What Makes Monsters Tremble

I: Creed

If it be true there were one thing I learned in all of mine own days of work, it wouldst hath been said that even monsters check under their own beds before slumber and tremble before righteous authority. There is a fear in every single creature, no matter how towering, no matter how intimidating it is perceived to be. There is hierarchy in every community of this world; There will always be the king, and there will always be some measly, good-for-nothing peasant.

Now I know there will be questioning to what I've stated. You may ask, "What makes these monsters check under their own beds?" or, "Who is king? What makes a king above what we curse, but yet tremble under?". And the answer is a simple one that answers both questions, as well as many - the answer is that fear and pain are the biggest motivators, and the best teachers. Thoughts lead to emotions, and emotions lead to actions, therefore: The thought of your fear or pain, and the feeling of hatred in your heart, leads to you acting upon invoking those same thoughts and feelings to the ones that have struck them inside of you. That is what makes a king, that is what makes monsters shiver - to be just as much of a monster to them. This is what I have learned in all mine own days of work.

My name is Bear. It hasn't always been, however; I believe my name used to be Gregory. I cannot recall, for it has been so many years under the force, and I haven't been called anything else in twenty years. I was always a plump, round boy (and still am), which lead to being teased and made fun of by the skinnier boys in town. Because of this, I had to earn my respect in the humble, poor area of Woaxmond in which I was raised in - through fighting. I always cut my hair short so that my hair couldn't be grabbed, whereas the other boys in town kept their hair long. This proved to be an advantage on my part; I couldn't be thrown or carried because of my weight, nor grappled by my hair, but yet, I was among the best in doing so to others. I was given the name Bear because of this strength that I built, and the aggressiveness I displayed in all of my fights.

As I grew older into my teenage years, I became hardened due to my experiences. I went on to brawl for coin in Woaxmond's underground fight club at seventeen, and quickly rose to prominence. All who walked down into the sewers of Woaxmond to spectate a fight knew the name of Bear.

The sewers - particularly, the ring in which I used to fight in - was nothing short of eerie. The lighting was undeniably dim, even though many torches were posted throughout. Obviously, the stench of sewage was a frequent visitor; I, however, became accustomed to it, and my senses adjusted. The ring was more of a giant wooden plank that more or less floated on a puddle of murky, green sewage. Around the plank there was a sort of railing that encircled it, and it was more or less ropes tied to blocks of wood that would protect the spectators from being hit by the either lifeless or unconscious body of a fighter that was falling. The other function of the ropes would be to shield fighters from aggressive spectators; there were many of which, a hefty portion were drunkards.

The fans whom took pleasure in viewing these bare-knuckle, rule-free fights seemed to add to the climate of the dank sewers; however, there were indeed the occasional rich man who would stop in, shameful as a sinner before a god. Those types would shield their faces under a cowl, heads down low, typically dressed plainly or lowly, in fear that they would be robbed or clobbered if they wore anything that were any less meager or modest - for good reason, as well. There were even the occasional foreigner who would watch, oftenly a fan of a specific fighter.

The fights themselves, as one would imagine - were frankly unsparing. The ages of fighters ranged anywhere from fifteen to fifty; some fought for the joy of it, while others did it to survive the unforgiving jungle that were the streets of Woaxmond's slums. There were no weight classes - many of the time, the rugged, veteran fighters were matched to the skinny, young newcomers; purposefully, in fact. To partake in viewing the young man's suffering and fright was admittedly humorous. Every man who fought did so viciously, savagely and with a hatred even I could not begin to comprehend. We fighters were strangers to each other, but nevertheless fought with a flaming passion of hatred and abhorrence for each other. If you lost a fight, it was likely that you only lost because you were crippled and simply could not fight. There was endless amounts of scarlet blood, and the sewers echoed with the sounds of grunts, screams and fists pounding into flesh. You could nearly feel it when witnessing a man's skull crack without the breaking of skin. The fights were matched, coordinated and scheduled by a man whose name I cannot say, for if I did, I would be a dead man; all I will say is that if he wants someone dead, it will be done precisely as he says.