its own magic. Whatever it was, it didn't allow her shadows to get past, to see their facial features.
One of the Esararri men entered her cell and tossed a pile of clothing in front of her. Leather armor, she realized. "Sok xrittix, ittiri," he snarled. Her brow furrowed, and it wasn't until the man aggressively gestured towards the armor that she understood the command. Roxii scowled at the man but obeyed, strapping the leather armor on her person. She winced every time she strained her left hand. Using the now-disconnected muscles and tendons stung, but it didn't distract her from the fact that grasping things felt unnatural and odd. She felt the phantom finger trying to grasp the armor, but there was nothing there to obey the command.
She wondered if the armor had anything to do with the "special fight" that she'd heard about. There were whispers and mutterings of a special Pit fight, one that she was to participate in. It was possible, but why would they give her armor? They'd never provided her with any sort of protection in previous battles. Perhaps they wished to not lose their Champion? If so, then who was she to go up against? Was her foe to be so formidable that they would dress her in protective armor? Would they care if she perished in the arena? Perhaps not. Not for her life, at least; they would be more upset about losing their entertainment than a skilled, rare hand.
"Sok iv," the Blackshade man commanded. Roxii's face scrunched up at the man's authoritative tone and remained on the ground. A moment of silence passed, and the blind woman could practically feel the seething hatred radiating off the man. He reached out, grabbed the wolf-elf underneath her arm, and angrily yanked her to her feet. "Up!" An inhuman growl came from the Lythari woman, but she didn't retaliate. Her lips were pursed, hard lines creasing her face, as she waited for the man to continue. Despite the mask he wore, she could tell that he was glaring daggers at her. "Behave."
The two men led her through a maze of cavernous tunnels. She never did figure out where the exit was, much less where to start looking. The cavern was an abandoned mining site connected to ancient ruins, that much she knew. There were remains of structured shafts leading throughout the cave, connecting various open spaces. Lamps were used as the source of light within the tunnels, and though they did not use oil anymore, the Esararri used some of their magic to keep the light sources burning indefinitely. There were a few times that she heard the sound of an underground stream, though she couldn't tell if it was the same part of the stream, different parts of the same stream, or different streams altogether. She had no idea where she was, and she suspected she'd never know.
About a half hour had passed before they dropped her off at a room she'd come to familiarize herself with. The Champion's holding room was devoid of other contestants, as usual. The room was small, roughly circular in shape and spanning only about 15 feet in diameter. It was empty save for a wooden bench against the wall furthest from a dark tunnel. The tunnel led to the Pit, she knew. She'd be called to go down the tunnel when they were ready, she'd walk through the iron gate, and then the gate would close behind her, sealing her fate to whatever lay ahead.
The iron door closed and locked behind her, and she moved towards the bench. There was something laying across it, she realized. Upon closer inspection, she realized it was a sword. Simple in design but sturdy. Whatever opponent waited for her in the Pit was not one to be trifled with. The Blackshade almost never provided her with weapons; they enjoyed seeing their snaga struggle and fight for her life. If they were clothing her in armor and giving her a means to defend herself, then that meant that she was expected to fight and fight hard. It was possible this was a show of their strength against an outsider; not just a show of entertainment for the ever-working bandits.
Roxii gripped the sword and weighed it in her hand. It was crafted rather well, though not exactly expert blacksmith quality. It would hold up in a battle, though. She switched the sword to her left hand, trying to get used to the lack of phalanges gripping the hilt. Would she ever get used to the feeling of having a phantom finger? She had to. She got over the phantom flames, the stinging agony from lashes, and the ache of her torn ear. She would get over this. She had to.
The rogue practiced sparring with air to pass the time, switching the sword from left to right, right to left, attempting to acclimate herself with the need for a different grip in each hand. She practiced her footwork, her steps light and airy, as if she were walking on fragile, paper-thin glass. She practiced using her shadows to her advantage, creating distractions with tricks of the eye, enveloping the weapon in the intangible substance for more damage, and masking the sounds of her movements to make her maneuvers silent. She was the Shadow. She would act as such.
And then she heard him: the leader of the Blackshade. "We bring you a very special show tonight..." His voice floated from the dark tunnel, and Roxii took her cue to cease her practice and begin walking down the tunnel towards the arena. She found it somewhat odd that he was speaking in the common tongue; he generally only spoke in Xeigin unless he was speaking to those outside the Esararri. "...I present to you our very own Champion, Dha Feilxyrri!" The gate slid open just before she reached it, and she stepped out into the open. The crowds roared, and she flinched at the raucous clamor. It was louder than usual; there were more people in the audience than previous times...
"Our Champion will be fighting against a single foe this time, but not just any foe. She will be fighting my dear friend's own Champion: The Dragon!" Roxii paused. She was to fight someone other than a prisoner or Blackshade warrior? An outsider? Another Champion, nonetheless! She knew it was odd that there were no other fighters in the Pit; it was normally a battle royale in the arena, though she viewed it as her against them. Who exactly was this "Dragon"? Were they so menacing and capable that the Blackshade felt the duel would be sufficient? Did they feel she could not stand her ground against her opponent without protection and a weapon? Things were starting to make sense, but there were still questions that would not be answered until she met her opponent.
Roxii stood on her end of the Pit, feeling the warmth of the sun peeking through a hole in the cavern's roof. It brushed against her cheek delicately, reminding her of the gentle caress of a mother's touch. It calmed her nerves, and she gripped the sword at her side. She waited patiently for her opponent to make their self known, and poised herself into a defensive stance when she heard their approaching footsteps from the opposite tunnel. They wanted a show? They would get a show.
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Federoff
The legend of Groose
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The Dragon
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Guinevere -
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Javax
The Shadow
Notes: Lythari Elvish Translations:
‣ Udun ➙ Hell
‣ Draedan ➙ Dragon
‣ Haiyadwa ➙ Otherworldly/Ethereal
‣ Barad-nar ➙ Hell Fire/Shadow Fire
Xeigin Translations:
‣ Dha Pyaxir ➙ Leader/Master/God of All
‣ Iryh ➙ Friend
‣ Feilxyrri ➙ Roxii’s Champion title (Similar to Guinevere’s title, “The Dragon”); roughly translates to “ruthless killer/reigning victor”
‣ Surhe’a ➙ Champion
‣ Surhe’ae ➙ Champions
‣ Va’ekid ➙ Dragon
‣ Ritriisi thi tgasie ➙ Retrieve the slaves
The leader—Dha Pyaxir, the Esararri referred to him as—eyed the book DeRosso produced. Though his exact expression was hidden behind the mask he wore, the posture relayed his excitement and skepticism. Tensed shoulders, clenched fists, the strain to not snatch the book from the man’s hands. His restraint kept him planted in place as he pulled his gaze back to the fight below, monitoring the capabilities of his Champion.
“May have?” he finally spoke. “I appreciate your efforts, my iryh, but I need a ‘have’ or ‘not have.’ I do not have time for ‘may have’s.’” He knew many people did not speak to the great Lucius DeRosso with such disrespect, but he was not like “many people.” Dha Pyaxir was far above the peasantry that infected these lands; just as DeRosso was above the mountain of a woman that was the Dragon, he was above the skilled assassin that was his Feilxyrri. They were above the common folk, and they were even above the upper class. They were of a higher tier altogether, and nothing could stop them.
“Do not mistake my words.” His warning was laced with ice colder than any spell could produce. His face was unmoving, save for the occasional twinge of eye movement that came with following the fight that took place below them. Even among the nobility of Oweumont, Lucius was known for his ability to hide his emotions with the same efficiency of a mask. The masks were stupid, ineffective as disguises; they don’t cover the mouth or hide body language. Not much for lying. Those who wanted to lie would do best to master control over their body. Only the best could use the subterfuge of faking body language to their advantage.
As fashion goes… He’s seen stupider?
With a flick of his fingers he forced the pages of the book to flip through like the winds of a stormy day. The page the book stopped on showed a detailed map of the world marked with several lines, circles, symbols, and elegant handwriting that dominated most of the empty space.
“I’ve narrowed down the search for the artifact to the ancient ziggurats of Lourvista.”
Without taking his eyes off the arena below them DeRosso stretched out his arm. With the grace and command of a dancer the man planted a single finger on the island. Surrounding the island were notes and pictures of different architecture, species, and other things of note. Some made mention to an offshoot of humanoids with serpent-like features like scales and lizard eyes.
“My visions only give me partial information.” Just as a dancer masterfully commands his movements across a stage so too did DeRosso’s finger gingerly dance to the Northern half. “From my research I have deduced the architecture to match those reported in the Northern half of the island.”
The cloaked mage slightly turned his head and, for the first time, truly looked at the man beside him.
“The trouble now comes from pinpointing which ziggurat it’s located in and the retrieval of said artifact.”
Dha Pyaxir was silent for some time. He watched the fight down below, but his interest was hardly focused on the long-awaited Battle of Champions. He mulled over DeRosso’s words, opting to hold his tongue this time. He was confident in his abilities to go toe-to-toe with Lucius, but Lucius was also his iryh. Not to mention that he harbored information that he wanted, information that would make him stronger, more powerful.
The Esararri leader flicked his gaze to the contents of the book again, taking in the information presented to him. DeRosso had indeed done what he asked. Months of research had provided them not much to work with, but he would be lying if he said that he would have produced more than what DeRosso conjured in the time allotted.
His gaze flicked back to the Champions and their fight. They were nearly evenly matched, and he’d been convinced that his Surhe’a could destroy his iryh’s own Champion. But now that he was watching them… He’d expected to see one of them fall in the Pit today. He hoped it would be the Dragon, but he harbored no guilt for his own Champion if she were to fall. But as he watched the two women, battling each other as animals do to survive, a new plan began forming in his mind.
She expected something else. Their booming footsteps and hulking mass alluded to a large man or beast. Udun, she almost expected an actual dragon to emerge from the opposite tunnel. The heavy steps and the nickname given to the other Champion made her question her opponent. But she was not expecting a woman to step out into the arena. In fact, it was the last thing she expected.
As a result, she was rather taken aback. Her adversary—The Dragon, they had called her—was much taller and larger than her. She had at least two feet on the wolf-elf, and her biceps were as large around as her head. If her rippling muscles were any indication of her immense strength, the rogue was in for a nasty fight. She had no doubt that this Draedan could easily pick her up with one hand and toss her across the arena. Roxii would have to be careful to not get caught in this woman’s grasp. There was no telling if she’d be able to escape her grip without being seriously injured.
And then there came the gear and weapons on her person. The Dragon was not in the least bit unprepared. She was clad in high quality armor, sturdy enough to withstand a blow yet still allowing the maneuverability to dodge and attack swiftly. The large sword at her side would be a force to be reckoned with, and her shield would be like a brick wall if the Dragon were to use it. All excellent quality by a skilled blacksmith, from what she could tell. Her second-thought leather armor and throw-away sword were nothing compared to this Dragon’s equipment.
But that did not discourage the Lythari. She’d endured more precarious situations, more dangerous opponents. This could prove to be fatal if she weren’t careful, but she was confident in her capabilities to come out on top. She just needed to test the waters. If she could figure out how strong this Draedan actually was and what her weaknesses were, then she could use them against her. Roxii was fast and agile, but she couldn’t underestimate the speed of this gladiator woman; she’d encountered plenty of large foes who were much faster than they looked.
But there was something odd about this outsider Champion. Something… haiyadwa. Roxii had no other way to describe the strange aura that bubbled and radiated from the warrior. It was not the hateful anger or bloodlust that emanated off her in thick waves. Those were bitter and coppery on her tongue, as if blood had already been spilt. No, this aura was light and sharp. It reminded her of the delicate yet harmful rays of the sun, warming the skin and threatening to burn. It was nothing she’d ever encountered before, not even in mages or sorcerers. This was no magic; it was not of this world.
The wolf-elf sent out a powerful pulse of shadows. They spread throughout the arena, reaching out with their fingers of darkness. It created no visible shockwave, but the inhabitants would be able to feel the brush of cold as it passed by. Not only did it create a fresh, long-lasting image in her mind, but it would also allow her to see if her rival had any affinity to magic. Would she be able to feel the magic that whipped past her, or would she be blind to the Lythari’s power? Would she discern the breeze to have come from magic, or dismiss it to be a cavern-borne wind? Roxii paid close attention to the Dragon’s reactions, looking for the faintest hint of acknowledgement.
And then the shadow dancer began moving. Her steps were silent as she rounded the arena, slowly closing the gap between her and her combatant. Her surefootedness intimidated some of her other foes, so she displayed her confidence. Whether it mattered to this monster of a woman mattered none to the wolf-elf. Roxii needed to show that she was a worthy adversary. She wanted this Dragon to show her what she was capable of, with or without the bastard sword.
Roxii struck. It was a simple blow, one that was extremely easy to block or parry. A diagonal slash towards the woman’s right arm, opposite of the sword that hung at her side. She knew it wouldn’t connect if this woman was actually worth the title of “Champion.”
Guinevere leered at the small woman down like a tiger does a piece of meat. Unlike a tiger, however, she did not stalk the cage that was the arena. No, she did not move from her spot. With a large grimace she bared her teeth with an underlying enthusiasm that could unnerve a chimera. There she stood eagerly watching her opponent through the tussles of hair that hung from her head, analyzing every movement the girl made with anticipation. She waited for her opponent to make a move.
Rip and tear. That’s all that ran through her mind. Rip and tear. She felt a breeze enter the cavern. Strange, she thought, Why would there be a breeze in the cavern? The monster of a woman felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up on edge. She exhaled heavily through her nostrils. She had learned this to be a warning for something dangerous to come. She did not know why it happened but she had learned to trust her instincts.
Impatience quickly rose in her. Like a pot overflowing with boiling water so too did this feeling bubble up within her. The movement of her opponent, however, quickly brought that feeling to an end and a new, fresh, wave of violence. The small warrior closed the distance between the two with agile, silent steps. A show of skill, Guinevere deduced. Her gaze never left the face of the other warrior. Guinevere turned and tracked the circling vulture, waiting for the first blow to be struck.
Her attack was shallow. A simple diagonal slash aimed at the right arm of Guinevere. Not meant to be dangerous, simply made to test the waters. To see whether she was shallow like a pond. She had made her second mistake, underestimating the might of the ocean was just as foolish as challenging a dragon. Like a wave retaliating from a ship, she too struck back with the same speed and strength as a wave.
Guinevere met Roxii’s attack with reckless abandon. Like a linebacker she charged forward with her shoulder, turning so Roxii’s blade would strike the front of her arm instead of the more vital back. Despite how low she bent herself, however, instead her elbow made an impact squarely with her face. Just like a bull, she continued her charge for a few paces before stopping and turning around, the violent grin still present on her face. She felt the blood trickle down her arm but she ignored it. The cut was nothing to her, which she noted mentally. She always had a high pain tolerance, but even this was nothing. The iron her opponent's blade was forged from was of sorry quality.
Roxii was startled by the Dragon’s impetuous reaction. She had no time to dodge the elbow, and it felt as though a brick wall hit her. She, however, didn’t allow the woman to run with her. Instead, she buckled her knees and went underneath the hulking mass of a woman. Her back turned towards the raging Champion, Roxii recovered herself. Brute force. This Draedan used her size and weight to her advantage, and it seemed the anger and bloodlust radiating off her fueled her. She wondered if the woman had anything else up her sleeves. Until then, she would use this information to her advantage.
The Lythari popped her jaw and stood, back still turned to the large woman. She waited, standing there with a haunty composure. She could not charge at the beast of a woman; Roxii did not have enough brute force to successfully charge the woman and make a mark. She’d have to let the other take the reins and take advantage of the opportunities that were presented to her.
Guinevere eyed the woman, her back turned to the gladiator. A small grin emerged on her face for a brief moment. A small sign of approval. She expected her charge to end the fight yet the woman still stood. She could respect that.
She did not stay still for long. She charged the woman once again. She closed the distance with the speed of a bull but instead of a tackle, Guinevere instead slowed her charge down enough to instead attempt a sweep at her legs, followed by a downward punch from above.
Continuous pulses revealed every movement of the larger woman, and Roxii saw the disarming action long before it happened. Her knees bent and her body twisted slightly. Then she used the built-up energy to send her into a twisting backflip over the sweeping attack. She landed in a crouched position, but she did not stop. Instead, she used the momentum she’d built up to bounce back up and attempt to attack the woman’s punching arm, slashing at it with the after-thought sword in her grip.
The gladiator pushed forward to meet where Roxii landed. She lunged with her palm forward and grabbed the sword arm of her opponent, taking the cut head on. She squeezed the arm tightly and pulled Roxii closer as she rested up for a devastating headbutt aimed right at the small warrior's forehead. With the strength of a rhino her head impacted with a thunderous pound.
If the blind rogue still had her eyes, then they would’ve widened in shock. Instead, only her brow rose. A split-second decision had her calling upon the shadows to her aid, and the fluid-like darkness formed a thin barrier over her face. She had no time to build upon the defense, but it was enough to keep the headbutt from knocking her out cold. Instead of cracking directly into her skull, the impact collided with her elemental shield and was spread throughout the face of the barrier, absorbing some of the attack.
But it did not stop the strike from affecting the small Lythari. She stumbled backwards, clutching the side of her head. Her mind spun momentarily, and her fingers tickled from the brunt force her shadows endured. Nonetheless, she was grateful that she did not meet the attack head on.
Speed. The woman was large, but it did not detract from her ability to move quickly. This rival Champion was intelligent, and the way the woman maneuvered and carried herself reminded her of an elite soldier. She was able to withstand the crush of a man’s blow all the while able to quickly turn the attack around on her opponent without batting an eye. A formidable opponent indeed. This Dragon was strong and fast, but there was one thing she was missing: Discipline.
It reminded her of someone.
The wolf-elf smirked and wiped away some blood that had spilled from the side of her mouth. “Was that all you could muster?” A distinctly familiar accent could be heard on her tongue, but it would not be entirely distinguishable. “My my, Dragon. I had expected more from someone of your caliber. I feel insulted.” Her uninjured hand moved to clutch at her heart and a mock pout adorned her face.
She blinked. Confusion. The impact of her headbutt reverberated but it felt wrong. Cold, not like blood. The difference in temperature was akin to laying under a shady tree on a hot summer afternoon. The confusion in her mind was only temporary, however, as she reared back like a hammer being readied for another strike. She came to a halt as Roxii began to taunt her for her apparent weakness. The words strung together and the war-consumed mind of Guinevere could barely make out what she said.
“Rip and tear,” she replied in the cold voice of a murderer. As she responded to the small woman’s taunt she lunged forward and with her arms apart with a semi-large opening. Her tackle was more of an aggressive embrace. She was trying to pin the small warrior down in a grapple.
An ear flicked at the larger woman's merciless response. There was no emotion behind the cold words beyond hatred. This Draedan was consumed by bloodlust, and it was apparent that she would allow nothing to stand in her way if she could help it. She was too far gone to taunt and play with. What was her tipping point? the wolf-elf wondered silently. What could possibly push this beast of a woman over the edge? Or was there ever a before?
The pout twisted into the subtlest of smirks as the Dragon charged, and she rushed forward at the same speed whilst simultaneously curling a thin layer of shadows around her blade. Just as the larger woman was closing in on her, her grapple preparing to constrict the young Lythari, Roxii dropped to the ground and slid underneath the other Champion, her small form gliding unperturbed between the giant woman’s legs. A swift flick of the wrist brought the darkness-wrapped blade to the exposed skin of her thigh as she passed, cutting flesh and drawing blood.
She twisted and manipulated her momentum to switch directions. She didn’t pause or rest before advancing upon the back of the woman, sword poised to attack the Dragon again. Her shadows were concentrated upon the gladiator and their immediate surroundings, allowing her increased sensitivity to each movement. Perfect for battling a lone opponent with combat prowess, but she hardly ever used this technique because of the threat outside forces could pose. She deduced that not much else would occur in the ring of the Pit, however.
Guinevere winced briefly from the sharp pain she felt from the quick flick of Roxii’s blade. Her opponent had easily dodged her attack, gliding underneath the towering behemoth of a woman. She felt the fresh wave of adrenaline crash through her system like a ripple through a pond. The smell of iron that emanated from the blood streaming from her arm and leg were palpable to her. The second after her opponent slid under her she stopped her charge and turned to face her before charging again. With two steps she met the rogue in the middle of her own charge.
The wolf-elf prepared to slice at the larger woman’s arm as she approached, but the Dragon’s arm twisted so as to deflect the blade with her vambrace. The dancer of a fighter feinted as Guinevere attempted another grab at the blind woman, using methodical footwork to keep out of reach of the other Champion’s grasp. Roxii attempted another slice at the woman’s exposed skin, this time aimed at the Draedan’s other thigh, but a swing from the gladiator had her backpedalling to avoid injury.
The opposing Champions glowered at each other for a moment before moving again. Roxii and Guinevere were a flurry of attacks, parries, and dodges, showcasing their varying skill sets. Where Roxii used nimble footwork and agility, Guinevere met her with brutality and raw power. It was rare for the two to get a hit on the other; blood spilled on the ground, but not as profusely as the previous battles they’d participated in.
The fighters broke away from each other, gathering their bearings. They’d been fighting for some time now, and it was beginning to take its toll on them. Sweat beaded on their skin, and their chests rose and fell with labored breaths. The Dragon’s fists clenched as she glared down at the rogue with pure hatred, and the Shadow only scowled at her.
And then they were at it again. Roxii met her with a burst of energy, sword twisting and thrusting at multiple angles to try and draw more blood from the mountain of a woman, but Guinevere continued to parry or dodge her attacks. Her thick armor was like an impenetrable wall against the Lythari’s meager blade, but the clash of metals rang in their ears all the same.
And then she saw her opening. A brief window of opportunity as the gladiator woman prepared to strike the wolf-elf with a thunderous blow. Roxii acted as though she was going to attack the woman’s swinging arm before she feinted out of its way. The punch sailed right by her as the rogue spun around and twisted the weapon from a slicing attack to a puncturing one.
The shadows she’d wrapped around the blade was the only thing that allowed the weapon to pierce the woman’s breastplate and sink easily into Guinevere’s skin. The resistance from her armor prevented the blind woman from pushing the blade any further, but the wolf-elf revelled in her victory all the same. Her lips twisted into a triumphant smirk, smelling the coppery tinge of blood that filled the air.
But it was short lived. Her smirk faltered when she realized the Dragon wasn’t going down. In fact, Guinevere wasn’t reacting to the injury at all. Roxii could feel her hateful glare piercing through her, and her teeth were bared at her like a hungry animal. She half-wondered if she looked as menacing when she was bloodlusted and angry.
The pain was washed from her mind as she focused on her opponent. Rip and tear. It ran continuously through her head, and she allowed that single thought to fuel her. The gladiator woman reached down and wrapped her monstrous hands around the wolf-elf’s, helping the smaller female to push the blade further into her gut. Roxii grimaced and attempted to pull her hands free of the woman’s, but it was no use. Guinevere was too strong.
The Draedan lowered her head to Roxii’s height as best she could. “Rip and tear” was all she growled before she moved again. A quick movement had a large hand wrapped around the throat of the blind rogue. Roxii gasped, but it was cut short as her airways were cut off. She clawed feverishly at the woman’s hand, fingernails digging into her skin and drawing blood, but the large woman’s grip didn’t lessen. She instead tried to make her arm falter by slamming her fist into the inside of her elbow, but her blows did nothing to affect Guinevere.
Roxii fought to take in any sort of air, but the other Champion had completely cut off her airways. She could feel herself becoming lightheaded and thinking clearly was becoming difficult. If she didn’t seriously injure or kill this woman quickly, then she’d die of suffocation or from a broken neck, whichever came first.
The wolf-elf opted to use a last resort. She called upon the shadows, and they slithered towards the gladiator woman. They slunk up the woman’s legs and converged upon her open wound, still made available by the weapon sticking out of her flesh. The darkness crept into the injury, and the woman felt an iciness build within her abdomen. A brief look of confusion crossed her features, but she maintained her focus on choking the life from the wolf-elf.
Roxii focused on the thread she connected to that pool of darkness sitting within the woman’s gut. She built upon it, forming as clear of a connection as she could to those shadows, and took the other end of the thread. Past her dizziness, she connected the thread to a realm she had no name for yet. Her consciousness prodded the outskirts of the parallel realm, its coldness so strong that it burned her. But she ignored the pain and built upon the bond, the thread that connected her shadows to that cold realm.
The Lythari scowled at the large woman and used a burst of adrenaline to pull at the woman’s grip. It wasn’t enough to free her, but it allowed her to get enough air to utter one word:
“Barad-nar.”
The dormant shadows within the gladiator woman erupted, taking the form of an icy fire. It simultaneously burned and froze the insides of the Dragon, threatening to kill her from the inside. Guinevere roared, both in pain and anger, but her grip did not loosen on the blind woman. Instead, it tightened, hellbent on cracking the wolf-elf like a twig.
“That’s enough.”
Dha Pyaxir’s voice was calm, but it echoed throughout the Pit with ease. Amplified by his power, the simple command overshadowed the roaring crowds and the audience quieted almost immediately, similar to that of a stream being abruptly stopped. Some sounds trickled by, unable to halt themselves, but soon the arena was overshadowed with a blanket of eerie quiet, save for the growling of the Dragon and the desperate gurgling of the Shadow.
She could feel it churning within her. A pool of ice that threatened to consume her. Still, she held her death grip on the girl.
A single word heralded an implosion of flames that erupted from within the lake of shadows, engulfing her entirely. The shadowy flames burst forth from her, escaping from the multitude of wounds the gladiator had endured. The tendrils reached out like long arms grasping for freedom.
Guinevere let out a guttural battle cry that shook the ground around them, baring her teeth in defiance of the pain. Her grip tightened again. She would snap this warrior in two.
Rip and tear. Just as an owner would brand a bull with hot iron this phrase was branded in her mind by her own master. Her fingers crawled forward and overlapped around each other, tightening the death hold she had on the warrior’s twig of a throat.
She must live. A voice rang through her head. Like a cat her eyes grew larger. Even in her state of wanton destruction she recognized the voice.
Master DeRosso’s instructions. She was told to control her anger and let this girl live. But why should she? She could easily snap this woman in two, despite the ignition of her flesh. She could endure the pain.
Another flash came to her through the fog of war clouding her brain. A woman’s face. Old and frail.
Mother. That’s right. It wasn’t just her that would fall victim to DeRosso’s ire if she disobeyed his orders; it would be her mother as well.
Live. His voice rang through her head again.
Her muscles began to tense even tighter as she fought her own instincts, the rush of adrenaline she had for this fight.
“Live,” she echoed in response. Guinevere’s voice is hushed, barely a whisper. The strain of restraint completely underlined her voice. Her grasp loosened on the elf’s throat. She lowered the warrior to the ground but did not let go completely, instead resting her hands on and over her shoulders.
“Live,” she repeated in the same hushed voice. Her fingers, strained and tensed, almost dug their way into the core of Roxii’s back. Just as when their match had started, Guinevere’s towering height was once again on full display as she stared down at the woman in silence, awaiting the next orders of her master. Her blue eyes slowly began to revert back to normal as the bloodlust subsided, her face softened into one of thoughtfulness.
The rogue had recognized the authoritative tone that was the Esararri leader’s voice, and her shadow fire faltered. She remembered the throb of her injury through the fog of suffocation that clouded her mind, and though she wanted to incinerate this rival Champion from the inside Roxii did not want to find out what other punishment she'd suffer if she disobeyed the simple command. But still, the strangling hold the Dragon had on her resolved her to maintain her burning spell, instead aiming to hurt and maim rather than kill like she'd originally intended.
Roxii almost expected the Draedan to ignore the leader's command and snap her neck, but then her entire demeanor shifted. The wolf-elf's shadows caught the faint fingers of some odd magic at work, and she wondered what could halt the monstrous woman so easily. Perhaps it was a telepathic connection, the other end more than likely connected to her master. Whatever it was, the larger woman seemed lost and confused before her grip loosened on the Lythari. She gulped down a deep breath, enjoying the relatively unhindered flow of air to her lungs, though not without coughing due to the strain and dryness.
The Dragon whispered something that the wolf-elf nearly missed past the throbbing in her skull, the dizziness in her mind, and the ache that racked her body, but she caught the single-word command all the same. Her fingers dug into the hybrid as if fighting to keep her standing and within reach, but there was no more malice in her muscles. It was as if it had all melted away, replaced by a sudden realization. Of what, Roxii wasn't sure, but she was irritated all the same.
The Lythari practically growled and shoved the woman's hands off her before storming off. Even with her anger tensing her muscles, her stomps were silent from the years of learning to be absolutely invisible. It had been some time since those teachings, but they remained with her all the same. Now her air of silence followed her as she returned to the Champion's chambers. Dha Pyaxir did not halt the battle for no reason; he did not want either of them to die because he saw a use for at least one of them.
Guinevere watched as the small warrior trudged back towards the tunnel that she had emerged from, the iron gates now raised once again. The blue tempered gaze followed Roxii until she was out of view, then turned to meet her master’s gaze. Receiving confirmation from the man, communicated with a slight nod, she nodded back before returning her gaze to the tunnel and began to trail behind the other combatant.
As she entered the room, she noticed three men already waiting for her at the iron door. Two of them were of high rank, a part of the leader's personal guard. The third was a healer, and she could already feel his eyes studying her movements, searching for wounds, bruises, broken bones, which side she favored and where she faltered. A skilled healer, he was, for he'd stitched her up after every battle she'd participated in, from simple injuries to more dire ones, though the latter was rare. However, he was never around after she endured a punishment, such as the other day. She wondered if he chose to ignore her during those times.
The guards and the healer led her to a healing chamber some ways down the winding hall. It was more of a room rather than a standard medical bay, but he conducted some of his healings there all the same. The room used to be a crypt of some sort, and sarcophagi and tombs used to fill the room. Caskets, urns, and the like had been disposed of sometime after the Blackshade arrived, clearing the surfaces enough to serve as operation tables and work surfaces. There were multiple rooms like this, each one with only one raised stand in the middle of the room. The stand was just a large slab of rock, probably used for stone sort of sacrificial service. There was a larger, more extravagant room that could serve as a sick bay, resting station, or overflow area, but it was mostly used for storing medicinal herbs and magical trinkets.
Roxii went to the upraised stone and sat upon it. The healer began examining and prodding at her injuries, and she refused the urge to hiss and grimace at the stinging his touch brought. Skilled fingers trailed along her arms, legs, across each rib, feeling for even the slightest fracture of bone. Calculated presses into specific areas, testing for internal bruising and bleeding. He did not bother searching for open wounds; he’d watched the battle, had noted the blunt force the Draedan employed to attack her opponent.
A hiss escaped her when his fingers danced across a fractured rib, and the healer flicked his gaze to the blindfold wrapped around the Lythari’s head. How many times had he stitched together bone within the Surhe’a before him? More times than he could count.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, maintaining his unreadable posture and not allowing his anxiety to surface. He hated repairing bone; it was a meticulous process. Molding the natural building blocks of the body in a way that was comparable to its original state, repairing the nerves and blood vessels and muscles that had been ravaged by its breaking, restoring lost fluids… Not to mention that the more times she broke those bones, the more difficult it became for him to repair them. Every breakage and every healing left the bone weaker, but Dha Pyaxir did not understand the specifics of healing. The healer would be blamed for making his Surhe’a weaker.
But he began working all the same. Xeigin rolled off his tongue like a stream unhindered, the unusual magic working its way through the Lythari and mending her from the inside. His gaze flicked to the woman’s neck. Already the remains of the Va’ekid’s hands could be seen, bright red irritation and deep purple bruising stark against her soft ivory complexion. He could ease the pain and make sure she could breathe unhindered, but there was nothing he could do about the intense bruising. Just by looking at the discoloration, he could tell that it was too deep and intricate to mend, even for him. She would just have to let it heal on its own.
The Dragon did not get the same treatment as her counterpart. As expected, they would see to their own, rather than an outsider. Continuing to walk through the tunnels, she placed a hand over the wound she had sustained from her fight. Already it began to heal on its own. She could not explain why, but she had always healed from wounds quicker than the average person. But still, that did not stop the pain from flaring up at her touch.
When she finally made it to the common room, or this coliseums’ equivalent, she found refuge on a small bench near one of the stone walls. The pain flared again.
Weird, she thought. Her mind flickered back to the sensation of burning shadows from the fight. It was a strange sensation, one that she had not felt before. It was as if a fountain of burning cold had engulfed her core.
A low buzz filled the gladiators ears and a faint white light flickered into existences behind her.
“Master.”
She did not turn to greet the projection of the man she called Master.
“You did not kill her?” The voice was light, non-existent. She did not hear the words with her ears, but rather, with her mind.
“As you ordered.” She spoke into the dark room, her lonely words echoing off the rocks that made the cavern.
“Well done, my gladiator.”
His lips curled into the faintest of smiles, the light shifting with his movement.
“You remember what comes next?”
“I do.”
“Good.”
Just as quick as the light appeared, it was snuffed out. And once again Guinevere was alone in the darkness.
Some time had passed by the time the Esararri healer had finished tending to the injuries of the wolf-elf. There was nothing he could do about the bruising, but he’d mended the few lacerations she’d sustained, the broken bones and the internal bleeding. When he’d finished, the same guards from before led her and the healer to the common area where the other Champion was biding her time.
One of the guards pointed at a bench near Guinevere. “Sit,” he barked at the blind woman. She only glowered at him as she stepped towards the bench and sat down.
The healer peered at the larger woman with a probing gaze. “Do you require my services?”
Guinevere listened intently to the footsteps that echoed down the rock hallway. The sound would grow louder until, eventually, the source would be revealed as the person she fought before, along with the physician that accompanied the girl out of the room. The gladiator chose to remain silent as the guard barked his orders at the girl. Was she a slave like her?
She raised her head to meet with the gaze of the physician.
“No.”
Her reply was short and devoid of emotion. No edge nor softness to it. An automatic response that she had grown accustomed to repeating when prompted that question. Guinevere didn’t understand why, but what was for certain was that she never required any medical treatment after her fights. Almost as if the wounds closed themselves.
The healer stared at the Dragon a few moments longer, his eyes lingering on the gaping hole in her armor, before grunting and waving his hand dismissively. If she refused his services, then he would not provide them; it wasn’t his problem. “Dha Pyaxir will call for you shortly.” And with that, the healer turned and left the room, leaving the Champions alone. Well, not counting the guards that stood at the entrances, blocking their escape.
After Dha Pyaxir had called the Battle of Champions to a halt, he’d led DeRosso to his study. The walk there was silent, the maze of tunnels filled only with their soft steps as guards flanked them on either side, front and back. Though the amalgamation of twists and turns would’ve confused any other guest, the Esararri leader knew that something as simple as a labyrinth of tunnels would not confuse DeRosso.
After a few minutes, 10 or so, Dha Pyaxir led the man to a large, roughly circular room spanning approximately 30 feet in diameter. The original stonework of the room had been reworked and carved to achieve a more aesthetic appearance rather than looking like the result of a mining explosion—which, funnily enough, was the cause and origin of the room. Curved bookshelves made of walnut sat in regular intervals around the perimeter of the study, each one filled to the brim with tomes, maps, schematics, trinkets, and items that the man had deemed important enough to keep.
Between each bookshelf sat a pedestal of carved black marble, six in total. Atop each sat an object, but it was not obvious what the objects were at first glance. They were roughly similar in size, but their shapes differed slightly from each one, some more sharp and some more round. One commonality between the objects, however, was that they seemed to give off a sinister magical energy, one that felt as if a weight had been placed on their shoulders the moment they entered the room. And yet, only five objects occupied those pedestals; the sixth was vacant.
On the other side of the room, furthest from the entrance, sat a large walnut desk. Papers and tomes were strewn across its surface, but not in the sense that it could be considered messy. A few trinkets sat on the desk as well, along with a candle that was already burning, a bright white flame flickering and dancing at the wick. Yet the wax did not melt nor run. On the wall behind the desk was a long wooden plaque, resembling the shape of a cross or an elongated, asymmetric four-pointed star. A display, it seemed, as it had brackets for something to hang, but the plaque held nothing.
And the focal point of the entire study was the carved masterpiece in the middle of the room. An upraised slab of stone had been brought in, ten feet long, eight feet deep, and approximately three and a half feet tall at its lowest point. The surface of the slab had been expertly carved to depict a map of Thiyalia and its surrounding islands, such as the Midalem Isles and Lourvista. The map was detailed enough to show the changes in elevation as one left the shore and worked their way inland, to show the drastic drop of Wyntague Cliffs, the rising mountains of Scarlet Heights, and much more. It even depicted the Great Tree of Brasvyn in Arynidra, taller and larger than the trees of Penegus Woods surrounding it. The towns and cities across Thiyalia were shown as well, small houses and crafted castles settled in their rightful locations.
Dha Pyaxir rounded the map slowly, his eyes trailing the outline of the land that he’d come to call home. His gaze lingered on the outcropping of land that jutted out above Fylithas, the shoreline where the Blackshade hideout was located, where Dha Pyaxir, DeRosso, the Esararri and their Champions all were at this very moment.
His eyes slid to the other side of the map, where the island of Lourvista sat. Where his iryh claimed the last artifact was located. As he approached the stone representation of the island, the Esararri leader allowed his fingers to trail across it until it rested at the northern end. His gaze flicked back towards the Blackshade hideout and again back to Lourvista.
“I am afraid that that is a trek I am not willing to make at the moment,” Dha Pyaxir spoke, continuing their conversation as if the long pause had never occurred. “But perhaps I do not need to make the journey myself.”
So, he had not imagined it. The sinister aura around those objects. He could feel it, even through his projections. Whatever this man’s goals were, it was clear that they would not end well. Unfortunate as it might be to help scum such as this man and his organization, it was a necessary evil. One that he could eliminate later, anyway. And just like a puppeteer he felt the strings of fate twist and twine around his fingertips. Each piece he had set on the board was moving just as he had predicted.
“I trust that this match has proven my gladiator’s capabilities, as it did with yours.”
From across the slab DeRosso’s eyes locked with I'keas.
“A joint-venture may be in order.”
His words hung in the air like an unanswered question; the possibility simmered like a stew to the point of perfection.
“This is a golden opportunity to avert unwanted attention. Send your slave, I’ll send mine.”
I’keas allowed the man’s proposal to settle in the air between them. He’d already been thinking of the possibility of sending the Surhe’ae in search of the last artifact, yet he was not certain how pleased Lucius would be with allowing the Dragon to galavant off across the land in search of a dangerous relic in acquaintance with his own slave. But now that the words had been spoken, the confirmation that DeRosso would aid him in finding the last piece, Dha Pyaxir felt as though he were winning. It was only a matter of time before everything fell into place.
But there was one last thing.
“You are confident that your Va’ekid’s loyalties lie with you?”
“Without question.”
The cultist leader seemed pleased with his answer, nodding his head slowly. “I am afraid mine is not so easy to trust. She has not broken, yet…” He went silent for a moment. “It will not be a problem. She will accompany yours on this journey.”
I’keas averted his attention to the guards at the doorway. “Ritriisi thi tgasie,” he barked. The men turned and left to gather the Champions and bring them to the study, leaving the two masters alone in that room, the air heavy with that sinister energy they truly did not understand.
“May have?” he finally spoke. “I appreciate your efforts, my iryh, but I need a ‘have’ or ‘not have.’ I do not have time for ‘may have’s.’” He knew many people did not speak to the great Lucius DeRosso with such disrespect, but he was not like “many people.” Dha Pyaxir was far above the peasantry that infected these lands; just as DeRosso was above the mountain of a woman that was the Dragon, he was above the skilled assassin that was his Feilxyrri. They were above the common folk, and they were even above the upper class. They were of a higher tier altogether, and nothing could stop them.
“Do not mistake my words.” His warning was laced with ice colder than any spell could produce. His face was unmoving, save for the occasional twinge of eye movement that came with following the fight that took place below them. Even among the nobility of Oweumont, Lucius was known for his ability to hide his emotions with the same efficiency of a mask. The masks were stupid, ineffective as disguises; they don’t cover the mouth or hide body language. Not much for lying. Those who wanted to lie would do best to master control over their body. Only the best could use the subterfuge of faking body language to their advantage.
As fashion goes… He’s seen stupider?
With a flick of his fingers he forced the pages of the book to flip through like the winds of a stormy day. The page the book stopped on showed a detailed map of the world marked with several lines, circles, symbols, and elegant handwriting that dominated most of the empty space.
“I’ve narrowed down the search for the artifact to the ancient ziggurats of Lourvista.”
Without taking his eyes off the arena below them DeRosso stretched out his arm. With the grace and command of a dancer the man planted a single finger on the island. Surrounding the island were notes and pictures of different architecture, species, and other things of note. Some made mention to an offshoot of humanoids with serpent-like features like scales and lizard eyes.
“My visions only give me partial information.” Just as a dancer masterfully commands his movements across a stage so too did DeRosso’s finger gingerly dance to the Northern half. “From my research I have deduced the architecture to match those reported in the Northern half of the island.”
The cloaked mage slightly turned his head and, for the first time, truly looked at the man beside him.
“The trouble now comes from pinpointing which ziggurat it’s located in and the retrieval of said artifact.”
Dha Pyaxir was silent for some time. He watched the fight down below, but his interest was hardly focused on the long-awaited Battle of Champions. He mulled over DeRosso’s words, opting to hold his tongue this time. He was confident in his abilities to go toe-to-toe with Lucius, but Lucius was also his iryh. Not to mention that he harbored information that he wanted, information that would make him stronger, more powerful.
The Esararri leader flicked his gaze to the contents of the book again, taking in the information presented to him. DeRosso had indeed done what he asked. Months of research had provided them not much to work with, but he would be lying if he said that he would have produced more than what DeRosso conjured in the time allotted.
His gaze flicked back to the Champions and their fight. They were nearly evenly matched, and he’d been convinced that his Surhe’a could destroy his iryh’s own Champion. But now that he was watching them… He’d expected to see one of them fall in the Pit today. He hoped it would be the Dragon, but he harbored no guilt for his own Champion if she were to fall. But as he watched the two women, battling each other as animals do to survive, a new plan began forming in his mind.
- - - - -
She expected something else. Their booming footsteps and hulking mass alluded to a large man or beast. Udun, she almost expected an actual dragon to emerge from the opposite tunnel. The heavy steps and the nickname given to the other Champion made her question her opponent. But she was not expecting a woman to step out into the arena. In fact, it was the last thing she expected.
As a result, she was rather taken aback. Her adversary—The Dragon, they had called her—was much taller and larger than her. She had at least two feet on the wolf-elf, and her biceps were as large around as her head. If her rippling muscles were any indication of her immense strength, the rogue was in for a nasty fight. She had no doubt that this Draedan could easily pick her up with one hand and toss her across the arena. Roxii would have to be careful to not get caught in this woman’s grasp. There was no telling if she’d be able to escape her grip without being seriously injured.
And then there came the gear and weapons on her person. The Dragon was not in the least bit unprepared. She was clad in high quality armor, sturdy enough to withstand a blow yet still allowing the maneuverability to dodge and attack swiftly. The large sword at her side would be a force to be reckoned with, and her shield would be like a brick wall if the Dragon were to use it. All excellent quality by a skilled blacksmith, from what she could tell. Her second-thought leather armor and throw-away sword were nothing compared to this Dragon’s equipment.
But that did not discourage the Lythari. She’d endured more precarious situations, more dangerous opponents. This could prove to be fatal if she weren’t careful, but she was confident in her capabilities to come out on top. She just needed to test the waters. If she could figure out how strong this Draedan actually was and what her weaknesses were, then she could use them against her. Roxii was fast and agile, but she couldn’t underestimate the speed of this gladiator woman; she’d encountered plenty of large foes who were much faster than they looked.
But there was something odd about this outsider Champion. Something… haiyadwa. Roxii had no other way to describe the strange aura that bubbled and radiated from the warrior. It was not the hateful anger or bloodlust that emanated off her in thick waves. Those were bitter and coppery on her tongue, as if blood had already been spilt. No, this aura was light and sharp. It reminded her of the delicate yet harmful rays of the sun, warming the skin and threatening to burn. It was nothing she’d ever encountered before, not even in mages or sorcerers. This was no magic; it was not of this world.
The wolf-elf sent out a powerful pulse of shadows. They spread throughout the arena, reaching out with their fingers of darkness. It created no visible shockwave, but the inhabitants would be able to feel the brush of cold as it passed by. Not only did it create a fresh, long-lasting image in her mind, but it would also allow her to see if her rival had any affinity to magic. Would she be able to feel the magic that whipped past her, or would she be blind to the Lythari’s power? Would she discern the breeze to have come from magic, or dismiss it to be a cavern-borne wind? Roxii paid close attention to the Dragon’s reactions, looking for the faintest hint of acknowledgement.
And then the shadow dancer began moving. Her steps were silent as she rounded the arena, slowly closing the gap between her and her combatant. Her surefootedness intimidated some of her other foes, so she displayed her confidence. Whether it mattered to this monster of a woman mattered none to the wolf-elf. Roxii needed to show that she was a worthy adversary. She wanted this Dragon to show her what she was capable of, with or without the bastard sword.
Roxii struck. It was a simple blow, one that was extremely easy to block or parry. A diagonal slash towards the woman’s right arm, opposite of the sword that hung at her side. She knew it wouldn’t connect if this woman was actually worth the title of “Champion.”
Guinevere leered at the small woman down like a tiger does a piece of meat. Unlike a tiger, however, she did not stalk the cage that was the arena. No, she did not move from her spot. With a large grimace she bared her teeth with an underlying enthusiasm that could unnerve a chimera. There she stood eagerly watching her opponent through the tussles of hair that hung from her head, analyzing every movement the girl made with anticipation. She waited for her opponent to make a move.
Rip and tear. That’s all that ran through her mind. Rip and tear. She felt a breeze enter the cavern. Strange, she thought, Why would there be a breeze in the cavern? The monster of a woman felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up on edge. She exhaled heavily through her nostrils. She had learned this to be a warning for something dangerous to come. She did not know why it happened but she had learned to trust her instincts.
Impatience quickly rose in her. Like a pot overflowing with boiling water so too did this feeling bubble up within her. The movement of her opponent, however, quickly brought that feeling to an end and a new, fresh, wave of violence. The small warrior closed the distance between the two with agile, silent steps. A show of skill, Guinevere deduced. Her gaze never left the face of the other warrior. Guinevere turned and tracked the circling vulture, waiting for the first blow to be struck.
Her attack was shallow. A simple diagonal slash aimed at the right arm of Guinevere. Not meant to be dangerous, simply made to test the waters. To see whether she was shallow like a pond. She had made her second mistake, underestimating the might of the ocean was just as foolish as challenging a dragon. Like a wave retaliating from a ship, she too struck back with the same speed and strength as a wave.
Guinevere met Roxii’s attack with reckless abandon. Like a linebacker she charged forward with her shoulder, turning so Roxii’s blade would strike the front of her arm instead of the more vital back. Despite how low she bent herself, however, instead her elbow made an impact squarely with her face. Just like a bull, she continued her charge for a few paces before stopping and turning around, the violent grin still present on her face. She felt the blood trickle down her arm but she ignored it. The cut was nothing to her, which she noted mentally. She always had a high pain tolerance, but even this was nothing. The iron her opponent's blade was forged from was of sorry quality.
Roxii was startled by the Dragon’s impetuous reaction. She had no time to dodge the elbow, and it felt as though a brick wall hit her. She, however, didn’t allow the woman to run with her. Instead, she buckled her knees and went underneath the hulking mass of a woman. Her back turned towards the raging Champion, Roxii recovered herself. Brute force. This Draedan used her size and weight to her advantage, and it seemed the anger and bloodlust radiating off her fueled her. She wondered if the woman had anything else up her sleeves. Until then, she would use this information to her advantage.
The Lythari popped her jaw and stood, back still turned to the large woman. She waited, standing there with a haunty composure. She could not charge at the beast of a woman; Roxii did not have enough brute force to successfully charge the woman and make a mark. She’d have to let the other take the reins and take advantage of the opportunities that were presented to her.
Guinevere eyed the woman, her back turned to the gladiator. A small grin emerged on her face for a brief moment. A small sign of approval. She expected her charge to end the fight yet the woman still stood. She could respect that.
She did not stay still for long. She charged the woman once again. She closed the distance with the speed of a bull but instead of a tackle, Guinevere instead slowed her charge down enough to instead attempt a sweep at her legs, followed by a downward punch from above.
Continuous pulses revealed every movement of the larger woman, and Roxii saw the disarming action long before it happened. Her knees bent and her body twisted slightly. Then she used the built-up energy to send her into a twisting backflip over the sweeping attack. She landed in a crouched position, but she did not stop. Instead, she used the momentum she’d built up to bounce back up and attempt to attack the woman’s punching arm, slashing at it with the after-thought sword in her grip.
The gladiator pushed forward to meet where Roxii landed. She lunged with her palm forward and grabbed the sword arm of her opponent, taking the cut head on. She squeezed the arm tightly and pulled Roxii closer as she rested up for a devastating headbutt aimed right at the small warrior's forehead. With the strength of a rhino her head impacted with a thunderous pound.
If the blind rogue still had her eyes, then they would’ve widened in shock. Instead, only her brow rose. A split-second decision had her calling upon the shadows to her aid, and the fluid-like darkness formed a thin barrier over her face. She had no time to build upon the defense, but it was enough to keep the headbutt from knocking her out cold. Instead of cracking directly into her skull, the impact collided with her elemental shield and was spread throughout the face of the barrier, absorbing some of the attack.
But it did not stop the strike from affecting the small Lythari. She stumbled backwards, clutching the side of her head. Her mind spun momentarily, and her fingers tickled from the brunt force her shadows endured. Nonetheless, she was grateful that she did not meet the attack head on.
Speed. The woman was large, but it did not detract from her ability to move quickly. This rival Champion was intelligent, and the way the woman maneuvered and carried herself reminded her of an elite soldier. She was able to withstand the crush of a man’s blow all the while able to quickly turn the attack around on her opponent without batting an eye. A formidable opponent indeed. This Dragon was strong and fast, but there was one thing she was missing: Discipline.
It reminded her of someone.
The wolf-elf smirked and wiped away some blood that had spilled from the side of her mouth. “Was that all you could muster?” A distinctly familiar accent could be heard on her tongue, but it would not be entirely distinguishable. “My my, Dragon. I had expected more from someone of your caliber. I feel insulted.” Her uninjured hand moved to clutch at her heart and a mock pout adorned her face.
She blinked. Confusion. The impact of her headbutt reverberated but it felt wrong. Cold, not like blood. The difference in temperature was akin to laying under a shady tree on a hot summer afternoon. The confusion in her mind was only temporary, however, as she reared back like a hammer being readied for another strike. She came to a halt as Roxii began to taunt her for her apparent weakness. The words strung together and the war-consumed mind of Guinevere could barely make out what she said.
“Rip and tear,” she replied in the cold voice of a murderer. As she responded to the small woman’s taunt she lunged forward and with her arms apart with a semi-large opening. Her tackle was more of an aggressive embrace. She was trying to pin the small warrior down in a grapple.
An ear flicked at the larger woman's merciless response. There was no emotion behind the cold words beyond hatred. This Draedan was consumed by bloodlust, and it was apparent that she would allow nothing to stand in her way if she could help it. She was too far gone to taunt and play with. What was her tipping point? the wolf-elf wondered silently. What could possibly push this beast of a woman over the edge? Or was there ever a before?
The pout twisted into the subtlest of smirks as the Dragon charged, and she rushed forward at the same speed whilst simultaneously curling a thin layer of shadows around her blade. Just as the larger woman was closing in on her, her grapple preparing to constrict the young Lythari, Roxii dropped to the ground and slid underneath the other Champion, her small form gliding unperturbed between the giant woman’s legs. A swift flick of the wrist brought the darkness-wrapped blade to the exposed skin of her thigh as she passed, cutting flesh and drawing blood.
She twisted and manipulated her momentum to switch directions. She didn’t pause or rest before advancing upon the back of the woman, sword poised to attack the Dragon again. Her shadows were concentrated upon the gladiator and their immediate surroundings, allowing her increased sensitivity to each movement. Perfect for battling a lone opponent with combat prowess, but she hardly ever used this technique because of the threat outside forces could pose. She deduced that not much else would occur in the ring of the Pit, however.
Guinevere winced briefly from the sharp pain she felt from the quick flick of Roxii’s blade. Her opponent had easily dodged her attack, gliding underneath the towering behemoth of a woman. She felt the fresh wave of adrenaline crash through her system like a ripple through a pond. The smell of iron that emanated from the blood streaming from her arm and leg were palpable to her. The second after her opponent slid under her she stopped her charge and turned to face her before charging again. With two steps she met the rogue in the middle of her own charge.
The wolf-elf prepared to slice at the larger woman’s arm as she approached, but the Dragon’s arm twisted so as to deflect the blade with her vambrace. The dancer of a fighter feinted as Guinevere attempted another grab at the blind woman, using methodical footwork to keep out of reach of the other Champion’s grasp. Roxii attempted another slice at the woman’s exposed skin, this time aimed at the Draedan’s other thigh, but a swing from the gladiator had her backpedalling to avoid injury.
The opposing Champions glowered at each other for a moment before moving again. Roxii and Guinevere were a flurry of attacks, parries, and dodges, showcasing their varying skill sets. Where Roxii used nimble footwork and agility, Guinevere met her with brutality and raw power. It was rare for the two to get a hit on the other; blood spilled on the ground, but not as profusely as the previous battles they’d participated in.
The fighters broke away from each other, gathering their bearings. They’d been fighting for some time now, and it was beginning to take its toll on them. Sweat beaded on their skin, and their chests rose and fell with labored breaths. The Dragon’s fists clenched as she glared down at the rogue with pure hatred, and the Shadow only scowled at her.
And then they were at it again. Roxii met her with a burst of energy, sword twisting and thrusting at multiple angles to try and draw more blood from the mountain of a woman, but Guinevere continued to parry or dodge her attacks. Her thick armor was like an impenetrable wall against the Lythari’s meager blade, but the clash of metals rang in their ears all the same.
And then she saw her opening. A brief window of opportunity as the gladiator woman prepared to strike the wolf-elf with a thunderous blow. Roxii acted as though she was going to attack the woman’s swinging arm before she feinted out of its way. The punch sailed right by her as the rogue spun around and twisted the weapon from a slicing attack to a puncturing one.
The shadows she’d wrapped around the blade was the only thing that allowed the weapon to pierce the woman’s breastplate and sink easily into Guinevere’s skin. The resistance from her armor prevented the blind woman from pushing the blade any further, but the wolf-elf revelled in her victory all the same. Her lips twisted into a triumphant smirk, smelling the coppery tinge of blood that filled the air.
But it was short lived. Her smirk faltered when she realized the Dragon wasn’t going down. In fact, Guinevere wasn’t reacting to the injury at all. Roxii could feel her hateful glare piercing through her, and her teeth were bared at her like a hungry animal. She half-wondered if she looked as menacing when she was bloodlusted and angry.
The pain was washed from her mind as she focused on her opponent. Rip and tear. It ran continuously through her head, and she allowed that single thought to fuel her. The gladiator woman reached down and wrapped her monstrous hands around the wolf-elf’s, helping the smaller female to push the blade further into her gut. Roxii grimaced and attempted to pull her hands free of the woman’s, but it was no use. Guinevere was too strong.
The Draedan lowered her head to Roxii’s height as best she could. “Rip and tear” was all she growled before she moved again. A quick movement had a large hand wrapped around the throat of the blind rogue. Roxii gasped, but it was cut short as her airways were cut off. She clawed feverishly at the woman’s hand, fingernails digging into her skin and drawing blood, but the large woman’s grip didn’t lessen. She instead tried to make her arm falter by slamming her fist into the inside of her elbow, but her blows did nothing to affect Guinevere.
Roxii fought to take in any sort of air, but the other Champion had completely cut off her airways. She could feel herself becoming lightheaded and thinking clearly was becoming difficult. If she didn’t seriously injure or kill this woman quickly, then she’d die of suffocation or from a broken neck, whichever came first.
The wolf-elf opted to use a last resort. She called upon the shadows, and they slithered towards the gladiator woman. They slunk up the woman’s legs and converged upon her open wound, still made available by the weapon sticking out of her flesh. The darkness crept into the injury, and the woman felt an iciness build within her abdomen. A brief look of confusion crossed her features, but she maintained her focus on choking the life from the wolf-elf.
Roxii focused on the thread she connected to that pool of darkness sitting within the woman’s gut. She built upon it, forming as clear of a connection as she could to those shadows, and took the other end of the thread. Past her dizziness, she connected the thread to a realm she had no name for yet. Her consciousness prodded the outskirts of the parallel realm, its coldness so strong that it burned her. But she ignored the pain and built upon the bond, the thread that connected her shadows to that cold realm.
The Lythari scowled at the large woman and used a burst of adrenaline to pull at the woman’s grip. It wasn’t enough to free her, but it allowed her to get enough air to utter one word:
“Barad-nar.”
The dormant shadows within the gladiator woman erupted, taking the form of an icy fire. It simultaneously burned and froze the insides of the Dragon, threatening to kill her from the inside. Guinevere roared, both in pain and anger, but her grip did not loosen on the blind woman. Instead, it tightened, hellbent on cracking the wolf-elf like a twig.
“That’s enough.”
Dha Pyaxir’s voice was calm, but it echoed throughout the Pit with ease. Amplified by his power, the simple command overshadowed the roaring crowds and the audience quieted almost immediately, similar to that of a stream being abruptly stopped. Some sounds trickled by, unable to halt themselves, but soon the arena was overshadowed with a blanket of eerie quiet, save for the growling of the Dragon and the desperate gurgling of the Shadow.
She could feel it churning within her. A pool of ice that threatened to consume her. Still, she held her death grip on the girl.
A single word heralded an implosion of flames that erupted from within the lake of shadows, engulfing her entirely. The shadowy flames burst forth from her, escaping from the multitude of wounds the gladiator had endured. The tendrils reached out like long arms grasping for freedom.
Guinevere let out a guttural battle cry that shook the ground around them, baring her teeth in defiance of the pain. Her grip tightened again. She would snap this warrior in two.
Rip and tear. Just as an owner would brand a bull with hot iron this phrase was branded in her mind by her own master. Her fingers crawled forward and overlapped around each other, tightening the death hold she had on the warrior’s twig of a throat.
She must live. A voice rang through her head. Like a cat her eyes grew larger. Even in her state of wanton destruction she recognized the voice.
Master DeRosso’s instructions. She was told to control her anger and let this girl live. But why should she? She could easily snap this woman in two, despite the ignition of her flesh. She could endure the pain.
Another flash came to her through the fog of war clouding her brain. A woman’s face. Old and frail.
Mother. That’s right. It wasn’t just her that would fall victim to DeRosso’s ire if she disobeyed his orders; it would be her mother as well.
Live. His voice rang through her head again.
Her muscles began to tense even tighter as she fought her own instincts, the rush of adrenaline she had for this fight.
“Live,” she echoed in response. Guinevere’s voice is hushed, barely a whisper. The strain of restraint completely underlined her voice. Her grasp loosened on the elf’s throat. She lowered the warrior to the ground but did not let go completely, instead resting her hands on and over her shoulders.
“Live,” she repeated in the same hushed voice. Her fingers, strained and tensed, almost dug their way into the core of Roxii’s back. Just as when their match had started, Guinevere’s towering height was once again on full display as she stared down at the woman in silence, awaiting the next orders of her master. Her blue eyes slowly began to revert back to normal as the bloodlust subsided, her face softened into one of thoughtfulness.
The rogue had recognized the authoritative tone that was the Esararri leader’s voice, and her shadow fire faltered. She remembered the throb of her injury through the fog of suffocation that clouded her mind, and though she wanted to incinerate this rival Champion from the inside Roxii did not want to find out what other punishment she'd suffer if she disobeyed the simple command. But still, the strangling hold the Dragon had on her resolved her to maintain her burning spell, instead aiming to hurt and maim rather than kill like she'd originally intended.
Roxii almost expected the Draedan to ignore the leader's command and snap her neck, but then her entire demeanor shifted. The wolf-elf's shadows caught the faint fingers of some odd magic at work, and she wondered what could halt the monstrous woman so easily. Perhaps it was a telepathic connection, the other end more than likely connected to her master. Whatever it was, the larger woman seemed lost and confused before her grip loosened on the Lythari. She gulped down a deep breath, enjoying the relatively unhindered flow of air to her lungs, though not without coughing due to the strain and dryness.
The Dragon whispered something that the wolf-elf nearly missed past the throbbing in her skull, the dizziness in her mind, and the ache that racked her body, but she caught the single-word command all the same. Her fingers dug into the hybrid as if fighting to keep her standing and within reach, but there was no more malice in her muscles. It was as if it had all melted away, replaced by a sudden realization. Of what, Roxii wasn't sure, but she was irritated all the same.
The Lythari practically growled and shoved the woman's hands off her before storming off. Even with her anger tensing her muscles, her stomps were silent from the years of learning to be absolutely invisible. It had been some time since those teachings, but they remained with her all the same. Now her air of silence followed her as she returned to the Champion's chambers. Dha Pyaxir did not halt the battle for no reason; he did not want either of them to die because he saw a use for at least one of them.
Guinevere watched as the small warrior trudged back towards the tunnel that she had emerged from, the iron gates now raised once again. The blue tempered gaze followed Roxii until she was out of view, then turned to meet her master’s gaze. Receiving confirmation from the man, communicated with a slight nod, she nodded back before returning her gaze to the tunnel and began to trail behind the other combatant.
As she entered the room, she noticed three men already waiting for her at the iron door. Two of them were of high rank, a part of the leader's personal guard. The third was a healer, and she could already feel his eyes studying her movements, searching for wounds, bruises, broken bones, which side she favored and where she faltered. A skilled healer, he was, for he'd stitched her up after every battle she'd participated in, from simple injuries to more dire ones, though the latter was rare. However, he was never around after she endured a punishment, such as the other day. She wondered if he chose to ignore her during those times.
The guards and the healer led her to a healing chamber some ways down the winding hall. It was more of a room rather than a standard medical bay, but he conducted some of his healings there all the same. The room used to be a crypt of some sort, and sarcophagi and tombs used to fill the room. Caskets, urns, and the like had been disposed of sometime after the Blackshade arrived, clearing the surfaces enough to serve as operation tables and work surfaces. There were multiple rooms like this, each one with only one raised stand in the middle of the room. The stand was just a large slab of rock, probably used for stone sort of sacrificial service. There was a larger, more extravagant room that could serve as a sick bay, resting station, or overflow area, but it was mostly used for storing medicinal herbs and magical trinkets.
Roxii went to the upraised stone and sat upon it. The healer began examining and prodding at her injuries, and she refused the urge to hiss and grimace at the stinging his touch brought. Skilled fingers trailed along her arms, legs, across each rib, feeling for even the slightest fracture of bone. Calculated presses into specific areas, testing for internal bruising and bleeding. He did not bother searching for open wounds; he’d watched the battle, had noted the blunt force the Draedan employed to attack her opponent.
A hiss escaped her when his fingers danced across a fractured rib, and the healer flicked his gaze to the blindfold wrapped around the Lythari’s head. How many times had he stitched together bone within the Surhe’a before him? More times than he could count.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, maintaining his unreadable posture and not allowing his anxiety to surface. He hated repairing bone; it was a meticulous process. Molding the natural building blocks of the body in a way that was comparable to its original state, repairing the nerves and blood vessels and muscles that had been ravaged by its breaking, restoring lost fluids… Not to mention that the more times she broke those bones, the more difficult it became for him to repair them. Every breakage and every healing left the bone weaker, but Dha Pyaxir did not understand the specifics of healing. The healer would be blamed for making his Surhe’a weaker.
But he began working all the same. Xeigin rolled off his tongue like a stream unhindered, the unusual magic working its way through the Lythari and mending her from the inside. His gaze flicked to the woman’s neck. Already the remains of the Va’ekid’s hands could be seen, bright red irritation and deep purple bruising stark against her soft ivory complexion. He could ease the pain and make sure she could breathe unhindered, but there was nothing he could do about the intense bruising. Just by looking at the discoloration, he could tell that it was too deep and intricate to mend, even for him. She would just have to let it heal on its own.
The Dragon did not get the same treatment as her counterpart. As expected, they would see to their own, rather than an outsider. Continuing to walk through the tunnels, she placed a hand over the wound she had sustained from her fight. Already it began to heal on its own. She could not explain why, but she had always healed from wounds quicker than the average person. But still, that did not stop the pain from flaring up at her touch.
When she finally made it to the common room, or this coliseums’ equivalent, she found refuge on a small bench near one of the stone walls. The pain flared again.
Weird, she thought. Her mind flickered back to the sensation of burning shadows from the fight. It was a strange sensation, one that she had not felt before. It was as if a fountain of burning cold had engulfed her core.
A low buzz filled the gladiators ears and a faint white light flickered into existences behind her.
“Master.”
She did not turn to greet the projection of the man she called Master.
“You did not kill her?” The voice was light, non-existent. She did not hear the words with her ears, but rather, with her mind.
“As you ordered.” She spoke into the dark room, her lonely words echoing off the rocks that made the cavern.
“Well done, my gladiator.”
His lips curled into the faintest of smiles, the light shifting with his movement.
“You remember what comes next?”
“I do.”
“Good.”
Just as quick as the light appeared, it was snuffed out. And once again Guinevere was alone in the darkness.
Some time had passed by the time the Esararri healer had finished tending to the injuries of the wolf-elf. There was nothing he could do about the bruising, but he’d mended the few lacerations she’d sustained, the broken bones and the internal bleeding. When he’d finished, the same guards from before led her and the healer to the common area where the other Champion was biding her time.
One of the guards pointed at a bench near Guinevere. “Sit,” he barked at the blind woman. She only glowered at him as she stepped towards the bench and sat down.
The healer peered at the larger woman with a probing gaze. “Do you require my services?”
Guinevere listened intently to the footsteps that echoed down the rock hallway. The sound would grow louder until, eventually, the source would be revealed as the person she fought before, along with the physician that accompanied the girl out of the room. The gladiator chose to remain silent as the guard barked his orders at the girl. Was she a slave like her?
She raised her head to meet with the gaze of the physician.
“No.”
Her reply was short and devoid of emotion. No edge nor softness to it. An automatic response that she had grown accustomed to repeating when prompted that question. Guinevere didn’t understand why, but what was for certain was that she never required any medical treatment after her fights. Almost as if the wounds closed themselves.
The healer stared at the Dragon a few moments longer, his eyes lingering on the gaping hole in her armor, before grunting and waving his hand dismissively. If she refused his services, then he would not provide them; it wasn’t his problem. “Dha Pyaxir will call for you shortly.” And with that, the healer turned and left the room, leaving the Champions alone. Well, not counting the guards that stood at the entrances, blocking their escape.
- - - - -
After Dha Pyaxir had called the Battle of Champions to a halt, he’d led DeRosso to his study. The walk there was silent, the maze of tunnels filled only with their soft steps as guards flanked them on either side, front and back. Though the amalgamation of twists and turns would’ve confused any other guest, the Esararri leader knew that something as simple as a labyrinth of tunnels would not confuse DeRosso.
After a few minutes, 10 or so, Dha Pyaxir led the man to a large, roughly circular room spanning approximately 30 feet in diameter. The original stonework of the room had been reworked and carved to achieve a more aesthetic appearance rather than looking like the result of a mining explosion—which, funnily enough, was the cause and origin of the room. Curved bookshelves made of walnut sat in regular intervals around the perimeter of the study, each one filled to the brim with tomes, maps, schematics, trinkets, and items that the man had deemed important enough to keep.
Between each bookshelf sat a pedestal of carved black marble, six in total. Atop each sat an object, but it was not obvious what the objects were at first glance. They were roughly similar in size, but their shapes differed slightly from each one, some more sharp and some more round. One commonality between the objects, however, was that they seemed to give off a sinister magical energy, one that felt as if a weight had been placed on their shoulders the moment they entered the room. And yet, only five objects occupied those pedestals; the sixth was vacant.
On the other side of the room, furthest from the entrance, sat a large walnut desk. Papers and tomes were strewn across its surface, but not in the sense that it could be considered messy. A few trinkets sat on the desk as well, along with a candle that was already burning, a bright white flame flickering and dancing at the wick. Yet the wax did not melt nor run. On the wall behind the desk was a long wooden plaque, resembling the shape of a cross or an elongated, asymmetric four-pointed star. A display, it seemed, as it had brackets for something to hang, but the plaque held nothing.
And the focal point of the entire study was the carved masterpiece in the middle of the room. An upraised slab of stone had been brought in, ten feet long, eight feet deep, and approximately three and a half feet tall at its lowest point. The surface of the slab had been expertly carved to depict a map of Thiyalia and its surrounding islands, such as the Midalem Isles and Lourvista. The map was detailed enough to show the changes in elevation as one left the shore and worked their way inland, to show the drastic drop of Wyntague Cliffs, the rising mountains of Scarlet Heights, and much more. It even depicted the Great Tree of Brasvyn in Arynidra, taller and larger than the trees of Penegus Woods surrounding it. The towns and cities across Thiyalia were shown as well, small houses and crafted castles settled in their rightful locations.
Dha Pyaxir rounded the map slowly, his eyes trailing the outline of the land that he’d come to call home. His gaze lingered on the outcropping of land that jutted out above Fylithas, the shoreline where the Blackshade hideout was located, where Dha Pyaxir, DeRosso, the Esararri and their Champions all were at this very moment.
His eyes slid to the other side of the map, where the island of Lourvista sat. Where his iryh claimed the last artifact was located. As he approached the stone representation of the island, the Esararri leader allowed his fingers to trail across it until it rested at the northern end. His gaze flicked back towards the Blackshade hideout and again back to Lourvista.
“I am afraid that that is a trek I am not willing to make at the moment,” Dha Pyaxir spoke, continuing their conversation as if the long pause had never occurred. “But perhaps I do not need to make the journey myself.”
So, he had not imagined it. The sinister aura around those objects. He could feel it, even through his projections. Whatever this man’s goals were, it was clear that they would not end well. Unfortunate as it might be to help scum such as this man and his organization, it was a necessary evil. One that he could eliminate later, anyway. And just like a puppeteer he felt the strings of fate twist and twine around his fingertips. Each piece he had set on the board was moving just as he had predicted.
“I trust that this match has proven my gladiator’s capabilities, as it did with yours.”
From across the slab DeRosso’s eyes locked with I'keas.
“A joint-venture may be in order.”
His words hung in the air like an unanswered question; the possibility simmered like a stew to the point of perfection.
“This is a golden opportunity to avert unwanted attention. Send your slave, I’ll send mine.”
I’keas allowed the man’s proposal to settle in the air between them. He’d already been thinking of the possibility of sending the Surhe’ae in search of the last artifact, yet he was not certain how pleased Lucius would be with allowing the Dragon to galavant off across the land in search of a dangerous relic in acquaintance with his own slave. But now that the words had been spoken, the confirmation that DeRosso would aid him in finding the last piece, Dha Pyaxir felt as though he were winning. It was only a matter of time before everything fell into place.
But there was one last thing.
“You are confident that your Va’ekid’s loyalties lie with you?”
“Without question.”
The cultist leader seemed pleased with his answer, nodding his head slowly. “I am afraid mine is not so easy to trust. She has not broken, yet…” He went silent for a moment. “It will not be a problem. She will accompany yours on this journey.”
I’keas averted his attention to the guards at the doorway. “Ritriisi thi tgasie,” he barked. The men turned and left to gather the Champions and bring them to the study, leaving the two masters alone in that room, the air heavy with that sinister energy they truly did not understand.
Javax
The Shadow
The two Champions sat in silence as they waited for Dha Pyaxir's call. It wasn't expected of them to try and cultivate some sort of conversation, much less a relationship, especially since they'd just spent the previous couple hours trying to rip the life out of one another. And so, the two women simply sat, acting as though the other didn't exist. At least, that was what the wolf-elf was doing. She wanted nothing to do with the Draedan; it was angering that the woman had nearly bested her in the Pit, but she was more irritated by the fact that the Esararri leader had halted their bloodshed, preventing her from incinerating the rival Champion from the inside out.
At some point during their wait, however, Roxii noticed the woman moving. In a moment, she had produced some rations from one of her pockets—a soldier at heart, she seemed to be, if the way she'd carried herself in their battle hadn't been any indication of her trained mind. She held out the rations towards the blind woman, offering the sustenance with seemingly no malice in her muscles. The Lythari wondered where the bloodlust had melted away to, if it were a dormant energy boiling within her at all times. Ever since the leader of the Blackshade had called the fight to an end, the viciousness had disappeared from the Dragon like steam escaping a pot.
The velglorn turned her head slightly towards the gladiator woman, uninjured ear twitching subtly in curiosity. She was mildly aware of the pain in her stomach; she hadn't eaten in some time, and she knew that she was beginning to peer into the jaws of starvation. The Esararri would never allow her to succumb to such a fate, however, so they made sure to feed her just enough to keep her alive and well enough to provide entertainment. Though she was not as sickly as some of the other prisoners she'd seen back at Sanguine Isle or even with the Blackshade, it was obvious that she was malnourished—her limbs were thin, skin hugging tightly to her ribs, her sharp, elven features more defined.
But the thought of accepting the offering of food, to show that she needed help from the other Champion... The idea appalled her. They had just left the arena not long ago where they had fought tooth and nail to bring the other down to their knees, to spray their blood upon the sandy dirt and rip their life from their body, and the mountain of a woman had to audacity to try and form some sort of understanding with the opponent whose neck she just tried to snap? Not to mention that the right to a victory had been stripped from Roxii by those two simple words that rang out over the arena; though she despised the very thought of losing, perishing in the ring, falling at the hands of a rival to her last breath was a far more suitable end than being alive to see that she was no victor. What was the point in being called Dha Feilxyrri, of being branded a Champion, if she did not uphold the expectations set upon her?
And she'd be lying if she said she wasn't afraid of receiving aid, because the last time she'd accepted help from a stranger, it had turned out... less than pleasant. A memory flashed in her mind—a soft voice asking of her well-being, a gentle hand pressing a piece of bread into her shaking hands, the man picking her up off her blistered feet and bringing her into his home. Her ear twitched again. If only she'd known then what was to come, what Master Damaer would mold her into. Would she have rejected his helping hand then, knowing what she knew now? Or was the desire for revenge so tightly coiled around her heart that it would not have made a difference?
Roxii bit back an irritated snarl and the vicious response that brewed on her lips and instead turned away from the Draedan. She did not know why she was prevented from killing the warrior or vice versa, but she wanted nothing more than for the other Champion to leave, to go back to whatever arena she'd come from and never bother her again. Or perhaps they could go back into the Pit and allow the battle to come to a true end, with a clear victor standing over the other's corpse.
It wasn't terribly long before the guards had retrieved the women and led them to Dha Pyaxir's study. The guards surrounded the two thalmarkin, leaving little to no room for escape or retaliation. Roxii knew better than to try and fight back against the Blackshade men; she was a strong fighter, more skilled than most, but she was no match against a dozen men that wielded that otherworldly magic with nothing but their tongues. She knew it was powerful, had seen how easily they had subdued their prey, how they crumbled buildings and flooded valleys with a simple incantation. She knew she was no match against Xeigin; not when she did not know the power herself.
As they neared the study, Roxii could tell that something wasn't right. Her shadows shrank away from an odd energy, flailing wildly like flames in a windstorm. A shiver ran through her at the feeling that enveloped her, a sense of dread and foreboding that made her want to turn on her heel and run as far away as possible from that sinister energy. It wasn't even magic, from what she could tell. It was unearthly, and she could swear that it seemed hungry. She mentally compared it to the snapping jaws of a starved, wild dog, chasing after prey big and small in an attempt to sate its never-ending desire to feed, devouring all it could catch with reckless abandon.
When she stepped into the study, it felt as though a weight had been placed upon her shoulders, and she nearly collapsed under the force of that intangible energy. It was the only thing she could see at first, her darkness being suffocated by the sinister energy that filled the room like wild smoke. But after a few moments, she was able to focus and push past the smoke that filled her senses. She willed her shadows out, revealing to her the sources of that vile energy that disoriented her. Her nose crinkled in displeasure at the objects, resting on pedestals of reverence, but she said nothing.
Instead, she focused her attention on the two men in the room. Dha Pyaxir stood on the other side of a large table, but its surface was not smooth—only a single pulse was needed to recognize the landscape of Thiyalia and realize that the object was a large, stone map. The man stood confidently, straight-backed and chest puffed out with hands laced behind his back. At first glance, he was a relatively slender man, but Roxii was not deceived. Below the silken tunic were toned muscles, and she knew he could easily wield a sword should he need one. He was not a particularly tall man, standing at only half a foot taller than the velkyn woman. And like the other Esararri members, he wore a mask made of that unknown material, a substance that harbored its own magic in a way that prevented her from seeing the leader's face.
With Dha Pyaxir was another man that she did not recognize. He wasn't much taller than the Blackshade leader—only an inch or two taller—and he was a bit more broad-shouldered than the man who'd gripped her by the throat and forced her below him. Judging by the clothing he wore, the way he carried himself, and the fact that he'd been invited to the Esararri man's personal study, Roxii could guess that the stranger was the Draedan's master.
And even past the dark energy that stifled her senses, she could sense something... nistai about the man. Her shadows had a difficult time returning a still image to her mind, and it confused her. She'd never had trouble returning an image to her mind before, especially from someone or something that was real and tangible. But the stranger, it felt as though he was real at multiple points in space. She'd begun playing with a place that she had no name for yet, a realm that seemed to parallel the one she called home, where she'd connected her strand of darkness to conjure that Shadow Fire that had ravaged the Dragon in the Pit, and she could swear that he existed on both the realm that she and everyone else walked and that unnamed plane of existence simultaneously.
The guards closed the door once they entered, and two of them stood behind the Champions to block the entrance whilst the others spread out in a half-circle to keep an eye on the two women. Even beyond the mask, Roxii could feel Dha Pyaxir's eyes roaming her and the other woman, more than likely studying their physical health. His gaze lingered on the hole in the sargtlin's armor before casting a questioning glance at the stranger, but he said nothing. Any other person would've succumbed to the pain and agony of being skewered with a sword of any caliber, but for whatever reason the woman had not faltered. Roxii was somewhat intrigued by the woman's ability to push on, and she'd noticed that the wound had already begun healing. She wondered if it had something to do with the haiyadwa aura that emanated from her.
I'keas' attention returned to the wolf-elf momentarily, and she lifted her chin defiantly. She hadn't broken beneath his thumb yet, refused to refer to him as master and follow his demands blindly. Roxii would not allow the man to take control of her life, not as easily as she'd allowed Master Damaer to take the reins.
"I am sending you two on a mission," the Esararri leader declared bluntly. The blind Lythari's ear twitched in annoyance at the demand. "You will accompany each other to the island of Lourvista to retrieve an artifact for me."
The words escaped her before she could stop them. "I harbor no desire to complete your dirty work," she snarled.
She did not need to see the man's face to see the glare of irritation directed towards her. There was a moment of silence before he sighed. "You must not understand, tgasi," he spoke coolly. "You do not get a choice in this matter. You will accompany the Va'ekid on this journey to retrieve what belongs to me, and you will not disobey me. I will make sure of it." Without looking away from the velkyn woman, Dha Pyaxir motioned towards the guards. "Lislieh sen," he demanded.
Two guards stepped forward and tightly gripped Roxii by the arms as the Blackshade leader began rounding the carved map. She tried to pull away from them, but they held fast to her; she was a skilled fighter, but they made sure she was too weak to fight off multiple of them. She struggled in their grasp as they pushed down, forcing her to her knees as Dha Pyaxir approached her. Her heartbeat hammered in her ears sounding very much like a drum pounding by her head, and a knot of fear began forming in her gut at whatever the man planned on doing to her.
While the guards held her still, I'keas reached forward and placed a palm against her forehead. She tried to pull away, but one of the Blackshade men gripped her face by the chin to keep her head still. Dha Pyaxir's fingers dug into the top of her skull as he began mumbling, and already she could feel a sour taste in her mouth as the ancient language was spoken.
And then it started burning.
It started as pinpricks of pain erupting at her temple, as if a dozen needles were poking into the left side of her head, until it had developed into a full-fledged burning sensation. It felt as though her skin was being burned and melting from the bone, vaguely reminding her of the cause of her blindness, but this was a different type of burning. She could tell that it was a methodical burning, trailing from her temple down to her jawline on the left side of her face.
And just as quickly as it had started, it began to spread throughout the rest of her body in the form of liquid fire. It felt as though her veins were aflame, the burning spreading throughout her entire body, from her head to her fingers to her toes. She struggled in the guards' grasp, trying to get away from the hand that had brought such pain to her body. Past the rushing of blood in her head, Roxii could hear some sort of droning. It sounded muffled, but it resonated within her chest. It took her a few moments to realize that the sound was her own screams.
It hadn't been very long, only ten seconds or so, before I'keas finished whatever he'd done to the blind woman. The guards let go of Roxii and stepped back, allowing her to slump to the floor in a trembling mess, drenched in sweat. At first glance, it seemed that the Esararri leader had done nothing to the Lythari, but upon closer inspection Guinevere and DeRosso would be able to see a few ancient, rune-like symbols etched into the skin of the left side of her face, going up from her jawline to her temple below her blindfold. The symbols would appear to be burned into her skin, much like a branding.
I'keas peered down at Roxii, whose forehead was pressed against the stone flooring. "Look up at me," he demanded. When she didn't move, he spoke again but in Xeigin, "Lic aqr ix so." Her muscles moved against her will, forcing her back up onto her knees and face tilted upwards towards Dha Pyaxir, feigning sight as if she still had her eyes. His gaze lingered on the symbols etched into her skin, and he seemed pleased with the results.
The man turned towards Guinevere, head tilted upwards quite a bit because of the difference in height. "I have been assured that you do not require the same treatment," he spoke, and then turned towards DeRosso. "I appreciate your aid in this matter, my iryh. I believe we can achieve great things together."
The Blackshade leader walked towards the desk at the far wall. "You are welcome to stay the night if it is convenient for you and your slave, Lucius. Whatever it is you need, tell my men, and they will retrieve it for you."
He sat in his desk chair and leaned forward, lacing his fingers together before him. "If you do not wish to stay, be sure yours is prepared to set out, and I will take care of my own. I will provide their supplies for the journey." He was silent for a moment as he dipped a pen into an inkwell and began writing in a book that had already been open on his desk. "I expect the Champions to set out at first light tomorrow."
After a few more moments, he paused his writing and steepled his fingers again. "You are all dismissed."
At some point during their wait, however, Roxii noticed the woman moving. In a moment, she had produced some rations from one of her pockets—a soldier at heart, she seemed to be, if the way she'd carried herself in their battle hadn't been any indication of her trained mind. She held out the rations towards the blind woman, offering the sustenance with seemingly no malice in her muscles. The Lythari wondered where the bloodlust had melted away to, if it were a dormant energy boiling within her at all times. Ever since the leader of the Blackshade had called the fight to an end, the viciousness had disappeared from the Dragon like steam escaping a pot.
The velglorn turned her head slightly towards the gladiator woman, uninjured ear twitching subtly in curiosity. She was mildly aware of the pain in her stomach; she hadn't eaten in some time, and she knew that she was beginning to peer into the jaws of starvation. The Esararri would never allow her to succumb to such a fate, however, so they made sure to feed her just enough to keep her alive and well enough to provide entertainment. Though she was not as sickly as some of the other prisoners she'd seen back at Sanguine Isle or even with the Blackshade, it was obvious that she was malnourished—her limbs were thin, skin hugging tightly to her ribs, her sharp, elven features more defined.
But the thought of accepting the offering of food, to show that she needed help from the other Champion... The idea appalled her. They had just left the arena not long ago where they had fought tooth and nail to bring the other down to their knees, to spray their blood upon the sandy dirt and rip their life from their body, and the mountain of a woman had to audacity to try and form some sort of understanding with the opponent whose neck she just tried to snap? Not to mention that the right to a victory had been stripped from Roxii by those two simple words that rang out over the arena; though she despised the very thought of losing, perishing in the ring, falling at the hands of a rival to her last breath was a far more suitable end than being alive to see that she was no victor. What was the point in being called Dha Feilxyrri, of being branded a Champion, if she did not uphold the expectations set upon her?
And she'd be lying if she said she wasn't afraid of receiving aid, because the last time she'd accepted help from a stranger, it had turned out... less than pleasant. A memory flashed in her mind—a soft voice asking of her well-being, a gentle hand pressing a piece of bread into her shaking hands, the man picking her up off her blistered feet and bringing her into his home. Her ear twitched again. If only she'd known then what was to come, what Master Damaer would mold her into. Would she have rejected his helping hand then, knowing what she knew now? Or was the desire for revenge so tightly coiled around her heart that it would not have made a difference?
Roxii bit back an irritated snarl and the vicious response that brewed on her lips and instead turned away from the Draedan. She did not know why she was prevented from killing the warrior or vice versa, but she wanted nothing more than for the other Champion to leave, to go back to whatever arena she'd come from and never bother her again. Or perhaps they could go back into the Pit and allow the battle to come to a true end, with a clear victor standing over the other's corpse.
It wasn't terribly long before the guards had retrieved the women and led them to Dha Pyaxir's study. The guards surrounded the two thalmarkin, leaving little to no room for escape or retaliation. Roxii knew better than to try and fight back against the Blackshade men; she was a strong fighter, more skilled than most, but she was no match against a dozen men that wielded that otherworldly magic with nothing but their tongues. She knew it was powerful, had seen how easily they had subdued their prey, how they crumbled buildings and flooded valleys with a simple incantation. She knew she was no match against Xeigin; not when she did not know the power herself.
As they neared the study, Roxii could tell that something wasn't right. Her shadows shrank away from an odd energy, flailing wildly like flames in a windstorm. A shiver ran through her at the feeling that enveloped her, a sense of dread and foreboding that made her want to turn on her heel and run as far away as possible from that sinister energy. It wasn't even magic, from what she could tell. It was unearthly, and she could swear that it seemed hungry. She mentally compared it to the snapping jaws of a starved, wild dog, chasing after prey big and small in an attempt to sate its never-ending desire to feed, devouring all it could catch with reckless abandon.
When she stepped into the study, it felt as though a weight had been placed upon her shoulders, and she nearly collapsed under the force of that intangible energy. It was the only thing she could see at first, her darkness being suffocated by the sinister energy that filled the room like wild smoke. But after a few moments, she was able to focus and push past the smoke that filled her senses. She willed her shadows out, revealing to her the sources of that vile energy that disoriented her. Her nose crinkled in displeasure at the objects, resting on pedestals of reverence, but she said nothing.
Instead, she focused her attention on the two men in the room. Dha Pyaxir stood on the other side of a large table, but its surface was not smooth—only a single pulse was needed to recognize the landscape of Thiyalia and realize that the object was a large, stone map. The man stood confidently, straight-backed and chest puffed out with hands laced behind his back. At first glance, he was a relatively slender man, but Roxii was not deceived. Below the silken tunic were toned muscles, and she knew he could easily wield a sword should he need one. He was not a particularly tall man, standing at only half a foot taller than the velkyn woman. And like the other Esararri members, he wore a mask made of that unknown material, a substance that harbored its own magic in a way that prevented her from seeing the leader's face.
With Dha Pyaxir was another man that she did not recognize. He wasn't much taller than the Blackshade leader—only an inch or two taller—and he was a bit more broad-shouldered than the man who'd gripped her by the throat and forced her below him. Judging by the clothing he wore, the way he carried himself, and the fact that he'd been invited to the Esararri man's personal study, Roxii could guess that the stranger was the Draedan's master.
And even past the dark energy that stifled her senses, she could sense something... nistai about the man. Her shadows had a difficult time returning a still image to her mind, and it confused her. She'd never had trouble returning an image to her mind before, especially from someone or something that was real and tangible. But the stranger, it felt as though he was real at multiple points in space. She'd begun playing with a place that she had no name for yet, a realm that seemed to parallel the one she called home, where she'd connected her strand of darkness to conjure that Shadow Fire that had ravaged the Dragon in the Pit, and she could swear that he existed on both the realm that she and everyone else walked and that unnamed plane of existence simultaneously.
The guards closed the door once they entered, and two of them stood behind the Champions to block the entrance whilst the others spread out in a half-circle to keep an eye on the two women. Even beyond the mask, Roxii could feel Dha Pyaxir's eyes roaming her and the other woman, more than likely studying their physical health. His gaze lingered on the hole in the sargtlin's armor before casting a questioning glance at the stranger, but he said nothing. Any other person would've succumbed to the pain and agony of being skewered with a sword of any caliber, but for whatever reason the woman had not faltered. Roxii was somewhat intrigued by the woman's ability to push on, and she'd noticed that the wound had already begun healing. She wondered if it had something to do with the haiyadwa aura that emanated from her.
I'keas' attention returned to the wolf-elf momentarily, and she lifted her chin defiantly. She hadn't broken beneath his thumb yet, refused to refer to him as master and follow his demands blindly. Roxii would not allow the man to take control of her life, not as easily as she'd allowed Master Damaer to take the reins.
"I am sending you two on a mission," the Esararri leader declared bluntly. The blind Lythari's ear twitched in annoyance at the demand. "You will accompany each other to the island of Lourvista to retrieve an artifact for me."
The words escaped her before she could stop them. "I harbor no desire to complete your dirty work," she snarled.
She did not need to see the man's face to see the glare of irritation directed towards her. There was a moment of silence before he sighed. "You must not understand, tgasi," he spoke coolly. "You do not get a choice in this matter. You will accompany the Va'ekid on this journey to retrieve what belongs to me, and you will not disobey me. I will make sure of it." Without looking away from the velkyn woman, Dha Pyaxir motioned towards the guards. "Lislieh sen," he demanded.
Two guards stepped forward and tightly gripped Roxii by the arms as the Blackshade leader began rounding the carved map. She tried to pull away from them, but they held fast to her; she was a skilled fighter, but they made sure she was too weak to fight off multiple of them. She struggled in their grasp as they pushed down, forcing her to her knees as Dha Pyaxir approached her. Her heartbeat hammered in her ears sounding very much like a drum pounding by her head, and a knot of fear began forming in her gut at whatever the man planned on doing to her.
While the guards held her still, I'keas reached forward and placed a palm against her forehead. She tried to pull away, but one of the Blackshade men gripped her face by the chin to keep her head still. Dha Pyaxir's fingers dug into the top of her skull as he began mumbling, and already she could feel a sour taste in her mouth as the ancient language was spoken.
And then it started burning.
It started as pinpricks of pain erupting at her temple, as if a dozen needles were poking into the left side of her head, until it had developed into a full-fledged burning sensation. It felt as though her skin was being burned and melting from the bone, vaguely reminding her of the cause of her blindness, but this was a different type of burning. She could tell that it was a methodical burning, trailing from her temple down to her jawline on the left side of her face.
And just as quickly as it had started, it began to spread throughout the rest of her body in the form of liquid fire. It felt as though her veins were aflame, the burning spreading throughout her entire body, from her head to her fingers to her toes. She struggled in the guards' grasp, trying to get away from the hand that had brought such pain to her body. Past the rushing of blood in her head, Roxii could hear some sort of droning. It sounded muffled, but it resonated within her chest. It took her a few moments to realize that the sound was her own screams.
It hadn't been very long, only ten seconds or so, before I'keas finished whatever he'd done to the blind woman. The guards let go of Roxii and stepped back, allowing her to slump to the floor in a trembling mess, drenched in sweat. At first glance, it seemed that the Esararri leader had done nothing to the Lythari, but upon closer inspection Guinevere and DeRosso would be able to see a few ancient, rune-like symbols etched into the skin of the left side of her face, going up from her jawline to her temple below her blindfold. The symbols would appear to be burned into her skin, much like a branding.
I'keas peered down at Roxii, whose forehead was pressed against the stone flooring. "Look up at me," he demanded. When she didn't move, he spoke again but in Xeigin, "Lic aqr ix so." Her muscles moved against her will, forcing her back up onto her knees and face tilted upwards towards Dha Pyaxir, feigning sight as if she still had her eyes. His gaze lingered on the symbols etched into her skin, and he seemed pleased with the results.
The man turned towards Guinevere, head tilted upwards quite a bit because of the difference in height. "I have been assured that you do not require the same treatment," he spoke, and then turned towards DeRosso. "I appreciate your aid in this matter, my iryh. I believe we can achieve great things together."
The Blackshade leader walked towards the desk at the far wall. "You are welcome to stay the night if it is convenient for you and your slave, Lucius. Whatever it is you need, tell my men, and they will retrieve it for you."
He sat in his desk chair and leaned forward, lacing his fingers together before him. "If you do not wish to stay, be sure yours is prepared to set out, and I will take care of my own. I will provide their supplies for the journey." He was silent for a moment as he dipped a pen into an inkwell and began writing in a book that had already been open on his desk. "I expect the Champions to set out at first light tomorrow."
After a few more moments, he paused his writing and steepled his fingers again. "You are all dismissed."
Last edited:
Federoff
The legend of Groose
"The Dragon"
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Tags
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Notes
Javax
The Shadow
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▸ ♫ ◂
-
▸ ✵ ◂
-
▸ ∞ ◂
Federoff
The legend of Groose
"The Dragon"
-
Tags
-
Notes
Javax
The Shadow
-
▸ ♫ ◂
-
▸ ✵ ◂
-
▸ ∞ ◂
