He stalked in, hooking a table with his claws and flinging it out of the way negligently, making it absolutely clear that he was there on business, and he would not be denied. The barkeep gawked at him fearfully as he approached, then knocked one of the half-stupidified men off his barstool and onto the floor, for no reason other than he was sitting between Tarrin and the barkeeper. He pointed right at the sword. "I want that, and I won't take no for an answer," he stated adamantly in Arakite. "Give it to me, and I'll leave here without killing you."

The barkeeper stared at him numbly, then nodded so hard his teeth looked about to fall out. "T-T-Take it," he stuttered, backing out of Tarrin's reach.

Tarrin jumped up onto the bar and pulled the weapon down. It felt cool in his paws, and a great deal of his immediate anxiety faded when he had it in his paws. It was light, long… for him, it was about as perfect as a sword was going to get. It was the means by which he would get his sister and friends back from that Demoness.

"Whatcha want that old thing fer?" one of the drunken patrons asked in a slurring tone.

"I'm going to kill your Emperor with it," Tarrin said flatly to him, staring him right in the eyes. "And I may kill your Empress too."

That sobered him up instantly. He gazed at Tarrin woodenly, then slid backwards off his stool onto the floor.

The thong they'd used to hang it behind the bar was too short. The weapon would have to be worn on his back. "Barkeep, give me a rope long enough to sling this, and I'll be out of your hair," he said calmly to the man.

"You-You didn't mean it, d-did you?" he stammered.

"Do I look like I'm joking to you?" he asked in reply.

He turned absolutely white-quite a feat, given his dark coloring-and reached under the bar jerkingly. He pulled up a bit of leather thong, used to tie small cider casks together. Tarrin snatched it out of his hand, then snipped the existing thong with his claws and tied on the new on in its place. He adjusted its length until it fit on his back comfortably, hilt just over his right shoulder.

That was all he wanted. He drew the sword once, to get a feel for it, putting both paws on its oversized hilt. Nearly seven spans of blade and three spans of hilt, but for his very tall body and oversized paws, it fit him as well as a bastard sword. Perfectly. It was only sharp on one edge, and had a very gentle, nearly delicate curve along its blade, with that curious chisel tip instead of a sharp point. It was alot like the long-saber his mother had in her armory, a weapon he'd practiced with a few times before.

It would do.

He sheathed the weapon and left the inn at a dead run, vaulting up onto the rooftops and turning towards the great Imperial Palace. The stadium wasn't far from it. It would guide him to Shiika, it would guide him to the confrontation that would get his friends back. It would give him the chance to avenge himself against that witch Shiika, to make her pay for her treachery.

Tarrin had a plan. It was a very simple one.

He would crush the head of the snake.

He still moved in the tight focus of his rage confined, a clarity of purpose that transcended fear, anxiety, worry. He knew what was wrong, and he knew what to do to fix it. Self-preservation was not an issue. Allia was the only one that mattered, Allia and his other dear friends. His only friends.

He vowed not to lose another friend after Faalken died, and he would not. He didn't care if he had to fight the King of Hell with a soup spoon, he would protect the others. He wouldn't let them down the way he did Faalken. He wouldn't abandon them to his own rage, to his own impulses, to his own wants. They came first. They would be first in his mind, even if it meant falling in the course of getting them back. Their freedom was all that mattered to him, and it made him completely unafraid. Nearly calm.

Shiika picked the wrong Were-cat to play with. Tarrin did not play. And he would prove it to her.

By whatever means necessary.

She would surrender his friends. She would give him the Book of Ages. Or he'd pry them from her cold, dead fingers.

Whichever way she wanted it, it still worked for him.

The roar of the crowd. The sound of the trumpets. They loved it so.

The Emperor and Empress of Yar Arak sat at the top level of a grand box suite built in their honor, looking down at the games below. The box was huge, filled with the servants, slaves, and the bodyguards of the Imperial couple, from fierce-looking mastiff hounds to grim-looking, ever observent men-at-arms who held their pikes with absolute precision as their eyes sought out any tiny danger to the Royal couple. Around them and below them were this day's spectators of the grand Games, the games that marked the end of the Festival of the Sun. The stadium was filled to capacity, some twenty thousand spectators screaming and cheering as ten sets of gladiators sparred on the sandy floor below. This was an opening match, fought by apprentice gladiators and only to first blood, a display of the martial prowess of the Gladiators that were kept in the arena of Dala Yar Arak. The best there were. Those apprentices had been champions in the gladitorial arenas of other Arakite cities, but here they were but cadets, trainees. There were also gladiators from other cities, just as the gladiators of Dala Yar Arak belonged to different noblemen. It was a matter of prestige to own a very skilled gladiator, just as it was prestige to have a great deal of money. Noblemen scoured the smaller cities of Yar Arak, searching for the best among the smaller stables, to bring them to the Arena and see if they had the mettle to be counted among the best in the world. Fortunes were made or lost on the performance of a nobleman's gladiator, and the outcome of a battle on the sand had changed the course of Arakite history more than once.

Empress Lika placed a light hand on the Emperor's elbow, pointing out one of her favorites to him and remarking that he would soon be fighting in real matches. He was a tall one, tall and muscular, a Mahuut warrior brought in from the city of Dala Zaduna. He was owned by the Tresk noble house, and they had found themselves a very good investment. The man was huge, monstrous, and he fought with incredible power. He reminded Lika of the Mahuut monster known as Azakar, who had fought in the arena some years ago before managing to escape. He had been a true champion. And he proved it by killing some thirty guards making his escape.

As they watched, one by one, the individual matches ended. Each sign of submission brought a roar from the crowd, and much money changed hands as each match was decided. Lika leaned back in her plush chair, ignoring the matches below or the roaring of the crowd, her mind on other matters. She had fulfilled whatever needs for activity were required for now. Perhaps taking the Selani was not wise. She understood the powerful bond that existed between her and Tarrin. But she needed him out of Dala Yar Arak, and taking her prisoner in exchange for his cooperation certainly seemed like a good idea at the time. She had expected to see plumes of dust on the horizon, signs that the Were-cat's rage got the best of him, and possibly destroyed himself with his own power. But they never appeared. And that was what worried her.

Not a peep. Not even a sighting of him. It was as if he either died in that alley, or was still laying there, but she doubted that. The Faerie was also missing, and she could use her Druidic abilities to locate him, which was something that none of her Wizards could do. He had some kind of defeating magic about him that prevented attempts to locate him by magic. Only a Druid's earth-magic could ferret him out, and unfortunately, she'd never so much as crossed paths with a Druid before. If she had, she certainly would have enslaved him to her will. Druidic power was formidable.