Posts Tagged ‘Arena’

Matador by Darksilvania

Matador by Darksilvania

Look at all these people, cheering and waving for little old me. What an amazing day. I can’t wait to tell my kids.
Ouch. That fucking hurt. What did you poke me for? Right. I’ll fucking show you. Now you’re in the shit big time. You’re not getting away with this.
Stop jumping around, you pussy. Quit waving that red thing. It’s annoying. Stay still and I’ll fucking have you.
Ouch, stop poking me!
So tired. So dizzy. Can’t see anything. Is that blood in my eyes? Knees buckling.
Are you kidding? A sword?!
This is bullshit!

Advertisements

Hell bull by Agusia1986 on DeviantArt.com

The matador shielded himself with the red cape. Fancy footwork wasn’t going to win against this bull. Horns ablaze the bull huffed, grinding his front hooves against the dirt. It charged head down, and set fire to the fabric. The flame singed the matador’s skin. Sizzles and screams echoed against the arena walls as the smell of burning flesh filled the air. When the opponent was nothing but bones the bull raised the skeleton onto his horns to the applause of the audience and walked back to the gates he came from, the gates of Hell.

Fighting Bull by dumont on DeviantArt.com

Antonio struggled to breathe.  

His guts were spilling out but he did not panic. He had always fought with honor and respect for tradition. He would die as many of the bulls had, with grace.

A young, spindly man knelt beside him. “So what do you think?”

“He was the greatest I have ever faced. I stabbed him with many swords. I danced with him for an entire day. He never tired.”

“Awesome! It’s all robot bulls from here on out. Thanks for beta testing. Here’s an Amazon gift card for your trouble.”

Antonio wished he had Prime, but alas.

Net Fighter F by butter frog on DeviantArt.com

The Angler bellows “Fish on!” brandishing his harpoon. That legendary barb spilled Kraken blood. Now it seeks a human catch. Arms flex like sea serpents flinging briny nets across this ocean of death. Entrapped, his victims flail like mullet. He tirelessly hauls them in. One giant warrior evades his toss and charges like an angry whale. The Angler ducks his thrashing flukes. His harpoon launches, pegs the beast, who tosses in a sea of blood. Around his feet a knotted hempen rope. Tossed over a beam, he hauls up his catch, guts him, poses. A great picture for the tourists.

Colosseum by Shin-Wolf on DeviantArt.com

Rose left her husband snoring deeply in the covers and palmed her children’s bedroom door before slipping out to meet the pre-dawn glow. No one bothered her as she made her way, her face hidden in her hood. When she reached the colosseum the crowds were buzzing with blood lust. She settled her skirts on the dusty bench, then saw her paramour emerge, saw his sword thrown, his pen drawn, the beasts defeated still. She left to find him, fighting through hands tearing her clothes, scratching her skin. She tripped and shut her eyes against a sea of feet trampling.

Spider Lady Concept by grimzzi on DeviantArt.com

Nimble Arachne threads her needles with razor wire. She crouches spiderlike, scrutinizing her clumsy prey’s approach—scurrying, fluttering, beetling in heavy armor—all victims enmesh. She pounces, lithe limbs gripping, jabbing needles through soft skin, hard muscle, legs, arms, neck, cheek. They hack, slash, scratch uselessly. Her keen filament entwines her catch, stymies their attacks. Struggle forces thread deeper into flesh, tightening around tendon, joint, bone. When her quarry is ensnared, helpless, screaming for mercy, she moves in, delicately bending the neck and with teeth filed to points, snaps a perfect circle from the jugular. Another fly for dinner. Delicious.

Mightier Than the Sword by GH-MoNGo on DeviantArt.com

Val throws down his sword, crosses his arms, faces the volcanic crowd.

“I will not fight!”

The gate opens.

Val closes his eyes, his muscles twitching. The Beast roars, lumbers toward Val, dust billowing behind. The beast leaps, Val side-steps, rolls, stands again, a pen held high.

“I am a poet!”

The Beast charges. Val curses, leaps, embeds his pen in the beast’s eye. The beast wails. Val sheds a tear, walks to his sword, is swallowed under the beast’s descending body. The beast deflates. Val emerges, bathed in blood. The ground shakes with the crowd’s eruption.

Another gate opens.

Champion of the Chariot by Bendragonx on DeviantArt.com

Bucephalus and Incitatus pull the chariot around the arena’s curve toward Quintus’s last opponent, a German gripping a throwing axe. Quintus hears the team’s hooves, their frothy snorts, his own heartbeat. He raises his javelin.

The warriors release their weapons simultaneously. Quintus’s javelin pierces the German’s neck.

The axe swings low, severing Incitatus’s foreleg. Incitatus screams and pitches right, dragging Bucephalus down. Jackknifing, the chariot flips.

Quintus flies and lands on his back, spine snapping like a dry branch.

Moments later, Quintus’s lanista kneels by him. “You won.”

Quintus’s body is broken, but his eyes widen. He whispers, “I’m free.”

Aztec by essenmitsosse on DeviantArt.com

Nick chugs jungle-juice while frat boys chant his name.

Nick blacks out. He wakes to a sight for damned eyes, bodies strewn across the floor of the rave room in twisted heaps.

“This is the arena!” cries a chieftain adorned in a necklace of shriveled penises. “You dare to face me next?”

Nick smirks. “It’s a good day to kill.”

The chieftain roars, charging at Nick.

Nick side-steps the chieftain, tripping him.

The chieftain spins with the momentum, grabs, and choke-slams Nick, cracking his skull.

Nick jolts awake, rave music playing.

Frat boy says, “Someone spiked your jungle juice, buddy.”

Sword of blood seeking by CGlas

Decimus, neck tensed, slashes downward.

Time slows as the gladius carves Alaric’s chest, hewing flesh and bone. Alaric witnesses the red fountain, his heart pumping gouts of life. As a youth, he’d slashed calves necks, bathed in their blood. Now, he kneels in gravel, soaking Decimus. The crowd’s roar becomes droning. Steel clashing becomes tinny, distant.

Hand on knee, dripping blood, Decimus raises the sword to Alaric’s neck, nods to him. “You fought well, Barbarian.”

Alaric’s lancea drops. He raises his dripping head. “As did you.” His teeth grit. “Finish it!”

Decimus thrusts. Alaric drops, blood and memories bathing sand.