A Contest

This harsh land knows no ways save punishment. Sourwheat, the only crap that grows here that counts for food, produces thorns so thick they must be cut off with a machete before harvesting. Large holes dug a hundred feet or more in the ground provide the only ready source of water, and gangs war for control daily. This hell hole denies living, yet there are those that still stay. Where else could they go? The Lawless Lands are like their names describe; a dry, arid haven for those with little to lose save their own life.

In the end, it’s the filth that call this place home who defines it. Everyday, a struggle to survive. Every day, a fight. The ones who simply don’t have the will to put one foot in front of the other are thrown to the wolves. Even the survivors are thrown to the wolves as well, to see which of them will manage to bat away the savage beasts. Some scholars would look back on this land in the far future and ponder why others didn’t see what was so obvious to them. The Revolution against the Magistrate could only have begun there. To unite the warring clans, to bring down the walls of the castle from within and without, would have required a willpower greater than any fat, elitist slob sitting on a silk cushion. It would require someone who knew the hell of war would still be less than the hell of complacency, and was willing to wade through both to find a ray of hope. Someone whose struggles hardened her to the core, and steeled her against the realities of living.

My “father” was a terrible man. As a gladiator who made his way killing other people, his heart eventually broke and his mind with it. His last fight was a test of his brutality and skill, and he passed with flying colors. His boon was any animal, wealth, or person he could see in front of him. Having fought for over an hour and with blood on every ounce of his body, it must have been difficult for the poor bastard to see anything. But he made a choice, and was bound to it.

My father won me in a contest.