Vaermina's Arena: The Wolf and the Steed

Thunder died down in the Spectator’s mind. Before him was a plane of infinite width and length, on it’s infinite edges laid a dense forest of grass. He was looking ascendant. To a blue sky. That had no sun.

The voice of torment awoke in his mind.

“You lie in the comfortable grass and feel the downward flow of crisp wind into your open pores. You fill yourself with that liquefying substance you call air and begin to ascend to a heavenly form above the sky.

Your bliss is unfounded. The blades of grass pull your skin from it’s levitating form. Skin separates and releases your ichor to water the plain’s pungent roots. Sprouts grow into your pulsing veins, parasites of the grass find themselves hollowing into your marrow. The tread of paw and hoof emerges in your disembodied ears, lying from your head, slowly being cut off by the beetles gorging on your nerves.”

At this, the Spectator felt the rumbling of eight legs, four for each. One being to his left, the other to his right. They grew simultaneously in their volume but the right was heavier.

A nicker of pain emerged from the right, and a soft growl of hurt emerged from the left. The Spectator knew this right-sound, for he knew it’s caller. The Spectator knew this left-sound, for he knew it’s caller. The beings entered his field of view.

To his left was a silver lupine head, with a streak of brilliant white descending from the bearer’s thin lips out of frame. Fur matted with a thousand flies and a million blades covered the head, and blood leaked from an ajar wound.

To his right was a high steed, whose coat was golden, but a muzzle of black and necrotic flesh mutated it’s visage. The flesh peeled away in rapid cycles of exposure, decay, and sloughing, and fell upon the blades of grass aching for it’s organic scraps.

The voice of torment awoke in his mind.

“Grellan and the War Master. Two noble companions, destined for death. Let me show you what happens upon the first Sin of your People. This is sin that begins all others, that which your kind despises. Funny how by it’s grasp you fallen into my hands - for it is the Sin of Weakness.”

At this, the two beasts howled in fervent pain and cast their eyes on the other. They were both equally weakened, fearful of the other. Fearful of the three Sins that would manifest itself in the other.

The decision to strike was simultaneous, both beasts were only so noble. Grellan lept for the throat of the War Master, for any bite of the muzzle would be poison. The War Master lifted it’s foreleg in a strike on Grellan’s shoulder, for any strike of his brilliant underbelly would be poison. The collision of both left Grellan the first spar’s victor, for he was luckier than most. He held onto the War Master, feeling the screams of agony escape the War Master's throat.

As the War Master’ pain grew, so too did the muzzle of black flesh. The flesh rapidly spread around his head and down his neck as he attempted to shake off Grellan. When the flesh touched the wolf’s fangs, they fell off and released the grip.

Grellan fell into the blades, which painted with pain the brilliant whiteness further up his body. The War Master raised it’s hoof and brought it down on Grellan’s paw, shattering the bone - yet the white brilliance seared the hoof of the War Master and caused it to back away in fear.

Grellan rose and the War Master rallied. They stood across from each other, still mostly themselves and ready to end in noble combat.

The voice of torment awoke in his mind.

“Your companions are now mine. Their traces of un-sin are now less than sin.” At this, Grellan’s brilliance covered his entire body save his head and back, the War Master’s black flesh covered his entire body save his legs and tail. “Let them now spar one final time, to see the victor.”

Grellan and the War Master rushed towards each other - the Wolf leaping, the Steed sprinting. The Head bit into the Leg, and brilliance met blackness. Both beasts lay dead over the immobile body of the Spectator. The mouth of the Wolf opened to reveal the blood wound of the Horse - a single rose.

Lightning charred the rose.