Dwarf 13: that was his designation. He could not remember if he ever had a proper name; but in the arena names mattered not. His two bronze eyes were all that could be seen through the slits in his sterling silver war-mask. His beard had been reduced to stubble through many old battles, the evidence of which lay clear to see on his throat. Among the old wounds was a massive curving scar, where a frenzied Tigerman had once ripped open his larynx. He sat out the following battle while untreated wound healed shut. He looked back at Dwarf 10, the only other remaining dwarf of the first draft and as experienced as he was, if not more. He gave him a toothy grimace and made a gesture towards the gate that would have been obscene but for the fact that he was missing the most important digit. He glanced at the Twins, Dwarves 53 and 54, but he was unable to determine whether the look on their faces was excitement or apprehension. They were relatively young; he considered them extremely lucky to have lasted so long. His tattered and blood-stained cloak flew back in a blast of hot air as the door opened to their next challenge. He tightened his grip and gritted his teeth. A deep red glow in the open portal before them grew until the outlines of their enemy could be made out. They took the shape of men, but appeared to be made of liquid fire. Bellowing a war cry, he charged in, his comrades swiftly following behind him. His once long hair turned an entirely new shade of burnt sienna as his axe came down in a blazing arc.
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Topic: Trial by Fire in the Arena (A Dwarf Story) (Read 1321 times)