[FFXIV] Lions Do Not Sleep :: 01

Thunderous rumbles rippled across the stands to the syncopathic beat of a thousand feet stomping in semi-unison amidst the guttural yells and bellows of hundreds of voices all singing out in a liturgy of violence and chaos. Merciless was the sun that glared down into the sunken hollow of the coliseum, as if it, too, awaited the bloody carnage that would soon ensue. It baked the turgid throng, making the place reek of stale sweat, reeking body odor of a hundred different kinds, the churned dust of the rolling tide of the crowd. Air itself tasted of copper, dirt, and heat, leaving a dryness upon the palate that no amount of water could slake. It made the skin itch and fur stand on end, affronted by the rising torridity that had nothing to do with blood and muscle and sinew.

All at once, a hush fell over the crowd and as one they leaned forward to glower expectantly toward the epicenter of the coliseum where two figures stood, staring at each other with dispassionate stoicism from beneath the guard of their shining helms. There was nothing for them there in the belly of the pit, nothing save each other. The din of the crowd was a dull murmur in the back of the mind, a figment, a phantom, barely discernible above the thrum of blood in the veins, the creaking tension of muscles bunching and releasing reflexively. Fear was a palpable scent to one of them, at least.

“Is that a new cologne on you?  Eau de Craven?” The taller of the two said, the crisp voice accented and clipped even beneath the slight echoing resonance of the helm. “Unexpected. I didn’t look for you, of all people, to be afraid of me.”

The shorter but bulkier form hefted a weighty looking warmaul in both hands, letting out a quiet grunt. “S’not you I’m ‘fraid of.” A deep, bear-like rumble issued out from the other helm; two metal golems groaning and grumbling at each other as the crowd looked on, expectant. “S’what you rep’rsent.”

“Oh?” The Taller asked, intrigued. “And just what do I represent, O Enemy Mine? Am I your Endsinger? Your Doomsayer? Do you see death within my silvered gaze?” A playful jab, camaraderie and many long nights spent in the underbellies of various arenas and coliseums around the world. They knew each other well and had fought one another innumerable times. This was nothing more than a friendly spar, a deadly game played for the amusement of the onlookers.

“Yes.” The Bear replied in resignation. It left no room for the Taller to answer, however, as the weight of the warmaul was swung up over one shoulder then brought sweeping across in a two-handed swing like a lumberjack looking to fell a tree. With a lesser fighter, the blow would have caught them in the midsection to send them flying, but the Taller was no lesser fighter.

There was no time to dwell on the Bear’s cryptic response, the Taller making a quick hop backward out of the reach of the maul as it swept past with enough force that the breeze of its wake ruffled fur and leather alike. Upon landing, legs braced firmly to the ground as a shield was brought to bear between them as the other hand held a standard-issue longsword, nothing elaborate and certainly nothing made of live steel. Such things were never allowed in this coliseum. Stage weaponry only, but even stage weaponry could be brutal when it was twenty ponze of warmaul. As if to emphasize this fact, the warmaul rang against the shield like the peal of a gong; the arm bearing the shield went numb from the impact, but the Taller gave no quarter.

There was something to be said of warmauls, even as the shorter fighter reared back to aim another swing at the taller one. Warmauls were graceless, unwieldy things to be certain, but when they connected it was with a bone-crunching beastliness that bordered on barbarous. Two-handed lengths of tree and stone, bound together by bits of leather twine or if one was feeling particularly fanciful one fashioned and properly fitted by a blacksmith. As the warmaul whipped by the Taller’s head, it was surmised that this was, indeed, the latter. The smaller combatant might be dwarfed, but the warmaul gave reach. Viciously painful and impactful reach if the thing managed to find purchase on the black and white tiger-striped hide.

Time to be quick then.  Decision made, the Taller waited until the warmaul fighter was at the end of the arc of their swing, muscles constricting as they looped back into recovery. Feline legs crouched, bunched, then sprang into action as the Taller fighter leapt skyward up and over the opponent’s head to land on the other side. A pirouette that might have been artful for a stage was only the precursor to the bladesong that broke the air as the Taller lunged forward to stab the shorter fighter in the back as the maul was half-way back to its resting position.  Blood gushed warm and wet across the hand that held the blade.

The Taller blinked, staring. Warm?  Why is it warm?  Silver eyes stared in stupefaction at the vermillion ichor that now clung to the frost white fur. 

“Xochitl…” The smaller fighter gasped, the maul falling with a dull thud to the sandy floor of the arena. 

Around and above them the clamor of the bloodthirsty sycophants broke out into sudden and cacophonous roars of glee, of triumph, of wagers of a questionable nature being won or lost. None mourned the dying man upon the arena floor. One more notch in the belt of the evening’s champion. A willing sacrifice to the entertainment of the masses.

Xochitl cast aside both sword and shield, lifting hands to the hated helm that stifled, pulling it away the short-cropped silver-white tresses fell in sweat-damp curls as the female hrothgar lunged forward to her fallen foe. 

“Havoc!” She cried, placing hands on the man’s shoulders to roll him face up. None should die ignominiously face-down in the dirt, let the last thing be the warmth of the sun upon the face. Carefully, she drew her dying comrade’s head into her lap, pulling off the helm that hid his visage. The older Highlander man looked up at her, the light in his eyes already fading. “Oh, Havoc, I’m sorry…!”

“ ‘S’a warning…” Havoc managed past the bloodied froth in his mouth. “ ‘Ware the Warden, Xochi…”

Warden? What warden? This wasn’t a prison! Brief, fleeting thoughts like caged birds upon iron bars. There was no time to wonder, no time to ponder. Death was coming. Death was here.

The white tigress gently brushed her hands over Havoc’s eyelids, drawing them closed as he let go of his final breath in one long, tapering exhale. Then there was nothing. Not even the crowd overhead.  The bout was done, the wagers finalized, the crowd dispersed for refreshments and privies until the next bloody fracas was called. There was only Xochitl and Havoc. In truth, there was on Xochitl.

Even as she knelt there with Havoc’s head in her lap, she could feel the power of the Lifestream wash over her as it came to collect the abandoned energy that had once been her comrade. She watched as Havoc’s body slowly gave way to the pearlescent, teal-blue aether that comprised all living things. A hand lifted to waft through the rising cloud of energy, drifting away like so many brightly-lit fireflies. One by one they soared away until like a swarm of gentle bees they vanished back to the source whence they came. 

Xochitl was alone. The fight was over.

But the war had just begun.