Titus stood in the center of the arena. Sweat dripped down his forhead, his muscles tense, his hand tightening around the leather bound handle of a blood drenched sword. The croud screamed for blood, wave upon wave of aplause washed upon his armor. The stench of foul breath reached his nostrils as Titus looked upon the enemies surrounding him. He was out numbered by far, twenty swords to his one blade. They were all blood thristy tirants, men who did not fear death, nor pain. Each of them bore the face of the devil himself, teeth bared, eyes percing through his armor, through his flesh to set on his very bones. Titus stood firm in his position, waiting patiently for them to make the first move. Titus knew if he were to survive this day, patience, dilegence, and cunning would have to be on his side. The beasts grew closer, hungered by his sweet stench. Ten feet..5 feet…Titus counted in his head. They grew closer, so close, Titus could feel the heat from there bodies permiate over his. Now was the time.