[M] Infernal Secrets IC

[Miss Fortune]

Rated M for violence, foul language, blood, death and sexual themes.

The crowd gathered in the arena was large tonight; the main event fighters were two of the best that Asterheim had to offer. The Iron Puppeteer was said to arrive and go up against Neil 'The Bloody Angel' for a rematch. Everyone in the sidelines was ready for the main fight, and as the other competitors knocked each other around, the enthusiasm only grew for what they knew was to come.

A swift kick to the gut sent the big man to his knees. Blood spewed across the floor and over his opponent’s trousers. 'Big Gordy' was on his knees, coughing up blood. Gordy's face twisted with agony. The blow snapped a couple ribs in half, parts of which had ripped through the skin on one side. The crowd gasped and grimaced with horror. Blood oozed from his side as sharp, stabbing pain left him spasming on his knees. Some members of the crowd turned away as more blood and stomach contents spilled onto the ground. It took all the strength Gordy could muster not to black out from the pain and blood loss.

It wasn’t hard for Aalis and Zabel to find a place to rest in the empty streets of the Springbury slums. Their journey from Gallimoor had taken a lot out of them, more so Aalis who had gotten sick along the way. Their arrival in Asterheim was a week behind, something that Zabel wasn’t happy with but his twin’s health was more important than making good time. Aalis had all but got the color back in her face, save for a heated blush across her cheeks and minor sunburn.

Zabel stuffed the map into his knapsack and groaned. They were lost in Asterheim, and from the looks of the map, they were good hours’ walk from Haven’s Rest Ministry near Delmore Castle. Aalis didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. Her sights were set on watching the sun set over tattered rooftops. Despite the situation they were in, she still managed to smile.

She sighed happily, “Don’t you just love the city?”

“Love? Love what?” Zabel gestured all around him, “The run-down houses, the poverty, the corruption, the smell of city air?”

Aalis sighed, and shook her head. “You just don’t see it.”

“And you just don’t see at all,” mumbled Zabel.

Aalis picked herself up off the ground and dusted off her cloak. The cobblestones even seemed dirtier here, but Aallis –of course- seemed rather oblivious to that fact. Their squabbling ceased when the sounds of shouting drifted down the street. They exchanged a look, and before Zabel could open his mouth, Aalis had grabbed him by the arm, and was dragging him down the street towards the sound of the commotion.

One of the many abandoned buildings stood out from the others. Most of the windows were blown out or broken, and the front entrance was barred shut. Zabel’s protesting fell on death ears, and before he knew it, Aalis had batted her lashes at one of the men standing guard outside of the back entrance, and was using her brother as a human shield to push past people in the crowd.

The sight that was thrown in front of their eyes was unlike anything they had seen before. Blood soaked the floor, and two fighters were bloody – more so an older gentleman than his opponent that looked close to their age.

Big Gordy struggled to stand up despite his severely weakened state. For a moment, his knees looked ready to buckle, but he staggered forward, wiping blood off his beard. His eyes were bruised and almost swollen shut, but he still had a little fight left in him. He sat some blood on the ground, and feebly licked his lips.

"I ain't ready to go down yet," said Gordy, clenching the crude metal bracers in his hands. Gordy swayed on his feet, barely able to focus on the man in front of him.

Aalis grabbed onto Zabel’s arm for support and shook him. She looked like she was ready to cry. Shaking her head, she whispered, “He’s going to kill him!”

The kid bobbed on his feet enthusiastically, and grinned. "You sure you wanna go down like this, Pops?"

"I ain't goin' down without a fight," he groaned, forcing his hands up into fists.

The man shrugged, mumbling, "Suit yourself," before an upper cut struck Gordy square under his jaw. Gordy's neck snapped back and the impact from the blow made the rest of Gordy's teeth collide loud enough that people in the sidelines could hear. The crowd erupted with cheers and whistles. Gordy was unconscious standing on his feet, but whether the new comer noticed it or not didn't stop him from dishing out a couple punches to each side of Gordy's face, every hit making his neck snap to the side.

Before Gordy's limp body crashed to the ground, the new comer delivered a crushing shin kick to the other side of Gordy's abdomen, sending the older man colliding and skidding across the floor that left a bloody streak behind in his body's wake.

"I hate to see you go out like this, but it's what you wanted."

Aalis’ eyes widened in horror as she stared down at the bruised and bloody body of a man not more than five feet away from her feet. Blood was caked around his mouth and in his beard. The extent of damage on his face was too much for neither Zabel nor Aalis to make out with certainty. As if the damage that was done wasn’t enough, the man’s opponent didn’t seem to be finished with the unconscious man.

Gordy wasn't breathing, but that didn't seem to stop the man from deciding on a finishing blow. Bones in his arm cracked and began to rearrange themselves into a dagger-like shape that caused some audience members to flinch from the sounds. Aalis’ grip on Zabel’s arm was starting to hurt, and he cradled her head against his shoulder.

Blood gushed and filled the air, sending the crowd into an adrenaline filled frenzy before all noise suddenly ceased. Tendrils of blood wrapped around the man's neck, choking and dragging him backwards. The Bloody Angel himself stood behind the man, arm extended, blood dripping from gashes on his palm.

"Sorry kid, but there is no fucking way I'm allowing death in this tournament tonight," said Neil. Jerking his arm back firmly, the man fell to the ground, gasping and sputtering for breath.

As angry spectators began to complain, Neil's blood sliced through layers of skin before recoiling back into his body. The man, severely bleeding from his neck, struggled and squirmed, his already bloody hands grasping at his throat for fear of bleeding to death.

"I'm not one to stop a fight, but there is such a thing as honor - even if no one else understands." Neil looked around the building, eying disgruntled audience. He shrugged and strode across the arena to crouch beside the bleeding man.

"Stop acting like a fucking child!" Neil shouted, "It's just a damn flesh wound."

If all color hadn't been drained from the man's tan face, he could have sworn the guy was actually blushing from embarrassment. Or anger. Either way, Neil had his fun before his upcoming match.

"I fuckin'... hate you."

"And?" Neil grinned, "I could give a rat's ass what you think. Get up and get the hell out of my ring."

---

The night before

“They’ll be in Linbrook Commons by sunset.”

“Linbrook Commons?” Lieutenant Irving shook his head. It didn’t seem right.

“Is there a problem, Lieutenant?”

“No sir, Captain. Linbrook Commons doesn’t seem accurate. We’ve been tracking them for months. Why would they frequent the same building again?”

Captain Leary shrugged. “It’s a little too late now for second guesses. Linbrook

Commons is the best bet. We don’t have enough men to send in two different directions.”

“How many men are being sent by the Court?”

“At least a dozen.”

“A dozen?” exclaimed Irving, slamming his fists on the table. “How are we supposed to take down the biggest fighting Network in twenty years with only 40 men?”

Leary sighed, and leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the table. His head was starting to hurt. “It’s your problem. I’ve been reassigned to take care of matters with guard control at the castle.”

“Guard control? Tomorrow of all nights?”

“I can’t go against direct orders.” Leary straightened up, and met Irving eye to eye,

“You have to get the men into shape and lead them. I have faith in you.”

---

“Failure isn’t an option, men.”

The sun was beginning to settle in the west horizon as the rest of the men finished preparing their armor for the mission at hand. Platinum armor gleamed from the light of the Sun’s fading rays, leaving Lieutenant Irving with a sense of pride as he stared at the solemn faces of the men under his control. They were well disciplined, strong and courageous. He could see why the Captain held his men in such high esteem. The fact that he was bestowed with the honor of leading the raid into Linbrook Common, all his hard work at gaining the Captain’s praise finally settled in.

“There is no room for mistake. Arrest anyone with affiliations to Dread Network. The fighters we are up against are not formally trained, and are not above using petty tricks and cowardly tactics to elude capture. Because of the importance of this mission, we cannot go about the raid the wrong way. Do you all know your assigned groups?”

“Sir, yes sir!”

Irving peered down at the map held in his hands. Linbrook, once a large, wealthy neighborhood, had fallen into slow ruin five years ago just as many Commons did by the steep increase in taxes posed by the mayor. He trusted the guards that were used to patrolling the streets of Asterheim, but unlike the Captain, he hadn’t put much faith in the Knights that were sent over. Hallowed Knights had too much faith put into them, and no matter what achievements his fellow Guards completed, they were always outshined by their more religious counterparts.

“Trust no one with the Hallowed insignia,” said Irving.

The other three Guards exchanged skeptical looks. A younger Guard with a short sword and long hair spoke up, “Sir, is that order wise?”

Irving shrugged, “The rumors of Hallowed Knights taking part in Dread Network seems like too much of a possibility to ignore.”

“Those rumors were put to rest by the Caesar.”

Irving laughed, and shook his head. “Of course he’d banish the idea. Any blemish on the Hallowed Court’s shield would devastate people’s opinions of them.”

Fully armed Knights and Guards shifted through the streets, the amount of civilians thinning as the Sun set further into the Western horizon and the outside light was growing dimmer. Many families were gathered around their tables, feasting on warm lamb legs or returning from fishing trips. Cats scattered at the sound of approaching footsteps, and as each group made their way through the back alleys and empty streets, the appearance of the buildings and even the cobblestones beneath their boots began to change. Broken shutters and cracked stones lead the way into Linbrook Common. Very few people were seen making their way into their houses and closing their shutters for the night.

The building slowly came into site. From everyone’s positions, the two story building was surrounded. Broken windows allowed the noise to filter through. Voices and odd sounds drifted through the evening air, giving the appearance that the building was occupied. Whether it was occupied by Dread Network fighters was uncertain, and Lieutenant Irving had a bad feeling at the pit of his stomach. Making his way out from his position behind an old food stall, he held his gloved hand in air, waiting before giving the order to charge.

Guards and Knights alike sprang from their hiding places, storming up the stairs of the front and rear entrances, using their shoulders or boots to kick in the doors. It was unorthodox and rather unheard of, but some Guards smashing through the remaining window panes, swords drawn. Whatever was inside the building, Irving was soon to find out.

[The Silver Crow]

Under the bright chirping sound of the entrance bell when she pushed the shop's heavy wooden door open, Zara slipped in and stood for a moment, absorbing in the warm feeling that pretty much sweated from the clustered room's walls. Inside, highlighted by several lanterns' glow, was pretty much any type of supply someone would need to build up a business or tile a roof or even to just fix a chair. What wasn't there could be found with the help of the shop owner Jarad. He was wrinkly, bald old man whose muscles were surprisingly build and hard despite his age. He was also one of Zara's closest friends.
"Hey there, little fire bird." Jarad greeted her with the nickname he gave her ever since she started performing. It was how she came up with the nickname her customers called her. She smiled at seeing him and immediately veered to where he was standing behind the cashier's desk, fiddling some instrument she couldn't name. "How you doing?"
She leaned against the counter, with her arms crossed under her chest to hold her up. She watched how the light danced on the polished steel of his tool while it moved. She answered in a soft, wilting voice, "Good for this time of year, I suppose. There isn't a festival for another month, so things are a little tight. I'm hoping to work on making new moves before then, for a grand performance. My dad is getting a little frustrated with all the stuff I'm knocking over." They laughed at this, both clearly imagining her father, red-faced to see half his tools scattered over the shop floor.
"Good! I'll have to make sure to stuff my pockets that night, ay?" He giggled, then continued, "So, you come in here for some more matches?" He was already reaching under the counter where he stored them.
"Yeah, I'll take about five twenty-counts. Along with some lighter fluid." Zara reached into her pocket and pulled out some coins along with her empty lighter. She counted out what she needed to pay and tossed it on the desk, while Jarad tossed out the books and grabbed the lighter to take in the back. As he filled it, she shoved the matches in her pocket. When he returned, she took the lighter and place it with her matches as he took the money.
"That's a few packs less than normal." He noted.
"As I said, things are tight." She said tightly. She wasn't going to mention that she may have been spending her money in a underground fighting ring, but she knew he wouldn't approve of gambling. She tried to ignore her conscience pulling on her guilt.
"Yes. Well, times will get better. Good luck out there little fire bird." He told her when he saw her leaving for the door. She nodded goodbye on the way out, leaving the bells as the only sound to respond.

[Ace_of_hearts]

Kole stood on the rooftop of the Hallowed knight barracks in Asterheim. It was quiet enough for his sensative ears and high enough for him to see everything in the city with his enhanced eyes.

"Dilo," Kole muttered. He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again, they could zoom into nearly anything in the city with enough accuracy to read a digital clock.

Kole peered around the city with disgust. Everywhere he looked he saw equally wretched things. From spousal abuse to police brutality by the knights, it was complete anarchy. He sighed, "Absolute power corrupts . . . absolutely -John Emerich Edward Dalberg. Sometimes I think if none of us were special, then everything would be tranquil." He stopped and looked around, "Not that anyone's listening anyway, but if we took everyone's power away, I think we would all be happier. Less crime, less voilence. Take away the means, and the intent will soon follow." He said, though it seemed to fall upon deaf ears.

Kole looked at the building he was standing atop. "Or maybe if you guys just did a half decent job. . ."

[Auki]

Her bare feet were caked in layers of blood and dust, collected from the floor as she picked between the people and the rubble. Dirt rubbed upon her cheeks as well, proof that she was working hard, no time for her to stop and wash her face. Many women would have minded the uncleanliness, and not many would frequent such brutal fighting events either. They didn’t enjoy the violence like her, the atmosphere of a roaring crowd and guts spewed along the floor. Destruction and gore, grime and dust; they might turn their noses up, but Tia loved it. As long as her hands were kept spotless, of course, but such was just good for her business.

The excited screams erupted around her again; something interesting was happening in the arena ring – the death of some petty, unknown combatant perhaps – but she didn’t have the time to look. Her eyes focused on pushing past the crowds, delicately dancing between the arena’s fans. Her small size kept it easy, but there was a constant tension to the air. These people loved to see a fight; knocking into the wrong man might leave her with some teeth removed-


Aha! She’d found her goal.


“You.” she said to the man before her feet, watching him squirm on the ground in his pain. It was one of the previous contenders, his neck still gaping from where the ‘Bloody Angel’ had sliced it. His eyes showed fury, the outcome of embarrassment.
“You’re in bad shape, my friend,” she continued nonchalantly.

Instead of words, he gave an incomprehensible snarl, cut short by the gurgling in his throat. Hostile…why did they never seem pleased to see her…? “I’m one of the healers, sweet-pea. Take it easy.”
He tried to spit at her, but the motion was too much strain on his throat.
She ignored the gesture, talking as though it had never happened, “You want me to use my powers on you, huh? The magic-handed touch?”
He shook his head angrily but again, she passed it over.
“Well, if you insist, tiger…Let’s get to healing!”

His struggles were futile; she sat on his chest and used her legs to pin down his weakened limbs. Fingers at the ready, she stroked across his neck to familiarize herself with the wound, deaf to his agonised gasps, humming innocently as she did so. He managed to catch her leg with his flailing nails, scraping off a layer of skin, but she simply looked down on him, “With all these scars, you think that’s enough to put me off?”

His snarled response was drowned out by the wordless melody that reverberated on her lips.

Flesh re-stitched beneath her tireless hands, repairing the ruined skin in its finale. She couldn’t replace the blood he’d lost… perhaps for the best until she was out of arm’s reach. At least he wouldn’t die now.

“That’s fifty silver, my friend. I’d pay up now, else I’ll get double the coin out your wages; arena rules!”

He could have strangled her - she was sure - but he was not foolish. The regulations were clear; she would come out richer should he refuse. Money reluctantly exchanged hands. She’d need to be cautious that he didn’t try to steal it back later.

Off she trotted happily, coin pouch pleasantly heavier. A silver ring bounced in her left hand subconsciously. She did not know where it had come from or how long it’d been there; it was only after disappearing into the crowds that she noticed its presence.

[Gin]

So it began, Arc slowly walking passed the first buildings of the town and he had to say, this was one lively town in its way. His primary goal however was to find a place to stay, somewhere to sleep and rest up for tomorrow, so that he could start his hunt for a good old fashioned hire sword job.

The mud under his boots squished as he walked by the side of the road to avoid a wagon passing through escourted with several horsemen of the Hallowed Court.
With a hood shading his face Arc spitted on the ground, Damn users of the black arts... It was common for him to despise weavers of magic, but the mere sight of the Hallowed Court made his guts empty, sick and just made him want to get away as far as possible. It seemed that the Hallowed Court had a rather high place in this town, Asterheim and probably was it because of this they had wanted him to get himself here and work with the Zealots around this place.

Sickness, well magic was indeed a sickness and the most manipulated using magic was those of the Hallowed Court pouncing around as if they were knights in shining armor...
"Fools..." Arc expressed himself out loud to himself and carried on looking for a inn or a tavern to rest up at. It took nearly an hour to find a place that wasn't already packed and booked to their capacity. Infact luck struck out again as it was a rather fancy place considering the other places around and surely it would be abit more expensive. But Arc had coins enough and he wasn't too cheap about it either.

Upon entering the tavern Arc looked at the different people either drinking or eating, some even having their loud conversations about some fight that happened earlier tonight, something about the Dread Network or something, whatever that was!
Sure, Arc had made some arena fights in his past but neither had been related to something known as the Dread Network, perhaps because it was in a whole other area of the lands?

Blue eyes narrowed down each man and woman in there and he felt lucky as non seemed to oppose any kind of special eye onto his appearance. Infact a few other people appearing of the same class, (though perhaps softer skin and less battle experienced) was sitting inside enjoying their time in peace of this place.
Excellent... Only fools and me, this is splendid. Arc told himself as he walked up to the counter and ordered something to drink aswell as a room to sleep in over the night.

Given what was ordered Arc took a seat by a rather lonely spot, it was a table for two and resided in a corner ment for some privacy, or so it appeared.
It would take a while and about two ales later until a man would approach him, just as passively as Arc appeared and asked for the seat by Arcs table, not really caring wether or not someone was sitting with him Arc guestered that it was okey.
"Hey, ummmh... You wouldn't be in for some, special jobs would you? I mean, is your blade for hire so to say?" the man cautiously asked, "It depends." Arc replied with more stone on his face expression than usually, "A job concerning finding a sertain man, but just finding..." the man explained, "I see, but why not hire someone with more lowprofile for such a look out job?", Arc replied to it getting a sigh back at his responce.

"I need someone that is capable of handing himself and so far... In here, you seem to be that guy..." The man explained. This man had a silvery strand of hair hanging out of his cloak and by the looks of it, though the light was dim, he had green eyes.
"Okey, carry on...", Arc demanded softly, "Ah, yes... Welll you see-" The man started to explain.

[Average Hero]

A bellowing laughter gripped the spacious room while wrestling with the numerous amount of muffled voices encased in a spinning disc playing a surreal and dark quartet. The brass horn, aged by its work of playing beautiful music was rusted in more than one place while time had obviously taken its toll on the piece of metal. It was misshapen and scratches from the average wear and tear were easily visible from across the room, where a velvety red couch lit by dim candle fire let rest a young bedazzling female who dance the night away. Her body was pressed between two hourglass silhouettes who worked at a quiet, rustic style building hidden in the Linbrook Commons.

The girl place her hand on her hips and moved fluidly to the music running her neatly trimmed finger nails up her thighs and around the short piece of cloth she attempted to pass of a skirt. Her body melded with the two silhouettes as they dance behind the cover that was set to only invoke the inhabitants of the harem to pay that much more, in hopes that they could catch a glimpse at this mystical beauty. Her fingers traced along the inks of a tattoo placed just between her breasts, this tattoo had no meaning to anyone, at least not anyone that mattered. As the music began to speed up and the swear began to trail down her face, she lifted the hood from her head and gazed at the girl in front of her who wore a smile.

"You stay as beautiful as always Ren." Her words kissed a cheek of soft pale skin covered by a deep auburn and rust colored set of bangs that she hopelessly tried to keep held behind her ear. A smile crossed her pink lips and a fiery red gaze crossed with the heat rays of the lamps above before the music stopped and the curtain fell. While she was not one to strip for money, she did frequently enjoy the dances with the variety of girls and had been practicing for so long. She and the other girls scampered away from the cover and hid themselves in the back room. She collapsed in a chair and heaved a breath of exhaustion.

"How do you do it?" Ren asked it a very feminine voice laced with a masculine confidence that you couldn't find in many young women these days. "I'm utterly worn out." She trailed off as one of the dancer's moved closer and proactively pushed Ren's legs apart.
"If you came home with me I could show you, you're are already half undressed aren't you?" Ren blushed, and while she had never preferred undergarments it wasn't something she was known for broadcasting. A catty smile was returned to the dancer as she walked away, leaving Ren to mumble some half-witted jest.

As she began to relax, she leaned back in the chair she had commandeered and thought back of a few nights ago when she received her last payment for a series of jobs, of which she was very happy were over. That man had always rubbed her the wrong way and she was glad to be rid of him. But now what would she do for money, seeing as how she didn't intend to go back? The past few hours had been a relief and haven away from her imminent troubles. "If only I could just dance forever."

[V]

Side by side they knelt, twelve knights before the Caesar of Asterheim. Bowed before the high priest of the Hallowed Court they received their mission.

Dread Network, underground fighting. A cesspit to breed magical corruption, illegal fighting spilling blood. Who knew what darkness could emerge from the depths of these rings.

Knight Loran knelt letting the Caesar's words fill his ears, his face drawn blank and his mind calm. Obeying he muttered agreement to the task along with the others. He wore his robe, then, the rose and cross insignia covering his body and weapon. They rose and left together, unified within the order – but perhaps separate in mind. Loran muttered nothing to the others, they appeared to ignore him also. Duty was there for him.

They met the company of guards through the streets in the Linbrook Common, their force altogether was tiny and perhaps a sign of distrust between the orders. Rumours untrue of course, of Knights fighting in the Dread Network, dispelled by the Caesar. Guards, corruptible by nature, looking the other way, taking coin.

Loren, fought against the darkness. Ignoring the petty squabble.

Descending about the target building, archaic words formed on his lips pulling forth power. In the corners of his eyes, he was lead along by others following them to the building. Prepared for any surprised, he held his concentration.

His boot smashed the door inward, and he rushed in to what awaited.

[SQJPure]

While a scrawny looking woman tended to the gashes in one of the competitors neck, the lifeless body of Big Gordy was lifted off the floor, and tossed over the shoulders of a muscular man. The Gravedigger would be busy digging another grave by morning's light, and the Mortician would soon be elbows' deep in Gordy's blood.

No one was supposed to die tonight, and that left a hollow feeling in the pit of Neil's stomach. There was no word from the guard's positioned outside about the Iron Puppeteer's arrival, but there was talk about two interesting people worming their way inside without paying. It wasn't long before he was able to point them out from the usual crowd.

White robes often had that affect when everyone else was covered in mud, blood, dirt and grime. A young boy and girl by the looks of it. People weren't going to be happy about one of the biggest fights of the season being put on hold because the other person didn't show up. If he didn't think of something quick, there would be a riot to deal with.

"Next up: Neil the Bloody Angel versus the Iron Puppeteer!"

Although Neil stepped into the ring, the fact that there was no other opponent stepping up was painfully clear. People in the crowd cursed and jeered, demanding a fight that wasn't going to happen.

"Miro, where's the list of fighters for tonight?" asked Neil, turning to face a thin, pale faced boy with unruly hair and clothes one size too large.

With a simple flick of the wrist, a small black leather bound book levitated into the air by an unseen force and found its self in Neil's hand. Pages began to flip with every brisk movement of Miro's fingers till a marked page stood out.

Neil groaned, and stuffed an agitated hand through his hair. Crude writing in the margin about an arrested fighter made things tough.

The crowds' anger was growing by the minute; some people were even beginning to request their money back. "If you want a fight, shut your damn mouths or I'll shut them for you," snapped Neil, tossing the book back to Miro.

"Since my opponent decided not to show her face tonight, I gotta make a new match from scratch." Neil's eyes scanned the crowd till they landed on the fighter he was looking for.

"Django versus," Neil's voice trailed off as his extended finger landed in the direction of the odd boy in white robes, "versus you, boy."




Zabel's jaw dropped. Was he hearing it right? He, of all people, was picked to fight? It made no sense even as he was being torn away from Aalis and tossed into the ring by some of the rowdy patrons.

"You... you got the wrong person," mumbled Zabel, straightening out his robes.

"Nah, I don't have anything wrong. You thought you could sneak in here without paying? Well, you don't rip people off, and I got a business to run, so you're fighting, one way or another."

Neil turned and left the arena, rejoining Miro's side for the time being. "Hey," Neil called from the sidelines, "I'd take that thing off if you don't want it dirty with blood, boy. Django's not one for takin' it easy."

"What's this nonsense?" Django found himself asking. His eyes opening for the first time since he'd first taken as seat six hours ago. There was muck around them as though he'd just woken up from a deep sleep.

He needed to urninate rather badly, his bladder, a truly disgusting object had been held back long enough. He'd tried to stall it's filling as long as he could, pulling back as much of the liquid in his system as long as time would allow but there was only so much goodness that could be peeled from a moldy apple, an equally moldy banana, there'd been good meat, though he hadn't eaten it.

There'd been too much floating around it. Multiple estimates on height length breadth, width. Good food had that knack of bother him that way. He wouldn't be able to eat until he got a true distraction. There was generally only one workable type. Battle against a well trained opponent or multiple weak opponets. With the trained the battle bacame a game of chess, the measurement of power, speed accuracy. That was where he had the advantage against the most skilled of opponents. The pause, the moment to think the skilled needed was his moment to attack. The drunk or the weak on the other hand had thier own advatange, there was no logic thought or reason behind thier movements, it made thier evermy movement a riddle on it's own. But only in their multiple numbers.

Knowing this he stepped down to the ring, nodding to Neil. He took off his clothes leaving his pants, kicking the coats and armour to a pile in the ground before bouncing on his barefeet.

Zabel wasn't ready for a fight, especially one he didn't agree to. The man stepping up in front of him looked like he had twice as much experience as Zabel and Aalis put together. Tossing his tunic and napsack to Aalis who managed to catch it for once, Zabel slipped into the only comfortable fighting position he knew. Making the first move would end badly for him, so he waited for his opponent to make the first move.

He stared his opponent down. He was a very complicated read, something he appreciated. He ws tall, nearly as tall as Django, he looked to have some level of strength but looking at the young man's wrists and neck, measuring the joints where he could make them out he started to draw a picture of just how thick and powerful his muscles were.

But there was only one way of knowing. Bouncing on his toes he jumped forwards, twisting once, twice and a third time, his heel spinning fast as it arced right at the boy's head.
Zabel had little time to react to the man's kick. Extending his forearm to protect the side of his head, the impact of the man's foot was enough to knock him to the side a few inches as pain jolted through his arm. Shaking it off, Zabel throw a punch towards the man's jaw to even out the distance. The man was quick, to cut the distance so effectively, it forced Django to change gears from using his feet to his hands but that was the entent of any counter he could acheive, retreating by back stepping hard to the other side of the ring. He stretched his fingers to get rid of the tingling sensation the boy's movements had given him. To cut down the kicking range to get in a punch before he could so much as get a knee up. It was good, meant he was going to need to be flexible and a little more resourceful.

Arms raised he walked at a slow pace towards the boy his fists rasied in a defensive stance, his heals still bouncing. Slowly a rush of oxygen started to fill him up with energy, allowing his mind to move.

Zabel had to be light on his feet, especially with how fluid this man moved. He had an air of physical superiority, and letting him get too close was a bad thing. Shifting on his feet similar to the man's, Zabel kept his fists up and circled around to the man's left side. He kicked out with his right left towards his thigh, but rounded off with another fist to the jaw.

Django deliberately to the kick to the side, swallowing the harshness of the impact. He felt the rush of pain burst up from his tigh pushing up to his skull as his point pointed out the offending area before the impact of the strike up his face. But reflex, the reflex to shut his eyes, the reflex to retreat, held back by his own abilite as he ploughed forwards right into his fist pushing himself forwards his own right hand raised, claw and punched forwards right at the boy's throat. The full force of his body thrown into the assult.

The force of the blow to his neck sent him crashing to the dirty ground. Grasping for breath after the blow, he heard Aalis scream. The thought of scaring her kept his eyes from closing.

Unsatisfied, uncompleted Django used what magic had made his legs using his powerful calves to gain high as he jumped and dropped knee first right at the boy's chest.

Zabel's body surged with pain. He was still reeling from the blow to his neck; he hadn't expected to see his opponent jump into the air. Rolling out of the way, the man's knee still managed to slam against part of his chest. His eyes widened, and his body arched as he absorbed the pain. He could hear Aalis screaming his name, and he struggled to roll over onto his side.

He'd expected the boy's chest to cave in but he'd moved in time. It was rather fascinating how impressive the boy was but now Django had the advatage. Even agsint the most seasoned of fighters, this game was now his. White had lost too many peices and there would be no oppotunity given for a turn around. Almost as soon as he'd landed his strike he'd lunged forwards to land a strike at the boy's impacted neck and torse first by dropping his weight down with his knees in a pinning gesture and them swinging his hand down to clap at the boy's throat once again.

Zabel tried to squirm from beneath the man's body, but the pressure on his neck and chest was more than he could handle at the moment. He was losing his breath and it was hard to see straight. Before he blacked out, the man crawled off him, forced his body to roll over, and wrapped his arms around his neck. He felt the pressure on his lower back as the man settled down, pulling his neck backwards in a choke hold that threatened to suffocate him.

Aalis was hysterical; she managed to claw herself out of the dirty hands of other patrons that constrained her from entering the ring earlier. She stumbled over the slight raised edge of the arena. Whoever the man was, he was killing her brother. She couldn't stand around and let it happen.

"Get off of him," shouted Aalis, kicking the man square in the jaw. Whether it phased him or not, the grip around Zabel's neck loosened and he was able to gasp for breath. The crowd was stunned silent for a moment before disatisfied shouting filled the air.

There was a real, tanglible object that lived inside of his mind, inside of every man and women, near the front of his head somewhere that measured what he was currently seeing against everything he'd seen before in his life. His master had taught him about it. It was what regulated and created what people called instinct. It spoke to him but didn't give him tangible information. Just that there was something important about the woman that had just clocked him. She had a good foot, the swing of the arc the angle of the foot asnd yet, delicate features.

What ever run it told him that that wasn't the reason she was important. He backed away from the boy and raised his arms to the crowd in victory before shrugging playfully at Neil, as if to say it was alright. He turned back to the girl, his head cocked to hte side. Prehaps it was becuase she had the same hair as his master, the same lips. The same ears? The ratio of waist to foot was-

All thought stopped for a split secend as that singular object told him to shut up for once. Like any other muscle in his body it was specifically trained. If it demanded to be listened to he would listen. This had something to do with The Art. They had something to do with it.

Aalis was on her knees, helping her brother to his feet. He was unsteady and dizzy from the pain and loss of oxygen. He hated to lean on his sister for support, but he had no other choice. Aalis glared at the man she watched beat her brother nearly too death.

"I hope you're happy! He's not even a fighter - he's going to be a priest." She shook her head, fuming. "I hope it was worth beating up a follower of Akala."

He bowed once. "He is some priest. Bare me no anger, I only follow the way of the ring"

[The Silver Crow]

Zara had opted out of the decision to head straight for the ring like she had planned earlier. Guilt still pulled on her mind from when she lied to Jarad. Did she really need to? He wouldn't have gotten her in trouble. He would have kept it to himself and scolded her personally. But all the same, she hated when he had to scold her and she knew he hated it too. She would just have to be more wary with her money and how she used it. Plus, it would be to her benefit since she needed money for the preparations for the festival in a month. Without it, she would be stuck with supplies that were broken or too worn to use. Customers didn't like it when a fire ball flew at their head due to a broken cord. Neither did the Hallowed Court.
Oh, the lovely Hallowed Court. As daughter to the highly esteemed blacksmith of the church, one would think she cared more for them. And at one point she did. It was they that hired the special nurse that healed her mother. It had been a miracle and at the time when she was so young, she would have gladly joined them. But they had no need for her since they didn't know her abilities. She herself barely knew them. But after training and becoming rather famous, the Hallowed Court saw her as a useful tool and sent several of their men each month to try and push her into a contract of service with Caeser. But in joining, she knew she wouldn't be able to perform at her wish. So, each time they came, she avoided them or sent them back wiht a decline. Recently, they had become more vigilant. Threatening her with reminders of what they did for her mother. Sending out small rumors of how she was working with demons and dark magic, so less people booked her for their parties. It was troubling her, because she knew it would only get worse till either she joined or found a way to possibly find a solution instead.
All these thoughts crowded in Zara's brain in a long train that never ended. Her hand reflexively reached for her pocket and she pulled out the lighter. After pressing the button, the flame jumped to life on the console. "Emalf pmuj ot ym sregnif.(Flame jump to my fingers.)" She whispered lightly and held up her hand, with her fingers extended. The fire flickered a couple times, as if awakened by her soft voice, then flew to her raised hand, dancing between her fingers. She watched shifting spirit wiggle and move to a nonexistant wind in its dance. Her eyes and mind were caught by the wavering flame and she wanted to join in on its joy, but she held back. Restricting herself by continuing her walk and singing a litte lullaby for the fire to dance to.

[Gin]

The man who had sat down beside Arc for sometime now finally left, leaving Arc convinced to take the job upon his shoulders. But nothing would start tonight, just a bit of drinking and trying to relax before heading up to bed.

This tavern was yet that tad bit too loud again and the blurrish sound of men too drunk to stand and women to drunk to see through the mens lies and pitiful explainations of love... In a slight disgusted expression passed Arcs face for a second and it sure as hell didn't seem to get any calmer at where he was right now. Downing the ale he recently ordered Arc arised from his chair and headed out to the streets again, looking around close by the tavern in a calm manner, thinking that the outside air might not be so bad after all compared to the many forms of trash that are residents in this city.

There was a small river of water down below the tavern, a wooden raft floated in the water bound to a thick wooden pole by chains and a lock. The river wasn't wider then about 4 meters, but it was a river and it fitted for small boats if needed. Arc climbed down the small steep to reach the raft and sat down quietly in it just gazing up at the stars and enjoy the calm water splashing gently.

"This, this is life... But just a tad bit not as nice right now..." Arc spoke out loud to himself, continuesly gazing up at the stars.