9 Circles - Round 5 vs Le Bastille (Part 1)

ROUND FIVE: Aktaion’s Dogs

“Turn…back…”

“Why do THEY get the boat ride?!”

“I’d like to see you down here where we are!”

“Only one of you will make it out alive! Start stabbing while you have the chance!”

“Get out…get out…get out get out GET OUT!”

“Friendly lot, aren’t they?”

“Careful, Byten. If you antagonize them too much, they might jump into the boat and take you back down with them.”

The ferryman Charon met them at the docks of the unconquerable mountain, still wearing the metal vices and pained smile that escorted them to the infernal gates so many battles ago. Once the six members of their crew were loaded into his gondola, they took off down the molten golden river. (Mull and Sange cringed as they floated past the burning, blackened corpse that only moments ago was the owner of an opulent casino.)

Before long, the bright, shimmering lights of Avarice faded behind them, and the molten river of gold bled into a cold, inky blackness: the river Styx. While the wrathful damned lined the sheer cliffs around them, screaming and shouting as they wrestled each other down, the souls trapped under the surface of the river were more passive…although just as angry about having Charon’s boat tread in their waters.

Byten rolled his eyes with a scoff. “Oh, lighten up, Spence. After everything we’ve gone through, you’re scared of those bonies down there?” As if to further make his point, the half-elf dipped a few loose fingers in the water. “Aw, aren’t you dead-heads scary, stuck down there in the—YEOWCH!”

He tore his hand out of the water, finding a rabid skull gnawing on his knuckles. It took several bashes against the side of the boat before it finally surrendered, flying back into the Styx with shouts of “Fight me like a real man, you pointy-eared little girl!” (It took Spencer, Sange and Mull’s combined efforts to keep Byten from taking the skull up on its offer. Creep, on the other hand, seemed plenty eager to go after the instigating skull.)

“I tried to warn you not to antagonize them,” Spencer said flatly.

Byten grumbled, rubbing the raw patch on his knuckles. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. I get bored on long car rides. Or boat rides, in this case.” With a smirk, he elbowed the brunette sitting in the row in front of him. “I’m ready to get back to knocking heads, right, Athens?”

The entire group paused as he received no answer. “Cal? You in there?”

Callidora was perched over the boat’s edge, a distant look in her eyes as she watched the inky waters float past them. She stared deep into Styx’s abyss, though for what, she wasn’t certain. The souls of the wretched were little more than barren skeletons, but close examination showed faint phantoms of their past lives. Soldiers across the globe, dressed in an array of armor, filled the chasm with their desperate cries for blood and hungry, grabbing hands.

She saw the mark of Ares stamped into bronze armor and blades – Spartan soldiers practically bathed in blood, so there could be no more fitting place for them than a circle of wrath. It was the one ideology that separated Athens from Sparta, the one bitter divide between gods that kept the two lands wrapped in eternal war: Athenians fought to save, while Spartans looked only to kill.

“Callidora…”

“That’s the one! There’s the bastard!”

“Drown her! Drown her and the whole damn city behind her!”

“Where’s your husband now, little Calli?”

“Doesn’t even know why she’s here, does she?...”

“He’s the one who put us here!!”

CRASH!

Callidora jumped back with a jolt as a skeletal hand broke the river’s surface, clawing hungrily at her. It grabbed hold of her necklace; she choked and panicked as the cord pulled tight around her neck, preventing her from screaming. “I’ll take back what your husband stole from me!” the voice hissed. ”You’ll DROWN for his sins!

“Get off of me!” Callidora finally shrieked. She shut her eyes tight and swung a frantic fist, feeling the skeleton’s grip shatter under the blow.

“OW! Athens, that was my nose!”

“Huh?” The Athenian looked back to find the skeletal hand had vanished. In fact, she was nowhere near the edge of the boat; she had been pulled to the center, with Sange’s and Mull’s hands tight on her shoulders and a grumbling Byten rubbing the bridge of his nose in front of her. Callidora’s hand went straight to her necklace, which was unmoved from his place underneath her dress. Her neck showed no injury, but she still felt the rawness as she ran her fingers across it.

“S-Sorry, I don’t…T-There was a…Did none of you see that?” she finally asked. Five heads all shook ‘no’ in response.

“Are you feeling alright, Calli?” Mull asked, putting a hand to her head.

Callidora brushed her aside. “Fine. Perhaps just a bit tired. Deepest apologies, Byten, I…thought you were someone else for a moment.”

“Just give a guy some warning before you punch them in the face, would ya?”

“Miss Callidora, if we might say, you’re lookin’ a bit pale,” Sange pointed out. (He offered a hand to pull her close, but she respectfully declined; something about the farm-hand always felt a bit…unsavory, though she could never pinpoint why.) “Maybe you should take a breather or somethin’.”

“I’m afraid any further rest will have to wait until after the next round of competition,” Charon informed solemnly. He rowed his gondola to a patch of dry land, which wound up the sheer, blood-red cliffs of Wrath’s circle. The rocky path led to a castle, which echoed with the screams and clangs of battle even from a distance. “As you can see, the Bastille awaits.”

---

The skies above the castle of wrath were pitch-black. Only the dimmest of torches lined the noisy halls, giving everything a dark, gruesome red glow. After spending their last round in the bright lights of Greed, all six of them felt the strain of readjusting to the darkness of the inferno. A bloody battle raged on as they approached, but once the competitors stepped inside, the war fell quiet. Only the sounds of their footsteps accompanied them as they approached the center courtyard.

A woman in red stood to greet them, standing on a gallows high above the ground. Black leather and red ruffles hugged her vixen form, while dark brunette hair curled around the delicate red make-up on her angled face. “Bonjour, concurrents,” she greeted with a sly smile. “Bienvenue au cercle de colère - welcome to Wrath.”

She gave a sweeping bow. “My name is Lyssa, your master of ceremonies for tonight.” She winked coyly in Callidora’s direction. “Lytta, I believe it is in your tongue. I hear Athenians can’t stomach sigmas. Does it taste too much like Sparta for your blood?” (Callidora tried to ignore her. She had already fought off one of the trials of Heracles when they were pitted against Sann and the Cerberus; surely fighting off another would be simple enough.)

“This is my home, Le Bastille Saint-Antoine,” she continued. “At least the version I rebuilt. It isn’t quite as pretty as it was before the storm. You may have had your break during your playtime with Carmada, but I assure you, blood will be spilled in my domain.” She looked down upon them with a hungry smirk. “The question is, will it be yours or someone else’s?”

With the snap of her delicate fingers, two red lights sparked to life, one in each of the far towers of the prison. “It seems as if I’ve misplaced my candles,” she feigned. “They shouldn’t be too hard to find, though. It’s very, very dark in my old castle. My request is simple: find my candles, and return them to me. You have three hours before my candles go out.” She chuckled softly. “Let’s just say you don’t want to be left alone in the dark without them. Bring me my candles, and I’ll promise you safe passage into the next circle. Though you’d do well to be careful; the trip down to my lair won’t be an easy one. I wouldn’t attempt it without a candle to light your path. So if you find yourself stuck up here while both of the candles are downstairs with me…well, do yourself a favor and don’t let that happen. Dead bodies can’t put on much of a show for Lucifer.”

As Lyssa explained the rules, the sounds of fighting returned to the echoing halls. Shadows of men in guards’ uniforms and knights’ armor flooded the prison, rabidly slashing at any person or thing that dared to stand in their way. “As you can probably hear, you won’t be alone this round. My shades will show no mercy, and their numbers are limitless. They will not listen to you, and they will not stop attacking until your heads are on their spears.”

She gave the competitors a deep curtsey, then vanished into the unforgiving darkness. “Au revoir, concurrents! Bonne chance - I dare say you’ll need it.”