Fan fiction writing - "A Grand Arena"

I've been doing creative writing for over a year now and have a crap ton of projects going on. With all that, I don't know why I started writing another story but my imagination gets out of control. So, here is a opener I wrote. If you want more then keep nagging me so I keep writing. Maybe I'll resubmit this for a writing competition in the future....


-- The raging storm beat against the beachhead unrelentingly. Flashes of thunder struck the ground as if they were thrown by the gods themselves. Wraeclast, land of the cursed and damned. A land where if one was willing and had an open mind, a new life awaited that lucky individual. If luck ran out however, then their fate was cast to the unknown.
-- As the waves crashed onto the beach, sand became more like mud from the drenching rain. A rugged hand clasped the soft ground. His weary eyes struggled to open, the entire body was battered and bruised. Mementos from his prior life.
-- Through ache and pain he stood with clothes soaked to the bone. There were no provisions of any kind given to him other than one, a small rusty sword on the ground near him. How unthoughtful they were. A sword with no food or additional clothing, the future truly was in his skillful hands.
-- The new life of Darius Stryer was going to be quite different than what he was used to. The busy
streets of Oriath and the Grand Arena of Theopolis were nothing but a memory now.
-- “Hey...you there...the one still alive...and kicking.”
-- Stryer turned to face the voice, squinting his eyes to see through the rain and darkness. It came from a man leaning against a broken tree trunk, his form looked weak and fragile. Upon closer inspection it was surprising he was even alive. A branching part of the trunk was jutting through his chest, barely missing the heart.
-- “Come closer, please….while I can….still breathe.”
-- This being the storied land it was, one would dare not stray far from caution. However, the wounded man was helpless in his current state. Why not give in to charity at least once before he died on this wretched continent.
-- Throwing caution to the wind this one time, he encroached towards the other survivor. Closing the distance, the wound was more severe than he originally thought.
-- “Pipe down man, you don't know who else is watching.”
-- “Ha, it's not who...it’s more...what.” His coughing and breathing became heavier and more erratic. “This is Wraeclast...home to the creatures….that go bump in the night, one might say.”
-- “Children stories and nothing more.”
-- “Believe what you want….but further up the coast, I saw smoke….smoke rising into the sky. I'm beyond moving, but maybe you...can get some help.”
-- Stryer did not while watching the wounded man say his last words. The spark of life slowly left his eyes, the body slumped against the broken trunk. Once again Stryer was alone in the middle of another storm.
-- “May your soul find peace and the trumpets blare loudly a final time.” Paying respect to the fallen. “Now it's time to find my own path.”
-- Looking down the beachhead, the smoke and fire could faintly be seen in the distance. A long trek into the dark and stormy night. Broken crates and boxes, dilapidated wooden structures, and sand and rocks as far as the eye could see. He was beginning to like his new predicament. This Wraeclast, it presented an ominous aura about itself. Try all he might, his blood boiled with eagerness and curiosity upon this land.
-- Who was the cursed one? Wraeclast, or him?