Gladiatorial games: 9-7-00 Characters present, in order of appearance: Gladiators: Emrys, Tyler, Patch (emitted by Pylades), Bashirrah, Nox, Daven (Nox), Pylades, Bravo, Tiny (Bashirrah & Jessop), Kesava, The Claw-Jay, Spartacus (Emrys) Spectators at the Podium: Vasilius, Selene, Pantoleon, Alcander, Olivia, Leonidas, Thalia + company, Versus, Marius, Jana, Gaius Crowd emits: Vasilius Podium      This area looks quite nice, especially compared to the simple stone benches you can see from your vantage point here among the best seats in the house: white stucco covers the rough stone, and is painted over with grape vines and clusters, scenes from legend, and beautiful youths engaging in sport. The stone benches are separate and covered with deep purple cushions. A stand for wine and food is at the ready, complete with servants when an event is in session, and a canopy shields whoever is privileged enough to sit here from the elements. A purple-curtained archway leads to the eventual exit of the coliseum. Present: Vasilius, Selene, Pantoleon, Alcander 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. Admitted, some of the attention may be focused on the two scantily dressed, curvious and dusky skinned mongrel women who standing at the side of the fat Empyrean, fanning to 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, 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 collesium...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 collesium with brightly polished Brass disks turn the focus of thier 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? Olivia has arrived. 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 herselfwhere she may see. She tries, if at all possible, to enter without any attention landing upon her. No less dramatic than Leonidas' entrance. Leonidas', 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 who will try to regain the honor, the pride that has suffered lately. 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." Thalia emerges between the curtains that block the exit. Thalia has arrived. 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-Praetorian, 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 fighter 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 appearance, 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 ambosia 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 biefly, 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 his is alreaty 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'. ARENA> Emrys:         Green eyes look out at nothing...then suddenly focus intensly at one thing. These eyes shift from mood to mood quite erratically, one must wonder about the thoughts in this young Empyrean's head. Or if there are any at all. It is a pity, for Emrys is a rather attractive one for an Empyrean. His features are pure; a fine, straight nose, high cheekbones, firm mouth, chiseled chin. His hair is a bright blonde, falling in thick waves past his shoulders and between his white wings. He is powerfully built, tall and muscular. But those haunted eyes...both frightening and pitiful at the same time, as if he is always seeing something terrible that isn't there. And perhaps he is.          Dressed for battle, he wears a cuirass of hardened leather, bracers and leg-greaves of metal. The tunic underneath his armor is of a pale green...of fine quality but not so fine as to be worn outside the arena. His feet are protected by thick leather sandals, and topping ot off, covering most of his golden hair is a helm with a flowing bleached horse's tail. At his waist is clasped a gladius and in his hands is a long, wicked-toothed spear. 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. Evenso, 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. 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 that he will be representing House Augustus in. 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> Tyler:         Crystalline blue eyes, always running wild with proof of a turbulent temper, confront the world with keen, contagious excitement. Tyler looks to be in his mid-twenties, his features rugged and relatively handsome, fit for winning smiles and aggressive snarls alike. A quick shock of lemon yellow hair challenges the bronzed complexion of his skin in contrast, all shaggy and tangled after rather unsuccessful efforts by the mongrel to hand-comb it into place. Formidable in construction, cocky in demeanor, Tyler is six feet and two inches of energy and adrenaline. Every accelerated muscle is athletic and honed, but not pronounced enough for him to be mistaken as hulking or massive--his build reasonably combines explosive strength with a curious expedition.  Proud scars dance in sharp patterns across his powerful forearms and hands, while fresh cuts and bruises always adorn his knuckles, strictly exacted by his rough lifestyle.         His attire his built for speed and ease of movement. Fitting snugly over Tyler's upper half is a sturdy, sleeveless lorica dyed black, faded from frequent use and wear. Weather-beaten canvas pants sheathe his legs, mis-matched bronze greaves strap to his thighs, and hard leather boots finish off. Battle-scarred bracers have been secured over each wrist and forearm. And either within his grasp--or not far from it--is a two-handed sword of four and a half feet of battered steel, double-edged and deadly. 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 completed, 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 has left, "Pitted against the gladiators of House Augustus are the group of the dark ones. The fair members Augustus have lost already once a fight against the strength of the darkness. What will happen today, who can tell? Without sponsor, without noble backing, two valient 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 myserious, 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 thier 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 untill she is called. As she waits she continues to mumble, "Sister be by my side.... Sister be by my side..." She does so for several times eyes closed seeming to be in deep thought about it, almost a prayer. Finally her name is called and Bashirrah looks over to Blackwings and smiles a bit, giving a nod. She finally jogs out, quaterstaff 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 shined sliver breastplate, greaves, and wristguards which all appears quite heavy and in a purple shirt and shorts under that armor, Bashirrah puts on quite a show of gusto. Obivously she has been trained well in crowd pleasing. ARENA> Bashirrah:          A warrior passes quietly by, drawing attention along with whispers and stares. Thick boned with muscular upper arms and legs underneath a chocolate toned skin, the warrior stands about six and a half feet tall. You would expect a man but instead this finely turned warrior is a woman! And by the youthfulness of her face she could very well still be in her teens.          She is clad in a purple shirt and shorts which hug the body closely.  Over that she wears an iron breastplate and backing which have been covered with a layer of sliver. The pig iron shows through where battle damage has pocked the armor. The armor is joined together by leather straps. The shoulders and upper arms are protected by strips of heavy leather studded with brass tacks. A like garment is worn about the waist and extends to the knees with even heavier leather and larger, stronger tacks. The attire is completed with matching sliver shin and wrist guards that have also seen their day of battle. A pair of thick leather sandals protect the feet.          The warrior wears nothing on her head but a scalp of closely cropped curly dark hair. A pair of raging chestnut eyes are set between a oddly wide nose. Her thin eyebrows are furrowed and a grimace is set upon her lips. In one hand she carries a quarterstaff mounted with a bloodstained pike. In the opposite a circular sliver shield with a large single spike in the middle. The spike too is blood red. If not enough, at her side in a leather scabbard hangs a short sword, its brass hilt resting quietly at her right side. Another oddity to this warrior is a large bulge at the rump of her tight shorts. The bulge is large enough to draw some attention and it appears to be quite uneasy if not uncomfortable. 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 trailor." 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 women ahead of her, 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. ARENA> Nox:         An Empyrean of slightly below average height, with sleek, swarthy skin. His heart-shaped face still has faint traces of femininity and smoothness from the past, but it has clearly suffered in recent times: The coarse skin is now covered with the shade of a scruff beard, the high cheekbones have become hollow and the curved lips cracked and dried out, giving the young man a haggard appearance. The light in his violet slanted eyes, below a pair of finely arched, deep black eyebrows, has become duller, now shining with the intensity taken from suffering and desperation. Long black, greasy hair falls in a loose, unkept way over his face to his shoulders.         His body is lithe and slender. Originally of thin, light built, recent training has given Nox broad biceps, a hardened musculature and a flat stomach, making him neither big nor bulky, but well-proportioned, even if somewhat underfed. The most remarkable aspect of him are his wings: Covered with thick feathers of raven-black, they arc high over his shoulders, broadening his frame and covering his back, elegantly curving down. At a closer look, a few pristine white feathers sprouting near his back on both wings can be observed.         A simple, sleeveless cuirass of dark leather, dulled and scratched from heavy use, fits tightly over his muscled chest. Underneath, a short, grey tunic shows, leaving his thighs bare. From knee below, the legs are covered by leather greaves, and his feet snug in a pair of caligae. A copper belt, with a sheath for a short sword, is slung around his narrow waist. Thalia smiles in a friendly fashion to Olivia, but does not say anything to the Empyrean girl. 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 Acesius." 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 gladiator's 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 acknowledgement. Pantoleon smiles tightly at the drama within the box...It is not out of respect, but a chcukle 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 embarassed by what of it attracts her focus, catching her ear; she gives Thalia a sympathetic smile before studying the arena once more, anxiously. After the entrance of the second team, Vasilius give finally the sign to start, a simple, but loud clapping of his hands, "Alas, let the games begin! May the better group win!" Nor is he looking for acknowledgement 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." 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 foward, quarterstaff and pike pointing foward, tucked under one arm. Her shield covers most of her upper body, it's large single pike in the center blood stained. At first Bashirrah starts off slow but she gains speed and charges foward 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. Leonidis 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's 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 Emyrean, his spear aimed for the black wings. Just to debilitate. Selene gasps sharply and looks, horrified, over to her cousin as the 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 egister it so loudly in this arena?" The events of the day before are remembered, but certianly nothing so distructive to warrent 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 Leonides and Olicia, "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 better, 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' 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, fo 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. Her 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 extrememly armored. Even a sucessful charge would not punch the armor. To her advantage, the man carries no shield. And with her quaterstaff 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 foward striking out for the glaidator. Olivia glances toward the Acesius 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 focusses 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, that lays open a line across his shoulder, that begins the first fall of blood of many that will no doubt splatter the arena ground this day. Thus wounded, he 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 Leonides, "Indeed. And far be it from Cassius Augustin to fail putting 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." A smile and 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 thier 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. "T-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, bring a goblet of wine and a tray of fruit over toward Thalia. Hesitently, 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 dak grape into he mouth, leaving he hand free to rest on top of that of her husband. The action below, blood and all, is foesaken 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 fowad so that none of the action is missed below. Versus emerges between the curtains that block the exit. Versus has arrived. 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 int he 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, then 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 averting 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 full Praetorian gear of the Schola guards. His curt military efficiency contrasts deeply with 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 her 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 Leonides, "There is too much brutality, and not enough art in most of these...They push, and strike, and fall back on thier 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 thier 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 foward with her shield and bounce him back. Either way she better not loose 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 it's 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 Praetorian 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 druken eunichs 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 deafining. 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 his 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 flapping 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 Leonides, "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 Praetors play at...they are soliders, not artisans." Versus sweeps the podium with his icy stare, remaining stern and austere as if trully detatched 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. "Alcande, dear," she almost coos, dawing he 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 suprised 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 meerly pins her legs. Trashing 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 Leonides, "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 fpr 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 eminates from Versus at the current success of Khalid's favourite 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 a unspoken-order is given by a slight nod of the head. It is a sombre bunch, not at all attune with the jovial mood of the crowd, was 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 ingore 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 is meant to be aggressive and bawdy. The podium was designed for people who showed a little dignity and behaviour acording 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. He golden goblet dangles from between her fingers as her attnention 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. ARENA> A little Empyrean girl in the crowd squeals with delightment as the two gladiators fall to the ground. "YA! Kick 'em! Bite her," she cries happly, her young wings futtering 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' 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. 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 acesses 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 militairy 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 bretheran, I doubt not he would yet number among thier 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 channelled 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 acknowledgement, before he resumes his slumping repose in his carved chair. Vasilius is thusly ignored again, by and large. But he does address once the matter of an Empyrean noble joining the Varati party. "Ah, well, the Augustus people are too well-associated with the Varati, are they not? The Deus represents us to Khalid, and now that one there plays kissing cousin 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 Leonides 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 nea-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 othe 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-Mharani 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 stuggle managing to get ahold of the gladiator's nose with her sandal. Suddenly she goes wide eyed as the man hefts one of of his swords high into the air and brings it down towards her. Bashirrah is quick to respond to bring her sheild 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 postioning, one of Bashirrah's legs finds it's 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 he has overheard the Varati remarks? Whatever it was, the expression on the Praetorian'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 Leonides. 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 Empyreans 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 grusome 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. He 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 represenative 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 - happens 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 eys 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' attention is entirely on Emrys. His buckler swoops up, to block the incoming spear, letting its metal end digging 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' words. The Agni-Haidar about her do not appear disposed to allowing those in Tritonis and Thanatos colors to approach Oliva, 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 Empyean noblewoman witnesses such battle, and her time away from the arena in Civitas Dei has weakened her. Olivia 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. 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. Marius has arrived. 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 sucessful attack on Tyler's sweet spot. SHING! Bashirrah draws her sword from it's sheath and raises it triumplently into the sky. "EEEEEYYYYYYAHHHHH," she screams looking to the crowd for a sign of wether she should spare the mongrel or let his head roll though the sand. Versus frowns once again, as Bashirrah raises 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, his 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 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 Leonides, but is quick to abandon his scrutiny as Selene appears in need of his attention, setting down the goblet, Pantoleon straigtens 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 unsheaths his gladius and attempts to block the attack, but his movements aren't quick enough. Managing to divert a demasculating blow, Nox' 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 awakes, 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 Empyrean 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, the 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 he eyes from there close study of his toga to look up into his own. "I shall be fine," she murmurs to him, even smiling fo 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 as if 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 presumptious 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 sharpening 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, he follows the Thanatos people back to Leonidas, ensuring that Olivia is sat among their own. ARENA> Nox' 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 dak 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 scism, 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 behaviour before she grows quiet once more. ARENA> Bashirrah lets out a barbaric like 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 it's 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 censorous 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 responsability, 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. Alcander has left. 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. As a few strong mongrels come out of the gates to carry out the corpse and the wounded bodies of the losers. Silent and efficient, like 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 wih distatse he comments to Leonides, "You see? I remember a day when a Praetorian 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, he 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 gatheres the few coins tossed down to her. Obivously she caused an upset among the crowds. Well, they better like it cause Bashirrah doesn't loose. Smiling and waving to the crowd as she departs Bashirrah soaks in what glory she can before she disappears into a diffrent exit than her remaining teammate, Nox. Selene sighs with heavy annoyance to watch those fighting for an Empyean 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 squarly on the dark Varati woman and delivers her a dak stabbing stare. Not that the woman on the gound collecting a few coins would notice. ARENA> Tyler passes into the chambers below as the gate opens to allow him to pass. ARENA> Tyler has left. The rolling voice of announcement rises up once again, "And now, we have another feature event. This time, it is two of the highest, most worthy Houses of the Empyre: The gladiators of House Jove will fight those of House Acesius." The goblet Leonidas had, poured from Alcander's stock, is lifted again, and the Princeps drinks. And he watches as those from the last fight are carried off, and the game is reset, as it were. Olivia murmurs to no one in particular, "I sho-should see how our fighters are faring," and finds her way to her feet. "Pray forgive me for the withdrawal." Marius has left. Thalia moves away from the edge of the podium, and returns to her seat as the next round is announced. She gives Olivia a smile as the woman prepares to depart. "Domina." Pantoleon too raises a goblet, commenting aloud to Olivia, "May better fortune find them, Domina." turning to Leonides, he adds, "I confess Princeps, I am curious to see the worth of these wariors my wife has gathered...I am quite confident that this showing should be far more favorable." A smile to win the best wishes of one's worst enemy is Pantoleon's. And he speaks to no enemies. The Dea's goblet is lifted toward the field below as the gladiators who fight for her House are announced and enter the arena. She also delivers a good-hearted cheer that would be accompanied by clapping if one hand were not occupied at the moment. He whole demeanor seems to change. A relaxed carriage is straightened and Selene leans forward once more, anxious for the battle to begin. More trumpet blasts accompany Vasilius' voice as he introduces the fighters, "Let those representing the Kronian's House step in: Pylades, a free citizen of the Empyre, who decided to win his glory, Bravo, one of the champions from the provinces, who has shown his deadly skill and his exquisite, flashy style before. And Tiny, the one who is not Tiny. Applause for them, ladies and gentlemen." Olivia passes through the purple curtains, exiting the viewing area. Olivia has left. ARENA> Bravo emerges into the sands... a cocky smile on his unguarded face. Standing tall and proud, he advances before all the other competitors, and raises his left hand, cracking the impossibly long whip twice... the sound echoing throughout the arena. ARENA> Bravo: Tall and striking, this mongrel bears manners of someone accustomed to rough life. His eyes are dark brown and set in sockets that seem to be constantly tense. The mouth is thin and long, often frowning and his arms and legs are wiry. He is wearing a hard leather armor, holding a whip in the left hand and a long sword in the other. ARENA> Pylades steps in as his name is called, and lifts his sword as he does so, a gladius that has been polished to catch the light, to stand out among blades, in salute, toward the podium, and those who watch. He turns to give that same salute to the common seating as well, then turns to walk backward, so that he can watch the tunnel out of the cells beneath the coliseum, so he can see the opposition come. ARENA> Pylades: For one of the winged race, this man doesn't look like he's easily able to get off the ground. Oh, he has wings, great broad-feathered things that, once spread, are certainly capable of keeping him airborne. They aren't the pristene, perfectly-preened wings that his noble cousins sport; some of his feathers bear the marks of heat, singed or browned at the edges, curling out of place. It's not the wings that are out of place, though. It's the body. Tall, like his finer bred cousins, this Empyrean is also broad. A body made for labor replaces a body made for admiration. Muscle shapes him, broadening both shoulders and chest, thickening his arms and legs. Too, his skin is sun-bronzed, not the fairer complexion of those who speak for the Empyre. Hair that borders on brown is cut short and combed forward in martial fringe around his face and ears. The broad planes of his face suit the set of a nose broken once too often, but the lines at the corners of his mouth and dark blue eyes suggest that he is a man given to smiles. His tunic is not well-spun, and his caligae not well-cared for, but they clothe him, and that is what matters. ARENA> Bravo notices the podium on in the stands, and yells after the whip stopped cricling, "For the glory of House Jove!" Leonidas allows, "I am certain that the fight will be more evenly balanced this round, Deus, yes, and I wish those who represent you all good fortune. Still, I hope they are challenged. Jove does not seem the sort to choose men who cannot fight well to represent them." ARENA> Tiny... his name would never match the size of the man althought it might his brain. "Wooh-hooo-hooo," Tiny bellows as he waddles out into the arena. The man is huge, his armor fashioned from that of a war elephant. The man may appear fat, but in both hands he holds huge iorn scimitars that each appear to be around fifty pounds. With all that fat under his thick chain mail it would be near impossible to hit a critical spot. That's why Tiny has few losses. Looking down upon the three new gladiators, Vasilius asks himself aloud, "Now, are these really the best gladiators the Empyre can offer? I am sure we will find out, as they fight against those representing the House of Acesius: Kesava, the panther, another champion from outside, who has come to test their claws in the arena of the best. The Claw, the man known for his taloned gauntlets, as impressive as he is dangerous. And finally Spartacus, the free Empyrean, trying to win his House's glory and the heart of the girls with his appearance today." Pantoleon nods at Leonides' words, "I should hope not, Princeps...Rather I trust that worthy foes shall be defeated in worthy combat." Pausing in his words, the Deus raises Selene's hand to his lips before complimenting "I must say, my dear, the appearance of your prizes seems quite impressive...I trust their skills shall match?" A broad smile indicates his confidence that they shall. ARENA> Kesava stalks into the arena, tail waving behind her. She glares briefly up at the stands, but doesn't break stride to her position. Her right arm is sheathed from the shoulder down in overlapping bands of metal, her hand holding a double-edged short sword. Her left arm bears a round shield. Save for her minimal clothing and the collar around her throat, she is otherwise uncovered, her feet bare in the sand. ARENA> Kesava: A tall, graceful young woman, only a little under six feet in height. She has the long-limbed, narrow-hipped and broad-shouldered build of an athlete, the tanned and toned curves of her slender frame carrying little excess weight. Her long nose looks as if it may been broken some time in the past, while her mouth is rather too broad and her brilliant green eyes too deeply set for true beauty. But high, fine cheek bones and a near-flawless complexion combine to good effect. Auburn wisps of her unruly mane of hair frame her face, having escaped from the loose ponytail that snakes half way down her back.  A simple cord of twined leather sits low on her slender hips, supporting short lengths of dull beige cloth at front and back. Token compliance with the dictates of modesty is maintained by her mis-matched blue top - sleeveless and fitted close enough to provide support for her bust, its deep-cut halter neck prominently displays her tanned cleavage. Around her neck is clasped a circlet of metal, its bronze gleaming red-gold.  At the front, it is marked with two symbols - one, a stylised sun, and the other a word. For those who can read, it states simply "Acesius". By far Kesava's most eye-catching feature, however, is the long tail which sprouts from the base of her spine. Covered in short, thick black fur, it sometimes seems to operate independently of its owner. ARENA> Spartacus strides in, watching the audience before breaking out into a very wide, sparkling grin. For the girls indeed! His wings spread wide he waves about his morningstar in an impressive display before bowing to the crowd. He does, however, blanche at seeing the large man called 'Tiny' moving out into the arena. Hopefully he won't be fighting that one. Pantoleon nods at Leonides' words, "I should hope not, Princeps...Rather I trust that worthy foes shall be defeated in worthy combat." Pausing in his words, the Deus raises Selene's hand to his lips before complimenting "I must say, my dear, the appearance of your prizes seems quite impressive...I trust their skills shall match?" A broad smile indicates his confidence that they shall. <repose> ARENA> The Claw follows a step behind and to the right of Kesava, decked out in plated leather armor, greaves, and helmet. A round shield is held in one hand, a trident in the other, one of the more exotic weapons around. Also at his side is a sheathed short sword and a weighted net. His slate-grey eyes survey the crowd as he thrusts the triton high, holding it in his free hand. Good at playing to the crowd when warranted, he's also a capable and intense fighter, this mongrel slave of Acesius. Selene gently acknowedlges the kiss with a squeeze of her hand in his. "I shall be quite disappointed if they do not give an honorable showing, my Deus. Though I cannot help but feel a bit at odds, since they are battling those of Jove." Twenty-eight years of loyalties to one's house cannot be wiped away so easily, not matter how hard one tries. >From his seat at the edge of the podium, Pantoleon, with a murmered word to Selene beside him, rises from his chair and raises an ornate goblet in salute, first to side representing his own august House, but with a sweep of his arm, includes the warriors of Jove. Setting the fine cup down, still full, on the very rail of the podium, the Deus retakes his seat. "Glory to the victor." He calls, voice raised so as to be heard. Thalia picks up the goblet that she set aside to throw coins at last round's winners. The liquid still reaches close to the rim of the vessel, showing that the Queen-Maharani has not partaken of the beverage. She looks at the new combatants in silence, an aura of serene solitude filling the space about her, in spite of the hot-blooded action about to occur. Versus shows little emotion at the performance of the Augustus gladiators this time... most likely to his duty at hand. Keeping his slight distance from the Princeps, to allow him for maximum privacy under such heavy guard, he has his men positioned strategically and his own place carefully chosen. They are a different breed, the Schola... lacking the military flair of Servitors in favor of an almost fanatical, cold efficiency and readiness for combat. Pantoleon reaches below his chosen seat and draws out a small linen wrapped bundle, unwinding it to reveal a rather well decorated goblet, engraved with images of Posidon warring with a great fish. <insert previous pose here> To Selene he comments, "I daresay our fishing fighter below might stand most appreciative. I hope he is victorius." The flutter of wings along the back rows goes unnoticed when all attention is focused on the anticipation of bloodshed down below. Jana's wings tightly snap in close to her body, and she picks her way carefully through the well-groomed crowd until an empty seat is found. She remains on the outskirts of the crowd, scrunching down in her seat and leaning forward in order to attain a better view. Unlike most around her, she remains rather quiet. "As do I," Selene responds to Pantoleon with another smile. She admirers the object in his hands and even runs a finger over the images on the side of it. "Beautiful," she comments with a raised whisper. Further admiration must wait for another time, however, for the battle of her two houses is about to begin. ARENA> Suddenly, as the first signal for fighting is given, the centrally-located Bravo turns around with a viscious cry, and sweeps the long whip in the direction of the Acesius gladiators. It is a tactic most likely used to stun the opposition, and wide enough to cover all the enemy combatants. Yet, the swing is low enough to catch someone's feet and bring them down, no doubt for a quick death from the sword of the charging Bravo. ARENA> Kesava sneers derisively, dropping low, her sword angled to "parry" the whip, its cutting edge allowing her opponent's weapon to bring about its own trimming. That accomplished, she springs forward, sprinting gracefully towards Bravo. Gaius has arrived. ARENA> A whip? One snapped at The Claw's feet? Bah. As if that's supposed to intimidate him. Grip tightening on the trident he starts out with in his right hand, he glances towards Kesava before following her towards Bravo. With the oddly-named Tiny apparently not yet in the thick of things, here's a chance for a little two on one. "One side, 'ey? I got th' other 'fore th' third gets here!" Shield is held at the ready in order to guard against any attacks. ARENA> Pylades twirls the blade he holds. Rather, he lets the weight of the blade turns his hand, rotates it until it is held at the ready again, and then he chooses an opponent. It's almost gentlemanly, the bob of his head, the twitch of his wings, before he levels the blade at Spartacus. Like takes like, isn't that it? Wings to wings. But Pylades doesn't take to the sky. Rather, he backs away, and invites the other Empyrean to fight on his ground, beckoning him closer. ----------------- * Phatty! * ---------------- ARENA> Spartacus' eyes narrow as the other winged one doesn't take the battle into the air but he begins to circle his opponent, the head of the morningstar swinging slowly...working up the momentum before a strike. ARENA> Tiny makes his way across the sand towards the center, ready to take on anyone who comes his way. It seems that the crowd likes Tiny. It cheers for him and some obese Emp women throw flowers. "Hiiii mom," he bellows waving to a face the crowd, his voice more powerful than the announcer. With a grunt the tank in in motion waddling closer to the center looking for someone to cut into 'Tiny' bits. Leonidas comments, "It seems this match will take a little longer to get started, does it not, Deus? At the least they are not rushing to the fray like fools." Selene keeps her eyes on the action below while a servant refills her goblet. "See that one," she says to Pantoleon, pointing to woman known as the panther. "She's the one I was telling you about, the graisha," The Dea smile to herself as she watches Kesava dodge one of the Jovian fighters. From the graisha her eyes roam to Spartacus and then to the one call the The Claw. The excitement below has not yet reached the fevered pitch that was to be found in the last event, but it will come. Pantoleon nods quite contentedly, "Aye Domins, they are much better trained...and I daresay, more familiar with such conflicts..this should prove most amusing indeed..." turning to Selene, he repeats this nod, "Indeed...she seems as capable as I had imagined from your descriptions...Well done, my dear." he compliments, placing a second kiss upon her fingers... ARENA> "Stay out...", mutters Bravo to himself, as he takes a few steps back and swishes his whip again at Kesava, this time at the head level to stun the female gladiator into submission. He notices the approach of The Claw a little too late, and unable to cover him in the sweep too, he simply moves even further back, to keep the distance between the opponents conductive to whipping. The swooshes of the whip are loud and crackling, making an entire spectacle of this visibly insane fighter's style. "C'mon, Acesius cowards!", he taunts, with a toothy smile towards his opponents. ARENA> Kesava spins, mid-run, pivoting around her forward foot as she swings up her shield, taking the whip-lash across it, before completing her spin and continuing her sprint. Closing rapidly on her backing Bravo, she favours him with a broad, feral grain, her tail lashing the air behind her. ARENA> A flail. That's unique. And appreciated, if the look in Pylades' eye means anything. Still, it hasn't lashed out yet, has it? So, Pylades stops, sizing up Spartacus, and he challenges, "You will have to come a little closer, my friend." Gory violence. Men killing each other. Men killing animals. What better way to spend one's time than watching it all from a safe spot? The little Oracle leans forward a few more inches in her seat, her rump now upon the edge. Remaining silent, Jana's attention is diverted by a snippet of conversation a short distance away. Scanning over the other occupants of the podium, her expression never deviates from the blank stoicism to be found there. Thalia watches the combatants quietly, without commentary nor encouragement. Indeed, it would be difficult for the woman to speak, given the large berth of emptiness which has been created about her by her Agni-Haidar. Instead, she continues to idly swirl the wine in her goblet. The crowd, already all wiped up and in bloodlust, encourages the gladiators to fight harder. Some scream for Tiny, some women even throw their undertunic into the arena. The attention of the men seems more on Kesava, especially her tail -- or what it is attached to. The insult of Bravo is soon taken up as a chant of one half of the mob, sung by hundreds of voices, "Acesius Cowards! C'mon, Acesius Cowards!" ARENA> Spartacus is silent a moment before answering Pylades' taunt with a lunge and a swing at the buckler...perhaos to smash it to uselessness. He then grins and offers a jovial, "As you wish, friend... ARENA> The Claw hops over the latest cracking of that long whip, weighed down a bit by his armor but not to the point so the strong mongrel can't function easily in it. "We'll just see who th' coward is once ye get close enough t'feel my claws, eh?" he barks out at the other mongrel. Race holds no meaning to him when it comes to the fights, of course. If he can tangle that whip in the end of that trident... ARENA> Noticing the two combatants get too close to him, Bravo makes a sudden move towards The Claw, swinging his sword in the right hand at the man's abdomen, while making a last attempt at Kesava's feet with the whip that is now becoming useless with at this range. He shrieks violently as he attacks, and moves with a grace of a caged lynx, keeping low to the ground on bent knees. ARENA> Tiny's eyes lock onto the the bouncing mongel gladiator that dodges the whip. "Eh-eh-eh," he bellows, the sand quaking under his feet as he pounds forward, whipping his heavy scimitars though the air with litle effort. Tiny nearly bowls over Bravo as he heads towards the Claw, bent on taking him as a warm-up. ARENA> Kesava vaults nimbly over that last sweep of the whip, hoping that her colleague can also manage to evade it. Upon landing, she turns her forward momentum into a lunge, offering Bravo the choice between continuing his own attack against The Claw (and relying on his whip for defence), or aborting his attack in favour of self-preservation. Thalia glances over at Selene and Pantoleon as the crowd's insulting chant of Acesius grows louder and more throbbing. ARENA> To uselessness? Perhaps not. Certainly, it makes a clatter, and it looks impressive. Will the crowd not roar loudly for that sort of noise, that sort of spectacle? "A good blow," Pylades allows, once he's lowered the buckler again. And then he takes a step closer. "Try again." The gladius drops and is rotated into place once more. Wings with seared feathers flex, then still. Selene doesn't seem too insulted by the cries against her family name. They are only commoners afterall, and the screams are diercted to those fighting in the sands below. However she might raise an objection. Her fighters are not cowards. She doesn't speak up though. For one, her singula voice could not be heard over the rest of the crowd, secondly it might light a fire in her fighters. Nothing strokes an ego better than to show the masses they are wrong. ARENA> Spartacus will, thanks for the invitation. But this time he aims for the man's sword-arm. Maybe a quick change in tactics will help him land a blow. "You're so kind..." he offers with another lady-killing grin. ARENA> The Claw can almost feel Tiny closing in, but first there's a little matter of dealing with Bravo to tend to. As the sword slashes for his belly, the shield in his left hand flashes up to deflect it, the sound of metal on metal heard as it strikes the image of the Acesian sun. "On yer knees is a good place t'take it from yer owner!" he taunts, jabbing at the sword-arm with his trident. Must be fast, then evade and ready himself for the third member of the opposing team. Marius emerges between the curtains that block the exit. Marius has arrived. Pantoleon too seems unperturbed by the chants...Everything is about appearances after all, and matters (To his logic) shall appear well and good once the 'cowards' become the victors, with what shall no doubt prove to be a glorious battle. Pantoleon allows himself a smile at the thought. Versus sweeps the crowds once more with his icy glare, ending his search on the entourage of Thalia away from the Empyreans. His post remains undisturbed, but the man seems to be little impressed with the lack of hostilities around, as if expecting anything at any time. The Schola under his command show impossibly disciplined behavior, clutching their spears with a familiarity known only by that order. As the battle in the sands rages, the guards of the Aegis and the Emperor make an impressive sight, almost frightening with the potential and the end-justifies-all-means approach they are famous for. Golden curls tumble over his left forehead as Gaius shifts uneasily in his seat. First he leans forward, positioning himself on the edge of his chair. Then in the next blink of the eye, he is slumped back, seeking haven in the cushions once more. Sapphire eyes dart from here to there, never resting on any scene for too long as if doing so would be as poisonous as gazing into the sinister eyes of Medusa. Gaius starts, shoulders shaking spasmodically at the sharp hiss as the whip cuts through the air, already thick with tension. Wings extend, only to fold once more. The young Empyrean bites his lip, knawing on it as his mind drifts back to his father's words, "This is the only way you'll ever be a true man!" Gaius winces as the booming power of his father's voice seems to be just as potent as it was this morning. Heaving a long, drawn-out sigh, Gaius looks back to the arena, trying his best to supress his boredom and disgust. That flashing smile of Spartacus must've worked. While the shouts of the Acesius' cowards slowly ebb away, more and more ladies on the stone benches jump up and down on their seats, waving with their hands frantically in the air, screaming from the top of their lungs, "Spar-taaa-cuus! Spar-taaa-cuus!" ARENA> Stunned by the sudden and unexpected run-in with Tiny, Bravo seems to suddenly loose all senses. Fear settles into his eyes, and the gladiator is - for a moment - unable to judge the situation at hand. The panic that overtakes him has death written all over his face, and the tall mongrel swings his whip blindly ahead of him, not sure where it is hitting. His footing is no longer sure, and the mongrel strives to regain balance of his situation... which given the timely arrival of help from his teammate, seems ironic in its timing. ARENA> Kesava swings up her right arm and ducks her head, wrapping Bravo's whip around her armour. With a vicious grin, she swings her right shoulder back at the same time as she lunges forward with her shield, hammering its metal-rimmed edge towards Bravo's sternum. ARENA> So the crowd shifts from condemning Acesius to cheering one of their fighters, eh? Fickle crowd. The flail strikes home, lengths of chain wrapping around the forearm of the arm that holds Pylades' sword. The Jovian fighter grimaces, then sits almost, lowering his center of balance, and hauls back with that same arm, pulling those chains abruptly tight. Counting on that move to unbalance his opponent, he shifts forward again, then, and swings the buckler arm upward, an attempt at a blow to the jaw. Vasilius is leaning back in his comfortable, cushioned seat, letting himself be fanned by his cute mongrel slaves. He watches the fight with a big, satisfied smile. The crowd is cheering, the gladiators are giving their best and show a good fight. Those graisha have proven their worth, and as for the few fallen slaves...ah, they weren't that important anyways. The zechins should roll all season, with such new gladiators. ARENA> Unaware of the chaos he left behind, Tiny thunders on closer and closer towards The Claw. Scimitar raised in his right hand, the left remains poised over his chest in a defensive posture. Bloodlust fogs his brain, leaving what little intelligence that was there far behind. Gaining speed and momentum, the elephant-sized man intends to put his weight into the swing of his sword. His arm raises and aim is taken. "Rrrrrrrawwwwwr!" he bellows in his best imitation of a big ugly beastie. ARENA> The Claw spins away from Bravo (and partner Kesava) as the flash of metal heralds Tiny's lumbering approach. This..behemoth is supposed to be a challenge for him? Sure, he's armored up thicker than most things he's laid eyes on, but there's one old adage that springs to mind: the bigger they are, the harder they fall. As one of the scimitars comes down towards him, the Acesian fighter drops low, rolling closer a couple feet before thrusting his trident between Tiny's legs. Big man fall down go boom? Let's see, shall we? Leonidas , who must speak for Jove if there are none of its representatives here on the podium, clears his throat, and sips ambrosia to hide a smile before saying, "Could it be, Deus, that Jove and Acesius share a trainer? Their fighters seem remarkably matched." ARENA> Spartacus staggers forward as he refuses to let go of that flail! Out of the corner of his eye he sees the bucker coming and barely turning to acout getting a buckler-imprint on his face. Instead it gets his shoulder with a loud *smack*. That has got to hurt. Infact, his whole arm goes numb...even his wing droops into the sand. Sand...with his good wing he beats at the sand, trying to blow some into his opponent's eyes in retaliation. Even as Versus keeps a sharp eye on the Agni-Haidar, they are equally aware of the Empyrean and the other guards about the Princeps. However, rather than scanning about, the Agni-Haidar keep their impassive faces forward, as if watching the bloody combat on the sands, an impression easily assumed by any not truly paying attention. Thalia's eyes, on the other hand, dart from fighter to fighter, as if she cannot decide which one to watch. Pale lips purse into a smirk as Jana takes note of Gaius' discomfiture, though she does nothing more than turn her head to watch a few moments longer. Her fingers idly drum upon the arms of her chair, and a brief nod of her head is given to a man who sits not too far off to her side. Oh yes. What an interesting battle. Mmm hmm... Smile and nod. The smile does not linger long as she is left alone soon afterwards to continue watching. ARENA> A backflip!? In the middle of the combat!? But Bravo not only pulls one off, but must have attempted it out of sheer panic. Using the acrobatic to fall back, he lands on his feet and quickly acesses the situation. Seing The Claw leave him for Tiny, he momentarily appears to regain his composure in such an instant, that he is conscious enough to use a dirty trick to help his situation. With his right foot, he kicks up dirt into Claw's face, trying to get him before he turn, and evidently doing so to blind the other gladiator in an attempt of giving Tiny a quick kill. This stunt, however, costs him dearly, as the momentum of Kesava catches up with him despite his flip, and sends him flying onto the ground... whip and sword in hand. Pantoleon chuckles at the query and raises his voice to intone, "Nay, good Dominus...they simply share skill, and a flair for the dramatic. I am greatly impressed thus far...Oh my but that was a dirty trick." He notes at the kicking of sand...perhaps he simply didnt see Sparticus make a similar move a bare moment before? ARENA> Kesava yanks back with her right arm again, flashing her wrist down. Her blade shears through the thong of the whip, freeing her to lunge forward - her sword point moving towards one of Bravo's knees, the rim of her shield towards his other. ARENA> Where did he go? First he's there... then he's not. And this little fact confuses Tiny for a moment, puts him off of his homicidal urges. Those urges are put further off when that trident reappears between his legs, tripping up his none-too-careful footwork. All that heavy weight begins to teeter on his feet, and gravity gives him one good, hard yank down. Tiny begins to fall, his roar echoing above the crowds as he vents his frustration.... Watch out, Claw. You wouldn't want to get squished now, would you? Not too many people would want to partake of Claw Pancakes. ARENA> Sand in the face is unpleasant, and Pylades should have expected it. Should have, but didn't. He flinches backward, lifting the buckler hand to his face, to brush away sudden tears and blurry vision. To escape another such blast, his wings unfurl and beat once, then twice, taking him off the ground. Almost unencumbered, except for the fact that he and his opponent, Spartacus, are tethered together by the flail. ARENA> Bravo rolls to the side, attempting to evade Kesava's devastating strikes to his lower limbs. The whip pays for this necessary dramatic, and falls to the ground, chopped in half. The shield of the Acesian's gladiator, however, connects with Bravo's knee, and rather painfully, judging by the cry of pain out of the mongrel. He stands... no, attempts to stand, but falls to the ground again, evidently having misjudged the damage to his joint. "May you suffocate in Varati mines, Acesian coward!", he screams at Kesava, crawling away towards the wall of the arena, right under the podium of the Empyrean nobility. ARENA> Spartacus staggers once more as Pylades starts to rise, but with some rapid beats of his own wings he manages to take flight as well. BUt this time he tugs as he does so, perhaos hoping to either release Pylades from his flail or upset him so that he falls. ARENA> Kesava laughs, shakes her head, then springs into the air - landing a full-strength (and full weight) kick onto the base of Bravo's spine - or so she hopes, anyway. ARENA> The Claw's had sand in his face a few times before in pits like this one. It's never fun, never pleasant, and never good for helping one's chances at victory. "Gyahh!" he bellows as it flies his way, able to at least turn his head in time to avoid the brunt of it. As it stands, a few bits do get in one eye, a quick shaking of the head as he attempts to dislodge it. Squinting for the moment, he keeps an eye (with the good one) on Tiny, squirming out of his way as the bulky man comes crashing down beside him. "Too close.." he mutters as sweat soaks his body, clumps of sand sticking to bits of him that aren't covered in the armor. Thrusting his trident into the ground, he quickly spins towards Tiny again and unhooks the netting from his hip, attempting to bind it around Tiny's ankles. Man can't walk or stand, man can't fight. Selene is hypnotized by the dance going on below her. Her sapphire gaze is fixated solely on the action in the sand and as one of the gladiators disappears beneath the view of the podium she leands forwad over the ledge to watch the fight continue. She smiles openly as he own fighter, Kesava, attacks the fallen mongel and even raises her goblet to those below. Yelling, however, is nothing moe than a cheer. Anything more isn't her style. Pantoleon leans forward in unconscious mimicry of Selene to follow the plight of this fool who flees, while calling his pursuer coward...Ah! there is the pursuit now. "Marvelous dexterity!" He exclaims at the graisha's leap and kick. ARENA> Have you ever seen the eyes of a man when he knows he is about to die? The pale orbs of Bravo bear utter desperation in them... an animal desperation, one of the prey being eaten by the lion. His head shakes uncontrolably as he somehow manages to avoid the crippling hit to the spine, but his other leg pays the price... damaged by Kesava's rather ingenious blow. He will die slowly - he knows that - a victim to the style of the arena that promotes flair over quick death. That knowledge takes his reason away, as the last vestiges of adrenalin take him onto the crippled legs, and allow him a few steps towards the podium. With a cry "Take this, murderers!", he throws his sword in the general direction of the Acesian seats... Well. Flying swords will cause no little commotion on the podium, won't it? Leonidas, one imagines, will not be the first to scramble to his feet, and make a retreat, however graceless, away from thrown weapons. Forgetting that he holds liquid, and caring little for the fact that he might spill it. Not being impaled is more important. Versus moves quickly, perhaps quicker than anyone could have expected, and motions with his left hand to the Schola that is nearest the Acesian seats. The underling, jumping with a ferocity seen only in tigers, lunges towards the seats of Pantoleon and his wife, attempting to protect them with his shield from the flying sword of Bravo. That happening, Versus covers the Princeps himself with his shield and body, and raises his spear up, looking down at the near killed gladiator, awaiting a word from the Leonidas to throw the deadly weapon, and end this danger to the podium... ARENA> Kesava quite genuinely looks somewhat startled by Bravo's antics, before shaking her head. Sparing a swift glance for events behind her, she surveys The Claw's position with Tiny, and Spartacus's duel with Pylades. Cheers of delight switch quickly to screams of shock as a glimmering weapon to thrown in her direction. Selene's goblet is dropped and tumbles to the ground below as she scrmbles backwad to get out of the way of the weaopn. ARENA> Pylades is yanked forward, oh certainly, and works to free his arm from the chains of the flail. That done, he beats his wings again, to gain an advantage of height, however small, then he rotates the gladius again, and strikes, winging down toward the Acesian fighter. Thalia remains where she is seated, but her Agni-Haidar move so as to place their bodies between her and the side of the podium facing the arena. Thus, Thalia's view of the proceedings is completely blocked, but she can still hear the screams of the crowd. >From the very fist edge of the podium, where Pantoleon and his wife had taken thier seats, the Acesian Deus is afforded a fine view of the oncoming weapon...no thoughts of flight, but instead worry for his Dea rules his mind as Pantoleon drops his own goblet and rushes from his chair to pull Selene into a rough embrace...shielding her in the process, and left hoping that the sword simply misses... String him to a pole, and burn him now. Gaius' creamy complexion takes on a sickly green tint as the fight continues. Groaning and holding his stomach, the young Empyrean jumps to his feet, moving towards the entrance as quickly as possible-- only to be caught by the sudden surge of movement as the sword is flung at the podium. At first, confusion holds him still as he wonders at the hysterical screams assailing his poor ears. --only a moment though-- In the next few seconds, Gaius has bolted towards the door though his course is steered by those bigger and heavier than he is. The young Empyrean almost trips on his own feet numerous times, bumping into various ladies which causes his face to become a bright scarlet shade with a green undertone. Attractive, no? As all of Acesius ducks the oncoming blade, it appears, as the weapon finally reaches the podium that a sword was not meant to be a thrown weapon. Slightly off course, it is batted aside with a sharp clang by the upraised falcare of one of the Queen-Maharani's Agni-Haidar. Spinning up over the crowd of nobles, it flips with additional force, shining and deadly toward the distracted Oracle. Well and good that the most important of nobility is protected... No one thinks to look at the Oracle, and she too was distracted by an oddly-shaped cloud in the sky. Thus, imagine her shrill and piercing scream when that sword ends up just scant inches from her head. Embedded in the wood of her chair, it has nicely pinned her wing. And not only feathers, either. Some of the skin was caught as well, and a slow-spreading stain of crimson becomes quickly apparent against ivory. ARENA> The flight seems to pain Spartacus as his wing his still tingling from the blow to his shoulder. But he attempts to remain aloft and swing the chain of his flail to entangle the sword this time...something he couuld possibly yank out of Pylades' hands. He tries to ignore the hubbub in the stands...knlwing if he loses his concentration it's over. Excitedly, the crowd watches the flight of the dying man's blade, all eyes shifting for a moment away from the sand of the arena to the Acesian Seats. A generall muttered 'Oooh' gets mixed with the mob echoing Bravo's lasts words, "Murderers! Acesius murderers! Bravooooooo!" ARENA> Being down on the ground puts Tiny at a disadvantage.. Even a child nows that. And yes, even Tiny knows that too. He begins to roll, hoping not to lose too much momentum in his effort to get back up to his feet. "Brrrawwwwr!" he yells, though most of his oxygen is busy with the task of keeping him from faining, so the roar is not so effective. The netting is noticed only at the last second, and from his awkward position, he attempts to swing his scimitar at The Claw. Perhaps the presence of those sharp blades will dissuade the netting from being put to use. ARENA> Kesava shakes her head again, then turns back to Bravo. "You could surrender, you fool." ARENA> Bravo could surrender, of course, if he was in the right mindframe to do it. As it is, the desperate gladiator collapses to the ground, and only regains enough wits to turn around... his legs no longer able to support him. It is hard to judge whether he has heard Kesava's suggestion, but he is definitely aware of the fact that his chances of victory are nill. Laying like that, he seems to think of possible last minute heroics, but the pain in his legs turns his face into a twisted grimace. He is now at the mercy of Kesava, the pantheress, and the thumbs play from the arena crowd. ARENA> Hearing the collective shift of the crowd noise, it's difficult for The Claw not to glance up in time to see some kind of reaction up at the podium. What the heck..? Never seen anything quite like that before. But it's a mistake to pay any attention to the sounds of the crowd, especially when there's a big dumb adversary with twin scimitars aiming to take a bite out of him. Bite one does, scoring a mark over his arm above his right elbow, resulting in a sudden hiss of breath as a fine red line begins to let blood ooze out. At the least, he got started on the ankles with that netting. Perhaps it will slow Tiny down further? "Let's go.." he growls, right hand withdrawing his short sword to parry blows with Tiny, keeping his shield at the ready as well. His goal? To disarm the man and pick at his armor a bit. The threat to life passed, Pantoleon murmers a hasty word to Selene before rising again, his fair feature darkened with anger, Calling to the panther graisha, the Deus intones in a voice suited more suited for the Aegis than the Colesium, "Gladiator!" He shouts to gain Kesava's attention, his finger pointed to the fallen Bravo, "That murderous wretch is to recieve no honorable death in this Contest! I bid thee spare him until the last, and let fall in immortal shame!" Vasilius pales as the blade is thrown upwards. For a moment, he tries to wrestle himself out of his seat, but then slumps down again in shock. How could Bravo have done something like that? How could he throw away all dignity and all belief in gladiator rules? Maybe that man deserves not to live. "Agreed. This man is no gladiator, and deserves no respect for his life." Seeing that he himself is not injured, he lifts a hand, holding Versus off. "No, let him be. He will be punished..." ARENA> The flail again crashes against Pylades' buckler, and does not tangle. Pylades continues to try flying a circuit around his airborne opponent, a slow circle, so as to never be still, but not dizzy himself, either. He slashes at the man again. Vasilius has the doubtful honor of telling somebody from Jove now that their gladiator has broken the most fundamental rule. Not a pleasent job. But, then again, the House is reponsible for their gladiators, and it will have to pay any reperations that have been taken as a consequence of one of their gladiators' actions. Vasilius doesn't even know what has happened yet, but it will have consequences, in any case. ARENA> Kesava inclines her head, then drops her sword into the sand, where it sticks, quivering. She tosses aside her shield, then shrugs out of the armour encasing her arm, a portion of Bravo's whip still coiled around it. With a feral grin, she murmurs to Bravo, "you can still surrender, you know" - then her fingers tug at the fastenings on the clothing, dropping those, too. "But be quick." Her eyes close, her back arches, and she drops to the ground, hands and knees touching the sand. In a blur of cracking bones and shifting flesh, she changes. A moment or two later, a large, sleek black panther pants in her place, its red tongue lolling over its fangs. The bronze collar gleams tightly about its neck. ARENA> Up in the podium, there is a rather shrill scream. Judging by the timbre, the one doing the screaming has to be female. Tiny takes no notice of it, however, as he is busy trying to rid himself of the clingy netting. This puts him at another disadvantage - like he doesn't have enough already - as he lumbers back up to his feet. Scimitars finally at the ready, he grins a lovely grin (minus a few teeth) at The Claw. "Tiny KILL!" he roars, the blood rushing back up to his brain. The attention span of the crowd, however, is not long enough to watch the Agni-Haidars beating down the blade, let alone the continued flight towards the Oracle. Their attention flips back to the arena, and many join the monster in a loud encouragement, "TINY! KILL!" Pantoleon looks furiously from the arena to the Agni Haidar who have, in thier efforts at halting the blade, drawn nearer he and, more importantly, Selene... "Stand back, Varati." He orders, "Back to your mistress with you, and away." Ridiculously, the tall, thin Deus takes a step nearer the closest Lion of Fire, between it and Selene. is gaze full in the hulking solider's eyes, as the intensity of the Empyrean noble sndures unfailing Now that her scream has finally died off, Jana sits quite rigidly, fingernails digging into the wood of her chair. She dares not look at the long, gleaming blade which impales her wing. She'd probably vomit everything she has eaten in the past few days. Rather, she slowly closes her eyes, grits her teeth, and waits for someone to yank it back out. It takes the Dea a while to get back to her feet, though she is not what one could call steady. Her knees shake so much so that she has to climb back to her seat. She doesn't even dare look over the ledge of the podium to watch the end of the fight. Certainly the man wouldn't be foolish enough to throw *another* weapon, but one can never be too sure. Jana's screan cuts through the cheering of the crowd and she spins around in her chair, mouth open in shock at Jana's perdicement. "Dear gods, " she breaths to anyone who might hear. ARENA> Blast it. If that netting could've only been wound a little tighter, perhaps he could've kept Tiny down. Now, he'll have to work just a bit harder. Knowing that it'd be a fine idea to avoid those sharp blades as well as the man's grip, the mongrel fighter dances back a couple paces, blocking an attack with his shield. In doing so, he tries to slip under and bring the butt of his sword down on one of Tiny's hand, hoping it'll coax a scimitar free. So the Varati have done their job. Protected their Queen. At what cost? The health of one of the Empyre's own. Leonidas' attention is again wrested away from combat by that scream, and he takes to his feet once more. "Dea," he says, meaning Thalia and not using the title she claims now. "Perhaps," he suggests, as calmly as he may, "it would be best if a few of your ... guard, stood a greater distance off." ARENA> Already injured and unbalanded, Pylades' strike causes Spartacus to list more in the air...to the pount where he loses the draft he was in. Unable to make his wings do his bidding, he quickly loses altitude. Very quickly. It could almost be called a controlled fall...if it weren't for the whole injury factor. He lands less than gracefully not too far from The Claw and Tiny, staggering to his feet...and falling again. The sword got him along the side...and mix that with his shoulder and wing, well...half of his body is pretty much out of comission. These are one of those times that Gaius wishes he could just fade into the scenery-- these desires seems to have been quite frequent recently. A faint line appears on the Empyrean's skin seemingly to be molded from alabaster as he comes to that realization. However, the moment only allows a second devoted to thought before more and more high-pitched screams coming from not only the woman but the /men/ hammer at his already poor, damaged ears. And to add to his own embarrasement, sickeness, the cold claw of fear is now clutching poor Gaius mercilessly. Agni-Hadar! To hell with being the brave and noble beast, the Empyrean shrinks back, hiding behind one of the woman that other men are protecting. Better be safe than sorry, eh? Nodding to the Princeps, Versus lowers his pilum and glances upon the arena one more time. Moving just slightly to the side, he now keeps his distance to Leonidas less comfortable for privacy, but his scutum shield will be a good defense, should anything like this happen again. The Schola protecting the Acesians also relax. The soldiers react without a word, like a unit that trained together from birth. As the blade sails towards the stands, the Praetorians seem visibly uninterested in any change of Varati status, other than to confirm that none of their ranks died, unfortunately. But the shriek of Jana is another story, and Versus glances quickly towards the woman to ensure that proper attention is given to her. The words of Leonidas, however, turns his efficient military manners towards that conversation, to calmly judge any result of the impending exchange of words. Glancing at the Varati Queen, he studies her with dispassionate eyes... warning her against any move and the disastrous consequences. Thalia appears quite distressed that in protecting her, the Agni-Haidar have injured Jana. She points toward one of her Atarvani as Leonidas' speaks. "I have a healer on hand. He can help the Oracle." Even as she says this, she rises from her seat and moves obligingly sideways, forcing the Agni-Haidar to move as well. Distance created, she reseats herself. Maybe Vasilius' isn't always the nicest, most polite man, but he does know when to act. Or to let act. Snapping with his fingers and pointing at Jana, he instructs one of the guards, "Take out the sword, and see to the domina. Take her to a healer and see that she is treated well." The guards reacts quite fast, doing what he was told. First, he draws out the blade, then extends one hand to her, "Please, stand up and come with me." ARENA> Ow... that hurt. But how long does it take for the pain to register in Tiny's brain? Not as long as one might think, surprisingly. He doesn't drop the scimitar, but what does happen is that Tiny is distracted by the thudding body not too far off. Wasn't that Pylades? It was. Yep. But Tiny wants to kill someone, and that someone is the Claw. The free hand that wasn't smacked at is then swung viciously down at the man, and Tiny puts massive strength into that arm, fueled by adrenaline. "DIIIIE!" ARENA> Bravo lays on the ground, definitely unable to move, and at the mercy of Kesava and a possible vote of the arena crowds where the thumbs up or down will decide his fate. The pain in his legs seems berable now, and his eyes spell - once again - the resignation of defeat and inevietable death. He thinks... hard, as to whatever else he can come up with at such a short notice. The knife in his belt is drawn, but looking feable against the might of the Acesian victor. Though she had tried not to show her pain and scream again, Jana wasn't entirely successful. When the blade is finally ripped free - after what seemed an eternity for her - she gags and almost wretches. The uninjured side of her body slowly extends a hand, moving in a hazy fog of colours and sound. Her sudden burst of giggling is her only defense against tears, but it is short-lived as unconsciousness begins to set in. Her knees begin to buckle beneath her. ARENA> Pylades lands beside Spartacus, and folds his wings. "It was a good fight, my friend," he says, persisting in that title. And then his attention's on the stand, on the nobles, no matter how upset they may be, whom he salutes, and then on the rest of the fighters. His gaze does pick out, does linger on Bravo, briefly, then he starts toward that knot of fighters, the gladius making one more rotation. ARENA> Kesava snorts, loudly, through her long nose, then turns, sprinting across the sands in accelerating bounds, before springing into the air, hurling herself claws-first at Tiny. When over a hundred pounds of panther hits him in the back, even he falls over. Snarling, the feline repeatedly rakes at him with her hind feet, claws ripping through even the chain mail, before she springs free, turning to face Pylades. ARENA> Spartacus gives a nod and salutes Pylades briefly before being helped towards the safety of the barracks. ARENA> Die? "Not today, brute.." The Claw snaps back as Tiny takes a lickin' and keeps on tickin', right his way. If only the blasted man wasn't so sealed up in armor, this would've probably been over already. Sensing an opening, he knows he'll have to take another hit, but if it means victory then so be it. A yelp as Tiny scores him just above the shield, a slightly deeper gash than the last. In doing so, however, Tiny leaves himself open to the knee that is suddenly thrust between his legs. Jay, The Claw, can fight dirty when his life's on the line. "Go *down!*" ARENA> Perhaps Kesava's assist will help in matters. ARENA> Bravo is left alone, for now... and rather unexpectedly so. He can see Kesava's equipment that the graisha shed while changing into her panther self. He can see it... but it is out of reach. Slowly, the fallen mongrel slithers on his back towards the laying weapons... inch by inch, foot by foot, closing the distance between the two points in a painfully long slow-motion. ARENA> Between the sudden, explosive, unbearable, horrible, sickening agony in his groin and the PO'ed kitty on his back, Tiny is going down, indeed. The man roars... his voice goes octaves higher than any normal male should be able to. He's in that much pain. Scrunching in on himself, the Tank curls onto the ground and relies upon the brute strength of his armour to see him through this. Chain mail is ripped and warped from the force of the Panther, and blood begins to seep through the clothing. It's too bad that animal prints aren't exactly in fashion, else Tiny might be the talk of the town. There being little choice, Leonidas glances first at Versus, then back at Thalia. "If you will instruct your healer to help the domina, we . . .. the Empyre," he amends, and lifts his chin a little. "Will be grateful." Man, that must have hurt to say. Grateful to a Varati? The immediate dangers taken care of, Versus now turns towards the injured Jana, motioning to one of the Schola with a few curt gestures that evidently stand for entire senteces. His Imperial cape catches the wind, as the screams from the arena intensify below him. The other Praetorian opens his wings in anticipation of flight, visibly ready to fly to the Eyre to fetch a combat medic. Just about to take flight, a sharp order from Versus stops him in his tracks, telling him to stay down. Leonidas has spoken, and none of the Schola even flinch in protest. Instead, the lower-ranking Praetorian walks over to Jana, insistant on supervising the healing, as Versus resumes his duty. ARENA> And Pylades is left to fight a cat, eh? He stops, stands his ground, then bows his head to her, as he did to Spartacus. Respect for a fellow warrior, no matter that he must fight against her. "When you're ready," he invites. A second mongrel guard approaches Jana, both of them offering their support to the struggling woman. Vasilius watches the process, then offers in a respectful, almost subordinate voice to Thalia, "Dea, while your offer is greatly appreciated, you might understand..." He breaks off as Leonidas declares his decision. Ok, maybe the offer is really appreciated. Leonidas has spoken, and he messed enough with the nobles already today. If Jana wants to be healed by some Varati Khalid-priest, or Leonidas orders her to be, fine with the manager. "We thank you for the offer, Dea, in the name of the Coliseum," he gives in, as his guards work hand in hand with the Praetorians. ARENA> The Claw almost doesn't even catch Kesava coming over to assist in taking down Tiny, so it's a surprised mongrel that has to jump to one side before he's crushed by the behemoth. Good thing the shifter's on his side here. Also good that she's started the ball rolling towards helping Tiny undress just a bit, but we'll spare showing the good crowd *too* much skin, won't we? Just enough to let The Claw live up to his namesake. Shield slipping up a bloody arm, he works at getting a bit more of that armor loose, his right hand balling up into a fist. As he swings it down at Tiny's back, the talons tipping the knuckles of his gauntlet flash, sharp tips eager to taste a bit of flesh. ARENA> Slowly, ever so slowly, the fallen Bravo slithers to the weapons that Kesava left on the sand. What will he do with them? Throw them at the stands again? Only a few feet remain there, and the pain on the face of the gladiator speaks of unberable torture. That is, however, his only chance, if Kesava survives. Surely, she will be back for him... Oblivious to who's handling her, Jana has succumbed to a deep faint. She hangs as limp as a rag doll, while the wing continues to bleed and stain the surrounding feathers. The pace of it has picked up a bit, now that the pressure exerted by the sword is gone. Selene watches the extraction of the blade and then the offer of assistance from one of the Varati healers with some distaste on her face. She can imagine how hard that was for the Princeps to say, experssing appreciation to a Varati. Such 'violence' this close has the Acesian Dea unsettled still and to help her confidence she looks from the horde of Varati to he husband. "I cannot believe a man fighting fo Jove could behave in such a matter," she says to Pantoleon. ARENA> Kesava sits back on her haunches and yawns, widely, baring an impressive array of fangs. She seems unconcerned by Pylades, perhaps watching The Claw peel the Empyrean's comrade. ARENA> Dirt in the wound stings, but that won't hurt as much as it would to lose a limb or two. This is a lesson that Tiny learned, and it lends him the resolve he needs to begin rolling over and resuming the process of getting back up to his feet. The scimitars in his hands slide along the ground, a soft hissing adding to the undercurrent of his growling. Some of the plates that contrive his armour over the chainmail are loosened, then dropped once the man actually begins to stand. ARENA> There! Bravo finally reaches the shed weapons and armor of Kesava... only to be disappointed in finding that no throwing daggers are left among them. His left hand extends towards the pile of metal and wood, only to come up with... Kesava's loincloth! The laugher around the arena is instantenous, as if the entire games and their grousome power dissipated in this one single mistake. Bravo is too much in pain to hear it - which makes the laughter even harder - and throwing away the garment, he takes the sword. Scanning the battlefield, he notices the panther still in combat, and grabs his own knife by the blade. He will throw it - now that he has another weapon - as soon as he has a chance, taking down the Acesian victor. Thalia gestures for the Atarvani in question to tend Jana. "Princeps, Dominus," she says to both Leonidas and Vasilius, "I am pleased to be of some aid." The Queen-Maharani does not move from her seat and neither do any of the rest of her guards. The lone Varati healer advances into the Empyrean crowd with an impassive face. Kneeling by Jana, he places one hand upon the spot of the wound, the other behind her to support her limp body and the impassive mein breaks as the healer begins to feel the pain of his patient. As combat continues and blood is spilled on the sands below, the seepage from Jana's wound slows and finally stops. Blood still stains the feathers, but when the Atarvani's hand is removed from Jana's wing, the wound is closed. The healer says curtly to the Schola by Versus and the two guards assigned by Vasilius, "She can now be moved without danger. She should not use her wings for a week so that the injury may fully heal. Before she flies again, the wound site should be checked by a healer." With that, the Atarvani returns to the Varati enclave. ARENA> The Claw directs a kick at Tiny's head, attempting to ring his bell a bit and hopefully encourage him to stay down. "Get up.." he warns, "An' I'll cut ye again." He'll kick again, too..or thrust another knee between the legs if Tiny continues to rise. Pantoleon lets loose a long breath...seeking with only some success to expell his anger in the bargain. Turning to face Selene, he answers "Indeed...their judgment was indeed flawed to put such a madman in thier employ...I daresay future contestants had best be more closely studied before they are so armed." He adds with an obvious bard towards the manager... Surprisingly enough, the Schola just nods in response to the Atarvani healer, as if not seing the difference in race between the two. Sattisfied with seing that the procedure included no poison or underhanded techniques, he waits by Jana as long as the Varati is still present, returning to his post around the Princeps and leaving the guards of the arena manager to deal with the Empyrean woman. She will be talked about for weeks to come, no doubt, and the entire incident may spur further unpleasantries between nobility or even houses, but that remains to be seen. ARENA> Tiny doesn't know the meaning of defeat. Only victory or death. Despite the kick to his head, which slows him a bit, he continues his attempts to rise. Light of day floods his eyes, as something very dreadful happens... The kick dislodged his helmet. The man begins to roar in rage, summoning up his last reserves of strength to haul himself to his feet. The Claw will have to move fast in order to put in another strike. Vasilius watches the whole process anxiously and nervously as the Varati's darkened hands go over the bloodied wing of the adolescant. Since he cannot know Jana's past and familiarity at the touch of an Atarvani, the whole scene seems still very odd to him. Gesturing another acquaintance closer to him, he whispers silently, "Find out who that kid is. Which House and stuff." Putting on a solemn face -- it still looks horribly ugly and fat, no matter what emotion he tries to put in -- he faces Pantoleon, "I agree with you. That is inexcusable, and we will make sure that the gladiators will be more selectively chosen and tested for their honor. I will make a public apology and request to the House Jove to do the same, and together, we will do our best to never let such an incident happen again." Pantoleon is given a nod in reply. "Indeed. I shall make it a point to speak with my cousins about then as soon as we get home. I can't imagine they will be happy to know one of their fighters made an attempt on our lives today." Slowly she turns her attention back to the fight that still takes place on the sands below. "Oh dear gods!" Selene's gasp is cuaght in her throat as she points Pantoleon to the mongrel, Bravo, crawling across the ground with a sword in his hand. Now that she has been healed, some might expect Jana to regain consciousness. Yet ... she doesn't. Her form remains limp, the occasional twitch of a hand, the movements of her chest as she breathes, and her fluttering eyelids reveal that she is still alive. And well now, thanks to the Varati Healer. The guards will have to carry her down the stairs, if they want her moved at all. ARENA> Deciding that the time is evidently right, Bravo launches his knife at Kesava. The hand is not steady, but he had minutes to prepare, and has only one knife to do the job. As the short blade leaves his hands, so do the remaining vestiges of adrenalin, and the mongrel slave, that already managed to raise the entire arena in uproar and cries for and against fairness, collapses by the heap of armor and weapons of Kesava, with her own sword in his left hand... denying everyone the spectacle of a final strike on him. He is alive, but will be out for a day, if not killed first in his sleep. ARENA> The Claw growls as Tiny's small brain just doesn't seem to be able to tell him when to quit. He was hoping he wouldn't get stuck with one of those "Win or die" types. He's not aiming to kill, but if it must be done..it will. As the helmet is knocked loose, he quickly rips it off the rest of the way and slams a fist into his face, possibly busting his jaw if it hits just right. As he reaches to grab the man's head from behind, he stands over Tiny and aims his right fist, talons at the ready, right at him. "Give! Give or I'll finish ye!" he warns Peeking at the scene from behind an Empyrean lady, Gaius realizes that some of the confusion as died down. However, as cerulean optics, as blue as if it was a misplaced piece of the summer sky, focus on Jana, his stomach gives a start. Watching the crimson swirls staining the pristine whiteness of the features, pouring out of Jana with amazing swiftness-- Gaius would have thought that such sinister movements would have been as slow as pouring molasses--, the green tint begins to color Gaius' features once more. The Empyrean's stomach gives a few turns, performing a number of what seems to be acrobatic tricks. A spark of curiousity ignites as the laughter reaches his ears, but as growls and shrieks follow, Gaius deliberatly avoids gazing at the arena. Rushing out of the podium, he barely keeps from showing the ladies the remnants of his meal. Now /that/ would have been a sure turn on, right? Gaius passes through the purple curtains, exiting the viewing area. Gaius has left. ARENA> But Tiny really is one of those Win or Die types. That's why he was able to get so many women, even if they were ugly, obese, and reeked of garlic. No one can resist a guy willing to put his life on the line for pointless violence. The man roars one last time, scimitar-bequeated hand snaking out to take a swipe at The Claw's ankles. He clearly refuses to give up. ----------------- * Phatty! * ---------------- ARENA> Kesava yowls, then HISSES in pain as the knife glances off her haunch. After a moment, red blood wells through the long gash, stark against her glossy fur. Springing to her feet, she darts sideways, then glares raw hostility at Pylades, almost seeming to blame him for her injury. ARENA> The Claw feels merciful this day, unless the crowd decides they want another death on their hands. Granted, they may still be too occupied with the thrown sword at the podium, so who knows? "Wrong choice.." he hisses again as he makes one more move before Tiny can take him down and carry this out further - the hard shield slams down atop his head, hoping he'll just go to sleep..with a little help of course. ARENA> Pylades shakes his head, then a slow grin spreads across his features. "Stings, does it? C'mon then ..." ARENA> Kesava hisses again, shaking herself from nose to tail, scarlet droplets flying out from her shoulder to spatter across the sand. She snorts, then opens her muzzle a little, her purple tongue reappearing. ARENA> Not all of the crowd is fixated on the stuffy nobles in their little hoity-toity podium. Most of the commoners are screaming bloody murder for Tiny's head to be served up on a dish. So when the mammoth of a mongrel finally goes down, knocked into unconsciousness courtesy of the Claw, the roar is deafening. They apparently believe him dead. The gladiator favoured by many goes down by the Claw. Who'd have thunk it? ARENA> The cry goes up again, from the crowd still watching, as the panther stands her ground, and doesn't attack. "Coward! Coward! Acesian coward!" ARENA> Kesava's jaw drops further open, the panther seeming to grin as Pylades now finds himself faced with two opponents. ARENA> The Claw steps back from Tiny as consciousness leaves him, the two marks on his own arms still red with blood that drips free, staining both him and the sand although clotting begins to slow it up. They're not serious but might leave two fresh scars as a sign of battle. A somewhat proud sign, at that. Briefly, he plays to the roaring crowd as he thrusts his right fist skyward, the talons shining with Tiny's blood. Then, catching sight of Kesava still going and Pylades the only opponent still in it, really, he retrieves his short sword and net. Time to go bird-hunting? ARENA> Pylades considers both Kesava and Claw in turn, then turns away from them. Unconcerned with them, apparently, as he throws his gladius at the ground, letting it waver there as he draws a breath to speak. "Let Acesius have the victory. The terms were to surrender. I pray that Jove will forgive me mine." ARENA> Kesava pauses to look at The Claw, then trots towards Pylades, slightly favouring her right foreleg. Vasilius raises himself again, putting on a calm face, though the sweat on his forehead is showing. Apparently, not everything did go all right up at the Podium, but that's not for the rest of the audience to know. "With that, let it be known that the gladiators of Acesius have won over those of Jove. In addition, one representative of Jove has shown the most vile and undignified behaviour on the sands. This was the last time Bravo has seen the insides of the arena. However, Pylades brave style as well as his dignified defeat is comended. Now, please give an applause for Kesava, the pantheress, and The Claw!" ARENA> The Claw did not expect Pylades to surrender, but perhaps it is best this way. Truth be told, he's glad. He'll need those wounds checked on just to be certain there won't be any infections that stick around. With Pylades' words, he puts both fists up to whatever reaction the crowd may offer, the right one still holding the sword before he re-sheathes it. After Vasilius' announcement, he takes in the noise before following Kesava, intending to congratulate Pylades for his part. ARENA> Kesava pauses to gaze up at Vasilius while he speaks, before wheeling to move back beside The Claw, waiting beside him while the audience applauds. When their acclaim dies down, she accompanies her comrade towards Pylades. Selene rises, with some assistance from her husband and tosses a few coins toward her gladiators, though she's still a bit shaken to call out in a cheer to Kesava and the Claw. Congratulations will come at another time from the Dea of the House they fight for here in the arena. Once again approaching the front of the Podium, Pantoleon, now possessing of a forced calm, once again hefts the finely wrought cup he had presented at the outset of this battle...Waiting until such a time as it shall not be missed, the Acesian Deus casts the first of what shall perhpas be many prizes down to the arena sand...The two survivors have earned it. ARENA> Then they will have to follow him to Bravo, unconscious and disgraced though he may be, because it's to that man that Pylades goes, to stoop and make certain that he breathes, and then to make an attempt at putting on a shoulder, to carry him out. Once again, mongrels enter quickly the arena, to take away the dead and the wounded, brushing over the reddened sand. Today, it will still look like a battlefield. Yet tomorrow, all the blood will be washed away again, and new sand will fill the arena, to soak up new blood, another time. Thalia rises from her seat and moves to the edge of the podium. She stands some distance away from Pantoleon, giving him a comfortable berth eventhough her Agni-Haidar advance with her. As with the previous match, the Queen-Maharani tosses out gold coins to all the victors. ARENA> The Claw will pull up a bit short as Pylades goes to Bravo, refusing to associate himself with the one who acted so shamefully today. Pylades can be spoken to another time. Instead, he goes to collect the winnings, calling to Kesava. "I'll bring yer share in for ye?" ARENA> Kesava glances up at The Claw, then proceeds on her way, unable to communicate with any ease at all. After a moment, however, he might faintly hear a purr over the sound of the crowd. Vasilius declares his final words, "And with this, the opening games are over. And we have seen two surprising winner teams, we have seen gladiator fighting at its best, we have seen new champions, new heroes and deaths. For today, the fights are over, but the games shall go on. The show must go on." After those last words, he withdraws himself on his stubbly feet, his female puppets following him more gracefully. Versus glances upon the warriors in the arena through his cold and dispassionate gaze, the red Imperial chlamys waving behind him in the breeze. His stance is still rigid, and despite the time, his counternance is alert. The Schola guards under his command appear ready for another tour of duty... even if right away. Currently, however, they are still strategically positioned around the Princeps, although one of them stands closer to the Acesius headship. Turning around, Versus snaps a quick command to his men, to prepare and secure the way out, allowing the Aegian walk out of the arena undisturbed. His manners are forlorn and the display of his power exemplary, as if to attest to anyone gathered that no one with the red or purple cape waving from his shoulders will ever faulter in service to the Empyre. ARENA> It takes four mongrel men to lift and carry away the limp body of Tiny. To the relief of some, it is noticed he does indeed still live. And he'll back... oh yes, he'll be back. ARENA> The Claw gives the panther a nod and scoops up her own share of the prizes, holding it all in a hand before heading off, out of the arena. Of course, he'll need tending to before much else. At least the crowd will go away pleased. Leonidas climbs to his feet yet another time. "Well, then, if you will all excuse me..." The Acesian entourage will celebrate their victory at another time. For now, it has been a long day and words must be had with the Jovian household. Selene smiles weakly up at he husband and takes his arm so that they might leave the colesium together, though without the fanfare that saw them in.