JerryPolyester
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Greetings world. It is I, Jerry Polyester. I am a pot smoking, coffee loving, video game addicted hermit living deep in the forests of the Pacific Northwest. I am also an aspiring author of fantasy and science fiction and am currently looking for some feedback on The Gladiator. This is my first serious attempt at writing a book, but it is the third book I have actually completed in my lifetime.
I will post the first chapter here. If you like what you see, you can read the full book on scribblehub today. Link is in my bio. Thank you for checking out my work, hail satan ?
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The gladiator stood tall and proud behind the red silk curtain.
His brow and palms were sweaty. His heart was pounding in his chest. His fingers twitched as he held his beloved axe, Facesmasher. He couldn't wait to claim another victory with it.
The trumpet blared, and the curtain flew open. The gladiator charged out to the killing pit. The crowd exploded in cheers and began chanting his name. "Wild Man!" they roared. "Wild Man! Wild Man!"
The Wild Man of Owlwood, that's his name. He hailed from that cold, remote island in the far north of the Sea of Serpents. He was a heathen, a born warrior, a hunter of sea monsters, and a survivor of a hundred storms. The hot sun above made his flowing, blonde hair glow like gold lace. A horned headdress sat atop his head, and a furry loincloth was wrapped around his waist. His sandals kicked up a storm of dust behind him. He was shirtless to show off his bulging muscles and battle scars.
He stopped when he reached the center of the killing pit. He took it all in. Their cheers rumbled in his chest and brought goosebumps to his neck. He scanned his eyes across the arena.
In the front row, he saw the noblemen, the ladys, the priests, and the wealthier merchants. They all made sure to wear their finest, cleanest silks to the gory event. Above them were lesser merchants dressed in simpler clothes, travelers from the Million Isles, and guardsmen still wearing their gear. The craftsfolk, dockworkers, bakers, brewers, stablehands, and peasants were all jammed into the seats at the very top.
The Wild Man gave each section a good, long look to acknowledge those who came to see him that day. He raised Facesmasher high in the air. "For The God of Storms!" he cried. For a moment, the crowd forgot the social and economic divisions among them, and they howled back at one of their favorite gladiators. He lived for the crowd, and he couldn't wait to give them another unforgettable show.
The loud creaking of rusty chains caused them to quiet down. At the other end of the killing pit, the great gate slowly opened. From the shadows within, he heard gnashing teeth and sickening snorts. The Wild Man gripped his axe hard and readied his stance.
The thing crawled out from the shadows. It had green, slimy skin and two big, bloodshot eyes. A long, spotted tongue hung from its mouth, dangling around like a broken arm. It clawed its way out to the killing pit on its four stubby legs.
"A basilisk?" the gladiator said to himself. "No problem."
The arena guard standing above the gate readied his crossbow, in case the monster decided to try and lunge at the spectators. It raised its snout in the air and let out a nasty, gargly screech. The guard lost his balance and fell backward, causing many in the crowd to laugh. The basilisk and The Wild Man charged at each other.
The basilisk stopped just before the two met, kicking up a wave of dirt at him. The Wild Man shielded his eyes, but not his mouth. He spat out the sand and talked to himself again. That was a strange habit he had developed as a gladiator. "Can't get too cocky," he said, "they're dumb creatures, but they sure are nimble."
They circled each other. The Wild Man kept his eyes fixed on the monster. It leapt forward to try and take bite out of his leg. He darted back, then came forward again, when the basilisk swiped at him with its sharp claws. He jumped and then broke one of them off with a furious swing of his axe.
The basilisk rose and let out a shriek more horrible than the last one. The gladiator's ears rang, and his knees buckled. He tumbled backward and landed hard on his rear. Slightly embarrassed, he sat there a moment to gather himself. Someone called out from the front row: "C'mon, Wild Man! You can do it!"
He jumped to his feet and dusted himself off. The monster stared him down. It was silent for a moment before it made a choking, swishing sound in its throat. The crowd gasped as the basilisk started to sound like a sick cat. A giant hairball didn't fly from its mouth, however. Instead, the monster stood on its hind legs and spat out a fountain of hot, purple venom, to the horror of the audience. Nobles screamed, guards cursed, and the young children ran around crying.
The venom rained down around the Wild Man. He dodged it as swiftly as he was able to. A few drops got on his boots. Bits of fur burned away into long puffs of smoke. His feet and legs were saved, but he wasn't quick enough to avoid a small splash of the toxin on his right shoulder.
He grit his teeth until they came close to shattering. He knew he couldn't look weak in front of the crowd, despite that it hurt worse than touching hot coals. The Wild Man of Owlwood feared nobody and loved pain.
After a firm slap across the face, he looked at his shoulder. An oozing black and red wound bubbled on top of it. His upper arm became numb as the venom slowly seeped through his body. He had to act quickly, he knew. He slapped himself hard again. "No matter," he said, "it's just another scar to add to the collection!"
The basilisk spat out the last few droplets of venom and prepared itself for another attack. It reached its head forward to nip at The Wild Man. He was too quick. He raised his axe over his flowing blonde hair and smashed it right between its nostrils.
The basilisk yelped out in pain. It thrashed about with the axe still lodged in its snout. The Wild Man took the dagger fastened to his belt and the severed claw by his left foot. Gracefully, he hopped over the puddles of poison and mounted the monster.
He sat atop its neck as it continued to thrash. He held himself in place by jamming the dagger and claw deep into both sides of its neck. Black blood flowed from the wounds and completely covered the gladiator's hands. He kept stabbing until the monster collapsed.
Beneath his feet, the Wild Man heard the basilisk still breathing. He went for Facesmasher, ripped it out, and then split the monster's skull straight down the middle. A shiver of pleasure went up his spine as he felt the bone crack beneath his knuckles.
The gladiator stood tall atop his slain foe. He held out his bloody axe and dagger to the crowd and let out a victory cry. The crowd lost it. All he could hear was them basking in his glory. "Wild Man! Wild Man! Wild Man!"
After his victory, the gladiator invited all of his friends to The Wet Stone to celebrate.
The Wet Stone was a small tavern nestled along the banks of the Black River, and one of the cozier establishments within Arena Town. By the time everyone was drunk, however, it quickly looked like any other dive in that crazy city.
The splintered remains of stools were scattered across the dirt floor, alongside numerous puddles of spilled beer. The flowery tapestries on the walls were torn up. The gladiator wore one like a toga. A rowdy troupe of flutists stood in the corner playing a fast tune. Everybody danced and sang as loud as they could.
The gladiator jumped on the bar. He shuffled his feet around, dancing as best as he could, while holding his signature goathorn. He must have been on his sixth serving of Seawatch wine. He would have preferred ale, of course, but any drink was good after such a flawless victory.
He chugged the wine and then threw the goathorn across the room. A window shattered into a million pieces. He howled and then began to dance about even more awkwardly. A moment later, he fell off the bar and landed on the musicians.
Their instruments were destroyed. The Wild Man got up and slipped on one of the few flutes that remained intact. His friends burst out laughing before they gathered around to help him up.
The gladiator gently pushed them away when he was back on his feet. He was about to head back to the bar to get more wine when he froze in his tracks.
The room spun around as if he had mounted an untamed horse. His vision was blurry, and he was seeing double. Nevertheless, he could see her clearly. She wore a long raven-black cloak fastened with an amethyst brooch. Beneath that, she wore elegant red silk clothes and black sandals. It was Esmerelda, or The Black Widow, as she was more famously known.
The two of them made eye contact. She smiled big and fluttered her long eyelashes. She approached him.
He came to her. He giggled and stumbled over the broken stools like an idiot. She caught him once he slipped on a puddle of beer.
Esmerelda held the Wild Man tight in her thick, tattooed arms. Everybody else in the room disappeared as the two gazed deep into each other's eyes. She brought him close. Just as his chapped lips met her soft ones, the gladiator awoke from his dream.
I will post the first chapter here. If you like what you see, you can read the full book on scribblehub today. Link is in my bio. Thank you for checking out my work, hail satan ?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The gladiator stood tall and proud behind the red silk curtain.
His brow and palms were sweaty. His heart was pounding in his chest. His fingers twitched as he held his beloved axe, Facesmasher. He couldn't wait to claim another victory with it.
The trumpet blared, and the curtain flew open. The gladiator charged out to the killing pit. The crowd exploded in cheers and began chanting his name. "Wild Man!" they roared. "Wild Man! Wild Man!"
The Wild Man of Owlwood, that's his name. He hailed from that cold, remote island in the far north of the Sea of Serpents. He was a heathen, a born warrior, a hunter of sea monsters, and a survivor of a hundred storms. The hot sun above made his flowing, blonde hair glow like gold lace. A horned headdress sat atop his head, and a furry loincloth was wrapped around his waist. His sandals kicked up a storm of dust behind him. He was shirtless to show off his bulging muscles and battle scars.
He stopped when he reached the center of the killing pit. He took it all in. Their cheers rumbled in his chest and brought goosebumps to his neck. He scanned his eyes across the arena.
In the front row, he saw the noblemen, the ladys, the priests, and the wealthier merchants. They all made sure to wear their finest, cleanest silks to the gory event. Above them were lesser merchants dressed in simpler clothes, travelers from the Million Isles, and guardsmen still wearing their gear. The craftsfolk, dockworkers, bakers, brewers, stablehands, and peasants were all jammed into the seats at the very top.
The Wild Man gave each section a good, long look to acknowledge those who came to see him that day. He raised Facesmasher high in the air. "For The God of Storms!" he cried. For a moment, the crowd forgot the social and economic divisions among them, and they howled back at one of their favorite gladiators. He lived for the crowd, and he couldn't wait to give them another unforgettable show.
The loud creaking of rusty chains caused them to quiet down. At the other end of the killing pit, the great gate slowly opened. From the shadows within, he heard gnashing teeth and sickening snorts. The Wild Man gripped his axe hard and readied his stance.
The thing crawled out from the shadows. It had green, slimy skin and two big, bloodshot eyes. A long, spotted tongue hung from its mouth, dangling around like a broken arm. It clawed its way out to the killing pit on its four stubby legs.
"A basilisk?" the gladiator said to himself. "No problem."
The arena guard standing above the gate readied his crossbow, in case the monster decided to try and lunge at the spectators. It raised its snout in the air and let out a nasty, gargly screech. The guard lost his balance and fell backward, causing many in the crowd to laugh. The basilisk and The Wild Man charged at each other.
The basilisk stopped just before the two met, kicking up a wave of dirt at him. The Wild Man shielded his eyes, but not his mouth. He spat out the sand and talked to himself again. That was a strange habit he had developed as a gladiator. "Can't get too cocky," he said, "they're dumb creatures, but they sure are nimble."
They circled each other. The Wild Man kept his eyes fixed on the monster. It leapt forward to try and take bite out of his leg. He darted back, then came forward again, when the basilisk swiped at him with its sharp claws. He jumped and then broke one of them off with a furious swing of his axe.
The basilisk rose and let out a shriek more horrible than the last one. The gladiator's ears rang, and his knees buckled. He tumbled backward and landed hard on his rear. Slightly embarrassed, he sat there a moment to gather himself. Someone called out from the front row: "C'mon, Wild Man! You can do it!"
He jumped to his feet and dusted himself off. The monster stared him down. It was silent for a moment before it made a choking, swishing sound in its throat. The crowd gasped as the basilisk started to sound like a sick cat. A giant hairball didn't fly from its mouth, however. Instead, the monster stood on its hind legs and spat out a fountain of hot, purple venom, to the horror of the audience. Nobles screamed, guards cursed, and the young children ran around crying.
The venom rained down around the Wild Man. He dodged it as swiftly as he was able to. A few drops got on his boots. Bits of fur burned away into long puffs of smoke. His feet and legs were saved, but he wasn't quick enough to avoid a small splash of the toxin on his right shoulder.
He grit his teeth until they came close to shattering. He knew he couldn't look weak in front of the crowd, despite that it hurt worse than touching hot coals. The Wild Man of Owlwood feared nobody and loved pain.
After a firm slap across the face, he looked at his shoulder. An oozing black and red wound bubbled on top of it. His upper arm became numb as the venom slowly seeped through his body. He had to act quickly, he knew. He slapped himself hard again. "No matter," he said, "it's just another scar to add to the collection!"
The basilisk spat out the last few droplets of venom and prepared itself for another attack. It reached its head forward to nip at The Wild Man. He was too quick. He raised his axe over his flowing blonde hair and smashed it right between its nostrils.
The basilisk yelped out in pain. It thrashed about with the axe still lodged in its snout. The Wild Man took the dagger fastened to his belt and the severed claw by his left foot. Gracefully, he hopped over the puddles of poison and mounted the monster.
He sat atop its neck as it continued to thrash. He held himself in place by jamming the dagger and claw deep into both sides of its neck. Black blood flowed from the wounds and completely covered the gladiator's hands. He kept stabbing until the monster collapsed.
Beneath his feet, the Wild Man heard the basilisk still breathing. He went for Facesmasher, ripped it out, and then split the monster's skull straight down the middle. A shiver of pleasure went up his spine as he felt the bone crack beneath his knuckles.
The gladiator stood tall atop his slain foe. He held out his bloody axe and dagger to the crowd and let out a victory cry. The crowd lost it. All he could hear was them basking in his glory. "Wild Man! Wild Man! Wild Man!"
After his victory, the gladiator invited all of his friends to The Wet Stone to celebrate.
The Wet Stone was a small tavern nestled along the banks of the Black River, and one of the cozier establishments within Arena Town. By the time everyone was drunk, however, it quickly looked like any other dive in that crazy city.
The splintered remains of stools were scattered across the dirt floor, alongside numerous puddles of spilled beer. The flowery tapestries on the walls were torn up. The gladiator wore one like a toga. A rowdy troupe of flutists stood in the corner playing a fast tune. Everybody danced and sang as loud as they could.
The gladiator jumped on the bar. He shuffled his feet around, dancing as best as he could, while holding his signature goathorn. He must have been on his sixth serving of Seawatch wine. He would have preferred ale, of course, but any drink was good after such a flawless victory.
He chugged the wine and then threw the goathorn across the room. A window shattered into a million pieces. He howled and then began to dance about even more awkwardly. A moment later, he fell off the bar and landed on the musicians.
Their instruments were destroyed. The Wild Man got up and slipped on one of the few flutes that remained intact. His friends burst out laughing before they gathered around to help him up.
The gladiator gently pushed them away when he was back on his feet. He was about to head back to the bar to get more wine when he froze in his tracks.
The room spun around as if he had mounted an untamed horse. His vision was blurry, and he was seeing double. Nevertheless, he could see her clearly. She wore a long raven-black cloak fastened with an amethyst brooch. Beneath that, she wore elegant red silk clothes and black sandals. It was Esmerelda, or The Black Widow, as she was more famously known.
The two of them made eye contact. She smiled big and fluttered her long eyelashes. She approached him.
He came to her. He giggled and stumbled over the broken stools like an idiot. She caught him once he slipped on a puddle of beer.
Esmerelda held the Wild Man tight in her thick, tattooed arms. Everybody else in the room disappeared as the two gazed deep into each other's eyes. She brought him close. Just as his chapped lips met her soft ones, the gladiator awoke from his dream.
