Good Night for a Fight
15th of Fall, 513 AV
15th of Fall, 513 AV
The Arena of Ancients. It was normally a quiet thoughtful place, sometimes for a soldier on leave to pray to his ancestors, where some said the veil between living and dead was thin, and there were some from beyond that could hear you, ancient things thrown out of the normal cycle of life, death, and re-birth.
Sometimes it was just a good place to train with oneself, a partner, or maybe two or three. Sounds always seemed muffled from the outside, and there was a type of centered place you could find among the crumbling rocks.
But sometimes the blood that was spilled so long ago upon grounds worn away long ago seemed to call to the warriors of the City of Bones, and when Syna dipped low in the sky, and most were in their beds catching a few bells of sleep before beginning again the next day...others were drawing blood once more on the hallowed grounds.
Tonight it was more than a few that had come to witness the fighting. A slow formation of unspoken rules had begun to develop in the evening hours at the Arena: You claimed a fight against someone, and you would wait your turn to take it. Those that had fought and were waiting, losers and winners alike would be the judge of who had won the fight, and no one of a similar clan could fight. The system was far from perfect, for some rulings simply drew more fights, and those more, but more often then not the fighters would take the judgement for law, and accept their status.
Quzon found a few gazes shifting his way as he moved through the small crowd of bodies watching a current fight between a Slitted Throat and a Shorn Skull. It wasn't hard to recognize the dull sheen to the half breed's skin, and his fellows parted slowly to accommodate him, gazes mingled with suspicion, respect, and curiosity to see the half Isur joining in the fights found his gaze. Why was he here?
Why, indeed.
