A farewell to brothers in arms - Aquilonia-RP-PvP

(This is an OOC IC story. A salute to all those from the Aquilonia-PvP-RP server of olden days.) ;)


The lean, well-muscled olive-skinned man with yellow-brown eyes and tawny hair looked up at the warriors, thieves and wizards clustered around the Sailor’s Den, his heart beating faster.

He saluted the man dressed in furs vomiting on the ground. He had caught him a good thump above his ear with his shield’s rim, and even now a healer stepped forward to examine the barbarian.

Jan felt the years recede as he looked up and around at the watching warriors and remembered himself, much younger, standing in front of just such a crowd in this selfsame Sailor’s Den when he had first taken part in this blood-sport, called The Pit.

The watch never bothered to come in here until the fights were over and then they mostly just carted away the corpses lest the thoroughly disreputable owner of this dive dump them over the wharf and they fester in King Conan’s port.

The king has made it clear that certain parts of the city would be well policed and orderly, but, as an adventurer, the king knew that a certain laxness of law is needed in certain parts of a city to draw in the riches of those who earn their wealth through means other than lawful trade and services. Some rogues muttered that it was too similar to having a legal tax placed upon them, having a king who knew more about stealing than they. But still they came to do their illicit dealings in this, the richest of the western cities.

Jan felt again himself standing in front of the mighty Erlo and saw again the broadest man he had ever seen, wielding a sword in each hand as if they were horse switches; a man from the desolate village of Tombstone. Again the Harlots of Tortage stood in Aquilonia, and the seductive women of Dark Desires heated his blood with wild games.

His friends, blood brothers, the Hand of Ibis, stood grinning at him from the upper deck, calling out encouragements and telling him not to slip in his own blood.

He sighed, and sheathed his sword, the illusion disappearing as the Pit master pushed him unceremoniously out of the ring.

He then sat and drank and watched the fights of younglings, mere striplings in shiny new armour and awkward movements, that filled him with mirth and hope. These fights gave way to the truly bloody fights between veterans drawn from across the lands, from mighty Cimmerians, sturdy Gundermen, blonde Aesir, agile Bossonians, surly Nemedians, dusky Stygians, stocky Aquilonians, deceitful Zamorans and curly-bearded Shemites from their plains.

A particular fight between a Zamoran thief and a Cimmerian chieftain caught his attention. The Zamoran was dazzlingly fast, but the Cimmerian moved like a panther, always balanced for a hard strike. The Zamoran tripped the chieftain, his twin daggers stopping at his throat and the Pit master named him round victor.
The chieftain then charged in, pinning the lighter Zamoran against the side of the fighting pit, smashed his nose with his broadsword and then threw the thief across the pit, his sword hovering over the Zamoran’s chest. The Pit master named the chief the victor.
The Zamoran muttered and placed something in his mouth, chewing slowly and deliberately. The Cimmerian watched his opponent, his grey eyes not betraying a thought.

The fight restarted and the Zamoran yowled like a mad beast, foam dripping from his lips, his skin an unhealthy grey colour. He ran and sprang half the length of the pit, his daggers puncturing the Cimmerian’s mail armour and wounding both his shoulders.
The chieftain swore, but drove his sword into the Zamoran’s stomach and it burst through, a foot of bloody steel sticking out of his back. The thief’s lips writhed and then he went limp as life left his body.

The Cimmerian sank to his knees, his arms ruined. His healers hurried to their chieftain as his sword and the corpse dropped from his numb arms. He started to shake as if caught in an ague. He then vomited red foam and toppled onto his foe’s body, both a ruin of red and neither stirring.

The crowd stood stunned. Neither man had emerged alive, each breaking the most basic rule of the Pit.

Jansensen turned and caught the barkeep, the oily man who owned the dive, smiling. He would be collecting all the winnings on this fight.

Jan finished his drink, pulled his dirty, dark blue cloak over his shoulders to hide his sword and harness and slipped out into the fresher, salty air of the docks.
He was never seen again, turned into history that vanished to nothing. Like his memories….

The end.