Bravo

[Cen]

As the scream rang through the small fishing village, a quiet terror came across those who'd assembled for the fight. Cen wrenched himself away from Desmond and took up his sword again. He rushed forward, pushing through the sea of fishermen towards the source of the noise. He turned between two houses and saw a young girl lying on the ground bleeding profusely, and standing over her was a man whose skin was almost devoid of color. His face showed no expression, his eyes were vacant of anything save an animalistic fury. The smell that spread throughout the air was one Cen had only smelled before from putrid pigs from nearby farms, but this was far worse. Around the man's head flew more flies than you could kill with the belt of all the fat men in Lycia. The young rider had a horrifying realization, the man was dead, and he wasn't alone.

Rushing forward, Cen rammed his sword through the stomach of the dead man and drove his legs forward, pushing the dread waste of a body away from the girl. The beast didn't seem to register the blade in its gut, only the young man who had thrown him between him and his prey. His head shot forwards, like he was trying to get at Cen's throat with his teeth. Luckily he was too far away. The monster moved slowly at the beginning of a motion, but it built up an incredible momentum that made it appear rather shift, and Cen doubted that he'd have avoided the yellow teeth in the rotten gums save the great distance between them. The Cornwellian wrenched his blade back from the stomach of the vile thing that shambled across the soil of the coastal town.

By this time, a few of the fisherman had decided to take up arms, and they came with an array of fishing spears, old rusted pikes, and hatchets, hewing the limbs of the few monsters that had come with the one in front of Cen. There were only six of the disgusting beings, but they were going down hard. There were more than a few cries from the small skirmish, and none were from the dead men who'd managed to be on their feet by some black magic. None of the untrained men fared as well as the former squire. He called out above the din created by the grunts of effort and wails of pain, "Form up! Shoulder to shoulder with me!" Most of the men listened, about eight had come to help him, and five now stood with the young man. One had already fallen, but the other two were too deep in their fight that they did not come to stand next to him or the other men of their village. Both were brought down by the grinding nails and gnashing teeth of the beasts that stood against them who'd fallen on them together.

However, when they turned on Cen and his wall of untrained poorly equipped old men, their battle grew harder. The one who Cen had stabbed in the beginning came first at him, and Cen dug his sword into the things meaty forearm, and as he brought his sword back, the corpse made him duck a blow from its fierce hand. As Cen rose, so did his sword, and he sent the tip through the throat of the beast. Instead of clawing once more at the lime haired youth, the hideous corpse clawed at his Arming Sword's blade, but after brief few moments slunk to the ground. As one other man of the town fell, the monster he'd been fighting came at Cen, a hatchet stuck in its shoulder. With the arm it could move, the monster grabbed Cen's shoulder without the sword in hand, and dug its overgrown nails into the former squire's skin. The young man gritted his teeth to stifle a yelp, but he kept himself moving.

The young Cornwellian brought his sword up against the things stomach in a diagonal slash at the same time as a fishing spear drove through its hips. Blows coming at the same time in such crucial areas forced the monster to stumble, and Cen was able to capitalize, he brought his sword up, and swung it with all his might against the neck of the beast. He got about halfway through before his sword stopped cutting. The dead man died once more, and as it slumped on the ground the rider's face twisted at the vile stench. His sword was coated in a thick black sludge that looked to have the texture of cold blood. By the time the second beast downed by his blade had fell, the others had been overwhelmed, and the little "battle" was over.

The lime haired man dropped his sword. There would be time to retrieve it and clean it later, but for now he needed both hands free, especially with his now damaged shoulder. He walked over to the girl, who gripped her side and breathed through frightened whines. Cen scooped her up, she wasn't quite heavy, but she wasn't exactly positioning herself to make carrying her easy. The young rider carried her to the center of the town, and sat her down near where the other children had been gathered by their parents. As a few men and women gathered around her, Cen noticed another gathering of the townspeople. As he approached, Osmant looked him over and said, "Ah, hello Captain, that was rather gallant." "It needed to be done." Cen could always easily see over crowds, and he could now. THe townsfolk had managed to cut off the arm of one of the monsters, one that Cen hadn't seen, and tied it up. Five strong men now held it down. Cen grabbed a knife from Martin, who didn't protest.

The former squire forced his way through the people gathered around the dead man. They stared at it in a mix of horro and awe, but a few of them discussed what to do with it. Do with it. When Cen was a boy, a neighboring farm had gotten a sheep hound. After a few years, the hound had gone rabid, and broken into his family's pasture. It had attacked a colt, and his father had been cross, and managed to corner the dog in a shed. As a boy, Cen had begged his father to spare the dog, it was only an animal after all, it didn't know what it was doing. His father had sat him down and explained to him that the dog wasn't a sane animal anymore, it was a danger to itself and others, and that when an animal went rabid putting it down was what you did. Despite the halfhearted protests, the adult Cen dug the knife into the throat of the dead man, and let the body hit the ground. A man from the town said, "What was that? Some wizard coulda looked at him to figure out why all these bodies are comin' back from the dead." "A man died a long time ago and his family buried him. That was a rabid animal."

Cen pushed his way back through the crowd and handed Martin his knife once more. He heard the wails of a man and a woman, and looked over where the parents of the girl held her. He hurried over, and realized there wasn't any chance of a healer or even a medicine man in a town like this, and the girl would likely die within the hour. Cen knelt down in front of them, his mind racing. "My horse is a powerful beast, I can get her to Badon as quick as I can, and take her to a healer there. Do you mind if I take her." One of the other men who'd come to stand by the door gave Cen a look then went to untie Thunder. Both parents still wept, but after a moment the mother said, "Please, save her." Cen scooped her up once more, relieved to feel the girl breath, even if the breath was weak.

As he hurried her towards Thunder, who looked incredibly stressed after being bound up during the fight, he looked down at her face. Save her. The girl let out a whimper, and Cen placed his hand on her wound to apply pressure. Save her. His legs pounding, Cen made it to Thunder, who was done being unbound. Save her. The girls breathing slowed to a near halt, and all the color had left her face. SAVE HER!

There came over Cen a great draining, like he'd hit a brick wall and suddenly it was as if he'd worked in a field for three days without sleep. Between his hand and the girl's wound there was a flicker of white light tat shone through his fingers, and as the Cornwellian went to his knees, the girl from the fishing village in Badon opened her eyes. As he fell on his chest, panting, she managed to push him off of her onto his back. Cen couldn't move, his breath was gone, and he felt the world spinning around him. Desmond, Osmant, Martin, and the girl were suddenly standing over him as his eyes drifted shut.

[CEN SACRIFICE USED]

[Cen]

Two days later, Cen woke up. He was in a little hut of the fishing village, laying on one of two beds, the smaller of the two. It had been daytimewhen he woke up, and he still didn't have enough energy to move very much. He was in small clothes that weren't his, which meant that he'd been changed by someone else, which was a frightening prospect. It wasn't long before the young girl who he'd somehow saved entered the hut, and ecstatically related what had happened to him. After his collapse Osmant and the others had said they would return once word came that Cen was able to walk, and the merchant had offered to pay anyone who would put him up. Instead, the girl's family had offered to do it free of charge, since Cen had saved her life. Somehow. So now that he was awake they'd send a messenger, but first he would have to eat.

A few days later, Cen was back in the barracks of Osmant's home. However, he was given one of the rooms to himself. One of the other warriors had left, and Osmant had already begun to spread the tale of how Cen had 'commanded' the untrained fishermen to defeat a 'battalion' of risen bodies. As Cen rode Thunder through the streets he heard whispers of "The Knight with healing hands." Cen wasn't so sure about that. He wasn't a Knight, first of all, but he also wasn't sure claiming he had magic hands was fair. In the days of waiting for Osmant and the others, he'd attempted to make whatever it was that he'd done for that girl happen again. For an hour a day, he had tried to to focus, tried to scream in his mind to create whatever energy had passed through him into his hands, but he couldn't find it. Whatever muscle he'd flexed, or part of his mind he'd reached into, it was far away.

For a week, Cen was allowed to eat in the actual dining room after the family ate along with Orlando, Brocktree, and Slagar. He was given more than the rest of them, in interest that he would get back to fighting shape. His short coma state had thinned him out a bit, but besides that, Osmant had a very specific vision in mind. Cen wasn't going to fight for three weeks, and in that time he would be doing a very intense training regiment on top of a heavy diet. He said that for Cen to become the heroic up and comer, he would need to look the part, and part of that would be adding some weight to his wiry frame.

In truth Cen didn't mind. He'd always hated being called wiry, so if it worked he'd be able to avoid that, and if it didn't it was time he and Thunder weren't out in the wild scrapping for their next meals. He'd exercise for two hours in the early morning and three hours at noon, but any other time was his to explore the city or read any of the books in Osmant's expansive library. He read a number of books on the history of Ilia and Lycia, as well as an epic poem about the Scouring, and tried to get through a book on scientific theorems about the working of the universe.

Today however, he was walking the streets of Badon, with his sword slung over his back in the fashion some of the men in town carried. It was a wonderful day outside, the sun was high, and it wasn't quite as cold as it had been in the earlier part of the week. He was walking through an artisan district with a few fresh fruit stands scattered about. Lovely day to eat a peach.

[Cen]

Walking away from a stall that had the gall to say that a peach could be worth two silvers, Cen bit into a peach that was worth one at best, his purse only a silver lighter. It was delicious, even though peaches hadn't been his favorite fruit as a child, the juices dribbled down his chin far faster than he could lap them up, and some dripped to the ground or fell on his breeches. He made short work of it as he stepped in between the bustling crowd and the hurrying mass. His sword hit his back as he walked, bouncing lightly against his jerkin with each step.

A group of children ran up around him, and the former squire pressed his hands over the pockets of his trousers, guarding them from any sticky fingers the children might have possessed. As they had passed him by, Cen felt guilty. It was wrong to assume something of someone he knew nothing about. Plus they were children, if you couldn't trust children you couldn't trust anyone. Cen didn't want to be some jaded old man, paranoid that everyone with a smile on his lip was a conman. If he was meant to be a kind man, an honest man, he needed to believe that those traits could be present in someone else.

So without his hands covering his pockets, Cen made his way forward, and finally saw the sign he'd been looking for, a hanging sign outside a building with a tankard of overflowing mead carved into it. Across the flagon was a lance with a maiden's favor tied just below the spearhead. It wasn't any specific tavern he was looking for, just any tavern that he could find. This one just happened to make him think of jousting, which was always a happy corner to turn his mind to.

The tall young man quietly entered the tavern, trying not to draw any attention to himself. As usual, his height did just that anyway. He went to a seat at an empty table, and waited for someone to come by and ask him what he'd like to drink. They took their time, but the barkeep eventually sent the bar maid over toward the former squire. She was a plain woman, maybe two years younger than his mother, but she had a kind smile. She showed it to Cen as she said, "What'll it be sweety?" "I'll just have a whiskey, please." The woman nodded and hurried of, and the Cornwellian finally got a chance to look around the bar as he waited. The tavern had at least one person at each table, a few were full, but most weren't. There was the familiar ding of a tavern, but it wasn't quite as loud as some the young man had entered.

The woman came back and sat a spotted glass in front of him, and with a, "Thank you," the former squire pressed a copper into her hand. Taking a sip, the young man couldn't resist cringing a little bit. Living at Osmant's meant that he could only drink wine, and it made sense that his taste had softened a bit. When he set his glass down, he heard a woman's voice say, "Oh Elimine, a spider. Squish it Herbert." Cen quickly turned and saw a man lifting his fist above a table. "Stop!"

[Cen]

"What?" The man, Herbert presumably, gave Cen a look that almost said, "No-one tells me when to and when not to squish a spider, except of course my wife. She gets a pass, it was in our vows." However, he didn't say anything else, he just furrowed his brow. He was stocky, even in his seat Cen could tell he was short, but he had the shoulders and arms of a shoulders of a sailor, with a neck so thick it was hardly there. His wife was about the same size as her husband, maybe a few inches taller. Neither looked particularly bright in their buggy black eyes.

Cen stood up, and started walking over to the table. "You shouldn't squish her. Ah grew up on a farm, we had those little things all over, they aint poisonous. So you saw her, she isn't hurtin' anything. You can just pick her up and take her outside." Cen was on the otherside of the table, looking down at the couple from Badon. "If you'd like, I can take her out for you."

The couple stared up at him, blank faced, and Cen was pretty sure the man was going to try to punch him. However, instead the pair broke into a fit of hysterics. Hooting, hollering, and slapping their knees, the two carried on long enough that a few others in the tavern managed to laugh without the context of what was happening. As their laughter died down, the man looked back up at Cen, and said, "What kinda man gives a s**t about bugs?" "Well men who didn't grow up as city boys I'd imagine."

"What do you mean by that?" In a flash, the jovial look was gone, and anger had returned to the man's bulging eyes. "If you'd grown up on a farm, you'd know how useful a spahder could be. Mosquitos, horseflies, all sorta thing that does a lot more harm than a spider does end up in its web. So you learn to deal with havin' a few spiders around." The man looked up at Cen, and even those out of earshot to Cen's calm voice could pick up that the situation was becoming less humorous. Still entertaining perhaps, but not funny.

Why was Cen doing this? When did he become Cen son of Cedidale, Champion of the Arachnid? It had been an impulse, an instinctual shout that led to his eventual need to keep defending the spider to avoid further embarrassment. Of course, he was simply walking a path to an entirely different way to make himself look like a massive idiot. "Watch your mouth boy, I know what spiders do." "Of course, didn't mean to insult you, just don't see the reason t' hurt that spider when you can always just let it go." The man stood up. "I don't like your tone. My wife doesn't like spiders."

Cen looked at the man's wife, who was now smirking, then down at the man again. He was one of the shortest grown men Cen had ever met, barely over five feet if that, and almost as wide. "Then I'll take it out." The Cornwellian leaned down and scooped the spider into his hand, but as he rose, the man swung. With a crack to his face, Cen went down, his hands hitting the ground as well as the rest of his body. He squashed the spider.

[Cen]

Rolling himself onto his chest, Cen lifted himself off the ground with a simple push, and then quickly found his feet. The blow rang in his ears, his head was a symphony of poorly made flutes being squeaked through at once. The man tried to grab at Cen's collar, but the Cornwellian broke the grip with a swing of his arm inside the man's reach, and by simply pulling away. It was a maneuver taught to him when he was only a boy, first reporting to Laus' basic training for their Cavalry. The former squire could still slip into the men he'd been ages ago, when the moment called for it. At the moment, it migt call for all of them, he needed to beat a man in a fist fight despite the fact that he was so exhausted that he could barely lift his arms above his elbows. It would take form, pragmatism, and all around brutality to come out of this with his reputation in tact. That was a very important part of the man that he was now. Hot meals might very well stop coming if Cen were to sully his reputation by losing a bar fight to anyone less impressive than Rayl Torien himself. The Knight Commander of Pherae had probably never had to worry over his 'reputation'.

Cen didn't have time to think. The shorter man threw another punch, this one at his gut, and the lime haired youth was forced to fight the pain and lift his left arm in time to turn the blow away from himself. The man's face was lit with shock for a moment, but before his face could morph to betray anger or fear, Cen pulled a move that had been used on him by the tracker hired by the fox in their second scrape. He rammed his shoulder into the man's nose, and a stream of blood erupted from the sailor's nostrils as he reeled away from Cen. A bit of the blood flew onto Cen's shirt, just bellow his collar. Before the man could recover, Cen sent a jab at the man's face, right at his eye. The feeling that came from the connection wasn't what it usually was. It used to be that when Cen fought he was like a mongoose, hitting a few times faster than the other man, hopefully enough so that he could come out on top. This punch was thrown like a blow from the horns of a ram, and the man reacted much like one does when a ram's horn connects with his face. He went down, hard.

The sailor's wife was at his side then, asking him in a wailing voice if he was alright. The man simply lay on his back, and moved his hand to his face. Cen looked down at the man, and suddenly a great well of shame burst in his stomach, and he felt awful. Turning, the ruder hurried out of the tavern. He didn't even finish his whiskey.

---

When he returned to Osmant's Orlando happened upon him. He pointed with a thick finger at the blood stain, and raised an eyebrow. "Yours?" Cen simply shook his head. "Good man." Then he walked off. Cen didn't feel like a particularly good man.

[Cen]

It was another party. Another extravagant, marvelous, indulgent, hedonistic party in the garden of the Marquess' younger brother. It was there that Cen was to, as Osmant put it, "make his grand reappearance." Or something like that. In truth, Cen didn't care what they called it. He knew what he was here to do. He and some other idiot were going to fight each other until one of them either gave up, went limp, or bled on someone's Nabatan rug that had cost more than Cen's families farm. The way good men fought each other for money. Sometimes, good people would need to fight for entertainment, so that when they needed to fight for something true and right, they were in good condition. At least that's what Cen told himself. That he was hurting people now to save them later. He wasn't sure if he believed that.

The party was more than a bit ridiculous. It made Osmant's house seem tame by comparison. There were mountain like structures, heaps really, of different finger foods stacked on plates in such a way that it seemed to take one would make the whole thing topple over. There were all types of berries, black, ras, straw, and blue, and then there were both black and green olives for anyone who wanted a good ol' fashioned savory treat. There were other things too, but Cen didn't recognize any of them. The Strawberries and olives would have seemed upmarket enough for him, and he managed to scarf down three green olives and a handful of strawberries on his way in trailing behind his benefactor, the man's family, and Deyna, Osmant's true 'champion.' The man was only about four inches shorter than Cen, and had an incredibly dangerous walk that conveyed that his lithe frame was dangerous. On his hip he had a long dolch and a parrying dagger, and from what Orlando and Brocktree had told Cen, the man had fought fifty battles and never lost, his career starting in Caledonia, where they'd called him Taggerung. It meant 'To stalk in the dark.'

As they walked Cen passed three male peacocks. Three. Male Peacocks. There was literally no reason for there to ever be a Peacock in your house. Peacocks had no practical use. Their meat was no better than any other bird, their feathers could be used for fashion Cen supposed, but there was no reason to keep them around for that, and their eggs didn't seem like they'd be edible. Plus these were all male Peacocks. It was like having diamonds that walked around and intimated your guests.

There was a five piece music group, a viola, two violins, a cello, and a bass. They were playing a song that you could hear in any tavern around Badon, it seemed like a sort of Mascot song for the city. Their version came without any limmerick style lyrics and was so slow it felt more like a very sad somber number. About ships sinking at sea and leaving young wive's with tears in their eyes. Eventually, Cen was told to stay where he was, as Osmant's family went to socialize. Even Deyna left, to begin chatting up some of the nobles. It seemed that was the special treatment you got if you were the best fighter for the noble you represented. So Cen stood, silently, rocking on his feet.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself." Cen turned, and saw a familiar Pink haired woman popping a strawberry in her mouth a few feet from him.

[Cen]

"I am." Cen smiled. The woman frowned and tilted her head, "I was being sarcastic." Cen's smile widened. "Oh, I knew you were. What I meant was, I am now." Her frown slid into a toothy grin. "Ah, 'the ladykiller's' famous wit." Cen's smiled slid into a thin lipped frown. "That name wasn't my idea, ah'm sorry you got roped into that." She shook her head at that. "Oh, I don't mind. A noble's daughter being part of the story of a gladiator? Why I can see why it's so interesting. I dare say I'm excited to see how that particular story plays out next." Cen's smile returned. Before he said anything, she stopped a man carrying a tray that held a bottle of red wine and about six tin flutes. She took one and as the servant began to pour her one, lightly placed her fingers on the handle of another, looking up at the tall rider she smiled again and asked, "A drink?"

Cen shook his head, "Not before a match, no thank you. Maybe if it were a white, then i may as well drink water." The woman's smile remained as the servant carried on and she took a sip from her cup. "Do all gladiators call their bouts matches?" The lime haired farm boy shook his head again, "No, most of the ones I know call them fights. I think I'm the only one who calls them matches." She looked up at him, and tilted her head to the side once more. "And why do you call them that?" "Well it... it sounds a little nicer." She smiled at that, a small smile, the one most people seemed to do when they heard what they wanted to about something they wanted to purchase, then all of a sudden looked over at a group of women around her age. She turned back to Cen and said, "Well my gladiator, best of luck in your match, I'm afraid I have to go and socialize with some of the other members of the party to keep the family in good standing. If I don't laugh at every noble's joke it could provoke a civil war or so my mother holds." She turned to go, but Cen said, "Wait. Would you tell me your name?" She turned around, and said, "I'm Aelina." "It's nice to meet you, Aelina." Her smile was back, but she was quickly gone.

Cen was back to standing in silence.

However, before too long the music had stopped, and the host was at the center of the party clapping his hands. "Ah yes yes, what a lovely night tonight isn't it! My family and I are so pleased that you all could be here, and for that, we are ready to grant you some lively entertainment. We have for you two fights between gladiators, only the best for my guests tonight! That's right, these are no new faces, they are the men you've been hearing about, here for you to watch as they attempt to best each other in one on one combat. So please, Tebaud, Osmant, introduce your first men." He quickly motioned, and the two men of wealth came foreward from their spots at the party. A short man with fiery hair holding a short spear quickly went and stood next to the other man, and Osmant motioned to Cen. In his heavy cloak that covered his body down to his knees, Cen made his way to stand next to his sponsor.

Tebaud stepped forward and said, "Friends, I bring you two champions tonight, one a former champion of our own arena, the other a victor in the Etrurian slave pits. The latter is my first combatant, Aodh, a man who fought hard enough to win his freedom, and then wanted to fight some more!" There was applause from everyone watching, They looked on with the expectation of a brutal victory for the shorter combatant. However, Osmant cleared his throat, and the clapping stopped. "Yes, yes, the slave pits, always a treat to have a victor, of course it would be unlikely to see a loser from the pits appear here in Badon." A laugh ran through the crowd, and Tebaud looked displeased. Aodh showed nothing on his face to betray how he felt. "However, I have someone who's made a name for himself here. Cen, the man with honeyed words. Cen, the brawler. Cen, the monster slayer. Cen, the savior of a little girls life. Tonight, I have the long limbed Cornwellian here to fight for you!" With that, as he'd been instructed, Cen let the robe fall from his shoulders.

He was only wearing boots and trousers, which he thought was foolish, as it meant he's probably get cut more times than could be stitched up at the party. However, the full view of the change in his physique was only possible without his shirt. He was far thicker than he'd been before, his chest, back, and shoulders thick with chords of muscle. His arms were long enough that by comparison they didn't look like most heavier men's but they were still more impressive than they'd been before Osmant had demanded he change his diet and training. His stomach was flat now, and though it didn't show it, Cen's middle was much stronger than it had been before, even with all his time in the saddle.

The people in the crowd certainly seemed shocked. They'd all heard that he was on the lanky side, but the man in front of them was thick, he was what they likely pictured when they heard the tale of some great warrior or knight. It had taken time for Cen to get quite this look, three weeks had become four, then five, and then seven. However, it seemed to have worked, the bets being placed seemed to switch sides.

As the men who'd produced the fighters walked back towards the spectators, Cen made eye contact with Aelina, and saw that she was eyeing him with another smile. She didn't avert her gaze from his shoulders. However, the Cornwellian was quickly forced to shift towards the other man, and as he took his stance, catching his lance once thrown by Deyna, he nodded at the other fighter. To his surprise, the other man nodded back. "Begin!"

[Cen]

Cen and the other man were at each other in a flash. Both closing the distance between them in seconds, Cen was the one who had to begin his footwork first. His lance was far longer, and that meant that he was at and advantage at range, and that if his opponent got past the head of the young rider's spear, he would neutralize Cen to basically fighting with a staff. So as the other man came on, Cen stepped across himself, wheeling about, trying to keep away from the man as the fiery redhead tried to close the distance. Their lances clashed, but nothing serious as of yet. They were mostly testing the metal of the other, the blades of their weapons ringing as they toyed with each other, Cen batting away Aodh's lazy thrusts, and Aodh parrying any feint thrown by Cen.

After a few brief exchanges, the Cornwellian slowed his pace for only a few brief steps, and allowed the shorter man to close a bit more of the distance. However, he picked up his speed again just as quick, and was now able to keep the man on the run, as the little man tried to backpedal to keep his chest away from the tip of Cen's lance. However, Cen was only on the offensive for a few seconds, the short Islander managed to choke up on his spear and bat the taller man's own weapon away so hard that the former squire was sent reeling, following his lance with his feet to avoid losing his grip. With that, the man came inside of the range of the other gladiator, and Cen was at a disadvantage.

Aodh aimed a thrust at Cen's ribs, just above the last rib, and it was thrown with such ferocity that it could have caused serious permanent damage if it had landed. However, the taller man was quick on his feet, and danced away with a quick hop over to his right foot, which was still extended to follow the path of his lance. He brought the long lance back, and dashed the man's spear away as Aodh pulled his own spear back, and the man twisted at his hips. Cen then brought his spear around backwards, ramming the butt of his lance against the other man's temple. This sent the shorter lancer back on his heels, as he fought to keep his balance. The lime haired rider was certain he saw stars dance throught the man's foggy eyes as he backpedaled. Cen still came on, bringing his lance to the man's left like he was going to pierce his shoulder, but moving it in a circular motion over the man's head and aiming a glancing blow across the man's ribs. Aodh, even dazed would have been able to block or turn the first blow, but the second was unexpected, and he was too slow to stop it.

As the redhead's face twisted in pain, Cen rushed forward, taking a lazy thrust from the other man that turned off his shoulder, leaving a red gash and a trickle of blood down his back, but the former squire got in close then swept his lance at the short man's legs, and sent him crashing to the floor. Before he could move, Cen pointed his lance tip at Aodh's throat, and stepped on the spear. "Winner, Osmant and Cen!"

[Cen]

To a sea of applause and smiles, Cen lifted his spear from the throat of his opponent. He offered the Islander his hand, and with a look of surprise the man took it, and Cen pulled him up. That got even more applause. The Cornwellian leaned down and picked up the other man's lance, and that got the same wave of applause. That wave made Cen blush. Both fighters walked back to the crowd as their sponsors came forward, and as Cen went, he saw a smile from Aelina, and he let a small one answer her back. Deyna clapped Cen on the shoulder as he passed him, but the older fighter was already beginning his stalk towards the front of the crowd. The lime haired rider took up the same spot he'd stood earlier, but before he got there he grabbed a small handful of strawberries that he was sure no one would miss, and took a flute of champagne when it was offered. He was worth it.

He took a quick sip, feeling the bubbles of the light wine as it trickled down his throat like a series of small bursts, but quickly his attention was taken up by the second round of introductions, to the main event. Once more, Osmant was forced to go second. "Well, I hope not to disappoint a second time!" There was a small laugh, but Cen looked over at Aodh, who was looking at his feet with an angry look on his face. "Well, I bring to you a legend of the arena, a man who retired undefeated, who reigned supreme for two years. Here he is, the Bernese Leviathan, the Black Dragon himself, Crixus!" The crowd gasped, and from the servants door to the house walked a man in a suit of deadly plate, he had on one hand a tower shield, and in the other a tall poleaxe the size of a Cen's lance. He was massive himself, as tall as Deyna but far far broader. He was a tower of steel.

Neither Osmant nor Deyna looked at all phased by what they saw or heard. When Crixus stood behind his sponsor, Osmant stepped forward with a sly smile across his pale face, and said, "Ah, what a surprise. I am honored that Tebaud would deem me worthy of his finest fighter. It would be a stroke of luck that I also offer the best man in my house, Deyna, the Taggerung, the deadliest man in all of Badon!" Deyna stalked forward, and stood behind Osmant. As both men began to move back towards the crowd, "Wait. Since we have a legend and a man so deadly, perhaps you could treat our guests to a fight to the death?" The very same crowd that had applauded Cen being polite to Aodh now clapped and hooted for the chance to watch a man die. From the dark case of armor, Crixus said, "I accept."

Osmant looked far less sure. However, before he could answer Deyna said, "Aye." The crowd erupted once more, and the host clapped his hands and rubbed them together then shouted, "Begin!"

[Cen]

From the sound of the B in Begin, Deyna was moving like a flash. Before any in the crowd had blinked, and before the N had sounded to end the word, he was next to the fighter encased in his shell, and swinging his dolch overhead with the ferocity of a man driving an axe into an enemy, he aimed for what he must have observed as a weak point in the other man's armor, the spot just above the elbow on his axe side. Though Cen could tell that the Islander had swung the sword with enough strength to sever an unprotected arm, the grim man's face conveyed no more emotion than one would if they were caught in a light drizzle. His face looked nothing like any man Cen had ever fought or watched fight before. There was no worry, no anger. He was simply nonplussed by the fact that he was here fighting for his life. His lips were thin and straight, his eyes like a river that was between tranquil and raging. Deyna was not a monster, he was not embroiled in the fight, he was simply calm. But there was always a calm before the storm.

With startling speed for the thick armor he sported, Crixus turned enough that his shield would have hit Deyna full in his torso if the man had allowed his blow to connect, and the Islander was forced to turn his blade and leap back hard to avoid being taken in the stomach with a blow that could have crushed his ribs. Deyna moved back to avoid any following blow from the man's axe, but his feet never stopped moving. Keeping distance between the two, the Islander circled around him with lightning speed, forcing Crixus to narrow his stance as he attempted to turn with enough speed to follow his opponent. However, with each step by either, the gap widened And before long, Deyna was bolting in to the broader fighter's range, same expression of calm across his face.

Crixus was facing away from where Cen and the nobles all watched in awe of the contest of speed and might that played in front of them. As Deyna closed on the larger man, Cen made an estimate of where the man would strike. He recalled in his training back in Laus, the lessons specifically about how a squire was meant to place their Knights armor on them. In full plate, there needed to be a few folds or bends in the armor that allowed human joints to work. That typically left areas like knees, elbows, and armpits open, weak to thrusts. However, the hips could often be left open by certain armorers. Typically, if the chest plate was left particularly heavy in the front, Bernese armorers in particular would form the back with a few layers of varying material, some that were anything from steel to hide. Crixus' lower back had boiled hide against it by the looks of it, and as Cen squinted, he could tell which one would be Deyna's target. The row of hide in the middle was shorter than the others in order to allow the others a bit of malleability. That was where the Taggerung would strike.

A roar erupted like an echo through the helmet of Crixus, as the tip of Deyna's dolch slashed the inches of open armor with a precision that seemed inhumane. On the tip of the Islander's blade there was a line of dark blood, and the hide pieces of Crixus' armor grew a sickly brownish red as the shallow wound produced the man's life. It was Deyna's only option, to wear the man down, to sap his life from him one blow at a time. If he could manage to enrage him and make him act foolishly all the better. The thin swordsman's best strategy was to keep on his toes and exhaust the other, unless he could get him off his feet. It looked like Deyna had the quickness and endurance to make the former possible, though his lithe frame took the latter of the table.

Crixus turned with ferocious speed, again, outdoing the limits it was assumed his body had in the thick black case of armor. He swung his axe as fast as he could move the thing with only one hand, but not fast enough. Deyna was able to jump to the side, then in a flash he was moving again, this time coming from the side of the man's shield. He ran his dolch down against the man's collar bone, ramming it against the mail that hung down out of the man's helmet. It didn't penetrate, but it was enough to probably throw Crixus off. Or so Cen thought, but along with everyone else, he watched as Crixus took his shield, and forcibly threw Deyna away. It seemed like it knocked the wind out of the swordsman. Just when it seemed the advantage was clear, the tide had shifted.

[Cen]

For the first time in the fight since the very start, Crixus moved from his position, stepping forward instead of pivoting. He came on hard, still with startling speed for his thick plate armor, and actually forced the unencumbered swordsman to retreat. However, it wasn't for long, the lithe islander managed to quickly get to the man's side, forcing the charging bull to divert his course, and slow his speed, which compared to Deyna's was far less impressive. After only a few seconds of creating a familiar distance between them, Deyna was back at Crixus, again coming from the side to attempt to get at the few gaps in the man's iron defense.

And find it he did, he dug his parrying dagger into the man's elbow on his shield arm, and it looked as if he had done so with enough force to breakthrough the chainmail and leave the blade embedded in his flesh. Actually rather than a look, that impression came from the sound of Crixus' roar ringing from his helmet and the man once more using his shield to push Deyna away, still yelling all the way. Once the Islander was thrown again, the Bernese giant dropped his tower shield, giving his onlookers a full view of the dagger that jutted from his thick layers of black armor, with a rush of blood flowing from the wound and covering the arm of his suit in the thick dark mess. He did not remove the dagger, but as his arms moved, Crixus' body language portrayed a great deal of pain. He placed his left arm above his right, fighting through his pain.

Deyna came on again, but before he could change his direction, Crixus swung his axe with an added range, and it was clear that Deyna had misjudged the distance of his approach. The lithe swordsman literally ducked a blow that could have taken off his head, but as he lifted himself again, there somehow came another blow, and the silent swordsman cried out as suddenly his left arm was torn through at the shoulder and hung limp at his side. [CRIXUS ADEPT USED] The pale flesh of his arm was soon as thickly coated in red as the armor of the other man's left. Crixus didn't let his advantage go to waste, he came on at the panting Islander, and forced Deyna to retreat through his pain, unsure as to whether or not he should grip his wound or not.

When Crixus was in range of the swordsman, he took yet another swing, this time aimed as a downward strike meant to take Deyna in his shoulder. Unable to move fast enough to avoid the damage the strike would do, which could very well be lethal, the lithe swordsman attempted a move familiar to Cen, one meant to divert the blow of a battle axe. It was shocking to see that the man who's style seemed without form to technique knew a move that Cen had learned back in Laus. He executed it perfectly and with strength and speed that appeared greater than the Cornwellian thought reasonable after suffering the wound he'd just suffered. It should have worked against your standard battle axe, but it didn't.

The particular curve of the Black Dragon's axe was such that by twisting the axe in his hands, he instead diverted Deyna's swing, and his axe struck home. "NO!" Cen's scream drowned the cry of the islander as he crumbled to the ground, his dolch clanging against the floor moments before his knees. When Crixus took the axe from the man's body, all of the applauding nobles and wealthy onlookers let out sounds of disgust at the view of the dying man's snapped bones and leaking sinew. They had wanted it, and they would go home and sleep without issue, considering this harmless entertainment. Their lust for the sight of blood was forgotten in the instant of seeing more than they'd bargained for, but once the unsavory sight of this disgusting peasant who didn't have the decency to die pretty had been removed, they would remember the night as exciting.

---

The former squire got no rest that night, he tossed and turned, but sleep couldn't take him. The walk back from the part had been enlightening, in a way that only further disgusted the tall young man with his current occupation. Osmant had sworn up and down as he'd led his families through the streets, a pale Cen a number of paces behind him. However, as they drew closer and closer to the mansion, the loss of life was clearly not what troubled the Wine merchant, but he was enraged by the loss of his investment.

[Cen]

The morning after the fight, Cen was brought into Osmant's office. The man stood in front of his window, one hand pressed up against the glass, the other holding a goblet of wine. He drank, not sips, but gulps, and didn't say a word to Cen even after the former squire had decided he'd been in the room long enough that it wasn't impolite of him to sit down without being told. The merchant simply stared out the window. He finished his wine, then turned and without looking at Cen poured another. Finally, he sat in the chair behind his desk, and lifting the wine once more to his lips finally eyed the Cornwellian.

There was a fury behind his stare, his dark eyes filled with a level of emotion that Cen hadn't seen him betray before. His eyes also showed something that made Cen could see of himself in the reflection caught on the rich man's pupils. Osmant had not gotten sleep the night before. "Do you know why Deyna is dead?" Cen didn't know how to respond. There wasn't a right answer, at least not one that Osmant would think was acceptable that the Cornwellian would agree with. His eyebrows curling upward, Cen tried an answer, "Because he was too impatient in his fight?"

Osmant snorted and threw back his goblet of wine, pouring himself another serving before he spoke. "No. You're right of course, but that's not why. He was an idiot, he moved beyond his station. I was going to deny that as a fight to the death, but Deyna spoke over me. I'm the man who put coin in his purse, he was not meant to speak over me. As long as I have a man fed, as long as a man wears my name while he fights, he does not get to make wagers that could hurt my purse." With each sentence, Osmant grew louder. He tore up from his chair, wine sloshing over the sides of his goblet. With each sentence, Cen felt more and more disgust at everything he'd been doing here.

"He is dead, because he was a damn idiot! A fool! I wasn't going to take that offer, and if he'd died in the fight, I'd at least have recouped on all the work I've put into him. Cen-" The rider's name came out of Osmant's teeth as a growl, "You do not speak words in front of anyone above your station unless I have put them in your mouth." The Cornwellian looked at his lap. He would never agree to fight a man to the death, but he also wouldn't avoid speaking his mind to placate Osmant. His restless night had given him time to think, and one of those things he'd pondered was rather or not he'd needed to stay here. True, he didn't get the whole sum of the coin he'd earned til his fight in the Arena, but he'd survived for a long enough time, and improved his ability to fight. He could get back to helping people, instead of this prize fighting. No true Knight would make himself a plaything for the noble class while all around him the down trodden suffered.

The merchant sat back in his chair and finished another goblet of wine. With a dismissive thrust of his hand and a flick of the wrist he called out to Cen, "Go. You're not fighting for two weeks, back to the old training regiment." As he rose, the rider said, "Thank you Osmant. I don't think ah-" Those angry eyes flashed up at the rider, "It's not for your feelings you f*****g bumpkin. It wouldn't fit your image to fight so fast. The servants are telling everyone in the streets that you're in distress. You're my knight of compassion, next time you fight it will be in honor of your dead friend. Leave, now."

As Osmant poured himself yet another goblet, he called after Cen as the squire reached the door, "And don't even think about running boy. You're an investment now, and I have ways to collect." [/b][/font]

[Cen]

With sore muscles, Cen rode Thunder down a pretty road lay through the countryside five miles from the walls of greater Badon. Thin trees had been planted by the marquis, creating an odd sort of forest, set out like a grid rather than a natural forest. Each was planted some four feet from the other, so that everywhere there were little squares of trees, and the edge of one square was just another edge on another, and another, and another. Riding Thunder along the well kept cobblestones felt unnatural to Cen. Planning should be kept to roads and cities. Let nature fall where it may. Part of the joy that came from walking a forest was knowing that each and every tree you passed was there almost by accident, and it very well could have grown very differently, or not at all.

Still, it filled Cen's heart to be back in the saddle. He felt he'd been neglecting Thunder since reaching Badon. The stirrups made him feel more in place than anything in the world could, and Thunder seemed happy to have his admittedly heavier rider back atop his back. The pair had been alone in the big city, and it was only riding together, wind blowing Thunder's mane and Cen's lime green hair that they felt like they weren't by themselves in all of Lycia.

They certainly weren't alone, as Cen realized when he began to hear squabbling echoing down the path in front of him. Pressing his knees into Thunder's sides, the rider called the horse into a trot. The thick horse strode forth, its hooves nearly drowning out the noise ahead. When Cen came in view of the scene playing out, he saw that it was a cart and a carriage, one plain the other ornate. The plain one was a little wooden cart, with a farmer to drive it and a mule to pull it. The other had a pair of Clydesdale draft horses, was large with a curtained off cabin, and was incredibly ornate, a wine colored leather lined with golden thread. A man in fine clothes, a bright red jerkin over a clean white shirt, yelled at the farmer in his plain dirty garb, and the farmer yelled back, but didn't seem to have quite as much to say.

Cen pulled Thunder to a stop behind the ornate carriage, and then dismounted. He walked up, and as the words came, he saw the issue. The little cart had lost one of its wheels, leaving the cart leaning in the dirt below. The farmer said that he'd sent his partner ahead, but that he couldn't fix the wheel by himself, the cart needed a jack. Looking at the cart, Cen offered his services. It was a little cart, not at all that heavy. Cen walked over to it, and bent his knees. He made certain to lift with his legs, and managed to lift the cart just high enough for the farmer to clamber to work. While still holding it, Cen looked over at the carriage.

Standing in the doorframe to the cabin, lookin at him with a wry smile, was Aelina.

[Cen]

Still holding the cart up behind him, Cen strained to keep the look of well, strain, out of his face. The young woman lifted the dress she wore on either side of her hips, and stepped down off the steps from her carriage onto the road below, and then sauntered towards the young rider where he held the cart above the ground. Standing only a few inches in front of him and a good foot below, she looked up, directly into his eyes, and crossed her arms over her stomach. "My my. I just cannot seem to get away from Cen the Valiant can I?" With the weight from the cart playing on his voice, Cen answered with a small smile. "Ah didn't know that's what they were calling me now. I like it. And I prefer to think we must be lucky, to keep running into each other."

The farmer working on the wheel of the cart made it shake, and the former squire had to fight from dropping the cart on his head. It was a difficult task to take on as one man, and it showed on his face, as Aelina's face showed utter amusement. "Do we keep running into each other? Is it coincidence? Does the noble knight always have a smile on his lips, is he always rushing to the aid of the downtrodden farmer in need of assistance?" Cen looked down at the farmer, who was nearly finished with his work on the wheel, he'd be moving again in no time at all. "I'd have helped him no matter what, jut so happens you were here. Can't say I'm upset by the fact."

Aelina's smile grew and her eyes seemed to sparkle in the light. "Of course you would have, you're Cen the Valiant. Only I call you that by the way, but I'm hoping it will stick. It sounds far nicer than that saga that merchant- What's his name? Osmant? It sounds much better than that rambling mess he gives you." Cen shrugged, givng his shoulders a moment of release from the struggle. He didn't care for the preamble before his fights, maybe he should bring that up to Osmant next chance he got. Yeah, that'd go perfect. 'Excuse me, sociopath who sees me as a means of profit, I have some suggestions.'

"Tell me then, what were you doing out here? It must be some deeply important mission, musn't it?" Suddenly, the farmer popped up beside him, and clapped him on the shoulder. With an exuberent smile, he clapped Cen on the shoulder, and said, "All done, thanks for the help son." Cen lowered himself, it was at most half an inch to set the cart down, but the rider was happy to have it off his shoulders. "Don't mention it sir." However, Cen hadn't managed to finish talking before the farmer had shoved a carrot in his hand. "Oh no, sir, it's fine, I don't need anythin'." However, the man was in the seat of his cart, and off.

The aide was trying to shoo Aelina back into her cart, but she ignored him. "Why, what a bounty. He's lucky you were there." Cen shrugged, this time with no weight held to slow it, and smiled. "I'm sure somebody would have come along to help him." "Maybe not, and they certainly wouldn't have been you. Where are you going?" Cen scratched his neck, then said, "There's a fork in the road up ahead, one of the paths leads to a road headin' back to the city. Ah was going to take that." Aelina nodded smartly, then looked at her driver. "Gerard, I've hurt my ankle leaving the carriage to check the commotion outside. Luckily, this man," as she spoke, Aelina pointed to Cen, "who is in the employ of Osmant Alberici, agreed to get me back to the Mane as quick as he could.Thank you, I shall see you in the evening."

With that, she lifted her dress on either side, and marched past the carriage towards Thunder. Cen walked past the aide, who made not a single sound, and hurried to the horse. Aelina luckily hadn't gotten too close, and Cen was able to hand Thunder the carrot, which he chomped down in a matter of seconds. Then Cen, still unclear on how much control he had over his situation, leaned in to Thunder, and whispered in his ear, "Brown Eyes." Then he helped Aelina into the saddle, before swinging up himself, just in front of her. "Um, you have to-" The young woman tightly wrapped her arms around him, and Cen finished, "Yeah, that's what.. I was goin' to say." He pressed his knees, and Thunder took off, passing the Carriage and Aelina's aide, who seemed as perplexed on what was happening as Cen.

[Cen]

With her arms wrapped around him, Cen rode Thunder at a hard gallop, but nowhere near the speed he and the horse usually liked to take on their rides together. When they were free of company, Thunder would run so hard they felt it in Ilia, and Cen would stand in the stirrups and holler til all of Lycia came outside to see the madman riding past them. Now however, they rode at an easy speed, in silence, Cen's dry mouth empty of words. His mind searched for something, anything to say, but his mind was blank. There was no compliment of some kind he could give her, or some joke that he could make. He was for the first time in a long time at a loss for words.

"Tell me Cen, where are you from?" The rider unconsciously slowed his titan of a horse at the question before saying, "Cornwell. Mah family has a ranch, we breed horses for the Marquess but are permitted to sell them. My father wanted me to stay and work at the ranch but I left." Then they rode once more in silence for a small handful of seconds before Cen asked her the same question, "You're from Badon aren't you?" The girl let out a small laugh, like the song of a bird, "My family has been in Badon for generations. Why did you leave your farm?"

The pair came to the fork, and Cen wheeled Thunder to start heading back to the city. "Ah think it would sound silly to someone highborn." The laugh came again, this time stifled. "Try me." "I was offered a position as a Page in the Laus military. I would be taught to fight on the horse and the ground, tactics, general things that a Knight needed to know. The Marquess' son was offered it first, but he wasn't the healthiest boy. So to avoid insulting the Knights of Laus someone needed to go. I jumped at the chance. My pa didn't want me to go, but he supported me when I did. I want- I want to be a Knight."

Then they rode in silence for what felt to Cen like ages. Then she tightened the grip of her arms. "It doesn't sound silly." The tall rider let out a sigh of relief, "Thank you." "You'd make a much nicer Knight than Sir Rodrick." Cen felt a bit of cold creep into his cheeks. "Who is Sir Rodrick?" The girl's voice was flipant when she spoke, matter of factly, "He's a Knight of Ryerde, he's the man my father is trying to secure my betrothal to."

Silence again, for as long as Cen thought he could manage without her sensing how the news made him feel. "Ah. It would... not do well for someone born common as I was to disparage the name of a Knight." Why did the news upset him so? He was a commoner, and she was a lady, their could never have been something between the two of them. Besides they'd flirted a few times, but that was all. He was no knight.

"You are not common. I can tell these things, my aunt was a fortune teller, and I can see things in people. You'll be a knight one day, I'm sure of it." There was an element of certainty in her voice. Cen believed she meant it.

---

When Cen brought her before her Manse, she told him where he could drop her. He took her to the far side of the garden, and she told him that he wouldn't be accosted if she walked back from there.

Sliding his feet from the stirrups, Cen threw his leg over Thunder's head and dropping to the ground set, "Here, let me help you down." He held a hand up to her, and she took it with a light touch, before stepping down from Thunder's massive height. When her feet were on the ground, she did not let go of the rider's hand. Instead she grabbed his shirt by the collar, and pulled him down softly. As she did she stood on the tips of her toes, and she kissed him. It was not a long kiss, but it was one the Cornwellian would not forget. As she walked off towards her home, she called back to the stunned rider, "Hopefully Osmant will attend society functions again sooner rather than later, Sir Cen."

---

Back in his room at Osmant's Cen lay in his bed. Before his eyes shut, and he fell to sleep, one thought flared in his mind. It's good to be the king.