Vaermina's Arena: Sword-meet at Dusk

Thunder died down in the Spectator’s mind. Before him was a desert crater, where the impact radius had been blazen into a brilliant green glass. The sky was beautiful, as darkness began to rise. The night had no stars, no moons, no sun.

The voice of torment awoke in his mind.

“You stand with your feet in the soft sand, the blistering desert becoming tame under the firm hand of night’s grasp. You embrace the cool chill that has spread through your body.

Your bliss is -”

The Spectator grunted. His first sound was the simple emission of discontent.

The voice of torment died in his mind, allowing the immobile Spectator to see the trial before him. The circle would become the dias of torment.

Two figures stood opposite of the other on the lips of the great crater. Both were covered in an infinite storm of wisps of cloth, bending and twisting about. A dynamic armor that protected where it needed to be and allowed movement where necessary, bending to the great Way of Wearer.

On the Spectator’s left, the figure was as tall as a normal Redguard, with the Stormcloth surrounding him except for his bare feet and eyes, both red as the dying desert rose. On the Spectators right, the figure was taller than the other by a skeever’s breadth, and the Stormcloth covered everything except his bare feet. The Stormclothes were both made of frayed bolts of an mysterious fabric, a ratty mess of desaturated red.

They walked to the other. As they did, the Stormcloth became undone around their feet, and the stepped onto the glass.

The voice of torment awoke in his mind.

“The Way of the Sword is but a circle. Begun in past, intercepted by Frandar, adopted by Hallin, and now beginning anew in our merry realm. Let me show you what happens upon the second Sin of your People. This is the sin that gives shape to the third, that which your kind despises. Funny how by it’s grasp you’ve fallen into my hands - for it is the Sin of Malcontent.”

The two figures faced each other at the center of crater. Their Stormcloth had unbound up to their knees. Their feet were bloody, and punctured with shards of the green glass.

The voice of torment awoke in his mind.

“The foundation of Sin’s strength is weak under the sin of Malcontent, and will slice their wielders.”

The figures mirrored each other as they raised their Eastward arms, and the Stormcloth around their hands unbound. The billowing bolts repulsed from the other, and a red blaze erupted from their fissures. The Shehai. The flames died down to reveal curved blades of a red tinge, tipped with rust. Their hilts were adorned with identical gems, the Diamond, Emerald, Amethyst, Topaz, and Hiltgold - the embodiment of death harbored by the sung swords.

They crouched and jumped away from each other, landing against the crater’s sides. They grasped their blades with both hands, and raised them over their heads. They, at the same moment, uttered their cries against the other: “Shehai No Lo’igra!”

Their blades fell and waves of red energy extended their natural movement, rippling through the air at the speed of sound. The waves met and shattered downwards, causing the glass of the crater to splinter into the air and rip apart the Stormcloth of the warriors. They were now exposed up to the naval - their entire lower body covered in shards of glass.

The one on the right staggered for a moment, and the one on the left capitalized on the fault, propelling themselves forward with a jump and raising their sword above their head again. The blade fell unto the warrior, but was met by the right-ward warrior’s blade. Right-ward Warrior continued the natural arc of his blade and slashed to the center of the Left-ward Warrior. As the slash met the Left-ward Warrior’s torso, so too did the sword of the Left-ward Warrior recoil into the torso of his opponent.

The blades both, however, met the green shards of glass, which had risen malevolently from their lower position. The glass only grew stronger with the strikes, and fervently grew upwards, slicing the Stormcloth and immobilizing the warriors.

Frozen in place against the right side of the crater, the two warriors entered into a flurry of strikes, only able to move their arms as their chests and below were covered in shards of glass. Every movement on the part of a warrior only raised the glass, while every strike that had no purchase on the Stormcloth also empowered the glass.

Soon they could only move their wrists. The Stormcloth covered their heads, with the Left-ward’s eyes exposed. The wisps of cloth billowed in the wind as the combatant’s swords fell to the glass. They were entombed. The glass grew, slicing the cloth slowly. The Spectator heard their cries of pain rise from the growing glass tomb.

The voice of torment almost awoke in his mind. As he felt it’s call, the Spectator grunted again. Though this was intelligble.

“Stop.” The glass ceased met and the reflections of the of Stormcloth met against the infinite reflection of the green glass. The crater was the mythic image of a rose.

Lightning shattered the rose.