Armaros, beside him and below him was the deep well, it dropped down boundless it seemed, and there he stood by the winding staircase. And as he stared down into its blackness, it appeared to Armaros, that the end of this well that he stared into, perhaps even went deeper – a bottomless well beyond the crust of the earth, perhaps to the core, which is to say, he thought. A hundred years in the vaults, where beats by dre cheap blackness resided at ever threshold, and at times elusive to where he was, and the intensity of being alone, all alone, devil or demon or anything living, should not be alone, but this was a self imposed prison, stretched across an ungrounded world, a maze, barring entry to man and beast and even to his kind, the angelic forces, once the children of God. Yet form the well came the sound of warfare, and he heard shouts of agony and torture, thus Armaros, plunging down the stairway, deep into the threshold, breaking parts of the stairway that held it together as he hurriedly reducing the steps by leaps, ten at a time, going into the thick dark veil of the deep. He was blind within this dark, and creatures seemed to be grabbing on to his flesh, clawing at it, and as he looked down after two days of dropping, his sight was restored to light, as everything behind him now was dark. He found himself in a room, and he rested in a corner, feeling shattered and exhausted. Priceless was this though, perhaps a new era for him. As he looked about, the room as big as coliseum, he saw swords smeared with blood, and not a tree or brick, or piece of furniture, or rock, everything level and flat, but there was a clean order entering the area, mixed with sweat and blood, an order liked to perfume, flowers, and as he walked to the other end of this plateau, seeing at the other end there were many cave entrenches, as there was many above the lower ones, and many above the second row, making for a third row, he stared to see corpses here and there-one cheap beats by dre studio that even moved slightly, his throat cut, and his arm desperately trying to reach his throat, as if to analyze the damage. And a short figure of a being came out, of who knows where, he was just there, he was called Yecho; Armaros figured him to be an imp of some kind, a long think nose, and oblong head, jelly-ling torso, having only four fingers and three toes, a rippled chin, and face, large rimmed eyes, with watermelon seeds for, iris, and a long thin tail, and as he approached, the three rows, upper tiers, filled with a thousand or more creatures like him, but many with no hands, he would find out they were the female species, naked as a jaybird. And he just started swinging his sword down strokes and side strokes, that would have decapitated him had he landed the sword on his shoulder and endeavor to regain his feet after he fell, slipped on a dead corpse. In consequence, Armaros, moved with lightning speed, no sword in hand, just swift as a hawk of movement, and kicked the sword from the hands of Yecho, and Yecho fell once again hard onto the corpse behind him, and the giant Armaros, some nine feet tall, clutched this little imp of no more than four feet, by his wrist, and screamed in a wordless rage to the echoing arena, “You can’t kill me!” Ignoring the dead and Yecho, addressing the thousand or so observing. And so, Yecho gave a nod, as if to say, okay, you won, giving him ground, he could not deal with Armaros deadly speed. Had Armaros wished he could have customize beats cheap squeezed and burst every bone in Yecho’s head, and body.