Dot!
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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—and it resembles a travelling carnival show instead of a gladiator team. A hobgoblin man dressed as a mockery of an Isgeri drummer, bearing a club and war drum; a small, green-scaled kobold flexing his fingers and gnashing his sharp fangs; a woman who seems to have been carved out of a crystal quarry, ready to fight with a pair of cestus; what looks like a walking bundle of vines carrying a spear and shield into battle; and finally, a duergar wearing a helmet that completely covers his face, looking like a comical exaggeration of a dwarf face.
Across from them are five gladiators on the arena’s eastern half. An orange-haired gnome with a wild moustache and manic eyes, swinging around what looks like a small ladder; a human man wearing a helmet that completely covers his face, standing nervously at attention; a dark-skinned elven man with a mohawk, glaring at the other gladiators and bearing a scizore on one arm; a pallid-skinned, dark-haired woman with a rapier in one hand, a buckler on the other, and a devil-may-care smile that shows a pair of small fangs; and a half-elven woman with dark hair, punching the air with her own cestus as she prepares for battle.
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.
”Bah.” Torsten’s voice came from within the helmet. He glared at everyone and everything around him, a general disdain for existence in general. He didn’t truly hate anyone, not even his captors. His people kept slaves too, afterall. But that understanding didn’t endear him to his situation. Rather, he looked down on this waste of resources, of the degradation, of lessor races not knowing their place.
”Take the casters down first.” He stated, pulling out a wickedly sharp kukri.
The bundle of vines grips its long wooden spear tightly and looks around the arena, its vines rustling in frustration and anger. I never asked to be here. I don't care what those horrid drow want. Bloodshed for sport is so disgusting and all this slavery... He eyes the opponents across the arena. Fools or no, they're just slaves too. I don't want to kill slaves... again... But nobody will take care of Sable if I die... He shakes his leafy head in bitter frustration at his constant dilemma. Kill or be killed. Resigned, he raises his wooden shield. In a weary, resentful voice, he replies "Fine, Duergar. But which ones are their casters?"
Drahkn’s expression is difficult to read, but his body language is not. He isn’t just ready for this, he’s relishing it. I was born for this. The culmination of all my training. I, We, will not lose. He snaps his jaws twice, swishes his tail back and forth, flexes his flawed hands. He is ready.
Serisa smiles, feeling the power of her god flow through her. "Gorum help me conquer these foes in your name and deliver their souls to their final resting place by the grace of your hands."
She drops her hands and lets the cestus fall to the ground. She smiles a bit more cruelly as her hands begin to ooze dark red liquid. When drips of the liquid fall onto the dust they sizzle and smoke. She punches her fists together in front of her and the hard crystalline outgrowths on her knuckles striking each other send a high pitched ting that carries over the din.
Navarra: A dhampir fencer from the nation of Ustalav. She's graceful, well-mannered, shameless and snobbish. Even when she was in shackles, she always found a way to look down on everyone else. Her style focuses on parrying incoming blows and staying mobile, hoping to wear her enemy down before the final strike.
Gorovash: A gnome berserker and psychotic maniac. He doesn't have much in the way of strategic acumen--he'll likely just scream or try to make a bizarre-sounding threat before charging into combat. He REALLY hates kobolds.
Caladrel: An Ekujae surface elf from the Mwangi Expanse. His fighting style blends scizore and sorcery together to great effect. He prefers to end his opponents with one good strike. Personality-wise, he's stoic and resigned to dying in this place, but he's never gone out of his way to provoke any of you.
Laavi: A half-elven monk from the nation of Cheliax. She prefers to try stunning her opponent with a punch or kick to the sensitive bits before taking them apart with quick strikes. She's proud of her fighting style--and never hesitated to let anyone else know she could beat them senseless if she felt so inclined.
As the grand poo-bah lady finishes her speech and the combat is about to start, Serisa prays, "Let my fists be blessed with your power and glory," followed by, "With your favor I will defeat my enemies."
She turns to her allies, "Gavin last obviously. We should double team them as we close to hopefully take out one or two of them and skew the odds to our favor. And go in a line so that they can't slip through or around us and attack one of our backs. Any objections? Any preferences on who you line up against?
"If they just charge us, we should hold our ground and I can break up the ground around us to slow them down and halt their momentum." she adds on further consideration.
Spikey slowly waves his wooden spear back and forth in front of himself. "Stay close is right. I think Caladrel has some tricks up his sleeves and will try to shut one or more of us down. I'll take Laavi. She will have trouble stunning my vines."
Jazrok begins a slow, ominous drumbeat after Corazan makes his remarks and keeps a sharp eye on First Daughter Aulannira to make one last drumbeat as she's about to stand. In the meantime, he joins the tactical planning.
"Agreed about Gavin, he's amusement and he'll keep the crowd happy. No real threat. Take down Caladrel before he becomes one, and then we focus down the rest. I start my real performance once our lines meet. Take the rage or leave it, but you're all smart to last this long so you'll take it. If you get the kill order, remember to give them a spectacle.
Serisa nods to both of the others, "Excellent suggestions. Navarra may be the one to go after second last - she's mostly defensive and not fighting her one on one would negate one of her best advantages."
Jazrok grinds his teeth at Serisa calling his words 'suggestions,' then grins and taps the pushbroom bristles riveted to his helmet with his drumstick.
"Orders, soldier. Only one General here."
”Shut yer trap with that elf-shyt. The last thing we need now is bickering about bloody egos.” Torsten growled, his annoyance clear.
The hobgoblin barks out a harsh laugh, then falls deeper into character, making the best of the absurdity of their costume and their situation.
"Keep up the attitude, Thinbeard, and I'll bust you back down to Private."
He waits a beat, then says in Dwarven,
”Gorovash is mine.” Drahkn hisses.
Hearing talk of orders and ranks, Spikey shakes his head. "We're not an army. Just trying to stay alive in this hellhole. You watch my flank and I'll watch yours."
"Rabble would be a better description for our sorry little unit. We're a spear's reach a better lot than them, though, I'd dare say."
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!” Alaunirra continues as Serisa begins to invoke her own god’s divine power.
”Hail, Nurgal!” She calls out, spreading her arms wide. ”We who are about to kill, SALUTE YOU!”
”Let the games—“ She starts before Serisa’s arms begin to glisten and drip with acid.
Several people in the stands lean forward with interest as the oread’s arms become harmful to the touch. Excited whispers start to spread through the crowd.
Not to be outdone, the stoic Caladrel runs his hand along the blade of his scizore—and it starts to crackle with electricity.
Another ripple goes through the crowd. They don’t sound as impressed as they were with Serisa, but the crowd’s certainly appreciative of a promising start.
”—BEGIN!” Alaunirra finishes.
Navarra seizes the initiative and races toward Torsten, her rapier flicking out!
Only for it to catch on the chin of the duergar's helmet! Her smirk falters a bit.
This was it! Despite himself, Torsten was getting pulled in by the drow’s words. All he had to do was...the rapier lashed out at him. How did the fool get in so quickly?! Luckily the duelist has gone for the head, the only part of him that was really armored. Such was the danger of playing to the crowd. The Deurgar staggered back, unable to return a blow...yet...
Jazrok stops his drumbeat as Aulanirra begins speaking. When she's done, he raises his drumstick in the air and casts adoration.
Once the battle begins and Navarra runs over, he begins pounding a rapid beat on his drum and let's out a primal scream, beginning his inspired rage and letting the rage take him.
If a raging song affects allies, when the skald begins a raging song and at the start of each ally’s turn in which they can hear the raging song, the skald’s allies must decide whether to accept or refuse its effects. This is not an action. Unconscious allies automatically accept the song. If accepted, the raging song’s effects last for that ally’s turn or until the song ends, whichever comes first.
Inspired Rage (Su) At 1st level, affected allies gain a +2 morale bonus to Strength and Constitution and a +1 morale bonus on Will saving throws, but also take a –1 penalty to AC. While under the effects of inspired rage, allies other than the skald cannot use any Charisma-, Dexterity-, or Intelligence-based skills (except Acrobatics, Fly, Intimidate, and Ride) or any ability that requires patience or concentration. (Unlike the barbarian’s rage ability, those affected are not fatigued after the song ends.) If an ally has her own rage class ability (such as barbarian’s rage, bloodrager’s bloodrage, or skald’s inspired rage), she may use the Strength, Constitution, and Will saving throw bonuses, as well as AC penalties, based on her own ability and level instead of those from the skald (still suffering no fatigue afterward). However, inspired rage does not allow the ally to activate abilities dependent on other rage class abilities, such as rage powers, blood casting, or bloodrager bloodlines; the ally must activate her own rage class ability in order to use these features.
You may also make a performance combat check the first time in a combat that you enter a rage.
Jazrok's drumbeat starts to fire up not only his team, but the crowd. His rage-filled scream sends a murmur through the assembled nobility, causing them to whisper to each other.
Drahkn is quick off the line, charging directly for the crazed gnome, his clawed feat pounding to the rhythm of Jazrok's drumbeats.
Drakhn takes off swiftly, but in his haste his jaws catch on the gnome's ladder!
Gorovash cackles with glee and raises his ladder high. "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, PREPARE TO WATCH A KOBOLD GET SPLATTERED BY A LADDER!" He bellows, his eyes filling with bloodlust.
The crowd seem oddly intrigued by his boast as he raises his ladder and twirls it, preparing to bring it down on Drakhn's head!
The kobold darts out of the way of the incoming ladder in time, causing a burst of sand to erupt from where the ladder's impact strikes!
Laavi, the monk, locks eyes with Serisa and sprints forward, lunging with a punch!
The warpriest brings up her fist in time, and their fists clash together with a loud *CRUNCH!* The shock of the impact runs up her arm, causing it to briefly go numb before Laavi pulls her fist back, wincing.
Torsten took a step back, and tossed his kukri in the air, over the head of the duelist who was stabbing at him. He reached out with his hand, causing the blade to stop in mid flight, and come plunging down into Navarra‘s back.
He didn’t deign to say anything to get the crowd on his side. As far as he was concerned they could all go sit on a pike. But the move was flashy enough to make up for that.
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Serisa laughs as she deflects the blow with her arm and looks dismissively into the monk's eyes. Feeling the drum beat and the rage infuse her, she thrusts her fists into the air and ululates a primal scream. She brings her fists down one then the other on top of the monk's head. Nothing subtle or elegant, just ugly brute force.
+1 acid
+ 1 acid
Navarra witnesses Torsten's flicked blade coming towards her back, and twirls her rapier to try and parry it...
...somehow manages to deflect it, and tries to follow through with a riposte!
Unfortunately, in order for her to do so, she has to twist her body in such a way that she's forced to drop her rapier at the duergar's feet.
She manages to recover somewhat, making it look like it was all part of her routine, but she's clearly on the back-foot now. There's an "Ooh!" from the crowd. "An impressive disarm from the duergar!"
Gavin tentatively steps in the direction the duelling gnome and kobold, and swings wildly...
...managing to nick the green-scaled kobold.
"Did I get him?" Gavin calls out from behind his opaque helmet. "I think I hit something!"
The crowd laughs for a bit. "Unbelievable! The blinded idiot has actually managed to land the first blow of the match!" Terrix calls out in disbelief.
Then a wet *CRUNCH* fills the arena as Serisa's fist connects with the top of Laavi's skull. Torrents of blood gush out of the hapless half-elf's eyes, mouth and ears. She collapses to the arena floor, her glassy dead eyes staring up at the vast cavern's ceiling as her corpse makes a few brain-dead twitches.
The crowd starts cheering uproariously and clapping for Serisa! "AND THE CRYSTAL CESTUS TAKES THE FIRST KILL!" Terrix announces, his eyes glued to Serisa now.
Spikey accepts the song as anger against the drow and their cruel, senseless sport builds within him. He steps forward and stabs at the troublesome sorcerer, taking advantage of his long, reaching weapon and intentionally placing himself in the middle of the battlefield. The hobgoblin's song pours over him and Spikey moves with power bunched in his angry vines, whistling his spear across the arena in an odd display.
He cares little for what the Drow think of him but his movements are fascinating.
The crowd leans forward in surprise as Spikey throws himself into a rage and runs right at Caladrel, his spear aimed right at his gut.
A translucent grey shield materializes right before the spear's tip--and is promptly shattered. The elf's eyes widen in surprise before the spear hits him in the gut, knocking the wind out of him and sending him to his knees when it's yanked out.
A collective wince goes through the crowd, but its spectacle seems to have been lost on them--their attention is still focused mainly on Serisa.
Alaunirra watches the elf fall to his hands and knees, then looks at the crowd, then down to Spikey. She gives him a thumbs-up--it appears Caladrel will live to fight another day.
Navarra hisses and backflips away from Torsten...
...drawing her dagger as she lands. She readies herself for the inevitable return strike.
Furious at being hit by the blind fool, Drahkn lets out a roar and redoubles his efforts to finish the gnome quickly.
He unleashes his full fury, attacking with jaws, claws, and tail.
+ Acid
The crowd looks on as Drakhn leaps on Gorovash and bites a chunk out of his shoulder before raking a claw across his gut with contemptuous ease. The gnome's eyes go wide and he topples over backwards in shock.
While the crowd was quite happy to watch the little kobold fly into a berserk fury, the sheer savagery he displayed in mauling Gorovash seems to have, bewilderingly enough, disturbed them.
He then turns his remaining attacks on Gavin, and his wild flailing fails to even make a scratch on the blinded fighter.
Drakhn's wild tail swing appears to be novel enough that the crowd doesn't seem to care. Or perhaps they're still recovering. Gavin, for his part, seems unaware that the kobold just tried to maul him.
Alaunirra looks at Gorovash's bleeding body and gives a thumbs-up. It appears the gnome will not die this day... or, at least, he shouldn't.
Jazrok continues to beat on his drum then charges at Navarra, aiming to hit her on the rebound as he continues to drum. He aims for her flanks, looking to inflict pain more than damage her.
If that hits, he'll make an intimidate check as a free action with the enforcer feat and a performance check as a swift action.
Navarra pivots on one foot and manages to slip past Jazrok's oncoming club, and her counter-stab with her dagger skips off of one of his epaulettes--it appears neither of them managed to land a blow.
Torsten walked forward towards the duelist. He raised his left hand, causing the kukri to float menacingly in the air. It slowly spun to get her attention. He wanted her to focus on it, to prepare to block it...and once he got close he whipped his right hand up. Causing a rock to fly up and strike her in the side of the head.
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Navarra raises her buckler to try to block the kukri--and notices the incoming rock too late.
It smashes into the side of her head, causing blood to spray. She staggers and stumbles a few feet away... somehow still on her feet. She wobbles unsteadily before falling to one knee and raising two fingers in the direction of First Daughter Alaunirra.
Alaunirra's only response is a contemptuous sneer and a thumb pointing down. The fencer's eyes blink several times, then widen in fear.
"All style and no substance. How that one lasted so long in our ludus, I'll never know." Terrix announces with a chuckle.
"...wait. Does that mean we lost?" Gavin asks, his helmeted head turning in the direction of the stands. He starts to shake in his boots before throwing his sword down and raising an open hand high in the air.
Alaunirra looks at the blinded warrior and snickers before giving a thumbs-up.
"Oh, right. He can't see. Cheer up, blind man. You're the only one on your team who managed to HIT someone, so you're not dying today!" Terrix answers after a moment.
The Drow wanted the duelist to die? Well, screw what she wants, the Deurgar thought. The kukri floated back to his hand. He looked around, wondering which one of his fellows was either bloodthirsty enough, or desperate enough for the drow’s fickle favor, to seek the attention.
Jazrok beats out a quick crescendo to end his performance for the fight. The last beat comes as a crack to the back of Navarra's head to put her down.
Jazrok's brutal strike to the back of Navarra's head causes the crowd to erupt in cheers. The duelist falls forward, twitching once and then laying still.
The crowd begins to applaud, and Alaunirra herself cracks a smile. "A well-fought match, indeed!"
Several guards come in from the eastern gates, bringing with them several ragged slaves. "Attention, victors--see yourselves to the chapel of Nurgal. There, we will properly induct you five into the ludus."
"As to the rest--" Alaunirra turns to address the guards and slaves. "--return the survivors to their cells. Keep them from dying. Their reward is to live another day--and for some of them, it's far more than they deserve."
The slaves begin the unenviable task of gathering the wounded and dead. Several of them approach Laavi's corpse and Gorovash's body with particular dread.
"And to those of our audience who are interested in contracting out our warriors--Terrix will be more than happy to answer any questions you have." Alaunirra turns and disappears into the viewing box while Terrix begins to make his way into the stands.
Torsten put his dagger away. Best not to be killed now. Especially after earning the fickle favor of the Drow. Best to enjoy what they could while they could. He looked at the crowd with disgust. All of this was such a waste of resources. They could be out there *producing* something, or using their slaves to produce something. But no. Blood was being spilt for naught but entertainment. The Drow were truly worthless creatures. For the life of him he couldn’t understand how they had grown so powerful.
Jazrok tears open the front of his uniform and lets out a victory cry for the crowd.
Serisa feels the rage and energy drain from her and she looks around the battlefield, slightly miffed there are no more enemies. She wanders over to where the others are and compliments everyone, "Excellent work everyone! I guess we live to fight another day."
She looks over to where the slaves are removing the bodies, "It beats the alternatives."
Spikey wipes his spear off in the sand and catches his breath for a moment, a slight whistling heard through his vines. He turns and stares at Jazrok, deeply disagreeing with the hobgoblins enthusiasm. He shakes his head and turns to Serisa "Better than dead? Yeah... barely..." He begins trudging back toward the Chapel of Nurgal, disgusted that he will continue participating in this mockery put on by the Drow.
Jazrok turns his back to the crowd and joins his squad walking towards the temple. "Indeed, well done. The crowd liked us, and you all saw that THAT, just as much as our fighting skill, is what's going to keep you alive. Even if you fall, that can keep you alive."
He claps Serisa on the shoulder. "You popped Laavi's head like a melon. That was spectacular."
After congratulating the oread, the wild enthusiasm quickly melts from the hobgoblin's face. He takes stock of the group and quickly singles out Drakhn. "Gavin got lucky, but you'll wear the scar well. This will help." He chants a few wordless syllables and taps out a short rythm on the kobold's scales then presses his hand firmly down on the sword wound, magically stitching the flesh back together.
The gladiators depart from the Exhibition Grounds through the imposing brass eastern gates, leaving the coppery scent of freshly spilled gore in the sands behind them. The stone tunnel leading from the arena is a depressingly familiar one, its walls carved with reliefs of scantily-clad gladiators, men and women alike, doing battle—some with strange beasts, but usually with each other. They pass by a couple of stone doors to the south before passing through an archway that leads to a brightly lit stone corridor.
The corridor blazes with what feels like an unnatural perversion of sunlight, lit every ten feet by brightly-glowing obsidian rods. The sheer radiance shining from the rods stings the eyes as the party makes their way forward, the stone floor beneath them feeling warm beneath their feet.
The corridor opens into a large oval room with a thirty-foot high vaulted ceiling, its stone floor covered in an expansive orange rug styled to look like the sun. Standing at the far eastern end of the room, up a small flight of stairs, is a massive stone statue of a creature with a lion’s head and lower body, but the torso of an impeccably-fit humanoid male. One of the statue’s hands holds a very large heavy mace, its head carved to look like the sun. Bright golden light radiates from the head of the mace. Several archways branch off from the north and south ends of the chapel—two main ones to the north and south, along with three smaller passages on each side.
Several male drow guards are arrayed on the edges of the room, their dark armour and weapons making them stand out in the bright light. Almost all of them have their eyes screwed shut, staring at the floor or both. Kneeling before the stairs are several surfacers and drow females. The surfacers are each dressed in white satin cloth that’s barely enough to preserve their modesty. The drow women are more modest, wearing flowing white silk robes and bearing symbols of a lion’s jaw closing around a sun around their necks.
At the base of the stairs is an older, imperious-looking drow woman draped in gold, silken robes and adorned with a headdress fashioned in a facsimile of a lion’s mane. Several small rubies sparkle in the headdress. A bright gold symbol of a lion’s jaw closing around a sun hangs around her neck.
”Ah—the newest of House Volatexia’s gladiators, yes? Yes, I see.” The high priestess speaks, making a little beckoning gesture to a few of the guards near the chapel’s entrance. ”You will not need your weapons or armour for this ceremony.”
Five guards approach the party and expectantly wait for them to disarm.
Torsten decided not to use his telekinesis, in the hope that the drow here might not know about it. He tossed his kukri to the floor with a shrug. Make the guards bend down to pick it up. The bastards.
He kept his cool mouth shut, though. This was not some boot licking Merchant they were talking to. This was an elf with real power. Not someone to be overtly trifled with.