Road to the Crucible

[Korax]

Within a large tent, seated about a crackling fire was a small grouping of three men. Each was sitting cross legged, hands bound behind their backs. The first and largest of the three was named Khyber, a large Iridonian male, older than the other two but not by more than a decade. Khyber meant unchanging, and this suited him well enough. He was tired, but used to the hard work. A few of the horns on his brow were cracked from time and work, his countenance was that of a man who'd seen more than his share over the years. The fire felt good to him, warming his cold bones, readying him for the hard road ahead. He was not new to the path that lay before the other two.

The second was the smallest of the three and a human, named Zeatur for his speed and sharp tongue. This man was relatively new to the concept place before him and was quite unsure of himself. He hid those shortcomings by means of wit and sarcasm, traits that often got he and his brethren on the wrong side of the whip. The fire to him inspired an uneasiness, it could hurt and burn, leaving scars that would certainly mar him for years to come.

The third, was named Corax. A human as well, named for his fondness of the highlands where the avian sharing his namesake could be found. He too was new to what was going to be happening, but unlike Zeatur was quite ready to meet it head on. A test remained for the three of them and he believed himself well suited to take it in hand. Where Khyber would surpass him in strength, he would be quicker. Where Zeatur would surpass him in wit, he would be wiser. He would be better than whatever he faced by using the gifts he was granted at birth. Corax got to this place because he knew how to win. Winning the Nightsisters games, winning their favor, anything. Corax knew how to come out on top both literally and figuratively. The fire to him meant the unnecessary would be burned away and he would be forged into something greater.

"You look troubled." Khyber spoke to Zaetur, noting his brother's unsettled countenance.

"I am fine Khyber. You look old."

"I am."

Corax smiled, noting the picking had already begun. "We've a long day tomorrow, you two are starting the fight before then?" He said, goading them on just a little more. Khyber smiled at Corax and spoke. "No matter what happens tomorrow brothers, we hold on to the bond that has kept us kindred for so long."

Zaetur frowned, his blonde hair falling over his eyes as he leaned forward. "Easy for you to say old man. You've been here before, done all this. We are new to the testing."

Khyber nodded, knowing that what Zaetur spoke was true. "Fair. But keep in mind that you are here because you show promise, of all our brothers we three have made it this far."

A flap of animal skin parted and a woman stepped through, the three men turned to look and see if she brought new word of their circumstances. She did in fact, and made known the decree they would obey.

"Rest tonight, here, tomorrow in the morn you each are submitted before the tribe council. There you are tested in the last rites to see who will represent us at the crucible. Eat your fill and make ready, the proving starts at dawn break." She leaned forward and unbound each with a small knife, allowing them move about within the tent. After doing so, she left them to their own devices. Corax wasted little time in filling a bowl with the stew that'd been left for them over the fire. Khyber too grabbed up a bowl and waited his turn to serve himself. Zaetur waited and sighed, lamenting his position.

"We are to be thrown to the wolves and devoured."

Corax lifted a brow but said nothing, opting instead to fill his mouth with the stew. Khyber of course, spoke in his quiet, slate like tone. "Let the morrow worry about itself. Eat tonight."

Zaetur sighed once more as if the weight of the world were upon his shoulders, reluctantly grabbing his own bowl and serving of stew. With a mouthful of meat and broth muffling his speech, Corax spoke up.

"Worry not trickster. You'll not make it past the first proving."

Zaetur grinned, seeing Corax's goading for what it was. "And you will then? You'll be too drunk off your own self importance to perform!"

"I perform just fine, and do so on a regular basis. Ask your sister...and mother. They are still on the council I think."

"Save it for the morrow. Eat." Khyber interrupted.

So they ate, and ate their fill, wasting no more talk on one another as Khyber wished. The following day held enough challenges for each, Khyber approaching it from the standpoint of a wiser combatant, Zaetur still in fear of his own well being, and Corax, who was so very sure of himself. This was the first step towards his freedom, and he could taste it as if it were the stew that passed through his lips.

[Megaera]

Prior to the departure of the enslaved men, and warrior daughters, leaving behind Aurilia for the Selection, seeking to prove their worth in the Crucible Arena, one Nightsister was already leaving. She was being taken away from her home to an unknown destination, to be put through a trial of her own. Megaera was the student, and daughter, of a great witch. She would make Matier proud.

It was the second time she had been before the women who would be testing her. She had seen them as a child, and they had terrified and fascinated her. She rode beside them now. Not on her rancor. Her beast had been left behind regrettably, a detail of the trial. Rather, she rode astride a Dathomiri horse, beside the covered litter that housed three of the oldest Nightsisters Megaera had ever seen. Greatly aged women who wore their shock-white hair long and unkempt. They wore matching shroud-like dresses of black, and to the untrained eye, they each looked quite a bit alike. Magda, the Shaman. Avarice, once a champion and truthsayer, and Helebor an Elder Clan Mother. Each had papery thin skin stretched over brittle bones. Their eyes were a bruised ruin, speaking of the substantial amount of power each of them held sway over. Their bruises were honor markings. The Nightbrothers paid their tribute to this mark by tattooing their faces.

"Well? We're going to be a while, Daughter of Matier." Avarice said with a scowl.

"Yes, you might as well speak. Tell us of your knowledge of the Book.", Helebor bade her.

"She's a Wanderer, Hel. A fairly accomplished one. Ask her about that!" Magda, hooted from her dark corner.

Megaera knew that she could never hide anything from these women. They already knew everything about her, either from her Mother, or by reading it in her eyes. They were quite skilled, these old crones.

"Crones!" Avarice, shuffled forward, reading the thought in her mind.

"Sister! Did you hear what she called us?", Magda wailed at Helebor.

"Enough!" Helebor snapped at her two companions. "We are Crones. Now let her speak."

"I have been working with my divination since the last time I saw you, Honored Mothers.", Megaera tried to keep a lid on her thoughts and focus on the respect she had for these women. "I have accomplished many new charms and curses, they have all been successful. Also..", Megaera's green eyes met Magda's at the back of the little covered carriage. "I have been able to progress in divination, and am now able to see events at great distance. With the help of Matier I have also learned how to shed my soul from my body and fare forth."

While they hissed and whispered to each other, mostly having a telepathic conversation that Megaera was not invited to, she kept her eyes on the road ahead of them. Before they had arrived, these women will have devised a trial tailored to her, playing to her strength, and weakness.

[Chrysothemis]

The sun had not yet risen, but there were soft noises beginning to thread through the air. Aurilia was beginning to wake to the day, slaves to their tasks, Sisters to their duties, and some, to preparation. It was a Selection day.

The Crucible would thunder with voices, limbs, and weapons, rising in concert to gain favor among those assembled. Nightbrothers would fight to survive and be chosen. Sisters would attempt to prove themselves ready for warrior status, to bring honor to their Mother and Clan, or shame and derision if they failed.

It was to such a purpose that Chrysa awoke this morning. Hunger threaded its way through each of her sense, but she did not allow it to mar her morning routine. In a thin, short sleeping shift, she emerged from her warm bedding and stretched with crimson eyes half-lidded. The last vestiges of a dream still lingered in her mind, the echoes of the Fanged God’s voice in all of its sibilant glory scraped across the inside of her skull.

If it were any other Sister, she mused, they’d have begun to clamor to the others about every detail, in the hopes of deriving a boost to their status. But Chrysa did not. She reveled in the pain the Fanged God granted to her, and savored every precious moment of it. It was not to be shared, not even with Megaera, and that was his directive. And who was she to argue with the gods? She was, however, quite certain that her best friend would most certainly understand when she was finally permitted to explain.

Chrysa nestled her pot of water in the banked fire to warm for tea while she took a few minutes to see to her ‘pets’. A pair of purboles nestled in a large covered basked mounted to the wall near her bed, both of which clambered to the opening and chirped as she passed them. Neyr and Saya purred in their odd little way as she touched their tiny heads and then gave them each a piece of fruit. She continued past them and around the circular space to the back door. It was, in reality, the first of two doors, with the additional square space between them used for storage.

Tea leaves were retrieved and dropped into the now simmering pot, steeping while she cast a critical eye to the things she’d laid out the evening before. Soft leather pants (http://www.polyvore.com/chrysa_crucible/set?id=49898286) and sleeveless leather top, both in brown leather and crafted to fit her like a second skin. Flexible gauntlets were next, also in leather, that she had made herself after much trial and error. Her swords (http://i49.tinypic.com/2zodc0y.jpg), polished and gleaming as if newly-forged, were resting nearby. Waiting to be drawn. To be used.

To be sheathed in flesh and emerge dressed in blood. It would be glorious.

The young woman didn’t think she’d ever looked forward to something quite so much. A smile that could only be termed wicked curled her lips as she sipped her tea and began her preparations. Chrysa gathered everything up and made her way out to the where the rancors were kept. Still in her shift, she called out for her mount and was rewarded with a momentous roar. Sel’tur knew well what today heralded, and was as eager as her rider to begin.

She didn’t bother with a saddle, she simply nudged her rancor with her mind. Sel’tur snorted atop her head, a tender gesture for the fabled vicious monster, before offering a clawed hand to lift her up. Off to the river they went, where the young woman finished her preparations with a bath, some of the ample soap-root at the river’s edge smashed on a rock as tradition dictated. Raven locks were bound back with woven leather strands, and then braided together neatly. Were Meg there, Chrysa mused, she’d have insisted on doing something intricate and decorative, instead of merely functional.

Chrysa dressed, and donned her gauntlets as Sel’tur snacked on a ssurian. By the time the rancor had finished and then drunk from the river, the young woman was ready. Dawn had broken around them as Domir rose in the east, lighting the way.

[Korax]

Morning had come. Khyber was awake already and reciting a personal mantra of sorts. His activies caused Korax to stir earlier than he' would have liked. Zaetur still slumbered, unaware that the day was nearing its beginning.

"What are you doing, are you praying old man?" Korax groaned as he leaned up from his bedding, rubbing his eyes. Blurred vision quickly focused on the large iridonian who was going about some sort of ritual.

"No. I am preparing myself for the proving, as should you."

"I slept prepared, I awaken just the same. I need not split my tongue to gain some measure of favor."

Khyber ignored the impertinence and went about his ritual. It was about the time Korax stood to his feet and stretched that a pair of night sisters arrived. Each was painted well and clad in their ceremonial robes, various beads and other accoutrements affixed to their bodies by means of binding or piercing. The taller of the two spoke first, waking Zaetur with her bellowing summons.

"The time for the proving has come. Follow now." She opened the loose animal skin and let in the morning light. Zaetur snapped to attention and rolled out of his bedding quickly, falling in line behind Korax. Khyber rose in his slow manner and lead the way outside. Once out of the tent they waited for the sisters to lead the way to the proving grounds where they would be judged. The rhythmic beat of hide covered drums could be heard in the distance, with each step the beat grew louder, as did the seriousness of the situation. Finally the trickster could take no more.

"Old man." Zaetur whispered over Korax's shoulder, who in turn decided to ignore the smaller man's pestering for now.

"Now is not the time Zaetur."

"What are we to expect today?"

"I would not tell you before, I will not tell you now. You must be ready for anything, that is what makes the proving pure. You will be judged, as will I, just the same."

"But...I" *OOF* A sharp elbow to Zaetur's midriff let him know that Korax had enough of his whining. The spit gathering over his shoulder did nothing to ease his mood. The three, lead by the two sisters, finally reached a long panel of elder witches. The mothers of the tribe and the leader all sat atop their chairs fashioned of wood and pelt. Each ranged in age from mid twenties to late seventies depending on their station within the tribe. The beating of drums that escorted the men as they walked finally came to a stop as they took their place, waiting for word from the council before them.

"Today. One of you will be chosen to represent this tribe in the crucible. It is an honor to have made it this far, bend your knee to the Clan mother." An attractive forty something year old council member spoke loudly for all to hear, her name was Nys'tyss the Cold. She was second in command of this tribe, and spoke on behalf of the council today. Her staff, girded with bone and blade, swept low indicating the three men should take their place and make themselves low now. Zaetur of course was the first to bend, second and slower due to age was Khyber. Korax of course did not bend his knee to her yet. A simple nod to one of the sisters who'd escorted him here was all it took. A lash was unfurled and it struck him across the back of his legs. He did not scream, but most certainly did wince. Nys'tyss smiled, bearing her dirty teeth.

"Now Korax. Kneel."

"As you wish." He replied, nodding and finally taking his knee. This man was the type that liked to test things, even if it meant pain and punishment. He knew they would not kill him now, and wanted to see how far he could push them. This proving was important enough to warrant only a lash, and that meant he understood his limitations. Such an act of defiance would normally end in a severed limb.

"This year, we depart from our normal rules for the proving. You will instead only have one chance to prove you are the right individual to represent this clan. You will each be bound by your right arm by a length of rope, and tied to a post. The last man standing is our chosen one."

Khyber sighed, but kept his lament internal. Korax grinned, thinking this better than he had hoped for. Zaetur was suddenly afraid, knowing he'd gotten this far by using his wit and lythe movement. It would do him little good now if he was tethered to his aggressor, or so he thought. Nys'tyss stepped forward and lifted her staff, planting it firmly to the mealy earth.

"Speak Khyber. Say your peace before your adversaries and before your masters." He wasted no time in addressing the sisters formally.

"I am Khyber, this is my third rite of proving for the Crucible. You have seen my face before, and know my charge well. While the change in rules saddens me I will finally prove myself worthy of the title you give." In previous years, those who were not selected were not prohibited from attempting again, and it so happened that Khyber was a fierce enough competitor to get another chance. Nys'tyss purposefully bypassed Korax, waving her hand instead to Zaetur.

"I am Zaetur...I will...I..."

"Hush dog." Nys'tyss cracked her staff over Zaetur's exposed knuckles, immediately noting his weakness and fear. Finally she strode back to Korax and waved at him.

"Speak Korax."

"I have nothing to say."

"Petulant child. Why do you mock your council?"

"You misunderstand. I have nothing to say, not because I wish to mock you, but because I prefer to speak with action. You will see me today, and that will be enough."

Pleasantly surprised, Nys'tyss was sated by his answer and returned to her place on the council, seating herself next to the clan mother.

"Bind them." She shouted, pointing to the pole some fifty paces to the council's front. "...and we will see how loud your actions speak, Korax."

[Chrysothemis]

It was a journey she'd made before, on several occasions. Whether accompanying her Sisters as a spectator or as an attendant to the Mother. Even with Sel'tur moving along at a good clip, Chrysa estimated that it would take just over an hour to arrive at the Crucible.

It would afford her plenty of time to think.

The young woman sighed, a hand absently patting Sel'tur on the head as the rancor rumbled. As far as the clan had come, she knew well that she wasn't truly accepted or wanted. Were it not for Matier's favor and the status it granted her, she'd have been cast out as an exile long ago. Crimson eyes and flame-hued skin did not mark her as belonging to any of the clans. It branded her instead as something to be wary of and whispered about.

Rumors had floated around Chrysa for as long as she could remember. Some of them outlandish, others cruel, others still were simply too preposterous to even repeat with amusement. Her flame-hued skin, however, was thick, and the barbs did little injury that was visible. When your earliest memories were of raised voices and striking hands, being pushed away from the central fire and cowering in cast-offs in the cold, you had little else for choice.

Someday, she mused, revenge would be hers, and the Red Hills Clan would be summarily wiped off the face of Dathomir.

But for now, Chrysa needed to gather her thoughts to a more proper path. Selection was not to be taken lightly. She needed to prove to the elders that she was ready for the warrior status she coveted, that she’d learned well their teachings, and could not put them into practice. It would be the first step of many, and a first step that would cement her place in Aurilia. It would give her a voice at the Mother’s fire, autonomy, and even the right to choose a slave if she wished.

That last part saw a pained expression mar her features. She did wish it, if she were going to be honest with herself. Watching Megaera with Tristan all these months had been bordering on excruciating. It had given rise to a streak of cruelty she previously hadn’t known she’d possessed, with words and actions tormenting the man endlessly. She just couldn’t help herself…he made such an easy target, and even Meg had joined her in the torment on occasion.

There was nothing else about Megaera that gave rise to her normally non-existent jealousy. They’d been raised together since the day Matier had adopted Chrysa into the Clan. Their abilities and personalities were so radically different, yet if she could have chosen a true-sister, she’d have asked for Meg in a heartbeat. But then the spirits had granted Tristan to her, and it left Chrysa to wonder where she had gone wrong.

She shook her head, letting her crimson eyes slide open at last. Her thoughts were still scattered to the four winds as the distant sounds of the arena reached her ears. They were close now, and Sel’tur rumbled a response to a greeting from another rancor that caught wind of them up ahead.

Chrysa said nothing as they approached; merely giving a polite incline of her head to the Sisters as she passed. She slid from Sel’tur’s back as they reached the appointed spot, her swords and bundle clasped in her arms. Her rancor rumbled with concern, enough so that she set her things down and embraced the fierce predator’s head as it lowered. They were two of a kind, she thought with pride, unwanted offspring who bonded faster than any Nightsister and her mount ever had before.

//Bathe in the blood of your enemies. Your glory will bring pride and status to Aurilia and the Mother.//

Sel’tur’s voice rumbled in her mind and brought a wicked smile to her features. //From your mind to the Fanged God’s ears, ussta byr kitrye.// Chrysa sent gently back, gathering her things and joining the flow of Nightsisters entering the Crucible.

It was still as impressive a sight today as it had been the first time she’d attended, some few years ago. The arena itself was massive, the tiers around it slowly filling with spectators as the Elders filed in to their designated seats of honor. There could be multiple tests going on at once if properly spaced between the light-posts. Absently, she glanced around for a familiar face and found none.

Chrysa could not see the contingent from Aurilia, but had no doubt they were there. She was not the only one to be tested that day. Tristan was also due to take part in the Selection, to finally make himself worthy of Megaera. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be allowed to remain. And while she’d dearly love to see the bastard exiled or killed, she knew how much it would hurt Megaera if it were to come to pass.

A horn sounded, a quick succession of three tones signaling those who were to take part to approach. Chrysa set her things down and stepped down to the arena floor with only her swords in hand. Her bare feet made little sound as she came to stand before the Elders, her chest rising and falling as she breathed in deep. The air was cool, but bore the taste of blood already.

A good sign, Chrysa thought, standing tall and proud in spite of the snickers and comments she could hear already.

“Chrysothemis, stand for the Test of Fury.” One of the Elders’ voices boomed as it rolled through the syllables of her given name, the gesture of a wizened hand pointing her toward a circle of waiting Nightbrothers.

Five of them waited, silent and brooding, watching her intently as she slipped silently into the center. Chrysa turned slowly, meeting each of their gazes, sizing them up with a moment’s observation. Making a mental note of their weapons and how each was muscled. She paused, staring at one in particular for longer than she’d looked at the others. Fierce and almost savage-looking compared to the others, she decided that he would present the greatest challenge.

A wicked smile lit her features as she breathed deep, allowing her senses to roam free as she waited for the signal to begin.

[Tristan Alastor]

“What of the princeling?” a voice asked, stretching out the sss at the centre of the word.

Tristan did not move, did not respond to the question. He stood as the last of a line of slaves, displayed before the leaders of the tribe like the wares on a hawkers stall.

It was the final evening before the Selection. By the time Domir rose over the horizon, a handful of slaves would be given the chance to shed their shackles and claim the title of Nightbrother. Each in turn was considered by the tribes' leaders who measured their worth. If they chose to do so, a tribe could send all of its slaves to be tested by the Crucible – but they did not. Many would die and each death would be a stain on the reputation of the tribe. Only the most promising would take part in the Selection.

“A handsome specimen,” a second voice observed, musingly.

“Make a breeder of him, if he has the stamina,” another offered with a wheeze of laughter.

“What do you think to that, princeling?”

Tristan lifted his gaze, just a fraction. A broad fire stood between the slaves and the tribes leaders. The witches sat on a raised platform, the flames a burning veil between them and the inferior males. The others who stood to his left had been acknowledged already. Some were questioned, others dismissed outright, yet all were made to stand until the last judgement had been passed. For those who had been chosen, it was a chance to glimpse what kind of competition lay head. For those who had been denied the chance to prove their worth, it was a humiliation.

It could be both, Tristan thought as he forced himself to keep his eyes on the dancing flames, not the women who sat behind them. Perhaps it was the heat, but he thought he could feel the hatred of the men who stood beside him, men who had been denied the opportunity that an outsider would be given. Men who had been born and raised on Dathomir, the sons of Nightsisters, turned away in favour of Megaera's pet.

Prince of nothing, they called him, but he could become more. More than a title, more than a pawn. More than the fate handed to him upon birth.

Given the choice to languor in decadent courts of his homeworld, or to challenge the fates for another throw – a better throw – against his destiny...

There was no choice.

[Megaera]

The progression was not a fast one. The litter's horse, which curiously was not being led by a driver, just pulled instinctively toward their destination it seemed. Megaera thought it best to inquire later when they were in a better mood, and then she mentally cursed as she recalled they could hear her thoughts, and then mentally apologized for being so disrespectfully rude. Either they were appeased with her prompt contriteness, or they had not been paying her any attention. So she put the thought from her mind entirely.

As they rode on, she was becoming hopelessly lost. Just when she was certain she knew either where they were, or where they might be heading, nothing looked at all familiar. Domir was in the wrong place, or she was. Squinting against the light, she shielded her eyes with a hand trying to gauge how long they had been traveling.

"Give up, child." Avarice called from behind her.

Megaera slowed her mount, and waited for the rolling cart to pass before her. Avarice, aged as she was, was sharpening a sacrificial blade with a stone. Megaera just looked at her.

"It's not for you, Daughter of Matier.", the Elder said of the blade, with a sinister smile. "Stop trying to find your way. You are not meant to know where you are. You waste your time foolishly."

"Forgive my impatience, Honored Mother.", Megaera apologized. "I am eager to begin the rituals."

"Yes, we know.", cackled Magda, as she sat working a length of cord between her gnarled old hands binding some spell, empowering it with each knot, and there were several. "You..", she pointed at Megaera, "..want to shed your flesh and go check on Tristan."

As the daughter of a Clan Mother, and on her way to becoming a powerful witch herself, she should be abashed that these Elders knew who he was. What she was doing because of him. All of it, read in a glance in her eyes. Her mind was bare before them. The problem was, she did not feel guilty about any of it. Under the instruction of Matier, she had performed a ritual, beseeching the Mists for something very specific, and They had brought her Tristan. She would do what she had to do.

"Relax, Megaera.", Helebor said after a long uncomfortable moment of silence. This Elder was not about any task presently. She sat with her hands folded just watching Meg with an inscrutable gaze. "We know. It does not need to be a problem. Are you prideful enough to believe yourself the first Nightsister ever to scorn tradition for want of a man? It happens. Some of them are surprising."

Avarice snorted.

The ride progressed on in relative silence. Megaera was so relieved she did not have to expend any more energy trying to conceal her motivation for this trial. The reason did not matter to the Mothers. If everything that she had put into motion came to fruition, that alone would be a worthy accomplishment. There was more to do though, and there was nothing to discuss.

As they arrived, just in sight of the glowing mouth of a torch-lit cave, the litter pitched to one side as a wheel burrowed into a rut in the dirt. The horse stopped instantly. Fearful the elderly women had been roughly jostled, Megaera rode back to check on them.

"We're fine.", Helebor assured her. Someone is already coming after us. You go ahead. We'll be along."

The other two nodded, and Megaera bowed to their wishes. She dismounted at the mouth of the cave, which steamed with natural heat. Leaving behind the horse, Megaera entered without looking back.

[Korax]

With hands bound by a rope of seven strands each man faced off, one eying the other carefully, each keeping watch of every subtle motion and movement. Predictably Zaetur was the first to act, attempting to use his length of rope to bind Korax, putting the larger men at odds with one another. Both quickly picked up on this and turned the tables, Korax turning swiftly and stepping over the room to keep his ankles free of being bound, and Khyber who rushed Zaetur. The larger Iridonian caught up his foe in a mighty bear hug and squeezed the breath out of him. Korax used this moment to rush them both, kicking out Khyber's knees from underneath him so that both men would plummet to the ground. Zaetur managed to scramble loose and lash out at Korax, stepping upon Khyber's wide chest on his way up. Khyber in turn grabbed Zaetur's ankle and twisted it swiftly, causing the man to shout in pain and plummet face into the dust. Another swift kick from Korax to Zaetur's ribs put the smaller of the three down for the count. Less than five minutes into the melee and a combatant had been eliminated. A stamp of Nys'tyss staff haulted the competition and allowed for Zaetur's fallen body to be removed. She spoke out with a measure of grim satisfaction.

"We had no doubt it would be the two of you." Smirking, Nys'tyss waved her hand to both Korax and Khyber, issuing her new decree.

"To the death."

"What?" Khyber turned snarling, "That is not the way things are done!"

"You attempt to correct me on the rules which you must abide? It is to the death Khyber, be glad your tenure earns you this right. Both you and the other have tested my patience too much this day. Now fight, or share your brother's fate in the belly of my pet." There was no question of her seriousness, her pet, D'than was a large and hungry bull rancor who when given a task, was unstoppable. Khyber groaned and turned his gaze back to Korax.

"I am sorry brother, but I cannot die today." Korax in turn smiled, curling his brow low he replied in like fashion.

"Nor can I brother."

"One of us must, and it will not, be, me!" Khyber charged his companion while shouting his intent, much in the way he had rushed Zaetur. Korax was ready and braced himself against Khyber's powerful shoulders, the two colliding like a pair of Gormak's vying for territory. As they struggled, a pair of stone handled daggers were tossed into their proximity, weapons with which to kill one another with. For now, they were ignored as both men quite literally had their hands full. Khyber's power began to overcome Korax, his brute strength pushing his adversary down to one knee.

"I...am sorry." Khyber's apologies fell on deaf ears. No doubt he was sincere, for that was the type of man he was, but Korax would have none of it, not now. With all his might he shrugged the Iridonian's large hands free of his frame and dashed each arm aside outward. His right boot pressed hard to the mealy earth and gave Korax enough traction to stand back up, the crown of his skull meeting against the bridge of Khyber's nose. Khyber recoiled and spat dark blood, opening his eyes long enough to see the next strike coming... his muscular frame absorbed a series of punches to the gut and ribs, the swift assault ending with a deep kick to the Iridonian's middle. Korax's opponent was down, holding his gut and groaning in pain. Korax turned about and retrieved the pair of daggers, holding them high and pointing to the council. They would have their trophy to hang, and he would be their representative.

A foot turned old Khyber to his back, and Korax knelt at his side, pressing one of the daggers to his throat.

"How sorry are you now old friend?" Korax grinned, looking Khyber in the eye while waggling the other dagger above him.

"Do it then. Kill me and take your place as their whore."

"Hmph. So grim you are old man." The free dagger shaved but a chip of Khyber's horned crown away, causing one of the spikes to be freed of its place on his head. The old man winced, noting that he was still alive as Korax stood and stepped away from him.

"Here is proof of my victory, you have seen it, now you can show it to others. The old man wears his defeat on his brow now, and you have something to hang on your staff." Korax lobbed the horned spike at the council's feet and grinned. "I am your champion."

Nys'tyss stood looking utterly unamused, at the same moment Korax cut free his bindings and Khybers, helping the Iridonian up to his feet.

"You were told to kill." She said, not mincing her words for a moment. "You disobey me again, and again. You should be put to death for this."

"He is our champion...he cannot be killed now." An elder crone croaked her dissaproval at Nys'tyss, who in turn spun about swiftly and snapped back. "I KNOW!" A few quiet moments passed before she turned her attentions back to Korax who had tossed the daggers provided to the ground. Khyber stood beside him and awaited the word of their betters.

"You are entitled to all the spoils the champion of our tribe deserves." She strode down from her elevated place and stepped before both men, calling one of the daggers to he hand using unseen mystical power. She clutched it before them and looked over the blade, her eyes drifting between each of them. "Khyber," she said, "You have attempted this several times now and victory still escapes you."

"It does. I will make ready for the next year and..."

The old man's deceleration was cut short, the dagger with which Korax was to kill him had found its mark, made possible by Nys'tyss hand. Cold steel penetrated his heart, a twist of the hilt sealed his fate. Korax stepped back and growled in disapproving manner.

"You will not." Her ice cold stare turned once more to Korax, she saw only anger and hatred in his eyes, but no compassion for his fallen brother. That intrigued her. Khyber fell to his fate and left the mortal coil, his work for their tribe at its end.

"I said to the death did I not."

"..." Korax held his tongue though he wished to speak his anger loud enough for all to hear. His curses for her remained in the confines of his mind.

"Ahhh....I see you for what you are now boy. You hate me so...so much." He did, infact, for countless reasons at that very moment.

"Good. Remember that hate when you fight for our honor. For now, your spoils await you, you will share my bed tonight. Tomorrow, we travel to the crucible."

"To hell with that. I choose my own rewar..." Nys'tyss clutched him by the throat and pressed the dagger's tip to his belly.

"You are mine do you hear me? You have no choice in the matter. Be content that I choose this rather than your disembowelment. Make yourself ready, I intend to not sleep this night."

Cackling she tossed him back with curious and unpredictable strength, Korax fell to Khyber's side and groaned. "I am the one who is sorry now, brother." A hand upon Khyber's wound was Korax's goodbye. He patted his old friend and stood, rubbing Khyber's dark blood over the same area of his chest where the Iridonian had been stabbed. The same women who had escorted the three of them there appeared to escort the sole survivor to another tent, one where food and drink were plentiful. A pity though, that Korax was not in the mood to eat or drink anything. There was only one thing on his mind...and that was murder.

[Chrysothemis]

The arena was far from quiet. But for all the noise the Sisters and their attendants created, she could not hear any of it. Her awareness had narrowed to her immediate vicinity - to her five sturdy opponents. Each of them, like her, had something to prove, and really, it was much the same. Do well and survive, you bring honor to your clan and to yourself. Fail, or shame them in any way, and that would be the end of the line.

She stood there motionless, breathing deep as the darkness slowly rumbled through her veins. Her crimson gaze flickered, something nameless stirring in their depths until the men grew tired of waiting. Chrysa heard the fire whip before she felt it leave a burning strip across her bare lower back. A sibilant hiss of pleasure emerged past her lips, deepening to a gasp as the whip struck again, this time curling over her hip, adding the smell of burnt leather to scorched skin.

The fire in her gaze flared as she whirled in place, falling to her knees as she moved forward and slid across the sand, the fire whip snapping in the air just above her. Her movement was unexpected, but the wielder was well-trained, leaping back out of range of her curved blades. A jet of sand arced out from her feet as she swept them out from underneath her, obscuring his vision long enough for her to spring to her feet in a graceful motion.

He was quick...she’d have to give him that. The whip was slithering towards her as the sand fell to the ground, wrapping around her waist as she stepped directly into its path. A dark, nearly inhuman growl rumbled up from her throat as the pain set into her senses, setting the fire in her eyes to an inferno. The metal of her swords flashed as they slid by one another and severed the whip inches from its handle - a moment before they came together in his neck. It sent a gush of blood into the air, casting a shower of gem-like droplets over her as she kicked his body away, his severed head balanced precariously on the flat of her blades.

A sick, cruel smile slid across her features as she tossed the head into the first tier of spectators, splattering a dozen Sisters with gore before landing in one of their laps. Chrysa spun and dove to the right, dislodging the severed whip alongside bits of burned skin as she avoided the tandem attack of two more of the Nightbrothers. One, sporting two short lengths of barbed chain, and the second with a long knife that had more undulations than a viper.

The one with the long knife was quickly dispatched as he stumbled, and one of Chrysa’s blades was sheathed to the hilt in his chest with a sigh of pleasure falling past her lips. Whether the pain was her own or another’s, it brought her unimaginable pleasure and power. Though, the greatest power came when the pain was her own.

She left her sword gleaming in the fallen man’s chest, flipping the second into her right hand as she turned to the stocky man wielding the chains. It was an interesting choice for a weapon, and not one she’d seen employed before. The barbs would bite deep into unsuspecting flesh and tear out morsels of it as they pulled back. She took a moment to glance down, at the strips of burned and bleeding flesh that adorned her waist as she tossed her other sword aside.

Head tilted, Chrysa gazed at the man with the chains as she approached, gliding across the sand on the arena floor. The movement was fluid, almost graceful with its purely predatory intent. The man lashed out with his chains in a practiced motion, both snapping forward towards her in almost whip-like fashion. Stepping between them, she raised her gauntleted hands and allowed the chains to sink their barbs deep as they stole around her wrists. The leather bore the brunt of the metal as her fingers took hold between a set of barbs. Her feet planted in the sand, the darkness welled up and flooded her veins, drawing a feral growl from deep in her chest. The darkness granted her the strength to pull him off of his feet and swing him into a stone pillar, his back shattering in a salvo of cracks.

The chains dropped from her hands, leaving her gauntlets scarred and fingers scraped raw from the rough metal. The young woman called her swords to her hands with a thought, tongue darting out to lick the blood now staining her lips. There were two men left, two lithe warriors who bore the scars of their training alongside the brand of their Clan. It was an insignia she knew well, one that she’d had bruised and beaten into her flesh as a child.

They belonged to the Red Hills Clan, and their identical features marked them as sons of the Clan Leader, Revenna. One did not forget the woman who had made her childhood the blackest of nightmares. And Chrysa certainly hadn’t forgotten what Revenna had encouraged her sons to do her as she sat by and watched.

The pair moved in near-perfect symmetry, sword tips trailing in the sand as they circled around her, their taunts echoing in her ears. Reminding her. Forcing to remember as if she had ever been able to forget.

She stood with her feet shoulder-width apart, her right slightly forward. Back straight as she tightened her grip on her swords, holding the hilts with the blades parallel to the ground, one in front of her and the other behind her. Chrysa watched them come closer and move apart so that one was behind her and out of her range of vision.

They attacked as one, closing in with a speed she’d not have given them credit for in the past. Clearly, they had learned...but so too, had she. Her curved blades flashed as they met the incoming blades, the metal sounding its symphony as they crashed together again and again. She lost herself to the rhythmic dance of combat, reveling in the pain as her blades found their mark time and time again.

It was as if she were merely toying with them, letting them think they stood a chance as she allowed them to gain ground only to lose it and a chunk of their flesh a moment later. Chrysa relished every drop of blood and ounce of pain, her laughter thick with pleasure as one of their blades cut deep into her left thigh. The darkness pulsed in her veins and darkened the edges of her vision as a voice cut through the haze in her mind and scraped the inside of her skull.

Finissssh them...

A guttural groan passed her lips as she snapped back into the moment with the words echoing to the rapid beat of her heart. In a matter of moments, one of them lay sprawled out on the sand, feebly trying to crawl away after she’d severed one of his legs at the knee. The other soon found himself parted from his arms, and while they twitched on the sand below, could only watch as she ‘pulled’ his brother along the sand. Black and white tendrils of energy, jointed and severe like so many spiders’ legs brought him to his knees as his others still brought his brother to lay groaning at her feet.

Her gaze cast up to the tiers, searching until they found Revenna. There they remained as she dropped one sword to the ground, her free hand yanking each of their heads up in turn to look at their mother as she slashed their throats and let their blood quench the sands’ thirst.

Chrysa stepped back as the same Elder who had bid her to stand for the first Test rose and pronounced her passed. The tendrils brought her fallen sword to her hand before she let them disappear back beneath her skin. Her steps were slow and deliberate as she made her way back to far tier where those being Tested waited to be called, dropping back into her spot with a faint purr of pleasure.