(Gillar) Throne of Rhysol

[Jackson LaCroix]

He had half a black sun branded into the bones of his left hand. With two dots inked in for eyeballs now the Slave had a smiling happy face where his disgrace should be. Fair enough. Cracking his left knuckles the man continued into the passage of archaic stone beyond. Yes he was aware of the violent screaming, yes he heard the chants for more gore. 'Heard them before.. Nothing new except the annihilating shiver of antic i 'pation. How do you treat your slaves? Here they treat 'em just fine. sept for the birthday beating, sept for the starving.

Stepping to the grid of roses, Jackson Cross could hear them call his name. He was oiled. Matted in sweat, red dirt. He turned to the same sentinel guarding the rigid portcullis and spoke. Voice cutting grim like sandpaper.

"And here I thought they loved me just for my looks."

The gate slowly cranked upward as the guard sneered. "That must make you feel so .. so ... Used."

"They ain't calling your name.. you even got one. Lets make this Tickle. Triple the odds and I'll let you pick the killing stroke." The grinding metal came a loud halt. "But I'm saving every bone for soup and feeding this entire gods damned city."

"Good luck Cross. Double for the heart."

"Hey Guard."

"Yeah.."

"F__k You."

The able-bodied frame of the warrior entered into the chambers beyond. Some called it the Pit, some called it Ivak's Prison, some called it a good time.
Bearing a few bruises, the slash mark from his last fight seemed to cauterize into the shape of an upside-down crown. There was a large equilateral cross tattooed between his shoulder blades reaching the neck and a word written on the front that probably said something like have a nice day. It didn't matter. Not today.

Today was his Birthday.



-Flashback

[Gillar]

The Pit as it was called, was located in one of the larger parks in the city. Essentially one large pit in the center of a wooded park setting, the location served as an arena of sorts where the wealthy and influential would match their slaves against each other for fun and profit. A large iron fence topped the pit wall and multiple-leveled benches were arranged for spectators to watch the events. A small, simple series of underground chambers served as holding cells for slaves/fighters and various storage. Considered entertainment to most, for those who fought in the Pit, it was something altogether different. As Jackson stepped through the small yet sturdy wooden portcullis that led from the holding cells to the Pit, he was greeted with the all too familiar sounds of joy at the sight of death. A couple of slaves were busy pulling the last failed fighter from the action to be disposed of however his former master saw fit. In the center of the Pit stood Jackson's opponent; a blood-covered man dressed in a pair of tattered, sackcloth pants with a bronze collar around his neck. On one hand he wore an odd looking gauntlet that ended not in fingers but with a short length of chain attached to a spiked ball. In the other hand he held the severed arm of the corpse that was just dragged from the Pit floor. The man's face was twisted in a visage of anger and hatred. Jackson couldn't help but take note at the contrast between his own appearance and that of his opponent compared to that of the finely dressed individuals sitting on the stone benches above, shouting with gusto for more.

[Jackson LaCroix]

Jackson LaCroix was a man who attracted conflict. Some attributed it to his defiant will - revealing that splinter of self-doubt inside even the most arrogant of minds when faced with the clarity of his stare. It hit unshakably, as though only the presence of the man was enough to create a shutter of unease..
There was something unyielding about him. Alive. Raw and Dangerous. The threatened would do everything possible never to drown in the abyss of their own weaknesses so desperately held safe beneath. Manipulation. Lies. Deceit. These many held like children by their own emotions. Fighting the most primitive and basest of their mechanisms. Fear.

Others emulated his stance. Mimicked his voice and personality. Hoping to Divide those who could be turned and conquer the simplest to the sacred.

Jackson didn't give a damn about the reasons. People he cared for got damaged. They shivered and burned. Perished for vanity, faltered for the worst and most trivial of reasons. Gain. Loss. Control.
He lived as a truth. A pure certainty. The more people who passed because of him, the brighter the pyre - Never back down. Never stop to surrender. In your chest. In your mind. In your center. Own yourself. Love yourself. Kill Death and everyone who would rip Life from you.

Those LaCroix bore inside and on his skin. Those he valued. There was not one sacrifice he would not bare openly for. One hell he would not enter with a final severe taunt.

Bring the pain.
Bring It All.

He would smile wide. Kill. Then overcome - Needing no protection, his path choosing each plate of steel.

So when facing that slave with the dilating stare.. It wasn't simply his life. His will. His force. He was a sparse elemental, breathing evenly into the waiting mouth of the hurricane. Waiting. Patiently... masterfully, for the stroke. To bask within freedom. To seize the second. To live as a god, liberating every loss still trapped in those pits.

Call it what you will. call it Defiance. He called it something sweeter.

Moving towards the rugged fighter Jackson LaCroix prepared for the sudden shift of tension, muscular explosion into the weakness of his enemy. It would come swiftly, like a startled animal. Driven home by more ferocity held within a blistering cosmic storm. Name it a transaction with interest. Radiant fury released into the vulnerability of a life he knew nothing more about then that of a crumbling wall. His palm seeking to implode the throat, his fist throttling into the floating rib. He had to cut inside the defense hard at the apex of the offending weapon should it climb, using this trailing momentum to the fullest of leverage. Forcing lethal finality as mercy was another man`s purchase, Jackson hit both fists together gritting his howling jawline. Come and get it.

[Gillar]

Jackson exploded into action as both men advanced, closing in on one another in their own fashion. The slave was by no means new to combat in the pit with a style of fighting not known for being disciplined. More a brawler than an actual fighter, Jackson's opponent threw the severed arm at Jackson and followed up with a swing of the spiked-ball-on-a-chain. While the flinging of the severed arm was not meant to do any real harm, it was enough to divert Jackson's attention for but a split second. In that instant, the spiked ball came around and sliced Jackson on the upper arm; flesh split and blood immediately began to spill from the open wound. Jackson's training and momentum however were enough to avoid any severe mishap and allow him to get in close enough to strike at his opponent's ribs. The satisfying feel of fist against bone with bone giving way sent a thrilling sensation up Jackson's arm and to his brain. His opponent was not in the position for a throat strike however and the breaking of the rib brought a grimace of agony and a choked moan of pain to the man's previously imposing visage. From the number of scars on the man's body though, he was no stranger to such things. Jerking his arm back, he tried to recover his weapon for another swing while taking a backhanded swipe at Jackson's head with his now free hand. Flying dirt filled the air as the combatants feet stirred up the foul floor of the pit while cheers continued to erupt around the perimeter. Indeed this would be a fight to death and the spectators/gamblers were looking forward to collecting their winnings from whoever emerged the victor.

[Jackson LaCroix]

Jax smashed his forehead into the density of his opponent's nose. Twisting both hands around the slave's head like a cork, his intention was to roll the man over the left shoulder as his body's central axis pivoted inward, using the tandem of both feet and hips, spinning under the momentum of the form. Following the arms through the throw would permit him to utilize the fighter's direction against it's source, but Cross combined the motion with a perverse grapple that would crack the slave's wailing spine as it's neck reached the full extension of the throttle. Either that or on the way down..

The move brooded through the thistles of tenderness reaching under the skin of Jackson's right upper limb. Should this work but not kill, waiting trauma would crush through the difference. He felt the metal shackles only between palpitations of heart beats, a hell storm of endorphins grinding to sparks against the inside of his limits, edging him over the cusp of restraint into the animal within. A vibration cut loose to feed. Abandon. A wash of tissue and meat clenched close to rip asunder the distance.. between dira and dormant capacity.

[Gillar]

Although quickly becoming caught up in the rush of adrenaline, cries of the crowd and buzz of the fight, the rather large, bloody gash on Jackson's arm continued to burn painfully. A competent fighter to be sure, he was in constant need to remain focused; despite the pain, distractions and thrill of combat. Pushing through, determined to strike a quick and bloody blow to his opponent, Jackson remained within close proximity and the two combatants collided once more. Heedless of the other fighter's sweeping backhand, Jackson received a blinding hit to the side of his head that brought a flash of light followed by a brief moment of darkness. At the same time, his opponent recovered his chained yet was unable to take another swing before Jackson's vision began to clear. Still more than a little rattled from the backhand combined with his previous wound, Jackson was nonetheless able to drive his head into his opponents face, drawing pain and tears. Gripping the other man's head, Jackson attempted to snap his opponent's neck thus ending the fight quickly. Unfortunately, the man was a match for Jackson's skill and instead of trying to resist the twisting, he went with it. While it threw the man off drastically off-balance, it prevented his neck from snapping. In addition, as the man lost his solid footing, his weapon came around and while the spiked-ball missed Jackson's leg, the chain itself did not. It snapped against Jackson's knee sending shooting bolts of ripping pain up his leg and bringing him to one knee; causing him to loose his grip on his opponent. Both men now knelt on the pit floor, blood and grime covering their wounds, pain running up and down their bodies and the whole while the crowd cheered. It was becoming clear to everyone involved and/or watching that the two combatants were a great match and as a result, more people were arriving to witness the spectacle.

[Jackson LaCroix]

Jax unfastened his mouth and grinned. It was clear.. incisors white and taunt above the range of both lung's reach. The fireworks of satisfaction hot red with the bond of running anger, it's mortar abraded through the force of bone pulverized like a relentless pestle. "Dead yet.." He winced to the tone called out as caustic shards of glass hail.
Over and Over. Abrasive brutal celerity. Mass Forced into Impact. Again and Once Again like the gavel of unbound fate.

Standing on his knees the raised upper torso of the slave pursued to punish the other into a crater of his own fists and crack the stone under. The listening body concentrated to pin a mortality to the floor of his grapple.
A well of djed brayed behind the density of his shoulders but was kept inside by the thread of learning. Solemn pride abashed like splattering paint. Foreign crimson tasting like sharp sweltering iron and the sizzle - with the touch of cold blossoms against the Tongue. His remains were still black without the soothing cover of regeneration, as white heat could heal unafraid beneath a pillar of weightless shock. Facts to the killer's conscience. Like a bell that sounds to pull all men to their sandals. Standing. Breathing. Blunt Perdition and the heights one inhalation beyond. ..

Jackson steadied the composure of his reserve as if fire could believe in what feeds it. He sought to simply shatter the world they knew with every diamond buried into his knuckles.