Joran moved through the forest on foot, his steps steady but measured. Though his magic could summon a steed, he refrained—his body was still recovering from the toll of overexertion, and he couldn’t afford to push himself any further. The rhythmic crunch of leaves and twigs beneath his boots was his only companion as he pressed onward.
For the first hour, the forest remained lush, the air thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. Birds flitted between the branches, their songs filling the silence, while the occasional rustle in the underbrush hinted at unseen creatures lurking just beyond sight. But as he continued, the terrain began to shift.
The vibrant greenery gave way to dry, brittle soil, and the once-dense canopy thinned, allowing the harsh sunlight to bear down on the land. The trees, once towering and healthy, now stood in sparse clusters, their bark stripped and weathered, their branches skeletal and twisted. The undergrowth withered, choked by the lifelessness that crept across the landscape. The rich aroma of the forest was replaced with the acrid scent of dust and old iron—like dried blood lingering in the wind.
The further he walked, the quieter the world became. The cheerful songs of birds faded into eerie silence. No insects buzzed, no animals stirred. Even the wind seemed hesitant to stir this forsaken land. Then, from beyond a jagged ridge, a new sound rose—a dull, rhythmic thudding, like metal striking flesh, accompanied by the distant roar of a crowd. Voices overlapped in harsh, guttural tones, mixing with the clinking of chains, the clatter of weapons, and the unmistakable scent of sweat and blood thickening in the air.
Joran reached the crest of a crumbling ridge, and there it was—Korr’s Maw.
The settlement sprawled across the remains of an ancient battlefield, built upon the bones of war. Its architecture was crude but imposing—a fortress of jagged stone and rusted metal, its walls cobbled together from salvaged weapons, shattered siege engines, and the remnants of long-forgotten battles. The main gates stood wide, guarded by warriors clad in mismatched armor, their eyes sharp and predatory, scanning every soul who dared enter.
Inside, the streets were a chaotic sprawl of shanties, forges belching thick smoke, and crude tents where merchants peddled everything from weapons to slaves. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, roasting meat, and the metallic tang of blood. Armed men and women roamed freely—some mercenaries, others were warriors seeking glory in the arena, their weapons always within reach.
At the heart of it all lay The Maw—an enormous, circular pit dug deep into the earth, surrounded by towering stands where spectators gathered to witness the brutality within. Even from a distance, Joran could hear the roar of the crowd as steel clashed against steel, the cheers of gamblers and the agonized cries of the defeated.
Beyond the arena, a looming structure dominated the skyline—The Warlord’s Hold. A crude but formidable fortress built atop a hill of ancient ruins, its exterior reinforced with layers of iron and stone, its banners stained with old blood. This was the seat of power in Korr’s Maw, where only the strongest ruled, and the weak were ground beneath their boots.
Joran exhaled, bracing himself. He was far from Lothara now, stranded in unfamiliar territory. Though he didn’t yet know this place by name, its nature was unmistakable—a brutal, lawless den where strength ruled, where life was cheap, and death was nothing more than a spectacle. And now, he was walking straight into its maw.
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Joran walked through the settlement’s main entrance, his hood drawn low over his face, his body tense with unease. His eyes darted from shadow to shadow, every muscle in his frame wound tight like a coiled spring. This place felt wrong. Even without looking too closely, he could feel it—the weight of unseen eyes, the whispered threats in every sidelong glance.
The mythics here were unlike those in Lothara. There were no warm smiles, no children playing in the streets, no artisans selling enchanted wares with jovial laughter. Here, every soul bore the marks of survival—scarred bodies, missing limbs, jagged weapons strapped to their backs, and expressions as hard as the steel they carried. The only ones who appeared unarmed were the merchants, but even they radiated the air of predators waiting for the right moment to strike. Then Joran saw them.
Cages.
Iron bars lined the marketplace, crude but sturdy, filled with huddled figures wrapped in tattered scraps of cloth. Slaves. A dozen pairs of wide, terrified eyes turned toward him, their gazes hollow with exhaustion and despair. Elves. Gnomes. Lamia. Succubi. Even children. Some clung to each other, while others remained motionless, staring at the ground as though they had long accepted their fate. A few bore fresh, seared brands on their skin, marking them as property. A chuckle broke through Joran’s trance. “Ahh... caught your attention, did they?”
A hunched merchant with a single milky-white eye limped toward him, wringing his hands together. His grin was missing several teeth, and his greasy, stained robes stank of ale and sweat. “Fine stock, eh? Fresh, too. They’re a bit pricey, but I assure you, the young ones are worth the coin.”
Joran turned sharply to face him, his stomach churning. “Fresh?” he repeated, voice tight. “What do you mean… fresh?”
The merchant wiped his nose on his sleeve and let out a wheezing laugh. “Oh, you’re new around here, huh? This batch was picked up just yesterday. Poor bastards thought they could make it to Lothara. Almost made it, too. If not for us, they’d be lounging in that mythic paradise instead of making someone a nice coin.”
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Joran forced his hands to remain still at his sides, resisting the urge to summon magic. His heart pounded, but his face remained impassive, his jaw tight as he turned away from the cage filled with shackled mythics. If he acted now, it would only end in disaster. He needed information first. He needed to understand where he was… and how to get out.
Feigning disinterest, he turned his gaze back to the merchant. “Hmmm… Lothara, huh?” His voice was casual, but his words were measured. “How far are we from its borders? We can’t be too close, or else Lothara’s forces would’ve razed this place to the ground.”
The merchant let out a scoff, scratching his grimy cheek with a blackened fingernail. “Hah! They wish they could.” He shook his head, chuckling darkly. “This place? It’s built for the strong. Even if they tried, the warlord and the people here would tear their precious kingdom’s soldiers apart before they could even breach the walls.” He spat onto the dirt, sneering. “Lothara’s about four days north on foot. Far enough that their patrols don’t come sniffing around. Far enough that we can do whatever we damn well please.”
Joran’s stomach twisted, but he forced himself to nod, playing along.
“I haven’t traveled through this region in a while,” he said, glancing around as though only mildly curious. “Didn’t even realize there was a settlement here.”
The merchant smirked. “That’s by design. This place started as a camp, but once folks realized how many mythics traveled this route, it grew. Four years later, we’ve got a proper city of our own.” His voice carried a note of pride. “A place where the weak get sold and the strong get rich.”
Joran’s lips thinned. “And the arena?”
At that, the merchant’s grin widened. He jerked a thumb toward the massive coliseum in the heart of the settlement, where the sound of clashing steel and roaring crowds echoed through the air.
“That’s the Maw. The heart of Korr’s Maw.” His voice carried an almost reverent tone. “That’s where warriors prove their worth. Some fight for freedom, others for coin, and then you’ve got the real bastards—the ones fighting just for glory.” His grin turned cruel. “Course, you get the occasional idiot who tries to fight their way to the Warlord. But no one’s ever made it that far. And the ones who tried?” He chuckled. “Well… the sand remembers their blood.”
Joran stepped ahead of the merchant staring at the maw then the structure past it which he can only assume was where the warlord was. “I appreciate the information. I assume you want money in exchange, so I have a couple coins to spare.” “How about you give me everything you’re carrying.” joran turned to see the merchant had a dagger drawn and pointed towards him. “What are you doing? What good does a merchant gain from robbing customers?” the merchant laughed and said, “you seem like a nice fellow but i also can tell you have some nice gear on you. You can either hand it over or i''ll take it off your corpse. Now hurry before the guards see and we both get in trouble!” joran tried to think of the best way out of this. He was always afraid when the knights who hurt him would challenge him to training or when he would see them in the halls but for some reason, he was less afraid with this guy. He expected himself to be terrified the next time he entered combat but as he stared at this man, he felt ready for a fight. He knew he had to cast a spell and came up with the perfect one.
His left hand shot out, fingers curling into a half-clenched palm as a surge of raw magical energy built up in his arm. The air vibrated around his outstretched hand, rippling like a distortion in reality. An ethereal blue-white glow burst forth from his palm, forming a ring of shimmering light—a visual warning of what was about to happen.
The merchant’s eyes widened. He had just enough time to register the sudden shift in the air—the sheer force pressing against his chest like the weight of a tidal wave—before Joran struck.
The instant his palm thrust forward, a compressed shockwave exploded outward with thunderous force, sending the merchant hurtling backward as if a giant had just backhanded him. His feet left the ground.
His body twisted midair like a ragdoll, limbs flailing wildly as he rocketed across the marketplace—barrels and wooden crates bursting apart in his wake.
The merchant slammed into the side of a nearby stone wall, the impact sending spiderweb cracks rippling outward from where his body struck. A dull groan escaped his lips before his head lolled forward unconsciously. Silence fell over the marketplace. All eyes turned to Joran. People froze mid-bargain. A butcher, holding a cleaver, gawked at the body-shaped imprint in the stone. A pair of mercenaries, halfway through a heated dice game, slowly lowered their hands. Even a drunk slumped over a broken barrel lifted his head, blinking blearily at the unconscious merchant. The tension was palpable.
Joran slowly lowered his palm, flexing his fingers as the lingering magic dissipated. He glanced at the merchant, still crumpled against the wall, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Alive. That was good. He wasn’t looking to kill anyone. He was ready to get moving and blend into the crowd when a saurian (lizardman) and a cyclops in matching armor ran up to the stall and blocked any way joran could leave. The saurian’s tail waved back and forth behind him as one clawed toe tapped against the ground. “What in the hell happened here?” The cyclops tapped his club against his palm as he snarled and stared at the prince with his one wide eye at 6 feet tall while the saurian was a matching height. Joran took a step away from them nervously. “Uhhhh i-im sorry… I didn''t mean to cause a disturbance. The merchant was trying to rob me, so I had to do something.” the saurian took a step towards him. “What is your placement?” “m-my placement?” “Did I stutter? You’re obviously not a merchant and you don’t look like a mercenary so where did you place on the test that decides what you are in the class system?” “i-i don’t… I didn''t know there was a test…” the saurian sighed and stood up straight. “A newcomer, eh? Well, you need to go through the test to decide if you belong with the strong… or the prey. What race are you?” joran gulped nervously as he looked between them. “Ummm… human… yeah… just a plain human…” he smiled nervously, and that nervous grin got wider when they didn’t seem to believe him. The saurian nudged the cyclops. “Alright dorn. Do your thing.” the cyclops named dorn moved closer to joran and his eye glowed brightly. This caused joran to remember one thing he had forgotten about cyclops. They had the magical ability to use their eye to see things others can''t, similar to oracles and prophets but not as powerful. They can see magical power, auras, certain weaknesses, and other things but there was one thing that they could see that worried him. His worries were proven correct when Dorn took a large step back as his power faded but his eye was now wide with fear.
dorn spoke with a deep and trembling voice. “W-we… he… he isn’t human… dear gods… he needs to see the warlord…” “ummm…i-i''d rather…” Joran began to say but then dorn readied his club as did the saurian with his spear. “That wasn’t a request boy.” he said as he tried to regain his composure but whatever he had seen had him shaken to the core. “You claim to not want trouble so come with us or else.” joran was quiet for a minute then looked around to see others ready for a fight. Not just guards but mercs as well who were itching for the stranger to make a move so they could all pile on him and get their chunk of flesh. Joran sighed softly as he patted his side out of annoyance and said, “fine… take me to your leader…”