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Winter was at its end, and that meant that Apulum's largest gladiatorial tournament was imminent.

Of course, the largest tournament Apulum could offer was not the equal of even minor tournaments elsewhere, but it was still an event that would draw gladiators and arena enthusiasts alike from around the Empire. Apulum was a lovely coastal town, and had many attractions beyond its well kept if modest arena to entertain travelers with. The wealthy wishing for a getaway from their lives in the capital or one of Venatria's other cities would flock here for relaxation, punctuated by the thrill of excitement that bloodshed in the arena brought with it.

And there would be sponsors. Watching the ravenous and fresh faced gladiators competing for glory would be men and women with coin to spare, knowledge to give, and influence they believed they could use to the benefit of a team. For teams looking to win entry into tournaments of Tarracina, or even places beyond like Meroa in the far south, this was where they had to start. Tournaments in towns like Apulum, where those with potential could be plucked from obscurity and pushed into the light of fame and glory. More than one legendary name in the arena had been born in Apulum.

Loreia Valens had one such legendary name, though its weight was steadily fading with time. The crowds of the world had proven fickle, eager enough to move on to the next hero that the loss of one did not weigh them down for long. Many of those next heroes were born at the Valens Gladiatorial School. Not literally, of course, but they were set on the path that led them to glory there, in the sands of the training courtyard, drilled into the weapons that were adored and cheered on in the arena. So many of them had gone and taken their own glory under their own names now, leaving the name Valens behind to fade.

Loreia would let that stand no longer, but for her, the glory would be a means to an end. The influence would be used to find justice, not for her own selfish gains. The money would be used to travel far and wide, to places her father's teammates and students had traveled since leaving Venatria. To find them, ask them questions. Ask them why. Why was her father murdered? And why did so few of them even try to keep the school together?

Or, she would simply die a bloody death a number of times in the arena, finding no glory for herself. Perhaps she would even die out of it, and join her father. Amulius sure seemed to think so.

"Your father would not want you to be doing this," he reminded her, for the hundredth time in the last day. Ever since she'd put out the call, a mere day before the tournament was to begin. As set as she was now, she'd been very indecisive, unsure if this was the way, if it was something she was capable of. Her capability was irrelevant in the end. She had to try. The last year had led her nowhere.

"My father is gone, Amulius," she said, resolutely. "I'm going to find out who is responsible, and bring them to justice. And I won't let everything he built fall to ruin. Even if he never intended it for me." She was never supposed to be a warrior. The diplomat's life was chosen for her, and she'd intended to take it until a year ago. She could hardly be called a warrior now, and indeed she didn't look the part, but she had skill and good instincts. All her instructors had assured her of this.

"I fear this course will destroy you," the steward said. "You are all that is left of this House. Of your family."

"Then help me get started. Give me a better chance to succeed." She did value his opinion, after all. The old steward had three times her years on the earth, and her father had always listened to his counsel. Loreia's views, she found, were often different from her father's, but she would at least try to listen. Reluctantly, he nodded.

The volunteers would begin arriving soon, she suspected. It was mid-afternoon now, and the first match took place at sundown, mere hours away. A hasty call had been put out for all seeking entry to a gladiator team to present themselves before Loreia Valens at her family's manor and training grounds the following day. The Valens grounds were located just outside the town, a peaceful area on the edge of Apulum's farmland. Their lands were well tailored by family workers being paid still with the earnings her father had set aside throughout his winning years.

The manor itself was protected by a high wall of near ten feet, solid and sturdy stone, with a gate in the front manned by well-armored guards. They would escort the prospects inside, across the front grounds and into the gladiator school. Loreia herself was located at the far end of the training grounds, a large, open square courtyard of sand the likes of which they'd find in most of Venatria's arenas. She sat on a cushioned chair in the shade of an awning, dressed practically but fittingly for a young noble, in well-fitted trousers and high boots, a leather jacket draped over her tunic. She was trying not to look too much like a noblewoman. Upper class individuals were not the types she was expecting to receive.

Once inside the training grounds, the gladiators would meet with her one at a time, those waiting their turn able to occupy themselves with either the target range, the practice dummies, or the refreshments of water, wine, and a few snacks the kitchens had been able to arrange on short notice.

Truth be told, Loreia wasn't sure how many she could expect, if any at all. Her name had history behind it, but she was seen by many as just a girl, entirely unproven and probably unready for the arena. She had half a mind to agree. But it was also a name that carried a promise of potential glory. And it was that she was counting on.

They had arrived at the town of Apulum the day before. It was Tahir's first visit, he had asked the dead man if he had been to the arena here before, but he had not answered. This was not unusual. Their relationship was one built upon silence. Silence and secrets. But it was a relationship none the less, one that Tahir believed they both appreciated, though he doubted his master would ever admit so much.

They must have made a strange pair as they had travelled the road towards the coast. A scarred slave boy leading a mule, alongside a pale grey mare with a strange and foreign man all in black atop it. When the wind blew his master looked more like ball of swirling darkness than a man, as his many cloaks and robes and veils all danced with the gusts of air. Sometimes Tahir had talked away in their native tongue. But mostly they had been silent save for the clopping hooves of the old mounts and trudge of his sandals upon the road.

It was their first games of the new year, the winter was generally speaking not considered a time for the arena in these provincial towns of Venatria. Too cold, thought Tahir, not like in Sariya where the winters were so mild and the summer sun could kill. Here the sun was weaker, and the tournaments would begin with the spring and end when Lord Akzum's touch fell over the trees. The winter had been lean for them, most of his master's winnings from that fall had been spent on the cheapest boarding house they could find. For while it looked like they would have to sell what little treasure they had left in order to make it through to the spring. But they had survived, and they were here now.

Apulum was fresh after the dust of the road. The salt on the air and the crisp sea breeze from the west smelt of promise, of new beginnings perhaps. But ocean also reminded Tahir of much darker times that he would rather not dwell on. It had been years, but the creak of the ship and the moans of those whom had laid next to him those long fevered weeks still haunted his dreams.

They had gone to the arena first, as they always did when they came to a new town. Tahir did the speaking, as he always did when they had to speak to people. He limped through the cycle of questions he had been taught to repeat in his broken Venatrian: "When do the games begin? What purses are on offer? Will there be a tournament for singles? Are any of the teams looking for new gladiators?" He was so used to hearing 'no' to the last one that he almost launched into the next without hearing what the man was saying:

"I hear that the House Valens seeks new blood. Not that it'll come to anything, their luck has turned on them..."

It was at that Tahir heard the rustle of his master behind him. A light touch fell upon his shoulder and he turned to look up at the veiled face. Tahir couldn't see through the thin slit there, but he knew that his master was suddenly very interested in what this Venatrian had to say. Normally they had no luck with joining the established houses. Unknown outsiders like themselves were considered a gamble, and then of course there was his master's... condition... to think about.

When they had left the arena to find lodgings for that night his master had seemed pensive and brooding. In fairness, he always seemed to brood, but this night more so than most others. They had shared a room, Tahir sleeping on the bed meant for his master, for his master needed no sleep. Oft he would sit in the darkness and feign it, but Tahir knew he could never truly rest. This night he did not do so. He had watched the sun set from their window and had stood there silently for hours, watching first the moon and then stars rise.

"Do you know this House Valens?" Tahir asked quietly to the darkness.

The figure by the window did not reply, but slowly he turned his head to look at Tahir. In the privacy of their room he had removed the veil which hid his face and Tahir could see the faint blueish glow emitted by his empty sockets. His master nodded to him.

"Are we going to try to join them? Should we risk it, the last time was n-"

His master raised a hand and Tahir fell silent. He didn't want to discuss his now. A small knot of rage formed in his stomach for a moment. This was his future to! They would kill his master as a necromancy, but what would they do to his 'apprentice'?! He tried to put it out of his mind, but it soured his sleep and left him dreaming. Dreaming of a creaking ship, the clank of chains, and the moaning people.

The dead man did not dream, but remembered. He stood at the window until the sun came up, and then he made his decision.



They had spent the morning and early afternoon preparing.

Tahir had unpacked the best of his master's clothes and drew water from the well to wash them. Then there was his sword, his belt, the circlet he sometimes wore - they all needed polishing. The horses had needed seeing to, and Tahir had conspicuously ordered food and drink 'for his master' in order to keep up the charade of their existence. He had tried to find out what he could about this House Valens, but his master was not in the mood to talk and kept him busy most of the day.

The Lord Duwabir had dressed himself once, and then again, and finally a third time until he was happy with his appearance. He had done a good job. The long flowing robes could only disguise so much, it was the arrangement of the padded under layers of sack cloth and straw that would hid his master's condition except to the most acute of eyes. Perfumed oils were applied to the outer most layers to cover the faint lingering smell of death. The jewels and silver of his adornments shone and contrasted against the sable robes he paired them with. He was dressing to impress.

Tahir had a few minutes to eat and clean himself before they left. In that time his master had scratched down upon a slate what he should say and had Tahir read it back to him. He considered them intensely, making adjustments here and there until he was happy with it. For one so silent, his master still had something of a silver tongue when it came to putting words in others mouths - even in Venatrian.

After that they had set off, it was almost mid-afternoon and the sun was warming up. His master was on horseback, Tahir simply walked, it was not a long journey, only just outside the town as the land turned back to farms. They came first through fields and grounds, until they approached a manor with high stone wall and a sturdy guarded gate.

"The Lord Duwabir has business with the House of Valens. He hears they seek gladiators." Tahir spoke in his best attempt at formal Venatrian, but he seemed that they (or others like them) were expected, and were admitted through the grounds and into a courtyard.

It was a training ground, for gladiators. Tahir had seen the sands from the ringside many at time while watching his master fight, but he never actually set foot in one himself. It sent shivers up his spine, had people died right here? Was this what it was like ever time his master set foot in a place like this? He looked up to see his master, but the Lord Duwabir was focused on what, or rather, who was sat at the end of the courtyard.

She sat upon a cushioned chair in the shade of an awning, and Tahir thought she looked beautiful. She wasn't dressed like the nobles of Sariya did, with all the jewels and gold on every finger and toe. But she didn't need to, her hair was like the rich red-gold that the fabled mines of Azadulkum produced, and it was all the adornment she needed. Tahir halted before her, and tried to speak, but found himself tongue tied. He couldn't remember the words, the words in Venatrian, it all wanted to come out in Sariyan. His stomach whirled and fluttered. Then he heard his master bowing slightly behind him, and it all came flooding back. Bow first, then speak.

He bowed, deeper than he should have perhaps, but it gave him a chance to gather his breath. And then, he spoke.

"My Lady, may I present to you my master, the Lord Duwabir."

He turned and gestured to the cloaked and veiled figure a pace behind him. The lord Duwabir stood still, silently staring at the woman under the awning.

"My master was a champion of the arenas of Sariya in times past. He remembers facing the champions of your father there in his youth. But circumstance forced an early retirement upon my lord. A disease, most terrible, ate away at his skin and tissues. His condition means he cannot face the sun, nor make speach. But his limbs are still strong and his blade quicker than ever."

Tahir paused for breath. It was an old lie they told, a wasting disease of the face and throat. Sometimes they said it was contagious to keep the curious away, Tahir hoped they would not have to here. He also hoped that they would not see through this ploy. The last time they had tried to join a house they had been discovered, and there had been hell to pay.

"He has returned from retirement to seek glory in the arenas of Venatria. He won the purse for single combatants at Casuel last summer, and silver in melee at Lunis for the festival of Justia. He has travelled to Apulum to seek honour in the arena once more. And the Lord Duwabir wishes to do so in the name of House Valens."

"Need more mead!" the barbarian laughed, numerous empty jugs on the wooden table he was sitting on, surrounded by ladies of questionable honor and cheap to sleep with "It's been 3 hours Rägnar..." the bartender complained, having to withstand the bad manners and almost non-existent hygiene of the wild mercenary "And what? Tomorrow I'll get the glory I deserve!" he cried out, obviously full of energy and almost in bliss due to the amount of mead that he had drunk and the company that surrounded him. It was past midnight, and the tavern of Apulum, The Sleeping Bear, was just filled with rat packs and people of the night.

"Mhm, yes lasses, I'll bring each of you a skull from the tournament..." he said, smiling stupidly to the ladies that were tending to him, massaging him in places that no one should comment on. After a few minutes of flirting, a voice was heard from the entrance of the tavern, the sounds of steel boots advancing towards the counter as a group of 3 bounty-hunters leaned on it, asking the owner for information about someone called "The Orc", more than likely not knowing that the person they were looking for was in the same room as them. Rägnar slowly picked up his hammer from beside the table, pushing the ladies off of him and holstering it, before putting his hands on both of his axes. "Uh, well, he was just here but then he had to leav-Agh!" his speech was cut short due to one of the hunters positioning his silver rapier a few millimeters away from his neck, closing his eyes "He's right there, the barbarian!" the bartender yelled.

The group of three turned around, only to see the gigantic figure of Rägnar looking at them, leather and fur being his only armor against attacks, giving him a sense of mystique "So, you're the bastard who attacked that caravan..." the leader asked, taking a step back as he unholstered his bastard sword from his belt, the sound of steel being caused due to the last of the three also grasping his sword "You work for money, and so do we, but we're lacking honor." one of them snickered, it was obvious they were counting on overpowering him with numbers instead of skill (which they did not lack at all), but all of that was cut short as a handaxe flew across the room, getting stuck to the chest of the bounty hunter in the left, who instantly fell to the ground.

Rägnar charged right at them, with an axe on his hand and a jug of mead on the other one, which was now free to grab whatever it wanted. The men feinted to the same side as the barbarian using the hand with the axe to swipe at one of the wooden pillars, using it to turn around rather quickly and tackle both of them, sending them flying trough a window with a tackle "Hey, you'll have to pay that!" the bartender said, a hand around his neck as he saw the chaos going on "Every time..." he sighed to himself, the fight continuing outside as the two got up, coughing as numerous shards of glass were stuck in their legs "Y-You're an animal!" one of them yelled, his morale falling as he tried to run away from Rägnar, whom just got out of the same window, having to kneel down because of his height, sending the remaining axe flying towards the back of the man, ending his running and life.

The remaining mercenary looked at the now unarmed barbarian, instantly attempting to strike him as he slashed at Rägnar's side, which he just dodged in time to earn him a new scar, but no serious damage "Attacking an unarmed opponent? Disgusting..." the mercenary said, grasping the Warhammer from his back and patting it slightly, before attempting to smash the head of the bounty hunter, swinging his hammer from right to left, his opponent backing up into a wall as rain started to pour on both of them, attempting to slice Rägnar's legs, which he stopped with the hammer itself, sending the bastard sword flying off to the side. "No, p-please, don't hurt me!" he cried out, sliding down the wall as he stared at The Orc, wielding the hammer "You work for money...and so I do..." he lifted his hammer "But I'm lacking piety." he said, bringing it down as he smashed the entirety of the man's head, blood spurting out of the dead man's neck.

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Rägnar woke up after a few hours inside the Inn's dorm "Must have gotten drunk and slept here..." he thought to himself, before watching the broken-in window of his room "Mhm." he nodded to himself, quietly coming out of bed, bare naked, and walking up to the equipment "Sarah, I told you enough times, don't clean the empty rooms..." a voice was coming, the sound of a mature woman coming up the stairs made the barbarian's effort to tie his hair into a topknot and get into the fur pants, but it was too late, the sound of a screaming woman and the sight of a half-naked Torguren carrying two axes and a bloody Warhammer made it clear that the morning wasn't going to go well.

Walking up to Loreia's manor, a thought ran through his mind "This lady must be wealthy, maybe I can give her sexual pleasure and she'll reward me! I heard that wealthy women often take up slaves to perform things like that for them, I guess that can be a good rest between killing and killing..." he laughed out loud, which made some of the people around the streets turn their view to him, wondering how a man of such proportions could be so...so not civilized. After a while of walking, he came up to the front door, whistling as the height and overall proportions of the manor surprised him "I came to fight!" the guards readied his spears "For, uh, the rich lady..." they quickly sighed in relief, opening the door and letting him in into the courtyard.

It was immense, a sparring dream for every fighter that had ever thought of going into serious business and becoming a real fighter, just like he was about to become. "You'll have to excuse me Mr...uh...well, Mr.Rägnar, but Ms.Loreia is busy with, uh, another participant..." a fine dressed man came to tell this to the barbarian, who raised an eyebrow and glanced over at what seemed to be the other man, a slender young boy and a woman sitting on the chair "Oooh, that must be the woman that needs sexual pleasure." he said, the butler looking at him "Pardon?" he said, obviously surprised as to what Rägnar just said "Oh, she does not?" the fine dressed man rolled his eyes, turning away at a moderate pace and leaving him standing around the courtyard, some of the people practicing there glancing from time to time at him, maybe recognizing him because of his fame...or just because he was carrying around crude weaponry.

To say this was not what Loreia was expecting to see first would be a bit of an understatement.

It was one of the things Amulius had predicted, that she would receive only the very youngest of fighters and the very oldest. Either unproven and untested as herself, or well past their prime and clinging to dying glory, desperate to return to the arena and have one more taste of it. Either way, unfit to face warriors in their primes. But still, she expected washed-up Venatrian gladiators, not... a former Sariyan champion. To say nothing of the odd condition he seemed to have. His garb was strange and completely foreign to her. She'd met Sariyans before, mostly nobility as this man apparently was, but none decorated in quite this fashion. It was... strangely beautiful, though it made her feel a little sad for reasons she could not immediately discern.

"Lord Duwabir," she said, a bit unsure whether to speak directly to him or to his servant. She was aware that the guards around her were somewhat on edge, since the mention of the disease. "Do you—does he—how is it that you fight? Can you see clearly?" The veil seemed like it would be problematic. At her side, Amulius cleared his throat softly.

"And how is Lady Valens to know you speak the truth? That you are this champion you claim? There could be anyone under there."

Loreia sighed quietly, lifting a hand slightly to encourage the steward to ease back. "He asks harshly, but my steward's question stands. Can you prove you are who you say you are, a former champion of the arena?"

"My maste-" A hand gently fell on Tahir's shoulder as he began to answer the questions put to him, cutting him off in the middle of his sentence. Tahir turned to his master behind him who was pointing with a single finger to a table at the site of the courtyard. Tahir could see what was upon it, and he knew what his master wanted.

He began to walk over to it, before remembering the company he was in and stopped. He fugitively glanced back at the beautiful woman on the dais and bowed once more again. As he did so he felt his cheeks flush, he was not used to being around women such as this one. He was not used to being around women at all.

His master paced back and forth on the sands, he was impatient. So Tahir hurried to the table and retrieved what his lord had spied from afar. Atop the table, alongside jugs of wine and water, was a bowl of sweet citron fruits. It was too early in the year for them here, they must have been grown under glass or brought up from south at considerable expense. He plucked a large and ripe one from the bowl. It moistly glistened in the palm of his hand. Tahir thought it looked delicious, but this particular fruit was not for eating.

He turned, and threw it at his master.

The Lord Duwabir's hand seemed to appear from the folds of his robes as if by magic and stopped the fruit as it arced through the air mere inches from his veiled face. His head had barely turned to see it as he did so.

It was an impressive trick, one Loreia doubted she could replicate herself, but then again, Lord Duwabir had obviously known it was coming, and had even instructed the servant in doing it. Still, she found something about the interaction between the two of them to be quite genuine. It was in the way he calmed the servant's nervousness, which he could've been feeling for any number of reasons. It strongly gave off the impression that they'd known each other for some time. Not just two fools looking to dupe a young noblewoman into letting them into the arena.

"That was quite something," she admitted, keeping her expression mostly neutral, though a hint of a smile crept to her lips. "But I'm afraid we'll have more than fruit thrown at us in the arena tonight."

Tahir looked to his master. The Lord Duwabir's head was cocked slighted to some side, and though Tahir could not see his face, he got the distinct impression that his master would be grinning right now if he could. Without looking away from the woman under the awning, the Lord drew his sword and began to spin it.

It was lazy at first. Its great broad and curved blade gliding through the air like some fat silver serpent. It flourished to his side, then drew cuts across his front. It grew faster, spinning and whirling with a mind of its own. It wheeled it the sun, flashing and gleaming like a diamond from the mines of Ghanahdpur. Faster and faster, until Tahir's eyes could not follow it, all while his master paced back and forth across the sands.

Suddenly he stopped and hurled the fruit high into the air. He turned his back and took a single step forwards. For a heartbeat the glistening fruit hung in the air far above the sands of courtyard, and then it fell downwards towards the world below. Tahir held his breath, he had seen his master do this hundreds of times, but it was still a tense moment.

The Lord Duwabir spun on his heels just as the fruit reached head height. His sword darted out and slashed three times backward and forwards.

The criton fell to the ground, and slid apart into four equal slices.

Loreia's smile grew at the display, even as a few of the guards had lowered their spears fractionally upon the sudden drawing of the man's sword. "Alright, I believe you. I will allow Lord Duwabir to seek his glory at my side in the arena." At that, her steward immediately made a low sound of disapproval, but she cut him off before he could voice it. "Has he ever fought in the arena as a team since his... condition, developed? I do worry that communication between us will be required, and he will not have you to speak for him in the middle of a match."

"Yes, my lady. My master has... lived with his conditon for many years now. There have been other teams... but none of them were... appropriate for my master's patronage." Tahir was uncomfortable in the lie, he hoped they would not press him. What if they knew of others? What if they had heard the stories of the corpse who hid amongst the living? "He understands your tongue better than I, and in time you may learn there are other ways to speak than just with words."

She supposed it was a tradeoff she had to accept, for the benefit of having this experienced fighter on her team. There possibly wouldn't be time to learn his other ways of communicating if they couldn't earn themselves a moderate level of success right now, but that was just a risk she'd need to take. "Very well, then. And what am I to call you? Both of you, as I assume you will be staying with us as well." A boy his age would not be permitted to enter the arena, but it wasn't as though Loreia would turn him away.

"My master's full title is the Thakur Kaseem Adz Duwabir, noble Lord of the glorious Raj of Ghannahdpur. I am called Tahir... and am but his slave." He tried to smile to the noble woman at that, but it came out as a grimace. They had won, his master had got what he wanted, but there was a bitter taste in his mouth. He was no gladiator of this House Valens and its beautiful lady, he was just... just a slave.

Kaseem it was, then. Loreia nodded her approval. "I'm glad to make your acquaintance, and have your assistance, Lord Kaseem. And you, Tahir. As you may know already, I am Loreia Valens, daughter of Lucius Valens. But please, just call me Loreia." She glanced behind them, at the sound of other voices echoing through the courtyard, from the newest arrival. "Now, if you'll excuse me, it would seem I have another guest to speak with. Thank you again."

His lord bowed stiffly once more and departed for the shade of where Tahir stood beside the table. Now they would see who else would make up House Valens.

0-----) Julianus Scipio (-----0

Julianus had arrived in the city of Apulum several days before. It was a lovely city, one he had visited many years ago as a child. It was for this reason that he was wary, he knew that his family had a cold season home here and Juli worried that, despite the low odds, that his father could be around any corner. It was for this reason that the young would be gladiator was staying in the Sleeping Bear. The establishment was small and out of the way enough that Julianus was certain that his father would never be in such a place.

It was getting late, and Juli sat alone with a mug of ale. It was an interesting drink but that's not what held Julianus' mind. The House of Valens. It was once the most noble and glorious school in all of the Empire, perhaps the world. But then it fell apart instantly. While it was most curious and shouted foul play Julianus was not in the business of investigating curious happenings. Instead he was to be a warrior, and it was with great joy Julianus heard the news that the scion of Valens would be rebuilding the school. This was his chance to enter the games. While he knew he possessed a not minor amount of skill he would surely go so much farther with a team, and with a name like Valens surely the greatest warriors would be flocking to join the school.

It was then that Julianus' line of thought was interrupted. Juli had sat himself in the deepest corner of the common room in an attempt to avoid the noise being made by the large north man across the way, and Juli had hoped that after some drinks that the brutish man would put himself out but it was not to be, the man seemed able to keep drinking and demanding ever more. And of course he had taken all the establishments women, but to be fair the ladies here would be of the cheaper variant so perhaps that was for the best.
It was then that three men swept in and starting demanding information on some Orc. It was then that the fur draped man stood and confronted the trio. It seemed that Julianus would be in excellent view of the drunken conflict so often native of the north, this was bound to be good.

The first one went down so fast Julianus had barely noticed, that axe had flown fast. Then the battle was truly afoot. The two men who appeared to be bounty hunters were sent through a window, and then through it crawled the beastly warrior. Julianus took a long deep sip of his ale before the sick crunching sound of smashed skull rang out over the slowly falling rain. Juli watched as the north man came back in drenched in blood not entirely his own, and crawled upstairs. Perhaps the fight had tuckered him out. More likely he was going to drink some more alone. Either suited Julianus as he waited several minutes before ascending himself and retreating to his rented room.

Juli woke to the sound of a scream, and quickly throwing on a robe and pulling his sword peered out into the hall, before quickly shuting the door again. That was more Torgureni than he had ever wished to see. Julianus began to look over his belongings, what should he wear? He could dress in his best toga, the finest green hue, and with it a golden pendant marking his lineage. It would certainly give him an air of nobility, but that wasn't right was it? He gave up that life, he was to be a gladiator! So instead Julianus began to put on his armor, latching his shield to his back and clasping his sword to his waist before being on his way.

The town was as beautiful as ever, with the crisp air of the sea accenting the perfumes and spices on display in various stalls. Few bystanders paid Julianus much heed, gladiators were a common sight as of late with the tournament so soon to begin. One day they would all know his name though, Julianus promised.
On the edges of town, where the apartments and public buildings began to give way to the large estates and farmlands Julianus spotted the Valens manor. Approaching Juli took in the large walls and clean architecture, surely the late Valens was a man of taste, no doubt his daughter would be the same. The guards parted as Julianus approached, clearly seeing his gladiator's apparel and proud strut. Being guided in Julianus was led to a large training ground and Julianus couldn't help but gasp. While his old teacher had a similar facility in his own estate this was something else entirely. A place where dozens could train at once, though only a handful stood within at the time.

At the far end was clearly the lady Loreia Valens, and she was talking with... Oh, it was that orc the hunters were after. That certainly gave last night's combat greater context. Deciding not to interrupt and instead wait his turn Julianus walked by the tables of food, picking out a fig and some bread, before spotting a curiously robed figure standing in the shadows. Surely it would be well to know the other potential warriors that Julianus would hopefully be fighting with. Walking up to the figure Julianus also noted the boy nearby and, taking a bite from his fig said to the pair, "Well met, I am Julianus Scipio, you too seek to fight with house Valens?"

Rägnar stood around the courtyard for some minutes, admiring the fighting techniques of the other combatants and their weaponry "Bah, puny men..." he thought to himself, sitting on the table full of fruit from which the young slave had previously grabbed something which the barbarian did not see. Taking an apple and biting it, slowly walking around as he saw the armor and weapons the guards carried: It was expensive, this lady surely had wealth and fame around these parts. "Yes, I can be her champion, the best of the best in this group..." Rägnar chuckled, glancing to where the woman was, accompanied by her steward, the strange man and his young slave "Hmph, they're taking too much time, I didn't come here to wait!".

Tapping his foot nervously, he grasped an axe from his belt, watching as some of the guards eyed him in suspicion "I'm just sharpening it!" he yelled back at them, his tone and naturally rough voice echoing throughout the manor itself, taking a small and crude whetstone from his leather pack and starting to, well, sharpen the axe. "I'm sure half of the men here don't even know how to build traps..." he spat on the ground, his face revealing some sort of anger and pride, more than likely because of having to wait and the sight of people with easy lifes. He always hated rich people, almost as much as mages, but if he could gain something from them...eh, why not.

Soon enough Loreia was free to greet the next of the would-be gladiators, and one of the nearby guards signaled that Rägnar should approach. By the looks of them, it was obvious that they would prefer if he did so slowly. The Lady Valens herself looked a bit apprehensive at the sight of him, but it was an expression she allowed to last only for a moment before she smoothed over her features, regarding him neutrally.

"Well met," she greeted, nodding her head slightly. "My name is Loreia Valens. Welcome to the Valens Gladiatorial School."

The barbarian crossed his arms in front of the woman sitting on the chair, raising an eyebrow at all of the decorations around the room, taking his time to admire the delicate flowers that made the place itself appear more natural than it was supposed to be. Rägnar wasn't the kind of man that lowers himself in front of anyone, but this time the situation demanded it, so he slowly knelt down and bowed at the lady. "I...uh, the name's Rägnar Ironhide, although you may have heard of me as The Orc..." he said, raising up his gaze to look at the facial expression of Loreia: She was indeed beautiful, but beauty was something for high-class novelty and wealthy members of society.

"I know you're looking for fighters for the tournament, so here I am" the tone of his voice was stern, but it was obvious that he was trying to appear as civilized and respectful as ever: This may be the only chance to gain the glory and honor he had been always searched for, roaming lands and doing whatever job they asked him to...for the right price. "I'm strong and brave, and although I could surely win the tournament by myself, you must be curious as to where my abilities lie, ain't that right?" He said with a chuckle, slowly letting his hair fall down to shoulder-length, which was previously in a topknot.

Loreia couldn't say she'd heard of anyone by that title, but then, she hadn't made it her business to keep up with the goings-on of mercenaries, wandering warriors. Even most of the current famous gladiators were unknown to her, all save for those that had once trained on these grounds. Her eyes were drawn momentarily towards the entrance gate, where another gladiator had arrived. The more the merrier, she supposed. She would need at least four to make a team.

"Obviously humility is one of your greatest strengths," she remarked wryly, moving on quickly enough. "I admit I haven't met many Torgureni, but you are clearly capable, and I'll not deny the help." She doubted his motives lined up with her own at all, but then again, she hadn't expected as civil a greeting as this. Perhaps he would surprise her more.

"Tell me, how is it that you came to be here, this far into the Empire? It's a long way to our northern border." Gladiators often came from all over to tournaments like these, but if he was Torgureni, it wasn't immediately clear why he hadn't thrown himself into one of their arenas instead.

The man shuffled a bit on his spot, it was obvious he wasn't comfortable around deep and thoughtful conversations, keeping everything to himself and not really establishing a meaningful relationship since...well, a long time ago.

"I search glory." he replied "My family was dishonored and I avenged them, but I will not rest until I find tales worth telling when I'm up there with her..." he advanced towards the lady, kneeling in front of her and looking at her directly in the eye "I am strong, but my mother told me to always best myself, and that I will." he then slowly grabbed a small pendant from his leather pack, showing it to her:

It was obvious that it had been made a long time ago, and it was made from an alloy of kinds of metals, which made it shine even when it was dirty, quickly retracting his hand and scratching his right eye with a hand, rubbing his beard. "Want me to show you what a Torgureni can do after years of practice?" He grinned, patting both of his axes: He definitely was an imposing figure, but it also had some kind of attraction by the way he acted, a fine line between feral and civilized.

Attraction didn't seem to be the effect it was having on Loreia, though. She looked vaguely uncomfortable in her seat, though as before she was able to conceal any expression that might've formed on her face. "I'm sure that won't be necessary, Rägnar. Perhaps the demonstration can be saved for the arena." She didn't doubt he had skill and strength in equal measure with his weapons. "And the kneeling isn't necessary." She had no intention of being ruler or owner to anyone on her team. A leader, if she was capable of it, but no more.

"I'm sorry about your family. I still seek justice for my own, and I hope influence earned in the arena may lead me to it." Amulius gently touched her shoulder from her side, retracting the hand as soon as it came, and Loreia knew how to interpret that. A reminder not to delve into anything too personal with dangerous strangers. She shifted in her seat slightly, changing the subject.

"Have you worked in a team before, by chance? Our opponents will be experienced in teamwork and coordination, and we'll need to match if we hope to survive."

Rägnar looked at the steward with a furious gaze, before understanding that the touching was merely a signal, not an uncomfortable touch of some kinda, coughing into his hand before looking up at Loreia again. Obviously, Loreia was trying to hide the mild fear she felt from the barbarian...and he could smell it; not literally of course, but he sensed it, the small glances from side to side, the shuffling on the spot, it was clear. "Well, if you are planning to kill someone to avenge your family, I have experience in that." the man gently leaned against the wall, much more relaxed now.

"I have worked with mercenary groups and bounty-hunters, although I prefer working alone and teammates can be a pain in the ass sometimes." He loudly laughed, some of the guards outside turning their heads as to wonder what was so funny. "But if they stay out of my way and help me chop heads, they're welcome to do whatever." The barbarian raised and lowered his eyebrows in a comedic manner, grinning once again and turning his head to look outside of the tent, scratching his long beard once again "I suppose more people are coming to see you...I'll take my leave if you want." he asked, his once formal manners seemingly gone after he had seen how his "Leader" was going to be.

"Of course," she said. "Thank you for assisting me. I hope this team can bring you the glory you seek."

He pushed with all the strength he could muster. His abdomen felt like a granite slab, and he barely could get air through his wheezing lungs. It was like trying to force a pebble through the eye of a needle. Or an axe through a Torgureni shieldwall. The North was a world away, but there were some memories you couldn’t leave behind, no matter how far you ran. Haljon Gunnarsson bit down and grunted with the effort. His large, scarred hands trembled around his manhood. The pain was excruciating. Gods be damned, the pain was unholy. He’d taken spearheads in the gut that hurt less than this. At least, he thought they had. That was the problem with age. It played tricks on the mind.

Focus. That was the key. Shut out the maddening clamor of the city and focus on the job at hand. It was easier back up in the North, where the wind was a constant whisper broken only by the howls of wolves or other wretched beasts. And a man in the North respected another’s privacy enough to let him take a piss in peace. Here in the big city it seemed everyone wanted to interfere in his business. Merchants thrust their wares into his face as if he were some whore in a brothel. It was madness. He’d knocked one trader damned near unconscious earlier in the day. The merchant had grabbed his hand, apparently intending to press some cloth into it. Haljon had apologized when he realized the fellow had meant no harm.

Gradually he felt the pressure in his bladder begin to relent. The healer he had visited last week had said there were some kind of evil energies leaving deposits in his bladder. He’d wanted to make a small incision, and had only just escaped without his metal tools wedged somewhere unpleasant. Haljon hadn’t survived this long by allowing men with sharp implements to poke around his body. Ten, nine, eight, seven... He mentally counted down in a silent ritual. If there was one thing he’d learned over his many years it was the importance of routine. It had nothing to do with superstition. Or getting old.

Five, four, three... He sighed in relief as the pain eased and his bladder got ready to empty itself. Two... one... “Shit.” The sounds of a brawl interrupted him as he was on the cusp of release, a few drops of discolored piss dribbling down his leg before his cock seized up like a dead man. Haljon thrust his treacherous member back inside his breeches and strode out of the side alley determined to find out what all the fuss was about. Someone was going to pay.

He peered through the windows of the inn, blinking twice in an effort to focus his failing eyesight. Three corpses greeted him, one with with his skull brutally caved in. He spotted a half-naked figure retreating up the stairwell. Haljon snorted. Didn't seem to matter where he went, always seemed to be some kind of violence wherever alcohol was served. He eased himself through the door to the inn, and the bartender yelped as he saw Haljon's scarred, towering image. "T-There's more of y-you?"

Haljon frowned. He was still getting the hand of this fanciful southerner language, and being that the innkeeper looked about ready to shit himself, he was sure that didn't help his understanding none. Haljon grunted, holding up one finger. "One tankard." He said, in his guttural Northern drawl. The innkeeper gaped at him, a little drool finding its way from his mouth onto the table. Then the man spun into action, thrusting a overflowing horn of mead at Haljon and ducking quickly under the table.

Haljon thanked the man in Northern, not knowing the word in any other language, and dropped a coin on the table he thought may be the appropriate amount before departing. As he walked down the busy streets and sipping on his mead, he figured it may be a good time to finally visit that House Valens place. He'd need work before long, after all. Damned if he knew how to get there, though...

Before all that, however, he really needed to piss.

~~

A little while later, Haljon stood in front of the Valens manor. He cracked his neck, hearing a satisfying snap, and checked his greataxe was sheathed properly before approaching the guards. One of them eyed him carefully, before calling to one of his fellows and standing aside. Haljon was led through the manor to what appeared to be a training ground. He gave a low whistle. Not many training grounds like this one in the North. His guide departed, and Haljon was left alone. Shrugging his massive shoulders, Haljon figured he may as well get his blood up. He pulled his axe out of his shoulder-sheathe, and began going through his forms.

”So, you’re really going.” The voice was not unlike gravel being moved underfoot. It rumbled, and it grated, but it managed to be rhythmic, measured. The Markothi Winds weren’t blowing as hard as they might’ve, and the night wasn’t cold. Tavrel turned around, to face the speaker. An old woman, older than you’d ever seen in Toguren, with stark white hair and tanned skin. The Tribe’s Matriarch, Korina. ”I have to say, I was hoping you’d change your mind.” Tav sighed. He’d been hoping to escape without a guilt trip.

”I’m sorry, Korina, but in this I am resolute.” He grinned, sheepishly. ”There’s a whole world out there. Markoth is only a part of it.”

”A very big part.”

“I’ve never even seen Venatria, or Sariya.”

”I’ve never seen Toguren, but I’m quite alright with that.”

”It’s as I said, I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

”What if the Tribe needs you?” She asked, eyes gleaming wickedly. ”These plains are far from safe.”

If she could wield guilt like a blade, she’d have Toguren conquered in less than a month.

”You know as well as I do that you won’t need me. The other warriors are more than capable.” He said, tentatively laying a hand on the old woman’s shoulder.

”Fine.” She said. ”You had better come back. With all of your limbs!”

”Of course.”

Tav winced. He didn’t like lying to the Matriarch.

---

He’d lost track of time, but it had been a while. He’d been clean-shaven when he left, but now had the makings of a beard. He’d wound up in Venatria. He had no money, and the road had not been kind to him. He was hungry, but didn’t want to resort to stealing just yet. Apulum was still new to him, and he’d rather not be forced to flee in his first few hours.

The number of people in Apulum didn’t shock him. He’d been to Kosren, after all. This was but a village, in comparison. The buildings are what interested him. Kosren had it’s own appeal, with the nomadic style and hodgepodge construction, but it seemed unfair to compare it to Apulum. This town, to his understanding, was far from the largest in Venatria, but damned if the buildings weren’t pretty.

He wore his armor, such as it was. His regular clothing was far easier to store in his bag, and even if it just eased his mind, he felt it might scare off potential pickpockets. These streets were too crowded for there not to be a few ne’er-do-wells. Not that he was above stealing, he just didn’t like it when it happened to him. So he wandered around the city, looking at everything there was to look at. Father only knew there were enough of them.

---

Eventually, he found his way to a tavern. Little hole-in-the-wall, close to the docks. The clientele seemed to be mostly sailors and merchants. He managed to earn a few free drinks, and a bit of coin for telling some stories. All true. The only reason to make up a story was if you were lying, or if you’d told all your real ones. If it was the latter, the better choice was, really, to go and find new stories.

”The scar? It was actually a Sariyan archer that I met in Kosren. I bet him that he couldn’t hit a fruit off my head. I won, but he’d hit me in the head. Gave me this dagger as payment while his arrow’s sticking out of my head. Good thing he was a poor shot. A good archer would’ve killed me, if they hit me.”

”...and Deyreck has about three arrows in his back, so I pull them out and stand him up and he gets hit again, three more times. Each one lands exactly in the old wounds.”

”What scar? This one? Well, I was fighting a pack of Mongrels, you see- what? Sariyan archer? I’m quite sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.

It was in the tavern that he found out about the tournament. He’d only fought in the arenas in Markoth on occasion, and never in Toguren. So, he’d asked the sailor who’d mentioned it how to get started, and the sailor told him of House Valens, and how they were looking for new gladiators. He’d run out of money, and wanted to see more of Venatria, anyway.

Why not?

So, there, Tav stood in the sun, waiting for his turn with The Lady of House Valens, watching a Northman practicing with his axe. He fingered the hilt of his saber, sheathed at his waist, and his dagger, on his opposite side. He itched to swing them around, but he figured he’d wait. To really spar effectively, with his style, he needed a partner. Besides…

...he was still a little hungover.

In her dreams she saw it again. A thing with too many mouths, a hulking bulk of squirming tendrils and horror that burst through a fake wall. The gluttonous black monstrosity bearing down upon them emitting a shrike that shattered eardrums and broke the nerves of even their most hardened warriors. It plowed through their group, tentacles and many hands all tipped with razor sharp blades cut, slashed and butchered while others dragged hapless victims closer to be consumed by its ravenous maws. So many, why did it have so many mouths!

---

A scream and a bust of sunlight erupt from a small glade in the forest. After that all that can be heard is a panicked hyperventilation. This is then slowed, conquered, controlled and replaced by the deep slow breaths of meditation. She reminds herself that those nightmarish creatures can be felled, they can be beaten, and that she and her kin have done so and will continue too time and time again till the world is cleansed. Eventually sleeps comes again, not easily, but it comes. The morning sun comes later and washes away the last of her stress, and she smiles once more.

---

It had been about a month since Brina completed her journey to dispose of that wretched slab, a month during which her remaining supplies had dwindled to naught and yet she still had yet to find a place in these foreign lands. So for the time being she had set up some way outside of Apulum, in the woods beyond the farmland that surrounded the city. While for the time being she had managed to get food by hunting, in these lands game was less plentiful than it was in the north. Blasting sparrows out of the air with beams of light might be rather easy if she could get close enough, but the pulp that remained after the poor bird received a projected mace strike was barely worth the effort. By comparison the one time she had managed to sneak up on and then blast the brains out of a deer had been a glorious feast, but that meat was long gone and so she was left to make sparrow (or rabbit or crow) gib stew most days, and going hungry the rest. She needed to find a way to earn coin so she could buy food or at this rate she might well starve.

Every few days she would make the trek from the little clearing she had set up camp, packing up all her belongings so that some woodsman or bandit did not steal them while she was away and then she would make for the city too seek work. She had high hopes now that the arena season had come around, fighting was one of the things she did best, right giving dramatic retellings of the stories of her tribe’s gods and legendary heroes, though that was sadly not in high demand. It turns out there were few occupations where those in the city would be willing to trust an outsider, let alone a heavily scarred Torguren woman. IT didn't help that many of the town’s jobs appealed to her in the slightest, she was a seasoned warrior and she was not going to be some maid, midwife or harlot. She had sent the man who suggested that last careening through the ceiling. She needed a job fit for a warrior but she had yet to find any one willing to trust her to guard their backs or trade caravan, but the arena seemed promising, there her appearance and origins might giver her more clout rather than be a disadvantage as it seemed to do everywhere else. For the Torguren were thought of as strong, vicious and dangerous by the mewling Venatrians and those where all qualities you wanted in a gladiator.

Here optimism was well placed, for she found out that the Valens noble family was seeking any and all volunteers for a fighting team and so once she had gotten directions she set off immediately for their manor outside of town. It was a grand building and Brina could not help but relish being able to see why the Venatrian rich seemed to feel the need to build the massive elaborate buildings for themselves.

The crimson robed warrior walked up to the gates wearing her armor as she usually did when she traveled. Said armor notably featured two metal skirts protecting the sides of her legs that hung down from her waist. From the right skirt hung a long thick mace emblazoned with runework, a simple brutish weapon but an effective one, particularly against that which did not bleed. To the left was a large tome, oddly chained to her side so that it could be pulled upwards to be read, but if the reader where to release it the book would slide back into place at her side. On her back was a traveling pack with a tent and various odds and ends that were useful for someone traveling the wilds.

She arrived at the gates, greeted the guards and was lead inside. She took a moment to examine the others. There were mixed feelings at seeing three Torguren looking men among the group, for on the one hand it would be good to fight with those of her kind, yet with the inter clan conflicts an almost constant state of being in the north it was hard to know who was friend or foe. Might her clan have fought against theirs and if so would they resent her, or in being here in exile had they cast such loyalties and grudges aside? She certainly kew that she had done no such thing and she detested the clans squabbling with a passion.

There was also warrior who appeared to have taken the exact opposite approach to her in armor, his arms, legs and head protected but his center bear. If they were to combine armor sets you would probably get a warrior as well armored as the guards in the school and have basically nothing left over but a single glove and have one arm left bare.

There was the lady who presumably was to be their sponsor sitting in a simple throne at the end of the training yard whom Brina would get a better look at once her turn came.

Finally there were the young boy and the strange individual covered head to toe in black. While her own appearance might make judging someone for wearing covering garment somewhat hypocritical, Brina still couldn't shake the feeling that there was something off about them. Perhaps it was his stillness. Perhaps the faceless man in black reminded her too much of the descriptions of the Dark One. Had she continued to simmer with suspicion and unease it might have boiled over into drastic action, however the barbarian cleric was, fortunately, rather distracted by the fact that there was alcohol on offer. She hadn't had a drink in what seemed like forever and so quickly found her way to the table with the wine and began partaking of it with relish. Not enough to disrupt her performance (she hoped), but enough that it ended up taking her mind off the cloaked man's unsettling appearance.

A single line of sweat slid down the left side of the Prince's nose as his breath came in long heavy controlled breaths through his nose. Blinking from behind the steel of his mask the Prince tracked the three of his soldiers as they shifted across from him in the dirt ring which had been cleared and turned over in the center of the compound made of tents. They had been here for weeks training with the locals. Hakim had wanted to make the acquaintance of the Valen training school immediately but Muziri had cautioned patients. The gladiator school was in dire straights, something his outdated intelligence on the West had failed to account for.

The moment's hesitation was all his well trained guardsman needed. Like a pack of wolves they closed in on Hakim striking with their spears:high, one at the knee and one at the throat. Reacting in the split second it took to see the three in coming attacks. Shifting the shield on his left arm Hakim hit the edge of the first spear shoving it off to the right of his head. With a quick snap down with the shield he shoved the spear out of the way as it slid off to the side. The third spear went right for his left knee. Shifting his right leg Hakim twisted his whole body, dropped his weight and lashed out with the spear in a hundred and eighty degree arc swiping at his guards. The third spear barely grazed his left knee as Hakim dropped his stance and shifted it well out of the way.

The prince’s spear swiped the shields of his guards. It forced them to stop for a moment. Slowing very carefully to get them to rush him; as his guards charged him Hakim suddenly pivoted on his bent leg and whipped his spear at the back of their legs. The spear hit the back of two of his guards legs and it knocked them right to the ground. The third was wise to the trick and skipped backward. Swinging his spear back up and over his shield Hakim sprang like a bird of prey over his downed guardsman. Hakim drove the spear into the shield once, flipped it over and smashed the end of it into the flat front of the shield. Pressing the attack the prince dropped and drove upward slamming shield to shield. It lifted the guard slightly and suddenly the prince dropped both his shield and his spear executing a perfect three hundred and sixty degree leg sweep. It dropped the guard like a stone before the prince planted his hands on the shield pinning the shield and spear arm of the guard before he planted his right knee on the shield. With a sudden snap of his left leg Hakim kicked the guard in the face and he went limp.

Rolling off the guardsman Hakim stood smoothly. Muziri stood in the shade of an awning, even with the pathetic heat of this western sun. It was an old habit for the cleric. As much as he didn’t mind the heat those who could afford the shade in the South were in a position of power. Watching the young prince, Muziri folded his arms into the sleeves of the clergy robes he wore constantly, the young man was making progress. It was difficult to teach someone who blended all of the paths of the Hitar province. All of Hakim’s instructors could only see but a part of the way, it was up to the prince in the end to know how they would all fit together. Soldier weapons, Soldier forms, Cleric weapons, Cleric forms, and then of course the royal forms. So much knowledge of war for but a single man. Hakim was bordering on the edge of being a prodigy in the art of battle. It was not something that the young man's father would have approved of but it was necessary now that the Prince was without the shield of his father's household and the Owl Guard was the only thing standing between Hakim and a blade in the back.

Flicking his eyes to the side Muziri could just barely see the dark form of one of the half dozen Owl Guard that lurked in the space between the canvas and silk walls of the Prince's tent like palace. On the road the tents of the Hitar province were set up with space between the wall sheets of the main tent. Within them the families Royal guard could follow their charge anywhere and remain concealed. Out of sight. Muziri could feel two more in the walls behind his and to his left. Years of practice and training made the aging man a formidable opponent, and still he never wished to cross the Owl Guard. The silent deadly masked retinue of the Prince’s Royal guard were trained in a form of Shrak which was only taught to the Royal guard. It was a lethal path and one that few ever walked. Its knowledge was forbidden to all save the Royal Guard and the Sheikh himself.

Muziri kept his eyes on the prince as Ezekiel instructed him on the ways in which he had been a fool. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and knowing what it was turned his head to make eye contact. Through the ripple of the walls in the last of the chill wind of winter Muziri stared right into the dark oval holes of the Owl Guards silver steel mask. With a slight lowering of his chin the Cleric acknowledge the Royal Guard who in turn tilted its head ever so slightly to the right, acknowledging the Cleric before returning to its watch.

Hakim strode over to his instructor. Muziri acknowledged his charge with another deferential nod. ”Thoughts?” Hakim removed his mask wiping its inside against his sleeve. The interior was neatly padded and when set out to the sun it quickly dried in the open air. Setting it on a plate a servant offered Hakim waiting for his mentor to comment.

Muziri didn’t comment on the fight. It wasn’t sloppy it just wasn’t in his wheelhouse as a combat instructor. This was Ezekiel’s realm. The Hitar providence hadn’t seen a cast of Warrior-Clerics in over two centuries. Their techniques and training were locked away in the same vaults that contained the teaching of the Royal Guards and other less savory orders within Anan Sol’s walls. Muziri shuddered to think of them.

“I think it is time for you to bath, and make yourself presentable. The Lady of House Valen’s is interviewing Gladiators and the evenings tournament should be starting within a few hours. Both Muziri and Hakim grew suddenly silent as they turned to take in the individual who had joined them.

Ina

The Lady of the House, or at least her eyes and ears. Hakim sighed internally, of course the second they turned their talk to any female Ina appeared as though summoned by some sort of strange magic. Leeta had named Ina her Will and sent her with Hakim to as Ina put it: ‘Guard his bed’. The result had been a barren bedroom and an empty harem. Not that Hakim could have afforded the cost of maintaining such a thing but a second wife or companion would not have gone amiss with Leeta still in Anan Sol. With a nod to his instructor Hakim gave Ina a tight smile and brushed past her making a line for the bath.

When the prince had left Ina turned her steely cold gaze on Muziri. “Careful Cleric, my Mistress will not have you trying to thwart her.” Stepping around the woman Muziri started towards the exit from the Prince's’ tent. “There is nothing to thwart. From me, I would worry more about Prince Hakim if I were you. He is young and you keep his bed baren. If you wish to rein him in. Compromise. Not all of these foreign women have to be as bad as you think. Or perhaps Leeta could send someone from Hitar.” Ina scoffed. “The Prince will accept my decision and like it. It is his fault we are all in this foreign land.” Faulting his stride Muziri tilted his head slightly. “Be careful what you have to say about The Owl Prince. His servants have excellent hearing…”

The hair on Ina’s neck stood on end and as she turned to look; she could not help but see a form behind the wall fade away as the man stepped back.

The Owl Guard were ever watchful, even of those closest to the Prince.

Dagor had spend the last few months put in chains at the back of a slave cart. The slave traders heard that he was a practitioner of dark and wretched sorcery but they also were completely sure that any magician had to use his hands to cast spells. They were not completely wrong, it was actually the smartest thing they did. But Dagor was just waiting, like a wolf trails a herd of deer for the right time to strike.

"Hey Beast. This is our last stop. If we don't sell you here your chances are grim.", the slaver spat at the mongrel, "If you ask me we should have killed you immediately, throw you overboard or feed you to the dogs. Your kind brings disease and bad luck!"
The Markothi kicked the captured Mongrel. Dagor made no sound, he was used to much worse things. "Perhaps I should kill you before the Boss is back? Nobody wants to buy you!", he punched Dagor in the face and squatted down to look the beastmen in the face. The last failure of the Markothi slaver.

Dagor smiled, he was malnourished and exhausted but now he had the upper hand. His right eye opened, red in the colour of blood. The man was in his trap, his reality was now a mere illusion. The slaver slowly pulled the keys out of his trousers and opened the chains of the mongrel shaman. With a wolfish grin, which showed Dagors needle sharp teeth, the shaman threw himself at the still enthralled slaver and put his teeth around his throat. He needed no more magic to kill this man, fangs, hoof and claw did the rest.
After a small meal of the nose and throat of the man it was time for the shaman to get his staff and leave as fast as possible. Consuming humans was considered a ritualistic act by the Mongrel of the Longhorntribe. Even Though many every man and his wife told stories how mongrels eat babies and consume whole families, eating humans was in some tribes even a taboo and only some did it regularly. Dagor did it only because he was hungry and because nobody hits a mongrel and lives.

So Dagor found himself in a bit of a distance of the inner city. He had never really seen a city, the stone houses looked foreign to him and he was guessing he should hide. He wanted to find the arena but he had no idea what an arena looked like. The population of the town would probably not be happy to see a mongrel so he decided to hide in the first dark alleyway he could see. Dagors nose could smell fish and the sea, a very unfamiliar smell for the shaman. "By the guardians light what are you?", the voice of a teenage boy made Dagor turn around. The boy was paralysed with fear, having most likely never seen a non human outside the arena. "A... Are... Are you a gladiator?"
Dagor smiled again, the boy took a step back. "Yes, yes I am. Where do I have to go? To fight?", his voice butchered the language but the boy seemed to understand. "Ho..Hous...House Valens.", he pointed to a big building south down the road. Dagor grinned and left. He now simply walked through the town to his destination, several people ran away and some closed the doors but strangely enough they did not react as hostile as he imagined.

After a bit of walking he arrived at the gate to the manor. The guard was clearly surprised and shocked to see a mongrel who just said, "Me Gladiator. I want to fight." But nevertheless left him through. Dagor arrived at the courtyard thin and with a bit of blood on his clothes. A group of humans was already there. They all seemed strange to him, they also all seemed soft. He was fletching his teeth when he got nearer to them, his hooves on the stone floor announcing his entrance.

The sloppy staccato of heels against cobblestone rang out as a lone, underdressed vixen meandered her way toward a large estate that a few patrons in the last bar had pointed out. Illuria Nariul, clearly drunk out of her mind, had every intention of beseeching the master of said estate: the Lady of House Valens. The last few days in this god forsaken town had proven fruitless, her search for someone to accept her into their ranks as a gladiator ending in nothing but failure. None of the previous prospects had a given her a clear reason why, though she presumed they were much too afraid of her past history and the potential destruction her magic could wreak. Or her alcoholism. She liked to assume the former though.

This time, it would be different. It had to be if she was going to make any money or have any chance of redeeming her House. Even in her intoxicated state, she had everything lined up to woo Lady Valens, even if it meant getting down and dirty. There was absolutely no way she’d be denied! After all, she was an accomplished mage, a charismatic force of nature, and a noblewoman who had every right to belong in the arenas. On the off chance they didn’t accept her… Illuria wasn’t sure what she was going to do. This was her last hope of getting into the arenas, and she’d spent the last of her coffers earlier to prematurely celebrate her induction into House Valens’ ranks with an ample amount of wine. Maybe there was some money to be made off selling her belongings. Or worse, she could resort to selling her body. The drunk woman shuddered at the thought. No, no! No pessimism today! Glory awaited her!

As Illuria clumsily continued her march, plenty of stares went her way. Old women whispered whore under their breath at first sight of the elaborate dress that revealed too much of Lady Nariul’s bust. Young men ogled her for the same reason, some even harassing her with vile words that she paid no heed to. None of these people bothered her more than the robed religious folks that thought she needed a helping hand from the glorious Guardian, who approached her with arms wide open. “Come with us. We will help you find glory in the Guardian’s light.” they said. Religion was one of the first things Illuria abandoned when her brother showed his colors. The Guardian did not protect her. The whole idea was just a silly lie that the people of Venatria told themselves to make themselves feel safe at night.

Wordlessly, the raven-haired woman pushed past the zealots, toward the rustic horizon. There were a thousand words she wanted to say, but there was very little point in bandying anything with religious nutcases. They could live in their own cess for all she cared.

---

Deep blue eyes glanced at the towering walls that guarded House Valens’ manor. They seemed to go on forever, as if the family had hired giants to construct them. “Wooow! I love this wall! Its sooooooo biggg!” Illuria exclaimed, a dazed grin on her face. To any sober eyes, this wall wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. The drunk mage apparently saw a completely different picture though. Without warning, she walked toward the stoney defense and attempted to give it a huge embrace. The guards next to the gate gave each other confused glances, unsure who this strange person was.

“Um… Miss. What are you doing?” One of them approached her hesitantly.

At the sound of his voice, Illuria slowly turned around to see the guardsman. Her thin lips curled into an awkward grin, her teeth stained a dull purple from the wine earlier. ”Oh! I am here to meet the Hady of Vouse Lalens! I will fight for her!”

The guard blinked a few times as he attempted to register what she was saying. There was no way this girl could be possibly thinking about entering the arenas, right? “Um, miss, I think you should try to go back home. You’re just drunk and delusional right now.”

Without warning, the grin on Illuria’s face disappeared and a hand flew out to strike the man’s cheek. “How dare youU! I am Lady Illuria of House Nariul! I won’t not be denied!” she shouted, causing quite the commotion.

The poor guard, even more confused now, glanced back at his partner, who was laughing up a storm. “Just let her in. Let the Lady decide. It’ll be funny either way.” the amused man spoke. Shrugging, the assaulted guard began to lead Illuria through the gates and to the training grounds. “That ish what I thought!” Illuria commented, following behind with her nose in the air.

The first thing that caught the noblewoman’s eye was not the other strange figures waiting for their turn, but the free wine that had been laid out. “Wine?! Oh, this is just soooo grand! Wine, wine, wine, it is the besht!” Illuria called out loudly in a sing-song manner, stumbling toward her most favorite beverage with surprising speed. The woman didn’t take just a glass. No, she grabbed the entire bottle and began downing it all, paying no heed to the fact that she was already plastered beyond what anyone could call “business professional”.

Just like that, the alcohol vanished. Illuria sat herself on the ground, feeling a bit nauseous and dizzy now. Her vision spotted the other figures waiting around, eyes widening at what appeared to be a hundred giants in the training grounds. Not just giants, but a few other… things. “Woah, so the giants did build the wall! I never knew we had giants in Valen-Valen… Valthia. Why didn’t the Emperor tell me?!” she cried as if she knew the Emperor personally, which wasn’t exactly untrue considering her past position in the capital city.

After sitting there for what felt like forever (a minute in reality), Illuria comically attempted to pick herself off the ground, only to wobble uncontrollably before falling onto her back. The sky above rotated round and round, an enchanting sight to be sure. However, she had no business with sky, not that she knew of anyway. “I, Lady of tha Narniuls, demand my uh… time with Hady Howlin’s! I have been kept waitintoolong…!” the nobleman slurred out, still unable to pick herself up off the ground.

So far, so good.

“Risa! Git yer lazy arse movin’ an’ do sumthin’ fer once!”

The woman glanced down past her feet to the deck as she swayed precariously above in the rigging, one foot hooked around the thick ropes the only thing keeping her from what she could only assume would be an unpleasant fall, and gave the pock-faced firstmate below a toothy grin. “I’ll remember those words the next time three Venatrian galleons come bearing down on us. Then we’ll see what me doing nothing is,” she threatened lightly, but started scampering farther up the netting towards the topsails anyway.

The Snap Deceit was abuzz in what could only be described as controlled chaos as everyone rushed about furling sails and preparing the ship to dock. The vast majority of the forty-four man crew were Saryian, so to say the deck and rigging were awash in a truly spectacular and dizzying display of colorful clothing and sparkling gems and gold dripping off bodies may just have been an understatement. Risa might as well have been a sparrow in a tree full of parrots in her bright lavender and orange, bare of any traditional desert jewelry.

The port of Apulum loomed before them as the ship sliced its way through the waves the rest of the way to dock with only the slightest guidance from the helmsman and those manning the oars. The energy from the crew was almost palpable; they had lots of money to spend and only a few days to do it. The Snap had actually already been been at anchor for several days a few miles from the farthest reaches of the coastal town, but not the actual port. There was a lovely, inconspicuous cove there where the ship was unburdened with its more… sensitive goods, before coming into Apulum proper. Parisa always found port officials to be an exceptionally boorish bunch when it came to what may or may not be coming into their cities without documentation.

There were more than a few curious gazes as The Snap Deceit came to rest from the dockworkers there. They recognized the ship, what with the notorious smuggling ship’s name emblazoned in bold and bloody red on the her hull. But why not? Nobody could pace her at sea, not with Parisa wheeling the winds into a fervent pitch at any sign of real trouble. And nobody could pin them down at port as all contraband items were always conveniently absent. So why not add a bit to the legend by throwing it in peoples’ faces? Her captain knew how to walk the thin line between lucrative dangers and deadly idiocy.

Speak of the Death God, Risa thought as she spied the impressively curly mustached Saryian making his way towards the newly lowered gangplank, doling out duties and supervising as men began hauling crates off the ship. Hopefully he’d spare her tonight as the first night aground was always the best party and she remembered the local little fisherman’s tavern near the docks served a decent grog: The Cracked Mast. She could use a drink…

____________________________________

...Risa never wanted to see another drop of alcohol again. She hadn’t even drank that much, but she couldn’t say the same for the rest of The Snap’s crew. There was so much piss and vomit in the crew quarters that she woke up gagging this afternoon and had to go above deck to cleanse herself from it. She closed her eyes and took another long drag of the sea air, letting the cool tanginess settle in her throat instead.

After awhile the woman cracked an eye open at the sound of booted steps walking towards her. A curly mustache greeted her as her burly captain settled down next to her on the deck. “Still considering going to the Valens girl about the tournament?” He asked casually, though she knew he had a lot at stake every time she had any ideations of leaving his crew.

She smirked and quirked a brow. “Worried, Boss?” The mage hadn’t realized he’d been within earshot when after hearing some fishermen talking about the noble’s search for fresh bodies she’d drunkenly boasted that she could toss any competition around like leaves in the wind. She’d been joking at first, but then couldn’t stop thinking that after seven years being aboard The Snap Deceit it was starting to get too ordinary. There couldn’t be too much more of the sea that she could experience at this point, but there were still thrills to be had inland.

“Nah,” he lied, “You might go a wandering, lass, but you won’t be gone long. Storm mages belong with the sea. Besides,” he added wryly, “I know how you and nobles get on.”

Risa snorted a laugh in a very unladylike fashion, “I think I can deal with one if I can get paid and famous to kill others.” She looked back out towards the water and fell silence for a few moments, a rare occurrence to be certain, until she came to a conclusion in her mind. “Fuck it,” the woman pushed herself to her feet. The Snap wasn’t even planning on leaving Apulum until the tournament was over anyway. Parisa could compete and at the end of it all she wanted to go back to ocean, she’d just leave. “I’m going to do it.”

___________________________

After telling the rest of the crew her plan (and fielding so much shit for it that she could have planted acres of crops), Risa decided that the tavern filthy clothes she had been wearing since the night before were probably not the best thing to wear to meet a noblewoman. Now normally she wouldn’t have given two licks about what was appropriate but her plan kind of hinged on the other woman letting her fight. So she cleaned herself up as best she could and changed into a loosely collared shirt the color of the sky overhead, her leather jerkin and vambraces secured tightly overtop, and cream colored leggings that were the easiest thing to move in besides not wearing pants at all.

Her glaive was the last thing she grabbed, slinging it across her back via the looping metal chain around it, before saying goodbyes to her mates. They assured her that they’d come see her at the tournament, if only to laugh at her when she died a horrible, non permanent death and slinked home. The assholes. She went on her way after throwing them some lewd hand gestures.

Apulum wasn’t too large of a city, but because of the influx of people arriving to watch and participate in the games it took Risa a good bit more time than she originally anticipated to make it to House Valens. Of course, she never moved at anything faster than a saunter the whole way and she may have detoured at a merchant cart that was selling sweets. She might have also have had to give herself a mental kick in the ass to continue forward once House Valens actually came into view. It took her most of her life to grow the metaphorical balls big enough to slip Jabir’s leash and now here she was offering herself up on a silver platter to another noble; she must really be as insane as they say.

But she still gave the two guards manning the main gates her slyest smile as she hooked her thumbs casually onto her belt. “I heard your lady was desperate enough to send out an open call for fighters,” Risa said sweetly. She spoke the Venatrian tongue with a surprising fluidity, her accent rolling the words like a ship on the wind tossed sea.

“You want to fight in the tournament?” One asked incredulously.

“Well, I do have this,” she said indicating the glaive poking over her shoulder with a turn of her head, “the pointy end is pretty sharp… Or so it seemed the last time I ran a Venatrian through with it.” Rise shrugged as both guards’ eyes narrowed, one from anger and the other skeptically, but they still let her inside. The Lady Valens must be desperate, she thought letting her smile settle into its normal crookedness as she meandered through the well groomed grounds behind her escorts.

It appeared Risa was hardly the first to arrive, though the group made her amend her previous thought to very desperate. The first thing she noticed was that there was the beast; a mongrel. She’d never actually seen one before, but knew it by the stories she’d heard. The thing looked wicked like a creature from the depth of Akzum’s nightmares to torture those he finds unfit. All molted fur and gnarly features. She gave no outward reaction, but her insides revolted and she gave the thing wide berth even as she stepped brassily into the courtyard fully.

Next were a handful of giant, ham-fisted northerners that could probably just use those meaty hands instead of the huge bludgeoning weapons they had to beat people to death with. A smaller, female one seemed to have the same type of killing in mind, though the book on her side and air about her gave off a tinge of magic.

After there were two other men and a woman a bit darker complexed: Venatrian or Markothi. The younger of the two men… if his equal parts hard muscle and soft skin were any indication, he had noble blood in him. The other had a roguish quality somewhat similar to her own and she couldn’t be sure whether that was a good thing or not. And the woman, the woman was three sheets to the wind and halfway to the next. Akzum put her out of her misery now, she thought chuckling even as the noblewoman ate shit at the refreshment table. The tournament started in hours. What in all the hells was she thinking?

Lastly Risa’s attention turned to her own countrymen standing off to the side, the boy and the man he stood demurely besides. A slave, clearly. Anger sparked in her eyes and they snapped to the man draped head to toe in darkness. She cocked her head and the anger gave way to sneaking suspicion. So she approached the pair with a smile despite the other going-ons and bent at the knee to be at an even height with the boy as she reached them. She pulled a few of her previously procured sweets out of her pocket.

“Hello, I’m Risa,” she greeted in commoner Sariyan and held out the candy to him. “Would you like a sweet, Jun?” she asked, calling him their language’s equivalent to ‘dear.’ Then she looked up towards his master with eyes somehow wide with innocent inquiry even as her lips pulled into a smirk. “That is, of course, if your master says it’s alright.” He may be well very well disguised to foreigners, but Parisa was Saryian and would be damned if she couldn’t tell an undead when she saw one; especially one covered head-to-toe in the Death God’s color.

Elain shook himself from his trance, and looked to the Hobgoblin. "Uh... sorry, what?"

Kronak sighed, the sound resembling something closer to a growl coming from his toothy maw,and readjusted his grip on his bow. He didn't like having to repeat himself.

"What now?"

"Oh." . Blinking away the last dregs of nostalgia, the Paladin looked around at the other fighters assembled here in the old training arena. "See if you can figure anything out about these 'volunteers'. I want to know where they hail from and what they can do."

Kronak nodded in the direction of the two tallest men, each besting six feet tall, both with beards and axes. Big but slow, Kronak had seen their type before, though usually from a distance as he fired arrows at them. "They're Torgureni. Axemen. Berserkers."

"Yes, I can tell." Elain said. "But that's not what I meant and you know it."

The hobgoblin chuckled at his own little joke, the sound deep and rich. "There's ten of them. Makes twelve if we add you and me. All dangerous. All deadly. Except for that one."

He extended a black-nailed finger, and pointed towards a teenaged boy, with whom a woman in her late twenties was talking. Elain assumed was it was Sariyan they spoke, but he couldn't be entirely sure, as he only knew but a few words. Kronak knew none at all.

"Is he a servant of the estate?" Elain mused.

Kronak shook his head. "A servant, but not of the estate. Watch."

And watch Elain did. Eventually he noticed that the boy kept glancing back at the black-robed figure standing in the corner of the arena. Also Sariyan, given the look of his clothes, there was something unnerving about him.

"I hope the boy follows out of respect, and not fear. Only the dishonourable force others to serve them." Kronak mused, mostly to himself.

Elain nodded in agreement, before casting his eyes about the arena. Beside the woman talking to the boy was a second, a few years younger and... Elain's cheeks flushed... she wasn't wearing much. He averted his eyes, lest someone think him a lech.

Next were the Torgureni - three of them. They hadn't realised it, but they stood quite close to one another, unconsciously going for the familiar feel of their homeland's aura. The red-cloaked woman, though, seemed a little cautious of her kin.

Then there was the rogue. He had two swords, or rather a sword and a dagger - and Elain couldn't quite place him. Where did he belong?

And then... a man? He seemed to be wearing an elaborate mask, complete with fur and long, curling horns. The Paladin jerked when his eyes went down and saw that instead of legs like he thought there would have been... there were hooves.

He could feel Kronak bristling beside him. Moving instinctively, Kronak drew an arrow from its quiver, preparing to fire at the beast before him.

"Mongrel..." the hobgoblin growled. Only the presence of the Paladin prevented him from shooting it dead where it stood. "Elain, it must die."

Elain grabbed Kronak's bow arm. "Do not attack."

Kronak snarled, his rage threatening to overwhelm him. "Its very presence is an affront to my honour, Paladin, as it should be to yours. Why should I spare it?"

"I remember them as well as you do, Kronak, but to attack now, in the presence of House Valens' Lady, is equally as dishonourable."

Kronak paused at that, and considered the words carefully. They had merit, he decided reluctantly. "The Mongrel lives. For now." Making sure he kept one eye trained on the beast, Kronak glanced around the yard again. "Where is the Lady you speak of? We must be sure she herself is honourable before anything else."

Elain sighed. His eyes went from guard to guard, and then to the sands at his feet. Reaching up to his throat, he found his amulet and grasped it. "Guardian, give me strength to face my past and walk away unharmed." He swallowed dryly, and then looked in the direction of the chair at the end of the arena. "Loreia is over there."

Kronak studied the woman for a moment, but found his eyes more drawn to the table of food nearby. A low rumble came from his stomach. "She seems busy. And I'm hungry. Perhaps a visit to the feast that has been so kindly provided is in order?"

Elain gave a low chuckle, then stopped when his own stomach echoed the hobgoblin's. "Ah... well, some fresh food for once would be something to be grateful for. Let's go get some."

With that, the two headed to the table to enjoy a brief respite, Kronak watching the Mongrel all the while.

Rägnar stood around the courtyard after exiting the Lady's tent, crossing his arms in disgust "Ugh, guess I'll have to wait here..." he then noticed the Mongrel, raising an eyebrow as he had hunted their kind sometimes, and even defending certain settlements from their raids "They're strong" he thought, the perfect ally and the only kind of person he liked to fight with...or against. He also gazed upon the other Torgureni, a very old one though, so he thought he had seen some more bloodshed than he had. There was a woman talking with the young slave, seemingly offering him a piece of sweet or food, Rägnar shaking his head as he saw this "People shouldn't be fed, everyone should fight for everything they desire..." he then walked up to the table full of food, unholstering the warhammer from his back and putting it on the table, patting it.

The barbarian started to eat, rather slowly from what it was expected from a person who has lived in the wilderness for years, but he was still human after all and had a sense of formality, even though he didn't like that, not even a bit. He saw the hobgoblin and the paladin approach the same table "They can't be together, no one wants to team up with those pesky green bastards..." he thought as he looked at the hobgoblin. He then saw another woman, which seemed to be drunk, or at least partially "She can be fun", Rägnar liked women that knew how to have fun and take advantage of what was offered to them, so watching a to-be gladiator already drunk gave him a good sense of security and the kind of team they would form. @Viciousmarrow He walked up to the drunken mage on the ground, gently poking her forehead with the front of his fur boot, squatting beside her "Woman, need help? We'll have time to have sexual and alcoholic relief when we've fought our first battle, come on!" he laughed, quickly standing up to his feet and crossing his arms again, noticing the Paladin @CollectorOfMyst and Hobgoblin @AngryBadger eyeing him due to his attitude "Hey, someone had to yell at her right?" he said, raising his hands to make his announcement even more dramatic as he looked down at the woman again: He didn't really help her, he just tried to encourage her.

New people were flowing into the courtyard faster than Tahir could keep track of. A Tourgeni had spoken to the Lady Valens, and now another Ventarian. That one had approached them before and attempted to speak to his master, but had been called away before Tahir had been able to tell him his lord could not answer back. There were so many, and from so many different places. Some he recognised, like the Tourgeni, but others he did not know. Least of all the beastly creature all hooves and horns. He had seen something like it once chained in a fighting pit. They had set it against four dogs and placed bets upon the outcome. It had killed them all.

"Master, what is this creature?" He whispered beneath his breath. His lord looked to it and cocked his head to side, considering it, before using his foot to draw a line in the sand, one that pointed east. Was this what men looked like if one went far enough east? He had seen Markothi before on the docks at Meroa, and they were nothing like this thing.

His musing was cut short however, because Tahir could see another approaching them and judging by her complexion she was their countryman. She was not dressed as the nobility, nor did she seem to be of a particularly marshal character, though she was armed. She smiled as she approached, but Tahir could sense something beneath. It reminded him of the smiles he seen so often on the faces of women in the brothels he had known as a child. Forced. She bent her knees as she reached them, so that she was at a height with Tahir. From her pocket she produced a small handful of candied fruits and ginger root.

“Hello, I’m Risa, would you like a sweet, Jun?” Tahir was slightly taken aback, why was this gladiator speaking to him with such affection and offering him gifts? Normally he was ignored by most, slaves were not uncommon in Sariya or Ventaria, and were accepted as being part of the background to any household. Then he saw it. Just for a moment, there was a flash in this woman's eyes. A flash of pure anger. She turned to his master, almost smirking as she did so, and spoke.

“That is, of course, if your master says it’s alright.”

She knew. Or at least suspected. It had happened before with other Sariyans, but without this sense of hostility Tahir could feel subtly emanating from this woman. Should he speak? Should he try to tell his master? Or should he confess all and beg for mercy? He turned towards him, looking for reassurance, but the Lord Duwabir was already answering this Risa in his own fashion. His hooded and veiled head paused for a moment before slowly nodding with great deliberation and care. The slowness of what nod, what was he trying to say? Was it telling her that he knew what she was doing? Or was it a message to Tahir? Be cautious, be slow, act as if nothing has happened. He chose to interpret it as the latter. He would be cordial, and try to act normal.

"Lord Akzum be with you, daughter of Sariya." He spoke fluently in as formal Sariyan as he could muster, trying to smile as he did so.

"I must apologise, for my master cannot answer you more fully. The Lord Duwabir suffers from a condition which affects both his speech and appearance. I serve him as his voice when needed."

He reached out and a took a single piece of candied date from her outstretched palm.

"I am called Tahir. You have my thanks, Khanum Risa. Do you seek to join House Valens also?"

An Offer you Can’t refuse

Rafim stood at a comfortable distance from the entrance to House Valens. It had been decided after the events of the morning that it might be better to see the Gladiators in action as opposed to buying out house Valens in full. The retainers Rafim had with him were there to take note and prepare a set of invitations. While the prince had his Owl Guard and Muziri had his own agents. Rafim had not sat idly since they had made it to this backwater town, in fact long before they had made it to the town Hakim’s Vizier had made preparations. Coin in the right hand, even foreign coin, was the right way to find gladiators. Rafim was one of the few members of the inner circle who actually understood what had happened in Anan Sol years ago. Rafim knew what he had to do in order to get his Prince back in place and secure his own power. As much as he loved his Prince Rafim was not a fool, the Vizier was getting on in his years and there were only so many more years he could spend out on the road. As if to illustrate the line of thinking the Vizier rubbed his right hip which often twinged before rain; he’d discovered the phenomenon when after leaving the Hitar providence where it nearly never rained.

They had made careful note of the Gladiators as they had entered the House of the Valen gladiators. Now they were making their way out, no doubt they had agreed to sign on with Loreia but Rafim had talked the Prince into buying out the Gladiators individually. If Loreia had a team that was worth anything then they would have to outbid other potential sponsors. This was a gamble but at least this way they had stock to work with and if they needed to let Gladiators go they could. That and it might bring the Lady of the House running which was good business too. To Rafim’s knowledge she had been down on her luck since the death of her father and that made her an easy target for a hostile takeover.

That of course had not been how Rafim had pitched things to the Prince since taking advantage of a young woman would have been the last thing Hakim would want to do. So he’d gently urged Hakim into taking over the Gladiators she ‘let go’. What the Prince didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

After Rafim was certain the last Gladiator had left to make preparations for the evening’s event he dispatched his couriers armed with the seal of House Iqbal, gold and promises of sponsorship. Once they had made contact the letters had instructions for appearance at the arena an hour before tournament start. There were too many for them to be a single team and Ezekiel would no doubt wish to organize them into two teams beforehand. The rest could meet with the Prince before their shot in the arena.

With his mission complete the Vizier set off at a limp with his retainers in tow. There were preparations to be made and things to attend to. Hopefully the Valens’ girl didn’t catch wind of the plot until it was too late. Rafim grinned to himself. All according to plan.

---

They had moved part of the Prince’s camp to a space a few yards from the entrance of the Arena. It was already starting to fill. A port town on an evening with mildly cheap entertainment. Ezekiel stood with his back to the tent pole of the arming quarters they had moved as a means of arming any...less than satisfactorily armed. Ezekiel was not looking forward to this since quite frankly the descriptions he’d seen from the couriers were...questionable at best. Atleast he wasn’t being asked to train them. Just sort them into teams and send them to no doubt an embarrassing death in the arena. Sipping at a metal container that had uncut Raki in it Ezekiel grimaced. Thank Akzum for strong booze, it took the edge off of watching idiots charge to their deaths. Now all Ezekiel had to do was wait for them to show up.

Let amateur hour begin

@Estella@MegaOscarPwn@Kassarock@VoiD@Fisticuffs@DracoLunaris
@Viciousmarrow@CollectorOfMyst @AngryBadger@The Narrator
@Free Faller