Stab!
Spanked, whipped and nailed it.^^
Arrowed!
Oathday, 5th of Sarenith, 4705 AR
Months have passed since their training began.
Months of pain, blood, sweat and tears; months of humiliation and degradation at the hands of their captors. With each passing week, more and more promising fighters are slain on the training field or sold away—perhaps to worse fates. With each passing week, the cage the trainees are kept in grows emptier. There were at least thirty people when training began. That number has since been winnowed down to ten.
Now, the final day of their training has come.
Today, in the Exhibition Grounds of House Volatexia of Zirnakaynin, two groups of five gladiators have been assembled. It is a final exam, of sorts—those gladiators who perform well, whether they win or lose, will become part of the gladiatorial stables.
One group of gladiators has assembled on the western half of the arena floor—a band of women, their bodies shaped and honed into killing machines. They are a motley crew—a shadow-born woman with knives that gleam in the arena’s harsh yellow light; a wild-eyed tiefling clad in spiked, barely-modest armour and swinging a vicious spiked chain; a half-orc ‘princess’ whose falchion is sharpened to a razor’s edge; a surface elf whose bowstring is tense with anticipation; and finally a drider wielding a trident and net with equal aplomb.
Across from them are five gladiators on the arena’s eastern half. An Ulfen man bearing a heavy shield and gladius, his wild blond hair hanging down to his shoulders as he sizes the others up; a dark-skinned Bekyar woman wielding a trident and net with a deranged look in her eye and a mirthless smile; another dark-skinned woman of Bonuwat descent, her shield and spear readied and her expression at once serene and resigned; a terrified elven man with a bow, looking everywhere in the arena for a possible escape; and a limber, unarmored half-elven woman with dark hair, glaring at the other gladiators and flexing the knuckles of her cestus.
Spectators are trickling into the stands, most of them dressed in the luxurious silks of the nobility or the rough spun cloth of their servants. A ring of drow guards stands at the edge of the arena, hand crossbows at the ready in case someone tries something foolish. The head trainer, Corazen Dhalmass, a muscular, stone-faced, bald male drow clad in what appears to be metal lamellar armour and bearing a pair of gladii stands between the two gladiator teams, glancing between them and the assembling gallery above. Eventually he walks over to the western half.
”This is your last fight as trainees. Fight well, put on a good show, and if you have to die, at least do so spectacularly.” He says to you in a low whisper, glancing up at the gallery as he does so. ”Out of all the scum we’ve had to train, you five are the ones most likely to succeed and achieve greatness—don’t worry about killing these five. Just… when you get them down, wait for Lady Alaunirra’s command as to whether or not to kill them.”
He looks up at the private viewing box, taking note of the silk-clad female standing at its edge. Next to her is a male drow with his hair in a ponytail, dressed in golden, chest-baring robes with arcane sigils crawling up its sleeves. First Daughter Alaunirra’s expression is difficult to read, but First Son Terrix’s face isn’t—he’s grinning and leaning forward, anxious for the bloodshed to begin.
Brevka rolls her shoulders, trying to get the strange pelt they'd given her to sit right.
Might be easier if they hadn't had me oil up before they strapped me into this... thing.
She still wasn't used to her new costume; Brevka knew the importance of ritual; she understood that if you wanted the gods to smile on your battles, you had to make yourself pleasing to their eyes. But who is this supposed to please?!
Despite herself she scowled as she looked down at the white palm crudely painted across her balteus and mockingly adorning both of her breasts.
Bad enough they won't let me cut my hair to a warrior's length, but what happens if I die wearing another tribe's symbol? And did it have to be those coin-flinging, tuskless Empty Hands'?!
She glared right back at the elf-breed with the cestus, baring her tusks since there were no true orcs here to shame them.
"Simple enough I suppose. I just won't die."
The sniveling coward with the bow caught Brevka's eye and she turned to speak with the drider, the only one who wasn't at least a head shorter than her. "So Legs, can you tangle up the archer fast? None of us look good if we just fall over with arrows in us." Her tongue was thick around the Tradetongue words, but at least she knew them. Khrazz, another Gutspear, had had his tongue torn out when one of Corazen's underlings had gotten suspicious of him speaking in a language she didn't know.
Avaxa: A Mwangi-Bekyar tribeswoman with a lot of bloodlust. She was a slaver before the drow captured her--it's a form of poetic justice not lost on her. Her strategy is to try to ensnare the weakest-looking target in her net before gutting them with her trident.
Kamala: A Mwangi-Bonuwat tribeswoman of even temper and quiet resolve. She's known for being uncannily lucky in combat, to the point that she's rumoured to be favoured by a demon lord. She doesn't seem to have a strategy aside from trusting in luck to see her through her fights...
Erevas: A surface elf from Kyonin who's been driven half-mad with terror. His usual strategy is to keep as much distance as he can from his target while shooting them with arrows, but considering how he's shaking, he might end up trying something desperate instead...
Laavi: A half-elven monk from the nation of Cheliax. She's a quiet woman who couldn't back down from a challenge if her life depended on it. Her strategy is usually to try to stun people before picking them apart with quick flurries of strikes.
Maiden, Mother, Matron-Crone; Fighter, Father, Patron-Prone! Run and cut, weave and gut, cleave until you split the bone! Maid....
Kaxatja is ripped from her reverie by the rude intrusion of reality. Ah. The greenskin. Who speaks quite well. And "Legs". Uproarious. Kaxatja lowered herself to lean in conversationally with the princess. The drider languidly cocks her head to side, considering the far archer.
"He looks craven. And far too pale. Possibly pre-soiled. Is her your husband-to-be? I sincerely hope not. You deserve much, much better."
A flicker of...something washes across Kaxatja's countenance. She gasps.
"I could rush him, but his aides will count a winnowing upon me. If you support me, it is possible." The drider's baleful eyes flow across to the the other gladiatrixes.
"Let us confer. But your summation is correct. The archer is a danger."
Brevka carefully watched Kaxatja's mouth as she spoke, occasionally blinking as she had to think through a sticky translation. Her tradetongue was still rusty, and almost no one used the big words when she'd had to talk to tribes of Others.
But she had vague effervescent memories of other beautiful slender faces, many of them atop bestial forms, who'd spoken to her like this. Sometimes it was with kindness, sometimes with jagged cruelty.
The cruelty was better; at least then she'd known what they wanted.
But all of them had delighted in her confusion, so she did her best to mask it till she was sure she understood what Kaxatja was saying.
"As long as someone tangles with the Big Man, he won't pick a second fight. I can get Jabber's goat; she's good, but she relies on pain. I can take her. You're too big for the Slaver to want to show off on, so that just leaves Lucky..."
Brevka reached up to scratch idly where her strange furred ruff itched. "Maybe Chains can take her. Shields aren't much use at keeping you on your feet against something flexible. Runt should hang back and make them look bad with her bow. If Bitty Blades's troubling the Big Man he'll really think twice before going to help anyone."
She squatted and scooped up a fingertip's worth of the sand they'd soon be bleeding onto and tasted it. At least I won't die on ground I don't know.
With an easy stretch, she stood back up, limbering her muscles with a few practice strokes of her sword.
"First to fall won't be the last. If it's one of them goes down first, it's smooth as manskin from there."
The strange tiefling draped in chains was stroking her spiked chain, as if it was an animal coiled in her arms, speaking to it. Her bare hands doesn't seem to suffer from the steely thorns. Not that would made much a difference, as Lilamma whole body is covered in scars
Taki, Taki, Taki, be patient.. You'll have blood and flesh to gorge yourself with soon, I promise. Let's put on a show...I would gladly take on the tribeswoman. Heard a demonlord was looking over her, thats why she was soooooo lucky. Might not be true, but that got my hellish blood boilin". Ready girls?
Lilamma does a few vocal exercise before the fight starts
Anabel bristles a bit at Brevka's chosen nickname for her. As a child, she had been picked on for her size and frailty. But the elf had come to Zirnakaynin willingly, and she knew simple name-calling would be the least of her worries in this dangerous place.
Still, the appellation is an accurate one. At barely five feet in height, Anabel's fellow gladiators tower over her. The shaman is slender yet curvy, her skimpy armor exposing wide swaths of dark brown skin embellished with tribal markings. Her eyes are like solid pools of amber, and her lips are set in a firm line of determination.
A small mongoose perches on her shoulder, its fur decorated with tribal markings similar to her own.
"I'll lend support to where it's needed most. The spirits will bless us in battle, and I can heal the most grievous of your wounds to keep you in the fight."
The shaman's gaze falls upon the surface elf on the opposite team, and her heart falls a little. It pained her to have to battle against her own brethren. "Erevas, the archer... I would like to avoid killing him, if possible. He deserves a better fate than death."
Kaxatja likewise watches Brevka carefully, trying to apply the greenskin's names to creatures with some difficulty. The drider jitters uncomfortably as the note of sorrow in the brown elf's words touches...something inside her.
"Avoidable. For you. But not for us. They must all fall or we do. After that, it is the crowd and First Daughter, First Son who will command their fate." the drider juts her chin toward the scions of Volatexia.
Brevka looks at Anabel, and the same cloudy vagueness comes over her eyes before she cuts through the half-remembered dreams to focus on the woman who actually stands before her. "We're not making those choices, little one. The only choice we still have is to either force them to kill us, or to fight for enough more days for something to change."
She shrugs, "All I'll promise them is a good fight, and if it comes to it, a quick death. I'll leave remembering Trembles's name to you."
Lilamma's antics concern her. Crazy only survives by the protection of the gods, and that protection often comes at another's expense. Also, that nonsense about hells and demons was confusing. If Chains was from the Hells, wouldn't she want to spare Lucky? The way Runt wanted to spare the other elfling? Maybe if she kills another hellcreature she gets her blessings too. "Sure Chains. That makes sense. Remember, if you're losing a fight, just dance around elf-style until I've downed my foe. Half of us get to walk out of here. You don't have to win a duel yet."
Of all those she'd encountered or worked with since the start of their training, this ragtag collection of women somehow turned out to be the ones with the best chance. Survivors, just like herself.
The pale-ash-skinned beauty looks at her companions, glowing yellow-green eyes skipping from one to the other as they speak. "They're right about that." she says to Anabel, in agreement with Kaxatja and Brevka. Gazing down slightly at the pretty brown-skinned elf, she brushes a lock of midnight black hair out of her face.
"We have three goals. Survive. Give the First Daughter a good enough show to be satisfied. Watch each other's backs. Nothing else matters." she says, looking up at where their masters sat.
With a chuckle the alluring, shadowy woman looks up at the half-orc princess, taking command of the situation. "Baby Blades eh? Makes them easier to hide. Best place to conceal a blade is someone else's gut before they see it. Don't worry, I can take him." she says with a smile.
Taking a deep breath, she stretches, the light leather armor and loincloth barely adequate at covering her athletic frame.
Brevka's mouth stretched into a wide grin at Lyra'an's bravado. "Willing to wager on that? First one to take out their foe gets... No... Umm... Second victor... cleans and preps the first one's gear. With an extra forfeit if I lap you and bring down the Big Man. The same if you finish him off and get to Jabber before I catch her."
She reached out to clasp the fetchling's forearm to seal their bet, Brevka's great paw of a hand nearly large enough to encircle Lyra'an's arm. "Deal?"
Lyra'an grins back at the emerald amazon as she grasps her forearm, considering the stakes of the bet. "Deal!"
Anabel frowns at the other women and heaves a sigh, resigning herself to the rules of the arena. Though it pains, she knows that sometimes sacrifices must be made for the greater good.
The mongoose on her shoulder chitters, and the elf pats its head in acknowledgment. She checks the pull of her bowstring as she prepares for battle.
As the gladiators begin to huddle together and discuss battle strategy, Alaunirra clears her throat and leans forward in the viewing box.
”Citizens of Zirnakaynin!” Her voice rings out, loud and clear. ”On this day, House Volatexia is proud to present to you a unique match—two teams of five gladiators, the finest of our trainees this season. In this arena, they will undergo their final test: for one side to defeat the other, and to perform spectacularly while doing so. The winners will be inducted into our glorious stables as our newest crop of gladiators. The losers…” A wicked smile creeps across her face. ”…well, I’m sure I’ll find a use for them somewhere.”
"On this day, let blood be spilled into the sand in the holiest of the Shining Scourge's sacraments! Let our gift of battle and death be worthy of your praise!"
”Hail, Nurgal!” She calls out, spreading her arms wide. ”We who are about to kill, SALUTE YOU!”
”Let the games BEGIN!”
With a sudden burst of motion, Lyra'an dashes forward, racing toward the large blond man with her blade held low until the very last second, plunging it into a space in his armor with a twist.
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Lyra'an's lunge catches Berengar completely off his guard, and the wind is knocked out of him as she buries her dagger in his gut!
The sudden first strike sends a gasp through the crowd, and results in a round of applause!
"And Lyra'an starts us off with a spectacular first strike!" Terrix calls out.
Part of her wanted to chant some absolute gibberish as a challenge, but it wasn't that uncommon for drow to speak her tongue, and if they thought she was mocking them... Stop it. Take her down fast. Don't kill her unless they make you. Just get out of your head.
"Come on Jabber, you and me! I bet I won't even feel that thing!" As she spoke, her veins throbbed, and her scars shone with a faint silver light, outlining crude brands and bluntly etched runes as well as the strange thin swirls whose origin was still a fog.
Somewhere muffled behind the energy and fury coursing through her she could hear the crowd go silent. Maybe they wanted their orcs to just hit things, maybe those Fey scars meant something she didn't know...
Stopping only makes it worse.
Her eyes igniting with that same silvery light she rushed forward, powerful legs sending her hurtling towards Laavi like a Bull of Zagresh!
Brevka takes off like a bullet, and the cestus fighter barely even has time to blink before she's brutally cut down in a spray of gore. Somehow, she's still breathing.
Tellingly, the crowd doesn't seem too impressed. They're certainly surprised, but they're more disappointed that the half-elf was so easily dispatched. "Wait--I blinked. What happened?" Terrix calls out.
Anyone who looks towards Alaunirra can tell that while she is rather disappointed by Brevka's brute force, she does admit that it was well-struck. She gives a thumbs-down--the half-elf's life is forfeit.
Erevas lets out a whimper of fear and promptly lines up a shot on the large half-orc that just butchered his teammate...
His fired arrow sticks in Brevka's chest, just above the painted hands. He then starts running for the eastern gates!
Berengar recovers and falls into a defensive stance, trying to strike back against the shadow-woman who just stabbed him...
...only for his wound to pain him, causing his strike to go wide. He somehow manages to not come off-balance and embarrass himself even further. "Nurgal save me..." He groans in agony.
Anabel winces as Brevka is shot, but the half-orc seems stout enough to weather the hit. "Spirits, guide my new tribe. May their aim be true," she prays.
Lilamma starts singing, an harsh, guttural song, with a violent edge, which calls for violence, blood and broken bones.. then the song hits a shrilling note, and razor sharp shards are projected out of the skald's mouth
The spell might not do too much damage, but at least it gives a good visual
Avaxa, the retiarius, flinches in surprise as the harsh song actually rakes across her bare flesh, but Kamala throws herself out of the way of the cone of wicked music. She only sustains a little scratch across her cheek.
The sudden burst of power draws quite a few eyes to the kyton-born--and more than a few appreciative rounds of applause.
As much as Kaxatja would love to heed Brevka, catching the elf without passing other combatants might prove difficult. Besides, with the half-elf down and the human male spreading claret on the sand like a nicely split wine sack, pressing the advantage here might be useful.
The drider moves to her retiarius counterpart, the ebon-skinned slaver. Kaxatja is still not a true arachnid, and her footing a little scampery. She throws her net...
Move Action: Move to within throwing distance of Avaxa with net (10’).
Standard Action: Throw net.
[+1 Dex, +1 Weapon Focus: Net]
An entangled creature can escape with a DC 20 Escape Artist check (a full-round action). The net has 5 hit points and can be burst with a DC 25 Strength check (also a full-round action). A net is useful only against creatures within one size category of you.
A net must be folded to be thrown effectively. The first time you throw your net in a fight, you make a normal ranged touch attack roll. After the net is unfolded, you take a –4 penalty on attack rolls with it. It takes 2 rounds for a proficient user to fold a net and twice that long for a non-proficient one to do so.
Kaxatja's net envelops Avaxa with ease, causing the gladiatrix to start thrashing about in a panic.
A round of applause goes through the crowd. "Good ensnaring maneuver by the drider there." Terrix announces.
Avaxa then lets out a primal scream and starts thrashing around some more.
This time, the crowd bursts out into a fit of mocking laughter. Alaunirra smirks, and Terrix can't suppress a chuckle of his own. "Well, this is embarrassing--the surfacer appears to be throwing a temper tantrum."
She tries to escape from the net...
...but try as she might, the net doesn't budge.
Kamala merely closes her eyes, bows her head, and readies her shield and spear.
She takes a few steps back and raises her head to glare at Kaxatja.
Laavi continues to bleed into the dirt.
Kamala throws herself out of the way of the cone of wicked music. She only sustains a little scratch across her cheek.
Barely stopping to look for the thumb, Brevka tromps over her foe on her way towards the sagitarius, only the fact that she's in sandals instead of ironshod warboots keeping Laavi from expiring right then and there.
She makes another brutally fast swing, which snags her arrow and tears it from her chest. The new flow of scarlet that covers over the mocking white palm on her breast-band only serving as a prelude for when her blade finds its new home...
Erevas lets out an undignified squeal of terror as Brevka bears down on him. The squeal turns into a bloody gurgle as the half-orc's falchion rakes across his chest and sends him sprawling into the dirt, spraying gore into the sand.
A great cheer goes up from the crowd! "Serves the coward right! Trying to run away like that--what'd he THINK would happen?" Terrix can barely contain his glee.
Alaunirra looks at the prone body of Erevas, then at the crowd.
She shrugs her shoulders and gives a thumbs-up. It appears Erevas will live in fear for a while longer.
"Better finish the Big Man off quick, Baby-Blades. I'm coming for him next!"
Hearing Brevka's call, Lyra'an smiles. She'd already lost the bet, but the other part, making it look good....that she could still achieve. Waving her dagger in front of her, glimmering in the light, she makes a stutter step, forcing her opponent to commit to a course of action before altering her balance and preparing to strike. "This one's mine!"
Lyra'an's fake-out causes Berengar to overcommit to one side...
...and that deft display causes the crowd to applaud even louder than before!
Berengar lunges while staying behind his shield--and just as Lyra'an predicted, he overextends while missing her entirely.
Lilamma continues to sing, and her song takes an even more violent edge, calling for bloodlust. Her muscles grows with her appetite for pain, and she seems more careless about her own safety
She aims her wicked, spiked chain at Kamala's face
A smattering of applause goes through the crowd, but they don't yet seem too impressed with Lilamma's singing--perhaps it's because it's following on the heels of Lyra'an's impressive feint.
Kaxatja notes the finality in Kamala's stare. The netted Avaxa is contained, for the moment - Lyra'an or Brevka can deal with her. Kaxatja's fate is twinned with Kamala, and the drider can scent peril. Still, what else is there to do? She moves in to stab, trident two-hand held.
Move Action: Move to strike Kamala
Standard Action: Strike
[+3 Str, +1 bless/rage/crowd]
[+4 THF]
Kamala braces herself for Kaxatja's incoming strike, but the drider's bulk blows right past her defence and her trident sinks into her chest. She falls backwards, bleeding heavily and struggling to breathe.
The crowd gives the display a vigorous round of applause...
...that peters out when they notice that it isn't a confirmed kill.
All eyes turn to Alaunirra...
...who looks at Kaxatja and gives her a thumbs-up. It appears Kamala's luck hasn't run out yet.
Anabel maneuvers to get a clear shot on one of the foes still standing--
--and misses badly, her arrow whizzing past her target.
Avaxa tries to lunge at the drider from within her net...
...and from within the net, manages to drive her trident into Kaxatja's abdomen!
As the burly warrior goes off balance, Lyra'an embraces the fury, luck and blessing, spinning past him in a dance of violent elegance, making a grand show of ever so daintily dragging the tip of her blade across the back of his neck as she passes, coming to a stop with a dramatic flourish facing the luxury box
Lyra'an's stylish finishing blow cuts the back of Berengar's neck open, and blood pours from the wound as he finally staggers and falls to his knees. The crowd is positively exultant!
To the surprise of no one, Alaunirra is on the edge of her seat with her thumb very much pointed down. She wants more.
Brevka scrunches up her face in disappointment that she wasn't getting an extra forfeit from Lyra'an, but doesn't waste time musing on what might have been.
Instead, she storms in towards the netted Retiarius, slamming aside her feeble guard with a brutal chop!