Black Morass i. wanderlust

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he steps closer, his hulking frame towering over theissor, his breath steady but heavy in the cold, damp air. his voice comes low, gravelly, rough like the scrape of stone. gladiator, is it? then you know what it means to bleed for something. to kill for it. his nostrils flare, and a faint sneer tugs at his lips, exposing the edge of a tooth. but strength alone doesn’t make a man worth keeping. i’ve no use for warriors who fight only for themselves.

he leans in slightly, the weight of his presence suffocating, his tone dropping even lower. daring theissor to test him. to snap out, gnash teeth or summon the urge to penetrate the suffocating air with his own snarl. can you fight for more than pride? more than glory?

he grins, though there is nothing warm about it, as he steps back from the boy. no matter what theissor believes of himself, in all his righteousness, he is blue-blooded in comparison to the dominus. kóvictus is willing to see that the boy becomes man, though, if he chooses to be pliable rather than rigid. mox cognoscam.

then, with another jerk of mighty head, he bids theissor to follow him. further into the morass, where he will give him his final rites, invoke him as a man of imperium. and he will be granted what any man is owed, should he behave. behave and be a good little gladiator. and this is what he says when he next speaks: like i said, plenty of women. they preen beneath the guidance of the reverend mother. his blazing eyes poke upon theissor then, as if to test the man, lips curling back in silent warning. my wife. that is all he will say on that. the boy should know should he go near her, his ballsack will be snipped from between his legs. no doubt, you smell them, now, don't you, boy? their smell potent. begging to be bred. he laughs.

take one, should you have her. my gift to you. good-will.