“Fight!”

The two men advanced toward one another across the densely-packed sand. Already, both were glossy with trace amounts of perspiration thanks to the merciless desert sun, but more sweat was to come—possibly blood, too. One of the brawlers was a veteran of the arena, six feet and three inches of brazen muscle, forty years old and a terrific pugilist. His hair, ratty and curly, hung down across his ears and stuck to his moist forehead. Beneath the toned skin was a mind possessed of utter confidence in victory, and for good reason; his opponent looked to be a total pushover. The challenger had the appearance of a northerner, with ragged red-brown hair loosely tied in a queue and wan, angular features. What totally discredited him, however, was his pitiable physique: though tall, he lacked any sort of body fat, instead displayed pale skin wrapped over very visible ribs like a drape. None of the onlookers expected the bout between the wimpy foreigner and the prized champion to last more than a few seconds.

The administrator of the pit, however, watched with some interest. The only woman amidst a throng of men, the administrator stood with an elderly, oriental, crimson-robed nobleman, in the VIP section of the spectators' stands. Though normally she would have never allowed such a match to take place, her aged companion had assured him that this seemingly worthless husk of man would make for a very intriguing fight. Naturally, she didn't believe him -not any more than she had when he and the northerner had shown up one day with outrageous claims, demanding that she join them on a quest- but for once she had decided to put up with a little nonsense. It was impressive enough that these men had approached her in the first place; she'd established herself as quite the authority in Anicetus. Before she'd arrived, there were no gladiatorial pits, just unused sections of ancient ruins not claimed by the city authority. No sooner had she come, however, than conflict erupted, and fighting became overnight Anicetus's most riveting sport. As things fell into place, this woman naturally emerged as the general manager. Stockily-built, quick of mind, and short of temper, she quickly proved herself both an admirable fighter and an able administrator. Any man who wanted to take control of the pits need only battle her and win, and despite a few challenges, she remained top dog still.

Down below, several seconds of circling and sizing up passed before the first blow was struck. One brawny fist crashed against the northerner's ear, and he teetered backward. The crowd's collective apathy transformed into excitement when the man they expected to fall in a single strike pivoted around, landing a ridgehand strike to the aggressor's temple, then following up with a double punch to the solar plexus. The spectators perked up. Maybe they'd have their match after all. Amazed and incensed that his anorexic enemy had actually [i]hurt[/i] him, the veteran let loose a wrathful barrage of punches. Almost nonchalantly, the thin man dodged or blocked them all, letting the veteran exhaust himself in his attempt to end the fight early. After the outburst, the fight resumed, but with a marked change. Every time the veteran made contact with his opponent, his strikes grew feebler, while the northerner apparently got stronger. This continued for another minute, the duel devolving more and more into a comedic show on the part of the northerner, dancing around and mocking his foe to a surprised but thrilled crowd. At last, he sauntered up to the veteran and casually delivered an upper cut to his jaw, causing him to collapse into a heap. Pleased with the totally unexpected, unprecedented victory, the crowd went wild.

The administrator was also surprised. She beckoned to the old man beside her to follow and descended to the side of the sandy arena, where the northerner was toweling off. The old man took some time to appear, walking unsteadily with the aid of a cane; by the time he did, the next match was already starting. “Maybe you were right after all,” the administrator finally grunted.

“Of course.” Though the woman was taller, stronger, and overall far more intimidating than him, the old man addressed her with callousness. “All of our abilities are severely limited, but Moros retains the ability to drain the strength of others and add to his own.”
“Always hungry,” added Moros, brushing sand from his hair. “Now do you believe us?”
“I don't know,” replied the woman, a look of worry crossing her face. “You speak of a higher purpose. Of four brothers, of three sisters. Of angels and demons and the world ending. I don't remembering anything but being human. I don't remember any sisters. I'm Eris Contiello, Dutchess of the Sand Pits. I'm not who you think I am.”
Moros put his hand to his snowy, gaunt face, massaging his eyebrows. “Looks like Sophist must have wiped her memory. Clever old bastard.”
“Must be...” the old man murmured. A wrinkled hand descended to his side, touching a green crystal that protruded from his right hip. He winced. “Regardless, you must come with us.”

At that, Eris bristled. “I'll do no such thing. Though your words may have some grain of truth to them, there's a far greater chance they're still an old sod's delusions.” Frowning deeply, the old sod in question raised his cane and smacked Eris between the eyes before she could react. In the background, the crowd suddenly roared with hype over the current fight. The previously still crowd erupted into a frenzy of jumping, swinging arms, and hollering. Eris recoiled, and as she took aim at the old man to sock him squarely in the jaw, her eyes glowed deep red. Her left hook was caught by Moros before it could connect, which only heightened her rage. She turned on him, but he pointed out at the arena, shouting “Look!”

Though Eris wanted nothing more than to floor the red-haired beanpole, she sensed the urgency of his words and looked out onto the sand, and was taken aback. Dozens of civilians had leaped into the ring, and were beating each other savagely. The sand was already red with blood, and several bodies lay still in it. As she watched, entranced by the incredible violence, the old man whispered in her ear. “Your magic is at work, sister. I'll ask you again: are you ready to come with us and help us find our kin...Fury?”