Here is the second segment in what I hope to be a long story. To those that are following it, thank you, and the two whom posted the very polite messages in response to the short beginning, thank you as well. I hope you enjoy this segment as well.

A warning, this portion will contain what accounts to child abuse in today's society, so for those that do not think they could stomach this, you have been warned. There may be several brutal, or gruesome scenes in this section as well. I have not decided yet.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A group of eleven children all appearing to be five years of age lined up shoulder to shoulder. The survivors of the thirty one cubs he had been given to train, each a berserker, all pathetically weak. fifteen had been killed in the first year by the cub who seemed to hold the Blood Fathers interest, causing him to be put into there little prides role of leadership. That was an interesting day for the trainer to watch. Rage, had systematically and ruthlessly culled the weakest and most pathetic of his generation within the first week of being brought to the pit. (The pit is a large circular hole inside what amounts to an area basement that is about two hundred yards in circumference, and roughly half a mile deep.) The others had died in their training, as was the norm, leaving him with this sorry lot. Each bore the scars, and he admired each one upon their lithe bodies. It was an art form, each scar a shrine to their continued survival and evolution as warriors.

Walking toward the line, a blood whip held between both hands, there trainer instructed them to sit and rest their hands upon their legs, heads turned down. Each of his Pride, himself included, did this without thought and prepared for what would occur. While Rage fell to his knees, he saw the whip change slightly and grow small spikes along its length. He had to repress a growl, and control his anger. The first lesson taught was anger was a weapon, and must be controlled, even for a berserker. It would never allow them to stop there killing when enraged, but they would remember every detail, and be able to at least direct it. Only the Blood Father could control his rage.

The footfalls, he focused on them as the instructor went behind their line, and began with the weakest of the survivors. A young female who sported nearly as many scars as I, it made her lovely, but I knew she would likely perish in this segment. Even as the thought occurred, a crack was heard followed by the muffled scream of the young female as she fell forward, before rushing to regain her seated position. Weak, but smart. Good, if she survived it could be used. Had she not rushed forward she would have been slain by the arrow that had just struck the dirt where she landed. They were not children, this was their life. They were bred for war, died for war, and lived for war. He often heard the normal cubs above, cheering and playing as the survivors of whatever village the Pridelings slaughtered were pit against each other, and wondered why such weakness was allowed.

For that reason he swore he would survive, and proof himself above those that had such a soft life. The young female had managed to survive the whipping, no doubt missing several pounds of flesh, cruel was there instructor. It was his purpose, to beat them into warrior that felt no pain. This is what their training had consisted of for the last year, not including the first week where I had slaughtered the weakest and most useless of the thirty that greeted me. Even as a newborn cub, I knew what to do. Instinct was our weapon when so young, and I used it. They tasted good as well.

The second in line for whipping, supposedly to increase our pain tolerance, was a scrawny male, but he had cunning. The crack, and followed muffled scream was expected, what was not was that he fell forward, and did not get up. Five arrows almost immediately sprouted from his back, and one directly in the back of his skull. Culled, I thought this because of where the whip had struck. The back of his head, the blood trickled into the sand. The instructor was culling those he felt to weak to bother with there second stage of training which would last until they were fully matured, it started tomorrow.

On and on the whipping continued, one other child being culled, this one a young female. She was also the one seated by him, his beta. Pity, she would have been useful. The instructor was powerful, but not far sighted. One day, perhaps I could change that. But for now....Searing pain ripped along my spine, I could feel the flesh being torn asunder, and my blood falling to the sand. Feeding the almost sentient and hungry ground. Growling through it, the sound reverberating through my tiny chest I stayed seated, and he struck again, harder. He wanted me to fall. Not today, I would not be weak. Never would I be weak again. More and more strikes followed, until I was sure my bones could be seen through the blood and missing flesh. An eternity of agony was all it felt like, but I did not fall, even as my gaze began to turn red and hazy, my rage coming to the fore. When suddenly, it stopped. The pain remained, but the strikes had stopped.

I couldn't hear anymore, the pain and blood loss causing my head to pound, all I heard was a steady thump. But I would not move. Power was the rule in this place, strength, and I was not yet stronger than the instructor. I could not, and would not move until instructed. Luckily, my own blood began to ease back into my body and heal the wounds to keep me from dying, changing and growing with each new pain I took to become strong. Tomorrow, we would finally learn to use the blood that was our source of power as a people. For each Prideling could control their blood, not another, not truly, but the internal chemistry that made up the body. It is what has allowed their race to gain dominance, because with each near death the blood adapted and changed, it was almost like a parasite to the Leonine race of shifters.

Waiting for the pounding to cease, he followed the others as they rose, using his eyes instead of his ears to know when. They remained standing there for at most an hour, some form of magic causing sun rays to beat upon them in the underground. A grueling experience to break whoever still needed breaking. Luckily, each of their wounds had sealed finally, which saved them the trouble of forcing them open again to dig any maggots out from there flesh. They had watched there two dead being dragged away, all thinking weak no doubt. I simply thought of it as short sighted, better there lives be thrown away in battle with another Prideling, or in war. That was what they were being trained for after all. War, they were shock troopers, expendable pawns on the game board for their peoples leader. They each knew this, but more berserkers lived the initial charge than not. There savagery and complete ignorance of any pain they felt more than enough to break the standard orc, or human settlement within minutes. More so when they lost human form and turned into there hulking leonine form.

The pounding had finally subsided. Right on time, as the instructor had come back to the sands and the magic causing the suns rays had dissipated. "Whelps, curs, weaklings. Today is a good day, you are all that remain of the thirty one initial cubs. You have shown, each of you, that you have some potential as war assets. As such, training will begin tomorrow for you to learn the art of war, how our people wage it, and how to control your blood." He paused a moment, letting that sink in. No one made a sound, they all saw the unsheathed sword. "You will pick your weapon of choice, each of you will only ever learn a single weapon. It will become your shield, and sword, your life and death. If anyone attempts to learn another, they will be culled. Only the weak need more than their chosen weapon for life. Are you weak?" This was a trick question, I answered for them. My voice small compared to the instructors, but not missing the growling vibration that would grow deeper as I aged. "Yes instructor, we are weak until you have made us strong." I was almost immediately sent to my knees, barely retaining my standing position as I was punched in the gut. He'd held back, I answered right. Nodding once, and grunting the instructor continued. "Right, Rage, the rest of you will also be named. You have earned the right to be acknowledged as a Prideling. Be proud of that, if nothing else. Now, to your bunks. Tomorrow, hell truly begins." Each of them waited until the instructor was out of sight before smiling a feral, wild grin and marching toward their sleeping area in the farthest left portion of the Pit. Speaking softly about what they hoped their names would be. While Rage, at the front, merely hoped to kill their instructor. He would, before this was over, he knew that. Even if it killed him. No beast would take that punishment, and forget. That is what they were after all. Beast of war.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I also know this one was relatively short. I'll be making each segment a great deal longer after this has been posted.

May have another section up today, unsure yet. Have a lovely day.