“Yet another cell,” I grumbled. My eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimly lit room, and when they did, I realized I was very much in deep trouble. A small slat in the door allowed a sliver of sunlight to penetrate the gloom, illuminating the sandy floor of the cell. Above, a series of cables, winches, and pulleys were attached to the door, no doubt designed to lift it when it was my turn to fight.
I could hear the murmurs of a crowd through the opening and quickly made my way over to see what was causing the commotion. Looking through the open slat, I could see a roughly circular arena with a white sand floor. Above the sands rose a fenced wooden stand area made of rough-hewn logs. The audience was a mix of unarmed citizens and armored martial types, all shouting and cheering as an armored Warrior entered with a swagger that exuded confidence and skill.
I was surprised by a sudden grinding noise as the wooden reinforced door to the cell on my right was raised. Quickly looking back through my window to the arena, I observed a ceremony official with a colorful plumed helmet and a bronze breastplate throwing a gray weapon into the arena’s center. A scrawny figure, clad in rags, abruptly darted from the cell to the center of the sand, scooping up the weapon with thin, weak arms as if it were the most precious thing in the world before adopting his best fighting stance. The crowd roared their approval.
The shape on closer inspection was a pitifully poor specimen of a man. His beard and hair were a long and unkempt brown, and his eyes were wild with panic. He was holding a straight steel or iron short sword with both hands in front of him, arms locked and stiff.
Across from him, the armored Warrior closed his helm, and hefted a large shield in his left arm. Holding a curved backsword in his right hand, he executed a few simple flourishes before walking languidly up to his opponent. The crowd’s cheers and jeers faded into a distant hum as the Warrior closed in on his prey. For every step forwards he took, the wild man took a step back.
The armored Warrior reached the center of the arena and gave a wild, ululating battle cry, which was met by a great roar from the crowd as he charged. The rag-clad man broke and panicked. He threw his sword down and tried to clamber up the stanchions. After his second failed attempt, he gave up and retrieved his short sword with shaking hands, his eyes now filled with the look of a cornered animal.
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Clad in heavy armor, the Warrior moved closer with fast but sure steps. Sprinting, he aimed a cool, methodical cut at the poor soul in rags, who threw up his sword to block the blow. His effort was in vain as the Warrior’s long curved blade cut a crescent through the air, leaving a red line across the man’s chest.
Screaming in pain and shock, the thin man crumpled to his knees, lifeblood pouring through his hands. Like a gardener plucking weeds, the armored man put an end to his misery with a simple flick of the wrist, cutting across his throat to sever the thread of his life. Turning to the crowd, he raised one closed fist in salute, and an approving roar erupted. Another of the Children of the Tides had been blooded this day.
Despite the violently surreal scene playing out in front of me, I could not help but wonder how many experience points the victorious Warrior had gained from killing his opponent. It was a callous thought, but one that revealed the brutal nature of this place.
As soon as the man fell to the ground, the victor picked up the defeated man’s short sword in his other hand and turned back to his corner, walking through the gates at the far end to riotous applause. On the sands, a group of young boys between the ages of ten and fifteen hurriedly dragged the corpse away in preparation for the next bout.
This scene would repeat itself ten more times as the doors to my left and right were opened one by one. Blood was spilled on the sand, and a bitter harvest was reaped. Some prisoners surrendered without a struggle, huddling in their cells, and were butchered like livestock. Others fought with all their might and were cut down in a gruesome display of force.
One desperate soul even tried to outrun his fate, but the spectators’ jeers were little comfort as he met his end like an animal. It was a stark reminder that in this world, as in any other, power was the only currency that truly mattered. The unfairness of it all made my blood boil.
As the door to my cell slowly rose with the grinding of gears, an official from above threw a weapon into the sands. It traced a graceful arc, glittering as it reached its zenith before falling to signal the start of the Blooding. It was a kill-or-be-killed scenario, and it seemed the universe agreed, as a new quest notification flashed across my inner vision.
