**** Campfire Storytelling Scene ****

I had heard a traveller passing through Barstow talking about an arena somewhere in the city of Themesta, where gladiators fought for money and fame, two things I wanted pretty badly back then, while also being a good measure of my skill as a fighter, so it seemed logical to try it out.

Having fought both the Ashim’ra and Returned with less and less fear the last few years I was pretty sure I would be able to handle myself, at least to begin with. Kael had told me I should be careful around the Champions and the Five Lords, but that I should not worry; ‘if needed you can always fall back and reveal either your magic or the nature of your swords.’ Here he paused as he only did when the Plane of the Fallen came up before continuing further:

‘Although keeping them secret is a great weapon it’s of little use to you in the Memorial Plane after all. What do dead care of hidden things? Not much, boy, not much at all.’

As I always did when he answered his own questions, I nodded solemnly as if I’d thought of the same answer he’d just given only didn’t want to interrupt a revered Master in his musings. Like clockwork, it sent him off on another tangent – this time strangely on point – namely which was be best of my two aces up my sleeve to reveal should it not suffice with straight up pugilism for some reason. I believe he answered that one himself as well, only this time I had thought of the same answer when he told me to reveal the body magic first.

The spirit magic of the Sinblades were a threat which fools ignored and the skilled prepared to die from; the few true Masters would unsheathe their weapon of choice by the merest touch of it upon the world and smile in exultation. Finally they stood face to face with someone who could kill them by his own strength and ability, rather than only through a series of mistakes made by them.

Armed with this knowledge and the lust for experience brought on by a lifetime spent knowing every memory you made could be the last; the Folk didn’t mourn their dead and the Reach only cared who survived I had come upon my destination. Ashen’Kael might seem to be a foolish old man to the naked eye, but facing something he wished to change he had made a resounding vibration resonate through existence for a second or two –- the first time I saw his eyes change from mischevious into arctic ice I decided to myself I would never aggravate the frail-looking, haphazardly-acting old man for real.

Not unless I wanted to know on a personal basis how it felt to carry the weight of the worlds during the second our eyes met before receiving a personal introduction of to study more closely the more intimate affairs of the dead in the Memorial Grounds, of course. Then it would be a most prudent plan of action.

**** Entering Amethyst Scene ****

I entered the city from the southwest, having taken the North Road out of the Reach like the wandering tinkers of the Jeweled Kingdoms did. Of course, my journey was quite the opposite of theirs, so to speak. The road had become paved a day or two back, growing increasingly wider as I came closer to the city.

Two fair-sized wagons could easily cross side-by-side over the faded yellow sandstone now, quite the feat considering it had been just a humble path barely two steps across when I began following it.

Standing just past the archway over the gates of the city, I looked around with some in dumb-struck awe for a second before gathering up the remnants of my pride. Back then I’d never really seen a true city, so seeing the capital of Amethyst definitely ranked as an experience. The outposts of the Folk never grew large like this, since if you needed a house all you had to do was wait for the next one to Fall; the houses were built to last, but who lived in them changed quickly.

I asked an old man in a bright yellow toga passing by where I stood at the corner of Merchant’s Road and the Plaza del Nethír for directions to the Arena. Coming from the corner where a baker and a tailor’s shop shared the sunlight with a small tree and a bed of flowers -- the rich scents mingled beautifully -- the hearty laughter I received after posing the question of where the Arena could be found formed a pleasant backdrop to the smells and sounds of food being prepared; something which two days on thin rations sought to replace into the leading concern of the day.

So I didn’t mind terribly listening to the grey-bearded grandfather meander through a impromptu sermon of the dangers I would face, pointing out I seemed awfully young and asking me if I was sure of what I was doing before giving me the directions I’d asked for. When he finally understood I was serious, he told me ‘it’s your death, boy’ and left.

‘Thank you, ojisaan!’

I called out to his back as he turned the corner, and followed the directions he’d given through a series of avenues interspersed with fountains, trees and a thousand different little shops before coming up on the Silver Rose Road. Standing near the Plaza de las Armas I could see a small off-shoot road lead up to the Arena; not the grand gate half a city away guarding the Plaza del Nethír through which the audience entered, but the back-room, back-alley little door behind a small guard post made from badly fitted woods and leather reinforcements.

It was here the students, Champions and Masters alike who held a position in the Arena whether grandiose or low entered the, to my eyes then at least, single complex of buildings so far in my life I couldn’t walk through in less than thirty-five seconds flat. This was one of the resting places for a Sword of the Seven, after all, so being small would seem like an infront of sorts to the idea of better being equal to bigger that so permeated the human civilization from it’s roots before the brave new world had been created in fire and shadows until this very second.

“Excuse me, man, but do you know who to talk to get something to eat around here? I’m a new student,’ I said to one the three extremely bored-looking guardsmen standing.. well, guard, in front the small ridgety wooden door that barred my entrance into a world full of wonder and learning no other place had to offer. For an young viajero, an Old World word preserved in the lore of fireside tales meaning ‘travelling man’, it was a great place to be.

Late at night the Folk always told stories, ending them by making the V-sign with two fingers for good luck. The essence of the word as we used it in the Outposts carried a heavy note of ‘.. and as fighter skilled’, being reserved for the skilled among the plentitude of fool-hardy men and women who entered the Realm from the South, East and West to test their mettle against the single most dangerous location in the world; by general acclamation the Wastelands were considered the most dangerous, since no one who entered beyond the border of the Storm had ever come back, dead or alive.

To me, the Reach was a home with a strict but fair teacher. You win or lose, the bet you put in is always your life and learning to accept that changes the way the world seems; instead of dangers you see something you need to learn, nor were the enemies you faced really enemies but instead companions in the journey of life although from different sides of the bloodline – the place where death offered and life given blurred into the blazing speed and rampaging strength of battling an opponent able to kill you – knowing only one would make it to the other side and continue their journey.

‘Of course, I faced things I had no hope of surviving. The Returned grew tenfold in strength during the Waiting Hour, when the passage between the Memorial and Life planes are at it’s thinnest. I had about an equal chance against an Ashim’ra panther showing the red of an grown hunter, but the if it carried the black.. I would run. Quickly, and far.’

I said this without making any pretense of not knowing how incredulous it sounded to someone hearing it from a young man with a reputation to make. The man I told it to had still not mentioned his name, nor spoken much except exchanging greetings of the Folk, the clasp of one another’s forearms then touching of knuckles. Never done smiling, this little ritual was one of few holy things the people of the Reach had.

After the initial surprise I took his hand, looking the perhaps forty year old man straight in the eyes, not demanding acknowledgement despite the disparagement between my age and his, considering it not worth talking about. Either he had respect or he didn’t, after all, and no amount of words would ever change that without something to base it on; an action or reaction that would serve as benchmark for the level of honesty, self-insight and wisdom conveyed by one’s words were always needed when you faced the great men of the world.

“Shu’rha azh’ahk ke fan a’em?’

Speaking in the tongue of the Folk just to see how far the man’s knowledge reached before making any judgment of my own, saying I hoped him to live the night in the ritual exchange of two people leaving and returning that happen across each other at some sort of border – a river, a path cutting through the jungle, the front gates or any other place with a defined here and there, in or out.. if you were on the bus, old man, you shou—

‘Ar’akh ashim’ra ello’rha razhien’ka, neeli-jha? ‘ he responded quickly, in close to perfect accent. Telling me to “watch my back twice, the Ashim’ra are hunting” followed by using a little known word of Barstow’s own making meaning man-afraid-of-the-dark with just the right amount of irony it it since if you had half a brain you were afraid of the dark, you just went out because the need to find or protect something held more value to you than the risk of losing your life in the process.

Neeli’jahar meant careful man, yet not one who would stop at the gates to weigh your life heavier on the scales than what you wanted to achieve with it. A life spent on nothing except surviving until the easy death; you might not have to leave for the Halls of the Fallen until the old Lord of Bones called, but neither would your life matter to him enough to give you a chance to choose yourself when.

Among the insults created from when the culture of the the Central Empire’s founding up until now it was thought to be a part of, if not the entire definition of condescending sorrow; it’s not fun to feel but it’s incredibly hard to bear watching dance in the eyes you met who could see you afraid to live until the Embracing Lord called you back without caring whether you were given time to say goodbye, and you standing there with nothing to say goodbye to.

Not so much because you didn’t grieve but that you actually did.. only a passing without respect and the soft embrace of a bad joke played on everyone involved in it’s telling – the life you never lived -- and the sorrow of those who could see you crying in your resting place but who could not smile about it after the funeral quickly faded into the forgotten before the casket hit the ground.

“Why laugh and smile over a life lived in fear when good men with strong hearts died every day,” they would answer if pressed for an answer, and everyone would nod who heard just like they would if you stated the rain was wet or the sun hot.