The Aman'Taslakh of Grume Roshambo and Serom Bloodbeast (Part One)

"Once upon a time, the blood of our kinship was stronger than the blood of the moon. As each generation forgets our heritage, we lower our standards and water down our culture. As each day passes, we enslave and divide ourselves with invisible chains that weigh mode than the physical ones of our past. We are forgetting what united us as a nation to be respected." - Grume Roshambo

The Thinning of Blood
Today was the first day of Brakkas Zanzulu's greater eclipse. Mistily crimson it hung in the cold morning air, all the while casting an eerie pink over the Islands of the Tengrus Oni. It had only been an hour since this moon had passed before Norber on its lunar path and already Grume 'Choki' Roshambo could already see some weak minded in the street, a low lust for blood beginning to boil in their veins. Grume was not like those poor oni in the streets, slaves to their savagery and feeble in moral standing. Although old by oni standards he was still regarded by those blessed to age as long as he as a powerfully willful hero to his people, even if many of those around as long as he were passing on. Most youth and even many adults were finding new younger inciters that they aspired to. Every year, more and more attributed the ideals of strength to today's up and coming blood rhymers. One of these young stars was exploding in popularity at this time, his performances creating brawls in the placed he performed to the delight of officials. An inciter that can stir violence without Brakkas Zanzulu eclipsing is worth their weight in discipline steel to their leaders and oni weigh a lot.

A Proud Race and their Shadow King
Within the hall of the oni King, an advisor spoke to his king. "Serom Bloodbeast is turning drinking halls upside down and we count over sixty two casualties from fights spawned under his cadence." The adviser bowed forward, military medals swaying like a a hundred metallic tassels. All the while he kept his spine straight with eyes locked to his focus as most oni do being such prideful beings. When time came to rise, he erected as quickly as possible, matching the posture of his fellow four advisers.

"That is a record for someone so new to our ears. I trust you have signed him for Aman'Tasklakh?" The shadowed figure in the throne was faced away from them, this new shadow king while a mystery, had firm grasp over the kingdom.

"Twelve days ago your Might." Another advisor spoke, this one decorated with silver and gold leafed filigree. These sturdy discipline steel decorations, while ornate were able to take a sword blow in combat. "All is prepared."

The Donning of Tenets
'Serom Bloodbeast' was a name that Grume had heard before. Between his few close friends still alive, the sweeping wave of clone harbingers of the new styles of inciting were regularly discussed with disgust. Albeit a very prominent name, Serom's was thrown around more usual than the others affording no less disdain for his popularity. Standing from his bed, he held a pamphlet in his huge red hands before dropping it to the sheets. Within his ample palms,he gathered his spine and flexed his muscles to emit an audible crack that started at his neck and ended seconds later at his tailbone echoing throughout his humble accommodation. He felt his wounds and aggravations cry out at his mind, physical evidence of his memories. Every one was a story and a battle. Each a death narrowly avoided. His fingers deftly traced the most prominent ones, risen lines right in his midsection.

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His back mirrored the front showing the exit and entry points of opponents blades. This gruesome tally reminded him that while he wasn't as young as he once was, it wasn't luck that had got him to this age. Like today, he would start each morning meditating on the importance of holding the root traditions of inciting and that it is all that has kept him victorious for so long. He looked down at the pamphlet once more and saw his own face staring into the eyes of this young upstart. Although he knew his ways to be superior, he would not let himself underestimate this new opponent. It, like any battle, could be his last if not alert.

Taking ceremonial robes over his shoulders, even the fabric of the modest yet decorative garment scratched over his scars and as such he began to mentally prepare for his match ahead. Next, his hands moved towards what oni know as a 'hailer', an ornate horn that helps inciters focus their bolstering powers and project their voice to the masses. His had served him for decades and had it as long as he had incited within his own lands. Two dragons entwined made up the main structure of the instrument with depictions and symbols from his community filling the gaps. He missed the solidarity that his town held. Looking at his wall of trophies, he loved it as much as any other inciter loved theirs but it looked radically different. Many inciters would keep trophies of their victories, the blades of fallen adversaries displayed up to dozens by a largely successful performer. Grume however had only two. They belonged to his two closest, fellow inciters that fell over the years but kept him honed and sharp during their decades together. Slung over his back, one was a paper-thin rapier that he hung with much more emotional weight than physical. The second was a huge sword forged from stone that damaged more like a huge club than a blade. Finally, his hands reached for his mask his mask, a gold visage that was a twisted and enhanced version of his own features. In that instant, his mindset became a fortress. As he left his humble adobe, his mask reflected a rose gold in the ominous light of the crimson moon. He was ready to step up to any challenge that came his way. Tonight, he would show his people as he had done time and time again that their traditions are superior to the new wave.

The Blood Shed
Few places in the Tengrus Isles can complete with the King's palace. The Blood Shed comes close. The largest of all oni coliseums over the entire Oni Islands, The Blood Shed is much more grand than its name infers. Wrought from thousands of huge slabs stolen from the Gin’Yosae Range, it is a colossal monument to the testament that Gin'Yosae, the single greatest defense The Mountains of One Thousand Disciplines has against the oni was able to bleed. Capable of housing an entire army, all stands face the central stage so as to inspire every warrior within. The ritual of Aman'Taslakh was no new territory for Grume. The Oni Kingdom had gone to war with The Disciplines at least twenty times before, during and after the War of Fragmenterra throughout Grume's lifetime. He walked up to the stage and stared out at the masses surrounding him. It never failed to impress him, no matter how many times he viewed the crowd, the sheer body count of the entire oni army swelled his heart almost as much as he hoped to swell theirs with his display of prowess. As his nationalistic soul drank in its fill of passion from the coliseum, for a moment, he felt like his people were united of purpose and spirit. All of this shattered when his opponent began ascending to the stage.

Serom Bloodbeast was everything many young oni aspire to. Largely built, overly proud of self and craving praise above all things, he was a fierce sight. His outfit represented this deeply. Rather than boasting the traditional robes each battler would discard at the beginning of the fight, Serom arrived bare chested signaling the readiness to fight anyone at any time as acknowledged by his hailer, grafted to his jawbone and flesh. This mask was iconic to him combined two of the three tenets that Serom wore. A cast iron torture mask, it was wrapped around his head and bolted in place through his jawbone with his hailer affixed over his mouth. This forced every tone uttered to be loud and boasting. Draped from his wrists were shackles, snapped chains hanging from them bragging of untrue strength. Grume could see around five blades strapped to Serom's back with keen eyes belying his age noting some of the names of inciters Serom had defeated and killed etched on the hilts. Milk PLNET, vvvPentacion and 6ix2wo, Grume mulled on these self titled young oni who rather than earn names from the public decided their own titles. Serom snapped Grume back to the present with a jeer, "You've lived too long old oni. Your frail body won't make a worthy enough kill to rile up the audience." The voice sounded confident to the everyday ear but Grume could heard the very subtle childish uncertainty underlying.

Grume remained silent, not taking the bait held before him. This competition revolved around not caving under the opposing inciter's taunts and riling. Long enough in the presence of any accomplished inciter who channels the Blood Moon's influence is enough to make any oni charge with weapon drawn but doing so this early would be the action of a child. "I see you hold the blades of Guu and Paa." Serom taunted once more. "Do you miss them Choki? Do you cry at night?" 'Choki', 'Guu' and 'Paa' were the titles that Grume and his two closest Inciters held, an unstoppable triumvirate that turned many tides of war with their inspiration for violence. Grume let his robe slide off his shoulders to the floor. While it was tradition to bare chest in acceptance of the challenge, Grume could not truthfully say that that he did it in his own timing, rather out of eagerness to cut his opponent down.

Noticing the slight aggression in Grume's action, Serom began his assault.