Boom. Boom. Boom. Six Erons pounded on their instruments, containing orange hide stretched over hollowed rock, fastened by the teeth of the giant Tulac, the same creatures whose hide created the Hall of Gloom. Baron Richtol stood with his talons held high.

"Brothers! This day will be spoken by a millennium of our kind! This day the gods gaze down upon us and witness our glory!"

The last word carried long and hard. His scales throbbed, light originating from the Terra God caused ripples of light to trickle down his thorax lingered on the minuscule scales surrounding his onyx orbs.

"We are at war Legionaries! Our people, the Ak-Wo along with our brothers and sisters from the south, the Xiantu are in great Peril! Many of you may have wondered why we were here. Not for two millennia of cycles have we amassed this many. For so many to congregate here was, most likely, upsetting. This is it, Legionnaires!"

Hundreds of Erons in the pit shuffled, glancing upon each other uncomfortably in the Nordac. Pligal and Dorn stood, watching stoically up at Baron Richtol. The Baron waited for a few moments for everyone to grasp what he just revealed.

"The Torsons are coming." The Baron said, his voice wavering softly, his talons dropping slightly as he thought inwardly.

"Our runners have found them amassing and moving as one near the Xian jungle. In three cycles, they will come. In three epochs, they will devour all. You have eight cycles to complete your training. Your San will guide you with the most advanced techniques to stop this blight on our land. You all..." He lowered his talons and opened them in a giving gesture towards to throng. "You all will stop this. With our strength, combined, we will destroy the Torsons! You will save the land of Erons! You have eight cycles. Work hard! Become Strong! Flex your scales! The strongest ten percent of you will become elite! These will be able to perform our secret mission. The missions that will strike at the heart of the Torsons! Remember the fate of our kind rests with your talons! Go! This day, the Gods will shine down their blessings. We will DESTROY every generation of those wastes!"

His last few words reverberated throughout the Nordac. Thousands of Erons raised their single right talons in a gesture of applause and respect to their Baron. Determined looks marking their scaly faces.

Pligal looked down, deep in thought. Staying in place as others shuffled about, while some lingered with distraught features as many seemed motivated to destroy the Torsons.

"War against the Torsons. Our people. My people.... What can I..."

Before he could continue his thought, his staff was ripped from his talon. Turning his torso, he saw a flash of brown as it was brought down upon the bends of his legs. Toppling backward, landing in a puff of blue, silver, and gold dust. Another flash of brown circled above him pulling the multicolored particles in a spiral. Overhead it came down upon him with force.

In mid-air, it slowed. Looking around he saw the movements of his kin. Moving as if they attempted to walk through the gelatinous mass of the Torsons. The swirl of dust contained a path, inside of it, the width of his staff. His orbs moving fast, envisioned where it would land. So close, so nearby, Pligal thrust his talon to meet it. Crack! It split clean in two against the hardness of his scale. The top piece continued its momentum bouncing off of Pligal's thorax.

Quickly everything shifted back to normal speed. Pligal still gripping the middle of the staff, on the opposite end, San gripped it loosely while staring in disbelief at the spectacle he just witnessed. Dorn held his mouth open in awe while Findel looked back and forth between San and the others. Only a few of the other Legionnaires saw this as they quickly moved away while looking back nervously, trying to widen the distance between them and this spectacle, this massive display of unknown, mysterious power; wielded by one so, seemingly ordinary.

Above Pligal, standing on the dome, watching carefully, the Baron remained impassive. Beside him stood a small framed male wreathed in a gloriously pure crimson-colored robe, his scales paler than Pligal's, while older, much older than the Baron.

"He...He moves as if the Gods touched him." The small Eron grunted.

"Yes." Baron Richtol said covetously, his orbs latched upon Pligal's visage, his heart beating in his thorax. "What do you think Queyan?" He said turning his head to look at the frail creature.

"He may prove worthy to our cause Lord. Do you want me to have him watched closer?"

"Hmm." The Baron thought out loud. Glancing back down towards the young Legionnaire, lifting the talon nearest Queyan, he said, "Have his San continually push him. We have to see the full extent of his abilities. Turning around, he said, "Find out everything about him." Beginning to shuffle his obese frame away from the amphitheater, his purple robe rustled softly against his scales. Turning one last time, he looked at Queyan with his fierce orbs before saying threateningly, "Don't fail me."

Blinking multiple times, slowly turning his head towards the remains of his staff, watching it roll gently in the amphitheater, Pligal thought to himself, "How?"

"Pfft." San spat on the ground near Pligal. "A minor blessing. It will not happen again."

Dropping the remains of the staff, San turned walking back towards the entrance of the Nordac. The amphitheater, now nearly barren, most of the Legionnaires started their training. Faint echoes of grunts reverberated throughout the Nordac.

Turning his head back, yet still moving forward, he bellowed, "Let's go! Pick up your staff. We are going to work on your staff drills. Everyone who doesn't have a full staff will do one thousand laps around the compound." Smiling, San moved again towards the edge of the Nordac, knowing the pain he surely brought upon Pligal.

Continuing to gaze down from his vantage point, his scaly eyelids forming slits of his onyx orbs, the scales of his brows furrowed slightly, looking back down at the boy, Queyan waited, thinking to himself. Slowly lifting himself up, Pligal passed his attention to his body. Dorn remained steadfast, despite the order, watching him gingerly lift himself. Looking up and down at him once more, he turned his large frame moving to meet San.

"I underestimated him. Pligal is strong." Dorn thought to himself rejoining the group.

Pligal gazed down at his broken pieces. He did this. He met the staff in the air as if he were approaching an introduction to an unknown individual. Studying his talons carefully, no hint of the power exhibited remained present, no hint of injury from the attack of san. Baffled, he looked around, Pligal sensed someone's orbs upon him. Unable to see anything in his vicinity, he looked up at the dome. A small framed figure stood shadowed. Feeling annoyance as he was no spectacle to be watched in this manner, Pligal maintained his gaze.

The figure moved to motion behind him. Unable to make out what transpired above, Pligal witnessed something tossed down. Clanging on the ground as it bounced and steadied itself, it tottered before gravity pulled it toward Pligal. Rolling to a stop, now two heights away from him, another worn brown staff lay on the ground, beat up, but sturdy and whole.

Amazed, Pligal looked up quickly at the figure, only seeing a brief glimpse of the crimson robes as the Eron scuttled out of view. Confusion, as to why he would be helped, lingered in his mind. However, he moved towards the staff quickly gathering it up. Looking back at the splintered remains of his own, he ran to catch up to his group and the San who attempted to inflict harm upon him.

After many moments later, he reached the sparring grounds. An open field with many large circles, the grounds littered with groups who worked hard against each other's staff. Starting with level one drills with one swing, they progressed to five strikes. Every San screamed orders and strikes, precisely, rhythmically.

"Egar!" An overhead strike.

"Tan!" A sweep to the thorax.

"Zarta!" A sharp flip upward.

"Stein!" A stab to the heels.

"Annon!" A strong forward thrust which pushed forward.

All the while recriminations spouted throughout. Wills torn to shreds, scales ached while determined faces pushed through, bodies glistening in the Terra God's warmth.

Rushing to find San and his group, Pligal found them near the edge of the field. Appearing to him that they had just arrived, they motioned to begin taking their places in their formation. As Pligal neared, San turned towards the sound of quickened steps. Shocked at seeing the trainee approach, his abdomen sunk.

"How did that waste get that?" He thought while looking at the whole staff clutched tightly against his side.

His hardened eyelids closed over his onyx orbs contemptuously. His thorax expanded quickly. A recruit who was not his stood with his group outside a ring. Those awaiting their cycle stood formally, unmoving.

The punishment given to those who did not remain rigid, involving the torturous act of the pulling of scales in the lower extremity region, an agony most severe. These Legionnaires dared not move.

Pulling the staff from the legionnaire not under his tutelage; violently loosening their grip enough to send them flying into Dorn as they bounced off his solid frame, the recruit fell in his back before scurrying to his position.

Watching carefully as he ran closer, his orbs widening as the staff sat on San's shoulder, placed into position to throw. San aimed and fired the staff quickly to Pligal. The young Eron pivoted his thorax slightly to the right avoiding this attack.

"How can I do this? The Gods have surely blessed me. Thank you, Lord Terra," Pligal marveled.

Surprisingly easy for him to move. Slight alarm tickled his mind. Any power given by the gods in the stories of old always came with a price.

His orbs became slits, thinking, "What do I have to pay?"

Shaking this feeling, bringing his attention back to his San who waved his hands violently at him from afar while appearing to speak. Hearing nothing of what he just said, Pligal continued.

"San! I did not hear you, my apologies!" Pligal said formally while continuing to move forward at a quickened pace.

Gritting his teeth as if he were burying them into Pligal's neck, San seethed, "Join your group Waste!"

San looked around as the other San, his peers, watched him. Those who witnessed the event in the Nordac with Pligal observed intently. All those present never seen anyone handle a staff the way he demonstrated twice. Both offensive and defensive maneuvers did not faze him. A prodigy in their orbs, what could they do but watch?

Those who didn't witness this spectacle laughed and made obscene gestures to discuss the weakness of this San. Of course, Pligal's San did not focus on the faces of fear and amazement, but the jeering and loathsome stares.

Reaching to his right without looking and grabbed onto a staff. He heaved to retrieve it. Nothing happened while more laughter followed. Looking over to the staff owner, he saw Dorn standing strong with his staff at his side. His orbs went wide in amazement. Quickly he relinquished his grasp and grabbed Findel's staff unable to let this waste win.

Pligal, seeing this coming, studied the group of Sans as they gestured at each other and Pligal's San's subsequent reaction. Coming for him, Pligal looked around studying the swings of the trainees. Acquiring the staff with ease, from Findel, he sprinted full speed towards Pligal.

Looking downward at the loaner staff he noticed it was worn but not broken. Solid and having good balance, while small dents filled the edges as well as scrapes in others, he placed his trust in the object. Needing this tool to help him keep the San at bay, gripping his talons tightly around the staff, he proceeded at his normal pace.

Unless ordered to, would not stop unless he reached his group. San quickened towards Pligal. Once nearby, he jumped in the air to land a downward, overhead attack. Pivoting slightly to the left to avoid the path of the blow, with ease, he avoided another attack.

"Ahhh!" San wailed in fury.

His lighting mechanism fluctuated violently. Lingering around his orbs, pulsating around his arms, down to his talons. Each talon illuminated in sequence around the brown staff. San spun sweeping the staff around to Pligal's left. The young Eron briefly closed his orbs feeling the wind. Lazily, he repositioned his staff two his left. Grasping tightly to it, he continued to trot forwards towards his group when the pool struck.

Clack! The sound reverberated throughout the yard. The sounds of practice stopping as the Legionnaires and their Sans watched the ongoing spectacle. Dorn, Findel and their group broke their formal stance, noticeably turning their heads to watch the event unfold. Only the furthest Legionnaires focused on the task of remaining rigid. All others, strained their necks to see the commotion.

San angrily tossed the staff to the side before sprinting towards Pligal in an attempted to spear him with his body. With talons splayed and teeth gritted, holding out his arms to encompass Pligal's torso, San flew.

Hearing the clatter of the staffs cease. Without the ambient noise of recruits practicing there, he easily concentrated closely on his surroundings. The stomps behind him, quick but powerful. San neared, quickly. Spinning counterclockwise allowing his momentum to carry him two body lengths to his right, he evaded San by nearly one body length.

"You filthy Rot! Grrr ghhhh!" San growled viciously.

His anger peaking, igniting and he let his bioluminescence frenzy around his body. It violently shooting through his limbs, irradiating the loathing emanating from him, San frenzied. Again, Pligal continued to move towards the group. Nearby the end of the line, noticing the stares, he moved faster. Within three steps, he swiftly moved into place. His breathing, calm and focused, his thorax relaxed as he maintained his breath. His lighting mechanism remained passive, not fluctuating but steading around his thorax appearing slightly dim.

The Legionnaires around him darted their orbs quickly to one another silently. Save the heavy breathing of San on the ground, beaten and humiliated, the rest of the field remained silent. A soft breeze whistled in conjunction with San's labored breaths. Picking up blue dust that the Terra God blessed with their brilliance, glitter reflecting and swirling around the site.

Placing his orbs downward for many moments, San ruminated about being bested by the youth. Someone of his stature and training should not have been defeated so easily. He shut his orbs tight. Perseverating on the attempted disciplinary session thwarted by Pligal, becoming depressed. He noticed Pligal's movements, too easily around his attacks, depression gave way to anger quickly.

Continuing to keep his orbs closed, he muttered to himself, "No, I will not let the boy beat me."

Quickly he lifted himself up, dusting off his garb. Looking around, he saw the Legionnaires averting their gazes. Even the other Sans turned their back on him, feigning interest in other things such as getting their recruits in form. Quickly the sound of training returned. The sound of stomping, grunting and counting out forms, built to a crescendo. San sulkily walked back to his group. Stepping into their training ring to direct his recruits, his respect as a leader, lost, only his title remaining.  

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