The gnoll, once named Dagger, stood in the center of the fighting pits she had been battling in for well over a decade. This specific one, however, only had a few times.
The private pit was meant for special shows or private events. And her clan matriarch had traded themselves for the chance they could fight specifically without the need to follow the wills or whims of the crowd.
She listened to the announcer as she walked towards the pit. Traveling down the long hall. Entering the artificial light of the enclosed arena. A bright, burning light crystal that replaced the ceiling high above.
It was an odd experience stepping into a pit with not a single sound but the ring of the noon bell. No cheering. No screaming. No curses or prayers. It was... fitting.
The only sound they could hear was the dropping of the heavy stone slabs meant to seal the path behind them, and the pounding of their heart. The walls were a yellowish sandstone, lining the sandy floor to the stands and booths above. Around the walls hung old hooks for lanterns and magical light sources. Six tunnels fed into the pit. Each one with a heavy slab that dropped down to seal the entrance closed.
Once they reached the center, three of the six tunnels opened. No announcement to the challenger, only to the viewers and those above. Squeaks, chirps, and squeals poured from each opening as the stone rose higher.
From the central tunnel, opposite where the gnoll had entered, poured free hundreds upon hundreds of rats. All the size of puppies. They made feral screams and squeaks that drowned out the sound of grinding stone and chains the doors made.
From within the frenzy, the gnoll could see a few fighting and devouring themselves in a mad hunger and blood lust. Rats that had been starved, and then drowned in a poisonous gas to drive them into a feral swarm. A mass of black, brown, white and grey fur poured out and attempted to swallow all the space of the pit, trying to find space to breathe from the literal suffocating weight of the swarm.
Most of the first rats simply spread out. But some took notice of a smell, of something that would alleviate the agony of hunger deep within their small frames. Food. A body. A mass of flesh for them to consume even a few bites, a few drops of blood to wet their throats.
The swarm was nearly forty feet across as it charged towards their only prey. Dag did not flinch and braced themselves, entering a state of mental focus. She pushed her emotions down. Pushed the sensation of excitement that combat pumped through her. There was nothing in the world be her and the swarm that was her opponent.
They braced themselves and allowed the swarm to get close before launching over them. Claws extended and cleaving through the bodies of rats as if they were wet clay. No resistance to her spinning swipes. In moments, dozens of rats are split and flung around and into the swarm. Nearly half of the swarms paused and were distracted by the fresh blood and meat scattered about.
Each of the corpses were a center of frenzy as the rats immediately sunk their teeth and tongues into them. But the sheer weight of numbers did not offer much relief from the assault. Dozens, hundreds of rats continued their attempts to rip apart the massive predator in their midst.
Sweeping legs, blurred waves of arms, and the whirling of air as the gnoll beats back, tosses and scatters rats through the air. Barely any more damage than ruffled fur as she casts and swats them out of the air like oversized flies.
As the frenzy of rats refocused on the central threat as their numbers drop with each twitch of the gnoll’s form. But as she begins her second series of spins and ripping swipes, her eyes shift to a second and third source of new sounds. Squeaks of fear and aggression, with squawks of rage and hunger carrying the harmony that flocks of bats lead. Ravens, bats and crows flew from the stone passages that finally opened enough for the flying vermin to escape. Two flocks of flying beasts descended upon the foe of their controllers and hunger urged them to fly towards.
The gnoll growled as the two flocks flew closer. In moments, she would be drowning in the black mass of flyers. She did not fear the injuries they could cause, but there was only so much that claws and fists can do against thousands of creatures. With a flick and one last spin that cut through the bodies of tens of rats, she drew the sling from across her chest and withdrew two smooth lumps of lead from their pouch.
As a magical gun smith, Glora was extremely adept at imbuing lead projectiles with script and magic. They had striven to master and mimic the properties of their pride and longest companion, the O’Re revolver. Before the goblin achieved their EMG rounds, they experimented with something much simpler, sling bullets. And provided them to the greatest martial specialist of their clan.
Two lead bullets the size of a human thumb, each covered with bright, light blue paint. Across it were inscriptions that resembled the harsh, unpredictable patterns of lightning crisscrossing it. The slightly oval pullets flew out and drove deep into the flocks, each leaving the sling withing a few breaths of the other. The heavy lead stones crashed through and knocked from the sky multiple creatures as they left a streak of light that led from the sling into their midst. With two cracks of what sounded like thunder, and the smell of singed air, followed the bullets exploding in a shower of sparks and arcs of lightning.
Dozens of birds and bats from each flock fell, twitching and smoldering as their feathers and flesh burned, adding to the unpleasant scent of lightning burned air. But barely any notable change occurred to the flocks and converged on the monk with squeals and shrieks of the beasts. Tiny claws and fangs tried to rip and scratch into the skin and fur. But the first of the swarms to draw any significant damage was from the rats. Their disease riddled jaws clamped down and drew blood as the monk’s focus was on beating way and enduring the pain as the flying claws and teeth drew barely anything more than red marks under the fur.
Rage and anger at the humiliation, the gnoll reached down and grabbed the offending rats who clung to her leg like leaches. And crushed them in her hands before making a choice. The rats would die first. She would bathe in the blood first of these accursed rats. Taking a passing swipe at the birds, she ducked under them and dashed deeper into the swarm. Crushing, slicing and scattering dozens of rats in their rampage on the vermin. She could see nothing beyond the black flock of beasts that were as unrelenting as the gnoll.
Lowering her body, she drove deeper as the flocks barely touched her bare back. The swarms, however, were beginning to force more and more of their number. An almost wave of feral rats rose up and crashed into the gnoll, nearly knocking them to the sand below. Their claws and teeth clawed at and dug in and ripped strips of skin and fur from the gnoll’s arms. The dark blood flowing and dripping onto the starving mass of rats.
Pain throbbed in the gnoll’s arm, and her vision pulsed with red. The heart of a beast began to beat and pump with the furry of a demon’s wrath. From the throat of the abyssal descendent, came their title as a pit fighter. A Cackle, a deep, monstrous retching of vocal cords and air erupted from them with the tone and psychotic edge few but the truly mad could reach. Slashing claws, snapping jaws and spinning paws crashed and ripped through the rats with no regard for anything but their death and destruction.
The blood of rats stained the brown fur more than their own as shining claws drew dark as blood and flesh clung to them from dozens and dozens of eviscerated forms. This was life. This was living. This was her purpose. Over a decade of battle, of indulging in the blood lust that her kind was gifted by their demonic mother so many eons ago. And the gnoll loved it. They craved it. And dashed forward with such speed and recklessness, they erupted from the other side of the swarms and flocks of vermin to look up at the burning light of the crystal sun above.
Her eyes, her vision and mind were bathing in the blood that coated her. But her eyes were drawn to a place. A booth that rested fifty feet above them. They could not see it. They could not possibly. But they felt it. The weight, the gravitational force that was now completely focused on her. In that booth, in that stone box, was not the mother of her kind. Was not the source of her blood and genuine lust. But the source of skill, the source of might, the source of strength that she had been seeking to emulate for nearly two decades. Before everything in their vision was consumed by black fur and feathers once again.
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The wall of vermin slammed into them without care for their mental state. Only seeking to rip and tare their skin and fur from their flesh with a tide of pain and harm. The rats and their greater numbers and weight knocked the gnoll to all fours as they swarmed and bit into them from every direction. Consuming them in their flood of fur and bodies.
Gritting her teeth against the pain, words of a master long ignored and mostly forgotten, returned to her mind. “Ki is what makes you. It is your weakness as much as it is your strength. Never stop cycling. Never ignore the connection you and all beings have to it.” The face of a soft smile, wrinkled skin, and snow-white hair human looked down upon them. The shadow of a green goblin cast beside him. Days, weeks, months, years of training had been drilled, schooled, and scared into the gnoll’s mind, body and soul. But they had abandoned it for the pursuit of desire.
From under the mass of rat flesh, burned a soul. It burned with rage, hate, and violence. But the soul did not attach that violence to their body. They did not attach it to their ki. They let it go. They let it wash from their soul to splatter like water poured onto a dune of sand. And simply cycled energy, cycled ki through their body and soul.
With no words, with no signs, only the intake of a single breath, was a new storm of violence born from within the growing pile of gnawing and ravenous rats. There was no warning or build up. One moment, the rats were piling and clawing into the flesh below them, almost trying to burrow through it. And the next, they are being tossed, cast and strewn about as their prey spun and struck out with simple and perfect swipes that were little more than blurs to the simple animals.
Now free of the crushing mass, the monk began their whirling dance of class again. But they did not only claw and sunder flesh and fur. In their dance of forms lost and ignored for so long ago, they called out to and grasped the life, the ki, of the rats around them. Pulling from the dying and broken to bring the power under their own control.
“Weapons, my’se little pup, must be honed. Must be cared for. Must be used properly to be effective.” Words of an aged goblin thrummed in the ears of the gnoll. A lesson on the necessity of training. The requirements to become like them. A being of strength, of power, of skill that few would willingly stand against.
Over the past eight years, the gnoll had barely used, barely respected, barely acknowledged what they had been given. Only their strength, their power, their desires lead them in the last years. The loss of their ki was not as sudden, not just because of their failure, their theft of their youngest’s coin. That was just the final straw.
It was like in a single moment, the gnoll regained their sight. It was as if for the past years, their vision, their connection and abilities of ki degraded. And they had finally put on a pair of spectacles. The Cackling Dagger was ranked the weakest of the pit kings. She was a beast that relied on strength, speed, and natural ability and some ki polar tricks to beat their opponents into submission.
The Claws of Glora however, were now fully extended. Rat, crow, bat and raven. Hundreds of creatures attempted to sink their claws into and rend flesh and blood from them with frenzy only the combination of starvation and magical persuasion could elicit. But none of, not a single claw, beak, tooth or fang pierced the form of the monk who had once broken their vows. Hands, claws and feet swatted, redirected and parried the creatures away. It was like the gnoll was swatting away rain drops, remaining dry in the hurricane of violence and desperation that surrounded them.
The gnoll had become something in that moment. Something they had been before, a monk with a vow. A monk with skill, training, dedication, and an unshakeable will that was bolstered by, but did not originate from their natural talents and gifts. The Claws of Glora deflected, caught and beat away dozens of creatures like they were nothing but flies that could never threaten them.
Seconds ticked by and minutes had barely passed since the start of the Blood Drowning. But the gnoll felt in that moment, something besides confidence or arrogance. It was a certainty. They would not fall here. They would not let their clan down once again. She reaffirmed her vow as she snatched and crushed the neck of a massive rat that tried to dig into her thigh. And so began her grind. Her methodical destruction of first the rat swarm.
By this point, over three fourths of the rats had been turned into corpses. With barely any of the flying pests remaining. But the gnoll did not rush. For they had a few more minutes before the next wave would approach. This was merely the first ten minutes of the Blood Drowning. She had well over another hour before the next stage began.
Calmly, methodically, and violently, the gnoll stomped, crushed, and eviscerated the remaining rats. Hundreds of the corpses were strewn in every direction and in every imaginable state of ruin. And finally, the monk had the freedom to let out a soft chuckle. A third of her opponents were dead. And barely three minutes had passed.
Minute after minute, more and more of the bats and birds fell. Struck down and killed in what must look to the audience as leisure. Every few seconds, just as many birds or bats would fall from the air, usually crushed in the powerful grip of the gnoll. Only to be cast aside for the next to be intercepted. Over and over, they whittled away the birds until none remained. Next, the bats were met with the same outcome. Every single bat was plucked and then crushed in the gnoll’s fist. Until none remained.
But as was the way of the Blood Drowning, it was nowhere near the end. As the monk was finishing up the last flock of bats, three of the six stone doors began to open. When the last of the bats was cast down, the monk dashed once again for the center of the pit and awaited the doors to finish opening.
From the door on the right escaped a swarm of crawling maggots and flying scarabs that buzzed in a hungry frenzy. From the right came a surprising flock of birds and drew a curse of their names from the monk’s lips. Frenzy Fowl. But before she had a chance to take in the central door, words and a blast of confusing mental images assaulted her mind.
“Hold, hold, freeze, freeze.” Came a discordant, inhuman cacophony of voices, squeals, squeaks and fragments of languages. But with a deep breath that steadied their mind, the gnoll just stared down the two swarms of apparently psychic rats that attempted to command them to accept their attacks.
“This, will, hehe... Be fun.” She chuckled softly while entering a low stance. Preparing to take on another violent swarm of beasts and creatures.
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Garrus Sirtius sat at a large, low table littered with food just close enough to the edge of the pit for him and his guests to watch the show below.
The announcer was busy narrating about the powers of the cranium rats. And all the pit master could think about was the price of buying the miserable creatures. Psychic rats that constantly tried to escape by bombarding your employees with psychic commands were not worth the low price for them. If the scoundrel who sold them to his pits ever came around again, he would personally throw him into the pit below.
As the seconds passed, with the swarms emerging from the tunnels, the others at his table began to speak.
“He is, fighting strangely.” Commented a blue skinned woman while she sipped from a crystal flute. “Less, wild.” Her eyes narrowed, squinting at the gnoll below.
“He is fighting like a monk, and not a poorly trained beast.” A massive slab of flesh masking as grey mountain stone. “He’s fighting like he did when he entered the pits.”
“Was that before or after they nearly broke Legion’s climbing stream?” A man of thick stock, golden fur and a mane of wide, brown glory.
His feline gaze and chuckle aimed at the silent Hobgoblin. Who’s only response was a rude gesture. Their eyes unmoving from the start of violence below.
“Did any of you bet on him succeeding?” the massive minotaur asked. A cup of blood wine was brought to his lips.
The shaking of heads and silence brought an exhale of begrudging agreement from the master.
“He is performing well. But he will not make it past the halfway mark more than likely.” The leonin spoke up as the sounds of battle from below began.
“He won’t make it past those spiders.” The tiefling woman hissed. “Those damned creatures will devour him before the large ones even have a chance to come out.”
“He could make it.” The hobgoblin muttered. “Glora trained them to be as ferocious as they can be…”
“That old bitch would die, just like his mutt.” The Dancing Wind hissed back. Her blue lips curled in a snarl. “Every one of you locals fear a tiny goblin nearly eighty. No matter what ludicrous nonsense people whisper he did. He is more likely to fall over dead before the bitch down there bites it.
Every other creature in the room, the three other pit kings, the pit master himself, and every servant and underling in the large booth flinched. The Dancing Wind, as a pit fighter, was not a native of the Isle of Madra. She came from one of the many abyssal isles that liter the oceans between major continents. For those not native to the lands of Madra, the tales of Glora the Butcher, were truly unbelievable. They did not know the fear, the shadow of a single creature that brought one of the oldest, most powerful races on the Isle to their knees. Any living elf from that time would describe to others the fear that the “old bitch” would elicit from the ruling council of the elves. Only an incarnation of Madra herself would terrify them more.
“Tina,” Garrus sighed, “you should remember that words like that, are grounds for challenge. If anyone in here,” his large finger rose from his cup and motioned to the dozen people in the room, “whispered any of that into the ears of Glora, he would shoot you from here. And I would not retaliate.” His deep, rumbling voice held no hint of humor. It was a simple statement akin to the sky is blue, the sun is bright, Glora Cróga would kill someone in broad daylight for such disrespect.
Tina, the Dancing Wind, paused, and felt a flood of relief as every eye in the booth shifted as an explosion of fire cracked the silence.