Thread: Ragnarok

Regilus Gaius Voxus stands as the most powerful gladiator of his day. Crowds scream when he swings steel, roar when he draws blood. Undefeated, he has lived longer than any gladiator is expected to survive. But this is no mere stroke of luck. His blood carries noble Nordic blood, descended from the gods of Northern mythology. Forsaken, cursed, and a fallen half god despised by his own father, he was abandoned, alone, shacked to fulfill a life without destiny. Regilus spent his days fighting for a life he found becoming less valuable by every moon that passed. He lived only to see another day. A Roman of noble birth saw strength and compassion where others saw death. She braved gladiator pits and dungeon cells to visit him nearly every night. The daughter of Idith, queen of Rome, wife of the Emperor Cassius, loved Regilus, gladiator or not. And most likely, the consequence of the discovery of their relationship would have him killed and the daughter disgraced. But she was not the only one who watched him. His father Njord, saw potential. Power. Ambition. Reasoning. Danger that threatened his throne. He wanted no man but him on the throne of the gods, for his own ambition was rivaled by none. But Zeus saw a child. Neglected, lost, furious. But a soul that wanted nothing more than redemption. To prove he was worthy of a role in this world. He would get his chance soon. The Greek gods paid no homage to the Nordics, and rightfully so. Zeus led the greatest Pantheon of gods the heavens had ever seen. Yet, Njord and his brother Loki grew jealous of the power the God of Thunder possessed. They tricked him, fooling him into losing his great power over the heavens, and spread the dark stain of chaos across the realm of the gods. The world fled into panic, two sides pitched into a mortal battle no one could ever win. Regilus wielded the power of neutrality. Neither good nor evil took his heart. Only a chaotic sense of what was right or wrong made him immune to the destruction that corrupted the souls of so many. And, perhaps, only he can pass through the fires of the Underworld unscarred to return the former peace the world demands. ------------------------------------------ Lurid sweat shone brightly on his muscled figure in the midst of the evening torches. A trickle of blood rolled, curling like a snake down the length of his arm, wrapping itself around the hilt of his sword. The humid air of the Roman summer matted his long tangle of dark, hazel hair, moisture dotting his dark, sun touched complexion. The arena was near deathly silent, as the conclusion of the month's tournament faced each other off. Regilus had little doubt that thousands of pounds of gold were riding on his defeat. The entire competition had been designed that way, much of the trials pitted against him. While other contestants had one, or even two tigers or wild animals to fight off, or simply one on one matches to deal with, everything he'd dealt with had the odds stacked almost disgustingly against him. Much to the crowd's delight or dismay, he overcame each one of them. His swordplay was a dance, theirs, was brute brawling. A single swing of the enemy gave Regilus time to deliver three, and he had not met a match of his own talent yet. But the final opponent that had made it past until now was a different story. A disgraced captain of the Roman army, defeating Regilus would have the captain back in his ranks. The captain was skilled, grizzled, and he could see the desperate glint in his eye that yearned to thrust his blade between Regilus' throat. Unfortunately, they had given each blow for blow, and stared at each other in a stalemate, each eyeing the wounds they had scored on each other's body. Suddenly, the Roman leapt forward, hoping to catch Regilus off guard. The final lunge was reckless. He had relied on Regilus being worn out, but he was ready, more or less still sober but eager for the fight. The captain thrust his sword at his chest, nicking him in the rib, but unable to score a killing blow. Regilus simply twisted around the protruding arm, and with a vicious hack, smited the poor captain's arm in two. The crowd exploded. A near half hour long of fighting to be ended so quickly, the crowd's pent up cries rang around him. The captain had cringed down, screaming, cradling his now crippled limb. Regilus had this peculiar policy of sparing all his opponents, whether the king wanted him to do so or not. In fact, he'd stopped looking for the thumbs up or down a long time ago. Not a number of whip lashes had changed it, either. The servants nervously carted the captain away, to the infirmary. The young worker eyed the arm nervously at the ground, and after a second of pondering, grabbed the bloodied arm and trotted off after the rest to the infirmary. Regilus himself was led away afterwards. The usual brawny guards tied his wrists as tightly as they could, eyeing his cool face warily. There had once been a guard who had spat at Regilus, after losing a bet on his defeat. Regilus had broken his neck in seconds, dark, steel colored eyes as stoic as ever.