Campaign 2: Session 52 - The Pet Pig and the Pig's Pet
Rewards Granted
- Damage: 286XP
- Participation: 100XP
- Skills: 90XP
- Total: 476XP
- Damage: 17XP
- MVP: 350XP
- Participation: 100XP
- Skills: 180XP
- Total: 647XP
Missions/Quests Completed
27th Spriarjeń 269 5E
After making their way back to Honorow Orphanage, the party rest for the night in advance of their big fight on the morrow.
28th Spriarjeń 269 5E
The morning began quietly. Tedduch Stoutman ensures that they are well rested, but wakes up early, taking their time washing and preparing for the day. Thalmun Burrowale makes their way for breakfast, and finding neither sausages nor bacon, wanders off into the bustling heart of The Verge. He finds his way to a chaotic flea market. There, amidst rickety stalls and the grumbling of early traders, he found two unusual vendors—one selling sausages stolen from an Imperial-approved butcher in the inner city, and another offering a pig for sale. Without much hesitation, Thalmun purchased both. In doing so, he unwittingly acquired not only the pig but also the pig’s former owner, who, in a strange twist, had in fact been owned by the pig. The strange man identified himself as Sir Siegfried the Seventeenth.
Returning to the Orphanage with his new entourage, Thalmun drew immediate concern from Dobrogost Rostow. The presence of a strange man trailing behind a pig raised obvious alarms in a sanctuary filled with vulnerable children. Thalmun defended his decision, pointing out the Orphanage had accepted the party under similar circumstances. Dobrogost, still wary, agreed to let Sir Siegfried stay for breakfast—temporarily. The group sat down to a meal of sausages while the pig, curiously intelligent, settled across the table, watching The Wretch with unnerving intensity and accepting any scraps it was offered.
Debate over Sir Siegfried's fate continued. Eventually, a compromise was reached: he would be allowed to reside in Orville’s hovel, despite uncertainty over whether Orville would consent. Dobrogost seemed confident he could make the case. With the issue settled, Thalmun and Tedduch Stoutman set off toward Stadion Milena, while the rest of the party—Audrey Wepple, Awenir, the Wretch, and Zi—remained to prepare for Pawel’s funeral and ensure their comrade's body was respectfully delivered to the Mission of the Seventh Acolyte.
During their journey, Dobrogost shared grim truths about the Nabomark Trials. He described how applicants either volunteer or are chosen—often orphaned children raised from birth to be warriors. Pawel had been such a child, trained alongside thirty others in the art of war. These children became each other’s only family. Then came the trials.
The first trial cast them into the wilderness without arms or armour, forcing them to survive through instinct alone. Those who succeeded faced the second: a sealed district within Nabos, where applicants were trapped until only one remained alive. Pawel, like the others, was forced to slaughter every person he had ever loved to survive. The third trial was the cruelest and most arbitrary—one from which there was no honourable withdrawal. The candidate had to plunge their hand into a boiling cauldron, retrieve a heated metal sceptre, and walk a hall in rhythm to a drumbeat. If they succeeded, they became Priests of the Nabomark. If they failed, they were deemed “Stained,” marked as unworthy by the gods. Pawel, after surviving everything, dropped the sceptre. Branded impure, he lived the rest of his life rejected by the world that made him.
At the Stadion Milena, Thalmun and Teddy joined the roaring crowd to witness the brutal spectacle of the arena. The first match was a clash between Mentor Margareeta and the fighter Ino. The atmosphere shifted the moment the half-giant Margareeta entered—her crimson gi trailing behind her, warhammer in hand. From the opposite gate, Ino burst forth like a beast, swords gleaming, masked in the head of a boar.
They met mid-arena, barely even waiting for the toll of the bell. Margareeta meets Ino like a red tide rising to meet the shore. Her hammer swings in a wide arc, a seismic gesture meant not just to strike, but to dominate. Ino leaps back—barely—feet skidding, blades crossing in an X to catch the edge of the swing.
The clash is monstrous. Metal shrieks. Sand erupts. Ino rolls sideways, scrambling for breath, for space. This is new. No one has forced him to retreat before. Margareeta doesn’t pause. Another swing. Then another. Each blow a mountain falling. Ino can’t parry—he can only dodge. Back. Left. Back again. She herds him, hammer crashing into the sand where he was, not where he is. It doesn’t matter. She’s not trying to hit him. She’s trying to exhaust him. And it nearly works. But Ino is not just wild—he’s precise.
He feints a stumble, ducks under a horizontal swing, and pivots hard—blades flashing upward in a savage cross-cut. Steel scrapes against chain. Margareeta grunts, pushed back for the first time. The crowd roars. She smiles, and tells him that he should present himself at the gates of Nabos, and there find the true meaning of strength. Now he comes alive. A flurry. Too fast to follow. Slashes, thrusts, spinning arcs of steel and fury. His mask juts forward, tusks almost grazing her shoulder. His blades carve at her sleeves, tear at her gi, expose the glinting links beneath.
But Margareeta does not falter. She absorbs the flurry like a cliff takes the wind. Her hammer moves with shocking precision—intercepts one blade, then the other, then drives downward, smashing the sand as Ino somersaults away. She follows. He charges again—lower this time. A feint to the left, a real strike to the ribs—but he gets too close. Margareeta crashes a knee into his side. Something cracks. He howls. Then her elbow slams into the side of his head, and Ino goes down in a heap.
She exhales. Steps back. Turns away. The crowd murmurs. The fight is over. But Ino rises. Blood runs from his nose beneath the mask. One arm limp. But he lunges, a sword finding its mark—into her shoulder. Margareeta roars. She ducks into the blade, nullifying the force, then grabs him by the waist and hurls him overhead. He slams into the sand. She stomps toward him, fury in every stride, and brings her boot down on his skull.
Again, she turns. Again, he rises. This time slower. Broken. But not beaten. His mask hangs cracked, one tusk snapped. His ribs heave. But his eyes—somewhere behind those carved sockets—still burn. He charges. The blades strike like lightning—again and again. One glances off her thigh. Another tears her sleeve. Another draws blood across her side. Her guard breaks. The crowd screams. But Margareeta grins. She nods once. Then she ends it.
Her warhammer arcs up in a brutal uppercut, smashing through Ino’s guard. The head of the hammer crashes into his chest. He lifts from the ground. For one terrible second, he hangs there—suspended like a marionette—and then crashes to the dirt, limbs slack, swords falling from limp hands. He does not rise. The bell tolls. Margareeta breathes hard now. Blood trickles from her shoulder. Her gi is torn, her chainmail scuffed. But she is victorious. She turns to the crowd. Then looks down at the fallen warrior. Then she leaves the sand.
In time, the second fight of the day and the penultimate fight of the Grand Tournament would be called, Grand-Councillor Dragan Kresz versus the Magnate Nadja Rystotin.
Magnate Nadja Rystotin enters first—dark-cloaked, calm-eyed, carved from discipline. She is young, but not untested, having moved so far through the Grand Tournament already, and against some truly legendary foes. She moves with purpose. Her spear glints in the afternoon sun. Across the sand, something hums. From the west gate, Grand-Councillor Dragan Kresz emerges in a flourish of emerald light and arcane steam. Metal feet strike the stone with deliberate rhythm. He bows grandly, in exaggerated pageantry, as his armour ripples with motes of latent Magic. Eyes gleam green within the visor’s slits.
They meet at the centre. Neither speaks. A single nod is shared. The bell tolls again. And the fight begins.
In a gesture of theatrical elegance, Dragan conjures a rapier from thin air—gleaming silver, filigreed with arcane script. But the Magnate does not wait. She lunges. Her spear is wind and needlepoint. She strikes not wildly, but precisely—a dancer’s tempo, a surgeon’s intent. The rapier parries once, twice—then falters. Sparks fly as her blade rakes against the armour's shoulder joint.
Dragan twirls away with a chuckle, mask betraying nothing, but his footwork stutters. She sees it. She presses harder. They clash. Dragan shifts footing, lowers his blade—intending to disarm her—but Nadja twists, leveraging the haft of her spear to bash the side of his helm with the iron-shod base. The arena gasps. He stumbles. She does not let him breathe. Her spear flashes, catching his blade beneath its crossguard and wrenching it free. The rapier clatters to the sand. She kicks it backward, pinning it underfoot. The rapier dissolves in green fire. In its place, a halberd forms in his waiting grip—taller, heavier, rimmed in magic.
Now the storm begins. The sand becomes a spiral. They circle each other—halberd and spear carving luminous arcs. Each tries to crack the other’s defence—but neither breaks. Metal sings. Dust rises. Even the crowd forgets to cheer. Then Dragan finds a beat. A flurry of sweeping strikes pushes Nadja back. One slashes past her guard, drawing blood across her bicep. Another knocks her balance. But the third— is a trap. She feints a bash to his helm. He raises his guard—and she twists under. Her spear finds the joint at his side, sliding into the seam of his armour. There is no scream. But a burst of arcane light pours from the wound.
The crowd erupts. Dragan stumbles back, retreating now. Nadja hunts him with blade and fury, her movements a sudden blur of rage and retort. He lets her push him, lets her pace increase— Then vanishes the halberd mid-step. His arm warps, reshapes—**into a cannon**. He lunges back and fires. Arcane bolts scream through the air. Nadja ducks. Spins. A blast scorches her cloak. Another kicks sand into the air where she had just been.
She sees no safety in retreat—and so she attacks again. A slide. A leap. She knocks his cannon arm downward—and slams the butt of her spear into the gap beneath his arm. Another blast of magic erupts. His power is leaking. But Dragan is not done.
He surges forward and slams his shoulder into her chest, hurling her backward. Space opens. His arm morphs again—now into a long, wicked chain whip. He moves like the wind’s edge—fluid, sharp. The whip cracks through the air. One strike lashes her shoulder. Another, faster, coils around her spear. He yanks. It flies from her grip. Her eyes widen. Then a third lash wraps tight around her ankle. She falls. The crowd is on its feet now, breath caught, as Dragan spins the whip once more—then lets it dissolve mid-snap. A sword flashes into being, tip pressed to her throat. The dust settles. Silence. Then— Nadja taps an arm on the ground for the attention of the referees. Resigned. But not broken. The bell tolls.
Dragan steps back, bowing once—elaborate as ever. Offering a hand to help her rise. She takes it. The arena explodes with applause—not for the victor alone, but for the Magnate as well.
