Panatheon: Origins-Belsephalus

Hello and welcome to Is that a six or a nine? And now with the DND podcast made by idiots. My name is Matt Court and I'm here my own Everybody's gone. Maria and Carla gone for a nice summer holiday. I assume Ashton went with them. Who knows, but I didn't want to leave you without anything this week. Maybe I'll sort something out for next week. I'm not sure, but this week I have a little hell thing that I've been working on. So I've was messaging Carl, as you do with your various players, talking about bits of your players back story and so on.

And I was trying to flesh out some of the things that we've said in the podcast. And I had a lovely sunny afternoon sitting in the in the sun in the in the garden at the pub. Roof was there as well, pretending to read a book whilst playing Candy Crush on my phone. And I came up with this, obviously I'm not a professional writer or anything, it's a little rough around the edges, but I quite enjoyed it and I thought I'd share it. So yeah, I guess apologies if it's bad, but it's probably better than nothing.

I guess we'll find out. It's I've written this, but there's I'm sort of ad libbing it a little bit as I go. So fingers crossed it's not completely terrible. OK, ready, Here goes Belcephalus origins. The roaring of the crowd was already deafening and swelled to a thundering rapture as Belcephalus ducked under the lowstone arch of the tunnel and out into the blazing heat of the sun and his adoring public. They chanted his name as he crossed the dusty arena floor towards centre stage. The ground was coated in a mixture of sand and sawdust to aid the cleaning at the end of the festival.

However, nothing got the crowd so excited as the promise of violence and the muddy brown patches and streaks that stitched them together serve as a reminder of what they had seen and how much they can look forward to. The arena was as grand as it was ancient. Generations of Casmidal Lords had tried to outbuild each other, each adding new tears and stands. The outside of the building was etched with scenes of battle. The arches that held up the immense stone construction sheltered brilliantly painted statues of gods and heroes.

The sharp incline of the stands meant they almost seemed to lean in over the arena, as though the building itself were trying to observe the festivities. It felt to Belcephalus, on the ground at the centre of the attention, that the building was almost a Dome. The effect was such that the walls seemed unassailable, that he'd never escaped them. This was a cage. Bell nimbly dodged a large patch of churned brown sand without looking as he embraced the crowd, bathing in their adoration, his hands held aloft and his chin tilted up.

He'd made quite the name for himself in the arena at Casmidund in relatively little time. The people of the city appreciated the artistry of violence, and Bell Cephalus was a natural. He'd spent his childhood working in the pits, repairing weapons or armour, tending to the wounds, tending to the dead. In fact, it was helping to prepare the bodies of the fallen for their journey to Hades that had taught him how to be such an effective killer. By comparing the wounds on the dead with those of the living, he had quickly worked out which ones were lethal, disabling, sapping or superficial.

He had practised in the little free time that he had, striking the training dummies in the most lethal spots. Before long, many of the older fighters had noticed the precocious youth sparring with his dummy and started placing bets on when he would be placed in the arena. Some of the more veteran men even took an interest in the boy and spent time teaching him their own techniques. At 16 he fought his first bout, disarming his opponent and opening an artery in the groyne in barely a minute of the time.

The crowd had been confused, even angry. They'd pay to see a fight, and what they got was practically A glorified execution. That was years ago. Since that time, the bookmakers and money lenders had quickly conspired to explain the game that was Syphilis of Casmaiden was an artist. Sure, you could watch 2 has beens whack each other with a Mace for hours, and then that was always great. Sometimes it was fun to see a master at work. Occasionally some wealthy noble and merchant would visit Belsa for the cell and ask if maybe he wouldn't be willing to allow his opponent just one extra minute of life before snuffing it out for them.

That was the sport now. Not whether he would win, but how long it would take. Most bookies wouldn't even take bets on him losing, as the odds were so long it would bankrupt them. Not that it could ever happen. Belle was the best, he knew it, they all did. It was what they sang to him as he took his position in the centre of the arena. Their songs spoke of his skill and even mentioned some of his more famous opponents by name, but every verse ended the same way, with a declaration of love for the young warrior.

Bell spun on his heels, slowly taking in the crowd. He waved his hands up, encouraging even more adoration. The swell of noise poured down from the stands and swept Bell up like a wave crashing into a rock ball and forcing it's inhabitants out. He felt as though the rapturous wave might physically lift him up and out of his hell, though he knew they'd never willingly let him leave. In the middle of the arena was a stand adorned with different weapons for the fighters to choose from. Bell readily grabbed a short sword from the stand and gave it a few practise swings, much to the audience's delight.

He brought the blade up with his arm outstretched and looked along it's edge, one eye closed as he made a show of selecting his weapon. He hadn't quite finished his theatrical display when a crowd suddenly went quiet. There was normally a slight dip in volume when Belle's opponent was revealed, but rarely complete silence. Curious, somewhat unnerved, Belle turned to the opposing entrance. Exiting the tunnel, casually striding across the sand, was a boy. No, all of them. Belle had been for his first fight.

His armour was ill fitting, having been designed for grown men, but the boy seemed composed and calm as he reached Belle. He hadn't looked up from the ground yet as he strode across the stadium, but coming toe to toe with Belcephus he finally looked up with a sharp jerk of his chin. The movement had caught Belle off guard and he flinched slightly, a motion that hadn't gone unnoticed in the crowd. A low snicker crept around the stands like a rolling fog. Belle tried to head off the insidious cloud of laughter by playing to the crowd.

He flashed his teeth at the stands with a warm smile, one hand gesturing to the boy bringing himself in on the joke and reclaiming their compassion. His own skill was his best weapon, but keeping the bang mob on side always helped. The boy's eyes was sharp and green. A scar above his right eye bore A striking resemblance to a scar. Belcephalus also wore a strike from some Smith's tools for being too slow, or a cook, or a guard, or any number of grotesque individuals that dwell in the caves under the arena floor, taking out their own fear and sense of injustice on the few people in the world that couldn't defend themselves from it.

There were many children working in the pits of every arena, and they all had the same problems. Belle had no doubt that whatever scum had left that mark on this boy had already been repaid. As Belle finished posturing to the crowd, he turned to the young man and smirked. Who'd you piss off to end up fighting me? He laughed. The comments sounded warming, though the threat was easily detected. The boy's eye twitched, but he didn't respond. Instead, he turned to the weapon rack and started eyeing it's wares.

Belle's smirk died a little, but he forced it to remain, He leanting close to the boy as he grabbed the short sword from the rack and offered it to him, holding the pommel threateningly close to his face. The boy shook his head. I use real weapons, not toys. He growled as he pushed the gift away. A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd again and Bell twisted to face them, raising his arms in a dramatic shrug which only encouraged more laughing. A few jeers and boos started raining down on the boy.

Bell moved to stand over him, as if sheltering him from the abuse. The noise stopped. Bell turned to see his opponent had drawn his weapon. The great sword was almost comically large compared to the child wielding it. Wield wasn't even the right turn. Bell thought. His opponent had drawn the weapon from the rack, but seemed unable to carry it. It dangled loosely in one hand, the tip digging into the ground. Bell's expression turned to 1 of confusion. You know those are pretty hard to use for even the most skilled warriors.

He gestured to the giant blade which stood almost as towards it's user. He eyed the boy's arms. His shoulders were broad and the muscles stood out under the boy's olive skin. But he didn't. But he did not look strong enough to lift the sword. The boy shrugged. You can forfeit if you're worried about hurting me. Bell's mouth hung open in surprise, looked round at the equally stunned crowd. The cheering was giving way to a snooping murmur. They all seemed to end their own conversations, to crane over and hear a snippet of what was happening on the stage below.

Belle's concern for the crowd was waning though, as he struggled to get a read on his young opponent. He cocked his head. He smirked, giving way to a nervous sneer. You are, You know who I am, right? The boy shrugged. Does it matter? He looked down at the sword in his hand, then up at Belle. You'll either walk out of here at the end of this, or you won't. Either way, your name doesn't matter in the long run to me. He gestured aimlessly with his free hand towards the crowd. To them. Bell shot a glance at the crowd, who all seemed to be drawing in a collective breath, emptying the stadium of air completely.

Bell nodded solemnly as he turned back to the boy. He thought about making some witty retort, but gave up on the idea. The kid was scary in a brooding, psychotic kind of way, but he was still just a kid who couldn't lift his own sword. His breastplate slumped down, the straps unable to tighten to his slight frame. One of his braces had slipped down slightly, exposing the joint in his wrist. He wore no shin guards above his open toed handles. This would be quick. He returned to the weapon rack and picked up a shield.

He shoved his hand through the wrist strap, grabbed the handle and lifted it out of its holding. He jostled it on his arm and nodded in satisfaction. He watched the boy from the corner of his eye. No reaction. He started to walk away to his starting point, but stopped and without looking reached out a hand and snatched A javelin from the stand next to him. Plenty of javelins were available, but one would be enough. He completed himself. He marched over to his starting point. A thin line dragged out in the sand and sawdust concoction.

There was a splash of red across the line. Obviously the last person to stand here had fallen quicker than most. He jammed his javelin into the dirt, tipped down, stooped, grabbed a handful of sand and rubbed it into his hands. He chanced to look up at his opponent. The boy had wandered over to the starting line. A thin score in the sand showed the slightly meandering route the boy had taken. Now he weighted at his mark. He turned his sword on it's point, jabbing it into the sand and leant on it, taunting bell.

As the fighters had taken their marks, the crowd had started to boil again, bubbling of excitement and jostling with predictions over the din. A voice boomed into the stadium. Ladies and gentlemen of Tasminen, a rare event is about to play out before your very eyes. Your hero, Belcephalus the Bold, has been challenged by a newcomer. This boy has challenged one of the greats. Can he rise from the pits to overcome obscurity? Or will he fall to the lightning blade of Bell Cephalus? The crowd roared at the pronouncement of Bell's name, repeating the stagger chants.

Bell Cephalus Bell Cephalus Bell Cephalus. Bell pumped his sword arm in the air, summoning louder, more excited chants. The atmosphere crackled around the stadium, now sporadically jolting random people, causing them to jump from their seat and yell some vague, encouraging words at Bell, who wore a wide grin as he soaked it all in. The bell rang out, barely audible over the din of the crowd to alert the combatants to take their mark. Bell watched his opponent across the battlefield. The scrawny boy still stood nonchalantly, barely gripping his great sword.

He seemed to sway, caught in the swell of the cheering crowd as he washed over the dusty ground. Bell dropped to a knee and tucked his chin into his chest, keeping a deep breath. He uttered a short prayer to Aries. This boy was in over his head, but he would be allowed no quarter. With any luck he might force the boy to forfeit. The fans may seek mercy. Maybe Aries preferred bloodshed, but Bell promised to show the boy how to conduct the work of the God of War if he survived. Bell was vaguely aware of the crowd starting a countdown to announce it was preparing the order to begin, and the howling punters eagerly joined in.

5 Bell's grip titled on the sharp Lewis Javelin opening salvo knocked the boy off balance. Maybe slows charge. 4 His shoulders tensed. A swift rise would catch his enemy by surprise. He held his sword in his shield, hand at the top of the blade. Once the javelin was loose, he'd quickly arm his sword in charge. 3 The muscles in his legs coiled, preparing to strike. Bell could close the distance between them in seconds if he sprung from his mark quick enough, striking like a Viper. 2A Sharp look up.

His target hadn't moved too easy. The bell shut his eyes. He was sweating now, baking in his armour under the heat of the sun. He could feel the ground pushing up against him as he prepared to launch one. The crowd whooped at the peel of the starting bell. Bell darted forward. His first step brought him forward, giving him clearance to raise his javelin. His second step thumped him to the ground, kicking up bread and sand. His foot planted, giving him balance to aim. The kid hadn't moved. His third step carried his momentum onward.

He loosed his projectile before his foot hit the ground. The whole movement was so quick the crowd could barely follow it. They were still celebrating the commencement of the fight when the metal spike took flight. It seared through the air quicker than any of the drunkards in the stand could track. Bell continued his charge, closing on its target almost as quickly as the projectile he'd thrown. The crowd howled as the boy, having not taken a step, led to his right, narrowly dodging the javelin that most observers hadn't seen yet.

It skittered across the ground, kicking up dust behind him. Bell narrowed his eyes, picking his target. The boy thought he was clever, dodging like that, but he was off balance now, his weight thrown to the right, the great sword in his left hand moving away from him. He thrust his sword arm forward, but the boy continued his lean, dropping to the ground completely and ducking Bell's attack. Caught off guard, Bell watched the boy falling as he tore past him, then felt the kick at his ankle. Bell tumbled into the sand, leaning hard on his shoulder.

The shock was almost enough to make him drop his sword. The boy was still grounded, but spun a kick at Belle's sword hand, hoping to disarm him. Belle withdrew his hand back but caught a face full of sand, blinding him. He rolled away onto his back and over again, taking a knee and preparing to rise. The great sword clanging off his shield reverberate around the stadium with an excited oh. He'd barely reacted in time to block the blow, which, although not heavy, would have removed a limb. He was sure.

The boy had taken one swing but dropped back a few steps, almost inviting Bell to attack again. He needed no invitation. He struck out at the boy's chest, but his target was too quick, dodging to the left. Bell could sense the blow coming and spun definitely on his heels, turning on the spot to raise his shield, but the boy hadn't made the move. Bell crossed his head. The crowd jeered and yelped at the insolent display. The boy took a moment to wave apologetically to the people of the crowd, many of whom chuckled at the gesture.

Bell chopped at the waving hand, which quickly dropped to the hilt of the great sword. Bell's eyes widened as he realised his mistake. The pummelled thumped into his side. The armour took the blow, but it threatened to wind him and he staggered back. The sword swung up from a low angle, which he nimbly blocked on the realm of his shield. With the boy now had momentum, the sword wheeled around, coming from a high angle. Bell blocked with his shield again. The blade bounced off the metal boss, the momentum pulling the boy around in a full swing so quickly the bell had no time to block and had to jump back instead.

His arms flailed uselessly as he struggled to keep balance, and he missed the chance to counter. The crowd squealed with exhilaration and what Bell was sure was almost his own decapitation. The boy had regained his balance, but waited. He lost a nonchalant stance now and gripped the sword tightly in both hands. The tip still dragged in the ground though, and Bell guessed it took a lot for the youngster to swing the cumbersome lump of metal. He may have lost his own momentum, but his enemy would tyre after a short time if he carried on like that.

Bell raised his shield and turned side onto the boy, disguising his weapon. He began circling his prey, assessing the next strike. The boy turned his head to follow Bell's path but remained otherwise still. Bell found himself stopping directly behind the boy. He watched him over his shoulder. This was the perfect position. Why would he allow it? Why would the boy allow himself to be franked like this unless it was his plan? What was he thinking? What counter could? Bell shook his head. The crowd had started to jeer as he hesitated to assault his foe.

They were turning on him, Him, Bell, Sephalus. No, this wouldn't stand. He crouched low and prepared his attack. The boy's sword was still low at his side, but his white knuckles betrayed his intent. Bell nodded to himself. For sure, he knew the boy's plan. He jogged forward a few steps, geeing up the crowd whose enthusiasm swelled at the prospect of his next attack. He was only a few paces away when he launched into a Sprint. The boy's eyes widened in shock as Bell closed in. Bell swiped his sword in a high horizontal Arg.

The boy ducked the blow, tried to swing his blade, but Belle was too close. He jammed his shield down between himself and the boy, restricting his attack. The short sword rose above the rim of the shield and jab down, rasping down the boy's chest plate. The boy fell to his back, letting the blade fall from his left hand. Belle seized on the opening and struck down again, only to have the blow deflected, the boy timing his swiping on perfectly to slap the blade away. As Belle stabbed into the ground.

The boy kicked out at the top of the shield, forcing it into Belle's face. The metal rim clattered against his helmet, knocking his head back. As Bell lost balance, the boy spun round, flicking his long blade out, and as he did so he scored a mark high on Bell's shoulder. Bell staggered back a few steps, but re adopted his defensive stance. The crowd exploded. Enthralled by the display, Bell thought he could hear something he'd not heard in a long time. Bet takers opening the books. Were people betting against him?

The boy rose to his feet. He rolled his head on his shoulders, taunting his adversary. He was playing it cool, but the truth was, Belcephalus had nearly killed him just then, were it not for the fortunate placement of his armour. No matter, that was already done. What now? Bell was lightning fast, but he was arrogant. Keep blurring him in, you'd already landed a hit on him that wouldn't be allowed to stand. Belcephalus started circling, bashing the flat of his sword against the shield, the sound drawing attention of the crowd back to himself.

The boy gripped his sword again, but circled on the spot, now watching Bell more closely. Bell fainted to the left as he leapt forward. The boy had moved to meet the perceived threat, but saw the deceit too quickly and decided to keep moving. Spinning out Bell's path, the veteran warrior slashed at the air with a high swing that was nowhere near the boy, but the opening was enough and the boy ducked in, looking to strike. Belle brought his shield up above his head and hammered down at the boy, who skidded to a halt just short of the attack.

The shield slammed into the ground, but instantly swept up, aiming for the boy's chin. The boy floundered back just in time, barely keeping himself upright, and had to turn sharply to avoid the thrust of Bell's sword. The next stroke caught the boy in the chest, knocking him to the ground. The back of his head bounced off the ground with the impact and his ears rang. He scarcely had time to roll to his left to avoid the stab into the ground. He rolled back to his right, avoiding another blow, and kept rolling to avoid the next.

Having landed on his front, he pressed his hands into the ground and forced himself up. Sensing Bell closing him for another attack, he kicked his feet up and brought them in, turning his rise into a tumbling forward roll. He landed on his feet, finally able to rise, and adopted A defensive Crouch. He turned to face Bell, who was already lunging at him. He weeped around the attack and the flurry that followed. The swarm of stings that came of him allowed no time to observe his surroundings. Duck, where was his weapon?

Dodge, where can I go? The crowd hollered with every attack, the tension growing with every miss. The boy evaded yet another attack, ducking to his right, trying to put some distance between himself and Belcephalus. As he did, he caught a glint of something in the sand behind his attacker. The javelin. He jogged back a few steps after the next attack, keeping his eyes on the javelin. Bell was smirked at his praise, desperation to create distance between them and move forward less urgently than before.

The boy started jogging lightly on the spot, watching Bell's steps, timing his escape now. Bell was mid stride when the boy suddenly lurched toward him. Surprised, Bell managed a swat of his sword, but it was high and the boy dropped to his knees, skidding in the sand under Bell's arm. But his sword lipped out and caught the boy's leg, scoring a gash on the back of his thigh. The wound stung his as his leg opened and flinging sand was already clumping to the edges of the wound. The boy's run faltered slightly, allowing Bell to catch up.

He loaned after his prey jabbing at him. The boy collapsed to the ground, allowing Bell to pass him. When he turned, a flash of heat burned his cheek. The boy had grabbed the javelin Bell had thrown at him and tried to stick him with it. Now he stood before him, brandishing the projectile in two hands, but it was no spear and wouldn't hold it up to much powering. Bell strode towards the boy, who began backing up, limping and looking at the ground frantically in all directions. Belle felt bad for the boy, he's seen this before, there was no way out now.

The sooner he accepted it, the sooner it will be over. The javelin flashed up at him again, missing his intended target, his head, but the boy brought it down, cutting into Belle's neck. He flinched at the sensation and raised the hand to the wound, dabbing it with his fingers. It was bleeding but not gushing, nothing serious. He set his gaze down on the boy, who seemed to be shrinking, and chastised himself for getting sloppy. He raised his shield again, hiding a sword behind it, forcing the boy to guess where it would strike from.

The boy jostled with the tip of the javelin, trying to keep it aimed at Bell's head, though if any part of him became exposed, he mentioned an explorative jab, only to be parried or rebuffed. The wound in his leg burned and he could see the trail of blood he was leaving as he backed away from Bell. Then something touched the base of his sandal and he stopped. Bell noticed the hesitation and halted in turn. He was surprised how well the boy had done. The wound in his shoulder was deep, the blood flowed freely from the gash, and it was starting to wear him down.

It was the longest fight he'd had in some time, which he had to credit the boy for. He'd not worked this hard in years. The break in the fighting agitated the crowd, who began demanding an end, some even booing or cheering, though most simply enjoyed the event, clapping and singing songs. There was a slight lull in the noise, which was quickly replaced by the slow, driving, rhythmic chant of Bell Cephalus Bell. Smirked the boy as the crowd clapped and cheered his name. He bobbed his head, acknowledging the chant.

They knew their champion. Bell fainted towards the boy, leaving his chest open to assault. The boy plunged into his attack, throwing everything at Bell, who knocked the spike away with the fat of his sword, then brought his shield down on it, snapping it in half. He shoved forward on his shield, sending the boy sprawling. The crowd went wild, those that weren't still chanting belcephalous name thundered their approval. The blow had knocked the boy to the floor, his ill fitted helmet came off, bouncing across the sand.

A deep cut had burst over his left eye, the blood creeping down, threatening to obscure his vision. Belle raised his arms and pumped his first, drawing the crowd's elation. Belle Cephalus. He turned back to the boy, who had rolled over and started to crawl away, though he shook his head, walked casually up to the boy's side, kicking him in the ribs, flipping him onto his back. He watched piteously for a moment before turning to the crowd, his blade pointed at the boy's heaving chest, then looked around the stadium as if awaiting a reaction.

Belle Cephalus. He shrugged, turned back to the boy. He fought well. He growled, his throat parched. The boy spat out a glob of blood, which failed to clear his chest. The sticky red goo dribbled down the side of his breastplate. Bell shook his head. Pathetic. He threw his shield to the ground, pumping his wrist until the tight leather strap lost its grip on him. The heavy panel of wood and metal tromped into the sand. Bell made one last gesture to the crowd. He walked a tight circle next to the boy with his arms held aloft.

With this, Bareham, Bow Cephalus Bell turned to face his foe once more. The flash of steel almost passed unnoticed. All he knew was that suddenly his strength left him. Bow Cephalus. His arms drooped, Bow Cephalus. His legs quivered, and he dropped to his knees. Bow, Cephalus. He slumped forward, only to be caught by the boy who had thrown his great sword down. The boy eased him down to the ground and laid him out on his back. The blood that had spattered over the boy's face told Bell what he needed to know, and he nodded shakily to himself.

Bell, Saphilus. He raised the shaking hand towards the boy's face and his adversary grabbed it, embracing it tight in solidarity. You wanna hurry, boy? Bell managed to croak out. You'd barely talk, he was so weak. Finish it, He ordered. The boy's eyes widened, but he nodded solemnly. He got to his feet, still limping, and sought out his sword. He returned and placed the tip against Bell's throat. He looked around at the revelling crowd. They had no mercy, they only wanted blood, and still they chanted.

Did they know the outcome of the fight? Did they even care? Bell watched the boy as he put both hands on the hilt of his sword and pressed down. His vision faded, the stadium and crowd disappearing into black, leaving only a Halo of light drifting down towards him through the roof of the stands. Then that too faded. The last thing he ever experienced was the soaring cheer. Bell, Seth. Alas.

The cells in the pits under the arena rarely saw visitors from outside. There were dark, stinking holes that were hardly fit for livestock, let alone humans. The straw that covered the floor collected some of the blood and other fluids that spilled down here. It was never changed. The only light came from greasy city candles of suspicious origins. The walls were blackened with mould. The bars on the doors of each cell were rusty and harsh to the touch. And yet it was a vast improvement on where the boy had used to sleep.

He perched on the end of his ramshackle bed, trying to get a look at the wound on the back of his leg. The medic would be around sometime tomorrow, which would probably be too late. There was a commotion outside. He could hear people scrambling around in the corridor outside his cell, yelling instructions, clearing a path. A group of squabbling men appeared on the other side of the door. He rose, started to limp over to the door. 1 stuck out a greasy finger in his direction. Stay there, boy. The grubby old man growled.

He was one of the men in charge of running the pits and clearly hadn't forgiven the boy for escaping his control to go and fight in the arena. Come now. A commanding voice boomed from the dark out of the boy's view. A tall man in rich looking clothes, a brilliant white toga matched with a deep purple sash hovered into view. His thick black beard was cropped short and close to his chin. It looks more of a military cut than an aristocratic 1A Scar over his right eye hinted at a history of violence.

I'm sure this boy locked in a cell was no threat to me. The boy narrowed his eyes, shrugged, then slumped back towards his bed, easing down to avoid landing on his wound. That said, the rich man continued turning his eyes on the boy. He made short work of the best fighter and Casmaiden. What's your name, boy? The boy shrugged again, but didn't answer. Instead, the Gary Pit attendant interrupted him. Which don't matter what his name is, what matters is how much promise he has. His promise will be cut short if you don't fix up his leg.

The rich man said, clearly chastising the attention the boy had received. Or not since his fight. Elin's expensive, you want him fixed up, it'll cost you. Claimed the grubby man. The rich man turned sharply to face the pitch attendant. He was a lot taller than the other man in the dungeon. The boy watched from the corner of his eye, feigning disinterest that a man had a commanding presence which was hard to ignore. The attendants clearly feared him. Usually the stuffy rich man who came to oggle the gladiators after a belt were quite harshly treated, but even openly mocked this guy.

He demanded respect. He reached into a silk pouch tied to the gold sash that functioned as a belt and pulled out a couple of coins. It was more money than anyone in the pits had ever seen, and they all fell silent. This is to heal him. I expect it done now. The grubby man snatched the coins from the rich man's without uttering a word and disappeared. The rich man eyed his hand, visibly disgusted, and looked around for something to wipe it on. Failing to find anything satisfactory, he eventually shrugged resignedly wiped it on his own thigh.

A moment later, the grubby attendant reappeared with a jangling set of keys. He frantically opened the door. It allowed a tired looking surgeon to enter. He wore a leather apron stained with God's know how many years worth of blood, and plunged a heavy satchel on the ground and rifled through it. The rich man cleared his throat. For that much gold, I think you could afford some proper restoration. The remark had sounded like a suggestion, though the warning not to squander the generous donation the rich man had given them was thinly veiled, and the surgeon clicked his fingers and drew a small bottle from his bag.

The liquid inside was viscous and red. Ah, this should do the trick. The surgeon exclaimed. Good. The rich man nodded. He turned his attention back to the boy. You know who I am. The boy shook his head. My name is Pancreatitis. The air seemed to leave the cell. Even the boy recognised the name, all the attendants pros suddenly aware of their previous manner. I'm interested in strong fighters. Your opponent from the last fight was a champion. I think there are still people in the stands who refused to believe you won, but I could see your potential as soon as you entered the arena.

I want to nurture that potential now. I've always fancied owning a gladiator. Who knows, maybe one day I'll own a champion.

The boy watched Pancreatitis warily. If he was who he came to be, he would be a powerful patron. What do you say? Pancreatitis offered a hand to the boy, who winced as the surgeon applied the liquid, which smelled faintly of cherries, to the moon on his leg, which started to close up, leaving just a pale scar on his hollow skin. The boy shrugged. What do I get? Why help me? Pancreatitis shrugged. He kept his prophet hand outstretched. I have many reasons. All you need to worry about is getting stronger, staying alive, and winning.

Do you think you can do that?

The boy examined the scar on his leg and nodded. Perhaps this could work. Sure, I can do that. He grasped the offered hand and shook it. Excellent. The rich man cheered, A booming sound that echoed throughout the dungeon. Although you still haven't told me your name.

The boy withdrew his hand and studied it. It was still dotted with dried blood, the blood of his enemy. He thought about the question. Who was he? He'd never had a name before. As far as he knew, the cloister had called him boy or son or brother. Here he was simply a boy, same as the rest of the children running around the pits. He pondered the question. Who was he? He thought about his fight, the crowd, his foe, the chanting, the champion. He settled on the answer. He looked up into the steel grey eyes of Lord Pancreatitis, Lord Sitia, General of the Army of Panatheon, brother to the King, with as much resolve as he could muster.

The people had given him his name. My name is Bel Sephilis.

And there we go. I hope that wasn't too unbearable. Like I said, I had fun writing it. And performing it. So hopefully you enjoyed listening to it. It's a little bit experimental, but I guess let me know if you enjoyed it. And maybe some other time I'll do another one. Maybe you can learn about how it fell off a balcony, who knows. Anyway, thank you everybody for listening. Truly, to the six people out there who do actually listen to this absolute car crash, this audio manifestation of an ADHD induced migraine, we truly appreciate it.

If you have anything to say to us, any kind words or I don't know, just a photo of you flipping us off, we'll take anything at this point. Send it to sixor9d&[email protected]. I think that's correct. Maria is not here to correct me, so who knows. Don't forget to look at my Just Giving page. I'll put a link to it in the show notes. I think I'm just about in time to get that. We're a month away from it now and I mean I'm looking forward to it. I've I've raised 350 ish pounds I think Ruth was raised nearly a grand and a half and has actually been nominated for just giving award which is pretty exciting.

So even if you're not going to donate to my cause look her up on just giving. She's Ruth court and I don't know how it works but vote for her she deserves it. She's worked really fucking hard. So anything anyone can do to help her please do. I'm an idiot I deserve nothing. She has worked her fucking ass off. Give her something. Might not help. There's only 6 of you, but whatever. Anyway, I've done enough. I need to go to bed. I've got work in six hours. Great. Bye everybody. Thank you.

Panatheon: Origins-Belsephalus

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