Malcolm Perry

Stone of The Fierce Chapter 1

Thundering cries could be heard all throughout Denares stadium as Xander, the Valiant sat patiently in his personal chamber. This would be his third and final battle for the week and, if he'd managed to make it out in one piece, a weekend of drinking and luxury awaited him. The gladiator rose to his sandaled feet and brandished the battered saber's blade before him. It was still slightly chipped from the preceding battle, but would nonetheless, suffice to weather the next. He stared back at himself in the reflection of the weapon, his chopped brunette hair looked slightly unkempt, but matched his persona perfectly. Hazel eyes sat beneath a pierced brow, a reward for winning one of his previous matches in the crown city. Over the past several months his physique had improved drastically; his once frail arms now bulged with definition beneath his slightly scratched iron chest plate and his legs that at one point could hardly carry his own frame, had expanded to the point of hardly fitting under his weapon's belt. As he observed himself, he pursed his lips, eyeing the scar that rested vertically amongst them and trailed up past his brow. That was the one scar on his body he'd received before he even stepped foot in the Colosseum. He was discovered two years ago, facedown in a pit of muddy water and blood; his small country of Cinder had just been brought to its knees by its neighboring powers. The war had taken his mother, his brother, and father all in a single day, that alone hardened the painful fall of his one and only home and all its land. Xander was alone, starving, and too weak to push himself any farther away from the burning city, so he collapsed there completely content with death. He awoke to the stomping of hooves around him and rose to see four men clad in imperial armor, surrounding him like some foul messengers of death. "You look lost, little boy." One spoke. "He looks weak." Said another in a gravely, raucous tone. "We ought to end his suffering." With an instantaneous flick of the wrist, he drew a spiked Lance from his side and aimed it at the frail form below. "I don't know, he's kinda handsome." Spoke a female voice. Long, violet hair cascaded from beneath her garnet helm, and from between its slits, Xander could see two eyes burning with a blazing yellow hue like that of the sun. "I agree, it'd be a waste to kill such an intriguing being." this voice was definitely a male's, but it was lighthearted and devoid of malcontent. The first one that spoke dismounted his horse and knelt beside the fallen boy. He removed his ornate, golden helm, revealing a set of amethyst eyes against a face with soft features, but it was clear those eyes had seen much blood in their time. "I have a proposition for you, boy. Come and fight for me in my tournament, represent my name and honor. You shall be greatly rewarded." A confident yet young voice was accompanied by a clap of thunder from above. Commander Argus was answered with a bloody spit to the face. "I'll never serve... Imperial garbage!" Xander coughed out between rough and ragged breaths. The commander chuckled and ran a gloved hand through his jet black hair. In a flash, his sword was drawn and Xander was gushing from the slit in his face. His cries were drowned out by the rain and thunder that surrounded them. "You don't know it yet, but I'm saving your life, boy." The young man turned to his comrades as he straddled his horse once again. "Bring him with us." And so, that was the day Xander lost everything. His family, his home, his freedom, even his own name. "Loss!" One of the imperial guards called from the door of his chamber. "It's time for your next battle." Loss donned his tempered bronze headpiece and exited the dimly lit room into the sunlight at the center of the Colosseum. The crowd was thrown into unrest at the sight of their favorite champion entering the fray. As he stepped closer towards the center, his opponent became visible. A man who was almost as tall as Loss himself, but nowhere near as toned. He brandished a hooked Sabre and a crude wooden shield. Tattooed arms disappeared beneath an onyx colored chest-piece and his trousers were tattered at the legs. He let out a battle cry and beat the blade against his shield. "Citizens of Acadia," the announcer began his usual spiel. "We are so pleased that you could bear audience to this tremendous display of mettle... " Loss had long since drowned out the words of the pompous announcer, instead opting to engage in an unbreakable staring contest with his opponent. In fact, he hadn't heard anything until the battle horn sounded, signaling the beginning of the bloodshed.