JollyDoc
Explorer
LET THE GAMES BEGIN
True to his word, Ekaym arrived the next evening, this time draped in a garish purple robe. A small coach waited outside the inn, and it carried the merchant and the warlock through Dock Ward, and past the Market in the City Ward. Throughout the ride, Ekaym chatted away amiably about his travels to exotic locals and trysts with an improbable number of exotic women. Giovanni feigned passing interest, but kept most of his attention on the bustling nightlife they passed on the streets of the City of Splendors.
The coach pulled up in front of another inn, appropriately named the Crooked House, since it seemed as if the entire building was a bit off tilt, its walls at odd angles, and none of its doors or windows quite square. Once inside, Ekaym tipped the barkeep, a jovial looking gnome, who then led the pair to a secluded back room. A fire crackled in the hearth of the cozy chamber, and seated around a long table was one of the motliest assortment of characters Giovanni had ever laid eyes on.
Ekaym gestured towards the group with a flourish. “Gentlemen…and lady,” he added with a wink towards a lovely elf maid, “allow me to introduce the final member of your team. I present…Havok!” Stony silence met the merchant from seven pairs of eyes, eight counting Giovanni. “Yes, well…” he continued, clearing his throat. “Havok, I give you, in no certain order of importance, Vladius,” here he indicated a young man dressed in plain brown robes, yet sporting a mane of flame, red hair, “Shay,” a dark-skinned fellow clad all in black, “Grubber,” a mountain of a man, gray of skin, and bald of pate. Unless Giovanni missed his guess, he was a goliath. “Grim,” Ekaym continued, indicating what the warlock at first took to be a dwarf, but on closer inspection, he saw that the armor clad thing had skin seemingly made of solid rock, “Storm,” the lovely elven woman, “and lastly, Civilars Hawk Veritas and Dwilt Riddick.” These last two appeared to be human, but Giovanni quickly determined that the one called Hawk was something more. His bronze hair and gold-flecked eyes identified him as celestial touched…aasimar. Even more striking, though, was the title Ekaym had identified them by, and also the uniforms they both wore. The men were civilars, officers in the city guard! Why on earth would they be competing as gladiators?
“So,” the red head Ekaym had named Vladius said, crossing his hands across his belly, “you’re the new meat. I suppose this pirate posing as a merchant is fleecing you for as much as he is the rest of us, while he profits from the sweat of our brow. We who are about to be screwed salute you.” He raised a flagon into the air.
“You do have a flair for the dramatic, don’t you…Pyro?” Ekaym said sarcastically. “No one is twisting your arm to be here. You’re a big boy. Now, since we have the formalities out of the way, we can get down to business.” The merchant motioned Giovanni to a seat beside Grim, while he himself conspicuously took the spot next to Storm.
“As you all know,” Ekaym began, “the Champion’s Games begin officially tomorrow night with the Champion’s Feast. This will be held at the Field of Triumph, beginning promptly at six sharp. Any team not present will be disqualified. The Feast is mostly a formality…an excuse really for the nobles, upper level clergy and merchants to size-up the competitors and makes odds for wagering. It’s also one of many opportunities for Prendergast Brokengulf, the host of the Games, to seize the spotlight for himself and brag about his glory days as a former gladiator himself. In any event, I strongly advise you to use the time to scrutinize the other teams. The Games proper will commence on the following morning with the first round of competition. There are twenty-four teams competing. On the first day, there will be six battles, each consisting of four teams in a free-for-all. The six winners of these matches will then have one day of rest. On the third day, there will be three battles of one team versus one team. The fourth day, two of the remaining teams will battle each other, while the remaining team will fight one of the beasts of the arena. Traditionally, this battle goes to the previous year’s champions, in this case Auric’s Warband. Finally, on the last day, the final two teams compete, no-holds-barred, for the Champion’s Belt.”
“You mentioned something earlier about team ranks…” Dwilt interrupted.
“Ah, yes…” Ekaym said, steepling his fingers. “A team’s initial rank determines the odds for or against them in the wagering. You are relative unknowns, so your initial ranking will probably be somewhere around three, the minimum being one, and the maximum being nine. Each time you win a match, your rank will increase. All of the other rules of the tournament will be explained to you in detail at the Feast, so, if there’s nothing else…? Good, then I’ll leave you all to get better acquainted with your new team mate. Until tomorrow.” With that, the young merchant rose, and left the room, swirling his cloak around him dramatically.
“What a little weasel.” Vladius snorted as the door closed.
“Yes, but he has a managers license,” Dwilt said, “and he got us into the games.”
“Then the criteria for getting a license must only be having a face and the intelligence of a kobold,” the red-head retorted, then turned towards Giovanni. “Now what about you? Are you just some flunky of Ekaym’s, or can you actually fight?”
Giovanni peered over the top of his glasses. “I can handle myself, but I don’t want to start by sniping at my own team mates. Ekaym was right…I’d like to know more about you all. Where do you hale from?”
“Here and there,” Vladius said, picking at his fingernails with a bread knife. “You know us gladiator types…always on the move.”
“You must pardon my friend,” the goliath called Grubber spoke up. “He tends to speak and act before he thinks.” This earned the goliath a withering glare from Vladius. “Vladius, Shay, Grim and I came to Waterdeep by way of Daggerford, but what Vladius says is also true. We have all been wayfarers at one time or another.”
“Obviously, Hawk and I are native Waterdavians,” Dwilt said, tapping his civilar insignia.
“Yes, about that,” Giovanni asked. “Why would officers of the guard be competing in a common gladiatorial competition?”
“In order to earn almost 50,000 gp in the guard, we would have to serve until I was around 300 years old,” Dwilt said with a smile. “There is nothing in the guard rulebook that says we can’t make a little money on the side.”
“Now, back to you,” Storm said, leaning suggestively across the table towards Giovanni. “Where are you from? You seem like an unlikely gladiator yourself…Havok.”
“My name is Giovanni,” the warlock replied, dropping his gaze. “I am also something of a wanderer. Suffice it to say that Waterdeep is the perfect place to lose one’s self in, and the games present a quick, if dangerous source of income.”
“Then we have more in common than you think,” Storm smiled. “I think you’ll fit in just fine.”
_________________________________________________________
The evening of the Champion’s Feast arrived, and Ekaym arranged for transport of his team to the Field of Triumph. When Giovanni first stepped into the luxuriously roomy coach, he was stunned at the appearance of his comrades-in-arms. Dwilt and Hawk, who the previous night had been decked out in masterwork armor, were dressed in rusted cast-offs and maggoty leathers. Dull, pitted swords hung at their belts. Vladius wore a moth-eaten robe with one sleeved pinned up as if he were missing an arm. Grubber had what appeared to be several open sores on his face and arms. Shay, the supposed scout of the group, was dressed in several loose-fitting pieces of plate mail! Finally, Storm’s beautiful face was covered in soot and dirt, her hair a matted rat’s nest, while Grim, the mineralized dwarven juggernaut, was all but engulfed in a huge, multi-colored caftan.
“Did I miss something?” Giovanni asked, his mouth gaping. “Is the Feast supposed to be a costume party?”
“Not at all,” Dwilt laughed. “We are merely attempting to stack the odds against us. The less imposing we appear, the more money we’ll win when we put a few well-placed wagers on ourselves. We even ‘convinced’ a priest of Kossuth to spread the word among the clergy that he had recently ministered to Grubber for a mysterious wasting disease.”
Grubber frowned. “Which was not entirely an untruth,” he grumbled. “I actually have just recovered from a cursed periapt I…found.”
Giovanni could tell the goliath was holding something back, but he didn’t press the matter. Instead, he nodded his approval. “Then I should blend in just fine,” he said, adjusting his spectacles, and patting the large tome in his shoulder bag.
______________________________________________________
The Field of Triumph sat on a hillock overlooking the surrounding ward. Oval in shape, it had four gates, each overlooked by a pair of watchtowers. The arena itself was capable of seating over 18,000 spectators. Wardens manned each watchtower, greeting all arriving guests, dressed in blue cloaks with large clasps shaped like a bastard sword.
Numerous long banquet tables were arrayed in a circle around a central wooden stage in the middle of the field. Two great bonfires burned north of the seating areas, and scores of cooks, scullions and waiters were busy there with spits, grills and platters. Some two-hundred guests were already present shortly after sunset, with half again as many servants, cooks, musicians and other entertainers.
As Ekaym’s coach pulled up to the northwest gate, a warden greeted them. Ekaym presented his license and a clerk began recording the names of the team. “Now,” the clerk concluded, “what is the name of your group, and who is your group leader?” Immediately, Dwilt stepped forward. “I am the leader. I am Dwilt Riddick, and this,” he gestured towards the band, “is Impotent Rage!”
A warden escorted the gladiators to their table, and servants immediately flocked to provide a seemingly endless supply of food and drink. At exactly six, a hush fell over the gathering as a trumpet sounded from the north gate. There, a tanned, clean-shaven man, sporting a thick crew-cut and wearing a chain shirt with a pair of shortswords strapped at his waist strode across the field, trailed by six heavily armed men dressed in purple cloaks. Behind them walked a tall, heavily muscled man who appeared to be in his late fifties. Ancient scars creased his weathered face, and his grizzled, grey hair matched his small, penetrating eyes. He wore a gleaming breastplate with a buckler strapped to his left arm. A huge, bastard sword was strapped across his back. It was obvious that this was Prendergast Brokengulf, former champion of the Field of Triumph, now retired, having made a new career out of managing promising, up-and-coming gladiators, and having also created the Champion’s Games ten years ago. Flanking Brokengulf were two more men. The one on the right also wore a breastplate, and carried a large, steel shield. A greatsword rested between his broad shoulders. Around his waist was a red and black leather girdle topped with the representation of a haunted female face…the Champion’s Belt! The man on the left was balding, and dark-haired. He wore a high collared red cape fastened with a skull clasp over a green jerkin and pants.
The crowd erupted into thunderous applause as Brokengulf and his retinue took their positions at the center table. “Thank you my friends,” the gladiator cried, raising his hands to silence his many fans. “You are too kind. Allow me to present to you one more deserving of your accolades.” He turned to the man seated to his right, “I give you the reigning defender of the Champion’s Games for the past two years…Auric!” At this, the throng cheered even more loudly, but it was Vladius’ murmured response that caught Giovanni’s attention, “Ah, so that’s what became of them. The rumors of their death were greatly exaggerated it would seem.”
As the tumult died down, an elderly man wearing the robes of a city magister took the stage. “I am Talabir Welik,” he announced, “judge and arbiter of these Games. I will now review the rules of engagement. First, all battles are to the death, but any gladiator has the option to surrender at any time. To do so, a competitor must drop his or her weapons, kneel and raise both hands in the air. Any gladiator who attacks a surrendering foe will be immediately disqualified and charged with assault. Likewise, any gladiator who surrenders and then attacks another gladiator is also immediately disqualified and faces the same charges. Second, gladiators with the capability of flight or levitation may do so up to a maximum height of forty feet. Attaining heights greater than this are grounds for disqualification. Burrowing into the arena floor is forbidden. Third, a match persists until one team is victorious, either through the death or the surrender of all opposing teams. Fourth, winning gladiators have no right to the spoils of the fallen. A defeated gladiator keeps his gear, or in the case of death, ownership reverts to his team or manager. Fifth, any tactic that endangers spectators is grounds for immediate disqualification and possible legal action. Finally, a disqualified gladiator must cease fighting at once and move to the edge of the field immediately. Failure to comply results in the disqualification of the entire team. Once a gladiator is disqualified, he may no longer take part in any remaining battles.” Welik then stepped down from the stage, and Brokengulf stood once more. “I hereby declare all gladiators Champions of the City of Splendors! Let the Feast begin!”
Once the formalities were over, the numerous nobles, merchants, clergy and other invited guests began to mingle among the gladiator teams, sizing up each one, assessing their strengths and weaknesses, all in an effort to gain some advantage in the wagering to come. Giovanni watched the proceedings with fascination, taking special notes of the actions of his own team mates. Dwilt, in particular, was making the rounds of the high-rollers, making outlandish claims to any who would listen. "Impotent Rage is the greatest adventuring troupe to emerge from Daggerford in a ten-day. We were credited with slaying Kruxar the Invincible, a rogue kobold who was notorious for rustling cattle and various other livestock. Also, we halted the rampage of Imarta the dreaded zombie -- who scared various children of the town. Oh . . . Imarta was a canny one! Her scare tactics only came in the dead of night -- with nary a witness to her passing. However, just to be sure, we exhumed her body and hacked it to tiny little bits -- thereby ending her horrific assaults." He would also go to great lengths to introduce the ridiculously dressed members of the team to interested patrons. "Meet Pyro the Lame, who lost an arm in a farming accident. But be ye warned! He overcompensates for this deficiency with furious . . . ANGER!" and, "Feast your eyes upon Grubber the Afflicted. His promiscuous lifestyle has lead to a variety of boils, blisters, and ulcers. Do not underestimate him, for his very touch promises slimy doom!" Before long, Giovanni had to move quickly away from his erstwhile leader to avoid breaking into howls of laughter and spoiling the whole effect. Yet somehow, against all odds, Dwilt’s plan seemed to be working. The young warlock overheard several guests declaring Impotent Rage a long shot at best, and hopelessly outclassed at worst.
As the evening wore on, Giovanni took note of several other interesting occurrences. At one point, a young woman dressed in stunning soiree attire approached Shay and Vladius. The trio seemed to know one another, as they immediately fell into an animated conversation. The woman kept looking towards Auric and his companion, and Shay and Vladius followed her gaze. After several minutes of this, Giovanni’s two team mates nodded to the woman, and then Shay produced a heavy looking purse from his cloak and handed it to her. She made the bag disappear with startling alacrity, especially considering the fact that her outfit had very few places to conceal anything.
Something else that caught Giovanni’s eye was the fact that Prendergast Brokengulf seemed to be paying an inordinate amount of attention to the members of Impotent Rage, and that in turn, Ekaym appeared to be very interested in Brokengulf. The warlock filed all of these things away for consideration at a later date.
Finally, the Feast came to a close with a stunning fireworks display courtesy of Talabir Welik, after which the festival dancers fell dramatically to the ground and Brokengulf announced, “The Champion’s Games have begun!” At that point, the arena wardens began urging the guests towards the exits, while the gladiator teams were directed to a point near the northwest quadrant of the field. Over the course of the next hour, the teams were lowered by a cleverly concealed lift into the understructure of the arena. Giovanni and his companions eventually found themselves in a large hall showing signs of intense recent traffic. The ceiling was supported by a rectangular pillar, and by the shell of a circular stairwell. A wooden, life-sized statue of a muscular, half-naked man holding a spear and a horn lay in the southwest corner, where the lift terminated in an arcade. A heap of metal bars, hinges and locks sat along the north wall of the chamber, near a ten-foot wide, three-foot tall segment of a wooden frieze, decorated with the realistic carvings of fruits and a bull’s skull. From this chamber, the gladiators were led down a wide, curving hall to a large, irregular room which seemed to be a major junction. Many stairways and passages led in and out. One of these stairways led down to a level even further underground than the understructure, and terminated in an enormous cave resembling some sort of underground village. The cave walls were finely hewn and the floor was paved with smooth slabs of stone. Many artificial and natural pillars supported the relatively low ceiling fifteen feet above. Wooden doors on the cave’s walls lead to a circle of underground dwellings. A pair of similar doors on the north wall led to a kitchen and an infirmary. An underground stream ran in the middle of the cavern, crossed by a wooden bridge that led to a dining area with two long tables. The relatively fresh air, murals of famous gladiators on the walls and the soft illumination provided by amber-colored light globes hanging from the ceiling made the cavern a true marvel of underground architecture.
“Gentlemen and ladies,” one of the wardens called out as the last of the teams was led into the chamber, “welcome to the coenoby, your home while you remain competitors in the Games. Anything you wish will be provided for you, but you are forbidden from leaving this chamber unless escorted by a warden. Failure to comply will result in immediate disqualification. Get some rest. You’re going to need it.”
True to his word, Ekaym arrived the next evening, this time draped in a garish purple robe. A small coach waited outside the inn, and it carried the merchant and the warlock through Dock Ward, and past the Market in the City Ward. Throughout the ride, Ekaym chatted away amiably about his travels to exotic locals and trysts with an improbable number of exotic women. Giovanni feigned passing interest, but kept most of his attention on the bustling nightlife they passed on the streets of the City of Splendors.
The coach pulled up in front of another inn, appropriately named the Crooked House, since it seemed as if the entire building was a bit off tilt, its walls at odd angles, and none of its doors or windows quite square. Once inside, Ekaym tipped the barkeep, a jovial looking gnome, who then led the pair to a secluded back room. A fire crackled in the hearth of the cozy chamber, and seated around a long table was one of the motliest assortment of characters Giovanni had ever laid eyes on.
Ekaym gestured towards the group with a flourish. “Gentlemen…and lady,” he added with a wink towards a lovely elf maid, “allow me to introduce the final member of your team. I present…Havok!” Stony silence met the merchant from seven pairs of eyes, eight counting Giovanni. “Yes, well…” he continued, clearing his throat. “Havok, I give you, in no certain order of importance, Vladius,” here he indicated a young man dressed in plain brown robes, yet sporting a mane of flame, red hair, “Shay,” a dark-skinned fellow clad all in black, “Grubber,” a mountain of a man, gray of skin, and bald of pate. Unless Giovanni missed his guess, he was a goliath. “Grim,” Ekaym continued, indicating what the warlock at first took to be a dwarf, but on closer inspection, he saw that the armor clad thing had skin seemingly made of solid rock, “Storm,” the lovely elven woman, “and lastly, Civilars Hawk Veritas and Dwilt Riddick.” These last two appeared to be human, but Giovanni quickly determined that the one called Hawk was something more. His bronze hair and gold-flecked eyes identified him as celestial touched…aasimar. Even more striking, though, was the title Ekaym had identified them by, and also the uniforms they both wore. The men were civilars, officers in the city guard! Why on earth would they be competing as gladiators?
“So,” the red head Ekaym had named Vladius said, crossing his hands across his belly, “you’re the new meat. I suppose this pirate posing as a merchant is fleecing you for as much as he is the rest of us, while he profits from the sweat of our brow. We who are about to be screwed salute you.” He raised a flagon into the air.
“You do have a flair for the dramatic, don’t you…Pyro?” Ekaym said sarcastically. “No one is twisting your arm to be here. You’re a big boy. Now, since we have the formalities out of the way, we can get down to business.” The merchant motioned Giovanni to a seat beside Grim, while he himself conspicuously took the spot next to Storm.
“As you all know,” Ekaym began, “the Champion’s Games begin officially tomorrow night with the Champion’s Feast. This will be held at the Field of Triumph, beginning promptly at six sharp. Any team not present will be disqualified. The Feast is mostly a formality…an excuse really for the nobles, upper level clergy and merchants to size-up the competitors and makes odds for wagering. It’s also one of many opportunities for Prendergast Brokengulf, the host of the Games, to seize the spotlight for himself and brag about his glory days as a former gladiator himself. In any event, I strongly advise you to use the time to scrutinize the other teams. The Games proper will commence on the following morning with the first round of competition. There are twenty-four teams competing. On the first day, there will be six battles, each consisting of four teams in a free-for-all. The six winners of these matches will then have one day of rest. On the third day, there will be three battles of one team versus one team. The fourth day, two of the remaining teams will battle each other, while the remaining team will fight one of the beasts of the arena. Traditionally, this battle goes to the previous year’s champions, in this case Auric’s Warband. Finally, on the last day, the final two teams compete, no-holds-barred, for the Champion’s Belt.”
“You mentioned something earlier about team ranks…” Dwilt interrupted.
“Ah, yes…” Ekaym said, steepling his fingers. “A team’s initial rank determines the odds for or against them in the wagering. You are relative unknowns, so your initial ranking will probably be somewhere around three, the minimum being one, and the maximum being nine. Each time you win a match, your rank will increase. All of the other rules of the tournament will be explained to you in detail at the Feast, so, if there’s nothing else…? Good, then I’ll leave you all to get better acquainted with your new team mate. Until tomorrow.” With that, the young merchant rose, and left the room, swirling his cloak around him dramatically.
“What a little weasel.” Vladius snorted as the door closed.
“Yes, but he has a managers license,” Dwilt said, “and he got us into the games.”
“Then the criteria for getting a license must only be having a face and the intelligence of a kobold,” the red-head retorted, then turned towards Giovanni. “Now what about you? Are you just some flunky of Ekaym’s, or can you actually fight?”
Giovanni peered over the top of his glasses. “I can handle myself, but I don’t want to start by sniping at my own team mates. Ekaym was right…I’d like to know more about you all. Where do you hale from?”
“Here and there,” Vladius said, picking at his fingernails with a bread knife. “You know us gladiator types…always on the move.”
“You must pardon my friend,” the goliath called Grubber spoke up. “He tends to speak and act before he thinks.” This earned the goliath a withering glare from Vladius. “Vladius, Shay, Grim and I came to Waterdeep by way of Daggerford, but what Vladius says is also true. We have all been wayfarers at one time or another.”
“Obviously, Hawk and I are native Waterdavians,” Dwilt said, tapping his civilar insignia.
“Yes, about that,” Giovanni asked. “Why would officers of the guard be competing in a common gladiatorial competition?”
“In order to earn almost 50,000 gp in the guard, we would have to serve until I was around 300 years old,” Dwilt said with a smile. “There is nothing in the guard rulebook that says we can’t make a little money on the side.”
“Now, back to you,” Storm said, leaning suggestively across the table towards Giovanni. “Where are you from? You seem like an unlikely gladiator yourself…Havok.”
“My name is Giovanni,” the warlock replied, dropping his gaze. “I am also something of a wanderer. Suffice it to say that Waterdeep is the perfect place to lose one’s self in, and the games present a quick, if dangerous source of income.”
“Then we have more in common than you think,” Storm smiled. “I think you’ll fit in just fine.”
_________________________________________________________
The evening of the Champion’s Feast arrived, and Ekaym arranged for transport of his team to the Field of Triumph. When Giovanni first stepped into the luxuriously roomy coach, he was stunned at the appearance of his comrades-in-arms. Dwilt and Hawk, who the previous night had been decked out in masterwork armor, were dressed in rusted cast-offs and maggoty leathers. Dull, pitted swords hung at their belts. Vladius wore a moth-eaten robe with one sleeved pinned up as if he were missing an arm. Grubber had what appeared to be several open sores on his face and arms. Shay, the supposed scout of the group, was dressed in several loose-fitting pieces of plate mail! Finally, Storm’s beautiful face was covered in soot and dirt, her hair a matted rat’s nest, while Grim, the mineralized dwarven juggernaut, was all but engulfed in a huge, multi-colored caftan.
“Did I miss something?” Giovanni asked, his mouth gaping. “Is the Feast supposed to be a costume party?”
“Not at all,” Dwilt laughed. “We are merely attempting to stack the odds against us. The less imposing we appear, the more money we’ll win when we put a few well-placed wagers on ourselves. We even ‘convinced’ a priest of Kossuth to spread the word among the clergy that he had recently ministered to Grubber for a mysterious wasting disease.”
Grubber frowned. “Which was not entirely an untruth,” he grumbled. “I actually have just recovered from a cursed periapt I…found.”
Giovanni could tell the goliath was holding something back, but he didn’t press the matter. Instead, he nodded his approval. “Then I should blend in just fine,” he said, adjusting his spectacles, and patting the large tome in his shoulder bag.
______________________________________________________
The Field of Triumph sat on a hillock overlooking the surrounding ward. Oval in shape, it had four gates, each overlooked by a pair of watchtowers. The arena itself was capable of seating over 18,000 spectators. Wardens manned each watchtower, greeting all arriving guests, dressed in blue cloaks with large clasps shaped like a bastard sword.
Numerous long banquet tables were arrayed in a circle around a central wooden stage in the middle of the field. Two great bonfires burned north of the seating areas, and scores of cooks, scullions and waiters were busy there with spits, grills and platters. Some two-hundred guests were already present shortly after sunset, with half again as many servants, cooks, musicians and other entertainers.
As Ekaym’s coach pulled up to the northwest gate, a warden greeted them. Ekaym presented his license and a clerk began recording the names of the team. “Now,” the clerk concluded, “what is the name of your group, and who is your group leader?” Immediately, Dwilt stepped forward. “I am the leader. I am Dwilt Riddick, and this,” he gestured towards the band, “is Impotent Rage!”
A warden escorted the gladiators to their table, and servants immediately flocked to provide a seemingly endless supply of food and drink. At exactly six, a hush fell over the gathering as a trumpet sounded from the north gate. There, a tanned, clean-shaven man, sporting a thick crew-cut and wearing a chain shirt with a pair of shortswords strapped at his waist strode across the field, trailed by six heavily armed men dressed in purple cloaks. Behind them walked a tall, heavily muscled man who appeared to be in his late fifties. Ancient scars creased his weathered face, and his grizzled, grey hair matched his small, penetrating eyes. He wore a gleaming breastplate with a buckler strapped to his left arm. A huge, bastard sword was strapped across his back. It was obvious that this was Prendergast Brokengulf, former champion of the Field of Triumph, now retired, having made a new career out of managing promising, up-and-coming gladiators, and having also created the Champion’s Games ten years ago. Flanking Brokengulf were two more men. The one on the right also wore a breastplate, and carried a large, steel shield. A greatsword rested between his broad shoulders. Around his waist was a red and black leather girdle topped with the representation of a haunted female face…the Champion’s Belt! The man on the left was balding, and dark-haired. He wore a high collared red cape fastened with a skull clasp over a green jerkin and pants.
The crowd erupted into thunderous applause as Brokengulf and his retinue took their positions at the center table. “Thank you my friends,” the gladiator cried, raising his hands to silence his many fans. “You are too kind. Allow me to present to you one more deserving of your accolades.” He turned to the man seated to his right, “I give you the reigning defender of the Champion’s Games for the past two years…Auric!” At this, the throng cheered even more loudly, but it was Vladius’ murmured response that caught Giovanni’s attention, “Ah, so that’s what became of them. The rumors of their death were greatly exaggerated it would seem.”
As the tumult died down, an elderly man wearing the robes of a city magister took the stage. “I am Talabir Welik,” he announced, “judge and arbiter of these Games. I will now review the rules of engagement. First, all battles are to the death, but any gladiator has the option to surrender at any time. To do so, a competitor must drop his or her weapons, kneel and raise both hands in the air. Any gladiator who attacks a surrendering foe will be immediately disqualified and charged with assault. Likewise, any gladiator who surrenders and then attacks another gladiator is also immediately disqualified and faces the same charges. Second, gladiators with the capability of flight or levitation may do so up to a maximum height of forty feet. Attaining heights greater than this are grounds for disqualification. Burrowing into the arena floor is forbidden. Third, a match persists until one team is victorious, either through the death or the surrender of all opposing teams. Fourth, winning gladiators have no right to the spoils of the fallen. A defeated gladiator keeps his gear, or in the case of death, ownership reverts to his team or manager. Fifth, any tactic that endangers spectators is grounds for immediate disqualification and possible legal action. Finally, a disqualified gladiator must cease fighting at once and move to the edge of the field immediately. Failure to comply results in the disqualification of the entire team. Once a gladiator is disqualified, he may no longer take part in any remaining battles.” Welik then stepped down from the stage, and Brokengulf stood once more. “I hereby declare all gladiators Champions of the City of Splendors! Let the Feast begin!”
Once the formalities were over, the numerous nobles, merchants, clergy and other invited guests began to mingle among the gladiator teams, sizing up each one, assessing their strengths and weaknesses, all in an effort to gain some advantage in the wagering to come. Giovanni watched the proceedings with fascination, taking special notes of the actions of his own team mates. Dwilt, in particular, was making the rounds of the high-rollers, making outlandish claims to any who would listen. "Impotent Rage is the greatest adventuring troupe to emerge from Daggerford in a ten-day. We were credited with slaying Kruxar the Invincible, a rogue kobold who was notorious for rustling cattle and various other livestock. Also, we halted the rampage of Imarta the dreaded zombie -- who scared various children of the town. Oh . . . Imarta was a canny one! Her scare tactics only came in the dead of night -- with nary a witness to her passing. However, just to be sure, we exhumed her body and hacked it to tiny little bits -- thereby ending her horrific assaults." He would also go to great lengths to introduce the ridiculously dressed members of the team to interested patrons. "Meet Pyro the Lame, who lost an arm in a farming accident. But be ye warned! He overcompensates for this deficiency with furious . . . ANGER!" and, "Feast your eyes upon Grubber the Afflicted. His promiscuous lifestyle has lead to a variety of boils, blisters, and ulcers. Do not underestimate him, for his very touch promises slimy doom!" Before long, Giovanni had to move quickly away from his erstwhile leader to avoid breaking into howls of laughter and spoiling the whole effect. Yet somehow, against all odds, Dwilt’s plan seemed to be working. The young warlock overheard several guests declaring Impotent Rage a long shot at best, and hopelessly outclassed at worst.
As the evening wore on, Giovanni took note of several other interesting occurrences. At one point, a young woman dressed in stunning soiree attire approached Shay and Vladius. The trio seemed to know one another, as they immediately fell into an animated conversation. The woman kept looking towards Auric and his companion, and Shay and Vladius followed her gaze. After several minutes of this, Giovanni’s two team mates nodded to the woman, and then Shay produced a heavy looking purse from his cloak and handed it to her. She made the bag disappear with startling alacrity, especially considering the fact that her outfit had very few places to conceal anything.
Something else that caught Giovanni’s eye was the fact that Prendergast Brokengulf seemed to be paying an inordinate amount of attention to the members of Impotent Rage, and that in turn, Ekaym appeared to be very interested in Brokengulf. The warlock filed all of these things away for consideration at a later date.
Finally, the Feast came to a close with a stunning fireworks display courtesy of Talabir Welik, after which the festival dancers fell dramatically to the ground and Brokengulf announced, “The Champion’s Games have begun!” At that point, the arena wardens began urging the guests towards the exits, while the gladiator teams were directed to a point near the northwest quadrant of the field. Over the course of the next hour, the teams were lowered by a cleverly concealed lift into the understructure of the arena. Giovanni and his companions eventually found themselves in a large hall showing signs of intense recent traffic. The ceiling was supported by a rectangular pillar, and by the shell of a circular stairwell. A wooden, life-sized statue of a muscular, half-naked man holding a spear and a horn lay in the southwest corner, where the lift terminated in an arcade. A heap of metal bars, hinges and locks sat along the north wall of the chamber, near a ten-foot wide, three-foot tall segment of a wooden frieze, decorated with the realistic carvings of fruits and a bull’s skull. From this chamber, the gladiators were led down a wide, curving hall to a large, irregular room which seemed to be a major junction. Many stairways and passages led in and out. One of these stairways led down to a level even further underground than the understructure, and terminated in an enormous cave resembling some sort of underground village. The cave walls were finely hewn and the floor was paved with smooth slabs of stone. Many artificial and natural pillars supported the relatively low ceiling fifteen feet above. Wooden doors on the cave’s walls lead to a circle of underground dwellings. A pair of similar doors on the north wall led to a kitchen and an infirmary. An underground stream ran in the middle of the cavern, crossed by a wooden bridge that led to a dining area with two long tables. The relatively fresh air, murals of famous gladiators on the walls and the soft illumination provided by amber-colored light globes hanging from the ceiling made the cavern a true marvel of underground architecture.
“Gentlemen and ladies,” one of the wardens called out as the last of the teams was led into the chamber, “welcome to the coenoby, your home while you remain competitors in the Games. Anything you wish will be provided for you, but you are forbidden from leaving this chamber unless escorted by a warden. Failure to comply will result in immediate disqualification. Get some rest. You’re going to need it.”
![:]](http://www.enworld.org/forum/images/smilies/devious.png "Devious :]")
