Black Morass i. wanderlust

joining @Ione @Kovictus

through bog and mist, a gladiator clad in black marches alone. word of his crime followed him even into venenum, and so he set off. said he had to chase the lost prince. it's been months.

crooked nose raised high to catch a scent. a city. he didn't cross their borders. he calls in a low, rich song, for the gatekeepers.

kóvictus moves with the heavy stride of a predator who knows no equal. each step leaves deep prints in the sodden earth, a trail marking his passage.

the call draws him like a hook sunk. interested by the power behind it.

his lip curls, a snarl vibrating low in his throat as he moves closer. from the inky blackness of his morass he appears, a herculean form cutting through jungle vine and swamp.

who is it that calls me?

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a man, aged yet muscled, had answered him. he had nearly responded with a snarl himself, before the man sculpted as perfectly as a statue was the one that parted through the bog. theissor wasn't stupid enough to play with that might. perhaps when the man was older.

arrogance for once subdued, theissor did not encroach further on this territory. but he wouldn't bow like a bitch in heat either.

theissor. he chuffed, unflinching and proud. a crooked smile stretched black lips, revealing pearly whites. fine place you have.

the young blood’s arrogance—held in check but still brimming beneath the surface—draws a low rumble from his chest, more amusement than threat. the dominus, scarred and towering, knows better than to expect submission from one such as this, but it doesn’t bother him. not today. perhaps theissor had indeed caught him on a good day.

his laugh is rough, gravelly, and sharp. the motion of his head—a sharp, strong jerk—is less a greeting and more an acknowledgment. he doesn’t need to posture or prove himself. his presence alone commands respect, whether theissor chooses to give it willingly or not.

he tilts his head slightly, his crooked nose catching the faintest flicker of theissor’s scent as his gaze locks firmly onto the other wolf. you fight, boy? he asks, voice a gruff demand. too many women in my domain, he grunts, his voice rough, gravelly, and tinged with irritation. his lips curl back slightly, revealing sharp teeth in a sneer. good for bearing cubs, but not for holding the line. what i need are strong men—warriors who will fight.

amusement tickles the man's expression. unsure whether to growl, the old geezer bursts into a laugh. theissor, first annoyed, joins him with snickers of his own. though he straightens himself once kovictus begins to speak again. a smirk never leaves him, and neither his gaze.

plenty of women ey? if they all belonged to him, then theissor really may just have to kill him. is that an invitation? he chortles, and mirrors the brute's sneer. of course i fight. spoken with pride. the young brute stands tall, flexing himself to leave no room for question. if a warrior is what you need, then you've found a gladiator.

cameo

hidden in the shadows, ione's gaze lingered on the two men, her presence concealed by the cloak of winter's gray light. the brute was young, confident, his arrogance lighting him like a flame. rippling muscles, a bold tongue—he carried himself with the energy of a wolf who had yet to meet his match. a strong man, she thought, admiring the raw potential of youth.

but her husband, kovictus, was unmatched. scarred, steadfast, the embodiment of dominance tempered by wisdom. his words rolled like thunder, low and gruff, each syllable heavy with the weight of his experience. even as the trespassers postured and flexed, she saw the truth. her kovictus was a mountain beside the boy’s eager blaze.

a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at her lips. the trespasser, for all his bravado, would do well under kovictus’s command. a stalwart breeder for her little star, @Genevieve, perhaps. but no more than that. her gaze lingered on kovictus a moment longer, pride swelling in her chest as she remained a silent witness to the exchange.

the young may have their fire, but the dominus was the storm.

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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.

a sneer never left his face. bright eyes burned brighter with passion ignited. of course he fights beyond himself: he fights for the women (that will belong to him), for fun, for glory to the kingdom.
i'll fight from morning to night. what more do i need? smug even as each breath comes in a grumble. but he did not challenge kovictus. he allowed the man to inspect him as he saw fit.

so long as he could carve out a fine pedestal of his own, theissor would allow the older brute to boss him around from dawn to dusk.

and boss around he did, leading him beyond the borders of the blossoming empire. only one woman was off limits. his wife, typical. theissor would make no promises — accidents can happen — but he'll play it safe for as long as he cares to.
but oh, could he smell them. he laughed alongside kovictus, that was enough of an answer from the young man. just beyond this brown dust cloud was a paradise waiting just for him. a treasure trove. he was promised just one. but surely, eventually, he will make room for more.

kóvictus snorts sharply, a guttural sound that cuts through the air like a warning. theissor’s smugness is not lost on him, nor the fire burning in the younger brute’s words. there is truth in them, yes—but kóvictus knows too well the fragility of words when not backed by action. theissor will prove himself, or he will fall. no middle ground exists here.

his golden eyes narrow as he watches theissor, assessing him, his massive frame still and imposing. he is a hard man, forged in blood and fire, a commander who demands more than loyalty—he demands results. and yet, there is something in theissor’s defiance, in his eagerness for glory, that strikes a chord. kóvictus respects ambition when it is tempered by strength.

his crooked nose dips, catching the faint trace of eagerness and arrogance in theissor’s scent, and a faint sneer curls at the corner of his lips.

you are one of my own, kóvictus growls, his tone rough but final, leaving no room for doubt. a gladiator. you know what it means to fight, to serve, to bleed. i will put faith in you. do not betray it. his voice sharpens, and with a single nod of his head, he delivers the title that binds theissor to his word. praetor. my right hand man. you’ll lead men; hunts, defenses. you’ll enforce my decrees. serve me well, and you’ll carve out your place here at my side. serve poorly, and i’ll crush you myself.