13th of Achtus, 2718
The ROSE ARENA | EVENING
Only her voice had meaning above the roar of the crowd, barely audible, reaching his ringing ears, begging him back on his feet, keeping him standing once the Mug was down for the count. He couldn't see Sarinah, but he knew he'd heard her voice—the Arena lit in such a way that combatants couldn't see the faces in the crowd so much as focus on what was in the pit with them.
Mister Boriand raised his hands from his balcony and the entire place reluctantly grew quiet, a few lingering jeers the last to fall into silence. Tristaan dug a sandy heel of his palm into some tender spot on his face, attempting to wipe his eyes of sweat and blood only to groan in pain. He huffed hair away and glanced upward, meeting his so-called master's gaze with all the intensity of a creature fueled by the kind of ferocious, indomitable passion the dark-haired passive lived by, clung to.
"Well done." Randal smiled, speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. A pair of young harbor boys scurried from one of the gates to drag the unconscious Mug away without much concern for the state of her body, trailing blood across the sand and casting the man left standing glances of admiration and awe. He would have smiled had this been a meeting on the street, but it wasn't. He couldn't with the bit in his mouth, protecting his teeth anyway.
"And your final opponent for the evening? Alllllllllllll the way from the desert wilds of Mugroba, I do so hope you enjoy the beating—"
The dark-haired older galdor smiled with a sadistic benevolence, a shark's expression, and raised his hand with a waggle of his fingers to indicate that another door should be opened and the human Tristaan was meant to lose to—no matter what—released into the arena.
A hushed, expectant silence fell.
The passive shifted his stance and turned toward the direction his opponent would emerge from, hardly ready for another fight but always ready for another beating. He'd already decided to defy his master. He'd already decided to defy Silas' request. He'd already decided that no matter what—no matter how much it hurt—he was going to win this fight. He was going to stake a claim in his own profits, in his own reputation here in the Rose Arena. If he owed Yulina, if he owed the King anything at all, he didn't owe either of them everything.
From the darkness emerged a tall, broad beast of a man, the Mugrobi fighter well over six and a half feet in height and at least thrice the narrow, lithe passive's bulk in width. Fists like hammers, bound and scarred, the man in front of him was surely meant to be a painful, horrible finisher for Tristaan. Not only was he expected to lose, but he was expected to be broken.
Well.
Fuck that, honestly.
May the Good Lady have mercy on them both.
Rolling his shoulders and reaching up to move his mouth guard to spit a bit of blood onto the sand, the dark-haired magicless son of a galdor shot the hulking creature a defiant grin before shoving the boiled rubber curve back into his mouth and planting his feet. He looked up to Mister Boriand, narrowing his eyes as if sharing with him his intentions, watching the man's expression sour as if he understood them. He shook his head in warning and Tristaan chuckled, chest aching with the motion.
He couldn't see Sarinah. He couldn't see Lil' Mo. But they were probably watching, and he was determined to put on a good show either way.
"May the best man win!" Randal shouted, stepping back from his balcony when the bell sounded to begin, disappearing into the roar of the crowd as they leapt from their seats and pressed themselves against the linked chains and barriers that kept them back from falling into the sand below, chanting and shouting eagerly for bones to be broken and flesh to be bruised.
Tristaan didn't waste any time, leaping toward his opponent with a spray of sand, scrambling to find some sort of advantage before the larger human had any opportunity. Either he wasn't fast enough or he'd already spent much of his energy on besting two other opponents, for as he moved close quickly, ready to swing, the towering human had a fist ready for him, smashing the passive right across the already aching side of his face, knuckles cracking against bone, sending him straight back to the ground.
The crowd jeered, laughed, and hollered.
The human cackled, tensing for a kick, but Tristaan rolled with a groan, seeing stars and shoving himself up from the ground in time to slam a shoulder into the larger man's chest while he was perhaps his most unbalanced, sending both of them toppling over backwards. There was roaring from the stands, the passive full of a desperate fury to be defiantly victorious against this beast of an opponent but also to not be too destroyed by his clearly superior strength.
The pair wrestled, exchanging blows, the human angrily attempting to toss the lighter, smaller passive off, to toss him anywhere while the quicker man sought to strike his face with knuckles and elbows, knees digging into darker skin than his own, gripping as tightly as he could. It was not quite enough, however, and after several moments, the Mugrobi twisted his body, superior weight coming to bear on the already worn-thin Tristaan, trapping him against the sand. He heard a loud pop, feeling the searing pain of tendons stretching in one of his shoulders, the larger man leaning heavily on his narrow-framed body.
Perhaps Hawke would have his way after all.
Chants and catcalls echoed off the walls, and several lookers-on began to pound on the chain fences and thump on tables.
The human turned his head and spit out the guard in his mouth, making sure to drool blood all over the panting little magicless thing beneath him,
"You're to lose." He growled huskily, too close.
"I ent gonna." Tristaan wheezed, having lost his mouthguard several blows ago, buried somewhere in the red-stained sand. He coiled his body tightly as if preparing to make an attempt to escape, "Havakda t' yer deals an' yer coin."
The Mugrobi leaned forward, massive forearm crushing the passive's scarred chest, causing him to gurgle for breath, churning up familiar memories while his grey eyes widened in instinctual fear. His body stilled, waiting to find his opportunity, taut and ready while he gasped for a bit more air.
"I gots my guarantees, you lil' piece of chroveshit." The larger human laughed, shifting his hips and drawing forth a small knife.
Someone in the crowd must have seen the glint of metal in the flickering lights because a cry went up among the audience,
"Blade! He's gotta blade!"
"Master Boriand that's cheatin'!"
"Stop th' fight!"
"Toss in another! Here!"
A wave of boos reverberated through the Rose Arena and the older galdor in charge raised his ring-laden hands, attempting to get some kind of quiet.
No one listened.
The dark-haired passive growled, twisting his body to get his arms free from the rough pin, wildly glancing toward the balcony to see Randal's dark eyes full of anger and surprise—this had, apparently, not been a part of his gamble, not been a part of his deal. He didn't have time to attempt to discern more, however, Tristaan lithe and small enough for his strength to be underestimated, even by opponents he'd already exchanged blows with. He writhed and twisted his whole self, shoving hard with knees and hands, but as he did so, the human shoved the blade forward with equal force, lodging the small thing into the passive's side.
The normally quiet creature groaned in pain, but he didn't let any of it stop his momentum, gritting his teeth and rolling them both again over and over in the sand, once again fighting for dominance in leverage. Ignoring good sense, he yanked the blade out somewhere in the continued wrestling, somewhere in the midst of the blur of combat. He hissed, inhaling more sand and sweat than air, aware of the sharp edge of the small weapon as much as he was aware of how he was now moving on the edge of consciousness, thin as it was.
Unfortunately, the dark-haired passive found himself beneath the Mugrobi again, smashed by meaty fists and unable to do enough defending against the other man's superior weight and strength. He gripped the hilt of the small knife tightly—his last chance, really—and sank slowly into a dizzy half-light, a twilight of wakefulness and pain, waiting for the human to take a moment and gloat over the mess he'd made.
And gloat he did, sitting up and raising his hands to the booing and anger and loud displeasure of the crowd while Tristaan bled beneath him. For a moment, it seemed as though the passive was surely already out, that the Mugrobi was victorious, until the smaller man's arms moved quickly, flash of his opponent's own blade catching in the light and lodging itself firmly in the side of his throat, tilted upward into his jaw with the kind of precision that everyone forgot the once-Tashwa was capable of.
The gentleness and the quiet hid something Tristaan rarely enjoyed showing, and in the desperation of the moment, he forgot that he wasn't just being watched by strangers. Somewhere, among the drunks and the bloodthirsty gamblers eager for the show he was giving them, his lovely witch, laden with his child, was watching—
The human's eyes bulged.
The crowd gasped in collective surprise.
Tristaan's battered face became a barely-recognizable sneer and he twisted the knife in pure savagery and rage, feeling the man grow slack, gathering every part of himself still functioning to roll him toward one side.
He gurgled, blood oozing from the deep wound in his side, and climbed without any grace to his feet. It took a few tries, the dark-haired passive seeing more black than light, dizzy and broken, one arm dangling and the other reluctant to slide away from the knife. He planted one bare heel against the panting chest of the Mugrobi, leaning heavily, and let his bleary gaze drift up to Randal Boriand's face.
The galdor was clearly displeased with everything—with Tristaan's abilities, with the knife, with the money he was now about to lose—and yet, there was a hint of relief there, too, as if, perhaps, somehow, he'd not wanted to see the passive meet such an end after all. As if, perhaps, somehow, he secretly approved of the rebellious victory.
"Once again, our very own Mister Greymoore is the last man standing!"
The Master's voice rang out, waving one hand for the gates to open and to signal for the doctor's boys to run out, Tristaan slowly crumpling to his knees as applause and cheers rang in his ears.
"A wounded chrove will fight harder."
— Passive Proverb