Born a Monster

Or, perhaps I should explain.

If a non-Duhr, a ‘fleshie’ such as myself, were to take up space in the Mine, they needed to have a profession. By which the dwarves meant a constant source of money.

Being dwarves, children of stone (literally), they considered neither Carpenter nor Cook to be professions. Tailor (Manservant), similar. And though I could do manual labor...

Let’s just say that when the average citizen has resistance level 5 against physical and thermal damage that safety regulations around the forges aren’t healthy for those of us without.

So, back to the Ring. Minotaur matrons, flush with emotion, and a hunger for food. Which, yes, most of them brought with themselves. And many had slaves to cook for them. But, some of them had a sweet tooth, enough to set me up where I could rent a fire pit, a grill, basic dishes for the ... well, I couldn’t afford any but the most basic ingredients, but there were Cook abilities to deal with quality.

The prices were outrageous. It should have come as no surprise the day when a minotaur youth challenged me to cook meat he had brought on his own, and negotiated it to a decent fee.

I was an idiot; I did the best I could. Most of them wanted their meat rare and fast, little more than heated above the flames. And, using Fire or Ice mana, I could do that better than mere mundane cooks, and definitely more than those using only skills.

Wrathday was when the professionals and grudge matches happened. It was when the crowds were largest, the most heated. In retrospect, I should have skipped it.

.....

I didn’t recognize the danger, even when I slapped away the hand of the man trying to grab me by my throat.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I asked. “That’s no way to negotiate for a discount.”

“I claim you as a slave for lady Anatoki.” he said.

“Nonsense!” boomed another. “I claim him on behalf of Arva Lakarou.”

In all, six people claimed me as their slave, and dragged me from my work to the announcers of the fights.

Well, crap.

It wasn’t as if there were many options; I hadn’t risen from being a slave just to be collared again without resisting.

“I wish to contest this; I am no slave.” I told them.

“To the death, then.” the dwarven announcer said.

“Are you certain?” asked Platon, servant of Evampia Kastorlites.

I nodded, pulling my military gear from a combination of backpack and inventory. “I may end up a slave anyway, but while I’ve strength of body and spirit, I intend to resist.”

Two of the claims evaporated there. The others...

While I armed and armored myself, they did the same. Geared up in articulated plate, with massive weapons and no shields, each of them struck a figure like one of Rakkal’s brothers.

Merciful gods, what was I doing?

It was only when one of them slipped on the ladder that I realized. Whatever their looks, these were none of them a match for the minotaurs I knew.

Still, I was glad the children were, while I lived, safe. And nowhere present in the Ring. I’d considered a wooden crate for them, where I could sneak them scraps throughout the day. And, in case of exactly this nonsense, I’d decided against bringing them. They were in a double box, or a box inside a box, warded against acid. The locks were... well, possibly not a challenge, if they worked together.

But so far, I’d come home laden with food scraps to one, two, three hungry and unhappy children.

I’d also considered altering my shield, wood rimmed with black iron and covered with ram’s hide, the fur still on the outside. I could have secured them with straps, or given them structures to hold onto.

Yeah, not happening until I could find a shield as resilient as Heart’s Protector.

I had no problem finding a dwarven Bet-Keeper. (Yes, that’s a stealth class.) I didn’t much like my odds, but it wasn’t as if I’d be allowed to keep my coins if I were branded a slave, either. Fortunately, everyone else seemed to agree on how shallow my odds were. If I could come through this free, I’d be in good financial shape. If I actually walked out on my own two legs, I might not need to work for a while.

But still, bundled in armor with health levels equal to or greater than mine; even with the poison bite, I had little enough odds against one. I had none if all four of them came at me first.

Fortunately, that didn’t happen; the other three beset Kason of Ionia Koska. And, since he wasn’t even the largest or most skilled of them, I did feel rather bad about letting them do so.

Mental note: Ionia Koska had enemies, enemies who were willing to kill or injure her lovers to make a point.

None of them were slouches. I guessed their Agility and Valor were on par with mine.

But wait... none of them employed Feints, none attempted... no, there was a Trip, by Kason. Properly speaking, these were more brutes than warriors, smashing their opponents without considering tactics.

Beset by enemies, Kason lost his composure, swinging his axe wildly, glancing off armor or his opponent’s weapons. Good for sparks, not so much for actual damage.

The two largest set to bashing on each other. Erasmes, consort of Esmenthe Savinia, stood by for only a moment, before seeking me out.

The arena sands were lit by braziers, both on the ground, and suspended above from chains. I couldn’t call it well lit, but none of the crowd needed as much light to see as humans would have. So, there were shadows, but none deep enough to hide in.

Should you ever find yourself in such a situation, please do try to come up with something better than: “Child, if you yield now, I may not have to kill you.”

He lowered his head, bellowed, and charged. I might as well have used my [Taunt] ability upon him. I rolled at the last instant, allowing him to hit the brazier at my back. With a mighty flip, he cast it off his horns behind him.

The crowd went into a wild cheer; they liked seeing the flames hurled everywhere. Some contestants would use them as shields, others kick them as weapons.

Erasmes employed no such skills; he employed wild but powerful strikes that I dared not to parry nor to deflect with my shield. Had he wished, he could have herded me, rather than letting me lead him around the sands.

Not that it did me much good, other than that Erasmes had to face the victor of the other duel before landing a single solid blow on me.

I almost joined him, enemy of my enemy and all. But the other was breathing heavily.

“Heh. Flurry of Blows!” Erasmes shouted.

“As if!” screamed his opponent. “Flurry of Blows!”

Holy. Crap.

Neither parried; each struck gong-like blows on the helmet of their enemies.

In the end, it was Erasmes who was on one knee, his opponent prone on the sand.

It was Erasmes, consort of Esmenthe Savinia, who rose to the cheers of the crowd, blood leaking from his helmet.

It was Erasmes who held his maul out toward me, declared the match over, and demanded my surrender.

I positioned myself, and used [Taunt]. I’d been hoping he would trip over one of the burning logs, the ones he himself had cast about earlier. I may as well have been hoping for a tuna fish to fall off one of the stalactites of the roof and knock him unconscious.

Wait. I didn’t need a big fish.

I grabbed a footfull of sand, passed it up to my hand. As the grains fell between my fingers, I cast:

“SLUMBER!”

[You have no Dream mana to empower this spell.] my System informed me.

What, no, I had... I had used it in the imbuing of a mushroom pastry.

Then he was upon me, and there was no time for magic.

I bolted inside his strike, which allowed me an ORANGE critical, a strike under his belt and his breastplate. He hollered in pain, and tried to grapple with me.

I wasn’t fool enough to grapple with someone so much stronger than myself. I spun away, taking a backstroke on my shield for my efforts. Ram fluff went everywhere, my shield down to below half Condition with that single strike.

He seemed to struggle to follow me, his strikes clumsy, uncertain.

Was he bleeding out? No, for someone with his Might score, it was near impossible.

But a [Serious Injury – Concussion]? He might have one of those.

I broke my shield on his helmet, which disoriented him long enough for me to strike the chainmail at his neck.

Two minotaurs and one dwarf, if it matters. Generally, the former would determine the winners of the fights, with the third stepping in if they were in dispute. Each of them was louder than a thunderstorm.

It was a weak ward, and clumsy; it would have fallen apart with the new moon anyway.