You are victorious!

Your team has successfully defeated Bagwil, Trip, Hamish, and Lolt.

You have gained 1350 experience.

The little blue window popped up as I stepped into the arena anteroom. A wave of dizziness struck as I crossed the threshold. I abruptly sat on one of the benches while I waited for the persistent ringing in my skull to subside. I willed the window away, but more replaced it just as quickly.

Your popularity in the arena has grown.

+5 Reputation

Your actions have granted you the Subtle trait. With effort, you can use your magical abilities without telltale lights, noises, or other obvious signs. Using this trait increases the difficulty of any magic used by 10%.

Oddly enough, the windows were legible, even while the rest of the world was doing its best impression of the jitterbug, so I took the time to read them before I physically pushed each one away, freeing myself from further mental effort.

Am I feeling this way because I got bashed in the face one too many times or is there some other reason? I thought to myself. “Status,” I said.

STATUSNameKer’HarosAlignmentNeutralRaceUnknownLevel3Experience Gained2050Experience Needed2000ClassThe NecromancerTitlesChosen of Death, GladiatorHealth8/24Mana0/20Soul10Strength18Dexterity15Constitution--Intellect12Wisdom12Charisma16Leadership2Luck1Reputation15Souls4The newly Chosen of Death. He has yet to do anything truly significant and, so far, most of the world remains oblivious to his existence.

He is recognized as a beginner gladiator with some potential. Many remember his impressive debut in the qualification round and his latest match has people wondering what exotic magic he uses.[/tr]

That might be it, I thought to myself as I looked at my mana points. It looked like there were some detrimental effects to being completely out of mana.

You are suffering from Mana Drain. Vision and reaction time are negatively impacted. All skill checks take a -5 penalty.

Why is that all these windows only pop up after I figure out more or less what’s going on? I wondered. “Bia’keres, how do you feel when you exhaust your magical powers?” I asked.

“I typically fall unconscious once my magical powers are completely exhausted,” she replied.

“I see. I think I’m suffering from that.”

“In that case, you must rest. Sleep and meditation are the best cure,” Bia’keres answered.

I nodded and used the wall to help myself to my feet. “I’ll head back to the room then,” I said. Myrkai stepped forward to take my arm. After a moment, Bia took my other and we proceeded back through the halls, although I don’t remember much of the trip. As soon as we reached the room, I let myself pass out on the bed.

Bia’keres hesitated to touch her master and it wasn’t until Myrkai shamed her by lending him aid that she too took his arm. Touching him seemed to scatter her thoughts like a warm wind blows the fuzzy head off a dandelion. As she carried him down the hallway, she realized for the first time that her master was warm, alive, like any other mortal. He said he was suffering from magic exhaustion. She knew he didn’t practice the same kinds of magic she did, but most disciplines that brought forth magic from within led to complete unconsciousness, not this stupor. Other types of casters, like sorcerers, simply never ran out of power. She had believed he would be like them, but he was nothing like she had expected. Her arm, wrapped around his back, couldn't felt the throb of his heart, yet he was warm and obviously showed the normal signs of exertion. His body gradually cooled as they walked, until it reached a point where it was cool to the touch, but not cold like the stone hallways. Suddenly, they were at the room, and Myrkai was setting him down on the hard bed. She let him go only because the weight was too much to bear from this awkward angle. As she separated from him, it felt like some strange haze over her thinking lifted away and she took two steps to distance herself from him.

“I will go check the schedule for our next fight,” Myrkai said, glancing from me to the master and back. “Will you be alright?”

“Of course,” Bia answered. “I will watch over him while he recovers his strength.” Myrkai simply nodded with that inscrutable cat face and retreated from the room. Darkness fell over them as he left and she could hear her master breathing. She reviewed the battle in her mind.

Her master had taken the most troublesome foe for himself and she had thought that was good. She engaged the spear wielder, planning to stay close and safeguard her master. Then the armored dwarf had knocked Ker’haros to the ground. Her parry had been desperate, but despair was all she felt as the spearman drove her away from the battle. She began to swing wildly, trying to finish the battle soon enough to rescue her master again, but the spearman was baiting her, letter her wear herself out. Her recollections of that time were hazy and scattered and she realized she had truly failed to think.

Of course, all that changed a moment later when her master’s clear and decisive voice cut through the panic. She followed his command instantly and it brought the immediate conclusion to her battle. Once again, her master’s power had increased, but this time even she had been too occupied to see it. Was that deliberate? She was forced to wonder if he had ever been in any true danger. Was he truly so weak he was threatened by a common thug in the arena or was he so powerful he could flawlessly tempt death to maintain that appearance? Yet, clearly he suffered from exhaustion now – a clear sign of weakness – and his warmth…

Bia’keres rose to her feet as her agitation defeated her meditative trance. The small room was just long enough to pace, but as she returned, her eyes fell on his glowing forearm in the darkness. She focused herself and stopped the runaway pattern of thoughts. She sank back into a cross legged position and began to rebuild her fragile meditation. Regardless of anything else, he was her master. His power or lack of power were not her concern, she told herself. Her only task was to serve him better, and clearly she had room for improvement. Losing her head in battle was unacceptable. She settled down to do battle with the emotions that threatened to destroy her peace and calm entirely.

I entered the dream state as I slept, but it wasn’t the boundless and safe meadow or the lazy riverside. The deafening ring of metal on metal and searing heat assaulted me. My sweat dried on my skin before it could register as wet. The dim red glow of fire reflected dimly off soot blackened steel, like the hold of a ship or the belly of an iron castle. The banging paused and I heard the clank of chains before it began again.

Cautiously, I navigated a floor crowded with slagged pieces of metal and castoff scrap around a central pile of metal scrap. As I rounded the mound of jagged scrap, I looked into a scene lit by a roaring furnace. Even more intense heat threatened to dry my eyeballs in my sockets and suck the moisture right out of my lungs. In the fiery glow of the forge, a gnarled and scorched dwarf stood by the side of an oversized anvil that sat directly on the floor and rose past his waist. Thick black chains ran from each limb and connected to the anvil and his hands were manacled to the haft of a cumbersome square hammer with a heavy metal head nearly a foot square. As I watched, a lump of metal spat out of the forge onto the anvil and the dwarf began to furiously hammer it, beating it back even as it seemed to crawl toward him with malevolent life. Soon, it was reduced to a jagged lump of metal and the dwarf swept it off the anvil. It flew in my direction and as it did, the dwarf’s eyes found me.

“Ha! Come to gloat have ye!” he roared. He stomped and brandished his hammer, but the chains confined his movement so much that only the rattle of his bonds threatened me with their noise.

“Why are you here?” I asked. “The other spirits chose beautiful relaxing places to exist.”

“Ye put me here, ye monster,” snarled Bagwil. He slammed his hammer onto the anvil for emphasis. “Chained me here away from my eternal reward!”

“This is just… temporary,” I argued weakly.

“Let me go!” Bagwil yelled. “Let me go NOW!” A lump of semi-molten metal leapt from forge and struck him in the chest and he howled as he beat it off onto the anvil and smashed the self-willed lump into dead scrap. I retreated in the face of his agony and tripped backwards over the jagged hunks of metal littering the floor. As I fell, I longed for the boundless meadow.

Like the passage of a hand before my eyes, I found myself lying on my back staring into the blue blue sky. Nearby I heard amorous giggling.

“Eric, stop. We have a guest,” Samantha giggled.

“He doesn’t count,” Eric answered, eliciting further giggling.

I kept my eyes on the sky, letting the peaceful ambience wash away the rage and heat of the forge that Bagwil had made. Was that the consequence of taking an unwilling soul? He suffered so much for his hatred and rage. I had to figure out how to release him. For all my pretenses, I couldn’t really be such an abhorrent creature that bound the unwilling souls of the dead. Worse yet, what would it take to force an enemy so consumed with hate to grant me its skills and knowledge? I shuddered to think of it, yet I suspected that these idyllic realms created by the souls could be altered by the owner of the real estate. I could probably make them into anything I wanted since this all existed somewhere within my control.

I began to ponder the task of releasing a soul with an urgency my willing souls hadn’t inspired. If I simply released the soul into the material world, I feared it would simply become a ghost, trapped in its last actions. I would need to perform those experiments in the waking world, in any case. Manipulating my powers was mostly beyond me in this pure realm of the mind. There was something I could do here, though.

I willed myself back to the forge, and in the blink of the eye I found myself watching Bagwil fight the forge. With steady concentration, I willed the forge to burn less hotly. I swept the castoff metal and slag out of the floor and refined the hammer in Bagwil’s hands down to the shape of a true crafting hammer. The anvil, too, reduced in size until it stood at a comfortable height. The molten metal that jumped from the forge now landed directly atop the anvil instead of attacking the dwarf. Try as I might, however, the chains that galled Bagwil’s hands and feet could not be removed. I reasoned that they must be the dream representation of his unwilling capture, symbolic of real magical forces beyond the dream state.

“Bagwil,” I said, “If you are a craftsman, craft me a weapon on this anvil. Once you have created a worthy weapon, you will be freed.” I wasn’t certain where the idea came from, but the idea seemed right. Afterall, Bagwil had created his prison, so to speak, so he would need to be willing to leave it when the time came.

Bagwil glared at me from under a soot darkened brow. “Very well. I will make you a weapon as my wergild and when I have finished I shall go on to the lands of my people.”

I nodded solemnly to acknowledge our pact. With a blink, I slipped into dreamless slumber, but I would soon awaken.