Shu

💀 NO MERCY WRESTLING LEGENDS 💀

Kendra nodded in agreement, not pressing the conversation further and turning her attention back to the TV. At first the momentum of the match swung like a pendulum, shifting back and forth between the two men. Hilo Keliʻi was surprisingly quick for someone his size and more than once early on Carlo was bowled over or caught in a tight grapple because he underestimated his opponent’s speed.

Weathering through his mistakes, Carlo adjusted. He quickly realized his best strategy was to stay just out of reach and rely on counter-offense rather than throwing himself headfirst at what Dan Rich had aptly called a “moving brick wall.” As fast as Hilo could be Carlo was still faster, and once he settled into a solid rhythm he began gaining ground.

Carlo chipped away at Hilo, circling just outside his reach, staying light on his feet and letting the bigger man come forward before answering with sharp kicks to the thigh and knee. The first few barely drew a reaction, but Carlo kept targeting the same spots on the legs until Hilo’s explosive bursts started to slow. Gradually the match shifted in Carlo’s favor, the GM’s son following up his kicks with a variety of punches and chops to Hilo’s head and torso. Hilo, however, devised a countermeasure of his own when he felt the tide turning.

Hilo forced the fight into close quarters. The moment Carlo stepped in too deep with a punch attempt the brutish grappler grabbed and dragged him down to the mat, immediately trying to finish the match with a Coquina Clutch. Carlo barely escaped the submission hold by slipping an arm inside Hilo’s grip and twisting free. Moments later, Hilo pulled him down again and reapplied the choke, but Carlo managed to reach the ropes to force a break. The third attempt nearly ended the match. After a hard sidewalk slam, Hilo again locked in the Coquina Clutch. Carlo’s face flushed deep red as the air was squeezed from his lungs. Somehow, through sheer stubborn will, Carlo wrenched himself loose. He rolled away gasping for breath as the arena erupted, the fans now all firmly behind the young Deguara.

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“I was gonna ask you that myself, actually,” Kendra replied, “just… let’s not do anything to get you injured.”

After a short commercial break - and a gold-colored “Rubicon Gauntlet” screen wipe - came the next matchup. The Hawaiian juggernaut Hilo Keli’i versus Carlo Deguara, the son of GM Antonio Deguara and Diana’s younger brother. Carlo had made his NMW debut with a lopsided win over Jason Caillet. Kendra had watched that match and she admitted to herself that even though Carlo seemed to be the epitome of a spoiled daddy’s boy he was a good wrestler. And handsome… Kendra thought, absently picking at the wrapper of a Snickers she had pulled from the pile of snacks on Fiona’s coffee table. Hilo Keli’i was a unit himself, tall and husky with the build of a linebacker and a mean-mug that could make a bulldog cower.

The bell rang and the third match of the night began. Carlo and Hilo locking up in the center of the ring, a few seconds later starting a chain of reversals and counter grapples.

“I wonder how much the nepotism is going to influence the brand.” Kendra blurted out, her eyes remaining on the screen as Carlo wiggled his way out of a headlock and tried to go for a full Nelson. Hilo shoved Carlo backward towards the ropes and seconds later Carlo was flattened by a pop-up Samoan drop that stirred the crowd.

💀 NO MERCY WRESTLING LEGENDS 💀

THE FOLLOWING FRIDAY…

Fiona and Kendra sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the sofa in Fiona’s living room, eyes fixed on the television. With neither of them scheduled to compete that weekend the two had the luxury of some time off. Kendra had flown to New York City to spend it with her ring partner. A sunny day of sightseeing and a fancy dinner topped with watching No Mercy Wrestling from a comfortable spot. No fans, no paparazzi, no upper management, just two friends enjoying the end of the week together. Set in Reno, Nevada, tonight’s show was the second week of the NMW Rubicon Gauntlet, marking the latter half of the championship tournament’s first round.

The show had opened with Silas Dane taking on Jordan Paxton. Paxton wrestled well but the villainous Dane’s experience and more fluid technique secured him the pinfall victory. The second bout - and the first of the women’s matchups - was Elina Zamora against Ash Weathers. Another tightly contested match, but it was Elina Zamora who claimed the win after crushing Ash Weathers with a flashy springboard moonsault and getting the three count.

As Elina stood tall in the ring, celebrating over her fallen opponent, Kendra nudged Fiona and joked that it was a shame Fiona couldn’t have witnessed that in person. An awkward silence followed instead of laughter. Fiona’s request to be allowed ringside tonight had been denied via a rather sharply worded email from Diana Deguara, the head producer unconvinced that the request was not some attempt by Fiona to influence any outcomes tonight. After Choi Minji’s interference the week before, which had seen Shin Choon-hee eliminated from the tournament, there was a slight lingering suspicion of both Fiona and Kendra among both management and a portion of the fans. - Mostly those upset by Shin Choon-hee’s defeat.

“Sorry.” Kendra said with a nervous half-smile.

~ BLACK FLAGS OF THE ABECEAN ~

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ACT TWO

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Crown And Cutlass…

10th of Midyear, 4E 200

Stros M’kai…

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The golden morning sun shone down across the breadth of the Abecean Sea, casting its light upon Stros M’kai. A solemn, scorching island perched on the edge of the known world, steeped in legend and inhabited by people as unyielding as the place they call home. The Ra Gada denizens of Stros M’kai carry the legacy of ancient Yokuda, their steadfast nature second only to their immense pride in their bloodlines. In every grain of sand and every weathered stone some say that Stros M’kai itself carries the very spirit of Yokuda, nurturing its descendants with a subtle will. Even setting aside such sentiment, there is no denying that the island and its people exist as testaments to the past and promises of a future.

The skies this day were mostly clear and the sapphiric vast of the sea sparkled as the unrelenting Midsummer heat made the air over the water shimmer. The soft, briny breeze carried the cries of seagulls fluttering overhead. Waves rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic breath, their ascending crests dissolving as quickly as they formed. The ever-fickle tides of the Abecean gently lapped against the white sands of Stros M’kai, making for welcoming scenery and fair sailing.

A single dhow, its twin sails taut in the wind, glided along the coastline with the sun at its back. Its bowsprit pointing at its destination: Port Hunding - capital of Stros M’kai and jewel of the Abecean. A wealthy city and a center of trade, culture, and diplomacy. Named after the legendary Sword-singer, Frandar Hunding, Port Hunding was a symbol of refuge and strength. From a distance, its white stone buildings and fortified harbor stood resplendent against the rolling dunes and craggy hills beyond. Several buildings rose high over the rest, engulfing parts of the inner city in shadow. The two most prominent structures were a grand temple, easily recognizable by its colorful stained windows, and a domed palace fit for a king.

The harbor was crowded with merchant vessels and fishing boats, though none could be seen entering or leaving. A peculiar stillness hung over the water, ill-suited to so great a port. The dhow gracefully entered the embrace of the harbor, the crew taking in the sails as the helmsman delicately guided the small vessel among hulking galleons and longships.

“Dead slow ahead,” the captain called as the port side of the ship eased into line with an open dock. The dhow was commanded by a man named Isam, a ranking member of the Port Hunding city guard. His humble vessel belonged to the patrol fleet, which had sent out a small flotilla at dawn to investigate fires that had been seen in the night less than a league from Port Hunding.

When the flotilla arrived at the site of the fires earlier that morning, they were met first by flotsam strewn across the sea and bloated corpses drifting among it, mostly Ra Gada and Cyrodiilics. Four survivors were discovered soon after. The blazes, Isam and his fellows learned, had been from a battle out at sea. When questioned the four said they were from a merchant vessel. Their ship, the Arslan’s Fortune they had called it, was on its return to High Rock from the city of Anvil when it was blown off course and later attacked by pirates. During the fighting both ships were damaged by a sudden explosion and sank. Isam was ordered to deliver the survivors to Port Hunding and leave them in the care of the authorities. Afterward, he was to rejoin the flotilla along the southern coast of Stros M'Kai.

The dhow’s mooring lines were secured, Isam turning from where he stood at the bow to gaze over the four people huddled together near the main mast. Two of them were scraggly Ra Gada men, wearing the plain linen clothing and tall leather boots common among sailors. Of the other two one was a northerner - a Nord or maybe a Breton given her pallid skin and light hair. Isam could rarely tell with mainlanders. She was adorned in the fine robes and gloves typical of nobles and apprentices. If she was a magic user she would find little welcome here. But that was of no concern to the captain. The fourth was strange, Isam could think of no other way to describe her. Or at least, he assumed the fourth survivor was a woman, their face indecipherable to him and their colorful clothes were of a bizarre pattern. Several of Isam’s men had been staring since they had first pulled that one from the water.

With a slight shake of his head Isam stepped forward, chainmail clinking beneath his billowy shawl. One of the Ra Gada recoiled as the tall, bearded guardsman came close, his dark eyes passing scrutinizingly over each of his “passengers” for a moment before he finally spoke.
“We have arrived. Welcome to the grand Port Hunding,” Isam paused for a moment then continued, his tone turning slightly callous, “I must tell you all I have not the time to guide any of you through the city. And I see no reason to have you escorted to the garrison. There is naught else I can do, other than offer my sympathies for your lost fellows and suggest that you visit the embassy. It is not far from the docks. If you need food and a place to rest you should go to the Palm and Shell nearby or - if you happen to have the coin - the House of Pearls in the noble quarter.”

One of the other guardsmen nearby chuckled to himself, thinking his captain being sardonic. There was a thunk as the gangplank was dropped across the short gap between the side of the ship and the dock. Isam stepped to the side, waving his right arm to indicate that it was time for the hapless sojourners to leave his company. Even with all the ships in the harbor huddled together, unmoving, there was still life in the port. Dockhands shouted to one another as they hauled cargo about. Sailors tended to various needs of the resting ships while vendors haggled with customers over goods. Fishmongers gutted the morning’s catch at long wooden tables. Even amid the harbor’s palpable uneasiness the docks carried on with its daily cadence.

“Say your thanks to Tava that we found you so far out at sea. Perhaps we will find others. You must go now so that we may return to our duties. My sympathies again, and better fortunes unto you.”

~ BLACK FLAGS OF THE ABECEAN ~

There was a fierce snapping of wood as the main deck of the Arslan’s Fortune was completely sundered open. Broken boards, bodies, and equipment all fell down into the belly of the galleon. The ship groaned in protest as more of it’s hull cracked under the pressure and sea water rushed inside, flooding the lower decks. Those trapped below were driven to claw and kick against the brutal inrush, fighting their way toward open air; the rest pulled into the churning darkness. Topside, the afterdeck was now, like the front of the ship, engulfed in searing flames which climbed the barely standing mizzen mast. Soon, water was spilling across what remained off the main deck of the Arslan’s Fortune, extinguishing some of the fires and gushing down into the already waterlogged interior. The Arslan’s Fortune was sinking fast. And it was taking the pirates down with it.

The fallen main mast of the Arslan’s Fortune was wedged across the body of the pirate sloop. It’s rigging tangled with that of the smaller vessel. The dead weight of the sinking galleon pitched the sloop to one side. Pirates still aboard their own ship were hurled into the black maw of the Abecean Sea amid an avalanche of barrels, crates, and debris. Several of their band were clinging to the railings or mast but their efforts were clearly in vain. With a long, splintering whine, the sloop gave way and rolled onto its side, striking the water with a thunderous crash as the Arslan’s Fortune disappeared beneath the waves. Those not crushed under the capsizing sloop were forced underwater by the surging wave that followed, or cast across the rolling sea.

Salty foam and bubbles boiled up, turning the water a silky whitish color. For a few lingering breaths the pirates’ black flag floated upon the swells, its pale skull grinning up at the night sky. It too was then tugged under, the fabric twisting as it trailed down into the deep. One by one the last remnants of the battle disappeared. The tip of a mast lingered like a marker over a grave before the sea closed above it. What remained were the few survivors, most of whom were wounded, clinging to scorched planks and other pieces of wreckage as the darkness pressed in from all sides. The stars above only faintly illuminated the sky. No sails could be seen on the near horizon and the distant glow of some far off city seemed to grow ever distant. And beneath their drifting feet the waters did not grow still. Slaughterfish had been drawn to the scent of blood and were voraciously tearing at floating corpses and darting off with severed limbs dangling from their toothy jaws. Those who survived the night would need the favor of some god or another to find safe haven, and the untamed Abecean Sea knew little of the gods’ mercy.

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END OF ACT ONE …

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An attack at night, a humble ship set upon by vicious sea dogs, and few survivors to tell the tale of a bloody battle. The fate of seven hapless souls are thrown with the dice as they are far from familiar shores and perched on the edge of the map. As the sun rises on a new day, one must ask what awaits this very unique smattering of castaways in the near future?

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💀 NO MERCY WRESTLING LEGENDS 💀

At first Gordon seemed taken aback by Fiona’s idea. Then momentarily thoughtful, his eyes darting about in their sockets. And then suspicious, his brow scrunching together.

“Okay… Fiona,” Gordon clasped his hands against his midsection, “you want me to ask Miss Deguara to let you be ringside for the match that will decide who you face in the next round? After winning your own match tonight thanks to outside interference?”

Gordon paused for a moment, holding unblinking eye contact with Fiona for clear emphasis. Kendra tucked her hands in her pockets and chewed on her bottom lip. In the short lull of the conversation the thump of what was undoubtedly someone’s entrance music could be heard through the walls. The next match would be starting soon.

“Listen, I need to go…” Gordon said looking over his shoulder, “I’ll… email you or something in a few days.”

💀 NO MERCY WRESTLING LEGENDS 💀

“Well… even if it was not the way you planned, you are moving on in the tournament! I call this a win!” Kendra piped up. “Though your next W does need to be done ‘the right way’. I h-…”

“Fiona!” Gordon McKinney’s hoarse voice came from Fiona’s left, the hefty assistant producer approaching with a pleased expression. Kendra quietened down and took a step back as Gordon reached them.

“Congratulations on your, uh… victory.” Gordon smiled, awkwardly adjusting his glasses with one hand.

“Tonight does ‘count’, right?” Kendra blurted out, her cheeks flushing in immediate self-consciousness. Gordon looked at her at first with a confused expression, then realizing what she meant he chuckled and replied, “Oh, yes. I was actually on the phone with Miss Diana Deguara herself - admittedly concerned myself - but she sounded pleased by the outcome! I mean that crowd was stirred up! And the Miss Deguara and her fa-… eh, our GM, love when the crowd is animated. Your match against Shin Choon-hee will definitely be talked about after tonight and that’s good!”

💀 NO MERCY WRESTLING LEGENDS 💀

“Was is really that obvious?” Kendra asked with a low chuckle.

“Actually… don’t answer that,” she said quickly, “Me getting the attention of the ref at just the right time allowing Choi Minji to take out her partner… Like, no way it was a coincidence, right?”

Kendra scraped her shoes against the concrete floor, eyes downcast for a moment before she looked back up at Fiona.

“Minji DM’d me just before the show and said she wanted to talk with me backstage. Naturally, I was hesitant at first but she insisted it ‘wasn’t what I might think’. So, I took the risk and met her. And we had a long talk. The short of it is that Choi Minji wasn’t happy about Shin signing on with NMW and breaking up their tag team. So, she decided to sabotage Shin Choon-hee’s debut match and championship run as a parting middle finger to her now-former partner. She suggested that I distract the official at just the right time so she could make a move to ruin the match for Shin. And I agreed.”

Kendra paused, letting Fiona soak in what she had revealed then adding, “Before you yell at me I just want you to know that originally I hadn’t planned on interfering in your match. But I saw Minji’s offer as just… too good of an opportunity to pass up. And I mean… think about this; Choi Minji was going to betray Shin anyway. Why not play it to your advantage?”

Kendra stiffened up slighty as she finished, clearly expecting a tongue lashing from her partner.

💀 NO MERCY WRESTLING LEGENDS 💀

Kendra said nothing in response, her focus entirely on Shin Choon-hee and her treacherous former partner. Shin came to a slow stand, her hands visibly shaking at her sides as she stared down Choi Minji.

“And as Fiona Chevalier is declared the winner of the match Shin Choon-hee and Choi Minji are locked in a death stare right here in front of the announcement table.” Dan Rich looked between the two women, he and his two colleagues yet to sit back down.

“Choi Minji was Shin’s partner, what could have sparked what we just saw?” Brent asked.

“If I had to guess,” Rhonda spoke up, “maybe we have an instance of someone bitter that their old partner is moving on to greener pastures.”

“Look out!” Dan Rich shouted suddenly as Choi Minji rushed forward and drove her title belt right into Shin Choon-hee’s face. Shin was caught flatfooted and as a result knocked down on her back.
The crowd did not react favorably to this and a surge of booing and jeers rose up across the arena as a smiling Choi Minji then raised the two PWS titles high over Shin and then dropped them across her heaving torso.

“This is just humiliating.” Dan said, “Shin Choon-hee has lost the match and the chance at being the first NMW women’s champion at the hands of someone she trusted. Now here she lays on the floor draped in a pair of… meaningless belts.”

“Well,” Brent shrugged, “like Stone Cold himself said, ‘don’t trust anybody’.”

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BACKSTAGE

“So, I assume you want a full explanation.”

Fiona and Kendra stood backstage, not far from the dressing rooms. After Defiant Dream had made a celebratory departure from the arena Gordon had met them just beyond the stage entrance and said he wanted to talk to Fiona before she left for the hotel. The gleeful expression on Gordon’s round face suggested it would be a positive conversation, or so Fiona and Kendra hoped. Seeing as how they had a few minutes before Gordon caught up with them Fiona had time to chat with Kendra.

~ BLACK FLAGS OF THE ABECEAN ~

Captain Hawkton pulled his dagger free from the Orc’s neck, stepping aside as the gurgling brute collapsed. Robyn reached up and touched his right cheek, wincing as he felt the long cut left by the tip of his enemy’s blade. His left sleeve hung in tattered shreds, blood from another cut oozing down his arm and dripping from his fingertips. He wiped his dagger off on his breeches leg before sheathing it, then kneeling down and picking up the dead Orc’s gnarled sword. It was heavier than the captain was accustomed to but it was certainly better than his now-broken cutlass. And he had no intention of leaping into the fray below armed with only a knife.

After giving the Orcish blade a few testing twirls in his right hand, Robyn looked around and surveyed the desperate situation. Most of his crew were dead, the roughly twenty men still standing were being “herded” into the center of the main deck as the pirates slowly encircled them. Among the lot Robyn spotted two of the passengers from Anvil: the flamboyant Redguard man and a figure clad in bizarre armor that he recognized as the wizened Dunmer. The damned Thalmor he had allowed aboard his ship was also topside, easy to spot in his black and gold robes. Robyn quickly reminded himself that under the circumstances at hand he should be grateful that an elite Justiciar was still standing to fight for his side. He imagined that some members of his crew and other passengers might be below deck. Those not already dead, obviously.

By now most of the exterior of the Arslan’s Fortune was charred or burning. The fo'c'sle and bowsprit were engulfed in orange flame, as was the foremast. The small inferno where the starboard-side stairs had been was spreading across the aft deck. Arrows, crossbow bolts, and javelins lined the gunwales and taffrail, resembling pins in a spinster’s cushion. Round scorch marks from the initial attack dotted the hull and the once-pristine boards of the main deck. If the Arslan’s Fortune survived the night, plenty of repairs would need to be done on the galleon before it was seaworthy again.

Robyn took a deep breath and firmly grasped his new weapon. The young captain strode past the corpse of his first mate and started down the blackened portside stairs. As he descended toward the main deck he looked to the enemy sloop. Most of the pirates were aboard the merchant ship or dead, save for a few archers and spellcasters who were nestled in the rigging or taking cover on the enemy deck. A tall, dark figure - without a doubt the pirate captain - loomed near the mainmast, seemingly unbothered by the possibility of being struck by a stray arrow or fireball.

“Die!”

Robyn’s right boot had barely touched the main deck when he heard the savage shout. A wiry Redguard in tattered leather armor charged him, scimitar flashing. Robyn did not bother raising his sword to block but rather met the incoming attack head-on, his newly claimed orichalcum blade crashing into the steel with a force that nearly tore the weapon from the pirate’s hand. Robyn immediately pressed his advantage, driving the pirate back with three powerful, arcing strikes that chewed visible notches into the scimitar’s edge. The Redguard failed to recover in time to block the fourth blow. Robyn’s blade slashed across his chest, cutting clean through the brittle armor. The pirate cried out, his sword clattering to the deck as he clutched at his wound. With a hard thrust Robyn drove his blade through the man's throat, then wrenching it free just as quick. - The captain unfazed by the hot, crimson spray across his face as the dying brigand crumpled in his wake.

Robyn pushed forward across the main deck, his eyes locked on the surviving group hemmed in near the mainmast. The smell of smoke and blood was overwhelming. Robyn started to run only for a second pirate to step into his path. Another Orc, his sinewy, tattooed arms and steel breastplate streaked with blood and soot. The tusked fiend offered a snarling grin and leveled a green-tipped spear, attacking instantly. Robyn knocked the first thrust aside, the impact rattling up his arm. He ducked under a sweeping strike and answered with a slash that the Orc turned with the haft. The two traded blows in a tight, vicious rhythm, their boots skidding on blood-slicked boards with neither giving ground.

Rigging creaked overhead and a flicker of movement drew Robyn’s eyes upward after fending off a hard thrust. Enemy archers were scrambling along the lines of his ship, boots hooking knots as they strung their bows with practiced ease. Preparing to rain arrows down on the last line of defense of the Arslan’s Fortune. For a breath the noise of the fight seemed to thin. This is the end, isn’t it? The thought came flat and cold. Robyn pushed it aside just as quickly, shifting his grip and stepping inside the Orc’s guard. He drove forward with a flurry of close swipes of his blade. The Orc snarled and braced, spear haft spiraling about to block as the first bowstrings tightened above. Robyn raised his blade again and pressed in as the archers took aim.

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Raad ducked behind a crate as a spray of white hissed over his head. Ice, thick with magic, burst against the far wall and spread outward in jagged spider-webs. Raad countered with fire, a red blaze roaring from his outstretched, calloused hands. His foe - a thin, scruffy man in a baggy shirt and breeches - ducked behind a support beam, flames ribboning around the seasoned wood. Acrid smoke drifted up against the low ceiling of the cargo hold. Feeling the familiar hollowing pull in his chest, Raad ceased his cast and drew a sharp breath. The moment the fire slackened the other man bolted from cover, running past a stack of crates stamped with distant ports and faded seals.

Raad gave chase, teeth bared, his heavy boots hammering against the floor. He rounded the crates and skidded to a stop shortly after. His foe stood cornered before a cargo cage, iron bars bolted into the hull that cradled six red barrels. Most likely some sort of exotic spices or the like, Raad thought on seeing them. The other man’s hands were raised, fingers splayed, but no spells were cast.

“Wait!” the man screamed, eyes wide and desperate.

Raad’s lip curled. Sailors, soldiers, merchant men - they all begged the same when facing the end. And Raad was always equal in his lack of mercy. A pirate never afforded much. Fire surged again, a fan of blazing death billowing from Raad’s hands straight at the horrified man. - And the barrels behind him.

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The explosion tore through the Arslan’s Fortune with a deafening “boom”. Fire and pressure surged outward from the galleon’s heart, the whole ship heaving violently. Along the starboard side the hull was torn open, shards of metal and wood were cast into the sky and the sea. Captain Hawkton, his fellow defenders, and their assailants were flung from their feet. Dozens of bodies slammed down hard across the bloody topside amid scattered weapons and dismembered limbs. The archers that had taken to the rigging either fell into the sea or tumbled to their crushing demise to the decks below them.

The sloop had also felt the brunt of the explosion. The portside hull was cracked open, the seams fractured. The impact had snapped lines, loose rigging now whippping around like striking snakes as burning debris rained down in a hail of charred wood and iron fragments. As Robyn Hawkton and others that had been scattered across the deck sat upright, groaning and rubbing at their heads and bodies, everyone could hear the telltale rushing of water and the faint crackling of splintered wood.