I do not know when, where, or how my contempt for my family transferred to my contempt for everyone. Once—perhaps even mere months ago—I would have enjoyed the festival greatly. I would have drank. I would have fought. I would have danced until I lost feeling of myself, my body, my mind. And I do those things, now, but I do them as a ghost would; with a ghost’s expressions; with a ghost’s commitment. I am there and gone, within the crowd and without, a stalking panther upon the ornate marble dance floor. The gypsy caravans are full of unique and strange wares; I try on a leopard-skin cloak and stare at the double rosettes upon my shoulders. My own, and some slaughtered wildcat’s.
Then I leave; I slam back mead and festival beer and, when that is not enough, I steal a flask from a woman in a lesser noble family. I slept with her once, I think, and that is why she is so flirtatious when I approach, and smile, and laugh with her; but then I am gone into the crowd, a shadow in the throng of celebration. The smells of strange foods permeate the air and wherever I walk the music of the gypsies follows me.
I do not come awake until I leave the Sovereign’s citadel and follow a band of rovers; they are a group of men, foreigners with one of the many invited caravans. They had been semi-brawling in the center of the festival before the soldier’s escorted them out of the citadel. No violence, they had insisted. But they had raised enough noise and interest there were several other citizens in pursuit. I recognise a fight club when I see one; and it does not take them long to arrive at a pueblo house with a yard fenced with the trunks of desert shrubs. They leave the door open. The light from within spills out into the street; I take it as an invitation, and only confirm the openness of the club when I see the symbol above the doorframe. A half-sun sigil, run through with a scimitar. The Pits.
By the time I make my way to the backyard of the adobe, they are already brawling. The yard is lit with torches in each corner; and the faces, backlit by the flames, seem ghoulish and strange. I am smiling before I even enter the ring; I am smiling before I approach the ring-keeper and ask to enter a brawl.
My blood is singing, singing.
In it: the mead, the beer, the hard liquor.
It is the first time all night I feel alive.
My fight is short and brutal. There is only one rule, tonight. Don’t kill him. And so I don’t. I draw it out against the pegasus I am pitted against; we come together and then crash apart, forces of nature, full of teeth and fury. And oh,
I am alive. Each blow excites me; each blow awakens something dormant, something hibernating, within my soul. I am not distraught when I lose, knocked to the ground and pinned by his hoof until the night blackens and I awaken to find myself hauled to my feet by a trio of men. I am laughing.
Blood cascades down my face from where he split my brow. I could leave, but there are members of the Pits now, passing liquor and placing bets. No, I think.
I might just stay forever.
"Speech." || @Anyone!
Then I leave; I slam back mead and festival beer and, when that is not enough, I steal a flask from a woman in a lesser noble family. I slept with her once, I think, and that is why she is so flirtatious when I approach, and smile, and laugh with her; but then I am gone into the crowd, a shadow in the throng of celebration. The smells of strange foods permeate the air and wherever I walk the music of the gypsies follows me.
I do not come awake until I leave the Sovereign’s citadel and follow a band of rovers; they are a group of men, foreigners with one of the many invited caravans. They had been semi-brawling in the center of the festival before the soldier’s escorted them out of the citadel. No violence, they had insisted. But they had raised enough noise and interest there were several other citizens in pursuit. I recognise a fight club when I see one; and it does not take them long to arrive at a pueblo house with a yard fenced with the trunks of desert shrubs. They leave the door open. The light from within spills out into the street; I take it as an invitation, and only confirm the openness of the club when I see the symbol above the doorframe. A half-sun sigil, run through with a scimitar. The Pits.
By the time I make my way to the backyard of the adobe, they are already brawling. The yard is lit with torches in each corner; and the faces, backlit by the flames, seem ghoulish and strange. I am smiling before I even enter the ring; I am smiling before I approach the ring-keeper and ask to enter a brawl.
My blood is singing, singing.
In it: the mead, the beer, the hard liquor.
It is the first time all night I feel alive.
My fight is short and brutal. There is only one rule, tonight. Don’t kill him. And so I don’t. I draw it out against the pegasus I am pitted against; we come together and then crash apart, forces of nature, full of teeth and fury. And oh,
I am alive. Each blow excites me; each blow awakens something dormant, something hibernating, within my soul. I am not distraught when I lose, knocked to the ground and pinned by his hoof until the night blackens and I awaken to find myself hauled to my feet by a trio of men. I am laughing.
Blood cascades down my face from where he split my brow. I could leave, but there are members of the Pits now, passing liquor and placing bets. No, I think.
I might just stay forever.
"Speech." || @Anyone!
we are born like this, into these carefully made wars
where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
