Sadir couldn't, nor wouldn't, hold back an amused snort. He tongued at the injured side of his mouth, the action somewhat marred by a wry, knowing grin. If he had seen how the merchant's gaze had lingered on his hands, he didn't make mention of it, though he did take an exceptional liberty in watching his visitor depart.
'Win your next match'. Pah. As if Sadir did anything but. He spat on the ground again, though there was far less blood this time, and shot his guard a look.
"Well? Where's my water?" he grinned, that breaking into vicious laughter as the guard huffed and walked off to do as he was told. It was a task that utterly, visibly grated, and all because that little prince had said so. If the reward for winning was having a leg up on people who otherwise ran every minute of his life, well...
Sadir lived to please.
Just as the barrel was finished being changed out, came the call of the next match of names. For many, it was a death sentence. These matches were the dregs, after all, the ones made for pure carnage and the vague sense of justice being served. After all, the worst of the worst deserved the worst, and the worst was Sadir.
Not even giving his refreshed water barrel a second glance, Sadir stepped out of his cage, flanked on all sides by heavily armed guards. Not that they necessarily need bother-- it was never a struggle getting him into the ring. The challenge had always been to get him out.
Sadir breathed deep as he stepped through the final gate, taking in the earthy tang of dust and sand and sweat and blood. The crowd roared, and with them Sadir's pulse quickened. The stands were like a beast unto themselves, breathing, frothing, worked into a frenzy like a crocodile with its jaws around some poor bastard's neck.
'Win your next match', the sweet fig had said. Sadir pulled studded, spiked knuckles over his fingers, wrapped them firmly in place with thick, coarse cloth. 'Tell me after.'
Sadir turned his gaze to the stands, searching the thousands of distant faces. Hefted a spear, a shield. And, in the far distance, spotted the glisten of beads and glass set into coiling, dark braids. Perfect.
The horn blew, once, twice, and then a long, angry third note. Sadir turned to the opposite end of the arena, where his opponent was already charging, his sword gleaming in the late, red sunlight. Sadir took aim with his spear, threw it, and cussed as the other prisoner rolled to avoid being skewered like a boar.
They met in a clash of metal soon after; his opponent brought down his sword, and Sadir smacked the blade away with his shield. His opponent brought up his own shield to smash into Sadir's jaw, and Sadir jumped back to avoid it. Another wide swing of the sword, and Sadir twisted to his opponent's right, grabbing at the shielded arm with one hand while he brought his own shield down onto the other prisoner's extended elbow.
The crack was inaudible against the backdrop of a roaring crowd, but his opponent's agony was apparent. The man was screaming, his arm bent and limp, twisting grotesquely under the weight of his shield. He swung, wildly, furiously, with his sword at Sadir, attempting revenge for his shattered arm, but caught only air.
Sadir pulled back, circled left, and then doubled back right. He was pacing, keeping his distance as if from some wounded prey, and it was probably at that moment his opponent realized that was exactly what he was: prey. A final, desperate jab brought the other prisoner too far forward, and Sadir swung upwards with his fist, his knuckles catching cruelly at the underside of the other man's jaw. It sent his opponent to the ground in an arc of blood and spit and fractured bone, where he lay twitching.
Before the other prisoner could recover, Sadir stepped over to him, and planted a foot firmly on the other man's chest. Took his time, even hummed, as he undid the buckles that held his shield to his own arm. The other man tried, weakly, to raise his sword again. Sadir smacked it away like one might do a particularly annoying fly.
Sadir raised his shield in both hands, gripped the edges tight--
and brought the full force of it down onto what remained of his opponent's mouth. He pulled the shield back, wetly, stickily, and then brought it down again. And again. And again.
He didn't stop until the horn blew, signalling the match's end. Panting from exertion, he turned to the stands, and caught sight of his visitor once more.
Raised his hand in salute and grinned.