The crowd cheers fill the cold air with a warmness produced by their excitement. The first rows yell the loudest while almost falling over the railings while the ones behind seemingly let out a few shouts every now and then to mix their voices into this cacophony. “They are quite excited.” Vro-Ghahk notes as he takes his seat in the main balcony above the area of the contender.
“It is truly something, but still nothing beats the treacherous scape of the Vergjotor Woodland. The thrill of being exposed to the natural dangers lurking the forest is an experience this, this stone could never imitate.” Cels’ran adds his piece as he bends down his upper body while slowly finding the place to sit as he is too enormous to use one of the seats.
“That forest is nothing compared to the dark depths of the mountain.” Morogh adds while puffing his chest out proudly as he recalls his first time delving down with his father and Vro-Ghahk. “That I can agree with.” Who himself responds with a smile.
“Anyway, who’s going to be the challenger today Exalted One?” Then he turns to the middle and asks in a respectful manner while slowly keeping his eye to the ground.
“You can refer to me as just Zahg my friend.” Zahgorim turns to him with a smile while a kitschy silver cup embedded with snowy crystals flies towards each of the chiefs present. “If I remember correctly, its one of your clans-kin. Vhar-Turg I believe his name is.” He adds while turning back, his soothing deep voice calming Vro-Ghahk’s soul.
“The Challenged on the other hand is one of our top ones, a snow elf Cels’ran’s clans-kin brought to us a few years ago. He fought against us from the very beginning alongside the Virdr remnants. Now with the arena functional since last year, he climbed up on the ladder quite fast. Especially because it has been five or six years since he last held a sword or any kind of weapon. Elves are truly remarkable in that sense.” Zahgorim goes on while the rest listens in silence their attention fully on the well-dressed orc.
“I remember that fella. I think he gave me this scar.” Cels’ran adds while looking for a cross like scar on his forearm, a combination of the snow elves blade cutting into his flesh and the mark of the slave collars before he became the chieftain to the Hlátr-Scaelu.
“Myself is excited to see one of my mother’s kin fighting for the first time.” Morogh adds as he himself is somewhat inexperienced with fighting intelligent races beyond the trainings his father and even mother made him go through.
“Let’s see how the little snowflake fares against him.” As Cels’ran speaks up, the horn is blown signalling that the battle soon to be started.
“Welcome, welcome good members of the Horde to the Arena of Drazgradin!” A well-fed and dressed man with receding hairline appears in the balcony opposite theirs, his voice deep and resonant, with a dynamic manner that brings in the attention if his clothes wouldn’t. “Today we’re blessed enough to witness a battle between a fierce warrior of the Hvitr-Ha’ygr clan who bravely or foolishly enough challenged the Raven of the Western Winter!” The announcer starts raising from the ground at the same time he raises his arms, his voice growing in volume as he floats to the middle of the arena, high above the ground. He points at the side where Zahgorim and the chiefs sit while winking at them mischievously then as he introduces the snow elf he heads back to his place.
Then with a strong clap of his hand the crowd starts cheering as the gates howl open slowly, the blinding cold daylight shining directly in Vhar-Turg eyes, aggravating him. “I wish he would do away with that name.” With a sigh, Hraeftnar elegant, smooth voice follows as the horned crafted helmet slides onto his long dark hair contrasting his perfectly snow white skin. He grabs his two curving elven blades emitting a white bluish glow as the rays of the northern sun shines upon them.
The two warriors meet up in the centre of the arena, greeting each other with bows. Then the cheers intensify as their blades meet loudly, still dampened by the cheers of the crowd. Hraeftnar splits out his snowy blood as he slides back several meters after the white flash that was Vhar-Thurgs right leg forcefully impacted his scaled plate he earned from defeating its previous owner. The next one to yell in pain is the large orc, as the blades hit in the woven part of his armour, slicing a small hole in the brown leather with the paint stopping the sharp elven blade enough that it only leaves a scratch on his left shoulder.
After the pain subsides a little a smile curves on the harsh orc face of Vhar-Thurg, his yellowish broken tusk glinting a little in the light. The ground trembles under his weight as he mindlessly charges at the snow elf who gracefully spins down to the ground, stretching his legs out, one blade scraping his plate while the other leaves another scratch on his right side. It even cuts the slim rope holding his parted ear to his belt.
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Vhar-Thurg screams in pain as ice envelopes the small scratch, cold razors cutting it wider into a wound. In his rage he tries to charge at the elf who leaped away evading his battleaxe’s rage filled strike. But his legs stuck on ice, making him fall over spectacularly, his weapon almost bringing an end to his life.
Taking the opportunity, Hraeftnar advances rapidly towards him ready to deal the killing blow, aiming at the downed orc’s bulky neck. His blades lock together shaping into a scissor ready to sever Vhar-Thurg’s head in a moment. But the moment never comes as he stares at his opponent without his large battleaxe, that is currently lodged between his eyes opening up his helmet even more so at his forehead.
He falls on his face, sending the battleaxe even further in when his head impacts the snowy hard ground. His white blood paints the greyish black stone, as if snow melted into milk. Vhar-Thurg with a swift motion grabs the handle and yanks out his head with spine still connected and holds it above his head, drenching his white painted body in the fallen’s blood as the crowd cheers fervently.
**
“Shut your hole.” Kriegsforin slaps the Dhau-Íssz so hard the skin on his pale cheeks scrapes off revealing muscle and blood flowing down onto his black robes and bone armour tainting it crimson. He remains motionless on the ground while his skin starts rapidly corroding, going from a white hue to a darker, dry texture.
“Is it really necessary to leave them alive?” Cacmieh asks while sitting inside the former adventurers’ guild house’s main hall in his usual cold, even voice. He was fully dressed in a matte dark violet robe with golden trims and frames with an arrow shaped opening exposing some of his abyssal marks, the lapels running around his neck. A hood casts shadows over his bald head. He arrived with their army a two days earlier then they expected as the nearby Dhau-Íssz members abandoned their outposts to regroup in Oplikynasc. They never expected to instead of being greeted by their own, the combined army of the Dhaugrians and the Eliovadek waited for them already.
What surprised them even more was when their own dhaugrian members turned on them in the middle of their final charge. “These are presents for the Nameless One. Better to weed out the unruly ones now than when he arrives.” Kriegsforin replies in his dry and deep voice while staring harshly at the remaining four Dhau-Íssz captives.
“Speaking of him, he has arrived.” As he was about to ask the next whether they want to join them or not, the draconic Eliovadek, that Cacmieh keeps his eyes on out of deep interest, lets out a mild distorted growl while turning his head towards the east. They leave the captives with the remaining Dhaugrians guarding them while they calmly rush towards the gates to greet their Master and ally. “How… fascinating.” Cacmieh murmurs as he senses the tender cold aura approaching their position slowly, an army of Eliovadek and strange undead, the same that protects the labyrinthian haven of theirs marching behind with a few abyssal constructs marching behind.
The two that pick his interest the most are the Arnyak keeping close to its master. He notes the different armour and clearly more refined robe that appears to be sewn to him housing a gaping darkness within. The other being its master, that is The Nameless, seemingly a young moon elf no older than a hundred as he calculates from his androgynous features. He is dressed in their basic Magus robes, a somewhat bland design even though he himself is not that obsessed with being fashionable.
Yet his aura speaks to him of experience beyond his own, as if he lived through countless eons, witnessing the birth and death of ancient forgotten worlds. His cold tender aura grips his soul, beckoning him to embrace the inevitable change that Creator decreed upon all mortal beings. Until now he feared even the thought of this, but in this moment, he realized that this change can result in something greater if he’s willing.
He unconsciously starts lowering his head as the Nameless silently gets closer and closer to them. His dark eyes only take a short peek at him and Kriegrsforin before continuing its way after the dwarf offers his guidance. “I’ve prepared gifts to your Highness.”
“Lead the way then!” His unnaturally deep, resonant voice followed by the soft echoes sounded regal in a divine manner as he spoke slowly, metering out each word with care. At first, he imagined to bombard the Nameless with his questions regarding the magic that created the Arnyak and the Eliovadek, but for now he decided to remain silent, to the surprise of Zoklaeth.
They traverse to the guild in an eerie silence, each step of their clearly heard while the Nameless treaded soundlessly towards their destination. “Now my friends, this is your chance. Will you serve and accept his Highness in your souls?” Kriegrsforin asks them in a kinder manner than previously.
“Serve him? Serve one that will burn by the Holy Flames of the Deadfire? Don’t joke with us!” The elderly Dhau-Íssz replies swiftly staring daggers at the Nameless and Kriegrsforin. “He shall reward us with eternal life once you all been consumed by the black flames of his!” The next one that follows just as bravely is the wood elven, her green eyes aimed at the Nameless with crazed fervor. “Death is with us! We have nothing to fear from you.” The last one to speak up is the orc baring his tusks at them.
The Nameless silently glides towards them, their previous complexions fade into fear as his chilling presence bites into their beings. “How times change all of us.” He slowly glides towards them with eerie silence, then caresses his face. “I remember the days when people only feared Death, yet now some flock to it like lost lambs in a storm.” As he caresses their heads one by one, their faces froze in time as they fall over like a sack of potatoes. Their eyes parch within seconds until empty holes remain behind that are slowly filled with darkness as they break free of their bonds letting out distorted groans. “What has changed I wonder?” He asks aware of the answer.