A fighting ring just like any other, with participants just like any other. One would easily be expected to assume that nothing out of the ordinary was going on here, in this somewhat creaky downtrodden arena in one of the peripheral districts of the city. It was far too dirty to be the Imperial Isle, there were far too many Ailor for it to be in the Allar District, and there were far too few guards present for this not to devolve into some sort of rowdy mess if one of the betters lost all their money and decided to try and fight it back with their fists. Mu-Zac stood on one end of the circular ring, truthfully just a randy pit with wooden planks to separate the interior from the crowd, and on the other end stood two Ailor, each with a baton of sorts. Mu-Zac had been denied any weapons, obviously on account of his feet. As a casual reminder to that, he slid one of his large raptor claws against the other, producing a faint scraping sound that could barely be heard over the roaring of the crowd. It slid off the other claw towards the end, the momentum thrusting the tip into the sandy surface he stood on, before he panned up to look around.
With the raising of his head, the mohawk of red feathers was made almost magenta by the hue of the candles working on that slight tinge of purple present in them. His scales were of a cool natural blue, albeit darkened considerably in this overcrowded and underground fighting den that perpetually smoked of old moldy wood and tabacca flowing plenty. His eyes panned from side to side, seeing the Ailor spectators hold up their bets in crumpled papers, screaming things in their native language he could not bother to comprehend. On the other side, a few more silent spectators, and in the back yet there was too much darkness to truly make out the full complement of viewers. Mu-Zac however knew very well who or what those viewers were, the reflections of their beady yellow eyes, and the clinging of their jewelry made it evident there were some Digmaans in the crowd. There was an almost comical contrast between the raging Ailor directly around him who came here purely to see some gory blood sports, and the Digmaan, who had obviously come for different reasons, and how all of this would come to play out in this ill remembered place.
It was all a far cry from the hall of his Digmaan prior, no reflecting marble, no warm breeze from the summer winds, and no smell of the Chrysant flowers carried on the wind. Maybe his Digmaan was even present among them, for he could not truly make out who was who or who was where. The only thing this area gave was an occasional drunken patron puking over the railing and whatever cheap ale they had drunk painting the sand a darker color. He did not mind however. Perhaps this was simply better than how it was, for he was never truly a right fit to be ceremonial guard. Some of them even had sheathes for their claws, golden, that would tap on the marble to alert their presence wherever they went, along with all other bells and whistles.
Indeed, these claws were not meant to be sheathed or told to stand still in the same area until the dull vibrations of an under stimulated body caused grooves to form in the ancient stone they stood on. Mu-Zac tapped his claw into the sand again, this time somewhat more firmly as he reminded himself that these claws were made to be used, and that he was going to use them today. A lot.
-
The bell rang a second time as the roaring of the crowd reached a fever pitch. In that pause, an arena attendant came into the arena to drag one of the Ailor out, while the other limped his way out following. Mu-Zac lifted his hand to his right eye, finally being able to open it again, though seeing barely anything from it on account of the blood seeping into it, while his fingers recoiled from the bruises on his brow bone. He was still alive, and still kicking, and that was the only thing that mattered. The Ailor was probably also still alive, the Mu thought to himself. He was certain that his claws had missed the artery and instead hit him somewhere in the shoulder, but he couldn't be sure. He looked down at his feet, one claw particularly drenched in blood which he then promptly began scraping off by dragging it through the sand.
A quick glance to the side reminded him that the Digmaans were still there, but something had changed this time. There was more intensity in their eyes, and he could almost swear that there had been more. He knew very well what this meant, as it had been a practice of repetition many times before. Drawing laughter from the crowds who could not understand the process, Mu-Zacc dragged one of his claws across his chest drawing blood on himself, just moments before another Mu-Allar entered the fighting pit. He was shorter than Mu-Zac, and had a much more gaunt face. A dull brown scale pattern offset by somewhat flashy red patterns in the face, though Mu-Zac couldn't possibly tell on account of the blood in his right eye. To the Ailor this was something of a more rare occasion, seeing two claw ravagers go at each other, trying to shred as much as they could before one would submit or bleed out on the ground.
Certainly, this was the uglier side of integrating into Ailor society, or living in a city of the world's desire. Eventually some Allar fell by the wayside, and so it would not be unusual for Mu-Zac to meet other Mu or even Sa who had fallen from grace or on hard times. He knew too many stories of fellow Allar who were forced into this kind of work, if only to avoid the more unsavory or criminal activities richly found in Old Town. Perhaps too many times had Mu-Zac put an end to those stories, but these thoughts were too uncomfortable to dwell on. Did this Mu have a family? Did this Mu work to feed their children? Did this Mu say something to his Digmaan that their pride could not stomach? It didn't matter. Perhaps it should have, but Mu-Zac simply resolved himself to pay his family if he ever could meet them, or donate his winnings to some other downtrodden family. There was something comforting in that cycle, the idea that he would bribe his guilt, wherever it existed, with cheap attempts to return the gains of the slaughter.
This Mu was probably different. He probably didn't have a family. He probably didn't feed children. He probably never said something to any Digmaan. Some Digmaan might simply reality discomforting, but some Mu just wanted to be like this, to constantly shred at each other in a ring until only one remained, and no Digmaan to stop them otherwise. Truthfully, a Digmaan had put him in this ring, but a Digmaan could no longer take him out of it, not for any wealth, promise, or position in the world, so he thought. The bell rang again. The other Mu raised one of his feet somewhat off the ground. No, Mu-Zac thought to himself, this one knows what he is doing. This one wants it to go this way. Both as a sign of indignant to the Digmaan present in the crowd, and a sign of respect for his fellow ring-fighter, Mu-Zac dragged another claw across his shoulder, which the other Mu then responded with, and agreeing nod. The bell rang again, and it began again.
-
The bell rang a second time again, and the crowd roared once more, like it always did, and like it always would. Mu-Zac limped back to his corner, this time pushing his back into it and leaning his arms onto the edge so he could support himself with something other than his feet. The Ailor around him patted him on his shoulders, some even daring to pat their hands through the feathers on his crest, though it did not bother him. Truly, nothing about the Ailor was bothersome to him, besides their smell. He didn't even really feel all the physical contact, given that overriding sensations came from elsewhere. Blood flowed richly from his neck, as serious gashes had shredded from the side halfway down his torso, and numerous pieces were detached from his arms. Even his thigh had not been spared, with part of his ring outfit pulled away with it.
He slowly panned his head to the spot where the Digmaan had once been, to confirm indeed that they had now left the arena. He almost scoffed to himself, if the sudden bout of coughing and pain didn't stop the will to. The other Mu was still alive, but in similar straits, kneeling on the ground with a ring of splatters around him. It was almost like the bow of a ship, cutting through the waves and leaving rings and lines of foam and splashes of water in the sea. Artistic in a way, and perhaps the Ailor saw it as that too, but the Digmaan had already left. The Digmaan had already taken what they wanted, as the night was young for them, and this was only their first stop.
For Mu-Zac this night was over, with a well due recovery at the nearby clinic, before going home again in a few days and laze about until it all started over again. A nearby attendant came with a note-board to record the winnings of the day, but Mu-Zac simply waved his hand, followed by a nod by the attendant. On account of his instructions as a regular, the attendant knew what this meant, to give away all proceeds to any random Allar family that was in need. Perhaps there was no guilt this time, the other Mu almost flashed a grin as he turned from Mu-Zac and limped out of the arena, supported by another attendant. But there would be a next time, and a time thereafter where life's complications would matter.
For now however, everything was fine. He was working, his caste was working, his life was working, and he was getting exactly what he wanted in the process. Maybe he would skip the clinic if just for a few hours. Just like that, he pushed himself off the railing on his side of the arena, and instead of leaving through his usual fence gate, walked across the arena, over the ribbons of dried and caked in blood in the sand, and through the fence gate the other Mu had left in, passing through a dark and abandoned corridor, and leaving the echoing and jubilant carousing of the arena behind him.
With the raising of his head, the mohawk of red feathers was made almost magenta by the hue of the candles working on that slight tinge of purple present in them. His scales were of a cool natural blue, albeit darkened considerably in this overcrowded and underground fighting den that perpetually smoked of old moldy wood and tabacca flowing plenty. His eyes panned from side to side, seeing the Ailor spectators hold up their bets in crumpled papers, screaming things in their native language he could not bother to comprehend. On the other side, a few more silent spectators, and in the back yet there was too much darkness to truly make out the full complement of viewers. Mu-Zac however knew very well who or what those viewers were, the reflections of their beady yellow eyes, and the clinging of their jewelry made it evident there were some Digmaans in the crowd. There was an almost comical contrast between the raging Ailor directly around him who came here purely to see some gory blood sports, and the Digmaan, who had obviously come for different reasons, and how all of this would come to play out in this ill remembered place.
It was all a far cry from the hall of his Digmaan prior, no reflecting marble, no warm breeze from the summer winds, and no smell of the Chrysant flowers carried on the wind. Maybe his Digmaan was even present among them, for he could not truly make out who was who or who was where. The only thing this area gave was an occasional drunken patron puking over the railing and whatever cheap ale they had drunk painting the sand a darker color. He did not mind however. Perhaps this was simply better than how it was, for he was never truly a right fit to be ceremonial guard. Some of them even had sheathes for their claws, golden, that would tap on the marble to alert their presence wherever they went, along with all other bells and whistles.
Indeed, these claws were not meant to be sheathed or told to stand still in the same area until the dull vibrations of an under stimulated body caused grooves to form in the ancient stone they stood on. Mu-Zac tapped his claw into the sand again, this time somewhat more firmly as he reminded himself that these claws were made to be used, and that he was going to use them today. A lot.
-
The bell rang a second time as the roaring of the crowd reached a fever pitch. In that pause, an arena attendant came into the arena to drag one of the Ailor out, while the other limped his way out following. Mu-Zac lifted his hand to his right eye, finally being able to open it again, though seeing barely anything from it on account of the blood seeping into it, while his fingers recoiled from the bruises on his brow bone. He was still alive, and still kicking, and that was the only thing that mattered. The Ailor was probably also still alive, the Mu thought to himself. He was certain that his claws had missed the artery and instead hit him somewhere in the shoulder, but he couldn't be sure. He looked down at his feet, one claw particularly drenched in blood which he then promptly began scraping off by dragging it through the sand.
A quick glance to the side reminded him that the Digmaans were still there, but something had changed this time. There was more intensity in their eyes, and he could almost swear that there had been more. He knew very well what this meant, as it had been a practice of repetition many times before. Drawing laughter from the crowds who could not understand the process, Mu-Zacc dragged one of his claws across his chest drawing blood on himself, just moments before another Mu-Allar entered the fighting pit. He was shorter than Mu-Zac, and had a much more gaunt face. A dull brown scale pattern offset by somewhat flashy red patterns in the face, though Mu-Zac couldn't possibly tell on account of the blood in his right eye. To the Ailor this was something of a more rare occasion, seeing two claw ravagers go at each other, trying to shred as much as they could before one would submit or bleed out on the ground.
Certainly, this was the uglier side of integrating into Ailor society, or living in a city of the world's desire. Eventually some Allar fell by the wayside, and so it would not be unusual for Mu-Zac to meet other Mu or even Sa who had fallen from grace or on hard times. He knew too many stories of fellow Allar who were forced into this kind of work, if only to avoid the more unsavory or criminal activities richly found in Old Town. Perhaps too many times had Mu-Zac put an end to those stories, but these thoughts were too uncomfortable to dwell on. Did this Mu have a family? Did this Mu work to feed their children? Did this Mu say something to his Digmaan that their pride could not stomach? It didn't matter. Perhaps it should have, but Mu-Zac simply resolved himself to pay his family if he ever could meet them, or donate his winnings to some other downtrodden family. There was something comforting in that cycle, the idea that he would bribe his guilt, wherever it existed, with cheap attempts to return the gains of the slaughter.
This Mu was probably different. He probably didn't have a family. He probably didn't feed children. He probably never said something to any Digmaan. Some Digmaan might simply reality discomforting, but some Mu just wanted to be like this, to constantly shred at each other in a ring until only one remained, and no Digmaan to stop them otherwise. Truthfully, a Digmaan had put him in this ring, but a Digmaan could no longer take him out of it, not for any wealth, promise, or position in the world, so he thought. The bell rang again. The other Mu raised one of his feet somewhat off the ground. No, Mu-Zac thought to himself, this one knows what he is doing. This one wants it to go this way. Both as a sign of indignant to the Digmaan present in the crowd, and a sign of respect for his fellow ring-fighter, Mu-Zac dragged another claw across his shoulder, which the other Mu then responded with, and agreeing nod. The bell rang again, and it began again.
-
The bell rang a second time again, and the crowd roared once more, like it always did, and like it always would. Mu-Zac limped back to his corner, this time pushing his back into it and leaning his arms onto the edge so he could support himself with something other than his feet. The Ailor around him patted him on his shoulders, some even daring to pat their hands through the feathers on his crest, though it did not bother him. Truly, nothing about the Ailor was bothersome to him, besides their smell. He didn't even really feel all the physical contact, given that overriding sensations came from elsewhere. Blood flowed richly from his neck, as serious gashes had shredded from the side halfway down his torso, and numerous pieces were detached from his arms. Even his thigh had not been spared, with part of his ring outfit pulled away with it.
He slowly panned his head to the spot where the Digmaan had once been, to confirm indeed that they had now left the arena. He almost scoffed to himself, if the sudden bout of coughing and pain didn't stop the will to. The other Mu was still alive, but in similar straits, kneeling on the ground with a ring of splatters around him. It was almost like the bow of a ship, cutting through the waves and leaving rings and lines of foam and splashes of water in the sea. Artistic in a way, and perhaps the Ailor saw it as that too, but the Digmaan had already left. The Digmaan had already taken what they wanted, as the night was young for them, and this was only their first stop.
For Mu-Zac this night was over, with a well due recovery at the nearby clinic, before going home again in a few days and laze about until it all started over again. A nearby attendant came with a note-board to record the winnings of the day, but Mu-Zac simply waved his hand, followed by a nod by the attendant. On account of his instructions as a regular, the attendant knew what this meant, to give away all proceeds to any random Allar family that was in need. Perhaps there was no guilt this time, the other Mu almost flashed a grin as he turned from Mu-Zac and limped out of the arena, supported by another attendant. But there would be a next time, and a time thereafter where life's complications would matter.
For now however, everything was fine. He was working, his caste was working, his life was working, and he was getting exactly what he wanted in the process. Maybe he would skip the clinic if just for a few hours. Just like that, he pushed himself off the railing on his side of the arena, and instead of leaving through his usual fence gate, walked across the arena, over the ribbons of dried and caked in blood in the sand, and through the fence gate the other Mu had left in, passing through a dark and abandoned corridor, and leaving the echoing and jubilant carousing of the arena behind him.
