After I finished putting them on, my escort shouted for me to keep walking. Their voices were clipped and harsh as they pushed me again with their long man-catchers. I could feel the hard stone floor through the thin soles of my sandals.
The bustling market outside my prison cell was a cacophony of colors and sounds, a lively display of human commerce and interaction. Merchants of all kinds vied for attention, their voices rising in a chaotic symphony of salesmanship. Some spoke in hushed tones, conspiring with potential customers, while others bellowed their wares with all the fervor of street preachers.
During this swirl of activity, a magician caught my eye. He drew a silken blue cloth from the ear of a blushing young woman, eliciting gasps and applause from the crowd gathered around him. I watched with a curious detachment, wondering if the magic was real or merely an illusion created by sleight of hand.
As I made my way through the throngs of people, moving beyond the market and onto the main street, a young girl caught sight of me. Her cherubic face turned toward her mother, and she pointed in my direction, her eyes wide with wonder. "Is that the outlander?" she asked, her voice ringing out above the din of the crowd.
Her mother quickly hushed her, casting a furtive glance in my direction before hurrying away. But the girl lingered for a moment, pulling at her mother’s hand before stealing one last look at me before disappearing into the crowd.
The people we passed who were milling about on the main thoroughfare paid us little heed, their gazes sliding off us like water off a smooth stone. It was clear that our presence here was nothing new to them. They had seen it all before.
A small brown mongrel dog caught our attention as it began to bark, its single white eye spot contrasting sharply against its matted fur. The dog's yapping drew a disheveled man out of a nearby tent, stumbling and lurching like a drunken sailor. He was followed by a cacophony of screams and hurled objects, much to the amusement of his neighbors.
Despite the alienness of our situation, it was clear that humanity was still humanity in this strange new world. The petty squabbles and crude humor of these people were no different from those from the world I had left behind.
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We strode past a multitude of round tents made from hides and oilcloth; their shapes reminiscent of the yurts of the Mongolian steppes. Some boasted intricate patterns, with threads of green and red intertwining like waves on the open sea. But for the most part, they were dull, squat things.
I would have liked to have had a better look at some of them, but my eyes were drawn instead to a building made of clean-cut white stone. A symbol of a crossed sword over a wooden torch hung above the iron-banded entrance, marking it as some kind of armory or weapons shop.
Just as we passed, the door burst open, and a hulking giant of a man stumbled out, his massive form filling the doorway. A greatsword was strapped to his back, nearly as long as he was tall, and he drew it with a mocking roar of rage. His ham-sized hands gripped the leather-bound hilt under a cross guard just over the width of the blade, the weapon's shallow fuller running about three-quarters up its length. As he waved the sword back at the people inside the building, shouting unknown curses, I could not help but marvel at its craftsmanship. The double-edged blade gleamed in the sunlight, and I could sense the power and weight of the weapon even from a distance.
Following the giant of a man was a thin figure draped in loose, dark blue robes, with golden esoteric patterns sewn into the fabric around the sleeves and hem. He wore a wide-brimmed conical hat with the tip slightly folded, looking every bit like a wizard out of a role-playing fantasy game as he joined in his friend's laughter.
As they exited the building, a platinum blonde woman stormed out behind them, shaking with fury and fists clenched at her sides. Clad from neck to toe in plate and mail armor, a white tabard with a golden chalice hung loosely over her armored chest. A flanged mace, with sharp spikes protruding from its head, was slung from a belt made of thick iron rings. She delivered a powerful punch to the bare shoulder of the barbarian man, but the force of her own blow unbalanced her, nearly causing her to stumble. The giant of a man only laughed harder at her momentary loss of composure.
Ah, I concluded, a typical adventuring party," I thought to myself, before my escort shouted at me to pick up the pace. For a long while, I could still hear the woman berating the man in what sounded like a form of Latin, until we passed another market square, and the sounds of their argument were drowned out by the hubbub of the city.
We took a left turn from the bustling main avenue and continued through the labyrinth of tents. As we progressed, the object of our journey came into sharp focus: a colossal circular structure crafted entirely from massive wooden logs, fashioned in the style of a primitive Roman arena. A small market had formed around the periphery of the building, and the air was thick with a sense of festivity as the din of commerce grew louder with each step.
The throng of people surrounding us began to part as we made our way through a myriad of colorful stalls. In our wake, I could hear the murmurs and whispers of the populace as they debated my fate.
Finally, we arrived at the arena's entrance. Its colossal iron portcullis, resembling the jaws of some beast that had devoured a multitude of humans, loomed before us. Guards draped themselves lazily around the entrance, idly leaning against great glaives of banded wood and bladed steel. As I stepped through the threshold, a chill crept into my bones, and I felt the gnawing sensation of dread in the pit of my stomach that I had been marked for sacrifice to this place.
I was shoved roughly into a wooden cell, and once again, I was left alone with my thoughts.