Tanny looked her mother in the eyes as they sat on the edge of the fighting pit. The goblin’s green, wrinkled face was marked by clear concern, if not quite fear.
Her eyes were milky white, and the rouge had to question herself on if the cataracts were getting worse, as less black was visible below. And they shifted, following the slaughter down below.
But Tanny didn’t want to miss the details and glared at her brother until he was inclined to explain. His voice had recovered from the rush of fear but was speaking slightly faster than usual.
“Momma, when she was still, still with her party, their last mission was to kill an ancient dragon.” His voice was low. The silky rural accent was subdued as Tanny could practically see his eyes reading over the documents that contained information and recounting of their mother’s exploits.
“She was in a group of five, rumored-” Their mother’s hand came up to threaten the grey goblin with a quick thwack across the back of the head. “They would take missions from the Missionaries of Madra to kill beasts or threats the goddess told them about. This time, they were tasked with killing an adult spawn of a black and green dragon, who went by the title, Plague Dragon.”
“He’se was tryin’ to make a home in the Emerald Hills to the northeast.” Glora added, unprompted, “Had a small army of cultists… The beast killed, killed two of us…” A subdued wrath burned in the goblin’s last few words. But it faded soon, smoldering below their expression.
“Half the party fell, and the mission was their last…” Spoke finished slowly, his hand moving to intertwine with his mother’s.
Tanny frowned as she looked down at the rats below. Asking herself questions when a small piece of ancient lore rose from her memory.
“Mother… Could it have lived on, as a dracolich?..”
The word filled the two children with trepidation as images of a skeletal monstrosity in the shape of a dragon, with flesh and scales decayed and clinging to bones with nothing but the force of evil keeping them together.
“No, it’se couldn’t become one.” Glora’s tone was firm and solid. They had witnessed its soul pass on with the lives of those they lost. “It’se soul passed on, corpse left to decay in the pool of acid it’se liked to bathe in where it’se metal horde also lay.”
There was a moment of silence as the three considered the prospect, all making a silent prayer to Madra it was impossible.
***
The monk within the pits moved with a lightning quickness that shocked the assassin. Her claws caught and redirected the poisoned blades off course and used the opportunity to make a powerful kick down on the tall, thin rat. With the sound of a bone fracturing being her reward.
Seeing the assassin make their move, the group of four rush in towards the two. Making it just as the gnoll kicks the annoyance in the chest, sending them back to turn and meet the three bare handed fighters and the tallest wielding a rapier. Only to be met with said rapier sinking into her shoulder and claws of the small rat men nicking her legs as they surround her.
Repeating her previous move with gritted teeth, she plants her foot into the seeming leader of the Shtacor, cracking ribs under the strike as she turns to beat back the other rats. Knocking aside their fists and guards to rake her claws along their fur and flesh.
But the glint of motion caught the gnoll, sending her into a spin to deflect the falling knife of the assassin. Barely knocking it aside as the rest take the chance to unleash a flurry of blows.
Doing her best to beat off the claws that were ripping small cuts all across her body, she met the leader head on to clash and beat aside his stabs. Leaving a long gash along his arm in retaliation.
When the claw of one of the gaunt, furry monks curled, digging up and under her rib. Drawing her pain and attention to it. The world began to turn red with wrath and pain as the gnoll descended on the monk with the furry of a mad beast. Ripping out its throat with her claws and throwing its corpse so hard into the body of a second, they both collapsed.
Only for the bite of the assassin’s daggers to sink in between her ribs as well. But instead of a poison that the monk could shrug off, this one glowed a bright green. Leaving the wound bleeding, rotting and weeping puss and blood.
The sneaky rat wasn’t fast enough at withdrawing the knife and caught a slash of claws across the face that split the left side of its jaw.
But the leader didn’t give the gnoll an opportunity to harm them further as they lunged suddenly, rapier aimed at her throat. She only had a fraction of a second to try and turn and dodge, avoiding the fatal blow, but taking a critical stab that sunk deep, nicking her shoulder blade and nearly shattering through it.
The last standing monk, with his partner trying to stand and push off the dead third managed to scratch across her back in sync with the leader.
As pain turned more and more of her world red, the gnoll reached out towards the closest monk. Grabbing his skull and digging her claws into it, she plunged her claws into its guts and ripped free his stomach and ki. Pulling both from its corpse and spinning to bring a round house kick down on the last monk. Cracking her leg like a whip through the air and the sound of a skull fracturing echoed in the pit.
The leader and its assassin closed on the monk. Flanking her on either side as they attacked and tried to pierce through her. Landing scratches and cuts as their teamwork began to overwhelm her.
The last rat monk was getting back up, and the gnoll knew she needed to kill it. She could not permit it to keep snatching bits of her flesh and fur while she was trying to end this.
With a sudden rush of strikes, she managed to get both the rats to back up enough for her to turn to the monk as it dashed towards her and grab it by the skull. Using its momentum to spin her and it before slamming it into the sand, its weakened skull crushed to a pulp as she stood. The ki and life of the rat clutched and absorbed into her clawed hands.
In a frenzy, the assassin threw itself at the gnoll, hissing with the furry of only those who had just lost someone they cared for. With a surge of speed and hate, the rat managed to push the gnoll back, leaving it open to the attacks of the leader as all her attention was on the crazed assassin.
With a stab through her side that causes the monk to falter for a moment, the assassin took that moment to plunge its knife deep into the gnoll’s chest.
The bloody dagger, slick with poison sunk deep and true. Piercing a piece of the gnoll’s heart before pulling it free.
Blood gushed forth from the wound as the leader tried to land a similar strike from behind. Only to be met with a whirling slash that knocked the strike away.
For the gnoll, as their heart was pounding and pumping her blood freely, everything that was red and slowly falling to a single dot of vision paused. For an instant, the monk felt something deep within their mind.
They were on the cusp of something. Slowly, the red faded and the gnoll stepped forward. She was under an unending assault of death. And she could very easily fall here.
But if she did, nothing would stand between the enemies that awaited her and her clan. She was the first line of defense against all that sought to drown their clan in violence. None of them, not even her plate clad sister, could compare to the gnoll in amount of violence and distraction she could create. She was to be the focus, the load stone that attracted all to break against her.
With her single step, the gnoll felt the weight of that focus settle on her shoulders. She was the cliff, the castle walls upon which all would break.
Turning with the speed and weight of a battering ram, the monk’s fist came down with a strike that caught the assassin squarely across the skull. Shattering its split and bloody jaw; throwing it to the sand where she pounced on it.
Ripping free flesh and blood in a display of such violence and savagery, the leader was too horrified to react. Watching as his assassin was eviscerated for all to see.
Standing slowly once the rat was dead, the gnoll turned towards her last opponent and began to chuckle softly. Blood, organs, flesh and bone fell and dripped from her claws to the sand below.
Stolen novel; please report.
Lifting one hand, she beckoned the leader to approach. And slid into a lunging stance; stepping into her second gait.
***
Ska Rou had once been the martial leader of the Plague Scale guard. He was the Shtacor who represented his people to their Lord and Master and His other servants.
The kobolds were the mages and clerics, the goblins and hobgoblins the personal servants and suppliers of His Foulest Scales. And the Shtacor were those honored to guard and make the bulk of their forces.
The Lord had left on a mission after giving the cult multiple blessings. And soon after, the cult was assaulted by the ignorant savages of the dunes. An army whipped up by the Whore Goddess to capture them.
The evil heretics didn’t even fight the Foul Army. They bewitched the whole sanctum and captured, enslaving them all with only a hundred casualties to the cult! The thought made Ska’s heart burn to think about.
The cult was then sold to slavers, who locked them in shackles that dampened their powers. Cutting their connection to their Lord. But the cult did not panic. They would bide their time, just like their Master had. And they would strike or wait for their master to arrive.
When the cult arrived in the Refuge, they were not expected to be bought in total almost immediately on entering the city. Nor expected to be sold to the fighting pits.
The cult had been divided and told to rest, for they would be fighting to the death the next day. Only for the day to come and for them to be led to their holding point. Where they watched opponent after opponent be lead down the tunnel and into an artificial light.
When their turns were preparing to come, a man appeared with a magical bag. He began to toss the cult weapons. Poor quality, rusty junk, but with many of the original weapons the cult had been using when originally captured.
The man spoke a language none of them did. But they understand enough. The man wanted the opponent they were to fight, to die.
And when Ska had to watch his two generals march out with a group of their scouts, he felt dread. But as the minutes passed, he felt hope. Had his two closest advisers prevailed? But with the opening of their cage, and the lightning that jumped visibly on the bars that threatened to fill the cage if they did not leave it, said otherwise.
Ska walked with his three personal guards and left hand. The assassin was the brother of one of his guards, and volunteered for the position when their younger sister earned the spot at Ska’s side.
Ska had little interest in the young warrior, but he appreciated the devotion the assassin had, knowing that devotion would be used for the Master much better now.
When the group entered the tunnel and walked down it, the stone door rose up. And the scent of blood and death wafted up under it to slam across them. As the door rose more, they saw blood start to seep slowly under where the door had been. Flowing out of the pit inside.
Next, they saw the bodies. Hundreds of them. Giant wolves, spiders, constructs of gem and metal, broken weapons all scattered about. All burned and charred and covered in a muddy layer of ash and sand. With the bodies of over one hundred of the most martial and devout of the Shtacor laying lifeless and ripped to shreds.
Pron, the assassin, immediately slipped into the shadows to hide and move unseen.
When the Shtacor looked around, they finally saw what opponent they would be facing, and felt a spike of fear.
A gnoll dripping with blood, dirt, ash and viscera. Wearing only a loin cloth and armed with his claws, a sling and darts. He was covered with scars and burns, missing fur and chunks of skin and flesh. But he was still standing and still willing to fight as light and energy pumped through his body, slowly healing some of the wounds, but mainly seeming to stop the bleeding and restore the lost vitality, not the massive swaths of damaged flesh.
Ska felt honored to fight such a skilled fighter. He would have made a perfect personal guard for the Lord, with his brutality and strength. But the sight of his two generals dampened his mood. Standing over their bodies was a sobering moment.
The mounds of other cultists were sad, but they were truly nothing but bodies for the talents the Lord cultivated to use. These two were much more than bodies for the pyre. And by the state of their armor and shields, they had fought with more skill than Ska could have ever hoped for.
When Pron made his move, Ska and his guard charged the gnoll. He was a hand-to-hand monk, matching Ska’s guards. But his size and build lent the gnoll much more reach and mobility. The raw speed the monk moved at was frightening. Out classing the Shtacor by a whole class.
But with enough skill and enough numbers, Ska knew he and his group had a chance.
One guard fell after another. Ripped through, crushed, pulped. Each was killed with brutal and violent efficiency. Neither of which could be treated lightly, as in their death, through their training and silent coordination, managed to add injury on top of injury on this monk.
When Pron laned the heart strike, Ska felt a swell of hope. The hand of their Lord seemed to have guided the blade true. Only for the monk to kick aside his rapier lunge and proceed to beat the assassin into mash.
The sight was so violent and reminiscent of the Lord that Ska couldn’t do anything but watch as his left hand died pitifully.
But as the gnoll stood, turning to face him once again, the head of the militant arm of the Dragon Scale’s Infection cult, and beckoned for more, the shtacor could do nothing but oblige.
Ska pressed his tongue against a false tooth, dislodging it from his gums, and letting the black pill within to slide down his throat.
The Plague Dragon’s Black Touch would be put on display for the puny gnoll.
***
In the Master’s Booth, Legion sat silently. He did not like to talk outside of his private chambers and when he entered the arena. The main reason was because he simply didn’t find civilized conversation interesting most of the time. The talking, joking, the roles and customs of the soft and rough skin societies were just not something he understood. Life in a city or town was boring, unfulfilling. But necessary.
Legion felt much the same calling those of society called Outcasts. Those who did not fit well into the molds most people liked to live in. He was different, if only slightly. He was quite literally a piece that did not fit. He was, like the rest of his race, a parasite on its back.
The form of a hobgoblin, red skin and fur like hair began to shift slowly. His skin changed shade and consistency. The red shifted from the angry burning red of hobgoblins to the fire, blood like red of those of demon and devil heritage.
His black hair slowly parted and shifted to silver as black goat horns begin to peak up from between the now long, flowing locks. His eyes shrunk and grew thinner, more human like as his frame shifted from a thick veteran warrior to that of a dancer in line with Tina’s ice blue as contrast.
Legion did not comment on his change, and neither did the rest in the booth. It was his gimmick, his draw for many of the crowds who sought to watch him fight. One being, hundreds of fighters, styles, lives and battles. He was a shape shifting fighter, who changed who he was between fights.
The creature known as Legion watched the ritual down below with interest. In part because he enjoyed the fight. But because he also enjoyed seeing a creature like the gnoll. A being who was an outcast, who was the black sheep of a group.
In the Glora Clan, the Cackling Dagger, was different to the Mad Butcher, the Grey Word and the Wraith were fighters of skill, precision, and decisive character. But the monk below, when he first began to battle in the pits, was like them.
Dagger was a monk of decisive, brutal death to his opponents, one who was a silent extension of his mother’s fingers, the Claws of Glora. But as he gained fame, gained reputation, and a loose leash from his mother, he began to step from the monastic ways. He gave into the primal aspects that gnolls are known to indulge in.
Legion watched the monk gain the attention of men and women, throw the hundreds of gold coins he won into the pockets of whores and bar tenders. The monk who would not step out of line, had completely abandoned everything from where he came from.
His fighting grew sloppy, leaning on the blessings of his body and upbringing with little skill or true martial talent used. But on this day, Legion was watching the gnoll’s rebirth in the eyes of those watching. He was fighting with the same ingrained lessons of his youth, the techniques and style of his monastery, and went from a wild beast to an unstoppable dealer of claw, death and glory.
Throughout the fighting with the Shtacor, Legion could not help a small smirk spreading across his face. For he was looking forward to the ripples this change would cause in the stagnating ranks of the Pit Kings. And the look of confused anger and pent up hate that Tina radiated both at the gnoll and his own new form, were simply icing on the cake.
***
The monk watched as the rat leader stepped back, tilting his head and swallowing something. She had no idea when he slipped something into his mouth but waited for the leader to finish. When the weight of primal terror and an instinctual cry to flee caused the monk to dash back twenty feet against the wall.
For a moment, her heart was beating wildly as she came back to her senses. The rat had not turned into an ancient dragon full of fire and furry. But it felt like that for a moment.
And in that moment, the rat began to shudder and seize. His mouth began to foam with black bubbles and sludge. His limbs expanded and pulsed with muscle and blood. In a few seconds, it seemed the rat had gone through a corrupted version of a lycanthrope transformation like that drow had. But very different in origin.
When it was complete, the rat was now eye level with the gnoll, with a similar lean and lithe build meant for sudden explosions of speed and strength.
The rat monster chuckled and beckoned the gnoll in the same way she had. And the monk cracked a grin and laughed, before they both broke out into a dash to connect in melee once again.
Fist and claw, rapier and claw. The two fighters clashed in an intense melee. The rat scoring light hit after light hit. Scratching and drawing blood and strength from the gnoll in the same way their monks had. Because they simply were not fast enough to properly engage and harm the gnoll without the aid and numbers of his guards.
Slowly, the weight of the gnoll’s assault began to break the rat’s resolve. She had not moved from her spot as the two clashed, while the rat man dashed around, trying to find openings, weakness to stab is rapier in or rake his claws across her. For minutes, the two were locked together like this.
Until the gnoll landed a grab on the rat. Her claws digging into his shoulder as he was ripped from his dash, trying to claw at her shins while stabbing at her neck with the rapier. The monk spun him and pulled him to her chest, digging her claws into his neck and point him and his flailing arms out as the last of his life faded from his body.
With her claws sinking into the back of his throat, his arms and claws tearing deep into the monk’s arm, the rat leader died in a hold that left no room for submission.
The only sound that went along with his death, was the grinding of stone as doors rose once again. And the sigh of relief that came from the gnoll as she pulled the life and ki of the rat into her glow, trying to repair whatever she could as a new horde was falling upon her.