The Axe

The small man stepped in from the cold night air and looked for a stool near the roaring fire, by which to warm himself. As he stood in the entryway shivering, he knew he had to get out from under that heavy byrnie that only added to his cold. Before he could tug the forty pounds of chain over his shoulders, he stopped by a big hand on his shoulder.He turned to see who might be accosting him. It was a big man, at least one foot taller, and more massive. The giant was wearing a grin, but his eyes spit venom. 'Who invited you into The Empty Flagon?" he asked the little man.

The innkeeper tried to intercede. "See here, Chaos." he said. "Everyone is welcome at my place. Why there's plenty of room and..."

"Shut yer gob, Wily." the big man ordered him. "This is between the two of us."

The smaller man shrugged his shoulders. "Well, we can just enjoy the comfort of this place without having any problems, or we can do it your way, I suppose. It makes no difference to me." The man explained.

"My way?" laughed the towering presense. "Boy, I have fought and killed so many in the pit lately, that your death wouldn't amount to much more than another worthless soul for Satan to sort out."

The small man nodded. "Maybe you're right, but I can't go fighting an unarmored man who is carrying nothing but a knife. It wouldn't be fair."

"Mister," began the innkeeper. "Be careful with ol' Chaos there. He can take a lot of damage without feeling it and he can just block anything you send at him, and when you're plumb worn out, he'll gut you like a fresh mullet. He does this in the Pit twice a day."

"The Pit? What is the Pit?" the small man asked curiously.

The giant laughed. "The Pit is my home. It is where I take lives and send souls to whatever hell spawned them, and where the crowds shout my name. In the Pit, I am legend. Now, shall we dance?"

The snall man backed up and put his helmet atop his head. He picked up his great axe and nodded at the big man. The pit fighter howled and went into defensive posture, constantly shifting his weight from foot to foot while waiting for the axeman to come forward.

The armored warrior took a step to the right, feinted toward the head of the big man, and then swung his axe quickly towards the knee of the fighter. The knife came down to parry the axe, but the weight and momentum of the big weapon knocked the useless dagger aside and continued along it's arc, cleaving through the unarmored man's leg which separated from the rest of his body, causing the giant to topple over.

From his resting place on the ground, the big man seemed amused by the great gout of fountaining blood coming from the place where his leg had been severed. As he began to pass out, he uttered, in a low and shallow voice, a simple question: "Wearing no armor, parrying, and waiting for the smaller man to tire out always works in the pit. What happened?"

The little man spit on his fallen foe. "This ain't the pit, pal. This is reality." He stepped over the dead man and found a nice spot near the fire, glad of a little peace and quiet.

"But in the pit," Said a dark clad figure in the corner of the bar, "REAL men are made. In the pit slave are turned into gladiators. In the pit gladiators are turned into gods. In the pit... these gods call us master." this said whilst motioning to the other stable masters around him. Among which included his colleagues Karius and Phalius, his subordinate stable masters.

The smallish man finished his beer, savoring it's coolness which stood in stark contrast to the heat of the fire. He spoke to the man behind him without turning his head. "The pit, you say, is all these things? Go back there then and leave me in peace. I'm sure you and your entourage have many more boys and toys to play with there." He stood up and undid his trews, letting loose a long stream of piss onto the fire. It sizzled as it struck the logs, leaving a cloying ammonia odor in the air which several customers seemed uncomfortable with. He pulled his pants back up and went about the task of hailing the innkeeper for another pint. "Smell that?" he asked no one in particular. "That smell in the air is reality. No dream world here with phony gods and effeminate men who want to be worshipped. Now, would someone drag that dead "champion" out of here? He's starting to stink."

"You speak as though you hate the pit. Why do you speak so?"

"The Pit is a place where people rejoice in the loss of life and where the victorious are only heroes until a new favorite comes along. It is a place where luck of the draw and the whimsy of the Gods are more important than skill with a blade. The fighters themselves are caught up in the bloodlust and are brought lower than animals. Intelligence, compassion, love, and loyalty; the things which make us men, have no purpose in the Pit, and so you and yours become chimpanzees performing for apes of an even lower order. And you have the temerity to ask me why I hate the pit? You are a fool. Now, leave me in peace. I have taken a soul tonight and need no more on my conscience."

"You believe there to be no love and compassion in the pits? To have love and compassion in the pits you must earn it. My Elite Gladiators Arnorath and Dakota have earned my love and respect. i would never sell them like property. They are worth the world to me. I have trained them from nothing to become great and legendary. They are my brothers. I would die for them just they would die for me."

Quietly watching the events unfold before her, Selene sat. The shadow like a black fog around her, she patiently drank her ale before returning to polishing the great sword on her lap. Chuckling mischieviously, Selene lay back in her oak chair. As the darkness consumed her like a hungry beast, laughter could be heard from a now nearly invisable killer

Another patron walks in, a rather tall, lanky fellow with twin blades on his back and leather armor on his body. He looks around and walks towards the bar.

While the warriors jostled with words, a plump man of middle stature sat drinking at a table he shared with a stranger. His robes were not ill made but they had clearly seen better days. The ale he sipped was slightly better than the worst the tavern had to offer and the silver he paid the barmaid with seemed to have been scavenged from dead bodies or looted from graves. If there was a picture of a lord fallen from grace. A man who had enjoyed his high without knowing what it was and stretched far beyond his means only to be pulled back to earth by the gravity that exerts its force beyond mortal boundaries. One who had chased his dreams and seen them murdered one after another in front of his eyes. This man was as close to that picture as his mortal flesh and broken pride allowed him.

The only respite in the picture of ruin was the gold ring in his index finger. A skull adorned it with rubies for eyes and platinum mesh for teeth. The occasional flicker of the torches would light the rubies aflame as if they were seas of blood; their craving insatiable. The mesh of platinum shivered from pale yellow to bright silver as if claiming to devour the entire world alongwith its soul. The ring would have been a symbol of total evil if not for its golden band. The gold which shone brightly and heroically against all odds free from corruption and tarnish. The sole torchbearer in an era filled with darkness.

And the shine was not alone.

For the man's eyes reflected the shine of the ring almost perfectly. It was as if it was the eyes that made the ring shine and held the darkness of defeat away by pure willpower. The setting of his face and the cut of his jaw showcased a determination to overcome all odds or die fighting. To the careful observer, here was a man who had been beaten and rubbed into the dirt but far from defeated.

As he slowly emptied the contents of his glass and signalled for another, he seemed to chew on the conversation going on in the tavern. The pit a place for bloodlust and despair. The thoughts seemed to bring back memories of a different life. Taking a sip from the new glass of ale that the barmaid brought him with a sway of hips (that went largely unnoticed by her broken patron and a dirty silver that brought a scowl to her handsome face), the rugged man spoke up in a calm tone that still reached all ears with the solemnity of wisdom; or the pretense of one.

"Your axe handle, its ironwood I assume. Would you use it as firewood?" He let the question hang in the air before resuming his speech,

"You see the gladiators are slaves. Sons anf daughters of conquered nations who could not stand up to the greatness of our Great Realm. Our nobles call them savages and barbarians but it takes someone who has faced them in battle to know their true worth. When you see a company of Almaristan's swords men charge an infantry column while outnumbered five to one or see the a Nogarian Dunder bleeding from head to toe and still holding his own against ten of the realm's halberds, you start to doubt if these men and women are really inferior to you."

He paused to take a hearty sip from his glass before turning to face the axe wielder staring at him with the burning embers he had in his eyes, not with defiance but with the blaze of memories that would not let go.

"These are the slaves that are brought to our land: to push wagons and entertain lords, chop vegetables and lay pavestones till they forget their past, their glory and their honor and live only by the whip of their drivers. If we have chosen to raise some of them from their back breaking work and put them in the armor that is their second skin are we wrong? When a Dunder fells a Turg twice his size with the skill of his blows; Then maybe somewhere! Somewhere amongst their bloodied eyes, the crowd recognises a true warrior. You must remember that winning gladiators earn their freedom through their battle prowress. They are warriors! And sons and daughters of warriors, who would rather have their bodies broken than their spirits crushed under the yoke of slavery. When I take them into the pit to fight for what glory and honor they lost, what wrong do I do?"

Without noticing, the man had raised his voice till he was almost shouting out the last line. Composing himself with a large gulp that emptied his glass he said in a soft voice,

"If you are a free man and have skill with that weapon, I would suggest that you take a few of these slaves under your wing. Train them as gladiators and believe my words they will praise you even with their dying breath. By the way, I believe that Chaos was more of a road side bully and highwayman than a ture gladiator. A true gladiator never fights unless ordered by his master."

Saying this he returned his gaze to his glass and signalled for another drink.

Interesting. Is this an ad lib story thread?

The room was filled with an eerie silence as the mans words hung in the air and sat , the men and women around the tavern digesting his words...Katya sat in the doorway watching the other stable masters and glads nod in agreement and she giggled fiendishly, twirling her Rune-pounded Cutter