The Games of Saberhaven
Harry Hindquarters vs. The Warlord
The doors slide open, and a huge cloud of black smoke roils across the Arena floor from Harry Hindquarters' end. The crowd gasps as 'KRAKOOM!' there is a boom of thunder, and gouts of blue flame dance in the air as if on the strings of a master puppeteer. Harry Hindquarters, actually several images of him, emerges from the smoke, borne upon a magical carpet about 15' in the air. His skin and fur are dark black, the "Blood War" tattooed across his gigantic chest blazes like silver fire. Observant viewers notice a rune-laden staff fall from the back of his carpet, bouncing to a landing amid the smoke and dust by the door.
At the other end of the Arena, The Warlord, clad in cloak and furs, barely touches one foot to the packed dust of the floor before turning invisible. Many of the audience members miss his entrance entirely. Harry grins wickedly, his eyes narrowed as he looks towards his opponent. His massive arms gesture arcane symbols, as he wastes no time finishing a spell. The multiple images of Harry immediately unleash a huge ball of energy towards the Warlord as that combatant fades from view. The bolt streaks across the Arena, arcing upward slightly as it nears the far wall, then seems merely to wink out in midair. The audience seems stunned at the speed of the combat so far and only the briefest of moments has passed.
Harry's carpet continues to lift him upwards, to a height of 30 feet, and forward at incredible speed. Many of the fans, decked out in the red and black colors of the House of the Dragon, shout their encouragement, rooting the demonspawn on. Harry smiles wickedly, and flicks his hands with inhuman speed, forming further arcane symbols. He immediately follows the ball of energy with another. This bolt reaches most of the way across the Arena, but explodes in an aura around what the audience can only assume is a somehow shielded, invisible, flying Warlord.
Again, his hands a blur, Harry starts another spell. Halfway through it, The Warlord suddenly appears, slashing with his longswords at Harry. Both weapons ring off Harry's hide harmlessly. As his carpet wheels to keep The Warlord in view, the half-demon finishes his spell uninterrupted, sending yet ANOTHER energy bolt into the now-visible Warlord. The crowd gasps at the sheer speed at which Harry is able to get the spell off. This missile is not deflected, and pure energy crackles around The Warlord's body. He goes limp, and plows into the ground with terrifying speed - though when he rolls to a stop, still unconscious, he appears unmarked.
A roar of triumph rumbles from deep within the demonspawn's bellows-like lungs, issuing forth and shaking the ground with its bass impact. The misty carpet on which Harry rides lowers slowly, touching to the ground. The demonspawn steps off the carpet, and studies The Warlord from a distance, quickly assuring himself that his foe is not merely 'playing dead.'
Having reassured himself, he leans over the fallen combatant, one of his large paw-like hands locking around The Warlord's neck and lifting him up effortlessly. He grins wickedly, the curve of his lips baring his prodigious fangs, as he pulls back his free arm. Faster than thought his hand darts toward the chest of The Warlord, a sickening ripping sound screaming forth as his stiff fingers rip through bone and muscle, into the heart cavity. The swelling muscles on the demonspawn's arm tense and flex as he grasps the heart and rips it back out. Gore and viscera follow, tendrils of thick, crimson spewing from the hole in the chest of the fallen. Rivers of red run down Harry Hindquarters' arm as he holds the still faintly beating heart up in the air for all to see. Another roar, full of the throatiness of victory and the heat of hatred, rumbles forth, the fetid stink of the demonspawn's mouth almost powerful enough for the healing priests to smell.
Slipping the heart into a small sack at his belt and pulling the drawstrings tight, Harry looks down upon the body of The Warlord once more as he licks the blood from his hand. Pulling the dreaded blade "Discord" from his belt, he lifts it up, and in one smooth motion brings it down, severing the head of his opponent. Pieces of shattered bone and puddles of blood stream from the neck. Sliding the sword back into its place at his belt, Harry leans down and takes the head by the hair, holding it tightly in his right fist.
The feral, belligerent grin graces his fascinatingly ugly face once again as he deftly ties the head to his belt by its hair. Smiling up at the crowd, he motions the sack containing the heart, his voice coming soft and hissing, yet reaching the farthest ends of the Arena, "For my master..." The grin stretches, his fangs dripping gore, his hand showing off the head tied to his belt, his voice still soft and sibilant, "For me..."
Without a further word, Harry strides from the Arena, a narrow river of blood trailing after him.
A squadron of Arena guards draws up before the still-closed entrance door, two of the middlemost crossing their halberds before the demon. "That's far enough, Hindquarters," the lieutenant snarls, apparently confident that his uniform will protect him from the towering Kat-Bar. "Hizzoner the Mayor is tired of you guys taking trophies. The bit and pieces stay." The guardsman glares up at Harry, hand casually on his sheathed broadsword, while his subordinates fairly quake behind him. "That means no decapitations, no organ stealing, no organ eating (in or out of the Arena), no castrations, no mutilations, et cetera, et cetera." Under his gilt helmet, the soldier is clearly warming up to his admonitory speech, while Harry looks on, astonished at the man's audacity. "Once you're declared the victor, that's the end of the fight. Understand? Now drop the goods."
The towering Kat-Bar clenches his mighty fist as the audacious man reprimands him. He bears his wicked fangs in rage, a sudden sheathe of silver fire springing up around him. Beneath him, the ground shimmers as his magical carpet slides under him and lifts him into the air. The demonspawn snickers as he watches the guards look up at him, a steady drip of blood pooling beneath the bag with the heart in it.
His voice is thick with collared rage, and the lust for blood, though it comes out softly, "Would you care to try and stop me, lieutenant?" He grasps one fist and pushes, cracking the knuckles, and then the other. He cocks his head to the side, cracking his neck with three distinctive 'pops'. "I sure hope so... The Warlord was hardly enough to sate my bloodlust for now..." The glow of his dark eyes proves his words true, his lust shimmering and dancing in his glare.
A snarling, contemptuous chuckle is emitted from his mouth, along with the stench of The Warlord's blood. " 'Hizzoner the Mayor' can come ask me for The Warlord's organs himself, yes?" The red-hot glare intensifies, and his voice grows ice-cold and soft, like the creaking of a graveyard's gate. "Out of my way, little man."
The guardsman clears his throat and shifts his weight to one foot. Although he attempts to keep a stern demeanor, his nervousness is apparent, as he speeds through the rest of his recital, ignoring Harry's questions. "Because this is your first warning, we shall be gracious enough to overlook the post-match mutilation of the defeated competitor. However, you must leave all body parts in the Arena for your opponent or his representatives to dispose of as they wish. In the event that you fail to do so, it is my duty to inform you that you will forfeit this victory and be fined a suitable amount, to be determined by the Arena Commission. You will be barred from further competition until the fine is paid. Should you repeat the offense, you may be disqualified from further participation in the Games. Any questions?" Remembering himself, the lieutenant adjusts his sword-belt and tries to look casual in the face of the blood-soaked, fiery half-demon.
There is a rumbling murmur in the crowd. Both the gilt-helmeted, square-jawed officer and the sorcery-laden otherworlder glance up to the bleachers. Striding down a stairway, followed by an entourage of henchmen and minions, comes The Warlord - or someone very, very much like him. The tall man wears The Warlord's typical rich furs and leathers, though not those he was clad in during the fight. He stops in the middle of the aisle and folds his meaty forearms, looking down at the scene with a scowl. Harry throws a sidelong glance to the Arena floor behind him, where he can plainly see the healing clerics waiting by the far door, bearing the bloody, broken corpse of the same man. The guardsman looks nonplussed, and a sneer returns to his face as he turns back to Harry.
"As you can see," he says, "There are other interested parties."
A sneer, baring dripping fangs and giving off an almost palpable sense of cold anger, from the demonspawn causes the guard to back up a step. From his place on his magic carpet, a good thirty feet in the air, the demonspawn taps his blood-covered lips and decides on what to do, while his cold gaze stretches from The Warlord clone, to the guards, and back to the clone.
With a roar of rage, the demonspawn takes the heart out of the bloody sack and heaves it to the dusty ground. With a dagger pulled from his belt, he slices through the hair holding the head at his belt, letting it fall to the dust. He turns to the lieutenant, his hot glare taking in the details. In a voice laced thoroughly with menace, he whispers, "Pray I never see you on the streets, little man, for yours will be the head I feast upon."
With that, the demonspawn's form blinks -- once, twice, three times -- faster than thought. When the guards recover, they find the victorious Harry no longer there.
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