Chapter 2: The Fallung Festival

The firbolg finds a shady place to rest and commune with the earth. He has learned to better harness the primal energies, changing his form to mimic those he remembers from the forest. At some point he will probably be able to calm his mind and control the change better, to turn into a bird and fly to freedom, but every time he changes now he becomes an angry beast bent on destruction. Dominus doesn't seem to mind.

He's starting to understand the idea of training, and that the upcoming fight will be different - people will actually be trying to kill him. He lets out a low growl, and feels his canine teeth sharpen in his mouth. He will be trying to kill them back.

Conwan paces in a spot next to a line of battered straw dummies. In his time here, he's become faster, able to outrun most of the gladiators here despite his short stature. He still hasn't fully accepted his place here. For a long time, whenever Conwan landed a punch, he imagined Dominus's ugly maw instead but more recently, he's been thinking of home. Channeling the smell of grass and sheep, the bustling voices of his village, the comfort of his family give's him peace in such chaotic surroundings.

He turns to a dummy and begins assaulting it with his fists, first thinking of Dominus and his crooked face. As his strikes increase in intensity and frequency, his mind drifts towards home. The farm, he's carrying a bundle of wheat to the millhouse. His friends and family are all around him as he walks, greeting him kindly. At last he reaches the door. He opens it only to find Dominus a- He snaps out of his daydream as soon as he hears the crack of the dummy's head coming off and rolling onto the ground. A radiant misty aura quickly dissipates from around his hand. Conwan looks at the sun. It's time.

Alyndin enjoys the revelry after beating the Goliath and continues to playfully badger Dominus about the lack of ale during the rounds of training after.

As they are all called, Alyndin looks around at the companions he has trained with since they were all brought here and hopes they can continue their lucky streak. Then bows from the waist to the crowd wondering if he will be able to partake of the drinks that are freely flowing.

The firbolg is deeply uncomfortable in the presence of so many people and so much noise. While he's chained to the others, he will just trudge around miserably in their wake until they are taken outside again.

Over the course of training, the firbolg has gotten used to these stupid games the civilised people play, where you have to say the opposite of what is true. Compared to the chances of saying or doing the wrong thing in the nebulous, uncertain social rules of this gathering, this feels like a life line.

"That is right, Lanista."

A pang of hate goes through the halfling's mind as he's told to put on a show but he knows that he's better off doing it nonetheless.

He catches and spins the quarterstaff beside and above, sending some strikes into the air in front of him and finishes off with a midair kick. If only the esteemed guests were a few feet closer, he'd show them what ferocity is.

By the grace of Lapuard in sight of such a fine feast and festival you shall be healed. Alyndin lays a hand over the cut and bows deeply at the calling of his god.