So my other writing thread kind of died due to the lack of of me writing things...I'd like to know if you guys would like me to continue posting things I write, if not, I'll just keep them to myself. Although their help was indirect, I'd like to thank Faliara and everyone else from GotE for rekindling my interest in fiction writing ;3
Two men faced each other in the arena. Not an uncommon event, fights like this were held every few days. Most, however, were not so controversial. Men volunteered to fight for all sorts of reasons. If they have nothing more to live for, they volunteer. If they've lost all of their money are are neck deep in debt, they volunteer. If they want to show their strength, they volunteer. And the list goes on. It was a way of life for the citizens of Glaend.
These two men were not normal citizens. They were arrested and found guilty of the assassination of King Turkin. The sentence: global exile. They two were never to enter a city again. Much to the public's chagrin, the to struck a deal with the late king's adviser. The two requested to fight each other in the arena. The king's adviser was not a lighthearted man; he was grave no matter the occasion, and not even he would deny them their request. Every man deserves one last fight. However, instead of the normal reward of material possessions, they requested that the winner be granted his freedom. The adviser scoffed at the request, and nearly sent them away on the spot. The men had killed the king, for pity's sake! But he knew that they'd have no use for money or goods in exile, and he knew he couldn't deny the winner his reward. Reluctantly, he agreed, and the fight was scheduled.
Despite the hatred the public had for the assassins, it didn't stop them from spectating the duel; they knew it'd be a good fight . They looked upon the duelists anxiously, waiting for the fight to start.
One man stood on the northern end of the arena. He was not a large man, but was obviously very fit. He had spent his entire fortune for his equipment. His armor was thick steel, the stark color a marked contrast to the lush grass. The individual pieces were trimmed a blood red, a color associated with retribution. The color came to be known as such when a petty thief stood before the king begging for mercy. King Turkin saw that the man was genuine, and so chose to console him. But the man had damaged himself severely. The man died slowly from his own wounds, and had bled profusely on the king. Now criminals wear the color to show that they regret what they did. Whether this assassin felt remorse was a mystery, but he was wearing the color.
Standing on the opposite side of the arena, the other man was much larger, and much stronger as well. His equipment was another marked contrast. It was entirely black, and it was impossible to tell when when piece of armor ended and another began. He was wearing the color of neutrality. This man knew what he had done, and known why. He did not regret it, and it was going to stay that way until he died.
Their weapons were also very different. The smaller clenched his left fist around a hammer. The hilt was covered by a criss-cross pattern of diagonal lines for grip, and from that extended nine inches of tempered steel topped with a heavy block of iron. In theme with his armor, the rod was embellished with crimson rings. On his back was a six foot spear with a razor tip, also themed with red rings at even intervals along the shaft. On his belt was his final armament: the kris he had used to stab the king in the back. It was exactly as it had been then, with the exception of King Turkin's blood.
The larger of the two men obviously had a more bloodthirsty approach to his gear. In his right hand he confidently held a large claymore. The hilt was brass, and had simple leather covers. The blade matched his armor and has jet black. He didn't plan to need it, but he had a scimitar sheathed at his belt. The blade was again black, and had to same utilitarian hilt as the claymore.
As the sun started to set, a horn blast rung out across the field and the battle began. The larger man closed the distance quickly and easily, brandishing his claymore over his left shoulder in a two handed stroke downward, hoping to end the battle quickly. The larger man may have been stronger, but he was clumsy. The smaller assassin ducked to the right, under his opponent's raised arm. When he got to the other side, he quickly spun clockwise around and slammed his hammer into charger's right side. He felt a satisfying thud and heard a crack. His armor may have looked intimidating, but it wasn't protecting him very well.
Enraged, he spun counterclockwise, his blade straight out in front of him, uninhibited by the pain. This time, the blow found it's mark. The target cringed as the claymore bit into his armor and cut through. He could feel hot blood escaping from his left shoulder inside his armor. He kicked the larger man away and dropped his hammer in favor of the spear at his back. As he predicted, fighting him up close was not going to work.
The larger man had to respect the slighter man's agility. That is, after all, the only reason he had manipulated him in the first place; he needed someone who could get in and out easily, but he still hated him for getting caught. He drove all of that hatred into his next charge. He barreled toward the pipsqueak and swatted the spear to the side, leaving a clear path for his claymore to follow.
The slight man saw the claymore about to bury itself in his neck and used the momentum of his swatted spear to jump to leave side and around, swinging the butt of the spear into the back of his aggressor's unarmored head, knocking him off balanced and leaving him dazed and surprised. He then took the opportunity to drive the spear forwards through the man's armor and into his back. The man fell forward with a thud, and the slight man yanked the spear back out, tearing a gaping hole in the poorly crafted armor. The man himself however, seemed unfazed, though was lying face down on the ground. Furthering his advantage, the assassin jumped onto his back, drew the kris from him belt and drove it into his former manipulator's back, just as he had the king's.
These two men were not normal citizens. They were arrested and found guilty of the assassination of King Turkin. The sentence: global exile. They two were never to enter a city again. Much to the public's chagrin, the to struck a deal with the late king's adviser. The two requested to fight each other in the arena. The king's adviser was not a lighthearted man; he was grave no matter the occasion, and not even he would deny them their request. Every man deserves one last fight. However, instead of the normal reward of material possessions, they requested that the winner be granted his freedom. The adviser scoffed at the request, and nearly sent them away on the spot. The men had killed the king, for pity's sake! But he knew that they'd have no use for money or goods in exile, and he knew he couldn't deny the winner his reward. Reluctantly, he agreed, and the fight was scheduled.
Despite the hatred the public had for the assassins, it didn't stop them from spectating the duel; they knew it'd be a good fight . They looked upon the duelists anxiously, waiting for the fight to start.
One man stood on the northern end of the arena. He was not a large man, but was obviously very fit. He had spent his entire fortune for his equipment. His armor was thick steel, the stark color a marked contrast to the lush grass. The individual pieces were trimmed a blood red, a color associated with retribution. The color came to be known as such when a petty thief stood before the king begging for mercy. King Turkin saw that the man was genuine, and so chose to console him. But the man had damaged himself severely. The man died slowly from his own wounds, and had bled profusely on the king. Now criminals wear the color to show that they regret what they did. Whether this assassin felt remorse was a mystery, but he was wearing the color.
Standing on the opposite side of the arena, the other man was much larger, and much stronger as well. His equipment was another marked contrast. It was entirely black, and it was impossible to tell when when piece of armor ended and another began. He was wearing the color of neutrality. This man knew what he had done, and known why. He did not regret it, and it was going to stay that way until he died.
Their weapons were also very different. The smaller clenched his left fist around a hammer. The hilt was covered by a criss-cross pattern of diagonal lines for grip, and from that extended nine inches of tempered steel topped with a heavy block of iron. In theme with his armor, the rod was embellished with crimson rings. On his back was a six foot spear with a razor tip, also themed with red rings at even intervals along the shaft. On his belt was his final armament: the kris he had used to stab the king in the back. It was exactly as it had been then, with the exception of King Turkin's blood.
The larger of the two men obviously had a more bloodthirsty approach to his gear. In his right hand he confidently held a large claymore. The hilt was brass, and had simple leather covers. The blade matched his armor and has jet black. He didn't plan to need it, but he had a scimitar sheathed at his belt. The blade was again black, and had to same utilitarian hilt as the claymore.
As the sun started to set, a horn blast rung out across the field and the battle began. The larger man closed the distance quickly and easily, brandishing his claymore over his left shoulder in a two handed stroke downward, hoping to end the battle quickly. The larger man may have been stronger, but he was clumsy. The smaller assassin ducked to the right, under his opponent's raised arm. When he got to the other side, he quickly spun clockwise around and slammed his hammer into charger's right side. He felt a satisfying thud and heard a crack. His armor may have looked intimidating, but it wasn't protecting him very well.
Enraged, he spun counterclockwise, his blade straight out in front of him, uninhibited by the pain. This time, the blow found it's mark. The target cringed as the claymore bit into his armor and cut through. He could feel hot blood escaping from his left shoulder inside his armor. He kicked the larger man away and dropped his hammer in favor of the spear at his back. As he predicted, fighting him up close was not going to work.
The larger man had to respect the slighter man's agility. That is, after all, the only reason he had manipulated him in the first place; he needed someone who could get in and out easily, but he still hated him for getting caught. He drove all of that hatred into his next charge. He barreled toward the pipsqueak and swatted the spear to the side, leaving a clear path for his claymore to follow.
The slight man saw the claymore about to bury itself in his neck and used the momentum of his swatted spear to jump to leave side and around, swinging the butt of the spear into the back of his aggressor's unarmored head, knocking him off balanced and leaving him dazed and surprised. He then took the opportunity to drive the spear forwards through the man's armor and into his back. The man fell forward with a thud, and the slight man yanked the spear back out, tearing a gaping hole in the poorly crafted armor. The man himself however, seemed unfazed, though was lying face down on the ground. Furthering his advantage, the assassin jumped onto his back, drew the kris from him belt and drove it into his former manipulator's back, just as he had the king's.
