Outside The Arena, Alvion

It was a gloomy morning, this early on most Alvonians weren't crowding the arena to watch fights, mainly because most of them were hungover from the leaving party the previous night. Cicero was there though, showing up 20 mins early as any disciplined knight of the kingdom would. Very curious about what would be happening next.

It only took about 10 mins for another man to show up, he was shorter and smaller than Cicero himself but his beserker furs revealed a very strong physique scarred skin covering solid muscle. His eyes were a soft glow of red and he walked with a violent confidence. This person was Rakkath A Demonfolk Beserker from Naveroth. He had gotten a letter telling him that he would be paid 10,000 gold pieces if he could win a tournament at the arena...also at noon.

Then after a few seconds of curious glances by the two men at each other, a third person arrived. Heavily cloaked in black robes and holding a twisted wood staff.

Go inside and sign up for the Skirmishers gauntlet, that's the only way you'll get any answers...either of you.

And like that the cloaked figure had vanished, it was up to the two men what they were going to do next, do as they were told? Or do something else?

Outside The Arena, Alvion

Rakkath was already halfway up the steps leading to the coliseum when he was shot a question. The half naked barbarian turned sideways eyeing the metal clad knight for a moment, thoughts swirling through his head. He HATED questions. So he spat hatefully into the ground at his feet, dribble still clinging to bits of his frazzled beard like cobwebs on a curtain.

"I work for NO ONE!"

He said almost threateningly, with his hand sliding ever closer to the axe at his hip. Rakkath would not mind taking out this armored talker right here, right now. It would stop the gums from flapping, at least. He bet that it was all squishy and brittle behind that metal casing.

"Rakkath will enjoy uncanning you!"

The barbarian slid his thumb over his own throat. All it would take for him to make his move is one more word from the knight. One. More. Word.

Would Cicero continue antagonizing this contender? Or would he take the high road?

Outside The Arena, Alvion

Raged swelled red through Rakkath's face with every word shoved out through Cicero's helmet, he never liked these city types anyway to start with. The dark hooded man already strained his hold of his temper, if not for the promise of 10,000 gold he would have long landed an axe in his chest. Now, he would just have to vent on this armored fool!

Quickly and with well-trained movements, the savage pulled a throwing axe from his belt and hurled it at Cicero. It soared through the air at uncanny speeds belying the force it was thrown with, sailing straight towards the slots the knight looked through in his visor. Rakkath knew the steel was weaker there.

Then, giving Cicero no time for quarter, the barbarian unhooked a larger axe with a broader blade from the back of his belt while bounding two strides forward next to his enemy - bellowing a warcry as he did so, all to bring it's sharp edge into the exposed joints on his right with all the fury he could bear.

The vulgar Rakkath was no stranger to the tools used by city men, the metal suits they wore did not make them any stronger inside.

Outside The Arena, Alvion

But unlike Cicero had hoped, the axe did not glance off the top of his helmet. It was thrown with such force and speed that the blade dug into the metal before he could deflect it, but fortunately it stopped just shy of his head within. The edge would softly prod at his scalp within, now severely blunted by his armor, the rest of the weapon stuck out like a sore thumb from his helmet.

However, the knight's quick thinking and subtle movements gave him opportunity to counterattack the barbarian's approach. Forcing Rakkath to reangle himself to avoid narrowly scraping the blade meant for his heart, leading to his axe missing the target and glancing off the reinforced part of cicero's armor and throwing him behind the knight.

But the barbarian was quick on his feet, sliding a single yard before he touched the ground to achor a turn. Now, his opponent had his back turned towards Rakkath. He raised his axe once more, now seeking to plant it into his enemy's back. There was no honor in a fight, Rakkath sought every opportunity he had ---

"HALT!!"

A stern shout from the side came just as Cicero was readying himself for the attack, followed by a rain of three arrows that smashed in between the two contenders. One even driving itself into Rakkath's hand axe, causing the barbarian to flinch.

"Cease now or be executed!" Several spears were quickly placed across the necks of both offenders, more on Rakkath than Cicero. Held by five city guards, three archers readying another volley behind then to fire at any sudden movement.

"There WILL be NO duels OUTSIDE the arena!" It was hard to tell which one of them yelled it, they wore helmets that hid their features. Perhaps that was the whole point.

"And certainly NONE at this hour!" Indeed, it wasn't even opening hours for the arena yet. They haven't even registered at the entrance. What momentary madness took over them?

Rakkath relented, if he moved another inch then he had no doubt they would run him through. He cursed in his tongue and backed away from Cicero and the guard's weapons, glaring at the knight before heading up towards the actual arena. Too many city men now. No doubt he will not forget this.

It was then that Cicero heard a familiar laughing.

"Good, good. You will be perfect for this."

But no one else seemed to hear it.

What will Cicero do?

The Arena's Holding Area, Alvion

The guards relented their spears, letting the knight pass. Indeed some of them may have known him, but even then, they had to do their job. The mask of peace Alvion had to be maintained, even if darker things loomed about.

The soldiers left, returning to their post quite some distance away. Leaving only two to guard the entrance once more.

---

The signing up was brief, all it took were their names and signatures. There were a few waivers of injuries that let them unshoulder the blame for any grievious harm to the contestants, but then again - many did not know how to read them. Education was a privilege in Alvion, not a neccesity.

Cicero was soon directed to his waiting area, a cubicle in a series of them lining the outer circle of the arena. He had not entered his quarters when he saw that there were one or two stalwart fans probably waiting for some other fighters, they had not noticed the knight's pressence yet. But one other person did.

"...genūs medià inferní."

"I've seen their kind. They get stronger the longer and the more brutal the fight gets."

A dark figure, hooded as well though this one broader than the last with thick, scarred forearms and calloused fingers twiddling a strand of mirthweed gripped between his teeth. Leaning lazily against the shaded section of a broken pillar that used to be part of the coliseum right outside Cicero's room,

"But I guess, you already know that." The figure turned sideways slightly towards the contender, his shoulder long hair now visible but obscured still was his face. In a coarse, gutteral tone that seemed only a pitch away from a growl. Yet, still formally. "Hmm. Yes. I saw your fight, you knew what you were doing."

Then he slowly turned back to facing away, as if cautious not to be seen from afar as obviously speaking to his listener. "Then you also know footwork and swordsmanship can only get you so far, if you are to truly best them then you need to even the playing field. ...Humans like us, just weren't born with the gifts they have. Strength, agility, stamina. Those bastards, they have it all." He lets out a sharp, annoyed breath between his teeth. Discontent rife in his words.

"...but Humanity, WE, have our wits." It is then that he lifted his left hand, holding a bubble like vial of bright orange liquid. Clear as the sunset. "This can give you more strength than they have. Better. Faster. Stronger. And only Humans can take it. We don't need no corrupted blood to be better. And no, it's not magical either, the abjurers won't know a thing."

Then he sighed,

"They call it 'Thorion's Revenge'. I use it to defend myself against the nasty stuff out there, bears, trolls and the like. Barehanded. But it seem like you might have more use for it right now ...I guess I can part with a sip for a mere 200 silver. Honestly, I wouldn't mind seeing one of us give them a good trashing in the tournament for once. ...So? What do you say?"

He shakes the bottle enticingly, it's contents swirling an amber hue. What will the knight do now faced with this offer? Accept his help, reject him outright? Or something more?

Inside The Praising Dawn Tavern, Alvion

"Look 'ere, elf. Yer barkin' up yer wrong bleedin' tree if yer wansum magicky stuff. I run a bleedin' tavern for Gorm's sake and yer wasting me time!"

It was not Gwyneria's fault that she asked the barkeep where the nearest place was she could practice her spells or learn more. Back in Ispar, knowledge was a virtue to be shared, the taverns there were more than willing to point you in the direction of choice for the right bit of business. Who knew Alvion was so different? She had been sitting here, purchasing this swill they called 'Ale' for hours and not a single magician had passed by and the tavern owner seemed unwilling to part with any useful information.

She truly felt like a fish out of water in this foreign land. It was warm. The people had their priorities all wrong. And it was very warm! Desperate, she raised her hand for the third time and slid a few more copper coins across the counter.

The barkeep begrudgingly took her coins and pushed yet another frothy mug into her outstretched hands, she could feel his exasperation building. It was then that he noticed her book under her elbows, particularly the heraldry of a tree embedded on the cover.

"Girly, fine. Yer one of 'em naturey types? Can ye heal?" He did not wait for her to give him a proper answer. "T'ere be a tourny up right in hightown by noon, yer can go help with patchin' up the bleedin' good-fer-nuthins who beat each other silly up d'ere with yer magic mumbo jumbo. Might meet someone better than yer at it. Maybe earn sum coin to pay fer better drinks next time, yeah?"

That seemed to be all the information he was willing to give, but the tavern itself was abuzz with patrons. None seemed particularly scholarly but you never know what you might find if you asked. Or. She could take the barkeep's advice and head towards hightown and look for the venue of this 'tourny' than risk mingling with the crowd here.

Outside The Arena, Alvion

Soon Gwyneira found herself in hightown, like the namesake it was built on a terrace that overlooked the other parts of the city. Temples, banks, official buildings were all here. The place shone brightly in the risen sun, even the air smelled a bit fresher.

It was not hard to find the arena, afterall such an iconic landmark of Alvion was not to be hidden. Red flags lined the way on banner stands leading up to it. As Gwyneira approached the place, the bustle started to pick up as well.

A barker stood outside the entrance, taking bets and giving tips to potential customers. If she fancied herself a betting woman, she could approach him.

Behind him, a booth had been set up. A pensive looking woman in a grey dress scribbled furiously at a pile of parchment. The sign beside her read "Registration and Enquiry" in common.

The Arena's Holding area, Alvion

The man uncorked the vial, confidently letting the knight smell the mixture. It smelled of grapes and smoke, sickeningly sweet as it choked the nostrils.

As cicero retreated back into his thoughts, a wry smile curved on the thin lips of the stranger ...only to disappear when he made a counter offer.

He shook his head calmly, not a single handshake returned.

"I'm a business man, not a philanthropist. I'd like to see you win, but the best I can do is offer this to you first over anyone else. Tell you what," He stoppered the vial. "170 silver, just for you if you tell me your name so I can bet on it. I'm feelin generous today."

"But If you are not making the purchase, I've got your opponents waiting for me ...you only get a chance like this once in a blue moon, knight." The man straightened his hood, a warning sign that he was prepared to leave if the deal didn't go through.

Outside The Arena, Alvion

"You want to sign up as a healer? Now?"

Her once vexed expression crunched into a moment of bewilderment, nervousness then softened into quiet pondering.

"That's fortiutous. Are you by any chance the replacement for Hilda? She's been missing all morn and no one has seen her. I've sent word but The fights are going to take place in a few hours and --- nevermind!" The woman tucked her tresses behind her ears, she too was an elf though clearly not from Ispar.

"So!" She calmed down slightly, going back to the cheery tone she was taught to address any and all who engaged the booth. "How may I address you, miss? And what do you know of healing wounds?"

She plucked out a small knife from under the table, blade surgically sharp. Placing it on the desk. It was just like one of the tests Gwyneira had back at school, the professors would test their students by asking them to knick themselves and repair the wounds with the spells they had previously learnt. The deeper the wound, the more advanced the class. The elf seemed in a hurry, usually these showcases were far more prepared and ceremoniious.

The Arena's Holding Area, Alvion

"That's, your choice, friend."

He grabbed the bag with glee, counting the coins within. 15 gold pieces and 20 silvers, perfect.

"Your ....Coach!?" The man asked looking up, clearly suprised as his gruff voice hopped a pitch higher. At this point, between his visor and the shadows of the hood, it was still hard to see any of his other features. His skin was a pale, sickly colour. Likely not in the best of health, despite his build. "Me?"

"Ahahah! Thou doth jest too much." He laughed a low chortle.

...
...
...

"Oh. You're serious ...!" He gave it some thought, scratching his chin as he did so then scratching his hair behind his head. This was still profit, right? Right?

"I'm no swordsman, ain't going to lie, can't stand the smell of death, personally." He mumbled, sniffing then rubbing his nose. "But tell ya what, if you're not opposed, I can get the lowdown on them you be fighting. The things they wouldn't want you to know. It's gonna cost you, say, like, 30%." He rubbed his fingers together, glancing at the other rooms and seemingly already coming up with a plan.

The man turned back towards cicero. "Unless it's too ...unhonorable?"

---