In the dark entryway corridor of the colosseum Gatsha stalked back and forth before the iron gate. Outside she could hear the cries of the crowd and the announcement of her opponent in the tongue of her hated captors. Again she would be thrown into this pit for their amusement, again she would have to fight, perhaps even kill, all for the thrill of the crowd. She had spent enough time in the arena to learn that almost all who fought in this pit became accustomed to it, some even learned to love it. 

   While apart of her did enjoy the exhilaration victory brought, she would never love the idea of being a spectacle for their whims. Finally the iron gate groaned in protest as it slowly rolled upward. Breathing in deeply and with a head raised high, Gatsha rushed into the arena with a spear pointed to the sky. She played the part that was expected of her, and the crowd roared in response. Bouts involving Gladiatrix were so rare that they always excited the mob to the point of madness. 

   Why? Gatsha could only guess, but this land and people were so very different than what she was used to. She soon lowered her spear and glanced at her opponent, studying the man she would fight. It was one of the pale men of the north, his skin an even lighter contrast to the more tanned flesh of their italian masters. She guessed him to be from a tribe far to the north of the cold lands. She had heard whispers of them now and again from over hearing talks between gladiators and Romans alike when in her ludus, even though her grasp of the latin dialect was still weak. 

   The man carried a single spear, much like her, as well as a rather large shield. The kind that reminded Gatsha of the strange and cumbersome looking Scutum that roman soldiers employed. Only this was oval in shape and not square. He wore no armor at all relying primarily on his shield for protection. This was not unfamiliar to Gatsha at all who had thrived on a continent where the use of even light armor in the sun's heat was tantamount to suicide. Still it was a rarity among gladiators enough that it sparked her interest. Already his dress spoke volumes of the man, the warrior he was. One who no doubt relied on mobility and speed, not unlike Gatsha herself. 

   Done appraising her opponent, she stopped just 20 feet out from him, testing the weight of her curved spear in her hand. Counter weighted on one end it was well suited for single man skirmishes such as these. Heavier than the spears she was used to in her homeland, but also more lethal. Her roman short sword was sheathed and belted at her waist. The braids of her midnight black hair were tied back as to not get in the way during her match. The sun was high in the sky overhead, hardly a cloud to be seen. A good die to fight, maybe even a good day to die. 

   She stood in a simple fighting stance, her left foot leading and her shield hovering just above bent knee level, her right foot behind her making her a smaller target. She carried her spear in an underhanded grip placing her hand near the center. She tapped the side of her spear against her buckler style shield, indicating she was ready, and waited.