text: You can't stop throwing up. Even the nutrition-less gruel they serve the slaves is too much for you to handle. As the procession of soldiers and slaves travels South, you leave pools of vomit as a trail.
  
  The conditions are harsh. Every day at dawn, you're loaded into a wagon with a few dozen other slaves. You ride this way for fourteen hours, before a guard distributes furs to wrap yourselves in for the night. You're given six hours to sleep. When you're woken, you are let out to relieve yourself and collect water for an hour; then, it's back to the cart.
  
  This is exacerbated by the fact that you are having a hard time remembering your own name. There are other elves on the cart, some of whom you feel like you should recognize; but you find yourself unable to respond to their feeble attempts at conversation. Nothing more than a mewl escapes. You feel heavy and trapped in your own body.
  
  On the fourth day of your imprisonment, a legionnaire takes notice and notifies the Centurion. You dimly remember him as the man who broke your head open and let your memories spill out.
  
  He approaches. This time, his helmet's off. If you squint against the painful light, you can see his square jaw, his scowling features, and the scar running the length of his right cheek.
  
  "Walk, can this one?" his mastery of your tongue leaves something to be desired.
  
  You finish vomiting, and wipe your cheeks. You stagger backwards, and shake your head. He looks disgusted. You barely have time to flinch before he kicks you in the chest, bowling you over in the snow.
  
  "Get up."
  
  You comply. He shoves you. The force of the blow sends you sprawling again. You moan feebly.
  
  "Get up."
  
  You stagger to your feet once more. He kicks your leg out from under you, laughing as he does it. You feel a forest-fire raging just beneath your skin.
  
  "Get up."
  
  > stand up
  He gives you an almost imperceptible nod. You stagger back to the cart, and climb on. Your arms nearly give out as you do so. Later that night, as you moan softly in an agonized haze, the cart rolls to a halt. The other prisoners look about in confusion, and you wince as the stop causes a spike of pain behind your right eye.
  
  A soldier steps on, and roughly grabs you by the arm. He leads you out of the cart. By the soldier's torches, you can see into the woods aways. This is farther South than anyone you know has ever been; you're not even sure what tribes have the right to hunt here.
  
  You fall to your knees, and begin to retch loudly. At this point, there's no more food or water for you to regurgitate. The legionnaire waits for you to finish, before dragging you back to your feet.
  
  You are half-guided, half-dragged to a clearing in the woods. In the centre of the clearing is a massive stump, where a colossal oak might once have stood. A moonbeam illuminates the stump.
  
  Standing next to the stump are the Centurion, and someone you've never seen before. He's older than anyone else in the procession, and dressed in civilian's clothes. He's holding a satchel with tools poking out of it; a bottle of something mysterious, a few hammers, a saw, and a wickedly sharp-looking knife.
  
  Him and the Centurion have a brief, conversation. The old man sounds irritating.
  
  The Centurion clears his throat. "I beat... too hard. Doctor fix this. You fight."
  
  You nod, and find that the gesture causes a dagger-sharp pain in your head and spine.
  
  The doctor pulls the bottle out of his flask, and passes it to you.
  
  "Two sips," the Centurion says tersely, "or it kill."
  
  You take the allotted two sips. A few minutes pass, and you feel whatever medicine is inside the flask begin to take effect. A sudden, irresistible drowsiness comes over you, and you slump forward. You're only dimly aware of the doctor putting your head on the stump, and withdrawing a small hammer from his belt...
  
  > Recovery
  You're dreaming a dark dream, full of clawed things and concealed blades. You can smell smoke nearby. You can hear a beast growling in a foreign tongue, inches behind you. You find that you cannot move. The beast's tongue slithers into your head, worming past your skull and into your grey matter with ease. You can feel its tongue re-arranging your mind, twisting your memories and thoughts. You let out a silent scream as its tongue splits in twain, and begins to worm out your eyeballs...
  
  You awaken on a remarkably comfortable bed, wrapped in an actual blanket; a luxury you've never known. You open your eyes, and wince as light pours into them. For the first time in a few days, you remember your own name. You also realize what is going to happen to you.
  
  You're to be taken as a slave, and fed to the Foreign Gods. You've heard tales of them whispered around the campfire; bloodthirsty war gods and hedonistic fiends, that can only be satisfied when the blood of innocents are shed on their altars, which stretch all the way up into the heavens. Sometimes, the Foreign Gods even make men fight one another for their sick amusement.
  
  Your cry of alarm dies in your throat. You find that you're still quite weak. Your feeble hands strain against the shackles around your arms — that's new. You don't recall being shackled.
  
  You take a moment to collect yourself, and take in your surroundings. You are in a covered cart, which is a nice change from the prisoner's wagon that you found yourself in earlier. You are now in a covered cabin, which you assume is trailing behind one of the teams of horses.
  
  There's a piece of fabric hanging on the wall with a draft coming through it. Through it, comes the eternally-glowering face of the Centurion. Behind him is an elf with one ear and a scarred mouth.
  
  "This one teach," the Centurion declares.
  
  "Teach what?" you speak the first words since your capture.
  
  "Language."
  
  "I'm going to teach you their language. It's important, for what comes next," she adds.
  
  "And what does come next?" you groggily wipe the sleep-crust from your eyes.
  
  "The rest of the journey, first of all. Then, you're going to fight."
  
  "Who am I going to fight?"
  
  "Whoever you're told. He's going to claim you as his personal slave, and put you to work in the fighting pits."
  
  "Fuck."
  
  Enya laughs darkly.
  
  > Arrival at the city
  On the fourth week of your journey, the city of Florentia Augusta appears on the horizon. It's marble structures and statues stretch into the sky; compared to the meagre tents and wooden cabins of your people, it's an impossibility; a living, breathing paradox, that challenges your worldview purely by virtue of its existence.
  
  Enya, meanwhile, has partially immersed you into the esoteric world of the Imperial tongue. In a month, you've learned more tenses, verb conjugations, and gendered nouns (of which there are three) than you'd ever care to learn. It feels like a brutal tongue, with harsh, almost mathematical requirements that dictate the laws of speech.
  
  You've grown familiar with a few of the soldiers. Titus wants to marry a baker's daughter on his return to the Marble City. Magnus looks forward to returning to his family's ancestral home, to help with the planting season, now that the bitter winter has finally ended.
  
  You sit in the cramped, but more comfortable cart that you first awoke in after your surgery. By virtue of being your tutor, Enya has also been given the privilege of staying in the cart, along with a pile of dusty grammatical scrolls.
  
  The procession of slaves and soldiers travels through rows upon rows of wealthy farmers' land, moving forward on the viae publicae; the famously well-constructed system of public roads that connect the Imperium from end to end, from the frozen North, all the way down to the never-ending forest of the Frontier.
  
  Surprisingly, the procession of carts and infantry makes a left-turn, instead of heading directly to the city.
  
  "Why are we turning?" you ask of Enya, cautiously trying your new language.
  
  "We're rejoining the Legion." she says darkly.
  
  "You are concerned by this." a flat statement, but meant as a question. Your linguistic skills will improve, with time.
  
  "I am. The last time I joined a Legion, I lost an ear, and my smile got bigger than it ought to be."
  
  You dip your head in understanding. "I think we've had enough language lessons for the day, yeah?" you say after a moment of contemplation.
  
  "You're not going to be doing much talking."
  
  Enya leans into you to peer out the small, barred window on your side of the cart. She smells like sweat and fear.
  
  "Fuck," she breathes.
  
  "What are you seeing out there?"
  
  "We've rejoined the legion. There are so many..."
  
  "So many what?"
  
  "So many slaves. Thousands of carts, looks like."
  
  You try not to think about what kind of life all these people are heading into. "Mostly elves?"
  
  "Some. Northmen, too. A couple of orcs, too; by the gods, I didn't even think that orcs still existed."
  
  "What's an orc?" You don't realize it, but you've both lapsed back into your mother tongue.
  
  "I'll tell you later."
  
  She leans back from the window, apparently satisfied with her surveillance. Suddenly, the cart rolls to a halt. You look out the window, and see an impromptu military camp; tents being rapidly erected, carts being parked, and hundreds of men wearing the red-and-purple of the legion. Coloured banners with eagles, bulls and thunderbolts dot the horizon.
  
  You lean back, and press your head against the wall. You close your eyes, for a moment. Your head still throbs.
  
  "What happens now?" you ask, groaning as another wave of pain washes over your head.
  
  "I expect we'll be separated, now."
  
  "Why's that?"
  
  "They're not going to have women fighting in the arena. That would be uncivilized."
  
  You chortle. Enya smiles. "Hey, thanks for teaching me some of this fucked up language."
  
  Her smile becomes a grin, albeit one tinged with sadness. Her scars stretch aways up her cheeks. "It's been my pleasure."
  
  You reach forward in a handshake. She pushes your hand aside, and pulls you into a surprisingly strong hug. You pull back after a moment. You open your mouth for a second, and then close it; does anything really need to be said?
  
  The cart rocks with the force of someone pounding on it with a gauntleted fist.
  
  "Out!" declares the Centurion. You climb out first, and Enya follows behind you. You find yourselves in a grassy field, in the middle of a now-sprawling military encampment. "Have you taught him the language?"
  
  "I have, sir," Enya says, dipping her head down and sinking down low.
  
  "Good," he says, a small smile stretching across his face. He withdraws his sword and points to a line of slaves, off in the distance. "you're no good as a brothel-girl... go join the labourers."
  
  She marches off without a protest. Enya throws a worried glance over her shoulder at you, before shuffling into the line and vanishing completely.
  
  "She'll be a servus publicus; but I've something special in mind for you."
  
  "And what might that be, sir?"
  
  "She really did teach you." the Centurion says with a bitter and humourless snort.
  
  "All that could be taught in a month's time." the thought occurs to you that he could beat you to death at any time, and none would give you anything more than a passing glance.
  
  "Shut your mouth unless you're answering a question, or I'll cut your fucking tongue out."
  
  You open your mouth in stunned silence. He narrows his eyes. You close your mouth.
  
  "You'll be my personal slave. Now, I saw you fight, elf; and you were fast. I like that. I've had a long and venerable career, and I'm thinking it's time I retire and get rich. How would you like to make me rich?"
  
  You frown.
  
  "You're allowed to answer that one."
  
  "I would like that very much, sir."
  
  "If you ever say something that sycophantic and pathetic again, I'll nail you to a cross and let the eagles rip out your guts."
  
  A crestfallen look falls across your face. The Centurion laughs, then extends a hand. You tentatively shake it.
  
  "My name is Regulus, and we're going to make each other rich."
  
  > A gladiator
  You bounce the training blade off the slave-boy's skull. He falls into the sand like a marionette with its strings cut. You scramble into the sand to avoid a heavy wooden club, that buries itself in the ground where you were standing.
  
  You snatch the shield from the boy's unconscious fingers, and use it to ward off the next blow from the shield. You quickly look up at the burly man with the club, just in time to register his next overhand swing. You scramble to the left, and let him over-swing. While his momentum carries him forward, you slam the wooden sword into his kneecap. He screams in pain and falls forward. You drop the shield, and grip the wooden sword two-handed. You drive the point into the base of his skull, where his helmet doesn't cover. You feel a satisfying crack as it drives into his spine. He sighs softly, and falls to the ground.
  
  Bloody, wild-eyed and victorious, you toss the now-bloody training blade into the sand, laughing like a man possessed.
  
  A beast of a man emerges from the wooden doors at the far side of the arena. He's the largest man you've ever seen, easily; a dark-skinned giant, who could have stepped out of the sagas of your youth. You would expect a man like that to carry a sword, but he only carries a particularly large tablet. He's always scratching something into it; from time to time, you wonder what it is he could be writing.
  
  "The elf never fails to surprise me!" he declares to no one in particular. His voice is jovial and booming.
  
  "I do my best, Horatius," you say. A wave of exhaustion sweeps over you, as the adrenaline begins to seep away.
  
  "I think you killed that one!" he says cheerfully, pointing to the club-wielder. He's right; blood is pooling from the man's eyes and mouth, and his eyes are rolled over into his head.
  
  "I didn't mean to —" you begin quickly. He silences you with a wave of his colossal hand.
  
  "He was weak. If he couldn't see a strike that obvious coming, he deserved to die."
  
  You nod noncommittally.
  
  "I need to talk to you about something, boy."
  
  "Aye?"
  
  "You haven't fought in any games yet, have you?"
  
  "I haven't."
  
  "I'd like to change that. How would you like to fight in the Fisherman's Games?"
  
  "Aren't those for..." you search around for the right word. The mastery of this foreign tongue still eludes you, sometimes. "experienced fighters?"
  
  "They're for good fighters," he says with a mischievous smile, "and you, my friend are definitely one of them."
  
  "This is an offer?"
  
  He shakes his head. "Only in the polite sense of the word."
  
  "Then I guess I'll do it."
  
  > A bath and a conversation
  You enter your chambers. It's a familiar room, by now. Twelve bedrolls to a row, four rows. You sit down in your designated bedroll, and let out a sigh of exhaustion.
  
  "I hope you wash yourself before you fall asleep," a familiar voice chides.
  
  You turn to look at the voice, as its owner's name eludes you temporarily. You look on the childish, perpetually-frightened face of Buchanan. "I'd expect that if I didn't, you'd knife me in my sleep."
  
  "Why would I knife you, when you've got knives on your ears, friend?" he says with a wicked grin."
  
  "Fuck off," you say with a snort. You pull off your sandals. Your tunic slides off after the sandals, carrying with it a flimsy set of scale armour that barely covers your chest.
  
  "Maybe I will. But we've gotta chat, first."
  
  "What about?" undressed, you stand up and collect your armour. You jerk your head to the door.
  
  He follows you out of the chamber and into the courtyard. For a slave pen, it's fairly spacious. A marble bath occupies the centre of it. There's a weapon rack on one of the walls. In one corner, there's a small stall, accompanied by a pile of armour, attended by a one-armed slave.
  
  "Someone told me you're fighting in the Fisherman's Games, friend." Buchanan says with a wry smile. You deposit your clothing on the pile, and nod to the attendant.
  
  "Who told you that?" you say as you walk to the centre of the courtyard.
  
  "A reliable source.
  
  "Was that as you were sucking his cock?" you ask, as you ease yourself into the bubbling, volcanic waters of the bath. You sigh contentedly.
  
  "Laugh if you must, friend. But life has gotten far easier since Tibur and I came to our arrangement."
  
  You motion for Buchanan to join you in the bath.
  
  "Don't need it."
  
  "When did you last train? You reek."
  
  "Piss off," he says as he undresses.
  
  The two of you sit in silence for a moment. The hot water feels like it's seeping into your overtired muscles, washing the exhaustion out. "So, who else has been selected for the games?"
  
  "You, for sure. The orc, I think — what's his name?"
  
  "Boris."
  
  "Aye, him too. Masters' aren't sure who the third's going to be."
  
  "Who else is good enough?"
  
  "Well, it won't be me, that's for goddamn sure."
  
  "Tibur see to that as well?"
  
  "You know it," he says with a wry smile.
  
  You lean back, pressing the back of your shaved head against the marble lip of the bath. You close your eyes appreciatively.
  
  "So what's your story, anyway?" he asks.
  
  "My story?"
  
  "How the fuck you got here."
  
  "How else? The institution of slavery."
  
  "Oh, you're a funny fucker. Seriously, though."
  
  "I got taken as a prisoner of war by some Centurion. Wound up getting sold to here for a fraction of the cost, but he gets some of the profits."
  
  "What profits?"
  
  "Well, that's what confuses me. He beat my head in so bad that his man had to dig through my brain to let the pressure out."
  
  "Wait, really?"
  
  "Swear on any gods you want me to. He's gone to a lot of trouble to make sure I survive long enough to get into the Games."
  
  "Odd," Buchanan says, as he begins to wash his hair in the bathwater.
  
  A third man joins the bath. You recognize him as Boris, the green orc that you discussed earlier. He grunts as he eases himself in.
  
  "Afternoon," he grumbles.
  
  "Well isn't this just a gathering of the races?" Buchanan remarks.
  
  "How'd practice treat you, Boris?" you ask.
  
  "Short."
  
  "That's how we like 'em," Buchanan declares jovially.
  
  "Who'd you fight?" you ask of Boris.
  
  "Some man."
  
  "This man still with us?"
  
  "Aye. But I heard you took a life today," Boris intones. In your few interactions with him, you've noticed something: rare is the day that he speaks in anything other than a slow, ponderous monotone.
  
  "Who'd you kill? You sick bastard!" Buchanan jokes, "I've never heard of a gladiator school with a killer in it!"
  
  "I'm afraid to disappoint you, mate, but it wasn't intentional. Hit him weird, and it must have jolted his spine too hard."
  
  Boris grunts, and leans back in the bath. You notice a scarred-over burn on his chest.
  
  Buchanan notices it, then turns to you with a cocked eyebrow.
  
  > ask about the scar
  "Someone in the arena give you that?" you ask, motioning to the scar with one finger.
  
  "Different arena," he responds.
  
  "How so?" Buchanan chimes in.
  
  Boris exhales through his flat nose. "My people's laws are... different. We don't practice slavery, and we don't have prisons. If you do something wrong, you're paying in pain."
  
  "What did you do wrong?" you ask, curiosity piqued.
  
  "I bashed someone's head, after they were... unchivalrous to my sister," he smiles slightly.
  
  "And they give you that for a fight?"
  
  "No," he grumbles, as his smile begins to spread across his face, "they gave me that for a murder."
  
  "Gods, how brutal are you people?" Buchanan asks in mock-horror.
  
  "Hopefully you never find out."
  
  > New Page
  Before you can speak any further, Horatius enters the courtyard, wearing his usual disarming grin. "Rejoice, my brothers! Three of you are about to have a great honour! The three men heading to the Fisherman's Games have been decided."
  
  You look up from your conversation, as does Boris and Buchanan. The rest of the gladiators, and the slave attending the armour-pile all look at the big man in anticipation.
  
  "Our three lucky, lucky souls, are going to be Buchanan, that wiry bastard I'm sure you all know and love."
  
  Buchanan punches the ground. "That son of a whore let me blow him, then he fucking lied to me!"
  
  "That's not all, however! We're also going to be bringing along our favourite elf, and our... cherished orc friend."
  
  You feel the collective relief of everyone not selected. Strangely, no one finds the prospect of being cut open for the amusement of screaming peasants and horrified aristocrats particularly appealing.
  
  "If you're one of our lucky contestants, come talk to me. Immediately. That's all, go back to your duties."
  
  You climb out of the bath, and approach Horatius. The water drips down from your body to the tiled floor. He looks you up and down, as Buchanan and the orc climb out behind you.
  
  "So, are you fine folks ready to put on a good show?"
  
  "Always." Boris grumbles, robbing you of the chance to speak.
  
  "That's what I like to here. You lot are dining with me and the Masters tonight; go talk to him over there," Horatius jerks a thumb to the one-armed slave, "and get some decent clothes to where, why don't you?"
  
  That night, you dine in fine fashion.
  
  You, along with Boris and Buchanan, lay on long couches with purple fabrics draped over them. There's a table of food in front of you, with richer food than you've ever tasted; grapes, nuts, pieces of sugarcane, thin-sliced beef and pork, along with goblets of wine, perpetually refilled by slaves.
  
  "How would you like to eat like this every day?" Argos asks of you. One of the two owners of the gladiator school, he hails from the senatorial class. You can tell he's no stranger to the corridors of power, just from how calculated his mannerisms are. He's a shrewd old man with features like an eagle, and the predatory instincts of one, too.
  
  "I could get used to it," Buchanan says cheerfully, stuffing his face full of spiced pork.
  
  "As well you should," the other Master responds. You know little of him, save for his apparent dislike of interacting with others, and the fact that he bears the name "Gavrill". You've never seen him around the ludus; and this is the first word you've heard him speak. "If you fight well, you could earn a handsome fortune."
  
  "There's something else to be gained, as well," Argos says meaningfully, "If you fight well, and you continue to fight well... you have your freedom to win."
  
  "What if I just like fighting?" Boris asks, uttering his first words of the evening.
  
  "Then you're in the right place," Argos says with a smile. He snaps his fingers, and a slave steps forward; a girl, human, and no older than fifteen. She proceeds to wash his hands, and wash Gavrill's hands as well. When she finishes, she washes yours.
  
  "Everyone leave, save for the elf," Gavrill says bluntly. There is no refusal, of course; he snaps his fingers, and the meal is over. Even the slave-girl leaves. Alone in the dining hall with Gavrill and Argos, you feel their eyes burrowing into your soul, ripping your intentions and thoughts apart, like an eagle would a piece of meat.
  
  Argos clears his throat. "An elf gladiator stands to be very profitable, as I'm sure you know."
  
  "The Centurion understood this," says Gavrill.
  
  "As do we. If you win these Games, it will be an upset like never before. Men and orcs fight, but elves are something else entirely. The crowds will snap it up like hungry dogs," Argos drops his voice and looks around, "But I'm sure you already know this. What you don't know, is that the Emperor, in his infinite wisdom, has seen fit to modify the game's this year. Not only will they be to the death, they will also be to the last man. That is, you'll be fighting your teammates, should they survive as long as you."
  
  The weight of this presses down on your back. You're not sure how you feel about murdering your allies.
  
  "We tell you this, of course, in absolute secrecy," Gavrill says, narrowing his eyes, "because it would be in everyone's interest if you won these Games, and we feel that you can."
  
  > Time passes
  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.
  
  > tell them the true nature of the Games
  Guilt wracks your mind as you lay awake. "Lads, they're not being straight with us."
  
  "When are they straight with us?" Buchanan asks amusedly.
  
  "They're rarely as crooked as this. We're supposed to be a team, right?"
  
  "Right," Boris rumbles, revealing that no one in the room is asleep.
  
  "But if we survive the initial slaughter, they're going to pit us against each-other like dogs."
  
  "What?" Buchan asks, sitting up from his bed.
  
  "Aye. This is the kind of bout where only one man gets to walk away, I'm afraid."
  
  "Those sons of whores!" Buchanan curses. He punches an expensive pillow.
  
  "Unsurprising," Boris murmurs, "but shitty."
  
  "So what's the plan, then?"
  
  "We fight like devils," Buchanan says flatly.
  
  "And then? Are we willing to kill each other for their amusement?"
  
  "We already do," says Boris.
  
  "I told you this because I didn't want to stab you in the back, lads. It's wrong to turn on your allies like this."
  
  "You could have just kept that information to yourself, it's true," Buchanan admits. Boris rumbles affirmatively.
  
  "We shouldn't fight each other, should we survive. We throw down our arms and tell them all to get fucked." you continue.
  
  "I'm all for defiance, but I'd rather not get killed in the process," Buchanan argues.
  
  "If they kill the winners of a bout, they'll have a riot on their hands. No way they can kill us, not without it costing them."
  
  "So what now, then?" Boris asks.
  
  "I say we try and get some sleep. We've still got to survive this fucking thing."
  
  > Fighting side-by-side
  You, Boris and Buchanan stand shackled to each other by the ankles, at the far end of a marble forum. All that separates you from the crowd calling for your blood is a line of private guards (likely slaves themselves), paid for by the Censor arranging the games.
  
  There are seven other teams of three, shackled similarly to you and your team. They are equally spaced along the rectangular perimeter of the forum. At the end of the forum opposite to you is an ornate ivory chair, upraised on a wooden platform. Upon which sits the Censor, who has organized these games and paid for them out of pocket. He nods to the crowd, upon which several men begin to distribute loaves of bread, which are quickly torn apart. A fervour begins to rise.
  
  He raises a hand for silence. "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 forum descends into chaos.
  
  You stick close to Boris and Buchanan as you move into the throng of bodies. Hot blood sprays across your face as you shove your spear into a man's neck. Someone screams to the right of you; you turn, and see Boris flinging the broken body of a man like a discarded toy.
  
  You sidestep a heavy-looking sword, and riposte with a quick thrust into a man's bare chest. You rip open a gash in his soft, exposed flesh. He staggers backwards, and someone finishes him off with a trident to the neck.
  
  Your arms grow weary. You begin to back out of the throng. A vicious-looking barbarian, painted in blue, notices you.
  
  "Your head is mine, elf!" he screams, charging at you. He leaps into the air and swings an axe at your neck. He moves with breathtaking speed, but the chain around his ankle quickly grows taught. He falls to the ground, and you quickly bury your spear in his side. He lets out a soft moan as his lifeblood spills out onto your sandals.
  
  You hear Buchanan scream in pain. You turn, and see that he's been knocked to the ground. A burly orc is strangling him, and his struggles are weakening by the second. You stab the orc in the shoulder, but it only enrages the thing, which looks more like a monster than a man. It lets Buchanan fall to the ground, but picks up its bloodstained axe off the ground, and squeals at you.
  
  Boris slams his club into the side of its head, killing it instantly. The force of the blow warps its skull, and causes its head to forcibly rotate into an unnatural position. As it falls to the ground, you look around the makeshift arena, and realize that only one opponent remains. He's frantically trying to free himself from his shackles by chopping the feet off his dead teammates with a hatchet.
  
  You turn to the crowd in a grand gesture, relishing their applause. Then, you throw your spear like a javelin. It tears through his side, and he screams in agony and drops his hatchet. You watch as he pulls the blade out from his torso, only to invite a fresh torrent of blood. He bleeds to death while futilely trying to stem the bleeding with his fingers.
  
  > A shocking victory
  The crowd erupts into a clamour. They praise you like the gods themselves. The Censor raises his hand for silence. "Fair citizens, are these games not to the death?" he asks.
  
  The implication is obvious. A stunned silence falls over the crowd. Buchanan smiles grimly, and turns to you. "We're really doing this?"
  
  "Aye," Boris rumbles, before throwing his club across the forum. The crowd gasps.
  
  You realize that you're unarmed, and raise your arms in an exaggerated shrug. The crowd laughs uproariously.
  
  Buchanan eyes you both suspiciously. "You're a couple of madmen," he declares, before he, too, throws his blade away.
  
  This act of defiance is met with screams and applause. The uproar grows again, and a wave of joyous celebration ripples through the crowd. The Censor raises his hands for silence, but he's ignored amid the cheers; the people are drunk on celebration.
  
  "Kill them!" he screams. Only two of his slave-soldiers hear, but they gladly comply; they break formation and begin to march towards you with terrible intent.
  
  The celebration turns to rage. The crowd throw themselves against the shields of the guards, screaming profanity and curses at the Censor. Fists and rocks are thrown at the guards, who struggle to keep the crowd at bay with beatings.
  
  "Stop!" he bellows. The two soldiers halt in their tracks. "It would appear, the people have spoken!'
  
  The guards manage to shove the crowd back. For now.
  
  "... And the Fisherman's Games shall have three winners!"
  
  > A victor's reward
  "That was an impressive show you put on," Argos says with surprising humour. Both his hands are folded underneath his toga, but you can imagine that they're clenched fists. "I had hoped it would unfold differently, but alas... one cannot always predict these things."
  
  The meeting-room, where you shared a dinner with Gavrill and Argos, is now bare. It looks like a dungeon cell. The thought strikes you that it would be a good place for a murder.
  
  The door swings open. Gavrill enters. His face is flushed red, and he looks positively less civil than Argos. Argos raises cautionary hand to him. "Calm yourself, brother." he advises.
  
  Gavrill sighs. "You three must understand that insulting the Censor reflects quite poorly on us."
  
  "They're not idiots. You do understand this, correct? You know what it looks like when two wealthy men cannot control their slaves?" Argos turns his pointed gaze to you.
  
  "I — we, understand." you say, nodding submissively.
  
  "And yet, we would be idiots to punish you for this act." Argos continues. Gavrill looks like he's been struck. "For you have earned us a tremendous amount of coin, you just don't know it yet."
  
  "And how is that?" Gavrill asks cholerically. You're beginning to understand why Argos insists on managing their affairs himself.
  
  "This display of loyalty is... it's downright chivalrous!" Argos declares, laughing. "The people love it. A team of fighters, but also a team of best friends. It's a novelty, even moreso than a team with only one human on it. The people will love it..."
  
  "And the Editors of the Games will pay for them to appear," Gavrill concedes.
  
  "Precisely, my dear brother. The question shouldn't be 'how do we punish these men?'. The question should be 'how do we reward these brave, profitable souls'.".
  
  Argos turns his shrewd gaze to you once more. "What do you want, dear elf? If it's within reason, I can make it so."
  
  > ask for women and wine
  You ask for women and wine, of course.
  
  A small villa is constructed next to the ludis. Slaves are purchased for your enjoyment. Some pour wine, but most just sleep with you when you request it. In exchange for shedding blood and thrilling the people, Argos and Gavrill fulfill your every bodily need. Men, women, elves, orcs. It doesn't particularly matter. For the rest of your days, wine is given out as freely as lovemaking.
  
  You're still a gladiator, but you're a comfortable one. When you return from a particularly brutal training bout, you simply have your servants drag a seat into the sun and fill you a cup of wine, and you watch the clouds drift lazily by...