Prologue: the trial of antlers
On bumped the antler arena, its loose wooden wheels creaking through the moisty bushes of Nyxora, ripe fruit squishing beneath the weight of the colossus. Thalvar lunged to pick up a wispberry before the arena could squash it. The rainforests are getting sparser with every step, and the rock that looms before them closer. Labyrinthos, the horned citadel. Night is coming, and he could see wisps of smoke snaking through the evening air just up ahead. "Last village we'll encounter in Nyxora!" called the chief from the front of the caravan. The chief, a burly man in golden robes and a wild black beard, is like a father to Thalvar since his parents were put to death for breaking the holy rules: they assassinated a man who killed Thalvar's older brother in single combat years ago. Thalvar does not blame the chief. Violating the first and most important holy rule, as all in the driftwyre clan knew, is certain death.
Upon arrival of the village, the Nyxorans, as usual, welcomed them with hospitality. Taking a bite of the wispberry he found earlier, Thalvar stayed at the back of the line as his fellow clan members gracefully thanked the villagers for their help. One man of the village offered to challenge a driftwyran and the evening was spent building a temporary ring and watching them grappling with each other with blunted weapons. This has been the custom of the driftwyre clan for hundreds of years. The clan chief was never selected or passed on from father to son, but with gracious combat skills and honourable strength. The current chief, Thallian, has been undefeated since his first victory 20 years ago. While some may whisper that the chief is getting old and clumsy, no one has truly defeated him in the antler arena, not a driftwryan or otherwise. Thalvar watched as the villager in the ring got knocked around until he knelt down and surrendered. A cheer went up from both sides as the driftwrye warrior patted the villager's back and they stepped outside the ring together. Tomorrow we'll be at labyrinthos, Thalvar thought as he drifted into sleep.
The silence of the night was broken by a deep roar from outside the village. Thalvar's eyes popped open and he sat up and listened as a man spoke in a booming voice. "I AM HERE TO CHALLENGE THE CHIEF! I AM HERE TO CHALLENGE THE CHIEF!" Thalvar watched as both villagers and driftwyrans hurried into their clothes and poked their heads ouside their tents and huts. He himself jumped out the log he was sleeping in and saw a giant man looming over the village, Thallian before him, unprovoked and gracious. The man was huge, in a pitch black cloak and a white mask with bull's horns crossed upon it. Thalvar didn't recognize the shape despite having been to near all Thrylos. "Well then, come into the arena." Thalvar has always loved the way Thallian spoke, even more so the way he fought. Cherish every look like it's the last, The elders used to say.
Now, with the chief and the mysterious man standing on opposite sides of the antler arena, its golden stag-like antlers gleaming in the torchlight of the dark night, they are ready to duel. The chief wore his usual robe with no armor and wielded his blunted double blades while the challenger used a heavy axe, also blunted, according to custom, and full heavy bronze and leather mail. With the blow of a horn carved out of a sacred stag skull, the duel began. The challenger lunged first with his heavy axe slashing at the chief's chest. The chief, surprisingly fast for his size, danced out of the way and slashed at the challenger's waist, causing no harm. The challenger regained balance and swiped at the chief's legs while the chief jumped into the air and kicked the challenger square in the chest, knocking him back despite his heavy mail. Just another easy win for Thallian, Thalvar thought. The chief spun and slashed, graceful as a stag, ferocious as a lion. The challenger was forced to block every strike with the handle of his axe, backing against one wall of the arena. His back touched the sharp antlers behind him and the points pushed slowly into his mail. With a sudden burst of strength, the challenger crashed into the chief, and with a collective gasp from all around the arena, the chief and the challenger both sprawled on the ground of the arena, gasping and panting. The challenger used his axe to stand up, and slashed again and again at the chief, and the tides were turned. Though Thalvar hoped for the chief to win, he had to nod at the challenger's strength and skill at combat, for though he's not so graceful as the chief, he is a good warrior. The chief, stunned, passively blocked the challenger's heavy blows as he struggled back to his feet, he then was backed against the antlers which poked at his back, causing red stains to drip down his golden robes. No one has bled the chief in decades. Thalvar's nails dug into his palms, blood welling where the wispberry's thorns had pricked him. Finally overwhelmed by the challenger's heavy blows, Thallian threw down his twin blades and shouted "You win, challenger, and is the new chief of driftwyre!" The challenger stoped hacking. Behind the crossed horns his eyes were hollow and unreadable. The chief's shoulders sagged slightly as he bowed, as if a weight had lifted, his face weirdly filled with relief. As if just realizing what had just happened, the clan, shocked as they were, bowed, then knelt at the foot of the arena. "When the old is defeated, the new takes his place." The clan chanted, "With honour and respect the old shall step down, with grace and power the new shall take over." Now that Thallian isn't chief, we can be family! Thought Thalvar, Thallian will become an elder, like the other old chiefs, and together, they will train our young and teach us wisdom. The challenger, now chief, looked around at the clan members, mourning for the old chief's defeat, cheering for the new chief's victory. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a dark obsidian blade, curved and sharp of edge. The clan looked up in horror. Thalvar has never seen the old chief look so alarmed in his life. He lunged forward, but a clan elder yanked him back. There was a dark blur, a thump and Thallian's golden robes were drenched crimson. The clan's chant died mid-syllable, replaced by a silence as sharp as the blade. Scarlet pooled around the antlers, their gleam dimmed, and somewhere, deep in Nyxora's forests, a stag screamed.