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rom accounts by Trakos
Nalasan (At the time one of Selios’s bodyguards who eventually rose to the rank
of general)
We watched as our champion readied himself. As Nakratos had done, he had removed
his armour, both wore nothing but their dark leather sandals and loose-fitting
loincloths, the rays of Therano’s light catching each soft serration of their
chiselled, athletic bodies. After coating his hands with the dry dust that
covered the hot, cracked earth of the Table he clutched his spear, the sharp,
metallic head shimmering as his bronze skin did. Strapping the Cyran dagger to
his thigh, which was as much a symbol of pride as it was a weapon, he prepared
himself for the clash with his nemesis.
Nakratos' broad chest heaved as he swung around Hammer of Might, the trophy of
the Seran Games and a reminder that his strength had, at least once, exceeded
that of our champion. With a Tooth of Sérás strapped to his arm, a curved dagger
acting as a badge of office in the barbaric Kárákánite military, he too prepared
for the clash, his rigid jaw clenched and cold eyes sending Selios a piercing
stare.
As Therano plucked his sun to its highest house, the wash of light hit both our
shields and those of the Kárákánites, bathing the two warriors in a blinding
light.
It was like watching Gods fight.
Letting out an enormous cry Nakratos charged our champion, swinging the
gargantuan bronze hammer from side to side as he darted towards him. Selios
readied his spear and, invoking the Cyran hunter within him, deftly
outmanoeuvred his opponent. Frustrated, and slightly confused, the Titan of
Kárákán turned and launched himself at Selios, diving through the air. The Titan
hurled the huge metal hammer into the chest of our champion, forcing the breath
out of his lungs, leaving both men thrown to the floor.
Winded, and injured, our champion lay on the floor for a handful of moments,
collecting himself with deep inhalations of the hot, Zhunite air. Nakratos rose
from the ground, his skin now covered by the grey dust, and moved towards our
floored champion. Rising to again clash with his nemesis, Selios took his Cyran
spear and launched it through the thick, sticky air toward its Kárákánite
target. Nakratos, his anxious, aggressive sweat mixing with the grey dust stuck
to his skin, did his best to avert himself from the missile, though our
champion’s true aim caused it to pierce the calf of his brutish opponent.
As Nakratos tried to pry the spear from his leg, his hands bloodied in
desperation, Selios’ swift feet darted towards his injured prey, holding his
Cyran dagger as he charged. Our champion was, however, quickly stopped in his
tracks. Tearing the spear from his penetrated muscle, Nakratos swung the
weapon’s wooden shaft deftly into the jaw of the approaching Selios, throwing
him some peds away. No longer concerned with nursing the grievous wound,
Nakratos set out for a brutish demonstration of force.
Throwing fist after humongous fist into the skull, throat and chest of the
wearied Selios, Nakratos switched his own dried blood for the fresh red of our
champion. As dust and blood covered him, Kárákán’s Titan seemed to diminish our
champion's godly strength, and Selios lay broken in the dirt.
Rising from the battered Cyran, Nakratos moved to reclaim his hefty Hammer of
Might to deliver the fatal blow, confident that his onslaught had left our
champion powerless. As he clasped his brutal hands around his trophy, Selios
grew restless. Rolling through the dry, cracked dirt and clutching his Cyran
dagger and his spear in an almost poetic movement, our champion sliced through
the tendons in the heels of the re-armed Titan. As his nemesis squealed with
pain, his gash oozing torrents of blood, Selios rose to his feet.
Abandoning his dagger in favour of the spear, Selios faced Nakratos and prepared
to deliver the fatal strike. He looked at his enemy, brought to his knees by the
torment of his wounds, his spearhead grains from his throat.
Our champion hesitated.
Instead of slicing open the Kárákánite’s jugular, he thrust the spear into the
Titan’s thigh, piercing his flesh, thrusting through the man’s femur and
directly into the dry earth, trapping the man on the cracked ground of the
Lingradau’s Table.
Selios rose and looked upon his defeated foe, his spear pinning him to the floor
as the heat of Therano’s light only intensified his torment. Nakratos’ eyes were
not stricken with pain, however. His gaze was pierced with shame. Nakratos was
born and bred to seek victory by whatever means neccesary and to disregard the
other Zhunites as lesser and weaker than himself. And now, under the flowing
scarlet banners that struck fear into the hearts of the Dragon Lord's enemies he
lay defeated, skewered to the earth by the spear of a Cyran. A solitary tear
erupted from the Titan's stone-like gaze. His face contorted in despair, as if
to manifest the anguish of his heart at the realisation he had failed Sérás and
he would never be forgiven.
Our champion looked to the Kárákánites that surrounded their fallen commander.
Their dark brutish features contorted to countenances of disgust as the light
radiating from their bronze shields, the same light that had made their Titan
seem like a God, became only a spotlight that exposed his fragility and failure.
There is nothing that the Kárákán’ámár despise more than defeat.
The victor turned to speak.
‘The Right of Champions is settled, with Cyras victorious. You may take your
Captain and return home’.
The eyes of the Kárákán’ámár burned with rage, each man contributing to the
collective hate that torrented toward Nakratos as he remained staked in the
dirt, baked by the sun.
‘Kárákán does not want a warrior who will fall to a Cyran’
Nakratos was not shocked by this sentiment. He had known from the moment Selios
had spared him the fatal blow that he had been cast from the City of Dragons and
would never again walk between the resolute Rivalling Towers to the chorus of
victory. The fallen Titan's cold eyes agonised. He would have preferred death.
The scarlet standards were taken down and, at the sound of the Wardrum, each of
the traitorous brutes turned their back on their leader and began their march
back toward the Dragon’s Back. Each one cursed the name of Nakratos as they
departed, creating a flurry of abuse that the idle Zhunite breeze swept around
the broken Captain.
Selios, struck by the readiness of the Kárákánites to abandon Nakratos, looked
and pitied the man he had transfixed into the hot earth of the Table. As
Nakratos' men disappated into the distance, Selios' grudge with the Kárákánite
had ceased. Now, at the climax of their rivalry, our champion felt sympathy for
his adversary as every element of the Titan's god-like presence flowed from him
like the rivers of blood that poured from his wounds, quenching the dryness of
the dust.
Our champion turned to us, the light from our shields bathing him in a
translucent honey-like hue that washed against his tired physique. As he stood
before us, bloodied and beaten, his divinity was, if anything, enhanced.
Reclaiming his shimmering breastplate and adopting his flowing cloak of rich
Cyran green, Selios began our return to the City of Labours, where his prowess
would undoubtedly be rewarded.
Soon, Therano's light would be plucked from the sky and the advent of dusk would
herald the predators that roamed the Table.
Nakratos would feed the Lingradau tonight.
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