Otis' return back to the shared encampment wasn't immediately unusual. Each of his companions understood just how much the boy needed to complete before his looming bout. The peculiar thing was that he was back so quickly. Instead of tinkering, there was an unfamiliar sound. The sound of rummaging replaced the beating drum of metal on metal. None of them had too much in the way of possessions but, Otis' recent smithing spree left heaps of experimental metallurgy littered around the campfire.
Whether it was Zlatan, Mooch, Rage, or Nightmare, each of Otis' newfound friends had watched his progress with rapt attention. They had watched him collect and return time again, if the boy had been out of their sight it had only been for the briefest of moments.
"What are you looking for?" Nightmare piped up, the first to notice the shift in Otis' behaviour.
"My hammer. I can't remember where I put it," he replied without looking up.
"Your war hammer? You left with it, didn't you?" Nightmare responded.
"No, no. I need MY hammer. I gave that one back"
As the words left Otis' mouth, a silence took hold of the small encampment. Suddenly, it wasn't just Nightmare staring at the young mage but each of his companions. Something had happened, that much was obvious, but how and what was still painfully unknown.
"Otis... what did you do with the hammer?"
Rage's voice was soft but commanding, in the way that only she seemed able to do.
"I gave it back. The repairs were done.... Can someone help me look for my hammer, please?"
Sifting through the piles of tattered and torn metal, Otis was becoming exasperated. How long had it been since he had used his hammer? He had taken the war hammer for granted and now he couldn't find where he had put his own. Just long had it been? The thoughts swirled around in his head but it was like a thick fog stopped his thoughts from finishing. How long had he been awake and crafting now? It probably made sense that he was tired and thinking slowly. He just couldn't remember what he had done with it.
"Otis, who did you give the war hammer to?"
The stern commanding qualities of Rage's voice were starting to win out, as they realised that there was every likelihood that Otis was in real trouble now. It didn't take a genius to have a good bet but none of them wanted to say it first.
"God sake. Tarot! Obviously it was Tarot, he's the only one I've done work for recently. Now, can someone please help me find my hammer?"
As the name left his lips the air seemed to grow cold in their lungs. Their fears became a reality almost as soon as they realised the potential threat.
"Fuck..." came Zlatan's concise conclusion. "Fuck, fuck, fffffffuck! How did that even happen?!"
Each of them had tracked Otis' journeys as he went to and from the scrap yard and yet somehow Otis had fallen victim to pirates. Unfortunately, not only was it a pirate but it was likely the one rouge pirate who clearly stood to gain a hell of a lot from this theft. The Overlords were circling and this time it felt like Otis' misfortune would be fatal.
"That's how commission wor-"
"Shut up, sweet Magnus shut up," Zlatan couldn't bear to listen to the addled mind of his friend.
"Otis," Mooch said looking into the eyes of the young mage, "you need to make a new war hammer, you've just lost your weapon."
The statement is simple but Otis couldn't seem to refute it. If the war hammer had been Tarot's what was he planning to use in the next bout? He remembered making a new weapon and crowning it as his magnum opus, but what it was he had made... he couldn't remember.
Looking about the scattered offerings of his previous experiments not one was a weapon. Slowly the brain fog began to lift but it was like a physical weight. Otis knew something was wrong but couldn't put his finger on why he couldn't perk back up, why he couldn't remember. It didn't matter now though, none of his efforts mattered if he didn't have a weapon. That had to be his next goal.
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"Help me find metals, shards. broken weapons. I need it all," Otis' voice was certain amidst his own confusion. He didn't have the time left to dwell on truths he knew happened to be false. He had been played, manipulated, but he wasn't dead yet. If he had any luck maybe he could keep it that way.
Scooped up by Nightmare, the sudden rush back to the scrap yard was frenetic. Scraps and components were flung from the heap of mangled metal and leather for Otis to inspect. Not since he had entered Fortune's Favour had Otis been so keenly aware of the imminent deadline. Without looking, he knew that time wasn't on his side.
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Barely more than two hours till he was to be plucked from the city and thrust into the limelight again. There was more to do now then he could possibly fit into the time left. Previously, Otis had spent weeks plucking rare finds from the scrap yard. He had engineered the war hammer to near perfect. Now he had a fraction of the time and only luck would tell whether the material could compare to his original creation.
"No. Maybe. Maybe. Fuck no. Yep."
Working as one unit, scrap was being pulled from the field of rubble at a ludicrous rate. Nightmare reformed his forearms into large bloody snowploughs, hauling materials from the scrap yard. Mooch and Rage, with their superior senses, roamed the site for gleaming trinkets and shards. Zlatan, quiet for once, blasted excess rubble from in front of Otis and sorted scrap into a 'keep pile' and a much larger 'acceptable if there was nothing else' pile. Whilst this sort of activity attracted attention it was rare to see so many mages working together. Even if the denizens worked together to steal the loot, only those with the highest level could guarantee keeping the items but the material that Otis could actually work with simply wasn't worth the effort.
"There isn't enough time to get everything together. I'm fucked, Zlat. Fucked."
At a loss of what to say, Zlatan's inability to refute him made the bile in Otis' stomach churn. It could all be for nothing. Worse yet, what had transpired didn't feel real. He was sure that Tarot had indeed stolen his war hammer. He knew that was practically a death sentence but it was difficult to feel anger when it felt like a legitimate transaction.
Most of the hour was used to painstakingly search for 'good material', and they had come up short. Far more 'good enough' material was included than metals that could replicate the lost war hammer. Alongside melting the metals down, time was quickly slipping away. Breaking the structure of the metals down whilst they heated sped up the process but when a fight to the death was the deadline seconds felt like minutes.
"Focus now, you got this."
There was a warmth from Mooch's belief. From someone who had clearly struggled to overcome his frustration with their situation and the downturn that Otis brought with him, it was especially comforting. Otis also knew that he was right. Of all times, he couldn't afford to slip up, rush, or settle for 'good enough'... he'd already had to do that with the materials.
Otis followed every step of the smelting, shaping, and constructing the new war hammer exactly as he had before but the result was less than inspiring. Compared to the rose bronze flecks that flickered through the hammer there was more grey iron. Small flecks appeared, but they were small and sparse. Everything about the creation felt lost and hollow.
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The amalgam of metals sat as a barely formed lump on the desk in front of him, compared to the craftsmanship Chrysos was used to. Still, the low-level weapon in front of him represented something else entirely: freedom. Soon, he would be free from the problem Eros had so kindly sent his way. He was only moments from announcing the bout where the boy would die and it felt good. The small payment of a sealed gorgon eye was nothing compared to the expansive wealth the arena brought Chrysos, and yet the peace of mind it had bought was priceless. It almost made him sad that he could scarcely remember the days he had wanted for anything. Almost.
Striding out of his personal office Chrysos bathed in the lights of the arena, before telekinetically levitating up to the VIP box.
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The glyphs felt as though they were counting down slower than usual. Of course, Chrysos knew that this was a subconscious demand for closure but he knew when the boy's body lay mushed, indistinguishable from the bloodied dirt, that this sense of unease would perish too.
Sending his telekinetic senses down below the arena floor and into the smog of the city, his smile became monstrous. Even now the boy wasn't ready. He would need to quench his weapon quickly if he was going to have anything at all. Still, even without laying his eyes on the finished product, he could tell the materials were subpar. Compared to the first creation, now resting on his desk, this second iteration was a pale imitation.
"STAND BEFORE FATE AND WEEP FOR THERE IS NOTHING BUT WRITTEN STORIES."
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Chrysos laced his spectral sense around the boy, he could practically taste the terror. The moment the glyphs hit nil so too did he exert his will on the late bloomer. Holding the barely quenched weapon in wraps of leather, it was almost tempting to shake the boy. Such a tentative grasp on the hot metal would surely fail him. Unfortunately, even his reputation couldn't recover if he sent weaponless fighters into the pits.
"WILL THIS FIGHT BE HIS LAST? WILL THE LATE BLOOMER DEFY EVER-MOUNTING ODDS? HAVE WE SEEN WHAT THIS MONSTER IS TRULY CAPABLE OF?"
Chrysos could barely contain himself, as he allowed the eruption of sound to permeate the VIP box for a moment. The audience wouldn't forgive him quickly for his weighting of the scales but it was enough. In the next few moments this boy, this thorn, this freak of nature would perish.