Mshale leapt aside as a shower of loose scree pelted off his telekinetic barrier. A large boulder of bloodstone lurched half a meter from where he was standing as the hulking elemental it was attached to retracted its fist-one of Nkosiyabo’s creations. The fungi that lined the chamber walls assumed an angry carmine that pulsed like a throbbing bruise. The internalized magic holding the creature together blossomed in this hue. The color-encoded danger of the fungi, the note on the polished stone tuning fork as well as the lock and key the implement was held under, and the secret utterance required to bring the golem into existence were all safety measures that Mshale, in his anger, threw into the wind. The peril matched his mood. The telekinetic roared in frustration at the golem as he pumped his fist towards its center mass, and an unseen wave came crashing into the construct. Six meters of stone wasn’t so easy to move, and for his efforts the creature merely took a half step backwards before another death blow surged towards him like a Kilimanjaran avalanche. This strike was too wide for him to dodge, and so he met it head-on pitting his barrier against the creature’s mass. Mshale felt it burden him, burying his body and mind like a ten-ton blanket. His knees buckled as his feet sunk into the hard soil and his temples throbbed as he pushed back. His muffled scream was smothered by a hillock of earth. The mass above him shifted as it was inexorably forced outwards once the telekinetic got the better of it through sustained pressure. He transformed his focus to a point within the rotund stone torso and rotated, churning loose mass away before the golem began to crack. A few seconds passed before a small web of fissures surfaced upon the back of the prone stone golem. The cracks widened and breached completely as an invisible augur ripped through the interstice. With this invisible drill Mshale pulled himself from the wounded golem, and hopping back, ripped chunks of the ceiling off to crush the pieces of the elemental underneath. The dust settled, leaving Mshale panting, his fury subsiding to dull annoyance at his and Semret’s last conversation. The arena usually cooled his temper to placid weariness, but this time was different. He couldn’t understand why NYUNDO wanted to keep that creature alive. He shrugged as he plopped down upon a stone and took a different approach. Ayanda had taught him to use meditation techniques to clear his mind when violence didn’t work. He breathed in deep as he clasped his kneecaps in meaty palms and slowly exhaled, unpacking the worries of his mind. [center]***[/center] The distant echo of screams pulled Mshale out of a deep torpor. He stared down the hallway of its origin, and closer yet heard the hurried amble of footfalls. It was at this moment that he noticed that many of the bioluminescent fungi of the arena hallways were dark. The telekinetic stood to his feet and clenched his fist as the distant commotion intensified, but was met with a mixture of concern and relief to find Semret emerge from the cavernous darkness. Relief to find a familiar face, concern to find the panic that masked her normally calm demeanor. “What is happening?” He yelled carrying the tone of a demand than a question. “The whole hangar…” Semret shouted back, “they’re all befok!” Mshale furrowed his brow and cocked his head as if he’d just been insulted, “What!” As Semret neared him he could see her dirt-smudged face, her wild and panicked eyes, and could smell oily smoke clinging to her clothes. “They’re killing everyone! They’re killing- They’re-” She choked through sobs. Mshale put a hand on her shoulder and buried her in his arms, nearly encompassing her like the golem had to him. “Tell me,” he said in brief respite of tenderness. “who.” Something landed near the cavern ceiling that shattered their moment. A heavy slam and a snorting exhale followed by a lengthy guttural hiss. Semret paused as she looked beyond the ramparts of Mshale’s forearms. Beyond, the two of them could see a fiendish winged shadow, a darker blot on a dim canvas. It skulked along the wall as it stalked its prey from above. The telekinetic instinctively deposited his love behind him and reached out to the heaviest part of the golem he’d destroyed. It levitated a few feet off the floor as he mustered his strength, gradually rotating the boulder. The creature above stopped, he could see its humanoid head oriented towards him even though it was obscured by nearly fifty meters of distance and shadow. More disturbingly he could sense its attention-the cold, malicious, alien presence invited his violence with bemused anticipation. The presence was almost invasive were it not for Semret’s support-a presence of warmth and comfort that danced upon the other end of his mind and filled heart. The two apparitions took hold of either end of his psyche and pulled. Mshale looked over at the boulder, now spinning rapidly upon its axis, and slung his arm up as if he were tossing a baseball. Keeping pace with the baseball analogy the boulder hurled towards the ceiling at a hundred and fifty kilometers an hour, and then exploded like a bomb upon impact above. Flushing the creature out of the veil of darkness, the demon leapt to the ground moments before impact, its wings shielding itself from the debris much as his shield protected he and Semret from stonefall. There he and his love beheld the gruesome creature. Bipedal with wyvernic arm-wings, a six foot phallus trailed between multi-jointed legs and flitted behind the creature like some sort of indecorous tail. The blood crusted carpals of its wings steadied it upon the ground like a giant bat as it returned their stare with its own cyclopean gaze. It hissed at them, its crooked tooth line of razor fangs parted and a thick maroon tongue lolled between a pair of stout tusks. The creature’s flesh was the color of a mudslide, but rigid and thick with scales, and it stepped forward upon taloned raptor-like metacarpals. “Fok… what [i]is[/i] that..” Semret gasped. “Dead.” Mshale grimaced as he buffeted his palms together bringing two planes of force on either side of the creature. The popobawa fell prone, slithering behind his initial onslaught before it hopped back avoiding the telekinetically enhanced hammerfist that Mshale brought with him as a follow up. The beast chuckled as it lashed at him with its tendril, which harmlessly whipped off his telekinetic shield. He retaliated with an empowered palm to the chest, which catapulted it into the archway of main thoroughfare. The creature, larger than even Mshale, ragdolled into the stone with a crack and crumble as debris fell atop its form. It rose slower this time, shaking off bits of rock. The telekinetic didn’t give it much time to recover, as with a grasped hand he pulled more stone down on top of it. It scurried towards him, and Mshale launched himself to meet it, an empowered fist at his apex. The popobawa pulled a wing over and slid backwards three meters from the impact of his strike, but still stood. All the while he could also feel the internal battle in his mind, he could feel his mind being pulled into this creature’s presence, like a fly into the maw of a sundew. “Semret!” He called out, his tone under more duress than he seemed to physically be in. “This thing is trying to control me!” “I know,” she grunted, “I am trying…” A welcome rush of familiarity pulsed over his mind. [i]I must finish this creature quickly,[/i] he considered, [i]or things will get much worse.[/i] Mshale reached out to the mud and stone of the slain elemental and packed it together while elongating the debris into spears of compressed soil. Six of these weapons hovered around his form as the creature crouched like a cat preparing to pounce. Without so much as a motion, the spears fired forward like darting arrows, and met… nothing. Mshale’s eyes widened as the creature pounced, its wings splaying out to either side, beating once as it flew over his head. He whirled around just in time to see the creature’s taloned feet hook around Semret’s shoulders and her following fearful scream. “No!” Mshale shouted as he slung both of his arms forward, spines of telekinetic force erupted invisibly through space, evidenced by the havoc they wrought as each one missed the creature and pierced stone and earth in miniature explosions instead. The popobawa flew into one of the darkened tunnels, and Mshale frantically sprinted after it. “Semret?! Semret!” He shouted out as he tore into the darkness. “Mshale!” She cried, “Help me!” The telekinetic’s feet impacted upon the cobbled stone of the corridor and fortunately ran into several patches of glowing crimson mushrooms. He paused in the crossroads, the distant sound of claxons amplifying the tense panic he felt. He frenetically darted his gaze down each hallway. “Mshale!” To the east. As Mshale barreled down the corridor, the firm impact of cobbled slate devolved to the soft smack of slush. The glowing scarlet fungus that dimly illuminated the hallway made the slushy fluid appear like blood. The telekinetic could smell iron in the air as the claxons blare faded whether by distance or focus, and scuffling of Semret’s cries and struggle intensified. The arena’s layout hadn’t been developed to confuse, but Mshale found himself having to twist and turn through pulsing corridors, crawling in places through crimson washed liquid, and eventually stumbling upon a dead end. He roared as he could hear her voice behind it, blasting away the wall to reveal sinews of contracted muscle. Placing his palms together, he wedged an angle of telekinetic force and pulled the compressed flesh apart. Sickening sinews of ligaments and fat stretched apart as the flesh tore and the hallway shuddered. He didn’t care, he had to go to her. And more recently another thought incubated in his head-he had to be [i]right[/i]. He couldn’t prove it, but he felt something similar to this creature and what he tossed away in the jail. That thing should be dead, and now all of this was happening because [i]they[/i] didn’t listen to [i]him[/i]. With an enraged shout and a flinging aside of his arms, he ripped the flesh apart, and scampered into the hallway beyond. She wasn’t there. “Semret!” He shouted. “This way!” She called from around the corner of a stark four hallway intersection. He recognized this area of the arena. Her voice was coming from the meditation chambers he eschewed in favor of the battle room proper. [i]Of course[/i], he thought. Out of all the areas in the Arena, the meditation chamber was where he and Semret spent the most time together. The empath had reasoned that frequent meditation was the best way for him to keep his focus in stressful situations, but Mshale wrote it off to her disdain for combat. He remembered the hours they spent in quiet contemplation and it seemed only natural that in the chaos this would be a safe space for her. Mshale approached, fists still clenched, but relaxed when he found her knelt in the corner behind a pile of woven mats. Even fond memories wouldn’t soften his edge, though. The burly man paced up to her and extended his palm to her, his eyes on the doorway “We are leaving. Where is the creature?” As Mshale pulled the empath to her feet he felt a sharp pain in his stomach. He twisted back looking at Semret, who peered up at him through a tangle of brown hair, and a grin like a drawer of razors. She warbled an inhuman chitter and skittered past him. Warm liquid oozed through his palm contrasting with the cold of the bloodstone tuning fork the shapeshifter stabbed him with . Neither sensation would last long, before the telepath was overcome with fury. Mshale yelped gripping the tuning fork embedded in his abdomen as he slowly withdrew the object, tides of pain radiating over his body, and tossing the bloody instrument clattering to the ground. Shock frequently gave way to rage. “Maaifoedie!” he roared, the chamber quaking under his wrath. Leaned against the threshold the creature scampered through, Mshale called the gnarled branch that comprised the shaft of a broom, sheared off the end, and using telekinetic expertise sharpened the branch to a lethal spearpoint. The act of creating the weapon did little to focus his anger, and the hallway beat red as he stormed into the hall. “You cannot hide!” He shouted then paused and listened as he stopped at the intersection. To his left he heard the whistle of wind, the entrance, but the crosswind fluctuated, ebbing and flowing like it were blown through some gigantic lung, and he was stuck tumbling through its capillaries. To his right, the faint shuffling of movement; Mshale charged towards it. He could still hear the inhuman chuckle from the creature that dared to wear Semret’s face. The warble taunted him through hallways haunted by memories, good and bad. But only the bad seemed to float to the surface. The things he saw in the slave mining den when they took Marange. The first time he went in over his head in the arena only to be rescued as if he were some child by Assad. The point when he found out his friend chose to be lost in the kichiki sari instead of finishing what she started. Mshale didn’t stop to think why all these thoughts manifest; they only further stoked his wrathful flames. In the distance he thought he could hear the dull beat of a drum, and the image of the cavern shaman and his grisly fetishes filled his mind. The twisted corpses the slavers composted to the razertsanga played through his mind. As he bounded down the hallway he could feel the arena shudder, cringing at his retaliation and in his anger he felt powerful. For every mission he was passed over by Assad for young Najwa, he thought of a Xanathan patrol he ripped apart with his mind. The hallway terminated ahead of him in a sealed vault door, secured by a rusty wheel. Mshale reached out with his mind and felt the protected hinges of the door. Sensed further yet where the pilings driven into the stone to secure the doorway to the earth. He reached out with both of his palms as if grabbing frame at thirty feet away. Tensening every muscle in his body Mshale poured his rage into the door, filling the hall with a ferocious roar as the entire complex quivered. The metal groaned under the stress before it started to crumble. His wound spurted viscous blood that clung his undershirt to gore-slicked flesh. The pain fueled his focus, forged his fury like a tsanga-thin blade. The door twisted clockwise in its secured moorings before, in an inanimate scream of metallic agony, whorled and crushed to the size of a soda can. Mshale released his fist dropping the scrap and stepped through the dust-caked interior, pure adrenaline coursing through his veins. Within, stacks of forlorn crates, a backlog of confiscated supplies awaiting refurbishment. He paced over the bedrock, unaware or ignoring the crimson trail he left behind. He could feel the foul presence in the room. His skin rippled with gooseflesh and the telekinetic could feel the temperature drop a few degrees. The shifter was near. In one hand he tightly grasped his spear, and in the other, he pressed down on his wound that bubbled between the cracks of his fingers. “Come out and die with dignity.” He demanded through clenched teeth. “Mshale..!” Semret’s panicked voice called from the ruined doorway. Not to be fooled again, the telekinetic immediately went on the offensive, twisting around at the hips and feet, and with all the athletic skill of Julius Yego he threw his spear, its trajectory boosted with telekinetic speed to be nearly undodgeable, straight through the base of the woman’s throat. It wasn’t what he expected. The evident pain and horror stricken across the beautiful caramel colored visage of Semret was only rivaled by her expression of betrayal as she tried to choke something up that manifested in red gurgle. She crumpled to the floor, clutching at the knotty haft as she gasped, wincing in pain, leering at the confused telekinetic as he cautiously approached her spasming body. In that moment, Mshale scowled down at a dying enemy. Semret died in an awful way. She died afraid. And she died alone. At first he hadn’t even realized what he’d done. He stared down at her final convulsions, waiting for her lithe feminine form to shift back to the demonic beast. For her beautifully haunted, vacant hazel eyes to shift back to the cyclopean jaundice of the popobawa. The percolating cocktail of adrenaline and anger came to a simmer as the cadaver rattled: the punchline to the deranged joke. This wasn’t the malign creature he’d sealed in the prison, but wanted to kill. This figure lying on the ground was the woman he traveled to from Agadir to Cape Town. The girl who’d taught him to cook fufu. Who’d been there and comforted him through the loss of his parents. It was the friend that always took first watch when they were on the road days after the world died. Not the beast of his wrath, but temperer of his furor. His center. His heart. The motionless corpse was Semret. “S-Semret…” He whispered, kneeling to her. Behind him, like a looming gargoyle lurking atop a hoary mausoleum, sneering down upon the ancient graveyard of its charge, the popobawa sat. The beast nearly completely enveloped Mshale in darkness he tumbled headlong into, and whispered. The beasts voice as sweet as passion fruit: “Release your anger, and focus that ever so dreadful mind on me.”