The Lack Of Man

He met the glare of the eyes that peered through the small opening. They were shining in the dark of His near pitch-black room… no, his cell. A room allowed comfort, this did not. Nor had it ever done so for the countless years He had remained here.

The hatch the eyes peered through closed, followed by the sound of metal clanging against metal. The sound of gears turning incited an ingrained action to stand and walk forward. He walked towards where the eyes had been, watching as an entire portion of the wall opened up. How long had it been since He had seen so much light? The most He could guess was a month, but even they wouldn't be that kind.

It had likely only been two weeks, but time was hard to tell in complete darkness. And now the High House wanted to him to fight another green Hound. He wish He could just stay in His cell. It wasn't necessarily safer, but at least He would go quickly without much pain.

He stepped out, walking along the trained path to the Den. Outside the door was a figure, man or woman… he wouldn't know nor care to. He learned not to attempt niceties with the Skulls long ago. He felt the gaze of the Skull on his back as he walked out, always ready to fire whichever firearm they had in their possession on any misbehaving Hound. Green or weathered, it didn't matter.

The path was a dark grey stone tunnel with few aged caged luminaries that struggled to serve their purpose. The walk only lasted a few minutes, having felt much longer his first hundred times when the lights still glowed well.

He felt a shudder go through His body as He saw the light at the end of the tunnel. Most times, people would be excited. The light at the end of the tunnel meant freedom, redemption, winning a war… Reality does not look so favorably upon man though.

They reached the barred gate that led to the promise of day. The rays of the sun and the bright blue sky was near blinding to Him. He shielded His eyes, blinking away the inverted spots of color. Another clang of metal sounded, different from the last, yet still inciting the same action.

He walked forth, still blinking as the sky around Him hit with the full shine of its brilliance. He furrowed His brows, with no trust that the action would aide His temporary blindness.

"The Weathered Grave Hound appears my fellow members of the High House!" Roared a voice. He looked towards the stage where the speaker sat, saying nothing while thinking everything. He wondered if it was the opposite for the speakers? They seemed to use their mouths far too much.

"And our Green Vernal Hound!" He watched the gazes move to a man, maybe five years younger than him. Easily in his mid to late twenties. He wasn't too sure of His own age though.

'Vernal' seemed to be physically adept, muscles that would win him a match against most of the hounds. And, he was green. He had likely only been through a few other Hounds up till now.

"I am the mighty Markus! What's yer name?" Called out 'Vernal'. He made no attempt to answer the question. "Ay, respect the strong. Tell me yer name and I'll give yer a quick trip to the grave."

He still have no answer. There was no respect for those who flaunted their victories in the Den. The High House too looked down on it, preferring to watching the matches than listening to the squabble of insects.

"Cease your banter Vernal Hound! It is unsightly!" The green Hound huffed, glaring back at Him. He watched 'Vernal' take a well practiced stance, a sign of his ability in martial arts. Most times, this would be an advantage… In the Den, standard martial arts were a death sentence.

"You may begin!" Shouted the speaker of the High House. 'Vernal' took steps forward, not breaking his stance. He looked over 'Vernal's stance, it was defensive. He closed His eyes, and slowly took in a deep breath. His senses heightened and He heard each subtle movement of 'Vernal'.

The sound of a rough ground shallowly cracking under 'Vernal's step indicated the start of his attack. He rushed forward, "You dare disrespect me so much that you would close your eyes on your enemy!"

He heard each step, the rustle of 'Vernal's clothes as he prepared a punch. He let out His breath, the sound of 'Vernal's fist giving away it's trajectory. He turned to the side, and slammed his elbow outwards.

A well trained fighter can easily compete, a well fought survivor can protect oneself against death. 'Vernal' had offset himself, driving his body upwards and forwards. The shorter the distance the elbow traveled, the less damage it would do. The impact to his lower rib left them bruised, and possibly cracked. Had he not adjusted at the last moment, his own ribs would have likely impaled his lungs or worse.

He opened His eyes, looking at 'Vernal' who was quick to take a number of steps back. "Where did yer train? Most places don't teach that." He still have no answer. "Yer a damn mute?" Questioned 'Vernal' arrogantly.

He gave no reaction, doing so would give 'Vernal' confidence, even if a slight amount. Confidence is a dangerous enemy in any fight, allowing weaker opponents to overtake much stronger enemies.

'Vernal' tightened his fists, glaring at the dead dull eyes of his opponent. He held as much emotion as a corpse, and His skin was white like paper. His fists had multiple red scrapes and nicks, showing off the many battles they have fought with blood and scars.

"Yer are not weak, I see. Yer deserve at least some respect, considering that yer were capable of nearly taking me by surprise." 'Vernal' took his stance again, waiting for Him to advance.

Learning from your mistakes is the greatest lesson. If advancing failed, allow the enemy to advance instead. Draw them in as you now have the advantage.

He didn't show anything, nothing on His face, nothing in His eyes as He walked forward. He needed to learn long ago to look without looking. Focusing on everything not directly ahead with His peripherals. Learning this has been essential for survival in the Den.

He analyzed every single centimeter of His opponent's stance. The muscles were tightened, so 'Vernal' would resort to strength. 'Vernal's arms were protruding outwards, his forearms showing as his fists pointed inwards. 'Vernal' would attack with his forearms and elbows, along with quick but less effective strikes with his fists.

'Vernal' felt his skin crawl as the unmoving gaze seemed to both tear him apart and managed to look straight through him at the same time. It was like being caught in a trance, as his mind didn't even register that He had even moved.

'Vernal' acted on instinct, his body reacting as his brain tried to make sense of the odd sensation that came from His gaze. The second impact wasn't blocked as well, his body screaming to allow him to return to reality.

The third strike finally freed him from his stupor. The pain radiating off his arms wasn't great, but it was noticeable. The fourth strike was coming, and he had one option.

Quickly, he sent his fists forward. It wasn't meant to deal much damage, more stun. The strike flew like lightning, striking nothing. 'Vernal's eyes widened, as He had fell down into a crouch, His fist already shooting out from the side.

Never allow your enemies to see through your defenses, as they will chose the path with the greatest potential for devastation. If they do, hope that you can still move so you can retaliate in kind.

'Vernal felt the fist slam into the side of his knee. A crack sounded out, and he screamed in pain. He wasn't sure when the ground began to move, but he always believed that magic was a thing.

He watched 'Vernal' fall to the ground, screaming as he clutched his knee. He doubted that 'Vernal' would be able to perceive much for some time. He likely never experienced such pain before. He would rather just end the battle now, ending the poor green Hound's misery.

That would lead to trouble though as the High House enjoyed the torture of the Hounds. While they look down on verbal banter, they enjoy the thrill of watching bloodshed.

"Rise!" "Get Up!" "Keep Fighting!" "Weak Hound!" "Don't Kill Him Yet Grave Hound!" "Fight the Grave Hound, Weakling!" "Give us Blood!"

The voices rolled off the audience like waves, splashing down and crashing into anyone not familiar with the effects. He stood though, like an unmovable stone that had weathered many rising tides. He listened though, giving 'Vernal' the time to come out of his pain-induced high.

"What are you waiting for… I already lost." 'Vernal' was met with the same dead gaze when the waves finally broke through the dams around him. The voices rushed him like an army, skewering his ears like spears that pierced flesh.

He wanted to shout, for them to just let him die. He had already lost to the Weathered Hound. He had mistaken himself as strong, but within five strikes, he was left like this. On the ground, portions of his knee fractured and his arms bruising with dark colors.

'Vernal' looked up at the roaring audience that demanded him to stand and fight. Did they not see what He has done to his knee? Did they not see how His eyes put His enemies in a trance, leaving them incapacitated? Or maybe they did, and they had seen it many times. Maybe they liked to see Him fight, because He would show the arrogant Green Hounds their place. Like done to him, the great Markus, the Vernal Hound… Hunted by the Grave Hound.

Understanding now that he wouldn't be given a quick death that he would have liked to ask for, he stood. He took his stance again, it was shabby as he tried to fight through the pain. His face was pained as he stared unto Him, understanding now the significance of the title Grave Hound.

When ready, look unto death without fear. It was always coming, and you were never meant to escape. Accept it, but never stop fighting. Not against death, but against whatever wishes to make your death worthless.

He walked forward, the Green Hound had already accepted death. Nonetheless, he wouldn't die without giving his all. That much, He could respect. 'Vernal'… No, Markus, would die in honor. Forgotten by all, but die in honor he will.

Markus threw a fist forward, his knee buckling. He still showed no emotion, not even a smile toward the last attempt. He simply laid his sixth and last attack, cruel but also merciful. As Markus fell forward, He waited for the perfect moment.

*Cre-Snap*

He watched as Markus' neck was left at an unnatural angle, blood pouring from his mouth. He didn't need to hear the speaker's words to know their words. He had heard them far too many times to care, and His body was already moving toward the barred gate he had entered through. Giving no need to the cheering crowd, He made His way to the cell.

It wasn't home, it didn't serve any comfort, but it was safe. Safe meant no demands from the High House, or for Him to take more life. It left Him with the dark thoughts that clouded His head, the only thoughts that didn't scream.

They were quiet. Cruel and deceiving, but quiet. The anger that had built up over more than a decade that had on more than one occasion taken over. Those times, He was brutal in the Den. It was then that He gained the title Grave Hound, His tirade racking the death of over ten Weathered Hounds and thirty Green Hounds in the time of one month.

The many fights in one day as the audience got too excited, wishing to see the Hound hunt like a savage beast. The blood and pleas of His enemies only gave the audience more excitement for His appearance. At the time, He would have easily given up any time He had needed to spend in the cell.

Fighting had been a release at the time, but all things must end. The guilt had layered over and over in the background, hidden by His anger. Now… it was gone. It was easier this way, He didn't need to worry about the feelings that had caused that. Feelings of any sort were dangerous in the Den. A pair of Hounds years back learned that the hardest way.

A pair of lovers that had been brought in together… Within a week, they were pitted against each other. The male of the pair pleaded, as the female stabbed him in the back. It was not anything new, it was more expected than anything. The female, not even a week in and having already killed two other Green Hounds, snapped.

He sat down, pushing any thoughts of the past back. They would only serve to distract Him, something that would not do. He closed His eyes, and thought over the area. He had mentally mapped most of everything that he had seen so far.

Escape… Will be difficult.