[The Blood Pit] Gladiators [Leviathan]

[Odgar]

5th day of Spring, AV 511 Odgar Vympelstark entered the arena with his axe resting on his shoulder. He could hear the numerous cries and shouts of the crowd around him, most of them being mocking remarks. He felt the sense of anxiousness in his throat, but forced it down with a swallow. He had willed his courage to take him down in this wretched place of a mine, where the stench of blood and sweat filled the air heavily and its people acted as rabid dogs. The arena itself was a rocky floor lit by braziers and torches, the shadows of the eager and boistrous men dancing in its reddened light. Chains hung from the wall, once used to hoist mineral between the higher levels and the bottom. An old mining cart decorated the floor as well, toppled over to the side and used as a seat by a handful of the front crowd. Odgar had set this in his mind as a test. If he could win a fight here, he had decided that would be true proof of his mettle. A proof that might lead him to greater fame and glory one day. He had served a good 3 winters as a caravan guard now, where he had learned how to wield a weapon proberly. He had been taught by his non-official mentor, a man named Hjondruf, who was a guard as well. He had held many more years of experiance in combat than Odgar though. Lessons well learned, they had saved him many times over from suffering lethal injuries at the hands of the highwaymen and bandits that preyed the roads. He was ready. Now remained only to face his opponent. He could see someone coming in front of him, as the audience stirred to make way for the combatant. Odgar focused on his breathing, closing his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, they took in the sight of the place, as if they only now allowed him truly to phantom the gore and the hungry crowd that craved for blood. He gripped tightly around the wooden shaft of his axe, letting it ascend from his shoulder to end in his other hand. He felt slight reassurance at the familiar feeling of the axe's weight in his hands. He watched his enemy enter the arena, his body tense with all the readiness he could muster.

[Leviathan]

Five Minutes Prior... "Listen up you worthless shyyyyyyykes! You slaves and..." The man's eyes darted to Odgar, the only man here that wasn't owned by another, there seemed to be an intense dislike for him in those eyes."Freelance whore-cunts, you'll probably die out there, but I'm not feeding you, nor betting on you..." This time the man stood in front of Odgar, prodding him fiercely in the chest with a sharp finger, his breath wafted over Odgar, causing a sting of misery and onion to fill the man's nose. "Because I think you'll live. Nah, there's no way any of you can beat Taram "Gorefist", but each round you win, or at least one of you lives through, means more money for me. So don't petching die on me! This is costing me a fortune to have you trained these past ten days and even get you some decent weapons, so don't make me rape your wives and daughter until they bleed to death, just because you couldn't fight like the petching men you are! Whore-cunt, get on out there. The rest of you go over there and get your shackles off..." Odgar was left to enter the arena with the promise of blood, and his death, soon to follow. Nobody here seemed to fond of struggling to keep him alive, and without surprise. You had only yourself to watch your back in Sunberth. - - - - - The moment the axe-wielding free man stepped out of those massive stone walls into the large dusty arena, the crowd would explode in noise. Whistling and cheering was almost painful to hear, the men and women with nothing better to do than to watch men kill each other were more than happy to do just that. Yet, there were some things more attention-grabbing than the shaking ground from the roaring crowd, and that was the dozen, specifically a baker's dozen, corpses lying around the floor. Some weren't even corpses just yet. There was a total of twelve dead bodies, and a thirteenth was bleeding so badly from a shredded chest cavity that it couldn't be expected to live much longer at all. It was pointless to try to save him. As Odgar stood there in silence, drenched in that mighty cheering, three men were pushed into the arena, all to his right. Three slaves, each geared in some sort of cheap weapon, two wooden clubs and one with a short rusty sword and knife in his offhand. These three men were shaking in their sandals (which is all the clothing they had on them) as the all looked up at Odgar. It was painfully obvious to see what was going on. A team-structured match. Odgar was, without a doubt, the most experienced and best equipped for this thing, his allies were useless except for meat shields. "You must help us." The first slave spoke out, staring at Odgar with pleading eyes, begging for mercy from this stranger, a free man, something the slave hadn't been for a while. "I have a wife and son waiting for me in Zeltiva, they won't know what has happened to me these past two years. If we win, I get to be free." Heart wrenching, but the roaring of the crowd, as if it was nearly silent a moment ago, picked up the volume by several notches, then they appeared. Two men, tall and thick with muscle stepped from the shadows of the opposite gate. They were both clad, identically even, in gear, helmets, shields, shortswords, greaves, bracers, partial steel armor about their chests. It was like watching a man walk along side of a massive mirror, exactly so, because one was right hand dominant, the other was left. These two men moved in unison, perfectly in synchronization, they obviously fought together many times, and whether or not they were free men, they were obviously survivors of the ring, experts at execution. One of these twin warriors lifted his hand and pointed directly towards Odgar, his index finger extended outwards in a threatening manner. He was singling him out from Odgar's three allies, and already he moved towards him. The other moved towards the Slaves, which would be shepherded around the arena like lost sheep in their unspeakable fear, separating them from Odgar, the only true threat there. The fight had begun.

[Odgar]

What am I doing here? The thought surfaced Odgar's mind as he spotted the slaves that moved to his side. They were worth less than 10 copper mizas, Odgar noted grimly. Miserable and wretched, they already looked like men who had lost in their gambit of life. One of them pleaded to him. "I have a wife and son waiting for me in Zeltiva." Odgar grimaced. He had not expected to have to think about the lives of others, too. Now he already felt responsibility for these men, even though their chances of survival were slim. Just when he thought the situation could not be worse, two burly men appeared as their opponents. Strong, fitted, and well-trained by the looks of it, they moved almost as one, until they seperated to single out Odgar from his "allies". He came to think of a saying his old mother always used: "One misfortune leads to the next." He found this quite true. You were right, mother. Odgar turned his head to the slaves quickly, "Circle and flank him! He can't protect his back!" he yelled, spittle flying from his mouth as he attempted to roar like a general. It was difficult not to have his words swallowed by the shouts of the crowd, though. Odgar resumed his focus back to his advancing enemy, hefting the axe well in his hands. He came to think of another saying too, which Hjondruf had told him: "Strike hard, strike first." Odgar gritted his teeth at the man who had pointed at him before. "Let's see what you've got, you iron-scalped bastard," he said, almost to himself. He charged forward with a fierce cry, almost drowned by the cheering of the crowd as he gripped low on the axe-shaft and made a heavy, horizontal swing aimed for the right arm and chest of his foe.

[Leviathan]

Perhaps it was a surprise, but his voice actually managed to cut through the roar of the crowd like a knife, traveling to his pathetic excuse for companions. They not only heard, but comprehended what he said. None of them had great weapons, but they had numbers on their foe. They stuck together out of fear of death by separation and rotated around that small area of the arena, keeping that man completely preoccupied, unable to assist his ally, which was now being assaulted by Odgar. The swing was quick, vicious, horizontal. The deadly massive bladed weapon was hit by the shield, but with so much force, Odgar's opponent stumbled to his right. He wasn't toppled completely, but that blow, though blocked, made a considerable twinge of pain through Odgar's arms, and his opponent's shield arm. The man, regaining his composure only moments before Odgar, stepped inwards, thrusting that short sword towards Odgar's chest, easily a killing blow if it connected fully.

[Odgar]

A loud clang of metal against metal cut through Odgar's ears. He felt the recoil of his own blow against the hard iron shield, his feet shifting to regain balance and his arms trembling with the pain of colliding forces through the axe. He barely managed to pull away from the counterattack as the man stepped forward to impale him. He took another instinctive step back as he saw the blade coming towards his gut, but the shortsword managed only to cut his padded vest with its tip. The weapon's small reach was fortunate for Odgar, as it had not pierced completely through his light armor. Half a second after, Odgar had took a higher grip on his axe near its bladed head, for more swift control of the weapon. He quickly slapped the blade aside with the wooden shaft, bracing himself for more incoming attacks. The man had a strong defense with his shield, especially when it was made of iron, and not wood. He would have been able to sunder an enemy's wooden shield to timber pieces, as he had done in many fights before, but this time his own weapon was as likely to break in those impacts. Odgar decided another, less aggressive tactique was better against this one. The brutish fighter seemed very used to handling hard and direct attacks directed on him. Perhaps he ought to have a taste of his own medicine. Every man had his weakness, Odgar had learned, so it was about finding it as quickly as possible by testing different ways of approach. Some forgot their senses when taunted, others had difficulity in protecting their legs and others again got scared with pressing attacks. Even this cold killer would have some soft spot. Odgar held his weapon at the ready, preparing himself to catch the blade of his foe with his shaft. He took another quick step backwards, both to gain distance and perhaps tease his opponent to follow him. His foe had a short weapon, so he would have to come close whenever he tried to struck. Odgar would try to counterattack him much as his enemy had done before, by using a trick Hjondruf had taught him. It was best used against a vertical blow, stopped by a horizontel block. One would then quickly turn the two-handed weapon with its pommel or blade to point at the enemy's head, pushing the weapon of the foe out of the way whilst giving space to jab them in the face. He bent in his knees slightly and waited for the moment his enemy would lift his weapon for attack. Axe Skill30

[Leviathan]

It was true, yet Odgar still couldn't be certain what this man, a seasoned gladiator by the looks of him, held as a weakness. His head was protected by a thick and heavy helmet, yet his body was mostly bare, only patches of steel here and there. His joints were free, he was not weighed down. A single attack, it didn't even have to be particularly lethal or accurate, and this man could be taken down. Yet, the biggest problem for Odgar was that shield, next to pretty much be fighting a two on one and having his own life on the line. It made for a large area that almost made the man immune to the axe Odgar was relying on. If, by some chance, he could disarm him of that weapon then the fight, possibly, could be won. Odgar had prepared for another attack, ready to parry and counter with one of his own, and if his opponent would have struck with the sword as expected, it might have worked perfectly, but this was not the case. Odgar's enemy, with a sudden and unexpected sort of reckless abandon, charged into Odgar. The shield crashed into Odgar's body, pushing him backwards until he was winded, pressed against the stone walls by the shorter more agile man, though the man could not use his sword to kill Odgar, only to keep Odgar from using his own weapon on him. It was an awkward sort of thing to do, and didn't particularly make sense. That is until his partner suddenly shifted his attention to Odgar. He had taken his time in herding the slave men around, their fear did his work for him, but now he was watching Odgar, no... He was approaching him. Sword in hand, shield in his offhand. Odgar wouldn't be able to defend himself against the second man, he had to break free somehow, or at least get the executioner to change direction or attention. Odgar's options were limited.