Under the Cover of Darkness

Chapter 4 - The Arena

"I'm not going back. I'm not going back!" was yelled through the rain at the eight brutish Saxtens who all shared a similar red emblem on their glimmering dark gray armor. The emblem was a flame with a hole in the middle and multiple red ticks that circled around the ember. Each one shone on the armor like a police badge does in the hand of an officer.

All eight Lallevian Saxtens wore dark grayhelmets that covered protected their entire head except a horizontal cut in the front to provide vision. Two spikes stuck up on the side of the helmet almost like wings while two other spikes stuck out in the front near the chin of the helmet. A five inch bump in the helmet provided a resting place for the Saxtens' long noses. A similarly colored metal sleeve covered each arm of the Saxten along with dark gray metal boots that covered up to the Saxtens' upper thigh. Under it all lay chainmail and then the Saxten's dark red skin and bloodthirsty eyes.

The eight wielded a variety of different weapons. Some had maces while others held battle axes with a bronze blade. All had a heater-shaped shield with the same dark gray background and ember emblem. They approached the Brefave who stood at least six inches lower than them at six foot. The poor Brefave was soaking wet from the rain that poured upon the party. He had nowhere to go as the eight backed him into a corner of an alleyway deep in the port city of Nemron in Lallev.

Despite being outnumbered and clearly outpowered, the Brefave showed no fear. The storm that raged above him did nothing to diminish the warm spirit that had built within his soul. It showed in his words that shot through the wet air like a bullet. He stood fearless of what was to come. Both hands gripped tightly to his broadsword which rested its tip on the stone pavement that covered Nemrom's streets. On the pavement in front of him was a pool of blood and the body of a Saxten wearing a black cloak covering his body. His head was decapitated.

"I'm not going back!" the Brefave yelled at them. "I will never fight in that damned arena again!"

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Four days earlier:

The raggedy tent was by no means a healthy place to live. Patches were used to cover the holes in the canopy because it had ripped from the recent harsh weather that Lallev had been facing. Sadly, the patches were carelessly stitched, and for countless nights, the resident found himself soaked from the rain; something he had learned to get used to. Having lived in the same encampment for the past eighteen years, the broken down Brefave could do nothing but accept his faith.

Inside the musty, patched-up tent was the Brefave and his home. When one enters the dingy tent, which after eighteen years of use lost its pine green color to a darker gray shade, they'd cross under a wooden pole holding up the feeble structure. The other five foot wooden pole on the other side of the tent had begun to rot and slowly chip away. A rusty cot was where the poor Brefave slept. He was two feet longer than the cot itself which was as long as the widest side of the tent. A small table drawer contained all the cloths he owned. Cloths was a fairly optimistic term for the rags he had to put on every day. The only other item in the tent was a stuffed bear. The bear snuggled against the Brefave's chest as he slept in the only position he could in the minuscule tent.

A bell rang followed by the shouts of burly Saxtens dressed in leather uniforms. The Brefave was quick to get up. Having been in the camp for nearly two decades, which was longer than anyone else, mainly because people would die before they could reach one decade, the Brefave spent a short amount of time inside the dusty, dirt-filled tent. When he got dressed in the rags he was to wear each day, a black jumpsuit with a red fire emblem with red ticks circling around it, the Brefave spent a moment staring at the destitute that surrounded him, the squalor he had learned to get used to. He gritted his teeth in sheer resentment.