Over the ancestral kingdom of Pātala-loka, the sun rises, and the rays fall upon the palace where the Pāricchattaka grows, the true lotus and heart of the kingdom. The sun rises, and the heart turns; and Wrath opens his red eyes upon the world once more - a world not even the same, the hard stone cavern where the asura now resides, close to an arena that now is where he practices his art. He is far from the kingdom, but his might and his art remain, and from it he will not be divided.

His slumbers last for days, hard and undisturbed, but this does not bother him, who cares nothing for the habits or rituals of mortals. Instead, he rises from the hard stone floor he had been resting upon, and begins the asanas, a series of poses that concentrated his senses and his mind while relaxing his body. The burbles of meaningless thought and distraction drain as the harsh stretches discipline his form, and by the time full dawn rises upon the kingdom (a measure of time that he knows instinctively, without thought), his body is ready. He dons his crimson robe, and walks from the cavern where he meditates and rests during each night.

The Shokushu Arena was a hollowed-out asteroid, not a true celestial body. The interior had been reinforced, and a network of manmade caves tunneled through the nickel-iron interior, a web of caves and domiciles where the slaves and gladiators resided, and then the main hollow where the arena itself laid, a field of overlapping stands worked from the metallic interior surrounding a center stage barely fifty feet around. Fifty thousand could fit comfortably here, though the average was thirty to forty - better gladiators and showmen drew more, of course. Today, no proper show was scheduled, and the asura heads for Backstage - the staging area where fighters armed and prepared themselves for combat, two dozen rooms surrounding the center stage in a network of tunnels.

Vemacitrin cuts an intimidating figure: a dark-skinned humanoid, taller than almost any natural sentient, clothed in rich red silk and a black braid that drapes down his back to his hips. His form is powerfully muscled, of course, as befits a warrior, but the true signs of his nature are in multiplicity: the faces set into the back of his head, equilaterally opposed, still and eyes closed, and the six levitating limbs that follow in his wake, each a large, trunk-like arm, scarred from war yet uncrippled, each mounted on a jade base set where the shoulder would be. For Vemacitrin, he chooses not to wield them except in times of combat; though to this mortal plane he has descended, he need not sully his legacy in aught but his art.

Once he reaches Backstage, he glances about the empty arena - a mirror of the main stage, if perhaps half the size, and nods in satisfaction before he flexes the arms from their rest and begins to stretch them out as well, one extending to the nearby wall where he presses a series of buttons on the terminal, notifying the system that he's present.

Vemacitrin cares little for anything but this; for the challenge of combat, the dominant thrill of victory. Every three days he rises again for a new battle, and presents himself to his competitors and his pupils, the envious and the curious.

Combat is the font of life from which he flows, and if he does not receive a challenger, he will seek one without remorse or regret.

92's sensor array took in his Mistress, the humanoid droid's eyes were keen receptors that noted every little change in her features recognizing distress there. The old droid had been upgraded several times throughout the years and had managed to keep clear of pesky memory wipes that would have reset him back to his factory settings. He knew that Scorch wouldn't do that after extensively upgrading him.

First and foremost he had been a protocol droid long since given the abilities to pilot, infiltrate, serve as a body guard, a coms operator, slicer or whatever else his Mistress desired. When it was necessary for him to serve an additional function he was upgraded.

His chassis had been reinforced to better withstand blaster fire and he had been upgraded with the best programs to increase his accuracy in a fire fight. Not that he had been used in a combat role in a long long time. Not since Scorch had been a pirate captain.

“This is a bad idea.”

“Oh? You do care.”

“How long do you think it will take Mercer to discover that you're working the circuit again?”

Scorch looked at the droid. “The Shokushu Arena is a gain so I don't think it will be long. But if we keep to those arenas that he doesn't frequent it will take him months to locate us especially if we keep moving around. You know what to do.” She patted the droid on the shoulder sure that it wouldn't have to do anything but tend the ship.

She disembarked the ship, blue eyes scanning around casually, plasma pistol on her hip with her short blade on the other. It was the first time that she had frequented this arena and she had been early well in advance of any matches. Paying the docking fees for her ship she got pointed in the right direction to arrange a match if she could find an open slot. She had sent a message ahead of her arrival, a free part time gladiatrix she had a small degree of fame. Sometimes she won, making the crowd eager to see her loss the next time around. Of course the fights had been fixed by Mercer whom she wished to stay clear of. She hoped not to see him again though if she went to Vesperia's club again she was likely to cross paths with him and after last time … of course she was totally unaware that it was some sort of doppelganger and she had yet to met the real Mercer since crossing paths with him when he last had Serena enslaved to him.

Wandering around with some purpose she scrolled the list of aliens she had been supplied. The gladiatrixes wouldn't prepare her for what was ahead and some of the names were unfamiliar to her, aliens that she had not crossed paths with so before committing herself to anything she decided to see if any were here before the matches would commence later that evening in order to get a better feel of what she was up against. She didn't want anyone that she believed she would beat but at the same time didn't want to face off against anyone that would blow her out of the water knowing it was best to put on a good show even in defeat.

The door to the room opens, and Vemacitrin's head turns to witness the intruder, a shorter, red-haired woman. His eyes immediately seek out the details relevant to him: her stride is balanced, and her legs toned from what little he can see. Her arms have muscle, but not the developed tension of a true practitioner, rather just hard work without the flexion and depth of muscle that would drive a penetrating strike. She is armed with some firearm on one hip and a blade on the other, forearm-length and worn comfortably on her hip. She takes the longer step that accompanies a hip-sheathe, clearing it from the space the legs must travel through. With the stylus in her hands, he cannot inspect her calluses, but at first glance he would deem her reasonably competent, as much as what passes for that in this degraded age.

From where he had been sitting, legs crossed almost invisible in the dim light of the arena - black skin and red robe against shadow, sliding easily out of sight - he straightens up, the soles of his feet pressed against each other and his entire weight supported on the blade-edge of his feet. Then he steps out and foward, to the edge of the arena, and no further. If she is not a combatant, his interest will fade to be replaced by rancor. His heavenly limbs have folded behind him, hands linked and their jade bases pressed against his own shoulders from behind, giving him an oddly hunched appearance for something so tall and powerful.

"Did you come here to fight, or to learn?" Vemacitrin says, his voice resonant and booming, brassy and unashamed. "This arena stands ready for all those that wish to test themselves."

It's not a proper match as the arena knows it, but he cares little for the public humiliations the witnesses and Arena owners encourage.

There was an ooze she came across which she took off her list of contenders immediately. There was really no way that she could be against something she was unlikely to hurt. She supposed she could keep some distance and use her plasma bolts but the sword would be useless and she doubted that the slime would just sit back and let her use her abilities unmolested.

There were few aliens here at the time. Plenty of gladiatrixes. Her training in close had been limited but if she could keep contests at range the spectacle would be boring to spectators. Maybe if she systematically destroyed clothing at range and impaired limbs but she was never good at precision work. Sure she had plenty of practice in hitting a target but hadn't tried to hit such small areas or graze her opponents. That had never been in the cards. Perhaps one day but not today.

When moving through one of the back areas a voice caught her off guard emitting from the darkness.

She jumped as a reaction springing back half a step and turning in the direction of the sound. A hand fell to her sword and had it half cleared from her scabbard before her feet touched ground again. In that brief moment she analyze the situation. She had relaxed before her feet touched down again, her sword returning to rest though her eyes widened just slightly upon seeing the figure which was much larger than she. She recovered quickly, however.

“Both,” she answered. “In defeat one learns more than in victory but I rather limit those defeats.”

Of course she was preparing herself for the inevitable, what she would have to go through at the club of the crime lord she was going to meet in a month or two tops.

Vemacitrin snorts at the explanation. It's a safe answer, and thus he despises it, even though it's true. Bold and brash in word and deed is how he acts. Nevertheless, to polish the self is a worthy task.

"I am Vemacitrin," he says, and his broad hands rise to press against his chest - each thicker across than Scorch's thighs, with old and silvered scar tissue arcing across the caramel skin in tantalizing patterns that look much like letters in an unrecognizable script. The six limbs behind him share this scrawled characteristic, but subtly different. There is a story written across his shell, across bulging, hardened muscles, but he will never care enough to learn it. "I speak the language of violence."

A pause. The head wobbles a little to the left, not quite a shake - the firmament of his skeleton unsettling before he steadies his grasp. Red eyes flutter before he fixes his gaze on Scorch and smiles, lips pulling back from his teeth in a gesture that probably intends friendliness. "A gift, little wanderer," he calls. The arms mounted at his back separate and float equidistant from him, settling on the outside edges of the ring to form a perfect hexagon. "Come and test yourself. I will extract no price; what I require is the conflict itself, no product thereof. Bring whichever tools you desire. Make it interesting."

It's a friendly invitation, but the asura's form is ill-suited to gentleness. It stands a full two feet taller than Scorch, bristling with the fruits of battle, and though it bears no weapon it could probably squeeze her in half without much trouble, let alone what it could do with a blow.

“Vemacitrin ,” she repeats the unfamiliar name out loud as if getting familiar with it. Then as if realizing introductions were in order she continued. Her real name probably would do little good, besides it wasn't what she went by. If anything he might be familiar with the name she used in the arena though her red hair and the fact she was wandering around at an arena should have identified her.

“I go by the name Scorch.”

Know that was new, she hadn't seen anyone capable of detaching limbs. The other four were likely capable of the same. Each scarred or tattooed with those silver symbols she had been unable to decipher not that she had been educated in languages. She could tell the script used by a few of them like the Moktar and Hel'Corians. This one hadn't triggered anything she had seen.

Right. Straight to it, no warm ups not that she was one to stretch out before a bout. She unhooked her blaster setting that down on the floor knowing she wouldn't have that in the arena. Drawing her blade she studied her larger opponent figuring out where to begin. As she weighed her options he would note the shift of color in her eyes darkening from blue to light brown and darker still until they were red.

Building up the strength of her plasma charge she knew that it wouldn't be enough to finish things straight away. If she knew his anatomy better then perhaps she would have a greater degree of success. His brain could be in his torso for all she knew. There were some assumptions she would have to make stepping to the side slowly seeing if those eyes tracked her just to be safe.

Some insect species had false heads and he could have had eye spots or markings that passed off as such. Still it wasn't with total assuredly but it would have to do. Her left hand emitted the plasma beam that she flung at his face hoping to blind him or get him to instinctively shield his face. But that had not been the true aim of her attack. Springing in she sought to use her blade at his leg making a quick slash to a region just beneath the knee. It wasn't ideal but she hoped to work her way to better spots in time.

Whether she hit or not she would attempt to spring back hopefully before those other limbs and that reach became too much of a factor.

The plasma appears to have little effect, he doesn't shield his face or even attempts to dodge it rather coming straight at her as she dashes in. Fortune was with her that his vision had been obscured at least or so it seems. She hardly has time to make her slash barely connecting and not where she had intended given the raising of that knee that drives the sword back injuring her wrist in the process but not to the point where she let go of the blade.

Springing back had been the right call as the counter attack misses so close that she can feel the air on her face. Then CRACK the other blow catches her out of nowhere and this time she ends up dropping the blade and getting knocked back a good ten feet from where she had been.

Her head ringing yet instincts kicking in at the same time as she goes with the force of the blow tumbling back to lessen the effects a little. “Sonofabitch,” She chastises herself as she completes the tumble sitting there on her backside rattled.

With his speed she would be unable to spring up before he closed that distance. The effect of her attacks so minor, no blood but there had been some minor plasma burns which had been both good and bad. That was a full charge and she was unlikely to build up to that point again if at all if he came in at her. All in all she would get less powered blasts off and would have to target vulnerable areas to be effective.

Vemacitrin pauses mid-dash when the other woman doesn't come back to her feet - his fists lower. She has good instincts, but human durability. Even in this limited state he could tear through her like tissue, and that holds no interest for him. A true master nurtures his opposition, that one day it might challenge him again. Instead, he steps up to the woman and offers her a hand up to her feet. "A good gambit," he says, "But best to strike and pass, rather than reverse and retreat. With such a difference in size, I can close distance faster than you can open it in a straight line. Work your angles."

He considers the woman - Scorch, she'd said. The Arena is unkind to its female gladiators, and her size is such that it puts her at considerable disadvantage, even with the touch of magic she'd shown. Instead, he wonders if he can raise her to a level to dominate her foes; whether he is sufficiently talented at the art of warfare to reflect his skills unto another. It's a worthy challenge.

"The fireball," Vemacitrin says, gesturing at his face, the hissing skin that has yet to cool stretched tight over his form. "Can you do better, or was that full output?"

Either way it is of use - against any foe without enhanced durability it would have been a disabling, maybe crippling blow, and it had been both loud and bright enough to stun him for a instant, though he had instinctively just bulled through and struck Scorch by whim of fate. Whichever way she takes it, there is nuance to explore.

He approaches her far too quickly for her to plot her best recourse. Which way to roll to avoid a follow up blow. Closer maybe making an upward thrust with her sword … which should have been in her aching hand but it dawns on her that she had lost in.

A hand is extended down to her instead. She looks up, calculates in her mind wondering if this was a trick. But what was the point in that? She takes his hand and gets up.

“I'll have to remember that.” It seemed so easy to see yet most times it was a bad idea getting too close. If she passed by quick enough the ploy might work. Nothing was without risk after all. She took that in.

She looked to her hand curling and uncurling her fingers. “Maybe. I never had any formal practice but as it stands that was the best that I can do now. It takes too long to build up to a full charge, at least in close quarters, so most of the time the plasma bolts are weaker. Self taught. There were no instructors back on Hadante so I never learned how to charge it faster or make it stronger.” Throughout her life it grew stronger from what it was so she had always believed that there was room for growth.

Scorch never found a teacher that possessed the skills nor the time with everything else that had been going on at the time.

“When I was a child it use to tire me out a fair bit though now I haven't been exhausted by it. Most contests end with me only get a few bursts off and the smaller ones require less effort. One or two shots and battles tend to get into close or medium range where I have to rely on quicker bursts.”

Self-taught only, then. She's learned a respectable amount then. Vemacitrin shakes his head. "Do not waste effort building a full charge, then. All you need is the shock of it - the light, the heat, the sound. That is more useful; the bolt does nothing your gun could not. Use it to daze and distract enemies. Alter directions while they're blinded and stunned, so that they attack the shadow of your passing. Your foe is not a monolith: they are a conglomerate of their senses, their body, and their will to fight. Defeat any of these and you have won."

He doesn't admit that, on any mortal foe, that bolt would have likely burnt their eyes out of their head; but then she has no guarantee of soft opponents, either. She had committed and gambled, then lost. Respectable, again, but unlikely to be her goal when survival on the line.

He shakes his head and glances at the blade, squinting. It's eight hands long and curved, a saber type, likely ceremonial or familial in origin. Sabers make poor close range weapons for the most part - they need sweeping blows in order to cut properly and the technique is eclectic. Nevertheless.

"Your weapon is also ill-suited to retreating blows," Vemacitrin says. One of his arms rise up to their side, and floats to retrieve a practice dummy. It lifts it with little visible effort on either its own part or Vemacitrin's, and carries it over to where the two stand. Once it seats the dummy, it retreats to its hexagonal corner again. "Sabers are cavalry weapons - they are intended to be driven with momentum, slicing through opponents with the force of speed, wielded lightly with the wrist rather than driven into the foe. Show me your cut. I will demonstrate if it is faulty."

Truth be told, he doubts the weapon suits her form, slight as she is, but she is unlikely to surrender it for another.

She nods at that glancing down to her fingers as if she actually had the plasma there. “The only time I'm likely to have a full charge is at the start of a contest. By now most in the arena are aware of it.” Those that would be vulnerable to it rush in while those immune or resistant tended to stick to whatever game plan they had in mind.

Smaller bursts suited her better. She had never been in a situation where she was constantly moving and firing before matters turned to close quarter fighting.

Then she looked towards her sword retrieving it and studying it as he spoke. Her knowledge on melee weapons had been small. Often she used knives and daggers. Primarily it was her plasma pistol. When she was disarmed her own abilities took over. That had been another reason why she had not developed her skills so much. It was like he said she could use her pistol. Except in the cases where she was disarmed, out of charge packs or in the arena.

“A cavalry weapon?” She mulled that over. Using wrist strength rather than brute force was ideal for her. But if the weapon wasn't designed for springing back no wonder why she was having plunders with it. Her gaze shifted to the dummy that was set up before her.

A single breath, her knees bent slightly, hands on the hilt that was held out behind her then explosive movement as she sprang forward and to the side of the dummy making a quick slash from hip to shoulder as she continued on ahead to the side of the dummy spinning around on her heels 180 degrees after a few strides her sword coming up as if to guard against an attack from the dummy as she looked back.

The slice doesn't cut deep at first - the blade lays almost lightly against the material, but slices through cleanly and hangs late, the blade stuttering as it clips out several inches of dummy material. It's not a bad cut, but Vemacitrin can already see room for improvement. More importantly, he can see that she's instinctively trying to grasp what he's stated, and he can approve of this.

"Amateurish, but adequate for the purpose," he judges. He strides over to where Scorch now stands and kneels beside her, idly setting a hand over hers on her saber's grip to hold it still. His other hand presses against the side of the blade, and flicks his knuckles hard against the flat. Vibrations rattle his other hand placed over the handle. The enormous asura nods, slides his hand on the blade up a couple of inches, and repeats the process - noting less vibration, now. He repeats the process again, moving further up, and this time the handle remains perfectly still.

"Swordmanship is a struggle for mathematical precision," he says, and pinches the point on the blade that he had last flicked, that hadn't vibrated. "Though there are spiritual arts to strengthen the body and the mind, your blade is mundane steel and thus with the physics of the world you must contend. The force of your arm must flow cleanly through your hands and your weapon, then into your target. There are three principles to this, and I will start with the first."

Vemacitrin stands then and gestures - one of this other hands rises up and seizes a broad machete from the walls of the training room, then floats over to him. He grips it, absently, and repeats the process on this blade as well. Notably, it's up much further than the similar point on Scorch's blade, located about a foot and a half up the edge. The machete, however, holds true eight inches from the tip. "First and most primarily, you must maintain edge alignment; the edge of your weapon must remain completely parallel with the vector of your cut - where it is going. Simply said, but vastly difficult. The shock of impact frequently turns the blade, and the drag of your target's form against the blade in three dimensions is considerable."

He lays the heavy head of the machete against the target horizontally, then very gently begins to draw it across. The edge parts the material and glides through; Vemacitrin pivots his hips and turns his wrist with the cut, slow and smooth, and the machete cleaves the thick gel-form of the dummy with a last, sudden flick - coincidentally or not, right at the point he'd identified on his own machete. "Pushing the blade through its target will, invariably, turn it. Let it part your foe like a heron through water. He does not slam himself into the surface, but parts the flow. Try again."

The slice doesn't cut deep at first - the blade lays almost lightly against the material, but slices through cleanly and hangs late, the blade stuttering as it clips out several inches of dummy material. It's not a bad cut, but Vemacitrin can already see room for improvement. More importantly, he can see that she's instinctively trying to grasp what he's stated, and he can approve of this.

"Amateurish, but adequate for the purpose," he judges. He strides over to where Scorch now stands and kneels beside her, idly setting a hand over hers on her saber's grip to hold it still. His other hand presses against the side of the blade, and flicks his knuckles hard against the flat. Vibrations rattle his other hand placed over the handle. The enormous asura nods, slides his hand on the blade up a couple of inches, and repeats the process - noting less vibration, now. He repeats the process again, moving further up, and this time the handle remains perfectly still.

"Swordmanship is a struggle for mathematical precision," he says, and pinches the point on the blade that he had last flicked, that hadn't vibrated. "Though there are spiritual arts to strengthen the body and the mind, your blade is mundane steel and thus with the physics of the world you must contend. The force of your arm must flow cleanly through your hands and your weapon, then into your target. There are three principles to this, and I will start with the first."

Vemacitrin stands then and gestures - one of this other hands rises up and seizes a broad machete from the walls of the training room, then floats over to him. He grips it, absently, and repeats the process on this blade as well. Notably, it's up much further than the similar point on Scorch's blade, located about a foot and a half up the edge. The machete, however, holds true eight inches from the tip. "First and most primarily, you must maintain edge alignment; the edge of your weapon must remain completely parallel with the vector of your cut - where it is going. Simply said, but vastly difficult. The shock of impact frequently turns the blade, and the drag of your target's form against the blade in three dimensions is considerable."

He lays the heavy head of the machete against the target horizontally, then very gently begins to draw it across. The edge parts the material and glides through; Vemacitrin pivots his hips and turns his wrist with the cut, slow and smooth, and the machete cleaves the thick gel-form of the dummy with a last, sudden flick - coincidentally or not, right at the point he'd identified on his own machete. "Pushing the blade through its target will, invariably, turn it. Let it part your foe like a heron through water. He does not slam himself into the surface, but parts the flow. Try again."

Scorch watches and feels the vibration from her own sword transferred from the blade into her arm. First it is strong as she regards the wobble of the blade. It wobbles less the higher up that it is struck to a point where the blade is rigid and she hardly feels any pull on her arm at all.

“Hmm ...” She watches as the process is repeated on the machete noting that it takes a bit longer for that wobble to cease. Her mind calculates what she sees and hears. If she was processing this correctly there was a sweet spot to the two blades where it would not vibrate as much.

A smooth motion, a precision cut. If the rest of the blade was always vibrating then it wouldn't pass through. It was like sawing wood, you kept sawing in the same spot to get the best result but if the saw kept moving all over the place you would have to start over again and again. At least her untrained mind broke things down to the simplest form that made sense to her.

She watched the decapitation of the dummy then gazed at him. Before she would begin again she poise a simple question just to clarify. “Am I striking against you or the dummy?”

She then brought her gaze to the blade of her sword inspecting the length and mentally marking that place where the blade kept it's shape better.

Vemacitrin snorts at the impertinent question. The young lady has sass.

"I am teaching you right now, not fighting you," he says with a dry glance, the opposite hand not holding the machete planting against his hip. "If you feel the need to alter that situation, go ahead and aim at me. Otherwise, strike the dummy."

The lights overhead flicker as the power to the main arena engages, and a vibration runs through the floor of the room as the mighty steel doors that close off the main combat floor seal shut. A dull roar starts in the distance as the viewers start to file into their seats, already shouting and cheering, raining insults and abuse down upon whoever opposes their favorite champion of the day. If he recalls correctly, today is a blood match, a new addition to the lineup; rather than a nubile young woman against a ravening creature, this would be two monsters opposing each other and inflicting carnage that a lesser human would never survive. Bloodier, appealing to a different crowd. The arena doesn't have the draw it used to, and is learning new tricks in order to keep the lights on.

The screen mounted on the back wall of the room flickers on, too, and displays the matchup; a jellyfish-looking hunter, self propelled in the air, versus a vicious, overgrown wolf morph, with a thick fur coat and engorged fangs and claws. Vemacitrin's lips curl. Neither fighter has a defense against the tools of its opponent. "That's going to be a bloodbath," he says with a nod towards the screen. It's what the arena advertised and what the crowd paid to see, but also deeply wasteful. His lip curls.