There is a place in the darkest corner of the world which no one ever talks about. It is a foul place, filled with misery and death. It is where criminals, the likes of murderers and rapists, are sent to carry out their punishments. It is where slaves, captured as spoils of war while never having done anything wrong, go to please their masters and live out the rest of their cursed lives. It is a place where almost no one escapes. But amongst the vile misfortune that occurs in this abyss, chance of glory and greatness is still present.

Welcome to The Pit.

An arena, built underground, absent of light and mercy, where the most cruel and terrible people go to gain fame and glory for themselves, or the people for whom they fight. Insane murderers, caring for only the scent of blood, go to prolong their worthless lives, less they be slain like rabid dogs. Slaves, taken against their will, go to gain coin and good fortune for their masters, who see to it that none of the earnings go to the ones who participate. Others foolishly volunteer themselves to gain reputation as a great warrior. What they do not know, however, is that nobody ever leaves.

The Pit is a dark hole. Once you are thrown into it, you have only one option. Fight to the death, or die. There is nothing in the Pit but worthless scraps of material and rotten bones. You are given no weapon to defend yourself with, but one is hardly needed. You see, your greatest weapon is your mind. Harness your cleverness and gather material to construct deadly weapons out of disposed garbage. It is your only chance of survival. If you hesitate, your opponent will surely best you. They will keep your head and fall alseep happily to the image of your contorted face propped up on a spike.

This is the place where people go to die. But if you are great enough - if you are truly blessed by the Gods - good fortune will come your way. Slay enough men and rise through the ranks. Go from a lowly slave, thrown into the Pit to die, to a revered fighter who everyone fears and prays to not fight against. Please your master with enough coin and you may yet have a chance of freedom. But do not get your hopes up. Freedom seldom comes to the fighters of the Pit, for most die before they can even dream of such things. If you are truly blessed, however, your good services might just free you from the clenches of the bastard who seeks to use you for profit, and nothing more.




"Get up, you worthless shits! You weren't brought here to lay on your asses and sleep!"

You awaken. Looking around at your surroundings, you find yourself laying in a small cell with four other men. You notice an armed man, wearing the armor of the Great Empire, banging at the cell wall with his sword. The ground beneath you is wet, and the air reeks of piss. The men around you are badly wounded; many have open gashes on their chests and arms. You look down at yourself. Bruises cover your entire body, and there is a dirty rag tied sloppily around your waist. Unraveling the rag, you discover a deep cut on your hip. The wound has festered, and you will surely be striken with fever if it continues to go unattended to.

A man to your left begins to cough uncontrollably. Blood begins to spurt from his mouth. You look around and see three guards not five feet from your cell, but none pay attention to the suffering man who is choking on his own blood. Only seconds pass by, and the man has stopped coughing, as well as moving altogether.

"Poor bastard," you hear the man across from you say.

"Poor? I'd say he's luckier than the rest of us, tied up here like livestock, ready to be sent to slaughter," the man beside him replies.

"It is not my fate to die in this wretched place," the first man says.

"Not your fate? And what got that idea into your stupid head?" the other says.

"I have forseen it. In a dream. The Gods came to me in the night and told me that I was destined for things outside of this place."

"The Gods? Ha! You are a fool to still put your faith in them. The Gods have forsaken us. They do not care for us anymore than a butcher cares for the pig whose throat he is preparing to cut."

"Will you two idiots shut up?" the man to your right says, finally waking up from his unconscious state.

"What else would you have us do in this place?" the man directly across from you says. "Are we to stare at each other all day and night without ever whispering a word? I am Sekovax, the victor of Balish! I led my people to victory over the savages that pillaged my lands and raped my women, and now here I am, tied to the wall like a dog."

"Forget your past, Sekovax, victor of Balish," the man beside him says, "For I have already forgotten mine. I used to be Calthor, the greatest blacksmith in Rupidia, but none of that matters anymore. We are no longer who we once were. Now, we are slaves."

Calthor turns to the man to your right. "And what was your name, slave?"

"I am Petris, and I shall always be. No Imperial shithole is going to take that away from me."

Calthor laughs at the reponse given by the stubborn man. You know he is right. Your past means nothing now. You are a slave, and nothing more. He turns to face you.

"And you? What is your name?"


STRENGTH: 1
AGILITY: 1
CUNNING: 5

"I was Timur of Thrane, once," you say to Calthor.

"And what title did they give the mighty Timur?" he asks.

You look at him with a confused expression.

"Mighty? What makes you think I held any importance?"

"You have many scars across your body. Not meaningless ones from small daggers, but ones from large swords used only in war."

He points to your left shoulder. You look down and see the long and wide scar of an old battle wound. Calthor then continues to speak.

"It is also quite obvious that someone of your size is not a simple farmer. So tell us, Timur, what did they call you in Thrane?"

You stare at the ground and pause for a moment.

"...the Destroyer."

Your head jolts up to the sound of a man yelling passionately as he approaches.

"How often must I tell you to see to it that these slaves are ready for training?! Were you not family, I'd have your head severed from your neck!"

Two men approach the cell. The one being yelled at is wearing a fancy white toga, dirtied from its surroundings, and has his head facing the ground. The one doing the yelling is standing tall, wearing a vibrant red toga with gold trimming. He is looking down towards you and the rest of the men.

"Look at these worthless dogs," he says. "Shit-stained and laying in piss. I want them cleaned up and ready for training immediately. Get that dead thing out of there," he continues, pointing at the dead man to your left. "If you some how fail this task, I will personally see to it that you are thrown into the arena in place of them."

The man in red turns and leaves. The man in the white toga stares at you and the other prisoners, his face reddened from embarrassment, but you all just stare at the ground.

"Get up, you fucking animals! I am Isiphius, and you will do everything I command, less you be sent to the arena without any training! Do as I say, and you may yet prove to be something more than a disgusting, worthless slave. Guards, pick them up and take them to the baths. Get them cleaned and ready for training."

Isiphius turns and leaves. The three guards open the cell and unchain you and the others from the wall. They put new chains on your hands and feet, barely big enough to fit around the bodies of a young boy. The chains dig into your skin, cutting off your circulation. The guards pick you up and push you out of the cell. You stumble and almost trip over the short chains that are attached to your feet. You are led to a rather large room with numerous water-filled holes in the ground. There are many men in this room, bathing themselves. The guards unchain you and motion you to the baths. The other men who were in your cell have already started going towards the water. You slowly walk towards the water and feel a sharp pain in your side. Looking down, you see that the rag around your hip is stained with fresh blood. The wound has reopened, and blood is now dripping down your leg. Just as you are about to wash the wound clean, someone grabs you from behind and throws you to the ground.

"What's this? Fresh meat?" you hear someone say. You look up and see a large man, almost a foot taller than you, standing above you. He picks you up and pushes you against the wall.

"Are you ready to be my bitch, slave?"


Strength: 1
Agility: 1
Cunning: 5

You glare into the man's eyes, seeing them completely filled with hate. You will find no kindness from him. Also, you note his size. He is a boar, large and towering, and you would stand no chance against him were you to retaliate.

"Very well," you say calmly. "Do what you must."

The man releases you from his clenches and punches you in the stomach. You fall to the ground, devoid of breath, feeling the wound on your hip worsen with every second.

"Fucking pathetic," the man says to you. "Is this the kind of garbage Isiphius brings to us now? Am I but the last remaining warrior left in this chasm?"

The man walks away and returns to the baths. Calthor comes and kneels down beside you.

"Tell me, Destroyer," he says. "Do you wish to submit yourself to the will of another slave?"

"What would you have me do?" you say back to him. "The man is twice my size, and I am in no condition to defend myself. I seek only the rational option."

"You are wise to not listen to your friend," another man says. He walks up to you and Calthor. "Had you attacked, Astyanax would have ripped your limbs asunder."

"Is he that good?" Calthor responds. "And what is your name?"

"I am Boro, and yes, Astyanax is the best that Phinius possesses."

"Phinius?" you ask.

"He is the man who owns all of us. We fight for him in the Pit, an arena beneath the ground, devoid of light, where men go to either die, or come back out with their opponents head in hand. All rewards received through the fights go directly into Phibius' pocket, leaving us light of pouch."

You hear footsteps approaching and see Phinius enter the room.

"On your feet, you filthy beasts!" a guard shouts.

You try to stand, but the wound on your hip prohibits you from doing so. Calthor stands up and lends his hand to aid you. He picks you up and you lean against the wall, grapsing the wound. Phinius looks around at all his slaves, walking up to the ones just recently brought in, inspecting all for worth and condition. He sees you leaning against the wall and approaches you.

"Tell me, slave," Phibius says. "Are you a child who cannot stand without the support of his mother, or are you just too stupid to know how to stand properly in the presence of your master?"

He looks down at your waist and sees you covering a wound.

"Are you hurt, slave?"


Strength: 1
Agility: 1
Cunning: 5

"Yes, I have a serious injury,for I once stood up in the face of adversity. While others fought to cripple the weak, I sought out the toughest of the land in order to prove my worth," you say to him.

Phibius takes a long, hard look at you and then laughs.

"Ah, we've got ourselves a true warrior here! One who seeks out the toughest to prove his worth! He sees himself a better person than those who prey on the weak! Tell me, are they also my slaves, like you, or are they free men, living their lives as they wish?"

The other slaves in the room laugh at the remark. Phibius looks up at a guard and tells him to take you to the medic. Before the guard takes you away, Phibius looks back down at your waist.

"And one more thing, slave," he says as he sticks his finer into your wound. The pain is indescribable, and you fall to the ground, trying your hardest to not scream from the agony. "I do not care if you have a simple cut or if you are missing an entire arm. While you serve me, you are never hurt. Do you understand?"

You look up at him and slowly shake your head. You become incredibly dizzy and everything around you becomes distorted. The room starts to dim and everything you see starts to fade away.



You awake in another room. You are laying on a hard, wooden table that is stained with blood. You look at your wound and see that it has been cleaned up and wrapped with cloth. As you try to sit up, you are reminded of the severity of your wound, feeling a jolting shock of pain in your hip. You lay back down, grimacing in pain. You look to your side and see many more tables, all with men on top of them. Some are sleeping, and others are lying dead. A man enters the room.

"You are lucky to be alive, Joffrey."

You look to your left and see an old, raggedy man walking towards you. You do not know who he is talking to.

"You've been sleeping for a week. The fever took hold of you many times, but you somehow survived."

"What did you call me?" you ask.

"Joffrey."

"That is not my name."

"It is now. Phibius has chosen you to be apart of his group of fighters that compete in the Pit. He does not want people to know you by your Thranian name, as it is a place of filth and poverty. He has chosen the name Joffrey, and that is what your name shall be from now on."

"I told you; that is not my name."

"Keep saying that and Phibius will surely cut your tongue out to shut you up. Now, get up. You've been resting long enough. Phibius wishes to see you in his quarters."



You enter Phibius' quarters. His room is elegant, with curtains flowing from the ceiling and a large bed in the middle of the room. There are numerous tables, all with wine on of them, and Phibius is sitting next to one, drinking from a chalice and eating some fruit.

"Ah, Joffrey, it's good to see that haven't proved yourself to be completely useless to me."

The sound of that name makes you want to clench your fists, but you understand that protesting it will only make matters worse.

"I do believe I did not have a chance to properly introduce myself. I am Phibius, your master. You will do everything I say, and if you do it well, you will be greatly rewarded. I've chosen you to be apart of my fighters. You will fight in the Pit, an arena filled with glory, and bring me riches. Do this for me, and you may be rewarded yourself. Now, tell me. Is your wound healed?"

You look down at the bandage and see that some blood has stained the cloth. The wound has probably reopened slightly.

"It is better than it was before."

"Good. Can you fight?"

You nod your head. "I was apart of the Thranian army before being brought here."

Phibius scoffs. "The shit you learn in Thrane is not fighting. It is merely men swinging clubs at each other in hopes of hitting one another. But nevertheless, let us see what you're capable of. Guard, give him a sword."

A guard standing by the door unsheathes one of his swords and throws it at your feet. He unsheathes another sword and grips it tightly.

"This guard has had only basic training in comparison to my group of fighters. Let's see how you fare against him."


STRENGTH: 3
AGILITY: 3
CUNNING: 5