Private Tales A Bloodied Griffin

Ahhh, I’m thirsty.

Nicomo was tossed around between that sadistic treasurer and the one with a princess attitude. Where did somebody get off on being the queen or king of a trash heap? They are just the petty rulers of a little island. Did they have any idea about how large the world was or what kind of demons existed outside of their little kingdom?

Did they think they could keep one chained up in the dark?

The crowd demanded blood. Ravenous, desperate and profane shouts spat from above the pit. Bets are made. As his opponent waits, Nicomo makes his way out from the opposite tunnel. There's a final call for any wagers.

All bets are closed.

Only a few present in the crowd witnessed Nico’s brief display of power at the auction. Rumors of the events were exaggerated and quickly circulated like a wildfire, and the drunkard’s antics during the Duck Hunt only fanned those flames.

He staggers out into the pit not drunkenly but tiredly to ringing chants of his name. Funny. He is no pit-fighting champion. But they expect a lot from him and the dregs of society were hungry to see some shiny, pretty noble being pulled down into the mud.

Nicomo is unarmed and dressed in old, sweat and blood-stained rags.

The pit is a graveyard of fallen slaves, prisoners, and beasts. Discarded, forgotten weapons buried in the mud mark the resting place of all the slain as headstones. Nicomo drops to a knee and draws a chipped, rusted blade from the soft black earth. It’s about six hands in length. A bit short for his liking, but it would do. He takes a readying breath and shakily stands back up.

“Say,” Nicomo finally looks across the pit to the knight, “Are you strong?”