1222-02-10
Angus Murphy:
Over the past few days, we've been treated remarkably well in Loret. All things considered, they provided us with the finest foods, comfortable places to rest, and more currency than we could ever spend. They even shared rare spices and incense unique to their land, adding an air of exotic luxury to our stay.
The streets of New Miso bustled with life. Their charm is magnified by the ongoing preparations.
The grand banquet.
Decorations hung high. The warm glow of torches lit the pathways as people hurried to complete their tasks. Kell and the girl were at the center of it all. They commanded workers with precision. Kell pointed out where to place boxes, while the girl directed cooks on how to prepare the feast.
Watching them, I couldn't help but smile. Around the city, members of other tribes gathered. Their colorful attire blended into the vibrant scene just outside New Miso's gates.
The preparations spilled into the savanna.
In the middle of the open space is a pit. Its edges are marked by carefully arranged stones forming a circle. A giant banquet table stretched alongside it. So long it seemed to vanish into the horizon. Within the pit, two fighters sparred, their forearms wrapped in cloth to avoid injury.
Their movements were mesmerizing as they dodged and countering each other's strikes.
The moon hung half-full in the sky. It casts a silver light over the scene. The girl had stopped giving orders. Her expression shifted to one of satisfaction as she surveyed the work.
The juvenile dragon around her neck remained motionless. It's still asleep. She approached me quietly. She stood at my side as I continued watching the fight from my seat at the table.
The previous match ended, and a familiar figure stepped into the pit.
A boy with black hair and striking purple eyes. This time, the combatants wielded small wooden swords. The boy adjusted his grip. His stance was light yet confident. A murmur of anticipation spread through the crowd.
Piles of wooden weapons. Spears, halberds, and swords lined the arena's edges, stacked neatly to the left and right. The arena itself was modest, roughly the size of a small boat.
Spacious enough for combatants to move freely and run if needed.
The festivities carried on. The sounds of the night. The laughter, the music, the crackling of fires filling the cool savanna breeze.
"Are you wondering what they're doing?" she asked, settling beside me.
The rest of the group appeared behind us. I glanced back briefly before turning my attention to the girl sitting next to me.
"What are they doing?" John asked. He pushed forward to get a better view of the sparring pit.
The girl stood gracefully. She bows slightly. Her purple taji flowing in the breeze.
She said warmly. "My name is Zara Nala, but you may call me Nala."
"It's nice to meet you, Nala," Sheila said with a kind smile.
Nala returned the smile before explaining, "This is a game. It's based on a custom in Ghar. Each dot on a taji represents a fight that's been won."
"So every dot on Tafari's taji..." Sheila began, her curiosity piqued.
"Represents a challenge or a battle in war that he fought," Nala finished.
"Do these games count?" Bridget asked, leaning in slightly.
"Not for adding dots to the taji," Nala replied. "But they are excellent practice."
Rory asked curiously, "Why doesn't your taji have any dots?"
He stared at her smooth taji.
"I'm not much of a fighter," Nala said with a smile. There is a hint of humor in her tone.
"When does this tradition start?" John asked.
"You're only allowed to begin issuing challenges after the age of what you would call five," she explained. "Though you can't see it, the inside of the taji also has a dot for every fight lost."
"How old is Tafari?" Sheila asked.
Nala hesitated, tilting her head thoughtfully. "We measure age differently than you. But, I believe he is eight and a half by the Var calendar."
"Wow, that's young!" Sheila exclaimed, clearly surprised.
"To you, it may be," Nala replied, her voice heavy with an undertone of sadness. "In Ghar, most people don't live beyond the age of twenty-five. What you call young, we call old. To you, he may be a child, but to us, he is a great ruler and leader."
"In three years, he's won that many fights?" John muttered, almost in disbelief.
I turned my attention back to the pit. Tafari had gained the upper hand despite his wooden sword snapping in two. He was dodging attacks and pushing forward with relentless precision, staying firmly in the center of the formation.
"In truth," Nala began, her tone quiet, "I use this as a way to tire him out."
"It's an interesting tradition," Bridget said thoughtfully. "Almost like training."
"You should try it," Rory teased, nudging her shoulder.
"Can I?" Bridget asked, glancing at Nala.
"Of course," Nala replied with a warm smile. "We welcome anyone willing to partake in our traditions."
The fight in the pit was drawing to a close. Tafari, blood dripping slowly from his hand where the wooden sword had splintered, grabbed the weapon again. Despite its crude material, it had left a shallow cut on his opponent.
A young boy with striking red eyes and black hair. With a final push, Tafari forced the boy out of the arena. The crowd erupted in cheers as Tafari stood victorious.
Bridget stepped forward, descending into the pit as the defeated boy retreated. Tafari was wrapping his hands in bandages when she approached him and bowed deeply.
"May I spar with you, Tafari?"
"A brave one," Tafari said, his lips curling into a smirk.
He reached for a wooden spear. He twirls it effortlessly in his hands. Bridget chose a wooden sword and shield, testing their weight before stepping into position. Their weapons clashed with a loud crack as they locked together, neither willing to give an inch.
RING.
The fight began in earnest. Bridget dashed forward, using her shield to block Tafari's quick thrusts. Her sword swept low, aiming for his legs, but Tafari jumped back, spinning his spear with practiced precision.
She pressed the attack. She swung in wide arcs to force him back. He is faster. Tafari sidestepped her strikes and countered with a jab that narrowly missed her shoulder.
Bridget spun, using her shield to bash the spear away, forcing a brief standstill.
As Tafari's spear lunged for her side, it struck an invisible force midair, bouncing harmlessly away.
"Your inheritance is still active," Tafari said, his voice laced with mockery.
Bridget froze, realization dawning. "I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, bowing quickly.
"There's only one way to bypass it," Tafari said. He raised a hand, and a spear materialized out of thin air. It gleamed faintly, as if made from ice. Nala's face tightened with concern.
"I won't go too hard on her," Tafari called back. He gestured to one of us in the crowd. "Bring her armor."
Once Bridget was back in her armor. Her shield and sword began to shimmer with a clear glow. They turned completely white.
Tafari's spear seemed to freeze the ground where it struck, creating patches of slick ice that Bridget maneuvered around expertly. Her sword gleamed as she parried, each strike reverberating with a metallic hum.
Tafari smirked, clearly testing her.
"Your inheritance is still incomplete.," he said, mocking her.
Bridget's strikes grew sharper, her shield deflecting every blow. Tafari, in response, drove his spear into the ground. Ice spikes erupted from the earth, shooting toward Bridget.
She raised her shield and charged forward, slicing through the frozen shards with precision.
The broken ice flew toward the crowd.
I froze, watching as jagged shards of ice sped toward us. Time seemed to slow, the world narrowing to the deadly projectiles coming closer and closer. I couldn't move.
Nala appeared before us. She raised her arms, and a radiant white shield materialized. The ice struck it and shattered instantly, cascading to the ground like broken glass.
Nala stood covered in the same magnificent white armor.
The full lion's armor.
It gleamed under the moonlight. It wraps her in an aura of power.
"A!" she shouted, her voice ringing through the night.
Tafari and Bridget stopped fighting as the ice began to melt unnaturally fast. Silence fell over the crowd, awe thick in the air.
"How did you do that?" Bridget asked, walking back toward her.
"Do what?" Nala replied, her expression calm as the white armor slowly faded. It dissipates into specks of light.
"That ... your inheritance," Bridget said, bowing slightly, the creak of her armor breaking the silence.
"Shino taught me," Nala said simply, but her hesitation was clear.
"Can you teach me?" Bridget asked, bowing lower.
Nala paused, glancing at Tafari. She seemed unsure, but Tafari broke the silence with a laugh.
"Why not? They'll come back from Wara anyways," he said, his grin unwavering. "Stay here. Train. Nala can teach you. You wouldn't be the first."
"What do you mean?" Bridget asks, her voice confused.
Tafari waves his hand
WHUOSH.
A kid appears, seemingly out of nowhere.
She looks small and tired, her frame delicate, maybe nine or ten years old, but her eyes hold a serious intensity far beyond her years. Her golden amber eyes glow faintly, scanning the area with cautious focus.
She wears a red cloak patterned with small blue dots. Similar in style to Tafari's taji though with significantly less dots.
At her side, a small sword rests. It's almost too large for her size, its hilt worn but sturdy.
Her skin is pale, almost luminous under the light. There is something about her features that makes me think she is of Khiz descent.
Nala steps forward. "This is Ana Silvercrest," she says. "She is my student."
Silvercrest… I've heard that name before.
Ana bows politely to Bridget. "I hope we can get along," she says quietly.
Bridget smiles back. "Were you watching me this whole time?"
Ana nods.
Bridget straightened, her face lighting up with determination. "Thank you," she said earnestly.
"One more question," she asked.
"What?" Tafari says, a playful smirk on his lips.
"Can I see the inside of your taji?" Ana asks, her tone light.
Tafari's eyes widen. "Nala!" he yells, throwing his hands up. "Why did you tell them?"
Nala crosses her arms, pretending to be innocent. "You always act like you never lose, so people should know the truth."
Tafari grumbles, then lets out a theatrical sigh. He tilts his taji to show the inside. Hundreds of small white dots are stitched into the dark purple fabric.
On his body a deep scar stretched across his skin, healed over but leaving a jagged mark. I wondered who could have struck a blow like that and more importantly how powerful they must have been. He did not seem ashamed of the scar. He wore it like a badge of honor. Nala turned her gaze away.
"Nala adds one or two extra," he says, pointing at her. "Don't count this as my real score."
"What?" Nala gasps, feigning shock.
"You do all those illegal fights! I have to count them," she says, mockingly.
Ana smirks, adjusting her own taji. "I have fewer dots than you, Tafari. I'm clearly better."
Tafari laughs, shaking his head. "You've only been here a year and a half. Don't get ahead of yourself."
Ana tilts her taji slightly, showing a neat row of small white dots inside. "See? Fewer dots, better skill."
Nala claps dramatically. "The audacity! She's got you there!"
Ana laughs softly. "I'm just more efficient."
Tafari grumbles but his purple eyes sparkle. "Efficient, huh?"
Nala leans in, pointing at Ana. "Careful. Don't let your ego run away with you like Tafari's."
Ana bows slightly, teasing. "Too late. It already has."
Tafari laughs.
The rest of the banquet is full of laughter. The food is amazing. Spiced meats, fresh fruits, and fragrant dishes from Ghar cover the long wooden tables. People gather around the fire, sharing stories and songs.
Tafari, despite earlier, seems relaxed. He plays with younger children, letting them chase him. He pretends to be caught by their tiny hands. In these moments, he looks less intimidating.
Just a boy, laughing.