Motya rummaged through his trunks, tossing bits and pieces of his belongings across the bunk which the men had set the massive copper strapped chests in front of. He had made his way immediately for his gear and began donning his armor, there had been threats of a bloody ship christening and he was determined to be ready for such an event if anyone was foolish enough to take him up on it. This kind of reaction may have been irrational to some of his brothers and sisters but to Motya a threat leveled was a threat one had to be prepared to enforce and anyone that knew Motya would expect such action. He removed his garments down to his small cloths and then slipped into a set of supple seal skin trousers and a matching shirt, with practiced ease he cinched the trousers around his waist and ankles and laced up the front of the shirt. Next came the clang of heavy boots each composed of a spiked heel and ridged foot. Lifting the heavy boots from the trunk Motya set them on the deck and stepped into the metal shod footwear, locking the monstrosities around his lower extremities. Weathered brass colored greaves and matching gauntlets were put on next, each inlaid with rows of hardened studs and heavy looking pistons that helped power his movements. Motya wormed his way into a battered and studded breastplate, fauld, and tasset, each covered in low pyramid shaped spikes, after which he locked on pauldrons over his shoulders each of which had the jagged teeth of three heavy gears rising up from his shoulders. Lastly he replaced his plain leather gloves for the mailed fists that were his main weapons, each knuckle sporting a spike or ridged blade, the backs of the palms covered in three raised and sharpened ridges, and each fingertip honed to a vicious point. He moved a bit in the monstrosity that was his armor, each piston hissed appropriately when required, each cog and gear engaged as it should under the heavy metal, and as he threw his Inquisitorial tabard over the armor and affixed his belts of ether the power of the golden energy aided in the agile movement of the mass of metal that encased Father Motya. Before long the trunk was cleared out, his armor was donned and he sat at one of the barracks desks hurriedly scribbling on parchment, the legs of the chair creaking under his weight. After he was finished Motya tossed the crumpled metal bar from the slave cage into an Inquisitorial package, sealed the package with a giant glob of wax set with the mailed fist that was his icon, and stormed off the ark towards the Basilica in order to send the package.

The ark was not the only place where threats were made, it seemed to that the Basilica was also a witness to dire words. "If I find out this message is stolen, lost, or opened before it reaches its destination, Varya save you all." Kassandra growled, stepping away from the desk. However, she soon saw the crowd parting for a man who was short in stature, but wider than most and covered in more muscle and metal than anybody in the building. Motya was wearing his heavy armour, which was strange to her... they were still in Magnagrad, he had no reason to be fully covered in gear and why was he carrying a package to the Basilica? She pushed her bangs aside to keep them from her eyes, her tattooed comrade appearing bothered by something as she observed his approach. What had happened in the cargo hold, she remembered him being called away from the bridge to go there, what had put him in such a foul state? She watched him approach the desk to send his missive off and as he turned around she positioned herself so she would be standing right behind him, staring intently at him, "Motya, what happened?" She spoke in her typical, rather blunt manner and she rested a hand on the stout man's shoulder before walking with him as they left the Basilica. For Motya, the moments of reality ebbed and time stood still when Kassandra approached him and began speaking. He became possessed with memories of the Seminary, the hand was familiar in this time and the past but the touch of it drew Motya from this time and into the memories past.

***

The hand fell onto his shoulder in an attempt to ward him away from another badly beaten Aspirant in the training arena, a young boy with a staff. Around them instructors and Inquisitors lined the pits walls, casually observing the combat that had resulted in six others carted off to infirmary wards. Motya growled as the hand touched him and before the young Kassandra could react Motya reached over and wrapped the girls wrist into his meaty paws, ripped it from his shoulder, twisted it around and pressed the hand back stretching the wrist joint in a direction it was never intended to go before planting his right foot into her chest and with a mighty push kick, casting her away. Having dealt with the intrusion from the foolish girl he moved to close the distance with the whelp of an Aspirant she had prevented him from finishing off. By the time Motya returned his attentions to the boy, he had found his legs again, bounded up and renewed his attack at Motya. The boy’s oaken staff cracked across Motya’s skull and the stout man stumbled forward a step before crouching under the follow up staff blow and driving a hard elbow into the male aspirant’s ribs. Turning, Motya caught the boy’s reprisal attack under his arm, the staff becoming locked against Motya’s torso in the crook of his armpit. With a wild smile and feral howl Motya braced his forearm against the staff and the boy pulled at it desperately. With a wild jerk Motya broke the staff and cast its two halves across the arena before raining strikes down onto the retreating Aspirant. Around the walls of the pit a few of the Instructors and Inquisitors whispered back and forth, debating on the merits and the drawbacks of the young Motya’s ferocity.

The moment her wrist was pulled behind her and held unnaturally, she let out a gasp of air, gritting her teeth. Nobody in the arena had ever been able to surprise her with a physical reaction or boast talent over hers in combat but this boy had. Her eyes squeezed shut as she was thrown back, the air leaving her diaphragm as a sharp kick was thrown into her. It took her several moments to get herself back together... this guy was being too rough with all of his opponent - there was a line when in a practice and as she quickly observed their Instructors around them she could see that they too debated this very fact. However, none of the Instructors looked as if they were going to intervene and the staff wielding boy was going to get seriously injured if this brute of a boy was not stopped. Kassandra was never one to pity those who fought poorly. In fact, she had injured several people, simply because they could not hold up well in a fight and she reasoned that if they could not hold up here, in training, then how could they ever hope to be an Inquisitor? Still, as she recovered her wits and her wind, Kass could see that almost savage look in this attacker’s eyes. There was something more there - a pain, a will to survive, something desperate and driven that had possibly blinded him. After finally recovering, Kassandra took stock of her surroundings and saw that the staff-user's weapon was rendered useless and thrown away, leaving him completely helpless. She bolted after the shattered ends and grabbed them from the floor before pivoting on her foot and darting back toward Motya, who had clearly won the fight as the boy yielded. Her unparalleled speed and agility carried her over to the pair quickly however, the stout boy did not seem ready to stop beating on the loser of the match and just as it looked as if the instructors might intervene Kass threw her leg into the back of Motya's knee, causing the ligaments and muscle to lose control for a moment, the blow sending Motya down onto his knees. In the same motion she placed one half of the staff against his throat and firmly held the other as she lodged one arm under his armpit and placed the hand behind his neck.

Motya’s knees hit the ground as he was unexpectedly brought down hard. Before he knew it, he had one of his arms pinned and the jagged end of the previously shattered staff against his neck and his bloodied quarry scrambling away to the safety of the healers. In that brief moment the young boy that would become the Little Bear sneered… seemed like the boy’s Noble blood stained the sand of the pit just the same as Motya’s slave blood did, prick. Motya was surprised at how quick this girl had recovered and how adeptly she had taken up the shattered staff ends as weapons of opportunity. This was the young Motya though; the rash and brutish Aspirant and it would be years before he would learn to take a moment to conduct a studied analysis of his opponent. With all the force he could muster he jerked his head backward against her hand and staff that was on the back of his neck. She may have been quick but even with the leverage of the hold she couldn’t resist the boy’s raw strength. The blow forced her back; if from contact or the ferocity of the motion Motya could not tell but in an instant Motya was free and facing off against a girl he recognized form watching earlier combat trials. The savage youth rolled his neck, the vertebra popping loudly as a small pin pick of blood trailed down the skin from where the staff-end she had pressed against his neck had left its mark. Even as an Aspirant Motya was compact and unlike the athletic and vain boys from noble families his bulk was the product of a childhood sequestered from the surface, laboring among the vast copper and steam pipe mazes, stone foundations, and metal monoliths that held up the Varyan Empire. With a renewed vigor he lunged forward at her. With a speed that matched the boys ferocity Kass struck out with the staff ends in motions that had the makings of true swordsmanship. The instructors and Inquisitors along the walls began to take notice as fist and staff flew, forearm parried staff blow, staff turned aside kicks, Kass’s swift movements, showing promise of skill yet untapped, dodged feral attempts at grapples by the brawler. For his part the boy named Motya parried savage blows from the staff ends with his limbs as if the staffs were nothing more than strands of bundled yarn. Pain did not seem to slow him even though the balls of his shoulders and lengths of his arms were beginning to discolor. For all the telling hits Kassandra landed Motya answered in kind, a rap across the back resulted in a brutal kick across the outside right leg that almost toppled Kassandra, a blow that drew blood across Motya’s forehead and blurred his vision was followed by a winding knee to Kassandra stomach which led to a jarring blow that landed squarely on the side of her head before she retaliated by forcefully connected the staff ends across Motya’s chin.

For frantic minutes they traded blows, each battering the other before a shout sounded throughout the entire room. It held power and struck most students to the core, but the duo in the ring would barely hear it as they tirelessly beat against one another. Bruises, swollen flesh, and blood-spattered, the two continued to swing and block one another. The tension in the room built as lightning seemed to flash between their eyes. However, as they were about to reconnect, something stepped between calmly. The moment they noticed what it was, the fighters skidded to a halt, having nearly struck an instructor. Naturally, she was one of the combat teachers and her eyes were daggers as he stared at both of them.

“Unsanctioned sparring… You two show absolutely no self-control and a complete lack of respect,” She said coldly. “Give me one good reason not to disqualify you both from the program?” The instructor growled harshly, the anger clear on her face. The two gave the expected response that they no longer deserved to be in the school and saluted automatically – it was rather typical when a rule was broken, especially at this stage in their training. The woman shook her head, “You’re lucky I don’t throw you out on your asses right now. Come,” She commanded, striding from the room with his hands behind her back.

The pair trailed the instructor obediently, five paces back and two to the left, as they left the training pit and entered the stone passageways of the Seminary, the red brick and flickering ether light engulfing the trio as they walked. Both students knew that this would not be the direction they would be heading if the instructor had planned on booting them from the program, Motya and Kassandra both had seen enough Aspirants rejected to know that they were always escorted down the only hall in the Seminary lined with black brick. The fact that the instructor was Captain Slavonia, a premier combat instructor at the Seminary, probably meant that the only thing that had saved them was her admiration of the pairs developing talents. As they walked down the halls a thin line of blood trickled from the corner of Motya’s lip and trailed down to the worn red stones at his feet, the gore matching the color of the stone perfectly, the rock almost seeming to drink the vitality in as the group walked on. Motya looked over to Kassandra who walked beside him, his nose horribly misaligned by her staff work and her right eye quickly swelling and purpling from his fist, and he smiled the animalistic vigor of the fight replaced by genuine happiness. “You’re fun.” He quipped quietly.

Before long the instructor lead them to an open air arena enclosed by high walls on all four sides. Above the steel curtain of clouds and snow filled the sky and drifted down to the earth in soft waves. The wintery snow covered an elaborate obstacle course set around the edges the arena, all together it was a quarter mile loop of crawling, climbing, swinging, jumping, running, falling and rolling built from logs, rope, and metal. The cold bit into the two Aspirants as the instructor lead them to the starting line and turned to instruct them. “1 lap is a quarter mile. You will complete a mile and then depending on your performance another. You will find it impossible to complete unless you work together.” The pair eyed each other… battered and shivering and then the instructor… wrapped warmly in heavy furs. “There will be no time limit for this evolution, just finish it before you freeze to death, Varya help you if I have to come out here and peel your frozen corpse off of my course.” She stepped aside tightening the cloak of fur around her before gesturing with her arm. “Begin whenever you like, we are on your clock.”

***

Motya came back to the reality of the situation and let the memory of the pair’s first real match back at the Seminary fade. In this reality, the real world that was around him and not his memories, he allowed her hand to stay interwoven on the jagged cog toothed shoulder plate. “I’ve had a look in a mirror recently and did not like what I saw.” He walked awhile with her, the path taking them back towards the Ark, rage and anger becoming less explosive at this point and more of a roiling undercurrent to his movements and tone. “…like so much chattel. The thing in the cargo bay was a crate large enough to be a house… stuffed full of people, slaves, ether slaves. I nearly lost my composure.” They turned a corner and the Arks and bustle of the docks came back into view. Motya continued to attempt and justify his feeling about the slaves, he tried to find words to describe the paradox of his own existence as having once been a slave, of how Mother Oksana freed him and how he felt compelled to at least take in the children. Philosophy and introspection were not his forte though and after a series of strained attempts at plumbing his own inner mind Motya cursed and threw his hands up in frustration. “All that philosophical junk is wasted on me though, all I need is someone to drink with, fight with, and or sleep with… I don’t suppose you’d be willing eh Kass, I mean they say it will be a long boat ride?” He had calmed as they walked and keeping in true Motya form he began with the brazen and none too subtle innuendo, hounding Mother Kassandra even if she had spent the years battering him down.

After he had finished explaining what he had seen, she shook her head in slight agitation. "Disgusting... I'm sorry, Motya, ether harvesting is obscene, and I could never imagine seeing my own people locked in a cage as rabid dogs..." She sighed, cracking a tiny smile as he quickly turned the conversation to physical combat, excessive drinking, and potentially lewd action - typical Motya... "Brother Motya, you are a stubborn ass, you'll never change, will you?" She asked with a hint of teasing in her voice, thinking about giving him a good punch in the arm before she remembered the heavy armour that he had donned before leaving the Ark. She, too, had been wearing her armour just beneath her coat, it was light and composed of fine leathers, and she often wore it concealed due to the fact that it did not restrict her movement or speed but Motya... His armour seemed so heavy, though it was as a second skin to him. "Drinking and fighting would be my pleasure," The woman said with absolutely no subtlety - if Motya wanted in her pants, he would have to wait until she was dead. "How about this, old friend... We'll go to the arena that they've built for the Inquisitors on The Tigress and fight until your bones ache or you've fainted from blood loss, and then we'll go to the bar and drink ourselves blind," She offered cockily, making the challenge clear.

Motya shook his head in mock condescension. “Her pleasure she says” he wrapped his arm around a passing dock worker as if he were an old friend, an old friend that Motya began almost dragging along with them. “Like the pleasure of fighting and drinking can be enjoyed without a little... you know.” Motya was making gestures as he spoke to the man, gestures that would not pass in polite company and would make anyone but a working man blush. For his part the man behaved passably well considering Motya had literally snatched him up like a child’s toy and was now forcing him into a conversation between two Inquisitors. For all the dockworker knew he could be on his way to a summary judgment or to have his ether “donated” to the church, after all Inquisitors didn’t have reputations as happy go lucky advocates of the people. Motya eventually released the man as it became clear he would do nothing but yammer on about faith and bow every time Motya or Kassandra said something. With a slap to the back that sent him two steps forward Motya sent the dock worker away and shrugged to Kassandra. “What is the world coming to when a man cannot talk to another man about such things!” Motya laughed before observing that at least this man had not soiled himself out of fear. They came to the Ark’s gangplank and Motya, feigning some poor barbarian attempt at manners, went to usher Kassandra up the ramp. “Broken bones, blood loss, and blind drinking; you always say the nicest things.”

Kassandra laughed as the man was pulled aside and thrust into the middle of their conversation, playing the role of Motya’s wingman. The girl shook her head, “Motya, release the poor man… You’re so uncouth,” she said with a wave of her hand. It was foolish to think that when they had become Inquisitors Motya would suddenly change and take things more seriously. However, it was refreshing to see that her other peers had maintained some sense of self-awareness; on the other hand, she had long ago opted for the personality of the Inquisitors, the personality the people of Varya knew and expected. While she may have been slightly less automatonic as they, there was certainly an air of seriousness about her actions and manners.

“Come, let’s get to our duel,” She said, taking the gangplank first with her hands in her pockets.