The fight in the dog.

The fight in the dog.

Postby Giarc Conry » Wed Feb 26, 2003 4:27 pm

Giarc paced in his cell like a tiger in a cage. He didn’t like the bars. He’d grown used to their being there, but he still didn’t like them. He’d only been in this place for three weeks since his transfer, but he was already itching to crack a skull. His shoulders ached from the tension he was carrying; the desire to hit someone.

He didn’t care about the political moves of the rich...or the underhanded, back-alley dealing of the Bosses who ran the underworld. He was transferred to Myrken Gaol to train...to grow stronger, faster...to prove himself as a fighter. Apparently Rufus Mulchurius made some sort of deals to get some of the fighters he saw potential in out of the Amasynian prisons and into the smaller, regional constabularies so that they could cut their knuckles on lesser caliber fighters and not have to be worry about the up-and-comers being crippled by the veterans. The outlaying gaols were training camps...breeding grounds for the convicted men who could one day be something in the underground, bare-knuckle boxing world.

Giarc fit right in.

He stopped pacing and wrapped his hands around the cold bars that housed him. He couldn’t wait to get back out on the yard. He wanted to see this Thorshu Vengaard and size him up before the fight. He couldn’t wait to rip into him. Giarc would show Thorshu what it is to be a Grinsman. Giarc earned his scars and he would show them all why his brothers cut him. He would do the Grinsmen proud and would one day be a Heavy Gerulean Prison Brawler. One day.

First...he had to go through this fighter. He released a quick "psht" and backed away from the bars. It wouldn’t be too tough.
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Vengaard's Vow.

Postby Kobra » Mon Mar 03, 2003 3:29 am

Keys clanked; their long rusted bodies striking against each other like morbid bells.

Markin was sweating. Feed Vengaard, they said. The half-orc, the pit fighter. Take him his gruel, but don't look him in the eye. Which eye? Don't be funny, Markin, he's only got one left. Don't look him in the eye - because if you do, he might remember who gave him that beating the day he came in, pulled in wretched and half-starved from the wilds.

Feed Vengaard, he thought, as he stepped over the threshold into the gaolhouse, closer by the moment to the cell -

No, not a cell. A cage, for a mad dog. One who'd just love to sink his teeth into you.

Markin hadn't known. It was only a week since he was transferred here; he hated the scum in these places so much that the opportunity to take out some aggression on the ugly one, the brute they pulled in out of the forest....

How was he to know, that Thorshu'd killed two guards before he was recaptured? How'd he know that the skinny ugly brute was a fighter? A half-orc?

Markin couldn't hide his growing dread as he approached Thorshu's cell. He could see the man inside, of course; nowhere to hide in the tiny cell-space. He was crouched like a black spider on the edge of the straw mattress; the details were drowned in shadow, but Markin thought he could see the half-orc's long, hairy arms, lean and wiry, his scarred bare chest gleaming in the half-light - and a sneer etched on the wide, coarse-featured face.

Watching.

"Here's your food, Vengaard." Markin muttered as harshly as he could muster. "Eat up. Training tomorrow's pre-dawn."

The plate slid cold on the floor. Outside the cell. Markin wasn't about to open that door.

He'd started to turn when the voice grated from within.

"Closer."

He thought he could see Vengaard's one eye glittering. The half-orc moved, suddenly, lifting his foot into the light; the clank of chain sounded as he displayed the shackles that bound his ankle.

"I can't reach." Vengaard hissed, his breath flaring like a serpent. "Bring it closer."

Markin bent down, pushed the bowl of muddy slop till it met the edge of the bars. He started to rise, when Vengaard growled.

"Closer!"

Markin sighed, bent down, pushed the bowl under the gap between bars and floor -

Chain uncoiled like a whip as Vengaard leapt, and Markin saw out of the corner of his eye that the wall-brace was swinging about freely on the end of it - but he didn't have time to wonder how long Thorshu had sat in the dark picking at the stone until it gave. The half-orc looped the chain around the guardsman's neck and pulled him up and forward, slamming his face into the bars.

"Help!" Markin screamed, coughing, into the half-orc's bestial leer. Thorshu was a real monster - he lacked the brawny build of most of his kind, but he was quick, hard-bodied, and cruel.

"Like this?" Vengaard slackened the chain; Markin instinctively pulled away, but it only gave the half-orc enough room to yank his face back into the bars forcefully. Markin's vision blurred, blotted the twisted face blissfully out.

"S-stop..they'll kill you..."

"They?" A harsh laugh bit into the haze. "Kill me? No, they'll leave that for the pit, tomorrow, or the day after." He could smell the half-orc's foul breath; Vengaard pressed his face tauntingly close. "I might be a swine, but while I can fight, and kill, and raise a cheer from the crowd...I'm worth more to them alive than you are."

Markin thought - hoped - he could hear the other guards' raised voices mumbling in the back of his mind - but the final thing he could see as his vision became starbursts and darkness, was the expression of malicious enjoyment on the face of Thorshu Vengaard...
"Life is but a moment - Legends are forever."

C.D.F.F
- The Kobra
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The wife killer.

Postby Darren » Thu Mar 06, 2003 12:37 pm

The cold stone of his prison walls pressed against the thin cotton that he wore as his shirt. His knees were lifted and his elbows rested on them casually, his ankles bound togethor by sturdy chains. De`rouge, the man 'Of Red', watched the barred door with careful emerald eyes as his mind drifted to the memories he tried to bury in the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind.

"Come on, Deveroux..." he could hear her quiet, gentle voice echo in the back of his mind every night when he tried to sleep. Sometimes, he swore he could see her outline laying next to him at night. He didn't believe in things like that, though.

"We'll pick out flowers, and make lots of food, and just spend the day at the lake. It will be fun, and I know you love the water."

Sometimes he just wanted her to go away. She was dead now, and there was nothing he could do to bring her back. Her killer was running free, and all evidence lead straight to him. The memory of her murder was burned into his mind, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't rid himself of it.

The water from the lake was warmed by the summer rays of the sun. The two young lovers laid on the white sheet together with their basket, neatly filled with food, resting off to their side. Caitlin wanted to celebrate Deveroux's promotion in the military to First Class by spending the day togethor by the lake, since Deveroux's favorite hobby was to swim.

The glow of the overhead star showered the two lovers with its golden caress as they enjoyed their last day togethor. The married couple had said to spend eternity togethor; however, there was someone watching them. Dressed from head-to-toe in a concealing cloak, the dark figure snuck up on the unexpecting duo.

In his hand was a dagger with a serpent's head, a symbol of Deveroux's family crest. When he came in sight of the two, Caitlin squealed and immediately alerted Deveroux. He turned to find a dagger coming straight down toward his chest, but was able to roll away. Instead, the weapon found itself planted firmly into the arm of his lover.

The cloaked figure growled and then attacked Deveroux, and after a small struggle, was able to knock Deveroux to the ground with a painful blow to the head. With the stunned First Class officer on the ground, he then began to attack Caitlin. He attacked her viciously, marring her beautiful, pale skin with streaks of red and swelling wounds from the blade.

Before the guard's came that were alerted by Caitilin's screams came, he made a final slice across her throat and dropped the dagger by Deveroux before making his escape. When the guards finally came, they saw Deveroux holding his dying wife in his arms, with the dagger that beared his family crest next to him. They had all the evidence needed, and from that day, he was branded as De`rouge, 'Of Red', the wife killer. Vicious and emotionless, he had no regret in killing. They said it was what had made him such a good soldier. He was immediately decomissioned and placed in prison. That was two years ago.


"Two years ago..." De`rouge said to himself as he forced the memory away. "And still, I can't forget about her." He looked up from the stone ground to the clanking of a cell door, and a guard walked in.

"Deveroux Wilhelm," the guard started, "Because of an untimely turn of events, you've been selected to fight to the death for your freedom. Start preparing, wife-killer, I hear your opponent killed one of our own today when he was bringing him some food. I doubt he'll have any qualms with killing someone who is going to take his life."

The guard laughed as he turned and left the cell, locking it behind him. De`rouge could hear the guard's laughter echo through the hall as he walked away.

"I have a chance now," he said quietly, moving to his feet and staring over at his bed. "I can get out of here. I can avenge Caitlin."
I refuse to believe this is as good as it gets.
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Postby Darren » Sun Mar 09, 2003 2:24 am

On the dirt-floor of the pit stood De`rouge between the bodies of Thorshu and Mark. In a battle where only one should of have died, there had been two lives taken for his freedom. It wasn't over yet, no, it probably would never be over now. He still had no explanation as to why Mark ran out onto the field of battle, but in the back of his mind--he was grateful.

Looking away from Thor, he made his way to Grissom and dropped to his knees next to the corpse.

"For the past two years, Grissom, you've been the only one that's believed me about my innocence. Thank you."

The emerald eyes studied the pale, bloodlessface of his best friend and he bit back the emotions that had erupted inside of him, and had made him able to win the match against the orc.

"I'll see you soon." Two fingers pressed against Mark's forehead, and then to naval, before his two shoulders; crossing him in the same manner of Catholic lore.

By now the guards were approaching him in the center of the pit, but he ignored them for now, and stood to make way to the corpse of Thor.

"You're right, Thorshu Vengaard, they do cheer. They cheer for you." Rouge whispered into the dead beast's ear, lowering his body down to be level with the body.

Lithe fingers pushed the locks of crimson from his face as he slowly stood to his full 6'3 height and looked to the guard that had came up behind him.

"Time to go back to cell. I lost a lot of money because of you." The guard's stare could of burned holes in the flesh of Rouge, but he ignored them, and allowed the man to shackle him and lead him back to his cell.

Once he had returned the dank, dark hole that had been his home for the past two years, he immediately slumped against the wall as he is normally found. Lost in thought; he couldn't forget the sacrifices Thorshu and Mark made for his freedom. How many more fights? How many times does he have to win to ensure they did not die in vain?
I refuse to believe this is as good as it gets.
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