Chapter Text
He sighed deeply when he walked out of the Arcane University and across the bridge. Thorlof wasn’t being any help whatsoever and since he knew no magic himself, he couldn’t enter the University. At least he was allowed in the commons room which a decent number of people visited every day although Thorlof, the man who he actually wanted to see, wasn’t there all that often. He knew that the Nordic mage was actively learning in classes and doing what he always did in his free time, reading, but still… One would think that after leaving their job for their friend, they’d have more time to spend with them. But of course, it was a university for a reason, being that there’s a lot of learning going on there.
Kryštof scratched his head and frowned as he thought about the whole thing. He really should’ve planned ahead for it but the very idea of losing the only friend he had through childhood wasn’t the most appealing, even if he was gone for roughly eight months of the year working and travelling.
The archway in front of him that lead into the districts of the Imperial City, the jewel of Cyrodiil and all of Tamriel, seemed as boring and dull as Bruma had. The fine stonework was something to applaud but everything becomes simple and dull and boring when you aren’t enjoying yourself while making the memories you’d hold onto for a lifetime. He had nothing left to do and ever since he had left the mercenary group he had been working for, he was also starting to run low on coin. Of course, he could always become an adventurer, but others had done that far before him and it took him too far away from the Imperial City to be taken up on, no matter how much he wanted to explore the little locations on his map.
He slipped through the slightly ajar and barely guarded door and made his way into the Imperial City proper once more. A statue of the Champion of Cyrodiil stood proudly looking out to the University, his sword drawn and stabbed into the stone below his white, marble figure. It wasn’t an ordinary sword, however, and was from what Kryštof could identify as a katana with a finely sculpted blade, handle and crossbar with small and intricate designs carved into it. His eyes were made of pure amethyst which was ordered by the Emperor himself when one was found to ascend to the throne while his hair was made of bright steel with silver streaks that reflected the sun to almost give him a godly aura. A cloak also made of marble flowed stagnantly behind him and he also had a shortbow held up by his shoulder.
Kryštof saluted the sign with all the discipline that a guard of a major city would have and went on his way. One must always remember the great who came before, no matter their heritage and bloodline. He was almost on his way towards the Talos Plaza district when something stopped him: a poster for the arena. It showed a knight, archer, mage, barbarian and several other figures all facing the person looking at the thin sheet of wood. The arena stood behind them with its rounded walls and red banners flying high above it with sharp metallic spires jutting up at consistent intervals.
It sent an idea running through his mind, one that said he could join the arena. They weren’t averse to the prospect of new fighters and it would be something to do and keep his skills kept to where he always demanded they be. Without much more thought, he walked off in the other direction to find the arena and see just how good his skills were.
The walk was shorter than he had expected; less than an hour of travelling at a brisk pace. The arena was even grander than the wooden poster had made it out to be and was much larger in scale. Currently, a fight could be heard within the circular structure. Sharp pangs of steel colliding with steel rung through the arched building along with cries of pain, grunts of exertion and the constant roaring of the crowd with extra enthusiasm or negativity depending on who was making the noise.
Kryštof couldn’t help but stand in awe for a few moments, looking at the huge building. Hundreds, if not thousands of people had lost their life within the building. And he was going to add a few more.
A stocky man stood behind a counter with a thin set of flimsy iron bars in place everywhere except for a rectangle that shared its bottom side with the wood that held up the cage. The man himself was easily an Imperial with a bulbous nose and baby-like cheeks with an unkempt and rather unpleasant beard along his upper lip and neck. His belly was swollen with gluttony and it jigged with every move he made while his middle class clothing had stretched to accommodate. He looked at Kryštof with slight interest and clasped his hands together. “Here to see the show or join?”
“Join,” Kryštof answered curtly, slightly annoyed by the sound of the man’s boyish voice. It’s like he stopped turning into a man at age fourteen.
The man pointed a fat finger to his right which had a set of steps that lead underground and into the belly of the arena. Fortunately, he didn’t say anything and his expression remained neutral.
Kryštof swiftly nodded his thanks and made away down the steps and opened the loose oaken door before making his way inside. The sounds of fighting was the first thing that he heard upon entering the dim room. Several torches flickered hazardly against poorly aged wood while many people dressed in blued armour trained, doing everything from pushups to sparring with practice swords. Several others were trying to get a few hours of sleep in and there was the occasional few who was just sweating despite not doing anything. Kryštof guessed they were the people who were new and going to experience their first round in the arena.
Not many people even glanced at the seemingly unimpressive Redguard as he made his way in warily to avoid any damage that might befall him if he wasn’t aware of what was going on around him. The thing that people most targeted on with their vision was the alabaster strip of cloth tied around his right eye and on the other side of his head, obtained after he had lost the eye back in Bruma. He had noted that while he was still healing his eye, people, especially fighters, thought of him as weak and unskilled and most of all, clumsy. But the look was very deceptive as he had proved to many that he was a warrior worth fearing, as he might have lost an eye but he was still a great warrior by standard terms. If he was to battle someone close to the Champion of Cyrodiil’s skill, he would most likely die within a minute if the legends were to be believed.
He made his way through the crowds with good agility and found himself staring a man dressed in well-endowed steel armour. He was easily recognizable as a Dunmer as he didn’t wear any sort of helmet. He had that standard Dunmeri look of irritation written all over his face and he gestured for Kryštof to approach.
The young Redguard did so although he kept all his wits about him to be ready for any surprise movement from anyone nearby, particularly the Dunmer.
The Dunmer, who was rather lithe and his face gaunt with two scars along his left cheek marking him as a survivor, had a mostly neutral face although it tended to lean towards the grumpy side. “What is it you’re here for, sera?” His voice was a rather stark contrast, sounding more like a boom of thunder than what he had expected.
Kryštof replied with an almost equally deep voice, yet his had a distinct accent further marking him as a man of Hammerfell, although he had never lived in the province. “I wish to join the fighters here in the arena.”
The Dunmer regarded him for a few moments, looking him up and down and he seemingly liked what he saw but he stopped when he saw the eye bandage wrapped around his head. “Are you sure you’re good to fight? Your eye doesn’t look well,”
Kryštof shrugged. “I am just fine. It’s been this way for years.” He bent over and grabbed two wooden practice swords and held out one to the Dunmer. “If you’d like, I’d be happy to show you my ability.”
The survivor grinned with confidence as he grabbed the thin oaken blade. “I’d be happy to see.” He called over one of the members of the arena’s “blue” team, if Kryštof could guess, and asked him to do a countdown for the two of them.
The cluster of people who had been around the area quickly filed out and now watched eagerly to see the newcomer have his own confidence beaten out of him.
The countdown was silent, with the man who was no older than Kryštof counted down using fingers and on the final one, held his hand out flat like he was going to accept a handshake from an imaginary figure. Then battle commenced.
With lighting speed, Kryštof took the first attack only a second after the duel had been declared. He went for the Dunmer’s armpit with a quick swing-then-thrust using his left arm and before the Dunmer could react, the elf felt the practice blade jab into the clothing underneath the suit. The suit was more for decoration and intimidation than actual combat as everyone in the arena’s blue team behaved very well. Before the Dunmer could make another move, Kryštof was back to his old spot like he had never even moved and the Dunmer knew all too well that if the weapons had been real, the battle would have already ended.
Now it was the Dunmer’s turn. He flicked his sword once to test its weight and how it would swing and then went in for a mock thrust. Kryštof sidestepped like he was made of wind and hit the wooden blade with his own. The Dunmer frowned and creased his brow as he focused more intently on his opponent. He would have to try a lot more if he hoped to beat his opponent.
Kryštof took a step back and watched intently on what his enemy was doing and looking into his eyes to see the truth behind each swing and thrust of his blade. It was something he had learned in his time as a mercenary. You could tell if an attack was a feint or not in your enemy’s eyes. They usually showed all the answers one would need. He went to swing downwards on his enemy and when he saw the Dunmer’s blade flick up to deflect it, he quickly changed it to a sideways swipe. The attack hit the elf in the ribs and would’ve broken multiple bones if it had been a real weapon. All it did was make the Dunmer grunt in pain and make his anger deepen.
The elf moved quickly with a few swings to attempt to break down the Redguard’s defence, only to meet resistance each and every time he tried. The Redguard blocked each attack with ease, flicking the blade over to where his opponent moved his own and tense up every muscle in his forearm and hand when the blade was only a moment away from striking. Even on his blind side, he did exceptionally well although not as good as the side he could see.
The Dunmer tried one attack to see how the Redguard would react to it. He swept in sideways towards the young man’s right side and saw the sword arrive there mere moments before the blow could connect. The strike was a lot more useless than what he had expected with the blade hitting an incredibly amount of resistance. It was like trying to break a mountain. Kryštof smirked as he felt his opponent’s blade crack under the massive defense he had raised. I’ve been trained better than I thought…
Kryštof decided that it was time to go on the offensive and swung his blade in a series of confusing strikes all coming from seemingly everywhere at once. Right slice. Left slice. Downwards stroke. Downwards stroke. Thrust. Right slice. Thrust. Downwards stroke. The Dunmer was barely able to keep up and each block was weaker than the last until finally he heard a loud crack and a dull thud against the stones beneath them followed by a collective gasp from the spectators which involved everyone that could see. He looked down and saw the blade had broke and all that was left was three inches above the hilt.
Kryštof, smirking, moved his blade over to the Dunmer’s neck and held it there for a moment before putting his weapon back and holding out his hand, smiling warmly.
The Dunmer shook the hand with the same level of friendliness, which was a fair amount, and his was also full of respect Kryštof noticed. He released the elf’s grasp and took a step back. “Would that qualify me as good enough to fight?”
The Dunmer nodded swiftly. “I would certainly say so. Welcome to the Blue Team of the Arena.”
The group cheered and clapped to show their congratulations towards the young man.
Kryštof only smiled as he accepted the praise.