"Boys' Night Out" Log Date: 11/13/00 Log Cast: David, Nat (NPC emitted by David), Breon (NPC emitted by David), Jackie (NPC emitted by David), Theron, Cepheus, Vasilius, Arete, Sheela, Celosia, Gabriel, Venus, Belona, Phelix, Jana, Cleon, and countless spectators (NPCs emitted by David) Log Intro: Contrary to the popular opinion of most of those of 'pure' blood in the city of Haven, there are certainly representatives of the Mongrel race who are a cut above the common rabble... men and women of nobility and intelligence and ambition, who strive to accomplish positions for themselves that are something more than the slavery and drudgery to which most of the 'pure' races of the world would happily consign them. But then again, there are also Mongrels who quite clearly qualify as common rabble... especially when there are new fights scheduled in the Coliseum in the Empyrean quarter of Haven. There are certainly commoners of the other races who'll flock to the violent bouts, but the Mongrels in particular, denied so many other means of venting their aggressions, are drawn like moths to flame even when so many of their own are often slain on the sands. And tonight, three young Mongrel men in the employ of the Pantheon are bringing along a fourth friend for a little venting of their aggressions -- and their hormones. For tonight, the combatants in the Coliseum are _women_, to the impending shock of a young farmboy from the back of beyond in the Empyre.... *===========================< In Character Time >===========================* Time of day: Night (Duskside) Date on Aether: Tuesday, May 21, 3907. Year on Earth: 1507 A.D. Phase of the Moon: First Quarter Season: Spring Weather: Breeze Temperature: Comfortable *==========================================================================* Spectator Seating - Coliseum - Haven(#293RDMV$) A huge amount of space. Hundreds upon hundreds of people could fit within this stone bowl quite comfortably and with ease of movement. The rows of plain stone benches circle the oval that is the interior of the coliseum like rings around a bull's eye, all attention drawn towards the sandy arena where the entertainment awaits. At regular intervals archways open between the seats, like spokes in a wheel, people coming and going constantly. When events are in session, a definite trend can be noticed among the attendants; those dressed poorly and smelling rather strongly crowd towards the top, while the more genteel and wealthy folk can be found closer to the action. You may 'look at the podium' to see what genteel folk are in attendance or 'look down' into the arena to view its occupants--some of whom may not walk out alive. Also see 'places.' (OOC: You can use '+cemit ' to pose to the entire Coliseum.') Contents: Cepheus Theron Spectator, sitting in the first row Obvious Exits: Podium

Out Come the spring, and a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love -- or at least, in some cases, to gladiators beating the daylights out of one another. Four young Mongrel men from the Pantheon, some unexpected free time on their hands, converge with the gathering crowds in the coliseum. As always, Nat, Breon, and Jackie are the boldest ones of the quartet, hauling the shyer David along like a shy-eyed leaf being buffeted about by a windstorm. But to their credit, the other young men are clearly glad to have their compatriot along and sit David down right in their midst, while he gapes with the obvious wide-eyed wonder of someone who's never seen the inside of a coliseum in his life. It appears that the Imperator has been participating in fighting himself, if that bruise on his face means anything. There are two, actually, that have merged, from the eye, down to the nose. He sits attentively in his place, his aide next to him. And his aide wouldn't be Cepheus, who sits in the second row just behind some miscellaneous spectator. The large Legate looks out into the arena with diffuse interest, his dark grey wings half-relaxed. Overall the man looks like he has been through a war recently... then again, he has. It's high noon. Time to die. For whom remains yet to be seen, but so much is clear: before sunset, a dead body will have fallen unto the arena's sand, mingled with blood. Good thing the Kronian choose a better weather for this match, so the corpse will have the sun shining upon them. A fresh breeze brushes over the hair of the audience -- an unusual high number of males among them. Whatever has spurred the interest of that particular gender, it gets the men excited and whispering in anticipation already. Vasilius is in his usual position, standing in front of the luxurious managing arm-chair, draped with red velvet, a gathering of female slaves (to fan him and give him the envy of the audience) and coliseum guards standing in a half-circle around him. He looks proud, smiling down upon the arena. Even after several months in Haven, somehow David still manages to look like he's just fresh into the city -- doubtless because the rangy young Mongrel meets everything and everyone he passes with a fresh-eyed wonder. Empyreans, Sylvans, the occasional Varati, and his fellow Mongrels (unsurprisingly, given the violent nature of the arena, it's a rare Atlantean indeed that sets foot in this place) alike he greets with an amiable "Howdy!" till he and his friends are settled into their chosen seating, one of the rough benches in the midst of a throng of other lower-class denizens of the city. Once there, the rowdy young men of the Pantheon commence hasty exchanges of bets -- or at least, Nat and Breon and Jackie do. David watches them forking their coins back and forth with the sort of interested bemusement a puppy might do. "Howsabout you, Davey-lad? Ye in with us, then?" "Awww, heck, Jackie, Ah don't know nothin' 'bout this kinda thang, how'm Ah gonna know who t' bet on?" "Bet on th' one with th' biggest sword, ye cannae go wrong!" Theron exchanges a few comments with Benedict about the upcoming fights. Either that or the aide is happy to have a spot where the Imperator is nailed down. Benedict can question the other man about all the paperwork that still hasn't been done. "Another great day with the lares shining upon us, to see who will be the bravest, the quickest and the best fighter. Maybe they have their hands, too, in today's duel, to watch over their chosen protege," Vasilius' announcement carries well through the seatings, a precisely measured laughter accompanying the last speculation. "We shall see! And I am sure, domini and dominae, imphadi and imphada, ladies and gentlemen, that you will all enjoy what you see. For today, I present you not only the most dangerous gladiators, but also the most beautiful and enticing ones. It will be a battle of sensuality, a great pleasure for the eye. And I promise you, you will not forget today's mixture of deadly skill and enticing smoothness any time soon." A carefully timed pause follows, before he lifts his voice again, this time with much more grandeur and strength, "And now, welcome and behold the first duelist, Arete, the mysterious masked dragon-lady, coming from the arenas of Olympia, representing the noble House of the warfare, Tritonia, to swing today her sharpened axe for your entertainment." As cheers rise up from the crowd to greet Vasilius' announcement, David's compatriots start bellowing out their approval at the top of their lungs. "Arete!" "Let's hear 'er roar, then!" Inside the arena, The gates rumble open, lifting sand from the entrance of the arena into a small cloud and momentarily obscuring the dark recesses of the Collesium's inner chambers. Drums thunder from somewhere within, sounding like thunder on the horizon and gradually building to an earth pounding storm. The gladiator walks out into the sunlit arena with a confident swagger of hips, the dark-bladed axe balanced on her right shoulder. Arete proceeds to the center of the sands, then turns in a slow circle with her horned helm lifted as if she were assessing the crowds. A low, gutteral shout is issued from her glistening lips, and with a snap of darkened wings she swings her weapon in a full circle; the plates of her short armored skirt flare out, revealing tight fitting leathered unders and long, muscular legs. Stopping just as quickly as she started, with long black horse hair settling about her shoulders in a clack of beads, Arete glares at the gates and awaits her opponent. And David blinks, clearly flabbergasted, and blurts to Breon on his left, "They let _gals_ down theah?" _Girls_? _Fighting_? He's just gotta see this. He surges to his feet along with his friends, blue eyes gone a bit wider than normal. Where's this dragon-lady fighter. "Tyche," he breathes, when he spots her. "Lookit that big ol' winger gal!" Roars of approval rise up from the audience at Arete's entrance -- particularly from the men. One might even go so far as to say that a good number of them are trying to imitate a dragon's roar, though it's debatable whether anyone in the arena has gotten anywhere near anything remotely resembling a dragon in their lifetimes. Still -- the outpouring of sound is thunderous, crashing down upon the winged warrior woman in a hail of adulation. Vasilius waits until the initial applause of the roaring crowd has settled, then adds a pitch quieter with a sly smile. "Now, if you think you have seen the best of it already, you might just hold your breath a little longer." Then, with a flutter of his wings, he adds in a great announcement, "For Arete's enemy is...." Another pause, just for effect. "Sheela, the Dancer of Death. A performing woman both beauty and beast, known for luring uncautious men into her trap, to then letting them taste her blades. Now, let us see her, and see how she will do against Arete." Inside the arena, Sheela appears in the arena as the gate slides open, then clangs shut behind her. Inside the arena, Sheela has arrived. Inside the arena, Following behind the Empyrean is a smaller, but by no means less enticing mongrel woman. Sheely, the Dancer of Death, struts into the arena with a winning smile and a casual, yet all-so-graceful seeming gesture of brushing her long, red hair over her shoulder. Standing at five and a half foot, this lissome mongrel is well aware of her curves and shows no inhibition of flaunting her shapely figure. Her chain-mail covers her torso minimally from a revealing cleavage, showing more of her breasts than protecting them, down just underneath her belt-line. Her legs are bare up to her hips, as well as her neck, displaying quite a bit of her evenly tanned skin, the smoothly applied oil glimmering in the sun. In the belt along her hip displays various daggers of all shapes and sizes, one looking deadlier than the other. Thrown elegantly over her shoulder is a red cape, fluttering in the wind as she marches forward in a cat-like stride, her silvery-lined sandals barely touching the sand. With a wink of her deep-green eyes, she gives the audience a flashing smile, her hands wandering to the hilts of her daggers. Nat, Breon, and Jackie are joining their enthusiastic voices to the rest of the young men in the crowd -- and David, for his part, staggers as if he's just been hit by a board. _Two_ girls fighting? Holy Lady Tyche! The young Mongrel's jaw actually drops, and he's clearly thunderstruck by the amount of skin Sheela is displaying to the crowd. His compatriots catch sight of his expression, and burst into pleased laughter. That reaction was exactly what they were shooting for. "Look out, lads, we broke Davey!" "Never seen aught like this, 'ave ye then, Dave?" "Them's... them's both _gals_!" "They sure are, man! They're gonna be after givin' us an 'elluva show, too!" Theron's lips twitch at the arrival of the Tritonides gladiator. Oh this will be amusing. Then again, at the site of the opponent. Okay, she's mastered flashy, but he daresays that Arete fights better. Perhaps he should come to these occasions more often. The roars of greeting for Sheela are arguably just as powerful as the wave of thunder that had greeted Arete -- if nothing else, because of the shapely and scantily clad form of the Mongrel woman. One thing's for sure, though. Every Mongrel man in the throng is bellowing his approval. Vasilius is in his element. This is gonna be /the/ fight of the first round, and is gonna finally get him enough gold that he can overcome the diseaster of having half of his slaves stolen half a year ago. The men will spread stories about this event, no matter what happens, even if both combatants forget how to wield a weapon. Sex sells, after all, and nobody knows this better than the Coliseum manager. "And now, ladies, face your foe, for the combat will only be over until one of you lies dead in the sand. A fair fight, and may the lares be with both of you!" Inside the arena, The dragon-lady of Olympia, as Vasilius has so dubbed her it would seem, eyes the dagger wielding red headed mongrel with a twisted smirk. "Why, you're just a bit of fluff," Arete rumbles in a distinctly sultry basso, fierce gaze travelling over her opponents form. Hefting her axe in one leather-wrapped hand, she trails the fingers of the other between her breasts and tosses her black-maned head. "Come, little flower, and let us see how sharp those thorns of yours /really/ are!" The wicked axe is in both hands as she crouches, wings held aloft as she issues a throaty laugh and graciously allows the mongrel the first move. The better to assess you with, my dear. Inside the arena, Sheela unclasps her cape with an easy gesture, letting the deep red cloth flutter down upon the sand, to spread there like the blood that will soon follow. The other hand flips out in a swift, motion a dagger, the weapon flashing in the sunlight almost like an extension of her lightly muscled arm. As she readies her firm battle stance, letting the blade spin over in her hand, the fingers of her second hand grasp already the grip of a smaller throwing-dagger. With a challenging roll of her hips, she lifts her eyebrows at her foe, lips pursing in amusement. "Now, you little dragon-kitty, let us see what Tritonia can do for you," she calls out teasingly. Sex does, most assuredly, sell. Every little tempting gesture made by Arete and Sheela provokes throaty cries of encouragement from the overwhelmingly male audience -- and whistles. And in some cases, howls. The commentary thrown back and forth between the two female contenders is merely icing on top of already delightfully fiery cakes. Celosia soars into the bowl from the skies above. Celosia has arrived. Inside the arena, Again comes the growl, loud enough to distinguish itself amidst the jeers and shouts from the testosterone laden audience, and with an almost careless flick of her wings, Arete advances on Sheela in a pounding rush of booted feet. The axe lashes out in a powerful swing of her arms and a lashing of black horse hair, aiming for the mongrel's legs. Start with the movement and go from there. Celosia slips quietly into a seat, one fold of her himation pulled up over her head to provide some anonymity. Inside the arena, Sheela has waited, expected this move of the masked Empyrean. With a light, dance-like motion, she jumps back, twisting her whole body sideways, to escape the axe's razor-sharp blade. "Not quite the mane of a dragon. More like that of a mare." The superior grin still remains on her face as she rolls her arms around, crossing the daggers quickly, to then let the shorter one come forward in a flash, the blade aiming straight for one of Arete's flexed wings. Testosterone. It's a powerful thing, isn't it? Oh, to be sure, not _every_ man in the audience is yelling like a stag in rut, but by and large the male-dominated crowd is enjoying itself and not stinting in vocalizing the pleasure. Individual voices can hardly be made out in the din, but this doesn't stop countless men from thundering their encouragements, directions on how to aim -- and in the case of half a hundred Mongrels panting after Sheela, cries for her to take off the _rest_ of her scanty accoutrements. Inside the arena, She's overextended herself in that initial charge, and as such, the dagger slices through the feathers with startling ease. Roaring in pain and anger, Arete shifts her considerable bulk of muscle to one foot, using the axe one-handed to sweep in an upward arc towards that pretty little neck. One of the few men in the throng seemingly hard pressed to think of something to holler out to the women below is David from the Pantheon. The blue-eyed young Mongrel could hardly be heard over his three enthusiastic friends, but this doesn't mean that David isn't as raptly focused upon the melee on the sands as Nat, Breon, and Jackie are. Those eyes of his have gone as round as platters, and he keeps whipping his dark head back and forth as he tries to take in every motion the pair of warriors makes. Every so often he can be seen to swallow hard when a blow strikes home. Theron shakes his head as he watches the pair of women. He told her about that. Too much about anger, not enough about keeping herself under control. Well, it'll kill her if she doesn't find some way of deaing with it soon. Gabriel soars into the bowl from the skies above. Gabriel has arrived. Inside the arena, The shine of superiority gets stronger in Sheela's eyes as her first dagger hits. Smooth hands draw already the next killing device -- a nasty, curved knife with a ridged blade on one side. "Wouldn' ye just love to feel that b'tween yer li'l titties," she goes on insulting her foe. But the over-confidence, as well as the effort spent on drawing her next weapon and mtutering her blurb cost her valuable fractions of a second. Time Arete has used to prepare her next sweeping attack. And while Sheela's head can narrowly escape the axe that merely manages to dissect a few precious red curls, she gets thrown off-balance. As the middle-section of the weapon crushes in her shoulder, she stumbles backwards, landing in a crouch. Venus enters the stands, blinking in the bright light. Venus has arrived. As the throng grows more and more eager with the progression of the fight, suggestions of other things that the Dragon-Lady might wish to consider feeling between her, *ahem*, assets burst forth from several hundred throats. Inside the arena, The short red skirt-plates flare out as Arete twists, generous bosom heaving with each angry breath she draws; the leather of her halter threatens to burst with each inhalation and her tan skin flashes with perspiration. Grabbing the wicked twin-bladed axe in both hands again, the dragon-lady throws back her head and howls in laughter. Ignoring the small flow of blood staining her feathers, the Empyrean allows the girl to right herself. "I could cleave you better than any man ever has, whore, but I would rather you were on your feet when I took the life from your eyes." Besides, it's getting hard to breath in the blasted mask-helm, and veiling her discomfort with a gracious display of showmanship is definitely worth any hand Sheela gains in this bout. Shaking her head in a quick, jerking motion, she moves the mane of black behind her wings and snarls. "Now on your feet, bitch, and let's finish this." And one of those lewd suggestions is courtesy of Jackie of the Pantheon -- which makes David turn scandalized eyes upon his friend and cry, "Tyche, man, shouldn't oughtta use that kinda language 'bout a _lady_!" To drive his point home, he deals a smack to his friend's shoulder. Though, admittedly, David isn't entirely certain about the 'lady' status of those two combatants. Ladies, as he understands them, don't go pounding one another into pulps, do they? Maybe he'd better think about this a little harder... uh oh, did he really hear what he thought he heard? Swallowing again, terribly confused -- because, certainly, _ladies_ don't use that kind of language! -- David scratches his head and keeps anxiously watching the bout. A breeze whips up as two pairs of wings beat the air and a couple of figures spiral down toward the coliseum. The first one lands atop one of the benches and folds his plumage in against his back, then drops down to stand amid the seats and await the touch-down of his companion. "I told you you'd like the 'surprise,'" Gabriel calls up to Venus, though his gaze has already strayed down into the arena to view the fighters. Silvery wings tense when she lands in the coliseum. Though she is a warrior and trained in the art of smart battle, she does not enjoy killing for sport. Venus lands next to Gabriel, and tries to force a smile of gratitude for his thoughtfulness. But the look of tension, fear and disgust on her pale features is too obvious. She covers her eyes as a feather is cut and some blood is spread and takes her seat next to Gabriel. Venus manages that Empyreal-society smile, and says, "Wow, Gabriel. Gee, thanks. This is great!" Belona enters the stands, blinking in the bright light. Belona has arrived. Gales of laughter rise up from Nat, Breon, and Jackie -- and the latter, unperturbed by this display of David's farmboy manners, rounds on the taller Mongrel with a big devilish grin. He leans over and stage-whispers to his compatriot, "This jus' in from th' Heralds, Davey-lad -- those. Ain't. Ladies." Apparently, small words are needed to get a notion through David's head. He blinks dewily several times at his friend, mouth forming a soundless 'oh'. _Oh_. Okay, now he gets it! At least, he THINKS he gets it... Inside the arena, Sheela rises in a slow, senseous motion back to full height, like a snake ready to strike at her victim. Naked, oiled arms flare out to both sides, both wicked blades pointing towards the Empyrean. The insult is met with a display of flashing white teeth, the mongrel's attitude deliberately playful, rather than angry. "Isn't that what ye wish in yer dreams, cyprian?" she continues the wordly banter in a degenerating accent. "It's a shame that me daggers will be the first and last thing that penetrates yer flesh. But they don' call me dancer of death for nuthin'." Another dexterous spin of her weapons, along with lithe jumps of her feet, reveals that she is ready to face the next charge of the Empyrean. "I'm waitin' fer ye, dragon-kitty." As casually as the words are delivered, they cannot completely hide the hot, agitated breath of the gladiator. And a keen spectator could notice by now the sweat that is forming on her forehead, mingling with the oil and pressing the red curly hair against her dark skin. The cheers of the vocal male spectators rise now to fever-pitch -- and now it's not just the calls of the Mongrels lobbying out suggestions of other things besides weapons that could cleave the flesh of either of the warrior women. Probably fortunately for their ability to concentrate, the crowd isn't close enough to Sheela and Arete for specific volunteers to be distinguishable in the roar. Gabriel reaches out for Venus' hand, seemingly oblivious to her skittishness and reluctance about being here. His gaze is already glued on the tableau below, and he comments aloud, "A denarius on the red-headed Empyrean. Come on, let's get a closer look." He starts working his way downward, edging around spectators and occasionally whapping someone in the head or shoulders with his wings, to which he offers a terse apology. Inside the arena, The Empyrean actually pauses to laugh again, one hand on her hip and the axe swinging to her shoulder. "I doubt they've enough girth to satisfy the likes of me, little flower, so like as not I'll have to pass up on your offer." From casual to battle-ready in 6.2 seconds, Arete grasps the haft of her ebon axe and charges again. The horse hair around her calves shakes menacingly with each thud of foot against sand, the horned helm raised high and the silver of the woman's eyes shining beneath it. The edge of one wicked blade whistling through the air towards the crown of the mongrel's head. "Uh, you go on ahead. I'm going to stay here so I can. . .make sure we can see this from all angles." Venus, meanwhile, has covered her head with one of her wings and looks out occasionally to check if the killing-sport is over. On one check, she sees that a body part or two have been butchered which makes her cover her pink lips as if to vomit. She's seen blood baths before, but the battlefield is different. Phelix enters the stands, blinking in the bright light. Phelix has arrived. "Winger gel's gonna kick 'er arse!" "After 'er, Dancer, c'mon now, pullin' for ye, lass! Go, go, go!" "Whatcha pullin', then, Jackie, that's what I'm after wantin' t' know!" All of them on their feet, David's three friends add their cheers to those of the throng, while David himself gapes in pure, undiluted, awestruck hayseed fashion at the display below. He has, it seems, forgotten to close his mouth. One might also wonder whether he's forgotten to breathe. Cepheus yawns rather obviously, the large man only moderately impressed with the goings on. His eyes glance around briefly before looking back to the action at hand. Maybe this he should have considered the fact before coming that this would be mundane compared to being surrounded by blood thirsty Varati on the battlefield. Celosia is spending more time glancing about the surrounding crowds than watching the bout--indeed, she seems to be keeping her gaze turned away from the arena if at all possible. Belona allights in the crowd and sweeps her eyes over the blood-sport and takes a calmm seat. Inside the arena, As impressive as Arete's charge is, as predictable is it from Sheela's view. Still, she seems immobile as the Empyrean warrior once again advances in full speed upon her. Just the muscles of her legs are tensing, the body hardening below well-toned skin. Then, in the last instance, she ducks her head under the approaching axe-blade, and leaps ahead once the menacing weapon has swung past herself. Rolling off the landing on her foot in a perfect motion, she comes back to the ground right at the side of Arete. Less than an inch seperates the heated bodies of the two gladiators as the mongrel's arm strikes out, to cut with her dagger alongside of her bigger enemy's exposed midsection. One more spectator arrives at the scene, through one of the archways. His steps are slow and careful, and he almost seems to be trying to use his slumped, large wings to hide himself. Or he's simply completely unaware of it. Pale blue eyes scan the crows nearby in search for any familiar faces, before Phelix takes a seat near a few other young men who slap his back cheerfully, cheering at the show down in the center. Himself he doesn't seem to be all that excited, more frustrated. With each thrust and parry, the crowd roars -- though depending upon whose weapon strikes home, the loudest waves of thundered blood-lust (or, depending upon your point of view, good old-fashioned lust-lust) come from differing sections of the horde in the stands. Now the Empyreans... now the Mongrels. But then again, some free-thinking fellows are cheering for both women. They're female, and as far as they're concerned, that's more than enough. "That mongrel's quicker than I thought," observes Gabriel as he watches the fight below with keen attention. "Hmm. I wonder what House she represents. Do you know?" It takes him a minute or two to realize that Venus is not with him, and he stops his progress and looks around, over both shoulders and then turning completely around to espy Venus still up near the top of the seats where he left her. The Augustin Adjutor steps up onto one of the benches and flares his wings open, taking to the air and flying back toward the Schola. "You can't see anything from up here. Why don't you come down closer where you can see better?" he cajoles. Inside the arena, Twisting her muscular torso at the last possible minute, the blade grazes along her skin to produce a thin crimson line. Arete, having watched the mongrel do her spin, was apparently expecting another attempt from the Dancer of Death. "Is that the best you can do, child?" the Empyrean thunders, dropping one hand from the haft of her axe to grab Sheela's hair. For a minute, it looks as if this battle is going to become nothing more than a glorified cat fight-- or has it always been that?-- and then Arete shoves her opponent away violently, every muscle in her arm bulging with the sheer force of her strength. "You are an insect that I will crush, girl. Prepare to meet Tyche in all her glory." Once again using the axe with only one hand, surely no small feat considering the size of the weapon, the Empyrean gladiator goes at Sheela with an upward swing as though she were nothing more than a pesky weed in an inconvienent place. "KILL!" "KILL!" "KILL!" At last, finally, a distinct word can be heard rising up from the audience. It seems that blood-lust is outpacing lust-lust, now. Theron murmurs comments to his companion, ostensibly about the fight that's going on. He seems neither perturbed, nor overjoyed by the fight going on in front of us. Some kind of parchment stretched out over a small board is put in Phelix's lap, along with pieces of charcoal, as he starts to make drawings of the two fighting females below. His gaze seems to be focused on them, but his thoughts are elsewhere, and it appears he's only drawing because he's doing his job. His gaze sharpens slightly, as he takes in the details of the final moments of slaughter.. It was what he was sent here to draw. The movement of wings brins his attention to the side for a moment, and he spots Gabriel. Then Venus. He seems to stop moving completely as he sees her for a moment, and he parts his lips as if to call out, but then forces his attention back to the fight below. Venus uncovers her mouth (from holding back vomiting) and says in a dry voice, "Oh I can see just fine, Gabriel. Why don't you go on ahead and watch the games since you have a bet on them." The chanting of the crowds for blood further nauseates the Schola and Venus has to hide her head and shelter her ears with both wings. This might give her discomfort away to her companion. She uncovers her flushed face from a ruffle of feathers with a tight, forced smile and says, "Gabriel, go enjoy the games! I'll be just fine here." "They gonna _kill_ each other?!" wails David, in the midst of the outpouring of fevered cries from the crowd around him. How's the boy managed to show up at this combat without having grasped this fundamental concept? Somehow, though, it's happened. And to his left, Jackie slugs his shoulder and chortles, "What'd ye think, Davey, they were gonna have tea an' sweetcakes?" The diminutive golden winged woman is easily hidden in the crowd, folding her wings tightly across her back as she just sits back and watches. She seems isolated from the blood-lust that is infecting the crowd,neither disgusted nor excited. Still, she watches with an intensity that belies her calm exterior. Jana soars into the bowl from the skies above. Jana has arrived. Sly eyes look briefly at the blood thirsty audience, Cepheus rolling his eyes at the sorry display. Hypocritical, perhaps, the man responsible for killing countless both on the battlefield and off slowly rises and makes his way down a nearby ramp. There is no disgust openly displayed on his face, neither from the display of blood-lust nor the scene on the area, the look instead one of tired resignation. Grey wings and all, the Empyrean disappears into the bowels of the Coliseum. Inside the arena, Sheela's lissome body cannot hold up the superior strength of the Empyrean. Her second dagger flashes up, to cut off her own her and not allow Arete such a tight reign on her, but it's too late already. She struggles as she gets pushed back, for a moment off-balance, but then regaining her stance once more. A few more tendrils of red hair fall to the sand, mingling with the spilled blood. Between the hot breaths of the mongrel, the still confident grin flashes out to her enemy. "It's certainly good enough to deal with you, cyprian." Bending her torso over, she ducks to evade the high strikes of the axe -- or perhaps only to give the audience a better view into her sizeable cleavage. Both daggers strike out once more in half-circles, but this time, the attempts are only half-made, more careful, some only feints. Slowly, but surely, the mongrel's motions are slowing down in both speed and ferocity. She never notices him! Phelix takes a deep breath and contines his drawing, barely noticing the long, loose hair that falls down on the sketching board in his lap. Just get this over with, and get out of here. He draws with the charcoal, fast and with skill, but his two friends are constantly interrupting him, which seems to catch the bad side of his temper. "Look, I am trying to /draw/ here alright!" There's more force to his voice than to be expected from his slumped appearance, and it makes his friend jump back a bit for a moment, shifting wings uneasily."Will you take it easy Phelix?" The young artist is however already back to his.. art. Gladiatorial combats: entertainment for the common masses. And you don't get any more common than Mongrels. The three more outspoken young Mongrel men from the Pantheon, unlike the Empyreans loftily observing the duel to the death and convincing themselves -- whether successfully or in vain -- that they're above being affected by such things, throw themselves wholeheartedly into cheering the women on. Of the Pantheon quartet, only David seems uncertain about this entire cheering concept... but now that the notion that one of those women isn't going to come off the sands alive has finally registered behind his big lamb-like eyes, an intensity he doesn't normally show unless he's singing comes into his face. And he starts muttering prayers to Tyche that it'll be the Mongrel woman who'll be the victor. Gabriel is torn. He keeps glancing down into the arena, catching quick glimpses of the duel, and then back toward Venus' rather greenish-looking visage. Maybe this wasn't such a wonderful surprise after all. "Are you sure?" he asks uncertainly, still keeping half his attention on the fight. "We could go, if you like." Although by the sound of his offer, Gabriel clearly wants to stay. Dark wings streaked with dye are all that is immediately apparent as a late spectator enters the bowl, taking to some of the higher seats in favour of disturbing the rabble closer to the action. Jana's landing is, for once, executed with some semblance of grace; meaning she doesn't topple over into someone's lap. Vaguely relieved at such success, the young Oracle takes a moment to orient herself, get a glance down at the combatants in the arena, and then a long look at the sea of faces surrounding her. "Go ahead, Gabriel. Really, I'm fine." Venus chokes back a cough that might've brought up her lunch and points towards the blood finale. "You'll miss your show. Come catch me when you're through." At this, Venus diverts her eyes to the crowd looking for something to focus her attention and clear her stomach. Her eyes fall on the image of her cousin, Phelix Areides, who she has not seen in a few months. She waves a wing and hand, hoping he will catch the greeting. Inside the arena, Even the brightest of flames must die out, or so the addage goes; apparently Sheela is proving that point all too sucinctly. Arete, on the other hand, is a tall, thick candle with a short wick-- and she has no intention of letting her flame go. There is no more room for curses, name-calling or taunts; the Empyrean is lost in the touch and go of the battle, lips bared in a terrible snarly, black hair fanning out with her every move. A startling flurry of twists and feints match the mongrel move for move, but no clear attempts are made to bring the blade home in that lucious, mail-clad body. For the most part, Arete holds her ground, towering over the blood-splattered sand only to twist and turn as the Dancer leads her in a deadly jig. They seem evenly matched, the mongrel's speed against the Empyrean's strength. Phelix's wrist moves with dramatic movements, almost matching the struggle for life and death down in the arena, first outlining the figures in drawing after drawing, then starting to work out details.. If he just catches the movements.. A long, slender piece of charcoal breaks with a loud snap as he notices Venus looking at him, and his pale blue eyes settle on his cousin for a moment. His frustration seems to soften for a moment, but his features soon turn unreadable, as if he forced himself to hide something, and he smiles faintly at her as he returns the wave, only to continue drawing soon afterwards. "G'on, Dragon, take 'er out!" bellows Nat. Breon roars out his approval of Arete as well, even as Jackie keeps punching the air as he chants out the Dancer's moniker. And in the midst of them, David squeezes his eyes shut, not sure he can look. That l'il ol' Dancer gal... the winger can't help but run over her, he begins to think. It can be easily said that David is not the brightest of men, but what he lacks in wits he makes up for in gallantry, and so he can't help but pray that it's the smaller woman who prevails. With him it would seem, unlike with two of his compatriots, size does not appear to matter. Inside the arena, So perhaps she's a bit slower than before, perhaps the sweat on her skin is washing off the oil, making her seem more like a fighting-machine desperate to win and taking all chances, rather than the smooth, seductive dancer she was just a moment ago. That does not take the lethal edge of Sheela. Dodging and wiggling around the bigger, broader body of the dragon-masked Empyrean, she tries to get behind her, blades in both hands striking out and retracting in a rapid change. Finally, yielding a great battle-cry, the mongrel swings her ridged dagger in a wide, sweeping curve, aiming it at Arete's shoulder, after the Empyrean's last slash missed, leaving her side unprotected. Cleon soars into the bowl from the skies above. Cleon has arrived. Belona continues to sit quietly in the stands alone watching what is surely the mongrel woman's death throes. Celosia continues her desperate search for something other than the fight to hold her attention. She does spot a familiar face or two, though she's loathe to draw their attention. This delicate child is clearly not comfortable here, looking somewhat lost. Inside the arena, The Empyrean cries out, frustrated and enraged. She /knows/ she left herself open for that, and with every ounce of strength she can muster, she twists herself away. Black-marked wings flare like twin sails into the afternoon sky as she twists to face the mongrel, her eyes large and shining beneath the confines of her dragon helm. With a looming step forward, Arete raises the axe above her head and starts its descent with an unintelligible cry of enfuriated battlelust. Now we're getting down to business. It can't be too terribly long now before one or the other of the women will triumph, and the longer the battle goes on, the louder the roars from the crowd become. From this side and that of the arena, alternating rhythms of the shouts of "Dancer" and "Dragon" arise -- but the call to "KILL" is gaining strength as more and more throats join in on that heated chant. Gabriel reaches out and gives Venus' arm a reassuring yet absent pat before he nods and says, "All right. I'll go watch for a little while. I'll be right down there." He points to a spot closer to the edge of the seats, where he'd have a better view into the arena, and after saying that, he turns and opens his wings, careful not to whap Venus. It looks like the fight is nearing its climax, and the Adjutor jumps up and glides down over the heads of the spectators, to finally insinuate himself as close to the arena as he can get. He's eager to see the outcome. The battle in the arena is completely lost on the Oracle now, for her attention has been completely snared by the audience around her. Jana's gaze grows sharper and more methodical, and she rises up from her newly captured seat to start walking down the crowded aisles in search of someone. But eventually, whatever she had been searching for seems to be given up for lost. Looking a touch frustrated, she wanders around for a little while longer before plunking herself back down in a seat. Rolling her eyes at her ever-gambling, ever-rude companion, Venus settles her gaze on her cousin. At least he's paying attention to something other than the bloody and cruel mess of a competition. She stands up and flies over to Phelix's side and effortlessly lands in a sitting position near him. She apologizes quickly to the mongrel behind her that got a cough of feathers. "Phelix! What are you drawing?" is Venus's nosey question. Inside the arena, Sheela's blow does not carry through -- it was never meant to be. It remains hinging over the angry dragon-woman as she dodges away. Once Arete approaches again, a crooked, evil grin sets once again upon the dancer's lips. "Look closer!" she remarks only with a triumphant voice to her opponent, and in that moment, the edge of her second dagger shines from below, reflecting the song as it is let loose. The weapon cuts through the air downwards, aiming to pierce straight into the Empyrean's booted foot. Cleon descends into the arena slowly, a little reluctant to enter, but since it does seem to be the rage of late, he has no choice but to make an appearance every now and then. Ah well. His gaze does not even touch the center and the spectable within. Instead, it scans the crowd with a small smile and a wave for those very few who are looking around. David can't quite seem to decide if he wants to watch -- or if he's about to be ill. Sunbronzed face crinkled up in consternation, the young Mongrel opens one dusky blue eye and squints down into the arena, braced as if that vicious swing of Arete's axe might be about to hit _him_. Under no circumstances has he noticed the influx of late-arriving Empyreans into the nearest sections of the crowd, though. Observant, thy name is not David. Nor is it Nat or Breon or Jackie, for those three lads are quite thoroughly caught up in the lethal show. Phelix's attention on the gladiators is momentarily stolen completely by Venus as she suddenly appears at his side, and he shifts a large wing aside to provide more room for her, almost unconciously. "Ven, er Domina!", he says, and he seems to lose confidence quite easily around his cousin for some reason. Odd. He holds out the drawing to her, showing the two warriors in different poses of delivering death to one and another. He flips page after page, and suddenly he snaps it shut again and shrugs. "Just the fight down there", he says in a firm voice that he tries to make confident. "Someone wanted it for his wall.. " Is he telling the entire truth? Belona looks up just as the legate makes his entrance and she smiles briefly offering a small wave as the crowd rises to it's collective feet with loud exclamations of surprise and eagerness. Bel's view is blocked by a large man who jumps to his feet infront of her, but she does'nt seem to mind. Venus blushes and pretends that her cousin's behavior is perfectly normal. "Oh, well that's a good reason for a drawing." Her feathers rustle nervously on her back and then she pretends to look down at the fight with interest. "The game looks uh. . .good. .. today. The fighting technique is superb." Venus is talking out of her rear, at this point - having not watched a true moment of the match since arriving. "I was surprised to see you here? I thought you didn't like the games?" Inside the arena, And as sure as the Dancer's dagger is in its flight, the Dragon's cry is loud and piercing. Nearly losing the grip on her axe and thusly, her attack, Arete stumbles forward, only discipline and the outstretched wings giving her enough balance to remain on her feet. Something snaps, and the high-pitched keen of pain turns quickly into a rumbling roar that will surely leave her with out a voice for days. Blood flows freely down her torso now, mingling with sweat and the painted oils of the owl around her navel to drip to the ground in gorey splatters. For Arete, time slows, and the rush of the crowd is gone as she listens to the blood pounding in her ears, the rush of breath as she inhales, her leather halter straining to its limits around breast and ribcage. The cry echoes still in her mind, and then there is the silence, marred only by the sweep of twin-bladed ebon death. The axe finally strikes against the oily flesh of the mongrel, right above the mail at her neck; with a final, stomach-turning shriek of metal against bone, the Dragon brings her swing around fully. The muscles in her jaw are clentched tight, blood smeared body locked in a half-crouched stance. "I don't! " Phelix says in immediate response, and remains seated as most people are up on their feet cheering by now.. "But I thought I'd.. err, do my friend a favour!" That's it.. It may sound convincing enough. His lips form an almost hopeful smile as he looks sideways at her. "I thought you didn't either", he responds, lowering his voice a bit. He flips that sketching board upside down. Yep, he's done drawing for today! Cepheus has left. Seeing another blood gush makes Venus turn to the aisle and overturn her lunch quietly in a bin. Right in front of her cousin! She covers her mouth and looks apologetically at him, "Oh I have to go. I can't stay here anymore. I'll lose my insides next." Quickly, in an embarassed flurry, Venus takes to the sky and is gone out of the coliseum - holding her mouth and stomach as she flaps. Venus leaps into the air and takes flight, disappearing into the sky above Haven. Venus has left. Inside the arena, The triumph of hitting the Empyrean's foot was Sheela's last. In her ploy and desperation to make this hit, she ignored the axe swung at her. Another attempt to dodge is made, but it's too late: the Dragon-lady neatly seperates her head off from the body, letting it dance upon the reddened axe blade for a moment longer. Eyes of horror at the realisation of her death stare out for a second into the audience, before they close eternally, the decapitated head falling with a loud *thumb* onto the sand, its blood mingling with the beautful red hair as it rolls on. Likewise, the decapitated body lets out one final heartbeat, before it slumps down. All four limbs spread numbly from the corpse, the curved dagger burying deeply in the sand, as -- in a twist of Tyche's bad humor -- the loose head only comes to a halt as it hits Sheela's sagged shoulder. Cleon moves toward the woman who greeted him, as everyone else is terribly occupied at the moment anyway. "Vale, Domina." He has to repeat his words twice as the roar of the crowd explodes at the carnage of the arena floor. Testosterone is a powerful thing, and when it's joined with adrenalin, even a sweet-natured young fellow like David can't help but be affected. Eventually, even his voice rises up to join those of his friends -- and all unknowingly, he overshadows the other young Mongrel men. "Git up, Dancah! C'mon, honey, git up on theah!" he cries out, his voice standing out not only due to the natural strength of his lungs, but also his country accent. Mongrels all over Haven have accents, but very few have his farmboy cadences. And very few men can match him in clarity and resonance, even when he cries out in horror at the Dancer's flying head. His eyes slam shut, and his face jerks away from the lurid sight below. "DRAGON!" roars up the cry from the crowd as the final decisive blow is struck. Inside the arena, The deathblow has taken everything from her, but Arete will /not/ let it show. Instead, she bends to retrieve the dagger from the sands, and holding it and the axe above her head, she appeals to the crowd in a jiggling display of womanly flesh. "It seems," she crows, horned head lifted in tired pride, "that this Dancer could use a few more lessons!" Phelix, as well as his friends jump back in surprise as Venus empties her lunch right next to them. At least she didn't vomit on his drawings! He's suddenly up on his feet, and moves over to her for support, but be simply remains standing with the rest of the crowd as he watches her take off.. He sighs a little and watches her fade into the distance, before his attention is suddenly jerked back to the ending of the game, and he winces at seeing the blood himself.. He'll just fake the decisive blow on his painting. No one will notice. Celosia turns her face from the sight, extremely pale. She has her lips pressed tight together in an attempt not to be sick all over those standing and cheering all about her. A bit less polite than usual she employs both elbows and wings to fight free of the crowd, heedless of recognition as she flees. Just in time to see the axe swinging down does Jana turn to look. She doesn't flinch when the head goes rolling away, though her hands clench into fists around folds of dark indigo cloth. The Oracle sits in stony silence while all around her the crowd is up on its feet, cheering and yelling madly into the air. She waits to throw up her own lunch, but it never happens. Her shoulders slowly relax with the realisation that this just isn't all that awful to her. Not anymore. Belona waits..and waits trying to save her breath for a moment when the crowd lowers it's volume a decibel or two. Giving up she gives Cleon a smile, a shrug and gestures to the empty seat beside her. A clean invitation to join. There is a slight frown as the Imperator watches the final blow, then with a slight word to Benedict, his aide, he rises and begins to move towards the exits. He's seen all that he needs. Blue-green eyes narrow in a wince as the mongrel is decapitated, but Gabriel doesn't turn away from the grisly sight. He only murmurs softly to himself -- amid the roar of the crowd -- "Damn. I should have placed a bet." Nat and Breon howl out their delight at Arete's victory -- but it's Jackie that turns and sees David wobbling on his feet. Now, at last, it looks as if the black-haired Mongrel washer of dishes (and every so often, impromptu singer) is closer to being ill than he was a moment ago. "Hey, hey there, Davey, dinnae keel over on us, now!" "Ah-Ah-Ah think Ah'm gon' be sick--" That seizes Nat and Breon's attention, and Nat hastily grabs one of David's arms to prop it over his shoulders. "Nay ye don't, man! Hold up a bit, we'll get ye off t' th' Song an' put some whiskey in ye, ye'll be right as rain, eh?" From the podium, Vasilius' clapping seems to drown almost in the roar of the crowd, but eventually, his loud, clear voice pierces through. "The dancer of death showed us her last dance today, spectators. And what a dance it was. But the dragon prevailed. In a match that was as tight, as chilling, as breathtaking and, if I may say so, as beautiful and delicious as few were before. And as few will be." He wipes his sweaty hands from his toga, his wings fluttering in delight, ignoring the preening hands of the mongrel slaves among them. Belona looks over at the Empyrean announcer her eyes sliding right past the gruesome headless body and the staring eyes a few feet away. Decaptiation doesn't seem to bother her and she even smiles ever so slightly at the Empyrean's victory. ... And that's it? Phelix tucks the sketching board under his arm, and prepares to take off into the air. But he suddenly changes his mind, and decides to use his feet instead, heading for one of the archways, the same he came from. The aftermath and gore spread out in the center won't do much good for his art anyway. Phelix climbs the stairs until he reaches an archway, then ducks through it into the cool dark depths beyond. Phelix has left. Inside the arena, Placing the dagger on the prone body of the mongrel woman, Arete tilts her axe against a sweaty shoulder, raising one arm with leather-wrapped fist high in the air. She may not be as neat and clean as she was upon entering, but if anything it only adds to her appeal. Proudly, she scampers about the arena, jeering up at the crowd and grinning broadly. Vasilius raises his voice again, to declare, "Arete has shown that the Lares of House Tritonis are with her. Today, victory and glory is hers. Until the next match. For we will her see again upon the sand, in but a few days. And then, with her equally glorious and magnificent partner. We shall see those two can claim their reputation once again and bring glory to the House they have sworn to fight for. But until such day, lets all hail Arete and hail Tritonis!" [End log.]