The Roses of Deathby MogMaster
Siegfried walked out into the light, which radiated through the open roof of the arena. All around in the stands, droves of people sat cheering, jeering, and being excited in general. The air was thick with the electricity, which only two thousand people could make. Yet Siegfried was calm as still water, and as deep as it. The outside world was nothing to the tall man wrapped in blue cloaks. Thoughts of his own circled through his head as the crowds began to stomp their feet in anticipation of the bloodshed that was sure to come.
A deep pool of water, with a beautiful wooden bridge running over it. It was an arc over the deep blue. The intricate patterns of flowers carved into the wood reflected off the surface of the water creating a second hazy bridge. Around it were beautiful gardens of flowers: purple, pink, deep red. All was still, save for a few ripples on the ponds surface as fish came to snatch bugs of the surface. It was good.
Then there was reality. It came rushing back almost as fast as the monk was charging toward him. But it hit harder, for the monk never touched him. Siegfried quickly drew his long curved blade from its scabbard and impaled the foolish monk on the force of his own charge.
He had no Business fighting me.
Siegfried examined the man as he slid down the blade into the dirt. He wasn't ugly. He had deep brown eyes that now glazed over and short black hair held up with a headband. Below his muscled, bare chest he wore baggy green pants, now turning shades of red from the blood dripping on them. Siegfried looked into his eyes and saw fear.
Not worthy either for that matter.
A woman screamed and Siegfried pulled his blade from the mans stomach, causing a lump of intestines and blood to fall out the back of him. He fell back into the dirt, open eyes staring at the sun, and a red pool forming under him. For a moment Siegfried saw the flowers in the blood of the same color. Then they were gone.
He has found his peace...but where is mine?
The large man turned back toward the door and sheathed his sword. As he walked back into the Colosseum he ignored the multitude of people screaming after him, in praise, and hate.
Why do they hate me? Is it because I do not lose? Or is it because the champion makes no claim that he loves them?
He shrugged away his own question and started back towards his rooms. He knew his prize would be delivered shortly.
Heh, I wonder where a lightweight like that got a hold of a prize like that?
When he got to his room, Siegfried pulled out his sword and sat on his bed. The blade was covered in thick red blood, and he knew it had to be cleaned. He sighed and went to work.