|
ChaosRipjaw -> RE: =EC 2023= Grand Arena (8/29/2023 22:38:34)
|
“The kingdoms are poised for war. It is only a matter of time now. The scent of conflict taints the air; already the officials begin the process of stocking up for the army,” he says, his voice carrying a weight of foreboding.
They are in their living room; they have just returned from the town hall meeting. There is a look on his face that frightens her. He is usually so optimistic, yet the flickering candlelight seemed to reflect a dark cloud that hung over them.
“What will we do?” she whispers. Without even realizing it, she reaches out and grabs hold of his arm. His hand automatically closes over hers, but even his warm touch cannot dispel the cold deep in her heart.
His expression is grim but determined. “Survive,” he replies. “The harvest was already bad, even if I tried to raise everyone’s spirits. The threat of war only exacerbates our predicament.”
Chiyi’s heart would have constricted from these words, but they only once again re-confirm what she knew absolutely. War and famine; these looming threats steal her sleep and ever so surely sow and water the seeds of fear in her mind. She fears for all their lives, but most of all, even worse than the fear, is the helplessness. Helpless to do anything but to flounder as the movements of kings and empires sweep them aside. Aside, or even worse—
“They say the men will be drafted,” she whispers. There is a quiver in her voice that she hates fervently, but she cannot help herself. The very idea that he may be taken away to the front lines filled her with a dread that is almost suffocating. Taken away, and nothing she could do about it.
His eyes soften as they meet hers. His hand tenderly cups her cheek. “I know, I know,” he says, though the soothing balm of his voice barely makes a dent in her anxiety. “But we will find a way. We must.”
She feels her eyes sting and blinks furiously. She knows he feels the responsibility. Determination to protect their family.
“I can register in the army,” he continues, his voice barely audible. “It might be the only way to ensure there’s enough food at least for you.”
Her grip on his arm tightens further, such that both his and her knuckles turn white. “No,” she pleads. “Please, don’t go. If something happens—” her voice breaks off. “I could not bear it.”
“Chiyi,” he says, “do you trust me?”
He has asked her this before, but this time she is not sure she can answer.
Mooth's screech of rage tore through the air as she shredded Chiyi's cloak with savage fury. Little bits of tattered red fluttered to the ground, not unlike the falling leaves of autumn.
In that instant, Chiyi felt an unexpected pang of loss. The cloak had been a loyal companion, practically a part of her through the years. It held memories, older even than her trusty sword. Where her sword was Torment, her cloak could have been considered Comfort.
Cut away. Yes, but not for the first time …
But there was no time to dwell on sentimentality as reality snapped back into focus. The moment of reverie shredded as rapidly as her cloak as she realized what it revealed—
The moth-woman was winding up, poised to unleash a powerful kick with her deadly talons. Chiyi wasn’t sure how she would have reacted. Her heart pounded so loudly with exertion and adrenaline, it drowned out the rest of the world. But just as the tension reached its peak, the announcement came.
The pillar of Light behind Mooth flared, the statue of the warrior that was part of it raised her axe and cleaved it into two. The pillar exploded.
But through it all, the voice — or voices — announced with cold clarity.
“And so has favor been withdrawn from Mooth, Paragon of Light.”
And in the blink of an eye, Light had fallen.
The announcement seemed to catch Mooth off guard, because for a moment, she faltered, the wound-up kick fizzing out like a soaked firecracker.
But Chiyi did not hesitate. She thrust Torment forward, its blade slicing through the air. Impassive. Inexorable.
The weapon struck its mark with a horrible, sickeningly dull thud, and Mooth screeched again, though this time of pain. Blood spattered onto the crimson sands.
Chiyi yanked the Torment back, her breath catching in her throat. Her grip on Torment was awkward; she needed to make a move fast. Block or counter-strike? This was the moment of truth. Would Mooth retaliate, or ...?
A flap of Mooth’s wings sent a cloud of dust blowing into Chiyi's eyes, causing her to squint and momentarily lose sight. Instinctively, she maneuvered the blade so it was held vertically, serving as a makeshift shield. She braced—
The attack never came. Chiyi cautiously peeked out behind Torment.
Relief coursed through her, the tension releasing as her breath left her in a rush.
Mooth had fled. Chiyi did not pursue her. She knew the rules of the arena.
Dismissed.
So, the countdown was beginning. One by one, each combatant would be struck down, not necessarily by the weapons of the others, but by the judgment of the Lords that presided over the Championships.
Chiyi thrust Torment into the sand, its wooden handle gleaming with a mix of sand and sweat. A barely noticeable seed clicked against her teeth; in the midst of the battle's chaos, she had forgotten she was even chewing on one. She spat it out and popped a fresh wrathberry into her mouth, the burst of flavor a rejuvenating spark.
One down, Chiyi thought. As she dropped her hand down to Torment’s handle, she noticed she was trembling ever so slightly.
So close. So, so close. How many years had it been? Twenty? Thirty? Combing through every nook and cranny, searching, searching …Time dulled the pain but that was the key word: dulled. And a blunt, rusty knife hurt just as terribly as a sharp one. At least the sharp one made it quick, if not clean.
Torment’s cold metal against her fingers contrasted sharply with the fire on her tongue and the sun’s heat on her skin. Reassuring.
Do you trust me?
Chiyi wrapped her fingers around Torment’s handle and pulled it out of the sand. One down, but six remained.
Elodie, the frilly maid, was locked in combat with another equally frilly girl, the one called Parralia. A giant of a woman, the one called Vosta, dueled what seemed to be a knight clad in an otherworldly, shimmering armor, the one called Ezkeraz. Two pairs of deadly warriors, not really something Chiyi wanted to insert herself into.
As for the last pair …
Sterling, the now-Paragon of Ice, faced off against the goose-like monstrosity, the one called Bhjonk-something. Bhjonk-something honked loudly, a sound made incongruous by its size. As Chiyi watched, Bhjonk-something appeared to be somehow drawing water out of the air, manifesting a cloud of mist around its form. Not just for show either—it was also bombarding Sterling with balls of water. Or at least that was what the large splash marks in the sand seemed to imply.
Many years ago and almost every day after, Chiyi had learned that in battle, there was no time for thought. But the experience of almost a lifetime had taught her: if she wasn’t being stabbed at, she should think before she acted. So she thought, the gears of her mind spinning with wonderful agility unchanged since youth, well-worn by the years.
One one hand: they were all enemies in this arena. There could only be one victor. On that same hand—Chiyi wasn’t familiar with the elemental system—but she predicted that the two of them were on opposing elemental affinities.
On the other hand, they had helped each other before, more or less. The idea that had been torn to tatters not so many minutes ago seemed to draw itself together …
As a last joke, Chiyi thought wryly, together he really could be her “other hand.”
“Sterling,” Chiyi called out.
He didn't react, understandably so, as Bhjonk-something bellowed and loosed a stream of water at him with impressive accuracy.
“You don't seem to be doing so well,” Chiyi observed.
“Blrblrblrbrlblrbrlbrbl!” Sterling replied.
Well, that's not good.
“I will take that as a confirmation,” Chiyi said.
And so, from one battle straight to another.
Chiyi sheathed Torment, securing it to its harness on her back (she inwardly blessed the fact she'd had the harness and the cape separated). Without breaking stride, she dashed to the right, in the opposite direction of Sterling—but not before snatching up a fistful of red sand.
|
|
|
|
