Yer lookin’ for a new fighter, eh?
I’ve a fine specimen for ya, fine as any I’ve seen. Trained in the pits, family kill’t by slavers. He ain’t mine ta sell, but he ain’t free, neither.
King’s men brought in, ransomed him for his crime. Seems he found the men who kill’t his folks, ripped ‘em apart with his hands and teeth like some kind a’ wild beast. They found just sittin’ on the floor surrounded by bodies with this dead look in his eyes.
I paid his release, an’ he owes me. He ain’t one to complain, fact he don’t talk much at all. Fightin’ is all he does, I’ve ne’er seen such ferocity. Hate ta let him go, but business is business.
The Minotaur snarls, his eyes and nostrils flaring, as he rips the helm from his opponent’s head. His breath is loud, his fur matted and sticky with blood. He drives his axe into the man’s face, wrenches it free, and then turns to find his next target.
The cell door opens, a shaft of light cuts across the wet stone floor. The massive figure inside shifts in the sudden light, blood red eyes blink beneath a shaggy mane of dirty, wet hair. He is enormous and hairy. Human to a degree, but more bear than man. Thick iron chains trail from the wall from his hands and his feet. His rage is palpable; captivity has done nothing to tame him.
Myrmidons, a general designation given to a motley collection of violent pit-fighters, heartless mercenaries and savage barbarians. These are fighters who harness primal rage and animal instinct over professional training and skillful practice. Raw strength and grim brutality are their hallmarks. When bards sing of these warriors, the tales include legendary feats and tragic, violent ends. In death, Myrmidons are driven to fight for the gods for a variety of reasons: the promise of wealth and glory, a need for vengeance unsated in life, or simply the unwillingness to lay down their arms and pass into the afterlife peacefully.