Anthrax

[Steve42]

Anthrax



~Prologue~

A new day rises over the complex. A day like any other before it. As the warm autumn sun ascends over the mountains and basks the sand colored buildings at their feet in its orange light, the compound slowly awakens and the streets begin to bustle with life. Merchants drive their ox-wagons through the opening gates, delivering goods and wares to the ever consuming dwelling. The aggregation of buildings glitters yellow in the morning sun, as the sound of the large stream beneath greets the awaking complex. The first visitors arrive and saunter through the alleys rowed with palm trees, attaining in lounges and restaurants adorned with extravagant decorations and watching the various shows. Exalted pillars uphold the large entrances of public baths and temples, the numerous lounges are pompously designed to please their customers and the charming gardens allure with the wonderful scents of exotic flowers. The amphitheater is dusted out for the first performances and the central plaza in the middle of this floating island is filling with people dawdling around. Above it all towers the mighty coliseum, over shading the miniature city.
“Is it safe mommy?” A small girl tugs her mother’s sleeve as she suspiciously examines the ample stone squares beneath her feet, as if checking for holes. “Oh yes honey, it’s very safe. You see, many smart people have worked hard to build this place and keep it in the air.” The mother gently brushes through her daughter’s hair as they wander over the plaza. “But what if it falls down?” Not convinced she still clings to her mother. “It can’t fall down, sweetie. Did you see these large metal things with the blue lights? Remember, the ones we saw right below the walls when we came in over the bridge?” Smiling and playfully pinching her daughters nose she goes on: ”Those were Anima engines. They make this whooole place float.” “The whoole place?” giggling, the girl loses interest in her inquiry “Yes darling, the whoole place” The conversation goes over into silly laughter between mother and child as they wander along.

We let our gaze wander over this magnificent achievement of human and Riga engineering. Designed in collaboration between the two species, this floating island with the multitude of buildings stands as a symbol for the latest breakthroughs in Anima manipulation. When the curious blue stones were first discovered five hundred years ago, the young conjoined democracy could not imagine the things these crystals would do within the next few centuries. Emitting a form of energy no one had seen before, the crystals were a primary subject of investigation for many years. Dubbing them Anthrax, it was not before long when the first human inventors were successful in extracting power from the stones. Naming the new form of energy Anima, technology for both species made a leap forward. Allowing the construction of advanced machinery, human and Riga alike were beginning to explore the possibilities Anthrax opened up to them. Now, half a millennium later, the complex which we are now gazing upon is kept in the air with engines powered by Anthrax crystals.

The slaves of the complex make haste to perform their manifold tasks. Their status unnoticed by most but their services enjoyed by many, every third person visible in this place wears a metal collar, marking them for what they are. Servants scrub away the first leftovers, dancers and musicians entertain the newly arrived guests and Intellectuals begin to recite their theorems. Collars adorn all of their necks. As the first matches in the arena are about to begin, a multitude of the visitants shuffle towards the majestic construction. Loud shouts and cheering are to be heard, as the gladiators begin their daily struggles for victory.
They are the peons of the complex, taken from the streets as children and forced into a life of servitude.

They are the dark side to this shining example of the United Republics greatness.

As we watch the slaves in silence, none of them are aware of the things moving behind the scenes. Working in the shadows, matters are shifting and forces are making their moves in silence. Among the slaves, just as unsuspecting, five individuals do not yet fathom the changes that soon were to come for them. Going on with their daily grind, they don't suspect that the course of their lives is about to be altered forever.

This is the story of those people.

~~~~~~~~~~

[GreenGoat]

The chain rattled softly around her, as the platformed jerked once, and started to make its bumpy way upwards. She remained silent, her eyes closed, and her ears twitching as she listened intently to her surroundings. She tightened her fist and pulled on the shackles firmly, affirming that they are still tightly bound to her. Still she closed her eyes, feeling the platform slowing down, as a whirr sounded above her, as a trap door slowly opened herself, as smoke billowed in from hidden pipes to add a dramatic feeling to her entrance.

"Ladies and gentlemen! These gladiators gathered today will face...."

A loud clink caused her to snap open her eyes, her shackles undone, and in an instant, had already bounded on an off guard gladiator. The gladiator holding the spear barely even had the time to widen his eyes in surprise, as she tore his throat from his neck.

"ASMODEUS!!"

Blood splattered her face, a cruel grin upon her face. Her ears twitched as they caught a noise behind her, Asmodeus vaulting over the gladiator with the torn throat, as a spear pierced the air where she was recently and straight into the dying gladiator.

"Thats right, people, 5 gladiators, now 4, will face Asmodeus! WHO WILL SURVIVE!?"

***

She jerked awake, her vision blurry but still able to make out the bars of her cage. Asmodeus, Dea as she was called by her handler, gave a small groan as she finally felt her wounds. The most noticeable one was the shallow gash across her stomach, where she narrowly evaded from being cleaved into two. It was a good thing her wounds were bandaged and treated before she was put in here, as her room was not exactly the most hygienic place in the world.

She could vaguely remember the fight, before she was again facing those fully metal men and being shot with those sleep needles.

Her vision cleared enough to make out the rest of the room, a drab grey empty room. In fact the only object in here was a pipe where she could drink, a bowl with her name etched on it, and a bundle of hay where she could sleep. For other things she would often be taken out by her handler to those specific locations. This is the only world she could remember, this room, those long cold corridors, and the pit where she would often fight for her life. Dea scratched idly at her clothes, mindful of tearing it. She would be punished pretty badly by her handler if she did so, even if the feeling of clothing on her body feels a bit... tight.

[SailorKat]

Mornings were leisurely. As the wealthier patrons of the Blue Stone preferred the evening hours on into the night, Ariadne was allowed to sleep well into the afternoon. Those guests who came earlier would be served by the younger, less experienced Mistresses, and those few favored Daughters of Joy who had earned a small place here, at one of the most exclusive lounges in the complex. Even Ariadne, who had more than proven herself, was constantly watched. Though she was the number one requested Mistress, Ariadne had to keep an endless vigil. One misstep could prove fatal. She might lose her place at any moment.

But here, at least, she could relax. Somewhat.

She stretched, scratching idly at her shoulder where her lacy nightgown had slipped down. Though her public clothing was of the highest quality, everything else—her nightclothes and what she wore when she was simply visiting with her sisters—was hand-me-downs from elder Mistresses.

The room itself was tiny, barely big enough to contain her small but comfortable bed, her wardrobe, and a vanity. Through the door was the corridor, lined with her sisters’ rooms, arranged on three sides of a square. The last side of the square was taken up by the enormous dressing room, where the Mistresses prepped for their stints in the Stone. Stairs from that room led down into the Lounge itself. A back stair led down to the kitchens, where she would retrieve her breakfast shortly. Ariadne’s entire life was in these rooms.

Oh, how she wished it wasn’t.

She swung her legs down, her heels primly together even here, and padded the two steps to her own small window. It was not even as big around as her head, and so high on the wall she had to grip the sill and stand on her toes to see anything. The Blue Stone might be her life, but this window was her world. Yet it was only enough to tease, to tantalize. At night she could see millions of stars, seemingly close enough to touch. If she dragged her stool over, she could peer down into the bustle of the Plaza, watching the people go about their days. Collarless.

Today she looked up at the sky, at the sun shining brightly down, and the one white puffy cloud skating across the blue. It was beautiful. She gripped her blue collar, and turned away.

- - - - - - - - -

The dinner hour neared. Wrapped in a comfortably worn robe, Ariadne sauntered into the dressing room. Several of her sisters were there already, seated at their vanities or going through the various wardrobes. Strictly speaking, everything in the dressing room was to be shared equally, but in the confines of the Stone, the women were creatures of habit. Woe to the newcomer who sat in Sybilla’s chair or wore Marta’s favorite public robes.

Ariadne was not as possessive, though she sat at the vanity labeled hers and wore her customary jewel toned robes. It was easier, but she took no great pleasure in things. Very little made her truly happy, though she could feign contentment and good spirits with the very best. But she would gladly leave it all behind, if only to escape her small world.

“Ari, darling, you’ve got barely an hour before we venture downstairs.” Marta was a buxom redhead, popular with the younger, more boisterous crowd, for her charm and wit were lightning fast. If her stories were to be believed, she was also in great demand as a lover. Sometimes, Ariadne regretted her decision to remain untouched. At least those of her sisters who took lovers got to see other places, even if only luxurious rooms elsewhere in the Complex.

But then she would remember Serena. She of the golden voice who had been strangled by a jealous patron and left for dead. It was almost worse that she had lived. She no longer sang so beautifully, and so was demoted to a Daughter of Joy, forced to service whoever would have her.

Ariadne shook her head clear of such morbid thoughts and answered her sister. “I know, dear one. However, it requires very little effort on my part to be perfect.”

Marta laughed, with several other sisters joining in in acknowledgement of the joke, though everyone was acutely aware there was more than an ounce of truth to the statement. For Ariadne, donning her mask was less about facepaint and décor, and more about her innate grace and quiet serenity.

She sat in front of her mirror and brushed out her hair, using long soothing strokes on the black locks so it fell to her waist in shining waves. She decided to leave it down, only twisting a bit on the side and securing it with a jeweled comb. She stood and went to wardrobe farthest to the right, and drew out a deep purple robe. She changed quickly, securing the robe with a belt that matched her collar. That of course, was never removed. She never wore shoes, not even the soft slippers the others sometimes used. But she did take a few minutes to clean her feet of dust and household dirt.

With a final critical look in one of the two full-length mirrors in the dressing-room, she swept down the stairs to greet her audience.

---------

“Ariadne, surely you don’t mean to deprive us of your lovely company so soon?” The gentleman spoke quite clearly for downing nearly two bottles of excellent wine almost single-handedly.

She smiled gently, feeling her facial muscles protest the motion after hours of forcing the expression to her face. “But my dear sir, it is quite late. Surely it is time for us all to seek our beds?”

The gentleman’s much less inebriated companion leered at her. “I’ll gladly seek my bed if I shall find you there.”

Her smile turned brittle. “Our respective beds, gentlemen. I bid you goodnight.” Clasping the tray to her stomach, she left without seeming to hurry. She should have cleaned their table, but it had been an intolerable evening, full of innuendo and outright rudeness. Retired gladiators, those with no place to go after earning their freedom and grateful for jobs, stopped any overt violence, but they couldn’t throw a man out for flirtation without losing most of their custom.

She dropped the tray in the kitchen, where servants took over the job of cleaning and readying the lounge for the next night. She barely paused in the dressing room, earning startled glances from her sisters. Reaching her room, she tossed the pretty robe to the floor, going to her window in only her shift.

She wouldn’t cry. Tears were useless and she’d used hers up long ago.

The moon was bright tonight.

[Aurum]

Apollus sighed. So many things to do, and so little time to do them in. The chancellor of Bulgaria had ordered him to the lower floor of the Colosseum, a rare honor that few, even amongst the Mistresses and Butlers, could say they had experienced. The lower floor…a gigantic pavilion, with rich food, free-flowing wine, and beautiful dancers. And, of course, private rooms, for guests who felt that the arena was not…as entertaining as they had imagined.

He hurried down, nearly tripping over a lower caste slave. “Poor wretches,” He thought to himself. They were bound in a life of servitude, with no place to go, and no hope of escape. He shook his head. If he kept worrying about the ones who were below him on the proverbial ladder of society, he’d never get anything done. And the last person to keep the Chancellor of Bulgaria waiting had ended up in the arena himself. He quickened his pace, nearly rushing to the pavilion, as the crowd shouted out in glee. “Another senseless slaughter…” He muttered. He wondered if Asmodeus was fighting again, or if he’d been killed. The last time…well, even for the reigning champion, that was a close one.

As he entered the pavilion, he allowed his pace to slow down. He drank into his surroundings, letting himself fall under the trance of the intoxicating beauty around him. Of course, the vapours of wine and mead may have had something to do with that as well. As an intellectual, he was forbidden from touching drink, for fear that his mental faculties, impaired by the sleepy chants and calls the wine possessed, may stop functioning altogether. And so, when he entered an area so obviously steeped in the very same intoxicating chants, he was quite….defenceless. No tolerance, none.

The Chancellor of Bulgaria was a fat, pompous man. A small, trimmed goatee poked itself from under his many chins, and his eyes screamed with…delight? Anger? Nobody could tell, for, in the grand fashion of his country, he had adorned himself with a pair of eye covers. Eye covers adorned with tiny anthrax crystals around the rim, which sparkled and shone in the bright sunlight.

The arena loomed behind them, victim to the dusty, boiling rays of the sun. They danced around the sand, reflecting of the many mirrors placed across the arena… “To make things interesting!” the books he had pored over said. A little ray of light in a fighters eyes….and he wouldn’t be fighting for much longer. The sand was already red with the blood of…men? Riga? Lions? Tigers? Many had died already, and many more would soon fall victim to the arena, for it was almost alive in itself. It lived, and exulted, in the blood that was spilled at its feet. It thrived on the chants of the commoners and the nobles alike, and it cared not for the origin of the lamb that was slaughtered in its name. Riga and Human were treated fairly across the world, but nowhere, nowhere, were they more equal than in the glistening sands of the arena, fighting to the death.

“Greetings, Chancellor.” He smiled, revealing rows of pointy teeth. His crystal blue eyes gleamed with the false laughter that adorned his face. The first trick every slave learned: A happy slave is an invisible slave. And invisible slaves were rarely hung.

“Ah, you’re here? Good, good…I was beginning to get impatient.” The chancellor grinned? Grimaced? Who knew?

“Of course, your exaltedness. Be it fools from Austria, or the devils of Germania, or learned, gentle patrons like yourself, from exotic, yet revered locations, like Bulgaria, I am here to please.” He played of the age old rivalry between the Bulgarians, Austrians and Germanians. Every country had its share of disputes. The Bulgarians, unfortunately, were warmongers of the highest order, seeking to conquer every nation within grasp. Cassos, thankfully, was separated from Bulgaria by not only by a vast, thundering ocean but also by a powerful grasp and knowledge of the use of Anima. The Bulgarians did not dare attack a country so far superior to their own.

The Chancellor smiled. “Hmmm….My new son-in-law is an Austrian.” Apollus froze. “I hate that fool. Sub-par food for the dogs, if you ask me…”

Apollus grinned back. Perhaps today wouldn’t be as bad as he had originally believed.

[Tytus]

The lounge always smelled delightful. The scent of smoked ribs and sweet pastries permeated the air, with vintage claret and overly expensive vodka pervading through the equally-expensive taproom. Remus' deep ruby collar flared grimly as he pressed hard against the pink cloth, buffing the mahogany of the bar in slow, circular motions. He occasionally would stop to stare at a speck of dirt that was perhaps not there, exhale deeply against the wood, and begin buffing again. Remus sighed, taking a seat as the other butlers hurried about their business with exceedingly more passion than him. It was a wonder to them all, Remus included, why he was such a popular man among nobility.

Fluidly, he reached out to grab a bottle of red wine that really only tasted good if you had the acquired taste for it. It was good for getting drunk, though. Remus lifted his hand toward the cork, attempting to pry it free, before the green bottle was quite rudely snatched from his grasp. His cheeks flared red in anger and protest, but he bit his tongue as he turned to see Amelius Grahn holding the bottle, a fierce look in his eyes. If Amelius was an animal, Remus thought him much like a slow-witted panther.

"I think that's enough alcohol for today, butler, don't you think? I'd recommend you get back to your duties and leave the drinking to us of high birth. Unless... you happen to disagree?"

Remus snarled, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, fingering his hands against the sharp steel blade he kept within the cotton. He pictured himself pulling it out and plunging it deep within the man's neck, but as he thought this to himself, he realized that that thought was something the gladiator Asmodeous would have had. And while he pitied the poor Riga, becoming what she now was what something Remus wanted to avoid.

"No. You're perfectly right. But I do believe, high birth or not, even you have to pay for your beverages. Unless.. you happen to disagree?"

Amelius grunted angrily as Remus pried the wine bottle from the noble's hands, but stalked away as if no longer interested in a toy he had recently thought otherwise of. Truly, that was a stupid thing to do, as Amelius would come back again -either with his father or other haughty nobles-, and easily provoke Remus into getting another whipping, like he had last time.

Remus screamed in his head. Something flared in him, like a hungry beast, and the need for violence called him with a soft tongue and sweet kiss. His facial features darkened, and Remus found himself gripping the wine bottle (which cost more than his life, surely) tightly. He lifted the green glass over his head and chucked it toward the bar. It arced in the air, cracking into millions of shards as it smacked against the now splintered wood. A deep red liquid, soon color of Remus' own blood he thought, seeped into the cracks within the floorboards, and continued to spread so as to form a puddle. Remus stared at his own reflection within that liquid, within his blood. The whole lounge had been staring at him.

"Remus." One of the few butlers whom he actually considered a friend called to him. Remus was far away in his mind, now, but he could hear Silmon.
"I think you should go to your quarters now." The brutality that cracked with each of Silmon's words brought Remus back, who never thought it possible for the young butler to show annoyance or anger. It rather stung.

"Y-yeah.."

Remus made it quickly to his quarters, slamming and locking the door behind him. He leaned against the wooden door and slid down so he was sitting on his butt, and buried his face in his hands. He had not cried in sixteen years, since that night he was taken slave, and now that he was truly a man, he would not start. But something singed his soul, this last week. Something weighed him down to the floorboards and kept him from looking up. Perhaps it was the fair weather, bringing out more people to the lounge and outside. Free people. Happy people. It was true the simple laughing of a child now pierced him like a silver arrow to a werewolf, but he liked to think he wasn't that far gone yet. Maybe he was wrong..

When he opened his eyes again, Remus was still against his door, but the taproom was still.

He could make out the faint luminosity of the moon through his window.

[ProfessorNemo]

The Coliseum,on the surface it's a place of entertainment for the poor and a gambling place for the rich. A sport that is enjoyed by all....except the poor souls forced to compete. Everyday it's a fight for survival from sunup to sunset. Starvation,poisoning,infectious diseases,these are just a few of the trials a gladiator faces before he even sets foot into the Coliseum. For some,this is a better end than what awaits for them above their prisons. Fellow gladiators,wild animals,not to mention the various traps and tricks the guards have in store for them. Very few enter this place and leave without being changed in one way or another. Some grow stronger from the experiences and discover a newfound bloodlust while others lose their minds to the madness. In the world of Gladiators only one rule reigns supreme. The strong live to fight another day,while the weak are sacrificed for the enjoyment of the spectators above. For thoses who abide by this rule,freedom and a single wish are theirs for the taking.

A large cheer from the crowd above awakens Marcus from his sleep. With a yawn,Marcus begins to rub the sleep from his eyes as he prepares to face another day in this Godforsaken place. Every morning is the same routine. Any surviving gladiators from yesterday are given a hearty serving of gruel with an old rock hard piece of bread. After their meals are thrown into their cells the rest of the day is spent waiting. Waiting for the time when they would be pryed from their cells and thrown into combat.Every prisoner trapped there had ways to ease the tension. Some spent their time talking with the other prisoners to ease their own uneasiness. Others would spend it in prayer to their gods for protection or in preparation for the afterlife. Then there were gladiators like Marcus,who would use their time training their bodies.

Push-ups,sit-ups,any kind of physical training Marcus could perform in his small stone cell was done without hesitation. Normally he would continue doing this with random breaks in between reps but today.....something had stirred up the guards.

"Hey,did you hear what happened in the last match ? I heard they unleashed Asmodeus the wild Riga today !
She took down the prisoners in cells 27 & 49 ! I heard she ripped out one guys throat !" The guards continued their conversation and patrol of the cells as Marcus continues his workout.

Every person in the Coliseum knew about the battle crazed Riga. A privately owned slave with a past to match. Any rumors galdiators heard usually came from the guards. Because any gladiator that face her....never live to tell the tale. An opponent like that would be a challenge for anyone,even for Marcus. Who knows what the future held for him ? Either way,it didnt matter to him. All he had to do was win a few more matches. Just a few more...and everything he had been working for would come true.

[Steve42]

~~~~~~~~~~

Much in this manner, our day passes in its regular fashion.
Visitors pour in and out of the complex in a never-ending stream, slaves perform their dire work in their everyday way and Gladiators soak the sand on which they fight with the red essence of their life. As our eyes graze over the crowds, taking in the colorful multitude of people and catching glimpses of the diverse ways which the slave’s labor goes in, we observe the manifold separate and yet indivisible happenings. A dancer in pied clothing drops a cup on her customer who angrily lashes out at her. Father and son gamble their way to poverty in a run-down shack. Two performers hastily rehearse their piece before stepping out onto the platform. Swollen up, fat nobles lounge in the spacious lower floor of the coliseum. The crowd on the streets moves along, moves like there is no tomorrow. And as we see this happen, something else stirs our attention. Within the sea of people, there shifts something that does not seem to belong. One with the herd and yet separated from it, we see a cloak flapping and a catch few glimpses of a dark hood. As quickly as it appears, as quietly it is gone again. People would look up for a moment and wonder to see doors opened they were sure to have closed only moments before. Heads would turn ever so slightly, bewildered if there was something just now or if it had been but their imagination. And guards protecting things that were not to leave their place would wake up and ask themselves why they had fallen asleep in the first place. As the shadows grow longer and the light grows dimmer, the compound grows from a steaming crowd to a benign set of few people. The large gates never close, for the reputation of the complex is a never sleeping, never resting one. Nonetheless, calm settles over the golden buildings as the last rays of sunlight bath them in their light once more, before finally laying this place to rest.

Retiring from their day, the six slaves which we have followed in their course of this day retreat from their daily tasks each in their very own way.
Yet as normal as this day was, something is amiss. No sound, no trace was left behind, all the same there is something mismatched.

Her tears but locked inside of her, the mistress bathed in moonlight, longing for the outside world would catch a glimpse of parchment lying on her bed, seemingly out of place.
Returning to his chambers, the scholar would retire from performing his fair work and find on his desk a small folded piece of paper that had not been there before.
Training himself for a yet unforeseen future, the gladiator with a dream would notice in his pocket a rustling that hinted at something being put there without him ever noticing.
Longing for freedom, unconsciously sensing the shifting and changing in the construct of the world, the butler bemoaning his fate would open his eyes from sleep to find a scratch of parchment lying in his lap.

Guided by strange fate, these four individuals would open the small rolled up slip note almost at the same moment in time, and read the winding words engraved in black ink.


“If you wish to escape, come to the feet of the clock tower by midnight”


Deep in the dungeons beneath the arena, the beast with the heart of silver would curiously find its chains opened and the door unlocked. Flickering in front of it, a small blue spark dancing in the air, akin to a firefly, would attract its naturally curious nature and, if followed, lead it towards its destined place. For the savage beast with the gentle soul does not know writing, another way was found to guide its way out.

~~~~~~~~~~

[ProfessorNemo]

With Marcus's scheduled matches over for the day,the young gladiator is led back to his cell. Removing the shackles around his arms and hands they quickly shove him in afraid that any delay would give the prisoner a chance to escape. As the guards return to their duties,Marcus begins to dust himself off as he helps himself to his "dinner". With his plate of gruel finished Marcus gathers all the straw in his room and creates a makeshift pillow as he prepares to call it a night. Laying down on his side Marcus closes his eyes as he drifts off to sleep....at least that was his plan. No sooner had he laid down he felt something in his pants pocket. He slowly begins to sit up as he searches his right pants pocket and pulls out a key wrapped in a leather cloth. As Marcus reads the note,a sly grin begins to cross his face.

"Now who could have gone and slipped me this ? A guard ? No,no guard would risk helping out a gladiator. Hmm...oh well,it doesn't really matter now. Looks like my freedom was closer than I thought." Marcus thinks to himself as he prepares for his escape!

With none of the guards around and most of the other prisoners asleep,Marcus puts his plan into action! He quietly puts the key into the door's lock. As he slowly turns the key,the inner workings of the unlatch with a loud clank as his prison door is now unlock. As Marcus steps out of his cell his heart begins to race ! With no time to enjoy this feeling of freedom, he quietly makes his way down the hall as he begins to head for the exit. Sticking to the shadows,Marcus keeps an eye out for any on patrol guards or any still awake prisoners. The only thing all of these gladiators have in common is the dream of freedom. However,if a prisoner would see another trying to escape he would do everything he could to make sure the attempt would fail. The reasons behind this is different for each prisoner. Some do it to gain favors or better food from the guards. Others would do it to ensure the still remaining prisoners wouldn't be punished. However,in this case,most would do it for their dislike of Marcus. That's why he had to be careful,one wrong move could spell the end of him. Thankfully,today it would seem that God was on his side as the goal is right on sight ! All that stands in his way is one young guard that blocks the personnel exit. Picking up a stray pebble,Marcus throws it down the hall as he hides behind one of the pillars holding up the roof.

"Hello ? W..who goes there ? Captain,is that you ?" The young guard asks as he readies his sword in one hand and a torch in the other.

He slowly begins to walk down the hall as the pillar and shadows hide Marcus's presence. As the guard slowly passes him by,Marcus begins to slowly creep up behind him. As soon as Marcus is within range of his opponent....he strikes !
With one arm around the guards neck and the other pushing down on his head Marcus puts the guard into a sleeper hold. With his neck and mouth covered,the guard begins to thrash about as he tries to break Marcus's grip. Within a few minuets the young guard drops his torch as his whole body goes limp.

"Sorry to disturb you but I have plans tonight. First,I plan to meet the person who helped free me and give them my thanks. After that....I plan to go ahead and grant my wish !" Marcus gloats to the unconscious guard.

Picking up the guard,Marcus throws him on his shoulders as he carries him back to the exit. Taking a quick look around,Marcus places the knocked out guard on a chair by the exit. Then he repositions the guards body to look like he fell asleep on the job as for the first time in two years....he leaves the Coliseum !

[SailorKat]

Ariadne didn’t know exactly how long she’d been standing there in the dark, but the moon continued its nightly journey, some distance from where it was when she came in. With a sigh she finally turned away, using the meager light entering the window to light the candle she kept by her bedside. She reached for the covers to pull them aside, but then paused. There was a scrap of paper lying on the bed. Frowning, for she certainly didn’t remember putting it there, she picked it up.

She unfolded it to reveal the short message. Though not as well educated as the Intellects, Ariadne did know enough to read, write, and count money. The paper fluttered to the floor as the meaning of the message sank in. She reached blindly behind her for the little stool, sinking down onto it. Could this be real? She glanced at the door, chewing her bottom lip in thought. It couldn’t be that easy…could it?

She picked the note up again, rereading it. The words stayed the same. Abruptly, she stood, the note crinkling as she balled her hands into fists. No matter what, or who, waited for her at the clock tower, she was done waiting tamely here, living out her days in a padded cage.

She strode to her wardrobe and flung it open, her brow furrowed. There was nothing practical she could use, really. Her long gowns and robes were all of a kind, meant for lounging and display, not for clandestine outings. She snatched the shortest of her robes, a soft gray that went only to her ankles and threw it on. She used another as a makeshift bag, tossing in a sewing kit and a few changes of unmentionables. She stopped in dismay as another thought occurred to her. She had no shoes, not even the soft slippers the other girls used at times. There was little she could do about it now, however. She used a soft belt cord to tie the bundle together, and quietly opened her door.

This was the time of night that was the most quiet. The Blue Stone was empty, the customers having chosen their companions or gone on to livelier entertainment. She slipped through the shadowy main room and out the door. She stood there on the threshold for a moment, for it was the first time she’d dared to cross it. The Blue Stone stood at a coveted location, opening directly onto the Plaza. The Coliseum lay just down the lane. The clock tower was in the opposite direction; she could see it from where she was standing. She clutched her bundle closer. She couldn’t tell what awaited her there. The sharp edges of the light from the street lanterns left the base of the tower in shadows.

Resolutely, she strode forward, her bare feet falling softly on the cobbled street.

[Tytus]

Remus woke with a start. He had been sweating a great deal in his sleep; his shirt was sticking to his chest, and his heart thudded loudly in his head in remembrance of his dream. He slowly stood up -stretching his sore limbs and muscles after falling asleep in such an uncomfortable position- only to crease his lips in puzzlement as a piece of parchment fell from his lap toward the floor. The ink is still wet, Remus noted as he caught it swiftly between two deft fingers, someone must have placed it rather recently. He stared at the words on the paper, digesting them as he groaned a knot out of his back.

“If you wish to escape, come to the feet of the clock tower by midnight.”

Rocks clogged Remus' throat. He tried to laugh the letter off as a hoax- a prank from some snotty obtuse noble's son. But his teeth were a barrier to his tongue, and words would not escape his lips. What if it wasn't a prank? Remus did not want to be known as gullible, but he also did not want to be known as the man who turned down freedom when it so clearly presented itself.

Choices.. He muttered to himself.

Wasps of wind groaned through a cracked window within Remus' quarters, sending millions of miniature goosebumps formulating like a rash on his body. I'll need heavier clothing, if I'm serious about this.

- - ~ - -

"Dammit! Remus get in here, we need you! There's trouble at the lounge!"

Malacus threw the doors of Remus' quarters open with his broad arms, searching fervently for the man. He was not there. His leather boots clattered against the wood as he stepped into the full of room, exploring its empty contents. The dresser was torn open, with expensive pieces of clothing thrown around like commoner's wear. Scratches marked the top of his wardrobe, like something sharp had been dragged against its dull and aging oak. A note was left, addressed specifically toward the butler, Malacus, himself.

"Malacus,
You've been a good friend. A great friend. You probably deserve a better goodbye, but then again, you probably deserve freedom.
In that regard, I'm off to either the cell blocks if things go wrong, or a new life, if they go right. I leave you this letter not just to say my goodbyes,
but also to ask of you something. Firstly, anything that I've left here you and the other servants can distribute amongst yourselves. But mainly, I ask that
you make sure that bastard Amelius gets some..special beer I've left in the pocket of one of my jackets. Thanks. See ya around.

P.S
Burn this letter.

P.S.S
I hope you're a servant who can read."