Title says it all. Told in the form of a story, what was your gladiator's tavern contract like?

(The following is based off of a Tavern contract my War, Katran, pulled off.)

The gladiator, a towering brute of a Trug, looked around at his surroundings. Burned plants all around, the ground scorched black and the scent of ash all helped him confirm he was in the right place. The Burned Moor, where a rather nasty Spite had been attacking trading caravans. People had been relatively willing to leave the little beast alone, but then he'd made the mistake of killing the friend of someone influential as he travelled through the Burned Moor, or hit the wrong caravans belonging to the wrong person. Whatever the reason, he knew one thing- the Spite was going to die today, by his hands. A loud, furious cry, followed by the sound of running feet drew his attentions, and the gladiator wheeled around, just in time to catch the flash of a sword as it hurtled toward his Bloodsand splint mail chestplate. He'd found his quarry, now all that remained was to kill him.

The gladiator grinned as the Spite's blow impacted his armoured chest, deflecting the shoddy sword with a spray of sparks and a cry of anger from the Spite he was facing. His grin soon evaporated as a second blow managed to pierce the flesh of his right arm, the Trug grunting in annoyance before sending his wyrdsteel battle flail sweeping through the air toward the smaller, swifter Spite. The Spite leaped to the side, avoiding the weapon as it struck only the dirt beside him, sneering at his opponent as the War let out a growl of anger. The Spite rushed in, trying to deliver a swift strike from his off-handed blade, only to find the massive flail sweeping toward him again. This time, though, he couldn't dodge.

The Spite's scream of equal parts pain and anger rang out over the moorland they were fighting in as the ground raced up to meet him, the gladiator's blow having achieved the purpose of sending him to the ground, his weapon sent flying from his grasp. The Trug's flail came down again, this time impacting his chest. A series of sickening snaps rang out as the Spite's ribcage was annihilated by the blow, some ribs outright being driven into his lungs, others simply breaking like twigs under the sheer force of the blow. The weapon came down, one final time. This time, it was aimed at his head. Bone and brain painted the dirt of the Burned Moor as the Spite's broken carcass collapsed, twitched on the ground, then went still. The War kicked the body over, then leaned down, grabbed the head, and pulled. Hard. Flesh, weakened by his blows and by serious wounds gave way, and the Trug bared his teeth in a snarling grin, hidden by his helmet as he raised the Spite's head to the sky as an offering to the Blood Gods.

Katran turned, hurled the head toward the broken body of the butchered Spite, and stalked away, back toward the road he knew would lead him to the Tavern. Time to get his reward, and get back to the arena.