A Game of Roses

A Game of Roses

The mighty Thielian Colosseum, home to the summer games of high society. Thiel’s elite migrate, stampeding as one, ascending the terraces of the great oval eye. The colossal blocks of polished limestone climb to the height of thirty men. The terraces overflow with Thiel’s gathering nobility, eager to witness sagas of life and death.

Servants hustle on bounding feet as they journey up into the overflowing terraces. They navigate with expert steps up the three grand levels of imperial splendor.

Thiel’s richest merchants sit side by side on the heights of the third-tier terraces, haggling, betting, and rolling handmade dice, staking on a coming play of ruthless entertainment, the triumph of heroes, and the capers of the dead.

Lords and nobles swarm together on the middle tier, their vibrant silks a riot of colors. Slavers and traders patrol the terraces, towing exotic flesh on metal leashes and touting rare predatory beasts from distant lands.

The royals and Thiel's elite lounge in shaded luxury on the lowest tier, closest to the great arena, fanned by armies of attentive servants, immersed in affluent chaos.

“My great countrymen,” King Adal’s jubilant voice echoes around the colosseum. He stands majestic, with arms spread wide, absorbing the adoration of his worshippers. His young and radiant face tilts toward the sun, his arms reaching skyward toward the heavens. The sun’s rays beat down upon his golden hair, forming a halo above his head. He is a god in his great church, playing his great game. “There is nothing greater than the Kingdom of Thiel.” King Adal's booming voice echoes around the colosseum.

“Thiel, Thiel, Thiel.”  Thirty thousand Thielian’s roar as one, shaking the colosseum’s foundations. The bloodthirsty mob thumps wooden poles onto the polished stone floor. Their steady beat reverberates through stone, wood, and bone.

'Knock, knock, knock.'

King Adal raises his open hands and calls for silence as he beholds his worshipers. The crowd heeds his imperious command and whispers alone, echo around the gleaming stone theater. A whispering wind weaves its way through the fluttering banners and pennants. Thirty thousand pairs of enraptured eyes fixate on their king, beholding his handsome glory. Garbed in the finest Thielian silks, his long royal blue silk coat, buttoned to the neck, extends a fraction below his knees. Golden silk trousers hug tight at his ankles. A narrow golden band encircles the king’s head, his divine halo, and his elegant summer crown.

King Adal’s voice is as rich as the summer and sings out to the hungry masses, his eyes dance with amusement. “It has been bestowed upon me to settle another feud. A dispute born from love is to be settled by blood. But who swings true? The butcher, or the smith?”

The crowd cheers, their hands colliding in thunderous applause. 

King Adal radiates a broad smile and calls for a hush. “If only love wasn’t so cruel. A fight to the death for the honor of matrimonial bliss. The prize is a name forever etched in history and a hand in marriage. I hope she’s worth it!” 

The crowd bellows in laughter as wooden poles knock on the stone. 

“A legend will be born. But who will rise and who will fall?” King Adal raises both arms to the second midday sun, and the trumpets sound a chorus as deep as the oceans, as thunderous as a stormy winter tide. 

‘Parooom. Parooom.’

‘Knock, knock, knock’ 

The smith, a bear of a man, strides into the pit from a stone archway on the eastern wall. His deep-set eyes sit above a thin grimace. Bald, thick-bearded, and ripped with muscle, sweat glistens on his bald head, streaming down his chest and thick arms. He wears brown leather britches and leather sandals as he drags his giant smithing hammer through the sands. The massive hammer clanks and bounces off the bloodstained stone floor as he strides into the center of the arena.

The crowd erupts with hedonistic applause as wood collides with stone.

The butcher, a tall and wiry man, struts from the opposite archway on the western wall. His long strides are languid but full of purpose. He lopes into the arena, dripping sweat. A young man, as lean as a young birch, with narrowed eyes and a sly smile. He carries a dull blade of ominous cleaving steel the length of a man’s arm. He cleans and wipes his crude knife on his bloodstained, leather butcher’s apron. 

The crowd ignites into a frenzy. A mortar and pestle of wood and stone pound together. Splinters fly as servants scurry with parchment and quills, taking bets and exchanging bags of gold Drakes. 

The trumpets sound a second deafening call for violence.

The butcher and the smith circle each other, eyes locked with mouths set in unfaltering grimaces. Their untamed words of hatred flow unheard by the booming crowd.

The butcher loosens his shoulders and jiggles his lean legs. With fleet feet, he dances from toe to toe.

The smith stands tall and stretches his broad shoulders and chest as he cracks his neck from side to side. He drops his monstrous hammer to the floor with a dull, ringing thud. The smith then throws his fists up to the turbulent crowd as the mob goes mad, roaring in support.

"Smith, smith, smith."

The butcher lays his dark blade on the sandy, blood-drenched floor.

The crowd punches the air as stone and wood collide. 

"Butcher, butcher, butcher."

The butcher and the smith lower themselves into unschooled fighting stances. They circle each other with erratic steps, their adrenalin-laced bodies shaking with nervous jitters.

King Adal reclines onto his elbows, lounging on a golden silk blanket. His boyish eyes wander above a smug smile. He picks at a bunch of amethyst grapes and gulps down mouthfuls of ruby-red wine. All around him, bowls overflow with fresh fruits, dried dates, and sweet sugar cakes. An army of servants fan away the summer heat as King Adal gives a conspiratorial glance to the man on his right. “My money is on the butcher. Brother, what say you?”

The Galt King, Eiden, lounges next to King Adal. He sips at his wine while wearing fine, jade green silks. His Galtish skin is too pale and his hair too light to pass for a true Thielian. A heavy crown of dull gold sits on his graying head, weighed down with the burden of rule and age. The two kings sit as brothers, young and old, father and son. A royal union of Thiel and Galt. The two kings revel in their hard-won friendship and in the sport of life and death. King Eiden gives a deep, hearty laugh. “Aye, that butcher looks like the right piece of work. But my wagers on the smith.” A volcanic cheer from the crowd drowns out King Eiden’s voice.

"What’s the wager?" King Adal's voice rises over the clamor of the crowd, a mischievous glint in his eye. “A favor for a favor. One day, when the time comes, you’ll owe me, brother.”

King Eiden pauses, his smile fading slightly as he considers the offer. Then, with a slow nod and a broad smile, he answers, “A favor for a favor it is, Adal.”

The butcher flings a lightning-quick jab into the smith’s face. Blood pops like a cork from his nose and splatters down onto the sandy floor. 

The smith spits a huge wad of crimson snot and thick blood into the grime. He raises his guard with hands thick like hams, his shoulders hunching into a mountainous wall of stony flesh and muscle. He blows more jets of bloody snot into the air.

The butcher circles the smith; his lean muscles ripple as he dances from toe to toe, sidestepping, weaving, ducking, and diving just out of the smith’s long reach. He steps inside the smith’s guard and flings rapid jabs into the smith’s gut. The butcher lands blow after blow in a ferocious torrent of bone-cracking hits into the smith’s ribs and face. He lands a huge, open-handed slap, which thwacks into the smith’s left eye, combined with another crunching right-left hook into the smith’s jaw. Blood, teeth, and spittle fly. 

The smith’s face is a sea of blood, his eyes black and blue, puffed up and half blind. He leans forward, off-balance; he rocks and sways before he falls into the butcher’s grappling grip.

The butcher's long, wiry arms reach around the smith’s neck, throttling his life away, his fingers gouge into the smith’s eye sockets as he grapples. The butcher then bites down on the smith’s right shoulder, his broken, yellow-stained teeth tearing away a lump of the smith’s flesh. He spits a mouthful of the smith’s meat onto the blood-soaked floor.

The crowd roars in bloody approval. 

King Adal flashes a winning smile at King Eiden, before he gulps down his wine, his eyes fixated on the brawl.  

The butcher’s and smith’s bodies lock together as they grapple, slick with blood and sweat, sand and bloody grit sticking to their arms and legs.

The butcher breaks away from the smith’s tiring grip and swings his bony elbow into the smith’s broken jaw. He then grabs the smith by his bald head and drives his right knee into the smith's face, smashing through fragile bone.

A cold darkness touches the smith, his vision a blur of stars, the sound of the mob, a faint roar on the edge of consciousness.

The crowd jeers and boos as the smith wobbles on his feet, living in limbo, waiting for death.

The butcher moves in for the final killing blow. He raises his elbow above the smith’s head, ready to drive down the fatal blow.

The smith suddenly drops his guard and grabs the butcher’s raised arm. He twists the arm over his shoulder, then hammers the palm of his massive hand through the butcher’s elbow joint with a sickening crack. Shards of brittle bone pop out of the butcher’s skin as his arm snaps in half.

The crowd erupts in the euphoria of bloodlust. They remake stakes with bags of coins. Groans of financial loss cry out from the hungry pack.

The butcher wails in wild agony, the veins on his neck ready to burst as he cradles his bloodied, jiggling arm.

The smith roars like an angry bear and steps inside the butcher’s broken guard. He plants a tremendous, crunching headbutt on the bridge of the butcher's nose, which explodes in a fountain of blood and shattered cartilage. The butcher falls onto his back.

The smith turns his back to the butcher and reaches down to the arena floor for his enormous smithing hammer.

Meanwhile, the butcher staggers to his feet, his right arm dangling, lifeless at his side, and with his good arm, he drags his dull butcher's blade from the blood-soaked sands. With a cry of cold fury, the butcher slices into the smith’s exposed back. A slow, deep slice carves the smith from his shoulder blades to his arse. The crude line of red begins trickling with blood until it flows like a stream. Then, with an almighty swing, the butcher cleaves at the smith’s right leg, hacking through the flesh and bone. The cleaver buries deep in the smith’s knee cap.

The crowd inhales as one. Coins won and lost jingle and jangle in swapping purses.

The fight is done. Wood collides with stone as thirty thousand Thielian’s demand the final death blow. ‘Knock, knock, knock’. The arena then falls into silence, and sands blow over the bloodied floor. Ravens circle and caw above the arena, as the mob breathe as one, mouths hanging open with the weight of coming death. 

King Adal slumps backward, signaling for more wine. 

The smith manages to stand up straight with the giant hammer in his hand. He limbers his shoulders and cracks his neck from side to side. His face is a grimace of smashed-up mess as he spits out a mouthful of broken teeth. Then with a guttural scream, he yanks the butcher’s blade free from his kneecap. Blood spurts from his shattered leg as he drags it forward, limping toward the butcher through the sand. 

The butcher stares at the smith with feral darting eyes, as he edges backwards away from the approaching smith’s massive reach. His tears flow with snot and blood streaming from his cratered nose as he begs, pleading for his life. The butcher’s wailing falls on deaf ears.

The smith’s giant hammer smashes through the screaming butcher as if he were felling a tree within a ferocious side cleave.

The butcher flies backwards and hits the sand with a sickening crunch, in a pile of smashed flesh and shattered bones. The butcher rolls onto his back, spewing mouthfuls of blood-filled vomit. He crawls on all fours, one arm snapped in half, scuttling backwards in the grime like a maimed crab on crimson sands.

The smith's eyes are deep, somber pools of resignation. Sweat drips down his body, running like tears on glass. He wipes his brow, and with a heavy sigh, he raises his hammer above his head. The killing blow falls, and the hammer cuts through the silence with a whoosh until it lands on the butcher’s head like an icecap hitting the ocean in a huge splash of crimson red. The butcher goes still with a gut-sickening squelch. 

The crowd gives a thunderous roar as thousands of flowers and an immense sum of gold Drake’s rain down onto the arena floor, gleaming under Thiel’s glorious summer sun.

The cawing flock of ravens descends into the fighting pit, sating their hunger as they peck through the pile of freshly butchered meat.

A young woman runs into the pit’s bloody belly from the eastern archway. She throws herself into the smith’s arms, a rag doll hanging from his bruised neck. She claws at his chest and kisses his pulped-up face. Her golden-blonde hair matted with his blood.

Gold Drakes rains down from the crowd, a bride’s dowry gifted from the wealthy elite. Another romantic saga concludes; another god of the Thielian fighting pit stands victorious.

The butcher’s body is dragged away. More fresh meat for the pit dogs.

King Adal bounds to his feet, his fine silks blowing in the wind. “My brothers and sisters.” The roar of the crowd is so loud that farmers tilling the distant fields raise their heads. “On this turn, a legend will be born, but who will rise and who will fall?” King Adal raises both arms, and the trumpets resound in a deep chorus. He reaches to his side table, plucking a pair of perfect white roses, which he raises aloft for all to see. 

The crowd gasps, then erupts into a frenzied uproar. 

“A game of roses.” King Adal tosses the white roses onto the bloodied arena floor.

The trumpets blare in a thunderous call as the crowd bellows for blood. Servants scurry with parchment and quills, taking bets and exchanging bags of Thielian coins, gold Drakes. Thousands of raven’s circle in the sky, waiting to dive as the thunderous call reverberates from the fighting pit's beating heart. Thousands of wooden poles and stones collide in growing anticipation, thumping the heavy tune of summer’s bloody delight.

‘Parooom. Parooom.'

A pair of beautiful maidens stroll into the arena, their angelic presence captivating as they glide on the bloodstained floor. Their fine white silks flutter in the soft breeze. The captivated crowd rises and erupts into frantic applause. The maids wave to the mob, their proud smiles joyful. Each maid plucks a white rose from the bloody floor and tucks it into a lock of golden hair. They embrace before striding to opposite ends of the arena, one to the north and one to the south. They climb stone stairs onto raised platforms as high as three men. The arena floor falls away beneath them.

Trumpets blare a deafening call as the ceaseless pounding of war drums echoes through the colosseum, a primal heartbeat, the pulse of the mob.

The thudding of metal reverberates as two legions of knights emerge from opposite archways. Clad in blue and yellow cloaks, they march in contingent columns of eight. The shining ranks of silver knights bask in the sharp midday light, their polished full-plate armor glistening. Their great helms, plumed with blue feathers for one legion and yellow for the other, their cloaks flutter behind them in the wind. The blue cloaks carry the sigil of the Thielian Eagle conquering the world. The yellow cloaks have the sigil of The Great Eye of The One within a flowering rose.

“I wager on my blue cloaks. What say you?” King Adal reclines onto his elbows, gulping down mouthfuls of fruity red wine, and glances at Eiden, reclined on his right. 

King Eiden gives a hearty belly laugh. “What are the stakes this time?”

“No gold or favors. If I win, you will bring your future queen, this Lady Nuria, to the trinity ball.” Adal places a hand on Eiden’s shoulder.

King Eiden smirks on his aged face. “If I win?” He places a fatherly hand on Adal’s leg. 

“You can keep your future queen hidden for a while longer,” King Adal responds with a quick-witted titter.

King Eiden barks a hearty laugh, “done.” 

The battalions advance into the colosseum, with knights wielding polished broadswords and kite shields leading the lines. Knights with pikes and door shields follow in the formation. At the rear, knights with morning star maces, double battle axes, or war hammers, and rounded shields complete the formation.

“Honored Knights of Thiel,” King Adal’s stands, as his voice struggles to be heard amidst the commotion, “there is nothing more precious than a Thielian rose. I charge you to protect and retrieve that which is most precious.” 

The trumpets bellow, and the crowd descends into unbridled madness. Roses rain down from the mob, baptizing the legions in white rose petals.

The yellow cloaks march to the north, and the blue cloaks march to the south. Above them, on the raised platforms, the precious maids of Thiel, the roses, stand above the impending chaos, safe from harm’s reach.

Adal slumps onto his soft-cushioned lounger and grasps his goblet of wine. The two kings sit forward, perched shoulder to shoulder, their eyes fixed on the approaching clash.

The battalions prepare for attack, blood-stained dirt and sand whip at their advancing feet. Their formations reach striking distances, and a game of human chess ensues as the battalions shift into new battle positions. Maces drift to the flanks, and the pike’s advance. The broadsword knights break free, making way for the knights wielding battleaxes, maces, or war hammers.

Violent metal clashes in furious blows of unrestrained savagery. Maces whistle through the air, gleaming swords and shields colliding. It’s chaos, a poetic butchery unfolding in the melee, blow after blow, parry after parry, in a metallic symphony of clashing metals.

The crowd’s blood-thirsty roar reverberates through the heavens.

A towering, yellow-cloaked pikeman charges, wielding his long, halberd axe pike toward a blue-cloaked knight with a broadsword.

The blue cloak sidesteps the charge to his left, kite shield raised, as the sharp blade of the pike screeches off his shield. He uses the momentum to spin around the attacking pikeman, his broadsword sweeping down to slash across his back.

The yellow-cloaked pikeman crumples to his knees and raises his halberd pike above his head, blocking the head-slicing blow and catching the blue cloak’s broadsword between the pike’s head and hook.

With a spinning twist, the blue knight’s broadsword flies up into the air before it clatters down to the gritty, blood-stained floor.

He rushes forward, ramming the blue knight off his feet and driving him into the terrace walls. He sweeps the blue knight’s legs away with a whooshing high-to-low sweep of his pike.

The blue cloak crashes onto the sand, smashing down on his back, his great helm flying off and clattering onto the ground.

The gleaming axe blade of the halberd pike descends, poised to split his head in two, but halts within a hair’s width of death. The blue knight yields, bowing out of the melee.

The yellow-cloaked pikeman, victorious, turns to his next foe and a swirling morning-star mace crashes into his breastplate with an almighty crunch. He lifts off his feet, crashing to the ground, his pike clattering beside him. The attacking mace pendulums down, but the yellow pikeman rolls to his left, evading the chained mace that gouges a crater into the gravel floor, sending shards of stone and dust flying into the air.

The blue-cloaked knight spins his morning-star mace above his head, building furious whirling momentum. In an almighty pendulum motion, the blow whistles down in a blur of violent silver. The pikeman raises his round shield with both arms, but the blow explodes through his guard, shattering wood and bones. He raises his visor, spluttering a plea for mercy. His bloody clash is done. Flocks of raven’s circle above him, waiting to dive.

The triumphant blue knight whirls his mace overhead as he prepares to confront a yellow-cloaked knight wielding a double-edged broadsword. At the last moment, the yellow-cloaked knight ducks under the whirling mace and steps inside the blue-cloak's guard. With a powerful low right swing, the yellow-cloaked knight slices his broadsword upwards, causing the flat edge to grate against the breastplate until the tip of the blade rests at the gap in his gorget, nicking his neck.

The blue knight yields, dropping his spiked mace to the floor and falling to one knee, bowing out of the melee.

The crowd rises, punching the air; their screams reach fever pitch as the arena floor becomes slick with crimson, and with each fallen knight, their thirst for blood and violence only intensifies as wooden poles and stone collide.

Throughout the arena, men kneel while others lay in pools of gushing blood. Tiny droplets of blood dance in the breeze, mingling with swirling dust and sand. Bright midday light pierces through the colosseum’s grand arches, casting a dance of shifting sunlight and shadows over the blood-soaked sands.

Four knights remain standing in the melee; two yellow-cloaked knights and two blue knights. Undeterred, the yellow knight strides back into the fray. As he walks, the flat of a great battle axe smashes into his back, causing him to hit the earth headfirst. His visor screeches open, and he swallows a mouthful of bloody grime. He rolls to his left, gritty sand clinging to his sweat-drenched skin beneath his armor. He raises his great kite shield above his head.

The blue knight’s battle axe falls again, smashing against his raised kite shield.

The yellow knight clambers back to his feet. His broadsword sweeps down from a high left guard, the tip catching the blue cloak’s breastplate and creating sparks with a grating screech.

The blue cloak raises the heavy double battle axe above his head for a killing blow but finds himself caught off guard as the yellow knight steps inside his exposed attack. The yellow knight pummels the blue cloak’s great helm with the pommel of his broadsword. A flurry of ferocious blows ensues until blood and teeth erupt from the mangled helm visor. The blue knight crumples, lying beside his great axe in a pile of unconscious, bloody metal.

The crowd jumps up, consumed by bloodlust, their voices hoarse from screaming.

Silver bodies scatter the arena, and only three knights remain. The lone, blue-cloaked knight wields an enormous bludgeon. His colossal mor-macil drags behind him, its tip a mighty brick of bone-shattering spiked steel.

The yellow knights flank him, circling and kicking up dust, their broadswords raised in a middle guard, their kite shields held high on their left arms. One yellow knight positions himself behind the blue cloak, drawing his attention. The second knight charges forward, meeting the blue knight head-on, sprinting, and using his kite shield to ram into the blue cloak.

In a critical moment, just before impact, the blue cloak steps to the left and spins. His brutal bludgeon whirls around, arching behind the charging attack. The spikes of the mighty bludgeon collide into the back of the yellow knight, propelling his body high into the air. The yellow knight lands several feet away, sliding across the broken stone floor, enveloped in a cloud of crimson sand. He scrambles to his feet, but before he can react, the foot of the blue cloak stomps down on his head, plunging him into darkness.

The blue cloak spins his barbaric bludgeon in search of his last opponent. His bludgeon slices through the air in a mighty overhead arch, anticipating a rear attack, but the swing finds nothing but air.

The remaining yellow knight shadows the movements of the blue cloak, spinning away from the blow and using his own momentum to step behind him. In a lightning-quick attack, the pommel of the yellow knight’s broadsword pounds down with thunderous blows on the back of the blue cloak's helm.

The crowd inhales as one. Coins won and lost jingle and jangle in swapping purses. The arena falls into silence as the audience holds its breath, hanging on the brink of anticipation. The fight is done. Wood collides with stone as thirty thousand Thielian’s demand the death blow.

The blue knight falls to his knees, the blows continuing to rain down upon him. He raises his visor and spits out a mouthful of blood. He yields, crumpling face-first into the dirt and tasting the bitter tang of his own blood.

Trumpets sound, and the crowd goes wild, drunk on violence, mesmerized by the bloodshed.

The yellow-cloaked knight removes his helm, his wavy golden locks cascading down to his shoulders. He shakes his hair free, revealing a broad, jovial smile. His white teeth gleam as he stares, serene, up at the screaming mob. Arms outstretched, a shining broadsword raised, his kite shield clatters to the ground. All eyes fix upon Jon, the captain of Lord Varesh’s household guard.

The two kings leap to their feet, spilling wine everywhere. “Damn that bloody mage,” mutters King Adal, vexed. “Eleven straight games without a single victory.” He smiles through grinding teeth. “Come now, brother.” King Adal grabs King Eiden of Galt by the shoulder. “Bring your future queen to the trinity ball.”

The King of Galt sighs, his old gray brows raised. The two men lock in companionship, bound as kings in an unbreakable bond. King Adal's hand rests heavy on Eiden's shoulder, years of shared history and mutual respect with brotherly affection in their eyes. “Aye. Grant me peace. I’ll bring Nuria to the trinity ball.” 

Shoulder to shoulder, the two kings stand together, embracing, as the crowd's cheers wash over them, a united front forged in games of diplomacy.

Captain Jon, his arms raised toward the sky, basks in the crowd’s worship. The sunbathes him in golden honey light, and, head held high, Jon ascends the stairs to the stone platform to retrieve the maiden. His steel gauntlet brushes her golden locks away from her delicate face as he plucks the white rose from her hair. Falling to one knee, he presents the rose back to the maiden. She collapses into his arms, and he carries her down to the arena floor. White roses shower down from the crowd. Hand in hand, they stroll amidst a bed of blood-soaked roses.

A soothing summer tide washes over the Great City of Thiel. All is peaceful; all is well.