After his story-telling stint in the bar, Wurzag had stomped off back to his cell at the battle arena fully intending to collect his sword and back-pack and go in search of Taryn. It was all well and good having a couple of days to prepare for a journey if there were preparations that actually needed to be made. Wurzag was a firm believer in minimalist living, though this had a great deal more to do with the fact that he squandered all his money on drinks and food than a conscious life-style choice. He threw open the door and glanced around the spartan room, aware that this could well be the last time he would see it in awhile.

Happily, he had never really had a place to call home and so leaving this smelly little cell behind wouldn't exactly be a hardship. In all his years the only thing he had come to care about was the badly notched sword that rested against the wall in the corner of the room. He ambled over and picked the weapon up, its familiar weight and semi-keen edge his longest and most trusted companion.

It was the only thing his father had ever given him. Well, hadn't exactly given him, more surrendered to him. Well, not exactly surrendered, more forcibly taken from him. Still, it was the thought that counted. He'd been a hard bastard.

The half-orc shook his head to dislodge the unwanted memories and scooped up the ragged excuse for a back-pack from beside his straw pallet. This was his life. The weapon, the pack and the air in his lungs. Wurzag grinned and reflected a moment on what it was to be free. Others would say destitute, but the half-orc was an optimist; one mans poverty was another mans freedom. Still, a few scraps of armour would have been nice. Scars were all well and good but these days he tended to be more scar than skin and he wasn't getting any younger.

He was roused from his musing by a hesitant tap on the door. "Finally on your way are you?" The treasurer said by way of greeting.

"Yeah," Wurzag said with a shrug, "gonna go an mash me some undeads wiv a fella I met down da pub, dunno wen I'll be back."

The treasurer looked mildly relieved at the prospect of their least hygienic resident moving on. Something else seemed to be on his mind however. "You ah ... you wouldn't be needing any coin for your journey would you?" He asked as if the question terrified him.

Wurzag quirked an eyebrow at the usually tight-fisted treasurer and rubbed his chin. "Well yeah, you offerin' to lend us some cash den?" He said cautiously.

"Well ... um ... not exactly 'lend' no, um, but you could earn yourself a little cash before you left." The man gave a nervous smile, "if you're not to eager to be way that is of course ha ha ha!" The forced, nervous laugh revealed that something was definitely amiss here. Fortunately, Wurzag was oblivious to such warning signs and the prospect of some silver for the road was extremely attractive.

"Aright," he said with a grin, "you got a show need puttin' on or wot?" He threw the pack back down and ambled toward the door.

"Yes, yes, a ... show, your usual sort of affair, beat the other Gladiator, first blood should do it and um ... a tidy sum of cash for you."

"Sweet," the half-orc rumbled and stomped off in the direction of the pit. I wouldn't hurt to give the crowd one last show before he went on his way.

As he stepped out into the bright light of the arena he was greeted by thunderous applause. The crowd probably didn't have a clue who he was, but for now, he was their entertainment. Peering back through the iron bars that slammed shut behind him he spied the little treasurer, "'ow many am I fighin' den?" He yelled.

The treasurer cringed but seemed drawn by some impending sense of horror to confront Wurzag through the bars. "Just one," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "I'm ... I'm sorry."

"One," Wurzag snorted, "ain't gonna be much ov a fight den is it, wot dey gettin' all excited about?" He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the crowd.

"I don't think this warrior is entirely ... normal," the man said hesitantly. "He arrived this morning and demanded a battle, blood he said, and if no gladiator would present himself then he would take blood payment from me instead." Sweat ran in rivulets down the little mans face and he practically radiated fear. "I was so afraid ... I ... I had to do something, none of the other fighters would even show themselves," he began to weep.

Wurzag was confused; usually the promoters, treasurer and other pencil pushers who ran the arena were constantly on the look-out for new talent to grace the pit and keep things fresh. Now he was sounding like he did not want this warrior here at all. Behind him there was a clank and squeal of old metal as the opposite gate opened to admit his opponent. There was another bout of raucous appreciation which faded into a hush of anticipation. The sound of heavy, armoured steps crunched into the arena.

"Dun worry bout it, it'll be fine," Wurzag said with a shrug and then turned to face the newcomer. Though he would never confess to anybody, the half-orc was slightly taken aback by the sight of his foe and for a moment gave serious thought to the old orc strategy of tactical withdrawal.

The man had to be a head taller than himself and just as broad, though the whole of his body was covered in interlocking black iron plates and his face was hidden from view beneath a horned, iron helmet. The warrior held an axe so huge it looked like it could fell trees in a single blow. The most striking thing about the dark figure was the snarling lupine face worked into the chest plate of the armour. The eyes glimmered with malevolent force like the last pair of coals in a dying fire. Wurzag shivered despite the oppressive heat of the arena; those eyes seemed to look right through him, into the very fibre of his being. Not that there was very much there to see. The warrior hefted his weapon and advanced with slow, measured steps.

"Ah ... crap," Wurzag muttered and glanced over his shoulder at the retreating treasurer, "dis ain't to first blood is it?" He yelled, though he had a feeling he already knew the answer. With a resigned sigh he lifted his worn blade, muttered a few choice curses and charged.

His initial assault was surprisingly successful; the armoured bulk of his opponent worked in his favour as the warrior could not react swiftly enough to counter the half-orcs momentum. The massive axe parted the air in the spot Wurzag had occupied a second earlier and he rolled beneath his opponents guard, following the motion through with a swing that would have bisected a vulnerable torso. The attempt was thwarted by the fact that his foe was not vulnerable. The blade struck armour and slid away with a screech that made his flesh crawl.

"Bugger," Wurzag exclaimed in annoyance. Then the pommel of the axe swung back and caught him a blow beneath the chin. Orcish constitution prevented the battle from ending there and then as the force of the blow lifted him from his feet and sent him sprawling several feet away. Blood gushed from his split lip and he spat a tooth into the sand with a gobbet of gore. By some miracle his jaw hadn't broken. The half-orc staggered to his feet and tried to focus on his opponent, though his vision swam and refused to settle.

He heard rather than saw the next attack and threw himself backwards just in time to avoid a swing of the axe that would have crushed his chest like straw. Instead it opened a ragged wound across his mid-riff and shredded his already age-worn shirt. Despite the injury Wurzag countered with a blow intended to sever or at least cripple his enemies nearest arm. The sword once again scraped harmlessly from the thick iron armour and left the half-orc dangerously unbalanced.

His axe wielding foe seized the advantage and used the momentum of his previous attack to step in and deliver a gauntlet-clad punch solid enough to crack ribs. Wurzag grunted in pain and fell to his knees in the sand, gasping for breath. The roar of the crowd sounded like the drowning crash of a waterfall in his ears and his vision refused to clear; dark spots danced in front of his eyes and threatened to snuff out his fragile consciousness.

A pair of armoured feet appeared in his field of vision, standing directly before him and the roaring became abruptly muted in anticipation. In his minds-eye he could see the warrior standing over him, axe poised to deliver the killing blow. It would be aimed at his neck, designed to cleave head from shoulders in a single, murderous arc. For a moment though, it would leave the warrior vulnerable. That moment was now.

With all his strength Wurzag lurched erect, his old sword swinging upward with a force that would have split a man from groin to chin. This was no ordinary man however. The tip of the blade shrieked its way across the armour and clipped the chin of his helmet. The warrior remained unharmed but his head snapped back to reveal the pale flesh of his neck beneath. He was mortal after all, just a man. An incredibly strong and powerful man, but a man none-the-less.

And men could die.

The moment passed, the axe plunged, but back on his feet Wurzag was able to turn his body so that the terrible blade passed harmlessly past and buried itself in the sand. His own sword was too long to use effectively at such close quarters, so he opted for a different approach, allowed the momentum of his previous swing to turn the weapon in his grasp and then slid his hand down to grip it directly by the blade. His own blood whetted its edges as they bit into flesh but he was out of options and out of time, already the deadly warrior was recovering.

Wurzag stepped on to the axe haft and with all his remaining strength used it to launch himself into the air. As he leaped, he lashed out with a left handed punch that thumped into the warriors helm with a hollow clang and once again snapped his enemies head back so that his eyes were to the sky. Then, with all his considerable body weight behind it Wurzag drove the point of his sword into the helmet vision slit.

The blade punched through the rear of the helm with a scarlet spray that beaded the sand like jewels. Wurzag fell and rolled to the ground, the last of his strength spent, just in time to see the armoured bulk of his adversary topple. He found himself face to face with the leering, lupine visage worked into the chest plate, its coal red eyes looking into his with ageless malevolence.

"Bog off," Wurzag growled weakly at the face and closed his eyes in an attempt to control the blackness that threatened to engulf him. As if in response to his curse the crimson eyes flared into brilliant incandescence and a scarlet beam shot out to impale his forehead.

For the first time in his life Wurzag truly screamed.

White fire filled his veins with anguish and crawled across his flesh like snakes of refined agony. He jumped to his feet despite wounds and exhaustion and howled in pain and fury at the heavens. Vermilion steam boiled from his eyes and they slowly shifted from their natural black to blazing, bloody red. He saw nothing and felt nothing but the roaring red ruin that coursed through his mortal frame. Bleeding wounds cauterized in an instant as the boiling energies mounted to a crescendo, his mind was filled with images, one after another piling through his consciousness until he could see nothing but an endless gallery of war and destruction.

Abruptly the light went out. As swiftly as it had come the energy abated, reeled back into his being by some unknown command.

Wurzag toppled to the ground like a pole-axed mule and lay still.

The formerly crimson eyes in the dead knight's armour were cold and lifeless.