The smell of sawdust, the rough feel of bandages wrapped onto hands before a fistfight. The sound of creaking leather as tough jerkins strained over muscle. Grunts and curses of the fighters as they grappled in combat, the damp-angry smell of sweat and blood which mingled with everything, that sank into the soul of the place. The Life of death, the spectacle of it giving meaning to the dieing realm.
Still it went on. The rabble and bubble of the crowd, bleating their support or disapproval each move, each evening. The crisp tones of the adjudicator, and the occasional booming voice of Joseph Barhama, like some black cloud calling for death from the shadows.
The arena had its own rhythm. The people here were mostly warriors, mostly they were well treated. Guards here were kind, and some even friendly towards their favourites. The longest serving were the most at peace with their lot, accepting the daily chance of death as an occupational hazard.This Warrior was no different.
The Warrior drew a gigantic sword from its scabbard, and after a few lightning fast practice swings idly looked down the blades length to check for dirt, imperfections of damage. The dull metal absorbed the red light of the dawn like blood.
Leather armor only, these were the rules of play at this stage in the contest. Looking sideways at the large display over the ring, the warrior could make out the dots, each representing one combatant, and the lines, representing a win or lose. It was nearly time, today a new direction for the line would be drawn.
It was slightly early to be out, but the cell below was oppressive. It was good to topside, though it was just thin shadow of the dawn above ground. Underground the blood red glimpen-lamps gave bright enough light; If one was not concentrating it was possible to mistake the blood red glow for a red dawn. It was actually quite warm.
Bellona laughed in spite of herself, removing her helm she shook out her braided hair and stretched in this substitute for morning's light. She was alive after all, well fed and looked after, doing what she loved. This grim place would make a good story some day, but for now the only way out was through. She was a warrior to her core, the comforts of home - she knew too well - would soon become bonds, and she would be back on the road. All was well, excpt..
A voice like thunder from above, commanding that another challenger be brought forth. Barhama was all show, she hated him. He was all she stood against: cowardly, bullying desport that he was. His cruel mind was endlessly bent upon his own ego, always finding new and more ridiculous ways of showing everyone how much better he was than the common man. Always, she thought, showing the opposite.
All the time the poor starved. The lunatics remaining, howling from the stands above, had left their minds behind. The realm was plunged into darkness. She had not believed that a hell existed before she had come to this once famous realm, now she knew it did.
She shook her head. It wasn't worth worrying about. She centered herself, touched the dirt one last time as she stretched her legs again, and then wound her braids and readied her helm. Perhaps this new challenger would be a welcome distraction!
