Standing over the dark elf’s corpse the ogre pulls the metal pole-arm affixed to his left arm from the poor creature’s chest with a sickening plop. The massive green skinned slave opens his mouth and a sound emerges that silences all noise from the celebrating crowd. Once a chieftain the sound is of deep rooted frustration.
The ogre has been a pit-fighter for decades. He lives in intense agonizing pain. Every fight he hopes to die. Every fight he takes wound after wound, but lives on.
With a shudder he stops his moaning and reaches up his lone hand and feels around on his scarred bald scalp. He touches gingerly at the arrow jutting from his skull. It has only several inches showing below the feathered fletching. He scrunches his blood glistening brow and pinches the thin shaft between two fingers and pulls. It comes, slick with gore and is eventually freed, the serrated tip holding tight to a section of grey brain.
He drops the ash blackened arrow onto the ground and stands unsteady on his metal constructed legs. A long stringy strand of red tinged saliva drips from his rotten tooth maw. The light of thought dims from his eyes, but only for a moment. Like a spark catching flammable liquid his rage returns and he fills the air with a war cry, ready again for battle.
The crowd cheers in response chanting for a new challenger to be thrown into the pit.
Stories 