in the colosseum; headcanon blurbs about baroona's time in the daraak colosseum
On his stomach scar
He aimed the next attack for his opponent's arm, aiming to cut it off. Argos dodged to the side, slicing down on Baroona's arm instead. He grunted in response, and lashed out with a sidekick, sending Argos flying backwards. He hit the wall and slumped forward, briefly stunned. It was an opening that Baroona gladly took.
They had been at this for hours now and still the crowd loved it. Argos was a recent gladiator, an ex-mercenary who fought for the wrong side. He had been captured and brought to the arena only two weeks ago. Baroona, on the other hand, had been in the stadium for four months and had already earned a reputation amongst the fans. He was known to spare his enemies, denying the audience the thrill of the kill. Of course up until now his opponents had always been green newcomers. After all, he was nothing but a warm-up show. The one to get the audience's blood boiling.
He should have known it would be different when he was moved to the afternoon block.
Argos blocked his charge and attempted for a stab to the ribs. Baroona twisted, Argos missed. So they continued, moving away from the wall and back into the center of the arena, greeted by the audience's deafening cheers. It was distracting, but predictable. Argos was bloodthirsty, ruthless, and exactly what the audience wanted. Too long they had sat through Baroona's disappointing fights which always ended with his refusal to kill. Now, it seemed he had met his match. Or maybe it would be more accurate that he had learned his place. Argos was a born fighter, and he was a farmer's son. It was a disadvantage that spelled death in the arena.
Argos knocked him back with a series of hits and Baroona stumbled into the wall. He felt blood down run his arm, staining his rusted dagger with red. Panting heavily, he pushed himself off the wall as his opponent charged towards him. The blow glanced off the wall, with Baroona stumbling back out into the arena. He was tired and beaten and for the gods sake could not see an end to this fight. As Argos turned, smirking, Baroona wondered if this would be where he died. He thought about himself sprawled out in the middle of the stadium lying face-down in a pool of his own blood. He thought of himself, on his knees facing the crowd as Argos cut off his head. He saw it roll.
And then he felt Argos' blade cut his side and he stopped thinking. He went with his gut instead and his gut told him that he wouldn't die here. He couldn't die here. He didn't want to die here. And that was when Argos started losing. There was a new fierceness in his strikes now, a swiftness in his parries and an aggressive push to his stabs. For every cut he had on his body, Baroona gave two more to Argos.
Finally, Baroona managed to place a hit well enough that it knocked Argos to the ground. It was his victory and the crowd knew it. The cheers quieted as he pinned Argos' sword-hand with his foot, looking up at the crowd. This was the part they had all expected, the time when he would announce that he asked the audience to spare his opponent's life. They would reject him and he would be punished, but the effort alone was proof that he still had some freedom. Taking a deep breath, he opened his mouth to speak.
And then he felt his foot lift off Argos' wrist, felt himself stumbling back. Saw Argos stand up, consumed with rage and shame at his defeat, and felt his blade cut across his stomach. He doubled over only to have Argos pull his hair and yank his head upwards. The blade was at his throat now and Argos snarled in his face.
"Were you going to spare me, boy?" The blade dug into his throat. He felt scared, weak and defenseless. "Did you think I needed your mercy? Or did you expect me to repay you in kind?" He barked out a laugh but all Baroona could focus on was the blood spilling from his stomach. "I've got some bad news for you, kid." Death. He was going to die. He was going to have his throat cut open and he would be dragged out of the arena and left in a pile of dead bodies for the crows to feast on. "I ain't gonna return the favor." Suddenly he was aware of the sword's weight in his hands and then nothing mattered except staying alive.
He stabbed Argos in the gut and twisted. Argos' cry fell on deaf ears but Baroona did notice that this time he was the one stumbling back. And that the blade was away from his throat. Baroona pulled out his sword, knocked away Argos' counterattack and kicked him back. He stumbled again, and this time he cut off his hand. Then his arm. Then another kick and Argos was on the ground again and Baroona was on top of him, plunging the tip of his blade through the man's throat and twisting. A spray of blood hit his face and stung his eyes and he stood quickly, leaning on his sword for support as he stared up at the crowd.
For the first time they were silent. And then, as if a switch had been hit, they screamed and shouted and roared his name. It was a proud moment. A hard-won victory. Yet he felt no pride, only the searing pain of his stomach and arm. Only the shame of having lost the freedom to beg for another man's life. And when the crowd started to chant his name in one united voice, he knew he belonged to no one else but the crowd.
He aimed the next attack for his opponent's arm, aiming to cut it off. Argos dodged to the side, slicing down on Baroona's arm instead. He grunted in response, and lashed out with a sidekick, sending Argos flying backwards. He hit the wall and slumped forward, briefly stunned. It was an opening that Baroona gladly took.
They had been at this for hours now and still the crowd loved it. Argos was a recent gladiator, an ex-mercenary who fought for the wrong side. He had been captured and brought to the arena only two weeks ago. Baroona, on the other hand, had been in the stadium for four months and had already earned a reputation amongst the fans. He was known to spare his enemies, denying the audience the thrill of the kill. Of course up until now his opponents had always been green newcomers. After all, he was nothing but a warm-up show. The one to get the audience's blood boiling.
He should have known it would be different when he was moved to the afternoon block.
Argos blocked his charge and attempted for a stab to the ribs. Baroona twisted, Argos missed. So they continued, moving away from the wall and back into the center of the arena, greeted by the audience's deafening cheers. It was distracting, but predictable. Argos was bloodthirsty, ruthless, and exactly what the audience wanted. Too long they had sat through Baroona's disappointing fights which always ended with his refusal to kill. Now, it seemed he had met his match. Or maybe it would be more accurate that he had learned his place. Argos was a born fighter, and he was a farmer's son. It was a disadvantage that spelled death in the arena.
Argos knocked him back with a series of hits and Baroona stumbled into the wall. He felt blood down run his arm, staining his rusted dagger with red. Panting heavily, he pushed himself off the wall as his opponent charged towards him. The blow glanced off the wall, with Baroona stumbling back out into the arena. He was tired and beaten and for the gods sake could not see an end to this fight. As Argos turned, smirking, Baroona wondered if this would be where he died. He thought about himself sprawled out in the middle of the stadium lying face-down in a pool of his own blood. He thought of himself, on his knees facing the crowd as Argos cut off his head. He saw it roll.
And then he felt Argos' blade cut his side and he stopped thinking. He went with his gut instead and his gut told him that he wouldn't die here. He couldn't die here. He didn't want to die here. And that was when Argos started losing. There was a new fierceness in his strikes now, a swiftness in his parries and an aggressive push to his stabs. For every cut he had on his body, Baroona gave two more to Argos.
Finally, Baroona managed to place a hit well enough that it knocked Argos to the ground. It was his victory and the crowd knew it. The cheers quieted as he pinned Argos' sword-hand with his foot, looking up at the crowd. This was the part they had all expected, the time when he would announce that he asked the audience to spare his opponent's life. They would reject him and he would be punished, but the effort alone was proof that he still had some freedom. Taking a deep breath, he opened his mouth to speak.
And then he felt his foot lift off Argos' wrist, felt himself stumbling back. Saw Argos stand up, consumed with rage and shame at his defeat, and felt his blade cut across his stomach. He doubled over only to have Argos pull his hair and yank his head upwards. The blade was at his throat now and Argos snarled in his face.
"Were you going to spare me, boy?" The blade dug into his throat. He felt scared, weak and defenseless. "Did you think I needed your mercy? Or did you expect me to repay you in kind?" He barked out a laugh but all Baroona could focus on was the blood spilling from his stomach. "I've got some bad news for you, kid." Death. He was going to die. He was going to have his throat cut open and he would be dragged out of the arena and left in a pile of dead bodies for the crows to feast on. "I ain't gonna return the favor." Suddenly he was aware of the sword's weight in his hands and then nothing mattered except staying alive.
He stabbed Argos in the gut and twisted. Argos' cry fell on deaf ears but Baroona did notice that this time he was the one stumbling back. And that the blade was away from his throat. Baroona pulled out his sword, knocked away Argos' counterattack and kicked him back. He stumbled again, and this time he cut off his hand. Then his arm. Then another kick and Argos was on the ground again and Baroona was on top of him, plunging the tip of his blade through the man's throat and twisting. A spray of blood hit his face and stung his eyes and he stood quickly, leaning on his sword for support as he stared up at the crowd.
For the first time they were silent. And then, as if a switch had been hit, they screamed and shouted and roared his name. It was a proud moment. A hard-won victory. Yet he felt no pride, only the searing pain of his stomach and arm. Only the shame of having lost the freedom to beg for another man's life. And when the crowd started to chant his name in one united voice, he knew he belonged to no one else but the crowd.