The Man In The Murk (story) - Downloaded from the Wizards Community, all coding removed by Solauren

The Man In The Murk (story)

Post/Author/DateTime Post
#1
zombiegleemax
Nov 09, 2003 2:34:43 "Man reaches, stumbles forward, painfully, mistakenly sometimes. Having stepped forward, he may slip back, but only half a step, never the full step back."

- John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath

THE UNWONTED SOLDIER

I woke up, drenched in sweat, like every other damned day that I can remember. The nightmare was as vivid as always, and just as disturbing.

There was darkness, the likes of which I just cannot explain. And I don't think I ever will be able to explain. You just have to...feel it. It was everywhere, all-consuming, and heavy. Physically heavy.

My eyes were open, the entire time, yet I could not see a bloody thing. There was an incredible amount of weight on my chest and my legs, as if the weight of the world was pressing down on me. Never was I afraid of being locked in a room, surrounded by hordes of people, or any of that crap. But this was different. This wasn't natural. It was far from.

The dream always seems to last forever, but I know this not to be true. The very fact that I wake up in a cold sweat, the very fact that I am telling you this now, betrays such a statement. But that feeling, of being helpless...it feels like...being buried alive. Not that I can say that I truly understand such a feeling. I may not be the luckiest guy on the face of this planet, but I'm not the unluckiest either. Fortunately, I only dream this crap.

The rage sets in, like clockwork, about halfway through the dream. I mean, there's only so much a man can take before going wild for the throat. The feeling of helplessness...even the thought of the dream makes my blood thick, my face twitch. I just want to...smash my way out from the darkness, and go lunatic. The darkness always takes on a stroke of red at this point, and my feral scream for release is overwhelming, and patterned. I scream, I punch, I scream, I kick, I scream...until the moment I wake from this never-ending nightmare.

If it weren't an everynight occurance, then I could forget about it, and leave it to the basement of my thoughts. But it is, and I just cannot get my brain to leave it be. For every thought that enters my head, it lurks, teasing me...always...teasing me.

The dream must end.

It has to.

Else I will go insane...
#2
zombiegleemax
Nov 09, 2003 2:59:20 "Hey, you alright?"

The question shook me from my thoughts and I looked across the room to where I knew the speaker lay.

"Yeah."

"That dream again?"

Me being me, I kept my silence, not wanting to talk about it, but I did manage a nod in the dimly-lit room.

Room...ha. Not quite. It was a cell, shared by two unfortunates that inhabited the belly of the Beast, the "Great" Coliseum of Lekar.

His name I never did ask, names never did really count there, but he was one helluva a scrapper. In fact, he was the only person outside of myself that I "trusted" there.

It'll be a bloody shame come the day if and when we go at it...

We've been through Hell together, side by side, fighting the fight like there's no tomorrow. I know, that sounds corny, but it's true. There is no losing here in the Pits, there's only dying. Winning, if you're one of those "nice thoughts" people. And, if you're good enough to kick around long enough to realize, you do fight to see another day. To see the sunlight creep on through the barred window in our miserable little haunt...it's a sight like no other.

Anyway, yeah, we got sentenced to fight because we fought those who you don't mess with, and now we're making some high-end military clown some good, solid coin. It's a little twisted, but it's not like we got some other choice...the sponser is everything, here at the Coliseum. You fight whoever he tells you to fight, else you end up outside, with a stick up your arse. I may be a professional fighter, a tough guy if you will, but the very thought of that...well, let's just say I'm not all that mad at myself about having to swallow my pride.

I'm not one to pat myself on the back, but the two of us?...we were damn good at what we did, but we weren't stupid. Hell, I was entering my fifth season in less than a month, and boss, he had to've been hitting his fourth right behind. And you just didn't last that long by being stupid. Sometimes, you just got to let it all build up, and save it for that special, rainy day. The time'll come soon enough for release.

That was my drive anyway, and it got me through the days.
#3
zombiegleemax
Nov 09, 2003 4:57:46 My roomate knew me about as well as anyone, and left me to my thoughts. He was like that...a helluva guy.

I threw the blanket aside and set my feet on the freezing cold stone floor, for that first blast of a new day, and began my daily ritual of stretches. I had been signed up for an evening fight, and I needed to stretch these battered old bones into place.

The cuts were nothing to me at this point in my career, mere scars that helped relay the stories that make up my Past. Women seemed to be into them, but, you know, to me, they came, they went or stayed, but they were easily forgotten. Broken bones, on the other hand, now they were a different story.

My left arm, my shield arm, had been broken twice, officially, but I put that number up around a half dozen. It's the price you pay in this kind of life, especially considering all those times you get pitted against some gronk of a man wielding hammers that weighed half your body weight. But I gotta say, those bones, even though they've been treated by some of the best healers in Falkovnia (a fringe benefit from being a stable champion), the pain never really goes away. You just learn to deal.

Stretching, while it sometimes aggrivates such injuries, helps me realize just what my role is in this hellhole. I'm here to fight, no two ways about it, and if I'm not on top of my game, then I get the mass burial. And while I don't think I'd mind, considering that I would've left this place for the next, I'd rather not give them the pleasure of such an inservice.

Yeah, sometimes you just can't let them break you, no matter how hard they try. I tell you what, it really gets to them when they don't get their boots shined by somebody's tongue. And sometimes, that's better than blading them a new smile.

Outside, through that little oh-so-familiar window, I could see a light snow falling...my joints would pay toll within the hour. Not that there was anything I could do about it. Being broken is better than being dead.

I smiled to myself through the pain, my dearest of friends, and continued prepping myself for the day's events.

Such is Life as I knew it.

I couldn't really complain.
#4
zombiegleemax
Nov 11, 2003 1:28:03 If it's one thing that I've learned while rotting in that dump, it's that fight time came real quick.

After stretching, I ate a huge morning meal (another benefit that comes when you make your sponsor sickly-rich), after eating I read, and after reading I ate what could've been my last meal. Roast pork and potatoes. My request. Funny thought that, but one that a fighter has to take into consideration: I could die any day, any night, in any fight. It was the nature of the Beast, plain and simple. So you might as well scarf down the food that you're into, if at all possible.

Some intense exercise followed, then it was go time. The hard rapping at our cell door spoke loud and clear.

It always did.

With a final bending crack of my neck, I nodded, and put a fist out to my roomate.

"If you see it, go for it...", we said, same time.

It was our ritual, between the two of us, and it represented two things. First, it meant to go for the kill, straight up. Second, it meant that if the opportunity came while being escorted to the arena to make a break, then go for it. Balls to the wall, no fear of Death. Of course, this was on the down low; no sad sack of a guard knew what the words really meant. The fact that we weren't piked on the road leading into Lekar backed that up.

A final nod, and our farewell was done.

My stare cowered the boy soldiers detailed to me, and I took my first step out and away from my cell.

It was pure ritual, and my smile was legit.

There's something about fighting that's a turn-on. And not just fighting, that lifestyle. I mean, I fought, I feasted, I trained like an animal, I got laid...what more could a man ask for?

Well, outside of killing his captors.

I thought about it then and there, in the middle of the torch-lit tunnel, but I never gave into the urge. It wasn't time for that. Not then anyway. I just wanted to fight. To train for that special day that I was talking about earlier. I may've been in the upper ranks there at the Coliseum, but I wasn't quite ready for the breakout that I had in mind.

You see, it wasn't just the lackeys that needed to die, it was the Hawk. The Kingfuhrer himself. And word was that he would be watching the upcoming fight. He popped in every now and again, no doubt whenever he wanted to see some particular execution. Maybe even just to see Death dance. From what I understand, he knows the dance well...

Anyway, I had a plan that was going to be laid out. That night. In front of everyone.

The ripple was going to be fun to watch.
#5
zombiegleemax
Nov 11, 2003 2:12:32 [FONT=arial]
#6
zombiegleemax
Nov 12, 2003 4:07:57 The corridor leading from my cell sloped, ever so gradually, upwards and out. It was an intentional maze, come to think of it. Torches crackled in their sconces, their sum?, just enough to pepper the long walk with light. You probally had...maybe five feet of visual. Not much, but enough.

A part of me always thought that it was because none of our escorts wanted to catch the Killer's Stare, and be at the wrong end of a righteous fit. That's what happens when you slave and abuse thinking beings. They snap, eventually, and when they go wild...they go wild. The younger soldiers never realized this until too late, the veteran soldiers...they were smart enough, and were probally reminded by some sort of appropriate disfigurement, to assign escort duty to those under his command. Those who knew no better.

The smell...the smell was one of human waste, blood, and sweat. It was overpowering, but over time, you tended not to gag like you did on day one. It took some while getting used to, but you did get used to it.

But whatever...the place was hard on the eyes, and it stunk of us.

Just before you get to the actual arena, you have to pass, what was it?, three checkpoints, all muscled by three boy soldiers and a Talon, one of the Hawk's elite officers.

The Talons were all megalomaniacal ragers, and they "earned" the respect (for lack of a better word) given to them by those that were crushed beneath the soles of their boots. They were bred for war, and every day was some psychotic drill that they practiced on the masses. Wherever and whenever they saw fit. The people couldn't do anything about these guys; they were the Law. What they said, was. And if you fought that, well...you'd be lucky, extremely lucky, to end up my roomate. Or, practice dummy.

I seen it happen, been a part of the process...too many times. I could write a damn book on the people that came and went...in my first year alone. The faces become a blur after you force yourself to stop caring, but at the same time, the blur was a constant. There was no slack whatsoever. It was ridiculous, but it happened.

What could I do about it?

Fear is both your ally and your enemy, and the Talons played the former to a tee. It was their timeless strategy, and it worked. It always did. Falkovnia was (and, unfortunately, still is) an oppressed state to say the least, and the people were just too afraid to make things right, to stand up as one and give the Hawk one helluva insurrection. You see, Fear was their enemy, it always was, and it pummeled them everytime.

Stupid, stupid bunch...how many black eyes and busted noses will it take before they snap and get what they deserve? How many graves can be dug before the shovel breaks? How many times must a mother bury her flesh and blood?, a man his wife?

It saddens me now, but not back in those days.

Personally, I never had any problems, any real run-ins with those goons, the Talons...well, up to that night. That night turned out to be better than I could've ever imagined.

I clipped my first Talon, and I clipped him good.
#7
zombiegleemax
Nov 12, 2003 7:37:50 ((Title's been changed to The Unwonted Soldier because I now got new direction. Story'll still be on the fly, but it'll be anchored. I hope...))
#8
zombiegleemax
Nov 18, 2003 2:48:28 Barely hidden beneath a suit of heavy plate armor, armor designed to strike fear into any and all enemies, he stepped out from the wall with a hand up to stop me. He was a big man, and he moved like a pro.

The other soldiers did nothing to conceal their little game of chuck. In fact, I could hear them roll dice on the floor as boss stepped into me.

"Halt! Name und geschäft, hund..." he growled, from deep within that hawkish helm that they're so proud of.

"I'm here to fight, what do you think? I don't walk around this place for the sights and sounds..." I replied, feeling a little playful. A part of me was probing for a fight, I gotta be honest. Afterall, it's what I did for a living. It was hard to turn off sometimes.

His eyes became bloodshot and bulged almost out of their sockets. This man wasn't used to such insubordination.

A mailed fist came out and clipped me upside the head. Another caught me square on the jaw. I played the role and exaggerated a wince that was worthy of any theatre-goer's applause, I have to admit, and stumbled backwards to the cold, damp floor. A well-made boot (that stunk of puke for some "strange" reason) began to crush my throat.

Why would a professional fighter take a dive like that? Simple; I fed his ego by doing so; he was a man again, in front of those charged to him. He had every right, as a Falkovnian officer, to cut me to bloody pieces for such an act, but he didn't give in. I made him want to inflict pain on me, to break me open in front of the boy soldiers. Also, a big part of me wanted to take the beating...while making my little statement of disprespect.

It was just the way of the Coliseum in those days. That, and it doubled as some good, solid prep work for the arena.

"I'll ask you once more, hund, and you'd better answer me, or I'll have your pitiful arse dragged to the Central Prison and violated...

Ihr name und geschäft."

All the man wanted was my name, and the reason why I was walking the corridor, but I was being difficult. I couldn't tell you why, I just played the antagonist somedays...especially on those days that I was scheduled to fight. On those days, you didn't know what you said until you said it, or, sometimes, what you even did, before you did it. The blood was pumpin', and oftentimes took possession.

A long couple of moments ticked by. But before I could agitate the man further, one of the boy soldiers that walked me to that checkpoint stepped in and presented my papers. Well, his orders. From my "sponsor".

Silence befell the Talon as he read the soldier's standing orders, and he growled after reading the last written word, as he was forced to swallow his pride. He crumpled the note, and fired it back to the soldier.

He'd have no real fun with me.

The officer whom I fought for was a man of no little standing, and on a single look, he could make this dungeon-dweller disappear in broad daylight without so much as a raised eyebrow. The Talon knew this; rumors run rampant through barracks, and he took a step back to allow me to pass...but not before blasting me in the face with a good, sharp kick.

You understand, he had to at least try and save face. And what better way than a nice 'ol abusive kick to the chops?

I did well to hide my smile, to mute my conversation with my dearest of friends, and pushed myself to my feet.

The fight must go on, and it did.

...I'll get back to that guy in a bit.
#9
william_cairnstone_dup
Nov 24, 2003 8:55:18 I am really interested to know the rest of the story. Will it ever come, Man in the Murk ?

W.C.

Post/Author/DateTime	Post
#1 zombiegleemax Nov 09, 2003 2:34:43	"Man reaches, stumbles forward, painfully, mistakenly sometimes. Having stepped forward, he may slip back, but only half a step, never the full step back." - John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath THE UNWONTED SOLDIER I woke up, drenched in sweat, like every other damned day that I can remember. The nightmare was as vivid as always, and just as disturbing. There was darkness, the likes of which I just cannot explain. And I don't think I ever will be able to explain. You just have to...feel it. It was everywhere, all-consuming, and heavy. Physically heavy. My eyes were open, the entire time, yet I could not see a bloody thing. There was an incredible amount of weight on my chest and my legs, as if the weight of the world was pressing down on me. Never was I afraid of being locked in a room, surrounded by hordes of people, or any of that crap. But this was different. This wasn't natural. It was far from. The dream always seems to last forever, but I know this not to be true. The very fact that I wake up in a cold sweat, the very fact that I am telling you this now, betrays such a statement. But that feeling, of being helpless...it feels like...being buried alive. Not that I can say that I truly understand such a feeling. I may not be the luckiest guy on the face of this planet, but I'm not the unluckiest either. Fortunately, I only dream this crap. The rage sets in, like clockwork, about halfway through the dream. I mean, there's only so much a man can take before going wild for the throat. The feeling of helplessness...even the thought of the dream makes my blood thick, my face twitch. I just want to...smash my way out from the darkness, and go lunatic. The darkness always takes on a stroke of red at this point, and my feral scream for release is overwhelming, and patterned. I scream, I punch, I scream, I kick, I scream...until the moment I wake from this never-ending nightmare. If it weren't an everynight occurance, then I could forget about it, and leave it to the basement of my thoughts. But it is, and I just cannot get my brain to leave it be. For every thought that enters my head, it lurks, teasing me...always...teasing me. The dream must end. It has to. Else I will go insane...
#2 zombiegleemax Nov 09, 2003 2:59:20	"Hey, you alright?" The question shook me from my thoughts and I looked across the room to where I knew the speaker lay. "Yeah." "That dream again?" Me being me, I kept my silence, not wanting to talk about it, but I did manage a nod in the dimly-lit room. Room...ha. Not quite. It was a cell, shared by two unfortunates that inhabited the belly of the Beast, the "Great" Coliseum of Lekar. His name I never did ask, names never did really count there, but he was one helluva a scrapper. In fact, he was the only person outside of myself that I "trusted" there. It'll be a bloody shame come the day if and when we go at it... We've been through Hell together, side by side, fighting the fight like there's no tomorrow. I know, that sounds corny, but it's true. There is no losing here in the Pits, there's only dying. Winning, if you're one of those "nice thoughts" people. And, if you're good enough to kick around long enough to realize, you do fight to see another day. To see the sunlight creep on through the barred window in our miserable little haunt...it's a sight like no other. Anyway, yeah, we got sentenced to fight because we fought those who you don't mess with, and now we're making some high-end military clown some good, solid coin. It's a little twisted, but it's not like we got some other choice...the sponser is everything, here at the Coliseum. You fight whoever he tells you to fight, else you end up outside, with a stick up your arse. I may be a professional fighter, a tough guy if you will, but the very thought of that...well, let's just say I'm not all that mad at myself about having to swallow my pride. I'm not one to pat myself on the back, but the two of us?...we were damn good at what we did, but we weren't stupid. Hell, I was entering my fifth season in less than a month, and boss, he had to've been hitting his fourth right behind. And you just didn't last that long by being stupid. Sometimes, you just got to let it all build up, and save it for that special, rainy day. The time'll come soon enough for release. That was my drive anyway, and it got me through the days.
#3 zombiegleemax Nov 09, 2003 4:57:46	My roomate knew me about as well as anyone, and left me to my thoughts. He was like that...a helluva guy. I threw the blanket aside and set my feet on the freezing cold stone floor, for that first blast of a new day, and began my daily ritual of stretches. I had been signed up for an evening fight, and I needed to stretch these battered old bones into place. The cuts were nothing to me at this point in my career, mere scars that helped relay the stories that make up my Past. Women seemed to be into them, but, you know, to me, they came, they went or stayed, but they were easily forgotten. Broken bones, on the other hand, now they were a different story. My left arm, my shield arm, had been broken twice, officially, but I put that number up around a half dozen. It's the price you pay in this kind of life, especially considering all those times you get pitted against some gronk of a man wielding hammers that weighed half your body weight. But I gotta say, those bones, even though they've been treated by some of the best healers in Falkovnia (a fringe benefit from being a stable champion), the pain never really goes away. You just learn to deal. Stretching, while it sometimes aggrivates such injuries, helps me realize just what my role is in this hellhole. I'm here to fight, no two ways about it, and if I'm not on top of my game, then I get the mass burial. And while I don't think I'd mind, considering that I would've left this place for the next, I'd rather not give them the pleasure of such an inservice. Yeah, sometimes you just can't let them break you, no matter how hard they try. I tell you what, it really gets to them when they don't get their boots shined by somebody's tongue. And sometimes, that's better than blading them a new smile. Outside, through that little oh-so-familiar window, I could see a light snow falling...my joints would pay toll within the hour. Not that there was anything I could do about it. Being broken is better than being dead. I smiled to myself through the pain, my dearest of friends, and continued prepping myself for the day's events. Such is Life as I knew it. I couldn't really complain.
#4 zombiegleemax Nov 11, 2003 1:28:03	If it's one thing that I've learned while rotting in that dump, it's that fight time came real quick. After stretching, I ate a huge morning meal (another benefit that comes when you make your sponsor sickly-rich), after eating I read, and after reading I ate what could've been my last meal. Roast pork and potatoes. My request. Funny thought that, but one that a fighter has to take into consideration: I could die any day, any night, in any fight. It was the nature of the Beast, plain and simple. So you might as well scarf down the food that you're into, if at all possible. Some intense exercise followed, then it was go time. The hard rapping at our cell door spoke loud and clear. It always did. With a final bending crack of my neck, I nodded, and put a fist out to my roomate. "If you see it, go for it...", we said, same time. It was our ritual, between the two of us, and it represented two things. First, it meant to go for the kill, straight up. Second, it meant that if the opportunity came while being escorted to the arena to make a break, then go for it. Balls to the wall, no fear of Death. Of course, this was on the down low; no sad sack of a guard knew what the words really meant. The fact that we weren't piked on the road leading into Lekar backed that up. A final nod, and our farewell was done. My stare cowered the boy soldiers detailed to me, and I took my first step out and away from my cell. It was pure ritual, and my smile was legit. There's something about fighting that's a turn-on. And not just fighting, that lifestyle. I mean, I fought, I feasted, I trained like an animal, I got laid...what more could a man ask for? Well, outside of killing his captors. I thought about it then and there, in the middle of the torch-lit tunnel, but I never gave into the urge. It wasn't time for that. Not then anyway. I just wanted to fight. To train for that special day that I was talking about earlier. I may've been in the upper ranks there at the Coliseum, but I wasn't quite ready for the breakout that I had in mind. You see, it wasn't just the lackeys that needed to die, it was the Hawk. The Kingfuhrer himself. And word was that he would be watching the upcoming fight. He popped in every now and again, no doubt whenever he wanted to see some particular execution. Maybe even just to see Death dance. From what I understand, he knows the dance well... Anyway, I had a plan that was going to be laid out. That night. In front of everyone. The ripple was going to be fun to watch.
#5 zombiegleemax Nov 11, 2003 2:12:32	[FONT=arial]
#6 zombiegleemax Nov 12, 2003 4:07:57	The corridor leading from my cell sloped, ever so gradually, upwards and out. It was an intentional maze, come to think of it. Torches crackled in their sconces, their sum?, just enough to pepper the long walk with light. You probally had...maybe five feet of visual. Not much, but enough. A part of me always thought that it was because none of our escorts wanted to catch the Killer's Stare, and be at the wrong end of a righteous fit. That's what happens when you slave and abuse thinking beings. They snap, eventually, and when they go wild...they go wild. The younger soldiers never realized this until too late, the veteran soldiers...they were smart enough, and were probally reminded by some sort of appropriate disfigurement, to assign escort duty to those under his command. Those who knew no better. The smell...the smell was one of human waste, blood, and sweat. It was overpowering, but over time, you tended not to gag like you did on day one. It took some while getting used to, but you did get used to it. But whatever...the place was hard on the eyes, and it stunk of us. Just before you get to the actual arena, you have to pass, what was it?, three checkpoints, all muscled by three boy soldiers and a Talon, one of the Hawk's elite officers. The Talons were all megalomaniacal ragers, and they "earned" the respect (for lack of a better word) given to them by those that were crushed beneath the soles of their boots. They were bred for war, and every day was some psychotic drill that they practiced on the masses. Wherever and whenever they saw fit. The people couldn't do anything about these guys; they were the Law. What they said, was. And if you fought that, well...you'd be lucky, extremely lucky, to end up my roomate. Or, practice dummy. I seen it happen, been a part of the process...too many times. I could write a damn book on the people that came and went...in my first year alone. The faces become a blur after you force yourself to stop caring, but at the same time, the blur was a constant. There was no slack whatsoever. It was ridiculous, but it happened. What could I do about it? Fear is both your ally and your enemy, and the Talons played the former to a tee. It was their timeless strategy, and it worked. It always did. Falkovnia was (and, unfortunately, still is) an oppressed state to say the least, and the people were just too afraid to make things right, to stand up as one and give the Hawk one helluva insurrection. You see, Fear was their enemy, it always was, and it pummeled them everytime. Stupid, stupid bunch...how many black eyes and busted noses will it take before they snap and get what they deserve? How many graves can be dug before the shovel breaks? How many times must a mother bury her flesh and blood?, a man his wife? It saddens me now, but not back in those days. Personally, I never had any problems, any real run-ins with those goons, the Talons...well, up to that night. That night turned out to be better than I could've ever imagined. I clipped my first Talon, and I clipped him good.
#7 zombiegleemax Nov 12, 2003 7:37:50	((Title's been changed to The Unwonted Soldier because I now got new direction. Story'll still be on the fly, but it'll be anchored. I hope...))
#8 zombiegleemax Nov 18, 2003 2:48:28	Barely hidden beneath a suit of heavy plate armor, armor designed to strike fear into any and all enemies, he stepped out from the wall with a hand up to stop me. He was a big man, and he moved like a pro. The other soldiers did nothing to conceal their little game of chuck. In fact, I could hear them roll dice on the floor as boss stepped into me. "Halt! Name und geschäft, hund..." he growled, from deep within that hawkish helm that they're so proud of. "I'm here to fight, what do you think? I don't walk around this place for the sights and sounds..." I replied, feeling a little playful. A part of me was probing for a fight, I gotta be honest. Afterall, it's what I did for a living. It was hard to turn off sometimes. His eyes became bloodshot and bulged almost out of their sockets. This man wasn't used to such insubordination. A mailed fist came out and clipped me upside the head. Another caught me square on the jaw. I played the role and exaggerated a wince that was worthy of any theatre-goer's applause, I have to admit, and stumbled backwards to the cold, damp floor. A well-made boot (that stunk of puke for some "strange" reason) began to crush my throat. Why would a professional fighter take a dive like that? Simple; I fed his ego by doing so; he was a man again, in front of those charged to him. He had every right, as a Falkovnian officer, to cut me to bloody pieces for such an act, but he didn't give in. I made him want to inflict pain on me, to break me open in front of the boy soldiers. Also, a big part of me wanted to take the beating...while making my little statement of disprespect. It was just the way of the Coliseum in those days. That, and it doubled as some good, solid prep work for the arena. "I'll ask you once more, hund, and you'd better answer me, or I'll have your pitiful arse dragged to the Central Prison and violated... Ihr name und geschäft." All the man wanted was my name, and the reason why I was walking the corridor, but I was being difficult. I couldn't tell you why, I just played the antagonist somedays...especially on those days that I was scheduled to fight. On those days, you didn't know what you said until you said it, or, sometimes, what you even did, before you did it. The blood was pumpin', and oftentimes took possession. A long couple of moments ticked by. But before I could agitate the man further, one of the boy soldiers that walked me to that checkpoint stepped in and presented my papers. Well, his orders. From my "sponsor". Silence befell the Talon as he read the soldier's standing orders, and he growled after reading the last written word, as he was forced to swallow his pride. He crumpled the note, and fired it back to the soldier. He'd have no real fun with me. The officer whom I fought for was a man of no little standing, and on a single look, he could make this dungeon-dweller disappear in broad daylight without so much as a raised eyebrow. The Talon knew this; rumors run rampant through barracks, and he took a step back to allow me to pass...but not before blasting me in the face with a good, sharp kick. You understand, he had to at least try and save face. And what better way than a nice 'ol abusive kick to the chops? I did well to hide my smile, to mute my conversation with my dearest of friends, and pushed myself to my feet. The fight must go on, and it did. ...I'll get back to that guy in a bit.
#9 william_cairnstone_dup Nov 24, 2003 8:55:18	I am really interested to know the rest of the story. Will it ever come, Man in the Murk ? W.C.