Post by Elarris on Jan 20, 2024 11:30:51 GMT
With hair up-staring – then like reeds, not hair –
Was the first man that leaped; cried ‘Hell is empty
And all the devils are here.’
The arena was vast, its killing floor surrounded by 30ft sandstone walls, with raked seats filled with baying crowds of minotaurs, orcs, Tieflings, devils and the odd efreet stacked high above them. Ogres stood at the front holding curious trays that seemed to glow.
Around the edge of arena floor stood a series of animal traps forged from infernal iron. Some were barely chest height while others towered over him. Although Elarris couldn’t see inside he recognised the stench of the Nine Hells. The creatures within were fiends, chained and trained for battle.
In the centre of the arena was a deep pit with low walls around its lip and an iron grid laying across its maw. He hoped it was just a grid and not a gate. He counted 17 cages against the four of them. The odds were already impossible Anything that came out of a black shaft like that would make them unfathomable.
A voice broke into his thoughts. A pit fiend stood on a balcony over a pair of mighty double doors. It wore smouldering metal armour, brandished a huge sword and its flaming wings beat a steady tempo as it sneered down at them.
“Lesser adventurers of the Dawnlands, welcome,” the fiends voice rang around the arena. “You stand before Harlon Crowfeet. What follows is pain and death – if you fall I will bring you back. If you entertain the crowd, you will win great rewards. They recognise skill at arms with gifts of light. If you are rightfully afraid, step through these double doors and you will live. Walk to the grid and you fight.”
This arena is eternal, Elarris realised. Every night, the sawdust swept clean, the crowd assembled, the fiends chained into their cages and another trembling group of warriors step blinking into the glare. The circle of death.
Today was as good a day for that sweet relief as any other.
Almost before the fiends last words had echoed around the raked seats he was striding towards the vast iron grid, feeling the sword stir at his waist, thirsting for the fight.
He stalked to the centre, his eyes fixed on the feasting VIPs, and muttered the words of protection learned from the dragon twin’s kiss. Wings flashed briefly as they curled around him then folded into his skin. One tall, haughty fiend paused his eating and stared, nervously, down at him. Elarris met his gaze and curled his lips in a hungry grin.
Beside him stood his comrades, Yearu, Chartreuse and Luxemforth. Yearu was chugging a potion of some kind before putting a horn to his lips and blowing a powerful call to arms. Elarris heard the sword sing in harmony, eager to feed.
Chartreuse seemed to bloom like a field in spring, petals and flowers flourishing from almost every inch of their skin. Elarris noticed the thickness of the stalks and leaves and felt this was no mere decoration.
Luxemforth, meanwhile, drew two elegant swords and struck an impressive duelling pose. Elarris remembered the conversation when the four first met…
I am the greatest swordsman in the world, Luxemforth had said. Yearu had raised his eyebrows at this. Luxemforth proudly followed up, proclaiming five victories in as many duels.
With the top five swordsmen in the world? Yearu had asked. No, Luxemforth conceded, but they were bested. Yearu narrowed his eyes. “By you?”
“Mostly.”
“I thought so.”
A harsh proving ground lay ahead, Elarris thought, then drew the sword. It rasped from the scabbard like a predator breaking cover and he felt its anger surge through him.
Four boxes snapped open and four spined devils, long tails lashing and sharp spines raised, hissed with fury. Before they could move, Elarris was sprinting across the sawdust to mouth of the cage, the sword clanging against the cage as it dragged him forward, before he regained control and thrust the blade deep into the fiend’s shoulder.
Suddenly, his nerves tingled as a warning shivered through the sword hilt. Before he could react a javelin flew between his legs and speared the beast in the other shoulder. He recognised Yearu’s weapon. Gods, but that was fine targeting.
Just before he could turn to acknowledge it, a flare of radiance power caught his eye. It seemed to have come from the crowd. Gifts of light? The crowd seemed to reward entertainment with grenades of celestial power. What in all the planes of existence was this place?
He finished off the beast in the cage with two savage blows and turned to see Yearu battling another. Behind him, Luxemforth was striking curious poses in the centre of the grid, earning roars of approval from the stands. Each time his moves provoked an especially loud cheer, another grenade would sear out from the cheap seats and bathe a fiend in its light.
If Elarris had time to think he would react to this, but the sword was surging and the devils closing in so he let it feed on hells’ blood as he slit another throat.
Suddenly the doors to two more cages snapped open and two creatures with glaives and hissing beards of snakes strutted out. One lunged at Chartreuse, the other at Luxemforth who cried “you wish to test your steel against the finest swordsman in the world? Bad luck.” And he scampered off.
At which point the bearded devil on the grid staggered from the force of a grenade then, through some unholy magic, seemed to swell and grow until it was almost twice Yearu’s size. The Dawnlands warrior crashed home a blow that blazed with divine fury, but Elarris could see he was struggling with a wound that seemed to crawl and grow like the spawn of a ghastly lizard.
Briefly, he touched his own dolorous wound. His healing was supposed to keep his own flesh safe, and he had so little of it. But they would never leave this ring alive unless they fought as a team – so he reached out and let the dragon’s healing touch pour into his comrade.
He heard Chartreuse cry out, turned and ran to help, cutting down the bearded fiend that threatened the druid and sprinting on again to another cage as its door flipped up and glaive bearing monster raged forth.
Chartreuse had summoned the power of the moon, which sent these abominations into spasms of pain. Elarris grinned as the light impaled his next foe, giving him time to slide the sword home.
A snap, a clang and four tall angular creatures covered in sharp barbs, spines and hooks swarmed forward. Flames seared up from the iron grid, and Yearu quickly stepped back onto the arena floor dragging a fiend into the blaze.
How long could they last? He could see his companions were taking blows and though by the power of the dragons wings he had yet to take a blow it was only a matter of time.
Still, he thought, he had no desire to live forever. He could barely bring himself to wish for another year on this earth. The sword sang and he heard his own voice howling in draconic ‘pain and death, pain and death’ as he charged on of the barbed devils.
The grenades provided moments of relief, but the devils seemed ever fresh. Every so often, a grenade would explode in a ball of flame rather than purely celestial light, reinvigorating their opponents. He felt the crowd were toying with them, craving more entertainment. He would be damned if he would become their performing monkey.
But then, perhaps he was already damned.
He spun, shoulder charged and gutted one of the barbed fiends only to see two wraith like husks with dried skin stretched across skeletal frames scuttle out of their cages, their skull like heads searching for victims, their scorpion tails lashing angrily. Bone devils. He felt a great weariness descend on him. There were many more boxes yet to open.
Behind him he heard Yearu’s death cry as he fell, followed by Luxemforth’s final scream. Chartreuse spun fey magic and held one bone devil under his sway, then a grenade enveloped the other, paralysing and petrifying it.
For a moment he wondered if they had a chance. He could hear the crowd roar. Then a wave of infernal heat enveloped him, and he felt his mind quiver and falter. The dragon wings furled back into his body, and he was exposed and vulnerable.
He could see a horned devil hurtling towards them and caught Chartreuse’ eye. They could die here, back-to-back, as the beast cut slices from them, going down slowly under a hail of blows or, and he gave a brief smile, leave these howling fools with something to remember.
He bowed his head to Chartreuse, respectfully honouring their service together, then dodged left, right and sprinted towards the pit fiend.
“I’m coming for you Crowfeet,” he howled, barely noticing the many devils swarming towards him, fire and infernal weapons leaping towards his face and his hands. “One of us will die tonig…”
--
As his eyes blinked open he saw a blue skinned tiefling leaning over him, hands finishing a careful resurrection ritual.
He grinned up at the sawbones, then winced as his muscles screamed in protest. “I guess it was me then.”
The tiefling frowned, looking at him quizzically. “What?”
“Never mind.”
He lurched to his feet, feeling weak and exhausted. His eternal wound throbbed as if the blade had only just sawed his flesh, although the injuries meted out in the arena appeared to have been cleaned away.
He was just so, so tired.
He saw his companions, all ashen faced and weary. He imagined he must look the same. As he tried to speak, the pit fiend shimmered into existence in front of them.
“Amusing.”
The fiend surveyed them briefly then shrugged.
“Last night’s bunch were better.”
And then, looking a little bored, Harlon Crowfeet began the spell that would send them back to Daring Heights.
Was the first man that leaped; cried ‘Hell is empty
And all the devils are here.’
The arena was vast, its killing floor surrounded by 30ft sandstone walls, with raked seats filled with baying crowds of minotaurs, orcs, Tieflings, devils and the odd efreet stacked high above them. Ogres stood at the front holding curious trays that seemed to glow.
Around the edge of arena floor stood a series of animal traps forged from infernal iron. Some were barely chest height while others towered over him. Although Elarris couldn’t see inside he recognised the stench of the Nine Hells. The creatures within were fiends, chained and trained for battle.
In the centre of the arena was a deep pit with low walls around its lip and an iron grid laying across its maw. He hoped it was just a grid and not a gate. He counted 17 cages against the four of them. The odds were already impossible Anything that came out of a black shaft like that would make them unfathomable.
A voice broke into his thoughts. A pit fiend stood on a balcony over a pair of mighty double doors. It wore smouldering metal armour, brandished a huge sword and its flaming wings beat a steady tempo as it sneered down at them.
“Lesser adventurers of the Dawnlands, welcome,” the fiends voice rang around the arena. “You stand before Harlon Crowfeet. What follows is pain and death – if you fall I will bring you back. If you entertain the crowd, you will win great rewards. They recognise skill at arms with gifts of light. If you are rightfully afraid, step through these double doors and you will live. Walk to the grid and you fight.”
This arena is eternal, Elarris realised. Every night, the sawdust swept clean, the crowd assembled, the fiends chained into their cages and another trembling group of warriors step blinking into the glare. The circle of death.
Today was as good a day for that sweet relief as any other.
Almost before the fiends last words had echoed around the raked seats he was striding towards the vast iron grid, feeling the sword stir at his waist, thirsting for the fight.
He stalked to the centre, his eyes fixed on the feasting VIPs, and muttered the words of protection learned from the dragon twin’s kiss. Wings flashed briefly as they curled around him then folded into his skin. One tall, haughty fiend paused his eating and stared, nervously, down at him. Elarris met his gaze and curled his lips in a hungry grin.
Beside him stood his comrades, Yearu, Chartreuse and Luxemforth. Yearu was chugging a potion of some kind before putting a horn to his lips and blowing a powerful call to arms. Elarris heard the sword sing in harmony, eager to feed.
Chartreuse seemed to bloom like a field in spring, petals and flowers flourishing from almost every inch of their skin. Elarris noticed the thickness of the stalks and leaves and felt this was no mere decoration.
Luxemforth, meanwhile, drew two elegant swords and struck an impressive duelling pose. Elarris remembered the conversation when the four first met…
I am the greatest swordsman in the world, Luxemforth had said. Yearu had raised his eyebrows at this. Luxemforth proudly followed up, proclaiming five victories in as many duels.
With the top five swordsmen in the world? Yearu had asked. No, Luxemforth conceded, but they were bested. Yearu narrowed his eyes. “By you?”
“Mostly.”
“I thought so.”
A harsh proving ground lay ahead, Elarris thought, then drew the sword. It rasped from the scabbard like a predator breaking cover and he felt its anger surge through him.
Four boxes snapped open and four spined devils, long tails lashing and sharp spines raised, hissed with fury. Before they could move, Elarris was sprinting across the sawdust to mouth of the cage, the sword clanging against the cage as it dragged him forward, before he regained control and thrust the blade deep into the fiend’s shoulder.
Suddenly, his nerves tingled as a warning shivered through the sword hilt. Before he could react a javelin flew between his legs and speared the beast in the other shoulder. He recognised Yearu’s weapon. Gods, but that was fine targeting.
Just before he could turn to acknowledge it, a flare of radiance power caught his eye. It seemed to have come from the crowd. Gifts of light? The crowd seemed to reward entertainment with grenades of celestial power. What in all the planes of existence was this place?
He finished off the beast in the cage with two savage blows and turned to see Yearu battling another. Behind him, Luxemforth was striking curious poses in the centre of the grid, earning roars of approval from the stands. Each time his moves provoked an especially loud cheer, another grenade would sear out from the cheap seats and bathe a fiend in its light.
If Elarris had time to think he would react to this, but the sword was surging and the devils closing in so he let it feed on hells’ blood as he slit another throat.
Suddenly the doors to two more cages snapped open and two creatures with glaives and hissing beards of snakes strutted out. One lunged at Chartreuse, the other at Luxemforth who cried “you wish to test your steel against the finest swordsman in the world? Bad luck.” And he scampered off.
At which point the bearded devil on the grid staggered from the force of a grenade then, through some unholy magic, seemed to swell and grow until it was almost twice Yearu’s size. The Dawnlands warrior crashed home a blow that blazed with divine fury, but Elarris could see he was struggling with a wound that seemed to crawl and grow like the spawn of a ghastly lizard.
Briefly, he touched his own dolorous wound. His healing was supposed to keep his own flesh safe, and he had so little of it. But they would never leave this ring alive unless they fought as a team – so he reached out and let the dragon’s healing touch pour into his comrade.
He heard Chartreuse cry out, turned and ran to help, cutting down the bearded fiend that threatened the druid and sprinting on again to another cage as its door flipped up and glaive bearing monster raged forth.
Chartreuse had summoned the power of the moon, which sent these abominations into spasms of pain. Elarris grinned as the light impaled his next foe, giving him time to slide the sword home.
A snap, a clang and four tall angular creatures covered in sharp barbs, spines and hooks swarmed forward. Flames seared up from the iron grid, and Yearu quickly stepped back onto the arena floor dragging a fiend into the blaze.
How long could they last? He could see his companions were taking blows and though by the power of the dragons wings he had yet to take a blow it was only a matter of time.
Still, he thought, he had no desire to live forever. He could barely bring himself to wish for another year on this earth. The sword sang and he heard his own voice howling in draconic ‘pain and death, pain and death’ as he charged on of the barbed devils.
The grenades provided moments of relief, but the devils seemed ever fresh. Every so often, a grenade would explode in a ball of flame rather than purely celestial light, reinvigorating their opponents. He felt the crowd were toying with them, craving more entertainment. He would be damned if he would become their performing monkey.
But then, perhaps he was already damned.
He spun, shoulder charged and gutted one of the barbed fiends only to see two wraith like husks with dried skin stretched across skeletal frames scuttle out of their cages, their skull like heads searching for victims, their scorpion tails lashing angrily. Bone devils. He felt a great weariness descend on him. There were many more boxes yet to open.
Behind him he heard Yearu’s death cry as he fell, followed by Luxemforth’s final scream. Chartreuse spun fey magic and held one bone devil under his sway, then a grenade enveloped the other, paralysing and petrifying it.
For a moment he wondered if they had a chance. He could hear the crowd roar. Then a wave of infernal heat enveloped him, and he felt his mind quiver and falter. The dragon wings furled back into his body, and he was exposed and vulnerable.
He could see a horned devil hurtling towards them and caught Chartreuse’ eye. They could die here, back-to-back, as the beast cut slices from them, going down slowly under a hail of blows or, and he gave a brief smile, leave these howling fools with something to remember.
He bowed his head to Chartreuse, respectfully honouring their service together, then dodged left, right and sprinted towards the pit fiend.
“I’m coming for you Crowfeet,” he howled, barely noticing the many devils swarming towards him, fire and infernal weapons leaping towards his face and his hands. “One of us will die tonig…”
--
As his eyes blinked open he saw a blue skinned tiefling leaning over him, hands finishing a careful resurrection ritual.
He grinned up at the sawbones, then winced as his muscles screamed in protest. “I guess it was me then.”
The tiefling frowned, looking at him quizzically. “What?”
“Never mind.”
He lurched to his feet, feeling weak and exhausted. His eternal wound throbbed as if the blade had only just sawed his flesh, although the injuries meted out in the arena appeared to have been cleaned away.
He was just so, so tired.
He saw his companions, all ashen faced and weary. He imagined he must look the same. As he tried to speak, the pit fiend shimmered into existence in front of them.
“Amusing.”
The fiend surveyed them briefly then shrugged.
“Last night’s bunch were better.”
And then, looking a little bored, Harlon Crowfeet began the spell that would send them back to Daring Heights.
