[h1][center]Chapter 2[/center][/h1]
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[center]One Year Later[/center]
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The land of Hammerfell is known for three things. Opulent wealth, vicious warriors, and heat the likes of which no one has ever dreamed. Markus had experienced the latter in spades, the former not at all, and he was about to see if it was true what they said about their fighters, for he found himself in a rather 'precarious position,' one blonde woman might have said. A woman he had known only for a brief time, but one that had saved his life, as he had hers. 

"GET UP, you [i]scum[/i]!" a rough voice ordered, drawing Markus out of his sleepless daze. The spellsword looked around the cramped waiting cell, seeing the other fighters in fear, some ritualistically scarring themselves to atone to their gods, as others simply seemed excited to shed the blood of others. Well, there was one thing Markus could say about the prisons in Hammerfell that was a stark contrast to those in Skyrim.

They weren't boring. 

"Move! Move, you rats!" The jailer ordered, getting his goons to pick up any stubborn prisoners and whipping those who moved too slowly. "Get out there! The crowd awaits and they will get what they came to see! If you die with a clean sword, you'll not receive a burial. We'll feed you to the pigs!" The cries echoed into the weapons room as every man grabbed the weapon they felt most comfortable with. Markus was lucky his own sword was among the inventory, and he grabbed it before anyone else could. 

Briefly, he wondered how he had gotten himself into this mess, but he remembered far too quickly. One of the local lords or satraps, or whatever they were called, had taken offense to him as a foreigner. True, Markus had not given the man a wide berth in the barroom and had killed two of his guards when they had tried to throw him out. He had never had a healthy trust in authority, and it had gotten him into this. 

Now the lordlings father was outside now, watching the fighting pits and expecting to see the prisoners and slaves to fight their utmost best to survive. If Markus had heard correctly, they would not all be fighting one another at the same time. They'd be cordoned off to different fighting pits, killing one another or fighting animals to see who would make it to a second, final round, as even most winners died of their wounds before the last fight. 

The shadows played off of Markus' rugged visage, the swordsman wrapping cloth around his forearms to help in case he needed to block without the use of his blade. 

With their blades and weaponry handled, they were sectioned off and sent into different tunnels that snaked through the hard rock of the underground. Each had a guard behind them, dripping blood on their shoulders and holding a torch to guide their way towards the gate, though after a few steps it was easy to see. It was where the only light came from. As if on cue, the portcullis creaked open as Markus approached, and the crowd roared.