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"description": "[color=#3ac870][b]Higher-res artwork — $1 Patreon post:[/b][/color]\nhttps://www.patreon.com/posts/122413982\n[color=#3ac870][b](1$ patrons also have early access!)[/b][/color]\n\n[i]The porcupine lacerates you with his amber gaze, looking down at your defeated, grounded form while sporting a wide, victorious smile. You envy him, this faeran, this Aquiles... He's been eating away at the edges of the arenas for a while, and now that he's started tackling the bigger circles, it feels already too late to stop it. It's like a dynamo, a juggernaut grinding anything and anyone in its path. Like... well, like you, right now.[/i]\n\n[i]But your 'ally' is in an even worse position than you, truth be told. Still standing, but substantially, literally, cut down to size. The canine towered above both you and your prickly opponent at the start of the match, but now he barely reaches ankle height.[/i]\n\n[i]How? That's just how things go go. Zhulurian arenas are sacred. The fights and spectacles that take place in them are entertainment to the crowds, but they are also a microcosm of the world law, an earthen crucible to exalt the ultimate truth.[/i]\n\n[i]Reflecting that is the fact that the love of the crowd is everything — before one truly loses, they can feel their strength seeping from them, their very size. The atmosphere itself shifts as if to yank your very mass from you.[/i]\n\n[i]Magic? No, just the way things ought to be. Tribute. Sacrifice.[/i]\n\n[i]You stammer, trying to salvage the situation. I mean, c'mon... I-It's done, right? You lost. The fight is over. There's nothing more to be done! The porcupine simply grins, fists still closed, muscles still tense, taking meaningful, methodical steps forward towards you.[/i]\n\n[i]\"Oh, it IS done. Now we're just cleaning up...\"[/i]\n\n[i]Your 'friend' suddenly tries to dart off, seizing the moment of distraction. But—[/i]\n\n[i]— SKRRNCH —[/i]\n\n[i]\"Just a coupĺe ROACHES that gotta be dealt with~\"[/i]\n\n[i]A precise slam of his leg, and that's the end of that fighter. Poor... what was his name again? Truth be told, you can't be bothered to remember. He was kind of a jackass anyway, and you were only fighting together out of mutual benefit, nothing else. Still... what a way to go...[/i]\n\n[i]The porcupine scrunches his toes, sparks cackling between them as he savagely mashes the shrunken wolf's body onto the hard, beaten dirt. This, and the sanguine glee with which he glares at you as he does so say everything you should know about your fate...[/i]\n\n[i]Above, the crowd clamors, fever-pitched. The gruesome act didn't faze them in the slightest, quite the contrary - they adore it. Divine punishment by the arena god, smiting an insolent, pernicious scoundrel who couldn't measure up, not even with someone helping him.[/i]\n\n[i]\"Hear that?~\" He purrs, ears and muscles twitching, as if unseen energies seemed to wiggle their way inside him, out of you...[/i]\n\n[i]\"HEAR IT?\" He roars, provocatively, arrogantly, fists clenched, biceps swelling while yours feel like melting, numb like porous pumice stone, crumbling away.[/i]\n\n[i]The best you can try to do is beg, but somehow, sound can't leave you're mouth. The sheer futility of it all silences you. You have to accept how things are. You have to embrace the bitter, painful defeat. It's the will of this bloodthirsty arena, its patrons clamoring for your spectacular, brutal end.[/i]\n\n[i]As you feel the world getting painfully larger, you can't help but feel a shiver thinking of this era of the arena, marked by the closest it ever got to an ageless, eternal champion. Maybe more. Maybe what's happening now is the birth of a living god. It's such a noble, pristine endeavor... can you even really complain...?[/i]",
"description_bbcode_parsed": "Higher-res artwork — $1 Patreon post:
https://www.patreon.com/posts/122413982
(1$ patrons also have early access!)
The porcupine lacerates you with his amber gaze, looking down at your defeated, grounded form while sporting a wide, victorious smile. You envy him, this faeran, this Aquiles... He's been eating away at the edges of the arenas for a while, and now that he's started tackling the bigger circles, it feels already too late to stop it. It's like a dynamo, a juggernaut grinding anything and anyone in its path. Like... well, like you, right now.
But your 'ally' is in an even worse position than you, truth be told. Still standing, but substantially, literally, cut down to size. The canine towered above both you and your prickly opponent at the start of the match, but now he barely reaches ankle height.
How? That's just how things go go. Zhulurian arenas are sacred. The fights and spectacles that take place in them are entertainment to the crowds, but they are also a microcosm of the world law, an earthen crucible to exalt the ultimate truth.
Reflecting that is the fact that the love of the crowd is everything — before one truly loses, they can feel their strength seeping from them, their very size. The atmosphere itself shifts as if to yank your very mass from you.
Magic? No, just the way things ought to be. Tribute. Sacrifice.
You stammer, trying to salvage the situation. I mean, c'mon... I-It's done, right? You lost. The fight is over. There's nothing more to be done! The porcupine simply grins, fists still closed, muscles still tense, taking meaningful, methodical steps forward towards you.
"Oh, it IS done. Now we're just cleaning up..."
Your 'friend' suddenly tries to dart off, seizing the moment of distraction. But—
— SKRRNCH —
"Just a coupĺe ROACHES that gotta be dealt with~"
A precise slam of his leg, and that's the end of that fighter. Poor... what was his name again? Truth be told, you can't be bothered to remember. He was kind of a jackass anyway, and you were only fighting together out of mutual benefit, nothing else. Still... what a way to go...
The porcupine scrunches his toes, sparks cackling between them as he savagely mashes the shrunken wolf's body onto the hard, beaten dirt. This, and the sanguine glee with which he glares at you as he does so say everything you should know about your fate...
Above, the crowd clamors, fever-pitched. The gruesome act didn't faze them in the slightest, quite the contrary - they adore it. Divine punishment by the arena god, smiting an insolent, pernicious scoundrel who couldn't measure up, not even with someone helping him.
"Hear that?~" He purrs, ears and muscles twitching, as if unseen energies seemed to wiggle their way inside him, out of you...
"HEAR IT?" He roars, provocatively, arrogantly, fists clenched, biceps swelling while yours feel like melting, numb like porous pumice stone, crumbling away.
The best you can try to do is beg, but somehow, sound can't leave you're mouth. The sheer futility of it all silences you. You have to accept how things are. You have to embrace the bitter, painful defeat. It's the will of this bloodthirsty arena, its patrons clamoring for your spectacular, brutal end.
As you feel the world getting painfully larger, you can't help but feel a shiver thinking of this era of the arena, marked by the closest it ever got to an ageless, eternal champion. Maybe more. Maybe what's happening now is the birth of a living god. It's such a noble, pristine endeavor... can you even really complain...?",
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