[Open] Ye Can't Keep Me Down

A big double-header fight at the Rose Arena. Celebrating the Remembrance, ORH style.

Old Rose Harbor is Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld.
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Tristaanian Greymoore
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Location: Old Rose Harbor
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: I'm just here for the Sho.
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Fri Jan 04, 2019 3:31 pm

13th of Achtus, 2718
The ROSE ARENA | EVENING
"Now listen here, Greymoore, this be the roster for the night, ye chen." Lil' Mo had shouldered her way into an unofficial position as Tristaan's handler after a lot of small-statured threats, an undisclosed amount of currency, and a very real threat of death by beating with a frying pan to one of the Arena staff. The short, older woman stood wrapping the passive's hands carefully by the sputtering light of oil lanterns in the House fighters' back rooms behind the caged arena proper, "Th' first two are gonna be pushovers for ye—jus' kovs off th' street who think they're big stuff an' want in on the ging. Yer gonna wipe the floor with 'em."

"Oes." He grunted, watching the old witch's face carefully, aware that they weren't alone in the room with a few other fighters for the evening who called Hawke their Master somewhere up the chain. Some had debts to pay off like himself and some had made careers of their bloody exploits. Tristaan was, perhaps, a mix of both. Lil' Mo could speak volumes with her time-weathered expressions and there was something in the set of her lips that told the dark-haired man she meant what she said.

"Now, th' last lugger, well, I ent sure. I heard he's Hessean. He's prob'ly twice yer damn size, three times, an' shut yer head I know that ent make a difference t' ye but—" There was a twinge of worry that crept into the wrinkled edges of her dark eyes, even as she used her teeth to rip fabric and finished the job of protecting and supporting the passive's hands and wrists for all the impact they'd be making that evening, "—they calls him Drakebite an' he ent anyone t' sniff at. I'm a mant manna concerned—"

"There's nothing to worry about, Miss Maybelle." Randal Boriand's baritone voice was like fresh-poured coffee on a hungover morning, the older galdor a well-muscled creature that may have almost rivaled Tristaan in strength and power, though the passive wouldn't dare put such a theory to the test with the owner and manager of the Rose Arena, not yet. The man's field was all but alive with the Living conversation he wielded like a proper one of his kind, and as he closed the distance between himself and Hawke's new favorite pet, the man was smirking with a malicious mischievousness that didn't bode well for anyone, "It shouldn't be a long fight. You won't suffer, Mister Greymoore, because Silas has told me you're to throw the fight by the second round."

Tristaan blinked. In all of Autumn, he'd never been asked to do such a thing. He'd lost a few, sure, but not on purpose. He'd been winning. Bets had been raking in birds. He'd heard his name on the lips of strangers. He'd run into fans on the street. He was something. Or he was almost something.

And now he was supposed to lose?

Who did that?

"What?" The dark-haired passive bristled, his scarred, bare chest rising and falling with the deep breath it took to contain his confusion, "Th' hell for?"

"Money, of course, my little scrap." Master Boriand enjoyed taunting the other man, watching the flicker of resentment pass over his features with obvious pleasure at the possessive insult. He deigned to put his hand on the magic-less son of a galdor's shoulder, fingers curling into tanned skin and time-hardened muscle just above the inked mark of proof of his status, hidden though it was by the beautiful, rebellious celebration of his love for a certain witch who was, at this moment, serving drinks to a very eager crowd, "It's a big night and a big series of fights and the King wants all the profits. On both sides. He'll be collecting the losses from every smart body willing to bet on you while dolling out less for all the dumb twits who will be betting on that Hessean. He's all bark and quite a bit of bite, but he's nothing you can't handle. You're going to let him drop you and you're going to make it believable, do you hear me, Mister Greymoore?"

Tristaan's jaw set and his lips formed a tense line, feeling the heat of indignant rebellion smoldering against his ribs. Roughly shrugging his shoulder to free himself from the shorter, older galdor's not-so-friendly grip, he reluctantly grunted, "Oes. I hear you."

Did he even have a choice?

Refusing to meet the galdor's steady bright-eyed gaze with his own stormy grey hues, the dark-haired passive simmered in silence and glanced past Randal as if to gauge whether or not anyone was even listening to what was happening. Obviously, the Master knew his Arena and his fighters and had chosen to speak in a moment of far too much privacy. Throwing a fight didn't settle well at all with Tristaan, and yet he felt helpless to speak up considering money was on the line. Could he really obey such a command? Would he?

"Excellent. And while it's House policy not to patch up the losers, if you make it look good enough, well, I'll make an exception. Only because Hawke seems to like you so clocking much. Now, get out there and make short work of the early evening roster like a good man."

The passive and Lil' Mo made affirmation noises but stood still until the galdor and his most oppressive presence meandered away to make arrangements with and check on all of his other able-bodied prize fighters, four of them in total for a long double-header evening in Old Rose Harbor-style celebration of The Remembrance. A bloody and rebellious nod to the Resistance, the Rose Arena would be overflowing with bodies and coins, eager to see the best the King had to offer in combat.

Off Topic
Note: I'm making this an open thread, but it is without posting order. You can come and go as you please, but I will be posting regularly whether or not you keep up.
"A wounded chrove will fight harder."
Passive Proverb
word count: 1099

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Sarinah Lissden
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: Passively invested
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Wed Jan 09, 2019 4:48 am

13th Achtus, 2718 (32 Weeks)
ROSE ARENA | EVENING
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"I said, get me another drink, ye tumblehut trash!” The woman sitting before the pregnant witch yelled loudly at her, enough to strain the ligaments in her neck and redden her face. Granted it was loud in the arena, and the raven haired woman had to ask her to repeat herself, but it wasn’t that loud. Sarinah bit her cheek, dark eyes looking at the human’s poor excuse for ale and nodding.

”Oes chip.” She said softly, before glancing at the others around the woman’s table. They laughed, drunk off their tits and figuring out how much they were going to put down on who. Of course, the passive’s name has begun to get around. He was good at taking a beating, seemed to get up even when it was apparent he was on his last legs, but by Alioe he gave as good as he got. Sarinah wanted to turn away, every time, and yet she watched it all with wide eyes and fright. Each win was a breath of relief. Each loss was a terrifying moment of uncertainty. Was that it? Was this the one that killed him.

It wasn’t, but it didn’t stop the worry.

“Any other orders here?” She called over the din of the laughter and the wagering, drawing a couple of nods and hands from the others there as well as a few tables along. Counting heads, taking coin, the brunette turned away from the tables to make her way to the meager bar.

“…four, five…six Tomas, mujo ma?” The olive skinned dancer said to the tall wick behind the wooden counter, offering him a smile. He smiled back, before turning to draw six mugs of shitty watered down ale from the large kegs behind him. Setting them on her tray, the dark haired man gestured with his chin.

“After ye drop this lot off, Boriand wants ye to stay on the floor rosh.” Sarinah paused, frowning and looking over his face.

“I just did a whole lap of the floor. There ent any other drinks to serve yet. I got time to see Tristaan before they start these lasao fights, oes? I’ll come back to the floor after.” Tomas shook his head, looking around the room before leaning on the wood so he could speak to her more directly.

“Ne Sarinah, now. He said the King wants ye on the floor the whole time. Start to finish.” He emphasized the word, making it clear that she had no say in the matter. Sarinah glanced at the patrons that yelled at each other and to the talleymaster, swallowing the trepidation that swelled in her chest. Why would Boriand want her there the whole time?

It felt wrong.

“Mujo ma Thomas.” The woman said quietly, taking her tray of drinks and dropping them off to her customers. Fortunately, with her unavoidably visible belly protruding before her, the mahogany eyed witch didn’t get as many hands as she used to grabbing for her. There were sneers and off color remarks about her time in the Queen, but for now, hands were less of an issue.

Brushing against the fence of the cage as she walked past, the brunette looked for her lover, the father of her child. He wasn’t there though, not yet. Still tucked away out the back with Lil’ Mo pep talking in his ear and wrapping his hands. She wanted to go to him, she always went to him, just before. Just for a bit. Already her back and feet ached at the thought of staying on the floor the whole time.

“…five pennies on the Drakebite.” A rougher human’s voice caught her ear, his tone Hessean by the sounds. Resting her hands on her belly, Sarinah listened quietly over the din of the room.

“Ye moony matey. That Tristaan lad’s boun’ t’wipe th’floor with ‘im!” Another said, his voice a bitzer mix of Anaxi and Mugrobi, pirate type by the sounds. The first one laughed heartily and shook his mug, sloshing the swill of a drink on the ground.

“Unlikely! Have you seen our boy? He ain’t called the Drakebite for nothing.” His green eyes searched out the closest waitress, beckoning to the dancer with a grin.

“You. What’s your bet girly?” The pirate snorted and just about laughed himself to death, catching his breath and gesturing at her.

“Don’t ask ‘er y’mung bastard. She’s whare th’wick find’s ‘is uh…’appy endin’, know what I mean?” He gesticulated crudely into his hands, tearing a round of laughter from those gathered close enough to hear the interaction. The raven haired woman smiled wanely, raising an eyebrow at the pirate.

“At least he gets a happy ending, ent that right kov? Pretty sure the only thing keeping your bed warm is your hand, oes?” The laughter burst forth again, some of the men slapping the pirate on the back as he scowled at her. Sarinah looked away, as though completely uncaring, waiting for the first match to start or someone to call for a drink.

word count: 893
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Cordelia Undertow
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Wed Jan 09, 2019 9:19 am

13th of Achtus, 2718
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Persistent as the yellow smoke rolling over rooftops, Del slid through the crowded ground floor. Any old day, the second floor was better to lift a few pockets lighter. This morning though, the lithe Bad Brother had heard a whisper from the others; it was a bad day to bet. It driven her curiosity all morning, so she’d decided to come and see what made tonight so unprofitable “A shame.” She muttered to herself slipping between two sour bodies.

Left behind were her thick belt with tools, however slid into the front her trousers was a small kit of lock picks. There was no reason to assume they’d be useful here, but one never knew when a lock would get in the way.

The game made her blood race. Any game with stakes was worth the rush. She flicked her hair over her shoulder and threw an elbow at someone crowding her back from the edge. “Keep it to yourself or don’t keep it.” Del growled as she hit with a meaty thump. It might be enough to get her some small peace. She’d come to see the fight and no cob thinking his ha’penny bet was his salvation would block her view her.

Fate the fickle mistress would intervene. “Chavy, you’re mad as hops throwing hits without a look.” The old voice glib with experience and unconcerned by his new bruise.

Del clenched her fists and released thrice before throwing a glance behind her. Not that she needed to look to recognize Rafe. “‘Course its you.” was all she said but she pushed with her shoulder against the person on her right to give the silvered con man a slice of free space to stand in. “What are you doing on the floor old man? Might break your bones.”

“Put a few on that Drakebite. Then saw my little mouse.” There was some small hint of affection but mostly it meant in jest. “Now I figure you owe me a drink for the broken ribs.”

“Your off your table, the other has been winning.” She grunted and turned back towards the fence. “Didn’t hit your flowery personage that hard.” It was no use, and she knew it. Rafe just watched her, waiting for her to capitulate. “Oh alright, suppose you figure your personage is owed for his ‘affront’” Digging into her pocket she dug out a few penny scraps. She turned towards the nearest waitress she could spot. “One over here girl!”

The older Bad Brother looked mollified from his fake indignation. Del had never quite figured out if he just enjoyed ribbing her or if it was some bizarre attempt at teaching her a parental lesson when he got like this. Or, what sat best with her-- he was a leech.

Leaning hard her on elbows against the wire fencing, she waited for the ale girl. “Have you know, you’re drinking every drop of that rancid sauce I’m paying for.”

“Or what little mouse?”

“Or I’ll get my oil funnel and find a hole for it.” She rolled the two scraps around her palm. Neither of them sounded especially tense, it was just the way they were. Loud, insulting, and emotionally detached... what more could a daughter want?
word count: 587
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Taos Alo
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Wed Jan 09, 2019 12:55 pm

Achtus 13, 2718
The Rose Arena | Evening
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One had to admit, the harbor was never boring. Whether it be drunken brawls, kindly old folks in their shops, tumbles trying to catch your business, or fights in the arena, Old Rose proved itself an entertaining place time and time again, and Taos had only spent a few months in the harbor thus far.

It reminded him of home; not of any standing structures or warm hearth but of the tribe in which he had been raised and traveled with for so many years. His father, perhaps in his younger years, would've loved it here. He was sure.

For all the homesickness the harbor brought, he had least had his brunno, and Taos was glad for the chance to get out and do something besides work with him. He had admittedly never been to the arena, and so the structure and large amount of people within was something of a curiosity, but he knew that the place was one that many enjoyed. One that many waged bets and lost their hard-earned (and not so hard-earned) money in.

"Fair crowded en 'ere, oes? Th' table o'er there 'as spots empty, let's dust 'fore some jent nabs em," suggested Taos, dark eyes glancing over to Polk as they walked amongst the people of the second floor. He quickened his pace, taking care to look back a moment and make sure that his companion wasn't lost in the crowd, and it wasn't long before he reached the table in mention.

Three men already sat, halfway sloshed already and the fighting hadn't even started. Taos pushed behind one of them, his chair scooted out too close to a person standing behind, and earned the glares from both the sitting man as well as the human woman he'd had to squeeze by.

"Epaemo," he offered, otherwise ignoring the two and moving to pull out the empty chairs beside the man.

"There's a chip," noticed the wick, eyes catching a female server as she passed and raising his hand to catch her attention, "two drinks 'ere, ye chen?"

Taos finally let himself look over to the other men inhabiting the table then, taking note of the fact that any one of them could likely break both himself and Polk in half with one arm. Realizing it would be best to just stick to themselves at the table, he made the decision to look towards his friend instead, a note of curiosity on his face.

"So, ye got any thoughts on who'll win? See, I've 'eard only keja things alls'bouts the passive. Kov's won a benny manna times, I hear."
word count: 469
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Kit
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Wed Jan 09, 2019 6:32 pm

Achtus 13, 2718
The Rose Arena | Evening

In amongst the hubbub of those watching from relative comfort, leaning against one of the pillars that supported the floor above, a lithe figure was ostensibly watching for the fight to start. Kit, however, had attention everywhere, despite the direction in which his blue gaze was fixed, and was particularly intrigued to learn that the fetching witch ferrying drinks around, heavy with child, was attached to the fighter whose name he'd been hearing bandied around recently.

The galdor stood out a little in his face and bearing, he always did, but he'd grown used to that, as once wick and human alike realised just how comfortable he was in these surroundings they tended to pay him no mind. His field, as usual, was tucked in around him, close and unassuming.

No guitar in such crowded quarters, but a soft hum played on his lips as he reached for the flask inside his jacket. It wasn't the best rum, but it was better than the suba-swill they dared call ale here, and the warmth as he tilted his head back to let the rich liquor slide down his throat was a small and welcome pleasure.

A happy sigh as he capped the flask once more, sliding it back under the leather of his jacket, and he was back to surveying the fenced ring below, humming again with a smile on his face, a jaunty tune with which he tapped a booted toe in time.

That fighter... rumour had it he was under Hawke's personal eye, for what reason Kit hadn't troubled himself to dig out, but...

...anyone HE takes an interest is probably someone I should keep my own eye on...hang on...

Kit's attention was diverted as a cloud of copper curls, pinned with a blue silk rose, wove through the teeming crowd below, and he strode two quick steps forward to lean on the balustrade, calling out as he did so with a grin.

“Delyth! Ho, Del!”

His musician's voice was pitched just so to cut through the babble that filled the Arena, and the woman's head tipped up, eyes searching for the caller. As her gaze roamed in his direction, Kit raised a hand and beckoned, leaning precariously far over the rail.

“Get up here, witch!” he called fondly. Delyth was an on-again, off-again companion, one of the small circle that, if pressed, Kit might name friends.

...let's see if she's in the mood to put up with me today... he thought to himself, then laughed as she gestured rudely in his direction.

“An lose my spot for this bout? A think not, ersehat,” she yelled back “'Sides, I've paid mah ha'penny and I ent the ging to hop up with you gentlefolk," she finished, tongue between her teeth as she gave him a mocking grin.
word count: 490
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Polk
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Thu Jan 10, 2019 12:12 am

The Rose Arena | Achtus 13, 2718 | Evening
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Polk relished the days where he and his travelling companion would explore the harbor together. Polk had been spending much time in taverns recently, and in that time he had learned a considerable amount on the arenas. Watching a good fight, betting for the obviously better fighter, and then making easy profit amazed the young man. Taos had been curious about visiting the arena, and it was pretty easy to convince his trusting friend to add all of his money into a shared fund for betting. Polk was aware that Taos was putting all his faith in Polk's judgement, but it didn't make him feel nervous at all. The past two months had been filled with tavern brawls and knife fights, it would be easy to pick out who the victor would be.

Taos had always been good at sifting through crowds, and Polk was all too happy to let his brunno clear the path for him. Polk followed Taos through the crowds, deftly avoiding most of the people around him. A large man pushed past Polk and sent him reeling into a woman's chest. Putting his hands on her shoulders, Polk pushed himself back off of her. Trying to hide his intense blushing, Polk bowed low and tried to salvage his dignity.

"Epaemo, miss. I'm bang whacked today!"

Polk then straightened himself back up, and quickly found his way back to Taos, who seemed to be sitting with three living mountains next to him. Quickly settling himself next to the wick, Polk glanced at the woman only a few steps away who was still staring at him from his mishap, and then tried to ignore her by listening to his friend's question.

"As I much admire a man with muscle, I agree that the small rosh looks clocking tricky," Polk's face had quickly gone from a smile to the face of a stone cold betting man. Numbers were going through his head as he tried to estimate the swings each fighter would be able to make in five seconds. The strength, the accuracy, the skill.

"Hard bodies and hard men may look appealing at first, but that scrap looks like he has a sharp mind and wit."

word count: 395
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Tristaanian Greymoore
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: I'm just here for the Sho.
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Tue Jan 15, 2019 2:27 pm

13th of Achtus, 2718
The ROSE ARENA | EVENING
"Luggers an' tofts!" Randal Boriand could have possibly enjoyed a career on the stage had he not been born a greedy scoundrel, had he not been the kind of galdor who had focused more on how he could manipulate others instead of entertain them. The middle-aged man, well-dressed and smirking with his salt and pepper hair and amber eyes that shown in the lantern light like coins strode to his convenient little balcony that overlooked the Arena proper, raising a glass that was certainly not filled with the watered down excuse for ale that he sold for cheap to the masses,

"In the spirit of racial unity on this particular day of Remembrance, I've arranged a very special lineup this evening!" No irony was lost on the galdor. Laughter and catcalls from the crowd washed over him like someone else's field and his grin only grew more wicked at the kinds of words tossed in his general direction from the lips of the lower races, "Everyone's favorite passive 'round th' Arena, our very own Quiet Man, will be sizing up all that Vita has to offer: a galdor, a wick, and a human, all eager to prove their physical worth here for your viewing pleasure and profit."

Cheering and booing, more slurred shouts from the crowd, and plenty of enthusiasm of all kinds rattled through the seating along with the banging of mugs and sloshing of drinks—a loud racket that had come to be the equivalent of a signal that the audience was ready for the real fights to begin instead of the warm ups that had left the floor of the place already bloodied.

The lies were sweet, and the stealing of someone else's faded memory for the sake of more violence was not an ugliness left unnoticed by the dark-haired passive who leaned one shoulder against the damp wall of the gated hallway that led from the back rooms into the arena's dirty floor. Mo snorted behind him, hissing through her teeth her displeasure,

"Like race matters. Everyone bleeds th' same."

"Oes. Ent that th' clockin' truth." Straightening, Tristaan stretched while Master Boriand continued to work the crowd into an entirely unnecessary frenzy, their noises ringing off the wooden walls. Where Randal had doubted the magic-less son of a galdor, the passive had worked and trained hard over the past several weeks, bled and bruised, to prove himself capable and profitable in victory. He hadn't won every fight, but he'd won enough of them that people on the streets began to remember his name and Master Boriand had begun to pay him some form of attention. Not that it was always respectful attention, but it was something more than disdain. It was a start.

"Galdor first." The older woman sniggered, "Hoxian, I heard. Thinks he's a tough bag o' bones, but I ent sure he's allowed t' use th' vroo."

"Vrunta. Boriand really wants a show." The dark-haired passive didn't hide the surprise in his voice at the realization that he'd be engaging in hand-to-hand combat with a galdor, curious already as to whether his opponent would be at all like himself. It was doubtful, for Tristaan had been formed by a life of labor and purposeful study, narrow frame underestimated despite being built of mostly lithe muscle and scars.

"Don't let 'im get any distance on y' then." Mo smirked, aware that she'd fallen into her role with a natural flare. Gnarled fingers ran lightly over the inked art on the passive's bicep as she made her way to leave, aware that Randal Boriand was finally winding down his preparing of the crowd, "I'm gonna go check on yer rosh for ye while ye get this o'er with quick-like."

"Mujo ma." Tristaan smiled briefly, reminded by her words that Sarinah hadn't been allowed to slip back and visit him, most likely to keep him from sharing what he'd been told. His smile faded with the realization that throwing the last fight was truly an expectation, wary of the implications despite Boriand's promise that he'd be allowed magical healing even if he lost. Nervousness mixed with adrenaline, the jittery warmth of awakened nerves tingling under his skin as he heard his name again on the lips of the Arena's Master and then the crowd.

Antiquated though the set up was, a gate opened on either side of the high-walled dirt circle to allow both the passive and his opponent to enter on opposite sides, meeting in the middle to the roar of a jeering, cat-calling, totally guttered already crowd. The Hoxian who stepped up to meet Tristaan was shorter, no less lithe, and had but one good eye left on his scarred face, the wicked grin he wore revealing he had no qualms about earning a few more stripes. His field wasn't weak or doetoed, a solid force that washed over the passive's presence unapologetic and threatening, a reminder of what he, himself, had lacked his whole life.

Both men were shirtless, their hands bound well for protection and impact, barefoot on the dirt-covered wooden floor.

"Anything goes, boys. Make it a good show."

The Master's sharp grin was unmistakable permission and Tristaan felt his heart sink into the cavity of his chest, grey eyes sizing up his opponent one more time with the sudden awareness that he'd have to quite literally stay on top of him to keep him from casting. The risk of backlash was no less than the risk of diablerie at this point, and while the dark-haired passive hadn't experienced his uncontrollable passive burden since that fateful day in Bethas, he was aware that was entirely not his decision.

The pair of fighters met in the middle, counting ten paces back from each other after a nod or a bow of recognition, bodies tense and pulse drumming a rhythm through their skulls.

There was the loud ring of a bell, each individual fight divided into three rounds, provided both opponents remained standing for the first one.

The Hoxian leapt first, a compact creature already gathering his field and charging toward Tristaan, the passive shifting his stance and preparing to meet the shorter, slower man with a hard, low blow toward his ribs, in a hurry to disrupt any opportunities for spells thrown in his direction.

"A wounded chrove will fight harder."
Passive Proverb
word count: 1136
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Sarinah Lissden
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: Passively invested
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Thu Jan 17, 2019 7:37 am

13th Achtus, 2718 (32 Weeks)
ROSE ARENA | EVENING
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“O​​ne over here girl!”
​​
​​Sarinah looked away from the pirate and his party at the sound of a voice, nodding towards the woman before making her way across the floor. Another on the way through, a wick for two. She acknowledged him with a flick of her wrist and two fingers against her forehead, continuing her way towards the bar. The gentle, dampened touch of a field drew the brunette’s attention, and her dark eyes wandered to a gentleman on the second floor. A galdor, no doubt, though he could have passed as a wick with that unremarkable field. He swigged from a flask and she chuckled. Smart man. His hand waved and he called out to her first patron. The dancer made a note, she needed to take the drink to the woman on the next floor when she came back.
​​
​​ “Three Tomas.” She said curtly, eyes wandering the pit again as she waited, fearful of missing Tristaan’s entry. When they were filled, she went backwards through the way she’d come, stopping first at the table for two.
​​
​​ “Two for two kovs.” Taking their coin, she nodded at the fence.
​​
​​ “That scrap’ll keep gettin’ up, even when he should stay down. Ye bettin’ solid if ye bet on him, ye chen?” Sarinah said with a wink, pocketing the ging and making her way to the stairs to find the first patron.
​​
​​"Luggers an' tofts!"
​​
​​The witches eyes snapped to Boriand as he stood on his platform, full of himself and his empire. She placed the drink on the table for the woman, taking the payment and keeping her distance from the golly. Moving to the railing, her brow drew in a frown, feeling the familiar sense of nausea as the Arena ringmaster rallied his patron. It was like a sick twist on Baldur’s circus.
​​
​​Oh, she missed them.
​​
​​Field slanted with nervous concern, her hands rested on the wood as she looked for him.
​​
​​ “In honour of Rememberance day, what a mant manna spitch.” The pregnant woman muttered, chewing on the inside of her lip. Three fighters tonight against Tristaan. A wick, a human and a golly? The brunette swore, moving towards the stairs with a deeper frown. How in Alioe’s name could they put a titchy soft galdor in the ring? Would he use magic? This wasn’t normal.
​​
​​As the crowd cheered and leered, Sarinah walked down the stairs, glancing up at Boriand before looking back over the pit where it sat like a great maw waiting for its next meal. The boch in her womb turned, a fluttery kick hidden within.
​​
​​ “Sarinah.” A familiar, maternal voice called out from the floor. The wick turned, closing the distance between herself and ‘Mo as the gates opened to allow both fighters entry.
​​
​​ “Rosh! I ent…I ent sure what’s going on but Boriand wouldn’t let me come. And…a golly? A golly? She gestured at the Hoxian magister, flustered by the sight of the man. This was no Brunnhold fancy soft cock. This was some battle worn warrior that came from drake country. His field hit her like a ton of bricks. Lil’Mo nodded, sucking on her teeth.
​​
​​ “Oes, but doubt ‘e’ll be allowed t’ use ‘is vroo. Wouldn’t be fair.” The small fiery woman said with a nod, rubbing the younger brunettes shoulder whilst the ringmaster played his hand.
​​
​​ "Anything goes, boys. Make it a good show."
​​
​​Sarinah moved forward, looking at Tristaan through the links of the fencing with horror, heart in her throat as she swivelled back to ‘Mo.
​​
​​ “Ne…ne that ent right!” She half yelled over the noise of the crowd, shoving back jostling patrons as Lil’Mo frowned and stalked her way back to the stalls to wait for whatever would come. The fighters met in the middle, and her trepidation grew. This wasn’t just dangerous, it was stupid. Sarinah knew what her passive was capable of, and it had taken near death last time to set his magic off. The galdori owner played with fire here, and Sarinah couldn’t look away.
​​
​​The three bells sounded, and the witch stayed close to the fence, her fingers reaching to lace in the links as her mahogany gaze focused on the scarred lover, barely blinking as the fight began.
​​
word count: 760
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Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 147
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Topics: 14
Location: Old Rose Harbor
Race: Passive
: I'm just here for the Sho.
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Writer: Muse
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Thu Feb 21, 2019 4:04 pm

13th of Achtus, 2718
The ROSE ARENA | EVENING
The crowd cheered and leaned eagerly to watch the first fight of the evening unfold, an expectant quiet filling the Arena instead of the rowdiness from before. There were some catcalls and insults tossed toward the dirt floor where the evening had opened with a surprise—it wasn't very often a galdor came for combat, after all.

The dark-haired passive cared little for the approval of the crowd, despite the fact that his name was slowly becoming one spoken around pints in the Dove or mentioned in passing on the streets. Unused to such attention but aware that Master Boriand and his King, Silas Hawke, only saw such growing attention as financial gain, Tristaan was only doing his best to survive each fight in the Arena. It just so happened that he wasn't so bad at fighting, either.

The bell rang out above his moment of focus, and he could feel the whisper-like shift of mona as the galdor gathered his field, the shorter, broad-shouldered Hessean grinning at his magic-less opponent before he began to growl words in Monite. The passive charged, of course, but was hardly fast enough for the short, clipped phrase of a Push spell. The freckled, blond-haired galdor who wore his hair in many braids and was hardly any less muscled than his tattooed, Anaxi opponent was clearly as skilled with magic as he was with his fists, and the spell hit Tristaan hard, tossing him through the air to smash him against the wall near the gate he'd just entered from.

Off Topic
SidekickBOTToday at 3:36 PM
Muse: 2d6 = 6,3 - Galdor offense rolls
Muse: 3d6 = 1, 6, 6 - Tristaan defense, offense rolls
Muse: 1dg = 3 - Galdor defense roll


The crowd erupted into vicious cheers and laughter in some places and loud boos on the other, catcalls accusing Boriand himself of allowing cheating echoing above the rest of the noise.

The passive felt the sting of rough concrete dig into the tanned, bare skin of his back but didn't even groan, scrambling quickly to his feet and using the firm surface to shove off of, jumping toward the magic-weilding ersehole as the Hessean carefully closed the distance, more Monite flowing off his lips.

The sting of his Lashing spell spread quickly, crawling over all of Tristaan's already scarred body as if he'd rolled into a hedge row of bushes with thorns, strong enough to raise welts and open small cuts. The pain was uniquely excruciating, but it only served to fuel the force at which the dark-haired passive lowered his shoulder into the other man's chest, catching him just under the diaphragm with swift force and causing the rest of whatever vroo he was attempting to falter against the back of his teeth as Tristaan toppled him hard to the ground.

Magic fizzling with a harsh ringing in both their ears and a wave of nausea, the galdor grunted, wide-eyed in surprise at the kind of strength hidden in the narrow frame of his magic-less opponent. The audience jeered and shouted again, chanting the passive's moniker as the two wrestled for a few moments on the sandy floor of the Arena in an attempt to find dominance, the passive tossing in a few good punches and one very hard elbow to the Hessean's freckled face—first real blood flowing immediately setting the hardly sober crowd rabid with sound.

Eventually ending up on top of the galdor, straddling the Hessean's chest while the blond wheezed, Tristaan wasted no time in attempting to end the first fight quickly with a merciless succession of blows to his opponent's face.

The galdor writhed and attempted to block some of the punches, finally managing to catch the passive under the chin and twist the man over, scrambling back while he saw stars and wiped a smear of red from his vision. It was obvious, however, that without the advantage of distance and magic, he stood little chance against the more experienced and far more determined tattooed man. Rubbing his split chin on the back of his wrapped fist, Tristaan was up on his feet again and in the Hessean galdor's personal space with the blink of an eye.

The two exchanged more blows, but the dark-haired passive was faster, more evasive, and soon stood over the beaten, panting form of his first opponent for the evening. It was hardly a victory worth gloating over—one foreign jent who couldn't make a damn difference in Anaxi politics, the cheering crowd far more interested in violence than justice, and Tristaan covered in welts and shallow cuts from some godsbedamned spell with two more opponents to go.
"A wounded chrove will fight harder."
Passive Proverb
word count: 851
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Sarinah Lissden
Posts: 128
Joined: Thu Mar 29, 2018 3:42 am
Topics: 15
Location: Vienda
Race: Wick
: Passively invested
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Wed Mar 06, 2019 11:42 pm

13th Achtus, 2718 (32 Weeks)
ROSE ARENA | EVENING
Image
S​​arinah winced, wanting to turn away as Tristaan was thrown across the cage, bouncing off the wall behind him as the Hessean used his vroo against the man. Her voice added to the protests about cheating, dark eyes glaring at their proverbial master as the crowd reacted, wishing all the worst deaths on the ersehole.

“This ent right!” She yelled, swivelling her gaze as the sour taste of the Hesseans lashing burnt her tongue. The passive pushed through the pain, as always, to shoulder the man roughly and bring him down to the ground, teeth ringing as the spell was broken mid cast.

“Oes! Take him down kov! Kick his erse!” The witch yelled, moving along the ring to be closer to the two men as they wrestled in the sandy dirt. Blood spurted forth, red and stark in the ring like some sort of victory flag, and the patrons roared their delight. Sarinah cheered along with them, her face twisted in anger and determination for her lover. Tristaan was on top of the mage now, giving it his all, and she couldn’t help but grin.

It was a split second, a moment of achievement for the Hessean, when he caught the passive and turned the tide. The brunette gasped her protest, moving further around the ring towards the fight where it had shifted, heart in her throat. He was bleeding, and there would be a bruise from that fist, but Alioe be damned if it kept him down. Up again, barely missing a beat, the passive took control of the fight and within what felt like moments, he stood over the broken galdor.

Sarinah whooped with delight, leaning against the cage and closing her eyes with a hitch in her breath. The babe within moved, though it was quieter, as though sensing her mood. Opening her mahogany eyes again, she looked at the man, lifting her chin and offering him an encouraging smile.

“Drinks! We need drinks!” A rowdy voice sounded, followed by more cheering. The brunette grit her teeth, turning away with a frown to attend the table. One of the younger patrons, a boy barely able to be classed as a man, made a sound and waved his hand at her.

“Nah, I don’t wanna be served by a knocked up whore. Where’s the other girls?” Sarinah ignored him, taking orders from the group and avoiding looking at the creep.

“Aww look out boy, dontcha know tha’s th’ best little tumble this side o’ Anaxas? That’s Mistress Dove. Ain’t a bun in th’ oven e’er stopped Miss Scarlett’s girls before, right birdy?” An older tattooed pirate, with far too many missing teeth sneered at the witch, licking her lips with a smack and a chuckle. The dancer didn’t reply, turning away from the table to get their drinks without so much as a raised brow. She watched the ring, waiting to see who would next come out to face her lover, uncaring about the world around her.

Returning to the group, she placed mugs down in the center and took the coin, gritting her teeth again as the boy reached for her wrist before she could hurry away.

“You know, I could give you an extra ha’penny if you get down on your knees and su—”

“Get off it boch. Ye ent more than a nanabo thing fresh out of ye daoa’s arms.” The brunette snapped, tugging her arm from his hand and looking the youngster up and down as his friends laughed heartily.

“You can’t talk to me like that!” He exclaimed, face beet red with embarrassment. Sarinah turned away, uncaring about the banter or drunk children, moving back to shove her way into the crowd to look into the pit.
​​
word count: 669
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