Those about to die salute you!

/OOC Those about to die Salute You - OCC


Sven Keller,

AKA The Celtic Giant.

6’ 8” tall Blond hair bronze lightly hairy body. Rarely wears anything but Leather roman Skirts. Also know as the man of a thousand Scars.

His village was destroyed by savage Cannibals the Weedo, the Summoners of the Fire Wyrm. His long legs as a child allowed him to run. Run for days without so much as a look back. At 14 he was taller then most men and was mistaken for one by Roman solders. Who took him and brought him to Rome. His hardship had begun.

He was the highest Priced Slave of the year. Bought by one of the wealthiest men in Rome. Even though enslaved his life seemed easy. Pampered and catered too. So it seemed for days. His master an older man, a Sick man. One night would drunken him and dishonor him. He would be placed on a table, tied hands and Feet then gagged. His master served a Dinner party on his back. Where his guest took turns abusing him over grapes and wine. Wealthy as he was, the Emperor came as his master’s guest. Seeing this sick display of power over this Celtic giant the Emperor not taking pity but bolstering his own power cut the bindings of the slave and placed a Spoon in his hand. Then spook these words.

“Your master is your master no more. I am, do what you will to him. But you may hurt him only with the spoon, but grab him where you like. And he can not die tonight. Or you shall.” the Emperor Snickered.

Sven chased the man as the guest even after dishonoring Looked in shock. Begging at their feet none would help. Sven took the spoon. And rammed it’s handle in his shoulder. Bringing the man too his knees. Pleas were screamed and cried as repeated stabbing of the dull handle entered his arms. Turning over in an attempt to defend himself brought his eyes into view. The spoon dived into them. Each in turn as the cries were heard even threw the stone walls. The Emperor looked on laughing and cheering Sven. Soon the other guests were offering suggestions. “Stab his hands.” “His gut! he can take it there.” “Get his feet.” “Get his toes.” “Take his manhood.” After losing much blood from his eyes and ears, which were penetrated, only slightly a female slave knowing his limitations walked to the Emperor and polily asked. “Emperor, may I assist?”

The Emperor nodded. She motioned to Sven to sit on the mans stomach facing his leg’s. She brought forth a Metal Serving dish and placed it accost his tights. The master’s energy was escaping. His manhood on a serving platter and his Raped slave holding a spoon with a vengeance. He trashed one last time and screamed in pain.

The remainders of the torture are too much to put on words but the worst was done and more. In the end the Emperor told Sven to come to Arena in three days. Till then you’re free, but you’ll be watched. That’s when Sven Gladiators days began. His Loyalty to the Emperor was unquestionable. He would have Faced Zeus had he asked. Many years he served. Earning his Freedom ten fold. Tell the day the old Area master fell to age. The emperor said to him now 20 years a Gladiator to step out of the arena and master the games. So it was.

Sven at 40 chooses who dies who lives and who breeds in the Gladiatorial Pins.

Wu

Known simply as Wu, the young, slightly built man was unusual for a gladiator. Not just any gladiator mind you, but one who plied his trade in the very center of the Empire. In the Collesium in Rome itself.

It's certainly not unusual to see exotic types in the arena. Blacks from Nubia, blondes from Kiev Rus. Syrians, Thracians, Jews. Even a few with the same almond shaped eyes as his. But no gladiators were so small. He wouldn't even have been picked as a slinger in the legions.

Wu, a simple name for a complex person who has found himself mired in the daily life of the gladitorial arena. Wu's father was exiled from Cathay after an arguement over construction techniques of the Great Wall. Needless to say, Master Wu had lost that arguement.

Traveling west with a silk caravan, they were captured by brigands and sold off as slaves. The family was separated and young Wu went to the mines where he eventually came to the notice of his master because, despite his diminuitive size, none of the traditional bullies among the older slaves ever bothered him and always let him draw his dinner first, usually a strict pecking order of cruelty.

It turned out young Wu was trained in martial skills and was quite adept, with or without a weapon. His owner made a healthy profit selling him to a local gladiator school as a practice thrall, to be killed by new gladiators for the experience. In fact, his (now) former owner made a years wage betting on the outcome of several thrall school matches.

The school's owner recognized Wu had a talent and one that he too could make a great fortune on by wagering, especially if he took Wu to Rome.


IC:

Wu's last combat hadn't gone well. Well, that wasn't exactly true. He won as expected, but they were putting him in more and more difficult matches. Three this time. Wu inspected the bruise on his thigh and resolved to add a few surprises of his own. Life here was hard but it was also rewarding and Wu wasn't ready to give it up. None-the-less, Wu didn't want to live it scarred or hobbled like so many of his other comrads in the games.

Wu had a couple of tricks in mind and he needed the help of the smith Lothar, to help him make them.

He walked into the smith's work alcove. The hearth, as always was hot and glowing but the youngster who worked the bellows was asleep in the corner and Lothar was nowhere to be seen.

Wu kicked the tilted stool out from under the boy (hard enough that it disappeared from under him and bounced off the near wall as the boy's arse hit the ground.

"Where's Lothar?" Wu's countinence gave no clue as to what Wu was thinking, another asset in the arena, and the child leapt to his feet.

"I.... I.... I kon't know sir"

"Well, why don't you find him and tell him I'm looking for him. I have some work for him that he will actually enjoy doing. He'll know where to find me."

Wu went off to his meager quarters. Even if the boy found Lothar right away, the fact that he was away from his forge probably meant he was either busy with Swen, the gladiator-master, or more likely he was bedding some young patrician's wife or daughter. Many of the women of Rome wanted to be screwed by gladiators and Lothar certainly looked the part and seemed to get more than his fair share. Wu couldn't see it, but then he wasn't brought up to appreciate whatever it was Roman's did. Wu's tastes led his eyes more often to the slave girls that often attended their mistresses to the games and to the small chambers that the gladiators called home.

But that worked to Wu's advantage. Most Roman women didn't find him attractive but they were intrigued by his physique and they often subjected their slaves, being mere chattel, to his bed so they could "watch the funny little man fuck."

Wu wished right now he had one of those slave girls to help him ease his sore body. He could use a massage and a little comfort. Not to mention "the funny little man" was horny and it had been a couple of weeks since the last time a Roman matron had been "curious."

Jezebel was the prized daughter of a prosperous and well known Carthaginian merchant family. Decades ago her grandfather came north to the African coast, bearing with him a great number of rare baubles from the heart of the motherland that would start him well on his way to wealth. Her father continued the business, employing ships to take trade to the far reaches of the known world. Jezebel knew no hardship.

Jezebel spent most of her young life at her father's side, quickly learning the ins and outs of trade and business. Her seemlingly innocent presence at business meetings gave her father an edge, a second pair of eyes and ears and an educated second opinion on matters. When her mother died, Jezebel quickly took over matronly duties as well. She was well on her way to becoming one of the most reputable women in Carthage.

Kidnapped one night from her very bed, Jezebel was brought to Rome and sold as a slave to the colliseum. It was thought that with her height and wild looks she would be a fit gladiator, but her inexperience in combat soon made inself apparent. She's now put to work, cleaning up after fighters both in and out of the arena. When necessary, Jezebel aides the collisuem's surgeon and nurses in treating the wounded.

Jezebel speaks neither greek nor latin, fluent only in Phoenician though familiar in various degrees with several of the Semitic languages.

IC: Jezebel stepped out into the Arena, taking a moment to adjust to the bright sunlight as well as swallow her pride. Several shouts came from the stands, and for the moment she were glad she couldn't understand their language. She moved quickly about her duties, picking up abandoned weapons and scattering bloodstained dirt as best she could. Thankfully the last competition had gone well and there were no limbs to gather past the men that had already been dragged out.

The cries from the spectators were nagging at her, but she knew better than to react. Even acknowledging the Romans in the stands could mean trouble for her, and trying to be modest would upset those in charge of her. Sven was not the person you wanted to upset. The clothing she had been given was pitiful, hardly more than a child's tunic. The fabric only barely covered her butt, making her bare legs seem all the longer. A long slice down the middle of the garment exposed a large portion of her frontside. If she were not careful, she was prone to slipping out and exposing herself.

Snatching up the last stray piece of equipment, Jezebel turned and followed the other girls unfortunate enough to be in her position out of the arena. Dumping the tools of war into a pile to be sorted later, she took her usual place just inside the gladiator's entrance, folding her arms defiantly as the next set of men strode onto the rounded battlefield.

Hashess - Preist of Dagon, convicted felon

After the work girl had cleared two soldiers strong armed a new gladiator into the arena. They let go of him when he was in the center and shoved a net and trident in his hands. They then left him to ponder his existence before execution.

He was not a large or intimidating man. Slightly diminutive in size, his short salt and pepper hair shown in the roman sun mostly as black and his rags flapped in the wind. His fair Atlantean face held bright sea blue eyes that seemed to have no soul in them. Not evil, just devoid. After a moment of thought, he simply let go of the weapons he had been given. It seemed that he was giving up and the crowd let out a loud "BOOO!!" This wasn't goin to be any fun, obviously. Hopefully the executioner Gladiators would find a way to make it interesting.

A small glint in the sunlight...but no one saw.

The doors opposite where he entered opened and two hulking men with heavy armor entered the arena. One had a sword as big as the convict, the other, a warhammer stolen from a Celtic corpse. Both were still caked in blood and bit of crass body matter. They circled him preparing to move in for his execution. These were federal guards given the chance of a lifetime - to be stars on the stage of public execution, undeniably the favorite of all coloseum events. No repeat performances by people you saw die last week, no question as to whether it was staged or not. Real death. Of course the plebians never knew - they couldn't make it in often enough to catch the difference. But the ones with the real power knew, and there had to be something to hold their interest and keep them from telling the common man.

The executioners did their preparations and got the crowd worked up into a small fervor and then they turned to their Emperor. He looked about the crowded stadium and heard the cries of the people and made his decision. Thumbs down. Just like that.

Another glistening...too few noticed to make comment.

The executioners decided to put on a real show and flipped a coin to decide who would get to kill the Atlantean mouse. The Hammerman won the toss and he let out a whoop of glee as he picked his deathtool up and began to charge at the squirt. An inhuman growl escaping his impressive lungs, the soldier barrelled down on the accused and deftly slung the warhammer directly at the little bother's face.

Hashess, the condemned took one light step foreward and plucked the head of the weapon out of midair, pulling the momentum around and lifting his would-be assasin off of his feet, sending him flying. There was a shout from the crowd as the Hammerman rolled to a bumpy stop and slowly crept to his feet. The condemned was motioning for the Hammerman to stay away and saying something too quiet for the crowd to hear. They cheered the soldiers on.

The Swordman upon seeing his companion sent to the ground so, decided to join in after all. The condemned simply knelt and the soldier tumbled headlong foreward into the sand. When he came up, he was holding his crotch, which had connected with Hashess' head most unconfortably. After a moment of nursing the injured pride they both found themselves with, they made a concerted effort to run the bastard down. A moment before impact, those in the front row heard a blood curdling scream.

"PLEASE STOP!!!"

By now, the priest's tears were nearly flooding out of his face.

No one failed to notice. A few, even had the uncaringness to laugh.

But not many.

As the dust quickly settled the scene revealed was pure impossibility. The warhammer was buried deep in the chest of the Swordman. It was still firmly in the spasming hands of the Hammerman - whose head obviously had found something better to do than stay where it had been. Neither's armor had seemed to give much resistance. It wouldn't. They weren't supposed to be in any real danger. Their knees, however, were not the first to touch the ground.

The small preist of Dagon fell to a kneel screaming like a banshee, blood sprayed across his face and clothes. A moment later the dead men fell and the screams redoubled. When they silenced, he was rocking back and forth, muttering prayers that no spectator could understand. Not that they could hear them, anyhow.

The crowd demanded justice for their fallen protectors, particularly a few devotees of Neptune in the crowd. Before the Emperor could give any order or demand any silence, the gate opened to reveal a great bear, trained and starved for another match, but someone had made a change of plans.

The preist heard the bear and quickly retreived the sword. It seemed he was actually going to defend himself. The bear didn't get the chance to truly charge foreward when the monk tossed the sword square in the beast's crown.

After getting their acts together, the worker slaves came out and collected the condemned and the three sizeable bodies.

It seemed that the living one gave the least resistance.

Jezebel had the presence of mind to head straight for the condemned, the idea being that if he resisted long enough the other girls would take care of the gore. Unsure of the man's crime and his capability, she slowed as she neared him. He had, after all, just slain three foes when to all appearances a single on should have done him in. But he was at present a hysterical mess and rather pathetic, truth be told. Hardly threatening.

She took her time in gathering the man, ignoring the jeers that would usually quicken her pace. She had to support him, guide him toward the gates where the guards would be waiting. Deciding his future short and otherwise moved to pity by his current state, Jezebel tried subtley to comfort him, a small tightening of her grip around his shoulders and a cooing from under her breath. Blatant sympathy with the condemned would get her in serious trouble.

She made note of his babbling, a language even more foreign than that of the Romans. But prayer has a way of making itself apparent and she found herself sympathizing all the more.

<Ba'al could never forget a soul as strong as you. Be patient, and I'm sure he'll return for the both of us.> She hoped if nothing else that the encouragement would be understood. With that she separated herself from the man, leaving him in the hands of the guards. How she hated to ignore their leering, their eyes lingering on what decency would demand covered.

Tugging the fabric of her tunic closer together, she stepped once more off to the side. Did she really believe her own words of hope... ?

Sven

Sven the Giant.

"It seems our Jez has taken a Liking to you." He waves the Guards away. So that just him and Hashess remained just in side the doors the crowd never sees.

“You’ve two choices now the cross or the arena. The Arena is a privilege and can earn you freedom over many long years. Years and labors extended for killing two slaves. Crucifixion is your right.”

“So look at me one last time as a Man! And tell me your fate. Never again will you be asked or offered.” Sven looks down at him. Awaiting his response.

Lothar

Lothar's origins are a bit of a mystery. He is a Northman of some sort but no one knows just where he was captured nor where he was born. Not even if he comes from within or outside of the Empire.

Lothar is a hulk of a man, tall, nearly six and a half feet tall. Strong, muscular, long blond hair usually worn in a braid. And frankly, beautiful to look at. Often commented upon by visitors touring the Collesium and the attached slave/gladiator quarters.

How he came to the be the blacksmith? Well, Lothar doesn't like to hurt people, which made him a lousy gladiator. The crowd really hated to see him in a match. Swen finally gave up trying and let Lothar learn how to repair the weapons and armor. Lothar has an artistic flair. Many times the "traditional weapon used by warriors of fill in the blank province" were as fictional was the province, but exotics were a great crowd pleaser and Swen liked to please the crowds.

IC:

Lothar finished strapping on his toolbelt and took a last disinterested look at his sleeping pallet and the woman he'd just fucked. She had a dreamy look on her eyes, that of a sated lioness that had just eaten its fill. Lothar couldn't remember if she'd said she was the wife of local merchant or a noble woman and he really didn't care.

She was obviously satisfied with her "purchase" and at least it took the edge off. He picked up the pouch of coins gave it a couple of tosses and appreciating the heft of its weight as it landed in his hand.

He tied the pouch to his belt and headed out towards the armory confident the woman would be gone by the time he returned. Young Merkaris came running across the compound.

"Lothar!! Wu is looking for you!!" Merkaris gasped out.

"Wu can find me in the armory or not at all. You're not his boy to be set running errands for him or anyone else!!"

Lothar gave the lad an affectionate pat on the head which nearly knocked him off his feet and then clouted the boy which did knock him to the ground.

"I'll tan your hide if you let the fires go out boy!!"

Lothar continued on towards the armory. There would be a lot of repair work needed after todays matches and he was already behind from the day before. Too many Roman women, but Swen wouldn't say anything as long as he got his share of the coins.

Hashess gathered himself haphazardly and stood fully erect before the Giant. The words of the slave girl still on his ears, he wondered if Dagon and Ba'al even remembered that they were brothers in such a horrible time as this. Not to mention the place.

"I do not understand these...games that are played for the amusement of those so debase as these. But since you are offering me a choice, I must choose to kill no more. If that is not an option, then you can crucify me and send me to my brothers. I care not."

He returned to his kneeling position, but before he continued to pray, he looked back up at the Giant.

"And a man is many things, Slavemaster. I am merely a different breed."

And with that he resumed his prayers.

OOC: I thought I had posted this, but it's not here. So, I'll try again...

Potanius

Dark skinned, almost black. All his 6' 4", 247 lbs. is sheer muscle. He is from Cyprus and was captured in his early teens and trained for the games. His hair is black as are his eyes. He is proficient with all Arena weapons. His one defect is he can't read, write or speak. His tongue was torn out when he was young. He enraged his former trainer who tore it out. The trainer said Potanius didn't need to speak to be a Gladiator. The trainer died in an unfortunate training accident the next month.

Potanius is currently fighting in the games at the Arena.


Edit/Addition: Potanius has an uncut 9" tool.

IC: Pontanius shook himself out of a troubled sleep. He was not to fight today as he had fought yesterday and the day before that. Yesterday had been the cause of his troubled sleep.

He had two fights that day, both of which he won. The victory in the second fight was what troubled him. The first fight had been just a show, not real. The second fight was to the death.

Pontanius' opponent had been but a young lad, new to the arena. Hardly an opponent to be reckoned with. Pontanius later heard that the boy was a ward of a powerful family, who had been falsely accused and sentenced to death in the arena. And Pontanius had killed the boy and earned the hatred of that powerful family.

Pontanius meant to kill him, after all this was the Arena, but he had died too soon. Too soon to be rescued, too soon for the audience. He had died too soon because he was unfamiliar with the sword and buckler. He had died impaled on Pontanius' sword. Impaled by a stroke that was not meant to kill or even injure. He was killed because he made a false step and a false parry which guided the point of Pontanius' sword into the boy's chest.

And so the lad had died. And Pontanius had to bow to the crowd and accept their praise and ridicule because the combat had ended too soon. So, he had not slept well that night. He had even refused companionship for the night, something that was only done because of injury.

Pontanius had the day off, but not really. Maybe he had no scheduled fights, but he still had to train. Training was a constant in the life of a gladiator, a living gladiator anyway. They all would die eventually, but sooner if they did not train.

Pontanius wrapped a cloth around his loins and headed for the baths. Some time in the hot bath, then some time in the cold bath, then over to the practice area; just another normal day for Pontanius.

Wu

Wu spent some time with a piece of grey slate and charcoal and sketched the shape he wanted Lothar to make. He traced his hand around the shape so Lothar would know the size as well. In the lower corner he drew an "X"

Back to the armory, he met Lothar in the courtyard. Lothar glared at him but they exchanged no words, just the slate. Wu watched Lothar's face as he studied the picture and then nodded his head. Wu had a second piece of slate, thinner than the first and about the same size as the object in the drawing. He tossed it at Lothar using the same motion he intended to use with the new weapon so that Lothar would understand how the weapon would be used.

They haggled and agreed on a price. Wu brought his finger to his lips and winked at Lothar. Lothar smiled for the first time, again nodded his head, then broke into a full hearted laugh as he walked off and into the armory.

Wu headed towards the baths hoping to soak some of the ache out of his body. He saw the Cypriot Potanius there. Potanius had slain a young novice the day before, but the crowd had jeered and yelled insults at him. He had been keeping to himself since. Their eyes met. No love lost there. No hatred either, just a grudging level of disrespect. Neither had many friends among the gladiators. Perhaps the only thing they had in common.

Wu slipped off his loincloth and slid into the steaming water and sighed. He and Potanius shared the silence of the moment.

Megella

"MEGELLA! MEGELLA! MEGELLA!"

Megella with a violent jerk pulled her spardius from the fallen form of her opponent.He wasnt dead, but seriously wounded. He had made the mistake of connecting the end of his staff with her helmet.

She rose the short sword in her only hand and turned in a circle. They loved the mad woman who wouldnt die.

And she hated them all.

The gorgon mask glittered in the sun, flecked with the blood of todays show. The crowd was ecstatic.

The arena doors opened and she wandered back into the underdark of the arena cells flanked by her guards. Even they gave her a wide berth.

She handed her half gorgon faced helmet to a waiting slave fetch boy and wandered to a water basin to wash the fake blood off her face.

The scar where her eye had been felt rough and dirty. How long were they going to do this. It had been weeks since a real fight, she now cavorted in these fake blood sports. The Romans mocked her unkowingly, she wouldnt even be allowed a clean death.

" Bathe barbarian" a voice came from behind her and she felt the prodding of a spear tip at her chained back. He was obviously new.

He never had a chance. Megella twirled and had grabbed the butt with amazing spped and strength. Thrustiing it back into the new guards belly. Sprawling him to the floor out of breath..

Two guards nervously moved to her, she relented and turned back to wiping her face clean.

" Tell the new one to keep his thoughts to himself, I know the routine"

When she was done, she was grudgingly escorted to the baths.

There was Potanius, she respected him. A hardy warrior who kept hands and opinions to himself. And that strange outlander Wu, she had no thoughts of him yet.

The ere were few women in the womens bath, and it was only mildly cleaner than the males. It didnt metter. Megella disrobed and slipped into the hot waters of the stone shallow and prayed to nuada that she could wash all the blodd away from her burning soul

Pluto

The look on the slavemaster's face was priceless. This condemned foreigner was completely unaware of how things worked around here. The prowess he displayed in the arena was impressive, however. He couldn't very well let the preist die without some fun first. Get him ready for the Underworld.

Pluto stepped from behind the pillar where he was watching the scene unfold. The near transparency of him told Sven that he was the only one who could see the dark god. Pluto simply smiled at Sven and then leaned down, tracing a strange mark on the complacent one's forehead. Sven recognized it.

It was the grave rune for "innocent."

With that, Pluto winked at Sven and disappeared. He kept watching, just for kicks. This was going to be fun. He was finally going to get back at his brother. The stoic moron...

Olokun and Behedti

The diminutive Nubian sucked softly on her lower lip. By this time, she had grown used to the occasional jeering and teasing of those very same body features. Why, just look at them – so thick and such a deep red color! Much like an ape. Well, so said the uneducated masses that either bit their lips or rubbed them with foul powders to obtain that very same natural red hue of her own.

She could see, hear, feel the frightened calls of the dying, the roars of the wounded beasts…everything that she had come to hate about Rome and its people, all highly concentrated. Times like this, she wondered how these people even considered themselves human, why, where she was from…

She shook her head slightly, causing a few red-ochre locks to fall forward across her eyes. Even the other Nubidians tended to look at her a bit strangely. She had adapted her way of dress from many different tribes, her hair from the former empire of Egypt….In fact, if one wasn’t paying attention, it would be hard to differentiate her from her eunuch companion – or at least, to tell who was serving who.

However, she was no gladiator, and wouldn’t even attempt to put on airs to seem as such. In fact, she was the entertainment for the Gladiator master, for his friends….but she had opted to arrive early. She had heard much of the blood sports here, but had never sat through one in all of its entirety, although she had had past masters offer her the cleanest of tunics, the finest of gold trinkets to be at their sides for such an event. It was quite simple, really – all she would have to do would be to shave off that “matted” hair of hers and try to adopt a more “civilized” way of dressing. Odd, considering that she drove those officials into their wildest of frenzies when she was clad in either a leopard or a zebra skin, letting the drums speak through her.

Behedti nudged her slightly, his kohl eyes partly amused and horrified at the spectacle that lay within the walls. The two were in one of the more hidden tunnels, neither above nor under the giant mass of the area. Here, there was only snatches of daylight to light their path, and to alert others of their presence.

“Did you see that woman?” he said softly, glancing back to the ring, his eyes ignoring the other female slaves standing about. “She slew that man without any regard to his ba…”

“That’s their way,” she said, “and one that I am not glad to follow.” They spoke easily in their own language of Egyptian [ well, Behedti’s own – it was rare when Olokun chose to speak her native tongue, and at times, it felt like she had forgotten it ]. She crossed her arms, glad for the darkness that the tunnels provided them.

“I’ve seen enough,” she said flatly after a time. “Let us go into the market for some food, and then to the temple,” she said, her voice picking up a bit. As the two strode out into the sunlight, she squinting, throwing up a small hand to block the harsh rays from the sun from her eyes. Who did they call the god of the burning disc here? Oh, Apollo. That was his name.

Behedti trailed behind her, taking a few glances back, looking all the world for a confused puppy. Although he wasn’t much younger than she was, he still had a childlike honesty about his eyes, about how he viewed things. She tried like hell to get him to grow up a bit, but she had always long heard that the eunuchs could be a bit addled in the brain. No matter, he was still her closest friend and the only one that she really trusted in this insane metropolis.

Shifting her deep blue and white robes about her, she sighed as she glanced down at her body. The indigo dye was rubbing off on her dark skin, staining her an odd purple. Oh well. As she moved with ease down the street, she knew that people’s eyes couldn’t help but to be drawn to her. There was just something in her stature that she knew reminded people of royalty, something in the way that she wore her clothes or the way her face was made, so lovely and exotic with its wide dark eyes and full lips. And perhaps it was also the addition of her friend – a tan-skinned young man, winsome, a fabled Ganymede.

Either way, she still wasn’t quite used to it….and longed for the solitude of the Temple of Sehkmet.

Sven tilts his head to Hashess and ponders. Most men Beg for their lives or stand up with Pride and shout do your worst. This Guy is obviously different. He Honestly doesn’t care.

Unholy *Fucking Pluto, Sven thinks to himself. Strange his Swearing was a literal Translation as well. Before him was the god of the underworld marking this stranger. Now why would Pluto inform me he was innocent? Strange the gods rarely made sense. This was no exception. Being around so much Death everyday Sven was no stranger to Pluto’s presence but he never communicated with him. I’m sure Pluto thinks highly of someone who provides him with so much business. But Sven didn’t ask anything of any of the gods. He looks down to this stranger once again. Now what should I do with him. He can fight, and he doesn’t fear death. Lets see if he Fears the worst thing in all of existence, Life.

“Spiro, Marc Over here now.” Sven orders the two real Guards of the Arena.

Sprio is a short stocky Greek who’s a paid Guard and Sadist, when someone really pisses Sven off they’ll get locked in a room with him, not one hasn’t come out crying unless they were dead. it’s rumored his Dick is so big it can't be taken by any women. or man for that matter.

Marc is a Slave who was too slow as a Gladiator, head on he’s near unbeatable, come at him from the side or circle him he gets off balance. Still one of the Strongest Romans, Sven has ever seen. Sven was in the arena with Marc once, Marc had Sven over his head, which is a funny looking sight considering Marc is near a foot and a half shorter then Sven. Needless to say all Sven did was sidestepped him and the guy tripped on his own feet. The Crowd and Sven were laughing so hard they forgot about killing him. After that the old Arena master Put Marc to Guard. He’s dull a mule of a man.

“Take this guy to Lalita.” Sven commands. Lalita is the sultriest of the arena staff. Gladiators are sent to her to be Cleaned and Dressed when important Romans visit them. A trip to Lalita is a very rare honor. She has a staff of Slaves that’s pampering techniques compare to none but the emperors own staff.

“Give him 3 day with her tell her. He is to be offered anything but freedom. Then send him to Lothar I’ll be telling him what I want later.” Sven looks at them harshly. They are looking at Lothar with complete confusion.

“Are you two questioning my methonds?

“No sir, Not at all sir.” They repley in unisin.

Spiro ask, “but Sven I’m curious?”

Sven holds him back and replies after Marc has Hashess him halfway down the hall out of ear shot, “I know not what life this man has lived. What pleasures or hardships he’s seen. I don’t know what is pleasure to him. And he must learn what Roman Pleasure is. So I may teach him Roman Pain.”



*in this Alternate Dimension Fuck was invented by the Caveman. And passed down from father to son in all Cultures. Every Spoken Language uses it.

Hashess ceased his praying about halfway down the hallway and began finding his legs again. He helped the gaurds strong arm him into whatever section of the coliseum he was being led into.

“I know not what life this man has lived. What pleasures or hardships he’s seen. I don’t know what is pleasure to him. And he most learn what Roman Pleasure is. So I may teach him Roman Pain.” Sven had said. Hashess quirked an eyebrow. Perhaps there was someone in this country that posessed the wisdom of the Deep Ones. His own Dark Father had taught him that the only understanding of intensity was contrast.

This did not fail to frighten him.

"Dagon has whispered upon me this day for the lesson I am to learn."

Dark eyes stared ahead, locked on the war being waged in the harsh sunlight of the arena. Her arms locked across her chest, partly for modesty's sake but also for the appearance. A weak slave was subject to the will of the tougher ones as well as their masters. Slaves were apt to take their frustrations out on one another and so could be even worse at times than their Roman superiors. Jezebel's thick lips remained in an unwelcoming pucker for as long as she remained in another's company.

The only indication given that Jezebel was thinking of anything but the combat before her was a slight shifting of her weight from one leg to another, a small but telling sign of her agitation. She'd been listening to Sven and the poor condemned, doing her best to follow the conversation through the only part she could follow, their tone of voice. What she gathered was vague but obviously not in the smaller man's favor.

It was in her best interest not look, not to show interest or even acknowledge the exchange, but as Sven began barking at someone else she angled her head just enough to see out of the corner of her eye. She knew the men he spoke to, guards she hated with a special passion. Of all those who gave the slave girls trouble, they were the worst. She had narrowly avoided their advances so far, but she had seen the state they left others in. It made the condemned man's exit all the more pitiful. It would most likely be the last she'd see of him.

A quick glance to be sure Sven had not seen her interest before she shuffled closer to the arena entrance. The fight was coming to its conclusion, and the sooner she got out there and away from the gladiatorial master the better.

Potanius

I levered myself out of the bath and nodded to Wu. I went to the practice room and donned what little armor I usually wore. I ggrabbed a dull weighted practice sword and a weighted practice shield.

Pontanius went through a warmup work out, getting ready to spar. Almost inaudible grunts came from his mouth as he worked out.

Fionn

Fionn struggled to keep what was left of his meal of dry bread and water in his stomach as the ship was making its way along the western Iberian coastline. The vessel had been caught in a storm and because of the damage done to it was now was lurching like a drunken bow legged blind man from one wave to the next.
He had been tied to the floor by wrought Iron cuffs and chains that secured him to the reinforced decking making movement difficult. With a groan he sat up and opened his eyes, the room was full of miserable green looking wretches all tied to floor by a long line of chains running from one end of the decking to the other each one manning an oar two to man.
Gripping the oar in his hands he glanced at his oarmate, a lean hard bodied greek by the look of him. The man looked ahead with dead eyes not giving any impression he was aware of what was going on around him or caring if they lived or died just manning the oar like an automaton . Whatever hardships he had endured had long broken him in mind if not body.
Looking out the gap in the ship's side, past the oar as it moved into the water Fionn watching the coastline as it spedby. Thoughts of home kept creeping into his mind once more, and he returned to the thinking if he would ever see his wife or family again. Something that was forever on his mind since he'd been chained to the decking.
'I've got to get out of here!' He thought to himself, though he still had no idea how.
Fionn wasn't sure how he had ended up in the bowels of the ship, or even where it was headed. The last thing he remembered was the damn welsh/romano british double crossing his trade group. Danu alone knew where the rest of his companions were. Knowing he was in no state to try anything, he looked around and fighting the dry heaves he tried to focus on the the guard at the storage areas entrance.
'The equipment looks Roman the bastards must have sold me.' Fionn muttered. 'I really hate the sea.' he cursed silently as he lost the final contents of his stomach.
The sounds of men shouting orders and hurrying about the ship came through the wooden flooring above. 'Land ahoy' was shouted from above, as a large particularly evil looking git paced back and forth on a raised decking between the banks of rowing slaves. 'Row you miserable sons of whores.' he screamed 'Or I'll see you flayed alive and left to the sharks.'
Gritting his teeth Fionn gripped the oar and put more effort into rowing.
A few hours later, though to Fionn it seemed a lifetime, the ship had docked in the harbour as the sun was setting below the horizon. A short fat swarthy looking merchant had led the group of slaves off the ship. 'See them billeted' he instructed a nearby guard 'I want to get them to the slave market tomorrow and I'll get a better price for them if they look more healthy and well nourished. You know what to do.'
Nodding in obedience the guard and a few escort led the slaves including Fionn off to a barracks for the night.

Wu


No sooner had Potanius left than Sven came into the bath.

"You!! Wu!! You're to fight Megella. Tomorrow, the first match of the afternoon. I want it long. Make it look exhausting, a pitched battle with each of you exchanging upper hand. back and forth. Lot's of blood... Aurelius will be butchering a bullock tomorrow so he'll have plenty of fresh on hand. I'm sending in an animal near the end so you can team up against it..... (you'll need to..... thought Swen,) so have some wind left. Start practice this afternoon.”

Wu almost said no. Damn that Swen, he knows my skills are against men. A refusal would mean a return to some provincial arena, not what Wu had in mind......

"Yeah, I find Megalla and tell her." Wu almost snarled.

Onhis way to find the one-eyed gladiator he stopped at the armory. "Lothar, I need the weapons before tomorrow's games. Earlier would be better, I could use some practice, but no later than the first match." Wu threw a small bag of coins which Lothar snatched out of the air and nodded. "Tomorrow, you'll have them." As Wu left he could hear Lothar calling for Merkaris.

Wu went off to find Megalla.

Potanius

I finished my warm-up and looked for fellow gladiator to spar against. The practice rooms were suprisingly empty for the hour. I finally saw a gladiator that would serve as a sparring partner. He was outfitted with a trident and a net.

Potanius set himself in a defensive position and waited for the gladiator to attack. The net will not have hooks as a Arena nets would. He could see from where he stood that the trident was blunted. Potanius did not know this gladiator, which was unusual. He had been a gladiator for years and knew most of his counterparts.

The unknown gladiator stepped forward in an attack posture. The net floated towards Potanius' shield arm in an attempt to tangle up his blocking ability. Once the net was over his left arm and shoulder, the gladiator pulled hard on it. This was a tactic for the Arena, where the hooks on the net could dig in to an opponents flesh and pull him off-balance and cause a sharp, possibly distracting, pain. A practice net would not be pulled, instead intended to constrict, to enfold.

Potanius uttered a groan as the net hooks dug-in to his flesh causing pain and jerking him off balance. The trident suddently darted in, aimed at his stomach. He managed to deflect the trident away from his abdomen. As the trident bounced off of the shield, the dried mud that had disguised the sharp points crumbled away. These same sharp points drove into Potanius' right thigh causing the air to rush out of his lungs.

The unknown gladiator backed up a few steps, knowing that Potanius could not move very well and that he could take his time killing Potanius, or so he thought.

Potanius slid his hand out of the shield strap and flung it like a discus at his opponent. It hit the gladiator on the right knee, breaking it and causing the gladiator to fall forward, becoming tangled in his own net. He kept his trident in his hand, but the tines pointed away from Potanius.

Potanius managed to shuffle forward to bring the dull, weighted sword down in a crushing blow on the gladiator's back. Potanius heard a loud crack as the unknown gladiators back was broken. He dropped his sword and limped off to the healer. Sometimes it was good to be mute and illiterate, he could not answer any questions they were bound to ask.

Thick curls of incense threatened to bar the way into the temple, mingling with rich red drapes.

The temple of Sekhmet was unusually quiet for this time of day. Even the servants seemed to be dozing off in the heavy heat, their kohl-rimmed eyelids lowering and sagging alternately. Removing her sandals, Olokun savored the feel of the cool marble floor, the continual murmuring of Egyptian. Above her, the blank eyes of the lion-headed goddess stared down at her, questioning and cold.

Behedti trailed in slowly behind her, removing his sandals in short hopping gestures. Despite Olokun’s apprehension and almost utter hatred of the games, the Nubian prayed to the goddess of war and pestilence with a regularity that was almost frightening. If as many white flower garlands laid about the neck of the Roman Venus, or about the throat of their Apollo, Behedti figured that his mistress would be a lot calmer in nature, perhaps a bit happier….But there was more to her than he knew. After all, he had only come to her recently. There was much about her that he did not know, other than their people were sworn enemies to his. But even with that knowledge, she was rare to even so much as shout at him, but tended to him with all the love and doting that she would a brother.

And he cherished her for that.

As he paced up beside her, he knelt, touching his forehead to the cool floor. For a moment, he was able to catch his reflection in the highly polished marble. What had made his people hate hers so much when there was such a small difference? He may have been of a few shades lighter than hers, his hair more black and straight than hers, but truly, that was all…

As Olokun finished her prayer, she stood up, straightening out her robes. Her small form nearly drowned in them, her bright black eyes scanned the temple innards for the high priest. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a tall figure approaching her. As she turned about, she smiled warmly.

“Greetings,” she started, as she moved forward. “It seems like it has been too long since I have seen you last, Amun.” She bowed slightly, trying her hardest to keep up the visage of respect.

The High priest smiled slightly, causing crow’s feet to emerge about his eyes. He was old by Egyptian standards, somewhere in his mid-thirties. His shoulders had a definite square cut to them, making him seem as if he could throw the young woman across the room with hardly any effort….but to balance out the power in his shoulders, his arms and hands were almost boyishly thin, with thin wrists and long fingers. His black eyes and high forehead were accented by his thin brows, quick to jump higher or lower as his expression saw fit.

“Indeed it does seem like that,” he spoke in his soft baritone. His voice had the incredible ability of filling the smallest space, of surrounding all that he spoke to. Although his tone was soft and gentle towards her, Olokun couldn’t help but to feel slightly daunted, as she always did when she spoke with him.

“And you, Behedti, how are you doing?” The thin brows leapt up as the crow’s feet curved upwards as well. Amun had fostered somewhat of an older brother role to the young man, despite the slave position that he was in title. Only title, it would seem – for Olokun had released him almost the moment she received him, only to have him tag along behind her constantly. And well, she only called him a “slave” when she felt it was best, to protect him from the often lecherous eyes of the Romans.

Behedti smiled widely, displaying his oddly white and even teeth, something that usually gained him much praise. “I am well, High Priest, I am well.”

“Well, then, let us not stand here and talk in the open like savages. Follow me – Ra has missed you and has been raising quite a fuss as of late. I cannot imagine having a more difficult creature on hand….and yet, one so tame as well. Truly the goddess blesses you,” said Amun as he began to lead the pair further into the depths of the temple.

“He is not so much as difficult, but demanding,” Olokun laughed. “And that is my fault for babying him too much when I first received him.” As they turned about a high pillar in the temple, the angry roars of a lion became more and more prominent. The closer they approached, the more deafening the sound. Soon enough, there came a loud clatter as a bowl was thrown against the wall, and the shrieks of a temple maiden as she fled down the hall, screaming and swearing.

Behedti smiled slightly. Seemed as if he was still up to his old tricks.

Amun pushed back a translucent red curtain, exposing the innards of a large and lavish room to the pair. Within the room, anxiously shredding the fine pillows that he had been presented with, a large male lion paced, roaring occasionally it seemed, just to hear his own voice. His mane had been carefully brushed until it shone, and gold fleck shone within the rich fur. About his neck hung several glass baubles, along with a small incense sachet. His displayed claws had been gilded, his black rimmed ears pierced and lined with several gold hoops.

“Ra! You know better than that!” chided Olokun with a click of her tongue. The lion looked up, and seemed instantly contrite, lowering his head with a low woofing sound. “If he keeps this up, I’ll have to get another one….” She continued, looking at the beast out of the corner of her eye. Seeming to know that she was talking about his being replaced, he strode over to her and nudged at the small of her back with his massive head. With a smile, she dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms about his neck. Although lions could not purr, the creature made a warm growling sound, rubbing his short-furred muzzle against her cheek.

“And you spoil him more in order to solve our problems,” chuckled Amun as he watched from the doorway. The lion had been presented to her as a cub, as a reward for her more frenzied dancing. Although the honor had been a great one, [ and from a Roman that she actually had honestly liked – he had shown interest in her and her religion, thusly the gift of the lion ], she hadn’t the slightest idea of where to keep the massive creature. She had mentioned it to Amun, and he had consented to keep the beast for her. But still, her visits had been more than regular to make sure that the cub grew up as tame as his blood could allow him, and as trainable as a puppy. And indeed, he had become an asset to her more important dances.

“Will you be needing him tonight?” asked Behedti as he knelt to pet the lion. Glad to see his other pride member there as well, Ra nuzzled the youth’s stomach, almost pushing him over. “I’m not too sure about that,” she answered as she wrapped the tufted tail about her arm and hand. “I haven’t heard anything more from Lord Claudius…And he was the one that had sent me the summons in the first place.” She leaned back against one of the shredded pillows, Ra padding his way over to her to rest his head in her lap. Stroking the mighty beast’s sides, she glanced over to Behedti. “He was the one that called me out to those awful games….remember, he gave me Ra. So he should know that if he sends me a summons, that I will respond as promptly as I can.”

Behedti nodded. He had known of the Roman, knew of his kind ways towards Olokun and himself. And he also knew of the jealous shrew of a wife that he had, who had more times than he could count made advances on him, only to be continually rebuked. The last time she hadn’t taken it so well, and forbade her husband to hire the Nubian or her slave anymore….And for a time, it had seemed a sure thing that the pair would not run into Claudius any more.

And now this….

“Either way, he does need to come out of the temple. I think he’s disappointed at not enjoying the fresh air…” added Olokun, glancing down to the practically dozing lion. Most times when she took him out of the temple, she had no need to control him with a leash – her voice was all the command or hand that she needed to steer him correctly. And most were awed to see this creature, almost dwarfing the woman, bow and cower at even a look from her. “Come on, up up up!” she said, clicking her tongue at the lion. He jumped to alertness, getting to his feet and shaking himself lightly. As the realization of his leaving the temple dawned on him, he began to bounce slightly, seeming more like a large puppy than a lion.

“Amun, I will return him later tonight….” The older man nodded slightly, then turned to a noise in the hall. Standing with a scroll in his hand was a thin boy, his skin pale and covered in sweat. “I…I….I….” Curious by the new human, Ra paced forward, the fur on the back of his neck rising slightly. He wasn’t exactly….ferocious to strangers, but neither was he wholly welcoming, either. As Ra paced closer, the boy paled further, holding out the scroll with a shaking hand. “I…I…I…I am….from…..the house…..of….” his voice cracked, then lapsed in rigorous prayer as the lion stood over him.

“Ra.” Said Olokun. Turning back to look at her, the lion backed off, walking lazily to her side. Rather than lying down, he stood, careful to let the newcomer know that he was not fully pleased with his presence.

“Thank you, M’lady…..Lord Claudius asks for your presence at a party tonight. The details are in the scroll….”

With that, the boy darted off, cursing under his breath the strange magic of the dark-skins. Breaking the seal, Olokun read over the scroll, a small smile crossing her face. “It would see as if Lord Claudius has missed us, and is eager for our return. We must make sure that we perform to our best, then….”

[ END OF DAY ]

Megella

"You're out of your mind little man"

Megella just softly sighed listening to Wu's broken latin. Sven wanted them to fight each other, and then some little beastie of his.

Nuada be praised, but she had released bigger turds than this outlander.

She had dried off and was out of the tub, retiring to a corner to pick at straw , while awaiting her next fate. Be it back to the cells or back into the bloody sands.

Sven knew better than to try sending amorous fans to her privately. The last one had left with broken limbs and nearly the entire militia coming to have megella executed. He was a smooth talker when he needed to be..she may have been a slave, but she was one of his biggest cash machines.

megella got to her feet and looked down on u.

" First things first.." she pointed to the eye patch barely concealing her scars, "if you even come close to hitting me around here, I'll put you in the infirmary"

" Secondly, no show boating..I'm there to fight and to win..I could care less what the Romans want..but they want me to be brutal and swift, they've come to expect it"

" I tend to fight with the spardius and this..."

She extended her stump of a right hand and showed him the many coils of metal banded around her wrist and the cap of cold iron where once a hand grew.

" If you have any suggestions..I'm up for them.. but lets hurry.. we should practise..mistakes are costly in the arena"

Wu

Wu sighed as he listened to Megella. It would be a difficult choreography if she insisted on being brutal and swift... and it was pretty clear she had no respect for him, but then she'd never seen him fight, nor even spar.

In the practice arena Wu came to admire how Megalla managed to compensate for her lost eye. She used large roundhouse turns so that she could watch the full circle around her, maybe better than someone with two eyes who took it for granted.

And the motion made her sword style unique and clearly dangerous. Then there was that iron-shod stump she used for a maul. Very effective.

As Wu turned with her and weakly parried her blows Megella hurled epithets at him, she was irate at the match up.

"Can't you even look like you know how to use that thing?" She spat at him.

Wu quickly closed the distance between them and swept her feet. He squatted in front of her as she fell to her seat.

"I have other skills." He winked at her. Megalla scrambled to her feet and lunged at him with the sword. Wu grabbed her by the wrist and applied a bit of pressure that caused her to drop the weapon, but she was stong and tried to club him. Wu deflected the blow and swept her legs again.

Megalla looked as if she were going to burst an artery.... and then she roared with laughter.

"There's more to you little man than meets the eye."

Wu bowed deeply, but kept his eyes respectfully on her.

"And you are a formidable warrior." Wu responded.

Megalla laughed again as he offered his hand to help her up, which of course she refused. But now they could do a bit more planning for the next day's match, now that they knew how each the other fought... and a bit of shared respect.

A bit later, the practice was interrupted when Potanius slew his sparring partner. Both Megella and Wu kept there distance as Potanius limped off to get his wounds attended. They had both been in the games long enought to know when to mind their own business.

Hashess the condemned

Hashess was taken to a pillow laden room of silver, gold, and silk tapestries. Naked hand maddens waited at every corner of the room answering the beck and call of their lady. Hashess had rarely seen the likes of such a place. Atlantis had been a much more shaded place, with dark hues of blue and gray lining most of the places of leisure and pleasure. This was at the very least foreign territory.

The priests of Dagon are not truly restricted by anything, but one. And that one thing is never the same between two devotees. They are forbidden to do what they do best. Upon Hashess, Dagon had laid the stricture of not expiring the life of man, for that was what he did better than anything else. His enlightenment had not advanced to a state in which he was allowed from under this proclomation. He had broken his vows, and as such, Dagon had bestowed upon him the sensations of the two other men in the arena with him as they died. It seems they were convicts as well, but the beheading of one was a faux pas to the Romans. He had no idea why. It's not as if it was too graphic. That thought, however faded in light of the incredible pain laid upon his mind as two people ceased to be with him connected to them. Suffering is not even the beginning of an explaination.

In the center of the room was a lovely woman in veils. Only her fiery eyes showed in the room lit only by the reflections of the prescious metals lining the walls.

Hashess finally stood on his own as the guards that delivered him left him to her devices. She walked to him, removed his tattered convict's robes, and led him to the bath, signaling the other girls to assist. They bathed him in perfumes and juices, only a few of which he could identify. They made no move to satisfy him, which was a good thing, since he had nothing resembling an appetite for them. Lalita and the other maidens of the chamber said nothing, giggled a little, and went about their work. The smiles on their faces were comforting, if only a little. They tried to feed him grapes, but he was never the one to be handfed.

That's when Lalita spoke up. "You are Atlantean, yes?" He nodded. "And you find Rome strange, then?" Another nod. "I have met Atlanteans before. I was even trained by a few. They are a wise bunch in my experience. And you are a monk. So, why is it that you rage against Rome?"

"They killed my brothers."

"You will never have justice by Roman law. It is dependent on proof."

"I was them with my own eyes. They bore the mark of Neptune. I can identify them all by their face and I have a few parcels of their armor hidden away for safekeeping."

As the two of them conversed, the handmaidens clothed him in silk and other fine vellours, laying him down on a sizeable mound of leathers and furs. His comfort was nearly enveloping, but he was focused on the conversation and distracted by the vows he had broken.

Lalita laughed. "You don't understand, my friend. This is Rome. No Roman is guilty of a crime against foreign lands. Even the burden of proof being lifted is not enough for them to keep them from turning blind eyes and deaf ears on the plights of others."

"So I shall gain no justice here?"

"You'll gain nothing here that you don't make for yourself, Hashess. You have become one of the forsaken." She held a proclomation in front of Hashess' face. It was a signed order of release by the Atlantean Council. Hashess had been consigned to his fate as a political prisoner and subsequently let go. His nation had refused to help him. He was now property of the Arena, and to be remanded to the custody of the slavemaster, Sven.

Failure drove to it's home in his heart. It was his own fault. He wasn't really supposed to be there by Atlantean law, but there were powerful Advocates on his side that had promised their support in his endeavor to seek justice on the Neptunians. They had obviously failed. Or betrayed him because of simple risk. Either way, he could never go home again, and would most likely die a gladiator. He wondered if even Dagon heard his prayers anymore after his sacriledge.

"There are many things left that you could do, Hashess. Your life is not over, just different. If you do not agree to fight in the arena, they will visit many pains upon you. If you fight however, you have a chance to live, and live free at that. If you want justice, you'll have to find it in the coliseum. There is no other place you can survive now."

Dagon, where are your eyes to guide me? I am lost....

"I cannot kill, Lalita. It is forbidden to me."

"Then enjoy your final moments, Hashess. I hope they will be the greatest of you life."

As Lalita exited the room, she leaned in to whisper to the last girl. The one that was left behind and had not yet been seen by Hashess.

"I'm sorry about this one, girl. He seems about as exciting as the ledger from a candle shop. And he's stubborn, too. You may have to do the whole act yourself."

And then they were alone.

As far as the leggy Carthaginian knew, it had been her glance at Sven that had been her downfall. In fact it was how she had carried the pathetic condemned man off the field that had first caused him to notice her. It was very rare that she spoke and even more remarkable that she should speak in such gentle tones. Her eavesdropping and subsequent look had gone completely unnoticed by the gladiatorial master.

It was by chance that he had noticed her a second time, his thoughts wandering to the relationship between her and the convicted. He wondered what had caused her to treat Hashess as she did. More importantly, he wondered if the slave girl could be used to further his plans. If there was something occurring between the two, he would exploit it. The more fulfilled Hashess was the worse Sven could make it. Past having one less beauty out cleaning the arena, there really was no downside to using her.

Sven know words would be wasted on the dark slave girl. Simple gestures were used to communicate his will, a strong hand on her shoulder spinning her around and a thick finger telling her to follow the quickly retreating guards and convict. She responded without hesitation, bowing her head before stepping after the trio. Inside, she was terrified.

She followed quietly behind the men, doubting they even knew she was behind them. There was some sort of ruckus, people rushing in and out of the gladiator's practice room. As they marched through the corridors of the coliseum, her stride took on an irregular gait. It had been weeks since she had received her injury, a gash accidentally cut into her calf during a moment of particularly rough handling. The physical wound was long gone, but it was easy to agitate the ghost of it. She favored the aching leg somewhat, doing her best to make it subtle.

She lagged far enough behind the men that the convict had already disappeared into Lalita's rooms by the time she reached the door, now guarded by the same men who'd escorted Hashess there. It took Jezebel one word to get past the two men, though the thought of simply turning around had crossed her mind. She approached the guards, her distaste for them showing through a small scowl.

"Sven." The men quickly stepped aside. There were not many who'd risk crossing the Celtic Giant and it gave Jezebel pleasure. His name gave her power, her inability to explain herself in actuality an asset. It could only be assumed she was on business from Sven.

She entired a small room, a hallway before the main room in which Lalita did most of her entertaining. One of the mistress's senior maidens waited here, handling business while Lalita handled pleasure. She was well taken care of, bathed and perfumed. She was draped in white, experience having taught Lalita to clothe her girls unless they wanted trouble from the guards. There was silence for a moment as she stared at Jezebel, who in turn stared back. When it was apparent no further instruction was coming, the work slave spoke.

"Sven." And again the magic took hold, the maiden looking her over as she decided what would be done with her. She spoke quickly and quietly, her tone not unwelcoming but all the same commanding. She waited for compliance, Jezebel in turn glancing nervously around the room. The maiden spoke again, this time pull at the immodest tunic the other woman wore. An understanding was reached, and Jezebel slowly disrobed.

Ushered now into the next room, she stood as close to the door as she would be allowed. She quickly took in her surroundings, from the lavish drapery and pillows to the nude women. It was the other two figures that held her attention, the woman of veils and the convict. He'd bathed and now wore fine materials, but the hard life of recent times still shone through. They were apparently in the final exchanges of a conversation, one Jezebel couldn't help but wonder about.

The serving girls began to withdraw from the room, and Jezebel grew aware of how filthy she was in comparison. She had not gotten the chance to bathe in days, her tasks around the arena barely allowing her to sleep and eat. These girls were bathed, well fed and well rested. They were beautiful and while Jezebel used to view herself as rather tempting, she found herself covering her own soft and round body as best she could without appearing upset about her nakedness. Lalita whispered something to her, sympathy in her voice. It only served to make Jezebel more self conscious.

It took her a moment to realize the woman of veils had followed her maidens in their retreat, that she and the convict were alone. She stared at him, the pity she had previously held for him fading as she realized her situation. She was his for the taking, to do with as he pleased. Her blood screamed for her to run or even find herself a weapon. Attack him first. But her rational self knew better. Even if she could avoid an encounter with this man, she would then be subject to Sven's anger and things would be made even worse. It was best if she was obediant, and so she brought herself closer to him. One hand remained between her coal thighs, the other cupped over her full chest as she fought her vulnerability.

<I see this is where compassion leads,> she spoke quietly in her native tongue. <You'll be a lasting reminder. I am the only one that can matter to me.>

She waited now for his command, whatever signal he would concoct to convey his desires. Perhaps he expected her to act of her own accord, do what she thought would best please him. If that was indeed that case, she would wait for him to make it clear.