Prophecies and Dreams

1 Month Later

The Colosseum Magnus

The spring games lasted long throughout the month.

Every day was a different kind of match. As testament to the marvels of Nucerian engineering, the arena floors shifted like the inside of a puzzle box, changing according to the theme of the current match. A battle between two contenders would have a single platform rise above the sands, a towering obelisk in which the gladiators would fight on limited ground, while a deep chasm surrounded them from all sides. A historical epic, told through the bloody performances of costumed fighters, would have an arena decorated with the corresponding set pieces to mirror the battlefields in which the tale was forged.

Sometimes, an artificial battlefield would be created to enhance the entertainment value of the match. The approval of the crowds served to hoist these particular matches to popularity. Gladiators would battle the many beasts taken from the farthest corners of Nuceria, trained to crave the blood of men, their deaths a delightful spectacle for the masses.

When the matches grew all too tedious, they would also battle against cybernetic monstrosities. Malformed and reshaped beings sewn and forged together in the deepest recesses of the colosseum, the abominations provided a different taste of entertainment but were nonetheless loved for their uniqueness.

The enjoyment of the crowd, or better termed as distraction, pleased the nobility of the province. The games kept the people from taking notice of the squalor in which they lived in. The gratitude of the high-riders for their host, House Thal'kyr, purchased much support for Lord Marcellus' position in the senate, much to the dismay of his competitors.

As his crowd of followers and allies grew, so did his enemies. However, they were unable to do him or his family harm as before. Favor of the masses, the common folk, extended a long way. To move against him would incur their wrath, and see to the ruin of their houses.

The Lord Meslim, though kept from acting rashly or in haste, made no attempt to hide his disdain as he sat at the pulvinus. He hated how Marcellus stood so elevated, higher than most of the members of Nuceria's court, particularly him. The bruise on his ego was a hard injury to ignore, and while the games progressed with each of his gladiators falling to Thal'kyr's evidently more skilled fighters, he found himself unable to bear it any longer.

He excused himself to have a much needed breath of fresh air.

"You exclude yourself from the games for once, Meslim?" A quiet and dignified voice greeted him. "An oddity in itself."

The lord turned his eyes to see a visitor from the senate come to grace the arena with his presence. A thin and gaunt man, long in years but strong as an oak tree, joined him in the corridors outside the pulvinus.

It was easy to recognize who he was as his singular choice of wardrobe consisted of an avian theme. Dark blue feathers spread across his shoulders like a primordial cape, adorning the tight leather straps securing his regal purple robes to his body. The man's name was Sevran Fowl, a lord both respected and feared in Nuceria's courts. He stood for no house, had none to call family save for himself, but nonetheless carried a sizeable influence in the political realm.

"Lord Fowl." Meslim returned the greeting, "Your presence comes as a surprise, I thought matters within the senate would've tethered your attentions to the capital."

"I made short work of such concerns, thereby severing that tether." Lord Fowl replied, making it rather vaguely known that he had achieved yet more victories in the senate. "Now, I find myself in desperate need for distraction, which is why I've come to this humble province. And you? Why do you look as if you've been robbed of both purse and dignity."

"Hah!" Meslim scoffed, "Your powers of deduction are impeccable, as always. Yes, I did lose both, courtesy of the most loathed of all my rivals."

"Lord Marcellus has made a fool of you in the games yet again?"

Meslim's eyes flashed with rage at the insinuation, but quickly cooled his temper as he remembered who he was speaking to. Even with someone as reckless as he, Meslim knew better than to antagonize Fowl, regardless of how the man did not hold him in similar regard. "I am no fool, the fact is simply that my fortunes are not with me this day."

The roar of the crowd glorifying another kill reached their ears.

"And they so continue to spurn you in favor of another." Fowl said with a condescending smirk. "Yet, I would have your thoughts turned away from trivial concerns. Will you walk with me a while?"

"To what purpose?" Meslim inquired, suddenly suspicious of the man.

"Oh, just a casual stroll. An exchange of words between friends, here and there."

"We are friends now, Lord Fowl?"

The senator glanced back at Meslim with piercing, scrutinizing eyes. The mask of humor lifted for a moment, revealing the unknowable and dangerous nature lurking beneath it. "We can be enemies, if you wish it."

Realizing his loose tongue had gotten the better of him, Meslim retracted his statement with an apology. "No. No, I do not. Forgive me for my recklessness, I allowed my haste to dictate my words."

The two nobles exited the arena grounds, more concerned with schemes rather than partake of the games. The lords and ladies of House Thal'kyr, however, saw through the event until the end. Upon conclusion and the closing of the games, Lord Marcellus and his family left the pulvinus to greet the many who would throw accolades and gifts in their honor.

A small crowd had formed at the gates of the Colosseum Magnus, still fat on the decadence of the spring games. They cheered for the name of Lord Marcellus' house and of his beautiful daughter Polgara. Over the weeks following her return, the young woman bridged the gap between her family and the common folk even further by acts of charity, extended to those who lived in the worst conditions in Desh'ea's slums.

Among the crowd stood a group of wise men, dressed in the white robes of the priests of Inadon, the Nucerian god of judgement and fate.

Their leader, High Priest Myron Lucania, bid the crowd part to allow himself and his brothers passage to the patriarch and his family. He greeted Lord Marcellus with a dramatic gesture of his hands, then bowed in respect for the man responsible for the blood tribute provided by his games to their patron god. "Greetings, Lord Marcellus!"

"High Priest Lucania, it is an honor." Marcellus reached for the elder's forearms and grasped them firmly in his hands.

"This day, it is you who we shall honor." The priest said, "The gods have seen fit to reveal the future of your house, and that is why we have come. Accept this gift of divination, as a token of our gratitude for your generosity in the spring games."

Marcellus shrugged, seeing no cause for suspicion in the act nor loss on his part. "Whose future shall be divined first?"

"Lady Polgara." The priest pointed to the pleasantly surprised maiden, "It is her future, in particular, that the gods have taken interest in. It is hers that we are certain to divine."

"Me?" Polgara said.

"Alas, it is the will of the gods." Lady Poledra pushed her daughter forward, "Go on, my dear. See what the future has in store for you."

"Take my hands, dear lady." Lucania beckoned. The air grew thick with magic as the priest peered through the veil into the things that might be, a future set in stone by the gods. His eyes became white like marble, and his voice grew distant as his soul was laid bare. "I-I see it! I see you, Lady Polgara. You are bound for great tragedy..."

The crowd, who had gone silent with anticipation, murmured at the words of the priest.

"...a tragedy that will humble you, but lay the foundation to your strength. Then, shall come prosperity. You will marry a general, a warlord with the blood of Mars himself, a great warrior who will conquer whole worlds...and you will be Queen of all Nuceria."

A shared gasp, mixed with whispers of awe and skepticism ran from every mouth present. Polgara withdrew from the old man, pondering deeply his cryptic prophecy.

"I will marry a general, and become Queen of Nuceria?" She whispered, lips curling into a smile. "The gods truly bless me this day!"

"Thank you, Your Holiness." Lord Marcellus said to Lucania. His words were mere pleasantries to mask his true feelings. The portents revealed to them that day were dangerous things to speak of, especially with the state of governance Nuceria had formed after centuries of bloody wars. To suggest that Polgara would become queen, if the prophecies were to be believed, would be treason against the republic.

While talk alone seemed a small thing, it was as serious an issue as any word of dissent. Lord Marcellus endeavored to distance himself, along with his family, from suggestions of rebellion. He had worked so hard to elevate himself and his house, he would not see them to ruin by letting House Thal'kyr become vulnerable to accusations of treason.

"Eanna, you will not repeat those words again." Lady Poledra warned her daughter upon embarking on the journey back home.

"Mama, what?" Polgara said, still lost in thought after they had left the crowd for the transporter.

"Listen, girl!" Poledra repeated sharply, "You will strike those foolish thoughts from your mind, for the sake of all you hold dear!"

Polgara lowered her gaze, feeling a bit disappointed in her mother's response. However, young as she was, the maiden understood why the mother felt the need to defend her in such a harsh manner. "I know what I must do. I will forget the High Priest's words."

"We will all forget his words." Lord Marcellus agreed, "Although, I do believe it will be hard for the many witnesses present at that revelation to do the same."

"Makes my head ache at the thought, why would he reveal such damning prophecies in such a public place?" Poledra remarked.

"The priests of Inadon's Creed do not dabble in politics, they could care less if Nuceria was ruled by king, party or senate." Marcellus stroked his chin as he mused on the nature of the priests. "I've never known them to be dishonest in their revelations. They are not as discreet in them, either. Tis unfortunate for us, that they decided to uphold both traits this day."

Polgara remained silent throughout the trip, mind heavy with concern for her future. Like most of Nucerians, the sorceress believed in the validity of divination and prophecies. The gods of her world were real, and their hand could be seen in all things. As much as her parents strove to protect her, she knew that once the gods have set her destiny in stone, no mortal hand could ever hope to strike it clear.

And so, disregarding her mother's warning, Polgara took the priest's words to heart and dreamed of a future upon which she stood so elevated. A general for a husband, the world as her footstool.

Queen of all Nuceria.

The triumphant gladiators and gladiatrixes of House Thal'kyr, together with the novicii, returned to the ludus grounds bringing with them the glories and lessons learned from the arena.

Their dominus, freshly decorated with the accolades of the grateful masses, attended the little welcoming ceremony held in the stadium. With him came rewards of food, wine, and body slaves to sate their burning desires.

"You have done well for this house over the course of the spring games." Marcellus declared, turning his attention to both the ascended and the initiates. "And you have brought honor to the name of House Thal'kyr. Know this, novicii, and witness the gifts I award to those who perform admirably in the arena."

He instructed Oenomaus to give his fighters their just reward, while permitting the novicii to only watch as they feasted and fornicated to their hearts' desires. It was his intention to have them partake of such gifts only when they have fought and bled for it in the arena, a thing that would give the slaves something to aspire for.

Slaves were mankind's children reduced to their baser forms, and it was desire most base that proved to be most enticing. It was a strategy that worked well for his family's gladiators over the years, he would not abandon it any time soon.

"Eat, drink and make merry!" Marcellus invited, adoring the excited cheers of his slaves as they accepted his gifts. "You have earned it!"

Angronius beheld the ascended warriors through the bars of the novicii enclosure. The gladiators and gladiatrixes alike abandoned all decency and did as their master bid them to do, by feasting and fornicating themselves silly until late into the night. Triumphant howls, joyful songs and pleasured moans filled the air, robbing the novicii of their rest as the combined noise was likened to that of a victory parade.

"I thought such delights were beyond our reach!" Rissio exclaimed.

"It is a distraction, a bone thrown to those they consider as dogs." Angronius growled.

Rissio watched Cannicus as he hoisted a giggling slave woman over his shoulder and sank his teeth into her plump ass. With the other hand, he reached for a jug of wine and emptied its contents down his open mouth. Finished, he carried the woman off to join him in his cell. "Then consider me the eager mutt, for that is a bone I shall willingly fight for!"

A gladiatrix approached the pens of the novicii, bearing a large bowl filled with grapes, olives and other exotic fruits. To the surprise of her peers, she placed the bowl within reach of the waiting hands of the lesser slaves.

"Here, get a taste of future glories." She said.

The initiates accepted her gift and divided the food amongst themselves.

Only Angronius hesitated in its acceptance, remarking on her willingness to go against the wishes of her master. "You would defy the dominus, for the sake of the dregs?"

The gladiatrix smiled, "I offer but mere scraps, things that even Master Marcellus would not take notice."

"Your generosity is much appreciated." Rissio said, mouth full with bananas and prunes.

"I once stood as you do now." She replied, her explanation more directed to Angronius than anyone else. "A lowly novicii, the least of this ludus. Life is justly harsh for you, but a little kindness here and there would temper your gradual ascension. May the gods favor you in your lessons."

Such kindness allowed the slaves to see beyond the trappings of a warrior and appreciate the woman for her beauty, one that combined both simplicity and tempered grace. The gladiatrix had cut her hair until it was a curt bob around her head, its glorious golden strands adorning her like a laurel. Faint scars lined her bared arms and toned belly, although none were present on her face. She donned the armor of an ascendente, upon which a pair of carved brass snakes coiled themselves over the breastplate. Another snake, this time a tattoo, encircled the thick girth of her right thigh. The bristling serpent poked through the woman's skirt, daring all who gazed upon it to attempt a bold caress.

As she turned to leave, Angronius inquired of her name. "Wait. What do they call you?"

"My name is Lucretia." The woman answered. "What is yours?"

"I am Angronius." The young man glanced at his friend, who watched the exchange with eyes alight with mischievous glee. "Although, this one calls me Little Brother."

"Both names fit, somehow." Rissio said with a grin.

"I disagree." Lucretia countered, "You are of an impressive form, Angronius, and are by no means little to me."

It was the first time someone ever paid him a compliment, besides Rissio's snarky remarks in between training. Angronius felt an unfamiliar burning sensation on his cheeks, and he reached up to touch them as he mistook it for the sting of some unseen pest.

"Learn quickly and ascend." Lucretia bade them farewell, "I am eager to call you brother."

"Oho!" Rissio teased as soon as the gladiatrix left, "You have yet to enter the sands of the arena, and already the gods present wet opportunity your way!"

Angronius grabbed a pear from the bowl and started for his cell, having grown weary of the day. "Perhaps, but if I take to the sands I shall fight for more than base pleasures. I am for greater things." He paused to take a bite of the fruit, "Oh, and Rissio? Cease talk about the gods and their favors. They are the ones who allowed you and I to be seen to chains. They do not deserve your devotion."

With the day behind him, and sleep beckoning, Angronius fell to his mat and closed his eyes to rest.

The slave opened his eyes upon hearing the distant thrum of beating war drums.

Violently wrested from sleep's arms, he awoke to find himself upon a floor slick with hot blood. Before him stood a massive gate, its twin doors reaching as high as the heavens. A crack in the portals betrayed a glaring red light, widening only upon his approach. The doors creaked with an ear-splitting groan, akin to the moans of a thousand souls in torment.

Angronius stepped through the gates, adorned in nothing but his own bloodied skin, naked as the day he was born.

What he beheld next was nothing short of Hell.

A blasted land filled with rivers of fire and blood, belched forth from the frothing mouths of living statues of brass and steel. Towering spires rose up from the cracked and bleeding earth, filled with skulls of men and beast alike. Phantoms, ghosts and skeletons danced in a never ending festival of carnage and destruction, giving tribute to the winged abominations upon their thrones on high.

The realm of brass and blood was vast beyond reckoning, each foreboding hellscape led to another, more grim than the last. It was a realm unlike any other. Storms raged perpetually across crimson skies, sending gale-force blasts seemingly composed of pure rage whipping across the plains and mountains. These angry winds tore into the land itself and ripped up great chunks of stone and blood-drenched earth, tossing them violently back down hundreds of leagues away in explosions of raw destruction.

The land, for its part, fought back against the brutal assault of the heavens. Earthquakes sent gouts of molten brass skyward, burning up the storm clouds, temporarily ending their rage until the winds regathered to begin their assaults anew. New mountains erupted from flat land in an instant, some thrusting into the sky like gigantic living swords, others acting as shields against the advance of the storms.

Rivers of boiling blood crisscrossed the hellish landscape, dividing the realm into territories over which rival Bloodthirsters waged war. The blood-flows were not content to allow the conquered lands to rest idle. From deep below the ground, new rivers struck through the surface, splitting the lands as easily as an axe opens the bloated gut of a lazy bureaucrat.

Each crimson flow sucked down all that once occupied the space, including any daemon legions that may have been marching there. As with its war against the sky, the land retaliated, pushing the banks of the rivers to close in upon themselves. The brass-spewing volcanoes sent liquid metal into the rivers, evaporating the blood within and sealing the wounds with burning fury.

Any mere mortal unfortunate enough to visit this nightmarish realm would surely be driven mad, knowing that every rock, every breeze, and every drop of what should be water was an enemy, looking to kill him with just as much purpose, desire, and violence as the multitudinous daemons of the god who ruled the land.

But Angronius was no mere mortal.

His own mind was a battlefield, his indomitable will his ally and the encroaching desire to give in to the bloodlust his enemy- and he was winning.

He roared in defiance against the hand that plucked him from the realm of the living, challenging whatever god dared to bring him there. His words were quickly given answer, as the same hand that moved against him pulled Angronius away from the hot gates of the Realm of Chaos to the brazen citadel sitting in the middle of that hellscape.

There, he landed within the courts of one of the oldest Ruinous Powers, the very embodiment of war and the driving force of all conflicts.

Even though he did not know the name, Angronius knew in his heart who the god was. A being who went by many names. Mars, War, Carnage... Even he, a man whose blood was elevated above all men, trembled in fear as he gazed upon the stern visage of Khorne himself.

Adorned in armor forged in the cosmic flames that first birthed the universe into existence, ancient beyond comprehension and seething with the anger of life itself, Khorne cast his baleful eyes on the slave. His gaze would have been enough to drive Angronius mad, if not rob him of life on the spot. The fact that he remained standing was, in of itself, a victory.

The three-headed hound that guarded the Blood God's throneroom lifted his threefold gaze upon the intruder and snarled. With a curt nod from his master, Karanak was let loose and he lunged for Angronius with the intent of rending him limb from limb.

Even unarmed, Angronius fearlessly rushed headlong into battle. He met the hound with equal fury, raining heavy blows upon his brass hide that would shatter the walls of the Palace Praxica. Embracing a latent power welling up within him, Angronius wrestled the beast to submission and killed Karanak before the Throne of Skulls.

Still hot with the blood of Khorne's guardian hound, Angronius lifted his arms and screamed his victory for all the daemons within the throneroom to hear.

To his surprise, they all cheered in greeting.

"You fight well, slave." The rumble of Khorne's voice appraised his bloody work. "Even for one who has yet to master the skills of a warrior."

"I did not fight for you!" Angronius yelled.

"Of course not, but you offer tribute nonetheless."Khorne leaned forward in his throne, "Now, you have earned my attention."

"You have had your amusement, now what?" The slave said, "Am I to remain here, to sate the bloodlust of a tyrant?"

"My bloodlust cannot be sated!" Khorne's generous humor evaporated, his voice now the thunder of a billion storms at a roiling sea. Angronius covered his ears as he felt an agonizing pain throbbing within his head, and felt the warmth of his blood trickling from his ears. "Do not presume to hold yourself in such high regard! You are here to receive my will, my favor, and serve as my warmaker in the Realms of Men."

"I-I... I shall not spill blood in your name!" Angronius groaned, falling to his knees before the throne.

"All blood is spilled in my name!" The dark god laughed, "Theirs, even yours!"

Angronius woke up screaming, throwing Rissio off balance as he bolted from his mat.

"By the gods, what's gotten into you?!" The curly-haired slave dusted himself off as he rose up to greet his alert and rather shaken friend.

His friend would not answer. He greeted the warm sunlight spilling through the open windows of the ludus with an agonized snarl as the headache returned fourfold. "Fuck!"

"Have I woken you from desirable dream?" Rissio inquired, a bit concerned for his friend's welfare.

Angronius's fingers brushed against his ear, then felt the crusty texture of drying blood caking his lobes. He had thought it all a dream, and yet the blood itself served as evidence that it was more than that.

"Angron?"

The slave met his gaze, "No, you've saved me from a nightmare. Thank you."

Rissio shrugged, "Thanks well received. Might I suggest we have the medicus see to that injury? Wouldn't want to miss out on the day's drills."

"Agreed." Angronius replied, leaving the cell with his friend to begin the day.