Snippet #2650729

The lids of a pair of eyes open in the dim cell which a lone soul occupies. A barely burning torch illuminates the room to reveal that it holds nothing but a bit of hay, and a chamber pot. Well...'chamber pot' would be the term she is instructed to call her bucket by her keeper. If she calls it 'the shit bucket', like she originally did, she gets...well, she suddenly does not feel like calling it how she naturally would anymore...

"...Whoa.." the voice echoed from her lips and around the vacant room. All except for the elf huddled on the floor with her back to the wall.
That could not have been a dream, could it? It certainly appeared to be a dream but it felt...different. It felt much more real than any other before and she could remember it too. All of it; every word, in fact, as if she just experienced it in the world of the conscious. How often does an event such as that happen in a lifetime? Certainly not often. Once? Maybe? What was different about this dream, though? It certainly took place in a bar so that is fairly normal for the imprisoned elf.

Was that Hans I saw there?

Hans Holst was a friend of her's. He helped out at a local tavern in a nearby major city and was one of the few people she had felt she could truly speak with. At least, before she got into the mess she obviously so is in right now...

She never dreamed of him, so that was a little unusual but nothing really strange. But, then it hit her what was completely unlike her in that dream!
She ordered a drink and FORGOT about it.

That settled it. It had to be, indeed, a dream like every other dream before it. It was way too inaccurate to be anything special.
The girl on the stone floor could not help, however, but feel bugged by it all the same...

The elf sits up. Her skin a delicate tan; her hair and eyes matching as brown and dark brown-respectively. Her tattered rags (or 'garb', as she is to call them) passing off for clothes fall uncomfortably on her shoulders as she sits up and forces her to adjust them to a somewhat less uncomfortable position. This is Danaria Feyn. A somewhat small package but do not let it fool you, she was once the infamous sell-sword, known on the outside as 'The Drunkard of Kes' for her heritage as a native to the Principality of Kes and a Tlamani elf-usually a very reserved and sober people. Now, she is simply known as:

"Thing! Chow!"

"Aye," she replied to her master behind the door as the food hit the deck. The dark-skinned Sivyne on the other side was Zilindar Kail, Danaria's master. A sadist by narrative of his subjects and one that lacked any house slaves for help with caring for his handful of fighters. All because he enjoys being the one to care for them. It allows him to micromanage...

"Master, do I have your permission to consume chow?" The food suddenly slides forward and becomes accessible.

...and instill as much discipline as he can.

As he moves down the center, passing out food to the other fighters, Kail begins addressing them at once. Mean while, dropping the rations and pushing them forward once the voices in the cells request his permission to eat.

"Good morning, fighters!"..."Master, may I consume chow?"..."Hope you had a good rest because we've got fights and practices! Like a whole new day! Isn't that great?!"

"Great, sir," everyone seemed to mindlessly respond.

Nobody shows much enthusiasm behind their forced answers. It is a normal day like any other. Practice all day if you do not have a scheduled fight and, if you do, sit out until after your fight. If you survive, you train with the others upon return while trying your best to avoid being noticed by Kail and his whip. He seemed to have some kind of unhealthy obsession with finding a fighter that he considered unruly and then punishing them for it. It was his way to keep everyone in line,
and it worked...

"We already had an early fight today, if you hadn't noticed Tumhathil was missing for a short time this morning. He went to hunt his own breakfast. Because he is actually worth something to me...."Master, may I have your permission to consume chow?"...Our lucky winners today are-in order from first to last: Pup-Chow, Riler, Viktommer, Boy, and Butch brings up the end with our final fight and one of the last ones. Great, Butch, we get to see you doing nothing ALL DAY today! Don't worry, you'll probably be bored so I'll be sure that you are occupied!"

Most get nicknames in the colosseum, and Kail's fighters were no exception, but he does not often like the names given to his fighters; these names which instill a sense of pride in those who own it. So, Kail does it differently. While some of his fighters have nicknames for specific reasons, they only seem to be the result of negative events or aspects of their lives. Even if they have a gladiator name, they are not to be called by it in the presence of their master. For example: 'Pup-Chow' got his from taking a rather harsh series of bites while facing off against two hyenas in the arena. 'Boy', earned his by standing up to Kail after he referred to him as 'boy' and he took offense. 'Butch'...

Danairia sighs at the news, "Aye, master..."

Butch was Danairia's name to Kail, though he more pronounces is as 'Bûtch'. She had earned it when she was called a bitch in training by her sparring partner. Having only recently started being broken by Kail, she felt way too stressed to deal with the guy and was not yet deprived of the majority of her dignity. She ended up being noticed when she won and proceeded to beat the man well past submission and into the floor. From then on, she was Bûtch to him and, for her first fight, given a machete that somewhat resembled a cleaver which Kail had happened to stumble across the day before at the blacksmith.

"The fun begins shortly, things!"

The crowd seemed to roar in delight to the man's comments, even if it was a fight going on before them. Thoom, the air roars as a flail of iconic proportions slams into the earth.

At least Black Hammer's having fun...