Honor and Blood

The sun was begi

The deathtrap on the other pathway wasn't acid, it was an absolutely massive stone set delicately so that it spa

That done, Tarrin spent most of the rest of the night exploring the city directly around the arena. He learned every nook and cra

He explored in his cat form every building within a longspan of the arena to look for those hiding places, and in so doing he was exposed to what the Dwarves had left behind. All the wood, paper, and cloth were long gone, leaving behind only the stone and metal things they made, but that was a significant amount. The Dwarves were adept at making stone furniture, believe it or not, probably softened with cushions and pillows. The faded paintings on the stone walls themselves, and some murals and frescos, showed him what the Dwarves had looked like. They were a short, stocky race, wide-shouldered and barrel-chested, with powerfully built arms and legs. They all had beards, even the women, and wore their hair long and braided in the artwork. Most of the art was depictions of battles and warriors, telling him that the race was a martial one, but there was no glorification of death and destruction in the art. It was a noble kind of art, Dwarves battling Ogres and Trolls and other Goblinoids, even one mural of a group of Dwarves fighting an actual Dragon, but no indications anywhere of them fighting with humans or Sha'Kar. So, it was a race of skilled warriors, but warriors who knew, understood, and enjoyed peace.

He was begi

The paintings were one thing, but the art of sculpture was another. The paintings and murals were exacting and crisp, like illustrations without soul, but the metal and stone sculpture that graced those abandoned buildings showed the true soul of the Dwarven people. It was bold and exciting, with strong lines and oftentimes abstract depictions. The Dwarves could carve a bust with utter precision, making an exact likeness of someone down to the hairs in his beard, or they could create stu

The rest of the night after that was spent removing all the art that would come free from those buildings near the arena, moving them out to the outside edges of the city. He would not destroy such beauty. He also marked those buildings that were largely populated with paintings and murals. Those buildings he would not approach in the battle, no matter what it cost him. He would not jeopardize what little there was that the Dwarves had left behind. He also drew a precise boundary or explored and unexplored buildings, an area that turned out to be about two square longspans. That was the battleground. He would not leave the battlefield, for he would not risk destroying unexplored buildings and the treasures that they may hold.

After he moved all of the art, he started to worry, realizing that he had made a serious blunder. He had left it all sitting outside, and it would be exposed to the elements. If he had to leave, then he may not have time to put it all back inside buildings, and the wind and sand would wear the art down to nothing but soulless rocks. But he was afraid now to go back and move it all over again, because the twinging of the Weave was getting stronger. Jegojah was moving in his direction, and he didn't want to get caught outside his chosen battleground.

It left him only one option, something he had never really done before. While sitting on a rock in the pre-dawn, he blew out his breath and called for help. "Mother," he called. "I need to talk to you."

What is it, Tarrin?

"You once said that if I asked, you would do something for me."

Of course.

"I need your help now," he said soberly. "I moved a whole lot of ancient Dwarven art out of this area, but I didn't think to put it back inside once I moved it. I left it sitting outside, like an idiot. Could you move it somewhere safe?"

What is this I'm hearing? Is this consideration? Is this concern? Is my dour kitten actually thinking about protecting pieces of rock and metal? the Goddess called winsomely.

"Mother!" he said, flushing slightly.

She laughed delightedly. For such a noble cause, my kitten, I'd be more than happy to help you. I'll put the art somewhere safe, so don't you worry about it.

And that was that. It was the only thing he could think to worry about. He had made all his preparations, and taken all his precautions. He had learned the battleground so well that every rock had a place, and he had made his plans. There was nothing for him to do now but wait. Sit and wait for Jegojah, look forward to the moment when he looked the Doomwalker in the eyes and sent it back to Hell.

It was interminable.

Waiting was one thing, but waiting like this was quite another. For three days Tarrin waited, waited for that sense of the Weave to move towards him again, but it had not. It had stopped some distance away from him, and had not moved forward since. He fully understood that Jegojah had probably done the exact same thing as him, had found a suitable battlefield and had stopped to lure him into a fight. But Tarrin would not abandon his place, even if it meant waiting out the Doomwalker.

The waiting had frayed Tarrin's already sensitive nerves. Never a very sedate person to begin with, the waiting had worked him up to a state of nervous frenzy. He would pace back and forth in the arena all day, walking in lines and circles that had developed into pathways in the sandy soil, and when that got boring, he would go out on short patrols of the chosen battleground, making sure everything was where it was supposed to be, making sure his traps were still set and nothing had moved. He had even gone back to the large open square where he had left the dwarven art, but it had disappeared. A quick look around hadn't found it, and the Goddess had been curiously tight-lipped about where the art had gone. She wouldn't tell him, only saying that it was safe.