Traian could not believe his eyes, nor his betraying hands, so recently fouled with the blood of his boyhood friend, as they gripped the hem of Sq’Aborm the Guardian’s robe, brought it to his lips, kissed it.

Tradition is blood, and then a kiss. His father’s words.

The giant towered above, a full eight feet if he was an inch, broadsword dangling loosely in his huge hand. If he gave the wrong response, he knew the Guardian would be faithful. As he had been faithful.

“It is done, in the name of the gods that walk as men do?” The man in a monster’s body asked, in a voice so deep it nearly drowned the words.

Traian’s own part, so well-practiced that he dreamed it: “It is done, and I shall never lay eyes on my friend in this life again.”

He looked up, and saw what he believed might be compassion behind the great wet grey orbs that passed for the giant’s eyes.

“You will see him in the next,” Sq’Aborm intoned, completing the inquisition.

The giant swung the great wooden doors wide, and Traian entered the Pit.