by Rue Vespers
The audience cooed and chuckled while the dragonling ignored the calls of stadium workers to clear the fighting ring. Finally, a woman dropped over the side to the sand and held out her arms, flashing between her human self and a larger sapphire dragon. The baby flew over to her. Gathering it up into her human arms for a hug, she passed it up to a man and then flew up as a dragon to get out of the ring.
“Is that an NPC? The littlest dragon? Or is it real?” Jenner asked, letting go of his irritation at being told he was too inconsequential for the Houses. Rosy didn’t, or couldn’t, sugar-coat things. That wasn’t necessarily bad if it saved Jenner the embarrassment of getting turned away from a House before he was ready to join.
“That’s a Level 1 dragon, hatched just yesterday or the day before that at most,” Rosy explained. “Human players come to life as adults or near-adults, and so do wizards and demons; shifters and trolls start as young children and age as they level-up. Dragonlings have den moms and/or den dads to raise them in clutches. There must be a blue dragonling den very near the gladiator rings. They won’t travel far with babies.”
A tone sounded.
Suddenly, every single seat in the gladiator ring was occupied. The game had pulled up NPCs to fill the rest of the stadium. Cheers broke out and hands waved in the air to the bookies, who ran about to take the last round of bets from the real players. Rosy bounced back to Jenner and settled down on his shoulder.
“All right, all right, all right!” a man’s voice boomed over the sound system. “Get those bets in because we’re about to see some trolls get CRUSHED. On one side of the ring . . .” Heads turned to a gate in the wall around the pit. Two gigantic, heavily muscled forms in loincloths were visible between the bars of a cage, upon which they were beating. “In our two-on-one weapon-free troll division, we have fan favorites Bloodspatter and Lord Crunch! This energetic duo is good at exactly one thing and one thing only: making mincemeat out of their opposition!”
“YAY!” the audience cheered.
“And on the other side of the ring, we have that mincemeat . . . I mean challenger! Meet Faceplant in his very first two-on-one fight!”
“BOO!”
The troll in the cage on the opposite side was indeed short and green, not nearly as imposing on a physical level as the competition. He squashed his face between the bars, staring out to the sand with an addlepated expression. Copious amounts of snot and drool leaked down his face. The Short Green was the only one of the three trolls to have any hair. The thin black clots were snarled around the troll’s sawed-off horns and hanging in his crossed eyes.
“Well, this will be over quickly,” Rosy said sagely. “That one is stupid-looking even for a troll.”
The tone sounded twice, and the gates lifted.
Bloodspatter and Lord Crunch bolted out. They split apart as they ran over the sand, roaring up to the audience and beating their fists upon their chests. The two were identical, yellow spots splashed about their brawny, mud-colored arms and legs in the exact same places. The sole difference between them was their height, and that was marginal: Bloodspatter was ten feet tall, according to the information on the screens, and Lord Crunch was ten-two.
The audience, both real players and NPCs, went nuts. They clapped their hands and stomped their feet and threw popcorn into the air. Then everybody looked over to the second cage and shrieked with laughter.
The gate was stuck halfway up, and it had carried Faceplant along for the ride. Unable to get his head out from between the bars, the troll was thrashing about to free himself with his knobby feet dangling a foot above the ground.
Jenner almost choked on the last bite of his corn dog. “FACEPLANT!” he cheered. “My man, Faceplant!” Rosy laughed so hard that it fell off its perch and had to jump back up.
Faceplant wrapped his fists around the bars and strained mightily. The other trolls looked around in confusion for their opponent.
Lord Crunch was the first to spy Faceplant stuck in the bars. Beating his chest, he roared and sprinted for the gate with Bloodspatter loping after him. Faceplant wriggled harder, his legs swaying back and forth over the ground, but made no progress in liberating himself.
What a battle! As Level 10 Great Trolls, Bloodspatter and Lord Crunch each possess 50 health points. Their Short Green opponent Faceplant is at Level 8, so he has only 40.
Fun Fact Time! The troll races of Talvenor have an interesting geographical-
“OFF!” screamed thousands of players.
The blocks flew away just in time for Jenner to see Lord Crunch ball up his fist and slug Faceplant in his stupid, snot-covered face. The blow was so tremendous that it knocked the troll out of the bars. He landed on his ass in the cage.
“And Faceplant loses five of his health points from one punch!” the announcer cried.
The gate was still stuck halfway up. Lord Crunch and Bloodspatter threw themselves at it, one attempting to rip it out of the wall, the second sticking his hands through the bars to clutch after Faceplant. The Great Trolls weren’t much brighter than the Short Green. All they had to do was crouch down and yank Faceplant out by his feet, but it didn’t occur to either of them. Bellowing insensibly to the sky as they attacked the gate, they didn’t notice Faceplant crawl out into the sand.
Amazed at their total lack of observational skills, Jenner exclaimed, “They are so dumb!”
“Awesomely dumb!” Rosy yelled with joy. “Awesomely, wonderfully, fantastically dumb!”
The Short Green straightened, and proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was just as dumb as the others. With his opponents behind him, he appeared to forget about their very existence. Casting a bewildered, bleary look to the stadium, he trotted over to the center of the ring. The troll had more sawed-off horn nubs than the two on his forehead. They formed a ring around his entire skull.
He stopped. Stared at the audience. Scratched at his loincloth. Blew a bulbous snot bubble and sucked it back up into his nostril. Everyone gagged in disgust.
And then Faceplant turned.
He turned just as the pair of Great Trolls finally realized their prey was no longer in the cage that they were assailing. Their beady eyes met over the ring and flared with animal rage. Then they ran for each other, their howls echoing throughout the stadium. The Great Trolls balled up their fists and swung.
Faceplant was so short that both of the blows soared harmlessly over his head. He knocked over the Great Trolls like a bowling ball into pins, toppling them into the sand. So incredibly dim-witted that he didn’t grasp what he had just done, he kept running rather than wheel around to attack them while they were down.
“Out of sight, out of mind! There aren’t even two IQ points to rub together in there,” the announcer said in a tone of appreciation. “On the Troll Intelligence Scale, which in my opinion is a total oxymoron, the Short Greens are at the bottom. The very, very bottom. It’s said with every level-up, they get twice as big and twice as stupid. Faceplant remains at 35 HP while his challengers drop to 47!”
The Great Trolls got back to their feet and took off after Faceplant. Jenner munched on his popcorn, stamping his feet with everyone else in the seats.
“Turn around, you bloody moron!” Rosy hollered at Faceplant. “Hogdoor’s balls, turn the hell around!”
At last Faceplant met an obstacle in the wall, which helpfully changed his trajectory as he bounced off it. The Great Trolls caught up as he spun around, arms pinwheeling, Bloodspatter cutting him off on one side and Lord Crunch cutting him off on the other. They swung their fists, aiming better this time, but Faceplant ducked.
Ducked and rammed his horny head into Bloodspatter’s crotch as the Great Trolls punched each other hard in the chest. Lord Crunch staggered back and fell; Bloodspatter let out a howl of pain and went flying.
“Ouch!” the announcer cried. “Bloodspatter is down to 39 HP with that combination punch and dick crunch; his fighting partner drops to 42! Faceplant is still at 35!”
Fac
eplant ran over to Bloodspatter to kick him before he could get up. In the chest, in the crotch, in the head, the downed troll yowling and twisting in the sand.
“38 HP! 37 HP! 36 HP! Get off your yellow-spotted duff and help out your comrade, Lord Crunch! 35 HP, bringing Bloodspatter and Faceplant equal!”
Lord Crunch charged for oblivious Faceplant, who was having too much fun kicking Bloodspatter to pay attention to the advance of the second Great Troll. Launching his huge body into the air, Lord Crunch smashed into the Short Green. The two of them tumbled over Bloodspatter and rolled away.
“Attack from the back! Faceplant face plants, dropping to 33 HP, and . . . look at that! Lord Crunch lets Faceplant get away and . . . oh, no! Faceplant is in a kicking mood today, isn’t he, boys and girls? Here we go again! Lord Crunch drops to 41 HP! 40 HP! 39 HP! And now Bloodspatter is looking to get back into the fray!”
Faceplant launched another kick, this one going wild as Lord Crunch rolled away. Bloodspatter threw himself at the Short Green, catching him in a headlock. Writhing in the hold, Faceplant bellowed angrily.
“Uh-oh! Here comes Lord Crunch!” the announcer chortled. His lip curling into a sneer, Lord Crunch socked Faceplant directly on the crown. “Faceplant drops to 31 HP! 29 HP! 27 HP! Whoops! He wriggles around like a beached fish and Lord Crunch punches Bloodspatter in the stomach instead! Bloodspatter goes down to 32 HP and loses his grip on Faceplant in the process!”
Once again, Faceplant face planted in the sand. Bloodspatter pounded on his chest and roared furiously at Lord Crunch for striking him. Lord Crunch hollered back, and then the two Great Trolls attacked each other.
Jenner hurled popcorn towards the ring since everybody was doing it. Rosy hopped up and down, spoon flipping, while chanting, “KILL! KILL! KILL!”
“Uhhh . . . Bloodspatter? Lord Crunch? Have you forgotten that you’re on the same side?” the announcer queried. “Bloodspatter, 30 HP! Lord Crunch, 37 HP! Ooh, that had to hurt! Bloodspatter, 26 HP! Lord Crunch, 34 HP!”
Faceplant couldn’t get up. Every time he tried, one of the fighting Great Trolls stepped on him by accident and forced him back into the sand. Because neither ever looked down to see what they were stepping on, they appeared to have forgotten all about him.
“Bloodspatter, 20 HP! Lord Crunch, 30 HP! Bloodspatter . . .”
“This is the most ridiculous and the most wonderful thing I have ever seen,” Jenner marveled.
“Someone steps on Faceplant’s head! Aw, Faceplant did you get a boo-boo? Faceplant, 26 HP! Bloodspatter, 14 HP! Lord Crunch, 19 HP! Bloodspatter, 10 HP! Lord Crunch, 13 HP!”
“No fucking way!” Rosy yelled in Jenner’s ear. “You’re going to win the bet because these two shit-for-brains on the same team beat each other to death!”
The Great Trolls reeled like drunkards, their blows growing weaker, but still falling with regularity and removing one or two health points at each landing. Faceplant got up at long last, his face crusted with sand and his eyes covered in his own snotty hair clots.
“Bloodspatter, 3 HP! He lands a good old Brooklyn one-two on his former buddy, bringing Lord Crunch down to 3 HP as well!”
Lord Crunch reeled around at the good old Brooklyn one-two.
Then Faceplant punched him.
It was a well-aimed, solid blow, cracking across the Great Troll’s nose and propelling him backwards into Bloodspatter. Both Great Trolls went down in a heap.
“Great Scrambled Gods!” the announcer shrieked in disbelief. “Did you see that? Lord Crunch, 0 HP! Bloodspatter, 0 HP! FACEPLANT WINS! Who out there bet on Faceplant? Anyone? Did anyone bet on him?”
Jenner put up his hand with a few other people, and the bookie returned to fill his palm with silver.
Chapter Seventeen
Congrats! You have earned a merit trophy for Armchair Warrior!
“Congrats!” Jenner replied to the game. “You have earned a merit trophy for the most clueless merit trophy! I don’t think being called an armchair warrior is supposed to be a compliment.”
Worn out from yelling, Rosy was sprawled out on its side in the next chair, since the NPC seated there vanished after the third and final match. “Best . . . morning . . . ever,” the cup moaned. “Except for the part in the doctor’s office.”
Jenner put his feet up on the back of the seat below him, equally drained. The second match had been thrice as long and five times as brutal as the first, the audience on tenterhooks as two fifteen-foot trolls fought each other into hash on the sand. Each punch reverberated through the stadium, Jenner feeling it ring down to his bone marrow.
The third match was between a solid wall of a troll and an elf, who peppered the troll with arrows until the beast looked like a porcupine. The elf moved so quickly that at times she was impossible to see without the jumbo screens doing slow motion recaps. Despite being much lower than the troll in levels, she triumphed due to her fleetness of feet and skill at the bow. Then again, her victory came with a scant two health points remaining. Had the troll landed one more blow, she would have been scrambled.
People were drifting towards the exits, their boots crunching on sifts of popcorn and pretzel bits. The stadium looked like a wizarding lab due to the sheer amount of crap on the ground. The blue dragon clutch bypassed the mess by flying out, the den mother holding onto the tail of the dragonling infant as it stubbornly tried to fly back down to the sand for another roll.
Jenner hadn’t bet his newly-won silver on either match. He had a vague memory of a place called Las Vegas in the outer-world. Not a memory of being there in person, but a fragmented awareness of the gambling that happened in casinos. Card games, though he couldn’t remember the rules. Slot machines. Roulette. The house always wins. The house always won since the house had an edge that gamblers didn’t appreciate. The longer those gamblers played, the greater the house edge became.
He didn’t quite understand this, even though the information was there in his brain. Basically, gamblers just didn’t know when to quit. They would be driven to turn this purse full of silver into a purse full of gold, but walk out with a purse full of nothing.
Jenner respected this mysterious source of information, his mind continually wandering over to the game called Corazon’s Journey. Perhaps this was information he learned there? He thought he remembered all of that game, and yet he obviously didn’t.
Still, it was hard to resist another gamble when the first turned out so well for him. And even now, he was curious if he’d be holding that purse of gold in some alternate timeline. If only he had taken a chance . . . Whatever, he thought.
“How many pennies are in a silver, and how many silvers are in a gold?” he asked Rosy.
Rosy rolled over. “Do I look like a calculator to you?”
“No, you look like a smart-ass teacup.”
“Twenty-five pence to a silver; fifteen silvers to a gold.” Rosy sighed fondly. “How can sex be better than this? Let’s come to the gladiator rings daily to watch the show.”
“That’s the goal, but not to watch.”
“Oh, come on! You can’t have seen all of that and still be dreaming of going into the ring yourself!”
“Yup.”
Rosy groaned.
Do you think you have what it takes to become a gladiator? Come down to the sand and show off what you’re made of! Maybe a gladiator school tennus will take a liking to you!
Fun Fact Time! The head instructor of a gladiator school is called a tennus as a sign of respect. Their combat courses aren’t for the weak of spirit. Every class suffers a few unintentional scrambles. Safer to take a street class!
Fun Fact Time! Are there a lot of gladiator schools in Galadras? Yes, indeed! Most schools are specifically geared to a certain race, and many won’t accept students below Level 7. Those that do accept the lowest levels are affectionately referred to as ‘chum schools’ because of the high rate of scrambling in its graduates. You need a diploma to get in the ring, but any school’s diploma
will do!
Jenner got up. So did other players who were hanging back. Going down the steps to the wall that ran around the ring, Jenner jumped over it.
Rosy landed on his left shoulder. “Forget someone?”
“No. Go back to the chair and wait for me,” Jenner said. “I’m not going to impress a tennus with a teacup on my shoulder.”
“Yes, you will.”
“No, I won’t. Go.” He brushed at Rosy, who jumped up onto his head and came down on his right shoulder. “Rosy, knock it off!”
“I’m your gimmick. Without me, kid, you’re just a dopey Level 3 human player with a demonic skin condition.”
Jenner swatted at the cup again. Rosy leaped onto his head and returned to his left shoulder.
“Line up, hopefuls!” a burly, middle-aged man in a red sleeveless shirt called out as he came down the stairs.
Two people were descending behind him, a man and a woman in those same sleeveless shirts. They were almost as muscled as the fellow in the lead, and all three wore identical amulets of one large, dangling crystal upon a heavy chain.
Rather than continue to fight the teacup, Jenner hurried over to join the forming line of hopefuls. There were eight altogether, Jenner included. Two were obviously not human in a lithe, pointy-eared elf and a black-eyed demon. The rest looked human, but some could be shifters or wizards.
The man stopped at the railing and braced it with his fists. The other two took position at his sides. All three stared down to the hopefuls. Jenner’s posture straightened under those penetrating gazes.
“I am Tennus August, from Augustus School of the Gladiatorial Arts,” the burly man said. “We consider everyone but shifters and trolls over eight feet tall: humans, demons, elves, wizards, dwarves, and whatever else I’ve left out. Yes, we are a chum school. I’ll make no bones about that. If you aren’t Level 7 or above, the only doors open to you are chum schools. We have three training dungeons underground for our gladiator students to hone their skills within. Our dungeons are as good as anything the non-chum schools have to offer, and we’ll graduate you in three days.”