The Viper moved like liquid shadow. The moment the portcullis was fully up, he was in motion, a blur of dark leather crossing the sand with eerie silence. He didn't charge directly at me. Instead, he angled to the side, and in one fluid motion, one of his green-glazed daggers flew from his hand.
The blade sank into my shoulder. A burning, numbing sensation spread instantly from the wound. I was poisoned. I could feel the venom coursing through my veins, a cold fire trying to lock my muscles.
Aymon closed the remaining distance, his remaining dagger held low and ready, a cruel smile on his thin lips. He was now within 10 feet of me.
The poison burnt, but my will was iron. As Aymon stepped into my range, I lunged forward, ignoring the throbbing in my shoulder, and attempted to grapple him with my free hand.
My clawed hand snapped out and closed like a vice around Aymon's wrist, the one holding his remaining dagger.
As I seized him a gave a daunting roar, point blank into his face. It seemed that his nerves of steel (or perhaps his professional detachment) allowed him to shrug of the supernatural fear that I attempted to instil.
Up close, I could see his eyes were a flat, reptilian yellow. He didn't struggle against my grip; instead, he used his free hand to try and pry at my fingers with surprising strength. "The poison will slow you, beast," he hissed. "Then I'll open your throat."
With a brutal yank on his captured arm, I used my superior strength and leverage to slam Aymon down onto the blood-sand. I could practically feel the air leaving his lungs in a sharp whoosh.
He lay on his back in the sand, one wrist locked in my iron grip, his free hand still clutching his remaining poisoned dagger. His reptilian eyes were wide with shock and fury. The crowd roared, loving the display of raw dominance.
Trapped on the ground, Aymon was far from helpless. In one flued motion, he dropped his blade catching it with his free hand. Then with a snarl, he twisted his body and stabbed upward with his free hand, aiming the green-glazed dagger at my thigh.
Unfortunately for him the dagger skittered off my leather bracer instead of finding flesh. Which led him to curse, low and venomous.
Then I leaned down, my eyes fixed on Aymon's exposed throat. The thirst and the tactical advantage merged into one imperative as I sunk my fangs into the side of his neck. As the blood flowed, dark energy surged through the bite, blackening the wound and stealing his vitality with cold efficiency. It seemed quite ironic, the wound that his dagger left before was now being healed by his blood.
Aymon let out a choked gasp, his body convulsing under me. His skin took on a pale, waxy pallor around the horrific wound. He was severely injured, his life essence literally drained. He was still struggling weakly in my grip, but his strength was fading.
Desperation must have given way to a final, cunning ploy. Instead of trying to stab me again, he released his dagger into the sand and his relatively free hand darted to his belt, coming up with a small, clay pellet. He smashed it against the ground between our bodies.
POP! A cloud of dense, dark grey smoke erupted, enveloping both of us completely. He must have hoped that I would loosen my grip enough for him to escape because arena vanished. I could see nothing beyond the thick, acrid cloud, and neither could the crowd or even Aymon himself.
Unfortunately for him my grip didn't loosen one bit. Even as the Master's voice boomed with amusement, "A Viper's trick! CAN THE BEAST SNIFF OUT ITS PREY?", I could still feel Aymon in my grip though I could not see him. I leaned in once more and sank my fangs deep, drinking greedily.
Aymon's final struggle was a feeble twitch. A weak, bubbling sigh escaped his lips. Then, his body went completely limp in my grasp. The tension left his muscles as he exhaled his last breath.
The grey smoke began to thin, wafting away on the arena's faint breeze. As it cleared, the crowd saw me kneeling in the sand, holding the limp, pale form of Aymon the Viper by the throat, my maw stained crimson.
Once again silence. Then a heartbeat later the eruption.
And once again I gave a roar into the air proclaiming my victory.
The Master of the Games' voice was rich with satisfaction. "THE VIPER'S VENOM PROVED NO MATCH FOR THE BEAST'S THIRST! A SECOND VICTORY FOR THE CRIMSON BEAST!"
The bald guard and another approached from the gate, spears ready but faces careful. "Alright, Beast. Drop him. Back to the cells."
I released Aymon's body. It crumpled to the sand, a pale, drained heap. The fight was over.
As I was escorted back to my cell, it felt as though the adrenaline of combat and the stolen life force had catalysed a change within me. My movements felt more fluid and my connection to the mystical energy within in snapped into focus.
_ _ _
BACK IN MY CELL
The guard re-attached my ankle manacle. The door clanged shut. The roar of the crowd was muffled once more. I was alone with my victory and my newfound power.
The young guard returned later, sliding a bowl of thick, hearty stew and a chunk of dark bread through the slot - a noticeable upgrade from gruel. "From the Master's kitchen," he muttered. "Says you've earned it."
I sat in my cell, a short sword at my hip, hopefully I would get a better weapon soon, my body hummed with power, and my mind was sharp. The path forward was still made of iron bars and blood-sand, but I had taken a significant step. The Master was investing in me. My power was growing.
I settled onto the stone slab, the short sword placed carefully within reach. The sounds of the coliseum slowly shifted - the distant roars of the afternoon crowds faded, replaced by the clatter of clean-up, the grumbling of guards changing shifts, and eventually, the deep quiet of the complex at rest.
The hearty stew sat well in my stomach, a tangible sign of the Master's "investment." The constant, gnawing Thirst was a low hum in the background, sated for the time being by Aymon's blood.
I closed my eyes and willed my body into a state of profound rest. For a vampire, this wasn't sleep as mortals know it, but a trance-like meditation - conscious marshalling of my unnatural energies and a deepening of my connection to the newly awakened power within me. I could feel the mystical energy flow within my veins as if directly tied to my blood.
The hours passed. I was aware of the changing guard patrols, the moans and mutterings of other prisoners, the skittering of vermin. In the deep quiet of the night, I rose and moved through a series of slow, deliberate forms within the ten-foot radius allowed by my chain, feeling the new fluidity in my movements, the potential of the power flowing in my veins. I practised visualizing its flow - for a burst of speed, a defensive pivot or even a flurry of strikes.
As the first hint of pre-dawn grey lightened the high window at the end of the corridor, I returned to my still, seated vigil.
The cell was cold. The air smelled of damp stone and old straw. My ankle chain was a cold weight. But I was no longer just a prisoner fighting to survive. I was a weapon being sharpened.
I became a statue of shadow and fur in the corner of my cell. My breathing slowed to an imperceptible whisper, my glowing eyes half-lidded but missing nothing. The world sharpened into acute, discrete sensory details.
Sight: The torch in the corridor had guttered out, replaced by the first pale grey light of dawn filtering through a high, barred window at the far end. In the dimness, my dark vision painted everything in shades of cool grey. I could see:
In the cell to my left: The sobbing prisoner from before was now asleep, curled up fetally. His cellmate, the large snorer, was a giant of a man with tusks - a half-orc, his chest rising and falling like a bellows.
In the cell to my right: The two whisperers were awake. One, a lean human with a shaved head and tattooed scalp, was methodically running a whetstone along a sharpened spoon handle. The other, a wiry female gnome, was sketching something complex in the dust on the floor with a rat's bone.
In the cell across from me: The hunched figure was still wrapped in a blanket, but now I could see a pale, skeletal hand occasionally dart out to add another tiny, precise mark to the growing collection of lines on the wall. It was a tally. I counted thirty six marks.
Sound: The symphony of captivity. The drip of water from a crack in the ceiling: plink… plink… plink… (Every 4.7 seconds to be precise).
The rustle-stir-subtle of a rat moving through the straw in the gnome's cell.
The half-orc's sonorous snoring, echoing slightly.
The steady, rhythmic scrape… scrape… of the spoon being sharpened.
From far above, through stone and earth: the distant, echoing clang of a blacksmith's hammer beginning the day's work.