Markus stormed out of the chapel, his sights set on the street leading away from it. The sun almost blinded him, but they quickly adjusted as he fumed and stomped down the stone stairs. His angry swearing parted the crowd for him, but even if it didn’t, his clenching fist was ready to absolve anyone who stood in his way. Anger coursed through his mind and deafened him to the shouts of those who glared at him with disgust for his rudeness. Once he was clear of the crowd surrounding the chapel, he found that he was walking in the direction of the arena. He smiled through gritted teeth and decided that’s where he would go, insistent on seeing some bloodshed to satisfy his rage.

The smell of baked goods, raw fish, and other foods overwhelmed Markus as he passed through the slightly less crowded market place. The sight and smell of the food made his stomach grumble, but he didn’t pay it much mind. His anger had dissipated his appetite for food. He pushed past more people, ignoring their stares just as he had ignored the crowd outside the chapel. He hated holidays, especially religious ones.

The closer Markus got to the arena, the more powerful new smells became. The smell of blood, death, and decay now flooded him as the gates of the arena loomed above. He tossed a silver coin at the arena worker, who took it and gestured that he could enter. On any other day, Markus would’ve been tempted to fight; however, he knew that on this day, he would be more pleased to watch a match between two combatants.

‘Always asking for money,’ he thought, giving the arena worker one last look of disgust before heading up the corridor that lead to the bleachers, ’Just like the men at the church, bloody bastards! All of them, money grubbing cheats!’ A new surge of anger burst through him as he climbed the stairs and adding to his thoughts, ‘I can’t decide who is more despicable, the holy men that scrounge the money from the poor, or the gods they worship! Either way, I say damn them all!’ He seemed satisfied with himself as he climbed the last stair and made his way to a seat by himself where he could brood.

Markus was a bit winded, but he still found himself focusing on the match. He watched the combatants, a young sickly looking boy with a hand-and-a-half sword against some elf archer. Markus wasn’t interested in a winner, he just wanted to watch; he shook his head, ‘Should’ve made a bet.’ He looked around, noticed no one that he knew, and the turned back to the match. Normally this would’ve been a great place to meet new people, but he wasn’t in the mood. Unless someone directly addressed him, he would sit in silence and enjoy the bloodshed.

Andin rubbed his eyes, trying to make them open. As they began to flutter awake he grabbed his boots next to his bed and attempted to put them on. 'God, I hate waking up.' About five minutes later he closed the bedroom door behind him and headed down the wooden stairs to the bar below. The obnoxious noise of drunk, boisterous people drifted up the stairs, along with the smell of beer and smoke. “Great way to start the day.” He sleepily made his way down the stairs and headed for the door outside, only stopping to grab a small glass of water. As soon as he walked out the door, he threw the water onto his face. Andin eyes opened with a start as the water drenched his face and shirt. ‘Ok, now I’m awake.'

But now he had absolutely nothing to do. Unsure of time or place he just began to walk, unsure where his feet would take him. It was about twelve in the afternoon at his best guess. The blaring sun above him and the horrible heat seemed pretty good guides. Because it was so hot, he had left much of his normal attire in his room. He wore only his boots, pants and sleeveless undershirt, all of which were black. He felt naked and exposed with out the rest of his normal clothing on. As if walking down a busy street with pure black on during the summer wasn’t enough to pull attention, he had his scars. One ran down the left side of his face, from his hair line to the base of his neck. The other was located on his left shoulder. It was only about four inches long and could be seen on both the front and back of his shoulder, but it was a sickly red color, as if it had never fully healed.

He easily ignored the stares of those around him, but did notice that they had begun to grow in number, if only slightly. The smell of fresh bread and broiled meat, mixed with human sweat and animal manure. He had to be in a market. Andin had never been one to eat much, nor did he wish to buy all these useless items, so this place held no interest for him. So he continued forward with his expedition of boredom. Continuing through noise and bustle of the market he had a faint smell drift past his nose. Salt, with a metallic twinge, a smell rather common for his nose, so common he had trouble smelling it anymore. Enticed by this he tried to locate it origin of the blood, tracing it to a tall over glorified structure, and arena.

‘Arenas. A place for warriors to battle? Ha. No it’s a place for common thieves and barbarians to beat the crap out of something, no finesse, no skill. Any dumbass can do that.’ Yet it was something to do, and he could enjoy the “sport” without respecting the participants. So he entered. A small fee to enter and he was standing in the seats over looking the arena. After a few quick glances at him all eyes turned back to the battle, if you could call it that, taking place below. Only one never looked away, a man sitting in the corner, eyes locked on the pathetic struggles taking place. Yet he didn’t seem to be watching it. He was isolating him self from everyone else. Not one to start conversations with complete strangers, he simply took a seat near he man, he thought about trying to be inconspicuous, but decided the effort would be wasted, seeing as he stuck out like a sore thumb. He walked up a row or two until he was up and to the right of the man. What was he going to whit the man he was not yet sure of, but one thing was certain, he was unique. Very unique.