The crowd's cheers rose as high as the western sun, the heat baking them in their woolen clothes. Undulating howls of pleasure and excitement spelled coin and good business to the slave owner Mal Jashe, who hailed from the audacious lands of Nersheeba, of which has given him ill repute. Perhaps it was misplaced, for the Prophet saw fit to bless him with a fighter as lithe as the hunting cat, and whose grip matches the jaws of the river crocodile. 

Even now below, the Stone Fist grappled with a giant of Dhirae. Arms enwrapped around the monster's midsection, the cursed one straining and roaring as the Qabdat Alhajar backstepped, placing one leg in front of the great man's backfoot, yanking him to the ground as the crowd cheered louder. Perhaps Mal Jashe's Stone Fist could not defeat the cursed one, over a head taller in height, in a contest of strength. But determination gave strength in the limbs of the champion, and before Hayashim's blessed sun sank behind the area's walls, Rhaak Bin Hakeem was indeed the winner once more. 

Blood and sweat caked his face, and though he was victorious, he did not celebrate with the crowd. Instead he raised his fist, giving credence to the name he had received. Men cried out for him, coins and spittle flying as freely as the women jeered from the stands. Dancers with dresses as crimson as the bleeding sand glided along the edge of the arena, drawing the crowd's gaze as Rhaak was led off the field to his cage. 

Little did he know, that there was one that watched him longer than all of the others. A danger more terrible than any he had ever faced was here in Sharsaya, upon an errand most dire. A dark woman that spelled for an even darker night. This was the tale of the [i]Sorceress and the Slave[/i].  
[@Penny]