Skein of Shadows takes place in the sprawling fantastic city of Crown, and one of the prominent locales that is eventually visited by every character is the Broken Valor. The establishment sharply contrasts with the more reputable and grand structures of the city like the Silver Lyre College, Crownmeet Castle, or Moontower. The Valor is an imposing arena dedicated to bloodsport, and within gladiators live and die by the whim of the crowd.
The following tale comes from Nathan's character, Arastin. The rogue visits the arena on a business matter, and even after his brief visit, the Valor leaves a lasting impression.
Arastin looked up at the Broken Valor -- the edifice loomed over the surrounding buildings of Crown. The elf had seen the Valor from afar many times, but he never had a reason to approach it closely or enter. The weight and magnitude of the hewn stone structure impressed him. Broad and tall, the tower rose up five stories from the street and pennants flapped and snapped in the wind on the peak. A much smaller tavern abutted the bulk of the tower. The builders tried to match the construction of the edifice, but even to Arastin's untrained eye, he could see the tavern was just an addendum added in the intervening years.
The original purpose of the tower had been lost to history, but the true nature of the Valor was apparent once Arastin plunged into the gloom of its interior. It was an arena for blood sport; the tower's exposed basement had been turned into a fighting pit. And instead of floors, the tower had tiers where patrons could sit or stand and watch the slaughter in the pit. The rogue noted the scent of dried blood blended with the other traditional bar smells of smoke, sweat, and spilt ale.
Compared to the tower the tavern was mundane, but he did note a long bench for taking and placing bets. A slate board, hung behind the bench, listed the upcoming fights and the current odds. The slate only listed a handful of names -- a slow night -- but the Festival of the Long Night was in a few days. The list of fighters for that night warranted its own slate that was as tall as Arastin.
He ordered a beer and circled the Valor. The rogue assessed the shadows and recesses, he memorized the layout, studied the patrons, and absorbed the atmosphere of the arena. The first floor was reserved for the rich and influential, it provided the best view and comfortable chairs waited ready for people willing to spend the gold to sit in them. He climbed the stairs that circled the tower, and the view grew worse as the patrons turned shadier until he reached the fifth floor. The night was so slow, only a few dregs shared the top floor with the grisly-fiend-skeleton turned candelabra that hung suspended over the pit.
Arastin returned to the second floor with the majority of the patrons, a new bout was scheduled to start. The blood sport drew a wide variety of people, but everyone was alike when the combatants entered the pit. Cheers, curses, and chants, a cacophony thundered inside the tower -- the crowd turned into a mass of howling animals. It was possible that pedestrians on the street even heard the clamor through the formidable stone walls.
Two human men, a brute in red and a whip-thin duelist with a yellow headband, circled the pit eying the other for an opening -- a moment of weakness. It was a vicious and quick spectacle, each clash brought cheers from the crowd and each wound drove them to their feet. Then the man-in-red, suffering from a bloody gash to his leg, stumbled. The duelist charged his opponent -- the patrons thundered -- but he collapsed on the red-clothed man and blood rained to the corrugated floor. The brute threw the skinny man off and he landed with a wet "thwap." A dagger was buried in the duelist's chest -- sanguine fluid pooled and oozed down runnels in the pit's floor.
The crowd screamed louder at the sight of the blade and the bloody wound. It had been a ruse, the red-man had stumbled on purpose to bring the duelist into his trap. Arastin set his jaw and watched the brute soak in the crowd's cheers. The champion strutted around the pit as three shambling robed figures appeared and drug the corpse away.
The elf rubbed his face and clenched his fist -- his nerves were raw. Arastin shook his head and left the spectacle. He killed for a living, but took no pleasure in the act, and here he was amongst a throng that had no respect for the value of life.
