306 AC, during the reign of Cedromar Kade, after most of Anglia was swallowed by the Mist, on the cusp of the Dread War. The raucous cheering blasted across the arena stadium. Drums and horns signaled the end of one fight and thus, the ceremonious continuation of the battles ahead. Man versus man, or man versus beast? On this day it mattered not - the rich would have their spoils. The blood of willing and able-bodied men fighting in their stead, facing whatever comes their way. So many hearts were war-torn and bruised by the dramatic, terrible events unfolding across the land. Of course, they would put all their hope into the fighters. For they, if they failed, could be held to immediate blame. A solution that was much simpler than blaming every army that fell against the Elves. And so it was time for the next to step into the ring. The metal gate lowered, no longer shielding most of the sunlight from the eyes of the would-be fighters. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes, then stepped out into the sand. He had done this before. These fights have an order of things. As for his opponent, he was just as timely. A prisoner - allowed to leave his cell to partake in a duel, fighting for his own sake to reduce punishment. Their eyes met - shadowed and dark from the lack of light in the prison, and the other a dim-lit gold beneath the new, traditional helm belonging to a graduated Bloodcast. A squire no more. This would be the day he proved his worth. Either that or die trying. These seconds before clashing were crucial. The Bloodcast initiated the circling. He traveled clockwise and his opponent traveled counter-clockwise in a perfect mirror. The prisoner’s weapon is nothing to scoff at—a glaive with great modifications. Shark’s teeth? Something bigger. The object used to kill. He’s facing an accused pirate. The opponent towered over him: half-Ailor, half-something-else. He, too mutated to tell what’s organic and what has been added or changed beyond reversal. An extra eye peered at the Bloodcast from the prisoner’s cheek. The Bloodcast chanced one look down at himself. Two seconds. The brass of his armor shined better than gold - better than the gold of a regal knight. Then, he heard it: his name, melding in tune and rhythm with the beating of drums. The war-sundered Regalian City felt alive in the same moment that either fighter set towards the other with weapons drawn and primed. The air tasted like iron and the sun beat straight through the Bloodcast’s armor, turning his blood to magma. Sweat threatened to drip down his brow already. Worst of all, his opponent smelled like raw oysters, rotting wood, and body odor as a pirate would rumor to. The nobility, even the commonfolk, who knew the Bloodcast - seen him fight in this arena before - cheered in sync. A rhythm that matched his heartbeat pounding out of his chest. The nonsensical screaming of young attendees made his head spin. It made him feel wild. He might go mad if he were a lion in this arena. But there was no time for madness. Now, it was time for a graduate to prove his mettle.
