Star Wars RP

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Look Upon Me and Despair

Thal Mantis

They had sent a few measly slaves after him tonight. Almost a dozen- he had lost count after the sixth. They lay at his feet, dead in the sands they had filled The Cage with tonight. The last one, a weak-looking, pathetic Twi'lek man. Thal smiled, soaked in the blood of his previous victims. Slaves. They sent slaves to fight him. Thal twirled the axe in his hands, before launching it at his stomach. The hatchet found it's placement, right in the weak stomach of his.

Thal laughed along with the crowd. Thal screamed and threw his hands up, as the man lay dying. He ran around the edges of the arena, blood dripping from his face as he went.

The crowd, loved it. He loved their screams. He lived for it. He walked over to the Twi'lek, who was clawing at his stomach, going into shock. Thal crouched near him, his face soaked with the blood of the man's fellow slaves. They did not speak the same language- the slave below him spoke Twi'lek. Thal spoke not a word.

He assumed, however, he was begging for his life.

<"Beg all you want. But your death has come. Mine. Has not.">

He gripped the handle of his axe, and ripped it from the man's stomach. The crowd showered cheers, and laments from those who bet against him. He went up to the glass, slamming his bloody hands over it. He turned and stared at the camera, taunting those who enslaved him.


He dreamt of it every night. The eventual freedom he would gain. Not by buying his way out of it. Not by bargaining. Not by old age. But by removing the heads of his masters, of everyone who ever owned him. And he would make them pay for the life they stole from him. He was going to kill them all. And it was only a matter of time. It was a fact, he assured himself. It was not a dream, more like destiny.

As always when he became too rowdy, too violent towards his masters, too much of an intent- too problematic, almost inspiring to the slaves who viewed him as some sort of defiant rebel- the security field activated and Thal was placed into a energy field. He rapped his hands along it, feeling the light burning sensation. He couldn't hope to break it, there wasn't a man alive who could. Guards rushed in, and he taunted them, as he did, every night. The guards surrounded him, shields and stunsticks activating. He laughed his maniacal laugh, and was beaten unconscious by the guards.

The contusions lined his face. The guards had gotten him bad tonight. He couldn't be in fighting shape for another week or so. But the spectacle- the coffers filled, the bets placed- would make sure that he would fight again. For now, however, he lay in a hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, soaking in a bacta bath.

His ice-blue eyes moved down to the shackles on his wrists.

More chains. More shackles. More to remind him.

He couldn't help but smile and laugh. The irony of it all.