The cell was quiet. Like last night and the night before. Within the cell and the hell that preceded it. When they had taken him way back when. Bereft of parents, they would never hear his voice as far as he could remember, there upon that forsaken asteroid.
The babe that became a slave. There was a tragic story in there somewhere, as sad as the tale of a Jedi who became a Sith, but this creature was different. As he sat in his cell that morning, oinking beneath the ceiling lamp, fluttering in the dimness, remembering time lost and spent, the warrior could only wonder.
Who am I..? He was given no answer. Day after night, morning and evening, in his chamber with its bars, in the mess hall of the small and tall, beneath the sun and stars, it was an endless question.
“You are chosen,” a guard spoke to him. “Arena in ten. Get to it, Gamorrean.”
So be it. The Gamorrean, Splort, silently expressed on the edge of his bed. He would do as bidden. He would set aside his question. He would sigh and he would stand, for life still permitted him some semblance of an existence, and he would fight.
Outside, the sunlight was blinding, so he squinted. The wind was biting, so he licked his lips to moisten them. The air was dry, but his nose was runny, so he wiped it. He stood, alone, hands solo, yet not bereft of armor or armament.
His was the Gamorrean’s plate and hide, and his weapon was the battleaxe, for carnage and competition. Yes. Splort remembered. For I am a gladiator.
He stood past his gate, on one end of the coliseum, whose audience waved. They roared, no longer bored, they ate and they drank and they danced, surrounding that lone Gamorrean like fireflies in the night.
Sunlight... It was warm on his skin. Bright as firelight…
He kept his eyes open toward his opponent at the other end. A Trandoshan with a greatsword.
“I am dead,” Splort spoke to ghosts. To the wind.
“I go into battle to reclaim my life,” he promised.
“This I do gladly, for I am a Gamorrean warrior.”
Brandished his axe, ran his finger on the curve.
The babe that became a slave. There was a tragic story in there somewhere, as sad as the tale of a Jedi who became a Sith, but this creature was different. As he sat in his cell that morning, oinking beneath the ceiling lamp, fluttering in the dimness, remembering time lost and spent, the warrior could only wonder.
Who am I..? He was given no answer. Day after night, morning and evening, in his chamber with its bars, in the mess hall of the small and tall, beneath the sun and stars, it was an endless question.
“You are chosen,” a guard spoke to him. “Arena in ten. Get to it, Gamorrean.”
So be it. The Gamorrean, Splort, silently expressed on the edge of his bed. He would do as bidden. He would set aside his question. He would sigh and he would stand, for life still permitted him some semblance of an existence, and he would fight.
Outside, the sunlight was blinding, so he squinted. The wind was biting, so he licked his lips to moisten them. The air was dry, but his nose was runny, so he wiped it. He stood, alone, hands solo, yet not bereft of armor or armament.
His was the Gamorrean’s plate and hide, and his weapon was the battleaxe, for carnage and competition. Yes. Splort remembered. For I am a gladiator.
He stood past his gate, on one end of the coliseum, whose audience waved. They roared, no longer bored, they ate and they drank and they danced, surrounding that lone Gamorrean like fireflies in the night.
Sunlight... It was warm on his skin. Bright as firelight…
He kept his eyes open toward his opponent at the other end. A Trandoshan with a greatsword.
“I am dead,” Splort spoke to ghosts. To the wind.
“I go into battle to reclaim my life,” he promised.
“This I do gladly, for I am a Gamorrean warrior.”
Brandished his axe, ran his finger on the curve.