Tellussoil
AwesomeZero5
supamusu
Fetzen
Red Hood
Not a Sayan
SkyeOfStars
DancesWMonstersOtenzel does not whisper. It gleams. White marble steps rise from the harbor road in patient tiers, and every step glints with salt and sunlight. Bronze victories stand over the boulevard, green with age, spears lifted toward banners that snap in the sea breeze. Vendors sing out over the clop of mule hooves. Steam slips from the mouths of public baths. Mosaic gods watch the crowd from every facade. The war is a rumor here and also a fact. A recruiting placard hangs beside a fresco of Mars. Priests in red hems pass sailors shouldering amphorae. At every city gate and portal arch a Black Orb sits on a plinth, like a polished night captured in stone, and the line keeps moving.
Ahead, the coliseum rules the district like a second sun. Rings within rings of pale stone, hooked with awnings and pennants, it throws a cool shade across the plaza. Trumpets practice a fanfare in short bursts. A chalkboard lists today’s cards in a scribe’s tight hand. Shackled novices shuffle under handler eyes. Free blades swagger for sponsors. The smell is sand, oil, wine, and the iron ghost of old blood.
And here you stand before the arena, the massive marble coliseum, famous for hosting legendary fights that echo through Otenzel. Perhaps you came by your own will. Perhaps you were forced. Either way the truth is one. Blood will be spilled in the coliseum, yours or your opponent’s.
At a distance, something small tilts its head at you. A cat, knee high at most, with a head too big for its body and eyes round as coins. The pupils catch the sun and glitter.
“So, you are the jabronis getting ready to join this hurtbox, nya?” it chirps with a grin that is half cheerful and half conspiracy. A few lower guards glance over, then look away. Not worth the pay.
“Well, you arrive just in time, nya. The novice league is about to begin. But before you even dream of stepping on that sand, I gotta see if you know the basics.” The creature bounces left, then right, tiny paws flicking out a quick one-two that would not trouble a fly and yet somehow feels like a coach’s test. “Follow me. Let’s see what you got.”
You are led inside. The city noise falls away to stone hush and a low drumbeat. The staging halls are a river of bodies, all flowing toward the light of the gates. Neco-Arc hooks a turn into a side chamber.
Training room. Sand floor. Straw dust in the air. Tool racks and practice marks everywhere. A narrow visor slit looks out into the arena’s under-tier, where curious faces cluster.
You have space to breathe and choose.
Training dummies stand in rows, reed cores bound with twine and fresh straw sleeves. A few wear cracked bronze helms.
A weapon rack holds blunted options: gladius, spear, trident and net, cudgel, a dented buckler.
A chalk bowl waits by the door for grip.
A water jar sweats on a stool.
A bell rope hangs beside a small gong with a dent shaped like a fist.
A balance beam crosses a shallow sand pit.
A sealed crate of caltrops lurks under a bench with a wax tag that reads property of the beastmaster, do not touch.
A rope post with painted circles at shoulder, heart, and knee height dares you to test precision.
“First, we start simple,” Neco-Arc says. “You gotta hit the dummy like this.”
The cat becomes a tiny storm. Paws blur. Straw sprays. The reed core creaks. One last pop and the dummy spins a quarter turn on its stake.
Combat Notation for Neco-Arc's attack: Strength B (5) + Natural Weapons C (4) + Fighting Style [Catting Around - Natural Weapons] C (4) = Base Effectiveness = 13 Base Effectiveness.
Neco-Arc lands primly, paws on hips. “There. Now it is your turn.”
Perform on your attacks, trying to make the same notation as I did with Neco-Arc, but considering your character's stats, skills and weapon grades.
From the corridor a marshal’s voice carries. “Novice check-in in five.” The drumbeat picks up a notch.
You can go for raw force and try to crack a core. You can trace those painted circles with needle-precise taps. You can put on a show and make the watchers at the visor slit gasp. You can grab a tool from the rack. You can glide the beam and strike mid-step. You can ring the bell to mark your rhythm. The sand keeps your secrets until you choose.
Neco-Arc’s eyes shine. “Remember. If they parry, you party. And the crowd loves style points, nya.”
Ahead, the coliseum rules the district like a second sun. Rings within rings of pale stone, hooked with awnings and pennants, it throws a cool shade across the plaza. Trumpets practice a fanfare in short bursts. A chalkboard lists today’s cards in a scribe’s tight hand. Shackled novices shuffle under handler eyes. Free blades swagger for sponsors. The smell is sand, oil, wine, and the iron ghost of old blood.
And here you stand before the arena, the massive marble coliseum, famous for hosting legendary fights that echo through Otenzel. Perhaps you came by your own will. Perhaps you were forced. Either way the truth is one. Blood will be spilled in the coliseum, yours or your opponent’s.
At a distance, something small tilts its head at you. A cat, knee high at most, with a head too big for its body and eyes round as coins. The pupils catch the sun and glitter.
“So, you are the jabronis getting ready to join this hurtbox, nya?” it chirps with a grin that is half cheerful and half conspiracy. A few lower guards glance over, then look away. Not worth the pay.
“Well, you arrive just in time, nya. The novice league is about to begin. But before you even dream of stepping on that sand, I gotta see if you know the basics.” The creature bounces left, then right, tiny paws flicking out a quick one-two that would not trouble a fly and yet somehow feels like a coach’s test. “Follow me. Let’s see what you got.”
You are led inside. The city noise falls away to stone hush and a low drumbeat. The staging halls are a river of bodies, all flowing toward the light of the gates. Neco-Arc hooks a turn into a side chamber.
Training room. Sand floor. Straw dust in the air. Tool racks and practice marks everywhere. A narrow visor slit looks out into the arena’s under-tier, where curious faces cluster.
You have space to breathe and choose.
Training dummies stand in rows, reed cores bound with twine and fresh straw sleeves. A few wear cracked bronze helms.
A weapon rack holds blunted options: gladius, spear, trident and net, cudgel, a dented buckler.
A chalk bowl waits by the door for grip.
A water jar sweats on a stool.
A bell rope hangs beside a small gong with a dent shaped like a fist.
A balance beam crosses a shallow sand pit.
A sealed crate of caltrops lurks under a bench with a wax tag that reads property of the beastmaster, do not touch.
A rope post with painted circles at shoulder, heart, and knee height dares you to test precision.
“First, we start simple,” Neco-Arc says. “You gotta hit the dummy like this.”
The cat becomes a tiny storm. Paws blur. Straw sprays. The reed core creaks. One last pop and the dummy spins a quarter turn on its stake.
Combat Notation for Neco-Arc's attack: Strength B (5) + Natural Weapons C (4) + Fighting Style [Catting Around - Natural Weapons] C (4) = Base Effectiveness = 13 Base Effectiveness.
Neco-Arc lands primly, paws on hips. “There. Now it is your turn.”
Perform on your attacks, trying to make the same notation as I did with Neco-Arc, but considering your character's stats, skills and weapon grades.
From the corridor a marshal’s voice carries. “Novice check-in in five.” The drumbeat picks up a notch.
You can go for raw force and try to crack a core. You can trace those painted circles with needle-precise taps. You can put on a show and make the watchers at the visor slit gasp. You can grab a tool from the rack. You can glide the beam and strike mid-step. You can ring the bell to mark your rhythm. The sand keeps your secrets until you choose.
Neco-Arc’s eyes shine. “Remember. If they parry, you party. And the crowd loves style points, nya.”
