488 Reads | Published about 5 years ago
In his arm, there was a weapon.
This was no street urchin, nor a thug that uncovered a military piece of weapon. Nor was this a soldier, sent to the arena to defend the domain of his lord with an ethnic weapon. No.
This was a man that had his future and present robbed from him. On his arm, a clasp. A claw. Or perhaps a metal pincer? His weapon was an enigma, both to him and those around him.
That didn't stop him.
If anything, the mystery grafted into his right arm was what made him what he was. A warrior. A fighter. A champion.
The weapon was so unique, to see this man go was quite the experience. He would stab through the thickest shield, crush the most deadly maul, parry the sharpest blade. And when they least expect it, the fatal blow.
However his blood battles did not have an impact into this man. His soul had no stains.
He simple leaves the arena as soon the fervor of battle is gone and his foe is vanquished. For this man, there is no freedom. There is no future. He even lost one of his arms.
Yes. For this man there is only a battle. A battle he can only fight in a particular way, imposed in him by his cruel masters. His helm was always presented as well. His humanity had vanished, or at least it seems that way. There is no mercy or remorse show from him, but there wasn't any rage or hate on his killing.
His right arm was like a gentle death embrace, grasping the life of their foes as a mother puts a child to sleep.
Who was this man? Why did they graft a weapon into his body?
No one really knew because the audience never cared for the man behind the mask.
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