Introduction to Battle Magic.  The course itself had seemed intriguing enough at registration, and the speculation was that everyone who had been baptized into the Templars had taken it at one point or another in their studies and Judoc was eager to take it as soon as possible.  Indeed he was one of only three second year students though most were planning on taking it later in their schooling.  The other two were Marcus and Vincent, both from the Hall of Bishops.  Everyone else was beginning either their third or fourth year.  The class had started innocuous enough, with studying missile spells from scrolls and practicing their aim against dummy targets.  Today represented a marked divergence from that trend...

"We shall put your knowledge to the test."  Brother Moloran had started out that morning.  "Academic study will be of no use to you in the Megalan armies if you cannot employ it when faced with an actual foe.  Therefore you will be given a foe against which to show your adaptation in combat... you will be given that foe today."
This message was last updated by the GM at 03:57, Tue 01 May 2018.

The walk from the college to the Arena at Azer would normally be somewhat less than grueling, though the abnormally hot day for fall made things worse, and Brother Moloran's discussion of today's lesson may have also been partially responsible for the dryness in Judoc's mouth.  "The men you will fight today are hardened criminals.  Most of them murderers.  Because it is All Saint's day they are being offered the chance of forgiveness of their sins - that chance is a fight in the arena.  You will fight until incapacitation or forfeit, at which point the winning combatant will have the option to kill or spare his opponent after the crowd and the governor make their vote known.  However, I encourage you not to take pity on convicted criminals.  These are all small purse fights, and you are welcome to keep your winnings and any tips thrown in by the crowd.  The longer and more desperate your fight, the more likely the crowd is to favor you but I would advise not taking that too closely into consideration - losing the fight would be a very poor decision.  The Duke has agreed however if any of the students lose to cast his vote to spare them.  If you win your fight you are given the rest of the day off from your classes to do as you wish in Azer or the castle, your other mentors have already been informed.  If you lose, you will have the option of the healers at the castle or those of your classmates who may have those skills.  You will be expected to make the rest of your schedule."

A few paces behind Judoc, he can just barely discern Vincent and Marcus whispering desperately to each other...

OOC:  This is a thread for Judoc only

Judoc has only begun his second year of classes, but already he is up to his chin in study and preparation.  Given his long-term goal of becoming a battle mage In the Megalan armies, he had jumped at the chance to enroll in Battle Magic, and he had enthusiastically thrown himself into his coursework.  Practicing on dummies and memorizing incantations had whetted his appetite, but now they were going to get into some real combat, and Judoc is energized to be given a stage to showcase his ever-growing talents.  At the same time, however, he feels an uncharacteristic nagging doubt in the back of his mind.  The man he would be fighting would likely have killed before.  Judoc has never taken a life, although he had once been angry enough at Brother Loke to strangle the man.  That hot rage had cooled considerably, although the young mageling still harbors a secret desire to take revenge against the Templar.

As he walks, he thinks back to Mariana and Elliot's tragic duel.  The whole affair had been terrible, and as much as Judoc had been loath to admit it, incomprehensible to him.  After the demon's summoning in their first year, the small group from the Hall of Soldiers had fractured.  Giles was gone, kicked out after a second infraction.  Mariana was dead.  When Judoc saw Grobbik and Indrid in the common area, he made small talk with them, but their conversations were never beyond the superficial.  Perhaps it was just as well.  They were all rivals, after all, and the majority of each class never made it to the end.  Judoc planned to be there, of course, and he relished the thought of that sadist Loke's face when Judoc would ultimately reject a commission with the Templars.

But what had driven such a wedge of hatred between Elliot and Mariana?  There had been whispers that the two had briefly been lovers, although Judoc had discounted that out of hand.  Mariana had been sensible, for a woman at least, and she had seemed to take pity on Elliot more than anything else.  As for the funeral pyre Elliot had crafted for Mariana, who would have guessed that the fellow had learned his lessons so well?  Elliot had always been the weakest of their group.  Ironic, Judoc muses.  Likely Mariana's tutelage had ultimately been what killed her.

Today, though, he banishes these ghosts of the past.  Today would be the next step in Judoc's career as one of the most brilliant battle mages to ever serve Megalas.  He imagines how he will describe the day to his future biographers, how he will completely dominate the wretch sent to face him in combat and how he will graciously pardon his adversary after Judoc's inevitable triumph.  He mentally runs through his list of spells, smiling broadly.  Brother Moloran had cautioned against showing pity to the thieves and murders they would face, but Judoc the Merciful has a nice ring to it.

Catching up to his tutor, Judoc asks a few questions about the rules of the combat.  "How will our opponents be armed?  Are any spells off-limits?  What tactics will work best in a fight against physical attacks?"

While none of the Templar monks were particularly warmhearted, Brother Moloran had a penchant for fairness.  Unlike others he never punished for the sake of punishment: rules were clear and though they could be enforced sternly it was not often that one of his students was surprised with reprisals.  Therefore, it is with no trepidation that Judoc hastens his gate to catch up to the brother and peppers him with questions before any of the older students have the opportunity.

"Opponents are armed through a lottery, so you may be facing an unarmed man who has never fought in his life,"  He pauses for a moment, perhaps thinking better of his words.  "Though I wouldn't count on it or you could be facing a seasoned veteran with full armor.  Weapons the criminals carry are often not ones they have trained with before, though I wouldn't discount the possibility.  When slaves or freemen enter the arena, they are outfitted with their own equipment, or that provided by their master, so you are free to take any weapons you wish into combat."

"As for rules, they can change from bout to bout, the great fights often involve some intrigue or extra considerations though for today I would expect no rules barring your use of spells.  And it would be difficult to say what spells work best.  While flashy shows of force often get the job done the truly great mages use their creativity to win the engagement.  Today you will be one on one which is different than facing an army.  Some men have won before by convincing their opponents to believe something which is not true without ever being hit by a single blow.  Others have embraced the combat and used their magic only to defend themselves, damaging their weapons and morale before overpowering their foe.  I cannot tell you which spells will work best, only that the way you use them will matter most, both in your success and in learning how to become the greatest battle mage you can."

As the group walks along, a few more questions are asked about money and opponents, with one question specifically ensuring that the students have the day off after they win the fight.  And while Moloran repeats that they are free to do whatever they wish until sundown he is mostly evasive on the specifics of the arena.  "I can only tell you what has happened before"  He repeats more than once.  "What will happen is subject to many factors I am not privy to.  I encourage you to use your skills to the best of your abilities and to win."

It does not take long until the group finds themselves standing outside the Arena.  The stonework is enormous, it must be more than an acre in size.  It boasts large archways leading inwards to the stands and seating which are already beginning to draw the crowds of the citizens of Azer.  Moloran stops in front of another opening, this one with a stairway down to the underground of the building.  "If you have no further questions, this is the way to your registration.  One fight is required, I would not suggest attempting to shirk this responsibility, you will likely make up your deficiency in a much less benign way.  Good Luck men."

The older fourth years lead the way down confidently as some others stay back for questions.  Some others hesitantly make their way towards the arena.  Marcus and Vincent walk quickly towards the doorway but stop just outside still engrossed in quiet conversation.

Listening carefully to Brother Moloran, Judoc processes the new information he's been given.  Basically, the rule seems to be to expect anything.  Plan for the worst case scenario, then, and if something else happens, be pleasantly surprised.  Judoc begins running through a slew of different scenarios and the spells and tactics he might apply in each given case.  He has spent his first year focused almost entirely on learning new magic.  He sees now the wisdom of not neglecting mundane skills as well.  Of course he will be able to easily overwhelm the foe he will draw through his superior knowledge and abilities, but versatility will make Judoc an even greater threat.

Creative displays of magic, eh?  Judoc wonders how he might pull off such an exhibition.  He craves success and recognition above all else, and it would be immensely gratifying to put on a good show today.  He knows that arena combat can be dangerous, even deadly.  Maimed limbs and permanent blindness or crippling are very real possibilities.  Of course, none of those results will happen to someone as gifted as himself, but he would do well to remember the consequences of failure.

The student hangs back to hear the answers to other students' questions.  Perhaps he can learn something more that he can turn to his advantage in the arena.  But Marcus and Vincent, the other two second-years, seem to be having an interesting conversation.  Judoc casually positions himself to eavesdrop on what they're saying.

OOC:  Hang back and listen to the other students' questions, but in a natural sort of way, move closer to Marcus and Vincent to listen in on what they're talking about.

Though most of the crowd heads in towards the Arena, enough stick around to ask questions to serve as an innocent circumstance to eavesdropping.  Interested in the conversation behind him, Judoc continues to face Brother Moloran but slowly paces himself just far enough away to attempt to overhear the conversation between Marcus and Vincent.  He curses inwardly however as Marcus begins to talk, just as one of the third years, Balkus Wright, asks Brother Moloran a question that drowns out the quieter conversation.

"Sir, but if we were to lose..."

Without even looking at the features of his face, Judoc knows that Moloran is exasperated with the question - and why shouldn't he be?  What good would Balkus be to the armies, or worse yet, the Templars if he couldn't best some ruffian?  Still, Moloran's response shows more patience than Judoc feels as he strains to hear the words of the conversation behind him.

"Balkus, every effort has been made to keep you from losing your life if you happen to fail in combat.  However, that luxury will not follow you if you graduate from this school.  While you are still learning your craft, success will dictate your path throughout your tutelage as well as your career, and starting out on the wrong foot at the first opportunity is hardly the way to solidify your good impression."

Behind him, Judoc can hear Vincent now talking, agitated, as Brother Moloran's voice drops off into silence.  "Because I fucking saw him, Marcus.  He went to the Jesuits."  Unable to stop himself, Judoc peers over his shoulder at the two, attempting to get some clues as to Marcus's response, though he only sees Marcus leveling his gaze straight back at him and Vincent's turned back.  While Judoc attempts to smile lamely in response as if he has heard nothing, Marcus roughly grabs Vincent's shoulder as he pushes him towards the downstairs entry.

"Well, good luck then all."  Brother Moloran finishes as he realizes that there are no further questions and that the remainder of his class seems to be simply stalling for time.

OOC:  Because there doesn't seem to be any skill for listening without being recognized I resolved the situation by a contest of IQ.  You beat Vincent by a good margin, though Marcus managed to get the edge on you and you were noticed listening in.

Judoc only half listens to Balkus' sad answer.  Lose?  That alternative hadn't even occurred to Judoc.  He imagines that perhaps his opponent might get in a lucky shot, but in a contest of pure skill and talent, the poor blighters they're going up against haven't a prayer.

As Moloran patiently explains to the poor sod that yes, they don't want their students to die, but no, they're not going to coddle their students, Judoc moves a little closer to try to catch what Vincent and Marcus are discussing.  He only catches a little of it, someone going over to the Jesuits, but he doesn't understand the significance of what they're saying.  Of course, the Jesuits and the Templars are hardly friends, and who knows what secrets the Jesuits might be keeping, but who are they talking about?   Curious to find out more, he risks a look over at them, and Marcus catches Judoc eavesdropping.  The student forces a grin, but Marcus isn't buying it, and Judoc is disappointed to see the two leave without saying anything further.

"Thanks, Brother Moloran," Judoc says, flashing a smile.  "I can't wait to get in there and get my hands dirty."  He turns and follows Marcus and Vincent down the stairs and into the arena to get ready for his coming bout.  He pushes down butterflies that have suddenly sprouted in his belly.  Surely, Judoc the Merciful isn't getting nervous, is he?  Nah, it must have been the gruel he had for breakfast.

Though he is fifteen feet underground and surrounded by the shadows cast by flickering torchlight, it is the throbbing of the crowds above that overwhelm Judoc's senses.  Rhythmic thunderbolts pierce the stone ceiling; chanting voices muffled into the deep bass of wardrums that vibrate each surface and shake dust into the choked air.  In each of the million different scenarios in Judoc's mind the voices are shouting 'Kill!  Kill!'...  He does not bother with the possibility that his future would be saved on the off chance that the crowds are benevolent.

It has been the better part of an hour underneath the arena.  Judoc has moved from registrations to indoctrination and then to the waiting area, though little actual progress has been made other than the slow trickle of his classmates ebbing out before him.  It is difficult to discern any words from the fights above but the concept of the matches have been explained to them well enough.  Since it is the feast day of saints, the matches have been designed around the city's patron saints, and the great saints of history.  Each of his classmates that have departed have been issued some sort of prop.  A wooden sword, a scepter, a shepherd's crook, though there is little preparation for each of the fighters as to what they are supposed to do to play the part.  A small man simply descends to the room, presumably from the sands above, murmurs a few words and the next gladiator stands to take his moment of glory in the arena.

So it is when the small man arrives again, clutching at a braided wig attached to a mask.  "Judoc."  He says in a hoarse whisper.  Judoc stands at his name before he quite puts together the expectation that he is to meet.  "Catherine of the Wheel."  He throws Judoc the wig before quickly turning his back and starting from the room - the implication that Judoc is to play the part of a woman shouldering in the ensuing silence.

OOC:  I stopped the play here just for the moment to see if you would resist the role.  If so, feel free to role play appropriately.  Make any social influence rolls as appropriate to get your way.

As the minutes pass, Judoc waits in uncomfortable silence, wishing he could see what was happening above.  He can't wait to get up on the arena floor and demoralize his opponent before finishing him off.  He can see it now.  His opponent snarls and runs toward him, brandishing a sword.  Judoc sidesteps the attack effortlessly and begins summoning a fireball.  Or perhaps he will cast a Great Haste and simply pummel the fellow into submission.

The props attract his attention.  They are certainly odd and seem to be chosen haphazardly. Judoc wonders if the participants are supposed to use them some way during combat, or if they are merely for show.  Likely the latter, he decides, unless they actually expected them to use the wooden swords and shepherd crooks.

And then a wig and a mask are shoved his way, along with a name, Catherine of the Wheel.  Huh?  They want him to be a woman?  Before he can object, the man is moving away, but Judoc calls out, "Hey!  Wait!  No one said anything about playing dress up!  At least give me Saint Thomas!"  Growling, Judoc pulls on the ridiculous mask and wig.  Unfathomable!  He looks through the mask and wonders how he must look.  Like a buffoon, no doubt.  Snarling, he grips his staff and marches stiffly to the entrance to the arena.

Though the situation is laughable, Judoc playing a mere woman in the arena of gladiators, he ultimately puts on the wig and mask, not wanting to miss his chance at glory by griping at his lot.  The mask stinks of sweat and the attached wig seems little more than a hive of fleas but  as he adorns them Judoc begins to hear the percussion of the crowd picking up around him again.  He makes his way towards the small man who ushered him out of the room and then up a ramp towards the painful glint of daylight.  At first the single voice picking up over the crowd is barley audible.  "In the second century of our lord was born a daughter to Constus, governor of a far away land.  Catherine, as she was named, learned wondrous things of her god, studying the Madonna in a vision that came to her from God himself.  The emperor, Maxentius, was heathen, and put Catherine to the test..."

As he ascends towards the light, the magically amplified voice grows in his ears, until Judoc is finally standing even on the sands with the voice of the moderator ringing in his ears.  "But God's creature was greater than the temptations of man, and even when she was turned on by the rulers of men, she destroyed with a touch the spiked wheel which was to be her torture.  Ladies and Rogues of Azer, I bring you Catherine of Alexandria!"

The crowd revels.  They cheer drunkenly at the next fight even as Judoc in his black wig and mask are the only ones on the sands.  Behind him, a portcullis closes the way leading back to the gladiator's respite as another opens across the other side of the arena.

"Enemy of humanity he wanders Yrth, harvesting souls of the lost commoners and nobles alike.  He is checked only by the grace of God and bravery of those who would stand against him.  Gentle peoples of the audience, I present to you Death."

He is not what Judoc would expect.  Much like himself, he is forced with a mask, though his is a rough-hewn skeletal face cast in red across a black background as though his substance was nothing but shadow.  Other than that, he seems poorly armored, with only a leather thong covering his waist and thighs.  Still, the man seems well enough equipped with a single scythe in one hand, and the long, curved blade of a knife in his other.  Behind him, the portcullis lurches closed...

"Gentle people of Azer, we are pleased to bring you a battle as old as time.  Catherine of the Wheel our Saint and Protector against Death!"

OOC:  You got one step ahead of me with the staff, but just in case if you have anything else you want to enter into combat with please post it in OOC or private in the next post.  You stand about 24 yards from your opponent who seems poorly armored, though well enough armed on the far side of the arena.  You both have moved well enough away from the walls of the arena to meet each other on the center of the sands.  Please post three rounds of actions.

Conflicting emotions assail Judoc.  First and foremost is the effrontery of having to play a woman, making what should be an opportunity for him to dazzle the crowd into little more than a broad farce.  He looks across the sands.  This guy is supposed to be Death, huh?  Well, he does have the scythe going for him, but he bets the poor sod is about to soil himself from fear.  Judoc only half-listens to the legend of Catherine, but he idly wonders if the Saint were perhaps a mate.  Her miracle sounds like a spell out of the Making and Breaking college.  Now, that would be impressive, if he could replicate a miracle here today.

"Death, you are already defeated!" he calls out across the sands.  "I have more power than you can possibly imagine!"   He raises his staff above his head like a prophet of old and begins walking leisurely toward his enemy.

OOC:  Begin slowly walking forward to meet Death.

The crowds around swell with the commencement of the fight, cheery madly as the two close distance in anticipation of gore.  Taking perhaps his only opportunity to appraise his surroundings, Judoc notices the stadium is filled.  At each the center of each his right and left side, a set of boxed seats rises up slightly from the crowd, on his left he easily recognizes the ceremonial dress of Baron Graves, the Provost of the Templar College, surrounded by a small entourage of the mentors.  To his right, there is only a single man in grandiose chair, lazing disinterestedly across one of the cushioned arms...

Though Judoc walks slowly towards his masked foe, the other man wastes no time, reversing the knife in his left hand so that it arcs downwards along his forearm even as he starts a loping jog, not directly at Judoc, but at just enough of an angle that he has to turn his head slightly, keeping his left side and the knife between the two of them.

The man moves lithely, and though he is no musclebound ape, he seems strong enough, with a well defined chest and thick shoulders and biceps.  Perhaps the man is even as strong as Judoc himself, though inwardly he doubts it.

OOC:  Over three rounds you have closed distance with eachother, Judoc at a walk, the Gladiator at a brisk jog.  You have your staff ready and are at a distance of 5 yards with the Gladiator along the line of your front right hex.  The Gladiator has a ready knife in his left hand and a hand sickle ready in his right.  Please post 1 turn of action.

Judoc drinks in the adulation of the crowd.  In his mind, they are cheering for him, Judoc the Mighty!  Baron Graves, the head of the Templar College, is here today to witness Judoc's triumph, and the young man smirks under his mask.  If only he didn't have to masquerade as a silly woman!  Saint or not, a female such as Catherine is a degrading and humiliating choice for a serious wizard.  Judoc wonders who the man is to his right.  He has no hangers-on like the Baron does.  Perhaps he is the mayor of Azer, or some other distinguished lord, here by fate today to witness Judoc's skill.

"Last chance, knave.  Surrender, or face utter destruction!" Judoc says, his staff in his hands.  The fool.  Doesn't he know who is fighting?  Judoc the Invincible cannot be beaten, not today!

OOC:  Wait.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:06, Mon 20 June 2016.

The gladiator does not halt his progress, but lurches forward toward the mage.  "You're a fool if you think the crowds will help you."  The words echo from inside the bone mask, just loud enough for Judoc to hear them, though Death's red-stained teeth are paralyzed in a hideous grin.  It is only a moment before the form is just a step away, his curved steel blade swinging in a wide arc that cuts the air just an inch short of the Judoc's hands gripping at his staff.
The crowd cheers as the fight starts out as a melee... it seems those mages previous had started off their fights with much rangier attacks...

OOC:  The gladiator is now at range one.  One more turn of action.