Sgrios Mass: Your Armor Decays

Beyond the wide waters that separate the lands of Temuair and Medenia lies a despicable pit in which warriors skirt death in pursuit of gold and glory. Situated in the dusty wasteland north of Asilon Town is the gladiator arena, that treacherous place frequented by sadists and scum of all walks, both to spectate and participate in the adrenaline-fueled slaughter. As is custom for Aislings fresh to the advanced paths of the New World, I, too, visited this den of despair to test myself against the fearsome beasts of this gruesome ritual.

Since my triumph, if it can be touted as such, I have given little thought to the experience. The tiara I was awarded never fit my head in a flattering way and has sat in a drawer in the bank since; the wretched turtle I was expected to trot around awkwardly on was adopted by some desperate beggar -- I assume it made a wretched stew. I had thought the entire day was an exercise in futility until I found the treasure of a lesson hidden within.

My life has been occupied by all manners of drama these days; I find I’ve been living in a state of perpetual panic. Perhaps it is a defense mechanism of mine that I have given my mind leniency to wander the labyrinth of my past and unpack thoughts I’ve long neglected simply to delay my duty to the present. It could be that I stumbled upon this relic of days gone by chance, or perhaps I was lead by His divine hand - either way, buried in this long forgotten memory came a lesson I had not expected to find.

I hardly recall the details of the night; whether the spectacle occurred before my match, or after as I sat bruised and beaten amongst the crowd. As much as the population of that arid Medenian town loved to watch all these fresh-faced aislings clash against the horrific power of their resident barbarians and brutes, the main event of this particular evening took the form of a massive gladiator; large enough to throw a man of normal stature from the pit clear into the depths of the bleachers. Watching him move was like watching a wall animate, the sheen of his gilded armor seemed to make even the light around him gloat. When he emerged from the tunnel leading to the fighting pit, the crowd went wild.

I will spare you the gory details of his hapless slaughter; but it was this behemoth in which I gleaned my lesson -- not from his unusual cruelty in battle, not from the bloody domination of his foes, but in the way he adapted to his circumstances. At the beginning of his bout, this stalwart warrior was heavily defended; carrying on one arm a massive mythril shield, and covered from head to toe in exotic armors. For the first few rounds his opponents barely inspired him to move; their teeth, claws and swords seemed to bounce right off his impenetrable armor. However, as the rounds crawled on, his defenses withered -- here finding his shield being knocked from his arm, there losing a greeve to a tactically aimed swipe of a scythe.

Watching the man fight yielded such an astonishing demonstration of Sgrios’ glory that it detracted from his physical conquest. As his defenses decayed, so, too, did his demeanor. One who was, at first, an immovable mountain, steadfast in his confidence, began to show true fear at his mortality. Where once it was enough for this man to simply bring his sword down upon his enemies now found himself vulnerable, needing to dance around his opponents and employ tactical movement and carefully aimed swings. To see the champion reduced to a panicked fighter no different than those who he so carelessly dispatched moments before -- well, I admit even I was rapt.

While this memory seems rather benign - nothing more than glorifying senseless slaughter - reflecting on it now I have found a wisdom in the moment. We all equip ourselves with emotional armor. Some deck themselves out to be an impenetrable monument-come-to-life. Others walk with their hearts bare chested. No matter how we seek to protect ourselves, none can avoid Sgrios’ touch and the day will come when he strips us of our armor. What we find when He renders the Gods among us as mere men is a glimpse at the equality of humanity - proud lions are turned to the lowly scavenger of the plains when declawed. Conversely, one who frequently feels the barbs of reality and winces at death’s gentle touch will armor their hearts against the world, building themselves into an unfeeling hulk of iron and armor.

So where do we find the truth of our reality? Is it in the animalistic skittering of the exposed flesh, or the slow march of the fortified spark? By the end of the gladiator’s bout even the fiercest attendee had their thirst for blood quenched threefold. The man lived, but his condition was pitiful. I have found myself similarly stripped of my defenses behind which I have labored for deochs only to find that my arms, weak as they have always been, have atrophied - that my fangs have dulled. I imagine in the darkness of my chamber at night; I see myself wrapped in a blanket of jointed steel plates praying to Sgrios for his guidance. One by one he touches my defenses and I watch as they disintegrate into black dust until nothing remains but the silk of my underclothes. Vulnerable and exposed, it is then that he hears my prayers, and it is then that I feel the love of Sgrios in my heart.