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Nickname: Red Race: Human Birthday & Age: 57th of Summer, 489 AV (23 years old.) Gender: Male
Physical Description
Red is an impressive figure to behold, reaching the considerable height of six foot three when standing fully erect, with broad shoulders, narrow hips and a body corded with lean muscle. The most distinctive feature he possesses is likely the unusual hue of his hair from which he derives his nickname, which is a particularly vivid shade of red that is quite striking to behold. Long and thick, the crimson locks reach down to his shoulders and are indifferently maintained, simply swept back and pushed out of his way rather than styled or tamed in any significant manner. his general indifference towards his appearance. Another factor of his appearance that tends to set him apart from his peers, or indeed most people you are like to come across, are the breathtaking patterns inked upon his skin. Incredibly intricate and masterfully designed, his entire body from his face to his feet is covered in sanguine markings that present quite the intense contrast to his unusually pale skin.
As far as facial features go, he’s a rather attractive fellow by most standards, in a strange mixture of noble and rugged. Clear, bright blue eyes rest above finely sculpted cheekbones which then connect to a large and stubborn jaw which varies between clean shaven and covered in a light stubble, depending on how lazy he’s feeling that particular morning. A large, dignified nose provides the centerpiece to the mix, with an unremarkable set of lips set beneath it. His eyes are a pleasant, rich blue which leans towards the darker end of the scale, the skin which surrounds them possessing some minor laughter lines.
Character Concept
On the surface, the man known simply as Red is a thoroughly pleasant and easygoing individual. A true pleasure to be in the company of, if one were to be so inclined to seek it, he is tolerant, very laid back and quite charismatic. It has been remarked often that the man just seems to carry an aura of constant relaxation about him, in the same manner that some individuals possess auras of fear, or power, or what have you. No such thing for ol’ Red, no sir. He tries his best to put people at ease, and over the years he’s found the best way to do so is to appear to be at ease yourself, even if you’re standing in the middle of a Djed Storm and the world’s collapsing beneath your feet.
So we’ve covered the fact that he’s a pretty chill fellow, but what’s he like other than that? Well, he’s quick to smile, and laugh too. He believes that you should enjoy life as much as you can, while you can, because he’s been around death long enough to know it can come for you at any time and there’s no sense in worrying about it and letting that fact get you down. He enjoys the little things in life, often taking the time to drink in a particularly pleasant view, or to feel the rays of the sun upon his skin as he lounges in a field of grass somewhere. He’s also not one given to racial bias, having grown up shoulder to shoulder with all kinds of people of all kinds of shapes, sizes and colours. He knows that no matter how they look, they tend to be people too. They bleed the same if they’re cut open, they cry when they’re sad, the laugh when they’re happy or there’s just plain nothing else you can do.
Don’t let that fool you into thinking he’s some aireheaded fool that’s intent on whiling his life away lazing around in fields and daydreaming. Quite the opposite, if the truth were to be told. Beneath the surface layers of a casual, smiling man lies a will of pure steel. Red gets through life with sheer grit and determination for the most part, focusing his considerable willpower towards whatever the task or problem at hand is, though it’s rare that you get to see such. For the most part, he even appears harmless, yet this couldn’t be further from reality. No, harmless he is most certainly not, though you might not think it until you see him in action. This is a man who has no real qualms about killing another man in the heat of battle, in cold blood or any other kind of condition. He’s killed more times than he can remember, and for the most part, it doesn’t cause him to lose too much sleep at night. Unless that particular person he just killed was a young girl, or a child. Ever since the incident that drove him to gain his freedom he’s had a lot of time to think about the ramifications of his actions, what he’s been doing with his life and what his purpose is.
Which brings us to a fairly important part of his character. Red is a man with no name, and without a direction in life. He is eternally searching for something to fill the gaping void in his existence, but he’s damned if he knows what it is. All he knows is that he’s been searching every day since he got free, and when he finds that something, it’ll all fall into place with a resounding click. Or so he’s convinced himself, anyway.
A Summary of Red’s History
If you ask Red, he has absolutely no idea where he was born, when he was born or who he was born to. And frankly, the man just does not care to know either. What is known, however, is that he was born to a poorly off family that had more mouths to feed than they could even begin to handle, so they sold little Red and a couple of his siblings off to pay their way and ease the workload; Two birds with one stone. All that Red remembers is that he was sold as a young child and wound up in the fighting ring in Sunberth, a dagger thrust into his hand before he was pushed out onto the mud killing ground. He was facing off against some poor, half-starved dog and he wasn’t expected to survive the encounter. He was supposed to put on a good show for the bloodthirsty crowd while they waited for the main event, yet..He never did. He managed to survive his first match. And his second. Then the third, fourth..And eventually he began to get better and better at what he did, to take some enjoyment from the sheer act of surviving, the primitive victory over another. His talent grew, and so did the number of foes that fell to his blades’ thirsty edges. After a time more and more people began to show up to these death matches to watch Red’s latest brutal slaughter, his name spreading by word of mouth until he was quite the famous little combatant in the humble fighting ring. Time sped by in a haze of heady glory, of sprays of warm blood upon his skin and the roar of the crowds in his ears. He was a young adult, somewhere into his late teens or perhaps early twenties when something occurred that shattered his violent little daydream into pieces.
It was a fight much like any other. He was to be pitted against some poor slob that hadn’t manage to pay off his debts to someone important and thus had ended up in chains, in the arena. More of a public execution than a true fight, but Red didn’t bat an eyelid. He’d killed men like this many times before, and he imagined that he would do so again, so long as there were people angering the wrong individuals. It was an unremarkable bout, the sobbing man putting up enough of a struggle to entertain the crowd and do little else before Red severed the veins in his throat. Long after the roar of the crowd had faded to mere echoes, Red was preparing to slumber in his paltry quarters, when from behind an alcove out steps a slip of a girl, certainly no older than her mid teens, knife in hand. Before Red could wonder who she was, she had flung herself at him, screeching like a banshee and eager for his blood. Without intending to, reflexes honed from years of defending himself in essentially every waking moment kicked it and he lashed out. With a sickening crack, the young girl’s neck broke and she tumbled, and fell.
Eventually he found out that this was the younger sister of the man he had killed in the arena that day and that she was the only one left in her family. He had killed the only thing left in her life that she loved, and then he had killed her. The young gladiator’s mind reeled. He had killed many a man before, but he had never stopped to think that they might have had loved ones and lives outside of the ring. Red had thought only for the dizzying glory and mindless violence of the arena, never for the consequences. Now he was being forced to reevaluate his life and reconsider, well..Everything. Over time, he decided that he wasn’t going to waste his years away in some low-end dirtpit of an arena. He was going to win his freedom and set out to find something to give his life purpose.
And so he did. He won his freedom and fought one, last fight as a favour to his old handlers; They wanted him to fight a warrior that had come from Riverfall, of all places. Though he might have a new perspective in life, years of fighting for glory were hard to just shrug off. Red couldn’t pass up the chance to fight an Akalak. Alas, as he entered into the ring for the last time, he found to his disappointment that it was not an Akalak at all, but merely a large Human. Crestfallen, he expected this to be a dull fight at best, yet to his shock and pleasure, the man proved to be more than a simple challenge; He was his match, blow for blow. They fought and fought, for what seemed like days, until at last both could fight no longer. In the end the owners of the pit deemed it a crime to have either of these champions killed, and declared this the greatest and last match of Red’s career.
The man he had fought with such intensity was named Thohorn Riverbed, the two men speaking at length until it was decided they would travel together and see what they could make of the world. Since then, much has happened and they have both grown as people, yet only time will tell if they will accomplish their goals.
The Man with No Name
Seeing as Red was sold into slavery by his folks when he was just a wee spit of a lad, he has long since forgotten what his name was, and his handlers at the arena didn’t much care to find out, or give him one. So they called him Red, on account of his very distinctive hair and eventually, the intricate and beautiful crimson markings that are inked into his hide. He was content with this during his lengthy tenure at the fighting rings in Sunberth, for what need does a slave have for a name? After winning his freedom, however, he began to find a name to suit his new life, and new outlook. He still hasn’t found one yet, but that doesn’t mean he’ll stop trying, and he’s not about to pluck one out of thin air. Maybe someday someone will give him one that suits him enough he takes it, or maybe a God descends from on high and takes his name from his very soul. Or it could be one day he just reads one he likes somewhere and that’ll be that. Only time will tell, but it’s looking like he’ll be without a name for as long as he’ll be without that certain something that’s left a big ol’ void in his life.
The Bone Sword (Heirloom Item; Greatsword)
This enormous bladed weapon is an oddity, to say the least. Red found it during the course of his travels and has kept it ever since, practicing with the blade every now and then when the notion takes him. The weapon seems to have been crafted from a single, huge bone and the blade is old and worn, though several marks have been carved into its flat that have thus far been indecipherable.
Last edited by Red on January 9th, 2013, 1:47 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Red possess the first mark of Prowess, Myri's Gnosis. The following is how he came to possess it. It's quite long.
Part One :
31st Winter, 510
The sharp ‘clink’ burst forth into the air time and time again, the sound deceptively joyous and bright in that by itself it was so innocent and upbeat that it could well have belonged amongst the gentle sound of children at play. The manner in which this particular sound came into being was far from kind and the act that brought the noise screaming into the world again and again had no place with the play of children. Instead the frequent clinks formed the foundation, the rhythm of a song that was all too familiar to the ears of those that played it, the deadly metal edge of weapons crashing against each other with increasing urgency and speed. The roar of the crowd provided the bass accompaniment that surged forged time and again at crucial moments while the high-pitched screams of pain and soft gurgling of desperation formed the repeating chorus which was beginning to reach a tumultuous crescendo. The composer of this brutal melody was seated in the place of pride, a personal balcony that oversaw the arena from on high and next to him sat the young woman who had played the impetus for the events that played out below. The lead musician stood in the stage below, performing a variation on the piece he had been forced to play his entire life. To Red, however, no such metaphors came to mind when he did what he did best; There was no time for fanciful thoughts when one was fighting for one’s life, and for the love of the crowd.
He deflected the spear tip that so hungrily sought his flesh with an ease that could be considered contemptuous. Didn’t these warriors have any pride in what they did? They fought for the sake of the crowd! Yet the cowered like mice, afraid to peek out from behind their shield lest they lose their precious little heads in the act. And so they jabbed at him, hoping to goad him into losing his patience and rushing them, to spit himself upon the longspear that bit and snapped at him like a wary snake. If he was perfectly honest, which he generally was, Red was bored. The opening day of the five day long event, and he was stuck here with two unworthy opponents that had, by some grace of the gods, managed to survive the paired battles earlier in the day. His deep blue eyes roved over the two men who huddled together, a single shield before them to keep Red’s blades from separating their souls from their corpses. Pitiful specimens, really, underfed and lacking any of the telltale hallmarks that any true warrior possessed; No fire in the eyes, no sureness of posture, no skill in how they handled their equipment. No pride. He imagined that they were only here due to the skilled warriors having eliminated each other in the previous rounds, the victors falling to the wayside due to injuries sustained, slowing them enough that this pathetic duo could pick them off.
It really was terribly boring, something that Red made a show of. He stood with a stance that was to untrained eyes a terribly lazy one; Weapons tip-down, a slight slouch to his shoulders and a thoroughly unamused cast to his features. The crowd knew him by now, at least those that had been coming to Azal’s arena in the past few years, and they could tell what he was up to. His exaggerated yawns, the occasional stretching and the daydreamy looks belied the way he stood with his feet apart, one slightly behind and braced, his stance loose yet coiled and ready to spring forward at the slightest opening. The two facing him however, possessed no such advantage, likely having joined in the games in order to try and earn the prize or forced into it by their debts.
It didn’t take too much longer for them to attempt to make use of Red’s perceived lack of a proper guard. The spearman that stood behind the shieldbearer, who crouched behind the dented and battered protective item, tapped his ally upon the shoulder and all at once they charged forward with all the grace of a drunken cow. The crowd held their breath at once, as if they were all a part of one giant, bloodthirsty organism, waiting to see if Red’s ploy would succeed. Red’s eyes, ever deceptively gentle now narrowed as he readied himself for what he had been waiting for, shifting his weight so that he swayed to one side, batting the speartip aside with his right blade and a heartbeat later its counterpart swung down with a flash of silver as the sun danced along the flat of the weapon. The edge of the sword bit into the pale flesh of the spearman’s arm, the finely honed armament slicing through flesh in an arterial spray of blood that brought memories flashing to the forefront of his mind; The shine of the blade- A necklace glinting upon her neck. The pale skin of the spearman- Smooth flesh as pure and white as snow, so appealing he could hardly stop from reaching out and touching it. The spray of blood, hot upon his skin- A dress of the finest material, that clung to all the right places, as red and rich as the finest of wines.
Several days ago, Red had been summoned to the office of the man who owned and ran the arena for as long as Red had been here- A considerable amount of time, given the young age he had first been thrown into the pit to fight. There were rumours that Azal had once been a combatant in the fighting pit that predated his more professional arena, a man that had managed to bludgeon his way to freedom and had used his prize winnings to buy the pit and reforge it into the shape it was today. Not that you would think such, given how the man looked now. Red stood before him in the plush office, the man’s opulent tastes painfully evident no matter where one might turn their gaze to in the room; Velvet and silk abounded, with the stench of expensive oils and perfumes wafting from Azal as if the man had attempted to drown himself in them earlier. Stocky, short and with a nose that had been broken far too many times, Azal did not come across as the most imposing of figures, with his oiled hair shaped into ringlets and fingers weighed down with gaudy rings of every type imaginable. He was very clearly a man that had come into wealth later on in life and desired to show it as much as was humanly possible.
Red’s feelings were mixed when it came to Azal. One the one hand, he was the man that had forced him to fight for his life almost daily for as long as he could remember. Yet on the other he had rewarded him time and again when Red had proved to be a powerful combatant, treating him to women, drink and most importantly of all, proper meals. Red was not a foolish man, he knew that he could well have easily ended up sold to a pleasure house or something altogether worse. At least here he had been given a fair chance to either fight for his survival or die in the attempt. Overall, he would have to say he looked upon Azal mostly with a mixture of respect and a peculiar form of gratitude, which showed in the soft curl that graced Red’s lips as he listened to the man speak. “My boy, it is good to see you again! You know you have always been my favourite, my greatest warrior. Practically born and raised in this arena, you may as well be my son!” A hearty laugh as Azal sat down heavily into the chair opposite Red, to which the warrior merely smiled at. He knew his place. “There are rumours among the less bright customers that you are Myri’s bastard son, born with a sword in your hand and weaned on the blood and flesh of the men you killed in the arena!” Again, another laugh, this time barked and filled with ridicule. “Honestly, these people. We both know you are but a mortal man, Red, but such rumours help to bring in the Mizas, so I let them come and go as they will. Such is the nature of showmanship.”
Azal waved a hand in dismissal, the appendage once lean and calloused from the toil of killing, now plump and smoothed with comfort. “But enough prattle. As you are no doubt aware, I have called you here on a matter pertaining to business. I have a daughter, Red, and she is very dear to me. She is not much younger than you are and has always been fascinated with the arena. Particularly,” he said, gaze sharpening on the tall, lean warrior that stood calmly and silently before him, “, she has always been enamoured of you. Always I have been plagued with pleading to see you in combat, with ‘Oh please Daddy, let me go talk to Red, I want to give him a flower!’ and other such girlishness. I had thought her..Admiration of you would pass with time but it seems it has but grown, and so has she.” Leaning back in his chair Azal steepled his fingers together and rested his wrists upon his considerable girth. “It is to be her birthday soon, and to commemorate the occasion I have organised a series of games. I am offering a special price on the tickets, and I expect people to come from all over. The arena will be flooded with a crowd from all over, and I shall swim in a sea of profit! And you, dear Red, you.” Here he levelled a finger at him, a smirk playing across his mouth. “You will be the main attraction. Your reputation is known in Sunberth and the people love to see you kill. You know how to play to them and how to make them cheer. I trust you will not let me down, for this year Arahbel, my daughter, will be seated beside me.” With an indulgent smile he raised his voice slightly and called, “Arahbel, lovely! You can come in now.”
Red’s expression remained pleasantly impassive throughout Azal’s monologue, for he was well used to the man and his penchant for speeches, but his benign indifference flickered somewhat as Azal called for his daughter. Arahbel was often the name upon the lips of many of the men that fought in the arena, heated whispers of desire and admiration of her bodily virtues. More often than not she was also upon the minds of the men as they tended to their private matters at night. She was sighted occasionally at her father’s side, inspecting the men and watching as they trained and the presence of such a beauty was rare indeed to the gladiators. Red was aware of her peculiar affection for him and had been for quite some time. She was a resourceful little thing and managed to manipulate, bribe and threaten the servants into passing him tokens of her favour as well as the occasional note. These he could read by the grace of Hector, his caretaker, who had been kind enough to instruct him how to read and to write in his spare time. They were often filled with girlish talk of flowers and everlasting love and the like, though Red had ever neglected to reply for fear of either encouraging it, or of her becoming heartbroken and ordering her father to have him killed. Red was, above all else, a survivor.
He took a deep breath to steady himself, the cloying scent of Azal’s perfume stinging his nostrils, as the door behind him creaked open. The sound of her light footfalls grew closer until she was so close he thought she would walk into him, only for her to move past him, the warm curve of her hip brushing against his side as she did so. As she reached her father and turned to regard Red, the young warrior clenched his jaw in order to prevent it falling to the floor. She truly was a beauty of exquisite quality. Dark, effortlessly styled curls fell over her pale skin like deep black ink spilled upon rich parchment, framing a face that had shed the girlish cast it had possessed the last time he had seen her, seasons ago. Eyes of a green so deep they looked to have been carved from emeralds sparkled in amusement as the surveyed him and her lips were full and inviting as they were tugged into a breathtaking smile. “Hello, my Champion.”
Most men in his situation would have gone weak at the knees, given the life of a gladiator meant they tended to be rather deprived of womanly attention, and to be faced with such a beauty... Red, however, was made of particularly stern stuff and managed to stand resolute when met with such a sight. Even though his thoughts turned towards certain things, and he ran the tip of his tongue over his lips in an unconscious indication of attraction. Clearing his throat, Red gave her a polite nod and managed to keep his voice even and calm as he gave a reply. “Hello, Miss Arahbel. It is pleasant to see you again.” Her painted lips twisted into a smirk, one he imagined a cat would give a particularly appetising mouse, and she began to slink towards him, hips swaying from side to side in a manner so hypnotic he could barely keep his eyes from dropping to them. “Father, I would whisper to our favourite warrior now, of the little secret you promised I could tell him.”
She approached, coming so close that he could actually make out her scent; She smelled of baths filled with rose petals, and of subtle perfumes so different from Azal’s. Wary of her father’s watchful eyes mere strides from where he stood, Red remained as he was, hands clasped behind his back even as she draped his arms about his neck. She came perilously close to him, the softness and warmth of her body just barely resting against him as she brought her lips to brush against his ear, her throaty voice low as she whispered conspirationally into his air. “A pity my father is here, Champion, or I would demand a kiss of you. And I even picked this dress in honour of you. Still. My father has decided, with my persuasion, that the winner of these events would be able to ask of him a favour, and he would grant them anything they desired within his power.” Her fingertips trailed down along the back of his neck, eliciting a suppressed shiver from the crimson-haired warrior. “That means if you retain your position as Champion, my sweet, you could ask for anything; Riches, a feast..A certain woman.” Here she pressed ever so slightly harder against him and he struggled with all his will not to put his arms around her and take her upon the floor. “Or even...Dare I even whisper it, Champion..? You could win your freedom. And then you would be..Free, to do as you please. And I would be waiting. Do not disappoint me, beloved.” With that, she pulled away from him and skipped back to her father, sitting upon the arm of the chair and draping her upper half along the top, playing idly with her father’s hair.
After that, he had been sent back to his quarters, head still reeling from the heady thoughts of freedom, and of Arahbel. Ever since the dreadful night when he had been forced to kill a young girl in self defence, he had planned to win his freedom one way or another and now, it was so close to him he could reach out and grasp it. And all he had to do was keep doing what he had been doing all his life; Surviving. Which was exactly what he was doing in the arena on the opening day of the event.
The severed hand, loose chain still connected to it via a manacle, fell to the ground below to impacting with a small plume of sand that was quickly dyed red with the blood that spurted out from the detached appendage. Using the momentum of his attack, Red rolled past the duo, grasping the worn chain as he did so. The spearman’s cry of pain and rage rose up as the man clutched at his stump, spear clattering to the ground, forgotten. The shieldbearer backed away, the other man rendered useless and a liability now that he was without a weapon. The former spearman turned to Red, shock written upon his features and he simply gasped. “M..My hand! You cut off my hand!”
To this Red smiled, sheathing his right blade and gripping the chain firmly. “Indeed. Would you like it back? Here!” he called tauntingly, swinging the chain to whip the severed hand at the man, the disembodied appendage smacking into the poor unfortunate’s head, much to the crowd’s pleasure. Roared approval mixed with uproarious laughter thundered from the crowd as they hooted and jeered, feet stamping upon the wooden platforms. The man’s face went through a strange progression of emotion; Shock, to disbelief which lead into a brief flicker of sorrow and finally, to rage. With a howl of fury the one-handed warrior ran at Red, without a weapon and thus without much hope of survival. With a broad, peculiarly friendly smile Red stood to meet him, sheathing his other blade and taking the chain up in both hands as the man ran, kicking up sprays of sand as he went. It took a scant few heartbeats for him to close with Red, sole remaining fist drawn back in an attempt to simply punch the Champion in his smiling face-Only for Red to bend his knee, dipping down and swaying to one side, foot snapping out to jab at the other man’s ankle, who stumbled and fell. Moving quickly, Red went to one knee beside him and wrapped the chain about his neck, pulling the rusted iron links taught so that they dug into the spearman’s throat. Kicking and squirming, he clawed at Red’s forearms to little avail as the life was choked out of him. Red kept his eyes focused directly upon the shieldbearer’s face as the struggles grew fainter, the man’s gurgling protests fading to nothing until finally, he lay still. Grinning at the last remaining opponent, Red mouthed ‘You’re next.’ at him and rose, unsheathing both of his blades and allowing the dead man to fall aside.
Deeming it time to put an end to the day’s show, Red wasted no time in swiftly closed the gap between himself and the now white-faced gladiator that crouched behind his thin layer of protection. In quick succession he slammed his right sword against the shield, following the attack up with a flurry of blows from both weapons that rang against the dark iron of the shield like hammers against a bell, giving the man barely enough time to react. Again and again he swung at the man, driving him further and further back until they approached the edge of the arena, the walls of which were lined with metal spikes that were covered in gore, both old and new. In his desperation to fend off Red’s assault the man had continuously given ground until he was a short stride from the deadly barriers, and the crowd knew it. The stamped upon the wooden platform in a steady rhythm which grew quicker and quicker as Red drove the man closer to his doom, until finally he was close enough.
At last, Red relented in his inexorable siege upon the shieldbearer’s defences, lowering his blades for a brief moment that was long enough for a brief glimmer of hope to come to life in his opponent’s eyes- Only for it to die as Red raises his leg and slammed his foot against the man’s shield with enough force to send him falling backwards onto the spikes just behind him. Sheathing one of his swords Red placed a hand upon the man’s chest and pushed forward, the cruel iron spike sprouting from the man’s lower stomach like some macabre flowering of gore. He yet lived, however, for abdominal wounds tended to take quite a while to kill. Red was not finished; Lifting his remaining sword he brought it down with enough force to do what he had done to the unfortunate spearman, severing the forearm with brutal efficiency. Taking his time as the man roared in agony, the arena’s Champion knelt down and removed the hand still clutching the shield, picking up the battered piece of equipment and gripping it on one side. Abruptly, he drew his arm back and smashed it into the impaled man’s face, bone crunching and splintering beneath the blunt edge of the round shield. Again and again Red drove the crude edge into the man’s face, each blow accompanied by a wild roar from the crowd, until there was naught left of the man but a ruined mess of bone and flesh.
Dropping the gore-splattered shield into the loose sand, Red walked away from his latest victim without so much as a backward glance, arms upraised as the crowd’s approval washed over him like a euphoric wave. Eyes closed, he exulted in their savage love for what him and what he did, fingers curling into fists. He would soon be free of this, of all of this, to do as he pleased. Yet he felt the world would be strangely silent without the ever-present roar of the crowd to urge him onwards.
Part Two :
36th Winter, 510
[/color]“Ladies and gentlemen, beloved patrons of the arena! I thank you all for coming to this series of celebrations in honour of my precious daughter, Arahbel, and I hope you have all enjoyed the entertainment so far. Worry not, however, for we shall not let the final event go out with a whimper! Today we have a clash of legends, and not just two, but three lords of battle! Coming from lands far afield we have two impressive warriors who are formidable in their own right, Khastor the Executioner and Rhys Goreblade! Yet can these two kings among men set aside their pride to work together to defeat our beloved resident Champion of the Arena, the man with no name, the Maelstrom of Blood, the Bloody Dervish, Red!” The announcer’s voice thundered out from the balcony above the sands with enough lungpower to cut through the roar of the crowd. It always surprised Red how Azal could make his voice boom across the arena with impressive ease for such a relatively small man. A small smile curled his lip as he stood enjoying the warm sunlight, awaiting the next part of the speech with his hands clasped behind his back and his stance loose yet upright and proud. Today was an important day, perhaps the singular most important one in his life so far.
“My friends, today as you know I have an extra special announcement to make for you and I promise you this day will be remembered by all of you for years to come. Many of our warriors entered into the celebrations in order to win the prize; To ask for anything, and if it is within my considerable reach, I would grant it. The other day Red, who is like a son to me, and to us all, came to me and humbly asked for his one desire should he emerge alive and victorious on this day. If he wins, ladies and gentlemen...Our beloved Red walks free of this arena, and of his servitude to myself.” The pronouncement was met with a shocked, collective silence that held for but a few heartbeats before someone cried out, “Hurrah for Red! Red the free man!”, a cry and sentiment that was swiftly taken up by the crowd, who cheered and applauded with all the heartfelt joy of a family bidding farewell to a favoured son. Azal had been wise to plant the man in the crowd, to prevent the mob from rioting or causing trouble at the prospect of losing a fighter many of them had been following for years.
As for himself, he was a peculiar mixture of excited and filled with trepidation. Surely, he would for the first time as a grown man be free to do as he pleased, yet he could not help but wonder at what exactly that would be. Even if he did managed to settle upon a goal or direction for his newfound freedom, he knew in his heart and soul that he did not possess the skill or worldly knowhow to succeed on his own. He was a ferocious combatant, yes, and his skill had rarely been sorely tested of late, but when it came to...Well, much of anything else at all, he knew he had all the wisdom and experience of a newborn babe. He would need to find a companion to aid him in finding his feet in the outside world. First, though, he needed to survive, and to do that he had to defeat the two foes arrayed against him on this day.
This thought seemed to have summoned the men, for the moment it crossed his mind Azal gave their introductions and they emerged from separate entrances, one ahead and to Red’s left and the other opposite it, to his right. Rhys walked forth from the left, an older, surprisingly slender man with short, greasy black hair. Slim though he may have been, he was nonetheless corded with ropes of lean muscle that spoke of the wiry strength that allowed him to wield the large, worn-down greatsword that he already gripped with two hands. As he looked to the opposite entrance, Red’s brows lifted in surprise at the sight that met him.
Khastor had to be one of the largest men he had ever seen, the entirety of the man rippling with bulging muscles. Not a single hair decorated the man’s bald head, which gleamed in the aureate rays of the sun, and his face and body were a mass of scars of every imaginable shape and size, from thin nicks to thick marks from grievous wounds that ran across the entirety of his torso. The weapon he carried was likewise daunting in both its size and apparent battle-hardened state; A large, particularly brutal single-bladed battleaxe that had a shaft and blade thicker than was typical for its type. Red rubbed at the back of his neck slowly, massaging the taut muscles while he suppressed the urge to grimace. The man was huge! And judging from all the scarring he fought with a reckless abandon, and was tough enough to not just survive but to fight on and win. He’d likely have been a challenge even in a solo fight, but Red had the unfortunate situation of having to fight the axeman while fending off Rhys at the same time.
He inhaled deeply through his nose, taking a calming breath and closing his eyes for the few brief moments he had left to center himself. He always took a little time before a fight to meditate and calm his soul so that he could be better prepared to deal with what was to come. The crowd’s thunderous cries faded to a dull roar that lapped at his senses as if he were standing in the center of a shallow lake and they were but cool waves brushing against his skin. The steady susurration of his breath was soothing in its familiarity, the gentle noise that accompanied the rise and fall of his chest a welcome rhythm to steady the beat of his heart and the wildness of his thoughts. The soft sounds of feet scuffing up sand grew loud enough that he opened his eyes, unsheathing his twin swords in a single flash of light as the sun caught the glossy surface of his two oldest companions. As always, his lips curved upwards into the same relaxed, welcoming smile that always graced his features when he faced his opponents, a gesture that none had ever had the grace to return in kind. He had to give Khastor points for the animalistic grin, however, even though it bared far too many teeth to be considered friendly. As the two men approached, giving each other wary glances, the resident arena champion idly wondered if the axeman had some Myrian in his blood...
At once, the two men rushed forward to attack the sanguine-haired warrior, weapons at the ready; Only for Khastor to shove Rhys bodily to one side so the smaller combatant fell sprawling to the sand, the mountainous brute laughing raucously as he closed with Red, axe held high in preparation for a downward, slanting arc. Batting not an eyelid at the larger man’s opening assault, Red stepped quickly to his left, bringing both of his blades around in a two-handed deflection that he put all of his might behind, the edges of his weapons meeting with the side of the axeblade with a sharp metallic crash. He was rewarded by the effort managing to send the monstrous axe’s descent off-course to plunge into the sand just to his right. The sheer force of the blow was appalling. Red could not hope to flat out block such a swing, but if he timed it well and got the angle right he could succeed in parrying the blow enough to deflect it elsewhere, not that he was eager to do so as it would take only the slightest mistake to have him lose a limb or worse.
Using the precious few heartbeats he had gained with his deflection, Red hopped further to his left, flicking a glance over towards Rhys to find the man pushing himself up from the sand, the man’s lined face darkened with anger and embarrassment. Red reckoned he had a handful of moments before the greatsword user became a problem, which was plenty of time to focus on Khastor. The large man’s bulk made him significantly less nimble than the agile Red, which the younger warrior had predicted. That and the fact that he could potentially play the two opponents off one another were the key to coming out of this brawl alive and hopefully intact.
The huge barbarian had recovered from his failed swing and was turning to face the arena’s reigning Champion, who had already begun his counterassault in earnest. Something Red had learned very early in his career was that an opponent warding off your attacks was an opponent that wasn’t spilling your guts on the sand, and he had found this rather useful in staying alive. Again and again the twin swords lashed out, striking at Khastor like furious serpents, their teeth meeting the axe’s wooden shaft time and time again. Though Red lacked the sheer brute power that Khastor possessed he was certainly not weak and his rapid flurry of blows was enough to keep the axeman on his guard long enough for Rhys to recover from his assisted tumble and join the fray, which was precisely what Red had been hoping for.
The sound of a foot scuffing up sand and the creak of stiff leather heralded what Red had been waiting for; He rolled to his right without so much as a sidewards glance, just in time for a solid ‘thunk’ to emanate from his previous position. Rising to his feet and pivoting, swords at the ready, the younger man flashed his teeth in a fierce grin as he witnessed what had happened. As it had turned out, he had judged his timing correctly and managed to dodge out of the way just before Rhys has swung his greatsword in a powerful horizontal arc at Red’s exposed back, without a care as to whether the swing would miss and carry on to Khastor. The blow thus avoided had done just that, the worn edge of the greatsword colliding into the hardened timber of the his supposed ally’s axe. This was met with a less than pleased reaction as the huge man’s prominent brows drew down to knit together in a thunderous scowl, his face flushed with anger.
After yanking his weapon backwards, the bigger man immediately shoved it forwards again, the horizontally-held length of wood thudding into Rhys’ slender chest, sending him stumbling backwards. “Hey! Watch where yer goin’, you scrawny old dog! This here is my favourite axe. You damage it again and I’ll kill you before I kill this red mutt and get my prize money.” He said, the belligerent brute tipping his equally brutish weapon towards the elder warrior. The threatened combatant’s lip curled up in a sneer as he steadied himself, pointing at the innocently smiling Red with an accusing, gnarled finger. “What are ye, addled? Dontcha know about this ‘red mutt’ as y’call him? Haven’t you heard the stories? If we don’t work together he’ll cut us both down, don’t matter who goes first! We have to work together, ya oversized boar.” With a derisive snort quite befitting Rhys’ insult, Khastor rolled his eyes at him and drawled, “Oh sure, right, the kid is some great warrior. Riiiight. You know fighting rings always big up their fighters to bring the crowds in, old man, it don’t mean nothin’. Now for the last time, get outta my way or there’ll be trouble.”
Grumbling something indecipherable under his breath but unmistakably filled with venom, Rhys stalked off from the smirking thug, closing the short distance between himself and Red in a few intakes of breath, weapon at the ready. Without any preamble or fancy twirling the old greatsword swung at Red’s left side in an upward arc to which Red reacted by snapping his left weapon directly upwards and leaning to his right, sending the weapon up and over his head. Thinking to take advantage of Rhys’ no exposed flank, Red brought his right blade to bear upon the man’s side. Or, at least, he tried to. Rhys was no fool and he either reacted quickly or had planned Red’s deflection ahead of his attack, as he used his forward momentum and Red’s temporarily dropped guard to twist his forward foot and slam his shoulder into Red’s chest, shoving the younger man backwards with enough force that he had to backpedal rapidly to prevent himself from falling on his rear.
With a mirthless grin the venerable swordsman advanced, wasting not a second in keeping Red on the defensive. He had forgotten, however, about Khastor and the large man’s burning desire to win the coin he coveted so. His memory was jarred into remembering at the same time the blunt end of the shaft of Khastor’s axe thumped into his side, the brute guffawing as his supposed teammate let out a grunt of pain, wincing as he clutched at his side. Striding past, bald head gleaming in the sun like a polished egg, Khastor barked, “I toldja, old man, stay outta my way! His head is mine.” Stomping towards Red with feet so huge he faintly wondered at the absence of the ground shuddering with each ungainly stomp, Khastor raised his axe once again in preparation for a large swing from over his shoulder. To this rather predictable move Red made to dodge to his right, aiming to do a leaping roll out of the way and hopefully spring back to counterattack before Khastor got his balance again.
Sadly, this was not to be. As Red threw himself to his right, Khastor snapped the bottom half of the axe’s thick wooden haft right into Red’s exposed flank with a dull crack, the force of the blow made all the worse by the momentum of Red’s mangled acrobatics. With a truncated, grunted yelp of pain, Red staggered backwards several feet while Khastor took the time to throw his head back and laugh. Clutching at his side in a reflexive attempt to dull the intense pain that had blossomed within it, Red cursed his carelessness is assuming Khastor would try the same tactic repeatedly. The brute had more brains than his appearance and manner suggested, though the powerful muscles were not in the least bit misleading. He might have cracked a damned rib. Petching lucky he’s the gloating type or I’d be dead. Augh. Gotta finish this quick, somehow., he thought to himself, gritting his teeth against the aching in his wounded side.
Glancing behind Khastor to Rhys who stood a scant few paces behind the giant of a man, Red decided that it was time to put the theory he’d developed earlier about these two to the test...Or die in the attempt. Sucking in air in several short bursts, Red tried his best to ignore the pain that was intent of clamouring for his attention, and set off at a rapid pace directly towards Khastor. The brute met this headlong charge with a broad, smug grin, hefting his enormous axe as if intending to finish Red off in one final blow. Spurts of dust kicking up in his wake as he ran forward, Red swiftly closed the short distance between himself and Khastor, praying with all his might to whatever gods might listen that his gambit would succeed. As he came within striking distance, the axeman seemed to realise that he had no intention of meeting him head on, and was instead attempting to dodge past him. In response to this he gave a barked laugh and swung his axe in a terrifyingly powerful horizontal arc, using his heel to pivot about and use the axe’s weight to carry him around- Which Red had hoped for, throwing himself forward and diving down in an awkward, pain-filled roll that carried him past Khastor to land just behind Rhys.
The momentary silence of the crowd was followed by a raucous chorus of jeering, mockery and laughter, the source of which became readily apparent to Red as the familiar liquid warmth of fresh blood graced his pale skin, the crimson fluid blending with the darker hue of the markings that were dyed onto his flesh. Pushing himself to his feet in an ungainly fashion and grunting at the pain that flared in his side as a result, Red curled his fingers tightly about his weapons and turned to face either his doom or his salvation. The sight that met his eyes brought a grim smile to his lips and the choking gurgle that reached his ears was as the sweetest of melodies.
As he had planned, or rather desperately hoped for in an incredibly risky gambit that he was mildly surprised actually paid off, Khastor’s blatant disregard for team play and the safety of his supposed ally had worked beautifully in Red’s favour. Khastor had either failed to take note of the fact that Rhys had been standing so near to him or was indifferent enough to the fact that he had not cared if his pivoting slash would endanger the elder man. As it was, the power of the swing and the breadth of the arc had managed to catch Rhys solidly in the chest; The crude blade of Khastor’s axe was firmly lodged in the man’s torso, proving too thick and poorly maintained for it to have bifurcated the unfortunate fellow in one clean swipe. Which was incredibly fortunate for Red as it meant that Khastor would have to waste vital time dislodging it; For the time being he was without a weapon.
Wasting no time with his usual showmanship and theatrics, Red instead put his life before the entertainment of the crowd, raising his left blade to bring it down in a short, vicious slash across Khastor’s right arm. The finely honed edge cut cleanly through the thick flesh, cleaving through enough of the man’s arm to expose the bone before Red backed away. Khastor bellowed a bestial cry of pain as his arm fell uselessly to his side, blood pouring down along the scarred surface to drip from his fingertips to the sand below. Shuffling back a few steps Red took a moment to attempt to get a handle on the pain burning in his flank, his breath coming quicker and more ragged. The roll has cost him, but the payoff was more than worth it; Rhys had crumpled to the ground in a heap, dead before Red’s blade could even touch him and Khastor stood leaning on the axe which had slipped free as Rhys fell, his formerly ruddy, gloating face drained of both the smug attitude and its healthy hue.
Doing his utmost to appear unhurt, Red straightened painfully, a strained grin stretching his lips across his bared teeth in a show of savage satisfaction. He watched Khastor struggle to lift his axe one handed for a few moments before he deigned to speak to him. “Lo, and how the mighty have fallen! Look at you, so smug and proud but a few moments ago. A little cut and you’re reduced to a pathetic wretch who can’t even lift his weapon!” Turning to the crowd, Red gestured at his ailing foe, sword glittering in the sunlight and raised his voice. “What say you, my beloved crowd? Does this man who stands before you, who so callously took the life of the man he was supposed to fight alongside, deserve a slow death or a quick one?” He didn’t quite possess the almost unnatural quality that Azal was blessed with, but he could still do a good job of getting heard when he wanted to. The crowd’s reply came as little surprise to the gladiator; The match had not lasted for very long or been that excited, and Khastor had done little to give the crowd reason to be enamoured of him. A multitude of voices, young and old, male and female and from people were normally separated by myriad barriers in life joined as one, crying out to see the axeman die a slow and painful death. To this Red executed his best imitation of what he imagined a courtly bow was, choking down a cry of agony as the act inflamed his cracked rib. Rising, the broad grin held onto his face through sheer willpower alone, the great entertained announced. “As you wish! A slow death before you fall into Dira’s loving embrace, Khastor.”
Approaching Khastor at a relaxed pace and with no apparent hurry, Red flashed the man a smile as he gave up on trying to lift the oversized axe with one arm. Instead, the man spat to one side, holding up his fist as if he intended to crack Red across the jaw. The swordsman, for his part, was in no mood to entertain any notions of a fist fight with a broken rib. Instead, when Khastor let out a guttural snarl and swung his left fist at Red, the lifelong fighter lazily raised his sword and jerked it forward to meet the hand head-on. The resulting howl of pain was met with a wave of laughter from the crowd as Red’s blade slid between the giant’s knuckles and sliced its way through to his palm. Reflexively pulling his injured appendage back, the weapon parted from the hand with a wet, slick sound, blood pouring free like wine from a stoppered bottle.
Raising his voice to address the crowd once again, Red remarked, “Personally I don’t think trying to punch someone who has two swords is a very good idea. Maybe he thinks he’s an Isur!” This sarcastic commentary was met with yet another chorus of raucous laughter, the crowd hooting and jeering at the large man who now seemed so small. Khastor glared at Red with tears of pain or perhaps shame in his eyes, cradling his split hand to his chest, his voice cracked and accusatory when he spoke. “Why are you doing this to me? Why can’t you just kill me? My pride is the only thing I have left. Please, don’t make a joke out of me.”
With a flash of teeth and a flicker of cold iron, Red lashed out and cut Khastor across the thighs, his blade carving deeply into the powerful muscles of the bald warrior’s legs, causing him to fall to his knees, blood pooling about him as he simply wept, too exhausted from bloodloss to try to rise. Leaning in close, Red spoke in a low, almost sympathetic tone. “Friend, the moment you set foot upon the sand was the moment you chose to offer up your pride, dignity and life to the starving beast that is the mob. I’m just the blade that sacrifices you upon the altar of entertainment.” Straightening, Red looked down upon the fallen warrior who gazed up at him with the eyes of a broken man, resigned to his fate. Crossing his swords so that they rested on either side of Khastor’s neck in a manner akin to a scissor, Red whispered a quiet, “May Myri let you find glory in the next life, Khastor.” In one quick, practiced motion, the twin blades were brought together with enough force to sever the kneeling man’s head from his shoulders. Blood spurted out from the stump impossible quanitites, the fountain of gore twisting and turning into the air, growing and expanding until it coalesced into a humanoid form that stepped down upon the sands and turned to face Red, who stood, staring wide-eyed and rendered mute with shock.
The figure, which had taken on a decidedly feminine form, raised its arm above its head in a luxurious stretch, dried blood flaking off to reveal glistening olive skin beneath. Brushing the last fleck of burgundy gore from her hand, the woman shifted her gaze from the headless corpse of Khastor to stare into Red’s cerulean eyes. The roar of the crowd had faded, diminishing to an unnatural stillness as time seemed to slow to a halt, everyone present frozen in time save for Red and the divine figure that had appeared before him. She spoke, her voice rich and commanding. “There will be no glory for this one, not in this life or the next, nameless sword. You, however, are no stranger to glory, though your victories are made lesser in this vaunted cage you call home.” She moved towards him, limbs rippling with toned muscles that lacked Khastor’s bulk yet Red knew could nonetheless rip him in two if she so desired it. He had never felt such a presence before; The woman had an aura of savagery and command that radiated power likes waves of heat from a fire. Even before she spoke her next words Red had no doubt in his mind as to who she was.
“I am Myri. I have watched you for a time, since you came here and were forced to kill when you were but a little one. You surprised everyone with your will to live, even that fat wretch Azal. I was curious to see how long you would survive, but not only did you do so; You flourished.” She was dangerously close now, so near that he but had to raise a hand to run his fingertips along her skin. Her dark eyes gazed down upon him and he could not resist the urge to stare back into those depthless inky pools, almost entranced by her intoxicating presence. “You have grown much in your time here, honing yourself to a fine edge against the dross they toss in here to die. You have reached your limit here but you have the potential to grow, to face foes more terrible than any you have seen, to tear victory from their throat and exult in all that is war. Tell me, my little sword without a name, what will you do now that you are free?”
Somehow Red managed to clear his thoughts enough to speak, and he did so in a manner that he had always done; With incredible honesty. “I’ll search for a true name for myself and a my purpose in this life, Goddess, and I will fight and kill anyone that gets in the way of those.” With a flash of white, Red bared his teeth in a bold grin. “Maybe someday I’ll impress you enough to become your Champion, or have a friendly spar to see who’s the better warrior.” A throaty, womanly laugh that was surprisingly pleasant on the ears met this daring proclamation. Her lips curved into a wry smile and she placed a hand upon Red’s chest, placing her Mark upon its very center where it would be framed by the intricate geometric patterns already dyed upon the warrior’s skin. “Perhaps, little sword with no name, but you are very far away from such a thing. My mark will help you along that path, should you truly choose to pursue it. Do not disappoint me.”
And like that, she was gone, the roar of the crowd flooding in to shatter the silence with such abruptness that it left Red faintly dazed, staring into midair for a few heartbeats before he shook his head to clear it. He wasn’t entirely sure if the apparition was reality or a hallucination brought on by the fatigue of the celebratory events compounded with the pain of his cracked rib, but Myri had felt so tangible and real that it could not have been a delusion. Breathing laboured and every intake of sweet air marred by the pain in his side, Red nonetheless raised his arms up in victory and grinned; He had survived another day. He had won his freedom and finally shattered the chains that bound him.
![[Verified by Sentinel]](./images/checkmark.png "[Verified by Sentinel]")
Red 
by Red on December 29th, 2012, 12:13 am 
