The year is 71 BC.
Rome.
Once a city-state on the edge of the Italian peninsula, now a vast...
Rome.
Once a city-state on the edge of the Italian peninsula, now a vast...
For We Who Are About To Die (A Gladiator School Quest)
- Thread starter Telamon
- Start date
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- gladiators rome telamon quest
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Statistics (5 threadmarks, 4.9k words)
User Total Telamon 5
0.0: Youth's End
Telamon
A corvid.
- Location
- Texas
The year is 71 BC.
Rome.
Once a city-state on the edge of the Italian peninsula, now a vast polity that sprawls unbound across the face of Europe. From the frozen peaks of the Alps to the whirling sands of Carthage, from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic, from Spain to Greece, all falls under the might and glory of the Republic. From sea to sea and shore to shore, there is only the law of the Senate, unchallenged and unrivaled. The iron fist of Rome grips all the world. All are equal under the boot of the Roman--the Gaul and Thracian, the Visigoth and the Greek, each is ground under the might of the Republic in equal manner. An empire is fueled by blood alone, and rivers must flow to sustain the glory that is Rome. For those bound as thrall underneath the heel of Rome, there is no hope of freedom or redemption. It takes a lifetime to earn one's freedom, and once given, it is not easily kept.
Yet there are some who stand above base slave and mongrel wretch, men and women who, through strength of might and force of will, may see themselves free from Roman yoke. There are some who choose to spill their blood on hot sands for the benefit of their captors and the glory of Rome. They are called Gladiators. These champions of the sand are held above the common man. Those who succeed become gods of the arena, legends in their own right, and are granted fame, riches, and vaunted freedom. Those who fail die in obscurity, their names and their lives lost to time and the shadow of Rome.
The lanistas, the men and women who deal in the trade and training of these gladiators, are held to be little more than flesh-traders, glorified slavers. Yet glory begets glory, and a lanista who produces mighty legends from his ludus might rise among the ranks of the common people, ascending to the very echelons of the Republic. Such is the dream of every lanista--and a thousand such dreams have died in the bitter sands of the arena.
Perhaps yours will not.
Gladiators:
Estate:
Rome.
Once a city-state on the edge of the Italian peninsula, now a vast polity that sprawls unbound across the face of Europe. From the frozen peaks of the Alps to the whirling sands of Carthage, from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic, from Spain to Greece, all falls under the might and glory of the Republic. From sea to sea and shore to shore, there is only the law of the Senate, unchallenged and unrivaled. The iron fist of Rome grips all the world. All are equal under the boot of the Roman--the Gaul and Thracian, the Visigoth and the Greek, each is ground under the might of the Republic in equal manner. An empire is fueled by blood alone, and rivers must flow to sustain the glory that is Rome. For those bound as thrall underneath the heel of Rome, there is no hope of freedom or redemption. It takes a lifetime to earn one's freedom, and once given, it is not easily kept.
Yet there are some who stand above base slave and mongrel wretch, men and women who, through strength of might and force of will, may see themselves free from Roman yoke. There are some who choose to spill their blood on hot sands for the benefit of their captors and the glory of Rome. They are called Gladiators. These champions of the sand are held above the common man. Those who succeed become gods of the arena, legends in their own right, and are granted fame, riches, and vaunted freedom. Those who fail die in obscurity, their names and their lives lost to time and the shadow of Rome.
The lanistas, the men and women who deal in the trade and training of these gladiators, are held to be little more than flesh-traders, glorified slavers. Yet glory begets glory, and a lanista who produces mighty legends from his ludus might rise among the ranks of the common people, ascending to the very echelons of the Republic. Such is the dream of every lanista--and a thousand such dreams have died in the bitter sands of the arena.
Perhaps yours will not.
__________________________________
FOR WE WHO ARE ABOUT TO DIE
A Lanista Quest
FOR WE WHO ARE ABOUT TO DIE
A Lanista Quest
OVERVIEW
~A summary of the fortunes of the House of Cadus~
~A summary of the fortunes of the House of Cadus~
Character Sheet:
Name: Marcus Surius Cadus
Titles: None
Age:31
Wealth: Twelve gold talents
Gladiators produced: 0
Purses won: 0
Fame: 15
Reputation: A flesh-monger of some small renown.
Respect: 14
Loyalty: 0
Mutiny Chance: 5
Titles: None
Age:31
Wealth: Twelve gold talents
Gladiators produced: 0
Purses won: 0
Fame: 15
Reputation: A flesh-monger of some small renown.
Respect: 14
Loyalty: 0
Mutiny Chance: 5
Gladiators:
Tius: A titan among men, a living giant out of the very pages of legend. He hails from the barbarous and strange lands to the north of the world, beyond the Rhine and the reach of Rome. To civilized Romans, he seems more beast than man, with a massive forest of a beard and wild, fierce eyes.
Starting Traits:
-Untamed: Those men who are born free do not bend easily. (-6 to all training rolls, -15 to all obedience rolls)
-Mighty: This gladiator was born with a strength to shake the roots of the world. (+5 to all combat rolls)
-Towering: Some men are born above all others. Literally. (+3 to all intimidation rolls)
-Beastial (-12 Charisma, -10 Crowd Favour, -2 to all Combat Rolls)
-(Special Trait) The German: It is said that those born beyond the Rhine are a wild and savage race, feared even by the barbarian Gaul. (+4 to Last Chance rolls, +4 to all unarmed combat rolls, +6 intimidation against Gauls, -4 to all servitude/obedience rolls)
Starting Traits:
-Untamed: Those men who are born free do not bend easily. (-6 to all training rolls, -15 to all obedience rolls)
-Mighty: This gladiator was born with a strength to shake the roots of the world. (+5 to all combat rolls)
-Towering: Some men are born above all others. Literally. (+3 to all intimidation rolls)
-Beastial (-12 Charisma, -10 Crowd Favour, -2 to all Combat Rolls)
-(Special Trait) The German: It is said that those born beyond the Rhine are a wild and savage race, feared even by the barbarian Gaul. (+4 to Last Chance rolls, +4 to all unarmed combat rolls, +6 intimidation against Gauls, -4 to all servitude/obedience rolls)
Estate:
The Ludus of the Cadii is currently well-maintained, though worn with age and time. Significant parts of it have fallen into inevitable disuse, and it will take time and effort to restore.
Training Areas: Well-kept, though barely stocked and in need of repairs.
Kitchens: Small and disused, but usable.
Gladiator Living Quarters: Dilapidated and largely unused, the lion's share of the rooms require repair or replacement.
Mess Hall: Dingy and hot, but usable.
Personal Quarters: Your brother put some effort into making sure he had a comfortable place to lay his head, and as such, your personal quarters are the best-kept and most expensive rooms in the compound, with a small cluster of rooms reserved for your bathing and luxury. Such excesses could easily be removed or sold off for more useful things, though your reputation among the wealthy elite will decline.
Main/Feast Hall: Where you will receive visitors and entertain guests for parties. Your father prided himself on showing a respectable facade to visitors, but your brother allowed the main hall to fall into disrepair.
The Grounds: The land around your estate. Somewhat well-maintained by your father's most loyal slaves and retainers, those who remained continued to keep it presentable during your brother's tenure as lanista.
Training Areas: Well-kept, though barely stocked and in need of repairs.
Kitchens: Small and disused, but usable.
Gladiator Living Quarters: Dilapidated and largely unused, the lion's share of the rooms require repair or replacement.
Mess Hall: Dingy and hot, but usable.
Personal Quarters: Your brother put some effort into making sure he had a comfortable place to lay his head, and as such, your personal quarters are the best-kept and most expensive rooms in the compound, with a small cluster of rooms reserved for your bathing and luxury. Such excesses could easily be removed or sold off for more useful things, though your reputation among the wealthy elite will decline.
Main/Feast Hall: Where you will receive visitors and entertain guests for parties. Your father prided himself on showing a respectable facade to visitors, but your brother allowed the main hall to fall into disrepair.
The Grounds: The land around your estate. Somewhat well-maintained by your father's most loyal slaves and retainers, those who remained continued to keep it presentable during your brother's tenure as lanista.
________________________
You are Marcus Surius Cadus, a lanista, or gladiator trainer, in the twilight years of the Roman Republic. In a scant few decades, a man named Gaius Julius Caesar will name himself dictator and change the course of history forever--but that is not your concern. You are the last living member of the Caduii, the House of Cadus. Your father's father's father was a cousin to a Consul of the Republic, and once your family name held much power in Rome. Now, you run a failing ludus in Capua, with only what remains of your father's savings to keep you afloat. Perhaps, if you can buy and train a gladiator of passable skill, if you can bring him to glory and triumph in the Arena, you could begin the long climb towards restoring your family name.
Luckily, you have accrued many talents over the course of your youth that will aid you in this aim.
Pick One:
The Legion's Line: [] In your youth you were a member of the legion, a soldier of Rome. You sailed the Mediterranean and fought wars from Greece to Africa, protecting and expanding the borders of Rome. The legion's iron discipline and unshattering sense of order were drilled into your very bones, and you came to understand how to win a man's loyalty, how to make him willing to fight and die in your name. You can better recognize fighting skill in prospective trainees, and direct their training better. Though you left the legions some years ago, you have some contacts from your military days who may aid you in several matters.
The Marble Halls: [] You sought influence and power with the Senate and the elite of Rome. Though many scorned the son of a flesh-trader, your natural charisma and charm won over some friends who allowed you into the lower echelons of the halls of power. Though a lifetime more of clawing might have earned you a small voice, perhaps even a seat, on the Senate, the sudden death of your father and brothers changed all that. You still have many contacts and friendships, and the lessons you learned in Rome will prove invaluable in the future. To be a person of note in Rome is to live a life of betrayal and intrigue in a society clawing endlessly towards power that few reach, a deadly game played by all--a game you are now adept in.
The Favoured Son: [] You stayed by your father's side, heeding his word and his will. He taught you all he knew of the caring and training of gladiators, and in turn you stayed with him in his old age. You know just the right amount to bribe the announcer so that he says your champion's name in that way that drives the crowds wild, you are quite aware of the best feast days to try your hand in the arena, and you know to never, never room a Thracian and a Gaul together. A lifetime of wisdom and knowledge in the field of rearing men to slaughter each other--what more could a son ask of his father?
The Pen Is Mightier, Yet Coin Is Mightier Still: [] Money makes the world go round. You knew this from an early age, and always sought after it. You became a bookkeeper for your father's games in time, taking some coin off the side for your own ventures, eventually breaking off on your own to run your own business taking bets on the games. You became especially adept in stripping fools of their money and returning it to rightful hands--yours. There isn't a pot in the city you don't have fingers in, with every shopowner and independent business owner owing you a 'favor' of some sort. And what wonderful things coin can do--a beautiful house, a renovated ludus, and first pick of the newly arrived prospects. Of course, you've stepped on several--more than several--toes on your way to the top, but that's what the bodygurds are for, is it not?
Luckily, you have accrued many talents over the course of your youth that will aid you in this aim.
Pick One:
The Legion's Line: [] In your youth you were a member of the legion, a soldier of Rome. You sailed the Mediterranean and fought wars from Greece to Africa, protecting and expanding the borders of Rome. The legion's iron discipline and unshattering sense of order were drilled into your very bones, and you came to understand how to win a man's loyalty, how to make him willing to fight and die in your name. You can better recognize fighting skill in prospective trainees, and direct their training better. Though you left the legions some years ago, you have some contacts from your military days who may aid you in several matters.
Last edited:
Akatsunami
The Bonetatoist
- Location
- Brazil
[X] The Legion's Line
- Location
- Virginia
[X] The Pen is Mightier, Yet Coin is Mightier Still
- Location
- nz
[X] The Legion's Line
Last edited:
- Location
- California
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] The Legion's Line
LinkOnScepter
The One who Strangles Concepts to death
- Location
- Interwebs
[X] The Legion's Line
- Location
- Brazil
[X] The Legion's Line
JoshieWoshie
Mister Doge
[X] The Favoured Son
This or the Legion.
This or the Legion.
[X] The Legion's Line
Telamon
A corvid.
- Location
- Texas
- Location
- Germany
[X] The Legion's Line
[X] The Legion's Line
0.1: The Clay of Champions
Telamon
A corvid.
- Location
- Texas
[X] The Legion's Line
Romans in Rome's day were the finest fighting force in all the world. Your youth has been one of oiled efficiency, undying loyalty, and unshakable determination. In Rome, those who wield the sword in the defense of the homeland are honored above all others, and your name carries some of that inherent respect, putting you a step above the other traders of flesh.
Respect gained--14
Training increased by 7
Mutiny Chance decreased by 12
Trait earned: The Grace of Mars
Trait earned: A Soldier's Voice
___________
The hot, dusty air of the market clings to your throat as you breathe it in. Above, the sweltering Roman sun beats down on your simple lime-green toga. The smell of sweat hangs in the arid air, permeating everything and rivaling the omnipresent grime for the attention of your nostrils. Before you, Mallius, the trader, offers you another yellow-toothed smile. You think it is supposed to resemble something apologetic.
"These are all we have.", he repeats insistently, in a voice he must no doubt think the very picture of regretful innocence. His crooked grin spins a different tale altogether, and you suddenly become acutely aware of the weight of the cloth bag at your hip.
You take a final look at the emaciated, weakened men on the benches before you. They are a sorry collection, young boys and old men left over from a crop picked clean by those who came before you. The strongest of them looks unfit for field work--much less the rigors of the arena.
You grit your teeth and reach into the small pouch by your side, drawing out a handful of silver denarii and pressing them into Mallius' browned palm. The slaver shoots you another crooked grin before ushering you into a small, cool room on the side of the market. It is slightly less grimy than the rest of this place, and there are signs that someone once made a somewhat decent effort to sweep the dirt of the floor. A cracked amphora of wine stands on a rickety wooden table in the middle of the room.
You suppose this is Mallius' idea of hospitality. The merchant himself vanishes for a long moment, then reappears through a nearby doorway, followed by several men, all bound in fetters. He makes a curt report of the name, place of origin--and of course--the price of each one before taking a seat in the corner of the room.
You calculate the prices in your head. Taking Mallius' gratuitous 'finder's fee' into account, you have enough coin for one, perhaps two if must be. Your brother was forced to sell off all of your father's gladiators in order to simply keep the ludus, and the twelve talents awarded to you upon your father's death are all the coin you have in the world. It is no small weight on your mind that the choices you make now may well determine the very future of the name Cadus.
Pick one. Remember, discussion and rationale are both liked and rewarded, even if it's just a sentence or two.
Romans in Rome's day were the finest fighting force in all the world. Your youth has been one of oiled efficiency, undying loyalty, and unshakable determination. In Rome, those who wield the sword in the defense of the homeland are honored above all others, and your name carries some of that inherent respect, putting you a step above the other traders of flesh.
Respect gained--14
Training increased by 7
Mutiny Chance decreased by 12
Trait earned: The Grace of Mars
Trait earned: A Soldier's Voice
___________
The hot, dusty air of the market clings to your throat as you breathe it in. Above, the sweltering Roman sun beats down on your simple lime-green toga. The smell of sweat hangs in the arid air, permeating everything and rivaling the omnipresent grime for the attention of your nostrils. Before you, Mallius, the trader, offers you another yellow-toothed smile. You think it is supposed to resemble something apologetic.
"These are all we have.", he repeats insistently, in a voice he must no doubt think the very picture of regretful innocence. His crooked grin spins a different tale altogether, and you suddenly become acutely aware of the weight of the cloth bag at your hip.
You take a final look at the emaciated, weakened men on the benches before you. They are a sorry collection, young boys and old men left over from a crop picked clean by those who came before you. The strongest of them looks unfit for field work--much less the rigors of the arena.
You grit your teeth and reach into the small pouch by your side, drawing out a handful of silver denarii and pressing them into Mallius' browned palm. The slaver shoots you another crooked grin before ushering you into a small, cool room on the side of the market. It is slightly less grimy than the rest of this place, and there are signs that someone once made a somewhat decent effort to sweep the dirt of the floor. A cracked amphora of wine stands on a rickety wooden table in the middle of the room.
You suppose this is Mallius' idea of hospitality. The merchant himself vanishes for a long moment, then reappears through a nearby doorway, followed by several men, all bound in fetters. He makes a curt report of the name, place of origin--and of course--the price of each one before taking a seat in the corner of the room.
You calculate the prices in your head. Taking Mallius' gratuitous 'finder's fee' into account, you have enough coin for one, perhaps two if must be. Your brother was forced to sell off all of your father's gladiators in order to simply keep the ludus, and the twelve talents awarded to you upon your father's death are all the coin you have in the world. It is no small weight on your mind that the choices you make now may well determine the very future of the name Cadus.
Pick one. Remember, discussion and rationale are both liked and rewarded, even if it's just a sentence or two.
The African [] Salincar, the Carthaginian. A young man with skin the color of cocoa and deep, proud eyes. He was a mercenary and a marauder in Egypt until his band was hired to aid in a failed uprising against Rome. Their forces were crushed, and those fighters who lived were taken as thralls. His muscles are large and powerful, though you have your doubts as to his speed in the arena. You know well the tenacity of Carthage's sons, however--you have lost many brothers to uprisings against the legions.
The Barbarian [] Vercil, the Gaul. His long, unbound hair runs like a mane to his shoulders, bringing to mind a lion. His eyes glitter with a spark of dangerous intelligence, and Mallius tells you he was once a warrior of the tribe of the Helvetii in barbarian Gaul beyond the Alps. Though average in stature, he is powerfully built, with the lean muscles of a sprinter or runner. The stubbornness of the Gauls is legend, yet when tamed, makes for an equally legendary gladiator.
The Deserter [] Macula, the Roman. Disgust rises in your throat as you look at the man. Once an officer in the Twelfth Legion, cousin of a prestigious senator, his courage broke and wilted against the Greeks, and he fled the front line. He was hunted by his former brothers for weeks, and dragged back to mother Rome in chains. A cursory look tells you he is by far the best fighter in the room, and yet, his defeated slump show's little of the legion's might. He is a man broken, and to send him to the sands might mean certain death--both for him, and for your gladiatorial efforts. Yet the people of Rome love a good story, and a tale of redemption in the sands might win you their fickle love.
The Titan [] Tius, from lands beyond the Rhine. His is a guttural and barbarian tongue, and Mallius stresses the lengths he went to in order to teach him a civilized tongue--lengths that no doubt garner an extra price. Yet Tius might well be worth the fleecing. He is a giant of a man, taller than you by several hands. His hair cut short, and his massive beard falls to his waist. You can well see why no other lanistas have chosen him. His massive arms could snap rope like twine, and you can easily see his trunk-like arms crushing the few guards you have hired for the ludus. Yet if he were to be trained and honed, he could well be a god of the arena.
The Fallen [] Lanidaeus, the Wolf. Once, his name was cheered by thousands in the arena. Once, he won legend and glory on the sands. Once, he was a living legend. That was nearly twenty years ago. His hair is greying, and his eyes, once proud, are now dull. His is the saddest fate of a legend--not great enough to win freedom, too popular to be freed, he has burnt out, losing the will to fight as his once-great skill seeps from his body with age. Traded from ludus to ludus on the basis of his name alone, he has been discarded in favor of the coin his former status earns by master after master. Yet old gladiators, your father once said, are the deadliest of all--whether they know it or not.
The Barbarian [] Vercil, the Gaul. His long, unbound hair runs like a mane to his shoulders, bringing to mind a lion. His eyes glitter with a spark of dangerous intelligence, and Mallius tells you he was once a warrior of the tribe of the Helvetii in barbarian Gaul beyond the Alps. Though average in stature, he is powerfully built, with the lean muscles of a sprinter or runner. The stubbornness of the Gauls is legend, yet when tamed, makes for an equally legendary gladiator.
The Deserter [] Macula, the Roman. Disgust rises in your throat as you look at the man. Once an officer in the Twelfth Legion, cousin of a prestigious senator, his courage broke and wilted against the Greeks, and he fled the front line. He was hunted by his former brothers for weeks, and dragged back to mother Rome in chains. A cursory look tells you he is by far the best fighter in the room, and yet, his defeated slump show's little of the legion's might. He is a man broken, and to send him to the sands might mean certain death--both for him, and for your gladiatorial efforts. Yet the people of Rome love a good story, and a tale of redemption in the sands might win you their fickle love.
The Titan [] Tius, from lands beyond the Rhine. His is a guttural and barbarian tongue, and Mallius stresses the lengths he went to in order to teach him a civilized tongue--lengths that no doubt garner an extra price. Yet Tius might well be worth the fleecing. He is a giant of a man, taller than you by several hands. His hair cut short, and his massive beard falls to his waist. You can well see why no other lanistas have chosen him. His massive arms could snap rope like twine, and you can easily see his trunk-like arms crushing the few guards you have hired for the ludus. Yet if he were to be trained and honed, he could well be a god of the arena.
The Fallen [] Lanidaeus, the Wolf. Once, his name was cheered by thousands in the arena. Once, he won legend and glory on the sands. Once, he was a living legend. That was nearly twenty years ago. His hair is greying, and his eyes, once proud, are now dull. His is the saddest fate of a legend--not great enough to win freedom, too popular to be freed, he has burnt out, losing the will to fight as his once-great skill seeps from his body with age. Traded from ludus to ludus on the basis of his name alone, he has been discarded in favor of the coin his former status earns by master after master. Yet old gladiators, your father once said, are the deadliest of all--whether they know it or not.
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JoshieWoshie
Mister Doge
[] The Fallen
Honestly, this guy is more suited to being a teacher rather than a gladiator. If I could pick two, I would pick him and the Titan. They would synergize very well.
But since only one is allowed. I'll have to go for....
[X] The African
Honestly, this guy is more suited to being a teacher rather than a gladiator. If I could pick two, I would pick him and the Titan. They would synergize very well.
But since only one is allowed. I'll have to go for....
[X] The African
- Location
- nz
[X] The Barbarian