Chapter 1: Freedom

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Vantia is a large town that brings much of its revenue from the gladiatorial arena. It's often a place where much commerce in Cadan is conducted in slave trading, weapons and armor crafting, and lucrative activities of illegal nature. It is a town that many desires can be fulfilled with the proper exchange of coin.

It is here that mercenaries look for new recruits, alchemists venture into shops to acquire items and knowledge, and where adventurers gather to find work. It is here where a new journey takes place for many.

So the chronicles of Varnic begin at the large town called Vantia on Calitora Prime where the roars of the crowd are honored by the blood of warriors spilled on the sandy floors of the arena. You take your seat just in time to see the last round of bloodsport to begin. Both combatants enter the arena at the same time and a single name can be heard chanted by the crowd. You are able to make out the name as 'Artanis'. This is the same name known to many, who favor the games, as the elven gladiatorial champion who has fought in the arena for several hundred years.

Victory was the only thing that was on Artanis' mind as the crowd roared his name. It made him grin at his opponent as he raised his shield and got ready to clash steel once again. The man in front of him is another champion from the capital city Valedinia of the region Catan that they are currently in. It was rare to find two champions of such high caliber in battle.

A man stood from the pulvinar and raised a hand to the crowd to silence them and took a moment to smile at them and then look down at the warriors before them all.

The man spoke up, “Here two gladiators stand with swords ready! Only one will claim victory and the other shall meet us in the afterlife!” The announcer gave a moment to pause and keep the crowd's attention before continuing.
“Today the gods have honored us with a spectacle of blood by bringing the only undefeated elven gladiatorial champion to clash swords with the champion of Valedinia!”

The crowd started to burst into roars of excitement from what the announcer has said and so he continues before starting the final round of the games. “Gladiators! Begin!” Ordered the announcer and he sat back down with a smile on his face.

Artanis quickly took steps towards his opponent and swung his sword firmly. A clash of steel clang and clattered with the excitement of the crowd fueling both warriors to take the fight to higher levels. Sword met Artanis' shield and his own sword lunged forward and pecked against the opposition's shield. This simple motion of attacks and blocks happened in seconds and Artanis began formulating a strategy to dispatch his enemy and grasp victory once again to hear the excitement of his honorable fans.

In mid thought a shield bash was swung at him but a quick side step was made to avoid the attack. Another swing at him was made but directed towards his shin and was avoided with raising his knee up but was turned into a counter attack by kicking the human champion away and to the ground. This was an opportune time to deliver a finishing blow. The entire time the crowd screams for blood fill the background around them. The arena their stage and the crowd's screams their theme music.

As Artanis moved towards his enemy, the man rolled to his feet and blocked incoming sword slashes with his shield while being knelled, it mattered not as another kick was made against the shield and the man flew back along the sandy floor of the arena. Stamina was already leaving the human gladiator as Artanis' centuries of conditioning were clearly showing. It was no equal contest to pit a man against an overly seasoned elf that has lived and breathed the life of gladiatorial combat.

“Little men should return to their master with tail between legs.” Artanis taunted his opponent with a smirk across his face.

The response he was given was his opponent raising to his feet quickly and moving towards Artanis with a deadly purpose. Sword swung first across the chest but was parried and quickly a shield followed after as the man turned his entire body to create the momentum of the swing in a slashing fashion to add extra damage with the attack. Artanis simply dropped to one knee and impaled the man through the stomach as the opening was created and advantage was taken.

Death was already creeping upon the human champion and the man's weapons dropped to the arena floor as he looked down where Artanis' sword has impaled. “To die in the arena is...” The man said as Artanis withdrew his sword and then slashed the throat of the man. Blood splashed all over the ground with small cool breezes causing the elven warrior's cape to flutter softly on the ground.

The crowd stood up and roared in excitement as Artanis stood and looked around into the crowd raising his sword. Women were showing their chest to him, men were chanting his name, and the children had eyes glazed over with mesmerized admiration. Finally Artanis did turn to his master at the pulvinar with the announcer and watch them both stand with smiles on their faces.

First the announcer spoke, “Again, Artanis honors us with legendary skills of the sword...” The man was interrupted in mid sentence by the crowd begging for Artanis' freedom.

It left everyone in the pulvinar including Artanis inside the arena a bit speechless and very honored. The announcer looked at the master of Artanis and the other man took a step towards the edge of the pulvinar to speak to his gladiator.

“Artanis, is freedom what you desire?” The man held a firm expression that is hard to read but kept it fixated upon the elf.

“I have fought for centuries to honor your house. I have spilled my blood and those of honorable men of worth. My life has been one of blood. It is something I desire if you but will it.” Artanis was breathing heavily from the upcoming information to reach his ears.

“Your tongue speaks truth and so you have won freedom!” Said the former master of Artanis. The words electrocute the crowd to see their favored gladiator gain freedom.

----

One hour later.

Artanis had already packed his belongings and left his master's vila with a fair-well gift from his master: his gladiatorial sword and shield to help him along in his travels through Riv'nar. He even was given coin for the winnings he had previously acquired through his arena victories. It's sum was rather impressive for a freshly freed slave: two hundred sixteen denar; which are gold coins. A drink to celebrate his victory and freedom was in order and what better place to celebrate than at the Bronze Shield Inn that's near the gates of Vantia? Many patrons of the tavern recognized him immediately and greeted him with a warm face. There were satyr and dwarves circled around tables and a few at the front at the counter. There were mostly humans in occupying most of the seats.

Walking to the counter and taking a seat, the warrior ordered up a stiff drink of ale for his celebration. It was time for him to see what the world offered someone like him and what opportunities are available for strength and glory.

After the great duel, Mertan had been mesmerized. What an awesome show of skill and cunning. The elven champion seemed to know what he was doing, and he did it to perfection.

Mertan wandered out of the arena, trailing after a pair of merchants, who'd just sold a large pack of slaves at the market. Mertan could hear them talk about a specific slave, which they kept, for the sole purpose of sex and abuse. They'd use her as a concubine.
Mertan was a little displeased at hearing such, but coming from a wealthy family himself, he knew that slave concubines were very common. But as he trailed along behind them, they began talking about what they'd do to her, and Mertan was so infuriated about the way they regarded human lives, so he thrust himself forward, and made a violent tackle on the left of the merchants.

"Woah!" was all that could be heard from the left one, as he fell to the ground. The other merchant quickly jumped sideways, to evade the supposed attacker, but when he saw that it was only a boy, he slumped a little down. "What in all of the heavens do you think you're doing boy!" he yelled, as he grabbed Mertan by the collar, and lifted him up.
Mertan was more than a little surprised by the strength of the other merchant, as he was hauled from the ground, and onto his legs. "I don't know." was the only answer Mertan could come up with.
"Use your brain you dumb child!" the merchant yelled into the face of Mertan, spittle flying out. "Fine! I'll try to remember that!" Mertan retorted, his voice dribbling with sarcasm.
At this point, the other merchant was on his feet again, staring at the boy. "Johar. It's just a boy, leave him alone. We got business at the inn... if you get what I mean." the other merchant said, persuading his companion to let go of Mertan.

Mertan dropped to the ground, and the two merchants turned around, and went down towards 'The Silver Lantern' where their caravan was lodged at the moment. Mertan himself turned around on his heel, and started down the other way, searching for a place where he could get some food, and a bed. He was tired after this days travels, and he was still slightly angry at the two merchants.

He finally arrived at something that seemed like he'd like it. It was a tavern, just at the gates of the city. He could hear merry commotion in the inn, and allready out here, he could hear people mutter about Artanis being a customer this evening.
That made Artanis curiosity awake. Was the elven champion really here!? He'd surely have to see him up close. After such a duel, he'd surely be surrounded by adoring fans, but Mertan'd try to get to see the elven champion never the less.

---

The inn was well filled, when Artanis got in, but he imediatly saw a seat at the side of the inn. He didn't want to sit in a corner, as people usually looked suspicious when they did that. And mostly, there was good reason to be suspicious about them. So Mertan dropped his bag at a seat. The heavy bag made a lot of noise, but was drowned by the conversation and noise from the other customers.

Mertan sat down, leant back, and closed his eyes for a brief moment. But then heard someone swear at the door, only a few yards away from him. Esvild! That stupid ass had been following him since he travelled from home. He'd been his companion and steed, on hs travels here. Now the stupid animal was trying to come inside.
Mertan jumped to his feet, and squezed his way out, to the man who was being bothered by the donkey. "I'm sorry sir, he got a bad habit of doing that." Mertan said, pushing the animal away from the poor man. He grunted some unintelligible words, and then went into the tavern.

Mertan patted the mule on the muzzle, and then tugged it along, inside the taverns stable. Where he gave the reins to a stableboy. He then turned around, and went back inside, only to find someone with his crooked fingers in his bag.

"Hey! Get your dirty fingers out of my satchel!" Mertan yelled, drawing attention to himself from the tables around him. People expected something now. Some action behind the words, and Mertan was afraid that he wouldn't be able to deliver that action. But still, all his belinging were in that satchel. People sat as frozen. Looking at them. Then the man straightened, and replied. "He's a liar! It's my belongings! That little brat stole them from me on the marketplace!" the thief said, now pointing the accusation at a surprised Mertan.

"WHAT!?".

The day was concluding as the sun began to set and people of Vanta continued to scurry about the streets to complete last minute business before meeting their families in their homes. It was warm and the breeze that would horde against the warrior's body attacked him several times as he walked towards the Bronze Shield Inn. A boy, with a very large hound, was running towards Artanis from the direction in which he came from.

“Artanis! May I have words with you?” the boy yelled with onlookers giving the lad a stare of confusion while the hound followed closely after.

Artanis turned and looked at the boy with a blank expression before speaking. “And what purpose would your words serve to the former champion of Vanta?” Artanis spoke as the boy stopped in front of him with the large beast standing as tall as the boy.

“Master forgot to gift you a trophy worthy of freedom. He gifts the mightiest of his trustworthy beasts to give companionship to the former champion.” the lad declared with an expression he would leave now and return back to the vila as instructed.

Artanis' reply was a smile across his face and a nod from the head. The boy smiled up at the tall warrior and turned to run back to his master. A gift well received. Watching the boy run off, Artanis placed a hand on the beast's head and scratched behind the ears.

The animal stood roughly three and a half feet tall, pitch black fur, golden red jewels for eyes, and fangs bright as platinum. It was truly a terrifying animal to look at with such mangy fur that appears to be in dire need of a scrubbing.

Turn on heel and continued walking down the street as people avoided him while the animal followed closely behind. He finally reached his destination and was hearing two individuals arguing over a satchel. With a quick push of the tavern door in, it swung in and smacked the thief in the head. A tumbling sound could be heard behind the door as Artanis stood there with his hound at his side. The sun light glared in through the doorway and all anyone could see is a tall man, with pointed ears, with a dog glaring everyone with murderous eyes.

“What the fuck! I'd have words with the fucking cunt that did that!” the thief yelled from behind the door and as the door shut, the identity of Artanis became apparent.

Murmuring of Artanis' victory in the arena today was being whispered by some of the patrons and now they saw the champion himself. All he did was look down at the black furred beast and motioned him to follow. It did as it was commanded while the warrior walked over to the bar. The animal stood a watchful guard by sitting directly behind its new master.

An employee of the tavern walked in front of Artanis and was going to ask what he would like but the warrior had already made up his mind. “Dragon's Breath and a bowl of water.” were the only things he said.

The water was for the animal and the Dragon's Breath was for him to drink. It was a potent mixture of some of the finest alcoholic drinks created in Vanta and a cup was all anyone needed. The mangy animal behind him lapped up the water from the bowl while keeping his other senses well adjusted to the defense of his master.

The thief had finally stood to his feet and looked at Artanis in rage. “Hey you little fuck!” yelled the man as he took a few steps towards Artanis. The animal stopped drinking from the bowl and stood up snarling violently.

= Gamaliel of Fureidis =

Amusement struck as the thief crumpled to the floor, hammered in the face by the Champion Elven Gladiator. If fate hadn’t already done its job, then irony did because as the young man snatched his bag away, the thief crumpled to the floor, earning laughter and ridicule from many human onlookers. As Gamaliel watched with interest, he felt a hand slap his on the shoulder, prompting the leader to turn his head. Flaminius, his second adjutant flipped his head and pointed straight, averting his attention elsewhere. A simple glance in the other direction attracted new interest as five men surrounded a singularly occupied table.

“What’s this,” Gamaliel inquired, sipping his brew?

“Farmers, sir,” the guard replied, “Bloody angry too. I been watching those blokes for a good half hour. Tax dispute by the look of it. Not sure what’ll happen, although I imagine the situation may turn deadly in a matter of minutes.”

“Really …” Gamaliel muttered, facing the farmers surrounding the table. As he listened, Gamaliel turned and

“Listen, all of you," piped the lone man, "You think I don’t also hold a family to feed here? You’re lucky I haven’t reported the annual earnings yet. The collector’s offices demand payments within the following week and if I don’t follow, we’ll rest our heads along a royal pike afore the week’s over. They will gut each of us you hear me and that’s not the worst of it. short of public crucifixion!”

“No," shouted a stalwart sounding farmer, "you listen to me; ya blood sucking, imperial. I’m tired; tired o’bleeding my livelihood so some fucking high-borns may craft some prissy carved palaces. In case you haven’t heard; we’re suffering a bloody famine here. None of our farms yielded even half a decent harvest and here you are, feeding on our scraps.”

Shaking his head, the collector curled his lips in frustration. “I’m sorry Herrenipor; however, you must understand the gravity belaying your families. The royal office of revenue will not tread lightly upon an ‘honest’ shortfall in tax returns. It would land treason upon our heads … which … if you don’t already know is punishable by death!”

“Have you been listening to anything we've been saying these past three hours? The crown's bled us dry! There’s no money to be had, you hear me? ”

“Aye!” shouted another one of the farmers.

“And what good have you done, hm? Something you lot fail to understand is I am merely nothing more than a lowly tax collector and I can offer nothing more to you honest gentlemen. Now please, cease this charade at once. I’ve not come to bargain over matters I have no authority in now if you please, I request that I dine in peace. Good day to you.”

The farmer known as Herrenipor glared at the man sitting at the table, huffing and fuming with a look of vengeful malice in his eyes. Attention had begun to shift over to the table men gathered behind the farmers. Herrenipors faced flushed from a slanderous pink to a shade of puce and the other men had already begun to reach for their weapons.

Suddenly, a blood curdling war cry erupted elsewhere followed by the sound of doors banging against the wall. All attention diverted away from the collector’s table as a grizzly corpulent sized man burst out of the kitchens, brandishing a blood stained meat cleaver in hand. The source of his unexpected entry came in the form a scampering rodent, whom leaped across several tables, in a desperate bid for freedom. Several customers leaped out of the way, knocking over tables and over turning fresh-uneaten meals.

“Die yoo mutton – blooded beast,” screamed the cook as he flew across the room, hacking table rims with little success.

The quick footed rodent continued to leap across tables, evading the deranged cook at every turn, spilling over mugs, and stirring mayhem where ever it scampered. At one point, the furred four legged creature hurled across an unsuspecting noble lady’s chest, forcing a shriek from the poor woman before the cook quickly sank his cleaver across her dress midline. No harm fell upon the lady, although as the mouse scampered away, the lady soon shockingly discovered nothing covering her breasts. As she screamed, angry customers leaped out of their seats, some galvanized by the wanton mayhem the rodent had provoked while others rose out of aggravation by the cook’s lack of consideration. The furry creature had caused wanton, yet had eluded its predators at every turn.

Attempts to kill it proved fruitless, although as the chase prolonged, it became evident that the rodent was running out of running space. A large following of angry men gathered by the time they cornered the scurrying little thing. Tables had over turned, chairs had broken, spoiled food laid wasted along the floor, drinks had spilled everywhere, and fights had broken out amongst several parties. Just when the lunatic mob of customers closed in on little creature, it squeaked frightening, dashing briskly across the floor, waddling past several pairs of feet before scampering up the legs of a lone girl sitting at the bar. Brandishing his cleaver to the girl, the corpulent cook turned to the mob and shouted, “Kill it!” In unison, the mob screamed, charging clumsily in the girl’s direction. Just as the maniacal crowd seemed hellbent on ripping the girl to pieces, Gamaliel stepped in their way, standing firmly in the face of glinting steel ...

Seeing how things were turning out, Mertan couldn't help but admire the two gentlemen, who stood up for the damsel in need. "I myself, would never go down to such stupid, and unecesary action." he thought, trying to make some picture of himself as a cold and heartless person. But he instantly remembered the horrible slave traders, and felt an urge to prove his worth.
A chance, that became his rather quickly. An ugly, troll-like farmer had stepped up, to confront the damsel, who'd stepped forth to declare something. Mertan had of course missed it, as his interest was diverted slightly between the mouse and dog. "Damned fourlegs." he muttered.

Mertan took a step forward, and pushed with all his strength at the farmer. The farmer was caught by surprise, but Mertan was nowhere near an adult in strength, and he was merely pushed away. His grim face turned on Mertan, giving him a scowl, that made the blood drain from Mertan's face. He could feel his legs shake faintly. Would the farmer go gut him with the thing in his hand now?

The farmer didn't seem to want to step up, even more so, because Mertan stood so close to the bigger and seemingly much more dangerous men. Mertan himself, could never really be seen as a dangerous, or even threatening person, but those two behind him, were obviously warriors, and equipped like such ones.
With a scowl and a grunt, he stepped a little forth, drawing the crowd behind him, like a herd of cattle. "Then give us that damned rat of yer's, and be done with it." he snapped at them, his friends agreeing loudly behind him. They didn't want to be cowards, but they neither did they want to cross blades with the two larger men, so they just agreed loudly, tryin to whip up the crowd.

Mertan had seen his cut, to quickly scurry around, and behind the two adults. "Oh blasphemous crud in the depths of hell." he cursed under his breath. This was just the kind of trouble he got in all of the time. Lucky thing, that there were some fighters, to keep that nasty looking fella' away.
Mertan looked a little at the crowd, then went back to praying for his life. He felt as though, he should just slit his own throat and be over with the entire thing. Not like anybody'd be there to miss him anyway.

= Gamaliel Fureidis =

As the mob approached, the same tax collector whom Gamaliel watched earlier dove behind the counter settling just behind the young girl. At the same time, another angry mob arrived carrying pitch forks, daggers, knives, sharpened plows, and long poled farming tools. This mob appeared even larger than the first and when each party suddenly realized they shared a common enemy, joined as one. Upon closer inspection, the cook realized he'd become the mob's ring leader, bringing a momentary pause in his actions.

"Hm," he grunted, facing the mob, "Alright mates, seems we've doubled our numbers. Fair enough. Let's wreck the bastards!" Pumping his cleaver in the air, cries of death filled the tavern as numerous pitchfork carrying farmers rallied to the cook's cause. As they converged, the towering figure barred their paths, refusing passage.

“Remove yourselves immediately,” Gamaliel commanded calmly, holding a high chin as a fuming, fork wielding farmer stepped forward, "You will not harm these people for I swear to god, it will mark the end of you.”

"Out of our way, you old bag. We came for the collector, not you," the toothy mouthed farmer spat, raising his fork threateningly.

"Careful Becker," laughed another farmer, "'Think this one's a high born."

"Not a highborn, just a simple commoner such as yourself," the bearded leader answered unflinchingly, "Of course, I'm not immune to the havoc your party brings and in the manner you speak, I trust you won’t mind befriending a Vantian hanging noose. Committing murder isn't a way to live, I assure you, and will only place you in the gallows."

As tensions heightened, the bearded leader stood firmly, unyielding his gaze even in the face of gleaming blades. The situation proved delicate, having soured much of the crowd 's poor spirits. Despite this, Gamaliel continually stared, standing confidently as the mob eyed him. Hesitation circulated through the mob as an entity threatened his right flank. Instinct threatened the draw of weapons, yet discipline reigned supreme, dominating greatly over impulse. Gamaliel stood alertly, expecting an attack as he was flanked, yet as he glanced out from the corner of his eye, recognition surfaced. No attack came as Artanis, the master gladiator, stood beside him; readily willing a fight to any fool dimwitted enough to challenge him. To his rear, another entity deployed, though by his feeble shuffles, he proved no threat to either himself nor his unexpected ally. Momentarily glancing around, he found he was now guarding not 2, but 3 quivering liabilities. The elf’s position only heightened the tensions, yet his presence was still appreciated, if not extremely potent. Should relations sour any further, the elf was unstoppable. Calmly, the towering leader swiveled his head and produced a nod, physically acknowledging the elven companion.

More murmurs surfaced as the toothy farmer prodded his fork closer towards Gamaliel's neckline, gritting his teeth in malice. Just as he seemed bent on stabbing out the leader's gizzard, thoughts of deep regret quickly impressed upon the farmer's face as the elven champion visualized. Embarrassed and frightened, the toothy farmer shamefully eyed his pitchfork, staring weakly into Gamaliel's piercing stare before lowering it altogether. As he did, a blood curdling growl discharged from Artanis' dog. The mob quickly distanced themselves from the pair while standing completely clear of the dog. At the same moment, two dozen heavily suited men assembled around the mob's rear drawing their swords in unison. Members of the mob glanced to one another for support, but upon discovering their companions appeared just as equally baffled as they themselves, slowly backed away. As they all came to their senses, many dropped their weapons, fearfully forming a tight ball as Gamaliel's men dominantly converged. The situation had largely turned in Gamaliel's favor, yet bloodshed was not an acceptable reality. Truthfully, all the bearded figure sought was peace in the face of conflict and raising his right hand, the leader eyed his men, calmly signalling the guard to stand down. For a moment the soldiers seemed ready to assault on command, but as the moments passed it became evidently clear what their leader wanted. Slowly and suredly, the guard sheathed their swords, generating a sigh of heavy relief. A man in the mob whom appeared a little past his prime, shot a shaky finger back and forth between the dog and the bearded leader.

"Tell us, is starvation plausible after losing nearly everything we've worked for? Wasting our lives away also isn't a way to live. In case you haven't heard, the harvest's failed the last several seasons an there's barely 'nough food going around. Can't you see? We're all tired o'serving some lump arsed 'ristocrat when we can't even feed ourselves ya inbred lookin' highborn!"

"Again, I am no highborn and you have nothing to fear. I am merely a commoner as you and I am well aware of the famines you suffer," Gamaliel answered, sighing, "I do ask a simpler question, however. Are we children?! Your drunken feuds nearly cost us our lives much less provoke the town levy's presence. Do none of you lot recall the Mornias Uprising?" Dead silence ensued save the occassional cough or sneeze.

"Hmmm ... as I thought," he muttered, rubbing his chin, "The Uprising remains elusive, after almost three decades."

"Aye," affirmed an older man sporting his back, "Was that Mornian's y'say? I remember visitin' Mornia, though t'was a'many a year ago. Fiery lot o'lads, them Mornians were. Last I heard, them Mornian folk followed some hot headed high born named 1st Viscount Haviv Merkhava. Them Mornians got real antsy after rallying with the Viscount an' they were mighty jumpy after he started openin' his mouth. Don't know what happened next, though; all I remember's tha one day, we couldn't get in t'Mornia, 'an anyone tha tried met a lota Legionaries blockin' th'road. Anyone' caught pokin' around dis'peared. After tha', talk'o'Mornia got reaaaalllll quiet. Some say the quiet t'was brought aboot b'cause of the Viscount's curse. Tha' he tricked all'o'them Mornians out of Mornia. I swear on me'poor mam's grave, tha's all I know."

For a moment, the bearded leader paused as the Viscount's name surfaced, hinting recognition on his face. After a short moment though, composure struck again and Gamaliel chuckled, shaking his head in amusement, "I assure you there was no curse. The Mornian provincials felt exactly as you lot do. They believed the king stripped away their livelihoods without mercy. Also believed their sufferings fell on deaf ears. Before long, they'd scared away every tax collector in sight, refused tax payments, and forged their own method of living. They rallied, rallied in the name of free will and righteous prosperity."

"So you're meaning t'say them Mornians defied the king," the older man inquired?

"Indeed, they did."

More murmurs surfaced as the crowd ignited, roused by Gamaliel's words.

"Sounds awfully bold; practical too! Certainly beats serving an ungrateful greedy lout, I'll say!" shouted a burly artisan, earning whistles and praises from many humans bystanders.

"Ah, yes, so it seems. Yet you haven't learned how the Mornians perished! The uprising brought every damn legion down their throats. The Royal Legions, those whom were sworn to protect the kingdom's subjects slew the Mornians, Riv'Narians to a man. Women, children, the elderly, the sick, the weak; they spared none. The Mornians were Riv'Narian like you and desired a life filled with prosperity. For this, they paid dearly."

After a moment of awe struck silence, Gamaliel smirked as. He had the entire tavern under his wing and they drank in his every word. "Of course, think what you will. Defying the king's taxes may prove highly rational, though I believe forfeiting a life to the gallows proves equally rational, does it not? Either way, I suppose mercy comes in death ... or in life. To each and all, standing before me, I ask you. What do you accomplish butchering one another? Such fury is best served elsewhere and I'm sure you gentlemen realize this. Consider your welfare ... or not." Without another word, the towering figure turned and gave the elf a nod, leaving the audience gaping in wonder ...

Artanis listened at the bearded human's words and removed his amusing expression to a more serious one. News of famine and harsh times are very familiar to Artanis and reminded him of the genocide of his people so many centuries ago during the Age of Sand. A war that had nearly destroyed an entire race of people and forged the path of another. It was Artanis and his kin that had fought in the war with fellow Riv'narians to crush the threat of the sands; the king among kings; the ancient power of deserts; the Ancient King.

A memory flashed through the mind of Artanis in his days of youth. Artanis and his brother with a couple Riv'narian royal legionaries stood in a chamber with sunlight beaming through holes from the ceiling and fixated on a single location of the chamber – the center. It was this illuminated spot that rested a mound of red sand and a sword hilt was resting in.

A voice roared out and echoed off the circular shaped chamber walls, “You seek strength but seek unmeasurable power. Bend to my will and the world shall be yours.” The voice seemed to not just echo but be several different voices merged as one and speaking in a unified fashion.

The brother of Artanis stepped towards the weapon and drew the sword from the mound of red sand with no hesitation. His desire to defend Riv'nar and the Delryn family from war against the Merhavin family was absolute. The elven brother quickly noticed the red sand started to magically construct, mold, and assemble the dark red steel blade of the weapon.

Another mysterious verse from the chamber rang out, “So the king of sand has been chosen and the Age of Sand has begun.” After the words were spoken the brother of Artanis stared at the rest of his companions with a crazied grin with significant pigment changes of the skin to a darkening hue and hair flushing into a dull gray. It was the first signs an elf makes before turning into a drow and it was Artanis' brother who became the first.

Artanis snapped back to reality as Gamaliel started telling the story of the Mornians. Many of the disputes between humans were of no concern of his but they were fellow Vantians and he cared for them, despite their short comings of intelligent behavior.

As Gamaliel continued to tell the story and mentioned how none of the Mornians were left alive, sweat formed quickly and rolled down his face from the forehead. Needless to say, it left Artanis' mouth gaping open in shock at the realization of who Gamaliel is.

Another memory flashed into the mind of Artanis once more. This memory contained images of his brother wielding the mysterious red bladed sword to skewer dozens of Merhavin soldiers through the use of swinging the weapon towards the Merhavin soldiers and sandy spikes protrude out of the ground and impale the soldiers. The screams of death shortly escaped them and then fell silent to be replaced with the grotesque maddening laugh of Artanis' brother.

At this point the brother's hair had been completely flushed a silvery white and skin completely turned a glossy ebony complexion. The armor of the brother's was even transforming slowly into more of a full suit of plate armor of a tarnished gold coloring. The eyes were burning a hot red and flaring with signs of addiction to magical energies.

Again, Artanis mentally shook himself back to reality and exchanged nods with Gamaliel while wondering how the Merhavin family had survived for centuries while the Delryn family had been rooting their hands firmly into the countrysides. It made him wonder if he and his people fought on the wrong side during the civil war all those centuries ago. It made him curious to see how life would have been different for his people if the Merhavin family had became the victors instead of being nearly wiped out, much like the elven race was during the purging process of Merhavin family members and soon after the elven race. The memories of his people being massacred because of their affinity to consume magical energies to sustain an immortal life was beginning to anger him.

Gazing at all mob of people, Artanis crossed his arms across chest and spoke, “The Mornian's suffered not alone. Tales of my people speak words of genocide. After word of the Mornians were defeated, my people were hunted. Madness had over come wisdom and reason of royal family,” said Artanis with no attempt to hide the pain and hatred in his words.

The peasants looked at each other in disbelief. They could not believe that the royal family was responsible for such horrific acts of barbarism.

“T'ou say your kind were hunted? What words do you have behind the heart beating in your chest?” asked one of the peasants in a very curious manner.

“The royal family wishes not for discovery of such subject. Truth lays with enslavement of all elvish descent to be imprisoned and become constructed spectacles in the gladiatorial arena for all of Riv'nar to watch,” Artanis responded with as he uncrossed his arms and clenched both of his hands into fists tightly.

Another moment of silence struck across the audience as Artanis had finished his story of the fall of his elven people. Though it was only part of the story as it could be continued for hours more in lengthy tales of elvish history. The horrors of how deep his people fell into magical practices in order to survive would only make them shiver in fear and then to realize that some of those individuals are probably still living to this day.

= Gamaliel Furedis =

As the crowds dispersed, the cloaked retainer respectfully pivoted sideways, facing the elven companion with interest. He had not expected the presence of an ally and one such as the gladiator proved quite astonishing indeed. Unpredictably, the ancient champion further elevated his words, paralleling his race’s near demise alongside the fate of Mornia. Truly such despicable attrocities levied further suffering, solving nothing if anything. The genocides were one in the same and Gamaliel greatly admired Artanis’ display, bearing much heartfelt sympathy in light of the elves.

To slay one’s people already condemned those responsible, but to annihilate an entire species as an acceptable verdict? To think his own species held such elitist tendencies sparked shame in so many corners he’d rather perish in guilt than in living through persistently horrifying memories. It embarrassed him to know his own kindred could accomplish such barbarity. That Artanis had spoken at all, let alone mention his race’s near demise must’ve required enormous hardship, elevating his respect for the champion. This quite simply could not have come more strangely, provoking a simple bow of respect from the towering figure.

“Artanis is it? That was a remarkably brave risk you took there and I’m afraid I’m indebted to you. It is rather unfortunate we meet in this light; terrible business, truly.”

As he finished, Artanis’ dog snarled viciously, raising amongst nearby customers, and earning it Gamaliel’s display of interest. Before it went any further, though, Artanis swiftly diffused the tensions through a simple ear scratching method. After greatly the calming the dog’s nerves, Artanis allowed the dog room to sit.

"The debt was not given nor earned,” the champion answered, crossing his arms, “Clear your mind from thoughts of repayment." A smug grin replaced the serious demeanor looming across his face, compelling the retainer to smirk in amusement. Nodding, Gamaliel crossed his arms in succession in preparation to speak when the same pitch fork carrying farmer sauntered past. The man lowered his head in shame, shocked and wide eyed as his near death memories still brewed.

"You," he addressed, stepping forth. "You hesitated earlier. That was not a weakness, my friend; no ... t’was a strength! Granting mercy is never weakness, I assure you. Remember this and you defy fate in the boldest ways."

“I-I’ll remember this and … thank you.” The farmer turned away, shocked and horror empowering his face as thoughts of near - death still freshly brewed from within.

As soon as he respectfully returned towards the champion, the towering retainer came face to face with the tax collector, whom hid frighteningly behind the counter alongside the young mouse carrying woman. The groomed man wore an expression of complete regard as if Gamaliel himself were king.

"Sir, I don't know how to thank you," the collector exclaimed, "You saved my life back there!"

“Please, none of this,” he chuckled, smiling reassuringly, “I’m sure you would’ve done the same.”

"Yes, well I err ... suppose that's true although I've never held bravery as comparable as yours. These simple commoners don't understand; they always believe their financial woes ultimately stem through the lowly tax collectors. What they don’t realize is how little our hands play upon their affairs.”

Smiling, Gamaliel placed a hand along the man’s shoulder, dipping his head low in respect. “Times are difficult, yes, though these people toil under the yokes they plow. Over-taxation harms the people quite as swifty as blades tear the flesh. It is neve-”

“Sir,” a voice, interrupted, “if you may, an occurrence of utmost importance requires your attention.”

“Of course,” Gamaliel replied as his second adjutant materialized from behind, “What is the occasion, Clodianus?”

“Legionaries; fresh arrivals from the look of it.”

“Really …” Gamaliel answered, turning away with interest. As he glanced flankwise, he noticed the presence of several legionaries standing by the tavern’s doorway, strangely accompanied by an officer. Even stranger, the officer’s youthful appearance dazzled him, inducing a slight heart fluttering from within. All talk ground to a halt as attention honed upon the new arrivals; even the dwarves cut their chatter, staring suspicious as the legionaries caught their sight. As tensions mounted, many stared and pointed, wondering what a legionary presence could bring and why …

Former Praetor Kimber Amadrim and her band of twenty loyal legionnaires had been riding tirelessly for the past week, even though the crime had been flawless; Kimber insisted they move quickly away from the scene. Arriving in the bustling town of Vantia just before dusk, Kimber immediately began inquiring a suitable Inn for her men to stay the night. She knew that with the three chests of gold they had hidden in the wagon, having an expensive room for all would be no burden. However Kimber decided it was best to keep the gold hidden for now. After much deliberation with her lieutenant, Elim it was agreed the group would stay at a quaint establishment named The Bronze Inn.

While her soldiers took the horses and wagon around back to the stable, Kimber pulled the hood down of her cloak obscuring her face and walked in alone. Upon entrance Kimber became aware of a disagreement occuring among some pitchfork wielding farmers and two very tall men, the one who had rust colored hair and beard held himself like a commander. And the other appeared to be an-an elf? Kimber elbowed a few grungy looking commoners to better hear what the dispute was.

To her great astonishment the bearded man began speaking of the injustices done to the common even going so far to mention the unfortunate Mornian uprising, he also spoke of heavy taxes the nobles saddled the people with only to build gardens and satisfy their own selfish desires. She was filled with awe that this man would speak so openly against the King, especially since talk of such matters could cause one to be hanged without a trial. As his moving speech concluded the seemingly rabid mob dispersed and only a few remained, perhaps to seek advice or give the man some of their own. To keep his head down and not stir others into rebellious thought.

Kimber left the room unnoticed, which was quite easy since there were still plenty of people milling about. She convened with her band of soldiers who were still unpacking in the stable, telling them of her desire to meet this bold man and finding out who he is; there were a few against it. Seeing as the group needed to keep a low profile after the theft it would not be advantageous to associate with a possible rebel. However Kimber had not gotten to the rank of Praetor simply by her womanly charm, she was an excellent leader and quickly persuaded all twenty to follow her inside the Inn.

The only reason Kimber had not walked up alone to such a man was the fear he would see her as a loyal officer to the King and cut her down without a second thought, she had also taken notice of several armed men watching the bearded man during his speech and looked ready to defend him from the mob if needed.

Kimber strode through the door confidently her soldiers flanking protectively, their hands hovering over their sheathed swords. The officer stopped half-way across the room and spoke in a commanding voice, “Any person not allied with this man here, should leave for their own safety.” Gesturing to the imposing bearded figure with one of her armor incased hands.

The room cleared quickly, none wanting to be present should a battle happen. Kimber shrewdly eyed the bearded man's companions and was shocked beyond words, Artanis the legendary elven gladiator was standing just to the side of the bearded man. Recalling a time in her younger years when she had just been another legionnaire soldier, her battalion had gotten the chance to see the gladiator fight in the mighty Colosseum in Vantia. Never had she imagined to meet him in person.

A deep menacing growl suddenly emanated from the floor, angling her eyes downward Kimber caught sight of a simply massive black hound staring challenging up at her. Resisting her now strong urge to back away from the savage creature she took a few careful steps around the beast and faced the bearded man, at that moment she also noticed a small woman sitting on the bar stool behind the towering men, Kimber was slightly perplexed as to why the woman hadn't fled, it didn't appear as if she was being forced to stay.

Now Kimber simply had to know who the bearded man was and why he had such unique company with him. Using her commanding tone she asked, “Who are you to oppose the King and the way he handles affairs?” Her piercing blue gaze giving nothing away.

Failure!

As the old man in front of Mertan stopped, Mertan could feel his heart sink. The crowd had dispersed, which meant that the cook soon would notice his ruined cabinet.
And legionaires now entered the room. Could his day get any worse.
When she asked all who were not alligned with the old man to leave, Mertan scurried to get out of there, but fell down from the podium, on which the bar was placed. His feet had worked faster than his brain, and he'd tumbled down, knocking down three chairs, and landing headfirst in what seemed to HAVE been a bowl of soup, although it was just a pool of mish-mash on the floor now. "O-ow." he stuttered.

He raised his head slightly, to look at the legionaires. Would they cut everyone of them down, for opposing the king? "E-e-excuse me ma'am." Mertan said, sounding very much like freightened child. "I think the king is great! Can I leave then?" His eyes were pleading for mercy.

He rose from where he'd fallen, and dusted himself off. "If it isn't too much of a problem of course..." he said, only barely getting the words out.
He could feel his legs shiver, and his clothes felt damp with all the sweat. He felt like an animal before it was slaughtered.
He began moving forward, ever so slightly, trying to get closer to the door. If he could get outside, then he'd travel along the highway, untill he got to a place he could study alone. He wasn't much of a people-person anyway, and solitude sounded nice, after all he'd been in for in this stupid town.

= Gamaliel Fureidis =

The night progressed noisily as most tavern occupants fled the scene at first chance. Moments before the cozy establishment had brimmed with life. This reversed relatively quickly as the mere presence of Rivian Legionaries frightened many Vantians to their wits. Those unfortunate enough to have remained farthest from the front bolted desperately through the kitchens as the opportunity presented itself. When the dust settled, an awe struck silence ensued, leaving few others besides the Legionaries and Gamaliel’s Guard. The only other occupants appeared in the form of a mass of dwarves, whom completely ignored the encounter as interest waned. They had no business meddling through a purely human affair, having acquired many centuries’ worth of hard earned wisdom as well as a stubbornness the human children continually seemed to lacked. Who blamed them? Human butchered each other for centuries, learning little despite committing continual grievances upon their own. More amusingly, though, as the officer strode forwards, his path altered worryingly at the behest of Artanis’ dog. Gamaliel painfully managed not to smirk, leaning over instead to send the champion a nod of appreciation. Upon finally confronting the chief centurion face to face, the retainer dipped his head respectfully.

“Good evening, Centurion,” he exclaimed, “Is there any matter from which I can assist you?”

“Who are you to oppose the King and the way he handles affairs?” the officer asked authoritatively.

“I’m uncertain what it is you speak of, but I can assure you, I committed no treason if this is what you inquire.”

"E-e-excuse me ma'am," uttered the young unkempt man, "I think the king is great! Can I leave then? If it isn't too much of a problem of course...""

The sudden and rapid appearance of another entity spelled the familiar arrival of Maximinius. His suspicious glare only provoked glares of equal vigor as the legionaries stood ready to fight.

“Leave the boy,” the royal officer asserted positioning beside his superior, “he stands alone in this matter and his associations lie elsewhere.”

As he spoke, the Feenikim Agrianikoi prepared for assembly until Gamaliel once again stood them down. The commander removed his helmet, revealing long flowing red hair and exposing the officer as … a woman. Gamaliel raised his brow quizzically, eyeing Artanis in slight perplexity at the newfound revelation. As he did, the stalwart officer shot a piercing regard in his direction, resulting in the return of an equally piercing stare of his own. He’d not recently encountered an officer of such imposing caliber, save perhaps one and as the thought presented itself, Gamaliel smiled calmly, sighing as attention fell upon his locket. His heart ached and for a moment, visions of blissful longing filled his head. Before his emotions frolicked any further, the retainer crossed his arms and exhaled, shaking his head in wonder.

The centurion’s unexpected arrivals surfaced many questions, instinctually provoking precautionary measures in the event of conflict. Something about this officer intrigued him, surfacing a familiarity he’d believed to have vanished long ago. Her demeanor, preparedness, curt authority, and youth also prompted a surge of interest from the leader and within the hour, they’d both agreed upon initiating a round of affairs.

Discussions seemed to prolong as Gamaliel pressed for details in an attempt to discern what exactly motivated Praetor Kimber. At first, he feared her presence might have originated through a crown sting operation, yet as talks progress he found the possibility of her involvement as a Rivian crown loyalist to seem increasingly daft. From what he could discern, she held no love towards the current Delryn regime and certainly did not inspect his character as suspiciously as a true crown agent would. By the end of their discussions, the matter had settled quite conclusively, integrating the Praetor and her men amongst Gamaliel’s. Quite frankly, the bearded leader still sought answers as to how determined Praetor Kimber really was and to what standards her men retained, but as he reflected further, he had ultimately concluded her importance could only reveal itself in time. The two had covered much over the course of an hour and though an uneasy tension still remained, a display of mutual collectivity prevailed before both parties. This established further through an agreeable hand shake between the two, substantially bolstering their pact.

“I shall cherish your company, Praetor Kimber, however uncertain it maybe. Pressing times lay ahead and you must prepare yourself for the unknown. We’ll speak again at first light, but for now, let us retire; our men require rest as I'm sure you would also. Should you feel informatively inclined, you know where to find me.”

Mertan was schocked, but scurried out of the door. But as if by a second thought, he felt an urge to just take a small peek at what was going on. Curiosity is a sign of intelligence... right? Or was it a sign of the lack of said thing...
Mertan moved up to the door, which for some reason wasn't closed. Hmmm, does that have anything to do with the fact that people had fled in panic?
He looked in, and watched the old man, and the centurion... centurioness? talk. Eventually it got boring though, so he decided to make his way out of town.

Quickly he found his donkey, saddled up and began riding out of town. No very quickly, but certainly faster than walking. As he moved out, the sun was setting over the country. Not that Mertan cared much for that. He wasn't scared of the dark. One of the few things he wasn't really nervous about anyways.
He moved out of the city-gate, just as the guards closed it off for the night. No merchants had been travelling much out of the gate the last couple of minutes, so why not close anyway?

The paved road he was following were well maintained and also well used. Many places he could see that there were broken cobblestones. The problem was, that the workers who should be fixing it, we're tryig to cope with the famine, by using more time on hunting and gathering than maintaining the roads.
Slowly but steadily, Mertan moved away from the city. He was urging his donkey though. The roaming beggars had a bad habbit of attacking travellers, and Mertan didn't feel like running into such people. Not that he wouldn't be able to fend off such a pair of starved devils, but a good idea is to never challenge fate.

As he got a long way away from the city, he slowed down, he had to find shelter. The best location for that was a grove of trees a good ways away.
Again he set up the pace, and soon he reached the small grove. It was rather peaceful. A single nightingale was giving all it's worth in the treetops, and a small waterhole could provide some... stagnant water. Although water none the less.

Mertan of course jumped down, and began preparing for the night. He tied the donkey to a tree, tugged out his sleepingroll and began gathering tinder for a small fire.
He just HAD to experiment with those assorted spices and ingredients he'd picked up.
But first thing first. He'd need fire and food before any experimenting.

Kimber was apprehensive about letting the un-kept looking young man go; after all there were very few female centurions and the youth had seen right through her masculine façade. If word of her survival reached the wrong ears it would make traveling for her and her group dangerous.
In the end it was best to make a good impression upon the bearded man and his followers; she nodded and allowed the boy to leave.

Removing her helm had a predictable result among the remaining people; even the bearded man seemed surprised at her appearance when a smile came to his face, Kimber knew she still retained her beauty and ability to catch men’s eyes. Looking to Artanis the elven gladiator she was unable to tell whether he was surprised or not to see a female Praetor. He did lift one elegant eyebrow, but that could mean a number of things.

Turning back to the bearded man, she offered they both sit and discuss certain subjects further. Kimber had her legionnaires remain by the door, then lowering her voice so only the two could hear one another. Kimber proceeded delicately with the negotiations taking the better part of an hour; she provided enough information to Gamaliel for him to trust her with a place in his retinue and both gave promises to each other.

Rising from her seat, she shook Gamaliel’s hand indicating their mutual agreement to join forces with Kimber’s gold thrown in to make their travels easier. Kimber actually graced Gamaliel with one of her rare smiles. He had given her a reason to hope for the future of Riv’nar.

“I shall cherish your company, Praetor Kimber, however uncertain it may be. Pressing times lay ahead and you must prepare yourself for the unknown. We’ll speak again at first light, but for now, let us retire; our men require rest as I'm sure you would also. Should you feel informatively inclined, you know where to find me.”

“I agree, we must rest for the night and will continue talks tomorrow.” Kimber replied.

As time past and the decisions between both of the captains took place. The elven warrior stared at the defected Riv'nar soldiers with a piercing glare. The expression given was hard to measure as hostile or inviting but certainly one that gave the impression to not dare draw steel and provoke a battle if their lives held any value to them. Restraint was exercised in keeping the rage of excitement from over taking his actions. He's reaction to the Riv'nar captain sliding the helmet off and revealing the features of a female did surprise Artanis to degrees more than others but was only acknowledged with a sly smirk across his face. Female warriors always had amused Artanis and they made some of the most interesting companions to travel with.

Only a small tone of their conversation was picked up by the pointed ears of the elven champion, but nothing but a muffled sound could be determined and not notable words. He had been standing at the bar the entire time, no moving from his position nor had the black mangy dog, and just kept a glaring fixated stare at the Riv'nar soldiers. It almost could be considered a form of taunting with a smirk of amusement that their captain is a woman, who are generally regarded as weaklings, but it was her capabilities in battle that perked his interest more than her gender's physical features.

Once, both Gamaliel and Kimber stood, Artanis exchanged eyes with the female captain and then back at the bearded man. Artanis had no intention of joining either of them in an exchange of words at a later date. His desire to travel and fight the kingdom's strongest warriors was the only obsession he had with his newly acquired freedom.

Turning to Gamaliel, Artanis grinned at the man before speaking in his thunderous voice that almost seemed to sound like the voice that would command the heavens themselves, “I shall make my presence absent and continue with my business across the great lands of Riv'nar.” with a nod being given to the man before Artanis unfolded his arms and started climbing his way to the door as each step was claimed and then forgotten. The boots slapped and slammed against the wooden floor loudly, suggesting the warrior's weight also suggested a commanding respect of strength behind them.

Boots hit the cooled dirt ground and air collected against the body's skin to transform into a moisture of sweat beads that roll down the cheeks and become absorbed into the clothing. It was a humid night but also comfortable with the rolling waves of cool breezes gusting through the empty streets of Vantia. It was peaceful, calm, and very orderly. It was the city that Artanis spent many of his years in. Fighting for the amusement of others.

A bark from the black dog, on Artanis' side, shook the warrior back to reality as the animal was given a quick glare from its master. A nod was given as though the two can read each of their minds. Artanis looked down both directions of the street and saw only some dim street lights illuminating the walk ways for late night city guards.