Furion lay down on the stone-hard mattress that was given to him below the gladiatorial arena, Termáre Dagor, the Battlestand. He had gotten up to stretch for a bit, just to loosen himself up, when he noticed the translucent light pouring in through the barred window in the corner of his forced abode. It was already morning, and the human inside the cell-like room had barely gotten any sleep. A heavy yawn escaped from parted lips as he closed his eyes, wishing that all of it would go away and he could have a decent meal. However, he knew that there would be more bloodshed and fighting today; which happened to be the only thing that got him to wake up in the mornings. This particular morning, Furion was the polar opposite of lucid; he was paranoid, tired, lusting for blood. To tell the truth, the old battledog was beginning to go crazy after years of imprisonment and relentless fighting. He was coerced to fight sometimes more then three fights in a row by the owners of the battlestand, leaving him a tattered, battered, and bruised mess.

The old Furion seemed so far away; the one that could go outside and play with the children of his village, the one that could go without killing someone. He now had become a gladiatorial beast, despising what happens to him, but going along without the need to convince or persuade, and his new lust for blood was getting worse and worse. His jumbled thoughts were abruptly interrupted to loud, careless dominated tanner banging on his metal door. “Get up, it’s nearly time for the first match to begin!” The shouting was gruff and deep, a voice that Furion was beginning to like. Every time he heard it he would get to go out and fight someone, regardless of how hurt or exhausted he was. The warrior struggled up to his feet and shuffled over to the far wall, where his sword and sheathe were hung crudely, his feet making small noises on the stone floor. His right foot was bleeding from a chipped off piece of stone, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Furion grabbed the sword’s handle with his rough hands and shoved it into the holder now buckled onto his left side. His garments needed cleaning, but he knew that it wasn’t ever going to happen. He heard the roar of the crowd above him as he walked out into the congested passageway of slaves and gladiators alike doing their business. As he slid between different people, he could not help but keep his hand on his weapon. For some reason this morning, his blood lust had gotten out of control. His eyes had begun to turn read, and he was looking paler then before. He shielded his eyes feebly from the raging sun in the sky; it was another scorcher of a day that felt like fighting in Hell’s Oven. He staggered on in the raging heat, while a searing wave of heat blasted into him in the form of a wind, threatening to almost topple him over. Looking up into the stands, he could not help but recognize the architect of the entire place. It was extremely large; and oval shaped. The arched building was layered with rows and rows of stone seating for its rather large audiences.

The raging crowd cheered him on and booed him at the very same time, making it hard to tell if they wanted him to win the fight or loose miserably and be slaughtered viciously in the process. A scowl was presented on his unshaven face, the full beard compromising the solar-like heat, much to Furion’s distress. Without taking his hand off of the sword hilt, he walked out into the middle of the arena slowly, attempting to stagger on before he collapsed. This was usually how he was before a match; paranoid, crazed, demented, tired, sloth-like, and weak. However, when he got into the movement of things, his skills increased about twofold, gaining strength, dexterity, stamina, and power. He stood there for about ten minutes, shoulders drooping wearily, arms hanging low to the ground, and slightly hunched; with that blood-lusted look in his eyes. The blood on his sword was still there, stinking and shining, acting like a second coat to attempt to soften the blow. Unfortunately, it didn’t work like that. The blood was basically permanently encrusted onto the blade after months of not clearing it off. Once everyone was seated and comfortable, a hush went of the raging crowd, silencing them and comforting Furion’s now roaring migraine headache.

In a loud, courageous voice, a servant announced, “Presenting to you, the public, the always humble and just, Tylar Dagor!” The crowd cheered and whistled, applauding the alleged ‘nice’ Tylar Dagor. He just smiled and raised his hands, signaling for the applause to stop. He was dressed rather nice today; clad in a stunning crimson and black cloak with a leather strap to serve as the belt, and a gem-encrusted necklace that only the rich and aristocratic could afford. “You are all too kind, you flatter me. But the real reason that you are hear are to witness the undefeated Furion, the Warloving in combat! Am I right?” Furion had to brace himself for this and covered his ears, rubbing his temples at the same time with his pointer fingers to help soothe himself while the crowd came back to its former stature, whooping and hollering without letting up. “You hear that, Furion? You have a fanbase!” All the while that Tylar addressed him, the Warloving would not leave his blood-driven gaze from the current announcer; the one that caused him so much pain and suffering.

“Now, is there anyone in the stands currently that would like to fight this machine?” Hundreds of people stood up and flexed their muscles and took off their shirts, showing toned bodies, but none that could match Furion’. Completely at random, Tylar picked one of the better looking competitors, saying, “All right, you over there. Why don’t you go on down there?” The match was about to begin, and the human warrior could not help but let a cruel smirk snake its unforgiving way across his tanned, scarred face. The bloodlust had driven him to the point that he was going to collapse, but all of that was forgotten now as it began to fuel his fire, so to speak. He flexed and cracked his knuckles, neck, and back wickedly, and could not get the grin to come off of his face. This…will be… gruesome and bloody, I think I am going to like it… he thought to himself…

Dust whirled through the arid, circular stadium, and at once Issith was back in Sevhan; wind-swept sandstone towering about her, slaves trailing behind their naga masters, bent from years of surface and scorched brown from the sun—dirty, but flesh roasting, and smelling so delectable! Like roast beast over a fire. This morning in the arena was hot, but in her homeland, 'hot' was the kind of weather one donned an extra cloak for, to battle the chill. Scorching temperatures were the norm. The sun was so hot that, after a few minutes of sun-bathing, a slave touching her scales would be instantly burned. What fun! But, unfortunately, this seemed to be the highest Ardian temperatures could reach. Issith was somewhat used to the weather on this continent, but still pulled her cloak about her as wind swept by, playing with her white, silky locks.

It was a week past that the naga discovered Termare Dagor, the Lomedor battle stand. It was a quaint thing; large by human standards, but dwarfed by the massive pits back home, where slaves and nagas alike fought daily. And nightly. It seemed something was always going on in the pits. She'd spent a good many days of her life there. So, it was here that she reminisced about her past, and the sworn vengeance against her sister, the high priestess. This was her fourth time spectating. It wasn't any different from the others. The naga sat in the closest row of stone seats, coiling her tail in front of her with a displeased look on her face. Not because she didn't enjoy the fighting. This was decent entertainment. What caught her mind were thoughts of home—vengeance or otherwise. She wanted to go back, but couldn't. Not until she got stronger.

The match was beginning. The crowd around her broke into a chorus of cheers and boos, depending on their current mood, as a gladiator made his way into the sandy arena. The naga perked up at his approach. She knew him before the announcer's bellowing. Furion. The name could have been given by his mother or the announcer. Either way, that was his name here; a powerful one at that, given his success in the battles. He was undefeated.

The battle stand's announcer, Tylar Dagor, was shouting again—oh, was he ever obnoxious! Issith turned her slit eyes to him, her frown deepening. Damned ignorant human! Would you shut up and start the fight? She growled in her mind. The naga came here to watch blood shed, not listen to the bafoon's rambling. But, soon he bellowed something of interest. “Fight Furion?” She echoed, looking down at the man in the pit, covered in grime and scars, emanating a near palpable layer of blood lust. The naga was a fan of the human, even if she'd never admit it. He was quite the fighter. A worthy opponent for her, even. And wasn't there gold involved for the winner?

It was decided. She lifted herself at that moment, turning to the announcer. There must have been at least a thousand spectators in the arena, hundreds of which proving their strength through stripping and pathetic shows of strength. The naga shook her head. “In Sevhan, at least the men had something to show when they undressed.”

While the battlemage mused to herself, the announcer apparently found a likely contender. Not a moment later, the burly young hopeful was making his way down one of the aisles, waving to the audience he was no longer part of.

“Thank you, thank you! Furion's going down—that's for sure! I'm twice his size!” He flexed as he walked. “I served under General Tulkus in the war!” He produced a medal from his pocket's depths. “My beard's longer!” He stroked it thoughtfully. Then, something wrapped around his legs, and he fell face first onto the stone steps and was knocked unconscious. Issith pulled her tail back from around him and took his place, slithering down the ramps. The crowd's shouts died down to a chorus of whispers. The naga removed the mace from her side and jabbed it towards the sky. “I, Issith of Sevhan, will be Furion's opponent!”

The crowd went wild. Issith bared her teeth at the noise and wished she'd said nothing.

Tylar Dagor was unfazed. “Weeeell, it looks like we've found ourselves another contestant! And boy is she feisty! Issith of Sevhan versus Furion the Warloving! Could this be the end of Furion's winning streak? Is the naga all talk? Who knows! But, one thing's certain: we're soon to find out!”

She was sliding through the pit's sands a moment later. Her weapon's handle was wrapped with leather and battered, obviously seeing much use. It's flanged top looked more like a flail's; metal tips, like dozens of tiny, iron arrow tips, jutted from its head. A blow to the skull with the weapon would undoubtedly end in death.

Issith stopped a few yards from the man. Her form was quite tall, raised to six and a half feet, but built lithely, as even in working out as often as she did, her build would never resemble a man's. White cloth flapped against the sandy-hued scales of her tail, as wind dipped through the colosseum. Her yellow cloak followed lazily. A terrible grin touched her lips.

“Your death is near, Furion the Warloving.”

With the speed of a striking snake she shot forward, propelling her tail and body forward. Her mace was extended, and then held back, only to swing horizontally at the man's chest and shoulders. The end of her tail was quick to follow around, lashing at his legs from the right in an effort to constrict him; a devious and efficient tactic, really, considering the strength of her tail's scales. They'd protect her from nearly any blunt weapon, and most slashing types. She continued to strike with her cudgel, set on taking a chunk from the man with one devastating blow.

Furion grinned slyly at the thought of the picked man tumbling down the stone theatre steps. However, as soon as he fell, another took his place. “I, Issith of Sevhan, will be Furion's opponent!” This… Issith, is odd… She must be a land naga… very fierce, I must be careful… echoed throughout his paradox-like mind while he thought about it for a few seconds. She seemed completely unfazed by the extreme heats of the Battlestand, which surprised him, because he figured that naga would be sensitive to the sun. The annoying Tylar announced it out half-heatedly, obviously doubting her capabilities. However, Furion didn’t… With the very same idea emanating from his body, he turned his inhuman gaze towards her as she made her way down. His eyes flickered up and down, looking at his opponent fatefully. She stood taller then him, having been around six and a half feet at the very least. She was not overly muscular, but definitely not weak. She had a sense of battle radiating around her, which made the naga seem even more deadly. A grin made its way onto her face, while her dusty-toned tail slithered behind.

She had white clothing on at the moment, and her eyes reminded him of the wheat that his village had farmed and harvested all of those years ago. Her hair was alabaster white, shining brilliantly in the sun that was hanging in the sky. Her slithering tail looked fearsome and powerful, which just happen to be Furion’s trump traits. He could sense himself becoming scared of this fearsome woman, and needed reminding of just who he was. I am… Furion the Warloving… I have killed more than I can count, and she shall make an excellent addition… I need not be afraid of one of her likes… for I am… Furion, the Warloving… His shoulders rolled back and then down into place, still hunched over with his long, tanned arms hanging down. He struggled over to his right, where the new combatant was entering the fighting arena. Her weapon was a fearsome sight to behold, however, being obviously used before in combat. It was much like a mace, but the head of it convinced him otherwise.

One strike from it would mean the end… She obviously was strong, but not nearly as quick, or so Furion thought. That very same terrible grin glanced across her womanly-lips as she told him an alleged prophecy that he had heard many times before… “Your death is near, Furion the Warloving.” With extremely surprising agility, she shot forwards out of her stance with the mace and her tail slithering quickly behind. She was able to be compared to that of a spear that the Warloving one had thrown back in his childhood, hissing uncontrollably through the thin, arid air. The mace was extended, but quickly swung back to gain better momentum. While all of this was happening, the raging crowd settled down for the fight, and Furion looked unfazed. He stood as he had stood; lifeless and crazed. With renewed speed and ferocity, she reared the mobile killing blow towards his left shoulder. His eyes flicked downwards to see the speeding tail trying to sweep him off of his feet or something within that category. She was intelligent; able to think off of her feet… or tail, so to speak. Abruptly, the Warloving one began to make his move. His right hand shuffled agilely to his sheathed warsword, withdrawing it in one sweep.

Moving like greased lightning, the gladiator slid off to Issith’s right, dodging the tail blow for now and the mace in one movement. As he slid like a specter he had the time to whisper coldly to Issith, “It is…your death… that the crowd will witness… accepting it will just make it that much easier…” his voice contained a hidden entity of darkness unknown to himself. It was as if death actually resided in his voice, chilling the bones of all around him. He continued his trek as he launched himself past Issith, everything zipping past his line of sight as he shot forwards. He continued his brief sprint until being about two yards away from his target, the naga, and pivoted sharply on his heels, hunching over shallowly again. The very same wicked grin flashed across his features as he held his sword with the point down, like a giant knife. He reared back on his heels again, and launched his entire body forwards with force surprising to all watching him intently. Just as he came near to the naga, he dropped down into a bend, and took a leap at her. This was a risky move as she could just turn around and smack into him with her killer of a mace, but could possibly end the fight.

His body was straight and true; flying higher then he expected so that his head was level with hers. Furion brought his weapon holding arm back and then drove it forwards, in an attempt to skewer her through, ending the fight and her life quickly and without pain. However, as he sailed through the air, intent on killing her, his mind completely blanked out. Within moments, he was back at his village, Speyr, in the battle that would shake the ages themselves. The Warloving one slew without mercy, killing more then all of his soldiers. As he did so, he could not help but wickedly grin, because he was enjoying every last second of it. That was when he mind-warped back into the present, with the crowd roaring out at him and sitting on the edges of their stone amphitheatre seats, waiting to see what would become of the self-proclaimed champion, Issith of Sevhan.