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Lorekeeper -> RE: =EC 2019= Fountain Arena (7/17/2019 15:24:14)
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— Power received must be earned and honed, even if one does not desire it. A passion withheld may in time take the reins, when one is least prepared for it. —
There was little that the constables could do to conceal their reluctance in shielding their bound charge from the surrounding citizens. It was only what respect remained for their office, and the scant, grim satisfaction of the affair’s finality, that kept the crowd from devolving into a mob, and lower still than that.
The defiant demand was made, nonetheless. Some amid tears, others in undiluted outrage, were not content with simply seeing the man escorted up the hill. They demanded to see the entire proceeding, belligerently proclaiming their right to witness the restitution of the horrors wrought upon their town.
A stone narrowly missed its mark and scraped past a constable’s face, eliciting her frighteningly fierce gaze of reproach. Before the culprit’s censure could be issued, however, a commanding voice called to order from beyond the fence that barred access to the top of the hill.
“Justice-” cried the man whose title was taken from that very word “is not entertainment. The crown bids us to abandon such barbarism as taking joy in the death of anyone, no matter how wicked. If any here should take justice into their own hands, that punishment be reduced to a common spectacle for the masses, I invite you to follow this man.”
The crowd was cowed into silence by the compounding weight of the moment: None dared test the implication of the Justice’s words, nor cast another stone while the constables halted their march and defiantly held formation. And all were confused by the fact that the doomed man continued to walk on his own, chains pulling taut in their holders’ hands. Even through the mire of hatred, the sight was so odd as to be perturbing. His head was neither held upright nor downcast. There was no defiance as he crossed the threshold, and yet the Justice also saw no resignation in the eyes of the doomed.
At the gate, the chains were passed on to two soldiers while their prior holders turned their attention to the crowd. Beyond it lay a forked stone path: Immaculate tiles led to a stand from which the Justice and, when necessary, a jury, led the proceedings and made all due proclamations. Opposite of them, tall steps of rough stone led to a worn yet strangely well-maintained wooden platform. All pretense of care ended beyond that point, with a thin trail stretching from the platform to a solitary home beyond it - Not a planned path, but one worn into the grass.
Though no less severe than before, there was a subtle frustration and confusion to the Justice’s words as he took his place across from the platform.
“Son, you were accused of more ghastly deeds than I believe any single man, woman, beast or even demon could accomplish in one night. In fact, at least one citizen reports seeing more than one culprit, mortal or otherwise, involved in the carnage. And all of this happened in but a fraction of the night that you spent in Redholme. And yet you plead guilty.”
Expression lines crowded into wrinkles as if straining to give way to a moment’s sigh. An entire evening spent reviewing an utterly grisly crime, another in disbelief at the speed of the proceedings, and the baffling behavior before him, did not make the deed any less unpleasant.
“However it is that you alone remain after that ordeal, I hope for the sake of both of our consciences that you truly are the last one standing, and that you understand the decision you’ve made.”
The condemned man simply nodded, whereupon the judge’s voice regained all formality and the restraining soldiers resumed their duty of leading him up the steps.
“Very well. For the murders of Brother Olias...”
“You’re going to be fine. They missed your heart, the artery’s fine, just hang in there - keep resisting! You are not the beast! SILVER! Someone get me the man’s silver!”
“...Dame Jeanne of Greenguard...”
“Get that cart ready before the door gives! We can lose these knaves in Darkovia, but if they surround us in this town- NO!”
“...Emancipator Nika...”
“They’re through! Sun and Thunder, just leave the wretch! Him and I can handle this-”
“...and Leon Fairne of the Guard...”
“...Demons. Why would hunters have... Olias, RUN! They’re not here for that man!”
“...as well as the slaughter of multiple other outsiders and the destruction of the Fairne estate...”
“...It’s too late. I’m sorry, kid.I wish I’d realized.”
I should have saved them. Fought at their side.
“You are hereby sentenced to death. Per your claim to the Maradan name, you will be executed by beheading.”
The executioner appeared as inexpressive as the man he bid to kneel, but there was a certain familiar sorrow to his mien. The years wore on his rugged frame in a way that the doomed man was unable to experience. Fitting, that his end would be delivered by someone who could display such burdens. One could swear that it was a mountain and not a sword that the headsman carried while muttering the prayer engraved on its flat.
I did nothing. Nothing but curl up and fight you.
“Vance Maradan, do you have any final words to record?”
The Moon-Broken stared ahead, finally mustering the effort to push his own exhaustion aside and make an overt gesture. The view from the hill was simply breath-taking, almost making its purpose an insult. And yet, it was alarming all the same. Even with the sun blazing overhead, the moon’s pallor had begun to stand out in the clear blue sky, rising over the lavender-covered valley. It was beginning to pull already, as if grasping for the tides far to the east.
Stop pushing. It’s only right that we share their fate.
It was with an apologetic little smile that he simply said:
“Make it quick.”
The executioner hefted his blade.
NO
He would never move it again.
The cold air was beginning to tear at its chest as each heaving inhalation threatened to scrape it raw. Its muscles ached, a small menagerie of minuscule tears racing against the fibers’ effort to knit themselves back together. Still, it refused to stop. Billowing trails drew lines behind its maw and nostrils as it charged. The dry numbness of a battle desperately won finally faded.
Though a coppery aftertaste remained, the bitterly burning scent that had awoken it was finally fading. Deep within veins of stone and soil, where a light shone as verdant as the grass in its memories of far away, it was that smell which awoke the sprinting predator. It was complex and painful, in the same way as the charged air around those figures who hurled fire and pulled storms from their fingers. To its mind, its approach felt like the searing sting of their moon-glinting metal, and the very air around it seemed to grasp and twist at its blood.
It could not grasp what it was, but it sufficed to make one thing clear. The Man was bent on doom once again.
The Man was a fool. He did not know his own mind, even as he filled so much of it with noise. He sought to make a whole by drawing halves and carving one away.
Even now it could feel the weight of his grasp on its mind, desperately pulling it downward through the wall he himself had erected. But his weight was hardly a burden here, where the ever-present moon held it aloft in its frenzy.
Its jaws left the neck of another hunter, one that could have made prey of it with but a moment’s advantage, and its flight resumed. The danger was enthralling, but distracting. Exhaustion weakened the walls, let his gaze through.
His thoughts burned with more words than it cared to entertain, demanding to be returned to his own body, his own life.
The Man was a fool. He did not know his own life. He did not know life at all. And the Beast despaired of how such a simple truth always escaped him.
This was life. The Beast didn’t need words to understand it. To be alive was to be strong, yet vulnerable. Powerful, yet ever in danger. Flawed, cowering one moment and howling the next, stealing from life’s own teeth... Free. Free to let passions wax, wane and run their course, not carving a canyon nor building a dam to hold them at bay. Because if its life could be taken as easily as it could take others, then it was to be lived without restraint.
Until the Man understood, the Beast would always rise whenever he came so close to breaking them both in his folly.
Ever-changing yet with an essence that was unmistakable even to strangers, Bren awaited at the end of an arduous journey. One that could have been cut shorter by no less than two weeks if every stretch of it had not been traversed on foot and across scenic routes. However, there was a purpose to it all, and the precise day of arrival was carefully planned: This was the time of each month that Van looked forward to the most.
It was not strictly a matter of control. After all, Bren was one of the places where he could count on being... handled, if the moon and his misfortune waxed full. Through fortune and restraint, albeit often being forced to seek out a secluded place to... let loose, for lack of a word he was more willing to use, Van had lived without unfortunate incidents for years. Although the night of the new moon did offer him safety through the absence of the pull hefting at the wilder recesses of his fractured mind, there was something simpler to that day. When the comforting darkness poured from the sky unto the world below, Van could truly enjoy the beauty of it all.
The majesty of the stars. The cool breeze. The music of the world. Company.
Without the moon’s influence drawing the Beast closer, Van hardly needed to spare an effort to push it back. In fact, on that night, he didn’t need to. Whether what lay within slumbered or didn’t bother to struggle at a disadvantage — it truly let him be. For one night each month, he could breathe.
That was the real reason why Van chose that day to finally enter Bren. While he could see Supplicant’s Way, the path to his destination, this one day would be about everything but the Arena. He would give the great complex the respect it was due. But the Moon-Broken had walked on Lore for many years, too many to be innocent about what was to come. A long life would change irrevocably, one way or another. And if this could be his very last moonless night... Why not enjoy it? Just this once, he could live a little.
Often, the first step in having a good day was deciding to have one. Perhaps that was why Van had a peculiar ease feeling young again, and even laughed at the bittersweet irony of being referred to a tavern and lodging dubbed the ‘Old Fang’.
‘Crowded’ and ‘welcoming’ were words that normally felt mutually exclusive to Van, even on the night of the new moon. The Old Fang, however, was... something else. Its warm ambiance bore a simple aesthetic: Well-treated walnut bearing mounted trophies, plaques honoring past Champions, tables that seemed to be carved from great logs, and replica (He assumed) weapons that some blacksmith ought to be particularly proud of hanging behind a deliberately humble bar.
There was little waste to the place, both in decor and behavior. Filled to the brim with people that expected to be seizing each other up for the slaughter in mere days, and yet not a moment’s hostility. An ebbing and flowing air of jovial camaraderie moved everyone at different speeds, like the waves in the bar’s worn timber.
In retrospect, the newcomer shouldn’t have been so surprised that his presence broke the flow enough to be singled out mere moments after taking in the sights. A hand that was clearly intimate with fire and hard work was pressed onto his chest, stopping Van in his tracks with what seemed like shocking ease to him... Although for a moment, the same surprise could be glimpsed on the clear green gaze that the sight of the muscular arm led his own to meet.
Rising well over six feet, the blacksmith stood eye to eye with him. After seeming to sniff the air, she grinned from eye to eye, a set of white pearls neatly gleaming in contrast to the unkempt, rebellious strands of red framing her expression.
“Easy there, handsome. I can tell it’s your first time here, so let me give you a warning before someone less magnanimous comes along: We know how it gets with all the excitement and rushing blood around these parts, but... “
Her tone lowered just enough slip the attention of the surrounding bustle of merrymakers.
“...Keep your fangs to yourself, will you? We don’t want to have to show ours.”
She winked, ever so briefly, and Van could have sworn that the open eye was suddenly as yellow as the insignia on her black smock.
“Oh! And if you’re going to sign up, get it out of the way before midnight! Don’t wait until it’s so late that you can’t find a registrar!”
Before Van could comment, however, the blacksmith was already moving on and making an afterthought out of yelling:
Don’t die! Not before spending some serious coin here!”
The revelers and hopefuls didn’t take long at all to sweep up their awkward visitor into a number of activities that tested the mounting rust in his ability to remain personable for long. Yet for all his taciturn demeanor, these moments were precisely what he had sought out. The revelry. The fleeting bonds. The tall tales and wild stories, from the boastful and jocular to the forlorn journeys that had the entire tavern cheering the name of some fallen hero. Yet in the Old Fang, a difficulty in reciprocating with his own stories proved to be a critical weakness. The reluctance was surprisingly well accommodated, but Van was soon rushed to the nearest opportunity to make stories that could be shared over a meal that one might be smacked for doubting the worth of: An arena registrar who seemed inexhaustible in her gesturing, fresh out of an argument with what appeared to be another hopeful. Upon merely arriving to her desk, Van had a scroll and a quill slapped on his chest with exceptional speed.
“Good! See, I’m actually getting more than one person signed up per day now! I told you the story about the guy who was liquified wasn’t putting them off- Hang on. Just a moment, ah...” A quick flash of amber as her eyes darted to the form Van was trying to fill. “Vance. Right.”
Waving maroon strands snapped as the registrar’s head whipped back and forth between Van and another man.
“No illusions on this one, right?”
Rather than look up from his book, the long-haired man closed his eyes and replied:
“No active magic at all.”
This seemed to disappoint the registrar, who was soon walking around Van with an inquisitive squint.
“Seriously? Huh. Well, mister Maradan, here’s to hoping you’ve fought more recently than these puny little scars are telling me you have. So neatly healed, too. You’ve got a good healer- Or hey, maybe you’re one of those that actually gets out of the way when sharp things come a-swinging.”
The reading man cleared his throat in a way that made Van suspect that there was an inside joke grisly enough for him to be perfectly happy not being privy to it. One look through the hanging strands of chestnut brown hair was enough to give it away, however.
“Right! The form. You haven’t filled in your age.”
Van frowned, not out of distaste but consideration. This was an often inevitable question that he tended to dodge or lie about, but there was hardly a point in dishonesty given the circumstances. He genuinely tried to discern the answer, as he had many times, but some fog banks had long since settled permanently in the psion’s memory. That a mind mind so honed to turn thoughts into power could be so strongly affected by the blurring of time constituted an unpleasant irony. The question begat more doubts, but he elected to relent rather than waste any more time.
“I’m afraid I don’t actually know. Not precisely.”
“Good grief, not another of those types. Can you give me an estimate? How far back do you remember your local history?”
“There are some gaps before then, but I remember thirteen crowns before the calamity to the West.”
“Which one? Wait, nevermind. Either way, that would add up to... More than three hundred years at least. Wow.”
“Is that so impressive here of all places? The patrons tell stories of much older entrants.”
“Well, no. Not really. But this does mean that we broke a new record for how old someone can be while my boyfriend still acts older than them. Seriously, would you believe he's not signing up this year?”
This time, the reader twitched and closed his book, sounding vaguely surprised when remarking:
“Cerise, we’ve gone out twice.”
“That’s a point. Well, do you want to get dinner tonight?”
“...I wouldn’t mind.”
Completely satisfied, the registrar turned back to Van with the smug bemusement of someone who had thoroughly demonstrated a point, and simply stated:
“He’s my boyfriend.”
“...There. I signed.”
“Alright! Don’t die before putting on a good show!”
The Moon-Broken was quick to leave the desk, not remotely eager to risk getting caught between those two. For the first time in what could generously be estimated as decades, Van felt like he was in far over his head. If he survived the coming trials, trying to keep up with Bren’s social mores would be... an interesting experience.
But would it be worth surviving without succeeding...?
The morning caught Van having woken fairly early, following a hearty breakfast with just enough practice to assure himself that he had not neglected to work on his footwork. While one might expect much more impressive practice from a fencer of his inordinately vast experience, he had found time and time again that it was the endless repetition of the very basics that aided him most commonly. Being difficult to surprise meant little if one allowed rust to slow down the necessary reactions. Just as importantly, he didn’t know what to expect from the Arena; it was essential to remain sharp on performing such movements with and without psionic enhancement.
To his surprise, Van’s exercise had drawn the attention of both the publican and blacksmith of the Old Fang. While he expected that they might have objected to his use of their rear yard, he was instead met with pleasant regard and perhaps overly familiar expressions of pride over the fact that he was on his best behavior. That they expected otherwise was telling, but there was once again no time to elucidate on the matter. The hour approached.
Clad in leathers from coat to boots, Van wore steel upon only his torso, forearms and forelegs. Part of him still doubted the wisdom of eschewing heavy plate in favor of this lighter suit, but sticking to his strengths seemed wisest in the face of uncertainty. Daggers safely secured at his sides, a broad back-scabbard strapped around his body, he finally set out onto the streets with overdue purpose.
The sights were no less interesting in broad daylight. Even through the throng of the swarming crowds, some were difficult to miss. Sorcerers who spoke in fire and thunder, bidding their chosen elements to compose symphonies of carefully contained destruction for the entertainment of their future audience. Scaled, horned warriors parting the crowds with a screaming argument that had as much fury as it did raw mirth. He even spotted fighters that rivaled his agility and exceeded his unaided balance making an enticing spectacle out of their roof-bound display of prowess.
Still, there was little time for distractions. His mind and course were set on the bridge seen days ago...
...and yet he never noticed the moment he crossed it. Had he done so at all? One instant, he was slipping between the shoulders of two towering fellows, tall enough to block the light as he ducked into an alley. The next, he was walking down a misty hallway, leaving a slowly fading trail as the moment and its stage drew him closer.
Before long, Van could feel another unbidden change: The stirrings of the very same overpowering urge that grew into a rampaging conscience and thwarted him every time an end to his curse was nigh. But as familiar as it was, even as the anxiety of its possibility grew undeniable, there was something just as unmistakably wrong.
The wakeful growling came from without. Something was clearly pressing into the Moon-Broken’s mind. Man and Beast knew every corner of that battlefield, every brick of the wall that divided it, even if only one realized the depth of this wall’s spreading roots. And this influence did not belong. By the time the intrusion ended, a measure of paranoia had nonetheless already set in. He knew it to have been an external influence, but an intrusive doubt did rise of its own bidding: Was his determination to win without... it... a matter of integrity, or was he waxing naïve, arrogant even?
He simply walked onward, at first. If some manner of ambush awaited, perhaps some preemptive culling of the competition, he could not tip his hand before identifying the source. The surrounding quartz ornaments reflected a pulsing light now and then, but its source was never there at the turn of his eyes. When the veil of water made his location more obvious still, Van had yet to identify his stalker. Nothing left to do but to cross and be ready.
Beyond the cascading entrance awaited... Anything but what he might have expected from an arena where challengers stake their lives for dreams that they are willing to kill and die in the pursuit of. The Trial of Mystique, as the voices presented it, offered no shortage of beauty and delivered just that. The popping bubbles would, however, make matters... interesting.
When a charming Dragonkin leapt into the arena, making a stage of it in her entrance, Van immediately noted her advantage: Built for strength and agility, while perhaps able to walk in both plantigrade and digitigrade styles, and a tail that could provide much more than just a counterbalance.
She drew his attention when issuing a challenge, but delivered more than a taunt. While he lacked her advantage, he could emulate it. Perhaps he could even go further... He slid his feet back and forward in place for a moment, seeming to encounter little to no friction as his mind’s grasp enveloped his body. A haze akin to that of heat built up over his head, then surged forward toward the middle of the arena - Not toward the challenger, but through the biggest line of bubbles that the bolt could catch at a moment’s notice.
A moment later, Van launched himself through the slippery trail and... allowed himself to slide forward, twirling wide in a semicircle around the challenger. Manipulating the momentum of his limbs with a barely visible shimmer, the warrior slid low before coming to a halt.
“I most certainly am not...” he responded to Nadia’s challenge with a degree of mirth that was initially difficult to contain, but soon soured into a grim, threatening expression. The maneuver, while seeming purely like a feat of remarkable grace, had provided him with an interesting view: The interplay of light and shadows woven by the glowing orbs and bubble-cast rainbows. In particular, the difference between the Dragonkin’s and his own, which had briefly stretched across the remaining distance to the wall opposite of his entrance.
The grin offered to his challenger could have passed for the face of an entirely different man compared to the gaze that now stopped well before her legs. His movement came to an end with the drawing of the sword at his back, pointed at the faint glow of his shadow with undeniable menace.
“Are you?”
It was a peculiar weapon, with little in the way of a thrusting tip and greater mass than should be practical to wield with such lightness. Despite its positively wicked edge, it had no tapering along the distal plane. A specialist’s weapon, to be sure. And along its plane, an engraving faced the sunken target left between the Dragonkin and the Moon-broken.
Whosoever feels the weight of this blade, may the Lords have mercy on their soul.
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