Gurral Vs Scales
Gurral awoke, rubbing the bleariness from his eyes and scratching at the itch that wouldn't ever stay gone. He had a couple new scars on his hide; a sign that his last opponent in the arena, a mooselike kaiju with razor-sharp antlers, had put up a fight. He groaned and stretched and walked out of his home. He looked across the harsh landscape, and appreciated the artistic way the red dust swirled off the tip of a peak in the distance. Then his gaze went into the sky, where, dominating the view was his place of business, the Arena.
Gurral didn't like fighting. It was pain and strain and frenzy and fury. It was all that he'd tried to avoid in life. He was getting used to it though. He had to, or they'd stop giving him what he needed. That couldn't happen. Without that sweet dust, he'd suffer more and more of the Real Pain. The dust fed him, made him strong, and kept away that horrible burning from inside. He couldn't fight something inside himself; of himself, so he did