Outside of the arena, the crowd was thick and roiling with men and mer. Stands of drinks, food, and all sorts of beverages across Tamriel was being sold. Some sensitive to the substance might even smell moonsugar, though being illegal, no one without vast connections would sell it openly. The skies above had nary a cloud, and whilst the meaty combat of the arena worked up your appetite, the late summer heat made it a necessity to purchase a drink.
“Oh, don’t buy anything here. They sell goods for criminal prices here! Follow me to my V.I.P. section, and you’ll garner a good meal at a fair price.” He said for the third time. “Arthrelor the Fair, they call me! And not just for my good looks!”
The bosmer kept the group close, having to skip back every now and then to make sure they still had him in eyesight, his small body bounding between the passersby in the crowd like a rabbit. He led them to a smaller set of stairs on the northern end of the greater coliseum, the four sets of stairs were tight and grueling, and one couldn’t be blamed if they thought it was a service entrance. Once they had made it, Arthrelor opened the door, and the blinding light of the sun filled their vision, before they beheld the glory of the Kvatch Arena.
Rhona… wasn’t entirely certain what she had just stumbled into, one moment she was wandering around the city aimlessly, the next moment she had found herself in a gaggle of people (who she thought nothing more of), and now a Bosmer was escorting them through the city. She bumbled along in relative silence, the mace on her hip knocking annoying into her thigh. At this point, she was certain there was a bruise underneath.
She marveled at the sight as she emerged with the others, she opened her mouth to speak but her stomach growled something fierce, forcing Rhona to put her hand over the breastplate as an attempt to soothe the ache in her belly.
The arena was a sight to behold. Hexagonal in shape within its interior, there was over a dozen rows of seats through each subsection. Already the sand of the arena was drenched in crimson, the blood shining in the sun as if in celebration of the lives lost in what might have seemed like senseless violence. But the crowd cheered and jeered. Orcish bystanders roared in approval and many spoke among themselves, asking what they thought of the previous bout and who might be up next.
Arthrelor did not lead them much further, for two rows up they found a small space where tables were set up. An urn of wine on each tabletop, it was flanked by cups of varying sizes.
“Ah excellent, they hadn’t cheated me out of my seats.” The bosmer whispered, satisfied and gleeful. He turned to the crew, his arms out wide. “Come, come! Have a sit down and enjoy the show! I will be back with cakes and sausages! Don’t worry, don’t worry, we can discuss the bill once the bouts are over. Enjoy!” He waved them to take a load off before he scurried away, lost in the crowd of onlookers.
To say that things had quickened their pace would have been a bit of an understatement, but even more was Quavanir left to wonder about the turns they had taken: The Altmer, after some significant consideration, had ultimately decided against joining the arena, but instead had wandered off to the market square in hopes of finding the temple somewhere near to it. Had that made him get there any closer actually ? No, not really. He had run into a bunch of strangers who had looked as if searching for something just as he did and had stayed with them, simply because company sharing the same problems always felt better than being alone.
Now what would Akatosh say in his next dream upon noticing that his favorite Altmer had preferred a round trip back to the bloody arena instead of finally going to the temple ? The more Quavanir thought about it, the less it did go well with his conscience. Also there was the matter of coin: Athrelor, mixed right into his friendly, caring and no less hectic demeanor, had mentioned the words 'gold' and 'bill' a bit too often to keep such a thing as an altruistic facade completely intact, so better not to indulge into this grandiose presentation of food too much!
Quavanir's stomach thought differently. It had been a long journey and he simply needed something to restore the energy lost while moving his tremendous self around all day, so the others would see the Altmer with a considerable chunk of bread in his hands more sooner than later. At least there was one thing he was happy about right now and that was NOT having joined the fighting. Everyone who had taken a trip to the shore once knew just how much water a thick layer of sand could absorb before looking as if drenched in it, so the large reddish patches down in the arena told a story about brutality – and that was not even counting in those participants who had been fried and frosted instead of slashed open.
Dalnoria followed the Wood Elf and his motley band with… caution. This was hardly the first time she had been accosted by a would be salesman or crier, but she had the strangest feeling like she ought to stick with this little group for the time being. She needed to see something of this place and she supposed that the crowds would be gathered at the Arena. The Chapel had definitely been the one from her vision and so she assumed that there was something of note around here.
Her caution only grew as he declared himself 'The Fair' and told them not to worry about the price for they would discuss the bill 'later'. She hadn't lived so many hundreds of years on Mundus to be taken in by a scam and so she did not dare touch anything the Mer had offered them. The Fair indeed, it was perhaps fortunate for him she was not some other Telvanni wizard - or any attempt a scam might see his ashes scattering in the wind.
Before she could even challenge him on this, however, the elf was gone - disappeared into the crowd of people. How odd he was, he reminded her of a scamp - and that did little to ease her concerns about him. Dalnoria thought on each of the people thus far she had passed that caught her attention - though for some she wasn't quite sure why.
A pallid skinned Imperial who seemed quite taken aback by her surroundings now she was in the arena - perhaps she had scarcely been to a city before. There had been an affluent and keen looking Redguard with beautiful armour and garments, a trader or noble perhaps. An Altmer of quite striking appearance, imposingly giant and simultaneously young and old looking - Dalnoria entertained for a moment the possibility of another aged spellcaster, but careful examination suggested he was truly young. Another Dunmee too -very young and with a face as sharp edged as a dagger, certainly looked to be the rough and tumble type. There had been a Crusader or Knight with rather elaborate light armour near the temple too, a stern looking Breton. Dalnoria had half the mind to approach her and speak with her before the Wood Elf had come.
"I can't help but feel that I am waiting for something important to happen - but what?" Dalnoria wondered aloud as she peered down towards the bloody arena floor. There was a most curious sense of destiny and history to where she stood now, as if she was witnessing some grand historic event. Not the tournament - something larger and far more ancient, wrapped up within the dreams and the visions. Something was happening and she was now a cog within it. And she felt that had blundered her way into the right place, the place she needed to be.
Sometimes you just have to plod along, putting one foot before the other, look up, and suddenly, there you are; Right where you wanted to be all along.
The Dunmer woman’s voice distracted Rhona from surveying the room, and the arena before them. How true a statement. She had wandered around Kvatch looking for something, a symbol, a sign, anything hinting at the dreams that had tormented her for the better part of two weeks now. The other half of her felt that she ought to simply wait. But wait for what? Her stomach growled again in protest, and once more she placed a hand over it to silence it. She had her own provisions to eat, but that would run out in due time, and the assortment of food on the table certainly looked tempting…
Khamir enjoyed a couple of hours of normality, of peddling the family wine and other miscellaneous goods exotic to Kvatch. Many locals and tourists alike had browsed the stall, and slightly less than that had purchased bottles of the good stuff. Returning customers were gleeful to see the Al-Damars back in town and new customers had their eyes widened by the samples offered. It was therapeutic to be back at it, for a while at least.
But once the sun was a few degrees higher, a niggling feeling arose in Khamir's stomach. An indescribable urge to be somewhere else, but nowhere in particular. Just not here. The more he ignored this sensation, the stronger it got. Before long, it became unbearable to the point that Khamir hadn't noticed Arban trying to get his attention multiple times, it was only the clicking of fingers in front of his face that awoke him from his trance.
Eventually, Khamir had declared that he needed a break from the hawking and wandered into the centre of the square, absorbing his surroundings. The crowds were beginning to thin out masses of citizens funneling towards the Arena district, no doubt for the festivities that were about to start. He recalled his stomach beginning to purr in hunger, but was unaware that it had begun to puppeteer his actions - for why else would he have followed this elf to the Arena on the back of vague promises of food and entertainment? Had he been victim to a Bosmeri incantation of Illusion?
He hadn't the chance to ask before the elf scattered away and he found himself alongside several strangers, equally as confused and curious in appropriate measures. They appeared to be fellow seductees to the merryment of their eccentric and eager host, but there seemed to be no pattern to them. It would make sense for him to be one amongst other out-of-town middle class tourists, who had the money and bemusement to indulge in luxurious hospitality. But the more Khamir inspected the cohort, the less sense they made as a group. A Dunmer mage, a few rogues of all shapes and sizes, a knight of some kind, a couple of young women… and a Redguard merchant. This wasn't the set up to any joke he's ever heard of in his travels…
Quavanir did not seem to share much interest in his most immediate surroundings as long as he could busy himself with the loaf of bread in his hands, but all good things eventually had to come to an end. So, with his stomach now much more filled, the pointy-eared man found it rather easy to look over the other's heads and down to the arena, but there was a small pause in the fighting right now so he turned towards the others. Even before given any of them a close inspection something burst out of him that had been lingering there for just too long.
"So I doubt it is a sheer matter of coincidence that we're all here, is it ? Personally I just had too bad a series of nights over the last week so I'm quite happy to be here now for some relaxation. How about you ?"
The Altmer reached for a bottle of wine and let a small amount of the red stuff flow into his glass. The label told that it was a rather average-ish, cheap and common item, but given how little to no care he had given about that before wrapping his giant hand around the bottle the liquid inside it could have been worth more than half a city or less than a broken fingernail either. He just needed something in his hand, something he could use to give the impression that he was totally relaxed with regard to his own questions.
Quavanir wasn't. In fact, had he been his own outside observer, he probably would have called himself out 'weird' at this point. These were complete strangers who had come together under quite unknown circumstances and his whole motivation to have joined them was laden with inherent uncertainty, too! If only any of the others would now talk about weird dreams and certain gods it would make Quavanir a significantly happier man in an instant.
Trumpets sounded, keen and unceremoniously loud, despite the ceremonious circumstances. Arthrelor held his hands to his large, pointed ears. He looked perturbed and vehemently annoyed, but not surprised. Apparently he knew they sat right under the orchestra booth. The elves would feel it more than the rest, but it wasn’t easy on non-mer ears either. Arthrelor chewed his cake as he waited out the music. The blasts of noise rose and fell for a good half of a minute, until it halted just as the coliseum gates on the northern and southern walls began to open.
The group sat within the southwestern section of the stadium, judging by the sun. They could see the contestant at the north, firstly. A male Khajit stepped out, a battle axe in his hand that gleamed silver in the sun. Perhaps not the most common choice for the lithe feline, but he held it as if he knew how to wield it. The raiment he bore was light but protective, though he had deigned not to use a shield, likely to capitalize on the natural speed of his race. The Khajit hissed at the crowd, the long, drawn out noise ending in a wild cat’s screeching crescendo.
Much of the crowd cheered, but a ripple of murmurs arose from the lower sections that had a better look of the arena’s floor. There was a small pause for the group as it took a few moments for them to see the Khajit’s competitor. It was one none of them would have expected, particularly not Arthrelor, who’s eyes popped out of his head when he saw who stepped into view. He began to say something, but it came out garbled and bread fell out of his mouth.
It was a man, just out of boyhood. He could not have been more than twenty one summers old, maybe younger. Fit and hale, he did not wear any raiment. Just simple, baggy breeches and a vest. He looked strong, but stranger than not wearing raiment was the fact he bore no weapon.
“Today is a special, once in a decade match! We don’t get a lot of volunteers folks, but it seems we have a special treat on this momentous day!” The announcer called, his voice echoing off the walls. The stone meticulously set so the voice set at the correct location would bounce off and reach every ear in the stadium. “A veteran of the games, Ta’shik Do’ran fights a man who signed up not an hour ago, Beren Ecthelion!”
Quavanir had been on the verge of raising his hands in order to press them firmly against his poor ears and, in fact, his internal reminder about this potentially being a provocative gesture towards their hosts had come a little to late to prevent the move as a whole, but at least it had stopped it while still in an early stage of development. Not that the arena as a whole would have been a particularly quiet place anyhow, but the proximity to the orchestra was... acoustically volatile! If he'd come out deaf than Akatosh would probably be the only thing for him to listen to for his whole life!
The Altmer learned forward a bit as if not realizing that even at his height such a stance did little in terms of shortening the line of sight between him and the opponents down on the sand, but still it felt... right... for his intrigued self. The Khajiit was interesting, but compared to the other man -- or rather boy ? -- simply not out of the usual enough for his show not to get stolen by his opponent. No weapons ? For Quavanir this was indication enough that this Beren was either a lunatic or a mage. So would he now be able to see some fireworks ? He could do that himself, but a caster's own perspective had always felt differently to him than actually seeing the thing from much further away.
Time would tell, soon. For now however everyone could see that their pale-skinned, golden-eyed mate was intrigued to say the least. If he'd lean over just a bit more he might fall over the railing and crush some poor spectator on the ranks below... Maybe he should have had the guts to sign up for the arena himself ? A bit of regret was there, definitely.
Rhona peered down into the area, glancing one at the Altmer companion who was keenly gazing below as below. “Mm.” She uttered softly, she had no real tact for battle much less actual hand to hand combat, but she did not see this ending well for the man with no armor let alone no weapons.
“What a queer array of events, from the dreams, to this journey, and now… here.” She muttered to herself, her words barely audible over the cacophony of the arena.
Dalnoria's ears stung from the cacophony of the band - What an awkward place to find herself in, she momentarily considered if she could find a silence spell or something to save her poor sanity from the trumpets and the crowd.
She needn't have worried about that, however, for the unfolding events in the arena led to the crowd murmuring in confusion rather than cheering; A man had entered the arena, apparently entirely voluntary, with nothing but his fists.
Well. Dalnoria thought, that made things odd. To enter a bout with a professional killer so unarmed was daring indeed.
Still, she had seen more surprising things in her long life than those, and she wasn't about to discount the fighter in appearance alone; She'd seen a few monks of sorts before, back in Morrowind, men and mer who'd trained with their fists and blunt weapons such as staves over the use of blades, axes and other common implements of war. A traveller well versed in hand to hand could get by when it came to self defense. She figured this man, simple in clothing, may be such a figure?
"Not a matter of coincidence in what way? I am sure it is no coincidence that each of us, individually, chose to come here for whatever reason - but if you mean it is no coincidence that we specific individuals happen to be here, why, I'd have to ask what leads you to believe there is anything particularly remarkable about this assortment of strangers. I shall say Coincidence is often as powerful as providence." Dalnoria mused aloud casting a sidewards glance to the Altmer. Sometimes, things really did come down to happenstance and luck - for excess or want of the latter, the history of Nirn had been thrown to chaos a hundred times over.
"As for relaxation, I confess I find little relaxing about watching people die for sport and money. It is to me evidence that for all their talk of high culture, the Imperials succumb to ignoble barbarity as readily as any other race." Dalnoria said with a frown, watching the gathering fight in the arena.
“Begin!”
The Khajit moved forward with steady steps, somehow very humanoid and yet able to stalk on two legs like the hunting cat his people emulated. He held its weapon casually, axehead down and pointed at the ground just ahead of his feet. The unarmed man stepped carefully, moving to the right. Anyone who could see his eyes saw he was incredulous, but not overly scared. As if he had decided to spend his life savings, or to tell his parents he was marrying against their wishes.
The combatants looked about to converge, a hush falling over the normally raucous crowd as violence grew so hot in the air one could smell it. It had the wiff of sulphur, flame, and brimstone. There was a strange, wrongness to it. An alien quality that was almost palpable. It happened so slowly, no one realized the smell had begun before the fight. It was only now that hell wished it to be known, letting a growing fear gnaw at the mortals present. Just between the two fighters, the earth cracked asunder, making a hole as large as a dining table.
Suddenly there was a snap, impossibly loud. Grinding began to fill the air, and slowly the ground moved. One couldn’t tell what was happening immediately due to the density of the audience on the northeastern side, but as the moments passed, it was clear: The coliseum was splitting in half, and the seats opposite of the group were split and hewn, people falling down and screaming from the new earthquake now forming.
In the center of the ring, a towering structure made of obsidian stone began to rise from a pit of horrid red light, flames licking out from below. Those not dead or fleeing were stricken in horror as the
thing lifted from what could only be Oblivion, forming a great, daedric circle as large as any castle gateway. And within, energies that threaten to tear the very fabric of reality coalesced, forming the appearance of a great eye wreathed in flame.
