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Character: Detraeus
Stage: Adept
Luck: 57 (+9) = 66 (+2) = 68
Creature: Ordon x 10, Soudul Cah x 3
Success Rate: 6 - 100, 10 - 100

Win x 9: 59 x 10 = 590exp
Loss x 1: 59/2 = 29.5 x 1 = 30exp

Win x 2: 68 x 2 = 136exp
Loss x 1: 68/2 = 34 = 34exp

Total: 790exp, levels to 74 with 11/74exp left over, +36 stat points to distribute, +Plain Cloth x 99

Word Count Required: 3,900+
Final Word Count: 4,537

Detraeus groaned and rolled onto his stomach.

Despite his short stature, he tiny cot beneath him barely fit his body even on a good day, but he made it work most nights. Tonight, it felt like a prison. Too small. Too hard. Too hot, and no room to breathe. Gritting his teeth, he tucked his face in the thin pillow beneath him just in time for another spike of pain to ripple up his back. Piercing. Acute. Like briefly having a hot poker melded to his spine before all the sensation petered back out again.

He lay shaking for several long seconds before he snarled, fingers digging into the bedding beneath him, and then rolled sharply over onto his back, shutting his eyes and drawing a deep breath. The origin of the pain was embarrassingly low, the centerpoint for every ache located dangerously close to the upper split of his arse, right at the base of his backbone. At first, he had passed off the dull ache there as the result of having fallen poorly during a training session with Casseth. That, though, had been two weeks prior, and instead of easing off as he anticipated, the pains had grown progressively worse over time, becoming sharper, more frequent, longer lasting and focussed on a narrower area. Even during his expedition during the cave, he experienced them on and off, sometimes at highly inopportune times.

Detraeus released his breath in a heavy exhale, eyes opening into narrow slits to glare at the ceiling. As curious and even concerned as he was, the gods were mad if they thought he would go to a healer for this. With pain there? Where they might touch him? No. They could all damn themselves before he breathed a word.

He’d rather die.

He frowned, and eyed the eves of the roof above him. Rickety and steeped with black shadows in every crack. The dark curtain of night would not be seeping back to give way to dawn for at least another hour or two. When another, duller throb of pain coursed up his back, though, Detraeus’ frown curled into a grimace, and he rolled out of bed and onto the floor with a thump and grunt. There would be no more sleeping now for him, and he had his first fight in the pit scheduled for the afternoon. No amount of complaints from his spine would rob him of that.

This in mind, he straightened his posture. Stomach flat to the floor and legs stretched straight behind him, he pulled his palms in evenly at either side of him and pushed up.

‘One…’

Down, up. Breathe.

‘Two…’

Down, up. Breathe.

‘Three…’

Four. Five. Six.

Until the numbers blurred in his mind and his arms refused to lift him again. Only then did he stand, stretching his hands out to either side of him and curling his fingers into fists before splaying them again to stretch the muscles there. Open. Close. Open.

He’d seen some of the fighters — upper tier ones, down in the levels of the stadium where only those signed up to fight were permitted — doing all varieties of exercises, many of which caught and held his interest. Previously, he had only ever put himself through routines of his own invention, usually focussed on keeping up the strength in his bow arm and pushing his endurance. But after witnessing a broad spread of new potential methods of building up his strength further still, Detraeus had immediately begun incorporating what he could into his daily routines, making them habit. Planking his body and pushing up with his arms. Locking his feet to the floor with a weighted object and sitting himself up to work his stomach muscles. And, later, gripping a high surface like a hanging tree limb and lifting the whole of his body weight up with his arms.

After cycling through those he was capable of performing in his room, Detraeus began the process of dressing, and arming himself. The longer he spent on Eowyn, the more he seemed to acquire in terms of weapons, like a snowball tacking more and more onto itself. Thin, concealable blades for both his boots. Angular, compact throwing blades at his chest, daggers for his belt, hips, and thigh. Miniature flat-blades designed for quick puncture wounds slipped to stay hidden at his wrists.

He still wanted a pair of longer blades. Something with more reach and heft than a dagger or knife to make use of in close range fights. But he hadn’t yet found something to his tastes, and didn’t want to weigh himself down too much or, worse, interfere with the ease of access to his bow. Eventually, he’d find something suitable. For now, a wide range of knives and daggers would have to do.

Avarice was, of course, always his first choice.

Thankfully, Detraeus’ back pains seemed to ebb off with the progression of the day, so that by the time the sun sat at its highest point, he felt eager and ready, anxious for his opening match. Despite being far less at the lower ends, the payout for a win even on the bottom tier was still handsome compared to any coin he usually made with his hunting. The promise of having a real, noteworthy income — and for doing the only thing he considered himself decently good at, at that — gave him an extreme sense personal satisfaction. The first step though, of course, was to win.

Detraeus contemplated his goals as he made it through the above ground entrance and started his descent through the portions of the arena reserved for participants. After his trip through the dragon caves, he knew he had more than enough orbs to travel back to Soudul. Arrange a meeting with Draco. Progress to the next stage. Eager as he was for it, though, it still felt preemptive, somehow. He had only just begun at the pit, not even made it through his first match yet, and was still living in a shack in the worst possible part of town.

Was he really ready to ask for the term ‘expert’?

Frowning, Detraeus opted to put off his trip to Soudul for at least several more matches in the pit. A month longer on Eowyn, at the very least. More, if necessary. Perhaps after, he would feel more deserving of a higher title. He refused to travel all the way back to Soudul without something worthy to say for himself. Doing his race, and his goddess’ chosen leader a dishonor was unacceptable. He would not waste Draco’s time and, when he was truly ready, then he would make the trip and make his war chief and his goddess proud.

Anything less was sacrilege.

The stadium boomed from the under levels. A dull roar that echoed overhead, like listening to a stampede muffled by a hundred arms’ breadths of compact dirt. It sounded louder, somehow, than it usually did for the opening matches. Nearly as loud as it did for the major, night matches. But that was likely all in his mind, and Detraeus knew it.

Funneling his focus, Detraeus drew a full breath, rolled his shoulders, and flicked his fingers idly to keep them limber, thumbing over the feathers of the arrows in his quiver. Soon, he promised himself. Soon, the wait would be behind him, with only the fight ahead.

As he moved to the lowest level, getting into position for the next fight as the one above concluded, a woman stepped in before him, explaining to him the mechanisms of the stadium. How he would move into the paneled, earthen box or ‘cage’ before him, and be hoisted up to the main floor, and then released, the doors above opening for him. How the tallying system would work. What he ought to do if he considered himself in danger of a fatality, and what the penalties would be for various moves or violations.

She spoke in detail, and he listened with a painstaking obsession for the finer points, tucking away each slip of information carefully only to gloss over her speech the instant she started to repeat herself. He did not require repetition. And, as soon as the mechanism opened, regardless of whether she was finished or not, Detraeus stepped forward, loading himself onto the platform.

“You can call for a halt at any time,” his instructor reminded him, as though this was the most important part of her speech. Clearly, the stadium did not want any more dead purebloods on their hands than they had already. “All you have to do is raise two—”

“I understand,” Detreaus said, and with a snort from his instructor, the gate to his ‘launch’ cage clattered closed.

His breath felt cool in his throat, the earth close around him, and the hum of the stadium above sounded like a hundred, million insects buzzing. Moments later, his cage jerked upwards, and Detraeus’ muscles bunched, his body crouching lower to root itself, unfamiliar with the feel of an elevator other than when it was the earth itself bent upwards by Casseth’s magic. Rubble rolled past along the outside edges, visible through the bars of his loading platform and when the structure clanged to a stop, Detraeus felt himself breath again. Shifting his weight, he stepped out when the bars finally opened, more eager than he anticipated to feel the solid ground again.

He passed through a narrow tunnel first, and when the doors at the end opened, it was impossibly bright by comparison, but his orbless sockets adjusted instantly, bringing the full stadium into view. Around him, the crowd sounded like a distant, droned roar. He turned his attention to the stadium itself, and the ground beneath his boots.

There were fire pits at even intervals around the far edges, and grated areas in the earth, where he knew water ran below in small, underground rivers. Weapons for the dovaa hybrids, to keep things interesting. The earth, of course, was always a gaili’s primary weapon, but Detraeus knew he was highly unlikely to be paired up against any sort of Magescian on his first match. From what he had heard — and seen, through Casseth’s example — all likelihood pointed towards him facing off against the beasts of the world. The larger and more exotic, the better, of course, but what exactly he faced was up in the air. He knew, though, that the odds were already unfairly in his favor.

The stadium wanted him to win.

Even as a novice, without ever directly stating it, the set up made him well aware that they hoped to see him triumph. Purebloods of all races at the higher levels were like demi-gods in their own right. Rarer, amongst a hodge-podge of desperate outcasts, and ‘glimmering examples’ of what they wanted on their highest ranking boards.

Little as he cared for the prejudice — Detraeus didn’t give a raw damn about a given person’s bloodline, so long as it didn’t contain an orderite stain to it — it worked to his advantage. So who was he to complain? He narrowed his eyes on the far door as he stepped out into the light. Pre-drawing an arrow and holding it ready as he progressed towards the center, he waited.

The crowds fell into a pseudo-hush above him, but on another inhale, and exhale, Detreaus tuned them out. Their cheers did not matter. Their scorn did not matter. Their opinion did not matter. Only the blood he spilt on this field, and the fields after it. The gold he earned. The ranks he gained. The lives he took. That mattered.

Opposite him, the earthen doors opened.

After a brief spark of what looked to be kiandri magic, two strange beasts darted out. At first, Detreaus held himself at the ready, confused. They walked on two legs, and — from a distance — looked as though they might be Magescians of some hybrid breed? Or Khehorians? When they rushed in towards him though, long forked-tongues out and bodies moving briefly on all fours before they stomped upright and the ground shook beneath them, Detraeus decided it did not matter. Under his boots, the earth quaked, and he darted sidelong just in time to avoid being sucked beneath two opposing sides of a crack. As though frustrated with this, his two ‘opponents’ snarled, hissing at each other in some mock form of a language before jerking their bodies and yanking at the earth again.

More than used to gaili magic, Detraeus darted up the impromptu spike they made at his feet, drawing his bow as they moved in, and firing. One. Two. An arrowhead into a socket in each of them. The earth quivered, and stilled. He frowned, almost disappointed as the bodies before him fell limp to the earth and crowd gave a muted rumble around him. Was that it? Was that all they thought he could handle?

Standing on the spire of earth created by the two fallen beasts — ordons, he thought, if word had traveled to him correctly, though he had never experienced them in person — he raised his bow, opening his spare palm to the sky as he eyed the stands. Didn’t he deserve a more interesting fight than that? As he spread his arms, motioning in question to the deck where he knew the monitors watched on, his attention caught, briefly, on the sidelines, and he paused.

Casseth.

Though he’d said he would show up, Detraeus hadn’t honestly expected to see him on the first row, and a confused mix of pride perplexion muddled together in his gut. Then, he spotted Araceli. After only a moment, his cheeks heated, his shoulders bunching and his posture tensing. He threw up three fingers to the judges.

“Again,” he demanded, loud enough — apparently — that some on the bottom row heard him, and the chant echoed upwards.

‘Again, again, again!’

After a long, roaring pause, the gates to permit in a new opponent opened once more, and Detraeus felt his skin prickle with anticipation, satisfaction pooling low in his gut. For reasons beyond him, he hoped Araceli was watching closely.

Instead of two, three ordons entered the field at once, each from three separate stone doors which cracked up simultaneously, ushering his new opponents into combat with him. Detraeus nocked an arrow the instant their doors opened, and let it fly as soon as the first stepped into the light on the stadium sand. The earth betrayed him though, piercing upwards in a jutting rock spire that caught his arrow in its path. Immediately after, he felt the ground shake, pebbles and clumps of caked sand quivering around his boots. When it split, he jerked his weight sidelong, rolling to the safety of solid ground.

A spear pierced the sand less than a half foot from his landing crouch, and Detraeus gripped it to steady himself, head snapping up and attention zeroing in on his opponents. One: seven paces in front of him, unarmed, likely the owner of the spear, its reptile-tongue flicking out as though to taste the air.

Standing, Detreaus jerked the spear out of the ground, readying it and flicking his attention around in search of the others.

Two: approximately fifteen paces to his left, still armed, carrying crude twin blades.

Three…

Detraeus’ brow pinched.

Where was the third?

No sooner had he thought it, than a scrape of earth sounded behind him, and Detraeus jerked around, stumbling as the earth quaked again and then rooting himself, and driving the spear forward as soon as the third beast moved in. Straight into the creature’s gut. He felt the quiver of it’s magic ripple like a tremor through the earth as he rammed the weapon forward, driving the tip clean through its abdomen and out the other side. Blood seeped from it like a dark leak from its ashen skin, and Detraeus breathed out, then let the spear go, snapping his attention back to the remaining two and drawing an arrow as he moved.

“Come to me, then,” he murmured beneath his breath, and fired a distracting shot.

The earth twitched, twisting up towards the sky like the defensive spines of a wild beast, and the weaponless ordon snarled as it darted in. Detraeus loosed another arrow, but the ordon leapt aside. It wailed, bunching its claws, drawing a minefield of rubble up like a shield around itself, and leaving him to hit nothing but earth. When it tackled him, it barreled into him, hitting with enough force to knock him flat to the arena floor and crush the air from his lungs. Its talons dug into his shoulders deep enough to draw blood, long jaw snapping at his face as he shoved to fight it off and he squirmed against the earth, trying to free up a hand. The instant he succeeded, Detraeus was quick to switch over his attack strategy, snatching up a dagger from his waist belt and burying it in the creature’s chest cavity. Panting, and crushed beneath its weight, Detraeus slit its throat, too, for good measure and breathed out only when its twitching stilled.

‘One more.’

The third was on him almost immediately after, sweeping its dual blades down towards his head, but Detraeus jerked the weight of the last corpse up, barricading his own body under it just long enough to send his opponent’s blades thick into the back of its fallen comrade. As it roared, Detraeus rolled out, snatched his bow up, bracing himself in a half-kneel, and fired.

Two arrows into creatures head. One into its chest. It shuddered, and collapsed.

Soaked in blood not his own, Detraeus grimaced, and stood, spitting into the sand and gathering his breath. Around him the sheer volume of cheering surprised him. They were just beasts and this was an entry-level match. It couldn’t have been that exciting. Before he could even start to walk off stage, however, a familiar chant rippled up from the crowds.

“Again! Again! Again!”

And this time, the prospect sent a shiver of uncertainty through him. The first two were easy. Too easy. Nothing, really. The second three, though, had been more of a challenge, pushing him closer to the edge of his training. His breath was faster, his muscles feeling the warm sting of exertion. He considered himself capable of fighting more, of course — he was uninjured still — but now? Here?

“Blood.”

“Blood.”

“Blood.”

“Blood.”

When Detraeus turned to look at his ‘exit’ the doors on it clapped back shut with a rocky clack and a low horn blow echoed through the stadium. A roar of excitement boomed up from the crowds, followed by an eerie hush as the doors began to open before him. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Five doors, and out of the middle three, the ordons did not come alone, but paired with mounts. Six-legged insectile predators, encased in an armor-like exoskeleton and armed with three eyeless heads, each of which with a ream of viciously spiked teeth, and two massive pincers looming in front of their bodies. And that didn’t even take into consideration the curved, barb-tipped tail looming behind each of them. Soudulian Cah, by the looks of it, since they were far too small and dark to be native to the area. Evidently captured and trained specifically for such an occasion. How they convinced them to obey their ‘riders’ was a mystery, but one that he didn’t currently find himself intent on solving.

Watching each of his new opponents stalk in towards him, Detraeus felt his breath leave him in a slow exhale, hot against his dry lips. The blood on his clothes felt thick, sticky, and restricting. Clotted. He rolled his right shoulder, his drawing arm, and prepared himself to hunt.

He wasted no time on the build up, drawing an arrow, and firing as soon as the first was in range. The unmounted ordon were as alert and ready as those he’d fought already, bringing up rock shields the instant he sent arrows for them. Two of the mounted ones, however, were unsteady at best, each trying to keep their beasts under control as much as anything else and too distracted, as a result, to manipulate their magic properly. Detraeus saw the opportunity, and leapt on it, plucking them off before they so much as made it within range and leaving their limp bodies to topple to the stadium floor, one of them getting speared by the leg of its previous ‘mount.’

Deciding that the cah were his next biggest threat, Detraeus used his last free seconds before direct combat to bury as many arrows as he could into the undulating, teeth-ringed ‘heads’ of the nearest cah. A piercing wail echoed over the field — sharp, and ear splitting — but the beast, after enough scrabbling, collapsed.

Just in time for the first two unmounted ordon to come rippling across the earth towards him. Like riding a wave on their magic, they swept in on the crest and thrust their spears towards him at the peak of each wave. Detraeus crouched, nearly falling flat in his first attempt to dodge the spears, then rammed his bow up, deflecting the first, reaching, catching, locking his grip, and snapping it down. Using the upraised earth from their magic as a lever, he knocked the spear from the first creature’s grip and yanked, swinging the butt of it around. The ‘owner’ of the weapon snarled, leaping for him with a hiss, but Detraeus twisted, and jabbed, burying the weapon’s blade end in the owner’s gut. A half-second later, the second was on him.

The two scrambled, grappling briefly as the ordon attempted to shove Detraeus down and encase him in the earth itself. It landed a grazing cut to his upper arm with a blade, too, before Detraeus dislodged that, and seemed only to add to — and deepen — the already bleeding gashes on his shoulders and chest from the last one to tackle him. On a downward roll, though, with the ordon on top of him, Detraeus managed to draw one of the narrow knives strapped to his wrists free, slipping it from its sheath, and then gouging it in. Two clean buries at the ordon’s throat, followed by wet, warm blood, and finally one, heavy body that collapsed against him with the weight of a sack of bricks as the beast died. Detraeus grunted and grimaced, winced and swept off the bloodstains on his face. As soon as he rolled the body off of him, a cah’s spiked foot buried itself in the earth a hand’s breadth from his head. The tips of each of its feet were sharp enough that it looked like knives spearing into the ground with each step.

Detraeus jerked and clamoured to pull away, but the beast followed. Empty of a rider and free to do as it pleased, apparently, what ‘pleased’ it was to gouge at the earth, attempting to skewer him through with each downstep like a roast on a stick. Detraeus swore, and rolled in, changing direction abruptly from a retreat, to an advance and positioning him beneath the creature’s belly.

There, he jabbed up. Finding a niche between its plates of armor, he aimed for the softest opening he could find. It keened as he sank his blade in, a shrill, piercing wail as its legs twitched — much like any dying insect — and Detraeus moved around as quickly as his body would cooperate with him. One of its legs caught at him, splitting open a narrow gash in his thigh and down his calf, but he ignored the sting, forcing his body into a run outwards as it staggered and then drawing his bow when he had the distance to work with and burying a small slew of arrows in its teeth until the carcass stilled.

Panting, bleeding, and aching with raw, exhausted muscle: that was how the final pair found him. The still-mounted ordon, and the last cah — larger than all the rest and over a head and a half taller than him — came towards him like the heroes on a pre-determined victory march. He shot at the ordon, but it seemed far better at controlling its ‘mount’ than the others, and kept full control of its earth magic, drawing up shields and then cracking the earth at his feet to throw him off. For all his experience with Casseth, Detraeus was worn, breathless, and burning. His own blood was now indistinguishable from that of those he’d already taken down, all of it a dark, wet smear on his clothing, and he wondered, fadingly, if they were even allowed to do this.

Wasn’t the first match supposed to be easy? Or were they trying to teach him a ‘lesson’ for asking for more?

Regardless of their reasoning Detraeus’ arrows proved useless without being able to get through the ordon’s rock, and when he attempted to move in, resorting to close-range as a last resort given his already-sustained injuries, the cah’s tail snapped around, catching him completely unawares. A solid, deep jab to his upper thigh.

Poison.

He knew the feel immediately. The searing burn far beyond that of a cut. The feel of it moving through his blood, locking up his joints, forcing his body to disobey him. Nothing like the hallucinogens of the arvathi, though. No. This left his mind intact, but ate at him like fire under his skin. Vaguely, he heard himself cry out as he hit the earth, but it sounded distant. Surreal.

He watched from a jarred, broken-mirror perspective as kiandri magic shocked the ordon and cah, and both were roped by outsiders — ‘Workers for the pit…?’ — and dragged off field as he was. It didn’t make sense. Wasn’t he supposed to die? Wasn’t he allowed to die?

The roar of the crowd boomed from a distance like the vague, angry buzzing of insects heard through glass. Detraeus struggled, fighting to retain consciousness as he was carried down through the darkened halls of the inner stadium. Healers. No healers. He didn’t want to be touched.

‘No…’

He was, apparently, screaming — though his ears could barely hear it — and a blue pulse of magic from a healer sank through him like a cool gel. He fought it, still, the overwhelming urge to sink down, and under, but against the siren song of magic, his current will was weak and incapable of anymore battles. His eyes refused his demands, and Detraeus lost track of the events to follow for the next hour.