Campaign 2: Session 48 - Night of the Living Potatoes
Rewards Granted
- Participation: 100XP
- Skills: 120XP
- Total: 220XP
- Participation: 100XP
- Skills: 30XP
- Total: 130XP
- Participation: 100XP
- Skills: 120XP
- Total: 220XP
- MVP: 350XP
- Participation: 100XP
- Skills: 150XP
Missions/Quests Completed
25th Spriarjeń 269 5E
Andrea of the Dimark enters the arena with the measured steps, clad in polished plated armour, meshed with a flowing purple robe, a towering shield on their arm, and a spear in hand. Their movements are controlled and deliberate.
Opposite them, Ino stands barefoot, bare-chested, and wild-eyed through their rapid boar's head mask. Their body is scarred and painted in strange symbols, their hands gripping twin curved swords, their stance loose, swaying, hungry for violence.
As Zi watches Ino enter the Stadion Milena, they roar out a cavalcade of insults and jeers to put Ino off their game. When Ino is unable to hear them, they run from the stands in the hope that they can place bets in favour of Andrea of the Dimark.
Andrea raises their shield as Ino tilts their head, exhaling a slow breath. Then, the second the bell rings, Ino lunges.
Andrea is ready. They step back, shield raised, and Ino’s first strike crashes against it, the blades scraping loudly against the steel. A second strike would follow, and then a third. Steel screeches against steel as Ino twists, spinning around Andrea’s defenses, their twin swords a relentless blur.
Andrea doesn’t panic. Every movement is practiced, every step precise. They adjust their shield, deflecting one sword, then the other, forcing Ino back with disciplined thrusts of their spear. The crowd gasps as Andrea finally lands a strike, the spear skimming across Ino’s ribs, drawing a thin line of blood.
As Andrea gains their intial advantage, Zi races down the stairs from the top box and hastily makes their way to the betting booth, hurriedly placing their support for Andrea of the Dimark to win outright against Ino and to make their way into the contest's next round.
Ino pauses—then grins, baring bloodstained teeth. They laugh. Ino then moves unpredictably, their body twisting unnaturally, dodging in ways that no soldier should be able to. Andrea tries to pin them down—a measured attack, a careful defense—but Ino doesn’t fight like any typical warrior they have faced before.
Andrea lunges—Ino drops low, sliding under their guard and slashing at their leg. Andrea grunts as steel bites through the plating, feeling a hot flash of pain. They stumble and Ino presses the attack, sensing weakness. A flurry of cuts, like a boar goring its prey. Andrea manages to block, but they are being driven back, step by step.
As the crowd watches on, it becomes clearer and clearer that Andrea of the Dimark is losing control of the contest. Andrea shoves forward with their shield, trying to create space and reset the fight. Ino allows it, and dances back, but only for a second. Then, with a snarl, they leap forward again, swinging both blades downward in a brutal arc. Andrea raises their shield but the sheer force of the impact shatters part of the metal, splintering the wood and denting the steel.
Andrea staggers, their stance faltering. Ino does not let them recover. Their swords lash out—one slicing deep into Andrea’s thigh, the other carving into their arm. Andrea grits their teeth, pain flashing through their body. They try to counter with their spear, but they are too slow, and Ino is already inside their guard.
Andrea sees it coming. They try to raise their shield, try to pivot their spear— But Ino is already in motion. They swing forwards in a single, horizontal, lightning-fast cut. For a moment, the arena is silent.
Andrea freezes. Then—their head tumbles from their shoulders, as blood fountains into the sand. Their body remains standing for a fraction of a second, as if refusing to fall. Then—it collapses. The crowd erupts into a mixture of cheers and horrified gasps.
Zi races back up the stairs, and exhausted and out of breath, they burst back into the top box just in time to see the severed head of Andrea of the Dimark rolling along the ground.
Ino stands over the body, their chest heaving, their swords dripping. They reach down—and lift Andrea’s severed head high, displaying it to the crowd. Some roar with excitement. Others are silent, disturbed by the sheer brutality of it. Ino, breathing heavily, lets the head drop unceremoniously into the sand. Then, without looking back, they walk away, blades still stained red.
After time is taken to dispose of Andrea's corpse, the announcer calls for the next contest. The fight of Prince Hakon 'the Smiler' Hakonsyn, against Magnate Nadja Rystotin.
Prince Hakon ‘the Smiler’ Hakonsyn is brutality incarnate, an ugly, squat, but muscular man with a wide and yellow-toothed grin and eyes that are blue like the colour of ice. He is pale with flashes of wispy red hair and wears heavy chainmail, with a thick sword that he wields like a butcher's cleaver.
Where Prince Hakon appears depraved, Magnate Nadja Rystotin appears composed. They enter the arena in a fitted darkened leather doublet with a loose fitting brigandine to protect themselves. They enter wielding a spear that they move which elegant grace.
The crowd hums with a sense of nervous uncertainty as the two seem wildly mismatched, and many fear for the Magnate's safety.
As the signal is given, Prince Hakon lunges forward with a scream and with his sword raised high. He charges like a berserker, roaring as he swings his sword in a murderous arc. The sheer force behind the attack could cleave through armour, flesh, and bone alike.
But Nadja is already moving. She steps back, her spear flicking forward with a sharp jab. The tip skims across Hakon’s forearm, drawing a thin line of blood. Hakon doesn’t even seem to notice. He swings again—wide, relentless, furious. Nadja evades—sidestepping, keeping her distance, stabbing precisely. The crowd sees the difference in their styles—Hakon is all rage, all momentum, while Nadja is calm, controlled, unshaken.
Hakon, sensing that his opponent won’t engage directly, changes tactics. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t let her breathe. His sword is a whirlwind, hacking, slashing, forcing Nadja into constant movement. The spear is longer, but Hakon won’t let her set her feet—he’s forcing her backward, keeping the pressure on, denying her control.
She deflects a blow with her spear shaft— She dodges another, barely— The sword carves through the air inches from her throat as he very nearly carves a path through her guard. For the first time, she frowns and Hakon laughs. A cold and unsettling sound.
He swings again—this time even harder. Nadja barely manages to raise her spear in time. The sword slams against the wooden shaft, nearly splitting it in two. She is forced back again, her boots digging into the sand. For a moment, it looks like Hakon has control.
Hakon presses forward, eager to end it. His opponent is on the back foot. He can smell victory. He swings again and again—but then, for the first time, Nadja does something unexpected. She doesn’t retreat, instead, she steps in. Her move onto the back foot was a feint, and now she moves forward to face her foe. Hakon wasn’t ready for it, her spear catches him mid-swing, the shaft knocking his wrist off-course—not hard enough to disarm, but enough to throw him off-balance.
In the same motion, her leg hooks behind his knee. Then, with a precise twist of her body—She sends Prince Hakon crashing into the sand. The crowd erupts as Hakon, furious, scrambles to rise, but Nadja is already there. Her spear lashes out, a strike to his wrist and his sword tumbles from his grasp, a second strike pierces his shoulder, and a third strike—a sharp and controlled thrust— stops just short of Hakon’s throat.
The arena falls silent. Hakon stares up at her, chest rising and falling rapidly, fury burning in his eyes. The tip of her spear remains steady. For a moment, it looks like Hakon might try something—Then, slowly, he exhales, and he laughs, tapping the ground to show his submission.
Nadja immediately withdraws her spear as the crowd erupts in applause. She raises her spear and begins the journey back to the gate of the Underworks. But as she does the crowd's applause turns to outrage and concern, as a rabid Prince Hakon springs from the ground and lurches towards her.
Nadja is taken unawares and has little recourse but to leap aside, the Prince laughs as he picks up his sword and lurches towards his foe. Calls are echoed by the commentator and referees, but they go unheeded.
Nadja recoils and twists her spear, trying to move backwards enough to make use of her spear, but Hakon is inside of her guard.
As the referees near the contest, Hakon's eyes are drawn from the spar for only a moment, and Nadja takes that opportunity to change her trajectory from the back-front to the front, lunging forward and sending a sudden and heavy shoulder into Hakon's sternum.
The Hakonian Prince wheezes as they curl over and once again Nadja retreats, giving herself distance before launching her spear and resting it to point into Hakon's eyes. The referees surround him and he spits on the ground with hate in his eyes before yielding once again. This time the crowd do not applaud but instead they mumble uncertainly.
Nadja backs away as the referees surround the Prince Hakon and they allow a moment for Nadja to relax and continue her departure from the stadium. It is only a moment that Hakon once again breaks to attack, but this time the referees are on him. He slashes one's throat with a lazy hack of his sword, and turns on a second before the other three restrain him and begin to pin him to the ground.
At first he snarls and screams in anger, and then as his legs buckle beneath him, he bursts out in an insane laugh as Nadja Rystotin watches on in horror. She rushes to the side of the dying referee, but is only able to keep him company as blood pulses from his wound.
Prince Ywan ‘the Younger’ Mastoracza steps into the arena like a man stepping onto a stage, his ornate armour gleaming, his long, flowing cape swaying with his movement. He is every bit the prince—tall, handsome, the image of royal elegance. The crowd adores him, chanting his name as he draws his ruby-encrusted longsword with effortless grace.
Opposite him stands Magnate Otto Grarland, a Dwarven warrior, short but built like a fortress. His stature is unimpressive compared to his opponent, but his presence is formidable—a grizzled, seasoned fighter. For his weapon, Otto wields a hefty battleaxe, its edge sharpened to a wicked gleam.
The two fighters meet in the centre of the arena. Ywan offers a nod of courtesy, his charming smile almost too perfect and polished. Otto rolls his shoulders, unfazed.
The bell tolls and the fight begins. Prince Ywan moves first—and he moves like flowing water. A wide and effortless sweeping strike. Otto barely raises his axe in time to parry, the clash ringing through the arena. But Ywan is already moving again. Another slash—this time low, precise. Otto steps back, his heavy boots thudding against the dirt. The Dwarf is fast for his size—but not as fast as the Prince.
The crowd cheers at Ywan’s elegance, his control, his effortless command of the fight. Otto does not flinch, nor does he appear intimidated. Instead, he lunges. Ywan had been dancing around him, but Otto doesn’t play that game. He throws himself forward, axe raised. Ywan dodges back, narrowly avoiding the blow—but then, Otto doesn’t stop. He comes again, and again, a relentless storm of hacking strikes.
Each time Ywan twists out of reach, avoiding the axe by a hair’s breadth, but Otto is pressing, pressing, pressing. Finally, Otto's relentless onslaught causes a mistake. Ywan dodges too slowly, Otto’s axe nicks his shoulder, tearing through the decorative cloth of his cape, a shallow wound, but the first blood of the fight nonetheless.
The crowd gasps and Otto does not back down. He fights defensively now, bracing for the prince’s counterattack. It comes fast, Ywan fakes a lunge to the left—then pivots right, his sword flashing against the sunlight. Otto turns to block—but too late. The flat of Ywan’s blade slams into Otto’s ribs, knocking the wind from him and causing hot sparks to scrape from the armour as the blade scratches the breastplate. The Dwarf stumbles and Ywan moves in for the finish. A perfectly placed strike—his sword twisting Otto’s axe from his grasp, sending it skidding across the sand. Otto is rendered unarmed and defenceless.
It should be over, but Otto refuses to yield, he charges, bare-handed and roaring. Ywan reacts on instinct, he steps back, raising his sword—not to kill, but to halt Otto’s advance, but Otto is too close, moving too fast. The sword pierces his chest. A silence falls over the arena, for a second, Otto doesn’t move. Then—he exhales sharply, a wet sound.
Ywan releases the blade instantly, stepping back, horror flickering in his eyes and Otto drops to his knees. He looks down at the sword buried deep in his torso and he collapses.
The crowd hesitates. Then—some cheer, but others do not. Prince Ywan stands over the fallen Dwarf, unmoving. His hands are stained red. Some spectators are on their feet, roaring his name, others are silent. They had expected a victory, not an execution. Ywan’s charming smile does not return, the weight of the moment hangs in the air. Slowly, he retrieves his sword from Otto’s body, shaking off the blood, he raises it—not in triumph, but acknowledgment, a final salute to a warrior who refused to yield.
And Ywan, victorious yet unsettled, turns and walks away.
The next contest to be fought is the last of the day and is due to be fought between Alyosha Smitikho and Pawel. Alyosha Smitikho, a hardened gangster with a spiked flail and an iron spike where his hand once was, is a brutal and unpredictable brawler. Pawel, a gifted martial artist, fights in a composed and measured way, using enchanted vambraces to deflect and disperse the impact of his opponent's blows.
The crowd is divided—some cheer for the brawler, others for the disciplined warrior, but many look at Pawel with scorn, calling his Stained, and treating him with disdain.
As the signal to begin is given, Alyosha lunges forward first, swinging his flail with wild intent. Alyosha wastes no time, launching into an immediate, reckless assault. His spiked flail lashes through the air, whistling dangerously, forcing Pawel onto the back foot.
Pawel doesn’t panic. He watches. Reads the movement. The first strike whips towards his head—he steps aside, barely dodging it. The second swings towards his ribs—he raises his vambrace, angling the impact away. Sparks fly as the chain scrapes the enchanted metal. Alyosha, grinning, presses forward aggressively, his flail a relentless storm of spinning steel. But Pawel does not react emotionally. He moves just enough, never overcommitting, forcing Alyosha to waste energy with every missed attack.
Alyosha is growing frustrated. He’s used to fights ending quickly—overpowering opponents through sheer brutality, but Pawel refuses to be hit. Alyosha changes tactics—he swings low, trying to sweep Pawel’s legs. Pawel leaps over it effortlessly. Growling in frustration, Alyosha lunges forward, stabbing with his iron spike, aiming for Pawel’s stomach.
Pawel sees it coming. He sidesteps at the last possible moment, Alyosha overextending just slightly—just enough. Then Pawel strikes. A brutal palm strike to the ribs. Alyosha stumbles back, gasping—the first real hit of the fight. The crowd erupts in applause. Pawel has seen enough. He knows Alyosha is too aggressive, too reckless. He decides to end this cleanly. Alyosha swings his flail again—this time slower, sloppier. He’s breathing heavily. Pawel doesn’t dodge.
Instead, he steps inside the flail’s arc and catches the chain mid-swing between his vambraces. Alyosha’s eyes go wide—his weapon is trapped. Pawel twists sharply, yanking the flail from Alyosha’s grasp and sending it clattering to the sand. The crowd roars. Alyosha, now weaponless, lets out a feral snarl and lunges with his iron spike.
Pawel is ready. He deflects the stab with a smooth parry of his vambrace—then immediately counters with a devastating roundhouse kick to the jaw. Alyosha crumples. The fight is over. The referee steps in as Alyosha struggles to rise, but his legs buckle beneath him. His head is spinning. His aggression, his unpredictability—all undone by Pawel’s control.
Pawel bows respectfully to his fallen opponent. Alyosha, still dazed, spits blood into the sand, furious at himself. The crowd cheers for the disciplined, strategic victory, though some still boo, disappointed that the fight did not end in sheer carnage.
With Pawel's victory, the day's contests draw to a close and the spectators make their way from the stands. Audrey Wepple, Mina, Tedduch Stoutman, The Wretch, and Zi make their way into the courtyard outside of the Stadion Milena where the wealthy of the top box are escorted by the stadium's security to their respective carriages. Here they are met first by Thalmun Burrowale who has finally parted from their crystal development to join with the party.
In addition they are met by a still sweaty and elated Pawel, showing a level of excitement and enthusiasm uncharacteristic for them as they talk about what they accomplished and ask if the party had been watching. Zi is standofish in this regard but Teddy matches Pawel's enthusiasm which seems to make him extremely happy.
On Zi's suggestion they ask Pawel if any kind of after-party will be taking place amongst the contenders and when Pawel confirms that there will indeed, the party make their way towards the stadium's subterranean level. They succeed in bribing the guard on the door and convincing them that as victors of previous contests they deserve entry, and so they enter into the space.
The changing area is slowly being converted into a social space as what was once the armoury has been replaced by a functional bar and waiters move amongst the various pews offering refreshments. Some contenders still undress and change from their contests, others are still in the process of receiving medical treatment for their various injuries, and those that remain are moving towards the bar and the newly set tables to mingle and banter amongst themselves.
Each of the party begin to follow their own interests, Teddy is first, making their way to where Magnate Nadja Rystotin is helped from her armour by a serving girl. He introduces himself and credits her for her victory in the first round. He then expresses his interest and offers to buy her a drink whenever she wants him to.
Zi meanwhile makes their way over to whom they think to be Prince Ywan 'the Younger' but instead turns out to be Prince Adam. They immediately dismiss the Prince and ask where they can find their cousin instead, a request which the young Prince is deeply offended by. The Prince calls on the Imperial Guard to have Zi removed, but the real Prince Ywan arrives in the nick of time to repel the Imperial Guard and speak on Zi's behalf. The two go to a table and there Zi attempts to seduce the startled and very uncomfortable Prince Ywan.
Thalmun Burrowale and The Wretch both seem to be struck admiring the Grand-Councillor Dragan Kresz from afar, and Audrey Wepple takes care of young Mina whilst connecting with Pawel over the victory that means so much to him.
