THE CREATIVE
CABINET.
GENERAL SCARLETT;
“I’d get nothing from starting a fight.” Another sigh. “If I wanted to catch you off guard, I’d stab you as you sleep.”
Scarlett is a name feared by all; a monster made flesh, the thing of nightmares. Her name was whispered in silence and felt like a scream -- but how did we get here? Why is she so revered? So feared?
This is that story. This is that origin story. This is that beginning. This is the story of War.
PROLOGUE AVAILIBLE NOW:
What's the Plan?
The plan for this book is to have a series surrounding the world of Zayver: where the story takes place - each story spanning to the modern day on Earth.
Other Story Names:
Theatre of Pandemonium
- Follows the Goddess of Chaos as she restores herself.
Court of Justice
- Follows the God of Justice as he brings order to Zayver.
Pantheon of Gods
- Follows the God's Champions on both Earth and Zayver.
PROLOGUE: (First Draft)
I
‘Muscari, City of Tyrants.’
Blood. Sand. Broken. Blade.
Citrus. Warmth. Grass. Sand.
Blood, Warmth. Broken sand.
The Gladiator pressed its fists to the sand and breathed quietly; its heartbeat pounding in its ears as it spat up some blood on the sandy floor of the ring. The other Gladiator scrambled back upon realizing their opponent was, in fact, still alive.
The cheers from the crowds grew louder as The Gladiator got up, grabbing their sword and dragging it towards them slowly as they rose to their feet. The grains of sand spilled over its fingers gently as it straightened up - blood stained teeth bared.
Nothing mattered but victory.
Nothing mattered but winning.
The Gladiator didn’t wait for their opponent to rise, instead, it lunged and brought its blade down in a sweeping, gleaming silver ark. The blade was heavy, The Gladiator was strong; their opponent was quick.
The opposition rolled to the side just in time to avoid the impending death of the sword, instead they kept rolling before getting up and stumbling back: dizzy. Once they caught their bearings, the rival bared their teeth right back, lip split and blood dripping down their chin onto their broken and bent chainmail.
The Gladiator spat out a mouthful of its own blood and lunged once more, forgoing the blade in exchange of their fists. It made the fight more entertaining for the crowds to see two gladiators go at each other with their fists and fangs.
A fist struck a face, feet scuffled in the sand, and two bodies collided: bringing a hail of kicks, hits and brutal beatings with their clenched fists.
The Gladiator was not cowled and lashed back out at its foe, skin split across its knuckles as it threw punch after punch: the pain blurring with its adrenaline, falling away to leave nothing but a mean desire to survive, shadowed only by the need to win.
Whether it was due to the first punch, or the third, the rival was knocked down and went sprawling in the sand, clawing at the grains to get away; only the sand shifted and the rival couldn’t get a good grip. They crawled instead, head burning and blood dripping in their eyes. They thought they could get away, the gate was inches away: except then, The Gladiator descended, foot on either side of the rival's ribs, fists held high above its head: the sun glinting off the blood that lingered on its sunburnt skin.
“Wait-” The rival pleaded, staring up at The Gladiator with wide, blue eyes that reflected the sun: brilliant and afraid. “-please no-”
The Gladiator brought its fists down unceremoniously, and the crowds cheered as there was a loud, sickening crunch.
The rival fell still, skull caved in and their face unrecognizable. Their blood slowly stained the golden grains redder than they already were, and The Gladiator knew it would all be wiped away tomorrow: replaced with more sand like nothing ever happened.
Quietly, The Gladiator stumbled back, its chest dripping in crimson: their knuckles red, ripped, and split. It’s head pounded with adrenaline, in tune with its racing heart. All noise fell away except the sound of its own ragged breathing: out of sync and quick - barely drawing in enough air to justify it being breathing at all.
After a moment, rough hands grabbed The Gladiator, and hauled them through the gate: into the dark, into the cold yet still somehow humid air. The Gladiator went limp, but refused to take its eyes off its kill - the broken, bleeding body that was already being tended to by the guards: like it was still alive.
It wasn’t, but the crowds didn’t know that.
Something akin to guilt tugged at The Gladiator’s chest as it was manhandled through the secluded part of the arena, away from the prying eyes of the public. It tried to figure out why it felt guilty: they never had before. This was new.
Was it because its opponent begged for their life? Was it the way their eyes looked like the sky? Was it the way they were so afraid to die? Was it how they saw something in the Gladiator that made them afraid?
The Gladiator didn’t know. But it hated this feeling, and it wanted the feeling to go away.
Everything was a blur as The Gladiator was tossed against a stone wall and water was thrown over it: rough hands scrubbing the blood away.
The water dripped over their split knuckles, and it fell away with a red sheen: vanishing down the gutters that lined the floor in front of this wall. The Gladiator was distantly aware not all the blood had gone down the drain: drops had landed on the wall and in the grout between the stones.
It will be there tomorrow, and the day after that too. Just like the guilt, just like the sand, just like the grout.