As the drone intruded on the scene, Pithy finally let the phylacteries fall apart, letting the now dead heart fall to her side as the tension fled her arms. She could not muster surprise at its appearance. Oren had likely been keeping an eye on the both of them since before the fight had started. Instead, she let the excited chatter of the announcer wash over her in silence, using it to keep her mind off the aches that plagued her body.

As the drone questioned how she could have known she could steal a soul directly from the foe's phylactery, it occurred to Pithy that she could tell him that she had been delving into the secrets of devices such as these phylacteries for longer than he had been alive. That intent and structure arose from everything that came from a maker's hand and purpose followed if one but knew how to interpret the signs. It occurred to her that she could tell Oren that when it came to artifacts of magic she was likely better suited than any in the College's staff for their study.

But he had not asked her to boast, and in any case she lacked the breath for it. 

"I didn't," she rasped instead. It was the truth, for all she had had before she had stolen her enemy's heart and stabbed it with her own had been a hypothesis.

And then she noticed her foe stirring. Pithy stared with something near amazement as the man slowly stood, features lost as though he did not know where he stood. At least until his green eyes fixed on her. He moved fast, his weapon cradled in his arms and aimed at her in the blink of an eye.

Pithy had drawn on the white maelstrom that fueled her spells almost reflexively at the fury that confronted her. The shards of ice she had used to bait the green-eyed man lied scattered behind her like so much broken glass, and they trembled as though an invisible hand had passed over them. She did not will them forward. Even as the dark eye of the shooter's barrel stared at her, a sense of calm filled her. [i]This man cannot harm you[/i], spoke a knowing voice inside herself. 

The premonition proved itself true a moment later. The man's face twisted with bewilderment, followed by frustration. He dropped the weapon and stormed away. The thought of halting him before he could leave the building crossed her mind, but she did not act on it. Furious as he might have been, she was certain he would not leave the gallery's vicinity without his weapon. The sound of the closing doors echoed inside the art gallery.

This time she did not deign the drone's prodding with an answer. She had had some guesses as to what would happen should she succeed in stealing a living person's soul. A coma had seemed the most likely. Perhaps immediate death. The extraction had been all but gentle, and for a moment she had had suspected the stress might take the man's actual heart. That he might survive with his faculties intact had not been a likely possibility, but this was more than that.  The announcer had called it 'suppression', but she knew better. The man had been made into a [i]thrall[/i].

She almost failed to notice it as Oren's drone dipped deeper into the gallery's entrance to claim what it had come for, so taken was she by the implications of what she had learned. By the time she thought to consider the drone's last action, she was already the last person in the room.

Pithy sighed, resting her head on the floor. An encroaching heaviness at the tips of her limbs urged her to rest, muddying her thoughts. The fire in her leg roused her.

She forced herself to sit. Muscle stretched, and a lance of pain all but froze her, all notions of rest chased out of her head. Setting her jaw to suppress a pained gasp, the elf began to drag herself across the gallery's floor. 

[i]It is well that I've been left alone,[/i] she told herself. [i]There is no one to witness this indignity.[/i]

Her hands finally grasped the robe that she had thrown at the enemy in her ploy to blind him, and her fingers held the silken blue fabric before her. The surface had been peppered with holes from the projectile weapons she had been faced with, some only a day old from the fight against the badger and others newer still. 

A rare feeling of sadness gripped her. The robe itself had been replaced before, the fabric torn, burned and disfigured beyond recognition several times through the years. At this point, only the silver clasp shaped like a rose remained from the original, but it still hurt to see it in such state. It had been passed on to her as a gift before her exile, from people whose names had been taken from her along with her own in punishment, a gift that broke many of her people's laws. She had resented it then—still did, at times—but she could not bring herself to part with it in full. It was the last physical link that anchored her to her past, and its weight was too large for her to cast off.

Nonetheless, a tool was meant to be used as necessary, and the weight of that conviction ran deeper still. She pulled a knife from her belt and put herself to work.

A handful of minutes later, a blue and gold bandage peeked from the tear in her bloodstained leggings. The robes once again rested over her shoulders, much diminished. Pithy inspected the fabric wrapping around her leg once again, dissatisfied yet knowing she could do no better given the circumstances. Purple had already began to spread as the cloth soaked in the spilt blood. 

Pithy tested the leg, trying to move it through clenched teeth. Even ignoring the hot pokers that burned under her thigh,the the limb barely moved.

[i]Crippled. I can't fight like this.[/i] She closed her eyes and swallowed with a dry throat, forcing down a surge of panic. It's passing left behind cool contemplation. 

There was nothing to be done for it, she told herself. Her magic could keep the rot from settling in, if nothing else, and bandages would stem the flow of blood until she found a healer or surgeon to take proper care of the wound. It did not bear thinking what would happen to the limb if she found no way to treat it. Neither did she dare ask how she would deal with the coming battles. Not yet.

[i]It's the only option available to me.[/i] The cynical thought brought a bitter smile to her lips and with it, cold comfort.

With a whispered word, a crystal rod formed in her hand, stretching and curving until it had taken the shape of a cane. She set it against the floor and tried to use it as support to stand, letting out a curse as the damned thing slid out of place. Another word steadied it. Pithy stood with some effort, distributing her weight between the cane and her good leg. Once she was sure she could move, she began shuffling towards one of the foyer's sculptures. Taking the chance to lean against its podium, she fished out her phylactery.

There had been a certain concern that had come to her mind at the beginning of the duel, and now that the battle was done, it once again rose to the surface to flutter with the rest of her apprehensions.

“Oren,” she called into the phylactery. The metal familiar had retreated some time ago, but she was confident the announcer could still hear through the heart-shaped device.

“What is it, ice queen?”

“I’m not in the mood for jests.” The steadiness in her voice satisfied her. She was glad she had not immediately pursued this line of questioning when the drone had first intruded at the end of the battle. “Answer plainly. Are you trying to get me killed?”

His reply was immediate.  “Nnnope.”

Pithy drowned out the first response that came to mind. It seemed she was not as calm as she had first thought. “Could have fooled me. Why did you call out when I was about to ambush him?”

“I’m not supposed to let fights end like that. ‘It wouldn’t be fair’, or somethin’ like that.” The announcer’s tone was a mixture of placating and dismissive. “Don’t be flattered; if he was about to put a bullet in your head from a mile out, I woulda hotlinked your phylactery and given ya a heads-up before yours turned into red chunks. Besides, ya still coulda taken him out then and there, even with the warning, but it looks like ya weren’t fast enough.”

[i]Not fast enough, he says, from the safety of his viewing room. He dares try to turn this on me.[/i]

This time she did not contain herself. “Bullshit!” she hissed, her hand tightening around the phylactery. “We just need the souls to make the machine work. Where does [i]fairness[/i] of all things come into play? Or do you just enjoy watching us struggle?”

The sound of a sigh came through the microphone, corrupted somewhat by static.  Oren’s tone had shifted to one of irritation. “I mean, a little? But it’s not my call either way. You’re not moral-high-groundin’ me, lady.  Ya wanna dispute how the stupid phylacteries or the machine work, ya take it up with the College. I’m just doin’ my job. If ya wanna get mad about the unfairness of it all, feel free to drop by my tower and show me what-for.” Oren chuckled, as aggravatingly self-sure as only someone of the opposite side of a mic could be. “I know I’d enjoy watching that. I’ll even throw it in for free: Governance Hub center, medieval-looking building, can’t miss it.”

Pithy closed her eyes. Her grinding teeth were audible in the silence. [i]Not his call[/i] the words repeated in her mind. Was it somehow a requirement for this machine to awaken for battles to take place? Or was it as she had first feared, and she had been led into a gladiatorial game purely for the amusement of others? 

After a moment, her voice slipped out, softer than before, almost silky in its smoothness. “The invitation is tempting. Know then, that should I make for your tower, it would be to kill you before you could put my life at risk again. Is that hasty of me?”  

To the announcer, Pithy’s tone came as mocking, and he did not appreciate the ignorance at work. “Last I checked, you’re the one voluntarily puttin’ your life at risk for the sake of your wish. But come and try to kill me, if ya think ya got a chance.  You’d better be hasty about it if ya do, ‘cause after tonight, we’re gon…”  Oren trailed off with an uncharacteristic abruptness. When it returned a moment later, his voice had cooled off completely. “Hm. Well...let’s just say, I’m not the enemy here. We both want somethin’, we both gotta play by the rules. Nobody acts of their own free will. Sorry.”

Pithy loosened her grip on the phylactery, sensing its slowing heartbeat. “You will not be, should you see me before sundown,” she told him. After a moment, her voice still quiet, she added. “And you have the truth of it, announcer. There is nothing so quaint as volition at play here.”

[hr]
The doors of the art gallery swung shut behind Pithy. Her rapier was back in its hoop at her belt, and the six-shooter was safe in its holster.

Near the base of the stairs, she saw her defeated opponent had turned to look at her. He gripped his injured arm close to his body, a grim expression fixed at her. She noted a crack on the pavement close to where he stood.

The cane in her right hand tapped at the stairs as she began the tortuous trek down the steps. The long-shooter, held in her other hand by the barrel, struck the stone in time with her step. She saw the man’s face twist to a displeased grimace at the sight of his weapon being used as a crutch by another, but he didn’t speak out. In any case, Pithy was much to preoccupied hiding the pain that lanced into her leg with every jarring step to care about his displeasure.

After what seemed like an eternity, Pithy reached the gallery’s courtyard, standing face to face with the man of the green eyes.

She offered the long weapon for him, and he roughly pulled it off her hand. 

“I want a rematch.”

She did not miss a beat.

“No.”

Red filled the man’s cheeks. “Like hell am I just gonna sit back and accept losing to some prissy elf girl and her stupid toothpick. I bet you wouldn’t look so smug if we went at it again, without these stupid nerfs this time!”

[i]Smug? Is that how I look to him? Bleeding, barely able to stand on my own feet, and still have more rounds to go on this thrice-damned tournament, and mine is the face of pride?[/i]

She shook her head. “You lost your chance.”

Pithy saw the man’s expression twist. He snarled a curse. “I see, I see. Elsa’s… ning scared, little slo… deserve it but—” 

She blinked, confused by the shrill droning that rose in her ears, drowning out the man’s words. He kept speaking, unabated. Did he not hear it? She was feeling faint. Dimly, she wondered if she had not lost more blood from her injury than she had thought at first. 

Her gaze roamed the furious, contorting face, marvelling at the anger and frustration that had surfaced in those features as though seeing it for the first time. Had his right arm not been wrapped around his midsection, she knew he would have been gesticulating wildly at her. As it was, the long-shooter bobbed up and down, striking the ground as though providing a beat behind the tirade.

More than anything else, she remembered the tone of voice that had seeped from her Phylactery only a few minutes past, the confidence in the safety afforded by distance, the misjudging of threats as empty, and the bravado borne of not truly seeing the face of the one you antagonized. In the face of that, she was struck by how little she cared about this child’s unsightly display. Her gaze left his face, hopping between the few fountains in the courtyard before losing interest and dropping down to look at herself. Her eye stopped on the blood on her leggings before moving on to fix on one of the knives sheathed at her belt.

Not truly understanding why she was moving as she was, her free hand slowly wrapped around the handle of the weapon.

The sound vanished at that very moment, the void of sensation nearly knocking her down from her feet.

“—elves were supposed to be skinny dudes with Orlando Bloom’s face or curvy, stripperiffic rangers, but instead I got you half-assed ice queen—”

The knife made a rasping sound as it left its sheath. The tirade stopped. Pithy’s bombardier eye locked on the man’s own. There was apprehension there, and rightly so. She could do as she pleased with him.

Pithy turned the knife on her hand, holding it by the blade and offering the handle to him. His expression turned puzzled.

“Cut off your tongue.”   

[hr]
[i]A groan escaped a pair of furred lips, the sound riding on the cold wind. Within a bank of white, a black figure rose to its feet, shaking away the snow that had piled up over its small form. It suppressed a shiver.

"Ugh... dun’ tell me. Dumbass doc better not have slipped something in my drink while I wasn’t looking.Oughta teach ‘im badgers and guinea pigs are different things." Trickshot Jo looked around herself, glaring at the offending white. She brought a paw to rub at her fiercely throbbing temple. Hrm. No hat. "The hell am I at?!" She looked down at herself. "And what slippery Jimmy made off wit’ my pieces?!”

Jo began to dig at the snow, suddenly nervous. If she had dropped them near her 'pass-out' spot, she could get lucky and find them. If she had shed them elsewhere, suffice to say, she did not like her chances of finding them in this featureless wasteland. 

Jo cursed and kicked at the snow. A small mound in front of her stirred, and Jo started, paws reflexively looking for her holsters. The badger tsked testily as she found nothing at her hips, but it seemed nothing was needed, as the mound remained still. 

Now curious, she approached, brushing snow away from the top. A pale, slender arm greeted her. Jo hesitated for a moment, thinking she had stumbled into a corpse, before she realized the mound was weakly rising and falling.

"Shoot. Yo, stay with me!" Her own discomfort forgotten, Jo gave the arm a shake, some more snow falling to reveal small, girly shoulders and a white nightgown. "Girl ain'tchu got no clothes on?" the badger muttered. Jo had the benefit of a coat of fur, but all she could see on this one was the single piece of thin fabric.

She dug her out, trying to rouse the girl, for it was a girl Jo had come across, not yet into her teens as far as the badger could tell. She had not noticed before, but the edges of her limbs had darkened, as though rotting, and the veins coming up from her arms and legs seemed dark to her, sickly.

"Yo girl, you's still alive?"

Long, black hair covered the girl's features, and Jo pulled it back to better see the girl's face.

A stern face, sharp, with a single blue eye stared at her. The other eye was encased in ice, along with a good portion if that cheek.

Jo blinked. No. Familiar as it was, this was a girl's face, not a woman's. Rounder and more innocent in its sleep, eyes closed. Both eyes.

But the sight had awakened a memory in her. Jo's paw went to her midsection, where a woman in white had blown open her stomach with a shot from a revolver. 

Jo stared down at the phantom wound for a moment, silently processing the idea. Then, "Damn. Done in the first round. Cap'n's gon' be pissed."


For the first time since she had awoken in these white wastes, she recalled the last hours if her life. But then, what was this place she had found herself in? The afterlife? It certainly was white enough, if she was to believe some of those preachers she had heard droning on in the cities, but she would have expected clouds instead of snow if that was the case. She didn't feel dead in any case, whatever dead felt like. It seemed more and more likely that she had hallucinated the whole thing. It simply did not [/i]feel[i] like she had.

The weak breathing of the unconscious girl in front of her drew her attention once more, and she shelved her misgivings for the moment. 

"Hey, come on!" Jo pulled at the girl's arm, trying to jostle her awake. She was not prepared for the pull to actually move the girl's body, and the badger fell on its rear.

"Damn," she muttered, alarmed. "Girl ain't got no meat on her. How's she still tickin'?"

Problem was, her being alive meant that she could not simply leave her be. 

Jo nuzzled under the girl's arm, drawing herself up under her armpit as if to support her. She would need to get her out of the snow if she wanted to stand a chance. But where would she take her. Glaring at her surroundings only revealed more featureless white. 

Finally, Jo cursed under her breath and strode off in a random direction, shouldering the light burden of the sleeping girl’s weight. "Anyplace'd be better than dyin' in here, I guess.”[/i]