The air in the tunnel leading out to the arena floor is hot. Close. The portcullis rattles up and the tunnel brightens, filling with light and the cheers of the crowd and a breeze that gives a brief, if dusty, respite from the still air. Attendants drag battered corpses past, trailing a path of sandy blood and loops of organs that once nested neatly inside. It’s been ugly out there. The gate rattles back down, thumping into the sand of the arena floor. It’s dim and quiet and still in the tunnel again.
Sweat soaks your clothes and trickles, tickling, where its path is not restricted by the cinch of armor or the chafing of clothing. Though nothing chafes more than the Collar. A ‘gift’ from the Arena masters to the brutal darlings of the Arena. Warriors who’d lasted long enough to become favorites in the Arena (and, by virtue of that same prowess, a danger to their handlers) were ‘rewarded’ with a Collar. Collars had all manner of disquieting properties designed to keep high-value Arena slaves in line while not overtly affecting their performances.
There are three of you today – Atrius, Q’ynn and Rodeh.
An attendant moves down the line checking ties and buckles and straps, the last inspection before the gate rises. A second attendant moves down the line helping you into tunics of silver-trimmed royal blue bearing Septimus Sarcus’s crest – a laurel and sword – on the breast. A last attendant distributes dragon-faced helms that hide your faces, thankfully without obscuring your peripheral vision. Much.
The heat and stuffiness of the corridor lends itself to unpleasant thoughts. You have that twitchy feeling of being watched. Standing in the swelter of the tunnel, awaiting the announcement of your match, the main event that all of the day’s brutality has been building towards, it's hard not to wonder what wonders and atrocities await on the other side of the portal.
Last edited by Sparky; 19th October 2009 at 10:06 AM..
Rodeh breathed a heavy sigh as the attendant helps him into his tunic. The only reason the sturdy dwarf needed any help was the bindings that were keeping him in his place. The magic that subdued him when needed was being used more often, the stifling Collar pulsed a nagging pain almost constantly now. He could feel the red rage boiling inside of him. This was what he got for staying alive? Being forced to wrought more destruction, pain, agony, and death? This was his reward for using all the skills his father taught him?
THIS??
Calm.
He glanced over to his side to see the two others next to him being outfitted in the same, ridiculous outfits. He couldn't help but chuckle softly to himself. They looked like damn puppets, and that's what he felt like they were too. Atrius, a wry fighter that seemed deft on his feet and had a great knack of staying alive, was next to him. Though they hadn't battled each other, yet, Rodeh had heard of this one's fighting prowess. No doubt Atrius had heard of the loudmouth dwarf as well.
Looking down the line, he saw Q'ynn, the Invoker. As Atrius, he had not had the pleasure of fighting this one in the Arena, but Rodeh doubted that he would want to. This one uses powers that were beyond the stout little Warden's comprehension, much to his own chagrin. But this one had stayed alive, like the other two locked in the portcullis with him, and for that, Rodeh had great respect for the human and half-elf. The others, though, Rodeh wondered what had become of them...
The smell of blood invaded his nostrils as the attendants came back again, this time carrying dragon-faced masks. As one approached Rodeh, his eyes went wide and for a moment and the dwarf forgot about his calming tactics.
"Oh for the love of the Nine Hells, do we have ta go prancin' about like a bunch'a fairies before we take heads off! Just you wait until I take dat mask and stuff da pointy end weer *smuff nue Uff*" The attendant shoved the mask over Rodeh's mouth and sneered at him as he pulled it down, temporarily silencing the insults. The dwarf responded in turn with a large smile, then spit in his face. He looked over at his three comrades that day, dragon-faced costume and all, and shrugged.
"I guess we be easy targets," Rodeh said, summoning his armor to him, "But that be kinda the point in my case."
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Current D&D 4e Games
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Rodeh Minehelm - Fallen OOC IC PDF Status - Active
Atrius nods vague greetings to the other two gladiators as he is led into the tunnel. He is rather subdued at the sight of the bodies being dragged past them. The crowds demand death today, not a good time to fight. He silently ignores the attendant checking over his equipment, but raises an eyebrow as he is adorned with the tunic and helm.
Atrius turns to watch as the dwarf rants against the helmet for a moment, but luckily it doesn't escalate. The dwarf still hasn't been broken yet, good. But he also knows how to pick his fights.
Still ... something seems off today.
"I don't think we're meant to be targets. I don't know what they're up to, but they wouldn't bother with all this stuff just for us to die in seconds. They've dressed us up in these costumes for a reason, some kind of show they want. We just have to make sure the ending is right.
Three identical helmets, three identical tunics. We're in this together today. We stand or fall as one. Watch out for each other out there."
He stares into the eyes of the two gladiators, making sure they understand. Teamwork has no time for cowards or the undisciplined.
__________________
SOUL: Secret Organization for Underground Levity
You can't stop the laughter!
THE HIVE: One Mind, No Purpose. Public Member of the Secret Fraternal Order of the Hive.
Q'ynn Daelrith says nothing as the attendants dress him in such ignoble raiments. He looks left and right, seeing Atrius and Rodeh in the same boat, although the former nobleman doubts either of them feels as shamed to be paraded about in the arena in such garb as did Q'ynn.
Q'ynn waits for the gate to rise, hoping that perhaps this battle, one with such buildup, might be the last one before he gains his freedom.
Quote:
Originally Posted by hafrogman
"I don't think we're meant to be targets. I don't know what they're up to, but they wouldn't bother with all this stuff just for us to die in seconds. They've dressed us up in these costumes for a reason, some kind of show they want. We just have to make sure the ending is right.
Three identical helmets, three identical tunics. We're in this together today. We stand or fall as one. Watch out for each other out there."
He stares into the eyes of the two gladiators, making sure they understand. Teamwork has no time for cowards or the undisciplined.
Q'ynn nods at the suggestion. He agrees, mostly.
__________________ He knows the score... he gets the women... and he kills the bad guy. If you hire him to kill the bad guy... better make damn sure the bad guy isn't you! EN World Community Supporter
Currently running "In the Shadow of Giants" [OOC] | [IC] | [RG]
The intense light of the sun inevitably creates a division: light, dark; outside, inside; hope, despair. A bitter meridian that cleanly divides the gladiators' home from the dry sand of the arena.
So hot is it today that slaves have cast buckets of water on the arena floor in hopes of diminishing the dust. The buckets all lie in a corner now, amidst other refuge from the previous fight, warming in the intense light. They remain on the edge of the perceptual range of the audience, who are here for blood. Always for blood.
__________________ DIASPORA: hard science fiction role-playing with fate
The guard keeps half an eye on Rodeh after the outburst. The attendant dressing the dwarf suffers the indignity of being spat at miserably. There was one punishment worse than the punishment for trying to escape the Arena... failing to prepare gladiators for their matches. The punishment was intended to dissuade attendants from sabotaging a gladiator's gear and in so doing, rig a fight. But it also served to keep the attendants on their toes. The attendant's jaw muscles bunch and he wipes his face on his shoulder, barely dropping a beat as his hands continue their methodical work. The guard snorts and shakes his head, muttering something under his breath.
The attendants make a final check of the three gladiators and then withdraw. The guard follows them.
Muffled, outside you can hear a voiced raised, muffled, you can tell by the rise and fall, the pacing, the cadence that the speaker is an orator of some kind. The muffled voice rises and punctuates the end of the speech with a rousing cry. The tunnel trembles. Dust filters down from the raftered ceiling, shaken free by the thundrous response from the crowd.
The gates swing open and the crowds roar drowns the metallic shriek of the portcullis rising. This is your cue. You have no idea what today's battle will bring, only that you're to walk to the middle of the arena and stand back to back.
The sand of the Arena is black. Looking more closely, it's not sand at all, but fine gravel. It crunches under your feet. As soon as the tabards and dragon helms are sighted the crowd's enthusiastic roar grows louder.
The arena floor rises slowly toward the center, rising more steeply towards the middle making a small hill. Three standards are thrust into the ground. White, bearing the ram's head of the 7th Legion; Red, bearing the crossed swords and halved paya fruit of Andrius; Purple, bearing the laurel and hand - the Emperor's seal.
There are flashes in the shaded seats as raucous fans of the bloodsport spit their breath in gouts of flame and lightning.
Rodeh nods at Atrius's observation, and checks his gear once more as the portcullis slowly rattles open. The fine gravel is the first thing the dwarf sees. Why is today so different, what makes this fight special from all the other ones? From before the fight, Rodeh knew that he was to make his way toward the middle of the large arena. With the words of Atrius fresh on his mind, he begins to step forward.
Dragonborn have filled the Arena, as they always do. Those with more bloodlust shoot their mouths full of fire and lightning, ready to feel their cravings satiated. Rodeh adjusts his mask and looks around. The hill near the middle of the Arena floor stands as the only landmark that appears different. This whole situation had an intense feel of ... different about it. The Warden knew that he had to be ready for whatever kind of game they play.
"When we move forward, let me stay in the front, laddies," The dwarf said as he took a few more steps forward, "I'll make sure whatever comes at me doesn't come at all of us." Cautious and ever-aware, Rodeh scans the crowd and the arena floor for any sign of his mysterious visit a few weeks ago, and then studies the three Banners resting on top of the hill for any signs of a trap or enemies lying in the wait. He raises his shield in front of him and keeps Amma at the ready.
{OOC: Perception (22) roll to see if there are any traps or enemies at or near the Banners on top of the hill in the middle of the Arena. Insight (9) roll to determine if the crowd shows any different signs of emotion about this arena battle in particular. Also: Ready and Action; Rodeh will use Thorn Strike (+13 vs. AC) to attack the first thing that comes within 2 squares of him and pull it one square closer to him, also dealing 1d8+6 damage.}
__________________ The Blue Phoenix, Home to my thoughts, world creations. and characters. Please come visit and post comments!
Current D&D 4e Games
Player
Rodeh Minehelm - Fallen OOC IC PDF Status - Active
Atrius walks out into the arena with the others by his side. The gravel is odd. . . that will hurt to fall on. Got to be careful with their footing. He looks around for an opponent, but sees nothing. But the crowds reaction is the most interesting. The roar that rises up is new, practically reminiscent of the old days. Something had them whipped up today. Still, best to start in on them now. He raises one fist in the air and pumps it towards the crowd, uttering a cry of his own.
Rodeh's comments bring him back to the matters at hand.
"Well, then, let's get moving. Three banners, three of us. We wouldn't want to keep anyone waiting, would we?"
__________________
SOUL: Secret Organization for Underground Levity
You can't stop the laughter!
THE HIVE: One Mind, No Purpose. Public Member of the Secret Fraternal Order of the Hive.
"Well, then, let's get moving. Three banners, three of us. We wouldn't want to keep anyone waiting, would we?"
"No," Q'ynn Daelrith says. He starts towards the mound, wary of an ambush. "We wouldn't."
OOC: Q'ynn will keep an eye to the sides of the arena, especially where he knows there are other entrances.
__________________ He knows the score... he gets the women... and he kills the bad guy. If you hire him to kill the bad guy... better make damn sure the bad guy isn't you! EN World Community Supporter
Currently running "In the Shadow of Giants" [OOC] | [IC] | [RG]
Though most of the spectators are unaware, the floor to the arena is not solid. Solid timbers are supported on elaborate stonework arches that support the whole substructure where animals and gladiators are kept. From the subsurface chambers, with its cells, its stables, its public spaces where meals are served for the gladiators and those who endure their servitude without facing death quite so regularly -- from these spaces access to the arena itself is possible at either end. One can climb to ground level, stand in the antechamber (where the acoustics from the full arena echo so loud one can barely hear oneself think), and wait for the portcullis to rise. At the East end, Pirx can see the three gladiators, wearing new, special armour.
In addition, there are three lifts, where the floor can be lifted away (this takes eight men, or four ogres if there has been a hunt recently and the captives survived), and a large cage raised into the arena. It's not a practical access to the arena, though.
But there is also ventilation, puling fresh air to the substructure below, more than fifty vents that Pirx has discovered over the past few days. All leading to the arena, none to the outside. Around the oval perimeter of the sand, blended into the sculptural ornamentation, carved abstract representations of mythical battles of some imagined dragon past, these narrow openings seem constantly to breath -- a steady wind that represents the respiration from the world beneath the sand -- evidence that it is still alive, breathing, ever ready to serve, and to provide entertainment.
__________________ DIASPORA: hard science fiction role-playing with fate
The crowd roars in response to Atrius' raised fist. The three dragon-helmed warriors stride to the center of the Arena, gravel crunching beneath their feet. The banners hang limply in the still air of the arena. Back to back the three warriors wait for the horn that would sound the beginning of the fight.
The crowd grows quiet in anticipation of the fight.
In the moment, everything is clear. The sparkle of dust in the air. The creak and clank of armor. The susurrus of the crowd. The deliberate breathes of the other two other gladiators. The sun lighting the awning shades. The hoot and grunt of creatures unseen. The dull gleam of metal on the doors to the holding pens.
In the moment, everything seems to freeze.
Crystalline.
And then the stillness is shattered with a single pure note that shivers in the blood and in the ears.
The crowd roars as the doors swing open and packs of ravening dogs, frothing, their eyes full of unreasoning animal hate, charge towards the mound.
There are four packs, each emerging from a gates spread equidistant around the arena. The dogs are red-furred, not naturally, they're... painted. They snap and snarl as they charge.
Seeing and hearing the dogs approach, Q'ynn Daelrith raises his hand, containing the symbol of Kord. He says nothing, watching instead the actions of his companions before acting.
__________________ He knows the score... he gets the women... and he kills the bad guy. If you hire him to kill the bad guy... better make damn sure the bad guy isn't you! EN World Community Supporter
Currently running "In the Shadow of Giants" [OOC] | [IC] | [RG]
Rodeh sighs heavily as the dogs approach from all parts of the arena. His plan of standing in front to direct the assault assumes that they would all come from one direction.
"Sheet," He whispers gruffly from under his beard.
The portculli the dogs emerged from clang home and the gates thump shut. They growling of the dogs mixes with the roar of the crowd into one voice of animal rage. They charge.
The pack bearing down on Rodeh yelp in surprise as a wickedly barbed bramble leaps from their prey's sturdy longsword and snares the forward elements of the pack. Rodeh tugs and the thorns bite, pulling the surging pack closer still, but on his terms. The thorns whicker back into the dwarf's blade, leaving two dogs limp and bleeding from long gashes.
(Crit! If you want the pack in a different square than indicated on the map, let me know. Went out of initiative, because eblue had readied the action.)
The dogs snarl and snap, but can't land a bite. The pack charging Caged Fury is a different matter. They bear down on the monk with determined ferocity. Fury frantically paries their bites and is left with numerous bleeding gashes.
There was a knock at the door. The Professor looked up, over his spectacles and cleared his throat.
"Come," he intoned. He blotted the page he was writing as his visitor, a student, bustled in. Blowing lightly on the page, the Professor studied the writing, his once-flowing hand had grown crabbed as the weather grew colder. He scowled at the page.
"Sit! Sit! Don't just stand there gawping. Sit, sit!" He snapped at the young man. "Is there something I can help you with, Hangromm?" The red-haired young man was timid, but there seemed to be an air of excitement. "Well, out with it."
Hangromm's words came out in a flood, with barely enough time for the young man to speak them, let alone consider the content.
"Slow down, Mister Hangromm. I'm quite certain your subject won't escape."
"Yes, sir." The young man nodded and composed himself. "It's our assignment, sir. I'm... uh. I think there might be another member of Sarcus' personal guard."
The Professor masked a flutter of excitement as he steepled his fingers in front of pursed lips, peering at the young man down the considerable length of his nose. Yes, lad. You're getting it... come on.... Hangromm looked up from his notes and caught the Professor's steely gaze. He faltered mid-sentence before the momentum of his excitement carried him forward,"I became curious about some discrepancies I discovered in different transcriptions of Arena records. Sarcus had two sets of bodyguards, one for his estate and one for his person. I found scores of names associated with the body guard, but it was when I was doing some work for Professor Reck that I saw this..."
Hangromm pulls a page from his ledger and hands it to the Professor. "I copied this from the monastic records of an order of Muradite monks. See, last term part of my work for Professor Reck is collecting and categorizing zoological texts. I particularly liked Zehn Drakaelica, Volume IV. And this term my work for Professor Lidge is doing the same for religious clerical texts. I liked the zoological texts better, they have incredible plates."
Hangromm blinked, eyes widening, "I'm rambling." The Professor's furrowed brow focused young Hangromm's mind, "When you mentioned Sarcus' guard the other day, I had a niggling thought I couldn't pin down."
The Professor's bushy brows quirked as he perused the page, "And? What makes this record of monastic banality relevant in the slightest, Mister Hangromm?"
"Oh, yes! Well, sir, in my cataloguing this term, I came across this record that the Muradite monks made after a season of rains had resulted in leak in the roof of their scribnatory. They meticulously documented what damage was sustained. At the time they were working on a number of copies of Zehn Drakaelica, and because I liked it so, I was curious to see if our copies were any of those they had been working on. We have three incomplete sets and one complete set. One of the incomplete sets predates the damage! Just one. And then I rememembered what had bothered me since your lecture. One of the plates in Zehn Drakaelica, Volume IV is of the mounts of Sarcus' personal guard. And the volume that predates the damage is slightly different, very slightly. The plates show the names of the riders, including one you didn't mention..." The young man paused and looked up, surprised to see a trace of smile on his professor's normally cloudy face.
"And what was the name?" the Professor asked, eyes bright and hard.
The purple of the Emperor's flag shakes gently in the breeze. Staring from his grate behind the discarded buckets that have wet the fine gravel, Pirx had seen the attendants plant the three standards in the ground, but it was the purple one that caught his eye. He had watched them spread the gravel, but it was the purple that held his eye.
It would be reckless, Pirx thought. I would be a fool, Pirx thought. But then he hears the roar of the crowd, and he thinks, I have a chance. Thousands of spectators, the Emperor's standard, and I have my hiding places.
When he smells the dogs, he makes a run for it. Just on and off the field, taking the Emperor's banner with me. Simple, he thinks.
Pirx, who had successfully evaded capture in the subbasements of the amphitheatre for so long, stepped into the light, its warm beams hitting his fur. Emerging from behind his grate, he runs. The pots clatter and for a few steps one of them finds itself attached to Pirx's feet. His comically loping gate lacks the grace that he's hoping for in this initial appearance, but he soon shakes it off. Another pot rests on his head, inverted, like some child's attempt to make a helmet to play soldier. This also spoils the effect he is going for.
But there is the purple. And the dog packs and the three armored gladiators in the way. As he shakes away the pot from his foot, he rolls his neck and summons the armor he had once rescued from a halfling corpse. It is beaded, and has a floral emblem on it...not his style, but what are you going to do?
His bow is in his hand, but Pirx has a goal, first. His eye is on the purple.
He reaches the banner, and with his long fingers begins to undo the knot that attaches it
OOC:
I've taken you at your word and accepted that Pirx can hide anywhere. I've suggested that the discarded buckets, etc, are in front of one of the grates at E11.
Move: E11 to K11
Minor: summon armor
Action: Thievery against banner, to untie the knot or whatever is attaching it, so Pirx can run around holding the banner in his hand. 1d20+14 = 19.
If he can't make it that far, or if he needs more time, he can do an extra shift, or even make a nimble strike with the bow against some dogs and get a shift that way. In that case, he can make his thievery roll next turn.
EDIT: Will use Goblin tactics, shifting around the banner, if attacked.
__________________ DIASPORA: hard science fiction role-playing with fate
Last edited by Kobold Stew; 21st November 2009 at 05:19 PM..
Atrius curses quietly under his breath as the baying of the hounds reaches his ears. The trappings didn't seem to mean much, for all the pomp and celebration, the contest of man against animal would be a bloody and ugly affair. Perhaps the dogs were merely meant to soften them up for a later foe, but either way, blood would be shed today.
He watches as the dogs close, quicker than he expected. The monk had already proven his thoughts true. Best to end the battle quickly, before it becomes a contest of endurance. He shouts a few word of encouragement as they come to him.
"Focus! Victory if we stand together!"
Then, he puts actions to his words and quickly closes with a dog, swinging his blade in a shining arc.
ooc:
minor: draw blade
move: shift to N13
standard: War Song Strike against Dog Pack 3 1d20+12 = 23 vs. AC
hit: 1d8+7 = 13 damage
hit: Any ally who hits Dog Pack 3 before the end of my next turn gains 3 temporary hp.
__________________
SOUL: Secret Organization for Underground Levity
You can't stop the laughter!
THE HIVE: One Mind, No Purpose. Public Member of the Secret Fraternal Order of the Hive.
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