Conquest of the Horde

In the dark, was a smelly older man, with a half cocked grin. He seemed to be talking to himself, or at least thinking out loud. In his thick-haired red head, he could barely remember the good ol' days, which really weren't that old at all. He ran his dirt ridden hands down his thigh, to his right knee, where there was nothing but a stub.

He remembered that day. The screaming, the blood. The crowds. The announcer. Screaming about Red was down. The end of Sin. His career was about as short as the stump where his leg once was. He'd only been a contender for about a year. A year of hard work, and training, straight down the drain. He'll never forget the look of his father. The pain was unbearable, but the look from his old man's face was what stuck in his head the most. The sheer level of regret Rensin felt stuck with him, to this day.

So he sat there. In a puddle of water and piss-like liquor. Drinking away his memories. Wishing that he hadn't entered in that day.


(Short. I know. I'll elaborate later. I did this for my own benefit.)