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stararena-blog · 6 years

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Arena of the Stars

KRYS PYNE VS. SHAEL ABUFF

The man in chains awoke with a start, icy eyes cracked with terror. The world was trying to kill him, he was sure of it, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. His hands--heavy with shackles--brushed through his matted brown hair. The words filled his mouth as quickly as bile:

“Where am I?”

He stilled. His salty fingers went to his lips, as if trying to feel his voice. Was that his voice? Following his throat downwards, he felt his bare chest until it met ragged burlap pants. Nothing seemed familiar. His eyes darted about madly, searching the dusty stone walls for an answer—the answer—

“You are in the Arena of Stars, Krys Pyne,” a soothing voice filled the bare chambers, pushing aside the dust and hysteria from the walls. He turned to it, scrambling to his bare feet with difficulty. It was a woman, young, with hair of fire. The man stilled, struck by eyes that reminded him of soft grass.

She stepped closer with such grace and confidence that forced him to stumble back, immediately falling to the dusty clay ground. The chains on his feet, he finally noticed, were fastened to a metal ring at the center of the room.

“It will be okay,” cheeks swelled with her pink smile, “In here, you are safe.” The woman took yet another step, the peach-colored robes rustling like petals in the wind.

“Who—Who are you?” His dirty hands were held up, expecting an attack. She did not seem fazed,

“I am Emma Fire-Stone, but you may call me Emma.”

“Emma…” he tasted each letter, expecting it to quench his sudden thirst. “Where—What—” He didn’t know where to start; he couldn’t even remember his name. Trying to get his thoughts in order, he treaded slowly, “You… You called me something earlier. What was it?”

“Krys Pyne,” her smile did not waver, “That is your old name—and your new one.”

“Why? Why can’t I remember anything?” He stood, eyeing the chains.

“None of our gladiators do. He finds it distracting.”

“’He’? Who is ‘he’?”

She held her pale hands before her, smiling sweetly, “You’ll come to find out soon enough. Now, follow me.”

He chuckled for the first time, a smirk brightening his handsome face. Gesturing downwards, “I’d love to, but—”

The chains on his feet were gone.

As was she.

Her voice drifted from the narrow hallway exiting the room, “Stay close, Krys Pyne. Else you might find yourself dead before your first fight.”

Everything within his core warned him to stay, but what else could he do? Sit in an empty room and die of starvation?

He trotted after, the shackles on his wrists heralding his presence with every jingle. Both walls and floor had the orange hue of clay, making it feel like he was trapped in an endless, featureless tunnel. The hallway coiled and curved like a snake, and no matter his speed he would only just see a ruffle of soft fabric rustling out of sight.

“Wait—Emma—" It was impossible to run more than a few feet before slamming into a wall. His breaths were growing more ragged, anxiety settling into his chest. “Slow down, I—”

The tunnel opened into a wide room. The walls and floor were in the same orange hues as the rest of the building, only the room was not bare. It was full of weapons. Swords, axes, hammers, blades and spikes attached to oddly shaped designs he couldn’t guess the name of. Her pale fingers were grazing down the blade of a sword,

“First, you must choose your weapon.”

“Woah, woah, I’m going to stop you right now,” He carefully approached her, “I’m not fighting anybody. Especially not with a sword.”

“An axe, then?” She looked to him with a teasing smile, “You can’t go out with just your fists.”

“I’m not fighting anybody,” he repeated firmly, “Why would I?”

“Because your Patron says so,” she drew a spear sitting atop a long black pole. Twirling it in her hands a moment, she handed it to him, “And if you don’t listen to your Patron, you die.”

His hand reeled from the spear as if it were fire, eyes wide. It fell to the floor dejectedly, “So, what, I’m like—a fighting dog?”

“Essentially,” she grinned, “Maybe a little more complex.” The calmness in her tone was irritating him.

“I’m not going to be a mindless animal fighting for some random person.”

“Not random, you were specially selected,” she held up her hand, stopping his immediate objection, “You belong to one of the Five. The most powerful figures in this world, whose influence can bend time itself.”

“But why me? Why do I carry the weight of this god-like figure alone?”

“You are not alone. You have four other members of your team.”

His brows knit, frozen blue eyes searching within the meadow of hers, “My team? Where? Who are—”

“Let’s pick your weapon first,” she insisted, bending low to pick up the spear. “You have four varieties of weapons to choose from: Ice, Fire, Lightning and Spirit.” With a sharp pound into the floor, the silver of the blade burst into flame—“GAH!” He stepped back from it, arms before his face, “What—What the—"

“Depending on what element and weapon your opponent chooses, you can be at an advantage or disadvantage.”

He was still staring at the flames, eyes wide. How is this possible?

“I suggest you find a weapon that feels comfortable, first.” Though the words seemed friendly, the tone revealed it as the command it was. Fueled by curiosity (and slight fear), his feet carried him from weapon to weapon.

After closer inspection, he could make out small gems in each handle—mostly red and blue, with yellow and purple sprinkled here and there. Noticing the woman was watching him, he cleared his throat and reached for the great sword. Lifting it off the display gently—CLANG, THUD—“Fuck!” He bounced around on his injured foot, face growing red. He heard her light giggle,

“Something lighter, perhaps?”

He looked down to his body with narrowed eyes. The hills and valleys of his chest, as well as his sizable arms, seemed to have deceived him. “I’m—tired.”

“Here—” she was suddenly before him, a silver sword resting across her palms, “Try this.”

Steeling his jaw, he went to clasp the handle. She dropped her arms, and he nearly dropped the sword as well. The ease in which she held it led him to believe it to weigh next to nothing. His arm turned the fall into a swing, jaw stuck out as if studying the weapon,

“Ah, yes, fine.”

She grinned, her hands reaching for his. “Now…” she moved closer, the smell of flowers wafting into his nose, “Just move your thumb here.” Her fingers carefully positioned his thumb so that it rested on hers. He could feel her lightly press into a groove. The blade cracked, deep blue veins carving themselves into the polished silver. Every movement of the sword left a small trail of frost to linger in the air. It nearly distracted him from the beautiful girl pressed close to his chest. Her eyes flickered up to him, dangerous beneath those thick eyelashes, “How does it feel?”

A tense few seconds of silence went by before his brain processed she had asked a question. Ripping his eyes from hers, he forced his focus on the blade, “Powerful.”

“Good,” she left him, taking her warmth and soft smells with her. Stepping towards a new hallway, “Now let’s get you suited up to face your first opponent.”

When her words processed, he followed afterwards with a weary smile, “Listen, this is cool and all, but I’m not into this idea of maiming a stranger for the amusement of other strangers.”

The beautiful woman looked to him over her shoulder with a smirk, “You will fight, Krys Pyne.”

He chuckled, “What makes you so sure?”

She fully stopped at this. As if a switch was flipped, the room went cold. The air around him seemed to still, and he immediately found himself gasping for breath, “Because…” when she turned around, the green pastures of her eyes had turned burning violet, “If you don’t, I’ll kill you myself.”

---

The newest room they entered was dim, the walls cast in such cold shadow that Krys found himself missing the encompassing clay. Emma was helping him into a leather vest, her friendly eyes bright and clear as the moment he'd first seen her. But...

I'll kill you myself.

A single look had never made him feel such dread. He cleared his throat, "So where's my team?"

She tightened the straps with a soft smile, "If you pass your first test, you will meet them."

"And my first test is... killing someone?"

"Depends if our King sees fit for them—or you—to live."

Shaggy brown locks hung over his eyes, jaw clenched. He had no identity besides his name and his face—neither meaning anything to him. But maybe he had a family somewhere, friends, a home...

"If I win, then what?"

"We'll talk about it soon. Now, feel ready?"

He held open his arms with a scoff, "A leather vest? What about pants? Boots? Maybe some steel?"

"When you move up higher, you'll get more gear. And besides, this vest has mild elemental resistance." The sweet smile revealed it has being a kind favor, but all he could see were those cold violet eyes.

"Thanks..."

"Now, follow me," she cooed, walking down a wide brick-laden archway that could have made room for 20 men abreast. There was a dim humming, and Krys kept glancing around in search of a bug. As they walked further, it grew louder and louder, the sound seeming so familiar... A metal gate barred their path, light shining through so intense that he had to squint to even see Emma.

That sound... It was—

"Your audience awaits, Krys Pine. Are you ready?"

The thought of murdering a man wracked his body with chills, but the realization that there was a chance he might lose… His heartbeat was in his throat,

��Do I have a choice?”

Emma smiled, eyes looking him over as if checking cattle. Her thin hand reached beside her—CLINK—a chain was brought down, and soon after the grate was rising.

The sweat in his palms almost made him lose grip of the sword. With a small gesture of her hand, he found himself walking into the light. Forcing a smirk on his face, he turned back to her,

“Any advice?”

Her smile was still in place, half her face obscured by his shadow. After a moment she spoke softly, “Fight true, and put your very soul in each swing.”

He chuckled, “Gee, thanks. Anything, ya know, practical?”

She smirked, “Your weapon will run out of energy after about ten minutes. Use it wisely.”

His eyes widened, “What, what—”

“AND OUR NEXT MATCH BEGINS NOW!” A voice boomed around him, forcing his eyes to adjust to his surroundings. It was a massive arena, a complete oval of rows upon rows of cheering fans. There must have been fifty thousand screaming faces, if not more. The ground was a familiar orange dirt, with random rocks and brown splotches decorating here and there.

“OUR FIRST CONTENDOR! ON DEKAPRIO’S TEAM WE HAVE… KRYS PYNE!”

Half of the arena burst into an endless chant: “DE-KAP-RI-O! DE-KAP-RI-O!”

Krys held his arm high blocking out the two suns overhead. What IS this place?

“AND FOR OUR NEXT CONTENDOR—ON THE ALBAH TEAM IS OUR TWO-TIME WINNER… SHAEL ABUFF!”

A creaking on the other side of the stadium drew Krys’s pale glare.

The man that stepped out of the opposing gate brandished eyes of murder, thick beard outlining a harsh grimace, and a scar that ran down the left side of his face. He was shorter than Krys, but through that glare Krys felt two-feet tall.

In Shael’s hands spun two golden daggers, fitting within his palms as if designed just for him. Pyne gulped, taking a step back. A two-time winner? How was he supposed to compete with that? He looked down to his sword—He only had 10 minutes of energy.

Well, better start now. He pressed his thumb into the groove.

Nothing happened.

“Wait, what?” He did it again, pressing it frantically. The blade stayed inactive. Was he doing it wrong? Was the energy already drained?

Shael was crunching towards him, without chest armor, only crisscrossing leather pants and arm guards. At least there was a somewhat easy target. Maybe he could win without the elemental nonsense. Or maybe…

“Hey… buddy,” Krys grinned, holding up his sword and hand in defeat, “How about we talk this out?”

The brutish man did not seem to care for Krys’s words.

“Look, I don’t want to hurt you, alright?”

Shael was perhaps a dozen feet away. Krys began backing up, grin faltering, “Heh, not much of a talker, huh? Come on, if we both don’t do anything—what’s the worst that could happen? Why do we need to fight?”

This stopped Shael for a moment, and a slow grin revealed a missing tooth. His voice was raspy, “Do you have dreams, Krys Pyne?”

Krys’s brow raised, “Uh, I guess?”

“As do I,” the man nodded to himself, “To be free of this place, that is my dream. And for me, I will not let my dreams be dreams. This is why I fight, and why I’ll win.”

“But I really don’t want to f—”

“Let me give you some advice, pretty man—” Although an intended insult, Krys found it rather complimentary, “If you’re going to win, win. If you’re going to die, die. Either way, just do it!”

His daggers burst into flame. Krys’s eyes widened,

“Oh no—”

Arcs of orange sped past his face, his body barely able to move away from the burning blades. “Shit—shit—shit—”

His fingers fondled every inch of the handle, and still the blade stayed the same. Unsure of what else to do, Krys did what any brave man would in times of crises—he bolted in the opposite direction, screaming as he went.

“Get back here, Pyne!” Shael growled, his footsteps joining Krys’s.

“No, thank you!”

“LOOK WHAT WE HAVE HERE, EVERYONE! A RUNNER!” The announcer boomed all around him, followed quickly by cacophonous laughter. Some in the stands started to ‘BOO’ at him. One slung something red at his head, but he ducked down just in time. At least I have good reflexes, he attempted to comfort himself whilst running for his life from Shael Abuff.

“You can’t run forever!” The angry man’s voice was fading as he fell further behind. Krys grinned, looking over his shoulder,

“I can try—!” Krys’s face was abruptly introduced to the dirt. A sharp ringing bounced around his skull, and he felt his left toe throbbing something fierce. So much for fast reflexes.

He twisted around in time to see the harsh man towering above him.

With a snarl Shael drove his daggers downwards. Krys was vividly imaging his dying moments, but was interrupted by the loud CLANG of metal. He looked down to see his sword intercepting both blades, catching them on their hilts. Swinging them to the side, Krys bought himself just enough time to stand before becoming bombarded by fire.

Shael’s every swing seemed to grow hotter and hotter, the fire burning in his very eyes. But-- Your weapon will run out of energy after about ten minutes. Use it wisely. He just had to keep this up for—

Krys hastily blocked one dagger, but the other successfully plunged into his left arm. He barely bit back a scream, the fire melting its way into his flesh.

In a pained whimper, “Could have really used arm-guards, Emma…”

“You will not stop me!” Shael spit in his face, “You are weak!” He drew back his dagger, blood and fried flesh coming with it. Come on, Pyne, get it together. Krys slashed his sword outwards. A thin red sash now decorated Shael’s torso.

“Ha!” Krys spat through his grimace. The steaming hole in his bicep was not particularly pleasant. Shael’s black eyes fixated on him with a new intensity. The crazed man’s hand rubbed across the small gash, then brought his palm to his face. Adorned with the red mask of a madman, he ran towards Krys with a howl.

Great, now I’ve made him mad.

Barely blocking the ferocious swings, Krys twisted his hand this way and that to try to find a hidden groove. Come on, come on. Why aren’t you working?

Abuff slashed an ‘X’ into Krys’s chest. The force of it knocked him back, but the daggers fizzled out. Shael looked to them, brows sloped in frustration. Krys sighed a quick, “Oh thank god,” as he got his bearings.

What did she say? Was there a trick she showed while pressing up against him? What was it…?

Fight true, and put your very soul in each swing.

With a hearty scream, Shael relit his daggers. Krys’s eyes widened. Had she actually given him practical advice after all? But how was he s—

A burning blade cut through his cheek—“Shit!”—the other aimed for his uninjured shoulder. Krys grabbed Shael’s forearm and encouraged the momentum, pulling his body forward, kneeing him in the stomach. Shael fell forward, gasping for breath.

Think, Pyne, he grabbed at his face as he backed away, What is a soul? It’s who a person is at their core, isn’t it? But he had no core—he didn’t even know his name. Focus—This maniac will murder me if I don’t figure this out. He looked down to his hand, now a bright red. I have to have a family, right? Maybe I’m married to some supermodel or—or something. This is for them. Come on, idiot, think!

He looked down to his blade, eyes narrowed. Desperation, anger, fear, longing—he poured all of it downwards. Maybe he can’t remember who he is, but he knew how he felt. And emotions are a reflection of who you are. So—So—

CRACK.

A jagged blue streak ran along the blade. Then another, but that was all. Almost… He tried to relive his fear at waking up in chains, his anger at being treated like a filthy animal, his desperate wish to remember who he was—

The blade exploded into blue, every crack growing brighter and brighter. Cheers and gasps were heard throughout the crowd. He didn’t stop, his eyes as bright as his sword. I wanted to know who I am…Why am I here? What did I do to deserve this?! It glowed brighter, brighter, brighter—

He fell to the ground.

In the distance, a million miles away, he heard “And he’s down!”

Darkness.

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

Everything was pain. Either sharp stinging or pounding soreness. His eyes fluttered open, wincing at the light. The first thing he saw was soft grass. No… No, it was—

“E—Emma?” he could barely speak.

“Welcome to the Arena of Stars, Krys Pyne,” her soft voice cooed, “It’s time to meet your team.”

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