[i][color=00746b]"Do you fear death, Arcus?"[/color] The question lingered in the air, tapering on the edge of Arcus' brow and dripping like the beads of sweat off his nose. His arms were shaking, extended like this at odd angles and holding the quarterstaff across his body, holding the other boys' weapon at bay. They were both pressing as hard as they could, but both seemed to lack the strength to break the other's guard. "Do you fear death?" The tow-headed boy repeated the question. Their faces were very close, nearly pressed up against each other like their weapons. Regardless, the blood rushing in Arcus' ears made it difficult for him to hear his opponent. That, and the gathering crowd continued to emit hoops and hollars. "No- I do not fear death." Arcus offered in response, a bit gasped for air. He thought it was odd a boy equal his age would ask such a question and he began to wonder his fate should he lose this battle. He felt his feet begin to slide against the sand beneath him and he summoned what little strength he had left to push back against the other boy. They were once again in a stalemate. Neither boy spoke another word as teeth were grit for the next several moments- but Arcus saw it. It was subtle, but Arcus looked in the right place at the right time and saw the other boy shift weight from his back leg to his front- he was getting tired. Arcus' next move was risky- pushing with his right leg he leaped to the left- not far enough. He felt the harsh and heavy blow of a weighted quarterstaff strike his knee. Arcus fought through the pain- this was his chance to win. Landing with his left leg he swept his staff at his opponents back thigh. He heard a satisfying crack as his blow connected; his platinum-haired opponent fell to the ground and yelped in pain, dropping his staff. Arcus, thrilled with the idea of total victory, continued the assault and swung at the other thigh, as well- several hits that one took, to hear the crack. The boy continued to yelp and cry out in pain, but Arcus continued his flurry of blows, moving from striking the thighs, to the shins, to the feet... A white flash. [color=00746b]"Do you fear death?"[/color] This time the voice behind the question was Arcus'- a mans voice, not a boys. He glared down at the man beneath him, battered and bruised, hands grasping the boot that was placed on his throat. The victim's brown eyes met Arcus' teal ones and for a moment they glared hard at him. "I do not fear death." A voice rasped from beneath the rag that this man wore as a mask. Arcus lowered his own- an old welder's mask- and, stepping back, raised his hammer, who his fellow Legion comrades had named Brute; Arcus brought the hammer down... A white flash. He lay and stare up at the sky, sore muscles pulsing and convulsing and the dirt and sand offering no comfort for the warrior. His breathing was becoming raspy and struggled, and each wispy exhale led to less feeling in his limbs. He was growing cold, but the sun was shining above. He felt a sense of peace slowly creeping from his extremities as his vision began to fade at his peripherals. [color=00746b]"Do you fear death?"[/color] He didn't know where the voice came from, or whose it was. But it sounded like peace. It sounded like safety. It sounded like warmth. He continued to stare into the sky, he dare not move a muscle, but when one last shot of pain from the wound near his left hip gave him one last breath, he replied in a ghostly whisper: "I do fear death; but I wholly accept him."[/i] -- Teal eyes flickered open to a dusty ceiling lit by a pale sun. "Ah, there ye'are. You were thrashin' again." the mustachioed face next to him beamed with a smile. He stood from the chair he had apparently been sitting in and tossed Arcus' large satchel at him, who sat up with a start to catch it. Strange, it felt heavier than normal. Had he stolen his belongings? "Wanted ta' say thanks again for savin' my life yesterday- left a couple'a things in there for ya'." He apparently caught wind of Arcus' angry gaze for he started to slowly back towards the door of the small room, his thick boots clunking loudly with each gradual step. "Uh, enjoy yourself. In Fairbury, I mean. Don't get too used to the green." The man tipped his wide brimmed hat and flashed the smile Arcus had seen enough of; earned another scowl from the burly dark-skinned man when he slammed the door. Arcus clawed at his scraggly beard and leathery face- it was nice to sleep in a bed after so long, but the sheets on this glorified plank of plywood made his skin crawl and itch. He tiredly retrieved a flask- one of many- from his satchel that had water in it and splashed his face- in all his years as a warrior, a gladiator, a slayer of many, Arcus could never fight morning grogginess. His eyelids still felt like they were sandbags as he turned to hang his legs over the side of the bed- his body emitting more creaks and moans than the floor did as he placed his dirt-caked feet on them. His mind drifted to the events of his dream- moments of his life, of course. A recurring theme of his dreams recently. This one seemed to deal with death- he'd write it down later, as he had gotten used to doing as he traveled. Normally his dreams weren't [i]themed[/i], but when they were Arcus liked to think they were thought provoking. His "journal" was full of little blurbs describing his dreams or his thoughts on them, or the topics thereof. Arcus' knees popped as he stood and stretched his aching back. He glanced around his simple temporary abode, which was about as [i]simple[/i] as it could get, consisting of only a single bed, a small table, a chair, and one window overlooking the main dirt-packed road of Fairbury. There weren't even any curtains. Arcus' stretches continued to his legs and hips, which he was extra careful of, with the wound on his lower left abdomen. But he had overextended a stretch and a jolt of pain fired from the ugly cleft. Arcus cussed and stopped his stretches- it was going to be a long day. -- Stepping outside onto the streets of Fairbury was a welcome change of scenery from the past months- with everything so green and full of life. Not just the scenery, but the people, too. Many wore white coats and carried clipboards, though there was equally as many dressed in rather fine drapery, better looking than anything Arcus had seen, at least. His presence was a bit of a shock to both parties, Arcus wasn't used to such niceties and the denizens of Fairbury certainly weren't used to a dying ex-Forsaken Warlord carrying a sawbladed sledgehammer in their midst; though, that wasn't the story Arcus had told them. No, to the citizens of Fairbury Arcus wasn't [i]Arcus[/i] at all, but rather a caravan guard named [i]Evans[/i]. Regardless, he still got looks as people passed him by, he was a fairly intimidating figure to behold. Arcus started down the main smoothed-dirt road with no real idea where he was going. His mind wandered back to the events that had happened yesterday; He had just wandered into the outskirts of the outer Fairbury ruins when a caravan driver drove up next to him. Apparently, the man was so goodhearted that be'd offer Arcus a spot in the caravan so long as he put his hammer to good use, should they need it. Arcus had accepted, not entirely sure what he'd be getting himself into. And the ensuing hour was some of the most high-intensity combat Arcus had come across in recent months. The truck the caravan had couldn't be driven due to the roots and tangled vines, so it had to be [i]pushed[/i] into the city limits through the outer ruins, which meant the contingent of armed guards, Arcus among them, had their work cut out for them. Lashvines, Fleshmaws, Mortroot- these were just some of the green and colorful horrors that awaited them. Arcus had begun to believe that the foodstuffs in his satchel would suddenly spring to life and try to kill him. It was in these moments that Arcus was thankful for both Sam and the sawblade end of Brute. Someone bumping into Arcus brought him out of his memory stupor- a white-coated man. One of several that now surrounded his immediate area, it seemed that Arcus had wandered near the entrance tunnel to the much talked about Atlantis and was now walking against a stream of diligent-looking white coated men and women. Once again out of his dream-like state Arcus was a bit unsure of what to do with himself. He was entirely out of his element, surrounded by people who work to create life rather than take life. Deep down he wished he shared their passion- he wished to help create life to offset all those that he had taken, but he lacked the skill or knowledge required. To Arcus, it seemed that all he [i]was[/i] good at was taking life; he had heard somewhere that there were two kinds of people- people who take lives and people who save lives. Well, Arcus wanted to create a third type of person- someone who could save lives [i]by[/i] taking lives. But who was Arcus to decide what life was worth taking and which was worth saving? Arcus snapped back into reality once more, having wandered back down the way he came. The people around him didn't glance at him much anymore, they must think him a city guard patrolling the streets. He found a relatively nice looking spot along the street and slowly sat down, being careful not to agitate his covered and infected wound. Retrieving his small journal and a pen from his satchel, he began to write: [i]A warrior is not a man who does not fear death. A warrior is someone who accepts death, for such is their duty.[/i] Arcus thought about the words he had written and reflected upon them- he related, that was for sure. In fact, Arcus sometimes wondered if he had died out on the field that day, only to be brought back by some otherworldly force. Brought back to complete some task- some atonement, perhaps- before the infection took him again. No, Arcus did not fear death. He embraced it with open arms.