Mist

Note: Anyone who is a gamer geek will understand how this is Sonny's MMO developer wet dream turned into a slash story. In any case, my ridiculously attractiv-- talented betas made this chapter awesome. :)

Chapter One

There were lizards in the tall grass, Fletch was sure of it. He could hear something moving in the darkness. He looked down at the ground, trying to get a glimpse of the blue salamanders that were said to live in these parts. He wondered if they were really poisonous, and if their poison would work on him.

"Bored already, then?"

Fletch shrugged languidly, and folded his legs in front of him on the boulder. His amber eyes moved to the men that were starting to fill the clearing. There were all sorts; pale dandies from Florien in their silk, tanned farmer lads from Fellwood Village, and the roughnecks out of Freeport.

"When's the Auren fighter coming?" he asked. He swept the gathering crowd with his eyes, temporarily forgetting about his search for blue salamanders.

"Dunno," Aissa said. "Don't care. I've got money on that one from Fellwood. Bart, they call him."

Fletch focused on the man in question. Tall, built like an ogre, and with shaggy brown hair to his shoulders.

"Eh."

"Look at the size of him!"

"Eh. He's just another jumped up cow tender."

Aissa frowned at him, and tossed her long copper braid over her shoulder. "You're right snobby for a thief. I'm staying with the Fellwood boy."

"Same," Ravin piped up from her side.

Fletch gave his cousin's newest consort a sideways stare. Slight, pale and with a shock of curly blond hair, he stood apart from the two of them glaringly. It was no wonder why the others in the clearing kept looking. Everyone knew the Kierna tribes didn't take on people from the commons, and folk from the commons didn't generally like the Kierna. The two of them, though, weren't exactly accepted by their own, and Aissa liked her meat pale.

"That'd move me more if you ever made a decision without 'Issa whispering it to you from the start."

"Shut it," Aissa said, her voice full of warning.

"Yeah, yeah."

Fletch combed his disheveled copper hair out of his face. He leaned back with his palms flat against the smooth surface of the stone. He was glad he'd claimed the boulder. His new boots were taking too long to break in. The man he'd taken them off of had had maiden feet, and they were a good deal too small. All of this standing and waiting didn't suit him.

He'd been to small tourneys in the past. They'd never been this slow to start. There wasn't even so good of a showing this time around. The best one they'd travelled to had been outside of Meridian. Every lord and lady who'd been feeling daring had stolen away from the gates to watch the fights. Bonfires had lit the night sky outside of Meridian as thousands of folk gathered on Arden Hill. Scores of fighters had arrived then, even troupes from across the twin rivers. All manner of traders from Freeport had come as well. The event had seemed more like a bazaar instead of a small tourney. That was the reason why they were no longer organized far in advance. The masters hadn't liked the way it had been turned into entertainment instead of brutal sport.

"Hey," Fletch mused. "I've a mind to get down to Garin's Keep. I bet those berries are in season-- the ones that only grow in the red village. The big plump ones."

"I don't want to go to the red village," Ravin said. "There's all manner of outlaws there."

"And what d'ya think we are?"

Even Aissa laughed at that.

"I wouldn't mind visiting the catacombs at Shatter Hill," she said, crossing her arms over the scarred leather jerkin she wore. "It's been years."

Ravin shifted by her side, looking uneasy. Fletch laughed. He didn't bother to hide the fact that he was pleased. Aissa never took his side anymore. It was aggravating as all hell, and Auren was turning out to be a bore. He'd wanted to see all of the creatures they were famous for, but even the silverwood had turned out to absent of the Timmet that had supposedly claimed the land.

"Oy, there's your iron man."

Fletch looked up. A slow smile spread across his face. "Excellent."

The Auren fighter was everything the townspeople had said. He was taller than the Fellwood lad by half a head, and his body was a gorgeous sight. His shoulders were massive, every muscle appeared etched out of stone. It was a shame that his lower half was clad in oiled leather. It would have been nice to see what bulged between those thighs. Oddly enough though, the fighter was barefoot.

Fletch's smile curled as his gaze scanned upward again. The man was masked, as was the custom for participants from the Order of Varys. They fought in the games because they were warriors as well as priests, but apparently fame and common girls thrusting their tits at them was not part of the arrangement.

"They really wear those iron collars." Ravin sounded revolted. "Look how tight they put it. It's a wonder he doesn't choke."

"'Issa, you see his hair?"

Fletch looked at his cousin, and indicated the iron man's stark white locks.

"Interesting," she said slowly.

"What? Why?"

Fletch ignored Ravin and sat up straighter, paying more attention to the other contenders.

There were no other iron men, much to his disappointment. But it was not much of a surprise. The Order of Varys hadn't made a showing in decades, likely because it's following had grown small. There were more Southron fighters than he'd realized, though. The newly lorded folks from Fellwood seemed anxious to prove themselves to the other territories. Freeport had the usual showing of mercenaries from the Warrior's Guild. The men from Meridian were the most impressive; knights bearing the sigils of their houses in plated armor.

"No one from Radyel or Yorn," he noted out loud.

The comment caught the attention of an older man who stood nearby. He was short, although Fletch considered most people from the territories to be so, and stocky.

"They din't want none of that rabble here this time 'round. Damn shame, though. Them boys from Radyel fight with their bare fists and beat our boys bloody every time, but it be a damn good fight."

"Radyel fighters wear cestus, not bare knuckles." Fletch gave the man another once over. "Where did you see a fight of that sort? There hasn't been a Radyel at a small tourney since the one in Meridian."

The man stared. "That's where I seen't 'em, lad. How would you be knowing what was what in Meridian? That was near twenty years past."

"Ah..." Fletch grimaced as Aissa slammed her elbow into his side. "Ah, my father told me."

"Oh."

Fletch shifted on the boulder, and reached down, pretending to be very fascinated with his bow all of a sudden. The man's scrutiny of them persisted, and would've continued to, but thankfully the fights didn't take long to begin. They swept away the old man's attention, and with it, his curiosity.

It turned out that the fighters from Fellwood were better than he had thought. As he watched though, he realized that they were not truly skilled fighters. Their combination of brute strength and massive sizes gave them the advantage.

Sadly, the Freeport mercenaries did not give the showing that Fletch had expected. In prior tourneys they had proved fast as serpents and just as mean. This time, however, the fighters sent from the Warrior's Guild could not evade the morningstars, maces and hammers that the Fellwood lads slammed into them.

"They're not bloody human."

"Some say they're not entirely," Aissa said.

"They don't even got proper armor," Fletch complained.

Aissa gave him a smug look. "Lord Harren didn't just send farm fed country boys. These ones here go hunting for the red brothers all over the kingdom. People say they've fought all kinds. They been killing for years. It's all they do."

Fletch frowned at that, and let his eyes slide back to the white-haired iron man. The tourney was matched based on rankings and the warrior priests were always given the highest. So far his matches had been against the knighted men of Meridian. His twin daggers had sliced through discreet openings in their armor. The blades sliced through their skin effortlessly and released waterfalls of blood in their wake.

He was doing well. Quite well. But the knights he fought were green boys. None had made names for themselves, and all were unrecognized by the crowd. It wasn't enough to ease Fletch's nerves about when it came time for the iron man to face Bart.

Fletch had bet his entire purse. It would be a shame to stir up trouble by having to steal it back if he lost.

He shook his head. What a disappointment this journey had turned out to be.

"How much've you got on him?" Aissa asked. She reached over to pat his purse.

"Fifty silver pieces."

"Ah ha."

Scowling, Fletch hopped off the boulder, and began to pace the perimeter of the fighting circle. He took measured steps until he was to the other side, close to where the masked iron man was sitting with his legs folded. His handlers were nearby, an older one of the Order who was shrouded in a thick black cloak with a broadsword over one shoulder, and a serving sister with half her face covered.

They were closer to the ring, keenly studying the other matches as Fletch moved in.

"You there."

The iron man didn't look up from methodically cleaning one of his daggers.

Fletch scowled. "You there. Boy."

That caught his attention. "You're calling me boy? You?"

The iron man looked him over with steel gray eyes, surrounded by the straps of black leather that shielded the top half of his face. His even stare slid over Fletch's fine, youthful features dubiously.

Fletch smirked. "I'm a lot older than I look, lad."

After a pause the iron man shifted his gaze across the clearing to Aissa before it slid back again.

"What do you want?"

"I want to know where your sword is, brother. You ain't going to beat that massive Fellwood ox with a stiletto. He'll smash your brains in with his hammer."

"What's it to you?"

Fletch paused, staring. What sort of iron man was this? They were normally so solemn.

"It means a lot to my purse. I've got half a noble on you."

"Well, you shouldn't gamble."

"I shouldn't like fucking boys either, but I've got a keen taste for cock," Fletch returned sharply. The iron man looked almost startled beneath his half-mask.

"Now don't mess about, lad. Stop fiddling with them daggers and cut that bastard's head off."

The iron man put the dagger in its sheath and began working on the other.

"Do you know the other name for a stiletto, Kierna?"

Fletch rolled his eyes.

"They call 'em mercygiver. They're known to grant death with a single cut. If you're agile, and your aim is true, you can end a man before he's realized his time is up."

"Well, you better be more goddamn agile than you look, brother."

The iron man scoffed, and turned away. "Stick to fucking boys and leave the fighting to me, Kierna."

Bristling, Fletch stalked back over to his cousin. She and Ravin looked at him curiously.

"That one is a right smug prick."

"Ah, so you've found common ground," Aissa said with a cheerful grin.

"Shut up."

Irritated, Fletch grabbed his quarterstaff from where it had fallen in the grass. Something smooth and cold brushed his fingers, but he was too distracted to care by now. Blue salamanders were far from his mind.

Bart was a savage beast with his hammer. After his matches, there was more gore seeping into the tall grass than any of the other fights combined. He swung the large weapon effortlessly despite the fact that his massive size made his movements ponderous at times.

It was midway through that a woman removed her long, red shroud. A spellsinger from the Celestine valley, who had decided to ask permission to join the fight. She didn't have the bronze coloring that the Kierna had, but she shared traits such as the reddish eyes. Perhaps she was some hybrid.

Fletch tried to place her as she whirled her thin staff idly, waiting for them to add her to the matches. She was beautiful, long of limb like all of the Celestines, and with thick raven hair that fell to her lower back.

A low hum and a faint glow seemed to radiate from the air around her until she stopped whirling the staff. When her preparations were done, she somehow looked more unnaturally beautiful.

"Wow," Ravin breathed in awe.

Fletch would have echoed the sentiment if he hadn't spent a great deal of time around Messinine spellsingers. The chants she'd used for the empowerment seals had allowed him to place her. They looked impressive to one who didn't know better. Fletch knew that any novice mage was capable of the same seals. She was missing the ones of higher power, the ones that true spellsingers were taught.

"This won't be pretty," he said, exchanging glances with Aissa.

It was, at first. The light show awed the crowd. Even the surviving cutthroats from Freeport gazed in amazement. Mages were a rare sort in the common territories. Even when people did try to learn the art, they were never truly as powerful as a Celestine.

The spellsinger called elements with melodious chants. Spell after spell, she left the plains awash in bright lights. Her lilting voice filled the clearing and hushed the crowd. However when it came her time to face Bart, her disadvantage was made fully clear.

He was prepared for sorcery. Even as his skin sizzled and he was thrown back, the magic didn't consume him as it should have. The spellsinger called her spells faster. Several times she had to stop and start again, throwing herself to the side to avoid his attacks as her casting was interrupted.

"The bastard has wards on his shield," Fletch said, leaning forward with a scowl. "Low powered ones, but a match for what she's got."

"Yes." Aissa sounded just as grim. Even if Bart was her man, Fletch knew it would always be painful for a Celestine to watch another of their kind die so young. The girl should have had another hundred or so years ahead of her.

She screamed for a shield, but her voice broke as he slammed a booted foot into her stomach. An opponent with armor would have been okay. She only wore thin robes. Blood spewed from her lips, and she scrambled out of the way of another kick. It seemed as though Bart was enjoying the fight, and when he kicked her staff away, he laughed.

Her spell was again disrupted. Before she could recover, Bart ended it. His hammer went through her face.

Ravin looked away sharply.

"I told you," Aissa said softly. She made a warding sign and looked away as well. "The bands who hunt the red brothers have fought all kinds. Even ours."

Feeling shaken and slightly ill, Fletch shifted from foot to foot.

Celestines were known to stay within the enchanted walls of their valleys. It was rare for one to participate in a tourney. Even rarer for one to come alone and to have their bodies discarded with the rest of the rabble. For an absurd moment he wondered if they ought to take her body home to have a proper sending-off. Then he remembered his last venture into the Celestine valley, and dismissed the thought completely.

"Your man is up," Aissa said, leaning against the boulder after the gore of the previous fight was swept away. With the mage's body out of view, Aissa was back to herself. She looked entirely too smug with her bet's success so far.

"I hope you've got the silver to pay up the masters. I don't fancy dodging their kind for the next few years because you were fool enough to scam them."

Fletch didn't deign to answer. He wished the damned spellsinger hadn't gotten herself brained. He could have bribed her to conjure some kind of spell to trip up the Fellwood ox.

Bart was covered in crusted blood and gore by now. He flashed his crooked teeth in an arrogant smile as he met with the iron man in the middle of the circle.

The crier circled the two men, giving them their styles.

"Lord Bartholomew Lancost, the brigand slayer of Fellwood Castle," he announced, his voice loud for such a tiny fellow. He indicated the iron man but did not touch him. "And the masked brother from the Order of Varys, of Auren Hall and White Spire."

"Get on with it," Bart growled. He spat on the ground next to the iron man's bare feet.

The fight began with little ceremony. Bart rushed the iron man with a holler, his hammer arced directly towards the side of his head. Fletch realized the priest was indeed more agile than he looked. For every laborious swing, he dodged and spun out of the way. His movements were swift, graceful, and seemingly effortless. It was the kind of dance that Fletch was fond of. It was one he often found himself performing in battle himself. But he was long limbed and slender, while the iron man was corded with muscle.

"Take his bloody head off," Aissa shouted, slamming her fist against the boulder.

Fletch laughed, relaxing finally as he watched the iron man duck and weave until Bart was as tired as a three penny whore from Freeport.

"Stay still you fucking coward!" Bart roared, lurching forward as sweat poured down his face.

He heaved the hammer at the iron man, but his movements had slowed. He'd well and truly worn himself out. A wiser man would have stored his strength for the harder opponents. Bart likely had not taken the bare-chested young man with no boots as seriously as the knights.

"Damn it, Bart!" a tall man with a pointed beard shouted over the crowd. He was tall, as burly as the other Southron peasant lords, but dressed more nobly in a tawny doublet and lambskin breeches, the colors of Fellwood.

The sound startled Bart, and he looked over briefly. The distraction proved dangerous. The iron man sprang to his feet from where he had rolled to the side. He extended his leg just as Bart's eyes shifted. Before he could look back, the heel of the iron man's foot had slammed into his throat. He fell back, and his hacking coughs filled the clearing.

"Get up, you idiot!"

"Get the fuck up you poxy-faced whoreson!" Aissa screamed.

"This isn't good," Ravin said, rubbing his hands together.

"It's good for me," Fletch laughed.

Bart staggered to his feet, and charged again. The iron man reared back, dodged to the side, and then slammed his foot into the side of Bart's knee. Bart's leg buckled beneath him, and the iron man swept to the side, appearing behind his opponent with startling speed. Fletch was firmly under the impression that his lovely cousin screamed louder than anyone when the iron man's stiletto slammed into Bart's back.

Bart's mouth dropped open. His body jerked. The iron man twisted the blade violently, and then wrenched it out. The brigand slayer fell to the grass, where blood began to pool out of his body. Dead.

The clearing erupted as the iron man was announced the winner. People were either cheering, or shouting with dismay as the masters spread out and began warding the clearing against anyone trying to escape their debts.

Fletch crowed with excitement, pumping his fist in the air. He jumped to his feet and pushed his way through the throngs. His boots slipped in the spots of grass that were wet with blood.

"Get this damned idiot's body out of here," the Fellwood lord was saying with disgust.

A woman with long wheat colored hair was wailing over Bart's body. Another man wearing the sand colors of Fellwood hefted Bart's warhammer, clearly testing its weight to see if it suited him.

Bypassing them all, Fletch wormed his way through the crowd until he was by the iron man's side.

"That was fantastic!" he crowed when he was finally face to face with the champion.

"It was slow," the iron man said flatly. As his handlers talked with the masters, he had once again returned to wiping his blades of blood.

"What? Are you serious?" Fletch stared incredulously. "You felled him in one stab, just like you said. It was amazing."

"A stab to the kidneys is common sense."

Getting irritated again, Fletch narrowed his eyes into a glare. "Do you not know how to take a compliment, then?"

"Save your compliments for the whore boys on Penny Row."

Fletch recoiled, mouth dropping open. He found himself speechless as he struggled with something to say. The bastard actually smirked at him. It sparked a flash of rage in him that overwhelmed all rational thought. Before anyone could protest, Fletch had his quarterstaff unslung from his shoulder. He brought the blunt end of it down so violently onto the iron man's bare foot that he cried out in pained dismay.

Before he could react, Fletch twisted the staff and brought it up to slam into the side of the other man's face. He fell backwards, stunned.

The crowd of onlookers had stilled completely as they gawked.

Ignoring them, Fletch leaned down until his face was directly in the iron man's. A flash of pained resentment and dislike was clear in his gray eyes.

Fletch's lips curled up again and he snatched his strong chin between his fingers, sliding the tips of them into a caress. "The boys on Penny Row don't need tender words. They wrap their plump pink lips around my cock with or without, love. But they do it behind closed doors. You just took my cock straight up your arse with all of the territories looking on."

The iron man shoved Fletch away roughly.

Fletch stepped back, laughing. "Next time show some respect you arrogant little fuck."

"What goes on here?" the older priest in the black cape demanded, staring down at his champion with wide eyed confusion.

"Nothing," the iron man growled.

"Yes, nothing. He got tripped up is all."

Grinning, and bending his fingers in a half-hearted wave, Fletch turned back the way he had come.

By now, the masters were threading through the crowd to collect. Fletch flagged one down and showed his bit of paper.

"You made out," the man grunted. His teeth glinted gold in the moonlight. "Most bet on that Fellwood twat."

"Most aren't as smart as me," Fletch said.

He walked away from the master with his purse a great deal heavier. He was already planning on what he would do with the excess gold. Proper boots, for start. A good haircut for certain; the outgrown mass of copper cowlicks and unruly waves was a pain in the ass. Some travelling wine would have been nice if they'd still had mounts. Perhaps he could make Ravin act as his packhorse.

Whistling, he began searching for his cousin. His mood was considerably lighter, and he could practically hear the whores on Penny Row calling his name. The brothels didn't have as fine a selection as Freeport and Meridian, but they would pass for now.

Fletch adjusted the quiver on his shoulder, and arranged his weapons for the long walk back to the city gates. He wondered if he should try the Silver Dove tonight. Boys had been more to his appetites lately but the Dove boasted having an actual fallen woman in their ranks.

"Oy!" He called out. "Aissa. Where the hell have you got to?"

The clearing was slowly emptying but there was no sign of his cousin or her lover. Fletch frowned. A sinking feeling began to overtake his joy. When the master with the gold teeth suddenly cried out with anger, everything came together.

"That fucking Kierna whore stole my purse!"

"Shit on me," Fletch hissed.

He began to slip out of the clearing, but his height and reddish gold hair made it difficult to blend into the shadows. The masters rushed over, and before Fletch could dive to his belly to hide in the tall grass, the man with the gold teeth was pointing at him.

"He was with the whore!"

"What! Me?"

The masters surrounded him, and he forced an uneasy smile. The look of them unnerved him as they stared from beneath their black hoods. Their teeth glinted unnaturally with all manner of ore welded on them.

"I was merely standing next to the wench. She came with that spellsinger, she did. It was nice to see a familiar face, is all. Not many of our kind wandering the--"

A brass knuckled hand slammed into the side of his face. Fletch grit his teeth, shutting up.

"Liar," another of the masters growled. "You and that bitch look near enough alike to be twins."

Fletch ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth and spat blood at the man's feet.

"Cousins, actually."

The master with the gold teeth growled, and cut Fletch's purse from his belt. "Take him."

Sighing with resignation, Fletch didn't fight when they began dragging him out of the clearing, and back to the city.

TBC