W A R W I T C H

I HEAR THIS VOICE KEEP ASKING ME
IS THIS MY BLOOD OR IS IT BLASHEMY?
Ark of Ha'rangir

The Ark's coliseum was an immense, spiraling amphitheater carved into the ship's mid-deck. A crucible of bloodsport where warriors from across the fleets came to test their mettle beneath her gaze. Every strike and scream was broadcast through the corridors of the ship like hymns of living metal.
From her elevated dais, Domina Prime reclined upon her throne of black iron and starstone. Around her, banners of House Prime's sigil fluttered in the exhaust winds. Below, the sands churned with combat, two gladiators locked in furious melee, their blades sparking in arcs of light.
Dima was a vision of indulgent chaos. Her armor now adorned once more, she leaned forward on one elbow, tail twitching with predatory excitement. A cup of spiced ne'tra wine dangled from one clawed hand while the other three gestured wildly as she bellowed into the vox system.
"YES! CUT HIM IN HALF! NO, NOT LIKE THAT, YOU FETHING BUFFOON-YOUR FOOTWORK! LOOK AT YOUR FOOTWORK!"
The crowd, soldiers, artisans, and acolytes alike roared with laughter. She was their god made human in moments like this. Passionate, unrestrained, loud.
"BY THE MANDA'S BONES, THAT ONE'S GOT MORE BLOOD THAN BRAINS! OH! HE'S STILL MOVING! SEE? DETERMINATION! SOMEONE GIVE THAT ONE A MEDAL BEFORE HE BLEEDS OUT!"
Her voice crackled through the speakers, rich with humor and wine. She slammed one fist into the dais, sending vibrations through the floor. When a fighter performed a particularly graceful maneuver, she stood abruptly, raising all four arms as if proclaiming divine favor.
"YES! BEAUTIFUL! A SPINNING STRIKE! THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!!"
She laughed uproariously, her fanged grin visible beneath the open face of her helm. The coliseum's massive holo-displays caught her image, larger than life and the warriors below fought harder under her gaze, desperate to earn her praise.
When a challenger was disarmed and dropped to one knee, bleeding but defiant, she fell silent. For a long moment, the entire arena held its breath as her voice lowered. Resonant, almost reverent.
"He kneels not in defeat, but in offering. Even broken, the will endures. That, that is what it means to live."
The crowd erupted again. Her laughter followed, triumphant and thunderous. She threw her cup aside, wine splashing across the dais as she turned to her attendants.
"Someone tell the cooks to prepare a feast! Tonight, we dine with the survivors! The dead have earned their silence~"
She leaned back, the light of the arena flickering across her mask. For once, she was at ease, radiant, monstrous, divine, and alive in every possible sense.
Here, amid blood and laughter, the Warpriest remembered that even gods were forged from joy as much as from war.