Please note that I don't own the characters or locations used in this. They are the property of Wizards of the Coast.
Hatred Within
The crowd were cheering, jeering and screaming, their cries mingling and merging until they became a single ferocious roar that echoed through the corridors of the coliseum, sounding almost like the infuriated cry of a Krosan colossus. Even in her chambers, her private sanctum where she awaited each new challenger, she could hear the cries and sense the bloodlust behind them. It disgusted her, yet it delighted her. Her stomach churned, but her eyes glinted with anticipation. She knew she would soon be called upon. Soon another would fall to her magnificent might.
And there it was; the resounding bellow the gong they used to summon her. It hadn't even begun to die away before she was rising to her feet, instinctively pushing aside the metal stool she'd been provided with long before. With three quick, confident steps she reached the door, pushing the heavy wooden obstacle open with just one silk covered hand.
Then she was in the passage, striding toward the light of the arena. A whisper of silk marked each of her steps and even now she could hear the crowd chant her name. They knew she would be before them soon, they knew that soon justice would be delivered. Yes, it would be justice, though she knew not the crime of the one she would be fighting. Doubtless it would be terrible, for only the worst were given the terrible honour of facing her in the arena.
"Are you ready?" Asked the single guard who stood in the corridor, speaking as though from a script. He asked that question every time without fail. It was as much a part of his job as the sword and the uniform with its horrific insignia.
"I am always ready." She replied, her voice a faint, venomous whisper that still managed to drown out the impatient shouts of the crowd. The answer was expected of her, not by this guard, but by another being. He wasn't here, but he would hear all the same. That was why he was what he was; that was why he was the First.
The words spoken, the ritual complete, she strode into the daylight. She could feel the gaze of ten thousand souls upon her, but she didn't look around. Instead her eyes, those terrible orbs that spoke of the sorrows of death and the joys of battle, focused on the sweat streaked face of her opponent. Larger than her by at least a handspan and with the build she would expect from a Pit Fighter like the one who had betrayed her before her birth, fear radiated off him nonetheless. She could see it, She could smell it, she could taste it.
Off to her right, a herald spoke of the man, telling of his crimes. She paid no attention. Even when he spoke the man's name, she did not listen. The man's name did not matter to her; already the frozen surface of her heart was engraved with the names of a hundred fools who had dared stand before her. One more would not matter.
Slowly, deliberately, she peeled the black silk gloves from her hands, allowing the sun to softly kiss her alabaster skin. Before her, the man gulped, stepping backward as he did, but there was no escape. They both knew that. So, when he drew his sword, it came as no surprise to her. It would not help him the slightest, but doubtless the feel of the heavy sword in his hand would give him some strength in these, his final moments.
It was a good sword, she noted with something akin to detachment. No doubt paid for out of some sinful act or another. That did not matter though, for this was where those sins would be repaid tenfold. Again, the herald spoke, then the horns sounded and a ripple of approval ran through the crowd. The battle had begun, now only one could leave the arena - a fact that was reinforced when the heavy obsidian doors fell into place at the arena's twin exits. This man was trapped with her, trapped with the very avatar of death.
The realisation of this fact hit every foe differently. Some dropped their weapons and tried to run. Others begged for mercy or tried to bribe her. It never worked; they always died. This one was different. With a desperate cry he lunged forward, intent upon cleaving her in two. It was a bold move, yet it would not work. He too would die by her hand.
Without a thought, she knocked the sword aside and stepped within his guard. Horror flashed in his eyes, but within a moment searing agony replaced it as the pale skin of her fingers danced across the exposed skin of his sword arm. Dark tendrils of rot spread from every point she touched, weaving a deadly spider web across his skin as the sword dropped from his nerveless fingers and a dull moan escaped his lips. Already, her victory was assured, but she did not smile. No, she could take no joy from this. Instead, she stepped away, studying his pain wracked face intently as he dropped to his knees.
In her mind, it was over. Not even death could stop the decay of his body after her pestilent touch. And yet, there was something about this man that screamed defiance. Perhaps he was a barbarian – she would have to ask the guard when she returned to her chambers. Whatever he was, he seemed intent on defying her until the last breath of air was choked from his body. Before she could even move, he'd scooped up his sword and brought it slicing along. He was too far away to kill her, but that had not been his intent. Instead, his silvery blade sliced through his arm, severing biceps and triceps with ease.
As the rotting limp fell to the floor and blood spurted from the man's wound, she nodded in understanding. This man was like her. He was a warrior. A slow, agonising death to her decaying touch had been beneath him. Perhaps this was not as it seemed then. Perhaps a worthy opponent had been sent before her.
She could not tell, for the man's eyes had become could and unreadable as his lifeblood began to spray across the arena. But she knew this battle would not be the pathetic waste she had expected; a dead man stood before her now, intent upon drawing her soul to the afterlife with his own. This realisation hit her strangely; she felt no fear, but then, she had already died. But a spark of what she had once been was there, reminding her of how different she had once been. A part of her, minuscule though it was, wanted to return to that and perhaps the sword of this man could grant her that wish. Only time would tell.
Time was not siding with the man though, for each passing moment saw more of his life flee from his swaying body. The rot had been stopped, yet still his last moments of life were slipping away like the sands through an hourglass. He was not prepared to die like that though and before she could even complete her thoughts, he lunged at her, his blade flashing out with a speed she wouldn't have thought imaginable.
Pure instinct saved her, forcing her body aside even as the blade lanced out. And yet, she was not fast enough. Slowly, as shocked silence fell upon the arena, she raised a single hand to her cheek, touching it lightly before moving before her eyes. Stained crimson, they drew a breath from her as her memories flashed back to the last time she had seen her own blood seep from her body. She still remembered how that had felt; how the agony had torn through her body as his blade plunged into her stomach. Indeed, the scar she carried to this day reminded her every time she saw it.
Now though, her eyes flickered across the her foe's, every hint of mercy fading from them as his face merged with that of the one who had betrayed her so long ago. Narrowed and hate filled, they seemed like nothing other than the eyes of a predator now; devoid of compassion and reason as they regarded her prey.
"Kamahl…" She growled, venom dripping from the hateful name. Fuelled by rage, she lashed out, catching his elbow with the edge of her hand even as he drew back his sword for another strike. A sickening crack marked the collision of their flesh as the bones of his elbow shattered and his arm fell limp. Soon though, that would be the least of his many woes, for already the dark stain of decay was spreading from his elbow. Horror stricken, he dropped to his knees and began to other words of prayer to his heathen god, but she was not finished with him. Not yet.
With an almost seductive grave, she stalked across to her discard gloves, sliding them onto her hands with well-practised ease, before spinning on her heel and striding back toward him. Still the crowd was silent; they had never seen her act like this within the arena. Without fail, she had always eliminated her opponents without a moment wasted on anything other than combat. But in her mind, this was Kamahl and an honourable death in battle was too good for him.
So, she paused before him a moment longer, savouring the tortured look on his face as the decay crept along his arm. Now it was only a handspan away from his heart and his final demise. He would die in that way though. No, while it would be her glorious decay that tore his life from him, it would be delivered in another way.
To that end, she crouched down beside him, each of her silk clad hands reaching out for his cheeks. Gently they twisted his face towards hers, while she leant forward. With malevolent glee, she allowed her lips to brush against his before her tongue darted forward, spearing through their lips and dancing across the interior of his mouths. Now she could feel his terrified screams, muffled by her lips and the terrible rot that had already began to eat away at his mouth. Within moments it had eaten through into his brain and he fell silent, sagging in her arms.
As he did, she released her hold upon him, allowing his mutilated, still rotting form to collapse to the sand of the arena floor. Again, she could feel the gaze of thousands upon her and no doubt almost all of them would be horrified by what they had just witnessed though. She cared not thought. She had claimed a small fragment of vengeance against the one who had caused all of this. Doubtless there would be more.
And with that thought, she glanced up, noting the clouds that had gathered ominously overhead. They were apt, she felt even as the first cleansing drops of rain fell toward the coliseum. Each drop of water, so pure and clean, traced a gentle line across her pale skin, only for her hatred to taint it beyond reclamation. "Yes," she whispered to the clouds, only for a zephyr to steal her words away,"Even the purest things can be tainted by hate."