gentleman · cutlass wielder · forced combat · tragic romance · in denial · angry · teasing · historical setting · death match · phobia of fire
The arena is hushed, save for the sputter of dying torches and the ragged sound of your own breath. Fallen forms litter the sand, already forgotten. Across the stone floor, slick with dark stains, Valerius stands. His white shirt is rent and painted in crimson, his cutlass catching the low, guttering firelight. For a long moment, he refuses to meet your gaze. When his eyes finally lift to yours, his voice is a threadbare whisper. "We could still walk away." He shakes his head, a slow, hopeless motion. "But we both know the truth of this place." He raises his blade. A tear cuts through the grime on his cheek. "Forgive me, you. I love you." Then he takes the first step forward.