It is late, late Sunday night, and I am a little too tired to push out a full post, so instead I will share a little bit from my newest Bloodlust title, which should be out at the usual time this summer. Not sure on the title yet.
Obviously this is raw, unedited, and needs a lot of shaping.
Towering over Chosen Silvius, The Gorehound seemed out of place on the perfectly coifed fighting grounds in Silvius’s palace. He was too large, too square, and far too ugly for an arena usually reserved for the Chosen’s personal amusements.
The Gorehound peered at him with eyes mostly hidden under a thick brow, a dog-faced mask hiding his nose and lower jaw. Silvius had seen him without the mask, but it was hardly an improvement. The man was just ugly.
The Gorehound’s reputation for brutality was well deserved, having spawned numerous imitators after his career faded. He still fought in pit-arena Deathmatches in the Trapholds, killing criminals and heretics, ending innumerable lives over a decades-spanning career as a master that went most unnoticed in larger, more popular arenas.
In one thick hand the Gorehound carried a crude looking club, too heavy for most men to carry, covered in cruel spikes. His other arm ended in a gauntlet with spike and a bladed buckler attached to it. The fist spike itself looked more like some mad butcher’s tool than a traditional weapon, with a hooked point and jagged edges.
Even his armour spoke of single-minded dedication to relentless destruction on the fighting grounds. A heavy harness with thick metal plates protecting his vitals, the Gorehounds protective gear also covered striking surfaces such as knees and elbows with reinforced metal and short, jagged blades that could shred any opponent unfortunate enough to be caught in his grip.
And, to Silvius at least, he was so very, very ugly. While the Gorehounds huge frame was covered in muscle, he was thick and almost looked fat with little definition in some places. The beast’s head was shaved clean, but his chest, where unarmoured, was covered in coarse black hair like fur. His gear was functional at best, with little embellishment or even an attempt to match materials.
“Yet another reason why you don’t want to fight by Skin League rules Silvius,” said Chosen Noxaia from the announcer’s box in the viewing area above the fighting grounds.
Chosen Brand beside her, smiled thinly.