Picture of a man.

He is muscular now, layers of hardened sinew over a body which had seen many winters, and skipped many meals for want of money. His hair is darkest brown and unruly, and all who look into his eyes can read a story sad and long. In a stone room, beneath a large crowd whose lust for blood rivals the beasts of the unknown continents, he sits with his sword, sharpening and testing, making sure the edge cuts to his satisfaction, cuts true and viciously. He finishes. He holds it by the hilt and looks into the newly polished blade. In the sheen he looks back at himself, unsure if the crooked lines he sees are embedded in the metal or in his own visage through the slow decay of time and worry. He stood to dress. From the washbasin he scooped a handful of water and wiped his face, and the new grown whiskers were stiff and the wetness and breeze through the upward sloping tunnel gave him goose flesh. He shivered, and the shivering brought on remembering. His youth was spent in wandering, his people unknown. His mother had been destitute and wanton in her pleasures, and left him at a crossroads to be taken. Found half dead by a farmer and his wife, they thought to raise him as their kind of worker. His wildness got the better of them, and his anger. It was a anger to rival the Furies in all their maleficence, and so terrible that Rumor with her many mouths had spread its reputation far. At thirteen he ran, and lived on the roads and made his way dispatching wayfarers to the shades. His master found him asleep beside the road, his knife in hand, and his rotted clothing stained with stinking fluids. He looked at the wretched creature with a predatory gaze, and offered him a hand which the youth took. It was he who gave him the sword, and he who told him of its ways. At night he slept among others of his kind and often he would feel the masters hands and he would wake to find him taking what he wanted. Once he cried out, and spent a month in a dark room with a draft and had gotten very sick. In the darkness he saw the masters face. You are mine, he said. When you breathe, the breath is mine and Ill use that breath how I see fit, and I choose to change you. Once you could have been a man, but that is no longer your path to walk. The sword I gave you, you are its brother. You and it are the same. When it hungers, so shall you. Keep sharp and feast upon them all. He did not know how many he had taken in those years. When he attempted to remember there was were no pictures, only sounds like screaming and roaring of the lions from beneath. He carried many scars, most beneath the skin. His feet were calloused. His hands were forever red. Once more he considered the blade. He turned it, feeling the weight and held out a finger and ran the edge along the tip and felt the sting. His heart still pumped, but for how long he did not know. He sucked the wound and tasted metal. He relished in that idea, and thought how it was appropriate. Whomsoever came before him today, be he friend or foe would certainly taste metal as well, and more so. He sheathed the sword and pulled on his other dressings with his helmet coming last. The eye holes limited his vision, but it did not matter. What was in before him was what mattered. He waited. The gate rose, and he heard the crowd and their hungered roaring. He thought of how best the carve their next meal. He smiled.