RFC-Mini Arc 2: Elven Garde-02 (Patreon)

The press of tree trunks faded, giving way to a clearing of ankle-high grasses. Unlit standing torches formed a loose ring, which the crowd of bodies followed. Dozens of young men and the occasional women, from all parts of the Grand Hall. There were those dressed in the loose clothing of laborers, the light armor of the foundation acolytes, and the colored robes of casters. A strange gathering under any circumstances but these were the strangest of situations.

The crowd roared as two men in the ring created by their bodies thrashed on the ground, grappling and throwing blows for all they were worth. Both were splattered with blood from a handful of superficial cuts and their bare chests showed many fresh bruises.

One of the fighters landed a good blow, stunning his opponent. He took the opportunity to scramble to his feet, mercilessly kicking the other man. The crowd grew louder, excitement and outrage mixing in unintelligible screams as they sensed a finale to the struggle.

Callan took a quick glance at the fighters before turning away, scanning the crowd. His target was quite conspicuous and he spotted the man in less than a moment, elbowing through the pressing bodies.

His target was fully engaged in the fight and it took a stronger elbow to catch his attention. Lucius turned, flashing a smile that was almost too wide. His long, platinum blonde hair was free from its usual tie and wild from being jostled back and forth, its unruly appearance matching his carefree demeanor.

“Callan!” He swung a large arm, meaning to put it over Callan’s shoulder, but Callan smoothly side-stepped the limb, glaring at its owner.

Lucius laughed it off. “Come on.” He led the way through the crowd, his broad shoulders making it easy for Callan to follow. They broke free of the bodies, approaching a group huddled near the trees. Allies, though Callan thought of them as such in the loosest sense. Their cooperation was a matter of survival, as their kind was not warmly welcomed.

“I see you didn’t run,” a snide voice called out.

“Micah,” Callan greeted drily, careful to keep his disdain from his voice. “Why would I run? I have been waiting for this day for a long time.”

“Never seen someone so eager to get destroyed. That kind of hobby can be dangerous.”

“Your hobby of running your mouth is far more dangerous.”

“Now, now, boys!” Lucius threw an arm around Micah’s shoulders. He made to do the same to Callan but was dodged again. “You can’t start any trouble with him today. He’s going to need all his energy to challenge the champion of Elven Garde!”

Elven Garde. Callan didn’t know who came up with the name but he heard it was a play on words, formed from the ‘en garde’ used in certain schools of swordsmanship before a duel and a shortening of elven garden, a tribute to the fighting club’s organizer.

A magical place, even more so than the Hall, Callan thought. For it truly was a place of equal opportunity. In Elven Garde, someone’s worth wasn’t determined by their birth, their amount or lack of talent. Here, as long as one was willing to bleed for it, they could become strong. In the ring, only ability mattered. And to the victor, gold and glory awaited.

Lucius introduced Callan to Elven Garde, pulling him aside while picking up an order for his father. Callan hadn’t believed him at first. Free training from one of the Hall’s instructors? Duels for gold, no strings attached? It sounded too good to be true and he was no fighter. But…gold was the strongest of temptations. Strong enough that he followed a man he barely knew to the foundation fields.

That decision had changed his life forever.

It had been several months since he discovered the club and tonight was special. Once a month, anyone could challenge the current champion. If they won, they received 300 gold crowns, and another hundred every month they defended their title. Tuition for an initiate was 1000 gold crowns. Not to mention the money made from bets on normal fights, special challenges, and the odd job. Truly, Elven Garde was the answer to the common man’s prayers, but that wasn’t why Callan was ready to risk life and limb.

The roar of the crowd reached an all-time high as the current fight ended. The winner circled the crowd, laughing triumphantly with his arms raised. His friends pulled him to the side while a few others went to help his opponent, who lied unconscious on the grass.

Both were taken to another part of the treeline where a large tent was set up. They stayed for barely a minute before coming out, the winner looking energetic while carrying a small bag filled with his gold for winning, the loser stomping across the grass with a lowered head and deep scowl. Callan didn’t have eyes for either, gaze solely focused on the third figure to leave the tent from the moment her hand brushed aside the tent’s flap.

Lady Kierra Atainna, the organizer and center of Elven Garde. A foundation instructor. A powerful caster. A princess, if the rumors were to be believed.

The elf didn’t conform to the usual standards of beauty. She didn’t have the slim waist, rounded cheeks, and dainty hands of the maidens featured in the portraits he’d seen. The closest she came to a Harvest beauty was her fair hair, spun silver falling past her shoulders like a waterfall and artfully framing her face.

She had an imposing height, all the more impressive for being unaided by the heels women of means tended to favor. Her powerful limbs resembled that of a laborer but her unblemished skin, green as it may be, and neat appearance would stop anyone from making that mistake. Tight leathers showed off her supple curves, which softened the definition in her arms. Sometimes, she carried weapons, a knife on her hip or a bow and quiver, but they were missing today, lessening the air of danger she radiated like other noblewomen radiated grace.

Green eyes flecked with gold passed over him as she scanned the crowd. Callan knew that the brief moment when her gaze landed on him meant nothing, knowing that she probably hadn’t even recognized him amongst the many bodies, but his heart cared little for reason. It thundered in his chest, squeezing in tight pain as it urged him to move closer to its desire.