A Champion's Heart, Part I

Be advised: violence and gore described within

"Welcome Warriors, one and all, to Meurthurgard Colosseum's Annual Games!

Watch our Warriors wrestle and clash with every race and beast!

Wager on who wins, lives, dies, or is mauled and mutilated!

Or, for the dauntless among you, volunteer in the games or even challenge the reigning Champion of 7 years: Holg, The Limb-Lopper!"

Holg sat in the southern antechamber in the Colosseum, known to locals as the Reigning's Roost, and was still called so despite Holg having killed the Dragon's child it was named for. Seven years had passed from that fateful day when he had only just become a man, the day he was 'given' to the Colosseum to cover his father's debts. Seven years he had spent killing to stay alive, though this year had fewer matches for him than last. A new run of fools had joined the games, leaving only three men who could have challenged his title, and only one of them had the nerve to face him.

Until today. Today was the annual Games when the first harvests had been finished and the second planted. Today, Men, women, and children of every race would be gathered, flush with money to spend. Today, three men had died to a singularly vicious beast from the Southern Wilds in the morning. The fourth man sent in had proven himself against the beast, however, and was now feasting with the audience, celebrating his victory.

Holg knew what would come next. The brave, the foolish, the destitute, and the drunks would be asked if they would fight him. He expected some 10 or 12 would accept, probably less with the war in the East and the harvest having been plentiful if their gruel was any clue. What he didn't know was what the challenge would be. Last year's surprise was a full-grown bear allowed in when only Holg and two challengers remained. Holg was lucky the two had the sense to help him kill the bear before they attacked him, though they still left him with a fresh scar over his back at the end. He'd been told it would have killed him had he been any slower in dodging the blade.

The shrill call of the horns broke his reverie. Standing, he adjusted his pauldron, checked his greave and helmet, a barbute, and grabbed his weapon. It was an uncommon choice in the Colosseum, a glaive. Standing almost nine feet tall, seven in the wax wood haft with more than a foot of broad, thin steel atop, sharp enough to shave hair and limbs on one side. It was precisely because of his choice of weapon Holg was given so little armour, just passable protection in the attack but leaving from his knee to nipple on his right side exposed, while his left side and back were utterly unarmoured. His only choice was to attack or die.

As he came to the gate between him and the sands, he immediately noticed the surprise twist for this year. What should have been a floor of sand with some blood spatter and entrails was knee-deep mud and bog, with a rock in the center, just large enough for even a Dragon's child to stand on. Whoever reached it first, had a literal head and shoulders advantage in this match.

And so the gate rose, and Holg and seven others rushed as best they could for the rock. Two men were clearly drunk, barely running two feet before falling face-first into the thick slime on the floor. One Lizard, man or woman, it was hard to tell, was moving far faster than everyone else, their scales well suited to gliding in and out of bogs. Holg struggled, his people's long-limbed and heavy build leaving his every step a fight through the sucking mud, even before a contender began trudging towards him. Holg considered ignoring the stocky creature but, seeing the Lizard reach the rock, focused on him again.

It was a Cave dweller. All 5'3" of it was rippling muscle and four arms to watch for attacks. Almost thankfully, two arms held shields virtually half its height around, and two swords peaked out from its personal shield wall. The Cave dweller should have no other amour to protect itself, but how to get behind it? Holg swung the butt of his glaive at the shields, testing if they were strapped on or held in the center, as all Colosseum shields had a boss to trick the opponents. Its guard gave ground, indicating it had a central grip. All Holg had to do was keep his distance and force the shields apart, no easy feat in the mud. Opting for speed, Holg swung down at the Dweller's guard, the glaive’s blade wedging itself in the right-side shield, and twisted with all his strength to pull it away from its owner. Succeeding, he swung the butt into the Dweller's face, leaving him open to a return swing with the blade, shield still stuck fast. It connected, much of the thin wooden shield shattering as it crashed into the Dweller's face, and the glaive slashed across its brow, blinding it with its own blood.

Holg began moving away, happy to allow the creature its life. He did not, after all, enjoy the killing and avoided it where he could.

Scanning the field, He saw the Lizard was not of the same mind, as it bit and ripped the throat free of a third contender, two more already dead in the same way near the rock. Amazingly, one of the drunkards had pulled himself free of the bog's deadly embrace and was winding his way to the rock. His counterpart, however, had not moved from where he fell and was likely to die soon if the match did not end swiftly. Holg looked over his shoulder to check that the Dweller had given up, and seeing that it had, he hurried to protect the drunken fools from themselves.