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Post by Dagothkitty on May 21, 2008 15:11:50 GMT -5
Go ahead and make your Entry OG, I'm too lazy to do mine yet. :-(
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Post by OGRenderence on May 23, 2008 20:29:12 GMT -5
Gordon checked his things one last time. He had made sure that his iron longsword was sharpened, and that his primitive wooden shield was strapped correctly to his arm. He didn't need the wooden target on his arm really. It was just there for looks. He pulled three potions from his alchemy bag and applied one to his blade.(Drain Fatigue) The other two were a restore magicka and the other restore health.
Gordon, knowing that he was finally ready, stood up and walked up the ramp and into the gated area.
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Post by Dagothkitty on May 23, 2008 20:54:15 GMT -5
The sand was in his eyes. Again.
Lampus loved the sand of Vvardenfell, it was more of a muck. This sand was coarse, ancient, withered. This sand had once been saturated with blood. It knew many things, it saw downfalls, upsets, victories, and misery.
Lampus wondered how the grain would remember his match, coming up. The sand, which they would be fighting on, the only object that would live for eons, to remember.
Yet, this match is unimportant. It was a Pitdog match, a match between recruits; greens. This match would not be remember. Poets would not write the combatans moves down on paper; recall the blood spilled.
Beggars and gamblers will exagerate the tale over a mug of ale at a pub to the youth. They might remember it, perhaps they would dram of becoming a combatant in the arena. but if that ever happened, they would not remember the names, the victor, the purpose.
Just a show.
Yet it was needed; without the first match cornertstone, nothing could be built. it would take work, and time, and bloodshed. But it would come.
He ran the whetstone down one more time. Sparks jumped from the steel, landing in the cold sand of the arena. He ran his finger down the edge. Blood erupted from the skin, falling in a drizzle to the sand.
"Sharp enough." Lampus muttered.
He tied his rainment tightly. Lampus did not like the suit, but before long he would no longer need it. Time... time...
He closed his eyes. He had meditated on the fight multiple times, but is one thing to dream of something, and then actually live it. He was ready.
With a confident stride, he made his way up the blood stained ramp to the arena. No cheer echoed down the halls; no clank resounded from the impact of boot to floor.
All was quiet.
The announcer noticed the emergence of both combatants and stumbled to the balcony, ready to announce the match,
"Two greenhorns, fresh from the brutal world, ready to battle for fame and glory! Lower the gates!"
Lampus breathed in, and drew his claymore.
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