Saerin Tytoh's Story

Well, I bet the green man's a bit greener now... Saerin thought to himself as slid easily to the ground in one of the emptier areas of the Colosseum. Within moments of the end of the first round he had already placed his orb in an upturned hand and his cards in a clear space to his left. His harness glowed slightly as the spirits in the arena began to flow towards him. It seemed that the rules of combat had been broken more than once in this arena, making it one of the more spiritually attuned areas in the city. That suited him just fine.

Pretty soon the first of his customers approached. "Greetings. I see you are a man of great spiritual energy; if you would like, I could read your future for you. For only a few coppers, that is." In actuality, the spirits flowed around this man as if he were a rock impeding their paths. He didn't need to know that, of course.

Saerin's hand was guided toward the cards, which he laid out in a wide rectangle. He picked three and flipped them. The Sun and 6 of Wands paired, followed by the 6 of Pentacles. "You will have unplanned expenses in the near future, but you will profit even more. Your efforts at work are noticed, which will earn you great social and fiscal prosperity. A grand charity is in your future, though whether you are on the giving or receiving end is up to you. These are the cards of your future. Keep them close, whether they be helpful or harmful." The man appeared giddy as he walked away.

The green man approached Saerin as he beckoned to him, looking paler after seeing the results of the first round. Saerin passed him some more coins from in his dark cloak and leaned close. "I'm putting half of what I earn here today on Miralda. I'm keeping count, so don't try to cheat me." He sent the man off with a wave of his and and reshuffled his cards.

A new wave of customers approached, drawing the crowd a bit further from the entrance.

Several patrons of the arena noticed a man in green, a bookie named Rhon, scurrying about to collect his dues for the matches today. He seemed to be in a hurry, and a bit greener in the face than usual. He then made a second round to pay off the people who had won in the betting (mostly in the rounds that Miralda was not involved in). Once he had collected and paid out all of the betting that night, the people began to pay less attention to him (why should they care about some guy who they have no potential investment or deficit in?).

Perhaps this is why no-one saw him ease closer to the most remote door in the arena, his bag of winnings much larger than on usual nights. It is also likely the reason no one saw the man in the black cape stop him at the door, offering to tell him his fortune, and ushering him into a nearby room.

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Saerin walked out into the street, being mindful to conceal the large bag of gold he now held inside one of his larger pockets. He didn't know why the man was so hesitant to pay out; he had earned more than enough gold to make up for his losses during the 24th match Miralda had fought in. Maybe he was spiteful that Saerin had begun to sway the betting by providing "guidance" to those who were going to make poor betting choices.

The fortunes he had told, however, were probably false. His ability to tell the future is largely determined by the nature of the spirits present at the telling. In an area full of more gamblers and liars than heroes and the well-intentioned, such as a coliseum, the spirits might intentionally lie just to spite the living.

Still, bad spirits enhanced some of his other abilities. Like intimidation. That proved useful, from time to time.

Having gold would be useful for the journey he was about to embark upon. While he didn't need many earthly possessions, he was sure the children from Tyvern would stay with him, or he with them, for at least a while longer. When it came to his own future, Saerin seldom asked... but when he did, the spirits feared to lie. The money in his pocket would be more useful for the group during their travels, and while Miralda had earned her own share today she might not be as willing to share the wealth she had rightly earned.

For now, Saerin made his way to the market. Even he had to eat sometime, and there were sure to be food carts out now that the fighting was over.

The door squeaked open as Saerin eased into the room. Sweeping his cloak across the bed, he deposited three modest bundles. He sat, not feeling entirely at ease in the small, simple wooden chairs, and unfolded the cloth around his own. Within sat three steaming bowls containing rice, spiced beef, and steamed vegetables. Two small metal sticks flashed into his hands as he began to pick at his meal, holding each bowl as he alternated between them. His eyes moved towards the boy.

"Many people are gifted with simple lives- farmers, smiths, warriors... fortune tellers." He once again focused on his meal. "It would appear that neither of your companions are so lucky." He picked an unwieldy piece of meat apart and placed it in his mouth, then passed bundles to his two compatriots.

This meal was arranged specifically to the needs of the trio- the rice would provide a boost of energy, the meat would help Mira recover from any soreness of the match, and the vegetables would help fine-tune the party's senses. If anything were to happen tonight or in the morning, as was prone to happen in a town where newcomers swooped in and earned a substantial amount of gold, they needed to be as fit as possible to run. There was a certain sense of unrest among the spirits that told him that it was better to be on the safe side tonight.

Mira nodded at Zhyle as he came in, but for the most part was to focused on the map to hear what he said. She really was only broken out of her contemplation when a bowl of food was placed under her nose by Saerin. She blinked momentarily, then smiled slightly and thanked Saerin before she started to dig in.

While the group was eating, she figured now was as good a time as any to ask what they thought they should do. After eating about half her meal, she started, "Zhyle, Saerin... Perhaps it is presumptuous on my part, but I was assuming that we could continue to travel together, at least for a little while longer. If you two are okay with this, then I would ask; where do you think we should go next?

"Personally, I think we should head north, to Jinera. It should be much easier to carve out a place there, and we wouldn't have to deal with much anti-Tyvern sentiment since they are so focused inward. What do you all think? The only other real option we have is to try our luck in some of the archipelagos to the south."

Zhyle frowned slightly as he was frankly ignored by Miralda. Aww, she's no fun. He however graciously accepted the meal that Saerin had brought to the group, as his stomach reminded him that he had eaten very little since leaving Tyvern, and a nice hot meal was greatly appreciated. He nodded his thanks to the older gentleman as he moved across the room and sat down at one of the beds and listened to Miralda begin to speak. After gulping down a couple of bites Zhyle answered to the lady.

"Hell, why not. I don't see any reason we should split up here. Frankly I don't wanna stick around this hellhole longer than I have to. Doesn't seem like a great place to just stop down and settle roots to me. Too much blood and sand for me."

He paused for a moment before continuing though.

"Though you really sure about Jinera. I mean... It's Jinera. The people are bloody savages there, yeah? At least that is what I have heard, country bumpkin like me." He joked, smiling between bites of food. "But what I mean is, yeah, they won't care that we're Tyvern in all probability, but does that really increase our chances of survival?"

He thought to himself for a moment, setting down his now empty bowl on a stand next to the bed he was sitting on. Jinera, huh? He never dreamed he would be considering going there. Place was crazy, power was everything there from what he had heard. Granted he had never met anyone from there but to be frank he never really wanted to. Nobody from the countryside really wanted to. Needless to say they were kind of boogeymen to farmers, people who would come and pillage your farms at night because it was within the right of the strong to take from the weak. And now he was seriously considering going there.

Well, it would be an adventure to say the least. How long it would last was a different question though.

"Well, I'm in." He said collapsing backwards on the bed. "Isn't likely we would be going anywhere else anyway. Catching a boat from Haarpa would probably be hard anyway if we get revealed as Tyvernian, so that kinda takes out the possibility of long travel, or at least make it unreasonably hard. It will probably be easiest to cross into Jinera anyway. Doubt too many people wanna stay around that border."

Saerin had much to keep him occupied over the next 3 days. First and foremost war preparation for the journey to Jinera. Since he had been there years prior, he focused on trying to glean news of recent events from the townsfolk in the arena, the market, and a local tavern. Unfortunately, most of the news he found was of passing interest, pure misinformation, or older than 4 months. It was all typical Jineran news: "Warlord X defended his title," "Blademaster Y was defeated by his former partner," and other things along those lines. Still, it was good to refresh himself of the names of any important players in the 'game.'

Random times throughout the days Saerin dropped in on the stables, tossing a few coppers to the boy tending to their mounts. He had learned the benefits of doing this from experience: the boy would take better care of the horses, keeping them well fed and groomed, and would be faster in assisting them whenever they showed up. The varied times of his visits kept the boy on edge, meaning if anything went awry they could escape the town with minimum fuss. After this Saerin would tour the shops, picking up small trinkets or tokens that had spiritual signatures. One such item was a small jade statue of a man, no doubt nicked from the body of a merchant in the wastes if the 'mood' of the residual spiritual energy was anything to go by.

During the Coliseum's busier hours Saerin performed his fortune telling routine, increasing his pool of money as more an more people began spreading the word of good fortune. The voices of those who lost to his advice were drowned in a sea of praise, causing business to ramp up steadily each day. The green man refused to accept Saerin's personal bets, but other bookies were more willing to assist in growing the small fortune in the various pouches of his flowing attire. Between tellings Saerin managed to commune with the spirits of the fallen fighters directly, polishing up his knowledge of combat through their commentary on the battles. When they were quieter, however, Saerin managed to fit in some meditation as much needed rest.

Rumors began to circulate in the city of a shadowy figure that would travel the streets before vanishing into the wastes. People swore that, the night prior, they looked out of their window and spotted a distant, intermittent glimmering in the sands. Like a star had fallen to spend several hours among men, then vanish before dawn. Others claimed it was a demon who preyed upon the homeless and drunks before performing dark sacrifices in the desert. The more astute said a mysterious swordsman was sneaking into the wastes at night to train among the sand and bones, his twin blades catching the moonlight as he practiced ancient techniques with the ghosts of the damned. Saerin determined that the last theory was pretty close, but calling a dagger a sword was a bit generous.

"Sorry sir, no admittance without the proper credentials."

Saerin looked down at the small man blocking his path, whose skeletal index finger attempted to push him back as some sort of intimidating gesture. He wore the black suit of a noble with white frills exploding from his collar and sleeves. A pencil-thin mustache curled around both of his cheeks like a treble clef, and the top of his head shined nearly as brightly as the sharpened edges of the battleaxes wielded by the two oafish friends standing at his shoulders.

"No one seems to be stopping them," Saerin replied gruffly. He leaned back slightly before glancing left and right, the sudden change in resistance causing the smaller man to stumble slightly. On both sides, people streamed through the other entrances to the arena unimpeded. He turned back to the man in front of him, who was straightening his jacket.

"That, sir, is because they are regulars. Anyone here could vouch that they have been here before and behaved. Is there anyone here that would do the same for you?" A small voice (one of his clients?) began to rise in the crowd before being silenced by a raised fist from one of the cronies.

"I can speak up for this poor gentleman," a familiar voice chirped from the next entrance. Saerin glanced over, not surprised to see the green-suited man from the first day staring at him with a devilish grin. "He is a guest of honor! Bartholomew, please help me escort this gentleman to the VIP entrance." Saerin saw no point in arguing as the two rats and their guard dogs began to shove him around the side of the building. "Oh, we have much in store for you! A grand buffet on the mezzanine overlooking the fights, one of the best seats in the house, access to the most powerful men in our city..." The man continued to grandstand as they turned the corner into a dark, secluded alley adjacent to the arena. "Oh! And a knife for your liver."

The two large men suddenly heaved Saerin by the armpits into a nearby wall. He hit the ground, slightly winded but otherwise okay. The larger men placed a foot on the inside of each of his knees and held him up helplessly by his elbows. The green man pulled a small, unadorned dagger from beneath his coat. "You really thought you could get away with it, huh? Fixing our fights? I don't know how you do it so well, but it ends today. For you and your two little roommates."

"It came to my attention that various parties are interested in taking your... what? Granddaughter? out of the fight for good, along with her two companions. My cooperation is simply the fortuitous result of common interest." The dagger danced in his palm as he spoke. He suddenly looked up in anger. "Why are you so silent? Even at the end, the stoic fortuneteller."

"Indeed," Saerin said. "We all play our parts until the bitter end."

As the thin man positioned the tip of his blade against Saerin's chest, preparing to plunge twelve inches of steel into his abdomen, an eerie chuckling began to fill the alleyway, which was isolated quite soundly from the noise of the Arena entrance. The two brutes holding Saerin tightened their hold on Saerin's elbows, so he didn't get any ideas. The green man was taken aback, his surprise causing him to drop his arm. The man turned his back on him, exasperated. "How dare you laugh at me? In my moment of my victory, just before we leave you bleeding in this grimy shithole of an alley?" He paced in a circle three times, feeding his anger, before motioning to one of the men. Saerin's vision flashed as his cowl was removed, then a sudden pain as a fist enveloped a good portion of his hair, pulling his head back so Saerin was looking at his master directly. The green man turned instantly, resting the point of his dagger against Saerin's jugular. "What is it you find so funny about all this?" His assistant, Bartholomew, squeaked out, "He means to mock you, Lord Artur!" before being silenced by a glare from his master.

For several long moments Saerin's laughter continued, followed by a short silence. "Lord Artur? Do you wish to know what your part is in this grand play, Lord Artur?" The gems on his chest illuminated suddenly as Saerin opened himself to the spirits of the coliseum, causing the green man to throw up his hands to prevent himself from being blinded. The dagger missed anything vital on Saerin's neck, but it's arc cut a shallow gash up Saerin's chin and across his left cheek, barely missing his eye. The laughter began again, this time louder, as black blood flowed from the wound. Then, suddenly, it ignited in a blue flame that rapidly spread to envelop his head. This caused his captors to panic, and for an instant they all took a step back.

Saerin felt the rage and bloodthirstiness of the many souls who bled out in the dirt of the coliseum. Crying out in shock over having their lives suddenly ended. Crying out in frustration at losing their matches. Crying out in pain over being unable to say goodbye to their friends, spouses, children. Crying out in anger at the unfairness of it all. Saerin felt all of this emotion hundreds of times over in mere seconds. The men stepped back, for an instant. The men loosened their hands, for an instant. The men felt fear, for an instant.

An instant was all they had.

Fueled by raw emotion, Saerin broke his arms free from the grips of the men, bringing his hands down to his boots to draw his curved daggers. Before they could draw their cumbersome weapons he had brought his arms up, crossing them across his chest. Artur watched in horror then as his arms fanned out to the sides, jamming the blades into the stomachs of his cronies and twisting violently. They fell to the ground screaming as Saerin arose, his face bathed in a raging blue hellfire of the damned. Bartholomew backed up in fear before falling backwards over some knee-high crates. Artur stood, frozen, as Saerin approached, and dropped his blade to the ground. "You're part is to die, here, a rat who thought to hunt the cat." The blade came quickly, burying itself to the hilt in the man's right ear. To his credit, he maintained eye contact until the moment it came, fearful as they were. The man died instantly, but it took his body a couple seconds to realize this before he collapsed in a heap.

Saerin finished off the guards, silencing them in case the continued noise caused the people Artur had undoubtedly paid off to ignore screams of pain noticed that they belonged to two men, not the one they were expecting. But he still had some business here.

Bartholomew had attempted to hide himself among some sacks of flour, but was betrayed by his own uncontrollable sobbing and the puddle of urine that had pooled beneath him. He whimpered as the demon approached him. But suddenly, Saerin stopped.

Once you've opened yourself up to the spirits, it can be very hard to get them to leave. However, Saerin had experienced this before and began to clear his mind (with some considerable effort). Slowly, the fire illuminating his face faded, revealing a stream of red blood that flowed down the left side of his face. Then, his gemstones slowly dimmed until they were as dark as a winter's night. He was suddenly very... tired. Emotionally and physically. But he was free from their influence, for the time.

Bartholomew seized this opportunity to grovel at his feet. "Please spare me, oh great one! I was just doing what the master said, I swear it!" he pleaded. Saerin let out a long sigh. "I'm sorry. I can't have any news of this getting out." Bartholomew began sobbing anew, practically kissing his feet. "I won't tell anyone, I swear! Upon my children's life, I swear!" Saerin stared down at the man, a great sadness resting upon his shoulders. He'd seen similar men before in the past, falling into a bad crowd and becoming a terrible person themselves for the sake of feeding and protecting their families. The greatest of tragedies, becoming evil in order to do good.

"Then you should understand why I must do this. You threatened my companions, and they are not much different from children themselves." He kicked Bartholomew, who had begun to control his crying, over onto his back. They made eye contact. He sighed again. "I'll make sure they are taken care of. Enough gold to get them by."

Realizing that was the best he was going to get, Bartholomew resolved himself to his fate. He barked out directions to his home, so Saerin could hold up his end of the "bargain." He barely made a noise as the blade penetrated his ribs and pierced his heart. He died instantly, knowing that his children would at least remain fed.

Saerin returned to the other three, retrieving his second dagger. He threw his cowl back over his face, obscuring it in shadow once again (save for his bloody chin). He glanced once more back at the fourth corpse behind him, then broke for the inside of the coliseum, where Miralda and Zhyle were likely in similar situations.

Saerin hurried through the crowd, the ends of his sleeves folded in on themselves to hide the blood that had covered them when his daggers had torn holes through the torsos of the two men who had held him pinned just minutes ago. Surprisingly, no one looked close enough at him beneath his cowl to see the blood dripping from his brow to chin. Eventually someone would ind out he was wounded, and then the questions would begin. Not being one who was willing to sit under any scrutiny, that meant the sooner he got out of here, the better. However, he had bigger fish to fry...

Miralda and Zhyle were definitely in trouble, if Artur had been telling the truth. Of the two, Mira had proven to be able to handle herself through her performance in the arena so far. She could probably wrap things up for herself and collect her winnings without too much fuss about it. He could probably leave the town now and meet up with her later, or continue on her own. They had only agreed to travel together for a little while longer...

He shook himself back to reality. The blood loss and strain of his channeling was causing his thoughts to become erratic. He couldn't leave these two, not now. Their fates were linked when they began their journey. He stopped for a moment to re-focus.

If he left the city now, Zhyle was going to be in a bit of a tight spot. A city is not a place one can easily use a bow, especially near a crowded arena, and Saerin had little confidence in the boy's swordsmanship. Plus if his attackers had any type of longer ranged weapon, like a staff or polearm, he would likely lose his weapon before he could get in range (though, if his skill was lacking enough, he would probably be disarmed anyway).

That meant Saerin had several things to do, in order of importance:

1. Make sure Zhyle wasn't killed by an assassin.
2. Drop a small pouch of gold off for Bartholomew's children. Likely just hide it in a place his wife would discover it; the less he had to deal with her the better.
3. Leave a note at the inn for Mira so they could regroup later.
4. Retrieve his horse and get out of this city before anyone deduced that the bloody man running out of the alleyway was related to the streaks of blood on the ground leading to a pile of corpses behind some stacked crates.

Saerin's concentration on this list was broken by shouting near the entrance of the arena. Since it was his best lead at the moment, he started to make his way towards the noise.

He was mildly surprised to see that, while being wounded, Zhyle hadn't been killed by his attacker. That meant the boy was either extremely lucky, more skilled than he had appraised him as being earlier, or just very, very fast. He kept a reasonable distance from the two, ready to spring in if the girl pursuing him was ready to deal a fatal blow, but decided to hold for now. The kid had surprised him already, and he wanted to see if he could do it again.

Saerin smiled a bit as he watched Zhyle's plan proceed without a hitch. He waited until they boy vanished from sight before slipping out of the alley he had concealed himself in after the girl entered the Smithy. What the boy lacked in practical skill he made up for in wit, that was to be sure. He twirled the card he held in his hand thoughtfully as he walked. While watching the boy he had absentmindedly drawn the Seven of Swords. Put bluntly, it symbolizes victory via outsmarting your opponent outside of direct combat. Putting yourself in your opponents' boots and predicting their actions to a tee. A very useful skill, if properly honed.

After some walking, Saerin found himself standing out front of a small block of buildings. He counted out a portion of his prize winnings into a smaller pouch and prepared to approach the door, but as he did he happened to glance through the window. Inside, he saw a man and woman embracing and heard the laughter of children. Even in his weakened spiritual state, he felt intense confusion. Followed by intense anger. Thoughts and feelings from hundreds of residual souls with nothing better to do than gossip flitted across his consciousness:

...some time now... he doesn't know... about 6 months... what about the children?... he's rich... not the only one...

Saerin's knuckles turned white as he gripped the leather pouch. Bartholomew's wife was apparently well taken care of. Saerin suppressed the emotions pounding into his skull like a hundred blacksmith's hammers. He wouldn't take the money. He wouldn't kill the couple, leaving the children as orphans. He couldn't listen to the urges pressed against him by the spirit of Bart, who was apparently not quite the noble man he had attempted to seem at his death. He would keep his promise.

He dropped the bag next to the door, the stumbled down a side street. Spirits were always stronger the more recently they died, and Bart was no exception. And he had not been in such a weakened state in years, so the pressure to give into the blind rage was astounding. At this rate, he wasn't sure if he could fight off another possession. His nails dug into his palms to keep himself from giving in, but he needed to distance himself. Fast. He entered a blind sprint in roughly the direction of their room at the inn, not bothering with subtlety.

It took all of Saerin's focus to drown out the voices of the spirits as they pounded against his consciousness. The adrenaline brought from running helped only slightly as he made his way through the streets, dimly aware of the people he passed. Eventually his flagging stamina became an advantage as he reached a steady rhythm in his gait, his mind focusing on only one thing: escape. He locked his gaze on that singular thought and allowed it to drift only to the movement of his feet as he dodged through foot traffic. As long as he kept moving, that would be his armor.

He reached the inn, ignoring the concerned look of the innkeeper as he pushed through towards their room. He swiftly pulled out his room key, and after a few moments of difficulty locating the keyhole he threw the door open and moved in. His mind barely touched on the two figures in the room as he, catching himself, managed to not slam but firmly close the door. He then slid to the ground, back against the rough wood of the door, as the exertion caught up to him. The mental claws of his spiritual associates, by now, had retreated a distance, circling with hackles raised like a wolf ready to pounce. They knew that he was weaker than normal, and if they struck again while he wasn't on guard he may not be able to stop their advances. His right hand raised to his temple to steady his mind, he took a moment to examine his surroundings.

Mira appeared to be alright, probably about exhausted as he was from the way she had fallen on her bed. Well, perhaps not as much... while he kept up his training, it had been some time since he had run quite that much. Her breathing was heavy, but his own was very labored and rasped deeply with each inhale. Appearance wise she was dirty, but about as much as one could expect from a tournament champion. Given a brief time to recover she would likely be back to "normal."

Zhyle, though, seemed another story. He had watched over the boy before to make sure he didn't die, but he hadn't gotten a close look at his injuries. A few sword pricks at his shoulders, arms, legs... spots commonly left exposed by novice sword wielders. Whoever had dealt those blows seemed to have been wanting to play with him before finishing him off. That gouge on the left arm, on the other hand... maybe not inherently lethal, but definitely the first stroke of the attack meant to finish him off. Assuming it was the same person who had dealt the other wounds, they likely meant to disarm him and close in as Zhyle's desperation and fear rose. They had underestimated him, though, and his cleverness allowed him to escape with his life.

Saerin himself was not looking much better. While there most of the blood on his robes were those of others, he had sustained several lesser wounds (as well as a light cut on his neck) that would take time to heal. His powers had taken the brunt of the attack, though... if he allowed himself to use any of the abilities that might help them, he would be opening himself up to the spirits and allowing them a point to attack. Until his mind had time to settle from his earlier possession that was something he could not allow.

He brought his legs in to a folded position, despite their protests. He didn't get this far to be stopped by something like fatigue. He held them there for a moment before rising. "I will ask the innkeeper for a wash basin and some clean cloth. After we've all cleaned up, we need to talk."