The time has come for another tournament, and the Arena rings with the roar of activity once more. The great arterial travelways are filled with the bustle of footsteps and the rustle of fabric, as the crowds who had earlier observed the battles royale now stream from their seats. Vendors lurk in the alcoves or lean upon their portable stalls to hawk their wares to the streaming passers-by, from sweetmeats and wines to souvenirs taken from the Arena sand by the unscrupulous. Minstrels line the borders and the small stages, singing the stories of gladiators old and new - from freshly-composed ballads of the cowardly wolf with a heart of steel, to the now-old tales of a maniacal musician whose axe wrote songs from the blood of his foes. Few inspire much other than derision or caustic sarcasm; many a minstrel overestimates his abilities.
But among the most common sights in the sideways are the pubs and bars. Whether gladiator or observer or trader, the many activities of the Arena can quickly see a man in need of refreshment and entertainment. A thriving trade in all has sprung up over the long years of the Arena’s existence, and so the side-corridors are thronged with such establishments - from large, well-reputed establishments such as the Scary Monster and Supercreep to literal holes in the wall such as the Retching Retarius.
This tale begins in one of these taverns. It has had many names, down the long years of the Arena’s existence. But most of the regulars to it simply know it by a name both descriptive and blunt: the Tavern.
Dimly lit and filled with the reek of stale ale, rank sweat, and shady deals, it provides a meeting place for the hard and the unscrupulous. Gladiators and warriors; footpads and thugs; renegades and traitors alike all congregate here, to drink, gamble, and otherwise spend their often ill-gotten gains.
Tallowy candles mounted on rusted old holders provide the Tavern with a carefully dim level of illumination; no light penetrates through the stingy windows at the very top of the walls. The wooden floors are wet with spilled beer and fresh blood, while the stone of the walls is stained with the residue of many years’ violence and woodsmoke. Shadowy corners conceal battered old seats and tables, around which the patrons gather to make their shady deals or indulge in less legal activities.
Those foolhardy travellers with the courage or desperation to enter the Tavern are often fortunate to leave with nothing but their purses slit. But to the scum of the realm, it is a meeting place.
Within the Tavern, away from prying eyes, a gladiator sits – a tall, strong, nut-brown man with a ragged naval captain’s coat slung roughly across his shoulders. A rough beard and tangled mass of tarry hair hang down to his chest; a livid white sabre cut across one cheek ripples as he scowls down at the paper placed down in front of him. Muttering a filthy oath under his breath, Captain Drekkar takes a swig of his rum and looks up at his manager.
“This th’ man I’m against in the next round?” He grumbles, low and throaty.
Kyrim’s orange eyes flash at Drekkar’s grunt, the towering man leaning forward onto the table. He makes for an odd sight, even by Arena standards: a towering, beefy humanoid in a finely tailored suit and gloves, every inch the successful businessman – save for the squidlike being perched atop the neck, where a head would usually be. With his tentacles tucked tightly under the collar of his suit jacket, Kyrim at least vaguely passes for humanoid; but the growling, faintly stilted voice that bubbles up behind the collar gives away his nature.
“Next one you’re up against is a mean one.” Kyrim growls, stubby fingers tapping against the paper. “Fast. Light-footed. One of those tree-huggers. Likes using a pick and is rather skilled with it.”
“Feh.” Drekkar snorts in response, bleary eyes flashing as he looks up toward his manager’s scowling visage. Again Drekkar takes a long pull from his mug of rum, swallowing half of its remaining volume in one go. “I’ll send the lubber back to the forest in pieces. ‘e can fertilize the trees that way.”
“So long as you are not seeing double when you battle him, ‘Captain’, I do not care whether you feed him to the forest or the sharks.” Kyrim rolls his eyes, looking with slight disdain at Drekkar’s ragged appearance and unfocused eyes. Kyrim leans forward again, his gloved fingers tapping together in a constant, steady thumping. “Kill him, and quickly. Do whatever must be done, lest you be the one meeting Davy Jones instead.”
Without another word, Kyrim rises from the chair and marches purposefully through the Tavern’s gloom, his intimidating stature proof against most of the patrons. He wastes no time in emerging back out into the dimly torch-lit sideway and beginning the long walk to the betting tables, resisting the urge to drag the Captain out with him.
Kyrim does not truly care for the half-cut, scowling scarecrow of a pirate; his backing is conditional on Drekkar’s profitability. Were he less certain of the disgraced sailor’s prowess, or the possibility of gaining from the upcoming battle, Kyrim would abandon him in a heartbeat in favour of his opponent. But as it is, Drekkar might yet be useful to him, and they stand to gain from each other.
Several minutes of walking later, Kyrim arrives at the bookers’ tables. Even though they are less packed than last year due to the lower number of gladiators, the competition to shove one’s way to the front and place a bet remains fierce – as do the arguments and swearing that result. Kyrim makes his way to the front with the assistance of some none-too-gentle pushes and the occasional menacing glare, his stature and bulk allowing him a degree of force most would struggle to muster.
Kyrim places a heavy purse of gold on the booker’s table, and nods once to the tournament brackets. “Fifty gold on Captain Drekkar.”
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Topic: Dwarf Fortress Gladiator Tournament IX (Read 13822 times)