Character
The relentless cold, an ever-present specter, seeped into Craven's very bones. It was a chilling embrace that permeated every inch of his being, never relinquishing its grasp. Clenched tightly within his fists was a rusted chunk of iron, a weapon pieced together from the scrap of forgotten wars. The sharp edges of the blade's handle cut through the thick cotton that enshrouded his hands, drawing forth blood and pain. The searing sensation was a stark contrast to the perpetual, dull throb that the everlasting cold inflicted upon his body. It was the pain that made him feel alive, a reminder of his existence against the frigid abyss.
He stared out of the metal bars that blocked his path. The clunky, rusted gate that served as the threshold to the sandy arena groaned and creaked, its ancient mechanisms grinding to life. The gate ascended with agonizing slowness, heralding the commencement of the inevitable. Craven's heart, normally as cold as the very air that surrounded him, roared to life. He emerged from the shadows of the cell, the piercing light of the arena assaulting his senses. The rhythmic pounding of his heart resonated in time with the chants of the frenzied crowd, their collective voice forming a harsh chorus "KARN, KARN, KARN." He was no longer the abandoned boy; he was Karn, the warrior who had earned both fame and fear in equal measure.
His opponent, an imposing alien with a grotesque visage that bore resemblance to a boar, approached with a massive, rusted greataxe held in its monstrous grip. Despite Craven's towering figure, the sight of this hulking adversary made him appear small in comparison. Yet, fear did not find an ounce of fear within himself. He welcomed the impending clash.
With primal determination, Craven surged forward, each sluggish step in defiance to the dull pain that ached his joints and bones. His hoarse scream pierced the air, a guttural battle cry that mirrored the alien's own inhuman growls. The meeting of metal upon metal resounded throughout the battlefield.
Their weapons were locked, the formidable axe held at bay by Craven's crude sword, the two combatants locked in a contest of strength and willpower. But Craven refused to yield. He launched the full weight of his body into the beast, smashing his head into the alien’s snout as he did so. A frigid shockwave sent chills through the crowd as Craven’s hulking opponent flew backwards.
Craven did not relent and he charged on. His opponent slowly attempted to get on his feet, but he was too dazed to regain his balance. Raising his hulking blade overhead, Craven cleaved downward with savage determination. The resounding blow tore through the alien's flesh, cleaving it in two with a cold finality. The spectacle was over, and Karn stood victorious, his heart aflame with the savage exhilaration of combat.
After the brutal contest, Craven found himself seated on a weathered wooden bench. He unwound the cloth wrappings around his head, allowing an old medical droid to tend to a gash that formed when his head met the beast’s tusk. As the droid worked, a small, portly man approached, his jovial demeanor belying the harsh nature of the arena. "Good fight, boy," he mused with a sly grin. "Your cut was 20 credits, but I'm taking 15 for the medical treatment. Droid maintenance doesn't come cheap, you know."
Craven didn't respond. He merely took the five credits and allowed the droid to continue its work.
The crowd had dispersed, leaving only a smattering of stragglers, some arguing over their lost bets, and the arena owner, his belly jiggling with laughter as he reveled in the chaos that had unfolded. A pair of armed guards also remained, vigilant observers of the aftermath.
Quinn Varanin
He stared out of the metal bars that blocked his path. The clunky, rusted gate that served as the threshold to the sandy arena groaned and creaked, its ancient mechanisms grinding to life. The gate ascended with agonizing slowness, heralding the commencement of the inevitable. Craven's heart, normally as cold as the very air that surrounded him, roared to life. He emerged from the shadows of the cell, the piercing light of the arena assaulting his senses. The rhythmic pounding of his heart resonated in time with the chants of the frenzied crowd, their collective voice forming a harsh chorus "KARN, KARN, KARN." He was no longer the abandoned boy; he was Karn, the warrior who had earned both fame and fear in equal measure.
His opponent, an imposing alien with a grotesque visage that bore resemblance to a boar, approached with a massive, rusted greataxe held in its monstrous grip. Despite Craven's towering figure, the sight of this hulking adversary made him appear small in comparison. Yet, fear did not find an ounce of fear within himself. He welcomed the impending clash.
With primal determination, Craven surged forward, each sluggish step in defiance to the dull pain that ached his joints and bones. His hoarse scream pierced the air, a guttural battle cry that mirrored the alien's own inhuman growls. The meeting of metal upon metal resounded throughout the battlefield.
Their weapons were locked, the formidable axe held at bay by Craven's crude sword, the two combatants locked in a contest of strength and willpower. But Craven refused to yield. He launched the full weight of his body into the beast, smashing his head into the alien’s snout as he did so. A frigid shockwave sent chills through the crowd as Craven’s hulking opponent flew backwards.
Craven did not relent and he charged on. His opponent slowly attempted to get on his feet, but he was too dazed to regain his balance. Raising his hulking blade overhead, Craven cleaved downward with savage determination. The resounding blow tore through the alien's flesh, cleaving it in two with a cold finality. The spectacle was over, and Karn stood victorious, his heart aflame with the savage exhilaration of combat.
After the brutal contest, Craven found himself seated on a weathered wooden bench. He unwound the cloth wrappings around his head, allowing an old medical droid to tend to a gash that formed when his head met the beast’s tusk. As the droid worked, a small, portly man approached, his jovial demeanor belying the harsh nature of the arena. "Good fight, boy," he mused with a sly grin. "Your cut was 20 credits, but I'm taking 15 for the medical treatment. Droid maintenance doesn't come cheap, you know."
Craven didn't respond. He merely took the five credits and allowed the droid to continue its work.
The crowd had dispersed, leaving only a smattering of stragglers, some arguing over their lost bets, and the arena owner, his belly jiggling with laughter as he reveled in the chaos that had unfolded. A pair of armed guards also remained, vigilant observers of the aftermath.
Quinn Varanin
