The fight master standing before Shiva is a grizzled dwarf with skin like cracked leather and a beard braided into thick cords threaded with steel rings. Scars map his broad face, and one eye is milky white, long past seeing. The other glints sharp as a blade as he sizes her up.
"You?" he grunts, crossing thick arms over his barrel chest. His voice is gravelly, worn like an old whetstone. "Ain't every day I see someone walk up so polite to sign their hide over to the pits."
He jerks a thumb toward the arena gate, where the sounds of steel clanging and spectators roaring never cease.
"We get three types here, see. Brutes with egos too big to fit through the gate, veterans too mean to die and fools with nothin' left to lose. So which one are you, eh?" His eye narrows suspiciously. "Or are you somethin' else altogether?"
Before she can answer, he spits to the side, narrowly missing the boot of a passing spectator.
"Doesn't much matter, I s'pose. I ain't in the business of askin' why folk want their bones broken. Just need to know one thing." He leans forward, close enough that Shiva can smell the faint tang of ale on his breath. "You ever held a sword before, lass, or are you just hopin' to get lucky?"
Shiva smiles at the familiarity in the dwarf's gruff manner, having worked alongside several such types over the years. A mischievous idea blooms as she begins to perform contemplation at the man's question. "I've held a sword a few times before. Hoping to get lucky, I guess."
The dwarf lets out a rough snort, half amusement, half disbelief. His single sharp eye glints as he looks Shiva up and down again, clearly trying to gauge whether she’s serious or simply mad.
"Hoping to get lucky, eh?" He rumbles, scratching the edge of his bearded jaw with calloused fingers. "Well, aren't you a cheeky one. Got enough swagger to fill a tavern, I'll give you that."
He gestures towards the towering iron gate leading into the pits, where two burly halfling attendants stand guard. The sound of swords clashing and feet pounding on dirt echoes beyond it, mingling with the wild cheers of the bloodthirsty crowd. The air practically hums with violence.
"Tell you what," the dwarf says, leaning slightly closer, voice dropping into a conspiratorial growl. "I ain't in the habit of lettin' daydreamers walk straight to the butchering block. But you got that look — the dangerous kind. So here's the deal, lass: first round's against one of my house boys. Won't kill ya unless you're dumb enough to stand still." He grins, showing teeth yellowed by years of chewing something harder than bread. "Win that? Then maybe we'll see just how lucky you are."
He straightens, waving toward one of the halflings.
"Oy, Brann! Get this one signed up. Name for the list, lass?"
The crowd roars louder beyond the gate and, somewhere in the pits, steel clashes like thunder. The dwarf's grin doesn't fade.
Shiva holds her innocuous smile as the man rolls out a bit of slack for her. "Thank you, I'll do my best to be careful."
Once again dropping into performative contemplation, she arrives at an idea.
"I heard a story once about a terror of a fighter. A woman, a monster of a tiefling. Said to have killed whole scores of men with nothing but a sword and a thirst for blood. Story went that it took the better part of an army to bring her down, and only after days of fighting. She had no real name, just 'The Fighting Demon of Breanne'. It'd be fun to go by that, would that be alright?"
“I have.” he replies, holding the meteor hammer aloft by its loop of chain. “This is the weapon I wish to be blessed. Have your archivists gathered the records?”
Shiva holds her innocuous smile as the man rolls out a bit of slack for her. "Thank you, I'll do my best to be careful."
Once again dropping into performative contemplation, she arrives at an idea.
"I heard a story once about a terror of a fighter. A woman, a monster of a tiefling. Said to have killed whole scores of men with nothing but a sword and a thirst for blood. Story went that it took the better part of an army to bring her down, and only after days of fighting. She had no real name, just 'The Fighting Demon of Breanne'. It'd be fun to go by that, would that be alright?"
The dwarf's single good eye narrows, his grin curling into something toothier, more dangerous. He studies Shiva for a long, heavy moment, the weight of her words hanging between them like the still air before a storm.
"The Fighting Demon of Breanne, eh?" He scratches his beard thoughtfully, a low, gravelly chuckle rumbling from deep in his chest. "A name like that ain't just somethin' you toss around for fun, lass. Folk hear it, they'll expect blood. A lot of it." His gaze sharpens, scrutinising her once more, as though peeling back her polite exterior, searching for the monster beneath, "but you knew that already, didn't ya?" He leans in closer, the faint clink of steel rings in his beard accompanying his low tone. "Question is... you planning to live up to it, or just borrow the name for a bit of flair?"
Without waiting for an answer, he jerks his head toward Brann, who steps forward with a slate and chalk in hand.
"Write it down, Brann," the dwarf grunts. "Let the crowd chew on that one for a while."
The halfling hesitates, glancing between Shiva and the dwarf.
"You sure, boss? Folks round here don't take kindly to pretenders."
The dwarf's grin sharpens.
"We'll find out soon enough if she's pretendin'."
He turns back to Shiva, his expression both impressed and bemused.
"You got guts, I'll give ya that. Just don't disappoint 'em out there. The crowd loves a demon — but they love seein' one fall even more."
The gate creaks open slightly, a hint of dust and sweat wafting through the crack. The crowd's roar swells, eager and ravenous.
"Your funeral, lass," the dwarf finishes with a shrug. "Good luck, or maybe I should say... welcome back, Fighting Demon of Breanne."
“I have.” he replies, holding the meteor hammer aloft by its loop of chain. “This is the weapon I wish to be blessed. Have your archivists gathered the records?”
The steward's eyes linger on the meteor hammer as it gleams faintly in the filtered sunlight.
"A fine choice and made with true craftsmanship. It will serve you well once blessed."
At Caio's mention of the records, Brighthill's demeanour shifts to that of focused authority.
"Yes, they have been assembled. Our archivists are nothing if not meticulous. You’ll find a comprehensive collection on both Valentine Morgenstern and Clarissa Morgenstern, as well as the occultist cabal known as the 99 Hundred." She folds her arms thoughtfully. "Some of what we've gathered borders on the esoteric—ritual patterns, recorded sightings and fragmented accounts of their dealings across Necorath and beyond. I trust this will be enough to guide your path."
"The sanctum is ready," the halfling notes, gesturing towards a side passage lined with intricately carved arches. "We have summoned the appropriate officiants for the ritual and the consecration can begin at your command. We shall see that the blessing is potent and enduring."
Shiva continues smiling as she moves towards the gate, but her eyes briefly lose their mirth. As she turns away, her gaze becomes heavy with experience and understanding, focusing on the fight ahead. Looking back to Alaris, she gives a quick thumbs up before disappearing behind the gate.
Once inside, she turns to Brann and speaks in a curt, low voice.
"A shortsword, please."
"Wow. If there's one thing we have in common, it's theatrics."
Brann pauses, blinking up at Shiva as though he hadn't expected the cheerful tiefling who wove tales of infamous demons to drop the façade so abruptly. The weight in her voice makes his ears twitch and he doesn't waste time asking questions. Instead, he nods sharply, turning to a rack mounted on the wall just beyond the gate.
Metal glints in the dim light filtering through the slatted wooden ceiling. Blades of all sizes rest in neat rows — battle-worn but meticulously cared for. Brann’s hands hover over a few before selecting a sturdy shortsword with a dark leather-wrapped grip and a slight curve to the blade.
"Good balance on this one," Brann mutters as he hands it to her. "Edge's been sharpened today. Don’t go chip it on someone’s skull, yeah?" He quirks an eyebrow, his earlier hesitation now replaced by the wry humour typical of the seasoned pit crew.
The steward falls into step besides Caio, her shorter strides brisk as they navigate the Bastion's sacred halls. The sound of their footfalls echoes against stone walls etched with ancient blessings, light filtering in through stained-glass windows depicting battles long past. As they approach the ritual chamber, the scent of incense wafts through the air, mingling with faint traces of ozone. The golden runes lining the archway shimmer faintly.
Brighthill pauses before the towering double doors of the chamber. Her eyes lift to meet Caio’s.
"Once the rite begins, only those directly involved may remain within the sanctum. Do you wish to oversee it yourself, or shall I entrust it to our warders?"
Catching Brann's shift in tone, she regains a degree of levity, smiling and winking at him.
"Thank you, I'll try not to."
Taking the shortsword, she tests the balance, moving the blade with a swift fluidity that speaks to her comfort with it. Tensing and relaxing her grip, she flows open strikes through the air into parries and strikes with her off-hand side as her footwork supports each motion. She comes to the conclusion that it is indeed well-balanced.
"Very nice, a well-kept blade. If I win enough, can you ask the fightmaster if I can keep it?"
“I trust your priests, and I am eager to see this intel on our enemies.” He offers the weapon for her to take.
The steward accepts the meteor hammer with both hands, respectfully examining its fine craftsmanship. The weight of the weapon does not seem to faze her, despite her diminutive stature.
"A fine piece," she murmurs, almost to herself. "It will serve you well when blessed by the Bastion's light."
The weapon is handed over to a priest dressed in gleaming, ceremonial robes. He bows and carries the weapon into the chamber with solemn care. Turning back to Caio, Brighthill motions toward a corridor branching off to the right.
"Come, the records room is this way. My archivists have prepared a secure space where you may review the intelligence in private."
Her pace is brisk as they move through the cool passages, until they reach a sturdy oak door. Inside is a room illuminated by lanterns that cast a soft golden glow. A polished table sits in the centre, already laden with carefully organised documents. Several maps and scrolls bearing the bastion's official sigil are spread out across the surface.
"Everything that we have gathered on the 99 Hundred and the Morgensterns lies here," the steward confirms. "I hope that this knowledge will be the edge that you seek."
Catching Brann's shift in tone, she regains a degree of levity, smiling and winking at him.
"Thank you, I'll try not to."
Taking the shortsword, she tests the balance, moving the blade with a swift fluidity that speaks to her comfort with it. Tensing and relaxing her grip, she flows open strikes through the air into parries and strikes with her off-hand side as her footwork supports each motion. She comes to the conclusion that it is indeed well-balanced.
"Very nice, a well-kept blade. If I win enough, can you ask the fightmaster if I can keep it?"
Brann watches Shiva's fluid motions with a practiced eye, his bushy brows rising ever so slightly in approval. Her strikes are sharp, precise, and purposeful — not the clumsy swings of some amateur hoping to make a name for themselves in the pits. The humour creeps back into his expression as she speaks.
"Aye, if you win enough and don't run off at the first sniff of blood, I'll see what I can do," he grunts, folding his thick arms across his chest. "You'll have to really earn it though. Fightmaster ain't the sentimental type. Loves his coin, though. You win enough matches and you'll make yourself hard to ignore."
He narrows his eyes at her, a playful challenge glinting beneath his gruff demeanour.
"That said, you better not go makin' me look daft by losin' yer first round. I'll put in a word only for winners, got it?"
Brann cracks a faint grin, tipping his chin toward the open gate.
"Now go give 'em a show, Demon. They ain't seen nothin' yet."
The gatekeeper's voice booms from the other side of the arena wall.
"NEXT FIGHT! NEW BLOOD ENTERING THE PIT!"
The roar of the crowd surges anew, bloodlust and excitement mingling in the thick, dusty air. The vibration of it crawls up Shiva's spine, familiar and fierce. The gate creaks and groans as it swings fully open, revealing the blinding light of the arena beyond, where the roar of the crowd beckons, as primal as the earth beneath their feet. Brann gives her a last look, his expression serious now.
"Keep your head on straight. And don’t die. Bad for business."
Shiva takes a deep breath, adrenaline fuzzing the edges of her vision as the announcement summons the memory of a three-on-one bout that ended with her tossing an overly-confident dragonborn's head up into the stands.
"No killing. Understood."
Stepping out into the light of the arena, she looks across the sea of eyes all centered on her. In her earlier years, she would have stared daggers at all in attendance, attempting to memorize their faces should she ever see them again outside the pit. But something strange washes over her, a calm self-assurance that smooths over the slow-cooking tension in her mind.
She triumphantly raises her sword in greeting to the crowd.
The crowd responds with a deafening roar. A cacophony of cheers, jeers and raucous laughter that rattles through the walls of the arena like a living thing. The energy is palpable. A storm of bloodlust and excitement swirling around the pit. They hunger for spectacle and violence. The ascendance of a warrior who will etch themselves into the pit’s savage lore.
The sun beats down on the packed dirt floor, gleaming off of the edges of sharpened weapons that line the arena walls. Dust hangs in the air, shimmering in the golden light. Across from Shiva, a heavy iron gate groans and creaks as it rises. The sound is akin to the maw of a great beast yawning wide. Out strides her opponent — a broad-shouldered orc with scarred green skin and tusks chipped from countless battles. His muscles ripple beneath taut flesh and with one hand he carries a wicked-looking battleaxe effortlessly slung across his shoulder.
The crowd's intensity surges at the sight of him.
"Ah, there she is!" A voice bellows from above, the announcer's voice booming over the din. "The Fighting Demon of Breanne, come to show us what a demon can do in the pits of Five Towers! But will this she-devil stand tall against Gorash the Unyielding, a pit champion known to have crushed more challengers than anyone dares count?"
The audience howls with excitement, placing bets and shouting crude suggestions at both fighters. Gorash sneers at Shiva, sizing her up with a confident glint in his red eyes.
"I was hopin’ for a challenge," he rumbles, his voice low and gravelly, "but you look like yer made of twigs. I’ll break ya quick so you don’t embarrass yerself too bad."
The brawny orc and his dismissive attitude towards her immediately remind her of the first man she'd ever killed, a face she'd never forgotten despite the many scores of foes she'd brought down since. Instinct almost drives her to close the distance between them immediately to disable a limb or sever an artery before the man had a chance to react. But she takes a deep breath, closing her eyes as she continues to keep a steady balance between her impulses and her newfound sense of peace and confidence in the face of these circumstances.
"Wow, thank you. You may be the biggest orc I've ever seen. Don't go easy on me, I've had some practice."
Leveling the shortsword towards Gorash, she steps into an even, stable stance.
Shiva continues smiling as she moves towards the gate, but her eyes briefly lose their mirth. As she turns away, her gaze becomes heavy with experience and understanding, focusing on the fight ahead. Looking back to Alaris, she gives a quick thumbs up before disappearing behind the gate.
Once inside, she turns to Brann and speaks in a curt, low voice.
"A shortsword, please."
"Wow. If there's one thing we have in common, it's theatrics."
"Come on, this is at least kinda funny."
Alaris raises a closed fist to Shiva in response, wishing her both luck and strength. The aasimar watches as Shiva passes through the gate before making their way towards the dwarf. Leaning against Hope's Edge, the bogatyr asks, "Where do spectators go, friend?"
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Eshuvenniel Kazander Ravid,Valor Bard and Acolyte of the Goddess of Luck Caradoc Langham, Halfling Rogue - Lost Magics - Epic of Pre-made Proportions! I'm not looking for heaven or hell... just someone to listen to stories I tell...
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Shiva smiles at the familiarity in the dwarf's gruff manner, having worked alongside several such types over the years. A mischievous idea blooms as she begins to perform contemplation at the man's question. "I've held a sword a few times before. Hoping to get lucky, I guess."
The dwarf lets out a rough snort, half amusement, half disbelief. His single sharp eye glints as he looks Shiva up and down again, clearly trying to gauge whether she’s serious or simply mad.
"Hoping to get lucky, eh?" He rumbles, scratching the edge of his bearded jaw with calloused fingers. "Well, aren't you a cheeky one. Got enough swagger to fill a tavern, I'll give you that."
He gestures towards the towering iron gate leading into the pits, where two burly halfling attendants stand guard. The sound of swords clashing and feet pounding on dirt echoes beyond it, mingling with the wild cheers of the bloodthirsty crowd. The air practically hums with violence.
"Tell you what," the dwarf says, leaning slightly closer, voice dropping into a conspiratorial growl. "I ain't in the habit of lettin' daydreamers walk straight to the butchering block. But you got that look — the dangerous kind. So here's the deal, lass: first round's against one of my house boys. Won't kill ya unless you're dumb enough to stand still." He grins, showing teeth yellowed by years of chewing something harder than bread. "Win that? Then maybe we'll see just how lucky you are."
He straightens, waving toward one of the halflings.
"Oy, Brann! Get this one signed up. Name for the list, lass?"
The crowd roars louder beyond the gate and, somewhere in the pits, steel clashes like thunder. The dwarf's grin doesn't fade.
"Ain't no turnin' back once you're in there."
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
Shiva holds her innocuous smile as the man rolls out a bit of slack for her. "Thank you, I'll do my best to be careful."
Once again dropping into performative contemplation, she arrives at an idea.
"I heard a story once about a terror of a fighter. A woman, a monster of a tiefling. Said to have killed whole scores of men with nothing but a sword and a thirst for blood. Story went that it took the better part of an army to bring her down, and only after days of fighting. She had no real name, just 'The Fighting Demon of Breanne'. It'd be fun to go by that, would that be alright?"
“I have.” he replies, holding the meteor hammer aloft by its loop of chain. “This is the weapon I wish to be blessed. Have your archivists gathered the records?”
Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - Vark Galestone | Half-Orc | Storm Sorcerer
Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - Caio Cypherien | Shadar-Kai | Inquisitor Ranger
The dwarf's single good eye narrows, his grin curling into something toothier, more dangerous. He studies Shiva for a long, heavy moment, the weight of her words hanging between them like the still air before a storm.
"The Fighting Demon of Breanne, eh?" He scratches his beard thoughtfully, a low, gravelly chuckle rumbling from deep in his chest. "A name like that ain't just somethin' you toss around for fun, lass. Folk hear it, they'll expect blood. A lot of it." His gaze sharpens, scrutinising her once more, as though peeling back her polite exterior, searching for the monster beneath, "but you knew that already, didn't ya?" He leans in closer, the faint clink of steel rings in his beard accompanying his low tone. "Question is... you planning to live up to it, or just borrow the name for a bit of flair?"
Without waiting for an answer, he jerks his head toward Brann, who steps forward with a slate and chalk in hand.
"Write it down, Brann," the dwarf grunts. "Let the crowd chew on that one for a while."
The halfling hesitates, glancing between Shiva and the dwarf.
"You sure, boss? Folks round here don't take kindly to pretenders."
The dwarf's grin sharpens.
"We'll find out soon enough if she's pretendin'."
He turns back to Shiva, his expression both impressed and bemused.
"You got guts, I'll give ya that. Just don't disappoint 'em out there. The crowd loves a demon — but they love seein' one fall even more."
The gate creaks open slightly, a hint of dust and sweat wafting through the crack. The crowd's roar swells, eager and ravenous.
"Your funeral, lass," the dwarf finishes with a shrug. "Good luck, or maybe I should say... welcome back, Fighting Demon of Breanne."
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
The steward's eyes linger on the meteor hammer as it gleams faintly in the filtered sunlight.
"A fine choice and made with true craftsmanship. It will serve you well once blessed."
At Caio's mention of the records, Brighthill's demeanour shifts to that of focused authority.
"Yes, they have been assembled. Our archivists are nothing if not meticulous. You’ll find a comprehensive collection on both Valentine Morgenstern and Clarissa Morgenstern, as well as the occultist cabal known as the 99 Hundred." She folds her arms thoughtfully. "Some of what we've gathered borders on the esoteric—ritual patterns, recorded sightings and fragmented accounts of their dealings across Necorath and beyond. I trust this will be enough to guide your path."
"The sanctum is ready," the halfling notes, gesturing towards a side passage lined with intricately carved arches. "We have summoned the appropriate officiants for the ritual and the consecration can begin at your command. We shall see that the blessing is potent and enduring."
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
Shiva continues smiling as she moves towards the gate, but her eyes briefly lose their mirth. As she turns away, her gaze becomes heavy with experience and understanding, focusing on the fight ahead. Looking back to Alaris, she gives a quick thumbs up before disappearing behind the gate.
Once inside, she turns to Brann and speaks in a curt, low voice.
"A shortsword, please."
"Wow. If there's one thing we have in common, it's theatrics."
"Come on, this is at least kinda funny."
Brann pauses, blinking up at Shiva as though he hadn't expected the cheerful tiefling who wove tales of infamous demons to drop the façade so abruptly. The weight in her voice makes his ears twitch and he doesn't waste time asking questions. Instead, he nods sharply, turning to a rack mounted on the wall just beyond the gate.
Metal glints in the dim light filtering through the slatted wooden ceiling. Blades of all sizes rest in neat rows — battle-worn but meticulously cared for. Brann’s hands hover over a few before selecting a sturdy shortsword with a dark leather-wrapped grip and a slight curve to the blade.
"Good balance on this one," Brann mutters as he hands it to her. "Edge's been sharpened today. Don’t go chip it on someone’s skull, yeah?" He quirks an eyebrow, his earlier hesitation now replaced by the wry humour typical of the seasoned pit crew.
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
Caio nods with approval. “Very well, let us make haste.” he says before stepping off down the passage.
Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - Vark Galestone | Half-Orc | Storm Sorcerer
Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - Caio Cypherien | Shadar-Kai | Inquisitor Ranger
The steward falls into step besides Caio, her shorter strides brisk as they navigate the Bastion's sacred halls. The sound of their footfalls echoes against stone walls etched with ancient blessings, light filtering in through stained-glass windows depicting battles long past. As they approach the ritual chamber, the scent of incense wafts through the air, mingling with faint traces of ozone. The golden runes lining the archway shimmer faintly.
Brighthill pauses before the towering double doors of the chamber. Her eyes lift to meet Caio’s.
"Once the rite begins, only those directly involved may remain within the sanctum. Do you wish to oversee it yourself, or shall I entrust it to our warders?"
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
“I trust your priests, and I am eager to see this intel on our enemies.” He offers the weapon for her to take.
Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - Vark Galestone | Half-Orc | Storm Sorcerer
Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - Caio Cypherien | Shadar-Kai | Inquisitor Ranger
Catching Brann's shift in tone, she regains a degree of levity, smiling and winking at him.
"Thank you, I'll try not to."
Taking the shortsword, she tests the balance, moving the blade with a swift fluidity that speaks to her comfort with it. Tensing and relaxing her grip, she flows open strikes through the air into parries and strikes with her off-hand side as her footwork supports each motion. She comes to the conclusion that it is indeed well-balanced.
"Very nice, a well-kept blade. If I win enough, can you ask the fightmaster if I can keep it?"
The steward accepts the meteor hammer with both hands, respectfully examining its fine craftsmanship. The weight of the weapon does not seem to faze her, despite her diminutive stature.
"A fine piece," she murmurs, almost to herself. "It will serve you well when blessed by the Bastion's light."
The weapon is handed over to a priest dressed in gleaming, ceremonial robes. He bows and carries the weapon into the chamber with solemn care. Turning back to Caio, Brighthill motions toward a corridor branching off to the right.
"Come, the records room is this way. My archivists have prepared a secure space where you may review the intelligence in private."
Her pace is brisk as they move through the cool passages, until they reach a sturdy oak door. Inside is a room illuminated by lanterns that cast a soft golden glow. A polished table sits in the centre, already laden with carefully organised documents. Several maps and scrolls bearing the bastion's official sigil are spread out across the surface.
"Everything that we have gathered on the 99 Hundred and the Morgensterns lies here," the steward confirms. "I hope that this knowledge will be the edge that you seek."
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
Brann watches Shiva's fluid motions with a practiced eye, his bushy brows rising ever so slightly in approval. Her strikes are sharp, precise, and purposeful — not the clumsy swings of some amateur hoping to make a name for themselves in the pits. The humour creeps back into his expression as she speaks.
"Aye, if you win enough and don't run off at the first sniff of blood, I'll see what I can do," he grunts, folding his thick arms across his chest. "You'll have to really earn it though. Fightmaster ain't the sentimental type. Loves his coin, though. You win enough matches and you'll make yourself hard to ignore."
He narrows his eyes at her, a playful challenge glinting beneath his gruff demeanour.
"That said, you better not go makin' me look daft by losin' yer first round. I'll put in a word only for winners, got it?"
Brann cracks a faint grin, tipping his chin toward the open gate.
"Now go give 'em a show, Demon. They ain't seen nothin' yet."
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
Shiva smiles, sincere enthusiasm creeping into her voice.
"The people will have a show, Brann. Thanks for the help."
With that, she walks confidently through the open gate into the hot, thrumming air of the fighting pit.
The gatekeeper's voice booms from the other side of the arena wall.
"NEXT FIGHT! NEW BLOOD ENTERING THE PIT!"
The roar of the crowd surges anew, bloodlust and excitement mingling in the thick, dusty air. The vibration of it crawls up Shiva's spine, familiar and fierce. The gate creaks and groans as it swings fully open, revealing the blinding light of the arena beyond, where the roar of the crowd beckons, as primal as the earth beneath their feet. Brann gives her a last look, his expression serious now.
"Keep your head on straight. And don’t die. Bad for business."
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
Shiva takes a deep breath, adrenaline fuzzing the edges of her vision as the announcement summons the memory of a three-on-one bout that ended with her tossing an overly-confident dragonborn's head up into the stands.
"No killing. Understood."
Stepping out into the light of the arena, she looks across the sea of eyes all centered on her. In her earlier years, she would have stared daggers at all in attendance, attempting to memorize their faces should she ever see them again outside the pit. But something strange washes over her, a calm self-assurance that smooths over the slow-cooking tension in her mind.
She triumphantly raises her sword in greeting to the crowd.
The crowd responds with a deafening roar. A cacophony of cheers, jeers and raucous laughter that rattles through the walls of the arena like a living thing. The energy is palpable. A storm of bloodlust and excitement swirling around the pit. They hunger for spectacle and violence. The ascendance of a warrior who will etch themselves into the pit’s savage lore.
The sun beats down on the packed dirt floor, gleaming off of the edges of sharpened weapons that line the arena walls. Dust hangs in the air, shimmering in the golden light. Across from Shiva, a heavy iron gate groans and creaks as it rises. The sound is akin to the maw of a great beast yawning wide. Out strides her opponent — a broad-shouldered orc with scarred green skin and tusks chipped from countless battles. His muscles ripple beneath taut flesh and with one hand he carries a wicked-looking battleaxe effortlessly slung across his shoulder.
The crowd's intensity surges at the sight of him.
"Ah, there she is!" A voice bellows from above, the announcer's voice booming over the din. "The Fighting Demon of Breanne, come to show us what a demon can do in the pits of Five Towers! But will this she-devil stand tall against Gorash the Unyielding, a pit champion known to have crushed more challengers than anyone dares count?"
The audience howls with excitement, placing bets and shouting crude suggestions at both fighters. Gorash sneers at Shiva, sizing her up with a confident glint in his red eyes.
"I was hopin’ for a challenge," he rumbles, his voice low and gravelly, "but you look like yer made of twigs. I’ll break ya quick so you don’t embarrass yerself too bad."
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva
The brawny orc and his dismissive attitude towards her immediately remind her of the first man she'd ever killed, a face she'd never forgotten despite the many scores of foes she'd brought down since. Instinct almost drives her to close the distance between them immediately to disable a limb or sever an artery before the man had a chance to react. But she takes a deep breath, closing her eyes as she continues to keep a steady balance between her impulses and her newfound sense of peace and confidence in the face of these circumstances.
"Wow, thank you. You may be the biggest orc I've ever seen. Don't go easy on me, I've had some practice."
Leveling the shortsword towards Gorash, she steps into an even, stable stance.
"Don't kill. Don't kill him."
Alaris raises a closed fist to Shiva in response, wishing her both luck and strength. The aasimar watches as Shiva passes through the gate before making their way towards the dwarf. Leaning against Hope's Edge, the bogatyr asks, "Where do spectators go, friend?"
Eshuvenniel Kazander Ravid, Valor Bard and Acolyte of the Goddess of Luck
Caradoc Langham, Halfling Rogue - Lost Magics - Epic of Pre-made Proportions!
I'm not looking for heaven or hell... just someone to listen to stories I tell...