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Summary
[The crowd’s roars were not something Scott ever thought he would hate. As his name was announced and the audience cheered with bloodthirsty glee he found himself loathing each and every person who looked forward to his appearance.
“There he is! The last Goldsmith! Isn’t he a sight?” The announcer’s voice echoed throughout the arena.
Scott stumbled onto familiar bleached sand and growled lowly past his muzzle, the heavy chains on his wrists bent his posture forward and the silver that sent shivers through his body burned with a vengeance. A hand met the back of his head and the muzzle slipped off, he rolled his jaw and turned to his captors with his wrists held up expectantly.
“Those ones stay on today.” The grizzly man with a scar across his bearded throat grinned.
Of course, just his luck.]
---OR---
I stuck Scott Goldsmith in a gladiator arena
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