For years, he had been known only as Scythe. He was a hard man, with a sharp, deadly edge, and everyone around him knew it. He was proud, noble, and educated, which was rare. As he stood at the end of the playing field, looking out over the empty expanse, he felt the beginnings of the surge of adrenaline that would carry him on to glory, as it always did. The noble warrior that he was, he lifted the weapons he'd been given, a thin sword, roughly a stride long, and a hammer. He was clad only in light leather armor, rather than the plate that he would have preferred, but he would make do. He didn't need the protection, after all. This would be an easy fight. He charged forward as his opponents sprung from their pedestals. The shackles around his wrists glinted in the sun as he surged into battle. The slave who would be king, tearing into these latest of obstacles that stood between himself, and freedom. The crowd went wild, cheering and screaming his name.<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/>With a strangled cry, he sat up in bed as once more, the nightmare tore him from his fitfull sleep. It had been the same dream for weeks. Wincing, he settled back against the pillow, breathing hard. The bandage had come off his right eye. He could feel the cold air on his mangled flesh and it pained him. His arms were both still braced and immobilized, so all he could do was lie there. He must have been thrashing in his sleep, as he could feel the throbbing, fiery pain through his body. His breathing was ragged, fast, and shallow.<br/><br/>"This... is not life..." he moaned.<br/><br/>Tomorrow, he was to be sold to a new...'master'... He couldn't imagine the horrors that were sure to await him. Why else would someone purchase a crippled, dying slave? Wishing for the mercy of either death, or freedom, he turned his head to the side and stared out the window, tears leaking from his good eye.