Besides a lifetime of reading, a playwriting class in college, participating in a string of different writing groups, and, of course, a sizable chunk of actual writing (never enough, lol), these are the primary resources I’ve used to better myself:
Stephen King’s book On Writing.
L. Ron Hubbard’s Writers of the Future quarterly competition.
Brandon Sanderson’s online lecture series, as well as his podcast with fellow authors.
Lastly, in 2018, I was fortunate enough to be accepted into Brandon Sanderson’s fifteen-person writing workshop that he teaches at BYU during the winter semester. It was a great learning experience, and I recommend that anyone who can applies. Please don’t think I say this lightly either. It took me years to reach a point in my career that I could move to an entirely different state for four months to attend this course, and it was absolutely worth it–not only for the class but also the writing group I gained, which I still meet with weekly.
To apply, you need to submit a personal essay and a writing sample. Below is the writing sample I used, which is the first two chapters of a fantasy trilogy I’m working on. Hope it helps in your own writing journey!
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BYU English 318R Submission
Chapter 1 – The Show
Nahn sat cross-legged in the center of the arena, anticipation building in his chest. The sand beneath him was warm through the loose pants he wore, the countless granules baked hot by the sun above. As had become his habit, Nahn twisted in place, scanning the audience to see if his master was in attendance. It was a small fighting pit, in a small town, so it didn’t take him long to complete a search of the spectators who stood atop the wall of the wooden structure that boxed him in.
Though Nahn saw a few men of a similar height and build, none of them wore the bright colors that his master favored. The man’s absence didn’t surprise Nahn. After all, his master often talked of how he enjoyed the extra attention he received when visiting pleasure houses when so many of their usual custom were at the arena watching the fights. If indeed that’s where he was, Nahn hoped that his master had a pleasant time and, if possible, that he finished early enough to at least see the end of the bout.
Metal squeaked, and Nahn turned to see the day’s condemned being led into the pit by a jailer dressed in black. There were three of them: two men and one woman. Chains connected the shuffling prisoners, who were all scrawny, their skin covered in bruises, dirt, and grime. They entered through the same iron side gate that Nahn had used a few minutes ago when the arena’s gong had first sounded. Nahn glanced up and to the right, seeing the section of beaten brass that hung from two ropes tied to a wooden pole that thrust out a few feet into the fighting pit. The man who rang it stood behind and slightly off the to the side, the long wooden striker he used propped against his shoulder. The man was talking to a young woman beside him and didn’t appear in any rush, so Nahn unclenched his hands and wiggled his fingers. It would likely still be at least a few moments until things began.
Returning his gaze to the pit, Nahn saw that the jailer had stopped the prisoners about twenty feet away from him, lining them up close to one of the high arena walls. A handful of older children who were standing above the condemned leaned over the waist-high railing—so far that Nahn thought that some might fall into the pit itself—and tried to drop lines of spit onto the heads of the prisoners. Most of their attempts missed, but one did find its mark, disappearing into the unkempt hair of the middle prisoner. If the man noticed, he didn’t show it, while the boy above looked smugly amongst his friends.
During this time, the jailer removed the length of chain that connected the condemned to each other, as well as their ankle fetters, so that they could move around the arena freely. He did, however, leave their wrists manacles in place, which bound the arms of each prisoner in front of them. Nahn would have preferred that those be detached as well, but he was glad that they at least no longer had their legs shackled—he had worn ankle fetters for many years and would wish them on no one.
The jailer took everything he had unlocked with him, keeping a sharp eye on the condemned as he retreated back to the entrance gate. He needn’t have worried though. The woman crumpled to the sand almost immediately, head bowed, and the man next to her also knelt, reaching out to take hold of her hands. The other man remained standing, but he was less interested in following the jailer than spitting at the crowd, which had swelled considerably in the last few minutes, though Nahn still didn’t see his master.
“You let a beardless youth carry out the sentence?” the condemned man shouted, gesturing at Nahn with his shackled arms.
A few in the audience yelled back, while Nahn frowned at the comment. He was sixteen and could grow hairs if he wanted, but his master told him to shave his face clean, so he did.
“You are cowards!” the prisoner screamed, prompting more return shouts. “Vermin, seeking pleasure in sin—”
The gong echoed loudly through the arena, cutting off the words of the condemned man and the spectators alike. Nahn glanced to the side to make sure that the jailer was safely out of the pit. Seeing that he was and that the entrance gate was closed, Nahn nodded to himself.
It was time to begin.
Nahn breathed in as he stood, drawing the essence of ORROS from the air around him. The power coalesced in-between his thumb and forefingers, taking the form of a flat metal disc the width of a plate, but thin and with a razor sharp edge. The effect was immediate: the crowd cheered and the talkative prisoner made a chopping motion with his hands to ward off evil.
“Blasphemer!” the man hissed at Nahn. “Don’t soil the gods’ blood with your touch!”
At the same time, the kneeling woman looked up, staring directly at Nahn. After a heartbeat, she gave a tiny nod, and Nahn returned the gesture. He whipped his arm, sending the silver circle spinning toward her.
The disc streaked through the air, flying parallel to the ground and barely slowing as it decapitated the woman, cutting cleanly through flesh, muscle, and bone, before lodging in the wooden wall of the arena.
The audience howled in delight as the prisoner’s head rolled free from her body, gushing blood, and Nahn allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. It had been a good throw, clean and painless—a fitting death for someone who had accepted the consequences of their actions.
The two men, however, were not so strong. The one who had been yelling ran back to the entrance gate, his bare feet kicking up sand from the arena floor. The other closed his eyes, holding onto the hands of the headless woman as tears streaked the grime on his cheeks.
Nahn tsked. Not only were such displays cowardly, but they would bring no joy to the crowd. Already, some among the masses began to boo. He needed to give the spectators something else to focus on.
Crouching to the sand, Nahn began to summon essence again. As the metallic substance appeared, he sculpted it into a human-sized form, starting with feet to keep it upright, then legs—gradually standing as he worked—next the torso, and finally arms, each ending in a single long blade in place of hands. He didn’t bother with a head, instead making a length of chain that attached to the skin of his wrist and the back of five-foot-tall construct.
As he had hoped, audience members were pointing and clapping their hands giddily in excitement as he finished. Golems crafted from essence were not a rare sight, but his path of ORROS was a hard one to walk, so these people had likely never seen something built out of the silvery material before.
Wanting to keep the momentum, Nahn strode forward and, through the chain that tethered them together, he willed his creation to follow. The metal golem obeyed instantly, matching his pace, each shift of its joints sounding like a knife against a whetstone. It took only a few moments to reach the crying prisoner, who clutched the dead woman’s hands even tighter now, likely having heard Nahn and the construct’s approach.
Nahn ordered the golem to goad the man with its blades. The prisoner, however, just whimpered as he was poked, squirming away from the construct, his eyes remaining shut.
Spectators around the arena shouted their displeasure and none more so than those standing right above Nahn, making him cringe. He knew that they wanted a show, but what was he to do if the condemned refused to fight back or at least flee?
For nearly a minute Nahn used his golem to try and spur the weeping man into action, but that did little more than leave the prisoner full of holes and swaying from blood loss. In the end, Nahn had the construct plunge its bladed right arm deeply into the prisoner’s back. The man let out a gurgle and then slumped forward, falling to the sand on top of the headless corpse.
Some people cheered, but Nahn noticed that many of the rest looked bored, or worse, were talking to each other instead of watching. Nahn’s heart began to race. He was adhering to every instruction he had been given, but he must be doing something wrong because it wasn’t working. If only he had someone to direct him, but his master was still nowhere to be seen and his athwa had specifically told him that he expected him to do this on his own.
Nahn breathed out his mounting tension. There was still one condemned left, and he would garner no love from the crowd by keeping them waiting.
The size of the arena meant that it didn’t take Nahn and his construct long to get to the last prisoner. As they neared, the man stopped tugging futilely on the bars of the locked gate and spun around, pressing his back against the iron door. His eyes danced between Nahn, the golem, and the watching people. Without warning, the prisoner leapt forward, coming straight at Nahn with a scream, his shackled arms and dirty fingers leading the way.
Nahn turned slightly and bent his knees, summoning a long rod of ORROS with pointed ends that he grasped in both hands. In his periphery, he could see that the sudden action had caught the audience’s interest. This was it. Finally, he would—
The prisoner tripped, the top of his right foot colliding with the back of his left calf, and before Nahn could adjust, the man impaled himself through the chest on the sharpened rod. Continuing forward, the prisoner stumbled to the side, and Nahn let his weapon go, so as not to be pulled along. The man took a few tottering steps, hands grabbing hold of the rod, which he was dragging on the ground in front of him. He tried to yell again, but more blood than sound escaped his lips, and then he collapsed on his back, hitting the sand hard and laying unmoving.
A bit in shock, Nahn looked up at the people who surrounded him to see their reactions. Some jeered, others laughed, but most just returned to their conversations, ignoring him once again.
With nothing else to do, Nahn dismissed the construct and connecting chain, both breaking apart in a cloud of metal flakes before quickly being reabsorbed into the air. The disc he had thrown earlier had already done the same and the rod—which stood upright at an angle out of the prisoner’s body—would soon as well, since Nahn wasn’t touching it.
The nearby gate swung open, but instead of the jailer, in the entrance stood Nahn’s athwa: his guide on the path of ORROS. The man was grizzled, with countless scars and a steel-grey beard.
“Hurry up,” he said in a gravelly voice. “It’s time for the real match to begin.”
Nahn did as he was told, entering the portal, and remaining still in the wooden hallway that surrounded the base of the structure as his athwa pulled his arms behind his back and fit a steel manacle—much thicker than the ones the prisoners had worn—tightly around his wrists.
“Don’t know why I ever expect better from a slave,” grumbled the man, locking the mechanism roughly. “Trembel was a fool to buy you, and I to agree to this farce.”
The words stung, but Nahn didn’t blame the man. After all, he was the one who had failed, not his athwa. Once the manacle was secure, Nahn started to turn, but the old pathwalker shoved him back beside the gate.
“Watch how it should be done. Undying bless us, maybe you’ll learn something.”
Nahn complied, though after channeling the amount of essence he had and being out in the naked sun, part of him wanted to sit down and rest, not to mention wet his throat. However, he pushed those feelings away, treating the task he had been given as if it was his own desire. After so many years, the shift in perspective felt not only natural but comforting.
Back on path, Nahn stared at the pit. Neither he nor his athwa had closed the gate, leaving it partially open into the arena. However, the iron door was made of long vertical bars, so whether he looked through it or not, he could easily see the child slaves that ran about, clearing the three dead bodies. One boy, instead of helping to drag the corpses, kicked the head of the woman in front of him like a ball, drawing laughs from the crowd and a few coins from especially amused patrons. The child was quick to snatch them up, and even performed a lopsided bow to a smattering of applause before exiting with the rest of the children through a gate on the left side of the arena.
Nahn pressed his lips together, feeling the shame within him grow. The slave boy’s stunt had earned him more respect and money than had Nahn’s whole bout. Not a single coin had been tossed during the executions, and this was not the first time that he had been slighted by the crowd so.
A loud burp turned Nahn’s head, only to see an extremely large and fat man approaching. Unlike the old pathwalker, this channeler was in his fighting prime and exuded power, despite his bulky frame.
“Luck, Hindo,” Nahn said.
The obese man grunted, taking a massive bite from the lamb leg he held.
Nahn wasn’t offended by the curt reply, in fact, he respected it. Hindo was a near perfect devotee to the path of MUL, which required living each day in utter excess. Since Nahn wasn’t something that the fat channeler planned to eat, drink, smoke, stick, or kill, spending time conversing with him would be a waste.
The gong sounded, and Hindo slurped the last of the meat off the bone, tossing the remains aside. With one thick hand, the big man pushed the gate further open, ducking under the wooden frame and stepping out into the arena proper.
“Hindo?” Nahn called after him.
The obese pathwalker turned ponderously, seeming to notice for the first time that Nahn’s arms were bound behind his back and that there was no one else around to close the gate. With another grunt, Hindo shoved the door shut, knocking the latch into place. An iron key hung from a nearby wall peg to lock the gate, but Hindo’s attention was already gone, and thankfully, Nahn didn’t imagine it would be necessary for this bout.
On the other side of the pit, from a door that had yet to be used today, a screech could be heard, cutting through the air and drawing the attention of many in the crowd.
Hindo paid the sound no mind, summoning yellowish globs of MUL from the air. Some the large man tossed to the sand, which splattered into puddles, and others the channeler spread across his considerable girth.
Having watched Hindo at practice, Nahn knew that, though they looked similar, the puddles would be incredibly sticky, to hold the beast in place, while what the obese man coated himself with would be slick, to deny the creature purchase if it managed to successfully attack.
Noises from the opposite gate reached a critical mass just as the gong clanged again. The door burst open, a black animal charging into the pit, causing everything from gasps of fear to cries of glee from the spectators. Nahn leaned forward, eager to get a better look. Waste beasts were a staple of arena matches, so he had seen some before, but there were so many different varieties of the creatures that each time felt like it was the first.
This one was a large, flightless bird, nearly as tall as Hindo, with curved talons on its feet and a beak that, despite some nicks and scrapes, looked especially wicked. The animal’s skin was inky black and completely devoid of any feathers or hair—like all waste beasts—which made the muscles that powered its strides all the more obvious as it raced into the arena. It caught site of Hindo immediately and, with a challenging cry, launched itself at the fat man.
Hindo summoned a yellow-tinted club in his left hand and stayed in the center of his premade traps, calmly waiting for the beast. The creature covered the space in moments and was only a few strides away from the puddles—Hindo shifting his body to strike as soon as the animal became stuck—when the large bird shockingly jumped, leaping clean over the traps and crashing into the fat man.
Hindo was nearly gutted by the beast’s talons, but somehow the pathwalker avoided the worst of the flashing feet and beak by twisting his body, using the momentum of the animal and the slick coating of MUL to send the creature flying past him.
Nahn’s momentary concern for Hindo was replaced by one for himself as the large bird crashed against the gate he stood in front of, forcing him to scuttle back. The iron door shook loudly, metal hinges squealing, but held. As far as Nahn could tell, it wasn’t because of the drop latch, but because the gate was fitted to the wood frame in such a way that it could only open into the arena, probably in case this very thing happened.
Nahn took a hesitant step forward. He had never been this close to a waste beast before. The large bird, however, quickly regained its footing, and Nahn halted his approach, not daring to move further. The creature pecked ineffectually at the yellowish smears of MUL on its black skin and then let out a piercing squawk. It took a few bounding steps toward Hindo, but just as suddenly it stopped to attack the splotches of essence again because they were bizarrely swelling in size.
At first, Nahn was just as confused as the whispering crowd, walking back up to the gate to try and figure it out. That’s when he saw them: tiny yellow threads, barely visible in the sunlight, connected each of the growing clumps of MUL on the animal to Hindo, allowing the man control them, just like a construct.
Nahn whistled in appreciation. Creating a tether was rather basic, but making half a dozen, while being attacked was another thing entirely.
The large bird stumbled and snapped its beak as the yellowish blobs expanded further, enveloping its body and threatening to topple it over. In a last-ditch effort, the creature threw itself forward, but only managed to go a few feet before collapsing, the weight of all that MUL simply too much.
The beast now helplessly trapped, Hindo walked forward to stand over it. Even cocooned as it was, the animal still tried to attack the obese channeler with the only part of its body that had been left exposed: its head. However, Hindo stayed just outside the creature’s reach, driving the large bird into a cawing rage.
Hindo lifted the yellow club, raising a questioning eyebrow to the crowd. They murmured among themselves, some calling out, but many more hesitating. The fat man changed the weapon, shifting it into a thick spear. Again, the collection of people rumbled half-heartedly. Once more, Hindo altered the weapon, this time into a massive hammer with spiked teeth. The crowd roared its approval.
With both hands Hindo brought the hammer down, crushing the helpless beast’s head. The weapon only remained solid long enough to kill the creature and then it too exploded, bits of yellow MUL mixing in with pieces of brain and bone in a wide radius.
Cheers erupted from the spectators, the structure shaking as they stamped their feet and whooped in excitement. They then threw coins into the arena, so many it looked like glittering rainfall, but the fat man didn’t rush to pick them up—slaves hired by Hindo and Nahn’s master would complete such a menial task. Instead, Hindo simply smiled, looking like a fierce god of plenty as he basked in their adoration, the locals beginning to shout the word MUL again and again.
Nahn closed his eyes, feeling the collection of voices roll over him as he tried to imagine what it would be like to inspire a chant like that. If it was up to him though, they wouldn’t be calling the name of his path but that of his master. Of course, in order for that to happen, they would need to be at a true arena, one with a herald, in which case they cry wouldn’t be taken up by just a few hundred throats, but by thousands. And if he was truly wishing, this would be in Solace itself, watched and remembered by the immortal eyes of the Undying.
He was so caught up in the thought and the sounds of the people that he didn’t hear his athwa approach, earning him a punch in the temple that knocked him sideways. Bound as he was, Nahn couldn’t use his arms or hands to catch himself, but he had been standing in a corner next to the door, so managed to keep himself from falling all the way down, his shoulder and back pressed into the wooden walls at an awkward angle.
“I told you to watch the match, not take a nap,” the grizzled man snapped, speaking loudly to be heard over the crowd.
“I did,” Nahn said, trying to push his way back into a standing position but failing. “It was only after it was over that I looked away.”
His athwa crossed his arms, appearing unconvinced. “And what did you learn?”
Nahn’s mind came up empty but then he remembered what the slave child had done. “I need to have more fun,” he said.
“You need to what now?” the old pathwalker said with a dangerous frown.
“I need to turn it into a game,” Nahn said, pressing forward with the idea. “I need to smile more, laugh even. If I’m enjoying myself, the audience will too.”
His athwa paused to consider. “Might work,” he finally said, pulling Nahn up by his elbow and pushing him down the hall. “We’ll find out in Halcyd. First though, you get to explain to Trembel why only half the day was profitable. Better hope the whores in this town know their trade well.”
The small bit of satisfaction Nahn had been feeling about finding an answer his athwa approved of slipped away at the thought of having to face his master. The man was usually in high spirits after visiting any pleasure house, but talks of lost money always turned his mood sour. However, such a conversation would be much easier than the indecision Nahn had faced in the arena. He would simply relate what had happened and then take whatever punishment his master thought fitting. So thinking, Nahn relaxed as they left the fighting pit and chanting behind, happy to be returning to a life he better understood.
Chapter 2 – The Sale
Kiran walked behind her father’s cart, watching the waste beast trapped within the rear-mounted cage pace back and forth. It had a thick body, which outweighed her at least twice over, with two curved tusks coming out the sides of its lower jaw, clawed feet, and no tail. The beast snuffled at the iron bars, gnawing on a few, before eventually growing bored and collapsing with a huff.
Seeing her opportunity at hand, Kiran increased her pace. She didn’t look at the animal as she neared. Instead, she kept her eyes on her boots, so if it happened to glance her way it wouldn’t be startled by her presence.
At first, the edge of the cart-bed and cage were only the barest sliver at the top of her vision, but as she treaded softly forward, it gradually grew larger, until she could see the paws of the beast, and hear its panting breath clearly.
Discreetly as she could, she started to raise her eyes—
“Kiran?” her father called.
She bit her tongue to stop herself from cursing in frustration. Without meaning to, she lifted her head, only to discover that the waste beast was staring directly at her. She almost stumbled, but somehow managed to keep her pace steady, as she looked into its eyes. They were pure white, except for pinprick pupils, which made for a striking contrast beside the midnight black of its skin.
She held its gaze for a brief moment and then carefully slowed her steps. The bars of the cage were much too close-set for the beast to get out, but a single swipe of its front limbs could easily disembowel her.
When she was safely back out of harm’s way, she jogged around the side of the cart to where her father sat on the bench seat up front. He leaned casually against the back wall of the cage, which was built of solid iron, giving him protection from whatever was confined within.
“Still have all your fingers?” her father joked.
She stuck her tongue out at him, but he had already turned back to their two pull-horses, flicking the reins. His profile revealed a sun-weathered face and a hooked nose, which she had unfortunately inherited.
Kiran grabbed hold of a side-handle on the cart, pulling herself up onto the seat with her father, who refused to scoot over despite her nudging, so she contented herself with leaning against his thick arm. It was then that she realized why he had called her up; they were only a few streets away from their destination.
The city of Jhet hadn’t changed much since their last visit. It was still a mid-sized town, though there seemed to be fewer inhabitants than she remembered, probably due to shifting trade routes or the inevitable hardships that came from being built so near the waste. The avenues and alleys were quiet, only a few people going from building to building or making their way across the beaten dirt roads with a hurried pace.
Every now and then someone paused to look at the cart and its contents, but most continued on their way after a brief glance. Jhet boasted a sizeable arena and had since its founding, so a caged waste beast was no great spectacle. Even so, a group of boys decided to chase after the cart for a bit, hooting and hollering, trying to get the animal to react, but they quickly disbanded after a stern glare from her father and a well-thrown rock by Kiran that knocked the lead boy clean over.
Soon after the encounter, they reached the town square, which wasn’t actually a square at all, but instead a rough oval of flat dirt, upon which sat three core structures: a dilapidated trading post, with narrow silos for grain, a fountain that leaked only a trickle of water, and the arena, a full two stories of hardened clay.
As they neared the building, a boy that had been standing outside ran within, returning a few moments later with a man whose head was too small for his squat body.
“Trost!” the man shouted. “Is that you?”
Her father raised his off hand, since she was still leaning on his right arm, and waved cordially.
Within a few moments, they pulled up beside the building, her father dismounting, while she looked over the structure’s adobe walls. They always seemed odd to her, as if they were coming directly up from the ground, since they were the same ruddy brown as the street.
“Good to see you, old friend,” the man said, shaking her father’s hand.
“And you, Yuro,” her father replied.
“And look at this one,” the man said, turning to Kiran. “You’ve grown like a weed. How old are you now, love?”
Why Yuro never used her name she didn’t know. Probably couldn’t remember it in that tiny little head of his.
“Ten and five,” she said, doing her best to be respectful.
“So old?” Yuro said. “Trost, my friend, you must sell her while you can still get a good price.”
Unconsciously, she reached for another stone to throw, of which she always kept some on her person, but luckily her father intervened.
“Spoken like a man with no daughters,” he said with a smile.
“Phaw,” Yuro said. “Dowers, inheritances. We are men of business. Let us call marriage what it is.”
Her father waved it off, and Yuro relented with a nod of his head, stepping toward the cage.
“So, tell me about this catch of yours.”
The beast stood as Yuro approached, looking decidedly displeased to have the man so close.
Kiran didn’t blame it.
“It’s a brosier,” her father said, joining Yuro. “Vicious in a fight and stubborn beyond belief. To this day it still believes that its teeth are stronger than metal, though it’s had near a month to be proven otherwise.”
Yuro raised an eyebrow. “Stupid, you mean?”
“Aye,” her father said, “but in the way the crowds will love. A brosier is often too stubborn to know when it should die and will continue to fight when any intelligent beast would have long since given up.”
Yuro snapped his fingers. “Didn’t they use some of these over in Dahil last year?”
Her father smiled. “For the Equinox games, before the pair fights.”
“Yes, yes, I remember now. They were said to have acquitted themselves well. But how did you find a beast like this so far south?”
Her father’s eyes narrowed. “Are you planning to take up trapping any time soon?”
“What, me?” Yuro said, gesturing toward the eastern wastes. “Go out there? Of course not.”
“Then I can’t possibly see how that information will be useful to you.”
Yuro laughed. “That’s the Trost I know, just as stubborn as his merchandise.”
Her father tapped the side of his nose with a smile. “Careful, friend. It’s called careful.”
“You needn’t be worried,” Yuro said. “Those other trappers bring me nothing but bruised and bloody messes. I don’t know how you get them to me so clean and docile, with nary a scratch.”
The squat man watched for a reaction, but her father didn’t so much as bat an eye, which just caused Yuro to laugh again.
Kiran knew how of course. While tracking the beast, her father spent days concocting the perfect blend of sedatives based on the animals habits, diet, and size. Even now the beast was on a strong depressant, otherwise, it would be ramming the cage in a frenzy, trying to escape.
“Speaking of other trappers,” Yuro said, “are you going to that fool meeting of theirs?”
Her father frowned. “What meeting is this?”
“Ah, so you don’t know,” the squat man said, looking pleased to be able to provide the gossip. “A couple of greenhorns claim to have found a big catch, but they need more manpower, so they’re recruiting down at the Painted Lady.” Yuro shook his head. “Sounds like a wild fen chase to me, but you know trappers, they hear about a once in a lifetime hunt and they get an itch.”
This time her father did react, looking in the direction of the aforementioned bar.
“Think you can unload the brosier for me?” he said.
“Aye,” Yuro answered with a smile, as if he had known exactly how her father would take the news, “but it will cost.”
“Fair enough, you can deduct it from the six hundred rupels you’ll be paying for the beast.”
Yuro put on a face of indignation. “Six hundred? This isn’t a korhound or ographant. You’ll be lucky if I give you three!”
Kiran’s father didn’t seem offended by the counter offer. Instead, he smiled as the two men hunkered down to haggle.
Kiran rolled her eyes. She didn’t know why they even bothered. They always ended up flipping for it anyway.
Sure enough only a few minutes later, her father dug in his hip pouch and pulled out a metallic green coin.
“Tops it’s five hundred,” he said. “Bottoms it’s four.”
“What if I want tops?” Yuro huffed.
“Do you?” her father asked, coin poised to throw.
Yuro stared at it briefly. “Aye.”
“Fine,” her father said, sending the coin spinning in the air. It seemed to float there a moment, before her father caught it and opened his hand, revealing the side as bottoms.
“Let me see that coin,” Yuro snapped.
Her father handed it over happily. “You can keep it, old friend. I’ll have plenty more soon enough, eh?”
Yuro looked furious for a moment, but then he just laughed, shaking the coin. “Next time, friend. There’s always next time.”
“Too true,” her father said, giving Yuro a nod of his head. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go see what this meeting is all about. Kiran, do you want to come with or stay?”
She sighed quietly. That wasn’t much of a choice. If she stayed, she’d get to spend more time with the brosier, and maybe get to see what other beasts the arena had, but Yuro would likely insist on giving her a personal tour. As for the bar, she wasn’t old enough to be in there without her father, so she would have to stay at his side the whole time, and they had just spent the past two months on the road together.
She was about to respond when suddenly the brosier let out a rumbling growl.
Kiran turned to see a woman step out from the arena’s vaulted entryway and her breath caught instantly in her throat.
It was a Weeper.
All channelers who fought in the pits were no better than butchers, but followers of the path of SCRI were especially loathsome. In addition to multiple tattoos, Kiran could see tiny cuts up and down the woman’s arms, some of which only looked a few days old. It wasn’t surprising, Weepers were said to live every moment in pain. It was even rumored that many kept nails inside their shoes for that very reason.
“Ah,” said the woman, completely ignoring Kiran and her father, as she walked straight toward the cage, grinning hungrily. “Fresh meat.”
“Leera,” Yuro said, “perfect timing. Would you be a dear and tell Othar and Vaas that I need them to move an animal inside?’
The woman stopped her approach mid-stride, spine rigid, and turned blood-shot eyes onto Yuro.
“Do I look like one of your lackeys?”
Kiran held her breath, but Yuro didn’t seem intimidated.
“You look like someone who likes fighting in my arena,” he said. “Or am I mistaken?”
The Weeper flexed the fingers of her right hand and suddenly each was coated in a long, thin talon of red crystal.
“Fight, yes,” she said, scraping her newly made claws together to create a high pitch whine. “Running messages, no.”
The squat man held her gaze, though he had to look up to do so. “I know how much you love your beast fights. It would be a shame to bump you back down to execution duty.”
The woman bared her teeth, before spinning about.
“Fine,” she said, walking back toward the arena, but then just as quickly she turned around with a wild look on her face. “But, I’ll do it my way.”
Before Yuro could object, reddish crystal exploded around the Weeper. It coated her entire body, lifting her into the air on two thick legs of essence, while the crystals that wrapped around each arm grew to the size of battering-rams, ending in fingers of red glass.
Kiran stepped back and her father did as well, moving to stand in front her, though what he could do against something that horrific, she didn’t know.
The expansion of crystals stopped just as suddenly as it had begun, leaving the woman encased within a giant body of red glass, at least fifteen feet tall. When she moved, the massive suit of essence moved with her, letting her stomp over to the cart on legs like crystalline tree trunks.
Seeing the behemoth approach, the brosier squealed in alarm, backing into the corner of the cage. The two horses whinnied as well, but luckily both had blinders on, and so neither could see the monstrosity that the woman had become.
The Weeper didn’t even try to open the cage door properly. Instead, she grabbed it with a giant crystal fist and ripped it from its hinges. In a fit of courage, which tightened Kiran’s chest, the brosier attacked, but the woman just laughed—an odd sound that seemed to come from every part of her crystal suit—as she plucked the beast from the air in her other massive red hand. She gave the animal a shake, the sharp fingers of her armor cutting the flesh of the creature, and then she stomped back toward the arena, carrying the screaming and twisting beast one-handed.
“I’ll fix the cart,” Yuro said, scribbling a promissory note and handing it to Kiran’s father. “As well as pay the agreed upon price. Come back tomorrow.” With that, the squat man dashed away, yelling after the woman that she best not do any real harm to the animal.
Her father stood there, note in hand, appearing calm, but Kiran could tell that he was furious. All that time spent scouring the wastes, finding the beast, trapping it, and then bringing it here, and now, once in the ring, this woman would kill it in mere minutes. Not to mention the damage to their cart, which was their very livelihood, and that to the brosier itself. He never said it, but she knew that her father prided himself on bringing in unblemished merchandise.
“Let’s go,” he said, and Kiran nodded, unable to walk away from the arena fast enough.