[Open, Mature] A Wolf at the Door

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Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld. The small town of Plugit is nearby.

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Lars
Posts: 447
Joined: Sun Nov 25, 2018 1:04 pm
Topics: 44
Race: Passive
: nil igitur mors est ad nos
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Tue Nov 05, 2019 11:31 am

THE ROSE ARENA
YARIS 3, 2719 EARLY NIGHT
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Gods, this place was filthy. It was entirely disagreeable to all of his senses, and he was a prostitute, for Alioe's sake, surely he should have been used to this sort of thing by now but the Rose Arena still managed to surprise him. It was such a barbaric and otherworldly idea, to go into an arena and pay to watch people maul each other, but it was clearly thriving.

Lars supposed he could understand why. The night's fights hadn't started yet, but already the anticipation was palpable, as thick in the air as the stench of sweat and old blood. The arena was loud, alive with voices that mixed together and shouted over each other the same, making bets and jests and threats and whatever else rowdy men and women got up to while they awaited entertainment. The people in the arena were living for this, for the moments leading up to the fight's beginning, for the moment when they knew if they had lost or gained some coin, or simply for the moment when someone's fist connected with someone's jaw for the first time.

It was enough to get him excited, too, enough to get him jittery and energetic, his skin tingling with some mix of anxiety and amusement. As ancient a practice as it seemed, he was dreadfully delighted with the idea of sitting comfortable and watching some fortunate souls tear each other apart. Or perhaps it wouldn't be so requited of an affair, perhaps one of them would come right out and squash the others immediately, like some sort of insect beneath their shoe. He wasn't sure which he wanted to see more, and hoped he wouldn't have to choose.

It all felt like such an indulgence to him - getting to leave the Queen for the night in favor of accompanying some well-paying captain to the arena, along with a few other of Scarlett's men and women, and watching a fight on someone else's coin. Where was the downside in that? He definitely couldn't find one.

Although he had never visited before, Lars could tell that they were all in for some kind of special treat tonight; the fellows from the captain's crew that sat about their table were going on and on about it, about how tonight was something truly special, something of an exception to the regular one on one fights the arena put on.

Yes; tonight, it would be two against two. Double the fighters, double the carnage, double the bets, double the coin. If one was so lucky, of course, and played their hands just right.

Lars sat comfortably in the captain's lap, his upper half lying somewhat against the old man's arm and chest while his legs were propped up over the other arm, the passive essentially cradled in his hold but not appearing too bothered about that fact. No, he seemed as fine as ever, gray eyes focused out at the center of the arena as he pondered the upcoming fights. He could almost fit in with the table of pirates and their golden teeth and colorful sashes, wearing the earrings he'd acquired last month as well as a few necklaces layered about his neck, a lovely red sash thrown around his waist that he'd only received tonight. Kohl was smudged about his eyes, a new practice for the passive but he enjoyed the look of it nonetheless. Below it all was standard fare, loose shirts and trousers that weren't quite long enough to reach his ankles, but he felt perfectly adequate beside the rest of them, with their sea-worn coats and trousers with holes.

He had to move his head now and then as the captain waved his drink around, enraptured in excited conversations with his mates, speaking words that Lars more often than not couldn't understand, and if his drink escaped his mug a few times to splash white hair, well he didn't say anything about it. He would reek of the arena when he left anyway, and felt no need to disturb the captain from his talks, not when he had no conversations of his own to replace them with.

His focus was solely on the arena, and the people that practically clamored over each other to get closer and closer to the center. Lars allowed himself a half-smile, turning his head a bit to get a better view. This was entertainment enough, to watch and listen to all these people that seemed so devoted to these fights - but he was still looking forward to the main attraction, perhaps more so than he'd originally anticipated.

Lars gently moved the captain's drinking hand out of his line of sight, the older man barely even noticing the little action, and listened as the crowd's yells increased in volume.

Well, he figured it must be starting then.

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Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 176
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Topics: 15
Race: Passive
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Ever th' balach.
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Tue Nov 12, 2019 10:20 pm

3rd of Yaris, 2719
The ROSE ARENA | EVENING
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"You don't even need be here, Mister Greymoore." Randal Boriand—or Master Boriand as he once preferred to be called by the dark-haired passive—warned the other man in front of him, the shorter, slighter galdor arching a greying brow.

"Oes, I ent yer property ne more, an' that's fine by me. Th' cut's th' same, ent it? Minus whatever fees an' taxes ye want t' take for a King I don't gotta serve, neither." Tristaan's grin was taunting while he stood there, already out of his shirt and carefully wrapping his calloused hands, "I heard ye were down a fighter an' I know this one's a bit special. I want th' coin an' a guarantee yer gonna fix whatever I get broke."

The older Brother hissed in displeasure, field bristling while the scrap with a newfound chip on his godsbedamned shoulder had the nerve to attempt to negotiate his purse and his post-game healing all in the same sweet breath. Still, Randal was in a bind and he knew it. The Master of the Rose Arena, here on a night of a double prize fight—literally, double the combatants for a bit of excitement!—and his second in-house fighter for the evening not just missing, but dead.

Really dead—the mangled kind of dead folks didn't get up from.

Found conveniently murdered this morning on the beach near the Widow's Walk. Half the Harbor knew it must have been on purpose: there was quite a sum of birds at stake for the winners. Whether it was a personal situation gone wrong or professional sabotage, the Hawke's jury was still out and his underlings were still investigating. The problem was, of course, that the proverbial show still had to go on which meant Randal either had to choose someone random and possibly unprepared from his roster of gladiator-like debtors or he'd have to find a free agent willing to take the risks.

Tristaan just happened to be available.

Not that he entirely had permission from a particular lovely witch—no, she wasn't at all happy with this choice no matter how good the promised payout—and he wasn't entirely sure he yet had permission from Boriand.

The galdor stared hard at the narrow-framed, scarred scrap in front of him, bold enough to be tying off his hand wraps with the slyest of grins like some hingle in the summer garden full of sweet, ripe vegetables. Already satiated. Already so smug. Well, Randal wasn't about to put up with that chroveshit, not now that he didn't have the dark-haired passive where he belonged (in servitude!). The Master of the Arena rolled his eyes,

"Fine, you can fight alongside Breaker this evening for half of what I'll be paying him when you two win. He's a Brother and you, as you so kindly remind me, are not. Therefore, the King's tax is half of whatever you earn."

"Havakda! Ye must no' really need me, eh? Ye jus' gonna find someone off th' street, then? I can jus' walk out—" Tristaan's well-carved features drew into a scowl and he reached out for his shirt, tossed as it was over a low wooden bench in the preparation area for the stabled fighters, for those on payroll or at least in the books. The bright reds and yellows and the deep black of the tattoo that so artfully disguised his passive brand stood out in the flickering lamplight.

"Sixty percent."

"Seventy five an' I'll win, with 'r without yer Breaker."

"Seventy and you'd better." Growled Randal, though there was some mischevious twinkle in his eye that Tristaan's steely gaze couldn't quite interpret. What the younger man apparently didn't know was perhaps a very important detail that the galdor chose not to elaborate on: one of the conditions of the fight tonight was that the pair of combatants on the same team would be bound by one wrist ... to each other.

"Done. Mujo m—ah. An' y'ent gonna send me home bleedin'."

"No, Mister Greymoore, not if you win. Rules are rules if you lose, however. Come, let me introduce you to Breaker before I let the pair of you loose into the sand—this way. I'll get you properly familiar with each other." Master Boriand smirked, guiding the dark-haired passive away from the common room toward the more private suites for house-kept fighters, waggling a few fingers in the direction of one of the few employees who happened to be standing around downstairs, signalling him to scurry off and prepare the two opponents for the evening, rumored to be fierce, albino Gioran humans found somewhere in the wilds between Qrieth and Giorite while hunting. It was, of course, just a rumor.
"Sometimes we are born with the keys to doors we were not meant to open."
Passive Proverb
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Breaker Cooper
Posts: 58
Joined: Tue Sep 03, 2019 6:13 pm
Topics: 8
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Thu Nov 14, 2019 10:10 am

3rd of Yaris, 2719
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Rose Arena, even down here in the fighters suites you could smell it. Old blood, sweat, terror and rage, you could almost taste it. Breaker sat in an old battered armchair, hobnailed boots up on a small table rough rolled cigar smouldering between his teeth. He lent his bald bullet head back and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and listing to the distant roar of the crowd.

He had today’s paper folded on his lap, though he wasn’t really reading it.
A steaming cup of coffee sat on the table next to his booted feet. Breaker took his feet from the table lent forward and picked up the cup and took a long sip, good strong black coffee. He pondered the upcoming fight, untroubled, he grinned, teeth catching the lamp light, he was excited.

Breaker had changed into his fighting clothes already, black close fitting knee breeches tied at the waist with a crimson sash, red socks and a pair of black ankle high leather boots laced tight, with hobnails and steel toe caps.

Glancing at his pocket watch where it sat on the chair arm he put his cup down, it was almost time. He took up the red cloth wrappings from the floor and bound his fists, cigar once more between his teeth.

When Boriand and Tristraan entered Breaker said without looking up.

"Right on time Mr Boriand, as always."


He finished with his wraps and looked up, he raised an eyebrow when he saw Tristraan.

"What’s this, a change of partner? Tis unlike Davidson to miss a fight."

Breaker stood and rolled his head from side to side loosening his neck.

"Somethin’ unfortunate has befell ‘im I assume. Ah well, no matter."


He tilted his head and regarded Tristraan.

"I know your face, but don’t recall your name. If we are to fight side by side I would fix that."

Breaker stuck out a broad hand.

"Bertold ‘Breaker’ Cooper, you ever fought roped to another man before?"


He grinned, Breaker was untroubled he looked forward to this fight like he did all fights. There were few things better than a crowd roaring your name as you reduce someone to so much blood and gristle as they tried to do the same to you.


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