#ghost forge

O man, if you want to be a creator, Then forge ghosts for yourself That are not born of hatred, Nor of base greed! Forge ghosts for yourself only out of love, Out of truth and light, Then you will not fear the ghost smiths In eternity!

White Auracite.

“U-unhand me!”

-Tyranel

"And after the occupation?" the woman asks, her interest sincere. His words carried a weight of truth most would find uncomfortable, "I had no reason to remain there. I have no reason to remain at all." "So you left," the older man interjects carelessly. "That's the way of it," the younger man confirms, "I was on my way out for good before the two of you came along." The woman thins her lips, pressure draining them of their color. It was not sadness in her eyes but understanding. Distaste leaves the older man's lips in a tsk. "What a waste." The younger man, pale from the slow decay of malnutrition glares at him furiously. Even in this state of neglect, there was a strength in him. He slams both fists into the table rattling empty plates and cutlery, "They took everything. Everything." There is venom in these words. The older man's lips curl into a smile, "So, you aren't hopeless." He rises from his seat, and gestures with a hand at the ransacked inn around them, notably the week-old corpses. "I can clean all of this up. A fresh start." The woman knits her brow, looking from one man to the other. Whether she disapproves of the offer or the fact it might be accepted is unclear. The young man turns away, "I don't deserve that." "I'll be the judge of that, it is after all my money." The older man raises the handkerchief back to his face to stifle the stench of death. It did not seem to bother the woman. "Fine. What'll you have of me then?" "There is a suit of armor..."

The room is dimly lit and heavy with smoke. The white noise of a distant crowd drowns out any ambiance. Around a masterfully carved table sit several people in overstuffed chairs. Man in Blue, "We cannot allow this sort of thing. Violence like that has no place, not even here. These are honest men -- gambling men, but honest." Bejeweled Woman, "I agree. We lost at least six fighters out there! The people aren't going to like their favorites getting taken out permanently. Prematurely." Man in Blue, "So what do we have to do to get this under control?" Cowled Man, "What can we do? Rules weren't written for fights like this. Barring some sort of accident we cannot force him to pull his fighter." Bejeweled Woman, "Then perhaps some sort of accident should be arranged." Man in Blue, "Yes, let's do that then. Anything to--" Bejeweled Woman, "What the hell is that?" At the behest of the Cowled Man a finely dressed servant pulls back a thick curtain revealing the arena below and a sea of shouting, faceless figures. Man in Blue, "We've lost another, we have got to put a stop to this!" Cowled Man, "Are you out of your mind? Look at them, they fucking LOVE it." Bejeweled Woman, "Sir..." Cowled Man, "Do you disagree?" Bejeweled Woman, "No sir, it's just..." Cowled Man, "It's just nothing, then. Raise the pot. See this man's paid for the entertainment he's provided." Man in Blue, "But if it becomes a problem?" Cowled Man, "Then we'll solve it. Pay the man."

Unlike other gladiators who kept their armor on site this new contender came prepared; moving through the crowded walkways in full plate mail as if they were street clothes. An obvious stranger with no inclination to fit in. A boy no older than thirteen struggles to hand the new gladiator their axe, it weighs easily as much as he does but the gladiator handles it without issue. The ease of repetition. Stepping into the sands for the first time was always hit or miss. The nerves of men had a way of either steeling them for the challenge ahead, creasing their brow and thinning their lips... or turning their bowels to liquid. One made for a good show, the other? Not so much. This new contender was impossible to read. A book with no words written on the pages. Concealed under unmoving metal; they just stood there, looming. Waiting. Large spiked sabatons sinking into the sand with the passing time. The crowd knows not what to do with this. A silence falls over them. They can neither cheer on a brave man nor laugh at one who has shat himself. It's an uneasy staring contest with no winners. Who the hell is this guy?