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Jun’s POV (6)
🕑 Added 2024-10-29 01:53:20 +0000 UTCJun rose to his feet and, on instinct, shuffled over to stand next to Goro.
The bovine man’s massive frame was already upright, his eyes fixed on the approaching contingent of guards. And more specifically, on the lone man at the center of their formation. He was tall for a human, middle aged, clean shaven, and with a receding hairline.
His demeanor, fine clothes, and haughty expression practically screamed of aristocracy. He held what appeared to be a perfumed handkerchief to his nose, and, despite the obstruction, Jun could see the grimace of distaste plastered over his delicate features from here.
When the noble man came within fifteen paces of them, he stopped, and the procession stopped with him.
“That one, that one, and that one,” he pointed out inmates with his slender pointer finger.
The first of them was Goro, the next was someone he didn’t recognize, and the last…? Well, you can take a wild guess.
“Be quick now. We do not pay you men to doddle.”
“Sir!” the guard responded in unison.
Abruptly, three of their number detached from the formation, and with firm steps and even firmer prods, began to herd them in the wake of the guard detail, who had, by then, already turned about face, and were even now retreating as fast as the nobleman’s long legs could carry him.
When at last they’d crossed the courtyard, Jun was only given one last glimpse of its caged interior, before the iron bound door was slammed shut, and he was hurriedly led on towards the final act of this accursed trial. It would’ve been a lie to say he wasn’t terribly relieved.
***
It was difficult for the Minotaurian rebel to squeeze his impressive bulk through the increasingly narrow maintenance hallways.
Much to his chagrin, his horns definitely weren’t helping. Forcing him to crouch, to periodically duck protruding pipes and hanging electrical lines, even as he adopted an awkward crab walk and tried very hard to maintain his composure.
He’d never been one for small spaces. That had always been more Tourney‘s cup of tea if anything—creator only knew how she managed it. Which only left his breathing exercises to rely on.
This hopeless endeavor to engender serenity through deep breathing and happy thoughts of open spaces, not aided in the least by the tiny man with his constantly jabbing stick, apparently quite keen to lob boulder after boulder into his still pond of calm tranquility. Goro bit back a curse.
After taking far longer than it had any right to, their claustrophobic journey finally came to an end. The maze like catacombs of the arena’s undercroft—if one were to credit the pervasive belief that, spectacle or no, the arena’s were first and foremost a place of worship, a temple to the gods of avarice, cruelty, and bloodshed—opened up into a well lit atrium.
Circular, large, and wholly metallic, it was a sparse place, polished and industrial.
The circular platform they stepped onto was worn, dented, and scratched, while the walls housed ribbed grooves, massive gears, and monstrous mechanisms—their use utterly alien to his untrained eye. Meanwhile high above them loomed a solid dome enclosure made of condensed mana, like frosted glass in appearance, which had the same effect of smearing whatever lay beyond it into a series of indistinct blurs.
No matter how relieved he was to be rid of the cramped confines though, it wasn’t the expansive space which caught and held his attention, but the whole man who stood confidently at its center.
Tall for one of his kind, with expertly trimmed beard, and a full head of wavy brown hair. Broad and athletic, with a well toned physique, sharp jawline, and traditionally handsome features, he looked to be in his early thirties at most, though Goro knew better. This monster had to be knocking on his third century at least.
Grand Duke Maximilian Alexander De Campos.
Goro saw red. The Grand Duke only smirked. With a snort of unbridled hatred, fury, and contempt, Goro made to charge headlong at the sole progenitor of his people’s continued persecution. A man with the blood of millions on his hands. Men, women… children.
The platform shook. Vibrated with the sheer intensity of his ire, the pitted depths of his enmity. A guttural rumbling emanating from deep in his chest. It was a close thing. So terribly, terribly close. Indeed the only thing that prevented him from throwing himself at the monster, then and there, was a thin tendril of clarity.
The tiny thread of awareness which brought to his immediate attention the armored contingent of spell-swords hovering at the bastard’s side. Each with their blades of choice trained on him and softly humming.
“Halfbreed,” Maximilian began. “You must be pleased to be meeting under… more civilized circumstances.”
Goro didn’t respond. If anything, this only seemed to amuse the man further.
“At the risk of sounding too much the broken record, I feel compelled to ask. Are you sure I cannot persuade you to reveal my troublesome nephew’s location?”
Again, Goro refused to speak, although, unlike in his previous interrogations, in which he had taken great pleasure in denying the monster, the devil now appeared far too pleased with himself for all the minotaur had never broken under his ministrations. It was as if he no longer cared if he pried free the information. A dark pit of dread opened up in his many stomaches.
“Ah. Well, you cannot say I didn’t try. Bind him.”
And just like that, with a dismissive flick of his wrist, the whole men converged. Under the supervision of several trained spell-swords, the slave handlers went about shackling his arms and legs—using a set of Mythrilite restraints, large even by his standards, bolted directly into the center of the platform.
He did little to resist.
Realistically, there was little he could do to resist, unarmed and outnumbered, before a cohort of spell-sword mercenaries kitted out in high quality power armor. All he could do was watch as the sneering handler with a penchant for poking, took considerable pleasure in further depriving him of his liberty.
To his left, a woman was similarly bound. A Draconian, one of the draconic people’s. One he even recognized, though due to an amount of professional courtesy, had never actually been so brazen as to approach. She too was a prominent figure within the ranks of the rebellion, though of a far distant cell to his.
She had her head bowed so that he could not see her face, though whether in prayer or defeat, he didn’t rightly know.
Goro noted that they did not deign to restrain the boy, merely left him to stand there, watching silently as armored men went about their business. He didn’t blame them. The shackles would have slipped from his slender wrists at any rate.
Indeed, he questioned why they had seen fit to bring him along to begin with. It really didn’t seem to make much sense. Was it really just another way to get at him? If so, they were going to be sorely disappointed. He’d barely exchanged two words with the boy in the short time they’d been cellmates.
He wasn’t even sure the boy could speak.
Briefly, Goro entertained the thought of reaching out, coordinating. Of trying to arrange some sort of last ditch effort—a miraculous means of escape—but taking in his slender frame and tiny stature, he quickly disabused himself of such fanciful notions. Better to focus on what was possible and not rely on the fickle aid of miracles.
In short order, the frenetic preparations of Maximilian’s men came to a close. Meanwhile, the man himself, now decked out in a suit of gleaming, top of the line power armor, soon turned to regard them. Another condescending smirk played at the corners of his lips. A fiendish delight, one that sent shivers down Goro’s spine, glinting in his dark brown eyes.
“It has been fun, halfbreed. I must say, your resiliency is commendable. Abomination though you are, any man would be fortunate to have such a steadfast and loyal slave at their disposal. It is just too bad your master did not think the same, eh?”
And with that, the mechanized helmet he wore slotted itself into place.
Closing over his face with a whirring sound, followed by a series of mechanical clicks. In no time at all, Maximilian’s handsome face was replaced by a metallic mask, eye slits glowing the same pale blue as radiated from the many joins in the form fitting armor. In the next second there was a deeper, more powerful whirring, followed by the sudden lurch of movement.
The platform was ascending, it would seem. The pit in his stomachs grew wider by the second. As they rose, the light filtering in from the mana dome up above only grew in intensity.
Until, when the whirring vibrations of their ascent finally stopped, it shone through with the brilliant light of day. In the next second, the dome disappeared completely, and the cacophonous din of the roaring crowd hit him all at once. Impacting like a physical blow.
They had arrived at their destination, it would appear, smack dab in the middle of the blood sport arena.
Surrounded on all sides by metallic walls fifty feet in height, the overly packed stands of the stadium beyond towered over them even further, and far more imposingly. Thousands upon thousands had showed out to spectate this event. With a casual grace, thanks in large part to the armor he now wore, Maximilian sauntered forward—parting his formation of spell-swords to address the crowd—arms held out wide.
High above them, a massive, blue tinted projection of the Grand Duke flickered into being. His floating counter part, blown up to the modest size of a mere skyscraper, acting in tandem with Maximilian’s every gesture, while it simultaneously projected his voice. Amplifying it to send his words booming across the stadium.
Goro paid the vile man’s words no mind whatsoever. Instead, it was the figures being led onto the black sands of the arena in chains, which caught and held his attention. Because he recognized them.
And suddenly, the pit of dread in his stomachs turned to all out despair.
Frantically, he searched their number, unsure whether he was hoping or dreading what he might find there. With a bitter sweet sort of melancholy, he confirmed that the worst had not come to pass. Though that probably served as cold comfort for the remaining members of his cell, trudging their way ever closer. His adoptive family within the ranks of the rebellion.
From across the arena, he locked eyes with Tourney, and Elemenfae of flame-sprite descent, a look of understanding passing between them. No, their lord and savior had not been captured as he’d feared. Which meant their rebellion would go on, would live to fight another day, even if he now suspected they would not be there to see it.
Goro didn’t catch more than the tail end of Maximilian’s speech, but by then he’d already guessed where this was going. For the first time since being bound by his captors, Goro strained against his restraints.
Metal clanked, chains creaked, blood ran freely from where the shackles bit into his arms, and all around him slave handlers leapt back in surprise. Stumbled, tripped, scrambled back with shouts of alarm. Teeth clenched, muscles bulging, Goro merely continued to pull, to push, to strain.
And while it was true that properly worked Mythrilite was beyond even his ability to break, the metal ends bolted into the mundane platform were another matter entirely. Goro was just beginning to feel the stuff of the platform give way beneath the combined might of his enhanced musculature, when a metal prod stabbed into his side, and electricity coursed through his frame.
He roared.
His body seized.
And suddenly it was all he could do to remain standing. The seizing sensation stopped, leaving behind the scent of burnt hair and the rising plumes of acrid smoke. A sound of disappointment, a school teachers casual rebuke, came from Maximilian’s armor clad form.
A condescension. A tut tutting that set his blood to boiling.
Above them, his grand projection had, by then, blinked out of existence, taking with it his booming vocals. He was now just a man like anyone else, if such a vile monster could be called just anything.
“Now now. There will be none of that. We would not want you ruining the show after all, now would we? I’m told my men went to great lengths to procure this morning’s entertainment.”
Goro growled.
“Be sure the halfbreed remains civil, would you?” he addressed the slave handlers. “It will be on your heads should he get up to any mischief.”
“Ah, s-sir!” the handlers replied by way of confirmation.
“Good. Very good. Now,” addressing Goro this time. “I believe it is time you witness firsthand the fruits of your foolish rebellion. What comes of following that idiot nephew of mine.”
And with that, the monster turned, taking confident strides towards Tourney, Barack, and the rest of his cell. Spread out in a long line, standing as far apart from one another as their ankle chain would allow, they stood in ready defiance—this despite their dismal chances.
Pride and despair fought for dominance in his chest.
They had been given weapons by this point, as if in mock pursuit of fairness. Primitive iron weapons clearly taken by rust, they, much like him, were under no illusions as to their would be effectiveness. And yet, all the same, there they stood.
Goro once more began to strain against the bindings of his restraints, but another shock to his system put a stop to that quickly enough. In that way he could only watch, as the Grand Duke began the methodical slaughter of his people.
Talin was the first to fall.
As Maximilian approached, steps light and unhurried, the proud wood elf spat his righteous fury, spewing vitriol at the bastards feet, even as he raised his rusty hatchet in willful defiance. The Grand Duke continued his slow approach, apparently unbothered.
Talin, ever the impatient hothead, launched himself forward, chains rattling and unsteadying the others in line. He brought the hatchet down in a powerful, overhand swing. Maximilian caught the descending wrist, snapped the bone with a twist, then tore the arm from its socket with one savage tug. Talin screamed.
The monster backhanded the wood elf across the face, splattering his head like an overripe tomato. The lifeless body of his once friend and comrade fell bonelessly to the floor.
Goro roared.
His cry only rising in pitch as the jab of several shock prods jammed into his sides. His body smoked. His muscles seized. And yet all he could think about was the look on his friends face, before it was unceremoniously splattered into stinking red paste.
Through a haze of pain, and sorrow, and fury, he watched as Maximilian first cleaned his armored hand with a proffered handkerchief, then turned to saunter in Tourney’s direction next. Sorrow overtook him then, so that all he could do was pour his rage out at the heavens. Furiously weep at his own impotence.
His own helplessness.
The rapid flash of green interrupted his sorrowful keening, each brilliant flare accompanied by a terrible, high pitched whining. What followed was the sudden and inexplicable feeling of weightlessness. The reduction of tonnage pulling down on his arms and legs.
Goro glanced down to find that the nigh indestructible Mythrilite chains binding him had somehow been shorn from his extremities. Looking up, he met the glowing green eyes of the boy, rapidly dimming even as he watched.
What in the name of the creator…?
The boy, for his part, gave Goro an odd thumbs up gesture, before a look of constipation crossed his features, and two more beams of emerald light shot forth—taking two of the equally surprised slave handlers right between the eyes.
Their despicable shock prods falling impotently to the sands. That was all the encouragement the Minotaurian man needed. With one last fleeting glance spared for the miraculous young man, Goro took off like a loosed projectile, hoping against all hope that he wasn’t too late.
