Thump, thump, thump. The loud stamp of boots slamming on ceramite echoed through the underground network below the coliseum. Millions of booted feet stomped in the grandstands as the crowds roared and cheered, booed and jeered at the gladiators in the centre of the sand covered arena. The mobile hovering cameras zoomed around the fighters as they in turn circled each other; one was a heavily scarred un-armoured astartes, his physique so huge as to be inhuman, the other a large greenskin, both wore only leggings covering to just below their knees, tattered and torn from hard wear, blood leaked in crimson drabs from numerous cuts on their bodies. The Astartes carried a brutal serrated combat knife in one hand and a combat shield strapped to his other, the Orc carried a pair of axe shaped choppas.
With a guttural roar the orc lashed left and right trying to cut the annoying astartes to shreds, they’d been battling for over twenty minutes and the crowd was starting to turn on their champion. Soon the entire mass of fans would be cheering on this pathetic over grown humie. The marine continued his agile dance around the brutal green humanoid avoiding devastating blows that would tear right through him if they landed, and with a lightning-like blow the fight was done. The marine’s hand shot out, jamming his knife up to the hilt in the greenskin’s chest and slamming the full force of his body behind the shield and directly into the orc’s face. Kraga the Mighty, Champion of Taroque IV’s renowned arena fell unconscious to the arena floor. Within minutes medical crews had arrived to carry the wounded orc away for treatment and media crews had arrived to congratulate the new champion, Captain Tarik Vaughn.
Deep in the bowels of the arena three new fighters, their hands still cuffed were seated in a dank cell, each seated against a separate wall on a bench that was no more than a ceramite extension of the wall. One was an orc, though not as large as Kraga he held all the savage brutality of his kind and may one day reach such epic proportions as the former champion. The next was a human man of impressive physique, he was not of the astartes like Tarik but all the same he dwarfed all lesser men. The final cell occupant was the only female, a member of the Dark Eldar, a Wych, the only one of the three to be wearing a shirt, torn and worn as it was. Before them, in the centre of the room stood a human man, well into his fifties he nonetheless held a bearing of strength, the kind only seen in those who have delivered a life time of hard work and bore the scars to prove it. He had aged gracefully, his white hair trimmed short and his full beard flowing down his chest.
“Well you’ve seen it and now you’ll be part of it, you each represent a large investment on my part and I would see it returned, you will each fight tonight before the crowd, you will learn what it is like, not to kill for you already know this, but what it is like to be cheered for doing it. Beat your opponent and the crowd will love you for it, and perhaps in time, you will come to love them for it. Fight like champions and champions you will become, and earn your freedom. I’m sure it came as a shock that you’d become no more than slaves upon signing that form but here you are. I don’t necessarily agree with it but that doesn’t mean I’ll coddle you, tonight all fights are Ad gladiatum essentially your opponents are criminals sentenced to death, end their lives and you will be proud fighters of the house of Unor, fail and your blood will wet the sands.” The speech sent chills up the spines of the guards, the old man raised a hand and gave a loud click with his thumb and middle finger soon a group of people entered and began to undo the manacles and present each fighter with their weapons of choice. “Now any questions before I send you to your destiny?” Old man Unor asked.