It is amazing, is it not, that the mind can house such thoughts? The swirling storm of one’s being can generate such varied and fanciful variations.

While Silnarion dances between soaring heights and bone-crushing lows, the outside perceives only a young form bedecked in silk and garnished with a mask. If one cared to look closer, would they see differently? Would they see emotion within the eyes glossed over with silver?

Perhaps there would be a kinship in the perception of like within like. Perhaps a lonely soul would not be so lonely.

In any case, the hive continues to buzz in the audience stands. The workers move in regular patterns to obtain the bets of rich folk, serve the popcorn to the masses, and ensure the physical wellbeing of the fighters. 

Holy Water blessed by the Goddess of Victory is poured onto wounds, injuries are wrapped in rough, homespun gauze, and tinctures are thrown back accompanied by well wishes and dreams of the future.

The Finals are to begin. It’s importance to the thumping hearts within the den of death and victory cannot be defined, the excitement brought about by it thrumming through the lifeblood all present.

Coagulated blood from the hound’s massacre paints the entrance to the Colosseum where a mess of desecrated human bodies serves as a feast for crows with slick, glimmering black bodies. Iridescent feathers shimmer with the beautiful foreboding of oil atop water. 

The birds are fortunate compared to the fate of others of the Gutter. Sick children cough and shiver as they search the garbage heaps for food, destined to starve or suffer from the poison of rotten scraps. Young women and men suffer at the hands of violent lovers in possession of desire but no softer feelings. The screams of newborns echo into the night as mothers produce beings which they will never be able to protect from the horrors of the world.

The entire universe spins out dizzyingly from that one spot of adrenaline and self-inflicted war. Gathered together, human souls create concepts of victory, of war, of health, of ill, of devotion, of death. Their actions produce ripples in the pond, ripples which combine and cancel and swirl until they all come together to create everything and nothing at once.

The night is loud.

The night is silent.

The fighting has begun. The fight for a title, for a bit of gold, for a reputation, for a future.

Silverplated eyes survey the scene with an understanding of the immensity of the moment. Mud brown hair is tied back with the sole clean ribbon from the semifinals, sweeping away from the thin, wiry frame.

Surrounding the surveyor, brutish thugs and greedy thugs and thugs that know of nothing but being a thug all prepare themselves for the contest of which is the most thug-like among them.

Perhaps the silverfish is unaware of things, for on a closer examination one can see a muscular man kiss a sketch of a woman with eyes of the dove wrapping her arms around a praying-mantis child. 

A bloody and gnarled face of an ungainly youth waves at an equally gnarled older man sitting subservient to a wealthy patron. 

A young sprite of a lover tearfully kisses the  wounds of the scarred body that contains a heart that beats in accord. 

An unfeeling heart, a preoccupied soul, and   a focused mind leave no space for collection of these finer displays of devotion. To acquire such a thing would weaken the determination to crush one’s fellows, and so the enigmatic Sect Master remains purposefully obtuse, placing themself above observation of such paltry details. 

Competitors are sorted into single matches by well-dressed member of the House, and so both the loving and tearful and callous displays come to an end. With the roaring of the crowd and ringing of the starting bell, the Finals begin.

A young pup defeats opponent after opponent, determined to win the golden prize.

The Sect Master skillfully dodges and strikes out, testing the quality of enemies that may be suited to become allies.

Insignificant beings are sacrificed for the sake of the heroes’ radiance.

For each bruised body and broken bone, a family member weeps and a gambler curses. All the toil and tears of humanity seem to dwell in an underground Colosseum of Torment. 

The stage is an altar to the Alter Ego. 

Humans rip off their masks of kindness, of superiority, of weakness, to reveal a blood-curdling thirst for violence. Noble ideas fall under the need for self-preservation, the clawing struggle for survival.

The loving and caring personas are gathered by those who hold the competitors in their hearts. They are collected and mended in the manner of moth bitten coats, patched up with memories of better times. 

As the losers drop under their opponent’s onslaught, they travel back to the audience’s stands dazed and downtrodden, lowly wraiths seeking out knowledge of a past life. 

Grateful mourners bring out the burial clothes of worn, mended human guises and wrap the wraiths with tender love. The weight of a life lived and still living bring them back to the world of light and fire.

Under the burden of knowledge and dreams and desire, the once free beasts settle down into the forms of respectable members of society. They lean back, arms wrapped around friends and family, watching the fray.

Under the lights of torches and sorcery, evil spirits seek to devour one another for the fame, the glory, the wealth, the sport. 

An awful glint shines in the soul of a silk-bound slave as growing desire fuels fiercer attacks and more cunning feints. 

Devotion to the art and chaos of combat turns cold blood to glowing magma in deep-stone veins.