The Arena's Holding Area, Alvion
The guards relented their spears, letting the knight pass. Indeed some of them may have known him, but even then, they had to do their job. The mask of peace Alvion had to be maintained, even if darker things loomed about.
The soldiers left, returning to their post quite some distance away. Leaving only two to guard the entrance once more.
The signing up was brief, all it took were their names and signatures. There were a few waivers of injuries that let them unshoulder the blame for any grievious harm to the contestants, but then again - many did not know how to read them. Education was a privilege in Alvion, not a neccesity.
Cicero was soon directed to his waiting area, a cubicle in a series of them lining the outer circle of the arena. He had not entered his quarters when he saw that there were one or two stalwart fans probably waiting for some other fighters, they had not noticed the knight's pressence yet. But one other person did.
"...genūs medià inferní." "I've seen their kind. They get stronger the longer and the more brutal the fight gets." A dark figure, hooded as well though this one broader than the last with thick, scarred forearms and calloused fingers twiddling a strand of mirthweed gripped between his teeth. Leaning lazily against the shaded section of a broken pillar that used to be part of the coliseum right outside Cicero's room,
"But I guess, you already know that." The figure turned sideways slightly towards the contender, his shoulder long hair now visible but obscured still was his face. In a coarse, gutteral tone that seemed only a pitch away from a growl. Yet, still formally.
"Hmm. Yes. I saw your fight, you knew what you were doing." Then he slowly turned back to facing away, as if cautious not to be seen from afar as obviously speaking to his listener.
"Then you also know footwork and swordsmanship can only get you so far, if you are to truly best them then you need to even the playing field. ...Humans like us, just weren't born with the gifts they have. Strength, agility, stamina. Those bastards, they have it all." He lets out a sharp, annoyed breath between his teeth. Discontent rife in his words.
"...but Humanity, WE, have our wits." It is then that he lifted his left hand, holding a bubble like vial of bright orange liquid. Clear as the sunset.
"This can give you more strength than they have. Better. Faster. Stronger. And only Humans can take it. We don't need no corrupted blood to be better. And no, it's not magical either, the abjurers won't know a thing."Then he sighed,
"They call it 'Thorion's Revenge'. I use it to defend myself against the nasty stuff out there, bears, trolls and the like. Barehanded. But it seem like you might have more use for it right now ...I guess I can part with a sip for a mere 200 silver. Honestly, I wouldn't mind seeing one of us give them a good trashing in the tournament for once. ...So? What do you say?" He shakes the bottle enticingly, it's contents swirling an amber hue.
What will the knight do now faced with this offer? Accept his help, reject him outright? Or something more?Inside The Praising Dawn Tavern, Alvion
"Look 'ere, elf. Yer barkin' up yer wrong bleedin' tree if yer wansum magicky stuff. I run a bleedin' tavern for Gorm's sake and yer wasting me time!" It was not Gwyneria's fault that she asked the barkeep where the nearest place was she could practice her spells or learn more. Back in Ispar, knowledge was a virtue to be shared, the taverns there were more than willing to point you in the direction of choice for the right bit of business.
Who knew Alvion was so different? She had been sitting here, purchasing this swill they called 'Ale' for hours and not a single magician had passed by and the tavern owner seemed unwilling to part with any useful information.
She truly felt like a fish out of water in this foreign land. It was warm. The people had their priorities all wrong. And it was
very warm! Desperate, she raised her hand for the third time and slid a few more copper coins across the counter.
The barkeep begrudgingly took her coins and pushed yet another frothy mug into her outstretched hands, she could feel his exasperation building. It was then that he noticed her book under her elbows, particularly the heraldry of a tree embedded on the cover.
"Girly, fine. Yer one of 'em naturey types? Can ye heal?" He did not wait for her to give him a proper answer.
"T'ere be a tourny up right in hightown by noon, yer can go help with patchin' up the bleedin' good-fer-nuthins who beat each other silly up d'ere with yer magic mumbo jumbo. Might meet someone better than yer at it. Maybe earn sum coin to pay fer better drinks next time, yeah?" That seemed to be all the information he was willing to give, but the tavern itself was abuzz with patrons. None seemed particularly scholarly but you never know what you might find
if you asked. Or. She could take the barkeep's advice and
head towards hightown and look for the venue of this 'tourny' than risk mingling with the crowd here.
