Zumari
May 2nd, 2003, 01:25:09 AM
Foundations of Comeradery: Discovery
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Location: Coronet City, Corellia
Time: Unknown
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He honestly didn't know where he was. Reen never really kept him very informed. He knew that it wasn't Dantooine--too cold and moist. The place was like a giant city, and the speeder whizzed through what seemed like a thousand lights and sounds. Zumari stayed in the seat of the hover car, remaining solidly focused and calm.
The speeder came to an abrupt stop. Zumari knew because of the intense pull on him in his seat. The vehicle seat-belt strained as his weight leaned against him. He almost fell out of it--it was difficult to hold on when his hands were clamped in binders before him. Dark eyes remaining perectly still and staring straight into darkness before him, he heard the other combatants adjust and stir as the momentum finally ended.
Soon enough, the guards would be at the rear doors of the speeder. They would unbuckle all restraints and usher the other men out of van. The would keep their blasters--the only weapons their limited minds could clutch to--close at hand, just in case of an uprising. There had been a few in the past. One had escaped. Zumari had been caught twice.
"Let's go, move it! Reen wants you lunkheads into the armory ASAP. Got that?" Zumari stood, having been released from his seat. His eyes remained focused on a target that existed beyond the speeder, guards, and the setting around him. One of the guards shoved him forward, out of the back of the van.
Zumari landed nimbly on his feet.
"Got that? You got that, darkie?" Zumari smiled, a bright white toothy grin aimed directly at the guard. Deead. Yoou're deead. He wanted to say it, but he'd save the suprise for later. Nonetheless, he--along with the other men--were pushed into a new place. Another armory. Another arena. More guts to be spilled before masses of the bloodthirsty. He was a gladiator, and his job was to kill.
Zumari didn't mind.
"Well, well. There's my boy, eh?" Reen. It was the voice of his 'master.' The one who so valiantly saved him from the rest of his tribe and family. The one killed them and stripped him from his home--only to profit at his own personal risk. The one he hated so. He stayed his time, waiting until he could strike. Waiting until he could kill the one who had ruined his life and move into a life of his own. "The trip didn't tire you too much, eh? Eh?" He slapped Zumari on the cheek half-lovingly, half-abusively. Zumari's gaze did not falter.
"Answer me, boy!" Reen reared back and let loose a strong punch into his jaw. It threw his head to the side for a split second as his face quickly returned to its previous position. The eyes remained cold.
"Zumari be redee." He replied, his mouth tensed as he fought back the pain. He was tough. He was used to it.
"Good, good. Now, you get on inside and get everyone ready." With that, Reen withdrew and Zumari and the others were escorted inside to the armory.
<center>*</center>
The arena was giant--perhaps the largest that Zumari had ever seen before. He could tell by the intense, heaving sounds that permeated from the outside collesium. He also. . .just sensed it. A gift from U'lahd, the protector of his tribe. The God protected him from harm by giving him keen senses for perception and danger.
From their armory and ready room, they could hear the chants of the people outside. Beings could hardly contain themselves as they prepared for the onslaught that was to ensue. Zumari would surely give them what they wanted--it was simply a matter of time. He readied himself, silently brooding as he was quiet in the corner.
"Zumari! Let's go. They're ready for you." He was called. He stood, the blue paint of his tribe covering his upper body. He wore his combat attire--a necklace made of a few charms and bone fragments, two leather wrist guards, a loin cloth, and sturdy, leather boots. The less he wore, the better, keeping him agile and flexible. In his hand, he clutched his sword--a gladius made of Dantooine's finest iron. Onto his belt was strapped a dagger. He was the captain of the squad and thus allowed to carry multiple weapons and wear armor.
He didn't need armor.
Led by about a dozen guards, he made his way down a long dark tunnel with a blindingly light opening at the far end. This event was just as usal--he would be sent alone, in the preliminaries, against several of the arena's slaves. He would have to prove himself and his master--fight for what could be considered bracket position for the rest of the tournament. There was no mercy in this particular aspect of the day. He was to kill all he faced.
A loud, muffled voice sounded over the intercomm, seemingly announcing the event. As he made his way to the opening he could see several opponents holding various weapons standing in a small, unorganized group before him. Seven, he thought. He could count fairly well. A spear, a sword, a whip, two daggers--the weapons were the usual. Then the announcement.
". . .and we shall see. . .feared. . .Reen Tillis. . .THE WILDMAN ZUMARI!" It was his cue. He'd had it a thousand times before. Stepping through the tunnel and into the light he made his presence known. His face was cold, unresponsive to the crowd around him. He stopped, squatting and reaching down to rub his hands in the grainy dirt of the arena floor.
Spending a moment to scan the scene, he noticed the details of the building. The floor was huge--probably three times larger than any he'd been in. The stands stretched high into the sky, and numerous screens broadcasted his scowl. There were several gates as well as what appeared to be weapons dotting the ground. Apparently, they encouraged creativity.
Finally he stood, his medium-sized figure before the seven opponents. He was smaller, but very toned, and it showed in the small ammount of clothing he wore. He allowed his sword to fall at his side and pointed his left hand towards his opponents. It was a beckon. A beckon to give them the offensive--something few captains did. He smiled--another bright, toothy grin.
It was an invitation to die.
*******************************
Location: Coronet City, Corellia
Time: Unknown
*******************************
He honestly didn't know where he was. Reen never really kept him very informed. He knew that it wasn't Dantooine--too cold and moist. The place was like a giant city, and the speeder whizzed through what seemed like a thousand lights and sounds. Zumari stayed in the seat of the hover car, remaining solidly focused and calm.
The speeder came to an abrupt stop. Zumari knew because of the intense pull on him in his seat. The vehicle seat-belt strained as his weight leaned against him. He almost fell out of it--it was difficult to hold on when his hands were clamped in binders before him. Dark eyes remaining perectly still and staring straight into darkness before him, he heard the other combatants adjust and stir as the momentum finally ended.
Soon enough, the guards would be at the rear doors of the speeder. They would unbuckle all restraints and usher the other men out of van. The would keep their blasters--the only weapons their limited minds could clutch to--close at hand, just in case of an uprising. There had been a few in the past. One had escaped. Zumari had been caught twice.
"Let's go, move it! Reen wants you lunkheads into the armory ASAP. Got that?" Zumari stood, having been released from his seat. His eyes remained focused on a target that existed beyond the speeder, guards, and the setting around him. One of the guards shoved him forward, out of the back of the van.
Zumari landed nimbly on his feet.
"Got that? You got that, darkie?" Zumari smiled, a bright white toothy grin aimed directly at the guard. Deead. Yoou're deead. He wanted to say it, but he'd save the suprise for later. Nonetheless, he--along with the other men--were pushed into a new place. Another armory. Another arena. More guts to be spilled before masses of the bloodthirsty. He was a gladiator, and his job was to kill.
Zumari didn't mind.
"Well, well. There's my boy, eh?" Reen. It was the voice of his 'master.' The one who so valiantly saved him from the rest of his tribe and family. The one killed them and stripped him from his home--only to profit at his own personal risk. The one he hated so. He stayed his time, waiting until he could strike. Waiting until he could kill the one who had ruined his life and move into a life of his own. "The trip didn't tire you too much, eh? Eh?" He slapped Zumari on the cheek half-lovingly, half-abusively. Zumari's gaze did not falter.
"Answer me, boy!" Reen reared back and let loose a strong punch into his jaw. It threw his head to the side for a split second as his face quickly returned to its previous position. The eyes remained cold.
"Zumari be redee." He replied, his mouth tensed as he fought back the pain. He was tough. He was used to it.
"Good, good. Now, you get on inside and get everyone ready." With that, Reen withdrew and Zumari and the others were escorted inside to the armory.
<center>*</center>
The arena was giant--perhaps the largest that Zumari had ever seen before. He could tell by the intense, heaving sounds that permeated from the outside collesium. He also. . .just sensed it. A gift from U'lahd, the protector of his tribe. The God protected him from harm by giving him keen senses for perception and danger.
From their armory and ready room, they could hear the chants of the people outside. Beings could hardly contain themselves as they prepared for the onslaught that was to ensue. Zumari would surely give them what they wanted--it was simply a matter of time. He readied himself, silently brooding as he was quiet in the corner.
"Zumari! Let's go. They're ready for you." He was called. He stood, the blue paint of his tribe covering his upper body. He wore his combat attire--a necklace made of a few charms and bone fragments, two leather wrist guards, a loin cloth, and sturdy, leather boots. The less he wore, the better, keeping him agile and flexible. In his hand, he clutched his sword--a gladius made of Dantooine's finest iron. Onto his belt was strapped a dagger. He was the captain of the squad and thus allowed to carry multiple weapons and wear armor.
He didn't need armor.
Led by about a dozen guards, he made his way down a long dark tunnel with a blindingly light opening at the far end. This event was just as usal--he would be sent alone, in the preliminaries, against several of the arena's slaves. He would have to prove himself and his master--fight for what could be considered bracket position for the rest of the tournament. There was no mercy in this particular aspect of the day. He was to kill all he faced.
A loud, muffled voice sounded over the intercomm, seemingly announcing the event. As he made his way to the opening he could see several opponents holding various weapons standing in a small, unorganized group before him. Seven, he thought. He could count fairly well. A spear, a sword, a whip, two daggers--the weapons were the usual. Then the announcement.
". . .and we shall see. . .feared. . .Reen Tillis. . .THE WILDMAN ZUMARI!" It was his cue. He'd had it a thousand times before. Stepping through the tunnel and into the light he made his presence known. His face was cold, unresponsive to the crowd around him. He stopped, squatting and reaching down to rub his hands in the grainy dirt of the arena floor.
Spending a moment to scan the scene, he noticed the details of the building. The floor was huge--probably three times larger than any he'd been in. The stands stretched high into the sky, and numerous screens broadcasted his scowl. There were several gates as well as what appeared to be weapons dotting the ground. Apparently, they encouraged creativity.
Finally he stood, his medium-sized figure before the seven opponents. He was smaller, but very toned, and it showed in the small ammount of clothing he wore. He allowed his sword to fall at his side and pointed his left hand towards his opponents. It was a beckon. A beckon to give them the offensive--something few captains did. He smiled--another bright, toothy grin.
It was an invitation to die.