Phealaferian Frontiers: 16: The Final Cut
Several days passed in New Albion as Steal Team 6 settled into their new rhythm. With winter creeping ever closer and their hard-earned reputation beginning to ripple through the city’s ranks, each member of the party found themselves drifting into their own personal pursuits while keeping one eye on the future.
They took on a variety of odd jobs—some straightforward, others peculiar—each opportunity earning them a little more coin, and occasionally a nugget of information. The extra gold was quickly put to use as the group invested in new equipment to prepare for both the cold and whatever strange challenge might arise next:
Tosk, invigorated by hours spent at the forge and growing confidence in his craft, acquired a Moon-Touched Trident. The weapon gleamed with a silvery sheen, faintly glowing with moonlight even in complete shadow—a tool of elegance and quiet menace.
Tobias, always the pragmatist, outfitted himself in a full set of thick winter gear, prioritizing warmth and utility above all else.
Eldrin finally procured a full set of thieves’ tools—his own at last—no longer relying on borrowed kits or cobbled-together implements.
Thomas took his bounty of wolf pelts and enlisted a leatherworker to craft them into a rugged cloak and pair of boots. Functional, weatherproof, and a little dramatic—the ensemble suited him perfectly.
One evening, as the fire crackled low in the hearth of The Tavern With No Name, the door creaked open and in strode a familiar figure: Travan Hale. He entered with his usual composed air, a sealed bundle of documents tucked beneath his arm.
He nodded to the group, then turned to Tosk. “I found something. Records indicate that another mammoth Luxodon arrived by sea not long before you did. They never made it past the city gates. No further trace yet—but I’ve sent feelers beyond the city limits. If they still walk this continent, I intend to find them.”
Tosk blinked slowly, processing. His expression darkened with a flash of frustration. “What the fuck am I doing wasting my time in this city then?” he muttered, half to himself, though the silence in the room made sure everyone heard.
Travan turned next to Erisa. “As for you—word of Timberwood has spread. Lady Brightglade is reportedly seeking the ones responsible for ending the curse. I’ve made sure the right ears heard your group’s name. If she’s truly looking, she’ll find you.”
Erisa’s breath caught. She stepped toward Travan as if about to embrace him, but caught herself at the last moment. Instead, she offered a sheepish thanks, clutching her drink tightly, her eyes avoiding his.
Travan gave a small nod and cleared his throat. “Now then. I have a request—one that serves both our interests. You may recall your prior demonstration against the Iron Vanguard. A similar engagement is now being organized. Lord Crowle, one of my more flamboyant contemporaries, has assembled a new mercenary team. He’s asked for a challenge—a bout to test their mettle.”
He looked over the group, his tone calm but firm. “Naturally, I offered up Steal Team 6. A friendly match, non-lethal, but public. Your performance will reflect not only on you—but on me. Make an impression.”
Without waiting for response, he produced a scroll from his sleeve, sealed with the city’s emblem, and placed it on the table. “Location of the arena. You’ll be expected soon.”
With a final glance to each of them, Travan turned and departed as swiftly as he had come.
The fight pit awaited.
The air in the arena was tense, thick with anticipation and the hum of magical wards. Steal Team 6 stood under the bright torchlight, taking in the sight of their surroundings. Across from them, Lord Crowle was already present, arms folded, eyes narrowed.
“This lot?” he barked with disbelief, gesturing toward the party. “They look like they were pulled from five different tavern brawls and shoved into a uniform-less riot.”
Travan Hale, standing nearby, remained unshaken. “Their results speak for themselves. Timberwood, the wolves, the forest curse—cleaned up and contained. This is the best unit under my command.”
Crowle scoffed. “Then allow me to show you what a real team looks like. A proper mercenary outfit. Disciplined. Coordinated. Uniformed. Presenting… The Final Cut.”
The heavy doors at the far end of the arena creaked open, and out stepped six individuals dressed in sleek black and red garb, each bearing a crimson sash. They moved like a tide—measured, polished, deadly.
Brask the minotaur fighter, towering and broad-shouldered.
Vyra the drow ranger, cold and precise.
Keslin the elf swashbuckler, twirling a dagger and smirking.
Thalia the halfling cleric, face stern beneath her helm.
Jorven the human wizard, with smug arrogance.
Morvak the hobgoblin sorcerer, dark robes bristling with arcane power.
As Crowle continued to drone on about discipline and decorum, Erisa playfully summoned her mage hand and gave his curled moustache a twirl. He didn’t notice—but the rest of the party stifled chuckles.
With a barked command, the two teams squared off, taking positions.
Crowle, now flustered, wandered away muttering about “finding the override to the damn safety wards.”
With a magical chime, the fight commenced.
Jorven attempted to sway Tosk with a spell, casting Suggestion to make him attack Tobias. The spell fizzled against Tosk’s sturdy will.
Thalia began chanting quietly at the rear, summoning divine blessings.
Tosk and Tobias charged straight at Brask. Tosk activated his Giant’s Might, growing in size and hefting his Moon-Touched Trident with a roar.
Eldrin loosed an arrow at Vyra, nicking her shoulder. She retaliated with deadly precision, sending a volley of arrows back and dropping him where he stood. A shimmer of light whisked Eldrin out of the arena and into the medical seating, barely conscious.
Morvak launched a web spell, ensnaring Tosk and Tobias in thick arcane strands.
Keslin strolled toward Tosk, blade gleaming. But as he struck, a puff of smoke exploded around Tosk. Blinded, Keslin missed—and somehow stabbed Thalia instead. She yelped in surprise.
Guardian dashed at Brask, piercing his side with his blade before misty-stepping away, drawing the minotaur into a chase.
Tobias recovered and dealt a crushing shield-backhand to Brask, knocking the minotaur out cold. Brask vanished in a flash of magical light.
Keslin spun and landed a clean strike on Thomas, sending him sprawling and out of the match.
Tosk, freed from the web, hurled himself at Vyra with a devastating roar, sending her flying. She too was teleported to the stands.
The battle raged on.
Tosk grabbed Thalia with his trunk, lifting her up and trying to toss her into a brazier beyond the arena ring. The magical protections shimmered, preventing her from passing beyond the boundary.
“Mr. Tosk,” Hale shouted from the side, aghast, “that would be murder! This is a friendly duel!”
Erisa, cool and calm, took aim and downed Keslin with a perfect shot. One by one, The Final Cut fell, leaving only the spellcasters.
Victory seemed assured.
Suddenly, a scream.
The entire arena turned to see Vyra—still slumped in the stands—with a dagger plunged into her back. Standing over her: Eldrin.
Cries rang out.
“VALTORIN!” Travan and Crowle bellowed simultaneously.
Thalia, struggling in Tosk’s grip, pleaded to be released. “Let me down—she needs help!”
Tosk snarled and instead slammed her down onto Morvak.
“For Vetrion’s sake, the fight is OVER!” Hale roared.
Erisa rushed to Eldrin, tackling him away from Vyra. Tobias sprinted over and knelt beside the drow, casting Cure Wounds with his last spell slot. The magic took hold, and the colour slowly returned to her cheeks.
Everyone still standing in the arena froze, caught between disbelief and alarm.
All eyes were on Steal Team 6—not with admiration, but with disbelief and horror.
The match was over.
And the fallout had only just begun.
