Story Short Stories

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Here's one, short stories/poems/song lyrics
Original or Credited

The Lion's Den​

Summer suns radiated the sands an unpleasant degree, the air thick with sweat, smoke, and blood. Aurelian bricks castled and caged the welcome volicion, their ravage hunger filled the arena.
Alasahr looked upon his territory with pride and prowess, the wild Scahr and Indygo caged at each flank, the Alley of Snakes opposing the throne.
The Lion had coined the fight-pits after the dispansion of the Blood-Kin, and the trial of the Great Conqueror, Ehrmand Kauss. Besieged and defeated at the hand of the Stoneswords. Alasahr, Scahr and Indygo refused their capture and fled to the sands, bloodied and unbowed, fiercely evasive and fuelled by a parallel instinct that bounded the tribe; rearing and raising their cub.
Aslan fit snugly into the Lion Father's shadow, still only a cub, raised as the lion. Born of war and of widow and of beasts, the Warborn Cub had yet to find valour. The babe was chiselled yet skinny, pale beneath red skies, the golden hair of the father still too fine to consider a mane. Eyes and flesh too innocent for the Warborn Lion.
The journey had not been a kind one. The rains fell hard, the winds blew strong and the sun seared white. Tailed and tested, hunted and hungry, the pride stalked from blood to blood, deprived of sleep and prerogative, Scahr and Indygo turning provocative and feral with each uncertain step. Alasahr defended his cub from Scahr twice.
Scahr's fury was quick and unannounced, and impossible to placate. The Blood-Kin's Warlion, a force greater than any man or battlement. Alasahr's gifts to the Blood-Kin and to Ehrmand, his Wildcats of War, Scahr and Indygo. He had whelpt and whipped them since they were cubs, after the fight that earned him his name, Lionheart. The cubs proved faithful yet unpredictable, growing and learning quickly to harness the immeasurable strength, the seering teeth and the formidable claws of the Lion.
Alasahr matched Scahr's furocity, braving the swipes of the beast adding more stories to his armour and flesh. Unshakable and unbroken, unphased and undefeated, he danced and lashed until Scahr grew tired, no small task and no quick trial, until the beast bowed to its master, weary and out-matched. Again. And again. And again.
Some were born of the Fight-Pits, others had heard rumours, others had created them. Scahr and Indygo were combatants for challenge, Alasahr often revelling in the pair tearing apart the would-be heroes who fancied their chances against the beasts. Whatever method of dispatch, however, Scahr and Indygo were well fed.
They sang songs of Alaryio the Sandsnake, torn unceremoniously after ignorantly challenging Indygo. "Alaryio, Alaryio, down the Lion's throat he goes." Or Viserion Sharkstone of the Riverfloods, The Shark drowned by The Sand.
And then there was Posyllion, Seraph of the Sandswept Isles. The Sandsnake. The Viper. The Revered Leader of the Seraphs, a silent and venomous band of brothers who stalk the sand, the red mists of their creation, shrouding them, anointing them. The Seraphs attoned the sand, and The Lions earned their territory. The Alley of Snakes, the bridge that binds them.
The Viper was infamous in the Lion's Den, championing the toughest of opponents and effortlessly vanquishing the other handful. A popular bet for the gambling rabble, a guaranteed payout the punters echoed, their Warhorse. The Viper was well paid, well trained and well surveyed by The Lion Pride.
Alasahr and his pride had an earnest respect for The Viper. Cunning and quick, honourable and dishonoured. The Viper stalked The Lion's Den, vanquishing with swift and hidden lethality, cat-like reactions, viper-like strikes. Alasahr daren't let Posyllion shake him, yet knew of the spectacle to come. The Lion vs The Viper, for The Lion's Den.
There was no room for dependation or familiarity in the pit, the laws of combat were simple. Only two may enter. Only one may leave. There were no dictorials regarding race, species, size or strengths, only two may enter. Only one may leave.
Posyllion was no stranger to defending his namesake. If The Lion was the head, The Viper the throat, and any keen blade knows to go for the throat.
Vasaryan Black had earned his contention, a stranger to the sand, no stranger to the bloodshed. The foundeer and once Commander of The Shadowkeep, an order of men who swore their vows to defend the commonwealth from the shadows. Regimented and towering, Vasaryan strided towards the cries of the overseers, the roars of Scahr and Indygo, taking a knee before Alashar and Aslan, raised on their thrones.
Piercing hiss grew deafening, ricocheting from stone to stone, signalling the arrival of Posyllion. The hiss had grown into a culture, surrounding the sickening stride of The Viper. He sharpened his fang on the soulstone wall as he passed.
With a sharp strike to the sand at the base of his sanctum, Alasahr had authorised the spectacle.
Sweat had already perspired, clinging to the blackened armour of Vasaryan. The Viper's scale-like skirt swayed with his footwork. Posyllion had long known that stamina would be his foe's undoing, and stalked the hulking darkness with a vicious prowess, slipping and side-stepping each strike of his greatsword.
The armour grew heavy, the greatsword less technicianed. The Viper was soon to strike the shadow keeper.
The sand skipped and clouded the arena, Posyllion had long learnt to blind his foes with a swift handful, the staple of The Seraphs. Staggered and weary, Vasaryan's flesh released his entrails, staining the black shean of his armour before filling the arena with the unmistakable sound of death.
The crowd erupted into its faithful hiss, and Scahr and Indygo roared viciously, shaking the cub but he daren't let his father see. Alasahr stood to speak.
A simple nod was all that was spoken. The Lion had challenged The Viper, to the silent dismay of Aslan.

Indygo lashed and was met with a fierce strike of retaliation. She was the more docile of the two, but no less dangerous. Vasaryan's carcass was near stripped, ready to be sold or stored, the strength of bone found an array of application. Aslan watched as the pride brothers eagerly stripped and cleaned the corpse, anxiously awaiting nightfall, skyfall, then sunspeak.

The night was long and cold as ice. Alasahr had opted to bury his tears within the dreamscapes he'd apparate, Aslan had not learnt this release, a sleepless night stretched and surrounded the young cub, wet with tears and thick with affliction.
Posyllion made merry with the townsfolk, drinking sweet wines and thin beers until The Viper slithered back to its hole, a silent excitement coursing.
The Lion wore his golden steel with honour. Covered dutifully in glisten, the air was warm with the anticipation of the trial, the crowd restless and awed. The Viper stalked, quietly and maniacally, hungry for the blood of The Lion, his eyes hollow and fierce.
A keen swipe from the Lion's blade met the Viper's skin. The red swiftly coats his armaments, only serving to anger the viper, who smiled disgustingly at the pride.
Scahr and Indygo slashed loyally at their cage gates, their eyes fixed on The Viper, their master in danger.
Aslan feared, attoned to the heart that was racing, feeling more like one of the bird's than the heart of the lion. His Father matched the Viper's movements, every step accounted for, every muscle twitch anticipated.
The crowd were unequivocally split in their champion, cries of praise to each combattant raining through the arena's walls. The Viper slashed, quick and with an elegance, slashed and slashed again, his blade soon met with the Lion's Gold, proud and unbroken, yet unsuccessful in lethality, The Lion's glorious axe not agile enough to deflect all the attacks, his fire-forged armour his saving grace.
The fight was long and gruelling, a contest of whits, fists and steel. The gold was sprayed red and the Viper drank his own blood, Aslan growing with every minute watched.
By the Viper's hand The Lion's sight became clouded. His sinuses clogged and coarse, his mouth breathed the taste of gravel. Then metal. Then blood.
The Lion's Den became the Lion's Grave, and he fell to the sand of his unmaking metallically, a pool of red growing slowly. The Viper appeased the crowd with his arms outstretched.

Aslan the Warborn, Daughter of Lions and Keeper of Cages. A torturous, tortured Lioness.
Her hand found the release of the shackles.

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