A Singular Purpose (Duelist Origin Story)

And we're back! Sorry for the delay, had some real life stuff come up, but it's time to return to Wraeclast. Today we have the Duelist, dashing charmer of Oriath. You might notice he's a bit more irreverent than his compatriots. This one's a two parter, as apparently I exceeded the 50k character limit. Enjoy!

Previous stories:
Templar - https://www.pathofexile.com/forum/view-thread/1403133
Scion - https://www.pathofexile.com/forum/view-thread/1414654
Marauder - https://www.pathofexile.com/forum/view-thread/1419489



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A Singular Purpose
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“What... ohhh... what are you... ohhhhhh... your fingers... fhhhhhh... is that... ohhhhhhhhh...”

Angry pounding at the door, like a collapsing slum scaffold. Dammit. Of course her husband would show up right now. He wasn’t supposed to be back for another half a glass.

“Virtuana! I know you’re in there! Open the door, Virtuana!”

Screw it. I didn’t spend the past two weeks pretending to enjoy that blubbering little rodent’s dinner parties not to claim my prize. I twitched my wrist to a new angle.

“That’s... unghhh... that’s my... ohhhhhhhh... yes... YES... YESSSSSSSSSS...”

The door crashed open just as Lady Virtuana, unhappily married wife of Lord Impotus Puril, collapsed away from me onto the sweat-stained sheets of their master bedroom, her eyes rolled completely back into her head. Her ash blond hair spread appealingly across plump pillows embroidered with the House crest - frolicking white nymphs rampant across a field of blue and green - and her heaving breasts were, well...

Hell, I’m not a poet. I stab things. They were great. I could’ve stared at them for hours.

My weapon remained at attention and unsheathed, my bare knees on either side of her sweat-slicked legs. I smiled at Lord Impotus, mentally picturing a cat licking its whiskers of cream.

“Afternoon, my lord.”

It was worth it. Every over-ripe canape stuffed with secondhand meat, every glass of tavern swill wine bullied into forged bottles, every nasally grunted question augering into my earholes like a Templar’s hypocritical sermon - all of it, worth it, just to see the expression on his face. Reminded me a lot of that time Blackfist Arriatus shoved his hand up to the elbow in Lord Rybus’ finest hog on a dare.

(How did you think he got the name ‘Blackfist’?)

“Y- y- y- y- you!”

“Yes. Me.” I rolled off the bed and slid my trousers on, buckling a sword belt on top. “Your wife really wasn’t getting the attention she needed, my lord Impotus, and I, well, I am but a servant to those in need. Those in stiff need, you might say.” I winked at him.

He really didn’t appreciate the wink. I’d spent hours in the mirror practicing it, too, getting just the right look of superciliousness, the slightly raised lip. It was simple, once I realized the trick. It was all about not caring, about him as a husband, as a person, as anything at all. He was just an object, to be used and discarded as I saw fit.

I wonder if that’s how Father felt all the time.

“Kill him,” Lord Impotus screeched, the skittering roar of a cellar mouse, and four guards pushed past him into the room. Two carried pitted short swords, the other two stout banded clubs. All four looked like they spent more time guarding the kitchens than anything of value. I nearly groaned.

“Really? That’s the best you can muster, my lord? And here Lady Virtuana was telling me all about your prowess. In finance, not in bed, naturally.” I drew my blade, five hands of solid Oriathan steel. “It seems your inadequacies cover an entire spectrum of faults, and not just the obvious ones. Those men are about as likely to stick me as you are to stick your wife.”

He gaped, like a fish, face long past red and now into the realms of pure white. I could see veins on his forehead throbbing.

One more push ought to do it.

“Come now, my lord, you can’t pretend like you didn’t know? That every tavern from here to the Outlands doesn’t have a minstrel singing, ‘The Lord’s Magic Stick, But A Rope For His Di-’”

“I’ll kill you!” he screamed, and plucked a dagger from his belt.

Finally.

Laughing, I spun around and leapt out the second story window of their villa, carefully avoiding the frame. Glass burst around me, stinging my hands and arms, but I ignored it. I was more focused on landing in the hay pile I’d bribed a slave to shift against the far wall of the courtyard below.

Scratchy fibers tore at my skin, the packed stalks cutting me worse than the glass, and I hit the ground hard, but my legs didn’t break, and really, that’s the only thing that mattered at the moment. Behind me, I heard a muffled shout, the sounds of splintering woodwork along with panicked swearing, and then a sodden impact, like a melon meeting a hammer. I swam my way out of the hay and looked over.

Lord Impotus lay sprawled in a most unnatural pose, the majority of his brains decorating a large patch of marble tile rather than futilely struggling for attention inside his skull. I bowed to the guards staring down from the inexplicably collapsed framework of the villa window, and ran off into the streets of Oriath’s Garden Quarter.

You could have blinded the sun with my grin.

-------------------------------------------------

“I still don’t know why you didn’t just let me stab him. I could have provoked him into the Arena, mmmph...”

I paused for another bite of grilled meat (best not to ask provenance thereof), savoring the sting of the hot juices flowing down my throat, when I started choking on a particularly unyielding segment. I coughed, frantically gulping some beer to clear the gristly bits, then slammed the mug back down on the weathered wooden counter of the roadside stall, irritating the still oozing cuts on my skin. I glared at the dark-haired man behind the counter, and pointed the half-eaten skewer at him.

“What the hell piece of animal was that, its shrivelled balls? That fought back more than Lady Virtuana’s inhibitions.” He ignored me, and I refilled my mug from the pitcher. “Anyways, you know he never would’ve stood a chance. I could have dueled him blindfolded, my sword in my ass and a tit in my mouth, and still slit his belly in under a minute.”

The meat vendor kept his attention on the nasty looking knife he was honing, sliding it down the whetstone in steely rasps. A black butcher’s apron covered his front, stained white clothes (don’t ask what kind of stains, obviously they were blood stains) beneath. When he spoke, it was in a toneless voice no louder than a gnat’s fart.

“It was imperative no suspicion could arise that Lord Impotus’ death was anything but an accident.”

“Oooh, look at you with the big words,” I sneered, and took another bite. I didn’t swallow, though, due to the cold pressure on my throat. Pressure that might be applied by a short, but very sharp piece of metal held in the sociopathic hand of a member of the Guild of the Night. I caught his eyes with mine, and looked down, then back at him. Thankfully, he took the hint, and looked down as well.

Beneath the counter, my hand not holding the meat skewer was holding another tool for poking things. The edge of my sword caressed the inside of his leg, lifting his apron and resting against his femoral artery. I raised an eyebrow.

A second where it could go either way, that twisting precipice in battle that can only be found in battle, and the blood rushing through my ears was everything beautiful and terrifying about the world at once. My hand never wavered on the hilt of the blade.

It’s only on the threshold of death that we truly feel alive.

He disappeared the knife, his expression unchanging from the same blank slate I’d always seen him in. I let my sword tip drop to the ground and swallowed the now cool mouthful of mystery meat. Thankfully, this one went down far smoother. I chased it with more beer and dabbed at my cuts with a bloodstained cloth, hissing when it stuck to the tender flesh. He was silent for a moment, then spoke again, his voice dry... no, not dry. Emotionless.

“Just being civilized. My lord.”

“You know I don’t like being called that.”

“Yes. I do.”

I grinned at him. I like an honest man.

“I still don’t understand. Him dying in the Arena is just as much a natural death as his face redecorating those garish tiles. Why the trickery?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

“And you know you’ll tell me anyway. You can’t resist explaining your traps. I think they’re the only things you really care about.”

He sighed, and poured me another mug.

“Though it may not be initially apparent, I care about a great many things. What I don’t understand, is why you’re doing this. It’s obviously not for the gold. I haven’t paid you in three weeks.”

“Pah.” I waved a hand dismissively. “Gold, silver, gems; all of it trash. Where would I even spend what you’re offering me? I’m already fabulously wealthy, thanks to Father. No, what matters is the rush, the thrill of making something else your own, if even for the briefest instant. A lady’s virtue, a man’s life, a coward’s honor, a fool’s despair - everything is a duel, and there can be only one victor. The tougher the fight, the more exhilarating the prize.”

I downed the mug’s contents again and burped.

“For me, it’s simple. I’m all about the feasting, the fighting, and the fu... friendly relations with languishing ladies. Everything else can go hang. Luckily for you, I never lose a fight, and I’ve no love lost for spilling secrets either. Now, what’s going on?”

He looked around without seeming to, eyes and ears searching for anything out of the ordinary. A neat trick, one that all survivors in the Guild of the Night learn early on. If they don’t learn it early on, they don’t survive, obviously. The teachers at assassin school are firm believers in the pass or fail method. I helped myself to another skewer, basking in the warm sunlight of midday Oriath.

Around us, the sounds of the Market Quarter filled the air. Geese honked in cages, dogs snarled at each other over scraps, customers shouted and haggled with merchants, slave manacles clinked while work crews shambled past, their downcast eyes focused on anything other than their own lives. The cracked walls of tenement buildings stretched overhead, their looming closeness giving the feel of being in the outer dueling runs of the Grand Arena, and above it all, the bone white walls of that venerated structure vaulted into the sky like a temple to some mad deity. Which, of course, is exactly what it was.

God, I loved that place.

Satisfied that nothing appeared abnormal, he leaned in closer to me.

“Lord Impotus’ death needed to look like an accident because he was one of Dominus’ few remaining supporters among the Great Houses, and Dominus must not suspect anything more than his usual levels of paranoia. I weakened the timbers of the windowframe a week ago with wood beetle larva, carefully planted to look like a natural infestation. When the Templars investigate, as they undoubtedly are doing right now, they’ll find that, sadly, Lord Impotus died in an unfortunate fall chasing a notorious ravisher of noble ladies, oh dear, what a tragedy, instead of being suspiciously provoked into a targeted killing on the Arena sand, and life will go on. No loose ends.”

“So you killed a flaccid moneylender with no one the wiser. Why does it matter?”

“It matters, because it sets the stage for the next phase.”

“Next phase? What, are you going to murder the High Templar himself?” I laughed.

“Ultimately, yes.”

I nearly choked on another piece of meat.

“You’re serious? Not that I care about the man, but why? I can’t really picture you acting purely out of altruistic intent, a ‘noble son of Oriath’ and all that. Hell, I’m a noble son of Oriath, and I’d dance while this place burned.”

“I’m not. There is a group of people who are paying me a very large sum of gold to make this happen. It seems they are sufficiently upset at the increased troop levies and taxes supporting Dominus’ Wraeclast ambitions that they feel something needs to be done. In this case, the ‘something’ is the High Templar’s life.”

“Well. That’s certainly ambitious, I’ll give you that. Stupid, but ambitious.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Stupid? The plan will work, I assure you.”

“Oh, not the details. I’m sure you’ll be frightfully efficient as always. No, I’m talking about the strategy, the vision. Father always said that’s what the other Houses lacked, was the vision. Their inability to think past the wants of the now.” I took another bite. “Of course, he found himself minus most of his blood, his favorite organ, and several other key body parts when one of the kitchen slaves took offense to his ‘advances,’ so he might have had a bit of a blind spot of his own.”

“And what, then, is lacking in the ‘vision?’”

I waved a hand, taking in our surroundings.

“It doesn’t mean anything. Nothing changes. All of this, it’s just another interminable round in their Game, that thing the Great Houses do to pass the time here in Oriath. It’s dreadfully boring, but it’s all they know.” I finished off the skewer and stabbed it into the counter next to the first. “The people in this street, do you think they care who’s lording it over them? Do you think they care whose hand cracks the whip? To them, one tyrant’s just as good as another, so long as the fighting pits stay open and the farms continue to grow. No, mark my words, whoever replaces Dominus will be no different, and nothing here will really change. In five years time, you’ll be planning this all over again.”

“Yes. Yes, I will.”

I pounded my fist on the counter, nearly doubling over in mirth as I finally realized his scheme.

“And getting paid a large sum of money to do so, I imagine. You, my friend, might be one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. It’s a shame I’ve never learned your name.”

“I don’t have a name,” he said softly. “A shadow is only ever defined by that which casts it, and that is no true name at all.”

“To the shadows, then,” I said, saluting him with my mug, but he was already gone, vanished into the swarming streets without a trace.

Smart fellow, that shadow.

-------------------------------------------------

I spent the next several days at the family estates, healing up from my various cuts and bruises (after the adrenaline wore off, I realized I had twisted my right ankle), and generally enjoying the latest gossip winging its way around the city. My tryst with Lady Virtuana was overshadowed slightly by her husband’s unfortunate fall, but everyone knew of my victory. Several letters arrived from the lady herself, but I ignored them.

‘Familiarity breeds contempt,’ or so Father always said, and as in so many other things, he was right. He was also a wretched parent whom I loathed, and oh how I secretly wished I could have let the kitchen slave slip away after his glorious dismembering of the vile old man (seeing as how he was a Karui boy of not more than eleven summers), but more often than not Father was right, so I left the letters unopened. For now.

I didn’t throw them out, of course. I’m not a monster.

It was on the second day of my convalescence that a delegation of Templars arrived, announcing their presence with a fierce knocking on the manor’s door. I limped over to open it, using a slender cane (secretly a sword, because it amused me to carry it) to support my injured joint, though my limp was much more exaggerated than what I actually felt.

If an enemy thinks you have a weakness, it’s all too easy to turn it into a strength.

I pushed open the heavy iron-banded portal, its hinges screeching in protest (I’m not a door maintenance person either, and I had no use for slaves), and looked out on my callers. The group clustered under the front portico vines was clad in ebon armor chased with gilt, and led by a grizzled veteran of a man. His balding head shone under the clear skies, but I could not seem to focus on anything but his hideously mismatched pants.

I mean, I know not everyone in Oriath possessed my finely honed fashion sense, but pink chevrons on a bright orange field with green trim? The man must have been dressed by a blind tailor. Who was also drunk. And dead.

I turned my snort of laughter into a coughing fit, which I’m fairly certain he saw through since a red flush spread across his bearded cheeks. It was probably the only thing that matched his pants.

“Ahem... excuse me, I fear the sight of your sartorial magnificence has quite disarmed me, your grace. What do the Templars require?”

“High Templar Dominus wants you at the Grand Chapel, my lord,” he growled, hands twitching on his staff. “To answer some questions. Immediately.”

“Of course, of course,” I said soothingly, ignoring the hated honorific. Every time I heard ‘my lord,’ it reminded me of Father, and his rage when someone failed to address him properly. Vain fool. Deeds mattered, not descriptions.

I stepped out onto the porch, putting myself in easy striking distance of the group. I could have taken them all unawares right there, but to what end? I was not under arrest, and I must confess, I was curious about what Dominus wanted.

“I fear I will not move quite so quickly, though. I took a fall the other day and wrenched my ankle.”

I made a show of wincing at the weight on my right leg. The old man stared stonily at me, not fooled for an instant.

“Perhaps if you stayed in your own bed you’d avoid such injury. My lord.”

“Who can say? Injuries happen in a great many places, to a great many people, and so we must derive our pleasure where we may. Especially when sharing those pleasures with others.”

“I’m sure the late Lord Puril agreed with you.”

I smiled at him.

“Oh, I rather doubt it. He struck me as one interested in very few pleasures not his own. His wife was sorely in need of some bladework. Why, I believe she’s already requested some additional lessons of me, focusing on the more... esoteric techniques. Just some little things, inconsequentialities really... the Trarthan Double Fist, the Split of Two Sighs, Merveil’s Moan. You know. I’m sure you’re well familiar with them all. Shall we?”

I motioned to the walkway leading past the manor’s high walls to the street, and stifled another grin at the Templar commander’s stiff-backed walk as he pretended not to have heard my last few comments. Sanctimonious preachers all of them, grown old and withered before their time. Would do them good to get out in the world every now and then.

So few people want to really live.

-------------------------------------------------

The sun had grown high over the clouds when we arrived at the Grand Chapel, a stuffy old building wildly enthralled with its own importance. Stepping inside brought some relief from the heat, but my clothes were already stained with sweat from the walk, and inwardly I cursed. My usual tailor had disappeared weeks ago, no doubt caught up in some purge or another, and I was having the damnedest time finding a new one nearly as capable. Gold could buy a great many things, but was no substitute for true skill. I was going to run out of outfits before the year’s end if this kept up.

Hah. What I wouldn’t give now for even one of my closets.

My cane made loud clicks on the tiled floor, most likely because I kept striking the slabs with overt enthusiasm, trying to scuff their polished surface. The old man glared at me, but held his tongue, and several staccato raps later, I took pity on him and settled into a more sedate pace. Wouldn’t do to make him too irritated. He was the High Justicar, after all, and I had a keen sense of how far someone could be pushed before they snapped.

Another gift from Father, delivered via his usual methods. I’ll spare you the details, but it involved a wooden rod, and pain. Lots of pain.

We passed through the main nave and up a flight of stairs to an ornately carved wooden door. The old man knocked briefly and pushed it open, revealing a spartanly furnished room. The only furniture of note was a dresser of dark oak, looming against one of the side walls, and a simple desk, behind which sat the most powerful man in Oriath. At least, for as long as he remained alive.

The High Templar, Dominus.

“Thank you for your time, my lord,” he began politely, if insincerely, and I gave him my most insouciant grin. ‘Always start as you mean to continue,’ another of Father’s aphorisms, though I doubt he had this exact situation in mind when he relayed it to me.

“My pleasure, High Templar. Forgive me for not arriving sooner, but alas, my ankle is quite swollen, and I feared aggravating the injury.”

He looked at me, and rubbed his chin with one hand, the fabric of his robe gently swishing in the silent room. Suddenly, his other hand rose from beneath the desk and sent a letter opener flying at my face. Acting purely on reflex, I spun out of the way and into a duelist’s stance, the thin blade of my sword-cane halfway out of its sheath. I heard an exclamation of surprise behind me - the High Justicar’s combat reflexes kicking in as well - and the letter opener stuck quivering into the door with a low thrum.

“I can see your mobility is exceedingly hampered,” Dominus said drily, and I fought the urge to smile. Now this would be a worthy duel.

“Shall I apprehend the miscreant, my lord?”

The High Justicar’s voice, of course. Clearly a man unable to comprehend the meaning of the word ‘fun.’ Dominus shook his head.

“No. Leave us. We have matters to discuss that do not require your particular brand of zealotry, my brother.”

The old man gave me a hard look, his knuckles whitening on his staff, but made no move to strike. Slowly, with an effort that I’m sure caused him much mental anguish, he loosened his grip and stood stiffly upright.

“As you command, my lord.”

I waggled my fingers at him as he stalked out of the room, then turned my attention back to Dominus, sheathing my sword-cane and leaning on its hilt.

“What is it you wish to speak on, High Templar?”

“A dead man, and how he came to be that way, my lord.”

I feigned confusion.

“I do not know of whom you speak. Could you perhaps be more specific?”

“You were balls deep in his wife.”

Clearly I knew who he was talking about, but I’ve never been one to make life easy for others. Drove Father quite mad, and earned me more than a few of those beatings I mentioned earlier.

“That covers a great many men, High Templar, and a great many more women. My bladework is legendary.”

Dominus gazed coldly at me, and I felt a familiar rush of adrenaline. This would be a fight for my life, no question about it.

“So I’ve heard. I speak of Lord Impotus Puril, of the Great House Puril, recently deceased. You were witnessed at the scene of his death.”

“Yes, the Lady Virtuana and I had an appointment. I was teaching her some of the finer arts of swordplay.”

“Swordplay that just happened to take place in their bedroom.”

“It was spacious, and cool. The summer heat is quite vexatious this year.”

“Which no doubt explains the lack of clothing on either of you.”

“I was sweaty, and didn’t want to ruin my doublet. They are fairly expensive, you know. Trarthan silk is not cheap.”

Dominus leaned forward, sparks seeming to flash within his pupils.

“Let us cut the pretense, my lord. Lord Puril is dead. He was killed, if not by you, then by someone using you. Wood beetle larvae do not normally pupate so close together in fire-oak timbers. Tell me why you were there, on that day, at that time.”

Well, crap. I always told that shadow one day he’d be too clever for his own good.

“I have no idea what you could possibly mean, High Templar. I was merely offering the Lady Virtuana instruction.”

“Spare me the denials. You suddenly appear at Lord Puril’s events-”

“I attend a great many festivities-”

“-in the span of two weeks you’re bedding his wife-”

“-she was young, and lonely, and her ti-”

“-and at the end of it all, one of the only Great Houses willing to contribute to my vital work in Wraeclast is now without its patriarch, fallen to his death from a mysteriously collapsed windowframe, leaving fifteen different cousins to bicker over the succession.”

“-he did chase me out of it. I’m lucky I didn’t break my hips.”

We stared at each other, and I was somewhat surprised the air itself didn’t ignite from the sheer force of Dominus’ anger. My legs felt like coiled springs, ready to dodge or leap to the attack, my hand gently resting on the hilt of the sword-cane. Adrenaline poured through my veins in shuddering rushes, giving the illusion that time itself was slowing down around me.

Sure, I could have told him about the Guild of the Night, the conspiracy to weaken his power base, but Dominus reminded me too much of Father. That same expectation that the world would bend to his whim simply because he demanded it be so. Obviously, I had no choice but to deny him, him and his haughty arrogance, else I’d never be able to live with myself afterwards. He hadn’t even offered me a drink after my walk.

I waited for him to make his move.

Dominus leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands together on the desk.

Not the move I was expecting, to be honest. I was anticipating something more along he lines of “Die, you dog,” and then a glorious fight, ending with him choking on my steel. When he spoke again, his voice was pleasant, though his eyes remained hard.

“I could have you killed, you know.”

I felt the anger surge through me, anger at all the times Father thought to control me, thought to bend me to his will whether I wished it or not, and the pain that invariably followed. Anger at the simpering fools who called themselves my peers, though they’d never dare sully their delicate hands with a blade in the pits. Anger at everything, at everyone who stood in my path and failed to recognize my abilities.

There was a reason I was undefeated in the Arena.

I forced my voice into a slow drawl, affecting the most aristocratic of accents.

“You could try, and if, if somehow you succeeded, riots would tear Oriath apart. The people love me, what I do in the Arena, and if you take their entertainment, blood will flow.” I took a calculated gamble, remembering my conversation with the shadow. “Especially considering how tenuous your grip on the Great Houses is at the moment.” My own eyes narrowed, the anger slipping through at last. “I would relish the challenge, though, High Templar. Call your men, and we’ll see if you live long enough to witness their arrival!”

Dominus merely smoothed down the front of his white and red robes, interlacing his fingers together in front of his stomach.

“You are a persistently single-minded individual. No doubt it explains your success as a duelist, but you should be careful, my lord. It might get you into trouble one of these days.”

“I’ve yet to find the trouble I couldn’t fight my way out of, High Templar, and I doubt I ever will. Now, if there’s nothing else?” I looked pointedly at the door.

“By all means, take your leave. I’ll see you soon, my lord.”

I walked out, not taking my eyes off him for an instant. Never turn your back on a viper, Father always said.

-------------------------------------------------

A week later, I sat in the manor’s study, contemplating a piece of expensive parchment. I was accustomed to receiving invitations to a great many balls, soirees, dances, gatherings, and private trysts, but an invitation to witness an Arena match not my own was decidedly out of the ordinary.

Even more surprising, the signature at the bottom was the High Templar’s.

I tapped the thick sheet against my chin, pondering my next move. Clearly, it was a trap of some sort, but what was the goal? My death? My humiliation? An offer to teach the Templar Order the finer arts of lovemaking?

Well, probably not the last one.

It didn’t matter. The best way to spring a trap is from the inside. Also the most fun. Plus, the Arena grounds were considered sacrosanct - violence being forbidden from all but the fighting pit itself. Dominus wouldn’t be able to touch me there lest he risk incurring the wrath of the mob.

I dashed off a quick reply indicating I would be at the Arena midday tomorrow, then flagged down an urchin outside to deliver my response, slipping him a coin to ensure the letter actually made it to the Grand Chapel. Oriath’s gutter rats could be relied on few things, pickpocketing chief among the list, but oddly enough, courier service was one of the others.

That business taken care of, I decided to spend the rest of the day honing my skills with the blade.

Springing traps from the inside is only fun if you don’t get caught.

-------------------------------------------------

Twenty-four hours later, I walked beneath the cool marble arches of the Grand Arena’s concourse (and why were all the buildings “Grand” this and “Grand” that? Someone was clearly overcompensating for something) for my date with Dominus. I had on my favorite red doublet, a loose-fitting affair that allowed me freedom of movement (while also setting quite a dashing figure), brown duelist trousers, and a longsword at my hip.

Look, Dominus may have sent a fancy invitation, but I wasn’t going to show up to the Arena in anything but clothes I could fight in. It’s a poor craftsman who doesn’t take pride in his work.

Crowds of people thronged through the concourse - beggars, cripples, merchants, smiths, nobles in draped finery, peasants in sturdy homespun fabric, young children and stooped elders and everything in between. Food stalls clung to the inner wall like barnacles on a ship’s hull, their fragrant aromas adding a piquant boutique to Oriath’s normal mid-summer stench. From further in, a roar swelled up like surf - no doubt someone meeting the wrong end of a weapon, their life soaking into the hot sand like so many others before.

I ignored it all and strode towards the ramp leading to the High Templar’s private box, four Ebon Legion blocking the ornately carved entrance with large tower shields. I waved my invitation at them, and begrudgingly they stood aside, their leader openly sneering at me, his mustache bristling. I sneered right back, and did a far better job of it, causing him to stumble back momentarily. He flushed red, and I laughed, then pushed my way past them and walked up the cool darkness of the ramp. A blinding rectangle of sunlight shone at the far end.

I passed into the light, squinting my eyes to adjust to the change in brightness, my hand naturally falling on the hilt of my sword. No one leapt to the attack, and after my vision cleared, I looked around to take in my surroundings.

The box itself was large, as befitted the High Templar (or so he’d like to think), and contained space enough for nearly forty people. Maybe half that number currently occupied the area, their clothing marking them as members of this and that noble House, though none of the Great Houses were in attendance. Some lounged on gaudy couches scattered along the suite’s length, slaves waiting attentively with food and drink nearby, while others leaned against a low stone railing looking out onto the Arena floor, where attendant slaves were raking clean sand over several fresh pools of blood. Large iron grates covered multiple sections of the Arena, passageways to let dangerous beasts through without risking them harming anyone on their way out from the cages below. I walked up to the railing to get a better view, but of the victor of the earlier bout, there was no sign.

Near the opposite end of the Arena, two other attendants disappeared into the Gladiator’s Gate, a pair of splintered wooden doors crossed in iron. Between them, they dragged a headless corpse by its gore-stained arms, its heels dragging shallow furrows in the sand that were quickly erased by the rakes. Seconds later, the pit shone pristine in the noon-day sun, ready for another spectacle, the rake slaves shutting the Gate behind them as they passed through. I felt the presence of someone beside me.

“Is it not interesting, my lord, how quickly we vanish from sight once we lose? The crowd roars, the sand shifts, and it is as if we were never there at all. As if we never existed at all. No one mourns the passing of a duelist, for there is always another to take his place.”

“That is why I do not lose, my lord Dominus,” I replied politely, bracing my hands on the railing. The stone was warm and slightly gritty beneath my skin, and I savored the sensation. Enjoy the bait before the jaws spring shut.

“Ahh yes, your remarkable winning streak. Quite a feat, I admit, nearly as impressive as Daresso himself, but all luck runs out eventually, my lord.”

“That it does. For all of us. We can only meet it with a grin.”

Dominus crooked a lip, the closest I’d seen him ever come to a smile.

“One of your father’s famous sayings, no doubt. I am pleased you responded to my invitation. I think you will enjoy this next match. I recall your family was quite fond of the island natives.”

My mouth tightened at the mention of Father, but I kept my hands on the rail. Beside me, Dominus lifted one hand above his head in a circular motion. Across from us, the Gladiator’s Gate opened once more. From its depths walked a brute of a man, a Karui covered in dark ink tattoos. After he cleared it, the Gate lurched closed behind him. His skin was bare except for a loincloth, and he carried a short club of splintered wood. I saw him look up at the stands, and our eyes briefly met. Within them was a hunger I knew all too well.

This man lusted for battle, for life, and I nodded my head in salute. He flicked his gaze away, as if he was searching for someone, and I realized Dominus had left my side. In his place stood one of the elder sons of House Korath, a simpering brat named Philius, dressed in the most eye-watering robe I’d ever seen. It looked like a clown had eaten a bucket of paint and vomited on him. Unfortunately for me, he decided to speak.

“Look at that barbarian. Disgusting. No hint of civilization whatsoever.”

“As opposed to present company, obviously,” I said drily, but Philius was stupid as well as annoying, and the barb failed to register.

“Obviously. Do you know that they eat each other on that dreadful island of theirs? Cannibals.” He shivered over-dramatically and I fought the urge to groan. The Karui were barbarians, true, but even the guttersnipes knew that cannibalism was taboo to their culture.

“I cannot say that I’ve ever seen a Karui snacking on a leg in the Market Quarter, but I will take your word for it, Philius. Now, be a good man and shut up, will you? The match is about to begin.”

Could I have been more polite? Of course, but Philius was a dunce, and had a habit of mistreating his women. Also, his robe was close to making me physically ill. Strangely, he did not stalk off in a huff like normal, but kept his station beside me. I resolved to keep an eye on him - something was odd here.

From the box next to ours came the stentorian voice of the Master of Ceremonies, working the crowd into a fever pitch with his usual aplomb, his position centered for maximum acoustic performance.

“My fellow Oriathans! Today we have an event of singular uniqueness! Our High Templar, at great risk to his esteemed self, has procured a spectacle the likes of which your children will speak of for years to come! A duel to the death... between monsters!”

A loud cheer and stamping of feet rose from the stands, the tens of thousands in attendance creating a sound more felt than heard. I felt the familiar tingle of adrenaline, even though it was not me on the sand this time.

“Before you - a war leader from the barbarous isle of Karui, a marauder who slew no less than twenty brave soldiers of the glorious Ebon Legion in a terrifying sneak attack, captured by the High Templar’s very hand, and later caught performing unspeakable acts with a scion of one of the Great Houses themselves!”

Boos rained down, along with other, less palatable things. Spoiled fruit was the least of it, but the Karui bore the abuse stoically. Silently I wondered at the veracity of the claims. It seemed awfully convenient for Dominus to have a captive so tailored to bring the mob closer to him and away from the Houses. Also, I knew of the scion. She was one of the few to resist my charms, which was quite intriguing, and the thought of her and the Karui didn’t seem to fit.

“His foe...”

The Master of Ceremonies let his voice trail off, and an expectant silence filled the air, a vacuum waiting to be filled. Despite myself, I leaned forward. The man did know how to work a crowd.

“A hideous beast, a horrifying amalgamation of cruelty and hate, brought forth from the darkest jungles in the forbidden continent of Wraeclast and constrained by our glorious leader Dominus! I give you... THE ABOMINATION!”

The Gladiator’s gate creaked open, shadows coiling out of its depths. Suddenly, a misshapen... thing lurched forth, twisted limbs digging into the sand in a scrabbling rush. Spikes of splintered bone sprouted from its arms and legs, and spittle flew from its frothing maw. Trapped in the fleshy folds of its muscled chest I caught a glint of green, and my eyes narrowed. It seemed to call to me, a whisper that only I could hear, but I shrugged the feeling away. I needed to be on guard for whatever Dominus had planned. The crowd erupted in screams as the abomination closed towards the marauder’s back, almost seeming to flicker through the intervening space.

With an adroitness surprising in a man of his size, the Karui spun in place and brought his club crashing down on the creature’s lunging head, felling it instantly. It collapsed to the sand and twitched feebly, then stopped moving altogether when a second blow obliterated its skull. An enraged muttering rose from the stands, the mob angered at the quickness of the kill, and I clapped my hands enthusiastically, admiring the sheer brutality just unleashed.

“Bravo! Bravo! A great show from the High Templar! Bravo!”

It wasn’t subtle, but sometimes subtlety is overrated. The muttering morphed into incensed shouting. The moods of the mob are fickle, but at times easily guided.

“That wasn’t even a fight. Just a lucky blow. I could have done that.”

Sigh. Of course Philius had to open his mouth.

“Philius, that creature would have had your guts for a girdle, an expansive girdle at that, and you know it. Kindly stop speaking on matters you know nothing about.”

His face reddened, but I ignored it as usual, hoping he would take the hint and leave. Movement in the next box over had caught my eye - Dominus leaning next to the Master of Ceremonies and whispering in his ear. The venerable announcer approached the rail and motioned for quiet, the crowd reluctantly settling down.

“People! Calmly, calmly, I beg of you. Surely you did not think that was everything the High Templar had planned, did you?”

Curious whispering filled the air, like wind through rushes. The Master of Ceremonies continued.

“No, it was not! What you saw... merely an appetizer, an aperitif, the smallest morsel before the true feast begins! For you see, the reason our High Templar works so diligently on your behalf, the reason we must support his efforts with all our might, is this - The dark continent of Wraeclast, home to our rightful heritage, is one where horrors such as the Abomination swarm in countless numbers, and only Dominus can keep us safe from the terror in the dark. Only Dominus can guide us to the light. And if you disbelieve... then witness that terror!”

The Gate burst open a third time, and five of the hideous creatures scrambled out, closing on the marauder alone in the middle of the sunlit Arena. More bellows erupted from the crowd, a full-throated roar of approval. I frowned.

“Now that’s just cheating.”

“An Oriathan would prevail.”

Philius had not left, and I felt my temper rising. The man was beginning to move past annoyance and into outright infuriation. In the pit, limbs flashed and bodies spun, the five abominations collapsing on the marauder, his burly form clubbing through the creatures in a welter of violence. Blood streamed down the left side of his face and shoulder from shallow wounds when he made it out of the scrum, but two of the beasts were down. The other three fell back momentarily, forming a triangle around him.

“I’m an Oriathan, and I still say it’s cheating. A man’s race has no bearing on his ability to battle, my lord. Simply his will, and his desire.”

“Pah. Ignorant savages, and yet you would speak well of them. I know your father had his depravities with those filth, but I had thought you immune to his vices. It appears I was wrong. The sins pass to the child, and you’re just as vile as he was. You have no honor.”

I felt the familiar rage course its icy torrent through my veins. A faint voice in my head wondered at the uncharacteristic ire from Philius, but I ignored it. Down below, the abominations closed in again, flickering from point to point with a speed that defied explanation. The marauder caught one with a rising swing that crushed its ribcage, then lashed out again at another, where his club finally broke from the force of his blows, taking the fourth abomination with it. The last one jumped on his back and started biting at his neck, but with a roar, he hurled it away, sending it skidding across the sand. The twisted creature sprung upright, baring its fangs in a hissing grimace, and the Karui spread his arms wide, settling into a bent-kneed stance. More wounds dotted his torso and head, blood pouring from the gash at his shoulder, and the crowd screamed at a fever pitch.

“Take that back, my lord, if you value your life.”

“Take it back? I think not. The honor of a barbarian-lover is worth about as much as my daily shi-”

My sword was suddenly at his throat, a small red droplet sliding down his pale skin. Some things I would not accept from anyone. The abomination and marauder slowly circled each other, stepping carefully to avoid the blood-drenched pools that might cause a momentary loss of footing.

“Take. It. Back.”

His eyes widened in fear, then oddly, gave a brief twitch, as if he was focusing on something over my shoulder. Sensing the trap swinging shut, I kept my blade steady and my sight upon him. His expression tightened, and then he spoke once more.

“Your father was a monster, and you, you’re the spitting image of him. A coward and a traitor. Go fuuuuuuurgllelgll...”

An explosion of sound. The two combatants leapt, grappled, and then it was over, the Karui ripping the creature’s very head from its body while its claws were trapped in his sides. It was then I realized my sword was buried to the hilt in Lord Philius’ stomach, my muscles moving without thought, reacting on years of pain and hate and instinct. He clutched at the blade, shredding his fingers on the razor-sharp steel, then blood gushed from his mouth and he collapsed to the floor, dead.

To have to listen to this arrogant prick compare me to my father. I was nothing like that wretched man. Dimly, through the blood pounding in my ears, I heard gasps around me, and the sound of a solitary pair of hands slowly clapping, somehow audible over the rippling roars of the crowd.

“It seems you do have a weakness,” Dominus purred, standing in front of the exit from the box. “And what will you do now, duelist? You have murdered a fellow noble, violating the sanctity of the Arena. Will your adoring fans cheer your execution, I wonder?”

A squad of Ebon Legion rushed past him into the room, and that was when I knew the trap was well and truly sprung. Of course I should have known something was amiss when Philius kept egging me on, but it appeared I did have a blind spot. That wretched man who gave me existence, who damned every aspect of my life with his own.

Father. If only it was his body I could have thrust my sword through.

I scanned the room, but there was only the one exit. Even if I killed the five Legionnaires currently blocking it, I’d never make it through the narrow corridor out into the concourse. From the next box over, the Master of Ceremonies spoke once more, continuing the charade. I realized there was no way the Karui was getting out of that pit alive.

“One monster remains, but the ranks of corruption are endless! Behold what your Lord shields you from, and these are but the weakest of what stalks the wilds of Wraeclast!”

The Legionnaires advanced inexorably on me in lockstep, shields held in front to form a wall, and I backed to the stone railing, my sword weaving through the air to keep them at bay. I risked a quick glance over my shoulder, and saw the grates in the floor of the Arena slowly pulling back, a horde of slavering fangs and rending claws waiting to boil forth beneath them. In the center, the marauder remained upright, though with the amount he was swaying on his feet I doubted he had much left in him.

I grinned madly as the only solution to my problems presented itself. The only place in life I’d ever felt at home.

With a bow toward Dominus, followed by the rudest gesture I could think of, I tossed my sword over the railing towards the Arena sand and then leapt after it. Wind whistled past my ears, and then I tucked and rolled through the impact, bruising several body parts but keeping my mobility intact. I grabbed my sword from where it had impaled the ground, and then dashed over to the center next to the Karui.

“You look like you could use a hand, friend. What do you say we kill this trash and then escape through the Gate?”

He stared at me, consciousness flickering in and out of his eyes, and said a single word.

“Why?”

I winked at him.

“Because this is my Arena, and there’s no way I’m missing out on a fight like this. Plus, there’s a man up there who wants me dead, and I’d rather die on my terms than his.”

One corner of his mouth twitched up briefly, but then he fell to a knee, one fist braced against the ground, and groaned.

“You fight. Good. I fight, but not much longer I think.” He pointed to the corpse next to him, the very first abomination he had killed. “Look there. Ancestors guide you.”

The screaming of the crowd was like a physical force at this point, the grates pulled back nearly enough to unleash the swarm of nightmares onto us, but as I followed the line of his finger, all I could focus on was the green gem shining up at me from the carcass’ chest. It pulled my attention, like a beautiful woman, or the opening an unwary foe left in his defenses. Using the tip of my sword, I popped the jewel up into the air and caught it with my free hand, wondering what he meant, but the instant the smooth facets touched my flesh, I had no room in my thoughts for anything.

It felt like that perfect moment in battle; where everything slows down to an almost glacial precision; where I could predict the opponent’s strikes before he even made them; where I could move without thinking but know I was exactly where I needed to be; where nothing would ever stop me, where thought itself was unnecessary, just instinct and action.

It felt better than seducing another conquest. It felt more exhilarating than winning another duel. It felt like true mastery of the blade, mastery I had worked my entire life to achieve yet tasted only rarely, each taste leaving me wanting more, that pure nothingness of total focus, where I could forget about everything else except the now.

I looked up, at the throng of ravening abominations intent on ripping us limb from limb, and it was as if they were trapped in time, their limbs barely moving.

I looked up, and knew I could be anywhere I needed to be, attack any foe before they realized I was there.

I looked up, and set to work.

With my first strike, I flickered to the other side of the Arena, disemboweling one of the creatures and letting its body tangle and slow those behind it. With my second I flickered back, sweeping my blade through the throat of another. Third, fourth, fifth, sixth, my vision blurring from point to point, finding the nearest threat and dispatching it with ease. On the enemy came, some almost reacting in time to guard themselves or counterattack, but none were as fast as I, and soon corpses blanketed the sand.

I danced in the Arena, a dance like I’d never performed before, and I performed it not for the crowds, not for the survival, but for myself, for this purity of purpose that finally made me feel whole.

On I danced, until I could dance no longer, and the darkness rose to claim me.

-------------------------------------------------

Obviously, I didn’t die out there. From what I pieced together, according to overheard snatches of conversation in my cell, I killed every last one of the abominations, saluted the crowd (to uproarious cheers), and then flopped over unconscious, whereupon Dominus’ men rushed out and clapped both the marauder (yes, he survived too, he’s a tough one) and I in chains. The mob nearly rushed the Arena floor, but somehow the Black Legion maintained order through the chaos and whisked us away to the dark cells.

We languished there for several weeks, awaiting our fate, and then one day we knew (mainly because they beat us with sticks and put us on a boat).

I was expecting us to be executed, but it seems Dominus chose exile instead. I do not know if he was afraid of the mob, or if this is all part of some grander scheme, but I do know Dominus made a fatal mistake when he made that decision.

He left me alive to fight, and I will dance that dance once more, though it takes me the width of Wraeclast to learn its steps.

Yet another brilliant story!

Both your plot and the actual narration are on point, and the description of the flicker strike part gave me goosebumps. Especially considering that these insanely powerful skill gems are what we have come to take as given in the game...

I do wonder though how Dominus would even go about making Philius effectively commit suicide (since even the Duelist noticed this was out of the ordinary).

Great read, thanks!

"

MauranKilom wrote:

Yet another brilliant story!

Both your plot and the actual narration are on point, and the description of the flicker strike part gave me goosebumps. Especially considering that these insanely powerful skill gems are what we have come to take as given in the game...

I do wonder though how Dominus would even go about making Philius effectively commit suicide (since even the Duelist noticed this was out of the ordinary).

So backstory on that, I wanted to have a part where it explains how Dominus exerts that influence over Philius (extortion, blackmail, threaten his family with torture, favorite tools of despots everywhere etc.) but then realized it was already too long and didn't really mesh with the rest of it (especially since it's being told from the Duelist's perspective). I figured that was one where I could leave the reader to fill in the blanks - end result is Dominus is powerful enough to demand this from Philius and he has no choice but to obey (which illustrates the power dynamic in Oriath pretty well I feel).

A great read, i read all of it. Thanks for sharing!

I do so love these, thank you.

These stories are great, the only fault is that they end too soon. I wish you made this into a long book. Make a deal with GGG to write novels from POE for them.

Bravissimo!

These are brilliant, please do not stop even after you cover all classes. Your stories enhance the lore and my immersion in the game immensely. I hope GGG officially endorses your work (besides being included in the weekly community highlight)!