View source for Clash of the Gladiators Before the Fight

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-<* A03: Colosseum District *>--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

The earth trembled where the Champion once trod. Legend by some states that His strength was so mighty that He naturally clove in two, creating the twin gods of Angoron and Kor. Other legends tell other tales, too, and the tour guides are quick to spin them, while at the same describing the history of the Colosseum, a tribute to both gods as well as the glorious and competitive spirit of all creatures and even Alexandria, Herself. 

The structure stands imposingly massive, a great stage crafted from a time when the oruch and khazad worked in tandem. It displays perfectly the contrasts and strengths of each culture in its carved stonework, from the oruch's tribal frenzy to the khazadi strength and solidarity. 

Vendors, shops, surround the arena, and turn this into a place of commerce. At any time, a number of Warriors, Heralds of Angoron or Kor may be seen, offering advice and the wisdom of the Twins. For all its serious, it is a place of laughter as well. Tarien's taverns and trickery makes its home here, and the too-proud warrior may quickly find him or herself on the opposite end of a banana peel or practical joke.

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-- Contents --=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-
 Celeste         A muscular half-oruch woman who looks like she's just 0s   1h
 Chay            Rust-and-orange sith, with ash-toned scars            5m   5d
 Davienne        Petite half-elf with one blue and one gold eye and bl 15m  1h
 Faranmidahn     Albino Lucht woman in black leather armor with a BIG  3m   2h
 Iolaire         An armored, motherly silver-white Egalrin             2m   1h
 Pelka           Egalrin Artificer, dark and brooding. skree.          16m  1h
 Skribbles       A Goblin Cleric, green skin and orange hair.          10m  5h
-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

The colosseum. A mighty, imposing structure, where champions rise and fall and glory is portioned out in spades. On tournament days, the cheering of the crowds can drown out everything all around. But, today is not a tournament day. Today is an off day; there's no fighting happening right now. The building is being maintained, the sands raked, and the place put in order for the big tournaments tomorrow. This, of course, means that the various clerks, merchants, and others who make their living off the fights without actually fighting, are occupying this place like a swarm of bees; organized, efficient, and to all outwards appearances, a symphony of chaos. 
 
Celeste is amongst those who are present. Dressed in her armor as ever, the half-orc stands in a line -- a long line -- waiting to speak to a clerk. Apparently she's registering to fight, or so one might assume.

Skribbles walks through the stands, looking at the wares as she heads towards the stands to see if she wants to get a ticket for the festivities tomorrow or no. She stops at a particular stand with some nice shinies, peering over the edge to see what she can buy from here but decides to move on. She's slipping in between the people pretty easily, a gift from a lifetime of being tiny.

"Truth, sers," the creature standing near the Colosseum official murmurs. Chay is there, his features covered, mostly, by an inquisitor's mask and outfit. He wears the colors of the Hound--a more ultiliaritian outfit than a paladin or priest. It resembles a cross between a jerkin, and a padded leather armor with longer sleeves.

The figure looks to the side. "The person has given their name, and qualifications correctly."

Faranmidahn mills around the periphery in a mixture of 'curiosity' and 'can't sleep'. Plus, the sun is down, so that's nice. She moves along with the little ebbs and eddies in the crowd to look around. It'd be easier to see if she brought Torrent, but, he ate someone's pony and so he's grounded.

Davienne is here for one thing. Okay two things. One is to sell her latest catch to the meat pie person, and the other is to get a meat pie. It's good to know where the meat comes from after all. Now she finds herself wandering with a how meat pie in hand. She finds a corner to recline in and slowly eat the still too-hot pie. There is a lot of blowing on and out her mouth between tiny bites.

Pelka stirs from where he's perched high above the seats on the pole for an unlit torch. He leaps off and floats down to the normal spectator's seating area, watching the goings-on with interest.
With nothing of the martial persuasion planned for the day, Iolaire has instead taken the downtime to make her twice-monthly gift shopping rounds. Having run out of the usual kitsch one buys for family back home, the war-bird roams the commercial section of the colusseum for likely trinkets, and checking out the upcoming matches, in that kind of bemused, side-eyeing curiosity that a veteran professional soldier (unretired) can understandably have towards the starts of Sports Edutainment.
 
Which is when she runs across a hawker selling Champions Past and Present stuffed dolls, which make her laugh so hard she buys five.

At 'next,' the inquisitor looks up, and then down again. He's met Celeste, Chay has--but creature doesn't look that eager at least, to be recognized. After a moment, he steps behind one of the registars, as though to grab a fresh pot of ink. As he does, the form blurs, faintly--mild shifts here and there. A touch different color to the scales.

Then, steps back to the table, to await the next set of questioning. As he does, the air thrums faintly--like someone had plucked a string a few yards over.

Skribbles stops at a table selling weapons and hops up onto a stool provided for tiny ones like her. She looks through them, a skeptical eye checking out each piece with a sigh and a shake of her head. Where are these weapons getting made? In Kindergarten...these are awful...just awful....
 
"Name," asks the clerk, lazily addressing Celeste as the half-orc finally makes it to the front of the lineup. 
 
"Celeste Cinderfall," she answers, speaking in a gruff, almost... determined tone of voice, that makes the clerk look up with a perked eyebrow. Well, only for a moment. 
 
"Fighting experience," the clerk inquires, maintaining his bored demeanour. 
 
"Gladiatrix of Charn, and Adventurer's Guild member" Celeste answers. 

The clerk really does sit up at that one; his eyebrows rise, and he coughs. "Bullshit," he answers. 

The temporary, tent-city of markets around the Colesseum should provide no shortage whatsoever of meat pies, toys, gifts, and amusement; there are practice fights happening all over the place, children running around with wooden swords and the like, and of course the occasional pick-pocket, if you know how to spot them. 
 
Also among the crowd is a giantborn man; a mountain of a warrior, tall even for his race. He has an Earthbraker strapped to his back, a warhammer on each hip, and a bastard sword strapped to his calf, of all places. He meanders through the crowd, occasionally pushing someone out of his way (and there really is no arguement on that front, ever, he's just... huge), until he spots the lineup of applicants; and in particular, the person in front of it. "Well well well," he muses, coming to a stop... uncomfortably close to Davienne, where she's eating her pies.

The little eddies' flow steer the tiny (kind of fluffy, honestly) knight toward the weapons' vendors behind the little goblin. Faran looks up at Skribbles and offers a, "Hi!" while larger folks get acquainted off in the distance.

The inquisitor is there, of course. Chay, somewhat disguised in official garb, looks to the side. "Truth, ser. The person has given their name, and qualifications correctly." The air thrums and grows sharp--a sharp-scent as the truth-sense is focused, and then released. 

His voice is loud enough to carry, though not loud. Not a shout. But he makes his statement, and waits.

Davienne's eyes find the flight and movement of the bird-folk fascinating. And while she tries not to stare, she does a little bit. Looking away politely when noticed. Good thing she has something to turn her attention too. Pie. But he ear perks when she hears something by Celeste. Adventurer's Guild? So she is focusing that way when the evening shadow of the gianborn falls on her. 

To Davi he is even bigger. At least she isn't a halfling. Slowly she tilts her head back and takes a casual bite of her pie. Chewing she says, "If you're looking for the well I think it's that way," And she points with a smile that is forced more than anything.

Skribbles turns her head as she's greeted, looking around for a face to put with the voice. She finally lands on Faran and she smiles, giving a wave back, "Well hello. Am I in the way?" She hops down off the stool and points towards the stand, "Honestly, you can find better weapons elsewhere. This guy is mixing cheap steel." The vendor looks over the stand and says, "Oi!"

Pelka turns his head to focus on Chay. Then he pans his gaze across the line of prospective gladiators. A few of the more outlandish looking weapons or armor earn a second glance. One gladiator that looks like she might just be wearing Titan Armor gets a much longer, drawn-out look. But finally when he feels he's observed everyone in the line he returns his attention to the clerks at the front.

Her purchases bundled with care into a roll of crimson cloth and stowed into a shoulder bag -- And did she just refer to an Authentic Reproduction of the Butcher of Blar as 'Pookie?' -- Iolaire turns, settling her wings behind her. Davienne may have looked politely away, but not too quickly to avoid the gaze of the literally eagle-eyed, and a chuckle emerges from her throat. Whatever she may have been about to say to the ranger, however, is interrupted when the wall of meat intrudes upon the scene.
 
Far from a conscious act, is the dropping of a hand to her belt; this much is certainly easy to suss out when her belt is empty of any sort of weapon. Her nares flush, and she simply edges around the onlookers, circling closer and closer to what looks like a clash of tempers waiting to happen.

Faranmidahn cants her head a moment, facial gems glittering in the light, then straightens, "Oh! Thank you, I'm just... looking around. I've never been in here, before." She spares a glance up at the vendor, then to the goblin, "It sounds like there's going to be some tournament or something going on here tomorrow, are you going to be in that?" she inquires.

Skribbles laughs and shakes her head, "Oh no, I can't fight in this tournament because as soon as I sign up then it throws off the betting stocks because they know I'm gonna win." She laughs again, putting her hands on her hips as though she actually believes it. She turns back to Faran and smiles, "Priests of Reos aren't allowed to enter."

"Hey, how about you bugger off?" The affronted merchant lifts a sword, still in its scabbard, and waggles it at Skribbles. "Go impune the workmanship of some other merchant's wares. Go on! Be off with you!" He looks at her, then to Faran. "Honestly. Gobs everywhere these days, what in blazes is Alexandria coming to? They're /everywhere/." 
 
Celeste, meanwhile, is just looking at the clerk with a raised eyebrow. She glances at Chay, then back at the clerk. "You heard what he said," she practically snarls. "Kindly do not doubt me again. Celeste Cinderfall, GLadiatrix of Charn, and Adventurer. Put all of that down. Would you like me to spell any of it for you?" The half orc is, indeed, rightly pissed; but her anger is only verbal, and really, it's already simmering down. 
 
The enormous Giantborn looks down at Davi, and the only answer he gives to her directions is, well, to make a loud 'hhhhork' sound and spit at the ground between her feet. ...And it's a pretty epic spit, let that be known. He continues walking right past her, meandering up along the line to where Celeste is standing. "This one is full of shit," he pronounces loudly. "She's no gladiatrix, but by all means, sign her up anyway. Let her play at 'fighter' for a while, until she meets a /real/ champion and gets put back in her place."

One is used to such words, such attitudes. The inquisitor looks to the man, his eyes narrowed faintly, tiredly. "The person has given their name, and qualifications correctly, ser. If you have doubts as to the temple's authority ser, or have reason to believe the truth-sense is incorrect, you are welcome to submit to the same line of questioning."

He reaches into a pocket, and takes out a vial of truth serum. This is placed on the registration table, with a loud clink. After that, Chay falls silent once again.

Pelka's eyes are wide as the bit of drama unfolds. In reality, his avian eyes are always large. But this is something he doesn't see every day. Is the Giantborn some sort of authority figure in the arena? Are they going to fight? Pelka suddenly, silently laments the lack of programs and dramatis personae in the Coloseum. The few times he's been to the theatre district, he'd have been lost without them. Exactly like he is, well, here.

Davienne does step back from the spit because she is -not- inclined to have her meal ruined by rude Giantborn slobber. Instead she glares at his back and ponders if she could get away with throwing a rock and blaming it on one of the many kids running through here. Especially when he starts just being an overall jerk. Taking another bite she crooks a finger at one of the kids running around. Is she willing to give them a silver to throw rocks at the rude gladiator and run off? You bet she is.

Skribbles looks up at the vendor and points at him, "Not my fault your using inferior steel. You think the God of the Forge doesn't notice the bends, and how it wavers at the midpoints?" She shakes her head and sighs, looking at the Knight. "Come on and take a look. You should watch one before you enter it, kind of know what you are gonna get into."

About to answer with a sort of chiding remark that begins with, "Look, now, goblins-!" Faran is cut off by the Reosian's rebuttal. She gives an owlish blink-blink, then looks between the two, holding out her hands to them in what is intended to be a placating gesture, "Perhaps we should discuss things over there?" Her indicating point toward 'over there' becomes where Goliath just hocked a clam at someone's feet, "Oh, dear..."

At least there's no carpet to worry about.

"Pardon, pardon, thank you, yes please out of the way, old lady coming through..." Even if the Iolaire's middle-aged frame could better be described as 'cured' than 'old,' any advantage in passing through the gathering crowd is one to take ruthless advantage of.
 
And so she keeps moving, until she gets to a point where she can see *both* involved in the argument, Jotun *and* half-oruch. As short as she is, that takes no small amount of effort.
 
But, for the moment at least, she seems to see no reason to actively get involved, and instead watch the brewing conflict. She may not *have* to call the Guard, after all...

Skribbles looks at the vendor and grins widely, showing off her fangs as she follows Faran off to the other side of the area to get away from the vendor, looking at him with a tilt of her head, "Sorry, gotta call those guys out. You fight with one of his swords you're going to end up with a broken blade and dead."

Celeste is in the act of completely ignoring the Giantborn, while she's signing the required paperwork so that she can fight in the arena, in an upcoming, winner-takes-all tournament. She pays her entry fee in gold, and steps away so that the next person in line can sign up, and hopefully the lineup doesn't get backed up all the way to the Temple District. 
 
"I thought you left your spine behind in Charn," the giantborn practically sings. "Didn't know you still knew how to fight. Honestly, I haven't seen anything to the contrary yet." He moves to block Celeste's path, which... isn't really hard, given his overwhelming size. 
 
The half-orc peels her lips back, showing teeth and tusk as she growls. "Careful, Vargr," she snarls. "I might just be willing to get arrested for killing you right here and now." And at this, the giantborn throws his head back and laughs. 
 
While the giantborn is laughing, a merchant is getting angrier and angrier. "Yes, get away from my display," he snarls, holding up both hands and making a 'shoo' motion at Skribbles. "Maybe you should go and learn something from the God of the Forge so you'd know what PROPERLY FOLDED STEEL looks like!" He pulls a couple of his display weapons back, hopefully to where Skribbles can't see them. 
 
A couple of children come running up to Davi; they're the scrawny, underfed type, the sort who have no parents and are often running around in places like this, looking for scraps of food or dropped coins; not necessarily stealing, but probably not above it, either. 
 
As for Iolaire and Davi, both are quite near the action, now; but the two... imminent combatants, it might seem, haven't got either eyes or pent up hostility for anyone but each other. 
 
Well, that and the clerk. "Fighting outside the arena will get you both disqualified!" he shouts. Well, as if dieing and/or getting a murder charge wouldn't also do that.

Davienne is happy to pass a silver to each child and a whispered request of throwing dirt clods and rocks at the giant, then running off. A fun game to practice their aim and earn money for food. After a second thought, and a look at the kids, she makes it two silvers.

Pelka watches and strains to hear. 'Vargr', he murmurs to himself. "So she knows him." Celeste looks extremely familiar to him, he's certain he's seen her, and when she introduced herself and mentioned she was a member of the Adventurer's Guild he's sure of it. But thoughts of the Guild remind him of some business of his own. He moves back up to the top of the seating area and then over the top, wings spreading to catch the air and send him floating off into the distance.

The inquisitor raises his hood, and regards the potential combatants with sorrowful eyes. To the outside, the eyes may look cold, or slightly blurred. But, this one /is/ sorrowful.

Chay reaches for the truth serum again, and--clinks said vial back onto the table. More loudly, this time, and yet as a silent commentary--a reminder to observers that the giantborn has refused, that the offer still stands.

As the kids start throwing clods of dirt, he looks that way, and his shoulders tense. It takes everything to bite his tongue, as his look shifts back to the giantborn.

"Well, this looks like it may turn ugly," Iolaire murmurs... possibly to the nearby Davienne, her voice sounding for all the world like someone's kindly aged auntie. Her crest rises as the kids start throwing dirt. "Here now children, none of that. Wouldn't want that-- nice-- young man to turn you into jelly, would you? Come here, lads." with arm and wing she gently but firmly steers the children away from their new vocation, slipping each a trio of coppers to stop what they're doing.
 
Hey, double payday for the little ones! Crisis averted?

Skribbles laughs uproariously as the huckster tells her about folded steel. She shakes her head and waves at him, "You should get into stand-up comedy, because that was funny." She laughs again and starts walking once more through the crowd. She finally catches up to the others arguing at the registration table, still laughing at the vendor.

"Oh, I'm happy with the weapons I have at the moment, but I'll.... be very... selective when I do need more." the Knight says with some uncertain attempt at diplomacy, quietly trying to guide the goblin away from the angry merchant. She watches the interplay between the giantborn and the half-orc, then calls, "She put her name in. Put yours in, or move along, you're holding up the works."

"My name is already in," the giantborn snarls over his shoulder. "I've been a gladiator here since I arrived in town. This one," He gestures towards Celeste with an air of great disdain, "Was slated to fight me once already, I see no reason why I should be interested in fighting her now when she /fled/ before me last time." 
 
At about that moment, a couple of clods of dirt bounce off the giant's back; right before Iolaire pays the kids to stop doing it. The two little ragamuffins are more than happy to accept the coin to stop, just before Vargr picks them out of the crowd. 
 
"IF ANYONE WANTS TO THROW THINGS AT ME THEY CAN COME HERE AND GET FLATTENED," he bellows. 
 
The two children run away. Rapidly. Perhaps noticing this, Vargr raises an eyebrow, and turns back to Celeste, who looks around ready to try to give him a black eye. Instead, Vargr picks up Chay's truth elixir and gulps it down. "Everything I say is true," he pronounces. 
 
The merchant has stopped paying attention to Skribbles and Faran, at this point; there's shouting going on, and that's much more pressing.

Skribbles smiles to the Knight and says, "Alright, I'm gonna get out of here. The machismo is more than I can handle. I'll be here tomorrow to watch if you're too." She gives a wave and heads off.

Davienne may have been wanting ugly. Or she may have been thinking it would distract the Giantborn long enough for Celeste to choose what she wanted to do. Instead of being harrassed. So she shrugs at Iolaire when she begins to shuffle the kids away, chuckling faintly around a mouthful. With a swallow she says, "Kids just being kids." Though she may be smirking as she takes the last bite of her dinner. Not waiting around to see how this turns out she slips off through the stalls and people. However she definitely plans to come back and bet against the jerkface giantborn.

The inquisitor watches as the drink is drowned, and the giantborn replaces the bottle. "The temple makes note," Chay says, the tones formal, an I-am-witnessing sort of formal. The notes a clerk may strike when recording things for the court. Then, "That the gladiators in question had previously attempted battle, and that one of them fled."

"Which arena was it you fought in, sers?" the inquisitor asks, while the elixer is still in play. The air becomes sharp once more.

Oh. Hmm. Faran's got nothing for that one, merely bowing her head in concession. The little knight, having lost her conversational partner in her bout of buttinski, ventures closer to the works as childish hijinx ensue... and dissuaded in short order.

Gladiators from Charn... Now Iolaire turns her full attention on the meat-wall and his seething counterpart, curious as to how the Inquisitor's questioning will fill the gaps in this story. Charneth arenas, after all, have never been known for their all-ages entertainments, and now the war-bird is likely hoping that this newcomer knows how things work in civilized country.

"LIAR!" Truth serum or none, Celeste really does seeth with rage; but although her hand strays near her scabbard, she resists the urge to draw her weapon and gut the giantborn in the here and now. As for the lineup of hopefuls, a large number of them have decided that this is, perhaps, not the time to be signing up for a tournament and they've elected to disperse; especially given that Vargr is confirmed to be in the next tournament. Amongst those in the know for the arena, he's been building a reputation for beating his opponents to within an inch of life. 
 
"You LIE," Celeste spits -- literally spraying spittle onto Vargr's armor. "I didn't run from you, I saw a chance to escape slavery and I took it! And I got others out in the process so they might live! All you've ever done is hurt people, pray tell what sum your life adds up to." 
 
Vargr snorts loudly. "You fled," he replies, "There was to be a fight and you were not there. I could have killed you on the Charnese sands, little girl, and I could have respected you for facing me, but you were not THERE when you had your chance. So what?" he gestures towards the arena, "Now you think you'll try again?" He throws his head back and laughs. "By all means, try. See if you still have a spine. Or did you buy a new one from the merchants?"

"Then by your words ser, the fight took place within Charn's arena. One regrets ser, to inform you that fleeing the slavery of a gladiator's position ser, does not disqualify one's history as a gladiator, though it does suggest a change within current position."

"Unless your memory is mistaken, ser, and the fight took place within a different area, ser, then her statement is true, according to the laws of Charn." The Charneth accent slips into the inquisitor's voice like an old, unwelcome friend. The creepy uncle who visits over the holidays, who brings the shiver along the spin and has those, perceptive, reaching for their knives.

"One is familiar with Charneth law, ser, as part of one's office. Again, ser, dislike of a combatant does not alter or remove their historical position."

"I don't know about athletics," Iolaire says, rustling her wings, "but this sounds to me like an *excellent* example of an argument best settled in the arena? Certainly better than dueling by half, and *definitely* less lethal."
 
Now annoyed enough to actually get involved in the discussion, the old bird sees no reason not to step forward, placing herself behind the Inquisitor's left side and folding her arms.

Faranmidahn sets a hand on her hip and watches how things play, now that the officials and the reasonable bird-lady are taking a more proactive stance on this. It's being handled, and there is no clear direction she should lean just yet. She's already stepped in it once. And so, the Rose Knight clams up and waits.

Vargr rolls his shoulders, and laughs. "Clever ideas, pigeon," he sneers at Iolaire, "But where I come from, and where I /would/ have faced that," he points at Celeste, "Lethal was the point. Oh, you could walk off the sands beaten and bloodied but still alive, if the editor turned his thumb upwards after your performance, and I can respect that, but you fought knowing that if you lost, it could be your guts spilled across the sands for a slave to clean up. That is a proper fight. This..." he gestures towards the arena, "It suffices, but it is hardly the same." He glowers down at Celeste, and shrugs. "Earn the right to face me, then. I'm in the top-tier brackets. I will not be seeing you for some time, if ever." 
 
Apparently, that's enough of that; Vargr -- who evidently has been telling the truth this entire time -- glares at Chay, then the clerk, then a couple of people who are back in line, then an urchin walking past, and then he turns to stalk off. 
 
Celeste, for her part, stands there grinding her teeth; seriously, it souds like she might break one if she's not careful. "That man," she seethes to nobody in particular, "Knows well enough how to swing a sword that he ought to know something about /fighting/ and /battle/, but he is clueless on both fronts. And someday, I *am* going to kill him."

"Perhaps he does not understand the role of a warrior, ser," the inquisitor ventures, and pauses--as though surprised at himself. He goes quiet then, and turns to watch the man retreat.

"He is clever enough to abuse an elixer of truth, ser. In your future dealings, perhaps you should remember that." And there, Chay takes the bottle, now empty, and tucks it into his robes. By the motion, tone, it is clear enough he is done--and intends at least, to return to duties.

Situation defused, Faran gives the aggrieved woman a concerned look, but turns away. She came as a curiosity, but now, it seems she's seen too much for her comfort, and so she makes to return to the chapterhouse with a number of things on her mind.

"Looks to me like he kicked you good and solid in the pride, lass," Iolaire notes, tilting her head to one side. "One warrior to another? Find some armor for it before you face him next; destroying an enemy's morale is always the quickest path to its heart."

Celeste straightens, and rolls her shoulders. "It's not my pride," she replies to Iolaire, though there is no scorn in her voice, unlike Vargr. "He killed a number of my friends, in the arenas of Charn. I escaped slavery to get others out. I would have *prefered* to kill him, but it wasn't an option at the time." She pauses, and snorts, "Well, it was, but I chose what I felt was more important. I stand by my choice. ...And yes, my pride smarts." She folds her arms, and grinds her teeth. "It is a pity the arena here does not permit fights to the death. I would very much like to kill him with an audience."

"If you asked ten people here if you did the right thing? Nine would agree with you, and punch the tenth," Iolaire points out. "And I'd certainly be among the nine. Lower your feathers, lass. You're in Alexandria now, and this is too good a home to bring a piece of Charn into it, yes?"

Bit by bit, Celeste's anger subsides. It takes time; she's a berzerker, afterall, and has built a career out of getting angry. Still, she lifts one hand to point in the direction where Vargr stalked off. "That was the piece of Charn," she replies, "And he let himself in the front door. I mean to see him back /out/. One way or another." She sucks in a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. "Still. Your advice is welcome. If I may ask, whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?"

"Iolaire," the war-bird answers, bobbing her head in greeting. "Good to meet you, lass. I'll admit, the arenas were always a curiosity rather than an interest for me... But, you seem a decent woman as well as a warrior. Not often you find the two together."

"Celeste," replies the half-orc. "I learned enough about being a shitty person when I was in Charn. And if I was faced with the same choice today, I'd make the same decision." She nods once. "Now... I'm going to go find something to drink, and then I'm going to go train. When I do face Vargr, lethal or not, I plan to beat him."

"I think that I'll be rooting for you, Celeste," the old bird says, chuckling. "And if you'd like some extra training, I've always got at least some time free."

[[Category:Logs|Clash of the Gladiators Before the Fight]]