Campaign 2: Session 47 - Blood on the Sand
Rewards Granted
- Skills: 120XP
- Participation: 100XP
- Total: 220XP
- Bonus XP: 350XP
- Participation: 100XP
- Total: 450XP
- Participation: 100XP
- Skills: 120XP
- Total: 220XP
Missions/Quests Completed
25th Spriarjeń 269 5E
Prince Adam Mastoracza enters the arena with a confident strut, basking in the adoration of the crowd. The young noble raises his sword high, waving to the spectators with a dazzling grin, his polished armour gleaming in the mid-day sun. From Tedduch Stoutman, The Wretch, Audrey Wepple, Mina, and Zi, this entrance is met only with jeers and boos.
Neferkare, in contrast, is silent. A towering, seven-foot-tall Tagaran, their golden fur marred by old scars. Their powerful frame and predatory grace seem to make it clear they could kill Adam with ease.
The fight begins, and Adam, grinning confidently, rushes forward, shield raised, sword poised. Neferkare does not counter immediately. They dodge instead of blocking, sidestepping the prince’s first thrust with effortless grace. The crowd gasps in delight, seeing the young prince face a true challenge. The Prince flicks his blade toward Neferkare’s midsection. They parry lazily, swatting the attack away as though batting a fly.
The audience cheers. They think this is a real fight. But Teddy and The Wretch begin to suspect that there might be more to this fight, and that this is not a true display of each opponent's skill. Neferkare is holding back.
Adam grows bolder, emboldened by the crowd's adoration. He takes larger, wilder swings. He barks insults. He laughs as he fights. Neferkare plays along, occasionally blocking with just enough force to rattle Adam but never to hurt him. Then, they let him land a hit. A shallow cut to their arm, just deep enough to draw blood but not real damage. The crowd explodes with delight. Adam turns away for a moment, lifting his sword triumphantly, basking in the cheers of his people. By now, Teddy and The Wretch begin shouting complaints that the fight is a fix, much to the displeasure of their fellow spectators in the top box.
Neferkare stares at the Prince with contempt. Then they lower their head. Adam becomes more aggressive. His blows come harder, more reckless. He stops waiting for openings and begins brutalising his opponent. Neferkare lets out a pained grunt as Adam’s shield bashes against their ribs, cracking bone. They falter, stepping back.
By now Teddy begins to watch the fight more closely, trying to parse signs that perhaps Neferkare is under the influence of some form of magical control that prevents them from fighting at their full potential, The Wretch meanwhile looks for signs that perhaps they were injured at some point prior to the contest, or perhaps have something else that hinders them. Neither one is able to come to a definitive conclusion.
Adam smells blood. He sees the fear in the Tagaran's eyes, and something shifts in him. The arrogant bravado remains, but there is something cruel beneath it now.
Neferkare’s ears flatten against their head, their breathing ragged. They move in ready to begin the fight in earnest. But it is too late, Adam’s blade thrusts forward and Neferkare reacts too slowly. The tip pierces their stomach, sliding deep, cruel and final. They choke, their massive body buckling forward, eyes wide with disbelief.
The crowd erupts into wild cheers, seeing their young prince strike the final blow. Adam, panting, his hair matted with sweat, yanks his sword free, stepping back. Neferkare falls to their knees. Their large hands grasp at the wound, as if trying to hold their life in. Eventually, their body slumps onto the sand, lifeless.
Adam throws his arms into the air, drinking in the victory. He turns, flashing a charming, arrogant grin, raising his bloodied sword to the sky. The crowd screams his name.
But the party only jeer and call out in rage at what he has done, and one grizzled veteran behind them in the stands echoes their outrage. They saw the way Neferkare held back, the way they had fought just well enough to put on a show, but not enough to win, and they saw the moment their betrayal was realised.
As Prince Adam departs the sands and the body of Neferkare is cleaned away, the party engage with the grizzled veteran that sat behind them. He introduces himself as Saul and expresses a shared disdain for the Prince Adam. He explains that the slave was likely ordered to put on a show but to let the Prince win, and was likely told that the Prince would spare their life.
Between fights, Teddy and The Wretch get to know the grizzled war veteran. He tells them his name is Saul and that he was a soldier of the Mastorian Sword and a veteran of the Zenoszi Rebellion. Teddy gets him a whisky and the three drink together merrily.
The next fight called is between the Grand-Councillor Dragan Kresz and Patrok Gregor. Saul claims that Patrok Gregor is a good man, a guardsman beloved by the people, and whilst he expresses dislike of the Grand-Councillor, he grudgingly admits that he is a talented warrior and that this would likely be a real contest.
On one side stands Grand-Councillor Dragan Kresz, the towering Wayfarer, a sentient suit of enchanted armour adorned in a flowing green cape. The Wretch identifies their true nature and sits in awe at what he perceives, and the entity's magical potential. Opposite them, Patrok Gregor, a beloved city guardsman, a bull of a man with a round belly built over layers of muscle. His chainmail glistens in the sunlight, his mace heavy and solid in his grasp. His enthusiasm is boundless, his grin wide as he raises his arms to the roaring crowd.
Dragan inclines their head slightly, a warrior’s salute. Patrok winks at the Wayfarer and beats a fist against his own chest, a booming laugh escaping him. Then, with theatrics fit for a stage play, he throws his arms to the sky. He twirls his mace in dramatic fashion, then he turns to the Grand-Councillor and grins. The crowd erupts in delight.
Dragan Kresz, ever the performer, raises their sword, and in a cascade of magical sparks, that long-sword becomes a rapier, its elegant steel shimmering. With a flourish of their emerald cape, the fight begins.
Patrok comes out swinging. His mace crashes through the air, a heavy, powerful swing meant more to thrill the audience than to actually hit. Dragan steps aside smoothly, flourishing their rapier like a duelist, twisting their body with effortless grace. The Patrok turns the evasion into a twirl of his own, spinning on one foot dramatically before letting loose another mighty swing.
Dragan ducks, their movements fluid and elegant, their emerald cape billowing with each step. A moment of pause follows as the two combatants stand apart, facing each other. Then, simultaneously, they each strike a pose—Dragan Kresz, sword raised in a perfect fencer’s salute, whilst the Patrok stands with their legs apart, and their mace rested on their shoulder like a victorious warlord. The crowd goes wild, they are putting on a show, and they know it, but in spite of this, the party and Saul see clearly that though they are obstentatious, these are indeed real and gifted combatants.
The fight turns as Dragan moves, their rapier flickers forward, aiming for precise and calculated thrusts. The Patrok doesn’t bother dodging. He takes the hit—deliberately—letting the blade slide across the side of his mail. Then, with a mighty heave, he swings his mace down. Dragan twists away, just in time. The mace crashes into the sand, sending dust flying into the air. The Patrok doesn’t stop, he keeps pressing forward, swinging his mace in broad, punishing arcs. Dragan is forced to retreat, using their greater speed and agility to avoid the relentless assault.
Patrok Gregor fakes a wide swing, but at the last second, he twists his body and slams his shoulder into Dragan’s chest. There is a massive impact and Dragan is sent skidding backward, boots scraping against the ground. The crowd gasps and then cheers.
The Patrok laughs heartily, twirling his mace again whilst the Grand-Councillor Dragan Kresz tilts their head, seemingly amused.
The Patrok charges again, their mace raised, but Dragan does not retreat. Instead, they change tactics. Their rapier disappears, fading into arcane mist—replaced instantly by a longsword. The Patrok’s eyes widen as their charge falters, and Dragan steps forward with perfect precision, parrying Patrok’s incoming mace with a masterful sweep. The force of the impact rings through the arena, but Dragan is unfazed.
A counter-slash—perfect, controlled, deliberate. The blade catches Patrok Gregor’s leg, slicing through his trousers and grazing his flesh. Nothing serious, but a hit nonetheless. The Patrok stumbles and Dragan presses the advantage. A second strike—this time to his wrist. The Patrok’s mace is knocked from his grip and the crowd lets out a collective gasp and with one final flourish, Dragan spins their sword in a dazzling arc—bringing it to a sharp stop, the tip pointed directly at the Patrok’s throat.
There is a tense pause, and the Patrok stares at the blade, frozen. Then, he slowly raises his hands, grinning. Grand-Councillor Dragan Kresz lowers their blade, bowing their head slightly in acknowledgment and the crowd erupts into applause.
Patrok, chuckling, steps forward and pulls Dragan into a bear hug. The Wayfarer stiffens in surprise as they are lifted off the ground for a brief moment before the Patrok drops them back down. Patrok Gregor throws an arm over their shoulder, laughing as he waves to the crowd. The arena roars in approval.
Dragan inclines their head once more before turning to leave, cape billowing behind them. Patrok, rubbing his sore wrist, grins after them, and then he too departs.
As a lull begins between the fights, Teddy and Mina depart in search of a blacksmith to produce him a new suit of ornate custom armour that might represent his new station as the Sal'Moral. Along the way, Teddy has a notion and diverts his course in search of a Magic shop. He eventually finds a more basic trader off of a side-street in the Dystrykt Stadion.
Within this shop, they meet an elderly vendor named Fyodor and agree to buy an empty spell's tome for Mina to work from, and also to purchase a guidance spell scroll. Teddy finds himself taken with the vendor's store and so requests the chance first to rent a room above the shop, and then to invest in the business. Fyodor is surprised by the offer but is enthusiastic to agree. He consents that they should meet on the morrow to discuss terms, and also consents that he should begin weekly lessons teaching young Mina the fundamentals of the arcane arts. Though he stresses his knowledge is only rudimentary and she would be better pressed to attend one of the Empire's various universities to perfect her craft.
Next, the pair depart and continue their search for a black-smith. Eventually they find one on the corner of a distant street and there they meet a very strange man. The man is heard reacting in panic at the sound of a knock on his door and opens the door slightly in acknowledgement of their presence. They raise the suggestion that he should produce this armour for him, and the odd blacksmith willingly takes Teddy's schematics and negotiates a fee. Teddy grows concerned that this strange man might have murdered the blacksmith rather than being the blacksmith themselves, but they accept his payment and close the door before he can reconsider.
Meanwhile, back at the Stadion Milena, after a prolonged period of waiting, the fight scheduled between the Princess Regata Mastoracza and Rameses is cancelled as the Tagaran slave Rameses appears to have disappeared. Following this cancelled contest, Sir Bertrand of The Order of the Radiant Sun defeats Sir Reynold of the Table of Less-Valued Knights, Tiidrik of the Metsviir defeats Thorald Randbane, Jarl Einar Einafsyn defeats Arstan of the Nabomark, Beirand of the Nabomark defeats Kapitan Altan Perenow, and Marta of the Nabomark defeats Boyar Miljan Karnank.
As these fights progress, The Wretch and Saul continue their discussion about the various combatants, and Saul suggests that they are not alone in their disdain for the ruling elite. It is with these lines that The Wretch begins to realise that there might be more to Saul than a simple old war veteran and that perhaps this meeting was not a coincidence.
As the Boyar Miljan is escorted from the sands, Teddy and Mina return to the stands and Saul gets ready to depart. Before he does so he admits that he knows about their connection to Rosa and says that there are others who share their disdain for the ruling elite and are prepared to take action, he claims they are numerous and that they are organised and he asks if Rosa would be interested in this. When they do not give a clear answer he says that he will be in touch and asks for them to take a meeting with him and his associates. He then makes his way from the stands.
Teddy and The Wretch debate the meaning of this and whether they should follow up on Saul's suggestion that there are those that dislike the Empire. The Wretch is keen to follow up, thinking that there is no harm in an introductory meeting and considering that perhaps this would give them the opportunity to do some good, whereas Teddy does not trust the suggestion or the man providing it and expresses concern at knowing so little about both Saul and also the intricacies of Mastorian politics.
The next fight called would be between Dionysius of the Onna and Konstat Kowar. Dionysius of the Onna is first to lumber onto the field of combat. A massive, twitchy Garuda, always just slightly off-centre. His wings are broad and powerful but beat erratically, flinging dust in wild spirals every time he launches into a small and inelegant flight. He is terrifying to behold: eyes glassy, jaw clenched, body humming with some barely-contained fury.
His opponent, Konstat Kowar, is the exact opposite—grounded, lean, a man who wastes no energy. Where Dionysius thrashes, Konstat calculates. His curved saber isn’t flashy—it’s practical, efficient and deadly.
The two stand across from one another as the signal is given to begin the contest. Dionysius kicks off the sand with an ungainly, violent thrust of his wings. The arena rattles with the gust. He rises, not so much flying as flinging himself skyward with alarming momentum. Konstat watches, remaining still and unimpressed. Dionysius doesn’t wait. No measured circling—no predator’s patience as would befit a bird of prey. He drops like a sack of bricks, spear pointed downward in both hands, screaming something incoherent through gritted teeth.
The Konstat jerks aside just in time, but not without cost—the spear scrapes his shoulder as Dionysius slams into the dirt behind him, skidding and sending a spray of sand into the crowd. The Garuda growls, their wings flaring as they lurch upright, twitching, eyes unfocused.
Dionysius moves to the sky again, this time higher—but his flight is erratic. He banks too hard to the left, corrects too late, and nearly clips a banner post. He comes down again, wilder than before, spear whipping in unpredictable arcs. The Konstat steps in, this time not dodging but closing, getting in underneath Dionysius’s swing. The saber flashes—a calculated upward cut. Dionysius grunts, reeling in midair as blood streaks from his side. He crashes hard, shoulder-first into the sand, rolling once before staggering back up.
Konstat Kowar doesn’t chase. Instead he waits, watching his opponent and learning. Dionysius, panting, barely feels the wound. He snorts like a bull, stumbling backwards a step, then lifts into the sky again, wings beating with blind fury.
This time, Dionysius doesn’t circle. He ascends straight up, the Konstat loses sight of him against the sun. There is a lull as conversation and confusion echoes through the crowd. Konstat Kowar shifts his stance, awaiting whatever will come next.
Then there is the distant call of a howling shriek. A dive. He comes down like a meteor—legs tucked, spear held low, spiralling recklessly. Not silent or elegant, just fast.
The Konstat hastily raises his saber, but nothing could prevent his enemy's onslaught. The spear slams into it with devastating force, ripping it from his hands. Konstat is flung backward, hitting the ground hard, winded and vulnerable.
The crowd gasps as Dionysius staggers forward, swaying slightly. His chest heaves. His eyes flicker. He plants the spearpoint at Konstat’s throat. Konstat coughs, trying to suck in breath.
There’s a pause, Dionysius blinks, uncertain, like he forgot what he was doing. Then he lowers the spear, not so much out of mercy, but more like his mind had drifted elsewhere. The Konstat stares at him. Then, exasperated, he taps the ground twice and the crowd roar their approval as the fight is drawn to a close.
Dionysius turns away, muttering something to himself. His wings twitch and one of them is bleeding. Konstat sits up slowly, shaking his head. Dionysius spreads his wings and lurches into the air again, rising clumsily, climbing until the crowd below is just noise, and with no salute or note of farewell, he departs the Stadion Milena.
