Nikoli lay in the street, sleeping in the middle of the day, completely drunk. Like he usually was. He might have sighed if he was awake. He was doing no good lying in the street like this. He came here to do good and he was doing no good by lying here. He had to save someone, or something. Or, at the very least, he had to get some money for some actual accommodation. He doubted that his northerner currency would do much good here, but he would think of something.
"Get up, you drunken arse!" shouted a guard, who was staring right into Nikoli's face.
"What...what do yar want?" said Nikoli, in obviously accented Kyltorian.
"You're going to have the honour of being a glorious sacrifice to our great god," said the guard, as two other town guards lifted him up off the pavement.
"The...the tournament..." said Nikoli, realising the implications of those words. The Northern Coalition sent their most bloodthirsty psychopathic criminals to fight in that accursed arena. All other nations did as well, it was not a place that you wanted to be. None of the Northern Gods were so needlessly cruel, yet the Northern Coalition sent a sacrifice every year, fearing the retribution that would occur if they did not. "The Northern Coalition, my homeland, they have already sent our tribute. The fight was yesterday!"
"Ah, but our high priest, in his 'infinite' wisdom, sent them all back to their homes." said the guard "So now we have to choose people from Kyltore. And your going to be one of them." Nikoli started to laugh in the face of the grave danger he was in. Laughing the way only a drunkard could.
"I'm not a Kyltorian!" said Nikoli "I'm a foreigner! You can't do this to me!" Nikoli continued to laugh. Part of the reason he had come here was because of the incredible racism their religion encouraged. He had hoped that his enemies would be too cowardly to follow him, as he knew that the average person could be THAT bad. Or so he thought.
"But nobody cares." said the guard "Not many people, in the public and in the church, agrees with our high priest's decision. Me and me mates here decided we would rather see some filthy foreign infidel die in the arena rather than even the lowest Kyltorian. But, unfortunately, we couldn't find a foreigner stupid enough to hang around during the time of the sacrifice. Except for you. Boys, let's move him." The guards holding on to Nikoli dragged him through the street, throwing him on the wagon, a locked wagon containing the sacrifice for this region of Kyltore: him.
Nikoli grasped his favourite bottle, taking another swig of the liquor. He hoped that it would help him sleep through the long journey to his probable and eventual death.
