He’s been in cage matches before. When the war ended and Iskariot was on the throne, soldiers like him were told to take a hike and return to their fields and their regur lives. Nine out of ten did. The remaining few found themselves too embroiled in the business of hurting others to feel normal on the field again. Or behind a store counter, or at the tavern.

  To men like him, the options were mercenary work or the arena. Some took both. And even less excelled in both; Homer was one of these scarce men. He’d started at the arena, climbing up the ranks until he started hitting the smelly underbelly of match fixing and the rampant corruption and decadence at the very heart of the industry. The best of the best were treated like kings and often acted like pigs, and while he enjoyed a good drink and a hearty ugh with the ds, he had a core.

  A burning, throbbing core that kept reminding him that his only duty from birth was to kill and maim.

  Even when he managed to ignore the broiling, it made him feel uneasy with pleasure and luxury in the long term. He’s still thankful for those experiences now. Despite the cultural differences, harpies and their arenas aren’t all too different.

  Size wise this is on the smaller end. He could reach the other end of the cage in a few short sprints. The height is what makes him take pause; about three or maybe four stories tall, clearly made with the flight of a harpy in mind. There are holes in the walls to make climbing possible, but that feels like a trap- or rather, not a trap, but a simple design mistake:

  this arena is not ideal for those without wings and cws.

  Neither of them were given weapons. Arguably fair, but this puts Homer at another disadvantage against his opponent: she has her sharp talons and wings. He can see how this *could* go in his mind’s eye: she flies around and harasses him, slowly tearing him apart until his entrails are tugged from arena corner to arena corner.

  But he has some hope. According to Maia’s new friends, the old condor and the little bird (as Homer considered Umana and Aymanah), Oxaca was honorbound. She would not slowly peck him to death; her strikes would be grandiose and with purpose, intent on tearing him apart in a brutal showcase of superiority. It was meant to be respectful in their eyes, giving him a somewhat fair fight.

  The regur harpy he could probably break apart with his bare hands, thin and scrawny as they generally were. Oxaca was different. Not as broad as he was, but muscur by the standards of her kind, and she had a certain power and weight to all of her movements. It was no wonder that she was one of the most respected leaders in this community. And her talons looked like they could tear apart steel. One good hit and he’d be bleeding to death.

  They stood in their corners, staring each other down. The rules were simple. They fought until the other party couldn’t fight anymore. Whether this was due to death, knockout or conceding did not matter. Obviously, this too was a problem of dynamics. Homer could not kill her. If he killed her, the harpies would just throw them back into jail and bme them for the death of their most honored warleader. He’d have to subdue her and force her to surrender, or to knock her out.

  Oxaca had no such requirements. Gutting him would bring justice to the fallen and clear this business out… Besides for Maia, who she could do whatever she wanted with.

  His life had no value, but hers did. While his mission was personal, hers was even moreso. He could spare dying, but ironically she- so beloved by death, so enamored by it- could not die yet. And he had to ensure that even if it killed him.

  The roar of the crowd around them is both mild and overwhelming. Harpies from all around the vilge gather and roar, both around and above, flying about. Some have perched on the ceiling of the cage to jeer directly down at him. Others are hanging off of the cage walls, like adoring fans. And they chatter, chitter, chatter chitter, scream so loudly.

  Maia, Umana and Aymanah watch from his corner, quiet and resolute. He has to win for this work. This is the first time he’s relied on his prowess in such a way; for others. Not for a cause. Just for someone, a single person.

  The crowd suddenly quiets. Oxaca spreads her wide wings. Homer spreads his arms. They are both unarmed, pure in the eyes of whatever gods deem this bout worthy to watch. And then, as the silence becomes so total you could hear a needle drop…

  All the harpies screech,

  and the bout begins.

  Oxaca spares him no time to get situated. She respects him as a warrior and sees him as someone worth bringing her full power to bear with. He would consider it an honor if it wasn’t such a pain in the ass right now. One second she’s in her corner, the second he can *hear* the sudden boom of wind pressure as one quick, powerful fp of her wings sends her flying right for him, one talon extended.

  Homer quickly pivots to the side and watches as she cngs against the wall of the cage, quickly bouncing off of it to dive for his new position, which he once again sidesteps. This repeats about three times, each becoming a closer and closer shave. She’s done these cage matches before, he realizes. Often. She’s mastered her movement; swift dashes that do not *crash* against the wall, but rather use it like a springboard to reflect her movement into another direction entirely. Likely vertically against other harpies, but this works against him as well.

  She’s not using her hands. Why would she when she has a natural weapon? But that makes her movement predictable. Dash, wall, dash, wall, dash, all done with that kick. She speeds up and slows down to try and catch him, but Homer has been able to dodge so far. His goal isn’t to merely survive or to keep dodging until she tires out; he wants to condition her.

  Dash, wall, dash, wall, dash, wall,

  slow dash.

  Homer hunches just as he has done previously when he’s about to roll, so Oxaca subconsciously starts to shift her talons from an open ssh to more of a closed, ready-to-grip shape, preparing for another wall bounce to try and catch him. And this is when he suddenly straightens himself and extends his arms out, grappling onto her leg. It’s quite akin to the high css ballet performances at the royal theater. He saw one once. The man gently embraces the flowing form of the woman and guides her high,

  although in the dance, the man proceeds to spin her and let her down so that she can continue the smooth dance. In the ring, in this very moment, he feels his blood boiling once again as thoughts of pure violence drive him into ecstacy. What should’ve been a simple sm turns into an exaggerated show of power as he lifts her and then *flings* her over his shoulder and onto the ground with such force that the sickening crack that echoes through the arena makes all participants wince.

  But Oxaca is made of sterner stuff. By the time she’s hit the floor her free cw is already furiously scratching at his arm to try and free herself, drawing blood and flesh in stripes of beautiful crimson that stain the floor. Yet he just ughs and lifts her again for a repeat verse of their dance,

  yet his age catches up to him. He could’ve held onto her if he was but ten years younger. But now he tires quicker when under such extreme pain, and he lets go of her mid-swing. Oxaca flips in the air and crashes on the ceiling of the cage with another milder crunch… But she’s not down. Hurt, but not down.

  And while he can’t see her face as well from down here, it’s as if she’s grinning.

  So he grins back.

  But now they’re on a timer. His arm bleeds red right onto the ground, beautiful bubbling streaks of bzing hot blood, both figuratively and literally boiling. Maia should get her healing staff back after this, so if he just wins, she can heal it and they’ll be peachy. If he takes too long he’s going to faint from the bloodloss.

  And Oxaca knows it. But is she cowardly enough to abuse the fact? Her back must hurt like hell. He’s heard harpies have ‘hollow bones’ or something like that, to enable their flight to be more gracious. He’s got zero clue if that’s true or not, but surely having her whole body smmed onto the ground that hard would make those teeny little bones rattle in her frame.

  He just had to get one more good hit. She just had to get one more good hit.

  The crowd is still quiet like the surface of a like on a misty morning, and the only thing swirling on the surface is these twin waterbugs, staring each other down with maddened, yet respectful grins. And then Oxaca dashes again. This time she heads directly for him, no kicks. Homer dodges to the side, but Oxaca does not bounce off the floor- she sticks to it, squatting and swiping a cwed talon across the floor.

  Homer jumps to dodge, but then he meets with a feathered elbow suddenly smming right into his gut. The hulk of a man had made one mistake; assuming that her completely foot based combat style meant that she knew little of hand to hand combat. The blow makes him hunch over, eyes wide in pain. He can see her rise off the ground, flip into the air-

  and sm the heel of her talon-like foot right on top of his head in a brutal donkey kick that sms him right down, chin crashing onto the ground. He just barely manages to roll to the side before the talons then rasp at where his head would’ve been, tearing soil from the earth. Everything’s blurry, some nerve pinched in his head as he keeps rolling until he hits the cage wall. Homer yanks himself to stand, just in time to see Oxaca coming for him again.

  This time, she’s got her leg stuck out. If he stands still she’s going to skewer him and probably jab some organs out with those sharp, rending cws. If he dodges, she’s just going to keep up the pressure and catch him eventually.

  He loses either way.

  But one way will still see Maia go free and ready to continue her journey.

  “GRIT THOSE TEETH!”

  Homer’s got no damn clue if Oxaca even knows the meaning of that phrase and whether she even knows his nguage well enough to get it. But he can see the confusion and surprise on her face- but she does not slow down. She’s got no chance to redirect. Inches away he suddenly yanks his whole right side back, raises his fist, winds up-

  And swings.

  He can feel her cw rend right into his shoulder, dig through flesh and cng against bone as blood and meat sptters against the cage wall right behind him, leaking out through the holes and onto the ground beyond, as if his very lifeblood is escaping to reach for freedom. And on the other end, she can feel Homer’s fist connect with her cheek, then her jaw, diving right against her skin and molding it- dislocating her jaw, tearing muscles, making her eye roll in its socket, as if everything is in slow motion…

  *BLAM!*

  And then she flies. Oh, she flies! She flies, she flies! Oxaca flips through the air, the sheer explosive meaty *smack* of the direct hit makes everyone present wince as she sms right onto the top of the cage before dropping down onto the ground, twitching violently before going limp. She’s not getting up, but she still breathes.

  Five seconds pass.Ten.Fifteen.Twenty.

  The silence is deafening. Homer can feel the wind rip against his flesh and against the bone sticking out from his arm, but he’s won. Gods damn it, he won! He strikes his other arm’s fist into the air in a show of triumph, and the crowd suddenly erupts into cheers. And the sound of wailing, as he can hear one lone voice. Maia must be beside herself. The cage doors are being opened, he can see harpies stream in to take care of their leader.

  He can see Maia too, staff in hand, rushing towards him. She’s followed by Umana and Aymanah, the tter clearly amused while the former appears pensive.

  And then all he can see is darkness as he falls ft on the ground, letting the sweet embrace of sleep take ahold of him. He’s done his part setting the little bird free, and now she must chitter away to try and help him in turn.

  All is well,Maia is free.