To Make a Start

For days they had traveled in the dark beneath the ancient city, the legends of what lay beyond these ancient passageways had drawn them in, goaded them onwards. 

Nate was slightly ahead, the way was pitch black and so he was visible only in the light of her amulet, a cold bright light in this labyrinth.

"Dead end, yeah, ... wait" she saw his hand reach up, run along a wall. Instead of brick she caught a glimpse of something shining. 

Shining in the dark. "Nate, wait fo..." a small low click came as nate pressed a button.

The ancient slumberer shuddered. The earth shook. Around them all vibrations, deep rumbles, high pitched screams as the world shook and turned. 

"Cover!" she shouted. No one could hear, and besides, there was no cover. The tunnel was no longer dark, its rock faced edges held tight against a new dawn. Looking to her left, the ancient streets of the city swund alarmingly into view. They were.. flying? It was incomprehensible.

Screams broke out as people rushed from the temple. The familiar bell tolled like it was possessed, then the bell tower, ancient as the city walls, snapped clean in two and fell to dust. 

A middle aged man, balding with a semi-circle of black hair and a contented round belloy, rushed to his window to see the composition. Poised to shout, he was thrown off balance as half his house ruptured, cracked, and then raised above the ground. He fell, landing on his own flower bed. Stunned, he wondered what in all the gods name this was? A painful dream, the end of the world? He knew no answers.

A child on a wheely wobble, stopped in their tracks mouth open. The hill smoved, the road was shaking. Ahead the school she knew so well gave a great lurch, the roof rippled like some piece of cloth being flicked out to dry in the sun. Then all fell, dust and a horrendous crashing noise added to similar noises here and far, a crescendo of overpowering sound and dust. Great rents appeared in the ground, the school vanished. 

On a small prominatary of rock, the child curled into a ball. the cobbles just around them intact.

A floating mass blocked the sun, the screams and howls of people injured and diing rent the air, but were dull compared the the dull continuous thunder which emanate, permeated from that thing. Darkness, confusion, so end most things. 

Bellona

The smell of sawdust, the rough feel of bandages wrapped onto hands before a fistfight. The sound of creaking leather as tough jerkins strained over muscle. Grunts and curses of the fighters as they grappled in combat, the damp-angry smell of sweat and blood which mingled with everything, that sank into the soul of the place. The Life of death, the spectacle of it giving meaning to the dieing realm.

Still it went on. The rabble and bubble of the crowd, bleating their support or disapproval each move, each evening. The crisp tones of the adjudicator, and the occasional booming voice of Joseph Barhama, like some black cloud calling for death from the shadows.

The arena had its own rhythm. The people here were mostly warriors, mostly they were well treated. Guards here were kind, and some even friendly towards their favourites. The longest serving were the most at peace with their lot, accepting the daily chance of death as an occupational hazard.This Warrior was no different.

The Warrior drew a gigantic sword from its scabbard, and after a few lightning fast practice swings idly looked down the blades length to check for dirt, imperfections of damage. The dull metal absorbed the red light of the dawn like blood.

Leather armor only, these were the rules of play at this stage in the contest. Looking sideways at the large display over the ring, the warrior could make out the dots, each representing one combatant, and the lines, representing a win or lose. It was nearly time, today a new direction for the line would be drawn.

It was slightly early to be out, but the cell below was oppressive. It was good to topside, though it was just thin shadow of the dawn above ground. Underground the blood red glimpen-lamps gave bright enough light; If one was not concentrating  it was possible to mistake the blood red glow for a red dawn. It was actually quite warm.

Bellona laughed in spite of herself, removing her helm she shook out her braided hair and stretched in this substitute for morning's light. She was alive after all, well fed and looked after, doing what she loved. This grim place would make a good story some day, but for now the only way out was through. She was a warrior to her core, the comforts of home - she knew too well - would soon become bonds, and she would be back on the road. All was well, excpt..

A voice like thunder from above, commanding that another challenger be brought forth. Barhama was all show, she hated him. He was all she stood against: cowardly, bullying desport that he was. His cruel mind was endlessly bent upon his own ego, always finding new and more ridiculous ways of showing everyone how much better he was than the common man. Always, she thought, showing the opposite.

All the time the poor starved. The lunatics remaining, howling from the stands above, had left their minds behind. The realm was plunged into darkness. She had not believed that a hell existed before she had come to this once famous realm, now she knew it did.

She shook her head. It wasn't worth worrying about. She centered herself, touched the dirt one last time as she stretched her legs again, and then wound her braids and readied her helm. Perhaps this new challenger would be a welcome distraction!