Post by mordecai on Feb 24, 2008 17:28:21 GMT -5
The sun rises.
The chains of the others clink in the darkness, some of the others that still remember the glorious lives they once led moan in despair. I long to remember what my life was like, but battle and the whip have driven it away. The guards walk in, making sure none of us harass the caretakers, as they are called. The Caretakers are hired on by the Slave Master to make sure his investments do not die before he has been compensated. They bathe our wounds, promise that it will be over soon, anything to keep us going that little extra step. Lying is just another tool for them.
The Pits below the Arena are cool, moist, dank and stink with the decaying stench of the dying men that fight for their lives on a daily basis. I am sadly numbered among them, but I'm a long way from the death I so long for. The sun begins it's usual task of cooking the hot metal and sand on the Arena floor as usual, making it unbearable to even stand still for a moment's rest. By the end of the day the Pits will be a repulsive den of death and stench. Many men cannot bear it, and simply pass out on returning.
A Caretaker approaches me, smiling. He knows that I don't need his false words. He can see that I'm a long way off from needing it, yet. The Caretakers begin filing out as the gongs ring, announcing the beginning of another day. The guards walk among us, unshackling us. They have no need to fear us. Almost all of us are broken souls in empty shells. The few of us that retain our sanity know that we wouldn't be gifted with death for attacking them. They would make sure to cause us great suffering for months on end before letting us die.
The clanking of heavy metal begins as we file outwards to the Armory. Here we are placed in armor as we are permitted. Some of us are considered "worth more" than others, thus they are given the better equipment. The worst of us are given little more than rusty blades and rotting wooden shields. We begin the slow dance of the day again, putting on our armor, shining our blades, all the tasks we know from experience must be done, or else we will be beaten. No one wants to watch a battle between two men in old, rusted armor.
The final gong sounds, announcing it is time for the battles to begin. The harsh sun bleeds it's scorching light on the sands, bringing promises of more burnt feet. We file up into the Arena, preparing for the battle to come. The crowd cheers. A single man sheds a tear, knowing what is to come.
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The day is over. The wounded are dragged from the Arena, the Wolves are released to clean up the dead. The Wolves were not used to clean up until a month ago, when the Owner of the Arena discovered that children had been dropping into the Arena and stealing what few valuable pieces of armor or weapons remained to feed their families. Such is his greed that he refuses to let even this small token pass unmarked.
We file down into the Pits, the stench almost unbearable. Several men pass out, only to be woken again by the lash of the whip. They cry out in agony, one of the few things they still remember is pain. The luckiest of us, or the unluckiest, are bought off by nobles and the like after having seen them fight in battle. Some are bought as bodyguards, other as slaves to be used in private fights more bloodthirsty than the Arena.
We are shackled back to our walls, the stone still cold as ice. It soothes for a while, then freezes your marrow. A mixed blessing, perhaps. We all stare aimlessly, none of us talking. There is nothing to talk about. None of us are glad for what we do on a daily basis. The few that do are either taken to the higher areas as Champions, or killed in the night after having mocked one too many men that fell in battle.
The sun sets, and save all but the clinking of metal and the shuffling of a restless man, silence falls. I think to myself, I survived another day in this place, if only by luck, or grace of the gods if they exist. Then I can only ask the question, what kind of god would allow you to live through a day like this, only to make you carry it out again and again?
The sun sets, and darkness falls. With it comes sleep, or death for the lucky ones that cannot continue.
((Felt bored, decided to post what I call a short story. It describes Mordecai's life before he was bought from the Arenas. Mordecai has no idea where the Arenas were, and has thankfully forgotten most of his experiences there. Will update it as time permits.))
The chains of the others clink in the darkness, some of the others that still remember the glorious lives they once led moan in despair. I long to remember what my life was like, but battle and the whip have driven it away. The guards walk in, making sure none of us harass the caretakers, as they are called. The Caretakers are hired on by the Slave Master to make sure his investments do not die before he has been compensated. They bathe our wounds, promise that it will be over soon, anything to keep us going that little extra step. Lying is just another tool for them.
The Pits below the Arena are cool, moist, dank and stink with the decaying stench of the dying men that fight for their lives on a daily basis. I am sadly numbered among them, but I'm a long way from the death I so long for. The sun begins it's usual task of cooking the hot metal and sand on the Arena floor as usual, making it unbearable to even stand still for a moment's rest. By the end of the day the Pits will be a repulsive den of death and stench. Many men cannot bear it, and simply pass out on returning.
A Caretaker approaches me, smiling. He knows that I don't need his false words. He can see that I'm a long way off from needing it, yet. The Caretakers begin filing out as the gongs ring, announcing the beginning of another day. The guards walk among us, unshackling us. They have no need to fear us. Almost all of us are broken souls in empty shells. The few of us that retain our sanity know that we wouldn't be gifted with death for attacking them. They would make sure to cause us great suffering for months on end before letting us die.
The clanking of heavy metal begins as we file outwards to the Armory. Here we are placed in armor as we are permitted. Some of us are considered "worth more" than others, thus they are given the better equipment. The worst of us are given little more than rusty blades and rotting wooden shields. We begin the slow dance of the day again, putting on our armor, shining our blades, all the tasks we know from experience must be done, or else we will be beaten. No one wants to watch a battle between two men in old, rusted armor.
The final gong sounds, announcing it is time for the battles to begin. The harsh sun bleeds it's scorching light on the sands, bringing promises of more burnt feet. We file up into the Arena, preparing for the battle to come. The crowd cheers. A single man sheds a tear, knowing what is to come.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The day is over. The wounded are dragged from the Arena, the Wolves are released to clean up the dead. The Wolves were not used to clean up until a month ago, when the Owner of the Arena discovered that children had been dropping into the Arena and stealing what few valuable pieces of armor or weapons remained to feed their families. Such is his greed that he refuses to let even this small token pass unmarked.
We file down into the Pits, the stench almost unbearable. Several men pass out, only to be woken again by the lash of the whip. They cry out in agony, one of the few things they still remember is pain. The luckiest of us, or the unluckiest, are bought off by nobles and the like after having seen them fight in battle. Some are bought as bodyguards, other as slaves to be used in private fights more bloodthirsty than the Arena.
We are shackled back to our walls, the stone still cold as ice. It soothes for a while, then freezes your marrow. A mixed blessing, perhaps. We all stare aimlessly, none of us talking. There is nothing to talk about. None of us are glad for what we do on a daily basis. The few that do are either taken to the higher areas as Champions, or killed in the night after having mocked one too many men that fell in battle.
The sun sets, and save all but the clinking of metal and the shuffling of a restless man, silence falls. I think to myself, I survived another day in this place, if only by luck, or grace of the gods if they exist. Then I can only ask the question, what kind of god would allow you to live through a day like this, only to make you carry it out again and again?
The sun sets, and darkness falls. With it comes sleep, or death for the lucky ones that cannot continue.
((Felt bored, decided to post what I call a short story. It describes Mordecai's life before he was bought from the Arenas. Mordecai has no idea where the Arenas were, and has thankfully forgotten most of his experiences there. Will update it as time permits.))