The Ring of Teeth was northwest of Vel Anir, out on the sands. The proximity to the Savannah made it welcoming to travelers, but it’s position had a much more interesting purpose. The sands were stained reddish brown in a wide proximity around the sandstone walls of the ring. Such a color was a warning not to get too near, and an invitation for men fond of bloodsport.
Men like Oor.
The wraith looked like a burned corpse himself. He was wizened and grey, flesh as delicate as parchment. His eyes were absent save for a persistent red light, reflected in his chest. It shone through the gaps between his ribs and through thin flesh like a demented lantern. He wore expensive black linen robes, and lounged lazily in his seat.
The Ring had two sections. The first was nearer to the sport in the burning sun, where the sandstone benches only had scant padding to protect poorer rears from the blazing heat. Even the stone was flecked and stained with blood here, reminiscent of battles past.
The second section was nearly fifty feet above the first. Large rectangular slabs jutted outward, covered by colorful cloth above. These were the boxes for nobility and owners. There were refreshments here, nice cushions, and brokers for betting on various matches. Oor sat boredly; Volker was well known on the sands and commanded a high price to challenge.
Below, Volker did the majority of the work. He had to fight for every mouthful of water here. Owners were rewarded in gold, combatants with water. Men who lost a lot didnt last more than a day, lest their owners suffer the humiliation of withdrawal.
Volker was hovering around his latest challenge. The spearman had done an excellent job and Volker was bleeding heavily in one shoulder. But Volker had cut two tendons in his knees, forcing him to fight one legged and lean on the spear. Both were exhausted, sweating bullets and panting like bulls.
Volker feinted a lunge, causing his opponent to stagger and bring the spear around. A knife thrown into his neck, and the other collapsed.
Kiros Rahnel
Men like Oor.
The wraith looked like a burned corpse himself. He was wizened and grey, flesh as delicate as parchment. His eyes were absent save for a persistent red light, reflected in his chest. It shone through the gaps between his ribs and through thin flesh like a demented lantern. He wore expensive black linen robes, and lounged lazily in his seat.
The Ring had two sections. The first was nearer to the sport in the burning sun, where the sandstone benches only had scant padding to protect poorer rears from the blazing heat. Even the stone was flecked and stained with blood here, reminiscent of battles past.
The second section was nearly fifty feet above the first. Large rectangular slabs jutted outward, covered by colorful cloth above. These were the boxes for nobility and owners. There were refreshments here, nice cushions, and brokers for betting on various matches. Oor sat boredly; Volker was well known on the sands and commanded a high price to challenge.
Below, Volker did the majority of the work. He had to fight for every mouthful of water here. Owners were rewarded in gold, combatants with water. Men who lost a lot didnt last more than a day, lest their owners suffer the humiliation of withdrawal.
Volker was hovering around his latest challenge. The spearman had done an excellent job and Volker was bleeding heavily in one shoulder. But Volker had cut two tendons in his knees, forcing him to fight one legged and lean on the spear. Both were exhausted, sweating bullets and panting like bulls.
Volker feinted a lunge, causing his opponent to stagger and bring the spear around. A knife thrown into his neck, and the other collapsed.
Kiros Rahnel