The crowd cheered relentlessly. There, at the gate of the arena, stood a trembling man wearing rag clothing. He knew today was his death day.

"Get out there, your crowd's waiting for ya!" the guard said to him, pushing him out and onto the ground. The gate slammed down, sealing off one of his two exits.

He stood up and wiped off his clothes, as if his first problem was dirt. He looked around. Thousands of people stood up or were jumping around, and their noise did not settle. He looked across. A mere hundred yards' length away was an open gate- freedom. Two guards stood next to it, but he knew they would give him no trouble if he got that close. All he had to do was make it there alive. He did not want to give a show, but his crave to be free was much stronger. Without a second thought, he made a dash for the exit.

He was almost winded not even a third of the way there. The crowd "booed." This sent an alarm in his mind. Maybe today was the day they just wanted to see someone run in fear of nothing. Maybe they were going to slam the gate closed right as he got there. He ignored the thoughts and continued running.

He made it to the halfway point. The crowd's "boos" turned to wild cheers again. The man felt a chill rush up his spine. He stopped and caught his breath, and turned around slowly.

There stood his murderer. He was easily six feet tall, give or take a few inches. He wore a metal headband. His hair was dark brown- it was tied in a long ponytail in the back and the top was half as long, and seemed to spike back. His upper torso was clad in metal and had what looked like silk fur from one shoulder to the other. He had a belt and small thigh guards on either side of his legs. His pants were black and skin tight and his boots were high and metallic. They had spikes protruding all the way around near his knees. On his forearms were metal gauntlets with six small spikes on both of them. He also bore metal, spiked armlets. He seemed to be very fond of spikes. His facial hair was peculiar and easily recognizable for anyone who knew of him; a Fu Manchu mustache that begins on the edges of his upper lip. However, perhaps the most intimidating features about him were his piercing eyes and gigantic duel-wield axes. He spun them around at his sides like they were children's toys.

"Had you going there for a bit, didn't I?" he said to the exhausted man, approaching him casually. His voice was rugged, intimidating, and thoroughly resonated within his chest.

The man nearly fell over. "F-f-fuck you, Draven!" he spat, spinning around and resuming his pursuit to freedom.

The executioner's body tingled at the sound of his name. "Now now… that isn't very nice," he said, pulling back his arm. The crowd became even wilder.

The man was so far away it seemed almost impossible to toss anything to him that would actually make it. This was no task for Draven, however. When he finished pulling his arm back, he launched it forward in the man's direction, releasing one of his deadly axes. It spun around in the air seemingly hundreds of times. He didn't throw it up- he threw it forward. It cut through the air in its pursuit of the terrified man as though it was a heat-seeking missile. There was a hush. The blade hit its target in the back of his neck in a matter of seconds.

The crowd picked up its cheers and hollers, and even began chanting his name. Draven's axes acted as boomerangs when they hit their marks, for they were imbued with a potent magic. When his blade struck his prey, it instantly returned to him, and he put the lethal twins in the holsters on his back. He closed his eyes and basked in the chanting. When he was done with his internal gloating, he turned to the crowd and raised his left arm up victoriously. The crowd screamed, and did the same, still chanting his name. It was his favorite sound in the world.