Preparation

"What is this place?"

The man, whom looked like he was in his mid-twenties, but was actually closer to his mid-thirties, pulled on his custom made under clothes. He was sure that they would protect him from what happened last time. Last time... No. He didn't want to think about it.

"How did I get here?"

He reached for his greaves that he had made from that one particularly difficult Jaggi he had met in that cave on the hillside. Sliding them over his bulky, muscular legs, he realised that he still hadn't gotten the rough patch sanded out. He decided that it wasn't worth worrying about, however, what was the worst it could do? Cause uncomfortable chafing?

"Why is it so blurry?"

Wrapping his Bnahabra wing coil around his slim waist he thought back to the time he had forgotten it. Turns out that Thunder and Dragon resistance were important when fighting the almighty Lagiacrus. Like he didn't know that already, the lady from the Guild had gone over it enough times. That scar down his left side was proof enough what a well-aimed electro-spark will do to you if you don't dodge in time.

"Am I the only one here?"

He took his nightshirt, the brown one, from when he received a birthday present from Junior, the chief's son. He carefully took of the nightshirt, being careful not to tear it, for it was getting too small for his ever-increasing muscles. Lifting his arms above his head, he wondered what kind of mail he was being given. Everything went dark as it was lowered over his eyes. It felt heavy on his shoulders as it was being locked into place. Finding the head hole, he pushed through and opened his eyes. Looking down he instantly recognised the muddy brown colour, the coarse texture and the ridges along the neck and shoulder pads. The Barroth ridge armour he had been supplied with gave him some insight into what he was fighting. An Uragaan perhaps, something big and rocky.

"Am I even here?"

He looked over to the bench by his side and caught sight of the Rhenoplos vambraces lying there. Definitely an Uragaan. He looked at his large but deft hands and hoped that they would fit. His hands had to be deft, as did everybody else's, for he belonged to a team of Bowgunners. The Hawks, they called themselves, and you could tell they were from that team because they each had a Hawk eye shaped tattoo around their eye, which eye depended on which was used with the scope on the barrel of the gun. He placed his hands into the warmth's of the vambraces and felt the protection surging through him. That must be the Iron Wall Jewel I had installed doing its job then, he thought to himself.

"Is there anything here?"

Finally, all that was left to put on was his helmet. He knew it was going to serve him well because it was a unique helm, specially designed to suit his needs. It was shaped to his slim jaw line, it compensated for his long, flowing, and crimson hair. It was originally blonde, but had been soaked in the blood of every monster he had thus far slain. There were streaks of cobalt running down his fringe that he had received from his coming of age ceremony that were made from the paste created by grinding together Lagiacrus scales and the ore of a Lazurite Jewel so it would never wash out. The helm had a visor that slid down instead of up to protect his already crooked nose from any more breakages. It had two horns protruding from either side that he had once cut from a Diablos that was once terrorising his home village. Overall, it was the sturdiest helm ever produced, and it's creator, the Wyverian Smith from Moga Village, was proud to place it on his prodigy's head at last.

"And if so, is it even real?"

"You ready, Foxkin?" Came a voice from the other end of the room.

"As I'll ever be, Wolfstock." The man replied confidently.

"Good, 'cause it's time to go." The voice called out in response, "The audience want a bloodbath, we'll give 'em one."

"Is this place even real?"

Out from the shadows came a tall, thin, well built yet beautiful, woman. She was already armoured up and was currently feeding bullets into her Bowgun. She had chosen a Lightweight, fast and manoeuvrable, but with noticeable recoil. Her helm didn't fully cover her face, and so her lower jaw was on full display, revealing her soft complexion, rounded yet firm chin, and sumptuous blood red lips. They moved softly and gracefully as she spoke, making every word elegant, like cussing in French. They were a sharp contrast to the way in which she used her words, which was as though there was a mace bludgeoning every sentence before it left her mouth. That mouth. Foxkin could not concentrate on anything else.

"Wolfstock? Are you with me in here too?"

"You listening to me, Foxkin?" Wolfstock said impatiently, placing her hands as near to her curvaceous hips as she could, with all that armour in the way. The armour wasn't very flattering, it never is.

"Uh, yeah." Foxkin stuttered, broken out of his daze. He was unaware that he had looked not entirely dissimilar to a Kelbi in a trance.

"Well good, now grab your weapon. It's time to rock."

"Am I supposed to be here?"

Foxkin moved over to the weapon rack as everything went dark in the prep room. The arena officials were clearly giving into the crowds yelling. He could hear the cheers of the crowd outside, eagerly awaiting the brawl that was about to take place. He couldn't see the weapon he was reaching for, so he had to rely on his sense of touch. He remembered that his Bowgun was long and thin, with a pointed end. Eventually he came to what felt like the correct weapon. It had the wrong texture, though. It felt more like Royal Ludroth hide than the Quropeco flint his Bowgun was made from. Must be the new upgrades, he thought to himself as he strapped it to his back.

"How long have I been here?"

He thought back to the first time he used his Bowgun, the first bullet he had landed straight in the raging Aptonoth's back, the first time he had to reload it, the way it clicked with each bullet fired, the way the recoil felt as clean and as smooth as his woman's loving embrace, and the way it rested, folded in half, on the holster strapped to his back. He now realised that it wasn't his Bowgun that was strapped to his back, it didn't feel quite right, it wouldn't fold, and he couldn't feel the deftness flowing through his arms from all the decorative jewels he had installed. He came to realise that, in the dark, he had instead reached towards the Lance rack, and had grabbed a Spiral Lance. This, by a startling coincidence, was in fact, the only weapon in existence that he could not wield effectively. He had not yet mastered the subtle strengths that the Lance provided. The hilt felt alien to his hands, which were best suited to the intuitive intricacies of a Bowgun.

"How long have I got left?"

Unfortunately, there was no time to go back and exchange the Lance for his Bowgun, the crowd expected a fight, and they expected one now. The grand doors opened, a blinding light flooded the prep room, almost blinding the two Monster Hunters. They stepped forwards, out through the door and into the Arena. The crowd roared with applause at the sight of these two fighters, for they were renowned all around the world as the best tag-team in history. The Fox and the Wolf, they were called, and there was not a monster they could not take down.

"What's that light? Or is it darkness?"

Once Foxkin's eyes had adjusted to the new lighting conditions, he looked around, taking in all he could, for he needed to know his surroundings well before he could fight a monster. He realised that he would be at an advantage, for this was an Arena he knew well, the Desert Arena.

"Good luck, Foxkin. Good luck." Wolfstock whispered to him.

"It hurts. It hurts like hell. It fucking hurts like fucking hell."

Foxkin looked out into the Arena, saw a sight that he never wanted to see, and promptly soiled his custom made underclothes. For there, out in the midst of the rocky Arena, was a pair of Barroths. Their rocky body, their stumpy arms and oversized legs, their giant tails for scooping mud and sand from the ground, their giant ridged heads, suitable for ramming into unsuspecting travellers. All these aspects drove fear into the heart of Foxkin. He realised that he would need all the good luck he could get.

"Why couldn't I have picked the fucking Bowgun?"

"If this is our Destiny, I'm prepared to face it without fear." Foxkin muttered under his breath. Wolfstock heard this utterance due to her fine tuned ears. Being blind had its advantages.

"Let's make this a battle for the ages, my love." She replied.

"Let's." Foxkin said in response.

They took their first steps into the Arena. Into their final battle. Into their destiny.

"Fuck."