Spirits of the Earth

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The arena is full today. It was the first thing Aurelio thought as he approached the firmly shut portcullis, dark eyes narrowed in some mix of disgust and excitement. He could feel the familiar thrill of anticipation running through his veins, burning with a fire he could never quite contain. He clenched one hand around the solid wood bars of the gate, glared at the crowd with venom as they jostled and clamoured in anticipation of the coming match. He would have liked to see them down there, in the pit, fighting in the grit and sand and blood. It was not the first time he had thought it, and he knew it would not be the last. Most of them wouldn't last five minutes. A cruel smile twisted at his lips, 'Not if I had any say in it.'

"Lio." Eleodoro called his attention away from the arena outside, his vision turning black as he moved away from the portcullis and the glaring light outside, to the dim shadows of the passageway. His armour, light and leather, scratched and worn by years of use, hung from his brother's fingers and he couldn't help the shadow of a smile that danced across his face as he stepped forward to accept it. No words passed between them as Eleodoro helped him into his armour, tying the matching braces around his arms with silent precision. He had been doing this for years, for as long as Aurelio had needed it, and they do not need to speak to know what the other is thinking, fearing.

Eleo tied off the last strap, tucking it safely behind the leather brace, and dropped his hand onto Aurelio's shoulder, contrasting pale eyes meeting Aurelio's own, and he silently leant forwards to press their temples together, hand cupped around the back of his brother's neck. Eleodoro released a soft breath, his fingers digging into the flesh of Aurelio's shoulder.

"Be careful." He whispered.

Aurelio nodded fractionally, letting his twin's presence temper a little of the fire racing through him, controlling it instead. "I always am."

The crowd cheered outside the gates, the sound echoing through the empty passageway and drawing both their gazes. Aurelio squeezed Eleodoro's arm reassuringly and collected his weaponry from its place against the wall. He faced the portcullis, head held high and stance strong, and lifted his hands to pull the loose strands of hair around his face into a tight, half-ponytail behind his head.

The chains on the gate clattered and groaned with the effort of pulling the heavy fixture upwards, and the crowd roared as he stepped forwards into the light.

The roar of the crowd let her know that her opponent had entered the ring. Nathara closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath to center herself. Her legs were crossed, hands resting lightly on her knees.

I bend, but I do not break.

The soft hiss and rustling of scales against stone drew her attention to her companion and she smiled slightly, reaching out to run two fingers over Shakah's hooded head. "I will be back soon," she hissed to the cobra. Satisfied with that answer, the snake disappeared back into the shadows of the tunnel.

Another breath and she pushed herself to her feet, listening to the rumble and groan of the chains as they lifted her gate.

I fold, but I do not yield.

Nathara squinted against the sudden light of the sun as she stepped out into the Colosseum, hissing quietly in protest. She blinked, focus immediately snapping to the other gladiator, her competitor for the match.

A man. That was good. Her time in Essyrn had taught her that men tended to underestimate women seemingly on principle. If this one followed that precedent, that should give her something of an upper hand.

So she smiled, and dipped her head to her opponent, even as the cheers and roars of the crowd threatened to deafen her. "You honor me with this fight."

I bow, but I do not submit.

The crowd roared as the portcullis across the arena slid upwards, releasing his opponent to the light. Immediately, his eyes narrowed, running her over with a critical gaze, her features instantly ringing a bell in his head. He had heard of this one, seen the aftermath of a match. The image of crushed bones and a face permanently fixed in gaping horror flashed through his mind and he shook his head, observing her quietly.

She bowed her head, a waste of time really, and an opening for anyone with a little less sanity and a little more blood-lust. Still, he spun his sword in an acknowledging flourish, dipping his chin ever so slightly in return of the gesture. She was a worthy opponent, from what he had heard and the posture of confidence he could see before him now, but she would have to truly prove herself to earn his respect.

There would only be one victor of this match, and he did not intend to lose.

He let his leg slide back, falling into a ready, balanced position and drawing his second sword from his side. He jerked his head in her direction, letting everything else fall away, the roar of the crowd, the taste of sand in his mouth, the sweat sticking to his skin. Everything faded but the pound of blood in his ears, through his veins, and the enemy in his way.

Nathara noted the dip of his chin with interest, and the wariness that had set into his frame as he looked her over. Ah. Not underestimating her then.

Unfortunate, but she could work with this. Probably.

Her smile fell away and she sank back into a defensive stance, slowly beginning to pace around the perimeter of the arena. The crowd was already calling for blood, but she blocked them out. Her eyes darted from her opponent's feet to his face, doing her best to get the measure of him as quickly as she could.

She did not attack. It wasn't her nature, to strike without first being provoked. And no matter how many matches she was entered in, that one simple fact never changed. She simply circled him, a wild animal sizing up her prey.

She went on the defensive. Aurelio smiled; that suited him just fine. He mirrored her slow, paced circle in a much faster movement, spinning his blades once more and snapping his neck to one side.

'Lets get this over with.' He shot forwards like a ball from a cannon, dust rising from the arena floor at the speed of his movement, curling around his heels like a ghost. He crossed the distance in a few long bounds, launching off one heel and spinning into a frontal assault, one sword raised for her mid-section, the other tucked close to his side ready for defence.

The scream of excitement from the crowd hit deafened ears, his focus set on one thing, one goal, and it alone.

Nathara's eyes widened just slightly, but then she was twisting out of the way, her body bending and curving in a way that just wasn't quite human as she spun gracefully out of range of her opponent's blades.

The movement was almost too fast for the eye to follow, and then she was behind him, a dagger in her hand and a snarl curving her lips. She flipped her dagger in the air to switch her grip, blade now pointed outward as she sank back on her heels and waited.

In a flash, she was gone, slipping out of the path of his attack in the blink of an eye. Fire rushed through his veins, exhilaration flickering in his chest as he let the momentum of his strike carry him through an about-face on his heel, facing her once more. He ran his tongue over his teeth, breathing in the musty air and watching her snarl and hiss, falling back into defensive once more. She reminded him of a snake, crouching there in the dusty arena, her body fluid and graceful in a way it should not be. Crushed bones and a face forever frozen in horror....

The crowd was almost silent around them, a pulse and throb of tension ebbing and flowing between the round walls of the arena as they sized each other up, a moment of stillness after the first thunderclap. Absently, he thought perhaps he should have payed more attention to those few murmured conversations he had heard regarding this woman, but he dismissed the idea quickly. It mattered little how good she was or how she fought, he would win, just like he always did.

He let one of his swords fall to the dust, ignoring the quiet gasp of the crowd as he adjusted his hold onto his remaining weapon and fell forwards into another attack, a savage sound escaping his lips as he swung, powerful and raw, yet played close to his chest. He had not survived this long through rage and recklessness, alone.

She ducked his swing again, though he was faster than she'd thought-- she could have sworn the blade cut a lock of hair as she weaved out of the way.

Dropping low, Nathara rolled between her opponent's legs and sprang up behind him. Trying to use a moment of surprise to her advantage, she lunged forward in an effort to get a grip on the man, trying to wrap her arms around his midsection, pinning his arms.

She was fast, he'd give her that, slipping out of reach of his blade once more and ducking through his wide stance. Aurelio growled, spinning on his heel and feeling his eyes widen as she lunged for him, weapon forgone in an apparent attempt to get her arms around him.

He lurched back, feet scuffing the loose dirt and dust as he gathered himself properly and bounced back again, controlled this time. She was turning out to be every bit as tricky as he had heard, but he was tired of playing games. 'Stand and fight me, damnit!' He readied his sword again, lifting it vertically before his chest and staring her down, heart thrumming between his ribs. Let her come to him this time.

Nathara grinned; she could almost feel his irritation, smell on the hot, tense air between them. Ah, she knew his type, those who hated the way she fought, who preferred to simply hammer at each other with swords and axes.

She flipped her dagger again, raising it up to eye level and quirking an eyebrow. Was he baiting her?

Fine. Could be interesting. Another smirk and she darted forward-- more a test than a proper attack, jabbing her dagger curiously toward his left side, seeing just how quick his reflexes were.

Aurelio smiled, more than pleased she had taken the cue. He didn't like pansying around, they weren't here to make nice or put on a show, this wasn't a mock battle. This was a survivor finish, and he had no patience for wasting time with theatrics.

He surged forwards, twisted his body away from her strike and dropping his right hand from the hilt of his blade. Her dagger grazed the side of his armour, chipping away a layer of polish and surface, both, and leaving a shallow rent in its wake. The best could take it, had a dozen times before, and he brushed the successfully landed blow aside in the interest of aiming his freed fist for her face.

Hassir had berated him for using his fists in a sword fight, once. Aurelio had won his next two matches with fists alone, out of spite, and that had been a conversation not repeated.

Nathara's eyes widened slightly, but she quickly ducked out of the way of his fist, twisting low to the ground and springing up again on his other side.

In her haste she nearly forgot her dagger, and had to adjust her grip quickly to keep ahold of it. Her eyes narrowed, glowing white, and she hissed, teeth bared to reveal long, sharp fangs.

"You wish to fight unarmed?" Her snarl turned into a smirk and she stepped back, tossing her blade aside. She raised her hands to show she had no other weapons, then held her arms out akimbo, daring him to charge her. "Come and get me then."

He spun to face her once more, quickly tiring of the constant ducking and weaving. She was a worthy opponent, but as much as his pulse quickened with every graceful momvement, as much as the fire burning through his veins and alighting something in his core made him feel..alive, like nothing else could, he did not enjoy these matches, not like some.

Now, he just wanted it over.

He reaffirmed his grip on his blade, bringing it back to centre in both hands and readying his stance. She had left herself wide open, not entirely what he had anticipated from his wild punch, but something he was willing to accept, if with a little caution. He lifted his head, sizing her up, and let that grim smile play at his lips again.

"This is the Colosseum," he said, voice low and little more than a gravelly growl, "you will find no honour here."

He pushed off, blade swinging in a devastating blow for her exposed front. A wild, reckless move, maybe, but a finishing one if it struck.

Nathara waited, simply smiling. She waited, and waited...Now!

At the last possible moment, she jumped, twisting and springing high into the air at the same time, turning to land in a crouch behind Aurelio. Without even a pause for breath, she kicked off, launching herself at his back and wrapping her arms around his middle.

Teeth bared in a smile, she began to squeeze.

She dodged.

In the space of a second, she slipped out of the path of his attack, leaving little but an after image in his mind's eye and disturbed air. Aurelio's sword ate dust, scraping across the hard-packed dirt as he tried to recollect himself. The attack had been intended to meet resistance, to give him something to throw his weight into; Instead, he was floundering in empty air, something like panic curling through his mind seconds before arms snaked around his torso and squeezed.

What little air hadn't left him with the thwarted strike exploded from his lungs with a pained sound, his eyes widening in shock. Shit she was fast. Something in his chest was starting to bend, several somethings, actually, and he gritted his teeth against the feeling of suffocating in his own skin, shaking himself out of his momentary, shocked stupor. He wasn't beaten yet.

He lifted his sword, still gripped loosely in his left hand, and forced his fingers to flip it into reverse, a practiced, easy move suddenly difficult and cumbersome. All of this happened within the space of a few seconds, his instincts and skill honed beyond the fear trying to claw into his heart as the pressure around his midsection only increased with every passing moment. Still, he wasn't fast enough. Even as he clenched his fingers around the hilt of his sword and drove it harshly past his own side, something in his chest gave, and the sound that broke from his lips was a vicious mix of fury and pain.

Her opponent's cry was joined by one of her own as the blade slid home, metal carving into her side. For a moment her grip loosened as she recoiled, blood weeping from her side and jaw gritted against the wave of pain.

She tried to lunge forward again, to readjust her grip, but the blow she'd taken made it difficult. Panting, she hissed into the gladiator's ear, "I don't want to kill you. Yield!"

He growled a breath through his teeth, taking her moment of weakness and breaking forwards, staggering and turning to face her, sword raised defensively before him as his chest burned. Something had broken, stabbing through him like blades beneath his skin. He shook it off, forcing it down into a corner of his mind, away from the fight, away from her.

He had underestimated her, severely, but he had an edge now, he'd wounded her. She was fast and freakishly strong, able to break bones with a simple grip, tight as iron. His eyes narrowed, reevaluating her, himself. His chest burned with every breath and he'd lost his second sword somewhere across the ring, buried in the dust now, but she was bleeding and slowed. He snarled, holding one arm close to his chest defensively even as he lowered his sword point towards her, a vicious light in his eyes. This was how he survived, this was how he protected.

He would not yield.

Nathara snarled, slipping backward away from him. She pressed one hand to the gash in her side, panting lightly as she glared across the tense space between them.

"Yield," she hissed again. Her free hand curled into a fist, one foot sliding back into a defensive crouch. "I don't want to kill you!"

Her voice, heavily accented in her distress, was equal parts infuriated and grieving, though she tried to hide that behind an animalistic hiss.

Aurelio's eyes narrowed, dark slits of rage and frustration. How dare she. How dare she ask him to yield, how dare she act like he had no choice but to yield! This was his turf as much as it was hers, his life, his method of protecting what little he had left. To lose...to lose was unacceptable, and yielding would be only just above driving the sword in his hand through his own heart.

He growled, teeth bared in her direction, eyes hard and ungiving. "You will have kill me before I surrender." He spat, ignoring the taste of blood in his mouth and shooting forward barely before the words had touched the air. He needed to end this. Now.

The snake woman hissed and spun gracefully to the side, snapping her arms out to wrap around him again.

She was more careful this time, using enough pressure to starve him of air without actually breaking anymore bones. If she could hold her grip long enough to knock him out, this would all be over.

"You cannot make me kill," she whispered, jaw clenched.

She was no innocent— she had killed in the arena, but only when forced to. This didn't have to be a fight to the death, her master had stated that explicitly. "You cannot make me kill..."

Aurelio was fast, broken bones be damned, but Nathara was faster. In a matter of seconds, she was gone, dodging effortlessly out of his way and darting in behind him once more. He didn't have time to react, breath rushing from his lungs as her arms wrapped around him and descended with that crushing pressure once more. He couldn't breath, couldn't find room in the smothering embrace to draw air through his throat, and rationality left him with the memory of drowning.

He had no air to scream, anger boiling in his veins as dark spots danced through his vision and he struggled, sword arm light and useless, the trusted weapon hanging like a leaden weight from his tingling fingers. His hearing faded, panic snatching away what little oxygen he had left, and he sagged, blade falling from his fingers as he scrabbled weakly at the vice-like hold around his chest, consciousness rapidly slipping.

He couldn't yield...Couldn't let Hassir see him falter, see him fail. Not with Eleodoro's life on the line...

Yet, it appeared, he had little choice in the matter.

As she felt him start to go limp Nathara relaxed her grip slightly, ready to step back so the match could be called once he lost consciousness.

A soft sigh escaped her and she closed her eyes for a brief moment. not letting down her guard, exactly, but simply allowing herself a moment of exhaustion.

"...Sorry."

They called the match. Aurelio was aware of it, even as he sagged, legs buckling under his weight and vision little more than blurred shapes and dust now. The pressure around his middle loosened fractionally and he sucked in a breath, the air burning through his lungs almost as badly as the deprivation of it. He had lost, defeated for the first time in months. Perhaps he had been too arrogant, too sure of himself, had not taken heed from the misfortune of those who had fought this opponent in the past.

It didn't matter now. He had failed. His vision was a lost cause, but he could picture his brother perfectly in his mind's eye, waiting behind the portcullis, trusting and sure. He had only time for a brief apology before his hold on reality fled and he toppled. He was unconscious before he hit the dirt.

"Whoa, steady." Knowing he was unconscious, Nathara nonetheless quickly shifted her grip on her opponent to catch him around the shoulders, lowering him to the ground. He'd already gotten a broken rib or two in this match, gods knew he didn't need a concussion on top of that.

No sooner was he on the ground when the guards had entered, grabbing her arms and shoving her back toward the tunnel out of the arena.

"Match is called, slave. Get back," one said gruffly. Nathara rolled her eyes, but didn't bother to jerk away from his grip.

"Easy," the other guard cautioned his companion. "Her master said to keep her in one piece. Someone made a bid for her during the match."

The snake woman's eyes widened. Someone had what?

The other guard snorted derisively, jerking her forwards by his grip on her arm again. "More fool them. Who'd want something like this in their home?" He sneered. They entered the darkness of the tunnels leading away from the arena, the shadows momentarily consuming after the brightness of the arena outside. A woman stepped before them, seeming to melt from the very shadows, and blocked their path.

"I serve Master Hassir." She announced, her face hidden behind a thin veil and hands folded before her bared chest. "He has made arrangements with your Master to bring you into his servitude. Please, follow me."

Nathara gritted her teeth but kept silent, simply following the familiar path of the tunnels.

Her guards started slightly as the woman appeared, but Nathara merely raised an eyebrow, eyes glowing softly in the dark. This Hassir guy was gonna have to try harder than that if he wanted someone to startle her.

She shrugged, nodding. "As you wish." New master, old master, didn't matter much to her. She stepped toward the woman, then paused, glancing back into the shadows again. She knelt and hissed softly, and the guards jumped again as a massive king cobra slithered his way between their legs and to her open hand, gliding up to wrap around her arm and shoulders, head resting in the crook of her neck.

Nathara turned back to the strange woman. "Lead the way then."

The woman seemed unfazed by the large reptile, simply nodding once and turning on her heel to lead the way through the winding passages. The guards trailed after them at a distance, clearing wanting nothing to do with the snake or its master. Soon enough, they emerged from the tunnels into the light of day once more, with the woman leading them onwards to the raised, covered areas around the arena.

She stepped into one decorated with light drapes and lavish rugs, embroidered cushions littering the floor and the low, padded seat near the edge of the room. She bowed to the side, beckoning Nathara forwards with one hand, and spoke while still bent low. "Master, I have brought you the Gladiator."

Hassir was not a large man in girth, or height but he still cut an imposing figure as he turned away from the large windows overlooking the arena and faced the two women, a wine goblet cradled in one hand. He sized the snake woman up like a lion eyeing a doe, a smile curling at his lips. He stepped forwards, the light, loose fabric of his minimal clothing rustling with the movement.

"A most impressive match." He purred, the voice of a man who knew what he wanted and how to get it, "It has been quite some time since my Champion has been defeated, yet you accomplished it with ease." His eyes raked over her, sizing her up, faltered slightly over the blood marring her side.

"Ezry, fetch bandages and clean clothes for our brave fighter." A smile, surprisingly warm, though tinged by that look of controlled satisfaction, "I would have her rest in comfort."

Nathara held her ground as she was looked over like a sow at auction, Shakah twining lazily around her shoulders.

"I wouldn't go that far," she replied evenly. "Your Champion was anything but easy to defeat. He fought well."

She was leery of his offer to rest in "comfort"; nothing in Essyrn came free, and she had no idea what this man's price would be.

Hassir laughed softly, crossing the room as Ezry ducked back out through the thin drapes and taking a seat on the padded bench. He gestured towards the cushions spread across the floor rug, his eyes tracing the cobra draped around her neck like a piece of jewellery. "Sit, make yourself comfortable. If Aurelio put up as much of a fight as you say, you deserve your rest."

There was a tone of patronise in his voice, whether it was directed at her or his Champion was hard to tell, but he leaned back in his seat, bared arms resting lazing over the back of the bench and feet spread wide. He was comfortably in control of his environment, knew he held the cards, and was evidently confident of the security blanket his guards outside the room provided.

Nathara didn't move. She knew she had little to no power in this situation, but whatever she could scrounge for, she'd grab onto and refuse to let go.

So she stood on her own two feet, head high and shoulders squared despite the blood still leaking sluggishly from her side.  "Why am I here?" Her voice was soft, but with a core of steel, eyes flashing defiantly.

He met her gaze, a little of the smile slipping from his lips, but corners still upturned. He waved a hand towards the arena outside the window, tilting his head in an expression probably meant to look innocent.

"None have defeated my Champion for some time." Hassir said simply, as though that should explain all, "You have me...intrigued." He pulled his hand back, curling it over his knee and placing his wine goblet on the small table at the side of the bench he sat on. "You are something special."

Nathara arched a rather unimpressed eyebrow. "Intrigued? Special?" She snorted softly, stroking Shakah's head. "I'm not sure what you hope me to be, Hassir—" she pointedly used no title— "But I'll not be a bedwarmer, or a fancy prize for you to put on display."

The man smiled in a hungry sort of way, a light in his eyes as he looked her over, leaning forwards over his knees. "Oh, I want no such thing as to waste your talents being a fancy doll, my dear Nathara. No, your skill is in the arena, and that's exactly where I want you to stay."

The ruffle of fabric announced Ezry's return, the veiled woman bowing her head as she reentered the room with a small basket holding medicinal cloths, clean clothes, and a jug of heavily scented oils. Hassir leaned back on his seat, waving a hand. "Get yourself cleaned up, Gladiator."

Her other eyebrow leaped up to join its twin. “Do you expect me to do that with you watching?” she demanded. Shining white eyes narrowed at him dangerously. Shakah  raised his head and flared his hood, tongue flicking out as he tasted the tension in the air.

Hassir laughed, a deep, throaty sound, and waved a hand dismissively, mirth reflected in his every movement. "Do not think me perverted, woman. Ezry, please take Nathara to the other room so she may become respectable in privacy." There was definitely a note of patronism in his voice now, thinly veiled and toned with entertainment as well.

The other woman simply nodded, tucking her basket back under her arm and extending the other towards the opening to the room once again. "This way."

Nathara didn't bother to respond, simply following Ezry into the other room.

"What exactly does your master Hassir want me to wear?" she asked with another quirked eyebrow.

The second room was much like the first, if only less lavishly decorated and without the view of the arena. Ezry regarded Nathara quietly for a moment from behind her veil, not quite wary simply apprehensive. She glanced down at the basket in her hands, kneeling to set it on the rugged floor and lifting the items inside out one at a time. The clothing she produced was simple and light, a pale cream in colour. Plain, baggy trousers fastened at the mid-calf with dull silver bangles, and a loose, semi-transparent shirt tied closed at the shoulder blades.

Ezry set the items to the side after giving Nathara a chance to inspect them, removing the bandages and cleaning oils from the basket next. "Please allow me to tend your wounds."

Nathara gave the girl a wary look, then eventually nodded her acquiescence. Shakah slid down from her shoulder to curl around her feet sleepily.

"Fine." She shrugged off her shirt and twisted so the slave girl could get at her side.

Ezry worked in relative silence, cleaning the wound with a sharply stinging oil and then producing needle and thread to stitch the wound. It was clear she had done this before, her hands steady and her face set in a grim focus as worked. Halfway through her task, she paused, glancing up, her eyes hidden behind the thready material of her veil.

"Master Aurelio..." She bit her lip, gaze flickering between Nathara's face and the wound she was tending, "He will not take kindly to this change. He may be...hostile, towards you."

The gladiator scoffed quietly, hardly even wincing as the needle pulled at her skin. "He's welcome to be as hostile as he likes. It makes no difference to me."

Ezry sighed softly, continuing with her work and closing up the wound before setting the needle and thread to the side. "I know it may not seem like it but, we have a good life here. Master Hassir is a good man, he looks after us all well. If you could please try to let him show you that..."

She reached for the bandages, patting the stitched gash with a different, sweeter smelling oil before proceeding to wrap it. She seemed sincere in her words, honestly wishing for the gladiator to play nice with the other kids, but was also clearly subservient to her master and his whims.

Nathara didn't even bother to respond to that. She'd dealt with enough slaves who were either born into servitude or simply resigned to their fates since her time in Essyrn. She knew that nothing she could say would make any difference.

"What am I to do when you've finished?" she asked listlessly.

"I will take you to the gladiators' quarters." Ezry answered, almost immediately. She seemed to have accepted that, no matter what she said, Nathara would go her own way. "Master Eleodoro will make sure you are comfortable."

Her works done, the woman leaned back and collected her things back into the basket, leaving only the sweet smelling oil, scraping tool, and fresh clothes out on the rug. Standing, she pulled her basket to her hip and took a step back, giving the gladiator room.

"Please take your time; I will be just outside."

"Mm." Nathara watched her go, then quickly changed her clothes, gathering Shakah up again so the cobra could drape lazily around her shoulders.

"I'm ready, Ezry," she sighed, stepping out after the other slave. She stroked her friend's head absently. Honestly it was a little uncomfortable to be in clothes that weren't hers-- although she supposed nothing was hers, not really, not here.

Ezry did not speak again, merely nodding as the Gladiator stepped out and turning away, basket still held to hip. She led the way back down from the stand she and into the darker tunnels once more, working through the maze of passages with ease. After several long, silent minutes, broken only by the crunch of gravel underfoot, they emerged in a long, wide chambers that stretched nearly as far as a third of the length of then arena above. Slots in the walls walls, wide enough to fit a an arm through nothing more, let light through into the chamber and dance do on the sand grains that littered the floor, no doubt dragged in on boots and clothing after matches.

The chamber was decorated sparsely, but not unwell. Mats and cushions, in good condition if a little threadbare in places, dotted the floor on one side of the doorway, with a few futons laid out along the same wall, while the opposite side of the room held various forms of training dummies. It was clearly a Gladiator space, training weapons and gear littered in an organised kind of chaos, and Ezry beckoned her forwards with a silent arm.

Almost immediately upon her entering, the tall form of a man sitting near one of the closest futons would meet her eyes, bent down over a leather chestplate, oblivious to the world. 

Nathara simply followed where she was led sedately, only speaking up when they seemed to have reached their destination.

"What am I to do now?" she asked blandly, glancing around the space and blinking laconically.