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Chapter 1
Feast of Blood
Kromlek || Gorhas the Brute

“Hey you, fresh meat! Get your fuckin' asses in raiment and pack a weapon! The melee's in ten.”

The overseer's voice echoed off of the rough-hewn stone walls in the Ring's Underbelly. Scattered about the premises were various orcs, men, and even the occasional elf or dwarf, in various stages of preparation for the event. The raucous noises of a blade on a grindstone filled the cavern. Mixed with the pungent scent of unkempt hair and unwashed bodies, it made the humid and sweaty air feel almost like a prison. For some, it very well may have been.

In the corner of one hollowed-out chamber sat an orc, his dark eyes fixed on the torch sconce. His dark auburn dreadlocks were pulled back into a knot at the back of his head, his lean and muscled frame garmented in a roughspun tunic and leather leggings. Another of his kind stepped into his field of vision, already suited in the rugged and dirty arena gear. Nobody had even bothered to wipe down the bloodstains from the last rumble from it – ever since the old, elvish lifer had died from his sickness, the cleanliness of the underbelly had gone to shit. The newcomer stood tall, arms folded across his thick chest. He had a septum piercing that gave him a certain bestial appearance.

“The fuck are you sitting there, looking at, scum? Overseer said we're up in ten. Pussy like you's gonna need some armor,” the Bull said, spitting as he did.

“Last prayer to the Bloodfather,” the seated, dreadlocked orc replied, tonelessly.

“Typical little religious shit-stain. Think the Gods above are gonna stop me from cleaving you in half and showing the crowd your blood?” the Bull asked. The seated orc snorted a curt laugh, his eyes still locked on the fire, not replying. The aggressive one continued:“You won't laugh when my axe is buried in your skull, you smug cunt. You won't do much, at all. Except die. Which is all you're good for. You and your bullshit rituals, and your bullshit scripture.”

The seated orc's eyes broke away from the torch sconce, his head turning slowly to meet his opponents eyes. “I feel... pity for you. A caged rodent, snarling and baring its teeth, futilely defending itself from the cold grips of death that soon find it.” He stood up, his harsh, dark eyes still locked onto those of the heavier-built orc. “Come for me on the sand above. We shall see whom the Bloodfather favors, as well as whom he does not.” Without another word, he stepped past the Bull, heading toward the main chamber of the underbelly.

Bodies filled the room, preparing for the bout. The dreadlocked orc scanned the large, central chamber. To his left, an elf strung his shortbow before jamming a lengthy dagger into a scabbard on his waste. Alongside the elf was a grizzled human, buckler and longsword stowed on his back, fastening a faulty strap on his shoulder. The orc made eye contact for a moment, the human scowling at him over his shoulder before pulling his eyes back to adjust his armor. An assortment of orcs filled the rest of the cavern, their brutish banter coming to a silence as they noticed the newcomer coming from the outer chamber. They stared at him with cruel eyes for a moment, whispering amongst themselves until one spoke up.

“Check out Kromlek, the Chosen One, everybody. Gonna fight his battles with prayer,” one mocked loudly, causing the room to fill with harsh laughter. Kromlek stayed silent, stepping toward the rack of arena raiment and iron weaponry. One of the other orcs, the largest of the group, marched over to block his way. He had an unfamiliar face -- brutish and ugly. “What, you a pacifist? Afraid of a little blood?” the aggressor asked, the latter half in a sing-song tone, his towering frame causing him to look down at the smaller orc.

“On the contrary, my friend. I'm no stranger to spilling it,” Kromlek replied, causing the orc in his way to belly laugh, throwing his head back dramatically.

“Yeah, yeah, you twat. Go on then! You think you're some hard-ass. Punch me in the face. I dare you.” He crosses his arms, cocking his head slightly to the side.

“I imagine you'd enjoy the opposite,” Kromlek said, the hint of a smirk on his lips. “With how you mock me, I can tell you'd quite relish striking me.” The chamber erupted in a second fit of laughter, the human and the elf joining in on this one.

“Hah! I'd love to fuck up your sneering, little face,” the hulking orc shouted down to Kromlek. His arms fell away from being crossed over his chest, taking a moment to loosen up his shoulders. “Prepare your brains, 'cos I'm about to send my fist through 'em.” He thrusted his fisted hand forward in a powerful jab aimed directly at Kromlek's nose. In a flash of speed, the smaller orc ducked down and forward, just enough to have the man's fist only graze the top of his skull, before taking a swing of his own. Kromlek's hook slammed the huge orc in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He gave his enemy no respite as he immediately followed up with a heavy upward swing to his chin, an elbow to his throat, and finally a knee to the nose.

The massive orc lost his footing from the brutal and hasty series of blows, his heavy frame tipping over toward Kromlek who shoved him aside with a good push. The orc fell to the floor, bleeding from both his nose and a gash that had opened on the butt of his chin. Kromlek stepped over him, grabbing a set of raiment and a shortaxe from the rack. The overseer's footsteps could be heard approaching rapidly, his boots slapping against the stone floors, before the man himself emerged into view.

“The bloody hell was that racket?” he shouted, his narrowed eyes peering about the main chamber, catching Kromlek standing next to the dropped, larger orc. “What did I say about fightin' in the underbelly! Save the bloodsport for the crowd, you fucking idiots!” Kromlek nodded his head in apology, keeping it lowered. “Just get that maggot cleaned up and ready, then everybody get out here to your positions. Any lagging and I'll up the needed kills to eight, not six.” The gladiators grunted in acknowledgement. “Very good. May the best of you win,” he said, before disappearing back into the hallway.

With most of the men geared up and ready, they left the chambers one-by-one to head up to the sands until the only two left were Kromlek and the orc he had beaten into a what was possibly a concussion. "Come. You're my responsibility now," Kromlek said to him, helping him up and shoving a halberd into his hands. The large orc groggily nodded to him as he took the pole-weapon, using it to help keep himself standing straight.

The bleeding had stopped for the most part and the large orc had wiped most of it onto the shoulder of his tunic. He turned to stare at Kromlek, shaking his head at the strange man before him. Following his wordless beckon, the large orc stepped along behind Kromlek through the hallway to the Ring Gate. As he stumbled on behind his smaller counterpart, he could hear the deafening cheers of the crowds of Tjordek in the stands, growing louder and louder as the pair drew closer to the Ring Gate.

- - - - -

Open air from up ahead hit Gorhas’ face and he instinctively took a deep breath of it. The thickly muscled orc felt a clot of blood dislodge itself from a misshapen nasal cavity. Coughing, he spit the mass onto the sand beneath his feet, his narrowed eyes boring through the back of Kromlek’s skull. Gorhas had spent the last few days down in the Underbelly, miserably waiting for the melee. He knew now that it was a poor choice to get himself roughed up by the believer, especially just minutes before he would be forced to part limbs from their owner with his poleaxe. It wasn’t even the right one that the religious orc had handed him -- this one felt too lopsided. It would have to do, unless he wanted to snap off the head and use it like a quarterstaff. He managed to smirk at the thought.

The pair continued through the corridor, its walls lined with carved displays of past gladiators and the feats they had accomplished. From Gorhas’ perspective, the whole ordeal felt a lot less glorious than the romance and myth surrounding it. Where were the fine women? Where was the heap of coin? He had seen neither so far. Up ahead the Ring Gate stood tall, a beckoning landmark of many fighters before him. In a short moment the heavy ironwrought gate, a relic of the days before steelworking was common, would raise up like a portcullis. The dozen-or-so contestants would spread apart, and at the knell of a massive gong would start the elimination. His stomach was uneasy. He couldn’t go back now.

They gathered together, their prideful silence prolonging an uncomfortable wait as the Caller announced the melee to the roaring crowds around them. Like clockwork, the Ring Gate started in with a grinding creak and rose slowly, the audience’s excitation growing even moreso. Once at a passable height, the group began to filter in, stepping onto the hard-packed sand that spread out before them in a massive circle. Behind them, the Ring Gate screeched close. Looking up at the stands far above the Ring, Gorhas smiled. They cheered for many things: for glory, for blood, for death, but soon enough they’d be cheering for him. The huge orc caught a look from Kromlek, who nodded solemnly before returning to readying himself.

Within a minute or so, the fighters had spread themselves thin, their backs against the stone walls of the Ring. Gorhas listened to the Caller, stretching his tightly-coiled muscles.

“And now, my delightful guests of the Tjordek Ring: Today you will witness a battle of fresh blood! These contestants gathered before you today represent the lowest of the low. They come to you from all walks of life, and seek your approval in their path to glory. Today’s fight requires six -- or less, of course -- victors. For the folk who lack practice in mathematics, that means that six of these stalwart, determined warriors will need to be slain in order for the other six to live. Now join me in applauding these men!” The audience roars, and Gorhas can faintly make out the Caller giving a signal to an officer. Nodding, the man steps over and slams a mallet into the gong. Its dull, heavy tone filled the Ring and the crowd goes near-silent. It had begun.

Immediately, a throwing weapon of some sort whizzed past Gorhas. It made a muted noise as it ricocheted off the stone wall behind him. Growling in opposition, the huge orc gripped his poleaxe and set his sights toward the enemy to his right, surprisingly near. “Hah!” he laughed, taken aback by what he saw. A waifish-looking elf had a pair of shortswords, his posture low and ready to defend himself. “My axe is bigger than you, you little Quellamese shit,” the Brute yelled out mockingly, creeping ominously toward the elf who stayed silent. Gorhas had only taken a few steps forward before the consecutive sounds of flesh being hacked into, a mortal cry, and the outburst of cheering in the crowd drew both of their attention. The orc laughed again, turning back to his opponent.

“Mercy!” the elf cried, his face pale at the approaching orc. “There are others to bring down, too!”

“Mercy is a quick death,” Gorhas grunted in response, already swinging the poleaxe in a vigorous arc. The massive axe-head took the elf horizontally in the torso, cleaving into his chest. The heavy force followed through, slamming the elf’s limp frame against the stone wall of the Ring, causing him to slump to the ground. Shrugging, the Brute planted his foot on the slain elf’s neck, tearing his weapon free with a short spray of blood. “Just missed his heart, looks like,” he surmised, turning to behold the rest of the Ring’s violence as the crowd cheered on.

All he had to do now was wait -- if all dozen of them squared off one-on-one, that would leave the six. Not a stone’s throw away, he could see his rival Kromlek still in combat with what looked like the Bull. The larger orc had been roughed up, but one well-aimed swing of his club could cave in Krom’s whole head or chest cavity. With slow and certain steps, Gorhas makes his way toward the two combatants, eyeing a few others around him locked in battles themselves. Three of the warriors had been killed already, the victors other than Gorhas taking respites.

Kromlek’s shortaxe curved in a neat arc, and the Bull barely deflected it with a swift raise of his studded club. The ringing out of metal pairing brought cries and gasps from the crowd. The Bull swung half-hearted and slowly at the dreadlocked orc’s frame, who deftly ducked under it. The former had been expecting this, and his cross-swing came up at a daring angle, catching Kromlek’s shortaxe in a parry. The blow loosened Krom’s grip, and Gorhas could tell even from a distance that the pain firing up his rival’s arm was unbearable. He was close enough to be a threat now, and the two orcs fighting finally noticed his approaching presence.

With swift reflexes and a critical window of opportunity, Kromlek’s shortaxe flew from his hand in a flash. Its broad head buried itself into the shoulder of the Bull, the arena raiment doing nothing to soften the cleaving force. “Aghhh!” the man cried out, before Kromlek jumped toward him to slam the axe deeper into the Bull’s flesh. The smaller orc fell atop him and dug the head in, marring the sand with dark blood. He ripped the head out and chopped it back down again, causing a sickening crunch when it came to rest inches into the skull and brain of the Bull. Thunderous outbursts erupted from the watching audience. The dreadlocked orc stepped off the fallen mass, only to find Gorhas’ poleaxe pressed to his own throat.

“Guess you don’t take shit from anybody, Chosen One,” the hulking orc said, his mouth curled into an impressed half-smile.

“He should have heeded my words,” Kromlek replied, his tone unchanged despite the press of steel against his throat.

“You try and pray him to death, little one? That why he came after you?”

The question went unanswered as the knell of the heavy gong rang for a second time. The Caller’s voice once again filled the air, praising the six surviving warriors. “Hmh,” Gorhas grunted, lowering the poleaxe and turning to see the rest of the Ring. Sure enough, four others stood, raising their arms and smiling up at the cheering fans. He backed off from Kromlek, giving him a nod and slammed the butt of his weapon into the sand. “One step closer,” he said quietly to himself, waving at the many faces in the distance, feeling proud.

- - - - -

Kromlek gently wiped his cheek with the rough sleeve of his tunic. His deathblow upon the Bull’s skull had sprayed him briefly with the man’s lifeblood, and he offered up a quick prayer to his deity. The near-deafening applause boomed from the high stands all around the Ring and hundreds, if not thousands, of cheering viewers stared down at the six of them. The dreadlocked orc stepped over and away from the body of the Bull, approaching Gorhas. The huge one was caught unaware, absorbing the adoration of the faces around him. Kromlek stepped next to the other orc, bowing his head slightly as he looked up toward them.

“You spared me -- why?” Kromlek asked, his brow lowered in a confused fashion.

“Tough son of a bitch like you? Wouldn’t be right to just lop your head off without a real fight. Besides, I thought the Bull was a cunt. Thought of himself too highly. And me? That shit back in the Underbelly -- I was just having some fun.” Gorhas lowered his waving hand, turning toward the Caller. The powerful-voiced man was now announcing the next match -- some lifer versus a Tulrissian knight, it sounded like. “Hah. Titles and banners don’t mean fuck-all this far from his homeland. Wonder if they’ll give him the handicap of wearing his metal armor.” The pair of them stepped back toward the Ring Gate, coming together in a loose group with the other four. From the look of it, the others were two orcs, a dwarf, and a human.

“Well fought, everyone. Looks like we’ve made it in,” the human said, looking between Kromlek and the rest of them.

“Wouldn’t have thought you’d have lived through the melee. Not a skinny twig of a human like you,” the dwarf said in response, trodding along beside him.

“To judge a man by his size and shape is to give him an advantage. What if the large man can outrun you? What if the small man can wrestle you and win?” Kromlek added, causing the human to crack a smile.

Gorhas laughed. “No way in fuck that the human can beat me in an arm wrestle. There’s nothing wrong in a bit of safe assumption.”

The human started in, but was interrupted by one of the other orcs. “Nobody can beat you in an arm wrestle, you dumb fuck. That doesn’t count.” Most of them chuckled. The Ring Gate was drawn upwards and the half-dozen survivors stepped through, their conversation continuing as they departed from view.

Chapter 2
The Plainsman’s Struggle
Gerrik Trehearne

Inside the Underbelly a human sat on a bench in the main hall, affixing the straps on his scale armor. He had forgone the padded gambeson a while ago -- it was entirely too humid and warm in the tropical region of Serranak to wear it over the metal armor. Besides, many of the Kurnish and Serran fighters here stuck to the arena raiment for haste and agility, anyway. Their strategies relied on never being subjected to a blow or a slash, something Gerrik thought was arrogant. The best knight in Tulrisse would be still vulnerable without his armor -- not even a legendary fighter could dodge, parry, or block every single swing of a sword or a mace.

The young man had experienced a strange journey to get from the Grey Plains of Tulrisse all the way to the city of Tjordek on the coast of Serranak. Born into a family of only minor importance and limited renown or power, Gerrik had little to look forward to being the second-born. Many generations prior, during the Second Era, the Trehearnes had been a proper House with their own estate, keep, and thriving community surrounding it. However, the squabbles and petty warring of the Tulrissian lords had reduced Trehearne Keep to rubble and the family themselves to little more than commoners. Having recently been trained well as men-at-arms to the Lord of the Iron Plains, the Trehearnes still held some political value, even if as vassals.

Gerrik Trehearne himself had ventured off at the age of twenty-two, with a lump of coin and a goal in mind. In his few years of travels since then, he had been to a number of gladiatorial arenas around Voreld, but nothing as enticing or opportunistic as the one in Tjordek. Becoming a landed House again required trunks of gold, and that gold wasn’t going to earn itself, he thought.

“Best get up there,” a gruff voice with Dwarvish accent called out to him, and he looked up. A group of six were returning from the Ring Gate, their footsteps on the stone stairs echoing out. He recognized a few of them as new recruits. Returning from their first bout, I’d guess.

“You lot survived, eh? Welcome to the Ring,” Gerrik said as the group walked past him. There was another human amongst them, but he didn’t look like he was from the Kingdom. He looks Serran. They regarded him with a chorus of nods, grunts, and thank-yous as they walked past and dispersed into the Underbelly.

The man slapped the strap on his shoulder, satisfied at the fit, and stood up. His scale cuirass would offer him decent protection, and his shoulders were covered with a mesh of leather and chain. Beyond that, he would have to make sure his blocking and parrying could keep up with a flurry of blows. At his waist in a scabbard was a sturdy longsword and he carried with him a medium-sized round shield, a heavy boss in the center of it. He ascended the steps to the tunnel that led to the Ring Gate.

By the time the Tulrissian had made it to the ironwrought gate before him, the Ringsmen had already carried off the losers from the dozen-man melee. A few of them were quite obviously slain violently, but not all. ‘You can’t kill everybody you fight, or else there wouldn’t be anybody to fight,’ he had been told early on in his career. He watched as they were carried away in various states of ruin. Gerrik was no fan of unnecessary killing, and he tried his best to let those that he beat make off with their lives. I’d no sooner put a blade through them if I was called to, he thought to himself. We all know what we’ve signed on for. I’m no stranger to greed.

The man heard the crunch of steps on sand behind him and he turned around. Squinting through the sunlight, he noticed his opponent approaching. An chiseled orc armored in the padded arena raiment smiled wryly back at him. The tan-skinned orc he had seen once before. Bahn, he remembered. Pretty deadly with his twin-axes. The human looked down briefly as the orc approached, noting the savage-looking weapons sheathed at his opponent’s side.

Gerrik had thought it strange that the Tjordek Ring had but one entrance -- the other arenas he had squared off in had at least two in order to quell any premature action before the fight properly began. The Serranaki are different, however. It is a great dishonor to break peace before one has entered the Ring. The idea made sense to him, but that didn’t stop him from feeling anxious. This orcish warrior will be trying to hack me down in a few moments. What a queer situation it is to stand next to him.

“I’ve heard of your tale, human,” Bahn said to him in the sailor’s language that was common in this diverse region of the continent, a smile still gleaming from his face. “You’re a far way from your land of kings and banners, you know?”

“Aye, I do.” The Plainsman shifted his weight to the other foot, unsure of the orc’s tone. “And you’re not in your homeland. Funny thing, hm?” Gerrik had picked up a decent take of the common language over the years.

The orc chuckled, a sharp and low sound. “It pains me to know that you’ll be worm’s food before your body is delivered back to your House. That’s a long journey,” he said, his eyes narrowing.

So much for keeping the peace at the Ring Gate, Gerrik mused to himself as he shook his head disapprovingly. “Your words have bite, my friend. Let’s settle our differences in the Ring. Besides, I don’t imagine the natives would take kindly if you forced me to part your head from your shoulders right here and now.” He gave the orc a smug smile. Cunt.

The sound of the Caller’s voice interrupted their hostilities however, announcing the two of them individually before commanding the Gate to rise. The orc and the human sauntered in and began to part ways to their respective sides. “Good luck, Bahn,” Gerrik shouted casually when they split from one another. The orc spit on the sand in response, turning his back toward Gerrik and trudging toward his zone. From high up in the stands, the Caller began to inflate the crowd and Gerrik could feel the anxiety spring on him as it always did. The tense moments before the bouts had started unnerved him during his first years, but he had grown into them at this point. I'd be an idiot to not be a bit worried. This Bahn isn't some bastard fresh from Kurnhuelde.

It was true -- the orc had a name for himself. A minor amount of renown,
especially locally, had pushed Bahn into the line-up against the Tulrissian man-at-arms. After a few days of word-of-mouth, the Tjordek crowd was eager to see how the two would fare against each other. The orcish combatants usually counted on their brethren to win the bouts, but they were decidedly split on this one. They had seen how Gerrik fought, and despite their dislike for his culture, respected the obvious prowess that he possessed.

With the fighters now facing each other from across the huge circle, their backs to the walls, the Caller commanded they begin. The familiar gong sounded throughout the venue, and the two combatants were darting across the sand immediately. Gerrik watched his quarry move -- the orc had a slow but controlled step, something that gave nothing away about his next movements. The human mimicked that, stepping forward at a steady pace. I didn't picture him as a charging, stupid orc anyhow. No, this one knows what he is doing, Gerrik thought to himself. Bahn had unsheathed his twin-axes, holding them close to his frame. Their eyes were on each others’ as the distance between the two diminished slowly to just a few body-lengths away.

Gerrik Trehearne gripped his round shield, knowing it would likely be the difference between a savage death and a bloody victory here. The gap between them disappeared as Bahn leapt forward, swinging briskly at Gerrik’s unshielded side. Instinctually, his longsword was there to parry the swing aside with a weighty thrust. With haste, Bahn’s other axe was already coming down toward him, but the human raised his shield in response. The steel axe slammed against the thick boss on the shield, sounding not unlike a bell. Bahn backed off a step, favoring his shoulder from the riveting jolt of pain. Taking the offensive, Gerrik pressed forward safely. He unleashed a series of well-executed strokes of the longsword, but Bahn was very agile. What he could not dodge, the orc was able to block with his deft maneuvering.

The brief flurry of cuts, swings, and parries ended with the two taking a couple steps back to reassess. Gerrik held his shield in front of him, ready for the orc to heave an axe or charge at him once again. Bahn didn’t, however, and held his two meter’s distance for an uncomfortable few seconds. Then I guess I will. With sudden footwork, the Plainsman reengaged the orcish axeman, his sword chopping at shoulder-height. Bahn’s agility proved true, slipping under the blade and making a vicious cleave toward the human’s belly. The heavy shield was there again, slamming into the axe-blade, deflecting it. It wasn’t enough, though, and Bahn’s axe found purchase in Gerrik’s armored thigh. The warrior pulled his axe back, gaining a meter’s distance, eyeing the human. The shield and the thick hide padding his thigh had mitigated much of the force, but Bahn’s swing was strong. Blood ran down the Plainsman’s leg and he gritted his teeth, but gave no ground. I suppose that’s as much as I’ll let him get on me.

Gerrik’s face red from the stress and the crowd in a dull roar, the human shook his leg to indicate its utility and once again stepped toward his opponent. Bahn smiled at him, flicking his axe and spattering the sand with a bit of blood for show. Frustrated, injured, and feeling patronized, Gerrik Trehearne clenched his jaw and spurred forward. This time, his shield was at the forefront of his lunge. Taken aback by the ferocity of the maneuver, Bahn only had a moment to react before Gerrik’s full force channeled through his heavy shield slammed into the orc. With a grunt, the Kurnish warrior staggered back, off-balance. The Plainsman followed through with his rush forward, whipping his blade around in an arc toward the orc’s frame. Still reeling from the massive hit, Bahn half-heartedly raised an axe to parry the swing but without his senses at prime, his aiming was poor. Steel bit flesh, tearing through most of the orc’s left forearm and spraying the sand below with a jet of blood. He let out a deep shout in surprise, and a collective gasp from the audience was cast.

The human stepped back a couple meters. In a proper battle, he would have immediately plunged his sword as deep and as hard into the orc’s head, neck, or chest as soon as he had already landed a blow this harsh. But this was the Ring -- their battle, duel, bout, before all else, was a show. Gerrik caught his breath and took stock of the situation. Only attached by a small ribbon of flesh, Bahn’s useless wrist and hand dangled, the axe already fallen underfoot. He watched the orc bite down coarsely and sever the rest of it off with the axe in his good hand, before hastily wrapping the stump with a linen sash around his waist. Immediately, the off-white fabric became a deep red and began to drip. Bahn and Gerrik shared a look -- one not so much of malice as an understanding. The pair of them concernedly turned their heads toward the Caller’s stand. If we don’t stop now, the orc will die of blood loss, Gerrik thought to himself. Bahn’s already maimed, but he can still fight for years. One hand won’t stop a bull-headed one like him.

From above, the Caller crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. He shook his head to the combatants. The ring had grown quiet, awaiting his decision. There was only the quiet murmur of the people. The Caller raised his arms. “To the death!” he shouted out across the Ring, and a deafening, universal applause erupted. The human and the orc turned to face one another, a look of dread on the latter’s face that soon turned into a snarl. Gerrik raised his sword into the air, provoking the crowd. Bahn palmed his twin-axe carefully, before heaving it toward his enemy with a loud grunt. The Plainsman brought his shield forward instinctively, and it clanged off, flying up, over, and behind him. Bending down to pick up the remaining twin-axe lying at his feet, Bahn surged forth in a last-ditch effort to rend Gerrik, the axe curving in a sweeping gesture. Despite the surprising fortitude of the orc’s charge, the Plainsman swung his shield forcefully into the axe’s arc, pushing it aside. As Bahn recoiled, his arm swinging far too wide from the, Gerrik brought his sword straight through in a lunge, shunting it right below the orc’s sternum. The blade slid easily through the thin arena raiment, puncturing flesh before jutting into spine.

Bahn went still, his eyes wide. The Plainsman tore his blade free, loosing a deluge of blood from the orc’s chest cavity, who promptly collapsed to the sand. Cheering exploded from the stands as the human raised his bloody sword in the air with a wan smile. He looked at the many faces among the crowd for a moment, before turning back to his crumpled enemy who lay dying. “I’m truly sorry for this,” Gerrik Trehearne said, raising his longsword above the orc’s head with two hands, having tossed his shield on the sand. Bahn looked up with an unprecedented look of terror. He attemped to speak, but only gurgled syllables and frothing blood emerged from his chapped lips. Gerrik grimaced. “Not really, though.” The Plainsman brought his blade down with great force atop the orc’s skull, and the crowd erupted once more.