Thraex

Thraex leaned against the ancient stone, the sound of banging drums leaking through from the amphitheater. He heard the crowd erupt with screams and could tell without looking that a gaggle of murderers had been loosed. Half starved and armed with sharp sticks they were sizing each other up, testing the bonds of the half-witted arrangements they had invariably made in prison to cover each others backs.

"Jonas, don't pick at your tattoo, it'll come off."

Jonas was a big man, bald, and fairly thick. He was about to say that the bright red paint across his chest was itching him, and thought better of it. The remaining three lads leaned against their shields, looking rather more tense than a professional gladiator should.

"Just follow my lead, boys. Remember, we're professionals. Don't worry about the fighting, just give 'em a good show. Wounds will heal, but people will remember a good show for years."

This balmy morning, Thraex was playing the part of the Platinum Dragon, bringing order to the world. He was leading a celestial army to the demon-infested continents of the earth to drive them back, allowing all the creatures to thrive in safety. He had to admit that they looked the part.

Of course, the murderers out there hadn't gotten a copy of the program. They were likely half-killed by now, and by the time they even got on the scene they would be a bloody mess. But as an artist, you learned to work with what you had. Split 'em apart, intimidate them into a quiverring mass, knock 'em down, let the crowd have their say, and from there it was purely a matter of making as big a mess as possible.

This time was slightly different, though. A strange figure in a cloak had given him a bag of gold this morning. Now Thraex was a modestly well known figure among the local gladiatorial fighting circuit. In a year he'd probably be at the capitol. Gifts were not unheard of, but this was the day of an execution. And not just any execution.

Someone connected was in the fray today.

Thraex knew how this worked. There would be a signal. He would hit with the blunt side of his sword and tossed aside. The body gets carried to the pits, and the dead rise up and walk with a nasty headache but alive. He'd seen it done. He'd never done it before.

That was the problem. Most of the people in this job were fighters. But Thraex? Thraex was an actor. And for the earth to be cleansed, every demon must die.

The gates clanked open, and Thraex held his arms sideways to prevent his holy carriage from running into the melee in progress. There was a roll of drums, and the blaring of trumpets. Without shielding his eyes from the brilliant sun, they marched in perfect form. They followed his lead. And they stood, watching the criminal scum of the city fight and kill each other for a full minute before they noticed the presence of armed and armored professionals. Finally, they turned, and Thraex pointed his scimitar and blew a jet of flame into the air. His men charged forward. The crowd went wild.

The environment was perfect. The fight previous had been a bloody mess, packing the sand beneath their feet. They had loosed this divine retribution early enough, so it was 5 to 15. It would be suitably impressive in victory. And a few of the remaining had clearly recieved some kind of weapons training - or at least were big enough to compensate by sheer bloody-mindedness. The hot sun had taken its toll on the unprotected scum, who had been shaved and stripped of all but a cloth and gave them a shambling, malnourished appearance.

Out of the corner of his eye, a scoundrel was attempting to flank him unnoticed. A glint of metal shone in his left hand just before he pounded the earth in a charge of desperation. Thraex pretended to be observing the battle at a distance like a good general, while the crowd whooped and yelled. Suddenly he turned, staring straight into the eyes of his assailant, and bared his fangs as if to glass the sand beneath them both.

In truth, his throat ached from the burst of smokey flame from a moment ago, and he'd likely have torn something had he tried to do it again. But the young man with a guilty verdict to go with his conscience didn't know that. His step faltered, and he dropped his blade. Slipping as he turned to run, he fell in the offal and found himself unable to get up with the armored boot which had found its way on his back. He raised his arms to the crowd. How they hollared for that red, red blood. Demanding he stop wasting his time with such a tasteless morsel when he could be going for such a meal. Kill him. Kill him faster.

But somewhere in that crowd, there was a widow or a rape victim. And as he lifted the young man by his hair and dragged his lucky dagger from his windpipe down to his belly and tossed him aside.