The monk, the Cackling Dagger, walked slowly towards the center of the arena as the prayers in the tongue of dragons rang from the dozens of raving mad kobolds.

Their bodies were covered in dirt or something worse meant to mimic war or ritual painting. Equipped with daggers, stones and clubs, this rabble was not looking promising to the gnoll.

Stepping ever closer as the beasts charged, the monk focused her mind on maintaining the state and stance. The Guardian Gait, she felt a possible name for the technique enter her mind. Only for it to be washed away with the approach of the kobolds and the first deaths.

And with the first crushed skull, came the toll of the second hour. Yet again, the monk had killed faster than expected. Losing the opportunity for a potion until this wave was dead.

The aching in her chest was sharp and rhythmic. In time with her heartbeat, the area that had been rushed and stuffed with ki to try and mitigate the damage was a bandage when she required surgery.

Each twist of her body to crush a weak kobold, to split it from shoulder to stomach, to deflect the decent of dozens of blades required focus. And even with the state of her new gait, she was making mistakes.

Over and over the horde would try and destroy her. To riddle her with daggers and spears or beat her into an unrecognizable pulp. But were rebuffed after only minor wounds.

With the state and focus, she did not leave a small spot. Simply turning to meet and crush any tiny lizard man with brutal violence for managing to nick her thigh or back.

As they fought, bodies began to pile up. The dead were being trampled on to give even a tiny chance to rip even another scratch from the gnoll. And they were doing well. It seemed their Lord was listening with how much the kobolds were able to overwhelm and land blows. To the monk, it felt like randomly, the draconic cast offs were getting bouts of guidance on killing their opponent.

This continued until the worst possible moment. While performing a spinning kick meant to carry the gnoll around on their heel, their body seized as their chest ached and contracted suddenly and painfully. Straining the injured heart to near rupturing.

Losing her balance, she tumbles into the awaiting arms of her foe. Who tear and stab into her with their claws in a frenzy. Cutting across her skin like they were trying to ritually scar her rather than end her life.

But fighting through the pain, she manages to fight her way back to her feet. Throwing kobolds around like cast dice, hoping for something to come up good for her. Only for the seizing from straining her body to occur again. But with a surge of ki, she managed to remain on her feet. Feet planted in place and guarding against the descending fists, claws and clubs.

This fight slowly changed for the gnoll. As on nearly a fourth of every movement she made strained her heart. Repeatedly, she failed over and over to maintain her composure. Mid attack she would stagger, needing to pull herself back before being mobbed for her failure.

It was persistent, but thankfully her gait mitigated some of it, by remaining in a single small spot to wage a war of attrition with the kobolds.

For despite the sensations of intense pain, the monk was slaughtering kobolds. Until their numbers dwindled to less than ten. And she began to move once more.

Her steps were slow, deliberate and easy to see. But for the foolish fanatics, they didn’t care and threw their lives away to be absorbed by the gnoll. Three of the last ten gave their ki unwillingly to continue to fuel her slaughter.

Once the last was dead, and the booming voice of the Pit Master echoed down, the gnoll looked up with conflicted emotions.

Her heart was a persistent problem. It was only going to get worse if she didn’t do something.

But the rejuvenation potion would have a better effect than a healing potion like that one. At least she hoped.

With the ki of her slayed enemies pumping through her, she shook her head in refusal at the offer, not even registering what he said, just focusing on pumping ki through her body.

One more hour, a few more battles. She saw the end of the rite within reach. She could feel the eyes of her clan looking down from above. And she would not falter here.

***

Scoriza stepped slowly from the tunnel of the Pits of Refuge. His beady eyes adjusting to the artificial light with ease as the stench of blood slammed into his multicolored scales.

Each step he took as he hefted the shield that a disgusting, but aiding drow had returned to him. A shield embossed with the head of a skeletal wyrm on the background of black with six distinct colored stars.

The spear in his other was thin, but serviceable. His scales shimmered in the light as he stepped across the pooling blood and bodies of the furry wastes.

Shtacor were good soldiers and servants to the Lord, but with the rise of their leader, they had been believing themselves above those most related to the Lord, his Kobold servants and worshipers.

His keen eyes took in the enemy as a small light faded from their form and they slowly began to approach over the corpses of the lesser servants.

“Monk, darts and sling, but unarmed otherwise.” From Scoriza’s right, one of the two heroes of their Lord commented.

He and his twin brother were both born with the mark of a dragon skull on their foreheads, marking them as the highest of honored in the cult.

As the second oldest and strongest martial kobold, Scoriza, the veteran warrior, was both their direct superior and trainer. Seeing them overcome such a scene and remain focused brought a devilish grin to his old face.

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Scoriza’s son followed behind them. Sezra the Second Sorcerer, a kobold clad in robes of simple black placed his hands on the shoulder of both heroes. From his lips fell the words of power and might. A prayer for the might and blessing of their Lord. With the three fighters now prepared, they shifted into a practiced formation.

Scoriza took the center position while the heroes flanked him. With the spellcaster behind them. Approaching the monk in a spear shape, they waited until they were within twenty feet. Surprised that the monk had allowed them to both get so close and not retaliate at range.

Leary of a trick, the veteran decided they were close enough. Stopping, he raised his hand as if in a peaceful greeting, opened his mouth as if to speak, and exhaled every ounce of breath in his lungs as his scales shimmered a bright green. From his maw, his saliva and spittle transformed as the powers of ancient dragons rushed through his veins.

A massive spray of acid shot out, spreading in a wide cone. Just as it was ending, he felt the rush of burning heat on his right attempt to engulf the monk as it ducked that way. Only to dive under the faltering stream of acid and escape the fire. And be met with the breath of arctic and ancient cold.

The gnoll dashed out of the line and rushed the veteran kobold. Claws extended and bearing down without mercy.

With the weight and ferocity of a wyvern in his own right, the gnoll beat aside Scoriza’s shield and dug deep, nearly fatal gouges across his chest before a spray of poisonous gas engulfed him and the gnoll.

His son had sent out a spray of gas hoping to slow the creature, but for it to be completely ignored. Scoriza held his breath as the beast continued past him, attempting to break through the line and reach the vulnerable caster behind.

The monk ducked under the quick stabs trying to intercept him, preventing Scoriza from even lifting his spear to slow him before it was past and atop the second most talented magician in the cult.

A shield of powerful blue ruins expanded from the young kobold in every direction. Catching the claws of the monk as the leaped and brought their claws down in a large arc. For a brief beat the gnoll and magic hung, sparks of power drawn as the claw dug into the shell.

Only for the next beat, to have the shield shatter and claws rip the young sorcerer from shoulder to crotch.

In a matter of seconds, as the twin heroes rushed the back of the gnoll, leaving the martial kobold still laid across the blood-soaked sands, the monk had slew one of their number. He had slayed Scoriza’s son like he was gutting an animal.

For the kobold who had worshipped the Lord for the longest, just over two decades with the First Sorcerer, his vision narrowed, and was consumed by rage and given over to something far more ruthless than himself.

***

In the depths of the Pits, lay many caged beasts. Ranging from small rats and bats to massive behemoths who required constant magical attention to keep in line.

Within one of the reserved training areas, a trio of wyverns were locked after their morning training in group combat.

The three lay sleeping, resting in the warmth of a radiating magical stone. Their handler had gone to prepare their afternoon meal. But were soon joined by the visage of a stranger to them.

A two leg of grey skin and stark white fur on its head.

And from these two legs, a voice so smooth and hypnotic, the alerted creatures relaxed and began to listen to the suggestions of their new friend. Who promised them a fresh, new meal they could capture themselves.

***

Spoke watched his brother as his claws ripped through the shield spell of the kobold below. And felt a spike of joy as he collapsed with a few final mouth movements. And the light of magic and life in his eyes faded.

But the gnoll could not hide the falter as he landed. His body tensed at the worst time, causing him to stumble and roll.

“Tanny, what’s wrong?” he asked, worry threatening to enter his voice.

The monk clutched his chest and came up from the roll to avoid the stabs of the chasing twins. From the rouge came a forcefully calm reply.

“Hisss heart wasss hit.” The tabaxi clutched her hands together as her eyes focused on what she could see. “The ssstab either ssslightly scratched hisss heart or bruisssed it. If it wasss ruptured, he would be dead now.”

“He’se favoring one side. And the hit was between the ribs.” Glora added, her face remaining passive to her children.

“Perhapsss the rouge jussst missed it? Or it isss a shallow nick?” The worry on her face grew. “If it isss small enough, he’sss making it worssse.”

“... He’se will need the potion if he’se wants to live. If he survives that long...” Glora whispered as the battle continued.

***

Scoriza, one moment, was on the ground, while in the next as his vision shifted between a red rage and black surge of power, he stood before the gnoll once again. His body was in motion and from his maw came a swirl of blackness.

Both his students backed away, aborting their attacks to escape the range in time for a whirl of corroding and eroding energy spewed forth from his jaw.

A vortex that expanded out and into the sand and air around the gnoll as he managed to react and lunge out of the way of the breath to tackle the right most brother.

In the wake of the black death spiral was a clear path of destruction that carved an expanding wave into about three inches of sand, exposing and digging into the sandstone below. Where blood began to pool from the surrounding corpses.

Turning his head to try and engulf the gnoll yet again, he watched the boy who had been a fierce and dedicated warrior since his birth get ripped and torn to strips as the gnoll dug its claws agonizingly into the twin’s throat, Scoriza took his best chance.

A whirl of black erosion and death expanded out suddenly and engulfed both the dying kobold and gnoll. Ending one’s suffering by offering him directly to the Lord’s embrace and hexing the heretic gnoll with full body agony as months, maybe years, of his life were drained from his furry body.

As the vortex ended, Scoriza saw the gnoll had dashed from the breath with as much speed as they could, taking not nearly as much damage as hoped. But certainly, dealing some. Only to see the heart being ripped from his last student’s chest. Crushed like paste as the gnoll’s claw had dug completely in and through the last twin’s chest.

Without a moment to consider his mental state, the veteran threw himself into melee once again, stabbing out with blinding speed that caught the gnoll by surprise. Especially as the spear tip came shrouded with the darkness and destruction of final death.

The spear tip was knocked aside and deflected several times in the mad furry, but one managed to sink into the gnoll’s thigh and leave the wound a dark mass of dying flesh before he was pushed back with an intense onslaught of blows.

For a few exchanges, the two danced around, seeking to land a blow. But with little success. Until the gnoll rushed in yet again and froze for a moment as pain and intense agony exploded through him. Giving the weakening kobold the chance he desperately needed.

Lunging forward, he tackled the gnoll, a creature nearly twice his size and four times his weight. And wrestled them to the floor as a black swirl expanded from his mouth.

The gnoll recovered mid fall and was trying to dash out of the way. But it was too late. A massive spray of dark corrosion and death spread in every direction of the kobold as he released directly into the earth. Engulfing himself and the gnoll.

In seconds, as the sweet embrace of death came ever near, the kobold fell into the now three-foot-deep crater his Lord’s Breath created. Basking in the hole as the strength and remainder of Scoriza’s life came to a close, he did not see a heaven or paradise. He saw only the stone and heard echoes as claws dragged along it.

“He... Will... Infect you al-” The emaciated and near husk of a body of the kobold was crushed under the foot of a panting and glowing monk who had not the strength utter a response.