Headed by a Snake

The two coliseum guards stared down the hallway at the departing, green-haired figure.

Dorus turned to Heimon, shrugging his shoulders, "Honestly? I have no idea."

He took a seat on a nearby bench and fanned himself with his hand. "I figured it was just some rich kid. Tried to get some coin from him-- was a bust, though."

Heimon shifted his weight, grimacing, "He's... trespassing then? Should we do something about it?"

"Tch," Dorus scoffed at the notion. "And do what?"

"Eh, I dunno..." Heimon bit the corner of his lip, "Question him?"

"Nah..." Dorus shook his head... "You don't question people like that. Chances are, the guy knows somebody or is important enough to act like he's invincible. The wrong guy up top throws a fit? We're out of a job."

Heimon frowned, "Dorus, we signed a contract..."

"Well, yeah..."

Dorus took a deep breath and sighed. He thought like that too, once. He was a few years older than Heimon, so he always considered himself his senior-- even if the guy wasn't exactly a kid, "The thing is... you and me, Heimon, we're not here for *real* security."

Heimon crossed his arms, "How do you mean?"

"Well..." Dorus glanced from side to side... Only the two of them were in the hallway, but he still kept his voice low, "Think about it...

"Everyone in that pit is literally a trained murderer. Everyone in the crowd up top could have weapons and all that-- it's not like we check for 'em. Anyone at any time could go bonkers and just start killin' people... and neither you, nor me, are going to stop that.

"You, me, the other coliseum guards... we provide the 'illusion' of security. The fans feel safer with us around, and that's why our employers pay us."

Heimon pulled his head back, as if the thought sickened him, "We have spears and shields. We can definitely do something."

"Pff" Dorus snorted, "You've seen some of these fights, haven't you? Some of these gladiators are Iron-Ranks, man! Those types of people can cut a man in half with an angry look-- what use would our pig-iron shields be, then, huh?"

"Yeah... Fair enough..." Heimon dipped his head, his expression twisted... "It's a lousy world we live in, man."

"Just do your job and try not to think about it, friend," Dorus clapped his hand on Heimon's shoulder plate. "That's all we can do."

...

Tycondrius appreciated the warmth of the underground pit where the gladiators prepared.

The smell, not so much.

The architecture of the Holy Country was sound... and ventilation existed... but it was nowhere near enough to air out the sheer number of fighters within.

The stench of piss and unwashed bodies was comparable to that of a sewer.

Tycon navigated the various chambers, glancing into each of them... until he found the particular room he was searching for.

Casually strolling in, he was met with over a dozen unfriendly gazes from various thieves, ruffians, and ne'er-do-wells... and one particular cheek-scarred, swordsman.

Tycon crossed his arms, scrutinizing his loyal ally.

⟬ Lone Shadowdark, Bronze-Rank Human Ranger. ⟭

Ignoring the bloody bandages wrapped around the man's abdomen, Barza Keith, the Lone Shadowdark, hadn't seemed to change much. He wore a dark eyepatch... implying that he had also injured an eye. That was troublesome, but wouldn't limit him in very-close combat.

His skin was still bronzed and he desperately needed a haircut, his dark hair and rough-shaven beard a mess. He had grown larger, to a similar size to when they first met. It was likely he had returned to training with static weights as opposed to traipsing around in Tyrion forests.

A set of nondescript leather armor rested on a stand beside him, as well as two blunt-edge blades. They were a far cry from the quality of his signature Wolf-Hammer and enchanted sword, but Tycon surmised those were confiscated upon the man's incarceration.

The young ranger did still wear a particular magical rope around his waist... He must have been fond of its effects, as stupid as it looked.

Still... as glad as Tycon was to see his friend safe and *relatively* uninjured... he was supposed to be imprisoned at Turrim Orientem, not participating in a Martial Tournament.

"I saw the injury you took in the first-round eliminations, Mister Lone," Tycon smirked. "That certainly wasn't the best you could do."

⟬ ⌈Inspirational Surge⌋ conditions met. Activate? Y/N? ⟭

« Go ahead, thank you. »

⟬ Activating... You're welcome. ⟭

A spiky-haired Rogue stood up, sneering arrogantly, "And who in the seven hells are--"

"B-boss?!?" Lone stood up, wearing a broad grin, "I've missed you so much!"

The Ranger stood up, predictably unbothered by his injury. From the man's body language, he looked like he was going to try to embrace him. Thankfully, Lone wore a heavy ball and chain on one of his ankles that stopped him from doing so.

Logically, the reek of the room was from the collective of exhausted fighters within. With Lone's haggard appearance, though, it very much seemed like half of the sweat and stench came from him and only him.

"Wow!" Lone grinned, opening his arms excitedly, "Just seeing you makes me feel like I can fight a hundred more battles!"

...That was because Tycon literally used a healing ability.

Lone knew this.

Lone had been healed by him before.

...But it very much sounded like he did not understand that.

The Rogue standing nearby stared blankly like a deer caught in lantern-light... Frowning quickly, he sat back down and looked away... "Oh, welcome."

Why the fellow chose to stare into a nondescript sandstone wall, Tycon had no idea.

Tycon was slightly surprised that he had come all this way without being challenged... and when he finally was, the attempt was flimsy, at best. Just like the Rogue, the hostile gazes within the room disappeared completely.

It seemed that Lone had commanded a great deal of respect. Such was the effect of being powerful.

It was very well done. The wise wolf takes command of their pack and leads them to survival.

...Even if that wolf was Lone.