Sequel to “Sif Muna’s New Worshipper”. Reading it is not required to understand this post.
The Orb of Zot had proved quite disappointing, in the end. The ability to undo death with the flick of a finger? But… death was already one of the most beautiful things to exist! Al-Hadikhia was already dreading the return to civilized society after incinerating the Dungeon’s denizens with a million storms of blazing fire. Having to actually ask for apologies from disrespectful beggars on the street instead of splitting their skulls in two with a crystal spear would get old fast.
Plus, those constant demonic whispers in the back of his fiery head didn’t help the intrusive thoughts. Makhleb’s bloodthirst had somehow gotten only worse since the djinni’s ascent, and starting a mass carnage of the surface’s metropolis in the demon-god’s name seemed a little trite compared to the refinement of a magical duel in the rules of the art.
Yes, that was it! A glorious gladitorial arena where the unworthy have their flesh torn asunder, and the worthy trample upon their remains! A way to quench that godly parasite’s hunger for gore, while still seemlessly integrating into society as a powerful tycoon instead of a soulless murderer. The fallen could be endlessly resurrected by the Orb’s power - a truly endless stream of entertainment!
What, did you think a hospital for lethally poisoned orphans would be a better use for the Orb? Please, get real. Those missionaries of Elyvilon who kept knocking at the djinni’s mansion gates were so easily scared away by a quokka or two.
Now, there was always the problem of those pesky “laws”, forbidding barbarous acts and insisting on a semblance of harmony across the world’s many species… A veneer was needed. In practice, it was an arena, yes, but the grandiose banner at its entrance read:
Al-Hadikhia Institute For Magical Prodigies
The djinni sneered at the three statues honouring the divine magical triumvirate at the entrance - whom the archmage still had not forgotten about, all those days ago when they denied him in an underground temple because of his species. Disgusting that he’d need to praise these despicable “gods” to draw in potential candidates, but, in the end, it was quite alright. Having their cherished worshippers incinerate and freeze each other for their admission exam would be sweet enough revenge.
On the inauguration day, buying a ticket tied to an empty seat in the university’s arena required dealing with one of Gozag’s unscrupulous resellers. The official sources had been completely sold out, matching the wild cheers of the audience as the first contender entered the stadium.
Her robe seemed more suited to one of Uskayaw’s parades than a deadly magical competition - if one ignored the numerous electric sparkles seeping from the seams in barely contained magical energy. Al-Hadikhia’s flames twisted in a crude smile as he examined the contender’s immaculate white feathers, and imagined how they’d look soaked in blood. As her beak let out a thunderous caw, an excited tengu in the audience celebrated her sister’s arrival by starting the incantation encoding the creation of a ball lightning. Right before landing the final syllable, the juvenile clutched his beak in confusion, incapable of uttering the final sound. One split second later, hearing returned among the crowd.
“Keep your fireworks to yourself”, Al-Hadikhia boomed to the audience, which responded with uncontained laughter. “Good to see this useless spell finally have some use”, the djinni whispered to himself, passing the empty potion of cancellation to his servant. “Please welcome Rosha, daughter of Sojobo, Vehumet’s finest in the land - and the air!”
As he basked in the cheers, the Headmaster turned to observe the second contender, his metaphorical brow furrowing as unnaturally purple paws began leaving marks in the sand.
“Hm, should have killed her one more time.”
“My darling! You’ve learned so much, you’ve come so far!” an unusually cheerful lich cheered. All hapless souls which had bought tickets for the seats around Boris had ended up leaving the show in advance, unable to tolerate the smell of miasma surrounding the undead warlock. “Go on, show them!”
Natasha purred in response, very audibly thanks to the audience’s uneasy silence. She turned to stare at the red throne above which Al-Hadikhia floated, and hissed. The djinni responded with an evil grin.
“Please welcome Natasha, disciple of Boris, raised to compete with the magical elite through Kikugaaqu-”
“Kikuqaagud-”
Boris drilled steel-cold eyes into the Headmaster.
“Kiku’s teachings! Yes! Please welcome her!”
The crowd’s clapping felt half-hearted, but still filled the arena with resouding pretend-glee. Few felt prepared to start watching the sand fill up with a menagerie of disgusting undead, and many wished for the felid’s rapid defeat.
Rosha and Natasha stared at each other across the stadium, white-hot sparkling eyes meeting a dark purple stare filled with visions of domination. Neither could touch the other’s fur or feather until the first trumpet - and for it to resound, the final contender needed to present himself…
Seconds ticked away. Then minutes. Al-Hadikhia began growing tired of locking a quokka in endless Golubria-passage loops to kill the time, while the audience’s groans slowly intensified.
“YROKK HAS ARRIVED!”
The warcry proved unnecessary - the ear-piercing shattering of glass on the stadium’s rooftop sufficed to inform the audience of the troll’s arrival. His flaming red dragon scales gently crackled as whispers of disbelief swept across the crowd.
“Sorry, Yrokk still perfecting, uh, Vooltil Boommote. Space magic.”
The gigantic brute’s claws scintillated with rings of Wizardry on each individual knife-finger, all clasped around a barbaric giant club coated in forebodingly sharp nails. The entire setup sufficed to make Golubria spin at lightspeed in her tomb from the sheer disrespect for the artistry of magic. The audience booed the newcomer with furious disdain, a mischievous demonspawn girl even shooting puffs of flame from a wand on the newcomer in malicious glee. No one stopped her.
“What? Not Yrokk’s problem no one thought about many ring on many finger before. Yrokk born problem solver.”
Al-Hadikhia, visibly blazing in rage, floated away from his deluxe throne to avoid burning the curtains. With a sign, his diminutive spriggan servant rolled out a scroll of noise, placing his hands over his ears when the first trumpet resounded.
Tensed up for this opportunity since the beginning, the sands around Natasha begin to twist and churn, as a single deep elf dressed in pyromancer robes emerges from the ground, its skin bloated with disgusting pustules. It seems to be in a catatonic state.
“A single wretch?! Meow… but I trained 27 Necromancy skill! Whatever,” she hisses.
Rosha sneers in extreme disdain as the elf’s skin bubbles and twists, a fat, vile scarab jumping out, its mandibules dripping with liquid death. Natasha’s non-opposable thumbs struggle with a potion of haste, until she finishes chugging it and repeats the process five more times, gathering a sizable swarm. Rosha readies her talons, arcs of electricity intensifying in the atmosphere around the tengu.
Yrokk scratches his itchy back with his club. The scarabs rush towards him.
“While I don’t approve of your methods, I approve of you getting this joker out fast so we can have a proper duel,” Rosha comments, relaxing her guard.
The chittering sound finally draws up to the troll’s oversized ears.
“Right! Fighting! Haha, Yrokk forget. Trying to remember spell thing.”
As Yrokk turns around… and turns around… and turns around again- what? Al-Hadhikhia squints as he attempts to understand the aftereffect of Yrokk’s motions.
“Massifold… ASSAULT!”
Six intangible Yrokks swarm out of the troll fighter, each one armed with equally deadly spiked clubs. With ruthless synchrony, each clone bashes a scarab like their instrument of war is a mere fly-swatter, then converge back into Yrokk’s body. Natasha yowls in shock, words failing the felid necromancer.
“Did Yrokk do it right, Sim Funa?” the brute asks, turning towards the audience with a half-toothless grin.
“First, it’s supposed to be ‘cynl srfh vg vf irel pbby’, not ‘massifold assault’, which isn’t even the correct name of the spell anyhow,” a sky-blue draconian answers, her clawed fingers pressed against her face in barely contained frustration. “And for the LAST time, my name is Sif Muna!”
The spectators somehow draw more fascination from the display of Translocations magic than from the presence of a God’s avatar among them.
“I know that spell! You could drain an entire swimming pool’s worth of mana with how expensive it is,” Rosha yells. “We just have to exhaust him! Eat this!”
A terrifying crackle erupts as a bolt of pure million-volt death springs out from the tengu conjurer’s talons, splitting and forking into smaller segments. One heads towards the audience, screaming and fleeing until the lightning harmlessly disintegrates a quokka which hadn’t been there a moment ago. Al-Hadikhia grins. Yet another useless spell finding its niche.
The heaviest barrage of electricity converges towards the troll, sparks reflecting in his massive green eyes.
“Oh no! Big spell! Sim Funa, help! ‘tryyf tnibggr vf fb bc yznb!’” Yrokk’s eyes glow cobalt blue as he pronounces the syllables flawlessly, his voice drawn up an octave as if his draconian teacher were speaking over him.
The world tilts sideways. The public rushes to evacuate as gravity pulls some helplessly through the exit door - now a bottomless well leading into the streets of the metropolis - while the three battlemages splat against the arena’s walls, Yrokk out of sight of Rosha. The chain lightning disperses harmlessly into the granite bricks.
“Why do you need my help for that spell? It’s the same school as Manifold Assault,” the draconian god complains.
“Yrokk not enough slots,” the troll answers sadly.
“Train Spellcasting.”
“Too hard. Weird math and stuff. Space magic kind of easy, just thing go other place and such.”
“Right, aptitudes…”
Natasha lets out a panicked caterwaul, her fur bloodied from the impact. She speaks the incantations of a terrible necromantic spell, which Boris overhears:
“No, you fool, cast Death’s Door!”
“I’m at 60% HP, I can do it next turn.”
“60% for a cat is basically 2 HP.”
“I’ll be fi-”
Natasha - or what was formerly Natasha - erupts in a torrent of gore and bloodshed as a hundred Yrokk-clones converge on her frail form, each one bashing her scruff as brutally as the last.
“Man Ass! Man Ass! Man Ass!” Yrokk exclaims, liquid mana leaking from his ears. No member of the audience remains, except for a half-concentrated, half-disappointed Sif Muna.
“Where is he getting all of this MP from-” Rosha speaks as her last words, before joining Natasha as a puddle of guts in the sand. The remaining Yrokk-clones converge towards Al-Hadhikhia, who braces for impact, his flames dancing in panic. Each time a club snuffs out a flame, another one reappears, slightly dimmer than the last, the djinni’s body contorting in amazingly painful ways.
The barrage finally ends.
“You made me lose 30 HP from Revivifications and you made my entire audience run in fear. Explain why I shouldn’t firestorm you right now.”
Yrokk looks up with a dumb smile, standing triumphantly alone in the sands of the arena. The draconian avatar reaches for a potion of invisibility in her satchel.
“Bravo, bravo! Encore!”
Al-Hadikhia, Sif Muna and Yrokk’s eyes dart towards an iron troll in the seats, clapping with its grotesquely oversized claws.
“Trog feeling very conflicted today. Trog thinks Sif Muna very awesome, though. Maybe not all wizard bad.”
Sif Muna stares at her fellow divine avatar, sobs, pulls out a scroll of teleportation-
-and vanishes.
Inspired by the hilarious concept that the “optimal Sif Muna character” is a huge, tanky brute spamming Manifold Assault with Channel Magic and using no traditional spells. You should probably play an Oni Warper if you want to try this character, unless you want to be lore-accurate!