Shu's Quest

[rn7]

He had been confined there for a significant time. There wasn't any obvious ways out, if there were a thing. His containment was too heavy to lift, too thick to bust through. He knew this because he tried to. Several times. He considered himself a bit lucky that he survived, or he would have, had he believed in luck and not fate. Fate decided that he would live once more today, fate had told him to pursue the man that did this to him, and to deliver onto him due justice. All orders aside. It was a personal grudge now, and no once was as zealous as he when it came to grudges.

His hands lit up with a sparkling light. He hadn't had the forethought of closing his eyes before he did so. The light bounced all around the interiors and blinded him briefly. Ultimately, a trivial thing. He was used to his own magic, after all. He concentrated the energy at the floor, letting the streaks of light vibrate against the ground. The encasement around him began shaking and trembling, as if slowly coming to life. It was lifted slowly, minuscule bit by bit until the entire thing was levitating in mid-air. A final push was all it needed, and the man had casted himself from the bell prison.

Mr. Lightning followed the trail. There were not many places Fargo could be. The city was the most likely place, no doubt. The question was where, and that was a big question indeed. Given Fargo's... ingenuity and luck, he must have been able to evade the arms of the law and of his debtors. The market would likely be the last place he would be, as he lacked the means to buy anything there, especially with the inflated prices. The castle was not taking visitors, and the refugee camps... Fargo did not seem the type to be stuck in such a decrepit place for long.

There was the arena. Admittance was free, food was cheap. Mr. Light went there.

Fargo was not alone. He had companions with him, and he showed a feeling of familiarity with them. It was clear that these comrades were not ones that came of the arena, but before that. Like the vulture he was, Fargo was picking apart what he could off the corpses of the fallen. It was Mr. Light's chance. Charging a sharp lance of lightning in his hand, Mr. Light prepared to pierce the wind user from afar, at an unseeable speed. But just as he prepared to strike, an oddity struck Mr. Lightning's eye. It was only for a brief second, but it was unmistakable. Mr. Light trusted his eyes like no other.

Personal issues once again fell aside. Mr. Light took his lightning bolt, intent on striking Fargo dead, and instead aimed it at this other person, intent on pinning him to the wall. As soon as the bolt left his hand, Mr. Light charged, intend on getting his hands on that cube.

[mr_e_s]

Stark

With the crowd cheering them on as they quickly looted, some guys came out to hurry them off t-

Stark lay on the ground, semi-propped up against the back wall of the arena. What the fuck just...what was gonig on? His...everything really hurt. Wait...his shoulder especially-what the fuck?!

Why was his shoulder on fire? Rollrollrollrollrollroll. What the shit? Oh god, his arm, fuck fuck fuck fuck!

...Fuck!

[SuperFush]

As Stark rolled to the floor, the heat from the fire was removed and replaced by a soothing coolness. A cloud of ice shards lanced towards Mr. Lightning, and from a icy ramp, Eltiar slid into the arena. He adjusted his glasses calmly.

"Sorry for being late. Something came up that I had to deal with. And now, something else has to be dealt with."

[Purg]

Torn wallets, amulets, and surprisingly little else. The bodies were lacking anything he could find of value - hardly any Ducats or things that would sell for many. Still, he took what he could, tying it all to the leather straps on his armor tightly, turning to St-

Faster than he could see, Stark was on the ground, on fire, and rolling. The sage from earlier - Eltiar, he recalled - was at his side, attacking what he could assume to be the assailant. There was no way to be certain, for Dom, at least - he hadn't seen an attack, just the signs of damage, although the appearance of the new man in the arena was certainly suspicious. He drew his last two knives, ready to toss them at a moment's notice - whether that would be fast enough or not, he was doubtful, but he would at least try.

"If we spend too much time here, they may release more beasts to make this more interesting for the crowd. We had best end this quickly, or risk further injury." With Stark possibly incapacitated and Kyle dead, they couldn't afford that toll.

[rn7]

"Move along, Iceman. This is my business. I'll let him live if you prefer. In fact, I've already let him live. That bolt would have killed him." Mr. Light stood tall, hands filled with building electricity, eyes latched onto the Iceman, waiting for him to decide the next course of action. In no way was this other man a threat.

[SuperFush]

"Stand down, Light. These people are under my protection. Him especially," Eltiar motioned to the fallen Stark. "Loose another bolt, Light, and I swear by the gods above it will be your last.

As he spoke, pale blue light gathered around his arms and hands.He brought his hands, and the light shot into the sky. Immediately, dark clouds formed overhead, and rain began falling to the ground.

"A fitting battlefield for us, Light. This is your last warning! Stand down, or I won't hold back!"

[rn7]

"You think theatrics amuse me? You may defeat me, but I will ensure that you will not go unwounded. It's been years since any developments, you think I'll let the opportunity slip? Give me the cube!" Mr. Light yelled over the trembling skies, still waiting for the Iceman to act first. Mr. Light preferred not to have a fight, but if it was necessary... all things secondary to that cube. Personal issues aside, orders aside, life aside. Mr. Light looked around at the wet ground around him. Ironically, the moistness would aid him more than restrict him. Nothing more than a show, and no doubt putting a strain on the user.

Light planted his feet into the ground. He did not need to move.

[SuperFush]

"I don't know what cube you're talking about, but it doesn't matter! You attacked my friend! That's all I need to know!"

Instantly, the ground became encased in a layer of slick ice. For Eltiar, is offered as firm footing as a dry, grassy plain, but nearly anyone else would find it near impossible to maintain their balance. He waved his hand in the air, and formed daggers of ice from the rain, launching them at Light. As long as the rain continued, he had need to worry for materials to craft his weapons from.

The daggers of ice weaved through the air, their trajectories curving around each other. The orbited Mr. Light before rapidly converging on him, spinning and slashing.

[rn7]

The ground became icy, frictionless and slippery. But the nature of his magic was so that he did not need to move to use it. It had been good that he had prepared for this earlier, getting a good foothold in the ground. And just his luck. The Iceman had used a technique designed to limit the effectiveness of dodging. Rather than be intimidated by the icy dagger prison, Mr. Light dropped some metal pellets he was carry. He revolved them around him much like the ice particles, letting the two crash violently into each other. Sprays of water and loose eyes smacked against his face, but his concentration did not wane. When it was all done and over, a pile of useless ice lay at his feet. Well, mostly useless.

All of a sudden, all the particles of ice began to rise, floating around in mid-air. They began to wrap around a large bolt of lightning Mr. Light prepared. Pausing a second to aim, Mr. Light threw the ice-surrounded lightning bolt at the Iceman.

"How do you like that, Iceman? Your ice powers are useless. I can wield them as well!"

[SuperFush]

The ice around the lightning bolt suddenly crunched inwards, reflecting the blast to harmlessly lance across the ground as Eltiar dodged out of the way, with suprising swiftness for his age. "Not well enough! No matter how skilled you think you may be at manipulating ice, that skill pales in comparison to mine!"

He waved his hands out in front of him, the blue glow shot out from his fingers to suffuse the ground around Mr. Light. "Frost That Raises the Sleeping!"

Spears of ice shot out from the ground in a circle around Mr. Light, stabbing at his legs, arms and body.

[Purg]

Ominous rain, lightning, and icicle spears. Clearly not a fight for normal men, Dom realized as he bent over to help Stark up. The man was hardly lucid, and seemed to be unaware of anything that was going on in the arena, although he couldn't blame him. Now that he had seen the strange man's talents, he figured that the mage had been the one to incapacitate his companion. The burns on his arm - even though they were treated - seemed to speak to that, as well as the grogginess of the swordsman. He had seen men struck by lightning before - it appeared Stark fit the bill for it, and it made sense with the mage battle before him.

Making it around on the ice, though, could prove troublesome...

[rn7]

Light breathed heavily as the sharp points pierced his armor and struck into his body. The cold ice gave off a numbing feeling, almost calm and sincere. Light could almost laugh, if it weren't for the direness of the situation. Oh, who was he kidding. If he were to die here, as he surely would, why not with a smile on his face?

"Heh. Ha ha. Ha! You really are transparent. I lied, Iceman." The shards of ice that the Iceman had deflected suddenly exploded, sending a deadly spray of shrapnel toward the old man. Light hadn't been controlling the ice directly. Rather, the metal particles had attached themselves to the ice. The theatrics on his end were a ruse, unlike his opponent. Light could not hold his laughter now, though it was a mortal, weak laugh. The ice piercing into his body clearly affecting him.

Pain aside. Life aside. All things secondary. While Iceman was distracted with the explosion, Light lifted a dead body in armor with his electricity, filling it with so much energy that the dead body inside fizzled and started to smoke. Light then threw the body at the Iceman, its supercharged state attracted to the metal particles that exploded.

Edited July 21, 2010 by rn7

[SuperFush]

"Blast!" The sudden attack was unexpected. Light had improved his abilities to manipulate and create magnetic fields if he was so easily able to launch a heavy object such as that at such a high speed. Eltiar created a wall of ice in front of him, but he wasn't able to get it thick enough before impact. The armour-clad corpse smashed through his protective barrier and into his chest, knocking him into the air. Painfully, Eltiar ascended to his feet again. If Light truly wished to fight, then Eltiar wouldn't disappoint him.

"Perfect Freeze"

The rain stopped. Droplets hung in midair. quickly freezing into icy bullets. The shifted slightly in the air, as Eltiar strained his magic to hold them there until he was ready. Once they were all frozen...

"Descend!"

Countless icy projectiles zoomed towards Light.

[rn7]

Thousands of raindrops-turned-ice projectiles pierced through Mr. Lightning's body. His skin was torn, his muscles and bones punctured, his entire body covered in his own blood. Still he stood there, fixed to his location like a statue on a pedestal, baring the rain, snow, and erosion. Chunks of his skin fell off, either from rust or by force. His face was no more, in its place a deep red skeletal frame. His breathing slowed despite all which was going on around him. He lacked the eyelids to blink, but tried too any way, the pupils locked fiercely onto the Iceman behind it all. He could feel his arm becoming loosened from its socket, and his legs rotting from the frost. It was only a matter of time now.

He hadn't expected to win, he knew his attempts were futile. But at least his could offer one last thing to his comrades.

Concentrating all of his energy into his palms, Light prepared the final attack. He could feel his own fingertips become singed and burnt. He felt the life running out of him, and his organs shutting down one by one. But it was worth it. As good as the Iceman was, he could not move faster than light. Nothing faster than lightning. And to do this, he had to break his own limits. All other things secondary.

An instantaneous streak of energy exploded in front of everyone's eyes, temporarily blinding whoever was either close enough, or looking directly at it. Light's eyes, so close to the attack, instantly burst and left him without sight. Light's hair caught fire, burning away the top of his head. Mr. Light's arms disintegrated, blood boiling away. Light's eardrums burst from the burst of air. The force of the attack tore away Light's upper body from his legs, which were already worn away due to the cold.

A legless, armless, eyeless stub of a body landed a distance away, in a pile of blood. Sightless, deaf, completely disabled.

He turned his head, opening his mouth to speak. It was a struggle at first, gurgling and coughing, attempting to talk. Ignoring the missing body parts, the muted and destroyed senses, Mr. Lightning managed a last few words of farewell.

"I told you... you... will... not... go... unwounded."

[SuperFush]

"...Damn..."

Eltiar crouched on the ground, panting, his body smoking from the extreme force of the blast. His skin was reddened from where his icy armour boiled away in the force of the mighty blast. His vision swam - when he closed his left eye, the entire world went black. Whether the blindness would be temporary or not was a question he had no answer to. His hair ended a good few inches shorter than it did previously, in charred short, then ends still glowing in some areas. It was all he could do to stay awake.

"Not as good as I used to be...Stark!" Eltiar stood up, then immediately collapsed in pain.

[mr_e_s]

Stark

Stark was barely conscious. The pain from his shoulder still screamed and hissed, telling of it's staunch refusal to leave, that it intended to stay with him for a long while. It wasn't as bad as it was before Eltiar had helped though, adn Stark could almost deal with this pain with the memory of the pain that preceded it still so fresh in his memory. Not well though. Eltiar and the random ligtning mage fougth, Stark wasn't entirely sure what was happening, or who won, but neither side looked real good.

"...Stark!" That was Eltiar. Stark had to do something. Had to help his old friend. Get up. Come on, get up! GOD DAMNIT STARK GET UP!

"Eltiar..." Stark was on his feet, though not really standing, still in the process of rising, slowly, fighting against all those impulses telling him no, telling him to lie back down for a few years. They were mutinous, and he wouldn't listen. He was his own master, they would obey. He would make it over there, he would help his friend, he would ge tthe Hell out of here, and then he would finally submit to them, he told himself, almost promising to his body. "I'm here." Stark was upright now, slowly hobblnig over to the ice mage.

He looked bad. Worse then Stark. The lightning guy had done some kind of trick, something really underhanded. There was no way he could have even touched Eltiar in a straight up fight. Stark let the rage fill him, bringing with it what little reserves of adrenaline he had left, giving him the power to move a bit more. "We have to get you out of here. There'll bee doctors and sages in the pits, for winning gladiators." Stark managed a faint smile. "I'd say you qualify."

[rn7]

Fargo walked up on over to Mr. Lightning all burnt up on the ground. There was nothing at all left that was salvageable from the corpse, and all identifying characteristics have been warped. Fargo still could not brush off the feelings of dread and an odd sense of discomfort. Oddly enough, it wasn't emanating from Mr. Lightning, but it was close by, rattling the bones in his body. Fargo picked up a discarded stick nearby, and probed the dead body with it, like he was poking a log in the middle of a bonfire. He felt... incomplete. Like he needed to ask this guy a few question, that he would rather have the guy alive rather than a stubby pile. Fargo looked around at the arena. The ice had melted away, leaving scrambled body parts in a puddle. What a mess. Good thing he didn't have to bury the guy.

Well, there was at least one thing he could do. Fargo got one of the mystery-meats-on-a-stick and stuck it in the dude's mouth. For good luck, maybe. He wasn't quite sure why he was feeding a dead guy, especially when that dead guy went to so much effort to kill him.

Strange world. Stranger people. Himself included.

[Purg]

Dom nodded his head as he slid past Stark and the old sage carefully, slowing to a stop next to the charred, disfigured corpse of the man who had caused this last fight. There was hardly anything left - his robes had been burnt to his flesh, and it was hard to even recognize him as a human. There was nothing to be salvaged - nothing of worth, at least - so instead, he turned to look at the entrance to the arena, to signal to the hired hands used to move injured warriors out of the battlefield. It was evident that the other prone figures were all dead - if the previous fight hadn't done it, it was the residual energy of the magic duel that had ended them. Eltiar was loaded onto a stretcher (rather clumsily, as the men weren't used to the ice), and pulled toward the exit. He looked back to the defeated foe, and saw Fargo bending over him. An odd youth, but he wasn't about to call himself normal.

The basically-unharmed mercenary approached Stark slowly. "You've been badly injured, you know. It's a wonder they didn't force you onto a stretcher as well." He gestured to the odds and ends tied to his armor. "I've taken enough for this fight to be profitable, even without the prize money. We should be gone, before they decide to put us into another match."

[mr_e_s]

Stark

The sudden prospect of going through more bullshit got Stark moving out of the arena at a blistering pace almost matching walking speed. Which way did Eltiar get carried out again? Which way was the right way? Stark just had to find an exit, any exit. No more hurting. Stark's legs cried in protest. His arms, even the one not horribly ravaged by a lightning bolt, hung limply at his side. His heart was beating furiously with the mad effort of the movement, his head lulled down, unable to sustain it's perch any more. He was broken, he was beaten, but he would not be fallen.

At least, he hoped not. He couldn't really see where he was going any more. His arms didn't want to feel around, either. The sight of him shoulder checking the walls lightly until he found an exit might have been humourous to someone who didn't mind laughing at the very sad excuse for a warrior. Stark didn't find any humour in the situation though, only a mild sense of panic at the thought of more fighting right now. No announcements, no sounds of more lions, no sting of further ligthnnig, everything seemed alright so far. He found an opening. Was it the one Eltiar went down? He could use some medical attention, but he was more then willing to settle for a safe place to lie down. He would just have to walk a bit further. Just a bit....furthe....

Stark had made inside a smller doorway, just outside the view of the arena, he sitill didn't know what it was, but his legs finally refused to move any further. His upper body didn't receive proper notice and kept going, then gkept going down. It was all he could do to turn himself and not fall on his burnt arm.

[rn7]

"Dom there is a thinkin' man!" Fargo burst onto the scene with a mouthful of mystery meat and a fistful of dollars. "Hope you don't mind me taking an advance! But yea, he's right! Not only did we kill the big moneymakers, but we caused quite the scene with the magic bang, bang kaboom, kablooie, aieeeeeeeee! Best to get out of here quick before they either try to get our autographs, or our heads."

Fargo looked on at Stark and the old iceman. "Man are you guys banged up! Haha, wow! I'm glad I stuck to where I was! Want a stick? I got plenty. Oh, here's your share!"

Fargo dumped some coins onto Stark's body, all laid out on the stretcher. Fargo then tossed over the money bag to someone else, so they could grab their bit of the bite.

[Purg]

The ward in the arena was just as filthy and poorly maintained as the rest of the facility. The doctors, at least, looked competent, although the amount of blood on their aprons was at least a little disturbing. While some of them appeared to use magic to cure wounds, minor ones - like the pinhole wounds from the lion's claws in his back - would be taken care of using conventional means. There was little that could be done - they were too small for stitches, so all that could be done was a simple bandage, wrapped tightly around his chest. It made it somewhat difficult to breathe, but it would stop the bleeding, hopefully without any complications. As he redressed himself carefully, he looked over at the beds his companions laid on - they were being treated by some of the mages, apparently, which wasn't too surprising. He was unsure how talented the healers were, but felt safe in assuming that they would recover - magic was a powerful weapon, but could be an even more powerful salve.

Until that time, though, he sat down near the exit, ready to leave the arena. He had experienced enough violence today, and would rather get his things and find something better to spend his time on.

[mr_e_s]

Stark

Two large trolls were killing merchants, they had several arrows embedded in their skin, and the blood of archer's running along their fists. Assorted weaponry lay about them, some of it with arms still clutching it, bodies were less likely to still be attached to the arms. The remaining survivors seemed to be mainly comprised of non-combatants, the guards had already been dispatched with extreme prejudice. Now the only people they were killing were unarmed peddlers, doing their best to file, but unable to match the speed of the long strides of the trolls. A few were getting away, the ones smart enough to scatter, but splitting up in the wilderness rarely resulted in anything but death. The situation was hopeless.

Let it be, then. He'd seen hopeless before.

He had managed to get back up, despite a stray punch early on in the encounter knocking him into a tree, and cracking several of his ribs. He wouldn't just accept it. He'd die fighting. Stark picked his lance up off the ground back where he had been punched, and charged at one of the trolls, the larger of the two, who had been happily picking up merchants and throwing them into their faster companions. The troll, 14 feet tall, took a second to realize the lance that had just been shoved through it's gut. It very angrily lashed out at Stark, with a few large, sweeping blows, clearly not strategically planned. They seemed more like attempts to swat at an insect that had just stung then an effort against a real opponent. His mistake. Or it would have been if Stark had managed to get the lance out of his skin before having to roll away from the two foot wide fist coming at him before the giant started moving. He was unarmed.

Wait, there were plenty of arms lying around...so to speak. Nothing looking like the halberd stile of lance he usually used, but plenty of javelins and swords. Those would do in a pinch. Stark hurled a javelin at the big SOB, it didn't penetrate skin, instead bouncing harmlessly off. Stark's javelin form was less than perfect. He'd probably do better with a sword. Or at least, he would if he could get one from a dead man's grasp. For a while, it was a morbidly comical sight, the one of Stark trying to wrestle the hilt from the already icy grip of a severed arm, flailing it about. He did get it eventually though, and felt more comfortable with it then a throwing weapon. He found out very quickly the little sword wasn't suited for combat with the troll, though. It barely scratched at the creatures arms while it took swings. It didn't even take note that Stark was fighting back. Stark angrily thrust it aside, wishing he could just grab his halberd back, but knowing he wouldn't get close enough without a decent weapon like his halberd to keep him safe getting there. Irony was a cruel mistress.

Stark backed up, trying to buy time to think of something better to do, but he should have spent more time checking behind him, if he had, he probably wouldn't have tripped over the body of Nolan, kind of a pompous knight from Alabaste. He was an alright guy, once you got to know him. Not that it helped him stay alive. If Stark had the time to really analyze it, he might have thought himself a bad person for grabbing Nolan's broadsword with a quick boot to his dead fingers as a prompt to let it go. In the moment though, it just seemed like the thing to do, and that was all that mattered.

It felt much better in Stark's hands then the little sword. It had some real heft to it, like his halberd. He could see why Nolan was so fond of it. It had a much smoother flow to it then Stark's Halberd, and carried enough weight to really hurt pretty much anything it hit. He liked it. Not that he really took much note of it while the trolls were both now focusing on him, the large one giving an angry growl ordering the other to come help with this annoying human. The merchants were all running away now. Still scattering. Idiots. If they were smart they would run together, most lesser monsters wouldn't attack a group if it had enough numbers but a large group running in such scattered pockets may as well have lunch tattooed all over them.

Stark had bigger problems right now, an easy 1800 pounds of them.Stark figured his only chance was to get one goblin to smack the other, to get between them and force a friendly fire hit. Unfortunately for Stark, the trolls weren't as stupid as he though, when he tried it, one backed off and the other went full bore swinging at him. Fortunately for Stark, the troll definitely did notice when he struck back with his new broadsword. He was wounding it, and that gave him new confidence. His first that was to try and scale the arm of the thing, get to the top of it, but that was dumb and would never work. Instead he opted for a less direct road to the top. Or rather, a road to the bottom...

He charged inward, past a crushing blow from above, to where the halberd was still lodged in it's stomach, the troll, figuring he was trying to reclaim his weapon, made to top him. But he wasn't trying to recover his weapon. It could stay there, for all he cared. Instead he kept running, in between the creatures legs, and took a two handed swipe at one of the creature's heels, or just above it, at the Achilles tendon. He wasn't even sure if trolls had one, but as it turned out, they did. The troll dropped to one knee, the other getting notably angry and ready to come help. But not before Stark slashed the other tendon and took the larger troll to the ground and out of the fight. He ran across the fallen body, still dodging wild pain-filled swings of the arms, and plunged his sword into the monster's neck. The struggling got more intense, enough to toss Star off (this time he had the sense to hold tightly to his weapon and take it with him). Soon it stopped, though. The troll was dead. Stark took a second to appreciate what he had just done, but it turned out to be a second too long. The other troll hadn't stopped to mourn his fallen companion, opting instead to take advantage of the distraction and deal with Stark.

The troll had Stark in between both of his giant hands, crushing the life slowly out of the spearman turned swordsman. Enjoying it, taking it's time. It knew there was no one else around to help him, and he had proven to be quite a nuisance. Trolls didn't let nuisances die fast. They got to feel every excruciating moment before finally getting the sweet release of death. Excuciating was a good word for it too. Stark was blind with pain. He couldn't remember where he was, or why he felt all this pain. He had no idea what lead to this course of events, he would be hard pressed to give his name if asked right now. He was completely lost in the vice grip of the troll. Death was clod, very cold. Icy, actually...

Wait, it didn't hurt any more. What was going on? Stark dared to open his eyes, figuring maybe he was dead, that Lightkratos had spared him those last agonizing moments of life. The icy corpse of the troll about 10 yards from him told him differently. There was a man not too far from him, looking around, it seemed, checking for any other survivors.

"Who... Who are you?" Stark barely managed to sputter out.

~~~

"Stark." Someone's voice was calling him, or just talking to him, not really calling. "Stark." Friendly voice. "Stark, I've got to go. I've started something that I'll have to see through now. It would just get you and your friends killed if you tried to come along. Please understand." Stark didn't respond, he just slipped back into unconsciousness.

[rn7]

It was kind of amazing, but not at all surprising the attitude change toward him as he walked through now. Now an arena champion, and by extension an "honorary citizen", things were shoved into his face not only with reasonable, rational prices but also some with ridiculously low price tags, their owners insisting on only the best value for the champs. The city wasn't all to bad in reality-- you just had to be a citizen.

The good old paranoia set in again, but it was warranted. Around every corner lurked agry gamblers who lost a decent sum of money to the crew down in the pit. They were hoping to break even now, or at least get a small hint of satisfaction by beating the brains out of the champs. But being honorary citizens meant being under the protection of the great castle city, and in a crowd of people, the angry gamblers could not act. It was truly an odd thing, to make enemies wherever he went, and no matter what he did.

Fargo remembered the wise words his adoptive father gave him: "Fargo, you ungrateful piece of shit, you're lucky I don't beat your head out with a shovel. Wait a minute, someone, get a rake!" Fargo wasn't too particularly sure why those words were wise, nor why he remembered them so vividly. Fargo wasn't actually part of the Capcillion family, but rather a son of one of the many mistresses of the patriarch of the family. He didn't get to enjoy the luxurious life as much as he enabled others to. He thought it was a bit weird that in his last will, the head of the Capcillion family left his entire fortune to one of his illegitimate son. If things are too good to be true, well, you better brace yourself for the smack in the face. A lifetime of unpaid labor and his reward was to inherit the entire, encompassing debt of the Capcillion family.

It turned out not to be so bad. Though legally, the debt was all on Fargo's hands, the debt collectors wanted their dues from the actually family members themselves, not caring about some labor boy working the trade wagons. The Capcillions were hounded and eventually killed off, one by one. Since he was but just a labor boy, no one actually knew what he looked like, at least for a time. The simple life of a debtor was more fun than he had initially anticipated.

He was just about done with shopping, picking up enough supplies and a decent wagon for extended travel. His experience with this old trading and traveling deal put to use. Strange how things like that end up working.

[Purg]

"You do fine work, Charlie," Dom said contentedly, holding the now-repaired whip lightly in his hands. What had once been a weak, broken weapon was now a young, powerful tool, spry and limber in his calloused hands. The knives were sharp and well-balanced, and the stilettos light, and keen enough to make the air cry out. They would be useful if he intended to travel with Stark. The man was dependable in combat, and his personality was tolerable, at least from what he had seen, which was admittedly little. Alabaste, though, was not a place for travelers, and even as a champion, he felt out of place. He would rather take his winnings and be done here, perhaps find another city that would fit his tastes better.

"Hey, you listening?" Charlie was grinning. "You space out a bit, y'know?" Dom shook his head - he hadn't realized the clerk had been talking, and felt a little sheepish about it, for some reason. "Word is that you're one of the new arena champions. Wish that you had had your weapons for it, would've been great advertising, but, that's what I get for not being able to work faster. I'm just happy to have helped put your whip back together, it's been awhile since I had good work." He handed over something wrapped in coarse brown paper - using one of the newly sharpened knives, Dom cut the wrapping away, revealing a finely crafted belt, with sheaths built into it for his knives, and loops for his whip. He looked at Charlie, surprised, offering it back - but his hand was pushed away.

"As I said, it's been awhile since I had good work, and you're the champion now. It's not uncommon for vendors to give powerful warriors gifts, for luck or otherwise. And I still made a profit from what you paid me for the repairs, even with the cost that it took to make the belt - so don't worry too much about it. Besides, maybe word will get around that Owen's Exotic Weaponry is the store for the knife-throwing champion, I could make even more from what you've done." He laughed. "So really, I'd owe you a bit more, but, eh, this is all I have for now. You look like you're ready to head out of Alabaste - if you come back, though, be sure to stop by. I'll be here, every day of the week."

Perhaps being a champion could be beneficial, then. He put the belt on as he walked away, quickly arming it as he made his way back to the arena. Eltiar had left before him, mentioning a job that had to be done, but Stark had yet to awaken. That time would arrive soon enough, and he intended to hear what the other man's plans were when it did.

[Ragnell]

Blaine

Blaine kicked out at the door with all his might, but to no avail. The wooden frame shook slightly under the blow, but the door remained firmly seated on its hinges. Blaine growled and wiggled his leg, trying to shake off the jarring pain. Still not ready to give in, he wound up and kicked again, this time creating a gratifying cracking sound. Ready to finish the job, he slammed his foot outward one last time, which sent the flimsy wooden door solidly inward. He shook his wild eye-length black hair aside and took a deep breath, happy that the hardest part of his plan was done with. Only a few more minutes and he could get out of this stupid town for good. He took another breath and scanned the city block around him, checking to see if his actions were being noticed.

It seemed a bit sad to him that he was breaking into a tavern storehouse in broad daylight and yet not a single person had moved to stop him. It wasn't as if he was being particularly discreet about his actions. And his sword was sitting idly in its sheath, so he didn't feel that he appeared all that threatening. But all the nearby pedestrians continued on their way, ignoring the violent break-in occurring directly beside them. Several people even glanced directly at him, but they then turned away and went about their business as if nothing was wrong. Did they not realize what he was doing? The guards were nowhere in sight, even though Blaine knew that they frequently patrolled the city, and should have at least noticed his activity by that point. But it seemed that, despite everyone's high opinion of them, even they were inattentive at best. It was almost unbelievable that a simple war could have turned a thriving country into the savage place that was now Arcya.

Blaine spat and stepped inside the storehouse, watching to avoid stepping on the fallen door. The inside of the building was dark, with the only light coming from beyond the felled door. On the wall adjacent to the door, Blaine spotted a small staircase heading upward, but aside from that, the room was featureless. Large crates were stacked up to the ceiling along each wall, and several boxes of bread were scattered on the floor. Blaine immediately moved to the bread, stuffing as much as he could hold into a leather satchel tied around his waist. He had to fight with all his might to resist the urge to cram the rolls into his drooling mouth. When the bag was half full he turned, and began to rummage through the other boxes, looking for items of interest.

Just as he was about to move to the fruit, a loud voice cried out from the stairs, “Who's there?! What are you doing?”

Blaine spun about to the staircase, and drew his sword immediately, tensing all his muscles and preparing to strike out to end whoever had interrupted him. Within seconds, the voice's owner could be dead on the floor, and Blaine could take the food he so desperately needed. But as his eyes adjusted to the different lighting by the stairs, he found that it was only an old man speaking. His hair was mostly missing, but he wore what looked like a finely cleaned robe.

Blaine paused and slowly lowered his sword, halting his attack, his heart still pounding fiercely in his chest. His arm was shaking, and he could almost feel the adrenaline surging through his body. “I'm no one. I was not aware anyone lived here.”

“I live here with my supplies for the tavern across the street,” the old man replied shakily. “But, how did you get in here? The guards-”

“I'm sorry,” Blaine interrupted, dumping the food from his satchel onto the floor. “I'll leave you in peace.” He had absolutely no urge to stand around discussing the break-in with the man, especially if there was a risk of being caught by the guards. It would be better if he left without a word.

Blaine sheathed his sword and was about to make for the door when the man asked nervously, “What is a strong young lad like yourself doing robbing a tavern's supplies? I'm sure you could do fine in the arena. I just got back from there; we have new champions today!”

Blaine paused and stepped out of the shadowy corner of the room slightly, leaning his left side forward as if to explain his predicament. The old man's eyes seemed to scan the scar on Blaine's cheek first, but then they homed in rapidly on Blaine's left arm, or his lack thereof. The sleeve of his worn tunic dangled limply off the small stump that remained of his arm.

“Oh, I...” the man stuttered.

“It's nothing,” Blaine said gravely. But just as he was about to leave again, a new plan came into his mind. “What are the new champions' names, by chance?”

“I'm not sure... I think there was a Stark, and a-a Fargo... then there was... uh....”

“That will do,” Blaine said, heading for the exit. “My apologies for your door.” Seeing the fine robe the man was wearing, Blaine had no doubt that he could afford a new door.

The old man looked taken aback, but managed to reply shakily, “I-I'm sure you could join the army. They're always looking for soldiers.”

As Blaine passed through the door, he muttered back, “I can't go back there. They'll find me.”

Then he was outside again, back into the afternoon heat. He turned immediately into an alley and picked up his cloak, which he had left lying behind an old wooden cart. With some trouble due to his missing limb, he managed to pull the cloak over himself. Sure, it was hot in two layers, but never as uncomfortable as receiving dozens of awkward stares at his left stub.

While he was extremely disappointed that he couldn't get any money or food from the tavern storehouse, he had gotten some interesting news out of the ordeal: there were well-known champions in the arena. Having only arrived in the town recently, Blaine had always assumed that the champions in the arena just faced teams of vagabonds and then disappeared into anonymity. And Blaine knew that he was no match for a group of trained warriors with a severed arm. But if he could fight a champion alone... He could still duel one man. What did the old man say the champions' names were? Stark; that was one of them. And if he could defeat even one man that the townsfolk considered a celebrity, then he might be able to get a hold of some food. The prices in the local shops were ridiculous, but he saw vendors giving out food practically for free to respected citizens.

Luckily, the coliseum was closer than Blaine could have hoped. He had reached the gates within minutes of leaving the tavern storehouse, even at his relatively slow pace of walking. The place looked rather shoddier than he had expected, but he immediately let the observation pass out of his mind. The integrity of the building was not his concern. Whoever was inside must have some idea where the champions were. And from there... the rest was simple... he hoped. Dueling for fame wasn't exactly how he wanted to begin his new life, but he could hardly find his new purpose if he was starving to death.

Blaine's stomach rumbled loudly as he neared the entrance, reminding him of how long it had been since he had eaten. He knew that within another day or two he would be unable to properly fight due to hunger, so he only had a limited time to find the champions. And whatever he did, he had to ignore the constant gnawing hunger. Pain was nothing. Death was a bit more serious.

Cloak sweeping behind him, Blaine burst inside the coliseum. With the loudest voice he could muster, he bellowed, “Where is Stark? I challenge him to a duel!”

Edited July 28, 2010 by Ragnell