Campaign 2: Session 50 - Pawel the Stained
Rewards Granted
Tedduch Stoutman
- Damage: 141XP
- Encounter: 250XP
- Kills: 1800XP
- MVP: 400XP
- Participation: 200XP
- Skills: 30XP
- Total: 2821XP
Thalmun Burrowale
- Damage: 158XP
- Encounter: 250XP
- Kills: 1200XP
- Participation: 200XP
- Skills: 270XP
- Total: 2078XP
The Wretch
- Participation: 100XP
- Skills: 90XP
- Total: 190XP
Zi
- Damage: 141XP
- Encounter: 250XP
- MVP: 350XP
- Participation: 100XP
- Total: 841XP
Missions/Quests Completed
26th Spriarjeń 269 5E
Following another day at the Grand Tournament, the party go back to Fyodor's Magic Emporium. They meet Fyodor's nephew Artemi who agrees to keep an eye on Mina in spite of how busy he is managing the heavy flow of customers following the conclusion of the day's fights.
Fyodor takes The Wretch and Tedduch Stoutman back to a private room at the back of the shop and there they meet his stony-faced accountant. The four negotiate and Teddy is somewhat perturbed by how much the purchase of the property is like to cost him.
They eventually negotiate a deal in which Teddy would buy the property but not the business, and would excempt Fyodor from paying rent on the property until such a time that the cost of rent would have paid to make up a 50% share of the business, making Teddy an equal partner with Fyodor.
Agreed that the business would start trading in magical artefacts and the commodities discovered by adventurers.
Meanwhile, Thalmun Burrowale looks around the shop and discovers the Magic Emporium, but after an argument with Artemi and the discovery that it would cost him near 100 Koron, he opts not to take it.
With all said and done, the trio depart the Emporium and make their way back to the Stadion Milena to find the carriage that they had left near there. Upon arriving they come upon a crowd and watch as employees from the Stadion Milena are being dragged away by a group of guards headed by the Konstat Kowar.
They decide not to intervene and instead make their way back in the carriage towards Honorow Orphanage.
Upon returning to the Orphanage, Thalmun secludes themselves in their workshop whilst the Wretch begins to show off their magical studies to the children at the orphanage, teaching them about the basic fundamentals of magic.
Later, Teddy convinces Thalmun to test out their Heavy Kinetic Cannon and they agree to test it on Teddy. They make their way to the target range where once he and Rosa had thrown rocks at bottles. The children, Dobrogost Rostow, Romulus, Pawel, Audrey Wepple, Zi, Awenir, and the Wretch follow the pair to spectate.
They watch as Thalmun seemingly fires the Heavy Kinetic Cannon and an explosion is emitted that Teddy is able to avoid. Dobrogost notes that perhaps it was a bad idea to test such a destructive weapon so close to the other slum-houses however Teddy insists on trying it again.
They seem to fire the weapon a second time and this time it blows a hole in the wall behind them. Exposing a scorched bathtub and an outraged Orville Wepple who rages at them for blowing up his house, a statement which confuses the party who were neither aware that Orville was conscious, nor that he now owned a house.
With this done, Audrey, Awenir, and Dobrogost take time to clean up some of the damage whilst the children are escorted back to Honorow Orphanage. Teddy, Thalmun, and the Wretch talk to Pawel about his match with Mentor Margareeta on the morrow. Pawel is enthusiastic and seems to have made peace with the fight, but not because he expects to win, but because he expects to lose and die in such a way that he thinks would be worthy.
The three are surprised by his rhetoric and encourage him to fight expecting to win, and while he promises to fight with everything he has, he almost expresses hope that this would allow him a chance to reclaim his dignity and his honour given what he lost when he became a Stained.
Eventually everyone makes their way to their rooms and head to sleep.
27th Spriarjeń 269 5E
The party wake up early the next day and make their way to the Stadion Milena for the Grand Tournament's Quarter-Finals. They attend as a group with Audrey Wepple, Awenir, Mina, Tedduch Stoutman, Thalmun Burrowale, the Wretch, and Zi all in attendance. They make their way there and find seats in the Commons.
They take time to learn about what the spectators think about the various combatants, and especially Pawel, and this almost leads to a fight as Teddy speaks in their friend's defence.
The feud between them is disrupted however by the call of the announcer and the beginning of the day's contests.
The first fight declared is scheduled to be between Ino and Dionysius of the Onna, making it a particularly interesting fight for both Teddy and Zi. Both fighters stepped into the ring like animals loosed from their chains. Ino, bare-chested and twitching with bloodlust, wears a boar’s head like a crown. Twin blades in hand, breath fogging through tusks, he stood with his feet digging into the dirt—already in motion, even before the bell.
Dionysius emerged, feathers ruffled, eyes twitching, limbs uncertain. The Garuda moved like he was fighting gravity and his own body at the same time. He looked unwell.
They meet in the middle, springing at each other even before the bell has time to toll. The Fight Begins.
They didn’t hesitate. Ino sprinted forward the moment the bell rang, blades screaming as they swung in frenzied arcs. Dionysius met him halfway—not by choice, but because he tripped forward, then used the stumble to launch an erratic flurry of slashes. Steel rang out. A flurry of claws and steel and snarling mouths. Blades hissed and skipped off flesh, bone, feathers. They tore at one another like rabid dogs.
Dionysius shrieked and lashed out with a kick, forcing Ino back—but not far. The Garuda spun wildly, sword cutting a wide arc that sent a gust of wind and blood into the crowd as he flung himself skyward.
Ino’s head snapped upward—instinctual. Then he leapt. They met again in the air—barely. Ino crashed into Dionysius like a thrown spear, blades dragging sparks against the Garuda’s iron breastplate. They twisted mid-air, clawing, hacking, falling. Two shapes locked in violence.
Dionysius screamed again—this time laughing—as he drove a knee into Ino’s ribs. Ino didn’t seem to feel it. He responded by sinking both blades into Dionysius’s wing.
The two slammed into the ground hard—wings crumpling, dirt exploding. Then something changed. Dionysius twitched. His pupils dilated further, impossibly wide. He tilted his head. And then—he started tearing at his own shoulder with his beak. Feathers scattered. Skin split.
The crowd recoiled. Ino didn’t. He was already on the move again. Dionysius charged—a manic, flapping horror, dragging his blade and a trail of his own blood behind him. They met in the centre once more—swords flashing too fast to track. Steel rang against steel. Flesh opened. Dionysius’s beak snapped, lunged, tore a chunk from Ino’s forearm. Ino retaliated with a gash across the Garuda’s belly, slicing through feathers and bone.
Dionysius was losing more blood now. He stumbled again, staggered back, flapped once—twice—and launched himself upwards with everything he had left. Ino followed without thinking. They rose together, Dionysius thrashing, Ino slashing upwards with each bound. In the air, Dionysius twisted, dropped low, bit deep into Ino’s neck—blood fountained—but Ino didn’t stop. His blades tore through the Garuda’s chest like meat. The two collapsed again, slamming into the dirt in a heap.
Silence. Then a groan. Ino emerged first—limping, soaked, half-mad. Blood painted his chest in streaks. He crawled forward, dragging his blade. Dionysius was coughing blood—half-alive, body twitching, sword still gripped tight. As Ino approached, he looked up with something like peace in his eyes. He smiled—just barely—and thrust his blade through his own chest, aiming to catch Ino in the heart. Ino grunted. The sword pierced him—almost deep enough. But not quite.
Dionysius slumped. Ino pushed the Garuda’s body off him, panting, drenched, wounded—but still alive. He didn’t hesitate. He stood. And he hacked. Again. And again. And again. Feathers flew. The crowd didn’t cheer right away. It took a moment for the brutality to catch up to them. When it did—they erupted. Ino didn’t hear it. He just stood over what was left of Dionysius, chest heaving, swords lowered, the storm still raging behind the boar’s mask.
After the corpse of Dionysius is removed from the stadium, and Ino makes their way from the ring, the announcer calls the next fight between Magnate Nadja Rystotin and Prince Ywan 'the Younger' Mastoracza.
Nadja Rystotin is no stranger to the crowd, but she enters with the poise of an athlete—not a performer. Her raven-black hair is tied tight, her eyes already locked on the man she intends to beat. Her spear is long, balanced, practical—just like her. Her leather armour is simple but expertly fitted, built for speed. She waves and smiles, and more than usual she makes a good show for an enamoured crowd. She dismounts and walks calmly to the centre of the sand, her posture taut and calculating.
Prince Ywan Mastoracza follows. The air shifts. The crowd erupts. Ywan ‘the Younger’ is everything they want him to be: beautiful, bold, shining. His green-dyed cape flutters in the breeze like a banner of victory already claimed. His white armour catches the light and reflects it like a beacon. He spins his sword in lazy, controlled flourishes and reins his horse in one-handed. He dismounts with effortless flair, bowing deeply to each corner of the arena.
He blows a kiss to the commons. Then turns to face Nadja.
The bell tolls. Nadja moves first—no hesitation. She darts in, her spear thrusting in sharp, surgical jabs. She doesn’t look for the kill—she looks for information. Distance. Weak points. Prince Ywan meets her, raising his shield in a smooth arc. His footwork is textbook, his sword tracking her movements like a dancer following the beat.
She drives in fast—once, twice—testing his guard, watching his shield angle. Her spear’s reach keeps his blade at bay, and though he tries to bait her with a feinting step, she doesn’t bite. He grins. She doesn’t. Then—she commits. Nadja lunges deep, slips her weapon low beneath his guard, and drives the butt of the spear into Ywan’s chin. A thunderclap of steel and bone. His helmet flies off, clattering across the sand.
The crowd gasps. Ywan stumbles back, dazed. Nadja doesn’t give chase—not yet. She lets him feel the moment. The shift. The control slipping from his fingers.
Ywan recovers quickly—grace returning to his movements. He retreats just enough to create space, shield held firm, sword glinting. But Nadja is relentless now. She hunts him—not with rage, but with rhythm. Feints. Parries. Twists. Her spear dances. Each strike lands somewhere—against his shoulder, along his ribs, the top of his thigh. None fatal. All deliberate. She probes for weakness like water seeping through cracks in stone. Ywan is fast. Talented. He blocks. He pivots. He adjusts. But he cannot strike. Every attempt is stifled before it begins. Every opening he dreams of is gone before it forms. She won’t let him in.
He grimaces—frustrated now. She spins the spear around her like a baton, the shaft gliding past his blade, tapping his armour in a mock rhythm. Ting. Tap. Crack. She’s scoring points the way a duellist humiliates an arrogant rival. He knows it. So does the crowd.
Ywan braces himself, drawing up his shield tighter. His jaw clenched. He watches Nadja’s shoulders, trying to read her like a book he once mastered. She lunges left. He moves to meet her. That’s the moment she was waiting for. Her foot pivots. She slips right—inside the arc of his shield—lowers its rim with a flick of her wrist, and slams the shaft of her spear into the side of his temple. His legs go stiff. He drops like a felled tree. The crowd gasps as he hits the dirt, shield falling from limp fingers. Nadja doesn’t pause. She spins the spear around in a single clean motion, plants the tip at his exposed throat—and stills.
Ywan blinks, dazed, face half-buried in the sand. His green cape is rumpled beneath him. For a moment, there is nothing but the rasp of his breath and the sound of distant flags snapping in the wind.
Then he taps the ground, yielding for all the crowd to see. The bell tolls again.
Nadja steps back, withdrawing her spear with the grace of a surgeon sheathing a scalpel. She says nothing. Doesn’t gloat. She simply turns and walks back across the arena—back straight, weapon clean, expression unreadable. The crowd is stunned. Their golden boy—undone. Without landing a single blow.
Then the realisation sinks in. And they roar. Not for the prince. But for the Magnate. Once both have departed the arena, the next and most anticipated fight amongst the party is called, and Pawel and Mentor Margareeta enter the arena.
The crowd’s roar dulled into a low, thunderous murmur as Pawel stepped into the sand, bare-chested, hands clenched at his sides. No blade. No shield. Only the steel-bound vambraces gleaming in the high sun—sigils flickering faintly across their surface. His hair was tied back, face calm, eyes fixed on the towering silhouette across the arena.
Mentor Margareeta stood like a mountain carved from storm-cloud and stone. The Half-Giantess gripped her warhammer—a brutal slab of blackened granite laced with silver veins, taller than most men. Her face, marked by years of war and wisdom, showed no mirth, no hesitation. She was not here to entertain. She was here to end.
The bell tolled.
Pawel moved first. A blur of speed and grace—his body a storm of disciplined motion. He danced through the dust, hands snapping up to deflect the first downward swing of the warhammer with a flash of arcane force. The impact cracked the air like lightning. Pawel twisted, drove a knee toward Margareeta’s ribs, but it landed like a pebble on a fortress wall.
Teddy watches, and as he sees Pawel's enchanted vambraces in action, he suspects them to be a relic of Dalli, tools that might be utilised to conclude his contract with Ilarion Starkerow. He attempts to rush forwards and vault towards the arena. The Stadium's guards see him lurching to escape the Commons and they rush to restrain him.
Pawel dodged, ducked, rolled—each blow from the hammer threatening to break the earth beneath them. He struck with elbows, with palms, with every ounce of honed precision. He fought well—no, brilliantly. Like a ghost among giants. The crowd gasped, unsure of who to cheer for.
A feint. A pivot. A sweep of the hammer not to strike, but to create space. Then came the fall. A sudden upward swing caught Pawel mid-air as he moved in. His ribs bent—then buckled. He slammed into the ground, breath gone. He tried to rise. She was already on him.
As Teddy attempts to climb the barricade, he is pulled from the wall by the guard, and two more join to restrain Teddy.
The next blow to Pawel was to the back. The next to the side of the head. His vambraces sparked and hissed under the weight of each strike, the enchantments faltering. His hands shook as he pushed off the sand. His lip bled. One eye swelled.
Still, he rose. The crowd hushed. Margareeta spat on him. A thick, dismissive glob to the face. Pawel wiped it off with a trembling hand. He did not speak. He opened his arms, exposed his chest.
Then came the beating. Not the glory of battle. Not a warrior’s end. This was punishment. His body was bent, broken—torn between will and flesh. She toyed with him now. Let him rise, then shattered him again. Blood mixed with sand. His vambraces sparked, then died.
Teddy watches in horror as this friend, companion and comrade is brutally beaten and humiliated before the masses.
By the time he collapsed for the final time, eyes rolling back, the crowd could no longer cheer. Some looked away. Some wept. He had not yielded, but he had begged, and he had begged for the only end he believed he was worth. He pleaded with the Mentor Margareeta to kill him, but she refused and she left his broken body in the dirt.
As Mentor Margareeta turns and walks away, Teddy calls out to her, shouting above the hubbub of the crowd and pleading with her to end it. Mentor Margareeta turns as she hears the voice and looks through the Commons to where she sees her old opponent. She maintains eye contact with them for a moment, and seemingly acknowledging their request. They turn and go back to Pawel, raising their foot and slamming a boot down into their skull, crushing it and killing them instantly.
