11-01-2018, 06:07 AM
[align=center][div style="width:450px; font-family: times; font-size:10.5pt; text-align:justify"]Mistakes had been made, by him, by those who had underestimated his abilities. Today was an example of what happened when you didn't watch your back. Those in power often become complacent, and it was that feeling of safety which he had used against them. Terminus, it was a fitting gladiatorial name. He was the last thing many had seen before crossing over to the afterlife, now including the man who had bought him, and had him trained as a gladiator. But Terminus was no longer a name he wished to give fuel to. It had never been his name, merely what the Romans decided to call him.
The muscular man swallowed, Adams apple bobbing up and down in quick succession. He and a small clutch of others, the only surviving, had embraced the cover of darkness to put some distance between themselves and the Romans. Right now they were running for their lives, but that did not mean they should do it stupidly. Each risk had to be weighed and counter-weighed, calculated to indicate if it was truly worth it.
As impetuous as the man was, training as a gladiator had taught him more than one little trick. And one of those, was patience. His brows furrowed, and he stood up from his crouched seated position. It was unwise to have a fire, and so they were forced to travel by the dim light of the moon, a few stars whispering of the direction they should follow. If all went well, they would not be discovered, but that hinged on a multitude of ifs.
His fingers moved to the fresh scars adorning his chest, much like a necklace on a wealthy woman. The wounds caught the eye of any observer, questioning the cause of so many injuries. The man took a shaky breath in, and exhaled long and slow. There was so much that could go wrong, so many things that could stop them in their tracks... so many ways that this could fail. And yet, he would rather die trying than never try at all.
Perhaps he was a fool, perhaps they were all fools. However, the alternative did not seem any better. As lacking in religious beliefs as he was, he sent up a silent prayer to the gods, any gods that would answer... and see those he was with safely away from the cruelty of those who would seek to oppress them. The group had been walking since night set in the day prior, and it was plain to see that most were exhausted, though, who could blame them.
He was not calling the shots, he was uncertain as to who was calling the shots, making decisions, an idle group of fugitives with no leader seemed dangerous to themselves more than any who might come across them, yet, he had no intentions or will to command to others what they should do. But something needed done, "We should take a rest, set up camp in the thick woods to the east, harder to be discovered, and easily fortified..." He paused, all eyes on him.
It was not something he was accustomed to. For the first year of his time among his fellow gladiators, he had scarce spoken three words together, and now he was speaking in full sentences, albeit trailing off at the end. No, he was not a good orator. "And organize a hunting party before the cloak of darkness abandons us fully." He finished, his eyes glancing towards one of the only true friends he knew.
There were about a dozen or so of them, not a huge group, but not a group hidden as easily as one or two persons. The orchestrate of escape and sword turning on those who had trained them was dead now, passing to the next life from injuries sustained in the fight for freedom. His valiance and bravery never to be forgotten. But that left a power vacuum, one that Arnbjorg was less than eager to take up, perhaps another would fill the role more willingly.
The muscular man swallowed, Adams apple bobbing up and down in quick succession. He and a small clutch of others, the only surviving, had embraced the cover of darkness to put some distance between themselves and the Romans. Right now they were running for their lives, but that did not mean they should do it stupidly. Each risk had to be weighed and counter-weighed, calculated to indicate if it was truly worth it.
As impetuous as the man was, training as a gladiator had taught him more than one little trick. And one of those, was patience. His brows furrowed, and he stood up from his crouched seated position. It was unwise to have a fire, and so they were forced to travel by the dim light of the moon, a few stars whispering of the direction they should follow. If all went well, they would not be discovered, but that hinged on a multitude of ifs.
His fingers moved to the fresh scars adorning his chest, much like a necklace on a wealthy woman. The wounds caught the eye of any observer, questioning the cause of so many injuries. The man took a shaky breath in, and exhaled long and slow. There was so much that could go wrong, so many things that could stop them in their tracks... so many ways that this could fail. And yet, he would rather die trying than never try at all.
Perhaps he was a fool, perhaps they were all fools. However, the alternative did not seem any better. As lacking in religious beliefs as he was, he sent up a silent prayer to the gods, any gods that would answer... and see those he was with safely away from the cruelty of those who would seek to oppress them. The group had been walking since night set in the day prior, and it was plain to see that most were exhausted, though, who could blame them.
He was not calling the shots, he was uncertain as to who was calling the shots, making decisions, an idle group of fugitives with no leader seemed dangerous to themselves more than any who might come across them, yet, he had no intentions or will to command to others what they should do. But something needed done, "We should take a rest, set up camp in the thick woods to the east, harder to be discovered, and easily fortified..." He paused, all eyes on him.
It was not something he was accustomed to. For the first year of his time among his fellow gladiators, he had scarce spoken three words together, and now he was speaking in full sentences, albeit trailing off at the end. No, he was not a good orator. "And organize a hunting party before the cloak of darkness abandons us fully." He finished, his eyes glancing towards one of the only true friends he knew.
There were about a dozen or so of them, not a huge group, but not a group hidden as easily as one or two persons. The orchestrate of escape and sword turning on those who had trained them was dead now, passing to the next life from injuries sustained in the fight for freedom. His valiance and bravery never to be forgotten. But that left a power vacuum, one that Arnbjorg was less than eager to take up, perhaps another would fill the role more willingly.
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