Should Silnarion have cared enough to glance at the audience, they would have seen that Ms. Mercenary’s face has become a striking shade of ashen grey and putrid green, one speaking only of illness.

Gone are thoughts of seeking Silnarion’s aid in personal pursuits. Ms. Mercenary contemplates other matters, such as whether they ought to kidnap a healer or if Magpie’s revocation spells could keep the personality in an undead puppet.

The brutish canine shrinks into Ms. Mercenary’s arms as she clutches it in a close hug. The snake beside her refrains from commenting and, not realizing that her precious hound was relying more on Ms. Mercenary than the opposite, fails to notice what only the baser animal has observed.

Some latent instinct in the monster had sensed danger as soon as the holy aura had illuminated the young master of silver eyes and silken dress. At that point, it had moved closer to the lap of Ms. Mercenary, seeking comfort and security in a creature which smelled of the humanoid weapon yet seemed much less inclined to maim. 

It was not until it smelled the scent of blood, the blood of something too old to be living and too vibrant to be dead, that it buried itself into the fretful woman’s arms.

Blood was dripping down Silnarion’s face, pooling in their ribs, clotting in their many injuries. Hematomas formed around cracked shins, and bruised back muscles swelled with inflammation.

This was what caught Ms. Mercenary’s eyes. 

She had known Silnarion to be weak- she had pounded them earlier. However, she had made the mistake of thinking of them as more resilient than the average person, rather than simply seeing them for the lunatic they are.

For no one other than a lunatic would push themselves so far for so little. 

In the present, Silnarion stands as grotesque proof of how many ways a human body can break. Still, the visage contained a strange beauty, like that of plucked flower: wilted, doomed, but yet still coveted by others.

Punctured lungs wheeze with the breath of life. Broken blood vessels spill the liquid essence of self. 

But the soul, the soul pulses with strength and vitality. 

The power of the spiritual is wrapped around the broken body in the manner befitting an ancient pharaoh. 

More and more strings replace muscle strands. The electric pulsing of neurons is replaced with the rushing force of soul. 

The battered body slowly is knit together by this precious material, silvery soul thread holding on to the physical dimension of the being’s essence. 

In this moment, Silnarion appears less human than ever. Their eyes are illuminated with a strange glow, like that of a fire burning beneath the waves of an impenetrable ocean. Thin limbs have too much stiffness, too little pliability to be flesh. Blood loss has left their cheeks hollow and pale, while the coagulated ruins of that life giving liquid are splashed and dripping and drying from their being like so much spilled paint. Mud brown hair is tangled like that of a most beloved doll after an evening of rough child’s play.

Bloody lips stained satanic red sear the mind of the beholder, while the black mask seems to ooze magesty. The king of living corpses would be honored to have such an heir.

Do the gazes of the crowds change? Is the competition stopped? Do healers rush out to stop the bleeding?

No.

The crowd cheers with each defeated opponent, with each new wound. ‘The newcomer on the field is vicious,’ they chuckle to each other. 

Poor men praise Competitor 13, praise themselves for having a good eye, praise the institution of the Colosseum for having such a good lot and grand show.

The howls of the crowd chill Ms. Mercenary’s soul. A deep-rooted fear awakens as the direness of the situation lays upon her. She pushes the great hound off of her lap gently and slowly, as if in a trance. 

“They’re going to die,” she whispers to herself. 

The sounds of life seem echoed and warped about her quivering mind and body. She needs to get to Silnarion- no, she need to fetch Magpie. 

She has seen the fever that rages in the warriors’ blood, the slaughtering of the innocents who stand in their way when the hunt ends too soon. She has seen them, wounded animals, fight off the very healers attempting to stave off the cold caress of the Goddess of Death.

She dares not interrupt the entranced Sect Master in fear of awakening a more demonic bloodlust. And so who is left but Magpie?

Magpie, the controlling, brilliant, evil mastermind. He who brought them all together, perhaps he may keep them together. In his divine arts, perhaps he will have a way to rectify this situation.

As the mercenary skirts the legs of happy watchers and popcorn-munchers, a woman’s hand shoots out to stop her. 

The hounds owner, the crinkled pinstripe suit-wearing woman catches Ms. Mercenary in her vice-like grip. Serpentine eyes gaze up at the strong woman with a sharp and dangerous gaze. Foreboding fills the cult’s muscle bound guardian.

“Where are you going?” hisses the luscious strawberry lips. 

Weathered rose petals open to answer in return, but the response is destined to never be heard. The cheering of the crowd sweeps away the conversation, the gust of wind carrying away the syllables from the realm of mortals.

The snake needs not words to offer up temptation to the poor sinner. From a deceptively subservient position, the dearly needed object is presented as a humble gift.

Distressed eyes find solace in the glimmering offering. 

A gold seal representing not a divine, nay, a mortal power, reflects the light from above and grants hope for salvation after all.