Flashback The Ring of Fate! [Thohorn]

[Red]

50th Winter, 510 It was dim in the cramped quarters, the spartan dwelling devoid of even the most basic of luxuries; Here there was no running water, no soft bed of down or even a pillow for his head. Yet as the tall young man stood framed in the doorway he realised This was home.. For as long as he could cast back his memory, almost as long as he had been alive, he had lived here, sleeping and waiting for the next, inevitable fight. His bare, muddied feet made little noise as he padded into the room, the dirt of the floor cool and soothing as it had always been. In his right hand he grasped an unremarkable canvas sack, but it was this particular container that was to be the receptacle for all the worldly possessions he owned. His lips curved as the corner of his mouth quirked up in a wry, lopsided smile; The sad thing was he thought Hector had been too generous with the bag, for even with every single thing he owned placed into it there would still be room for a small child to curl up inside it. He made his way to the straw pallet that served as his bed, his mind looking back to his earlier days here as a young child, thrust into the brutal world of gladiatorial combat when most other children were still being coddled by their mothers. He brushed the tips of his fingers against some of the errant sprigs of dried hay, deep blue eyes unfocused as he remembered. Torn from the relative warmth of his home, cast out from the comforting embrace of his family so long ago he couldn’t even recall his own name. He did remember that his mother did not call it out in grief as he was lead away in chains, his young mind wracked with confusion as his chest was wracked with sobs. He remembered little of his time before the arena, the majority of his memories being foggy recollections of sensation; Warmth, the smell of his mother’s hair, the pitiful cries of his brothers and sisters as their empty stomachs pained them. Hunger was a constant and food was a scarce thing, the fire in his stomach assuaged only for what seemed a moment before it sparked back to life. He’d been told by Hector that he had been sold off along with most of his other siblings, because his daddy hadn’t been able to keep his hands of his momma and didn’t think ahead when it came to feeding all those hungry little mouths that came about afterwards. He turned to the small table that held a bowl of water for washing, a luxury he had earned later on in his career, and the small rusted knife that had served him as well as any shining blade of legend. He reached out and took it in his free hand, the rusted edge of the dark blade just as pitted and ragged as it had always been. As he ran the calloused edge of his thumb over the dirty fabric wrapping of its handle, he had to wonder at how small it now appeared in his hand, like a child’s toy in the hands of an adult. He could still remember the first time he had curled his fingers tight about the grip, moments before he had been forced to take his first life in defense of his own. It seemed so far away now and the tears he had wept had long since dried and turned to dust. It had taken him a while to grow to accept the fact that killing would become a staple facet of his life, and a major one at that. He had resisted in the first few bouts, only fighting back when he absolutely had to, lashing out more out of reflex than any true murderous intent. Still, even that hesitation had faded as he had grown older, his denial of his role as child executioner eventually turning to grim acceptance. His habit of acting only in defense likewise gave way to a more proactive approach; Launching himself at the opponent with all the fury of a starved animal. For that was what he was, given only enough scraps to keep him alive to fight another day. If he killed well, and well enough to please the crowd and thus please the ringmaster, then he would be rewarded with food and sometimes actual meat. So he fought for his survival not just in the immediate sense, but as a prolonged campaign to stave off the hunger that was so painfully familiar to him. In time, however, even this changed. The cheers of the crowd began to seep through his hunger-filled daze, the roars of approval igniting something primal in his young soul; The thirst for glory. It began slowly at first, with a flourishing finish here, some fancy footwork there until his showmanship progressed to the point he actually went out of his way occasionally to entertain the crowd in order to provoke the thunderous approval he so loved. This development did not go unnoticed by the management and the decided to use his newfound flair for showmanship to use, staging fights against unusual opponents, multiple foes versus just Red, and so on and so on. In time he became the main attraction, his success in the ring earning him favour with his handlers and the owner of the operation. With a quick glance at the straw pallet, his lip twitched upwards at the memory of one of his more favourite rewards. If he closed his eyes, he could still smell the perfume, feel the soft flesh beneath his hands...Clearing his throat, he shook himself from his reverie and resumed his packing, if you could call it that. When what paltry belongings he had were stuffed into the woefully unfilled sack, he turned at the doorway to give his quarters one last look. His mind turned back to the night when he had decided to change his life and win his freedom, the flash of a dagger in the darkness and the cries of a grief stricken woman... “Red!” He blinked, startled out of that particular dark lane of thought and turned at the familiar voice, a warm smile lighting up his face. The small man before him was getting on in years, wrinkles growing ever more prominent as more and more grey sapped the colour from his thinning hair. Even the limp that had been growing more pronounced as the years wore by, but Red had no doubt Hector would live for quite a while yet. He imagined it would be hard to kill something as grizzled and tough as his old handler down, after all. With a broad grin, they clasped wrists in a firm warrior’s greeting, no hint of animosity between the two. “What’s up, old man? Came to sob as your favourite fighter flies the nest?” Red’s grin turned mischievous as he poked fun gently at the elder male, who returned the gesture with a wry twist of the lips. “No, you young cur. There’s somethin’ I need t’talk to you about, and I think it’s somethin’ you’ll like. No, don’t give me that look, ya lecherous petcher, it’s nothing like that. It’s a fight.” At Red’s frown Hector raised a placating, gnarled hand. “Now, now, hear me out. I know you’re already a free man an’all, and you earned it, believe me I know that more than most. But this last fight is promisin’ to be spectacular. The boss said a big ol’ warrior from Riverfall came into town and is askin’ ‘specially to fight you. You, Red! Imagine it! Your last fight in the ring against one of those blue skinned petchers! It’ll go down in story for years! The boss said he’d consider it a personal favour if you obliged’im. Whaddya say?” Red turned his dubious gaze from Hector to the doorway of his old quarters, then around to the exitway out of the arena and the entrance to his new life as a free man. On the one hand, he’d just earned his freedom and could just walk away from this right here and right now without a backward glance, but on the other hand..Akalak. He’d always dreamed of facing one of the famous warriors of Riverfall, even here in the arena he’d heard of them. And the chance of going out with a proper show was very tempting... The canvas sack sailed through the air to land unceremoniously atop the straw pallet of Red’s former quarters. “Alright old man. Fetch my gear and let the boss know. This is happening.” With a hoot and a leap into the air, Hector let out a loud cackle, “This is gonna be great, Red! Mah boy’s gonna kill himself an Akalak!” Shaking his head slowly from side to side, a wry smile on his lips, Red watched Hector hobble down the hallway to the armoury, his fingers itching to grip his swords once again. This would turn out to be one interesting fight. If only he knew just how interesting... ~ Some time later, Red sat on the wooden bench in the preparation room, his armour laid out beside him. This room, with its stench of blood and sweat, the weapons hung up on the walls and the mismatched pieces of shoddy armour scattered about, was more familiar to him than most people’s bedrooms. He could not count how many times he had sat here in this same position, forearms resting upon his knees and head bowed, waiting in anticipation of the brutality to come. No longer did he feel the knots of dread and doubt in his stomach that often came before a fight. Such sensations had ceased to bother him some years ago, instead replaced with a muted sense of excitement. He looked forward to the possibility of a proper challenge with an eagerness some would find unusual, but to him fighting was everything he had ever known and the only thing in life he excelled at. He turned his head to take in the sight of his armour, the studded leather enhanced with the back and breast plating to keep him both mobile and relatively protected. Reaching out he ran the pads of his fingers over the various pieces of the armour he knew so well, each dent and scar a mark of pride for another fight he had emerged victorious from. There, the gouge in the edge of his breastplate from the huge warrior that wielded the even bigger battleaxe that had almost killed him. Lower, the indent on the abdomen of the mute Benshira that had fought with twin maces. He’d been bruised and aching for weeks after that one. He straightened as Hector poked his head in the door and informed him that the match was about to start, nodding at the older man as he rose and began donning his armour for the last bout he would ever have in this arena. A small jump in time ahead and Red stood waiting in the shadowed ramp that lead up onto the sand-floored arena above him. The crowd was easily heard even from where he stood, the chant they had made up for him being repeated again and again with a fervor that pleased him. “Red, Red, Red! The Red Death will take from you your final breath! Red, Red..” Not exactly the cleverest of chants out there, but it brought a smile to his lips without fail every time he heard it. Inhaling deeply, he tapped the curved tips of his swords together and set off up the ramp, booted feet rising and falling at an easy pace until he lifted his right foot and thrust it forward to kick the double doors open into the arena, the light spilling in warm upon his skin as he stepped into the ring. He raised his swords up above his head and did a slow turn, clapping his swords together in a steady rhythm that the crowd picked up almost immediately; They were used to this. Red strode back and forth before the crowd for a few moments, twirling his swords idly back and forth and favouring some of the prettier women with particularly dazzling smiles, even bowing to one and allowing her to kiss the tip of his sword for luck. With a departing, roguish smile he turned to face his foe, the large figure silhouetted in the darkness of the opposite entryway. Red took the time to study the other man; the other’s form taller even than Red himself which was no mean feat at all. Other than his larger size, Red could make little else out about the Akalak, and so he wasted no further time by striding to the center of the arena and beckoning him forward. “Come, storied warrior of Riverfall! Come and see how if your blood is as blue as your skin!”