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Impossible love
Anonymous
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The night has enveloped Tamriel with its starry mantle. Secunda also known as "Jone", the silver moon, exhibits its full form.
Cries of excitement spring from the arena. A few torches illuminate the stands.
The gladiator has just killed a boar. He shakes his claymore stained with blood. He knows that the show is just starting. The wild pig was just an appetizer. Of medium-sized tall, dressed in Dwarven cuirass, gloves and greaves, a hood similar to that of the famous Gray Fox one, the leader of the thieves guild, hides the top of his face: the shape and color of his hair is left to the imagination of the audience.
Roars emanate from the stalls; the grids open up. Two mountain lions emerge, jaws opened, and then move on either side of the arena onto their opponent.
The weapon drawn, the gladiator waits with caution: he guesses the trap. In a flash, a figure leaps onto his chest. He parries the blow with his raised blade and repels the third lion.
The audience greets the performance by screaming again.
The two other big cats roar in fury and attack: they jump in unison. The fighter dodges the first beast but the second one manages to snap up his left arm. Repressing his pain, he crushes his head with his sword pommel. As the big cat releases the pressure and he just has time to take his life off the cutting edge of the sword. The other one is already leaping. He parries again the attack with his claymore and tries to spot the third one. He understands that this one has bypassed him and is about to scratch his back. In a flash he twirls, accompanying his sword with one hand. The two animals pamper on the ground like dislocated puppets. The gladiator observes, kneeling on the ground, the beasts lying dead.
The spectators are jubilant.
The gladiator turns his head. His eyes express surprise. Far war, bars are shaking; a roar is pushed. A dry sound: the bars come out of their hinge and fly in the air. With a pirouette, the fighter narrowly avoids it. The steel grid shatters on the wall, writhing in various places.
In front of the stall, two disturbing lights pierce the darkness. The muzzle of the monster exhales steam; gigantic horns adorn its head; an arm armed with a warhammer appears and the hooves tread on the ground: a Minotaur Lord in his splendor.
The gladiator stands up and goes on the offensive: from the arm he emits a flare spell. Swift as lightning, the Minotaur avoids the fireball by lowering the bust and then load. Its head hits its opponent who flies like a bird. His back hits one of the central columns of the arena.
The Minotaur whirls its warhammer. The gladiator lowers his head. The hammer decapitates the column.
The audience expresses its fright.
The Lord Minotaur repeats the maneuver: his opponent avoids the blow that breaks the base of the column. A cloud of dust invades the space of confrontation.
The Minotaur stirs its head impatiently: it seeks its invisible adversary. A fireball pops up and hits its chest. The spell barely shook him and even excited its fury.
With its impressive weapon the beast operates a series of large reels at random. In vain. It only tears wind.
Suddenly, a blade tears the cloud: a slash bars the bare arm of the monster. Another attack shears its cheek. The Lord Minotaur utters a roar of pain and rage. Puddles of blood spur on the pavement.
The cloud disappears... The gladiator, holding his weapon with both hands, adopts a waiting posture.
The Minotaur charges while roaring. It swings its weapon brutally but imprecisely. The gladiator avoids each assault and retaliates successfully each time: he hurts the leg, the forehead, a shoulder...
The Lord Minotaur roars with anger. With a violent setback of its bare arm, it strikes his human adversary. This one loses his weapon and flies a second time in the air. He is received on the stomach, on the other side of the arena, at the foot of the disarticulated bars.
The Lord Minotaur drops its weapon and loads more towards its opponent.
The gladiator kneels down and watches the monster rush like a bull.
The monster utters an ultimate clamor and throws himself on its prey.
The gladiator grabs a tube from the grid and pivots it toward the beast. The tube pierces the monster's chest and emerges from behind. The paralyzed Minotaur stirs and whispers plaintively over a pool of blood.
The gladiator, with a slow step, retrieves his claymore, comes back to his opponent at the same pace. Then he brandies the blade high. He slices its head which is rolling on the ground.
The public shouts cries of joy. The announcer salutes the performance of the hero and proclaims another victory to the credit for The Divine Avenger.
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In the stands, a countess talks to the officer at her side. They leave their table and head for the door that leads to the Arena Bloodworks, place of training and rest gladiators.
The place is humid and smelly: sweat and dirt coat the walls and camp beds are close to the stalls of creatures: tame wild boars.
The pale glow of the torches adds a macabre note to the atmosphere.
The bodyguard of the countess, placed in the lead, ensure the safety of her hierarchical superior. The curve of her body whose chainmail armor mold leaves no doubt about her sex: a young woman with a generous chest wearing the traditional silver longsword and a Bruma shield. She operates a quick state of play. Reassured, she takes off her helmet: an imperial race, half-curly brown hair, whose a fringe bars an energetic forehead, frame a fine and pleasant face.
She nods to her mistress to instruct her to stay behind. Then she spots the Grand Champion's manager. Ysabel Andronicus, sitting in a corner. With a decided step she walks towards her.
"Good evening, Madam," she says, bowing her bust. "The Countess de Bruma would like to talk to The Divine Avenger."
"Oh… But he's resting. I do not know ..."
"Please, ma'am. I have only one message to send him in fact."
The battle matron of the Arena Bloodworks is studying her interlocutor for a long time.
"Alright," she breathes. "Be it short. He needs rest. I will go and get him."
The bodyguard thanks the matron for her indulgence by tilting her bust.
"Elhyse, is that you?"
Owyn, the Redguard blademaster, stands behind her.
"Yes, it's me," she says with a broad smile.
"Well, you grew up well, kid! But what are you doing here? Do Ya accompany the lady Carvain? "
"Indeed," she nods." I am her bodyguard."
"Oh, but it's because the kid has taken the lead! Do Ya will greet your parents from me?"
The Elhyse face becomes red.
"I've been an orphan for four years already," she murmurs in a timid voice.
"Oh, I'm sorry, kid, I did not know. I never leave that den you see," he says with his arms crossed.
Elhyse says that she understands and does not blame him for his clumsiness. That's when her hero appears. Her mind goes astray: she admires this slender figure, imagining contemplating in secret his naked musculature. She sees him already take her in his arms and whisper some sweet words...
"Miss, are you all right?"
Elhyse recovers. The Grand Champion, visibly amused, observes her with an interrogative air. He has a hoarse but weak voice. Perhaps it is to purposely respect etiquette when he talks to the nobility. Or, is it peculiar to his character? Elhyse rejects this hypothesis: it does not fit with his deeds.
"What do you want...?" He insists with a polite voice.
"Sir, Countess Narina Carvain would like to converse with you in her chateau," she says hastily.
" Me? But why lady…"
"The Countess would like to settle a private matter. She is counting on you. Tomorrow at 3 o'clock in the afternoon."
The Divine Avenger nods the countess.
"If it suits the countess, I'll be there," he says curtly.
"She thanks you for that."
As Elhyse pretends to leave, the Grand Champion calls her.
"Wait… What is your role here, miss?"
"Me? I'm just her bodyguard."
"Her bodyguard? The hero says massaging his chin. "Interesting ... And who keeps yours?"
Interlocked, Elhyse does not flinch. She escorts immediately the Countess.
Only the scent of the Countess testifies of her coming.
Owyn approaches the Grand Champion, with a smile in his face.
"Watch out, kid. I advise you to forget the damsel. She is a nice girl but she will bring you some trouble. "
"I think alas that's already the case," concludes the Divine Avenger.