text: [Themes: grimdark fantasy]
  
  The night before the Fishermen's Games, you rest uneasily. You and your team were carted off to a slave-pen on the other side of the city, closer to the forum where the Fishermen's Games will be held.
  
  It doesn't feel like a slave-pen, however. It feels like a luxurious room. You and your teammates have been provided with a room separate from the other contestants; bought and paid for by the seemingly-infinite coin of Gavrill and Argos. The Masters have also paid for an armed guard (an ex-gladiator, himself) to be posted outside the room, to avoid any last-minute "roster changes".
  
  You wonder if it would be best to tell your teammates. After all, full transparency might make them more likely to watch your back. If they don't know the true nature of the Games, you might be at a tactical advantage, however.
  
  > keep it a secret
  The marble forum is empty, save for the eight teams of combatants. Each team consists of three men, who are lashed together by the feet to discourage cowardice.
  
  The crowd is bigger than you could have imagined. It feels as if every working-class freeman, citizen, and slave has gathered around to watch the slaughter that is sure to unfold.
  
  An upraised seat on one end of the arena has been erected for the Censor overseeing the games. He's an austere-looking man with grey hair and a large belly, and a flowing toga.
  
  He raises a hand.
  
  You glance at your compatriots. Boris looks disturbingly at ease, nearly nude, save for his roughly-hewn breechcloth. He holds a thick club of oak over his shoulder like a farm-slave might hold a plow. Buchanan's expression is imperceptible underneath his bronze helmet. You can see the gooseflesh on his bare chest, and you can see that his fingers are white from how tight they clutch his sword and shield.
  
  You try to steady the shaking of your hands as you clutch your spear like a protective charm. You were allowed to paint yourself blue, in the custom of your people; a screaming, painted barbarian is good for the crowds, after all.
  
  "In the name of the most gracious gods, who preside over us all. And in the name of the Emperor, whose infinite wisdom leads the Imperium into greater prosperity each year. On this most festive and holy of days, I demand that you fight!" The Censor's voice booms out across the forum, and over the crowd.
  
  For a brief second, there is silence.
  
  The scream of the crowd and the scream of the gladiators' charge nearly deafens you. Twenty four men collide in the centre of the forum. You enter a trance. You are dimly aware of the screams of dying men, and the sound of flesh tearing. You hear the rattling of chains, and the collision of armour.
  
  You jam your spear into a man's throat, turning his jugular into a red geyser. You're blue and red, now.
  
  You shove the butt of your weapon into someone's nose, stunning him just enough that Boris' gargantuan club can crush their head like a discarded piece of fruit, sending juice spraying all over you.
  
  Someone scraps your forehead open with a knife. You turn, just quickly enough to see a spear-tip pierce their cheek, rip through their tongue, and punch out the other side.
  
  The fighting ends in a few minutes. You stand amid a slew of ruined corpses; some of them gasp for air, unaware that they're already dead. Weapons and discarded shields litter the forum. A stunned silence falls over the crowd.
  
  And then they scream.
  
  And then you scream. You let out a blood-curdling war cry that frightens and excites you. You look around the arena for something else to kill.
  
  Your eyes fall on Buchanan. He's alive and well, but breathing heavily, and he has a gash running down his side. He looks sadly at the corpse of Boris, who has a short-sword still lodged in his jugular.
  
  You grab your spear and raise it, and then you remember; the charade of teamwork is still in place. You quickly shove the point into a wounded man's jugular, pretending that the coup-de-gras was your intention all along.
  
  You bask in the chants of the crowd.
  
  "Blood-elf! Blood-elf! Blood-elf!" they chant, throwing their fists in the air.
  
  You look down, and realize it's true. You're covered in a thick, sticky layer of blood, so much so that it nearly covers the paint you wore into battle.
  
  The Censor raises his hand in a pacifying gesture. The crowd falls into silence. "Fair citizens, are these games not to the death?"
  
  Buchanan stares at you. You don't make eye contact, and instead look at the chain connecting your leg to his.
  
  "There are two contestants remaining! My friends, we have one more fight to watch!" the Censor continues, "So, gladiators! Put on a good final show, why don't you?"
  
  You swing your spear like a club, aimed at Buchanan's head. When he steps back to avoid the blow, you kick your leg back, tugging on the chain. He loses his footing, and slips backward. He dashes his head against the marble, rattling his helmet.
  
  You easily parry his half-hearted sword swing, and run his arm through, right at the joint. He screams in pain and drops the sword. You pull the spear-tip out, and toss the weapon aside. You pull his helmet off, and pick up his blood-stained sword off the ground. Raising one hand to the crowd and the Censor, you hold the sword to his throat.
  
  "Death! Death! Death!" the crowd chants. They throw their fists in the air, thumbs upraised.
  
  You turn to the Censor. He nods.
  
  "Sorry, mate," you say to Buchanan, before hacking into his throat with the edge of the blade. He gurgles, and uselessly paws at your legs. You withdraw the blade, then hack at his neck again; this time, you slice his head clean off.
  
  His bloodied head lands with a schlick as it hits the blood-stained marble face-first.
  
  "Blood-elf! Blood-elf! Blood-elf!"
  
  > A champion's story
  You awaken, covered in sweat. Across from you, naked, and in a tangle of sheets and covers, is a woman whose name you can't quite place. You take a moment to admire her features; a smattering of freckles across her cheeks, short blonde hair, and a small nose. Some aristocrat, who'd paid well for the privilege.
  
  You step out of bed. Already you can feel your nerves building. You drop yourself to the floor, and do a few dozen push-ups to calm your nerves. You're sweating, now. You step outside your chamber, leaving the woman to sleep. You didn't touch a drop of anything except for water last night, but you expect that she will be wrestling with a hangover all day.
  
  You leave your house, and step out into the yard of your villa. You dip yourself into your hot-water bath for a few moments, washing the sweat off. Eventually, you step outside and let yourself dry off.
  
  You look to the gate in your yard. Chained, but from the outside. You've always found that amusing.
  
  Someone will be around in your chariot, with your weapons and armour. You sit on a marble bench until such time, watching the clouds. They don't take long. Soon, the gate opens, and a nervous-looking freeman enters, carrying your belongings. You put on the leather armour, and don your shield and sword. You loop your belt through your helmet's eye-socket for now.
  
  As you leave, he stops.
  
  "You have a client?" he asks.
  
  "Yeah, but she'll be asleep for hours yet. This won't take long."
  
  He nods, and you both step onto your chariot. The man drives you through the streets of the Capital. You whip the crowd into the frenzy, blowing kisses and slapping hands as you're driven by.
  
  Soon, you arrive at the Coliseum. The grandest arena on the Continent by far, it's a massive amphitheatre that forms the centre of culture for the entire city. When there aren't gladiatorial games, it regularly hosts dramas and sporting matches of a less lethal variety.
  
  The bouts before yours are all boring. Only one man is killed, and it's an anticlimactic death; he bleeds to death after sustaining several minor injuries. When you step out into the sands of the arena, twirling your sword, you can feel the hunger of the crowd.
  
  Your opponent steps out. His casualness is unnerving. He carries his trident like a walking stick. The weighted net in his off-hand, he twirls.
  
  "Good morning, sir!" you say jovially. The crowd laughs.
  
  "And good morning to you!" he responds.
  
  You both stop, halfway across the arena, and salute the Emperor. After your salute, you sweep the tip of your blade across the crowd, whipping them up into a maddened state.
  
  "Blood-elf! Blood-elf! Blood-elf!"
  
  You flash your opponent a charming smile, before donning your helmet. When the helmet hits your head, the crowd falls silent; most have seen you work before. They know that the blood is soon to follow.
  
  You bound across the arena and leap at him, plunging your sword towards his neck like a swooping eagle's talon. He dodges with the grace of a bullfighter. The crowd gasps.
  
  You twist, and avoid his thrust to your abdomen. You lash out at his neck, but he steps back, just in time for your blade to sail harmlessly through the air. He reaches out, and beckons you forward. Your blood begins to boil.
  
  With a scream, you charge forward, keeping your shield in front of your chest. You shield absorbs his blow, and you stab outward at his exposed chest. He twists, but not fast enough; you scrape his chest open. His blood trickles down to the sand.
  
  "Nice shot," he bellows. The crowd laughs. You don't respond.
  
  He thrusts at your neck, but you scramble out of the way. Your riposte scrapes across his armoured forearm.
  
  You swing your shield at his head. He ducks low underneath the swing, and stabs at your gut. You dash to the side, only to find that there's a net blocking your path.
  
  You fall into the dirt, wrestling with the net; you find that it's impossibly heavy, and the harder you struggle, the more you become tangled.
  
  "Let's hope they're in a giving mood," he says, as he stomps on your right hand. It breaks two of your fingers, and forces you to drop your sword. He places a foot on your chest, and slowly lowers the trident to your neck.
  
  Much to your horror, the crowd is more than happy to accept a new champion.
  
  "Death!" cries a lone voice. The cry is taken up. "Death! Death! Death!"
  
  Your opponent looks to the Emperor, in his high up seat. The Emperor extends his fist, and sticks his thumb into the air.
  
  "Sorry, mate," he says as he pulls off your helmet. You struggle like an animal in a trap, but he stomps on your chest, knocking the wind out of your lungs. As you gasp for air, he shoves the trident into your throat. You gurgle, spit, and ineffectually claw at the net.
  
  Your head lolls to the side. You're dimly aware of your blood spilling out onto the sand, and your killer waving his arms to his adoring audience.