Date: July 9, 2000
Place: Coliseum - Haven
Cast: Alcander, Bashirrah, Emrys, Leonidas, Nox (Blackbird), Olivia, Pantoleon, Selene, Thalia, Tyler, Tris, Vasilius, Versus
Emits: Agni-Haidar (Thalia), Crowd (Vasilius), Daven (Nox), Patch (Pylades)
Scene: The first exciting battle takes place in the coliseum, pitching fighters from House Augustus against three unsponsored gladiators.

Two loud trumpet fanfares interrupt the various conversations going on at the seating, directing the attention to Vasilius, who is standing, all aglow, proud and polished for his great day, on a heightened stand at the podium, overseeing both the arena and all seatings. Admittedly, some of the attention may be focused on the two scantily-dressed, curvaceous and dusky-skinned mongrel women who standing at the side of the fat Empyrean, fanning him with a bored smile.

With a great gesture to his audience, the manager announces in a grand voice, "Domini and dominae, imphadis and imphadas, ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you to..." he raises his voice again, to increase the tension. Then he leaves a short pause, allowing one more trumpet blast to sound through the arena, before concluding, "the first great gladiator games of the year 3906.

"I am glad you all came here, to watch this spectacle of suspense, thrill, blood, and sweat -- of grimly-fought battles, victorious winners and losers going down in a flame. In the following hours, we will present to you the best entertainment this world has to offer, the finest warriors, representing the most noble Houses, fighting for their pride, glory, and great prizes. And, last but not least, they fight for your entertainment, for your approval, to make your blood boil and to present all their efforts and skills to you. Now, with that, sit back and enjoy the games!"

The entrance of a few nobles might pass unnoticed by a full coliseum... but when these few nobles are those of House Acesius, little choice is given but to notice them. As the manager's words finish filling the air, several slaves who have taken positions on the topmost edge of the coliseum with brightly-polished brass disks turn the focus of their reflected sunlight onto the arriving trio of Selene, Pantoleon and Alcander... leaving the three glowing with sunlight. What is nobility without a flair for the dramatic, after all?

Alone save a flanking pair of guards, Olivia arrives with discretion, eyes demurely downturned as she looks for a place to sit. Her salutatations to those already on the podium are respectful, matched with the most delicate of smiles, before she places herself where she may see. She tries, if at all possible, to enter without any attention landing upon her.

Leonidas' entrance, perhaps, is no more dramatic than the Acesian entrance, but he does arrive, complete with his own retinue. One in Thanatos' silver and black, one in Tritonis' elegant blue and silver, and two more, in the purple and gold the Princeps himself sports. He takes a seat, nodding politely to those who hail him, or acknowledge him, and directs his escort to their places.

The crowd gives a big cheer and applause. After the first clapping has settled, and the poorer visitors stare in awe at all the rich nobility in the podium seating -- the arena is currently empty and boring, after all -- Vasilius continues his announcement, "In the first fight, it is the glorious, noble House of Augustus which will try to reclaim its suffering honor and pride. Therefore, Deus Cassius himself has chosen the best of his men for the arena, and let them be trained by his own family, the Schola Optio, Versus, to prepare them for the coming battle."

With an even more dashing, sweeping gesture to the entrance of the arena, Vasilius announces with a rolling, ostentatious voice, "Please, everybody welcome the brave fighters: Emrys, the ex-Praetor, well-known for his valor. Tyler, the free mongrel and dread of Bordertown. And introducing Patch, once the danger of the sea, who will now make the sand of the arena swirl."

At the introduction of the fighters representing House Augustus, Olivia leans forward to peer at the floor of the coliseum, anxious and interested; should Tyler look toward the podium, she will wave. As Augustus' representative, she must hold up appearances, and she seems genuinely interested in what is transpiring below.

Selene claims a thickly-cushioned seat at her husband's side while her eyes remained fixed on the sandy arena below. Servants wander by, offering wine and ambrosia to those in the podium; the latter is taken by the Acesian Dea. Pantoleon is gifted with a laugh, accompanied by a few whispered word as they both look to the arriving fighters. Other Empyrean arrivals are greeted briefly, with the noble inclination of her head that is common among her caste.

For his part, Alcander is lounging more than sitting in his chair, comfortable with ambrosia, with the attention, with the fact he's just better than the rabble not on the podium.

ARENA> For those that are sitting up in the cheaper seats, the gladiator representing House Augustus may seem little more than gold and white in the bright sunlight. His leather armor is brushed with a coat of burnished gold to give it some flair for the dramatic, and on his head is a helm with a flowing bleached tail fanning in the slight breeze. He grips his spear rather tightly... hopefully, his expression can't be seen from the seats, for he looks like he is already fighting some internal battle. His bright white wings flare suddenly... maybe it is something dramatic he planned, or a reaction to a thought. They rest back against his back as he turns to watch the entrances of the others on his 'team.'

Thalia sweeps in with only a small contingent of her normal guard. The other Agni-Haidar and Atarvani can be seen, by those sharp of eye, scattered in the spectator seating and along the path leading to the podium. Even so, it seems, to those engaged with the spectacle about to begin, that a small army has entered the genteel and stratified seating.

A few Empyreans, seeing the arrival of the minions of the dark and morose Varati God-King, abandon their places nearest the entrance, leaving an empty plateau of seating for Thalia's perusal. The Queen-Maharani does not venture deeply into the seats, but takes her place in the area which has been, ever so kindly, emptied for her. Like a gathering storm, her guards move to cluster about her. Ever armed with weaponry, it would seem that the Agni-Haidar have even more implements of death than normal, lending credence to the rumors that there is both unrest in the Varati kingdom and that the Queen-Maharani's own life is directly threatened.

ARENA> Dread of Bordertown? With a deliberate stride, the tall, blond-haired mongrel arrives on the fighting field of the arena near his winged partner, a large, two-handed sword gripped in both hands. The dull and battered blade does not gleam bright and holy in the sunlight, but it is nevertheless a fearsome weapon, depending on the brute force and reach of its wielder.

ARENA> Tyler's attire is well-worn, but built to last, as is the man who wears it: a black, sturdy lorica and mis-matched leg greaves, as well as the bracers that encase powerful wrists and forearms, are all that seek to protect him from the battle in which he will be representing House Augustus. For the most part, he wears an expression of dogged determination, but after looking up at and surveying the crowds above, he can't beat back the hint of a winning smile that forms.

ARENA> In contrast to the blinding champion of Augustus, Patch might seem, at first glance, unimpressive. Deceptively so. He is dark, as is the armor he wears, what little of it there is. It is leather, entirely, though there may be something harder beneath. He himself is dark complected, dark-haired, but jewel-eyed. A mongrel, perhaps. A half-breed, perhaps. Does it matter? He carries two weapons, one short and thick, a gladius, or something close. The other, longer, with a slight curve, in the opposite hand. And he looks ready for the fight.

The sinewed figure of her House's gladiator is of course Olivia's focal point, and she waves to him with the encouragement that a lady should offer to someone fighting in the name of her House or in her own name, mongrel or no. Her excitement is carved only when Thalia arrives, distracting her from the brave image of Tyler below, and she rises to offer the Maharani of the Varati a curtsey, the sort she would proffer to Aurora, by and large. Thalia, to her thinking, is welcome here, or so says her greeting smile.

After the first three gladiators have entered the arena, the thundering voice of the fat man at the podium picks up again where it left off. "Pitted against the gladiators of House Augustus are the group of the dark ones. The fair members Augustus have already lost once against the strength of the darkness. What will happen today, who can tell?

"Without sponsor, without noble backing, two valiant men and one impressive woman, all of the dark skin, have decided to take up this fight. Rare examples like you might find nowhere else, but here in the Coliseum of Haven. I present to you Bashirrah, the experienced gladiator and lion-queen. Daven, a fortress of a man, quick and deadly with the axe. And Blackbird, a mysterious, impure Empyrean, whose blackness might stand against all that is proper and respected, but, see from his gaze, there is danger and death lying underneath that tainted skin."

Efficient and quick, the quartet of Acesian guardsmen move to stand between their noble masters and the arriving Varati contingent... it might almost be comical, since it is with due decorum that they apologize to the nobles past whom they must rush, and step past... almost, but no... not comical yet.

With a languid turn of his head, Pantoleon looks to the cause of this haste among his men and sees Thalia and her escort. With a small smile, he comments, "I fear you are mistaken in your locale, lady... your companions are no doubt intended for the arena below. The entrance is outside... on the ground floor."

Thalia may be welcome, but certainly the sight of armed Varati concerns the guards of every noble present, and those who protect the Princeps no less. They shift closer to his chosen seat, and pale hands drift closer to the hilts of still-sheathed weapons. Leonidas, for his part, inclines his head toward Thalia, a welcome, thin-lipped though it might be.

ARENA> Bashirrah waits quietly at her position until she is called. As she waits, she continues to mumble, "Sister, be by my side... sister, be by my side..." She does so several times, eyes closed, seeming to be in deep thought -- almost a prayer. Finally, her name is called and Bashirrah looks over to Blackbird and smiles a bit, giving a nod. She finally jogs out, quarterstaff held high and shield close to her side. She turns around on the sand, twirling the staff around in the air, showing off and attempting to raise the crowd. She is one of the few free fighters and it shows well. Clad in a shiny silver breastplate, greaves, and wristguards -- which all appear quite heavy -- and in a purple shirt and shorts under that armor, Bashirrah puts on quite a show of gusto. Obviously, she has been trained well in crowd pleasing.

Who could miss the clatter of a small army arriving on the podium? Alcander glances behind him, and his affable expression fails; nose crinkles as if something foul has reached those nostrils, and he rubs the pad of his thumb against his lower lip. When his cousin speaks, he half-smiles, but his eyes are dangerous as they focus on Thalia. "Oh, Pantoleon, come now... you know her husband disallows her to travel without a contingent of men. That's why she's better-protected than Masada. Or, so it seems, their Shakir." He smiles grimly and indicates he desires more ambrosia, adding with a shrug, "At least she appears in public. It must take some moxie to show one's face when one is reviled as a traitor."

Selene diverts her gaze from the excitement below to that which seems to swell within the close confines of the podium. She doesn't speak, as her husband has done, nor does she rise and curtsey, as Olivia has done. She remains in her seat, but does briefly nod to the arriving Varati queen while trying to ignore her entourage. Pantoleon and Alcander are both given sharp looks. She doesn't disagree with them completely, but now is not the time or place. The battle is on the arena floor, not the noble's podium.

ARENA> The two black-skinned men, both smaller and less impressively clad than the woman ahead of them, leave the gate without much of an air. Daven, a blocky mongrel with the brutish face and the muscles of a worker, carries an axe like he was about to chop wood. He keeps close to the second figure, a well trained, but clearly too skinny and underfed dark Empyrean. 'Blackbird,' as he is announced, carries a buckler and pilum in one hand and a used gladius in the other. His pace is controlled, gaze darting straight ahead, where the opponents stand. He does not seem to realize that there's hundreds of people watching him, booing at him, shouting insults. Or, if he does, he does not seem to care.

Thalia smiles in a friendly fashion to Olivia, but does not say anything to the Empyrean woman. At Pantoleon's jibe, she merely chuckles, as if amused, and responds with a politeness that is in direct contrast to his rudeness, "Good day, Deus Acesian." Another such greeting is given to the Princeps, but for neither does the Queen-Maharani rise, instead remaining seated and after her brief words are spoken, her attention turns to the arena floor, to give the gladiators their due, as Selene has done. Whether a deliberate snub, or the Queen-Maharani's ignorance of Alcander's stature and name, she does not even give the nobleman an acknowledgment.

Pantoleon smiles tightly at the drama within the box. It is not out of respect, but a chuckle and half-exaggerated nod are sent to the fallen Empyrean in deference to her wit. But Selene is correct, this is not the time.

Olivia is disinterested in the drama and embarrassed by what of it attracts her focus, catching her ear; she gives Thalia a sympathetic smile before studying the arena once more, anxiously.

Nor is he looking for acknowledgment from Thalia. Alcander turns his back on the Varati queen and accepts his refilled cup with good grace. Still, his words to Selene are pitched quietly as he leans toward her. "You notice she greeted you and the Princeps, my dear cousin, and not you and the Augustus woman. I expect that's what comes of being in a place where women are so ill-used."

After the entrance of the second team, Vasilius finally gives the sign to start, a simple, but loud clapping of his hands, "Alas, let the games begin! May the better group win!"

ARENA> Surveying his opponents, Emrys looks the three of them up and down. Turning to the stands, he gives a salute with his spear... and another to his opponents. The spear is gripped once more as his powerful wings spread and flap once... twice... enough to get him airborne. Let those land-bound take the others that are land-bound. He will try to fight as much as he can from above.

ARENA> Nox does not bother giving any salutes. His gladius points briefly in Tyler's direction as he looks at Bashirrah silently, yet the light in his eyes should replace any words. His broad, dark wings spread and he darts a moment later straight in the air. Leaving some distance between himself and the other airborne fighter, he gauges carefully between him and Patch. The tip of his short-sword remains lowered, but the spear readied.

ARENA> With a growl of aggression, Tyler gives the long blade of his sword a whirl, swinging it into combat readiness. And with hair-trigger awareness, he waits for the signal to begin, his heels tapping restlessly on the ground beneath him, fingers clenching and unclenching along the worn hilt of his weapon. Finally -- as soon as the first word leaves Vasilius' mouth -- the mongrel charges with the energy of a stallion that's been stabled too long, and is finally finding freedom. His target is, doubtlessly obvious as the distance between them becomes less and less, the lion-queen, Bashirrah.

ARENA> "Death to... ALCANDER," Bashirrah cries loudly in a battle-cry. Suddenly, she charges forward, quarterstaff and pike pointing forward, tucked under one arm. Her shield covers most of her upper body, its large single pike in the center bloodstained. At first, Bashirrah starts off slow, but she gains speed and charges forward, intent on impaling Tyler.

ARENA> Daven realizes that, after the rapid flight of his immediate partner, he's alone out here in the sand. As he can't do anything about Emrys, and Tyler has already locked himself on Bashirrah, it leaves only one opponent for him. With slow, careful steps, his boots grind in the sand as he approaches his target, swinging his axe dangerously in front of him. He's in no hurry. He just has to make it out of here alive, that's all. Let the others do the work, take the glory.

Alcander smirks toward the arena and raises his goblet in salute. "You first, you daughter of a desert whore."

ARENA> See, this is the problem with fighting in Haven. There are no rules about binding fighters to ground, or at least putting a strap across their wings. If there were fighters who could tunnel through the earth, surely they'd do so, and pull their opponents under, without someone to say it was against the rules. All the same, a fight's a fight. Patch tests the weight of both blades, first left then right, and starts forward toward the hulk that Daven seems to be.

Leonidas is closest to Olivia, and thus he is one to whom she comments, "Cassius was so astute when he selected Tyler for our House... he has quite the verve for combat, does he not?" Not that she has a clue.

ARENA> Surprisingly, Emrys' blood-and-death visions stay away for the time being, leaving him to think clearly . Perhaps it is because he is against another with wings... and that didn't happen in the War. It is enough to make him remember his training, even though it ended so long ago. Another powerful push of his wings raise him in the air to a desired height before he dives towards the dark Empyrean, his spear aimed for the black wings. Just to debilitate.

Selene gasps sharply and looks, horrified, over to her cousin as the lion-woman's voice rings through the arena, shouting the noble name of her Acesian cousin. "By the Gods, Alcander, what has caused such hated in her for her to wish your death and to register it so loudly in this arena?" The events of the day before are remembered, but certainly nothing so destructive to warrant his death.

Hm? Someone speaking directly to him? Leonidas' eyebrows lift, and he turns to look at the lady beside him, and then, almost belatedly, to smile. "He seems . . . eager enough, domina, yes. I am certain he will fight as best he is able to bring Augustus glory."

Thalia leans forward, as if to gain a better look at the woman screaming for Alcander's demise. Selene's words to Alcander, though slightly disrupted by the myriad of conversations abounding on the podium, reach the Queen-Maharani, and she glances over at the members of Acesius, before turning back to look at Bashirrah down in the arena.

Pantoleon shakes his head sadly, "You must remember Selene, good sense has never been a virtue of such folk..." Rather than wait for Alcander's answer to Selene, he turns to his other hand and comments in the direction of Leonidas and Olivia, "If I might inquire, Princeps... Domina. I have heard that this Tyler fellow was of late held within the prison of the Hounds. Are such words indeed true?"

"Insofar as battle brings glory." Olivia smiles in return at the Princeps, then laughs a bit self-consciously. "I am sorry the Deus is not here; I am a pitiful replacement, but our gladiator deserves representation, does he not? Oh!" back to Pantoleon, she adds, "I have no idea, Deus! Goodness."

"I have no idea," Alcander laughs, bemused by the entire affair, and adds as he watches the scene below, unruffled by the battle cry, "but cousin, do remember such folk have no virtue. She envies those so clearly her betters, I imagine. Ah well..."

Leonidas looks past Olivia to Pantoleon, to echo her words. "I had not heard this, Deus, but I suppose it is possible. Having some experience in ... less than honorable combat, as a prisoner must, may serve him well. Some of those who fight are no better." He tells Olivia then, "Never apologize for your presence, domina."

ARENA> Nox's attention focuses on Patch as he lets his own pilum loose, throwing it with full force at the mongrel's shoulder. However, that move has lost him some time, enough time for his immediate opponent to get to him. Realizing too late how close Emrys is, the point of the ex-Praetorian's spear hits the outer side of one wing, letting a few ebon feathers fall to the ground. With a grimace of pain, Nox dives below the Empyrean, reestablishing his position in the air and drawing out his gladius.

ARENA> All at once enveloped in the sudden delirium of battle, Tyler gives a grunting heave of his huge sword as he bounds closer and closer to Bashirrah, rearing it back with both hands over his right shoulder. When proximity and timing allow, the mongrel unleashes a roar of the heavy weapon, the blade aimed at the sharp end of Bashirrah's pike in a persistent attempt to knock the long shaft aside to his left.

Both Pantoleon and Alcander are given a brief nod, for both are correct, of course. Still, it doesn't help stop the patter of the heart to hear the name of a loved family member screamed throughout a coliseum at the beginning of battle. Selene's eyes return to the display below as she enjoys a sip of her ambrosia and a sampling of a plate of fruits set before the Acesian contingent.

ARENA> Bashirrah's pose slows as she notices that Tyler is extremely armored. Even a successful charge would not punch the armor. To her advantage, the man carries no shield. And with her quarterstaff, she also can keep back and poke at the man. Rather than targeting an arm, she aims for a leg, hoping to gouge the man and slow him. Arms would come next. The air whistles as the pike lances forward striking out for the gladiator.

Olivia glances toward the Acesian party as well, then back toward the Varati creature who bellowed the name; lost, it would seem, as to the emotions coursing through the podium, she focuses on the cheerier side of things to tell Leonidas, "Dominus, you are too kind, and for that I thank you and ask you remember your kind words should I make my inexperience as such public affairs entirely too evident."

ARENA> What did he say? No rules, no regulation. Patch mistakenly thought that Emrys might take care of the airborne nuisance. He was not, himself, expecting so be targeted, then, so he, too, attempts to avoid the thrown weapon a moment too late. A glancing blow, but a blow nonetheless, which lays open a line across his shoulder; that begins the first fall of blood of much that will no doubt splatter the arena ground this day. Thus wounded, Patch tightens his grip on the gladius in his right hand, takes a deep breath to bellow challenge, and runs now, directly for Daven. Force will drive the point of his blade into the behemoth's chest, if luck is with him.

Pantoleon nods twice to Leonidas, "Indeed. And far be it from Cassius Augustin to fail to put an apt tool to use," he adds with a dip of his head to Olivia. "And I think myself true in saying that our good Princeps would far prefer holding you in conversation than dear old Cassius." With a smile, Pantoleon turns back to the action below, patting Selene's arm twice and letting his fingers linger. "They all look too quickly to wound, and neglect their defense, I see..."

Blood? Olivia's cheeks lose some of that lifestuff as it begins to flow freely below, and she accepts with good grace and some hurry the wine brought by her elbow. Such combat is hardly a rarity, but perhaps this particular domina has been infrequently exposed to its brutality, if ever. "Th-thank you, Deus," she stammers to Pantoleon before taking a healthy, heady swallow of wine.

A servant, having finally overcome several rounds of internal debate with her fellows, brings a goblet of wine and a tray of fruit over toward Thalia. Hesitantly, she attempts to skirt the morbid forms of the Agni-Haidar to reach the space before the Queen-Maharani. Precariously, this causes her tray of fruit to tip and dribble over nearby denizens, causing an uproar among the patrons before the girl has even managed to reach her target.

ARENA> Daven waits at the spot, seeing how his opponent got hit by a charge from above. Why waste his strength to run around if the enemy, already bleeding, is coming at him? His axe catches the sword in its upward swing, diverting it back to the arm. Maybe not a motion of great skill, but the strength of the well-muscled man should be enough to avert this charge.

"You know," Alcander offers conversationally to those close by, "a wise gladiator would carve the sinews of his opponent's knee or sword arm. That's the way to disarm or disable someone before planting a sword in his gullet."

Selene pops a dark grape into her mouth, leaving her hand free to rest on top of that of her husband. The action below, blood and all, is forsaken only a moment to give Pantoleon another smile, before Selene's eyes return to the action. She doesn't seem affected by the bloodshed as the Augustin woman is. Rather, she leans forward so that none of the action is missed below.

Versus emerges between the curtains that block the exit.

ARENA> Whirling in the air now behind Nox, Emrys watches a moment as those dark feathers slowly spiral to the floor of the arena. His green eyes then lift as he braces the spear for another attack... at the other wing. But as he is lower in the air, it is to be an ascending attack... one that leaves him more vulnerable than he would like.

Oblivious to the more intimate converse of the genteel patrons in the podium, the crowds in the stands lean forth, either breathlessly or with raucous cheers as their various favorites -- or at least those they've bet on -- swing gleaming weapons in this initial clash. Various vendors, who've seen it all before, work their way up and down the stands. Buxom mongrel lasses in brightly colored chitons with suspiciously high hemlines sell fruit from shallow crates. "'ave an apricot, get yer figs..." One of them winks at a particularly handsome Varati near the aisle, and leans right over him-- "Some melon?" she inquires with saucy innuendo.

Leonidas nods in silent agreement to Pantoleon's observation. Certainly, he would rather make idle conversation with Olivia, than debate for hours with Cassius. Amusement, however, faint, touches his eyes, and he glances down at the battle for a moment. The stammer, though, draws his attention back, and he suggests, "Perhaps avert your eyes, if the battle troubles you, domina? You will hear when a victor is chosen."

ARENA> Nox twists in the air, flapping strongly with his wings to put them out of the attackers' reach. Ignoring the pain of his own lost feathers, he slashes at the other Empyrean flying up for him. But the reach of the short sword is not great enough to touch Emrys, so the slash goes emptily through the air. With a frustrated grunt, Nox resumes to more primal methods and simply tries to kick at Emrys' head, while regaining some height.

"Thank you, dominus," Olivia says quite sincerely and sits back, flushed and flustered, while she hazards a deeper drink of wine. "My late husband eschewed this entertainment, and I have, I confess, not seen blood shed in this manner in years. Years."

The servant girl finally stumbles around to stand before Thalia, her plate of fruit sans quite a few items. Payment passes between the Queen-Maharani and the servant girl, and a hefty tip places a smile upon the girl's face. With wine in hand, Thalia continues to watch the spectacle down below. Yet, while the wine is held and the fruit sits invitingly to be eaten, neither touches Thalia's lips.

Versus enters the podium in the full Praetorian gear of the Schola guards. His curt military efficiency contrasts deeply with the lounging nobility around on this spectacular day. The sun glistens of his helmet, as his cold eyes scan the spectators on the podium. He is silent, efficiently ruthless in motion and visibly coiled like a predator ready to strike. Finding Leonidas in the crowd, he wastes no time to advance into his direction. Not disturbing the Princeps, the Schola stands two feet away from him, and slightly behind to keep a good watch of his area. Placing the spear on the ground, and freezing like a statue, he waits for a challenge... any challenge, that will be met with swift death of the Empyrean's hand of protection.

ARENA> A sharp shriek of steel occurs when sword and pike violently clash, neither wholly successful in their attempt, nor yielding completely to the other. Tyler, with a bloodthirsty howl, tries to take both weapons temporarily out of the fighting equation, pinning the flat of his sword blade to the shaft of Bashirrah's pike. And his charge continues, his right shoulder dropping as if to battering-ram himself right into the Varati's shield, neglectful of the blood-stained spike emerging from the center.

Pantoleon chuckles and comments to all about him, namely Alcander, Selene, and Leonidas, "There is too much brutality, and not enough art in most of these. They push, and strike, and fall back on their heels... no time is spent rallying the crowd... and might I say, there was no finer gladiator I had seen than this fellow in Civitas; he had the patrons on their feet with cheers before first blood was drawn... supremely entertaining to behold." He smiles in memory.

Alcander shrugs and notes, studying the array of fighters below, "Well, most are mongrels or inbred Varati and such... what do you expect, cousin? Art goes to those of the intellect to fight with some verve, and so few there have such."

ARENA> Bashirrah braces for the impact of the heavy gladiator. She holds the center pike of her shield steady and prepares for a physical blow. A sweep kick should make the man tumble to the ground if she manages to keep her balance from his ram. For plan B, Bashirrah decides that she'll shove forward with her shield and bounce him back. Either way, she better not lose her balance. At the moment, her pike is useless, but one hand keeps ahold of it.

Tris slips into the seating area as quietly as she can, a small dark figure in red and purple. Staring out at the battle going on in the area, she soundlessly makes her way to the tier furthest away and curls up in a seat. She stares out, golden eyes wide, at the battle between two Empyreans.

Distraction from the fight is so good a thing, so Olivia glances toward the Varati queen to note, "Domina, it does my heart good to see you about. I have not glimpsed you since I left Civitas Dei... years ago, I am certain, was when last I saw you. I hope your family is well?"

ARENA> Well, hell. That's not the way it was supposed to go, either. Patch's arm is swept around in that great sweeping movement, diverted from its initial strike. He withdraws two steps, and starts forward again, using both arms this time. He feints with the left, as if he might mean to slash Daven's other arm with that long blade, then he shifts his weight, and aims a kick for Daven's knee.

"Certainly there is an art to winning the people's favor, Deus," Leonidas agrees. "But I would hesitate to call any man there," a gesture toward the arena, "a true artisan. I have never heard a Praetor beg to be praised for his art in battle. One man's skill may outdo art, may it not?"

Thalia turns her head toward Olivia as the woman speaks. Her friendly smile from earlier, returns to her face. "Oriane is well, though I am not able to see her as much as I like. She is a grown woman now, with her own interests and her own life." Of the other daughter, nothing is said, and Thalia's omission appears particularly haunting. "Thank you for your concern, Domina. And, how are you? Are you enjoying today's entertainment?"

A bellow heralds forth with the seeming source of a certain Acesian named Alcander, aimed at the arena and those struggling within it. "I have seen more grace from drunken eunuchs in glassware shops. Have none of you the mind to carve off your enemy's head and carry your glory to the next gladiator? FIGHT!"

From somewhere within the stands arises a chant ... the insane howling of a crowd wanting, thirsting for blood. Slowly but surely, more and more people join in. "FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT!" Pretty soon, the roar is deafening.

Alcander sits back, then, looking pleased. "The rabble must be roused," he notes dryly.

ARENA> Daven reacts to the first in time, hacking again with his axe at the blade that tries to find its way into his flesh. But not really -- possibly not even knowing -- that this was a feint, he gets caught by surprise. In a desperate movement, he tries to jump back, but too late. The steel bites into his knee, letting him bleed. With a loud, piercing scream of agony and anger, he raises his own weapon again, trying an overhead strike at Patch, his own blood already redding the sand.

ARENA> It's a good and a bad thing that Emrys is wearing the helm. Good in the sense that it protects his skull from the brunt of the kick, but bad as he couldn't see it coming. So, as he is ascending, after attempting another attack at the dark Empyrean, the kick connects. Losing a slight bit of altitude as he tries to get the ringing to stop, his wings flap wildly to keep him in the air. Now, to get even with his opponent once more, he circles, trying to get his vision to clear. Finally doing so, it retains that too-bright quality that usually comes before an attack of his. Now is not the time! With a shout of denial, his own, most likely, he aims the spear once more at the dark wings and charges.

With a shake of her head, Olivia allows, patently and patiently modest, "No, your Majesty, I fear I find little pleasure in seeing blood spilled for the amusement of others, but if the aggressive nature of Haven's people is aimed at those who fight for pay rather than each other, I support the notion. May... may I approach that we must not shout at each other?" She looks dubiously at those who guard the Queen; what sort of threat could she offer?

Pantoleon laughs pleasantly as he turns again to Leonidas, "Good dominus, well do I know the cause that no Praetorians grace the sands before us; they are twofold: One, The fights would end in a matter of moments, and the sport would be gone. Two, it is no game of amusement the Praetorians play at... they are soldiers, not artisans."

Versus sweeps the podium with his icy stare, remaining stern and austere as if truly detached from the proceedings in the arena. His weapons at full display, he is keeping a guard around Leonidas with an intensity of someone expecting a challenge. Only occasional glances into the arena, onto Emrys and his gladiators, reveals his interest of what is happening there. It is, after all, his House on the line there. But his attention to the fight, however noble, seems secondary to this duties at hand... where the Princeps of the Aegis sits in an area too open for comfort.

Ah, that voice from the podium comes again; selfsame Acesian, it would seem. "The Varati wench has all the style of a ship on the desert sand. Cannot SOMEone remove her ugly visage from the face of Haven? Or is she too manly for you lot? YOU, mongrel, you fight like my mother, and she's some twenty years' dead. Where is your SPIRIT?"

ARENA> Nox catches the spearpoint approaching him this time, but instead of trying to dodge in mid-flight, he droops both wings in a sudden, quick movement, letting them fall back to his back. As he darts straight to the ground, his gladius strikes out at Emrys' unguarded chest.

ARENA> With all the force and power he can summon up for the attack, Tyler slams the breadth of his shoulder into the lion-queen's poised shield. A flash of bright blood detonates from the point of impact, splashing over both gladiators as the center pike drives viciously through bronzed flesh. Snarling with the unexpected pain, the sturdy mongrel does not seem daunted in his efforts to knock Bashirrah over backwards -- not until he finds his feet no longer cooperating. The weight of the falling mongrel however only serves the pressure pushing against the Varati warrioress' shield.

Alcander, at least, is having fun.

Oh, and by the way, a piece of fruit -- let's hope an apple or some sort of like projectile that is reasonably aerodynamic -- is hurtled from the podium by the Acesian toward the helm of a hapless fighter. Gardy loo.

The Acesian Dea cannot help but grin at her cousin's insults that seem to echo though the arena. Then again, he sits so near that she cannot help but hear him. "Alcander, dear," she almost coos, drawing her hand from Pantoleon's and resting it on her cousin's arm. "Really, I would expect such boorish behavior from a street rat, not a noble Empyrean." The yelling she finds amusing. The throwing of food she does not.

ARENA> Bashirrah can't help but be surprised at the charge of the man. His weight slams into her like a hundred horses. With an "Ack!" Bashirrah falls backwards, her quarterstaff ripping free of her hand and the staff goes twirling off into the middle of the arena. Bashirrah is lucky and the man doesn't fall on top of her completely, but instead merely pins her legs. Thrashing about with both of her powerful legs, Bashirrah fights for freedom while trying to kick the gladiator in the head.

Pantoleon laughs aloud, "Why Alcander! My dear cousin, you betray yourself: You have found yourself a favorite gladiator this day, but at my word, I'd have not expected it to be the Varati." He lapses again into laughter, commenting to Leonidas, "Your pardon, I could not resist a jibe at my cousin's expense... I pray thee, continue."

Thalia looks up at her guards and gestures to her side. The Agni-Haidar move sideways, though not without long and suspicious looks at Olivia. However, they do not demand to search the woman. The ring about Thalia is widened to include room for Olivia to sit next to Thalia. "Please," says the Queen-Maharani, "I would be intensely gratified." Conversationally, she adds, "I find it refreshing to leave Atesh-Gah from time to time, even to such a venue as this." From the dryness of her tone, it would seem that she, like Olivia, does not enjoy watching people butcher each other as a form of entertainment.

"Oh, Selene," laughs Alcander as he presents his cup for a refill, "these games are meant to be aggressive, bawdy things, and everyone's being so sedate." Then he laughs again, this time at Pantoleon... but the sound is hollow. "Indeed, cousin, indeed."

ARENA> That is, indeed, a powerful blow, so Patch gives up his two-bladed approach, discarding the longer in favor of bracing up the gladius with both hands. Still, the overhanded blow jars him to the very bone, and there ensues a struggle that might not end well for the dark seafarer. As Daven bears downward, Patch's arms bend, until his own blade is so near his face that skin separates and more blood flows, this time down his cheeks. The man, perhaps wisely, drops, rather than standing. Drops and rolls, abrupt movement, and stands again, hoping to find himself behind a stumbling beast.

A slight frown emanates from Versus at the current success of Khalid's favorite gladiator. Slowly, the Schola glances at the Agni-Haidar guards present, the emotion in his stare empty. Two more Schola, dressed with purple chlamys of the Aegis, join his sides, and an unspoken order is given by a slight nod of the head. It is a somber bunch, not at all attuned with the jovial mood of the crowd, were it not for Versus' casual glances at Emrys, from time to time. The tension between the Empyrean and Varati guards on the podium can be felt in the air, although most choose to ignore it.

Olivia smooths her gown as she stands, glancing fleetingly at Tyler, then at Alcander, and approaches Thalia with respect and, in point of fact, gratitude. "Thank you, your Majesty." Rather deliberately, thus, does a noblewoman of Augustus join the Varati queen's company, as if bridging the aching gap between the parties.

Vasilius turns, slightly crossed, to Alcander, "The happenings at the arena are meant to be aggressive and bawdy. The podium was designed for people who showed a little dignity and behavior according to their station. If those who are present here are not capable of that, I shall see that they will have to leave, to watch from a more appropriate place. If they feel the need to participate in the event, I shall find a way to let them participate."

Tris draws her knees up, wrapping her arms tightly about them. Her gaze moves from the combatants in the air to those on the ground.

Selene leans back from the railing with a more relaxed posture into the back of he cushioned seat. "It doesn't mean you need to act like an uncouth halfbreed, cousin," she murmurs in his direction before she silences herself with a slice of orange melon. Her golden goblet dangles from between her fingers as her attention once more goes to the action below. Perhaps the Dea grows bored. She still has not seen her fighters in action yet.

Toward Vasilius, Alcander answers with a kind smile, as kind as a shark regards a fish, "I shall, for the sake of my cousin, contain the enthusiasm that should be expressed at such events and instead act like many of those others on this podium who pretend to appreciate what is going on without the slightest understanding of combat." He half-rises, bows to Vasilius, and seats himself again.

A little Empyrean girl in the crowd squeals with delight as the two gladiators fall to the ground. "YA! Kick 'em! Bite her," she cries happily, her young wings fluttering with excitement. Her parents only watch with smiles.

Leonidas does continue, answering Pantoleon, "Indeed, the Praetorians take their duty seriously, and yet, there is one, there below, who served among them, once. One of your House's choosing? A wise choice." Never hurts to be friendly, hey? Alcander is given a moment's consideration, and then Vasilius in turn. "Maintaining the peace of this place is commendable, dominus," he informs the man. "But do not too far overstep the bounds of your authority, and threaten good citizens of the Empyre. Mm?"

ARENA> His first hit. His first victory. But what a price he payed. Daven releases one hand from his axe, to touch his still bleeding knee, wiping off some blood. The pain remains. With a bit of a hobbled step, he goes slowly after Patch, raising his axe once again.

ARENA> Nox's gladius slices through the leather cuirass and soon Emrys' blood wells up into the slice. Not a deep cut, but it is painful and bloody. But the pain will be felt later as the adrenaline wears off.

ARENA> The sight of Emrys' own blood seems to just spur him on, the toothed point of the spear lowering to catch the Dark Empyrean's leg as gravity pulls him down.

The words of Leonidas are followed with a slow pan of Versus towards the person they were directed from. He assesses the potential threat to the Princeps, but remains on his post, strategically placed to intercept any would-be-contenders.

Thalia does not appear to be cheering for any of the gladiators in the arena. While idly swirling the wine in her goblet, she asks Olivia, "Does your House have a champion on the sands?"

"Oh, indeed." Olivia indicates the one known as Tyler before hastily distracting herself from the garish, gory scene below. "That is he. I cannot in any conscience, however, bid him slay the others for the glory of my House's name... barbarous, to my thinking, as immature as that may sound. Oh! How is your husband? Do forgive me for not asking after him earlier."

Vasilius inclines his head to Alcander, "Thank you, dominus. Your military advice would greatly appreciated in a more suitable time and manner." To Leonidas, he answers politely, "I did not threaten, Deus. I merely wish to maintain, as you said, the peace in this place. My actions would never have any other goal, and would never overstep the confines of this Coliseum."

Pantoleon chuckles knowingly, "Aye one down there did serve... were he as apt as his former brethren, I doubt not he would yet number among their August company. Nay, Princeps, my esteem of the Praetorian caste is greater than to press one into such service as a showpiece. At best, the fellow below may have been a Velite, I think..."

ARENA> With a fresh, fierce gash tearing horizontally across his shoulder, pouring blood down to his elbow, Tyler's heart fills with fury at the shout that manages to reach his ears through the din of battle and cheering. Striking blue eyes blaze with wrath and, though the mongrel would usually not lend a second thought to shouting right back, that anger is instead channeled into the task that he was charged with. Forward, he falls, onto Bashirrah's lower half, the sword still gripped with white knuckles in his hands. And even as one of her booted feet crash with a crackle into his nose, flinging blood high into the air, Tyler gets his knees beneath him and pulls the weight of his sword from the ground. Sure that her doom is sealed, he brings the blade crashing down to bear on his fallen opponent.

Alcander inclines his chin at Leonidas, a respectful sort of acknowledgment, before he resumes his slumping repose in his carved chair. Vasilius is thus ignored again, by and large. But he does address once the matter of an Empyrean noble joining the Varati party. "Ah, well, the Augustin people are too well-associated with the Varati, are they not? The Deus represents us to Khalid, and now that one there plays kissing cousins with their queen. Selene, Pantoleon... do you care for more ambrosia? It is, I must say, quite flavorful."

ARENA> Point and counterpoint both hit. Emrys' spear scratches along Nox' greaves at first, then produces a cut at the upper leg. With both the wound and the pulling, unhindered gravity, Nox cannot manage a graceful landing. Half-falling to the sand, he crouches down, while already raising both his own blade and his wings to regain height soon again.

Thalia flicks a look over at Leonidas before answering Olivia. "As ever, Khalid is doing well." Her answer is annoyingly vague, like any sort of answer which might be used by others in a political fashion.

Leonidas ahhs and nods. "My mistaking, quite."

"I am gratified to hear it." Olivia sinks back into her chair, for the moment letting the conversation and its difficulties ease.

Selene swings her arm around to present her near-empty goblet to Alcander so that he have it refilled for her. "Thank you cousin," she drawls sweetly, only half paying attention to him. The battle in the sand below has the other half of it.

Thalia gestures at her untouched plate. "Would you like some fruit, domina?" she asks Olivia. Whether she hears Alcander's jibes at Olivia, as before, the Queen-Maharani does not respond to the scion of Acesius.

Olivia shakes her head but answers equitably enough, "No thank you, your Majesty; my... appetite has flown for reasons I expect you may appreciate." For her part, she seems determined to ignore any unpleasantries. "Ah, I should perhaps note that the Empyrean lad below -- Emrys is his name -- is ours as well. I had forgotten. They... they all look so much alike from here, do they not?"

ARENA> Bashirrah continues to struggle, managing to get ahold of the gladiator's nose with her sandal. Suddenly, she goes wide-eyed as the man hefts one of his swords high into the air and brings it down towards her. Bashirrah is quick to respond by bringing her shield up to cover her face and upper body. She braces again for a fierce blow, hoping it won't break the shield in two. During Tyler's rage and her shield positioning, one of Bashirrah's legs finds its place between both of Tyler's knees. She responds by raising it up as hard as she can in her current position hoping that she can come in contact with his reproductive organs.

Versus turns his icy eyes to Alcander, hanging his military gaze upon him for a moment. Perhaps this Schola is an Augustin too, and has overheard the Varati remarks? Whatever it was, the expression on the Praetor's face is not one of love. Keeping his post, the soldier slowly turns towards the sands, to scout for the progress of Emrys, and then back to his duty at hand. The spear in his hand is held with a frightening familiarity, and the manners of Versus are strategically cold and forlorn.

After refilling Selene's goblet, Alcander makes himself more comfortable and watches the fight below with feigned disinterest; his queerly brown eyes are quite keen on Tyler and Bashirrah, and he seems to have forgotten to breathe.

Pantoleon nods and thanks his cousin, "Indeed, Alcander, such would be most welcome... dominus, would you join me in a drought of this stuff Alcander praises so highly?" he asks of Leonidas.

Leonidas had let his attention drift back to the battle below. Just in time to see that trademark lifting of knee. The Varati's attack. The shift in position on his seat is subtle, but he moves nonetheless. Sympathetic, that reaction. No man, no matter how base, should have that sort of thing tried. Pantoleon's distraction is welcome. "I would be glad to bear his opinion up, should he prove right, Deus. I'll join you."

Thalia turns to look down at the two gladiators Olivia has named as supported by Augustus. Though her smile grows rather flat as she looks on the combatants, she responds gamely to Olivia, "They do. Perhaps, it is the distance and the dust."

"Excellent." Alcander offers two cups, one for his cousin and one for the Princeps, the soul of propriety and amity in contrast to his earlier mood. For whatever reason.

ARENA> It worked! It worked? Patch considered, for a moment, that he might end his battle being crushed by Daven's weight. That would have been a cruel death. Now, as it is, he wipes blood from his face, grins unpleasantly, and makes another attack, the arc of his arm moving upward, an attempt to drive the point of that gladius beneath the man's armor and between ribs to his chest.

Olivia's fingers tremble as she eyes the gore and gruesome exchange of violence below, and she whitens all the more before distracting herself by finishing her wine. "Perhaps," she murmurs to Thalia without entirely appreciating to what she is conceding.

ARENA> Even though Daven focuses on Patch, he completely misses the quick blade in his charge. With a circular swing, the blade of his massive axe cuts through the air, going straight for his opponent's shoulder -- a motion strong enough that it could sever off the entire arm. However, before the attack is completed, the blade is rammed right through his ribcage. The point of Patch's blade even comes out at the other side again, a massive amount of blood gushing from the wound.

ARENA> A final blow, if ever there was one. Patch's glee at having lain that blow home is short-lived. The left arm, the one already wounded, is taken off. Cleanly. As cleanly as a wound that severe can be, at least. There's a moment of stunned silence, and then Patch lets go an inhuman, blood-curdling wail, and drops first to his knees, then to his side, free hand pressed over the wound as if he could staunch that grisly flow.

Pantoleon nods in approval and claims for the first time this day, a goblet of ambrosia. "A kill, it would seems..." he notes, glancing down at the arena. Moving on to a more genteel topic, he sips at the ambrosia, commenting afterwards, "Hmm... indeed quite a strong flavor. I do not recognize it, I'm afraid, Princeps? Have you any insight for me?" he asks with a smile.

From the seating, the cheer of the crowd echoes through the arena as the first bloody corpse hits the sand. People stand up from their seats, raise their arms in the air, shouting for "More Blood! More Blood! Kill them all!" Who they are cheering to is not evident.

ARENA> With the added advantage of height, the ex-Praetor uses the training he has and throws the spear down at his opponent, once more looking to pin the large, black wings to the arena sand. Emrys is at least persistent in his chosen target. But it will leave him without his first weapon should it fail to hit. The wail, though, catches his attention and he turns to see the gushing of blood from where Patch's arm used to be. Green eyes widen and even he seems stunned for a moment... perhaps flashes of war-scenes fill his mind. But it is a moment where he is unarmed... he has not yet drawn his gladius.

As two of the gladiators appear to be pouring out their life's blood onto the sands, Thalia turns her eyes away and looks at Olivia. "Are you the only representative from your House?"

A chance glance downward is timed perfectly, or perhaps imperfectly, that the separation of Patch's arm from his torso is the central focal point of Olivia's momentary look toward the field. She inhales sharply, turns white as the proverbial sheet, and topples right over. War wounds she has seen, but rarely has she witnessed their brutal execution. In this arena, such spells with ladies -- and with gentleman too -- happen on occasion.

Leonidas sips from the offered goblet, considers thoughtfully, and sips again. He opens his mouth to answer, and stops, distracted, perhaps understandably, by Olivia's collapse. "Water," he snaps, and the two men at his sides, in Tritonis and Thanatos colors flinch. "See to the lady."

Tris's eyes become huge again, and she buries her face in the folds of her skirts as the blood flows and limbs get severed.

ARENA> Oblivious to the death of his comrade, Nox's attention is entirely on Emrys. His buckler swoops up, to block the incoming spear, letting its metal end dig into the wood. The added weight of the now useless-shield as well as his opponent's pilum is thrown with an offhand movement into the sand. Twice, his wings strike into the air, whirling up some sand, before the dark Empyrean leaps up from the crouch straight into flight, darting once again at the lower end of the momentary unarmed ex-Praetor.

As Olivia faints, Thalia rises from her seat. Leonidas' order and Thalia's action causes the Agni-Haidar about the Queen-Maharani to bristle defensively. She calls over to the servants milling about the wine and fruit stand. "Water," she calls, echoing Leonidas. The Agni-Haidar about her do not appear disposed to allowing those in Tritonis and Thanatos colors to approach Olivia, due to her closeness to Thalia.

ARENA> Myriad sparks fly off of Bashirrah's shield as the brunt of Tyler's whetted blade crashes ferociously into it with a thundering boom of percussion. Jarring vibrations tremor through the limbs of both gladiators. And just as the shaggy-haired mongrel is recovering from the momentum of his failed attack, the lion-queen's foot succeeds in another hard kick, this one slamming into the sensitive target between the man's legs. With a strangled cough and a look of terminal shock reflecting from out of his blue eyes, the grip on the huge sword is loosened and then forgotten. The weapon slides off the shield and onto the ground beside the Varati. Tyler summarily tumbles backwards off of Bashirrah into the shifting sand, cradling the sinking soreness in his lower abdomen. Stunned, but managing to make it to his knees, his forehead presses into the dirt as another gasp of pain wracks through him.

Finally, with the barbarian display below, Selene winces loudly and turns her eyes away and buries them against Pantoleon's arm. She has no feelings that she may faint, but it isn't every day that an Empyrean noblewoman witnesses such battle, and her time away from the arena in Civitas Dei has weakened her.

Alcander glances behind him at the small scene, shrugs, and twists around again as if nothing amiss has transpired. "What were we discussing? Oh, the ambrosia. Right. Selene, were is that ... ah, blast, you ignorant mongrel, do finish off that Varati bitch!" He shakes his head and takes a long pull of ambrosia.

Marius emerges between the curtains that block the exit.

As the Thanatos men tend to Olivia, the three Schola guards, led by Versus hold their statuesque posts. Only Versus himself turns his eyes towards his collapsed aunt, unable to help directly, but visibly pleased that help is on the way so quickly. The movements of Thalia evoke a frown from his brow, as the Agni-Haidar block the way towards Olivia. Snapping a quick reply to the other Schola, and leaving them with the Princeps, he crosses the short distance to the Varati queen, and with only a mild regard for her status, he accompanies the Thanatos people. As Olivia stands, the Schola pauses in his steps, perhaps fortunately so, as the necessary challenge does not need to happen. Coldly, he returns to Leonidas' side.

ARENA> Bashirrah rolls over onto her belly and quickly stands, smiling with delight at her successful attack on Tyler's sweet spot. SHING! Bashirrah draws her sword from its sheath and raises it triumphantly into the sky. "EEEEEYYYYYYAHHHHH," she screams, looking to the crowd for a sign of whether she should spare the mongrel or let his head roll though the sand.

Versus frowns once again, as Bashirrah rises over Tyler in the sands below. Unable to express his outrage, he just glances to Leonidas, as if to see what his verdict will be.

Fuss for so little a thing, really, Olivia would likely say if she were roused. But water and some air, the proper ministrations, are quick to do their duty, and she is awake from her swoon without much ado. Still, she is encouraged to remain prone and seems content so to do for the time being, and from numbed lips she offers only, "I am sorry..." in a half-mumble.

ARENA> With the finishing of his last movement that has sent poor Patch's arm flying, Daven's own stabbed-through body collapses in the sand. A few last gurgling sounds escape his mouth, then more blood, before his breath subsides. The last motion is to clench his hand harder around the hilt of his axe, letting it only go when his lifeforce was already breathed out.

Leonidas climbs to his feet as well. Will the Agni-Haidar not let Thanatos and Tritonis help? Varati be damned. Leonidas' jaw sets like stone, and he instructs Versus, "See that the domina Augustin is helped to a seat. Among her own." It's not meant as a snub against Thalia, honestly, but he is ... vexed. His attention snaps back to the arena again, and his brow furrows further.

Pantoleon begins to turn with Leonidas, but is quick to abandon his scrutiny as Selene appears in need of his attention, setting down the goblet, Pantoleon straightens one delicate braid with his one hand while holding her a moment with the other. Whispered words pass between the two...

Leonidas draws a deep breath, standing now as he is, and at the result of some commotion on the podium above. For now, he looks down at the arena, though, and his eyes narrow. The Varati holds another man's life in her hands. She won't bloody well get it. "Let him live!"

The sound of Vasilius' voice rings once again strongly through the arena, directed straight at Bashirrah, "Let him live! He is beaten. The combat goes until surrender. One death is enough for today." After all, he could get in trouble with more dead slaves.

Bah. "He is worse than dead now," Alcander scoffs, though his attention is distracted by Selene; he actually looks worried over her.

ARENA> Blinking through the visions, Emrys catches sight of Nox' charge almost too late. Quickly, he unsheathes his gladius and attempts to block the attack, but his movements aren't quick enough. Managing to divert an emasculating blow, Nox's gladius pierces his thigh, nearly to the bone... in almost the exact place he was wounded before. The similarity is too much for Emrys' battered mind, and he makes one swipe at the arm holding the offending weapon before he stagger-flies to the ground of the bloodied arena. He lands ungracefully, falling to his knees with a cry of pain and shock. Gods, they didn't tell him that this would happen... he was fine before, but no longer. The helm is pulled off and dropped on the sand as Emrys cradles his temples, trying to get the visions to go away while he adds his own share of blood to the sand.

As Olivia awakens, the Agni-Haidar closest to the Empyrean woman reaches down and unceremoniously hauls her up to her feet, if Olivia doesn't fight him. As if shooing away an irritating fly, the Agni-Haidar indelicately shoves the woman toward those in Thanatos colors and Versus as Leonidas's imperious command rings through the air. As this occurs, Thalia reseats herself, rather than trying to give Olivia any further aid.

Curtly, Versus snaps an Empyreal salute, "Aye, Princeps!" Making a military march towards Thalia, and well aware that the Agni-Haidar will block his way should he get too close, he moves as much as he can down to the last inch, letting the distance separating him from the Varati be large enough to lower his own spear, should they decide to deny him even this space. Civil but deathly serious and forlorn in his severity, he displays no emotion as his words come out curt and to the point... his hand extended symbolically towards Olivia, despite the distance, "Domina Augustin. In the name of the Aegis, please follow me at once."

Vasilius turns once again to Alcander, his voice hard, "Did you not understand me? I said that the combat is until surrender."

Alcander replies to Vasilius, equitably, "Oh, I heard you. I just don't believe that cloven fellow below did."

Vasilius nods, "Then, if you heard me, behave appropriately. If you wish to see a fight until death, commit a slave for it or go into the arena yourself. Until then, please do not interfere with the games anymore."

Whatever Pantoleon has whispered seems to have calmed the Dea, enough to draw her eyes from their close study of his toga to look up into his own. "I shall be fine," she murmurs to him, even smiling for his benefit. "It was just ... a shock is all. I will not leave before witnessing the triumph of our own fighters." The stubborn nature of the Dea returns as well as she slides back to her own seat, though her eyes don't seem completely fixed on the events below.

Still hazy following her unplanned departure from consciousness, Olivia is hardly prepared to struggle as she is hauled to her feet and shoved about like a loaf of poorly-baked bread being returned to the market. Unsteady, she looks toward the men in black, then at Versus, and tremulously presents her hand to Versus. She seems only partially cognizant of what is going on.

Pantoleon looks up in irritation to this presumptuous Vasilius. "Put thought before word in your next speech, I bid you. My cousin made no demands, and simply expressed an opinion. One he is entirely able to hold, and one he did not force upon you. He is a nobleman, and deserves to be treated as such." Concern over Selene only sharpens the look of disapproval on the Deus' regal countenance.

Getting to his feet, Alcander reports, "My good man, you have all the charm of a rabid rodent and half the wits to boot. Since my presence here is disruptive and you seem intent on being an ass, I'll excuse myself." He bows to Pantoleon and to Leonidas, then rests a gentle hand on Selene's head. "Vale."

Leonidas sits again, in time, though it takes some martialing of will to smooth his feathers into a semblance of composure before he does so.

Versus does not hold Olivia's hand for long, giving her to the Thanatos men, and sparing himself a hushed remark to her with a sheer force of will. The conversation between them will happen, no doubt, but at a later date, within the walls of Augustus. Instead, keeping himself between the retreating servants of the Princeps and the military entourage of Thalia, he stares at her for a long time. He is alone against all the Agni-Haidar... the rest of the Schola keeping a guard of Leonidas, so he does nothing. His gaze, however, dispassionate and utterly stern, lets the Varati Queen know that he has hereby officially remembered the treatment of Olivia at the hands of her guards. It will be evened out... eventually. The Praetorian Guard is patient. Turning on his heel in one swift motion, Versus follows the Thanatos people back to Leonidas, ensuring that Olivia is sat among their own.

ARENA> Nox's wings flap once more, stabilizing his position, as his gaze drops to the fallen enemy. Gliding down slowly to Emrys' kneeling body, he readies his gladius just in front of him. Due to his still throbbing and bleeding upper thigh, his landing is less graceful and fluid than he'd hoped to be, but he remains on his feet. With the blade close to Emrys' side, he asks calmly, "You yield?"

"Vale, cousin," Selene responds, somewhat disappointed that he must depart. She shoots a dark gaze to the man she feels is forcing him from the podium. A bit to arrogant in so small a place that he controls. She shakes her head with annoyance and watches Alcander leave.

ARENA> Growling, struggling with the disheartening pain, Tyler swallows with difficulty as he tries to force his body into action. Get up, he demands of himself. Only steadfast refusal replies. Blood glistens on his right shoulder and sheathes the length of the corresponding arm, thick and crimson, sluggishly dripping in a sticky stream to pool in the dirt below him. One weathered hand unwinds from his middle to rest in the dry sand, deliberately clawing a handful of it into his palm should the Varati gladiator get any sudden ideas of more blood, and more glory.

Tris finally raises her head again, returning her gaze to the (ending) battles.

Olivia, disinterested in causing a fuss or some sort of political schism, only sinks into her chair with eyes closed against the violence below. Her thanks go to Versus, if hollow in sound, and she offers another apology to her behavior before she grows quiet once more.

ARENA> Bashirrah lets out a barbaric whoop before she sheathes her sword. No need to hurt the other any more. He's got enough pain for a while. Besides, in the future she hopes that such mercy will be dealt to her. But the fight is not over. Nox and Emrys are still busy. Hoping to lend a hand, Bashirrah dashes over to retrieve her quarterstaff from its position among the million grains of sand.

Having dispensed of Olivia and once again made the area by the Queen-Maharani secure, the Agni-Haidar return to their previous stoic immobility. Thalia has turned her attention back to the sands once Olivia's departure was guaranteed by Leonidas' order, thus missing any sort of censorious gaze on Versus' part. She appears surprised that in the intervening minutes, Bashirrah has laid Tyler low and that Nox has done the same to Emrys. She leans forward to hear the verdict.

Vasilius bows to Leonidas, offering a bit more softly, "I am sorry if I offended. Yet the life of the gladiators was given in my care and responsibility, for the time being. It was merely my intention to not waste the life of somebody given to me by Deus Cassius, for his benefit."

ARENA> Emrys no longer sees Nox, but a Varati soldier in his place... asking if he yields. Asking if he yields? They never did that. The blood-mist clears and he sees the dark Empyrean once more, his gladius poised for a strike should he refuse. Green eyes shift to see the other who is still up and moving towards him. His own wounds are beginning to hurt... "Yes," is the quiet answer. "I yield." This time.

Alcander pfts, quite audibly, then collects himself and departs. Enough is enough.

Alcander passes through the purple curtains, exiting the viewing area.

Leonidas does respond, though he doesn't look at Vasilius. "Your ... concern for those in your care is, as stated, dominus, admirable. I simply remind you, again, to have an equal care to your treatment of those who fill your stands. You will find that we are, most of us, reasonable men, and that we respond best to civil correction." The words are spoken crisply, but without palpable heat.

A few strong mongrels come out of the gates to carry out the corpse and the wounded bodies of the losers, silent and efficient, as they are expected to be. After some brief annoyance up in the podium, Vasilius gets back to his heightened announcement position, to declare in a faked voice of excitement, "Wow, what a fight! Close enough, yet the winner is clear, and the winner is surprising. Sponsored by none but their own iron will, the survivors, the black Empyrean and Bashirrah, the lion-woman, claim the prize and your applause."

Pantoleon looks from Vasilius and Alcander back to Selene. A smile softens his previous displeasure and at last looks again to the arena. Shaking his head with distaste, he comments to Leonidas, "You see? I remember a day when a Praetor would surrender his final breath before surrendering his sword to a foe. There was a motto among them: No Retreat, No surrender." Looking now to the Schola present he asks, "Good Optio, are such words as mine still heard in the Nest?"

Standing, Thalia walks to the edge of the podium and makes a flinging motion out over the arena. Twice she does this, and each time a gold coin flies through the air. One coin goes to Bashirrah and the other to Nox. Her tosses are only approximate and thus, if the gladiators do not catch them, the coins will land in the sands near their feet.

Tris slips out of her seat and makes her way quietly through the crowd and out of the arena.

ARENA> Bashirrah let him live -- but he still lost. With that indignity suffered, Tyler releases the handful of sand and slumps over onto his back, staring with the grudging air of a sore loser at the blue sky above until someone comes to carry him away.

Olivia takes a cloth and dabbles at her forehead and features, content to be distracted from the fights and foregoing her sham of paying attention to the blood and gore. But she looks unwell still, likely from the headache the most often follows a swoon, and it is understandable that she looks about with interest in departing.

ARENA> Emrys will accept the help of others to walk away, for he will not be carried. But before he leaves he offers a nod to Nox, "Good fight." He doesn't seem to be as sore as a loser as his teammate... perhaps he is merely glad to be left alive... who knows?

ARENA> Nox tucks his gladius away, muttering to Emrys with gritted teeth, "You fought for the wrong House, man. Next time, make a better choice, and you'll have a better chance." With that, he turns away, flipping up the coin thrown at him with his zoris, then catching it in mid-air. He doesn't give the crowd any salute, bravado or signs of appreciation. This one isn't meant to be gladiator, and he shows it. Or maybe he just doesn't care. With a slow pace and eyes turned to the sand, he trots off to the exit.

It is evident that Versus has his own opinion about Emrys, but it will remain unvoiced as long as he is on duty. Looking towards Pantoleon as the question comes, he simply nods, but reveals little else. There is respect in his nod, but he is here for the Princeps at the moment, and his attention returns to him. Gazing upon the other Schola guards, he walks to one and moves him a few inches to the left, discovering a new vantage point for the changing crowds below, and the safety at hand. He knows that the Varati Queen has not seen his gesture, but it stands... noted or not. For now, Versus freezes in his own statuesque position, looking at Tyler and Emrys down on the ground, and seemingly more interested in how they exit the arena, over their victory status.

ARENA> Bashirrah raises her quarterstaff triumphantly and gathers the few coins tossed down to her. Obviously, she caused an upset among the crowds. Well, they had better like it, because Bashirrah doesn't lose. Smiling and waving to the crowd as she departs, Bashirrah soaks in what glory she can before she disappears into a different exit than her remaining teammate, Nox.

Selene sighs with heavy annoyance to watch those fighting for an Empyrean House defeated by a group with seemingly no proper patron. Certainly not one among the group assembled in the podium. "A shame," she mutters to no one in particular, though it is probably heard by her husband who sits nearby. Her eyes focus squarely on the dark Varati woman and delivers her a dark, stabbing stare. Not that the woman on the ground collecting a few coins would notice.

ARENA> Tyler is carried through the gate into the chambers below the coliseum.

(Continued in Blood, Sweat, and Thrills (Part II))  

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