19th of Ymiden 720
In the small hours of the morning, after midnight, Woe fell asleep, with the book on smithing Faldrunium weapons resting on his chest. He'd been reading fervently the work of Sa-Ki-Uata. Of particular interest, there was the chapter on the types of weapons that were most beneficial to make use of the fiery metal, and how it's heat could be contained by specially treated materials.
Yet as ever when he found himself researching, he grew weary some breaks into the reading and drifted to sleep and dreaming.
Although he'd heard of it, and people had spoken of it often around him, Woe hadn't seen the grand arena that resided in the Fortress. It was said to be one of the grander structures within the city, which was saying quite a lot. Woe had come to admire Quacia for its dark beauty. The Ruins called to something atavistically in Woe's psyche, just thinking of all the history that had transpired there, the lives that had gone before him. It was both humbling and overwhelming. Quacia was a special place, and it was worth fighting for.
He wondered if those forced to partake of the arena felt similarly if the bloodlust enchanted them even more for having partaken of it. Certainly, there must be gladiators and such that sought out that kind of action for the sheer thrill of it all, to be close to the carnage. They were closer to the thrill of the act of murder than any of those sitting around the fighting pit ever would be. Woe couldn't deny a certain level of bloodthirst on his own part. He'd fought and bled, and been made to entertain the dregs during his time as a slave. While he wasn't anywhere near a veteran of the fighting pits, he thought his skill with the whip had come to a considerable height.
So, as the dreamscape he occupied began to form around him, it was shaped in the image of arenas he had known in the past. Part of it reflected the Stone Circles of Augiery, where men were made to fight for an opportunity to bed an evil Naer, or die in the dust, their name and face forgotten beneath the blood and grime. Yet the Stone Circles of the lowly fighting pits of Augiery, where bets were made and deals forged, couldn't match the grandeur of a true Coliseum, the architecture of Rynmere's Arena, or that of Ne'haer's. This arena of his dream, which was placed in Quacia's Fortress, was an amalgam of all of those.
He settled into the dream without willing any part of it to stop. Only remained lucid and physically present in Emea and the dream. He was in the thick of where the action would unfold. In the great, open, dusty circle where men and women bled and died.
As he looked around at the stands, which were coming to be populated as he walked about, he saw that they were covered in plant-like coverings. So this version of Quacia, this nonsensical dream showed a future where Creep infection was widespread. Perhaps the Creep had taken everything at that point.
True enough to that thought, the gate opened at the opposite end of the pit, and half a dozen warriors, clad in leaves and vegetation began brandishing a variety of weapons at him.
He dipped his head in acknowledgment and looked at his hands. He was his (relatively) young self in this version. There'd be no need to govern that portion of the dream. Not that he was aware that he'd be able to govern a different body if he was physically present in Emea. He didn't suppose so.
At any rate, he was here, and so called a stop to the proceedings, raising his hand for a pause. With that signal, the crowd froze. His opponents stopped in their tracks. He'd governed a stop to the dream, at least for the moment.
His reading of Sa-Ki-Uata's book had given him some ideas for weapons to try against this foe. He sank into the shadow of the wall, and willed a weapon to appear in his hand. It was the scepter-like handle of a knout whip, with a pair of faldrunium mesh cords fixed to the end of it. The shaft of the handle was wrapped in golden salamander hide, to ward it against the heat of the faldrunium.
He tested it's weight in his hand, giving it a few rotations in the air, trying his usual routine of keeping the whip always in motion, sweeping it back and forth. He heard the Creep disliked fire, now he'd get an idea of just how much that held true in his dream impression of the Creep.
He conjured his armor around his form, similar to the masterwork set he'd commissioned in the previous season. The only difference to this armor was that it was covered in blood marks, nearly black in color for all the gore and viscera it'd absorbed. So sue him, he wanted to appear grander than he was in actual life. The underpadding of the armor was of silk, and also darkest black to obscure the blood marks.
As for its construction, the suit began with a maile coif and half-mask that covered Woe's upper face. The chain portios of the coif had thick, silken underpadding. The mask molded in the likeness of a demon's eyes, with a few other motifs besides. From the coif, a mantle of maile and silken padded cloth covered his neck and shoulders. Polished scale lamellar covers his chest, in a cuirass. From the cuirass, a pair of maile and padded silk sleeves ended in protective vambraces.
A half-skirt of lamellar scale protected his legs, their scales swept around in Imperial style. A girdle of gravegold protected his midsection. Around the legs, a pair of chain leggings with black silk underpadding. Finally, a pair of sabatons that protected his feet.
In his left hand, he conjured a full-metal targe. Altogether, it was a bit heavy. and he wasn't entirely confident that he'd have the endurance to maintain his energy throughout the battle. If he wanted to succeed, he'd probably need to bring it to an end quickly.
He bent his elbow, covering his mid-torso with the shield as he advanced with the faldrunium knout. The knout made a searing whoosh against the air as its faldrunium mesh links seared the air, causing an acrid scent of burning oxygen to fill his nostrils.
The figure-eight motions with the whip ceased in time with the advance of the Creep opponents. They all bore clubs and sharpened claws. Not much else. But by reputation, the Creep was a fearsome opponent. Stronger than any mortal man ought to be, tireless and driven. It wouldn't be easy to break their line.
Woe swept his whip around in front of him, keeping it in a low position as he lowered his knees. He wanted as much coverage from the shield as was humanly possible, and that meant making himself smaller. He didn't have long to wait before they all coalesced on him, trilling in their strange battlecries.
The first was a scrawny, goblin-like creature that had been claimed by the Creep. This one, he swept aside with his shield. This was ill-advised, as the next opponent to close used that opening to stab at his armor with a stone spear. The impact of the blow sent Woe reeling backward, but did no lasting damage to his armor. Woe shook his head and began moving his knout in front of him. When the largest of the assimilated goblins came for his right flank, he was ready this time. He recovered his shield's position, using it to intercept the club strike that came from his left. Then, with a sweep over his head, cracked the knout against the creature's skull. The knout's lash landed with precision, burning the creature horribly with a resounding slash of the metallic cord.
Woe brought his weapon vertically down and then performed an up and down lash, simple but effective at the spear-wielding goblin Creep. The faldrunium lash swept around the green shaft of the spear with ease, and with a tight pull as it reached the apex of its coiling, severed the weapon from the midsection. The goblin let go, which bought it a few seconds. Woe had to contend with the weapon he'd wrapped his whip around, and meanwhil the Creep leaped toward him.
He adjusted his grip on the shield, and tried to use it almost like an oversized knuckleduster, in a punching maneuver. The bash with the shield connected with the goblin's skull with a 'conk' sound, sending it backward and on its backside. By then, his faldrunium knout was free of the weapon he'd disarmed, and he was able to bring it down several times within a second, lashing the goblin all about its body and causing irreparable burns that caused its syrupy blood to immolate.
Finally, it was the club-wielding goblin's turn to face Woe. The torturer adjusted his stance, remaining coolly present in the moment as it rushed him one final time. Woe swept his knout's lash across the creature's neck, severing it at the stem that connected its desiccated cranium and torso. Then it was over.
Woe stood over the bodies of his vanquished, and lifted the knout to the air. He thought perhaps this was the weapon he'd choose to have made but hadn't yet made up his mind.
The Audience, full of Creeps, looked down on him and gave him a thumbs down. But weren't the goblins all dead already?
Woe felt a heavy hand on his shoulder just then, from behind, which gave him a fright. Then he slipped out of the dream, to Fleaface shaking him awake.
