The way of the Scar

The steel barricades grated open, rust tearing from the chains and sand blowing into the chamber from the new breeze that appeared with the light, cutting into the darkness of the chamber. Torin glanced to his side, and seeing Frentor’s nervous smile, he grasped his blade and rose. The light reflected weirdly off the bronze blade, weak by usual standards, but made unbreakable by the combination of the diamond in its hilt and the magic of his heritage. The handle stretched the length of his arm, half spear, half sword. A deadly weapon and a perfect match for Torin, whose Heritage was also divided. Swinging the weapon in an arc over his head, he stepped out to the warm sands, feeling each grain beneath his bare feet. He didn't see Frentor follow, but his friend was a Halig, a mammoth man, and Torin heard the heavy steps, even muffled by the sand. 

Opposing them stood another duo, also just stepping out of a similar chamber, also feeling the warm sands and taking in the cheers of the crowd, the smell of spilt ale, sweat and blood, form the previous fights. The first of the Duo, a Red-haired Dwarf, wielding a battle hammer that shimmered in the sun as though it were made of silver, stepped forward. He raised his arms above his helmet, cheering to the crowd. Behind him, was a truly rare sight, labrodite, a creature of illusion, holding a thin knife of what Torin could only guess was labradorite. It appeared dark and glassy until the sun hit it, and then it blew up into the most beautiful colours Torin had ever seen, shades of blue brighter than the sky ever were, and even yellows more vibrant than the most lustrous flower. The creature twisted to its side, angling itself in the sun, and Even with Torin's enhanced vision, it was hard to pinpoint its silhouette.

Suddenly, Torin's thoughts centred, as on the central pillar, Togor Hornchip bellowed for silence as Frentors hand gripped hold of Torin's shoulder, steadying his nerves, and reminding him he wasn't facing this alone.

‘Greetings, warriors!’ his voice carried for miles, and Torin expected it could be heard as far as the walled city of Grenton, beyond the edge of the scar. ‘And welcome to your first battle of the tournament!’ The crowd exploded once more with excitement until finally Togor grew bored and rose his hand again. ‘Just to be clear of rules, there are to be no killings by magical attacks, although the use of magic and magical items is allowed, if your partner dies, you will have to face subsequent rounds alone, and complaints will not be tolerated, you have already agreed to the terms and thus cannot leave unless you are either in a coffin or the victor of the entire day, best of luck and try not to Die!’ this time the crowd's cheers would not be silenced, the fight was on, no more delays.

 The Dwarf charred straight forward, hammer raised over his shoulder without tactic or stealth, much as Torin had expected, though he knew he needn't worry about that, Frentor could handle himself. Instead, Torin dropped to a crouch, his blade angled across his body as a half-hearted block, while he scanned for the Labrodite unseen movements. A flare of blue appeared to his left and Torin swung on impulse. His blade bit into nothing but air, but the creature suddenly appeared, startled into dodging and no longer maintaining its camouflage. Frantically, it stabbed its blade forward, an attack born of fear, not strategy, and was easily dodged, then returned with a low sweep then smack with the long hilt of his bronze weapon. The labrodite went flying back, its jaw clearly cracked, but still, the creature rose, once more angling itself to catch the sun and disappearing completely from sight, except the slight imperfections around its jaw for the cracks, imperfections Torin's adrenaline-fueled eyes failed to spot. 

Torin swung when he thought he heard movement, but found himself overextended and off-balance, and was subsequently rewarded with a kick in the ribs. He fell to the floor, sand and grit finding its way into his nose and mouth, as well as grazing into his cheek. He twisted and made a block with his sword spear, a block that would stop a swing from a sword or an axe, but not an agile jab from an invisible knife. The blade found its way to his stomach, causing Torin to fold in on himself, then suddenly the blade was out and sliced his hand causing him to lose grip on his hilt, and scramble back, with only one hand to hold his weapon, the other leaving a trail of red across the barren floor. His eyes fluttered shut, and Torin reverted to his ears, swinging at any slight sound, but careful not to overshoot his swings, keeping his blade close, very much on the defensive. Despite this, He still felt the stab of the knife, completely different angles each time, once in his back, once in his calf, but never anywhere fatal. The sick creature was toying with him.

Finally, he noticed a slight shift in the sands, and stabbed directly at the spot, felling his blade dig lightly into the beast's flesh, then he turned, seeing a few cracks in his vision before the knife found his inner elbow and he dropped his weapon. This is it he thought This is how the great Torin the divided dies. Suddenly he noticed his vision appeared cracked again and remembering the hit he made earlier, he flung his injured hand out at the disjointed area, feeling it hit hard against the creatures head, barely fazing it, and certainly injuring his hand more than the Labrodite. Despite this, Torin still smiled. Through the Labrodites mirage he saw Frentor charge, his huge axe held high, eyes set on the bloody smear Torin had left on the creatures face. Exhausted he fell back as he heard the crowd go silent and the sound of the Labrodite falling down at his side.

The noise of the crowd was overwhelming, the glare of the sun blinding, and the smell of his own sweat mixing with the irony scent of his blood made his noise cringe. And yet above all else, the pain of the sand-covered cuts bit into him deeper than any wound. and with these feelings, Torin couldn't even relax, couldn't celebrate, couldn't even pretend to be relieved.

‘We won Torin!’ Frentor yelled, but Torin didn't hear it. This was round one, to survive was to win five, and each would be facing someone tougher. That was the way of the scar, life was a contest, and to loose meant to die.