Date: November 1, 1998
Place: Spectator Seating - Coliseum - Haven
Cast: Fabien, Faisal, Hesiod, Jasmine, Jihaad, Livia, Lysander, Nasri, Nissua, Notus, Noura, Okalani, Opal, Oriane, Polaris, Phoebes, Riva, Serenity, Sharkey, Smilin' Jack, Steele, Timin, Valerian (@Emits: Nissua, Jenean, Lysander)
Scene: Various races and castes enjoy the rather violent entertainment the coliseum has to offer -- first a chariot race, then a gladiator match.

Announcement: Michabo shouts "Activity in the Coliseum makes the streets outside crowded. The cheers can be heard at the edges of the woods. Those with sharp eyes and good vantage points can see the banners and flags raised. Let the Games Begin!"

Spectator Seating - Coliseum - Haven:
      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.'

Humming, a young, curvy Varati female makes her way over to a suitable place and sits down. There's a basket in her arms.

Jihaad enters and upon spotting Opal, he calls out in a deep tone, "Opal!"

Sharkey watches the entryway, grinning as his eyes size up the people joining the crowd

Her head turns at the sound, and Opal waves a small hand to Jihaad. Smiling, "Good evening, Jihaad. Want to join me?"

Riva enters the stands, blinking in the bright light.

Sharkey moves among the crowd, surreptitiously taking bit of money with a few murmured words.

Jihaad nods to Opal, "Of course" He sits next to her.

Out in the arena, the horses are being led to the starting line. There are six pairs of horses, each pulling a chariot. The teams are:
- Black pulling the lightweight black chariot
- Bay harnessed to the heavy weight green chariot
- Dappled horses pulling a heavy copper chariot
- A gray pair with a light weight red chariot
- Tan horses harnessed to a dark brown chariot
- Creamy white horses pulling a light weight white chariot trimmed with gold

Riva eases her way into the crowd surrounded by several sentries. The group ascend the steps and ease their way into some empty seats.

Nasri enters the stands, blinking in the bright light.

Nasri pads in and just blinks at the crowd, a sea of people arranged in a circle. She's never seen so many people in her life, and it's somewhat unnerving. But it doesn't show much; as bold as you please she walks along the front row and wedges herself into a spot, giving the spectators on either side a look of warning.

Sharkey continues moving around the crowd, accepting coins here and there with a murmured word.

Sharkey glares at one man who says a bit too loudly, "Green to win."

Looking around, Nasri notices the Varati food vendor from the Rialto. She grins in that direction before turning back to watch the pit, head cocked.

Opal is talking softly with the enormous Agni-Haidar, Jihaad, and what words slip out would indicate that they're discussing the horses. Both seem to have a favor for the black pair.

At Nasri's grin, the young Varati female dips her head, black eyes warming in a smile.

Sharkey drifts over toward Opal and Jihaad.

Inside the arena, the horses are slow to line up in the tracks. Boys wielding switches run about, swatting the legs of the great chariot horses.

Sharkey mutters, "Care to make a small wager on that?"

A bunch of well-lubricated (with cheap ale) sailors from the Siren yell for Sharkey to come over.

Nasri leans forward and examines the beasts. She's not unfamiliar with horses in general, but these are different from the one's she's seen.

Opal tilts her head back to look at Sharkey, smiling. "No, thanks. I don't bet on things."

Inside the arena, horns blare over the field, sending signals to the horse masters and charioteers.

The Atlantean sentry, blue-haired Tosca, eyes some of the women in the crowd more than the chariots lining up below. Merel leans forward, orange hair seeming to flame in a shaft of light, and studies the horses and drivers.

Riva leans back in her seat and folds her hands in her lap, a look of concentration smoothing her features.

Notus enters the stands, blinking in the bright light.

Sharkey raises an eyebrow at Opal.. "Then what's the fun in that?" he says before heading over to talk to the sailors.

Jihaad looks up at Sharkey, "Nor do I," his deep, rich voice rumbles.

Sharkey flashes his pointed teeth at the sailors as he takes their bets and then continues drifting among the crowd.

Sharkey gets mobbed by the sailors, clearly having nothing better to do with their shore leave money than spend it on ale, women, and chariot races.

Notus slowly walks up the steps along the side of the oval rows before taking a vacant spot at the fourth such bench. His eyes wander about, eventually focusing on the pit in the arena's center.

Okalani enters the stands, blinking in the bright light.

An Atlantean sentry notes the Priestess' arrival and beckons her over toward the group with Riva.

Inside the arena, banners and flags are lifted to the sky, and the cheers raise to a deafening level. The Master of the Horses, a smelly little plebeian, lifts a red cloth high above his head.

The horses tromp and lean forward in their harnesses. Small boys scamper among the legs of the beasts, removing the ropes that keep the horses lined up. The starting line grows uneven as nervous horses edge forward and back. The charioteers turn to watch the stable master. All eyes turn to watch the red rag.

Sharkey turns to look down at the chariots briefly before grinning as he gets mobbed by people with last-minute bets.

The sailors lean forward, almost as one, hollering and cheering. Seems a lot of them have taken a liking for red.

Nasri cocks her head the other way. She watches the imminent race, rapt.

Okalani walks in, pulling her white clothes tighter around her frail body as she turns around. Noticing the sentry, she smiles and quietly makes her way through the crowds till she finds herself near the others, inclining her head to them. "May Pasiphae light your nights," she greets before looking for a free seat.

Sharkey makes one last circuit of the seats, taking the very last bets before he himself sits to watch the race.

Inside the arena, a silence falls over much of the crowd. For long moments, the red rag is held high.

Then, like a single tear or a drop of blood, the rag is dropped.

The horses scream and the charioteers shout and whip each mount into a gallop.

Black, gray and white horses pull forward, easily shooting past the heavier chariots pulled by the dappled and bay pairs. The charioteer in the black chariot misses his own horse, whipping the nearby bay horse near the eye.

The green chariot swerves, its horses wild for a moment, and there's an ominous crunch as it hits the copper wheels near by.

Oriane soars into the bowl from the skies above.

From the podium, Lysander emerges between the curtains that block the exit.

Despite herself, Nasri jumps slightly as the rag is dropped. She winces as the people around her begin to yell; her eyes widen as she sees the press of chariots. She leans forward and those eyes light up. Oh, this is dangerous!

Oriane arrives with a small handful of other Empyreans. The pair of House Guards with the group wear the symbol of House Tritonis. While the darkling girl is part of the small group, she seems somewhat apart from them as they search for a seat.

Opal's eyes are as lighted up as Nasri's, fascination plain on her face as she leans a little closer to Jihaad, murmuring something.

Notus places one foot up upon the row slightly lower than his own, his chin resting in his cupped hand. The other arm rests across his lap, moving as little as the rest of him. While the crowds cheer and shout all around, the Atlantean sits silent in attendance, gaze focused upon the chariots far below.

Only a spare glance is given for the appraisal of the newly-arrived group of winged folk; other Empyreans are here, too, so their appearance is not shocking to Nasri. Her gaze is quickly torn back to the race and she finds herself holding her breath.

Inside the arena, dust rises and the horses surge forward.

The gray and white teams are neck and neck for the lead. Bay stays far to the outside, away from the chaos.

The heavier chariots pick up speed and one, the green one, catches up to the black. Whips raise again, but this time the black charioteer is the target! Black swerves, racing in a blind diagonal towards the stands!

The sailors are whooping up a storm for the greys, stamping, clapping. Oh, hello, perhaps sitting in the first row wasn't a good idea after all.

Nasri leans forward, curious--will the driver regain control of the thing before he smacks into the wall?

Phoebes soars into the bowl from the skies above.

Jihaad watches intently as the black chariot swerves seemingly out of control

Sharkey sits in the top row, beady black eyes glittering as he watches the race.

Phoebes comes down into an open space, red-golden wings tucking behind him as he straightens his clothes.

Nasri doesn't have time to watch new arrivals. She's in the front row, and the out-of-control black chariot is hurtling towards the stands. The tall Varati girl doesn't seem to be overly concerned--more than anything, she's fascinated.

The young Atlantean priestess is quiet as well, large aquamarine eyes look around in stunned surprise at the crowd... not at all at the view of those horses and colors... not quite understanding this ritual. But Okalani's quick to realize what this is all about and thus nods quietly to herself and picks herself the green color, but not much.

Inside the arena, most of the crowd could care less for the chariots on track for the moment. There's a mad scramble and the poor and shiftless audience near the first turn scramble from their seats.

Black horses swerve away from the wall at the last moment. The chariot behind them is snapped like a toy into it, sending the driver up, over the wall, into the stands.

Opal puts her hands in front of her eyes, but since she's peeking through her fingers, that doesn't really help much.

The driver lands with a crash across several of the benches, and moans softly as he tries to struggle up again.

Nasri leans forward a little more, craning her head to see the crash and the driver's new non-moving position.

The sailors take evasive action, moving to where they can track the progress of their investment.

Oriane trails behind the small group she's with as they look for seating. Deciding on a lofty perch, the group claims a section of one of the higher rows. Keeping her wings in close, Oriane sits down nearby.

As the games continue, the podium begins to fill with various wealthy people who enjoy such sport. Several Empyreans join the throng, all cast amid food, wine, and shaded fans. After a moment or so, some eyes shift towards the entrance, and people begin to mumble. It soon becomes obvious what this is all about. Lysander Acesian has arrived to watch the goings-on. Indeed, it is a rare sight to see the Empyre's First Aegian at such an event. He strides in, accompanied by several guards. With him are two other Empyreans, one being an older man who is dressed much the same, and the other a younger one who resembles the elder enough to be a relative. They seem in good spirits, and soon find a space amid the cushions in the front row. The games seem to be a secondary concern to the conversation.

Phoebes glances around, examining the faces in the stands. He chuckles after a glance into the stands, then heads for people he is familiar with.

Phoebes sits down in the second row.

Valerian soars into the bowl from the skies above.

Nasri gets jostled. She lets out a low rumble of annoyance, and the offending elbow withdraws. She leans back, crashed driver forgotten, and returns her attention to the ongoing race.

It soon becomes apparent from the odd angle at which he landed and his inability to rise, that the driver is seriously injured. Several slaves push their way through the crowd with a board to roll the no-longer moving man onto it and carry him out.

Inside the arena, the bay pair swerves to the inside to miss the broken wreckage of the black chariot and horses.

The creamy white horses are in the lead, the gray pair a head behind. They both slow as they go into the curve at the end of the field, unwilling to share the fate of the black horseman.

The heavier chariots, green and copper, take their opportunity to catch up to the others.

From the podium, the younger Empyrean who accompanies the two older ones turns his eyes toward the now-wrecked chariot. He smiles and points, drawing Lysander's eyes to that spot. The Aegian merely nods and exchanges words with his companions. Around the podium, the wealthy are laying wagers, yet those three do not appear to take part. Rather, a servant attends them some wine--goblets set upon a silver tray, as well as a plate of fruit which is made available. Two slaves with large fans move to shield their delicate skin from the harsh sun.

Okalani glances aside at the Empyrean sitting close to her, and inclines her head to him with an interested curiosity before nodding in answer to the captain's words. "Your wisdom is indeed wise, captain Riva," she speaks in slow words. "I do wonder... what is the point of all this?"

"RED!!!" The sailors are urging their man on, some of them practically falling into the arena in their eagerness to get closer to the action.

Valerian takes his sketch pad and charcoals, joining the fifth row.

From the podium, Livia emerges between the curtains that block the exit. She sits down in the second row.

Oriane's companions do not necessarily ignore her, but as they get caught up in the race, they do not include her, either. Still, with a wing partially raised to block the direct heat of the sun and an open fan to finish the job, Oriane does not seem to mind. Sitting quietly, her eyes try to take in everything at once--the throng in the audience, the race itself, those enjoying the frills of the podium... everything.

Serenity enters the stands, blinking in the bright light.

From the podium, Livia makes herself comfortable in the second row and leans forward in her seat to watch the sports.

Inside the arena, the horses close as they take the end and start on the straight-away. Halfway through the first of three rings round the track, the white pair flies into the lead.

In the back rows, the driver of the green chariot 'misses' again with his whip. This time, he catches the flank of the gray pair pulling the red chariot. The horse rears, turning to bite at his harness mate! Amid the tangle, the red chariot falls back, out of the pack.

Far to the back, the tan pair of horses stay away from the tangles and wreckage. Already, slaves run out onto the course to catch the black pair and pull them and the remains of the chariot into the center.

Sharkey glances briefly at the Empyreans next to him, then turns his gaze back on the race, chuckling softly as his eyes glitter and his grin widens.

"Foul!"

"Cheating swine!"

"You see that?" yell the sailors, disgusted.

Nasri is fascinated. Oh, that's not allowed? She didn't know that--it seemed like a good strategy to her...

Elegantly do the frail lines of her brows arch up at the explanation of Phoebes, "I do..." Okalani breaks off and listens to Riva instead, nodding quietly, but still with a puzzled expression on her face. "I do not understand what's the idea of putting money on a color though.... putting shelves on a fish is merely done because that fish is thought to be the quickest..."

From the podium, Lysander's eyes trail from the chariot race to the spectator stands below. They sweep the crowds with some intent while his companions speak to him. He nods somewhat absently as his gaze falls on Oriane and Phoebes. A small smile comes to his lips as he leans over and speaks something to the older Empyrean who sits with him.

The man pauses, looks, and then chuckles, nodding in return. The younger Empyrean with the three sees the latest development in the race and reaches into his pouch to withdraw some denarii, waving them to issue a bet. Some disgruntled faces are already showing amongst the wealthy at how things are going.

Serenity stands quietly at the back of the coliseum, looking down to see what familiar faces are there. She spies Jihaad and sighs, knowing better than to approach. Her eyes fall on several Atlanteans, and she moves to join them.

Inside the arena, there were six pairs of horses, each pulling a chariot. Halfway through the race it stand as:
- Creamy white horses pulling a light-weight white chariot trimmed with gold are in the lead
- A gray pair with a light weight red chariot are in second
- Bay harnessed to the heavy weight green chariot is doing well, in third
- Dappled horses pulling a heavy copper chariot is just behind the Bay
- Tan horses harnessed to a dark brown chariot far to the end and losing

Okalani flashes the young Atlantean girl a quick smile. "I'm glad to see you Serenity," she greets the young lorekeeper, before focusing her attention on the race again and grimacing at Phoebes' words. "This may sound strange, but I do not know which chariot, horse and driver is the fastest."

Phoebes chuckles at Okalani, "Nor would I know which fish is the fastest, but if you follow the races, then you begin to learn which team is the best."

From the podium, Livia keeps her money in her belt pouch for the time being, having arrived half way through the race.

Serenity bows her head. "Mother."

Valerian's hands move with lightning speed, his charcoal quickly being ground down on his sketchpad as he furiously draws sketch after sketch of the games below, wanting to capture all he can on paper.

From the podium, Lysander leans back further in the cushion and stretches his arm out. Taking a sip from the goblet in his hand, he narrows his eyes to squint against the sun. The older man has grown quiet and now just watches the race, while the younger is throwing in on a last-minute bet with two other Empyreans who appear to be noblemen as well. The Princeps' eyes now meander over the wealthy's seating, settling for a moment upon Livia and staring without shame. The race seems to be a secondary concern to this man--people-watching appears the better sport.

During the straight-away is a good chance for the fruit-sellers and beer-men to make their cash. The horses run, but little of interest happens. Those of careful eye might see the looks the drivers of the copper and white chariots are giving each other, though.

Oriane's eyes stray towards the podium and the assembled nobles there. Well aware of how she's perceived, she sees the glance from the Princeps and his small contingent. A flicker of something crosses her face and she looks away, back towards the race.

Okalani laughs quietly, thinking about this for a moment, "That could be so... but I do wonder how this is to be done now? They are all riding in circles... is the one who now appears to be the first, really the first?"

Phoebes shrugs, "It depends on the other riders--if the team in front has pushed itself to hard, then it will tire and the others may pass it."

Timin enters the stands, blinking in the bright light.

Nasri winces again as the shouting hits a new level. She wrinkles her nose as she follows the frantic action down in the arena.

From the podium, Livia shakes her head as she watches the race, and she gives a shrug to herself. Eyes turn to scan the area around her, and she notices the man staring at her. She offers a smile, not knowing him for the Princeps, as she has only ever heard of him, never having seen him in the flesh. She figures he's fairly important though. Her gaze turns from the man and moves to scan the spectator seating, a slight frown as she catches sight of the familiar form of Oriane.

Ohboy. Another one trying to weave his way through the throng of mad, bloodthirsty, screaming fans. Poor guy. If he doesn't get knocked down into the arena proper by an irate spectator, he might just be lucky. Some halfbreed, just winding his way towards a seat. Up there. Nono, to the left, right there. That's him. Timin.

Inside the arena, as the second curve nears, the horses of the copper chariot draw closer to those of the white. The driver turns to look, an angry fist raised and unintelligible shouts raged back at the driver of the bays. The copper-dressed driver laughs and raises his whip again.

From the red chariot, a fast whip snaps out, tangling in the upraised copper driver's whip. The fool almost tries to hang on as the gray pair slow, and the driver of the red chariot yanks the blood-soaked whip away from the copper driver.

One could almost hear the gladiators cheer. Almost.

Okalani furrows her brows this time. "And how exactly should I know when a person has pushed too much out of himself?" she asks with an unmistakably dry tone in her voice. "I don't know a thing about driving, to be honest." Beautiful, aquamarine eyes look in Phoebes' face, "Maybe you could assist me in this determination?"

Inside the arena, the driver of the slow, tan pair looks up to the stands to search for the woman shouting.

Serenity casts a glance over her shoulder toward Jihaad. She sighs to herself, and turns her gaze toward the arena.

Nasri leans forward. Her nostrils flare. Of course, she can smell nothing but the sweaty and unwashed throng that surrounds her, the legion of scents intermingled with cheap perfume or--as the wind shifts to blow from the direction of the seats used by the wealthy--more expensive colognes.

Phoebes chuckles softly, "I couldn't help you there, since I do not know the teams in this race. However, you can tell certain things by watching the drivers and their handling of their steeds. The driver that uses the whip less often on his horse is the smarter driver. The horse that does not bleed and does not foam is the better animal. Then there is the skill of cutting off pursuers and taking the tight corners."

The Atlantean male guards seem to forget their interest in the females for the moment, at the spectacle before them--the sounds and action drawing their attention. Riva's attention seems split between her companions and the race.

When Oriane takes a moment to scan the crowds again, she notes Livia among those in the podium. When the Jovian woman casts a frown in her direction, her shoulders sag slightly. This time her eyes drop to her feet rather than the race still raging on.

Inside the arena, there's a terrible crash as the white and red chariots slam into the copper one from either side. A wheel spins up into the air, bouncing along the track beside the screaming horses and grinding wood. Shouts ring out in anger and fear.

The green chariot swings wildly to the side, then back again to miss the bits of chariot flying all over the track.

A few lengths back, the tan chariot heads out around the crashing chariots. The driver raises his own whip at last to drive his horses and pull ahead a little.

From the podium, Lysander speaks rather softly to the older man next to him, but his voice carries well enough to be heard, "Who is that, Magnus?" His gaze remains fixated upon the girl.

"Who?" Magnus shifts his eyes to look at Livia and stares for a minute as well. "I don't know."

"That's Livia Jove, sister to Drusus Jove," The younger Empyrean chimes in without warning, a smile upon his face. Almost immediately, his eyes are riveted to the course as the boos rise from the podium, "That's it, show him!!" The boy shouts in encouragement of the red driver. The Princeps' gaze lingers on Livia for a moment longer before looking to the source of the commotion.

Nasri winces at the crash, but her eyes still shine. This is exciting.

Okalani looks aside at the young lorekeeper and the object of her interest, and for a moment a disapproving glance flows over her features. But she refrains from actually saying or doing something, and instead nods, listening to Phoebes' explanation. "That sounds wise... but I do not like seeing animals bleed." The icy tone in her voice shows this to be true.

Okalani adds in an afterthought, "What do you currently consider the one with the best change to win?"

Phoebes nods, "Neither does anyone who is humane. Though some drivers feel the need to push their animals with pain. If you'll notice, even the other riders do not like that."

From the podium, Livia shifts her gaze around as she hears her name. A smile is sent in the direction of the youngest Empyrean of the trio. He looks familiar, must have been someone she met in the market or somewhere. She nods slightly to the Princeps before returning her gaze to the track, ohhing softly as the chariots collide, "I hope the horses are all right," she mutters to no one in particular.

The shouts can now be heard from the podium as the chariot pieces fly about the track. A few nobles chide obvious losers, but never let their eyes travel far from the track itself. One can hear someone saying, "No new bets! No new bets!" But people are still betting and the wine is still flowing.

Inside the arena, the red and white pairs pull away, leaving a trail of copper fragments. Dappled horses sprint forward, free at last of the weight of the chariot. Alas, the driver's hands are tangled in the traces, and he's dragged through the wreckage by the speeding pair.

The bay pair leaps over the wheels and platform in their path. Not so the green chariot! It bounces, crunches, then flies up, its driver flung about like a puppet in the hands of an angry child.

The slow, tan horses swerve to miss the new obstacles.

Serenity sighs upon watching the spectacle. "Mother, perhaps now is not the time, but I am thinking about returning to the ocean. The surface world... I do not think it is for me."

Nasri's eyes widen as bodies bounce and fly. She leans forward, trying to see better.

From the podium, Lysander laughs, "It seems as if your red rider is doing quite well, Quintus." The Princeps motions towards the track with a steady finger, "Perhaps you will leave the contest a winner today!"

Magnus, who sits with them, nods, and laughs deeply, "My son has an eye for a good horse and rider when he sees it, Lysander." The boy nods and keeps his attention riveted to the race. For now, Livia seems to no longer be of direct interest.

Okalani nods quietly at the Empyrean's words, "I do see that now, yes..." her voice breaks off as she considers this all, "I do wonder why they treat their animals like that? Do they get a reward for such traveling?"

Oriane looks up as her companions jump to their feet as the one driver goes flying from his chariot. Dark brows furrow over her eyes as she watches the race.

Sharkey looks down at Okalani. "The animals or the drivers? Or, for that matter, is there really much of a difference?" he remarks with a cruel grin.

From the podium, Livia shakes her head at the wreckage on the track below, and half- rises as if to leave. Animals in pain just aren't really her thing, but a lady next to her puts a hand on her arm and whispers something in her ear. Livia pauses and arches her eyebrows at the woman, then smiles, "Really? Then maybe I'll stay a bit longer, if the gladiators will be coming out next."

Riva frowns as she watches the results of the race. "Rather ...violent. Perhaps will help gain understanding... though not sure we want to accept what that may be...persons trading health and injuries for metal disks...." She falls silent to keep watching.

On hearing Serenity's words Okalani turns her head and focuses her attention on more important matters than shorebound people's enjoyments, "I must admit that isn't much of a surprise to me, Serenity... these people are strange, and without water it's... empty, no?" she carefully chooses her words. "But are you sure about this?" Now her eyes flick toward Jihaad sitting behind them. "Interesting..." an answer to Phoebes or the woman.

Inside the arena, as the horses finish the straight-away and go into the final curve, they spread enough for the crowd to see the score. There were six pairs of horses, each pulling a chariot. Halfway through the race it stand as:
- Creamy white horses pulling a light-weight white chariot trimmed with gold are in the lead, but slowing fast. It looks as though the right wheel is damaged.
- A gray pair with a light-weight red chariot are in second, the left wheel 'limping' and out of shape.
- Bays harnessed to the heavy-weight green chariot is in third and slowing, but the driver is down, dangling limply from the back of the chariot.
- Dappled horses pulling the driver in copper run wild along the track. The blood and gore in its trail does not bode well for the driver.
- Tan horses harnessed to a dark brown chariot are far to the end and losing. On the other hand, they are undamaged.

Okalani nods in agreement to Riva's words, "That is true captain... but we should at least try to point this out to them."

Serenity decides to continue the conversation with Okalani privately.

Sharkey shouts, "C'mon Brown! This is supposed to be a RACE!"

Inside the arena, as if in reply, the driver of the tan horses raises a hand. He might be making a rude gesture. But he turns to his mounts at the last moment, bringing the whip down on their backs in a sudden flurry of shouting.

Nasri laughs, having heard the shout and seeing the activity below. She wraps her fingers around the top of the wall railing in front of her and cranes her head to watch the brown chariot's progress.

Many of the people in the podium are on their feet, and some are shouting at the horses. One man's rather shrill voice can be heard, "HE WAS HOLDING BACK!" Pointing at the tan horses as the driver cracks the whip. One of his companions laughs aloud, as it appears as if he made the right bet. A cup goes rattling to the ground in one person's hurry to observe the activity. Lysander and his companions watch the race now with enthralled interest, though Quintus' face starts to look dour as he realizes that he may not have as good a chance as he expected.

The sailors continue to cheer, desperately, for red.

From the podium, Livia settles back in her seat, accepting a goblet of wine from a passing servant. She shades her eyes from the sun and tries to figure out who's going to win the race. She tilts her head and decides that watching the reactions of the people in the podium might be more interesting. Holding back? Well, wouldn't that make sense?

Valerian glances at the race, watching the tan chariot with a new interest. He turns to a new page in his sketchbook, hand furiously sketching the scene and the chariot.

Inside the arena, red and white teams trot as their chariots limp and drag behind them. The drivers whip the horses to no avail, and as they pull out of the final curve, the wheel of the white chariot springs off, dumping the driver and letting the horses slow to a stop.

The bay pair finds a bit of grass at the in-field fence, and both horses slow to inspect the treat.

Tan horses spring forward, the driver's eyes on the red. His whip rises and falls as rapidly as the hooves meet the arena dirt. Tan pulls forward, gaining on red.

It suddenly appears that Okalani has decided to finally pick her own color, so much attention goes into watching the race, even though she visually shrinks at the sight of the whip raising... But the ones near her would see her eyes have turned absentminded.

Those remaining seated seems to be in the minority now, at least around Nasri. The people around her surge to her feet and, in the process, knock her forward and into the railing. Her knuckles whiten as she gets a very nice look at the arena flooring below; she stops herself, then, and turns enough to glare back at the people who knocked into her. Keeping hold of the wall, she straightens up and leans out to look for the brown chariot, trying to see past the wavering bodies of those already leaning out to see their favorites.

From the podium, "It appears as if fortune has not favored you this day, Quintus." Lysander comments with a soft chuckle to the boy who is beginning to look less and less happy with this state of affairs.

Quintus stands and shakes his fist, "RUN, DAMN YOU! RUN!"

Magnus leans back and smiles, looking over at the Princeps, "Deception will win where strength cannot."

There is no answer from the Acesian patriarch. Rather, he just smiles and nods, his eyes watching the tan horses gain on the others. Throughout the stands, shouts can be heard more prominently as the rider goes for the amazing comeback. Drinks, food, and discussion are all forgotten in favor of the tension of the race's impending completion.

Serenity sighs as she continues her silent conversation with Okalani, a less than happy look on her face.

From the podium, Livia chuckles at the sudden interest in the race, and leans over to whisper to the older woman beside her. Both women end up chuckling at whatever comment Livia made, and then turn their eyes trackward just to watch. Goblets are raised and sweet wine is sipped as they cheer on the tan team of horses.

Inside the arena, tan horses and the dark brown chariot swing around the wreckage and gore on the arena floor. As some slaves race out to catch the bay pair, and others with a stretcher chase the dappled horses, the red team limps on towards the finish line.

Every instant, the tan pair pulls closer. In a moment the race will be over.

Valerian stands to continue watching the tan chariot, shaking his head a second as everyone else stands. His sketchpad still in one arm, his charcoal having never stopped in the other.

Inside the arena, red crosses the finish line. A few moments later, tan comes in second. The dappled pair dragging their dead driver take a slow third.

Jihaad glances around the mass of people. He spies the familiar face of Serenity and offers a nod in greeting to her

Sharkey stands and makes his way down the steps to grudgingly pay off the crowd of sailors.

From the podium, Livia nudges the woman beside her and idly asks, "So, who collects the purse for third? Would it be the owner of the horses?"

Nasri crouches down to avoid the frantic waving arms of jubilation around her. She peers over the edge of the wall, watching the teams slow as they pass the race-end marker.

Lights gather in Serenity's eyes as she sees Jihaad's greeting. Her demeanor remains unhappy, however, and most of her attention is focused on Okalani.

Valerian hmms, watching the tan only make it in second. He watches a few moments longer, his face never losing its calm look, his hand never stopping from its sketching. He finally sits down, sketch complete, his hands for once at rest.

Oriane's companions decide that they would prefer better seats for the gladiator fights, so they rise as one and motion for the darkling girl to join them. Leaving their high seats, the small group takes flight.

Oriane leaps into the air and takes flight, disappearing into the sky above Haven.

Sharkey smiles, or, well... bares his teeth is probably a more accurate description, at the mass of jubilant sailors, carefully counting out coins for each of them.

Inside the arena, slaves scour the arena, cleaning up the mess.

Among the crowds, another slave calls out the card. "Smilin' Jack vs. Hesiod next! Winner fights Fabien. We start in a couple of minutes!"

From the podium, Oriane emerges between the curtains that block the exit.

The podium is alive with mixed reactions; there are cheers and the sound of defeat mingling with the exchange of winnings. Goblets clatter on the floor as frustration comes to a head. A few even stalk right out, furious at the loss of money. Quintus shouts loudly, "YES! YES!" in the first row, leaping up and down as he watches the red chariot cross the line. Some others near him scowl, while not a few chuckle and pat him on the back for picking the winner.

Lysander's eyes widen a bit as he leans forward, "It seems as if I was wrong, Magnus." The serious look changes into a laugh as he pats his old friend on the shoulder, then turns to Quintus, "I stand corrected. You are indeed fortunate."

The older Magnus chimes in to his son, "Go now, and collect your winnings." And the son does just that, heading off across the stands to the man who's paying out.

Things calm down in preparation for the next bout of heart-pounding excitement. Nasri is able to scootch back into her seat, which she does.

Inside the arena, Smilin' Jack appears as the gate slides open, then clangs shut behind him.

At the name 'Fabien,' the short Varati woman, Opal, visibly perks up, back straightening in interest.

From the podium, Oriane hesitates in the entranceway as her Tritonides companions confidently move to take seats among the other nobles. While she has every blood-right to be there, the darkling girl pauses for the disgusted looks she is given by those that notice her arrival.

Inside the arena, Hesiod appears as the gate slides open, then clangs shut behind him.

Smilin' Jack gets a cheer from some of the older sailors.

From the podium, almost as quickly as the next card is announced, a man comes to both Lysander and Magnus, "Dei. Certainly I can convince you to place a little wager on this next bout?" He is a greasy-looking and somewhat sniveling. "Hesiod is being favored. Come now, a little wager?"

Nasri leans forward, hands on her knees, and examines the fighters intently. This is more to her liking than horses.

Valerian looks toward the podium, surprised by Oriane's leaving for the better vantage point. He shakes his head, taking flight to pursue her for some reason.

Valerian leaps into the air and takes flight, disappearing into the sky above Haven.

Sharkey grins and begins taking a new round of bets from the sailors.

Inside the arena, Hesiod, the younger, grey-eyed man, waves to the crowd, grinning all the while.

Inside the arena, a tall, leather-clad figure lopes out of the gladiator-entrance, and the crowds cry his name: Smilin' Jack, for he's long been a favorite in the arena. He earned his name from the hideous scar marring the lower half of his face, drawing his mouth into a permanent grin. That scar is only one 'badge' of his prowess, for the man is approaching fifty, and that's no small feat for a gladiator. He jogs toward the center of the arena, a hefty club in one hand.

From the podium, Valerian emerges between the curtains that block the exit.

Inside the arena, horses, chariots, and drivers leave the arena, followed by the Horse Master. The way is clear for the fighters.

Serenity sighs, nodding to Okalani. "I shall take my leave now. I need to swim for a while."

Inside the arena, Hesiod strides along the edge of the combat ring, hand raised in salute to the crowd.

From the podium, Valerian peeks in, his materials gathered in one hand. He has a look of confidence about him, but also of timidity of being here. He's only an artist, not a noble.

From the podium, Oriane folds her wings in tight against her back and decides to stand back by the entrance, hopefully offending as few people as possible.

Okalani glances now for the first time at Serenity, "Yes, I think that would be a good idea... this isn't the best place to contemplate in silence."

From the podium, Livia ohhs and leans forward in her seat to try and get a better look at the two gladiators. Noting the one's age, she hrms. A delicate hand dips into her belt pouch and she waves her money slightly, trying to catch the attention of one of the bet-takers. She succeeds and places her bet on Smilin' Jack. She doesn't notice Oriane's arrival, as she's in the second row and is hopelessly entranced by the sight on the sands.

From the podium, Lysander glances at the man who's approached and raises an eyebrow, "Magnus?"

The other man shrugs and smiles, "I'll take Hesiod for twenty denarii." A healthy wager--more than most make in a year marks this man as one of wealth.

"Since I appear to be a fan of the 'underestimated' today, I shall take Smiling Jack." The Princeps reaches into his belt and takes out a small pouch of coins. Both Empyreans pay the sniveling little man, who then makes some marks. Quintus seems to have likewise made another bet on the other side. When he returns, he announces rather proudly, "I have laid odds on Hesiod. I've heard he was the favored."

Sharkey struts among the benches, grinning as people pass him money and a whispered name.

Serenity leaves the second row.

Inside the arena, Smilin' Jack doesn't play up to the crowd the way Hesiod does. He merely executes a stiff, formal bow, one hand planted against his chest. Then he straightens, beating his club against his palm a couple of times. *Thwack* *thwack*. It's hard to tell whether that grin of his is real or just the effect of the scar, as he turns slowly toward his opponent.

Serenity nods to Jihaad as she leaves. She climbs the stairs until she reaches an archway, then ducks through it into the cool, dark depths beyond.

Nasri's eyes widen as she takes in the other fighter, the older one, and his scar. She looks from Hesiod to Jack and back again, and then slowly her attention returns to the old gladiator.

Inside the arena, Hesiod twirls the club in his hand, circling toward Jack in the center of the arena. He laughs and shouts above the roar, "It's time for your retirement, old one!"

Jasmine and Polaris enter the stands, blinking in the bright light.

Those in the podium seemed to have calmed a bit--Oriane's entrance being the only thing that stirred them from that post-contest reverie. Now, bets are laid on the upcoming match, and wine goblets are filled once again. Most people have settled back into their seats, the fans covering them with cool, shaded breezes. The 'bookies' continue to run around, making marks and collecting coins.

Jasmine sits down in the second row, close to Polaris.

"Come an' get me, boy," Smilin' Jack taunts from inside the arena, his voice a rough, gravelly bellow. "If y'think you can..." He makes a beckoning motion with the club.

Jihaad stands up, "I must go, Opal."

Sharkey shouts to the stands, "Last call on bets!"

From the podium, Valerian looks about a moment, amazed by the view from the podium. "If only I could stay here, I'd have a perfect view for my sketches..." he says, his thoughts once again coming right out his mouth. He looks to Oriane, offering a warm smile as he walks closer to her.

Inside the arena, smiling all the while, Hesiod turns away from Jack and bows toward the seats of the wealthy. He then turns back, crouches, and begins to advance.

Hey, there's one last bet, Sharkey. From that halfbreed, Timin, back up on the fifth row. "Smilin' Jack!" Money in one fist, goblet of wine in the other. Yeehaw.

Opal looks up on Jihaad, frowning slightly. "Why?" Her voice almost lost in the crowd.

Faisal enters the stands, blinking in the bright light.

Madame Rani's newest barmaid watches the goings-on in the arena below with predatory interest. Nasri's attention is mostly focused on the older fighter, the one who bears such a prominent mark of honor. She thinks the other to be some special kind of fool.

From the podium, Oriane looks up as someone approaches her. For all the world, she is expecting to be asked to leave, even if she is a daughter of Tritonis. Instead, she receives the unexpected smile from Valerian. Giving a faint little nod, she turns her uncomfortable gaze back on the arena.

Sharkey grins and heads up the steps to collect the bet before he resumes his seat to watch the fighting.

Once Serenity is gone, Okalani sits right up again and lets her attention flow to the fighting place. Watching the fighters makes her nose wrinkle in disgust, and she gives both Phoebes and Riva a questioning look; her expression shows her to be extremely irritated.

Fingers clench and unclench unconsciously and the Varati girl's shoulders go tense, causing the light to shift across the back of her silk jacket. Nasri leans forward to get a better view.

Jasmine sends her greetings to the other Atlanteans present.

Inside the arena, Hesiod shouts out to the crowd, "Should it be quick or short!" He grins crazily, moving forward like a crab.

Riva returns her glance toward the Priestess. "She needs to... get more used to the city, yes?

Inside the arena, "C'mon boy," Jack taunts, his permanent grin giving him a malevolent look. "'Fraid to fight ol' Jack? Let's see what you can do." He lowers into a defensive stance but doesn't retreat, awaiting Hesiod's first move.

From the podium, Lysander's eyes focus on the contest, his hands situated on his lap in a relaxed fashion. Even as the others grow in tension, he does not worry. Certainly a man of his position and wealth has no worry from losing a few coins. Leaning towards Magnus, he comments somewhat offhandedly, "It seems as if your pick is something of an actor, Magnus?" Smiling a bit, he teases his grizzled companion, "Smiling Jack appears more the warrior. I fear as if I may have made the right choice."

"I know a good piece of meat when I see one, Lysander. Hesiod is good stock." Magnus returns with a serious air, "I haven't lost my touch yet."

Inside the arena, Hesiod laughs and, coming within a double arm's length of Jack, straightens, opening up his arms to stand bare and exposed, as if inviting Jack to strike.

From the stands, someone shouts, "SOMEONE SWING ALREADY!!!"

From the podium, Valerian looks down to his sketchbook, opening it up and carefully tearing a page from it. He offers it to Oriane, his smile never fading. "Ave, Domina. If I may, I'd like to give you this sketch I've done of you while you were down in the lower seating...." The sketch is quite well-done, each stroke a mastery of detail. This being the last and best of three he did of her.

Inside the arena, the night torches cast a flickering light on Hesiod, his arms outstretched, and sweat already a sheen on his face.

A group of sailors shout, "SHOW-OFF!"

Jihaad grunts, "Very well, I shall stay, Opal."

"More to the way races interact with each other," Okalani dryly answers, but without any sign of disgust in her words. But when she inclines her head to the gladiators, this is very plain. "And the ways the other races behave are very... peculiar." she speaks diplomatically at last.

Inside the arena, "If that's how y'want it..." Jack grates out, and with a sudden lunge, he darts forward, swinging his club toward his opponent's mid-section. For a man of his age, he's surprisingly quick.

"Binailakrasha." At least, that's what it sounds like Nasri is murmuring to those nearby who might be paying attention to her. The Old-Swift.

Nissua enters the stands, blinking in the bright light. He looks around and takes a seat in the back, sitting down in the fifth row.

Polaris watches the fight with a curious interest

Inside the arena, with a quick turn of his own, Hesiod brings his club across his body to block Jack's strike, and steps in, bringing his knee up toward Jack's ribs.

An inky black shadow emerges from the depths of a stone corridor to fill the doorway leading out into the spectator seating. Black cloth ripples ominously, but settles into stillness as the figure reigns in the turbulent strides. A face etched by the twin knives of age and hardship regard the spectacle before him, with a sneer of disgust threatening to darken an already stern expression. The coldly burning coals of the Seraskier's eyes jerk towards the two men locked in combat.

From the podium, a woman shouts, "Hit him, hit him!"

From the podium, Oriane blinks up at Valerian, then at the drawing. Dark eyes take in the details of the piece, and how each stroke of charcoal brings the image to life. Blinking a couple more times, she looks up at the artist, "Oh... Thank you sir... but I have no coin to offer in thanks."

Inside the arena, Hesiod's grin tightens as he anticipates the impact.

Jasmine frowns as she watches the sport. She tenses.

Inside the arena, there's a solid *thwack* as the two clubs connect, and Jack manages to sidestep at the last moment so that the knee toward his ribs only grazes him. "Have to try better than that, boy!" he growls, even as he releases his two-handed grip on the club to send one fist toward his foe's face.

From the podium, Valerian chuckles, shaking his head as he looks to Oriane. "Please, domina. It would be more than enough payment for me to know that you have it in your possession."

Riva sits with a grouping of her people, silently watching as if to figure out just what the allure of watching such activities are.

From the podium, a man shouts, "Mommy! I'm scared! They're fighting!"

The man who jostled her before, now attempts to shove Nasri over to get a better view of the fight. An iron hand closes around the back of his neck and puts him back in his place; the girl bares her teeth. For a moment he looks as if he might snap at her but the hand hints at a strength not obvious to sight under the heavy silk of her jacket. He jerks away and finds another place to sit. Nasri returns her attention to the arena, raptly watching.

Jasmine shudders and moves more closely to Polaris.

Inside the arena, twisting his body, Hesiod ducks, and Jack's fist catches him just above the ear. Shaking his head, Hesiod backpedals, freeing his club and lowering into a crouch.

From the podium, Livia leans forward in her seat, wine forgotten for the time being. She actually gets to her feet to better watch the gladiators, that is until a man behind her tugs on her wingfeathers, "Sit, domina, you're blocking the view."

Livia blushes slightly and sits back down, on the edge of her seat, "Go, Jack. Beat him to a pulp!"

Nasri's lips draw back in a feral smile as Jack raps the side of the pup's head.

From the podium, obviously unsure how to take the generosity, Oriane simply gives Valerian a nod, "Thank you." Tentatively, she reaches out to take the drawing. Her attention is drawn back to the arena as the shouts around her begin to rise.

Some of the others in the podium are already rising. It appears as if the drink has gotten to some--red-faced and vehement about the match, fists are shaking as people anticipate the drawing of blood. The two older Empyreans watch this with eyes that have seen it happen a thousand times--Magnus and Lysander. Quintus, on the other hand, is on his feet and shouting, "Hit him, Hesiod!!"

Inside the arena, Hesiod nods to Jack, and steps forward as he moves his club back, ready to strike. "Was that only a love tap, then?"

Inside the arena, "Come a little closer an' I'll show you one," Jack growls back, the hideous scar on his face spreading in a grin. Suddenly, he sweeps a foot out, kicking up a spray of sand toward his opponent's face in an attempt to blind him. Quickly, Jack advances.

Inside the arena, Hesiod throws up his shield arm, yelling in disgust, and swings his club out blindly in a vicious head-level arc.

Okalani leans closer to the dark Empyrean next to her and considers her words carefully. "May I know what exactly is the meaning of this spectacle?" A quick glance is shot in Riva's direction, "I'm not a fighter myself, obviously." Delicately does she lift a slender hand up to the jewelry placed in her dark hair, "so I could be wrong, but I do not remember we use our fighters to fight for fun like they do."

From the podium, "My, it seems as if your pick has no honor, Lysander." Magnus comments to Lysander as Jack kicks dirt into his opponent's face.

"What place does honor have in these contests, Magnus?" The First Aegian smiles wanly at his older companion and chuckles, "It is a contest of survival."

Quintus, on the other hand looks aghast at the motion. "Foul play! Take his head off for that, Hesiod!" Reactions are mixed throughout the podium at that 'underhanded' move, but more seem to be pleased that the fight is taking on a more violent air.

Inside the arena, much of the sand is deflected by Hesiod's shield, and Jack growls something unintelligible out, which becomes a grunt of pain as Hesiod's club connect with his skull. He retreats a couple of paces, shaking his head and seeming somewhat dazed. "Now y'did it boy..." he grinds from between clenched teeth. "Y'made me mad..."

From the podium, Valerian smiles again to Oriane, bowing his head before glancing at the games. Almost instantly, he's got a charcoal out and his pad opened to the next open page, and he's sketching again. After a couple minutes, he remembers that he probably shouldn't be here... "Perhaps I should go back downstairs..."

A derisive growl escapes Faisal's throat as his gaze soaks in the dishonorable sight before him. With an abrupt whirl that sends his loose, ebon garment into a vicious swirl of motion, the Seraskier turns towards the corridor so recently abandoned. The haik never settles as long strides aggravate it into an angry storm of movement as the dark figure disappears from the spectator stands.

Nasri's eyes flick back and forth from opponent to opponent.

Faisal climbs the stairs until he reaches an archway, then ducks through it into the cool, dark depths beyond.

A slave enters and announces "There has been a change in the card. Steele and Fabien will fight next. The winners of this match and that one will fight third."

From the podium, Livia jumps to her feet and cheers at Jack, wincing slightly as her chosen gladiator gets clubbed on the head, "Ouch, that had to hurt." She doesn't care if she's blocking anyone's view at this point, she just wants to see if she's going to win her money back.

From the podium, Oriane spares another glance at Valerian. She is not the one to answer that question. Carefully holding the drawing, she turns her eyes back to the fighting.

Inside the arena, Hesiod pinches the sand from his eyes with his shield hand, and laughs again. "But you're toothless in your anger, old one!" He steps forward, waving his club before him. "I think we've played long enough!" He rushes forward, shield raised high, and swings his club low at Jack's knees.

From the podium, someone in a back row complains. "Sit down, winged beauty!"

Jasmine huddles in silence against Polaris.

Hmm. They're slower than she's used to seeing. But the weaponry intrigues Nasri, and she is interested in their tactics. She fully expects Jack to come up with something unusual and waits for it with the patience of a student accustomed to teachers who like points reached after lengthy exposition.

From the podium, Livia turns to scan the crowd and blows a kiss in the general direction of the back row, "Hush now, I need to see what's going on!" But she does sorta settle back into her seat, tipping her goblet back to drain the last of its contents.

Polaris smiles at Jasmine.

From the podium, Lysander and Magnus continue to 'debate' calmly and watch the fight. The rest of the stands seems to be on edge with anticipation. Ooohing and ahhing at every strike or movement. "Survival? These creatures are animals. They are bred to kill and fight for our pleasure. Certainly such a thing would be only instinct," Magnus answers, tilting his gaze to Lysander. A slave passes and refills both men's goblets with wine.

"Are soldiers any different? The men you commanded? Are they any less beasts when in the throes of combat?" The Princeps smiles a bit and takes a sip from his cup, updating the action with a soft arch of his brow, "It seems as if yours struck mine in the head. How unfortunate."

Inside the arena, sidestepping hastily to avoid the blow aimed at his legs, Jack retaliates by swinging his own club--pouring all of his formidable strength behind it. The move is intended to break past Hesiod's shield by brute force alone, and those who've seen Jack fight in the ring before would know that his forte has never been fancy moves, but just straightforward brawn.

A beer-seller from one of the taverns makes his way around the stands, offering beers in wooden mugs for the thirsty who have a few small coins to spend.

A group of sailors think this is a great place to spend their winnings.

Inside the arena, perhaps mis-timing his strike, Hesiod stumbles through his blow, and Jack's club finds Hesiod's shoulder past the shield--with a loud grunt, Hesiod is pole-axed, and falls flat, on top of his shield, onto the arena ground.

The grin is back. Something unusual...or maybe not. The lesson is still learned. Nasri's eyes flash.

From the podium, a woman shouts, "Oh no!" She screams in agony, "Spare him!"

Inside the arena, there may be a reason Jack has lasted this long--he doesn't fight fair. Regardless of the fact that his opponent is down, he swings his club again, viciously following up his attack on the fallen Hesiod. "Where's all your bravado now, boy!" is his gravelly shout.

Beer, mugs and coins trade hands and the beer-seller moves towards the crowds' first rows.

Jasmine falls asleep against Polaris' shoulder.

Sharkey glances toward the scream from the podium, a cruel smile playing over his face. Before he looks back down at the arena, his grin widens a bit more as he applauds.

Inside the arena, Steele appears as the gate slides open, then clangs shut behind him.

Nissua mutters, "... more... replaced!"

Inside the arena, though Hesiod quickly comes to his hands and knees after his fall, as his head turns to look at Jack his eyes widen in despair, and Jack's club brutally beats him back down onto the sands.

Nasri frowns thoughtfully.

Inside the arena, Hesiod's hand reaches out, scratching the arena ground, as if to pull himself away from Jack.

Nissua scrambles to his feet and hurries back out of the audience section. He climbs the stairs until he reaches an archway, then ducks through it into the cool, dark depths beyond.

From the podium, Valerian shakes his head, thinking he's had enough of the games. "The chariots were what I was really looking forward to, anyway..."

Inside the arena, a rain of blows follows, as it to ensure that Hesiod is down and will stay down. Jack seems possessed by a savage fury, bull-like in his ferocity. Yet some sound pulls his attention away from his 'prey,' and the scarred man glances over his shoulder to where Steele has emerged from the gladiator's quarters.

Phoebes sighs and then stands, taking to the air once he gets enough space.

Inside the arena, Hesiod's hand, outstretched, twitches once, and is still.

From the podium, "GET UP!" Quintus shouts as Hesiod falls to the ground.

Lysander and Magnus watch calmly as the fight goes on, their eyes riveted in spot. Magnus comments somewhat idly, "It appears as if yours has some spirit to him, Lysander." The lack of passion the two men display to this rather violent scene is amazing.

Nasri tilts her head, examining the fallen form of Hesiod. The distance is too great for her to discern much other than the fact that he is down and unmoving.

Inside the arena, Steele steps out from the gladiator's entrance, thick arms crossed and feet planted firmly in an aggressive stance. "Save some fer yer next fight," his deep voice rumbles across the sands to Smilin' Jack. "You'll need it!"

From the podium, Valerian passes through the purple curtains, exiting the viewing area.

The podium comes alive once again as Hesiod falls, shouts and jeers coming rapidly on the heels of such a thing. When Steele enters, some eyes fall upon him, yet the exchange of winnings continues, some more people coming and going.

Inside the arena, "Y'want some'a this?" Jack calls out in his gravelly bellow. "Come an' get it." And in a last scornful move for his fallen opponent, he kicks some sand over Hesiod's prone form as he turns to face Steele, brandishing his club.

From the podium, Livia's eyes widen as she watches the final blows land. She leaps to her feet as if to make sure she really saw it end that way. Her forehead furrows as a frown appears on her face, "Oh, do get up," she mumbles under her breath. She accepts her winnings from one of the 'bookies' almost absently.

Nasri's shoulders relax some. Her gaze shifts from the fallen man to the newcomer.

The cruelty of this behavior is the final straw for the High Priestess, and Okalani stands up with a quickness even she didn't realize she had till now. A nod is given to Riva. "Good-bye Captain," before she walks away from the place and draws her white clothes even tighter, as if that's possible with a sarong. Before she leaves the row, she glances aside at Riva and nods, "I know... that is a good reason to fight, this... this is... barbaric!" The last word is said very loud, but she doesn't care.

Sharkey stands and makes another circuit of the stands, paying off winners and taking new bets.

Okalani climbs the stairs until she reaches an archway, then ducks through it into the cool, dark depths beyond.

Inside the arena, Nissua appears as the gate slides open, then clangs shut behind him. He and some slaves come out into the arena.

Noura enters the stands, blinking in the bright light.

Inside the arena, Fabien appears as the gate slides open, then clangs shut behind him. He enters, a staff held in one huge Varati fist, as he roars a challenge to the sky. "Steele. You want chance to fight him, you go through me."

Noura sits down in the fourth row.

Sharkey just chuckles loudly as Okalani leaves, his vestigial wings straining the fabric of his shirt even more as he laughs. Then the mongrel turns his glittering eyes on the men around him. "C'mon, I don't have all day. Make up your minds."

Nasri's eyes narrow. She examines the two newcomers closely.

From the podium, "It appears as if I am the victor, Magnus." Lysander seems proud of his choice, "However, I would not bet upon him again. He's much too arrogant."

Magnus looks at the Aegian and nods somewhat grimly, "Indeed. A pity. I had thought him a better warrior. No matter."

Quintus, on the other hand, is devastated. Falling back into his cushion, he speaks softly, "I cannot believe he lost."

"Fate is cruel, Quintus. As quickly as one wins, one loses," the Acesian comments as he rises from his seating place, "I am going to collect my winnings and travel back to the Palladium. Eranthe wanted to spend some time alone with me this evening." There is an almost teasing tone in his voice.

And at Fabien's entrance, Opal stands up on her bench, to get a better view. Her eyes are huge, shimmering in a mixture of smile and worry.

Inside the arena, one of the slave masters directs the slaves to go forward to gather up Hesiod. They are slow to obey, watching Smilin' Jack as they move.

Inside the arena, Steele snorts derisively at Jack, keeping his distance. "You've had yer turn fer the day..." He whirls, taking in Fabien's entrance with a cold smirk. "Gladly," One hand goes out toward the slaves, who present the mongrel with a staff to match Fabien's, and he whirls it slowly to test the weight while eyeing the other man.

Fabien gets a cheer from a large portion of the crowd: popular, this one.

Inside the arena, "Oh, you want some too?" Jack calls out as Fabien emerges into the ring. "Maybe y'need to be reminded who 'owns' this ring, boy." Now, he turns slightly, bellowing out to the crowd. "What say you? Who wants to see what color Varati blood is?!"

From the podium, this of course, elicits a reaction from the Empyreans in the podium. Some of them scream, "YES!" Others remain passive.

Nasri mutters to herself, "Yoranaska." Her eyes flick from Jack to Fabien this time; Steele does not gather much of her attention at this point.

From the podium, Livia sighs and tucks her money into her belt pouch and rises from her seat. Wings tucked tight against her back, she manages to make her way through the crowd toward the exit.

Inside the arena, Fabien jerks a thumb at Jack, indicating the gate. "Jack get Fabien when he done with this one." The voice is a bass roar.

Jihaad rises to his full height like a black, shadowy specter to watch his fellow Varati.

Inside the arena, several slaves roll Hesiod onto a tarp and drag him out of the ring.

From the podium, Oriane, still staying back by the wall, watches Livia rise and leave. There's a curiosity in her gaze towards the Jovian woman, but any questions remain unvoiced.

Noura's gaze is intent upon Steele and she rushes into a row toward an empty seat, elbowing a rude mongrel woman out of her way in the process. She seems rushed and breathless and less than happy to be late.

Inside the arena, Smilin' Jack spits on the ground as Hesiod is carried away by the slaves, turning all of his attention upon Fabien now. He motions with his club. "Think you can take me?" he growls out. "I'd like t'see you try."

From the podium, Lysander looks over his shoulder at the bellowing Jack and shakes his head. "Fools."

Magnus himself tilts his head to Lysander and chides him, "That woman is going to be the death of you, my friend."

Quintus appears to still be licking his wounds and placing no new bets.

"Perhaps, Magnus. Perhaps." The Acesian seems in good spirits as he inclines his head to both, "Vale, cousins." Crossing now towards the sniveling little man, he collects his winnings.

From the podium, Livia nods briefly at Oriane as she passes, "Ave, domina." That's it. She doesn't slow down her pace and passes through the exit.

Inside the arena, Nissua heads over to Smilin' Jack. "Come on. A little water, maybe a patch on that bloody cut. Come on, back to the stables."

From the podium, Livia passes through the purple curtains, exiting the viewing area.

Inside the arena, Fabien flashes a huge grin at Jack. "Fabien think you wait your turn."

Inside the arena, Steele remains between Jack and Fabien, staff held loosely at the ready. As Jack's attention is drawn to Fabien, he reaches out and gives the mongrel a tap with the wooden rod, designed to gain his attention and be vaguely insulting at the same time. "Card's changed, bucko. The Varati's mine."

In a deep, booming voice, the huge Agni-Haidar chants, "Fabien! Fabien! Fabien!"

Sharkey just shakes his head.. "Ahh... witty banter at its finest... Right! Last call for bets!"

Noura yells toward Sharkey, "A gold on the Mongrel with the favor!"

From the podium, after paying up, the sniveling man goes back about his business, tending to collecting his moneys for the new bout, "Who'll lay a wager?!" He shouts.

Lysander turns and casts a final glance toward the arena and the starts to leave. Three guards dressed in chitons and bearing chlamydes of royal purple fall into line behind him. They were waiting in the wings in case trouble erupted.

Sharkey grins and heads up towards the top of the stands, marking that bet down as he goes.

Jihaad calls out to Sharkey, "Five gold on Fabien!"

Sharkey grins and marks that down as well. "And this from a man who doesn't wager. Things are picking up."

From the podium, Lysander passes through the purple curtains, exiting the viewing area.

Opal remains silent, but her fingers are crossed as she stares at the arena. Smiling just a little.

Sharkey marks that down, then holds out a webbed hand to Jihaad, "Money or marker?"

Inside the arena, Fabien moves across to Jack, grabs for his collar, and hisses something.

Jihaad catches the sound of familiar voice. Seeing Noura, he greets her with a nod.

Inside the arena, with an enraged growl, Jack sweeps his club toward Steele. "Watch it, boy," he mutters. "Or you'll end up the same way the bratling did." Presumably, he's referring to Hesiod.

Inside the arena, Nissua yells, "Jack, get yer hide back inside or I'm calling default. Move it. Now!"

Nasri sits up straighter, watching the exchange between Varati and scarred man.

Inside the arena, Fabien just avoids the swinging club as he moves in.

Jihaad slaps five gold into Sharkey's webbed hand.

Inside the arena, Steele steps back from Jack's swing easily, calling at the same time as Nissua, "Aye, why don't you go rest yer bones while I take care o' the Varati." He half-turns away from Jack, adding dismissiveness to insult. His staff remains loosely held in one hand, the butt end resting in the sand.

Noura's eyes rove from Steele to Jihaad at the tall Varati's movement, and her eyes slyly narrow and gain a twinkle as she nods to him in return. A hand lifts and she offers him a wave with a jangling of bangle bracelets, but then she's intent upon Steele again.

Sharkey grins at Jihaad, showing off the points on his teeth. "Lovely doing business with you, sir," he says, then steps up to the next level and looks at Noura. "And you, money or marker..."

Inside the arena, Nissua growls, and heads back out of the arena. He passes into the chambers below as the gate opens.

Inside the arena, angrily, Jack moves to shove Fabien away from him, and at Steele's show of contempt, he is enraged still further. Without warning, the scarred warrior steps in, swinging his club again with the intent to strike. Aimed toward Steele's lower back.

A collective gasp goes up from around Nasri and the spectators are delighted. It's like getting 20% extra for free!

Jihaad waves back to Noura.

Noura leans, placing a dusky hand atop the head of a sailor in the row before her, and she offers her cleavage to Sharkey as her veil flutters. Tucked between the softness of her breasts is the glint of the edge of a gold coin.

Inside the arena, having raised his arms to wave to the crowd, Steele makes an easy target for Jack's club. He goes sprawling dramatically on the ground, eating sand along the way. He's nowhere near out, but spends several minutes rolling around in obvious pain from the blow.

Noura's black right brow edges upward, wickedly.

Inside the arena, Fabien throws back his head and laughs.

"Don't turn your back from the feral," Nasri observes under her breath, leaning forward again.

Inside the arena, "Next time," Smilin' Jack calls contemptuously over his shoulder as he moves toward the gladiator's entrance. And with that, he departs the arena, likely amid some boos and hisses of disapproval from the crowd.

Inside the arena, Smilin' Jack steps into the chambers below as the gate opens to allow him to pass.

Inside the arena, Fabien leans on his staff, watching Steele roll around. "Fabien waiting." He taunts.

Sharkey snorts and reaches his mottled, webbed hand in between Noura's breasts. "Hasn't anyone told you flirting with me is pointless? Right... that's one gold on Steele..?"

Sharkey glances down at the arena where Steele is rolling around from the blow. "Well... it's an interesting choice."

Jihaad misses the show of cleavage as his attention is on the fight below.

Noura is distracted from Sharkey's collecting hand as Steele goes down, her caramel eyes darting worriedly toward him. "Get UP, Steele! You can't be out of it already!"

Inside the arena, Steele pulls himself upward with the aid of his staff, scrabbling to wipe the sand and dust from his face as he does. The pain is apparent in his expression, but after several deep breaths, he gives a short nod. "Then let it begin," his voice is pitched low. For the moment, however, he continues to lean on the staff, making no effort to move to a fighting stance.

Inside the arena, Fabien straightens, starts working the staff in a lazy figure eight, his trademark, rumbling growl low in his throat.

Staves. Nasri remembers watching Father fight with a staff. Her hungry eyes drink in every move.

Sharkey shrugs again and heads up to his seat in the top row.

Jihaad's hidden gaze falls on Fabien intently.

Inside the arena, Steele remains still, glancing up once toward the stands. With a feral grin, his staff is suddenly and viciously raised... and aimed right between Fabien's legs.

Another gasp goes up in the stands... from the males.

Noura's sultry laughter leaves her, "Get him, Steele!"

Oh dear Atar. Now that gets Opal worried, and she winces.

Jihaad pulls back his cowl so his view is unobscured, "Go Fabien!" His voice a low rumble.

Inside the arena, Fabien just about gets the staff down, two-handed, to block the blow, although the grunt is perhaps half an octave higher than normal, suggesting the block wasn't exactly perfect. He dances backwards, a little stiffly, growls at Steele, feinting jabs at his midriff.

From the podium, a slave comes in and announces, "This will be the last round. Smilin' Jack will not fight again today."

Nasri laces her fingers together and rests her chin on the tips of her entwined index fingers. Her eyes do not leave the darting forms below.

Ohhh... Opal's little hands goes back up in front of her face again, and this time, it takes a moment before she peeks between the fingers.

Inside the arena, one hand positioned at his back, shielding the area made sensitive by Jack's blow, Steele swings his staff one-handed, blocking most of those jabs. A couple manage to get through, however, shooting a 'whoof' of air out of his lungs. A quick scuff of sandaled feet bring him back out of range.

Some grumbling can be heard at the announcement. "Animal," comments one spectator.

"Cheated out of another fight," says another, bitterly.

"Who wants to see that kind of fight?"

Comes the acid reply, "I do!"

Inside the arena, Fabien follows in, staff whirling.

Noura's brows knit and her low, distinctive voice is like butter-laced honey as she mutters, "Come on, Steele. I put a gold on you."

Inside the arena, Steele continues to back away, until his foot catches on a ridge of sand. Almost losing his balance, he lunges forward, staff crossing with Fabien's as the two come abruptly face to face.

Inside the arena, Fabien bares his teeth at Steele, the two engaged in a contest of strength.

Riva shakes her head and finally rises, starting toward the entry with her group. "Need a break for a while... so much excitement from the others round here."

Two more vendors make the rounds on the heels of the beer-seller; these two carry trays laden with a variety of the favorite treats of the races: figs, lentils, and olives for the Empyreans; curried lamb and beef kebabs for the Varati; flatbreads with rice and beans for those Sylvans who are here. The food for the Atlanteans is scanty, but fresh: waxed paper coiled into cones and filled with a blend of rice noodles and grilled shrimp.

Sharkey mutters, "Have... talk to... an old..."

"He'll win. Fabien's a giant." Smooth, melting chocolate is Opal's voice in turn, talking to herself, Jihaad, the air. I just hope he doesn't get another hit there.

Riva climbs the stairs until she reaches an archway, then ducks through it into the cool, dark depths beyond.

Inside the arena, Steele shoves hard at Fabien, pressing the other man off balance enough for him to wheel away. His staff whirls in an impressive looking series of turns, the movements appearing effortless, despite the sweat which begins to bead his brow. "Is that the best you have to offer?" he growls loud enough to be heard up into the stands.

Nasri's nose twitches as the smell of food fingers its way through the press of scents surrounding her. But her attention does not leave the fight.

Noura clasps her hands over her heart, caramel eyes glued to the fight below.

Inside the arena, Fabien laughs, long and loud, bringing the staff back and round in a huge swing at Steele's legs.

Inside the arena, Steele jumps, clearing the staff with all of his hefty weight except for the last bit of sandal, which somehow becomes tangled in that long wooden stick. Down he goes onto his rear, with a spectacular spraying of sand that magnifies the impact greatly.

Jihaad shouts, "Go Fabien!""

Noura shouts, "Get up, Steele!"

Inside the arena, Fabien reverses his staff, brings it down in a swing intended to end it all right there and then.

Jasmine wakes up from her nap and looks around her, wondering where all the Atlanteans went. She frowns, feeling suddenly alone and out of place.

Inside the arena, Steele rolls to the side, staff tucked beneath him until he finds his feet. With a low, savage growl, he dives for Fabien once again, the hard wood coming into contact with a loud clunk .... against Fabien's staff...

Jasmine grasps for Polaris' arm like a lifeline, her eyes anxious.

Inside the arena, Fabien growls at him, legs braced as he tries to push him off balance.

A line of worry appears between Noura's black brows. Perhaps she is more concerned for the mongrel fighter than her bet.

Inside the arena, Steele gets into Fabien's face once again, taunting him with a savage grin before adding an extra shove to the crossed staffs. Fabien's smacks upward, coming in contact with that man's face and drawing a pleased growl from Steele.

Polaris smiles softly at Jasmine

Inside the arena, Fabien staggers backwards a few paces till he regains his balance, one hand going to his forehead and coming away bloody. He brandishes the staff and roars loudly.

The beer-seller makes another round and gets into a heated argument about the price with a knot of stevedores from the docks. Despite their impressive size and malevolence, it becomes quite clear that no beer will be forthcoming without the proper payment. With a string of curses to rival that of any sailor, the dockhands hand over the money and receive their mugs.

Nissua stands near the door and listens.

Noura shouts, "YES!"

Nissua mutters "Damn! Fab's hit?"

Nasri looks over at Fabien, just catching the dark of red at his forehead and hand. Her eyes glitter greenly for a heartbeat.

Sharkey mutters, "... What..."

Inside the arena, the shouts from the stands draw Steele's attention away from a pleased inspection of the blood. While Fabien is checking the damage, Steele turns to showboat to the crowd, lifting his arms once again in triumph. The roars from the stands mask that of his opponent, and he seems oblivious to the other man bearing down on him.

Jasmine nods, the worry on her face easing a bit. She holds Polaris' arm tightly, still betraying her anxiety as she takes a deep breath.

Nissua shrugs.

Noura shouts, "LOOK BEHIND YOU!"

Inside the arena, Fabien takes three huge strides, staff swinging in a blur and threatening contact with the small of Steele's back.

Noura's veil puffs out with a snorted release of breath and her knuckles turn white as her fingers tighten.

Jihaad shouts, "TAKE HIM OUT FABIEN! CRUSH HIM!"

Opal's hands are down again, balled into little fists by her hips. And she's still silent, only inhaling sharply, almost hissing like an angered feline.

Jihaad looks to Opal, a wry grin upon his face, "You are crazy about him," his voice rumbles, low and rich.

Nasri is once again jostled as the people around her leap to their feet, fists and hands shaking as they yell, bellow, plead, or cajole those below, their voices joining to that they are a single ululating voice, words unintelligible.

Inside the arena, rather than heed the warning, Steele's attention becomes focused upward, a sappy sort of smile coming to his face as he spots Noura. Just then, *wham!* Fabien's staff makes contact. A look of amazed pain takes him over and he crumples with both hands to his back. His staff falls to the side.

Nissua groans.

Noura shouts, "NO!"

Inside the arena, Fabien whips the staff round and slams it down across Steele's throat.

Jihaad shouts, "WAY TO GO FABIEN!"

Nissua swears and scrambles out of the stands again. He climbs the stairs until he reaches an archway, then ducks through it into the cool, dark depths beyond.

Jasmine cringes at all the noise and the violence going on below.

Nasri shakes her head. She is amazed that someone could be so foolish twice. Her eyes widen as Fabien brings the staff around. Surely that will crush the man's throat? How can someone learn who is dead?

Noura sucks in an anguished breath and starts to push her way through the throng, almost struggling forward until she sees that such an approach is futile. "Get out of my way! Move!" she cries, upset.

Inside the arena, Steele's hands make a weak adjustment from back to throat, but he falls back dramatically under Fabien's thrust. With a mighty flop, he goes flat out on the sand, a faint twitching going through his legs.

Inside the arena, Fabien raises the staff with a roar of triumph, blood running into his eyes.

Jihaad hears Noura leaving, his voice booms out, "You heard her! MOVE!"

And the enormous grin on Opal's face is like the growing half-moon, shimmering, no, shining white through her veils. Looking up at Jihaad, she can't help but nod her head, yesyesyes. And then... surprise over her own doing. Blinking, she stands there, her face slowly turning to watch the battle end. And those eyes light up again, seeing Fabien.

Noura's veil is torn off in the clutch of people, fluttering away as she shoves her way out of the row. Her mouth is set into a tight line of distress as she rushes toward the exit.

Inside the arena, Steele manages to scrabble at the sand with one hand, but that and a gurgling sound is all that remains for now.

Nasri glances back up the stadium at all the bellowing, curious.

Jasmine turns her face hidden against Polaris' chest, not wanting to watch any more.

Inside the arena, Fabien takes the cheers of the crowd, before turning to kneel by Steele, then stand again, and beckon to the knot of slaves and healers just inside the arena gate.

Noura and Nasri climb the stairs until they reaches an archway, then duck through it into the cool, dark depths beyond.

Inside the arena, the healers come forward to give Steele the once over. One rises and gives the crowd a thumbs up, indicating the man will live to fight another day. That determined, the slaves move in to drag the loser from the sands, leaving the victor to the cheers of the crowds.

FIN  

[ Home | News | Staff | Players | Links | Gallery | Logs | Library | Updates | Mail ]
[ Connect to the Game ]