Our swords cross, the rust off his creating sparks making it difficult to see. I remain calm . . . Know yourself, your surroundings and your opponent.
I’ve always been the smallest of my peers. I have never commanded respect from any of them. Birthed to a place where the strong survive and only the brave are remembered, in their opinion I am neither. Nor do I want to be. Lord. A title, no, a name, given to those who are more. More than just barbarians, more than just beast, in my eyes more than Gods. The pit . . . Contrary to name, is an above ground battlefield for our generation. Under yellow or white light can war be waged. This playground is covered with soul dyed sand, the bodies of our legendary fallen only blossom different shades of red leaves and flowers. Only the breath of our fallen lords speaks here, more of a relaxing whisper to my ears. The pit . . . An island, a strong swim from our motherland. We are abandoned here until we are strong enough to return home. Some, cowards, have chosen to remain here and dominate the young. Easy kills for those who are too scared to return home. Others never make it back, killed in senseless battle, starved or gone mad from the lack of visiting the fallen. This is the belly of the beast of which the young call home. Only two exits exist, every warrior must choose . . . The gates of heaven or the gates of hell. You can choose to lay down your armour weapons and walk through the gates of heaven; death. To join our fallen as their slaves in the never planes. Heaven. Or fight, never lose, never stop till you are ready to return to hell and fight for the glory. Too far to witness but just near enough to hear. The whispers of the fallen speak of screams and roars. Hell . . . Our motherland. Guarded by a sapphire blue which mirrors that of the sky, constantly moving, changing and crashing like it has provoked an eternal battle with itself. Sad. I like to witness it, just sit and watch. I feel its pain sorrow and jealousy that it can never be the sky.