Hero’s Day begins!
New Charil swelters amid the summer heat, with no relief in sight. It’s another cloudless day, leaving open a brilliantly blue celestial dome. But the heat can’t cease the advance of thousands of people, who pack the streets of the northwestern side of the city. Indeed, there is scarcely an inch to breathe. Fliers float like leaves upon the wind, advertising the games of Cearclach to be played at the city’s finest amphitheater: the Colosseum.
A massive, majestic specimen of Solasúian architecture, the Colosseum is a wide, oval-shaped arena made of solid marble. Its bones house many stained-glass displays of the most legendary matches to be played in the venue. Numerous pointed arches make its grand body, while its blood-red sands beckon the countless souls among Ardsach.
Traversing the city, the young and handsome Elliott Cayrel walks up the door into Raphael Bela’s townhouse and knocks. “Raphael!” he calls. Within the townhouse’s walls is Raphael himself, preparing for the outdoor excursion. He quickly fastens the buttons of his spiffiest doublet: a predominantly blue raiment with heavy golden floral patterns.
Ready to go, Raphael emerges from his house.
“There you are,” says Elliott. “We’d better hurry or we’re going to be late.”
“Right,” replies Raphael. “Let’s go.”
The pair begin their walk to the Colosseum. They swiftly depart the Market District and merge into the crowds of the northwestern section of the city. Before them is a dense forest of people, and without anything to cut them down, all they can manage is to weave through the trees.
As the two splices through the crowd like a hot knife, someone pushes into Raphael. A shoulder bounces off of his sternum, nigh of knocking him over. Raphael delivers a sharp glare to the one responsible. He ganders upon a woman, wearing a predominantly male looking garb. Not a dress, like the Solasúian society would have it, but a button-up and some slacks.
Face-to-face with this woman, she stares back at him, rolling her amber eyes from his feet and his face. She is then swallowed up by a torrent of flesh. Raphael’s legs break as if to give chase, but she disappears like a ghost.
“Raphael!” His consciousness stirs back into reality. His eyes fasten to Elliott’s face, whose hand is on his shoulder. Pushing through the crowd, the two make it to the front of the line. There stands a man, who appears to know who the two are. Without any resistance, he allows the pair to pass.
Passing by Loyal Knights, Raphael and Elliott enter the Colosseum without any further conflict. They shuffle through the underbelly of the place as they merge into another crowd. Thunderous cheering and applause bellows through the vomitorium, reverberating off of the marble walls like a cathedral.
Thump, thump… The strength of the cheers vibrates the floor and walls. Raphael can feel it in his bones, feel his heart quiver with excitement. After traversing under a ribbed vault, Raphael and Elliott arrive at the cavea, where hundreds of rows of seats lay at their feet. An untold number of peoples squeeze into every pore of the arena. Raphael’s eyes widen, his jaw dangles ajar, beholding the arena floor, being a mere fingernail from the sands.
Moving on, the two seek the Imperial Box. The corridor before the box is swarming with Loyal Knights, wearing their trademark black platemail. Given that this is a scorching day, Raphael did not envy their position. With their glowing blue eyes piercing through the slits in their great helm, the black-haired young man feels watched… Such as the fate of half-breeds, who are regarded as third-class citizens in Solasúian society.
Travelling past the knights, the entrance into the Imperial Box unfurls before their very eyes. The central port into the box blends together multiple beautiful pointed arches and sculptures of the winged lion, heraldry of House Barn. There, before them is several rows of chairs and one particular royal chair, reserved for the Empyrean.
As soon as the two enter, they are met with scorn and resentment by several in the room. However, Their Empyrean Divus Nomos Barn observes their arrival with a smile upon his wrinkled face.
“Raphael, Elliott—you’ve made it!” he exclaims, spanning his arms outwards.
“We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Raphael replies.
“Come, come, sit!”
Lucia, daughter of Divus, turns to the incoming pair and waves.
“Hello,” she greets, smiling like her father. “Glad to have you with us.”
“The pleasure is ours, Princess,” Elliot bows.
Raphael and Elliott take their seats behind Their Empyrean. There, their eyes feasts upon the sights, sounds, and atmosphere of this sacred place. The box rocks as the crowd roars over the battle taken place within the arena. A game of Cearclach between two Solasúians, for Cearclach is a sport played only by Solasúians and not human slaves.
Circles of stone hang from the walls of the colosseum, and they are necessary to win the game. One must throw the cearclach—the ball—through a hoop to score points. Whoever has the most points at the end of ten minutes wins the game. Of course, such is a simple rule, but there are…other rules that must be followed.
With the sun’s glare kissing the two contestants with its fiery lips, they do everything in their power to possess the ball, even attack the other. Indeed, the grand rule of Cearclach: it’s no holds barred. One contestant throws his fist into the face of the other contestant, staining the arena sands with spit and blood.
The crowd becomes a living beast as they urge the violence on, and the two contestants relish in the ensemble. There is scarcely a noise to be heard aside from the clamor of cheers. For it poured down upon the two battlers like a torrential rainfall. One of them brutally punches the other, and the crowd’s collective throat explodes.
Seated closest to the violence, Empyrean Divus watches the show without a cheer and a cocked brow. Balor, who is seated beside his sister, slacks in his chair, escaping to his own mental plain for solitude. Lelantos worms his way through a gigantic textbook, not entertaining the violence at all.
One combatant reign over the other. He lays over top of his opponent, raining punch after punch down upon her bloody, disfigured face. The crowd howls thunderously as the contestant raises his blood-drenched first over his head—a sign of his self-proclamation of victory over his dimly-conscious foe. Indeed, the rules clearly state that one may not kill their adversary, but there is no rule against beating them to a bloody pulp.
“He’s good,” Lucia compliments, turning to her father. “It may be a brutal way to the play the game, but you certainly can’t deny his prowess in battle.”
“Everything is legal in Cearclach,” Elliott responds with a smirk. “Even beating your opponent until they are incapable of playing the game.”
“It’s gruesome,” Divus sighs.
With the conclusion of the game, human slaves surge out of the tunnel to clean up, including the removal of any incapacitated combatants. They lift up and drag the bludgeoned Solasúian out of the arena and chase the ball, placing it back into the center of the arena. The crowd stands on edge, awaiting with bated breath on the word of the announcer.
“The next battle begins NOW!” the announcer proclaims, lowering his hands towards the entrance onto the arena floor. “For your entertainment, we have these two contestants! I give you a legendary descendant from the Golden Envoys of Death, the battle-masters of House Kórakas, Evadne Aine Kórakas!”
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The bounce of drums pounds of symphony of noise for the advancing Evadne. She walks out upon those bloody sands. They positively clamor at the sight of the muscular warrior, who raises her arms up. The Imperial Box is filled with applause for the combatant Evadne. Lucia’s head swivels back at Raphael and Elliott amid her clapping.
“This is going to be a great fight,” she states. “Evadne seldom fights, but she has never lost a match.”
"Lord Caerus has outdone himself for convincing her to appear," Divus smiles.
"And her adversary—a special find!" The announcer points to the other side of the arena, raising his voice. "Straight from the Descendants of Malik, I give you the traitorous, the treasonous, Fionnlagh of House Avalos!"
A hateful howl of boos showers erupts. A wide spectrum of food and trash showers upon the silver-haired Fionnlagh as he steps out onto the arena sands. His chest heaves heavy and hard, feeling the sweltering heat of the arena drain his stamina. The fight hasn’t even broken out yet, and already the sweat drips from his brow.
Inside of the Imperial Box, Divus reacts firmly to seeing a member of the Descendants as a contestant in these games. His head rotates around and faces Caerus Kórakas, who helped prepare these games. Caerus, however, nods and grins a very toothy grin.
"I wanted to surprise you, My Empyrean," Caerus replies, gathering himself a fine glass of red wine. "We caught him wandering the streets just a few days ago—a remarkable situation, I must confess."
Elsewhere in the box, Balor, slacking in his chair, suddenly finds intrigue in the match, sitting up in his chair. Lucia turns to her now-interested brother and graces him with one of her smiles. Lelantos, on the other hand, notes the name and casts a glare directly upon the pit where Fionnlagh stands.
Fionnlagh, equipped in no more than a torn tunic and some caligae, gazes upon the physicality of his opponent. She, just as him, is scarcely clad in a tunic. Her stance alone draws Fionnlagh to conclude that she is a master at close-quarters-combat. Her hands and feet are perfectly spaced, and her will is positively unbreakable. The bulge in her muscles means that she’s built for this type of combat; she’s a Kórakas to boot, consider to be the pinnacle of warriors throughout Solasúian society.
Focused like a hawk, Fionnlagh trains his eyes upon the ball. His stance is unmoving, primed, and ready like a jaguar ready to pounce. He grows into a state where nothing can faze him, even blocking out the crowd noise as they spew vile upon him. Everything slowed down, but Fionnlagh can hear as the words 'begin the battle' emit into the air.
Hearing those words, Fionnlagh charges ahead, his eyes deadlock upon the cearclach. His focus isn't enough. Abruptly, his body slams into a wall, a wall of pure muscle. He collapses into the bloody arena sands, having been tackled to the ground. Evadne is on top of him, ready to bear down on him. Fionnlagh swiftly pulls up his defenses, raising his arms to shield his face.
Outside of the Imperial Box, several Loyal Knights stand at their post. However, from the vomitorium, a group of humans hide behind a wall, waiting the most appropriate time to strike. Clara brushes her brown hair back as she listens out for the howl of the crowd.
"Now!" Clara yells under her breath. "For Master Malik!"
Suddenly emerging from the wall are several humans, all who appear to be slaves, with their metal collars and tattered robes.
"For Master Malik!" the humans roar off the top of their lungs as their legs carry them forward.
The distinctive sizzle of a lit fuse reverberates in the great helms of the Loyal Knights in attendance. The humans are unarmed, yet unafraid, charging at knights in a hectic pace. The knights remain steadfast, readying their steel, but are blind to the truth of the humans’ seemingly mad dash.
With ease, a single stroke of their blades cut down the humans. Blood splatters across the area, and they lay upon the floor, vacant, but with a smile. Tears wept from their eyes, yet no visible sadness could be found. One of the Loyal Knights kneels, grasping upon that which is sizzling. They curiously cock their head, prying a strange, circular ball.
Suddenly, however, much to the knights' surprise, a calamity erupts from beneath their heels. A blinding, hot light ignites, followed quickly by a force of energy that tears them apart. Countless smaller explosions create one massive explosion, blasting across the area.
Ripping the airwaves through the area, countless rows of people are uplifted from their seats, jarred by the sudden explosion. A mass panic begins to ensue, with everything going helter-skelter. Chaotically, a surge of bodies charges through the vomitorium, yet even more bodies block the way, causing a mass trampling.
"For the glory of mankind!" the human slaves scream wildly as they charge through the smoke billowing from ruins.
Miraculously, as the smoke cleared, one knight did survive the explosion. Yet he is mangled, bloody, and down to only one arm—the arm he used to shield himself from the blinding explosion. He is surrounded by the bodies, torn limbs, and entrails unknown. Bits of flesh linger in the air as the knight gets his bearings.
Yet, he remains resolute. Through the pain, he discards his shield and withdraws a sword from the viscera of his former comrades. Even more humans come his way, and he braces himself for it. With all his might, the knight’s arm swings down, slicing through the flesh of one slave. Her blood squirts out like a fountain, certain to have struck an artery.
An explosion ruptures across the plane, sending smoke and limbs everywhere. The second explosion urges people on in earnest. They get desperate, throwing fists and stomping over the bodies of the fallen. Some manage to escape; however, others are left behind, injured, and maimed.
Loosen from their seats, the sudden entourage of Loyal Knights come storming into the box of Their Empyrean.
“My Empyrean,” respectfully, one knight speaks, placing their left hand over their right of their breast. “It’s not safe here. We must go.”
Divus and the council members follow behind the knights and takes a secret pathway out of the Colosseum, reserved for occasions such as this. Balor's glowing eyes reach across the arena, eyeing three people remaining in their positions—most likely humans. His left hand hastily reaches across his breast for the steel at his waist, withdrawing it from its leathery home. Indeed, he is ready to put aside the shame he had experienced for years...
Lelantos and Lucia, who observe their brother take up arms, halt from retreating with their father.
“Brother!” Lucia shouts from across the box.
“Balor, don’t be a fool,” Lelantos growls, waving his hand. “Come now. We must go!”
With his own sword, Raphael Bela turns around to stare at his prince. Balor’s eyes are locked dead on the three apparent humans ahead of him, so focused on them that words no longer mattered to him.
“Lucia, go after Father,” Balor says calmly, thoughtfully. “I’ve an execution to commit.”
From the arena floor, Fionnlagh and Evadne continued fighting up until the explosion. Evadne, distracted from the eruption nearest to Her Empyrean's Imperial Box, is taken aback when Fionnlagh fights back. He lifts her off him, pinning her to the ground. He then unloads a furious blow to her head, knocking her out for a brief time.
Free to do as he pleases, Fionnlagh turns towards the box and readies himself for action. Ragged from the beating he took he remains steadfast in the objective. He springs off his feet, soaring up and into the air. His jump ascends from the arena floor to the Imperial Box. Startled by the intruder, Lucia hysterically attempts to reach her brother, but Balor is unresponsive.
"Prince Balor, get back!" Raphael shouts.
"I don't need your help, half-breed," Balor dismisses, pointing at Fionnlagh. "Think yourself so cunning that you've won this day, traitor?"
Suddenly, a plume of smoke sifts through the air, spouting from a series of bombs thrown from the archway. There stands the intrepid Clara of the Descendants, who aids her ally, Fionnlagh. Balor shuffles his head back-and-forth, attempting to digest what exactly is happening. Before he knows it, the entire room is filled with smoke.
Traversing the now smoke-filled room, Fionnlagh throws himself forward, aiming for the young man Raphael. Quickly emerging from the smoke is a strike from Balor, which Fionnlagh side-steps. Now within the distance to Raphael, Fionnlagh breaks his grasp upon his sword and withdraws it for his own use.
Fionnlagh then kicks Raphael away. Armed now with a blade, Fionnlagh then pivots backwards, feasting his eyes upon the back of Balor's head. He pushes past the helpless Lucia and Lelantos and aims directly for Balor. Yet Balor is swift of foot and very skilled, anticipating the attack. He quickly turns himself around and promptly guards against Fionnlagh's surprise attack.
Their blades grinding against the other, the two warriors push each other back in a power struggle.
“I must say, you are quite foolish,” Balor remains calm and poised, even amid the struggle. “How could you side with the vermin?”
“You really don’t understand anything, do you?” Fionnlagh throws back. “Clara, now!”
The female named Clara grabs several bombs from her waist and throws them towards the ground. From the bombs emerges a debilitating mixture of different chemicals and smokes, all to unravel and disrupt the senses. A vast swathe of smokes spews out from the opened cartridges, coating the nearby area in a dense mist.
The Solasúians in the room, untrained to these poisons, feel the smoke seep into their mouths and eyes. Their airways and lungs feel an irritation as their eyes water with an intense sting. Trained up to withstand the irritants, save Fionnlagh himself, the humans use this time to adjust.
Through his coughs and watery eyes, Fionnlagh kicks Balor away from him and runs towards the exit. As he ran, he yells, "Clara, now!"
"I don't have any bombs left, Fionn," she returns. "C'mon! Let's get out of here!"
Through the shouts and coughs, the pair amply escape the area. When the effects of the smokes clear, all that is left of the scene is scattered corpses and stray figures of wounded civilians shuffling about...