A Shifting of the Sands: II
The roar of the bloodthirsty crowd in the arena rumbled like a persistent, pervasive thunder in the tunnels below the blood sands. The individual voices, the sounds that one could pick out to distinguish anything as even remotely related to mankind, were so muffled and dulled through the thick layers of stone and long twisting passages that what remained was an almost inhuman roar. A tempest of voices, a wall of humanity all calling out for one thing: blood. The fights had been going for some time now, so long that Naalie had lost track of how many bells had come and gone since the opening contest; she often wondered what it was that kept those men and women so enrapt, so enthralled that they would spend the better part of an entire day watching the trained fighters of the gladiators’ guild dance their deadly dance over and over again. Certainly after so long it became repetitious, did it not? While, yes, the different acts all fought with different styles… but when one got down to it, how different could any of it have been?
The young Miqo’te woman crouched in one of the many narrow, dimly lit passages beneath the arena proper; her back rested against the cold stone of the wall, though the majority of her scant weight was supported by the taut muscles of her calves. All of her gear, save the plumed helm which rested beside her, was polished and equipped, the weight of the steel, leather, and cloth a familiar comfort to her. Many of her colleagues cracked wise that her attire must weigh as much as she did, and while it wasn’t quite so burdensome as that the armor did add a significant amount to her overall weight. In moments like these, when the call would soon come that her fight was next, Naalie found herself repeating this same routine time and time again: crouch in the dark tunnels and allow the weight of arms and armor to ground her, to center her. It reminded her that she was in this moment, in the now, and that no matter what came next nothing could change that. Her breathing was slow and rhythmic: inhale to the count of five, exhale for seven, hold for five, repeat. It kept her heartbeat from slamming wildly in her chest, and the anxiety that always came with an impending fight from running wild with her emotions. At least… it usually kept her anxiety in check.
This fight… this one was unlike the others. She’d faced challenges, gone up against odds that she’d been unlikely to best - and won. This wasn’t even supposed to be a challenging fight, according to the word from the back alley bookies taking bets on the outcomes. While the Hrothgar she was pitted against was significantly larger than her, the skill with which she wielded a sword outclassed him in nearly every imaginable way. Light and nimble, Naalie glided like a shadow over the blood soaked sands to strike quick, hard, and decisively. There was little at risk in this fight. What gnawed at the back of her mind, instead, was the cryptic warning that came some weeks earlier while finding a measure of solace in the desert night.
The Lalafellen man hadn’t identified himself, only insinuated that he was a man of power and influence. The exchange had played out in her mind’s eye repeatedly in the days that followed, twisting and turning the encounter every which way to make sense of it; part of her wondered if he’d been bluffing, some costumed man with a mummer’s farce trying to scam her into providing a big pay out, while the remainders believed he was legitimately who he suggested he might have been. What would happen if she didn’t do what was so kindly asked of her? She, and her tribe, had so very little that there wasn’t much that could be taken from them; she had very few personal ties, fewer still beyond her immediate family. And what of her opponent? Had the man approached him as well with some enticing offer to encourage him to win? Or simply told him he would be going over in their bout? Undoubtedly he’d done something with Bjornulf, Naalie just couldn’t guess what it might have been. In silent frustration, the young Miqo’te woman leaned her head back and began idly bouncing it against the stone behind her; it hurt, but it distracted her from the racing thoughts swirling about her mind.
Far above her, Naalie heard the crowd roar with approval at some unknown deed that had just transpired; whatever it was, it had been exciting. A particular bloody outcome? A surprising upset for one of the underdog fighters? … A death? Those weren’t uncommon in the dangerous world that revolved around the Ul’dah Bloodsands. Would she soon meet such an ignoble ending, sprawled in the dirt and grime while the fans who had so loyally cheered for her now called for her death? A slow sigh slipped past her lips, and Naalie’s eyelids dropped tightly closed. In that moment, the sounds of the arena seemed to fade, becoming a dull background roar… a white noise she could tune out. It was a strange, unexpected moment of peace, which left her yearning for somebody, anybody, that she could reach out to.
"Vhenna!" the call came from somewhere to her right, just around the corner of the tunnel. "You're on next. Get your ass up to the gate."
Her silence broken, Naalie let out one more quiet sigh before pushing up to her feet. The footfalls that carried her down the tunnel were leaden, her body refusing to cooperate with the demands she was making of it; each step felt as if she were walking to her execution, a sense of dread lingering about her being with a strong defiance running to her core. No matter how this day went, no matter the outcome of this fight, she knew that things would never again be the same.
Sand kicked up into an arc as Bjornulf the Hellsbeast slammed the head of his mighty mace into the ground where Naalie had been standing but a scant few beats of the heart before; the thick metal hit with such force that the percussion could not only be felt by the nimble Miqo'te, but actually heard over the cheers and jeers of the spectators. Naalie wasn't sure if they called out in excitement as she easily twisted to the side before the blow fell, or if they were disappointed that her flesh and bones hadn't been crushed instead of the sand.
The way she moved wasn't unlike that of a dancer, albeit one decked in heavy armor and wielding a short sword; as the mace came hurtling down, Naalie had jumped to the side, twisting in air and coming down in a crouch a few fulms to the left. Was the crouch necessary? No. The crowd, though, usually ate that kind of thing up... and anything you could do to get the crowd wanting to see more of you was well worth doing. As she lifted her head, magenta eyes slowly lifted toward the rings of spectators looking down on them (yet another fan-favorite move that she tried to throw into the fray when she could). She tried to tell herself that she wasn't looking for anybody in particular, but she knew in her core that she was damn well looking for that Lalafell. The quick, stolen glance wasn't long enough to make out any faces, however; in the heat of the moment, in the midst of battle, she could scare spare more than a few heartbeats to play around before getting back to business.
As the tan Hrothgar began to heft his mace from where it has embedded itself in the sand, Naalie dove and rolled forward behind where his legs were planted; there was the briefest bits of hesitation as she brought out her blade to attack.
Should I? He warned me...
The bright lights of the arena caught the reflection of Naalie's blade, flashing brightly as the steel bit into the bare flesh and fur of her opponent. The man groaned aloud as the keen edge dug deep into the muscle of his thigh, mouth contorting into the shape of a silent scream and eyes narrowing. Blood poured free, matting the fur of his legs and spilling down onto the already stained sands below.
The crowd went wild, on their feet and cheering wildly.
In the sea of sound and moving bodies, there was one lone figure; Naalie caught but a glance as her eyes flicked back up to the ground, a few heartbeats at most... but she was sure. The ostentatious clothes, the smug expression, the two flanking morons. Yeah, it was him.
The corners of her mouth turned downward in a scowl. The entire fight until now had been spent in a mounting state of dread and indecision, not knowing what to do... what would be best for her career, or her well being. But seeing that short statured pompous ass standing in the crowd, watching her with his judgmental expression... Naalie knew.
As Bjornulf staggered forward, his right leg no longer fully supporting his weight, Naalie began to strike. She never went immediately for one killing blow, unless it was a guaranteed success. She preferred, instead, to dart in and out and make numerous strikes to further hinder their ability to attack or defend themselves. Precise cuts crippled his other leg, bringing the big Hroth down to his knees; his right arm was shortly rendered useless as he made the mistake of lifting it to guard against a blow, taking several ilms of cold steel into his flesh. Naalie was fairly certain she felt bone scraping against her blade when she slid it from the wound she'd created, and from the amount of blood that began to pour out it wouldn't have surprised her. He was helpless now. He knew it. She knew it. The crowd knew it. And the crowd... the crowd was going wild, their lust for blood and death at a pitch.
Naalie stood before the felled Hroth, blade held outstretched with tip pointing down at him. His eyes were wide and watery, but his brave face held as he stared potential death in the eye. It wasn't at her helpless foe that she looked, but to the mass of humanity beyond him... through the cheering fans... to a single, solitary Lalafell. With a defiant incline of her chin, Naalie's voice rang out in the arena.
"I refuse to kill this helpless gladiator." She paused, her eyes lowering to meet those of Bjornulf. "Yield," she demanded.
His breath came in pants, gasping for air through the pain of his wounds and the shame of his defeat. "He..." Bjornulf started, his voice low... low enough that his words were lost to all save a single Miqo'te. "... He promised... me riches... if I could kill you. And... he... he promised suffering... if I couldn't." Bjornulf spat, red phlegm staining the sand at Naalie's sandals. "You... have to... finish it."
The desperation was heavy in his words, carrying the weight of his fear and chilling Naalie to her core. Before she could process this, the Hrothgar lunged forward with a strength she didn't realize he still possessed; the severity of his wounds made it a clumsy endeavor at best, but Naalie saw it for what it was worth: an opening to give his death some glory, so he would pass from this world a fighter on his feet rather than a weakling on his knees.
With a quick motion, Naalie stepped to the side as he staggered in front of her; turning her sword in hand, Naalie brought the point downward just behind his clavicle. It cut through flesh and down into his pumping heart, stilling the organ. With a cry, Naalie jerked her blade free; the cooling corpse of Bjornulf slumped face-first into the sands as his life's blood spilled across the aptly named arena's floor.
Bitter tears stinging her eyes, Naalie lifted her head to stare out to the crowd in victory. She saw none of the cheering faces, the contorted fans enrapt with the spectacle before them. Only a solitary Lalafell turning his back and slowly walking away.
