The crowd roared, shaking the very foundations beneath Durus' feet. From the cacophony, the chants rang clear.
"Mordax, Mordax, Mordax!"
Durus' smiled as he pulled his sweat-laden leathers from his body. His bout in the arena had been successful and while he too had received his share of cheers and chants, it paled in comparison to the chorus that Mordax was receiving.
Mordax was in his first season, a fresh young gladiator going up against some of the most seasoned and awarded Minotaur the arena had ever seen. And he was winning. He'd quickly become a crowd favourite, and it wasn't just because of his fighting prowess. Mordax jeered at his opponents, toyed with them, and made a show to the crowds when he won. Young. Cocky. Invincible in his youth.
Durus had been itching to fight the young bull all season. And Mordax had just won his final bout. Tomorrow, at last, they would face each other, and Durus would put the arrogant bull in his place.
Durus quickly rinsed the sweat and dirt from his body before stepping into the steaming baths. They were blessedly empty, the other fighters having left in indignation as their chances of winning the title were crushed beneath stronger opponents. Beneath him. Durus leaned back as the chants died off. The hot waters soothed his aching muscles.
The clop of hooves interrupted his drowsing thoughts, and Durus had to smile as his future opponent entered the baths.
Mordax was the perfect example of a peak Minotaur body. He was tall and broad, his shoulders boulders of pale muscles with a trail of thick hair trailing down his chest to his crotch. His red unruly hair, the soft brown of his nose and the wide-spread upright fashion of his horns showed his ancestry from across the oceans. He also dared to stain his horns in bright colours, today they were tipped in blue, contrasting ridiculously with the red of his hair. It was just another reason the crowds loved him. He stood out amongst the other bulls.
But Durus wasn't intimidated. He came from a long line of fighters, trained for decades, his horns curled and pointed forward like any decent fighter should. His fur was as black as night and gleamed almost blue in the right light. While he didn't stand out for blushing maidens to swoon over, anyone with true knowledge would look at him and know he was a prime specimen of Minotaur breeding.
"Still," he thought, watching Mordax step out of his leathers. "I can see the appeal."
There wasn't a mark on Mordax's pale skin. He'd won his fight effortlessly.
Even more reason for Durus to look forward to tomorrow's fight. Mordax would challenge him properly, and give him a good fight. And when he had the bull pushed into submission and offered him the chain, it would be all the sweeter when Mordax conceded his defeat.
"Durus," Mordax said with joy. "Congratulations on your victory earlier. It was an exciting match. But for a moment I truly thought I would be facing Velox tomorrow."
The smile fell from his face. Durus shifted slightly, feeling the press of fresh bruises against his back. Velox had gotten a hit in yes, but the match was completely incomparable. How could anyone think for a moment Velox could have bested him?
"I was scared," Mordax said, stripping out of his skirts and kicking them aside. "I have been excited to fight you since I first entered the arena."
He pulled the leather ties free from his hips that held his manhood in place and showed just how excited he was. Durus couldn't help when his eyes fell on Mordax's crotch. Only half-hard, it was clear the bull's cock was just as proportional to the rest of his impressive body. Durus scoffed and began to knead at the muscles on his thighs.
It was impressive for sure, but it too paled in comparison to Durus' cock.
"Are you that eager to be put in the dirt?" Durus snorted, flicking the ring in his nose.
It was pure gold. The sign of his three-year reign as champion. Mordax, of course, only wore one of plain black steel, and until Durus retired he would make sure Mordax never wore the gold.
"I am undefeated," Mordax smiled. He ran a wet hand through his hair, slicking back his arrant locks and revealing large brown eyes. "And you are getting old, perhaps it is time you accept the passing of the tides and give up?"
Durus snorted, sitting up straight as his pride demanded he show this young upstart, then and there, what he was capable of. Old!? The arrogance of this whelp. He was only twenty-seven, and Mordax had to be at least twenty-one himself to even enter the arena.
"You arrogant fool," he seethed. "You go out there and taunt your appointments, you flirt with the crowds, and you paint your horns like some slut from the lower quarter. You have no respect for the traditions and yet you mock me?"
"Traditions," Mordax scoffed. "This is a game, a pale shadow of what it used to be. If we were playing by traditions, the defeated would take the chain and submit, like in the old days. Now it is all for show. Would you take it, if it were offered to you? When did you last hear someone take it?"
Not in Durus' lifetime.
In the old days, when the arena was a blood sport, determining life and death, the defeated had only two outcomes. They would either refuse the chain and accept their death, or they would take it, submitting to the victor before the crowds. These days, the offering of the chain was purely symbolic. The loser would refuse the chain, and instead of death, they would simply walk away, burdened by the weight of their loss.
Nevertheless, Durus stewed at Mordax's words.
"I do not even have to think about whether I would take it or not," he said, bursting up out of the steaming water. "I have never lost a fight, I have never known the shame of being offered the chain. It is beyond my abilities to even consider taking it."
He waded out of the water, his bronze skin flushed from more than the water. How dare Mordax even suggest such a thing? Him! Losing a fight! His hooves struck the ground hard enough to crack tile as he snatched up a towel.
"I am yet to lose a fight either," Mordax called from the waters. "But tomorrow one of us will fall."
"And when you lose, I have no doubt you will turn down the chain since you have no respect for traditions," Durus spat.
He began to dry himself off quickly, wanting to be away from the arrogant bull more than anything.
"Since you are so undefeatable and fixated on your precious traditions, then perhaps you would like to make a bet?"
Durus snorted and flicked the ring of his nose once more.
"And what do you propose?" he asked, throwing his towel aside.
"Tomorrow, when our fight is over, the defeated will take the chain, and submit before the crowds."
"Deal," Durus said without a second thought.
Mordax's eyes widened, the smug sense of self, draining from his face. Durus smiled, looking the bull up and down. He didn't think Durus would accept his offer. There was no doubt in his mind that he would win tomorrow. And it was true, Mordax truly was a prime specimen. His cock throbbed, twitching with interest. It would be a great honour and pleasure to take the bull tomorrow, as both a testament to his abilities as a fighter, but also, a return to tradition.
Of course, the arrogant bull ruined it all by bursting out laughing. Mordax let his gaze travel lazily down Durus' naked form to rest on his half-hard cock.
"I look forward to it," he said, his eyes locked. He licked his lips, and then leaned back with a sigh, resting his elbows on the edge of the pool. "I shall have sweet dreams tonight, of the cheers the crowd will make when I pull you to your knees."
Durus sneered, spat on the ground and walked away. Tomorrow, he would wipe that smirk off Mordax's face and replace it with bellows of ecstasy.
***
Durus' leathers creaked as he rolled his shoulders, the light armour well oiled. His sword gleamed and was sharpened to within the permitted edge. His shield was also carefully tended, the metal shining, and the arm strap secure without being restrictive. Durus' entire morning had been dedicated to preparing for this match, and not once. He held himself upright and steady, prepared for his bout with Mordax as he was for any match. Not even the chanting of Mordax's name of his own diminished his spirit.
He would win this final fight, just as he had won every fight before.
The gate before him shuddered, grit and dirt raining down as it pulled from its holdings and began to rise. Blinding white light poured in and the roaring of the crowd doubled. Unperturbed but the thrill of the crowd, Durus stepped out into the arena, beating his pommel against his shield. The sands were hot beneath his hooves, squeaking with each step. Before him, through the haze of heat rising from the grounds, Mordax seemed small as he stepped through his doors onto the battleground.
Mordax was a duel wielder, holding long curved blades in either hand. He roared as he stepped out, swinging his blades in an overly showy fashion, the whirl of the blades cutting through the wind perceptible to Durus even through the din of voices. Then Mordax turned to them, the crowds, the humans that came to watch them fight, and he riled them up, raising his arms and encouraging their cheers. They responded to his push, the chaos of so many voices so loud it was a near physical thing that pushed at Durus from all sides.
He sneered, whirled his blade once to test the weight and then braced his shield. He strode into the arena, stopping right before the coiled chain that signified the centre, happy to wait while Mordax continued to bathe in the attention of the crowds. Durus lowered his head so that he peered over the shield, hiding the smile on his face. It would be all the sweeter to knock Mordax down when he projected himself so much.
