The Hunger Games

[Shang Tsung]

The Pale Moors were a little closer to a realm that Shang recognized and comprehended. The moment his ride passed through the gate into the adjacent world, he felt immediately the sorrow and misery that suffused the atmosphere. Words about a place called Darkshire and its role as the ‘bastion of hope’ spilled out of the knight’s mouth as he guided his horse down a crude cobblestone path. Shang lifted his eyes and spotted the rustic town in the opposite direction. With its dull brick and dark wooden architecture, it reminded him of some eighteenth century hamlet in rural Britain or Germany.

For another half an hour, they rode further into the Moors, until the flatlands gave way to a dense forest. As if the forest itself gave off an aura of evil, the horse became increasingly skittish and reluctant as they drew closer. When the rider tried to spurn it down the slightly paved pathway that entered the trees, the animal let out a defiant whinny and reared up on its hind legs, threatening to throw off its rider and passenger before the former managed to calm it down.

Lifting his head up, Shang stared fondly at the dark, dense trees. They reminded him fondly of the forests where he had been born. Until, of course, the Europeans had arrived and reduced those vast, beautiful trees to stacks of logs. With a frown, Shang glanced down at the belt the man wore around his plated waist.

“We’re pretty far from civilization, Sir, are you certain your family lives around here?” The knight pushed up his visor and started to glance around the area.

“Yes, they’re just a little further in.” A withered hand moved to the e%g%g sword the man carried.

“Are you ce--” the words trailed off into frantic gurgling as the man’s own blade was rammed through his chest from a gap in his armor beneath his armpit. The horse let out another cry and reared up, this time throwing both its passengers from its back. Holding onto the man’s opposing shoulder, Shang managed to direct the fall so he landed on the knight.

“Why?” The dying man pleaded as he twitched, his strength already too far gone to let him do anything in the heavy armor. Shang rolled the man onto his back and stared down at his now pallid countenance.

“I didn’t want to risk killing you closer to civilization and taking my prize.”

“P-prize?” The knight asked as the old sorcerer planted a boot onto his chest and extended a palm down toward his face.

“Your soul is mine.” Shang rasped as his fingers clenched. It took a little longer for the process to begin, but the sorcerer couldn’t be certain if that was due to this new realm or his own weakness. With a shriek of pure horror, the downed soldier thrashed up only once as his soul was torn from his defeated body. Unlike on previous times, the opaque cloud that rushed up out of the man’s eyes, mouth, and nostrils flashed a rainbow of colors for a brief moment as it exited. After that initial, dazzling flicker of color, it settled onto the green shade that he was so accustomed to.

Drawing it up in front of him, Shang pulled the soul into his body, feeling almost instantly the empowering effect. A euphoric sigh escaped the sorcerer as he pressed his eyes shut. When they reopened, they were no longer milky white but a piercing almost entirely black color. His body was no longer slightly stooped, and his beard and hair had more gray than white in them.

“This is more like it,” the sorcerer shouted--more so to hear how much younger his voice sounded than anything else.