NOTE: The following is a bit of writing derived from my tests with Ndrog in the Arena, performed and written up before the tournament proper started. While it's essentially non-canon (being based on tests), I figured I might as well post it as-is rather than leave it unpublished.
Priest Ndrog wakes, kneeling on hard, grey stone. Cold sweat is running in runnels from his forehead. He breathes in sharply, harshly; it takes him a handful of precious seconds to process the surroundings and return to himself. He grips the shaft of his halberd tightly, using it to push himself upright.
Where is he? Why is he not in his ce – ah. Ah, yes. He recalls it now.
Excommunicado.
A single word. An unceremonious end to a life of service. They had allowed him to keep his weapon, at least.
Today, he will live or die. The arena gates are before him. He’s heard tales of it, of course – a place that swallows up the lives of dozens of combatants every year, as voracious and insatiable as the Blood Gods’ appetites. Sixty-four gladiators will enter the pit of war that lies ahead, and of them, only one will emerge into glory as the champion of the arena. A few times, he had been tempted to petition the council for the right to enter the arena and fight in the Order's name, pleasing the crowd and the Blood Gods alike with every arcing swing of his halberd and every drop of blood shed. But that would never be, now; could never be, after the moment of madness that had cost him his future and seen him cast out.
The arena gates grind open, and there is no more time for thought or reflection. Ndrog swallows back the terror building in his throat, pushes the instinctual fear of death back down into the dark cellar of his mind. He walks out onto the scarlet-stained sand and stone, straight-backed and solemn, halberd in hand. There are no roars, no cheers; only silence, beyond the grating of a dozen other gates creaking open. Other figures emerge – humans, beasts, and creatures halfway between them.
Reason fades away. The red mist descends. The blood ignites in his veins. Heat rises in his chest, boiling and clawing up into his throat; a scarlet veil of fury blinding him to all but the need to *kill*.
Bellowing like an enraged animal, Ndrog rushes toward the nearest figure from the side, halberd wheeling around him.
It turns, its hands halfway to drawing a crude sword when his halberd’s swing removes its dominant arm at the elbow. A second blow removes the top of its head as the creature ducks a moment too slow, turning a clean decapitation into a botched mess. Ndrog snarls in rage at the sight – a perfectly good offering to the Blood Gods, ruined by base selfishness! He makes a point to hack at the torso a couple times as a display of his disdain, kicking the head hard as he storms on in search of a more worthwhile foe.
He finds one moments later. A dwarf in leather armour and a metal helm, busy freeing his axe from the broken ribcage of one of his maimed kin. The man turns to see him just as Ndrog does; for a moment, the air hangs still as the two gladiators take one another’s measure in the space of a split second.
The moment breaks, and the challengers rush to meet each other with shouted war-cries and snarled oaths. Ndrog’s halberd is already swinging, his face wrenched into a snarl and his blood-tinted braids flying around his face; the dwarf responds in kind, his iron axe wheeling around to strike. His halberd cuts a fingerwidth into the dwarf’s armour, drawing a thin line of blood. Ndrog’s snarl turns to a cry of pain as the iron axe sweeps around and strikes home, severing his right arm just below the shoulder. He clamps down on the pain, teeth drawing blood from his tongue, forcing himself to turn the pain into rage, and the rage into a charge that bowls the dwarf over and leaves him scrambling to clamber back to his feet.
Hard blows of the halberd ring from the arena sands as the dwarf scrambles left and right, shouting something in the foreign tongue of his. Scarcely a moment later another dwarf breaks away from her fight and rushes forward, spear jabbing toward Ndrog’s chest; he lurches sideways, feeling the wasp-sting of the spear’s head clipping his chest, and retaliates with a blow powerful enough to lodge the halberd in the dwarf’s off-hand.
It does nothing, however, against the blow that takes his right eye. He staggers backward with a roar of pain as the dwarf yanks her spear free of the wound, swinging his halberd through a red-hazed vision of blood and tears. He can’t see his foes, but he can hear them, hear and feel the sound of flesh parting and blood being split as a lucky blow finds its mark against one of their limbs.
The spear butt’s blow lands hard, and he roars in pain the bone of his shoulder cracks under the force. His hand spasms open, fingers refusing to obey his brain’s commands; numbness spreads from the wound as blood drips down the purpling flesh. With his halberd lost to the ground and no way to wield it with his remaining hand, Ndrog flings himself at the first dwarf again and fights like an animal, clawing and biting, tearing at the soft tissues he can reach. Blood fills his mouth as he bites down hard into the dwarf’s upper body, feeling the fat tear and the organs beneath quivering; he shakes his head left and right to tear off chunks of the flesh, spitting them at the other dwarf as she closes toward them with spear in hand and the body beneath him goes still.
The spear’s tip punches in through his ribs, tears through his lung, shatters the shoulderblade. It erupts from his back in a spray of blood and bone fragments, and the strained grunt of air being driven from his lungs. The force of a punch to the back of his head drives him to the sand, stars bursting in his vision and scarlet saliva spraying from his teeth as they painfully click together.
He will not die like this. He is a follower of the Scarlet Lord, and he will not die on his knees.
Drawing on rage and reserves of strength he never knew he had, Ndrog staggers toward the dwarf, ignoring the burning agony in his chest and the slick sensation of blood running down his bared chest. He punches and kicks and bites, tearing bloody gouges into the dwarf’s exposed flesh and sending teeth flying, bruising meat and blackening skin from the force of each blow. But with no weapon, the conclusion is inevitable.
A hard blow to the right leg jars it badly, the muscle tearing and his leg buckling under him. A thrust of the spear tears into his left arm just below the shoulder, ripping it from the socket to dangle like a pendulum; a second punches through his left leg, shattering the bone and preventing him from even trying to rise.
Priest Ndrog slumps onto his chest, mouth filling with the taste of iron. His breath no longer comes, aside from the strained, wheezing rasp from his ruined lungs. Blood froths out from his lips with each motion. For a few moments, he can’t help but wonder at how warm it feels. His killer is already turning away, one hand clapped against a wide, wet gash across her stomach as one of the other gladiators engages her, sword flashing in lethal arcs around them. The darkness creeping into his vision prevents him from seeing more, but he can hear the dwarf cry out in pain as a blow finds its mark, and another.
The last drops of life run out of his chest.
The world fades.
Priest Ndrog wakes, kneeling on hard, grey stone. Cold sweat is running in runnels from his forehead. He breathes in sharply, harshly; it takes him a handful of precious seconds to process the surroundings and return to himself.
Where is he? Why is he not in his ce – ah. Ah, yes. He recalls it now.
Excommunicado.
A single word. An unceremonious end to a life of service. They had allowed him to keep his weapon, at least.
Today, he will live or die. The arena gates are before him. He’s heard tales of it, of course – a place that swallows up the lives of dozens of combatants every year, as voracious and insatiable as the Blood Gods’ appetites. Sixty-four gladiators will enter the pit of war that lies ahead, and of them, only one will emerge into glory as the champion of the arena. A few times, he had been tempted to petition the council for the right to enter the arena and fight in the Order's name, pleasing the crowd and the Blood Gods alike with every arcing swing of his halberd and every drop of blood shed. But that would never be, now; could never be, after the moment of madness that had cost him his future and seen him cast out.
The arena gates grind open, and there is no more time for thought or reflection. Ndrog swallows back the terror building in his throat, pushes the instinctual fear of death back down into the dark cellar of his mind. He walks out onto the scarlet-stained sand and stone, straight-backed and solemn, halberd in hand. There are no roars, no cheers; only silence, beyond the grating of a dozen other gates creaking open. Other figures emerge – humans, beasts, and creatures halfway between them.
Reason fades away. The red mist descends. The blood ignites in his veins. Heat rises in his chest, boiling and clawing up into his throat; a scarlet veil of fury blinding him to all but the need to *kill*.
Bellowing like an enraged animal, Ndrog rushes toward the nearest figure, halberd wheeling around him.
The swing of his halberd is met with a deft parry from the blade of a sword, and then the flaring pain of the blade stabbing down through his right thigh and severing the nerves on the way. Ndrog brings his halberd up and stabs again and again, slashing bloody furrows into his opponent’s chest and limbs, but the gladiator simply refuses to so much as flinch. Their sword flashes forward to tear a gash up his chest and send him staggering backward with a cry, cut off midway into a wet gurgle as a trio of stabs penetrate his chest and tear through the organs behind.
The priest crashes to the ground, blood leaching into the sand around him. His opponent steps forward at a purposeful stride and raises one foot up into the air with overly deliberate care, before bringing it down with bone-crushing force, straight onto the fallen priest’s temple.
Priest Ndrog wakes, kneeling on hard, grey stone. Cold sweat is running in runnels from his forehead. He breathes in sharply, harshly; it takes him a handful of precious seconds to process the surroundings and return to himself. He grips the shaft of his halberd tightly, using it to push himself upright.
Excommunicado.
A single word. An unceremonious end to a life of service. They had allowed him to keep his weapon, at least.
Today, he will live or die. The arena gates are before him. He’s heard tales of it, of course – a place that swallows up the lives of dozens of combatants every year, as voracious and insatiable as the Blood Gods’ appetites.
The arena gates grind open, and there is no more time for thought or reflection. Ndrog swallows back the terror building in his throat, pushes the instinctual fear of death back down into the dark cellar of his mind. He walks out onto the scarlet-stained sand and stone, straight-backed and solemn, halberd in hand. There are no roars, no cheers; only silence, beyond the grating of a dozen other gates creaking open. Other figures emerge – humans, beasts, and creatures halfway between them.
Reason fades away. The red mist descends. The blood ignites in his veins. Heat rises in his chest, boiling and clawing up into his throat; a scarlet veil of fury blinding him to all but the need to *kill*.
Bellowing like an enraged animal, Ndrog rushes toward the nearest figure from the side, halberd wheeling around him.
The tiger-man turns, cold eyes locking onto his foe. Ndrog’s first strike goes wide, barely clipping the pointed edge of the tiger’s ear; its retaliatory blow crushes his ribs into his lungs, and flings him backward with blood spurting from his mouth. He can feel the burning pain of bone fragments in his lungs with each breath, feel the frantic pulse of his heart as blood leaks from the wounds.
Ndrog struggles to rise, but the beast is already upon him. Clawed hands tear through the leather armour, parting it as easily as paper, and into the flesh behind. The tiger-man’s weight forces him to the ground, pinning him down as the beast drives its iron-hard fists into his face, knocking teeth free, breaking bone. A headbutt shatters his orbital and crushes the eye, plunging half of his vision into darkness; he can manage no more than a few weak scratches to the furry chest of the creature in return.
Ndrog does his best to stay silent, clamping his jaw and biting down hard enough to draw blood. But when the beast’s claw rips through his chest and into his belly, pulling backward to disembowel him in a spray of heated blood and viscera, he can hold his tongue no longer. His screams come, high as a child’s and loud as murder, over and over again, until the clawed hand seizes hold of his head and squeezes until darkness descends.
Priest Ndrog wakes, kneeling on hard, grey stone. Cold sweat is running in runnels from his forehead. He breathes in sharply, harshly; it takes him a handful of precious seconds to process the surroundings and return to himself. He grips the shaft of his halberd tightly, using it to push himself upright.
Excommunicado.
A single word. An unceremonious end to a life of service. They had allowed him to keep his weapon, at least.
Today, he will live or die. The arena gates are before him. He’s heard tales of it, of course – a place that swallows up the lives of dozens of combatants every year, as voracious and insatiable as the Blood Gods’ appetites. Sixty-four gladiators will enter the pit of war that lies ahead, and of them, only one will emerge into glory as the champion of the arena. A few times, he had been tempted to petition the council for the right to enter the arena and fight in the Order's name, pleasing the crowd and the Blood Gods alike with every arcing swing of his halberd and every drop of blood shed. But that would never be, now; could never be, after the moment of madness that had cost him his future and seen him cast out.
The arena gates grind open, and there is no more time for thought or reflection. Ndrog swallows back the terror building in his throat, pushes the instinctual fear of death back down into the dark cellar of his mind. He walks out onto the scarlet-stained sand and stone, straight-backed and solemn, halberd in hand. There are no roars, no cheers; only silence, beyond the grating of a dozen other gates creaking open. Other figures emerge – humans, beasts, and creatures halfway between them.
Reason fades away. The red mist descends. The blood ignites in his veins. Heat rises in his chest, boiling and clawing up into his throat; a scarlet veil of fury blinding him to all but the need to *kill*.
Bellowing like an enraged animal, Ndrog rushes toward the nearest figure from the side, halberd wheeling around him.
Ten minutes later, Priest Ndrog stands in the middle of a ring of broken corpses, propping himself up with the battered haft of his halberd and his breath coming in strained gasps. His left hand is a tattered ruin of meat and bone; his right leg will not move, a white beam of bone peeking out through the shin. Blood drips from a dozen cuts along his bared chest, some shallow enough to be half-clotted already, others deep enough to expose the bone and viscera contained within.
Ndrog barely manages to speak as the last opponent approaches with their dagger in hand. He tries to move the halberd for a last, desperate strike, but his limb doesn’t obey him fast enough. Seven inches of cold, hard iron pierce through his helmet’s visor, through the soft, vulnerable matter of his right eye, and into the brain beneath. He slumps to the ground with a prayer to his gods on his lips, dead before he hits the sand.
Priest Ndrog wakes, kneeling on hard, grey stone. Cold sweat is running in runnels from his forehead. He breathes in sharply, harshly; his head is ablaze with pain, and it takes him a long time to rid himself of it and return to himself. He grips the shaft of his halberd tightly, using it to push himself upright.
Where is he? Why is he not in his ce – ah. Ah, yes. He recalls it now.
Excommunicado.
A single word. An unceremonious end to a life of service. They had allowed him to keep his weapon, at least.
Today, he will live or die. The arena gates are before him. He’s heard tales of it, of course – a place that swallows up the lives of dozens of combatants every year, as voracious and insatiable as the Blood Gods’ appetites. Sixty-four gladiators will enter the pit of war that lies ahead, and of them, only one will emerge into glory as the champion of the arena. A few times, he had been tempted to petition the council for the right to enter the arena and fight in the Order's name, pleasing the crowd and the Blood Gods alike with every arcing swing of his halberd and every drop of blood shed. But that would never be, now; could never be, after the moment of madness that had cost him his future and seen him cast out.
The arena gates grind open, and there is no more time for thought or reflection.
The arena is alive with sound and motion. The crowds that had earlier draped in the shade of awnings or rested in stone-carved seats to watch the battles royale now stream out into the chambers and halls, filling the air with the buzz and chatter of discussion; vendors lurk in their own little alcoves or position themselves to the sides of the arterial travelways, hawking souvenirs and sweetmeats to the passing patrons, while groups of minstrels sing the tales of fallen gladiators past and present. Most numerous are those heading toward the betting halls – managers and spectators alike, bearing purses full of gold to wager on the next round of bloodshed.
A half-dozen area-goers are already gathered around the alcoves and tables where the bookmakers hold court, filling the air with the clamour of words and the clatter of golden coins changing hands. One particular group of figures moves purposefully through the shifting tides of people and patrons, clad in robes of sable and deep blue with their hoods drawn back.
“That was quite the beginning, would you not say?” One of them comments as they walk, pale features alight. They gesture with a gloved hand to underscore their words, not even trying to hide the lingering relish from witnessing two battle royales’ worth of carnage. “A clean decapitation, and in the very first moments of the round! Even the likes of Sazen would struggle to deliver such a swift kill!”
“Hardly, Axander.” Their colleague sneers in response, her aristocratic features contorted in an expression of haughty disdain. She idly rests a hand on the rapier at her side, fingers impatiently drumming up and down on the hilt with each word. “They lack finesse, or any skill beyond that of a butcher. That gap between the first shedding of blood, and the end? Disgraceful.”
“You expect too much of these gladiators, Sholah.” The third shakes her head in disapproval, black curls flicking around her scarred face. She folds her arms over her chest, letting the robes shift over the mail and leather plates beneath. “These are early days, yet; far too early to judge their skill. Even for those we should know.”
“I can judge them perfectly well, Sarvesh.” Sholah shoots back, flashing the black-haired young woman a venomous look. “Or did that disgraced coward cutting down half the compet –”
“Enough.”
All three fall silent at the last one to speak - a towering giant of sable robes and muscle, standing at the rear of their group. Cardinal Cassiera of the Learned Order of Brass and Fire surveys each one of his subordinates in turn with his cold, hollow-looking black eyes before gesturing ahead with a gauntleted hand. In the course of their bickering and wandering, they have drawn close to the tables and alcoves where the tournament staff’s bookmaking team wait to take bets on the coming fights.
“We did not come here to bicker over the actions of the gladiators; that they do battle is enough. Now prepare your purses, and say which of them you will be backing.”
“I will be placing thirty gold pieces on the Light Royale’s victor,” Axander announces, flashing their iron teeth in a grin as they recall the bloodbath that the fearsome groundhog man had unleashed on the unfortunate contestants pitted against him. “It is rare to see one who can wield a pick so effectively.”
“Twenty-five on the Hoary Marmot Woman with the knife.” Sarvesh nods, shrugging her shoulders slightly at her comrades’ questioning looks. “I feel that her skill and blade will acquit her well in the arena.”
“I’m abstaining for this one,” Sholah shakes her head toward the Cardinal, her eyes narrowing to slits as she speaks. “Not wasting my coin this early into the tournament. And what of you, Your Eminence?”
Cassiera turns his head to the side slightly at Sholah’s question, as though thinking. A low, rumbling hiss of breath echoes from beneath the high, blue-trimmed collar of his robes before he speaks again. “I remain… undecided. Go, now – avail yourselves of this place’s services, before the next matches. I will join you once our bets are placed.”
As the rest of the Order delegation moves away, the Cardinal lets out a long, slow breath. It sits ill at ease for him to deceive his fellows in such a manner. Even so, he swallows down that discomfort and approaches the nearest free agent of the tournament at a steady stride, nodding a greeting to the young man as he recognises his approach toward the bookmaking station.
“I would presume you are here to place a bet on the battles?”
“Aye.” Cardinal Cassiera states, placing his bag of coins upon the table. “Thirty gold pieces on Knifin’ Around, Matchup 1I. Twenty-five on Marmota Monax, Matchup 1DD. And…”
He paused for a moment to check over his shoulders and side, disguising the movement as glancing at the tournament’s freshly drawn brackets. To be found doing what he is about to would disgrace his whole see, and probably bring down the wrath of the Maimed Lord on his head. But his sense of camaraderie – and more than that, his own pride – will not allow him to back down from this course of action. Satisfied that none of his brethren are in hearing range, he turns to the bookmaker and speaks.
“…Twenty-five on Priest Ndrog, Matchup 1AA.”