In Memory of Fox, Not Costello

Prologue

Rura Cole

Malka was not the first queen of Rura Cole. And surely she wouldn't be the last. Rura Cole wasn't thriving, but it wasn't dying, either. The people were happy, she'd seen them stream out of their homes every bi-week, basking in the cool light of the eclipse, stripping the petals off roses and scattering them around the cobblestone streets. They turned their chins up to the sky, their eyelashes fluttering in the wind, their smiles pulling their faces upwards.

People worked hard in Rura Cole. Nearly too hard compared to their pay. They either lived in the slums or mansions, and there was hardly any in between. The slums were dirty, with dung and shattered Dundeberry bottles in the corners of alleyways. Houses were one room, two at most, and very few of them had kitchens or bathrooms. Women usually had long hair and it typically reached their waists, while men tried their best to keep their hair nice and cropped short. The poor always reassured themselves, claiming money didn't buy happiness, that it never could, never would. Ironic, considering the rich were the truly happy ones.

They sashayed around Rura Cole with rings on their fingers and ribbons in their hair. The rich wore skin-tight metallic clothing, which reflected brightly against the sun. Most women were bald unless they couldn't part with their hair. Bald was trending. Men usually had short hair but weren't completely shaven like the women were.

Malka, specifically, was part of the rich community in Rura Cole. Her dark skin shone on her angular cheekbones which led up to her bald head. Her eyes were rimmed with black kohl, and they shone menacingly in the little light. Gold earrings coiled around the outer curve of her ear like a snake. A white star was painted in the center of her forehead in recognition of the day's eclipse. Her lips were turned up in their familiar prestigious smirk.

Because there was an eclipse, that meant that it was an arena day. Malka sat atop her throne in the private viewing box at the point of the arena's stands. It was surrounded by thin glass and outside of it, there was a porch for her to stand when she made announcements before or after a battle.

The battles were always between two prisoners competing against each other for freedom. Most of the time, each person had nothing but their hands as a weapon, but, when Malka was particularly bored, she allowed one, if not both, participants to have a weapon. Things were more interesting that way.

The rich, as mentioned before, usually were the ones to attend these events, but, thanks to their doting queen's generosity, she held a lottery once a week for the poor to see who would get a free ticket to watch the battles. Today, the stands were filled with the wealthy, and the little light that streamed in reflected off their metallic suits and extravagant jewelry, creating a light show across the arena floor.

"My queen?" A servant, scaly and lizard-like, stood at her side, bent at the waist and presenting a tray with a glass and a golden bowl. Malka nodded her permission, turning her focus back to the arena as the servant placed the two delicacies on the table beside her. In the glass was Dundeberry, Rura Cole's equivalent of a mixture of cider and champagne, and she sipped it gingerly. In the bowl beside her, chocolate butterfly wings struck against the lid and sides of the painted metal bowl. She plucked one of those out, too, quickly replacing the lid in its' designated place, lest the creatures should make their escape.

A horn bleated loudly across the arena, reverberating around the seats of the crowd and straight into Malka's viewing box. The sound stuck her with such force that she flinched and cried out, and, quickly, she ordered for the hornblower to be executed immediately. This was not unusual for the queen to do, as a woman who loved blood and death, as well as keeping her image, execution overall was common in Rura Cole, and the audience hardly flinched as a bullet came zinging across the arena and into the hornblower's neck.

Malka hummed, suddenly amused, and looking forward to the upcoming battle. Which, she supposed, was the hornblower's job to announce, but he could hardly do a good job of that anymore now that he was dead. Quietly, the queen waved over a servant.

"Do announce the battle," she whispered, smiling. "Though do try not to be as loud as your predecessor. Oh, and do include some background on the fighters, I like my people to know they deserved to be here."

The lizard nodded, his yellow eyes bulging ever so slightly out of his head. Licking his eyeball anxiously, he made his way to the porch that surrounded the viewing box, his microphone in hand.

"Our first warrior," the reptile said, rather hesitantly, and stuttering ever so often here and there. He waved for the first prisoner to be let on. "Is from our very own Tustan," he paused, letting the audience cheer, "well, er, his name means immortal, give it up for Ambrose!"

The audience followed his command, clapping in a frantic cheer.

"Ambrose was arrested for committing three murders in Tustan, one of which was our blessed Lord Kelligan, Malka rest his soul." The audience 'awwed' in sympathy and memory of Lord Kelligan, who gave to the rich and took from the poor for all of his entire life. Ambrose stood at the arena entrance, clad in gray pants and a lion-skin cloak draped across his scarred back. "And while our beloved Lady Kelligan would have loved to see the man executed on the spot, her Majesty, Malka, kept him here, if only for her people's entertainment." At this, the audience launched into an uproarious standing ovation.

"Our second man," the servant continued, considerably less anxious than before. "From the nearby city, Jao, is Blade!"

The audience cheered again, though noticeably less enthusiastic about a foreigner in their arena.

"He was found illegally trading pipes in Tustan, and was thusly transported here by Tustan's Street Team."

Malka eyed the two criminals from her place up above, her shining eyes turning into glowing slits on her dark face. She could feel the Dundeberry fizzing in her mouth still, starting to form into a thick syrup, and she swallowed it uncomfortably.

Blade was clearly less muscular than Ambrose, but it was obvious that he was more intelligent. He moved carefully, one step at a time, his hands twitching at his sides as he considered his next moves and Ambrose's with him. Ambrose, however, stood hulking in his spot, his breath coming out in heavy pants, his underbite becoming more and more prominent, especially with his long, sharp teeth.

Well, Malka smirked, suddenly interested, the deceased hornblower long forgotten, let the battle begin.