Thread: You've got no choice (CottonCandyHaze x RocLobster)

Minute-men! To the front. NOW! The order bursting loudly from the portly arena guards lips, commanding the unfortunate souls not so affectionately named 'Minute-men'. These souls, plucked from the overflowing prison cells filled with petty criminals and outcasts, were thrust into a cruel game for the upper and middle classes amusement. And the pig faced man armed in a chain shirt and a whip was about to announce the 'rules'. Listen up you worms, I'll only say this once! You are all prisoners, no better than slaves at this point! Cheap, dirty, unskilled one's at that! QUIET! With a flick of his flabby arm the whip cracked to life and swooped across the room, striking a young man across the face who was sobbing loudly, protesting his innocence. Make another sound, boy, and I'll just gut you myself! Right... Y'er all here for one thing! To shed blood! Be it yours, or y'er opponents! There's only a few ways this can go for you... The cell next to the Minute-men's holding area was reserved for seasoned veterans. The men occupying this dark dank space were considerably more well prepared, but no less respected than the criminals who were taunted with a chance of penance, of freedom. The veterans knew it was all lies. In the history of the arena, no Minute-man had ever been granted freedom. Not even promotion from their lowly ranks. That was another part of the sick game the aristocracy played with these unfortunate souls. If they could not achieve freedom, they promised advancement to a higher caste of warrior. A lone figure stood at the thick iron grid that cleaved the enormous room into two, a bright metallic shard held in his right hand while the left drew a heavy whetstone across the weapons edge. Creating the spine tingling music that no one could mistake as the encroaching march of death. ... If you can -survive- ten minutes of combat, you will be spared and promoted to a regular! If you can kill an enemy combatant and survive, you will be promoted to a regular with benefits! If you can kill an arena monster, you will be promoted to a veteran! If you can kill an ELITE, God's salute you if you ever even CUT one, you will be granted freedom! Once the master of the new combatants finished reading off the arena rules, he caught a glimpse of the man stood at the side of the cage. Narrowing his eyes to focus on his face, obscured by the darkness of shadow. His figure was distinct however, adorned in the armour and garments of an elite fighter. He was in the midst of raising his arm to send out the serpentine strip of horsehair and leather before the realisation struck his bald little head, eyes going wide and looking away from the prestigious figure to glare at the fresh meat instead. Get your weapons together! You'll be entering the arena in five minutes! barked the grotesque, rotund guard before stepping off of his plinth. Making his way out of the chamber while trying to avoid the icy glare of the man sharpening his sword. Once he passed, the warrior that seemed to instill such fear, even in the guards, stepped away from the cage of greenhorns. Making his way over to one of the narrow rectangular holes in the wall offering the combatants a view of the arena. Bright blue eyes peered out the arrow loops to observe the battlefield, a shaft of light illuminating the handsome face and reflecting off his light blonde hair, giving him an almost angelic appearance. His observations were cut short however, as soon he'd hear the horns of battle crying out inside the man made cavern, signalling for the next warrior to make his way to the gates. My Lords and Ladies! bellowed the regal figure that was the announcer. Another stout looking fellow, though considerably more well kept and dressed. He wore a bright red robe which just left his feet exposed, fat appendages wrapped in straw sandles. His whole visage designed to be a comic throwback to the days of old, before the world was much smaller and darker. He took a moment for the crowds cheers to die down before resuming, enjoying a sip of water from a large black horn in preparation for his introductory speech. Today, is a gracious day! We are blessed with a rare spectacle! One which shall be sung of long after the nights fires die and poisons pass! The Great and Prestigious Moreau House would like to entertain you all, with an exemplary spectacle of raw action, a blood filled drama! The crowd let out a riotous cheer to the announcers speech, wolf whistles and lewd chants being called out by the less refined folk on the bleachers. The chubby faced announcer raised his hands with a light chuckle, calling for the crowd to calm so he may resume his speech. Today! The Moreau House would like to present to you... THEIR CHAMPION! With a dramatic, swooping gesture the chubby faced crowd pleasure drew the thousands of eyes to face the arena's western gate. His next words barely audible over the ecstatic cheers of the people. ANGELUS HYACINTHO! As the portcullis grill slowly rose from the ground, a figure could be seen slowly making it's way out of the darkness. Sparkling boots reflected the dying sunlight in all directions, fooling the casual observer to believe the silver greaves were actually golden. Royal blue cloth would drape loosely over the mans legs, overlapped by a coat of the same material. A Spanish style breastplate, gilded in silver and polished to the same mirror finish as the matching boots and gauntlets, sparkled brightly as he made his way out into the open. The name the army of spectators chanted seemingly an apt fit, with the chromed metal garments giving the tall figure an almost otherworldly glow. Blue Angel! Blue Angel! Blue Angel! A half century of strides was all it took for the towering man to make his way to the centre of the arena. His soft blonde locks waving lightly at the behest of the subtle winds. His face obscured by a mask that finishes the set of his armour. On it's surface was a moulded representation of it's owners true face, which was soon revealed as he lifted the mask up to address the crowd more personally. Smooth angular features of a light complexion only sought to further root the mythos behind his name, that he was a true angel caste down from the heavens. It was a rumour that made him scoff when in private, but for the sake of his master and his own honour, he allowed the name to be chanted freely. Knowing full well that in his current position of servitude, there was little he could do to change it anyway. Nothing would change...