On One Side...
No matter one's caste or chosen Loa, most of the people in Dazar'alor could agree that when the Loa’s Wrath fought in the Mugambala, it was a wondrously brutal and blood-soaked affair to behold. The Mugambala, the name given by the Zandalari to the grand arena just on the outskirts of the Port of Zandalar, was built in two levels; the main arena that looked more like a courtyard fit for royalty than the slaughterhouse it truly was, with two inclined stairs on either side of the raised stone ledge, which was made truly evident when it came to seating. Seating in the Mugambala was not like other grand arena’s. Despite being made around the same era as the ancient city, there were no formal places to sit, and instead, the spectators were on their own; the Mugambala had the honor of being the only arena Pixi had ever heard of with the curious custom of rebuilding its spectator circle. Most people had to make their own seating arrangements, whether on top of the walls and archways, on the jagged cliffs that surrounded them, or by mashing together enough building materials to form a suitable platform.
Only the wealthy could afford that vast expense of bringing their massive brutosaurs and the multi-storied observation decks anchored firmly on their backs across the bay and position them out around the beach surrounding the arena. Each deck was operated by rival merchants or courtiers, and they competed fiercely with one another on having the grandest, most splendidly decorated one possible. Brawls over exclusivity rights to a particular tailor or carpenter were not uncommon. The only people who never had to scramble for seats were the three traditional observers of any fight. First, there was Je’stry the Untamed, the closest thing to an announcer the arena had, clad in gold and turquoise studded armor. Beside him was a woman draped in black robes, a bone-masked priestess of Bwonsamdi, the Loa of Death and Graves, taking her position where the old Priestess of Rezan once sat. Lastly, there was Hexpreist Junda, whose presence had always looked like an extremely optimistic gesture on behalf of the prisoners. They were allowed seating under a canopied dais that looked over the arena.
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| (Long-Boi is the best boy, no question) |
“I know big guy, I know. I got you some nice juicy peaches right here...somewhere.” Pixi patted his green scales, looking down from the crest of his head to the various baskets attached to him. Goggles, check. Merchandise, check. Loa dolls, check. The mask! “Jaza, you forgot your mask!”
“I did no such ting, but if ya want ta bring it down I’d be thankful.”
Pixisticks wasn’t exactly in cross country trek attire, but she did her best to climb down Ben’fon’s neck, stopping only to fetch the delicately carved mask from its hook before hooping off and landing on the ground with the softness of Feather Fall. The alcove they stood in was a preparation room, where if this was a traditional fight, the fighters would meditate and pray to their Loa for victory before the battle. But today was no ordinary fight, and the goblin was reminded of that as four chained figures were corralled into the arena. Elsewhere, Je’stry and his two companions were taking their seats.
Pixi couldn't tell if they were truly deserving of all this, but they were undeniably not the cream of the arena fighter crop. The figures were Alliance prisoners of war, caught within the jungles trying to retreat from their invasion of Darazalor, or any of the several skirmishes over land and sea that occurred through the coming year following that dreadful day. The most impressive was a dark-skinned Kul Tiran man with muscles like ship masts, imposing even at a distance, a naval officer or privateer, based on the tattered coat. The other “contestants” were tiny compared to him. The next was one of the Lightforged Draenei. She wore next to nothing - tight blood-stained white cotton shift across her chest, wrestlers loincloth, and thin leather gloves. She had clearly been in the fighting pits for some time. To her right, there was another human, though much shorter than the Kul Tiran. He actually had armor that could pass as protective; a pit fighter on loan from the Orgrimmar arena, no doubt. Then there was the Dark Iron, whose beard had been threaded with gold and silver bangles that caught the sunlight in beads of white flashes. The purpose of these bangles was a matter of argument in the crowd around her; some claimed that they were to confuse their opponent, with just as many who counter-claimed their glare helped the audience better see the dwarf.
One among a group of spectators sitting on the cliffs behind the goblin chimed up, “It is an honor dat we will be seeing de Loa’s Wrath today! With every death, she brings vengeance upon dese snakes.”
“Aye dat Proudmoore bitch pays a little bit every time. But what is dis rumor I hear about de Horde signing an armistice?”
“Hard ta say, but be sure de Queen would neva- Hush now, the fight is about to start.”
Following in tradition, Je’stry arose from his seat, silencing the crowd with a hand. He spoke clearly, his voice carrying to all in attendance. “Today, you will be judged for your crimes against our people! Today, cries of your-”
“-What about your crimes, murders?” The Lightforged spat and the crowd hissed at the interruption, When will the Hordes’ crimes be punished!” She continued yelling something about justice and retribution of the Light, but the further insult had been drowned out by the crowds booing. Pixi had to duck her head to miss a cabbage whizzing past her ear.
Je’stry waited for the crowd to quiet before he continued, “Today, de cries of your battle and de clash of your weapons will be heard by de great loa! Dey will be your judge. Survive, and you will go free! Die, and you will join dem... on de Other Side.”
“Let’s have it then!” The Kul Tiran hammered his club against the ground.
The Dark Iron spat at the ground, “I tell ya what! Ya can surrender after I kill yer sorry ass weasel hearted bile lovin' crud bucket of a champion!”
The Untamed did not respond, making a series of gestures to the guards before sitting down. The guards started the process of unchaining the prisoners.
Over Jaza’s shoulder Pixisticks could see the weapons the war-druid planned to take into battle. Laid reverently on top of their sheath were two daggers made from raptor bone, ancient script etched into the porcelain surface and reinforced with iron and red glass. These would be holstered along her lower back. Then there was the multi-bladed scythe; like the other bone in Jaza’s ensemble, Pixi did not know its origin. It looked pulled from the Nightmare, a thing of sickly, deceased black swamp muck and teeth of a large predator, secured to itself with vines and treated rope, and enchanted with magic that left it glowing an eerie red in the low shade of the alcove.
“Jaza, I'm not so sure bout this. Four to one-” A pale gray finger pressed against the goblin's lips.
Around them, the drums of an empire began their loud, resounding call to battle. The guards took multiple positions at the top of the various stairs, dropping into a defensive spear line stance.
It was time.
“If I could not handle it, I would not have agreed to it." Jaza lifted Pixi like a child and placed her back onto Ben'fon's harness. She turned on her heel briefly to rearm herself, "Now, go watch me win.”
“Behold, de Loa’s Wrath!” Je’stry cried, and the crowd roared in boisterous approval as Jazabu exited the alcove, gripping the scythe in both hands. The guards cut the prisoner’s bonds and retreated. A sack was thrown at their feet from somewhere, filled with sub-par weapons and shields. Jazabu locked eyes with Lightforged Draenei and snarled. The other prisoners scrambled to arm themselves. The drums and crowd swelled. They could feel the coming bloodshed in their bones. They became thirsty for it.
The drums stopped. The crowd held their breath.
"Begin!"
The prisoners scattered like rats. The Dark Iron tried to rush the guards; their spears put an end to his escape attempt. He was forced back down the stairs. The Kul Tiran and Lightforged formed a defensive position back toward the entrance of the alcove, the Draenei behind the hulking man. The human had ducked out of Jaza’s sight but it did not matter; the troll had already chosen her prey. She barreled forwarded towards, dropping her scythe as she threw herself to the ground, arms extended. The dwarf let out a cry; thick, barbed vines had shot out from the surrounding jungle and engulfed him. His arms were just visible through the mass of entangled green. Just before Jaza landed on the ground, she swelled in size, and in only a single breath her body lengthed beyond what any Zandalari could achieve. Her legs and arms twisted form, the former becoming thicker and shorter and the ladder now turning into thick paws. At the same time, each of the fingers melted and stretched and thorn shaped claws emerged. The vibrant, braided pink hair vanished, replaced by a subtle crown of striking green feathers that protruded from the head and flowed along with a lush mane. The face had receded into the skull as it lengthed, making way for a large and heavy head that could accommodate the extending tusks as they became exceptionally long upper canine fangs the size of an entire goblin. Pale gray flesh had given way to the fur of a flame and coal hue that marked the shapeshifter as an unmistakable savage tiger.
“KIMBUL!” Cried a group of Tortollans.
The tigress advanced toward the pair, lunging for the throat, but was slammed back by the Kul Tiran’s wooden shield. She stumbled back onto the arena stone floor. Jaza spun on her hind legs, recovered her balance, and transformed out of her form. She spat out a tincture amount of blood. Her troll, three-fingered hands reached for a pouch on her belt, ripping the bottom open with her nail, and scattered the contents into the eyes of the duo, propelled by a strong typhoon wind to push through the rickety barrier.
“Ahhhh?!” Je’stry cry could be heard above the audience.
The pouches contents - a combination of sand and fine sharpened metal particles - disoriented them. The Kul Tiran received some clemency behind his barrier, but in his rush to defend what he could of his eyes, he left the Lightforge unprotected. She coughed and sputtered, rubbing her face to try and clear the eyes, but yelped in pain as the metal dug further in, blinding her. Seizing the opportunity, Jazabu flung herself at the Kul Tiran, but not as a Zandalari. Gone was the druid, replaced by a hulking, furred figure more than twice her girth. The woman's mouth and nose elongated, growing together at the same time to create a savage maw. Huge, clawed paws seized the man. Tusks extended once more into gouging fangs. Jaza was now a ferocious bear. Her foe staggered back under the bulk and momentum, teetering for a moment before falling back. The sheer weight that now hammered his chest, even a man the Kul Tiran’s size, broke bones, and indeed the crowd ecstatically cheered on as the bear pressed down with its full weight, the delirious joy increasing as one rib broke, then another, and yet another still. Jaza raked the man's flesh from his chest, before thrashing him over to his back and tearing the skin from his throat to his waist. The animalist ripping continued until her snout and paws were dripping in red dark ichor. Dark red blood.
One
"You did not have de loa's blessing this day." Came a guttural, sober mutter from the she-bear, who clambered over the bleeding out body of the Kul Tiran and lumbered over to the Draenei. The pale goat tried to crawl away from the sounds behind her. Behind Jaza, the dwarf had finished violently hacking through his bonds. He loudly shouted his victory over his would-be leafy foe.
A quick sharp pain struck Jaza just below the ribs; a throwing knife had found a sheath in her flesh. Her eyes jutted up to its owner, the human, who had ducked behind the center pillar when the fight began and had remained out of sight until now. That when the burning started; like fire following wood-pitch trails it traveled through her veins with breathtaking speed. Poison! She roared in pain, then in rage. With her weight, she crushed the Lightforged legs below the knee with a crunch that echoed in everyone's ears, before tearing into her throat and gouging her life-essence from her body. The Light essence that had forged the woman in life coalesced into a central, blinding point, before forcefully discharging from her, leaving a cold, almost colorless husk. The she-bear grunted in annoyance from the light but retreated away from the body.
Two
When she regained her sight, she found herself cornered; the human continued his advance from the left, and the dwarf had caught up to her from the right. Together they designed to corner her into a fight on two fronts, taking equal steps at an equal pace.
“Careful lad, those plants behind her will snatch ye up an' eat ye whole!” The point of the dwarf’s ax motioned to the offending shrubbery.
“Calm dwarf. I’ve fought her kind before…” The man replied steadily. Jaza began a charge. He dropped into a defensive stance, weapons lowered for the impale, but the beast pivoted into the blade rather than retreat, the force of which sent the human hurling into the wall. Jaza dropped the imposing shape of the bear and made a run for it. Behind her, the two prisoners made a scramble for her.
“Why are you running?” The human taunted, “Something wrong, troll?”
“Tha vines lad!”
But it was too late; the plants came to life once more, whipping and snapping at the pursuers. One of them wound up the human’s leg and flung him back against the stone floor. Meanwhile, Jaza made her escape around the left side of the central pillar. She sought shelter in the unkempt planter a short climb above the ground. Laying down on her back, she pressed her hand to the wounds, snarling as it came back red and hot with her blood. Lesser warriors than her had come back from worse, yet whatever the pink-skin had used on his blade, it had halted the natural regeneration abilities of her birthright. Quietly, her lips trembled out a short prayer:
Torcali, Great Mother, she who is the grass, hear ma plea. Cleanse dis bile from ma blood. Make ya child whole.
The blood on Jazabu’s hand radiated an earthly green. At once the burning lessened, and the flesh began to knit together as it should have. The bleeding had ceased, at least. It would take time for the wounds to heal completely, but at least she would not die in the arena. She took a deep breath, let it out, then took in the air again before spinning onto her stomach and looking out through the green to examine the battlefield; Outside the planter, she could see the dwarf, then human, come around the corner with their weapons ready. She bid her time until the dwarf had well then passed her before she pounced from her hiding-hole and stuck the man’s neck with her knee, softening her landing with his spine, which gave way with a crack and his strangled cry. The dwarf spun on his heel, just to lock eyes with the troll before she slammed her fist into the man’s mouth, making splinters of his teeth. As she drew back her huge fist, the blood on her hand seemed to steam in the hot jungle air. There was a sickening crunch as she rose back onto her two feet.
Three
“…To de afterlife!” Je’stry declared, to the approval of the crowd.
“Alright, alright! I give up. You don't have to kill me. I'd rather go back to your cages than fight ya monster!” The dwarf's ax clattered on the ground
Jazabu paused, looking to Je’stry The Untamed. For in Zandalar, a surrender was only accepted by the whim of Je’stry, who based his decisions on the crowd's enjoyment of the fight, and the whims of the crown. He rose his clenched fist, thumb even leveled. There was a collective breath held. If he was to turn the thumb down at the combatant, they were meant to toss down the sword, to spare their opponent so they may live another day. To turn the thumb up meant death, that the combatant's blade should find a new sheathe in their opponent’s heart.
Slowly, then all at once, Je’stry turned his thumb up. “Grant him an honorable death.”
The Dark Iron sighed defeated and readied himself for his fast-approaching death to which the Loa’s Wrath obliged him. He did not see much between the time she picked up her scythe from the ground and the flash of pain before the long, curved blade severed his head from his neck.
“Nine-hundred and ninety-eight, nine-hundred and ninety-nine...one thousand.” Pixi let the last gold coins fall into a woolen bag before tying it off and attaching it to the side. “One-thousand gold pieces from tonight's betting pool alone.”
“Mhm.”
“...And I’m estimating that we’ll be makin' at least half that on merchandising. I got that Pin'jin guy makin' little dolls for the kids, and I made a deal with Griftah that he could forge some personally signed tickets from today's match for his stall.”
“Mhm.”
“I mean, we get a majority cut of course, but it’s better ta work with the crooks then- Are you paying attention, Jaz?” Pixi asked incredulously.
Jazabu, who had refused tending from the healers of Gral to make a head start home to the Terrace of Speakers where their quarters lay, had Pixisticks hoisted on her shoulders, which the goblin rode ontop of like one would a trike and used her head like a counting table. Her friend’s raised voice so close to her ear made her wince. “Yes, ya loud squawking bird, I can hear ya.”
“...Those wounds still bugging you?”
The troll nodded her head, taking care as the wide steps halted their incline and began to lead downward, “Yes, but I will heal. Dat poison striped by blood from me. Loa’s mercy, dey kept me from dying, but I will need some time ta make sure it runs its course.”
They traveled in awkward silence for the rest of the journey, until the door of their quarters was in sight. It was more clay hut then house; no bigger than one-hundred and fifty square feet with every amenity crammed within one room, including a cushioned couch and table for entertaining visitors and cooking meals, an alcove in which held the mat and reed roll for Jaza’s bed, and a smaller, more suitable plush bed for Pixi pushed against the wall.
When they entered their home, Pixisticks waited to speak up again until after she was put down and the bags of gold safely stored away. “Soooo…. when do ya think the will the poison be fully cleansed?”
But Jaza did not answer her, gaze firmly affixed ahead.
“Jaza when will-”
“Hush Pixi, we have company.” Jaza motioned, and Pixi’s eyes followed the finger to the couch in their quarters. He was bigger, bigger than a Tauren, even as he sat hunched over his knees, dressed in skins and bones. His face covered by a bony, skull-shaped mask that took the shape similar to the ceremonial mask Jaza wore in battle. It took the goblin a moment to realize the mask wasn’t covering his face but was his face, that is to say, more growth than an item of attire. White tattoos glow across his chest and wild, black hair piled on his head spiky and stiff as a gravestone. Lifeless, pitless eyes flitted back between the two of them and the orange that was molding in his palm even as his thick, bone fingers peeled it. Bwonsamdi was sitting in their living room, eating fruit like a neighbor coming in to get out of the rain. It was almost comical, and Pixi would have laughed at the absurdity of it if the Loa of Death and graves didn’t look exhausted. Almost...drained. Could Loa even be insomniacs? Whatever the answer, Pixi was smart enough to know that a loa in their living room could only mean trouble.
“Ah, der ya are child. Ol' Samdi was wonderin' when ya would return. It was a good fight, and I be thankin' you for de souls” The Loa Bwonsamdi stood, an attempt of a grin welcoming the two. “Now if ya don't mind, der be somethin I be needin’ from ya mama.”
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