Jamaros vs Baatar

18^th day of the Month of Conflict, 126^th Year of Factol Haskar’s Administration

Jamaros had been back in Sigil for a handful of days following his narrow escape from the fortress on the Plane of ElementalFire.  He was restless, hungry.  Every day he paced the floor of his rented rooms.  He needed to get out, to do something, anything to take his mind off of his insatiable hunger.  His mood was dark.  Orphant and Mordy had both taken to avoiding him.  The undead barbarian almost wished one of them would make an appearance so he could yell at them, argue, and fight.  Fighting and endless hunger were all he knew anymore. 

He could do nothing about the latter but the former was something he could deal with easily.  He hefted Heaven’s Scraper and slung it over his shoulder and stalked out the door.  He trod the curving streets of Sigil with a grim determination.  His course carried him through the Hive, the poorest, most desperate, and rundown portion of the city toward the Butcher’s Block Tavern, his ultimate destination, the Blood Pit fighting ring that was housed in the cellars beneath the rough and rowdy establishment. 

The patrons in the crowded taproom, those who bothered looking up when he stalked into the bar were jaded, unsavory types – an undead warrior with a chip on his shoulder was nothing new to them.  Jamaros strode toward the door that opened onto the narrow stairway leading down to the cellars when a man stepped into his path.  “Hail, traveler,” the man said, nearly shouting to be heard over the crowd.  Jamaros snarled and eyed the man.  He felt his fists clench almost involuntarily, claws digging into his palms.  The man pressed on, breathing through his mouth to avoid the smell of death surrounding the barbarian.  “I can see that you are a busy man and no doubt, you have a pressing desire to be somewhere but I am hoping to beg for a moment of your time.  My name is Barl Hoxun and I would like to offer you a job.” 

The ghoulish barbarian’s vision began to cloud over with a red haze as his frustration rose.  He wanted to be in the cellar.  He wanted to be fighting in the ring down there.  He wanted to feel an opponents’ body go limp from the beating he longed to deliver.  He growled and continued forward, pushing past the man and reaching for the door.  He threw it open and stepped into the stairway beyond. 

“Perhaps later, then,” the man said as he reached for the door’s handle before it could swing shut. 

The stairway beyond the door was narrow and twisting.  Jamaros’ shoulders scraped the wall if he didn’t turn sideways to specifically avoid it.  The stone steps were uneven and in places slippery, smoothed by the passage of millions of feet tracing back to the beginning of the multiverse itself.  Finally, the smell of blood and the sounds of a crowd reached his nose and ears.  A smile spread across his face, one that exposed his preternaturally sharp canines.  The rictus grin would have frozen the heart of nearly any mortal he met in such close quarters.  Another dozen steps brought him out into a large, hollowed out chamber deep beneath the Butcher’s Block.  A cage stood at the center of the room.  Dozens, perhaps scores, of beings jostled each other, vying for better views of what was transpiring inside.  The maddening variety of beings jeered and cheered as they watched the action within.  Coin changed hands as the fighters inside of the small prison did their best to beat each other into senselessness. 

Jamaros had died in that cage. 

More accurately, Jamaros had been infected with the disease that killed him in that cage during a battle with the Risen – a trio of ghouls.  He’d been overconfident, riding high on the victory of a previous battle fought the week before against the “Runnyeye Heroes”, a pair of goblin warriors tuned fight club gladiators.  That overconfidence and a string of disastrous luck led to his demise and rebirth. 

One last round of cheers and groans rose up from the crowd as the fight came to an end.  A green-skinned orc with a mane of red hair was standing over the unconscious, smoldering bodies of two drow females, his fist pumping in the air to announce his victory.  He bled from several wounds but had a broad grin.  Jamaros was briefly reminded of Grotto, the scarred dwarf he had met in the Grimmlands not so long ago.  A dirty little gnome is a black jacket with a white shirt worn underneath unlocked the door and swung it open to allow the orc to leave while a pair of hunchbacked dwarves went in to drag the women out.  A bag of coin was pressed into the hands of the orc and he roared, “SAME TIME NEXT WEEK!” to which the crowd cheered until dust was shaken from the rafters above.  The orc looked directly at the barbarian and nodded.  Here was a being who could look upon Jamaros and not flinch in fear. 

Jamaros approached the gnome who seemed unfazed by the stench of decay rolling off of the ghoul.  “Dinna ‘spect to see ye ag’in.  Figured dyin’ once would be enough fer any basher.  What you want?” 

“I am here to fight, Felgar.  Set me up with a match.”  

The gnome smiled, “I thin’ sumthin’ can be arranged.  Wait a minute.” 

The gnome walked away and Jamaros could see him speaking to one of the misshapen little dwarfs.  The dwarf nodded and began turning a crank on the wall.  The dwarf left and returned a few minutes later with a hulking figure waddling along behind him.  That figure went around to the far side of the cage and entered it to the delighted shouts of the crowd. 

“LADIES AND GENTLEBEINGS!  EXEMPLARS OF ALL ALIGNMENTS!  THE BLOOD PIT HAS A SPECIAL TREAT FOR ALL OF YOU!  FROM THE FAR-OFF LANDS OF KRYNN WE BRING YOU A PRIME OF GREAT PROWESS!  AS YET UNDEAFETED IN HIS APPEARANCES HERE, I AM PROUD TO PRESENT THE KING OF THE ICY NORTH, THE TUSKED TERROR, BAATAR THE THANOI!” 

“AND MAKING HIS FIRST RETURN TO THE CAGE IN THE CAGE AFTER HIS CRUSHING DEFEAT AT THE CLAWS OF THE RISEN, THE JOTUNBRUD FROM NORDHEIM, THE MASTER OF THE MAMMOTH, HE’S DEAD BUT HE AIN’T TAKING IT LYING DOWN!  JAMAROS MANY-BATTLES!” 

The crowd erupted in a frenzy of screams and stomping feet as the announcements are completed.  Jamaros walks toward the ring, ascends the steps and ducks his head as he enters the cage.  The creature standing on the far side of the ring has the basic shape of a man but with the head, tusks, and thick hide of a walrus.  It shuffles forward with a hunchbacked posture and bent knees.  Its hide armor is covered with gray fur and black spots and it carries a large axe made of stone. 

The door closed behind Jamaros and he hears the lock click shut, “Knock out er tap out, the only way this door opens again.”  The filthy gnome looks up at Jamaros and a broad smile spreads across his face, “O’ course, you already know th’ third way out, don’ cha, little man?”  The cruel little gnome pocketed the key and stepped away.  Above the cries of the crowd, Jamaros could hear Felgar chuckle, “I wonder how much the Mortuary would pay fer prime cuts of yer carcass.  Ain’t no comin’ back from a second death, after all.”