Session 71

The Honor Duels started well enough. Movruk, the kid without a second name, came at me with desperate hunger. Poor bastard. Reminded me too much of myself at that age: all rage, no discipline. I deflected his strikes and used his own momentum against him. Told him he hit like a fledgling, too, just so he wouldn't think I was taking it easy on him. Harsh words for someone barely past adolescence, but the arena demands brutality. Plus I have a big mouth.

He tried stunning me twice. Failed both times, but it stung something fierce. Then he made the mistake every untrained fighter makes - he ran. Turned his back and fled like prey, giving me the perfect opening to coalesce behind him and introduce him to the Umbral Fang.

The kid dropped like a stone.

The arena's magic wouldn't let him die, just like they promised. He went unconscious. That's when I had an idea that was either tactically brilliant or morally questionable. Probably both.

I grabbed his unconscious body and dragged him to the edge of the fighting circle. One good heave, and I threw him outside the boundary line. Out of bounds. Out of the fight. The arena's restoration magic could bring him back, but he'd wake up as a spectator, not a combatant.

Sometimes the most merciful thing you can do for an outmatched opponent is remove them from the field entirely.

While I was playing battlefield medic, the others had their hands full with Zavrak Dwarfsbane. Six and a half feet of muscle, war paint, and thunder magic, backed up by Tirana's flame magic. Roth took the brunt of it - that paladin has a gift for drawing every dangerous thing in a fifty-foot radius straight to his shield.

The big barbarian hit like a meteor strike. Twice. Roth's armor absorbed some of it, but I watched him get pounded down to almost nothing. Thunder crashed across the arena when Zavrak used his storm powers, catching everyone in the blast radius.

That's when Tarava made her move. Daylight spell, bright enough to banish every shadow on the battlefield. My darkness vanished like smoke. Suddenly I couldn't teleport, couldn't sneak, couldn't do half the things that keep me alive in a fight.

Then she summoned her wildfire spirit - a creature of living flame that immediately started hunting Zarael. Bad enough to lose the shadows. Worse when the enemy brings fire elementals to the party.

But Zarael... Zarael showed everyone why you don't corner a warlock who's mastered her darkness. Even with the daylight burning away her concealment, she stayed wrapped in shadow magic, blasting Zavrak with eldritch energy. Her shadows fought against Tarava's light, neither giving ground.

Tovor kept his distance, throwing knives with professional precision. One-eyed warrior who knew how to pick her shots. Fucking annoying, but effective. She came after me as I was finishing up with the kid. I thought she'd only had eye for Roth (hah, I never get tired of that one) but it seems she was more than willing to consider attack an unarmored target.

The tide turned when Roth made a tactical decision that was either inspired or insane. He disengaged from combat, sprinted across the battlefield to where I was getting carved up by throwing knives, and offered me his hand. "Grab my hand," he said, and sprinting by, I did. That's all the opening he needed to channel some divine healing directly into me. Suddenly I was back in the fight!

But it cost him. Left him exposed, nearly out of magic, standing in the open while Zavrak charged straight at us. The barbarian's axes found their mark, bringing thunder and lightning with them.

Aemon surprised everyone by dropping his wolf form and casting healing magic on Roth. Actual spellcasting, not just the conjured wolf pack he'd been using for support. Suddenly Roth was back in the fight, too. The man went from death's door to fighting shape in a single spell.

That's when Tarava decided we were winning too efficiently. Fireball. Center of the arena.

I stumbled. Badly. But Roth... Just as the flames reached us, Roth activated something I'd never seen before. Somehow, impossibly, the flaming ball of death meant for four people hit one paladin instead. Ouch.

Should have killed him. Would have killed anyone else. But Roth's still standing, somehow. He's dazed, confused, barely able to keep to his feet, but he is upright.

The entire rest of the party ganged up on that big dumb thunder beak and eventually managed to bring him down. Eventually. Still, respect.

The fight's not over. Tarava's still conscious, still dangerous. Tovor's still hunting with those throwing knives. The fire spirit's still burning everything it touches. But we've taken down their two strongest fighters, and we're all still breathing.

More importantly, we're fighting as a unit now. Roth drawing fire and healing the wounded. Aemon providing magical support and battlefield control. Zarael blasting anything that moves with eldritch power. Me, everywhere on the battlefield at once, harrassing, flanking through whatever shadows I can find, striking from unexpected angles.

This is what the Shadow Line teaches - endurance through cooperation. They burn out fighting as individuals. We endure by fighting as one.

Two down. Two to go. The arena's ancient magic means no one dies permanently, but honor demands we finish what we started.

Time to show these birdbrins what happens when you test people who've learned to build what others would burn.