Of all the pains or tortures devised by fate, perhaps the most miserable is to have once been happy.
The brokenhearted see the world the most poetically, but through the deadest eyes. Theirs is the pain of seeing the most and having the least, having only recognized their fortune in the moment it was ripped from their fingertips.
The rakers were blessed. They'd never once been happy.
These, the mercifully ignorant, stumbled through the empty courtyard, walking corpses in rags. Their faces were covered in soot and blank expressions, tearless, resigned, familiar with nothing but the drudgery of their labors and the pain of the whip.
Druin envied them.
Druin stumbled past them and shut the door to the Cold Chamber. He hobbled to the sink and splashed the icy water on his face, his fur thick with dirt and sweat. He looked up into the shard of polished glass that served as a crude mirror. He watched numbly as the water dribbled down his whiskers and into the basin.
Behind him, another door opened ever so slightly. A tall, dark weasel observed Druin in his reflection. Their eyes met. "It's time, mouse. It's your turn."
Druin shut his eyes. His paw strayed to his sword hilt. This was it.
ooc- This is based off of a story concept I was working on. I still might do something with it, but right now I'm just exploring.
Basically, eight or so different provinces each select a group of champions between 16 and 18 years/seasons old (old enough to fight, young enough to die). They face off and a final champion from each group is selected, along with his trainer. After a series of tournements, the winner (the Province, not the fighter) gets money and added political power. The most powerful always wins. The weakest stays weakest.The reason the tournement was designed was to keep the weaker factions from grouping together to fight the stronger ones. They stay independant in hope of winning.
The one problem is that one faction will always lose. Eventually, they'll decide to cheat.