Caio rolls his eyes at the petulant man, still talking back even after all that. But at last the janissary relents, and so too does Caio, finally leaning back and resting against the wall.

”I can’t say I know these titles, but there will be plenty of time to inform me and the rest of Septem Mortale… if you are to join us.” Caio speaks this last line as a question. “Are you? If this was faking your death,” he gestures at the man’s wounds “You did a pretty convincing job. A lot of effort getting here just to turn around and go back.” He lets the sentiment hang in there air for a beat before continuing. “Two of my companions are healers, they should be able to finish the work which the priests here started, get you back in fighting shape. We would need to leave for Five Towers tonight though, and then we’d be right off to Beschadik. We’ve waited long enough.” Caio stops, looking thoughtful for a moment. “Apologies, I’m being horribly presumptuous. You never actually offered us your blade, did you? No, you only said that it points at the same throat that ours does.”

First it was runestones and now it was this foreign phrase. Dead seven perhaps? Iskander wasn't sure what it all meant but he'd gathered that if he interrupted whenever he needed this chap to explain a term he'd never get anywhere. Best try talking to his companions instead. For now, he'd found people who wanted Morgenstern dead and that was all that mattered.

"I'm not going to leave you to deal with her. I'll help kill her, then you can you take however many pounds of flesh you need to save your friend and we can each go our separate ways." Iskander opens his mouth to say something else but discards it. "There's some dead mercenary out there with my uniform and signaculum. They shouldn't be looking for me but if I go back to Beschcadik I might still be recognised," he warns instead.

“I might be able to do something about that.” he says, flashing a rare smile. He lets one hand drift over his face and the shadows bend and warp his features, the smile becoming momentarily more menacing before he lets the illusion fade. “If we are in accord then, I’m ready when you are.”

Quote from stormchaser6 >>

The dwarf glances sidelong at Alaris, stroking his beard as a grin creases the weathered leather of his face.

"Hah! You speak like a mentor, but your eyes say 'kin'," he nods slowly, watching as Shiva slips Gorash's strike to her arm and counters with a measured blow to the jaw, precise and unflinching. "You're right. That's not wild rage that I'm seeing. It’s shaped. Like steel that's been reforged. Takes more than strength to pull that off."

A thunderous cheer erupts from the crowd as Gorash falls and the dwarf chuckles.

"She's winning the crowd, too. Always easier to spill blood when the mob's behind you, but controlling the fight while the mob screams for chaos? That’s something else."

"Go on up," he tells Alaris, gesturing to one of the upper tiers of seating that winds around the arena, shaded beneath high stone archways. "There’s a spot near the judge's box. You'll get a fine view from there. When it’s your turn, we'll see if your sweat matches your words." The old fighter slaps the bogatyr on the back with a firm hand. "Can’t lie. I like your kind. Trouble follows you, sure, but you don't run from it. Go cheer your friend. The pit remembers fighters like her... and those who walk beside them."

Alaris gives the old dwarf a fierce grin in return, their silver eyes meeting his one keen orb. Then the bogatyr makes their way up towards the judge's box where the gatemaster pointed before turning to gaze out across the hot, dusty arena. "Lady of Light and Love, give me the power today to give hope and joy to these my fellow travelers through this life."

The sun catches on Alaris’s silver eyes as they mount the steps, the noise of the crowd swelling like a tide around them. The judge’s box looms with weathered dignity, its carved stone rail worn smooth. From this vantage, the entire arena unfurls. It's a canvas of clashing wills, the dust rising like smoke from sacred fire.

As Alaris reaches the box, a few seated officials glance at the bogatyr, taking note of the imposing glaive and the quiet reverence in their voice. However, none challenge them. Something in their presence feels sanctioned, ordained.

Alaris's prayer lingers in the air, carried off by a passing breeze. The din of the crowd seems to hush just slightly, as though the Lady Herself leans in to listen.

The crowd rises to its feet with a thunderous roar and a streak of light breaks through the high stone arches overhead, casting a shaft of brilliance across the arena floor. By chance or divine design, it lands squarely on Shiva’s back, illuminating her like a chosen champion.

When the roar just begins to die down, Alaris cries out at their full battlefield command volume, "BEHOLD, SHIVA! The FIGHTING DEMON OF BREANNE, nameless no more! Honor her, friends!"

Alaris's voice booms across the arena, cleaving the fading roar like a warhorn before a charge. Heads whip toward the judge's box, searching for the one who dared to seize the crowd’s ear, and find the silver-eyed warrior standing like a statue of resolve and fire.

Shiva's name echoes like thunder against the high stone walls and a gasp ripples through the crowd. Murmurs, shouts and whistles of excitement quickly follow as Alaris's cry ignites the crowd into cheers that rise like wildfire until they erupt with a feverish zeal. Some chant "Demon of Breanne!" with fists raised, while others slam goblets on wooden tables, stamping their feet in the stands. A few even toss ribbons, polished stones and other lucky charms into the arena.

Down below, Shiva stands in the midst of the dust and sweat and blood, haloed in sunlight, the crowd howling her name as though they've always known it. For a breathless moment, the pit doesn’t feel like a cage. It feels like a throne.

Shiva is surprised to see Alaris emerge from the elevated judge's box, and even moreso when they declare her name with such power and zeal. 

With the light streaming in from above and the crowd sounding her fiendish moniker, she finds herself briefly overcome. Never in her wildest dreams would she have envisioned that the place of her deepest horror, where she had lost herself a hundred times over, could be a place of sincere triumph. She feels a mounting sense of pride at what she had done here, of who she had proven herself to be, and she smiles so hard that her fangs dig painfully into her bottom lip. 

Again, she raises her right arm into the the air in victory. She wills the sense of joy, accomplishment, and peace coalescing and igniting in her heart outward, and the runes of the warden begin to glitter and gleam. Bright, scintillating light explodes outward from the magical patterns in all directions as if reflecting the light pouring down onto her. She had done it, she was here. She had truly learned to live beside her pain and loss, rather than within it. Never before has she felt so free.  

Upon exiting the arena, Shiva gratefully receives her winnings for the fight, a hefty bag of coins that jingle musically as she puts them away. With this, she would be able to procure all that she needed for the impending trip and the dangers it would present. She finds Alaris to quickly let them know of her intended stops, and that she would meet them back at the Warden's Tower. Wading through the crowd, she's plainly surprised to find people slapping her on the back, giving strong handshakes, and generally being in awe of her performance in the pit. She nearly elbows an elderly gentleman in the face as he lays a hand on her bicep, but he seems good-natured about her reaction as she apologizes and thanks him.

Making her way through the district, she picks up clothing that, to the best of her knowledge, is appropriate for the journey. Before too long, she strides through the front door of the weathered but welcoming SWORDS! For Everyone!, just barely remembering to duck in time to avoid slamming her horns into the doorframe. "Hello? Maeve? It's Shivala, I'm back for Hellbender!"

A pause follows Shiva's call, just long enough for her to wonder if the halfling smith is out, and then a cacophony erupts from deeper inside the shop. The clang of something metal being dropped (or thrown), followed by an indignant squawk that might have come from a bird. The furnace’s rumble flares louder, accompanied by a stream of muttered curses.

From behind a curtain of hanging chains, Maeve appears, wiping soot-streaked hands on a rag. Her dark copper hair is pinned back in a rough braid and her sleeveless leather apron is dusted in ash and flecked with tiny burn holes. Her eyes narrow with dramatic offence when she sees Shiva.

"Well finally! I was starting to think that you'd run off and found yourself a shinier sword somewhere else!" Maeve huffs, tossing the rag over her shoulder. Even as she mock-glares, a grin pulls at the corner of her mouth. "Are you always this loud when you come through a door, Shivala? You nearly scared the grindwheel into throwing a blade."

Without waiting for a reply, the halfling strides off into the back of the shop.

"Come on then, Demon of Breanne," she calls over her shoulder. "I heard about your little show. The whole district’s talking."

Moments later, the smith returns carrying a long bundle wrapped in a blackened oilcloth. With care, Maeve places the bundle on the counter and begins to unwrap it, revealing Hellbender.

The silver blade gleams in the flickering firelight, alive with rippling currents that flow like magma. Faint crimson veins thread its length in the form of hands and pentagrams and the spiral-shaped guard is angular, with a jagged elegance reminiscent of infernal architecture. The cross-lacing on the grip's leather is dyed the colour of dried blood and near the pommel is a small engraving of a stylised eye.

"She’s mean." Maeve declares with relish, gesturing to the weapon with a crooked smile. "Light in the hand and sings when she cuts, too."

The halfling slides the sword across the counter towards Shiva.

Quote from Sphynxyy >>

“I might be able to do something about that.” he says, flashing a rare smile. He lets one hand drift over his face and the shadows bend and warp his features, the smile becoming momentarily more menacing before he lets the illusion fade. “If we are in accord then, I’m ready when you are.”

Iskander nodded and swung his legs down from the bed. He winced as a fresh jolt of pain cut through the constant dull ache in his limb, but it was clear from his determined expression that he wasn't going to be accepting any help getting up.

"I need to speak to the healers," he declared. "Where do I find you after?"

He was already step-and-shuffling away in search of a healer before Caio had a chance to answer. 

Maeve's relaxed, familiar manner immediately puts Shiva at ease, and the laugh that rings out as the woman jokes with her is easy and genuine. This sense of belonging briefly reminds her of the warmth of The Black Sheep, quickly followed by all that had transpired since those days that now feel so simple. Shiva smiles, silently nodding her thanks to the woman as she picks the blade up from the counter.

Rolling the carmine grip in her right hand, she finds the weight to be a song of perfection, especially in comparison to the shortsword she'd been using an hour or so ago. She runs her pointer finger down the side of the blade, admiring the craftmanship of the weapon as it shimmers in the light, reflecting her gaze. She finds particular enjoyment in the guard, pressing the pad of her thumb into the jagged formations. Taking a few steps back from the counter, she sends the sword sailing through the air in controlled, fluid motions.

A stabbing strike, followed by a parry against an imagined blow, then counter with a powerful vertical slash that leads into a defensive stance. The weapon augments the momentum of every movement, an extension of herself. Her arm is complete again. 

Setting it back down on the counter, the admiration on her face is plain. 

"Thank you, it is a beautiful sword. Simply amazing. Can you tell me a bit more about its magic?" Retrieving the weighty coin purse, another thought comes to the forefront of her mind. "...and folks are talking about my match? Just what are they saying?"

"I told you that using your old title was a bad idea." 

"Yes yes, definitely makes things a bit tricky. But if anyone is still looking for the Demon of Breanne, they're welcome to try and find me."  

Maeve crosses her arms and watches Shiva move with the sword. The halfling doesn’t speak, or interrupt. Not during the dance. Her eyes are keen and focused, with an expression that rings with understanding and respect. Finally, Shiva comes to rest and the tiefling's question prompts the smith to exhale softly through her nose.

"That sword belongs in your hands," she remarks, nodding toward the weapon. "Hellbender’s core enchantment is a rare one, drawn from a forging technique that the dwarves call 'soul harmonics'. It means that the blade doesn’t just respond to your strength, but to your state of being. When you’re calm and focused, she stays balanced and fast. However, when you fight with fury, or conviction. When your emotions surge. That the blade channels and amplifies. Your strikes hit harder. They burn... not with flame, but with force and heat that singes the soul more than the flesh."

The halfling reaches over and taps the crimson veins in the blade with a blackened fingernail.

"That’s not for show. When she’s truly awake, they glow. You’ll know."

“As for the fight?" Maeve grins mischievously and leans a hip against the counter. "Oh, Shivala. People love a redemption story. A demon girl... sorry, the 'Demon of Breanne'... coming back to the pits, standing toe-to-toe with a brickhouse like Gorash and not just winning, but outclassing him? With patience and poise, no less? Half the crowd didn’t know whether to cheer or run for their lives. Some were calling you a weapon of the gods. Others say that you were trained by celestials, or cursed by demons."

The idea draws an amused chuckle from the smith.

"The taverns are already embellishing it. You’re ten feet tall, fought with your bare hands, eyes glowing with holy fire. I’m sure that by sundown, you’ll have wings and breathe lightning." Maeve folds her arms again and lowers her voice. "The best stories that I heard? Some are saying that they saw something change in you. Like you weren’t just fighting him, but something in yourself... and you won."

The halfling pauses and clears her throat, now business-like again.

"Anyway, the sword’s worth seven thousand five hundred pounds, enchantment included, but considering the sheer satisfaction of seeing Gorash get shown up by someone with manners, I’ll take it down to five thousand," the smith tells Shiva with a sly look. "Think of it as an investment in your legend."

“The teleportation circle. I’ll be waiting.” he says before stalking out of the room, cloak sweeping behind him.

"******* hells."  Shiva can't help but chuckle as Maeve recounts the larger-than-life stories of her fight that sound as though they'll only become more grand with time. Her smile then softens in contemplation. "You know, Maeve, there was a time when it would've frozen me to the spot to be called the Demon of Breanne again. That last version you mentioned is the true one, fighting something in myself. I feel like I've reclaimed something stolen from me cycles ago. No matter what you hear, that's the truth, that I fought to be free of the horror of my past." 

She then sits the sack of coins on the counter. "The blade sounds incredible. I'm honored to now be wielding it, I think it's perfect for me. Thank you for all that you've done for me and my friends. It's meant more to us than you can know." With this, Shiva takes up Hellbender, feeling the magic sitting within it. "I'll be stopping by to say hello whenever I'm in the city, I hope that's alright." 

"Gods, celestials, demons. The only things keeping me company in the Pit when I was growing up were fear and dirt. I'd smell the sweat, mixed with blood, for days after every fight." 

"People like tales of the impossible. Things that inspire and terrify them. And whether or not they want to admit it, most people have pretty fantastical ideas about themselves that they entertain in their quiet moments. You've given people something new to whisper about in hushed tones." 

"As long as they don't start cheering for me every time I walk into a tavern. I'd rather deal with Breannian assassins.." 

Before heading back to the Warden's tower, she thinks to try the Scarlet Serpent just once more to see if Mistress had written. If for no other reason than to let her know of all that has changed. 

Iskander is surprised at the expensive conveyance, but just sticks a thumb out in acknowledgement. He flags down a healer with two "hello"s, the one in hopeful Sarameian followed quickly with a Taneman greeting.

Maeve listens to Shiva’s words in rare, complete silence, the halfling's usual flippancy falling away to leave only honesty in her eyes.

"That’s the kind of truth that people can feel, even if they don’t have the words for it," the smith replies with a slow nod, when Shiva speaks of reclaiming something stolen. "They see it in the way that you walk off of the sands. In the way that you didn’t gloat. Didn’t break him, just bested him. That’s the kind of freedom that can't be taken. You earned it and it shows."

Maeve gives a small smirk as the coin purse lands on the counter, watching Shiva sling Hellbender into place, before leaning over the counter again with a grin.

"You’d better stop by. Gotta keep that edge sharp and I expect the full tale of every glorious duel, demon-hunting adventure and divine smiting you get up to. Deal?"

With the promise made and the air between them warm with mutual respect, Shiva takes her leave.

The familiar streets of the district pass quickly beneath her steps and, soon enough, the iron lanterns of the Scarlet Serpent come into view. Colourful flowers sway gently in the midday breeze and the quiet hum of conversation and perfumed incense drifts out through the open doors. Inside, the receptionist in the entrance hall recognises the tiefling immediately and offers a respectful nod.

"Miss Shivala. You’re expected."

Shiva is escorted upstairs to a quiet, modest room, with rich silks draped in tasteful fashion, a small writing desk and a delicate letter left atop it. The letter is sealed with black wax, marked with a signet bearing the letter A. No one else is inside.

"Take your time," the escort offers softly, before withdrawing.

Quote from Jellyfersh >>

Iskander is surprised at the expensive conveyance, but just sticks a thumb out in acknowledgement. He flags down a healer with two "hello"s, the one in hopeful Sarameian followed quickly with a Taneman greeting.

 
The healer, a soft-spoken young woman in Sunhold yellow and white, glances up from her notes and responds fluently in Sarameian, albeit with a pronounced Littlun lilt.

"You’re awake. Praise the Sun! We weren’t sure you’d make it through the night."

She gently steers Iskander towards a nearby cushioned bench, where an array of tinctures and salves sits ready.

"The wound on your thigh was deep and festering. We flushed it with sacred water and blessed amber root. The fever only just broke."

Her eyes flick to his face, reading the stubborn fire in it.

"You’re not thinking of going anywhere, are you?"

The healer gives a sigh, but doesn’t argue. Instead, she kneels before Iskander and unwraps the bandages with practiced grace. His leg is a quilt of purple bruises and angry red stitching, but the worst of the rot is gone.

"You’ll walk. With pain, but not fast. Whatever it is you’re doing, I hope it’s worth it."

She doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she dips a long strip of cloth in a glowing infusion of sun-oil and lays it across the wound.

"This will help with scarring... and maybe keep you from ripping it open the moment you get dramatic."

Once she’s finished, she re-wraps the leg tightly, she hands Iskander a small satchel.

"Opium and willow bark. Three days’ worth. Don’t be a hero. If you need to run, you’ll want to take some first."

Anticipation begins to build in Shiva's chest as she stares at the letter. The warmth of her conversation with Maeve is already beginning to fade in the wake of its arrival, and she takes slowly a seat before it. Would it be a complete dismissal, Mistress assuming that all Shiva wanted was immortality? Or a demand to immediately ride to be at her side, with a promise of being turned? 

Before the possibilities overwhelm her, she gingerly opens the letter and reads.

Iskander smiled at his native tongue, it was the first time he'd heard it in weeks.

"So you are one of the physicians who saved me. I owe you my life." He bowed in respect, undermined as the gesture might be by his seated position above her. "May Imhotep walk with you on your noble path."

"I wanted to thank you before I left. I am leaving," he confirmed. " We are going by portal though?" he added with the pitch of a question. It had to make it better, didn't it? Her face told him what she thought of that.

"I wasn't sure if I'd die from disease before I got here, be executed or imprisoned. I never imagined I'd be leaving so shortly after. On my own two feet at that. In a sense." He clutched the satchel in his hand. "This thing I have to do. It is worth it. I'm done being a bystander and I'm done blindly following orders." Iskander forced a reassuring smile back onto his face. "Your efforts won't be for nothing, if I die I'll make sure it is worth it."