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Finished with her task she stands.
    She’s not as old as the others, maybe even close to my age, strawberry red hair and ocean blue eyes . The attire she wears is precisely the same as the other slave women. A one-piece dress plebeian, dull terra-cotta colored cloth. I lower my voice to barely a whisper as she adds anklets and bangles to my ankles and arms. “Are we being prepared for the main course, in this... feasting?” I ask.
    Briskly, her talented fingers hem and tuck the fabric, making sure she doesn’t leave a single thread exposed . Flaunting slits run along either side of my bare legs, as if pleased with her work she stands again spinning me around, twisting my hair back she whispers into my ear, “Don’t attract unwanted attention to yourself.” 
    She tugs on my hair twining it into a perfect golden spiral down my neck, darting a glance over to the guards I tilt my head slightly, and inquire, “What is it with all the gold , if I may ask?”
    She defines my lips with more golden paint, addressing me directly as her forewarning eyes gaze solely into mine as she responds, “It's the flesh of the gods.” That is when I notice her hands trembling. The guards advance forward quickly motioning for us to move into the next area. 
    Including myself, I count twelve of us smothered in gold we aring the same fine habiliments. Standing with raging, heart-pounding fear, completely unaware of what unforeseeable horrors lay near as we stand in front of a stone solitary table. 
    The floor seems to be remain s of an extensive mosaic paving. Torches enliven the eight belletristic columns. With more brightness displaying, I can see this area is entirely enshrined as a banquet room, limestone slab couches line other tables which are flanked with chthonian engraved semi-columns.
    A gust of burnt human flesh murmurs through the air as platters of meat are carried in, younger women and men arrange the carcass along the tables. Each haggard face reveals a lifeless glaze simply doing what they are told to do.
    As soon as the somber men and women sit everything on the tables they abandon the room, leaving an eerily silent atmosphere until three women down the line faint. Covering our mouths from the repulsive smell a couple of the women still standing, kneel down to check on the unconscious. Swallowing hard I can feel the bile battling back inside me, making my mouth water bitterly, the scene consuming us doesn’t help.
    Two women stand ing beside me vomit profusely, and the potent, acidic aroma practically has me on my knees, somehow saving me from following the same reaction. A scheming female voice crawls within the room. “Leave them be... then the weak shall lie beneath our feet while we feast.”
    Little by little my unwilling eyes drift up to seek out the voice . A rather tall humanistic woman brusquely strides down the main paving and seats herself in a marble throne, with bones arching in a semi-dome above. This now makes the focal point of the room, five stone hands rest on the bottom of the throne chair.
    She settles herself and inclines her head . I’m unable to tell where or whom she examines, because she has pure colorless eyes, and horns cradling around the frame of her demonic face. Granite hair splays along her backside masking the stone she is perched in. Leather bands wrap her upper body and a similar fabric outlines her gold branded legs.
    A flick from her talon-like claws and the war lords loom into the area. “Join them if you feel fit enough to do so, if not you shall starve.” Rationalizing the obvious, she, the queen of the horde, is inviting us to the flesh eating feast.
    Another pale looking woman pukes and I instantly feel myself become vapidly clammy, turning three shades of white under the gold paint.  Regardless, I remain upright staring vacantly at the warlords tearing into the meat as if it would be their last meal. Tal king, mumbling among themselves and drinking from fluidic mugs