"Chanting, hundreds, maybe thousands of voices. They shout out, screaming to be entertained; swarming the stands around this oh so hollow hole in the ground." The milky-eyed old man gave a rather high-pitched chuckle and nodded some. "They're all here for you, Krash."
Through the smoke stepped a small Qadir, gripping his spear so tightly and holding his shield close to his chest. His armour glistened in the sunlight and perhaps one could maybe make out the religious inscriptions across his wears if they tried hard enough. Most of the crowd begun booing, somehow upset at the sight of this so-called gladiator stepping into the fighting pits; it was easy enough to remember the great pitfighters in Amkhar and this measly Qadir was not one of them. Surely enough, from behind the Qadir came two others, a Songaskia, armed with two scimitars and lightly covered in leather wears. The third to come from behind him and stand in formation was an Ailor, covered in full plate and wielding a longsword; it was clear to most of the fighters that he'd been taken into slavery, due to the fact that he was clearly a Viridian Knight and that none with honour such as them would willfully fight in the pits.
There was a large hole in the center of the pit, people seemed to be watching it intently, waiting for some sort of signs of life. Slowly, a loud thrumming could be heard, the turning of gears and the chanting erupted from the crowds once more as the Orc arose from the underbelly of the pits. He let out an almighty roar from behind his half-helm that covered his lower face, obviously to stop him from tearing through his enemies with his tusks. His armour was a dyed red and gold, worn from the frequent sandstorms he had encountered. Leaning on his shoulder was his Greatsword, held by his right hand. The trio that had entered the pit before him seemed to back off some, readying their weapons before they started in a charge towards their foe. As they came within six feet of the Orc, the Greatsword was easily gripped with two hands, his grip changing in each inch of the swing as he horizontally tore through two of his opponents, both the Songaskia and the Qadir, watching as the Songaskia's upper half tore from the bottom and toppled to the ground in a pooling of blood whilst he lopped into the Qadir's armoured hip, leaving him to writhe in pain on the ground as he tore the Greatsword from his opponent and was made to take a multitude of strikes from the opposing Viridian Knight that was now slamming his longsword into the Orc's armoured shoulder and arm, tearing at the rusted old metal and leaving it to slowly fall apart. A foot shot out for the Viridian, in no time repelling him from his target. The Orc started straight again, Greatsword held high; he arched it straight down towards his opponent's helm with a frustrated roar that only drowned in with the crowd's chanting. The metal of the Viridian's helm made an unsettling noise as it was swiftly torn through by the Orc's blade and soon came the short-lived scream of the man as from the top of his head to the bridge of his nose was torn through by the tough blacksteel blade.
He rose his sword victorious, only for a moment before collapsing into the sand, face first. The Qadir stood over him with his spear lodged into the Orc's rear-knee joint that was left open due to the need for fluent movement in battle. He drew his weapon back, wobbling about the pit as he slammed the spear down again into the rusting armour, breaking through the Orc's backplate. A loud, sharp roar came from the big green creature as it started crawling away, towards the Viridian Knight's corpse in what seemed to be an attempt to escape the mauled Qadir's onslaught of attacks. Again and again, the spear crashed into the Orc's rusted armour and broke through without issue, tearing into his back and sides, arms and legs. From afar, growling could be heard as the Orc had reached the Viridian's corpse and took up the longsword, thrusting it out towards the Qadir and striking through what remained of his hip before letting the poor man fall into the sand and leaving him to die peacefully. He dragged himself to the hole in the middle of the pit, slowly descending on the raising platform that had brought him up. The milky-eyed old man who had spoken to him before approached the platform, kicking off the plate that protected the Orc's arm before rearing a whip and lashing him. "Is that what you call fighting, boy?" Again whistled the lash through the air, a sound that terrified the Orc somewhat as he rose up his arm to protect his head. "I' ain' my faul' t'e focken prick didn' die, be forgivin' me maste'!" The Orc let out loud cries as the whip struck him numerous times before crowd picked up again in their chanting, seems the hounds had been let out to finish off the bodies that remained in the pit. The old man shook his head and looked to the Orc. "I payed a fine price for you, I was told you were a winner. You almost lost to a fucking mudskin, I should have your testicles removed and paraded around the market square for all to see before feeding the hounds with them." At that, the Orc's foot shot up towards his owner's chest, throwing him back into the shelves of the small underbelly that he was hidden away in. Krash rose himself, gripping at his rusted old helmet and tearing the metal with his bare hands, ripping off the provisions that kept him from mauling his opponents.
The old man had curled into a ball by now, huddled against the shelves, his wide, milky eyes staring out at the Orc in terror. Krash gave off a loud snort of warm air, tearing off his gauntlets as he approached the man, lifting him from the ground and moving to tear through his flesh with tusks and untreated teeth; so came the screaming from the old man. His tusks tore into the man's throat, the Orc giving a groggy chuckle and spitting the flesh off to the side as he stared into those milky eyes for their last seconds of life before bringing his fist down unto the man's head and watching it splatter on the stone like a watermelon. His heavy breaths were calmed, the silence was perfect in his mind as he rushed to throw an old, red blanket over himself and wrap it around his face before moving towards the door and marching out into the sandstorm, marching to freedom; showing his spirit. "I-.. I call t'at, fightin'."
Through the smoke stepped a small Qadir, gripping his spear so tightly and holding his shield close to his chest. His armour glistened in the sunlight and perhaps one could maybe make out the religious inscriptions across his wears if they tried hard enough. Most of the crowd begun booing, somehow upset at the sight of this so-called gladiator stepping into the fighting pits; it was easy enough to remember the great pitfighters in Amkhar and this measly Qadir was not one of them. Surely enough, from behind the Qadir came two others, a Songaskia, armed with two scimitars and lightly covered in leather wears. The third to come from behind him and stand in formation was an Ailor, covered in full plate and wielding a longsword; it was clear to most of the fighters that he'd been taken into slavery, due to the fact that he was clearly a Viridian Knight and that none with honour such as them would willfully fight in the pits.
There was a large hole in the center of the pit, people seemed to be watching it intently, waiting for some sort of signs of life. Slowly, a loud thrumming could be heard, the turning of gears and the chanting erupted from the crowds once more as the Orc arose from the underbelly of the pits. He let out an almighty roar from behind his half-helm that covered his lower face, obviously to stop him from tearing through his enemies with his tusks. His armour was a dyed red and gold, worn from the frequent sandstorms he had encountered. Leaning on his shoulder was his Greatsword, held by his right hand. The trio that had entered the pit before him seemed to back off some, readying their weapons before they started in a charge towards their foe. As they came within six feet of the Orc, the Greatsword was easily gripped with two hands, his grip changing in each inch of the swing as he horizontally tore through two of his opponents, both the Songaskia and the Qadir, watching as the Songaskia's upper half tore from the bottom and toppled to the ground in a pooling of blood whilst he lopped into the Qadir's armoured hip, leaving him to writhe in pain on the ground as he tore the Greatsword from his opponent and was made to take a multitude of strikes from the opposing Viridian Knight that was now slamming his longsword into the Orc's armoured shoulder and arm, tearing at the rusted old metal and leaving it to slowly fall apart. A foot shot out for the Viridian, in no time repelling him from his target. The Orc started straight again, Greatsword held high; he arched it straight down towards his opponent's helm with a frustrated roar that only drowned in with the crowd's chanting. The metal of the Viridian's helm made an unsettling noise as it was swiftly torn through by the Orc's blade and soon came the short-lived scream of the man as from the top of his head to the bridge of his nose was torn through by the tough blacksteel blade.
He rose his sword victorious, only for a moment before collapsing into the sand, face first. The Qadir stood over him with his spear lodged into the Orc's rear-knee joint that was left open due to the need for fluent movement in battle. He drew his weapon back, wobbling about the pit as he slammed the spear down again into the rusting armour, breaking through the Orc's backplate. A loud, sharp roar came from the big green creature as it started crawling away, towards the Viridian Knight's corpse in what seemed to be an attempt to escape the mauled Qadir's onslaught of attacks. Again and again, the spear crashed into the Orc's rusted armour and broke through without issue, tearing into his back and sides, arms and legs. From afar, growling could be heard as the Orc had reached the Viridian's corpse and took up the longsword, thrusting it out towards the Qadir and striking through what remained of his hip before letting the poor man fall into the sand and leaving him to die peacefully. He dragged himself to the hole in the middle of the pit, slowly descending on the raising platform that had brought him up. The milky-eyed old man who had spoken to him before approached the platform, kicking off the plate that protected the Orc's arm before rearing a whip and lashing him. "Is that what you call fighting, boy?" Again whistled the lash through the air, a sound that terrified the Orc somewhat as he rose up his arm to protect his head. "I' ain' my faul' t'e focken prick didn' die, be forgivin' me maste'!" The Orc let out loud cries as the whip struck him numerous times before crowd picked up again in their chanting, seems the hounds had been let out to finish off the bodies that remained in the pit. The old man shook his head and looked to the Orc. "I payed a fine price for you, I was told you were a winner. You almost lost to a fucking mudskin, I should have your testicles removed and paraded around the market square for all to see before feeding the hounds with them." At that, the Orc's foot shot up towards his owner's chest, throwing him back into the shelves of the small underbelly that he was hidden away in. Krash rose himself, gripping at his rusted old helmet and tearing the metal with his bare hands, ripping off the provisions that kept him from mauling his opponents.
The old man had curled into a ball by now, huddled against the shelves, his wide, milky eyes staring out at the Orc in terror. Krash gave off a loud snort of warm air, tearing off his gauntlets as he approached the man, lifting him from the ground and moving to tear through his flesh with tusks and untreated teeth; so came the screaming from the old man. His tusks tore into the man's throat, the Orc giving a groggy chuckle and spitting the flesh off to the side as he stared into those milky eyes for their last seconds of life before bringing his fist down unto the man's head and watching it splatter on the stone like a watermelon. His heavy breaths were calmed, the silence was perfect in his mind as he rushed to throw an old, red blanket over himself and wrap it around his face before moving towards the door and marching out into the sandstorm, marching to freedom; showing his spirit. "I-.. I call t'at, fightin'."
