The Hunger Games

[Shang Tsung]

A grin slowly spread across Shang’s visage as he lifted his hands and put them behind his head. Unbeknownst to the collection of crossbowmen, the sorcerer’s fingers were moving around in strange patterns, and a nearby wall was starting to glow orange. Before anyone could notice what was coming, a flaming skull erupted from the surface and slammed into the middle man, blasting apart his exposed face.

The shock of seeing one of their compatriots struck down by a fireball caused the rest of the men to panic long enough for Shang to dash forward and smash his gauntleted fist through a second man’s lower face. As the fresh corpse toppled over, the sorcerer snatched his crossbow and sent a bolt across the plaza into the eye of another vagrant.

Rather than push his odds any further, Shang hurtled the gun at the closest cutthroat and made for the closest alleyway.
Once under the veil of darkness, the sorcerer jogged down to the next street and took a left turn. After half a block, he threw open a nondescript wooden door and slipped into the abandoned pub. With a flick of the latch, he sealed the door and sauntered over to a chair in the corner of the room. As he walked across the decaying interior of the pub, his appearance shifted from that of the knight to a disheveled and sickly homeless man. The pauper had been an easy victim for Shang a week or so ago, and since then, he’d used his appearance whenever he needed to melt away into the poor quarter.

Outside of the pub, Shang listened to the thudding of boots on the cobblestone. He couldn’t hear exactly what they were talking about, but judging from the volume, there weren’t any happy people out there.

“Too easy,” the sorcerer whispered as he started to rock back and forth in the old chair.