*Chapter 1: Man, I need a bath . . .*
The year is 1560, Ala Mhigo was recently captured by the Empire a few years back, Ul'dah is flooded with refugees as some look for shelter, work, and others whatever they can take by force. Tensions are high, tempers are short, and the summer heat only serves to make matters worse. Benedict is a young man of his 17th year, working in the The Coliseum as both a successful fighter of small renown, and a custodian to pay the way for his boarding and training.
A sudden splash is never the best way to greet the day, less so when accompanied by the smell of dirty floors, day old sweat, and the shrill laughter of a lalafell.
Benedict shot up straight from his bed, soaked to the core and smelling like the used end of a latrine scrubber, "What in the nine hells?!!"
Artaegyl, Arty to his friends, was at once rolling around on the floor in front of Ben's cot, gripping his stomach and gasping for breath as he continued his laugh at Ben's expense for a few moments longer before he rolled to his side with a wide grin, "You left the bucket full again last night, so I asked Master Rycharde if I could use it to wake you. He loved the idea!"
Shaking his head and clearing the putrid water off his face with his hand he looked at the still slightly giggling lalafell, as a smirk began to form on his face. Suddenly Arty noticed to look on Ben's face and his own laughter stopped immediately short. "Oh shit . . .," Arty exclaimed as he scrambled from his current position in order to get to his feet as fast as he could. Arty was short, even for a lalalfell, but what he what he lacked in height he more than made up for in the raw power of his limbs. He sprang to his tiny legs in a flash, his blue and orange tinged mess of hair flopping before his eyes in his hurry and that is when disaster struck. Benedict leapt out of his cot with all the agility of a jungle cat and slammed the lalafell to the ground and proceeded to rub his foul smelling shirt against the smaller man's face.
There was the sound of a crack in the air that was unmistakable to the two men, it meant they were in trouble again. Both stopped their small tussle to look up into the cold eyes of their doctore as he held his signature bladed whip, he was midlander who stood a good half-fulm above Ben's head, with long black braid running down past his waist and bright green eyes that always seemed to stare through his pupils when he was addressing them. His body was a deeply tanned ranged of tight sinew and various snake tattoos covering most of his arms, legs and chest, even making their way up his neck to end in open jaws above his eyes. In the Bloodsands he was called "Garram, the Viper," and was great in his day but age and wealth had taken him from the pit and had left him in the role of doctore to younger men who sought the glory of the arena.
"Whiteraven, . . . Slingshot," grunting as he struggled to get lalafell's chosen stage name out, "the First Sword wants to have a word with both of you. Now, and when you are done, clean this mess up, it reeks in here."
Ben let go of his friend and stood up, his cot was pushed into a small closet in the Coliseum. It held all the tools he used to clean the living quarters and tend the weapons of the other gladiators, and a small chest for his own clothes and belongings. It was modest to be sure but far better than living on the streets as he had before he was taken in here and it was all his, even if it currently needed to be scrubbed down thanks to Arty.
For his part Arty just dusted himself off and looked up with mock anger on his face, "Ughh, now I smell. In fact, I smell like you! That is just horrible!"
"Well, I guess we both get to smell like darkside of a gladiator's small clothes as we go see the First Sword, yeah?" he smirked at his friend in reply.
"Yeah, yeah, remind me to shoot you in the ass in our next bout, the crowd will love that," the lalafell said absently as he walked out the door to the small room with a wave of his hand, "let's go see what punishment you've put on our heads this time."
"Me? I was sleeping!," Benedict shouted as he hastily put on a new shirt to chase after his friend.
The duo arrived at the door to master Swordsong's office and exchanged unsure looks before Ben knocked on door. A moment later they hold the voice of the elder gladiator bid them to enter. The walked in, the office lacked the luxury and frills of Master Rycharde's, as the walls were only adorned with various weapons with nicks and cracks in them, trophies of hard won battles in the Bloodsand. The man looked up with his nose crinkled in a look of pure disgust,
"By the Twelve, is that smell coming from you two? Have you been rolling in the latrines?!" he asked, obviously not putting such a thing past either one of them.
Arty was the first to speak up, only halfway able to curb his own laughter as he recounted the tale of finding the full bucket, asking Master Rycharde's permission to wake up Benedict, and then the ensuing scuffle. By the time he ended his little tale he was wiping a tear from his eye, obviously quite amused with it all. It wasn't until he stopped talking and looked at the First Sword that he had any clue he was the only one laughing.
"Why do you two insist on turning this place into your own personal fun house? Look at Raubahn, he trains harder than anyone and is building quite a reputation for himself, why can't you set your sights on that?"
All the two could do was look awkwardly at one another and then back at Master Swordsong with an unknowing shrug.
Throwing his hands up in frustration he took a deep breath and looked back at the two, "Well, I hope you can manage to do better to represent this arena on the road. There is a wealthy merchant just outside Limsa who wishes a private show and I'm sending you two. You are both fair enough combatants and you have a knack for amusing the crowd. Go pack your things, the cart leaves on the next bell. And you WILL do your best to present this profession with dignity, am I clear?"
Both men smiled at the First Sword and nodded like a pair of children who were just asked if they wanted another piece of candy. Despite his gruff words and their often times ill-timed antics, the older man held the two rather high esteem for their skill in battle, energy they showed the crowds, and their dedication to one another.Their minds began to spin with images of a private demonstration, and the glory and gil that such ventures had a way of bringing in. Master Swordsong waved his hand in dismissal and both men rushed off to clean up as best they could and pack their meager belongings for the trip.
The year is 1560, Ala Mhigo was recently captured by the Empire a few years back, Ul'dah is flooded with refugees as some look for shelter, work, and others whatever they can take by force. Tensions are high, tempers are short, and the summer heat only serves to make matters worse. Benedict is a young man of his 17th year, working in the The Coliseum as both a successful fighter of small renown, and a custodian to pay the way for his boarding and training.
A sudden splash is never the best way to greet the day, less so when accompanied by the smell of dirty floors, day old sweat, and the shrill laughter of a lalafell.
Benedict shot up straight from his bed, soaked to the core and smelling like the used end of a latrine scrubber, "What in the nine hells?!!"
Artaegyl, Arty to his friends, was at once rolling around on the floor in front of Ben's cot, gripping his stomach and gasping for breath as he continued his laugh at Ben's expense for a few moments longer before he rolled to his side with a wide grin, "You left the bucket full again last night, so I asked Master Rycharde if I could use it to wake you. He loved the idea!"
Shaking his head and clearing the putrid water off his face with his hand he looked at the still slightly giggling lalafell, as a smirk began to form on his face. Suddenly Arty noticed to look on Ben's face and his own laughter stopped immediately short. "Oh shit . . .," Arty exclaimed as he scrambled from his current position in order to get to his feet as fast as he could. Arty was short, even for a lalalfell, but what he what he lacked in height he more than made up for in the raw power of his limbs. He sprang to his tiny legs in a flash, his blue and orange tinged mess of hair flopping before his eyes in his hurry and that is when disaster struck. Benedict leapt out of his cot with all the agility of a jungle cat and slammed the lalafell to the ground and proceeded to rub his foul smelling shirt against the smaller man's face.
There was the sound of a crack in the air that was unmistakable to the two men, it meant they were in trouble again. Both stopped their small tussle to look up into the cold eyes of their doctore as he held his signature bladed whip, he was midlander who stood a good half-fulm above Ben's head, with long black braid running down past his waist and bright green eyes that always seemed to stare through his pupils when he was addressing them. His body was a deeply tanned ranged of tight sinew and various snake tattoos covering most of his arms, legs and chest, even making their way up his neck to end in open jaws above his eyes. In the Bloodsands he was called "Garram, the Viper," and was great in his day but age and wealth had taken him from the pit and had left him in the role of doctore to younger men who sought the glory of the arena.
"Whiteraven, . . . Slingshot," grunting as he struggled to get lalafell's chosen stage name out, "the First Sword wants to have a word with both of you. Now, and when you are done, clean this mess up, it reeks in here."
Ben let go of his friend and stood up, his cot was pushed into a small closet in the Coliseum. It held all the tools he used to clean the living quarters and tend the weapons of the other gladiators, and a small chest for his own clothes and belongings. It was modest to be sure but far better than living on the streets as he had before he was taken in here and it was all his, even if it currently needed to be scrubbed down thanks to Arty.
For his part Arty just dusted himself off and looked up with mock anger on his face, "Ughh, now I smell. In fact, I smell like you! That is just horrible!"
"Well, I guess we both get to smell like darkside of a gladiator's small clothes as we go see the First Sword, yeah?" he smirked at his friend in reply.
"Yeah, yeah, remind me to shoot you in the ass in our next bout, the crowd will love that," the lalafell said absently as he walked out the door to the small room with a wave of his hand, "let's go see what punishment you've put on our heads this time."
"Me? I was sleeping!," Benedict shouted as he hastily put on a new shirt to chase after his friend.
The duo arrived at the door to master Swordsong's office and exchanged unsure looks before Ben knocked on door. A moment later they hold the voice of the elder gladiator bid them to enter. The walked in, the office lacked the luxury and frills of Master Rycharde's, as the walls were only adorned with various weapons with nicks and cracks in them, trophies of hard won battles in the Bloodsand. The man looked up with his nose crinkled in a look of pure disgust,
"By the Twelve, is that smell coming from you two? Have you been rolling in the latrines?!" he asked, obviously not putting such a thing past either one of them.
Arty was the first to speak up, only halfway able to curb his own laughter as he recounted the tale of finding the full bucket, asking Master Rycharde's permission to wake up Benedict, and then the ensuing scuffle. By the time he ended his little tale he was wiping a tear from his eye, obviously quite amused with it all. It wasn't until he stopped talking and looked at the First Sword that he had any clue he was the only one laughing.
"Why do you two insist on turning this place into your own personal fun house? Look at Raubahn, he trains harder than anyone and is building quite a reputation for himself, why can't you set your sights on that?"
All the two could do was look awkwardly at one another and then back at Master Swordsong with an unknowing shrug.
Throwing his hands up in frustration he took a deep breath and looked back at the two, "Well, I hope you can manage to do better to represent this arena on the road. There is a wealthy merchant just outside Limsa who wishes a private show and I'm sending you two. You are both fair enough combatants and you have a knack for amusing the crowd. Go pack your things, the cart leaves on the next bell. And you WILL do your best to present this profession with dignity, am I clear?"
Both men smiled at the First Sword and nodded like a pair of children who were just asked if they wanted another piece of candy. Despite his gruff words and their often times ill-timed antics, the older man held the two rather high esteem for their skill in battle, energy they showed the crowds, and their dedication to one another.Their minds began to spin with images of a private demonstration, and the glory and gil that such ventures had a way of bringing in. Master Swordsong waved his hand in dismissal and both men rushed off to clean up as best they could and pack their meager belongings for the trip.
