Chapter Text
‘A wolf is a wolf.
Even in a cage;
Even dressed in silk’
‘True evil is above all things seductive;
when the devil knocks at your door
he doesn't have cloven hooves - he's beautiful..’
John Clare
Everything smelled of sickness and death.
High above the streets, the opalesque buildings once radiated with beauty, surrounded by the bluest sky and the whitest of clouds, enclosed by the vibrant houses and the merry voices of people filling the refreshing sea air mingling with the mouth-watering aromas of bread being made or spices freshly ground into pulp. The beloved Count Lucio truly deserved all the love he was getting from his people, a monarch that cared for his city and did everything in his power for his people to be united and his lands prosperous. Everything thrived with riches and happiness, all people rejoicing and drinking to his health and the prosperity of the city to continue for eons and eons to come, blessed by the gods and all the heavenly powers. Vesuvia was the pride and joy of all the lands, envied but loved by many, a gem among others that could inspire hope to the darkest of hearts.
That was back then.
Back when life was a joy to live.
Now, almost nine years later, the Count was long dead, murdered in his own bed, and the tall buildings were surrounded by crimson painted clouds that completely eradicated the rich sunlight and made day seem as dark as night; raising your head to look at the Grand Palace, you couldn’t help but feel death lingering in the air of the almost demolished and bereft from any life streets. The Plague had wiped the population out almost completely, infecting the old and the young and reaping lives here and there with no remorse to any, so much that the corpses littered the streets and the canals, while the few and lone survivors that were lucky -or unlucky- to survive it were left to beg for scraps of food or fight for their lives in the Colosseum, mere ghosts of their former selves. A city once clad in unfathomable riches and happiness, had now plunged in darkness and death leaving behind nothing but shadows desperately clinging on the streets.
You couldn’t help it; as you watched the Palace with keen eyes, you felt the wave of hate long suppressed emerge from the depths of your chest, wild and poisonous and determined to set things right once and for all. There was only one thing to do and one alone; for nine years you have been training and scheming and preparing for this moment alone. And this was your chance; all or nothing.
Tightening your grip around your cloak, your chains rattle and groan as the slave in front of you is slapped across the face by the less empathetic slavers. The man stumbles weakly and almost falls on the ground yet catches himself at the last minute. He is sickly and weak, only a ghost of his former self as all of you are; once there was much food to go around, luxuries people could only dream about but now hunger gripped everyone and the only thing left was to be sold in one of the rich houses.
A part that the slavers covered; when the townsfolk were not enough anymore, they marched onto the countryside and snatched whoever was in sight. Men and women and children alike all were shackled and taken to the Colosseum to either survive and be sold or be killed off like animals to the slaughter.
Thus, this is where you are currently heading and stooping your head lower, you avert your eyes to the ground in a desperate attempt to avoid triggering the slavers wrath as they whip you forward in a tight but neat row. Some of the slaves can barely stand on their own feet, others are already dying, and others are expected to win a nice sum from the Royals. Whoever can’t walk or is too sick, is promptly killed off and tossed to the side, empty carcasses to litter the floors. Hunger is gripping you all and the sweet taste of water is something you’ve already forgotten. Instead, your feet and hands are blistered by the heavy chains and your backs are so savagely whipped, some still have pieces of flesh hanging off; you were one of the lucky ones and despite the deep wounds, there was no infections or hanging flesh. It was but a small price to pay if it meant fulfilling your ultimate goal.
‘Get moving! They’re already expecting us!’ one of the slave owners said and whipped the whip loudly in the air, making a few children in the line cry out in fear.
‘MOVE IT!’
Truly, the more you walked down the street the more Royal Guards you started to see, dressed in their shiny coal black armours, swords as sharp as pain itself sheathed next to their waists; eyes were following you by now and the feeling was like shadows caressing your skin in the dark of the night. You couldn’t see their faces, but the feeling was unmistakable. A few beggars were standing behind them, too curious to remain hidden, too afraid to wander any further; their eyes shone in the darkness and whispers were carried along by the wind, reaching your ears.
What a shame.
How sad for a city that grand to fall so low.
Alas, rounding a corner, you came forth to the one building that its mere sight was enough to strike fear even to the most fearless hearts: the Colosseum.
Standing tall and towering over most other buildings, it was as haunting as it was grand right before you. White stone reached to almost cover the sky and the more you came close to it, the more you could actually taste the blood hanging in the air; some spoke that it was home to monsters that lurked in the dungeons, others said the ghosts of the people slaughtered inside still roamed the place at nights. Whatever the lore was, you cannot help the shiver travelling down your spine as you all pass under its gates, feet coming in contact with soft sand and ears picking up on the faraway sounds of battle and the crowd cheering. Everything was dark and the only light you could see came from the other side of the long corridor you were in.
With hushed yells, the slavers stopped you all, gathering you in a close corner, and the head of them ventured inside the nearby door as they warned you not to make a peep. Cloaked by the shadows, your eyes are quick to adjust to the darkness and you let them roam all around you; lines of weapons littered the walls, tossed here and there or carefully settled on the cold stone, ready to be picked up at any given time. It would be so easy for a daring soul to just grab one and make a run for it, alas, everybody knew better than to risk having all the gladiators after them.
‘Just a bit more…. Just a bit longer….’
Whispering to yourself the only words of encouragement you could muster, it’s a desperate plea for your heart to lie still. It is strange really; you’ve been dreaming about this your whole life, from the moment everything went to complete and utter shit and actually trained for it, prepared for every possible scenario, yet now that you are here you seem utterly unable to calm down. Sweaty hands, restless feet, heart ready to jump out of your chest and a brain that is constantly rehearsing all the info you have, all the possible outcomes you can get.
Still, something feels like it’s not ready yet. That you need more time.
Alas, the time was now.
Now, as the leader of the slavers comes back and orders them to take you into the arena. Now, that scared whispers erupt all around you, followed by curses, harsh shoves and more savage whipping. Now, that your shoulders roll out and your head stands high with pride as you follow the slave line and enter the huge arena momentarily blinded by the artificial light.
Breath is caught in your lungs and time seems to slow down; yet you are still moving, and it feels like there’s someone else moving your body like a true puppet to their schemes. Taking you further towards the centre of the blood covered arena, where bodies have fallen and the watchful crowd is looking expectantly, like predators watching their potential prey. And here you are, served for them on a plate of iron clad chains, ready to get gobbled up. Pulled into a neat line, you turn to face the huge podium towering above all other seats and a few slaves cry out and fall on their knees.
The slavers urge you all to fall down in respect, to kneel and give yourselves up willingly, but you are not occupied with them anymore.
Now, your panic has shimmered down, and your lips aren’t quivering anymore, you can literally stand on your own two feet without worrying they might give out as your eyes can only focus on the four shadowy figures standing inside the podium, clad in shadows and true abyssal darkness. Yet you know they are all watching.
Asra Alnazar, the Great Magician, Destroyer and King of the Arcana Realms, rumoured to snatch the souls away from anyone he lies his eyes upon.
Julian Devorak, the Doctor of Death, the murderer and wanted criminal; the doctor behind it all, whose hand was no stranger to death.
Nadia Satrinava, the Tyrant Countess, the one who unleashed hell upon earth itself and brought nations to their knees; none can survive her they say, and her presence in battle is enough to instil fear to the Gods themselves.
Muriel, the Scourge of the South, prime gladiator and enforcer of the Law brought by the Countess. His hand had ended thousands of lives, guilty and innocent alike.
Alas, you only cared for one of them.
Unbeknownst to them, you arrived in Vesuvia to kill them.