Crom, Champion of Saetolus.

You circle your opponent, sizing him up. He is as tall as you, a few inches over six feet, but he is less muscular than you are. His hair and beard, like yours, are both long and untidy. He wears nothing but a pair of old cloth breeches, and his bloodied fists are raised in a fighting pose.

You brush an errant strand of your coarse black hair from your eyes with one scarred hand, before suddenly springing into action.

Before he can react, you are inside his guard, ducking low and grabbing him about the waist.

You let your momentum carry you forward, bowling him over and pushing him to the ground. Your foe, realizing the situation, tries to bring up his hands to defend himself, but you already on top of him. You hit his face once, twice, three times before you see his body go limp. ****.

You stand and face the small crowd gathered around the pit. You hear cheers and cries of derision in equal measure, and you see coin changing hands.

You don't really remember your life before the fighting pits. The best you can recall is that your family had many debts, and they sold you into slavery to pay them off.

The why of it doesn't matter much to you. You are a ****, a fighter, and that's all you'll ever be.

Or so you think.