Raucous cheers rose from the arena situated in the center of the city, the circular structure amplifying the roars of the ongoing spectacle. Hundreds of spectators, rich and poor alike yelled in unison, drunk on wine and blood.
Down below, the sand and dirt were painted crimson, a body lay there, broken and mangled beyond recognition. Standing above the shredded torso was a mountain of a man, layers of corded muscles over a large and imposing frame, his well-oiled chest glinting in the midday sun. The bloodied blade dripping with the lifeblood of his last foe, while a guttural savage roar echoed out from his throat.
This prime example of vicious savagery was exactly what the “civilized” peoples of Myrmien expected of the “barbarian” peoples of the north, Galians, raiders and hunters. Each specimen was a towering and imposing figure compared to the people of the continent, long hair and unkempt beards resembling the fur and coat of wild beasts. The comparison did not stop with looks, even in terms of individual strengths they could be compared to the wild creatures of the forest. Their warriors were said to dress themselves head to toe in furs, their skin painted in the blood of their victims.
This was in complete opposition to the disciplined formations, organized logistics and metal equipment of the established settled civilizations. It was true they were ferocious, savage, and exceptional fighters, but this was only true in single combat, as they lacked the staying power of organized, experienced hoplite formations in the field. However, this was neither the battlefield, nor was it a fight between formations of troops. This was an arena, a bloody show put on for the enjoyment of the men and women in the stands above, individuals fighting and dying for freedom, money, or family. Each reason was specific to the fighter, but today was a special treat, this monstrous Galian fighter had come to challenge the champion, he who stood at the pinnacle of the Myrmien fighting pits.
Gold, silver, and bronze flowed like water, the seats packed with rich and poor throwing their hard earned talens at the bookies, seeking their fortunes. The savage was a true competitor, for once a legitimate threat to the current champion, with the odds in favor of the champion this was the chance many had been hoping for. For the rich it was a way to pass the time, for the poor it was a lifeline, a means to make more money than they would make in a decade.
Myrmien was a city of pirates, thieves, and smugglers after all. Gambling, slavery, and murder were an everyday occurrence, yet where there was struggle and suffering there was also opportunity. It was this opportunity that attracted the destitute and desperate to its doors, many of whom would either live to regret it, or die searching for the gold within the mountain of filth.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“Now ladies and gentlemen, the main event! Will the raging beast be able to defeat our champion? What say you!” The announcer called out, with the crowd responding in kind. Yelling at the tops of their lungs. Their shouts reverberating through the entire city, their calls for blood and violence clear to anyone within the immediate vicinity of the arena.
“Excellent, glad to see that everyone here is just as excited as our challenger.” Releasing a savage roar, the Galian timed it perfectly, matching the speaker. Confident in his strength, and the conclusion of the coming fight. Adding to the macabre spectacle with a flair of bestial fervor, the challenger plunged his right hand into the corpse of the previous gladiator and used the blood to mark his face and body as if to play into the nightmares of the “wildmen” told to Lyrian children.
“It would appear that the beast is hungry, can pure animalistic bloodlust win over decades of combat experience? Well, we are about to find out!” With that the iron gate located in the southern section of the arena began to rise. The thick grates making way for the champion to make his entrance to the center of this vast stage.
For some, especially the wealthy who had seen many fights, the appearance of the champion was no surprise, the novelty having long since passed. Now it was simply a game to witness how far the challengers could rise, and whether the champion would finally be unseated from his throne. Those newly arrived attendees, or the less wealthy who might have saved the funds necessary to enter and bet on this single fight would be witnessing the champion for the first time.
Whereas the challenger was an imposing wall of muscle, fueled by pure unfiltered violence, the champion was the complete opposite. A diminutive man in comparison, resembling a southerner, either Hritian, Kurtian, or Medean, but neither light enough for the last two, or dark enough for the first. He was completely alien from the known civilized peoples, possessing none of the qualities of the uncivilized Galians or Demacians either.
He was slim with skin dark as the evening sky, but with a hint of the morning sun. His legs and arms were slightly elongated, and his earlobes enlarged where one might imagine some manner of accessory might have been. The sun glinting off his skull amplified the absence of any hair atop his head. All this in conjunction with his full body, flowing colorful garbs drew attention to the almost head and a half height difference between the two, and the fact the champion was unarmed, where the opponent was both armed and slightly armored.
If met on any old street, the champion may have resembled a normal elderly man, perhaps foreign in appearance but not that much different in size or stature. In the ring however, that kindly nature was nowhere to be found.
Almost a quarter of the arena released an audible groan, regretting their decision to bet on the champion, with others excited at the prospect of a big win today. Based on outer appearance it would be a reasonable assumption, but the quarter who have been present here before knew the truth and realized that looks were deceiving. Particularly when it came to the dark-skinned foreigner, each fight showcased why his moniker within the arena was the “venom fist” and it was earned.