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<blockquote data-quote="Velenne" data-source="post: 679304" data-attributes="member: 1856">The great elf releases the woman when she asks, giving her a dark look.&nbsp; This one liked to give orders did she?&nbsp; Well he would be no one's slave, much less this pretty little thing.&nbsp; A shirt would be a different matter.&nbsp; In the lifestyle of a gladiator, his scars were his story.&nbsp; The circular scar in left shoulder from the wildling's impaler, the long jagged tear across his chest that had ruined one of his nipples (the mul had paid dearly for that), the countless lines across his back from untold numbers of lashings, all were attached to a memory, a smell, a taste (usually blood -his or someone else's), which he could recollect and take pride in for he had survived them all.&nbsp; He could share stories with other fighters on this scar or that one.&nbsp; It was a way for them to bond.&nbsp; Some gladiators had self-inflicted scars which marked them as part of a secret sub-guild known only to each other.&nbsp; But not Dukotti.&nbsp; No gladiator had ever earned his trust.&nbsp; To him, it was stupid to put such faith in another pit fighter.&nbsp; In the end, they would die too soon, perhaps by your own hand.But now he was playing a very different game.&nbsp; And just as he had covered the brand on his head, he realized, he would also need to cover his scars for they would demarkate him just as readily.&nbsp; Dukotti could be cunning in the pits, but he needed a new cunning now.&nbsp; &quot;Fine, you will buy me a shirt.&nbsp; But I will not be your servant, &quot; he grins, &quot;though I could be your lover instead.&quot;</blockquote>

[QUOTE="Velenne, post: 679304, member: 1856"] The great elf releases the woman when she asks, giving her a dark look. This one liked to give orders did she? Well he would be no one's slave, much less this pretty little thing. A shirt would be a different matter. In the lifestyle of a gladiator, his scars were his story. The circular scar in left shoulder from the wildling's impaler, the long jagged tear across his chest that had ruined one of his nipples (the mul had paid dearly for that), the countless lines across his back from untold numbers of lashings, all were attached to a memory, a smell, a taste (usually blood -his or someone else's), which he could recollect and take pride in for he had survived them all. He could share stories with other fighters on this scar or that one. It was a way for them to bond. Some gladiators had self-inflicted scars which marked them as part of a secret sub-guild known only to each other. But not Dukotti. No gladiator had ever earned his trust. To him, it was stupid to put such faith in another pit fighter. In the end, they would die too soon, perhaps by your own hand. But now he was playing a very different game. And just as he had covered the brand on his head, he realized, he would also need to cover his scars for they would demarkate him just as readily. Dukotti could be cunning in the pits, but he needed a new cunning now. "Fine, you will buy me a shirt. But I will not be your servant, " he grins, "though I could be your lover instead." [/QUOTE]

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