The glaive knight found Balto, the Farpoint mercenary they
had hired to be part of their team, doing just what Xela had predicted,
drinking. Luckily, he wasn’t drinking the black malt and instead had gone for a
crate of fangwail pale ale. Having slain the brew master, Balto was entitled to
the items his vanquished enemy had brought with him: supplies, weapons, etc.
The remainder of the recently deceased competitors’ worldly estates were
disposed of according to their death agreements by the tournament hosts.
Ceylina couldn’t deny the stout fighter his victory spoils.
Not only had he bested the hearty Willem, he crushed the dreadnaught who had
pummeled her with furious attacks, as well as smashing through the elusive
Inkwater mimic’s charades and mirrors. Yes, he was key to their victories on
the field today and he would be tomorrow. She reached out and took his flagon
with the blue and red Hirojan brewery label on it and set it aside. “Sleep it
off now, Balto, you’ll need your stamina and your senses tomorrow.”
The Kirzan mercenary looked up at Ceylina with bloodshot
eyes that could not focus. “Huh?” he sputtered in confusion.
“Let me help you up. I’ll take you to the tent where you can
sleep. We’ll go over tactics with Xela in the morning,” Ceylina suggested.
“Xela, who?” Balto mispronounced her brother’s name, then squinted
as another question arose in his fuzzy mind. “Tactics? What tactics? I hurl stones
and swing my axe and I protect Xela.”
“Yes, that’s all you need to know, I suppose.” Ceylina
grunted as Balto grabbed her gloved hand in the Kirzan's own huge hand and pulled himself
up. The old warrior with the white beard and scarred face teetered close to
Ceylina’s face and she gagged on his horrid breath. Somehow, the lug righted
himself and stumbled back to the tent on her arm.
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