Resting Witch Face
breaking the laws of physics medieval style
Optional Soundtrack: Abyss Watchers
Day after day it is the same in the Arena.
First you wake, in the rotting and fetid cells. Prisoners here are given barely functional quarters, hardly even considered humane. Yet, the prisoners wake every day all the same. First comes the hunger pangs, like sizzling heat building up in your gut. It feels like your body is eating away at itself in a vain attempt to keep going. Then the day begins, and you are let out of your cell. Do not presume it is any better out of it than within.
See, a hungry combatant is a poor combatant, so lately the guards have been generous. Though, the scraps of last week's banquet are hardly generous, but you've learned to deal with it. After all, you'll need your strength for the midday. Soon you'll be using every ounce of bread crust and protein to fend for your life.
Every day, like the last, you wait for the toll of the bell.
And, like a solemn wail, it tolls. The first of the matches are to begin in five minutes. The anticipation of being let loose on the sandy, desolate battlefield fills you with a mixed sensation. Somewhere between terrified and courageous.
Then the first match begins. It is usually the worst of them all, as lately the guards just let one of the beasts start the show off the way they like it, brutal and without mercy. After a couple minutes of mindless thrashing and what must have been gallons and gallons of blood, the beast is chained back up and brought it back to it's pen. What had before been a distant toll was now a mind numbing ringing as the bell tower loomed over the Arena. One bell sounded, the end of the match, then another came. It rang twice, and suddenly the participants were gathered. Strangely, they didn't start the fights with a one-on-one duel, and instead opted to start putting together teams of five.
You aren't sure whether to be worried or relieved, but judging by the content of all teams, you get the feeling it won't matter in a few minutes.
Thrown into a group without any planning or balancing, you find yourself among the poor souls just like you. Some bear a weak body, some are hardened like steel. Some can kill you without touching you, and others prefer it the good old fashioned way. All in all, the best word to describe the feeling of seeing five other teams step onto the grounds is indescribable. People from all walks of life dotted the fringes of the Arena, grouped into killing squads. Barely any weaponry was available, you'd be lucky to end up with a rusted and short blade. Some combatants are even luckier, starting the battle off with weaponry they'd earned in previous bouts.
With a mighty roar, the horn is blown, signifying the beginning of the match. No introduction necessary.
Day after day it is the same in the Arena.
First you wake, in the rotting and fetid cells. Prisoners here are given barely functional quarters, hardly even considered humane. Yet, the prisoners wake every day all the same. First comes the hunger pangs, like sizzling heat building up in your gut. It feels like your body is eating away at itself in a vain attempt to keep going. Then the day begins, and you are let out of your cell. Do not presume it is any better out of it than within.
See, a hungry combatant is a poor combatant, so lately the guards have been generous. Though, the scraps of last week's banquet are hardly generous, but you've learned to deal with it. After all, you'll need your strength for the midday. Soon you'll be using every ounce of bread crust and protein to fend for your life.
Every day, like the last, you wait for the toll of the bell.
And, like a solemn wail, it tolls. The first of the matches are to begin in five minutes. The anticipation of being let loose on the sandy, desolate battlefield fills you with a mixed sensation. Somewhere between terrified and courageous.
Then the first match begins. It is usually the worst of them all, as lately the guards just let one of the beasts start the show off the way they like it, brutal and without mercy. After a couple minutes of mindless thrashing and what must have been gallons and gallons of blood, the beast is chained back up and brought it back to it's pen. What had before been a distant toll was now a mind numbing ringing as the bell tower loomed over the Arena. One bell sounded, the end of the match, then another came. It rang twice, and suddenly the participants were gathered. Strangely, they didn't start the fights with a one-on-one duel, and instead opted to start putting together teams of five.
You aren't sure whether to be worried or relieved, but judging by the content of all teams, you get the feeling it won't matter in a few minutes.
Thrown into a group without any planning or balancing, you find yourself among the poor souls just like you. Some bear a weak body, some are hardened like steel. Some can kill you without touching you, and others prefer it the good old fashioned way. All in all, the best word to describe the feeling of seeing five other teams step onto the grounds is indescribable. People from all walks of life dotted the fringes of the Arena, grouped into killing squads. Barely any weaponry was available, you'd be lucky to end up with a rusted and short blade. Some combatants are even luckier, starting the battle off with weaponry they'd earned in previous bouts.
With a mighty roar, the horn is blown, signifying the beginning of the match. No introduction necessary.
