Because all beginnings are some other ending…
"The Bloodworks. Aptly named."
"Aye, you can say that again." A massive Nordic man rumbled from beside him. "What's yer name Pit Dog? You fellers got names haven't ya?"
"Yeah, I'm Ralus. Ralus Immerian."
All around him, Fighters trained their blows against dummies, or shot against targets. The clash of steel on wood mixed with the muffled roar of the crowd put Ralus into a kind of dumbstruck awe.
"Immerian? Don't I recognize that from somewhere?"
"Oh, well perhaps, I am a poet of some small renown."
The mountain man smiled in a way that forced Ralus to question everything he had every thought about Nords. "That'd be it! My woman loves that poetry stuff—always reading it ta me—waste of time if you ask me."
Immerian shifted a little uncomfortably at this.
"Still, she'd love ta meet ya…that is if you survive." The way a man could speak so causally of death, it disturbed him.
"Um…yes, that would be wonderful. I'd love to meet a reader."
The Gladiator nodded at this and walked deeper into the Bloodworks. Ralus was now lost in an even deeper sense of awe. This place was so foreign to him, in so many ways. It bought him to thinking what lead up to him being here. Images of his wife cradling their starving child flashed through his mind unbidden, and he quickly damned himself for losing sight of priority. He was here to earn money—any way he could. If he couldn't do this, then his wife would have…to…the streets….
"Never!" He hissed through his teeth, suddenly alive.
"What was that Pit Dog? Something about mommy?"
Ralus whipped around, snarling at the Redguard.
He only smirked. "Oh, the Doggy bites?" Then, as if hitting a switch, he was grave. "Well let's see how hard. I need some meat to fight a slave from the Blue Team. You game, Doggy?"
This is it. "I'll fight."
"Fine. Looks like your suited up already, good. Grab a weapon, and head up to the gate. The doorkeeper will tell you when to go in." He moved to leave, then stopped himself. "Oh, and try not to die."
Ralus grunted, the verbal blows only strengthening his revived conviction. He calmly walked over to one of many armory niches in the expansive room. There was everything a warrior could want here—Longswords, shortswords, axes, hammers, maces, round shields, square shields, even a tower shield. He eyed the short blades, knowing they were the only things he could wield with any kind of speed. They were of poor quality, chipped iron every one, but they still very lethal. He selected one not so broken sword, hefting it, testing it with a few stabs.
Good enough…hopefully.
He found a small buckler and a dented guard-style helm, donned each. Now that he was armed, if poorly, he felt a little more comfortable in the subterranean death-pit. He walked towards the gates now, mentally reading himself. He passed the washbasin with a grimace. The water was stagnant, bloody and smelled, he wondered how such a pool could refresh fighters, even if they were delirious from battle.
"What do ya think of our water, Immerian? Eh? Does it fit your poetic tastes?" Ralus turned to see the towering Nord from before, grinning from ear to ear in a more devilish way this time. Ralus struggled for words.
"Oh no, poet, I can't expect you to understand now. Of course you don't understand the water, you've never used it. But don't worry, once you've seen battle, you will see the water as well."
"Yes, uh…of course." Ralus felt a wave of unease at the Nords knowing statement. He knew it was no joke, it was magickal. Even though magicka was very common in the civilized world of the Empire, it still made him desperately nervous. All that…unnatural…power, it was just creepy.
Ralus shook the though out of his head and remembered he was about to enter a fight to the death. Gripping his blade and shifting his buckler, he walked towards the doorkeeper. The man smiled. For a den of killers, these guys smile a lot.
"The fight out there's about won, we'll take the win." The crowd roared, stopping the doorkeeper. "You're new." It was a question, but more of a statement.
"Yeah, this is my first fight—I'm nervous."
"Naturally, it's a frightening prospect…"
"Yes, yes…"
Suddenly, the crowd roared with such a fierce intensity that Ralus was taken aback—even with the helmet on.
"Don't worry, you'll get used to it. Now you'll have to wait about a minute for the stewards to clear the body, and then your up. So head on out to the gates, and good luck!" The man opened the door with a smile, letting Ralus into the tunnel to the arena.
The doorkeeper's face was plastered on.
Damned Pit Dogs, the man thought for the thousandth time. Hate to see ones like that. So...weak. The word was like poison in his mind.
He'd used that line of encouragement countless times, for countless Pit Dogs coming to the slaughter. At least pigs knew not their fate in the meat house, but these fools came willingly. He despised them; they were everything he had always hated.
Everything I never could be.
"Good people of the Imperial City! Next up we have…"
It was fantastic, the light, the sound the….
"A vicious brawl between two fighting for everything they have…"
Standing at the gate to the arena, The Arena, it was beyond Ralus.
"A Pit Dog, risking life and limb for fame and glory…"
He saw people in the stands, looking intently at the gates—at him. It was crazy.
"And a slave, fighting for freedom, or die trying…"
It was…amazing. He hadn't felt this alive since the first night with his wife.
"Who will triumph? To which of them has fate dealt the winning hand? Let's find out! Lower the gates!"
Ralus was standing dazed when the gates crashed down in front of him. It took him a minute to remember here was here to fight—to kill—not to sight see. Quite the sobering thought really. He stepped into the arena cautiously, looking across the sands at his opponent.
It was a Dark Elf, as he stepped into the arena he held up his arm to shield his unaccustomed eyes against the sun. Hw was garbed in dirty light brown linens, with no top his toned flesh stood out like an Argonian in the Camonna Tong.
This is no slave, Ralus thought with suspicion.
The Dunmer put down his arm and looked at Ralus with eyes that saw everything with a glance. They bored into Ralus with a cold disgust so real it was as if Ralus could reach out and feel the hatred. He could feel the elf sizing him up, plotting out just how to kill him—it was unbearable.
Images of his wife with some pig noble flashed through his mind. That was all he needed.
"Come on, Ash-born, come! Come!" He yelled over the roar of the crowd as he steadily marched towards the elf. "Fight me, you whore of Azura!"
The Dunmer just stood there, staring at him. Waiting.
"Do you fear, you demon worshiping animal?" Ralus was getting closer now. "That's right, Animal! You're no mer, you're a filthy sonafah—"
Lighting poured from the Dark Elf's outstretched hand. Again. And again.
By the Nine! This is no slave! Ralus was frantically dodging lightning, but the third cast struck his blade. The shock was overwhelming, the blade burned in his hand before he flung it away out of impulse.
The elf had dashed the short distance between them, and as Immerian recovered from the shock of the blow the Dunmer was right in front of him. His hand darted out and griped Ralus's wrist painfully. He felt intense pain where the elf grabbed him, more than he should, and began feeling light headed. The elf leaned in and whispered into his ear.
"Just think, pig, you'll die here as a number. One of thousands to perish in the arena." The Dark Elf hissed in a low tone, but could still be heard over the roar of the crowd. "And your death wasn't even glorious, you die a nobody—your wife whoring herself out on the streets to feed a child you only thought was yours!"
Ralus heard the taunts as if from across the room. The elf threw away his wrist and stepped back, looking at him with a loathing grimace. Ralus was spent, he felt as though he hadn't eaten or slept in days. He watched through unseeing eyes as the Dunmer stepped forward and took hold of his jaw, pulling him to eye height.
With a maniacal laugh, the Ash-born cast lightning into his skull.
Doorkeeper didn't even blink as the crowd roared in feral ecstasy above him.
Damned Pit Dogs.