Orphan (Public) 3.6

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<center><h1>Prologue</h1></center>\ A boy's earliest memory is colored by lavender flesh and the white glow of chrysanthemums, the flowers layered carefully amidst the beautiful blonde braids of a young girl. Her eyes are startling: bright blue orbs sparkling within her soft, pale face. He finds himself seated on a plush, cream-colored cushion, within the comfortable cab of a large, white-bleached duskwood carriage. It rattles and jolts gently as it's pulled along by a pair of ashen, manilla-furred yaks. He can't remember why he's here, but the day seems lively, peaceful even, the surrounding streets well-lit by the pale violet glow of the sky. And you, you watch from the shadows, lingering on the periphery. Quiet, forgotten. Briskly, your focus shifts. [[Lavender flesh.|intro_p1]] <<nobr>> <<bgmstop 6>> <<notify "Eternal Recurrence" "How many times has it been now?" "warn" "scroll" 15000>> <</nobr>>

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp1_prologue_matroness.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> The lavender flesh of a dark elf. Her facial features, once-smooth and sculpted, now display the fine lines of a life well-lived. Crowsfeet gracefully trace the corners of her amethyst eyes, each gentle crease telling a story whilst retaining a sort of regal elegance. A silver gown is draped over her matronly figure, and the curls of a powdered white wig frame her angular face. Briefly, she turns and those almond-shaped eyes meet the boy's across the carriage. Pale lavender lips curve into a subtle smile, causing a low, warm blossom to flutter deep within his stomach. You're almost jealous. But her attention doesn't linger for long, that soft-lidded gaze returning to the street outside as the carriage teeters along. [[White chrysanthemums.|intro_p2]] <<bgm "shallows" 0.6 2>>

You've seen her before, that beautiful girl with bright, blonde locks adorned with the white glow of chrysanthemums. There she is beside the boy, her big blue eyes filled with wonderment as she gazes contentedly out into the busy city streets. Everything for her is a joy. She must be someone special in his life, you think. But what do you know? You can't help but wonder who she is, where she's from, and what their relationship is. However, they never speak any words for you to hear, and you can never bring yourself to utter a single word from where you linger near, gazing upon them, helpless. Instead, you must content yourself with watching and wondering, for her pure, childlike curiosity is something that you can only admire from the outside; from well beyond the veil. [[It wasn't always this way.|intro_p3]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp1_prologue_wagon.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Alongside the carriage, two columns of what must be soldiers march in parallel, humans with sword-and-shield and squat hobgoblins with long pikes twice their height. Filling the street, a bustling crowd ebbs and flows, some pressing their way through, but most stand still, watching in awe, admiring those within the carriage much like you. If there was any room for unease, it's swept away by the reassuring smile and soft laughter of the blue-eyed girl as she tugs at the boy's arm beside her. Strangely enough, you feel like you're meant to be here with them. But something is wrong. A darkness stirs outside in the crowd and begins to shroud the world around you, touching the borders of your vision and pulling at you. This is how it always begins: a slow, spiralling descent that you have no control over. You can't move, you can't shout; you can only watch as it washes away the boy, the dark elf, and even the blonde girl who gives a shrill scream of distress. [[The scream echoes loudly in your ears.|intro_p4]]

The crowd outside surges, the line of soldiers shatters, the street shakes and the door to the carriage rips open as the darkness creeps closer. She's on her feet, shielding the children, that woman with lavender flesh. The girl with bright blue eyes presses her hand tight atop the boys, their pale fingers entwining, and you almost feel the warmth yourself. You want to protect them, protect her, but all you can hear are the shrill screams as the darkness rips you away, far away from that pristine carriage and down into a deep, dark world of misery. There is no pain. Even your fear dissipates, as you're ripped from one world into the next. You're used to it now, this suffering. [[Oblivion takes you.|intro_dream]] <<sfx "girl-scream" 0.8>>

<center><img src="images/chapter1banner.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> It was just a dream. It was //always// just a dream. A damp air had settled into the solitary confines of your room. You can tell it's early morning, through the dim sliver of light that peeks in through the cracked, horizontal slit that serves as a window. Beneath you, matted straw, tattered cloth and what must be clumped rat fur serves as your sleeping pad atop a slab of grey stone. This has been your home for the last thirteen years, ever since old Fredrick saved you from the Orphanage. It doesn't bode well to dwell on such memories so early in the morn, but already it's stuck in your mind, clinging, fragments of a ruined youth and tormented childhood. Your dream was the catalyst. You've never been able to remember your parents... Chances are in the Cradle, they're dead. Only glimpses remain of what might as well be a past life. The trouble is, one seems to reach an age where the past becomes like the future. Vague, uncertain, hopeful. A mere distraction from the labor and toil of your current existence. That's right - you should check on Fredrick. [[Examine your room.|intro_myroom]] <<sfx "gasp" 0.8>> <<set $introcount to 0>>

Some days when he's feeling unwell, you'll find the old man still stowed away beneath the blankets in his room. He's the same man that offered you refuge all those years ago, just older, limbs knotted and fingers warped from his decades of daily labor. You were just a child when he found you and offered to take you on as an apprentice, and you can't help but shudder to think of how things might've turned out without being presented with that opportunity. Being a cobbler's apprentice is far from a glamorous existence, but it's the life that you've come to know. Today, you find that Fredrick is already up and about, preparing for the workday ahead. [[Examine the workshop.|intro_theworkshop]] [[Examine Fredrick.|intro_fredrick]] [[Get to work.|intro_gettowork]]

Home, sweet home. You sit up atop your sleeping pad and peer over your room, bleary-eyed. Everything seems to be in order, not that there's much to manage. You'd still take it over the Orphanage anyday, and for that, you're forever grateful. A shoddy lakewood cabinet occupies one corner of the room, your sparse collection of clothing stuffed inside, with various baubles and trinkets that you've hung onto over the years strewn atop. Beside it, a dingy, half-shattered standing mirror leans against the stone. A warped plank laid across several upturned bricks serves as a makeshift workbench, and a busted crate rests beside it as your seat. You've whittled away at many personal projects here, mostly hand carving blocks of scrap wood or rolling your own clove cigarettes. Anything to pass the time. It's a space full of simple memories. <<if !$intro_mirror>>[[Examine yourself in the mirror.|intro_mirror]]<</if>> <<if !$intro_cabinet>>[[Dig through your cabinet.|intro_cabinet]]<</if>> <<if !$intro_window>>[[Linger by the window.|intro_window]]<</if>> <<if !$intro_workbench>>[[Take a seat at your workbench.|intro_workbench]]<</if>> <<bgm "lonely-darkness" 0.7 3>>

The workshop, which is really just the main room of your hovel, is crowded and crammed to the brim. A workbench takes up one side of the room, the rest stacked full of material, crooked cabinets and staggered shelving. You find it cozy despite the congested confines. You've spent many hours in here, assisting Fredrick and learning the tricks of the trade. <<nobr>> <p> <<if $mind is 2>> You pause at the threshold and listen, letting the room speak first; the scrape of a blade, the rhythm of breath, the subtle signs of what kind of morning it will be. <<elseif $mobility is 2>> You slip in quiet by habit, careful of the boards that complain, moving like the room belongs to you and doesn’t want to admit it. <<elseif $might is 2>> You step in with solid weight, shoulders filling the doorway for a moment. You have to remind yourself to move gently among fragile things. You've learned that lesson more than once. <<elseif ($might is 1) and ($mobility is 1)>> You enter light on your feet but ready in your hands, posture set for work and trouble alike; a body that expects the day to turn sharp. <<elseif ($might is 1) and ($mind is 1)>> You take in the room and measure it, not just with your eyes but with intent; what can be fixed, what can be used, what could go wrong if you miss a detail. <<elseif ($mobility is 1) and ($mind is 1)>> You move carefully, eyes quick, mind quicker; you’ve learned to read a space as you cross it, as if the floor itself might offer warnings. <</if>> Here, leather, bone and damp stone attack your senses, the familiar scents of your world.</p> <p>Nowadays, you're more or less entrusted to work on your own, though Fredrick still tasks you with running the occassional errand and making deliveries whenever necessary. You don't mind. It's nice to get out and explore the narrow streets of Undertown, and it's not especially dangerous if you stick to the main throughfare. Only fools and vagrants venture down the dark alleys below. In fact, there's a saying in the Cradle... <br><br> Good things happen high, and the bad below. Everyone knows that the high nobility live in tilted towers, stretching up into the open sky where the air is cool and clear. The worst that Cradle has to offer lives in the lowest levels of Undertown, in hot, humid hovels where water evaporates and the steam sticks to every surface.</p> <p>The heat is just bearable where you live in the Third.<br> But one day, you hope to move up in the world.</p> <p>[[Examine Fredrick.|intro_fredrick]]<br> [[Get to work.|intro_gettowork]]</p> <</nobr>>

<<nobr>> <center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp1_fredrick.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> <p>The old man hasn’t noticed you yet.</p> <p>He’s too preoccupied with his morning routine, going over the workbench and conducting daily maintenance of his tools. Stone hammers, wooden awls, tapered knives carved from bone, and an assortment of material, mostly scrap; bits of spare leather and thread, the remnants of other people’s lives turned into something usable.</p> <p> <<if $mind is 2>> You find yourself cataloging the small details without meaning to; stiffness in his fingers, the way he favors one wrist, the tiny pauses where pain might live. <<elseif $mobility is 2>> You notice how careful he is with his weight, how he shifts and braces as if the floor could betray him; old bodies learn balance the hard way. <<elseif $might is 2>> Even now, you can see what decades of labor did to him; forearms corded, shoulders worn down, strength that became bone-deep and then began to fade, the fate of every man who manages to grow old enough. <<elseif ($might is 1) and ($mobility is 1)>> You watch the economy of his movements, the way he saves effort, the way he never wastes a step; it reminds you that endurance is a skill, not a gift. <<elseif ($might is 1) and ($mind is 1)>> You see the discipline in him, the quiet refusal to be helpless; you wonder how many times he had to choose pride over comfort just to keep his life intact. <<elseif ($mobility is 1) and ($mind is 1)>> You catch the rhythm of the work, the repeatable pattern that keeps a man sane; a routine built to hold the world at arm’s length. <<else>> You watch him with a wordless respect, because in Undertown, surviving long enough to grow old is its own kind of proof. <</if>> Despite having grown into a sturdy young man yourself, Fredrick still seems larger than life, even with the slight hunch of his sloped shoulders as he continues to age. He must have been formidable back in the day, although he doesn’t talk much of the past. Still, he has endured all these years.</p> <p>In that way, he’s a simple man, grounded in the present and focused on his work. He has served as a poignant example of how a bit of determination and grit can get you through life. Especially here in the Undertown, where things seem unkind and unfair, where life can be brutish and short for the vast majority. </p> <p>This isn’t a place where many grow old and grey like Fredrick.</p> [[Examine the workshop.|intro_theworkshop]]<br> [[Get to work.|intro_gettowork]] <</nobr>>

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp1_fredrick1.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> As you set about to start your day, the old man notices you. His voice is warm and gravelly, slow-paced, as though his attention is split between speaking and the work before him, ''"Morning, $name. How'd you sleep?"'' [[Respond simply.|intro_gettowork_cowboy]] <<ci cowboy social>> [[Be a dick.|intro_gettowork_bastard]] <<ci bastard social>> [[Treat the old man with kindness.|intro_gettowork_knight]] <<ci knight social>>

''"Well enough,"'' Your response comes easy with a faint dip of your chin, ''"Ready to work."'' The old man responds in kind, ''"Good."'' You've always had a straightforward relationship as master and apprentice, although a small part of you, at least unconsciously, regards Fredrick as something of a father figure. He's a fair man, sometimes stern and stiff, but always fair. You try and return the favor by putting in an honest effort every day. ''"Need you to run and buy some tack nails. We'll need 'em for an order later this week."'' You give a terse nod, ''"Got it."'' [[Fredrick tosses you a small pouch, the coins within jingling.|intro_leavinghome]] <<gainCowboy>>

''"Mind your own fuckin' business,"'' You retort, rubbing tiredly at an eye as you meander towards the workbench. A low snort of amusement, gruff and bemused, registers from the old man. He turns his head to briefly examine you, grumbling back, ''"I see ya didn't get enough beauty sleep, princess."'' It's your turn to snort, and you can't help but give a brief smirk back to the old man, ''"We in for a busy day?"'' Your relationship with Fredrick is one of tough love, pushing and pulling between each other. You can be hardheaded and he can be a hardass. For the most part, it works out; you never seem to stay mad at each other for long. ''"Eh, there have been worse days. I need you to run and buy some tack nails. We'll need 'em for Buck's order later this week."'' You give a loose nod in response, ''"Eh, I can do that."'' [[Fredrick tosses you a small pouch, the coins within jingling.|intro_leavinghome]] <<gainBastard>>

''"I can't complain, Fredrick. How're you feeling today?"'' You can't help but worry about the old man nowdays, at least a little bit, these concerns often lingering in the recesses of your mind. Age is a cruel, cruel mistress, that's what they say. While with each passing year, you seem to grow stronger, more capable, increasingly independent and experienced, Fredrick whithers. The least you can do is watch over the man that took you off the streets. ''"Fit as a fiddle and as strong as an ox, kid."'' But he's far too proud to ever show weakness. Everytime you show an ounce of concern or worry, he shrugs it off or shoots you an unconcerned wink. ''"I do need you to run and buy some tack nails today, though. We'll need 'em for Buck's order later this week."'' ''"Of course. Two dozen boots, wasn't it? That'll be a fun job."'' He bobs a nod of acknowledgement, ''"That it will."'' [[Fredrick tosses you a small pouch, the coins within jingling.|intro_leavinghome]] <<gainKnight>>

You catch it with a single hand and briefly weigh it in your palm, before reaching down to secure the pouch within one of your belt loops. This is a normal trip for you, made once or twice a week depending on the number of work orders that you and Fredrick get. It's always nice to get out in the morning, when the air still has a hint of coolness to it and the streets aren't overcrowded quite yet. Taking a deep breath, you glance towards the old man and notice that he's already refocused on his work. Diligent as always. Without expecting a response, not wanting to disturb him, you murmur a farewell, ''"I'll be back."'' And you barely catch his deep-spoken retort as you step towards the door, ''"I know ya will. Watch over yourself, $name."'' [[Outside, you're greeted by a familiar scent.|intro_leavinghome2]] <<sfx "money-bag" 0.8>>

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp1_undertown.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Piss. The familiar scent of piss, sweat and grime greets your nostrils everytime you step out into the narrow streets of Undertown. It barely bothers you at this point. The cobblestone streets are kept in a perpetual state of mismanagement, cracked and broken throughout, with numerous potholes and muddy puddles that promise to ruin the day of the unobservant or unsuspecting. As someone accustomed to their environment, you've memorized the most troublesome spots along your route. Tenaments, hovels and crumbling buildings line either side of the street, the majority of them constructed from stained stone or bleached brick. This is a neighborhood of simple laborers, craftsmen and stoneworkers, the type of people who barely make ends meet, and who have for the most part accepted their lot in life. Given the size of the streets here, one never sees carriages or mounts. Only the rare hand-drawn cart, most of them loaded down with raw goods. It's uncommon to see a patrol of guardsmen or soldiers here, as they mostly stick to the main throughfare, paying most mind to the merchants and vendors who can pad their pockets or fill their bellies with a free meal. For the most part, you can only count on yourself to stay alive. As you walk, you pay special attention to the occassional alleyway; all of them painfully dark, narrow and treacherous. Barely any sun reaches Undertown, given how high the walls rise, but even less graces the forsaken labyrinth of side streets that give this place its seedy reputation. There are more dangerous districts, sure, but you've seen firsthand how unforgiving these streets can be. You are no stranger to death and misfortune. [[There's a glimpse of movement out of the corner of your eye.|intro_leavinghome3]]

A random passerby moves down the street adjacent to you, surely on their way to work. You recognize some faces but Undertown is a big place. There must be thousands of downtrodden souls tucked away in these narrow confines, only barely managing to navigate the daily hardships of the Cradle. This place chews people up and spits them out; dead, bent or broken. Surely you're meant for more... Right? It's nagging notions like these that sometimes cloud your thoughts as you make your way through the day, stepping over shattered glass, discarded bins and heaps of refuse that litter the roadway. But these distractions will cost you today. Much like a troublesome thought might tug at the back of your mind, something much more real happens to tug at the belt looped securely about your waist. And when you glance down, the pouch of coins that Fredrick gave you is gone. [[Fuck!|intro_thechase]] <<bgmstop 6>>

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp1_thief.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> You turn on heel just in time to catch a glimpse of a tattered dark cloak fluttering through the air and disappearing into the shadow of the nearest alleyway. Your adrenaline spikes, fists clenching, before you spring into action and throw yourself into that narrow abyss. Turning the corner, you bound down a pair of shattered steps and leap into a sprint, the figure ahead of you now, barely visible in the darkness. The entire street is sloped, letting you pick up speed as you race downhill at an increasingly steep angle. You're faster than this fucker, you think. You're already gaining ground. [[Get them!|intro_thechase2]] <<sfx "footsteps-running" 0.6>> <<bgm "antagonist" 0.6 6>>

But they're slippery and duck to the left, disappearing down yet another break in the black-stained walls. You turn after them, banking down the alley as fast as your feet will take you, hurdling over more trash and rubbish, still hot on their tail. Until - SHIT! You miss a set of crumbling stairs in the darkness. You can feel stone give away beneath your first footfall, and it all happens so damn fast, the next thing you know you're careening down towards the hardpacked ground. The impact knocks the breath out of you, your lungs already hot and screaming for air, but you can only writhe in pain. Finally, your chest expands and you draw in a shallow breath, then another, sucking in that hot, humid air. You can breathe, but all you feel still is pain, discomfort, agitation, alone in the dark. It's hard to know exactly what happened; if anything is broken, or whether you momentarily passed out. It's pitifully dark down here and your eyes haven't quite adjusted. What's worse is that as the pain and anger begin to subside, confusion fills their place. Fear. You've never been this far down an alley. Everyone always warned you against it. And when you finally lift your gaze towards the direction of your former pursuit, you see a deadend. There are two turns, a junction, left or right. You can't even hear their footfalls anymore, only the sound of your own breath. For a moment, doubt flickers through your mind. But you can't let the thief get away with that coin. [[Investigate.|intro_thechase2invest]] <<ci stat>> [[Left.|newintro_left]] [[Right.|intro_thechase2right]]

Stop and think. If you want to catch the thief, your best bet isn't to //guess// and keep tearing through the narrows blindly. Use your head, $name, you tell yourself before snapping to the task at hand. It's hard to see anything clearly in the dim, dank darkness. But the harder and longer that you look, the quicker your vision seems to adjust. <<if $mind gte 1>> There. That's what you've been searching for. Admist the heap of dust, dirt and grime that has been packed into these winding pathways, you spot a footprint; it must be recent, given the indentions, the way that the garbage has sprawled out loosely around it from the impact. Yes, it seems that the thief took the rightmost alley. <<else>> Yet, there's nothing that catches your eye or sways your senses amongst the heap of dust, dirt and grime that has been packed into these long, winding pathways. There's only garbage, death and decay, nothing fresh that indicates which direction the thief took.<</if>> [[Left.|newintro_left]] [[Right.|intro_thechase2right]]

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp1_descending.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> With a sudden surge of motivation, you force yourself onward, turning right and trotting down the alleyway before you. Stumbling and steering your way through the crumbling labyrinth of broken brick and shattered stone, you don't see any sign of the thief. Your body's sore from the fall. Even your eyeballs pulse in their sockets, straining against the shadows as you adjust, continuing your search in what may already be a lost cause. But another winding turn contorts the alleyway before you, and when you pivot around the corner, you see the narrow path continue, long and winding out into the deep distance, with... A flutter of dark cloth and the small shape of the thief down below. Escaping, but within reach. You still have a chance. [[Calm and calculated.|intro_right_calm]] [[Let your instincts reign.|intro_right_instinct]]

You have to be smart if you're going to catch the thief. These alleys aren't a joke and they certainly shouldn't be treated as such. If you continue to tear through them without some amount of careful calculation, it's possible that you never end up leaving the narrows today. Many men have ventured down them, never to return, not to mention the tens of thousands that have been born into them throughout the Cradle, and there they stay. A life of abject poverty, confined between shattered, stained walls and crumbling structures, fighting for every single morsel of food and drop of clean water. What a miserable existence. Once you get your coins, you're leaving, and you don't plan on coming back. First, you have to make sure that you don't lose sight of the thief, or let them get too far ahead of you. You're not going to give them the opportunity to get away again. Your feet bound out onto the dusty cobblestones before you, carrying you over flattened heaps of rotten refuse and seeping, mud-packed potholes deep enough to swallow a man whole. [[You spot something up ahead.|intro_right_calm1]]

You're not going to give them the opportunity to get away again. No, you're either going to leave this pitiful place with your pouch of coins in one hand and the thief's throat in the other, or not at all. That's the murderous mentality that begins to grow inside of you as you pick up pace once more, intent on your target. Your feet bound out onto the dusty cobblestones before you, carrying you over flattened heaps of rotten refuse and seeping, mud-packed potholes that look deep enough to swallow a man whole. Eyes keen and feet swift, you're dialed in now. But as you tear through the alleyway, your thundering footfalls seem to alert the thief, who picks up their pace still far ahead of you. Fuck it! Blood pumping hotly through your veins, much like the humid air sucked into your lungs, you fully commit yourself to a mad dash after them. Arms swinging tight to your side, thighs thick and taut above every long stride, you propel yourself into the wild chase that consumes you. But even in your frenzied state, you spot something up ahead, lurking beneath the trash-strewn foilage of the street. <<if $mind == 1 && $mobility == 1>><br>A vague outline, netting perhaps; you don't have much time to react, but your mind processes the sight and your body is quick enough to still seize the opportunity. Avoid it, throw yourself to the side, survive!<br><</if>> [[Leap!|intro_right_instinct_captured]] <<ci lethal>> [[Hug the wall!|intro_right_instinct_dodge]] <<ci lethal>>

You can detect the outline of something unusual, buried beneath the street's top layer of trash and rubbage. Even now, you're not /exactly/ sure what it is, but if you'd been going any faster down the alleyway, you would've ran right into it. A trap perhaps, though you're not sure how the thief avoided it. If you hug the wall and stick close to it, you might be able to scrap right by without upsetting anything. That's exactly what you do, with no time to waste, setting your back to busted brick and scooting your way along tight to the wall. You swear, just for a moment or two, that you can hear something high above, like whispers on a wandering wind. When you stop to focus on it, there's nothing, only the low chitter of rats rustling through the refuse. By the time you feel confident in pressing off the wall and continuing down the alley as normal, you can't help but wonder whether your concerns were even valid. Better safe than sorry, you suppose. But now the silhouette of the thief has disappeared... [[You're forced to catch up.|intro_right_calm2]]

This narrow labyrinth of alleys is far from flat, constantly descending into deeper, darker and more debris-filled pathways that teeter with crumbling stonework and blasted brick, only to suddenly ascend and brighten once more with slivers of pale-violet light that shimmer down atop the muddy cobblestone beneath your feet. Your long strides and sure footfalls have made good progress in closing the gap. Once you turn the corner, you see them down the path before you, passing under the shadow of a stone archway. It stands derelict, the once-pristine marbling cracked by age and overgrown with a moist, pale green moss. You remain weary of any potential traps, watching for them as you duck beneath the same entrance and arrive in what appears to be a long-forgotten courtyard. And there they are, not but ten yards from you, the thief. Their dark, hole-ridden cloak conceals their true identity as they clamber up a stack of crates, bleached from years of exposure. They're positioned perfectly under a tilted, ceramic-tiled ledge, Which they're deftly hoisting themselves up onto with a kick of their little feet. [[You almost have them.|intro_right_calm3]]

You close the distance with a surge of energy, clambering atop the cluster of crates and grabbing for the edge of the roof. A piece of the nearest tile breaks clean off beneath the press of your fingers. ''"Fuck."'' You curse beneath your breath. You're quite a bit larger and therefore heavier than the thief. This might get dicey. But you didn't come this far to go home empty-handed. Drawing in a deep breath, you find a better handhold and haul yourself up with a bit of effort, just in time to see the thief scramble over a half-wall and disappear onto an adjacent rooftop. You can't let yourself fall behind again. And so you find yourself climbing atop crumbling structures and leaping between caved-in roofs, sometimes getting a glimpse between each building into the alleyways below. Sometimes the fall doesn't seem like it would be too bad, while othertimes, you reason that you'd be lucky to survive; such is the fluctuation in height that you experience throughout your pursuit. You never imagined yourself in a situation like this. [[The thief always appears one step ahead of you.|intro_right_calm4]]

They were certainly agile, weaving between a maze of obstacles in a desperate attempt to put distance between themself and you. An intricate labyrinth of uneven chimney stacks blackened by smoke, loose tiles and shingles that give way underfoot, narrow gaps that were only discernable when it was already too late. These were the potential pitfalls of your rooftop pursuit. Yet you're catching up, their cloak fluttering in the dim light just ahead of you, the pale-violet glow of the sky reaching these heights better than the darkened alleyways below. You both emerge onto a wider rooftop, adorned with weathered clotheslines and drying racks, turning round a crumbling wall to a sudden, unwanted sight. You're greeted by two figures, a thuggish man and a wiry woman, both armed. They look just as surprised as you, lingering by the roof's edge. But before anyone can truly react, the thief turns and takes a running leap across the yawning gap between buildings, landing on an adjacent roof. ''"Don't move a fuckin' muscle!"'' The man suddenly barks out, big and bulky, grimacing at you from beside a wide, wicked facial scar that stretches from temple to cheek. The woman, a scrawny lass with a gaunt face, bears what appears to be a club, positioning herself between you and the roofs edge from which the thief had just leapt. [[Find an escape route.|intro_right_calmrun]] <<ci lethal>> [[Charge her and leap the roof.|intro_right_calmleap]] <<ci lethal>> [[Talk your way out.|intro_right_calmtalk]] <<ci lethal>>

''"Listen,"'' You manage to say, your mind going a hundred miles an hour as you try to think your way through this situation. ''"That thief stole something from me, that's wh--"'' They don't seem to be paying any attention to your words. The man signals to the woman, and they begin to close in on you. ''"Look, it doesn't have to go this way."'' You draw back a step, then another. She has a club, he has what appears to be a big, gravel-filled cosh, the type of weapon a mugger might use to beat an unsuspecting victim unconscious. These are thieves, thugs, brigands, something along those lines, you can tell that much. You're in trouble. [[Find an escape route.|intro_right_calmrun]] <<ci lethal>> [[Fight your way through them.|intro_right_fightthrough]] <<ci lethal>>

The decision is made near instantaneously after a split second calculation, sizing up the skinny woman between you and your prey. She's not limp-wristed, a seasoned woman of the alleys, but you'd rather take your chances than have this whole chase be for naught. Your muscles tense, your breath catches in your chest, and with a start, your legs pump powerfully beneath you as you propel yourself across the roof and charge the club-wielding fiend before you. Her eyes momentarily widen, and before her much larger friend can intervene, you're upon her. She goes to swing, but you're already too close, plowing into her with a dip of your broad shoulder. You almost unbalance yourself with the impact and go hurtling off the roof, but manage to steady yourself for several steps more, before bounding into a leap with the dark alleyway gaping up at you from far below. [[You even manage to land on both feet.|intro_right_calmleap1]]

Your eyes dart across your surroundings, a dark silhouette of dimly-lit, long-forgotten rooftops before you. There! On the far side of this roof, set into a pale wall, an old door stands crookedly, a potential pathway for your escape. It beckons you. You kick off across the rooftop, skipping over puddles of grime and muck, old bloodstains across the shattered tile and a rickety, open-faced grate, slamming sideways into the door and busting through it with a clatter of cracked wood and a broken frame. You can hear them rushing after you from behind. [[A dark staircase descends before you.|intro_right_calmrun1]]

Not wasting any time, you begin your descent, skipping a step or two with each long stride. They're barely visible beneath your feet, the stone solid, dark and shrouded by shadow. At the bottom, you whip around a corner and find another set of stairs. But below that, standing half-crooked open, another doorway. You might just have a chance. Their footfalls still echo out above you. ''"Fuckin' asshole."'' You hear the big, burly man's curse from above. You're not going to wait for him. Leaping down another series of stairs, you boot open the door and hurry your way through. Rather abruptly, you find yourself in what appears to be a grungy apartment. There's trash and junk scattered about, with a circular table set low, cushions and chairs, what looks to be a corner kitchen at the other end of the room. It smells of food, too. You wonder if this is where they live. [[You sense a presence; too little, too late.|intro_calmrun2]]

Someone grabs you, someone terribly strong, a thick, flubby forearm pressed hard against your throat as they pull you into a choke. You throw your head back and try to press free, but there's no slipping out from their gruesome grip. When you manage to get a look at them, your heart sinks. Putrid pink flesh and a frumpy face, bleached tusks protruding from his piggish face. Mutations aren't all too uncommon among the lowest and poorest denizens of Undertown. You've heard that there's entire enclaves of them hidden away in the Lost Quarter. But all you can think about currently, is fighting for your life. ''"I got 'im Zhed! Zhed, I got 'im!"'' The beast chortles and struggles a couple steps forward with you dragging along, still putting everything you can muster into wrenching free from their hold. You can barely breath, let along get a word out to try and deter him. The burly man with the wide, wicked scar appears through the doorway, grimacing and breathily heavily as he swaggers towards you, a gravel-filled cosh in hand. ''"Hold the fucker still."'' The last thing you see is him raising it high, And swinging it heavily towards your head. [[Darkness overtakes you.|intro_right_knockedout]]

It's peaceful here. Only the gusting of clean, clear wind feels your ear. Air this fresh only comes from up above, high beyond the craggy edges of the Cradle. You're back inside the carriage again as it teeters along an empty cobblestone road. And she's with you as always, that familiar girl with her beautiful blue eyes, blonde curls tousled and thrown about by the breeze. She's sitting close to you; her long locks tickle your face and chin. So soft, you think, like decadent silken strands. You reach for her hand, but when you grab it, it's terribly hard. It feels more of bone than flesh. A dull throbbing fills the base of your skull, reverberating through your consciousness as it slowly sweeps back into your weary mind. When you blink, groggily, the girl is gone. Your senses are dulled by the lingering haze of oblivion, the world dark and bleary, though you still feel her soft locks tickling your chin. ''"Ah, you're finally waking up."'' Once more, your eyes open and close, trying to focus on the silhouette of a seated man. ''"Shouldn't let the rats pick at ya like that, mate. They'll think you're food."'' You bring a hand to your chin, trying to brush away her lingering locks, only to find a scrawny, grey rat that has been nibbling at your chapped flesh. ''"HUA!"'' You find yourself invigorated, enough to swat the skittering rat away and sit upright... Only to find your back pressed against the hard wrought bars of a cage. [[This is no dream...|intro_right_knockedout1]] <<sfx "wind-blowing" 0.5>> <<bgmstop>>

Fuck it, you think. Now is not the time for reasoning. You can feel the titillating sensation of your adrenaline spiking, surging through your veins, accompanied by the hot pump of blood engorging your tensed muscles. Here goes nothing! ''"Stay nice an' still, and you'll be just fine pal. Now--"'' They don't expect your charge. Deciding to go for the female first, you plow through her with a booted foot, slamming into her thin-ribbed chest. You swear that you can feel bones shatter beneath the hard impact, whipping her backwards onto the crumbling rooftop. Before you can take a breath, you feel a sickening thud and a brief exposion of pain before your world turns, sending you spinning and staggered down onto the ruined tile. You stumble, fighting off the darkness spilling into the edges of your vision. The roof sways around you, a landscape of dark shadows, splotches of grey and brown, and a dim violet glow from high above. For a brief moment, you can see his grim face clearly, bearing down on you for another brutal swing. [[Throw yourself at him.|intro_right_fightthrough1]] <<ci lethal>> [[Try to disarm him.|intro_right_disarmthug]] <<ci lethal>>

You immediately change levels and throw yourself forward, ducking under the swing of his cosh and somehow managing to throw him off-balance, both of your hands leveraged behind his knees, grabbing onto whatever you can, the greasy rat-leather of his trousers snagged between your fingers. He falls backwards and instead of trying to end up on top of him for an impromptu grappling match, you kick off against the rooftop and stagger away, heading for the edge. You still have a thief to catch; so you propel yourself forward, vision finally steadying as you charge towards open air. Muscles tensed, breath tight, your legs pump powerfully beneath you, before bounding into a leap with the dark alleyway gaping up at you from far below. It's a fall that could certainly kill you. Alas, you trusted your body, controlled your nerves and somehow survived that heavy blow. You're not stopping, not yet. [[You even manage to land on both feet.|intro_right_calmleap1]]

You go for his cosh, but your vision is swimming and your coordination suffers. What little chance you had to overpower him or knock away his cosh seems lost. His next blow crashes through your upheld hands, crushing your fingers and glancing off your temple, sending you sputtering back onto the filthy, grimy ground. Barely clinging to your senses, you try and scramble to your feet, but you're having trouble. He's right on top of you again, yellowed teeth bared in an ugly grimace, that wicked scar grinning down at you. The next blow, you don't even feel. You can't even remember it. [[Because darkness overtakes you.|intro_right_knockedout]]

You hear sharp curses and a shout from the rooftop that you just left behind, but you spare nary a glance, continuing after the thief and your stolen property. Thanks to your quick thinking, they barely gained any ground on you. In fact, they seem to be slowing down; you imagine they're regretting their choice of victim today. After hurtling over another edge and skipping over a series of conjoined rooftops, hot on their trail, you're almost in position to put an end to this tiresome chase. You race after her, entering an enclosed archway that exits out into something of a shaded cove, shielded on three sides by a wall, nearly twice as tall as you. This must've been a nice spot, some hundred years ago, a rooftop garden perhaps. But now, it serves as the culmination of your chase. The //thief// stands before you. [[Look at them.|intro_right_calmleap2]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp1_wagon_gant.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center><<set $intro_enslaved to true>> You're in the back of a wagon as it wobbles and bumps along, stuffed full of several cyclindrical cages, tall enough to sit within but not much else. The man in the cage adjacent to yours speaks again. ''"They got you good, huh? I can see that welt from a league away."'' <<if $left_pit is true>> Tentatively, you lift a hand and smooth your dusty digits through your hair. When you feel along the back of your skull, you can't help but grimace in pain, a very sore and prominent bump marking where you hit the ground. Your pained breath serves as a sort of vague affirmation for your company. ''"So how'd you end up here? Forgive my nosiness, these other shods haven't been very talkative."''<<else>> Tentatively, you lift a hand and smooth your dusty digits through your hair. When you feel along the back of your skull, you can't help but grimace in pain, a very sore and prominent bump marking where the slavers had knocked you senseless. Your pained breath serves as affirmation for your company. ''"So how'd you end up here? Forgive my nosiness, these other shods haven't been very talkative."''<</if>> Surrounding your 'friend' were several other figures crammed into their own cages, faces etched with weariness and despair. Some sat huddled in silence, their eyes vacant and haunted, while others gazed blankly out into the street, lost in their own private torment. The man speaking to you looked sane at the very least, although slightly unkempt, which could be forgiven based on shared circumstances. He was slightly taller than average for a human, with an athletic, lithe build and long, shaggy chestnut-brown hair that sometimes crept in front of his dark-green gaze. ''"Gambling,"'' He mutters. He notices you observing him, vaguely amused, ''"Always been a bad habit of mine, bettin' money and drinking whiskey. They finally sent someone after me. Bastards found me in my room with a lass and didn't even have the heart to let me finish."'' [[Remain silent.|intro_wagon_silent]] <<ci cowboy>> [[Those motherfuckers.|intro_wagon_fuckers]] <<ci bastard>> [[Introduce yourself.|intro_wagon_introduce]] <<ci knight>> <<bgm "the-wanderer" 0.6 6>> <<notify "One Bad Day" "It appears that you've been enslaved.<br>How quickly one's fate can take a sharp turn..." "warn" "scroll" 15000>>

It was a goblin all along. She's not even five feet tall, short and slim, with narrow, almond-shaped eyes that bear golden irises, peering up at you unsteadily from beneath the shadow of her dark cloak. What little of her pale green flesh that you can see is covered by a faint sheen of sweat. She's tired, bent over awkwardly as she tries to catch her breath, yet she stands still in the middle of the walled rooftop with her focus locked onto you. Then you see it, clutched within the confines of one of her small, grubby hands... A curved dagger with a dangerously sharpened point. You stand before her, still full of adrenaline, although it's at risk of running low. The stress and fatigue will catch up with you eventually. But for now, it's finally time to bring this chase to a close. Do you just want your pouch of coins back? Or does justice demand to be delivered today, knife or not? [[Return what you stole from me.|intro_right_calmleap2_return]] [[Attempt to disarm her.|intro_right_calmleap2_disarm]] <<sfx "runningbreath" 0.7>>

''"Return what you stole from me."'' Your demand is clear and simple, although your voice is haggard. She doesn't budge, staring back at you with her dagger gripped close, held somewhat outwards as though to ward you off. ''"My coins. I'm a cobbler's apprentice and I need those coins. Let's end this."'' You try and reason with her. But the glimmer of her gaze seems to grow hard and steely, determined. You're quickly growing tired of it; you didn't chase her through the narrows and across a dozen roofs all for naught. Finally, she snaps back in a light, springy and feminine voice: ''"No! You give it up an' leave me be! These coins can buy enough food t'feed me for a week!"'' She's not wrong. It's not a lot of coin, all things considered; just enough for a weeks worth of tack nails. But for some people, especially those in the narrows, it's enough to live on. [[Try and reason with her.|intro_right_calmleap2_reason]] [[Attempt to disarm her.|intro_right_calmleap2_disarm]]

Carefully, you begin to edge forward and she reacts to your every movement, dagger raised, the sharpened edge glistening beneath a stray beam of violet-light. As you step aside, she moves the opposite way, circling, golden-eyes locked with yours in this dance of nerves. ''"You wanted this."'' You remind her lowly, which causes her gaze to narrow once more. And then she strikes, slashing at you in a long, diagonal arc that you easily sidestep. Calculated, you throw a kick, hard and low right behind her knee, causing the goblin to buckle and fall. You're on top of her like a predator on prey, snatching the wrist of her weapon-wielding hand and wrenching control of the dagger with your superior strength. But she's quick and nimble, abandoning the blade as she attempts to slip past you towards the only exit. [[You try to cut her off.|intro_right_calmleap2_disarmed]]

''"Look... I get it. But that doesn't mean you can just steal them."'' You keep trying to reason with the goblin, only drawing a small step closer, not wanting to startle her. Still, the thief's breathing seems to gradually be settling, gaze set upon you and narrowed in what seems to be blatant annoyance. ''"This is how we survive, you wouldn't get it. Now fuck off an' get back to your cozy home, roundear."'' She spits back; so much for trying to be reasonable. No, this goblin seems intent on keeping your coins. ''"We can split it,"'' You concede with a low breath, ''"I'm not heartless. Come on-"'' Before you can blink, the goblin suddenly shifts and turns with a flutter of her dark, threadbare cloak, attempting to dart beside you and dash off towards the only visible exit, the archway from which you both emerged. But you have time to react. Do you fight for what belongs to you? [[Stop her.|intro_right_calmleap2_stopher]]

You're one step ahead of her this time, cutting off her retreat and nearly trampling the shorter, smaller goblin in the process. She gasps, still trying to fight against you, though it's no use. It should be clear that you're much bigger, stronger, and capable of controlling her little wrists. In the end, you have her pressed up against one of the rooftop walls, her green cheek smushed against the dust-smeared stonework. ''"Ow! Feck, you fuckin' bastard!"'' She kicks, yips and groans, struggling and squirming, forcing you to apply more pressure. Only then does she relent. ''"Fine- ow, fuckin' fine! You got me!"'' [[I want my coins.|intro_right_calm_wall_wantcoins]]

''"I only wanted my pouch back."'' You mutter, adjusting your grip on her wrists and making sure she's pressed tight against the wall. She's not going anywhere, you're going to make sure of that. ''"Fine!"'' She quips back, breathily, her body still tense as though she's looking for a way out. ''"Jus' take the damn coins and let me go, roundear. They're in my cloak..."'' Throwing up a shoulder and loosing a heavy breath, you give a faint nod, ''"Stay still."'' So you jut your hand beneath her dark cloak and feel around the lining, digits smoothing over various rips and holes, until you locate the familiar bulge of your coinpouch. Moments later, you have it in hand. Judging by the feel, she hasn't removed any of the coins, not that she would've had time during the chase. It looks like you've finally gotten back what belongs to you. Now the question remains... Do you leave with what you came for, or is there still unfinished business? [[Look at her.|intro_right_calm_lookather]] <<ci adult>> [[Depart with your coins.|intro_right_calm_depart]] [[Haul her off to the Legion.|intro_right_calm_hauloff]] <<ci archetype>>

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp1_thief_cc.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> She's the smallest of her kind, a normal goblin, compared to the hobgoblins or trolls; the other types of goblinoids that you sometimes see throughout Undertown. As far as you can tell, they're the second most populous race in the Cradle, besides humans. Most of them seem to have it pretty //rough//. At least that seems to be the case for her, the goblin pressed between your body and the wall, who has fallen silent beneath your gaze with her face turned away and those gold eyes narrowed in annoyance. She must do whatever it takes to survive in these alleys. It's unfortunate that she picked you as today's target. Beneath that cloak, you can tell that she has the figure of a woman; there's only a smallish bump representing her clothed chest, but her hips splay out wide, thick and feminine beneath the thin, tasseled leather of a dark skirt. You're surprised that she was able to run so fast, as she's certainly doesn't look built for speed. Dark, thick furrowed brows crest her almond-shaped eyes, effectively giving her something of a resting bitch face, which gives off the impression of her being continually annoyed. Not every goblin has a full head of hair, but she does, albeit cut short and braided atop a slender skull, pitch-gray in tone. [[Claim her (18+)|intro_right_instinct_shutup_claimher]] <<ci adult>> [[Depart with your coins.|intro_right_calm_depart]] [[Haul her off to the Legion.|intro_right_calm_hauloff]] <<ci archetype>>

''"We're done here."'' You finally ease up, loosening your control over the goblin and stepping back from where you had her pressed tight against the wall. You can see, barely, where her cheek had been smushed up against it, leaving a vaguely moist spot behind on the otherwise untouched, dust-covered surface. She slowly turns around to face you, still somewhat weary, perhaps surprised that you're letting her go free after all of this. You consider what to say in parting, before embarking on the journey back home through the narrows. ''"Hey,"'' You start, causing one of her dark brows to tick upwards. [[Don't steal from me again.|intro_right_calm_depart_dontsteal]] <<ci archetype>> [[Better luck next time.|intro_right_calm_depart_betterluck]] <<ci archetype>>

''"You're coming with me."'' She tries to glare back at you, thick brows drawn together, ''"What do you mean?"'' She's completely still against the wall, but like a trapped animal, you can sense the stored energy in her limbs and the tautness of her body. It's not hard to imagine that she's looking for an escape route, that she'll surely seize as soon as the opportunity arises. Are you biting off more than you can chew? You barely made it through the alleys in one piece, after all. ''"I'm hauling you in and turning you over to the Legion. You're a thief."'' She doesn't like that response, as she suddenly shifts against you, shaking her head and screaming. ''"GET 'IM OFF ME, LEAVE ME ALONE! LET ME GO!"'' You fight to maintain control, keeping her pressed against the wall. There's no way she's getting away from you, unless her screams attract unwanted attention from other alleyborn denizens. [[Change your mind.|intro_right_calm_hauloff_changemind]] [[Knock her out.|intro_right_calm_hauloff_knockout]]

''"Sssh, sshh."'' You try to shush her, but she's in a state of fight or flight, evidently panicked by the idea of being hauled off to jail. You're not trying to press your luck today and get yourself killed; desperate, you reach around and smack a hand over her open mouth. Her muffled cries reverberate against your palm as you try and get her attention, ''"Listen. I won't turn you in, shut up already."'' She tries to peer back at you, eyes wide, until she suddenly stops and gradually seems to begin to calm down. Your serious expression must've done the trick. ''"I got my coins... that's all I wanted."'' And finally, you slip your hand from her mouth and she's silent. Good. [[Depart with your coins.|intro_right_calm_depart]]

You have to do something quick before this goblin gets you gutted, deep in the alleys atop this nameless roof where no one will see nor care. You'll die alone, unfound and forgotten; only Fredrick will remember your name until time takes him, too. So you decide to take decisive action. It happens quickly. You shift your weight to the side and leverage your superior size, bringing your elbow down sharply towards her temple. The impact is solid, her head snapping to the side, lolling there until it thumps forward against the wall and settles there, still. You're not sure how long she'll be unconscious, but this is certainly preferable to her screaming and fighting you every step of the way, on the treacherous path to depart from the alleys. Keeping her propped up between you and the wall, you take a moment to reattach your coinpouch to one of your beltloops. [[Haul her off to the Legion.|intro_right_calm_hauloff_knockout1]]

Stooping down low, you grab one of her arms, then the other, until you can heft her up and over one of your broad shoulders. She's heavier than you'd like, but all things considered, it could be a much worse haul. You'll just have to make it over the various pits, holes, up the steps once more, and through the apparent traps that lay in wait. Only splotches of dirty green flesh visible amongst the dark shroud of her crumpled cloak, you remember to snatch up the goblin's curved dagger from where it lay, carefully balancing her atop your shoulder all the while. And once you slip your newfound weapon beneath your belt and trousers, the hilt slightly protruding for easy access, you head for the archway that leads away from this fateful rooftop. You wonder what the intent of that net was from earlier; whether they were innovative thugs looking for easy prey, or worse, a gang of slavers looking for new chattel. It's possible that it belonged to the same pair that you ran into on the rooftops earlier. Regardless, it seems that you barely avoided a worse fate this day. You count yourself lucky, though perhaps it's too soon to say. You still have the journey back through the narrows... [[Onward.|intro_right_knockoutarrest_haulend]]

//Sometime later, after a perilous trek...// Unfortunately, the intrepid little goblin awoke not long after your journey back through the narrows began. You had to make do with what you could find, stuffing a dirty rag into her mouth to keep her quiet and procuring some tattered twine to bind her wrists and ankles. Still, she has put up //quite// the fight. ''"You don't know when to quit, do you?"'' Her response is throaty and muffled, barely audible, head dangling to and fro behind you with her body thrown over your shoulder. Despite her being so small and light (initially), you're exhausted, trudging along the streets of Undertown trying to find a patrol of guards to take her off your hands. The streets are busier than they were this morning, various craftsmen, laborers and merchants making their way through the burgeoning, bustling day. You can feel their eyes on you; people must be at least somewhat curious why a young man has a bound goblin held atop his shoulder, but thankfully most folk around here tend to mind their own business. Not that they would particularly care if it was just a //goblin// being kidnapped or taken advantage of. They're among the dregs of society after all. [[Up ahead, you spot the reddish gleam of bronze.|intro_right_knockoutarrest_haulend1]] <<gainKnight>>

''"Don't steal from me again."'' She looks at you somewhat oddly, still bewildered perhaps from the chain of events. ''"... Right."'' There's something of a scowl on her visage, but also a small semblance of what might be begrudging respect. You did chase her through the narrows and beat her in the end, after all. You wonder how many are brave or stupid enough to do like you. [[Time to go home.|intro_right_calm_homewithcoins]] <<gainKnight>>

''"Better luck next time, eh? Pick someone slower, maybe."'' She looks at you somewhat oddly, still bewildered perhaps from the chain of events. Though after a moment or two of processing what you said, a little smirk appears. ''"I'll try my best... roundear."'' You feel as though you earned some semblance of respect from her, however begrudging, after chasing through the narrows and beating her in the end. [[Time to go home.|intro_right_calm_homewithcoins]] <<gainCowboy>>

''"Don't follow me,"'' You add as you begin to turn on heel. Ducking through the archway and departing from the walled-in rooftop, you remember to take a moment to reattach your coinpouch to one of your beltloops, feeling a brief surge of confidence from your victory. However, the feeling doesn't last forever. As you descend back into the narrows, you remember that you'll have to make it over the various pits, holes, up the steps once more, and through the apparent traps that lay in wait. You wonder what the intent of that net was from earlier; whether they were innovative thugs looking for easy prey, or worse, a gang of slavers looking for new chattel. It's possible that it belonged to the same pair that you ran into on the rooftops earlier. Regardless, it seems that you barely avoided a worse fate this day. You count yourself lucky, though perhaps it's too soon to say. You still have the journey ahead, back through the narrows... [[You depart into the darkness.|intro_right_homewithcoins_ending]]

You've had enough excitement for one day. But as you walk home through the mean streets of Undertown, you find that your mind isn't your own. Not completely. You thought you would've questioned these decisions, these acts, that you take unconsciously without even a second thought. This isn't typical for you, not at all. For example, your decision to turn down an alley a few blocks from your house. Wandering alone, eyes narrowed, you press along further, deeper, the path growing even darker yet. It feels like you're descending into another world, an underworld. A place where gloom prevails and shadows pervade each and every crooked, cracked crevice in the ruined walls and streets. You can barely see anything now. A hand held out in front of you, feeling through the darkness, you're suddenly confronted with your thoughts. What are you doing? Why did you come here? And as you consider your choices, you realize that the air has turned silent. Not a single sound disturbs the otherworldly stillness of this deep, dark place. Even the heat of Undertown has given way to a still coolness. Usually a reprieve from the heat would be nice, comforting even. But as your adrenaline wears off, you can't help but feel sick, like something is off. A sense of dread sits heavily in the pit of your stomach. [[And that's when you hear it.|intro_turnedleft1]] <<bgmstop 6>> <<notify "Quicker than that" "You caught a thief." "warn" "scroll" 15000>>

This stops here. You put a foot down, literally and figuratively, jutting out a leg to trip the goblin while remaining wary of her crooked dagger. Fate seems to be on your side. She doesn't expect your quick reaction and goes down hard, the blade knocked free to skitter across the old, dust-blown rooftop. Before she can find her feet again, you press your advantage and throw your weight down atop her. She's quick and slippery, almost managing to roll out from under you, but you grab onto a little wrist and leverage your superior size and strength. Soon, she's completely secured beneath you, squished flat. [[She cries out, "Get the fuck off me!"|intro_right_calmleap2_stopped]]

''"Come on, now. That wasn't smart, was it?"'' You're breathing heavily from the sudden exchange, shifting your weight to try and ensure she stays stuck beneath you. Meanwhile, you focus on calming yourself while she struggles and squirms, muttering all the while, ''"Feck you... Tall fuckin' bastard.. Fine, fine!"'' ''"Are you going to cooperate?"'' You ask her, looking the little lass over from above. ''"Yes! Take it easy, fuck."'' She curses back as you take a glance through the archway, steadying yourself. ''"I'm gonna stand you up. Don't move a muscle."'' Shifting your weight carefully, you maintain control over her wrists and haul the goblin to her feet as soon as you find yours. Not wanting to put anything to change, you shove her against the nearby rooftop wall and keep her secured there tight, her cheek smushed into the dust-smeared stonework. [[I want my coins.|intro_right_calm_wall_wantcoins]]

Quickly, you kick off from the hard-packed street beneath you and pitch yourself into open air. Before you can blink, your life takes an /unfortunate/ turn. You never would have imagined that you'd be caught in a net, your limbs bent, twisted, body folded over, effectively trapped and caked in a filthy layer of dirt and grime that was thrown up by the trap's activation. You hang taut in the air, one of your legs protruding through the net and dangling towards the dark alley ground below. ''"Fuck,"'' You spit before clenching your teeth and trying to manipulate the coarse netting around you. But you can barely move; it's tight and you don't have anything on you to cut at it. ''"This makes up for missin' the little one, don't it?"'' The voices are low, but growing louder and clear for you to hear. They seem to be climbing down from somewhere above, perhaps a nearby rooftop, and you can't even swivel your gaze to observe them. You have to do something, quick. But nothing that you do works. Your fingers pry feebly at the netting and your teeth barely put an indent in the rough, thick-woven fibers. You're trapped and there's no telling what they'll do with you, or who this trap belongs to. You'll have an idea soon. [[A trio of leather-clad humans peer up at you.|intro_right_instinct_captured1]] <<bgmstop 3>>

''"Fuck!"'' The impact sends reverberations throughout your entire body as you throw yourself to the side, knocking into the ruined wall to your right and causing a cascade of dirt and grime, shook free by your collision. But it seems to have been the right choice; as exactly where you would've been running through, a net had whipped up into the air, empty. ''"You missed another one, idiot!"'' You hear the choked bellow from somewhere high above, perhaps the nearest rooftop, and a muted argument follows that you can't quite make out over the ringing in your ears. But you do know that you shouldn't stick around and meet whoever set this trap. You turn, dashing along the broken alleyway, right under the net that would've entrapped you and continue after the fastly fleeing, dark-cloaked thief. Blood-pumping and adrenaline-high, you can't wait to get your hands on them. [[Pick up the pace!|intro_right_instinct_dodge1]]

''"Not bad,"'' The biggest among them murmurs as he cants a dark eye up and over your captured form. He's a bulky man with a shaven head and a wide, wicked scar that carves its way down his right temple and through his cheek. ''"Sorry kid. You look like you'll be a good sell."'' One of his companions, a frumpy man with bleached tusks, chortles as he gawks up at you. ''"See? I told ya I'd make up for it, Zhed."'' Mutations aren't all too uncommon among the lowest and poorest denizens of Undertown. You've heard that there's entire enclaves of them hidden away in the Lost Quarter. [[What is this?|intro_right_instinct_captured1_whatisthis]] [[Let me go, fuckers!|intro_right_instinct_captured1_letmego]] [[Admonish the mutant.|intro_right_instinct_captured1_admonish]] <<sfx "runningbreath" 0.6>>

''"What is this?"'' You call down to them, trying to twist your gaze to follow the scarred man that appears to be the leader of this trio. It doesn't take long for him to call back to you, ''"We're slavers, kid. Stay still and you won't be harmed. Try anything funny and you'll find out the hard way."'' ''"Thas' right!"'' The frumpy tusked mutant excitedly joins in, stepping to the side of the alley and searching for something admist the muck. Zhed, the scarred leader, calls over to the third and final member of the trio: ''"Keep an eye on him, Wini."'' She's a scrawny lass, all skin and bones, but there's a rough look at her gaunt face, and what appears to be a club gripped loosely in her skinny hands. You might be able to take her... [[You suddenly jolt, then come crashing down towards the ground.|intro_right_instinct_captured1_dropped]]

''"Let me go, fuckers! This has to be some kinda joke!"'' You shout down at the trio, spittle flying free as you try to squirm and remove yourself from the net. The scarred man squints up at you with a dark eye, before calling up, ''"Stop making a fuss, or you'll find out the hard way whether this is a /joke/."'' ''"Thas' right!"'' The frumpy tusked mutant excitedly joins in, stepping to the side of the alley and searching for something admist the muck. ''"Shut tha' feck up, before we kill ya. Right, Zhed?"'' But the shaven-headed man doesn't respond, turning instead to the third and final member of the trio: ''"Keep an eye on him, Wini."'' She's a scrawny lass, all skin and bones, but there's a rough look at her gaunt face, and what appears to be a club gripped loosely in her skinny hands. You can take her. Or die trying. These are slavers, that much is clear, and you don't intend on being kept like cattle. [[You suddenly jolt, then come crashing down towards the ground.|intro_right_instinct_captured1_dropped]]

''"Keep that tainted beast away from me,"'' You call down to them, your gaze tilted to haphazardly follow the meaty, meandering mutant, who pauses in his wobble to glare up at you. ''"I don't want to /catch/ anything."'' ''"What'd he jus' call me, Zhed!? He's makin' fun of me!"'' The frumpy tusked mutant cries out. Zhed, the scarred man who must be the leader of the trio, squints up at you with a dark eye. ''"Stop riling him up. Stay still and you won't be harmed. Try anything funny or keep running your mouth and you'll find out the hard way."'' ''"What's the meaning of this?"'' You inquire back, but the shaven-headed man doesn't respond, turning instead to the third and final member of the trio: ''"Keep an eye on him, Wini."'' She's a scrawny lass, all skin and bones, but there's a rough look at her gaunt face, and what appears to be a club gripped loosely in her skinny hands. These people are slavers and they mean business, you can tell that much. [[You suddenly jolt, then come crashing down towards the ground.|intro_right_instinct_captured1_dropped]]

You blink away the grit and grime, sputtering, sprawled atop the ground beneath a heavy bundle of netting. The impact wasn't gentle; you'll likely have some new bruises tomorrow, if you survive today. ''"Stay still,"'' comes the firm reminder from the piggish mutant, picking his way through the muck to get ahold of the net. Nothing is broken. You could still fight back. That lingers in your mind as the slavers surround you, the faint jingle and scrap of metal sounding from the scrawny lass as she passes something off to the mutant. Shackles, you think, catching the dull gleam of blackened iron. Your chances aren't getting any better. [[Fight back.|intro_captured2_fightback]] [[Comply.|intro_captured2_comply]]

Fuck this, you're not going down without a fight. You'll bide your time for a few moments longer and take the first opportunity that you see. ''"Listen up,"'' comes the deep voice of the burly, scarred man as he peers over you, ''"No funny business. Gonna remove ya from this net and secure your hands. All you need to do is cooperate."'' You plan on doing the exact opposite. They work quickly, an experienced crew as far as you can tell, loosening and gradually removing the net from around you while the big man, the apparent leader, watches over. Once your upper half is freed, the woman taps you on the head and speaks throatily, ''"Raise your hands."'' You're more or less surrounded, sat down while they stand, unarmed while they boast clubs and coshes. A few options float through your mind for consideration. Rolling out of here and running, trying to snatch away the nearest weapon to fight back, trying to take one of them captive. They all seem... rather bleak. But as you lift your hands out before you as commanded, you see that the woman has shoved her club into a beltloop as she handles and manipulates the shackles, ready to bind your hands together and take you prisoner. [[You yank her club free.|intro_captured2_fightback1]]

You decide to comply for the time being, as your chances here don't exactly look favorable. Perhaps you'll still be able to talk your way out of this. ''"Listen up,"'' comes the deep voice of the burly, scarred man as he peers over you, ''"No funny business. Gonna remove ya from this net and secure your hands. All you need to do is cooperate."'' They work quickly, an experienced crew as far as you can tell, loosening and gradually removing the net from around you while the big man, the apparent leader, watches over. Once your upper half is freed, the woman taps you on the head and speaks throatily, ''"Raise your hands."'' ''"Is this really necessary?"'' You speak up, hoping to keep yourself out of the restraints. She glares down at you, unimpressed. You're more or less surrounded, sat down while they stand, unarmed while they boast clubs and coshes. Your chances of getting out of this seem increasingly bleak. Especially when you hear what's said next. ''"Let's not take any chances with this one."'' The boss decides, then dips a firm nod to the mutant, who confirms the order with a little, smug grin and a heft of his club. Before you catch on or manage to fully react, you hear and feel the momentum of the swing. You find yourself slumped forward, senses distorted, body numb, the edges of your vision slowly closing in. But you can't even remember the impact. [[Darkness overtakes you.|intro_right_knockedout]]

You throw yourself forward, grabbing onto her belt and yanking the club free before they can bring any blows down upon you. The woman scowls like a banshee, dropping the shackles as she goes to grab onto your arm. But you fight her off and thrust the club forward, shoving it hard right into her stomach. She doubles over, giving you barely enough time to shift, whipping out with your newly acquired weapon to try and knock away the pigman's incoming blow. But he's terribly strong, the impact producing an ear-splitting CLACK and throwing you back atop the ground. You scramble, the net splayed out beneath you still, threatening to entangle you. ''"Bastard!"'' You're quicker and stronger than most, but both of them are already upon you, the pigman and his boss, bludgeoning down at you with weapons and their hard, studded boots. Your shoulderblade explodes with pain, buckling beneath the heavy blow of another club swing. A kick catches you directly in the chest, next, sending you backwards. You swing out haphazardly, thwacking one of them on the shin, resulting in a yowl of pain and plenty of pained cursing, before you suffer another pair of hard blows that blur your vision, that veil your senses in a hot, searing pain, that enshroud you in hurt. Another boot lands on your chest, pinning you down against the ground. The last thing you see is a cosh, heavy with leaking gravel, flung down towards your head. [[Darkness overtakes you.|intro_right_knockedout]]

It was a goblin all along. She's not even five feet tall, short and slim, with narrow, almond-shaped eyes that bear golden irises, peering up at you unsteadily from beneath the shadow of her dark cloak. What little of her pale green flesh that you can see is covered by a faint sheen of sweat. She's tired, bent over awkwardly as she tries to catch her breath, yet she stands still in the middle of the abandoned courtyard with her focus locked onto you. Then you see it, clutched within the confines of one of her small, grubby hands; a curved dagger with a dangerously sharpened point. You stand before her, still full of adrenaline, although it's at risk of running low. The stress and fatigue will catch up with you eventually. But for now, it's finally time to bring this chase to a close. Do you just want your pouch of coins back? Or does justice demand to be delivered today, knife be damned? [[Return what you stole from me.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return]] [[Attempt to disarm her.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_grab2]] <<sfx "runningbreath" 0.7>>

''"Return what you stole from me."'' Your demand is simple and clear, although your voice is haggard, tone colored by an edge of exhaustion and sharpened by the adrenaline still surging through you. She doesn't budge, staring back at you with her dagger gripped close, held outward as though to ward you off. ''"My coins. I'm a cobbler's apprentice and I need those coins. Let's end this,"'' You try and reason with her. Your request isn't all too unreasonable, is it? But the glimmer of her gaze seems to grow hard and steely, determined. Finally, she snaps back in a light, springy and feminine voice: ''"No! You give it up an' leave me be! These coins can buy enough food t'feed me for a week!"'' [[That doesn't mean you can steal them.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return1]] [[Attempt to disarm her.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_grab2]]

Carefully, you begin to edge forward whilst she reacts to your every movement, dagger raised, the sharpened edge glistening beneath a stray beam of violet-light. As you step aside, she moves the opposite way, circling, golden-eyes locked with yours in this dance of nerves. You lunge, and she slashes out in a wide arc. But you're quick enough to press a foot to the ground, pausing your momentum, allowing the blade to barely brush against your chest before you lash out with a clenched fist to her jaw. The momentum of the blow staggers her, nearly knocks her over, and you charge forward to grab ahold of the hand grasping her dagger. The force of the act sends both of you to the ground, you pressed atop her, fighting for control of the weapon. But it's not much of a struggle. You easily overpower her, knocking the dagger away and sending it sliding across the broken cobblestone. An eerie silence consumes the courtyard except for the rapid breaths of both of you. [[You control her from the top.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_atop]]

''"That doesn't mean you can just... steal them."'' You keep trying to reason with the goblin, not drawing any closer to her. The thief's breathing seems to gradually be settling, though her gaze is still intently set upon you, narrowed by what may be annoyance. It's possible that her victims don't tend to be this persistent. ''"Tell that to the alley an' Labyrinth folk! This is how we survive. Now fuck off an' get back to your cozy home, roundear."'' It seems like you won't be winning yourself a new friend today. No, this goblin seems intent on keeping your coins. It's enough to make you stop and consider whether you'd do the same, if placed in her position. These alleys are hard, mean, barren: a stolen pouch is one of the least offensive crimes that must be committed daily, in dozens or even hundreds of individual cases. Just another dark day in the narrows for hunter and prey. <<if $mind >= 1>> You notice her glance across the courtyard briefly, as though planning her escape.<br><</if>> [[We can split the coin.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2]] [[Attempt to disarm her.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_grab2]]

''"We can split the coin,"'' You decide with a low breath, ''"I'm not heartless. Come on-"'' The goblin turns with a flutter of her dark, threadbare cloak and darts off towards one side of the courtyard, and you instinctually follow after. She's heading for a cluster of crates, cracked and bleached from years of exposure, but positioned perfectly under a tilted, cermanic-tiled ledge that she might be able to climb onto. If you let her, she has a good chance to escape. She's fast but you're faster, the difference in leg length might have something to do with it. She reaches the crates, clambering atop the shortest before hoisting herself up onto the next, agile for her height, but you've already reached her. [[Grab her leg.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_grab]] [[Smash the crates.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_smash]]

Lunging forward, you try and grab one of her legs as she almost manages to slip away. Fortunately, you snag her ankle and hang on as she tries to yank herself free. You nearly don't have time to react when she suddenly pivots and sharply turns, the flash of her curved dagger descending down towards your arm. With all of your might, you pull her leg out from under her and send the thief tumbling down hard back onto the shattered stone of the courtyard floor. She's back on her feet before you can capitalize on her position, dagger in hand, peering up at you with grit on her face. [[Kick her.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_grab1]] [[Attempt to disarm her.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_grab2]] [[Tell her to surrender!|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_grab3]]

Lunging forward, you kick out with all of your might at the bottom crate, sending your leg straight through and shattering the old, stained wood. The impact sends the whole staggered pile of crates tumbling, unseating the goblin from what had been a balanced climb and potential escape route. You hear a squeak and a thud, along with the clatter of crates, as the thief is sent tumbling down hard back onto the shattered stone of the courtyard floor. By the time you free your leg, she's back on her feet, dagger in hand, peering up at you with grit on her face. She's not going out easy... [[Kick her.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_grab1]] [[Attempt to disarm her.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_grab2]] [[Tell her to surrender!|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_grab3]]

''"Give it up, surrender!"'' You hold your hands out before you, trying to diffuse the situation, your gaze leveled. When you draw forth a slow step, she draws back, her other hand sliding down into the shadowy confines of her dark, hole-ridden cloak. ''"Come on, it doesn't have to go this way. I just want my pouch back."'' Her hand is still stowed away within the deep confines of her cloak, whilst she glares at you, apparently not intent on having a conversation. ''"What are you--"'' You get cut off as her hand emerges, holding something; you can see the little, glossy sparkles, grains of what could be sugar spilling from between her fingers. By then, it's already too late for you. She flings the glistening powder right into your face. [[Your eyes have never been in so much pain|intro_right_instinct_blinded]]

You're no trained fighter, but your instincts propel you into the exchange. Hefting up a cracked boot, you leap forward and manage to plant a solid front-kick directly into the goblinoid's chest. You can hear the air get smacked out of her lungs, before she flies backwards and lands on her ass, the impact enough to jolt the dagger from her grubby hand, leaving her stunned. If there was ever a chance to bring this fight to an end, it's now. You charge forward and tackle her before she can bounce back up to her feet, knocking her hard into the ground. It's not much of a struggle, as you easily overpower her, an eerie silence consuming the courtyard except for the rapid breaths of the both of you. [[You throw yourself atop her.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_atop]]

''"Get off!"'' She gasps before giving a breathy groan, still trying to fight against you, though it's no use. It should be clear that you're much bigger, stronger, and capable of controlling her little wrists. You hold her hands to the ground on either side, keeping her pinned down beneath your weight. Your blood is still pumping from the excitement of the encounter, adrenaline coursing through your veins. You've been in your fair share of scraps and altercations, but never like this, deep down into the dark belly of Undertown; the alleys. For now, it just seems to be you and her. And your pouch of coins that you very much feel entitled to take back. What exactly do you have planned now that you've caught this daring thief? ''"Go on then,"'' she spits, a bit of blood threading from the corner of her lip, as though conceding, ''"Take your bloody coins. Break my fingers too, if it makes you feel bigger."'' [[Scrappy one, aren't you?|intro_right_instinct_scrappy]] [[Shut the fuck up.|intro_right_instinct_shutup]] [[You're under arrest.|intro_right_instinct_arrest]]

''"Scrappy one, aren't you?"'' You pant down at her, attempting to steady your own breathing. She's still putting up a bit of a fight, squirming beneath you, trying to sidle free. ''"This all could have been avoided if you just... gave up."'' Her almond eyes steady, burning up at you beneath a deep furrow of her brows. ''"Fine. You caught me,"'' She concedes, almost beneath her breath, as though embarassed by the whole affair. ''"Take yer coins and leave me be."'' Resentment coats her words like the glossy sheen of poison on a tainted dagger. This goblin definitely doesn't have a guilty conscience... She'd do it all over again if she knew she'd get away. Do you simply take what belongs to you and go about your day? Or does a punishment need to be delivered? [[Give me the coins, then.|intro_right_instinct_givemecoins]] [[Shut the fuck up.|intro_right_instinct_shutup]] [[You're under arrest.|intro_right_instinct_arrest]]

''"Shut the fuck up."'' Briefly reclaiming the use of one of your hands, you smack it down into a firm, open-handed slap against the goblin's green face. That seems to knock some sense into her for the time being, as she certainly quiets down, dazed and disoriented. ''"Didn't like that, did you? Now where's my damn pouch?"'' Adjusting your weight, you manage to get that same hand within the confine's of the goblin's dark, tattered and hole-ridden cloak, pilfering through the lining, looking for any pockets. You feel the shape of a bundle and eventually your fingers find the familiar texture of your coin pouch. ''"That's all I wanted..."'' Or is it? Now that her cloak has been peeled back and pulled loose, you can see her properly for the first time. The courtyard lay empty, barren and destroyed, only two figures - the both of you - sprawled atop the cobblestone. [[Look at her.|intro_right_instinct_shutup_look]] <<ci adult>> [[Depart with your coins.|intro_right_instinct_shutup_depart]] [[Haul her off to the Legion.|intro_right_instinct_hauloff]] <<ci archetype>>

''"You're coming with me."'' She glares up at you, thick brows drawn together, ''"What do you mean?"'' She's completely still under you, but like a trapped animal, you can sense the stored energy in her limbs and the tautness of her body beneath you. It's not hard to imagine that she's looking for an escape route, that she'll surely seize as soon as the opportunity arises. Are you biting off more than you can chew? You barely made it through the alleys in one piece, after all. ''"I'm hauling you in and turning you over to the Legion. You're a thief."'' She doesn't like that response, as she suddenly shifts beneath you, kicking her little legs and screaming. ''"GET 'IM OFF ME, LEAVE ME ALONE! LET ME GO!"'' You fight her wrists back down to the cobblestone and shift your weight. There's no way she's getting out from under you, unless her screams attract unwanted attention from other alleyborn denizens. [[Change your mind.|intro_right_instinct_noarrest]] [[Shut the fuck up.|intro_right_instinct_shutup]] [[Knock her out.|intro_right_instinct_knockoutarrest]]

''"FUUUCK!"'' You can't see anything, let alone give chase as you hear the footfalls of the little goblin thief darting past you and disappearing from the courtyard, back into the darkness of the alleys from whence you came. You turn, stumbling, rubbing at your eyes in a desperate attempt to clear them, but that only seems to make things worse. Disoriented, you try to push through the pain and force your eyes open, but the world is a blur. You might as well be ''blind''. You stumble through what you think is the archway, back into the narrows; maybe you can find the thief again, but at the very least you should be working your way out of this place, back home. This isn't //good//, you know that much. You're in danger. The best thing that you can do is try to retrace your steps, but everything is so bleary and unfamiliar. You trip, stumble, nearly twisting your ankle or breaking a wrist each time you have to stop a hard fall. This //sucks//. [[But what happens next sucks worse.|intro_right_instinct_blinded_captured]]

''"Sssh, sshh."'' But she keeps screaming, head tilted back, mouth wide open. You slap a calloused palm over her maw, and she glares up at you, her cries muffled by your mitt. ''"Fine. Look, fine, just be quiet. I'm not heartless, alright?"'' The muffled moans slowly come to a stop, leaving her staring up at you, clearly perturbed. ''"I won't turn you in."'' You promise, ''"I just want my pouch back."'' When it seems like she won't cause anymore of a fuss, you remove your hand from her mouth, and she mutters a little curse. ''"It's in my cloak. Take it an' get off me already."'' So you jut your hand beneath her dark cloak and feel around the lining, digits smoothing over various rips and holes, until you locate the familiar bulge of your coinpouch. Moments later, you have it in hand. Judging by the feel, she hasn't removed any of the coins, not that she would've had time during the chase. It looks like you've finally gotten back what belongs to you. Now the question remains, do you keep to your word or do you haul her in for her crime? [[Depart with your coins.|intro_right_instinct_shutup_depart]] [[Haul her off to the Legion.|intro_right_instinct_hauloff_liar]] <<ci archetype>>

You have to do something quick before this goblin gets you gutted, deep in the alleys where no one will see nor care. You'll die alone, unfound and forgotten; only Fredrick will remember your name until time takes him, too. So you decide to take decisive action. It happens quickly. You free a hand, ball it up into a tight, curled fist, and suddenly leverage your weight into a brutal, downward stike, throttling her right in the jaw. Her head snaps to the side, lolls there, and then settles completely still. You're not sure how long she'll be unconscious, but this is certainly preferable to her screaming and fighting you every step of the way, on the treacherous path to depart from the alleys. Pressing up from your sprawl atop the now unconscious goblin, only splotches of dirty green flesh visible amongst the dark shroud of her crumpled cloak, you remember to snatch up her curved dagger from where it lay. You take a moment to reattach your coinpouch to one of your beltloops, and carefully slip your newfound weapon beneath it and your trousers, the hilt slightly protruding for easy access. You can never be too careful. [[Haul her off to the Legion.|intro_right_instinct_knockoutarrest_haul]]

Stooping down low, you grab one of her arms, then the other, dragging her up until you can heft her up and lay her across one of your broad shoulders. She's heavier than you'd like, but all things considered, it could be a much worse haul. You'll just have to make it over the various pits, holes, up the steps once more, and through the apparent traps that lay in wait. You wonder what the intent of that net was from earlier; whether they were innovative thugs looking for easy prey, or worse, a gang of slavers looking for new chattel. Regardless, it seems that you barely avoided a worse fate this day. You count yourself lucky, though perhaps it's too soon to say. You still have the journey back through the narrows... [[You trudge through the narrows...|intro_right_knockoutarrest_haulend]]

''"We're done here."'' You finally ease up, loosening your control over the goblin and clambering up from where you had her pressed tight against the broken cobblestones. You can see, barely, where her cheek had been smushed up against the ground, leaving a vaguely moist spot behind on the otherwise untouched, dust-covered surface. She bounces up to her feet quick, but slowly turns to face you, still somewhat weary, perhaps surprised that you're letting her go free after all of this. You consider what to say in parting, before embarking on the journey back home through the narrows. ''"Hey,"'' You start, causing one of her dark brows to tick upwards. [[Don't steal from me again.|intro_right_instinct_depart_dontsteal]] [[Better luck next time.|intro_right_instinct_depart_betterluck]]

''"Happy?"'' She demands to know, as annoyanced and indiginant as ever. ''"Now what are you waiting for? Get the fuck off me!"'' You can't help but feel a slight twinge of amusement. Not because you necessarily enjoy what you're about to do, but because there's no one more deserving that you know of. It happens quickly; you know that you can't have her screaming again as you depart from these treacherous narrows. You free a hand, ball it up into a tight, curled fist, and suddenly leverage your weight into a brutal, downward stike, throttling her right in the jaw. Her head snaps to the side, lolls there, and then settles completely still. You're not sure how long she'll be unconscious, but this is certainly a preferable state for her to be in. Pressing up from your sprawl atop the now unconscious goblin, only splotches of dirty green flesh visible amongst the dark shroud of her crumpled cloak, you remember to snatch up her curved dagger from where it lay. You take a moment to reattach your coinpouch to one of your beltloops, and carefully slip your newfound weapon beneath it and your trousers, the hilt slightly protruding for easy access. You can never be too careful. [[Haul her off to the Legion.|intro_right_knockoutarrest_haulend]] <<gainBastard>>

<center><img src="images/chp1_thief_cc.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> She's the smallest of her kind, a normal goblin, when compared to the hobgoblins or trolls. That's to say, the other types of goblinoids that you sometimes see throughout Undertown. As far as you can tell, they're the second most populous race in the Cradle, besides humans. Most of them seem to have it pretty //rough//, many of them eeking out sparse existences in the lower quarters. At least that seems to be the case for her: the goblin pressed beneath you, who has fallen silent beneath your gaze with her face turned away bashfully and eyes narrowed in annoyance. She must do whatever it takes to survive in these alleys. It's unfortunate that she picked you as today's target. Beneath that cloak, you can tell that she has the figure of a woman. There's only a smallish bump representing her clothed chest, but her hips splay out wide, thick and feminine beneath the thin, tasseled leather of a dark skirt. You're surprised that she was able to run so fast, as she's certainly doesn't look built for speed. Dark, thick furrowed brows crest her almond-shaped eyes, effectively giving her something of a resting bitch face, which gives off the impression of her being continually annoyed. Not every goblin has a full head of hair, but she does, albeit cut short and braided atop a slender skull, pitch-gray in tone. [[You want her. (18+)|intro_right_instinct_shutup_claimher]] <<ci adult>> [[Depart with your coins.|intro_right_instinct_shutup_depart]] [[Haul her off to the Legion.|intro_right_instinct_hauloff]] <<ci archetype>>

''"Get up,"'' You command her, ''"You're coming with me."'' She glares up at you, thick brows drawn together, ''"What do you mean?"'' She's completely still under you, but like a trapped animal, you can sense the stored energy in her limbs and the tautness of her body beneath you. It's not hard to imagine that she's looking for an escape route, that she'll surely seize as soon as the opportunity arises. Are you biting off more than you can chew? You barely made it through the alleys in one piece, after all. ''"I'm hauling you in and turning you over to the Legion. You're a thief."'' She doesn't like that response, as she suddenly shifts beneath you, kicking her little legs and screaming. ''"GET 'IM OFF ME, LEAVE ME ALONE! LET ME GO!"'' You fight her wrists back down to the cobblestone and shift your weight. There's no way she's getting out from under you, unless her screams attract unwanted attention from other alleyborn denizens. [[Knock her out.|intro_right_instinct_knockoutarrest]]

''"Give me the coins, then."'' You mutter, keeping an eye on her all the while. ''"I //would// if you weren't on top of me. The pouch is inside my cloak."'' Throwing up a shoulder and loosing a heavy breath, you dip a little nod and grunt your response, ''"Stay still."'' So you jut your hand beneath her dark cloak and feel around the lining, digits smoothing over various rips and holes, until you locate the familiar bulge of your coinpouch. Moments later, you have it in hand. Judging by the feel, she hasn't removed any of the coins, not that she would've had time during the chase. It looks like you've finally gotten back what belongs to you. Now the question remains... Do you keep to your word or do you haul her in for her crime? [[Look at her.|intro_right_instinct_shutup_look]] [[Depart with your coins.|intro_right_instinct_shutup_depart]] [[Haul her off to the Legion.|intro_right_instinct_hauloff_liar]]

You’ve won. The purse is yours, heavy and comforting once again at your side. Yet still, you linger with her pinned beneath you, little wrists trapped easily in your calloused hand, the weight of your body an anchor that she can't slip free from. She's a goblin, short and squat. You're a human, tall and broad. But you can't deny the heat that stirs in your loins as your eyes rake over the shape of her. Beneath the grime and rags, she’s thick where it matters, hips generous, thighs pressing together tight in vain struggle. There was anger in your veins, yes, but something else too. A hunger sharpened by the chase, by the roughness, by the way she fought you tooth and nail like a beast with no master. Despite the circumstances, despite the stolen coin and bruises you’ll feel tomorrow, you crave a taste of something more. She senses it. Her golden eyes slash up at you, devoid of fear, Burning still with a bitter, reckless defiance, and perhaps something more. ''“What're you waiting for, big man?"'' she spits, voice hoarse and dripping with challenge, ''"Gonna break me, or too soft for that too?"'' A dare. Her words lash sharper than any blade. They sting and they stir. There’s no mistaking it her intent: not a plea, not a protest or simple surrender, but an invitation wrapped in barbs. Your grip tightens instinctively, hands grinding her slender wrists deeper into the muck, and watch as she arches her back in response, a feral taunt rather than submission. The soft curve of her loins presses hard against your hips, teasing a growl from low in your throat. ''"You think you're better?"'' She breathes, low and sharp, ''"Then show me."'' [[What game is she playing?|intro_right_instinct_shutup_claimher1]] <<bgm "no-love" 0.5 6>>

You keep silent, wanting to remain private, especially when you don't know whether there are prying ears around or whether you can even trust this stranger. You sit back against the cage and somewhat slump forward, just trying to relax, ease your pain and clear your mind. ''"Not very talkative either, are ya? That's fine. We aren't getting paid to talk where we're going, anyway. Or paid at all."'' The shaggy-haired man's lips curve at the corners as he ruminates on his own words, apparently amused by the situation. Belatedly, he mentions over to you, ''"I'm Gant. If they end up keepin' us together, we'd be better off as friends than enemies. Highlord knows we'll need as many allies as we can get, where we're going."'' ''"Shut up back thar!"'' [[ A slaver peers over from the front of the wagon.|intro_wagon1]] <<gainCowboy>>

''"Those motherfuckers didn't let you finish?"'' You respond incredulously, imagining how disappointed and disatisfied you would be if you were refused a final release before your impending capture and enslavement. ''"It takes a special kind of person to be that shitty."'' ''"That's what I'm saying,"'' The shaggy-haired man agrees, his lips curving at the corners in a sort of low, rueful grin, ''"Fecker wasn't even a slaver, just a bounty hunter. That's an undignified line of work if ya ask me, especially if you're aren't willing to let a fellow man /bust/."'' Belatedly, he mentions over to you, ''"I'm Gant. If they end up keepin' us together, we'd be better off as friends than enemies. Highlord knows we'll need as many allies as we can get, where we're going."'' You dip a firm nod, ''"I'm $name. Do you kno--"'' ''"Shut up back thar!"'' [[A slaver peers over from the front of the wagon.|intro_wagon1]] <<gainBastard>>

''"It seems like today isn't going in either of our favors,"'' You reason with a faint twitch of your lips, managing to gather some amusement from the situation, however slim and quickly dwindling, ''"I'm $name. I'm... Well, I was a cobbler's apprentice, up until today. I guess I ran down the wrong alleyway, after a thief..."'' ''"That's good, honest work."'' The shaggy-haired man decides, his lips curving at the corners in a sort of low, rueful grin, ''"I suppose your new line of work won't pay much worse! Chasing after a thief only to have your freedom stolen away from you. An unfortunate turn of events, ain't it?"'' Belatedly, he mentions over to you, ''"I'm Gant. If they end up keepin' us together, we'd be better off as friends than enemies. Highlord knows we'll need as many allies as we can get, where we're going."'' ''"Shut up back thar!"'' [[A slaver peers over from the front of the wagon.|intro_wagon1]] <<gainKnight>>

He's an ugly bastard, a gristled brute of a man with crooked, discolored teeth and a fat, shaven head. A thick, studded club sits shoved haphazardly within his beltloop; you'll have to play by the rules if it means avoiding a beating. Gant seems to understand that much, as he shuts up beneath the slaver's lopsided gaze and offers an awkward smile. The wagon rattles onward, teetering down a broad, bustling road. This isn't a narrow back-alley, but a main throughfare, wide enough for five wagons across, thrumming with the press of bodies amidst the clatter of hoof and wheel. The light is cleaner than you're used to, almost too bright after the dank gloom of Undertown. You've never seen a street so wide or well-maintained. You're not in the Third Quarter any longer. Peering through the bars of your cage, the city unfurls in strange hues and stranger faces. Hobgoblins march in tight pairs, broad-chested and grim, nostrils flaring beneath heavy nose-rings. Their tunics are marked with noble sigils; mercenaries or sellswords in service of those with plenty of coin to spare. Every so often, you glimpse a pair of tusks or a coat of fur, beastkin of all sorts weaving through the crowd — not common, but not out of place either. Still, most of those who pass appear rather human, just like you. Dwarves and elves are rarer still. Fredrick once told you that the dwarves keep to themselves, walled away in their stone enclaves like beetles in a shell. They serve the Holy Orders, he said, though what that means, exactly, you never knew. Elves come in two kinds: High and Dark. High Elves are slaves, pure and simple, completely subjugated. Pale-skinned, long-limbed, and prized like exotic pets. To own one is a mark of wealth and distinction. Dark Elves, though… typically don’t walk the daylight roads. They linger in ruins and shadows, in alleys and catacombs, where the air tastes of rot and sorcery. Folk say they traffic in necromancy and other black arts; a treacherous race that revels in pain and punishment. Even the guards leave them be. [["Pssh, hey. Check that out."|intro_wagon2]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp1_wagon_colosseum.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Following Gant's voice, you immediately see //it//. A vast, hulking silhouette rises from the crater’s edge, swallowing the skyline. The colosseum, a monument of cruelty and spectacle. Weatherworn stone, bleached marble, and broken columns jut upward like the ribs of some dead god, straining toward the abyss above as though in an ill-fated attempt to touch the stars. It looms high over the city like a curse made manifest: ancient, immense, and inescapable. As the wagon lurches onward through the crowd-choked avenue, carrying you and your forsaken companions closer to inevitable ruin, the structure swells further in size. Its curved outer walls are veined with moss, slick with moisture and scarred by old magick. Yet still it stands tall, proud, unbroken and defiant against the cruel passage of time. The numbness that clings to you like a second skin does little to dull the truth: this may well be your end. The bloodied sands await. You can't help but wonder if this is where your fate has always been leading you. A writhing, mangled mass of a crowd cheering for your demise in a shared grave without a name, beneath the shadow of cracked arches and a misty, violet-stained sky. Doom lingers on the periphery. Closer now. The road narrows, packed to the brim, suffocating under the press of bodies. The air is thick, drenched heavy with sweat and steam; only the low, guttering glow of lamps and flickering torches illuminates the gaunt, glistening faces of the wretched denizens that shuffle alongside your wagon. Each one is etched with the misery of this place, a crowd of the damned before their scarred altar. Gant's voice momentarily distracts you, ''"Ever seen a game before?"'' Almost unconsciously, you shake your head. No, you've never seen one with your own two eyes. But you've heard the tales. Everyone has. In Cradle, most slaves, if not especially beautiful, useful, or skilled, draw their final breath in the arenas. The games are so frequent, so bloody, so brutal, that the arena is said to save the Cradle from //famine// of all things. Better they die in the sands than succumb to the shadow of hunger. ''"I have,"'' Gant eventually murmurs back to you beneath his breath, gaze still leveled on the colosseum itself as you draw even closer yet. ''"Can't say I ever imagined myself fightin' and dying in one..."'' [[The crack of a whip resonates through the choked air.|chp2_wagon3]]

A whisper tickles the back of your mind, like a thought, ''"The wall."'' ... What? ''"Feel along the wall. You will uncover what you seek."'' The alley has grown so narrow that you could reach out and touch either side if you wanted, and that's what you do, slowly pressing your palms against the cold, clammy brick and dragging your calloused fingers along as you go, focused intently on your task. You don't know exactly what you're searching for, but this insight was the motivation that you needed. Anything is better than being lost adrift in the dark. Just before you're ready to give up and question this sudden inclination, you feel something. A brick in the wall, somewhat loose, with smooth edges and- yes! Your fingers slip along a groove; they press into it, then pull, and the 'brick' comes halfway free. Dust shakes loose in the dark as a section of the wall begins to shift, Sliding open before you like nothing you've ever seen before. And before you can hardly blink, there's a passageway open before you, dimly lit by a mounted oil-lamp, but it looks like the normal interior of a house. Muted wood floorboards, panelled walls, that might even be a portrait hanging further on inside. It's hard to tell from the entrance. But still, you've yet to take a single step inside. This must be some sort of... hideout? Yet, it's eerily quiet and you don't see any sign of anyone. To either side of you, the darkness of the alley looms. Within, there certainly must be an answer to at least some of your questions. Still, you have no weapon. Only your clenched fists and dogged determination. If there's someone inside of here, you'll need to catch them by surprise. They could be armed, or worse. You have no way of knowing what awaits. [[Sneak inside.|intro_enteringthelair]]<<ci lethal>> <<bgm "road-to-nowhere" 0.7 9>>

One careful placement of your foot follows the other, and gradually you begin to work your way inside of the passage, or rather, down a rather dimly-lit hallway of what appears to be a well-kept residence. You can already see where the hall opens up, into what must be a living room or sitting area. Keeping to one side of the hall and turning yourself aside, shrinking the size of your body down to keep the element of surprise, you slowly peek around the corner into the room that has opened up before you. An upholstered chair dominates the dim room like a throne, facing away from you, colored a drab blood-red with sulking shadows dancing darkly across it, cast by flickering candle-light. Beside it, upon a circular ceramic side table, rests a glass ash-tray with still-smouldering embers. Opposite the chair there appears to be a fireplace, upon which are mantled several photo frames and statuettes. Against the far wall, on the rightmost side, appears to be another hall leading deeper into the house. You can't hear a thing, nothing, no distant clatter from a busy street, nor any creaking of walls or floorboards from within. Only the flicker of candlelight and subtle shadows greet your outward senses. [[Check the next hallway.|intro_enteringthelair1]] [[Examine the chair.|intro_enteringthelair_chair]] [[Examine the fireplace.|intro_enteringthelair_fireplace]]

Placing yourself against the wall, you risk a glance down into what appears to be another abandoned hallway. It must be the overall length, or the lack of lighting except for a single mounted candle, but the house seems to get darker the deeper within it you go. This cramped corridor appears to lead to several rooms within the residence; from what your eyes can make out within the gloom, there seems to be three doors. Along the right side of the hall, there are two wooden doors. At the very end lay another, directly opposite your gaze, stained a darker color than the rest, though perhaps its just the shadows making a fool of your vision. When you awoke today, you didn't imagine yourself happening upon a place like this. Yet, you keep pressing on. [[The nearest door.|intro_enteringthelair_nearest]] <<ci lore>> [[The middle door.|intro_enteringthelair_locked]] [[The door at the end of the hall.|intro_enteringthelair_chambers]] <<audio "runningbreath" fadeout>> <<set $intro_first to false>>

You can't seem to shake the feeling that someone is sitting in that chair. Surely you would be able to see the top of their head, the flank of an arm, or the bottom of a boot. Yet something inside of you demands a sense of certainty, an absolute clarification that the chair is indeed, empty. Slowly stalking forward from your hidden post, crossing the room with tentative steps, breath held tight within the confines of your chest, you find the throne empty; void of a sovereign. But they must not be far, you think. Those dying embers still give off their last light, like little supernovas silently pitching off into the void. There are a few cigar butts discarded within the tray, along with what must be a jute-wood pipe resting atop the cermanic surface. [[Check the next hallway.|intro_enteringthelair1]] [[Examine the fireplace.|intro_enteringthelair_fireplace]]

A thin layer of dust lay across the broad, dusk-framed mantel of the fireplace, which is only sparsely decorated by a number of picture frames and statuettes, most of whom appear to be constructed from wood or chiselled onyx, a dark and foreboding stone. At first, none of them really capture your attention; featureless heads and faces, muscular bodies of men and beast alike, dark sketches of what appears to be the human form, taut and sublime, as though it were an artist perfecting their eye, or a physician memorizing and mastering the mortal form. These certainly aren't common items that you would find on display. Most artisans that you know don't trouble themselves with such pursuits, only their labor. [[Check the next hallway.|intro_enteringthelair1]] [[Examine the chair.|intro_enteringthelair_chair]]

The door opens soundlessly, giving you full access to the room within. At first glance, it vaguely reminds you of the workshop back at home, crammed full of what must be... supplies? One side of the room is dominated by shelving; various boxes, clay pots and ceramic vases, trinkets and baubles of dubious origins, all tucked away in a somewhat disorganized and haphazard manner. A large, round table of dark wood takes up a large corner of the room, a chair or two stowed away beneath it. Capped beakers and jars of various sizes sit atop it, while yellowed parchments and leather-bound tomes have been scattered across the rest of it, only one of them left flipped open for you to ponder over. Unfortunately, the black ink and scrawled script means nothing to you. As with most lowborns in Cradle, you never learned how to read. However, there are a few objects that catch your interest only to leave you feeling rather disturbed. A bowl of what you recognize to be rat skulls rests upon the table, next to a shrivelled up scroll with a few crooked lines scribbled upon it. Worse yet, dangling and hanging from one of the shelves near the door, a collection of shrunken heads watch you as they sway in the gloom and shadow of this silent room. Maybe you shouldn't be here... [[Take the opened tome.|intro_enteringthelair_tome]] <<ci lore>> [[The middle door.|intro_enteringthelair_locked]] [[The door at the end of the hall.|intro_enteringthelair_chambers]] <<set $intro_first to true>>

<<if $intro_first>> Stepping through the dim, dark hall with nary a sound, you try the handle of the middle door. Unfortunately, it doesn't budge. It must be locked. As much as you'd like to try and force it open, you can't afford to make any noise. Not until you know that the house is empty. There's one more place to check... [[The door at the end of the hall.|intro_enteringthelair_chambers]] <<else>> Stepping through the dim, dark hall with nary a sound, you try the handle of the middle door. Unfortunately, it doesn't budge. It must be locked. As much as you'd like to try and force it open, you can't afford to make any noise. Not until you know that the house is empty. You could turn back to the first room or keep going... [[The first door.|intro_enteringthelair_nearest]] [[The door at the end of the hall.|intro_enteringthelair_chambers]]<</if>>

The door offers you no resistance, opening up to the darkness held within. Somehow, like a weight lifted from your shoulders, or a burden from your mind, the pretense that you came to this house through an act of your own volition begins to dissipate. A veil has been lifted before your eyes, and you realize that something else brought you here today; it was no accident. Rather, it was preordained. Much like a dreamer in a trancelike state, you calmly step into the room before you. A flickering candlelight disturbs the shroud of darkness deep within, a hopeful glimmer in the dark abyss, and slowly you gravitate towards it, blissfully unaware of the pair of yellow eyes that stalk you from just beyond it. ''"I'd like to welcome you, $name."'' [[You can't move.|intro_meetingwizard1]]

You can't help but fixate on that unreadable tome, the pages precariously left splayed open for your lustful gaze to gleam over. Perhaps it was fate that led you to this place, a destined discovery for the poor orphan boy who hasn't had much luck in life. Who could possibly blame you for taking a single book from what must be a den of thieves, who already took from you. You deserve this much at the very least. Quickly and quietly, you take the tome and press it closed, before tucking it away securely beneath your tattered shirt and under the hem of your trousers. Now, you should finish what you came here for. [[The middle door.|intro_enteringthelair_locked]] [[The door at the end of the hall.|intro_enteringthelair_chambers]] <<set $intro_tome to true>>

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp1_mearesdes.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> As much as you try, you can't move a muscle. Not even a wiggle of your fingers or a twitch of your brow. Yet, your eyes work perfectly fine, roving within their sockets until they find the source of the old, smoke-pitched voice. A figure has emerged fully from behind the candle, face half-illuminated like a waxing crescent. The man before you is surely as much a daemon as a man, with yellow eyes that gleam dangerously within a rough-hewn, weathered face; like pools of venom, they glisten, soaking in the sight of you before his thin lips part once more. ''"It's not often that I have visitors. No, none like you."'' Jet-black hair streaked with silver crowns the skull of this magician, while a neatly groomed goatee adorns his chin. An air of sophistication emanates from him, a sense of poise and confidence that you decide, in this moment, must not be missplaced. No, you seem to be very much at his mercy, the realization causing your fingertips to tingle. [[He peers at you evenly.|intro_meetingwizard2]]

''"Calm yourself and listen to me. You may call me Mearesdes... and while I recognize that the circumstances of our meeting may not occur to you as favorable, I assure you that there is a purpose behind it."'' He peers at you evenly, with eyes that are impossible to read. You only know that they must contain more knowledge than most men are capable of imagining exists in this forsaken world. ''"For it was I that spoke to you in the darkness of the narrows and led you into my humble abode."'' Those thin lips of his quirk ever so slightly at the corners as he gauges you. ''"I sensed your vigor... your energy, your essence, that fierce determination that led you down the wrong path. But there are worse fates that you could have happened into in these forgotten streets. I promise you that. Thugs, gangsters, slavers and rapists. Beasts and corrupted men alike, they all partake in sin and debauchery of the most cruel and senseless sort. Luckily for you, I am a man of knowledge and higher purpose."'' [[A small breath of amusement escapes him.|intro_meetingwizard3]]

''"I don't blame you for doubting me. Alas, you remind me of myself when I was your age. Full of vigor, with nowhere definite to direct it. Hopeful in a world where little seems worth hoping for. How I was misled, my days full of misery. Tricked into living for the machinations of others. No, it took me a long time to wake up. It doesn't get easier, even when you finally decide to live for yourself. It's an existence of confrontation, strife, hunger, but to some... a select few... a rare breed- to me- it's worth it."'' Stepping further from the shadows into the dim-cast light directly before you, Mearesdes examines you with an what appears to be an earnest gaze, before dispelling a shallow breath, ''"I apologize for my rambling. I don't get many guests these days, and I imagine you might have questions. Go ahead - speak your mind."'' He splays out a hand and you suddenly feel, strangely enough, that you can speak. [[Who are you?|intro_talkingwizard_who]] [[What is this place?|intro_talkingwizard_what]] [[How did you know my name?|intro_talkingwizard_name]]

''"Who are you?"'' You ask, lips and mouth moving, while the rest of your body remains frozen in place. The tingling sensation in your fingers intensifies when you try to wiggle them, but no amount of effort can budge them. You try not to strain in place in front of your host. That, would be awkward. ''"You may know me as Mearesdes,"'' The man returns, only one eye on you, his attention briefly turning over the rest of the room, peering off into the darkness as he ruminates and speaks in a casual, meandering way, deeply thoughtful and rather articulate: ''"I've been known by other names throughout my many years. None of them serve any use any longer. No, they're only used by those that begrudge and slander me. When one man breaks free from his chains, it tends to upset many... especially those still trapped by theirs, or the one whom put them on you in the first place."'' His thin lips press together ruefully before his gaze returns to you, considering, ''"Yes, that's all you need to know about me for now. There are still decisions to be made."'' He lapses into silence, looking at you expectantly. [[What is this place?|intro_talkingwizard_what]] [[How did you know my name?|intro_talkingwizard_name]]

''"What is this place?"'' As though to accompany your question, your eyes take a momentary sweep over the dark confines of the mostly unseen room before returning to the man before you. His goateed chin dips, consenting to your question and taking a breath to silently consider it, ''"A fair question, especially considering it was I who led you here."'' ''"This,"'' He says, raising a hand to indicate the room, then hall, the entire house, ''"Was initially acquired out of circumstances. Desperation, even. But it quickly became something of a home to me. A place of relative peace and isolation to conduct my studies. A base from which to operate and observe the city while going undetected. My days of showing face and ingratiating myself with the public are long behind me..."'' Another twitch of his thin lips, though his displays of amusement always seem to be sardonic in nature; tainted by some sorry memory. ''"There was a time when I wanted to help people. Partake in the masses. It feels good in the moment, especially when it's the first time you've been felt... seen. But it's never worth it, boy. Great things are accomplished by great men, and a small number of them at that."'' [[Who are you?|intro_talkingwizard_who]] [[How did you know my name?|intro_talkingwizard_name]]

''"How do you know my name? You said it when I came into this room..."'' You do the best to frame your accusation in the context of a question, a curious one, though your mind is spinning as you consider the possiblities. Surely you've never met this man before, and surely yours is a name not worth knowing. You're a nobody after all. ''"I did, didn't I?"'' Dark, ash-flecked brows crease in an evident display of mild amusement, before the magician gives an affirming nod, ''"Yes, I know many things. I receive knowledge like a hungry man receives the scent of fresh-baked bread across several city blocks. Names, faces, people, places. The truth is, $name, that I know some people better than they know themselves."'' Mearesdes steeples his fingers together and locks his gaze with yours, curious. ''"Do you believe me?"'' [[Yes.|intro_talkingwizard_answeryes]] [[Yes. (lie)|intro_talkingwizard_answerlie]] [[No.|intro_talkingwizard_answerno]] <<set $intro_lie to false>>

''"Yes, I believe you."'' You'd be foolish not to, you decide. Frozen into place, led into this dark, forbidden place, you've never witnessed such a display of power, however subtle. This is not a man that you want on your bad side. You answer truthfully and to the affirmative, gaze lingering on the man before you, gauging his reaction carefully. ''"Interesting,"'' comes the murmured response, followed by a breath of consideration. ''"I wouldn't blame you for being skeptical. In fact, I would encourage it."'' It almost feels as though he's lightly scolding you. It reminds you of a lesson that Fredrick might try to impart upon you, albeit with more grace. ''"But as you'll soon find out if all goes well, I do have your best interests in mind, and I do speak with the truth on my side."'' Expectantly, his shrewd gaze settles upon you once more. [[Why did you bring me here?|intro_talkingwizard_why]]

''"Yes..."'' You respond after a moment of silent consideration, hedging your bets. You'd be foolish not to tell a white lie and appeal to Mearesdes. Frozen into place, led into this dark, forbidden place, you've never witnessed such a display of power, however subtle. This is not a man that you want on your bad side and there's no telling what he has planned for you. Your gaze lingers on the dark-haired man, gauging his reaction. He looks unimpressed to say the least, lapsing into a few moments of silence as he appears to consider you. ''"I see. I wouldn't blame you for being skeptical, $name. It would be a natural response... reasonable even. You haven't even begun to know me, nor my true capabilities. But you will in time if destiny so allows."'' Expectantly, his shrewd gaze settles upon you once more. [[Why did you bring me here?|intro_talkingwizard_why]] <<set $intro_lie to true>>

''"No, I don't believe you."'' You blurt out the response without much consideration, eyes straining within your sockets as you gauge the reaction of the man before you. You've never witnessed such a display of power before, and while you're unable to pinpoint the source of this man's powers or his intentions in bringing you here, you decide to speak your mind. It's cowards and weak-willed men that easily succumb to the schemes of others. You're going to stand your ground for the time being. And this, to your surprise, appears to bring a great deal of amusement to the old magician. ''"That's why I like you, $name. You possess a spirit entirely alien to the average denizen of this forsaken city. No, you're certainly not of a common stock. And that means you have /potential/."'' Expectantly, his shrewd gaze settles upon you once more. [[Why did you bring me here?|intro_talkingwizard_why]]

''"Why did you bring me here?"'' A deep breath presses past the fine curve of his lips, ''"Ah, yes. The question of greatest import. I brought you here today, $name, because you remind me of... myself."'' His yellow eyes cast an appraising gaze over you, not unlike how an aristocrat may consider a sculpture, or a butcher a fine cut of meat. ''"And how I wish I would have been presented with an opportunity such as this at your age. I could have avoided much heartache... treachery... deceit. Better that I suffered through it, so that I may impart my wisdom upon you."'' ''"See, when I sensed your presence in the alleyway beyond my hidden cove, I saw a flame deep inside of you. A yearning for something more and the potential to make that desire a reality. The ability, however latent, to exert your life force upon the world and bring those that would resist you, to their knees."'' Eyes locked with yours, he inquires, ''"Does that ring true? Is there a fire within you?"'' And in that moment's hesitation before you give a response, with Mearesdes peering deeply into your soul, you see before you all the years of agony, heartache and toil that you have endured up to this point. From your unfortunate childhood lost to the Orphanage, to your apprenticeship under Fredrick and the mundane decade of poverty-stricken toil that followed, there has always been the desire for something more. But is this the path meant for you? Are you willing to trust the man before you? If only for long enough to see what he has to offer you... perhaps it would be of great benefit to you? [[Yes.|intro_talkingwizard_fireyes]]

Sometimes you have to hedge your bets and roll the dice. With great risk, they say, comes great reward. Mearesdes' eyes are half-lidded as he observes you, careful and considerate, lips attenuated as though deep in thought. And when you go to speak, you swear that you see his mouth curve, almost imperceivable, upwards at the far corners to show his subtle satisfaction. ''"Yes,"'' you affirm, ''"I do possess that fire."'' ''"I know you do, $name."'' He murmurs in agreeance, ''"Let us get started."'' [[The wizard snaps his fingers.|intro_yeswizard1]]

Like a warm breeze rolling over your flesh, invigorating you, movement returns to your body. It's a strange sensation, suddenly being able to wiggle your fingers and toes, crane your neck, or scratch your nose. Mearesdes has turned his back to you, drawing away further into the darkness of the room. ''"Come now. We have more to discuss."'' And so you follow, stepping forth. To your surprise, the room begins to brighten. One candle turns to many, lining the burgundy walls, giving life to what had previously been a rather empty, isolating and foreboding space. Now, it almost feels as though it could someones home. ''"Welcome to my study,"'' He intones presently, ''"I spend a fair amount of time here and you shall too, when receiving your lessons and conducting your drills."'' Bookshelves, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, line the entire back wall of what turned out to be a rather impressive, rectangular room. There's a sitting area in the middle of the space, with a couple of wooden chairs and a wide, low-backed lounge that one could recline on if so inclined. Towards one of the narrow sides of the room, there's a collection of stained desks and sprawling scrolls that completely cover a table. ''"I'm sure you have many questions. Still your mind as best as you're able and listen, $name, for your worries will be put to rest in due time. Your curiosity will serve you well if you're capable of taming it for the time being and fully considering what I have to say."'' [[You find yourself standing before the scroll-covered table.|intro_yeswizard2]]

''"There is information in these scrolls,"'' Mearesdes murmurs, glancing aside at you briefly before directing your attention down to the table, ''"That many individuals would love to possess, but would never be capable of wielding. Firstly, one must be able to read the script."'' But you can't read. No one that you know is capable of reading, it's a privilege reserved for those that don't fight tooth-and-nail to survive on a daily basis. No, only the rich and noble possess such knowledge. That's why those at the top, stay on the top, while everyone else gets further and further from salvation. Or so you think. ''"Secondly, and more importantly, one must understand how to implement them. Scrolls that speak to their usage and requirements are much rarer... more valuable. I've garnered myself quite the collection over the years. But vitally, $name, you must know this. Knowing //when// to implement them is even more critical. With this knowledge and these skills, even the lowliest man may make himself known to the universe. But it takes //fire//."'' [[Mearesdes reaches beneath his crimson cloak.|intro_yeswizard3]]

From the folds of his cloak he draws a small bead of blood-red glass, not smooth but veined; like a drop of wine caught mid-pulse. A thin leather cord runs through it. ''“Bloodglass,”'' he says. ''“Keep it close to your skin. It remembers the path you walked to me, and it carries my voice when I choose to speak. Even through the thickest walls and darkest nights."'' He holds the amulet out before you, and after a moment of consideration, you grab it. ''"If it remains in your possession, I'll know that you remain open to my offer. If you discard it? You have nothing to fear... You won't fear from me again. But I would encourage you to forget of what you've seen and heard thus far from me."'' A lapse in silence follows shortly, his eyes resting on you. ''"If you do retain it, you must know this. The power that I offer you is real and within the grasp of your abilities. You just have to reach out and grasp it when the time comes. But your desire must be real."'' The older man watches you, the age evident in his face from this distance, crows-feet pulling at his dark yellow eyes and wrinkles tugging at worn, high-boned cheeks. ''"What I ask in return,"'' He continues, voice low, calm and clear-spoken, ''"Is a sworn oath. One of the upmost seriousness, drawn out in blood."'' [[A blood oath?|intro_yeswizard4]] <<set $bloodglass_bead to true>> <<set $bead_pulses to 0>> <<set $bead_suspicion to 0>> <<run !$artifactsHeld.includes($artifactName.bloodglass_bead) && $artifactsHeld.push($artifactName.bloodglass_bead) >>

''"A blood oath, declaring your loyalty to me."'' ''"But not today. If you take this opportunity when the time comes and become my apprentice, I will expand your perspective and open you up to an entirely new world of power that you couldn't have dreamed of before. I won't ask of you anything that I wouldn't do myself. Therefore, betrayal will not be acceptable."'' Mearesdes casts a low gaze over you before turning slowly, fixing his attention upon a flickering candle. ''"If you prefer a safer, more mundane life... one where you just get by... You may reject my offer and I will leave you be. Not many are meant for this path, even if they have the potential. Only a few know how to truly leverage it. To strive upwards and inwards all at once. It's impossible to tell, even for the sharpest eye or clearest mind, until the moment of absolute success or abject failure ultimately arrives."'' ''"Now,"'' he speaks, voice raising as his focus returns squarely unto you, ''"Any remaining questions before we conclude our time here today?"'' ''"Think carefully, $name. Your future may depend upon it."'' [[ What are your goals?|intro_yeswizard_goals]] [[ Why offer me this opportunity?|intro_yeswizard_whyme]] <<if $intro_tome>>[[ I want to return this tome...|intro_yeswizard_returnbook]] [[ Ready to leave.|intro_yeswizard_leavewithbook]]<<else>> [[ Ready to leave.|intro_yeswizard_leave]]<</if>>

''"Very well,"'' The wizard intones once it's clear that the interaction between you is coming to a close. However, there's something about the way that his gaze lingers on you, as though prying away at any perceived vulnerbilities. It unsettles you, and quickens your resolve to be gone from this place. His thin lips creak open and his smoke-pitched voice sounds out clearly, foreboding, ''"Remember, $name... There's still a chance for you. I'm better a friend and mentor than an enemy."'' Before you can respond, Mearesdes bows forth with a sweep of his cloak. The fluttering threads are the last thing that you see before your vision starts to spiral, the world flickering into complete darkness. And with a shudder immediately after, as though waking up from the deepest depths of a dreary dream, you find yourself standing before the entrance of the alley that you had darted down earlier today. Yes, you're back on the main street of Undertown, just a couple blocks from home. The streets are busier than they were this morning, various craftsmen, laborers and merchants making their way through the burgeoning, bustling day. It's enough for you to start to question whether what you experienced was real... but before you get too far along that line of questioning, you feel something within your pocket. When you fish it out, you find a veined bloodglass bead the color of clotting wine, warm to the touch; it hums once, twinkling up at you before it goes still. And tucked beneath your tattered shirt, stowed away securely under your torn trousers, is that stolen tome, unreadable, but the power within speaks to you all the same. [[You take a deep breath.|intro_finalhome]] <<bgmstop 6>> <<set $intro_sorcerer to true>> <<set $bead_pulses += 1>> <<run !$artifactsHeld.includes($artifactName.intro_tome) && $artifactsHeld.push($artifactName.intro_tome) >>

''"Very well,"'' The wizard intones once it's clear that the interaction between you is coming to a close. ''"If we meet again, $name, it will be a meeting between a master and his apprentice."'' Bearing the shadow of a smirk on his thin, fleshy lips, the goateed magician locks eyes with you before showing a faint gleam of teeth. It's unclear for the time being whether you'll ever see him again... and you're certainly not looking forward to venturing home alone through these dark alleys. Yet, these thoughts dissipate as Mearesdes suddenly bows forth with a sweep of his cloak. The fluttering threads are the last thing that you see before your vision starts to spiral, the world flickering into complete darkness. And with a shudder immediately after, as though waking up from the deepest depths of a dreary dream, you find yourself standing before the entrance of the alley that you had darted down earlier today. Yes, you're back on the main street of Undertown, just a couple blocks from home. The streets are busier than they were this morning, various craftsmen, laborers and merchants making their way through the burgeoning, bustling day. It's enough for you to start to question whether what you experienced was real... but before you get too far along that line of questioning, you feel something within your pocket. When you fish it out, you find a veined bloodglass bead the color of clotting wine, warm to the touch; it hums once, twinkling up at you before it goes still. [[You take a deep breath.|intro_finalhome]] <<bgmstop 6>> <<set $intro_sorcerer to true>> <<set $bead_pulses += 1>>

''"... I have something that I need to return to you, Mearesdes."'' Carefully, you lift the edge of your tattered shirt and slip that dusty tome free from where it had been stowed away beneath your trousers. Perhaps you've had a change of heart, or perhaps you're now wary of the consequences that may result from taking a wizard's property. Brows lifted in a curious manner, Mearesdes lowers his gaze to the book in your grasp. With the smallest of nods, he reaches to take it and you draw forth a step to deliver it into his hand. The wizard's yellow gaze gleams over the cover before he goes and flips through several pages, giving the content within a cursory glance. ''"Interesting. Why did you decide to take it... and now return it?"'' [[I thought it belonged to thieves.|intro_yeswizard_returnbook_thieves]] [[I sensed the power within...|intro_yeswizard_returnbook_power]] <<set $intro_tome to false>>

''"Why offer me this opportunity? Of all the people in Cradle..."'' You trail off, as the wizard already seems to grasp the nature of your questioning. ''"Why you, dear $name... I will be completely honest with you, for I believe it will be in your best benefit to know the truth. While you have the powerful potential within you to succeed, it's true that I've found that potential in others that have happened across my path throughout these many years."'' ''"Yes, there have been apprentices before you. More failures than I would like to admit. They all had potential, to varying degrees, but potential doesn't necessarily lead to success. Potential may be stagnated, or squandered, or completely strangled and stamped out, like a smoldering flame."'' ''"But you? Potential and opportunity are likely to meet. By tomorrow morning, you could find your path transformed. And I encourage you to seize that opportunity."'' Mearesdes watches you closely, peering intensely into your eyes and examining what must be the shape of your soul, buried deep within your being. There's some arcane quality to this man's gaze, you think, and you wonder just how much more he can see, and to what extent, compared to a normal man... a mundane man. ''"Consider it destiny that led you here, $name. Or complete dumb luck. But perhaps, just perhaps, it could all be part of a greater plan for you. There will be trials and tribulations still, but being presented with the opportunity is always the first step. Now... Was there anything else?"'' <<if $intro_tome>> [[ I want to return this tome...|intro_yeswizard_returnbook]] [[ Ready to leave.|intro_yeswizard_leavewithbook]] <<else>> [[ Ready to leave.|intro_yeswizard_leave]]<</if>>

''"I do have a question. What are your goals, Mearesdes?"'' The wizard inclines an understanding nod as he hears you out, a subtle smirk lingering on the thin curve of his lips. It seems that your inquiry leaves him with a strange satisfaction, as though he's happy to provide you with the answers that you seek. Or perhaps more accurately, the information that he sees fit to provide you with. ''"You'd like to know my intentions? My goals? A reasonable question, all things considered. If it is not yet clear, $name, I don't share the sensibilities of the common masses... nor of their masters, those in power. Nonetheless, I tire of a life stowed away in the shadows. It's a comfortable existence, I'm sure I could live out the rest of my days here in relative quiet. That is not what I desire."'' ''"However... whether it's a throne that I seek, only time will tell."'' Mearesdes seems content with offering that much to you for the time being, the older man lapsing into silence and returning his attention fully unto you, expectant. ''"Was there anything else that you wish to know?"'' [[ Why offer me this opportunity?|intro_yeswizard_whyme]] <<if $intro_tome>> [[ I want to return this tome...|intro_yeswizard_returnbook]] [[ Ready to leave.|intro_yeswizard_leavewithbook]] <<else>> [[ Ready to leave.|intro_yeswizard_leave]]<</if>>

''"I thought it belonged to thieves... I was stolen from earlier today and I thought that might have something to do with this place... why I was led here. It turns out I was wrong, Mearesdes."'' You decide to tell him something close to the truth, as you have nothing to lose at this point. Hopefully it sets a good precedent between the both of you, moving forward. Mearesdes seems somewhat pleased by the explanation, lowering a faint nod and setting the tome aside on the scroll-covered table before you. ''"Yes, that is understandable. I'm glad you returned it unto me... It was the right choice to make, $name. And if you return to this place again, let it be under more favorable circumstances."'' [[Ready to leave.|intro_yeswizard_leave]]

''"I sensed the power within... and I couldn't stop myself from bringing it with me."'' That much is true; you remember how the open pages leapt out at you and stole your attention away. Briefly, you add to your explanation with a soft and somewhat breathy murmur, ''"But now that I know it belongs to you, I can't take it, Mearesdes."'' Mearesdes watches you carefully, gaze cold and entirely expressionless, though the faint curve of his lips betrays some subtle bemusement. Eventually, he lowers the faintest of nods and sets the tome firmly aside on the scroll-covered table before you. ''"Returning it to me was the right choice to make, $name. It'd behoove you to never take from me, what I have not given you. Trust me. You will have all that you need in due time."'' [[Ready to leave.|intro_yeswizard_leave]]

<h1>Darkness surrounds you.</h1> The abyss begins to shift, like the undulating shape of shadows behind a silken dancing veil, rays of light glimmering and protruding through. Countless questions linger in your periphery, yet your memory cruelly eludes you for the time being. More color and life gradually flows into your conscience, filling you with a low, burning vitality, a vigor. Yes, it's slowly coming to you like a vision that drives you closer to the madness of reality; the hellscape of Cradle, soaked readily in the violet glow of Dosmera. test <strong><center>Answer me. What is your name? <<textbox "$name" "Blair">> </center></strong> ''Now, listen to my ruminations.'' Stats in //Orphan// can unlock opportunities that you wouldn't have access to otherwise. They help determine your strengths and weaknesses, and your particular style of play. In combat, they can mean the difference between life or death. //Orphan// is a game of choice and great risk, where every decision is akin to rolling the dice and playing for high-stakes. Wise investment into your stats can help you hedge your bets. When you achieve feats of note or reinforce your //Thumos// through great acts, you'll earn a ''soulshard'' that you can use to increase one of your stats and grow your influence. As your abilities increase, so will your mastery of the world around you. But be aware... there are always greater threats and one wrong move can be unforgiving; your final act. ''Might:'' Strength, power, virility. A reflection of your ability to exercise physical force upon friend or foe, as well as your ability to withstand external damage that may be inflicted unto you. Some weapons require a certain level of Might to wield effectively. Without a weapon, you may need to rely upon your raw brawn to survive another day. ''Mobility:'' Speed, finesse, dexterity. A reflection of your overall athleticism, or how nimble you are. Mobility helps determine how quick you are, your capacity for stealth and subterfuge, as well as your skill with certain weapons, from daggers and swords to ranged armaments such as slings, shurikens, javelins or bows. ''Mind:'' Mental acuity, force of will, intuition. A reflection of your mind's ability to understand and manipulate your environment. In such a dangerous, unforgiving ecosystem, intelligence and common sense can benefit you just as much as sheer physicality. Threats come in all shapes and sizes, from malicious mindworms to parasitic psionicists that tickle the back of your mind and steal your sanity. It'll do you well to guard your senses. <strong><center>What qualities do you thus possess?</center></strong> You have ''TWO'' soulshards to invest. They can be put into the same stat, or into two different stats of your choosing. Your first soulshard will increase your <<cycle "$firstSoulshard" autoselect>> <<option "Might">> <<option "Mobility">> <<option "Mind">> <</cycle>> and your second soulshard will increase your <<cycle "$secondSoulshard" autoselect>> <<option "Mind">> <<option "Mobility">> <<option "Might">> <</cycle>>. //Note: Click on the stats above to change your selection.// <<button 'Confirm choice' 'intro_p0'>> /* we remove the uppercase , then add 1 to the corresponding variable */ <<set _key = $firstSoulshard.toLowerCase(); State.variables[$firstSoulshard.toLowerCase()]++>> <<set _key = $secondSoulshard.toLowerCase(); State.variables[$secondSoulshard.toLowerCase()]++>> <</button>> test

''"Don't steal from me again."'' She looks at you somewhat oddly, still bewildered perhaps from the chain of events. ''"... Right."'' There's something of a scowl on her visage, but also a small semblance of what might be begrudging respect. You did chase her through the narrows and beat her in the end, after all. [[Time to go home.|intro_right_instinct_homewithcoins]] <<gainKnight>>

''"Don't follow me,"'' You add as you begin to turn on heel, stepping through the forgotten courtyard, feeling as though their are unseen eyes laid upon you. Folks in the narrows are quite good at remaining unseen, so you can never really be sure. Before you pass under the stone archway that led you into this place, you remember to take a moment to reattach your coinpouch to one of your beltloops, feeling a brief surge of confidence from your victory. However, the feeling doesn't last forever. As you descend back into the darkness of the alleys, you remember that you'll have to make it over the various pits, holes, up the steps once more, and through the apparent traps that lay in wait. You wonder what the intent of that net was from earlier; whether they were innovative thugs looking for easy prey, or worse, a gang of slavers looking for new chattel. Regardless, it seems that you barely avoided a worse fate this day. You count yourself lucky, though perhaps it's too soon to say. You still have the journey ahead, back through the narrows... [[You depart into the darkness.|intro_right_homewithcoins_ending]]

''“Don’t do anything stupid.”'' You mutter it low as you shift your weight, dragging her up beneath you, her cheek pressed to the damp stone while that thick green backside lifts high in the air. Unhurried, you wedge your thumbs under the ragged hem of her skirt and begin to peel it down her thighs, freeing her wide, shameless hips of that filthy scrap of cloth. She doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t speak. But her stance changes, barely, her legs parting further. A twitch, a subtle signal. She growls: a low, aroused sound from the confines of her throat. ''“Got your coin, didn’t you?”'' comes the murmur, finally, over her shoulder, ''“So what’s this then? Extra payment?”'' You don’t answer. You don’t have to. The shape of her commands your full attention, thick and shameless, supple rear rising into the air like an altar. After her skirt, the panties come next, a quick hook and pull, guiding them down her strong, corded thighs quickly, her legs staying splayed wide to show the dripping prize between them. Her holes are bared beneath your gaze, glistening beneath the dull violet haze of Dosmera’s glow. Your eyes drink her in, wild and wanting. The mist-streaked courtyard is silent save for your breath and hers: labored, hungry, filled with the ghosts of the chase. You pause only to glance at the darkness beyond the stone: wondering, for one flicker of a second, if anyone’s watching. But the thought dies quick, because nothing out there can offer you what’s here, now. She shudders once under your hands, whether from fear or heat you can’t yet say, but your fingers read the tremble in her flesh like scripture. Her back is arched, spine bowed, presenting herself not like prey but like challenge. That thick ass of hers is a battlefield, a throne, and it’s yours now, trembling in your grip. ''“You gonna take it, or you just like lookin’, pretty-boy?”'' The pressure in your gut crests. <<if $char_cock is "short_sleek">> The clasp on your trousers feels suddenly clumsy under your fingers, but you get them open, pushing the rough-spun fabric down just past your hips. Your cock, fully hard, is sleek and neat, a compact and efficient length that fits snugly in your palm. She cranes her neck, trying to get a look, and a sharp, derisive snort escapes her. ''"I can see how you caught me. Not much weighin' you down, is there?"'' The thief laughs, the sound harsh and genuine. ''"You got all worked up over that. Poor thing."'' She gives an exaggerated, disappointed sigh, wiggling her broad backside. ''"Guess I won't be feeling much, will I? Hurry up and get it over with. The anticipation is the worst part."'' <<elseif $char_cock is "long_thick">> It takes a bit more effort to free yourself, your erection straining against the confines of your pants. When you finally shove them down, your cock springs out, a heavy, intimidating sight. It’s long and thick, a prominent vein running its length, the foreskin pulled only partway back from the flushed, leaking head. She glances back, and her gold eyes widen, her cocky smirk vanishing instantly. Her breath catches in her throat. ''"Oh, shit,"'' she breathes, the words barely a whisper. All pretense of defiance evaporates, replaced by a palpable mixture of shock and apprehension. She visibly tenses, her wide hips stuttering in their inviting sway. ''"That's... that's not going to fit."'' The challenge in her voice is gone, replaced by a raw, genuine note of disbelief. ''"You're not actually going to try and put all of that in me, are you?"'' <<else>> Your fingers work the fastening of your trousers with practiced ease, the button popping open, the coarse fabric of your pants sliding down your hips just enough. Your cock, already hard and eager, springs free into the damp, misty air. It’s a solid, respectable length, thick and veined, standing proud and straight against your stomach; a weapon well-suited for the task at hand. ''"Well, well,"'' She purrs, her voice dripping with a newfound, mocking amusement. ''"Not a complete disappoint, are you? But let's see if you know how to use it."'' She grinds her hips back against you in a slow, deliberate circle, the slick heat of her meeting the head of your cock. ''"Come on. Back up all that talk, roundear."'' <</if>> Her ass fits against you better than it has any right to — firm, warm, unyielding. You grip her hips tight, tighter still, until the soft meat gives under your hands and she gasps like she’s being claimed, not taken. ''“Fuck...”'' she breathes. Not a curse, but a plea. You don’t need more than that. You’ll give her what she asked for. Rough, real, and ruinous. [[Spank that thick ass.|intro_right_instinct_doggyspank]] <<ci archetype>> [[Stop wasting time and fuck her!|intro_right_instinct_doggyfuck]] <<ci archetype>>

Your lust compels you. <<sfx "slap1" 1.0>> The heft of her, the thick swell of her ass rising shameless into the violet gloom. It's a provocation you can't ignore. That green flesh calls to you, waiting for the weight of your hand. You savor it for a moment longer, calloused fingers trailing the curves, the scars, the living heat of her. Then you strike. The slap cracks the courtyard air, flesh to flesh, loud and primal. She jolts forward, a snarl bursting from her throat, part gasp and choked laugh. ''“Fucker,”'' she hisses, low and wrecked. Not broken, but challenging. You drag your hand back across her stinging skin, feeling the tremor in her muscles, the twitch of her breath. Then you grab a handful of her ass, spreading her cheeks roughly apart, admiring the raw pulse of her. She rocks against your palm, grinding back like a fighter baiting another blow. ''“That all you got, pretty-boy?”'' She spits over her shoulder, teeth flashing in a feral grin. You growl low and answer the only way that matters, another hard slap that leaves your handprint burning red across her cheek. She jerks, hissing through gritted teeth, her back arching deeper, daring you. You knead her bruised flesh, working the heat into her, marking her as yours if only for this one dirty moment. Your cock strains against her, rigid and throbbing, nestled between the tight valley of her cheeks. When you squeeze again, harder, digging your fingers into her soft bruises, she shudders. Breath rattles out of her in a broken purr, somewhere between pleasure and pride. ''“Come on then,”'' she growls, voice thick and wrecked. ''“Thought you had me pinned. Show me you’re not just good at catchin’ runts.”'' The pressure builds behind your eyes. Behind your cock and in your balls. The thick tension that’s been growing since the chase, since the first flash of her in the dark, bursts inside you like a dam giving way. You're going to get your fill of this goblin, even if it means leaving her behind battered. You drive your hips forward — not to enter her yet, but to grind yourself against that perfect, battered ass, smearing your lust across her skin. She bucks under you, snarling and pushing back, biting at the air as if daring you to lose control. You slap her again. Harder. Enough that the sound echoes across the broken courtyard stones. ''“Better,”'' she rasps, laughing through the pain, ''“Ain’t nobody likes a half-assed bastard.”'' Your hands roam freely now, claiming, taking, and squeezing bruises into green flesh. Every touch is a declaration: she fought, she lost, and she loves every filthy second of it. You lean low over her back, your voice a rough whisper in her ear, ''“You’ll get what you earned, little runt. Every last inch.”'' Her answering growl is all the permission you need. [[Make use of her dirty mouth.|intro_right_instinct_oralafterspank]] [[Drive into her from behind.|intro_right_instinct_doggyplayful]]

You don’t waste time. You don't offer tenderness. You don’t give her the chance to run that filthy mouth again. There's no time for foreplay, not really, not when at any moment you could find a dagger in your back or at your throat. You're not going to let this opportunity go to waste. You're going to //fuck// her. She shivers beneath you, in anticipation perhaps, as you slowly draw back your hips only to press forward once more, the swollen crown of your cock greeting her lower lips with a kiss of the tip. You seize her hips, haul her up higher, and ram yourself inside her in one savage thrust. She screams: not in protest, but in raw, guttural shock — the sound ripping itself free as her body strains to take your full size. She plants her palms hard against the slick stones, her nails scraping furrows as you drive her forward, a brutal rhythm pounding into her from the start. No teasing. No easing. Just pure, relentless rutting. The slap of flesh echoes through the broken courtyard, each thrust a punishment and a reward tangled into one. She bucks under you: not to escape, but to meet you, hips slamming back into yours with a snarling rhythm. The heat between her legs clutches you tight, slick and greedy, her body betraying her pride with every wet slap, every tremor that runs through her thick thighs. You lean forward, big hand ensnaring her braided scalp, yanking her head back so you can hear her panting curses spit through clenched teeth, ''"Hells,"'' she growls, voice ragged, ''"You're worse than a troll rut."'' You slam into her harder. She chokes on a laugh and shudders, the pulse of her body milking you against your will. ''"Tch— Not bad for a fucking human,"'' she snarls, hips snapping back into yours like a whipcrack. ''"Not bad.. fuck.. at all."'' You bare your teeth in a grimace, the strain building in your gut, your balls heavy and aching with the pressure she's wringing out of you. Her flesh ripples around you with every rough, grinding thrust, the slick heat of her a maddening, living trap. This isn't love, nor mercy. It's survival, the purest kind. Two beasts locked in ruinous need, fighting to draw the last shred of pleasure from a broken world. You shift your stance, planting your feet wide, driving her down with every brutal stroke until her gasps turn hoarse and her head drops, cheek scraping the stone, green fingers curling tight in the cracks. And still, even while wrecked, trembling terribly, she spits her defiance. ''"Go on,"'' she croaks, ''"Break me, big man. See who comes out smiling."'' You snarl, feeling the edge building, the sharp pull of release racing up your spine. It’s close and she’s close too. The way her body clamps and shivers tells you. You slam forward once more, burying yourself deep, savoring the way she claws at the stones and groans. Half-daring, half-breaking. [[Shut her up, and stuff her mouth.|intro_right_instinct_doggyoral]] [[Finish inside her.|intro_right_instinct_doggyfinish_in_bastard]] [[Pull out and paint her back.|intro_right_instinct_doggyfinish_out_bastard]]

by <a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText" target="_blank">Exalted Text</a>

Before you can blink, your life takes an /unfortunate/ turn. You never would have imagined that you'd be caught in a net, your limbs bent, twisted, body folded over, effectively trapped and caked in a filthy layer of dirt and grime that was thrown up by the trap's activation. You hang taut in the air, one of your legs protruding through the net and dangling towards the dark alley ground below. ''"Fuck,"'' You spit before clenching your teeth and trying to manipulate the coarse netting around you. But you can barely move; it's tight and you don't have anything on you to cut at it. You can still barely see, though the pain in your eyes has lessened. Your lack of clear sight is suddenly //less// of a problem given your current circumstance. ''"This makes up for missin' the little one, don't it? And this idiot da first time?"'' The voices are low, but growing louder and clear for you to hear. They seem to be climbing down from somewhere above, perhaps a nearby rooftop, and you can't even swivel your gaze to observe them. You have to do something, quick. But nothing that you do works. Your fingers pry feebly at the netting and your teeth barely put an indent in the rough, thick-woven fibers. You're trapped and there's no telling what they'll do with you, or who this trap belongs to. You'll have an idea soon. [[A trio of leather-clad humans peer up at you.|intro_right_instinct_captured1]]

There, the street opens up into an intersection where goods are peddled and exchanged between citizens, the usage of coins more common than mere barter. Standing amongst the milling of the crowd, a pair of men with bronze breastplates, dark gray tunics and blade-laden sheaths at their belts stand watch over the gathering of commons. You even recognize one of them. As you trudge closer, he spots you, a young man perhaps only a few years older than you with short-cropped black hair and pale hazel eyes. ''"$name? Is that you? What in the fuckin' Highlord is that?"'' He indicates the wriggling goblin atop your shoulder as you finally close in. ''"Good to see you, Xander. This... is a thief."'' Without further ado, you roll your shoulder and lean forward, letting the goblin flop down onto the dirty cobblestone, throwing up dust and grit as the two soldiers watch on. Xander peers over her, only somewhat curious, canting a brow up at you soon after, ''"No shit? You caught her?"'' The bound goblin moans, muffled, squirming atop the road as you talk over her, ''"Aye. She's a bold one. Stole the pouch right off my belt and made me chase her through the narrows."'' Xander snorts a laugh, booting the goblin in the side as he turns another look down at her. ''"Ran her down, huh? I'm not surprised. Shit, you should consider joinin' the Legion, $name. I think ya'd fit right in!"'' [[I've thought about it.|intro_right_knockoutarrest_haulend1_maybe]] [[No thanks.|intro_right_knockoutarrest_haulend1_nothanks]]

''"I've thought about it... Old Fredrick needs the extra pair of hands, though."'' Xander throws up a shoulder at your response and looses a wad of spit down onto the stones next to their new prisoner, ''"Don't let that old man run your life, mate. You're ya own man, and the Legion is made for //men//."'' His partner mutters in agreement, ''"Fuckin' aye."'' ''"I'll think about it. Anyway, I've gotta make a purchase and get back home."'' ''"Aye, $name. We'll take care of this sad gobbie cunt for ya. Make her reconsider her life choices, we will."'' Xander laughs and cants over a lopsided wink at you before the both of them start to gather up the little bound goblin at their feet. She looks your way, golden eyes narrowed, before you turn off through the crowd... Part of you wonders what's going to happen to her, and whether you'll ever cross paths once more. [[Time to go home.|intro_right_homewithcoins_ending]]

''"No thanks. I don't think that's the path for me... Besides, Old Fredrick needs the extra pair of hands."'' Xander throws up a shoulder at your response and looses a wad of spit down onto the stones next to their new prisoner, ''"Don't let that old man run your life, mate. You're ya own man, and the Legion is made for //men//."'' His partner mutters in agreement, ''"Fuckin' aye."'' ''"Right... Anyway, I've gotta make a purchase and get back home."'' ''"Aye, $name. We'll take care of this sad gobbie cunt for ya. Make her reconsider her life choices, we will."'' Xander laughs and cants over a lopsided wink at you before the both of them start to gather up the little bound goblin at their feet. She looks your way, golden eyes narrowed, before you turn off through the crowd... Part of you wonders what's going to happen to her, and whether you'll ever cross paths once more. [[Time to go home.|intro_right_homewithcoins_ending]]

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp1_dosmera.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"><h3>Yet it all feels so very real.</h3>You've never seen her so ''clearly'' before. <h3>''Dosmera.''</h3></center>Looming in the dark abyss of space above, a purple gas giant seems close enough to touch, casting a luminous violet haze over much of the world. She dominates the sky, how could you not notice her? But now, every single detail stands out to you admist the vaporous fog. //She's so incredibly beautiful.// Almost dangerously so. You know some worship her; they call her the source of all existence. Some others yet regard her as a living God. Others still, many a cult deep within the ruins of the Lost Quarter, regard her as a portal into another world. A world full of beings far greater than any gathered here. You can't help but wonder what that would look like. [[A soft breath nearby steals your attention from Dosmera.|intro_nightdream1]] <<bgm "bad-era" 0.6 6>>

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp1_succubus.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> That's when you see ''her''. You can scarcely believe your eyes. There stands a woman observing you, feasting upon your youthful form with ebon eyes. She's like no one you've ever seen before; not even the most exquisite dark elf could compare. Tall, lithe and lissome, every line of her body promising sin and salvation in equal measure. She's clothed in dark silk and intricate black lace that clings and flows in deliberate, teasing layers, her nakedness artfully concealed beneath yet impossible to ignore. The fabric whispers over the swell of her full breasts, traces the elegant dip of her waist, and drapes across the long, graceful curves of her hips and thighs like liquid shadow. She stands resolute, dangerous, radiating an aura so potent it presses against your skin like warm velvet and the threat of lightning. [[For a moment, you almost feel embarassed. Lesser.|intro_nightdream2]]

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp1_succubus1.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> She's something from beyond this world—a being, you feel, from the greater beyond that ravers and lunatics prophesize lies within the holy haze of Dosmera. It's certainly possible, you think. Now that you've seen her, And beheld her with your own two eyes. Silky strands of decadent midnight-black hair cascade down her supple back, framing a face of impossible beauty. Smooth violet flesh gleams where the lace allows the faintest hints of skin to show. She tilts her head, full lips curving into a slow, knowing smile that makes your pulse stutter. ''"What, you don't like what you see?"'' she purrs, voice low and honeyed, each syllable stroking the air between you. ''"Am I not your type, $name?"'' Her black eyes lock onto yours. Lustful, ancient, and unbearably intense. Heat floods your veins. Your lips part, but no words come. [[You blink.|intro_nightdream3]]

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp1_succubus3.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center>You drop down onto your knees. It's not like you had a choice... your body and mind feel so incredibly heavy. Every figment of your being desires the etheral woman before you. She smiles like a queen who's just been handed her crown. ''"Good boy."'' The words drip straight into your blood. Every inch of you feels heavy, deliciously helpless, as she steps closer. The golden tassels sway hypnotically from her stiff violet nipples with each breath. Up close the scent of her is overwhelming; sweet, dark, addictive. She is a //goddess//, a daughter born of Dosmera. And when she sees your compliance, her full lips, plump and purple, part to show the gleam of fangs. ''"Now,"'' comes the soft, pleased coo. ''"I love a man who listens. You deserve a taste."'' The way she moves perfectly emphasizes her opulent femininity, her sexuality. The sway of her succulent hips and smooth, gracile thighs. You're captivated by every step that she takes until she's standing right before you, looking down upon you, dominating you with her pure presence. A slender digit slips beneath the tender string of her black-silk panties and pulls them aside, just enough to reveal her lips. She spreads them for you like a blossoming flower, showing you the beautiful, deep violet and velvety insides that glisten and glimmer for your greedy gaze. ''"I'm waiting."'' She purrs down at you, her dark eyes half-lidded. [[You lean forward to taste her.|intro_nightdream2_comply1]]

''"No."'' The word barely leaves your lips. Merely a cracked whisper. Yet it feels like the hardest thing you’ve ever done. You remain standing, despite your body and mind feeling so incredibly heavy. For a single heartbeat, barely long enough for it to register, her perfect brows lift in what must be surprise. Then just as quickly, her full lips curve into something far more dangerous. Pure, delighted amusement. Sharp fangs flash behind the smile. ''"Oh, sweet boy... there's no need for that."'' Every figment of your being desires this woman. But something within you sees past her decadent display. She is no //goddess//, no daughter born of Dosmera, you think. She's a ''daemon.'' Yet your resolve must be made stronger if you're going to resist such an entity. You can foresee that much. She flows forward anyway, every sway of her wide hips and the thick, powerful glide of her thighs turning the simple act of walking into obscene art. The golden tassels on her breasts glitter as she stops barely a breath away, towering, violet skin radiant. The way she moves perfectly emphasizes her opulent femininity, Her sheer, emanating feminine //sexuality//. ''"I only want to //please// you... The faster you learn to play nicely with me, the better."'' Her dark eyes are so incredibly deep, boring into yours; they must be sizing up your soul and inner dimensions. You clutch your eyes shut and a groan, barely audible, escapes her. She leans in until her lips brush your ear. ''"I'll be seeing you again soon, $name."'' A low, affectionate laugh ghosts across your skin, And then the dream dissolves. [[You awake with a start.|chp2_morningafter]]

So very slowly, you press your face closer to her crotch and open your mouth, eager for a taste. Before your tongue even meets her flesh, your nostrils flare, sucking in the scent of her pheremones. It's like a natural perfume, the sweetest thing you've ever smelled. Just the scent of her sex is enough for your cock to swell. But the taste is so much sweeter. Your tongue tingles as it draws delicately along her lower lips. Honey is the easiest way to describe it, but as intoxicating and rich as wine. You've never felt as attracted to a woman as you do now. Not a woman; a goddess, of that much you're sure. You feel her long fingers comb through your hair, giving your scalp a little massage, just absently toying with you as she lets you lap at her pussy. ''"That’s it... just like that, $name..."'' You help yourself, tracing the shape of her labia with your tongue, emboldened by her gentle touch. Soon your movement has turned hungry, desperate, //lustful//. You lap at her, drawing your tongue fatly over her exposed insides, nice and firm. The pleasure is so intense your vision blurs. You feel her power coiling tighter around your mind, your hot face, promising that this is only just the beginning. But it doesn't last nearly as long as you would've liked. ''"I'll be seeing you again very soon, $name..."' Her whisper fades slowly, voice all velvet and smoke.' [[You awake with a start.|chp2_morningafter]]

You aren't the only one having a bad day. The closer that you draw to that awful arena, the more common these wretched displays of bondage become. Lines of slaves shamble past, often gaunt and always stripped of their dignity. Collars forged from petty pig-iron or bone ring their necks, studded and spiked like a perpetual warning. Filthy rags cling to them: dreadful, destitute, the worst of them sporting ribs and bones that protrude against their sweating flesh. Slavers and soldiers stalk the fringes, keeping order with dark glares, their armor gleaming beneath the torchlight. Bronze helms, emblazoned hide caps, cuirasses stamped with noble sigils. They too serve a master, for better or for worse. Amidst the press of the crowd, the true owners of Cradle drift like carrion birds, often easy to spot. Debauched nobles of colored silk, instantly recognizable by the arrogance of their posture and the finery of their feathered, bejeweled raiments. Cloaks embroided with heraldic beasts often trail behind them, gemstones nestled in twisted braids or high collars. Some are understated, while others are more exorbitant, flaunting their wealth like a second skin. But all of them are far, far above you. Their estates lie high in the First Quarter, where winding towers escape the heat, blood and stink of the pit. How cool and sweet the air must be, high above the suffering of Cradle's bruised and packed masses. Gant's voice cuts through the haze, low and rough from between the warped bars of the next cage over, ''"We're in the thick of it now, my friend. The auctions can't be far."'' He shifts behind the bars, sucking on his teeth, ''"If we're lucky, we go straight from the cart to the sellin' stands. Get picked up by some upper-class bureaucrat or noblewoman. Being a house servant ain't the worst fate, eh?"'' [["Meh."|chp2_wagon3_cowboy]] <<ci cowboy>> [["I'd rather die in the sands."|chp2_wagon3_bastard]] <<ci bastard>> [["How are we going to get out of this?"|chp2_wagon3_knight]] <<ci knight>> <<sfx "whip" 0.8>>

''"Meh."'' At this point, you've resigned yourself to the situation. Whatever happens, happens. You can roll with the punches and figure out a way forward. For now, it's just about survival. It's not like you actually have //options// in your current situation. You've no leverage to stand on. Unfavorable, but you're gonna try and make it work. However, for Gant, daydreaming seems preferable to his current reality. ''"Think about it, man... Imagine y'get bought by a busty fuckin' noblewoman. And you become like... her personal dildo."'' A loose, sheepish grin appears on his face as he rubs a hand through his shaggy mane of hair. ''"That wouldn't be too bad, eh? Eheh..."'' [[Yet, your cart doesn't seem to be stopping.|chp2_wagon4]] <<gainCowboy>>

''"I'd rather die in the sands."'' You don't spit the words so much as breathe them, low and certain. There's no way that you live out the rest of your days as some pitful and oh-so dutiful house slave, bowing and scraping until your back breaks. Your blood is too thick, and it burns too hot to settle. Your soul yearns for something more-- a conquest. Fredrick kept you alive, sure, and you repaid him with loyalty as his apprentice. You had an obligation, and a certain lack of options. But now, that debt's done as far as you can tell. It might just be time that you carved your own path, one blade stroke at a time. ''"Die in the sands, huh?"'' Gant mutters beneath a thoughtful breath, considering your response somewhat seriously, ''"Not a bad life... could be short, yeah. But if you've got the stones and the skills? I've heard that some of 'em live like kings. The champions. All you can eat. A stable of pleasure slaves. Even the nobles come pay their respects."'' ''"Still,"'' He sighs, a loose, sheepish grin appearing on his face as he runs a hand through his greasy mane, ''"I'd be just fine gettin' bought by a busty fuckin' noblewoman. Imagine that, mate. And you become like... her personal dildo. Tucked away in some perfumed bedchamber, slathered in oil. That wouldn't be too bad, eheh..."'' [[Yet, your cart doesn't seem to be stopping.|chp2_wagon4]] <<gainBastard>>

''"How are we going to get out of this?"'' You can't help but feel that this is all a big mistake. You were born free... Yes, an orphan, but //free// with old Fredrick taking you under his care and mentorship. It should be impossible for a group of thugs to attack you and sell you off like //cattle//. No, this can't be your future. You're meant for more. Your companion seems far more comfortable with the prospect of wearing a collar. ''"Think about it, man... Imagine y'get bought by a busty fuckin' noblewoman. And you become like... her personal dildo."'' A loose, sheepish grin appears on his face as he rubs a hand through his shaggy mane of hair. ''"That wouldn't be too bad, eh? Eheh..."'' [[Yet, your cart doesn't seem to be stopping.|chp2_wagon4]] <<gainKnight>>

The crowd only grows thicker as you descend deeper into the shadow of the colosseum. It doesn't seem likely that you're intended for one of the surrounding auctions. No, you're heading directly into the belly of the beast. Your friend stirs from his reverie and leans closer, face pressed tight against the bars, ''"I think our day is about t'get even worse, my friend... I forgot it's fuckin' Crathal. They're holding Death-Games all month."'' ''"Death-Games?"'' You echo back in question, barely above a breath, your gaze still fixed ahead to soak in the staggering sight before you. Hundreds, if not thousands, jammed shoulder to shoulder as they try to press forward, clawing for a glimpse beyond the gates. The stands must already be bursting with bodies, their howls rising over the din. Guards lash out at the swarm, barking orders and cracking skulls when the press surges too close. Whenever a noble seeks entrance, the sea parts, trampling a few commoners underfoot. ''"All day, every godsdamned day for the whole month,"'' Gant curses. ''"Blood in the sand from sun-up to eclipse. As much slaughter as they can afford."'' He exhales, a bitter laugh escaping his chest, ''"Which means our odds at bein' tossed in right now, without so much as a name or price tag... Well. You get the picture, mate."'' He slumps back and rests his head against the bars once more, dejected, ''"Just our luck."'' [[The cart steers around the perimeter of the colosseum and through the crowd.|chp2_wagon5]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp1_wagon_catacombs.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> ... only to start the slow descent down a wide, stone-paved rampway which appears to lead deeper below, beneath the colosseum's very hungry belly. ''"What I'd tell ya?"'' Gant mutters, displeased. His hopes have been dashed. ''"Shittiest fuckin' month there is... except when you're watching the games, heh."'' The wagon clinks and clatters over uneven stone as your descent continues, face pressed to the bars, catching glimpses of the figures around you. The crowd above has dissipated, vanished; the only folks ventured this low seem to be slaves and slavers. The occassional servant passes in silence, clutching cloth bundles or pots of water. Sigil-marked soldiers stride with purpose, relaying commands or perhaps preparing some noble's prized 'property' for the games ahead. The sands await beneath shivering skies. From the front of the wagon, though you can only see the top of his shaven skull wobbling, you hear the driver's gutteral voice call: ''"Welcome to the catacombs!"'' You pass beneath a rounded archway wide enough for a funeral procession of wagons, and perhaps that's exatly what this is. The light dims and the air grows damp, as though you're entering the very underworld of Cradle itself, swallowed by death and dark. The tunnel stretches before you, an underground labyrinth of shattered stone and cramped cobblework stretching into the depths where macabre walls reinforced with a patchwork of bleached bone and sweat-stained skulls glisten, perspiration weeping from every crevice and clinging to every smooth surface. From deeper in, narrow passageways break and splinter off into darkness, winding like tainted veins into the crater's depths. For better or for worse, your wagon sticks to the main artery, straight and wide. Your heading towards the heart of it all. Torches flicker, whips crack, feet shuffle through the darkness, and shrill voices reverberate against the ancient skeletons lining the catacombs: ''"Move! Unload 'em, you know the drill!"'' Amidst the shifting of shadows, you see movement up ahead. The emptying of carts and exchange of slaves awaits you. Soon, it'll be your turn. ''"Stick close,"'' comes Gant's whispered warning, ''"We'll watch each other's backs."'' [[ Finally, the cart lurches to a stop and the back swings open with a heavy creak.|chp2_catacombs]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp1_wagon_arrival.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> ''"Empty 'em."'' <<sfx "whip" 0.8>> A rawboned man barks the order as he steps alongside the cart, whip dragging behind him — a barbed black thong that rasps along the broken cobble with every stride. He approaches the driver, boots crunching, jaw set like iron. ''"How many?"'' The driver grins and dips his head low, ''“Overseer. Gots six for you. Good stock.”'' Servants clamber up into the wagon while guards form a perimeter below, speartips protruding and jutting upward like thorns, their swordbelts bristling with bone hilts and sharpened blades. One cage at a time, they work the latches. The broken are dragged out like sacks of meat and tossed, limbs scraping wood and stone. No dignity left. ''“Come on,”'' a guard grumbles. ''“Nothing clever, or you’ll get a spear through your gut and a boot on your fuckin’ neck.”'' Gant meets your eyes briefly, weary and unreadable, before they haul him off. Then it's your turn. You obey and do as you're told, no resistance. Head down, steps measured, just another body in the line as you're led away from the wagon like cattle to the slaughter. ''"Move!"'' The shout is directed at a lifeless wretch near the rear, but the whole line gets shoved forward, pressed and prodded all the while. A slap clips your ear, and a boot finds the back of your knees. The guards herd you toward a break in the wall: a low, arched opening framed in bones and anchored with rusted hinges. Once you're forced inside, a thick wooden door swings shut behind you. It takes a while for your eyes to adjust to the darkness, and only then do you realize that it's a holding cell. Stone walls, bare floor, rank air. ''"Could be worse,"'' Gant remarks, the first one to break the silence, ''"Least there's no rats!"'' Looking around, you see that there's only one other exit. On the far side of the room, the walls taper inward and a metal grate stands lowered, preventing egress into the narrow passage beyond. You catch the faintest glimmer of violet light at its far end. And you certainly hear //something//... a low roar, ebbing and waning, deep and foreboding, rising and falling like the distant breath of some monstrous god. The crowd. You recognize it now. They're chanting. Waiting. Demanding. Calling out for //blood//. [[But for now - you wait...|chp2_catacombs1]]

You don't know how much time has passed, slumped together in the muggy darkness. But like with all things in life, this reverie doesn't last forever. The blast of a horn reverberates throughout the entirety of the catacombs, giving immediate cause for the guards and servants to muster. You can hear them outside, a procession of soldiers gathering on the other side of the door. You press to your feet, Gant at your side. ''"Here goes nothing,"'' he murmurs warily. Someone thuds on the door twice before you hear the turning of a key and lock. Then it swings open, steam seeping through, as dark figures with sweat-sheened blades press their way into the room. ''"On your feet! Stand up ya fuckin' misers! Walkin' dead!"'' The grate is being wrenched open at the farside of the room by some unseen mechanism. This whole system runs like clockwork, you think, the exchange and wrangling of slaves as they're sent to their doom. You're getting a firsthand view of it all. Hell, there's never been a better seat. They corral you towards the newly opened passageway, kicking, slapping and stabbing at those slow to react or who fail to listen to their bellowed commands. It's barbaric, crass, undignified; you grit your teeth and keep from the wrath of the guards, until you're forced to duck under the opened grate and start the trek through the hollowed out tunnel, marching forward to the dim glow of daylight at the opposite end. You have no choice, not yet. [[When you emerge from the passage, the defeaning roar of the crowd greets you.|chp2_arena1]]

Shouting and screaming, the unending roar of the crowd surrounds you, strangles you, defeaning you in strong contrast to the dark, desolate sky up above. Obscured by steam and mist, where the hot air heated by the core of the pit meets the coolness of open space, rays of violet protrude through to illuminate the stands. High above where the etheral fog finally opens up for a view, you're given a glorious glimpse at the purple gas giant looming and watching over every single denizen of Cradle. Her name is Dosmera. And in this moment, you realize that you've never seen her so clearly before, big and bright, anointing you in her awesome glow. You know some worship her; they call her the source of all existence. Others yet regard her as a living God, whilst many a cult deep within the ruins of the Lost Quarter prophesize her to be a portal into another dimension. A world full of beings far greater than any gathered here. While your exact feelings elude you, knowing that you may die here today beneath her captivating sight, the sense of awe that you feel is undeniable. ''"We're in for it, boys!"'' Gant cries out, eyes wide and teeth bared for the crowd. Most of your fellow slaves are bumbling about, soaking in the sheer scale of the arena. Tall, thick, ghastly-grey walls slope upwards and separate the sands from the crowded stands above. Even the arena floor is massive in scale; they could fit hundreds of slaves in here for pitched battles if they wanted to. You can't help but wonder what's in store for you... [[You notice more slaves funneling out of another entrance...|chp2_arena2]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp1_khalika_arena1.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> There are more of you, Two dozen, maybe more. Mostly nobodies, decrepit fodder for the games. Forgotten men and women culled from Cradle's cages and gutters. They mill about in the sands, far below the dark, yawning abyss above. And yet, one among the many condemned draws your eye. Amid the rising chants, a bleary, pulsing murmur from the stands surrounding you, your gaze finds hers. A female half-orc, her skin a deep, glossy green, slick with sweat and gleaming darkly like a fresh oil painting not yet seen. She locks eyes with you without flinching, and doesn't look away. She's watching you. From the slow roll of her gaze, she seems to be measuring you, appraising you, so you return the favor. She's broad in the shoulder, thick and sturdy, with a square jaw and proud tusks jutting from beneath her lips. Unsurprisingly for one of her race, she looks to be warrior-stock. There's little fear in her eyes. Just focus, caution, curiosity. Before the silent exchange can develop, a shrill screech cuts through the air; metal grinding on metal, an unusual sound for your ears. Your attention whips toward one end of the arena, where a pair of enormous iron cranks begin to turn. Slowly, painfully, they begin the morbid process of drawing a truly humongous gate, thick with spikes and streaked in old blood. The chains strain, the gears groan, yet already in the darkness beyond, you can see something shrouded in shadow. In the tunnel beyond, tall and wide enough for titans to pass through, you glimpse the outline of a towering thing as it shuffles closer out into the light of the sands. [[What in the world...|chp2_arena3]] <<bgmstop 9>>

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp1_colosseum_ogre.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> At least thrice your height and ten times as terrible, a horrible creature slowly ambles out from the darkness and out into the scorched sands, slobber and spittle escaping from the sides of their fat, pale, wormy lips. An ''ogre''. It's huge and //pissed off//, mouth peeling open to display gross, gnashing teeth already stained by blood and flesh. <center>''"What.. the.. FUCK!"''</center> You can't help but stare. Never before have you laid eyes upon on such a beast; grossly gigantic, each of it's foul movements are long and labored, ambling forth with a seemingly directionless, gaping gait. But as soon as the gate stills, completely open, the ogre seizes the opportunity to pick up speed and clambers out into the open. The crowd's reaction is mixed. Some recoil in disgust or fear, whilst others pick up the cadence, hooting and hollering, thrilled by the sight of such a cruel abomination and the spectacle that's surely soon to follow. Fighting the sense of dread that had built up within you, putting you in a state of inaction, you swivel a quick look over the sands to survey your situation. Gant's stood in disbelief, cursing fate and fortune, whilst the female half-orc happens to meet your gaze once more. Though sullen, there's a measure of determination behind her amber eyes. You drop a firm nod her way, and she returns the gesture; you find the sense of mutual understanding, despite the direness of your situation, somewhat reassuring. [[All is not lost yet.|chp2_arena4]] <<bgm "prepare-to-die" 0.6 6>>

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice a //positive// development. Throughout the arena, weapons are being flung down, scattered across the sands. You almost stop to thank the Gods... These sorry bastards don't expect you to put up an unarmed resistance. You finally start to move, trotting over and picking your way around the edge of the arena. Yet, your choices aren't all too illustrous. Haphazardly laying across the arena floor, there's what looks like a farming tool. As far as you can remember, Fredrick called it a ''billhook''. With a wooden shaft and a bone blade, it wouldn't be a bad choice if you wanted distance between yourself and your foe. Serving as a more familiar sight yet, you see a ''gladius'', old and battered, but servicable all the same. You're unsure of what exactly it's capable of doing to this ogre in combat, but you'd certainly feel more comfortable with a trusted blade in your hand. <<if $mobility >= 1>> Luckily, the last armament that you catch sight of is a ''sling'', with a handful of smooth stones scattered closeby. You've used a sling more times than you can count. Flinging stones and lumps of coal with your pals was one of your favorite adolescent pasttimes. <<else>> The only other armament you see within reach is a ''sling'', a handful of stones scattered nearby. You haven't really used one before, not a proper slingshot; you question whether you'd be able to effectively wield one as a weapon against this beast. <</if>> [[Take the billhook (polearm).|chp2_arena_polearm]] <<ci stat>> [[I trust the gladius (sword).|chp2_arena_sword]] <<ci stat>> [[Maybe a sling will work best (ranged).|chp2_arena_ranged]] <<ci stat>> <<set $chp2_polearm to false>> <<set $chp2_sword to false>> <<set $chp2_ranged to false>> \

<<if $might >= 2>> You take up the largest of the weapons, handling it with ease. Feeling the weight of the bill and bonehook at one end, you're confident that you made the right choice. You might be able to leverage your strength with this thing and do some real damage. <<else>> You take up the largest of the weapons in both hands; it's heavier than you expected and a bit unwieldly as more than a farm tool. But if you play your cards right, you might just be able to make this thing work in your advantage. It's not like you're fighting another man after all... you'll need the weight and length of a polearm to make a difference. <</if>> Many of your fellow slaves have caught on by now, scampering through the sands to take up their own arms. However, just as many have given up hope, fleeing to the far corners of the arena, or worse yet, standing struck by disbelief. Maybe for some, it's all one bad nightmare that they're hoping to wake up from. You hear a bellow from the farside of the arena, ''"MOVE!"'' That's when you see him, a scrawny and decrepit figure, stood unmoving before the lumbering approach of the ogre. There's no fight in him, you think. What a poor, wretched soul; he must have already accepted his fate. By not fighting, he has chosen to ''die''. [[ Poor bastard.|chp2_arena_cowboy]] <<ci cowboy>> [[ The most unglorious of deaths...|chp2_arena_bastard]] <<ci bastard>> [[ I need to help him!|chp2_arena_knight]] <<ci knight>> <<set $chp2_polearm to true>>

<<if $might >=1 || $mobility >= 1>>Now this, you can work with. The hilt fits nicely into the palm of your hand, and the weight of the blade's comforting. You cleave it through the air and then give a thrust, testing it, getting a feel for the weapon that will help determine whether you leave this arena alive, or remain beneath it in the catacombs, forever.<<else>>The gladius feels somewhat unfamiliar in your hands. Truthfully, you don't have much experience with a blade of this size and stature; you've only carried a dagger before for self-defense. However, it looked like the most viable weapon of the bunch and you don't exactly have time to regret your choice. Not yet.<</if>> Many of your fellow slaves have caught on by now, scampering through the sands to take up their own arms. However, just as many have given up hope, fleeing to the far corners of the arena, or worse yet, standing struck by disbelief. Maybe for some, it's all one bad nightmare that they're still hoping to wake up from. You hear a bellow from the farside of the arena, ''"MOVE!"'' That's when you see him, a scrawny and decrepit figure, stood unmoving before the lumbering approach of the ogre. There's no fight in him, you think. What a poor, wretched soul; he must have already accepted his fate. By not fighting, he has chosen to ''die''. [[ Poor bastard.|chp2_arena_cowboy]] <<ci cowboy>> [[ The most unglorious of deaths...|chp2_arena_bastard]] <<ci bastard>> [[ I need to help him!|chp2_arena_knight]] <<ci knight>> <<set $chp2_sword to true>>

<<if $mobility >= 1>> As soon as you saw it, you knew this sling was your only way out of this. You're still formulating a plan in your head about how exactly you're going to target the beast. Best to stay undetected, out of sight, and to carefully pick each shot. Don't you think? You deposit your ammunition deep into the recesses of your tunic for safekeeping. <<else>> The only thing going through your mind is survival. With a sling, at least you'll be able to justify keeping your distance from this beast. You have no clue whether you'll actually be effective with it. What's that one children's tale? Dayvid and the Goblin-King? Yeah, you're pretty sure that these things can... //kill people//. <</if>> Many of your fellow slaves have caught on by now, scampering through the sands to take up their own arms. However, just as many have given up hope, fleeing to the far corners of the arena, or worse yet, standing struck by disbelief. Maybe for some, it's all one bad nightmare that they're hoping to wake up from. You hear a bellow from the farside of the arena, ''"MOVE!"'' That's when you see him, a scrawny and decrepit figure, stood unmoving before the lumbering approach of the ogre. There's no fight in him, you think. What a poor, wretched soul; he must have already accepted his fate. By not fighting, he has chosen to ''die''. [[ Poor bastard.|chp2_arena_cowboy]] <<ci cowboy>> [[ The most unglorious of deaths...|chp2_arena_bastard]] <<ci bastard>> [[ I need to help him!|chp2_arena_knight]] <<ci knight>> <<set $chp2_ranged to true>>

Poor bastard. That's all you can think. There's too many lost souls in this world to help; tortured and tormented, they're all damned to a dark destiny of decadence and decay. When you're barely managing yourself, how could you possibly help others? They'll only drag you down to your own death and demise. There he stands, unmoving. You wonder whether he's even cognizant of what's happening around him. Of what exactly is about to befall him. If there's any glimmer of life within him, you're sure he has to be //afraid//. Sand gets shook and thrown up with each great stride as the ogre lumbers closer. You're captivated by the horrible sight. [[Grimly, you have no choice but to watch on.|chp2_arena_maneaten]] <<gainCowboy>>

The most unglorious of deaths. That's how an undignified man dies, not even putting up a fight. Some people never do. They're simply and unceremoniously born into a struggle that they never asked for and for which they never intended to compete. You? You've always had that inner fire; the instinctual urge to take this life for everything that you can. To squeeze it, strangle it, to make every day and ''everyone'' your bitch. Whether he was shat into the world that way, or whether the defeat was beat into him by each and every obstacle, that poor bastard was already dead. There he stands, unmoving, unwilling or unable to recognize the threat. You wonder whether he's even cognizant of what's happening around him. Of what exactly is about to befall him. If there's any glimmer of life within him, you're sure he has to be //afraid//. Sand gets shook and thrown up with each great stride as the ogre lumbers inevitably closer. [[Lips curling back in revulsion, you watch on.|chp2_arena_maneaten]] <<gainBastard>>

No one deserves such a fate. Not even those that have lost the light in their eyes or the hope in their souls. Your brain tells you that it can't be helped, but your heart pounds strongly within the depths of your chest. You feel drawn towards your fellow man, to protect those that are lesser, those that are unwilling or incapable of defending themselves from cruelty. ''"Move! Hey, get out of the way!"'' Against your better judgement, you start bellowing across the sands to that poor sap. You find your feet moving on their own as you quickly try to close the distance. You feel the eyes of the crowd and your fellow slaves upon you. Even Gant's panicked voice reaches your ears, ''"He's fucked! Stay back 'ere!"'' But in the end, perhaps the outcome couldn't have been changed. You can't save everyone. [[There's no way for you to reach him in time...|chp2_arena_maneaten]] <<gainKnight>>

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp1_colosseum_ogre1.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> The foul beast stoops low and plucks the man from the ground, the act accompanied by the defeaning roar of the crowd. The stands shake beneath the clamor of thousands, many of them crying, begging, pleading for ''blood''. And it's blood that they get. Broken bones crunch beneath the gnashing of teeth, torn flesh and crimson insides spilling from betwixt the ogre's slobbering maw. The crowd cries out, jubilant, joyful, jeering; some of the slaves amongst you begin to panic and suddenly, you feel the weight of the world upon your shoulders, a sickening surge of adrenaline dumping into your very body and triggering your fight-or-flight instinct like a lightning strike. The ogre's roar echoes out the colosseum and with a fleshy ''THUD'', you see the man's mauled head land in the sand not far from you, eyes gone, gouged out by gnarled, mashing teeth. The longer you stare at the disembodied head, the sooner you realize that the arena battlefield is littered by more bodies. The dead of previous bouts, some relatively fresh, others rotting for days now. Corpses and dismembered limbs surround you, a bloodied graveyard for losers beneath the etheral glow of a dark, violet sky. Before you can blink, you realize that the beast has finished his meal and has resumed it's rampage, plodding after those closest to him, and inevitably, towards you. This is where you fight. You ''must'' fight. Otherwise you're just another bloody fleshbag torn apart for sport and spectacle. [[Rally your fellow slaves.|chp2_arena_rally]] /* [[Stay back, flank the beast, and look for an opening.|chp2_arena_flank]] */

Your eyes dart over the sands, briskly surveying the situation. If you're going to win this fight, you'll need to collectively work together. And ''quick'', before your numbers start to dwindle and this ogre picks you off one-by-one. You'd say there's a dozen or so slaves in here with enough gusto to put up a decent fight. The rest will be useful distractions. You'll have to work with what you can get. Throwing a look over your shoulder and spotting your friend wide-eyed, still in disbelief, you call back to him, ''"Gant. Get everyone you can together and go to the left. I'll do the same to the right and try to stop this thing in it's tracks!"'' To his credit, your companion seems to quickly snap back to reality. He bobs a loose nod at your words and sweeps a wiry hand up through his bedraggled hair, seeming stressed but managing for the time being, trying to pull together: ''"Okay, got it. But what's the plan?"'' Gant hefts up the dingy bone club that he managed to procure from the sands, ''"I mean, how much damage y'even think we can do to this thing?"'' <<if $mind >= 1>> ''"I have a plan, you'll have to trust me. Keep your eyes and ears open as best you can; I'll signal to you. Anyone that has a weapon with weight or length to it, have them at the front of your group, and spread out. Have folks with ranged weapons in the back, focusing on the thing's head and neck."'' Gant delivers a terse nod and you give him a nod back, the exchange somewhat reassuring. He heaves a deep breath, ''"Let's do this. Good luck, m'friend. Either we win or we die, right?"'' You look back at him, feeling somewhat excited and /light/ despite the direness of your situation, ''"That's right."'' [[You part ways, both trying to gather the others behind you.|chp2_arena_rally1]] <<else>> You pause for a moment, trying to wrack your brain for a plan. But all you know in the moment is that surely you'll stand a better chance standing together, side-by-side. No man can take on this ogre alone. ''"This is the only chance we've got, Gant."'' You look him in the eyes, your own breath hot and shaky. ''"We move together, be quick and... figure something out as we go."'' Gant curses under his breath and peels a look away towards the lumbering beast who's preying on stragglers, the the slowest and closest slaves soon to be devoured. ''"You're right. We have to do something t'gether... Fuck it, les' do something."'' You give him a nod back, reassured that you won't have to act alone. ''"Come on, get everyone you can."'' ''"We're going to give these bastards a fight worth witnessing."'' [[You part ways, both trying to gather the others behind you.|chp2_arena_rally1]] <</if>>

It seems that at least a few of the other slaves noticed you and Gant conferring with one another. They might've had a similar idea; come together and put up a resistance. A handful of them, dirty and draped in assorted burlap-tunics and stained-rags, draw towards you with makeshift weapons in hands, intent oin survival. ''"Come on,"'' You urge, locking eyes with each of them, finding the half-orc with glossy flesh and dark eyes amongst them, ''"We're putting up a fight. Get everyone you can behind us and let's put this fuckin' ogre to rest."'' They all seem to be in agreeance and turn to shout, wave and draw the others in. The half-orc however lingers close, appraising you openly with amber eyes. She speaks a single word, simple and strong, ''"Khalika."'' You eye her, uncomprehending; perhaps the adrenaline is having an effect on your senses. ''"Hm?"'' ''"My name is Khalika,"'' She clarifies, murky lips twitching into the faintest of smiles with tusks protruding overtop, almost sardonic, ''"In case we die today, at least we will have exchanged names."'' You can't help but crack a smile, ''"Fair enough... I'm $name."'' ''"Well, $name,"'' She says, lips tilted in a smirk still despite the beast bellowing in the background and the screams of spectators high above, ''"I think we have some work to do."'' Unhesitating, you bound back into action, ''"You're right about that. Come on!"'' With the help of your compatriots, you've collected a dozen men behind you and across the sands, you see Gant trotting along with a band of weapon-toting slaves alongside him. More than half of the slaves in the arena have failed to answer your call, having found their own empty regions of the arena to hide and cower, or they're actively fleeing from the ogre. It isn't long now until the action spills over and battle ensues. <<if $mind >= 3>> [[Let's draw it in and lay a trap.|chp2_arena_rally1_trap]]<</if>> [[Poles in the front, slings in the back. Let's form up!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup]] /* [[Personally lead the advance.|chp2_arena_rally1_advance]] */

''"Poles to the front, slings in the rear. Let's form up! The only way we're taking this thing down is together!"'' There's confusion at first, your fellow slaves shuffling through the sands, exchanging weary glances and fearful looks off at the lumbering giant. But you direct them as best as you can, taking one's shoulder here, leading another into position beside them, or behind them, and so on. You've seen how Legionnaires form up. The way they march, the way they lock shields when quelling riots in the streets of Undertown. You're unsure that any of you gathered here today are trained soldiers, but you're certainly going to put up a nasty fight all the same. ''"Front line, spread out a bit. Keep your weapons pointed up and out. Right, just like that."'' You catch another look from her, Khalika, stalking the flank in perfect silence. She moves like a hunting cat, jagged bone dirks glinting in both hands. When your eyes meet, she dips her chin with what might be a wink. An acknowledgment. A promise. Your ragged company may be untrained, but they’re not alone. Not now. You square your shoulders and speak loud enough for all to hear. ''"Those in front with long weapons, listen up! You're our shield. Keep this thing at bay. Distracted, out of range - jab and retreat. Don't get greedy and don't let it close."'' You pivot, voice rising once more. ''"Swords, knives, anything shorter - you wait! Look for openings and punish this beast when it stumbles, turns, or overcommits. That's how we bleed it."'' Then, to the slingers behind you: ''"Ranged weapons - you already know the deal. Aim for the soft spots. Eyes, face, nose, the godsdamned mouth. Keep the pressure on and don't let up. We overwhelm it, fast and loud. Does everyone understand?"'' A beat of silence, then: ''"Let's do this!"'' ''"We're behind you!"'' ''"Les' give 'em hell!"'' ''"Dosmera watch over us!"'' Dozens of voices rise in ragged chorus. Not quite an army, but maybe something close. You draw in a breath, gathering your courage, and nod once, firm and final. [[Assess the arena.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1]]

You have a powerful mind, don't you? Here's a vision. This option will be available in a future version of Orphan. [[Your soul reignites.|credits]]

Gant's group is slightly smaller than yours, with less poles and more short-ranged weapons. You should keep his group mobile and on the flanks, while your group tries to corral the beast with a mixture of weapons and... well, running. A little game of catch the mouse; it's just that you and your compatriots happen to be the mice. But there's little time to strategize any longer. Sand gets thrown up with each heavy plod of the ogre's feet as they pick up speed, and all it takes is a simple mistake for their prey to end up as a small snack. You hear the crack of bone and a choked scream as yet another decrepit soul ends up dead. Suddenly the determination of your band has taken a grim turn; yet the arena roars, soaking in the life-or-death spectacle. ''"Let's move in. Ranged weapons, wait for my signal."'' From a fair distance away, you see Gant waiting and watching. Purposefully, you gesture to yourself and then the ogre. ''"We'll distract it."'' Then you point at his group and slowly spread your two forefingers out in opposite directions. ''"You split up... flank it."'' He seems to understand well enough, because soon his band is broken into two even smaller groups and they start to cautiously close in on the beast from the sides. [[Order your group to stay tight and guarded.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded]] <<ci stat>> [[Order your group to stay loose and ready to run.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose]] <<ci stat>>

''"Stick together!"'' You call out to your makeshift unit as you begin to close in. And sure enough, the ogre's slobbering maw swivels your way, their beady eyes sitting vacant, unintelligible, filled only with a feral rage. Soon, it's plodding over with long, lumbering steps that shake the sands below. ''"Poles, up! Stay tight, keep this beast back. Don't break!"'' <<if ($chp2_polearm) && ($might >= 1)>> Adrenaline pumping, you adjust your grip on the billhook and join your motley band in the front line, taking up position. Your eyes lock onto the ogre as it closes in, blood and spittle flying from it's stretched, wide, gnashing mouth. ''"Brace! Stand with me!"'' An assortment of weapons pierce the air alongside your billhook, ranging from splintered spears to crooked, bent-edged halberds, all angled up at the ogre's approach. Sand showers you as it clambers close, almost within reach, your weapons wavering. ''"Forward, thrust!"'' Together, you and your men clamber closer atop the sands and drive your tips forward. The beast bludgeons your line with a massive arm, shattering half of your pole bearers, sending them flying or knocked cold. The arena roars, filling your ears; yet all you can hear is your heart in your chest, thumping, as your billhook finds purchase in their abdomen. The weapon almost seems stuck at first, embedded deeply within the beast's hide, but soon you pull, yank and tear a gaping gash into the ogre's stomach. A few others found their mark, poking holes in it's exterior; minor wounds, but enough for it's attack to stall. You stagger back, billhook stained with the beast's blood, whilst it swipes and stomps at the polearms still angled up and prodding at it. [[Hold! The rest of you, flank it!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_poleflank]] <<ci stat lethal>> [[Withdraw! Poles, fall back!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_polewithdraw]] <<ci stat lethal>> <<elseif ($chp2_sword) && ($mobility >= 1)>> Adrenaline pumping, you adjust your grip on the gladius and silently slip through your motley band, staying behind the front line and taking up position along the flank. Your eyes lock onto the ogre as it closes in, blood and spittle flying from it's wide, stretched, gnashing mouth. ''"Brace! Hold strong!"'' An assortment of weapons pierce the air, ranging from splintered spears to crooked, bent-edged halberds, all angled up at the ogre's approach. Sand showers you as it clambers close, almost within reach, your frontline's weapons wavering. ''"Forward, thrust!"'' Your men clamber closer atop the sands and drive their tips forward. Yet, the beast barrels forward, bludgeoning your front line with a massive arm and shattering more than half of your pole bearers, sending them flying or knocked cold. The arena roars, filling your ears; yet all you can hear is your heart in your chest, thumping, as you surge forward and duck beneath the beast's impressive weight. Your blade finds purchase beneath the ogre's knees, hacking sideways to spill blood, then slashing again to draw another thin cut through the monster's hide. It roars, kicks, stomping down at you; narrowly avoiding the beast's rage, you dive through the sand and manage, somehow, to survive. [[Keep holding! The rest of you, flank it!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_swordflank]] <<ci stat lethal>> [[Withdraw! Poles, fall back!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_swordwithdraw]] <<ci stat lethal>> <<elseif ($chp2_sword)>> Adrenaline pumping, you adjust your grip on the gladius and carefully trudge through your motley band, staying behind the front line and taking up position along the flank. Your eyes lock onto the ogre as it closes in, blood and spittle flying from it's stretched maw. ''"Brace! Hold strong!"'' An assortment of weapons pierce the air, ranging from splintered spears to crooked, bent-edged halberds, all angled up at the ogre's approach. Sand showers you as it clambers close, almost within reach, your frontline's weapons wavering. ''"Forward, thrust!"'' Your men clamber closer atop the sands and drive their tips forward. Yet, the beast barrels forward, bludgeoning your front line with a massive arm and shattering more than half of your pole bearers, sending them flying or knocked cold. The arena roars, filling your ears; yet all you can hear is your heart in your chest, thumping, as you try to slip forward, intending to slash at the beast's soft underbelly. You aren't nearly quick enough, sand kicked up in your face amidst the chaos and before you know it, the world is a blur, vision dark and spinning. One of the beast's limbs must have clipped the side of your head; the wound throbs and there's a searing pain along and above your right ear. Around you, shouts and screams are drowned out by the ogre's bellows. You already see a couple bodies splayed out in the sand beside you, battered and broken, blood still wet and bright, glistening atop their stained flesh. Only a strong hand at your shoulder breaks you from your daze. Khalika kneels beside you and gives you a shout, her eyes emblazoned, ''"Get up. You're not dead yet."'' [[Call for the flank! Gant's group can save this.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_brokenswordflank]] <<ci stat lethal>> [[Withdraw! Fall back and regroup!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_brokenswordwithdraw]] <<ci stat lethal>> <<elseif ($chp2_ranged) && ($mobility >= 1)>> Adrenaline pumping, you take your sling hand and carefully filter through the projectiles that you've gathered, mostly bits of marbled rock and stone. You take a position in the rear of your motley band, staying well behind the frontline for a better view. Your eyes lock onto the ogre as it closes in, blood and spittle flying from it's stretched maw. Loading your first round in the sling and slowly lifting it beside you, starting to build up momentum with a swing, getting the hang for it; you call forward to the frontline, ''"Brace! Hold strong!"'' An assortment of weapons pierce the air, ranging from splintered spears to crooked, bent-edged halberds, all angled up at the ogre's approach. ''"Backline, fire! Poles - forward, thrust!"'' You let your sling's round fly with a ''snap'', a rather skillful shot, the stone smashing into the beast's thick skull. Several other rounds fly, pelting the ogre as your frontline drives forward atop the sands. Despite being overwhelmed, the beast barrels forward, bludgeoning your frontline with a massive arm, shattering some of them, sent flying off or knocked cold. The arena roars, filling your ears; yet all you can hear is your heart in your chest, thumping, as you quickly load another round in your sling and build up momentum, swinging it across your body in a tight figure-8 motion before swaying forward with your weight, sending another chunk of rock once more at the monster's maw. Around you, shouts and screams are drowned out by the ogre's bellows. The combination of polearms in the front and well-aimed ranged shots from the back seems to be quite effective, stopping the ogre's advance for the time being, but you might not have long. [[Flank it! Gant, attack!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_rangedflank]] <<ci stat lethal>> [[Withdraw! Fall back and regroup!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_rangedwithdraw]] <<ci stat lethal>> <<elseif $chp2_ranged>> Adrenaline pumping, you take your sling hand and carefully filter through the projectiles that you've gathered, mostly bits of marbled rock and stone. You take a position in the rear of your motley band, staying well behind the frontline for a better view. Your eyes lock onto the ogre as it closes in, blood and spittle flying from it's stretched maw. Loading your first round in the sling and slowly lifting it beside you, starting to build up momentum with a swing, getting the hang for it; you call forward to the frontline, ''"Brace! Hold strong!"'' An assortment of weapons pierce the air, ranging from splintered spears to crooked, bent-edged halberds, all angled up at the ogre's approach. ''"Backline, fire! Poles - forward, thrust!"'' You let your sling's round fly with a ''snap'', nailing the beast's shoulder though it appears rather ineffectual. Several other rounds fly, pelting the ogre as your frontline drives forward atop the sands. Despite being overwhelmed, the beast barrels forward, bludgeoning your frontline with a massive arm, shattering some of them, sent flying off or knocked cold. The arena roars, filling your ears; yet all you can hear is your heart in your chest, thumping, as you quickly load another round and send it sailing once more at the monster's maw. Around you, shouts and screams are drowned out by the ogre's bellows. The combination of polearms in the front and a barrage of ranged shots from the back seems to be working, but not for long. It's not nearly as effective as you'd like. [[Flank it! Gant, attack!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_brokenrangedflank]] <<ci stat lethal>> [[Withdraw! Fall back and regroup!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_brokenrangedwithdraw]] <<ci stat lethal>> <<else>> Adrenaline pumping, you adjust your grip on the billhook and join your motley band in the front line, taking up position. Your eyes lock onto the ogre as it closes in, blood and spittle flying from it's stretched maw. ''"Brace! Stand with me!"'' An assortment of weapons pierce the air alongside your billhook, ranging from splintered spears to crooked, bent-edged halberds, all angled up at the ogre's approach. Sand showers you as it clambers close, almost within reach, your weapons wavering. ''"Forward, thrust!"'' Together, you and your men clamber closer atop the sands and drive your tips forward. The beast bludgeons your line with a massive arm, shattering half of your pole bearers, sending them flying or knocked cold. The arena roars, filling your ears; yet all you can hear is your heart in your chest, thumping, as your billhook finds purchase in their abdomen. Yet, the beast possesses such an immense amount of power. Your weapon almost seems stuck at first, like it's about to be yanked right out of your hands. You stagger back, managing to take your billhook with you, whilst the beast swipes and stomps at the polearms still angled up and prodding at it. A few others found their mark, poking holes in it's exterior; minor wounds, not much to speak of. [[Hold! The rest of you, flank it!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_brokenpoleflank]] <<ci stat lethal>> [[Withdraw! Poles, fall back!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_brokenpolewithdraw]] <<ci stat lethal>> <</if>>

''"Spread out!"'' You call out to your makeshift unit as you begin to close in. And sure enough, the ogre's slobbering maw swivels your way, their beady eyes sat vacant, unintelligble, filled only with feral rage. Soon, it's plodding your way. ''"Poles, up! Stay loose, mobile, an' keep out of the beasts away! Distract it and stay alive! Wait until you see a good opening!"'' <<if $chp2_polearm>> Adrenaline pumping, you adjust your grip on the billhook and join your motley band in the front line, taking up position and making sure that there's several feet between each of you. Eyes locking onto the ogre as it closes in, you see every drop of blood and speck of spittle as it flies from the creature's wide-stretched maw. ''"Get ready to move! Poles high!"'' An assortment of weapons pierce the air alongside your billhook, ranging from splintered spears to crooked, bent-edged halberds, all angled up at the ogre's approach. Sand showers you as it clambers close, almost within reach, your weapons wavering. ''"Move! Move and thrust!"'' Before the beast can smash your position, your line parts down the middle and splays out to either side, trying to corral the creature. When it turns one way, your spears drive in from the other side, poking and prodding. The arena roars at the display, filling your ears; yet all you can hear is your heart in your chest, thumping, as your billhook finds purchase. <<if $might >= 1>> The weapon almost seems stuck at first, embedded deeply within the beast's hide, but soon you pull, yank and tear a gaping gash into the ogre's stomach. A few others found their mark, poking holes in it's exterior; minor wounds, but enough for it's attack to stall. You stagger back, billhook stained with the beast's blood, whilst it swipes and stomps at the polearms still angled up and prodding at it. <<else>>Yet, the beast possesses such an immense amount of power. Your weapon almost seems stuck at first, like it's about to be yanked right out of your hands. You stagger back, managing to take your billhook with you, whilst the beast swipes and stomps at the polearms still angled up and prodding at it. A few others found their mark, poking holes in it's exterior and spilling blood down the beast's blasted hide.<</if>> <<if $mind >= 2>> It seems clear to you now. The ogre is wounded. You can sense it, see it even, your sight keen and clear. Where another may hesitate and question the vulnerability of this beast, you know that it's made of flesh, blood, and that you've already hurt it. It's time to double down.<</if>> [[Flank it! Gant, attack!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_poleflank]] <<ci stat lethal>> [[Withdraw! Fall back and regroup!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_poleregroup]] <<ci stat lethal>> <<elseif $chp2_sword>> Adrenaline pumping, you adjust your grip on the gladius and silently slip through your motley band, staying behind the front line and taking up position along the flank of your loose, rather mobile formation. Your eyes lock onto the ogre as it closes in, blood and spittle flying from it's stretched maw. ''"Get ready to move! Poles high!"'' An assortment of weapons pierce the air, ranging from splintered spears to crooked, bent-edged halberds, all angled up at the ogre's approach. Sand showers you as it clambers close, almost within reach, your compatriot's weapons wavering. ''"Move! Move and thrust!"'' Your men drive forward atop the sands, spread out, thrusting their polearms forward. Yet, the beast barrels forward, bludgeoning a man or two with a massive arm, likely shattering bones or breaking skulls based on the sheer size and force of the impact. The arena roars, filling your ears; yet all you can hear is your heart in your chest, thumping, as you surge forward alongside a few others from the flank, trying to duck beneath or alongside the beast's impressive weight, intent on doing damage. <<if $mobility >= 1>> Your blade finds purchase beneath the ogre's knees, hacking sideways to spill blood, then slashing again to draw another thin cut through the monster's hide. It roars, kicks, stomping down at you. Narrowly avoiding every exaggerated response from the fierce, feral beast, you dive back through the sand and put some distance between yourself and it's swings, managing somehow to survive your foray. <<else>> If only you could get at his soft underbelly, you might be able to change the course of this fight. But it seems that you aren't nearly quick enough, nor reckless enough to take the dive. Sand gets kicked up in your face admist the chaos and before you know it, the world is a blur, vision dark and spinning. One of the beast's limbs must have clipped the side of your head. The wound throbs, a searing pain making itself known above your right ear. Around you, shouts and screams are drowned out by the ogre's bellows. You already see a body or two splayed out in the sand beside you, battered and broken, blood still wet and bright, glistening atop their stained flesh. Only a strong hand at your shoulder breaks you from your daze. Khalika kneels beside you and gives a shout, her eyes emblazoned with a certain fire, ''"Get up! You're not dead yet. The beast is wounded!"''<</if>> <<if $mind >= 2>> It seems clear to you now. The ogre is wounded. You can sense it, see it even, your sight keen and clear. Where another may hesitate and question the vulnerability of this beast, you know that it's made of flesh, blood, and that you've already hurt it. It's time to double down.<</if>> [[Flank it! Gant, attack!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_swordflank]] <<ci stat lethal>> [[Withdraw! Fall back and regroup!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_swordregroup]] <<ci stat lethal>> <<else>> Adrenaline pumping, you take your sling hand and carefully filter through the projectiles that you've gathered, mostly bits of marbled rock and stone. You take a position in the rear of your motley band, staying well behind the frontline for a better view. Your eyes lock onto the ogre as it closes in, blood and spittle flying from it's stretched maw. Loading your first round in the sling and slowly lifting it beside you, starting to build up momentum with a swing, getting the hang for it; you call forward to the frontline, ''"Get ready to move! Poles high!"'' An assortment of weapons pierce the air, ranging from splintered spears to crooked, bent-edged halberds, all angled up at the ogre's approach. ''"Backline, fire! Poles - forward, thrust!"'' <<if $mobility >= 1>> You let your sling's round fly with a ''snap'', a rather skillful shot, the stone smashing into the beast's thick skull. Several other rounds fly, pelting the ogre as your frontline drives forward atop the sands. Yet, the beast barrels closer, bludgeoning a man or two with a massive arm, likely shattering bones or breaking skulls based on the sheer size and force of the impact. The arena roars, filling your ears; yet all you can hear is your heart in your chest, thumping, as you quickly load another round in your sling and build up momentum, swinging it across your body in a tight figure-8 motion before swaying forward with your weight, sending another chunk of rock once more at the monster's maw. Around you, shouts and screams are drowned out by the ogre's bellows. The combination of polearms in the front and well-aimed ranged shots from the back seems to be quite effective, stopping the ogre's advance for the time being. You have to make a decision. <<else>> You let your sling's round fly with a ''snap'', nailing the beast's shoulder though it appears rather ineffectual. Several other rounds fly, pelting the ogre as your frontline drives forward atop the sands. Despite being overwhelmed, the beast barrels forward, bludgeoning your frontline with a massive arm, shattering some of them, sent flying off or knocked cold. The arena roars, filling your ears; yet all you can hear is your heart in your chest, thumping, as you quickly load another round and send it sailing the best you can at the monster's maw. Around you, shouts and screams are drowned out by the ogre's bellows. The combination of polearms in the front and a barrage of ranged shots from the back seems to be working, stopping the ogre's advance for the time being. You have to make a decision.<</if>> <<if $mind >= 2>> It seems clear to you now. ''The ogre is wounded.'' You can sense it, see it even, your sight keen and clear. Where another may hesitate and question the vulnerability of this beast, you know that it's made of flesh, blood, and that you've already hurt it. It's time to double down.<</if>> [[Flank it! Gant, attack!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_slingflank]] <<ci stat lethal>> [[Withdraw! Fall back and regroup!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_slingregroup]] <<ci stat lethal>> <</if>>

''"HOLD!"'' You command, spit flying, and sweat spilling down your forehead as you eye the wounded beast from beyond the length of your blood-stained billhook. Outside the thrashing of sand, thud of flesh and glistening points of polearms, you see Gant and his group on the other side of the beast. They've moved in and with a short signal, they'll be within striking distance. You won't get a better opportunity than this. Your tight formation had the grit and determination to stop the beast in it's tracks. The ogre is wounded, dripping blood, it's hide torn and tattered from a dozen or so deep wounds. If you apply more force effectively, there's the possibility, however slim, that you can overwhelm it and bring this dark display to a close before anymore of you have to die. ''"Gant!"'' With both hands grasped tightly, covered in grit and stained by blood, you use your billhook to wave back and forth as you signal to your companion. You can only hope that he understands your message beneath the mind-numbing noise of the arena, ''"Flank! ATTACK!"'' Beneath that mane of shaggy-brown hair, you catch the gleam of his dark green eyes. There's excitement in his look, fear too, a tumultuous tumbling of raw emotion that teeters a moment on the precipice of his lean visage. He bites it back, swallows any doubt, and gives you a tight-lipped grin. Fine, he seems to say, let's fucking do this. ''"Stay tight, strong! Poles up!"'' You shout over the scream of thousands of spectators, trying to keep what remains of your compatriots tight, close and compact. You press forward gradually, breath tight with anticipation as you follow the beast's movements. It takes two lumbering steps and much like you instruct, ''"Thrust!"'' your line of spear-toting slaves, //including you//, drive forward once more to halt it's advance. Poking, prodding, stalling any forward momentum, you even take the opportunity to heave a deep breath and plunge your billhook against the side of an exposed knee. With a sharp pull and a //strained// yank, you tear more rotten hide from the beast's pale, wormy body, spilling it's blood. Suddenly it's beady eyes swivel, glassy and ''enraged'', directed entirely unto you, where you stand amongst the thick of your formation. With an ear-shattering bellow, spit and saliva coating you from the force, the ogre leaps, stooping low to try and snatch you up from the sands. You stumble, swaying on your feet, but your men stand alongside you and stab at the creature's big, outstretched paw, shattering and lopping off fat, clawed fingers. [[The beast groans, and you chop downward with your billhook.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanking]]

Your plan has gone well despite the ogre's ferocity. Through sheer grit, determination and your unwavering leadership thus far, the frontline has held. However, the last thing that you want to do is overextend and overcommit. You only get one shot at winning this battle and getting out of this damed arena alive. Turning a look over your guarded formation, you quickly survey your compatriots before making the call, ''"FALL BACK! Withdraw and regroup, come on! Stay together!"'' But the beast has other plans, rattling the earth and showering your tight formation with sand as it advances heavily atop long, lumbering steps. You stand firm, shoulder-to-shoulder with your fellow polebearers, jabbing your billhook up at the approaching abomination. A quick, forward plunge of the curved head catches the creature's fat, wormy hide, tearing a strip of flesh free and spilling more blood over the stained sands. ''"Now, fall back!"'' You harken to the slaves by your side, retreating with them, avoiding the beast's wrath. Crashing through the sands and towards the rest of your unit, you come across a young, able-bodied slinger who stayed to cover the retreat. ''"You,"'' You intone loudly, trying to speak above the defeaning pitch of the arena's spectators, ''"Run over to the other group. Tell them to keep some distance and harry the ogre with sticks and stones. We'll regroup and resume the attack with a better plan. Hurry, GO."'' The young lad drops a firm nod of assent and quickly races off to carry your orders to Gant's formation, leaving you to continue the retreat. Most of your companions have already put a fair amount of distance between themselves and the ogre, while a few linger back, effectively engaging in a running skirmish; most of them slingers or the odd spearman. Upon reaching the bulk of your group, Khalika steps forward to meet you, her dark, glossy flesh slick with sweat and those amber orbs keen on your visage, assessing you. ''"You've done well, $name."' ''"I'm doing my best. But we need a plan to bring this to an end, without throwing away our lives. Ideally something that we can coordinate with the other group."'' Lifting your gaze, it seems that your message made it across, as most of Gant's group continues to linger at a safe distance, while some of his slingers and spearmen mimic your own formation's contribution, harrying the ogre and buying you more time to confer. ''"So. Any ideas?"'' <<if $mind >= 1>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. Thankfully, a touch of divine inspiration surfaces within your mind. ''"We surround it,"'' You murmur, ''"From both sides."'' You raise your gaze once more, looking over your compatriots, ``"The Legion has a name for it... A pincer attack, I think. A group approaches from either flank, hits it hard, and envelops it completely."`` <<else>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. But your mind is blank, still overwhelmed by the adrenaline of battle and the cries of the crowd. Thankfully, Khalika speaks up, ''"A pincer attack."'' You look at her, head canting aside, ''"Our two groups attack from opposite sides and surround it."'' ''"I like it,"'' You breathe out, ensured by the development, ''"Simple but effective."''<</if>> ''"I think it's important that we stay mobile, no matter what, until we commit to a final push. We're smarter, faster and more numerous than this ogre, and that's how we'll win. Does everyone understand?"'' You're met by nods, hard gazes and voiced approval, "Then let's slay an ogre."'' [[You send the same messenger back to Gant's group to convey your strategy.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_pincer]]

Your plan has gone well despite the ogre's ferocity. Through sheer grit, determination and your unwavering leadership thus far, the frontline has held and you've managed to do some damage. However, the last thing that you want to do is overextend and overcommit. You only get one shot at winning this battle and getting out of this damed arena alive. Turning a look over your guarded formation, you quickly survey your compatriots before making the call, ''"FALL BACK! Withdraw and regroup, come on! Stay together!"'' But the beast has other plans, rattling the earth and showering your tight formation with sand as it advances heavily atop long, lumbering steps. Most of the polebearers stand firm, shoulder-to-shoulder, jabbing up at the approaching abomination. You sally forth to join them, approaching at an angle. It doesn't seem to notice you as of yet, distracted by the glistening spearheads near it's face and the occassional thud of a stone against it's fat, wormy hide. You take the opportunity to close in, diving forward with a firm, forward plunge of your gladius that tears a thin, yet bloody slash into the flank of a leg. These wounds have to count for something, you think, however small but numerous. You don't linger to face it's wrath, turning on heel and crashing through the sands with the rest of your men, earning yourself some distance and soon coming across an able-bodied slinger who has yet to retreat. ''"You,"'' You intone loudly, trying to speak above the defeaning pitch of the arena's spectators, ''"Run over to the other group. Tell them to keep some distance and harry the ogre with sticks and stones. We'll regroup and resume the attack with a better plan. Hurry, GO."'' The young lad drops a firm nod of assent and quickly races off to carry your orders to Gant's formation, leaving you to continue the retreat. Most of your companions have already put a fair amount of distance between themselves and the ogre, while a few linger back, effectively engaging in a running skirmish; most of them slingers or the odd spearman. Upon reaching the bulk of your group, Khalika steps forward to meet you, her dark, glossy flesh slick with sweat and those amber orbs keen on your visage, assessing you. ''"You've done well, $name."'' ''"I'm doing my best. But we need a plan to bring this to an end, without throwing away our lives. Ideally something that we can coordinate with the other group."'' Lifting your gaze, it seems that your message made it across, as most of Gant's group continues to linger at a safe distance, while some of his slingers and spearmen mimic your own formation's contribution, harrying the ogre and buying you more time to confer. ''"So. Any ideas?"'' <<if $mind gte 1>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. Thankfully, a touch of divine inspiration surfaces within your mind. ''"We surround it,"'' You murmur, ''"From both sides."'' You raise your gaze once more, looking over your compatriots, ``"The Legion has a name for it... A pincer attack, I think. A group approaches from either flank, hits it hard, and envelops it completely."`` <<else>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. But your mind is blank, still overwhelmed by the adrenaline of battle and the cries of the crowd. Thankfully, Khalika speaks up, ''"A pincer attack."'' You look at her, head canting aside, ''"Our two groups attack from opposite sides and surround it."'' ''"I like it,"'' You breathe out, ensured by the development, ''"Simple but effective."''<</if>> ''"I think it's important that we stay mobile, no matter what, until we commit to a final push. We're smarter, faster and more numerous than this ogre, and that's how we'll win. Does everyone understand?"'' You're met by nods, hard gazes and voiced approval, "Then let's slay an ogre."'' [[You send the same messenger back to Gant's group to convey your strategy.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_pincer]]

''"HOLD!"'' You cry, spit flying, and sweat spilling down your forehead and blood trickling past from your fresh wound as Khalika helps you to your feet. Outside the thrashing of sand, thud of flesh and glistening points of polearms, you see Gant and his group on the other side of the beast. They've moved in and with a short signal, they'll be within striking distance. You won't get a better opportunity than this. Your tight formation is barely managing to fend off the beast, but if you apply more force effectively, there's the possibility, however slim, that you can overwhelm it and bring this dark display to a close before anymore of you have to die. ''"Gant!"'' Grasping your gladius tightly in a blood-stained hand, you lift your arm up high and cut through the air, waving back and forth as you signal to your companion. You can only hope that he understands your message beneath the mind-numbing noise of the arena, ''"Flank! ATTACK!"'' But the beast has other plans, rattling the earth and showering your formation with sand as it takes long, lumbering steps forward. You're helpless as your frontline is ravaged, a sweep of gigantic limbs splintering upraised spears and clobbering skulls, effectively breaking what remains of your formation. You thought that together, you may've had a chance. Maybe you still do... Gant should be moving in. You step into action and shoot a desperate look aside at Khalika, ''"We have to fuckin' try."'' She inclines a firm nod, silent, plush lips pursed in determination. What other choice is there? Breaking into a sprint, you crash through the sand and closer to the beast, right in the distracted peripherary of it's vision. The smell is overwhelming; piss, bile and the rot of ruined flesh, blood streaming from various holes in the creature's wormy hide. But you don't have time to enjoy the atmosphere, strafing sideways and nearly stumbling as it takes another lumber step and nearly crushes you. Here goes nothing. You hack at the back of it's knee, trying to twist your high strike ''hard'' at just the right angle to target it's soft, rarely exposed flesh. The reaction is immediate and before you can retreat, you catch the glassy gleam of beady eyes, enraged, directed entirely unto you. With an ear-shattering bellow, spit and saliva coating you from the force, the ogre kicks and stomps, rattling the earth around you, nearly obscuring your vision with a shower of sand. Leaping forward, you tumble through the debris of the arena as you try to create distance, landing amongst the bodies of men who followed your lead and died because of it. You can feel the heat of the ogre's breath on your back. You toss, scrambling forward, but suddenly you feel an immense pressure. The ogre's foot plummets downward and crushes your legs, shattering bones and flattening out flesh. You struggle to breath, the impact slowly separating your soul from your body. Blood and spittle coats your lips as you lay amongst your dead companions, dying. Luckily for you, the next stomp encompasses what remains of your body, leaving what remains of your earthly self a mangled mess. [[Maybe the next life will be kinder.|chp2_deathscreen]]

''"HOLD!"'' You command, spit flying, and sweat spilling down your forehead as you use your position at the back of the formation to survey the field of battle. Outside the thrashing of sand, thud of flesh and glistening points of polearms, you see Gant and his group on the other side of the beast. They've moved in and with a short signal, they'll be within striking distance. You won't get a better opportunity than this. Your tight formation had the grit and determination to stop the beast in it's tracks. The ogre is wounded, dripping blood, it's hide torn and tattered from a dozen or so deep wounds. If you apply more force effectively, there's the possibility, however slim, that you can overwhelm it and bring this dark display to a close before anymore of you have to die. ''"Gant!"'' Holding your sling loosely in a blood-stained hand, you lift your arms high up into air, waving back and forth as you try to signal to your companion. You can only hope that he understands your message beneath the mind-numbing noise of the arena, ''"Flank! ATTACK!"'' Beneath that mane of shaggy-brown hair, you catch the gleam of his dark green eyes. There's excitement in his look, fear too, a tumultuous tumbling of raw emotion that teeters a moment on the precipice of his lean visage. He bites it back, swallows any doubt, and gives you a tight-lipped grin. Fine, he seems to say, let's fucking do this. ''"Stay tight, strong! Poles up!"'' You shout over the defeaning scream of thousands of spectators, trying to keep what remains of your compatriots tight, close and compact. Your breath tight with anticipation, you load another stone into your sling and start to build up mometum with your swing. Following the beast's movements with your gaze, it takes two lumbering steps and much like you instructed, ''"Thrust!"'' your line of spear-toting slaves drives forward once more to halt it's advance. The perfect opportunity for an aimed shot. You focus as much as you can as the transfer of energy throughout your form, trying to work smooth precision into your swing as you shift forward and with a snap, release the shot. Sure enough, the round smacks into the ogre's throat with an audible fleshy thud. You wish the result was more satisfying, but every wound only seems to send the beast into a deeper rage. With an ear-shattering bellow, spit and saliva coating those nearby, the beast voices it's displeasure. Suddenly it's beady eyes swivel, glassy and ''enraged'', directed entirely unto you. It leaps forward, rattling the earth and showered the area with sand as it takes long, lumbering steps. Alas, your men shift forward, standing together, stabbing at the creature's big, outsretched paw, shattering and lopping off a few fat, clawed fingers. [[The battle is swinging in your favor.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanking]]

Your plan has gone well despite the ogre's ferocity. Through sheer grit, determination and your unwavering leadership thus far, the frontline has held and you've managed to do some damage. However, the last thing that you want to do is overextend and overcommit. You only get one shot at winning this battle and getting out of this damed arena alive. Turning a look over your guarded formation, you quickly survey your compatriots before making the call, ''"FALL BACK! Withdraw and regroup, come on! Stay together!"'' But the beast has other plans, rattling the earth and showering your tight formation with sand as it advances heavily atop long, lumbering steps. Most of the polebearers stand firm, shoulder-to-shoulder, jabbing up at the approaching abomination. You decide to help cover the retreat, sallying forth and loading your sling with another stone as you pick your shot. It doesn't have to be terribly accurate, just effective enough to harass it, distract it, so that your companions can get away. Your next shot thuds into it's clavicle, nice and solid, but another shot follows more impressive, knocking solidly into the creature's thick, jutted chin. You notice the culprit, an able-bodied slinger not far from you who lingered to cover the retreat as well. ''"Nice shot!"'' You intone loudly, trying to speak above the defeaning pitch of the arena's spectators. He's a young lad, teeth crooked, dingy hair chopped into the style of a rattail, but he's clearly capable for the task you have in mind. ''"Run over to the other group. Tell them to keep some distance and harry the ogre with sticks and stones. We'll regroup and resume the attack with a better plan. Hurry, GO."'' The young lad drops a firm nod of assent and quickly races off to carry your orders to Gant's formation, leaving you to continue the retreat. Most of your companions have already put a fair amount of distance between themselves and the ogre, while a few linger back, effectively engaging in a running skirmish; most of them slingers or the odd spearman. Upon reaching the bulk of your group, Khalika steps forward to meet you, her dark, glossy flesh slick with sweat and those amber orbs keen on your visage, assessing you. ''"You've done well, $name."'' ''"I'm doing my best. But we need a plan to bring this to an end, without throwing away our lives. Ideally something that we can coordinate with the other group."'' Lifting your gaze, it seems that your message made it across, as most of Gant's group continues to linger at a safe distance, while some of his slingers and spearmen mimic your own formation's contribution, harrying the ogre and buying you more time to confer. ''"So. Any ideas?"'' <<if $mind >= 1>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. Thankfully, a touch of divine inspiration surfaces within your mind. ''"We surround it,"'' You murmur, ''"From both sides."'' You raise your gaze once more, looking over your compatriots, ``"The Legion has a name for it... A pincer attack, I think. A group approaches from either flank, hits it hard, and envelops it completely."`` <<else>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. But your mind is blank, still overwhelmed by the adrenaline of battle and the cries of the crowd. Thankfully, Khalika speaks up, ''"A pincer attack."'' You look at her, head canting aside, ''"Our two groups attack from opposite sides and surround it."'' ''"I like it,"'' You breathe out, ensured by the development, ''"Simple but effective."''<</if>> ''"I think it's important that we stay mobile, no matter what, until we commit to a final push. We're smarter, faster and more numerous than this ogre, and that's how we'll win. Does everyone understand?"'' You're met by nods, hard gazes and voiced approval, "Then let's slay an ogre."'' [[You send the same messenger back to Gant's group to convey your strategy.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_pincer]]

''"HOLD!"'' You command, spit flying, and sweat spilling down your forehead as you use your position at the back of the formation to survey the field of battle. Outside the thrashing of sand, thud of flesh and glistening points of polearms, you see Gant and his group on the other side of the beast. They've moved in and with a short signal, they'll be within striking distance. You won't get a better opportunity than this. Your tight formation is barely managing to fend off the beast, but if you apply more force effectively, there's the possibility, however slim, that you can overwhelm it and bring this dark display to a close before anymore of you have to die. ''"Gant!"'' Holding your sling loosely in a blood-stained hand, you lift your arms high up into air, waving back and forth as you try to signal to your companion. You can only hope that he understands your message beneath the mind-numbing noise of the arena, ''"Flank! ATTACK!"'' But the beast has other plans. Rattling the earth and showering your formation with sand and debris, it draws closer with each long, lumbering step forward. You're helpless as your frontline is ravaged, a sweep of gigantic arms splintering upraised spears and clobbering skulls, loose teeth and limbs sailing past your own head. Your unit is broken, a few forsaken souls fleeing past you, away from the advancing ogre, while other brave stragglers try to fend it off still. You thought that together, you may've had a chance. Maybe you still do... Gant should be moving in. You step forward, preparing for an aimed shot. Focusing as much as you can on the transfer of energy throughout your form, you shift forward and release a snap shot, knocking a round into the ogre's throat with an audible fleshy thud as it focuses on mutilating some of your downed companions. You wish the result was more satisfying, but it only seems to send the beast into a deeper rage. With an ear-shattering bellow, the beast voices it's displeasure. And now there's no formation separating you. It thuds your way and you turn to scramble, crashing through the sands, only to stumble on the blood-stained corpse of one of your former compatriots. It's the messenger from earlier, his mouth strewn agape, neck bent at an awkward angle. He was either thrown or caught a projectile with his head, and now, a vast shadow looming over you, you realize that this is to be your resting place. You think back to Fredrick, the few friends and humble home that you leave behind. You even think of the brave souls that fought alongside you, valiantly, as the ogre's foot plummets downward towards you. The impact separates your soul from your body, shattering bones and flattening out flesh until all that remains of your earthly self is a mangled mess. [[Maybe the next life will be kinder.|chp2_deathscreen]]

Your heart pounds deeply within your chest as you suffer the realization that your plan is not working. The frontline is faltering. You and your companions are untrained, under-equipped, expected to hold off an ogre's advance with bent spears and dented polearms. The last thing you want to do is overcommit and lose your entire force. You only get one shot at winning this battle and getting out of this damned arena alive. Turning a look over what remains of your formation, another sweep of the beast's limbs tossing a couple of your men into the air, you make the call: ''"FALL BACK! Withdraw and regroup, come on! Stay together!"'' But the beast has other plans, rattling the earth and showering your tight formation with sand as it advances heavily atop long, lumbering steps. A few of the polebearers stand firm, shoulder-to-shoulder, jabbing up at the approaching abomination. You decide to help cover the retreat, sallying forth and loading your sling with another stone as you pick your shot. It doesn't have to be terribly accurate, just effective enough to harass it, distract it, so that your companions can get away. Your next shot thuds into it's clavicle, nice and solid, but another shot follows more impressive, knocking solidly into the creature's thick, jutted chin. You notice the culprit, an able-bodied slinger not far from you who lingered to cover the retreat as well. ''"Nice shot!"'' You intone loudly, trying to speak above the defeaning pitch of the arena's spectators. He's a young lad, teeth crooked, dingy hair chopped into the style of a rattail, but he's clearly capable for the task you have in mind. ''"Run over to the other group. Tell them to keep some distance and harry the ogre with sticks and stones. We'll regroup and resume the attack with a better plan. Hurry, GO."'' The young lad drops a firm nod of assent and quickly races off to carry your orders to Gant's formation, leaving you to continue the retreat. Most of your companions have already put a fair amount of distance between themselves and the ogre, while a few linger back, effectively engaging in a running skirmish; most of them slingers or the odd spearman. Upon reaching the bulk of your group, Khalika steps forward to meet you, her dark, glossy flesh slick with sweat and those amber orbs keen on your visage, assessing you. ''"You're alive."'' ''"Aye, for now. But we need a plan to bring this to an end, without throwing away our lives. Ideally something that we can coordinate with the other group."'' Lifting your gaze, it seems that your message made it across, as most of Gant's group continues to linger at a safe distance, while some of his slingers and spearmen mimic your own formation's contribution, harrying the ogre and buying you more time to confer. ''"So. Any ideas?"'' <<if $mind >= 1>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. You wonder if your compatriots still have faith in your ability to command. Thankfully, a touch of divine inspiration surfaces within your mind. ''"We surround it,"'' You murmur, ''"From both sides."'' You raise your gaze once more, looking over your compatriots, ``"The Legion has a name for it... A pincer attack, I think. A group approaches from either flank, hits it hard, and envelops it completely."`` <<else>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. But your mind is blank, still overwhelmed by the adrenaline of battle and the cries of the crowd. Thankfully, Khalika speaks up, ''"A pincer attack."'' You look at her, head canting aside, ''"Our two groups attack from opposite sides and surround it."'' ''"I like it,"'' You breathe out, ensured by the development, ''"Simple but effective."''<</if>> ''"I think it's important that we stay mobile, no matter what, until we commit to a final push. We're smarter, faster and more numerous than this ogre, and that's how we'll win. Does everyone understand?"'' You're met by nods, hard gazes and voiced approval, "Then let's slay an ogre."'' [[You send the same messenger back to Gant's group to convey your strategy.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_pincer]]

''"HOLD!"'' You command, spit flying, and sweat spilling down your forehead as you eye the beast from beyond the length of your billhook. Outside the thrashing of sand, thud of flesh and glistening points of polearms, you see Gant and his group on the other side of the beast. They've moved in and with a short signal, they'll be within striking distance. You won't get a better opportunity than this. Your tight formation is barely managing to fend off the beast, but if you apply more force effectively, there's the possibility, however slim, that you can overwhelm it and bring this dark display to a close before anymore of you have to die. ''"Gant!"'' With both hands grasped tightly, covered in grit and stained by blood, you use your billhook to wave back and forth as you signal to your companion. You can only hope that he understands your message beneath the mind-numbing noise of the arena, ''"Flank! ATTACK!"'' But the beast has other plans, rattling the earth and showering your formation with sand as it takes long, lumbering steps forward. You raise your pole high and shout, ''"Stay tight! Poles u--"'' Something impacts your face, sand fills your eyes and before you know it, the world is a blur, vision dark and spinning. One of the beast's limbs must have clipped the side of your head, you think, barely cognizant of what's occuring around you. The wound throbs and there's a searing pain right above your ear. All about, in seemingly every direction, shouts and screams are drowned out by the ogre's bellows. You already see a couple bodies splayed out in the sand beside you, battered and broken, blood still wet and bright, glistening atop their stained flesh. You thought that together, you may've had a chance. Your formation is broken... Doubts pervade your thoughts as a vast, looming shadow seems to encompass the ground about you. Rolling onto your back, you see the source. You think back to Fredrick, the few friends and humble home that you leave behind. You even think of the brave souls that fought alongside you, valiantly, as the ogre's foot plummets downward towards you. The impact separates your soul from your body, shattering bones and flattening out flesh until all that remains of your earthly self is a mangled mess. [[Maybe the next life will be kinder.|chp2_deathscreen]]

Your heart pounds deeply within your chest as you suffer the realization that your plan is not working. The frontline is faltering. You and your companions are untrained, under-equipped, expected to hold off an ogre's advance with bent spears and dented polearms. The last thing you want to do is overcommit and lose your entire force. You only get one shot at winning this battle and getting out of this damned arena alive. Turning a look over what remains of your formation, another sweep of the beast's limbs tossing a couple of your men into the air, you make the call: ''"FALL BACK! Withdraw and regroup, come on! Stay together!"'' The creature's steps rattle the earth, showering your tight formation with sand as it continues to advance atop long, lumbering steps. ''"Spread out! Spears up!"'' You jab your billhook up at the approaching abomination, managing to tear a small strip of flesh free with the curved head. But you don't linger long to face any retaliation. ''"Now, fall back!"'' You harken to the slaves by your side, retreating with them, avoiding the beast's wrath. Crashing through the sands and towards the rest of your unit, you come across a young, able-bodied slinger who stayed to cover the retreat. ''"You,"'' You intone loudly, trying to speak above the defeaning pitch of the arena's spectators, ''"Run over to the other group. Tell them to keep some distance and harry the ogre with sticks and stones. We'll regroup and resume the attack with a better plan. Hurry, GO."'' The young lad drops a firm nod of assent and quickly races off to carry your orders to Gant's formation, leaving you to continue the retreat. Most of your companions have already put a fair amount of distance between themselves and the ogre, while a few linger back, effectively engaging in a running skirmish; most of them slingers or the odd spearman. Upon reaching the bulk of your group, Khalika steps forward to meet you, her dark, glossy flesh slick with sweat and those amber orbs keen on your visage, assessing you. ''"You're alive."' ''"Aye, for now. But we need a plan to bring this to an end, without throwing away our lives. Ideally something that we can coordinate with the other group."'' Lifting your gaze, it seems that your message made it across, as most of Gant's group continues to linger at a safe distance, while some of his slingers and spearmen mimic your own formation's contribution, harrying the ogre and buying you more time to confer. ''"So. Any ideas?"'' <<if $mind >= 1>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. You wonder if your compatriots still have faith in your ability to command. Thankfully, a touch of divine inspiration surfaces within your mind. ''"We surround it,"'' You murmur, ''"From both sides."'' You raise your gaze once more, looking over your compatriots, ``"The Legion has a name for it... A pincer attack, I think. A group approaches from either flank, hits it hard, and envelops it completely."`` <<else>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. But your mind is blank, still overwhelmed by the adrenaline of battle and the cries of the crowd. Thankfully, Khalika speaks up, ''"A pincer attack."'' You look at her, head canting aside, ''"Our two groups attack from opposite sides and surround it."'' ''"I like it,"'' You breathe out, ensured by the development, ''"Simple but effective."''<</if>> ''"I think it's important that we stay mobile, no matter what, until we commit to a final push. We're smarter, faster and more numerous than this ogre, and that's how we'll win. Does everyone understand?"'' You're met by nods, hard gazes and voiced approval, "Then let's slay an ogre."'' [[You send the same messenger back to Gant's group to convey your strategy.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_pincer]]

''"HOLD!"'' You command, spit flying, and sweat spilling down your forehead as you manage to find your way back to the formation's flank. Outside the thrashing of sand, thud of flesh and glistening points of polearms, you see Gant and his group on the other side of the beast. They've moved in and with a short signal, they'll be within striking distance. You won't get a better opportunity than this. Your tight formation had the grit and determination to stop the beast in it's tracks. The ogre is wounded, dripping blood, it's hide torn and tattered from a dozen or so deep wounds. If you apply more force effectively, there's the possibility, however slim, that you can overwhelm it and bring this dark display to a close before anymore of you have to die. ''"Gant!"'' Grasping your gladius tightly in a blood-stained hand, you lift your arm up high and cut through the air, waving back and forth as you signal to your companion. You can only hope that he understands your message beneath the mind-numbing noise of the arena, ''"Flank! ATTACK!"'' Beneath that mane of shaggy-brown hair, you catch the gleam of his dark green eyes. There's excitement in his look, fear too, a tumultuous tumbling of raw emotion that teeters a moment on the precipice of his lean visage. He bites it back, swallows any doubt, and gives you a tight-lipped grin. Fine, he seems to say, let's fucking do this. ''"Stay tight, strong! Poles up!"'' You shout over the defeaning scream of thousands of spectators, trying to keep what remains of your compatriots tight, close and compact. You press forward gradually, breath tight with anticipation as you follow the beast's movements. It takes two lumbering steps and much like you instructed, ''"Thrust!"'' your line of spear-toting slaves drives forward once more to halt it's advance. This is your opportunity. Breaking into a sprint, you crash through the sand and closer to the beast, right in the distracted peripherary of it's vision. The smell is overwhelming; piss, bile and the rot of ruined flesh, blood streaming from various holes in the creature's wormy hide. But you don't have time to enjoy the atmosphere, strafing sideways and nearly stumbling as it takes another lumber step and nearly crushes you. //Here goes nothing//. You hack at the back of it's knee, trying to twist your high strike ''hard'' at just the right angle to target it's soft, rarely exposed flesh. The reaction is immediate and before you can retreat, you catch the glassy gleam of beady eyes, enraged, directed entirely unto you. With an ear-shattering bellow, spit and saliva coating you from the force, the ogre kicks and stomps, rattling the earth around you, nearly obscuring your vision with a shower of sand. Leaping forward, you tumble through the debris of the arena as you try to create distance, but you can feel the heat of the ogre's breath on your back. It stoops low to try and snatch you up from the sands, but your men shift forward and stand alongside you, stabbing at the creature's big, outstretched paw, a couple of the spears and crude glaives managing to lop off fat, clawed fingers. This gives you plenty of time to slip back into formation once more. [[You survey the situation, wiping away spittle.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanking]]

That beautiful bastard. This might be the first moment that you've truly stopped to admire Gant. Beyond the thrashing of sand, thud of flesh and glistening points of polearms as they ward off the beast's advance, you see him and his group. They've moved in and with a short signal, they'll be within striking distance. You won't get a better opportunity than this. From what you can tell, the beast is wounded, dripping blood, it's hide torn and tattered from a dozen or so deep wounds. If you apply more force effectively, there's the possibility, however slim, that you can overwhelm it and bring this dark display to a close before anymore of you have to die. ''"Gant!"'' With both hands grasped tightly, covered in grit and stained by blood, you use your billhook to wave back and forth as you signal to your companion. You can only hope that he understands your message beneath the mind-numbing noise of the arena, ''"Flank! ATTACK!"'' Beneath that mane of shaggy-brown hair, you catch the gleam of his dark green eyes. There's excitement in his look, fear too, a tumultuous tumbling of raw emotion that teeters a moment on the precipice of his lean visage. He bites it back, swallows any doubt, and gives you a tight-lipped grin. Fine, he seems to say, let's fucking do this. ''"Stay alive and hold it's attention!"'' You shout over the screams of thousands of spectators, trying to rally what remains of your compatriots. You press forward gradually, breath tight with anticipation as you enter the beast's range. It takes two lumbering steps, chasing after another spear-toting slave who turns and flees. And much like you instructed, two other polearms appear in his place, poking and prodding, stalling the ogre's advance to the best of their ability. You join in, taking the opportunity to drive your billhook against the side of an exposed knee. With a sharp pull and a //strained// yank, you tear more rotten hide from the beast's pale, wormy body, spilling it's blood. Suddenly it's beady eyes swivel, glassy and ''enraged'', directed entirely unto you. With an ear-shattering bellow, spit and saliva coating you from the force, the ogre leaps, stooping low to try and snatch you up from the sands. You stumble, swaying on your feet as you try to strafe sideways and away from the beast. You're unsettled by the sheer violent intent in the brute's gaze, and your stomach drops further when it plods closer yet, focused on you. [[You thrust at an outstretched hand, trying to rip digit's from the ogre's big paw.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanking]]

Your plan has gone well, but the last thing you want to do is overextend and overcommit. You only get one shot at winning this battle and getting out of this damed arena alive. Turning a look over your shoulder, you quickly survey your compatriots once more before making the call, ''"FALL BACK! Withdraw and regroup, come on!"'' But the beast has other plans, rattling the earth and showering your loose formation with sand as it advances heavily atop long, lumbering steps. You sally forth with a handful of other polebearers, approaching at an angle and jabbing your billhook in a quick, forward plunge that contacts the creature's fat, wormy hide, tearing flesh and spilling more blood. These wounds have to count for something, however small but numerous. You don't linger to face it's wrath, turning on heel and crashing through the sands, soon coming across an able-bodied slinger who has yet to retreat. ''"You,"'' You intone loudly, trying to speak above the defeaning pitch of the arena's spectators, ''"Run over to the other group. Tell them to keep some distance and harry the ogre with sticks and stones. We'll regroup and resume the attack with a better plan. Hurry, GO."'' The young lad drops a firm nod of assent and quickly races off to carry your orders to Gant's formation, leaving you to continue the retreat. Most of your companions have already put a fair amount of distance between themselves and the ogre, while a few linger back, effectively engaging in a running skirmish; most of them slingers or spearmen. Upon reaching the bulk of your group, Khalika steps forward to meet you, her dark, glossy flesh slick with sweat and those amber orbs keen on your visage, assessing you. ''"You've done well, $name."'' ''"I'm doing my best. But we need a plan to bring this to an end, without throwing away our lives. Ideally something that we can coordinate with the other group."'' Lifting your gaze, it seems that your message made it across, as most of Gant's group continues to linger at a safe distance, while some of his slingers and spearmen mimic your own formation's contribution, harrying the ogre and buying you more time to confer. ''"So. Any ideas?"'' <<if $mind >= 1>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. Thankfully, a touch of divine inspiration surfaces within your mind. ''"We surround it,"'' You murmur, ''"From both sides."'' You raise your gaze once more, looking over your compatriots, ``"The Legion has a name for it... A pincer attack, I think. A group approaches from either flank, hits it hard, and envelops it completely."`` <<else>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. But your mind is blank, still overwhelmed by the adrenaline of battle and the cries of the crowd. Thankfully, Khalika speaks up, ''"A pincer attack."'' You look at her, head canting aside, ''"Our two groups attack from opposite sides and surround it."'' ''"I like it,"'' You breathe out, ensured by the development, ''"Simple but effective."''<</if>> ''"I think it's important that we stay mobile, no matter what, until we commit to a final push. We're smarter, faster and more numerous than this ogre, and that's how we'll win. Does everyone understand?"'' You're met by nods, hard gazes and voiced approval, ''"Then let's slay an ogre."'' [[You send the same messenger back to Gant's group to convey your strategy.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_pincer]]

That beautiful bastard. This might be the first moment that you've truly stopped to admire Gant. Beyond the thrashing of sand, thud of flesh and glistening points of polearms as they ward off the beast's advance, you see him and his group. They've moved in and with a short signal, they'll be within striking distance. You won't get a better opportunity than this. From what you can tell, the beast is wounded, dripping blood, it's hide torn and tattered from a dozen or so deep wounds. If you apply more force effectively, there's the possibility, however slim, that you can overwhelm it and bring this dark display to a close before anymore of you have to die. ''"Gant!"'' Grasping your gladius tightly in a blood-stained hand, you lift your arm up high and cut through the air, waving back and forth as you signal to your companion. You can only hope that he understands your message beneath the mind-numbing noise. ''"Flank! ATTACK!"'' Beneath that mane of shaggy-brown hair, you catch the gleam of his dark green eyes. There's excitement in his look, fear too, a tumultuous tumbling of raw emotion that teeters a moment on the precipice of his lean visage. He bites it back, swallows any doubt, and gives you a tight-lipped grin. Fine, he seems to say, let's fucking do this. ''"Stay alive and hold it's attention!"'' You shout over the screams of thousands of spectators, trying to rally what remains of your compatriots. You press forward gradually, breath tight with anticipation as you enter the beast's range. It takes two lumbering steps, chasing after another spear-toting slave who turns and flees. And much like you instructed, two other polearms appear in his place, poking and prodding, stalling the ogre's advance to the best of their ability. This is your opportunity. Breaking into a sprint, you crash through the sand and closer to the beast, right in the distracted peripherary of it's vision. The smell is overwhelming; piss, bile and the rot of ruined flesh, blood streaming from various holes in the creature's wormy hide. But you don't have time to enjoy the atmosphere, strafing sideways and nearly stumbling as it takes another lumber step and nearly crushes you. Here goes nothing. You hack at the back of it's knee, trying to twist your high strike ''hard'' at just the right angle to target it's soft, rarely exposed flesh. The reaction is immediate and before you can retreat, you catch the glassy gleam of beady eyes, enraged, directed entirely unto you. With an ear-shattering bellow, spit and saliva coating you from the force, the ogre kicks and stomps, rattling the earth around you, nearly obscuring your vision with a shower of sand. Leaping forward, you tumble through the debris of the arena as you try to create distance, but you can feel the heat of the ogre's breath on your back. It stoops low to try and snatch you up from the sands, and you toss and scramble forward, narrowly avoiding it's grasp at your legs. Your companions shout and slinged stones pelt the ogre's flank, trying to draw it's attention, yet you're unsettled by the sheer violent intent in the brute's unwavering gaze. [[You roll to your feet, turning to desperately slash at the ogre's outstretched hand.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanking]]

Your plan has gone well, but the last thing you want to do is overextend and overcommit. You only get one shot at winning this battle and getting out of this damed arena alive. Turning a look over your shoulder, you quickly survey your compatriots once more before making the call, ''"FALL BACK! Withdraw and regroup, come on!"'' But the beast has other plans, rattling the earth and showering your loose formation with sand as it advances heavily atop long, lumbering steps. A few of your polebearers sally forth to stop the advance and you surge up to the frontline to join them, approaching at an angle. ''"Stay loose, just keep it distracted!"'' It doesn't seem to notice you as of yet, distracted by the glistening spearheads near it's face and the occassional thud of a stone against it's fat, wormy hide. You take the opportunity to close in, diving forward with a firm, forward plunge of your gladius that tears a thin, yet bloody slash into the flank of a leg. These wounds have to count for something, you think, however small but numerous. You don't linger to face it's wrath, turning on heel and crashing through the sands, earning yourself some distance and soon coming across an able-bodied slinger who has yet to retreat. ''"You,"'' You intone loudly, trying to speak above the defeaning pitch of the arena's spectators, ''"Run over to the other group. Tell them to keep some distance and harry the ogre with sticks and stones. We'll regroup and resume the attack with a better plan. Hurry, GO."'' The young lad drops a firm nod of assent and quickly races off to carry your orders to Gant's formation, leaving you to continue the retreat. Most of your companions have already put a fair amount of distance between themselves and the ogre, while a few linger back, effectively engaging in a running skirmish; most of them slingers or spearmen. Upon reaching the bulk of your group, Khalika steps forward to meet you, her dark, glossy flesh slick with sweat and those amber orbs keen on your visage, assessing you. ''"You've done well, $name."'' ''"I'm doing my best. But we need a plan to bring this to an end, without throwing away our lives. Ideally something that we can coordinate with the other group."'' Lifting your gaze, it seems that your message made it across, as most of Gant's group continues to linger at a safe distance, while some of his slingers and spearmen mimic your own formation's contribution, harrying the ogre and buying you more time to confer. ''"So. Any ideas?"'' <<if $mind >= 1>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. Thankfully, a touch of divine inspiration surfaces within your mind. ''"We surround it,"'' You murmur, ''"From both sides."'' You raise your gaze once more, looking over your compatriots, ``"The Legion has a name for it... A pincer attack, I think. A group approaches from either flank, hits it hard, and envelops it completely."`` <<else>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. But your mind is blank, still overwhelmed by the adrenaline of battle and the cries of the crowd. Thankfully, Khalika speaks up, ''"A pincer attack."'' You look at her, head canting aside, ''"Our two groups attack from opposite sides and surround it."'' ''"I like it,"'' You breathe out, ensured by the development, ''"Simple but effective."''<</if>> ''"I think it's important that we stay mobile, no matter what, until we commit to a final push. We're smarter, faster and more numerous than this ogre, and that's how we'll win. Does everyone understand?"'' You're met by nods, hard gazes and voiced approval, ''"Then let's slay an ogre."'' [[You send the same messenger back to Gant's group to convey your strategy.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_pincer]]

That beautiful bastard. This might be the first moment that you've truly stopped to admire Gant. Beyond the thrashing of sand, thud of flesh and glistening points of polearms as they ward off the beast's advance, you see him and his group. They've moved in and with a short signal, they'll be within striking distance. You won't get a better opportunity than this. From what you can tell, the beast is wounded, dripping blood, it's hide torn and tattered from a dozen or so deep wounds. If you apply more force effectively, there's the possibility, however slim, that you can overwhelm it and bring this dark display to a close before anymore of you have to die. ''"Gant!"'' Holding your sling loosely in a blood-stained hand, you lift your arms high up into air, waving back and forth as you try to signal to your companion. You can only hope that he understands your message beneath the mind-numbing noise of the arena, ''"Flank! ATTACK!"'' Beneath that mane of shaggy-brown hair, you catch the gleam of his dark green eyes. There's excitement in his look, fear too, a tumultuous tumbling of raw emotion that teeters a moment on the precipice of his lean visage. He bites it back, swallows any doubt, and gives you a tight-lipped grin. Fine, he seems to say, let's fucking do this. ''"Stay alive and hold it's attention!"'' You shout over the screams of thousands of spectators, trying to rally what remains of your compatriots. Your breath tight with anticipation, you load another stone into your sling and start to build up mometum with your swing. As you watch, the beast takes two lumbering steps, chasing after another spear-toting slave who turns and flees. And much like you instructed, two other polearms appear in his place, poking and prodding, stalling the ogre's advance to the best of their ability. The perfect opportunity for an aimed shot. You focus as much as you can on the transfer of energy throughout your form, trying to work smooth precision into your swing as you shift forward and with a snap, release the shot. Sure enough, the round smacks into the ogre's throat with an audible fleshy thud. You wish the result was more satisfying, but every wound only seems to send the beast into a deeper rage. With an ear-shattering bellow, spit and saliva coating those nearby, the beast voices it's displeasure. Suddenly it's beady eyes swivel, glassy and ''enraged'', directed entirely unto you. It leaps forward, rattling the earth and showered the area with sand as it takes long, lumbering steps. It's building up momentum, moving faster than it has previously, almost terribly so, quickly closing the distance. You stumble, swaying on your feet as you strafe sideways, trying to move quickly and maintain your range. But not even your companion's shouts, slinged stones or pointed thrusts seem to distract the beast. You're unsettled by the sheer violent intent in the brute's gaze, your stomach dropping further as it closes closer yet, focused. It wants you. Your fingers grasp shakily about a stone, loading it, building up speed with a series of tight swings. You aren't going down without a fight. [[You whip a quick shot at the ogre's outstretched hand, trying to break fingers.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanking]]

Your plan has gone well, but the last thing you want to do is overextend and overcommit. You only get one shot at winning this battle and getting out of this damed arena alive. Quickly surveying your compatriots once more, you decide to make the call, ''"FALL BACK! Withdraw and regroup, come on!"'' But the beast has other plans, rattling the earth and showering your loose formation with sand as it advances heavily atop long, lumbering steps. You decide to help cover the retreat, sallying forth and loading your sling with another stone as you pick your shot. It doesn't have to be terribly accurate, just effective enough to harass it, distract it, so that your companions can get away. Your next shot thuds into it's clavicle, nice and solid, but another shot follows more impressive, knocking solidly into the creature's thick, jutted chin. You notice the culprit, an able-bodied slinger not far from you who lingered to cover the retreat as well. ''"Nice shot!"'' You intone loudly, trying to speak above the defeaning pitch of the arena's spectators. He's a young lad, teeth crooked, dingy hair chopped into the style of a rattail, but he's clearly capable for the task you have in mind. ''"Run over to the other group. Tell them to keep some distance and harry the ogre with sticks and stones. We'll regroup and resume the attack with a better plan. Hurry, GO."'' The young lad drops a firm nod of assent and quickly races off to carry your orders to Gant's formation, leaving you to continue the retreat. Most of your companions have already put a fair amount of distance between themselves and the ogre, while a few linger back, effectively engaging in a running skirmish; most of them slingers or spearmen. Upon reaching the bulk of your group, Khalika steps forward to meet you, her dark, glossy flesh slick with sweat and those amber orbs keen on your visage, assessing you. ''"You've done well, $name."'' ''"I'm doing my best. But we need a plan to bring this to an end, without throwing away our lives. Ideally something that we can coordinate with the other group."'' Lifting your gaze, it seems that your message made it across, as most of Gant's group continues to linger at a safe distance, while some of his slingers and spearmen mimic your own formation's contribution, harrying the ogre and buying you more time to confer. ''"So. Any ideas?"'' <<if $mind >= 1>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. Thankfully, a touch of divine inspiration surfaces within your mind. ''"We surround it,"'' You murmur, ''"From both sides."'' You raise your gaze once more, looking over your compatriots, ``"The Legion has a name for it... A pincer attack, I think. A group approaches from either flank, hits it hard, and envelops it completely."`` <<else>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. But your mind is blank, still overwhelmed by the adrenaline of battle and the cries of the crowd. Thankfully, Khalika speaks up, ''"A pincer attack."'' You look at her, head canting aside, ''"Our two groups attack from opposite sides and surround it."'' ''"I like it,"'' You breathe out, ensured by the development, ''"Simple but effective."''<</if>> ''"I think it's important that we stay mobile, no matter what, until we commit to a final push. We're smarter, faster and more numerous than this ogre, and that's how we'll win. Does everyone understand?"'' You're met by nods, hard gazes and voiced approval, ''"Then let's slay an ogre."'' [[You send the same messenger back to Gant's group to convey your strategy.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_pincer]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp1_khalika_arena2.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> A thrust of bone dirks stops the brute in it's tracks. Stabbing and slashing, Khalika surges beneath the beast, drawing blood and flaying tattered flesh with precise, piercing attacks. She's nimble, strong too, making the ogre's thick hide look thin as paper. It tries to fight back, but before it can even lift a foot, Gant's flank smashes into the fray, rounds thunking heavily into meaty flesh, poles thrusting hard, a couple of brave souls with blades driving in close to score opportunistic blows. The half-orc throws herself beneath a raised leg, avoiding a thudding stomp and drawing closer to you. ''"Thanks,"'' is all you can manage, almost instinctually, more of a breathy vocalization than an intentional statement on your part. Khalika looks you over, breathing heavily as well, the adrenaline of combat still coursing through her veins. She doesn't speak a word, not yet, the graceful inclination of her chin all the response that you need. You know enough about her people to understand this; they respect warriors and those strong enough to lead. That's what you're doing here today. Taking your fate into your own hands. Living or dying according to your own capabilities. You understand that, along with your companions, and even the crowd in their own strange, voyeuristic way. Some cheer for you, others cry for blood and shattered bones, but they all understand that you're writing your own destiny in these arena sands. ''"We can finish this,"'' Khalika urges, voice low but firm, intense amber gaze searching within the depths of yours. Her fingers brush against your forearm as she awaits your response, those tusked lips plush and pursed intently. [[Let's end this.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanked]] <<ci stat>>

''"Then we shall."'' You tear your gaze from Khalika, thankful for the brief reverie, now doubly determined to put an end to the oafish ogre that has already killed too many of your companions here today. Surveying the situation, you see Gant, doing his best to keep the beast corralled by a semi-circle of mobile polearms, swordsmen close at hand and slingers held back, picking their shots. The beast is clearly wounded, but still as dangerous as ever. Half-a-dozen bodies or so litter the sands nearby, bent and broken, most either caught under a foot or crushed by a massive, swinging arm. Too slow or caught unaware, they won't be leaving this battle. But there's still the opportunity to avenge them. High above, surrounding the display in its totality, the crowd jeer and jostle from within the thick, crowded, and stacked depths of the arena stands. They are enjoying their show. A countless mass of dirty faces, unwashed ranks, that could have just as easily been in any one of your places. But closest to the arena floor, an entire level exists, dedicated to the nobility. You can tell from the array of colors, the glimmer of silks and soft, dyed linen, the glossy glare of metal. Is this your life now? Putting on a performance for those who only regard you from above, as you dance with death? <<if $mobility >= 1>> [[I'll give them a fucking show.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanked_execution]] <<ci social>> <</if>> <<if (($might >= 1) && ($chp2_polearm)) || (($might >= 1) && ($chp2_sword))>> [[If it's blood they want, then blood they'll get.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanked_beheading]] <<ci social>><</if>> [[Put an end to this. Kill the beast together.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanked_killbeast]] <<ci social>>

''"Do you trust me?"'' You turn back to Khalika, locking gazes. She eyes you steadily in return, her response brusque but with an edge of unconcealed curiosity, ''"Why else would I be following your lead? Ask what you need of me, $name."'' <<if $chp2_sword>> ''"One of your daggers,"'' You reply, dipping your chin down to indicate her dirks. She hands it over without hesitation, still searching your visage with her keen amber eyes. ''"Come with me. We need to get close... I'll get a running start and you'll help hoist me up--"'' She interjects boldly, ''"You're going to climb it?"'' ''"That's right. It's wounded, weakened, slower now. I intend to execute it and let everyone in this damned arena see what we're capable of."'' Her lips slowly pull at the corners, a smirk. ''"I knew you had warrior's blood flowing through your veins. If you die, die well. If you survive, you'll be a hero to all of us here."'' <<else>> ''"I need both of your daggers."'' You reply, dipping your chin down to indicate her dirks. She hands them over without hesitation, still searching your visage with her keen amber eyes as you ditch your other weapon and start to speak, ''"Come with me. We need to get close... I'll get a running start and you'll help hoist me up--"'' She interjects boldly, ''"You're going to climb it?"'' ''"That's right. It's wounded, weakened, slower now. I intend to execute it and let everyone in this damned arena see what we're capable of."'' Her lips slowly pull at the corners, a smirk. ''"I knew you had warrior's blood flowing through your veins. If you die, die well. If you survive, you'll be a hero to all of us here."'' <</if>> ''"I don't plan on dying. Not yet at least."'' You exchange another shared look with Khalika before the both of you step into action. Your legs carry you swiftly atop the sands, blades grasped tightly in hand, crossing the distance and ebbing closer yet to the fray of battle. There stands Gant, trying his best to maintain the battle-at-hand. ''"Gant."'' You call out, and his attention snaps onto you before his face breaks out into a bewildered grin, ''"Oh, thank feck, mate! You doing alright? I was hopin' you'd have a plan."'' The beast bellows, not far, clearly agitated; yet, the exhaustion and wear of its wounds must be keeping it from putting up more of a fight. You might be able to wittle it down over the next half-hour with more stones, stabs and the occassional slash. But if you took that path, no one would remember your name. It's time to take destiny into your own hands. ''"I need you to keep it distracted. Turn it around and keep it faced that way, if you can. This fight is about to be over."'' Gant bobs a couple of quick, dogged nods, ''"Over? Aye, you say the word." "Let's do it." "Good luck, my friend."'' Your companion turns and runs off, circling the loose grouping of your compatriots through circumstance, who've kept the ogre occupied for so long. Young, old. Skinny, soft. Today, you joined together. Now it's time to repay the favor. Sure enough, the beast's attention starts to swivel the opposite way and linger there, Gant concentrating the bulk of your forces to try and draw the creature in. ''"Now,"'' You say, trading a look with the half-orc by your side, ''"Before I lose my nerve."'' Together, you tear past a sand-strewn corpse and close-in on the lumbering brute, with Khalika nimbly dropping to a knee and lacing together her hands for your approaching footfall. [[You take a running start, arms pumping, blades in hand.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanked_execution1]]

''"I say we make it bloody. We give the crowd what they want."'' You turn back to Khalika, locking gazes. She eyes you steadily in return, her lips slowly pulling at the corners in a faint smirk. ''"I knew you had warrior's blood flowing through your veins,"'' comes her response, low and impressed, her amber orbs keen upon your visage. Despite a lowly life as an orphan turned cobbler's apprentice, the way she looks at you, talks to you, makes you feel like //you are a warrior//. If only just for this moment. ''"Come on,"'' You finally utter in response, exchanging another shared look before you step into action, ''"Follow my lead."'' Your legs carry you swiftly atop the sands, weapon grasped tightly in hand, crossing the distance and ebbing closer yet to the fray of battle. There stands Gant, trying his best to maintain the battle-at-hand. ''"Gant."'' You call out, and his attention snaps onto you before his face breaks out into a bewildered grin, ''"Oh, thank feck, mate! You doing alright? I was hopin' you'd have a plan."'' The beast bellows, not far, clearly agitated; yet, the exhaustion and wear of its wounds must be keeping it from putting up more of a fight. You might be able to wittle it down over the next half-hour with more stones, stabs and the occassional slash. But if you took that path, no one would remember your name. It's time to take destiny into your own hands. ''"I need you to keep it distracted. Turn it around and keep it faced that way, if you can. This fight is about to be over."'' Gant bobs a couple of quick, dogged nods, ''"Over? Aye, you say the word." "Let's do it." "Good luck, my friend."'' Your companion turns and runs off, circling the loose grouping of your compatriots through circumstance, who've kept the ogre occupied for so long. Young, old. Skinny, soft. Today, you joined together. Now it's time to repay the favor. Sure enough, the beast's attention starts to swivel the opposite way and linger there, Gant concentrating the bulk of your forces to try and draw the creature in. ''"We take out the legs,"'' You say, trading a look with the half-orc by your side, ''"You go left, I'll go right. We don't stop until it's dead."'' She nods decisively, lips pursed alongside her protruding teeth, ''"I'm beside you."'' [[Together, you tear past a sand-strewn corpse and close-in on the lumbering brute.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanked_beheading1]]

''"Let's finish this."'' You turn back to Khalika and find her gaze upon you. Eyes locked, shoulders back and stance steady, the half-orc gives a brusque response, ''"I'm with you."'' You muster the rest of your courage and finally turn, stepping into action with her at your heel, ''"Come on, follow my lead."'' Your legs carry you swiftly atop the sands, weapon grasped tightly in hand, crossing the distance and ebbing closer yet to the fray of battle. There stands Gant, trying his best to maintain the skirmish-at-hand.''"Gant."'' You call out, and his attention snaps onto you before his face breaks into a bewildered grin, ''"Oh, thank feck, mate! You doing alright? I was hopin' you'd have a plan."'' The beast bellows, not far, clearly agitated; yet, the exhaustion and wear of its wounds mst be keeping it from putting up more of a fight. It's time to bring this show to a close. No more death for the day, only victory. ''"We stick to the plan. It's weak, all we need to do is focus our efforts and preserve our numbers. Have the swords keep it busy, the poles go for it's softspots, and let the slingers aim for the fucker's head. It shouldn't take long now."'' Gant bobs a couple of quick, dogged nods, ''"Aye, you say the word." "Let's do it." "Good luck, my friend."'' Your companion turns and runs off, circling the loose grouping of your compatriots - through circumstance - who've kept the ogre occupied for so long. Young, old. Skinny, soft. Today, you joined together and now it's time for all of it to pay off. ''"Be careful,"'' You tell Khalika, and she gives an easy winked response. <<if $chp2_sword>> Gladius in hand, you join the ebb and flow of the unrelenting skirmish, drawing closer yet to fulfill your purpose. Right now, you have the opportunity to lead by example and draw blood before the beast's attention lands on you. That's exactly what you do, waiting for the right opportunity before springing forward atop the sands and taking a wide, downward slash at the ogre's nearest knee. You immediately and forcefully cut in the opposite direction, rending the brute's flesh once more and staining their fat, wormy pale leg with another spill of ichor. The leg finally rears upwards in response, stamping down at you, slow enough for you to create distance and avoid the shower of sand that soon follows. It's besieged on all sides, all of you working in unison as the beast slowly gets whittled away at. Each hard, meaty thunk of a stone audibly impacting the ogre draws out feral sounds, that of agitation and anger, though the rage is slowly giving away to pain. It's growing weaker. <<elseif $chp2_polearm>> Billhook in hand, you join the ebb and flow of the unrelenting skirmish, drawing closer yet to fulfill your purpose. Right now, you have the opportunity to lead by example and carefully pick your angle of attack before the beast's attention lands on you. That's exactly what you do, waiting for the right opportunity before springing forward atop the sands and lunging with your polearm, upwards, right at the armpit of an outstretched arm. You throw all of your weight into the vicious plunge, the curved head of the bill impaling flesh and hooking sinew, tearing it free on the withdraw, accompanied by a gush of dark ichor from the ogre's soft, flabby pit. It turns, arm rearing, maw roaring, but you dig in with another hard thrust before yanking the weight of your pole back and swaying aside, starting to move and avoid the response. It's besieged on all sides, all of you working in unison as the beast slowly gets whittled away at. Each hard, meaty thunk of a stone audibly impacting the ogre draws out feral sounds, that of agitation and anger, though the rage is slowly giving away to pain. It's growing weaker. <<else>> Sling in hand, you join the ebb and flow of the unrelenting skirmish, remaining on the outside of your loose, circular formation. From back here, you can better observe the situation, shout orders and carefully pick your aimed shots, free of the beast's attention for the most part. That's exactly what you do, waiting for the right opportunity and building up momentum with your loaded sling at your side, before suddenly taking a leading step and launching a round at the ogre's skull, trying to focus on equal parts force and technique. The crack of stone against bone resounds, leaving one of the ogre's eyesockets visibly dented, malformed, the beady eye heavy and nearly sagging loose. Yet it still stands, bellowing in response, a feral sound, that of agitation and anger. Unfortunately for it, the rage is slowly giving away to pain. It's growing weaker, beseiged on all sides, all of you working in unison to deliver wounds that whittle away at the beast's constitution. <</if>> [[End it.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanked_killbeast1]]

<<set $arena_nickname to "Ascender">>\ You come in hard, trying to keep all of your momentum as your last long stride places your foot into the palm of Khalika's hands, the perfect platform for you to propel yourself upwards. Your muscles tense, leaping up as the half-orc beneath you helps leverage your weight into the movement. In that moment of anticipation, adrenaline surging through you, all you can see is the ogre's pale, thick scarred hide. That's when you dig in. //Thunk, thunk//, both of your blades embedded deeply in the creature's wide, wormy back, leaving you to cling onto your weapon's hilts as the beast recoils. It turns and jerks aside, the movement swinging you along behind, it's massive arms and bloody, clawed paws trying to reach back and remove you. Luckily, it can't reach you here at the mid-back; so with your teeth grit, you yank a blade free only to plunge it back into the beast, higher, starting your ascent as a thick trail of blood spills past your hands. ''"GET THAT FUCKER!"'' You hear Gant's loud, raspy screams, even amongst the sudden shrill pitch of the crowd as they watch the display before them unfold. That's right, you think, //witness me//. They all came for a show after all, did they not? You continue your climb with murderous intent, keeping your body close and tight, each plunge of your dagger drawing more blood and earning increasingly erratic responses from the big beast beneath you. You narrowly duck to avoid a swipe of the beast's paw, only now realizing that it might be able to reach you as you've nearly crested the creature's back. You dig your toes into the ogre's spongy flesh and pull a dirk free, hoisting yourself up and burying the blade once more with a brutal, downward plunge into the top of a shoulder. It tries to fight back, but your compatriots are keeping it distracted, whittling away at its legs and thick body with a relentless attack. It's dying and you're going to put this forsaken animal out of its misery. <<if $chp2_sword>> Anticipating another swing of the beast's claws, you pull your gladius free from torn flesh, the blade dark and gristly with a thick coat of blood oozing down the hilt to coat your grasping digits. You see the arc of it's massive forearms and throw your weight into a swing. A deep, grating groan escapes the ogre as your gladius separates several of it's fat, meaty clawed fingers from it's hand. <</if>> Cheers erupt as you drag yourself up further atop your faltering prey, propped up between its shoulders and atop its traps, before crossing your blades in an X shape at the front of it's throat. You don't hesitate, knowing it would've torn your flesh from the bone and swallowed you whole given the opportunity. No, not today. The sharp, gnarled bone of your blades tears open it's tender throat as you drag them across, spilling even more blood onto the sands and across the ogre's fat, corpulent front. It staggers, wobbling, slow to die - much like how it lived. But before it teeters over and starts to plummet towards the arena floor, you brace your feet against it's back and finally, with a murmured curse, kick off. You realize that it's not a small drop as you're hurtling down back towards the earth, but you keep your knees bent and let your blades go. Hitting hard, you try to roll, the sand lessening the impact. Khalika's there to grab your hand, giving a hard pull to steer you away blindly until you //feel// and hear the colossal thud of the ogre's body flattening out just behind you. [[And you... you're alive.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanked_executed]]

It's over. You gaze upon the spectators, thousands of them; cheering, chanting, crying for more. High above, the mists and warm vapors of Cradle mingle with the open sky, an etheral gaze that gives you another glimpse at Dosmera. Untouchable, unforgettable, that's how you feel at this very moment, bathing in the resounding applause of the stadium. You feel alive, that much is certain. Your companions can't help but celebrate, too. Exhausted, the lot of them, covered in blood and bruises. But they jump, jostle about and congratulate each other all the same. Gant finds you amidst the crowd, teeth bared and lips pulled taut in a wolfish grin. He claps a hand atop your back and pulls you into a hug, ''"That was fuckin' swell. Real swell work. I didn't think we were makin' it outta here, pal, let alone felling an ogre!"'' He lapses into silence, lips tilted still as he peers past you. ''"I think someone else has words for ya, mate." "Is that right?"'' You turn and find your gaze settling onto Khalika. The half-orc's supple arms are folded comfortably, despite the grit and grime that covers her, amber eyes creased in mild amusement: ''"Don't stop on my behalf."'' You gesture between them, ''"Gant, Khalika. Khalika, Gant."'' Gant keeps grinning, ''"Y'know how to handle yourself, Khalika. First time I cin' say I'm glad to know a greenskin."'' She snorts in response, and you can't help but wonder whether she'd gut him if the circumstances were less... favorable. ''"You did well yourself, Gant."'' But her gaze soon returns to you, lingering. It feels as though there's more she would say, if only there were time. [[But a thunderous voice calls out over the sands.|chp2_arena_finale]] <<bgmstop 6>>\

<<set $arena_nickname to "Bloodied">> Right behind the knees lay flesh tender and ripe for your blade. Still thicker than the skin on any particular part of your body, for the ogre it's a softspot and you plan on taking advantage of it. While there's still the risk of being stomped, crushed or killed, the beast has definitely slowed and you should be able to do enough damage, quickly enough, to avoid the consequences. <<if $chp2_sword>> You draw in a shaky breath, adrenaline coursing within and throughout your body, amping you up. You feel more alive now than perhaps ever before, even with the chance for death lingering closely. That's not going to stop you today. You sally forth, light on your feet, nary kicking up a grain of sand as you carefully pick the angle of your initial slash. With a shout to Khalika, ''"Now!"'' you deliver a vicious strike. The bone blade of your gladius rips flesh and tears rubbery sinewy free, a gush of blood from the ogre's knee immediately rewarding your effort. But it'll take more than that to fell such a beast. You hack, cut and slash down harder into the quickly expanding wound, flesh peeling back and hanging loose before the creature can even react. It lifts the leg in response, but your companion is doing much the same, cutting and thrusting hard with her dirks to carve out a nasty wound on the opposite leg. Still pelted by rocks and prodded by your compatriot's arms, the ogre tries to turn, swivel, stooping low to swipe at you. You sway backwards, narrowly avoiding it's big, clawed paw. But there's another swing coming directly for you. Almost by instinct, you take a two-handed grip on your sword and hack at the incoming attack, separating several of it's fat, meaty fingers from it's hand. A deep, grating groan escapes the wounded beast, likely dying, with torn remnants clinging to the blade of your gladius; dark and gristly, covered with thick blood that oozes down the hilt to coat your grasping digits. The beast starts to teeter on its torn knees, the fall slow but final, all that heavy weight plummeting forward towards the stained sands below. With a colossal thud, much to the arena's audible delight, the ogre's body flattens out before you, shaking the very ground beneath your feet. Your broad chest heaving, sand and blood painting your face, you lift your gladius overhead and bring it down, hacking at the back of the ogre's neck to prove a point. More blood and bile sprays, each heavy overhead swing separating the beast's head further from it's body. Until, planting your foot firmly against it's skull, you kick it free and send a cranium the size of a large man's chest rolling, maw wide, for the crowd to see. <<elseif $chp2_polearm>> You draw in a shaky breath, adrenaline coursing within and throughout your body, amping you up. You feel more alive now than perhaps ever before, even with the chance for death lingering closely. That's not going to stop you today. You sally forth, light on your feet despite the weight of the billhook in your hands. And when you come near, you take a moment to carefully pick the angle of your initial thrust. With a shout to Khalika, ''"Now!"'' you throw all over your weight into a vicious plunge of your polearm. The curved head of the bill impales flesh and hooks rubbery sinewy, tearing it free on the withdraw, accompanied by a gush of blood from the ogre's fat knee that immediately rewards your efforts. But it'll take more than that to fell such a beast. You thrust once more, twice, gashing down hard and sundering apart the quickly expanding wound, with pale flesh peeled back and hanging loose before the creature can even react. It lifts the leg in response, but the companion is doing much the same, cutting and thrusting hard with her dirks to carve out a nasty wound on the opposite leg. Still pelted by rocks and prodded by your compatriot's arms, the ogre tries to turn, swivel, stooping low to swipe at you. You sway backwards, narrowly avoiding it's big, clawed paw. But there's another swing coming directly for you. Almost by instinct, you swing your billhook and hack at the incoming attack, luckily separating several of it's fat, meaty fingers through sheer force. A deep, grating groan escapes the wounded beast, likely dying, with torn remnants clinging to the head of your billhook; dark and gristly, covered with thick blood that oozes down the shaft. The arena roars, an endless, deafening pitch, as much like a massive tree being felled, the ogre begins to teeter over and collapse upon itself. Unable to stand, the sands shake as the beast falls to its knees. You don't hesitate, knowing it would've torn your flesh from the bone and swallowed you whole given the opportunity. No, not today. You gather your strength and lunge forward before the ogre can grasp or grab you, swinging your billhook in a high, upward cleave that rips the creature's throat open and puts a dent in it's protruding jaw. Even more blood spills onto the sands and across the ogre's fat, corpulent front, much to the arena's delight. And finally, the beast collapses forward with a jarring thud that shakes the ground beneath you. <</if>> [[It's over. And you're alive.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanked_executed]]

<<set $arena_nickname to "Huntsman">> For every ounce of strength and size, the ogre doesn't seem to have a chance when corralled by a more numerous, well-organized and armed force. There's a reason that humans control Cradle, and not the greenskins or giantfolk. You've heard that some of the tribes of the pit hunt like this, in large, mobile groups, tracking herds of large prey through the sand dunes leading away from the city's vast walls. This is your tribe, and you're the head huntsman. Your compatriots hoot and holler, shouted orders given by you, Gant and others as you put increasing pressure on the cornered feral. More stones impact it, leaving welts, breaking flesh and jostling bones. The polearms search for softspots; the neck, underarms, knees, it's belly, those accumulating wounds leaking blood readily. The creature's wide, winding swipes begin to falter. It's as good as dead and the crowd is crying out, high above, for death. Your companions smell the beast's weakness. You don't even have to signal the advance. They all apply pressure, moving in, stepping calmly forward through the sands yourself as you survey the action. Khalika joins you, silent, her bone dirks dripping with ichor. The ogre, much like how it lived, dies slowly. Each little wound multipled, widened, rips and tears turning into gaping gouges and tattered, flayed hunks of wormy hide. A deep, gutteral groan clears the creature's maw as it begins to sway. ''"Make room!"'' You shout, signalling for those unaware to put space between themselves and the dying beast. It teeters, the fall slow but final, all that heavy weight plummeting forward and pitching towards the stained arena floor below. With a colossal thud, much to the crowd's audible delight, the ogre's body flattens out before you, shaking the very earth beneath your feet. [[The battle is won.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanked_executed]]

Your heart pounds deeply within your chest as you suffer the realization that your plan is not working. The frontline is faltering. You and your companions are untrained, under-equipped, expected to hold off an ogre's advance with bent spears and dented polearms. The last thing you want to do is overcommit and lose your entire force. You only get one shot at winning this battle and getting out of this damned arena alive. Turning a look over what remains of your formation, another sweep of the beast's limbs tossing a couple of your men into the air, you make the call: ''"FALL BACK! Withdraw and regroup, come on! Stay together!"'' Spit and saliva flies from your mouth, sweat spilling down your forehead, along with the thin trickle of blood from your fresh wound as Khalika helps you to your feet. The creature's steps rattle the earth, showering your tight formation with sand as it continues to advance atop long, lumbering steps. A few of your polebearers stand firm, shoulder-to-shoulder, jabbing up at the approaching abomination. Exchanging a short glance with Khalika, you know what you have to do, sallying forth to join them and approaching at an angle. It doesn't seem to notice you as of yet, distracted by the glistening spearheads near it's face and the occassional thud of a stone against it's fat, wormy hide. You take the opportunity to close in, diving forward with a quick, forward plunge of your gladius that manages to tear a thin, yet bloody slash into the flank of a leg. These wounds have to count for something, you think, however small but numerous. You don't linger to face it's wrath, turning on heel and crashing through the sands with the rest of your men, Khalika among them, earning yourself some distance and soon coming across an able-bodied slinger who has yet to retreat. ''"You,"'' You intone loudly, trying to speak above the defeaning pitch of the arena's spectators, ''"Run over to the other group. Tell them to keep some distance and harry the ogre with sticks and stones. We'll regroup and resume the attack with a better plan. Hurry, GO."'' The young lad drops a firm nod of assent and quickly races off to carry your orders to Gant's formation, leaving you to continue the retreat. Most of your companions have already put a fair amount of distance between themselves and the ogre, while a few linger back, effectively engaging in a running skirmish; most of them slingers or the odd spearman. Upon reaching the bulk of your group, Khalika steps forward to meet you, her dark, glossy flesh slick with sweat and those amber orbs keen on your visage, assessing you. ''"We can still win this"'' ''"I'm doing my best. But we need a plan to bring this to an end, without throwing away our lives. Ideally something that we can coordinate with the other group."'' Lifting your gaze, it seems that your message made it across, as most of Gant's group continues to linger at a safe distance, while some of his slingers and spearmen mimic your own formation's contribution, harrying the ogre and buying you more time to confer. ''"So. Any ideas?"'' <<if $mind >= 1>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. You wonder if your compatriots still have faith in your ability to command. Thankfully, a touch of divine inspiration surfaces within your mind. ''"We surround it,"'' You murmur, ''"From both sides."'' You raise your gaze once more, looking over your compatriots, ``"The Legion has a name for it... A pincer attack, I think. A group approaches from either flank, hits it hard, and envelops it completely."`` <<else>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. But your mind is blank, still overwhelmed by the adrenaline of battle and the cries of the crowd. Thankfully, Khalika speaks up, ''"A pincer attack."'' You look at her, head canting aside, ''"Our two groups attack from opposite sides and surround it."'' ''"I like it,"'' You breathe out, ensured by the development, ''"Simple but effective."''<</if>> ''"I think it's important that we stay mobile, no matter what, until we commit to a final push. We're smarter, faster and more numerous than this ogre, and that's how we'll win. Does everyone understand?"'' You're met by nods, hard gazes and voiced approval, "Then let's slay an ogre."'' [[You send the same messenger back to Gant's group to convey your strategy.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_pincer]]

<center><img src="images/chp1_khalika_arena2.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center>A thrust of bone dirks wounds the brute further. Stabbing and slashing, Khalika surges beneath the beast, drawing blood and flaying tattered flesh with precise, piercing attacks. She's nimble, strong too, making the ogre's thick hide look thin as paper. It tries to fight back, but before it can even lift a foot, Gant's flank smashes into the fray, rounds thunking heavily into meaty flesh, poles thrusting hard, a couple of brave souls with blades driving in close to score opportunistic blows. The half-orc throws herself beneath a raised leg, avoiding a thudding stomp and ducking beneath the line of your polearms to slip back into the safety of the formation. ''"Nice,"'' is all you can manage, almost instinctually, more of a breathy vocalization than an intentional statement on your part. You feel Khalika looking you over from the back and side, breathing heavily as well, the adrenaline of combat coursing through both of your veins. She doesn't speak a word, not yet, the graceful inclination of her chin all the response that you need. You know enough about her people to understand this; they respect warriors and those strong enough to lead. That's what you're doing here today. Taking your fate into your own hands. Living or dying according to your own capabilities. You understand that, along with your companions, and even the crowd in their own strange, voyeuristic way. Some cheer for you, others cry for blood and shattered bones, but they all understand that you're writing your own destiny in these arena sands. ''"We can finish this,"'' Khalika urges, voice low but firm, her fingers brushing gently against the rear of your shoulder as she awaits your response, those tusked lips plush and pursed intently. [[Let's end it.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanked]] <<ci stat>>

''"Then we shall."'' You briefly look aside, locking gazes with Khalika, who searches the depths of your eyes with her keen amber orbs. You feel doubly determined, now, to put an end to this oafish ogre who has already killed too many of your companions this day. Surveying the situation, you see Gant doing his best to keep the beast corralled as he applies pressure from the opposite side. The beast is surrounded and clearly wounded, overwhelmed, but it's still as dangerous as ever. A number of bodies litter the sands nearby, bent and broken, either caught under a foot when going on the offense or crushed by a massive, swinging arm that splintered their weapon and bones. Too slow or caught unaware, they won't be leaving this battle. But there's still the opportunity to avenge them. High above, surrounding the display in its totality, the crowd jeer and jostle from within the thick, crowded, and stacked depths of the arena stands. They certainly seem to be enjoying the show. A countless mass of dirty faces, unwashed ranks, that could have just as easily been in any one of your places. But closest to the arena floor, an entire level exists, that you observe, dedicated to the nobility. You can tell from the array of colors, the glimmer of silks and soft, dyed linen, the glossy glare of metal. Is this your life now? Putting on a performance for those who only regard you from above, as you dance with death? <<if $mobility >= 1>> [[I'll give them a ''fucking'' show.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanked_execution]] <<ci social>> <</if>> <<if (($might >= 1) && ($chp2_polearm)) || (($might >= 1) && ($chp2_sword))>> [[If it's blood they want, then blood they'll get.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanked_beheading]] <<ci social>> <</if>> [[Put an end to this. Kill the beast together.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanked_killbeast]] <<ci social>>

''"Do you trust me?"'' You turn back to Khalika, locking gazes. She eyes you steadily in return, her response brusque but with an edge of unconcealed curiosity, ''"Why else would I be following your lead? Ask what you need of me, $name."'' <<if $chp2_sword>> ''"One of your daggers,"'' You reply, dipping your chin down to indicate her dirks. She hands it over without hesitation, still searching your visage for your intentions. ''"Come with me. We need to get close... I'll get a running start and you'll help hoist me up--"'' She interjects boldly, ''"You're going to climb it?"'' ''"That's right. It's wounded, weakened, slower now. I intend to execute it and let everyone in this damned arena see what we're capable of."'' Her lips slowly pull at the corners, a smirk. ''"I knew you had warrior's blood flowing through your veins. If you die, die well. If you survive, you'll be a hero to all of us here."'' <<else>> ''"I need both of your daggers."'' You reply, dipping your chin down to indicate her dirks. She hands them over without hesitation, still searching your visage with her keen amber eyes as you ditch your other weapon and start to speak, ''"Come with me. We need to get close... I'll get a running start and you'll help hoist me up--"'' She interjects boldly, ''"You're going to climb it?"'' ''"That's right. It's wounded, weakened, slower now. I intend to execute it and let everyone in this damned arena see what we're capable of."'' Her lips slowly pull at the corners, a smirk. ''"I knew you had warrior's blood flowing through your veins. If you die, die well. If you survive, you'll be a hero to all of us here."'' <</if>> ''"I don't plan on dying. Not yet at least."'' You exchange another shared look with Khalika before the both of you step into action. ''"Listen up!"'' You bellow from within the formation, ''"We need to turn the beast around."'' Picking out an able-bodied slinger, a young lad with crooked teeth, you point across at Gant's grouping. ''"Run over there, tell them to get the ogre's attention. We're going in for the kill. Hurry!"'' The lad bobs a quick nod, his legs carrying him swiftly atop the sands, crossing the distance between formations as the battle ebbs and flows. Luckily, the ogre doesn't seem to have the will or means to break through the line of polearms from either side, as it slowly gets whittled away at by attacks. You might be able to chip away at the exhausted beast over the next half-hour with more stones, stabs and the occasional slash. But if you took that path, no one would remember your name. It's time to take destiny into your own hands. Sure enough, the beast's attention starts to swivel the opposite way and linger there, Gant concentrating the bulk of your forces to try and draw the creature in, while you order your formation to stay back and in-reserve for the time being. ''"Now,"'' You say, trading a look with the half-orc by your side, ''"Before I lose my nerve."'' Together, you tear past a sand-strewn corpse and close-in on the lumbering brute, with Khalika nimbly dropping to a knee and lacing together her hands for your approaching footfall. [[You take a running start, arms pumping, blades in hand.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanked_execution1]]

''"I say we make it bloody. We give the crowd what they want."'' You turn back to Khalika, locking gazes. She eyes you steadily in return, her lips slowly pulling at the corners in a faint smirk. ''"I knew you had warrior's blood flowing through your veins,"'' comes her response, low and impressed, her amber orbs intent upon your visage. Despite a lowly life as an orphan turned cobbler's apprentice, the way she looks at you, talks to you, makes you feel like //you are a warrior//. If only just for this moment. You exchange another shared look with Khalika before the both of you step into action. ''"Listen up!"'' You bellow from within the formation, ''"We need to turn the beast around."'' Picking out an able-bodied slinger, a young lad with crooked teeth and a rattail cut, you point across at Gant's grouping. ''"Run over there, tell them to get the ogre's attention. We're going in for the kill. Hurry!"'' The lad bobs a quick nod, his legs carrying him swiftly atop the sands, crossing the distance between formations as the battle ebbs and flows. Luckily, the ogre doesn't seem to have the will or means to break through the line of polearms from either side, as it slowly gets whittled away at by attacks. You might be able to chip away at the exhausted beast over the next half-hour with more stones, stabs and the occasional slash. But if you took that path, no one would remember your name. It's time to take destiny into your own hands. Sure enough, the beast's attention starts to swivel the opposite way and linger there, Gant concentrating the bulk of your forces to try and draw the creature in, while you order your formation to stay back and in-reserve for the time being. ''"We take out the legs,"'' You say, trading a look with the half-orc by your side, ''"You go left, I'll go right. We don't stop until it's dead."'' She nods decisively, lips pursed alongside her protruding teeth, ''"I'm beside you."'' [[Together, you tear past a sand-strewn corpse and close-in on the lumbering brute.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanked_beheading1]]

''"Let's finish this."'' <<set $arena_nickname to "Centurion">> You turn back to Khalika and find her gaze upon you. Eyes locked, shoulders back and stance steady, the half-orc gives a brusque response, ''"I'm with you."'' You muster the rest of your courage and finally turn, bellowing over the formation, ''"Listen up! We're going in for the kill."'' You look over your companions, expression resolute, before picking out an able-bodied slinger that you spot towards the back, a young lad with crooked teeth and a rattail cut. Pointing across as Gant's grouping, you convey your orders, ''"Run over there, tell them that we're going to apply pressure. Keep it trapped, squeeze it tight, and gut it. Alright? Hurry now."'' The lad bobs a quick nod, his legs carrying him swiftly atop the sands, crossing the distance between formations as the battle ebbs and flows. Luckily, the ogre doesn't seem to have the will or means to break through the line of polearms from either side, as it slowly gets whittled away at by attacks. You might be able to chip away at the exhausted beast over the next half-hour with more stones, stabs and the occasional slash. But if you took that path, no one would remember your name. It's time to take destiny into your own hands. Sure enough, you spot Gant giving you a wide, affirming wave in return before he starts to concentrate the bulk of his force, the tight formation slowly starting to press forth. ''"Now! Stand with me and grasp victory!"'' Drawing in a breath, you trade a look with the half-orc by your side, ''"Be careful."'' She gives you an easy winked response before slipping through the ranks, back towards the flank where she can do her best work. <<if $chp2_polearm>> Billhook in hand, standing amongst the thick of your men, you draw closer yet to fulfilling your purpose. ''"Ready! Pikes, UP! Forward!"'' Right now, you have the opportunity to lead by example and that's exactly what you intend to do. You slowly, steadily, step forward atop the sands, already within the beast's range beneath the line of glistening, crooked, crude polearms. Carefully picking your angle of attack, you spring forward and lunge with your polearm, upwards, right at the armpit of an outstretched arm. You throw all of your weight into the vicious plunge, the curved head of the bill impaling flesh and hooking sinew, tearing it free on the withdraw, accompanied by a gush of dark ichor from the ogre's soft, flabby pit. It turns, arm rearing, maw roaring, but you dig in with another hard thrust before yanking the weight of your pole back. ''"THRUST! Tighten up! Together now!"'' It's besieged on all sides, all of you working in unison as the beast slowly accumulates more gaping, leaking wounds. Each hard, meaty thunk of a stone audibly impacting the ogre draws out feral sounds, that of agitation and anger, though the rage is slowly giving away to pain. It's growing weaker. <<elseif $chp2_sword>> Gladius in hand, standing at the edge of the grouping, you draw closer yet to fulfilling your purpose. ''"Ready! Pikes, UP! Forward!"'' You bring your sword down, signalling the advance and slowly, steadily, stepping forward atop the sands. The lot of you are already within the beast's range, between the line of glistening, crooked, crude polearms. Right now, you have the opportunity to lead by example and that's exactly what you intend to do. Waiting for the right opportunity as the ranks close in, you suddenly spring forth and take a wide, downward slash at the ogre's nearest knee. You immediately and forcefully cut in the opposite direction, rending the brute's flesh once more and staining their fat, wormy pale leg with another spill of ichor. That limb finally rears upwards in response, stamping down at you, but slow enough for you to create distance and avoid the shower of sand that soon follows. It's besieged on all sides, all of you working in unison as the beast slowly accumulates more gaping, leaking wounds. Each hard, meaty thunk of a stone audibly impacting the ogre draws out feral sounds, that of agitation and anger, though the rage is slowly giving away to pain. It's growing weaker. ''"THRUST! Tighten up! Together now!"'' <<else>> Sling in hand, you take up position in the rear of the formation once more, intent on fulfilling your purpose. ''"Ready!"'' You call to the front, ''"Pikes, UP! Forward!"'' From back here, you can better observe the situation, shout orders and carefully pick your aimed shots, free of the beast's attention for the most part. That's exactly what you do, waiting for the right opportunity and building up momentum with your loaded sling at your side, before suddenly taking a leading step and launching a round at the ogre's skull, trying to focus on equal parts force and technique. The crack of stone against bone resounds, leaving one of the ogre's eyesockets visibly dented, malformed, the beady eye heavy and nearly sagging loose. Yet it still stands, bellowing in response, a feral sound, that of agitation and anger. Unfortunately for it, the rage is slowly giving away to pain. ''"THRUST! Tighten up! Together now!"'' It's growing weaker, beseiged on all sides, all of you working in unison to deliver wounds that whittle away at the beast's constitution. <</if>> [[End it.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanked_killbeast1]]

<<set $arena_nickname to "Ascender">> \ You come in hard, trying to keep all of your momentum as your last long stride places your foot into the palm of Khalika's hands, the perfect platform for you to propel yourself upwards. Your muscles tense, leaping up as the half-orc beneath you helps leverage your weight into the movement. In that moment of anticipation, adrenaline surging through you, all you can see is the ogre's pale, thick scarred hide directly before your eyes. That's when you dig in. //Thunk, thunk//, both of your blades embedded deeply in the creature's wide, wormy back, leaving you to cling onto your weapon's hilts as the beast recoils. It turns and jerks aside, the movement swinging you along behind, it's massive arms and bloody, clawed paws trying to reach back and remove you. Luckily, it can't reach you here at the mid-back; so with your teeth grit, you yank a blade free only to plunge it back into the beast, higher, starting your ascent as a thick trail of blood spills past your hands. ''"GET THAT FUCKER!"'' You hear Gant's loud, raspy screams, even amongst the sudden shrill pitch of the crowd as they watch the display before them unfold. That's right, you think, //witness me//. They all came for a show after all, did they not? You continue your climb with murderous intent, keeping your body close and tight, each plunge of your blades drawing more blood and earning increasingly erratic responses from the big beast beneath you. You narrowly duck to avoid a swipe of the beast's paw, only now realizing that it might be able to reach you as you've nearly crested the creature's back. You dig your toes into the ogre's spongy flesh and pull a dirk free, hoisting yourself up and burying the blade once more with a brutal, downward plunge into the top of a shoulder. It tries to fight back, but your compatriots are keeping it distracted, whittling away at its legs and thick body with a relentless attack. It's dying and you're going to put this forsaken animal out of its misery. <<if $chp2_sword>> Anticipating another swing of the beast's claws, you pull your gladius free from torn flesh, the blade dark and gristly with a thick coat of blood oozing down the hilt to coat your grasping digits. You see the arc of it's massive forearm and throw your weight into a swing. A deep, grating groan escapes the ogre as your gladius separates several more fat fingers from the creature's hand. <</if>> Cheers erupt as you drag yourself up further atop your faltering prey, propped up between its shoulders and atop its traps, before crossing your blades in an X shape at the front of it's throat. You don't hesitate, knowing it would've torn your flesh from the bone and swallowed you whole given the opportunity. No, not today. The sharp, gnarled bone of your blades tears open it's tender throat as you drag them across, spilling even more blood onto the sands and across the ogre's fat, corpulent front. It staggers, wobbling, slow to die - much like how it lived. But before it teeters over and starts to plummet towards the arena floor, you brace your feet against it's back and finally, with a murmured curse, kick off. You realize that it's not a small drop as you're hurtling down back towards the earth, but you keep your knees bent and let your blades go. Hitting hard, you try to roll, the sand lessening the impact. Khalika's there to grab your hand, pulling you away blindly until you //feel// and hear the colossal thud of the ogre's body flattening out. [[And you... you're alive.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanked_executed]]

It's over. You gaze upon the spectators, thousands of them; cheering, chanting, crying for more. High above, the mists and warm vapors of Cradle mingle with the open sky, an etheral gaze that gives you another glimpse at Dosmera. Untouchable, unforgettable, that's how you feel at this very moment, bathing in the resounding applause of the stadium. You feel alive, that much is certain. Your companions can't help but celebrate, too. Exhausted, the lot of them, covered in blood and bruises. But they jump, jostle about and congratulate each other all the same. Gant finds you amidst the crowd, teeth bared and lips pulled taut in a wolfish grin. He claps a hand atop your back and pulls you into a hug, ''"That was fuckin' swell. Real swell work. I didn't think we were makin' it outta here, pal, let alone felling an ogre!"'' He lapses into silence, lips tilted still as he peers past you. ''"I think someone else has words for ya, mate." "Is that right?"'' You turn and find your gaze settling onto Khalika. The half-orc's supple arms are folded comfortably, despite the grit and grime that covers her, amber eyes creased in mild amusement: ''"Don't stop on my behalf."'' You gesture between them, ''"Gant, Khalika. Khalika, Gant."'' Gant keeps grinning, ''"Y'know how to handle yourself, Khalika. First time I cin' say I'm glad to know a greenskin."'' She snorts in response, and you can't help but wonder whether she'd gut him if the circumstances were less... favorable. ''"You did well yourself, Gant."'' But her gaze soon returns to you, lingering. It feels as though there's more she would say, if there was time. [[A thunderous voice calls out over the sands.|chp2_arena_finale]] <<bgmstop 6>> \

<<set $arena_nickname to "Bloodied">> \ Right behind the knees lay flesh tender and ripe for your blade. Still thicker than the skin on any particular part of your body, for the ogre it's a softspot and you plan on taking advantage of it. While there's still the risk of being stomped, crushed or killed, the beast has definitely slowed and you should be able to do enough damage, quickly enough, to avoid the consequences. <<if $chp2_sword>> You draw in a shaky breath, adrenaline coursing within and throughout your body, amping you up. You feel more alive now than perhaps ever before, even with the chance for death lingering closely. That's not going to stop you today. You sally forth, light on your feet, nary kicking up a grain of sand as you carefully pick the angle of your initial slash. With a shout to Khalika, ''"Now!"'' you deliver a vicious strike. The bone blade of your gladius rips flesh and tears rubbery sinewy free, a gush of blood from the ogre's knee immediately rewarding your effort. But it'll take more than that to fell such a beast. You hack, cut and slash down harder into the quickly expanding wound, flesh peeling back and hanging loose before the creature can even react. It lifts the leg in response, but your companion is doing much the same, cutting and thrusting hard with her dirks to carve out a nasty wound on the opposite leg. Still pelted by rocks and prodded by your compatriot's arms, the ogre tries to turn, swivel, stooping low to swipe at you. You sway backwards, narrowly avoiding it's big, clawed paw. But there's another swing coming directly for you. Almost by instinct, you take a two-handed grip on your sword and hack at the incoming attack, separating several of it's fat, meaty fingers from it's hand. A deep, grating groan escapes the wounded beast, likely dying, with torn remnants clinging to the blade of your gladius; dark and gristly, covered with thick blood that oozes down the hilt to coat your grasping digits. The beast starts to teeter on its torn knees, the fall slow but final, all that heavy weight plummeting forward towards the stained sands below. With a colossal thud, much to the arena's audible delight, the ogre's body flattens out before you, shaking the very ground beneath your feet. Your broad chest heaving, sand and blood painting your face, you lift your gladius overhead and bring it down, hacking at the back of the ogre's neck to prove a point. More blood and bile sprays, each heavy overhead swing separating the beast's head further from it's body. Until, planting your foot firmly against it's skull, you kick it free and send a cranium the size of a large man's chest rolling, maw wide, for the crowd to see. <<elseif $chp2_polearm>> You draw in a shaky breath, adrenaline coursing within and throughout your body, amping you up. You feel more alive now than perhaps ever before, even with the chance for death lingering closely. That's not going to stop you today. You sally forth, light on your feet despite the weight of the billhook in your hands. And when you come near, you take a moment to carefully pick the angle of your initial thrust. With a shout to Khalika, ''"Now!"'' you throw all over your weight into a vicious plunge of your polearm. The curved head of the bill impales flesh and hooks rubbery sinewy, tearing it free on the withdraw, accompanied by a gush of blood from the ogre's fat knee that immediately rewards your efforts. But it'll take more than that to fell such a beast. You thrust once more, twice, gashing down hard and sundering apart the quickly expanding wound, with pale flesh peeled back and hanging loose before the creature can even react. It lifts the leg in response, but your companion is doing much the same, cutting and thrusting hard with her dirks to carve out a nasty wound on the opposite leg. Still pelted by rocks and prodded by your compatriot's arms, the ogre tries to turn, swivel, stooping low to swipe at you. You sway backwards, narrowly avoiding it's big, clawed paw. But there's another swing coming directly for you. Almost by instinct, you swing your billhook and hack at the incoming attack, luckily separating several of it's fat, meaty fingers through sheer force. A deep, grating groan escapes the wounded beast, likely dying, with torn remnants clinging to the head of your billhook; dark and gristly, covered with thick blood that oozes down the shaft. The arena roars, an endless, deafening pitch, as much like a massive tree being felled, the ogre begins to teeter over and collapse upon itself. Unable to stand, the sands shake as the beast falls to its knees. You don't hesitate, knowing it would've torn your flesh from the bone and swallowed you whole given the opportunity. No, not today. You gather your strength and lunge forward before the ogre can grasp or grab you, swinging your billhook in a high, upward cleave that rips the creature's throat open and puts a dent in it's protruding jaw. Even more blood spills onto the sands and across the ogre's fat, corpulent front, much to the arena's delight. And finally, the beast collapses forward with a jarring thud that shakes the ground beneath you. <</if>> [[It's over. And you're alive.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanked_executed]]

For every ounce of strength and size, the ogre doesn't seem to have a chance when trapped between two much more numerous, well-organized and armed formations. There's a reason that humans control Cradle and not the greenskins or giantfolk. The Sorcerer-King has three Legions that are well-capable of dominating any battlefield. They have the best arms, armour, training and tactics in the known world. And while you didn't have any of that at your disposal here today, one could say that the same principles aided your efforts nonetheless. This is your Legion, and you're the Centurion. Your compatriots hoot and holler, shouted orders given by you, and your friend Gant across the way, as both groups put increasing pressure on the trapped feral. More stones impact it, leaving welts, breaking flesh and jostling bones. The polearms search for softspots; the neck, underarms, knees, it's belly, those accumulating wounds leaking blood readily. The creature's wide, winding swipes begin to falter. It's as good as dead and the crowd is crying out, high above, for death. Your companions smell the beast's weakness and you don't even have to signal the advance. They all apply pressure, moving in, stepping calmly forward through the sands yourself as you survey the action. Khalika joins you, silent, her bone dirks dripping with ichor. The ogre, much like how it lived, dies slowly. Each little wound multipled, widened, rips and tears turning into gaping gouges and tattered, flayed hunks of wormy hide. A deep, gutteral groan clears the creature's maw as it begins to sway. ''"Make room!"'' You shout, signalling for those unaware to put space between themselves and the dying beast. It teeters, the fall slow but final, all that heavy weight plummeting forward and pitching towards the stained arena floor below. With a colossal thud, much to the crowd's audible delight, the ogre's body flattens out before you, shaking the very earth. [[The battle is won.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanked_executed]]

<center><img src="images/skeleton1.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> You met your match in the sands of Cradle's grandest colosseum. Thousands watched you live, fight and die, heaving your final breath beneath the dim violet glow of Dosmera. Your bones, broken and mangled, linger in the sands... forgotten. One day, they're swept up along with the remains of some of your companions and hauled into the catacombs; your final resting place. The question is, if you could live another life and make new decisions, what would you change? [[Your soul reignites.|gladiator_teaser]] <<bgmstop 6>> <<notify "Momento Mori" "This life has come to an end.<br>Now, once more into the breach." "warn" "scroll" 15000>>\

<div id="layout-wrapper"> <div id="bg-overlay"></div> <div id="sidebar"> <div class="sidebar-header"> <div></div> <h1 class="story-title" data-passage="gameTitle"></h1> <div class="sidebar-toggle"> <span id="sidebar-toggle-icon" class="lnr lnr-menu-circle"></span> </div> </div> <div class="sidebar-history-nav"> <span id="backwards-button" class="lnr lnr-arrow-left" aria-label="Back"></span> <span id="forwards-button" class="lnr lnr-arrow-right" aria-label="Forward"></span> </div> <div id="sidebar-body"> <div class="story-logo" data-passage="storyLogo"></div> <h2 class="story-author" data-passage="storyAuthor"></h2> <nav class="sidebar-nav"> <ul class="story-tools"> <li> <span id="restart-button" class="lnr lnr-redo" data-tooltip="Restart your story."></span> </li> <li> <span id="saves-button" class="lnr lnr-download" data-tooltip="Preserve your legend."></span> </li> <li> <span id="settings-button" class="lnr lnr-cog" data-tooltip="Etch the rules."> </span> </li> </ul> <ul class="story-menu" data-passage="storyMenu"></ul> </nav> <div class="sidebar-orb-shrine"> <div class="orb-container"> <div class="orb-pulse-ring"></div> <div class="orb-scale-wrapper"> <img class="orb-rune-bg" src="images/runecircle.webp" alt="Magical Sigil Ring" /> </div> <div class="orb-layout"> <img id="orb1" class="orb-image" src="images/orb1.webp" data-tooltip="Mirror of Self" onclick="OpenShrine('mirror_of_self');" /> <img id="orb2" class="orb-image" src="images/orb2.webp" data-tooltip="Soul Ledger" onclick="OpenShrine('soul_ledger');" /> <img id="orb3" class="orb-image" src="images/orb3.webp" data-tooltip="Chronicles" onclick="OpenShrine('soul_chronicle');" /> </div> </div> <p class="orb-label">choose your path</p> </div> </div> </div> <div id="story-wrapper" role="main"> <div id="passages"> <div id="passage-start" data-passage="start" class="passage"></div> </div> </div> </div> <div id="custom-tooltip" class="gothic-tooltip"></div>

<<nobr>>  <</nobr>>

<center><img src="images/character_info.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"><h2>Character Sheet</h2> Your Might is <<print $might>>. Your Mobility is <<print $mobility>>. Your Mind is <<print $mind>>. <<if $intro_tome is true>> You are in possession of an ancient tome.<</if>> </center> <center><<return "Return to the game.">></center>

!Stat page 2 Your stats go here..  <center><<link "Return to game" $return>><</link>></center>

<<cacheaudio "jellyfish" "music/jellyfish.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "elgothic" "music/elgothic.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "shallows" "music/shallows.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "drips-of-blood" "music/drips-of-blood.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "prepare-to-die" "music/prepare-to-die.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "the-wanderer" "music/the-wanderer.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "lonely-darkness" "music/lonely-darkness.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "antagonist" "music/antagonist.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "road-to-nowhere" "music/road-to-nowhere.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "bad-era" "music/bad-era.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "no-love" "music/no-love.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "mysterious-music-box" "music/mysterious-music-box.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "sunny-stars" "music/sunny-stars.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "traces-to-nowhere" "music/traces-to-nowhere.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "calm-harp" "music/calm-harp.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "please-calm-my-mind" "music/please-calm-my-mind.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "street-fight" "music/street-fight.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "cosmic_unity" "music/cosmic_unity.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "hackney-coach" "music/hackney-coach.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "gothic-techno" "music/gothic-techno.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "gasp" "music/gasp.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "dreamy-laugh" "music/dreamy-laugh.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "geomorph" "music/geomorph.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "guard-grunt" "music/guard-grunt.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "runningbreath" "music/runningbreath.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "fire-woosh" "music/fire-woosh.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "footsteps-running" "music/footsteps-running.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "bass-pulse" "music/bass-pulse.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "tavern-dice" "music/tavern-dice.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "pitfall" "music/pitfall.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "door-knock" "music/door-knock.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "door-close" "music/door-close.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "door-knock-deep" "music/door-knock-deep.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "door-open-close" "music/door-open-close.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "heavy-door-open" "music/heavy-door-open.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "dog-growl" "music/dog-growl.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "dishes-fall" "music/dishes-fall.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "exhale" "music/exhale.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "double_lightning" "music/double_lightning.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "wind-blowing" "music/wind-blowing.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "tight-breath" "music/tight-breath.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "fart" "music/fart.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "whip" "music/whip.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "swoosh" "music/swoosh.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "girl-scream" "music/girl-scream.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "achievement_unlocked" "music/achievement_unlocked.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "ritual-hover" "music/ritual-hover.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "glass-clink" "music/glass-clink.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "page-turn" "music/page-turn.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "heartbeat" "music/heartbeat.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "heartbeat2" "music/heartbeat2.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "dark-boom" "music/dark-boom.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "warrior-roar" "music/warrior-roar.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "epic-whoosh" "music/epic-whoosh.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "electric-pulse" "music/electric-pulse.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "electro-impact" "music/electro-impact.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "slap1" "music/slap1.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "slap2" "music/slap2.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "smoking" "music/smoking.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "money-bag" "music/money-bag.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "dice-rattle" "music/dice-rattle.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "dice-land" "music/dice-land.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "cloth-rustle" "music/cloth-rustle.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "knight-1" "music/knight-1.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "knight-2" "music/knight-2.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "knight-3" "music/knight-3.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "knight-4" "music/knight-4.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "bastard-1" "music/bastard-1.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "bastard-2" "music/bastard-2.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "bastard-3" "music/bastard-3.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "cowboy-1" "music/cowboy-1.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "cowboy-2" "music/cowboy-2.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "cowboy-3" "music/cowboy-3.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "cowboy-4" "music/cowboy-4.mp3">> <<waitforaudio>> <<set $might to 0>> <<set $mobility to 0>> <<set $mind to 0>> <<set $cowboy to 0>> <<set $bastard to 0>> <<set $knight to 0>> <<set $archetype to "none">> <<set $cowboyPercent = 0>> <<set $bastardPercent = 0>> <<set $knightPercent = 0>> <<set $dominant = "none">> <<set $char_archetype = null, $char_title = "", $char_height = null, $char_build = null, $char_hairstyle = null, $char_scar = null, $char_tattoo = null, $char_voice = null, $char_cock = null >> <<set $intro_mirror to false>> <<set $intro_window to false>> <<set $intro_cabinet to false>> <<set $intro_workbench to false>> <<set $intro_smoked to false>> <<set $left_pit to false>> <<set $intro_goblinfuck to false>> <<set $intro_goblinout_cowboy to false>> <<set $intro_goblinin_cowboy to false>> <<set $intro_goblinout_bastard to false>> <<set $intro_goblinin_bastard to false>> <<set $leoris_apartment_highstrip_dominate to false>> <<set $chp2_lyco_dmg = 0>> <<set $chp2_fight_dmg = 0>> <<set $calienne_stare to false>> <<set $bloodglass_bead to false>> <<set $bead_pulses to 0>> <<set $bead_suspicion to 0>> <<set $chp2_slave_escort_choice = "">> /* PRIVATE AUDIENCE — ENCOUNTER COMPLETION AND FREEROAM STATE */ <<set $pa_map = { livia: false, alesia: false, sibylla: false, khalika: false, stavrick: false, gant: false, suyen: false, novia: false, dancers: false, gambling: false, door: false, finished: false, zone: "middle", closing: "" }>>\ <<set $pa_livia_test = "">> <<set $pa_livia_asked_banquet = false>> <<set $pa_livia_asked_auction = false>> <<set $pa_livia_asked_husband = false>> <<set $pa_livia_asked_freedom = false>> <<set $pa_livia_court_response = "">>\ <<set $pa_suyen_first_impression = "">>\ <<set $pa_khalika_response = "">> <<set $pa_khalika_favorite = "">> <<set $pa_gant_response = "">> <<set $pa_alesia_first_impression = "">> <<set $pa_alesia_asked_cosmas = false>> <<set $pa_alesia_asked_firestarter = false>> <<set $pa_alesia_asked_livia = false>> <<set $pa_stavrick_approach = "">> <<set $pa_sibylla_approach = "">> <<set $pa_sibylla_offer = "">> <<set $pa_novia_approach = "">> <<set $pa_novia_response = "">> <<set $pa_novia_impression = "">> /* PRIVATE AUDIENCE — GAMBLING TABLE ("Three Bones"). Default only: setup.gamble.init() rebuilds this when the match starts. */ <<set $pa_gamble = { mc: 0, mer: 0, hand: 0, callAt: 10, bluffCaught: false, raiseTaught: false, sudden: false, suddenUsed: false, cur: null, last: null, pending: null, strip: null, result: "", peeked: 0, pressed: false, queue: [], qi: 0, seen: {} }>> <<set $audience_sibylla_bold_honor to false>> <<set $audience_sibylla_subtle_honor to false>> <<set $audience_sibylla_subtle_danger to false>> <<set $chp3_privateaudience_dik = 0>> /% 0,1,2 %/ <<set $arena_nickname = "">> /% "Bloodied","Ascender","Centurion","Huntsman" %/ <<set $khalika_banquet = "none">> /% "cowboy","bastard","knight","none" %/ <<set $khalikacell = false>> <<set $khalika_cell_approach = "">> <<set $khalika_cell_kiss = false>> <<set $khalika_cell_him = false>> <<set $khalika_cell_her = false>> <<set $khalika_closer_intimate = false>> <<set $khalika_closer_position = "">> <<set $khalika_closer_finish = "">> <<set $audience_raven_submissive to false>> <<set $audience_raven_dominant to false>> <<set $raven_submissive = false>> <<set $raven_dominant = false>> <<set $pa_raven_approach = "">> /% "cowboy", "bastard", "knight" %/ <<set $pa_raven_dynamic = "">> /% "mc_leads", "raven_leads" %/ <<set $pa_raven_finish = "">> /% "inside", "outside" %/ <<set $chp3_ludus_balcony_raven to false>> <<set $chp3_tanae_intimacy to null>> <<set $chp3_tanae_mood to null>> <<set $chp3_stavrick_mood to "none">> <<set $chp3_stavrick_outcome to "nofight">> <<set $chp3_stavrickhp = 0>> <<set $chp3_momentum = 0>> <<set $auction_presentation = "">> <<set $auction_presentation_target = "">> <<set $favor_livia = 0>> <<set $favor_alesia = 0>> <<set $favor_novia = 0>> <<set $favor_sibylla = 0>> <<set $highestFavor = 0>> <<set $auction_winner to "None">> <<set $chp3_edgewatch_escape_blade to "">> <<set $chp3_feast_gant_visit = false>> <<set $chp3_ludus_statGained = false>> <<set $chp3_highrock_statGained = false>> <<set $chp3_ludus_stat = null>> <<set $chp3_highrock_stat = null>> <<set $artifactsHeld to []>> <<set $artifactName to { intro_tome: "🕮 //an unreadable tome//", bloodglass_bead: "🩸 //a veined bloodglass bead the color of clotting wine//" }>> <<script>> window.updateArchetype = function () { const v = State.variables; const c = v.cowboy|0, b = v.bastard|0, k = v.knight|0; const t = c + b + k || 1; v.cowboyPercent = Math.round((c / t) * 10000) / 100; v.bastardPercent = Math.round((b / t) * 10000) / 100; v.knightPercent = Math.round((k / t) * 10000) / 100; const max = Math.max(c, b, k); const ties = [(c===max), (b===max), (k===max)].filter(Boolean).length; v.dominant = (c+b+k===0) ? "none" : (ties>1 ? "balanced" : (max===c ? "cowboy" : max===b ? "bastard" : "knight")); }; <</script>> /* StoryInit (SugarCube) */ Setting.addToggle("passageFade", { label: "Passage fade-in animation", default: true, onChange: function (val) { document.documentElement.classList.toggle("no-passage-fade", !val); } }); /* Apply once on load so the first passage respects it */ if (!settings.passageFade) { document.documentElement.classList.add("no-passage-fade"); } <<widget "gainCowboy">> <<set $cowboy += 1>> <<run updateArchetype()>> <</widget>> <<widget "gainBastard">> <<set $bastard += 1>> <<run updateArchetype()>> <</widget>> <<widget "gainKnight">> <<set $knight += 1>> <<run updateArchetype()>> <</widget>> /* ===================== HARROWING WIDGETS ===================== */ <<widget "HarrowAct">> <<set _act = $args[0]>> <<set _sub = $args[1] ?? "">> /* Universal hunger decay — every action costs you */ <<set $harrowing_hunger_current -= 1>> /* Zero Rest — body is running on fumes; all actions cost an extra Hunger */ <<if $harrowing_rest_current lte 0>> <<set $harrowing_hunger_current -= 1>> <</if>> <<switch _act>> <<case "rest">> /* Rest gain scales with Might: base +4, Might 1 = +5, Might 2 = +6 */ <<set _restGain = 4>> <<if $might gte 2>> <<set _restGain = 6>> <<elseif $might gte 1>> <<set _restGain = 5>> <</if>> <<set $harrowing_rest_current += _restGain>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "You fold into the cot. The stone stays cold. Your body steals what rest it can.">> <<case "meditate">> /* Depleted (≤ 5 Rest) — too exhausted to concentrate at all; blocked */ <<if $harrowing_rest_current lte 5>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "You try to still your mind. Your body won't cooperate. Exhaustion has taken the floor.">> <<else>> <<set _meditFocus = 3>> <<if $mind gte 2>><<set _meditFocus += 2>><</if>> <<if $mind gte 1>><<set _meditFocus += 1>><</if>> /* Fatigued (≤ 10 Rest) — exhaustion bleeds into focus; -1 to gain */ <<if $harrowing_rest_current lte 10>><<set _meditFocus -= 1>><</if>> <<set $harrowing_focus_current += _meditFocus>> <<set $harrowing_rest_current -= 2>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "You sit upright and try to hold your mind still. Hunger complains. The silence answers.">> <</if>> <<case "listen">> <<set $harrowing_rest_current -= 1>> <<set $harrowing_awareness_current += 2>> <<if $harrowing_rest_current lte 9>> /* Fatigued — counter does NOT advance. Static frayed fallback. */ <<set $harrowing_last_result = "You press your ear to the stone. The sounds are there. Your mind is too frayed to hold them.">> <<else>> <<set $harrowing_focus_current += 1>> <<HarrowListenEvent>> <</if>> <<case "search">> <<set $harrowing_rest_current -= 1>> <<set $harrowing_awareness_current -= 1>> /* d20 roll + modifiers */ <<set _roll = random(1, 20)>> <<set _mobBonus = ($mobility >= 2) ? 4 : ($mobility >= 1) ? 2 : 0>> <<set _wardBonus = ($harrowing_ward_remaining > 0) ? $harrowing_ward_bonus : 0>> /* High Rest (≥ 15 before drain — check ≥ 14 post-drain) */ <<set _restBonus = ($harrowing_rest_current >= 14) ? 2 : 0>> <<set _finalRoll = _roll + _mobBonus + _wardBonus + _restBonus>> <<if _sub is "food">> /* --- Search: Food --- 6- : nothing 7-10 : scraps (+2H gross / +1 net), forced 11-12: scraps, optional 13-14: small cache (+3H / +2 net), forced 15-16: small cache, optional 17-18: decent cache (+4H / +3 net), forced 19-20: decent cache, optional 21-23: big cache (+6H / +5 net), forced 24+ : big cache, optional */ <<if _finalRoll lte 6>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "Nothing. Grit, cold stone, the smell of old water. The cell keeps its secrets today.">> <<else>> /* Find quality */ <<if _finalRoll lte 12>> <<set _foodFindGain = 2>> <<set _foodFindDesc = "Scraps — barely enough to count.">> <<elseif _finalRoll lte 16>> <<set _foodFindGain = 3>> <<set _foodFindDesc = "A small cache hidden under loose stone.">> <<elseif _finalRoll lte 20>> <<set _foodFindGain = 4>> <<set _foodFindDesc = "Enough. More than you expected.">> <<else>> <<set _foodFindGain = 6>> <<set _foodFindDesc = "A hidden store — carefully wrapped, preserved.">> <</if>> /* Encounter type selection */ <<set _encRoll = random(1, 10)>> <<if $harrowing_bell lte 6>> <<set $harrowing_enc_type = (_encRoll lte 6) ? "classmate" : "rat">> <<else>> <<set $harrowing_enc_type = (_encRoll lte 5) ? "classmate" : "rat">> <</if>> /* Optional bands: 11-12, 15-16, 19-20, 24+ */ <<if (_finalRoll >= 11 and _finalRoll <= 12) or (_finalRoll >= 15 and _finalRoll <= 16) or (_finalRoll >= 19 and _finalRoll <= 20) or _finalRoll >= 24>> /* Optional — store find state, fire animation */ <<set $harrowing_search_hunger_gain = _foodFindGain>> <<set $harrowing_search_art_choice = false>> <<set $harrowing_search_find_desc = _foodFindDesc + " Something stirs nearby. Take it and go — or press for more.">> <<set $harrowing_encounter_pending = true>> <<set $harrowing_encounter_forced = false>> <<set $harrowing_encounter_sub = "food">> <<set $harrowing_last_result = $harrowing_search_find_desc>> <<else>> /* Forced — store find state, fire animation */ <<set $harrowing_search_hunger_gain = _foodFindGain>> <<set $harrowing_search_art_choice = false>> <<set $harrowing_search_find_desc = _foodFindDesc>> <<set $harrowing_encounter_pending = true>> <<set $harrowing_encounter_forced = true>> <<set $harrowing_encounter_sub = "food">> <</if>> <</if>> <<elseif _sub is "artifact">> /* --- Search: Artifact --- 9- : nothing 10-15: random artifact, forced 16-18: random artifact, optional 19-22: choice artifact, forced 23+ : choice artifact, optional */ <<if _finalRoll lte 9>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "Nothing. You press every stone, trace every seam. The cell has been picked clean by whoever came before.">> <<else>> /* Find quality */ <<if _finalRoll lte 18>> <<set _artFindChoice = false>> <<set _artFindDesc = "A component lodged in the stone. Someone else knows it's here.">> <<else>> <<set _artFindChoice = true>> <<set _artFindDesc = "Three components within reach. You know this cell now — and you're not alone.">> <</if>> /* Encounter type selection */ <<set _encRoll = random(1, 10)>> <<if $harrowing_bell lte 6>> <<set $harrowing_enc_type = (_encRoll lte 6) ? "classmate" : "rat">> <<else>> <<set $harrowing_enc_type = (_encRoll lte 5) ? "classmate" : "rat">> <</if>> /* Optional bands: 16-18, 23+ */ <<if (_finalRoll >= 16 and _finalRoll <= 18) or _finalRoll >= 23>> /* Optional — store find state, fire animation */ <<set $harrowing_search_hunger_gain = 0>> <<set $harrowing_search_art_choice = _artFindChoice>> <<set $harrowing_search_find_desc = _artFindDesc + " Take it and go — or press for more.">> <<set $harrowing_encounter_pending = true>> <<set $harrowing_encounter_forced = false>> <<set $harrowing_encounter_sub = "artifact">> <<set $harrowing_last_result = $harrowing_search_find_desc>> <<else>> /* Forced — store find state, fire animation */ <<set $harrowing_search_hunger_gain = 0>> <<set $harrowing_search_art_choice = _artFindChoice>> <<set $harrowing_search_find_desc = _artFindDesc>> <<set $harrowing_encounter_pending = true>> <<set $harrowing_encounter_forced = true>> <<set $harrowing_encounter_sub = "artifact">> <</if>> <</if>> <<else>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "You search. The cell watches back.">> <</if>> <<case "cast">> /* --- Tier derivation --- */ <<set _spellVar = "harrowing_spell_" + _sub>> <<set _castCount = State.variables[_spellVar] ?? 0>> /* Food: II@3, III@6, IV@9, V@12 — Ward/Spark: II@2, III@4, IV@6, V@8 */ <<if _sub is "food">> <<set _tier = (_castCount >= 12) ? 4 : (_castCount >= 9) ? 3 : (_castCount >= 6) ? 2 : (_castCount >= 3) ? 1 : 0>> <<else>> <<set _tier = (_castCount >= 8) ? 4 : (_castCount >= 6) ? 3 : (_castCount >= 4) ? 2 : (_castCount >= 2) ? 1 : 0>> <</if>> /* --- Artifact gate (Journeyman+ requires a component) --- */ <<set _needsArtifact = (_tier >= 2)>> <<if _sub is "food">> <<set _artAvail = $harrowing_artifacts.shard>> <<set _artName = "Resonant Shard">> <<elseif _sub is "spark">> <<set _artAvail = $harrowing_artifacts.charbone>> <<set _artName = "Char-Bone">> <<else>> <<set _artAvail = $harrowing_artifacts.thread>> <<set _artName = "Sealed Thread">> <</if>> <<set _isCapped = _needsArtifact and (_artAvail lte 0)>> <<set _effectiveTier = _isCapped ? 1 : _tier>> /* Capped: fires at Apprentice effect, cast count does NOT advance */ <<if _sub is "food">> /* ----- Summon Food ----- */ /* Hunger gain, h-cost, f-cost all derived from effective tier */ /* Tier: 0 1 2 3 4 */ /* Gain: [ 2, 3, 5, 7, 11] */ /* HCost: [ 1, 1, 1, 1, 0] */ /* FCost: [ 1, 1, 2, 3, 5] */ /* Net: [ 0, +1, +3, +5, +10] (after universal -1) */ <<set _foodGain = [2, 3, 5, 7, 11][_effectiveTier]>> <<set _foodHCost = (_effectiveTier >= 4) ? 0 : 1>> <<set _foodFCost = (_effectiveTier + 1)>> <<set $harrowing_focus_current -= _foodFCost>> <<set $harrowing_hunger_current += (_foodGain - _foodHCost)>> <<set $harrowing_rest_current -= 1>> /* Consume artifact on full-tier cast */ <<if _needsArtifact and not _isCapped>> <<set $harrowing_artifacts.shard -= 1>> <</if>> /* Result text */ <<if _isCapped>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "You reach for the full form of the working and it slips — the component isn't there. You eat what comes. Apprentice work, and you feel the shortfall.">> <<set _capMsg = "A " + _artName + " was needed to reach Journeyman effect.">> <<notify "Wizardry" _capMsg "warn" "scroll" 5500>> <<elseif _effectiveTier is 0>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "You attempt the summoning. Something comes — barely. It is not enough to stop the ache.">> <<elseif _effectiveTier is 1>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "The spell holds long enough. A small weight in your hands. You eat without looking at it.">> <<elseif _effectiveTier is 2>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "The procedure runs clean. What arrives is real. The cell smells different for a moment.">> <<elseif _effectiveTier is 3>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "You call and it answers. The effort is almost nothing. The food is real and enough.">> <<else>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "You barely think the working and it is done. Hunger is a problem you have solved.">> <</if>> <<elseif _sub is "spark">> /* ----- Spark ----- */ <<set $harrowing_focus_current -= 1>> <<set $harrowing_rest_current -= 1>> /* Rest gain: +1 at Novice/Apprentice (effective tier 0–1), +2 at Journeyman+ */ <<set _sparkRestGain = (_effectiveTier >= 2) ? 2 : 1>> <<set $harrowing_rest_current += _sparkRestGain>> <<if _needsArtifact and not _isCapped>> <<set $harrowing_artifacts.charbone -= 1>> /* Full Journeyman+ cast — counts toward the artifact-gated encounter bonus */ <<set $harrowing_spark_effective_casts += 1>> <</if>> <<if _isCapped>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "The charge releases — thin, barely felt. The wall shrugs it off. Apprentice work. A Char-Bone would have carried it further.">> <<set _capMsg = "A " + _artName + " was needed to reach Journeyman effect.">> <<notify "Wizardry" _capMsg "warn" "scroll" 5500>> <<elseif _effectiveTier gte 3>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "You release the charge and the wall remembers it. The scorch runs deep. Something in the room has shifted.">> <<else>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "You release the charge against the wall. The stone scorches. The darkness twitches.">> <</if>> <<elseif _sub is "ward">> /* ----- Ward ----- */ <<set $harrowing_focus_current -= 1>> <<set $harrowing_rest_current -= 1>> <<if _needsArtifact and not _isCapped>> <<set $harrowing_artifacts.thread -= 1>> <</if>> /* Duration and bonus scale with effective tier */ /* Tiers: 0 1 2 3 4 */ /* Duration: [1, 2, 3, 4, 5] actions */ /* Bonus: [4, 6, 9, 12, 15] to search rolls */ <<set $harrowing_ward_remaining = [1, 2, 3, 4, 5][_effectiveTier]>> <<set $harrowing_ward_bonus = [4, 6, 9, 12, 15][_effectiveTier]>> /* Awareness gain scales with effective tier: Novice+1 → Master+5 */ <<set $harrowing_awareness_current += [1, 2, 3, 4, 5][_effectiveTier]>> <<if _isCapped>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "You trace a shorter form — an Apprentice's boundary. The cell holds it for two actions. A Sealed Thread would have extended it.">> <<set _capMsg = "A " + _artName + " was needed to reach Journeyman effect.">> <<notify "Wizardry" _capMsg "warn" "scroll" 5500>> <<else>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "You trace the boundary. The cell does not approve. It will hold anyway.">> <</if>> <</if>> /* --- Cast count advance (only on full-tier casts) --- */ <<if not _isCapped>> <<run State.variables[_spellVar] = _castCount + 1>> <<set _newCount = _castCount + 1>> <<if _sub is "food">> <<set _newTier = (_newCount >= 12) ? 4 : (_newCount >= 9) ? 3 : (_newCount >= 6) ? 2 : (_newCount >= 3) ? 1 : 0>> <<else>> <<set _newTier = (_newCount >= 8) ? 4 : (_newCount >= 6) ? 3 : (_newCount >= 4) ? 2 : (_newCount >= 2) ? 1 : 0>> <</if>> <<if _newTier > _tier>> <<set _advNames = ["Novice", "Apprentice", "Journeyman", "Advanced", "Master"]>> <<set _advMsg = _advNames[_newTier] + " — the form deepens.">> <<notify "Wizardry" _advMsg "gain" "scroll" 5000>> <</if>> <</if>> <</switch>> <</widget>> <<widget "HarrowClampAll">> <<set $harrowing_hunger_current = Math.max(0, Math.min($harrowing_hunger_current, $harrowing_hunger_max))>> <<set $harrowing_rest_current = Math.max(0, Math.min($harrowing_rest_current, $harrowing_rest_max))>> <<set $harrowing_focus_current = Math.max(0, Math.min($harrowing_focus_current, $harrowing_focus_max))>> <<set $harrowing_energy_current = Math.max(0, Math.min($harrowing_energy_current, $harrowing_energy_max))>> <<set $harrowing_awareness_current = Math.max(0, Math.min($harrowing_awareness_current, $harrowing_awareness_max))>> <</widget>> /* ------------------------------------------------------------------------- HarrowEncounterResolve — shared encounter resolution Args: 0=sub ("food"/"artifact"), 1=isOptional (bool), 2=baseFoodGain (int, 0 if artifact), 3=baseArtChoice (bool) Sets for caller: _erWon (bool), _erArtChoicePend (bool) ------------------------------------------------------------------------- */ <<widget "HarrowEncounterResolve">> <<set _erSub = $args[0]>> <<set _erOpt = $args[1]>> <<set _erFoodGain = $args[2]>> <<set _erArtChoice = $args[3]>> /* Pre-roll from animation — JS writes erFinal to $harrowing_enc_preroll before wikifying this widget. 0 means no pre-roll: compute normally. */ <<if $harrowing_enc_preroll gt 0>> <<set _erFinal = $harrowing_enc_preroll>> <<set $harrowing_enc_preroll = 0>> <<else>> <<set _erRoll = random(1, 20)>> <<set _erMight = ($might >= 2) ? 6 : ($might >= 1) ? 3 : 0>> /* Novice/Apprentice steps use raw cast count (no artifact needed). Journeyman+ steps use $harrowing_spark_effective_casts (artifact-gated). */ <<set _erSparkBase = ($harrowing_spell_spark >= 3) ? 4 : ($harrowing_spell_spark >= 1) ? 2 : 0>> <<set _erSparkEff = ($harrowing_spark_effective_casts >= 5) ? 6 : ($harrowing_spark_effective_casts >= 3) ? 4 : ($harrowing_spark_effective_casts >= 1) ? 2 : 0>> <<set _erSpark = _erSparkBase + _erSparkEff>> <<set _erFinal = _erRoll + _erMight + _erSpark>> <</if>> /* Output flags */ <<set _erWon = true>> <<set _erArtChoicePend = false>> /* Helper macro — give one random artifact */ /* (inlined three times below to avoid widget-in-widget complexity) */ <<if _erSub is "food">> <<if _erFinal lte 7>> /* Loss — find is forfeit */ <<set $harrowing_rest_current -= 3>> <<set _erWon = false>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = _erOpt ? "You pushed for more and paid for it. The food is gone." : "Someone was waiting. You barely got out. The food is gone.">> <<elseif _erFinal lte 12>> /* Forced: –2 rest, base find. Optional upgrade: –1 rest, base + small bonus */ <<set $harrowing_hunger_current += _erFoodGain>> <<if _erOpt>> <<set $harrowing_rest_current -= 1>> <<set $harrowing_hunger_current += 1>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "Hard. But you held. You ate — and scavenged a little extra from the confrontation.">> <<else>> <<set $harrowing_rest_current -= 2>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "You held your ground. Cost you, but you kept what you found.">> <</if>> <<elseif _erFinal lte 15>> /* Forced: –1 rest, base + small bonus. Optional: –0 rest, base + small bonus */ <<set $harrowing_hunger_current += _erFoodGain>> <<set $harrowing_hunger_current += 1>> <<if not _erOpt>><<set $harrowing_rest_current -= 1>><</if>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "A hard fight. You won. The cell is quieter now.">> <<elseif _erFinal lte 18>> /* Forced: –0 rest, base + small bonus. Optional: –0 rest, base + good bonus */ <<set $harrowing_hunger_current += _erFoodGain>> <<set $harrowing_hunger_current += _erOpt ? 2 : 1>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "Clean. They backed off fast. You ate well.">> <<elseif _erFinal lte 21>> /* Forced: –0 rest, base + good bonus. Optional: +1 rest, base + good bonus */ <<set $harrowing_hunger_current += _erFoodGain>> <<set $harrowing_hunger_current += 2>> <<if _erOpt>><<set $harrowing_rest_current += 1>><</if>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "You drove them off and helped yourself to what they'd already found.">> <<else>> /* 22+. Forced: +1 rest, base + good bonus. Optional: +1 rest, base + great bonus */ <<set $harrowing_hunger_current += _erFoodGain>> <<set $harrowing_hunger_current += _erOpt ? 3 : 2>> <<set $harrowing_rest_current += 1>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "Overwhelming. The adrenaline settles into something almost like rest.">> <</if>> <<else>> /* artifact */ <<if _erFinal lte 7>> <<set $harrowing_rest_current -= 3>> <<set _erWon = false>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = _erOpt ? "You pushed for more and paid for it. They took the component back." : "You found it — and lost it. They were stronger.">> <<elseif _erFinal lte 12>> /* Forced: –2 rest. Optional: –1 rest. Base artifact granted. */ <<set $harrowing_rest_current -= _erOpt ? 1 : 2>> <<set _erArtChoicePend = _erArtChoice>> <<if not _erArtChoice>> <<set _erArtRoll = random(0, 2)>> <<if _erArtRoll is 0>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.shard += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Resonant Shard ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.shard) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <<if _erArtRoll is 1>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.charbone += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Char-Bone ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.charbone) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <<if _erArtRoll is 2>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.thread += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Sealed Thread ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.thread) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <</if>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "You held your ground. Worse for wear, but you kept what you found.">> <<elseif _erFinal lte 15>> /* Forced: –1 rest. Optional: –0 rest. Base artifact granted. */ <<if not _erOpt>><<set $harrowing_rest_current -= 1>><</if>> <<set _erArtChoicePend = _erArtChoice>> <<if not _erArtChoice>> <<set _erArtRoll = random(0, 2)>> <<if _erArtRoll is 0>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.shard += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Resonant Shard ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.shard) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <<if _erArtRoll is 1>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.charbone += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Char-Bone ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.charbone) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <<if _erArtRoll is 2>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.thread += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Sealed Thread ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.thread) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <</if>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "A hard fight. You won. The component is yours.">> <<elseif _erFinal lte 18>> /* –0 rest, base artifact. Optional upgrade: base + random bonus artifact */ <<set _erArtChoicePend = _erArtChoice>> <<if not _erArtChoice>> <<set _erArtRoll = random(0, 2)>> <<if _erArtRoll is 0>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.shard += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Resonant Shard ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.shard) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <<if _erArtRoll is 1>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.charbone += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Char-Bone ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.charbone) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <<if _erArtRoll is 2>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.thread += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Sealed Thread ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.thread) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <</if>> <<if _erOpt>> <<set _erBonusRoll = random(0, 2)>> <<if _erBonusRoll is 0>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.shard += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Resonant Shard ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.shard) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <<if _erBonusRoll is 1>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.charbone += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Char-Bone ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.charbone) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <<if _erBonusRoll is 2>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.thread += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Sealed Thread ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.thread) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "Clean. You took theirs too — a bonus component for your trouble.">> <<else>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "Clean. They backed down. Everything is yours.">> <</if>> <<else>> /* 19+. Base + one bonus artifact. Optional: base + two bonus artifacts. */ <<set _erArtChoicePend = _erArtChoice>> <<if not _erArtChoice>> <<set _erArtRoll = random(0, 2)>> <<if _erArtRoll is 0>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.shard += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Resonant Shard ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.shard) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <<if _erArtRoll is 1>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.charbone += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Char-Bone ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.charbone) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <<if _erArtRoll is 2>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.thread += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Sealed Thread ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.thread) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <</if>> <<set _erBonusRoll = random(0, 2)>> <<if _erBonusRoll is 0>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.shard += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Resonant Shard ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.shard) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <<if _erBonusRoll is 1>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.charbone += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Char-Bone ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.charbone) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <<if _erBonusRoll is 2>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.thread += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Sealed Thread ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.thread) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <<if _erOpt>> <<set _erBonusRoll2 = random(0, 2)>> <<if _erBonusRoll2 is 0>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.shard += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Resonant Shard ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.shard) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <<if _erBonusRoll2 is 1>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.charbone += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Char-Bone ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.charbone) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <<if _erBonusRoll2 is 2>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.thread += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Sealed Thread ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.thread) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "Dominant. Two extra components taken from the encounter.">> <<else>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "Dominant. You took what was theirs as well.">> <</if>> <</if>> <</if>> <</widget>> <<widget "HarrowAfterAct">> <<set $harrowing_action_count += 1>> /* Ward ticks down every action regardless of what was chosen */ <<if $harrowing_ward_remaining gt 0>> <<set $harrowing_ward_remaining -= 1>> <</if>> <<if $harrowing_action_count is 1>> <<set $harrowing_time = "mid">> <<elseif $harrowing_action_count is 2>> <<set $harrowing_time = "late">> <</if>> /* On action 3, $harrowing_time stays "late" — the Hub will show result + Continue button instead of the action menu */ <<HarrowClampAll>> <<goto "HarrowingHub">> <</widget>> <<widget "HarrowCellText">><<nobr>> <<set _r = random(1,3)>> <<if $harrowing_hunger_current lte 4>> <<switch $harrowing_time>> <<case "early">> <<if _r is 1>>The light that finds the stone is thin and gray. You catch yourself parsing the air for the scent of food, anything to stir the senses, but there's nothing. Only the slow opening of the cell's mouth around you, and the slow opening of yours around nothing. <<elseif _r is 2>>Morning gives you back the smell of yourself, sour at the seams, and beneath it the older smells the stone has kept. You think of meals you barely remember eating. You think of meals you watched other people eat. <<else>>The dawn is a thin thing in here, a distant blanket descending through a hole in the stone, and the knowledge that it's another day sharpens hunger the way distance sharpens loss. You feel the cell as a hollow shape. <</if>> <<case "mid">> <<if _r is 1>>The light through the slit narrows to its keenest pitch, and so does the want. You can taste the stone, or at least you imagine you can. Sweat, dust, the ghost of someone's breath who was here long before you. The room is a mouth that's been chewing for a long time. <<elseif _r is 2>>Midday weighs the cell down and you with it. You catch yourself sniffing at nothing, at your own wrist, at the corner where water runs, in the ragged bedding atop your slab. The body looks for the shape of food in places where none exists.. <<else>>The hour the stone holds the most heat is the hour hunger holds you most precisely. Before the descent, you would've been in Dusk Hall right now, eating. You can feel the lining of your gut. You can feel what isn't in it. <</if>> <<default>> <<if _r is 1>>The light goes and takes the pretense with it. The cell at this hour is a throat that swallows slowly. You exist within it, filled with an empty gnawing hunger. <<elseif _r is 2>>Evening brings back the smells the day had baked out. Stone dust. Sweat. You're a guest in something that has been eating people for years. <<else>>As the light fails, your body continues to suffer. Hunger at this hour has the patient cruelty of something that has all night to work away at you, whittling away at your nerves. What wouldn't you do for a proper meal? <</if>> <</switch>> <<elseif $harrowing_rest_current lte 4>> <<switch $harrowing_time>> <<case "early">> <<if _r is 1>>Morning. The edges of the cell blur and resettle, restless and shifting, just like you. It's hard to tell whether you've slept or only stopped tracking the boundary between wakefulness and the world beyond. <<elseif _r is 2>>Dawn finds you already worn and awake. The wall slants when you don't look at it directly. Time has softened to something you can't quite grip, like you're losing ahold of yourself, and the hours ahead arrive without sequence. <<else>>You wake... and just continue existing in a blur. The light is here, which means time has moved, but you can't place yourself definitely inside of it. <</if>> <<case "mid">> <<if _r is 1>>The middle of the day blurs at the edges. You sit inside of the haze and wait for something to come into focus. Nothing does. Lyco turns a page, or moves a hand, and the motion stretches into more sound than it should hold. <<elseif _r is 2>>The cell at this hour insists on staying. You sit, or you stand, and the act of doing either feels too long to have finished. Across the room a small thing moves. You feel it for longer than it lasts. <<else>>Time drags. The light through the slit is the same light it was an hour ago, or two, or you've lost the count long ago. Your eyes close without your meaning them to, and reopen on the same stone. <</if>> <<default>> <<if _r is 1>>The evening is a long syllable. The cell softens at its corners. Lyco's smallest motion, the shift of cloth, the catch of breath, lands inside you like something heavier. You wonder if you've already slept and missed it. <<elseif _r is 2>>By the end of the day the room has loosened its outline. You see it as if through a slow flame. Sleep is somewhere near, but not where you are. <<else>>The last light of the day goes in a haze. The cell holds its shape only because you remember its shape. The exhaustion is older than the day, older than the trial that you suffer through. <</if>> <</switch>> <<else>> <<if $harrowing_bell lte 5>> <<if _r is 1>>The cell stays cold in a way that feels intentional. The stone is precise. The light through the slit is precise. The bunk is sized to its purpose. Everything in here has been designed to remind you that you were not, and the design works. <<elseif _r is 2>>The room insists on its own shape. You stand or sit inside it and feel measured. The Highrock above is making something of you. The cell is the first instrument in that making. <<else>>You have not been here long enough to belong. The walls hold their distance. The bunk holds its angles. The cell does not soften for you, because the cell is not the kind of thing that softens. <</if>> <<elseif $harrowing_bell lte 10>> <<if _r is 1>>The cell has begun to know you, or you have begun to know the cell. The difference no longer feels important. You catch yourself moving without looking, to the bunk, to the slit, to the corner where water collects. The room arranges around your habits. <<elseif _r is 2>>You wake into a shape you can name. Stone, slit, bunk, Lyco. The naming has gone quick now. The cell has stopped being a place you arrived in and become a place you continue. <<else>>The strangeness has worn down to something more domestic. Not comfort. Continuity. You no longer notice the cold first. You no longer notice anything first. You are simply here, and so is the room, and so are the hours. <</if>> <<else>> <<if _r is 1>>The cell is the most familiar room you have known. The recognition feels like defeat. You can find the bunk in the dark, the slit in the dark, the place along the wall where the stone bows slightly inward. You have learned a room that was built to teach you something else. <<elseif _r is 2>>The walls do not feel like walls anymore. They feel like the inside of something. You have woken in this cell so many times that waking elsewhere would be the strangeness now. You do not know when that crossed over. You know it has. <<else>>You have stopped resisting the geometry. The cell has won that contest, if it was a contest. You move through the room with the small economy of someone who lives here. The trial is not over. The room is already yours, or you are already its, and the two are not different. <</if>> <</if>> <</if>> <</nobr>><</widget>> <<widget "HarrowListenEvent">> <<set $harrowing_listen_count += 1>> <<switch $harrowing_listen_count>> <<case 1>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "[event 1 — placeholder]">> <<case 2>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "[event 2 — placeholder]">> <<case 3>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "[event 3 — placeholder]">> /* ...extend as authored... */ <<default>> /* Queue exhausted — evergreen pool, random pick. Tone: the cell has stopped revealing anything new. */ <<set _ev = random(1, 4)>> <<switch _ev>> <<case 1>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "You press your ear to the stone. The cell has nothing new to say. You hear what you have already heard, and your knowing it does not change it.">> <<case 2>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "The sounds are familiar now. Footfall, breath, water, the small protests of stone against itself. You have heard everything this place has to say, and the saying has stopped meaning anything.">> <<case 3>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "You listen and the listening returns nothing. The cell has been measured. What is inside it is inside it, and you are part of what is inside.">> <<case 4>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "You press your ear to the stone out of habit. The room offers the same set of sounds it has offered before, in the same order, in the same indifference.">> <</switch>> <</switch>> <</widget>> <<widget "HarrowMenuMain">><<nobr>> <div class="harrowActions"> <div class="harrowAction--rest"> <<link "Rest">><<HarrowAct "rest">><<HarrowAfterAct>><</link>> </div> <div class="harrowAction--listen"> <<link "Listen">><<HarrowAct "listen">><<HarrowAfterAct>><</link>> </div> <<if $harrowing_unlock_meditate>> <div class="harrowAction--meditate"> <<if $harrowing_rest_current lte 5>> <span class="harrow-action-disabled">Meditate</span> <span class="harrow-artifact-warn">too exhausted to concentrate</span> <<else>> <<link "Meditate">><<HarrowAct "meditate">><<HarrowAfterAct>><</link>> <</if>> </div> <</if>> <<if $harrowing_unlock_search>> <div class="harrowAction--search"> <<if $harrowing_awareness_current lte 0>> <span class="harrow-action-disabled">Search</span> <span class="harrow-artifact-warn">no Awareness — Listen or cast Ward first</span> <<else>> <<link "Search">> <<replace "#harrowActionPanel">><<HarrowMenuSearch>><</replace>> <</link>> <span class="harrow-artifact-note">Awareness <<= $harrowing_awareness_current>>/<<= $harrowing_awareness_max>></span> <</if>> </div> <</if>> <<if $harrowing_unlock_spells>> <div class="harrowAction--wizardry"> <<link "Wizardry">> <<replace "#harrowActionPanel">><<HarrowMenuSpells>><</replace>> <</link>> </div> <</if>> </div> <</nobr>><</widget>> <<widget "HarrowMenuSearch">><<nobr>> <div class="harrowActions"> <div class="harrowAction--food"> <<link "Search: Food">> <<HarrowAct "search" "food">> <<if $harrowing_encounter_pending>> <<if setup.harrow.encounterAnimation>> <<run setup.harrow.encounterAnimation({ encType: State.variables.harrowing_enc_type, isOptional: !State.variables.harrowing_encounter_forced, sub: State.variables.harrowing_encounter_sub, findDesc: State.variables.harrowing_search_find_desc, baseFoodGain: State.variables.harrowing_search_hunger_gain, baseArtChoice: State.variables.harrowing_search_art_choice })>> <<else>> <<replace "#harrowActionPanel">><<HarrowMenuEncounter>><</replace>> <</if>> <<else>> <<HarrowAfterAct>> <</if>> <</link>> </div> <div class="harrowAction--search"> <<link "Search: Artifacts">> <<HarrowAct "search" "artifact">> <<if $harrowing_encounter_pending>> <<if setup.harrow.encounterAnimation>> <<run setup.harrow.encounterAnimation({ encType: State.variables.harrowing_enc_type, isOptional: !State.variables.harrowing_encounter_forced, sub: State.variables.harrowing_encounter_sub, findDesc: State.variables.harrowing_search_find_desc, baseFoodGain: State.variables.harrowing_search_hunger_gain, baseArtChoice: State.variables.harrowing_search_art_choice })>> <<else>> <<replace "#harrowActionPanel">><<HarrowMenuEncounter>><</replace>> <</if>> <<else>> <<HarrowAfterAct>> <</if>> <</link>> </div> </div> <div class="harrowActions--back"> <div class="harrowAction--back"> <<link "← Back">> <<replace "#harrowActionPanel">><<HarrowMenuMain>><</replace>> <</link>> </div> </div> <</nobr>><</widget>> /* Shown when optional encounter is pending — player decides whether to engage */ /* Legacy fallback: only reached if encounterAnimation() is unavailable (Chunk 3 not yet applied). */ <<widget "HarrowMenuEncounter">><<nobr>> <div class="harrowCellText"><em><<= $harrowing_search_find_desc>></em></div> <div class="harrowActions"> <div class="harrowAction--rest"> <<link "Take it and leave">> <<set $harrowing_encounter_pending = false>> <<if $harrowing_encounter_sub is "food">> <<set $harrowing_hunger_current += $harrowing_search_hunger_gain>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "You take what you found and move before anyone notices.">> <<HarrowAfterAct>> <<elseif $harrowing_search_art_choice>> /* Choice artifact — route to artifact pick (HarrowMenuArtifactPick calls HarrowAfterAct) */ <<set $harrowing_artifact_choice_pending = true>> <<replace "#harrowActionPanel">><<HarrowMenuArtifactPick>><</replace>> <<else>> /* Random artifact */ <<set _takeArt = random(0, 2)>> <<if _takeArt is 0>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.shard += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Resonant Shard ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.shard) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <<if _takeArt is 1>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.charbone += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Char-Bone ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.charbone) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <<if _takeArt is 2>><<set $harrowing_artifacts.thread += 1>><<notify "Found" ("Sealed Thread ×" + $harrowing_artifacts.thread) "gain" "orb">><</if>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "You take the component and slip away before anyone's the wiser.">> <<HarrowAfterAct>> <</if>> <</link>> </div> <div class="harrowAction--spark"> <<link "Engage">> <<HarrowEncounterResolve $harrowing_encounter_sub true $harrowing_search_hunger_gain $harrowing_search_art_choice>> <<set $harrowing_encounter_pending = false>> <<if _erArtChoicePend>> <<set $harrowing_artifact_choice_pending = true>> <<replace "#harrowActionPanel">><<HarrowMenuArtifactPick>><</replace>> <<else>> <<HarrowAfterAct>> <</if>> <</link>> </div> </div> <</nobr>><</widget>> /* Shown only on high Search: Artifact rolls — player selects which artifact to take */ <<widget "HarrowMenuArtifactPick">><<nobr>> <div class="harrowCellText"><em>You move with certainty. Three components are within reach. Choose what you retrieve.</em></div> <div class="harrowActions"> <div class="harrowAction--food"> <<link "Resonant Shard">> <<set $harrowing_artifacts.shard += 1>> <<set $harrowing_artifact_choice_pending = false>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "You reach deliberately into the wall's seam. The shard comes free with a faint hum. Resonant Shard recovered.">> <<HarrowAfterAct>> <</link>> </div> <div class="harrowAction--spark"> <<link "Char-Bone">> <<set $harrowing_artifacts.charbone += 1>> <<set $harrowing_artifact_choice_pending = false>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "You know the scent of old casting. The char-bone is exactly where you expected it to be. Char-Bone recovered.">> <<HarrowAfterAct>> <</link>> </div> <div class="harrowAction--ward"> <<link "Sealed Thread">> <<set $harrowing_artifacts.thread += 1>> <<set $harrowing_artifact_choice_pending = false>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "The knot is small and tight and deliberate. You work it free with care. Sealed Thread recovered.">> <<HarrowAfterAct>> <</link>> </div> </div> <</nobr>><</widget>> <<widget "HarrowMenuSpells">><<nobr>> /* Learned tiers — Food: II@3 III@6 IV@9 V@12 — Ward/Spark: II@2 III@4 IV@6 V@8 */ <<set _foodTier = ($harrowing_spell_food >= 12) ? 4 : ($harrowing_spell_food >= 9) ? 3 : ($harrowing_spell_food >= 6) ? 2 : ($harrowing_spell_food >= 3) ? 1 : 0>> <<set _sparkTier = ($harrowing_spell_spark >= 8) ? 4 : ($harrowing_spell_spark >= 6) ? 3 : ($harrowing_spell_spark >= 4) ? 2 : ($harrowing_spell_spark >= 2) ? 1 : 0>> <<set _wardTier = ($harrowing_spell_ward >= 8) ? 4 : ($harrowing_spell_ward >= 6) ? 3 : ($harrowing_spell_ward >= 4) ? 2 : ($harrowing_spell_ward >= 2) ? 1 : 0>> /* Effective tiers — capped at Apprentice (1) if Journeyman+ but no artifact */ <<set _foodEffTier = (_foodTier >= 2 and $harrowing_artifacts.shard lte 0) ? 1 : _foodTier>> <<set _sparkEffTier = (_sparkTier >= 2 and $harrowing_artifacts.charbone lte 0) ? 1 : _sparkTier>> <<set _wardEffTier = (_wardTier >= 2 and $harrowing_artifacts.thread lte 0) ? 1 : _wardTier>> /* Focus cost based on effective tier */ <<set _foodFCost = (_foodEffTier + 1)>> <div class="harrowActions"> <div class="harrowAction--food"> <<if $harrowing_focus_current gte _foodFCost>> <<link "Summon Food">><<run setup.harrow.castAnimation('food', setup.harrow.getIsCombine('food'), setup.harrow.getArtifactName('food'), function(){ setup.harrow.doSpellCast('food'); })>><</link>> <<else>> <span class="harrow-action-disabled">Summon Food</span> <</if>> <<if _foodTier gte 2>> <<if $harrowing_artifacts.shard lte 0>> <span class="harrow-artifact-warn">no Resonant Shard — capped at Apprentice</span> <<else>> <span class="harrow-artifact-note">Resonant Shard ×<<= $harrowing_artifacts.shard>></span> <</if>> <</if>> </div> <div class="harrowAction--spark"> <<if $harrowing_focus_current gte 1>> <<link "Spark">><<run setup.harrow.castAnimation('spark', setup.harrow.getIsCombine('spark'), setup.harrow.getArtifactName('spark'), function(){ setup.harrow.doSpellCast('spark'); })>><</link>> <<else>> <span class="harrow-action-disabled">Spark</span> <</if>> <<if _sparkTier gte 2>> <<if $harrowing_artifacts.charbone lte 0>> <span class="harrow-artifact-warn">no Char-Bone — capped at Apprentice</span> <<else>> <span class="harrow-artifact-note">Char-Bone ×<<= $harrowing_artifacts.charbone>></span> <</if>> <</if>> </div> <div class="harrowAction--ward"> <<if $harrowing_focus_current gte 1>> <<link "Ward">><<run setup.harrow.castAnimation('ward', setup.harrow.getIsCombine('ward'), setup.harrow.getArtifactName('ward'), function(){ setup.harrow.doSpellCast('ward'); })>><</link>> <<else>> <span class="harrow-action-disabled">Ward</span> <</if>> <<if $harrowing_ward_remaining gt 0>> <span class="harrow-ward-active">active — <<= $harrowing_ward_remaining>> action<<if $harrowing_ward_remaining neq 1>>s<</if>> remaining (+<<= $harrowing_ward_bonus>> to search)</span> <<elseif _wardTier gte 2>> <<if $harrowing_artifacts.thread lte 0>> <span class="harrow-artifact-warn">no Sealed Thread — capped at Apprentice</span> <<else>> <span class="harrow-artifact-note">Sealed Thread ×<<= $harrowing_artifacts.thread>></span> <</if>> <</if>> </div> </div> <div class="harrowActions--back"> <div class="harrowAction--back"> <<link "← Back">> <<replace "#harrowActionPanel">><<HarrowMenuMain>><</replace>> <</link>> </div> </div> <</nobr>><</widget>>

<center><h3>Disclaimer For The Uninitiated...</h3>Depicted textually, seldom visually, within this tome are debauched acts that have been clearly labeled (18+) and other graphic content that may disturb, disgust or elicit pure disdain. Partake at your own discretion and remember to have fun. //Orphan// is an adult CYOA novel with often //violent// and //sexual// storylines. This is a tale that prioritizes player choice, provocative writing and the rule of cool. Sources of inspiration include the //sword & sorcery// of Conan the Barbarian to the //gothic fantasy// of the Elder Scrolls. Above all, //Orphan// is a ''literary experience''. It's not meant to be skimmed, clicked through, or consumed like cheap smut. The power of this work lies in its language; every word has been chosen to draw you deeper into its world. To play is to read, absorb and digest the flavor of the world. Those who give themselves fully to the ''Exalted Text'' will find its true rewards. <<button [["Start."|Start]]>><</button>></center><<bgm "jellyfish" 0.5 1>>

<center><img class="scene" src="images/thefireremains.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"> <<nobr>><h1>//Worship the Exalted Text// ! </h1> <h3>ORPHAN now spans over 450,000 words.</h3> If the journey lit something within you, join the community:<</nobr>> <a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText" target="_blank">PLEDGE: > Patreon < </a> <a href="https://discord.gg/FkPWPJ6FMR" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" class="link-external" tabindex="0">CONSPIRE: > Discord < </a> Or leave an honest review on f95zone or itch.io - It helps more than you know. There are two major paths (Ascender & Gladiator), with countless subtle variations depending upon your stats and decisions. Every choice shapes a different soul. Every journey tells a new legend. <<nobr>> <h2>Special thanks to...</h2> <h3>''THOSE WHO HAVE STOKED THE FIRE''</h3> <</nobr>> <h3>Music</h3> moodmode - Drips of Blood Juniorsoundays - Bad Era Aim to Head - Jellyfish (title song) anrocomposer - EL (gothic version) MomotMusic - Lonely Darkness Gvidon - Antagonist Rockot - Sunny Stars Lesfm - Please Calm My Mind lucafrancini - Calm Fantasy Harp UNIVERSFIELD - Mysterious Music Box Sasha Palamaryuk - No Love </center> <<bgm "elgothic" 0.6 3>>

Orphan

From afar, you exchange signals with Gant. ''"Go slow,"'' You mouth and gesture, then indicating the ogre who's still preoccupied with a few mobile slingers who have managed to keep it busy, ''"We surround it. Trap it. Destroy it."'' Despite the distance, beneath that mane of shaggy-brown hair and the gleam of dark green eyes, you see your friend's tight-lipped grin. Got it, he seems to say, let's fucking do this. ''"Just like we discussed,"'' You call over the heads of your companions as you start to move through the sands, ''"Stay loose and mobile, but move as one. That's the only way this plan works."'' You sense Khalika's presence by your side, but she doesn't speak a word, not yet. You know enough about her people to understand this; they respect warriors and those strong enough to lead. That's what you're attempting to do here today. Taking your fate into your own hands, leading, living or dying according to your own capabilities. You understand that, along with your companions, and even the crowd in their own strange, voyeuristic way. Some cheer for you, others cry for blood and shattered bones, but they all understand that you're writing your own destiny in these arena sands. ''"We can finish this,"'' Khalika urges, voice low but firm, intense amber gaze searching the depths of yours even as you walk. ''"Don't throw your life away. You're more useful alive."'' Her plush, tusked lips press into a small smirk before she turns away. ''"Thanks. The same applies to you, by the way."'' You tear your gaze from Khalika, thankful for the brief reverie, now doubly determined to put an end to the oafish ogre that has already killed too many of your companions here today. Surveying the situation, you see Gant's formation moving on the opposite flank, and slowly you seem to be drawing the beast exactly where you want him through the use of a few runners. Half-a-dozen bodies or so litter the sands nearby, bent and broken, most either caught under a foot or crushed by a massive, swinging arm. Too slow or caught unaware, they won't be leaving this battle. But there's still the opportunity to avenge them. High above, surrounding the display in its totality, the crowd jeer and jostle from within the thick, crowded, and stacked depths of the arena stands. They are enjoying their show. A countless mass of dirty faces, unwashed ranks, that could have just as easily been in any one of your places. But closest to the arena floor, an entire level exists, that you observe, dedicated to the nobility. You can tell from the array of colors, the glimmer of silks and soft, dyed linen, the glossy glare of metal. Is this your life now? Putting on a performance for those who only regard you from above, as you dance with death? [[Let's give them something to remember. Launch the attack.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_pincer1]]

<<set $arena_nickname to "Centurion">>''"Let's finish this."'' You give the signal to Gant and he returns it, giving you a wide, affirming wave before he starts to split the bulk of his force. From all angles, loose groupings of your companions begin a roughly uniform advance. You'll have the beast completely surrounded soon enough. ''"Listen up!"'' You bellow over the sands, ''"We're going in for the kill. Apply pressure, keep it trapped and squeeze this fucker tight!"'' Speeding up, you trot across the sands and close-in on the brainless brute, doing your best to direct the movements of your men. Every angle should have a spearman or polebearer, every slinger should have a clear shot, and freedom of movement for those with smaller blades should mean more opportunities of attack. You'll overwhelm the creature through sheer volume of blade, bone and stone. ''"ATTACK!"'' ''"Pikes, UP! Forward! Slingers, aim high!"'' The lot of you are already within the beast's range, between the line of glistening, crooked, crude polearms. And before the creature likely has any idea what has occurred, overwhelmed by a plethora of small, meaty, moving targets, it's besigned on all sides. Working in unison, the siege begins in earnest. Stone rounds thunk firmly against the ogre's pelt, spearheads gouge out leaky holes and finally the rare, brave swordsman or dagger-wielding fiend ducks low to stab at feet, legs, knees. It stamps down at the attackers, swats with sweeps of it's bulky arms, tries to stoop low and scoop up an opportunist, but the pressure of the attack makes it hard for the ogre to commit to any one action. It can barely defend itself or ward off attacks, let alone engage in a productive offense. When it staggers one way, your formation ebbs and flows, fluid, yet still keeping the beast encapsulated in an unwavering assault. It's growing weaker. For every ounce of strength and size, the ogre doesn't seem to have a chance when completely surrounded by a more numerous, well-organized and armed force. There's a reason that humans control Cradle and not the greenskins or giantfolk. The Sorcerer-King has three Legions that are well-capable of dominating any battlefield. They have the best arms, armour, training and tactics in the known world. And while you didn't have any of that at your disposal here today, one could say that the same principles aided your efforts nonetheless. This is your Legion, and you're the Centurion. Your compatriots hoot and holler, shouted orders given by you, and your friend Gant across the way, as both groups put increasing pressure on the trapped feral. More stones impact it, leaving welts, breaking flesh and jostling bones. The polearms search for softspots; the neck, underarms, knees, it's belly, those accumulating wounds leaking blood readily. The creature's wide, winding swipes begin to falter. It's as good as dead and the crowd is crying out, high above, for death. Your companions smell the beast's weakness and you don't even have to signal the advance. They all apply pressure, moving in, stepping calmly forward through the sands yourself as you survey the action. Khalika joins you, silent, her bone dirks dripping with ichor. The ogre, much like how it lived, dies slowly. Each little wound multipled, widened, rips and tears turning into gaping gouges and tattered, flayed hunks of wormy hide. A deep, gutteral groan clears the creature's maw as it begins to sway. ''"Make room!"'' You shout, signalling for those unaware to put space between themselves and the dying beast. It teeters, the fall slow but final, all that heavy weight plummeting forward and pitching towards the stained arena floor below. And with a colossal thud, much to the crowd's audible delight, The ogre's body flattens out before you, shaking the very earth beneath your feet. [[The battle is won.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_pincer2]]

It's over. You gaze upon the spectators, thousands of them; cheering, chanting, crying for more. High above, the mists and warm vapors of Cradle mingle with the open sky, an etheral gaze that gives you another glimpse at Dosmera. Untouchable, unforgettable, that's how you feel at this very moment, bathing in the resounding applause of the stadium. You feel alive, that much is certain. Your companions can't help but celebrate, too. Exhausted, the lot of them, covered in blood and bruises. But they jump, jostle about and congratulate each other all the same. Gant finds you amidst the crowd, teeth bared and lips pulled taut in a wolfish grin. He claps a hand atop your back and pulls you into a hug, ''"That was fuckin' swell. Real swell work. I didn't think we were makin' it outta here, pal, let alone felling an ogre!"'' He lapses into silence, lips tilted still as he peers past you. ''"I think someone else has words for ya, mate." "Is that right?"'' You turn and find your gaze settling onto Khalika. The half-orc's supple arms are folded comfortably, despite the grit and grime that covers her, amber eyes creased in mild amusement: ''"Don't stop on my behalf."'' You gesture between them, ''"Gant, Khalika. Khalika, Gant."'' Gant keeps grinning, ''"Y'know how to handle yourself, Khalika. First time I cin' say I'm glad to know a greenskin."'' She snorts in response, and you can't help but wonder whether she'd gut him if the circumstances were less... favorable. ''"You did well yourself, Gant."'' But her gaze soon returns to you, lingering. It feels as though there's more she would say, if only there were more time. [[But a thunderous voice calls out over the sands.|chp2_arena_finale]] <<bgmstop 6>>

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp1_khalika_gant.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> <<set $khalikacell to false>> \ ''"A rare sight, indeed. It's not often that we see a victory over such a terrible beast in our arena sands. It bolsters the spirits, does it not, to see what great achievements even the smallest, simplest souls are capable of?"'' The voice rings clear for your ears, deep and bold, despite the speaker remaining unseen, out of sight, somehow broadcasting over the entire colosseum. No one would be able to convey their words over such a vast expanse mundanely after all. It must be magic, you reason, through the Sorcerer-King's unyielding power or one of his innumerable artifacts. ''"I wonder what fate holds in store for these brave few. Will they see the sands again and manage to replicate such great feats? Or will they live out the rest of their lives in the lap of luxury? Remember, fine noble persons and worthy citizens of Cradle: The auctions are ongoing and our stock is sure to sell quick. Our fights will resume within the hour, for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy."'' It doesn't take long to sink in that this is one fight among dozens, maybe hundreds, that will occur throughout the week. You wonder how many thousands will be sacrified in the name of these bloodsports, entertainment for the masses. For now, you just find yourself thankful to have survived... ''"Look."'' Khalika sounds out beneath her breath, amber gaze leveled towards one side of the arena. There, an expansive gate is being cranked open and an armoured cadre of Legionnaires march out onto the sands. ''"There's our escort,"'' Gant mutters, lips skewing aside. He looks over at you, and you return the glance, pensive. ''"If they split us up,"'' He continues, managing a bit of a grin, ''"It was a pleasure, mate. Give 'em hell."'' They corral the lot of you, instructing each slave to drop their crude, makeshift weaponry into a slowly amassing pile. Your glory is short-lived it seems, though at least you aren't being ushered onto the back of another caged wagon. Not yet at least. Instead, they line you up and begin a slow descent back into the catacombs beneath the arena, where the dank, dreary darkness embraces you once more. [[At least the heat soothes your aching bones.|chp2_arena_finale1]] <<bgm "drips-of-blood" 0.6 6>> <<notify "The Bigger They Are..." "The harder that they fall.<br>You slayed an ogre, with a little help." "warn" "scroll" 15000>>

Feebly flickering flames guide your descent, wall-mounted torches lining the ancient tunnel walls constructed of old stone and bleached bone. Soldiers escort the procession of slaves on either side, whom seem marginally better to deal with than the slavers and arena guards that greeted you when you arrived within the catacombs initially. The Legion must be here on special orders, you reason, perhaps due to Crathal. As you continue down the large passageway, some of the slaves are split off into smaller groups and lead down differing tunnels until finally, the soldier escorting you stops and directs you into a cell. ''"No talking."'' He commands simply, before pressing the thick wooden door shut. Before long, it's locked behind you, the shuffle of a jailer heard, keys jingling as he moseys along down the corridor. Then, mostly silence. You can still hear the distant echo of footsteps outside your cell, along with the low coughs, groans and muffled crying of whom must be the enslaved, withering away in their own locked confines. But for the most part, this is the most peace you've gotten since you woke up this morning. Albeit, you've traded your little room in Undertown for a cell. You draw in a deep breath, looking over your dingy little confines. The cracked stone floor is covered by matted straw and debris, strewn with sand, whilst the walls are filthy and weeping beads of moisture and grime. It's better than a burial in the sands, but you do wonder just how long you'll be down here. [[Until someone speaks from the cell next to yours.|chp2_arena_finale2]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/khalikacell.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> ''"What do you think?"'' You blink over, surprised to see a familiar face. Khalika's amber eyes are fixed unto you, expression deadpan, though she can't help but smirk as she watches your reaction. <<if $dominant is "cowboy">>\ You glance around the miserable little box again, then back toward the missing block between your cells. Damp stone, straw that's seen better prisoners, a bucket in the corner whose purpose hardly needs explaining. ''"I've had worse,"'' You decide after a moment, settling closer to the wall. ''"Silk sheets and a bubble bath would've been nice."'' ''"Still, can't complain about the cute neighbor."'' ''"Cute?"'' Khalika murmurs, your words seeming to catch her more effectively than any threat could; through the opening, you catch the faint darkening of her cheeks before she schools her expression back into something harder. ''"That's a first. I'm not sure if I should kiss you or strangle you, $name. You're a curious man."'' An amused breath escapes you as you lower yourself beside the opening, bringing your face almost level with hers. Most of Khalika remains hidden behind several inches of old stone, but her bold eyes, tusks, and crooked little smirk are close enough to touch. ''"Why not both?"'' <<link "Stay close and see which one she chooses. (18+)">>\ <<set $khalika_cell_approach = "cowboy">>\ <<goto "chp2_khalikacell">>\ <</link>> <<ci cowboy social adult>> <<link "Enough fooling around. You need a plan.">>\ <<goto "chp2_arena_finale3">>\ <</link>> <<elseif $dominant is "bastard">>\ You take another look around the cell, but there isn't much worth studying. Stone, straw, wet, and Khalika watching you through the one useful flaw in the wall. Your attention settles there instead. ''"The room's shit,"'' you tell her, drifting closer to the opening. ''"But the company has improved considerably."'' One of her brows lifts. Khalika knows exactly where your eyes have gone and, unlike some blushing court girl, makes no effort to pretend otherwise. ''"Careful,"'' she murmurs, tusks showing beneath the beginnings of a grin on her plush, red lips. ''"Keep looking at me like that and I might decide you learned nothing in the arena, $name."'' You crouch beside the missing block until only the thickness of the wall keeps the two of you apart. Her amber eyes narrow, measuring you again; the same look she wore before violence from the hour prior, except the tension beneath it has changed. ''"Then teach me something else."'' <<link "Call her bluff. (18+)">>\ <<set $khalika_cell_approach = "bastard">>\ <<goto "chp2_khalikacell">>\ <</link>> <<ci bastard social adult>> <<link "Save it. There are more important things to discuss.">>\ <<goto "chp2_arena_finale3">>\ <</link>> <<elseif $dominant is "balanced">>\ You look around the cell once more, attention moving between the obvious problems and the woman watching you through the broken stone. There are guards somewhere beyond the corridor, masters waiting above, and no guarantee that surviving the arena bought either of you much more than another day before you're led into some other trial. Part of you is already turning those facts over, searching for an advantage to be found. But Khalika makes concentration exceedingly difficult. She's close enough that the wall seems more irritating than reassuring, amber eyes following yours with the same knowing attention she carried into the arena. Whatever uncertainty exists in your own thoughts, there's nothing uncertain about the heat lingering between you. Survival matters certainly matters to the both of you. So does the fact that you're both still alive to enjoy it. For a few seconds, neither impulse quite wins. <<if $cowboy >= $bastard && $cowboy >= $knight>>\ <<link "Stay close and see which one she chooses. (18+)">>\ <<set $khalika_cell_approach = "cowboy">>\ <<goto "chp2_khalikacell">>\ <</link>> <<ci cowboy social adult>> <</if>>\ <<if $bastard >= $cowboy && $bastard >= $knight>>\ <<link "Call her bluff. (18+)">>\ <<set $khalika_cell_approach = "bastard">>\ <<goto "chp2_khalikacell">>\ <</link>> <<ci bastard social adult>> <</if>>\ <<link "Put the distraction aside and make a plan.">>\ <<goto "chp2_arena_finale3">>\ <</link>>\ <<if $knight >= $cowboy && $knight >= $bastard>> <<ci knight>><</if>> <<else>>\ Relief touches you before anything else. Khalika is bruised, filthy, and imprisoned no differently than you are, but she's alive. After everything that happened in the arena, that alone feels worth something. You shift closer to the opening, studying what little of the adjoining cell you can see beyond her shoulder. ''"I've slept in worse places."'' Khalika's smirk fades into something more attentive. Whatever joke she expected from you never comes. Your thoughts are already moving past the walls around you; the guards, the masters, whatever comes after surviving a spectacle neither of you were meant to walk away from. Khalika seems to recognize the change almost immediately. Her posture straightens, amber eyes sharpening as she leans nearer to hear you. For the briefest moment, there's another possibility in the closeness. Her face is only inches away beyond the broken stone, the heat of another living body almost reachable after a long day surrounded by blood and bone. Yet, there are questions that need answering first, your mind straying from the potential of shared pleasure. <span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="Your Knightly thoughts have already turned toward survival.">Stay close and see where the moment leads. (18+)</span> <<ci social adult>> <<link "Put your heads together and make a plan.">>\ <<goto "chp2_arena_finale3">>\ <</link>> <<ci knight>> <</if>>

<center><img class="scene" src="images/khalikacell.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> <<set $khalikacell = true>>\ <<if $khalika_cell_approach is "cowboy">>\ Khalika stares at you for another long moment, as though deciding which half of your suggestion deserves answering first. Then the corner of her mouth hooks upward. ''"Careful what you ask for."'' One dark-green hand appears through the broken stone, fingers catching loosely beneath your jaw before you can decide whether the gesture is affectionate or threatening. She's drawing you closer, and you don't dare resist. ''"I've survived worse bets."'' ''"I noticed."'' <<elseif $khalika_cell_approach is "bastard">>\ Khalika's bold amber eyes narrow, studying the challenge you've thrown at her with the same cool attention she gave every threat on the arena sands. There's something almost dangerous about the silence; not uncertainty, but decision and attraction boiling over. ''"You always talk like that when you think you've won?"'' ''"Only when I'm waiting for someone to prove me wrong."'' A low sound escapes her throat, a sharp husky breath. One dark-green hand slips through the opening, catching the side of your neck, fingers curling against flesh as she pulls you forward with enough force that your shoulder knocks hard against the slick stone. ''"Then stop talking so much."'' <</if>>\ Her mouth meets yours through the missing block. There's nothing graceful about the angle. The wall's too thick, the opening too narrow, forcing you both close enough that your noses brush and neither of you can properly turn your head. Yet the awkwardness only seems to sharpen the moment, making both of you work harder for every moment of warmth, closeness, touch and musk. Khalika's lips are warm against yours, fuller and softer than anything about her usual manner suggests, while the slight scrape of one protruding tusk against the corner of your mouth serves as a persistent reminder of exactly who's on the other side. What begins almost like another contest gradually loses that edge. The second kiss lingers longer than the first. Then a third follows without either of you quite acknowledging who started it, smaller and slower, shared breaths passing through the gap while the oppressive warmth of the cells closes around you. Earlier there had been screaming crowds, blood underfoot, weapons in your hands; now there's only damp stone, stale straw, and Khalika close enough that you can feel the heat of her breath but not the rest of her. <<if $dominant is "bastard">> \ That unclosable distance only drives you more mad, lustful, like a spurned lover. <<elseif $dominant is "cowboy">>\ Part of you can't help but wonder what else would happen if the wall wasn't there. <</if>>\ \ Her fingers remain curled loosely against your neck. Yours find their way through the opening in return, brushing her cheek before settling along the line of her jaw. Khalika only presses closer against your palm, amber eyes opening again as the kiss finally breaks. ''"Hnh."'' Her gaze travels over you, then briefly toward the broken block between your cells. Something more thoughtful replaces the heat in her expression. ''"Useful hole."'' You exhale a quiet laugh. ''"That's what you're thinking about?"'' ''"I'm thinking it would be a waste not to use it."'' As is often the case with Khalika, there's no mistaking the meaning. <<link "Pull her back into another kiss.">>\ <<set $khalika_cell_kiss = true>>\ <<goto "chp2_khalikacell_kiss">>\ <</link>> <<ci social adult>> <<link "Drop your trousers and give Khalika a better look.">>\ <<set $khalika_cell_him = true>>\ <<goto "chp2_khalikacell_him">>\ <</link>> <<ci adult>> <<link "Reach through the gap and explore her body.">>\ <<set $khalika_cell_her = true>>\ <<goto "chp2_khalikacell_her">>\ <</link>> <<ci adult>>

You slump against the wall, speaking with your companion in low tones through the hole. ''"What do you think'll happen now?"'' You ask, lips pursed, feeling somewhat pensive. ''"I don't know,"'' Khalika retorts, calm and quiet, ''"They mentioned an auction."'' ''"You think they'll sell us?"'' ''"I said I don't know. But no man or woman walks free from this arena, not after a single fight where we were meant to be fodder. Not without a price attached, $name."'' You're growing tired, but your mind keeps wandering, searching for answers where perhaps none exist, tormenting yourself, thinking back to all of the events that took place today. The day your life turned upside down once again, just like long ago, when you were a lost orphan boy with only vague memories of whatever came before. You think about the people you've met, too. Gant. You haven't come across many men like him; nonchalant, crude, somewhat goofy, but dependable when it mattered. You'll remember that for as long as you know him. And Khalika, on the other side of this wall. A part of you hopes you won't be separated. Whatever tomorrow brings, whatever life they've chosen for you, it would be something to face it beside people whose names you know. People that you know that you can trust. ''"We need to be ready for anything, $name."'' Khalika's voice comes quietly through the hole, ''"You'll be no use tomorrow if you've had no rest. We should sleep."'' You shift closer, turning until you find her peering back at you through the narrow opening. ''"You're right... Get your rest, too."'' You pause, just a moment, ''"And whatever happens tomorrow, we'll face it the best we can. Like champions."'' Her lips quirk as she considers you, head canted aside, before she dips a gentle nod. ''"Like champions. Rest well, $name."'' ''"Sweet dreams, Khalika."'' You slowly sprawl out atop the straw, trying to find the most comfortable position, staring up at the dark recesses of the ceiling. Murky darkness, all of it, with shadowy webs and crumbling stone. It's not all that different from home, you reason. Your eyes grow heavy. [[You drift off to sleep, enshrouded within the darkness of your cell.|chp2_arena_finale4]] <<bgmstop 9>>\

''THUD. THUD. THUD.'' You awake with a start. Someone is pounding loudly on your door. For a moment, there's only darkness, straw dangling where it's still attached to your cheek, and the frantic hammering of your heart. Then comes the jingle of keys beyond the door. ''"Wake up. You've got visitors."'' A gruff voice, just on the other side. You push yourself onto one elbow, still trying to remember where you are. What must be metal or bone grinds inside the lock. [[The lock turns.|chp2_slave_escort]] <<sfx "door-knock" 0.7>> <<bgmstop 2>> \

''"$name?"'' You hear a muffled voice from the other side of your door, though you can barely make it out above the beating of your heart. You're sweaty, skin glistening with perspiration in the aftermath of your... dream. It must've been a dream, right? They've felt so vivid lately, each night a portal, a glimpse into another world. Sometimes it's hard to discern between what's real and what's wholly imagined, and you wonder whether there's anything that exists inbetween. Another knock rattles your bedroom door, ''"$name, are you awake?"'' It's Fredrick's voice, that much is now obvious. You clear your throat and start to sit up, somewhat dazed, head still halfway lost in quiet contemplation concerning your nighttime escapade. ''"I'm awake, Fredrick." "There's someone out here that I'd like you to meet. Join us when you're ready."'' It's quite uncommon for Fredrick to have visitors, outside of the occasional customer. He's a solitary man and even his business transactions are kept brief, direct, to-the-point. It must be someone important. And hopefully, you think, no one with no knowledge of what transpired yesterday. That would only further complicate things. You swing your legs over and slowly press to your feet, still gathering your senses. A quick rub of your eyes and a run of fingers through your bedraggled hair should suffice, quickly smoothing down any stray strands; it doesn't take much for a young man to look presentable. A loose linen shirt gets pulled over head, and you shuffle atop your feet as you tug on the usual pair of burlap trousers, before stepping out the door. [[No use delaying the inevitable.|chp2_morningafter1]] <<bgmstop 6>> <<sfx "door-knock" 0.6>> <<notify "The Morning After" "A thief, a wizard, and a dream.<br><br>You have a feeling that your life is about to change..." "warn" "scroll" 15000>>

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/rayner1.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> There's a man in the workshop, quietly conversing with Fredrick. Yet their conversation seems to come to a close upon your approach. He's tall and thick, larger than most men, big arms corded with muscle and that's just what's left unconcealed by his burnished, black-leather armour. Some kind of soldier, you think. Does this have to do with the goblin? His attention settles upon you, assessing through the lens of murky olive-green eyes. ''"So you're the boy that I've heard so much about."'' He intones, voice deep and clear, slowly tilting a clay mug to the crest of his lips for a sip of what must be tea. You're unsure of how to respond, casting a glance at Fredrick in question. The old man releases a breath, stationary where he's settled onto a stool beside the stranger. ''"$name, I want you to meet Rayner. Caius Rayner. He's an old friend of mine. Very, very old."'' Fredrick's cracked lips press together, somewhat amused. And sure enough, the large man next to him looses a laugh, ''"Old is right. We were both boys back then, me moreso than you, Fredi."'' Rayner fixes Fredrick with his gaze now, tone still amiable, though his words speak to a certain severity, ''"Back when you still had a chip-on-your-shoulder. Nobody would've ever thought you'd settle for a quiet life. Or a peaceful one."'' Fredrick seems unaffected by the man's words, ''"My only regret, my friend, is not having stepped away sooner."'' Rayner accepts this with a lowering of his chin, though his gaze lingers on his old companion, considerate. ''"We do what we have to. Every man digs his own grave, Fredi. I just hope there's a bottle of whiskey in mine."'' ''"You'll have your drink, Rayner. You're a better man than most. That's why I trust you with $name's future."'' They both set their sights onto you. Up to this point, you have too many questions and too few answers. You don't know where to start. ''"Sit down, $name."'' Fredrick indicates a stool, ''"And join us."'' Beneath their gaze, you carefully step over to claim a seat. Rayner seems rather relaxed, though observant, taking another swig of tea as he waits for Fredrick to continue, ''"There's a lot that I haven't told you. Most of it, I didn't think was necessary. They were memories that I didn't want to hold onto myself, let alone pass down to you. But as I've seen you develop into the man that you are now, $name, I realized that I was foolish."'' He slowly nods as though mentally affirming his own thoughts and actions, ''"In my heart, I knew you'd never be content with this life. With the life that I chose for myself. Simple, small, an honest trade in cobbling. No, you're a restless sort. You remind me of myself at your age."'' ''"That's why Rayner is here. He owes me a favor and I owe you... a chance at something more. That's all I ever wanted to give you, $name. I hope you understand that."'' ''"A chance?"'' The old man's chin slowly inclines at your words, slow-spoken in his articulation, ''"A good chance, $name... Rayner is an Instructor. He teaches at the Highrock Academy of Ascent."'' You blink, having trouble processing the slew of information. Rayner pierces the silence, murky eyes resting on you still. ''"It's a school typically reserved for the Gentry and Nobility. They do make exceptions. And that's exactly what Fredrick requested of me."'' His meaty finger taps at the outside of his mug as you exchange a look with Fredrick, who remains silent for the time being. The old man betrays little emotion, as though perpetually morose, sullen, indifferent to the world. But this opportunity being presented to you, right here, right now, has the opportunity to change your life. ''"They prepare young men and women for careers as officers in the Legion... or as Ascenders."'' [[You could become an Ascender?|chp2_morningafter2]] <<bgm "traces-to-nowhere" 0.6 9>>

Every child in the Cradle knows what an Ascender is. They're the subject of great admiration. The protagonists in the type of tales that are told to the young and hopeful, or the stories murmured low by a father who wishes to instill courage in his son. In a world consumed by such cruellty, an Ascender is a beacon of hope, of bravery, of heroism. A distant brightness: empowering, but elusive, as you have yet to even witness one with your own two eyes. Yet the idea excites you all the same. ''"That's impossible,"'' You murmur, giving a low shake of your head though you feel both of the men's attention upon you. ''"It is possible. I wouldn't be here unless I was sure of it."'' Rayner's words are firm in their assurance, in their simplicity. He makes it easy to believe. You //want// to believe. ''"How? I can't even read, Fredrick. How am I supposed to attend an academy... with gentry and noble heirs? I'm a nobody."'' ''"You're someone, $name, who is capable of far more than you can even imagine."'' Fredrick's response is slow and measured, his gaze fixed upon you, tone serious but not overbearing. The old man slowly sits back atop his stool, bulky arms folding. Rayner speaks up: ''"I can get you a tutor and I'll help you however I can, $name. I owe Fredrick that much. But I can't hold your hand. It'll be difficult. A new opportunity to learn from some of the best and brightest that the city has offer."'' You draw in a breath, looking between the two older men. Fredrick, like a father to you, grim and gruff, bent and broken by old age and too many hard years. Caius Rayner, apparently an old friend indebted to him. A bit younger, chiseled, intelligent. You're only willing to trust him because of Fredrick. The old man has never led you astray. Rayner glances over at Fredrick, then back at you, ''"What questions do you have, kid?"'' [[How do you know each other?|chp2_morningafter2_how]] [[Where's the Academy? When would I attend?|chp2_morningafter2_where]] [[What do you teach, Rayner?|chp2_morningafter2_what]] [[Is it true what they say about Ascenders?|chp2_morningafter2_ascenders]] <<set $morningafter_how to false>> <<set $morningafter_where to false>> <<set $morningafter_what to false>> <<set $morningafter_ascenders to false>>

<<set $morningafter_how to true>> ''"How do you know each other?"'' Rayner's gaze trails over to Fredrick. The younger of the men seems to be mildly amused by the question, whilst the old man treats the inquiry as irksome. You can always tell when he's peeved, always reluctant to part with information that he deems unnecessary. Especially when it concerns himself. ''"When he and I met,"'' Fredrick rasps, rolling out an aching wrist as he reflects, ''"I had a few years of mercenary work under my belt, and he was new to the trade. A hotshot prospect who started to quickly climb the ranks. Cocky, foolish, troublesome. I couldn't stand him."'' Rayner's eyes crinkle, mirthful, cheeks stretched by a faint dimpling. ''"Mmff, good times. The best of times, Fredi. You see $name, it took me a few close scrapes with death and your old man saving my hide before I... calmed down. Old habits die hard, as they say."'' You had always imagined that Fredrick had an eventful past. He had too many scars, too much grit and stoic determination, to have had always been a simple craftsmen. That's what you had liked to believe at the very least, and it all seems to be coming to fruition in the most magnificent way. ''"Then how did you become friends?"'' You wonder aloud, canting a look between them. Rayner huffs an amused breath and jerks a thumb towards the old man, ''"Just look at him. So kind, warm and jolly; how could you not come to love him?"'' You and Fredrick snort at almost the exact same moment in time, exchanging glances, before he mutters towards Rayner, ''"Fuck off."'' Both of their lips are ever-slightly tilted. ''"The truth is, $name, sometimes it just happens that those you knock heads with, who challenge you, who piss you off... Well, sometimes that draws the best out of a man. And with time, you come to understand each other."'' ''"He's not wrong,"'' Rayner states with some finality. ''"Anymore questions? Related to the Academy, eh?"'' <<if $morningafter_where is false>> [[Where's the Academy? When would I attend?|chp2_morningafter2_where]]<</if>> <<if $morningafter_what is false>> [[What do you teach, Rayner?|chp2_morningafter2_what]]<</if>><<if $morningafter_ascenders is false>> [[Is it true what they say about Ascenders?|chp2_morningafter2_ascenders]]<</if>> [[That's everything for now.|chp2_morningafter3]]

<<set $morningafter_where to true>> ''"Where's the Academy? When would I attend?"'' ''"Highrock's in the First Quarter."'' Rayner responds simply, though you can feel already the unconscious widening of your eyes. The First Quarter. The highest tiered level of Cradle, outside of the Sorcerer-King's inner sanctum. There, it's said that every street lay within the high mists of the open sky, far above the steam and squalor of the pit and the lower reaches of districts such as Undertown. ''"That's far from home,"'' You murmur and Fredrick's chin lowers in quiet affirmation. ''"It'll do you good, $name. You've always wanted to see more of the world. This is your chance."'' Rayner inclines a faint nod, continuing, ''"Classes for next semester begin tomorrow. We'll depart for Highrock today and get you situated with your room and board. Most other students have already arrived over the past few days."'' This information isn't getting any easier to absorb. You aren't sure whether to be excited or hesitant, cautious, reluctant even. For all the troubles of Undertown, it's what you're used to. You know people here. You have a job... a family in Fredrick. A safe place to lay your head. You feel like you'd be giving it all up for just a //chance// at something better. It's a risk that you can't shy away from, not now. Not if you want to leave a mark on this world, however wretched. ''"The other students. From the Gentry and Nobility. They're my age?"'' Rayner dips another light nod after drawing a slow sip from his mug, ''"Around your age, yes. Just entering into adulthood, some older. Some of the Nobility, such as the second or third sons of a House, treat a career in the Legion like a backup plan. They try their hand at something for a couple years and if it doesn't work, or if their parents tire of them, they spend two years at the Academy."'' ''"It's their way of placating their family, earn a rank and some semblance of status, good pay and so on."'' You speak up, ''"I thought you said they train to be Ascenders, too."'' Rayner's lips quirk, his tone relaxed, ''"Ah, I did say that. Good. You should understand that they're highly selective. Competitive. Only a few, a handful, at the top of each class even have a chance of being selected. And out of them, only one, maybe two, are actually chosen to begin the process."'' ''"It's not easy, so don't get your hopes up. But this, if you want it bad enough, will give you the best chance you'll get."'' Rayner looks at you over the mug of tea, whilst Fredrick rubs his tired, old hands together, quiet and thoughtful. ''"Go on. More questions?"'' <<if $morningafter_how is false>> [[How do you know each other?|chp2_morningafter2_how]]<</if>> <<if $morningafter_what is false>> [[What do you teach, Rayner?|chp2_morningafter2_what]]<</if>><<if $morningafter_ascenders is false>> [[Is it true what they say about Ascenders?|chp2_morningafter2_ascenders]]<</if>> [[That's everything for now.|chp2_morningafter3]]

<<set $morningafter_what to true>> ''"What do you teach, Rayner?"'' ''"I am the //esteemed//,"'' His eyes can't help but crease, the sarcasm thick in his tone. He's a man that doesn't take himself terribly serious, despite his evident capabilities, ''"Instructor of Survival, Martial Means... and a couple other classes, reserved for second year students."'' <<if $mind gte 2>> There was a slight breath of hesitation. You detected it in the pitch of his tone, in the shift of his gaze. It doesn't seem to come from a place of malice, nor of purposeful deception really. But there is something that Rayner opted not to tell you, perhaps something that he's intent on revealing later, in due time.<br><</if>> ''"Rayner is a well-respected Instructor,"'' Fredrick intones deeply, looking at you now, ''"You would do well to listen to him, $name. Better than you listened to me."'' A light jab, a tease, but he seems to be quite serious all at the same time. That's Fredrick for you, always a hardass. The Instructor's lips remain quirked, amiable all the while, ''"You'll see me around the Academy plenty, $name. Mostly whenever you're in my classes, if that wasn't already obvious. I like to stay busy."'' That does alleviate some of your anxieties; it'll be nice to have someone like Rayner to count on. He might be the only person there at the Academy that you'll be able to trust, at least in the beginning. Or maybe for the entirety... it sounds like you'll be a complete outsider, after all. You've been through worse, right? <<if $morningafter_how is false>> [[How do you know each other?|chp2_morningafter2_how]]<</if>> <<if $morningafter_where is false>> [[Where's the Academy? When would I attend?|chp2_morningafter2_where]]<</if>><<if $morningafter_ascenders is false>> [[Is it true what they say about Ascenders?|chp2_morningafter2_ascenders]]<</if>> [[That's everything for now.|chp2_morningafter3]]

<<set $morningafter_ascenders to true>> ''"Is it true what they say about Ascenders?"'' ''"It depends on who you ask,"'' Rayner responds after a moment's contemplation, a slight smirk lingering on his lips. ''"They're men, just like you or me. Men with a purpose, and a specific set of skills. More training, focus and intention than most could ever hope to obtain or possess. And they've seen things, too, that most will never, ever witness for themselves. Not that they would want to. It's a heavy responsibility that few can bear well."'' ''"Like the Overlands?"'' You question above your breath, nary a whisper, eyes on the Instructor. He lowers a faint dip of his grizzled chin. ''"Aye, like the Overlands. The surface, high above Cradle, over the crater's edge. Where only the meanest forms of life exist, hunt, thrive. Conditions in which the average man wouldn't survive a day. Blizzards, magickal storms, pockets of earth where even the air has disappeared, sucked up, ripped away, empty. Desolate."'' ''"And that's just what the elements will throw at you."'' You can't help but pry further, always intrigued by the prospects of the outside world, however dark or deadly, ''"What else? What else is out there?"'' ''"No one knows for certain. Even those that claim to have seen things with their own two eyes. It's hard to take them at their word. They're madmen mostly, those crazed enough to brave the Overlands out of their own volition.. desperation. Artifact hunters, guides, exiles, bandits, and hermits. The Ascenders speak little of what they see, as much of it is kept private at the Sorcerer-King's request. Some say that above the Cradle, the closer you draw to Dosmera, the more... risk that's involved."'' ''"Risk?"'' ''"Aye, the risk of having your sanity stripped away. Your mind bent, broken. Everyone has their own opinion. Some think it's due to the atmosphere and the brutal conditions; it'll wear away at any man's mind. But others think it's due to magick... mindworms... or even the daemons that supposedly call Dosmera home."'' Fredrick's cracked lips press together, evidently not too pleased by this line of conversation. He has never been one for speculation, gossip, or rumormongering. Yet, you've heard too many tales of the dark cults and witches that pay homage to Dosmera, whom claim it, she, to be a source of great power, a portal even. You can't help but be inquisitive, to want to dig further into the matter. Especially after the dream that you had last night. But for now, you'll keep your dreams to yourself. Or are they visions? You don't want to ascribe meaning to your nightmares when there's so much that remains unclear and out-of-reach, at least for now. ''"Anymore questions?"'' You find Rayner's murky green gaze resting on you, waiting patiently. <<if $morningafter_how is false>> [[How do you know each other?|chp2_morningafter2_how]]<</if>> <<if $morningafter_where is false>> [[Where's the Academy? When would I attend?|chp2_morningafter2_where]]<</if>> <<if $morningafter_what is false>> [[What do you teach, Rayner?|chp2_morningafter2_what]]<</if>> [[That's everything for now.|chp2_morningafter3]]

You force yourself onward, turning left and banking down the alleyway, searching for any sign of the thief as a sudden surge of motivation runs through you. Stumbling and steering your way through the crumbling labyrinth of broken brick and shattered stone, you don't see any sign of the thief. Body sore, even your eyeballs pulse in their sockets, straining against the shadows as you continue your search in what may be a lost cause. But you can't give up, not yet, showing up empty-handed is the last thing that you want to do today. Another winding turn contorts the alleyway before you, and when you pivot around the corner, you see the narrow path continue, long and winding out into the deep distance. Many men have ventured down these dark alleys, never to return, not to mention the tens of thousands of miserable souls that are born into them, and there they stay, forsaken to a life of dank delves and dark deeds. A life of abject poverty, confined between shattered, stained walls and crumbling structures, fighting for every single morsel of food and drop of clean water. It's a depressingly desperate existence. But as your feet bound out onto the dusty cobblestones before you, carrying you over flattened heaps of rotten refuse and seeping, mud-packed potholes that look deep enough to swallow a man whole, you notice something. The pathway breaks just up ahead, on your left, opening up into what appears to be another alley. As you draw closer, it dawns upon you that returning home without your pouch certainly isn't the worst fate that could befall you this very day. [[You hear low growls, snarls and the ripping of flesh.|newintro_left1]]

''"That's everything for now,"'' You murmur, still overwhelmed by the path set out before you. ''"It's a lot, I know. I'm sure Fredi would've wanted to give you more time to absorb all of this and come to a firm decision on your own. But this is the best that we could do. Everything happens for a reason, eh?"'' Rayner finally stoops forward atop the stool and sets his mug, emptied, onto the workbench. You slowly heave a deep breath, glancing towards Fredrick. He's studying you closely, brown eyes deep and beady in his worn, wrinkled face. You see the quiet determination in his gaze. For whatever reason, he wants this for you. He wants you to go, grow, and flourish out in the greater world. And that's just what you'll do. You have to. A part of you wonders whether there are any real choices in life, or if it's all part of a pre-determined destiny. A path laid out for you at birth, set in stone, the stars even, where no man is capable of manipulating it. Thinking back through your own life, it's all so unclear. You've had bad things happen to you, good things too, but most of those events felt like they were out of your control. What choice does a man have? To accept his fate, or fight against it? This is a question that you'll continue to wrestle with. Everyone comes up with their own answer, one way another. The spiteful condemn their circumstances, their destiny, fate. Some accept the state of things, reluctantly, and do the best with the means that they've been given, or that they feel they've earned. Others still will always strive for more, taking it, stealing it away from others if need-be. Perhaps they feel that it belongs to them, that it //always// belonged to them. And you... well, only time will tell. ''"$name?"'' You lift your gaze to the sound of Rayner's voice. ''"Are you ready?"'' [[I'm ready.|chp2_morningafter3_cowboy]] <<ci cowboy archetype>> [[Fuck yeah. I've been waiting for something like this.|chp2_morningafter3_bastard]] <<ci bastard archetype>> [[I'll make you proud, Fredrick.|chp2_morningafter3_knight]] <<ci knight archetype>>

''"I'm ready."'' You slowly confirm your willingness to Rayner, still somewhat overwhelmed by today's turn of events. You take another glance at Fredrick, a breath pressing past the old man's cracked lips as he lowers his own faint nod of approval. It seems like he might have something to say, on the precipice of speech. Perhaps words of affirmation for you, the young man once an orphan, that he took into his home and helped mentor for all of these years. But even if he wants to, he says nothing. To say that you have mixed feelings would be an understatement. Part of you is invigorated, ready for the challenge; ready to impress Fredrick and his old friend Rayner. Another part of you feels like you're being cast out and thrown to the wolves. It doesn't do you any good to linger on such thoughts, these nagging impressions that cloud your mind, that dampen your spirit. Like with everything else in your life, you have to suck it up and keep on moving. Your only hope for closure, for anything of substance in the future, is to keep moving forward. So that's what you intend to do. ''"Good,"'' Rayner replies, flicking a look between you and the old man, ''"We should get a move on, then. It'll be the Dark Hour before long and I don't like to challenge superstition."'' He presses to his feet and you follow suit, but Fredrick stays seated down atop his stool, broad frame slightly hunched. ''"Hmph. This is always the worst part of sitting... standing up. You'll understand one day, if you live to be old and gray."'' With a creak of bones and a muttered curse, he manages to stoop up and onto his feet, using the nearby workbench to steady himself. Rayner smirks, a faint crease of his lips as he observes his friend, ''"So much for dying young, in a blaze of glory, eh? That was always for the lucky few. Those beautiful, glorious, dumb bastards. Do you remember Merrick?"'' Fredrick makes a gruff sound of amusement as he shuffles over to clasp Rayner's hand tightly, ''"Of course. Merrick was a good man. One of the best."'' ''"That he was. I wonder what he'd think if he saw us now."'' ''"He'd probably call us old cunts."'' They both laugh, gripping each other's hand, before eventually their attention turns back onto you. ''"Try not to let him do anything too stupid. He's a good kid."'' Fredrick's eyes rest on you, searching your features, before his hand retracts from Rayner's and the old man takes a few steps closer. ''"$name, take care of yourself."'' ''"I will, Fredrick. I'll see you again soon. Whenever I get a chance to visit."'' ''"Don't worry about me. You're your own man, now."'' [[The streets outside are crowded, your path dimly-lit.|chp2_morningafter4]] <<gainCowboy>>

''"Fuck yeah. I've been waiting for something like this."'' It's true, today's turn of events have been a pleasant surprise. Whilst you're still trying to wrap your head around what it is exactly that you're getting yourself into, you decide to welcome it. Embrace it. There's no use resisting. You //crush// resistance, just like every trial and tribulation that you've faced throughout your life thus far. Rayner snorts at your response and cants a look sidelong at Fredrick, ''"You weren't lying. The kid has spirit." "That he does. Try not to let him do anything too stupid. He's a good kid, when he's not acting like a complete dick. He's not too different from you, Ray."'' That draws out a chuckle from the Instructor, who tilts a look back to regard you, mildly amused. ''"Good. There's plenty to look forward to, $name. Maybe you'll be a hit with the gals at the Academy. The handsome ruffian from Undertown, eh? Exotic."'' Your eyes visibly widen, much to their amusement. ''"Alright now, we should get a move on. It'll be the Dark Hour before long and I don't like challenging superstition."'' He presses to his feet and you follow suit, but Fredrick stays seated down atop his stool, broad frame slightly hunched. ''"Hmph. This is always the worst part of sitting... standing up. You'll understand one day, if you live to be old and gray."'' With a creak of bones and a muttered curse, he manages to stoop up and onto his feet, using the nearby workbench to steady himself. Rayner smirks, a faint crease of his lips as he observes his friend, ''"So much for dying young, in a blaze of glory, eh? That was always for the lucky few. Those beautiful, glorious, dumb bastards. Do you remember Merrick?"'' Fredrick makes a gruff sound of amusement as he shuffles over to clasp Rayner's hand tightly, ''"Of course. Merrick was a good man. One of the best."'' ''"That he was. I wonder what he'd think if he saw us now."'' ''"He'd probably call us old cunts."'' They both laugh, gripping each other's hand, before eventually their attention turns back to you. ''"Take care of yourself, $name. I know you'll give 'em hell."'' Fredrick's eyes rest on you, searching your features, before his hand retracts from Rayner's and the old man takes a few steps closer. ''"I will, Fredrick. Don't go dying on me while I'm gone."'' ''"Shit, I think I have a few years left in me. Worry about yourself. You're your own man, now."'' [[The streets outside are crowded, your path dimly-lit.|chp2_morningafter4]] <<gainBastard>>

''"I'll make you proud, Fredrick."'' Your words are quickly spoken, blurted out, directly from the heart. You're still somewhat overwhelmed by today's turn of events. You've never been one to shy away from a worthy challenge, but the prospect of leaving Fredrick behind, abandoning him, hurts you. You turn to Fredrick, a breath pressing past the old man's cracked lips as he peers back, saying nothing at first, his beady brown gaze fixed onto you. It seems like he might have something to say, but it takes a few moments of teetering on the preicipe of speech for him to respond: ''"You don't have to do anything for me, $name. This is for you. This is your life and you don't owe me anything."'' Yet, to say that you have mixed feelings would be an understatement. This man took you in when you were an orphan, with nothing, no one, even your memories were fragmented, lost and broken. He took you in and gave you a chance... and this is his final act, potentially changing your life once more. ''"I know... just.. thank you, Fredrick."'' It takes the old man a few moments, once again, to respond. He's never been good at expressing himself, but you don't mind. You wouldn't have it any other way. ''"You're welcome. Now then..."'' He clears his throat, and Rayner flicks a look between you and the old man before intoning simply, ''"Good. Now, we should get a move on. It'll be the Dark Hour before long and I don't like to challenge superstition. Not if I can avoid it."'' He presses to his feet and you follow suit, but Fredrick stays seated down atop his stool, broad frame slightly hunched. ''"Hmph. This is always the worst part of sitting... standing up. You'll understand one day, if you live to be old and gray."'' With a creak of bones and a muttered curse, he manages to stoop up and onto his feet, using the nearby workbench to steady himself. Rayner smirks, a faint crease of his lips as he observes his friend, ''"So much for dying young, in a blaze of glory, eh? That was always for the lucky few. Those beautiful, glorious, dumb bastards. Do you remember Merrick?"'' Fredrick makes a gruff sound of amusement as he shuffles over to clasp Rayner's hand tightly, ''"Of course. Merrick was a good man. One of the best."'' ''"That he was. I wonder what he'd think if he saw us now."'' ''"He'd probably call us old cunts."'' They both laugh, gripping each other's hand, before eventually their attention turns back to you. ''"Try not to let him do anything too stupid. He's a good kid."'' Fredrick's eyes rest on you, searching your features, before his hand retracts from Rayner's and the old man takes a few steps closer. ''"$name, take care of yourself."'' ''"I will, Fredrick. I'll see you again soon. I'll visit as soon as I'm able."'' ''"Don't worry about me. You're your own man, now."'' He clasps a big hand atop your shoulder and you smile back at //your father//, the man that gave you a fighting chance in this world, one last time. [[The streets outside are crowded, your path dimly-lit.|chp2_morningafter4]] <<gainKnight>>

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chapter2_ascender_banner.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> It's darker than usual, not that it's ever bright in the deep reaches and depths of Undertown. The atmosphere that pervades now is that which precedes the Dark Hour. <<bgm "gothic-techno" 0.6 9>> Once a day, Dosmera eclipses the sun and casts the city of Cradle into an ethemeral nightscape. Dosmera is bright, that much is true, but no one but fools and vagrants stray out into the streets during this strange, daily occurence. You follow in step not far behind Rayner, keeping close amongst the throes of the crowd atop the ruinous, crack-strewn streets. The black of each passing alley winks back at you, stark reminders of the previous day's dalliance that could've cost you your life, or perhaps an even worse fate. Now, against all odds, you're on a trip that may very well be the beginning of a new chapter in your life. A chapter of //ascent//. ''"Keep up,"'' Rayner calls over a shoulder, clearing a path as he goes. Not many in Undertown are as tall, as large, as foreboding as your instructor. No, by-and-large, the dregs of society dwell here, those down on their luck ever since they were birth into this cruel, competitive, cursed citadel of sin and debauchery. You wonder just how different Highrock will be. Or if at the very least, the view is better from above. ''"I hope you don't mind if we make a stop."'' He slows to allow you to step alongside, both of you marching your way through Undertown, passing barren beggars, cloaked crones and dirty dealers packing up their wares as you go. Rayner casts a look high up into the sky, above the slope of cracked walls and fragmented tenaments to assess the state of the sky, obscured by balmy fog and a low, violet mist, ''"I have some business to handle, and it's about that time. The eclipse."'' Hurried, the crowd ebbs and flows as most of them hurry home or into various establishments; enclosed markets, bazaars, bakers and surly bars, packed to the brim with all sorts of sorry characters down on their luck. ''"Works for me. Where is it?"'' ''"Not in Undertown. Have you ever left the Third Quarter, $name?" "Never."'' Rayner tilts a look down at you, eyes alight briefly with a glimmer of amusement. It occurrs in the way that an older man might get a kick out of a youth having his first sip of ale, or lighting up his first cigar. ''"You're about to. We're heading to the main throughfare... the Imperial Highway that runs between each district."'' ''"The Imperial Highway?"'' ''"Right. It a big road... elevated. Packed with buildings, shops, everything. Much nicer than here, and more secure. It's how the Legion maintains control over Cradle, and how the nobility and gentry run their goods between the Quarters."'' You dip a low nod and stick close, though the streets start to empty out and the crowd thins the closer that it draws to the Dark Hour. The pace of your walk increases, and before long, you realize that you don't recognize this part of the quarter, or the district that you're currently in. Already, you're a long way from home. When so many dingy, grungy denizens are packed into each city block, and when you've had no need in the past to travel far beyond your abode, it doesn't take long for things to feel foreign. ''"There's two main gates that lead out of the Third Quarter. This is one of them."'' Like most of the roads in Cradle, in Undertown even, the cobblestone is set at a slight incline. You and Rayner find yourselves climbing in elevation as in the distance, set prominently into the face of a dark, expansive wall, the gate itself becomes visible. It's certainly wide enough to fit a half-dozen wagons through in parallel, and tall enough to accomodate giants. Ten men stacked atop each other could potentially tickle the top, just barely. ''"Why do the Quarters have walls and gates between them, Rayner?"'' ''"In case of an invasion... or a rebellion. The Legion can seal off parts of the city, just like how the Lost Quarter was sealed off generations ago."'' You want to ask more, but you're drawing closer to the gate. Like a checkpoint, it's manned by a squadron of Legionnaires. You can see their black helmets gleaming atop the wall, and the glistening of their sheathed blades and layered armour as they patrol the street before you. ''"If they ask anything, let me do the talking."'' 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The process is painless, perhaps due to the man standing by your side. Rayner exchanges easy nods with the soldiers who cross your path, Legionnaires who seem to recognize him, or at least acknowledge him. ''"Ascender,"'' one of them calls out, with a firm inclination of his chin. ''"They know I'm an Instructor."'' He explains after, lips quirking just a touch, ''"There's perks to being involved with Highrock. You'll find out soon enough."'' You don't ask any questions, contented by the mere prospect of being //somebody//, and not a complete nobody. If you have to tough out two years of an Academy filled with literate upstarts and spoiled nobility, so be it. You have a chance at becoming an officer in the Legion or possibly, if you fight for it hard enough, an Ascender. For the time being, there's nothing more that you could ask for but for things as they stand to... //work//. ''"Welcome to the Imperial Highway. Your chances of getting a dagger in the back just diminished significantly, $name."'' Rayner releases an amused breath and turns his gaze over the large, spiralling roadway that winds both upwards and downwards, leading between the tall, dark, cascading walls of Cradle. ''"But don't get too comfortable. Keep your wits about you, kid, and we'll be just fine. We're going up, quickly. It's about to get dark."'' And thus, you fall into a steady pace beside Rayner, walking quickly, your strides sure and steady. Chin held aloft, you observe the new world that's slowly opening up before you. Even the road, you notice, is far more pristine than any in Undertown. Sculpted smooth, wide, paved evenly and kept free of debris, cracks or crevices. You don't see any pitch-black, yawning gaps in the walls either for the dark and dirty to carve out their alley lairs. You might be able to get used to this. ''"You said we're stopping somewhere, Rayner?"'' ''"That's right."'' You can't help but inquire further as you progress further along your journey, the road long and winding, the crowd scant, though the foot traffic does impress you. There are laborers, craftsmen, soldiers and guards that press through on their business, just like Undertown, but plenty of slaves too; they step along just as quickly, some with collared necks, others wearing insignia, ribbons or other garments that indicate them as such. Others seem to be //actual// nobility, an entirely rare if not unheard of sight in Undertown. They're gentry at the very least, with regalia and fine attire, from dyed linens to sheer silks that adorn their supple figures and clean, unblemished complexions. Men with well-combed beards, mustaches and goatees, and women with elaborate buns, crescent braids and long, flowing locks that brush low against the flared collars of dresses and cloaks. You're already impressed and this is just the Highway. You can't help but wonder what lays in store at Highrock, nestled within the depths of the First Quarter. A place that you never thought you'd set foot, not in this life. Rayner elaborates on his response with time, ''"It's a... //nice// tavern, right outside the Quarter. You'll see. Up here, you should be able to get a glance at the Citadel. But we don't have time to stop and soak in the sights."'' Sure enough, the further you ascend, the more that the highway appears to open up. Various buildings, shops and pavilions begin to line the path, out of the roadway and nestled comfortably against the rising walls. They look nice, most of them. Open and secure, some filled with patrons as the streets clear, the eclipse looming soon now. And past the crest of Cradle's walls, you see the outline against the sky, just yonder. The impressive shape of a dark-stone citadel that crowns the city's peaks. A fortress, you think, a foundation that looks just as much like a temple as it would a castle. The Sorcerer-King's domain, where he and the highest of nobility, their most trusted advisors and the most competent Legates of His Legion reside and call home. From there, they oversee and rule over the city with an iron fist. ''"Come on,"'' Rayner breathes out suddenly, starting to pull ahead of you as he eases into a trot, ''"It's that time. The place is just up ahead."'' Far, far above, the sky's light seems to diminish, only the etheral glow of Dosmera and the Highway's feeble lights leading the way onward as you climb further, jogging along behind your soon-to-be Instructor. ''"Right up here."'' He claims, grizzled chin inclining to indicate the road ahead, even as he moves along quickly. Before you know it, he turns towards a large building nestled against a high wall, framed by strong, blocky stones and smooth, burnished wood pillars that give it a rather rustic, homely feel. Yet the sheer size of the place and the quality of the interior, as you soon find out, make the apparent wealth and health of this area quite clear. [[The sun disappears behind you both, the world cast into darkness.|chp2_tavern]]

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp2_unevenqueen.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> The building feels even larger on the inside. High, vaulted ceilings make for an open atmosphere, spacious and well-maintained, with big, round wooden tables strewn across the mainroom to accommodate dozens of conversing patrons. A pair of firepits, lumber lit atop square beds of coal, fill the building with a certain warmth and hearty, wood-smoke aroma. This very well might be the nicest building that you've ever been inside, and it's... a tavern. ''"I told you it's nice,"'' Rayner murmurs aside, lips canted in a subtle smirk as he gauges your reaction, ''"We'll wait out the eclipse here. Make yourself comfortable at the bar or something, eh? I'll find you when I'm done."'' You incline an easy nod and open your mouth to respond, but by then he's already slipped away, leaving you by your lonesome. Surveying the room further, you see a bar, the polished duskwood and upholstered stools gleaming, dancing shadows cast by the flickering flames of the nearest fire. And thus, trying to casually blend in, you slowly start to work your way over whilst observing those gathered throughout the room. Almost everyone you can see, the patrons especially, seem to be human. You've been told before that within Cradle, the most populous race has always been humans. They dominate every caste of society, from the lowliest of slaves to the highest of nobles. Many of the other races exist as underclasses, or in segregated societies that survive, just barely, with the Sorcerer-King's permission and approval. Interestingly enough, among some of whom who you assume to be workers, you spot high, pointed ears. They have elves working here, and you can guess at why even with your limited knowledge. High Elves, as far as you understand, exist as a slave class, completely subjugated. Owning an individual of this race is considered a well-respected acquisition. They're a naturally elegant people, graceful and renowned throughout the city for their beauty. Many of them are pampered and kept for pleasure by the higher castes, while others are tasked with entertaining those of status, coin and landed titles. This tavern must use them as an attraction of sorts, beyond their utility, reputation even, as competent and obedient servants. These are the thoughts that linger in your mind as you finally arrive at the bar and carefully ease out a stool, swinging a leg over and easing your weight down to rest atop. You stay down at one end of the bar, the emptier end. You're out of your element, unwilling to risk attracting unwanted attention. You're surrounded by so many unfamiliar sights, sounds, smells. Plenty to observe and absorb, plenty to keep you busy whilst you wait for Rayner to take care of his business. But like most ideas, it doesn't survive first contact, not for long. ''"Hey, stranger."'' [[Unsettled, you turn towards the source of the voice.|chp2_tavern1]] <<bgm "calm-harp" 0.6 9>>

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp2_leoris_bar.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> ''"You don't look like you belong here."'' She's around your age, a young woman, an elf even. Honied brown eyes meet your gaze, studying you closely, curiously, partially concealed beneath her bangs. Those loose silvery-white strands splay down across her forehead, nearly obscuring brows, thin and arched. They convey her emotions quite readily, nestled above a dainty, button nose and healthy red lips. Her ears are long and sharp, an elaborate braid of hair tucked behind. The woman's cheeks are high-boned, regal and rosy against her smooth, fair flesh, flush from the room's heat. She's of slightly above average height, slender and willowy as with most of her kind. You can only assume she's a servant, an employee here, yet she's dressed in finer clothes than yours, soft white lace and red suede hugging her curves, embroidered with fine, russet-brown leather and satin stitching. At first, you're unsure of how to respond. But her gaze doesn't waver, and neither does yours, ''"Well... I don't."'' Her lips press together somewhat smugly, though you can't deny how cute it is, that little smirk. ''"I knew it. I never forget a face! I'm Leoris."'' You pause, and the lack of an immediate response causes the girl's thin browns to draw together; she's a bit of a brat, you can already tell: ''"... and you are? What's your name, then?"'' ''"$name."'' ''"Mm, $name, I see. Welcome to the Uneven Queen."'' She peers at you brightly, having already helped herself to the empty stool beside. But just as quickly as she brightens, her expression flattens at your unsure response. ''"The... Uneven Queen?"'' ''"... It's the name of the tavern. The Uneven Queen Tavern! Queen's Tavern for short. You really are new around here, aren't you?"'' Her sweet brown eyes dart down along your collar, looking over your neckline, and you soon realize that she's looking for a collar. She thinks you're a slave. ''"Oh, right,"'' You murmur, unsure of whether to be confused or amused by the sudden shift in her demeanor and the weight of her undivided attention. ''"I'm here with a friend. He had business and we're waiting out the eclipse."'' ''"Oh, what kind of business? Lemme guess! Yooouuu'rrre a..."'' Her face contorts subtly as she peers at you, her lips pressing into a thin smile, ''"A mercenary! Tell me I'm right."'' [[I'm just a nobody from Undertown.|chp2_tavern1_cowboy]] <<ci cowboy archetype>> [[Yep, I'm a mercenary. (lie)|chp2_tavern1_bastard]] <<ci bastard archetype>> [[I'm going to be a student at Highrock.|chp2_tavern1_knight]] <<ci knight archetype>>

''"I'm a student."'' <<set $leoris_tavern_knight to true>> Leoris' eyes open a bit wider, showing her curiosity clearly, ''"Neat. What do you study?"'' ''"I'm not.. entirely sure just yet. My classes start tomorrow."'' Her dainty face draws closer to yours, just barely, her question pointed, ''"Where?"'' ''"It's called Highrock... Highrock Academy of Ascent."'' Her honied brown eyes blink up at you from where she's perched atop her stool, turned almost entirely to face you. ''"You're going to Highrock? N-..."'' Her lips, like a red bow being unwrapped, pull apart as she can't help but giggle, ''"No offense. You don't look like the typical Highrock student. I've known a few."'' ''"Is that so? What're they usually like?"'' ''"Uhm..."'' She hums a breath before giving you a knowing smile, ''"Entitled pricks, mostly. You're an interesting exception."'' You don't stop yourself from grinning, starting to enjoy this distraction from what otherwise would have been a lonely hour at the bar, lingering: ''"I'll take that's a good thing."'' ''"Mhm, you could say that. Pupil $name - you better be ready, that's what they'll call you from now on."'' ''"I have a feeling that'll be the least of my worries, soon."'' You rest an elbow atop the bar and prop up your chin with a clenched fist, lounging as you regard your new high-elf acquaintance sidelong. ''"Oh,"'' She breathes, as though running your situation through her mind, ''"You're probably right."'' <<if ($might >= 1) && ($mind >= 1)>> Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, ''"But you look capable. I'm sure you'll do fine, $name. You're big... tough."'' Abruptly, she reaches out and slides a slender digit down the slope of your bicep, right beneath the tattered edge of your sleeve, ''"And you seem smart, too. An uncommon combination. You'll do great as a student... You're going to put some of those Highrocks pricks in their place."'' <<elseif ($might >= 1) && ($mobility >= 1)>> Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, ''"But you look capable. I'm sure you'll do fine, $name. You're big... tough."'' Abruptly, she reaches out and slides a slender digit down the slope of your bicep, right beneath the tattered edge of your sleeve, ''"And athletic. You look fit. Most of those Highrock pricks won't be able to compete with you... physically."'' <<elseif ($mobility >= 1) and ($mind >= 1)>> Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, ''"But you seem like you have a good head on your shoulders, $name."'' Her eyes briefly depart from your face, skimming down over your frame, ''"You're athletic, too, I can tell. Fit. You'll handle yourself just fine at Highrock, I already know it."'' <<elseif $might >= 2>> Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, ''"But you look capable. I'm sure you'll do fine, $name. You're big... really big, and tough."'' Abruptly, she reaches out and slides a slender digit down the slope of your meaty bicep, right beneath the tattered edge of your sleeve, ''"I have a feeling you'll teach those Highrock pricks some humility. Just look at you..."'' She trails off, before tittering a little, breathy laugh. <<elseif $mobility >= 2>> Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, ''"But you look capable. I'm sure you'll do fine, $name."'' Her eyes briefly depart from your face, skimming down over your frame, ''"You're very athletic, too, I can tell. Fit like a fighter. I have a feeling that you can outcompete most of those Highrock pricks."'' <<elseif $mind >= 2>> Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, ''"But you seem very intelligent, $name. I can just tell... the way you talk, the look in your eyes. You'll be a great student, I already know it."''<</if>> ''"I appreciate that, Leoris."'' You murmur your thanks, comfortable. It's not often that you meet someone who makes you feel like you can let your guard down and just... relax. Someone so open, so bright, and seemingly unjudgemental; beautiful too, that part is hard to ignore. For better or for worse, sometimes your brain isn't the part of your body that's running the show. ''"So,"'' You venture, ''"What do you do here?"'' ''"I'm an entertainer,"'' She replies readily, her lips pressing into a pert, pretty smile, ''"As you can imagine, I'm obligated to work here. But it's not bad. I like my boss, my coworkers... I get to dance, swing, provide... pleasure. I really enjoy it."'' Leoris says, warm brown eyes turning downcast over your face, ''"You know, making others happy."'' ''"What's your favorite par--"'' You start to reply with a casual bob of your head, before hearing a sudden crash. [[The loud shattering of ceramic cuts through the din of the tavern.|chp2_tavern1_dishdrop]] <<gainKnight>>

''"I'm a nobody."'' <<set $leoris_tavern_cowboy to true>> ''"A nobody?"'' Leoris echoes with a sideways cant of her head, bangs falling further as she considers you, ''"What do you mean?"'' You hitch up your shoulders and slowly lean forward, resting an elbow atop the bar. Propping your chin up atop a clenched fist, you regard your new high-elf acquiantance sidelong, ''"I'm no one special. Just a guy from Undertown. An adopted cobbler's apprentice. Nothing more, nothing less."'' ''"Mhm,"'' She breathes softly, watching you still, showing her curiosity and even a hint of suspicion quite clearly, ''"And what is an apprentice cobbler doing on the Imperial Highway, in the Uneven Queen, with a friend who's doing 'business'..."'' What a tiresome girl, you think, before relenting, ''"Apparently my... classes start, tomorrow. A place called Highrock Academy. It's a long story, but I only found out today that I'd be.. //attending.//"'' Her honied brown eyes blink up at you from where she's perched atop her stool, turned almost entirely to face you. ''"You're going to Highrock? N-..."'' Her lips, like a red bow being unwrapped, pull apart as she can't help but giggle, ''"No offense. You don't look like the typical Highrock student. I've known a few."'' ''"No offense taken."'' ''"Mmph... you're definitely different. In a good way."'' ''"Right,"'' You intone, cocking a brow as you look her over. ''"I'll take that as a compliment."'' <<if ($might >= 1) && ($mind >= 1)>> ''"It is."'' Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, "You look capable. I'm sure you'll do fine, $name. You're big... tough."'' Abruptly, she reaches out and slides a slender digit down the slope of your bicep, right beneath the tattered edge of your sleeve, ''"And you seem smart, too. An uncommon combination. You'll do great as a student... You're going to put some of those Highrocks pricks in their place."'' <<elseif ($might >= 1) && ($mobility >= 1)>> ''"It is."'' Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, ''"You look capable. I'm sure you'll do fine, $name. You're big... tough."'' Abruptly, she reaches out and slides a slender digit down the slope of your bicep, right beneath the tattered edge of your sleeve, ''"And athletic. You look fit. Most of those Highrock pricks won't be able to compete with you... physically."'' <<elseif ($mobility >= 1) && ($mind >= 1)>> ''"It is."'' Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, ''"You seem like you have a good head on your shoulders, $name."'' Her eyes briefly depart from your face, skimming down over your frame, ''"You're athletic, too, I can tell. Fit. You'll handle yourself just fine at Highrock, I already know it."'' <<elseif $might >= 2>> ''"It is."'' Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, ''"You look capable. I'm sure you'll do fine, $name. You're big... really big, and tough."'' Abruptly, she reaches out and slides a slender digit down the slope of your meaty bicep, right beneath the tattered edge of your sleeve, ''"I have a feeling you'll teach those Highrock pricks some humility. Just look at you..."'' She trails off, before tittering a little, breathy laugh. <<elseif $mobility >= 2>> ''"It is."'' Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, ''"You look capable. I'm sure you'll do fine, $name."'' Her eyes briefly depart from your face, skimming down over your frame, ''"You're very athletic, too, I can tell. Fit like a fighter. I have a feeling that you can outcompete most of those Highrock pricks."'' <<elseif $mind >= 2>> ''"It is."'' Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, ''"You seem very intelligent, $name. I can just tell... the way you talk, the look in your eyes. You'll be a great student, I already know it."''<</if>> ''"I appreciate that, Leoris."'' You murmur your thanks, a part of your mind somewhat wearily considering whether she has an ulterior motive in speaking to you like this. It's not often that you speak to someone so open, so bright, especially with an appearance like hers. But for better or for worse, your brain isn't the part of your body that always runs the show. ''"So what do you do here?"'' ''"I'm an entertainer,"'' She replies readily, her lips pressing into a pert, pretty smile, ''"As you can imagine, I'm obligated to work here. But it's not bad. I like my boss, my coworkers... I get to dance, swing, provide.. pleasure. I really enjoy it."'' Leoris says, warm brown eyes turning downcast over your face, ''"You know, making others happy."'' ''"I can only imagin--"'' You start to reply with a casual bob of your head, before hearing a sudden crash. [[The loud shattering of ceramic cuts through the din of the tavern.|chp2_tavern1_dishdrop]] <<gainCowboy>>

''"Yep, I'm a mercenary."'' <<set $leoris_tavern_bastard to true>> Her eyes open a bit wider, whilst her lips press together in a sudden, white-toothed smile, ''"I knew it! Everything about you screams mercenary; a merc between jobs. Tall and able, a little bedragged, dirty and dingy - no offense - with a handsome face. Quiet, mysterious, alone, with manners too."'' ''"Is that what you think?"'' You respond absently, barely concealing the low wave of amusement that's building up inside of you. Some annoyance too; she talks and talks and talks, but there's something wholesome about her energy and the way that she rattles on. It certainly helps that she's young and lithesome, beautiful, especially the scent of perfume that lingers on her smooth skin, sweet and floral. You can't help but have your fun with her. ''"Of course, I knew it as soon as I laid eyes on you. I spend a lot of time watching people... talking to people.."'' Her words wither away as she regards you fully, and you readily return her gaze without flinching away. ''"What was it that really gave me away, Leoris?"'' Your lips quirk as her warm brown eyes flicking down, tracing the shape of your mouth as she considers her response. A rare occurrence given the course of your interaction thus far. But soon, she responds with a measured confidence. <<if ($might >= 1) && ($mind >= 1)>> ''"You look capable. You're big... tough."'' Abruptly, she reaches out and slides a slender digit down the slope of your bicep, right beneath the tattered edge of your sleeve, ''"And you seem smart, too. An uncommon combination. You seem like the type to keep your wits about you when under pressure, $name."'' <<elseif ($might >= 1) && ($mobility >= 1)>> ''"You look capable. You're big... tough."'' Abruptly, she reaches out and slides a slender digit down the slope of your bicep, right beneath the tattered edge of your sleeve, ''"And athletic. You look fit, nimble. Is there any better combination for a mercenary, $name?"'' <<elseif ($mobility >= 1) && ($mind >= 1)>> ''"You look capable."'' Her eyes briefly depart from your face, skimming down over your frame, ''"You're athletic... fit. It's easy to tell. And you seem smart too, $name. The type who keeps their wits about them when under pressure. Those are good qualities for a mercenary, no?"'' <<elseif $might >= 2>> ''"You look capable. You're big... really big, and tough."'' Abruptly, she reaches out and slides a slender digit down the slope of your meaty bicep, right beneath the tattered edge of your sleeve, ''"You're the type of man that commands respect. A good quality for a mercenary, no? Just look at yourself, $name..."'' She trails off, before tittering a little, breathy laugh. <<elseif $mobility >= 2>> ''"You look capable. Very athletic, it's easy to tell."'' Her eyes briefly depart from your face, skimming down over your frame, ''"Fit like a natural-born fighter. I have a feeling that not many can stand toe-to-toe with you, $name. That screams mercenary to me more than anything else."'' <<elseif $mind >= 2>> ''"You look capable and seem... very intelligent, $name. There's a keeness to your gaze, and the way you talk... You seem quick-witted and adaptable. Good traits for a mercenary, no?"''<br><</if>> ''"Maybe you're right, Leoris. You've got me all figured out."'' You murmur through a faint smile, the corners of your lips subtly curved as you regard the elven female before you. She's a nice girl, a bit naive, but open and bright. If you weren't such a smartass, she's the type of woman that you wouldn't mind opening up to, or relaxing around. But instead, perhaps you'll spend the hour seeing just how far you can take this. ''"So what do you do here?"'' She replies readily, lips pressing into a pretty, pert smile, ''"I'm an entertainer! As you might've guessed, I'm obligated to work here. But it's not bad. I like my boss, my coworkers... I get to dance, sing, provide... pleasure. I really enjoy it."'' Leoris' warm brown eyes turn downcast over your face, watching you closely. ''"You seem like a fun gir--"'' You start to reply with a tick of his chin, before hearing a sudden crash. [[The loud shattering of ceramic cuts through the din of the tavern.|chp2_tavern1_dishdrop]] <<gainBastard>>

Across the main room, admist the hustle and bustle of the tavern's filled sprawl, a burly orcish servant shatters a serving dish stacked with dirty plates and clay cups across the hardwood floor. A mustached man sallies forth from behind the bar to berate the slave, and for the most part, the surrounding patrons seem to get a kick out of the whole spectacle. The greenskin server, with the signature protruding underbite of his race, complies to the verbal abuse with a bow of his head, hurriedly shuffling down onto his knees to try and gather up the broken remnants. ''"A broom, fool! Do you know what a broom is? Don't use your big, dumb hands like a savage!"'' Leoris' brows draw together as you both clearly hear the lambasting, the atmosphere of the tavern shifting quite visibly, loud and clamorous over what had been a relaxing conversation. But just as quickly, she quips up at you with a shining smile. ''"It's loud in here, $name. Let's go somewhere better."'' ''"Such as...?"'' You breath back the question, calm and collected, though you're intrigued by the suggestion. She sweeps that fluid curtain of silvery-white hair from her face as ahe looks intently back at you, ''"Wanna see my apartment?"'' [[Why not?|chp2_leoris_apartment]] <<sfx "dishes-fall" 0.7>> <<bgmstop 3>>

High above the Uneven Queen, at the end of a well-lit hall, a key is turned and a door opens. Gracefully, Leoris welcomes you into her loft, a warm room that feels very lived-in, full of character. ''"This is all yours?"'' You murmur, casting a look down at the high-elf, whose honied brown eyes back up into yours, ''"Mhm. Make yourself at home, $name."'' ''"That'll be easy. This is a lot nicer than my room."'' ''"Not everyone can live in the lap of luxury like me,"'' She chirps back, striding deeper into her apartment with a little pep to her step, a natural bounce, undeniably feminine. ''"I told you that the job comes with benefits, didn't I?"'' She stops at a vanity, or dressing table, pressed against the wall midway through the room. Still speaking, she slides open a drawer and procures a little, fine-bristled brush, carefully combing out her silvery-white locks. ''"Just don't make a mess. You're not a messy man, are you?"'' ''"I can be."'' You respond with a twitch of your lips, absently looking through the rest of her quarters. Her bed, wide and spacious, lay nested opposite the vanity. A small stone hearth stands constructed into the farthest wall, near a scarlet loveseat covered in cushions and big, plush velvety pillows. A table with various odds and ends, baubles collecting atop, stands out to you along with several shelves... bookshelves, with books. Odd. ''"Whose are these?"'' You can't help but pose the question aloud, ticking a look back towards the prissy elf as she flits through her hair with the brush, ''"Hmm?"'' ''"There's a lot of... //books// in here."'' ''"Mhm, I love a good story."'' Dumbfounded, you stare at the rosy-faced elf, ''"You can read?"'' <<if $leoris_tavern_cowboy || $leoris_tavern_knight>> ''"You can't?"'' From the corner of her eye, attention still partially placed unto the mirror before her, Leoris gives you an incredulous look. You give her a flat look before she breathes out, the huff displacing her bangs as they skim over her forehead, ''"Oh my. I mean... You'll be doing a lot of reading at Highrock, won't you?"'' ''"I guess you're right. I'll have to learn, they have tutors and instructors for that. When did you learn how to read, though? I thought sla--..."'' You stop yourself from using that word, unsure of how she'll react. You haven't exactly directly broached the topic yet. But she gives a shake of her head, readily replying, ''"It's fine. It's not illegal... just frowned upon. You know, the enslaved and indentured becoming literate. As you might've guessed, the owners here are different than most. Relaxed. They give us a lot of privileges. Besides, I'm not your typical girl."'' Her head turns as she regards you, applying a creamy balm to her thick lips with the press of a slender digit, which slowly slips past the precipice, sinking into the heat of her mouth. Sensually suctioning down atop, she starts to withdraw her finger, sucking it like a lollipop until that digit retracts with an audible 'pop'. ''"I know what I want, and I always get it."'' ''"And what is it that you want, Leoris?"'' Your question causes her head to tilt slightly, looking at you through warm, downcast eyes and thick lashes, ''"Mmff, right now?"'' Her lips curve at the corners, before she turns on heel. <<elseif $leoris_tavern_bastard>> ''"You can't?"'' From the corner of her eye, attention still partially placed unto the mirror before her, Leoris gives you an incredulous look before blinking. ''"Oh right,"'' She breathes out, the huff displacing her bangs as they skim over her forehead, you staring back all the while, unfazed. ''"I suppose you don't have much use for it, do you?"'' ''"Never. But you're a curious girl, Leoris. How did you learn to read?"'' She releases a little laugh, before readily replying with a shake of her head, ''"I'm not a typical girl, $name."'' Her head turns as she regards you, applying a creamy balm to her thick lips with the press of a slender digit, which slowly slips past the precipice, sinking into the heat of her mouth. Sensually suctioning down atop, she starts to withdraw her finger, sucking it like a lollipop until that digit retracts with an audible 'pop'. ''"I know what I want, and I always get it."'' ''"Is that right?"'' You murmur back, slowly drawing further into the room, closer to the elf before you. ''"Mhm,"'' She makes a low sound of affirmation, still looking at you through warm, downcast eyes and thick lashes. ''"If you could write, $name... I bet you would have great stories to tell."'' ''"Aye... I have one in mind right now."'' ''"Really?"'' ''"It's true. A tale about a clever and unbelievably cute elf girl, and her heated encounter with a rogue mercenary; a man in a mean trade, with a guarded heart."'' Her eyes crease pleasantly as she regards you still, rosy cheeks dimpled, head canted just a touch to one side as you draw close, ''"That's quite the tale. Tell me, does she manage to win him over? Melt his cold, cruel heart?"'' You can't help but grin, showing a gleam of teeth as you draw closer, nearer, nary a step away, peering down into the feminine face below, ''"That part has yet to be written. Isn't that how stories work? They have to occur before they can be jotted down."'' Her lips curve at the corners, before she sticks out a pink peek of tongue at you, ''"Unless the story is entirely imagined!"'' She laughs and turns on heel before you can respond, drawing across the room. <</if>> She heads across the room to the hearth, procuring a piece of flint as she sets about striking and lighting a fire, calling over a shoulder meanwhile, ''"You're not in a rush to leave, are you?"'' <<sfx "door-open-close" 0.6>> <<bgm "sunny-stars" 0.6 6>> [[Not at all. (18+)|chp2_leoris_apartment1]] <<ci adult>> [[Actually, I shouldn't linger long.|chp2_leoris_earlydeparture]]

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp2_leoris_smoking.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> ''"Not at all."'' A growing flame lights the tinder and slowly trickles upwards, soon engulfing the few pieces of timber nestled into the depths of the hearth. And carefully, the high elf transfers that flame to a slender wax candle atop the room's table. ''"This must be where you... read in the evenings, hm? Cozy."'' She nods her affirmation, lips quirked in a faint smile, ''"Exactly. Please, make yourself comfortable."'' There's a cushioned chair next the table, perpendicular to the loveseat. Casually, you step over and start to ease your way down, helping yourself. Leoris crosses to the loveseat and settles into it, sat primly in her tight red bodice and carefully arranged skirt. She crosses her long, lavish legs and reaches into a hidden drawer within the round table before you, procuring a pipe and a pouch. She packs the pipe with practiced fingers, lights it with the candle flame, and takes a slow, luxurious drag. A thin plume of fragrant smoke curls upward. ''"I hope you don't mind,"'' she murmurs, voice already a touch breathier, the corners of her lips curving. ''"This is where I read... and smoke. Have you ever had hashish, $name?"'' [[Sure, it's a habit of mine.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_sure]] [[No, but anything's worth trying once.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_trying]] [[Never. It's a nasty habit.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_never]]

<<set $chp2_hash is false>> <<set $leoris_nosex is true>> ''"Actually, I shouldn't linger long. I don't want to set false expectations."'' ''"Oh,"'' Leoris murmurs, her dainty thin-arched brows drawing up in what seems to be surprise, followed by the subtle purse of her red lips. What might be disappointment disappears in an instant, much to her credit. Graceful as always, she recovers and moves the conversation along quickly, ''"I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable, $name. It's fine if we just chat for a little then, right?"'' <<if $leoris_tavern_cowboy || $leoris_tavern_knight>> ''"Of course,"'' You affirm, trying to keep the conversation light and casual, as to avoid completely ruining the encounter. She doesn't seem to mind, though the interaction felt like it was going in a completely different direction before, ''"I wouldn't have come up here with you if I wasn't interested in getting to know you."'' ''"Right!"'' She chirps, rosy-cheeks dimpling before she looses a little, breathy laugh, ''"You seem like you have a good heart, $name. I think I was right - you will be a good student!"'' The conversation continues on, remaining rather relaxed. You get to learn a little more about each other, from random trivia about the Uneven Queen to Leoris' favorite color (red). You're not sure how much time passes, not that you're paying attention. You just know that you're grateful for the good company and distraction. It's not often that you get to spend time one-on-one with someone who's capable of carrying on an interesting conversation. ''"You better come and visit me again, $name! So you can tell me all about your classes at Highrock and what kind of people you meet... sights you see... any trouble that you may get into. Though I have a feeling you'll do just fine in that regard."'' She smiles brightly and shoots you over a little, teasing wink, which draws a small laugh out of you, ''"Of course, I'll do my best. I don't intend on getting into any trouble, not if I can help it."'' ''"I hope you keep your word! I don't get to see much of Cradle... I spend most of my time inside the walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading. ''"Not that I'm complaining. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. No matter what my home was like. Maybe it's a stretch, but I can almost relate. I've felt trapped before... and even where I'm going now, it feels like I don't have much of a choice."'' ''"At Highrock?"'' She inquires softly, her curiosity evident. ''"At Highrock,"'' You confirm with a bit of a nod. ''"I should be grateful for the opportunity, but it wasn't my own choice to attend. Not really. It was an opportunity that I simply couldn't refuse. And all things considered... I'm going to try and make the best of it."'' ''"I'll be here if you ever need someone to talk to, $name."'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and regal. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"You can tell me about your trials at Highrock. I'll be hear to listen, someone for you to lean on. And I'll be happy to know about you and your life... it sounds more exciting than mine."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"Deal,"'' comes your murmur, low but resolute. [[You embrace each other for a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_trulyonlyaconvo]] <<elseif $leoris_tavern_bastard>> ''"Of course,"'' You affirm, trying to keep the conversation light and casual, as to avoid completely ruining the encounter. She doesn't seem to mind, though the interaction felt like it was going in a completely different direction before, ''"I wouldn't have came up here with you if I wasn't interested in getting to know you."'' ''"Right!"'' She chirps, rosy-cheeks dimpling before she looses a little, breathy laugh, ''"You seem like you have a good heart, $name. You might be the most interesting mercenary that I've met."'' The conversation continues on, remaining rather relaxed. You get to learn a little more about each other, from random trivia about the Uneven Queen to Leoris' favorite color (red). You're not sure how much time passes, not that you're paying attention. You just know that you're grateful for the good company and distraction. It's not often that you get to spend time one-on-one with someone who's capable of carrying on an interesting conversation. ''"You better come and visit me again, $name! So you can tell me all about your jobs, your travels... the kind of people that you meet and the sights you see... any trouble that you may get into! Though I doubt that'll be an issue, you seem very squared away. I believe in you."'' She smiles brightly and shoots you over a little, teasing wink, which draws a small laugh out of you, ''"Of course, I'll do my best. I don't intend on getting into any trouble."'' ''"I hope you keep your word! I don't get to see much of Cradle... I spend most of my time inside the walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading. ''"Not that I'm complaining. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn unto you beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. I've felt trapped before..."'' It might be that a part of you feels trapped right now, knowing that you're starting classes at Highrock tomorrow. It wasn't really much of a choice, was it? You would've been stupid to pass up on the opportunity, but you had no way to prepare for it. But you can't tell Leoris that, not after your lies. ''"I'll be here if you ever need someone to talk to, $name."'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and regal. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"You can tell me about the trials of your line of work... and I'll be here to listen. Someone for you to lean on and vent to. I'll be happy to know about you and your life... it sounds more exciting than mine."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"Deal,"'' comes your murmur, low but resolute. [[You embrace each other for a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_trulyonlyaconvo]]<</if>>

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp2_leoris_smoking.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> ''"Sure, it's a habit of mine."'' <<set $chp2_hash is true>> You have a feeling that Fredrick always knew about your little habit, too. It's hard to cover the scent, especially in your little cell of a room back home. But that was always the most convenient place to have a smoke if you wanted to be alone. Peace and privacy is a luxury in Undertown. Otherwise you had to put up with your "friends", none of whom you were particularly close with. It was always difficult for you to meet people worthy of your trust, let alone friendship. The youth of Undertown are always after something, chasing wealth and pleasure in the streets, or devoting themselves to their work just to scrape by. Whatever it takes to survive. But what truly living, and fanning the flames of a greater purpose? ''"Nice..."'' Leoris responds breathily, breaking you from your reverie as she begins to pack the pipe. ''"But I should warn you, this stuff is strong. It's from a good source. Lap of luxury, remember?"'' ''"Luxurious Leoris."'' Your retort draws a soft giggle from the elf as she peers back at you through downcast lashes, ''"I like that."'' ''"Here, I'll let you have the honors. Use the candle."'' You accept the offered pipe and carefully lean forward atop your chair, boots planted firmly onto the floor beneath you. It takes a single attempt to light, and you waste no time, your lips puckered tight as you take a full, hearty drag from the pipe, immediately inhaling the heady fumes and exhaling tendrils of smoke through your flared nostrils. It hits you hard, that warmth spreading throughout your face and bringing tears to your eyes. ''"Shit,"'' You finally intone, which produces a little, amused laugh from Leoris' lips. Slowly, you stretch out an arm to offer the pipe back, and she happily accepts it. <<if $leoris_tavern_cowboy || $leoris_tavern_knight>>''"I love it. My newest friend from Highrock getting //high// the day before class. Maybe you won't be the star-pupil that I thought you'd be after all."'' Already, you feel the numbness setting in. You don't fight it, slumping back into your chair which feels even more comfortable than before. ''"Hmmph,"'' You murmur, ''"Even a King needs to relax and enjoy good company, every once in a while."'' ''"Ooooh, I see."'' She coos, nodding her approval with an air of amusement as she sets about packing the pipe once more. ''"I'm sorry for ever doubting you, my liege."'' <<elseif $leoris_tavern_bastard>>''"I love it. Seeing such a cold, hard man able to finally relax."'' Already, you feel the numbness setting in. You don't fight it, slumping back into your chair which feels even more comfortable than before. ''"Hmmph,"'' You murmur, ''"Even a warrior needs to relax and enjoy good company, every once in a while."'' ''"Ooooh, I see."'' She coos, absently smiling as she repacks the pipe, ''"Well then, my mighty warrior. Please relax, as I'm the best company you could ever ask for."'' <</if>> It's her turn again, pert lips nestled against the pipe's stem as she uses the candle's flame once more. The first toke turns her face even more rosy, heady from the herb's warmth and the fire that crackles directly behind, casting dancing shadows over the apartment. This is nice, you think, incredibly nice, your gaze straying over her tight-figured crimson-covered form. ''"Do you mind if I get more comfortable, $name?"'' ''"Please do,"'' You murmur without a second thought, which elicits a little, breathy laugh from Leoris. Her answer comes to two parts, low and lilting with her honied brown eyes lingering on you, ''"Thank. You."'' [[Like a feline rising from their perch, Leoris sets the pipe aside.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip]] <<ci stat>>

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp2_leoris_smoking.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> ''"No, but anything's worth trying once."'' <<set $chp2_hash is true>> ''"Ooooh, you'll let me get you high for the first time?"'' Leoris' face immediately lights up at the prospect, and you dip an easy nod, ''"Sure, why not?"'' Hell, you'd let her do just about anything to you right now. How quickly men and their morality whither when presented with a hot chick. Or maybe it's not that deep. You had plenty of "friends" that smoked hash in Undertown, none of whom you were particularly close with. It has always been difficult for you to meet people worthy of your trust, let alone friendship. The youth of Undertown are always after something, chasing wealth and pleasure in the streets, or devoting themselves to their work. Whatever it takes to survive. But what about living well, or fanning the flames of a greater purpose? That's all to say, you might've smoked sooner if you had different friends. Having your first toke in a comfortable apartment loft, with an irresistable high-elf who you'd love to grow closer to, seems like an opportunity too good to pass up. ''"Great,"'' Leoris chirps, breaking you from your reverie as she begins to pack the pipe. ''"But I should warn you, this stuff is strong. It's from a good source. Lap of luxury, remember?"'' ''"Luxurious Leoris."'' Your retort draws a soft giggle from the elf as she peers back at you through downcast lashes, ''"I like that."'' ''"Here, I'll let you have the honors. Do you know how to do it?" "It can't be that hard. Lemme light it." "Yes, use the candle. Careful now."'' You accept the offered pipe and carefully lean forward atop your chair, boots planted firmly onto the floor beneath you. You take a few attempts to light it, your lips puckered awkwardly around the pipe as you take a half-hearted drag. You inhale some of the heady fumes to your surprise, unable to suppress a sudden cough and sputtered breath. <<if $leoris_tavern_cowboy || $leoris_tavern_knight>> Leoris can't help but laugh softly, ''"Easy there. I guess you haven't taken Herbology at Highrock yet, have you?"'' It hits you hard, that warmth spreading throughout your face and bringing tears to your eyes. ''"Shit.. herbology you said?"'' Another little, amused laugh follows, ''"Sorry, bad joke. Here."'' She reaches for the pipe, happily accepting it back once you stretch out your arm with it in hand. ''"I love it. My newest friend from Highrock getting //high// the day before class. Maybe you won't be the star-pupil that I thought you'd be after all."'' Already, you feel the numbness setting in. You don't fight it, slumping back into your chair which feels even more comfortable than before. ''"Hmmph,"'' You murmur, ''"Even a King needs to relax, enjoy good company, and experiment every once in a while."'' ''"Ooooh, I see."'' She coos, nodding her approval with an air of amusement as she sets about packing the pipe once more. ''"I'm sorry for ever doubting you, my liege."'' <<elseif $leoris_tavern_bastard>> Leoris can't help but laugh softly, ''"And the heartless mercenary finally meets his match. A herb!"'' It hits you hard, that warmth spreading throughout your face and bringing tears to your eyes. ''"Shit.. I was not expecting that."'' Another little, amused laugh follows, ''"Don't worry, it happens to everyone their first time. It's the smoke."'' She reaches for the pipe, happily accepting it back once you stretch out your arm with it in hand. ''"You probably have to stay sober for your work, most of the time. I understand."'' ''"Exactly,"'' You respond, slowly loosening up. ''"I love it. Seeing such a cold, hard man able to finally relax."'' Already, you feel the numbness setting in. You don't fight it, slumping back into your chair which feels even more comfortable than before. ''"Hmmph,"'' You murmur, ''"Even a warrior needs to relax, enjoy good company, and experiment every once in a while." "Ooooh, I see."'' She coos, absently smiling as she repacks the pipe, ''"Well then, my mighty warrior. Please relax, as I'm the best company you could ever ask for."''<</if>> It's her turn again, pert lips nestled against the pipe's stem as she uses the candle's flame once more. The first toke turns her face even more rosy, heady from the herb's warmth and the fire that crackles directly behind, casting dancing shadows over the apartment. This is nice, you think, incredibly nice, your gaze straying over her tight-figured crimson-covered form. ''"Do you mind if I get more comfortable, $name?"'' ''"Please do,"'' You murmur without a second thought, which elicits a little, breathy laugh from Leoris. Her answer comes to two parts, low and lilting with her honied brown eyes lingering on you, ''"Thank. You."'' [[Like a feline rising from their perch, Leoris sets the pipe aside.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip]] <<ci stat>>

''"Never. It's a nasty habit."'' <<set $chp2_hash is false>> <<set $leoris_nosex is true>> ''"Oh,"'' Leoris murmurs, her dainty thin-arched brows drawing up in what seems to be surprise, followed by the subtle purse of her red lips. She seems disappointed - did you just kill the mood? You can be brutally honest, and it's rare that you stray from your values. Hashish is for losers and bums. That's what Fredrick told you long ago and everything that you've seen up to now seems to confirm that. You won't let your morality whither for the sake of some tail. You had plenty of "friends" that smoked hash in Undertown, none of whom you were particularly close with. It has always been difficult for you to meet people worthy of your trust, let alone friendship. The youth of Undertown are always after something, chasing wealth and pleasure in the streets, or devoting themselves to their work. Whatever it takes to survive. But what about living well, or fanning the flames of a greater purpose? ''"Well then!"'' Graceful as always, Leoris to her credit seems to recover rather quickly, slowly leaning forward to settle the pipe upon the low table.''"I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable, $name. It's not for everyone. It just helps me relax every once and a while, if that makes sense."'' <<if $leoris_tavern_cowboy || $leoris_tavern_knight>> ''"It does make sense,"'' You affirm, trying to keep the conversation light and casual, as to avoid completely ruining the encounter. She doesn't seem to mind, though the interaction felt like it was going in a completely different direction before, ''"It's just not for me. Especially right now, considering tomorrow..."'' ''"Right!"'' She chirps, rosy-cheeks dimpling before she looses a little, breathy laugh, ''"I'm sorry, that was bad of me, wasn't it? I shouldn't be trying to get you high the day before your classes!"'' You huff your agreement, while the high elf only seems to grow more amused by the prospect. ''"See, $name? I was right! You will be a good student!"'' The conversation continues on, remaining rather relaxed. You get to learn a little more about each other, from random trivia about the Uneven Queen to Leoris' favorite color (red). You're not sure how much time passes, not that you're paying attention. You just know that you're grateful for the good company and distraction. It's not often that you get to spend time one-on-one with someone who's capable of carrying on an interesting conversation. ''"You better come and visit me again, $name! So you can tell me all about your classes at Highrock and what kind of people you meet... sights you see... any trouble that you may get into. Though I have a feeling you'll do just fine in that regard."'' She smiles brightly and shoots you over a little, teasing wink, which draws a small laugh out of you, ''"Of course, I'll do my best. I don't intend on getting into any trouble, not if I can help it."'' ''"I hope you keep your word! I don't get to see much of Cradle... I spend most of my time inside the walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading. ''"Not that I'm complaining. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. No matter what my home was like. Maybe it's a stretch, but I can almost relate. I've felt trapped before... and even where I'm going now, it feels like I don't have much of a choice."'' ''"At Highrock?"'' She inquires softly, her curiosity evident. ''"At Highrock,"'' You confirm with a bit of a nod. ''"I should be grateful for the opportunity, but it wasn't my own choice to attend. Not really. It was an opportunity that I simply couldn't refuse. And all things considered... I'm going to try and make the best of it."'' ''"I'll be here if you ever need someone to talk to, $name."'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and regal. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"You can tell me about your trials at Highrock. I'll be hear to listen, someone for you to lean on. And I'll be happy to know about you and your life... it sounds more exciting than mine."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"Deal,"'' comes your murmur, low but resolute. [[You embrace each other for a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_onlyaconvo]] <<elseif $leoris_tavern_bastard>> ''"It does make sense,"'' You affirm, trying to keep the conversation light and casual, as to avoid completely ruining the encounter. She doesn't seem to mind, though the interaction felt like it was going in a completely different direction before, ''"It's just not for me. I try to stay sober for my work."'' ''"Oh, right,"'' She chirps, rosy-cheeks dimpling before she looses a little, breathy laugh, ''"I never really thought I'd meet a sober mercenary! A lot of them... well, to put it nicely, a lot of them like to drink and smoke. For some of them, being sober is rare."'' You huff your agreement, ''"Trust me, I know. That's not the type of person that I am."'' ''"I can tell,"'' She replies thoughtfully, ''"You're very... different. It's impressive."'' The conversation continues on, remaining rather relaxed. You get to learn a little more about each other, from random trivia about the Uneven Queen to Leoris' favorite color (red). You're not sure how much time passes, not that you're paying attention. You just know that you're grateful for the good company and distraction. It's not often that you get to spend time one-on-one with someone who's capable of carrying on an interesting conversation. ''"You better come and visit me again, $name! So you can tell me all about your jobs, your travels... the kind of people that you meet and the sights you see... any trouble that you may get into! Though I doubt that'll be an issue, you seem very squared away. I believe in you."'' She smiles brightly and shoots you over a little, teasing wink, which draws a small laugh out of you, ''"Of course, I'll do my best. I don't intend on getting into any trouble."'' ''"I hope you keep your word! I don't get to see much of Cradle... I spend most of my time inside the walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading. ''"Not that I'm complaining. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn unto you beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. I've felt trapped before..."'' It might be that a part of you feels trapped right now, knowing that you're starting classes at Highrock tomorrow. It wasn't really much of a choice, was it? You would've been stupid to pass up on the opportunity, but you had no way to prepare for it. But you can't tell Leoris that, not after your lies. ''"I'll be here if you ever need someone to talk to, $name."'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and regal. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"You can tell me about the trials of your line of work... and I'll be here to listen. Someone for you to lean on and vent to. I'll be happy to know about you and your life... it sounds more exciting than mine."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"Deal,"'' comes your murmur, barely audible. [[You embrace each other a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_onlyaconvo]]<</if>>

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp2_leoris_smoking1.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Her slender fingers nimbly undo the lacing to her tight red bodice, the top peeling away past the brush of silvery hair to reveal a long, slender torso of fair flesh, glistening from the day's heat. Her strapless bra, an exquisite red-burgundy lace that flaunts tastefully the smooth curve of her chest. Her bottoms follow soon after, hips shimmying side-to-side until her thighs are bared for you, only a supple crimson thong separating your gaze from her nethers. She's now in nothing but lingerie, the pipe once more between her pert lips as she watches you with heavy-lidded eyes. <<if $might >= 2>>''"Happily,"'' comes your response, low and leisurely. Every movement feels more exaggerated, effortful, as you're engulfed by the warm embrace of the herb's effects. Meaty forearms tingling, you slip your fingers down beneath the hem of your shirt and start to peel it off, revealing your wide, muscular torso for the elf to gaze upon. She soaks in the sight, honied brown eyes and thick lashes downcast over your naked flesh, from the bulging slopes of your biceps to the thick expanse of your chest. You're bigger than most, stronger too, and it only becomes more evident the less clothing you have clinging to your sturdy form. You aren't exactly shy about it either, slowly lifting your ass from the chair beneath you, just enough to start and work your trousers down to the ground. Solid thighs splay out atop your seat, tapering towards the hard cap of your knees, down into the trained curve of striated calves and strong, arched feet once your boots are finally kicked off beneath the table. ''"Fuck,"'' Leoris murmurs, pert lips curved around the pipe's stem, ''"What were they feeding you back home?"'' ''"I have a big appetite,"'' You jest, but it's true; for food and fucking. Already, the hard bulge of your cock is barely concealed within your drawers, half-erect between the parting of your thighs. ''"I hope you don't mind."'' She's noticed, because her eyes are lingering there on your crotch; her face is redder than before, but it could be the second toke from the pipe. Leoris doesn't seem the type to be embarrassed, although it could be eagerness. ''"Do you mind if I touch?"'' Her question is quiet, breathy and low, though her eyes do tick up from the brawn of your body and the bulge of your cock, to lock eyes with you: ''"Your body. Do you mind if I touch your body, $name? I quite like it..."'' Your lips curve as you study her gaze, before assenting with a dip of your chin, ''"Not at all. Help yourself."'' Frisky and fawning, Leoris presses up from the loveseat and prowls closer to you atop barefeet, weight placed on her slender toes like a dancer, before she presses onto you. Her small hands go to your chest, splayed out against your firm pecs whilst her knees settle onto either side of you, straddling your lap. There, she breathes down onto you, ''"Lay back. Relax, you big hunk."'' ''"I'll try,"'' You murmur reluctantly, slowly settling your head against the chair's back, your body slumped down atop it, although you're still overly aware of her weight and warmth atop your crotch, against your body, those soft hands smoothing over the breadth of your chest and wide shoulders. ''"It's hard to relax when you make me excited."'' ''"Oh, do I?"'' She chirps back, tone playful as her dainty hands and smooth palms roll over the crest of your shoulders and down the length of your arms, softly squeezing and stroking your sturdy musculature. ''"How do I make you excited?"'' ''"I think you're well aware, Leoris."'' ''"Mhm..."'' She teases back, her rosy cheeks dimpled as her chin tucks low, face carefully closing in before she pecks a small kiss against the flank of your neck, ''"But I wanna hear you say it. Is that too much for a girl to ask?"'' <<elseif $mobility >= 2>>''"Happily,"'' comes your response, low and leisurely. Every movement feels more exaggerated, effortful, as you're engulfed by the warm embrace of the herb's effects. Taut forearms tingling, you slip your fingers down beneath the hem of your shirt and start to peel it off, revealing your lean, ripped torso for the elf to gaze upon. She soaks in the sight, honied brown eyes and thick lashes downcast over your naked flesh, from the definition in your lengthy limbs to the chiselled ridges of your midsection. You're fitter than most, athletic too, and it only becomes more evident the less clothing you have clinging to your limber form. You aren't exactly shy about it either, slowly lifting your ass from the chair beneath you, just enough to start and work your trousers down to the ground. Trim thighs splay out atop your seat, tapering down towards the hard cap of your knees, down into the trained curve of able calves and high-arched feet once your boots are finally kicked off beneath the table. ''"Fuck,"'' Leoris murmurs, pert lips curved around the pipe's stem, ''"Why are you so ripped?"'' ''"I take my training seriously,"'' You reply, telling her the truth. And your fucking too, you think to say, your cock already half-erect, barely concealed beneath your drawers and the parting of your thighs. ''"What do you think?"'' She's noticed, because her eyes are lingering there on your crotch; her face is redder than before, but it could be the second toke from the pipe. Leoris doesn't seem the type to be embarrassed, although it could be eagerness. ''"Wha-.. Oh, it's great. Wonderful. Do you mind if I touch?"'' Her question is quiet, breathy and low, though her eyes do bob up from your washboard abs and the bulge of your cock, to lock eyes with you: ''"Your body. Do you mind if I touch your body, $name? I quite like it..."'' Your lips curve as you study her gaze, before assenting with a dip of your chin, ''"Not at all. Help yourself."'' Frisky and fawning, Leoris presses up from the loveseat and prowls closer to you atop barefeet, weight placed on her slender toes like a dancer, before she presses onto you. Her small hands go to your chest, splayed out against your firm pecs whilst her knees settle onto either side of you, straddling your lap. There, she breathes down onto you, ''"Lay back. Relax, you fine man."'' ''"I'll try,"'' You murmur reluctantly, slowly settling your head against the chair's back, your body slumped down atop it, although you're still overly aware of her weight and warmth atop your crotch, against your body, those soft hands smoothing over the breadth of your chest and round shoulders. ''"It's hard to relax when you make me excited."'' ''"Oh, do I?"'' She chirps back, tone playful as her dainty hands and smooth palms roll over the crest of your shoulders and down the length of your arms, softly squeezing and stroking your lean musculature. ''"How do I make you excited?"'' ''"I think you're well aware, Leoris."'' ''"Mhm..."'' She teases back, her rosy cheeks dimpled as her chin tucks low, face carefully closing in before she pecks a small kiss against the flank of your neck, ''"But I wanna hear you say it. Is that too much for a girl to ask?"'' <<else>>''"Happily,"'' comes your response, low and leisurely. Every movement feels more exaggerated, effortful, as you're engulfed by the warm embrace of the herb's effects. Forearms tingling, you slip your fingers down beneath the hem of your shirt and start to peel it off, revealing your lean torso for the elf to gaze upon. She assesses you with honied brown eyes, thick lashes downcast over your increasingly naked flesh, from the stretch of your long limbs to the contour of your chest. You aren't exceptionally fit, nor muscular, but you're a young man in your prime, tall too, with not an inkling of shame concerning your own body. That's all to say, you aren't shy, slowly lifting your ass from the chair beneath you to start and work your trousers down to the ground. Trim thighs splay out atop your seat, tapering down towards the hard cap of your knees, down into the curve of calves and arched feet once your boots are finally kicked off beneath the table. ''"Not bad,"'' Leoris murmurs, pert lips curved around the pipe's stem, ''"You're certainly a piece of meat."'' ''"You haven't even seen the best part,"'' You reply without thinking, your cock already half-erect, barely concealed beneath your drawers and the parting of your thighs. She's noticed, because her eyes are lingering there on your crotch; her face is redder than before, but it could be the second toke from the pipe. Though her reaction is belated, Leoris' lips twitch at your claim, her eyes bobbing up from the run of your limber body and the bulge of your cock to lock eyes: ''"Oh hush..."'' Her following question, coming quite suddenly, is breathy and low, ''"Do you mind if I touch?"'' A pause is given, ''"Your body. Do you mind if I touch your body, $name?"'' Your lips curve as you study her gaze, before assenting with a dip of your chin, ''"Not at all. Help yourself."'' Frisky and fawning, Leoris presses up from the loveseat and prowls closer to you atop barefeet, weight placed on her slender toes like a dancer, before she presses onto you. Her small hands go to your chest, splayed out against your pecs whilst her knees settle onto either side of you, straddling your lap. There, she breathes down onto you, ''"Lay back. Relax, handsome."'' ''"I'll try,"'' You murmur reluctantly, slowly settling your head against the chair's back, your body slumped down atop it, although you're still overly aware of her weight and warmth atop your crotch, against your body, those soft hands smoothing over the breadth of your chest and round shoulders. ''"It's hard to relax when you make me excited."'' ''"Oh, do I?"'' She chirps back, tone playful as her dainty hands and smooth palms roll over the crest of your shoulders and down the length of your arms, softly squeezing and stroking your supple body. ''"How do I make you excited?"'' ''"I think you're well aware, Leoris."'' ''"Mhm..."'' She teases back, her rosy cheeks dimpled as her chin tucks low, face carefully closing in before she pecks a small kiss against the flank of your neck, ''"But I wanna hear you say it. Is that too much for a girl to ask?"''<</if>> ''"You're very needy,"'' You retort, though you can't help but smirk, eyes partially closed with your head canted back. The combination of the herb's effects and the closeness of Leoris pressed against your lap is a heady combination. She's aware of it too, slowly shifting atop you, rubbing the weight of her rear atop your drawers. It's like being one step away from actually fucking, two thin pieces of fabric between the heat of your bodies. It's heavenly and torturous all at the same time. ''"Please..."'' She murmurs, to which you breathe back, ''"Fine."'' ''"It has to be... Your incredible body. Every single inch of it... looks so lavish and fine. I'm still processing that the most beautiful girl in the entire tavern approached me and brought me back to her room."'' ''"And here we are,"'' She giggles low, rising up against you, her chest smushing warmly against yours. ''"But you must be used to the attention. You make me want to be a very naughty girl for you, $name."'' ''"How naughty?"'' You ask, your heavy hands finally fighting at the numbness and fatigue, turning from where they've layed plastered against the chair to clamp onto the curve of Leoris' hips. She jolts just a touch atop you, before pressing down firmer atop your lap, grinding into the hard bulge of your crotch. ''"You make my head fuzzy,"'' She intones back, breath nearly catching in her throat as she casts her gaze over your bare chest, ''"And my body hot. Very, very hot."'' ''"Let me help,"'' You reply, slipping a finger between the crook of her thigh and the string of her thong, ready to slip it down from her nethers. ''"No,"'' She says firmly, propping her hand up against your shoulder as she abruptly eases her weight up from your body, ''"But I have another idea, something to help you relax..."'' You suck on your lips, wetting them as you blearily look up at the high elf before you, long and lissome, standing half-naked against you. ''"Do you want my hands,"'' Leoris murmurs, red lips curved as her brown eyes linger on yours, ''"Or my feet?"'' [[Hands.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_hands]] <<ci stat>> [[Feet.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_feet]] <<ci stat>>

''"Your hands."'' ''"Is that right?"'' She replies, lips curved still as she she lingers, looking down over your nearly naked body. The sight itself it extremely erotic, though it immediately heights as she slowly, sensually lowers down onto her nimble knees immediately before you. Her warm brown eyes are locked with yours, silvery bangs swept low atop her gaze, dainty, rosy-cheeked face just above your crotch. ''"You want these pretty little hands wrapped around your big cock, don't you $name?"'' ''"That's exactly what I want, Leoris."'' You can't deny it. Her hands are beautiful, slender and pale, fingers slim, svelte. Her race has an undeniable elegance that permeates and pervades the senses. ''"Have you ever had a high elf jerk you off, $name?"'' She can't stop teasing you, smiling up at you brightly now as she presses forward, smoothing her hands up your thighs until they settle alongside your drawers. Delicately, she prods your bulge with a single digit. ''"Hm? Have you always wanted a cute little elf to stroke that big, manly cock of yours?"'' She runs two long fingers over your concealed length, tracing the shape of your erection as she watches on. You can't help but breathe back, ''"You're too much..."'' ''"Isn't this what you wanted?"'' comes the retort, though she must know exactly what she's doing. Thoroughly teasing and tracing your growing bulge, she starts to apply pressure, actually stroking you with a few fingers through the terribly thin fabric of your boxers. ''"Just like this, hm? Or did you want me to get closer?"'' Your loins are on fire, yearning for closer contact, more pressure and heat, wondrous warmth. You can only imagine how heavenly it'd feel right now for every single finger and both of those soft palms to be wrapped around your entire, engorged length. She senses your lust, at least that's what you imagine, because soon she's slipping a finger into either side of your boxers and starting to somewhat playfully try and scoot them down your legs. Fighting against the herb's effects, you hoist yourself up just enough to pry at your boxers and hasten the effort, tugging them down your thighs. And almost immediately, your mostly-erect dick flops out, hanging heavily between your thighs. You drop back down into your seat and instantly, you feel the heady warmth of Leoris' hands wrapped around, accommodating eagerly the thickness of your shaft. It might be the hash, but this girl does something for your libido; you're incredibly horny and hard for her. ''"Mmph. I love how big and excited you are for me, $name."'' Atop her knees, both hands sensually stroke, soothe and smooth over every inch of your erection. She really is wonderful; the type of woman that wants to pleasure you fully, immensely, totally. Her every movement speaks to that, not rushing the act, but enjoying it, those warm brown eyes alternating between meeting your gaze and turning down low to admire the size of your manhood. ''"You don't mind,"'' She murmurs, voice low and somewhat breathy, ''"If I spit on it, do you?"'' A shudder runs through your body, tingling as you endure every sensation, her words only coaxing you deeper into your pleasure. ''"Please..."'' She smiles sweetly and brings her face closer to the swollen crown of your cock, carefully spitting her saliva down onto you. It trickles slowly from her mouth and she stays there, letting it flow from the hot confines of her mouth and gradually coat your thick, throbbing meatrod. Her soft, feminine hands slip upward along your shaft and smoothe over the head of your cock, repeatedly pulling and tugging atop the sensitive edge of your glans as she works to wet your piece. Only when she's satisfied with the added lubricant does she start to jerk you harder, faster, milking you incessantly between palm and fingers. ''"Am I doing good?"'' She murmurs in question, head canted as she looks up at you fixedly. ''"Am I being a good girl for you, $name?"'' You feel that immense pressure building, a burning heat that gradually spreads through your loins. Your musculature is growing tighter, taut, a sure sign of what's soon to come. ''"You're going to make me cum like that, Leoris."'' The curve of her cute lips is clear to see, excited by the prospect, and urging you along with sweet, soft, increasingly urgent little moans, ''"Good, that's so good. You love these hands, don't you? Cum for me!"'' Still stroking your dick smoothly from base to tip, she frees a hand to reach below, giving your sack a playful squeeze. She explores it, bouncing your large, fleshy orbs between her fingers. Pulling, teasing, as though going directly to the source, to the very organs that generate your masculine essence, to beg for your seed. She treats them tenderly, worships them between fingertip and palm, all while massaging your thick shaft with her other hand, wet from spit and spurts of balmy pre-cum that have been leaking from your tip. ''"Are you going to make a girl beg? Don't you want to make me happy and let out all of that cum?"'' Her voice is lovely and low, coaxing you closer to your impending release. You feel it, right on the precipice. It's overwhelming, the sheer pressure and heat. You couldn't stop it from overflowing right now, not even if you wanted to. [[Cum.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_hands_cum]] <<if ($might >= 2) || ($mobility >= 2)>>[[Cum on her face.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_hands_cumonface]] <<elseif $leoris_tavern_bastard>>[[Cum on her face.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_hands_cumonface]]<</if>>

<center><img src="images/chp2_leoris_feet.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center>''"Your feet."'' ''"I thought you might say that,"'' She teases, very gradually easing back and resting her weight onto the table just behind, so that she can elevate her feet and bare them before you. Just by looking at them, you can tell they're soft, visibly slender and arched gracefully with curled toes and trimmed nails. Her foot flesh is perfectly pale, glimmering beneath the flickering flames cast from the fireplace. ''"Do you like them, $name?"'' ''"Mhm,"'' Your response is uttered low, husky and relaxed, ''"I love them, Leoris. Every inch of you is perfect."'' Her head sways to the side, watching you from behind the swish of her silvery bangs, cheeks flushed red, brown eyes partially concealed, ''"Thank. You."'' Her legs languidly stretch out, smoothing her soles past the crook of your knees and up your naked thighs, certainly not in any rush. Her toes tickle your crotch, spreading to stroke the shape of your bulge between the splay of her digits. She's very gentle at first, almost frustratingly so, quite the tease. She leaves you yearning for more as one foot climbs higher, pressing atop the run of your abdomen. It's a curious feeling and you can't help but wonder how much enjoyment you'd get out of it sober. But right now, you're loving it, senses heightened, tingling, tantalizing. Leoris is focused, lips parted and breath heady beneath her curtain of pale locks. Eyes trained on you, they once again descend down your frame to the excitement pitched beneath your flimsy drawers. ''"I'm sorry,"'' She murmurs, voice sweet and soft, ''"You deserve your reward for being so patient with me."'' She slips a toe within the top of your boxers, giving a little, ineffectual tug as though trying to pull them down, before teetering a breathless laugh, ''"You'll have to help me out... I'm good with my feet, but not that good."'' Fighting against the herb's effects, you hoist yourself up just enough to pry at your boxers, starting to tug them down, the elf's toes plucking and pulling at your drawers in an attempt to hasten the process. And before you know it, your mostly-erect dick flops out, hanging heavily between your thighs. You drop back down into your seat immediately after and instantly, you feel the soft warmth of Leoris' soles wrapped around your shaft. ''"You /are/ good with your feet."'' Your lips quirk, unable to stop yourself from commenting, but she seems to enjoy the praise. Up and down, her knees bent nimbly and her toes carefully curled about your girth, Leoris works her dainty feet down either flank of your fleshy, engorged member. Her toes entwine, crossing over each other as she picks up the pace and applies more force, thoroughly stroking your cockflesh beneath the press of her soles. Her small hands are firmly planted against the table on either side, supporting herself as she half-reclines atop it. From this vantage point, you can see perfectly the little thin line of crimson thong that separates the elf's lower lips from the outside world. Everything about her is supple, from the smooth splay of her own thighs to her smooth stomach, only the faintest hint of abdominals visible. She's somewhat athletic, but with just the right amount of softness to give her a very feminine exterior, slender and soft, incredibly alluring. The sight of her leaning back, working up a sweat as she massages your cock between her sweet feet, makes you grow even harder. You feel the lust growing hotter, completely encompassing your loins, almost made unbearably by the constant contact of her enclosed toes and rolling soles. She notices, though you're unsure of whether it's because of your pleasured expression or the heat of your piece swelling closer to an inevitable release. [[Lay back and submit.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_feet_submit]] <<if $might >= 1 || $mobility >= 2>>[[Grab her feet and fuck 'em.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_feet_fuckem]] <<elseif $leoris_tavern_bastard>>[[Grab her feet and fuck 'em.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_feet_fuckem]]<</if>>

''"You must want to cum all over these pretty feet, $name. Isn't that right?"'' ''"Yes please,"'' Your response is uttered low, breathily, feeling much too relaxed to put up any form of resistance. ''"Cute."'' She responds, giving a contended sigh as her feet stayed wrapped about your shaft, stroking up and down in long sweeps of her feet, alternating readily between using her soles and heels, or the balls of her feet and those naughty little toes. She's good at this, too good. ''"I told you I'd take good care of you."'' Occasionally, her digits splay out wide and tease against the swollen glans of your cockhead. It feels good, that soft, curved flesh between her toes, and the way they squeeze together to press and pull at the taut, veiny skin that encapsulates your shaft. She's exploring every inch of your loins, from the tip of your piece to the large orbs that are your balls. Leoris plays with your sack, slipping the curve of her toes directly below and bouncing them beneath your heat, hot and heavy, the source of your lust; the organs that generate your very masculine essence. She treats them tenderly, worships them even with her toes and massages your thick shaft with her soft, slippery soles. Her feet are perfect, perfectly pale, unblemished, protected from the elements and the sheer violence of the outside world. Like a rare flower, she's yours to enjoy for the time being. That pressure is building fast deep within you, burning your loins, already terribly hot trapped between the press of her beautiful feet. ''"Are you going to be good and come for me, $name? Don't you want to make me happy?"'' Leoris must sense it, whether it's your pleasured expression or the growing heat in your crotch that gives it away you're unsure. She murmurs softly, lovely and low, coaxing you closer to your impending release. ''"Don't you want to cover them? Stain these pretty elf soles with your dirty load, $name? Pretty please?"'' Her head is canted to the side from where she lay atop the table, half-reclined, pearly breasts jostling within the snug confines of her bra. Those silvery bangs have fallen across her forehead, warm brown eyes partially obscured, though the curve of her cute lips is clear to see. ''"I can feel how much cum you have for me in those big balls. I want that hot man seed.. all over my feet and toes... so bad, $name."'' There's an immense pressure, a burning heat that gradually spreads through your loins as you feel your musculature growing tight, taut, nearer and nearer until you're about to topple over the edge into climax. ''"Ahh,"'' You can't help but moan, a dire sound from deep within your throat, ''"Fuck."'' And she loves it, toes and soles working in unison, squeezing your swollen dick between the soft press of her flesh until you reach your breaking point. ''"That's it, good. Cum for me!"'' Her soft, urgent cries, mouth held agape and warm brown eyes focused up on you, are more than enough encouragement. With a gasp, finally your first spurt of seed is freed. You thrust up hard against her feet, pumping your hot, balmy seed in thick spurts that quickly land and roll along the slender curve of her feet and dainty toes. You paint her digits, one long strand of semen after another. Overwhelmed by the pleasure, you slump deeper into your seat until at last the final bead of cum slips past the tip of your cock and smears against the lingering squeeze of her feet. Leoris lets out a little laugh, contented, gaze glued to the mess that you made all over her the tops of her toes and feet. ''"Dirty boy,"'' She finally coos, your cock drooping heavily, half-erect, once her touch begins to recede. ''"That was fun."'' ''"Very fun..."'' You murmur, feeling like you could pass out, with your cock out, at any second. ''"I'm glad I met you, Leoris."'' [[Sometime later, you've both cleaned up.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_after]]

<<set $leoris_apartment_highstrip_dominate to true>> You start to shift up from your seat, even with her toes and soles still wrapped firmly about your length. ''"Mmph,"'' Leoris says, speaking up, ''"Hold your horses, big boy."'' But you deny her a response, taking control of the situation. Your silence and focused intent lulls her into compliance as you stand up straight, taking either of her legs and wrapping your big hands firmly about the curve of her ankles. This forces her to lay back further, splayed out atop the table now with her long legs bent to accomodate her desire. Somewhere along the way, the pipe and a book were knocked down, and the candle set aside to avoid burning the whole apartment down. There, gripping her ankles hard and holding them as steady as you can, you finally begin to thrust your meat back-and-forth between the slope of her soles. You apply more pressure as needed, treating her feet like fleshy vices, a makeshift hole for your lustful machinations. Your glutes tense and your hips plow forward with each thrust, fucking her feet hard, her dainty toes curled up tight against the base of your groin, tickling what existing pubes you have, at the end of every press. ''"So lewd,"'' She murmurs, head propped up and elbows turned atop the table to allow herself a view, honied brown eyes held low beneath your own gaze. Her breasts jostle and jiggle within the confines of her bra, modest but full, her fair flesh unblemished, protected from the elements and the violent world outside. She's perfect and all you want to do is defile her, to stain her lovely exterior with your seed. ''"And rough. A big, brutish feet fucker, you are $name."'' ''"It's your fault,"'' You retort back between heady breaths, your chest expanding with effort as you feel the pressure building deep within yourself, ''"You shouldn't invite strange men up to your apartment alone, Leoris. They might take..."'' You suck in a breath, hips still pumping hard to-and-fro, ''".. advantage of you... or worse, your feet."'' She can't help but laugh, peering up at you, her soft stomach tensed, ''"Such a terrible fate, hrm?"'' Your thrusts grow faster, harder, and her feet slide up, toes and the fleshy balls of her feet pressed tight, curled close against your hot shaft, catching the crest of your swollen glans. The stimulation is quickly sending you nearer to the edge, towards a toppling, chaotic climax that you know exists, closer and closer until you can't possibly stop it. Your movements grow frantic, tight and jerky, and her soft, slender feet cling to your cock, coaxing your release. ''"Cum for me, $name. Give me that big load!"'' Her soft, urgent cries, mouth held agape and warm brown eyes focused up on you, are more than enough encouragement. There's an immense pressure, a burning heat that surges through your loins until your musculature grows taut, straining, and finally your first spurt of seed is free. You thrust hard, pumping your hot, balmy seed in thick spurts, the first batch splatting atop her perfectly pale stomach. You paint her fair flesh, one long strand of semen after another, your hips working back and forth as you continue fucking the squeeze of her small, tender feet. You can't help but buck and groan, like a rutting bull incapable of speech, only driven by this sort of feral, animalistic lust that permeates from every beast. Leoris lets out a little laugh, small and pleased, her lovely body contorted atop the table, wet with perspiration and the product of your arousal, pooled on her belly and the top of her tender thighs. ''"I made..."'' You breathe heavily, still basking in the intensity of your release, ''"A mess."'' One foot fondly presses beneath the heat and heavy hang of your cock, half-erect still between your legs, whilst the other stretches out to tease her toes against your balls. They're tight against your body still, taut from your release, though as they start to descend back into normality, she gently bounces each large orb atop her toes. ''"That was fun."'' She quips up at you, head canted once more, with her lips subtly curved. You nod quite readily, absently stroking and squeezing her calves as her feet stroke your manhood, an unexpected but welcome form of aftercare. ''"Very fun... I'm glad I met you, Leoris."'' [[Sometime later, you've both cleaned up.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_after]]

You can't help but moan, a dire sound from deep within your throat, ''"Fuck."'' And she loves it, both hands returning to your swollen dick, squeezing firmly throughout each long, sweeping stroke, massaging your cockflesh thoroughly. ''"I'm cumming, Leoris.."'' Her mouth held agape, warm brown eyes focused up on you, the sight of this beautiful high elf on her knees is more than enough encouragement. She gasps when finally, your first spurt of seed is freed. Unconsciously, your hips thrust up, and she keeps her hands clamped down securely about your pumping, pulsing piece all the while, determined to milk you dry. Your hot, balmy seed continually jets out in thick spurts that quickly land, rolling down the tops of hers pretty pale hands. You paint her digits, one long strand of semen after another, all of your pent-up lust liberated. And finally, overwhelmed by the pleasure of your release, you slump deeper into your seat until at last the final bead of cum slips free. Leoris lets out a little laugh, contended, gaze glued to the absolute mess that you made all over yourself and her soft dainty hands and slender digits. ''"Wow... such a dirty boy."'' She finally releases your cock, which droops heavily, half-erect, once her touch recedes. ''"That was fun." "Very fun,"'' You murmur back, feeling like you could pass out, with your cock out, at any second now. ''"I'm glad I met you, Leoris."'' [[Sometime later, you've both cleaned up.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_after]]

<<set $leoris_apartment_highstrip_dominate to true>> You start to shift up from your seat, even with her long fingers and soft palms still wrapped firmly about your length. ''"Mmph,"'' Leoris says, speaking up, ''"Hold your horses, big boy."'' But you deny her a response, taking control of the situation. Your silence and focused intent lulls her into compliance as you stand up straight, reaching over to snag a big handful of pale, silvery hair. You're amazed by how soft it is, silky and fine, yet you can't stop yourself from handling her a bit roughly. She's the one that wanted to be naughty after all. There, you grip her by the hair and hold her head as steadily as you can, your powerful hips and glutes working on their own, tensing and squeezing down as you thrust your thick, engorged cock within the unfaltering grip of her wet, sticky gripping hands. ''"You're bad."'' She murmurs softly, lovely and low, her arousal clear for you to hear. ''"Keep stroking,"'' You command, speaking from deep within your throat, barely holding down a moan. ''"Ah, fuck..."'' To her credit, she does exactly as you say, working harder even, wanting to give you a good, hard release. Her honied brown eyes tilt up, watching you closely, her pert breasts jostled within the confines her bra. Her fair flesh is unblemished, protected from the harsh elements and the violent world outside. She's perfect and all you want to do is defile her, to stain her lovely, rosy face with your seed. ''"What a big brute you are, $name."'' ''"That's right,"'' You tease back down, your response coming readily. ''"This big brute is about to paint your pretty little face."'' You adjust your fingers within her hair, whilst both of her hands remain locked about your swollen dick, squeezing firmly for each long, sweeping stroke. ''"Fuck... I'm cumming, Leoris."'' Her mouth held agape, warm brown eyes staring up at you, the sight of this beautiful high elf on her knees, nestled between your legs, is more than enough to push you over the edge. She gasps when finally, your first spurt of seed is freed. She keeps her hands clamped down securely about your pumping, pulsing piece all the while, determined to milk you completely, to drain you dry. Your hot, balmy seed continually jets out in thick spurts that land against her pretty pale face, pooling and rolling across every fine contour and curve of her elegant elven visage. One long strand of semen after another, all of your pent-up lust liberated onto her feminine features. You can't help but buck and groan the entire time, like a rutting bull incapable of speech, only driven by this sort of animalistic lust that permeates from every beast. Leoris lets out a little laugh, small and pleased, her warm brown eyes blinking open. ''"Oh my... what the fuck, $name. There's so much."'' ''"I made.."'' You breathe heavily, still basking in the intensity of your release, ''"A big mess."'' She groans in response, though her lips are still curved in a lingering smirk, and one of those dainty hands continues to squeeze and stroke your half-erect cock, as though making absolutely sure that every last drop is out. Her digits tease against your balls, tight against your body still, taut from your release. As they gradually descend back into normality, she gently bounces and squeezes each large orb within her grasp. ''"That was fun."'' She quips up at you, whilst you nod quite readily and absently stroke your fingers through her silky smooth hair. You both provide each other with an unexpected form of aftercare, touch lingering, as neither of you seem to be in a hurry. ''"Very fun... I'm glad I met you, Leoris."'' [[Sometime later, you've both cleaned up.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_after]]

Sometime later, you've both cleaned up. The effects of your shared smoke session linger, lulling you into a content, relaxed state. Combined with good company in the form of Leoris and the satisfaction of a much-needed release, you're feeling quite good. Leoris lays in her lingerie, recently freshened up, regarding you with a subtle curve of her lips. Those warm brown eyes glimmer playfully as she openly observes you, unabashed in her attentiveness. ''"So,"'' She starts with a low huff, sweeping a few slender digits through her silvery hair and pale-fringed bangs, ''"You'd say that we're friends now, right?"'' Her question seems innocent enough, gaze still fixed upon you, now that you've settled back into your chair. Shirtless still, but with your drawers and trousers secured about your waist once more. For a moment, you consider your response. [[Of course we're friends.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_friends]] <<if $leoris_tavern_bastard || $leoris_apartment_highstrip_dominate>>[[Friends with benefits.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_benefits]]<</if>> [[More than friends...|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_morethan]] <<bgm "mysterious-music-box" 0.6 6>>

<<set $leoris_apartment_friends to true>> ''"Of course we're friends."'' Your response comes easily enough. For the most part, you're jovial and genuinely glad to have happened across Leoris. You're unsure of where your friendship will go from here, or how often you'll be able to make trips to the Uneven Queen to see her, but it's not a chance meeting that you regret by any means. ''"Good,"'' She murmurs, seemingly satisfied by your response. ''"I like you, $name. You're funny, cute, simple. No need to overcomplicate anything."'' Absently, you sling an arm over the side of your chair as you regard the elf, mesmerized as always by her smooth, youthful beauty. It's effortless. ''"I could say the same about you, Leoris."'' <<if $leoris_tavern_cowboy || $leoris_tavern_knight>> ''"You're going to come and visit me, aren't you? So you can tell me all about your classes at Highrock and what kind of people you meet... sights you see... any trouble that you may get into."'' She smiles brightly and shoots you over a little, teasing wink, which draws a small laugh out of you, ''"Of course, I'll do my best. But I don't intend on getting into any trouble. Not if I can help it."'' ''"Hmm, you say that, $name. But I feel like you're too adventerous for your own good. We couldn't be here together right now if you didn't take a risk, right? However small."'' You release a breath, considering her words as you think back to your meeting downstairs, ''"I didn't see it as a risk... I never saw any reason not to trust you. I thought you were interesting... someone that I'd like to get to know. You're an intriguing person, you know."'' ''"I thought the same about you, silly."'' ''"Funny how that works, isn't it?"'' ''"It is. Anyway, I hope you do keep your word. I don't get to see much of Cradle... I spend most of my time inside the walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading. ''"Not that I'm complaining. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn unto you beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. No matter what my home was like. Maybe it's a stretch, but I can almost relate. I've felt trapped before... and even where I'm going now, it feels like I don't have much of a choice."'' ''"At Highrock?"'' She inquires softly, her curiosity evident. ''"At Highrock,"'' You confirm with a bit of a nod. ''"I should be grateful for the opportunity, but it wasn't my own choice to attend. Not really. It was an opportunity that I simply couldn't refuse. And all things considered... I'm going to try and make the best of it."'' ''"Then I think our friendship will work out, $name. We can support each other."'' ''"What do you mean?"'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and flushed. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"You can tell me about your trials at Highrock. I'll be hear to listen, someone for you to lean on. And I'll be happy to know about you and your life... it sounds more exciting than mine."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"Deal,"'' comes your murmur, low but resolute. [[You embrace each other for a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_friends1]] <<elseif $leoris_tavern_bastard>> ''"You're going to come and visit me, aren't you? So you can tell me all about your jobs, your travels... the kind of people that you meet and the sights you see... any trouble that you may get into. Even if it's scary, or grim. I want to hear about it, $name. Is that too much to ask?"'' She smiles brightly, and the way she looks at you almost makes you feel a touch guilty about your lie. You could have just as easily told her about your upcoming classes at Highrock and have captured her attention all the same. But you still hardly know her, and she hardly knows anything about you. You don't open up to strangers, not when there's too much at risk. At least, that's how you justify your actions to yourself. ''"Not at all,"'' You relent verbally, your own lips curved as you offer over a little smirk, ''"I don't know if it's really all that interesting, but I do plan on visiting as often as I can. I'd be happy to see you again, Leoris, I do know that much."'' ''"Good. You better keep your word, $name. I don't get to see much of Cradle, you know... I spend most of my time inside the walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading. ''"Not that I'm complaining. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn unto you beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. I've felt trapped before..."'' It might be that a part of you feels trapped right now, knowing that you're starting classes at Highrock tomorrow. It wasn't really much of a choice, was it? You would've been stupid to pass up on the opportunity, but you had no way to prepare for it. But you can't tell Leoris that, not after your lies. ''"Then I think our friendship will work out, $name. We can support each other."'' ''"What do you mean?"'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and flushed. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"You can tell me about the trials of your line of work... and I'll be here to listen. Someone for you to lean on and vent to. I'll be happy to know about you and your life... it sounds more exciting than mine."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"Deal,"'' comes your murmur, barely audible. [[You embrace each other for a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_friends1]]<</if>>

<<set $leoris_apartment_benefits to true>> ''"Friends with benefits."'' You respond readily, teasing her. It's true that you're glad to have met Leoris, and you aren't completely opposed to the idea of friendship, but you're primarily after the sex. You want more of that delicious little body of hers. After all, she wanted you as much as you wanted her. That certainly seems fair, no? She can't help but blush, her already rosy cheeks turning redder, ''"Oh, hush."'' You laugh and roll back a shoulder as you observe her, watching the way her silvery bangs sway across her fair forehead and sometimes fall in front of those warm, honied brown eyes. ''"Is that not what you meant?"'' ''"N-.. Well, yes. I do want the benefits. You're a horny boy, $name."'' ''"A horny man,"'' You correct her, to which she agrees: ''"A very horny man. But I did mean 'friends', too. Not just sex partners... You know what friends are, don't you? Two people who have each others backs? Who will listen to each other, and care for each other?" "Of course."'' ''"Good,"'' She murmurs, seemingly satisfied by your response. ''"I like you, $name. You're cute, funny... Sexy. What's better than that?"'' You regard her contentedly, mesmerized as always by her smooth, youthful beauty. It's effortless. ''"I could say the same about you, Leoris. Especially the sexy part. May this be our first meeting among many."'' <<if $leoris_tavern_cowboy || $leoris_tavern_knight is true>> ''"Exactly! You better come and visit me whenever you can, $name. You can come tell me all about your classes at Highrock. What kind of people you meet... sights you see... any trouble that you may get into. Whether any of the girls turn you on as much as me."'' She smiles slyly and shoots over a little, teasing wink, which draws a small laugh out of you, ''"I'll do my best. I quite enjoy the trouble that you and I create."'' ''"Mm, as do I. But I feel like you're too adventerous for your own good. I'm sure that I'm not the only gal that you've had your way with recently."'' You release a breath, opting to neither deny or affirm her suggestion, ''"That could be the case. However, ever since we've met, you've been the only one on my mind."'' ''"Good,"'' She replies simply, evidently contented with your response, ''"I hope you do keep your word. I don't get to see much of Cradle, $name. I spend most of my time... inside the walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading, ''"Not that I'm complaining. I shouldn't. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn unto you beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. No matter what my home was like. Maybe it's a stretch, but I can almost relate. I've felt trapped before... and even where I'm going now, it feels like I don't have much of a choice."'' ''"At Highrock?"'' She inquires softly, her curiosity evident. ''"At Highrock,"'' You confirm with a bit of a nod. ''"I should be grateful for the opportunity, but it wasn't my own choice to attend. Not really. It was an opportunity that I simply couldn't refuse. And all things considered... I'm going to try and make the best of it."'' ''"Then I think our friendship will work out, $name. We can support each other."'' ''"What do you mean?"'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and flushed. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"You can tell me about your trials at Highrock. I'll be hear to listen, someone for you to lean on... someone for you to fuck nice and hard, to relieve all of your stress and worries."'' Your lips quirk as you listen, and she continues, ''"And I'll be happy to know more about you and your life... it sounds exciting to me."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"Deal,"'' comes your murmur, low but resolute. [[You embrace each other for a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_benefits1]] <<elseif $leoris_tavern_bastard>> ''"Exactly! You better come and visit me whenever you can, $name. So you can tell me all about your jobs, your travels... the kind of people that you meet and the sights you see. Any trouble that you may get into and any attractive girls that turn you on as much as I do."'' She smiles slyly and shoots over a little, teasing wink, which draws a small laugh out of you, ''"I'll do my best. I quite enjoy the trouble that you and I create."'' ''"Such a way with words,"'' She smiles back brightly, and the way she looks at you almost makes you feel a touch guilty about your ongoing lie. You could have just as easily told her about your upcoming classes at Highrock and have captured her attention all the same. But you still hardly know her, and she hardly knows anything about you. You don't open up to strangers, not when there's too much at risk. At least, that's how you justify your actions to yourself. This was just supposed to be a fling. ''"Anyway, you better keep your word, $name! I don't get to see much of Cradle, you know... I spend most of my time inside the four walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading. ''"Not that I'm complaining. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn unto you beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. I've felt trapped before..."'' It might be that a part of you feels trapped right now, knowing that you're starting classes at Highrock tomorrow. It wasn't really much of a choice, was it? You would've been stupid to pass up on the opportunity, but you had no way to prepare for it. But you can't tell Leoris that, not after your lies. ''"Then I think our friendship will work out, $name. We can support each other."'' ''"What do you mean?"'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and flushed. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"You can tell me about the trials of your line of work... and I'll be here to listen. Someone for you to lean on... someone for you to fuck nice and hard, to relieve all of your stress and worries."'' Your lips quirk as you listen, and she continues, ''"I'll be happy to know more about you and your life... it seems exciting."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"Deal,"'' comes your murmur, barely audible. [[You embrace each other for a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_benefits1]]<</if>>

''"More than friends..."'' <<if ($might >= 2) || ($mobility >= 2) || $leoris_apartment_highstrip_dominate>> <<set $leoris_apartment_morethan_good to true>> Silent, Leoris just stares at you a few moments whilst her rosy-cheeks blossom into the deepest blush you've seen thus far. Then quickly she quips back, flustered, ''"Stop teasing me! You're going to make me blush, $name."'' You can't help but laugh, letting it slip past your lips as you eye the high elf, ''"I think it's a bit too late for that."'' ''"Ugh,"'' comes her groan, partially shielding her fine-featured face with the back of a slender hand. ''"You think you're so funny, don't you?"'' ''"Who said I was being funny?"'' You reply easily, relaxed as you slump back comfortably. Her honied brown eyes waver before returning to yours, assessive, ''"What do you mean by more than friends?"'' ''"I just meant that we both seemed to enjoy our time together and that there might be a connection that I'm picking up on..."'' She slowly nods, drawing her bottom lip beneath a bite of straight white teeth, ''"Mhm."'' ''"And.."'' You continue, carefully contemplating your words for a moment, ''"I'd be happy to see where things lead from here. The possibility of being more than friends is very exciting to me. I like you, Leoris."'' ''"I like you too, $name."'' Her reply comes after a few more moments of silently observing you, and gradually her giddiness and subtle satisfaction becomes more apparent, ''"Such a way with words... You don't say these things to every cute girl that you meet, do you?"'' You release a breath, lips curved as you give a low shake of your head, ''"You've been the only one on my mind, Leoris, ever since I laid eyes on you."'' <<if $leoris_tavern_cowboy || $leoris_tavern_knight>> ''"Good,"'' She replies brightly, evidently contented with your response, ''"You better come and visit me whenever you can, $name. You can tell me all about your classes at Highrock. What kind of people you meet... sights you see... any trouble that you may get into. Whether you meet any cute girls."'' She smiles slyly and shoots over a little, teasing wink, which draws a small laugh out of you, ''"I'll visit you as often as I can. That's a promise."'' ''"You better keep your word. I don't get to see much of Cradle, $name. I spend most of my time... inside the walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading, ''"Not that I'm complaining. I shouldn't. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn unto you beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. No matter what my home was like. Maybe it's a stretch, but I can almost relate. I've felt trapped before... and even where I'm going now, it feels like I don't have much of a choice."'' ''"At Highrock?"'' She inquires softly, her curiosity evident. ''"At Highrock,"'' You confirm with a bit of a nod. ''"I should be grateful for the opportunity, but it wasn't my own choice to attend. Not really. It was an opportunity that I simply couldn't refuse. And all things considered... I'm going to try and make the best of it."'' ''"I'm... excited to get to know you better, $name."'' ''"I am too, Leoris. I want to know everything about you."'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and flushed, feminine cheeks still rosy and warm. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"I'll be waiting for you to tell me about your trials at Highrock. I'll be here to listen, someone for you to lean on... to lavish you and help you relieve all of your stress and worries."'' Your lips quirk as you listen, and she continues, ''"And I'll be happy to know more about you and your life... it sounds exciting to me."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"I'm looking forward to it, Leoris,"'' comes your murmur, low but resolute. [[You embrace each other for a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_morethan1]] <<elseif $leoris_tavern_bastard>> ''"Good,"'' She replies brightly, evidently contented with your response, ''"You better come and visit me whenever you can, $name. You can tell me all about your jobs, your travels. What kind of people you meet... sights you see... any trouble that you may get into. Whether you meet any cute girls."'' She smiles slyly and shoots over a little, teasing wink, which draws a small laugh out of you, ''"I'll visit you as often as I can. That's a promise."'' ''"You better keep your word. I don't get to see much of Cradle, $name. I spend most of my time... inside the walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading, ''"Not that I'm complaining. I shouldn't. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn unto you beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. I've felt trapped before..."'' It might be that a part of you feels trapped right now, knowing that you're starting classes at Highrock tomorrow. It wasn't really much of a choice, was it? You would've been stupid to pass up on the opportunity, but you had no way to prepare for it. But you can't tell Leoris that, not after your lies. With the way that she looks at you, and the way that this day has gone, it almost makes you feel a touchy guilty. You could have just as easily told her about your upcoming classes at Highrock and have captured her attention all the same. But you still hardly know her, and she hardly knows anything about you. Whether you plan on trying to open up, or whether you plan on stringing her along and having your fun, is something that you'll have to decide before long. ''"I'm... excited to get to know you better, $name."'' ''"I am too, Leoris... I want to know everything about you."'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and flushed, feminine cheeks still rosy and warm. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"I'll be waiting for you to tell me about your travels. I'll be here to listen, someone for you to lean on... to lavish you and help you relieve all of your stress and worries."'' Your lips quirk as you listen, and she continues, ''"And I'll be happy to know more about you and your life... it sounds exciting to me."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"I'm looking forward to it, Leoris,"'' comes your murmur, barely a whisper beneath your breath. [[You embrace each other for a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_morethan1]]<</if>> <<else>> <<set $leoris_apartment_morethan_bad to true>> ''"Oh, $name."'' Leoris assesses you for a few moments silently, before blowing out a little, wispy breath, ''"You shouldn't say that. Do you always catch feelings so fast? You barely know me."'' That's not the response that you really would've hoped for. But at this point, all you can be is honest. ''"I just meant that we both seemed to enjoy our time together and that there could be a connection that I'm picking up on..."'' She continues to eye you from beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"And.."'' You continue, carefully contemplating your words for a moment, ''"I'd be happy to see where things lead from here. I like you, Leoris."'' ''"I like you too, $name."'' Her reply comes after a few more moments of silently observing you, her tone almost regal, reserved, though still kind, ''"You're funny and you do have a way with words. I just don't want to get your hopes up. Romance is very difficult in my position... in my line of work."'' You slowly nod, ''"I can understand that."'' <<if $leoris_tavern_cowboy || $leoris_tavern_knight>> ''"Good,"'' She replies brightly, evidently contented with your response, ''"As long as you understand. You can come and visit me whenever you get the chance, $name. I know you'll be busy, but I'm excited to hear about your classes at Highrock. What kind of people you meet... sights you see... any trouble that you may get into. Whether you meet any cute girls!"'' She smiles slyly and shoots over a little, teasing wink, which draws a small laugh out of you, ''"Of course I'll visit you, Leoris."'' ''"You better! I don't get to see much of Cradle, you know. I spend most of my time... inside the walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading, ''"Not that I'm complaining. I shouldn't. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn unto you beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. No matter what my home was like. Maybe it's a stretch, but I can almost relate. I've felt trapped before... and even where I'm going now, it feels like I don't have much of a choice."'' ''"At Highrock?"'' She inquires softly, her curiosity evident. ''"At Highrock,"'' You confirm with a bit of a nod. ''"I should be grateful for the opportunity, but it wasn't my own choice to attend. Not really. It was an opportunity that I simply couldn't refuse. And all things considered... I'm going to try and make the best of it."'' ''"I think we'll be good friends, $name. We can support each other."'' ''"What do you mean?"'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and flushed. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"You can tell me about your trials at Highrock. I'll be here to listen, someone for you to lean on. And I'll be happy to know about you and your life... it sounds more exciting than mine."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"Deal,"'' comes your murmur, low but resolute. [[You embrace each other for a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_friends1]] <<elseif $leoris_tavern_bastard>> ''"Good,"'' She replies brightly, evidently contented with your response, ''"As long as you understand. You can come and visit me whenever you get the chance, $name. I'm excited to hear about your jobs, your travels.. the kind of people that you meet and the sights you see.. any trouble that you may get into. Oh, and whether you meet any other cute girls!"'' She smiles slyly and shoots over a little, teasing wink, which draws a small laugh out of you, ''"Of course I'll visit you, Leoris."'' ''"You better! I don't get to see much of Cradle, you know. I spend most of my time... inside the walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading, ''"Not that I'm complaining. I shouldn't. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn unto you beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. I've felt trapped before..."'' It might be that a part of you feels trapped right now, knowing that you're starting classes at Highrock tomorrow. It wasn't really much of a choice, was it? You would've been stupid to pass up on the opportunity, but you had no way to prepare for it. But you can't tell Leoris that, not after your lies. She smiles brightly, and the way she looks at you almost makes you feel a touch guilty. You could have just as easily told her about your upcoming classes at Highrock and have captured her attention all the same. Still, you hardly know her, and she hardly knows anything about you. You don't open up to strangers, not when there's too much at risk. At least, that's how you justify your actions to yourself. Whether you plan on trying to open up remains to be seen. ''"I think we'll be good friends, $name. We can support each other."'' ''"What do you mean?"'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and flushed. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"You can tell me about your travels. I'll be here to listen, someone for you to lean on. And I'll be happy to know about you and your life... it sounds more exciting than mine."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"Deal,"'' comes your murmur, low but resolute. [[You embrace each other for a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_friends1]]<</if>><</if>>

Gradually, her touch retracts, leaving you to straighten and turn a look over the apartment. ''"I wonder if the Dark Hour is over,"'' She muses, drawing across the room, the firelight gleaming atop her red-hued lingerie and fair flesh. You didn't notice it before, but there against one wall, not far from the door, are long, satin curtains. She gathers them in the crook of a long, lithe arm and sweeps them aside in one fell swoop, the sweep of deep crimson satin much the same tone as that of her thong. She has a great ass, round and pert, just the right amount of plush flesh; not big or fat but far from flat. Her rear distracts you from the window, which reveals a quiet plaza before the Highway, a dim trail of light trickling through the misty violet glow of the sky. ''"Mmph,"'' Leoris murmurs as she peers through the glass panes, spotting a few figures starting to emerge from some of the buildings that line the Highway, ''"Looks like it's about that time."'' And finally, it hits you. How long have you been up here? The realization jolts you into action. ''"Fuck, I've gotta go, Leoris. Rayner must be waiting for me."'' She cuts a curious look back at you, ''"Rayner? Who's that?"'' ''"My friend, we came here together. I'll uhm..."'' You draw in a breath as you tilt a look over your high elf companion, wishing that you could stay here a while longer with her. Your mind is still a bit foggy, and your body heavy, from the lingering effects of the hash. ''"I'll see you soon, okay?"'' ''"Okay, $name! I'll let you out. You can find your way back down, right? I need to clean up."'' She steps gracefully across the apartment and you follow after her, pulling your shirt on as you go and making sure that your belongings are accounted for. Who knows how thorough you are really, nor do you care in the moment. You just know that you need to get back downstairs. Pissing off Rayner, or having him leave you behind, is the last thing that you need to happen. ''"Take care of yourself, alright? Until next time!"'' She swings the door open for you, to which you step out into the hall and turn a look back, catching a glimmer of warm brown eyes and silvery bangs. ''"Bye,"'' She whispers and you intone it back softly, ''"Bye, Leoris."'' Carefully, she shuts the door until her honied orbs flick into darkness and it closes behind you with a click. As you hurry down the long, dark-paneled hallway, your path lit by small, flickering candles, you can't help but briefly reflect on the past couple of hours. What a trip. [[You descend back into the tavern.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_descent]]

Her touch lingers for longer than you expected and thoughts of temptation work their way into your mind. Unable to stop yourself, your arms loosen themselves from about her feminine figure and slip further down until you can clamp both of your hands down onto either side of her ass. She squeaks, ''"$name!"'' A warm breath slips past your breath, ''"Sorry, I didn't think you'd mind."'' Her face draws back, rosy-cheeked, glaring up at you with a playful cant to her lips. ''"I just didn't expect it. You can't keep your hands off of me, can you?"'' Your fingers splay out against her rear, slowly squeezing down, digits buried into the plush cushion of her rump. ''"I can't... I'll try and warn you next time, but you'll be getting used to it regardless, hm?"'' She sighs breathily, though she looks content, honied brown eyes wandering over your naked chest before she starts to push off against it. You relent, slowly straightening as your touch retracts and you turn a look over the apartment. ''"I wonder if the Dark Hour is over,"'' She muses, drawing across the room, the firelight gleaming atop her red-hued lingerie and fair flesh. You didn't notice it before, but there against one wall, not far from the door, are long, satin curtains. She gathers them in the crook of a long, lithe arm and sweeps them aside in one fell swoop, the sweep of deep crimson satin much the same tone as that of her thong. She has a great ass, round and pert, just the right amount of plush flesh; not big or fat but far from flat. It certainly felt incredible beneath your hands. Her rear distracts you from the window, which reveals a quiet plaza before the Highway, a dim trail of light trickling through the misty violet glow of the sky. ''"Mmph,"'' Leoris murmurs as she peers through the glass panes, spotting a few figures starting to emerge from some of the buildings that line the Highway, ''"Looks like it's about that time."'' And finally, it hits you. How long have you been up here? The realization jolts you into action. ''"Fuck, I've gotta go, Leoris. Rayner must be waiting for me."'' She cuts a curious look back at you, ''"Rayner? Who's that?"'' ''"My friend, we came here together. I'll uhm..."'' You draw in a breath as you tilt a look over your high elf companion, wishing that you could stay here a while longer with her. Your mind is still a bit foggy, and your body heavy, from the lingering effects of the hash. ''"I'll see you soon, okay?"'' ''"Okay, $name! I'll let you out. You can find your way back down, right? I need to clean up."'' She steps gracefully across the apartment and you follow after her, pulling your shirt on as you go and making sure that your belongings are accounted for. Who knows how thorough you are really, nor do you care in the moment. You just know that you need to get back downstairs. Pissing off Rayner, or having him leave you behind, is the last thing that you need to happen. ''"Please be safe, okay? Until next time..."'' She swings the door open for you, to which you step out into the hall and turn a look back, catching a glimmer of warm brown eyes and silvery bangs. ''"Bye,"'' She whispers and you intone it back softly. ''"Be a good girl for me. Bye, Leoris."'' Carefully, she shuts the door until her honied orbs flick into darkness and it closes behind you with a click. As you hurry down the long, dark-paneled hallway, your path lit by small, flickering candles, you can't help but briefly reflect on the past couple of hours. What a trip. [[You descend back into the tavern.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_descent]]

Her touch lingers for longer than you expected, which is quite relaxing for you. Temptation works it's way into your thoughts, too. She's so perfect, slender and warm within your arms. You could hold her like this forever. How quickly you've come to care about her, this high elf pressed against your chest. A warm breath slips past your breath, ''"I don't have to leave, right?"'' Her face draws back, rosy-cheeked, peering up at you with a playful cant to her lips. ''"Mmph, are you going to drop all of your responsibilities and live here with me? I'm not sure my boss would like that, but maybe I can hide you in the closet? It's pretty big!"'' ''"Maybe for a few nights,"'' You murmur back, amused, ''"But we'll need a better plan than that."'' She sighs breathily, though she looks content, honied brown eyes wandering over your naked chest before she starts to push off against it. You relent, slowly straightening as your touch retracts and you turn a look over the apartment. ''"I wonder if the Dark Hour is over,"'' She muses, drawing across the room, the firelight gleaming atop her red-hued lingerie and fair flesh. You didn't notice it before, but there against one wall, not far from the door, are long, satin curtains. She gathers them in the crook of a long, lithe arm and sweeps them aside in one fell swoop, the sweep of deep crimson satin much the same tone as that of her thong. She has a great ass, round and pert, just the right amount of plush flesh; not big or fat but far from flat. It's just as perfect as every other inch of her. Her rear distracts you from the window, which reveals a quiet plaza before the Highway, a dim trail of light trickling through the misty violet glow of the sky. ''"Mmph,"'' Leoris murmurs as she peers through the glass panes, spotting a few figures starting to emerge from some of the buildings that line the Highway, ''"Looks like it's about that time."'' And finally, it hits you. How long have you been up here? The realization jolts you into action. ''"Fuck, I've gotta go, Leoris. Rayner must be waiting for me."'' She cuts a curious look back at you, ''"Rayner? Who's that?"'' ''"My friend, we came here together. I'll uhm..."'' You draw in a breath as you tilt a look over your high elf companion, wishing that you could stay here a while longer with her. Your mind is still a bit foggy, and your body heavy, from the lingering effects of the hash. ''"I'll see you soon, okay?"'' ''"Okay, $name! I'll let you out. You can find your way back down, right? I need to clean up."'' She steps gracefully across the apartment and you follow after her, pulling your shirt on as you go and making sure that your belongings are accounted for. Who knows how thorough you are really, nor do you care in the moment. You just know that you need to get back downstairs. Pissing off Rayner, or having him leave you behind, is the last thing that you need to happen. ''"Please be safe, okay? Until next time..."'' She swings the door open for you, to which you step out into the hall and turn a look back, catching a glimmer of warm brown eyes and silvery bangs. ''"Bye,"'' She whispers and you intone it back softly, ''"I'll be thinking of you. Bye, Leoris."'' Carefully, she shuts the door until her honied orbs flick into darkness and it closes behind you with a click. As you hurry down the long, dark-paneled hallway, your path lit by small, flickering candles, you can't help but briefly reflect on the past couple of hours. What a trip. [[You descend back into the tavern.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_descent]]

As you descend the stairs, the hall stretches on beneath low stone arches, opening into a row of backrooms and shadowed alcoves. The Uneven Queen reveals more of herself the deeper you wander. <<sfx "tavern-dice" 0.7>> Dice clatter somewhere beyond a curtain, punctuated by bursts of laughter. Smoke drifts from a half-shut lounge where low voices murmur behind velvet drapes. Further on, through another parted veil, you glimpse a scatter of jewels on bare skin; gold glinting against sweat, pale limbs tangled in languid embrace. For a moment, you can't help but wonder where Leoris finds her place in all of this. But soon enough, the corridor bends and spills you back into the main room. Despite the size of the establishment, it feels more crowded than before. Bodies press close beneath the wavering lanternlight and flicker of flames, air thick with drink, perfume and the musk of bodies. You push towards the bar where Rayner left you, scanning the room as you go. If he was looking for you, he should be here, right? To your growing dismay, you don't see him anywhere. Strange faces surround you, turning as you pass, some regal and refined, others bent and broken. Pale, dark, dusky, glossy and green, every size, shape and shade except for the grizzled chin, short-hair and murky-green eyes of your soon-to-be Instructor. Trying not to attract unwelcome attention to yourself whilst looking for Rayner, you step through the crowd and work your way deeper into the main room, searching the depths of the tavern. That's where you spot something afar that twists your stomach into a knot. [[You recognize those eyes.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_descent1]]

Gradually, her touch retracts, leaving you to straighten and turn a look over the apartment. ''"I wonder if the Dark Hour is over,"'' She muses, drawing across the room, the firelight gleaming atop her red bodice and fair flesh. You didn't notice it before, but there against one wall, not far from the door, are long, satin curtains. She gathers them in the crook of a long, lithe arm and sweeps them aside in one fell swoop, the sweep of deep crimson satin much the same tone as that of her skirt. Focusing, you peer through the widow, spying the quiet plaza down below; a dim trail of light trickling through misty violet glow of the sky to barely illuminate the Highway. ''"Mmph,"'' Leoris murmurs as she peers through the glass panes, spotting a few figures starting to emerge from some of the buildings that line the Highway, ''"Looks like it's about that time."'' And finally, it hits you. How long have you been up here? The realization jolts you into action. ''"Fuck, I've gotta go, Leoris. Rayner must be waiting for me."'' She cuts a curious look back at you, ''"Rayner? Who's that?"'' ''"My friend, we came here together. I'll uhm..."'' You draw in a breath as you tilt a look over your high elf companion, glad for the interesting encounter, although you feel that it could've gone differently had the circumstances been different. She's still half-naked and in her lingerie after all... But you have to go. ''"I'll see you again, Leoris."'' ''"Okay, $name! I'll let you out. You can find your way back down, right? I need to clean up."'' She steps gracefully across the apartment and you follow after her, making sure that your belongings are accounted for. Who knows how thorough you are really, nor do you care in the moment. You just know that you need to get back downstairs. Pissing off Rayner, or having him leave you behind, is the last thing that you need to happen. ''"Take care of yourself, alright? Until we meet again!"'' She swings the door open for you, to which you step out into the hall and turn a look back, catching a glimmer of warm brown eyes and silvery bangs. ''"Bye,"'' She whispers and you intone it back softly, ''"Bye, Leoris."'' Carefully, she shuts the door until her honied orbs flick into darkness and it closes behind you with a click. As you hurry down the long, dark-paneled hallway, your path lit by small, flickering candles, you can't help but briefly reflect on the past couple of hours. [[You descend back into the tavern.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_descent]]

Gradually, her touch retracts, leaving you to straighten and turn a look over the apartment. ''"I wonder if the Dark Hour is over,"'' She muses, drawing across the room, the firelight gleaming atop her fine attire and fair flesh. You didn't notice it before, but there against one wall, not far from the door, are long, satin curtains. She gathers them in the crook of a long, lithe arm and sweeps them aside in one fell swoop, the sweep of deep crimson satin much the same tone as that of her favorite color. Outside the window, a quiet plaza is revealed before the Highway, a dim trail of light trickling through the misty violet glow of the sky. ''"Mmph,"'' Leoris murmurs as she peers through the glass panes, spotting a few figures starting to emerge from some of the buildings that line the Highway, ''"Looks like it's about that time."'' And finally, it hits you. How long have you been up here? The realization jolts you into action. ''"Fuck, I've gotta go, Leoris. Rayner must be waiting for me."'' She cuts a curious look back at you, ''"Rayner? Who's that?"'' ''"My friend, we came here together. I'll uhm..."'' You draw in a breath as you tilt a look over your high elf companion, glad for the time that you spent with one another, even if it's not entirely what you expected. For now, you have to go. ''"I'll see you again, Leoris."'' ''"Okay, $name! I'll let you out. You can find your way back down, right? I need to clean up."'' She steps gracefully across the apartment and you follow after her, making sure that your belongings are accounted for. Who knows how thorough you are really, nor do you care in the moment. You just know that you need to get back downstairs. Pissing off Rayner, or having him leave you behind, is the last thing that you need to happen. ''"Take care of yourself, alright? Until we meet again!"'' She swings the door open for you, to which you step out into the hall and turn a look back, catching a glimmer of warm brown eyes and silvery bangs. ''"Bye,"'' She whispers, gaze lingering. ''"Bye, Leoris,"'' You intone back softly, only a murmur. Carefully, she shuts the door until her honied orbs flick into darkness and it closes behind you with a click. As you hurry down the long, dark-paneled hallway, your path lit by small, flickering candles, you can't help but briefly reflect on the past couple of hours. [[You descend back into the tavern.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_descent]]

With the passing of the Dark Hour and the continuation of the day, the streets are busier than they were before. It appears that the higher you climb and the closer you draw towards the sky, ascending ever nearer to the First Quarter, the more that passersby become increasingly 'unfamiliar' and foreign to you. Sure, there's still plenty of slaves, serfs and soldiers going about their day, running errands likely related to the whims of their noble owners and overlords, but there's certainly less craftsmen, laborers and vagrants than you would find along the main throughfares of Undertown. Fine clothing, from soft linen to silk, satin and breathable cotton is not an altogether uncommon sight. People tend to be well-dressed, and the higher you go from the bottom of the pit, the more layers of dress that these people can afford to wear. Metal glimmers too, adorning the ears, necks, wrists and belts of many a noble or privileged person of the gentry class. It's an almost non-existent sight where you're from, metal, outside of the occasional Sergeant of the Legion who's earned a weighted token of his service in the form of a copper or bronze gladius. It tends to be the officers that are armed with iron, the deadliest of blades anywhere in Cradle. It's this monopoly on the best weapons in Cradle that makes them such a force to be reckoned with. These are the thoughts that run through your head as you walk with Rayner, who keeps a steady pace, not wanting to delay your arrival to Highrock any longer into the day. ''"What's it like there? You know... on an average day?"'' Rayner spares you a quick look before turning forward once more, clearing a path for the both of you. It isn't exactly crowded, but there's the sporadic wagon, cart or squadron of guards that clank and clatter down the Highway past you, making for a dynamic environment beneath the bright violet glow of Dosmera. Part of you isn't sure whether you should feel more or less guarded than in the narrows of the Third. ''"I suppose you'll find out tomorrow, eh?"'' ''"The first day of class hardly seems like an average day."'' ''"Fuck,"'' Rayner retorts, uttering the curse plainly, ''"You're good. Alright, let's see... There's a schedule that every student follows. It's strict enough... you go from class to class, with some intermissions. Breakfast, lunch, dinner."'' Three meals a day, you certainly like the sound of that. The food has to be good too, if they're serving it to the sons, daughters and heirs of upper class families. ''"Your classes range from lectures to live demonstrations, hands-on instruction, team sports, physical training and so on. It's not easy, but it sounds more difficult than it actually is, trust me."'' Rayner exchanges a brief glance with you as he steps along, tone casual, ''"Some of these kids aren't exactly geniuses. They play to their strengths and do the bare minimum. You get it, kid?"'' ''"I suppose so. What about your classes, Rayner? Are they lectures or...?"'' ''"A little bit of everything. I can't spoil the material, now can I?"'' ''"Anyway,"'' He continues, ''"On class days, you have some time to yourself in the evening but they keep you confined to the Academy."'' It sounds claustrophobic, but who are you to complain? You've spent too many days and nights crammed inside Fredrick's workshop to care at this point. ''"I'm sure you'll find a couple classmates that you get along with, $name. You'll do just fine. The dorms aren't all that bad." "Dorms?" "That's right, every student, even the rich ones. It's how they promote... bonding between the lot of you. Ya know, cohesion, the group spirit."'' ''"Huh. I've heard that's how most of the Legion lives, too. They put them in a big room." "Right, it's similar to that,"'' Rayner replies, briefly watching the street over a broad shoulder as he goes, ''"They split you into different rooms, by gender and all of that."'' For the first time, though it has surely slipped through your mind already, you consider the fact that there will be female students at Highrock. [[As another wagon rattles by, you daydream about the possibilities.|chp2_highwaytohighrock1]]

''"There's a lot of girls there, at Highrock?"'' Rayner's lips twitch into a smirk at the turn that your questioning takes, and he swivels another cursory glance over at you, ''"Easy, kid. The last thing I need you to do is get overly excited, eh?"'' He barks out a short laugh at his own warning as you both trudge along, pace remaining steady as the ascent continues higher and higher, reaching into the marble heights that lead to Cradle's finest quarter. <<if $mobility >= 1>>You maintain the pace quite readily, although you can recognize that if you were less fit, you'd be working up a sweat right about now. Your Instructor is capable, you think; he's very athletic for a man of his age. He definitely doesn't seem like much of an academic, although you haven't met many, if any at all, in the first place. You just have a vague image of what one might be like, their face buried away in a dusty old tome for most of the day. Rayner is definitely not that. No, he seems rather well-rounded. <<else>>You struggle to keep up, working up a sweat as you keep to your Instructor's flank. You can't help but curse your lack of a dedicated fitness routine, because you're paying for it now. Rayner is fit, you think, athletic for a man of his age. He definitely doesn't seem like much of an academic, but you haven't met many, if any at all, in the first place. You just have a vague imagine of what one might be like, their face buried away in a dusty old tome for the most of the day. Rayner is definitely not that. He's outpacing you already. <</if>> ''"There's plenty of 'em,"'' He finally replies with some seriousness, ''"But not all of them are trying to become Officers in His Legion or Ascenders. You'll see soon enough. There are more Academies than Highrock in the First Quarter... far more."'' ''"What do they study?"'' ''"Everything, $name. Anything you can think of. From botany to architecture, sky-scholarship to wizardry, stewardship and slave management. If it requires a semblance of skill or study, there's someone pursuing it academically. You'd be surprised how cutthroat these people can be, too. I've said it once and I'll say it again... don't let your guard down, and don't underestimate anyone that you meet at Highrock. Student or teacher."'' You slip back into silence, contemplating Rayner's advice as the sky continues to open up above you. At this height, some mist and fog lingers atop the street, wispy and warm, an entirely different atmosphere compared to the sweat, steam and sewage of somewhere like Undertown. So far, the change of pace is a welcome one, something that you were never entirely sure that you would experience despite your yearning for a better life. ''"The gate to the First Quarter isn't far now,"'' Rayner murmurs aside, his stride slowing just a touch to ensure your comprehension, ''"Same rules apply. Keep quiet... No one needs to know anything about you. Not until you're wearing your Highrock uniform. Then you'll be playing a different game."'' Inclining an easy nod, you keep at Rayner's side. You're already able to see the walls of the First Quarter from afar, as stretch up into the yawning abyss above, towering above even the tall, dark, cascading walls that line the Imperial Highway. They're of a lighter color than the walls you're used to, pale and bleached like a fine sandstone or faded alabaster, speaking to a sort of foreboding elegance. Beautiful, yet defiant. And as you come past another winding curve of the Highway, just yonder the road opens up and a gate becomes visible. It's even more secure than those of the Third Quarter, manned not only by Legionnaires but by House Guards, those who bear the tabards and sigils of the nobility. It speaks not to their own blood, but of their service. Hobgoblins, greenskins, and mostly humans, armed with the best weapons and armour that money can buy. Banners line the walls, too, the emblems of some of the most predominant of the nobility who all pledge their allegiance to the Sorcerer-King. They don't live bad lives, these guards. From what you understand, they're some of the most well-paid positions in the city for those who are only able to sell their brawn and blade. Many of them are lifesworn, dedicating their own lives and those of their families to those that they serve. In exchange, they're well-fed, receive medical care and other benefits such as private housing and more. Many of the more ambitious youths that you met in Undertown never wanted to join the Legion, but sought out employment through the nobility instead. As to be expected, these positions are highly competitive and landing such a job takes talent, persistence and luck. The selection processes are grueling and many young prospects have to serve a tour in the Legion or in a mercenary company to even be considered for the first step. You could've seen yourself going down that path, eventually, if an opportunity like Highrock hadn't been sprung upon you. It helps put things into perspective for you. Before you know it, Rayner is leading you through the gateway. [[The gatemaster seems to recognize him, lowering a polite nod which Rayner returns.|chp2_arrival_highrock]]

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp2_highrock.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> In the higher reaches of the Cradle, nearing the top of an ancient city-state that sprawls just as tall as it does wide, sits the foundations of Highrock Academy of Ascent, nearly built into the very face of the crater itself. Like throughout most of the metropolis, the grounds are fortified and enclosed by a large, oblong wall that wraps around what you find to be called the Inner Courtyard. It's an open space that serves a number of purposes, from that of a calm evening plaza to that of a mustering ground with hundreds of students and instructors. You stroll along at Rayner's side atop one of the many brick-paved walkways that cuts a path through the courtyard, matching his stride. However now that you've arrived, this pace is much more relaxed, giving you the welcome opportunity to survey your surroundings and soak in the sights. The mist is thick tonight, obscuring the highest reaches of the Academy as it stretches up into the open air before you, but that doesn't stop you from wrapping your head around what exactly it is, this place that you've been hearing about endlessly. It's much taller than you expected, a powerful, squared compound of pale marble and slate. There is no one uniform shape, multiple conjoined buildings making up the academy which appears as much as a castle as it would a temple or school. Against the backdrop of fog and the dim violet glow of Dosmera, you barely make out the climb of tall, teetering towers that brush against the very lip of the pit. A big, domed curved roof glistens and dozens of glass-paned windows and oblong columns blink down at you, all part of the elaborate construction of this structure. It does show signs of aging, whether it be faded stonework or a faint crack in the ceramic tiling, but far less so than the urban sprawl of Undertown. No, this megastructure is as much a work of art as a place of residence, work or study. This is Highrock, a prestigious academy for the often competitive, treacherous and decadent nobility of Cradle; supposedly, this is your new home for the next two years. The place where the second sons of noble clans and the determined gentry come to earn their place in the Legions, or to strike out for a place among the Ascenders. ''"So,"'' Rayner muses, gaze following yours through the wispy clouds and dark, translucent sky, ''"Based on appearances... is it anything like what you chalked it up to be?"'' You take a moment to consider his question, hands stowed away into the pockets of your trousers. ''"Grander. But appearances can be deceiving, right?"'' Rayner's response comes as you continue down the walkway, passing what must be a group of students along the path, ''"That's for you to decide. You must be hungry, $name. Come on."'' You've seen several other entrances from afar, leading into different parts and buildings of the Academy you're sure, but Rayner leads you to a wide doorway, almost what you'd consider a gate, that requires the ascent of a foreboding dark-grey staircase, every part of it carefully laid and hard-etched, from the steps themselves to the newel and column-like balustrades, capped atop at even intervals by boxy, black-metal lamps, lit by flickering blue flames. [[Servants stand at the top, driving the thick, wood-framed doors open.|chp2_arrival_highrock1]]

''"Welcome to the Dusk Hall, $name."'' A vast, yawning space swallows you whole, echoing upwards far, far above your head with impressive high vaulted ceilings, supported by the massive, dark-faced stone pillars that lay spread throughout the hall. Along the upper reaches of the thick, tall, robust walls are grand stained-glass windows, colored by reds, purples and blues, depicting scenes that elude your comprehension for the time being, but they must carry significance. <<if $mind >= 1>> No, your sight lingers and you quickly realize that you recognize one. The blue star of the Ascenders decorates a man's cape as he climbs, a leg bent upwards, an arm reaching higher, as he scales what must be the cliff's edge... or possibly even a mountain peak, deep within the open expanse of the Overland. <</if>> There's enough tables to seat hundreds. Large, heavy, wooden, and circular with a variety of benches, stools and chairs pulled up to them, kept orderly enough by the sizable staff who you often spot picking their way through the vast hall's recesses. ''"Let's go,"'' Rayner says with a jut of his jaw to one side, ''"The banquet table is over here."'' Standing with a wooden trencher in both hands, you work your way from one end of the table to another, some spoonful or ladle of food being slapped, dumped and doused atop your plate every step of the way. Half of what you're being fed, you think, you've never even seen before. But Gods does it smell good. The fact that you haven't had a single morsel of food all day must help. This deep, encompassing hunger develops rather suddenly, from the scent and sight of your meal alone. You didn't realize how ravenous you were until now. Stepping along with Rayner, you find an abandoned table to seat yourselves and promptly dig in. There's some familiarity here, from the crunch of smoked tilder sausages to the spongy meaty bite of crater crabfish. Even the food that you don't recognize, strange cuts of meat and what seem to be steamed vegetables, taste like subtle delicacies. ''"What is this?"'' You hoist up a slab of meat atop your spoon for Rayner to inspect, who gracefully humors your curiosity, ''"Cliffhawk. Dark meat, looks like part of a thigh."'' You scarf all of your food down readily, thankful for the moment of respite and a full belly. With all of the trials that you'll face at Highrock, it seems that hunger won't be among them. Not for tonight. ''"After this,"'' Rayner murmurs, more measured in his eating though he doesn't dawdle and waste time either, ''"I'll take you to your dorm, kid. Get you settled in for the night. Figure after this and a full night's rest, you'll be ready to give 'em hell tomorrow."'' You lower a faint nod of affirmation, accepting this plan for the time being. [[When you're both done, Rayner leads you through a different pair of doors.|chp2_arrival_highrock2]]

''"This is $name."'' The scribe stares at you briefly, leaving you somewhere between a shrug and smile, before tilting their attention back to your companion, ''".. and I'm Instructor Caius Rayner. He's in the book, you should find a note for his check-in with my signature and the Dean's attached."'' ''"Right, one moment please Instructor..."'' The sound of turning pages and shuffled papers fill the air as you stand alongside Rayner, looking the place over; this is the entrance to the male dormitories, you can only assume. It was a short walk from the Dusk Hall, slightly deeper into the academy itself and down a wide, walled corridor. ''"Thirteenth floor... Room 1312."'' ''"... Did you say the Thirteenth floor?"'' The older scribe bends over, squinting down at the font, ''"... Yes, that's correct. Room 1312."'' Wearily, you cut a glance towards Rayner who quickly recognizes your plight. ''"Lemme see that,"'' Rayner groans, stooping an arm over the desk and grabbing a tome from before the dorm's blinking attendant. Holding it before you, he points at an inscription: MCCCXII. First referring to the M, ''"This means one thousand."'' And next, pointing at the C, ''"This means one hundred. Three of 'em, that's three hundred. But that doesn't really matter, you already know it's on the thirteenth floor."'' Indicating now the XII, ''"Twelve. You can remember this shape, can't you? The X and two lines. You'll see it etched into your door."'' [[I can remember that.|chp2_arrival_highrock2_remember]] [[Is this my first lesson?|chp2_arrival_highrock2_smartass]]

''"I can remember that."'' ''"Good, because this is where we part ways for today."'' Rayner closes the book and drops it somewhat heavily back onto the desk before the scribe, dusting his hands off against one another and fixing you with his murky gaze, ''"We'll be seeing each other before long. Until then, just keep your head down and get yourself acclimated, eh?"'' ''"Got it. I'll do my best." "Aye, I know you will."'' ''"Thanks, Rayner. For everything."'' He drops a faint nod and draws back a step, turning on heel to mosey his way on out into the corridor from whence you two came. A sucking breath from the scribe doesn't leave you with much time to reflect, ''"I suppose now would be an excellent time for you to hear the dorm's rules. There's certain ways we do things here at Highrock, $name. Some first-year students have an especially hard time adapting..."'' What follows is a rather lackadaisical explanation of the apparent 'rules and regulations' of living in the dorms at Highrock. It seems rather strict, from a late-night curfew to the forbidden status of any food or beverages beyond water in your room... including a zero tolerance policy on alcohol. You listen and let the scribe rattle on. He's just doing his job, right? Besides, some of it could be useful to you. But eventually, thankfully, your torment seems to come to a close as he sucks in another wheezing breath and relents, ''"That should cover everything... for now."'' [[You continue onward, alone.|chp2_arrival_highrock3]]

''"Is this my first lesson?"'' Rayner's mouth opens as though to answer you, then shuts, attention lingering upon you. ''"Smartass. You better remember it, eh? Because this is where we part ways for the day."'' Rayner closes the book and drops it somewhat heavily back onto the desk before the scribe, dusting his hands off against one another and fixing you with his murky gaze, ''"We'll be seeing each other before long. Don't go picking any fights, kid."'' ''"No promises."'' ''"It had to be said, even if my expectations are... tempered."'' Vaguely amused, Rayner drops a faint nod and draws back a step, turning on heel to mosey his way on out towards the corrido from whence you two came. A sucking breath from the scribe doesn't leave you with much time to reflect, ''"I suppose now would be an excellent time for you to hear the dorm's rules. There's certa--"'' ''"Thanks,"'' You interrupt flatly, jerking a thumb towards the dormitory, ''"But I've really gotta take a piss."'' As you turn to stroll off, the scribe tries to call you back, ''"Wait, hold on. You have to hea--... I'll be waiting!"'' He slips into silence as it becomes apparent that you won't stop, and you likely won't return, determined to find your room and pass out for the evening. The last thing you care about is a lackadaisical explanation of any 'rules and regulations'. You aren't the typical student, and you don't intend to act like one. [[You continue onward, alone.|chp2_arrival_highrock3]]

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/staircase1.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Turning deeper into the dormitories, pressing past the periphery of the entrance hall you find yourself confronted by a staircase. Sprawling and spiralling upwards, it dominates what otherwise appears to be a large common room, a few tables and chairs scattered throughout. This must be where your climb begins. The thirteenth floor... typically, the higher up something is, the better that it's perceived. However, you're convinced that's not the case in this instance. Not when you'll have to make the climb and descent daily. With a breath, you get decide to get started. Your legs ache, from your feet to your knees and thighs, as your climb continues, the expansive stone stairway stretching on for what feels an eternity. As you ascend between the levels, you get a glance down different halls, slowly getting a feel for your surroundings. It's still completely foreign, all of this, but you're intent on wrapping your mind around it all as quickly as you can. That's what needs to happen, if you're going to survive. Better yet, thrive. It occurs to you at some point along your climb, muscles burning, that you forgot to ask what a thirteen looks like. Each floor is labelled with numerals, bold inscriptions chiseled into the very stone from which the building was constructed. When you pass a floor marked with an 'X', you reason that it must be the tenth floor, and a few arduous minutes later you're rounding the staircase and confronted by an 'XIII'. You're able to deduce the meaning, or at least you hope so, because you're certainly not intent on climbing further, or descending anytime soon. The halls seem rather barren, especially at this height, a plain stone corridor with the occasional wall-mounted portrait, hanging wreath, or taxidermy, a surprising amount of the beasts unrecognizable to you. It's readily apparent that the world not just beyond Cradle, but within Cradle, is still a mystery to you. Sometimes you're unsure of whether to feel smaller for your lack of knowledge, or larger now that you're forging your own path forward. One step at a time, you think, finally spotting the 'XII' emblazoned on the front of a wooden door. This room is where you start one journey, but end another - today's trek has completely worn you out. You grab the door's handle and pull, only to realize that you won't be alone. No, there stands a young man. [[A dim violet light is cast across his face.|chp2_arrival_highrock4]]

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/lyco1.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> <<set $chp2_fight_dmg to 0>> <<set $chp2_lyco_dmg to 0>>\ He looks about your age and size, taller than most, with a certain athletic breadth to his upper-body that speaks of a youthful vigor and perhaps an inherent strength. You can discern, undeniably, that he would be considered handsome by the vast majority, from the hard curve of his jaw to the sweep of his golden-blond hair and pale-grey eyes. Silence lingers between the both of you, stood still in the doorway as he observes you. Eventually, you draw a few steps further into the room, ''"Is this... 1312?"'' ''"That it is."'' He replies, straight-spoken with a certain clearness to his voice. ''"Then,"'' You venture, ''"I'll assume that we're going to be roommates. My name's $name."'' You incline a dip of your chin and he does the same, although unexpectedly he steps forward to offer a hand out towards you, ''"Lyco. Lyco Lepontus."'' You step forward and reach out, gripping each other's hands in a mutual exchange. As he squeezes your hand within his, a firm gesture of introduction, the thought flies through your mind that this is likely the first time you've touched nobility. He's neither friendly nor rude, his demeanor measured, practiced. ''"Well met,"'' He says softly, touch retracting, during which you catch his gaze briefly flicking down and over your exterior. His clothing is of a much higher quality than yours, despite the simplicity of both of your outfits. His shirt made of fine linen, collared, his trousers soft and sleek; likely worn under a robe, tunic or overcoat when he traveled to the academy today. You're dressed like a lowborn compared to him, with your dirty burlap garb. Already, you recognize that you're going to be set apart, if not because of your outfit, then perhaps due to the slight differences in speech, or due to your lack of knowledge concerning Highrock as a whole. This is just the beginning of it all. Much like you imagined, much like you were warned, you're at a disadvantage. Your new acquaintance steps back over to one of the bunks, his bed, a large dark-leather backpack thrown atop the mattress, full of what must be belongings from home, spare clothing and so on. You have no such possessions, only the clothes on your back, but it doesn't do you any good to linger with such thoughts. The room as a whole isn't all that large, a small window set against the far window, whilst there's a pair of bunkbeds on either side of the room, one bed stacked atop the other. A sturdy wooden dresser sits at the end of each of them for you to stow away your uniforms and undergarments, wax candles left atop, a possible light source for when darkness falls. ''"Our roommates,"'' Lyco speaks, gesturing loosely to the other pair of bunks with a roll of his shoulder, ''"Went down to grab food not that long ago. I left the top bunk for you. I think someone must have placed your uniforms in the dresser before our arrival."'' You perk up, walking over and stooping low to verify this newfound information. Sure enough, you find an assortment of tunics, academy robes, bottoms and even socks. You would have to try them on, but they look like they're around the right size. Rayner must've taken care of you. ''"I have a feeling about you, $name."'' Your attention cuts back to Lyco, who's observing you calmly, the slightest purse to his lips, ''"You're not the typical first-year, are you? You don't belong here."'' There's no malice in his voice, but it feels pointed, purposeful. How do you respond? [[You're right.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_cowboy]] <<ci cowboy archetype>> [[Too bad. I'm here to stay.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard]] <<ci bastard archetype>> [[It's not up to you.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_knight]] <<ci knight archetype>>

''"You're right."'' He IS right. You don't belong here, do you? Lyco already recognizes that and it seems likely that most of your fellow students will, too. There's no use denying it. Your bunkmate watches you silently, not exactly pressing the subject any further. If he has any additional judgements to deliver, they weren't deemed important enough to vocalize, not for now. ''"Just stay out of my way,"'' He eventually replies, having turned back sometime ago to pilfer through his own belongings, ''"And we won't have any problems."'' That certainly could've gone worse, you decide. You weren't expecting a warm welcome or a grand experience full of friendship and lifelong bonds. No, your main goal, much as it has always been, is based around survival. You can't grow or gain in this life, if you're dead. That much is obvious. Lyco must be a practical sort, too. He doesn't want to make friends with someone who may jeopardize his status, and he doesn't want to make enemies with the guy who he'll be sharing a bunk with. At the end of the day, it's hard for you to blame him for any perceived coldness. It's not like the nobility of Cradle gain or maintain their power and positions through charity and being big, bleeding hearts for the low and broken. ''"That works for me."'' You murmur. Lyco seems to pause momentarily, but says nothing more. If he sees you as weak because of your agreeance, great. That's one less threat that you have to worry about trying to cut you down out of fear or insecurity. You don't need the drama or pointless vying for status. The time passes peacefully henceforth, sorting through your new uniforms and making sure that everything is workable, the right size and fit, and ensuring that you'll be prepared for the following day. The first real day, you think, of your classes at Highrock. There are questions that spring to mind, questions that you might've liked to ask, but you don't intend on striking up any further conversation with your bunkmate, not tonight. Instead, your strip off your boots and stuff them beside the dresser before silently clambering up into your bed, the top bunk, and climbing under the sheets. Your other roommates still aren't back, but you're tired and never intended on staying up and waiting for them to arrive. No, you'll need your full rest for tomorrow. You close your eyes and gradually relax, calming your thoughts, letting every little worry slip from your mind as sleep encroaches. [[Yet things are never quite that simple for you.|chp3_dream]] <<gainCowboy>> <<bgmstop 9>>

''"Too bad. I'm here to stay."'' He IS right. You don't belong here, do you? Lyco already recognizes that and it seems likely that most of your fellow students will, too. But you're here now... and you're not going anywhere, not without putting up a damn good fight. You'll never deny your origins. Better yet, you'll shove it down their faces. Your bunkmate watches you silently, not exactly pressing the subject any further. If he has any additional judgements to deliver, they weren't deemed important enough to vocalize, not for now. ''"That's fine,"'' He eventually replies, having turned back sometime ago to pilfer through his own belongings. ''"Stay out of my way and I'll stay out of yours."'' ''"Works for me,"'' You retort, ''"I didn't come here to make friends."'' That much is true; you weren't expecting a warm welcome or a grand experience full of friendship and lifelong bonds. No, you're here to claim as much as you can. Education, skills, opportunities, as much food as you can eat, and maybe meet some cute lasses along the way. ''"Why did you come here then, $name?"'' Truthfully, you didn't expect him to continue the conversation. But there he stands, pale-grey gaze resting directly upon you. Something about his outward demeanor, the way he carries himself, Lyco Lepontus is an interesting young man. The way, you feel, that he stares directly into your soul. He has presence. [[Opportunity.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_opportunity]] <<ci bastard archetype>> [[None of your business.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_none]] <<ci bastard archetype>> [[I'm going to become an Ascender.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_ascender]] <<ci knight archetype>> <<gainBastard>> <<bgmstop 9>>\

''"It's not up to you."'' He IS right. You don't belong here, do you? Lyco already recognizes that and it seems likely that most of your fellow stude nts will, too. But it's not up to him, or any of them. Fredrick and Rayner gave you this opportunity, and you're going to make the most of it. You're going to earn your place at Highrock. Your bunkmate watches you silently, not exactly pressing the subject any further. If he has any additional judgements to deliver, they weren't deemed important enough to vocalize, not for now. ''"No,"'' He eventually replies, having turned back sometime ago to pilfer through his own belongings. ''"It's not. Stay out of my way and I'll stay out of yours."'' ''"Fair enough,"'' You reply, ''"I didn't come here to make friends, nor enemies."'' That much is true; you weren't expecting a warm welcome or a grand experience full of friendship and lifelong bonds. If you can accomplish any of that along the way, great. But for the most part, you're here to seize the opportunity bestowed upon you. Whether an officer in His Legion or an Ascender, you're going to become more than a cobbler's apprentice. Of this much, you are sure. ''"Allow me to ask, then: why did you come here, $name?"'' There he stands, pale-grey gaze resting directly upon you, unflinching. Something about his outward demeanor, the way he carries himself, Lyco Lepontus strikes you as an interesting young man. The way, you feel, that he stares directly into your soul. It's not aggression, but sheer presence. [[I owe it to someone close to me.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_knight_owed]] <<ci knight archetype>> [[It's none of your business.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_none]] <<ci bastard archetype>> [[I'm going to become an Ascender.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_knight_ascender]] <<ci knight archetype>> <<gainKnight>> <<bgmstop 9>>\

She’s here again. <h3>Dosmera.</h3>Her glow surrounds you, encapsulating your being with her cool, ethereal breath and whispery tendrils of mist and fog. Her beauty glows, shines, nearly blinding you from the darkness of space beyond and the twinkling of innumerable stars. You had a hunch that this might happen, even if you had denied the possibility at first, pushing the thought back into the far recesses of your mind. But you can’t deny the sight before you, not when it’s so vivid, so real. Tangible, tempting you to reach out and touch. Not even your dreams are safe anymore. No, ever since your chance meeting with the sorcerer Mearesdes… your life hasn’t been quite the same. Does this have something to do with him? What about your departure for Highrock Academy? Could these events be… interlinked somehow? Like droplets in some great, cosmic web of fate that has been woven for you. Do men like Mearesdes possibly have the power to influence such events? Can they steer the destiny of others like puppeteers working a marionette? Or is this truly all by chance? [[I alone control my own destiny.|chp3_dream_control]] [[Others influence me, but I have the final say.|chp3_dream_influence]] [[Perhaps there are far greater forces at work here…|chp3_dream_forces]] <<bgm "bad-era" 0.6 6>> <<script>> $("body").append('<div id="fadeBlack"></div>'); $("#fadeBlack").css({ position: "fixed", top: 0, left: 0, width: "100%", height: "100%", background: "black", opacity: 1, "z-index": 9999, cursor: "pointer" // optional: makes skip feel intuitive }); // allow skip by double-clicking anywhere on the overlay $("#fadeBlack").on("dblclick", function() { $(this).stop(true, true).fadeOut(300, function() { $(this).remove(); }); }); // hold black, then fade out slowly setTimeout(() => { $("#fadeBlack").animate( { opacity: 0 }, { duration: 3000, // fade duration easing: "swing", complete: function() { $(this).remove(); } } ); }, 1500); <</script>>

''"Opportunity."'' You decide to give a vague response. Lyco seems like a smart lad; he understands, at least implicity, the many benefits and opportunities that a place like Highrock bestows upon their successful students. They certainly played a part, you imagine, in his decision to attend. Although, he doesn't seem all impressed by your answer. ''"Hell of an opportunity for someone like you, is it not?"'' Lyco's retort gives you cause for pause, tilting your gaze back to consider your bunkmate. He's glaring at you, his demeanor noticeably shifted, more emotional than before, forceful even. Something that you said must've struck a chord. You can't read his mind, but it seems like Lyco Lepontus might be fully convinced now that you truly have no place at Highrock. He has an intruder, a lowborn interloper, as a bunkmate. [[Look. I don't have a problem with you.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_opportunity_noproblem]] [[A lovely opportunity. Does that upset you?|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_opportunity_upset]]

''"It's none of your business."'' He doesn't intimidate you, and you don't owe 'Lyco Lepontus' anything. It doesn't even matter if you're going to be bunkmates, roommates, classmates. Fuck it all, and fuck him. He doesn't need to know anything about you, especially where it concerns your background and your motivations for attending Highrock. ''"So that's how it's going to be. This is a hell of an opportunity for someone like you, is it not?"'' He's glaring at you, his demeanor noticeably shifted, more emotional than before, forceful even. Something that you said must've struck a chord. You can't read his mind, but it seems like Lyco Lepontus might be fully convinced now that you truly have no place at Highrock. He has an intruder, a lowborn interloper, as a bunkmate. [[Look. I don't have a problem with you.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_opportunity_noproblem]] [[A lovely opportunity. Does that upset you?|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_opportunity_upset]]

''"I'm going to become an Ascender."'' You speak bluntly, forthright and confident. You give him a rather cocky response, sharing your ambition, sans the details concerning how exactly you came across this opportunity. He doesn't need to know about Fredrick or your connection to Rayner, not right now. ''"Bullshit,"'' comes the low reply from Lyco Lepontus, which gives you cause for pause. Tilting your gaze back, you consider your bunkmate, who's glaring at you. His demeanor is noticeably shifted, more emotional than before, forceful even. ''"If that was true, we'd share the same goal. As competitors, even. But that's bullshit, coming from you... You're just an alley thug, $name. I can tell that much."'' You must've struck a chord with Lyco. You can't read his mind, but it seems like the highborn might be fully convinced now that you truly have no place at Highrock. He has an intruder, a lowborn interloper, you, as a bunkmate. [[I'm going to sleep.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_opportunity_noproblem_sleep]] [[Let's settle this like men.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_opportunity_noproblem_fight]]

''"Look. I don't have a problem with you, Lyco."'' ''"I have a problem with you, $name. You carry yourself like a thug."'' He's turned towards you, poised, a fist neatly clenched at his side. You face him fully, unsure of whether he's going to drop the issue or if he's intent on provoking a fight. Do you brush it off, or confront the issue at hand? [[I'm going to sleep.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_opportunity_noproblem_sleep]] [[Let's settle this like men.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_opportunity_noproblem_fight]]

''"A lovely opportunity, truly. Does that upset you, Lyco?"'' <<if $mobility >= 2>> He's fast, far faster than you would've assumed at first glance. You barely have time to react as he presses forward, quickly skipping back a step and leaning away with your head, just enough for his hard knuckles to brush past the tip of your nose. You expect another strike to follow and prepare to counter it, but it never comes. Lyco must be surprised; he didn't expect you to avoid the initial strike, and now he's watching you from behind his upraised fists, keen and calculating, picking his next shot carefully. ''"Come on,"'' He murmurs, ''"Alley trash. Let's see your tricks."'' His pale-grey eyes gleam as he watches you, emotion still swelling behind his calm exterior. [[Test his guard with a front teep kick.|chp2_fight_teep]] <<ci stat>> [[Wait and prepare to counter.|chp2_fight_firstcounter]] <<ci stat>> [[Deescalate the situation.|chp2_fight_deescalate]] <<elseif $might >= 2>> He's fast, far faster than you would've assumed at first glance. You don't even know what hit you at first, you just feel the dump of adrenaline and a slight numbness that spreads throughout your tensed jaw. It was a sudden, hard shot, but luckily for you, it's going to take some serious damage to lay you out onto your back. Lyco must be surprised; he didn't expect you to remain standing after the initial strike, and now he's watching you from behind his upraised fists, keen and calculating, picking his next shot carefully. ''"Come on,"'' He murmurs, ''"Big, dumb and broke. Let's see what you've got, alley trash."'' His pale-grey eyes gleam as he watches you, emotion still swelling behind his calm exterior. [[Test his guard with a front teep kick.|chp2_fight_teep]] <<ci stat>> [[Wait and prepare to counter.|chp2_fight_firstcounter]] <<ci stat>> [[Deescalate the situation.|chp2_fight_deescalate]] <<elseif ($might >= 1) && ($mobility >= 1)>> He's fast, far faster than you would've assumed at first glance. You barely have time to react as he presses forward, skipping back a step and leaning away with your head, though you aren't as quick as you would've liked. His hard knuckles connect with your nose. The sudden realization that you just got hit feels you with a dump of adrenaline as that slight, painful numbness spreads throughout your face. Lyco must be surprised; he didn't expect you to react so quickly or to remain standing after the initial strike, and now he's watching you from behind his upraised fists, keen and calculating, picking his next shot carefully. ''"Come on,"'' He murmurs, ''"Alley trash. Let's see what you're made of."'' His pale-grey eyes gleam as he watches you, emotion still swelling behind his calm exterior. [[Test his guard with a front teep kick.|chp2_fight_teep]] <<ci stat>> [[Wait and prepare to counter.|chp2_fight_firstcounter]] <<ci stat>> [[Deescalate the situation.|chp2_fight_deescalate]] <<else>> <<set $chp2_fight_dmg to $chp2_fight_dmg +1>> He's fast, far faster than you would've assumed at first glance. You don't even know what hit you at first, you just end up on the ground, a numbness reverberating throughout your tensed jaw. It was a sudden, hard shot, and you're not even sure whether you went unconscious. Your senses are distorted, but still you're aware of Lyco standing over you, peering down at you with his pale-grey eyes, emotion still swelling behind his calm exterior. ''"Stay down there where you belong, alley trash, if you've learned your lesson."'' [[Stand up.|chp2_hurtfight_standup]] [[Stay down.|chp2_hurtfight_staydown]]<</if>> <<bgm "street-fight" 0.6 3>>

''"I'm going to sleep. This isn't worth my t--"'' <<if $mobility >= 2>> He's fast, far faster than you would've assumed at first glance. You barely have time to react as he presses forward, quickly skipping back a step and leaning away with your head, just enough for his hard knuckles to brush past the tip of your nose. You expect another strike to follow and prepare to counter it, but it never comes. Lyco must be surprised; he didn't expect you to avoid the initial strike, and now he's watching you from behind his upraised fists, keen and calculating, picking his next shot carefully. ''"Come on,"'' He murmurs, ''"Alley trash. Let's see your tricks."'' His pale-grey eyes gleam as he watches you, emotion still swelling behind his calm exterior. [[Test his guard with a front teep kick.|chp2_fight_teep]] <<ci stat>> [[Wait and prepare to counter.|chp2_fight_firstcounter]] <<ci stat>> <<elseif $might >= 2>> He's fast, far faster than you would've assumed at first glance. You don't even know what hit you at first, you just feel the dump of adrenaline and a slight numbness that spreads throughout your tensed jaw. It was a sudden, hard shot, but luckily for you, it's going to take some serious damage to lay you out onto your back. Lyco must be surprised; he didn't expect you to remain standing after the initial strike, and now he's watching you from behind his upraised fists, keen and calculating, picking his next shot carefully. ''"Come on,"'' He murmurs, ''"Big, dumb and broke. Let's see what you've got, alley trash."'' His pale-grey eyes gleam as he watches you, emotion still swelling behind his calm exterior. [[Test his guard with a front teep kick.|chp2_fight_teep]] <<ci stat>> [[Wait and prepare to counter.|chp2_fight_firstcounter]] <<ci stat>> <<elseif ($might >= 1) && ($mobility >= 1)>> He's fast, far faster than you would've assumed at first glance. You barely have time to react as he presses forward, skipping back a step and leaning away with your head, though you aren't as quick as you would've liked. His hard knuckles connect with your nose. The sudden realization that you just got hit feels you with a dump of adrenaline as that slight, painful numbness spreads throughout your face. Lyco must be surprised; he didn't expect you to react so quickly or to remain standing after the initial strike, and now he's watching you from behind his upraised fists, keen and calculating, picking his next shot carefully. ''"Come on,"'' He murmurs, ''"Alley trash. Let's see what you're made of."'' His pale-grey eyes gleam as he watches you, emotion still swelling behind his calm exterior. [[Test his guard with a front teep kick.|chp2_fight_teep]] <<ci stat>> [[Wait and prepare to counter.|chp2_fight_firstcounter]] <<ci stat>> <<else>> <<set $chp2_fight_dmg to $chp2_fight_dmg +1>> He's fast, far faster than you would've assumed at first glance. You don't even know what hit you at first, you just end up on the ground, a numbness reverberating throughout your tensed jaw. It was a sudden, hard shot, and you're not even sure whether you went unconscious. Your senses are distorted, but still you're aware of Lyco standing over you, peering down at you with his pale-grey eyes, emotion still swelling behind his calm exterior. ''"Stay down there where you belong, alley trash, if you've learned your lesson."'' [[Stand up.|chp2_hurtfight_standup]] [[Stay down.|chp2_hurtfight_staydown]]<</if>> <<bgm "street-fight" 0.6 3>>

''"Fine. Let's settle this like men."'' You roll out a shoulder and widen your stance, making it clear to your bunkmate that you're prepared for a fight. ''"Great,"'' Lyco retorts beneath a hot breath, drawing closer towards you. Raising your hands, focus intently placed upon your newfound opponent, you weigh your options carefully. You could make the first move or wait to counter him. His pale-grey eyes gleam as he watches you, Emotion still swelling behind his calm exterior. [[Test his guard with a front teep kick.|chp2_fight_teep]] <<ci stat>> [[Wait and prepare to counter.|chp2_fight_firstcounter]] <<ci stat>> <<bgm "street-fight" 0.6 3>>

<<if ($might >= 1) && ($mobility >= 1)>> <<set $chp2_lyco_dmg to $chp2_lyco_dmg +1>>\ Placing your weight atop your backfoot, you quickly lift your lead leg, drive up your knee and snap a kick forward at Lyco's midsection, all in one smooth motion. He must not expect the speed or ferocity of your teep, because it catches him right in the gut and nearly crumples him through sheer force and precision. You knocked the wind out of him, and for the briefest moment you can see the flicker of indecision in his intelligent pale eyes. But it seems that this noble heir doesn't intend on going down without a fight either. He's quicker than most, bigger too, and as he suddenly surges forward to attack, it serves as an immediate reminder not to underestimate your opponent. Especially not when they're desperate and determined. [[Counter!|chp2_fight_teep_counter]] <<ci stat>> [[Defend yourself.|chp2_fight_teep_defense]] <<ci stat>> <<elseif $mobility >= 2>>\ Placing your weight atop your backfoot, you quickly lift your lead leg, drive up your knee and snap a kick forward at Lyco's midsection, all in one smooth motion. He must not expect the speed of your teep, because it catches him right in the gut, but unfortunately it doesn't quite pack the punch that you would've wanted. But already, you're developing a feel for your range. Soon, you'll be picking him apart. For the briefest moment, you can see a flicker of thought through his intelligent pale eyes. He's a fighter that uses his brain, quicker than most, bigger too. As he suddenly surges forward to attack, it serves as an immediate reminder not to underestimate your opponent. Especially not when they seem as equally determined and competent as you. [[Counter!|chp2_fight_teep_counter]] <<ci stat>> [[Defend yourself.|chp2_fight_teep_defense]] <<ci stat>> <<else>>\ Trying to place your weight atop your backfoot, you lift your lead leg, hoist up your knee and drive forward with a kick at Lyco's midsection. You're not quite quick enough, the move heavy and telegraphed, your booted toes merely brushing against his belt as he slips back and avoids your attack. For the briefest moment, you can see a flicker of thought through his intelligent pale eyes. He's a fighter that uses his brain, quicker than most, bigger too. As he suddenly surges forward to attack, it serves as an immediate reminder not to underestimate your opponent. Especially not when they seem as equally determined and competent as you. [[Counter!|chp2_fight_teep_counter]] <<ci stat>> [[Defend yourself.|chp2_fight_teep_defense]] <<ci stat>> <</if>>\

<<if $mobility >= 2>> <<set $chp2_lyco_dmg to $chp2_lyco_dmg +1>> You decide to sit back, staying mobile and luring Lyco closer, allowing him to make the first move. You don't have much room to navigate, not really, but you're quick and nimble enough to stay on your feet and avoid crashing into the bunks as your opponent begins to apply pressure. As soon as he opens himself up, trying to chase you back into a corner, you spring forward and seize the advantage, punishing him for his error. You manage to crack him across the temple, lacking the strength to end the fight, but he's clearly shaken by the quickness and precision of your blow. <<elseif ($mind >= 1) && ($mobility >= 1)>> <<set $chp2_lyco_dmg to $chp2_lyco_dmg +1>> You decide to sit back, staying mobile and trying to lure Lyco closer while analyzing his movement patterns. By allowing him to make the first move, maybe, just maybe, you could seize the upperhand. You don't have much room to navigate, not really, and this only becomes more evident as he begins to apply pressure. As soon as he opens himself up, trying to pressure you back into a corner, you spring forward and seize the advantage, punishing him for his error. You manage to crack him across the temple, lacking the strength to end the fight, but he's clearly shaken by the quickness and precision of your blow. <<elseif ($mind >= 1) && ($might >= 1)>> <<set $chp2_lyco_dmg to $chp2_lyco_dmg +1>> You decide to sit back, staying guarded and drawing Lyco closer while analyzing his movement patterns. By allowing him to make the first move, maybe, just maybe, you could seize the upperhand. You don't have much room to navigate, not really, and this only becomes more evident as he begins to apply pressure. As soon as he opens himself up, trying to pressure you back into a corner, you spring forward and seize the advantage, punishing him for his error. You manage to crack him across the temple, lacking the speed and absolute precision to end the fight, but he's clearly shaken by the power of your blow. <<else>> You decide to sit back, trying to lure Lyco closer, allowing him to make the first move. By allowing him to make the first move, maybe, just maybe, you could seize the upperhand. You don't have much room to navigate, not really, and this only becomes more evident as he begins to apply pressure. The issue is that you don't see many openings; and when you do, you aren't nearly quick enough to seize them. He pressures you further back into the room, gradually cornering you like a wild animal, preparing for an assault. <</if>> For the briefest moment, you can see a flicker of thought through his intelligent pale eyes. He's a fighter that uses his brain, quicker than most, bigger too. As he suddenly surges forward to attack, it serves as an immediate reminder not to underestimate your opponent. Especially not when they seem as equally determined and competent as you. [[Counter!|chp2_fight_teep_counter]] <<ci stat>> [[Defend yourself.|chp2_fight_teep_defense]] <<ci stat>>

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp2_lyco_fight.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> He got the jump on you, and you're not sure whether you can stand toe-to-toe with him and win. But you've got to try, even if you get your ass handed too. There's no dignity in laying down in defeat. Slowly, you start to press back to your feet. Lyco peers down at you from above, but he draws back a step, then another, giving you the room to stand and straighten yourself out. ''"Great,"'' He murmurs beneath a hot breath, whilst you raise your hands and focus intently placed upon your newfound opponent. Weighing your options carefully, you consider whether to make the first move. [[Test his guard with a front teep kick.|chp2_fight_teep]] <<ci stat>> [[Wait and prepare to counter.|chp2_fight_firstcounter]] <<ci stat>>

<<set $chp2_blackeye to true>> Silently, you decide to not press your luck. He got the jump on you, and you're not sure whether you could stand toe-to-toe with him even if you wanted to. You consider it strategic thinking, but in the moment there's a part of you that can't help but contemplate whether it's cowardice. Lyco peers down at you from above, drawing back a step when it becomes apparent that you aren't going to put up a fight. "Watch your mouth, $name. Consider this a warning." He releases a hot breath, hard gaze shifting away from you despite whatever emotional state he may be in. You can call Lyco Lepontus many things, especially after tonight, but not a sadist. You've been spared a beating, but already you can feel a slight swelling along your face. Soon your bunkmate is turned away completely, busying himself with sorting through the rest of his belongings, preparing for the week ahead as though nothing ever happened. You decide to do much the same with whatever dignity you have remaining, time passing peacefully henceforth as you examine your new uniforms, making sure that everything is workable, the right size, fit and so on. The first real day of classes at Highrock are tomorrow, you think. There are questions that spring to mind. Questions that you might like to ask, but not tonight, not with this company. Instead, you strip off your boots and stuff them beside the dresser before silently clambering up into your bed, the top bunk, and climbing under the sheets. Your other roommates still aren't back, but you're tired and never intended on staying up and waiting for them to arrive. No, you'll need your full rest for tomorrow. You close your eyes and gradually relax, calming your thoughts, letting every little worry including your most recent encounter slip from your mind as sleep encroaches. [[Yet things are never quite that simple for you.|chp3_dream]]

''"We don't have to do this, Lyco."'' ''"Put your hands up, $name. Let's settle this like men."'' You mutter a curse, roll out a shoulder and widen your stance, since your bunkmate has made it clear that the only resolution is a physical one. Lyco releases a hot breath, drawing closer to you. Raising your hands, focus intently placed upon your newfound opponent, you weigh your options carefully. Do you make the first move? [[Test his guard with a front teep kick.|chp2_fight_teep]] <<ci stat>> [[Wait and prepare to counter.|chp2_fight_firstcounter]] <<ci stat>>

<<if ($might >= 1) && ($mobility >= 1)>> <<set $chp2_lyco_dmg to $chp2_lyco_dmg +1>>\ Bouncing back a step before planting your feet, you draw your strength from a firm, grounded position and only take a split second to select your opening before driving forward, throwing a straight right. You clash together with a pummeling of fists and flesh, your right impacting his cheek hard and jarring him back, whilst his knuckles merely glance off your forehead, your strike off-balancing him. You're working off instinct now. [[Uppercut.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_uppercut]] <<ci stat>> [[Mid-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_midkick]] <<ci stat>> [[High-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_highkick]] <<ci stat>> <<elseif $mobility >= 2>> <<set $chp2_fight_dmg to $chp2_fight_dmg +1>>\ Bouncing back a step before planting your feet, you set yourself into a firm, grounded position and only take a split second to select your opening before driving forward, throwing a straight right. You clash together with a pummeling of fists and flesh, his cheek unbelievably solid beneath the impact of your right, whilst his knuckles knock against your forehead and jarr your head backwards, nearly sending you stumbling. Lyco's stronger than you, but you don't have time to sit and reflect, narrowly avoiding another hard jab thrown your way. You back up, quick on your feet, merely working off instinct now. [[Uppercut.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_uppercut]] <<ci stat>> [[Mid-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_midkick]] <<ci stat>> [[High-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_highkick]] <<ci stat>> <<elseif $might >= 2>> <<set $chp2_fight_dmg to $chp2_fight_dmg +1>>\ Drawing back a step before planting your feet, you set yourself into a firm, grounded position and only take a moment to select your opening before driving forward, throwing a straight right. You clash together with a pummeling of fists and flesh; your right is far too slow, his head swaying aside whilst his knuckles knock against your forehead, rattling you, though you stand firm beneath the punishment. Lyco's faster than you, but you don't have time to sit and reflect, keeping your guard high and tight as he batters you with another hard cross and a series of probing jabs, trying to soften you up and find a way through your defenses. You back up, steady on your feet, merely working off instinct now. [[Uppercut.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_uppercut]] <<ci stat>> [[Mid-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_midkick]] <<ci stat>> [[High-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_highkick]] <<ci stat>> <<else>> <<set $chp2_fight_dmg to $chp2_fight_dmg +1>>\ Drawing back a step before planting your feet, you set yourself into a firm, grounded position and only take a moment to select your opening before driving forward, throwing a straight right. You clash together with a pummeling of fists and flesh; your right is lacking, his head swaying aside whilst his knuckles knock against your forehead, jarring your head backwards and nearly sending you stumbling. Lyco's proving himself game, but you don't have time to sit and reflect, narrowly avoiding another hard jab thrown your way. You back up, keeping your guard high and tight as he batters you with another hard cross and a series of probing jabs, trying to soften you up. Unsteady on your feet, you're merely working off instinct now. [[Uppercut.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_uppercut]] <<ci stat>> [[Mid-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_midkick]] <<ci stat>> [[High-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_highkick]] <<ci stat>> <</if>>\

<<if ($might >= 1) && ($mobility >= 1)>> <<set $chp2_fight_dmg to $chp2_fight_dmg +1>> You decide to go on the defensive, drawing back a step and trying to step aside as he barrels forward. Your room's size didn't seem like much of an issue until you had to go toe-to-toe within it, bumping into your bunk before you find yourself forced into a clash, a pummeling of fists and flesh following. You keep your guard high and tight, trying to slip back and aside, but he stays right on top of you, relentless. A heavy hook nearly staggers you, following by another hard cross and a series of probing jabs, trying to soften you up and break down your faltering guard. You throw a jab in return, simply to try and give yourself room to breath, working off instinct as you hastily determine your next move. [[Uppercut.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_uppercut]] <<ci stat>> [[Mid-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_midkick]] <<ci stat>> [[High-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_highkick]] <<ci stat>> <<elseif $mobility >= 2>> You decide to go on the defensive, drawing back a step and ducking aside as he barrels forward. You're just now realizing that your room's size may pose a potential issue now that you're going toe-to-toe within it, but luckily you seem to have the speed advantage, staying loose and nimble as you slip his heavy-handed strikes. He stays right on top of you, relentless, but you have a little room to breath and hastily determine your next move. [[Uppercut.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_uppercut]] <<ci stat>> [[Mid-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_midkick]] <<ci stat>> [[High-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_highkick]] <<ci stat>> <<elseif $might >= 2>> You decide to go on the defensive, drawing back a step and trying to step aside as he barrels forward. Your room's size didn't seem like much of an issue until you had to go toe-to-toe within it, bumping into your bunk before you find yourself forced into a clash, a pummeling of fists and flesh following. You keep your guard high and tight, trying to slip back and aside, but he stays right on top of you, relentless. Luckily, Lyco has yet to realize exactly how tough and durable you are; forever a glutton for punishment. You've had worst beatings. He throws a heavy hook, followed by a hard cross, connecting with both, but you tank the damage and roll with the following probing jabs that he tries to soften you up with. Working off instinct, you pick your next move. [[Uppercut.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_uppercut]] <<ci stat>> [[Mid-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_midkick]] <<ci stat>> [[High-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_highkick]] <<ci stat>> <<else>> <<set $chp2_fight_dmg to $chp2_fight_dmg +1>> You decide to go on the defensive, drawing back a step and trying to step aside as he barrels forward. Your room's size didn't seem like much of an issue until you had to go toe-to-toe within it, bumping into your bunk before you find yourself forced into a clash, a pummeling of fists and flesh following. You keep your guard high and tight, trying to slip back and aside, but he stays right on top of you, relentless. A heavy hook nearly staggers you, following by another hard cross and a series of probing jabs, trying to soften you up and break down your faltering guard. You throw a jab in return, simply to try and give yourself room to breath, working off instinct as you hastily determine your next move. [[Uppercut.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_uppercut]] <<ci stat>> [[Mid-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_midkick]] <<ci stat>> [[High-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_highkick]] <<ci stat>> <</if>>

<<if ($might >= 1) && ($mobility >= 1)>> <<set $chp2_lyco_dmg to $chp2_lyco_dmg +1>> Sucking in a tight breath, you channel your momentum upwards, throwing a strong left uppercut that slams into the underside of Lyco's chin and snaps his head back. As he stumbles in retreat, you move forward, trying to take advantage of the situation and apply more pressure. He's tough, you have to give him credit. As you hunt for what could be the finishing blow, he covers up well, not giving you any easy opportunities as he carefully creates distance once again. You each exchange a pair of blows, nothing especially solid, warily regarding each other as you circle within the close confines of your dormroom. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] <<ci stat>> [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<ci stat>> <<elseif $mobility >= 2>> Sucking in a tight breath, you channel your momentum upwards, throwing a precise left uppercut that thuds into the underside of Lyco's chin, though the impact isn't nearly as solid as you would've liked. He draws back a step, and you move forward immediately, trying to take advantage of the situation and apply more pressure. He's tough, you have to give him credit, firing back with a hard cross that you barely avoid. As you hunt for what for the finish, he covers up well, not giving you any easy opportunities as he carefully creates distance once again. You each exchange a pair of blows, nothing especially solid, warily regarding each other as you circle within the close confines of your dormroom. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] <<ci stat>> [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<ci stat>> <<elseif $might >= 2>> Sucking in a tight breath, you channel your momentum upwards, throwing a heavy left uppercut that misses the underside of Lyco's chin by mere inches. He draws back a step, and despite your lack of contact, you move forward immediately to keep applying pressure, trying to take advantage of the situation. He's quick, you have to give him credit, firing back at you with a hard cross right across the cheek that you eat without even a flinch. As you try to land a solid blow, he covers up well or ducks out of the way, not giving you any easy opportunities as he carefully creates distance once again. You each exchange a pair of blows, nothing especially solid, warily regarding each other as you circle within the close confines of your dormroom. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] <<ci stat>> [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<ci stat>> <<elseif ($might >= 1) && ($mind >= 1)>> <<set $chp2_lyco_dmg to $chp2_lyco_dmg +1>> Sucking in a tight breath, you channel your momentum upwards, throwing a heavy but well-executed left uppercut that slams into the underside of Lyco's chin and snaps his head back. You aren't always the quickest, but accuracy and force are just as key. As he stumbles in retreat, you know that you should move forward and try to take advantage of the situation. He's tough, you have to give him credit. As you hunt for the finishing blow, applying more pressure, he covers up well and doesn't give you any easy opportunities. Slowly, he creates more distance, the two of you exchanging a pair of blows, though it's nothing especially solid that lands. Warily regarding each other, you circle within the close confines of your dormroom. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] <<ci stat>> [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<ci stat>> <<elseif ($mind >= 1) && ($mobility >= 1)>> <<set $chp2_lyco_dmg to $chp2_lyco_dmg +1>> Sucking in a tight breath, you channel your momentum upwards, throwing a precise left uppercut that slams into the underside of Lyco's chin and snaps his head back. You aren't always the quickest, but accuracy is just as key. As he stumbles in retreat, you know that you should move forward and try to take advantage of the situation. He's tough, you have to give him credit. As you hunt for the finishing blow, applying more pressure, he covers up well and doesn't give you any easy opportunities. Slowly, he creates more distance, the two of you exchanging a pair of blows, though it's nothing especially solid that lands. Warily regarding each other, you circle within the close confines of your dormroom. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] <<ci stat>> [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<ci stat>> <<else>> Sucking in a tight breath, you channel your momentum upwards, throwing a wild left uppercut that misses the underside of Lyco's chin by mere inches. He draws back a step, and despite your lack of contact, you move forward immediately to keep applying pressure. He's quick and tough, you have to give him credit, firing back at you with a hard cross nearly catches you across the cheek. As you try to land a solid blow, he covers up well, not giving you any easy opportunities as he carefully creates distance once again. You each exchange a pair of blows, nothing especially solid, warily regarding each other as you circle within the close confines of your room. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] <<ci stat>> [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<ci stat>> <</if>>

<<if ($might >= 1) && ($mobility >= 1)>> <<set $chp2_lyco_dmg to $chp2_lyco_dmg +1>> Stepping forward heavily atop your lead leg, you pivot, twisting your hips and throwing back a thick arm to propel yourself into a rather powerful mid-kick. You catch Lyco completely unaware, and even as he tries to catch your leg, it thuds into the flank of his torso, hammering his ribs. As he stumbles in retreat, the air knocked out of his lungs, you move forward and try to take advantage of the situation. He's tough, you have to give him credit. As you hunt for what could be the finishing blow, he covers up well, not giving you any easy opportunities while he carefully creates distance once more. You each exchange a pair of blows, nothing especially solid, warily regarding each other as you circle within the close confines of your dormroom. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] <<ci stat>> [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<ci stat>> <<elseif $mobility >= 2>> <<set $chp2_fight_dmg to $chp2_fight_dmg +1>> Stepping forward nimbly atop your lead leg, you pivot, twisting your hips and throwing back a lean arm to propel yourself into a quickly executed mid-kick. You catch Lyco unaware, but you don't pack nearly as much of a punch as you would've liked, allowing your opponent to snag your leg as it thuds into the flank of his torso. He turns, dumping you hard onto the stone floor and knocking the air from your lungs. As quickly as you can, you roll back and clamber up onto your feet, your opponenet nearly on top of you. You exchange a pair of blows, nothing especially solid, warily regarding each other as you circle within the close confines of your dormroom. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] <<ci stat>> [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<ci stat>> <<elseif $might >= 2>> <<set $chp2_lyco_dmg to $chp2_lyco_dmg +1>> Stepping forward heavily atop your lead leg, you pivot, twisting your hips and throwing back a thick arm to propel yourself into a rather powerful mid-kick. You catch Lyco completely unaware, and even as he tries to catch your leg, it thuds into the flank of his torso, hammering his ribs. As he stumbles in retreat, the air knocked out of his lungs, you move forward and try to take advantage of the situation. He's tough, you have to give him credit. As you hunt for what could be the finishing blow, he covers up well, not giving you any easy opportunities while he carefully creates distance once more. You each exchange a pair of blows, nothing especially solid, warily regarding each other as you circle within the close confines of your dormroom. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] <<ci stat>> [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<ci stat>> <<else>> <<set $chp2_fight_dmg to $chp2_fight_dmg +1>> Stepping forward carefully atop your lead leg, you pivot, twisting your hips and throwing back an arm to propel yourself into a competent mid-kick. Unfortunately you don't catch Lyco unaware, and you don't pack nearly as much of a punch as you would've liked, allowing your opponent to snag your leg as it thuds into the flank of his torso. He turns, dumping you hard onto the stone floor and knocking the air from your lungs. As quickly as you can, you roll back and clamber up onto your feet, your opponent nearly on top of you. You exchange a pair of blows, nothing especially solid, warily regarding each other as you circle within the close confines of your dormroom. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] <<ci stat>> [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<ci stat>> <</if>>

<<if ($might >= 1) && ($mobility >= 1)>> Taking a step forward, trying to measure the distance between yourself and your opponent, you pivot, twisting your hips and throwing back a thick arm to propel yourself into a high-rock. It's a nice attempt, close too, but your shin clips Lyco's shoulder and throws him off-balance, as opposed to the head kick that you would've preferred. As he stumbles in retreat, you move forward and try to take advantage of the situation, applying more pressure. He's tough, you have to give him credit. As you hunt for what could be the finishing blow, he covers up well, not giving you any easy opportunities as he carefully creates distance once again. Exchanging a pair of blows, nothing especially solid, you warily regard each other, circling within the close confines of your room. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] <<ci stat>> [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<ci stat>> <<elseif $mobility >= 2>> <<set $chp2_lyco_dmg to $chp2_lyco_dmg +1>> Without even taking a step forward, carefully measuring the distance between yourself and your opponent, you suddenly pivot, twisting your hips and throwing back a lean arm to propel yourself into a lightning fast high-kick. You catch Lyco completely unaware, throttling him alongside the head with the brunt of your shin. As he stumbles in retreat, clearly dazed and hurt, you move forward and try to take advantage of the situation, applying more pressure. He's tough, you have to give him credit. As you hunt for what could be the finishing blow, he covers up well, not giving you any easy opportunities as he carefully creates distance once again. Exchanging a pair of blows, nothing especially solid, you warily regard each other, circling within the close confines of your room. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] <<ci stat>> [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<ci stat>> <<elseif $might >= 2>> <<set $chp2_fight_dmg to $chp2_fight_dmg +1>> Stepping forward heavily atop your lead leg, you pivot, twisting your hips and throwing back a thick arm to propel yourself into a high-kick. You aren't nearly as flexible as you would like, slow too, giving Lyco time to duck under your leg and punish you for your mistake. You catch a fist right across the jaw, jarring your vision. Stumbling back, you raise your guard, high and tight, exchanging another pair of blows, but nothing especially solid. Warily, you regard each other as you circle within the close confines of your dormroom. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] <<ci stat>> [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<ci stat>> <<else>> Taking a step forward, trying to measure the distance between yourself and your opponent, you pivot, twisting your hips and throwing back an arm to propel yourself into a high-rock. It's a decent attempt, but your shin merely clips Lyco's arm and throws him off-balance, as opposed to the head kick that you would've preferred. He draws back a step, and you move forward to try and take advantage of the situation, applying pressure. He won't go down easy though, firing back at you, another exchange of blows following. Nothing especially solid lands as you both warily regard each other, circling within the close confines of your room. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] <<ci stat>> [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<ci stat>> <</if>>

<<if ($chp2_lyco_dmg) > ($chp2_fight_dmg)>> <<set $chp2_victory to true>> You can smell the blood, like an alleyhound hunting wounded prey. Despite his defiant defense, you feel like you have what it takes to put Lyco away and finally teach him that you're someone to be reckoned with. You slowly back him up into a corner, tracking his every movement, from the shift of his feet to the tick of his gaze. You drop your left elbow, a feint that he unconsciously reacts to, creating the perfect opening for a straight right that propels your clenched fist solidly into the dimpling of Lyco's chin. He crumples, dropping to a knee and trying to rise briefly before slumping over sideways. You take a step forward and instinctually prepare for another strike, before you realize that he's completely unfocused on you. He's done, finished. The fight is over. He made the first move, and you ended it. By the time that he's aware of his surroundings again, slowly sitting up, you're already walking away. ''"Consider this a lesson, Lyco,"'' You find yourself saying, ''"Don't fuck with me."'' You hear his response, a simple wounded murmur, ''"Noted."'' Turned away completely, you busy yourself with sorting through your new uniforms, making sure that everything is workable, the right size, fit and so on. It seems that your bunkmate does much the same, with his remaining dignity, time passing peacefully henceforth. The first real day of classes at Highrock are tomorrow, you think. There are questions that spring to mind. Questions that you might like to ask, but not tonight, not with this company. Instead, you strip off your boots and stuff them beside the dresser before silently clambering up into your bed, the top bunk, and climbing under the sheets. Your other roommates still aren't back, but you're tired and never intended on staying up and waiting for them to arrive. No, you'll need your full rest for tomorrow. You close your eyes and gradually relax, calming your thoughts, letting every little worry including your most recent encounter slip from your mind as sleep encroaches. [[Yet things are never quite that simple for you.|chp3_dream]] <<elseif ($chp2_lyco_dmg) is ($chp2_fight_dmg)>> <<set $chp2_evenmatch to true>> You move forward, hunting for another opportunity, any opening at all that you might be able to seize. But his defense is defiant, determined, trading every blow that you throw back. Each exchange turns out to be rather even, neither of you seizing the advantage, and eventually you find yourself out of breath, wondering how long this exchange has gone on. He's not in an altogether different state, heaving for air as your contest slows. Both of you turn when there's noise from the hallway, through the closed door. It passes after several moments, the booted footsteps perhaps of your fellow first-years. But it serves as enough to bring the both of you back to reality, and slowly pulls you from the adrenaline-fueled contest that has emerged here. You eye Lyco, and he eyes you back. You're the first to suggest it, ''"Truce?"'' He nods simply, ''"Truce."'' Surely enough, rather slowly and tenderly, you both stand up and straighten from your combative postures, gathering your senses. ''"That first shot,"'' You find yourself saying as you move back towards your bunk, ''"Was cheap..."'' ''"If there's a next time, it'll be fair."'' Lyco assures you, catching his breath still. Soon your bunkmate is turned away completely, busying himself sorting through the rest of his belongings, preparing for the week ahead as though nothing ever happened. You decide to do much the same, time passing peacefully henceforth as you examine your new uniforms, making sure that everything is workable, the right size, fit and so on. The first real day of classes at Highrock are tomorrow, you think. There are questions that spring to mind. Questions that you might like to ask, but not tonight, not with this company. Instead, you strip off your boots and stuff them beside the dresser before silently clambering up into your bed, the top bunk, and climbing under the sheets. Your other roommates still aren't back, but you're tired and never intended on staying up and waiting for them to arrive. No, you'll need your full rest for tomorrow. You close your eyes and gradually relax, calming your thoughts, letting every little worry including your most recent encounter slip from your mind as sleep encroaches. [[Yet things are never quite that simple for you.|chp3_dream]] <<else>> <<set $chp2_blackeye to true>>You move forward, desperate, hunting for another opportunity, any opening at all that you might be able to seize. But his defense is defiant, determined, and soon he's overwhelming you. With each exchange, every blow that you give gets returned twice over, harder, more precise. He has the upperhand. And soon you're retreating, stumbling back, trying to drive him back with long, sweeping swings, your energy already drained. Your vision swims, your face feels heavy, your body burns hot. And the next thing you know, you're laying splayed out atop the hard stone floor, while Lyco Lepontus peers down at you from above. A fist is raised, but it slowly lowers back down to his side before he speaks tensely, ''"Watch your mouth, $name. Consider this a warning."'' He releases a hot breath, hard gaze shifting away from you despite whatever emotional state he may be in. You can call Lyco many things, especially after tonight, but not a sadist. You've had worse beatings, despite already feeling the swelling along your face and through your hands. Soon your bunkmate is turned away completely, busying himself with sorting through the rest of his belongings, preparing for the week ahead as though nothing ever happened. You decide to do much the same with whatever dignity you have remaining, time passing peacefully henceforth as you examine your new uniforms, making sure that everything is workable, the right size, fit and so on. The first real day of classes at Highrock are tomorrow, you think. There are questions that spring to mind. Questions that you might like to ask, but not tonight, not with this company. Instead, you strip off your boots and stuff them beside the dresser before silently clambering up into your bed, the top bunk, and climbing under the sheets. Your other roommates still aren't back, but you're tired and never intended on staying up and waiting for them to arrive. No, you'll need your full rest for tomorrow. You close your eyes and gradually relax, calming your thoughts, letting every little worry including your most recent encounter slip from your mind as sleep encroaches. [[Yet things are never quite that simple for you.|chp3_dream]]<</if>>

<<if ($chp2_lyco_dmg) >= ($chp2_fight_dmg)>> <<set $chp2_evenmatch to true>>You take a step back, trying to pace yourself through the fight. You aren't sure if you have the advantage and you don't want to get overconfident. His defense is defiant, determined, and another opening doesn't easily present itself. You find yourself trading blows with Lyco, each exchange turning out to be rather even, neither of you seizing the advantage. But you do find yourself running out of breath gradually, wondering how long this exchange has gone on. Luckily he's not in an altogether different state, heaving for air as your contest slows. Both of you turn when there's noise from the hallway, through the closed door. It passes after several moments, the booted footsteps perhaps of your fellow first-years. But it serves as enough to bring the both of you back to reality, and slowly pulls you from the adrenaline-fueled contest that has emerged here. You eye Lyco, and he eyes you back. You're the first to suggest it, ''"Truce?"'' He nods simply, ''"Truce."'' Surely enough, rather slowly and tenderly, you both stand up and straighten from your combative postures, gathering your senses. ''"That first shot,"'' You find yourself saying as you move back towards your bunk, ''"Was cheap..."'' ''"If there's a next time, it'll be fair."'' Lyco assures you, catching his breath still. Soon your bunkmate is turned away completely, busying himself sorting through the rest of his belongings, preparing for the week ahead as though nothing ever happened. You decide to do much the same, time passing peacefully henceforth as you examine your new uniforms, making sure that everything is workable, the right size, fit and so on. The first real day of classes at Highrock are tomorrow, you think. There are questions that spring to mind. Questions that you might like to ask, but not tonight, not with this company. Instead, you strip off your boots and stuff thme beside the dresser before silently clambering up into your bed, the top bunk, and climbing under the sheets. Your other roommates still aren't back, but you're tired and never intended on staying up and waiting for them to arrive. No, you'll need your full rest for tomorrow. You close your eyes and gradually relax, calming your thoughts, letting every little worry including your most recent encounter slip from your mind as sleep encroaches. [[Yet things are never quite that simple for you.|chp3_dream]] <<else>> <<set $chp2_blackeye to true>> You back up, feeling a bit desperate, trying to lure Lyco closer whilst hunting for another opportunity, any opening at all that you might be able to seize. However he's aggressive, determined, and soon he's applying pressure that you find increasingly difficult to defend against. With each exchange, every blow that you give gets returned twice over, harder, more precise. He has the upperhand. And soon you're retreating, stumbling back, trying to drive him off with long, sweeping swings, your energy already drained. Your vision swims, your face feels heavy, your body burns hot. And the next thing you know, you're laying splayed out atop the hard stone floor, while Lyco Lepontus peers down at you from above. A fist is raised, but it slowly lowers back down to his side before he speaks tensely, ''"Watch your mouth, $name. Consider this a warning."'' He releases a hot breath, hard gaze shifting away from you despite whatever emotional state he may be in. You can call Lyco many things, especially after tonight, but not a sadist. You've had worse beatings, despite already feeling the swelling along your face and through your hands. Soon your bunkmate is turned away completely, busying himself with sorting through the rest of his belongings, preparing for the week ahead as though nothing ever happened. You decide to do much the same with whatever dignity you have remaining, time passing peacefully henceforth as you examine your new uniforms, making sure that everything is workable, the right size, fit and so on. The first real day of classes at Highrock are tomorrow, you think. There are questions that spring to mind. Questions that you might like to ask, but not tonight, not with this company. Instead, you strip off your boots and stuff them beside the dresser before silently clambering up into your bed, the top bunk, and climbing under the sheets. Your other roommates still aren't back, but you're tired and never intended on staying up and waiting for them to arrive. No, you'll need your full rest for tomorrow. You close your eyes and gradually relax, calming your thoughts, letting every little worry including your most recent encounter slip from your mind as sleep encroaches. [[Yet things are never quite that simple for you.|chp3_dream]]<</if>>

<<set $chp2_understanding to true>>''"I owe it to someone close to me. When presented with the opportunity... I had to come here and give it my best effort."'' You give him a rather honest response, sans the details concerning how exactly you came across this opportunity. He doesn't need to know about Fredrick or your connection to Rayner, not right now. And despite whatever vaguity might exist within your given reply, Lyco Lepontus, to his credit, seems to sense your truthfulness. ''"I apologize,"'' He says after a few moments of quiet contemplation, ''"If I came across as intrusive, or ignorant. I didn't expect to share a room with someone... from the Third Quarter, I can only presume."'' For a moment, you're unsure of whether to confirm nor deny his accusation. But being honest and open with Lyco seems to have gotten you this far. He doesn't come across as accusatory, but rather inquisitive and perhaps a touch guarded. ''"That's right."'' You confirm, to which he inclines a faint nod, ''"And I didn't expect to be attending Highrock... with a bunch of nobles and gentry. I only found out this morning."'' Lyco's lips purse flush and his darker-blond brows press upwards, evidently surprised by this revelation. Maybe now, he can start to make sense, if even just a little, of the situation that you find yourself in. ''"Highrock is an adventure,"'' He intones, tone measured, ''"Even for those that come prepared. Get your rest, $name. If you have any questions in the morning... well, perhaps we'll discover them as we go."'' Now that, you didn't expect. But your bunkmate soon turns away and busies himself with sorting through the rest of his belongings, preparing for the week ahead. You decide to do much the same, time passing peacefully henceforth as you examine your new uniforms, making sure that everything is workable, the right size and fit. The first real day of classes at Highrock are tomorrow, you think. There are questions, much like Lyco suggested, that spring to mind. Questions that you might like to ask, but not tonight. Instead, you strip off your boots and stuff them beside the dresser before silently clambering up into your bed, the top bunk, and climbing under the sheets. Your other roommates still aren't back, but you're tired and never intended on staying up and waiting for them to arrive. No, you'll need your full rest for tomorrow. You close your eyes and gradually relax, calming your thoughts, letting every little worry slip from your mind as sleep encroaches. [[Yet things are never quite that simple for you.|chp3_dream]]

<<set $chp2_understanding to true>>''"I'm going to become an Ascender."'' Your declaration is a simple one, forthright and determined. You give him a rather honest response, sharing your ambition, sans the details concerning how exactly you came across this opportunity. He doesn't need to know about Fredrick or your connection to Rayner, not right now. ''"I see,"'' comes the low reply from Lyco Lepontus, who to his credit, seems to sense your earnesty. After a few moments of quiet contemplation, he admits: ''"We share the same goal, then."'' You can picture it clearly, the longer that your attention lingers upon him; Lyco, competitive and chivalric, the noble ascender. You have the same goal, a shared ambition to ascend beyond the Cradle and join the ranks of the privileged few. And despite whatever uncertainty lingers between you two, he continues, ''"I apologize if I came across as... intrusive, or ignorant. I didn't expect to share a room with someone.. from the Third Quarter, I can only presume."'' For a moment, you're unsure of whether to confirm nor deny his accusation. But being honest and open with Lyco seems to have gotten you this far. He doesn't come across as accusatory, but rather inquisitive and perhaps a touch guarded. ''"That's right."'' You confirm, to which he inclines a faint nod, ''"And I didn't expect to be attending Highrock... with a bunch of nobles and gentry. I only found out this morning."'' Lyco's lips purse flush and his darker-blond brows press upwards, evidently surprised by this revelation. Maybe now, he can start to make sense, if even just a little, of the situation that you find yourself in. ''"Highrock is an adventure,"'' He intones, tone measured, ''"Even for those that come prepared. Get your rest, $name. If you have any questions in the morning... well, perhaps we'll discover them as we go."'' Now that, you didn't expect. But your bunkmate soon turns away and busies himself with sorting through the rest of his belongings, preparing for the week ahead. You decide to do much the same, time passing peacefully henceforth as you examine your new uniforms, making sure that everything is workable, the right size and fit. The first real day of classes at Highrock are tomorrow, you think. There are questions, much like Lyco suggested, that spring to mind. Questions that you might like to ask, but not tonight. Instead, you strip off your boots and stuff them beside the dresser before silently clambering up into your bed, the top bunk, and climbing under the sheets. Your other roommates still aren't back, but you're tired and never intended on staying up and waiting for them to arrive. No, you'll need your full rest for tomorrow. You close your eyes and gradually relax, calming your thoughts, letting every little worry slip from your mind as sleep encroaches. [[Yet things are never quite that simple for you.|chp3_dream]]

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/alleyhounds.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Not far from you, two alleyhounds with dark, gleaming eyes rip and tear at a bloodied carcass that looks... vaguely humanoid in appearance. You immediately feel sick to your stomach, and with the adrenaline surging through your system, it's a very odd, unpleasant feeling; one that slowly turns to fear as one of the hounds lifts their head. Blood dripping from a ragged maw, it looks directly down the alleyway at you. A low pallid light barely illuminates the dog's feral face, slipping through the cracks and small gaps in the rooftops far above. And the stench, it overwhelms: thick with death, decay and the distant cries of the desperate from elsewhere within the labyrinth. The hound growls audibly, taking a step closer, before releasing a deep bark which unconsciously causes you to draw back a step. That's the only sign that it needs, fear, leaping towards you with a snarl, jagged teeth glistening against the darkness. You turn, nearly slipping, before tearing off at a sprint through the shadows. Instinct lead you after the thief, deeper into the alleys, but at this point you just need to lose these hounds. Sure enough, right behind you, the snarls and growls of the alleyhounds grow louder. These are no ordinary dogs. With blood-red eyes and slavering jaws, they're brutal hunters, claws scraping against the cobblestones as they begin their relentless pursuit, hungry for your tender flesh and marrow-filled bones. You dart around a corner, hand brushing against the rough, grimy wall for balance, your breath running ragged and your heart pounding wildly in your chest. You can't outrun a pair of hounds, not for long. There's no time to think, only act. [[Fight.|newintro_left_fight]] <<ci "stat lethal">> [[Keep running.|newintro_left_run]] <<ci "stat lethal">> <<sfx "dog-growl" 0.7>> <<set $left_pit to false>>

You square your shoulders and slowly clench your fists, drawing in deep breaths that you try to steady, calm, control. They're right around the corner now, almost upon you. But running is no way for you to continue; it would only prolong the inevitable. <<if $might >= 2>> The first alleyhound rounds the corner, red eyes gleaming, lunging at you with viciously snapping jaws. Possessed of only flesh, blood and bone, using your own two hands, you fight back. Swinging with all of your might, your hard-clenched fist connects with the hound's skull, knocking it aside with a yelp. Alas, the other hound is already upon you as well, charging fast. All you can do is sidestep it, the beast snarling and twisting around to snap at your legs. Pain flares as the beast's teeth graze your calf, but you ignore it, lashing out hard with every ounce of your strength and determination, punishing the beast's head, neck and snout with every brutal, walloped punch. And with a firm kick, you finally create distance. But they're both still game, the two hounds circling you, their growls vibrating through the narrow alley despite every kick, punch and throw thus far. You have to be tough, quick, precise. One wrong move, and you're going to be torn apart. You slowly back up, both of the hounds lunging at you simultaneously, desperately throwing yourself aside, only to feel the rush of air as their jaws snap shut mere inches from your face and fair flesh. By the time you shove up to your feet, one of the hounds is already launching into another leap. But this time, you're ready. You manage to grab the beast mid-air, a big hand clamped down tight around it's throat, the other hoisted low beneath it's bulky body and mangy, torn pelt. There, grip firm, you take a running throw and //slam// the creature directly into the ruined alley wall, causing a cascade of dirt and grime to shake free from the sheer impact. In the confusion, you turn deeper down the alley, trying to lose them. It's only then that the ground disappears from beneath your feet. [[You plummet into darkness.|newintro_left_pit]] <<elseif ($might >= 1) && ($mind >= 1)>> Heart racing, your eyes dart over the alley, spotting a chunk of broken cobblestone. It's not much, not much at all, but it'll have to do for now. Just as you pick it up, the first alleyhound rounds the corner, red eyes gleaming, lunging at you with viciously snapping jaws. Gripping the mound of stone preciously in your own two hands, you fight back, swinging it down hard with all of your might, stone connecting with the hound's skull, knocking it down face-first into the alley floor with a yelp. Alas, the other hound is already upon you as well, charging fast. All you can do is sidestep it, the beast snarling and twisting around to snap at your legs. Pain flares as the beast's teeth graze your calf, but you ignore it, lashing out hard with every ounce of your strength and determination, punishing the beast's head, neck and snout with every brutal, walloped punch. And with a firm kick, you finally create distance. But they're both still game, the two hounds circling you, their growls vibrating through the narrow alley despite every kick, punch and throw thus far. You have to be tough, quick, precise. One wrong move, and you're going to be torn apart. You slowly back up, both of the hounds lunging at you simultaneously, desperately throwing yourself aside, only to feel the rush of air as their jaws snap shut mere inches from your face and fair flesh. By the time you shove up to your feet, one of the hounds is already launching into another leap. But this time, you're ready. You duck, the creature smashing into the ruined alley wall directly behind you, causing a cascade of dirt and grime to shake free from the sheer violent impact. In the resulting confusion, you turn deeper down the alley, trying to lose them. It's only then that the ground disppears from beneath your feet. [[You plummet into darkness.|newintro_left_pit]] <<else>> The first alleyhound rounds the corner, red eyes gleaming, lunging at you with viciously snapping jaws. Possessed of only flesh, blood and bone, using your own two hands, you fight back. Swinging with all of your might, your hard-clenched fist connects with the hound's skull, but it's bigger than you expected. The impact of it's charge knocks you over, and as soon as you find your feet, both of the hounds are upon you. Circling, their growls vibrating through the narrow alley, you know that one wrong move and you'll be torn apart. As the hounds lunge simultaneously, you throw yourself aside, feeling the rush of air as their jaws snap shut alongside your face. You catch the flicker of a dark face, only then realizing one of them is already upon you, practically right on top of you, jaws flaring wide before it clamps down around your left arm. You scream in pain, the bite tight, firm, unrelenting. You're going to die like prey, hunted down by alley mutts, you begin to frantically realize. But your right hand, desperately clutching along the cobblestone suddenly feels something sharp, cool, slippery. You reach for it, a jagged piece of broken glass, which you grab only to drive it deep into the hound's eye. The creature releases you, thrashing in agony, pained cries echoing deep through the alleys. And while you can, you push to your feet and run, dripping blood with the second hound still right behind you. It's only then that the ground disappears from beneath your feet. [[You plummet into darkness.|newintro_left_pit]]<</if>>

No, you quickly realize that you have no chance to fight them. You have to run. There is no other choice. Blood-pumping and adrenaline-high, you pick up the pace, intent on your escape. It's the only way that you survive. <<if $mobility >= 1 && $mind >= 1>> But even in your frenzied state, you spot something up ahead, lurking beneath the trash-strewn foilage of the street. A trap. Sucking in a tight breath and picking up speed, you kick off from the hard-packed street beneath you and pitch yourself into open air, hoping for the best. And it turns out to be the right decision. You narrowly avoid tumbling downwards into a pit. A trap, you think, set into the very street itself. You don't have time to reflect. The hounds are smart and know these alleys, it seems, better than you. They tear along the street on either side of the pit and continue their pursuit, still hot on your trail. [[You spot some crates up ahead.|newintro_run1]] <<elseif $mobility >= 2>> In your frenzied state, all you can do is pick up speed and run harder, faster, taking longer strides with every fiber of your being. It's your reflexes that save you, when the ground suddenly gives way beneath you. You kick off against the hard-packed street with your backfoot, pitching yourself into open air and narrowly avoiding tumbling downwards into a pit. A trap, you think, set into the very street itself. You don't have time to reflect. The hounds are smart and know these alleys, it seems, better than you. They tear along the street on either side of the pit and continue their pursuit, still hot on your trail. [[You spot some crates up ahead.|newintro_run1]] <<else>> In your frenzied state, all you can do is pick up speed and run harder, faster, taking longer strides with every fiber of your being. But not even your speed can save you when the ground gives away beneath you. <<set $left_pit to true>> [[You plummet into darkness.|newintro_left_pit]]<</if>>

You clutch at the crumbling debris and broken street around you, even as you fall, plummeting down into the deep darkness below. Before you've truly realized what's happening, your head smacks against the ground, shaking your very soul. <<sfx "pitfall" 0.8>> [[Darkness overtakes you.|intro_right_knockedout]] <<bgmstop 1.5>> <<set $left_pit to true>>

Fredrick got his nails, but the old man wasn't stupid. He knew something had happened. You told him most of what had occurred after you left home this morning; the coinpouch snatched from your belt and namely the pursuit that followed. However, you //might// have left some of the less glamorous details out of your story. You weren't sure if you should mention the meeting with the sorcerer, not yet. The old man, who was typically more stoic and dismissive than most, looked far more thoughtful than usual. Troubled even. But he seemed satisfied with your explanation and even bid you to rest and take the evening off, thanking you for the bundle of nails in the end. You were too exhausted to question him. The dank warmth and familiarity of your room, however barren, embraces you. You fall atop your cot, kicking your boots off and stripping away your threadbare clothing until all you can think about is sleep. Curling up amongst the sheets, the excitement of the day slowly fades away... [[That night, you have a dream.|intro_nightdream]] <<bgmstop 6>>

You spot a stack of rotting wooden crates ahead, making a split-second decision in the heat of the moment, the hounds right behind you, practically breathing down your back. With a burst of adrenaline, you leap up onto the crates, boots splintering the decayed woods. Scrambling up desperately, you manage to use the debris like a makeshift ladder to reach a low, tiled rooftop. And below, the alleyhounds snap and snarl up at you, their claws tearing at the crates as they try to climb up after you. You pull yourself up higher, panting heavily, the growling of the hounds below still serving as a grim reminder that this chase might not be over yet. Scanning the darkened expanse of rooftops, you waste no time, seeking a way out. The buildings are tightly packed, their roofs uneven and treacherous, but it's your only chance. You run, leaping from one rooftop to the next, your feet occasionally slipping on the damp tiles. And so you find yourself climbing atop crumbling structures and navigating between caved-in roofs, sometimes getting a glimpse between each building into the alleyways below. Sometimes the fall doesn't seem like it would be too bad, while othertimes, you reason that you'd be lucky to survive; such is the fluctuation in height that you experience throughout your pursuit. You never imagined yourself in a situation like this. But much to your surprise, against all odds, you spot off in the distance the flutter of a familiar dark cloak. They must see you, because in only a moment, they're gone, tearing off across the rooftops in the opposite direction. Without as much as a thought, you give pursuit, determined to not let them escape this time. You've already came this far. [[The thief always appears one step ahead of you.|intro_right_calm4]]

The heavy wooden door heaves inward, spilling the corridor's dull torch light across your cell. You will yourself upright as a pair of guards make their entrance, stout men armoured in hard, boiled leather, thick sheathed blades dangling from their emblazoned swordbelts. ''"Get up."'' <<sfx "heavy-door-open" 0.7>> The nearest commands it with a tick of his chin, brown eyes briefly assessing you and the sparse confines of your room. There's little malice in his face. Little interest, either. Must be standard practice, you think. A grim job for hard men. Still blinking away sleep, you silently press up to your feet. And at the guard's indication, you jut out your hands. Thin, black-iron manacles close around your wrists with a metallic snap. They aren't particularly heavy, but the short length between them leaves little room for any substantial movement of your hands or arms. ''"You should know the deal by now,"'' the guard mutters absently as he checks the restraints, ''"Nothing funny. Speak only when spoken to, and everything goes smooth for you. Got it?"'' You incline a firm nod. It's not as though you have much choice. Evidently satisfied, the first guard turns to the second, passing something between themselves, before you spot it. Canvas. A sack. You tense before you can stop yourself. ''"Easy,"'' the other man says, ''"Sorry, mate. Just part of the procedure."'' The sack gets pulled down over your head, coarse canvas against your nose and cheeks, masking the world in a dank, dingy darkness; there's a bit of a smell to the material, musty and old, faintly sour with the sweat of whoever wore it before. For a few breaths, your whole world is reduced to darkness beneath dirty cloth. Then a gloved hand closes around your upper arm. ''"Walk."'' [[They lead you out.|chp3_slave_escort1]] <<bgm "the-wanderer" 0.6 6>>\

There's relief in the realization. Whatever waits above, at leasy they aren't leading you deeper into this hellish imprisoned labyrinth of stone and skulls. It's still a miserable feeling, being kept helpless like you are now, blinded and bound with a pair of boots to either side of you that would be more than happy to kick you, stomp you, beat you mercilessly until you complied. It's the most surreal and severe loss of freedom that you've ever experienced as a man. Thinking back to your childhood, the story isn't much brighter. You were just as defenseless against the world. A cold world that you didn't yet understand, where you still hoped for the best in the people and things around you. Who needs manacles or shackles to bind your wrists, ankles, When it's adults that bind the minds of the youth? How could there be justice in the world when those that were supposed to protect you, mentor you, guide you, are those that ridicule, demean and punish you for curiosity? Worse yet is when your peers turn against you. When instead of discovering the world together, they make it a cruel competition. It must be instinct, for little cliques and coalitions to form, for a consesus of children to be reached. You just happened to be an outsider, too little too late, a bit too strange with eyes a tad too blue. That's unusual in Undertown, blue, a cold color associated with the nobility. It didn't take much for them to find a reason to torture you. Physically, mentally; how do you dampen a boy's spirit? Or did it strengthen you? ''"Turning left."'' One of the guards sounds out gruffly, pulling you from your deep, wandering reverie. It's a strange situation that you find yourself, being pulled along through the catacombs of Cradle as you wander through the well of distant memories past. You aren't a child anymore, but a man. You can fight now. Even with your hands shackled, you can kick, headbutt, possibly run; not too quickly, with your hands and arms positioned as they are now. But the real question is, would that be smart? It's louder here, noticably so. You can hear the fall of footsteps moving down the hall, in the same direction and opposite, along with the low din of conversation from what must be guards, servants, workers, whoever else must dwell down here related to the arena or the management of prisoners and slaves. This wouldn't be a good place to attempt an escape. Not if you were serious about your own survival. It would be nice, you think, to keep on living. [[Escape will have to wait.|chp2_slave_escort3]]

Realistically, the worst possibility would be, what... That they're throwing you into another game? Another bout in the arena that you may fight and die in against insurmountable odds? You don't really know how likely that is, getting tossed in the day after your first and only victory. Gant //did// mention that it's Crathal, an entire month of unending Death-Games. What's a worse fate: death in the arena or rotting away in a cell? Do only clever cowards wish to live forever, or is it brave fools that yearn for an exciting, bloody, bold death? However, as your thoughts continue to meander with each and every step that you take, you do recognize that both Khalika and Gant mentioned the possibility of being auctioned off. There's a chance, however slim, that you could be sold off for some purpose other than that of fodder. You think of the hundreds, if not thousands of labor slaves that you've seen throughout your life. They do the most mindless and grueling of tasks; hauling dirt, stone, brick. Laying new roads, and tearing out the old cobble. Lots of construction, taking part in every endless and painstaking project to maintain Cradle's many streets, buildings, walls. It's not easy work, often dangerous, with scaffolding to scale, heavy material and tools in hand, for little to no pay, no compensation, any injury a potential end to your life. Equally as harsh would be a life in one of the many mines built into the crater's edge, large sections of the Third Quarter hugging the very face of the cliff itself. Fredrick took you to see it once, when you were a little bit younger, letting you gaze upon the dark grey earth and the many pathways and nameless tunnels etched into it. Such is the terrible ingenuity of humans, he told you, manipulating their every surrounding and delving deep, whatever it takes, to take from the Cradle any and every material that may be of use. It's metal that they sometimes find, in small, fragmented quantities, buried deep within the planet's mantle and the far reaches of the pit. On the otherhand, you have large crews of agricultural workers that leave the walls on a regular basis, overseeing large, sectioned-off fields that have been tilled, cultivated and carefully maintained for generations. Vast, all-encompassing plots covering nearly every piece of flat earth outside of the walls to the north and northeast, until you reach the stony barrens and cliff walls that make any further tillage or sowage impossible. The soil is soft and moist there, Fredrick told you once, one of the few areas outside that will grow anything, but there are just as many terrible beasts outside the walls as there are deep within. Life doesn't get easier, he said, no matter where you go. The chances of you being bought for any other purpose seems incredibly slim, whether it be for "domestic" purposes such as maintaining a noble's household, or that of a pleasure slave, valued for their bodies and the company that they provide. Would that even be a preferable outcome? <<link "I'd rather spend my life working and being of use.">> \ <<set $chp2_slave_escort_choice = "cowboy">> \ <<gainCowboy>> \ <<goto "chp2_slave_escort3_response">> \ <</link>> <<ci cowboy>> <<link "Yep, pleasure slave sounds best. Gant was onto something.">> \ <<set $chp2_slave_escort_choice = "bastard">> \ <<gainBastard>> \ <<goto "chp2_slave_escort3_response">> \ <</link>> <<ci bastard>> <<link "Let me determine my own fate in the arena.">> \ <<set $chp2_slave_escort_choice = "knight">> \ <<gainKnight>> \ <<goto "chp2_slave_escort3_response">> \ <</link>> <<ci knight>>

It's difficult to tell. As far as you know, you're still moving along a main passageway through the catacombs, possibly even egressing upwards and out of the dreary, dark depths below. It's just a hunch, a feeling, but you don't remember the trip from the arena to your cell taking quite this long. That could be a sign that your destination is someplace other than the sands. Although, all things considered, they could just as easily be leading you to an different entrance. Anyone's guess would be as good as yours at this point. ''"Watch it,"'' comes a low warning from the guard who's leading you along, his gloved hand pressed against your shoulder, ''"We're approaching stairs, going up. One step at a time."'' You're thankful for the instruction; even though you could be being lead to your death, you recognize that he's just doing his job. The world is full of people taking unconscious action and justifying each of them as necessary for their own survival. The stairs are flat, wide and blocky beneath your feet, quite easy to scale, which you do, one step after the other as instructed. One guard walks ahead of you, the other directly behind, a clambering of boots, armoured men, heavy breaths and the jingling of your manacles as you ascend. The staircase turns once, twice, one of them guiding you along, and higher still you climb. Is this part of the colosseum? You have to be above the arena floor now. For you, these answers will have to wait. ''"Turning,"'' comes the guard's voice, his hand laying upon your shoulder once more as he guides you from the staircase out into another passageway. You keep walking, led along, sensing the presence of others up ahead. The low murmur of voices gives it away, along with the shuffling and sniffling of bodies nearby. You hear a firm voice, ''"Good, put him against the wall. We're waiting for one more. They're about ready."'' ''"Aye,"'' comes the reply of the guard at your shoulder, who takes you a few paces further before halting, ''"Stop. Right here, stand against the wall and wait. Remember."'' The man's voice is low and instructive, ''"Don't speak unless spoken to and you'll be fine."'' And then he's gone, both of your escorts moving back down the hall from whence you came. Taking a breath, you slowly lean your right shoulder against the wall and try to take in your surroundings, mostly what you can hear... or smell. There's someone standing immediately in front of you, up against the wall too, possibly another slave. They have a stench, a bit sweaty, musty, rank. There's still guards in the hall, you can determine that much as well. You can hear a couple of them, slowly pacing along and occasionally exchanging a few murmured words between each other. They're watching over you, keeping you here, waiting for... something. You don't feel as though you're in danger, at least not immediately. Everything has been far too... casual for that, today. It's definitely a different atmosphere compared to your arrival in the catacombs yesterday, where you were unloaded from your caged wagon and violently forced into the arena sands. [[Truthfully, you didn't expect to hear this...|chp2_slave_escort5]]

It's a sudden sound, deep and wet, that comes from the ass of whomever stands directly in front of you. It was loud and the foul stench reaches you almost immediately. <<bgmstop>> <<sfx "fart" 0.6>> ''"They're gonna love this batch,"'' You can hear one of the guards chuckling, ''"Nasty motherfuckers."'' But it's no laughing matter for you. This damned canvas sack over your head makes it all the worse; the scent seems to linger, trapped up within, flush against your face. You're never thought of yourself as someone with a weak or sensitive stomach, especially as someone from Undertown, but you can't help but gag in this instance. ''"Shit, sorry mate. Couldn't hold that fucker in any longer."'' You recognize the voice, despite it being low and murmured against the wall right in front of you. ''"Gant? Is that you?"'' The response is immediate, voice bright despite the low volume that you both maintain, whispering conspiratorially, ''"$name? Ah, it's good t'hear your fuckin' voice."'' ''"Any clue where we are? What's going on?"'' ''"No clue, mate. I've only been standin' here a few minutes myself. Took me right from the cell, they did. I'm fuckin' starving too..."'' He lapses into silence, the booted footfalls evidence of a guard moving down the hall, not far from you. Gant waits for them to pass before murmuring low, ''"Mate, hopefully this is where they oil up the pleasure slaves. That's what I'm hedgin' my bets on. Used up all my damn bravery yesterday, you know? That shit needs time to regenerate... wine and women, too."'' More footfalls come from further down the passageway, a group, the subtle sound of manacles clinking among them. And much like you could imagine, another slave is led into place directly behind you. Luckily, you can hear the conversation between the guards quite clearly, ''"This is the last one. Shall I let them know, sir?"'' ''"Go ahead,"'' comes the deep response, to which the sound of more steps fill the hallway. You don't know how many slaves are standing here against the wall, but you can tell there are a few guards, maybe five or six, standing watch over you now. The creak of a heavy door opening comes from further down the hall, closing behind them, and then silence. You wait, Gant silent too, as whispering now would be too risky. Something's about to happen. Someone is waiting for you. And you have a feeling that you're about to find out who. [[The door down the hall opens once more.|chp2_slave_privateaudience]]

''"She's ready."'' <<sfx "door-open-close" 0.6>> ''"Alright, let's bring 'em in."'' A guard clears his throat, apparently speaking to the lot of you lined up against the wall, ''"Walk together now, nice and orderly."'' Blindly, you lift your shackled hands and loosely grasp at Gant's tunic, just enough to keep ahold of where he is, and you feel someone doing much the same at your back. The entire line begins to shuffle forward, blind still, hands bound, guided by the guards at intervals as they usher you out of the hallway and into the room. Gant passes through the doorway before you, and you feel the press of a guard's hand at your shoulder as they encourage you through all the same. It's rather silent, except for the sound of your feet, the metallic jostling of manacles and what seems to be... water, trickling. ''"In a line, please, beneath the light. Yes dear, just like that. And start removing their restraints, would you? There's no need for that in here. We're all among good company, no?"'' Her voice is rich and decadent, boldly noble, feminine too. This woman's tone, she speaks as someone who commands respect but yields it carefully, calmly. Someone takes you by the shoulders, turns you away from Gant, taking you a side to the step and carefully setting you into position. They manipulate you like a mannequin, a piece of merchandise, or perhaps something to be seen, observed, admired even. It's an odd feeling, but it's overshadowed by the relief that you feel having those manacles unlocked and freed from about your wrists. You're alive, and in the company of a woman. <<if $mind gte 1>> There's smells too, a pleathora of them. You smell something spicy, heady, incense and candle wax thick in the air, and what may be an underlying aroma of food. Freshly cooked food, you're sure of it. It's a large room and there's more people in here, surely, though you can't be positive. Not until you see them with your own two eyes.<br><</if>> Whoever stands beside you, the last person in line, to your right; as soon as you hear the 'click' of their manacles being opened and slid free, the unseen woman speaks once more, ''"Very good. Well, I suppose we may begin. Is everyone ready?"'' There's a polite, quiet murmur of agreement, but not from the slaves. ''"Excellent. You may remove their coverings."'' [[It takes a few moments, but soon the sack is tugged up from over your face.|chp2_slave_privateaudience1]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp2_privateaudience_noblewomen.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> <<bgm "bad-era" 0.6 9>> \ You blink against the sudden onslaught of dim, flickering light. And as your eyes adjust, a large, lavish chamber of deep, velvety reds, lush greens and deep gold is revealed to you. The opulence is overwhelming, from the cascading curtains to the warm glow of ornate candelabras, illuminating three women on the crimson couch before you. Once you spot them, it's impossible to pry your gaze away. Each of them are among the most beautiful women that you've ever seen, from the depth of their sultry gazes, to their beautiful curved lips and supple bodies. They scream of wealth, luxury, good health, careful breeding. These are certainly noblewomen, there's no room for doubt. The first woman, with smooth, ebony flesh and a dark mane of tight black curls, leaned back against the couch with her long legs carefully crossed. Her pale blue eyes are sharp, calculating, conveying little emotion. No, she seems the most reserved of the trio, the least inclined to be here, but you feel drawn to her all the same. Her purpose here eludes you, somewhat withdrawn, distant, but observing you all the same, her slight smirk a show for those watching. On the other side, farthest to your right, dark, smoldering eyes watch you from behind long, thick and deep auburn locks. Draped in sheer fabrics that cling to her every curve, she exudes a sense of danger. She's confident, a woman who has seen much and feared little, or at least that's the front that she puts on. Her lips are parted slightly, as though savoring the very sight of you. And when your eyes meet, you swear that she winks. But the woman in the middle, she's the one who speaks. Flowing, bright red hair cascades down her supple back like a river of flame. Her posture is poised, elegant, in command, flawless except for the slight asymmetry between her sultry, brillant red eyes. She studies each of you gathered as though you were a prize to be weighed and measured. Her lips curl into a slight, almost imperceptible smile, evidently pleased by the showing. Around the edges of the room, you notice others, a collection of mostly noblewomen, some men among them, who watch the spectacle with interest, whispering among themselves as they assess the slaves on display. The red-haired noblewoman leans forward and slowly speaks, her voice smooth and commanding. ''"You."'' [[You realize that her eyes are resting directly upon you.|chp2_slave_privateaudience1a]]

<<set $chp3_privateaudience_dik to 2>>\ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "none">>\ <<if $dominant is "bastard">>\ A grin pulls at the corner of your mouth. If this is what they want, you're not going to stand here blushing and pretend you've never been looked at before. You hook your thumbs beneath the waist of your trousers and pull them down without hesitation, deliberately taking your time as you expose yourself to the room. Then you straighten again, shoulders loose and stance open, making no effort whatsoever to hide what now hangs between your thighs. They asked for a show. Fine, feast your eyes! <<elseif $dominant is "knight">>\ For a moment, the request strikes you as absurd. Then again, Livia has left the decision in your hands, and if you're going to make it, there's little dignity in doing so halfway. You take hold of your trousers and draw them down with deliberate calm, exposing yourself without haste or apology. Once they're low enough, you straighten beneath the room's attention and hold your ground. If these people intend to judge you like merchandise, then they can at least see a man unwilling to wilt beneath their scrutiny. <<else>>\ Well, hell. If pulling your trousers down is what passes for noble entertainment, you've survived considerably worse requests over the last two days. You give the women a faint, almost disbelieving smile before hooking your thumbs beneath your waistband and lowering it. No nervous fumbling, no great ceremony either. You simply expose yourself, settle comfortably back onto your heels and let the room have the look it apparently wanted so badly. Might as well make the whole ridiculous thing worth their time. <</if>> \ \ The response is immediate. You've made yourself part of the entertainment now, and the crowd and the three women before you are given exactly what Alesia asked for. <<if $char_height is "tall" && $char_build is "powerful_dense" && $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "praise">>\ There is almost something excessive about the complete picture. Tall, broad, heavily built, and now substantially endowed as well. What hangs thickly between your thighs looks less like an unexpected detail than the final confirmation of every assumption your physique encouraged moments ago. Alesia's expression changes instantly. The playful smile remains, but her eyes widen before narrowing with unabashed appreciation. ''"Gods above. They really did give this one everything."'' A pleased murmur runs through the nearest spectators. Livia takes her own leisurely look, her amusement deepening. ''"Apparently subtlety was not involved in his construction."'' Sibylla remains silent, though even she can't quite prevent one brief glance before looking away again. <<elseif $char_height is "short" && $char_build is "powerful_dense" && $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "praise">>\ The contrast is immediately striking. You're compact everywhere else; short, thick through the chest and shoulders, dense through the legs, and between them too. Against your shorter frame, its length and weight appear almost exaggerated. Alesia breaks into delighted laughter. ''"Oh, now that's funny."'' She leans forward, openly reconsidering you. ''"Our little bruiser was hiding the largest surprise in the room."'' ''"A rather effective argument against judging by height alone,"'' Livia observes, lips curling as she studies the unexpected proportions. Sibylla's gaze disappears elsewhere with suspicious speed. <<elseif $char_build is "powerful_dense" && $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "praise">>\ The reveal suits the rest of you almost too well. Broad shoulders, thick limbs, a heavy masculine frame—and between your thighs, something equally substantial. There is little contradiction for them to puzzle over. You look precisely like the sort of man who might be generously built everywhere. Alesia gives an appreciative hum. ''"Yes. That seems appropriate."'' Her eyes travel over you again, now taking in the entire picture. ''"Very appropriate."'' Livia laughs softly. ''"You sound as though you're checking the workmanship."'' ''"I am."'' Sibylla declines to participate in the appraisal, though the faint tightening at the corners of her mouth suggests she finds her companions more embarrassing than you. <<elseif $char_build is "lean_athletic" && $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "praise">>\ Your leaner physique had suggested balance rather than excess: defined muscle, narrow waist, an athletic body built without much unnecessary bulk. The heavier length now displayed beneath it breaks that expectation rather pleasantly. Alesia's brows rise. ''"Oh, I like that."'' She lets her gaze wander from your waist to your face before returning downward. ''"Sleek everywhere else, and then that."'' ''"A surprising proportion,"'' Livia agrees, considerably more composed about it. ''"A fortunate one."'' Sibylla gives Alesia a quiet look of reproach but otherwise keeps her thoughts to herself. <<elseif $char_height is "tall" && $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "praise">>\ Your tall, rangier build hadn't promised much bulk. Long legs, narrow torso, little of the heavy mass carried by some of the men behind you. Yet the length between those legs tells a different story, drawing the eye because the rest of you had done so little to advertise it. Alesia stares for half a heartbeat before her grin returns. ''"Ah. So that's where all the weight went."'' Laughter spreads through the nearest part of the room. ''"You are impossible,"'' Livia tells her, though she's laughing too. ''"And wrong?"'' Livia's glance returns below your waist. ''"No. Not particularly."'' <<elseif $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "praise">>\ Nothing about your otherwise modest physique prepared them for what you reveal. Perhaps that's why the reaction is stronger than it might have been on a more obviously imposing man. The room expected ordinary. Instead, a long, heavy cock flops into view, conspicuous enough against your lighter frame that several nearby spectators immediately begin whispering. Alesia visibly perks up. ''"Well, none of us expected that."'' Her eyes lift to yours, pleased at having discovered something the earlier appraisal missed. ''"There you are. I knew something interesting had to be hiding somewhere."'' Livia accepts the surprise with a slow smile. ''"Perhaps we were premature in our assessment."'' ''"I hope he isn't,"'' Alesia purrs. Even Sibylla looks before apparently deciding she'd rather not be caught doing it. <<elseif $char_height is "tall" && $char_build is "powerful_dense" && $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "tease">>\ For all the expectation your body created, the reveal beneath it is considerably more modest. Height, shoulders, chest, thighs, everything above your waist had suggested excess. What you've so confidently presented to them doesn't quite complete the same picture. There's a brief silence, then Alesia's mouth curls upward. ''"Oh, that's cruel."'' A handful of spectators laugh before she even explains herself. Her gaze travels deliberately back up the tremendous bulk of you. ''"You build the temple that large, Livia, people naturally expect a larger idol."'' ''"Alesia,"'' Sibylla murmurs, the quiet rebuke carrying more weight than anything she's said thus far. Livia presses her lips together, plainly suppressing amusement. ''"Not every weapon needs to be a greatsword, dear."'' ''"No. But after all that introduction, I was expecting one."'' <<elseif $char_build is "powerful_dense" && $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "tease">>\ Your physique had encouraged certain assumptions. Broad, thickly built and heavy through the limbs, you look like a man assembled on a generous scale. The anatomy you've just proudly exposed proves rather more restrained. Alesia notices immediately. Her head tilts. ''"Hm."'' You can almost see her recalculating. ''"I'll admit, I expected more after all that chest."'' A few amused murmurs follow from the crowd. Livia looks less disappointed than entertained by her friend's disappointment. ''"Fortunately, I don't believe the auctioneer charges by the inch."'' ''"A tragic flaw in the institution,"'' Alesia replies. Sibylla exhales softly through her nose and looks elsewhere. <<elseif $char_build is "lean_athletic" && $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "neutral">>\ The reveal is modest, though it does little to erase the appeal of the body surrounding it. Lean muscle, good proportions and a youthful athletic frame still give the women plenty to look at; you simply aren't hiding some oversized surprise between your thighs. Alesia studies you for another moment before giving a small, accepting shrug. ''"Not everything can be exceptional, I suppose."'' ''"How gracious of you,"'' Livia replies. Alesia gives a girlish smile, ''"He's still pretty."'' That seems to be enough for her. Sibylla remains quiet, looking almost grateful that the discussion has failed to become any more elaborate. <<elseif $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "tease">>\ Given the enthusiasm with which you've presented yourself, the modest result creates its own little joke. Your physique hadn't promised anything enormous in the first place, but your confidence certainly had. Alesia waits a beat before one brow climbs. ''"Well."'' Her smile becomes wicked, ''"You certainly sold the reveal."'' Laughter rolls through part of the audience, less at your anatomy than at the disparity between the grand presentation and what actually appeared. Livia shakes her head at her friend, though even she looks amused. ''"He gave you precisely what you requested."'' ''"And with such confidence. I almost admire it."'' Sibylla's expression remains composed, but she pointedly refuses to contribute. <<else>>\ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "neutral">>\ What you reveal is respectable and proportionate, neither dramatically exceeding the expectations created by the rest of your body nor disappointing them. Balanced, healthy, undeniably masculine, the sort of result that might have earned simple approval had you not presented it with quite so much confidence. Alesia gives you a thorough look before nodding once. ''"Perfectly respectable."'' ''"Only respectable?"'' Livia asks. ''"Oh, there's nothing wrong with it."'' Alesia's smile turns playful as she looks back up at you. ''"I'm simply deciding whether his enthusiasm oversold the merchandise."'' That earns another small wave of laughter from the surrounding room. Sibylla remains sensibly silent. <</if>> \ \ <<if $dominant is "bastard">>\ <<if $pa_exposure_reaction is "praise">>\ Their approval lands exactly where you expected it to. You don't rush to cover yourself. You let the attention linger, enjoying the stolen glances, the open appreciation and the knowledge that for a few moments, at least, you've managed to turn their inspection back upon them. They wanted a spectacle. Judging by Alesia's expression, you delivered. <<elseif $pa_exposure_reaction is "tease">>\ The laughter bites, but only if you let it. Your grin barely shifts as you remain exactly where you are, still exposed, still looking Alesia directly in the eyes. If she expected embarrassment, she'll have to work considerably harder for it. You gave them the show because you chose to, and you're not about to start apologizing for the merchandise now. <<else>>\ Their reaction might be lukewarm, but your confidence isn't contingent upon their applause. You hold the pose another moment anyway, gaze drifting over the assembled nobles as though they're the ones whose performance is being judged. Let them decide whether they're impressed. You've never needed strangers to certify what belongs to you. <</if>> \ \ <<elseif $dominant is "knight">>\ <<if $pa_exposure_reaction is "praise">>\ The praise brings a flicker of satisfaction, but you resist the temptation to preen beneath it. You chose to stand here openly, and now you do so without shame, allowing their admiration to pass over you without changing your posture. Whatever else this room may reduce you to, you don't need their approval to remember your own worth. <<elseif $pa_exposure_reaction is "tease">>\ Heat threatens at the back of your neck, but you refuse to give their laughter anything more. You made the choice willingly; retreating into embarrassment now would only surrender a piece of yourself you still control. So you remain upright beneath Alesia's amusement, expression steady, letting the joke exhaust itself against your silence. <<else>>\ The response is neither flattering nor cruel. You offered them a look, not a plea for validation. You stand calmly beneath their remaining scrutiny, neither puffing yourself up nor shrinking away, content to let the matter be precisely as significant as you make it. <</if>> \ \ <<else>>\ <<if $pa_exposure_reaction is "praise">>\ Well, apparently that went better than expected. The enthusiasm spreading through the room is almost funny enough to make you laugh yourself. You let them enjoy the discovery for another moment, faint amusement tugging at your mouth. Strange world you've fallen into: yesterday you were trying not to get eaten alive, and today a room full of nobles is applauding what's between your legs. <<elseif $pa_exposure_reaction is "tease">>\ You can't help it. A short laugh escapes you before anyone can mistake your silence for wounded pride. Maybe you oversold the reveal, or maybe Alesia simply enjoys finding something to needle. Either way, there are worse things than being laughed at while still alive, fed and standing on your own two feet. You give her an easy shrug. <<else>>\ Well, there it is. No gasps, no tragedy, no divine revelation. Just several dozen wealthy strangers now considerably better acquainted with you than they were a minute ago. The absurdity of it almost makes you smile. You let the moment breathe, then give Alesia a faint look that says she got exactly what she requested. <</if>> \ <</if>> \ \ Livia eventually raises one hand, reclaiming control of the room before Alesia can prolong the spectacle any further. ''"I believe our curiosity has been sufficiently indulged."'' ''"Speak for yourself,"'' Alesia murmurs. That earns another laugh from the Duchess. ''"You may cover yourself, gladiator."'' Only then do you reach for your trousers, drawing them back into place beneath the lingering attention of the crowd. Covered again, you still feel strangely exposed. Every person in the room now seems to know exactly how willingly you let them see. [[Livia's attention returns to matters beyond your anatomy.|chp2_slave_privateaudience2]]

<<set $chp3_privateaudience_dik to 1>> \ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "none">>\ You hesitate only briefly before deciding that a look is just that: a look. They've already spent the better part of the last few minutes discussing your body as though you were something laid out upon a merchant's table. This hardly feels like much further to go. Hooking your thumbs beneath the waist of your trousers, you draw them down just far enough to expose yourself. There's no flourish to it, no deliberate attempt to entertain. You simply stand there and let them see what they asked to see. <<if $char_height is "tall" && $char_build is "powerful_dense" && $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "praise">>\ For once, appearances haven't exaggerated anything. Tall, broad and heavily built, you already gave the impression of a man generously proportioned; what hangs between your thighs merely completes the picture. Alesia's expression brightens immediately. Her eyes travel downward and stay there, a slow grin spreading across her face. ''"Oh, that's hardly fair."'' Livia laughs beneath her breath, taking her own unhurried look, crimson eyes flickering between your visage and the limb below. ''"No. I suppose nature was feeling particularly generous with this one."'' Even Sibylla's composure slips for the briefest instant, her gaze dipping before she catches herself and looks pointedly elsewhere. <<elseif $char_height is "short" && $char_build is "powerful_dense" && $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "praise">>\ The contrast is harder to miss. Your body is compact, thickly built and low to the ground, but there's nothing compact about what you've just revealed. A few murmurs rise from the spectators nearest the front as the unexpected proportion becomes apparent. Alesia actually laughs, though the sound carries considerably more delight than mockery. ''"Well. Our little bruiser was hiding something after all."'' ''"Apparently so,"'' Livia agrees, crimson eyes lingering with open amusement. Sibylla says nothing, but the sudden interest she takes in some distant corner of the room is almost conspicuous enough to be an answer of its own. <<elseif $char_build is "powerful_dense" && $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "praise">>\ The reveal suits the rest of you. Broad, heavily built and visibly masculine, there isn't much contradiction between the body they appraised a moment ago and the substantial weight now hanging exposed beneath it. Alesia gives an approving hum. ''"Now that's more like it."'' Livia's smile deepens. ''"A fine specimen, certainly."'' Her tone remains almost irritatingly composed considering where she's looking. Sibylla keeps her expression carefully neutral, though her eyes betray one brief glance before returning to your face. <<elseif $char_build is "lean_athletic" && $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "praise">>\ Your leaner physique doesn't quite prepare them for the heavier proportion beneath it. What looked sleek and athletic above the waist proves considerably less modest below, enough to draw a noticeable stir from those watching. Alesia's eyebrows lift. ''"There's a pleasant surprise."'' Her gaze wanders over you again as though reconsidering the entire package. ''"Fit, pretty, and hung. Some people really do get everything."'' Livia gives her a sidelong look, amused. ''"You make him sound like a prize bull."'' ''"We're inspecting slaves, Livia. The distinction feels rather thin tonight."'' Sibylla exhales softly through her nose but declines to join them. <<elseif $char_height is "tall" && $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "praise">>\ Given your tall, narrow frame, the reveal creates a proportion that wasn't immediately obvious from the rest of you. Long limbs, little excess mass, and apparently much of what nature withheld elsewhere was concentrated somewhere more interesting. Alesia's gaze drops and her lips part into a wicked smile. ''"Ah. So that's where all the weight went."'' A ripple of laughter moves through the nearest spectators. Livia joins them, though hers is softer. ''"Crude, Alesia."'' ''"Accurate."'' Sibylla gives her another cool look, which only seems to amuse Alesia more. <<elseif $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "praise">>\ Whatever modest impression the rest of your physique made, this wasn't what they expected to find beneath your trousers. The change in the room is immediate enough that you don't need anyone to explain it; whispers stir, a few people laugh in surprise, and Alesia sits noticeably straighter. ''"Well, none of us expected that."'' Her eyes flick back up to yours, plainly delighted by having been proven wrong. ''"Perhaps Livia was right. There //is// more to him than meets the eye."'' Livia accepts the concession with a satisfied little smile. Sibylla remains reserved, though not quite quickly enough to hide that she looked. <<elseif $char_height is "tall" && $char_build is "powerful_dense" && $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "tease">>\ The silence lasts long enough for you to understand the problem. Everything about you had built a certain expectation: the height, the heavy shoulders, the sheer amount of man standing before them. What you've revealed doesn't live up to the promise. Alesia's mouth twists upward almost immediately. ''"Oh, that's cruel."'' Livia turns toward her. ''"Alesia."'' ''"What? Look at him. You build a temple that large, people expect a larger idol."'' A few spectators fail to suppress their laughter. Sibylla's expression tightens faintly, not at you, you suspect - but at Alesia. Livia merely shakes her head, still smiling. ''"Not every weapon needs to be a greatsword, dear."'' <<elseif $char_build is "powerful_dense" && $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "tease">>\ Your heavy build invited certain assumptions, and the reality beneath your trousers proves somewhat more modest. Alesia notices the discrepancy instantly. ''"Hm."'' Her head tilts. ''"I expected more from all that chest."'' There's enough amusement in the surrounding crowd to make the judgment obvious, though Livia looks considerably less concerned. ''"He's hardly being auctioned by the inch, Alesia."'' ''"A tragic oversight in the process."'' Sibylla's faint sigh suggests she has heard enough. <<elseif $char_build is "lean_athletic" && $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "neutral">>\ The rest of you remains easy enough on the eyes: lean muscle, good proportions, the healthy shape of a young man accustomed to using his body. What's revealed beneath your trousers is simply more modest than Alesia was apparently hoping for. She studies you for another second before giving a small shrug. ''"A pity. At least the rest of him is pretty."'' Livia laughs. ''"Your standards are exhausting."'' ''"My standards are why you invite me."'' Sibylla's mouth twitches at that, though whether at Alesia's shamelessness or your predicament is harder to tell. <<elseif $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "tease">>\ There isn't much surprise waiting beneath your trousers. Your physique hadn't promised some tremendous hidden endowment, and what you reveal is modest enough to match the general impression. Alesia regards it for a moment before offering a theatrical little pout. ''"Poor thing."'' The remark earns a few laughs, though Livia seems more amused by her friend than by you. ''"You asked for a look, Alesia. You were not promised a miracle."'' Sibylla says nothing at all, and for once you're grateful for her restraint. <<else>>\ <<set $pa_exposure_reaction to "neutral">>\ What you reveal is neither startling nor disappointing. You're proportioned much as someone looking at the rest of you might reasonably expect: respectable, balanced, and unlikely to inspire either gasps or condolences. Alesia studies you with obvious interest before giving a small, approving nod. ''"Perfectly respectable."'' ''"High praise,"'' Livia observes, with subtle amusement directed towards her friend. ''"I didn't say remarkable."'' Alesia's smile turns playful as her eyes rise back to yours, ''"But certainly nothing to complain about. It's enough to get the job done."'' Sibylla remains quiet, apparently content to let the other two exhaust the subject. <</if>> \ \ You leave them their look for another moment, long enough to satisfy the curiosity you agreed to indulge, before reaching for your trousers again. There was no promise of a performance, after all. Livia seems to recognize the distinction. ''"Thank you, dear. I believe that should satisfy even Alesia's curiosity."'' ''"For the moment,"'' Alesia replies. That earns another laugh from the Duchess. You pull your trousers back into place, though the weight of so many knowing eyes leaves you feeling strangely exposed even after you're covered again. [[Livia's attention returns to matters beyond your anatomy.|chp2_slave_privateaudience2]]

<<set $chp3_privateaudience_dik to 0>>\ <<if $dominant is "knight">>\ ''"I'd prefer not to, my lady."'' You keep your answer polite, but there's enough firmness behind it that little room remains for misunderstanding. You've already stood beneath their scrutiny and allowed them to take whatever measure they pleased of your body. Offering up the rest merely because they find the idea amusing is a line you'd rather keep for yourself. Alesia's brows rise, apparently more surprised than offended. ''"Oh? A modest gladiator. How terribly rare."'' You meet her gaze without hostility, undeterred. ''"Perhaps, my lady. But I'd still prefer to keep something of myself private."'' <<elseif $dominant is "bastard" && $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ ''"I'd prefer not to."'' The answer comes easily enough, though Alesia's knowing little smile makes you wonder what conclusion she'll draw from it. ''"No?"'' she asks, head canting slightly. ''"Now you've made me curious. Are you hiding something?"'' That lands closer to the mark than you'd like, which only makes you less inclined to satisfy her. You give her a thin smile instead. Let her wonder. Whatever they think they own tonight, they don't get every answer simply because they ask. <<elseif $dominant is "bastard">>\ ''"I'd prefer not to."'' You make no effort to soften it. There's nothing between your legs that you're ashamed of, and that's precisely why you don't feel any particular need to prove it to a room full of strangers. They've stared enough already. Alesia gives an exaggerated little sigh. ''"Shame. I was beginning to think you might be fun."'' Your mouth twitches. Maybe you are. That doesn't mean she gets everything she wants. <<elseif $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ ''"I'd prefer not to, my lady."'' Alesia studies you for a moment, then lets a teasing smile spread across her face. ''"Oh? Are we protecting a secret?"'' You feel a brief warmth creep beneath your skin despite yourself. Maybe refusing only makes it easier for her to imagine whatever she likes. Still, embarrassment isn't enough reason to put yourself on display. You give the woman a small shrug, curiosity unanswered. <<else>>\ ''"I'd prefer not to, my lady."'' There's no great principle behind it and nothing in particular you're ashamed of. You simply don't feel like pulling your trousers down because a room full of rich strangers has decided it would improve their evening. Alesia gives a disappointed roll of her eyes. ''"How terribly restrained."'' You can live with that. <</if>> \ \ The reactions around the room are mixed. A few spectators laugh, others murmur among themselves, but the moment passes quickly enough. Alesia settles back against the couch with visible disappointment, while Sibylla remains composed beside her. If anything, the reserved noblewoman seems faintly relieved that the spectacle has ended before it began. Livia appears entirely untroubled. A small smile touches her lips as she raises one hand, quietly closing the matter. ''"Very well. Let him keep his secrets."'' Her gaze returns to you. ''"You are our guest, after all, however unusual the circumstances."'' She adjusts herself against the couch, amusement giving way to something more attentive. ''"There are other questions I find considerably more interesting."'' [[Livia's attention settles fully upon you.|chp2_slave_privateaudience2]]

For a moment, Livia simply watches you. Whatever amusement the inspection provided her seems to settle into something quieter now, her attention rising from your body to your face with renewed interest. Around her, the low chatter of the audience begins to return, though the Duchess doesn't immediately release you from her scrutiny. ''"Do you know what they're calling you?"'' You pause. ''"Calling me?"'' One corner of her mouth lifts, ''"Mhm. After yesterday... The <<print $arena_nickname>>."'' The title hangs strangely in the air. You'd heard shouting in the arena, of course; cheers, curses, voices layered over one another until they became little more than noise. But you hadn't realized anything had stuck. You've already earned a name outside your own. Livia seems pleased by your reaction. ''"It has a certain ring to it, doesn't it? The arena is good at that. It takes a man, gives the crowd a few moments of blood and fear, and sends something else back out.''" Her gaze sharpens faintly. ''"But you've only fought there once. I'm more interested in what they called you before."'' Her head cants aside. ''"What is your name, gladiator?"'' ''"$name."'' ''"$name,"'' she repeats, testing it, ''"Yes. I think I prefer that."'' Alesia gives an amused hum from beside her. Sibylla says nothing, though her startling pale blue eyes remain upon you. Livia continues. ''"Do you know why you're here, $name?"'' She gestures lightly past you, toward the others, ''"Why any of you are?"'' You could guess. After everything Gant and Khalika said below, you have more than one possibility in mind. But guessing and knowing are different things. You shake your head. ''"Because you were noticed."'' Her answer is simple enough that it almost sounds obvious. ''"Every slave brought into this room did something yesterday that caught someone's eye. Strength. Nerve. Cleverness. Violence at the right moment, or restraint when panic would've been easier.''" Her gaze drifts briefly across the gathered fighters before returning to you. ''"Potential, in one form or another."'' She lets that sit for a moment. Then, almost casually: ''"And in a few hours, every one of you will be sold."'' The words land harder than anything else she has said. Sold. So Gant and Khalika were right. Not someday, not eventually, but today. For a few seconds, the room seems to recede around you. The laughter, the wine, the warm candlelight, the soft couches and expensive fabric. In a matter of hours, people like these will decide what you're worth. Someone will raise a hand, name a price, and whatever scraps of direction you've managed to hold onto since waking in chains may pass into the hands of a stranger. You don't know what being bought will mean. Another arena, a labor gang, some private household, or maybe something worse yet. Or, just maybe, something better. That uncertainty may be the cruelest part of it. Livia watches you absorb the revelation without interrupting. When she speaks again, her tone is lighter. ''"Now you understand why I wanted an early look."'' [[Livia settles back into her seat.|chp2_slave_privateaudience3]]

''"Duchess Livia Ferrena Varro,"'' She says, introducing herself at last. ''"Since we've now discussed you, it seems only fair that I offer you the same courtesy."'' The name means more to the people surrounding her than it does to you. A few nearby nobles glance over at the sound of it, while others appear entirely accustomed to hearing it spoken aloud. Livia is well aware. ''"My husband is a very important man,"'' she adds with a distant curve of her lips, putting just enough emphasis on //husband// and //important// to draw several knowing smiles from the people nearest her. Alesia laughs outright, enjoying herself. Whatever joke passes between them, you're clearly missing part of it. Livia doesn't bother explaining. ''"House Varro has certain privileges. One of them is knowing when something interesting is about to cross the auction block.''" She lifts her cup, regarding you over its rim. ''"I merely thought my friends and I deserved a sneak peek before the rest of Cradle begins waving coin at you."'' Her gaze passes over the other gladiators as well. ''"So consider this a private preview. Food, wine, conversation. A chance for my guests to meet tomorrow's possessions before they become someone else's problem."'' Alesia's smile widens. ''"Or pleasure."'' Livia gives her a patient look. ''"As Alesia so helpfully demonstrates, everyone here has their own interests."'' For the first time since you were brought into the chamber, the Duchess looks beyond you and addresses the gathering at large. ''"That will do. Let them breathe. Everyone, please - the day is yours."'' The change is almost immediate. The loose formation of gladiators begins to break apart. Guards who had been hovering close enough to make every movement feel supervised drift back toward the edges of the room. Nobles return to interrupted conversations. Cups are refilled. The crowd ebbs and flows, laughter returning, while farther off servants carry fresh platters between clusters of couches and low tables. Whether the inspection is over, or just beginning, you don't truly know. You remain where you are, uncertain whether anyone intends to stop you from moving. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Gant wander off, already looking toward the food. Across the chamber, nobles who were discussing you like livestock only moments ago are settling back into their drinks as though nothing remarkable has happened. And somehow, for the next little while, you've been invited among them. An hour ago you were sitting in a cell. Even more recently, you were marched blind through the catacombs without knowing whether you were being taken to another fight or an execution. In a few hours, you'll stand on an auction block and discover what price Cradle places on your life. But between those two things, there still lies this: a room full of food, wine, gladiators, nobles, servants, beautiful women, secrets aplenty... and people who may be deciding whether to bid on you before the night is over. No one has told you what you're supposed to do with that opportunity. Perhaps that's the point. Livia lifts her cup toward you in a small, almost dismissive toast. ''"Enjoy yourself, $name. And do try to mind your manners."'' For the first time since entering the room, your next step is yours to choose. [[Take a look around.|chp2_privateaudience_middle]]

As you near the buffet table, you can't help but sweep your gaze over the lavish selection: glazed haunches, roasted breasts and fluffy loaves of the finest golden-crusted bread you've ever seen are only a few of the foodstuffs available to you. Large, crescent-shaped pitchers filled to the brim with rich gravy and savory sauces sit like pools of temptation, glistening beneath the warm light. At either end of the table, golden bowls lie heavily laden with fruit of every shape, color and size, each piece ripe and dripping thickly with moisture, freshly picked and meticulously washed. You recognize some of them, all rare delicacies in the Third Quarter, but the majority are a mystery to you. Sweet, succulent mysteries that you certainly wouldn't mind tasting under rather different circumstances, if fate would allow. Still ogling the selection, you overhear an exchange nearby. A pair of women are looking down the length of the table, past you, at what must be a concerning sight. Both are plainly dressed by the standards of the room, though clearly of high station. ''"That can't be... //normal//. Shall we alert the guards?"'' ''"Not unless he goes rabid, dear. The Duchess told us to be very accommodating, don't you recall?"'' ''"Why, yes, I do. I just didn't expect any... //savages//... in our company this morning."'' Trying to remain discreet, you cant your gaze in the same direction, searching for whatever apparent savage has caused these noble ladies so much concern. <center><img class="scene" src="images/ganteating.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> \ It's only then that you spot Gant half-bent over a wide platter, hands in constant motion as he indiscriminately scarfs down strips and slices of seasoned, cured meat stacked atop it. He's working his way through the assortment in record time, chewing fast and hard, though half of it seems to disappear down his throat nearly whole. His chapped lips and unshaven cheeks already gleam beneath a thin film of grease. If you had much appetite left despite your circumstances, it quickly dissipates. Breathing out a sigh, you make your way down the table toward your companion. You wanted to exchange a few words with him anyway, and judging by the looks he's attracting, he could probably use a warning. Some of the nobility may already associate the two of you after watching you fight and survive together. Apparently, the politicking of a gladiator's existence doesn't end when he leaves the arena. ''"Gant,"'' you hiss once you draw near. You don't make your approach overly obvious. Standing a few paces away, you pretend to inspect the food and even grab a plate for good measure. ''"Uh... oh!"'' Gant's dark green eyes blink back and forth until they land on you. A wide grin immediately breaks across his brazen, grease-stained visage. ''"What's up, $name? You enjoyin' the fuckin' festivities?"'' ''"W—"'' Gant barks out a laugh before you can finish. <<if $chp3_privateaudience_dik > 0>> \ ''"Of course you are! I can't believe you whipped out your third leg, ahah!"'' He's much louder than you'd like, chortling around another mouthful of food. He nearly gags on half a sausage link before your expression, and a finger lifted sharply to your lips, finally gets through to him. ''"Eheh. Sorry, mate."'' Gant lowers his voice, though the grin remains. ''"Y'don't have anything to be ashamed of, is all. You remembered what I told you about the pleasure slaves, right? I think the potential is there. We're almost there, me an' you."'' He leans a little closer, ''"Imagine if the same woman buys us."'' ''"Or a pair of busty sisters! Then we'll be fuck-brothers."'' <<link "You're fucking nuts. And did anyone ever teach you how to chew?">> <<gainCowboy>> <<set $pa_gant_response = "exposed_cowboy">> <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_gant1">> <</link>> <<ci cowboy archetype>> <<link "Fuck it. Maybe we get lucky.">> <<gainBastard>> <<set $pa_gant_response = "exposed_bastard">> <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_gant1">> <</link>> <<ci bastard archetype>> <<link "I would be honored to be your fuck-brother.">> <<gainKnight>> <<set $pa_gant_response = "exposed_knight">> <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_gant1">> <</link>> <<ci knight archetype>> <<else>> \ ''"I can't believe those ladies tried to get a peek at your third leg! Brave of ya to deny them, mate... You think they'd be into that whole pleasure-slave idea I told you about?"'' He's much louder than you'd like, grinning amusedly and still somehow eating. He sucks greedily on one greasy thumb before stuffing another half-eaten sausage into his mouth, only blinking back to awareness when you grimace and lift a finger to your lips. ''"Eheh, sorry mate. I just see the potential... smell it, even."'' His nostrils flare as he leans over the table and wafts the air toward himself with a few sweeps of his hand. ''"Smells like... a noble banquet, mate. I mean, just look around."'' He leans closer and tries to direct your gaze across the room, laying one filthy hand atop your shoulder. ''"There's enough ladies here to meet any man's taste. Am I right, or am I right?"'' <<link "Didn't anyone ever teach you how to chew?">> <<gainCowboy>> <<set $pa_gant_response = "private_cowboy">> <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_gant1">> <</link>> <<ci cowboy archetype>> <<link "You're not wrong.">> <<gainBastard>> <<set $pa_gant_response = "private_bastard">> <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_gant1">> <</link>> <<ci bastard archetype>> <<link "We have more immediate concerns.">> <<gainKnight>> <<set $pa_gant_response = "private_knight">> <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_gant1">> <</link>> <<ci knight archetype>> <</if>>

<center><img class="scene" src="images/khalika_banquet.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> \ Against the edge of the room, where the crowd is somewhat sparse and the murmur of conversation lay low, a familiar half-orc stands with her back to the wall, supple green-toned arms folded abreast. Her stance is wary, guarded, her plush tusked lips pressed into a thin, stoic line as she carefully observes those just beyond. However, as you slowly make your approach, your gazes happen to meet. Her big, bright amber-hued eyes peer back at you, just as bold and inquisitive as when you first saw her during yesterday's fateful meeting in the sands. You've never met a woman who emanated so clearly the virility of a warrior. So it feels quite reassuring when those lush lips finally twitch into the faintest of curves, a subtle smile as you draw near. ''"Hey,"'' You murmur once you close the distance, trying to keep your conversation as private as possible given the setting, ''"How are you holding up, Khalika?"'' ''"I don't trust this, $name,"'' Her words are strong despite the low pitch of her voice, both of you doing your best not to draw attention to yourselves, ''"I don't trust //them//."'' You track her gaze to some of the assorted noblewomen that promulgate themselves throughout the dimly-lit audience chamber in which you've been gathered. It certainly does feel like you're 'trapped' in here with them. There's a heavy presence of armed guards and you only know of the one doorway for now; the one leading to the hallway from whence you came. You figure you won't be leaving out that way, not without that sack back over your head and manacles clasped tight around your wrists. ''"Have you searched for another exit?"'' Khalika inclines her head ever so slightly, words murmured low, ''"The opposite side of the room, deeper, towards the windows. It's guarded."'' She speaks matter-of-factly, and it seems for the moment that both of you may be out of ideas, resigned for the time being to braving the noble masses with whom you find yourselves sharing the room. ''"We have to make the best of it,"'' you decide, ''"Like we have been. If what that noblewoman Livia said is true... we'd just be wasting away in our cells right now, waiting to be hauled off to the auction anyway. This might help us steer our fate."'' <<if $khalikacell && $chp3_privateaudience_dik > 0>> \ A sudden pressure causes your gaze to jolt down towards your loins, surprised to find the half-orc's glossy green fingers squeezing tight along the bulge of your clothed cock. Khalika grabbed your dick, and now she's stroking it subtly within the confines of your drab trousers. To say that you're confused would be an understatement. ''"I know what we //could// be doing right now, if we had stayed locked in our cells."'' Her bold gaze flits up to your own eyes, and then down to the growing shape of your bulge between the loose press, pull and slip of her nimble digits. ''"You're crazy,"'' You murmur back, trying not to draw attention to yourselves from elsewhere within the room. What Khalika is doing is risky, though you're unsure of what the ramifications would be if you two were found out. ''"Crazy? Me?"'' The orc's plush red lips curve further as she stares up at you, squeezing your cock harder now, almost painfully so, the fabric of your thin trousers bunched up within her fist as she tries to get all of her digits around your length. ''"You seemed eager enough to show it off to everyone earlier."'' There's humor in her eyes, but something sharper underneath. ''"Did you want to impress them? Earn yourself some noble lover, $name?"'' A strange mixture of amusement, arousal and vulnerability crawls through you. Khalika is clearly toying with you; but perhaps not //only// toying. How do you react in the moment? <<link "Were you impressed?">> <<gainCowboy>> <<set $pa_khalika_response = "cell_exposed_cowboy">> <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_khalika1">> <</link>> <<ci cowboy archetype>> <<link "Absolutely. Let them look.">> <<gainBastard>> <<set $pa_khalika_response = "cell_exposed_bastard">> <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_khalika1">> <</link>> <<ci bastard archetype>> <<link "They don't compare to you.">> <<gainKnight>> <<set $pa_khalika_response = "cell_exposed_knight">> <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_khalika1">> <</link>> <<ci knight archetype>> <<elseif $khalikacell>> \ A sudden pressure causes your gaze to jolt down towards your loins, surprised to find the half-orc's glossy green fingers squeezing tight along the bulge of your clothed cock. Khalika grabbed your dick, and now she's stroking it subtly within the confines of your drab trousers. To say that you're confused would be an understatement. ''"I know what we //could// be doing right now, if we had stayed locked in our cells."'' Her bold gaze flits up to your own eyes, and then down to the growing shape of your bulge between the tight press, pull and slip of her nimble digits. ''"You're crazy,"'' You murmur back, trying not to draw attention to yourselves from elsewhere within the room. What Khalika is doing is risky, though you're unsure of what the ramifications would be if you two were found out. ''"Am I?"'' The orc's plush red lips curve further as she stares up at you, squeezing your cock harder now, almost painfully so, the fabric of your thin trousers bunched up within her fist as she tries to get all of her digits around your length. ''"Should I stop?"'' ''"I don't know,"'' You murmur back, your mind drifting inevitably toward last night; the darkness between your cells, the stone separating you until it suddenly didn't seem to matter very much at all. ''"Sometimes you make me do stupid things. Like last night..."'' She pauses, though her hand is still situated squarely atop your crotch, whilst the other places itself against your chest, a far gentler touch as a faint flush darkens her cheeks, ''"That wasn't stupid, $name. It's not stupid when a man follows his heart. Or his instincts."'' <<link "We need to focus on what happens now.">> <<gainCowboy>> <<set $pa_khalika_response = "cell_private_cowboy">> <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_khalika1">> <</link>> <<ci cowboy archetype>> <<link "I want more.">> <<gainBastard>> <<set $pa_khalika_response = "cell_private_bastard">> <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_khalika1">> <</link>> <<ci bastard archetype>> <<link "Then I'm glad it happened.">> <<gainKnight>> <<set $pa_khalika_response = "cell_private_knight">> <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_khalika1">> <</link>> <<ci knight archetype>> <<elseif $chp3_privateaudience_dik > 0>> \ ''"If you don't get distracted,"'' Khalika replies. Her large amber eyes remain trained on you. ''"You must like the attention."'' You raise a brow. ''"Which one is your favorite, hmm?"'' Her lips twitch. ''"You know the ones I'm talking about. You weren't exactly difficult to watch earlier."'' So that's what this is about. You rub absently along your chin as your gaze drifts across the room before settling back upon her. Evidently she was paying attention during the inspection and now she's curious what exactly you made of all those interested noble eyes. <<link "I'm just playing the room.">> <<gainCowboy>> <<set $pa_khalika_response = "nocell_exposed_cowboy">> <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_khalika1">> <</link>> <<ci cowboy archetype>> <<link "Let them look.">> <<gainBastard>> <<set $pa_khalika_response = "nocell_exposed_bastard">> <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_khalika1">> <</link>> <<ci bastard archetype>> <<link "Interest doesn't mean I trust them.">> <<gainKnight>> <<set $pa_khalika_response = "nocell_exposed_knight">> <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_khalika1">> <</link>> <<ci knight archetype>> <<else>> \ ''"You're right."'' Khalika inclines her head in firm agreement. The reality of what comes next hangs heavily between you. In only a few hours, you'll both be in shackles again, put up for auction and sold to whoever is willing to spend the most coin. There's no telling whether you'll ever see Khalika again. Or whether either of you will still be alive a week from now. For now, improving your position is about the only thing either of you can control. Plush lips pursed, Khalika glances across the banquet. ''"Then use it."'' ''"Use what?"'' ''"Their interest."'' Her eyes return to yours. ''"You're the man of the hour, apparently. Talk to anyone who wants your attention. Listen and find out what kind of opportunities they're offering."'' A faint smile touches one corner of her mouth. ''"Just like yesterday. Take advantage of every opening."'' You nod. ''"I'll see what I can make happen."'' Her expression firms. ''"Just be careful. You don't know who you can trust here, if any of them. They'll use you and discard you without a second thought if you let them, $name."'' ''"You're not wrong about that."'' <<link "You exchange a final look, then keep moving.">> <<set $pa_khalika_response = "nocell_private">> <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_khalika2">> <</link>> <</if>>

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp2_privateaudience_stavrick.webp"></center> The deeper reaches of the banquet are less polished than the marble court behind you. Nobles still mingle here, but the crowd has thickened with merchants, retainers, soldiers and gladiators drawn together beneath the same hanging lamps. Laughter rises above the scrape of chairs and clatter of glass, occasionally swallowed by some louder boast or argument before the room settles back into its restless murmur. You've grown accustomed to being watched tonight. Most of those looks are easy enough to understand. Curiosity from nobles considering what you might cost. Interest from women who have already seen more of you than modesty would ordinarily allow. Calculation from men wondering whether tonight's arena champion might become tomorrow's property, rival or entertainment. The colder looks come from the other fighters. Some fought beside you. Others know you only by reputation: the new slave who helped turn an execution into a victory, killed an ogre before thousands of witnesses, and somehow emerged from the arena with half the First Quarter suddenly interested in his future. Admiration is hardly the only response a story like that inspires. One stare in particular refuses to drift away. A bulky, bald man stands against the far wall, partially removed from the movement around him. He watches you over the rim of a small glass held between thick fingers, his posture loose enough to appear relaxed until you notice how naturally his weight sits beneath him. The stillness belongs to someone accustomed to violence; not tense, not eager, simply ready in a way that never quite leaves certain men. Jagged pale scars cross his scalp and rough bronzed face. More disappear beneath the collar of his clothing and along the heavy sweep of his shoulders. His arms are thick rather than sculpted, built with the blunt density of someone who has spent years carrying armor, weapons and other men when necessary. He looks less like one of the arena's carefully groomed attractions than something the arena failed to kill. The man tips his glass back and lets the dark liquor touch his lips without breaking eye contact. Then, almost lazily, he raises it toward you. A silent salute. Or perhaps a challenge. <<if $pa_map.alesia>>\ Alesia's proposition returns to you almost immediately. Of course this is Stavrick. She had described him as dangerous enough to draw attention and proud enough to answer an insult, but the description feels considerably less playful now that you're looking at the man himself. She wants a disturbance before the auction: something loud enough to pull guards, handlers and buyers toward the same patch of ground while House Cosmas makes use of their distraction elsewhere. Looking at Stavrick's scarred face and heavy frame, you understand why she chose him. If you decide to strike the match later, this is what waits on the other end of it. For now, he knows nothing of that. <<else>>\ You don't recognize him. That alone means little. There are fighters here from battles you never saw, men who entered the arena through different gates and survived things no one bothered telling you about afterward. Still, something about him suggests he has been doing this considerably longer than you have. He doesn't look jealous; that might have been easier to understand. Instead he looks like he's measuring you. <</if>>\ You hold the stare for another moment. There's no obvious hostility in it. No drunken sneer, no puffed chest or theatrical invitation to prove yourself in front of the room. Whatever judgment he's making, he appears content to make it quietly, which almost makes it worse. Around him, the banquet continues without concern. A serving girl passes close enough to refill another man's cup but leaves his untouched. Two gladiators laugh nearby, yet neither seems inclined to draw him into the conversation. He occupies his patch of wall with the ease of someone who neither needs company nor fears being left alone. When his eyes settle on you again, the corner of his mouth barely moves. You could ignore him. There are richer people in this room, people with the power to determine where you sleep tomorrow and whose crest might be stamped across whatever remains of your freedom. Picking unnecessary fights with other gladiators would be a poor use of the few hours you have left before auction. Then again, there are worse men to know than survivors. If the arena remains part of your future, alliances among fighters may matter more than anything whispered by silk-clad nobles tonight. A man like this has almost certainly seen enough blood to know which promises survive once the gates close. And whether you approach as friend, rival or something between the two, he's already noticed you. The question is what you intend to do with that opportunity. <<if $pa_map.alesia>>\ There's another consideration now, too. Alesia wants you to fight him later, but that doesn't mean you need to hate him. <</if>>\ [["No reason we need to be enemies." You approach with a low, easy nod.|chp2_privateaudience_stavrick1][$pa_stavrick_approach = "cowboy"]] <<ci cowboy archetype>> [["If you've got something to say, say it." You meet his stare and approach.|chp2_privateaudience_stavrick1][$pa_stavrick_approach = "bastard"]] <<ci bastard archetype>> [["You carry yourself like a soldier." You approach him with measured respect.|chp2_privateaudience_stavrick1][$pa_stavrick_approach = "knight"]] <<ci knight archetype>>

<img class="scene" src="images/chp2_privateaudience_sibylla.webp"> Moving beneath the dim glow of chandeliers and flickering candlelight, you work your way deeper into the entertainment hall, keeping mostly to yourself while your eyes travel across the crowd. Silk and jewelry catch the firelight wherever you look, bright against dark stone and heavy curtains; noblemen drink and laugh beneath the arches, servants drift between them with laden trays, and strangers who would never have spared you a second glance yesterday now seem content to study you from across their cups. You've begun to recognize that particular look. Curiosity, appraisal, amusement, sometimes all three at once. That's when you spot her. Sibylla. You remember the name from earlier, spoken with the same quiet deference afforded the other noblewomen gathered beneath Livia's roof. She stands somewhat apart from the revelry in a recessed alcove, a striking figure of composure amid the restless movement of the hall; ebony skin warmed beneath the candlelight, dark curls falling richly around her face, bright blue eyes made all the sharper by the contrast. Yet it isn't her beauty alone that keeps your attention. The longer you watch, the easier it becomes to notice the tension hidden beneath that immaculate posture; the faint stiffness through her shoulders, the way her lips press into a thin line, the controlled patience of a woman enduring something rather than enjoying it. The source of that displeasure stands beside her. A well-dressed nobleman, somewhat shorter than the Countess, with wiry blond hair slicked tightly against his scalp and a jeweled cup hanging loosely from one hand. He has settled himself close enough that Sibylla would have to make a deliberate show of stepping away, leaning toward her whenever the surrounding noise threatens to swallow his voice. From where you stand, you can catch only pieces of what he says, so you drift nearer with the crowd until his excited, honeyed murmur begins to rise above the music. ''"You know, Countess, a woman of your stature shouldn't be left to endure these dull affairs alone. What you need is someone who still appreciates the finer things in life."'' He smiles into his cup before turning it upon her again. ''"I've expanded my ornament collection considerably since we last spoke. You would absolutely adore it."'' Sibylla offers him a small inclination of her head, neither encouraging nor quite dismissive. It appears to be enough for him. His hand settles against the edge of the alcove beside her as he leans closer still, amusement curling across his pale features. ''"The way I see it, you've spent far too much time in mourning. Life ought to be celebrated while we have it. Your husband certainly understood that much."'' Something in Sibylla's expression cools completely. The change is slight enough that a man less interested in hearing himself speak might have noticed it: a fractional narrowing of those bright eyes, the last trace of courtesy disappearing from her mouth. The nobleman either doesn't see it or has decided that her displeasure is less important than his persistence. Judging by the satisfied little smile he wears, you suspect the latter. You don't mistake any of this for helplessness. Sibylla is a Countess standing among allies and peers; if she truly wanted the man dragged away, you doubt she'd need more than a word. But people of the First Quarter seem to wage half their battles through implication, courtesy, and the careful avoidance of public embarrassment. Dismissing another noble outright creates a scene. Enduring him for another few minutes costs only patience. Apparently, Sibylla has decided that patience is presently cheaper. Still, opportunity has a habit of appearing in strange clothing. You might not find a cleaner excuse to make the acquaintance of a Countess closely connected to the Duchess hosting this entire affair, and there's a part of you that's simply curious to know more about the woman herself. The difficulty lies in approaching her without becoming merely another man forcing his presence into a space she clearly wants control over. For a slave surrounded by nobility, there's another consideration besides: one badly judged interruption could turn an inconvenience into an insult, and nobles possess considerably more ways to punish an insult than you possess ways to survive one. How you intervene, then, matters. <<link "Give her an excuse to escape him.">>\ <<set $pa_sibylla_approach = "subtle">>\ <<gainCowboy>>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_sibylla1">>\ <</link>> <<ci cowboy archetype>> <<link "Step in and deal with him directly.">>\ <<set $pa_sibylla_approach = "bold">>\ <<gainBastard>>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_sibylla1">>\ <</link>> <<ci bastard archetype>> <<link "Catch Sibylla's eye and leave the choice to her.">>\ <<set $pa_sibylla_approach = "silent">>\ <<gainKnight>>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_sibylla1">>\ <</link>> <<ci knight archetype>>

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp2_privateaudience_livia.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> You spot her reclining comfortably on that same plush velvet lounge where you originally laid eyes upon her; Duchess Livia Varro, her deep red hair cascading like fierce flames over her pert shoulders, vibrant locks contrasting alluringly against her pale flesh. Her eyes, a shade of crimson that could unsettle even the most stalwart heart, scan the room with a languid grace, as though everything she surveys already belongs to her. Even with your limited understanding of noble affairs, you suspect that may not be far from the truth. Surrounding her is a small circle of courtiers and young noblewomen, their soft laughter and light conversation like music that barely reaches beyond their intimate circle. They flutter about her like moths to flame, each one eager to gain her attention, to sip from the cup of her favor. So fragrant and flavorful indeed, she listens as always, with a delicate smile barely reaching her lips yet serving as more than enough to keep them hanging on. Amongst her circle, the two women seated directly beside her stand out. One is difficult //not// to notice: a raven-haired beauty wrapped in bright silver and glittering gems of jade and scarlet, dark eyes bright with amusement above the low gleam of her corset. She lounges near enough to Livia to suggest familiarity, drinking slowly while another young woman whispers something that makes her smile. The other is quieter, thick through the hips and thighs, richly tanned and dark-haired, somewhat apart from the fluttering excitement of the others, comfortable enough in Livia's company that she seems to feel no need to compete for it. One succulent leg rests over the other, her expression mild, composed, almost thoughtful as she listens to the conversation around her. She glances at you once, neither lingering nor coy in her assessment. It's just enough to make it clear that she noticed your approach. <<if $dominant is "bastard">> \ You know an opportunity when you see one. Whatever else Duchess Livia Varro may be, she has influence here. More importantly, she's interested in you. The rest of these people can laugh, stare and decide what sort of animal they think stepped out of the arena yesterday. You're more interested in the woman at the heart of it that they're all trying to impress. You start toward her without hesitation, shoulders loose and chin raised. If you're going to be bought and sold by people like these, you might as well learn which of them are worth knowing. You aren't going to let this chance just slip away from you. <<elseif $dominant is "knight">> \ You don't particularly enjoy the idea of presenting yourself before another circle of nobles for their amusement, but Duchess Varro has shown you more courtesy than most people with power over you have bothered to offer. Courtesy deserves courtesy. Besides, pretending she has no influence over your future would be childish. You straighten, steady yourself, and make your approach with the measured confidence of a man determined to preserve what dignity remains his. <<elseif $dominant is "cowboy">> \ Standing around wondering what Duchess Varro thinks isn't going to accomplish much. She arranged the banquet. She clearly has money, influence, and some kind of interest in what happens to the gladiators gathered here. Talking to her seems considerably more useful than drinking yourself stupid or waiting for someone else to decide. So you make your way over. <<else>> \ Approaching her isn't an easy decision. Duchess Varro has already made it obvious that she holds considerably more power in this room than you do, and whatever happens at the auction may depend upon people exactly like her. Still, she has shown interest in you before. Avoiding her now would accomplish nothing. You draw a steadying breath and step toward the lounge. <</if>>\ \ The Duchess notices before you get particularly close. Her crimson gaze rises to meet yours, and a small curve appears at the corner of her lips. That alone is enough. ''"Here he comes,"'' murmurs one of the younger women. Another laughs softly behind the rim of her cup, ''"No one can resist you forever, Duchess."'' The raven-haired woman in silver says nothing, though the look she gives you is openly entertained. The tanned woman remains comfortably seated as the ripple of excitement passes through the group, their hushed voices quickly rising in tempo. ''"Gladiator."'' Livia's smile deepened slightly, gaze unwavering as she tilts her head ever so slightly, openly considering you after emitting a single word in greeting. Her thick, matronly voice is rich as red wine. Still, the chatter dims, some of them giggling behind jeweled fans and polished glasses from whence they sip softly. Some of them continue to stare intensely, as though you were some forbidden fruit they have been denied but longed to taste. The Duchess says nothing more, waiting. <<if $dominant is "cowboy">> \ You incline your head. ''"Duchess. Figured I ought to thank the woman responsible for the food before I ate too much of it."'' A couple of the women laugh. You let the faintest smile pull at your mouth, ''"You've treated us better than I expected. I was hoping we might talk."'' <<elseif $dominant is "bastard">> \ You meet her eyes directly. ''"Duchess Varro. Quite the evening you've arranged."'' Your gaze flicks briefly across the women gathered around her before returning to Livia. ''"You've already taken a fair bit of interest in me. Thought I'd come see whether your curiosity was satisfied yet. So, here I am."'' That earns a brighter ripple of laughter. <<elseif $dominant is "knight">> \ You bow your head respectfully. ''"Duchess Varro. I wanted to thank you for the hospitality you've shown us."'' Your eyes return to hers, ''"Given the circumstances, it means more than you may realize. If you'll permit it, I'd like to speak with you."'' <<else>> \ ''"Duchess Varro."'' You incline your head. ''"Thank you for the banquet, and for the opportunity. If you're willing, I'd like to speak with you."'' <</if>>\ \ <<if $chp3_privateaudience_dik is 0>> \ ''"Of course, dear. I've been wondering whether our modest gladiator would eventually find his way back to me."'' A few quiet laughs pass through the circle. ''"Modest?"'' one young woman repeats. ''"Is that what we're calling it?"'' ''"He did keep his trousers on,"'' another says. ''"A heroic display of restraint."'' Their amusement isn't particularly vicious. If anything, there is something practiced about it. The sort of teasing these people toss back and forth without ever seeming to draw blood unless they intend to. Livia watches you over the edge of her cup. ''"Don't mind them. You disappointed a few curious women earlier. Some recover from adversity poorly. I've never met a more //spoiled// group of women."'' ''"Spoiled and glamorous,"'' One of the younger noblewomen chimes in brightly. The raven-haired courtesan smiles into her drink. The richly tanned woman beside Livia finally speaks, her voice even and faintly dry. ''"A terrible tragedy. Somehow, I think they'll survive."'' A few heads turn toward her, but she seems entirely unconcerned by the attention. <<elseif $pa_exposure_reaction is "praise" && $chp3_privateaudience_dik is 2>> \ ''"Absolutely."'' Livia's eyes brighten with unmistakable amusement. ''"The boldest man in the room returns."'' ''"Boldest?"'' one of the courtiers echoes. ''"That's one word for it."'' ''"Generous,"'' says another. That earns a burst of laughter. One young noblewoman lets her gaze travel down your body with theatrical deliberation. ''"I don't think anyone here could accuse him of false advertising."'' ''"Or shyness,"'' another adds. The raven-haired beauty in silver watches you over her cup, dark eyes gleaming. Livia merely looks pleased. ''"You did make an impression, $name. Better than some men manage with years of trying."'' From beside her comes the tanned woman's quiet voice. ''"I'm sure he'll treasure the achievement."'' You glance toward her. Her expression remains mild enough that you can't tell whether she's mocking you, the women around her, or the entire situation. <<elseif $pa_exposure_reaction is "praise">> \ ''"Of course."'' Livia gives you a slow, appreciative look. ''"You were accommodating earlier. That alone has earned you some admirers."'' ''"Some?"'' one of the younger women asks. Another laughs. ''"Don't be coy. Half the room heard Alesia."'' Their attention settles on you with renewed interest; less like the crude appraisal of the inspection and more like people revisiting a rumor they've already confirmed for themselves. ''"He's very calm about it,"'' one remarks. ''"Wouldn't you be?"'' The raven-haired woman hides a smile behind her cup. The tanned woman beside Livia listens for another moment before contributing, almost absently: ''"Perhaps he's simply learned that reacting encourages you."'' That quiets them for all of half a heartbeat, then someone laughs. <<elseif $pa_exposure_reaction is "tease" && $chp3_privateaudience_dik is 2>> \ Livia's mouth curves before she even speaks. ''"Our showman returns."'' That is enough to set several of the women laughing. ''"Careful,"'' one warns brightly. ''"If you encourage him, he may give another performance."'' ''"Perhaps a longer one this time."'' Another peal of laughter follows. It's obvious enough what game they're playing. They aren't trying to repeat Alesia's joke exactly. They're waiting to see what you'll do with it now that you've walked willingly back into their circle. The raven-haired courtesan regards you with shameless amusement. Livia looks far more interested in your reaction than in the joke itself. Beside her, the tanned woman exhales quietly through her nose. ''"You women are merciless."'' ''"You laughed earlier,"'' someone accuses. ''"I have flaws."'' Her delivery is so flat that even Livia chuckles. <<elseif $pa_exposure_reaction is "tease">> \ ''"Certainly."'' There's an unmistakable spark of humor behind Livia's eyes. ''"I wondered whether you'd risk returning after Alesia had her fun with you."'' A few of the courtiers perk up immediately. ''"He took it well."'' ''"Better than most men would."'' ''"Perhaps he'd like another chance to impress us."'' The remarks come lightly, one after another, each woman watching to see whether she can pull some reaction from you. That's the game, you realize. They already know what happened. The humor is in seeing whether you'll become defensive about it. The raven-haired woman gives you a playful, almost sympathetic smile. The tanned woman remains seated beside Livia, studying the others rather than you. ''"You've already inspected him once,"'' she says. A pause. ''"Try not to wear him out before he's sold."'' The circle breaks into laughter. Even the Duchess lowers her cup to hide a smile. <<else>> \ ''"Of course."'' Livia settles more comfortably into the lounge. ''"Our cooperative gladiator returns."'' ''"Cooperative,"'' one woman repeats thoughtfully. ''"Perfectly respectable,"'' another says, imitating Alesia's earlier judgment with exaggerated gravity. Several of them laugh. You recognize the tone now. They aren't really discussing your anatomy anymore. They're testing you, tossing out little provocations to see which one earns an answer. ''"Perhaps he's hiding his better qualities,"'' someone suggests. ''"Or saving them for later."'' The raven-haired courtesan smiles openly at that. The tanned woman beside Livia tips her cup slightly, gaze drifting over the group. ''"You asked for a look. You got one. Must everything become an event?"'' ''"You make us sound terribly unreasonable."'' ''"I would never,"'' She retorts unaffected, expression unchanged. <</if>>\ \ Livia lets the laughter run its course before raising two fingers from the stem of her cup. The little court settles almost immediately. ''"Enough."'' Her tone remains warm. ''"$name came to speak with me, not to spend the evening defending himself from bored women."'' ''"What a pity,"'' someone murmurs. ''"Though..."'' Livia's gaze returns to you, and her smile becomes a little more dangerous. ''"...I confess I'm curious how much defending he actually requires."'' A subtle change passes through the women around her. You recognize it before anyone moves. Another game. ''"We called him dangerous earlier,"'' says one young courtier, studying you with an exaggerated seriousness. ''"I still don't see it."'' ''"Strong, perhaps."'' ''"Feral,"'' another supplies with a grin. ''"Feral?"'' ''"Look at him."'' Their eyes turn toward you as a group. The labels come too easily to be sincere. //Dangerous. Strong. Feral.// Words tossed like little stones against iron, less concerned with whether they're accurate than with whether one of them makes you move. Livia knows exactly what they're doing. Worse, she's enjoying it. The raven-haired courtesan in silver sets aside her cup. That's when you notice that the richly tanned woman beside Livia doesn't move. She remains where she is, one leg still crossed comfortably over the other, watching the unfolding performance with that same restrained expression. Livia's gaze remains fixed upon you. ''"Well?"'' she asks the women around her. ''"If you're all so fascinated, there's no need to admire him from a distance."'' A few smiles widen. ''"Go on."'' The first of them rises, followed by others, including the raven-haired woman. [[Some approach, eager to see what kind of man all those rumors produced.|chp2_privateaudience_livia_closer]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp2_privateaudience_alesia.webp"></center> The banquet has settled into its stranger rhythm by now; no longer the first burst of spectacle and appraisal, but the subtler current beneath it, where glances linger, servants circulate with lowered eyes, and every knot of conversation seems to hide a second one. Candlelight runs in warm bands across polished marble and long columns, catching on goblets, jewels, bare shoulders and gilded trim alike. Crimson drapery hangs in heavy folds, dividing the chamber into pockets of intimacy and intrigue, while somewhere deeper in the hall a musician plucks at strings too softly to rise above the murmur. It's near one of those curtained alcoves that you catch sight of her. Countess Alesia Cosmas stands half-turned beside a marble column, one hand braced lightly against the stone, the other planted upon the curve of her hip. Her dark red hair spills in lustrous waves over one shoulder, rich as spilled wine beneath Dosmera's light, and the sheer black garment clinging to her frame leaves little to the imagination. Through lace and shadow you glimpse the soft golden tone of her skin, the heavy swell of her breasts, the taut line of her stomach, the confident set of a woman far too accustomed to being watched to mistake it for vulnerability. The attention only seems to sharpen her. She's not alone. Three noblewomen stand before her in a loose crescent, each one dressed in expensive silk and careful composure, though neither survives intact beneath the expression Alesia wears. One of them, a dark-haired woman with a sharp nose and sharper mouth, speaks first, her tone honeyed on the surface and venomous beneath it. ''"One does hear the most tiresome things about House Cosmas,"'' she says, loud enough for the others to enjoy. ''"Debtors vanishing. Records changing hands. Ships arriving with fewer crates than they left with, and somehow more profit besides. One begins to wonder whether your family suffers from remarkably poor luck... or remarkably good timing."'' A blonde matron beside her gives a low, breathy laugh behind her cup. ''"Not to mention that business with Lord Pelian's factor. Though I suppose when a man owes the wrong people enough silver, he can become quite... difficult to locate."'' The third woman says nothing at first. She only watches, lips pursed, the way lesser predators do when bolder ones test the air for blood. Alesia doesn't flinch. If anything, the corner of her mouth lifts. Her gaze drifts over the trio with lazy amusement, as if she were deciding which of them to humiliate first and whether the effort is worth her time. When she finally speaks, her voice is low and velvety, with iron beneath. ''"What a dreary little performance,"'' she murmurs. ''"You all dress so beautifully, and still insist on sounding like market wives picking bones from a Third Quarter gutter."'' The sharp-faced woman stiffens. ''"You mistake concern for gossip."'' ''"Do I?"'' Alesia asks, brows giving the faintest rise, ''"That would be charitable of me."'' She pushes lightly away from the column and takes a single step forward. It's not a dramatic movement, but she doesn't need it to be. The noblewomen instinctively hold their ground a little too hard, the defensiveness telling you just enough. ''"You speak of debtors, factors, missing cargo, unfortunate men who misplaced themselves after becoming inconvenient..."'' Her smile widens, though nothing softens in it. ''"As though any family with coin, caravans and enemies does not accumulate the same rumors by the dozen. The only difference is that my family never bothers pretending to be shocked by the world it lives in."'' The matron's mouth pinches. ''"People are right to be wary of you."'' ''"Good,"'' Alesia says at once, her answer landing so cleanly that even the air seems to pause around it. She lets the silence hold for a beat, evidently enjoying it. ''"People should be wary of anything in this city that actually possesses teeth. But most of you prefer your danger hidden behind etiquette, titles and pious little smiles. It comforts you to believe poison becomes virtue if served from a cleaner cup."'' Her dark eyes travel from one woman to the next. ''"House Cosmas simply saves everyone the trouble of lying about the taste."'' That earns her a look of genuine offense from the blonde woman. ''"Typical. All heat, no shame."'' Alesia gives a soft, delighted laugh. ''"And yet here you are, still crowding close enough to warm your hands by it."'' The third woman finally finds her nerve. ''"You enjoy this too much."'' ''"Of course I do."'' Alesia tips her head, studying her as though the answer ought to have been obvious. ''"Why else would I still be standing here?"'' For a moment, it looks as though the exchange might sour further. One of the guards near the central aisle glances over, sensing tension without yet understanding its shape. A servant slows with a tray in hand, then thinks better of lingering. Around the edges of the alcove, other conversations quiet just enough to listen without appearing to do so. Then, the sharp-faced woman notices you. Her eyes narrow, flicking over your slave's attire, your frame, the simple fact of your presence. A fresh little cruelty enters her expression, quick and opportunistic. ''"There,"'' she says, with a brittle laugh. ''"Even the gladiator is listening now. How fitting. You always did know how to collect the roughest admirers, Countess."'' The three women turn just enough that your lingering stops being invisible. So does Alesia. Her gaze finds you at once. It's almost irritating how quickly it happens, how cleanly. Whatever else she is, this is not a woman who misses much. For a heartbeat her eyes simply rest on you, dark and assessing, and you feel the force of her attention settle like a hand at the back of your neck. <<if $pa_exposure_reaction is "praise">> \ Something warmer glints there too. You remember the inspection, the appraising murmur of noble voices, the way some among them seemed content merely to judge while others allowed themselves to enjoy the view. Alesia had not been shy about the latter. <<elseif $pa_exposure_reaction is "tease">> \ There's amusement in her gaze, sharpened by recognition. Earlier, during the inspection, she had seemed perfectly happy to laugh, prod and test, to see whether you stiffened under mockery or met it with something harder. <<else>> \ If she remembers the inspection, she gives little sign beyond the slow, measuring sweep of her eyes. Even so, you get the distinct impression that she is not seeing a stranger so much as an unfinished thought. <</if>> \ \ <<if $pa_livia_court_response is "fuckit">> ''"Ah,"'' she says, her voice turning richer. ''"You're the one making yourself noticed tonight."'' Her smile deepens a fraction. ''"I was wondering when you'd drift my way."'' <<elseif $pa_livia_court_response is "control">> ''"You carry yourself well for a man in chains,"'' she says, studying you openly now. ''"Very disciplined. Very careful."'' The last word sounds less like praise than curiosity. <<else>> ''"Well,"'' she says, her mouth curving, ''"There you are."'' <</if>> \ She turns back toward the women without ever truly taking you out of the exchange. ''"You see?"'' she says lightly. ''"Now you've gone and spoiled the mood. If you wanted my audience, you should have asked more prettily."'' The blonde matron draws herself up. ''"If this brute is your idea of company—"'' ''"He has better manners than you,"'' Alesia cuts in. Her tone remains almost playful, which somehow makes it worse. ''"And likely better instincts."'' A flash of temper crosses the woman's face. ''"He is a slave."'' Alesia's eyes slide back to you, then to them. ''"And you are still boring me.''" That does it. Whatever composure the three of them had managed to preserve begins to crack. A few sharp, hurried remarks pass between them beneath their breath, too low to fully catch, before the little cluster breaks apart in a rustle of silk, wounded pride and sour perfume. One of them shoots you a final disdainful look on the way out, as though your mere existence has somehow participated in her humiliation. Alesia watches them go without so much as pretending regret. Only when they are fully gone does she shift her full attention to you again. For a brief moment, neither of you speaks. She lets the silence do some of the work for her, one hand still settled at her hip, the other trailing idly along the marble beside her. The line of her mouth curls with private amusement, though whether at them or at you, it's difficult to say. ''"Well?"'' she asks at last, dark eyes alight, ''"You've heard the accusations."'' ''"And you've seen the claws come out. Say something interesting."'' [["Looks like the sort of quarrel a man keeps clear of."|chp2_privateaudience_alesia_cowboy]] <<ci cowboy archetype>> [["Sounds like they're afraid of you."|chp2_privateaudience_alesia_bastard]] <<ci bastard archetype>> [["Three against one doesn't make them right."|chp2_privateaudience_alesia_knight]] <<ci knight archetype>>

<<if $pa_gant_response is "exposed_cowboy">> \ ''"You're fucking nuts. And did anyone ever teach you how to chew?"'' ''"What?"'' Gant stares back at you, startled. ''"You don't think there's any sisters in here? I don't know, man, I was just throwin' out scenarios. Positive mindset and all that. Cousins would work too. It's not like we're in the right place to be picky."'' He tears another strip of meat apart with his teeth. ''"And chewing's optional, mate. Everyone knows that. Ever heard of snakes?"'' ''"You aren't a snake, Gant."'' For some reason, that seems to offend him. His brows lift before he gestures down toward your crotch with the hand still holding his food. ''"Maybe I ain't got a snake like yours, mate, but I've got my talents. You ain't even seen the thing I can do with my tongue."'' You draw in a shallow breath. ''"I don't need to see that. And don't point at my crotch."'' ''"Alright."'' He throws one shoulder up in an easy shrug. ''"Maybe later, 'en."'' You give him a long look. ''"That wasn't an invitation."'' <<elseif $pa_gant_response is "exposed_bastard">> \ ''"Fuck it. Maybe we get lucky."'' Gant freezes halfway through another bite, his grease-stained face lighting up. ''"That's the fuckin' spirit, mate."'' Standing side by side, the two of you slowly look over the room. It certainly isn't lacking in abundance, and you aren't only thinking of the food. Women of every shape and size, every age and complexion, drift among the assembled houses. There must be scores of noble families represented within sight. They came here to mingle, gossip and assess. Assess //you//. Truthfully, you're not opposed to getting to know some of them better. If their interest can be turned into comfort, influence, or simply a more enjoyable form of captivity, there's little sense pretending otherwise. ''"We're the stars of the show, mate,"'' Gant murmurs near your ear. ''"All because you didn't let a giant stinkin' ogre pick us off one by one. We can't fuck this up."'' His grin broadens. ''"Rich women. Big houses. Soft beds. No arena. Could be worse, eh?"'' ''"Could be a lot worse."'' ''"Exactly! And if we get the sisters..."'' ''"Don't ruin it."'' He clicks his tongue and sighs. ''"No vision."'' <<elseif $pa_gant_response is "exposed_knight">> \ ''"I would be honored to be your fuck-brother."'' You lock gazes with Gant. He stares back at you with his mouth hanging slightly agape. ''"Y-... you mean that, mate?"'' You incline your chin solemnly. ''"Of course I mean it. I wouldn't lie to you."'' Gant's expression crumples into something almost painfully sincere. With a bright laugh, he slaps one filthy, food-stained hand atop your shoulder and pulls you into an awkward half-hug beside the buffet table. ''"I fuckin' love you, man. I wouldn't have chosen to be enslaved and doomed to a life of servitude with any other guy."'' He clears his throat and sniffs, briefly hiding his face beneath a sweep of his forearm. You stare at him. ''"You alright?"'' ''"Yeah."'' His answer comes gruffly. ''"Eh. Just somethin' in my eye."'' Your gaze drops toward the hand still resting on your shoulder. ''"Is that grease?"'' Gant looks at it. ''"...Probably."'' <<elseif $pa_gant_response is "private_cowboy">> \ ''"Didn't anyone ever teach you how to chew?"'' Gant slows without stopping entirely. ''"Eh, that isn't really something you get taught, is it?"'' he says thoughtfully around another mouthful. ''"It's natural. Instinctual, y'know? Kinda like rutting."'' You open your mouth to respond, then pause. Annoyingly, you're not entirely sure how to argue with that. Gant notices. ''"See?"'' ''"That doesn't mean you're right."'' ''"Means you can't prove I'm wrong."'' He promptly shoves another piece of meat into his mouth. A moment later, you hear one of the noblewomen farther down the table mutter something to her companion. You don't catch the words, but you don't need to. ''"People are noticing you,"'' you murmur. ''"You look like a wild animal over here, scarfing down everything in sight."'' Gant slowly nods as though you've just paid him a compliment. ''"...A wild animal."'' His grin returns. ''"Aye. So they think I'm vicious. Virile. A beast of nature, right?"'' You close your eyes for a moment. ''"That is not what I said."'' ''"But it's what they heard."'' <<elseif $pa_gant_response is "private_bastard">> \ ''"You're not wrong."'' Gant beams. Standing side by side, the two of you look slowly over the room. It certainly isn't lacking in abundance, and you aren't merely thinking of the food. Women of every shape and size, every age and complexion, fill the audience chamber. There must be a hundred noble houses represented within sight. They came here to mingle, gossip and assess. Assess //you//. Truthfully, you aren't opposed to getting to know some of them better. It could prove valuable, provided you don't have to lower yourself too far for their benefit. A man needs standards, even in chains. ''"We're the stars of the show, mate,"'' Gant murmurs close to your ear. ''"All because you didn't let a giant stinkin' ogre pick us off one by one. We can't fuck this up."'' His eyes wander appreciatively across the room. ''"This party could be our ticket out of the arena for good, y'know? Rich, lavish life in the service of nobility. No pressure."'' ''"You make slavery sound comfortable."'' ''"Depends on the slave, doesn't it?"'' His eyebrows bounce once. ''"And the owner."'' You snort. At least he's consistent. <<elseif $pa_gant_response is "private_knight">> \ ''"We have more immediate concerns."'' ''"Naw, they have dessert. Don't worry, I already found the cake."'' Gant points across the table, and you're amazed you didn't notice it earlier. A broad, three-layered cake sits among the other dishes, dark and decorated beneath a rich coat of chocolate frosting. Unfortunately, someone appears to have used his bare hand to remove what might generously be described as a slice from the lowest layer. You turn back toward Gant. One of his hands is smeared brown with cake and frosting. ''"What the fuck..."'' ''"Awesome, ain't it?"'' He grins. ''"This place isn't so bad."'' ''"I'm not talking about cake."'' That finally gets his attention. You lower your voice. ''"I'm talking about getting out of here."'' Gant's amusement fades as he looks around the hall. After a moment, he gives a low shake of his head. ''"I don't think that's happenin', mate. Look at how many guards they got in here still. Doors are watched. Hall's watched. We'd get about ten steps before someone stuck a spear through us."'' He's right. You thought it was worth raising the possibility, but Gant clearly isn't looking at this banquet and seeing the beginnings of an escape attempt. He sees an opportunity to improve the hand you've already been dealt. ''"Maybe later,"'' you murmur. He shrugs and rubs his greasy face with the edge of his hand. ''"Maybe. But right now? Better odds makin' somebody here like us."'' <</if>>\ \ Gant turns back toward the buffet and casually steals another piece of cured meat. ''"Anyway,"'' he says, lowering his voice conspiratorially, ''"I'm gonna keep doing recon from over here. Just play it real cool like I'm eating, right? A hungry slave. A dumb, hungry, horny slave. When really, I'm sizin' everyone up."'' You glance at the rapidly diminishing platter. ''"You //are// eating."'' ''"Exactly."'' Gant taps one greasy finger against the side of his nose. ''"Nobody suspects a thing."'' Despite yourself, you almost laugh. ''"And you can, uh... maybe talk to some of them, eh? They seem to like you."'' <<if $chp3_privateaudience_dik > 0>> \ His gaze drops pointedly toward your clothed crotch. ''"Wonder why."'' ''"Keep looking there and we're going to have a problem."'' ''"Recon, mate."'' ''"Gant."'' ''"Right. Sorry."'' <</if>> \ \ He stuffs another strip of meat into his mouth, apparently satisfied with the arrangement. ''"Seriously, though. See what they're offering. Might as well make somethin' outta this."'' You glance across the hall. For all his stupidity, the underlying point isn't a bad one. Gant isn't trying to find a way through the walls; he's already thinking about how to live on the other side of the auction. ''"Fair enough."'' You leave him to his extremely convincing reconnaissance and turn back. <<paMapReturn "gant">>

They come toward you gradually, the boldest moving first and the others following once someone else has broken the distance. Whatever hesitation they possess seems less like modesty than anticipation, a willingness to let another woman discover where the limits are before they test them themselves. Their smiles are playful, their attention openly curious, and beneath it all runs that same practiced sense of amusement you've begun to recognize amongst Livia's circle, reminding you that each of the women come from a better family and higher upbringing than you could've ever hoped for yourself. The first touch lands lightly against your arm. Another follows across your shoulder, fingertips passing over the hard line of muscle beneath your skin before retreating again. Soon there are several of them around you, close enough that perfume, wine and feminine warmth begin to mingle in the air. What started as appraisal becomes something more deliberately provocative as confidence spreads between them, each woman emboldened by the reactions of the others. The raven-haired courtesan is the least hesitant. Silver gleams across the close fit of her corset as she slips into the space beside you, jeweled fingers settling upon your shoulder with an ease that suggests she has done this sort of thing before. Her hand travels slowly down your upper arm, feeling rather than merely touching, while her dark eyes remain fixed upon your face as though whatever she finds there interests her more than the body beneath her palm. ''"Just as stout as they say,"'' she murmurs. You aren't certain whether the remark is meant for you or the women around her. Either way, it draws a few soft laughs. Another courtier presses closer from the opposite side, sweet perfume heavy upon her skin as one palm rests flat against your chest, an exotic scent that you've never had the pleasure of coming across before. ''"Dangerous,"'' she decides, repeating the word from before with exaggerated seriousness. Her fingers spread across you as if testing the conclusion for herself. ''"I still don't see it. Not yet."'' Her eyes lock with yours, challenging, a small hand pressed flush against the broad run of your chest. ''"Perhaps you aren't trying hard enough,"'' Someone answers behind her. The touch, the closeness, the intensity. All part of the game that they play, a cruel little dance of power, attraction and control that the nobility must be so well-accustomed to. They whisper behind your back, those that didn't stray from the Duchess's side to stroke and grope you, watching still; soft giggles mixing with the occasional bated breath or exchanged murmur with a servant offering them another glass of wine. From her velvet lounge, Livia watches without intervening. Her posture remains languid, one hand loosely curled around her cup while her crimson eyes track the women circling you. She looks less like a hostess losing control of her guests than a woman observing an experiment proceed exactly as intended. Beside her, the richly tanned woman hasn't joined them. She remains seated where you left her, thick legs crossed comfortably beneath her, following the spectacle with a mild expression that offers little indication of whether she finds it amusing or ridiculous. Once, your eyes catch hers across the bodies gathered around you. She raises one eyebrow so slightly that you might have imagined it. The raven-haired woman drifts closer still. Her shoulder brushes yours, then the soft press of her body follows as she turns partly into you. There is nothing accidental about it. One jeweled hand remains upon your arm while the other traces lightly across your chest, her dark gaze studying every twitch and breath with increasingly obvious interest. ''"You really are very still."'' Her lips curve. ''"Do you always behave so well when women put their hands on you?"'' A murmur of laughter passes around you, but she never looks away. Another woman reaches up to touch the line of your jaw before letting her fingers slide away. Someone behind you brushes a hand over your back. The touches overlap now, light enough to remain playful but constant enough that maintaining awareness of each individual hand becomes increasingly difficult. Warm skin presses in from several directions, silks whispering against you whenever one of them moves. <<if $dominant is "bastard">>\ Every touch feels increasingly like a dare. They want the brute they keep joking about, some flash of hunger or aggression they can laugh over afterward, and the most irritating part is that a piece of you wants to give it to them. Not because they expect it. Because watching that confidence falter beneath your hands might be entertaining in its own right. <<elseif $dominant is "knight">>\ You recognize what they're attempting even as the pressure of bodies and hands makes ignoring it more difficult. They can touch, laugh and test whatever limits Livia permits them, but none of that obliges you to surrender control of yourself. If anything, their certainty that they can pull a reaction from you makes holding your ground feel increasingly important. Is this really what we've been reduced to? <<elseif $dominant is "cowboy">>\ So this is where their little game was headed. You almost have to admire the amount of effort these women are willing to invest in seeing whether a gladiator will embarrass himself for their entertainment. Of course, admiration becomes somewhat harder to maintain when several attractive women are pressed against you and apparently determined to make the joke work. <<else>>\ With every passing moment, it becomes harder to separate their performance from genuine desire. The laughter may be part of the game, but the lingering hands and close attention feel considerably less imaginary. Whether they truly want you or simply want to see what they can make you do may not matter much once your body starts answering. <</if>>\ \ The raven-haired woman seems to notice the change before anyone else. Her smile deepens as her hand slips lower, passing over your stomach and settling briefly at the low run of your waist. She watches you while she does it, slow enough to give you every opportunity to anticipate where she's headed, then lets her jeweled fingers drift across the front of your trousers. The laughter around you softens. For the first time since they approached, the women seem less interested in entertaining one another than in what you might actually do next. She presses closer, dark hair brushing your shoulder as her mouth nears your ear. Her breath is warm against your skin, her voice dropping until it belongs almost entirely to you. ''"Does this bother you?"'' You look past her, where Livia is still watching. The Duchess reclines against crimson velvet with the smallest smile upon her lips, crimson eyes fixed squarely upon yours. Whatever else this has become, the challenge is clear now. The women have crowded you, touched you, laughed around you and pushed until one of them finally found the edge. What happens next is your answer. [[Fuck it. I have to have them.|chp2_privateaudience_livia_fuckit][$pa_livia_court_response = "fuckit"]] <<ci social adult>> [[Control yourself, eyes locked with Livia.|chp2_privateaudience_livia_control][$pa_livia_court_response = "control"]] <<ci social>>

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp2_livia_solo1.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> <<if !$pa_livia_asked_banquet && !$pa_livia_asked_auction && !$pa_livia_asked_husband && !$pa_livia_asked_freedom>>\ \ For the first time, you find yourself alone before Duchess Livia Varro. The banquet remains alive beyond the little pocket of privacy surrounding you, full of clinking glasses, distant laughter and the low swell of conversation, but the sudden absence of her courtiers makes the space feel almost unnaturally still. Their perfume lingers faintly in the warm air, along with the memory of wandering hands and whispered provocations, though Livia herself appears entirely untouched by the commotion she orchestrated. That must've been the intended effect. She settles more comfortably against the crimson velvet, crossing one thick thigh over the other as scarlet hair spills loosely across her pale shoulder. Her wine remains cradled between slender fingers, crimson eyes studying you with that same composed interest she has worn throughout the evening, though without her little court surrounding her the attention feels considerably more direct. For several moments, she simply looks. Then her lips curve. ''"Much better, don't you think?"'' She raises her glass for a slow drink before resting it against her knee. ''"You came here wanting to speak with me, $name. I'm sure you have questions."'' Her gaze remains steadily upon yours. ''"Ask them. You've earned a few honest answers tonight."'' <<else>>\ \ Livia lets the silence settle naturally after her answer, taking another measured sip of wine. She seems in no hurry to dismiss you, her attention remaining comfortably fixed upon you even as the banquet ebbs and flows around the outer edges of your conversation. ''"Well?"'' She asks after a moment, one corner of her mouth lifting. ''"What else would you like to know?"'' \ <</if>>\ \ <<if !$pa_livia_asked_banquet>>\ [[Why did you arrange this banquet?|chp2_privateaudience_livia_discussion_banquet]] <</if>>\ <<if !$pa_livia_asked_auction>>\ [[What do you know of my fate in the auction?|chp2_privateaudience_livia_discussion_auction]] <</if>>\ <<if !$pa_livia_asked_husband>>\ [[Can you tell me about your husband?|chp2_privateaudience_livia_discussion_husband]] <</if>>\ <<if !$pa_livia_asked_freedom>>\ [[Do you believe a gladiator has any chance at freedom?|chp2_privateaudience_livia_discussion_freedom]] <</if>>\ [[That's all I wanted to ask for now.|chp2_privateaudience_livia_discussion_done]]

Fuck it. Enough pretending. This is no room, but a furnace; a sweltering inferno of gold, red, violet, seeping into your very being, the colors pulsing like a rapid heartbeat. Every flicker of torchlight a sigh of heat against your stained flesh, every shadow a hand. Reaching, curling, tugging at the rawness inside of you as every body presses closer, air thick with smoke and perfume. Sweet as decay, heavy as sin. A caress of fire, delicate fingertips slipping over your skin, igniting something primal that stirs deep in your blood. The raven-haired one, she's the most daring, temptation incarnate, supple cleavage pressed against your arm, almost spilling out the top of her silver corset. Her eyes shimmer like polished obsidian, reflecting nothing but your own desire, a deep all-too-human hunger. She moves, fluid, serpentine, a dozen feminine scents filling your nostrils and lungs like a holy incense prepared for worship. <<if $dominant is "bastard">>\ A grin pulls slowly across your mouth. The last scraps of restraint begin to burn away. They wanted hunger from you, something rougher beneath the manners and patient stares, and now every soft hand, every amused whisper and lingering glance feels less like temptation than permission to finally answer them in kind. Your arm slides around the raven-haired woman's waist and draws her firmly against you, silver and silk crushed warm between your flesh and muscle as the laughter nearest you catches and falters. The change in the room thrills you almost as much as the woman herself; for the first time tonight, you're no longer the only one being watched. That alone sends a vicious little thrill through you. Her breath leaves her sharply when you pull her in, dark eyes widening before that surprise melts into something brighter, hotter and far more encouraging. The look she gives you is enough to feed the impulse already roaring through your blood. She isn't recoiling from what she provoked, but savoring it, pressing closer as though delighted to discover there really was something dangerous beneath all that patience. Your hand tightens along the soft curve of her waist while perfume, wine and the heat of her body gather around you, and a vicious satisfaction unfurls in your chest as the game tilts. They wanted to see whether they could make the gladiator bare his teeth, and now that you finally have, a deeper, darker part of you wants very badly to see whether their confidence survives being bitten back. <<elseif $dominant is "cowboy">>\ At some point there stops being much sense in pretending you aren't enjoying this. You turn into the raven-haired woman's touch and let one arm settle around her waist, drawing her closer almost experimentally, curious to see whether all that teasing survives once you actually answer it. Warmth meets you immediately: soft skin, smooth fabric, the lingering sweetness of perfume and wine, her breath catching somewhere between surprise and laughter. For a moment, the absurdity of the whole thing disappears. There's only the woman pressed against you, the heat of the room, the murmur of people suddenly paying much closer attention, and the very simple realization that you want to know what happens if you keep going. So you do. <<elseif $dominant is "knight">>\ You know better. Maybe that's what makes the decision feel so sharp when you finally stop caring. For once, you let the careful distance collapse. Your arm closes around the raven-haired woman's waist and brings her against you, firmer than you intended, the sudden warmth of her body nearly shocking the last rational thought from your head. Perfume fills your lungs, silk slides beneath your fingers, a wholly unfamiliar feeling. Her breath brushes close to your cheek, and every disciplined argument you had a moment ago feels remote. This isn't you, or perhaps it's simply a part of you that has had very little opportunity to speak until now. The realization unsettles you almost as much as it excites you. Still, you don't let go. <<else>>\ The choice happens before you can reduce it to anything sensible. One moment you're standing still beneath their hands, enduring the pressure and laughter. The next, your arm is around the raven-haired woman's waist and she's pulled warmly against you. Her perfume fills your senses at once, mingling with wine, candle smoke and the humid closeness of too many bodies gathered together. The reaction around you changes immediately. Their laughter softens into something more attentive. You can feel it without looking; they wanted to know what would happen if they kept pushing. Now they're learning just that. <</if>>\ \ The raven-haired courtesan's smile returns almost at once. Whatever surprise you gave her lasts only a heartbeat. She leans into the embrace rather than away from it, one jeweled hand sliding up along your shoulder while the other settles against your chest. Her dark hair spills across her cheek as she tilts her face toward yours, close enough that the space between you feels more deliberate than the contact itself. ''"There you are,"'' she murmurs, her voice softer now. The words land somewhere deep. Around you, the other women have become quieter, their teasing momentarily forgotten as they watch the exchange unfold. One laughs beneath her breath when your hand settles more confidently along the raven-haired woman's waist, but even that sound carries less mockery than anticipation. Gradually, she lets you draw her nearer. For several breaths, the entire room seems to narrow around the two of you. The soft pressure of her body, the faint bite of wine upon her breath, the warmth radiating through the thin layers between you; every sensation arrives sharper now that you've stopped pretending not to notice. Her eyes remain fixed on yours, daring you onward in silence even as the smallest curve at the corner of her mouth suggests she already knows exactly how far she intends to let this go. You test that boundary. Your hand begins to stray, following the curve of her waist as though the invitation might extend wherever the heat carries it. Lower. The youthful line of her hip delicate beneath your grip. For a moment it feels as if the room will let you keep going. Then comes the resistance. Jeweled fingers close around your wrist, soft but certain. Other hands find you too, stilling your movement, grasping along your arms, shoulders, back. And although you could fight it, possibly overpower them all, you know in a moment of clarity what that would cost. The game would be over; the one with real stakes, that your life now depends on. ''"Careful."'' Her smile deepens. There's no fear in it. If anything, she sounds amused. Her thumb shifts lightly against your wrist before she guides your hand back to safer ground, never once breaking eye contact. The message is perfectly clear. She wanted a reaction, and she got one, but that doesn't mean the game belongs to you. A low ripple of laughter moves through the women surrounding you, softer than before and considerably more satisfied. Several exchange knowing looks. One whispers something you don't catch. From the lounge, Livia finally speaks, low and languid. ''"There he is."'' Her voice cuts through the room with lazy satisfaction. You look toward her. The Duchess hasn't moved from her comfortable recline, though the interest in her crimson eyes has sharpened considerably. One corner of her mouth is raised as she studies you and the woman still comfortably held against your side. ''"I was beginning to wonder how long you intended to let them torment you."'' ''"Torment?"'' one of the younger nobles protests. Livia gives her a look. ''"My dear, you've been pawing at him for the better part of five minutes."'' That earns another burst of laughter. The raven-haired woman finally eases herself from your grasp, though she does so slowly, allowing her hand to trail from your shoulder as she steps away. Her dark eyes remain upon you for another moment, expression changed now; still playful, but carrying the faint satisfaction of someone who has sated her curiosity. Livia raises two fingers in a loose gesture toward the rest of her companions. ''"Ladies. Please rejoin me once I'm finished talking with $name."'' The little court begins to unravel around her. Cups are collected, skirts smoothed, unfinished jokes exchanged as the women drift away in twos and threes. The raven-haired courtesan is among the last to leave, casting one final dark glimmering look over her shoulder before disappearing back into the banquet. The richly tanned woman rises more leisurely. Up close, she seems even less hurried than the others, adjusting the fall of her clothing before passing between you and the lounge. Her eyes meet yours for only a moment. ''"Good luck."'' The words are delivered with such mild composure that you cannot tell whether she means the conversation ahead of you, the auction waiting beyond it, or something considerably broader. Then she's gone, at least for the time being. And at last, you are left with Duchess Livia Varro. <<set $pa_livia_test = "fuckit">> [[Livia settles her attention fully upon you.|chp2_privateaudience_livia_discussion]]

You hold yourself still, but there's nothing effortless about it. The courtiers circle closer, their fingers grazing your flesh like the whisper of silk on folded steel. This is no room, but a furnace; a sweltering inferno of gold, red, violet, the colors pulsing like a faint heartbeat. Every flicker of torchlight a sigh of heat against your stained flesh, every shadow a hand. Reaching, curling, tugging at every inch of you as each body presses closer, air thick with smoke and perfume. Sweet as decay, heavy as sin. The raven-haired courtesan remains closest of all. Her supple body stays pressed along your side, temptation incarnate, silver corset gleaming whenever the firelight catches its jeweled edges, dark hair spilling loosely around a face made all the more striking by the amusement gathering there. Her fingers still rest against the front of your trousers where she placed them, close enough that even the smallest movement sends another pulse of warmth through you. Those polished obsidian eyes search your face with growing curiosity, watching for some crack in the composure she has spent the last several minutes trying to pry apart. You give her none. <<if $dominant is "bastard">>\ The desire is there, hot and immediate, made worse by the knowledge that she knows it. You could turn into her, catch that narrow waist, drag her flush against you and finally give these spoiled women the reaction they've been begging for. The thought comes easily enough that you can almost feel the shape of it beneath your hands, and for a moment the temptation carries its own vicious appeal. But then you catch the anticipation in their faces. They want you to snap. They want to see the brute beneath the manners, want to laugh and gasp and congratulate themselves for finding exactly the weakness they went looking for. Once you understand that, restraint becomes something sweeter. You let the hunger sit openly in your eyes without giving it command of your hands, refusing them the satisfaction of deciding when and how you bare your teeth. If they want a reaction from you, they'll have to work considerably harder than this. <<elseif $dominant is "cowboy">>\ The woman beside you is beautiful, warm and very deliberately making herself difficult to ignore, while the others seem determined to turn the entire affair into some elaborate contest of nerve. Part of you wants to laugh at the absurdity of it, though even that becomes harder when perfume fills your lungs and the soft press of her body follows every breath you take. Still, wanting to see where something goes doesn't mean you have to follow it wherever it leads. You let yourself enjoy the warmth, the closeness and the little thrill running beneath your skin without reaching for more, almost curious now whether the women will tire of the game before you do. There's something strangely satisfying in simply standing there and letting the moment wash over you without surrendering your footing inside it. <<elseif $dominant is "knight">>\ Every higher instinct tells you that this is precisely the moment when discipline matters. That doesn't make the temptation any weaker. If anything, feeling the raven-haired woman's warmth pressed against you while her hand lingers low makes the restraint feel painfully immediate, a choice renewed with every breath rather than some effortless virtue. You are acutely aware of her softness, the scent of wine on her breath, the faint pressure of jeweled fingers through cloth, and the heat stirring beneath your own skin despite everything you tell yourself. Perhaps that's what really matters. Control means very little when nothing inside you is pulling in another direction. Here, surrounded by laughter, perfume and willing temptation, you understand the difference with uncomfortable clarity. You want her, and some unfamiliar part of you resents the fact that wanting her cannot be enough. Still, whatever these women hope to coax out of you will emerge on your terms or not at all. <<else>>\ You feel the warmth of her body, the faint drag of her breath near your cheek, the teasing pressure of her hand where she knows perfectly well it will be noticed. None of it is imaginary, and pretending otherwise would only make the effort feel more ridiculous. Your body answers even while your posture remains controlled, forcing you to acknowledge that restraint isn't the absence of desire but the decision to resist it. You steady your breathing and allow the feeling to remain exactly where it is, contained. <</if>>\ \ The raven-haired woman's amusement slowly changes. At first, she seems convinced that another touch will be enough. Her jeweled fingers shift lightly against you, tracing the smallest deliberate movement as her mouth draws closer to your ear again. When that still fails to pull your attention away, she tilts her face upward and studies you more carefully, her expression losing some of its playful certainty. ''"Still behaving?"'' She murmurs, making eye contact when you finally look at her. For a heartbeat, the rest of the room seems to soften around the edges. She's close enough that you can see the tiny reflections of fire moving through her dark eyes, the fragrance clinging to her skin overwhelming the perfumes of the women surrounding you. Her lips remain faintly parted in a teasing smile, but there's genuine curiosity behind it now. You neither pull away nor move closer. Instead, your gaze passes beyond her and settles upon Duchess Livia Varro. From her lounge, Livia watches, ruby lips curled into a little, amused smile, eyes dark and knowing, locked tight with yours all the while. There's no mistaking the challenge laid out before you, the game that she expects you to play. She expects you to unravel, to submit, to become a slave to your desires before her. But you refuse to submit. ''"Oh, you want her,"'' She says, voice low and sultry, cutting through the now-hushed whispers of her courtiers. A few soft laughs rise around you. ''"You are a very interesting man, $name."'' She studies you, the curve of her lips widening slightly as she leans back with a languid grace, ''"Most men would have crumbled by now. But not you, it seems."'' The women gathered around you glance back at Livia, unsure whether to press further or retreat. ''"Ladies,"'' She murmurs, beckoning them back with an incline of her chin. One-by-one, they quietly retreat and filter back to her side, the raven-haired beauty lingering the longest against you, staring up into your eyes with a slight cant of her plush lips. Even when she strides back to rejoin the Duchess, from the corner of her gaze, those hips sway side to side, tempting you. ''"Shame."'' There's enough humor in the word to make it difficult to tell whether she means your restraint or the fact that she failed to break it. But you clear your senses and focus; your life could depend upon it. From the lounge, the richly tanned woman has watched the entire exchange without ever rising to join it. She sits exactly where she began, one thick leg crossed neatly over the other, cup resting comfortably against her fingers. Her composed expression betrays little, though when the raven-haired courtesan finally steps back, the slightest curve touches one corner of her mouth. Then, Livia raises her glass in a slow salute. ''"I do owe you a conversation. Ladies, please rejoin me once my talk with $name is over."'' The richly tanned woman rises last. She sets her cup aside and smooths the fall of her clothing with unhurried hands, seemingly no more affected by the spectacle than she was when it began. As she passes near you, however, her gaze flicks once toward the direction the raven-haired courtesan disappeared before returning to your face. ''"Impressive restraint."'' Her voice carries the same mild, unreadable tone you've come to expect from her in such a short amount of time. You aren't entirely certain whether she's complimenting you. A faint hint of amusement reaches her eyes. ''"Good luck."'' Before you can decide which remark deserves an answer, she's already moving away, disappearing amongst the tables and torchlight with none of the theatrical flourish of the women who left before her. At last, the space around the lounge becomes quiet. The perfume of the courtiers still hangs in the air, mingling with wine, smoke and the lingering warmth beneath your skin, but the hands and whispering laughs are gone. Only Duchess Livia Varro remains, reclining against crimson velvet with an expression that suggests she has learned precisely as much from the exercise as she hoped to. ''"Now,"'' she says, lifting her glass once more. ''"You wanted to talk."'' <<set $pa_livia_test = "control">> [[Her eyes settle fully upon you.|chp2_privateaudience_livia_discussion]]

''"Why did you arrange this banquet?"'' Livia's expression softens with faint amusement, as though the question reveals more than you intended. She settles deeper into the crimson velvet and turns her wineglass lazily between her fingers, watching the dark crimson liquid cling to the sides like clotting blood to a silvered artery before properly answering you. ''"Arrange //this// banquet? Dear, gatherings like this are hardly unusual during Crathal. Auctions, victories, marriages, appointments... give the nobility an excuse and someone will find a reason to fill a hall with wine and expensive food."'' Her mouth curves slightly. ''"People like us are expected to entertain, to be seen, to remind everyone from the highest house to the lowliest beggar that our houses remain prosperous enough to do so. In this realm, perception takes on its own sort of reality. Its own power."'' Her gaze drifts briefly across the chamber beyond you, where nobles and gentry cluster beneath torchlight and servants weave between them carrying metal trays that men of a different, simpler variety shed blood, sweat and tears, dying, toiling to obtain. ''"But pleasure is only part of it. Men and women discuss business when they drink. Families feel one another out. Alliances are strengthened, rivalries softened, favors exchanged. A gathering such as this lets a hundred small negotiations take place without anyone having to admit they came here to negotiate in the first place."'' The humor in her expression sharpens as her eyes return to you. ''"And tonight, of course, there is another attraction."'' She gestures toward you with the rim of her glass. ''"You and the other gladiators will be sold soon. Anyone considering a purchase would be foolish not to look beforehand. A man can appear impressive on a ledger and considerably less so once he's standing in front of you. Others reveal qualities no record could have predicted. Even gladiators have their own court to navigate."'' Her crimson eyes travel over you again, slower this time, though the appraisal feels different from the inspection earlier. More thoughtful than hungry. ''"So we eat, drink, flatter one another, gossip about people who aren't present, and quietly decide how much various lives may be worth once the bidding begins. It sounds uglier when said plainly, doesn't it?"'' <<if $dominant is "bastard">>\ You almost appreciate the lack of pretense. Whatever else these people are, Livia at least seems willing to call the game what it is. The knowledge that half the smiling faces around you may already be estimating your value sits bitterly enough, but knowing how the game is played has always been preferable to being the only man at the table who doesn't understand the rules. <<elseif $dominant is "knight">>\ The admission settles uneasily in you. They can dress the evening in velvet, music and wine, but beneath it lies the same transaction waiting at the auction block. Livia's honesty makes her easier to respect than those who would pretend otherwise, though it does little to make the truth itself more palatable. <<elseif $dominant is "cowboy">>\ Put that way, the whole affair begins to make a little more sense. The expensive food and easy laughter are real enough, but beneath them runs something far more practical: people weighing opportunities, sizing one another up and deciding what, or who, might prove useful later. You may not like being part of the merchandise, but at least now you've heard the truth spoken openly by the host herself. <<else>>\ Hearing her explain it so plainly strips some of the glamour from the room. The banquet remains beautiful, but now it's easier to see the machinery moving beneath it: wealth, reputation, curiosity and commerce all wrapped together beneath music and torchlight. You can't decide whether her honesty makes the reality easier to accept or merely harder to ignore now that you've been made fully aware. <</if>>\ \ ''"And you?"'' You ask after a moment, ''"What do you think of my odds?"'' Livia studies you over the rim of her glass. For once, she doesn't answer immediately. Her attention moves across your face, your shoulders, the way you hold yourself before her, lingering with the thoughtful concentration of someone revisiting every impression you've made since entering the hall. Whatever amusement remains in her expression never quite disappears, but something more serious settles beneath it. ''"Better than most."'' You wait, expecting more. Livia takes another sip of wine. ''"Much better, if you learn quickly."'' Her eyes gleam as she lowers the glass. ''"Strength will make people notice you, $name. Winning will make them remember you. But men who understand the room they're standing in tend to survive considerably longer than men who only understand the arena. Most professions extend beyond the field itself. Business is business, and vocations all share the same ugly truths about life."'' Livia reclines again, apparently content to leave the thought where it falls. [[You consider her answer before continuing.|chp2_privateaudience_livia_discussion]] <<set $pa_livia_asked_banquet = true>>\

''"What do you know of my fate in the auction?"'' Livia's expression turns thoughtful rather than surprised. ''"Mm. A reasonable question."'' She rolls the stem of her wineglass between two fingers, studying you for a moment before continuing. Her tone remains calm, almost conversational, which only makes the bluntness of it harder to ignore. ''"The auction itself is simple. You'll be brought forward, inspected, discussed and bid upon by people who know considerably more about the process than you do. Every bidder has their own goals, expectations, preferences."'' Livia's eyes pass briefly over your frame before returning to your face. ''"There's no dignity in pretending otherwise. Buyers want to know what they're purchasing, and a gladiator is an expensive purchase. Strength matters. Discipline matters. Temperament matters. So does whether a man looks likely to survive long enough to justify the money spent on him. Any investment is a careful decision, after all."'' She pauses just long enough for the words to settle. ''"In your case, I don't think the question is whether you'll be bought. The more interesting question is who decides you're worth having, and what they intend to do with you afterward. Dangerous men have plenty of use outside of the sands..."'' You glance beyond her toward the banquet hall, where the evening continues in soft laughter, music and candlelight. Your thoughts can't help but wander. ''"Someone here?"'' Livia follows your gaze, lips quirked, ''"Quite possibly."'' ''"Several people in this room have already noticed you. A few are merely curious. Others are weighing possibilities. Some will never bid themselves, but they know people who might. That's part of why this afternoon matters more than it appears to."'' <<if $dominant is "bastard">>\ The thought changes the room slightly. Every lingering stare, every whispered conversation and every pleasant smile could conceal a calculation of its own. You don't particularly enjoy being treated like merchandise, but if these people are already deciding what you're worth, there's no sense letting them make that decision without your influence. If the game has started, you'd rather know you're playing it. <<elseif $dominant is "knight">>\ The certainty of it sits badly with you. Knowing that someone in this room may soon place a price on your life makes the laughter around you seem thinner than before, though anger won't change what waits ahead. For now, understanding the process may be the closest thing you have to control over it. <<elseif $dominant is "cowboy">>\ It isn't a pleasant thought, but at least it's useful information. Somewhere amongst all the wine, flirting and noble gossip, people may already be deciding whether you're worth their coin. You can't stop them from making that calculation. <<else>>\ The idea is difficult to separate from the faces you've already seen tonight. Any one of them might simply be another guest, or someone carefully considering what your future should cost. The uncertainty makes the banquet feel less carefree. <</if>>\ \ Your attention returns to Livia. [[Are you considering purchasing me?|chp2_privateaudience_livia_discussion_auction2]]

''"Can you tell me about your husband? You mentioned him being important."'' Livia doesn't answer immediately. Her fingers continue turning the stem of her glass, though some of the easy amusement leaves her expression. She studies the wine for a moment before looking back to you, one brow lifting faintly as though reconsidering exactly how much she intends to say. ''"You picked up on that, did you?"'' There's a trace of humor in her voice, but considerably less warmth. ''"Very well. My husband is Lucius Varro. He was born into one of Cradle's oldest patrician families, the sort that keeps records of which grandfather held which office and expects the rest of the city to be suitably impressed. His father was a senator. His father's father before him. Lucius was raised with every expectation that he would eventually follow."'' She takes a measured drink, her expression briefly hardening. ''"Unfortunately, politics was never glamorous enough for him. He wanted the Legions first. Glory, command, stories people would repeat when he entered a room. In fairness, he was promising when he was young. Educated, well-connected, ambitious, handsome enough to convince people that confidence and competence were the same thing."'' Her lips pull into a thin smile, ''"A dangerous combination in any man, but particularly one who has spent his entire life being assured that greatness is his inheritance."'' The words come easily at first, sharpened by years of familiarity, but as she continues you notice that her fingers have stopped turning the glass, the pressure in her grip building. ''"We married young. Far too young, in hindsight. He had only begun his career and I was still foolish enough to believe that ambition, properly encouraged, inevitably became achievement. Then came his long-awaited chance at glory."'' Livia's gaze drifts beyond you toward some distant point in the banquet hall, though you doubt she's seeing anything there. Her lips tighten slightly at the thought, and she does little to mask the irritation from you although you're sure she's well-capable of masking her emotions with a practiced smile. No, she doesn't feel the need to do so before you or before her courtiers and friends, from what you've so far seen. [[Legate Varro, his Third Legion, and the Lost Quarter.|chp2_privateaudience_livia_discussion_husband1]]

''"Do you believe a gladiator has any real chance at freedom?"'' Livia doesn't answer immediately. She turns the question over with more care than some of the others, red eyes lowering toward the wine resting between her fingers before returning to you with a thoughtful, almost knowing expression. ''"Real freedom? That depends on what you mean by it."'' She shifts against the crimson velvet, one leg folding comfortably over the other. ''"If you mean whether a gladiator can earn his release, then yes. It has happened before and it will happen again. Men survive long enough, win often enough, become valuable enough, and eventually there are arrangements that can be made. A successful gladiator can earn coin, favors, patrons, admirers. The very best become celebrities in their own right. They attend feasts, collect gifts, sleep with people far above the station they were born into, and find doors opening that would remain closed to most free men."'' A faint smile touches her lips. ''"Cradle admires winners, $name. Sometimes enough to forgive where they came from. But if you're asking whether freedom simply arrives because a man deserves it, then no. I don't believe that at all. Do you? Look around at the world before you."'' Her gaze settles more firmly upon you, turning her glass between her fingers. ''"There are men who spend their entire lives waiting for someone else to recognize that they deserve better. The world is full of lesser men like that. Not lesser because of their birth. I've met noblemen worth less than the servants carrying their wine. Lesser because they allow circumstance to define the limits of what they can become, and then resent everyone else for failing to rescue them from those limits."'' Her tone remains composed, but the conviction behind it is unmistakable. ''"A man who wants more has to reach for it. Sometimes that means fighting, or enduring hardship. It might mean making himself so useful, so admired or so difficult to ignore that keeping him beneath everyone else becomes more trouble than raising him up. Winners like being surrounded by winners, after all. That's how they stay at the top."'' She pauses, her lips curling into a smile, dark and knowing. Slowly, she lifts her wine glass to take a slow, sensual sip with her red mouth plush against the brim. Her tone is somewhere between a tease and a challenge. ''"No one ever said it was fair."'' For a few moments, you say nothing. The banquet continues beyond the little space surrounding Livia's lounge, bright with wine and laughter, nobles moving freely between tables while servants drift silently through them. Somewhere beyond these walls, men sleep in cells beneath locks they do not own, while above them others are born into names and fortunes large enough that they may never once have to wonder whether they're truly free. The word itself suddenly feels less simple than it did when you asked the question. You'd always imagined freedom as something that could be possessed or taken away, like a key held in one man's hand and denied to another. Perhaps that remains true in the most immediate sense. A slave wears chains; a free man does not. One answers to an owner while the other is supposed to belong to himself. But even amongst the free... [[How many men truly live without someone's hand around some part of their life?|chp2_privateaudience_livia_discussion_freedom1]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp2_livia_solo.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> ''"Very well."'' Livia settles deeper into the crimson velvet, seemingly satisfied that your questions have run their course. The wine glass that she's been nursing throughout your conversation lifts once more for a measured sip, her crimson eyes remaining upon you over its silvered rim. ''"I hope I've given you something useful tonight, $name. Answers are easy enough to offer. What someone does with them tends to be considerably more interesting."'' Her gaze drifts briefly toward the banquet beyond you, where music, laughter and quiet dealings continue beneath the warm glow of torchlight. Then she looks back, studying you with renewed curiosity. She gestures lightly toward the room with her glass. ''"So tell me one thing before you return to all of that. What do you think of this world you've stumbled into? The arena, the auction, these people and their games. You've only taken the first few steps, but I imagine you've seen enough to form an opinion."'' <<link "It's a lot to adjust to.">>\ <<set $pa_livia_outlook = "cowboy">>\ <<gainCowboy>>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_livia_discussion_response">>\ <</link>> <<ci cowboy archetype>> <<link "Fuckin' love it.">>\ <<set $pa_livia_outlook = "bastard">>\ <<gainBastard>>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_livia_discussion_response">>\ <</link>> <<ci bastard archetype>> <<link "It disgusts me, but I'm no fool.">>\ <<set $pa_livia_outlook = "knight">>\ <<gainKnight>>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_livia_discussion_response">>\ <</link>> <<ci knight archetype>>

There's something at the edge of your attention. At first, you mistake it for another voice in the crowd. Another flash of silk between shoulders, a pair of painted eyes lingering too long before turning elsewhere. The banquet has become a blur of such things: wine and perfume, laughter sharpened by gossip, musicians struggling beneath the weight of conversation. Everywhere you look, someone is watching someone else. Yet, this feels different. A faint prickling runs along your forearms. The hairs at the back of your neck rise, and when you turn to search for the source, nothing obvious presents itself. The feast continues around you exactly as before. Servants weave between couches with silver trays held high. Noblemen bark laughter over some private cruelty or decadent pleasure. Still, your attention keeps drifting away towards the far edge of the chamber. It's a narrow recess between two marble columns, where torchlight fails to quite reach. You hadn't noticed it before, or at least not as vividly as you see it and //feel it// now. A crimson curtain hangs there, heavy and nearly motionless, its folds darkening toward black where they disappear into shadow. Nothing marks the alcove as important. No guards stand beside it. No servants hover nearby. Compared to the jeweled bodies, roaring hearths and lavish displays filling the rest of the hall, it's almost aggressively plain. And yet you find yourself moving toward it. One step at first, then another. The change is gradual enough that you scarcely notice it happening. The banquet doesn't grow quieter, not truly, but its sounds begin to lose their edges. Laughter dulls into a distant murmur. Music softens until the strings seem to come from somewhere far below you. Even the press of bodies appears to loosen, nobles and slaves shifting past like figures glimpsed through smoke. The room seems to recede around you as you keep walking. The air near the alcove is cooler, free of the heat trapped beneath so many bodies and burning lamps. Your gaze settles on the curtain, then on the strip of darkness beneath it. Someone's there. You know it before you see anything, stopping within arm's reach. For the first time since you began crossing the room, the strange pull relents. The banquet rushes faintly back into your awareness behind you; glass, music, voices, all of it waiting just a few paces away. Your fingers curl around the edge of the crimson fabric. For half a heartbeat, you hesitate. [[Then, you draw it aside.|chp2_privateaudience_novia1]]

The only way that you lose control is when you concede control to others. Now is the time to keep your beliefs pure and true. Now is the time to place true and ultimate belief in yourself and your own abilities. Because as soon as you sacrifice the power to affect your own future on the altar of self-doubt… Well, that //is// surrender. That is death. These feelings that rise up within you, this visceral inflamed energy, it’s yours. You can use it to conquer every single day, to embrace life for what it is, or you can wallow in self-pity and give up. It’s your choice. That’s why you take action. Because you realize that anything less would be a waste. Anything less than waging total war against apathy would be a betrayal of the self. You’re here to roll the dice of life. Not to make concessions, or to play someone else’s game. Perhaps that’s what so many people are afraid of: the potentiality of true freedom. [[She laughs at you; a soft, tittering sound.|chp3_dream1]]

Your life has never been yours alone. It has always been shaped by others, for better or for worse. From your abandonment at birth to your adoption and apprenticeship with Frederick… Old Frederick. You miss the old man now; he, perhaps more than anyone else, has helped to shape your destiny. After all, you wouldn’t be attending Highrock right now without his interference. While your life is punctuated by choices and decisions that you’d like to think were yours and yours alone, you can’t deny that you’ve been guided along the way. Guided– or influenced? Swayed. It happens all of the time. You saw lives that you didn’t want to replicate: alcoholics, drug addicts, criminals and slaves. And you saw others that inspired you. It stands to reason that if people can influence you, then perhaps your environment can too. The food that you eat… the words that you hear. There could be something in the air. Magick, spells, curses. Whispers from beyond the void. Now that you’re here, beneath the everflowing glow of Dosmera, you can only wonder whether there’s influence in your life that has been less… obvious. Less forthright in its appearance. Forces unseen that might’ve swayed your development or aided in your decision-making. Is it possible that they’re benevolent– or could they be aligned against you? The wizard, you think. Your meeting with Mearesdes must have inadvertently (or purposefully) have opened up a new chapter in your life. And this dream is only one of the consequences. But the final choice is yours… always yours. It has to be. [[She laughs at you; a soft, tittering sound.|chp3_dream1]]

You can’t quite put your finger on it, but you know that there’s something out there. Something beyond the veil that manipulates the fate of men, including your own. Not everyone in Cradle believes in Gods or Fate. However, there are more forces at play in the world than the simple choice of man. You know that much– you feel it at the very core of your being to be true. Magick is real, you’ve seen it with your own eyes. That wizard, he bears the taint of forces beyond this world: the sorcerer Mearesdes, whether half-man or daemon, draws upon a power that must originate from elsewhere. It can’t come solely from within. It must be connected to… ''Dosmera.'' You look up at her again, staring in amazement at her deep violet glow and vibrant, swirling exterior. She must be hiding something within. Something dark, deep, powerful. The cults may be right, you imagine… She is the key to something greater. You can only wonder what it’ll take to unlock her secrets. [[She laughs at you; a soft, tittering sound.|chp3_dream1]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/succubus1.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> <<set $chp3_dream_where to false>><<set $chp3_dream_who to false>>\ You swivel until your gaze finds her, senses already numb, features heavy with a sort of deep, heavenly satisfaction as soon as you lay eyes upon her. ''“I missed you.”'' <<set $chp3_dream_what to false>> It’s your own voice that you hear, yet you don’t even remember uttering the words. Her lips curl, as plush and perfectly poised as you remember, only a sliver of fangs showing past the stretch of her mouth: ''“I missed you too, $name. My only regret is that our first meeting was so brief, so fleeting…”'' Long, slender fingers of the softest lavender hue shift through her decadent black hair, teasing through it and gently threading a few of the dark, silky strands past her own lips. She sucks on her hair and the bottom of a dainty digit, considering you all the while with a playful cant to her sultry feminine visage. ''“Mmph… I have a confession, $name. I need to tell you why I brought you here. Can I? Pretty please?”'' Her deliciously dark ebon-eyes flicker, long lashes downcast as she studies you. Gradually, with the silent grace that would match the finest of felines, the daemoness draws forth atop her long, lissome legs, voluptuous body swaying with every step. It’s a truly //tantalizing// sight. ''“Yes.”'' It’s your voice again, yet you’re stuck still, breath incredibly shallow in your throat. There she stands immediately before you, practically face-to-face. And your body, you’ve never felt so incredibly relaxed; comfortably numb, though your loins burn with your own lust. Your mind is a haze, but even now, you have an inkling of sense about you… Enough to realize that this woman can manipulate your mind, your body, your soul if you let her. The only question is whether you have enough strength to fight back. ''Or'' whether you even want to. ''“I want you,”'' She whispers, though her voice sounds close enough to tickle your ears. Her scent is heavy, thick, rich and feminine: that of a woman in heat. Her pheromones are truly heady, her form lavish, her fine-featured face amongst the most beautiful that you’ve ever seen. But you can only wonder what it is that she //truly// wants from you. [[Dominate her. (18+)|chp3_dream1_dom]] <<ci stat adult>> [[Resist her.|chp3_dream1_resist]] <<ci stat>> [[Submit completely. (18+)|chp3_dream1_sub]] <<ci adult>>

<center><a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText" target="_blank"> <img src="images/supportorphan.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></a> ''Orphan'' couldn’t exist without the faith of my Patrons. In ancient Rome, a *patronus* was an individual of wealth and influence who supported their *cliens* and in return: loyalty, action, and glory flowed upward. Patronage wasn’t charity. It was a bond. A pact. We’re entering a new age where this ancient truth matters again. If you believe in ''Orphan''; player-driven storytelling, dangerous choices, and tales of Men who defy the impossible, then cast your vote. Support me. The world needs more anabolic tales and High Thumos adventures. We still need stories that sharpen the will and stir the blood. Your support fuels this work: not slop, but something worthy of your name and memory. Together, we can soak in the glory of Dosmera. I'll do my best to make the journey worthwhile. In December, we successfully published two major chapters: ''Chapter 3.31 — First Contact (Dec 13, 2025)'' 🩸 +60k new words • 🖼️ 14 new images • 🗺️ Interactive Ludus Map ⚔️ Spar the Champion • 🖤 Tanae “Raven” Balcony Scene (Uncut+) ''Chapter 3.32 — The Price of Freedom (Dec 31, 2025)'' 🗝️ +50k new words • 🎭 10+ new images • 🔀 Alternative Endings 🗡️ Action-packed escape attempts (multiple routes, multiple outcomes) ⛓️ Consequences: capture, dungeon, death & escape variations ''Like what you've seen? Then lend me your support!'' <<link "Enter the Credits →">>\ <<goto "credits">>\ <</link>> </center> \ <<bgmstop 6>> \

<<if $intro_tome>> ''''Fuck that.'''' You don’t know where it comes from, but you can feel it: a sublime energy flowing through you. Like a gust of wind stirring forbidden pages, a vision flickers before you of an open tome, an oddly familiar one; it’s the unreadable book that you found within Mearesdes’ lair. Somehow, through forces far beyond your own understanding, it’s empowering you. Perhaps laying your eyes upon the ancient script was enough to ascertain its magickal properties. All you know for now is that the daemoness’ effect on you is fading rapidly like a quickly wilting plant. And you want revenge. ''“Does that usually work?”'' You wonder aloud, drawing forward a single step, which serves as enough to give the daemon pause. Her ebon eyes bore into yours, dark and difficult-to-read, but you can make out the low register of understanding that flickers across her face. That slight curve of her plump, burnished lips lowers into a bit of a pout as she observes you, her voice sultry and soft still, but decidedly measured: ''“Mmph… Is your opinion really so low of me, $name? You don’t need to play so hard to get.”'' ''“I don’t like being taken advantage of."'' You retort brusquely, ''"Do you?”'' [[You surge through the dreamscape, until your hand lay clasped about her neck.|chp3_dream1_dom1]] <<elseif $mind >= 2>> ''''Fuck that.'''' This creeping numbness, your dulled senses, the blanket that lay over your mind: you didn’t ask for any of it. No, it was imposed upon you. So you resist–you fight! It’s the only thing that you know how to do. Submission isn’t an option, not when it’s forced upon you. There’s an immense pressure at the forefront of your mind, laying heavily against your lobes, trying to keep you contained, calm, docile like a cute pet. You’re stronger than that, more willful, disobedient. You impose yourself upon others, not the other way around. Slowly, the daemoness’ effects begin to wither away like a quickly wilting plant. And through the silence, you realize that she has been studying you, ebon eyes boring into yours, dark and dangerous. ''“Does that typically work?”'' You wonder aloud, unable to help yourself. That slight curve of her plump, burnished lips lowers into a bit of a pout as she observes you, her voice sultry and soft still, but decidedly measured: ''“Mmph… Is your opinion really so low of me, $name? You don’t need to play so hard to get.”'' But you want revenge. ''“I don’t like being taken advantage of. Do you?”'' [[You surge through the dreamscape, until your hand lay clasped about her neck.|chp3_dream1_dom1]] <<else>> <<set $chp3_dream_dom to false>> ''''Fuck that.'''' Blood pumping, you try to take a step forward. But as quickly as that hot flash of emotion came upon you, it dissipates, leaving you feeling comfortably numb; dulled, dumb, complacent, like a soft blanket being laid over your senses. There's a subtle realization in the back of your mind: if fighting back was even a possibility, your mind isn't strong enough. You lack the mental will, the clearness, the clarity of action. No, there's an immense pressure at the forefront of your mind. And it's winning, laying so heavily against your lobes, keeping you contained. And now you're her good, docile pet. Through the silence, you realize that she has been studying you, ebon eyes boring into yours, dark and dangerous. ''"Mmph… Is your opinion really so low of me, $name? You don’t need to play so hard to get.”'' ''"I sensed your... reluctance. But trust me, $name. I always get what I want."'' [[Your defenses crushed, you sink into a servile state.|chp3_dream1_sub1]]<</if>>

It happens in the blink of an eye, but it feels so right, your rough fingers clasped tight about the sides of her trachea, passively applying pressure to her pleasantly slender, sensual neck. You want to kiss it, lick it, bite it, but that can wait. <<set $chp3_dream_dom to true>> First, you need to set the record straight. ''“I don’t know who you are… //what// you are… but you don’t control me.”'' Above your iron grip and clenched digits, her face is a subtle mask. Even with her powers forfeited by your domination, you can recognize just how beautiful she is. Those dark eyes crease ever so slightly, thick lashes downturned, betraying her mild surprise and low simmering agitation. She didn't expect this to happen. ''"I don't know what this is..."'' You turn a look over your surroundings slowly. The sky above is a dark, violet smear, neither dusk nor dawn; a gauzy veil torn over the starks that pulse like dying embers. Dosmera glows bright, her moons lingering close, like children chained to their mother. Your fingers twitch about the daemon's throat. ''"A dream. Another realm. Hell. Wherever I am... whatever this is, I'm intent on mastering it. Mastering you."'' She blinks at you, unmoving, throat tensed beneath your taut fingers, her expression slowly straining. You exhale a hot breath, your head and body running warm, pulsing as you exert yourself on the daemoness before you. [[Question her.|chp3_dream_ask]] [[Fuck it, get right to the fun part.|chp3_dream1_dom2]] <<sfx "swoosh" 0.7>>

<<if $intro_tome>> <<set $chp3_dream_resist to true>> ''Fuck that.'' You don’t know where it comes from, but you can feel it: a sublime energy flowing through you. And like a gust of wind, a vision flickers before you of an open tome, an oddly familiar one; it’s the unreadable book that you found within Mearesdes’ lair. Somehow, through forces far beyond your own understanding, it’s empowering you. Perhaps laying your eyes upon the ancient script was enough to ascertain its magickal properties. All you know for now is that the daemoness’ effect on you is fading rapidly like a quickly wilting plant. And you feel capable. //Powerful.// ''“Does that usually work?”'' You wonder aloud, drawing forward a single step, which serves as enough to give the daemon pause. Her ebon eyes bore into yours, dark and difficult-to-read, but you can make out the low register of understanding that flickers across her feminine features. That slight curve of her plump, burnished lips lowers into a bit of a pout as she observes you, her voice sultry and soft still, but decidedly measured: ''“Mmph… Is your opinion really so low of me, $name? You don’t need to play so hard to get.”'' ''“That's //enough//. Silence, daemon."'' You retort brusquely, ''"It's time for you to answer me.”'' [[You impose your will upon her.|chp3_dream_ask]] <<elseif $mind >= 1>> <<set $chp3_dream_resist to true>> ''Fuck that.'' This creeping numbness, your dulled senses, the blanket that lay over your mind: you didn’t ask for any of it. No, it was imposed upon you. So you resist–you fight! It’s the only thing that you know how to do. Submission isn’t an option, not when it’s forced upon you. There’s an immense pressure at the forefront of your mind, laying heavily against your lobes, trying to keep you contained, calm, docile like a cute pet. You’re stronger than that, more willful, disobedient. You impose yourself upon others, not the other way around. Slowly, the daemoness’ effects begin to wither away like a quickly wilting plant. And through the silence, you realize that she has been studying you, ebon eyes boring into yours, dark and dangerous. ''“Does that typically work?”'' You wonder aloud, unable to help yourself. That slight curve of her plump, burnished lips lowers into a bit of a pout as she observes you, her voice sultry and soft still, but decidedly measured: ''“Mmph… Is your opinion really so low of me, $name? You don’t need to play so hard to get.”'' ''“That's //enough//. Silence, daemon."'' You retort brusquely, ''"It's time for you to answer me.”'' [[You impose your will upon her.|chp3_dream_ask]] <<else>> <<set $chp3_dream_resist to false>> You //want// to resist. This creeping numbness, your dulled senses, the blanket that lay over your mind: you didn’t ask for any of it. No, it was imposed upon you. Resistance... well, it's becoming a more and more distant thought. Suddenly, you //need// to see her. But you blink, and she's gone. At least, it appears that way at first. The sky above is a dark, violet smear, neither dusk nor dawn; a gauzy veil torn over stars that pulse like dying embers. Dosmera glows bright, her moons lingering close, like children chained to their mother. You stare out in awe, though a shiver shortly draws you back towards her presence. She's an outline at first, drawn from the darkest ink, a sculptor's fingers pressed into flesh too flawless to form. Her presence pulls at the very marrow in your bones. It's a scary feeling, being at the complete mercy of someone, something, that you don't know or fully understand. Yet, in that same breath, it can be so damn exhilarating. ''"You must have... questions, boy. Don't you?"'' [[Your head feels so heavy...|chp3_dream_ask]]<</if>>

<<set $chp3_dream_sub to true>> Your chest tightens, yet you are unafraid. Perhaps her powers have already worked their magic on you. Was it even a conscious choice, this pitiful submission? Or was the decision pre-determined long before you awoke in this distant realm? It doesn't matter now. She's getting what she wants. And you're going to //love// it. But you blink, and she's gone. At least, it appears that way at first. The sky above is a dark, violet smear, neither dusk nor dawn; a gauzy veil torn over stars that pulse like dying embers. Dosmera glows bright, her moons lingering close, like children chained to their mother. You stare out in awe, though a shiver shortly draws you back towards her presence. She's an outline at first, drawn from the darkest ink, a sculptor's fingers pressed into flesh too flawless to form. Her presence pulls at the very marrow in your bones. It's a scary feeling, being at the complete mercy of someone, something, that you don't know or fully understand. Yet, in that same breath, it can be so damn exhilarating. [[She knows you've submitted. She can taste it.|chp3_dream1_sub1]]

''"I knew you would come around, $name. One way or another."'' Her voice slithers into you, though her lips do not part. You do not hear words; you feel them, a susurrus thrat threads it way into the synapses of your mind. //Why resist?// Isn't it easier to fall? You watch her approach, marvellous skin gleaming, the faintest luminesence, as if it has absorbed centuries of moonlight. Each movement is deliberate and agonizingly slow, like the drawing of a blade meant to savor its victim's surrender. //Have you surrendered?// Is that what this is? She is close now, close enough that the warmth of her presence licks at the edges of your being. Close enough that you question whether you'll be able to return. Her hand moves at last, sliding down your parched throat, down your chest, stopping where your heart would be. ''"It was a good choice. Even if ultimately inevitable..."'' Her praise fills you with confidence, your heart thumping faster beneath the slender sway of her delicately-formed hand, lavender flesh feminine and fair. You can feel it, hear it in your ears. Everything is wonderful. This moment, is wonderful. ''"Since you've been so lovely, $name. Do you have any questions you'd like to ask me? I know that you're a very curious boy."'' [[Oh, of course! So many curious questions.|chp3_dream_ask]]

<<if $chp3_dream_dom>> You've adapted quickly to the situation: your control over her is almost absolute. Lifting a finger isn't even necessary. Your mind does the work, bending the daemoness to your will. But for now, you decide to lessen your hold over her. Yes, you should use this opportunity to try and get some answers from her before you have your fun. Your tensed fingers slowly relax, loosening about her soft neck--a symbolic gesture if anything. She draws in a tight breath, peering at you steadily from where she stands before you, more or less prostrate. ''"Now that we've found this //understanding//... Be a good girl and answer a few questions for me."'' There's a flicker across her decadent, daemonic visage. Indignation perhaps. She must not be used to a mortal addressing her as such. You revel in the moment, before drawing in a breath and conducting your interrogation. <<elseif $chp3_dream_sub>> You swoon where you stand for the daemoness, her very presence filling you with continued warmth, comfort, confidence. It's an incredible feeling; one of secure, focused attachment and contented bliss. Yes, as long as she's here, you're in paradise. Oh right, questions. You //do// want to learn about her. Such a divine being. She //is// worthy of worship. In fact, she's //all// that you can think about. Right now, and perhaps forever... You can only imagine what she has in store for you. <<elseif $chp3_dream_resist>> You didn't expect to find yourself here once more, confronted with a force beyond your understanding. But maybe things can be... discerned. You might as well ask some questions while you have the chance. You //need// answers if you're ever going to understand your place and purpose here. <<else>> It's hard to say whether this is real, or a dream gone awry. You're confronted with a force beyond your understanding, one that you can't control. But perhaps things can be... discerned from this. You might as well ask some questions while you have the chance. Maybe it'll help you figure out what to make of all of this. <</if>> <<if $chp3_dream_where is false>>[[Where is this place? Is this... real?|chp3_dream_ask_where]]<</if>><<if $chp3_dream_who is false>> [[Who and what are you?|chp3_dream_ask_who]]<</if>> <<if $chp3_dream_what is false>>[[What exactly do you want with me?|chp3_dream_ask_what]]<</if>> <<if $chp3_dream_dom>>[[Now, I'm REALLY going to show you who's in control.|chp3_dream1_dom2]] <<elseif $chp3_dream_sub>>[[My head feels heavy...|chp3_dream1_sub2]] <<else>>[[Let me out of here.|chp3_dream_continue]] <</if>>

<<set $chp3_dream_where to true>> The world is an uncertain smear, and you are stranded at its center. A realm that neither breathes nor sleeps but hums with some low and ancient resonance. It's just you and her, beneath the all-encompassing ephemeral glow of Dosmera; her moons and that violet sky streaked with ash and veins of black. You can't help but wonder what lays beyond it all, out there, across vast stretches of empty space and lonely darkness. <<if $chp3_dream_dom>> You tighten your hold on her presence, that fragile tether of influence humming like wire strung too tight. Her form flickers—momentarily—but remains bound beneath your will. ''"Where is this place?"'' Your voice is low, commanding. She purrs in response, licking her lips like a cat savoring the cornered mouse. ''"You're clever to ask. This is a space between. Between your waking world and mine. A corridor between will and surrender."'' You narrow your eyes. ''"Then why bring me here?"'' ''"Because only here,"'' she breathes, ''"can truths bleed without restraint."'' [[You push deeper. She will give you more.|chp3_dream_ask]] <<elseif $chp3_dream_sub>> Your knees nearly buckle as she glides closer, one soft breath of hers enough to still your thoughts. She barely whispers, and you hang on each word like gospel. ''"Where is this place?"'' you ask, voice trembling—not with fear, but with awe. ''"Where you've always belonged,"'' she whispers into your ear. Her touch is fire, her words water. ''"A home crafted from longing. Made just for you."'' You nod slowly, already accepting it. Your mind doesn't resist the warmth. The comfort. The lie—or is it truth? [[You shiver. She holds all the answers.|chp3_dream_ask]] <<elseif $chp3_dream_resist>> You dig your mental heels in, pushing back against her aura. Your vision sharpens. The fog parts, if only a little. ''"Where are we?"'' She studies you now with more caution. Her glamour wanes. ''"This is an in-between. A frame without a picture. A room without walls. A dream meant to turn you inside out."'' ''"But why here? Why me?"'' Her smile fades. ''"Because only some dreams wake themselves. And you, perhaps, are close."'' [[Riddles? Empty promises? Is there any truth to be found here?|chp3_dream_ask]] <<else>> You try to lift your thoughts, your will—but they sink like stones in syrup. The sky pulses. Her voice presses down. ''"Where is this?"'' Your words come slurred. ''"A sanctuary,"'' she whispers. ''"Yours. Mine. Shared. Made from the thin veil between sleep and surrender."'' ''"Not real?"'' ''"More real than anything you've ever known."'' You believe her. [[Your thoughts drift like mist.|chp3_dream_ask]]<</if>>

<<set $chp3_dream_who to true>> ''"Are you... Dosmera?"'' ''"Dosmera? I'm flattered."'' For a moment, her smile blooms fully, radiant and terrible. Her fangs glisten beneath the twinkle of distant star; it's an awful, though tantalizing sight. It's an experierence that you never could have imagined, not even in your own dreams. <<if $chp3_dream_dom>> You stare her down, your control tightening like shackles. ''"Who are you, really?"'' She doesn't flinch, but her eyes flicker. You caught her. ''"I am a daughter of Dosmera,"'' she says flatly, the usual seduction stripped from her tone. ''"And what does that mean?"'' ''"It means I was made to tempt. To test. To choose."'' ''"Then know this: I choose answers. Now."'' In a strange sort of way, this is starting to make sense. You swear that in your distant memory, you recall the cultists down below, deep in the recesses of Cradle... You've //heard// them mention the daughters of Dosmera. [[You press her. No riddles. No games.|chp3_dream_ask]] <<elseif $chp3_dream_sub>> ''"Who... who are you?"'' you ask, your voice breaking beneath the weight of her presence. She smiles softly, almost maternal. ''"A daughter of the moons. A mirror to your darkest ache. I was born of Dosmera, formed to soothe what others cannot see."'' Your breath catches. You feel seen. More than that—you feel known. ''"Will you trust me, now that you know?"'' And gods help you, you just might. //You do//. [[You want to hear more.|chp3_dream_ask]] <<elseif $chp3_dream_resist>> ''"No more games,"'' you snap. ''"What are you?"'' She pauses. That infallible mask of sultry confidence cracks for half a second. ''"A daughter of Dosmera,"'' she says. ''"Born not by womb, but by wish. Made real through fear and fantasy alike."'' You tilt your head. ''"So you're... what, a manifestation?"'' ''"Yes. But not yours alone."'' In a strange sort of way, this is starting to make sense. You swear that in your distant memory, you recall the cultists down below, deep in the recesses of Cradle... You've //heard// them mention the daughters of Dosmera. [[Maybe we're starting to get somewhere... tangible.|chp3_dream_ask]] <<else>> ''"Who... are you?"'' Your voice is slack, lips barely moving. ''"Someone who knows you. Better than you know yourself,"'' she says, her fingers brushing your cheek. You feel it in your gut. The pull. ''"Call me what you want. But I am here because you need me."'' And you do. You do need her, don't you? [[You sink further. Questions swirl, but they quiet.|chp3_dream_ask]] <</if>>

<<set $chp3_dream_what to true>> ''"I know you, $name."'' ''"Know me how?"'' Her voice low and rich continues, thick lips moving though you swear her voice comes from within, ''"Your longing. That fear, reluctance. All of the desires that you dare not name; that you can scarcely acknowledge even in your own heart."'' She tilts her head, silky dark tendrils sliding throughout her horns. Those words hit you, assaulting your senses, though they're soft, almost tender, warm and concerned. ''"I want to help you, $name. I want to give you everything that you desire."'' <<if ($chp3_dream_dom) || ($chp3_dream_resist)>> ''"Yet you're so stiff... defensive. Alert."'' Her ever-dark eyes linger on you, thick lashes turned down low as she considers your countenance. ''"How am I supposed to help you if you turn away from me, $name? Answer that for me."'' ''"Quiet,"'' You utter back beneath a low, harsh breath, ''"Save your lies. You're wasting my time here."''<</if>> <<if $chp3_dream_dom>> ''"What do you want from me?"'' Your voice is sharp, a knife to her silk. She bares her teeth in a smile, amused. ''"Control. Surrender. Insight. All the things you try to bury. I want to unwrap you like a gift left too long unopened."'' ''"Try it, and I'll tear the ribbon off you,"'' you growl. Her laughter is breathless, but you're not laughing. Not yet. [[She won't be laughing for much longer.|chp3_dream_ask]] <<elseif $chp3_dream_sub>> ''"What do you want with me?"'' She sighs, cupping your chin with impossible tenderness. ''"To heal you. To understand. I want to show you love, in ways no one else can."'' You're trembling, but it's not from fear. ''"Let me in, and I can give you peace."'' Gods. You almost say yes. [[Your mind swims, willing.|chp3_dream_ask]] <<elseif $chp3_dream_resist>> ''"What do you want with me?"'' You ask the question flatly, guarded. ''"To give you clarity. Purpose. Touch what you've hidden from even yourself."'' You narrow your eyes. ''"Or to feed."'' She shrugs, unashamed. ''"Sometimes, the truth nourishes us both."'' You keep your guard up, but the answers ring true. [[You tread carefully... Let's get this over with.|chp3_dream_ask]] <<else>> ''"What... what do you want..."'' She leans in, her lips brushing your ear. ''"To fulfill you. To draw the ache from your bones. To be the thing you reach for in the dark."'' You can’t resist. You don’t want to. Her breath becomes your own. And deep down, something in you wants to be fulfilled. [[You lean in. She smiles.|chp3_dream_ask]] <</if>>

<<audio "bad-era" fadeout>> <<if $chp3_dream_resist>> The dream shudders under your defiance. It twists around you, but it doesn't swallow you. //She// doesn't swallow you. You've avoided that fate, at least for now, even if she tried to have things her way. That's what all this is, isn't it? A trap. You feel her wrath like heat behind your eyes. The daemoness stands motionless, framed by some shifting cosmic horizon, her expression no longer seduction but scrutiny. That knowing smile is gone, her seductive veneer cracked long ago. There's a flicker of something else. Something old. Her eyes narrow, her lips flatten. ''“You’ve barely scratched the surface, $name.”'' You step forward, pulse steady. ''“I don’t care. Whatever this is, it doesn't own me.”'' She hisses out a laugh that’s more air than voice. ''“We’ll see.”'' You meet her gaze, your mind a battlefield. Her eyes narrow, silence following, but it isn't empty—it thrums with suppressed fury. Or fear. ''“You shouldn’t be able to do this,”'' she says, more to herself than to you. ''“Not without help.”'' ''“I didn’t ask for help.”'' The world convulses—sky tearing, stars unraveling like threads from a dying tapestry. The horizon bleeds violet. Her form begins to fragment, like shards of obsidian dragged into a slow vortex behind her. You feel the air grow cold and flat, as if the dream resents your presence. She vanishes: not with a scream, not with a sigh. Just... gone. You’re left standing in a space of unshaped light and soundless wind, alone but unbroken. And then the light begins to fade— [[You wake, heart pounding.|chp3_firstmorning]] <<else>> You tried. Gods know you tried. To fight, resist, escape. But her presence is relentless, pressing down on your spirit like a weighted veil. Your thoughts come slow, molasses-thick. Even your breath feels borrowed. Your body doesn’t move, but inside you scream until your own thoughts echo back at you, hollow and warped. Her shape looms, no longer bound by the laws of flesh or shadow. She has changed, grown larger, or simply more... true. She kneels beside you. Not gloating. Just... certain. Inevitable. ''“You’re trying to be strong,”'' she says softly, brushing your hair behind your ear. ''“I knew you would try. I like that about you, $name. It’s adorable... endearing. Brave,”'' she murmurs, ''“But bravery without power is just... noise.”'' She brushes a finger along your cheek, and your vision fractures. You fall. Not physically, but deeper into her. Into something vast and incomprehensible. She doesn’t force your limbs. Doesn’t bind you in chains. She binds you with shame. Her fingers trace symbols you can’t understand into your skin. They burn, then cool. You forget the shape before you even see it. ''“You’ll wake up and tell yourself it was just a dream. That you were still in control. That’s part of the charm.”'' ''“Next time, don’t fight it.”'' A thousand whispers pour through the dream like water rushing through stone, some in your voice, some in hers. Darkness blooms at the corners of your mind. Soft. Final. And then— A gasp. Light. The feeling of waking from too far down. [[You jolt upright in your bed, sweating.|chp3_firstmorning]] <</if>>

''"That's enough. I gave you an opportunity to be honest with me."'' You play your rough fingers against her bottom lip, plush and purple compared to your calloused flesh. It's your thumb that presses hard just within the confines of her mouth, dragging along the soft wetness of her inner lip until you feel the pearly front of her nearest fang. She stares up at you all the while, dark defiance in her low, lingering gaze. ''"I tire of this game... your sly words and false pretenses. You brought me here to //use// me for something, didn't you? Yet you never expected that I would have the power to fight back. It's an odd feeling, isn't it? Being helpless when you're so used to control."'' She tries to speak. You can sense her intentions before her mouth even moves. Like lightning, your digits slip from her mouth with purpose: a sharp, backhanded slap against her high, fine-boned cheek, the impact reverberating throughout your own bones. It's a painfully hard smack, one that might blacken an eye or bruise flesh, but you're confident that she can take the beating. She's a //daemon// after all. Why would she deserve anything less? There may be a moment of surprise, shock even, but it's quickly replaced by a //heat//. Anger. She's pissed. There may be another emotion too, flickering deep beneath the surface, one that you're intent on drawing out given enough time. ''"Only speak when spoken to,"'' You murmur softly as you look over her, slipping your hand across her smooth forehead and into the dark depths of her silky, long, ebon-hued locks, ''"Like a good bitch. Understood?"'' Her speech is slow, choked, almost shaking given the utter hate and resentment that's surging through her ethereal being. She's not good at concealing her emotions, not when her act has been completely inverted and turned on it's head. ''"You don't know what a mistake you're making..."'' [[Punish her.|chp3_dream1_dom2_punish]] <<ci archetype>> [["What, I can't have a bit of fun?"|chp3_dream1_dom2_fun]] <<ci archetype>>

You don’t remember falling to your knees. But you’re there now, head lowered without even thinking. ''"So many questions... So thoughtful, $name. So very thoughtful for me."'' She stands before you, not as a tyrant, not as a conqueror, but as something far more dangerous—someone worthy of devotion. Circling you slowly, her bare feet are silent against the unreal surface of the dream. Her long fingers ghost over your shoulders, your jaw, your chest, tracing you like a sculptor admiring their creation. ''“There’s such promise in you,”'' she purrs, voice thick with heat. ''“So eager to serve. So //ready//. You’ve come so far, $name. It’s beautiful to watch.”'' Her words aren't commands. They’re affirmations. Every syllable massages the folds of your mind, rewarding your silence. Your stillness. Your breath catches as she presses herself against your back. One hand slips beneath your chin and lifts it. ''“Look at me, $name.”'' You do. Of course you do. Her dark eyes burn like twin moons eclipsing the sun: bright, demanding, endless. ''“Tonight, I’ll take what’s mine. And you... will give.”'' You nod, lips parted. You don’t ask what she means. You don't need to. ''“Good.”'' She smiles. ''“Now lie back. Let’s begin properly.”'' [[You obey and let her lead you.|chp3_dream1_sub3]]

Your response is quick and harsh, your big, wide-splayed hand smacking //loud// into her other cheek with a fleshy clap. It's a bit cruel, but you have little compassion. She's a beautiful woman--a daemon you suspect, but a woman all the same. A woman who tried to play you for a fool and failed. Now you'll enjoy the spoils as you will, consequences be damned. Only a stern hand will show her, her proper place. Before she can even react, your digits tense hard and pull at her long hair, forcing her down onto her knees with a sharp, sudden yank. Her pert nose and smart mouth end up pressed tight against your clothed crotch, the heat of her breath a nice change of pace. ''"You //will// obey me."'' You spy her eyes, one clenched shut and the other held half-open, blearily looking up at you from where you hold her head. The anger and resentment are easy to sense, feel, embrace, readily radiating up from her very being. This dreamspace is unique, open, endless, and you feel like you're just starting to discover the possibilities held within. This is an arena where you've managed to grasp control. Perhaps your conquest of //her// is your key to unlocking even more. The potential for complete power lays just beyond your reach... If only you could seize it, hold it, keep it--forever. For now, your mind wanders, wondering just how nice her plump lips might feel stretched wide around your throbbing dick. Thankfully, you won't be wondering for long. Single-handedly, you unbutton your pants and slip them down from about your waist. ''"Time to make yourself useful, as opposed to wasting my time."'' She stares up at you, seething beneath an otherwise flat, subdued expression, one eye still glued to your visage. All things considered, her glare isn't too intimidating when her face is pressed tight to your loins, only your undergarments separating her from your nethers. [["Be a good girl..."|chp3_dream1_dom2_punish1]]

If anything, you're having //fun//. She's a beautiful woman--a daemon you suspect, but a woman all the same. A woman who tried to play you for a fool and failed. Now you enjoy the spoils, consequences be damned. You'll fight and fuck until your luck runs out in this //dark, dank place.// You can't help but laugh in her face, your digits tensing hard and pulling at her long hair, forcing her down to her knees with a sharp, sudden yank. Her pert nose and smart mouth end up pressed tight against your clothed crotch, the heat of her breath a nice change of pace. ''"Lighten up and you might even enjoy yourself..."'' You spy her eyes, one clenched shut and the other held half-open, blearily looking up at you from where you hold her head. The anger and resentment are easy to sense, feel, embrace, readily radiating up from her very core. This dreamspace is unique, open, endless, and you feel like you're just starting to discover the possibilities held within. Perhaps your conquest of //her// is your key to unlocking more. Your swagger peaks. She’s on her knees and you're riding the high. Curious. Cruel. In control. You wonder what her plump lips would feel like stretched wide around your dick. And thankfully, you won't be wondering for long. Single-handedly, you unbutton your pants and slip them down from about your waist. ''"Open up. It's feeding time."'' ''"You bastard,"'' She hisses back beneath a hot breath, one eye still glued to your visage. All things considered, her glare isn't too intimidating when her face is pressed tight to your loins, only your undergarments separating her from your nethers. [["Don't be shy."|chp3_dream1_dom2_fun1]]

If this is some distant realm, detached from your physical body, it certainly doesn't //feel// like it. At least, you're certain that the burgeoning erection down below is as real as it gets. The rising heat, the straining stiffness, the twitch of flesh and pump of rushing blood. It //propels// you. You hook a thumb beneath the hem of your drawers and pry them lower, until your hard dick abruptly springs free, slapping against the daemoness' waiting face with a meaty //thwap//. It's like music to your ears, and the humiliation that must be coursing through her right now is just icing on the cake. For a moment, she acts as though she might draw back--you sense her hesitation, revulsion even. Thankfully, her long, ebony horns serve as the perfect anchor for your greedy grip. You hold onto the nearest one, keeping her feminine face flush against your raging length. ''"Don't be rude. Give it a kiss hello, hm?"'' She's silent, but not exactly fighting you, not now. No, currently her gaze is fixated on your cock in all it's naked, vainglory. If this daemoness already knew everything about you, why is she so taken aback by the sight of your dick? Maybe she didn't expect to have it slapped across her pretty face. Your lower back arches, glutes tensed as you sidle your hips forward and assert your dominance over her. A little cockslap is just the beginning of what you have planned, if you continue to get your way. After all, //who's going to stop you?// With her horn gripped tight, she can't turn away as you guide the fat, hard-ridged crown of your cock closer to her plush lips until they finally meet. It's an unvoluntary kiss, at least at first, both of her dark purple eyes trained up onto you. You gaze back down at her, before coaxing with a hot whisper, ''"Open wide."'' Your laughter is low and breathy, enjoying the process of toying with the daemoness and gradually getting her to relent. Soon, her entire temptuous body will belong to you. But you must start with her mouth. [[You're going to facefuck her.|chp3_dream1_dom2_fun2]]

If this is some distant realm, detached from your physical body, it certainly doesn't //feel// like it. At least, you're certain that the burgeoning erection down below is as real as it gets. The rising heat, the straining stiffness, the twitch of flesh and pump of rushing blood. You hook a thumb beneath the hem of your drawers and pry them lower, until your hard dick abruptly springs free, slapping against the daemon's waiting face with a meaty //thwap//. All you know right now is that you're going to love breaking her will, and the humiliation that must be coursing through her right now only serves to encourage you. In fact, it's ''fuel''. For a moment, she acts as though she might draw back--you sense her hesitation, revulsion even. Thankfully, her long, ebony horns serve as the perfect anchors for your greedy grip. You hold onto the nearest one, forcing her feminine face flush against your raging length. ''"I didn't say to move, did I?"'' It seems like she might be a quick learner. After that slap, she's silent, not exactly fighting you. No, now her gaze is fixated on your cock in all it's naked, vainglory. If this daemoness already knew everything about you, why is she so taken aback by the sight of your dick? Maybe she didn't expect to have it slapped across her pretty face while being manhandled. Your lower back arches, glutes tensed as you sidle your hips forward and assert your dominance over her. A little cockslap is just the beginning of what you have planned, if you continue to get your way. After all, //who's going to stop you?// With her horn gripped tight, she can't turn away as you guide the fat, hard-ridged crown of your cock closer to her plush lips until they finally meet. It's an unvoluntary kiss, at least at first, both of her dark ebon-eyes trained up onto you. Your aroused gaze meet hers, unwavering, your command simple and bold: ''"Open wide."'' Her entire body will belong you soon enough. You're only just getting started. Her mouth is as good of a place to kick things off as any. [[You're going to facefuck her.|chp3_dream1_dom2_punish2]]

You smirk as her plump lips stretch around your girth, relishing the way her forked tongue quivers beneath your cockhead like a trapped butterfly. ''"There we go,"'' you croon, thumb stroking the curve of her horn like you're petting a skittish mare. ''"Was that so hard, princess?"'' Her answering glare loses potency when your crown nudges the fluttering roof of her mouth. You tut mockingly, rolling your hips in teasing circles that smear precum across her palate. ''"Tsk tsk, such a sour face for someone wrapped around a prime piece of mortal flesh."'' An aroused chuckle rises up through your chest as you pull back just enough to let cool air kiss your glistening shaft. The demoness' throat works convulsively when you abruptly thrust halfway, her gag reflex triggering as you pause to admire the obscene bulge in her slender neck. ''"Look at you,"'' you purr, using her horn to tilt her tear-streaked face upward. ''"Taking me like you were bred for it. You really are the best, aren't you?"'' Her muffled snarl becomes a startled moan when you drag your cock along her tongue's forked split, the barbed tips curling instinctively around your veins. You crook a finger beneath her chin, watching spit strands glisten between your weeping tip and her swollen lips. ''"Let's hear it then. Beg properly and I'll let you taste the main course."'' When she remains stubbornly silent, you cluck your tongue and sink balls-deep in one smooth glide. Her choked moans and throaty groans vibrates deliciously through your shaft as you card fingers through silken ebon locks. ''"That's my girl,"'' you coo through gritted teeth, relishing the way her throat muscles flutter in panicked rhythm. ''"Scream all you like - your voice was made for this symphony."'' You set a languid pace, savoring every inch of slick heat with an erotic slowness. Each withdrawal leaves her gasping, each thrust punches breathy whimpers from flared nostrils. ''"Feel that?"'' you murmur when her sharp nails and clutching fingers accidentally score your hips, their frantic scrabbling betraying unintended arousal. ''"Your body knows its purpose. Why fight what comes naturally?"'' [[Groaning, you slip your spit-stained length free before you hit your breaking point.|chp3_dream1_dom2_fun3]]

Her lips part with a shuddering gasp, warm breath ghosting across your weeping crown. You don't wait for invitation. Your hips snap forward, slamming past plush purple resistance until her throat bulges obscenely around your girth. The wet heat swallows you whole - a slick, pulsating vice that makes your balls tighten instantly. ''"Fuuuuck, that's it..."'' You growl through clenched teeth, watching tears spring to those defiant ebon eyes. Her forked tongue lashes wildly, perhaps involuntarily, beneath your shaft, the alien sensation sending electric jolts up your spine. Precum leaks freely now, salty-sweet droplets mixing with the saliva pooling beneath her trapped tongue. You just can't help yourself, your body surging with virility and vitality as you flex your newfound powers. You yank her horn backward, forcing her neck into a cruel arch. The obscene glrk-glrk sounds music to your ears as you start pistonning into that tight wet heat. Her hands scramble and clutch at your thighs, sharp pearlescent nails drawing crimson tracks across your flesh. The pain only fuels you, each stinging scratch met with a deeper, harder thrust that makes her nose crush against your pelvis. ''"Tighter,"'' you grunt, slamming home until her throat muscles flutter like a heartbeat around your shaft. ''"Show me what that cursed tongue can do."'' Her muffled gag vibrates through your cock as she obeys, the barbed tip of her tongue circling your sensitive frenulum with unnatural precision. You curse loudly when it flicks across that sweet spot, hips stuttering as her suction intensifies. The demoness' cheeks hollow obscenely, every desperate swallow sending rippling contractions along your length. ''"There you go,"'' you pant, grinding deep as her throat convulses. Salty tears drip onto your pounding balls when you pull back, glistening strands of spit webbing between your swollen crown and her bruised lips. ''"Maybe you're good for something after all."'' [[You smack her across the cheek, spittle dripping past her swollen lips.|chp3_dream1_dom2_punish3]]

The dream lingers like a hot breath against dense mist. A shape in the dark, all shadow and suggestion, breathing down your throat, fingers trailing down your chest like threads of silk spun too fine to feel. A voice, //hers//—whispering in the space between sleep and waking, words curling like incense in the air. You can’t remember what she said, only that it burned, somewhere deep, somewhere secret, and the heat of it still clings to you, almost suffocating you. Then, the relative coolness of your room. A surprisingingly welcome respite, considering where you are. You wake to the world as it is. Your dormitory, more of a cell than a bedroom, narrow and stone-bound, air thick with the scent of old parchment, damp linen and musk. The fire in the brazier has long since died, leaving only ghostly embers nestled in their own grave of ash. Above you, just as below, the rafters groan, shifting with the weight of a world that doesn't care whether you wake or remain forever lost in dreams. Across the room, Lyco is already moving, naked to the waist, his long back turned as he fastens the leather straps of his tunic with methodical precision. The scars crisscrossing his skin are pale in the half-light, a roadmap of battles won and lost. He doesn't glance at you, failing to acknowledge your waking, though you get the sense he already knew you were stirring before your breath even changed. Your muscles ache as you shift beneath the rough-spun blanket, stiff from the previous day's events and this sorry slab of a rickety, wood-framed bed. It's like sleeping on a plank; you had imagined that the Academy might pamper its initiates, considering that most of them come from families of relative wealth or high status. But things are never quite that simple, not for the youth that wish to embark upon careers into the Legion or attempt the climb to the role of ''Ascender.'' Shifting slowly, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed and carefully lower yourself down, feet meeting the stone floor with a muted thud. If you have any chance of keeping up today, you'd best keep an eye on Lyco and follow in his footsteps. He seems to know what he's doing, and despite any grievances that may be festering between the two of you, you don't have many good options. There’s movement to your left; a groan, a shuffle, and a dull thump from across the room as one of your unmet roommates knocks his head against the bunk. ''"Fuaaaw..."'' comes the moan, low and agitated. Blinking against the dim morning light, you see him; a mountain of a boy, sitting up in his bunk with the slow, ponderous movement of a beast that's yet to shake the sleep from its bones. His arms are thick as tree limbs, broad shoulders hunched beneath the weight of muscles that don’t seem entirely comfortable resting on his frame. He blinks at you, bleary-eyed, his expression caught somewhere between curiosity and confusion, the pain from his early morning collison already fading away. ''"Uh... mornin'..."'' Above, a mess of dark curls emerges from beneath the blankets of the top bunk, belonging to a short, wiry boy with an owlish face. He pushes himself up on his elbows, rubbing sleep from his eyes with a knuckle, muttering muted curses beneath his breath. Bleary-eyed, he looks down at you as the bigger lad clambers to his feet. First impressions are important, right? [[You dip a quiet nod, opting to get dressed.|chp3_firstmorning_cowboy]] <<ci cowboy archetype>> [["The fuck you lookin' at?"|chp3_firstmorning_bastard]] <<ci bastard archetype>> [["Morning. I suppose we're roommates."|chp3_firstmorning_knight]] <<ci knight archetype>> <<bgm "calm-harp" 0.6 6>>\

''"Good morning. I suppose we're roommates."'' You dip your chin into a firm, but courteous nod. ''"My name's $name."'' Short, simple, sweet. They're still half-asleep and in the process of climbing to their feet after all. The big one, still rubbing his head, trundles up and onto his feet; the departed bunk giving a low groan as his weight shifts. ''"Ah, well met 'en. I'm Hugo."'' He turns towards the dresser at the foot of the bunk, whilst the owlish boy on the top bunk observes you with a squint of his beady, dark-browed gaze. ''"You suppose we're roommates? Yes, well the fact that you awoke to find us sleeping in the same room should make that quite clear, no? Gerwin. Gerwin Flanderbilt."'' //Interesting//, you think absently, turning to your own dresser to pilfer through the bottom drawer and quickly procure the essentials. A tunic, leggings, and the first year's standard ashen-gray robe. Lyco's already dressed, half-bent over the room's washbasin, a battered thing of hollowed stone in the corner of the room filled with dingy water gone brackish in the night. He splashes water across his face, the brazier popping nearby, spitting one last ember into the cold morning air. And somewhere beyond the walls, a bell tolls, low and foreboding. ''"We should leave soon,"'' He states clearly, straightening from the basin with the clearing of his throat. ''"Uhh, the ceremony... intro-duction ceremony, right?"'' Hugo mumbles as he clumsily ties his boots, blinking hard when Gerwin interjects sharply, ''"The Induction Ceremony. Lyco's right, we don't want to be late."'' You quickly finish tying your own boots and suck in a tight breath, falling in nearby Lyco before he pries the heavy-wooden door open and the four of you filter out into the hallway, the footsteps and quiet murmur of the student body not far away. [[Once again, you descend into the depths of Highrock.|chp3_firstmorning1]] <<gainKnight>>

You say nothing, exchanging glances with the pair, giving them a long, unreadable look before you swivel and crouch low to pilfer through your dresser. They're still half-asleep and in the process of climbing to their feet, but they manage to exchange a brief, cursory glance between themselves. The big one, still rubbing his head, lifts a heavy shrug and trundles up and onto his feet; the departed bunk giving a low groan as his weight shifts. ''"Don't say much, do ya? That's alright. I'm Hugo."'' He turns towards his own dresser at the foot of the bunk, whilst the owlish boy on the top bunk observes you with a squint of his beady, dark-browed gaze. ''"Name's $name,"'' You retort briefly, quietly procuring the essentials to start to get dressed: a tunic, leggings, and the first year's standard ashen-gray robe. ''"Gerwin. Gerwin Flanderbilt."'' The short boy's response finally rings out, brief and somewhat sharp-toned, though he turns to dress like the rest soon after. Lyco is already ready, half-bent over the room's washbasin, a battered thing of hollowed stone in the corner filled with dingy water gone brackish in the night. He splashes water across his face, the brazier popping nearby, spitting one last ember into the cold morning air. And somewhere beyond the walls, a bell tolls, low and foreboding. ''"We should leave soon,"'' He states clearly, straightening from the basin with the clearing of his throat. ''"Uhh, the ceremony... intro-duction ceremony, right?"'' Hugo mumbles as he clumsily ties his boots, blinking hard when Gerwin interjects sharply, ''"The Induction Ceremony. Lyco's right, we don't want to be late."'' You quickly finish tying your own boots and suck in a tight breath, falling in nearby Lyco before he pries the heavy-wooden door open and the four of you filter out into the hallway, the footsteps and quiet murmur of the student body not far away. [[Once again, you descend into the depths of Highrock.|chp3_firstmorning1]] <<gainCowboy>>

You can't help but scoff, lips tugging into a bit of an unruly grin. They're still half-asleep and in the process of climbing to their feet, but both of them blink at you, managing to exchange a quick, cursory glance between themselves. The big one, still rubbing his head, trundles up and onto his feet; the departed bunk giving a low groan as his weight shifts: ''"Ah... what's so funny?"'' You suck on your teeth and hiss a sharp breath, rolling your shoulders as you absently turn to your own dresser, preparing to pilfer through the bottom drawer and quickly procure the essentials. ''"Nothing, nothing. Just, uh..."'' You cluck your tongue and cock a glance back across the room towards the mismatched pair, ''"Expected something more... impressive, I suppose."'' They certainly don't look very //noble//, you think. One's a little, bird-framed dweeb and the other looks as big and dumb as an ox. ''"What you think, Lyco? Are these two the ideal candidates for Highrock?"'' Your tone is openly mocking--to which, Lyco doesn't respond, giving no real inclination that he even heard you. He's already dressed, half-bent over the room's washbasin, a battered thing of hollowed stone in the corner of the room filled with dingy water gone brackish in the night. ''"Dick,"'' comes the murmured retort from the top bunk, the owlish boy observing you cautiously with a squint of his beady, dark-browed gaze. The big one turns towards their own dresser at the foot of the bunk, mumbling his agreement with his smaller companion, ''"Ah, yeah... He sounds mean."'' ''"Look,"'' You snort, quickly tugging on your garments as you converse; a tunic, leggings, and the first year's standard ashen-gray robe, ''"I'm just messing around. Name's $name. Seems like we'll be stuck with one another, aye?"'' ''"Ah, well met 'en. I'm Hugo."'' The big one concedes without pressing the issue, though the smaller one is slower to surrender his own name, ''"Gerwin. Gerwin Flanderbilt. Yes, it seems that way, doesn't it?"'' Lyco splashes water across his face, the brazier popping nearby, spitting one last ember into the cold morning air. And somewhere beyond the walls, a bell tolls, low and foreboding. ''"We should leave soon,"'' He states clearly, straightening from the basin with the clearing of his throat. ''"Uhh, the ceremony... intro-duction ceremony, right?"'' Hugo mumbles as he clumsily ties his boots, blinking hard when Gerwin interjects sharply, ''"The Induction Ceremony. Lyco's right, we don't want to be late."'' You quickly finish tying your own boots and suck in a tight breath, falling in nearby Lyco before he pries the heavy-wooden door open and the four of you filter out into the hallway, the footsteps and quiet murmur of the student body not far away. ''"Let's get on it with it, then."'' [[Once again, you descend into the depths of Highrock.|chp3_firstmorning1]] <<gainBastard>>

The hall is relatively empty, but towards the staircase you can see the movement of students and the occasional flutter of a familiar gray robe. Lyco leads the way and the rest of you stick close. As you walk, it occurs to you that you have no clue how many students attend Highrock. Given the amount of floors, there has to be quite a few, no? At least a couple hundred, you have to imagine. If the entire student body is expected to be at this Induction Ceremony, you should be getting a clearer picture soon enough. Sure enough, as soon as your group hits the staircase, you find yourself submerged into a perpetual wave of students heading to the same destination as you. Down you descend, content that you aren't climbing in the opposite direction. It's a lot to take in; all the unfamiliar faces, most of them silent, though it seems that many of them stick together much as you and your roommates have been so far. You wonder just how long that'll last, let alone what exactly you'll be subjected to on your first day of classes. The wave of students presses onward, downward, a gray tide of motion and muffled murmurs. As you and your roommates descend the stone steps, the air thickens, growing denser. The sound of boots echoes oddly here, as though the building itself is listening. Ornate murals line the stairwell walls, some faded and cracked, others so lifelike you swear the eyes follow you. In one, a knight of impossible height plants a sword into the spine of a serpent coiled around a black sun. In another, a robed figure lifts a crystal orb before a shattered world. You glance to Lyco, who walks in silence, eyes forward. His posture’s rigid. Focused. ''"Your brother ever mention any of this?"'' Hugo asks, voice pitched low. You listen in absently, curious. Lyco hadn't mentioned anything about a brother to you, but it makes sense that some of the students would've had family members who might have attended before, following each other through Highrock like a shared trauma or dynastic curse. Lyco nods, but doesn't slow. ''"A little. He said the first week was... disorienting."'' Gerwin snorts softly. ''"Cryptic. What happened to him, anyway?"'' The air seems to drop a few degrees. ''"He graduated as an Ascender,"'' Lyco replies evenly, his voice somewhat subdued, not meant to carry beyond your small group as the class continues their descent, ''"One of two. He disappeared in the Overlands last year on his first expedition."'' None of you speak after that. At the bottom, the stairwell opens up into the familiar dormitory entrance. A hunched figure sits at a desk just beyond it, scratching away in a massive ledger with a quill longer than your forearm. His robes are moth-eaten, and he doesn't look up. You're clueless as to whether it's even the same individual from yesterday. Wordlessly, your cohort follows the crowd and passes into the hallway, turning away from Dusk Hall and deeper into Highrock: in a direction that you're entirely unfamiliar with. [[The Hall of Names.|chp3_firstmorning2]]

The dreamscape itself seems to sigh when you finally allow her a full breath, your cock resting heavy on her ravaged lips. Her chest heaves magnificently, pert nipples pebbling beneath diaphanous fabric as she glares up through clumped lashes. You tap your dripping crown against her cheekbone, painting a pearly streak across violet skin. ''"Still looking at me like you want to eat me alive,"'' you laugh, gathering a bead of pre with your thumb before pushing it past her stubborn lips. Her involuntary suckle sends fresh fire licking up your spine. ''"Don't worry... We're just getting to the good part."'' With a wolfish grin, you slide two fingers into her spit-slick hair and tilt her head back at a brutal angle. ''"Now be a good cocksucker... and swallow every drop your master gives you."'' The demoness' throat contracts around you in frantic pulses as you begin sawing in and out with deliberate slowness. Her forked tongue lashes wild patterns across your underside, betraying repressed hunger as pearly strands of drool drip onto her smooth thighs. ''"That's the spirit,"'' you croon, thumbing away a tear tracking down a high-boned cheek. ''"Bet you never dreamed a mortal could fill you so thoroughly."'' Her muffled growl transforms into a high keen when you abruptly withdraw, leaving her purplish lips stretched, swollen and glistening. You tut at the translucent string still connecting your tip to her mouth. ''"Now now, didn't I say every drop?"'' With aroused precision, you paint another stripe of pre across her trembling tongue. ''"Lick it clean. Show me how starved you've been."'' Those dark eyes burn with fury even as her barbed tongue flicks out obediently. You reward the gesture by plunging back in to the hilt, groaning as her uvula massages your crown. When her nostrils flare from oxygen deprivation, you mercifully let her surface - only to drag her face along your shaft, smearing her tears and slick saliva across your veins. ''"Look at you,"'' you laugh hotly, admiring her swollen lips and smoldering gaze; a look that drives you to an abupt finale. Finally, that feeling of sublime power and aroused ecstasy suddenly starts to peak within, like the breaking of a dam or the sheer elation that an Ascender must feel, cresting the very heights of the Overland just to peer out across the unknown. Her whimper dies as you flood her mouth with thick spurts of mortal seed, grip vise-like in her decadent, silken-black hair while she convulses through each salty wave. ''"Swallow,"'' you command through gritted teeth, watching her throat work desperately. ''"That's it... take my seed. Every last drop."'' [[You feel numb and heavy with pleasure...|chp3_dream1_dom2_fun3_ending]]

Her choked whimper sounds suspiciously like your name as you slam back in. The dreamscape shivers around you, violet skies darkening to bruised indigo with each carnal thrust. You feel power coursing through your veins - her power, stolen through this violent intimacy, burning through your blood like liquid desire. When her claws rakes across your ass, you answer by fisting her hair and pounding - brutal, unrelenting strokes that make her horns clatter against your thighs. The wet slap of flesh echoes through the void as you use her face, proper fuckhole finally living up to its infernal potential. Her gag reflex triggers in earnest now, throat milking your cock with violent spasms that threaten to undo you. ''"Swallow it all,"'' you snarl, feeling the fire in your loins reach critical mass. ''"Every. Last. Drop."'' Her answering moan vibrates through your very soul as you erupt, demonic throat working overtime to gulp down thick ropes of cum. The world whites out in a supernova of pleasure, your triumphant roar mingling with her choked whimpers as you paint her insides with searing release. When you finally stagger back, she collapses in a trembling heap of smeared makeup and ruined pride - but not before you catch the unmistakable gleam of slickness between her quivering thighs. [[Even here, your heart hammers against your chest.|chp3_dream1_dom2_punish3_ending]]

The dream slows. You remain standing, breath hot, fingers still coiled in her dark hair. Her lips are darkened and raw, black eyes glassy, throat glistening. She kneels like something remade. Not broken—but reshaped. Bent to your will. She blinks up at you, dazed, not speaking. Not resisting. And you feel it then—not just lust, but something deeper. Victory. Not taken. Not stolen. ''''Claimed.'''' Your surroundings begin to pulse with light—stars collapsing into themselves, the ground beneath you folding in slow waves of velvet mist. Her outline begins to blur. ''“Until next time, $name,”'' she whispers softly, voice less sultry now, almost... reverent. ''“You’re learning. Good.”'' The dream peels away like fog caught in sunrise. You’re floating. Falling. Waking. [[Your eyes open to pale morning light.|chp3_firstmorning]] <<bgmstop 12>>

The dream slows. You remain standing, breath hot, your fingers still unconsciously clenching as though coiled in her hair. You look down upon her crumpled form, still dangerously beautiful, but used: her lips darkened and raw, black eyes glassy, throat and face glistening. She blinks up at you, dazed, not speaking. Not resisting. And you feel it then—not just lust, but something deeper. Victory... pride. Not taken. Not stolen. ''''Claimed and... desecrated.'''' Your surroundings begin to pulse with light—stars collapsing into themselves, the ground beneath you folding in slow waves of velvet mist. Her outline begins to blur. ''“Until next time, $name,”'' she whispers softly, voice less sultry now, almost... subdued. ''“You’re learning. Good.”'' The dream peels away like fog caught in sunrise. You’re floating. Falling. Waking. [[Your eyes open to pale morning light.|chp3_firstmorning]] <<bgmstop 12>>

The sky above swirls with moons and strange constellations. She looms above you, her silhouette luminous, flowing, reverent. Her movement is smooth and subtle, like a river flowing, extending one leg before placing a slender foot gently atop your chest. Your breathing comes shallow, body frozen. ''"I want you to worship me properly, $name... If I'm going to fulfill of your wants... needs... desires... Don't you think that you should show some gratitude?"'' She presses her heel down against you: slowly, deliberately, her pressure always precise. Without thinking, you lift your hands, but she bats them away effortlessly. ''"No. With your mouth."'' Her sole slides up past your chest and the crest of your clavicles to the slope of your neck and hollowed throat, until her tender toes reach your lips. As though instinctually, you kiss them. Once. Twice. Then again, her skin impossibly soft-warm and divine. You kiss from the ball of her foot to reach delicate toe again, your tongue flicking over them, your chapped lips trembling with reverence. She hums, pleased, filling you with the sweetest satisfaction. ''“That’s it, my little supplicant.”'' Her voice is velvet and venom, soaked in amusement. ''“You look good down there... Right where you belong, isn't that right?”'' Your response is a muffled breath, your mouth busy kissing the elegant arch of her foot. Neck straining, you savor the soft swell of her ankle before switching to her other foot. She moans—not from pleasure, but power. ''“Good boy,”'' she purrs. ''“Now lie back. You've earned your reward.”'' She climbs onto you like a priestess preparing to bless the altar. Straddling your hips, heat radiates from her like a sacred fire. Her thighs cage your waist, and those deep, dark eyes burn down into yours. The weight of her presses you down—not just her body, but her presence. You are pinned by purpose. Her palms flatten on your chest. ''“Touch me,”'' she commands, grinding her hips slowly. ''“Like I’m the only thing you’ve ever wanted.”'' //With pleasure.// Your hands move without hesitation—cupping her thighs, sliding up the swell of her hips, worshipping her with your fingertips. She moans low and pleased, dragging your hands higher. ''“No,”'' she breathes into your mouth, ''“not just touch. Serve.”'' She rises to her knees and shifts forward, guiding your head between her thighs with a gentle but firm grip. Like a man starved, you inhale her. Taste her. ''Obey'' her. This is what you've been patiently waiting for. [[You want to please her.|chp3_dream1_sub4]]

She doesn’t wait for you to reposition. She straddles your face. No teasing. No transition. Just her warmth sealing over your lips, her scent enveloping your senses like silk soaked in wine. Surrounded by her long, smooth, gracile thighs, you're completely captivated by the sight and scent before you... //against// you. ''“There,”'' she exhales, grinding her hips in slow, hungry circles. ''“Right where you belong.”'' You moan into her, the vibration only making her gasp. Her thighs tighten around your head like a vice. Every breath becomes hers. Every flick of your tongue is a plea. She rides your face without restraint—no longer allowing worship, but ''taking'' it. ''“Use that mouth. Suck. Lick. Make me proud.”'' Her voice trembles but never breaks. Her hands fist in your hair, pulling you deeper, anchoring herself to your devotion. Slick warmth coats your chin, your nose, your lips. She’s dripping, needy, and you're the offering she consumes. You lose track of time, complying readily, lost in the wet warmth and hot heat of her wonderfully deep violet, velvety depths. There’s only the taste of her. The slick sensation. The sound of her sighs twisting into whimpers. Then, a cry—low, feral, almost triumphant—and she shudders hard against your mouth. She comes. Hard. ''“Good boy,”'' she breathes, breath hitching. ''“You’ve earned a little something.”'' [[Yet you don't want her heat to leave your lips...|chp3_dream1_sub5]]

When she finally lifts herself from your mouth, your lips are wet with her, your face marked with proof of your obedience. Her thighs glisten—slick, trembling, radiant. She doesn't speak at first. She just watches you. That satisfied smirk. That glint in her eye that says, //you did well, pet.// Her body still hums with pleasure, her breath a little ragged, her glow undeniable. Then, she begins to descend. Slowly. Deliberately. She slips down your body like melted candlewax—glowing, fluid, sensual—her skin dragging against yours just enough to make you shiver. Her lips trace the line of your collarbone. Her fingertips dance over your stomach. Her breath tickles your chest. Her slender hand finds your cock—already straining, already rigid. She doesn’t pump. Doesn’t stroke. She //guides//. Serpentine fingers slide up your shaft in slow, languid strokes, smearing her own arousal over your length. There’s no urgency in her touch—only control. ''“You’ve waited so patiently.”'' A whisper against your throat, like a voice from the void beyond, ''“Let me help you finish… A reward.”'' Her long leg lifts with practiced grace. The sole of her foot presses gently to your thigh, then slides upward—trailing heat as it ascends—until it cups your balls, cradling them with delicate, deliberate pressure. Your body jerks beneath her touch. Your breath catches in your throat. She watches you come undone. Your release hits fast, sharp, electric. A groan tears from your throat and gets lost against her skin. Your hips buck, helpless, twitching as she milks you with that same careful rhythm. One hand stroking, one foot teasing, her mouth murmuring soft praises against your jaw. She holds you after. Not like a lover, but as a queen claiming what’s hers. ''“Sleep now,”'' she whispers, brushing your temple with her lips. ''“We've made so much //progress//. Don't worry... You’ll dream of me again.”'' And you will. You already are. [[When your eyes open, there's a bitter taste of honey on your tongue.|chp3_firstmorning]] <<bgmstop 12>>

The Hall of Names isn't just a hall, but more of a reliquary. It stretches long and straight, bordered by towering black-marble columns and a high, vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. Dim blue witchlights hover near the arches, casting flickering illumination across the corridor’s central path, but the ceiling remains cloaked in a darkness that doesn’t lift, no matter how you squint. What draws the eye most are the ''portraits''. At measured intervals along both walls, perfectly spaced and precisely aligned, are pairs of oil-framed paintings—upper half-body portraits of young men and few women in Highrock formal wear. Some wear faint smiles, but most others carry grim stares or unreadable expressions. A few are missing frames, empty gaps where only dark stone remains. It doesn't occur to you to ask who they are. You've already realized they must be Ascenders. Those chosen from each class to pursue the highest trial. Two names, two faces a year... usually. Sometimes only one, and sometimes none. You slow for half a step, scanning the nearest row of faces; young, beautiful, tragic in their permanence. History, just a brief moment in time, captured in paint and portrait. Could one of them be Lyco’s brother? You won't ask, not now. There's no time to linger. The crowd flows forward, and you with it. A slow, strangely subdued tide of bootfalls and half-murmurs. You catch a flicker of Lyco’s face, tight-jawed and unreadable. He doesn’t look at the portraits. Not once. Gerwin shifts beside you, uttering lowly, ''“Feels like they’re watching.”'' You nod, but say nothing. As you approach the end of the hall, the portraits thin, and the path narrows. Conversation hushes. Even Gerwin says nothing. There, mounted above the grand stone archway that leads into the courtyard, is a massive oil painting in a heavy, darkwood frame. It's breathtaking in a dreadful sort of way. It depicts two figures in ascent, painted in rich, dramatic brushwork. Two young men, both garbed in black formal Highrock attire, rise through a column of violet flame. Their hands are outstretched; not toward each other, but toward something unseen above the frame’s edge. Their expressions are ambiguous, part ecstasy and agony. One of them is painted with slightly more light. The other, with just a hint more shadow. And beneath the painting, engraved directly into the stone lintel in silver filigree: ''“Two shall rise. One Ascends.”'' You slow for half a breath. A strange chill coils around your ribs. ''“My brother hated that painting,”'' Lyco murmurs at your side, ''“He said it looked different every time you pass it.”'' You glance back at him, but his eyes are fixed straight ahead, distant. The crowd doesn’t pause. You’re pushed forward. And then the light changes. Brighter and harsher as you cross beneath the painting and step into... [[The Inner Courtyard.|chp3_induction]]

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp2_induction.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> The Inner Courtyard of Highrock Academy is a vast, vacant place of gray stone and solemn grandeur, ringed with tall, spindly spires that climb up and open to a bleak, churning mist-gray sky and a perpetual violet-hued haze. You stand among the first years, gathered in a rough formation, rows upon rows of fresh students: a sea of untested ash-gray robes. You’re hemmed in on all sides by nervous energy: whispers, throaty banter, shifting feet, the occasional muttered prayer. The smell of wax, damp stone, and cold sweat. Shoulder to shoulder, all of you bound together by expectation. But your eyes are largely drawn to the other side of the courtyard. The second years are noticeably fewer. Half as many, maybe less. Their posture is sharper, more composed. Some wear blue robes without adornment. Even fewer bear the silver stripe of the magically gifted. The proven. Around you, whispers float like dissipating smoke. Nervous murmurs, sizing glances, that sharp intake of breath when someone recognizes a name or face. Everyone’s trying not to look afraid. You spot one girl among them who wears her silver stripes with casual menace; arms crossed, eyes unreadable. Another boy looks like a soldier already: square jaw, hawk-like stare, corded arms behind his back. No one among them smiles. ''“They look like they’re waiting to watch us drown,”'' Gerwin mutters beside you. Lyco doesn’t respond. His jaw is clenched, eyes locked on the platform. The hush comes all at once as the instructors file out beneath the raised dais, flanking it in robes of deep crimson, royal blue, vivid violet, and on some, strange patterns that make your eyes ache. Then he appears. [[The ceremony begins.|chp3_induction1]] <<bgm "the-wanderer" 0.6 9>>

A ripple passes through the student body, as though a sudden gust of cold had sliced through the courtyard. Emerging before the gathered crowd, he stands like a shadow made flesh. Draped in heavy robes of violet threaded with gold, High Magister Aegir Thorne ascends the dais in measured silence. Every step sounds heavier than it should, like the stone itself bears witness. He does not speak immediately. Yet, the crowd is completely silent, still with anticipation. Instead, he scans the courtyard. A slow, thorough sweep of the first-years. His expression is unreadable, but his gaze feels sharp, piercing, long face carved from time itself; gaunt, parchment-pale, unmoving. When his eyes find yours, they pause. At least you think they do, only for a moment. It feels like he’s read something in you, something you didn’t offer freely. Slowly, he turns to face the gathered crowd. His voice follows a breath later; low, exact, unhurried. ''“Each of you,"'' He begins, ''"Come from the far corners of Cradle. From noble houses, military orphanages, backwater hovels. Some of you were chosen. Some of you begged to be here.”'' ''“It makes no difference.”'' [[He pauses just a moment, before continuing.|chp3_induction2]]

''“This is Highrock.”'' ''“Not a sanctuary. Not a school, in the way you might've known once before. This is a crucible. You are not students. Not yet. Not until you've been broken, shaped and reforged. Not until you prove yourselves worthy. Then the true learning may begin.”'' He paces along the edge of the platform, slow and steady, never needing to raise his croning voice. ''“Some of you believe your heritage will carry you. That a name, a bloodline, a family crest will buy your success. Others believe that you already know hardship. That suffering has earned you passage.”'' ''“You are both wrong.”'' The words land heavy, no anger behind them. Just truth, cold and impersonal. ''“Not all of you will finish your first year. Fewer still will be chosen for advancement. And only a fraction will ever touch greatness.”'' ''"Yes, many of you will fail. Pitifully. Some of you may give your lives to this path."'' He stops walking, staring directly into the sea of gray robes. ''“But the gates are open. The road is laid. What you do with it, what you become... is yours to determine.”'' [[He delivers the final words.|chp3_induction3]]

A gust of wind cuts through the courtyard. The mist churns. Thorne lifts his hand. ''“Highrock does not create legends. It refines them.”'' His voice drops lower, each word a chisel tapping into stone. ''"You will rise. Or you will vanish. The trials before you are not examinations. They are not challenges. They are not fair. They are fire. Hunger. Suffering."'' Silence. Then, with finality: ''“You are not owed greatness. You are not owed anything. You earn your name here. For those of you who remain… Prepare to suffer. Endure. To become something greater.”'' The golden sigils stitched into his robes flare; just once, like the flash of distant lightning. Then he turns. Steps down from the platform. The instructors follow. The silence that follows is unbearable, a bell tolllig from somewhere high in the gray mist. The ceremony is over. Yet, the suffering has just begun. [[If only you knew the toll that it would take on you.|chp3_firstclass]]

Thorne's words linger in your mind. Promises of failure, danger, crucible. You can't help but wonder whether the //death// he spoke of was physical, or metaphorical. The death of your past selves... or weakness. Doubt. Or will this potentially be the place where you heave your last breath? These thoughts, however meandering, don't get long to stew. The coolness of open air, the morning mist, hasn't even cleared when the entire group of first-years is split up and corralled by upper-year prefects and junior instructors alike. Sticking close to Lyco's shoulder, unwilling to be separated from a familiar face, you're herded into the East Assembly Hall: a rectangular chamber lined with narrow windows and tall banners stitched with Highrock's colors: gray, blue, purple. The place smells of sweat-soaked wood, slate dust and torched ash. Only the gray glimmer of day lights the room, along with the perpetual aid of candle-lit scones along the beaten stone walls. Below them, rows of flat benches wait. Your cohort is broken into slow-moving columns. You find yourself briefly face-to-face with a Prefect. Male, mid-twenties, blue robes. He has a tall, narrow build, thin lips that form a firm line, and a long, aquiline nose that lends him a rather hawkish, yet dignified quality. Wordlessly, he directs you after the others, footsteps echoing as you all shuffle into place and take your seats; in your case, right next to Lyco. <<if $chp2_victory>> You get your first good look at him since your encounter the day prior. From the corner of your gaze, you can detect some minor bruising, though it's rather scant and dismissible in the dim lighting of the hall. He carries himself well: gaze level, chin upright, brow straight and focused on the Prefect's movement. Clearly, he has bounced back from his loss rather quickly. And based on your interactions so far, he doesn't seem to be holding a grudge against you, at least not anything discernable. You don't know entirely what to make of Lyco, not yet, but he doesn't seem like the type to plot behind your back. You can only hope that yesterday, you earned his respect, however begrudgingly. <<elseif $chp2_blackeye>> He hasn't interacted with you much this morning, but at least he's not riding your ass, or making a fool out of you in front of your other roommates. From the corner of your gaze, trying to be subtle, you get your first good look at him since your encounter the day prior. He carries himself well: gaze level, chin upright, brow straight and focused on the Prefect's movement. You don't know entirely what to make of Lyco, but he doesn't seem to be holding a grudge, or intent on making your life hellish. Hopefully it stays that way. You can still feel the aches and pain from your first scrap... <<elseif $chp2_evenmatch>> You get your first good look at him since your encounter the day prior. From the corner of your gaze, you can detect some minor bruising, though it's rather scant and dismissible in the dim lighting of the hall. He carries himself well: gaze level, chin upright, brow straight and focused on the Prefect's movement. You've been trying to do the same, despite the ache in your knuckles and at the bridge of your nose. It's true that you don't know entirely what to make of Lyco, but at the very least he doesn't seem to be holding a grudge. Perhaps there's a chance that you'll still be able to work with him. Or get the upper-hand in your own way, moving forward... Who's to say? <<elseif $chp2_understanding>> He carries himself well. Gaze level, chin upright, brow straight and focused on the Prefect's movement. You detect a slight flick of his gaze, noticing you, which prompts a brief exchange of nods. The both of you seemed to have reached a sort of mutual understanding yesterday. Truthfully, you don't know entirely what to make of Lyco, not yet. But he does seem to be a man of purpose and drive, not unlike yourself. Will you progress as allies? Friends? Or perhaps competitive rivals. Who's to say? <<else>> He hasn't interacted with you much this morning, but at least he's not riding your ass, or making a fool out of you in front of your other roommates. From the corner of your gaze, trying to be subtle, you get your first good look at him since your encounter the day prior. He carries himself well: gaze level, chin upright, brow straight and focused on the Prefect's movement. You don't know entirely what to make of Lyco, but there seems to be a chance that you'll give each other enough room to breathe, or possibly even cooperate moving forward... Who's to say? <</if>> That same Prefect steps forward, his voice is measured and flat—too even for comfort. ''“This is your orientation course. It is not a class. It is preparation. You are not here to learn. You are here to be assessed. Those who perform well and adapt to the law of Highrock will increase their chances of success in the trials to come.”'' His eyes are sharp, movements measured. ''"For the next two weeks, we’ll see who’s meant to be here."'' [["Now, let us begin."|chp3_firstclass1]]

The Prefect outlines the structure with rigid simplicity. These tenets will serve as the backbone of all Highrock instruction before the Harrowing commences. Mind. Body. Spirit. Mind will be honed through repetition, focus, deprivation. You will be denied rest and taught to function regardless. You will be taught to value discipline, memory, control over thought and emotion. Body will be broken and rebuilt through endurance drills, sparring, and resistance training. You will build strength, stamina, precision and the will to endure physically. Spirit will be tested through silence. Isolation. Provocation. You will cultivate your resolve and resilience to fear, failure and voices that would have you cast into oblivion. ''“These are not abstract values,”'' he says. ''“They are measurable. They are recorded. If you cannot meet them—you will be removed.”'' As the orientation continues, you glance sideways, trying not to be obvious. Across the aisle, a girl sits alone. She sits upright, slender hands folded, uniform pristine. You don’t know her name yet. But something about her makes your chest tighten. She has upturned, pale-gray eyes, made darker by the thick black lashes framing them. A short, pale figure; hourglass-shaped, classical in beauty, marred only by a dark beauty mark beneath her left eye that somehow makes her seem more severe. Her black hair falls straight and still. She doesn’t look at you. But you look at her a moment longer than you should. In the background, the Prefect's voice drones on. ''“Magick is not taught,”'' he says. ''“It’s provoked. You’ll understand soon enough.”'' She looks straight ahead, unblinking. [[Focus on the lesson.|chp3_firstclass2]] [[Sneak another look at her.|chp3_firstclass2_peek]] <<ci lore>>

You force your eyes back to the front. The Prefect is still speaking - detailing the Triad curriculum, the exact timing of the drills, the silence protocols, the punishment structures. His voice is calm and dry, clipped at the edges like every word is rationed. You focus on him. On his tone. On the way he doesn’t blink often. That’s how people survive here, isn’t it? You mimic Lyco’s posture again: back straight, hands still, eyes front. He hasn’t looked away from the instructor once. A few other students are sneaking glances around. One boy near the back is quietly fidgeting with his boot lace. Another girl looks like she might be mouthing the Prefect’s words silently, like a prayer. You don’t move. Not even when the girl with the gray eyes shifts in your peripheral vision. You’re here to prove something. You don’t even know to who. But you are. [[The class progresses.|chp3_firstclass3]] <<ci stat>>

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/calienne_stare.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> You look again. Not because you mean to. Because you can’t help it. She hasn’t moved, not by much. Her chin rests lightly above the clasp of her uniform, pale fingers resting along the edges of her skirt as though she's keeping herself from floating away. But there’s precision in her stillness, a kind of poise you can’t quite name. You study the line of her jaw, the fullness of her mouth, the quiet tension in her eyes. Her lashes are long. Her brows sculpted. She doesn’t look fragile, but deliberately arranged. That’s when her eyes shift. Just a little. They meet yours. There’s no surprise in her gaze. No irritation. Just... cool acknowledgement. Like someone observing an insect on the edge of a table—interesting enough to watch, not interesting enough to swat. You look away first. The Prefect is still speaking, but his words blur slightly in your ears. All you hear is the faint rustle of fabric and the thrum of your own blood. You don't look back again. Not right now. [[Return to the lesson.|chp3_firstclass2]] [[Stay with the feeling a moment longer.|chp3_firstclass2_peek1]] ❤️

You don’t mean to stare. <<set $calienne_stare = true>> But your eyes catch on her again—on the precise slope of her jaw, the way the candlelight curls against her cheekbone, softening nothing. Her hair is black and perfectly still. Not a single strand moves when she breathes. She’s so composed it unnerves you, like something out of a dream you only half-remember—a girl standing in a winter garden, snow falling in spirals, eyes unreadable as moonlight. You wonder what her voice sounds like. What she smells like. What she’s already survived to look that calm. There’s a seam at her collarbone where her robe folds, and your eyes catch there too—because it’s the only thing imperfect. A sliver of asymmetry that makes her real. Then she shifts. Barely. And for a terrible second, you think she’s seen all of that in your face. You blink. Look away. Your throat is dry. Your hands sweat. You don’t look back again. But your mind... keeps painting her anyway. [[The class progresses.|chp3_firstclass3]]

You're led down from the East Assembly Hall through a low corridor slick with condensation. Stone stairs descend in tight, echoing spirals. The place you reach, they call it a training yard, but it’s more like an oubliette; low-walled, sunless, lined in jagged gravel and packed black salt. The morning mist doesn’t burn off here; it lingers, clinging to skin and lung alike. You arrive with the rest of your cohort in a slow, weary shuffle, gray robes darkening with sweat and dew. The Prefect stands by a raised stone plinth, arms folded, unmoving. A group of instructors waits in silence, flanking him like crows. Gerwin mutters, ''“How much you wanna bet we’re not allowed to die on the first day?”'' Hugo gives a low, breathy snort. ''“Eh... I'll take my chances.”'' Lyco doesn’t speak. But the way he stands—feet braced, shoulders squared—makes you match his posture without thinking. The Prefect from earlier breaks the pause with his voice: ''“Today is not for grading. Today is for watching.”'' ''“Form matters. Composure matters. Endurance is your only virtue.”'' You're split into ranks. An instructor unrolls a long strip of parchment. Names are called. Tasks are listed. And the drills begin. <<if ($mobility == 2) || ($might >= 1 && $mobility >= 1)>> You feel it in your bones, in the rhythm of your breath, in the silence of your own body. You were built for this, and more. <<set $firstTrial = "pass">> The cold doesn’t get to you. The mist slicks your skin but doesn’t sink. Your balance stays perfect on the salt—light, poised. The stair runs blur into a meditative rhythm. Even the spear drills—ten-point arc, thrust, recover—become second nature within minutes. Lyco clocks you during the third lap. He doesn’t say anything. But the two of you move in tandem for the rest of the trial. You don’t falter. You don’t rush. You ''inhabit'' the work. Instructors pass you multiple times. You hear murmurs. You hear the scratch of pen on parchment. At one point, an assistant leans toward your Prefect and nods. You know better than to smile. But for the first time since arriving at Highrock, your pulse beats with something more than dread. ''Control.'' <<elseif ($might == 2) || ($mind >= 1 && $mobility >= 1)>> It hurts. <<set $firstTrial = "avg">> Your joints ache before the first water-bucket drill ends. Your thighs burn on the stairs. The gravel eats through the soles of your boots until you feel the shape of every stone. But you keep moving. Your form isn’t perfect—but it’s clean. You slip once during a hold, but correct quickly. The instructors glance your way and move on. No notations. Lyco leads your row. You match him best you can—two beats behind, but steady. At one point, his glance flicks back briefly. His gaze is unreadable. But he doesn’t correct you. He doesn’t offer advice. Just nods once. Gerwin, two rows over, is doing worse. His footwork is sloppy but stubborn. Hugo’s doing better—he’s surprisingly light on his feet for his size, even smiling at times. But it’s forced. When the final drill is called—an endurance squat hold in salt—your body screams, but your mind clamps down hard. You hold. You survive. You don’t excel. But you ''last''. And for today, that’s enough. <<elseif ($mind == 2) || ($might >= 1) && ($mind >= 1)>> You’re not even halfway through the stair sprints before your legs betray you. They shake under the pressure. Your breath won’t come clean. You slip on the black salt near the top of the second stair loop and land on one knee. <<set $firstTrial = "fail">> No one helps you up. No one even stops. Gerwin passes you, sweat pouring down his temples, panting hard. ''“Come on,”'' he hisses, ''“They’re watching.”'' You stagger to your feet. Your vision pulses at the edges. The air tastes like copper and cold ash. During the wall holds, your arms give out early. Your knees hit the stone with a hard crack. You hear someone—one of the instructors—scratching something down onto a slip of paper. Lyco doesn't look at you. But you feel the shift in his silence. Like disappointment at something inevitable. During the final stance drill, you drop your spear three times. Your fingers are too numb to feel the grip. No one yells. No one punishes you. But something shifts in the way the instructors move. Like wolves losing interest. By the end, you are allowed to leave without a word. And you walk slower than everyone else. <</if>> [[You find yourselves dismissed for the morning.|chp3_lunch]]

The Dusk Hall swallows you whole the moment you step through its high stone arch. You remember it from yesterday, but it still catches in your throat. The ceiling seems endless. Stained glass windows hang like silent watchers above, casting blood-red and bruised-violet shadows across the floor. Grand murals climb the upper walls; strange scenes, half-glimpsed and unreadable. The food line stretches across a long, sagging banquet table. You grip your wooden trencher and move along with the tide, each step bringing a new scoop or slop of something vaguely edible. By the end of it, your plate is piled high with things you both crave and don’t recognize. Cliffhawk, a new favorite of yours. Stewed craterfish, next to something purple, steaming, which smells like fennel and firewood. A spongy yellowish tuber, fleshy and drenched in gravy. You're hungry, through all of the sweat and fatigue. You follow Lyco, Hugo, and Gerwin to a circular table near the north wall—one of many half-filled by students in various states of exhaustion. Instructors dine in small clusters off to the side. Second-years have gathered mostly together, quietly observing the room from across the hall like predators choosing their marks. Most of the first-years eat in silence at first. Heads down. Limbs trembling from drills. The tension is thick, metallic. Then, slowly, murmurs begin. Forks scrape. Cups clink. Low conversations sprout and spread like moss. And you? <<if $firstTrial == "pass">> You eat fast. Like you’ve earned it. And you have. The drills didn’t break you. They sharpened something; your hands still tremble from the adrenaline, but the sting in your muscles feels earned. ''“Shit,”'' Gerwin mutters, glancing over, ''“You didn’t even look tired.”'' Hugo gives a sideways grin, ''“Either you’re hiding some noble training, or you’re possessed.”'' You shrug and keep eating. Lyco doesn’t say much. But he watches you closely, almost like he’s updating a mental ledger. <<elseif $firstTrial == "avg">> You’re sore, but satisfied. You didn’t collapse. You didn’t shine. You just... held the line. Gerwin groans with every bite. ''"My legs are going to haunt me in my sleep.”'' ''“Can legs do that?”'' Hugo asks, his big, expressive eyes narrowed in a squint beneath a furrow of thick, reddish brows. Lyco eats with slow, measured bites. When you catch his eye, he just nods once. A quiet acknowledgment. <<elseif $firstTrial == "fail">> You're still chewing the memory of failure. You tell yourself it wasn’t your kind of test. That you’ll do better next time. That everyone slips. But it clings to your ribs heavier than the food. Lyco doesn’t say anything. Hugo offers a small nod. Gerwin elbows you and says, ''“Don’t sweat it. Everyone’s fucked on the first day.”'' He doesn’t sound convinced. But you appreciate the effort. Hugo chips in as he gnaws on a half-finished bone, ''"I wanted to lay down an' suck air after the second lap. Had to convince myself to keep going and grin through the pain."'' <</if>> [[A second-year's voice cuts across the hall.|chp3_lunch1]] <<bgm "please-calm-my-mind" 0.6 9>>

You sit with your roommates: Gerwin picking at dry bread, Hugo already halfway through his stew, Lyco straight-backed and quiet, eyes on nothing, when you hear it. ''“He begged for water. That was his first mistake.”'' The voice is calm. Dismissive. A second-year, blue robes open at the collar, leans lazily against a pillar with two others, talking just loud enough for you to hear. ''“Second mistake? Screaming.”'' ''“Third mistake?”'' ''“Existing.”'' They laugh, low and dry. You see it ripple through your cohort. Some heads drop. Some stiffen. Gerwin scowls, ''“They’re talking about the Harrowing, yeah?”'' ''"Aye, I think so,"'' Hugo loosely nods, pondering, ''"The first rite? Where they test for magick?”'' ''“Not exactly,”'' Lyco says, his tone level, almost absent, ''“They don’t test... It's not like today. There's no drills. They just... wait.”'' You glance at him. He doesn’t return the look. ''"My brother didn't say much. He wasn't allowed too. The Harrowing is a... process. Short for some, longer and more arduous for most."'' It looks like he has more to say, lips pursed in quiet contemplation, but he pauses to consider his words before continuing, ''"Somewhere under the Academy. Underground, entombed by rock and stone. It stuck with him. Nightmares of being trapped beneath the world. No food, no water, no light. Trapped with nothing but yourself."'' Gerwin grimaces, beady eyes lingering on Lyco, ''“That’s the test?”'' Lyco shakes his head once. ''“That’s the first step.”'' You absorb that in silence, while the laughter continues behind you. Cruel and easy. One of the second-years meets your eyes across the room and smirks. You turn your attention back to your companions, thoughtful. [[Sit and listen.|chp3_lunch1_cowboy]] <<ci cowboy archetype>> [["Meh. Not everyone is meant to pass."|chp3_lunch1_bastard]] <<ci bastard archetype>> [["They want us to be afraid."|chp3_lunch1_knight]] <<ci knight archetype>>

It’s been a week. Seven days at Highrock. Though it doesn’t feel like time has passed so much as worn through you. That's not to say that it goes quick, or slow. It's just an inevitable march into the future... Towards your destiny, however dark, dank or dreary. Each morning begins before the bells. The cold pulls you awake, often with the kind of quiet that never quite leaves. The dorm stones are always damp, your robes never fully dry. Your breath fogs against the inside of your collar as you dress without a word, following Lyco down the spiral stairs like a shadow. Hugo trails behind, still yawning. Gerwin grumbles, but his boots never miss a step. It's routine now: no one talks much anymore. Words cost energy and there’s nothing left to waste. Sometimes it feels that time isn’t marked in days, but in repetitions. The Prefect says this often—''“Progress is the patience of the body, not the eagerness of the mind.”'' Not that there's much to say between you. Your struggle is shared in action, in time, in destination, in suffer; not simply in words. If you tried, you would struggle to express exactly how you feel, exactly how you think. The days bleed together. Pain makes them honest. You rise. You run. You drill until your limbs shake. Until you're soaked in a salt-sweat you don’t bother scrubbing off anymore. You eat food that tastes like nothing, sleep in stretches that don’t feel like rest. And then you do it all again. But beneath the ache and repetition—beneath the bruises, the cuts, the quiet humility that comes with this honed practice, you’ve begun to change. Not dramatically, nor in ways anyone would see. But in how you carry your weight. In how long you hold your gaze. In what you dream about, and what you don’t. Some nights, Lyco speaks before the lights go out. Not often. Not for long. ''“Most people don’t last through the Harrowing,”'' he said once, without looking at you, ''“It’s not the pain. It’s the part where you stop knowing who you are.”'' You haven’t answered him. Because you’re not sure who you are becoming. But you know one thing: you’re still here. And now, as dusk settles through the high glass and the corridors cool, you find yourself alone in your head for the first time all day. The aches settle in your joints like old friends. Your breath comes steady, if shallow. And your thoughts… they’re quieter than they used to be. Tonight, you think of the week behind you—and the one ahead. You’ve survived. But you haven’t idled. You’ve chosen how to spend your strength, what to focus on, and what to sacrifice. That choice has shaped you, and the days yet to come. What have you devoted yourself to this past week? <<if $might lt 2>>[[Your body. Raw strength, endurance, blunt force.|chp3_evening_might]] <<ci lore>><<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You won't be able to pack on much more size or strength in such a short time.">Your body. Raw strength, endurance, blunt force.</span><</if>> <<if $mobility lt 2>>[[Your movement. Balance, quickness, control.|chp3_evening_mobility]] <<ci lore>><<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You already possess more finesse than the majority of your fellow first years.">Your movement. Balance, quickness, control.</span><</if>> <<if $mind lt 2>>[[Your mind. Discipline, restraint, clarity.|chp3_evening_mind]] <<ci lore>><<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You caught on quickly enough. It's your body that suffers most.">Your mind. Discipline, restraint, clarity.</span><</if>>

You stay quiet. Not because you have nothing to say. No, this life has taught you that sometimes things are better left unsaid. Most people don't listen, and they judge you when they do. If you're lucky, they'll leave you alone. Unlucky, and they'll leverage every word against you. Your stew’s gone lukewarm. You push a chunk of root vegetable around the bowl with the side of your spoon, watching the broth swirl into lazy spirals. Highrock has a weight to it. Not just in the way it drills you, but the way it presses into your skull. Makes you think slower. Makes you watch more. Gerwin and Hugo are still talking. Lyco says nothing, but he doesn’t need to. That silence around him feels earned. You look at your hands. They’re still trembling from the spear drills. Not a lot. Just enough to remind you that your body's catching up to what your mind already knows: this place is going to chew you. And you’d better learn how to taste blood and like it. Gradually, you push your tray forward, elbows on stone, watching the hall thin out. Your fingers tap the edge of the bowl—slow, rhythmic. <<if $calienne_stare>> Something causes you to glance toward the east arch. There she is. Still composed. Still distant. Her gaze flickers toward you for a beat, then past you like she’s already measuring tomorrow. You linger a moment too long. Then you leave without saying a word. <<else>> Then Lyco’s voice slices the moment. ''“You’ll miss the bell.”'' You rise without comment, standing up slow to shake out your shoulders. Your tray’s lighter than you remember. Time's fickle here. You follow the others out, boots echoing softly on the stone floor without looking back. <</if>> [[Time's fickle and every second's a heartbeat.|chp3_evening]] <<gainCowboy>>

You swirl the last of the broth in your bowl, letting it settle into a cold, greasy pool. Slowly, you wipe your mouth with your sleeve and assess the others. Cool, calm. You don't feel that you have much in common with them... No, maybe Lyco. Just maybe. ''“They shouldn’t all pass,”'' you say, testing their edge with your words, ''"It wouldn't mean anything if they did. If we did. Would you want to come out of this unscatched? Unchanged?"'' Everything about this place is designed to strip you bare. Strip you of hope. Ego. Voice. Friends. You’ve already seen it in the eyes of the ones who smiled less today than yesterday. Gerwin looks up, confused, ''“What do you mean?”'' You tap your spoon once against the rim. ''“The Harrowing. Whatever it is. If everyone made it through, it’d be worthless. Just another rite of passage for people too scared to matter.”'' Hugo doesn't frown, but he snorts, mostly focused on emptying his bowl, ''“So… what? You want them to fail?”'' You contemplate his question for a moment or two, your shoulders rolled forward, before you lift a heavy shrug. ''"If they don't want to be here... if they won't fight, earn it, deserve it... Yes, they should fail. I want this to mean something. Otherwise, what's the point?"'' The words hang between you. Heavier than they should be. But you’re not ashamed. Lyco doesn't speak. But this time, he’s watching you. Studying you. You stare back. //Let him.// Highrock isn’t about survival. It’s about proving you deserve to survive more than the person next to you. <<if $calienne_stare>> You glance toward the end of the hall, spotting her. The girl from earlier. Gray stare, spine straight, regal posture and perfectly pale skin. Eyes like storms over glass. She’s already seen you. And now, she sees you again. There’s no invitation in her gaze. But there’s recognition. Something about her quiet is too clean, too controlled. You hate it, or you want it. You’re not sure yet. For now, you don't smile and you don't flich: you just look. Then you rise. Not to escape her eyes. But to earn them again. <</if>> You head for the exit with your shoulders squared, jaw tight, knuckles white and your pulse steady. Some part of you’s already past the Harrowing. The rest of you just needs to catch up. [[Time flies here, when you chase after every moment.|chp3_evening]] <<gainBastard>>

You set your spoon down and rest your forearms on the edge of the table, carefully assessing each of your roommates. You can relate to each of them, even if it's in different ways: somewhere within, you all feel the same emotions. Hopes. Dreams. Aspirations, however whimsical or fleeting. ''“They want fear to do the work for them. They want us rattled.”'' Hugo pauses mid-spoonful, and Gerwin glances over. You feel Lyco's gaze upon you as well. Your voice isn’t loud, but it doesn’t need to be. It’s grounded. Solid. ''“That’s what the second-years are doing. Making us believe the worst thing is coming. They're loud because they remember how it felt. Now they get to pass the fear down.”'' You don’t know if you believe it. But you want to. Saying it feels right, as though it's an affirmation, however aspirational. Hugo nods slowly as he continues to eat, clearing a bowl that he loaded up with twice as much food as the rest of you. Gerwin, the more skeptical one, watches you like he wants to believe you but doesn’t know how. ''“I’ll take starving over being one of them,”'' Gerwin mutters. Hugo chuckles with a mouthful, ''“Speak for yourself.”'' Lyco doesn’t respond, but he gives you a look. Not approval. Not challenge. Just... measure. The table falls quiet, and you feel like it's an earned silence for each of you. So you finish your stew, shoulders sore and legs tight, but still upright. With a breath, you still yourself and allow your gaze to wander. <<if $calienne_stare>> There's a familiar figure near the end of the row. She sits with others, but alone. Every motion practiced. Every line of her uniform unwrinkled. Her gray eyes flick toward you. Cool. Calm. Assessing. You hold her gaze—steady, polite, just long enough to acknowledge without demanding. Brief. Controlled. Then you look away, choosing not to hold it. Something registered, and it was enough. You need nothing more from the moment. You'll let it simmer and stick with you. Even as you fall into step behind Lyco. <</if>> ''“Coming?”'' Lyco asks, the three of them having already risen, ''“You’ll miss the bell.”'' You nod once, quietly falling in step behind him. [[Time passes differently here, quickly, even if every hour is a struggle.|chp3_evening]] <<gainKnight>>

<center><img src="images/might_stat.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> There’s a point in pain where it stops being a signal. Stops being a warning. It becomes something else. A rhythm, a pulse, a pure presence that moves in and makes itself at home in your ribs. You’ve lived in that place this week. Every morning, your arms are wrung out with spearwork. Your shoulders scream from resistance holds and stone carries. Your hands are blistered from hauling wet training ropes up three flights of rusted pulleys, over and over until the palms peel. It's a strange sort of satisfaction, that sore throb accompanying your muscles, tendons and bones after a hard day of training. You feel it most vividly in bed, when your adrenaline has run it's course, leaving you left emptied with nothing but that ache and pain to accompany your tired thoughts. It's going to take time to grow, to //truly// grow, but you're adjusting quickly. In fact, you're starting to revel in that pain. Every day, you reinforce that connection with body and mind, your physical will flourishing beneath the strain. Every session, you gain a better hold on how to drive through your own limits until your heartbeat sounds like war drums in your skull, beads of sweat rolling sweet and salty past the ridge of your brow, leaving you to blink through them headily. The instructors don’t encourage you. But they don’t correct you, either. That’s its own kind of reward. And now, as the muscles in your back throb and your bones feel twice their weight, you lie atop your dormitory bunk, watching torchlight flicker along the ceiling and wondering, not whether you can keep going. but how much more you can become. <<if $bastard > $knight and $bastard > $cowboy is true>> You don’t care if it hurts. You care that the boy beside you couldn’t lift the stone as long. You care that the instructor’s eyes paused on you twice today. You care that pain is something most people avoid; you’ve turned it into a fluent language. This isn't about strength. It's about power. And you're learning to speak it more fluently. Once you master your own body, your own strength, who will be left to stop you? Attunement to the physical world has become your priority recently. <<elseif $knight > $bastard and $knight > $cowboy is true>> You bear the pain like a ritual. Every repetition is a step toward control. Every ache is a confession. You don’t strive for domination; you strive for refinement. To meet the weight with grace. To shape yourself into someone who can protect something. Someday. Even if you don't know what yet. <<elseif $cowboy > $bastard and $cowboy > $knight is true>> You don’t think about the pain anymore. You don’t name it. Don’t analyze it. You show up. You push through. You carry what has to be carried and rest only when it’s time. Your strength isn’t a declaration—it’s a tool. And you’re getting better at using it. The world is wild, unruly, uncertain. But here, you have the opportunity to master your own body, your own strength. And no one can take that away from you. <</if>> <<set $chp3_highrock_stat = "might">> //Your ''Might'' grows stronger.// <<if !$chp3_highrock_statGained>><<set $might += 1>><<set $chp3_highrock_statGained = true>><</if>> [[The evening draws on: quiet, peaceful, your muscles tender and sore.|chp3_evening2]]

<center><img src="images/mobility_stat.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> They call it conditioning, but that’s not what it is. It’s discipline, broken down into breath and movement. Down into the friction between your bones and the world. Every morning starts with footing drills: sliding across gravel, shifting weight, pivoting on sand-slick flagstones. It’s about angles, leverage, and balance under strain. You learn how to fall and land without sound. How to twist out of a grapple before it closes. How to turn speed into force, and force into escape. You run the perimeter stairs until your calves seize, before bounding into a climb along the wall’s inner curve, over and over, palms rubbed raw, heels scraping stone. When it rains, you’re not given rest. You’re told it’s a better test. Slippery ground, fewer excuses. Life doesn't cater to your complaints. You’re learning where your body is at every second, and how to cut through a space with as little waste as possible. When your hands tremble too much to tie your boots after, or your breath won’t settle even in the stillness of the dorm, you feel it: the shape of something forming inside you. Not muscle. Not magic. Command. <<if $bastard > $knight and $bastard > $cowboy is true>> You're not just trying to be faster. You're trying to be ungraspable. Let them swing. Let them shout. Let them chase. You’ll be three steps ahead, already moving. Already gone. Speed isn’t about fleeing—it’s about forcing others to fight on your terms. Control the space, and you control the game. If you've learned one thing in this life, it's //always// better when ''you'' are in control. <<elseif $knight > $bastard and $knight > $cowboy is true>> You don’t train for show. You train for when it counts. For when the wall gives out, or the footing turns treacherous, or the odds tilt against someone who deserves a chance. You want to be the one who moves first. The one who doesn't hesitate. Grace is not weakness. It's precision born of purpose. <<elseif $cowboy > $bastard and $cowboy > $knight is true>> You don’t think much while you move. That’s the point. You listen to the weight of your steps, the pull in your joints, the way your breath paces with the strain. You find your rhythm and let the work carry you. Motion is meditation. And you’re getting quieter with every run. <</if>> <<set $chp3_highrock_stat = "mobility">> //Your ''Mobility'' is honed with practice.// <<if !$chp3_highrock_statGained>><<set $mobility += 1>><<set $chp3_highrock_statGained = true>><</if>> [[The evening draws on: quiet, peaceful, your breath calm and controlled.|chp3_evening2]]

<center><img src="images/mind_stat.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Silence is harder than sweat. That’s what you’ve learned this week. They say the mind is a tool, but Highrock doesn’t treat it like one. They treat it like a wound—something to be cauterized, hardened, tested for leaks. Something to be sealed before it turns on you. Your training is spent in echo chambers, sitting alone on cold marble for hours at a time, eyes open, back straight, hands flat. If you speak, you start over. If your breath falters, you start over. If you fidget, you start over. Sometimes the instructors whisper lies while you meditate. Not insults, just doubt. Spoken soft, close, in your own voice. You’re shown sigils you’re not taught to read, just stare at. They burn into your retinas, and later, they show up in your dreams. You run memory drills while your body is half-dead with fatigue. You’re asked to recite back a list of spells or imperial commands after being locked in darkness for an hour with no light, no sound, and no sense of time. This isn't education. It's filtration. And something in you is beginning to... crystallize. Not knowledge, exactly. Clarity. <<if $bastard > $knight and $bastard > $cowboy is true>> Personally? You don’t meditate to quiet your thoughts. You meditate to sharpen them. To weaponize them. Let the others break themselves on repetition and ritual—you’ll use this discipline to see further, predict faster, move smarter. The mind is the first blade, and yours is getting sharper by the day. Once you can control your thoughts, you can focus on controlling others. <<elseif $knight > $bastard and $knight > $cowboy is true>> You treat the silence with respect. You carry it like armor, not arrogance. It's not about knowing more—it's about being present when others are fractured. To stay calm while others shake. Your strength isn’t noise. It’s knowing when not to speak. <<elseif $cowboy > $bastard and $cowboy > $knight is true>> You didn’t expect to like this part. But something about the stillness sits right. Maybe it’s because no one’s yelling at you. Maybe it’s because you’ve never had space to listen to your own thoughts before. You're not trying to outthink anyone. You're just trying to listen until something inside goes quiet. <</if>> <<set $chp3_highrock_stat = "mind">> //Your ''Mind'' hums more profoundly.// <<if !$chp3_highrock_statGained>><<set $mind += 1>><<set $chp3_highrock_statGained = true>><</if>> [[The evening draws on: quiet, peaceful, your thoughts sharpened by contemplation.|chp3_evening2]]

The dormitory is quiet when you return. Not empty, just quiet in the way worn-out bodies make silence. The kind that hums with the ache of muscles and half-processed thoughts. Stone walls hold the day’s cold. You pass through the arched threshold with Lyco, Gerwin, and Hugo behind you. No one speaks right away. Hugo drops onto his bunk with a theatrical groan, already chewing something. You catch the glint of a purloined apple core. His stomach grumbles, hungry but eager for sleep as always. Gerwin pulls out a small weather-beaten book and settles near the hearth, flipping it open like a habit. The pages crackle faintly, and his brow furrows in thought. His lips move silently; something about it is comforting. Lyco lights the brazier with a flickering candle, calm and practiced, before lowering onto his bunk and unlatching the small leather-bound notebook he keeps stashed beneath his bedframe. He doesn't write yet, just holding the quill over the page for a long moment. You sit atop your own bunk, slowly exhaling. For the first time all week, you allow yourself to feel truly tired. The sounds are small: firewood crackling, boots being untied, breath slowing in time with the dark. And your mind drifts— <<if $intro_tome>> The tome still rests beneath your bunk, wrapped in waxed cloth, hidden like contraband. You haven’t opened it again. Not fully. Not since the night you took it from Mearesdes’ lair, its leather cover still warm and damp from the depth it had slept in. You’ve tried to read it. Once. Your eyes refused to swallow the script. Not because you were afraid—though maybe you should’ve been—but because the lettered shapes are so foreign to you; meaningless spirals that you can only hope to comprehend. One day. One day soon. And yet… it hasn’t left your mind. It doesn’t pulse. It doesn’t speak. But you feel its presence. Like a weight pressing into your thoughts. A silence with intent. You tell yourself it’s just a relic. Just ink and hide and legend. But in quiet moments, you wonder: is it a weapon? A curse? Or something waiting for you to become what it needs? To your knowledge, it hasn’t caused your dreams. But something’s changed since you took it. Something deep inside you. Or maybe it’s just that now, for the first time in your life, you have something worth fearing. And you’re not sure if that’s power… or a warning. <</if>> The dreams. It's been a week since she stole you away for the second time. <<if $intro_tome && $chp3_dream_dom>> You were inside her. Pressing her down. Her throat against your palm, her gasps turning from command to plea. You don’t remember every second, but you remember the feel of it—her body bowing to yours, her power unraveling beneath your hands. Somewhere in that moment, you felt the tome wake. Not aloud. Not visibly. But in your blood. Like something ancient smiling behind your eyes. As if it had lent you strength—not just to resist, but to dominate. She had power. She had allure. But you had force. You try to tell yourself it was a dream. That none of it was real. But your body remembers. So does your breath, every time it hitches at the edge of sleep. You wonder if she let you take control. Or if something in you wanted it more than you should have. Because it wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t just defiance. It was possession. And you liked it. You can’t stop thinking about that. Not just what you did—but how easy it felt. How good it was to be the one in control. <<elseif $intro_tome && $chp3_dream_resist>> She tried to press herself onto you—into you. Not with touch, but with presence. That voice, that heat, that unnatural gravity she pulled everything into. It was so effortless, that power emmanating as though linked to her very essence. Her purpose. But you stood firm, and somewhere in the silence between your heartbeat and hers, something answered. Not from outside. From within. The tome never moved. Never lit. But you felt it rise in your mind like a wall of iron. Or maybe you became the wall. And she, for all her dark seduction, shattered against it. You didn’t hurt her. But you refused her. And in that moment, you saw something she didn’t mean to show—fear. You didn’t ask the book for help. You never cracked it open or whispered a spell. But something old stirred inside you that night, and the lines between self and artifact felt thinner than breath. You wonder now what it made her see in you. And if she’ll come back to try again. The memory isn’t sharp. But the feeling remains: the daemoness surprised. Weakened. And you, stronger than you had any right to be. It should frighten you. Maybe it does. But part of you wants to feel it again. <<elseif $chp3_dream_dom>> She didn’t see it coming: that strength, that clarity of will. You didn’t call upon any spell. No ancient relics or muttered incantations. Only action, your body and mind perfectly aligned. And when you pressed her down, when your fingers curled around her throat and she gasped your name, it wasn’t power borrowed. It was yours. You moved with purpose. With violence, yes, but not recklessness. There was something cold about it. A clean assertion of dominance. And she melted beneath it. Not in fear. In want. And gods, did you want her too. But what lingers isn’t the sex. It’s the sureness. The realization that something inside you doesn’t just resist control, it craves to reverse it. You didn’t lose yourself in that dream. You found something. And you haven’t decided yet whether it should be unleashed again. You remember her throat beneath your hand. You woke hard and breathless that morning, your hands trembling, not from fear—but from having wanted that moment. And that’s what haunts you. Not that you dominated her. But that part of you enjoyed it, and you want more. <<elseif $chp3_dream_resist>> You saw her beauty. You heard her voice. You felt the pressure of her presence, every inch engineered to tempt. But you didn’t move. She tried everything: touch, words, the promise of things you’ve never tasted. But in the end, she was left reaching. And you? You were unmoved. She wasn’t used to being denied. You saw it in her eyes, just for a flicker. Like a god realizing someone’s forgotten how to pray. You don’t know what that says about you. Only that you didn’t need help to win. That, somehow, might be its own kind of dangerous. That strength, that denial? It was yours. You said no. You moved with purpose, with violence, yes, but not recklessness. Only action, your body and mind perfectly aligned. There was something cold about it. A clean assertion of dominance. Something inside you refused to kneel. And you felt her falter. <<elseif $chp3_dream_sub>> You could’ve said no. You know that. She didn’t force you, not exactly. You could've fought harder. But her voice, her presence; that dark smile like velvet wrapped around razors, you fell into it. You fell for her. She carries an undeniable heat, that unnatural gravity which pulls everything into it. So effortless, that otherworldly, seductive power emmanating as though linked to her very essence. Her purpose. You remember kissing her feet. Her thighs. The sound she made when your tongue met her skin. And you gave in, every part of you. Mind, body and soul. You try to blame the dream, the pressure, and the loneliness. That strange power. But when you're honest? You remember wanting it. And even now, as the night cools around you, you don’t know whether to feel ashamed… or grateful. Because it felt like the only real thing you've had in a long time, in a world where dreams are a feast for sore eyes. <<else>> You fought. Or at least, you tried to. But she was too strong. Too smooth. Too perfectly shaped to fill every crack you’d forgotten you had. You didn’t kneel, but you didn’t stand either. She swallowed your resistance like it was a song she’d heard before. You don’t know what she is. Not really, not yet. She carries an undeniable heat, that unnatural gravity which pulls everything into it. So effortless, that otherworldly, seductive power emmanating as though linked to her very essence. Her purpose. She wants something from you, that much is clear. And what haunts you most isn’t the memory of her lips or her eyes. It’s the question that came after: What makes you so special… that something like her won’t let go? <</if>> <<if $leoris_apartment_friends>> Leoris. You remember her laughter before anything else, soft and unhurried, like she had all the time in the world to enjoy it. Those couple hours in the tavern felt like it belonged to another life, wrapped in velvet and candlelight. It had been warm, quiet, human. The scent of her hair. The curve of her smile when she told you she liked simple men. She touched your hand before you left, told you to come visit. Maybe she meant it, maybe not, but you were willing to believe her. Part of you still wants to tell her what you’ve seen since then. Part of you knows you won’t; not everything. But gods, you'd like to hear her laugh again. <<elseif $leoris_apartment_benefits>> Leoris. You think first of her lips, then her laugh. The two were always close together. That tavern tryst plays like a blurred firelight reel in your head—limbs tangled, breath shared, and something... easy. Honest in a selfish kind of way. She knew what she wanted, and so did you. Friends, sure. But mostly, it was about pleasure, comfort. And someone who saw you as more than an orphan or a problem to solve. You told yourself it was just fun, a passing moment. Something to remember when things got hard. But now, under stone and shadow, the memory of her warmth clings to your skin like perfume. <<elseif $leoris_apartment_morethan_good>> Leoris. She made it so easy to forget what you were walking into. The way she looked at you: curious, amused, maybe even a little enchanted. She let you into her space, into her body, into something that felt safe. Real. The memory of her arms around you feels closer than the bunk beneath your back. And her words—//Tell me everything when you return.// You remember how she whispered that into your chest, as if you'd already promised you would. You haven't spoken since then, haven't sent a word. You hope to get a chance to visit, soon. But every night since, part of you wonders if she’s lighting candles and thinking about you. You didn’t expect her to matter this much. In your heart, ''she does''. <<elseif $leoris_apartment_morethan_bad>> Leoris. You fumbled it, didn’t you? There had been something there—maybe. Enough for you to hope. You remember the way her expression shifted when you said too much, too fast. That awkward parting, her voice turning careful, distant. You told yourself it didn’t matter, but it did. Not because you loved her. You barely knew her. But because, for a moment, you wanted to. You wanted someone to see you, and she almost did.. <<elseif $leoris_nosex>> Leoris. There are memories that bloom, even without heat. She never kissed you, never touched you like lovers do, but there was something there all the same. Her gaze, warm and knowing. The way she looked at you when you said your name. The hush between breaths in her small, lived-in room. You left before anything could happen. Maybe that was the right call. Maybe not. Part of you wonders what would’ve happened if you’d stayed longer, said more, took a chance, and reached for her. Some moments are meant to stay imagined. And this one lingers like a sigh just behind your lips. <</if>> <<if $calienne_stare>> Gradually, your thoughts drift to... that girl, again. You’ve seen her across the halls, in class, in drills, through silence or the droning of your prefects and lecturers. You don’t even know her name, not yet, but you’ve noticed her more than once. And you think… maybe she’s noticed you too. She moves with precision, subtle, glimmering grace. Nothing about her is soft. Not the way she walks, not the way she stands, not the way she looks at people, like they’re already guilty of something. Pale skin. Black hair. Those cold, gray eyes that never linger too long, but never miss anything either. She’s always surrounded, but apart. Tethered to nothing. You don’t know what it is about her that sticks with you. Maybe it’s the way she holds herself like someone who’s already survived something. Or maybe it’s because, for a moment once, you caught her watching you. You didn’t smile. Neither did she. And yet here she is, still in your thoughts. Still there, like a question you haven’t figured out how to ask.<br><</if>> Time slides. The room dims. The fire dies lower, and the boys begin to slip toward sleep, one by one. Hugo mutters something unintelligible before turning toward the wall. Gerwin marks his page, then leans back and closes his eyes without ceremony. Lyco finishes his entry, closes the notebook, and doesn’t move for a long time. Then: ''“We’ve got Night Watch tonight,”'' he says quietly. You nod, already knowing, already feeling it in your bones. Your bunk creaks beneath you as you lie back. The ceiling above is just shadow and carved stone. You trace the lines with tired eyes. And then, finally... Sleep takes you. But not all of you. [[Begin the Night Watch.|chp3_nightwatch_intro]]

Sleep never runs deep at Highrock. Not when your bones ache, or when the shadows in your dreams whisper with voices that sound like your own. Still, it takes a moment for you to realize what woke you. The room is near black—just the faintest glow from dying embers and Lyco’s silhouette standing near the edge of the bunk, just at the periphery of your vision. ''“Time,”'' he says. You blink and shift upright, the walls already breathing cold against your skin. It's a feeling that you still haven't entirely adjusted to, coming from the dank warmth and steaming heat of the Third Quarter. ''“Night Watch,”'' Lyco adds, quieter now. He pulls on his outer robes and bends low to check what must be a dagger hidden beneath the sash. Not paranoia—habit. You’ve seen it before, all the older boys carry something. ''“You all right?”'' You give a faint nod in the darkness, still taking the time to adjust to your surroundings. The others are asleep: Gerwin’s mouth open, scrawny arm draped over the edge of his top bunk. Hugo’s curled around a blanket that’s not his, a big heaping, snoring mound of flesh and fabric. The room smells like sweat, oil, and flickering flame. With a breath, you stand, slipping down onto the cold cobble to dress in the dark. You’ve heard about Night Watch. Everyone has. Some claim it’s a rite, busywork handed down from on high, a way to teach you discipline. Others say it’s just punishment masquerading as tradition, born from the paranoia of older centuries. A few, always in whispers, speak of stranger things: sounds no one could place, doors that shouldn’t open, faces glimpsed through gaps that weren’t there before. You never knew which version to believe. Tonight, you’ll find out. Lyco fastens his cloak, eyes sharp beneath half-lowered blonde lashes, ''“There should be a pair of second-years with us. Prefects, technically."'' He doesn’t sound worried. Technical, contemplative, a touch precise, ''“They haven’t shown."'' As though to make the point, he slips closer to the heavy wooden door gating your room from the outside hall, and slowly tugs it open. The hall outside is quiet, empty, aloof. No waiting escort, no prefects, not a peep. ''"They might be waiting down in the common room,"'' Lyco suggests aloud beneath his breath, gesturing in the direction of the stairwell, ''“I'll check. They might be dragging their feet, playing games. Or they ditched us."'' He swings the door open more fully, but stops and turns toward you midway, his eyes focusing on you through the relative darkness, ''“If you're up to it, maybe take a quick sweep of the upper floors. Start the watch proper.”'' A pause, ''“Just don’t go poking around anything sealed.”'' And then he's gone, his steps soft against the flagstones. You’re alone again. But not for long. The halls above await—dark, cold, half-silent. Somewhere in this stone skeleton, other things stir. Voices. Secrets. Questions. And you’ve got a few hours before dawn. [[Begin your patrol.|chp3_nightwatch_13]] <<set $watchPhase = "early">> <<set $nightwatch_gerwin = false>> <<set $nightwatch_gossip = false>> <<set $nightwatch_gossip_closer = false>> <<set $nightwatch_assem = false>>

<center><img src="images/dormhall.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> <<if $watchPhase is "early">> The corridor outside your dorm is quiet, but not comfortably so. The sconces are lit, but dimmer than usual. Their flames stretch tall and thin, flickering like they’re afraid to burn too bright, reaching for something just out of sight. It makes the shadows ripple, not dance. Slowly, carefully, you close the heavy wooden door to your room behind you, leaving Hugo and Gerwin entombed inside, lost to whatever shallow dreams their bodies can still summon. For now, it's just you and the stone in the dark. Most of the doors are closed. A few cracked just wide enough to show slivers of shadow and breath. You hear the low groan of wood as someone rolls in their bunk. The air smells like oil, candlewax, and sleep. No signs of anything awake that wants to be seen. You’ve walked this hallway every day for weeks now, but never like this. Never with the quiet pressing in on all sides like a weight. Tonight it feels longer, narrower, like the old, cracked stones lean closer than they should. Lyco’s footsteps are long gone. He said he was heading down to the common room, that the second-year prefects might be waiting there. He asked you to check the upper floors first. Just a sweep, if you’re up to it... You are. Probably. <<elseif $watchPhase is "middle">> The hall is still. Not silent. There’s still the creak of old beams and the groan of stone flexing in its sleep. But it feels more settled now; ancient, watchful, waiting. A scone near the stairwell has gone out completely, leaving a stretch of the hallway cloaked in uneven dark. The remaining flames flicker more lazily now, throwing shadows that cling longer to the walls before slipping back into place. You move quietly, and the corridor returns the favor. <<if $nightwatch_gerwin is true>> Your door sits securely closed now. <<else>> But when you glance toward your dorm room, you stop. The door is cracked open. Not wide. Just a hair. Enough to see that it isn't how you left it. You’re certain you pulled it fully shut when you left. And yet, there’s a sliver of light inside. Faint. Like the dying glow of a brazier, or maybe just a candle guttering low. You feel the shape of a question forming. Of course, you tell yourself it's probably just Hugo getting up to piss, or Gerwin waking to scribble something in that little book of his. However, you hesitate all the same. [[Investigate your room.|chp3_nightwatch_13_gerwin]]<</if>> <<elseif $watchPhase is "late">> The hallway feels colder now. Not frigid, but just enough to raise the fine hairs along your arms. The sconces are mostly spent, casting more smoke than flame. What little light they give slips over the stone in dull, oily streaks. <</if>> [[Ascend to the upper floors.|chp3_nightwatch_abandoned]] [[Descend to the lower floors.|chp3_nightwatch_bath]]

<<if $watchPhase is "early">>You ascend into stillness. The transition from the occupied floors to the abandoned ones is almost imperceptible; no grand threshold, nor a barred gate. Just a step. One floor, from the nearly-empty fifteenth to the sixteenth, and everything changes. The walls feel closer here. Not narrower, just heavier, coated in a soft film of age. The sconces haven’t been lit in years, and the dust has settled thick over every surface like fine ash. In the corners, cobwebs hang loose and lazy. Too large, too old to have been built by anything small. You move quietly, but your breath stirs the air, and the air stirs the rafters, and from them, something sifts down; flakes of dust, or rot, or bone. There are no names on the doors here. No sounds behind them. Most are shut, warped slightly with age, sealed by time or disuse. A few stand half-open, but what lies behind them is only shadow and collapsed furniture. Somewhere deep in the floor below, you hear a single //drip//. Then another. You strain your ears. It doesn’t repeat; just two, like something old testing if you’re listening. The air carries a faint chill, not cold enough to bite, just enough to remind you: this part of Highrock was forgotten for a reason. <<elseif $watchPhase is "middle">><<if $nightwatch_assem is true>> The stillness has settled again. Whatever you awakened here has gone back to sleep. The pages lie open where you left them, the ink dry and harmless. The portrait’s glass has cracked, a thin white vein running through the face of the young man. You can’t tell if it was there before. Dust drifts in slow spirals where your breath disturbs it. The air is cooler now, empty of the pulse that once filled it, yet the silence has weight, as if the walls remember your trespass. Every creak of the floorboards sounds too loud. Every corner feels a fraction too deep. You know you shouldn’t linger, but some part of you always does, listening for that heartbeat that never comes.<<else>> It doesn't get any less unsettling. You’ve been walking for minutes - probably. Time folds strangely here. But the longer you spend here, the more familiar it becomes, like a crypt that you've visited one too many times. You’ve grown used to the dark by now; the black has texture, its own faint rhythm. Every so often, the timbers sigh, or dust cascades in a thin, whispering drift. The deeper you move, the more the halls begin to resemble bones; bare frames of what once was living. Dormitories, classrooms, storage cells. In one room, you think you see a chalk diagram faintly shining on the far wall, but when you step closer it’s only the pattern of mold. The corridor bends ahead, narrowing into a faint, amber glow where one of the sconces still smolders with life. Something’s been burning here, not long ago. [[You feel compelled to investigate.|chp3_nightwatch_abandoned_assem]]<</if>> <<elseif $watchPhase is "late">> <</if>> [[Venture to the top of the stairwell...|chp3_nightwatch_top]] [[Descend back down towards your dorm.|chp3_nightwatch_13]]

Up here, the wind meets you before the darkness does. Thin and biting, it cuts along your cheeks the moment you step into the uppermost corridor. The stairwell narrows the higher you climb, its spiral tightening like a screw into stone. By the time you reach the top, the air is thin, sharp with altitude. You’ve never been this high before. You thought Highrock was high and cool, but it pales in comparison to the experience up here, let alone the depths of the Third Quarter far below, steeped in heat and unruly, clinging steam. The top of Highrock is open to the sky—partially, at least. Loose planks and shattered wooden slats line the walls like old ribs. Wind whistles through them, catching on the exposed beams. A few boards flap in the breeze, weathered but still clinging, like they’ve forgotten how to fall. The old stone only seems to channel the cool air towards you. Above you looms the bell: inert, looming heavily, dark and ominous. It hangs in a rusted iron framework, dark with age and streaked with what might be water or time. You don't know what kind of metal it’s made from. There’s a texture to it you’ve never seen before. It doesn’t shine, but it draws the eye. Precious. Inert. Sleeping. You can only wonder how long ago it was forged, and how many slaves must have labored away at the cliff's edge or deep in the mire's mines to obtain every precious nugget of ore. From the open arches, you see the courtyard far below, now no more than a gray, purplish misty smear of stone and flickering firelight. The torches burn like slow-moving fireflies in the mist. One of them moves. You blink, but it's still there, still moving. You tell yourself it’s just a patrolling student. Maybe it's Lyco down there, still alone, without the second-year prefects. No one else is supposed to be in the courtyard this early, unless it's an instructor or servant. [[Start the your descent back down.|chp3_nightwatch_abandoned]] <<sfx "wind-blowing" 0.6>>

<<if $watchPhase is "early">>The second floor feels different. Not colder or darker—if anything, it’s the opposite. Warmer. Lived-in. The sconces here are fully lit, their glow steady and gold. Shadows behave. The air smells faintly of soap, wood polish, and something vaguely sweet. Dried fruit, maybe, or old cloves tucked into worn linen. You pass crates of folded towels, sealed jars, a broken basket spilling old laundry. Someone’s left a mop leaning crookedly against the wall, its bristles damp, a thin trail of water drying in its wake. Behind the doors, you hear the soft signs of life. Not the tension of students, not the empty silence of locked rooms, but shuffling steps, muted conversation, the clink of ceramic. A cough, or yawn. Servants: cooks, maids, attendants, scribes. The ones who keep Highrock upright while the rest of it tears itself apart. As far as you know, most of them are lowborns like you, though some of the scribes might be selected from amongst the more privileged gentry. You don’t knock or try to open anything. You just walk through, quiet and watchful. One door creaks open behind you, just slightly, and you hear the faint jingle of keys. A maid, perhaps, or one of the kitchen boys, but you don’t look back. This floor doesn’t feel like danger, though it doesn't feel like safety either. <<elseif $watchPhase is "middle">>The second floor has only grown busier as the night deepens. Lamps burn lower, but their glow is steadier, like coals banked against the dark. You pass tired voices carrying up stairwells, servants swapping gossip in hushed tones, and the endless clatter of keys against belt-hooks. The warmth here doesn’t fade. It thickens, heavy with soap, boiled starch, and the sour-sweet scent of sweat clinging to linen. The rhythm is not your own. These people belong here, moving in and out of chambers with the ease of muscle memory. You are a stranger cutting through their world, and they glance right past you, seeing only a uniform, a patrol, another cog in the Academy’s endless machinery. For a moment you almost forget you’re intruding. Almost. <<elseif $watchPhase is "late">> <</if>> [[Ascend back upstairs.|chp3_nightwatch_bath]] [[Descend into the common room.|chp3_nightwatch_common]]

<center><img src="images/bathroom.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> <<if $watchPhase is "early">>Far below the thirteeth floor where you reside, the stone stairwell opens onto the third floor with a slow exhale of warm, mineral-scented air. The bathing chambers are quiet—divided down the center by a short corridor and a heavy velvet curtain. You step lightly onto smooth, worn tiles, the kind that still hold heat from the water’s rise earlier in the evening. On the male side, everything is still. Towels hung, benches empty, the steam long since faded. The pools remain clear and untouched, the surface as smooth as polished glass. The sconces glow soft against the mist-colored stone, casting everything in a pale amber haze. <<if $nightwatch_gossip is true>> On the female side, you still hear the girls, only barely. Murmuring through steam and stone, just beyond the velvet curtain. The same voices, still low, still indulgent. A bubble of warmth and skin and secrets you’re no longer part of. You could stop again. Listen. Watch. But you don’t. You’ve already had your moment, and you have a job to do. <<else>> But from the other side, through the thick curtain that separates the chambers, you hear something... Murmurs. Not loud, nor scandalous, but unmistakable. Female voices, close together, talking low and sharp, poorly concealed. The kind of conversation meant to be private, but not secret. You can’t make out the words, just the cadence; whispers that rise and fall like flickers in the dark. If you drew closer for a peek and listen just past the curtain, you might be able to hear more. Surely no one would see you if you got closer... [[Get a closer peek. (18+)|chp3_nightwatch_bath_gossip]] <<ci adult>><</if>> <<elseif $watchPhase is "middle">> <<if $nightwatch_gossip_closer is true>>The baths are quiet now. Only the faint hiss of cooling stone remains, the memory of heat etched into the air like a ghost’s breath. Steam clings to the arches in pale ribbons, then drifts upward and vanishes. This night has certainly been interesting. But it's not quite over, not yet. <<else>> You know this corridor now. The soft slope of heat that rolls down from the third-floor baths, the faint, earthy scent of wet stone and steam. It greets you again as you climb, though the hour is later and the torches have burned low. The air still hums faintly. When you reach the archway, the sound is there again; laughter, quick and breathless. You pause. The same voices as before, but looser now, reckless. They’re still in there. Through the curtain seeps a thin band of candlelight, trembling across the tiles. The heat presses thicker than before, heavy with soap, clove, and skin. Someone splashes, another giggles. A hush follows, then a murmur pitched too low to catch. They know they should be gone, but they don’t care. Perhaps the cloak of night and the heat has placated them, luring them into complacency. Or maybe they've been wanting to get caught all along. The male side remains empty, its pools cool and still. Only the distant echoes of their laughter ripple through the partition; soft, conspiratorial, soaked in warmth. They’re tempting fate. Or maybe you are. The velvet curtain shifts slightly with the movement of air. You stand there, half in shadow, half in glow, your chest damp with rising heat, whether from the steam or the rising feelings stirring deep wihin yourself. For a long moment, you listen. Low laughter, soft breaths, warm water moving against skin. You could keep walking. Or you could look again. [[Step closer. Take the risk again. (18+)|chp3_nightwatch_bath_closer]] <<ci adult>> <</if>> <<elseif $watchPhase is "late">> <</if>> [[Ascend to Floor 13.|chp3_nightwatch_13]] [[Descend to the servant quarters.|chp3_nightwatch_servant]]

<center><img src="images/staircase2.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> <<if $watchPhase is "early">>The fire burns low in the hearth, casting long shadows that shiver across the stone floor. The flames are quiet; not crackling, not roaring, just a slow, steady flicker, like a candle being bled dry. Its warmth doesn’t quite reach the edges of the room. You step out into the common space, half-expecting it to be empty, but it's not. A few second-years linger at desks tucked beneath arched alcoves, their faces half-lit by amber glowstones and open tomes. One is etching runes into a strip of leather. Another is bent over a thick volume, mumbling a string of syllables that sound more like a prayer than a spell. None of them look up when you enter, nor do they speak. The room feels... fragile. Like something is waiting to shift but hasn’t found the right moment yet. Lyco stands near the hearth, arms folded, watching the flames with a stare that could cut glass. His cloak is fastened tight, his posture too still to be casual. When he notices you, he nods just once. Still no prefects, you think. You glance toward the stairs; no sound above or below. The other boys haven't stirred. It’s just you, Lyco, and the quiet discipline of older students who’ve learned that too much noise at Highrock gets noticed. Maybe the prefects are testing you. Or maybe they’ve simply decided you’re not worth their time. Either way… it’s your watch now. You should talk to Lyco when you're ready to get started. The night has just begun. [[Talk with Lyco.|chp3_nightwatch_adv_middle]] <<elseif $watchPhase is "middle">> Most of the second-years are gone. Only a pair remain at the back tables, whispering over a candle and jotting figures into a shared ledger. The sound of the quill against parchment is dry, like the rasp of a blade being honed. Lyco stands near the stairwell, his shadow long against the far wall. His tunic is half unlaced, sleeves rolled up, forearms streaked with a dusting of ash from extinguishing lamps. He glances your way as you enter, then tilts his head slightly toward the upper floors. ''“Come find me when you’re done with the upper levels,”'' he says quietly. ''“We might have something to deal with.”'' He doesn’t elaborate. Just turns back to the stairwell and listens; you hear a faint creak somewhere above, a door settling, a muffled cough that might’ve come from one of the dormitories. Then silence again. It’s later than you thought. The Academy seems to breathe in its sleep. Even the torches burn lower, their light clinging close to the oppressive walls surrounding you. You feel the weight of the watch settling over you - slow, patient, expectant. [[Prepare for the end of your watch.|chp3_nightwatch_closer]] <</if>> [[Ascend back to the servant quarters.|chp3_nightwatch_servant]] [[Head out into the inner courtyard.|chp3_nightwatch_courtyard]]

<<nobr>> <<set _totalPersonality to $cowboy + $bastard + $knight>> <<set _cowboyPercent to Math.round(($cowboy / _totalPersonality) * 10000) / 100>> <<set _bastardPercent to Math.round(($bastard / _totalPersonality) * 10000) / 100>> <<set _knightPercent to Math.round(($knight / _totalPersonality) * 10000) / 100>> <div class="mirror-of-self"> <h2>Mirror of Self</h2> <p class="flavor">"Know thyself, and behold what stirs beneath the skin..."</p> <br> <<if $char_archetype and $char_archetype isnot "defy">> <<set _arch to setup.Archetypes[$char_archetype]>> <<archetypeHeader _arch.title _arch.omen _arch.img>> <<elseif $char_archetype is "defy">> <<archetypeHeader "DEFY THE SCALE" "You do not resolve into a single shape. The mirror fractures instead." "images/defythescale.webp">> <<else>> <div class="archetype-unformed"> <p><em>The mirror shows only mist. You have not yet chosen a shape.</em></p> </div> <</if>> <div id="soul-meter" class="soul-meter"> <div id="fill-cowboy" class="fill cowboy"></div> <div id="fill-bastard" class="fill bastard"></div> <div id="fill-knight" class="fill knight"></div> </div> <div class="soul-meter-legend"> <span class="legend-cowboy">■ Cowboy</span><span class="legend-bastard">■ Bastard</span><span class="legend-knight">■ Knight</span> </div> <div class="soul-reading"> <<if $dominant is "cowboy">> <div class="reading-line cowboy">Dominant Archetype: Cowboy</div> <div class="reading-quote">“You endure. You adapt. You survive what should have ended you.”</div> <<elseif $dominant is "bastard">> <div class="reading-line bastard">Dominant Archetype: Bastard</div> <div class="reading-quote">“Your will bends toward defiance and instinct, subverting all expectations.”</div> <<elseif $dominant is "knight">> <div class="reading-line knight">Dominant Archetype: Knight</div> <div class="reading-quote">“You reach for order and meaning; something higher than appetite.”</div> <<else>> <div class="reading-line neutral">Dominant Archetype: Unknown</div> <div class="reading-quote">“The mirror cannot yet name what you’re becoming.”</div> <</if>> </div> <div class="traits-unlocked"> <h3>Manifest Traits</h3> <ul> <<if $traitCynical>> <li>Cynical</li> <</if>> <<if $traitRomantic>> <li>Romantic</li> <</if>> <<if $traitMerciful>> <li>Merciful</li> <</if>> <<if !$traitCynical and !$traitRomantic and !$traitMerciful>> <li><em>(None yet awakened.)</em></li> <</if>> </ul> </div> <div class="mirror-return"> <<link "Return">><<goto $lastPassageVisited>><</link>> </div> </div> <<script>> $(function() { var cowboy = State.variables.cowboy || 0; var bastard = State.variables.bastard || 0; var knight = State.variables.knight || 0; var total = cowboy + bastard + knight || 1; $("#fill-cowboy").css("width", (cowboy / total) * 100 + "%"); $("#fill-bastard").css("width", (bastard / total) * 100 + "%"); $("#fill-knight").css("width", (knight / total) * 100 + "%"); }); <</script>> <</nobr>>

<<nobr>> <div class="soul-ledger"> <h2>Ledger of Mortal Weal</h2> <p class="flavor">"The world tallies your flesh, your iron, your will..."</p> <div class="core-stats"> <h3>Core Attributes</h3> <ul> <li>Might: <<= $might>></li> <li>Mobility: <<= $mobility>></li> <li>Mind: <<= $mind>></li> </ul> </div> <div class="titles-held"> <h3>Titles and Ranks</h3> <ul> <<if $titlesHeld and $titlesHeld.length > 0>> <<for _title range $titlesHeld>> <li><<= _title>></li> <</for>> <<else>> <li><em>(None yet attained.)</em></li> <</if>> </ul> </div> <div class="ledger-return"> <<link "Return">><<goto $lastPassageVisited>><</link>> </div> </div> <</nobr>>

<<nobr>> <div class="soul-chronicle"> <h2>Chronicle of the Abyss</h2> <p class="flavor">"The void remembers what you wield, what you claim, what you dream..."</p> <div class="known-magicks"> <h3>Known Magicks</h3> <ul> <<if $knownMagicks and $knownMagicks.length > 0>> <<for _spell range $knownMagicks>> <li><<= _spell>></li> <</for>> <<else>> <li><em>(None yet awakened.)</em></li> <</if>> </ul> </div> <div class="artifacts-held"> <h3>Artifacts Possessed</h3> <ul> <<if $artifactsHeld and $artifactsHeld.length > 0>> <<for _artifact range $artifactsHeld>> <li><<= _artifact>></li> <</for>> <<else>> <li><em>(None yet grasped.)</em></li> <</if>> </ul> </div> <div class="dream-visions"> <h3>Dream Visions</h3> <ul> <<if $dreamVisions and $dreamVisions.length > 0>> <<for _vision range $dreamVisions>> <li><<= _vision>></li> <</for>> <<else>> <li><em>(The void keeps its secrets...)</em></li> <</if>> </ul> </div> <div class="runes-collected"> <h3>Runes Collected</h3> <ul> <<if $runesCollected and $runesCollected.length > 0>> <<for _rune range $runesCollected>> <li><<= _rune>></li> <</for>> <<else>> <li><em>(None yet bound.)</em></li> <</if>> </ul> </div> <div class="chronicle-return"> <<link "Return">><<goto $lastPassageVisited>><</link>> </div> </div> <</nobr>>

You pull back slightly, your hands still hot on her ass. Her body is flushed and shivering under your grip, not from pain, but from the game, the heat, from you. Her grin hasn't faded. Still sharp, still cocky, still full of blood and spark. ''“What now?”'' She pants, ''“Gonna take another swing, or you finally outta steam?”'' But you yank her up by the arm; not cruel, but rough enough that she stumbles a step, her skirt falling fully to her ankles. You spin her, press her back to the dripping, cracked stone wall. Her breath hitches as your cock presses against her taut stomach, hot and hard. ''“Thought I earned every inch,”'' she says, licking her bottom lip, eyes narrowing. ''“Gettin’ shy on me?”'' You grip her chin firmly and tilt it up. The defiance in her gaze doesn't waver, but there's something else flickering there too. Curiosity, hunger, A strange trust; born not of affection, but of trial and tribulation. You run your thumb across her cheekbone, then lower it to her tender lips. She parts them slowly and lets it in, biting your digit testingly. You laugh, low and hoarse. Then you take her by the back of the head, guiding her down to her knees. The cobblestones are hard and wet, but she doesn’t flinch. She kneels like a queen accepting her tribute, sharp-eyed, tongue glinting as she flashes it in mock reverence. ''“You better be worth the bruises,”'' she mutters, and then her mouth closes around you. It’s not delicate. It’s not practiced. It’s raw and hungry and teasing all at once. She sucks with noisy satisfaction, dragging her wet, warm tongue deliberately along your shaft, licking like she means to claim you back. One little hand clutches your thigh; the other drags across your hips for balance as she bobs her head, gleaming eyes never breaking from yours. When she pulls back for breath, she wipes her mouth on the back of her wrist and gives you a feral smirk, ''“You’re not bad for a human,”'' she says casually, ''“Just a bit cocky."'' You grunt, grabbing her by the jaw again and lifting her back to her feet. ''“I’m not done.”'' ''“Good,”'' she breathes, ''“Neither am I.”'' You turn her and press her hands to the wall. Her ass rises again like instinct. Her body glistens with sweat, breath fogging in the dimlight, thighs slick and trembling. She looks back at you once more and that grin’s still there. There's nothing special between you, just the desire to feel something. To want and be wanted. You grip her wide hips firmer, pushing forward with latent hunger. She pushes back just as hotly, mirroring your desire. [[Take her from behind.|intro_right_instinct_doggyplayful]]

She plants her hands against the courtyard wall, breath heavy, palms splayed flat against broken stone. Her stance widens without needing a word — thick green thighs braced, that full, bruised ass pushed out toward you like an offering wrapped in insolence. You step behind her and press the swollen head of your cock between her legs, sliding it along the slick heat of her cleft. She jolts, gritting her teeth; a hiss escapes her, half pleasure, half provocation. ''“So that’s what you call foreplay, huh?”'' She mutters, arching her back just enough to grind herself against you, ''“Bit more fun than getting chased through half the Narrows.”'' You answer her by grabbing her hips hard and driving yourself forward, not all the way, not yet, but just enough to bury the tip and feel her tighten around you. She curses, her forehead slipping against the sweat-slickened stone, ''"Tch. Pacing yourself now? Don't tell me you're a romantic.”'' You thrust again, deeper this time. Her taunts stumble into groans, rough and raw. She still growls through it, trying to keep some scrap of control, but her rhythm starts to sync with yours, hips moving to meet your every drive. The violet glow of Dosmera spills across her back as you fuck her, each wet slap echoing louder in the ruins than you'd like to admit. Your hands roam: over the thick bruises you left, across the taper of her waist, the rise of her spine. She’s smaller than you, but sturdy. Not some fragile thing. A shortstack goblin with the heart of a brawler; mean, taut, full of spit and fight. And she takes you like she means to wear you out. Every thrust drags a new sound from her, some feral noise between a moan and a growl, and you know she’s not faking a damn thing. She pushes back into every stroke like she’s trying to prove something. Maybe she is. ''“Harder,”'' she gasps. ''“That all you got, thief-catcher?”'' You slam into her harder, gripping her plush flesh tight. And for a moment, it’s not about dominance or who chased who. It’s just the two of you, skin against skin, heat against heat, two creatures who’ve earned this moment of flesh and friction through blood, grit, and will. You lean low over her, breath ragged in her ear, ''“Tell me where you want it.”'' She doesn’t laugh this time. Just lifts her head, exhales slow, ''"Surprise me.”'' [[Finish inside her.|intro_right_instinct_doggyfinish_in]] [[Pull out and finish across her ass.|intro_right_instinct_doggyfinish_out]]

The rhythm shatters. <<set $intro_goblinfuck to true>> <<set $intro_goblinin_cowboy to true>> You drive into her one final time: hard, deep, burying yourself to the hilt. She jerks beneath you, groaning low, her thighs trembling as your potent human seed floods into her tight, velvety confines. Warm, pulsing waves empty inside her slick heat, your fingers dug into her bruised hips like anchors. She doesn't flinch. No, she takes it all: slender shoulders rising with every ragged breath, braids pressed to the stone, that grin crawling back onto her face even as your grip falters. ''“Hells,”'' she mutters, voice thick and hoarse, ''“Guess you really ain’t shy.”'' You stay locked inside her a moment longer, panting, the sweat of both your bodies cooling in the night air. And then finally, you pull back. A slow trickle runs down her thigh, balmy white against murky green, sending shudders through her like she’s shaking off the last tremors of a battle won. ''“That was decent,”'' she says, breathless but still smug, ''“For a roundear.”'' She doesn’t look at you as she tugs her skirt halfway up, your grip loosened, letting her go. You don't know what you expected when you caught her, but it wasn't this. Nonetheless, she limps a few steps towards the alley, still adjusting to her newfound footing after your rutting, a sharp-toothed grin shot over her shoulder. ''“Don’t get cocky. I’ve had worse.”'' You watch her disappear into the mist, a little slower now, legs quaking, skirt tugged crooked over her thick hips and bruised thighs. You don’t smile, but something inside you settles. Like hunger sated. Like a hunt that ended the only way it could. She’s gone-- and yet, you can still feel her against your skin. You feel like a new man, confident from your //victory//. However, the feeling won't last forever. Stepping through the forgotten courtyard and descending back into the darkness of the alleys, you remember that you'll have to make it over the various pits, holes, up the steps once more, and through the apparent traps that lay in wait. You wonder what the intent of that net was from earlier; whether they were innovative thugs looking for easy prey, or worse, a gang of slavers looking for new chattel. Regardless, it seems that you barely avoided a worse fate this day and made the //best// of a bad situation. You count yourself lucky, victorious, though perhaps it's too soon to say. You still have the journey ahead, back through the narrows... [[Soon after, you depart into the darkness.|intro_right_homewithcoins_ending]] <<gainCowboy>>

You hold the line, just long enough to wrench yourself free. <<set $intro_goblinfuck to true>> <<set $intro_goblinout_cowboy to true>> She gasps at the sudden loss, and before she can twist her head, you grunt and release: thick, hot ropes painting her narrow back, her jiggling ass, the curve of her thighs. The mess of it drips and streaks across her murky flesh, caught in the violet half-light. You stagger back a pace, breath ragged, watching her body still shivering beneath the splatter. She looks over her shoulder, breath ragged, only to smirk, ''“Classy.”'' You let your hand fall against her ass once more. Not a slap this time, just a heavy, possessive pat. ''“Better than wasting it inside a goblin runt.”'' ''“You wish,”'' she snorts, flicking you a quick glance as she straightens her spine. Her skirt is ruined, but she pulls it up anyway, smearing your mess with her palm, shaking it off like mud. ''“Guess that makes us even,”'' she mutters. ''“You got your coin. I got my fun.”'' You don’t stop her as she slips off into the darkness, bare feet padding through the wet alley. No thanks. No promises. Just a flash of teeth and the sound of her fading laugh. She’s gone-- and yet, you can still feel her against your skin. Survivors, both of you. You feel like a new man, confident from your //victory//. However, the feeling won't last forever. Stepping through the forgotten courtyard and descending back into the darkness of the alleys, you remember that you'll have to make it over the various pits, holes, up the steps once more, and through the apparent traps that lay in wait. You wonder what the intent of that net was from earlier; whether they were innovative thugs looking for easy prey, or worse, a gang of slavers looking for new chattel. Regardless, it seems that you barely avoided a worse fate this day and made the //best// of a bad situation. You count yourself lucky, victorious, though perhaps it's too soon to say. You still have the journey ahead, back through the narrows... [[Soon after, you depart into the darkness.|intro_right_homewithcoins_ending]] <<gainCowboy>>

You feel the edge creeping up your spine-- fast, savage. But you’re not ready to end it. Not yet. Not until you wring every last shred of fight from her. You wrench yourself free, slick and heavy, leaving her gasping as she jerks under the sudden absence. Before she can curse you, you grab her by the scruff of her braids and haul her up, ''"The fuck—?"'' she snarls, but it cuts off when you shove your cock against her mouth. She bares her teeth, laughing even as she opens up and lets you in. ''“Tch. Filthy human,”'' she spits against your skin, wet tongue flicking out to lash you in a mock kiss of submission. You thrust into her mouth without ceremony, driving yourself past her lips again and again, her cheeks hollowing, her throat working to take you deeper. She gags, coughs once, but clamps her hands onto your thighs and holds on. Not for mercy, nor for surrender. For spite. You use her mouth roughly, pumping into her petite green face until saliva and lust drip from her narrow chin, until her ragged breaths hum against your swollen cock. When you pull back, she's gasping; not for air, but laughing, low and ruined. ''"Tch... You fuck like you fight. Sloppy but hard."'' You shove her back down against the stone wall, fists pressing her shoulders into the grime, ''"Shut up and take it,"'' you growl, lining yourself up again. ''"Make me,"'' she spits, smiling through swollen lips. You ram yourself back into her, harder than before, rutting like a wild beast reclaiming what was stolen. The slap of your hips against her battered flesh echoes through the dark like war drums, as brutal and inevitable as gravity. [[Finish inside her.|intro_right_instinct_doggyfinish_in_bastard]] [[Pull out and paint her back.|intro_right_instinct_doggyfinish_out_bastard]]

You bare your teeth and slam forward, burying yourself to the hilt. <<set $intro_goblinfuck to true>> <<set $intro_goblinin_bastard to true>> Her body clamps around you like a noose, dragging the climax from you in a vicious, breathless spasm. You groan low in your chest, guttural and broken, as you spill inside her, filling her tight and deep with every brutal pulse, hips grinding against her thick, sweat-slicked ass. She shudders, her legs buckling under the strain, her nails scraping shallow arcs into the stone, but her body won't let go. That tight little hole grips you like it means to steal your soul. You never thought breeding a goblin would be so damn //good//. Still, she doesn't cry out. Doesn't whimper. She just sucks a breath between her teeth, a slow, ragged hiss, like a beast savoring a wound. When you're done, you linger a moment: thick cock buried, hands bruising her hips, sweat dripping onto her spine. Then you wrench yourself free with a wet, audible sound that leaves both of you gasping. She slumps forward, arms trembling, face pressed against the cobblestone, thick ass still raised but shaking slightly with every breath. You take a moment to look at her — truly look. Her ratty skirt’s in tatters. Her taut thighs gleam with sweat and cum. She’s muttering something too quiet to hear. A curse, maybe, or a prayer. You spit to the side and buckle your trousers. ''“I think we’re even now.”'' She props herself up onto her elbows and laughs; hoarse, wrecked, mocking. ''"Didn't even say please,"'' She rasps, flashing you a crooked grin as she wipes herself off with her torn skirt. ''"Might've let you stay if you asked nice."'' You grunt, adjusting your trousers and ensuring that coinpatch is tightly reattached along your belt. Sweat still rolls down your back in thick, lingering rivulets, but you feel lighter now. Emptier. ''Satisfied.'' However, the feeling won't last forever. Stepping through the forgotten courtyard and descending back into the darkness of the alleys, you remember that you'll have to make it over the various pits, holes, up the steps once more, and through the apparent traps that lay in wait. With your last glance, you see the alley mist swallowing the thief whole as she limps off into her ruins. No promises, no regrets. Just the messy, vicious aftermath of two wild things crossing in the dark. You wonder what the intent of that net was from earlier; whether they were innovative thugs looking for easy prey, or worse, a gang of slavers looking for new chattel. Regardless, it seems that you barely avoided a worse fate this day and made the //best// of a bad situation. You count yourself lucky, victorious, though perhaps it's too soon to say. You still have the journey ahead, back through the narrows... [[Soon, you depart into the darkness.|intro_right_homewithcoins_ending]] <<gainBastard>>

At the last moment, you wrench free just in time, gripping yourself hard. <<set $intro_goblinfuck to true>> <<set $intro_goblinout_bastard to true>> She huffs in confusion, just as the first hot stripe splashes across her green skin — her jiggling ass, her narrow back, the small of her spine. Thick, hot seed paints her in crude, defiant marks, dripping down her curves and pooling in the dents of her battered flesh. You groan through clenched teeth, eyeing your mess. It's a primal, a crude mark that says: you were here. She shivers, shoulders slumping slightly, but the laugh she gives is anything but soft, ''“Could’ve painted a target, at least.”'' You let your hand rest on her ass for a beat, fingers sticky with your own filth. Then you shove her aside, gentle as a boot in mud and stagger back a step, panting like a man who's just survived a war. The goblin tilts her head lazily to look at you — golden eyes narrowed. ''"Heh,"'' she chuckles low in her throat, ''"Not man enough to finish the job, huh?"'' You don't answer. Just drag your thumb across the base of your cock, wiping the last of it onto the muck of a stone wall as you tuck yourself back into your trousers. She shifts onto her knees and palms her ass roughly, scooping your mess off her skin with no more ceremony than a butcher scrubbing blood from his hands. ''"Maybe next time, big man,"'' she snorts. ''"When you grow a pair."'' ''“I think we’re even now.”'' She just smirks. You grunt, adjusting your trousers and ensuring that coinpatch is tightly reattached along your belt. Sweat still rolls down your back in thick, lingering rivulets, but you feel lighter now. Emptier. ''Satisfied.'' However, the feeling won't last forever. Stepping through the forgotten courtyard and descending back into the darkness of the alleys, you remember that you'll have to make it over the various pits, holes, up the steps once more, and through the apparent traps that lay in wait. With your last glance, you see the alley mist swallowing the thief whole as she limps off into her ruins. No promises, no regrets. Just the messy, vicious aftermath of two wild things crossing in the dark. You wonder what the intent of that net was from earlier; whether they were innovative thugs looking for easy prey, or worse, a gang of slavers looking for new chattel. Regardless, it seems that you barely avoided a worse fate this day and made the //best// of a bad situation. You count yourself lucky, victorious, though perhaps it's too soon to say. You still have the journey ahead, back through the narrows... [[You depart into the darkness.|intro_right_homewithcoins_ending]] <<gainBastard>>

<center><img src="images/inner_court.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> The doors to the Inner Courtyard groan open on old hinges, and a rush of cold air greets you like breath from a forgotten crypt. Mist hugs the flagstones in shallow swells, swirling low and slow across the ground like it’s searching for something. The torchlight doesn’t reach far, just enough to catch the edge of a statue near the far wall. It’s the old one. Cracked and slumped in a recess, robes chiseled in stiff drapery, face eroded by time. But tonight… it weeps. Thin rivulets of black water trail from beneath the sockets where its eyes once were. You watch for a while, thinking it might be a trick of light or rain. Yet there are no clouds, and no other statues cry. Somewhere nearby, gravel crunches, slow and deliberate. You stop breathing for a second, waiting and listening. Yet, the sound doesn't return. The silence after is absolute, a hush that feels too deep beneath this dark, open sky. High above, the spires of Highrock loom like watchful spears. The building is quiet. Still. It should feel peaceful out here, but it doesn't. There’s nothing out here, and yet you don't feel quite alone. [[Head back into the common room.|chp3_nightwatch_common]]

You cross the room towards Lyco, who glances your way without turning his head. The fire pops once, low and soft, and the silence settles between you both like another blanket. ''“Still early,”'' he mutters. You nod, though neither of you move. For a moment, the world feels very far away. The stone, fire and relative silence of the dorms. At last Lyco exhales, eyes narrowing toward the stairwell. ''“Strange thing is, I haven’t seen the last watch come down. Not a prefect, not even a stray second-year. They should've checked in with us.”'' His hand adjusts the clasp of his cloak, tone clipped. ''“Either they’re late, or someone doesn’t care what happens on these floors tonight.”'' He looks back at you then, steady, unreadable. ''“Head upstairs again and make sure nothing’s off. I'll check the inner halls, and meet you back here in a bit. Alright?”'' You give him a short nod, and the weight of his gaze lingers as you step away. The stairwell yawns above, shadows folding deep into its turns. <<set $watchPhase to "middle">> [[Climb the stairs.|chp3_nightwatch_middle_transition]]

You slip back into the dorm with quiet steps, letting the door creak open just wide enough to slide through. Inside, the room is dim, but one of the candles has been lit again, its flame flickering low within a small clay saucer near the room's basin. It throws long shadows up the wall, illuminating the pale spines of books and the huddled silhouette tucked into the top bunk. Gerwin. He’s leaned back against the stone with a book propped on his knees, knees drawn close, posture rigid in that way people adopt when they’re trying to read but aren’t really reading. Not that you would know. His head tilts slightly when he hears you enter. ''“Couldn’t sleep,”'' he murmurs, voice papery, rough with fatigue. You nod and step closer, the floorboards hardly creaking. He doesn’t look away from the page, but you can tell he’s not seeing it either. ''“What are you reading?”'' He snorts quietly. ''“Nothing useful.”'' Then, after a beat, ''“Just trying to keep my mind still.”'' You lean against the wooden bunk frame, and it's not long before Gerwin sighs and closes the book without marking the page. ''“Everyone keeps pretending like this is just school. Like we’re gonna go to classes, pass exams, learn runes and sword-forms to graduate like proper little officers.”'' He shakes his head. ''“But people disappear. You’ve heard them. Second-years, gone without word. Or worse. The Harrowing, they treat it like it’s a tradition.”'' His voice drops. ''“But it sounds like a culling.”'' You say nothing for a moment. Then: ''"Think you’ll make it?”'' Gerwin hesitates. His mouth twitches; a failed attempt at a smile. ''“I want to. But I’m not Lyco. Or you.”'' His glance is fleeting, uncertain. ''“I’m clever, sure. But I don’t know if I’m… enough.”'' <<set $nightwatch_gerwin = true>> [[None of us are. It's just about finding a way to make it.|chp3_nightwatch_13_gerwin_cowboy]] <<ci archetype>> [[Then get tougher, or you might as well be dead.|chp3_nightwatch_13_gerwin_bastard]] <<ci archetype>> [[You'll make it, Gerwin. We both will. That's why we're here.|chp3_nightwatch_13_gerwin_knight]] <<ci archetype>>

Slowly, carefully, you move closer. Quiet as breath, the soft heat from the bath’s edge curls around your ankles and clings to your skin like silk. Steam drapes the air, not thick enough to obscure, just enough to blur the world at its edges. The curtain hangs loose and heavy where the corridor bends, sagging slightly where it's pinned to the arch. There, a gap no wider than your knuckle. You lean in, keeping your weight on the balls of your feet, eyes level with the slit in the velvet. The women’s side glows with a low, wet warmth, torchlight softened by steam. The pool glows faintly beneath the surface—rich and dark like amber tea, hiding and revealing in equal measure. The steam clings to the girls inside like a veil of silk. Three of them. Second-years, by the way they hold themselves. Not like girls: like predators resting between kills. They speak in the casual cadence of girls who don’t think they’re being heard. One reclines near the edge, pale and elegant, blonde hair wet and slick, all sharp cheekbones and smooth shoulders. Her breasts float just beneath the surface, nipples occasionally brushing the air when she shifts. One leg drapes over the ledge lazily, foot flexing with idle rhythm. Her long fingers trail the water absently, playing in soft concentric rings, spidery atop the shimmering surface. The second has tighter curls, darker skin, a tattoo winding like ivy up her left thigh and vanishing beneath the surface. She laughs easily, teeth white against the amber light. Her pert breasts rise and fall with each ripple, catching droplets like pearls, her limber frame stretching with slow, feline satisfaction. The third; dark lashes, olive skin, guarded eyes, sits more stiffly, arms wrapped loosely around her knees. She doesn’t quite look at the others, less engaged in the conversation. ''“We shouldn’t linger,”'' She murmurs, voice low but not urgent, ''“It’s nearly middle watch.”'' ''“That’s the point,”'' The second girl grins, ''“I like the idea of being somewhere I’m not meant to be.”'' She leans forward then, letting her chest rise fully from the surface for a moment, taut skin and hardened nipples kissed by steam, before slipping back beneath the water. ''“Besides,”'' the blonde murmurs, ''“No one checks the baths this early. The little gray-cloaks are probably too scared to even look.”'' You say nothing. You barely breathe. ''“Did you hear about Virelle?”'' The tattooed one says, splashing a little as she shifts closer, ''“Apparently she was assigned to Group Three for training drills. She didn’t say a word all session.”'' ''“Does she ever?”'' The blonde snorts. ''“No. But it’s //weird//, right? I heard her family used to be higher up than House Meridien. Now they don’t even have a crest.”'' ''“Not just that,”'' The tattooed girl leans in, conspiratorial, ''“My cousin said her father was convicted. Something to do with sabotage, or... I don’t know. Espionage. He was //erased//.”'' ''“Gods.”'' The dark-haired girl shivers. ''“Makes sense why she’s so cold. Or maybe she’s just ashamed.”'' ''“She doesn’t //look// ashamed.”'' The blonde raises an eyebrow. ''“Have you seen the way she carries herself? That girl still thinks she’s nobility.”'' A beat. ''“Or she wants to be seen that way. I bet she’s desperate to marry out.”'' The tattooed one chuckles, ''“Then she’s in the wrong place. No one //marries// out of Highrock.”'' They laugh together, even the quiet one, barely. Their amusement is low and indulgent. You can smell the oils they’ve used—clove, citrus, another that you can't even name. The kind of scents that clings long after the moment has passed. Eventually the conversation turns trivial: class gossip, instructor impressions, a second-year boy someone kissed behind the cloister wall. And you just watch. The water moves like honeyed smoke. Light clings to skin and shoulder and thigh. None of them notice you. Or if they do, they don’t show it. Eventually, the voices begin to fade, and the moment breaks. You step away from the curtain, pulse quickened. The stone feels cool again beneath your soles, the chill of the hall sharper after the steam. <<set $nightwatch_gossip to true>> [[Return to the corridor.|chp3_nightwatch_bath]]

You slip out from behind the crimson curtain, back into the flickering, smoky half-light of the banquet hall. The clamor has dulled; most of the noble guests have drifted toward the exits or gathered in small, private clusters, their laughter growing thinner, wearier, more intimate. Platters of roast and crystal goblets stand half-abandoned on silk-clad tables, dulled by the shadows that cling to every corner. You’re aware, all at once, of the ache in your body and the churn in your thoughts. Every conversation since you woke in chains weighs on you now. The sharp edges of Novia’s gaze, the strange promise of potential as you brush shoulders with highborn, and the heat of the arena still lingering in your muscles. For a moment, the world spins slower. You are nobody here, and yet today you've been seen, judged, maybe even chosen. Your future hangs in the balance, heavy as the taste of wine on your tongue. The air feels electric with possibility and dread, the sort that makes your skin prickle and your heart beat harder. You remember the way that you've been looked at today, their gazes full of... Curiosity. Hunger, whether greed or lust... And for some, perhaps only one or two, hope. But even that's being generous. Your every response has been a risk, a gamble, a roll of the dice. As long as just one of them pays off, you may have a chance at making your way in this new, even crueler chapter of your life. It’s strange, the way moments like this can stretch and contract: a dozen choices unfolding beneath the surface, none of them safe, none of them quite what you imagined. You feel caught between different worlds, from the cold competitiveness of the high nobility, to the constricting chains of slavery, and even the tall tales of heroism against daunting odds sometimes sung in the taverns of the Third Quarter. You’re left with more questions than clarity. Did you impress anyone today, or simply reveal another kind of hunger? Did you plant the seed of something better, or just expose yourself to more dangerous games? A bell rings in the far end of the hall, sharp and insistent. The banquet is winding down. You sense the sands of fate shifting again. Soon, you'll be herded back with the others to be displayed, valued, sold. There will be no time to second-guess yourself, no room for doubt. Yet now, for just another breath, you have a sliver of freedom left to savor. As you pass between the tables, your eyes catch on a womanly figure near the dais: the beauty with raven-black hair and a silver corset, lips curling in a knowing, promising smile. Duchess Livia’s seductress waits, eyes fixed on you with quiet invitation. Elsewhere, by the edge of a tapestry, you glimpse a flash of dark green skin and gleaming tusk: Khalika, the orc-warrior who fought at your side, half-shadowed and solitary, scanning the crowd with her usual wary confidence. You pause, uncertain. The moment is yours: brief, fragile, and soon to be gone. Maybe you deserve a taste of pleasure before the end. Or perhaps you’re simply ready to meet whatever comes next. [[What will you do?|chp2_privateaudience_closing]] <<ci archetype>>

<div class="mm-fx mm-fx-bg"></div><div class="mm-fx mm-fx-torch"></div><div class="mm-fx mm-fx-particles" id="mm-particles"></div><div class="mm-fx mm-fx-vignette"></div><div class="mm-fx mm-fx-grain"></div>\ <div class="mainmenu-outer"> <img src="images/orphan_logo.png" alt="ORPHAN" class="orphan-title"> <div class="mainmenu-buttons">\ <<button "NEW GAME">><<goto "cc1">><</button>> <<button "LOAD GAME">><<script>>UI.saves();<</script>><</button>> <<button "SETTINGS">><<script>>UI.settings();<</script>><</button>> <<button "SUPPORT ORPHAN">><<script>>window.open("https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText","_blank");<</script>><</button>> </div> <<nobr>> <aside class="mainmenu-route-rec" aria-label="Recommended route for this release"> <button type="button" class="route-rec-head" aria-expanded="false" aria-controls="route-rec-body"> <span class="route-rec-star" aria-hidden="true"> <svg viewBox="0 0 32 32" focusable="false"> <path class="route-rec-star-outer" d="M16 1.8 L19.1 10.2 L27.8 7.2 L21.8 14.2 L30.2 16 L21.8 17.8 L27.8 24.8 L19.1 21.8 L16 30.2 L12.9 21.8 L4.2 24.8 L10.2 17.8 L1.8 16 L10.2 14.2 L4.2 7.2 L12.9 10.2 Z"/> <path class="route-rec-star-inner" d="M16 10.1 L21.9 16 L16 21.9 L10.1 16 Z"/> </svg> </span> <span class="route-rec-heading"> <span class="route-rec-chapter">CHAPTER <<= setup.orphanBuild.chapter>></span> <span class="route-rec-label">RECOMMENDED: <strong>GLADIATOR</strong></span> </span> <span class="route-rec-toggle" aria-hidden="true"></span> </button> <div class="route-rec-body" id="route-rec-body" aria-hidden="true"> <div class="route-rec-divider"></div> <div class="route-rec-content"> <div class="route-rec-title">BEFORE THE DESCENT</div> <div class="route-rec-subtitle">GLADIATOR CUT</div> <p>Chapter <<= setup.orphanBuild.chapter>> substantially revises and expands the Gladiator route, with major improvements to the Private Audience, banquet, auction and surrounding Chapter 1 - 3 content. New scenes, images & videos!</p> <p class="route-rec-callout">Returning players are encouraged to begin with the <strong>Gladiator path</strong> for the best experience with this expansive new update. Don't miss out!</p> <p>//HINT: Fail to catch the thief to begin your descent.//</p> <p class="route-rec-note">The Academy route remains fully playable and will receive its own <em>Before the Descent</em> overhaul in Chapter 3.7. Stay tuned.</p> </div> </div> </aside> <</nobr>> <<nobr>> <div class="mainmenu-social" aria-label="Social links"> <a class="menu-social-link patreon" href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" aria-label="Support Orphan on Patreon"> <img src="images/patreon_logo.png" alt="Patreon"> </a><a class="menu-social-link discord" href="https://discord.gg/GVnz2CQHCa" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" aria-label="Join the Exalted Text Discord"> <img src="images/discord_logo.png" alt="Discord"> </a> </div> <div class="mainmenu-build"> <a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText/posts/patron-exclusive-171804056" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer"> <span class="build-line1">Chapter <<= setup.orphanBuild.chapter>> (<<= setup.orphanTierLabel()>>)</span> <span class="build-line2"><<= setup.orphanBuild.releaseTitle>></span> </a> </div> <</nobr>> </div>

You step closer, careful as breath. The heat thickens, wrapping around your throat, sweet and mineral, touched by soap and clove. The curtain trembles where the air exhales between chambers, and through its narrow parting, the women’s world gleams like the inside of a jewel. Low torchlight softens the steam into a living haze. The pool glows from beneath, a basin of molten amber that licks the walls in slow, wet light. Three figures drift within it - the same girls, now looser in movement, their voices stripped to whispers and laughter blurred by heat. The blonde lies half-supine along the ledge, bright hair spread like silk against stone, wet and gleaming. Her breasts rise from the surface, pale and luminous, droplets tracing their slopes before vanishing between them. One knee juts through the water, the rest of her sunk and shimmering, her skin catching light the color of honey. The dark-skinned girl floats nearer the center. The tattoo along her thigh has blurred to indigo in the steam; you follow it as it coils up her hip and disappears beneath the soft swell of her backside. She rolls lazily onto her stomach, chin resting on folded arms, back flexing with each breath. When she laughs, water ripples against the round of her shoulders, scattering gold across her skin. The quiet one lingers by the steps, her olive skin slick and flushed. She cups water and lets it pour down her chest in slow sheets. For a heartbeat she closes her eyes, head tilted, lips parted in something close to prayer. Her nipples bead under the runnels of light; she shivers, not from cold but from the caress of the air. Their conversation is gone now — replaced by the small sounds of skin and water, the drip from the stone lip, a breath half-held before a sigh. They move like creatures without thought, bodies guided by warmth alone. You watch. Steam beads your lashes. A pulse stirs in the hollow of your chest; slow, guilty, alive. The blonde stretches, the motion languid, feline. Her long leg slides higher from the pool, water tracing her inner thigh before breaking on the curve of her hip. The others watch her, faint smiles passing between them. Something unspoken hums there — not lust, exactly, but comfort, the rare peace of women alone and unafraid. A drop slides from her nipple and falls with a soft note. The sound is louder than it should be. You realize how close you are to the curtain, how shallow your breathing has become. For an instant, one of them glances toward the noise, just a flicker of eyes through vapor, and your heart tightens, the image burning behind your lids. <<set $nightwatch_gossip_closer to true>> [[Step back before you’re noticed.|chp3_nightwatch_bath_closer1]]

<<script>> $("body").append('<div id="fadeBlack"></div>'); $("#fadeBlack").css({ position: "fixed", top: 0, left: 0, width: "100%", height: "100%", background: "black", opacity: 1, "z-index": 9999, cursor: "pointer" // optional: makes skip feel intuitive }); // allow skip by double-clicking anywhere on the overlay $("#fadeBlack").on("dblclick", function() { $(this).stop(true, true).fadeOut(300, function() { $(this).remove(); }); }); // hold black, then fade out slowly setTimeout(() => { $("#fadeBlack").animate( { opacity: 0 }, { duration: 5000, // fade duration easing: "swing", complete: function() { $(this).remove(); } } ); }, 1500); <</script>>\ \ Back into the fray, then. The moment’s reprieve, whether warm or wasted, collapses like a dream at waking. The hall has thinned to lingering knots of silk and silver, their laughter low, eyes bright with whimsical wine and clever calculation. Platters lie cold, tattered meat clinging to bone, cups abandoned in pools of their own spilt perfume. You move through it as one might wade into a current, feeling the push and pull of gazes that already measure your life's worth in coin and odds of death or victory in Cradle's bloody arena sands alone. The air is heavier now, richer with the cloy of perfumes gone stale, the musk of sweat beneath brocade, the sweet rot of fruit bruised on faux gold plates. You catch fragments of speech: lot numbers, wagers, breeding lines, as though you were a horse, hound, or another beast to be traded away.. Each word hangs like a chain around your neck, although they don't carry much meaning now. Only anticipation remains, a lingering weight on your body and soul, like heavy omens as you move into the future. A guard’s bleached bone gauntlet taps your shoulder, not roughly, but with the certainty of ownership. All along the hall, others like you are being gathered: men and women who fought and bled hours, days ago, now herded with the same care one gives to fine glass. The nobles’ parting glances slide over you like cold water; some lingering, others dismissive, all reminders that your fate has become a spectacle to them. The music is gone, and in its absence, you hear only the scuff of boots on stone, the chime of a dropped earring, the sigh of silk as the last cloaked figures drift toward their carriages beyond these walls. The doors at the far end yawn open to a darker corridor, and you know without being told: this is the way to the pens, the auction block, and the next hand that will claim you, or burn you like a noble's brand brought to a beast. [[It almost feels different now, like you've passed through a threshold.|chp2_slave_privateaudience_end1]] <<bgmstop 9>>

The atmosphere has shifted. When they brought you here hours ago, it was with sacks over your heads and the shuffle of chains, the procession silent and rigid as a funeral march. Now, with bellies full and tongues loosened by wine, you and the others are handled differently. Less like dangerous animals, and more like valuables being polished and stacked before their final sale. You don't know whether to be grateful at this stage or filled full of dread. You suppose that they want you calm, comfortable, complacent. The handlers speak in low, brisk tones. There’s no barked orders, no blows for dawdling; only the occasional nudge or guiding hand, with the assumption of obedience hanging in the air. It's unspoken but absolute - you will go where you are led. Yet belts of bone and bronze still jangle at the hips of nearby guards, reminders that compliance isn't a choice. They funnel you out through a side passage, the banquet hall’s shadowed warmth and narrow tunnels outside giving way to a broad chamber awash in cold light. Overhead, wide barred skylights and bone scones filled to the brim with wax cast a steady glow, banishing shadows and making the skin of every man and woman here a palette for appraisal. The air smells faintly of limewash and oil, scrubbed clean for the benefit of its intended purpose. Here, the line slows. Slaves are spaced apart, turned this way and that, made to stand in open view. The room is arranged like a craftsman’s gallery: wide enough for buyers to circle and inspect their purchases-to-be, bright enough to reveal every scar and bruise. [[The march slows, and you stand in line.|chp2_slave_measure]] <<ci stat>> <<bgm "sunny-stars" 0.6 6>>

A man in a pale linen smock waits for you, a frame of polished bone in his hands, its joints lashed with sinew and the tips capped in smooth shell. The tool clicks softly as he adjusts it, the faint scent of oil and dust rising from its worn joints. Without greeting, he takes your chin between his fingers and tilts your head into the cold, overhead light. ''“Stand still.”'' The jaws of the frame slide over your skull, measuring breadth, then length, then the span from temple to temple. He mutters to a scribe whose reed pen rasps faintly against parchment. When he has your numbers, his gaze sweeps the rest of you; stance, posture, the way the light finds the lines of bone beneath your flush skin, studying you. <<if $might >= 2>> ''“Broad cranial base, dense mandible… shoulders like a yoked ox.”'' His hands test the heft of your meaty upper arms and wide shoulders with impersonal squeezes, then release. ''“This one will take punishment and give it back. Plenty of draw for the pits, maybe the stud pens if there’s call for size and strength.”'' He jots something in the margin with a faint grunt. ''“Not bred for grace, nor thought."'' <<elseif $mobility >= 2>> ''“Fluid stance, quick carriage… this one was born to slip the net.”'' He steps back, watching the coil in your hips and the restless balance in your step. ''“Not much brute weight, but speed like that leaves scars before the slow ones can lift their guard.”'' The scribe records in silence, his quill scratching as the man concludes. ''“No drag in the limbs. Every motion wound tight, ready to spring. Built for sudden turns."'' <<elseif $mind >= 2>> ''“Unusual.”'' His fingers rest briefly against your temple, as if feeling for some hidden pulse. ''“Broad in the vault, eyes set deep, focus steady. This one notices more than he lets on.”'' He tilts your head a fraction, peering into each eye in turn. ''“Not built for lifting or sprinting… but the head, the head can be trained.”'' He writes slower than with the others, as though considering. ''“Good candidate for roles where obedience isn’t enough - tasks that need memory, patience. Pity to waste it in the sands.”'' <<elseif $might == 1 && $mobility == 1>> ''“Balanced. Frame can bear weight without losing step, joints open enough for a clean turn. Hips like a runner, chest like a fighter.”'' His appraisal is brisk, approving without warmth. ''“Not a specialist, but no real flaws.”'' He flicks the bone tool closed and taps it against his palm. ''“Could go anywhere - arena, guard detail, courier work. Worth the coin to a buyer who doesn’t want to choose between power and speed.”'' <<elseif $might == 1 && $mind == 1>> ''“Solid bones, steady gaze.”'' His hands press lightly at your shoulders, then your skull. ''“This one has both the arm to swing and the head to aim it. Marked potential.”'' The scribe’s pen pauses, waiting as the man adds, ''“Could take to training and follow a command chain without breaking under it. Might even rise above the common stock.”'' <<elseif $mobility == 1 && $mind == 1>> ''“Light frame, sharp eyes.”'' He circles you once, the bone tool tapping softly against his palm. ''“Fast in the head and the feet - that’s rare enough to note.”'' He bends slightly, gauging your posture. ''“Good for close work: messages, discreet errands, places where muscle would only get in the way. This one will see a knife coming before it lands.”'' <<else>> ''“Average lines. No defects, no refinements.”'' He slides the tool shut with a faint clack. ''“Will suit whatever work is set before it.”'' The scribe doesn’t look up as the man marks you down. You're waved forward, another piece of stock recorded and moved along to the auction floor. <</if>> The man in the smock flicks his bone frame shut with a practiced motion and waves you on. A handler takes you by the elbow: not rough, just enough pressure to steer, and deposits you in a loose line with the others who’ve already been measured. The room hums with low conversation and the occasional barked correction. One slave is made to open their mouth so the inspector can prod at their teeth with a carved stick. Another is told to turn slowly in place while a scribe records a series of numbers, his tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth in passing concentration. All the while, the smell of oil, sweat, and clean-scrubbed stone hangs heavy. Abruptly, a ripple of laughter from nearby draws your eye. At the far end of the table, Gant stands in his ragged tunic, grinning like a dog at the man appraising him. ''“Strong jaw, wide shoulders,”'' the inspector says, scribbling a note as he works. ''“And a heart of gold, don’t forget that!”'' Gant interrupts, as though sharing a secret. The man gives him a long, unimpressed look before measuring from ear to ear. ''“Neck’s thick enough to keep his head from falling off. Might even stop a blade once.”'' ''“Twice, if I'm lucky,”'' Gant adds, the scribe coughing into your shoulder while your bedraggled companion winks over at you, still riding high off wine and sausage. Closer to the light, Khalika's already being turned by her handler, her tusked profile caught in the steady glow. The inspector’s tone with her is different; measured, almost wary. He notes her bone density, her long reach, the way she holds herself even when made to stand still. ''“Half-orc stock,”'' he says, as though announcing the breed of a prize hound. ''“Strong spine, well-set hips. Would do well in the ring… or break most collars.”'' Khalika’s amber eyes meet yours for a heartbeat before the handler guides her away. It’s not a smile, but it carries the same weight - a flicker of mutual recognition in a place built to strip such things away, unable to rid the both of you of the comradery once shared. Around you, the process grinds on, each body measured, recorded, and passed along like cargo being tallied for shipment. The line shuffles forward toward the next set of hands, the next set of eyes, the next judgment as you edge closer to a long-awaited resolution. [[It's a dehumanizing process, but after a while, you become numb to it.|chp2_slave_preauction]]

The last of the measurements are taken, the last notes inked. A handler calls your lot number and gestures you toward a low archway where the others are herded. The corridor beyond is narrow and smells faintly of chalk and old blood. It spills you into a dusty stone courtyard. Overhead, the shadow of the colosseum’s outer wall falls across everything, swallowing the harsh, cloud-choked daylight. Beyond the fractured arches you can hear the distant murmur of a gathering crowd, nobles and their entourages settling into shaded seats through the rustle of silk and clink of cups. The line forms quickly. You’re placed near the rear, just behind a hulking figure whose cropped head and hunched shoulders are all muscle and scar. Stavrick. Even standing still, he radiates the kind of hostility that pulls at the edges of your attention. From where you stand, you can see slivers of the auction block between the bodies ahead: the mistlit boards, the gaudy canopy, the pen where each lot will be displayed. Somewhere out there, among the shifting blur of faces, you think you catch the gleam of familiar eyes. [[Opportunity approaches.|chp2_slave_preauction1]]

The line shuffles forward a step, the grit of the courtyard crunching under bare feet. The air tastes of stone dust and warm iron; somewhere beyond the wall, a hammer strikes an anvil in a slow, steady rhythm, counting down the seconds until it’s your turn. Stavrick looms just ahead, his bulk blotting out the glare. The cords of his neck flex under scarred skin each time he rolls his shoulders. A faint white seam runs from the back of his skull down into the collar of his tunic - an old wound, badly sewn and barely healed. The smell of him is leather, sweat, and something older, sourer. Across the courtyard, past the warped boards of the auction block, the stands are filling. Duchess Livia's impossible to miss; jade-green gleaming, elegant silks spilling over her cushioned bench, surrounded courtesans. They chatter and lean in to touch her arm, but her attention is everywhere, drinking in the scene with a faint smile. A few seats over sits Alesia, completely composed, though the curve at the corner of her mouth suggests mischief waiting to happen. Her gaze flicks to Stavrick, then to you, as if idly weighing the spectacle of the two of you locked together. She doesn’t need to say it aloud; the invitation lingers openly in her dangerous, dark eyes. The young heiress Novia is there as well, posture straight, hands resting lightly in her lap. She speaks little to the matrons beside her, her focus fixed on the proceedings. There’s a steadiness to her gaze, idealism tempered by curiosity, that marks her apart from the feathered frivolity of the vast majority of the looming crowd. And at the fringe, in a pale gown that catches the light like water, Lady Sibylla watches with a calm that borders on detachment. She meets no one’s eye for long, but nothing escapes her notice; even in her silence, she plays her role, poised and inscrutable. The guards pace between you and the block, belts heavy with bone and bronze, short truncheons swinging idly in their hands. The line moves in fits, each lot pausing in the glare of the block before being ushered further along fates fitted by coin. Just ahead, Stavrick shifts his weight, flexing his hands until his knuckles crack. The space between you is short, the opportunity growing increasingly obvious. [[Confront Stavrick.|chp2_slave_preauction_stavrick]] <<ci lore>> [[Keep to yourself.|chp2_slave_preauction_nofight]]

The line lurches forward again. Dust coils around Stavrick’s boots, drawn up in lazy spirals by the faint, lingering heat bleeding from the courtyard stone. His bulk eclipses the glare ahead, the shift of his shoulders a quiet reminder of the force caged there. A different weight hangs on you still; the memory of a noblewoman’s words, spoken close enough to cut. For her, this brawl is meant for more than spectacle. It’s proof that you can obey, that you can stir blood when commanded, that you can be made useful. Countess Alesia Cosmas doesn't deal in idle jests. To disappoint her is to be forgotten, or discarded. To please her may earn favor, and favor from one such as her is no small thing. The murmur of the crowd drifts from just beyond the arches. A few nearby nobles have already noticed the way you stand, close enough to break the quiet. The air itself holds, tight as a bowstring, waiting for a release that only you are capable of triggering. You could step aside, let Stavrick pass, and keep your skin unbroken. Or you could strike the spark she set and see what burns. //How do you approach him?// [[Bait him, plain and simple.|chp3_slave_preauction_stavrick_cowboy]] <<ci cowboy archetype>> [[Force him by making the first move.|chp3_slave_preauction_stavrick_bastard]] <<ci bastard archetype>> [[Try to get him to cooperate.|chp3_slave_preauction_stavrick_knight]] <<ci knight archetype>> <<bgmstop 9>>

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp2_auction_stavrick.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> You let your eyes drift over the back of Stavrick’s shaved skull, the faint seam of scar tissue like a badly mended seam in a sack. You're close enough now to smell the salt of sweat, alcohol, and whatever stale rations they've been feeding him. ''“Tell me,”'' you say, low enough for him to hear but loud enough that the two slaves behind you glance over, ''“How’s a man supposed to fetch a decent price with a body count before the sale?”'' His head tilts slightly, one ear catching the words as the thick tendons in his neck bunch. ''“Unless,”'' you continue, easy and conversational, ''“You’re worth your weight in coin… but from the look of you, that’s a heavy investment for a buyer to risk. Murderers don’t tend to last long in the pits unless they’re champions. You a champion, Stavrick?”'' The line shuffles forward another step. You don’t take your eyes off him. ''“You could prove it, right here,”'' you add, letting the words ride on a faint smile, ''“But then again… you’d have to beat someone worth buying. Ain't that right?”'' That gets him. His shoulders roll once, loosening, and his head drops forward just enough that you see the grin spread across the angle of his jaw; more a baring of teeth than anything like mirth. The crowd noise beyond the arches is a muted roar. Before you know it, you're both face-to-face, fists raised and ready for violence. [[Engage carefully and set up the counter.|chp3_stavrick_counter]] <<ci stat>> [[Use the line to your advantage, cutting his balance.|chp3_stavrick_line]] <<ci stat>> [[Push forward and slug it out.|chp3_stavrick_slug]] <<ci stat>> [[Setup the head kick to end him early.|chp3_stavrick_headkick]] <<ci stat>> <<bgm "street-fight" 0.6 6>>\ <<set $chp3_stavrick_mood to "cowboy">> <<gainCowboy>>\

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp2_auction_stavrick.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> The line grinds forward, dust crunching underfoot. You take a long step and drive your shoulder hard into Stavrick’s spine. The impact shudders through you, bone on bone, and drives him two paces down the line through the unexpected application of weight. He catches himself with a soldier’s balance, turning slow, deliberate. An old legionnaire’s turn: no wasted motion, no tell beyond the promise of violence in his eyes. When they land on you, it’s like bronze drawn from a scabbard—cold, edged, merciless. ''“That a joke?”'' The words are flat stone, ground out of his throat. You bare your teeth before he can read hesitation. ''“The only joke here is you.”'' His nostrils flare, his gaze raking you up and down in a cut-throat’s tally. His hands flex once, knuckles whitening with the promise of bone meeting bone. The courtyard shrinks to a killing ground, the dust between you humming with violence not yet loosed. Beyond the arches, the crowd senses it. Their voices rise, a pulse of hunger and coin and expectation pressing in from every side; hungry, swelling, scenting blood on the wind. [[Play it smart and set up the counter.|chp3_stavrick_counter]] <<ci stat>> [[Use the line to your advantage, unbalancing him.|chp3_stavrick_line]] <<ci stat>> [[Surge forward and slug it out.|chp3_stavrick_slug]] <<ci stat>> [[Bait him and attempt a head kick.|chp3_stavrick_headkick]] <<ci stat>> <<set $chp3_stavrick_mood to "bastard">> <<gainBastard>>\ <<bgm "street-fight" 0.7 3>>\

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp2_auction_stavrick.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> You ease a step closer, close enough that your words can hide beneath the scuff of boots. ''“There’s a noble watching,”'' you murmur, quiet but deliberate. ''“Wants me to put you down. Could be trouble for both of us - unless we play it right.”'' Stavrick’s head tips, a fraction, bringing one eye over his shoulder. It lingers on you without heat, the look of a man sifting value from words the way he might weigh a blade. ''“You think I need a whelp to make me look worth buying?”'' ''“Not what I said.”'' You keep your tone level, steady. ''“What I’m saying is this: bruises for the crowd, coin for their wagers, and maybe a better price on both our heads. They get their show, we walk away standing and no worse off for it.”'' The silence between you stretches a moment, broken only by the shuffle of the line and the murmur of nobles behind the arches. Stavrick’s mouth shifts. Not a smile, not quite, but the low flicker of recognition between fighters who know the game. His stance adjusts, weight lowering, shoulders squaring as if to say he’s willing to play along. There’s no warmth in it, no trust, but something more practical between men at the bottom of the totem pole: a wordless agreement to share the stage and hopefully benefit. [[Create space and set up the counter.|chp3_stavrick_counter]] <<ci stat>> [[Use the line to your advantage, unbalancing him.|chp3_stavrick_line]] <<ci stat>> [[Surge forward and slug it out.|chp3_stavrick_slug]] <<ci stat>> [[Show off and attempt a head kick.|chp3_stavrick_headkick]] <<ci stat>> <<bgm "street-fight" 0.6 6>>\ <<set $chp3_stavrick_mood to "knight">> <<gainKnight>>\

You keep your eyes forward, hands loose at your sides. Alesia’s look lingers in the corner of your vision like an unspoken dare, bright with the promise of trouble. But whatever game she’s playing, it’s hers, not yours. Stavrick hasn’t wronged you. You’ve no debt to settle with him, no cause to give him broken bones or bruises for the sake of her amusement or House Cosmas' personal gain. You know enough about men built like him to understand that it wouldn’t be an easy win, even if you wanted it. Maybe she’ll be amused at your restraint. More likely, she’ll be disappointed. Either way, she’ll remember your choice. Hopefully, it doesn't come back to bite you. The line moves forward another step, dust curling in the heat. You match Stavrick’s pace without crowding him, the two of you separated by a measured gap. He doesn’t look back, and you don’t look at him. The progression proceeds that way, uninterrupted. Behind you, the crowd’s voices rise and fall, unaware they’ve just missed the fight she wanted to see. The only fight that matters now is the one for the highest bid. The handlers close in at the edges, ushering the line toward the block. Beyond the glare, the auctioneer’s voice cuts the air, snapping out names, bloodlines, and virtues as if they were gospel. The shadow of the colosseum falls over you, cool and foreboding. [[Perhaps the most important decision today still awaits.|chp3_auction_gant]] <<bgmstop 9>> <<set $chp3_stavrick_outcome to "nofight">> \

You shift your weight back, hands loose, breathing slow. Stavrick’s bulk squares to you fully now, his boots grinding the dust in slow arcs as he adjusts his footing. The muscles in his neck stand out like braided rope, grizzled jaw set, eyes locked on you. Let him throw the first real strike, you think. The crowd will see it plain, and you’ll make him pay for the mistake. The space between you tightens. He takes one step, then another; controlled, patient, a predator’s measure. Then his right shoulder dips just enough to betray it, and the rest of him follows: a short, brutal hook meant to crack your guard wide open. <<if ($might === 1 && $mind === 1) || ($might === 1 && $mobility === 1 && $chp3_stavrick_mood === "cowboy") || ($chp3_stavrick_mood === "cowboy" && $mobility === 1 && $mind === 1)>> You see it the instant his weight shifts, hips turning before the punch is even halfway out. You slip aside just enough to let the hook cut through empty air, your lead hand snapping out and up under his chin in the same heartbeat in a hard uppercut. The blow pops his head back, jolting his heavy frame, and you’re already stepping inside, shoulder checking him to keep him off balance. The crowd noise bumps a notch; a few voices even rise from the stands in scattered approval as more eyes gather. Stavrick recovers quick enough, but there’s no mistaking the edge you’ve claimed. His next move will have to account for the fact that you’ve already made him miss once. <<set $chp3_momentum += 1; $chp3_stavrickhp -= 1>> <<elseif ($mind === 1 && $mobility === 1) || ($chp3_stavrick_mood === "knight" && $mobility >= 2) || ($chp3_stavrick_mood === "knight" && $mind >= 2)>> The hook comes fast, and you read it in time, but speed and power aren’t the same thing. You shift off-line, his fist grazing your ribs instead of smashing through your guard. Your counter lands, but not clean—more a cuff across the side of his head than a strike that will stick in his memory. Still, it’s enough to earn you a little space and deny him the satisfaction of drawing first blood. The crowd barely reacts; a handful might have caught the exchange, but most are waiting for something bigger. Stavrick resets, a faint scowl settling in as though he’s realizing you’re not going to be as easy to hit as he thought. <<else>> You read the shoulder drop, but his speed surprises you. There’s no time to get clear. The hook slams into the side of your jaw, a shock of bone and white heat bursting across your vision. The force spins you half a step, and you have to plant your lead foot hard to keep from stumbling into the line of slaves. A few in the stands let out low, eager sounds; the kind of noise that says they’re here for blood, not finesse. Stavrick’s grin widens, teeth bared. He knows he’s landed the first clean strike, and now he’s pressing forward, boots chewing through the dust as he looks to follow it up. <<set $chp3_momentum -= 1>> <</if>> [[You suck in a breath.|chp3_stavrick_roundtwo]]

You loosen your stance, keeping your guard high but your weight light on the balls of your feet. The dust shifts with every small sidestep as you begin to drift, angling toward the curve of the line, the both of you surrounded by the crowd. A few of the other slaves glance up as you weave between them, their bodies becoming cover, their chains and bulk the barriers Stavrick will have to push through if he wants to land something clean carrying real damange behind it. You catch his eyes tracking you; less the glare of a bull charging headlong, more the measured focus of a man trying not to be made a fool of. Every step you take forces him to take two, and already there’s a hint of impatience in his movement. You’re not here to take damage. Make him chase you and work for every inch of ground. <<if ($mobility === 2) || ($mind === 1 && $mobility === 1 && $chp3_stavrick_mood === "knight") || ($chp3_stavrick_mood === "knight" && $mind === 2)>> You keep him at arm’s length, sliding along the curve of the line so each step he takes is into another obstacle. Twice he starts to swing, but there’s a body between you, forcing him to break stride or risk hitting the wrong target. A ripple of noise runs through the crowd as you pivot around a slack-jawed man in front of you and slip just out of reach of Stavrick’s hand. It’s not a hit, but it’s a small victory, the kind that makes a man feel like he’s chasing a shadow. By the time you reset in open space, he’s breathing harder than you are, his shoulders rising and falling. You’ve set the pace now, and he knows it. <<set $chp3_momentum += 1>> <<elseif ($mind === 1 && $mobility === 1 && $chp3_stavrick_mood === "cowboy") || ($chp3_stavrick_mood === "cowboy" && $mind === 2)>> You move him through the line, weaving between bodies, but he’s more patient than you’d hoped. He doesn’t bite on every opening, content to stalk you step for step, forcing you to give ground. At one point you break free of the line and he snaps a short jab toward your jaw—just close enough to graze your cheek before you slip back into cover. It’s not clean, but it’s enough to remind you he’s still dangerous. The crowd takes notice, though it’s hard to tell if they’re rooting for you or just waiting for the first real exchange. <<else>> You try to skirt along the line, but your footwork’s a half-step too slow. Stavrick crowds you hard, forcing you into the shoulder of another slave before you can slip away. The jolt knocks your balance just long enough for him to snap a heavy punch into your ribs. It lands with a dull thud that steals your breath, drawing a sharper murmur from the stands as they see the violence finally erupt. By the time you pull clear, you’ve ceded the center and momentum. Now it’s you doing the chasing to stay in the fight, whether you like it or not. <<set $chp3_momentum -= 1>> <</if>> [[You suck in a breath.|chp3_stavrick_roundtwo]]

You plant your lead foot and step in hard, fists already on the way. There’s no waiting for him to swing! Just a straight drive into his guard, testing his chin and his will before either of you has had the chance to settle. You tighten your stance, dip your chin, and close the space in a handful of hard, driving steps, dust kicking up under your feet as you launch into him. The line of slaves jolts around you, a ripple of startled motion as the first blows crash into his guard. Stavrick’s beady eyes sharpen instantly. No confusion, no surprise, just the reflexive readiness of a man who’s been in more violence scuffles than he’s had hot meals. The crowd beyond the arches hasn’t yet caught the full picture, but you can feel them waiting for it, the swell of noise that comes when someone suddenly takes to a fight. <<if ($might >= 2) || ($might === 1 && $mobility === 1 && $chp3_stavrick_mood === "bastard") || ($chp3_stavrick_mood === "bastard" && $mobility >= 2)>>\ You hammer straight into his guard, heavy shots that make his thick arms buckle under the impact. A right cross slams into his forearm, jarring him enough for the left to slip past and clip his grizzled jaw. He stumbles a half-step, planting hard to keep from losing more ground, but you’ve already forced the pace. Every blow you throw demands a response, and his defense is just a shade too slow to stop them all. The crowd starts to rumble, the sound swelling with each clean connection. It’s not a roar yet, but it’s building, an appetite you’ve just fed a small taste. <<set $chp3_momentum += 1; $chp3_stavrickhp -= 1>>\ <<elseif ($might === 1 && $mobility === 1) || ($chp3_stavrick_mood === "cowboy" && $mobility >= 2)>>\ You crash forward, fists working, but Stavrick meets you in kind. His guard absorbs the worst of your opening volley, and he answers with short, snappy blows that clip your forearms hard and force you to reset. Neither of you lands clean enough to make the crowd erupt, but the exchange sends a ripple of motion through the line of slaves. You’ve declared the fight’s begun, even if no one’s drawn first blood yet. Stavrick’s grin widens, not in mockery, but the sharp-edged smile of a man who enjoys a proper scrap. You're realizing that you're going to have to play your cards right if you want to make a dent in this mountain of a man. <<else>>\ You surge forward, fists swinging, but Stavrick’s guard is like a wall. He meets your advance head-on, catching each shot on meaty forearms and elbows before driving a short, brutal jab into your sternum. The blow sends you back a pace, air knocked out of you. A few in the stands let out a quick bark of laughter—not cruel, just entertained. They’ve seen this dance before, and they know who’s leading it right now. Stavrick doesn’t press immediately. He just stands there, weight balanced, daring you to try again. You're realizing that you're going to have to play your cards right if you want to walk away unbroken, let alone make a dent in this mountain of a man. <<set $chp3_momentum -= 1>>\ <</if>>\ [[You suck in a breath.|chp3_stavrick_roundtwo]]

It’s not the smartest opening move. You’ve never drilled it, never been one of those fighters who can snap a boot to a man’s jaw like it’s second nature. But you’ve seen enough bouts to know what happens when it does land. You shift your weight, feint low, and feel the coil in your hips and knee as you set to launch. The aim is simple: make him drop his guard just long enough for your heel to find something worth breaking, like the side of his head. The crowd can’t see the details from here, but they’ll feel it if you hit. And Stavrick, well, he’ll feel it most of all. <<if ($might === 1 && $mobility === 1 && $chp3_stavrick_mood is "bastard") || ($chp3_stavrick_mood === "cowboy" && $mobility === 2) || ($mobility === 1 && $mind === 1 && $chp3_stavrick_mood is "knight")>>\ Your low feint works; Stavrick’s guard dips just enough to give you the angle. You snap the kick up with more speed than you thought you had, the sole of your foot cracking against his cheekbone. The impact jolts through your leg and sends him staggering sideways, eyes blinking hard as he resets his balance. The noise from the stands sharpens instantly-- quick shouts, a few surprised laughs, and the eager murmur of people leaning forward. You drop back into your stance, heart hammering, the ghost of a grin tugging at your mouth. For all the risk, you’ve just bought yourself the kind of respect that’s hard to fake. <<set $chp3_momentum += 1; $chp3_stavrickhp -= 2>>\ <<elseif $mobility >= 2>>\ You throw the kick and Stavrick reads it halfway up. His guard comes high in time to take the brunt of it, your heel thudding into his forearm instead of his skull. The blow knocks him back a step but doesn’t hurt him much. He answers with a short, testing jab, which you manage to slip before dropping back into the line. The crowd gives a brief cheer—not for the damage, but for the flash. You didn’t land clean, but you didn’t embarrass yourself either. <<else>>\ You step in for the feint and launch the kick, but Stavrick’s not buying it. He sidesteps as your leg comes up, leaving you off-balance with your guard open for punishment. He swats your leg aside and drives a stiff punch carrying his heavy weight into your ribs before you can recover. Pain blossoms and spreads almost immediately, hopping back to keep from toppling over entirely before the bout has even properly started. The crowd’s reaction is a ripple of amusement. A handful of chuckles, a low murmur of disapproval. You knew it was high risk, low reward… and you just paid for it. <<set $chp3_momentum -= 1>>\ <</if>>\ [[You suck in a breath.|chp3_stavrick_roundtwo]]

The first burst of motion has burned away, leaving the two of you circling in a tighter orbit. Breath comes heavier now, sweat slicking your brow and forearms, grit sticking to skin where dust has mixed with blood or spit. Every step kicks a faint puff from the ground, the air between you carrying the heat of bodies and the sharp tang of sweat. <<if ($chp3_momentum >= 1)>>\ Stavrick’s pace has slowed, each step measured, his eyes narrowing as he searches for a safe way back into the fight. You can feel it: the edge in your movement, the small advantage that shifts a man’s confidence without him realizing it’s already gone. <<elseif ($chp3_momentum === 0)>>\ Neither of you has managed to pull clear. You’ve traded bursts of control, each finding a way to shake the other loose, but nothing’s stuck. The balance is thin, and the next clean exchange could tip it hard. <<else>>\ Stavrick's driving forward now, each bootfall grinding into the dust like it’s meant to plant you there for good. His shoulders roll loose, his strikes just waiting for an opening to hammer through. You’re working to hold ground and he knows it. <</if>>\ \ <<if ($chp3_stavrickhp <= -1)>>\ There’s a welt blooming high on his jaw, the faintest hitch when he resets his guard after a strike. He hides it well, but you’ve seen enough fights to know what it means when a man favors a side without thinking about it. <<else>>\ His guard still snaps into place the instant you move, every shift in his stance fluid and practiced. If you’ve touched him at all, it hasn’t slowed him. <</if>>\ \ The courtyard is watching now. Every eye in the stands turned toward the two of you. The murmur has sharpened into a living thing, swelling and breaking with each feint, each near-miss. The handlers keep the line back, giving you space, but their hands rest easy on bone-and-bronze batons, ready to break the moment if it turns too far. Stavrick shifts his weight, eyes never leaving yours. The crowd is here for a fight, and every second you hesitate is a second for him to take. The next move is yours. Your pulse hammers in your ears, each breath sharp with the taste of dust. Whether you’re here to endure or to end him, there’s no room left to stall. [[Dig in deep, dirty, trading blow for blow.|chp3_stavrick_dirty]] <<ci stat>> [[Break his guard with clean, technical strikes.|chp3_stavrick_clean]] <<ci stat>> [[Apply pressure, pressing him back step by step.|chp3_stavrick_pressure]] <<ci stat>> <<if ($chp3_stavrickhp === -2)>>\ [[Press your early advantage and go for the finish!|chp3_stavrick_goforfinish]] <<ci stat>><</if>>

You close the gap hard, boots digging into the dust, shoulders squared. Stavrick’s guard is high, but you’re already inside it, hands snapping to hook behind his trunk of a neck. The smell of sweat and leathered skin fills your lungs. Every movement is sharp and close; forearms grinding against forearms, his breath hot across your cheek, the kind of fighting where there’s no space to hide and no easy way to back out once you've committed. <<if ($might >= 2) || ($might === 1 && $mobility === 1 && $chp3_stavrick_mood === "bastard") || ($chp3_stavrick_mood === "cowboy" && $might >= 1 && $mind >= 1)>> You lock your hands behind his head, wrestling for control in the clinch, and yank down, driving a knee HARD into his ribs. The impact thuds solid, making him grunt through clenched teeth. He tries to break the hold, but you slam another knee in before shoving him back with a short, snapping elbow to create distance in the aftermath. The crowd’s noise lifts — they’ve seen you take control, forcing a man his size to bend under your strikes. Stavrick’s breathing heavier now, his guard not quite as crisp. <<set $chp3_momentum += 1; $chp3_stavrickhp -= 1>> <<elseif ($might === 1 && $mobility === 1) || ($chp3_stavrick_mood === "knight" && $might >= 1 && $mind >= 1)>> You wedge in close, arms locking up, but Stavrick meets you with equal strength. The two of you grind for control, trading short body shots and sharp shoulders without either side breaking or gaining meaningful leverage over the other. A knee thumps into your thigh just as you sneak one into his ribs. The handlers watch closely, shifting their grips on their batons, ready to break it if it turns ugly. When you break apart, neither of you’s taken much — but neither of you’s given an inch either. <<else>> You crash into him, but Stavrick’s arms loop over yours, locking you in a vice-like grip. His forehead slams into yours in a quick, jarring butt that bursts light across your vision, and a sharp elbow digs into your ribs before he shoves you away. The crowd reacts in a low, eager murmur — they’ve seen who came out better in that tangle. Stavrick rolls his shoulders as if to say come again, but you can feel the sting deep in your side. <<set $chp3_momentum -= 1>> <</if>> [[Sweat beads along your brow, dripping.|chp3_stavrick_roundthree]]

You keep just outside his reach, watching the way his guard shifts with every faint twitch of your shoulders. Stavrick’s good — his forearms always finding the right angle to block, but every defense has its cracks if you press the right one hard enough. A feint here, a drop of the eyes there, and you see it: the small lag when he recovers after a high block, the extra breath he takes when you crowd his lead side. You just need to make him show that gap again and punish him each and every time he does. <<if ($might === 1 && $mobility === 1) || ($might === 1 && $mind === 1) || ($mind === 1 && $mobility === 1 && $chp3_stavrick_mood === "cowboy") || ($chp3_stavrick_mood === "bastard" && $mobility === 2) >>\ You flick a jab toward his head, drawing his guard high. Before he can drop it back down, you step in and whip a hook into his ribs. The blow lands clean, jolting him sideways, and you follow with a stiff shove to break his balance and press your momentum forward. The crowd responds instantly; a sharper noise, a collective leaning-in. Stavrick’s not badly hurt, but you’ve made him react, it's own kind of victory in a sudden, violent scrap. <<set $chp3_momentum += 1; $chp3_stavrickhp -= 1>>\ <<elseif ($mobility === 2) || ( $chp3_stavrick_mood === "knight" && ($mobility >= 1 || $mind >= 1) ) >>\ Your feint works well enough to make him twitch, but his guard snaps back too fast for you to land anything clean. You throw a body shot anyway, intent on breaking him down even if you can't find the right opening, but you only catch the meat of his braced arms. He gives you a hard look, a flash of teeth; not a smile exactly, but a look of defiance and the cold acknowledgment of a move he saw coming and managed to shut down. No real harm done either way, but you’ve marked the rhythm in his guard for later. <<else>>\ You overcommit to the feint, stepping too close without a follow-through. Stavrick reads it instantly, swatting your probing hand aside and snapping a jab into your face. The sting blooms hot in your nose, and you have to blink hard to clear your vision. The crowd reacts with a brief roar at the clean connection, and Stavrick presses a half-step forward, trying to force you into the defensive. <<set $chp3_momentum -= 1>>\ <</if>>\ [[You reset as the fight drags on.|chp3_stavrick_roundthree]]

You start edging him backward, steps small but constant, keeping your lead shoulder angled toward him like a battering ram. Every time he shifts to create space, you step with him, denying him the open angles he wants, corraling his movement. The edge of the courtyard looms behind him, the pale stone wall marked with scuffs and old bloodstains. If you can close that last step and cut him off, you’ll have him exactly where you want him, nowhere to go but into you and then back. <<if ($might === 1 && $mobility === 1) || ($mobility === 2 && $chp3_stavrick_mood === "bastard") || ($chp3_stavrick_mood === "cowboy" && $mobility === 1 && $mind === 1)>> You crowd him hard, pivoting to cut off his escape lane. His back foot hits stone, and before he can shift, you drive a hook into his ribs and follow with a shoulder check that rattles his balance. The wall eats his movement, forcing him into short, tight defenses that don’t leave much space for return fire. The crowd catches the shift, a deeper noise rising as they see you taking the dominant ground. <<set $chp3_momentum += 1; $chp3_stavrickhp -= 1>> <<elseif ($mind === 1 && $mobility === 1) || ($chp3_stavrick_mood === "knight" && $mind === 2) || ($chp3_stavrick_mood === "cowboy" && $mind === 1 && $mobility === 1)>> You manage to press him toward the wall, but he pivots just before you can seal it off, keeping enough space to avoid being trapped outright. A glancing blow to his shoulder draws a grunt, but it’s not clean, and you’re forced to reset before you can lock him down again. The handlers glance toward the two of you, aware that the fight’s tilting but not yet breaking. <<else>> You push too hard too fast, stepping into a sidestep. Stavrick slips past your shoulder, shoving you in the back as he clears the wall entirely. The sudden jolt sends you stumbling forward, nearly into the line of slaves. By the time you turn, he’s reset at open distance, grinning like he’s just turned the tables. <<set $chp3_momentum -= 1>> <</if>> [[You reset as the fight drags on.|chp3_stavrick_roundthree]]

The crack of shin on bone still rings in your ears, as sweet as the roar it rips from the crowd. Stavrick’s head snaps sideways under the blow, his knees dipping for the first time all fight. The big man staggers back a half-step, eyes blinking hard, like he’s struggling to remember where the ground is. Blood’s in the water now. You can feel it. Every beat of your heart thunders in your ribs, hot and wild, begging you to close the distance. The air tastes of sweat and dust and that sharp, copper tang of a man who’s just been hurt. His guard is loose, sloppy. One good push could break him. You square up, pulse pounding, watching the muscles in his arms twitch without purpose. He’s dazed, slow, wide open in a way you may never see again. The choice isn’t if you move - it’s how you end this. [[Start swinging; hard, heavy, brutal|chp3_stavrick_goforfinish_brutal]] <<ci stat>> [[Apply pressure and pick him apart.|chp3_stavrick_goforfinish_pressure]] <<ci stat>> [[Take your time with measured blows.|chp3_stavrick_goforfinish_measured]] <<ci stat>>

You surge forward like you’ve been cut loose from a chain, fists already swinging. Stavrick’s guard comes up too slow, and the first hook smashes through, driving his head to the side. You’re on him before he can blink, boots grinding the dust as you hammer at every inch of him you can reach. <<if ($might === 1 && $mobility === 1 && $chp3_stavrick_mood === "bastard")>> It’s not a fight anymore. It’s slaughter. A right hand caves into his temple, snapping his head around — the wet crack of cartilage follows as your elbow drives into his nose. He’s covering up now, but you’re inside his guard, ribs thudding under each short hook, the air bursting from him in ragged grunts. The handlers are shouting, their boots pounding closer, but you don’t hear them. All you hear is the wet smack of flesh, the dull drumbeat of your own pulse. A final uppercut rips his head back and he drops, knees hitting the dust. You follow him down, raining blows until a bronze-banded baton slams across your forearms and drags you back. Stavrick’s sprawled on the ground, face a ruin, the dust under him blooming dark with blood. The crowd is on its feet now-- not cheering, not yet. Watching. Measuring. <<if $dominant === "bastard">> Stavrick’s already down, half-turned on his side, one arm shielding his face more out of instinct than will. You don’t stop. You drop to a knee beside him and hammer your fist into the side of his skull, feeling the shock of bone on bone run up your arm. His body jerks, his legs twitch, but he’s not getting up. The handlers shout, but their voices are far away. All you hear is the sound of your own breath, ragged and fast, and the wet thud of knuckles into meat. [[You can't stop yourself from doing MORE damage.|chp3_stavrick_brutalbastard]] <<ci lethal>> <<else>> The handlers surge forward, too late to stop it, fanning around him as he lies sprawled, chest heaving but eyes vacant. They shove you back with frantic arms, but it hardly matters. The noise from the stands has already broken like thunder. Stavrick is still breathing, but the fight is gone from him. The sight of his body on the stones, motionless but for the twitch of breath, is all the crowd needs. Their chant rises sharp and unanimous, carrying your name up into the arches. [[Your victory? Swiftly brutal, totally decisive.|chp3_stavrick_earlyvictory]] <</if>> <<else>> You drive into him, fists flying, but the precision isn’t there. A couple of your shots land heavy; a hook across the jaw, a short hammering blow to the ribs, but his arms come up, locking tight. You batter at them anyway, teeth clenched, the crowd roaring for more. The rush burns hot, then fades just as quick. Stavrick’s still hurt, but he’s weathered the worst of it, breathing hard behind that shield of forearms. A sharp shove sends you stumbling back a step, dust grinding under your heels. You’ve bloodied him, no question. But he’s still standing and you're gassed. <<chp3_stavrickhp -= 1>> [[Now you'll have to fight harder for the finish.|chp3_stavrick_roundthree]] <</if>>

You step in close, hands high, eyes locked on his. The head kick rattled him, but you’re not here to brawl. You’re here to pick him apart, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left. Every time he blinks, every time his guard twitches open, you fire. <<if ($mobility === 1 && $mind === 1 && $chp3_stavrick_mood === "knight")>> You keep him turning, herding him with short steps and sharper hands. A jab snaps his head back, then another finds the bridge of his nose, splitting skin. Stavrick tries to shell up, but you’re already circling to his blind side, peppering his temple with stinging hooks. His feet tangle when he tries to retreat, and you pounce, a clean right cross followed by a whipping hook that lands flush. His knees buckle like the floor’s been pulled out from under him, and he crashes into the dust. You stand over him, chest heaving, as the handlers surge in to drag you away from the body. The crowd’s roar swells around you, not for chaos, but for impeccable precision. [[You've stopped him quicker than anyone expected.|chp3_stavrick_earlyvictory]] <<else>> You hound him with fast, snapping shots, but each one lands just shy of perfect. A jab glances off his guard, a hook clips the side of his head without turning him. You’re forcing him backward, making him flinch, but every near-miss costs you the chance to seal it. He’s breathing hard, eyes darting, but he’s still upright. A cuffing blow to his jaw shakes him, yet somehow he steadies himself, planting his boots in the dust. The opening you had is already closing. <<set $chp3_momentum += 1>> [[You'll have to fight harder for this finish.|chp3_stavrick_roundthree]] <</if>>

You steady your breathing, narrowing the world to Stavrick’s shape in front of you. He’s hurt, swaying, but you don’t rush him. One mistake now and he could catch you in the scramble. No, you’ll end him on your terms, with clean, unhurried strikes that leave no doubt. <<if ($mobility === 2 && $chp3_stavrick_mood === "cowboy")>> You circle slow, like a wolf keeping the deer in sight. Every twitch of his guard is another note in the rhythm you’re building, every shuffle of his boots another beat. When you finally move, it’s like stepping into the perfect part of a song. A straight right punches the air out of him, doubling him slightly — the follow-up hook is already there, clipping the side of his jaw with surgical precision. He sinks, knees giving way, and you let him fold into the dust. No extra shots. No wasted motion. The handlers step between you and the body, but they don’t touch you. The crowd watches in that rare, charged silence that only comes when a fighter makes it look easy. [[You stopped him with far more finesse than anyone rightly expected.|chp3_stavrick_earlyvictory]] <<else>> You stalk him, picking at his guard, looking for the perfect shot. A jab here, a hook there, but nothing lands flush enough to drop him. The crowd’s noise shifts, the edge of excitement dulling as seconds tick past. By the time you finally step in with a heavier strike, he’s steadier on his feet, guard tight again. The moment’s gone. You’ve bloodied him, but you’ve given him space to breathe — too much space. [[You'll have to fight harder for this finish.|chp3_stavrick_roundthree]]<</if>>

The dust hangs heavy in the air now, stirred into a haze by the circling of boots and the shuffling of the crowd. Your chest rises and falls like a bellows, every breath tasting of grit and sweat. Stavrick’s eyes lock on you through the heat, steady but hard to read, somewhere between defiance and calculation. The guards are closing in soon. This is it. One more exchange to decide who walks away with the edge. Both of you circle, drawing in ragged breaths. The handlers are keeping their distance now, letting the fight burn itself out, the noise from the stands condensed into a steady, throbbing roar. You watch your opponent all the while, gauging his condition. <<if $chp3_momentum === 2>>\ You’ve been dictating the pace since the opening exchanges, forcing him to react, forcing him to carry your weight and your rhythm. Even now, his eyes keep darting to where you’ll be, not where you are. You’re hunting, and he’s surviving. <<elseif $chp3_momentum === 1>>\ You’ve edged ahead in the exchanges, pressing him more often than he’s pressed you. His guard’s a little lower, his stance a little looser, small cracks you can widen if you keep pushing and looking for the right opening, although you know it won't be easy. <<elseif $chp3_momentum === 0>>\ It’s been back-and-forth, neither man able to break through for long. The next move could tilt the whole fight one way or the other. <<elseif $chp3_momentum === -1>> \ He’s been leaning on you, using his size and strength to keep you on the defensive. You’ve found your moments, but they’ve been rare — and rarer still when he’s on the front foot. <<elseif $chp3_momentum === -2>> \ You’ve been on the back foot since the first exchange, taking more than you’ve given. Your lungs are raw, your arms heavy, and it’s all you can do to keep him from bulldozing you into the dust. <</if>>\ \ <<if $chp3_stavrickhp === -2>> \ He’s hurt badly. His guard is slower, his feet drag when he moves, and every breath rattles in his chest. One more good shot could put him down for good. <<elseif $chp3_stavrickhp === -1>> \ He’s taken some punishment, enough to slow him down and draw blood, but there’s still plenty of fight in his eyes. You’ll have to work for the finish. <<else>> \ Somehow, he’s barely marked — his arms still quick, his stance still solid. If you want to break him, you’re going to have to dig deep and hurt him first. <</if>>\ \ The handlers shift their footing, eyes flicking between you both. The heat, the dust, the noise all boiling together now, pressing in from every side as you fight for more ground. Every muscle in your body is coiled tight, the next exchange ready to explode out of you. Stavrick’s staring right back, reading you, measuring you, the same way you’re measuring him. All that matters now is the final action to decide the exchange. What’s your next move? [[Break him down with your final, brutal surge.|chp3_stavrick_breakdown]] <<ci stat>> [[Carry out a surgical strike to end the fight.|chp3_stavrick_surgical]] <<ci stat>> [[Bait him with a quick feint, and counter hard!|chp3_stavrick_baitcounter]] <<ci stat>> [[Simply try to survive and outmanuever him in the final moments.|chp3_stavrick_survivemove]] <<ci stat>>

You step into him like you’ve decided the fight belongs to you now. No dancing, no feints, just a steady march forward, hands high, weight set to drive every shot through muscle and bone. The crowd’s roar turns into a rolling wave, matching the thud of boots. Stavrick tries to square up, but there’s nowhere for him to breathe. You’re on him, pressing at his shoulders, snapping his head with short hooks, ramming your forearms into his chest to keep him pinned and off balance. The air between you is hot and tight, the smell of sweat and bloody copper thick enough to taste on your teeth and tongue. <<if ($might >= 2 && $chp3_stavrick_mood is "bastard") || ($might === 1 && $mobility === 1 && $chp3_stavrick_mood === "bastard") || ($chp3_stavrick_mood === "cowboy" && $might >= 1 && $mobility >= 1)>>\ You break him down like tearing apart an old doorframe, one piece at a time until the whole thing starts to give. A right to the ribs forces the air from his lungs, and when he folds slightly, your left hand crashes into the side of his head. He reels into the ropes of the crowd, trying to cover up, but you keep hammering, every blow driving him further toward the drop. <<set $chp3_momentum += 1; $chp3_stavrickhp -= 1>>\ <<elseif ($might >= 2) || ($might === 1 && $mobility === 1)>>\ You force him backward, shoulders hunched, guard braced, but it’s like pounding against the wall of a fortress. Your shots land, some of them even snapping his head, but they don’t have the weight to split him open. Still, you’ve pushed him back far enough to show you’re the one dictating the pace now. <<set $chp3_momentum += 1>>\ <<else>>\ You try to crowd him, leaning in with short shots and shoves, but he plants his feet and meets you with a stiff arm to the chest. The next thing you know, you’re the one giving ground, your ribs aching from a quick hook he buries inside the clinch. The momentum you had bleeds out into the dust. <<set $chp3_momentum -= 1>>\ <</if>>\ \ <<if ($chp3_stavrickhp <= -3)>>\ You hammer him with everything left in you, fists pounding against ribs and jaw, each shot rattling through his frame. Stavrick soaks them, staggering but refusing to fold, every breath pulled through clenched teeth. The crowd roars, sensing the brink, the handlers shouting from the edges but not daring to move in yet. Then you catch him clean. A hook slips through his guard, snapping his head to the side, and before he can recover the follow-up drives straight through his chin. His body stiffens for a heartbeat - then drops, knees buckling, a slab of flesh and grit thudding hard against the courtyard dust. <<if $dominant === "bastard">>\ Stavrick’s already down, half-turned on his side, one arm shielding his face more out of instinct than will. You don’t stop. You drop to a knee beside him and hammer your fist into the side of his skull, feeling the shock of bone on bone run up your arm. His body jerks, his legs twitch, but he’s not getting up. The handlers shout, but their voices are far away. All you hear is the sound of your own breath, ragged and fast, and the wet thud of knuckles into meat. [[You can't stop yourself from doing MORE damage.|chp3_stavrick_brutalbastard]] <<ci archetype lethal>> <<else>>\ The handlers surge forward, too late to stop it, fanning around him as he lies sprawled, chest heaving but eyes vacant. They shove you back with frantic arms, but it hardly matters. The noise from the stands has already broken like thunder. Stavrick is still breathing, but the fight is gone from him. The sight of his body on the stones, motionless but for the twitch of breath, is all the crowd needs. Their chant rises sharp and unanimous, carrying your name up into the arches. [[A brutally decisive victory against a tough man.|chp3_stavrick_kofinish]] <</if>>\ \ <<elseif ($chp3_stavrickhp <= -2 && $chp3_momentum >= 2)>>\ The pressure is too much for him. You hound him across the courtyard, fists and forearms battering into guard, ribs, skull - a storm he can’t weather. Each shot drives him back, boots skidding lines in the dust until the handlers’ line looms behind him. His arms sag lower with every blow, guard unraveling, one hook tearing past to split his lip, another smashing against his temple. The handlers surge in, prying you off before it tips further, but not before you’ve left him doubled over, breath torn ragged, chest heaving for air. One eye already swells shut, his face wet with sweat and blood. He’s still standing, but it’s pride alone that props him up, not strength. The roar that breaks from the stands is not divided, it’s yours. Their voices rise on the sight of him stumbling, the verdict already cast. You’ve taken the fight from Stavrick and left him defeated, the bloodied shell of a man still upright only because he refuses to bow. [[A hard-fought victory.|chp3_stavrick_goodending]] <<elseif ($chp3_stavrickhp >= -1 && $chp3_stavrickhp <= 0 && $chp3_momentum >= 0)>>\ You keep the heat on him, driving forward with fists, shoulders, anything you can throw. Each shot lands heavy enough to rattle, each shove pushing him back one slow step at a time. The crowd howls at the sight, voices surging with every blow, scenting the finish. But Stavrick refuses to fall. He bends, absorbs, steadies. Every time you think you’ve got him teetering, he plants a boot and squares up again, forcing you to meet those cold, unflinching eyes. Sweat streams down both your faces, stinging your eyes, dripping into your mouths until you taste nothing but copper and dust. The handlers hesitate, letting it run as long as they dare, and still neither man yields. When they finally burst between you, catching your arms before another strike can land, Stavrick is still upright, shoulders rising and falling, glare locked to yours. The crowd splits its voice down the middle, half chanting your name, half bellowing his, the sound clashing in the arches overhead. No victor crowned, no loser cast down—just two fighters torn apart, sweat and blood running, the fight unresolved. [[You'll both feel this tomorrow...|chp3_stavrick_neutralending]] <<else>> \ You hurl yourself at him again, but Stavrick plants his stance and meets you square. Your fist glances off his guard and in the same instant his forearm crashes into yours, knocking your arm aside. His head snaps forward, crown to brow, and the world bursts white. You reel, blind for a heartbeat, and that’s all he needs. A hammering shot slams into your ribs, folding you sideways, and another clips the edge of your skull. The noise from the crowd surges as you stagger, dust swirling under your boots, blood sharp in your mouth. Stavrick presses in with a predator’s patience, no hurry, just grinding you down one strike at a time. The handlers shout, pushing in to separate you, but not before he drives one last heavy blow to your gut that doubles you over, choking grit. When they finally tear him back, he straightens without effort, chest rising slow and steady, eyes flat and cold. You’re left coughing in the dirt, head swimming, ribs aching, trying to pull breath into a body that won’t obey simple commands. The crowd’s roar fades to something colder: disappointment, disdain, voices already moving past your name to his. Whatever claim you had in that moment has been stripped, your fire smothered beneath his shadow. You gave your best, but it wasn't enough. [[Your body and pride have taken a beating.|chp3_stavrick_negativeending]] <</if>>\

You keep the distance tight enough to touch but never crowd him, your weight balanced and balled hands loose. The noise of the crowd fades into the edges, replaced by the sound of his boots dragging faintly in the dust, the rasp of his breath. You’re not here to trade, intent on seizing any weakness or lapse of judgement. A twitch in his shoulder, the faint drop of a hand, you file it all away. Every step's measured as you try to cut the angle just a little more until all you're waiting on is the moment his formidable guard slips one heartbeat too long. <<if ($mind === 1 && $mobility === 1 && $chp3_stavrick_mood === "cowboy") || ($mind === 1 && $might === 1 && $chp3_stavrick_mood === "bastard") || ($chp3_stavrick_mood === "cowboy" && $mobility >= 2)>>\ You see it. A flicker in his stance, a shoulder turned too far before you thread the shot straight down the line. The crack of knuckles on bone snaps his head around, and before he can cover, the follow-up hook digs into the hinge of his jaw. He staggers back two steps, heavy arms flailing to keep balance, and for the first time you see something close to doubt in his dark beady eyes unfocused as you close the distance. <<set $chp3_momentum += 1; $chp3_stavrickhp -= 1>>\ \ <<elseif ($mind >= 2) || ($mind === 1 && $mobility === 1 && $chp3_stavrick_mood === "knight")>>\ You find the opening but your shot lands just shy of perfect. The jab scores, the cross catches the cheek instead of the chin. He absorbs it, blinking hard, and shuffles back to square his guard again. You’ve marked him, but not enough to tilt the whole fight. <<else>>\ You wait and watch until you think you see it, but the tell was a lie. You step in and eat a stiff jab to the nose, hot blood spilling before you can even reset your feet. The angle’s gone, the crowd’s roar dimmed by the ringing in your ears. <<set $chp3_momentum -= 1>>\ <</if>>\ \ <<if $chp3_stavrickhp <= -3>>\ The opening is there, again-- you don’t think, you act. A single step and the right hand slides straight through the middle, knuckles sinking into the soft spot under his jaw. His body stiffens, the eyes glassing over before his knees betray him. He drops without a sound, legs buckling, dust puffing around him. The handlers are there in an instant, but there’s nothing for them to stop because it’s already done. The crowd surges to its feet, a wall of noise rising over the cleanest finish of the night. You step back, breathing steady, eyes never leaving the man on the ground. [[Your patience paid off... cleanly.|chp3_stavrick_kofinish]] <<elseif ($chp3_stavrickhp === -2 && $chp3_momentum >= 2)>>\ The rhythm is yours now. A feint draws his guard wide, and the cross that follows snaps his head sideways. Before he can plant his feet, the hook turns him the other way. You don’t waste shots, each one placed to hurt and make him guess wrong again. By the time the handlers step in, he’s listing on his feet, mouth open, eyes half-focused. You haven’t put him down, but you’ve left him with nothing left to give. The crowd knows it. He knows it. The verdict is written in the way he sags when they lead him away. [[Your advantage is clear, besting the bigger man.|chp3_stavrick_goodending]] <<elseif ($chp3_stavrickhp <= 0 && $chp3_momentum >= 0)>>\ You work the angles, scoring when you can — a jab to the cheekbone, a hook to the ribs — but every clean moment slips away before you can finish the job. He’s still dangerous, still throwing back enough to keep you honest. When the handlers wedge in, you’re both breathing hard, faces marked, neither man broken. It’s no loss, but the fight ends in that limbo where you know you could’ve done more… if you’d found just one cleaner opening. [[You survived, and gave as good as you got.|chp3_stavrick_neutralending]] <<else>>\ You reach for the angle, leaning in to thread another shot and walk right into his counter. A hook slams into your temple, your vision snapping sideways, knees buckling for a breathless second. You manage to cover before he finishes, but the handlers are already surging in, breaking you apart. Your head’s ringing, mouth tasting of copper. The crowd’s roar isn’t for you anymore, and Stavrick’s half-smile says he knows it. [[You tried, and failed.|chp3_stavrick_negativeending]] <</if>>\

You hold your ground, watching him, letting him take the lead. Stavrick’s the type to believe pressure alone can break you, so you give him just enough to think it’s working. Your guard shifts, loosening your stance a hair, small bait in the dust between you. The crowd seems to shrink in the moment before it happens, feeling the weight of his next move in the tightening of his shoulders, the raw intent in the way he starts forward. <<if ($might === 1 && $mind === 1) || ($might === 1 && $mobility === 1 && $chp3_stavrick_mood === "bastard") || ($chp3_stavrick_mood === "cowboy" && $mobility === 1 && $mind === 1)>>\ The instant he commits, you’re already moving. His hook sails over your duck, and your counter lands with full weight in a driving shot to the ribs that makes him stumble, followed by a sharp cross to the cheek. His balance is gone, beady eyes unfocused. For the first time, the fight feels like it’s leaning your way. <<set $chp3_momentum += 1; $chp3_stavrickhp -= 1>>\ <<elseif ($mobility === 1 && $mind === 1) || ($might === 1 && $mobility === 1 && $chp3_stavrick_mood === "cowboy")>>\ You catch him as he comes in, a short shot across the chin that makes him blink, but your follow-up glances off his guard. He slows, thinking twice before throwing himself at you again, but you haven’t put enough sting on it to truly tilt the fight. <<else>>\ You try to time him, but he barrels through your counter like it’s nothing. A heavy shoulder bumps you off your stance, and the next thing you feel is his fist glancing off your ear. The crowd roars as you’re forced back, dust scuffing under your heels. <<set $chp3_momentum -= 1>>\ <</if>>\ \ <<if $chp3_stavrickhp <= -3>>\ He comes in heavy again, swinging wide, and you’re ready for it. A short slip puts you inside his reach, your fist driving up into his ribs with a crunch that folds him sideways. Before he can gasp for air, your uppercut rips through his guard, snapping his head back like it’s on a hinge. He topples onto his back, the dust blooming around him as the crowd erupts. The handlers rush past you to keep him from swallowing his own tongue, but you barely notice. You’re still standing where you landed the final shot, breathing steady, watching the man who thought he could walk through you lying flat on the stones. [[Your win? Calculated and cleanly undeniable.|chp3_stavrick_kofinish]] <<elseif ($chp3_stavrickhp === -2 && $chp3_momentum >= 2)>>\ Every time he tries to push in, you’re there. A hook to turn his head, a jab to check his advance, a shove to send him stumbling. By the third exchange, the crowd’s seeing it too: he’s walking into you, and you’re cutting him apart a piece at a time. The handlers cut in just after you land a clean right cross, the sound of it cracking through the din. Stavrick’s still on his feet, but he’s holding his ribs and refusing to meet your eyes. You’ve given them a fight worth remembering, and the verdict is carved into the way he looks at the ground. [[Your win? Calculated, decisive, clean.|chp3_stavrick_goodending]] <<elseif $chp3_stavrickhp <= 0 && $chp3_momentum >= 0>>\ You catch him once with a crisp counter that staggers him, but the follow-up lands on his forearms. He’s more cautious after that, throwing shorter, tighter shots that give you fewer chances to punish. You manage to keep him honest, and maybe even edge the exchanges, but not enough to seal it. When the handlers wedge in, the crowd’s noise feels undecided. He’s marked up, you’re breathing hard, and neither of you has truly broken the other. The fight ends in that murky space between victory and survival. [[You survived, and gave as good as you got.|chp3_stavrick_neutralending]] <<else>>\ You try to read him, but his feint draws you into a trap. Your counter starts to fire and then he changes levels, slamming his shoulder into your gut. The air bursts from your lungs as he drives you backward into the dust, fists hammering your guard. By the time the handlers wedge themselves between you, your ribs ache, your vision swimming. Stavrick’s breathing hard too, but the way the crowd’s chanting his name leaves no doubt about who they think owned the last exchange. [[You tried, and failed.|chp3_stavrick_negativeending]] <</if>>\

You shift your weight light onto your toes, hands loose, eyes locked on his shoulders. No more trading. No more standing still. Every time he steps in, you slide back just far enough, cutting angles through the dust, making him chase you. It’s not about hurting him now. You're betting on making him miss and spend every remaining ounce of energy trying to catch you while the fight's clock runs out. <<if ($mobility >= 2) || ($mobility === 1 && $mind === 1 && $chp3_stavrick_mood === "knight") || ($mind === 1 && $mobility === 1 && $chp3_stavrick_mood === "cowboy")>>\ You stay just ahead of him, gliding out of range when he swings, tagging him with quick shots when he overcommits. Each miss drags more weight into his legs, his breath turning sharp. By the time you circle past the handlers, he’s chasing shadows and you’re still fresh enough to smile. <<set $chp3_momentum += 1>>\ <<elseif $mobility gte 1>>\ You avoid the worst of it, slipping his bigger shots and answering with light punches. But the space closes faster than you want, and sometimes you’re forced to cover up rather than escape clean. You’re not in danger, but you’re not taking control either. <<else>>\ You try to dance out of range, but his reach catches you. A jab clips your cheek, then a hook slams into your guard hard enough to make your teeth rattle. Every time you try to create space, he’s already stepping into it, pushing you toward the wall. <<set $chp3_momentum -= 1>>\ <</if>>\ <<if ($chp3_stavrickhp === -2 && $chp3_momentum >= 2)>>\ He spends the last exchanges chasing air, his boots thudding in the dust where you were a heartbeat ago. You slip his jab and pivot out of range, answering with a quick, clean shot before sliding away again. By the final moments, his swings are slow, heavy things, thrown more out of frustration than hope. When the handlers cut in, you’re standing tall, barely marked, while he’s bent at the waist with his hands on his knees. The crowd sees it for what it is; he never caught you, never broke you. They cheer, not for blood, but for decisive control. You took the fight on your terms against a bigger man, and that’s a win they might remember. [[You came out on top.|chp3_stavrick_goodending]] <<elseif ($chp3_stavrickhp <= 0 && $chp3_momentum >= 0)>>\ You slip and weave, but not without cost. He clips you a few times, the sting of his punches lingering as you circle away. You give some back when you can, enough to keep him honest, but the distance is harder to maintain with every step. When the handlers step in, you’re breathing heavy, sweat stinging your eyes. You’re not beaten, but you’re not ahead either. It’s a fight that will fade from memory, a night where survival was the only prize. [[You survived, and gave as good as you got.|chp3_stavrick_neutralending]] <<else>>\ You backpedal once too late and his fist finds your jaw. The blow rocks you sideways, and before you’ve recovered, another digs into your ribs. The crowd surges with every hit, the noise swelling like a tide you can’t escape, fighting to survive all the while. By the time the handlers grab hold, you’re doubled over, head swimming, the taste of blood thick in your mouth. Stavrick’s still on his feet, chest heaving, his grin carved deep into the dust and sweat. Whatever game you were playing, he just ripped it away from you. [[You tried to stay on your feet, and failed.|chp3_stavrick_negativeending]] <</if>>

You’re still on him. Fists hammering down, knuckles split wide, skin flayed raw where bone and teeth tore at you. Each blow sends another warm spray across your hands, another sick crunch that rattles your heavy arms all the way through to the shoulders. His face is unrecognizable now; swelling, bone shifting under each strike, lips nearly mashed to pulp. Somewhere in the din, the crowd is split between howling for more and screaming for someone to stop you. ''“What the fuck is wrong with you?!”'' A guard bellows, boots pounding the dust as they finally close in after long moments of indecision. Hands grab at your shoulders, but you shrug them off, landing another blow that makes Stavrick’s head roll limply in the dirt. A bronze-headed baton slams into your ribs, folding you for a heartbeat, another cracking down on your shoulder. The pain is distant, washed out under the heat still driving you forward. One of them pulls a dagger, bone pulled sharply from a dangling sheath, as others finally beat and pull you roughly from atop Stavrick's still form. But before he can strike, a voice cuts through the yard like a blade, ''“Enough!”'' Countess Alesia Cosmas stands at the edge of the handler’s ring, her dark gown catching the light, her smile thin and edged. The guards hesitate mid-swing, glancing between her and each other. She doesn’t raise her voice, doesn’t move an inch closer. She doesn’t have to at this point. ''“He’s mine,”'' She says, with the casual certainty of someone who expects to be obeyed. ''“Put him back in line before I decide you’re wasting my time.”'' They relent, shoving you toward the row of slaves. Your chest heaves, every breath tasting of copper, your hands trembling and raw. Behind you, Stavrick is hauled away by two handlers, his face a ruin of swelling and broken bone, blood marking the stones and strewn sand in his wake. Alesia’s gaze sweeps the mess on your hands, the bent way the guards keep their distance now, and the broken thing being dragged off. Her smile tilts, a gleam of teeth beneath it. ''“I wanted a show…”'' She says, voice smooth and cutting through the din. ''“I didn’t expect a massacre.”'' You drag your split knuckles across your mouth, tasting the blood there, and meet her eyes with a mock-smile of your own. ''“I live to please, Countess.”'' You rasp, warm with mockery, as if you’d do it again in a heartbeat. She holds your gaze a moment longer, slow and knowing, like she’s just marked you for something far beyond the auction block. The handlers close ranks, driving the battered line toward the far arch. Beyond, the colosseum’s shadow spills across a dusty courtyard where the auction block waits beneath a gaudy canopy. The crowd’s noise fades into a low murmur of coin and calculation. <<set $chp3_stavrick_outcome to "brutalbastard">> [[Whether he lives or dies doesn't matter now.|chp3_auction_gant]]

The noise hits you first. Not the drawn-out roar of a back-and-forth brawl, but the sharp, shocked crest that comes when something ends before anyone was ready for it. Your pulse is still spiking, but the air in your lungs feels clean, untouched by the grind that should have followed. Behind you, Stavrick is already being helped upright by the handlers, his big frame swaying as though his feet aren’t entirely sure where the ground is. One of them keeps a hand braced at his back, murmuring to him, while the other checks the cut at his temple. His eyes find you after a moment; not quite focused, but sharpened enough to know and recognize who put him there. Some in the stands are still blinking, murmuring to their neighbors, trying to confirm what they just saw. Others lean forward, eyes narrowing as if replaying the moment in their minds. In one section, the young heiress in crimson silk watches you with a thoughtful stillness that feels heavier than any applause. A ripple of silver laughter from another balcony draws your gaze to Livia, her courtesans crowded close as she murmurs something you can’t hear, her eyes fixed on you the whole time. You’re led back toward the line, the handlers keeping their pace tight but not rushing. A few heads still follow your movement, voices drifting down like half-caught rumors. There’s a knowing weight in some of those stares, as if they’ve just seen something rare, and they’re watching to see if you can do it again. <<if $chp3_stavrick_mood is "bastard">> Stavrick’s look as you pass is clouded with humiliation, the kind that sinks deep and curdles. He doesn’t speak, but you can feel the promise in it — this isn’t over. <<elseif $chp3_stavrick_mood is "cowboy">> Stavrick steadies himself, jaw tight, his expression unreadable. He follows you with his eyes until you’re lost in the line, as if trying to decide what to make of you. Neither of you might've expected this outcome. But here you are, all the same. <<elseif $chp3_stavrick_mood is "knight">> Stavrick manages a small, begrudging nod, dazed but not bitter; a fighter’s courtesy, given freely despite the subtle sting of an unexpectedly harsh defeat. You both exchanged in this scuffle on your own terms, and today, you happened to come out on top in stunningly quick fashion. But for now? You're trying to not let the victory go to your head. <</if>> The handlers close ranks, guiding the line of fighters toward the far side of the yard. Beyond the dust and the hum of voices, the stone flank of the colosseum looms, its shadow spilling over a courtyard where the auction block waits beneath a gaudy canopy. The air changes with each step, less the heat of the fight, and more the cool, appraising weight of coin and calculation. Every eye on you now belongs to a buyer. <<set $chp3_stavrick_outcome to "earlyKO">> [[You have a feeling that your price just went up...|chp3_auction_gant]]

The roar from the stands is heavier now; deep, layered, the kind of noise only wrung from a fight hard-earned. Your lungs haul in air like you’ve been breathing fire, each inhale sharp and heavy. Sweat runs into your eyes, blurring the edges of the scene. You don’t need clarity to know what lies at your feet. Stavrick lay sprawled in the dirt, broad chest lifting in uneven pulls, a thin line of blood tracing down from his mouth into the dust. The handlers close in, one waving for a healer while another tests his jaw with careful fingers. It’s over, but every inch of you knows what it cost. The ache in your arms, the ringing in your ears, and the slow throb in your ribs. As you’re guided back toward the line, the stands feel closer than they did before, faces leaning forward to get a better look. Voices trade your name between them, some raw with approval while others slip low and calculating. Novia meets your gaze with the quiet weight of someone taking your measure and intent. From her corner, Livia watches with her courtesans pressed in close, her expression unreadable but fixed on you. Even Alesia’s lips are curved into the faintest hint of a smile as you pass. <<if $chp3_stavrick_mood is "bastard">> Stavrick’s eyes, hazed but still burning, cling to you as you pass. He stirs, humiliation riding the bruises on his face. This isn’t the end for him, nor for you. Maybe it wasn't wise to pick a fight with a man with nothing left to lose. But hell, for you? It was worth it. <<elseif $chp3_stavrick_mood is "cowboy">> Stavrick watches you through the muddle of pain and exhaustion, his stare steady and unreadable even as the handlers keep him down. A man being sentenced to a lifetime in the sands and muck of the colosseum has nothing better to do than hold grudges. Was this a smart move? You can't be sure. For now, it has paid off. <<elseif $chp3_stavrick_mood is "knight">> Stavrick manages the smallest nod from where he lies, a fighter’s courtesy that carries no bitterness, only acknowledgment. You both engaged in this scuffle on your own terms, and you got the better of him. Neither of you might've expected it to end up this way, but it did. You temper your ego. There are many more fights to come, and you don't want to let yourself get carried away with the rush of a single victory, even if there was some satisfaction in it. <</if>> The handlers close ranks, guiding the battered line toward the far side of the yard. Beyond the dust and the hum of lowered voices, the colosseum’s stone flank looms, its shadow spilling long over a courtyard where the auction block waits beneath a gaudy canopy. The air cools with each step as the heat of fists and battered bodies fade. What follows next will be counted by coin, not blows exchanged. <<set $chp3_stavrick_outcome to "ko">> [[You have a feeling that your price just went up...|chp3_auction_gant]]

The handlers step in before either of you can commit to one last exchange. Their arms wedge between bodies slick with sweat, and the sudden separation feels jarring, like a taut cord cut mid-pull. Your chest rises and falls in sharp bursts, the air thick with dust, sweat, and the faint tang of blood-flecked spit drying at the corner of your mouth. Across the gap, Stavrick is still upright, shoulders rolling as he breathes through his nose. Sweat cuts narrow lines through the grime on his face, catching in the swollen edges of one eye. He stares back at you for a long beat. There’s no triumph in his gaze, but no surrender either. Only that grudging acknowledgment between two men who pushed and found the other still standing. The crowd hums with approval, but it’s the subdued murmur of those who’ve seen a fight, not a finish. Fragments drift down from the stands, ''“Tough, mean bastards, them,”'' someone mutters. ''“Wonder what that was about.”'' A few heads follow you as you’re herded away, but most are already leaning forward for the next pairing in the dust. It wasn’t a victory, but it wasn’t a loss - just another mark on the day’s tally. <<if $chp3_stavrick_mood is "bastard">> Stavrick’s eyes cling to you as you pass, a low heat behind the swelling, perhaps humiliation, but also a promise that this might not be over. You can't help but wonder whether it was wise to pick a scrap with a man with nothing left to lose. But hell, who are you kidding? It was worth the rush of blood regardless. <<elseif $chp3_stavrick_mood is "cowboy">> Stavrick watches you with guarded appraisal, the weight of his stare suggesting he’s still deciding whether you’re worth remembering. For a man who's been in countless scraps, you'd put it down to a coin flip whether he holds a grudge. Granted, it's not like a man condemned to a life in the sands and muck of the colosseum has much better to do than plot his eventual revenge... <<elseif $chp3_stavrick_mood is "knight">> Stavrick gives a short, measured nod, the kind shared by men who’ve played their parts and walked away intact. Perhaps this is the best outcome that you could've hoped for. You both put on a show, on your own terms, and parted without any bad blood. Alesia got her show, and she won't be able to hold anything over you. At least, that's the hope. <</if>> The handlers close ranks, steering the fighters toward the far side of the yard. Beyond the fading noise, the stone flank of the colosseum looms, its shadow spilling across a courtyard where the auction block waits beneath a gaudy canopy. The air changes with each step, less the heat of the fight, and more the cool, appraising weight of coin and calculation. Conversations above turn low and deliberate. Every eye on you now belongs to a buyer. <<set $chp3_stavrick_outcome to "neutral">> [[You wonder what sort of impact this may have on the auction...|chp3_auction_gant]]

The handlers wedge in before Stavrick can land another blow, but the damage is done. Pain blooms in every corner of your body: ribs battered and screaming with each breath, one eye swelling shut until the world is lopsided and blurred, jaw throbbing with the dull reminder of the hook that nearly put you down for good. Your legs barely obey when they shove you upright, staggering more than you stand, the taste of copper painted thick. Stavrick lingers a step away, chest heaving, blood streaking down one meaty forearm, but he is steadier, dominant. He doesn’t need to gloat, silence carrying the weight of it. He broke you down, blow by blow, and everyone in the yard knows it. The crowd does too, their voices swelling in his name, yours drowned beneath the noise like dust in a storm. It's starting to make sense, how quickly one can rise one day and fall the next. The handlers drag you back toward the line without ceremony. Each step is agony, ribs protesting, every muscle twitching with raw ache. Sweat and blood cake together on your skin, dust clinging until you feel more like carrion than champion. You don’t walk so much as stumble, shoulders rounded, head heavy, vision tunneling as the yard blurs around you. The auctioneer’s block looms in your mind, knowing that you’ll mount it broken. <<if $chp3_stavrick_mood is "bastard">> Stavrick’s gaze hooks into you as you pass, cruel satisfaction plain in his bruised face. His eyes burn with ugly triumph, feeding off your humiliation. It’s not enough that he beat you down; he wants you to carry the mark of this loss with you, to feel it every time you breathe. You want to spit, to snarl, to promise him blood, but all you manage is a glare through the slit of your swollen eye. He’s taken this go, and he knows it. <<elseif $chp3_stavrick_mood is "cowboy">> Stavrick watches you go in silence, his expression flat but his gaze heavy as a weight on your back. He doesn’t gloat, doesn’t sneer, yet the quiet certainty in his eyes is worse. He’s seen you break, and he’s marked you for it. Not hatred, not respect, just the cold measure of a man who knows the next time might be the last. You feel it in your gut: you’ll meet him again, and you’ll both remember that he's already bested you once. <<elseif $chp3_stavrick_mood is "knight">> Stavrick meets your eyes, battered face still grim, and for the briefest instant he inclines his head — the smallest nod. There’s respect there, but it is the respect given to the fallen, not the victor. You fought, you endured, and you were found wanting. The acknowledgement does not lessen the sting; if anything, it sharpens it, because you know he’ll carry himself forward on the strength of this win while you limp into chains. Still, part of you clings to that recognition: a reminder that defeat does not erase the fight itself. <</if>> The handlers close ranks, driving the battered line of fighters toward the far side of the yard. Beyond the dust and the ringing in your ears, the stone flank of the colosseum looms, its shadow spilling across a courtyard where the auction block waits beneath a gaudy canopy. The air changes with each step — less the heat of the fight, more the cool, sharp weight of coin and calculation. Voices in the stands turn low, deliberate. Every eye on you now belongs to a buyer. <<set $chp3_stavrick_outcome to "negative">> [[You'll carry this with you.|chp3_auction_gant]]

The handlers push in between you, dust swirling in the narrow space they create. You’re breathing hard, sweat stinging your eyes, but you can still feel the sharpness in your limbs. The fight’s heat hasn’t burned all the way out of you yet. Stavrick straightens slowly, one eye swollen to a slit, his split lip weeping fresh blood. His chest rises and falls in jagged pulls, and though he doesn’t speak, there’s weight in the way he looks at you. He knows it, the crowd knows it - you took the better of him. As you’re moved back into the line, the hum from the stands follows. It’s not wild applause, but it’s steady and certain, threaded with the tone of a wager well-earned. Someone leans over the rail and mutters, ''“He’s got teeth, that one.”'' You catch the flicker of more than one noble gaze lingering on you before turning away. Stavrick stays at the edge of your vision, dabbing blood from his lip. <<if $chp3_stavrick_mood is "bastard">>\ Stavrick’s glare clings to you as you pass, a raw thread of humiliation under the swelling on his face. It’s not the end of it; not for him, and not for you. You can feel the promise of retalation from a man without much to lose. Was the fight worth it? Right now, fuck yeah. In a week? You'll find out then. <<elseif $chp3_stavrick_mood is "cowboy">>\ Stavrick watches you go with a cautious, unreadable look, measuring you even as he works his jaw against the swelling. Maybe he'll hold a grudge, maybe not. Your hopes aren't very high. There's not much better for a man to do, condemned to the sands and muck of the colosseum, than plot his eventual revenge. You'll hold onto that thought, and stick it into your back pocket. <<elseif $chp3_stavrick_mood is "knight">>\ Stavrick gives a short, grudging nod; silent admission that you both played your parts and left the crowd satisfied. The scrap was engaged in willingly, both on your own terms, and you came out the better fighter in the end. Did you expect the victory? Not especially, but you have to admit you feel a hint of satisfaction in the end. You try not to dwell on the swell of pride in your hard-fought victory. There will be many more fights to come. <</if>>\ \ The handlers close ranks, guiding the line of fighters toward the far side of the yard. Beyond the dust and noise, the stone flank of the colosseum looms, its shadow spilling over the courtyard where the auction block waits. The air changes with each step — less the heat of the fight, more the cool, sharp weight of coin and calculation. Voices in the stands turn low, deliberate. Every eye on you now belongs to a buyer. <<set $chp3_stavrick_outcome to "victory">> [[You wonder if this'll affect the auction, for better or for worse.|chp3_auction_gant]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp3_auction_gant.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> The air in the courtyard feels thin beneath the grey-violet haze of the sky. Faint sunlight diffuses through it, a pale disc pressing down without warmth, and every breath tastes faintly of stone dust. Between the tilting silhouettes of half-toppled towers, you catch brief flashes of the crater’s rim; a jagged, black line that cuts the horizon before vanishing again behind the dark-stone mass of the colosseum, curved flank looking everything and casting a broad shadow across the auction grounds. The block itself rises like a small fortress of wood at the center, a canopy of red and gold silk snapping softly in the breeze. That moving fabric turns the light below into molten color, staining the stone and the dust alike. Tiered stands ring the block on three sides, heavy with nobles and well-fed gentry in silken linen, fans flicking slow as lizard tongues. Here and there, a figure breaks the pattern: a Legionnaire steward in a polished cuirass with arms folded, a lean beast handler with a rust-flecked pig-iron collar swinging from his belt, a trader in layered blue silks, all of them watching the procession. The murmurs quiet as the handlers call the first of your little group forward. ''“Lot Thirty.”'' Gant steps out of the line like a man answering to his own name at a tavern table, loose-shouldered, his boots pressing shallow prints into the sand. The sunlight picks out the pale lines of old scars on his legs and long arms as he ascends the wooden stairs. ''“Human male, Third Quarter.”'' the auctioneer recites in a voice honed for this space. ''“Proven in one arena bout. Rangy frame, condition sound; healed scars, unruly temperament.”'' Those last word draws a ripple of dry laughter from the side tiers. ''“Noted for his charm, too,”'' he says, grinning as if the whole block is in on the joke. The auctioneer ignores him, giving him a slow turn with a push at the shoulder so the tiers can weigh his frame and scars for themselves. The steward leans forward, murmuring to an aide; the beast handler tilts his head, appraising like he would a hound. When the turn is done, Gant strides to the far end of the block and plants himself like a man settling into his favorite corner; arms folded, weight on one leg, scanning the stands with the ease of someone who’s been stared at before. His gaze flicks to you, a quick, toothy smirk passing between you before he turns back to the tiered stands. The handlers shift their attention down the line. You wonder who's up next. [[But not for long.|chp3_auction_khalika]] <<bgm "no-love" 0.6 9>>

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp3_auction_khalika.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> The handlers’ call cuts through the murmur of the tiers. ''“Lot Thirty-One.”'' Khalika moves forward without hurry, her steps even and unbroken, the faint sway of her hips measured rather than meant to tempt. The sunlight under the canopy catches the deep green of her skin, the sharp planes of her cheekbones, the smooth flow of glossy dark hair that frames her angular features. Her amber eyes sweep the tiers just once, not hunting for anyone in particular, but marking the crowd with an uncanny calmness. ''“Half-ork female,”'' the auctioneer intones, his voice carrying the faint shift of someone announcing rarer stock. ''“Excellent condition, strong frame, all teeth sound and no infirmness. Combat experience and conditioning has been noted.”'' There’s a slight stir among the stands at half-ork. Even the fans pause in mid-motion. The beast handler leans forward on his knees. A narrow-faced noblewoman in jade-green silk tilts her head with feline curiosity. From somewhere in the higher tiers, a dry male voice carries just enough to be heard: ''“Not often we see them in such preservation.”'' Khalika doesn’t react. The auctioneer turns her with a light touch at the shoulder, letting the tiers see the breadth of her back, the long muscle in her legs. The scribe’s quill scratches steadily, each detail added to the ledger without pause. You watch her move to stand beside your other companion at the far end of the block. The contrast between them is almost absurd; Gant leaning loose, scanning faces for mischief, while Khalika holds herself with the unbent grace of someone who knows her value. For a moment, her eyes slide to yours. No wink, no smirk-- just the faint narrowing that says she sees you here, in the same line, and she’s already weighing what that means. The handlers’ gaze shifts past her to the next name on their slate. [[Time pulses slowly beneath the weight of the crowd.|chp3_auction_stavrick]]

<<if $chp3_stavrick_outcome === "brutalbastard">>\ ''“Lot Thirty-Two.”'' The words carry over the block, but no one moves forward from the line. A murmur ripples through the stands. The auctioneer’s gaze flicks toward the handlers below, his sharp cadence faltering for the first time since the proceedings began. One of the guards leans up to the canopy, speaking low enough that the crowd can’t hear, just the hesitation enough to already feed speculation. The auctioneer clears his throat, forcing composure back into his voice. ''“Lot Thirty-Two will not be presented. Circumstances… prevent display.”'' The fans in the tiers slow or stop altogether. From somewhere in the higher seats, a woman’s voice cuts the quiet — sly, amused: ''“Shame. I was curious to see the wreckage.”'' A few scattered laughs follow, but they’re brittle, carrying the faint edge of people who’ve already guessed why he’s absent. Eyes turn toward you. Not all of them, but enough that you feel the weight; lingering stares, quick appraisals, whispered words behind painted fans. Whatever their politics, they all understand //why// and //how// he was removed from the block. From her shaded corner, Countess Alesia Cosmas hasn’t bothered to hide her attention. One gloved hand props her chin as she studies you, the faintest ghost of a smile curling her mouth. The guards nearby give you a wider berth than before, though one keeps his hand resting on the haft of his baton as if expecting the show to start again at any moment. The auctioneer clears his throat again, sharper this time, and gestures for the next lot to step forward. <<elseif $chp3_stavrick_outcome is "earlyKO" or $chp3_stavrick_outcome is "ko" or $chp3_stavrick_outcome is "victory">>\ ''“Lot Thirty-Two.”'' Stavrick steps from the line without hesitation, but there’s a stiffness in his gait and a faint hesitation in the way he sets his jaw. The bruise at his temple has gone from flushed red to the dusky purple of a ripening fig. A thin line of dried blood marks the corner of his mouth, and the left side of his jaw is faintly swollen from the impact of your fists. The auctioneer delivers the facts with practiced crispness. ''“Human male. Legion veteran, eight years’ service. Sound condition. Recent bout in the sands, no lasting injury. Proven combat record inside and outside of the arena.”'' “Recent bout” earns a few dry chuckles from the side tiers, as if the buyers know exactly who that bout was against. A young nobleman in silver-trimmed black murmurs to his companion, eyes flicking toward you in the line and lingering. The handlers turn Stavrick slowly for the crowd. His size still draws its own gravity; thick shoulders, long arms, the posture of a man who’s spent most of his life holding a shield or swinging swords. But the scuffs and bruises from your fight tell their own story, and the murmurs in the stands carry that edge of appreciation reserved for unexpected outcomes. Stavrick doesn’t meet your eye until he’s moving toward his place on the block. When he does, it’s brief; an unspoken acknowledgment, neither friendly nor hostile, as if he’s filing your name away with the others who’ve tested him and managed to live. The auctioneer shifts his attention down the line. The handlers are already moving to call the next lot. <<elseif $chp3_stavrick_outcome is "neutral">>\ ''“Lot Thirty-Two.”'' Stavrick moves forward with the same steadiness he carried into the fight, though now there’s a smear of dried blood at the corner of his mouth, and a welt rising just below his left eye. His chest rises and falls a little faster than usual, but his step is even, his posture unbowed. The auctioneer’s voice rolls out over the block, smooth and certain. ''“Human male. Legion veteran, eight years’ service. Sound condition, recently tested in the sands. No infirmity.”'' That recently tested draws a few sidelong glances in your direction, but the reaction is more curious than impressed. It was a bout without a victor, and the buyers read it that way. A woman in the upper tiers leans toward her companion, gesturing faintly between you and Stavrick as if appraising two horses from the same stable. The handlers turn him for inspection, and the murmurs continue, not sharp with excitement, but laced with the tone of gamblers already wondering how the rematch would go. The Legion steward in the stands tips his chin toward the block, lips moving in a short, private comment to the man at his side. As Stavrick takes his place beside Khalika and Gant, his eyes flick briefly toward you. The look isn’t hostile, nor is it friendly-- just a flat, measuring glance, the same one you gave him when you first stepped into the line. The auctioneer adjusts his ledger and raises his voice again, ready to call the next lot. <<elseif $chp3_stavrick_outcome is "negative">>\ ''“Lot Thirty-Two.”'' Stavrick strides out from the line like a man stepping onto familiar ground. The set of his shoulders is easy, his chin lifted just enough to make his size and bearing more obvious. His skin gleams with a light sheen of sweat under the muted sun, but there’s no slump. The auctioneer’s voice sharpens with energy as he delivers the particulars: ''“Human male. Legion veteran, eight years’ service. Excellent condition. Thoroughly combat-tested inside and outside the sands. Currently undefeated and recently tested!"'' As though on cue, a few heads turn toward you in the line, their gazes lingering on the fresh bruises along your jaw, the stiffness in your neck, the faint hitch in your breath. A nobleman in the middle tiers leans forward with a faint smile, murmuring to his companion. The words don’t carry, but you can guess their gist well enough. The handlers turn Stavrick slowly for the crowd. Even the casual buyers seem to take note of the way he moves with contained power, the absence of visible damage, the confidence in his stillness. His eyes skim past you once, just long enough to register the contrast between you. If there’s any satisfaction in that look, it’s kept tightly leashed. He steps to his place beside Khalika and Gant, folding his arms loosely over his chest, his attention shifting back to the tiers above. The auctioneer flips to the next line... <<else>>\ ''“Lot Thirty-Two.”'' Stavrick answers the call without pause, his steps measured and unhurried as he leaves the line. The canopy light catches the cropped sweep of his hair, the weathered lines around his eyes, the solid set of his frame. He stands square on the block, posture straight, the air of a man long accustomed to scrutiny. The auctioneer delivers his assessment in clean, ringing tones. ''“Human male. Legion veteran, eight years’ service. Excellent condition: sound of limb, trained to discipline and thoroughly combat-tested inside and outside the arena.”'' The murmurs in the tiers have the weight of quiet approval. Buyers lean forward to take in the breadth of his shoulders, the corded muscle along his formidable forearms. A Legion steward in the upper section studies him with the narrowed eyes of someone measuring an old warhorse for one more campaign. A woman in pale silk traces the rim of her goblet, gaze fixed on the line of his tensed jawline. The handlers turn him slowly, giving each section of the crowd its view. His expression never changes, maintaining the calm certainty in his own bearing. The scribe scratches a steady rhythm into the ledger, capturing each note the auctioneer dictates. When his circuit is complete, Stavrick moves to his place beside Khalika and Gant, folding his hands loosely behind his back. His gaze lifts to the tiers again, patient and unblinking. Finally, the auctioneer calls for the next lot. <</if>>\ [[It's your turn to take the block.|chp3_auction_you]]

The handlers call your lot number, and the line parts. You climb the crooked staircase like those that came before, exposing yourself to the eyes above. The block is higher than you expected; bleached wood, wet and wind-slick, the colosseum’s shadow looming behind it like a sleeping beast awaiting a feast. The crowd is a living mural of wealth and appetite. Nobles and gentry lean on carved balustrades, their faces half-hidden behind jeweled fans, veils, or the glint of goblets. Every so often, their stillness ripples — a gesture toward a companion, a murmur traded beneath the drone of the auctioneer’s voice. The richer seats are shaded under canopies, silk banners trembling faintly in the high breeze blowing in from far above. From here, you can see them all more clearly. Countess Alesia Cosmas reclines in her corner like she owns the sand beneath your feet, her eyes bright with amusement and something sharper. Duchess Livia is surrounded by her courtesans, an island of perfume and silk in the gold light, every movement measured for maximum attention. The Young Heiress sits straighter than most twice her age, an almost scholar’s focus in the way she watches the block. And Lady Sibylla, quiet and still, lets her gaze pass over you with the calm detachment of someone weighing far-off consequences. The auctioneer’s voice pulls you back to the moment. ''“Human male. Sound condition by all measures, fit for the games of Crathal. Combat experience noted after a single match proving his mettle in the arena sands."'' The handlers turn you for the tiers, the crowd’s eyes sweeping over you like a tide. This is the moment when you choose how they'll remember you before the gavel strikes. [[Flash a wry smile and meet their scrutiny on your own terms.|chp3_auction_present_wry]] <<ci cowboy archetype>> [[Give them the spectacle they came to see.|chp3_auction_present_bold]] <<ci bastard archetype>> [[Stand calm and proud beneath their scrutiny.|chp3_auction_present_calm]] <<ci knight archetype>> [[Search the watching faces for someone familiar.|chp3_auction_present_gaze]] <<ci dialogue>>

<<script>> (() => { /* ============================================================ FAVOR ENGINE v2 — GLADIATOR AUCTION ============================================================ Core rule: Exploration is free. Conduct, performance, relationships, closing choice, and final presentation are scored. This utility exposes four public functions: resetFavor() applyAllFavor() resolveAuctionPresentationTarget() resolveAuctionWinner() ============================================================ */ /* ------------------------------------------------------------ HELPERS ------------------------------------------------------------ */ const addFavor = (V, deltas) => { if (!deltas) return; V.favor_livia += deltas.livia || 0; V.favor_alesia += deltas.alesia || 0; V.favor_sibylla += deltas.sibylla || 0; V.favor_novia += deltas.novia || 0; }; const clamp = (value, min, max) => { const n = Number(value) || 0; return Math.max(min, Math.min(max, n)); }; const winnerLabel = buyer => { switch (buyer) { case "livia": return "Livia"; case "alesia": return "Alesia"; case "sibylla": return "Sibylla"; case "novia": return "Novia"; default: return "Livia"; } }; /* ------------------------------------------------------------ 1. STAVRICK FIGHT OUTCOME ------------------------------------------------------------ */ const FIGHT = { negative: { livia: -1, alesia: -1 }, neutral: {}, victory: { livia: +1, alesia: +1 }, ko: { livia: +1, alesia: +1 }, earlyKO: { livia: +2, alesia: +1 }, brutalbastard: { alesia: +2, sibylla: -1, novia: -1 }, nofight: {} }; /* ------------------------------------------------------------ 2. PRIVATE AUDIENCE EXPOSURE ------------------------------------------------------------ $chp3_privateaudience_dik: 0 = restrained 1 = partial exposure 2 = full / brazen exposure ------------------------------------------------------------ */ const EXPOSURE = { 0: { sibylla: +2, novia: +2 }, 1: { livia: +1, alesia: +1 }, 2: { livia: +1, alesia: +2, sibylla: -1, novia: -1 } }; /* ------------------------------------------------------------ 3. SIBYLLA RELATIONSHIP ------------------------------------------------------------ Uses canonical $pa_sibylla_offer. $pa_sibylla_approach remains narrative state only. ------------------------------------------------------------ */ const SIBYLLA_OFFER = { pragmatic: { sibylla: +1 }, ambitious: { sibylla: +1 }, oath: { sibylla: +2 } }; /* ------------------------------------------------------------ 4. NOVIA RELATIONSHIP ------------------------------------------------------------ Uses canonical $pa_novia_impression. ------------------------------------------------------------ */ const NOVIA_IMPRESSION = { strong: { novia: +2 }, positive: { novia: +1 }, mixed: {}, poor: { novia: -1 } }; /* ------------------------------------------------------------ 5. BANQUET CLOSER ------------------------------------------------------------ IMPORTANT: Closing choice contributes Favor here, but DOES NOT receive any additional priority during tie resolution. ------------------------------------------------------------ */ const CLOSING = { raven: { livia: +1, alesia: +1 }, gant: { sibylla: +1 }, khalika: { novia: +1 } }; /* ------------------------------------------------------------ 6. DIRECT AUCTION PRESENTATIONS ------------------------------------------------------------ wry -> Cowboy-coded -> Livia bold -> Bastard-coded -> Alesia calm -> Knight-coded -> Sibylla search -> conditional target Archetype gains happen in the presentation passages. ------------------------------------------------------------ */ const PRESENTATION = { wry: { livia: +1 }, bold: { alesia: +1 }, calm: { sibylla: +1 } }; const PRESENTATION_TARGET = { wry: "livia", bold: "alesia", calm: "sibylla" }; /* ------------------------------------------------------------ 7. SEARCH-THE-FACES PRESENTATION ------------------------------------------------------------ Conditional priority: 1. Novia: strong / positive impression 2. Sibylla: oath 3. Alesia: brutalbastard / earlyKO / ko / victory 4. Livia: default central figure ------------------------------------------------------------ */ const SEARCH_FAVOR = { livia: { livia: +1 }, alesia: { alesia: +1 }, sibylla: { sibylla: +1 }, novia: { novia: +1 } }; const resolveAuctionPresentationTarget = () => { const V = State.variables; /* Genuine connection with Novia takes first priority. */ if ( V.pa_novia_impression === "strong" || V.pa_novia_impression === "positive" ) { return "novia"; } /* Sibylla's oath is the next strongest personal claim. */ if (V.pa_sibylla_offer === "oath") { return "sibylla"; } /* A memorable Stavrick result draws Alesia's attention. */ if ( V.chp3_stavrick_outcome === "brutalbastard" || V.chp3_stavrick_outcome === "earlyKO" || V.chp3_stavrick_outcome === "ko" || V.chp3_stavrick_outcome === "victory" ) { return "alesia"; } /* Otherwise his attention returns to Livia. */ return "livia"; }; window.resolveAuctionPresentationTarget = resolveAuctionPresentationTarget; /* ------------------------------------------------------------ RESET FAVOR ------------------------------------------------------------ */ const resetFavor = () => { const V = State.variables; V.favor_livia = 0; V.favor_alesia = 0; V.favor_sibylla = 0; V.favor_novia = 0; V.highestFavor = 0; V.auction_winner = "None"; }; window.resetFavor = resetFavor; /* ------------------------------------------------------------ APPLY ALL FAVOR ------------------------------------------------------------ */ const applyAllFavor = () => { const V = State.variables; resetFavor(); /* ---------- Fight ---------- */ addFavor( V, FIGHT[V.chp3_stavrick_outcome] ); /* ---------- Exposure ---------- */ const exposure = Number(V.chp3_privateaudience_dik); if ( exposure === 0 || exposure === 1 || exposure === 2 ) { addFavor( V, EXPOSURE[exposure] ); } /* ---------- Sibylla ---------- */ addFavor( V, SIBYLLA_OFFER[V.pa_sibylla_offer] ); /* ---------- Novia ---------- */ addFavor( V, NOVIA_IMPRESSION[V.pa_novia_impression] ); /* ---------- Closing Choice ---------- */ if ( V.pa_map && V.pa_map.closing ) { addFavor( V, CLOSING[V.pa_map.closing] ); } /* ---------- Auction Presentation ---------- */ if (V.auction_presentation === "search") { const target = resolveAuctionPresentationTarget(); V.auction_presentation_target = target; addFavor( V, SEARCH_FAVOR[target] ); } else { const target = PRESENTATION_TARGET[V.auction_presentation] || ""; V.auction_presentation_target = target; addFavor( V, PRESENTATION[V.auction_presentation] ); } /* ---------- Clamp ---------- */ V.favor_livia = clamp(V.favor_livia, -3, 9); V.favor_alesia = clamp(V.favor_alesia, -3, 9); V.favor_sibylla = clamp(V.favor_sibylla, -3, 9); V.favor_novia = clamp(V.favor_novia, -3, 9); /* ---------- Highest Raw Favor ---------- */ V.highestFavor = Math.max( V.favor_livia, V.favor_alesia, V.favor_sibylla, V.favor_novia ); }; window.applyAllFavor = applyAllFavor; /* ------------------------------------------------------------ 8. AUCTION WINNER / TIEBREAK RESOLUTION ------------------------------------------------------------ RULES: A. If exactly one buyer has the highest Favor: she wins immediately. B. If two or more buyers tie: 1. Presentation target, if she is among the tied leaders. 2. Novia strong/positive impression, if Novia is tied. 3. Sibylla oath, if Sibylla is tied. 4. Alesia memorable Stavrick result, if Alesia is tied. 5. Otherwise Livia becomes the default purchaser. Closing choice has NO direct tiebreak priority. Note: The final Livia fallback is intentionally structural. If a genuine high-score tie survives every specialist signal, Livia can become the purchaser even when she was not herself one of the tied leaders. This represents her role as the central/default institutional buyer rather than a hidden extra Favor point. ------------------------------------------------------------ */ const resolveAuctionWinner = () => { const V = State.variables; const scores = { livia: Number(V.favor_livia) || 0, alesia: Number(V.favor_alesia) || 0, sibylla: Number(V.favor_sibylla) || 0, novia: Number(V.favor_novia) || 0 }; const highest = Math.max( scores.livia, scores.alesia, scores.sibylla, scores.novia ); V.highestFavor = highest; const tied = Object.keys(scores).filter( buyer => scores[buyer] === highest ); const setWinner = buyer => { V.auction_winner = winnerLabel(buyer); return V.auction_winner; }; /* ---------- Unique Highest ---------- */ if (tied.length === 1) { return setWinner(tied[0]); } /* ---------- Tiebreak 1: Presentation Target ---------- */ if ( V.auction_presentation_target && tied.includes(V.auction_presentation_target) ) { return setWinner( V.auction_presentation_target ); } /* ---------- Tiebreak 2: Novia Relationship ---------- */ if ( tied.includes("novia") && ( V.pa_novia_impression === "strong" || V.pa_novia_impression === "positive" ) ) { return setWinner("novia"); } /* ---------- Tiebreak 3: Sibylla Oath ---------- */ if ( tied.includes("sibylla") && V.pa_sibylla_offer === "oath" ) { return setWinner("sibylla"); } /* ---------- Tiebreak 4: Alesia / Stavrick ---------- */ if ( tied.includes("alesia") && ( V.chp3_stavrick_outcome === "brutalbastard" || V.chp3_stavrick_outcome === "earlyKO" || V.chp3_stavrick_outcome === "ko" || V.chp3_stavrick_outcome === "victory" ) ) { return setWinner("alesia"); } /* ---------- Final Default: Livia ---------- */ return setWinner("livia"); }; window.resolveAuctionWinner = resolveAuctionWinner; })(); <</script>>

<<set $auction_presentation = "calm">>\ <<set $auction_presentation_target = "sibylla">>\ <<gainKnight>>\ The old boards shift beneath your feet when the handler releases your arm. You straighten anyway. Heels planted, back tall, shoulders square without exaggeration, hands resting loose at your sides. Around you the tiers rise in rings of silk, painted faces and expensive indifference: merchants inspecting a prospective investment, nobles indulging their curiosity, soldiers watching another fighter pass through the machinery that feeds their games. You don't give them a show, indifferent now to the block beneath you. At this point, your influence doesn't extend to the auctioneer reciting your virtues as though they belonged to him, or the chains, the numerous prices whispered behind jeweled hands, or the strangers imagining what use they might make of you. Those things have already been decided by people with more power than you possess. There remains one small territory they haven't taken unless you opt to surrender it willingly: the manner in which you stand before them. So you draw a slow breath, lift your chin, and meet the tiers as a man rather than merchandise. At first, some of them seem almost disappointed. A few murmurs drift from the cheaper benches; somebody laughs, expecting perhaps that stillness means fear. You let the sound die unanswered. The seconds lengthen, your composure refusing to crack for them, and gradually the humor bleeds out of the crowd. A soldier near the rail folds his arms and watches more carefully. An elderly gentryman lowers his goblet. One of the scribes pauses with his stylus hovering over the tablet. There's nothing spectacular about what you're doing, which is precisely why they begin to notice it in place of spectacle. You look across them without challenge and without submission. There's anger in you, certainly. Fear too, somewhere beneath the ribs. You simply refuse to let either one decide what they see. If tomorrow brings another arena, you will meet it when it comes. If a master waits at the end of this bidding, then you'll judge that master by what they ask of you and decide, each day thereafter, what kind of man you intend to remain. The crowd may purchase your labor, your blood, even the right to command where you sleep. They don't purchase the right to tell you what any of it means. Lady Sibylla has noticed. Amid the shifting spectators she seems almost unnaturally still, her attention fixed on you with none of Alesia's amusement or Livia's cool arithmetic. <<if $pa_sibylla_offer is "oath">>For a moment, you remember the promise made between you hours before, and something subtle changes in her expression when your eyes meet, as though she recognizes the same answer now being given without words. An oath means little when keeping it is easy. Perhaps this is the first proof that you understood that.<<else>>Her expression gives little away. In an arena built around appetite, the refusal to perform for appetite seems to interest her more than any spectacle possibly could. <</if>> \ You hold her gaze for a heartbeat, then turn your eyes back toward the auctioneer and wait for whatever comes next, as calm and stoic as ever beneath their many searching eyes. [[You'll know soon enough what they think of you.|chp3_auction_theauction]]

<<set $auction_presentation = "bold">>\ <<set $auction_presentation_target = "alesia">>\ <<gainBastard>>\ The block groans beneath you as you plant your feet wider apart. Fine. If they want to look, you’ll give them something worth staring at. You roll your shoulders back until your chest opens beneath the light, flex your arms slowly at your sides, then turn just enough to let the tiers take in the breadth of you from another angle. No shrinking. No modesty. No attempt to pretend this is anything other than what it is: a room full of rich bastards deciding how badly they want to own the dangerous thing standing in front of them. A few voices rise immediately. Laughter first, then whistles and the lower murmur of fresh wagers passing between benches. Someone among the gentry calls something you can’t quite make out, and a cluster of soldiers behind one of the noble boxes break into grins. You give them your teeth in answer, something meaner than a grin. Your jaw sets, lips peeling back just enough to make the expression look more like a threat that happens to be enjoying itself. The handlers beside the block glance toward you, uncertain whether they ought to correct the display or let the price climb with the unadultered show. <<if $chp3_privateaudience_dik is 0>>\ Earlier, when they tried to make a show of you, you gave them as little as you could. This is different. This time nobody has ordered you to perform. This time you choose exactly what they get to see, and that choice turns humiliation into something sharper. <</if>>\ \ You drag one hand slowly across the hard line of your abdomen, then curl it into a fist and flex again, shamelessly feeding the reaction. Let them admire the shoulders or imagine the violence in your arms. They'll decide whether they want the risk badly enough to pay for it. If they came here to purchase blind obedience, they can choke on disappointment. <<if $chp3_stavrick_outcome is "brutalbastard">>\ And some of them already know the performance isn't an empty display. They saw what happened when your restraint ran out against Stavrick. The memory moves through the tiers with you, darkening the excitement into something hungrier. Alesia remembers most of all. Her posture changes the instant your eyes find her; chin lifting, smile widening by slow degrees, as though she'd been waiting to see whether you would make them all remember the blood and violence. <<elseif $chp3_stavrick_outcome is "earlyKO">>\ The flexing might have looked like theater if half the room hadn't already watched you put Stavrick down almost before the fight had properly begun. That memory lends every movement credibility. You don't need to convince them that the body on the block is dangerous. You only need to remind them what it's capable of. <<elseif $chp3_stavrick_outcome is "ko">>\ Plenty of them watched what those arms did to Stavrick. The sight of you tightening them now draws an answering stir through the seats, recognition passing from face to face. You let it. A threat proven once doesn't need explaining twice. <<elseif $chp3_stavrick_outcome is "victory">>\ They've already seen enough in the sands to know the confidence isn't entirely theater. That makes the grin harder to dismiss and the display harder to laugh away. <</if>>\ \ Alesia doesn't bother hiding her enjoyment. She leans forward over the rail of her box, dark eyes dragging over you with open approval, one hand resting loose against her mouth as if suppressing a laugh she has no real intention of containing. Around her, others still murmur and measure and calculate. She simply looks entertained. Interested. Perhaps even pleased that the man on the block has enough spite left in him to turn his own sale into an ongoing challenge. [[Soon, you'll know.|chp3_auction_theauction]]

<<set $auction_presentation = "wry">>\ <<set $auction_presentation_target = "livia">>\ <<gainCowboy>>\ The block gives a little beneath your weight. Old timber, rough beneath your feet, hammered together often enough that the nails have begun to shine through the grain. You glance down at it for half a heartbeat, then back toward the tiers. Hundreds of eyes wait there: jeweled nobles beneath awnings, gentry craning forward from cheaper benches, household soldiers standing behind their masters, scribes with tablets poised against their knees. All of them waiting for you to do what men on blocks are supposed to do; stiffen, shrink, glare, beg. You decide not to give them the satisfaction. Instead, you settle your weight onto one leg and let the corner of your mouth turn upward. Not quite a grin. Just enough amusement to suggest that, somehow, you have found something about this arrangement funny. Perhaps it's the auctioneer barking your virtues like a horse trader. Perhaps it's the silk-draped men pretending they aren't staring. Or maybe it's simply the absurdity of being asked to look impressive while standing half a bad step from putting your foot through the boards. Whatever they make of it, you let them wonder and watch as you take your stance, loose and relaxed. The reaction moves outward in little pieces. A merchant lowers the hand he'd been whispering behind. One of the younger noblemen laughs before catching himself. A woman in green silk leans toward her companion, fan hiding her mouth but not the interest in her eyes. They know how to price strength. They know how much coin to place on scars, teeth, shoulders, obedience. A man who can stand in the middle of his own sale and look as though he's quietly taking stock of //them// is harder to put in a ledger. So you do exactly that. You let your gaze travel without hurry, meeting a few eyes and passing over others, giving no one enough attention to mistake it for pleading. If these people mean to own some piece of your future, they can at least suffer the indignity of being measured in return. There is no point raging at the weather. Better to learn which way the wind is blowin, and which rich bastard looks most likely to pay for the privilege of standing in it with you. Near the center of the tiers, Duchess Livia has gone still. Her courtesans continue their murmured little conference around her, but she doesn't join them. She watches you over the rim of her cup with the cool, appraising interest of someone who has just noticed an extra quality omitted from the auctioneer's inventory. Strength can be trained. Beauty can be bought. But a man who keeps his head when the world has made a spectacle of him? That might actually be useful. [[You'll know what they think of you soon enough.|chp3_auction_theauction]]

The auctioneer’s voice cuts through the air, iron-raw, sharp as a whipcrack. ''“Lot Thirty — Gant!”'' When the handlers call Gant forward, he steps into the light with a rangy, lupine gait. Long-limbed, lean, hair unkempt, he carries the look of a man sharpened more by hunger than by polish. There’s something off-kilter in the grin that flickers across his face, a crooked thing that could pass for humor or threat. The stands stir with a ripple of noise, not quite mockery, but the sound given to a man they’re not sure how to price. The chant rolls on, detailing lashings endured and the stubborn fact of his survival. The laughter fades into a low, appraising hum. From the second tier, she makes her move. A noblewoman broad of frame, heavy with silks and jeweled trappings, leans forward into the light. Rings clatter against her goblet as she raises her hand, eyes fixed on him with a hunger that strips away pretense. She doesn’t glance at the handlers, nor the auctioneer. Only at him, as though already testing the weight of his shoulders, the give of his hips. The crowd catches the scent and chuckles, the laughter edged with knowing. It isn’t the cruel derision that chased him onto the block, but the laughter of wagers changing hands, of men and women recognizing a match being struck. Gant tilts his head toward her, wolfish and sly. The grin he bares isn’t polished, but it lands true enough: crooked teeth flashing, chin dipping low in acknowledgment. His long limbs hang loose, but the line of his body stiffens, aware he’s being watched. Her lips curl, nostrils flaring ever so slightly. Her bid cuts across the auctioneer’s call like a slap, firm and certain. No hesitation, no glance to rivals. Her eyes never leave him, and in them gleams the certainty of purchase and a feast soon to come. ''“Sold!”'' the gavel cracks. The handlers move him toward her box. She blows him a kiss, her smile broad and indulgent. His grin spreads despite himself, part terror, part boyish pride. He stammers something lost under the laughter of the stands, not soon to be forgotten. ''“Lot Thirty-One — Khalika!”'' The half-ork glides onto the block as though it were carved for her alone. Chin lifted, shoulders loose, she moves with an effortless, confident poise. The air around her stills; even the restless nobles hush as though afraid to break the moment. Where Gant stumbled into their laughter, Khalika bends the laughter out of them with nothing but her gaze. She is taller than most, built with the lean grace of a blade, yet the weight of her presence runs deeper than muscle. There’s a coil of defiance in every measured step, a silent dare in the dark gleam of her eyes. Some in the stands frown, but none look away. The bidding begins cautious, voices testing the waters. Then the tempo builds sharper, faster, coin promised in tight waves, the auctioneer’s chant snapping to keep pace, his eyes darting like a hawk trying to follow the frenzy. It crests toward a fever, the crowd’s appetite sharpening in the heat of her composure. And then, sudden as a knife, the hammer drops. ''“Sold!”'' But no hand is raised, no name declared. Only a steward rising in silence, note already inked, lips drawn tight as he passes it to the auctioneer. A ripple of whispers stirs through the stands, quick and uneasy. Faces turn toward one another, suspicion traded in low tones, but no answer comes. Khalika never flinches. Her expression holds steady, but her eyes tilt sidelong, dark and unreadable, as the handlers lead her away. For the first time all morning, the crowd seems less certain of itself. You find yourself wondering who has claimed her, and why they’ve chosen to hide. <<if $khalika_banquet is "bastard">> \ You watch her go with a curl of amusement tugging at your mouth. For you, she was a sharp-edged diversion. A wild night, reckless heat, the kind of danger you can taste on the skin. A part of you wonders if you’ll get to fuck her again, or if the game’s ended with her vanishing into some faceless master’s hands. <<elseif $khalika_banquet is "cowboy">> \ You feel a knot of unease as the handlers lead her away. She wasn’t just a warm body; she was like-minded, a comrade in a place that leaves most people hollow. You hope this isn’t the last you’ll see of her. In this city, a familiar face can be worth more than freedom itself. <<elseif $khalika_banquet is "knight">> \ As the handlers take her, her gaze flicks to yours. Just a heartbeat, just enough to hold. Something passes there: a promise, or a plea, or simply recognition in the dust and noise. Your chest tightens at the sight, the quiet weight of it sharper than chains. You can only hope this won’t be the last time your paths cross, and pray she won’t be broken when it does. <<else>> \ You watch her go with the same detached curiosity as the rest. A friend, a companion from the sands — nothing more, nothing less. She was fire in the dark for a time, but now she belongs to someone else, and all you can do is wonder whose hand has claimed her. <</if>> \ \ <<if $chp3_stavrick_outcome === "brutalbastard">>\ The auctioneer shuffles his ledger, frowns, and waves his hand. ''“Lot Thirty-Two… withdrawn.”'' A murmur passes through the crowd; disappointed, expectant, but the handlers quickly fill the silence. The absence is explanation enough. Stavrick is gone. <<else>>\ ''“Lot Thirty-Two — Stavrick!”'' The old legionnaire stomps up with a soldier’s pride, though bruises still mark his face and his ribs move tight under his breath. The auctioneer plays him up as a hardened fighter, a proven killer, bloodied in the sands and born to command. A dangerous-looking nobleman rises from his seat, scars down one cheek, the mark of a trainer known across the Quarters. His hand barely flicks before the bidding drops silent. ''“Sold!”'' Stavrick doesn’t even glance back as he’s led toward the gladiator’s new master. <</if>>\ \ The auctioneer clears his throat, and the murmurs hush at once. The air shifts thicker now, heavy with wine and sweat, expectation pooling like heat above the sands. He slaps the ledger shut with a crack that echoes off the stone, sharp enough to still even the whispers. ''“Lot Thirty-Three — <<print $name>>!”'' The handlers turn toward you. Their eyes rake your frame as they move, appraising as much as presenting, and the crowd leans in as one body. You feel it settle on you; every breath, every purse string, every hidden hunger drawn tight to a single point. The others are gone, their fates sealed. The dust, the noise, the spectacle has all been leading here. Now only you remain, the moment of decision rapidly approaching. [[Your fate hangs in the balance.|chp3_auction_theauction1]] <<ci stat lethal>>

<<include "Utils—FavorEngine">>\ <<run applyAllFavor()>>\ <<run resolveAuctionWinner()>>\ <<if $auction_winner is "Livia">>\ The words strike like a bell. From the tiers above, nobles shift in their seats, courtesans lean forward, stewards ready their ledgers. The hush is thick enough to taste. You've gained enough attention for this to be a war of attrition with multiple fronts. Handlers shove you into the full glare of the block, wood and stone rattling, dust curling at your feet. For a breath, the crowd appraises in silence, hungry eyes tallying worth. Then, with a practiced flourish, the auctioneer names your opening price. Almost at once, one of Livia’s courtesans raises a jeweled hand. The bid lands like a stone in water, ripples of whispers rushing outward in the aftermath. Another voice rises, tentative, from the far side of the tiers. A rival house, testing. The courtesan doubles it before the auctioneer can even call for more while parts of the crowd chuckle nervously or conspire between themselves, intent on observing the carnage. Again a hand lifts, bolder this time. Without so much as a glance from Livia, her women raise the stakes, jewels glittering as they signal, bracelets chiming like the strike of coin. It’s a rhythm: rival, response, rival, response. Each time quicker, sharper, as if the whole auction is dancing to a tune only Livia conducts, much like most of the day before you. The bids mount, sharp as swordplay, until the rivals start to falter and fold, one by one. Purses close. A steward lowers his slate while a man higher in the tiers laughs too loudly, feigning indifference though his shoulders sag in defeat. Livia doesn't move. She reclines at the heart of her retinue, a dark jewel among silks, her eyes fixed only on you. Her courtiers whisper encouragement, courtesans smiling their sharp little smiles, all while she sits untouched, a spider at the web’s center, watching her prey come to her. At last, the rivals fall silent. The auctioneer’s chant wavers, then slows. His eyes sweep the tiers, desperate for one more contest, but the war of wills has already bent toward her. He raises the gavel, hand trembling at the inevitability of House Varro. ''“Sold!”'' The crack echoes off the stone. ''“To Duchess Livia Varro!”'' The announcement is met with eruption. Her courtesans leap to their feet, laughing, clapping, as though they themselves had won the prize. Her courtiers exchange knowing looks, already spinning the victory into gossip, politics, theater. But Livia doesn't rise. She tilts her head, savoring the silence that follows the applause. Then, finally, she lifts her cup toward you — not a gesture of ownership, but of claim. A toast before those assembled, as if to say: you are not only purchased, you are hers. Chains bite at your wrists as the handlers move you from the block, but the crowd’s eyes linger. You’ve been weighed, measured, and found worth the Duchess’ gold and her gaze. All of the struggle over the last two days has finally brought you here. Today, you were claimed. [[Your adrenaline surges with the realization.|chp3_auction_aftermath]] \ <<elseif $auction_winner is "Alesia">>\ A courtesan of Livia’s makes the opening bid, hand raised with a lazy grace, as though it were already decided. The crowd murmurs approval, as though it's only inevitable for House Varro would claim the finale after investing so much in the day. Then a voice cuts in like a spark. Alesia. She leans forward from her box, eyes gleaming, lips curved in a predator’s smile. She doesn’t wait for the auctioneer to call the next number; she doubles the bid outright. The suddenness jolts the stands into a rippling noise of uncertain laughter and gasps. The courtesan counters, but without conviction. The response feels dutiful, mechanical, as though they're raising their hands solely because it's expected of them. Alesia snaps back before the auctioneer can even speak, her hand cutting the air like a blade. Her voice carries over the murmurs: fierce, commanding, impossible to ignore amidst the heat. The bidding takes on a rhythm, faster now — her rivals trying to save face, her interruptions coming harder, sharper, relentless. Coins are named, sums swell, but it isn’t really gold being measured. It’s the force of her wanting and the raw refusal to yield. By the midway point it is no longer a contest. The courtesans glance toward Livia, but the Duchess herself doesn't stir. She remains reclined, gaze steady, expression unreadable, as though the game no longer interests her. House Varro's absence clears the stage, and House Cosmas seizes it fully. Her bids rise with ferocity, laughter rolling from her throat as she batters aside the last feeble counters. A steward across the chamber lowers his slate in defeat. Another nobleman smirks and waves off his rivals, unwilling to bleed coin against her fire. The auctioneer stumbles to keep pace, voice cracking as the numbers climb, but Alesia has already won. The others were bidding for status, for sport. She bids with something else entirely, an uncanny appetite, possession, desire claimed with coin. At last the rivals fall silent. The air is thick, trembling with the echoes of her last shout. ''“Sold!”'' the auctioneer cries, slamming his gavel. ''“To Countess Alesia Cosmas!”'' The sound is drowned in cheers and jeers alike. Some clap in delight, some sneer in disapproval, but no one doubts her. She has bent the crowd to her will as surely as if she had dragged you off the block with her own hands, her will made certain. Alesia rises, throwing her arms wide, laughing as though she has slain a beast in the sands. Her courtiers surge around her, drunk on her victory, their noise spilling into every corner of the yard. House Cosmas may have its doubters, but their influence is undeniable today. And then her eyes cut to you. The laughter fades from her lips, leaving only the gleam of triumph. She does not raise her cup in toast like Livia, nor hide her intent behind silk. She simply stares, fierce and unblinking, her possession written plain across her face. Chains tighten as the handlers drag you forward, the crowd's voice fading behind you. But Alesia's gaze has already branded you, trouble bound in chains of spice-stained silks. [[Your adrenaline only surges with the realization.|chp3_auction_aftermath]] \ <<elseif $auction_winner is "Novia">>\ At once, a hand goes up from the second tier, an older merchant lord, his silver hair gleaming in the torchlight. Another follows quickly, a young noble laughing too loudly as he presses his bid. A few more voices join in, pushing the numbers higher in steady increments. Their tone is half-casual, half-serious: they want to test the waters, see who will claim you, but none seem desperate to bleed themselves dry just yet. And then, cutting cleanly through the noise, another voice calls out. Novia Segune. The sound of her name on the auctioneer’s lips stills part of the crowd; they shift, curious, some surprised, others smiling with recognition. A courtesan titters behind her hand, while some nobleman in the back mutters to his steward. No one expected her here, let alone to raise her hand. But she doesn't flinch. Her arm lifts high, steady, her gaze fixed on the block. The bid lands sharp, decisive. The others hesitate, then resume, pressing against her with probing increments. The auctioneer’s chant only quickens, eyes darting from tier to tier. Novia's replies come cool and measured, each one landing without hesitation. There's no flair in the act, simply matching and raising each bid, rhythm steady as a drumbeat. The rivals begin to lose their ease. Laughter thins, their hands lift slower, more reluctant. One merchant mutters to his steward and lowers his slate. Another noble shrugs off the contest with a roll of his eyes, feigning boredom, though his purse remains clutched tight. Even favorites like Duchess Livia Varro and Countess Alesia have folded. Through it all, Novia holds fast. Calm, composed, her voice carrying with quiet certainty. At last the contest narrows to silence. No rivals remain. The auctioneer falters, repeating the sum once, twice, searching for a final challenger. None answer. ''“Sold!”'' His gavel cracks like thunder. ''“To Lady Novia Segune!”'' The chamber stirs-- some murmuring in surprise, others breaking into applause. A few nobles smirk knowingly, already spinning gossip, but the note is different. This wasn't an inevitability, but something unexpected, sudden and quietly resolute. You can see when Novia finally exhales, slim shoulders easing. Triumph glimmers in her eyes, subtle but unmistakable. Her lips part in a small smile, as though she has reached for something she thought beyond her grasp and finally found it within her hand. Chains tighten as the handlers pull you forward, but your eyes catch hers before you move. For just a moment, the crowd’s noise dims around you. She doesn’t avert her gaze, doesn’t hide her intent. It’s plain, simple, certain. She chose you when it mattered most. And she has won. [[Is it naive to feel hopeful?|chp3_auction_aftermath]] \ <<elseif $auction_winner is "Sibylla">>\ The first bids rise from expected voices: a merchant lord, a laughing noble, one of Livia’s courtesans. The rhythm feels almost rehearsed, the tiers falling into the familiar cadence. And then another voice cuts in. Sibylla. The name spoken aloud draws a murmur from the tiers. Heads turn, some blinking in surprise whilst others lean forward, curious. It must not be her way to buy often; rarer still to bid on something so openly valuable. She is selective, always deliberate, never reckless. It all culminates to make this moment all the more striking. Her hand rises, steady, unhurried. The bid is clear, certain. Duchess Livia tilts her head at once, a smile playing at the corner of her lips. One of her courtesans calls a counter, light as laughter. Alesia follows a heartbeat later, sharp and mocking, her voice pitched to draw reaction. The crowd chuckles at their play, the 'friends' circling Sibylla like prowling cats. Sibylla doesn't flinch, answering each of their bids with the same calm rhythm. Not hurried, not defensive, her voice carrying still like water poured into a waiting cup. The auctioneer’s chant stumbles, caught between the fire of Alesia’s interruptions and the chill of Sibylla’s replies. The numbers climb, but the texture of the contest shifts. What began as sport grows into a quiet recognition that Sibylla isn't simply testing the waters. She's resolved in her path of pursuit. The laughter in the stands thins. Alesia frowns, then leans back with a shrug, as if the game no longer interests her. Livia doesn't press further, only exchanging a knowing glance with her courtiers before letting the silence fall and the coming resolution sharpen. Sibylla raises her hand once more. Her voice is calm, final. The auctions waits, all of her rivals failing to answer. ''“Sold!”'' the auctioneer declares, gavel cracking. ''“To Countess Sibylla Cyrasse!”'' A ripple runs through the crowd: murmurs, whispers, a few scattered claps. Surprise more than applause, with some leaning in close to their companions, already whispering about her possible motives, her angle, her plans. Others watch her in silence, gazes sharp. Sibylla herself doesn't bask in victory. She simply sits, her posture composed, brilliant blue gaze fixed upon you. Not hungry, not gleeful, nor triumphant. Simply… steady. It is a look that feels less like ownership and more like expectation, as though she's already planning her next move, sifting the shape of what you might yet become. The handlers seize your chains and begin to drag you from the block. The crowd’s noise follows, but her eyes do not waver. Calm, unwavering, unblinking and decided. Whatever the others saw, Sibylla has seen something else. [[Your heart beats in your chest, steady for what comes next.|chp3_auction_aftermath]] <</if>>\

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp3_auctionwinner_livia.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> The guard leads you through one final arch and into a chamber softened against the colosseum's stone by everything wealth can place between itself and discomfort. Thick rugs overlap across the floor, swallowing the sound of boots. Low lamps burn fragrant oil from shallow clay dishes set into niches along the walls, their amber light catching upon embroidered cushions, polished darkwood and the dull red shimmer of hanging silk. A nearby brazier gives off just enough heat to take the dampness from the room without banishing it entirely. It is too intimate for an audience chamber and too carefully appointed to be mistaken for another holding room; one of those temporary spaces the highborn seem able to create wherever they stop long enough to require comfort. Duchess Livia Varro has changed little since the banquet. The same flaming mass of red hair spills around her shoulders, bright even beneath the diminished lamplight, and the same crimson eyes settle upon you with that unnerving mixture of intelligence, amusement and appetite that made it difficult to tell where conversation ended and examination began. Her demeanor remains perfectly composed. Everything surrounding it has relaxed. The elaborate finery of the banquet has been replaced by a loose robe of deep jade silk and fine lace, soft against the pale abundance of her figure, its low neckline and flowing sleeves lending her the appearance of a woman who has finally stepped beyond the need to impress anyone but herself. She reclines in a broad-backed chair near the brazier rather than occupying it like a throne, one bare ankle resting loosely across the other as a shallow cup turns between jeweled fingers. The women around her have surrendered much of their evening armor as well. Hair has been loosened, heavy necklaces removed, jeweled slippers abandoned beneath couches. One lounges with a robe thrown over the fitted dress she wore earlier; another sits sideways amongst the cushions with her legs curled beneath her, speaking quietly into the ear of a companion. They look less like a glittering little court now and more like the exhausted survivors of one, still beautiful, but softened by the lateness of the hour. The raven-haired courtesan is among them. She too has shed most of the silver that caught your attention earlier. The fitted corset is gone, along with the jade bracers and much of the jewelry that had flashed whenever her hands wandered over you beneath the banquet lamps. In their place she wears dark velvet cut low across her chest, the fabric making the warm bronze of her skin and generous swell of her cleavage stand out even more sharply beneath the purple cast of the chamber's shadows. Her glossy black hair remains cropped neatly around her face, but stripped of the evening's ornamentation she looks somehow less decorative and more immediate. <<if $pa_map.closing is "raven">>\ <<if $pa_raven_dynamic is "mc_leads">>\ Her eyes find yours almost immediately, nothing overt changing in her posture. She remains beside the couch with one arm folded loosely beneath her breasts while another woman murmurs near her shoulder, yet the look she gives you belongs to neither the banquet nor this room. It is quieter than that, carrying the faintest curl of private amusement as memory passes between you without either of you needing to acknowledge it aloud. Only hours ago there had been curtains and wine upon her mouth as she yielded beneath your hands once the game between you finally stopped playing pretend. You hold her gaze for just long enough for the amusement in her dark eyes to deepen. Then she lowers them with the deliberate composure of a woman returning a secret to its proper hiding place. Whether Livia notices the exchange is impossible to tell. <<elseif $pa_raven_dynamic is "raven_leads">>\ Her eyes find yours, dark and polished beneath the blunt fall of her raven hair. The little smile threatening at one corner of her mouth carries the same infuriating confidence she wore when she had you beneath her earlier, setting the pace and keeping it until there was very little left in the world except breath, heat and the steady insistence of her body. The silver ornaments and fitted corset are gone now, replaced by dark velvet and bare bronze skin, but somehow the absence of all that finery only makes the memory more difficult to dismiss. She does nothing more scandalous than raise her cup for another drink. Her gaze remains upon you over its rim. You find yourself holding that look longer than good sense recommends. Only when Livia shifts in her chair does your attention finally return to the woman who owns the room and, as of this afternoon, considerably more than that. The raven-haired woman's smile lingers behind the cup. Whether Livia saw any of it is impossible to tell. <<else>>\ The raven-haired courtesan recognizes you with a small, private smile, warmer than the teasing look she wore while testing your restraint beneath Livia's amused supervision. Whatever passed between you near the end of the banquet has clearly not been forgotten. Neither of you acknowledges it aloud. This is not her room, nor her moment, and her attention returns to the women beside her when Livia finally moves. <</if>>\ <<else>>\ Her dark eyes lift from the conversation beside her and rest upon you for a brief moment, amusement still living faintly around them. She had been the boldest of Livia's little court when they pressed around you earlier, the one who finally found the edge of whatever restraint you carried into their game. Now there are no silver ornaments flashing at her wrists, no corset or wandering hands, only dark velvet against tanned skin and a brief look exchanged across the room before her attention returns to the Duchess. <</if>>\ Livia raises two fingers, the room settling almost immediately. The guard at your shoulder stops, and for several breaths the Duchess says nothing at all. She simply regards you over the edge of her cup, crimson eyes moving with no particular hurry from the iron at your wrists to your face and settling there at last. The appraisal feels different now. Earlier she had studied possibility, something still unclaimed and therefore entertaining in the abstract. Tonight, there's a weight behind the attention. ''"Well,"'' she says eventually, her mouth curling with that familiar, restrained amusement. ''"You survived being purchased."'' A few quiet laughs answer from the couches. Livia takes another sip before adding, ''"You'd be surprised how unbearably exhausting some men find the experience."'' Throughout it, her attention never once leaves you. ''"I wanted to see you once before they take you to the ludus."'' There's no menace in the way she says it, no attempt to make the word sound grander or crueler than it already is. The ludus is simply the next fact of your life, waiting beyond these walls regardless of how either of you chooses to dress it. <<if $pa_livia_test is "control">>\ ''"I've been thinking about you,"'' she continues, folding one leg slowly over the other beneath the loose fall of jade silk. ''"Not the fight. Blood is wonderfully efficient at convincing spectators they've witnessed something important."'' Her eyes narrow with quiet humor. ''"I was thinking about what came after."'' You already know what she means. The memory returns easily: heat and perfume, bodies crowding nearer, soft hands testing how much you would endure before instinct finally seized the reins. Most vividly, the raven-haired woman against your side, fingers wandering with increasing confidence while Livia watched from her lounge as though the entire affair had been arranged to answer one question. ''"My ladies were rather committed to getting something out of you,"'' Livia says, glancing lazily toward the couches. One of the women there smiles into her wine. ''"Most men mistake restraint for the absence of temptation. That makes restraint very unimpressive. A locked door has no virtue simply because nobody bothered to push it."'' Her crimson eyes return to yours. ''"You wanted what they were offering. Anyone with sight could tell. You simply refused to let wanting decide the moment for you."'' There is approval in the observation, although Livia does not soften it into praise. If anything, the slight curve of her mouth suggests praise would cheapen whatever conclusion she has reached. ''"That interests me."'' She settles deeper against the darkwood, one jade sleeve sliding loosely along her forearm as her bracelets whisper together. ''"Obedience is easy to purchase. Fear can imitate discipline for an astonishingly long time. But a man who feels the pull and still chooses when to move—there is something useful in that. Something that may survive longer than muscle."'' Her expression sharpens almost imperceptibly. ''"Do not become too pleased with yourself. The same instinct can make a man slow when the world finally requires him to act. There will be moments in the ludus when patience keeps your head attached to your shoulders, and others when one heartbeat of hesitation gives another man time to open your throat."'' She pauses, measuring you again. ''"Learn the difference. If you can."'' <<elseif $pa_livia_test is "fuckit">>\ ''"I have been thinking about you,"'' she continues, settling more comfortably into the chair as the loose jade silk gathers around her thighs. ''"Not the fight. Crowds have very little imagination once blood becomes involved."'' A faint smile touches her lips. ''"I was thinking about the moment you finally decided my ladies had been given enough advantage."'' You can feel the memory before you fully summon it. The raven-haired woman close against you, her waist beneath your arm, the shift in the room when you stopped allowing yourself to be merely handled and answered the provocation in kind. For a few breaths the entertainment had changed direction. Then you had found the boundary. Livia notices something in your expression and smiles wider. ''"Lust itself isn't interesting, dear. I own a house full of beautiful people and employ enough gladiators to know young men are rarely in danger of running short of appetite. What interested me was that you understood there was a game being played."'' Her gaze lingers. ''"Then, when you found the edge, you stopped."'' Livia's voice makes that sound more significant than the indulgence preceding it. ''"That distinction may keep you alive."'' Livia rolls the cup once between her fingers. ''"A man without appetite seldom becomes much of a spectacle. A man with no sense of where appetite ends and stupidity begins becomes a very brief one."'' Her mouth curls. ''"You like finding the edges of things. I understand the impulse."'' There's enough amusement in the admission to suggest half the room understands it too. ''"But eventually you'll push against something that doesn't yield. The ludus is full of such things. Veteran fighters. Trainers with old injuries and very little patience. Men who've survived because the last ambitious boy to test them didn't. Keep the nerve. Lose the assumption that every boundary exists for your amusement."'' <<else>>\ Livia studies you for another long moment, perhaps recalling the various small performances and provocations that filled the banquet before finally letting the thought go. ''"You have spent the better part of two days being measured by strangers,"'' she says. ''"I suspect you're beginning to understand how little any one impression means."'' Her tone remains dry, but not dismissive. ''"The useful part comes afterward. Whether the impression survives contact with reality."'' Her gaze narrows thoughtfully. ''"That is what interests me now."'' <</if>>\ Livia allows the silence following her judgment to breathe. Beyond the chamber, somewhere deeper in the colosseum, a door closes hard enough for the vibration to travel faintly through the stone. Nobody here reacts. The hour has grown late enough that the vast building seems to be settling around you, its public face extinguished piece by piece while servants, guards and slaves continuing their work. ''"The ludus will be less entertaining than my banquet,"'' Livia says at last. ''"At least at first."'' She turns the cup between her fingers, watching the remnants of wine cling thinly to its inner rim. ''"There are men there who have spent years learning precisely how difficult the human body is to kill, and how very easy it is to damage. You will train beside them."'' A soft laugh moves somewhere behind her. ''"Some newcomers resent the veterans. Others worship them. Both instincts are foolish. Watch them instead. A man who's survived twenty fights possesses useful information."'' Her eyes move briefly over your body, not hungrily this time but with the practical interest of someone considering the condition of something expensive. ''"Strength will help. So will whatever stubbornness dragged you this far. Neither is sufficient."'' She leans forward then, forearms resting lightly against her knee. ''"You are not a champion. Not yet. That's what half the city forgets whenever some handsome young brute survives a particularly bloody bout. For a week, they think that he's immortal. Then he meets someone older, crueler or simply better, and they scrape what remains of the legend from the sands before supper."'' Livia's gaze doesn't leave yours. ''"I didn't spend what I spent today because I think you're finished."'' ''"I bought possibility."'' She lets the words settle between you. ''"A body that has already endured more than it should have. A temper that may yet become useful. Enough sense, perhaps, to learn before the lessons become fatal."'' Her eyes narrow, and the humor gradually leaves them. ''"Your training belongs to my house. Your matches will be arranged beneath my name. When they put armor on you, when they teach you where to place your feet, when they decide whether you are ready to bleed before ten thousand people again, those decisions will not be yours."'' Her voice remains calm, almost gentle in its refusal to lie. ''"But what sort of man survives those decisions? That isn't something coin can purchase in advance."'' Then Livia's mouth curves again. ''"Which is inconvenient,"'' she admits. ''"I paid quite a lot for certainty."'' Even some of the weariness around the room gives way to laughter at that. The guard beside the door shifts, apparently recognizing some signal you missed. Another handler steps forward from the wall, gathering the loose length of your chain into one practiced hand. Livia notices the movement and gives no order to stop. <<if $pa_map.closing is "raven">>\ <<if $pa_raven_dynamic is "mc_leads">>\ As you turn, your eyes find the raven-haired woman once more. The smile from before has faded into something quieter. Without the silver, jewels and banquet finery, she looks less like one of Livia's ornaments than she did only hours ago: dark velvet close against warm skin, black hair framing a face that watches the handler shorten your chain and draw you toward the door. Earlier, with the banquet dying around you, you had been permitted one small choice and spent it upon her; had taken hold of something you wanted and, for a little while, been allowed to decide what happened next. Now the iron draws taut between your wrists, the contrast difficult not to feel. Her dark eyes seem to acknowledge it too. There is no pity in them—thank the gods for that—and none of the easy amusement with which she first approached you. Only recognition, warm and private beneath the quiet decorum of Livia's chamber. The smallest smile returns before she lowers her gaze, leaving the memory where it belongs. <<elseif $pa_raven_dynamic is "raven_leads">>\ As the handler gathers your chain, the raven-haired woman watches from beside the couch. Her expression gives almost nothing away until your eyes meet. Then that familiar little curve appears, restrained enough that anyone else might mistake it for ordinary politeness. You know better. There is something almost reassuring in the composure of it: the same woman who had confidently taken the pace from you behind closed curtains remains entirely herself now that the silver and jewels are gone, neither embarrassed by the memory nor eager to advertise it. She holds your attention until the chain pulls you half a step toward the door. Only then does one dark brow lift faintly, as though to remind you that being led from this room does not erase who you were when the choice belonged to the two of you. You look away only because the handler moves again. <<else>>\ The raven-haired courtesan watches you leave with a faint, private warmth that did not exist when the banquet began. Nothing passes between you beyond the glance, but whatever happened in the dying hours of the feast has not been forgotten. <</if>>\ <</if>>\ ''"$name."'' Livia's voice catches you before you cross the threshold, causing you to look back. She has reclaimed her cup, resting it loosely against one thigh as the remaining women settle around her again. Jade silk spills across the dark chair and catches gold wherever the lamplight touches its folds, red hair burning above it in vivid contrast. Without the banquet's ceremonial gown and assembled court, she somehow appears no less formidable. If anything, the ease of her posture makes the authority behind it seem more natural. ''"Do not disappoint me."'' Her eyes remain very clear. Livia raises the cup in a small salute. ''"I would hate to discover I was wrong about you."'' The handler gives the chain another measured pull, and this time you follow him. Behind you, the warmth of the chamber narrows into a stripe of gold across the floor before the door swings shut. Ahead waits House Varro's gladiatorial quarters, the men who live there, and the long work required before anyone will call you champion. <<link "You're just getting started...">>\ <<goto "chp3_ludus_intro">>\ <</link>>

<center><img class="scene" class="scene" src="images/auctionwinner_alesia.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> The guard brings you through a narrow side passage and stops before a half-open door spilling warm amber light across the stone. There is no herald, no waiting steward announcing titles, no little assembly of interested strangers pretending this late meeting belongs to some larger ceremony. A quiet word passes between the guard and the man stationed outside, then you are ushered through and the door closes softly behind you. The chamber beyond looks as though its occupant already decided the evening's over. Two low lamps burn beside a broad couch pushed near the wall, their light softened by thin pink silk thrown across the shades. A half-finished cup of wine sits beside an open wooden case of jewelry, bracelets and earrings abandoned in a bright little heap as though their owner lost patience halfway through removing them. One slipper lies beneath a chair while its twin has somehow reached the opposite side of the room. A folded gown of dark fabric has been deposited without much ceremony across the end of the couch. Alesia Cosmas has changed considerably, the elaborate black silks of the banquet gone. So are most of the jewels and carefully arranged ornaments that marked her as a noblewoman entertaining beneath another great house's roof. Her dark auburn hair spills in loose waves over bare shoulders and down her back, slightly disordered from the long evening. In place of formal clothing she wears a thin nightgown of almost offensively bright pink, the soft fabric hanging from narrow straps and falling loosely along the curves of her body to somewhere above the knee. Lace gathers along the low neckline, feminine enough to look almost innocent until you remember the woman wearing it. She's barefoot, one long leg tucked beneath her on the couch while the other hangs lazily over its edge, toes almost brushing the rug. A goblet rests in one hand, her other arm stretched along the cushions behind her as though she has been waiting for you with all the urgency of someone expecting a mildly entertaining delivery. Her expression ruins the illusion of innocence immediately. <<if $pa_map.alesia>>\ ''"There you are."'' Alesia looks you over with none of the discretion another woman might consider appropriate while dressed for bed. Her gaze moves from the irons at your wrists to your face, lingers there, then wanders down once more as though confirming that the auctioneer delivered precisely what she purchased. ''"Don't look so surprised,"'' she takes a small drink. ''"I told you I might find a use for you."'' Earlier, it'd been another provocation exchanged beneath banquet lamps, half flirtation and half threat, the sort of thing Alesia seemed to enjoy saying because she liked seeing what people imagined afterward. But tonight, there's a ledger somewhere beneath the colosseum bearing her household's mark beside your name. <<else>>\ ''"Surprised?"'' Alesia's grin appears before you've properly stopped in front of her. ''"You thought Livia had you sewn up, didn't you?"'' She rolls the goblet lightly between her fingers, visibly pleased with herself. ''"So did half the room."'' There is no triumph in it exactly. She seems less proud of beating another bidder than entertained by the fact that the evening produced an outcome nobody around her considered inevitable. Her dark eyes move slowly over you. ''"Then again, everyone spent the last two days deciding they understood you."'' Her lips twitch. ''"I thought that was getting terribly dull."'' <</if>>\ The guard remains near the door while another House Cosmas retainer stands farther along the wall, but Alesia pays neither of them much mind. She gestures lazily toward the center of the room, not offering you a seat; maybe there isn't one intended for someone in irons, perhaps because she rather likes making you stand there beneath her gaze. For several breaths she says nothing, her head tilted slightly, wine resting against her lower lip, as though turning over the ending of a story that surprised even her. <<if $chp3_stavrick_outcome is "brutalbastard">>\ ''"I asked you for a distraction."'' The words arrive so mildly that it takes a moment for the accusation beneath them to become obvious. Alesia lowers the goblet. ''"Noise. Confusion. Guards looking in the wrong direction for half a minute."'' Her dark eyes narrow upon you, amusement gradually sharpening into something harder to name. ''"I did not ask you to turn Stavrick's face into something a physician would need to reconstruct from memory."'' You remember the blood. Not the abstract red of the arena or the clean excitement of a crowd watching men exchange blows, but the wet ruin beneath your fists after the fight itself had already been decided. Stavrick down. The handlers shouting. Your own knuckles opening against bone as you kept hitting because some part of you no longer cared whether the purpose had already been served. She watches your face now with the same disturbing interest she showed then. ''"I told you I wanted to know what you would choose when nobody was holding the leash,"'' she continues. ''"You may remember that."'' Her eyes drift briefly toward the chain between your wrists. ''"The answer was considerably more enthusiastic than expected."'' There's humor in her voice, but not enough to make the moment harmless. She shifts on the couch, the pink nightgown sliding higher along one thigh as she turns more fully. ''"You didn't keep hitting him because you needed to win. You had already won You kept going because for those few moments, something in you wanted to."'' Alesia studies you with open fascination, a small smile returning. She leans back into the cushions again. ''"If it makes you feel better, the distraction was excellent."'' Her mouth curls. ''"Nobody was looking where they should have been."'' <<elseif $chp3_stavrick_outcome is "earlyKO">>\ ''"You know, I had planned for that fight to last longer."'' Alesia sounds almost genuinely offended, brows drawing together as though she's spent the intervening hours reconsidering some logistical inconvenience you personally inflicted. ''"Stavrick's built like a fortress wall and has spent enough years hitting people professionally that I thought asking you to irritate him would buy me a respectable amount of chaos."'' She takes another drink. ''"Then you dropped him before half the stands had even properly understood there was a fight."'' Her annoyance lasts perhaps another heartbeat before she laughs. ''"Very dramatic. Terrible timing."'' You still remember the shock moving through the watching crowd when Stavrick hit the ground, the noise arriving a moment after the violence because nobody expected the contest to resolve so quickly. Alesia had wanted everyone's attention. You had certainly provided it, even if the window she expected had become shorter than intended. ''"Still,"'' she says, eyes sliding over you appreciatively, ''"I asked whether you could make dangerous men take you seriously. I suppose putting one down immediately qualifies."'' <<elseif $chp3_stavrick_outcome is "ko">>\ ''"You delivered quite a show with Stavrick."'' Alesia sounds pleased enough that the statement might almost be praise. ''"I asked you to make everyone look. You did. Then, because apparently following instructions normally would have been beneath you, you went and put the old bastard on the ground as well."'' Her smile deepens. ''"Efficient."'' The fight had gone far beyond staged commotion by the end. Stavrick had been too experienced and too proud to give you the easy performance Alesia required, and once fists began landing properly the original purpose became increasingly irrelevant. Yet whatever else happened, you finished standing. ''"I like experiments that produce useful results, even when they start punching back."'' <<elseif $chp3_stavrick_outcome is "victory">>\ ''"I suppose I owe you some credit for Stavrick."'' Alesia makes the concession with exaggerated reluctance. ''"I asked for noise. You gave me noise. I asked for everyone nearby to stop worrying about their own business and watch the two of you instead. They watched."'' She takes another measured sip. ''"Then you had the indecency to actually win."'' The result seems to matter to her less as proof that you are stronger than Stavrick than as proof that, when given an ugly little opportunity and no promise of safety, you took it and managed to come through the other side. ''"That was the interesting part,"'' she says, almost as though continuing the thought aloud. ''"I already knew you could fight. I wanted to see whether you'd walk into trouble because you decided there was something worth taking from it."'' Her eyes settle on yours. ''"You did."'' <<elseif $chp3_stavrick_outcome is "neutral">>\ ''"Stavrick was less cooperative than I hoped."'' Alesia's mouth bends ruefully around the admission. ''"Or perhaps you were. Hard to say."'' The fight had become exactly what she requested: loud, ugly and impossible for nearby handlers to ignore. What it failed to become was decisive. Neither of you walked away with the sort of victory men recount over drinks afterward, but for several useful minutes the yard had contained very little except dust, shouting and everyone watching. Alesia lifts one shoulder. ''"Still, I wanted a distraction, not a ballad."'' <<elseif $chp3_stavrick_outcome is "negative">>\ ''"I need to ask you something about Stavrick. When I suggested you start a fight with him, did you somehow interpret that as permission to let him beat the sense out of you?"'' The grin appears before you can respond. You wondered how long she could resist. ''"Because if so, I owe you an apology. My instructions were clearly insufficiently precise."'' The mock concern doesn't survive the laughter that follows. Alesia sinks more comfortably into the couch, pink silk shifting softly around her legs as she takes obvious pleasure in your expression. ''"Don't sulk. You made everyone look, which was what I actually needed. And Stavrick is exactly the sort of man who occasionally reminds younger fighters why surviving one impressive afternoon doesn't make them immortal."'' Her humor softens gradually. ''"You lost, but I didn't buy you because I never expected you to hit the ground."'' <<elseif $chp3_stavrick_outcome is "nofight" and $pa_map.alesia>>\ ''"You ignored Stavrick."'' There's no accusation in Alesia's voice. In fact, she looks suspiciously delighted. ''"I gave you a perfectly respectable opportunity to start a completely unnecessary fight with a dangerous former legionnaire, yet you decided I could manage my own problems."'' Her grin broadens. ''"Very rude."'' You remember the proposition clearly enough. She never commanded you to do it. Quite the opposite; she told you to take the opening or leave it alone, because obedience wasn't what she was testing. ''"I said I wanted to see what you chose when nobody was holding the leash."'' She rolls the stem of her goblet between two fingers. ''"Apparently sometimes the answer is that you simply walk away from the person holding it."'' Her eyes flick to the iron at your wrists and back. ''"That may prove inconvenient."'' <</if>>\ <<if $pa_map.alesia>>\ The exchange leaves a familiar rhythm behind it. You've stood close enough to Alesia before to recognize the moment when teasing stops being merely decorative and becomes a means of investigation. She enjoys provocation, certainly, but not for its own sake. The pleasure seems to come from putting pressure somewhere unexpected and watching what emerges: vanity, fear, anger, appetite, principle. Whatever a person claims to be matters less to her than what remains. Her attention settles upon you again now, quieter but no less intent as she unfurls one long leg from beneath herself and sits more upright. The movement draws the bright nightgown tighter across her body for an instant before the silk settles again, your eyes follow before discretion has much opportunity to object. <<if $pa_alesia_first_impression is "cowboy">>\ ''"Still making me work for every reaction?"'' You return your gaze to her face without apology. ''"Didn't seem like you needed much help."'' That draws a quiet laugh. ''"No. I suppose not."'' <<elseif $pa_alesia_first_impression is "bastard">>\ ''"Careful,"'' she murmurs, though the warning carries no seriousness whatsoever. Your attention returns to her eyes. ''"You started it."'' Alesia's grin brightens at the familiar answer. <<elseif $pa_alesia_first_impression is "knight">>\ ''"You looked."'' The accusation is delivered with theatrical gravity. You meet her eyes. ''"You noticed."'' ''"I always do."'' Her smile turns low and wicked with the admission. <<else>>\ Alesia catches the glance and seems more entertained than offended. ''"Don't suddenly become polite on my account,"'' she says. ''"It wouldn't suit either of us."'' <</if>>\ There's nothing quite as deliberate in the display as there had been earlier. No fabric drawn aside purely because she wanted to see how you reacted, no little challenge hidden beneath the gesture. She's simply dressed for the night, comfortable enough in her own rooms to have abandoned the armor of banquet silk, the fact that you have already seen considerably more of her makes pretending otherwise ridiculous. <</if>>\ Her goblet comes to rest on the little table beside her. ''"Now for the less entertaining part."'' Alesia's expression doesn't exactly become serious, but some of the mischief retreats. ''"Buying you does not mean you're coming to sleep on a little cushion at the foot of my bed."'' Her eyes flick toward the bright silk gathered across her own thighs. ''"Try to conceal your devastation. You're still going to House Varro's ludus."'' The statement is simple and apparently long decided. <<if $pa_map.alesia>>\ You already know enough about the relationship between Alesia and Livia for the arrangement not to seem entirely strange. House Varro and House Cosmas have known one another longer than either woman has been old enough to cause trouble with the introduction, their interests overlapping in the places where old land, soldiers and political influence meet ships, warehouses, merchants and coin. More importantly, Alesia had made it clear that whatever began as family business became genuine friendship. ''"Yes, Livia knows,"'' Alesia says. ''"No, I did not steal you from her in the night. And no, she isn't currently sharpening a knife with my name on it. Probably."'' The faintest smile returns. ''"Varro already has the trainers, the barracks, the physicians and enough experienced gladiators to teach you precisely how much you don't know. I have none of those things, and starting a ludus because I happened to buy one interesting man would be an absurd."'' She waves one hand lazily. ''"So she trains you. You fight through the arrangements already in place. Your life continues becoming unpleasant in an organized and professional fashion."'' <<else>>\ ''"House Varro already has the trainers, barracks, physicians and experienced fighters needed to turn raw gladiators into profitable ones. House Cosmas does not."'' Alesia gives a careless little shrug. ''"Buying you does not magically make me a lanista."'' Her dark eyes remain on you. ''"So you train there. You fight through the arrangements already in place. The sale changed who purchased your future, not where the next part of it happens."'' <</if>>\ She lets that settle before adding, ''"Livia is very good at this. Better than most people who make a business of pretending they are. If you're clever, you'll listen to her people. If you're very clever, you'll learn which of them are worth ignoring."'' Alesia reaches for her wine again but stops before lifting it, attention drifting over you. ''"I don't particularly care whether you become the strongest man in her yard. Strength is useful. So is speed. So is being willing to hit someone after they have already fallen."'' <<if $pa_map.alesia>>\ Something from your earlier conversation returns immediately. House Cosmas has enough men who can carry boxes. Enough men who can frighten shopkeepers, break fingers, stand beside a warehouse door and look dangerous. Those were not the qualities Alesia claimed were difficult to find. ''"You asked me what my family does when respectable business becomes less respectable. Brokers. Debts. Shipments that pass through hands nobody admits knowing. Men who become very forgetful once money is owed."'' She gives a small, unapologetic shrug. ''"There may eventually be things I want done that have very little to do with applause."'' She speaks more quietly now. ''"A message delivered by someone people remember. A conversation where it helps to have a gladiator standing nearby. A room where everyone watches the dangerous man while somebody else notices what they're hiding."'' The corner of her mouth rises. ''"You've already demonstrated some talent for that."'' Nothing in her phrasing constitutes an order. Not yet. ''"First survive the ludus. Then we'll see whether House Cosmas still finds you useful."'' <<else>>\ ''"There are other reasons I bid,"'' she continues. ''"Cradle has uses for dangerous men beyond an arena. But those are problems for another night. First, you have to survive the obvious work before I decide whether you're suitable for the less obvious kind."'' <</if>>\ The handler near the door shifts his weight. Alesia sighs as though someone has announced the end of a particularly enjoyable drink. ''"They're becoming impatient."'' She pushes herself upright enough to set the goblet aside, then rises from the couch. Barefoot, with loose hair and bright pink silk sliding softly along her body, she somehow appears younger than she did beneath the banquet's black finery. Less like Countess Cosmas, spoken about in careful voices by people worried about warehouses and debts, and more like the woman underneath the title, restless and curious. The effect lasts only until she approaches you. There's too much confidence in the way she moves for anyone to mistake softness for harmlessness. She stops comfortably one foot beyond the distance polite strangers would keep. <<if $pa_map.alesia>>\ ''"I meant what I told you earlier,"'' she says. ''"People are most interesting when something pushes them out of the shape they've chosen. The ludus will do plenty of pushing."'' One finger rises and hooks lightly beneath the chain running between your wrists, not pulling, merely testing its weight before letting the iron fall back with a quiet clink. ''"I want to see what's still there afterward."'' <<else>>\ ''"Livia's people will tell you what they want you to become,"'' Alesia says. ''"Every trainer does."'' Her gaze lingers upon you. ''"I'm more interested in what refuses to disappear."'' <</if>>\ The retainer steps forward and gathers the loose end of your chain. ''"Try not to die,"'' she says. ''"And more importantly, try not to become boring."'' You've taken only a few steps when Alesia calls, causing you to look back. ''"$name."'' She's already returned to the couch, one bare leg folding beneath her as she reaches once more for the waiting wine. Pink silk catches the lamplight around her, almost absurdly bright against the dark room, predatory eyes remaining fixed upon yours. ''"I spent a ridiculous amount of coin on you. Make me feel clever."'' The handler pulls the door open, and you leave her behind. <<link "You're just getting started...">>\ <<goto "chp3_ludus_intro">>\ <</link>>

<center><img class="scene" src="images/auctionwinner_novia.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> The guard opens the door upon a chamber considerably quieter than the others you have passed tonight. A pair of lamps burn low beside a narrow couch and a polished table, their light gathering softly across pale rugs, folded silks and the silver fittings of a travel chest left half-packed near one wall. There are no courtiers waiting to witness the exchange. Only a maid near the far screen, discreet enough to keep her eyes lowered, and Lady Novia Segune standing beside the table with one hand resting against its edge. She has changed since the banquet. The blood-red gown and carefully arranged finery are gone, replaced by simpler evening silks that fall more loosely around her slight frame, while her dark hair has been freed from much of its earlier styling and now spills in soft waves over her shoulders. Without the ceremony surrounding her, she looks closer to the young woman you met behind the curtain than the heiress who sat among bidders. The silver Segune ring remains, turning it once beneath her thumb when you enter. There'd been something almost abstract about the question when she placed that ring between you earlier. //It could be me. Would you want that?// A possibility discussed across a candlelit table while the auction still belonged to the future. Now the iron between your wrists gives the question a different weight. Her gaze drops briefly toward the chain before returning to your face, and some of the careful preparation behind her expression falters. ''"I had several things I meant to say when they brought you in,"'' she admits. A faint, embarrassed smile touches her mouth. ''"They sounded rather better before you were actually standing here."'' <<if $pa_novia_impression is "strong">>\ <<if $pa_novia_response is "accept">>\ Her finger's still upon the ring. ''"You told me that if it had to be someone... you could live with it being me."'' The words come quietly, without the satisfaction another buyer might take from repeating them now. ''"I remembered that while they were bidding."'' She looks down for a moment, following the silver edge beneath her thumb. ''"I know that wasn't permission. Not really. You told me what you wanted before that too. No collar. No leash. I don't intend to insult either of us by pretending this is somehow the same thing."'' Her eyes rise again. ''"But when the choice became mine, I found that I didn't want to leave it to someone else."'' <<elseif $pa_novia_response is "loyalty">>\ Her hand closes loosely around the ring. ''"You told me something yesterday that I suspect most people in my position would have disliked hearing."'' A small smile touches her lips. ''"That buying you wouldn't buy your loyalty."'' You remember the candle between you, the iron around your throat and the way she seemed almost relieved when you told her there was something coin could not settle. Novia glances toward your chains. ''"Well."'' Her smile turns faintly rueful. ''"I suppose we've proved the first half."'' When her eyes return to yours, there is no triumph in them. ''"Now I have to discover whether the second half was possible too."'' <</if>>\ <<elseif $pa_novia_impression is "positive">>\ <<if $pa_novia_response is "guarded" and $pa_novia_approach is "cowboy">>\ ''"You said I was better than most."'' Novia's mouth lifts slightly. ''"Then you reminded me that a collar is still a collar."'' Her eyes drop to the iron at your throat, and this time she does not look away quickly. ''"I thought about that more than I expected to."'' She turns the Segune ring once against her finger. ''"I suppose I could tell myself that someone was going to buy you regardless, and that I may treat you better than another person would. Both things might even be true."'' Her expression quiets. ''"Neither changes what happened today."'' <<elseif $pa_novia_response is "bet">>\ ''"You told me to bet on you."'' The smallest smile appears. ''"So I did."'' There is more confidence in the words than embarrassment, though not quite enough to hide the enormity of what the wager became once silver started changing hands. ''"You were very certain that everyone else was looking at what you already were while I ought to be looking at what came next."'' Her eyes settle upon you, thoughtful and faintly wary in the way they were when you spoke about climbing. ''"I still don't know whether that confidence is admirable or dangerous."'' A warmer edge enters her smile. ''"I suppose I've purchased the opportunity to find out."'' <<elseif $pa_novia_response is "trust">>\ ''"You asked me to treat you justly."'' Novia says the word with enough care that you know she remembers precisely how it sounded between you. ''"I thought it seemed simple when you said it."'' Her gaze falls toward the Segune ring, then toward the iron around your wrists. ''"Rather less simple now."'' She exhales softly through her nose. ''"I won't promise you that every decision I make will feel just to you. That would be a pretty lie, and I think you would know it immediately."'' Her eyes lift. ''"But I haven't forgotten what you asked of me."'' <</if>>\ <<elseif $pa_novia_impression is "mixed">>\ <<if $pa_novia_response is "reject" and $pa_novia_approach is "cowboy">>\ ''"You told me yesterday that this wasn't your decision."'' Novia's voice is quieter now. ''"That I could ask whether you wanted me to buy you, but when the time came, you would not be the one choosing."'' Her fingers stop moving against the ring. ''"You were right. I remembered it while I was bidding. I raised my hand anyway."'' <<elseif $pa_novia_response is "challenge">>\ ''"You told me that if I wanted you, I would have to decide what you were worth."'' A faint smile pulls at her mouth. ''"Rather arrogant, in retrospect."'' You almost smile yourself. ''"Unfortunately, I accepted the challenge."'' Her fingers touch the Segune ring. ''"I'm not going to tell you the final number. You'd become impossible."'' The humor lingers only briefly before her expression grows more thoughtful. ''"But I decided."'' <<elseif $pa_novia_response is "guarded" and $pa_novia_approach is "knight">>\ ''"You told me we shouldn't make promises."'' Novia looks at you steadily, the ring turning once beneath her thumb. ''"I think that was wise. So I won't ask for one now. Not gratitude, not loyalty, not trust because a clerk has written my name beside yours."'' A quiet seriousness settles over her face. ''"Whatever those things become between us, if they become anything, I would rather know they were real."'' <</if>>\ <<elseif $pa_novia_impression is "poor">>\ ''"You told me I would regret this. Perhaps I will."'' Her hand rests beside the Segune ring, fingers spread lightly over the polished wood. ''"You were very certain of it."'' Her eyes narrow faintly, not in anger but in remembered caution. ''"Certain enough that I nearly listened. Then the bidding started and I decided that if there was something in you worth regretting, I would rather discover it myself."'' <<else>>\ Novia studies you for several quiet seconds, some of the uncertainty in her expression giving way to resolve. ''"I wasn't certain I would bid until I did."'' Her thumb runs along the Segune ring. ''"Then once I started, stopping felt strangely more difficult than beginning."'' A faint smile appears. ''"Perhaps that is how people get themselves involved in terrible ideas."'' <</if>>\ The silence after that is easier than the one that greeted you. Novia moves around the table and sits upon its edge rather than retreating to the couch, bringing herself a little closer without turning the meeting into another formal audience. The conversation feels more like the one behind the curtain now, stripped of spectators and the need to perform certainty for them. ''"There's something else you should know before they take you downstairs,"'' she says. Her eyes linger upon you, gauging how much explanation is actually necessary. ''"You aren't coming to House Segune. The auction changed who holds your contract, but not change arrangement surrounding your training."'' Novia folds her hands loosely in her lap. ''"House Varro has the ludus, the trainers, the physicians and the fighters. Livia's people already know what they intend to do with you, and I would accomplish very little by pulling you away simply to prove that I could."'' Her mouth tightens faintly at the thought. ''"So you will remain there. Train there. Fight beneath the arrangements already made. What I bought was the claim upon whatever comes after."'' Her gaze falls briefly toward her own hands after a beat. ''"That sounded much more reasonable when it was explained to me by a steward."'' A small laugh escapes her, quiet and self-conscious. ''"You were an investment then. A contract. A promising gladiator attached to a well-run ludus."'' Her eyes return to yours. ''"It becomes rather harder to think of it that way after asking the investment what he wants from his life."'' The smile she gives you carries no practiced nobility at all. ''"I suppose that's my problem now."'' The handler near the door shifts, the chain giving a faint metallic scrape. It's enough to change her expression changes slightly, as though she expected more time. <<if $pa_novia_response is "loyalty">>\ ''"You said I could earn it,"'' she says. Her hand closes gently around the Segune ring. ''"I intend to remember that."'' <<elseif $pa_novia_response is "accept">>\ ''"You said you could live with it being me."'' A quiet warmth enters her face. ''"I'd like to make sure you don't regret saying it."'' <<elseif $pa_novia_response is "bet">>\ ''"You told me to bet on you."'' Her eyes hold yours, ''"Don't make me look foolish."'' <<elseif $pa_novia_response is "trust">>\ ''"Justly,"'' she says, almost as though reminding herself. Then she gives a small nod, ''"I'll remember."'' <<elseif $pa_novia_response is "guarded">>\ ''"No promises,"'' she says, the faintest smile touching her mouth. ''"Not yet."'' <<elseif $pa_novia_response is "challenge">>\ ''"I've decided what you're worth once already."'' Her smile grows slightly. ''"Try to make the next decision harder."'' <<elseif $pa_novia_response is "reject">>\ Novia watches you for another moment, accepting the distance between you rather than pretending it vanished because she won an auction. ''"I know this isn't what you asked for."'' Her fingers tighten lightly around the ring. ''"I'll try not to forget that."'' <<else>>\ ''"I think we both have more to prove now,"'' she says softly. <</if>>\ The handler gathers the loose length of chain without Novia intervening. You're almost at the door when you glance back and find her still standing beside the table, the silver ring caught between her fingers. There is none of the satisfaction of a collector admiring a new possession in the way she watches you leave. If anything, she looks like someone who reached for an idea and only now feels the full weight of it. Then the door begins to close, and she gives you one last, small nod. <<link "You're just getting started...">>\ <<goto "chp3_ludus_intro">>\ <</link>>

<center><img class="scene" src="images/auctionwinner_sibylla.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> The corridor narrows as the guard leads you away from the brighter galleries, torchlight thinning into pools of amber between stretches of blue-black stone. The colosseum has grown quieter with the hour. Somewhere far behind you, servants are still clearing the remains of the auction and whatever celebrations followed it, but here the sound reaches only as a distant murmur beneath the scrape of boots and the occasional clink of chains. The chamber at the end of the passage is smaller than you expected. A pair of candles burn beside a curtained alcove, throwing warm light across rough stone and deep magenta fabric. A ceramic basin rests upon a low table near the wall beside a folded cloth and an untouched cup of wine. There are none of the clustered courtiers who surrounded the noblewomen earlier, no eager witnesses gathered to inspect what the final bid purchased. Only one attendant remains near the doorway beyond, discreet enough that her presence barely intrudes upon the room. Countess Sibylla Cyrasse waits alone. She has changed out of the sleek, pale dress she wore at the banquet, dark curls freed and falling thickly around her dark face and shoulders. A loose nightgown of pale lavender silk hangs from her frame, soft at the sleeves and gathered beneath the breasts before flowing loosely downward. Against the darkness of her skin, the fabric seems almost luminous. Her posture remains composed, pale blue eyes calm and steady, studying you with the same restrained attention she gave you when you first interrupted Lord Harkis. The handler brings you to a stop several paces away as the silence continues to settle. Then comes her voice: ''"I imagine this outcome surprised you."'' You glance at her. ''"Did it surprise you?"'' The faintest movement touches one corner of her mouth, prompting her to reach for a nearby glass of wine, although she only turns the cup beneath her fingertips at first. ''"More than I would care to admit. I expected to bid... but to the end?"'' Her eyes return to yours. ''"Then everyone else kept raising their hands, and I discovered that uncertainty became remarkably expensive once pride was involved."'' A trace of dry humor passes through her expression. ''"Fortunately, pride was not the only thing involved."'' <<if $pa_sibylla_approach is "subtle">>\ Her gaze lingers upon you for another moment. ''"You first caught my attention because you understood a problem without needing to make yourself the center of it."'' The memory of Harkis returns easily: the crowded alcove, Sibylla trapped inside a conversation she clearly wanted ended, the simple fiction you placed between them instead of turning the interruption into a challenge. ''"You saw what I wanted before I had to ask for it,"'' she continues. ''"And you solved it without humiliating him merely because you could."'' Her eyes narrow by a fraction. ''"That is rarer than strength. Particularly among men eager to demonstrate it."'' <<elseif $pa_sibylla_approach is "bold">>\ Her eyes narrow faintly as she looks you over. ''"You first caught my attention by inserting yourself into a conversation that could have gone rather badly for you."'' Harkis's expression flashes through your memory; offended disbelief giving way to the cold calculation of a man accustomed to consequences arriving on his behalf. ''"It was reckless,"'' Sibylla says. ''"I told you that then, and my judgment hasn't altered."'' A small curve appears at the edge of her mouth. ''"But you saw plainly that I wanted him gone, and you acted. There are circumstances where that instinct gets a man killed. And at others... hesitation."'' <<else>>\ Something quieter enters her expression. ''"You first caught my attention because you did something most men seem incapable of doing once they believe themselves useful. You waited."'' You remember meeting her gaze across the room and leaving the choice in her hands rather than simply charging into the conversation with Harkis. ''"You gave me the opportunity to decide whether I wanted your intervention instead of deciding for me that I required rescue."'' Her voice remains even, but there is unmistakable approval beneath it. ''"Being useful without immediately seizing control of the situation is a considerably rarer quality than people imagine."'' <</if>>\ ''"That was enough to make me curious,"'' Sibylla says. allowing the recollection to fade as she continues, ''"What came afterward gave the curiosity somewhere to go."'' <<if $pa_sibylla_offer is "pragmatic">>\ Her gaze sharpens slightly. ''"You asked what I would actually expect from a bodyguard."'' The question sounds almost ordinary now, despite the iron at your wrists. ''"I appreciated that."'' She leans back slightly against the chair, lavender silk gathering softly around her waist. ''"Most men hear the possibility of rank, privilege or proximity to power and begin imagining the advantages before anyone has explained the obligations."'' Her eyes move briefly toward the chain. ''"You did the opposite."'' You remember what she told you then: that she didn't need another large man to decorate a doorway, but someone observant enough to recognize danger before the room erupted around it. Someone discreet, capable of understanding that protecting another person doesn't mean deciding everything for them. ''"Buying your contract doesn't answer that question,"'' Sibylla continues. ''"It merely changes the circumstances around it."'' Her fingers trace once around the rim of her cup. ''"Coin can purchase labor. Presence. Obedience, to some extent."'' Her expression grows more thoughtful. ''"It cannot purchase judgment. And it certainly cannot purchase trust."'' The faintest hint of amusement returns. ''"As I believe I already told you, trust is considerably more expensive."'' You almost smile. ''"So this isn't the position?"'' ''"No. This is the opportunity to discover whether you might ever be suited for it."'' <<elseif $pa_sibylla_offer is "ambitious">>\ ''"You also informed me that you were capable of far more than standing beside a door."'' The words carry just enough dry amusement to make the memory uncomfortable. Sibylla lifts her cup but doesn't drink. ''"I appear to have spent rather a great deal of silver to discover whether that was confidence or merely an impressive piece of boasting."'' You meet her gaze. ''"You think it was boasting?"'' ''"No. That's why I bid."'' The humor fades slightly. ''"Ambition isn't a flaw, $name. But it is a vulnerability if you allow other people to define its direction."'' Her eyes settle more firmly upon yours. ''"The ludus will offer you one kind of ascent. Victories. Recognition. Better quarters, perhaps. A name people shout because they enjoyed watching you survive."'' She turns the cup once between her fingers. ''"Others will offer different ladders. Coin. Favor. Privilege. Influence."'' A pause follows. ''"All of them will be very eager to explain what //more// should mean to you. So remember what you told me."'' Her gaze doesn't leave yours. ''"If you are capable of more, decide for yourself what more is before someone richer decides it for you."'' <<elseif $pa_sibylla_offer is "oath">>\ Her expression changes almost imperceptibly. ''"And then you gave me an answer I had not expected. You told me that if you gave your word, you would keep it. I warned you not to offer words like that too freely."'' Her pale eyes drift briefly toward the candle flame. ''"People in my world speak about loyalty as though it were another commodity. Something purchased with rank, marriage, patronage, fear. We praise oaths because we enjoy benefiting from them."'' Her fingers tighten almost invisibly against the cup. ''"We are rather less enthusiastic about what they cost the person who keeps them."'' For an instant, the mention of her husband seems to remain between you without either of you needing to repeat the story. A man who gave his word and died keeping it. ''"I didn't bid because I believe you owe me loyalty."'' There's steel in the words now. ''"I bid because when you spoke about giving your word, I believed you understood that it should mean something when you finally chose to give it."'' The admission seems to cost her slightly more than the silver. ''"That may still make both of us foolish. But I told you once that I would rather trust a fragile truth than a convenient lie. Apparently I meant that too."'' <<else>>\ Sibylla studies you for another quiet moment. ''"Whatever else I saw, I saw enough to believe the purchase was worth making."'' Her tone remains measured. ''"Whether that proves wisdom or expensive curiosity remains to be discovered."'' <</if>>\ The handler near the door shifts his grip upon your chain. Sibylla shifts a glance toward him before returning her attention to you, slowly placing the untouched wine aside. ''"There's one practical matter we should settle before they take you downstairs. You won't be moved into my household. That was never the arrangement, and changing it now would accomplish nothing except satisfying the vanity of possession."'' She folds her hands loosely in her lap. ''"House Varro already has the ludus, the trainers, the physicians and the veterans necessary to teach you how badly prepared you presently are. I see no reason to deprive you of the experience."'' You glance toward the door. ''"So Livia still controls the training."'' ''"Her people do."'' Sibylla inclines her head. ''"You will sleep there, train there and fight through the arrangements already established. Winning your contract didn't suddenly make House Cyrasse competent at producing gladiators."'' Her gaze moves over you thoughtfully. ''"What I purchased was the claim upon what becomes of you afterward."'' <<if $pa_sibylla_offer is "pragmatic">>\ Her expression cools into something more practical. ''"If you survive long enough to become useful outside an arena, then the conversation we had yesterday may cease to be hypothetical."'' ''"Wouldn't want to rush into anything."'' The faintest smirk answers you. ''"Good. You keep learning."'' <<elseif $pa_sibylla_offer is "ambitious">>\ ''"If you become what you believe you can become,"'' Sibylla says, ''"Then I expect our earlier conversation may acquire considerably more interesting possibilities."'' Her eyes narrow faintly. ''"But becoming visible isn't the same thing as becoming valuable. Remember that when the crowds begin convincing you otherwise."'' <<elseif $pa_sibylla_offer is "oath">>\ ''"If circumstances change enough for the position we discussed to become possible,"'' Sibylla says, ''"Then perhaps one day we will discover what your word is actually worth."'' <</if>>\ The handler steps forward, and Sibylla doesn't object. For all the money exchanged this afternoon, she makes no attempt to prolong the moment merely because she can. She rises instead, pale silk falling loosely around her as she crosses the short distance between the chair and the edge of the room. Without the formal gown, jewels and careful arrangements of the banquet, she looks less remote than she did when you first saw her beneath the lights of Livia's hall. ''"The ludus will test qualities I have no way of measuring here,"'' she says. ''"Pain. Fatigue. Fear. Perhaps success, if you're unfortunate enough to become accustomed to it."'' Her eyes pass once over your face. ''"Pay attention to what each one teaches you."'' <<if $pa_sibylla_offer is "pragmatic">>\ She considers you for another heartbeat. ''"And remember what you did yesterday. Learn what people actually require before you agree to serve them. The distinction may save you considerable trouble."'' <<elseif $pa_sibylla_offer is "ambitious">>\ Her expression sharpens, eyes holding yours. ''"You said you were meant for more. Decide what that means before the world decides for you."'' <<elseif $pa_sibylla_offer is "oath">>\ Something warmer enters her expression, subtle enough that another man might miss it. ''"Keep your word when you give it, $name. Just be careful who earns it."'' <<else>>\ ''"Surprise me,"'' she says quietly. ''"Preferably in a manner that doesn't require someone to collect your remains from the sand."'' <</if>>\ The handler gathers the slack from your chain, turning you towards the door. ''"$name."'' Sibylla's voice stops you before you cross the threshold. When you look back, she's still standing beneath the candlelight, dark curls framing her face almost entirely now, and for perhaps the first time since you met her, the curiosity behind her composure is easier to see than the noble title concealing it. ''"I didn't spend for a fleeting prize, So don't become one."'' The handler leads you out, Sibylla's gaze following you out. The door closes behind you with a soft wooden thud, leaving the Countess and the quiet warmth of the chamber behind. Ahead, the corridor slopes deeper toward whatever instruction, punishment and opportunity the ludus has prepared for its newest investment. <<link "You're just getting started...">> <<goto "chp3_ludus_intro">> <</link>>

<center>This concludes the current installment of ''Orphan: Chapter 3.33'' for the Gladiator Route. More content will arrive in the next update. Thank you for reading! <a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText" target="_blank"> <img src="images/supportorphan.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></a> ''Orphan'' couldn’t exist without the faith of my Patrons. In ancient Rome, a *patronus* was an individual of wealth and influence who supported their *cliens* and in return: loyalty, action, and glory flowed upward. Patronage wasn’t charity. It was a bond. A pact. We’re entering a new age where this ancient truth matters again. If you believe in ''Orphan''; player-driven storytelling, dangerous choices, and tales of Men who defy the impossible, then cast your vote. Support me. The world needs more anabolic tales and High Thumos adventures. We still need stories that sharpen the will and stir the blood. Your support fuels this work: not slop, but something worthy of your name and memory. Together, we can soak in the glory of Dosmera. I'll do my best to make the journey worthwhile. In December, we successfully published two major chapters: ''Chapter 3.31 — First Contact (Dec 13, 2025)'' 🩸 +60k new words • 🖼️ 14 new images • 🗺️ Interactive Ludus Map ⚔️ Spar the Champion • 🖤 Tanae “Raven” Balcony Scene (Uncut+) ''Chapter 3.32 — The Price of Freedom (Dec 31, 2025)'' 🗝️ +50k new words • 🎭 10+ new images • 🔀 Alternative Endings 🗡️ Action-packed escape attempts (multiple routes, multiple outcomes) ⛓️ Consequences: capture, dungeon, death & escape variations In March of 2026, I'm going to continue this aggressive momentum with a big update focused on the Harrowing, serving as the first real introduction to Orphan's dark magick and the sacrifice that it entails in the Academy/Ascender route. ''Like what you've seen? Then lend me your support!'' [[Enter the Credits →|credits]]</center> <<bgmstop 15>>

Your pulse catches. Memory presses down, unbidden. Your mind stirs back to that chase in the alleys. That fateful haze of day where you stumbled upon Mearesdes’ lair; the night before Rayner came, and Fredrick helped wrench your path toward Highrock. It all began with her. Cobblestones slick beneath your boots, the stink of refuse and smoke heavy in the steam of Undertown's shadows. She was quick, quicker than anyone her size had the right to be, darting through cracks and crevices; a sly scrap of a creature with eyes that gleamed too bright for dusk. In hindsight, it was foolish following her so deep into the dark, dank recesses of that long alleyway. But for some reason, you weren't willing to let those coins go. Fredrick and you could've, would've, survived without. Perhaps it was the principal of it all. You weren't willing to let them go without a fight. <<if ($intro_goblinout_cowboy is true) or ($intro_goblinin_cowboy is true)>> And when you finally had her in your grip, wrists pinned, heat rising off her skin, you knew it wasn’t only the coins you were after. She didn't break away; the fight twisted into something else, breath hot against your cheek, her eyes gleaming like molten gold in the half-light. You remember the reckless way you pinned her, the taste of sweat and stone dust on her lips, the scrape of nails against your back and arms. She was defiant even as she yielded, biting back gasps that betrayed more than she wanted to give. It wasn’t about the pouch anymore, nor the chase, not even the victory. It was about heat, about claiming and being claimed in turn; a memory burned so deep it stirs even now. <<set $goblin_ch1_outcome = "cowboy">> [[Back to the present.|chp3_nightwatch_servant_goblinthief]] <<elseif ($intro_goblinout_bastard is true) or ($intro_goblinin_bastard is true)>> And when you finally had her in your grip, muscle and bone straining beneath your hands, her defiance buckling, you knew you could end it however you pleased. She thrashed like a trapped animal, but you pressed her down, every cry wrung out of her like a confession. You remember the way she spat curses between ragged breaths, how her defiance only sharpened the cruelty in your hands. There was no softness in it, no mercy; only the satisfaction of seeing her struggle weaken, of knowing you had her, and that she could do nothing to stop you. The coins were long forgotten. What mattered was possession. Power. The raw imprint of your will on hers. A mark you can still feel in your blood and loins. <<set $goblin_ch1_outcome = "bastard">> [[Back to the present.|chp3_nightwatch_servant_goblinthief]] <<else>> And when you finally had her in your grip, chest heaving, the world narrowed to a single decision. What choice did you make? <<set $goblin_ch1_outcome = undefined>> [[You dragged her into the arms of the Legion.|chp3_nightwatch_servant_arrest]] [[You gave her a harsh warning.|chp3_nightwatch_servant_warning]] [[You wished her better luck next time.|chp3_nightwatch_servant_spared]] <</if>>

She hasn’t seen you yet. You keep your distance at first, trailing her down the corridor. Each step is measured, light as breath, the clamor of the servants fading behind you as she drifts deeper into the quieter halls. The lamplight flickers against her frilled skirt, her kerchiefed head dipping as though she has every right to be here. You match her pace, careful not to let your boots strike too loud against the boards. She turns left at a junction, then right again, slipping further away from the watchful eyes of the Academy’s night staff. You hesitate at each corner, pressing close to the wall, ears straining for her footsteps. The tension tightens in your chest — if she glances back too soon, you’ll be caught. If she vanishes altogether, you’ll lose her. At last, she disappears into a doorway left half-open, and you edge forward one careful step at a time. The corridor bends into what must be a small faculty suite; a professor’s quarters, doors left carelessly ajar. Inside, the goblin moves with practiced grace, skirts swishing around her legs, apron tied crisp against her waist. The frilled black-and-white uniform flatters in ways it was never meant to: snug bodice, flared skirt, wide hips shifting in rhythm with her steps. She hums as she works, stacking papers, folding a blanket with tidy precision. But then her hands change purpose. Drawers slide open too quietly, her eyes flicking side to side. She fingers through coin purses, sealed envelopes, a small locked casket on the desk. The image of a servant melts away and the truth shines through; an alley thief casing her mark, every gesture as natural as breath. A predator in lace and frills. You watch from the threshold, heartbeat steadying, wondering if she’ll notice the weight of your stare, or if you’ll be the one to break the silence first. <<if $goblin_ch1_outcome is "cowboy">> She turns at last, skirts flaring just enough to remind you how much she enjoys being looked at. Her eyes widen, not with shock but with the sudden recognition of something half-remembered in the dark. Then that smirk slides back onto her lips, the same one she wore when the chase turned into something else entirely. Her voice is a drawl, sly and playful. ''“Figures it’d be you again. Couldn’t get enough of me the first time, could you, hero?”'' The word drips half-taunt, half-invitation, like she’s testing how far she can press before you bite. ''“Missed me, did you?”'' She laughs, low and knowing, before leaning her back against the professor’s trunk. One hand lingers on the edge of her apron as she tilts her hips forward, the motion equal parts casual and suggestive. Her eyes linger on you, glittering with that same reckless spark as before, as though daring you to chase her all over again. <<elseif $goblin_ch1_outcome is "bastard">> She notices you in the doorway, and the change is instant; her spine stiffens, chin lifts, eyes narrowing with a heat that isn’t only anger. The memory of how you had her once, pressed down and unwilling to yield, flickers across her gaze as surely as if it happened a heartbeat ago. ''“You.”'' Her voice is sharp, bitter-sweet. ''“Still prowling halls you don’t own. Gonna ruin me again, or just watch this time?”'' The words are venom, but the curve of her lips says she hasn’t forgotten the tension either. ''“Depends if you’re asking to be ruined.”'' She sucks in a breath through her teeth, eyes flashing, then deliberately slides back against the battered chest. Her arms fold under her breasts, her stance mocking, defiant. But the way her mouth trembles at the edges betrays the game she’s playing. She’s not cowed, but provoking. <<elseif $goblin_ch1_outcome is "arrest">> She turns, clutching the edge of the drawer she was rifling through. The instant her eyes meet yours, her whole body stiffens, shoulders drawing tight, chin lifting in defiance she doesn’t quite feel. The mask of a maid drops away as quickly as it was donned, leaving only the goblin thief you remember; cornered, wary, the memory of the chase and chains still clinging to her like a shadow. Her scowl sharpens, but beneath it you catch the twitch of unease, the calculation of someone already planning her escape. ''“Legion’s hound,”'' she spits, though the words quaver. Her fingers curl white-knuckled around the drawer’s handle. ''“What, here to finish the job? Or do they pay you extra to keep me on a leash?”'' ''“Easy now… I’m not here to drag you off again.”'' For a heartbeat she doesn’t move, eyes narrowing as if weighing whether to believe you. Then, with a sharp exhale, she lets go of the drawer’s edge and shifts back, resting against a heavy trunk with arms crossed. The scowl doesn’t fade, but the fight in her posture eases just enough to hear you out. <<elseif $goblin_ch1_outcome is "warning">> The goblin pauses mid-motion, fingers hovering over the professor’s lockbox, ears twitching at the sound of your breath in the doorway. When she turns, there’s no fear; just the narrowed gaze of someone who remembers exactly how close you came to breaking her once before. Her lips press tight, the echo of your old threat still fresh enough to sour her expression. She exhales sharply, as if annoyed by the inconvenience of running into you, then lets her eyes flick back to the desk with a dismissive tilt. ''“Didn’t think you’d still be stalking me,”'' she mutters, her tone barbed but not without a grudging recognition. ''“What’ll it be this time... another warning, or something sharper?”'' ''“Neither. Just curious why you’re here.”'' Her ears flick back, suspicion still simmering, but the sharpness in her stance dulls. She sidesteps and leans one hip against a battered trunk, folding her arms as though testing whether your curiosity is genuine. Her expression says she doesn’t trust you, but she’ll play along-- for now. <<elseif $goblin_ch1_outcome is "spared">> The drawer clicks shut under her hand as she finally notices you standing there. For a beat too long she just stares, wide-eyed, as though unsure if the sight of you is some cruel trick of memory. Her mouth works once, twice, without sound, and only then does she manage to twist her expression into something resembling composure. She lets out a short laugh, a sound caught between surprise and bravado. ''“Well, if it isn’t my lucky star,”'' she teases, though her eyes still study you with caution. One hand lingers on the lockbox, but her smirk bends crooked. ''“Last time you let me walk. Think fortune’s about to smile twice?”'' ''“Depends. Haven’t decided if I’m feeling generous tonight.”'' Her brow arches, smirk tugging wider as if she can’t quite tell whether you’re bluffing or serious. She eases back onto the trunk behind her, skirts rustling as she settles, the picture of casual defiance. But the way her gaze lingers on you betrays a nervous edge under the humor. <</if>> [[You have questions...|chp3_nightwatch_servant_goblinthief1]]

She hadn’t gone quietly. Her shrieks could have woken the whole of Undertown, each clawing scream threatening to bring down blades on your back. You still remember the sharp downward cut of your fist, and the fleshy impact. How limp and light her small body felt in your arms, heat still clinging to her skin as you hauled her with you through the dank dark of the Third Quarter. You didn't savor the victory; you just did what you felt was necessary. When she woke, she thrashed like a devil on your shoulder, gagged and muffled cries drawing eyes once you emerged from the long, stretching shadows of the alleys. But to the onlookers, it wasn't especially unusual. Just a goblin, trussed and carried like game through the market. No one cares much for the dregs of society. It was at the intersection you saw him: Xander. Cropped black hair, bronze breastplate glinting red in the lamplight, an old friend now wearing the Legion’s colors. He spotted you first, eyes widening at the sight of your prize. The goblin squirmed at your feet, and Xander only laughed, giving her a sharp nudge with his boot before grinning up at you. ''“Ran her down, huh? I’m not surprised.”'' Then came the words that stuck: ''“Shit, you should consider joinin’ the Legion, $name. I think you’d fit right in.”'' The irony cuts sharper now. You might yet wear their black, if the Ascender’s path doesn’t take you. Perhaps it was her fate you handed over that day; perhaps it was your own reflection, bound and waiting on the stones. Yet, today, here and now... she wears neither chains nor collar. <<set $goblin_ch1_outcome = "arrest">> [[Back to the present.|chp3_nightwatch_servant_goblinthief]]

You had her cornered at last, breath sawing in your chest, her back pressed against damp stone. She spat curses, eyes burning like hot coals, but you broke her... contained her. The words stick with you more than the blows. ''“Don’t steal from me again.”'' Simple, flat, carried on the weight of exhaustion and resolve. No triumph, no gloating, just a decisive verdict. She blinked up at you, face twisted between anger and something else, the first ember of respect buried beneath her scowl. Her breathing slowed, a tremor running through her shoulders. ''“…Right,”'' she muttered, as though testing the shape of the word. She was still glaring, still bristling, but her tone betrayed that she understood. You had beaten her, and she would not forget it. You left her there in the shadows, clutching her ribs, coins clinking once more along your belt. It wasn’t mercy and it wasn’t cruelty. It was a line drawn; one you expected her never to cross again. Yet, here she is. Somewhere you never would've expected. <<set $goblin_ch1_outcome = "warning">> [[Back to the present.|chp3_nightwatch_servant_goblinthief]]

You had her pinned, her wrist hot beneath your grip, breath ragged from the chase. The pouch was yours again, the fight bled out of her in fits and starts. You could have dragged her through the streets, could have made an example of her. Instead, you found yourself laughing through the ache in your chest. ''“Better luck next time, eh? Pick someone slower, maybe.”'' The words tumbled out half in jest, half in something else you couldn’t quite name. Not pity, but not triumph either. For a heartbeat she only stared, blinking as though the world had tilted. Then, slowly, her lips quirked into the smallest of smirks. ''“I’ll try my best… roundear.”'' The bite was still there, sharp and mocking, but under it you caught the glimmer of something different: a grudging respect, or at least the recognition that you had bested her fairly. You let her slip free, her laughter trailing into the dark as she vanished down the alleys. The pouch was safe at your belt, but you carried something else home that night too; the sense that you’d made an enemy, or perhaps something stranger, who would remember you just as clearly. And now, here she is... before you, somewhere you never would've expected. <<set $goblin_ch1_outcome = "spared">> [[Back to the present.|chp3_nightwatch_servant_goblinthief]]

<center><img src="images/goblinmaid1_redux.webp" style="max-width:100%;"></center> She leans back against the trunk, skirts rustling, her arms folded beneath the swell of her bodice. The lamplight traces her outline, frills catching the glow in teasing flickers. Her gaze doesn’t waver from yours, guarded and wary, but not without curiosity. For the first time since the chase, the two of you have a moment to speak without one running or the other giving chase. You draw a slow breath. There are things you want to know. ''What do you ask her?'' [[“What are you doing here?”|chp3_nightwatch_servant_goblin_q1]] [[“Why are you dressed like that?”|chp3_nightwatch_servant_goblin_q2]] <<if $goblin_ch1_outcome is "arrest">>[[“How did you get out of the Legion’s chains?”|chp3_nightwatch_servant_goblin_q3_arrest]]<</if>> [[Enough questions. Decide where you stand with her.|chp3_nightwatch_servant_goblin_relation]]

She huffs a breath, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling as though caught out in a joke. ''“What am I doin’ here? Same thing I’ve always done. Lookin’ for chances. Coins in the cracks. Doors nobody’s watchin’.”'' Her eyes flick over the tidy room, the folded linens, the dustless shelves. ''“Only difference is, Highrock’s got more cracks than most. Every noble prick in here keeps somethin’ worth takin’, and most of ’em never notice when it goes missin’. That’s all this place is. Fat on the surface, hollow underneath.”'' ''“Well, you picked a hell of a place to do it.”'' That earns you a crooked grin. She taps her claws against the trunk, gaze dropping for a beat. ''“Maybe. Down in the alleys, I knew what I was. Knew the rules. Here… feels different. Quiet. Rich. Like I’m walkin’ through a world that doesn’t expect me in it. And dressed like this—”'' she plucks at the apron with a sharp laugh, ''“I can pass for somethin’ I’m not. A servant. A maid. Even a lady, if no one looks too close.”'' [[Back to your questions.|chp3_nightwatch_servant_goblinthief1]]

She glances down at herself, tugging at the apron strings with a half-scowl. ''“What, this?”'' Her voice drips with indifference, but you can see the twitch of her ears, the way her eyes dart back toward you. ''“Uniform’s a uniform. Put me in rags or in frills, it don’t matter. As long as it gets me close enough to see what’s worth takin’.”'' She plucks at the hem, sharp laugh escaping. ''“Feels ridiculous, sure. But it fools the fools. Nobles see lace and think I must belong. And if I can pass their eyes for a while, that’s all I need.”'' <<if $goblin_ch1_outcome is "cowboy">> Her smirk crooks wider, eyes glinting. ''“Though I suppose it ain’t the first time you’ve seen me dressed up wrong, hm?”'' She lets the words hang a moment before adding, sly and low: ''“So tell me, hero-- this getup do it for you, or would you rather rip it off?”'' ''“Maybe I’ll keep you guessin’ a while longer.”'' You murmur back, amused. She chuckles, leaning back against the trunk, the tension between you crackling like dry tinder. <<elseif $goblin_ch1_outcome is "bastard">> Her grin twists sharper, mocking. ''“What’s the matter? Skirts and lace makin’ you twitch? Does it make you want to lose control again?”'' She tilts her head, gaze darting deliberately down your body before flicking back up, all taunt and teeth. ''“Careful. You don’t want me to answer that.”'' At least you're honest. She barks a laugh, but her hand curls on the trunk as though bracing herself — half challenge, half defense. <</if>> [[More questions...|chp3_nightwatch_servant_goblinthief1]]

Her eyes narrow, the smirk wiped clean in an instant. ''“Chains?”'' she echoes, as if tasting the word. A moment later her laugh slips out, short and humorless. ''“You think I’d hand you the story of how I slipped the Legion? Please. That’s mine to keep.”'' She taps a claw against the lockbox, chin tilting. ''“Let’s just say I have my methods. Haven’t survived this long on dumb luck. Not in the alleys, and not in black iron, neither.”'' Her gaze lingers on you, hard, almost daring you to press. ''“And if I could wriggle out of *that* fate, don’t think for a second you’ll ever keep me where I don’t want to be.”'' [[Back to your questions.|chp3_nightwatch_servant_goblinthief1]]

You let her words settle, studying her as she leans against the trunk with that mix of ease and calculation. For all her talk, it isn’t clear whether she truly belongs here; a maid on Highrock’s rolls, or just another disguise worn for convenience. Papers can be forged. Uniforms can be stolen. But what does it matter? She’s still the same sly creature who once ran you ragged through the narrows, her eyes always measuring, fingers always reaching. If she is a servant, she’s not here to scrub linens. That much is plain. The way she rifled through those drawers, the way her gaze lingered on coin-purses and lockboxes — it was instinct. The work of a prowler, not a housekeeper. And yet… there’s something else. Something in the way she looks at you, half-defiant, half-intrigued. The question pressing against your mind is no longer what she’s doing here, but what you will do with her. Keep her as an enemy? Tolerate her as a troublesome ally? Or lean into the strange heat that flares between you every time your paths cross? <<set $goblin_relationship to undefined>> [["You're a blight on this Academy. Get out of here."|chp3_goblin_rival]] <<ci archetype>> [["Just stay out of my way."|chp3_goblin_frenemies]] <<ci archetype>> [["If you keep tempting me like this, you might find more than coins." (18+)|chp3_goblin_benefits]] <<ci adult>>

''“You’re a blight on this Academy. Get out of here.”'' The words land like a lash. She stiffens, shoulders squaring, then bares her teeth in a crooked grin that doesn’t reach her eyes. For a heartbeat her hand twitches toward the drawer, as though she might grab something sharp, but she forces herself still. The bravado is there, but so is the sting. ''“Blight, eh? Maybe. But blights have a way of rooting deep, roundear. You can chop us down, burn us, stomp us underfoot. But we always come back.”'' Her voice is low, bitter, threaded with a promise. She pushes off from the trunk and brushes her skirt straight, the crisp white frills mocking the filth of her words. Her gaze lingers on you, hostile yet gleaming with a kind of satisfaction, like she’s already plotting when and where she’ll make you regret this. Then, without another word, she slips past you and into the corridor, the swish of her skirts vanishing down the stairwell. The faint jingle of stolen coins follows her into the dark. Just another unwelcome force to contend with during your time here... <<set $goblin_relationship = "rival">> [[Return to your patrol.|chp3_nightwatch_servant]]

''“Just stay out of my way.”'' The goblin blinks, caught between a flinch and a laugh, before her smirk wins out. She leans one shoulder against the trunk, slim arms folding tight, as if she’s weighing how much of your threat is bluff. The sharpness in her eyes lingers, but it’s softened by amusement. ''“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll only trip you when it’s funny.”'' Her tone is teasing, almost light, but the promise beneath it is real enough. She tips her head, silver hair slipping loose from her kerchief, and her gaze lingers with the confidence of someone who knows she’ll cross your path again. For a moment the tension eases. Not gone, but tempered into something sharper, smaller, easier to carry. Frenemies. That’s the word for it. As you turn away, her soft chuckle follows you into the corridor, threading through the hush of the Academy halls like the jingle of a stolen key. Unexpected... but you don't need more enemies in a place like Highrock. So this? Maybe you can work with it. <<set $goblin_relationship = "frenemy">> [[Back to your patrol.|chp3_nightwatch_servant]]

''“If you keep tempting me like this, you might find more than coins.”'' Her smirk falters for only a beat, then curves sharper, lips parting in a laugh that’s all teeth. ''“Careful, roundear. You sound like you’re begging me to rob you blind.”'' She pushes off from the trunk, hips rolling with deliberate sway, skirts whispering around her thighs. Every step is calculated, a dare in lace and frills. ''“You remember how quick I can be,”'' she says, circling just close enough that her fingers brush the desk at your side. ''“Catch me again, and maybe you’ll get your chance. Or maybe I’ll slip away and leave you sweating in the dark. Depends who’s faster this time.”'' Her eyes glint, half-mocking, half-hungry. The air between you tightens with something that isn’t just hostility. It’s the same heat that burned through that first encounter. Rivalry turned physical, defiance turning to fire. She bends forward to “adjust” the hem of her skirt, then looks back over her shoulder with a grin that leaves no doubt she knows exactly what she’s offering. <<set $goblin_relationship = "benefits">> <<set $chp3_goblin_foreplay = 0>> [[Continue...|chp3_goblin_benefits1]]

<center><img src="images/goblinmaid2_blur.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> She bends over the trunk with deliberate nonchalance, skirts swaying, the frilled apron tightening across her hips as though it were cut to draw your eyes there. When you step closer, she glances back with a sly grin, lips parting just enough to let her teeth show. ''“I don’t even know your name, y’know…”'' you murmur, voice low, amused at how easily she’s baiting you. Her laugh is soft, breathy, the sound of someone who enjoys the game too much. ''“Does it matter?”'' You study her in silence, eyes tracing the shape of her body beneath the borrowed livery. The black bodice strains across her chest, lifting the swell of her breasts against pale lace. The skirt clings to the breadth of her thighs, tight where her flesh is thickest, the green of her skin only visible at the cuffs and the teasing glimpse of calf above her stockings. She shifts her weight just enough for the curve of her ass to rise higher, full and round beneath the frills, daring you to keep looking. Her lips twitch in a faint smile when she catches your gaze, and for a long moment, nothing else exists but the space between you. ''“No,”'' you answer at last, your voice steady, heat threading the word as your hands finally close over her. [[She's waiting for you to make your move.|chp3_goblin_benefits_foreplay]]

<center><img src="images/goblinmaid2_blur.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Your hands claim her, palming the thief's thick curves all while your fingers dig readily into plush green flesh through soft lace and cloth. Her breath escapes in sharp, little sounds, half-laugh, half-gasp, wide hips pressing back against your grip as if daring you to squeeze harder. The game has changed. Her body thrums under your touch, hot and alive, the heat undeniable through the thin livery. That little skirt rides higher as she shifts, stretched taut across her meaty green thighs, baiting you again. But this time, she’s within reach, every curve and scar of her feminine frame pressed against your grasp, demanding more. ''"What now, roundear?"'' She teases low, breath husky. What do you do? [[Spank her ass.|chp3_goblin_ftb]] [[Grope her body.|chp3_goblin_ftb]] [[Suck on her neck.|chp3_goblin_ftb]] [[Go straight to fucking her.|chp3_goblin_ftb]]

The second floor has only grown busier as the night deepens. Lamps burn lower, but their glow is steadier, like coals banked against the dark. You pass tired voices carrying up stairwells, servants swapping gossip in hushed tones, and the endless clatter of keys against belt-hooks. The warmth here doesn’t fade. It thickens, heavy with soap, boiled starch, and the sour-sweet scent of sweat clinging to linen. The rhythm is not your own. These people belong here, moving in and out of chambers with the ease of muscle memory. You are a stranger cutting through their world, and they glance right past you, seeing only a uniform, a patrol, another cog in the Academy’s endless machinery. For a moment you almost forget you’re intruding. Almost. Then you notice her. Just ahead, between two carts of folded towels, a short figure darts into view; kerchief knotted neatly, apron tied tight, head bowed in practiced humility. Nothing strange, save the skin beneath the lamplight: a shade too grey-green to pass for human, ears too sharp to be mistaken for fatigue. A goblin in Highrock livery. Her. Black-and-white frills catch the lamplight, skirt swaying as she bends, the apron pulled snug over narrow waist and full, rounded hips. Impossible. It can’t be; not here, not like this. Yet your pulse knows before your mind admits it. The thief. <<bgm "drips-of-blood" 0.5 6>> [[Your mind stirs back to the chase.|chp3_nightwatch_servant_goblinflash]] <<set $nightwatch_goblin_met = false>> <<set $nightwatch_goblin_lewd = false>> <<set $nightwatch_bath_threesome = false>> <<set $nightwatch_bath_cornered = false>> <<set $nightwatch_assem = false>>

The pulse grows louder, steadier, until it swallows the silence. Then a voice rises through it—quiet, almost kind: ''"You don't remember, do you?"'' Each dream begins the same: with light falling through dust, with breath drawn into a body that isn’t ready for it. Dosmera moves again, finding new rhythm in old flesh. You have walked these streets. You've killed in their alleys, kissed in their ruins, Died in their gutters more times than you can remember. And each time the world found a way to call you back. You’ve been a beggar, a beast, a lover, a tyrant. You’ve prayed to gods that never listened and whispered to shadows that always did. Each time, you thought the pain meant something. Each time, you believed it might end. But it never does. Still, something in you resists, a flicker of defiance beneath all that exhaustion. The part of you that remembers before the fall. Before chains and before your many names. The voice bleeds into the dark, deep and ancient as gravity. <<sfx "heartbeat2" 0.8 5 fadein 2>> <span class="cosmic-link">[[“Again.”|ccthree]]</span>

The breath hangs in your throat, half-born. The void watches. The pulse of Dosmera slows, Steady as a heartbeat beneath a cosmic ocean. ''“What shape will your soul take this time?”'' The voice is vast. It drifts between tones, between centuries. The Sorcerer? The City? Or something older still, speaking through both, directly unto you. ''“Every shard is cut along the same grain,”'' it says. ''“Each believes itself new. Each imagines it can escape the pattern.”'' The darkness shifts, folding in on itself. Within it, faint outlines shimmer; possibilities, not yet people. You sense weight in them: strength, motion, thought. <<sfx "tight-breath" 0.6>> <span class="cosmic-link">[["The three strands of Will from which all lives are woven."|cc4]]</span>

Three strands glimmer in the dark. <<link '<span class="stat-lore-link">Might</span>'>> <<run openStatInfo("stat_popup_might", "Might")>> <</link>> ✦ <<link '<span class="stat-lore-link">Mobility</span>'>> <<run openStatInfo("stat_popup_mobility", "Mobility")>> <</link>> ✦ <<link '<span class="stat-lore-link">Mind</span>'>> <<run openStatInfo("stat_popup_mind", "Mind")>> <</link>> Not virtues, nor blessings. Tools. ''“Body, breath, and dream. You will be bound to all three, but one must lead, and one will follow. This is not true freedom, orphan, but a small mercy of choice.”'' The light sharpens around you, cutting deeper with every word. Each flash reveals fragments of you that might be: a blade raised, a hand extended, a heart breaking open. ''“Rebirth carries its own destiny,”'' the voice continues, almost gently. ''“The thread is already tied. But how tightly it strangles, how far it runs before the knot pulls—that is yours to decide.”'' The pulse quickens again, violet and hot. The silhouettes begin to crystallize into clearer shapes. Six, perhaps more, each humming with a different gravity, each whispering with a different kind of hunger. ''“Choose, then. Choose the echo that calls to you. It won't change where you end. Only how you get there.”'' The light flares once more, spilling through the cracks of the void where the air tastes of iron and birth. <<sfx "geomorph" 0.7>> <span class="cosmic-link">[[The weighing begins.|cc5]]</span>

The moons ruptured and scattered like wet bone, And from their marrow spilled the first rain of metal. They say the Sorcerer-King led the survivors of that first descent. That he birthed Cradle from the wreckage: a city raised to drink the fever from the world. He bound a chain of stars around Dosmera’s heart and taught men to kneel by its rhythm. Yet the chain was never meant to bind. It was meant to feed. So the city grew, brick upon brick, generation after generation, drinking from the same violet pulse that once promised transcendence. The light that birthed the moons now seeps through every wall, every vein, every dream. And still she turns, vast and patient, Her gaze fixed upon the ruin that remembers her. Some believe Dosmera sleeps. Some believe she watches. Some believe she is the dream, And we are the fragments still trying to wake. Whatever truth remains, it hums beneath your ribs now—a low, distant vibration, like the first breath before a scream. <span class="cosmic-link">[[Like a heartbeat.|cc2]]</span> <<sfx "double_lightning" 0.7>>

''"Again, the shard wakes and the old song begins.”'' He's not speaking to you, not entirely. He's measuring you; tasting the flavor of your Will as it trembles into being. ''“I know how your story starts,”'' he murmurs, ''“With birth — brief and cruel. With a hand that takes, and a voice that lies. With separation, before you even know the word.”'' ''“You will wander. You will bleed. You will forget.”'' ''“There will be a mentor, for a time. They will see something in you no one else does. Perhaps they will be right.”'' ''“And then... suffering. So much of it. Enough to crush a thousand weaker souls. But you aren't weak, are you?”'' ''“You will learn to endure it. You will sharpen. And when the city finally decides to notice you, it'll be to either chain you, or crown you. Slavery or ascent."'' ''“Death, darkness, defeat; life, light, love."'' A pulse passes through you — violet, endless, aching. ''"It will all come for you, dear orphan. It always does.”'' For a moment, you remember every face you’ve ever loved and every scream that ever carried your name. Then the light returns. And with it, the first breath of your next life. <<sfx "geomorph" 0.7>> <span class="cosmic-link">[[The feeling is starting to come back to you.|cc3]]</span>

Every echo is you. Every life, A reflection cast upon Dosmera's light. You have worn these faces before, and you will again. In the end, all souls return to the same violet sea. ''"Make your choice. Start weaving the tapestry of fate."'' <div class="arch-screen"> <div class="arch-grid"> <button class="arch-card" type="button" data-passage="card_runner" aria-label="THE RUNNER" data-sfxHoverId="ritual-hover" data-sfxHoverVol="0.8" data-sfxHoverOpts="fadein 0.15"> <img src="images/card_runner.webp" alt="THE RUNNER"> <span class="arch-caption"> <span class="t">THE RUNNER</span> <span class="o">Fate at your heels, swifter yet.</span> </span> </button> <button class="arch-card" type="button" data-passage="card_pithound" aria-label="THE PIT-HOUND" data-sfxHoverId="dog-growl" data-sfxHoverVol="0.8" data-sfxHoverOpts="fadein 0.15"> <img src="images/card_pithound.webp" alt="THE PIT-HOUND"> <span class="arch-caption"> <span class="t">THE PIT-HOUND</span> <span class="o">Teeth bared; you were born to bite back.</span> </span> </button> <button class="arch-card" type="button" data-passage="card_blackbrand" aria-label="THE BLACKBRAND" data-sfxHoverId="fire-woosh" data-sfxHoverVol="0.8" data-sfxHoverOpts="fadein 0.15"> <img src="images/card_blackbrand.webp" alt="THE BLACKBRAND"> <span class="arch-caption"> <span class="t">THE BLACKBRAND</span> <span class="o">Old fire in your veins; the world will learn to fear the warmth.</span> </span> </button> <button class="arch-card" type="button" data-passage="card_enforcer" aria-label="THE ENFORCER" data-sfxHoverId="guard-grunt" data-sfxHoverVol="0.8" data-sfxHoverOpts="fadein 0.15"> <img src="images/card_enforcer.webp" alt="THE ENFORCER"> <span class="arch-caption"> <span class="t">THE ENFORCER</span> <span class="o">Weight is your language; the weak will listen.</span> </span> </button> <button class="arch-card" type="button" data-passage="card_cutpurse" aria-label="THE CUTPURSE" data-sfxHoverId="whip" data-sfxHoverVol="0.8" data-sfxHoverOpts="fadein 0.15"> <img src="images/card_cutpurse.webp" alt="THE CUTPURSE"> <span class="arch-caption"> <span class="t">THE CUTPURSE</span> <span class="o">Hands like moths; light becomes a door.</span> </span> </button> <button class="arch-card" type="button" data-passage="card_apprentice" aria-label="THE APPRENTICE" data-sfxHoverId="page-turn" data-sfxHoverVol="0.6" data-sfxHoverOpts="fadein 0.15"> <img src="images/card_apprentice.webp" alt="THE APPRENTICE"> <span class="arch-caption"> <span class="t">THE APPRENTICE</span> <span class="o">Ink in the blood; every thought a weapon waiting.</span> </span> </button> <button class="arch-card" type="button" data-passage="defythescale" aria-label="DEFY THE SCALE" data-sfxHoverId="epic-whoosh" data-sfxHoverVol="1.0" data-sfxHoverOpts="fadein 0.15"> <img src="images/defythescale.webp" alt="DEFY THE SCALE"> <span class="arch-caption"> <span class="t">DEFY THE SCALE</span> <span class="o">The thread frays; something new remembers itself.</span> </span> </button> </div> </div> <<sfx "dark-boom" 0.9>> <<timed 6s>> <<audio "bass-pulse" play loop volume 1.0>> <</timed>>

<<archetypeHeader "THE RUNNER" "Fate at your heels, swifter yet." "images/card_runner.webp">> <div class="archetype-copy"> <p class="fade-in" style="--delay:.50s"> You never stopped moving. Not in this life, nor any before it…</p> <p class="fade-in" style="--delay:1s"> Even when your lungs were ash and your knees glass, still you ran. Because to stop was to grow slow, weak, and to remember.</p> <p class="fade-in" style="--delay:1.5s"> The world has always been too slow for you, and you’ve mistaken its pursuit for fate. But it isn’t fate, child. It’s the echo of everything you’ve outpaced.</p> </div> <<traitSheet "runner">> <center> <div class="archetype-links"> <<linkreplace "Embody this hunger">> <<pickArchetype "runner">> <<goto "cc_xtra">> <</linkreplace>> <br> <<linkreplace "Choose a different archetype">><<goto "cc5">><</linkreplace>> </div> </center>

<<archetypeHeader "THE PIT-HOUND" "Teeth bared; you were born to bite back." "images/card_pithound.webp">> <div class="archetype-copy"> <p class="fade-in" style="--delay:.50s"> Teeth first. That’s how you learned the world, and how the world learned you. Strength was never your gift. </p> <p class="fade-in" style="--delay:1.1s"> It was your sentence. The world placed its weight on your back and you learned to bear it, teeth first. You've killed for applause, for survival, for silence, and none of it satisfied.</p> <p class="fade-in" style="--delay:1.6s"> You mistake obedience for loyalty, but somewhere beneath the scars, the beast still remembers the taste of freedom.</p> </div> <<traitSheet "pithound">> <center> <div class="archetype-links"> <<linkreplace "Embody this hunger">> <<pickArchetype "pithound">> <<goto "cc_xtra">> <</linkreplace>> <br> <<linkreplace "Choose a different archetype">><<goto "cc5">><</linkreplace>> </div> </center>

<<archetypeHeader "THE ENFORCER" "Weight is your language; the weak will listen." "images/card_enforcer.webp">> <div class="archetype-copy"> <p class="fade-in" style="--delay:.60s"> You were built to carry weight. Doors, debts, other people’s sins.</p> <p class="fade-in" style="--delay:1.0s"> Nothing else ever seemed to last.</p> <p class="fade-in" style="--delay:1.6s"> You’ve learned what silence costs. The way a room changes when you step in, and the way men remember a broken jaw longer than a polite request.</p> <p class="fade-in" style="--delay:2.5s"> Others put their faith in words and banners. But you know what keeps streets clean and walls standing: muscle, discipline, repetition. The world respects the ones who don’t flinch, and you haven’t flinched in many lives.</p> <p class="fade-in" style="--delay:3s"> Perhaps this time, you’ll decide what all that strength is for.</p> </div> <<traitSheet "enforcer">> <center> <div class="archetype-links"> <<linkreplace "Embody this hunger">> <<pickArchetype "enforcer">> <<goto "cc_xtra">> <</linkreplace>> <br> <<linkreplace "Choose a different archetype">><<goto "cc5">><</linkreplace>> </div> </center>

<<archetypeHeader "THE BLACKBRAND" "Old fire in your veins; the world will learn to fear warmth." "images/card_blackbrand.webp">> <div class="archetype-copy"> <p class="fade-in" style="--delay:.50s"> Once, you were the flame they gathered around. Once, you believed your Will alone could bend the world straight.</p> <p class="fade-in" style="--delay:1s"> You burned for truth, for order, for something that would not decay—and when it all fell apart, the fire refused to die with it.</p> <p class="fade-in" style="--delay:1.5s"> Now it moves through you, patient and cruel, waiting to learn whether you'll manage to wield it or be consumed whole.</p> </div> <<traitSheet "blackbrand">> <center> <div class="archetype-links"> <<linkreplace "Embody this hunger">> <<pickArchetype "blackbrand">> <<goto "cc_xtra">> <</linkreplace>> <br> <<linkreplace "Choose a different archetype">><<goto "cc5">><</linkreplace>> </div> </center>

<<archetypeHeader "THE APPRENTICE" "Ink in the blood; every thought a weapon waiting." "images/card_apprentice.webp">> <div class="archetype-copy"> <p class="fade-in" style="--delay:.50s"> You mistake learning for safety.</p> <p class="fade-in" style="--delay:1s"> You gather words the way others hoard food, believing that understanding might spare you the hunger. But knowledge is a flame, and you’ve never learned how to hold it without burning.</p> <p class="fade-in" style="--delay:1.5s"> You are the promise of every failed master, the page that never closes, the experiment that keeps rewriting itself.</p> </div> <<traitSheet "apprentice">> <center> <div class="archetype-links"> <<linkreplace "Embody this hunger">> <<pickArchetype "apprentice">> <<goto "cc_xtra">> <</linkreplace>> <br> <<linkreplace "Choose a different archetype">><<goto "cc5">><</linkreplace>> </div> </center>

<<archetypeHeader "THE CUTPURSE" "Hands like moths; light becomes a door." "images/card_cutpurse.webp">> <div class="archetype-copy"> <p class="fade-in" style="--delay:.50s"> You’ve always been nimble, not just in body but in soul. </p> <p class="fade-in" style="--delay:1s"> You slip between moments like a shadow slipping between shutters. You never steal out of greed—you steal because the world was built to deny you. </p> <p class="fade-in" style="--delay:1.5s"> Every lock is a challenge whispered in your ear, every heartbeat another chance to escape. But the thing you’ve always fled from fastest is belonging.</p> </div> <<traitSheet "cutpurse">> <center> <div class="archetype-links"> <<linkreplace "Embody this hunger">> <<pickArchetype "cutpurse">> <<goto "cc_xtra">> <</linkreplace>> <br> <<linkreplace "Choose a different archetype">><<goto "cc5">><</linkreplace>> </div> </center>

<<archetypeHeader "DEFY THE SCALE" "Refuse their measures; claim your own." "images/defythescale.webp">> <div class="archetype-copy"> <p class="fade-in" style="--delay:.50s"> You won’t be weighed by another man’s myth.</p> <p class="fade-in" style="--delay:.80s"> Every measure is a chain. Every archetype, a cage. Break them.</p> <p class="fade-in" style="--delay:2s"> Let the self be its own scripture, its own sin. The only law that matters now is the one written in your blood. Pick your flesh & bones in the order you please.</p> </div> <<traitPicker>> <hr class="defy-divide"> <<statPicker points=2>> <center> <div class="defy-actions"> <<link "Confirm custom build">> <<set _okShards to ($cc_seq and $cc_seq.slots and $cc_seq.slots.length >= 2 and $cc_seq.slots[0] and $cc_seq.slots[1])>> <<set _req to ["char_height","char_build","char_hairstyle","char_scar","char_tattoo","char_voice"]>> <<set _okTraits to true>> <<for _k range _req>> <<if not setup.TRAITS[_k] or not setup.TRAITS[_k].includes(State.variables[_k])>> <<set _okTraits to false>> <</if>> <</for>> <<if not _okShards>> <<run alert("Choose two soulshards (Might, Mobility, Mind) before continuing.")>> <<elseif not _okTraits>> <<run alert("Set all character traits (height, build, hair, scars, tattoos, voice) before continuing.")>> <<else>> <<applyCustomBuild>> <<goto "cc_xtra">> <</if>> <</link>> <<linkreplace "Choose a different archetype">><<goto "cc5">><</linkreplace>> </div> </center>

Cradle is a city of chains and sighs. The flesh is currency; desire, a kind of sorcery. Heroes are shaped as much by what tempts them, as by what they seize, conquer, claim... This final choice is no mere vanity—it will mark the body through which your soul must suffer and strive. The body is a vessel of fate; its shape, a mirror of hunger. Power and pleasure trade places here as easily as breath. As in all things, the balance of power begins with the body. <hr class="defy-divide"> <<nobr>><center> <h3>Choose your endowment</h3></center> <</nobr>> <<nobr>><div class="cock-picker"> <<link '<img class="cock-img" src="images/endowment_dagger.webp" alt="Short & Sleek"><span class="cock-title">Short & Sleek</span><span class="cock-desc">Easy to overlook. Men judge you by your scars and your skill, not by what hides beneath the loincloth.</span>'>> <<set $char_cock = "short_sleek">> <<goto "cc_summary">> <</link>> <<link '<img class="cock-img" src="images/endowment_gladius.webp" alt="Balanced & Proud"><span class="cock-title">Balanced & Proud</span><span class="cock-desc">Nothing to mock, nothing to worship. You blend into the barracks gossip, until you give them something else to talk about.</span>'>> <<set $char_cock = "balanced">> <<goto "cc_summary">> <</link>> <<link '<img class="cock-img" src="images/endowment_broadsword.webp" alt="Long & Thick"><span class="cock-title">Long & Thick <span class="cock-uncut">UNCUT</span></span><span class="cock-desc">Noticeable at a glance. Certain patrons watch you more closely, gazes lingering; attention that can feel like protection, or like a collar tightening.</span>'>> <<run UI.alert("The Exalted Text has made it clear to me:<br><br>Only Patrons have the longest & thickest dicks!<br><br>Get the UNCUT version of Orphan for the third endowment and more explicit content.<br><br>Full scenes, full loins; the complete story as it's meant to be experienced.")>> <</link>> </div><</nobr>> <<audio "bass-pulse" fadeout>>

<div class="center"><h1>“Answer me. What is your name?”</h1><<textbox "$name" "Blair">> </div> <hr> ''Now, listen to my ruminations.'' Stats in //Orphan// unlock paths others never see; they shape your style in danger and desire alike. At times, they can mean the difference between life and death in this game of choice & great risk. Every decision is akin to rolling the dice and playing for high-stakes; wise investment can help you hedge your bets. When your Thumos burns bright enough through decisive acts, you draw back what was lost: a Soulshard, a sliver of memory, forgotten instinct and blood memory returning to flesh. Each shard you reclaim restores something that was yours before the fall. Might, Mobility or Mind—and through them, you become less an echo and more a whole being once again. The strong remember power. The swift remember grace. The wise remember truth. In time, every choice and every victory will decide what sort of wholeness you rebuild. As your abilities increase, so will your mastery of the world around you. Fortune favors the bold—yet one foolish step can still be your last. <hr class="defy-divide"> <center><h3>''Choose, act, and live with it.''</h3></center> <<nobr>><hr> <div class="center"> <<button "Continue.">> <<goto "cc_farewell">> <</button>> </div> <style> /* Tiny presentational nudges; safe to remove */ .statrecap ul { list-style: none; padding-left: 0; } .statrecap li { margin: .15rem 0; } .center { text-align: center; } </style> <</nobr>>

The pulse thickens, becoming a wet, slow thunder. <<sfx "heartbeat2" 0.8 5 fadein 2>> ''“It is finished,”'' the voice murmurs. Not cruel, but tired, as if it has sung this same farewell a thousand times. ''“You have chosen your shape within the wound. You will forget me soon, as all do.”'' Around you, the light breaks apart into thin violet strands; threads unspooling from a vast hand, drifting through you like falling hair. Each one hums a note of a name you once bore. ''“Every soul is a song half-remembered,”'' the voice continues. ''“You will hum it again in the dark, and think it your own. That is how the world renews itself - through sacred plagiarism.”'' The warmth fades and gravity returns. You feel the city below you like a mouth beginning to open, a million hearts pounding in time with yours. ''“Go then. Wear skin. Touch and be touched. Love as the knife loves the throat. Every moan will be my worship, every death a harvest. Be torn and reknit by every choice you make.”'' The pulse climbs your spine, blooming into your skull. Behind your eyelids you see the outline of a face; neither male nor female, too many eyes, all watching you with ruinous affection. A thousand breaths collapse into one. The voice hisses through the gap: ''"What will you find this time?"'' Then the light implodes, Breath becomes flesh. And the dream begins. <div class="center"> <<button "Colors are flooding into you...">> <<goto "intro_p0">> <</button>> </div>

You turn, intent on retreating, but the splash of water and a sudden laugh betray you. Steam curls in the violet lamplight as a shape rises from the bath — the inked one, water cascading down the dark lines etched across her skin. She moves like someone who’s been waiting for an excuse to stand. The runes and serpents of her tattoos glisten as she steps onto the marble lip, unashamed, hips catching the glow like oiled bronze. The other two remain where they are, still half-hidden in the pool’s veil. The shy one sits waist-deep, arms crossed over her breasts, hair clinging to her collarbone. The blonde drifts behind her, chin resting lazily on folded arms along the edge, her sly smile barely visible through the mist. ''“Leaving so soon?”'' the inked girl asks, voice rough from laughter and steam. ''“You’ve been standing there long enough to see something you like. Thought you could sneak in here and leave before saying hello?”'' She walks closer, each step slow, deliberate, water trailing from her calves to her toes, pattering softly on the stone. You catch the faint scent of lye and rose oil, the heat off her skin, the pulse in her throat. The quiet one averts her gaze but doesn’t look away for long. Her eyes keep flicking up through wet lashes, shy curiosity wrapped in guilt. The blonde only grins wider, a cruel glint behind her amusement. ''“Maybe he’s shy. Or maybe he’s afraid of what he saw. Let him look,"'' She decides, voice low and lilting, ''"He's probably never seen real women before."'' Laughter ripples through the steam. The inked one steps even closer, droplets spattering against your chest. Her arms lay loose at her sides, breasts rising slow and confident with each breath. ''“Well?”'' she urges. ''“Say something.”'' The bath ripples faintly behind her. Steam thickens. Three pairs of eyes; daring, doubtful, and mocking, fixed on you, waiting to see what kind of creature you really are. [[Meet her stare, unflinching - let her know she’s not the only predator here.|chp3_nightwatch_bath_bastard]]

You meet her gaze and let it linger until the silence turns sharp. The corner of your mouth crooks into a challenge. ''“Keep staring like that and I'll think you girls want something."'' The inked girl's laugh slides out as she wades through the water, "Maybe we wanted some privacy, you perv. Maybe watching you squirm now is the least that we deserve." The stean beads on your skin like sweat, but you tilt your head, refusing to give ground. Running your mouth and getting into trouble is where you excel. ''"Don't worry, you've already been making me squirm. Twitch. Grow."'' Her eyes flash with amusement and hunger as she circles you with a slow predator's grace, close enough that her thigh brushes your hip. The touch is accidental only in name. Her hand traces a lazy line along your arm, fingertips dragging through the moisture. ''“You talk big for someone caught sneaking,”'' ''“Wasn’t sneaking,"'' You retort with a roll of your shoulders, ''"I was just hoping you'd extend an invitation."'' ''“Liar.”'' She snorts, much to the blonde's amusement as well. You grin, teeth flashing, ''“Maybe. But you’re still standing here with your tits in my face.”'' She answers that with a breath against your neck, the kind that burns hotter than the water. Behind her, the blonde leans against the edge of the bath, half-smile curving. ''“He’s mouthy,”'' she says softly. ''“I like it when they are.”'' The inked girl shoots her a look over her shoulder, ''“You would.”'' ''“Because you always pick the quiet ones.”'' Their laughter ripples through the chamber, light and predatory. The shy one sinks lower, water to her chin, eyes huge and shimmering with disbelief. But the inked girl's hand catches your jaw, forcing your eyes back to hers. ''“You’re bold, boy.”'' ''“And you’re curious,”'' you answer. ''“Bad mix.”'' She grins, a flash of white teeth in the haze, ''“The best kind.”'' For a heartbeat, neither of you move. Then her thumb drags over your lower lip, tasting the tremor there. The blonde watches, eyes half-lidded, a faint hitch in her breathing she pretends not to feel. The air between you thrums with heat and challenge, steam curling around three bodies like a living thing. Every heartbeat feels like an invitation. Her whisper brushes your ear. ''“Then stay. Let’s see how brave you really are.”'' The blonde’s smirk returns—cool, approving—and the quiet girl turns away, yet doesn’t leave. The bathwater stirs as you step forward. [[You weren't planning on going anywhere. Not yet.|chp3_nightwatch_bath_bastard1]]

You steady your breath and incline your head. “My mistake. I didn’t mean to intrude.” The inked girl arches an eyebrow, water still sliding from her skin. “No?” You try to meet her gaze without flinching. “I was—checking the corridor. Routine watch.” That earns a bright laugh from the blonde, half-hidden behind a shimmer of mist. “Routine watch,” she repeats. “In the women’s bath?” The inked one tilts her head, enjoying the performance. “Then why didn’t you announce yourself?” Her hand gestures lazily toward her chest, to the dark lines of ink glistening on her skin. “Do your duties include staring at my tits?” The question lands like a spark in the air. You feel the heat rise in your neck; the urge to speak wars with the certainty that anything you say will sound foolish. “I—heard movement. Thought it might be—” “A threat?” she cuts in, amused. “Do I look like one?” You hesitate. The blonde laughs again, soft and cruel. “To him? Absolutely.” The quiet girl sinks a little deeper into the pool, eyes flicking between you and Asha, unsure whether to pity or envy you. Asha steps closer, the marble cool beneath her wet feet. “You could’ve turned away,” she says. “Instead you waited. Wanted a better look?” You hold her stare. It’s not anger that fills you, but something rawer—shame threaded with heat. You open your mouth, then close it again. There’s nothing left to defend. “That’s what I thought,” she murmurs. Her tone softens, almost kind. “Next time, soldier, knock first.” The blonde hums in agreement, stretching languidly against the edge. “Or don’t,” she adds. “He looks prettier when he’s guilty.” Their laughter chases you as you back toward the door, every heartbeat echoing in the steam. Asha’s smile follows you out—sharp, knowing, and not entirely unkind.

You blink through the haze, caught halfway between fight and grin. “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” you say, voice low, even. “Guess my timing’s as bad as my luck.” The inked girl’s laugh cuts through the steam — throaty, genuine. “Luck had nothing to do with it. You’ve been standing there long enough to pick favorites.” You raise a hand, half-surrender, half-jest. “That obvious?” “Painfully.” The blonde props her chin on her forearm, smile lazy and feline. “And which of us won, hm?” “Wouldn’t dare say. The loser might drown me.” That earns another ripple of laughter. Even the shy one glances up, her lips parting in the ghost of a smile before she looks away again. The inked girl steps nearer — not as a predator this time, but like someone indulging a dare. “You could’ve turned around,” she says. “And miss the part where I get scolded by three naked women? That’d be rude.” Her smirk falters just enough to betray amusement. She shakes her head, water scattering in fine drops across your chest. “You’ve got nerve.” [[Threaten them. Wheel n' deal...| [[Play dumb. You're in over your head.|

Your fingers close around the inked girl’s wrist, halting her thumb’s taunting drag against your lip. Steam rasps between your clenched teeth as you twist her arm just enough to make her breath catch - not pain, but promise. Her pupils flare, tattoos rippling as her lean muscles tense in defiance. ''“Bold,”'' she purrs, her free hand sliding down your chest, nails scraping fabric. ''“But you’re overdressed for the occasion.”'' The blonde rises from the pool in a slow arc of dripping gold, water sluicing down the tight curve of her waist. She steps behind you, her laugh a hot hum against your shoulder. ''“Let’s fix that,”'' she murmurs, fingers already working at the seams of your robes and cloth undergarments. She starts to peel them away, each piece dampening where they drop along the wet stone floor. You don’t look back. Your gaze stays locked on the inked one as the blonde’s hands slip beneath your tunic, her wet palms skating up your abdomen. Her thumbs hook into the waist of your trousers, tugging just shy of insistence. The inked girl smirks, watching your jaw tighten as calloused fingers brush the trail of hair below your navel. ''“Problem?”'' she taunts, leaning in until her pert breasts graze your chest. One dark nipple catches on a scar, a sharp hitch in her breath betraying her cool facade. You seize her hip, fingers digging into the softness above her thigh. She hiss-laughs, arching into the grip as you yank her flush against the hardening line of your body. ''“Eager,”'' you mutter, your other hand fisting in her damp curls. The blonde’s teeth find your earlobe. ''“He’s all bark,”'' she tells the inked girl, even as her hand slips lower, cupping you through the fabric. ''“Feel how he shakes.”'' It’s true—your pulse thunders under her palm, traitorous, alive. The inked girl grinds her hip against yours, her smirk widening as she feels it too. ''“Bark’s useful,”'' she says, her own hand sliding between you to rip the laces of your trousers. ''“For kindling.”'' <<if $morningafter_what is true>> ''"What,"'' You murmur, after a flicker of mental recognition, remembering that fateful morning before you left for Highrock and the questions that you managed to ask prior to embarking upon your pilgrimage to the First Quarter. ''"Did Rayner teach you that one?"'' You asked what he taught that morning, and he told you: Instructor of Survival. She snorts through her nostrils, attention briefly flicking up to meet your gaze. ''"How'd you know that, newphie? You're clever for a cocky bastard, aren't you?"'' Before you can reply, she gives your trousers a sharp, downward tug. <</if>> The quiet one gasps as the fabric falls. Water sloshes as she shifts on the steps, knees pressing together, her gaze darting down to your exposed cock and her friend's eager hands. The inked girl doesn’t wait long, her grip rough and sudden, thumb circling the head with deliberate slowness as she asseses you. ''“Look at him,”'' the blonde coos, her chin hooked over your shoulder. ''“All that swagger, and he’s already dripping.”'' <<if $char_cock is "short_sleek">> The inked girl’s smirk falters for a heartbeat as her grip closes around you, fingers meeting easily, your cock compact and smooth against her palm. She huffs a laugh, thumb brushing the flushed head. ''“Cute,”'' she taunts, but her pulse jumps when you rock forward, the blunt tip nudging her inner wrist. The blonde peers over your shoulder, her breath hitching as she watches her companion’s hand glide effortlessly from base to tip, slick and efficient. ''“Easy to handle,”'' the blonde murmurs, her voice edged with unexpected hunger. She presses closer, her nipple grazing your spine. ''“Bet he’s fast.”'' The inked girl’s grip tightens, her strokes quickening, water sluicing between her fingers. You don’t flinch, your hand sliding down to knead her ass, fingers digging into the plush curve. ''“Cute,”'' you growl, ''“but you’re already dripping for it.”'' She hisses as your thumb finds her clit, circling roughly. The quiet one whimpers, her thighs squeezing together at the sight—your cock glistening, relentless, proving size means nothing when every thrust of the inked girl’s wrist is met with a punishing grind of your digits. <<elseif $char_cock is "balanced">> Her fingers wrap around you snugly, your cock filling her grip without straining; thick enough to stretch her knuckles, but not enough to choke. The inked girl hums approval, thumb slowly swiping a bead of precum. ''“Just right,”'' she mutters, testing the weight. The blonde laughs, low and throaty, her palm sliding over your ass. ''“Perfect for riding,”'' she purrs, her teeth grazing your shoulder. You buck into the inked girl’s fist, the crown catching her inner wrist with each stroke. She meets your rhythm, free hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. ''“Think you can keep up?”'' she challenges, but her breath hitches when you suddenly yank her closer, your cock sliding against her stomach, leaving a glistening trail. The quiet one’s lips part, her hand drifting underwater—whether to touch herself or steady herself, she won’t say. The blonde’s nails rake down your back. ''“Look at him,”'' she coos to the inked girl. ''“Already wants to use it.”'' <<else>> Her fingers barely meet around your girth, the inked girl’s eyes widening as she grips you; long, heavy, veins prominent under the steam-slick skin. ''“Fuck,”'' she breathes, her defiance flickering. The blonde leans around you, laugh high and sharp with delight. ''“Oh, he’ll split you open,”'' she whispers, biting her lip. You thrust shallowly into the inked girl’s fist, the head swelling against her clenched fingers. She grits her teeth, free hand braced on your chest. ''“Think you’re impressive?”'' she sneers, though her thighs shift restlessly. ''“Prove it.”'' You seize her waist, lifting her onto the pool’s edge. Her legs fall open instinctively, your cock bobbing against her stomach, tip kissing her navel. The quiet one gasps, her eyes locked on the sheer length of you. The blonde’s hands glide up your sides, possessive. ''“Careful,”'' she murmurs to the inked girl, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. ''“He’ll ruin you for anyone else.”'' The inked girl’s retort dies as you drag your cock down her slit, the blunt crown catching, teasing, a threat and a promise all in one. <</if>> [[Before you can resist, they both push you back against the bath's edge and start to kneel.|chp3_nightwatch_bath_bastard2]]

The inked girl’s fingers dig into your hips as she sinks into the water, steam curling around her collarbones. The blonde follows, her movements liquid and deliberate, hair fanning like spilled honey across the surface. They kneel on the submerged stone ledge, their mouths level with your cock, eyes sharp with challenge. Behind them, the quiet one lingers waist-deep, her arms crossed over her chest, though her gaze lingers; drawn, guilty, hungry. The inked girl licks her lips, rosy-red tongue catching a droplet of bathwater. ''“Let’s see what you’re made of,”'' she rasps, breath hot against your shaft. The blonde hums agreement, her fingertip tracing the vein beneath your cock with mock reverence. ''“So tense,”'' she murmurs. ''“We’ll fix that.”'' They share a glance like predators agreeing on the kill, before the blonde’s lips part, her tongue swiping the crown in a slow, filthy arc. The inked girl doesn’t wait. She grips the base, her calloused palm twisting as she takes you halfway, teeth grazing just enough to make your thighs flex. The blonde laughs, low and throaty, her nails skating up your inner thigh. ''“Patience,”'' she chides her companion, though her own mouth descends next. <<if $char_cock is "short_sleek">> The inked girl’s brow quirks as her lips close around you—no strain, no gagging. Just the slick heat of her tongue flattening against your entire length. She pulls off with a smirk. ''“Easy,”'' she taunts, her hand replacing her mouth, pumping fast and tight. The blonde tsks, nudging her aside. ''“Let him feel it,”'' she purrs, her lips sealing over your cockhead, sucking viciously. You grunt, hips jerking, but the blonde holds firm, her throat working in shallow bobs. The inked girl watches, her fingers slipping between her own thighs under the water, her rhythm frantic. ''“Fuck, he’s twitching,”'' she laughs, breathless. The quiet one whimpers, her hand darting beneath the surface, mirroring the inked girl’s motions. You seize the blonde’s hair, thrusting upward; short, sharp snaps that make her eyes water even as she moars. The inked girl leans in, her tongue flicking your balls. ''“Greedy,”'' she accuses, but her hips rock against her hand, betraying her. <<elseif $char_cock is "balanced">> The blonde’s throat stretches around you, lips flush to the root. She holds there, eyes watering but triumphant, until the inked girl shoves her shoulder. ''“My turn,”'' she growls, her mouth closing over the crown, sucking hard enough to hollow her cheeks. You groan, the pressure perfect, her tongue swirling the head while the blonde’s fingers knead your ass, urging you deeper. The quiet one’s breath hitches as the inked girl pulls off, saliva stringing between her lips and your cock. ''“Not bad,”'' the inked girl admits, her thumb smearing precum down your shaft. The blonde nips your inner thigh. ''“He’s better than not bad,”'' she corrects, her tongue lapping the underside. They trade you like a game: the inked girl’s rough suction, the blonde’s velvet throat, until your hips start to stutter. The quiet one’s hand splashes audibly, persistent touch growing urgent. The blonde glances up, her smirk filthy. ''“Look at her,”'' she murmurs around your cock. ''“Wants to play too."'' <<else>> The blonde gags immediately, her throat fluttering as she retreats, coughing. The inked girl barks a laugh. ''“Can’t handle it?”'' She shoves the blonde aside and takes you in both hands, spit slicking her palms. ''“I’ll show you,”'' she mutters, her mouth closing over just the swollen crown, red hot tongue pressing insistently against your slit. You hiss, your cock throbbing against her restraint. The blonde recovers, her pride stung. She licks a torturous path up your shaft, her pretty, pert lips sealing around the base, sucking the thick veins there. The dual pressure wrings a groan from your chest. The quiet one moans softly, her thighs trembling as she grinds her heel against the step. The inked girl glares up at you, her jaw straining as she forces herself deeper, inch by inch. ''“F-fuck,”'' she rasps around you, her nails biting your thighs. The blonde’s hum vibrates through your entire length, her fingers teasing your balls. ''“Ruin her,”'' she whispers, her eyes gleaming. ''“Make her choke.”'' <</if>> [[Drag the inked one closer - make her take you down her throat.|chp3_nightwatch_bath_bastard_inked]] [[Grab them both - make them share you, messy and desperate.|chp3_nightwatch_bath_bastard_both]]

The inked girl meets your stare with a grin that shows a hint of teeth. She tilts her head back just enough to let her wet hair fall down her shoulders, the steam clinging to her dark flesh and the crest of her collarbone. The blonde hangs close by, biting the corner of her lip as if waiting to see who breaks first. You don’t. Your hand snaps up, hooking beneath the inked girl’s jaw, your thumb pressing into the hinge until she stops smirking and listens. Her breath trembles against your skin when you guide her closer. Kneeling like this, her lips are level with you, the warm bathwater lapping against her chest and dark, pebbled nipples. She doesn’t look away. If anything, the spark in her eyes only sharpens as your cock brushes the edge of her mouth. ''“You started this,”'' you taunt, dragging her forward by the chin. ''“Finish it.”'' She parts her lips, slow, deliberate, like it’s her choice. But your fingers tighten in her hair, and the choice dissolves into something else entirely. The inked girl licks once; a long, deliberate stroke from the base to the crown, then takes you between her lips like she’s claiming a prize. Her mouth is hot, wet, unrelenting. She sinks lower with a guttural sound, her throat tightening around you as your fingers dig into the hinge of her jaw. You set the pace, not her. Your hips roll forward, slow at first, then sharper, dragging a shudder from her chest. Each thrust forces a new sound out of her — muffled curses, wet gags, the slick pop of her lips dragging against your shaft. <<if $char_cock is "short_sleek">> She tries to play it coy at first, letting the tip slide against her tongue, teasing you with lazy swirls like she’s got all the time in the world. But the truth of it is that a cock like yours doesn’t ask for permission. It fits her mouth too easily, disappearing between her lips with a wet, obscene sound. Your grip firms. She gasps through her nose as you push deeper, not enough to choke, but enough to make her eyes flicker. The slick slide is relentless, sharp, fast. Her jaw strains to keep up, spit dribbling down your shaft and onto her chin. She tries to keep her bravado, but every shallow thrust strips it away a little more, until all that’s left is the sound of her gagging softly, breath broken into little hiccups. You let her set a brief rhythm, shallow and quick—like she’s trying to prove she can take it. Then you ruin it, dragging her forward until her nose bumps your skin. Her hands slap weakly at your thighs, not to push you away but to steady herself. She loves it. You can feel it in the way she moans around you, desperate and slick. <<elseif $char_cock is "balanced">> Her lips seal around the head with a soft, wet pop that tightens your chest. She’s practiced—just enough teeth to scrape the edge of danger, just enough pressure to make your breath shorten. You guide her down in slow pulses, feeling her throat adjust to the steady push. She doesn’t fight it. She meets it. Every thrust becomes a slow collision of want and cruelty. Your hips roll forward, her tongue flattens beneath the weight, spit stringing between each stroke. She keeps eye contact like she’s daring you to break it, even as tears start to rim the corners of her lashes. The blonde murmurs something low and cruel from the side, and the inked girl answers with a muffled laugh around your cock. It vibrates through you, hot and filthy. You grab a fistful of her hair and pick up the pace; measured, merciless, each thrust hitting the back of her throat with a sound that makes the blonde shiver. <<else>> The blonde circles behind her like a viper in the grass, fingers trailing across your thigh, nails sharp enough to sting. ''“She’s choking on it already,”'' she purrs, leaning close enough for her breath to fan against your skin. ''“So much for being the bold one.”'' The inked girl glares up at you through wet lashes, jaw trembling around your length. She doesn’t retreat. Instead, she pushes deeper, nose brushing your lower stomach, her throat convulsing as you hold her there. Spit spills from the corners of her mouth, dripping down your cock in silver threads that vanish into the water below. You hold her in place a beat too long. Her fingers curl into the stone ledge, nails scraping wet marble. Then she gasps when you finally let her up, coughing, eyes blazing. ''“That all you’ve got?”'' she rasps, wiping spit from her chin with the back of her hand. Her grin is crooked and wild. You answer by fisting your hand in her wet hair and dragging her right back down. The blonde laughs softly behind her. ''“That’s it,”'' she whispers, almost reverent now. She leans closer, licking the underside of your shaft where the inked girl can’t reach, her tongue hot and teasing while the other girl gags around your length. You don’t give either of them time to think: your hips snap forward, grip tightening as the chamber fills with the wet slap of her lips and the hiss of your breath through clenched teeth. The inked girl moans around you; not a delicate sound, but raw, guttural, vibrating through your cock like an erotic pulse. Her nails dig into your thighs as if she can anchor herself there, while the blonde nips the side of your spit-slick length and murmurs, ''“Greedy little thing.”'' You tilt your head back, steam beading on your skin, their breath hot against you. The inked girl gags again, chokes, recovers and never once tries to pull away. You own the rhythm now. Her mouth is just the heat and the pulse between your fingers. <</if>> [[Bury yourself down her throat - make her take it.|chp3_nightwatch_bath_bastard_inked_throat]] [[Rip her off at the last second - paint her face and watch her kneel for it.|chp3_nightwatch_bath_bastard_inked_face]]

Her smirk is already waiting for you when you reach for her — all lazy superiority and soft lips parted like she’s doing you a favor. You fist a hand in her wet hair and jerk her forward. The little gasp she makes isn’t fear. It’s the sound of someone being caught in the act. “Oh,” she purrs, tilting her chin, the torchlight catching on the water beading down her throat. “So that’s how it’s going to be.” “Exactly,” you growl. You drag her mouth to your cock without ceremony. The inked girl laughs low at your side, eyes narrowing as she watches. The blonde’s smirk falters when the head slides past her lips, wiped away by the sudden thickness filling her mouth. She gags once — a wet, involuntary sound — and your hand tightens in her hair, holding her there. Her nails dig into your thighs. Not to escape. To steady herself. “Thought you had jokes,” you murmur, grinding against her tongue. “Let’s hear them now.” She moans, muffled and messy, spit leaking down her chin. You rock your hips forward, slow at first — just enough to make her throat twitch around you — then sharper, faster, until her smirk is gone completely and her breath comes in strangled little sounds. Her eyelashes flutter against your skin, her hands clawing at your hips as you push her down to the base. The inked girl leans in close, her whisper hot against your ear. “She’s choking already,” she teases, voice dripping like honey. “You broke her in two minutes.” The blonde glares up at you through a curtain of wet lashes — a last flicker of pride — and you answer it with a brutal push down. Her nose slams against your lower stomach, your grip twisting hard in her hair as she gags around your length. Her throat convulses in shallow, frantic swallows that only make you harder. Spit bubbles around the corners of her lips. When you let her up, she gasps like surfacing from deep water, coughing softly, mascara streaking down the edges of her lashes. But she’s smiling again — wilder this time. Mockery turned hunger. “Bastard,” she breathes, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Do it again.” So you do. Your fingers clamp down in her hair and you force her back down, her mouth stretching obscenely around you. The inked girl slips behind her, one hand sliding down to her breast, squeezing as she laughs into the steam. “Look at her,” she purrs. “So proud a minute ago.” The blonde’s moan vibrates around your cock — a sound too raw to be fake. She’s still fighting to breathe, to keep up, but every thrust draws her deeper into that sweet, helpless rhythm. Your hips meet her face with wet, ruthless slaps. She swallows everything you give her, throat fluttering like a trapped bird. [[Bury yourself in her throat and make her take it.| [[Rip her off at the last second - cover her face and make her wear it.|

You grip the inked girl’s hair in one fist, the blonde’s in the other, forcing their mouths level with your cock. Steam clings to their lashes as they glare up at you, rivals turned conspirators. ''“Share,”'' you command, voice rough. The quiet one watches from the steps, her lips parted, fingers twisting in the water. The blonde licks her lips first, tongue dragging up your shaft. The inked girl snarls but obeys, her mouth crashing against the blonde’s as they both lean in. Their teeth clash, more fight than kiss, before their tongues find your crown together. Heat and spit smear across your skin as they jostle, their competition sharpening every flick, every suck. <<if $char_cock is "short_sleek">> Their mouths crowd you, greedy and impatient. The inked girl’s lips seal around your cockhead, sucking hard, while the blonde’s tongue lashes your balls, her laughter vibrating against your sac. ''“Tiny,”'' she taunts, but her breath hitches when you shove her face deeper. The inked girl moans around you, her hips jerking. ''“Focus,”'' you growl, yanking her hair until she redirects her tongue to your shaft. They’re forced to work in tandem, the blonde’s lips nursing your base, while the inked girl’s tongue runs rapid and relentless on the crown. Precum beads fast, smeared between their colliding mouths as they fight to outpace each other. The quiet one whimpers, her thighs squeezing at the obscene slap of their lips on your slick skin. You don’t let up. ''“Faster,”'' you demand, thumb pressing the blonde’s cheek to bulge around your cock. The inked girl’s nails dig into your thigh, her pride stung, but she obeys; sucking, licking, her moans muffled by the blonde’s sudden kiss. Their rivalry melts into messy collaboration, spit shining on their chins, your cock the furious center of their war. <<elseif $char_cock is "balanced">> They take you in shifts, the blonde’s throat working the top half while the inked girl’s tongue swathes the base. You thrust shallowly, testing their rhythm, and the blonde gags prettily, her pert lips stretching. ''“Too much?”'' you mock, but the inked girl answers for her, sealing her mouth over the blonde’s to steal the kiss and your cock. Their tongues duel around you, wet and loud. The blonde breaks first, gasping. ''“My turn,”'' she pants, shoving the inked girl’s face aside to swallow you whole. You groan, hips rolling, your cockhead nudging her throat. The inked girl retaliates, her teeth grazing your shaft as she suckles the underside. ''“Fuck - together,”'' you snap, and they relent, their lips meeting around your crown, tongues lapping in synchronized swirls. The quiet one’s hand splashes—she’s touching herself now, frantic. You smirk down at the girls. ''“She’s close,”'' you tell them. ''“Make her watch.”'' They redouble their efforts, the blonde’s hum vibrating your length as the inked girl’s fingers creep between her own legs, their competition forgotten in the chase to unravel you. <<else>> The inked girl gags instantly, her throat fluttering around your tip. The blonde laughs, but her amusement dies when you shove her face into your shaft, her lips straining to take the next inch. ''“Both,”'' you grind out, hands ruthless on their skulls. They cough, spit stringing between their chins as they struggle to share your girth. The blonde’s tongue flattens along your thick underside, her high-boned cheek bulging. The inked girl focuses on the crown, her lips suctioned tight, saliva dripping down your snaking veins. You rock forward, stretching their mouths wider, and the quiet one moans openly now, feminine fingers visible between her taut thighs, circling quick and desperately. ''“Look at her,”'' you rasp, forcing the girls’ heads to turn. The inked girl’s eyes darken; the blonde purrs around you, her throat clenching in challenge. They find a rhythm; blonde sucking the base, inked girl bobbing on the tip, their warm, wet tongues meeting in the middle to lick the same throbbing inch. Your cock glistens, spit-slick and monstrous between their flushed faces. ''“Good girls,”'' you praise, your thumb brushing the blonde’s tears. The inked girl growls, taking you deeper, her pride refusing to lose - even like this. <</if>> [[You feel yourself toppling closer to the edge...|chp3_nightwatch_bath_bastard_both_finish]]

You feel her throat seize and flutter around you; refusing, yielding, then opening. She doesn’t pull away this time. The steam shivers with every ragged breath, and you know she’s at her limit, trembling on the edge of it. You drag her closer by the hair, hips tightening, and let the last thrust bury you all the way down. <<if $char_cock is "short_sleek">> The last push makes her nose brush your stomach, and she freezes, then swallows. Hard. You can feel the ripple of her throat around you, tight as a fist, the heat of it milking every twitch. You hold her there through the pulses, the sound of it muffled and obscene in the water’s echo. When you finally let go, she stays down a heartbeat longer than you expect, then pulls back slowly, catching a breath through her nose. She coughs once, then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and laughs, voice hoarse. ''“Still think you’re in charge?”'' you ask. ''“Try me again when you’re hard,”'' she rasps, eyes glinting through the damp fringe of her wet curls. <<elseif $char_cock is "balanced">> You drive forward in slow, punishing strokes until her chin hits your skin and her body trembles. The first pulse hits her throat and she takes it, a muffled hum rising from deep inside her. The second comes faster, harder, until the rhythm breaks into shallow, involuntary jerks. When you pull back, she gasps, lips still glossy, tongue catching what threatens to spill. A thin thread of come stretches from her mouth to the water before she swallows it, deliberate and slow. The blonde watches with a low whistle. ''“She even cleans up after you.”'' The inked girl’s grin is ruined, breathless. ''“Waste not,”'' she croaks, and dips her chin, licking the corner of her mouth where a drop still gleams. <<else>> Her throat convulses violently as you force the last inches in. Her fingers claw at the ledge, water sloshing around her shoulders, but she doesn’t break. The first release makes her eyes widen; the second wrings a helpless moan from her chest. You feel every swallow as she tries to breathe around you, her whole body trembling. When you finally let her go, she slumps forward against your thigh, coughing, drool and seed mingling down her chin. She gulps air, then looks up with a wrecked, feral smile. ''“Satisfied?”'' she manages. ''“Not yet,”'' you say. ''“But you’re learning.”'' <</if>> [[What did you just get into?|chp3_nightwatch_bath_bastard_inked_face_closer]]

At the last moment, just as her throat tightens around the next thrust, your hand snaps into her hair and rips her off you. Her mouth breaks away with a wet gasp, strings of spit stretching between her lips and your cock. She blinks up at you through the steam, breathless, flushed, the defiance in her eyes flickering into something more ragged. ''“Aw, fuck,”'' the blonde laughs softly beside her, half a purr, half a taunt. You hold the inked girl there on her knees, your fist still tangled in her hair, your cock glistening in the candlelight and steam. She doesn’t need to be told what’s coming next. <<if $char_cock is "short_sleek">> You drag her face closer, letting the tip smear against her cheek and lips in quick, mocking little taps. She flinches each time it brushes her flushed skin, but never pulls away. The blonde giggles beside her, fingers grazing your thigh. ''“Look at her,”'' you rasp, and tilt her chin up so she has to watch you. Your cock jerks against her cheek as you stroke it with your free hand, the short length of it giving you tight, controlled leverage. Each pump sends a fine tremor through her hair where your fingers are fisted. The first spurt hits her nose, the second streaks across her lips, and the last paints the side of her face in hot, sticky lines. She exhales through it, eyes never leaving yours, strands of come clinging to her lashes. She’s not broken, she’s burning. ''“Good girl,”'' the blonde whispers, dragging a finger through the mess and smearing it down her throat. <<elseif $char_cock is "balanced">> You keep her right where she is; chin up, mouth open, her breath still wet and hot from where your cock used to be. Your hand works yourself in steady, ruthless strokes right in front of her face. Each pass drags a fresh trail of spit and steam down your shaft. ''“Open wider,”'' you order. She obeys. She always does when you sound like that. The first thick rope splashes against her lips, the second lands across her cheek and nose, a third dripping down onto her chest where the bathwater laps greedily at the mess. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch, just holds your stare, face smeared and shining. The blonde lets out a low whistle, then leans in to drag the tip of her tongue over the inked girl’s chin, lapping up a stray line of come like it belongs to both of you. <<else>> You wrench her head back just enough to make her neck strain, the base of your cock still glistening from where her throat was wrapped around it seconds ago. She gasps for air, chest rising and falling hard, mouth parted as if she’s still trying to breathe you in. Your grip on your cock tightens as you pump; long, slow, deliberate strokes that make the heavy length twitch against her flushed cheek. She doesn’t shy away. She leans into it. A soft moan escapes her as the first thick rope splashes across her face, streaking her lips and cheekbone. The next hits lower, dripping onto her collarbone and sliding down between her breasts. By the time the last few pulses paint her throat and jaw, she’s drenched, cum mixing with spit, steam rising from the slick mess coating her skin. The blonde lets out a quiet, reverent sound, fingertips tracing one streak down the inked girl’s throat. ''“Look at you,”'' she whispers. ''“Kneeling like you were made for it.”'' <</if>> [[You're going to remember this.|chp3_nightwatch_bath_bastard_inked_face_closer]]

The corridor narrows into a long, crooked spine of rooms. What light remains barely holds together, thin veins of amber leaking through cracked glass and open doorframes. The smell of dust has changed; there’s ink under it now, and wax, and something faintly metallic, like dried blood on parchment. You pass door after door. Most have been stripped bare, names chiseled off their plaques. The few that remain are gouged with letters you can’t read. Shapes that once meant something to other men, but not you, not now. You trace them with a finger and feel the grooves catch like scars in the wood. At the corridor’s end, a doorway stands half-collapsed, a tangle of desks and fallen beams within. On one wall hangs a row of portraits, most slashed or burned to shadow. One frame still clings to its glass. Behind it, a young man stares out through the ruin: proud jaw, dark eyes, hair tied neatly back. A page of brittle parchment hangs beside him, covered in curling black strokes. You don’t know their sound or sense, but you feel a kind of rhythm in them—as if the ink itself remembers being spoken aloud. <<set $nightwatch_assem to true>> <<bgm "traces-to-nowhere" 0.7 3>> [[This feels... different.|chp3_nightwatch_abandoned_assem1]]

Something stirs against your chest. Not a heartbeat - more like a breath held too long, finally exhaled. The bead’s warmth seeps through the fabric of your cloak, slow and steady, until the air itself begins to hum. The ink on the parchment quivers, bleeding faintly red in the inky dark. You blink once and the strokes shift. Lines unknot, rearrange, become smaller, sharper. They start to make sense. A few words swim clear, like stones glimpsed beneath black water: ''“…Assem…”'' Your eyes sting. The light around the edges of the page ripples like heat over stone. Another breath of meaning follows. ''“…Reed…”'' You mouth it, though you don’t know how. The air tastes of copper and burned wax. The bead beneath your cloak begins to throb. Not faintly this time, but a steady, quickening pulse, hot enough to sting your skin. ''“…Harrowing complete. Exceptional potential…”'' The words flare, blinding for a heartbeat. The man in the portrait stares back at you, proud, young and defiant, a glimpse of firelight flickering reflecting in the glimmer of glass behind him. The bead’s rhythm quickens, a hammering heartbeat that isn’t yours. ''“…Overland…”'' The ink runs down the parchment like blood, thin rivulets tracing the edge of the page. ''“…forbidden…”'' The glow swells until it fills the whole room. The air hums. The floor trembles. Dust stirs upward as if drawn to the ceiling by some unseen breath. And then — stillness. The bead cools against your chest. The letters collapse, spilling back into the dead strokes they were. You stare at the parchment until the black blur returns, the words once more nothing but wounds in the page. You're left squinting, breath uneven. The air feels follow, like the aftermath of a storm. The only thing left in you is the echo of a name, heavy and alive, lodged behind your ribs like a splinter. ''''Assem Reed.'''' Somewhere, deeper in the Academy, the floorboards creak as if someone else had whispered it, too. [[But you're alone in the dark.|chp3_nightwatch_abandoned]]

''“None of us are. It’s just about finding a way to make it.”'' Gerwin gives a small, crooked smile; the kind that looks borrowed from someone braver. ''“Yeah,”'' he murmurs, ''“that’s one way to live. Not my typical approach.”'' You shrug, leaning your shoulder against the frame. The candle trembles between you, painting your shadows onto the stone like old runes. ''“You think Lyco isn’t scared? You think any of them are?”'' you ask. ''“We’re all bluffing. Just in different ways.”'' He huffs out a laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because he wants it to be, ''“I don’t know if bluffing saves you from the Harrowing.”'' ''“No,”'' you say. ''“But it might get you through the night before it.”'' That earns a pause. Then he looks down at the shut book in his hands, thumb smoothing the edge of the cover as if he could read something through the skin. ''“You make it sound simple.”'' ''“It isn’t,”'' you reply, ''“but simple’s all we get.”'' For a while the only sound is the small, stubborn heartbeat of the candle. Gerwin finally exhales and lies back, tucking the book beneath his pillow. ''“Thanks,”'' he mutters. ''“I’ll try to fake it quieter.”'' You grin at that, unseen in the half-light, and tap the bunk with your knuckles before turning away. Outside, the door closes behind you with the gentlest click. The corridor smells of stone dust and oil, and somewhere below. You walk on, the echo of it following like a pulse, steady, defiant. <<gainCowboy>> [[The rest of the night waits.|chp3_nightwatch_13]]

''“Then get tougher, or you might as well be dead.”'' Gerwin stares at you - not angry, just startled. ''“You don’t pull punches, do you?”'' ''“Never learned how.”'' You fold your arms. ''“This place isn’t meant to be fair. They’re not testing how nice we are, they’re testing what breaks first.”'' He swallows, jaw working, ''“So what if I do break?”'' ''“Then someone stronger steps over you,”'' you say. ''“That’s the truth of it.”'' The silence that follows feels colder than the stone. For a moment you almost regret it. But then you remember the blood-smeared yard, the drills that leave half the class limping. Pity won’t save anyone here. Gerwin closes the book slowly, fingers trembling. ''“I thought you’d say something like that.”'' ''“Good,”'' you answer. ''“Then maybe you’ll stop waiting for the world to be kind.”'' The candle’s flame bends toward you both, casting your face in harsh amber. You see yourself reflected in his eyes — a ghost of resolve, or maybe cruelty. Finally, Gerwin nods once, sharp and resigned. ''“Right. Tougher, then.”'' ''“Start tomorrow,”'' you tell him, turning for the door. ''“Tonight, just sleep.”'' You leave him staring after you, the book forgotten in his lap. The corridor air is colder than you expect, and it feels good, clean, indifferent. Behind you, the door creaks shut, sealing him back inside his little pool of light. You walk on, boots whispering against the boards, and tell yourself the same thing you told him. Get tougher, or die. <<gainBastard>> [[And you don't plan on dying just yet.|chp3_nightwatch_13]]

''“You’ll make it, Gerwin. We both will. That’s why we’re here."'' Gerwin’s head turns, slow and doubtful. The candlelight cuts a line across his face - one eye bright, the other drowned in shadow. ''“What makes you think that?”'' he asks. His tone isn’t mocking, only tired. ''“You’ve seen what this place is. They’ll grind half of us to dust before the first year's over.”'' ''“Because thinking otherwise doesn’t help,”'' you retort. ''“If I start believing I’m doomed, then I am. That’s how this place wins long before the Harrowing does.”'' He frowns faintly, processing that. The candle gutters, painting the wall behind him with a nervous light, ''“So you just… lie to yourself?”'' ''“Not lie,”'' you answer. ''“Decide.”'' You look up at him. ''“Decide that whatever comes, you’ll meet it standing. Because the second you start bowing to the fear, it’s over.”'' He huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh, almost a sigh. ''“You make it sound easy.”'' ''“It isn’t,”'' you say. ''“Courage isn’t a contest. You don’t have to be fearless. Just stubborn or desperate enough to keep going.”'' Gerwin looks at the shut book in his lap as if he’s forgotten it was there. ''“Stubborn,”'' he repeats. ''“That I might manage.”'' ''“Then you’ll make it.”'' You nod, calm and resolute. ''"Whatever the Harrowing is, it won’t take both of us. Not if we keep each other standing.”'' For a long moment, nothing moves but the candle flame. Then he slides the book under his pillow and lies back, eyes on the ceiling. ''“Maybe I’ll try believing you for a night,”'' he murmurs. ''“Start there,”'' you say, and ease away from the bunk. The candlelight follows you to the door, dimming as it closes. Out in the corridor, the hallway feels vast after the small room; cold air brushing your face, the faint pulse of Dosmera's light leaking through high slits in the stone. You breathe it in and keep walking, not fearless, just stubborn. <<gainKnight>> [[The rest of the night awaits.|chp3_nightwatch_13]]

The steam seems louder once the sound of breath and water settles. The inked girl stays kneeling, streaked and glistening, her chest still rising and falling like she’s trying to find her rhythm again. The blonde leans back against the edge of the pool, watching with a lazy grin and half-lidded eyes that gleam with mischief. You run a thumb over the inked girl’s cheek, wiping away a smear before dragging the same thumb across her lips. She catches it between her teeth, just for a heartbeat, then lets it go with a smirk. ''“At least you’ve got time for another bath,”'' you murmur. The blonde snorts; the inked girl laughs under her breath, shaking her head as she sinks back into the water, submerging the mess in a cloud of rising heat. You step away from the ledge, water streaming from your legs as you grab a towel from the stone rail. The air outside the pool feels colder now, sharper. You pull your shirt over your shoulders, the damp fabric clinging for a second before settling against your skin. Behind you, their laughter echoes off the marble, soft and conspiratorial. ''“But not forever,”'' you say as you buckle your belt. ''“My watch is almost over. Unless you want the next one to catch you, too.”'' ''“Maybe we’ll get lucky,”'' the blonde answers, and the inked girl’s chuckle follows her. You sling your cloak over one shoulder, glance once more at the two of them in the haze, and head for the stairwell. The night’s chill greets you like an old friend. The watch isn’t over yet, and neither is the night. [[That was... something.|chp3_nightwatch_bath]]

The air thickens with the scent of sweat and pheromones, your breath coming in ragged pulls. Beneath you, the blonde and the inked girl are a mess of saliva and submission, their rivalry tempered into a shared, desperate focus. You can feel the tension coiling at the base of your spine, a familiar heat spreading through your gut. Your grip tightens in their hair, not to guide them now, but to hold them there, captive and waiting as you teeter on the edge. From the steps, the quiet one’s soft, broken whimpers urge you on. Her fingers are a blur between her legs, her own climax mounting as she watches you use the others. You lock eyes with her for a moment, a dark smirk pulling at your lips, before your attention snaps back to the two girls at your cock. ''"Don't you fucking stop,"'' you warn, your voice a low, breathy threat. <<if $char_cock is "short_sleek">> Their mouths are a wet, frantic mess around you, the inked girl’s lips suctioned tight around your crown while the blonde’s tongue flicks and teases along your shaft. You thrust shallowly, fucking their faces in short, sharp jerks, and the blonde giggles around you, a breathy, choked sound. ''"Gonna paint us, pretty boy?"'' You don’t answer, just grind your hips forward, burying yourself in the wet heat of their combined efforts. The inked girl moans, her throat vibrating around you, and you feel your release surge - sudden and intense. With a guttural groan, you pull back just enough to erupt across their faces, long ropes of cum striping the blonde’s cheek and splattering over the inked girl’s nose and lips. The blonde yelps, more surprised than upset, her tongue darting out to catch a stray drop. The inked girl just glares, cum dripping from her chin, her expression a mix of fury and arousal. Behind them, the quiet one cries out, her own climax hitting as she watches your spend glaze their flushed skin. <<elseif $char_cock is "balanced">> They work in tandem now, the blonde taking your length deep into her throat while the inked girl laps and suckles at your base. Their rhythm is hypnotic, a slick, sloppy dance of tongues and lips that has you thrusting in time. You can feel the pressure building, a tight coil in your gut about to snap. ''"Open your eyes,"'' you command, and both girls look up at you, their gazes hazy with lust and defiance. You hold their stare as you come, your release shooting over their faces in thick, pearlescent streaks. It lands on the blonde’s forehead, drips onto the inked girl’s tattooed collarbone, paints both their mouths and chins. The blonde licks her lips, a slow, deliberate swipe, while the inked girl simply lets it drip, her eyes never leaving yours. On the steps, the quiet one shudders through her own orgasm, her soft moans echoing in the steamy air as she watches your cum decorate their skin like some perverse masterpiece. <<else>> Their mouths strain to accommodate you, the inked girl choking slightly as you push deeper, the blonde’s lips stretched taut around your girth. You fuck their faces with rough, possessive thrusts, your climax building like a storm. ''"Take it,"'' you growl, your voice raw. When you come, it’s with a force that surprises even you—thick, heavy spurts of cum that coat the blonde’s face first, splashing across her closed eyelids and the bridge of her nose. The inked girl gets the next wave, your release painting her lips and dripping down her chin onto her chest. They both gasp, coughing slightly, but neither pulls away. The quiet one’s breath hitches, her fingers stilling between her thighs as she watches, mesmerized, as your cum drips from their faces onto the wet tile. The blonde blinks up at you, cum clinging to her lashes, while the inked girl smirks, her tongue flicking out to taste you. ''"Happy now?"'' she rasps, her voice hoarse. <</if>> [[The aftermath is a sight for sore eyes.|chp3_nightwatch_bath_bastard_both_finish_closer]]

The steam hangs thick, clinging to their flushed skin as cum drips lazily down their chins. The blonde tilts her head back, letting the mess streak her throat like war paint, while the inked girl swipes a finger through the mess on her cheek, studying it with a smirk. The quiet one’s breath still shudders from the steps, her thighs pressed together like she’s holding onto the echo of her own climax. You crouch, gripping the blonde’s jaw to turn her face toward the inked girl. ''“Look at that,”'' you murmur, thumb smearing a stray droplet across her lips. ''“Suits you both.”'' The blonde licks your thumb clean, her tongue slow and deliberate, while the inked girl leans in, her teeth grazing your knuckle in a bite that’s more warning than play. ''“Fuck you,”'' she rasps, but there’s no heat left in it, just the ragged edge of satisfaction. Rising, you snag a towel from the rack, the rough fabric scraping over your skin as you wipe your chest. The blonde sinks deeper into the water, her giggles bubbling up as she scrubs at her face. ''“Better hurry,”'' she sing-songs, nodding to the inked girl. ''“Her tattoos might start sticking.”'' The inked girl flips her off, but she’s already ducking under the surface, her dark hair fanning out like ink in the ripples. You dress slowly, deliberately, the girls’ bickering fading into the steam. The quiet one stands now, eyes darting between you and the pool. ''“Next time,”'' you say, buckling your belt, ''“you won’t just watch.”'' She freezes, her breath catching, but you’re already turning toward the archway. The blonde’s voice follows you, bright and teasing. ''“Next time? You’re getting greedy.”'' You don’t look back, but your grin is sharp as the night air bites your skin, their laughter already muffled but alive, coiled in the steam like a promise. [[The watch isn’t over.|chp3_nightwatch_bath]]

A small, stubborn unease that won't settle accompanies your return to the bottom floor. This is your first watch, but you remember Lyco's waking the words: the night is supposed to have a shape. Patrol, report, relief. Yet, you've begun to learn that the Academy doesn't always honor the shape that you were promised. You find yourself thinking of the prefects, their boots and their badges, of how they were meant to be visible at the beginning and the end, and how they've alluded you this entire time. The dorm common room feels wrong in a quieter way. Most of the second-years are gone; only a pair remain hunched over a candle at the back tables, whispering and jotting figures into a shared ledger. The scratch of quill on parchment is dry and steady, like bone on whetstone, candlelight hardly reaching past their hands. Lyco stands near the stairwell as if he’s been waiting there the whole time, anchored to the place where up becomes down. His robes are half-loose, sleeves rolled to the elbow, forearms dusted with ash from tending to dying torches and flickering oil lamps. He looks tired in the way a blade looks worn; still sharp, held ready, but wanting a sheath. When he notices you, he doesn't smile. He only flicks his gaze to your face, then to the common room around you, as though measuring how much of the night is listening and whether any other shadows accompanied your return. ''“You done up top?"'' He asks quietly. [[Before you can answer properly, he shifts a half step closer.|chp3_nightwatch_closer1]]

Every jolt of the wheels knocks your shoulder against someone else’s, skin sticking where sweat has dried to leather. Your wrists are locked in pig-iron shackles, all four of you chained to a central bar bolted through the wagon floor, a cramped prison riding on creaking axles. The air tastes of dust and last night’s ash; of piss sluiced from unseen courtyards that the wheels have already passed. The morning above the roofs is thin and violet, colour seeping slowly into Cradle like blood through gauze. The wagon is open to the street, framed by short, rough-hewn beams; through that aperture the city unrolls behind you in a slow, waking procession. You catch the pale squares of faces in darkened windows, the shadows of balconies, the occasional curious child tugged away before they can stare too long at the chained men. Out beyond the hunched shoulders of your fellow slaves, laundry lines hang limp between leaning facades, strung above the cobbles like tired banners. Mist clings to the upper levels, tinted faintly violet by the bruised sky, while a few early merchants trudge along the lower street, carts half-loaded, voices low and tired. The cobbled roadway runs beneath the shadow of the Second Quarter, its looming estates and towered walls rising above you like a stone-grown forest, their silhouettes softened by the haze. Thin plumes of smoke curl from chimeys where servants are already stoking fires for morning meals. Beyond the clutter of roofs, far away where the city’s slope begins to level, you glimpse the dark curve of Cradle’s Colosseum. Only a fraction of its ring is visible between buildings, a slice of stained stone and ancient arches that still manages to dwarf everything around it. It sits against the sky like a waiting tooth, or the rim of some enormous cup ready to be filled. The wagon jolts through a pothole; the central bar jerks, and all four sets of shackles bite into skin at once. ''"Fuckin' aye,"'' Someone across from you grunts, the sound half curse and half laugh. [[Your gaze shifts towards them.|chp3_ludus_intro2]] <<bgm "gothic-techno" 0.7 12>>

<center><img class="scene" src="images/twoguys_onewagon.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> The oldest one sits diagonal from you, broad shoulders hunched, gray threaded through his beard. His wrists are thick and roped with old ligature scars; a healed break pulls one side of his nose off true. His eyes are sunken but alert, the pale-brown of watered-down beer, with a distinctive milky film. You're a little surprised that he isn't blind. ''"Huh,"'' He grunts again, meeting your gaze in the half-dark as he works his jaw back and forth, tongue pushing at a chipped tooth. ''"So that's you, then."'' ''"They call you the <<print $arena_nickname>>, don’t they?”'' Next to him, the youth snorts. He must be your age, maybe younger, freckles dusting his cheeks beneath the grime. When the wagon rocks sharply, he nearly pitches over atop the bench, barely catching himself with a muttered curse. An attempt at bravado follows, but it comes out thin, ''"Since when did you start caring about the arena and the crowd's favorites, Renkar? Let the man breathe."'' ''"Shit,"'' His older companion grumbles, who must be Renkar. ''"Right about when they told me I was gettin' shipped off to a ludus. Seems as good a time as any, numbnuts. Wouldn't hurt you to pay attention either."'' ''"Well..."'' The youngest breathes, ''"He's not wrong. We've heard the talk."'' His gaze lingers on you now, eyes a dim, uncertain shade between gray and brown. ''"You're the one that killed an ogre, right? It's rare that kind of match has any survivors."'' [[That's what they've been shouting.|chp3_ludus_intro2_cowboy]] <<ci cowboy archetype>> [[Depends on who's asking.|chp3_ludus_intro2_bastard]] <<ci bastard archetype>> [[I wasn't the only one in that fight.|chp3_ludus_intro2_knight]] <<ci knight archetype>>

''"Depends on who's asking,"'' you murmur, shifting your wrists against the shackles until the links clink together like teeth. The wagon rocks again; light slides across Renkar’s face, catching the pale cloud in one eye and the broken line of his nose. He studies you for another long, chewing moment, tongue still working at that chipped tooth. ''"Hah. Got some bite on you."'' His thick shoulders roll in a tired shrug. ''"Name’s Renkar. Used to swing a spear for whoever had coin, then the coin dried up and the debts did not. House guard grabs you for knifing a man; merc gets grabbed for owing three."'' He jerks his head toward the youth beside him, the movement tugging at both their chains. ''"And this kid, I been stuck with in the cells for too long. Voss. Too smart and mouthy for his own good, this one."'' Voss’s freckled nose wrinkles at that, but he does not bother denying it. ''"Pleasure,"'' he says, the word thin and dry as old parchment. ''"We have not had much in the way of fresh gossip down there, so you caused a bit of a stir. Anyone who comes out of a match with an ogre still breathin' is worth a few whispers."'' ''"I'm worth more than that,"'' You retort, finally letting the corner of your mouth lift, ''"At least some coin, bloodshard, maybe gold. Families are gonna be betting their fortunes on me if I have anything to say about it."'' Voss looks vaguely amused, leaning back a little on the bench, bracing for the next jolt in the road. Renkar huffs a low laugh. ''"Good. Hold on to that, kid. Pride is the only thing that they can't chain. Though they can try to beat it out of you if they care enough."'' Voss’s eyes flick to the iron at your wrists, then to your face, measuring what kind of man you are beneath the bravado. ''"They kept us in the catacombs under the Colosseum for a week or two,"'' Voss goes on. ''"No light, just leaks, rats and guards who like to run their mouths in the dark. Your name dropped more than once."'' Renkar snorts, the sound soft but not unkind. ''"Talk of a stubborn bastard who did not know when to stay down,"'' he says. ''"Of a crowd that howled like they were seein' something new. Of a few nobles arguing over who would get to throw coin at you first."'' His eyes narrow slightly. ''"Seems one of them won."'' The wagon hits a smoother stretch of street, the wheels murmuring instead of crashing. Light from above paints the three of you in shifting bands of violet and gray; beyond Renkar’s shoulder you can see the sky beginning to pale above the stone shoulders of the Second Quarter. For a moment you just sway in a kind of grim rhythm, linked by the central bar, breath rising and falling. ''"Well,"'' Voss says at last, voice low, almost thoughtful. ''"We aren't the only ones worth worrying about."'' His gaze flickers past you then, towards the far end of the bench, where the fourth man rides in watchful silence. The shape of him is mostly shadow, broad and dark; you catch a faint glimmer of eyes, the suggestion of teeth. You feel, more than see, breath taken, slow and fluid, the hairs along your forearm pricking as something with sharper senses than yours tastes the morning air. [[Your attention drifts toward the third figure.|chp3_ludus_intro3]] <<gainBastard>>

''"That’s what they’ve been shouting,"'' you answer, watching the street slide past beyond Renkar’s shoulder. ''"It doesn't mean much. Crowd just likes a name that they can pin a story to. Makes it easier to forget what it is that they're tied to."'' Renkar snorts, a rough sound that might be approval. "You might be onto something... Renkar, for what it is worth. Mercenary once, caravan guard, hired sword. Took one job too many on one purse too thin, and now here I am, paying off numbers I can no longer see."'' He shifts on the bench and the shackles groan softly. ''"They say the Legion scrapes men off the bottom of every ledger in Cradle. Debtors, thieves, traitors, unlucky bastards. I must have hit the bottom hard."'' There is no self-pity in his tone, only a weary humor. He jerks his head toward the youth beside him, the movement tugging at both their chains. ''"And this kid, I been stuck with in the cells for too long. Voss. Too smart and mouthy for his own good, this one."'' Voss’s freckled nose wrinkles at that, but he does not bother denying it. ''"Pleasure,"'' he says, the word thin and dry as old parchment. ''"We have not had much in the way of fresh gossip down there, so you caused a bit of a stir. Anyone who comes out of a match with an ogre still breathin' is worth a few whispers."'''' ''"I did what I had to. It was do or die"'' You say with an absent shrug, ''"The beast fell, I didn't."'' Renkar studies you for a moment longer, then grunts his acceptance. ''"Fair enough,"'' He retorts, ''"In the end it's bodies the ludus counts, not tales. Still, a man who has already stood in the sand is someone worth knowing."'' Voss’s mouth twists, something like a pale echo of a smile. The wagon hits a smoother stretch of street, the wheels murmuring instead of crashing. Light from above paints the three of you in shifting bands of violet and gray; beyond Renkar’s shoulder you can see the sky beginning to pale above the stone shoulders of the Second Quarter. For a moment you just sway in a kind of grim rhythm, linked by the central bar, breath rising and falling. ''"Well,"'' Voss says at last, voice low, almost thoughtful. ''"We aren't the only ones worth worrying about."'' His gaze flickers past you then, towards the far end of the bench, where the fourth man rides in watchful silence. The shape of him is mostly shadow, broad and dark; you catch a faint glimmer of eyes, the suggestion of teeth. You feel, more than see, breath taken, slow and fluid, the hairs along your forearm pricking as something with sharper senses than yours tastes the morning air. [[Your attention drifts toward the third figure.|chp3_ludus_intro3]] <<gainCowboy>>

''"I wasn't the only one in that fight,"'' you say, the memory rising with the words; the roar of the crowd, the stink of the ogre’s breath, the flash of steel in Khalika’s hands and the grim set of Gant’s jaw. ''"If I walked away, it was because others stood with me. I am sorry to have been separated from them."'' Renkar watches you for a long heartbeat, the milky sheen in one eye giving his gaze a strange, distant cast. ''"Hnh,"'' he grunts at last. ''"That so? Modest. I have a feeling that'll be a rare sight in the yard."'' The wagon hits another uneven patch of stone and he rides it out on the roll of his hips, old soldier’s balance keeping him steady. His mouth folds into something almost like a smile, tired and crooked. ''"Name’s Renkar. Mercenary once, sword for hire wherever the banners were flyin'. I kept my men in drink and myself in debt, and when the pay dried up the debts did not. That is how you end up chained instead of paid."'' He shifts his weight, the bench creaking under him, then nods toward the youth at his side. ''"And this lad is Voss. They threw him into the same hole as me under the Colosseum. Too many clever thoughts in too small a skull; no space left for sense."'' The younger man tries to glower at the word, but it does not quite reach his eyes. Freckles stipple his cheeks beneath the dirt; his hands flex once against the iron at his wrists, then still. ''"Voss,"'' he offers, reluctant but not unfriendly. ''"And he isn't wrong. We were in the cages before your match. Couldn't see much, but we heard enough."'' Renkar nods slowly, confirming the tale with a grunt. ''"Word filters down through the cracks,"'' He says, but you only give a slow shake of your head. "You didn't get the full story then," You murmur. ''"I only survived because everyone in that arena decided to fight."'' You explain, slow and thoughtful, as though remembering: ''"Khalika, Gant, too many others. We decided to play against the odds together. I don't know where they've been sent off to... but I hope that we, here, can learn to stand together just as well."'' Renkar’s mouth tugs, the hint of a smile deepening the lines around it. ''"Careful,"'' he says quietly. ''"Talk like that, and you might just set yourself up for disappointment."'' Voss’s expression flickers, something like wary respect moving behind his eyes. The wagon hits a smoother stretch of street, the wheels murmuring instead of crashing. Light from above paints the three of you in shifting bands of violet and gray; beyond Renkar’s shoulder you can see the sky beginning to pale above the stone shoulders of the Second Quarter. For a moment you just sway in a kind of grim rhythm, linked by the central bar, breath rising and falling. ''"Well,"'' Voss says at last, voice low, almost thoughtful. ''"We aren't the only ones worth worrying about."'' His gaze flickers past you then, towards the far end of the bench, where the fourth man rides in watchful silence. The shape of him is mostly shadow, broad and dark; you catch a faint glimmer of eyes, the suggestion of teeth. You feel, more than see, breath taken, slow and fluid, the hairs along your forearm pricking as something with sharper senses than yours tastes the morning air. [[Your attention drifts toward the third figure.|chp3_ludus_intro3]] <<gainKnight>>

<center><img class="scene" src="images/rilash_wagon.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> For a heartbeat he is only bulk and outline, a darker shadow within the wagon’s gloom, only the gleam of his teeth visible. Then the morning light spills in, a break in the wall-lined road where the wheels jolt over a rut and the light slides, catching at the curve of his furred cheek and the glassy shine of irises that are not human at all. Black fur drinks most of the colour, yet the light finds thin streaks of white that mark his face in narrow splotchy bands, across the bridge of his wide nose and above one eye, like old war paint that has sunk into the skin. His muzzle is short and powerful, whiskers catching on the breeze that sneaks in from the street; when he breathes, his chest rises slow and deliberate beneath the rough drape of his tunic. A chain as thick as your thumb descends from a banded collar and fastens to the same central bar that binds the rest of you, proof that the handlers trust metal more than distance. He has been watching you. You feel it now, in the way his pupils tighten when your eyes meet, in the smallest tilt of his head as if he is adjusting his view of some specimen. The wagon rocks again and his balance never breaks, claws sheathed yet ready in the strong hands resting on his knees, tail coiled somewhere behind him where you cannot see. ''"Do not sit so close,"'' he says at last, voice low and rough, rippling with a faint, rolling growl under the words. They come out clear enough, but there's a strange weight to them dragged from somewhere beyond the Third Quarter. ''"I do not like your smell."'' The rebuke hangs in the cramped space between you, as tangible as the stink of sweat and old straw. Voss makes a small sound under his breath, something between a cough and a laugh, then leans back as far as the shackles allow so the bar gives a faint, trapped twitch. Renkar only snorts, not surprised in the slightest. ''"That's no way t'be, Kit."'' The older man retorts in open jest, obviously enjoying the fact that the final member of their shared ride has decided to participate, ''"Where's your hospitality?"'' The feline's nostrils and whiskers twitch, yellow eyes narrowing in clear annoyance, ''"Kit?"'' His tail flicks once behind him, making a brief appearance that you feel more than see, ''"Does it entertain you, this name?"'' Voss interjects with the faintest curve of his lips, ''"Easy, Rilash. We're all chained to the same wagon. Unless you plan on chewing through these shackles, you're stuck with his smell. And Renkar's bad sense of humor."'' ''"Then I'll breathe less,"'' Rilash decides. [[Renkar chuckles, the sound dry as old leather.|chp3_ludus_intro4]]

''"See?"'' Renkar retorts, shifting his weight so the bar gives a small groan. ''"Four souls, one chain, and not a soft one among us. Ludus might get something decent out of this wagon yet. Ain't I right?"'' Voss draws a slow breath, eyes flicking from you to the open street and back again. ''"Speaking of decent,"'' he says, voice casual but edged with curiosity, ''"Who is it that put their coin down on you at the auction? Guards were arguing about it outside the cages, but they never shut up long enough to finish a sentence."'' <<if $auction_winner is "Livia">>\ ''"Duchess Livia,"'' you answer, the title settling in the cramped space like a dropped stone. The name has weight; even the clatter of the wheels seems to thin for a heartbeat. Renkar’s brows climb toward his thinning hairline, the milky cast of one eye doing nothing to blunt his surprise. ''"Well, fuck me,"'' he breathes, then actually laughs. ''"Straight to the spider’s web. That is a rare honour for fresh meat."'' He tilts his head, studying you in a new light. ''"Her ludus is where they say champions are hammered out, and where the rest burn up in the making."'' Voss lets out a low whistle. ''"Duchess Livia Varro, patroness of broken men,"'' he recites, as if repeating a line he has heard in the dark. ''"They say she likes to watch her investments closely. If she bought you herself, the whole house will have its eyes on you."'' There is no envy in his tone, only a quiet, morbid interest, as though he is eager to see whether you blaze or gutter. Rilash’s ears twitch at the name, though he says nothing. His pupils shrink to thin slits, amber irises reflecting the violet sky as if trying to see the shape of this unseen duchess in your face. <<elseif $auction_winner is "Alesia">>\ ''"Lady Alesia Cosmas,"'' you say, tasting the syllables again as if they were still ash on your tongue. Renkar’s mouth pulls sideways, halfway between a grimace and a grin. ''"Cosmas,"'' he repeats, rolling the name around as if checking it for loose teeth. ''"That family’s coin smells of spice and blood. Moneylenders, smugglers, half their ships legal and the other half never seen in daylight."'' His chuckle is low. ''"Trust them to buy a gladiator the moment the Duchess looks away."'' Voss nudges his shoulder into Renkar’s with a clink of chain. ''"You forgot the best part,"'' he says. ''"They say Lady Alesia buys problems the way other nobles buy wine, and then uncorks them when it is most entertaining."'' His gaze returns to you, curious, almost amused. ''"If she chose you in that crowd, she either sees a profit, a weapon, or a very expensive way to pass the time."'' Rilash’s whiskers twitch faintly, as if the name carries a scent he does not like, yet he stays silent, amber eyes lingering on you for a few heartbeats longer. <<elseif $auction_winner is "Novia">>\ You draw in a breath that tastes of dust and cold iron. ''"Novia,"'' you say. ''"Lady Novia of House Segune."'' The name feels smaller in your mouth than the others that have circled this city, a quieter shape, but no less real. Renkar frowns, the lines in his forehead deepening. ''"Segune,"'' he repeats, chewing the word. ''"Not a banner I have marched under. Small house, maybe, or one that keeps its head down."'' There is no contempt in it, only the practical curiosity of a man trying to place a new piece on a board he thought he knew. Voss tilts his head, lips pursed. ''"Never heard of her,"'' he admits. ''"But a nobody does not buy a fighter out from under other hands, not at a public auction. If she put coin on you in front of witnesses, either she is braver than her name, or she is hiding behind someone else’s purse."'' His eyes narrow slightly. ''"Either way, you will make a lot of people curious when we roll through those gates."'' Across from you, the Beastkin’s ears angle forward a fraction, as if the unfamiliar name interests him more than the famous ones. <<elseif $auction_winner is "Sibylla">>\ '"Countess Sibylla Cyrasse,"'' you say. Renkar goes still for a moment, the wagon’s motion rocking him without really moving him at all. ''"Cyrasse,"'' he murmurs, brow furrowing. ''"Like Tribune Cyrasse, from the Third Legion."'' His gaze seems to drift past you, past the wagon, toward some memory of smoke and shouting. ''"Big disaster, that, a few years back. Nearly the entire Legion abandoned and overran in the Lost Quarter. Whole blocks burned."'' ''"Didn't know his line had anyone left with the purse to buy gladiators."'' Voss shifts, iron scraping. ''"Can’t be many who would spend good coin on the pits after losing a tribune,"'' he says. ''"Maybe she is trying to buy herself a story that ends different."'' His eyes flick to yours, measuring. Rilash’s tail gives a single, slow lash behind him, a cat’s acknowledgement of some distant, remembered scent of blood and fire. <</if>>\ \ ''"Either way,"'' Renkar muses, ''"We aren't ending up at a bad place. There are far worse ludus' to be placed in... Better ones, too. Everyone knows the Duchess, but the champions don't always belong to her. Competition is fierce, anyway."'' The wagon rumbles on, wheels finding a new rhythm as the road levels under you. The light that spills in from above grows narrower, cut by higher walls and the looming shoulders of buildings that crowd closer together. Voices outside sharpen and echo, guards calling to one another, a gate-keeper shouting for the bar to be raised. The old man rolls his shoulders as far as the shackles allow, as if casually bracing for a blow. Voss tips his head back, eyes half-closed, listening to the change in the air; Rilash simply watches the world narrow, pupils shrinking to slits of molten gold. You feel the central bar vibrate under your heels as the wagon passes beneath some unseen arch, the sound of the city muffled for a heartbeat, then released again in a different key. Renkar gets your attention with a downward tip of his bearded chin, ''“What about you, champ? You think this is where you were always headed? Or did you mess up somewhere along the way?”'' [[This was always the road.|chp3_ludus_intro_fate]] <<ci archetype>> [[I took a wrong turn.|chp3_ludus_intro_wrongturn]] <<ci archetype>> [[I'm going to be the next Champion.|chp3_ludus_intro_champion]] <<ci archetype>>

''"This was always the road."'' You purse your lips and briefly peer down at your wrists, bound in battered shackles, slick with sweat and grime. Then you tilt a look up towards the sky, past the ascading walls and cluttered rooftops to glimpse the tumultous violet sky above. ''"Nothing is a mistake, not really. You walk where your feet take you down the only road that you know. Rolling with the punches, standing after you fall down, even if you have to scramble and steady yourself. What else can you really do? Until something finally keeps you down, this fight is the only life that we could've known."'' Renkar studies you with a slow, measuring look, one brow lifting toward the pale scar that cuts across his forehead. ''"Aye... Or maybe you've been knocked on your ass enough times that you think the ground is the only destination, kid."'' There's no mockery in it. He neither refuses or accepts your conclusion. But maybe you gave the old man something to chew on. Voss exhales through his nose, the hint of a smile ghosting over his mouth. ''"So you think it was always going to be chains. Slavery, sand, suffering. That's grim."'' His gaze drifts briefly to the glimpse of city beyond the wagon; when it returns to you, it is steadier. ''"I don't see much else around here. Maybe that's the trick. Not pretending there was a better road waiting for you... Nothing was missed, right?"'' From the far end of the bench Rilash makes a low sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a growl. ''"A beast that accepts the inevitably of the hunt runs longer, steadier, clearer,"'' He rattles, ''"Less wasted energy. A mind focused on motion."'' His pupils thin as the light from the open back changes yet again. The walls outside loom higher; the echo of the wheels grows sharper, boxed in by stone. Ahead, metal grinds against stone and a gate-keeper’s shout carries back along the street. The wagon begins to slow, weight shifting under you as if the whole city is leaning in to watch. [[The wagon begins to slow.|chp3_ludus_intro5]]

''"I took a wrong turn."'' The thought sits heavy in your mind. From your point of view, it was all one bad choice that led to this fate. A series of unfortunate events, as they like to say. You exhale a breath that tastes of dust and desire. Sometimes it feels almost funny. And in other moments, the memory torments you. One wrong turn. A fleeting moment of the wrong choice made. You're still not sure what compelling you to dash down that alley into the dark and dreary narrows. It was something brave, foolish, dumb. Pride perhaps. Finally, you huff a quiet, humorless laugh. ''"More than one. I was an apprentice cobbler not too long ago. Thought my life would be stitching soles and straightening nails. Looking back, feels like my whole life has been one long wrong turn that forgot how to bend back."'' Renkar’s grin shows a chipped tooth, the expression deepening the creases at the corners of his eyes. ''"Cobbler, eh,"'' he jests, ''"Good hands for making sure other folk keep their feet. Shame no one did the same for you."'' He shifts on the bench, chain clinking. ''"Truth is, most of us are here because some day went sideways and never came right again. Bad debt, bad fight, bad luck, bad prayer. Road doesn't have to be straight to end at the same gate."'' Voss’s smile is thinner, but it reaches his eyes this time. ''"At least you had a trade before the sand. I've met too many men born with nothing that still manage to lose everything. The catacombs are full of 'em."'' He tips his head, considering you. ''"Admitting you missed your turn is more than most will do. Maybe that means you can still choose what you do with the road that is left."'' Rilash’s ears flick, a brief, dismissive motion. ''"Road is only ever forward,"'' the Beastkin says, ''"Stones behind never care if you loved them."'' His gaze slides past you to the narrowing slice of sky, now more violet than blue. The wagon’s rattle changes as the wheels find smoother paving; shouts echo off higher walls, and somewhere ahead a heavy bar is being raised with a grinding protest. The motion under you eases from a roll to a glide, the kind of careful approach reserved for doors that do not open often. [[The wagon begins to slow.|chp3_ludus_intro5]]

''"I'm going to be the next champion."'' It's a bold claim, but you believe it. Not just another body in the sand, not a name shouted solely once and then forgotten the next week. You want fame and glory, victory after victory, the blood of your enemies sprayed across the sand. It doesn't matter how many hours you have to train, how many skulls need cracked; if you're going to live and die by the sword, let it be chasing dreams bigger than yourself. You don't have the goal of being the best, you might as well start digging your grave. Why? Because without big dreams, you're already dead. You've lost the greatest struggle of them all. The war of belief in self, in the future, in a greater destiny. For a heartbeat there is only the grind of the wheels and the rattle of the chain. Then Renkar barks a sharp laugh, more delighted than anything. ''"Listen to this kid,"'' he says to the others with a unruly grin, ''"Hasn’t even seen the yard yet and already picking out his laurel wreath."'' His eyes find yours again, and there is a harder glint in them now. ''"I've fought with men who talked like that. Some ended up face-down in a ditch before anyone learned their names. But a couple of 'em proved mean and stubborn enough to drag the world along behind them."'' Voss’s look is narrower, wary and fascinated at once. ''"What a thing to declare from a prison wagon,"'' he murmurs, continuing, ''"Champions bleed the same as the rest of us. Sometimes they just do it in better light."'' A corner of his mouth twitches. ''"Still… the nobles love a man who believes his own story. Crowds do, too. Makes them feel they are watching the rise of something rare, instead of just another fall."'' At the far end of the bar, Rilash’s whiskers lift in a slow, predatory smile. ''"Champions are only prey that survived longer,"'' the Beastkin ventures, ''"But long enough can be a kind of victory. Death comes for us all eventually."'' His eyes track the change in the world beyond the open back as the wagon’s pace eases. The walls outside press closer; shadows deepen; you hear the call and answer of voices used to command, and the scrape of a gate being drawn aside. The air itself seems to tighten, scented now with old sand, oil, sweat and the faint, sour ghost of blood that never truly leaves stone. The wagon settles into a careful roll, like a fist closing around the four of you. [[The wagon begins to slow.|chp3_ludus_intro5]] <<gainBastard>>

The wagon eases down from a rattle to a slow grind, as if the wheels have been set to creeping deliberately. The light narrows and darkens; shadows from high walls and overhanging stone shoulders fold across you in layered bands. Voices echo more sharply here, guards calling to one another in clipped phrases, the words bouncing off arches and dying in confined air. Ahead, something heavy groans and shudders; a gate dragged up along grooves cut into rock long ago. You feel the sound in your teeth. The wagon passes beneath an unseen lintel and the world blinks from violet morning to a deeper, muffled gloom, then opens again into sudden space. Even seated low, you sense it, the way air moves in a courtyard and not a street. You roll out from under a low arch and the courtyard opens fully before you. A wide oval of sand lies at its heart, smoothed and trodden, bordered by a shallow lip of worn stone. Around it rises a ring of pillared walkways and shadowed alcoves, doors and stairwells feeding off into the guts of the ludus. Beyond those walls the city drops away in terraces and roofs, and towering over everything, blurred by distance and the violet haze of dawn, the Colosseum curving like a second horizon, its arches dark as watching eyes. There are men already on the sand. A knot of bodies moves through drills near the center, paired off with wooden blades and blunted spears; the thuds of their footwork and the rasp of their breaths reach you in uneven waves. A trainer’s shout cracks the air, sharp and precise, and half the men drop at once into a crouch while the other half sweep their weapons in a mirrored arc. Somewhere along the inner ring, servants hurry with buckets and bundles of gear, their sandals whispering over stone. [[The drills are conducted like clockwork.|chp3_ludus_intro6]]

Renkar whistles low, impressed despite himself. ''"Duchess keeps a proper yard,"'' he says, the words carrying a soldier’s appraisal, professional and unwillingly admiring. ''"Stone is good, walls high, sand deep enough you can't see the blood an' piss stains from here. If we're gonna bleed for someone, there are worse estates to do it in."'' The wagon creaks to a halt near a broad set of steps that rise from the training yard toward a high doorway framed in carved stone. Heat rolls off the sand in slow waves, baking the underside of the wagon, dust motes turning in the air and catching the early light that spills over the walls. A pair of guards in the Duchess’s colours waits at the base of the steps, spears grounded, eyes sharp as they watch the wagon settle. One of them calls out for the gates to be barred again, and somewhere behind you, the sound of iron, wood and stone slams home with a final, echoing note. ''"End of the road,"'' Voss says softly, more to himself than to anyone else. His fingers flex once against the shackles at his wrists, then go still. Rilash’s tail, hidden from view, thumps once against the bench; his attention never leaves the men on the sand, as if he is already counting them, already imagining the lines of a hunt. The rear frame jolts as the latch is kicked free, the wagon's half-door finally dragged wide. And just beyond the wagon, a figure approaches and then stills, waiting like a bad omen. [[Who the...|chp3_ludus_intro7]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/hobgoblin_doctore.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> He's tall for a hobgoblin, muscular too, but not massive; hard, knotted muscle laid over a lean frame like boiled leather over bone. Scars ladder his chest and shoulders in pale ropes. One ear is torn to a ragged edge; rings of dull metal weight the other. A coiled whip hangs from his left hand, its lacquered handle worn smooth by use. The wagon's driver climbs into the back and starts to free you and your companions from your shackles, leaving your wrists bound but no longer chained to the floor. As this takes place, you can't help but stare. You've seen plenty of his kind before; at gates, caravan posts, compound doors, short and blocky under their heavy armour, bred tough often with surprising speed and stamina. Yet, they're rarely as impressive as this, most of them scrawny or too short, scarcely taller than an ordinary man. His eyes are a pale green, set deep beneath a heavy brow. And when he speaks, his voice is a deep, rasping scrape, like stone dragged over gravel. ''"On your feet."'' He doesn't shout. No malice, no bluster. Just a solid order that everyone moves to obey. The driver drops back out of the wagon, while you, Renkar, Voss and Rilash stagger into a shared, awkward rise. The hobgoblin steps back a pace to give you room, the whip still hanging easy at his side, its tail trailing a shallow line through the sand. One by one, you drop down from the wagon bed. The sand gives under your weight with a dry sigh, heat soaking up through the thin soles of your feet. The hobgoblin watches each of you land, measuring, his nostrils flaring once, as if scenting you. Up close you can see the old collar-marks around his thick neck, the white seam of a blade that once opened his throat and somehow failed to finish the work. He moves down the line without hurry, whip tucked under his arm. A scarred hand grabs your jaw, thumb digging into the hinge as he turns your face left, then right. He checks teeth, eyes, the way your shoulders sit. The same with Renkar; fingers pressing along the old soldier’s ribs, noting where bone once broke and healed thick - then with Voss, and with Rilash, whose tail twitches but doesn't quite lash. ''"You belong to the respected Ludus of House Varro,"'' he says at last, loud enough for the yard to hear. ''"You eat when I say you eat. You sleep when I say you sleep. You bleed when the sand or the Dukue and Duchess asks it of you."'' He lifts the whip, lets the leather tail uncoil and kiss the sand once, a sharp crack that snaps every eye in the yard toward you. ''"I am your doctore,"'' he rasps. ''"In this yard, my word is law. Outside it, you belong to whatever noble signed your papers. In here, you belong to House Varro, to the Duchess, and to me."'' He nods toward the steps that lead up into the cool, shadowed belly of the ludus. ''“Walk in,”'' he says. ''“And try not to die in training before the crowd gets a look at you.”'' You take your first step into the yard, and understand with a sudden, clean certainty that the next time you leave this sand you will be either stronger, or dead. [[And you don't plan on dying. Not yet.|chp3_ludus_collar]]

The hours after the doctore’s order smear together. You remember the first few steps only because the sand turned to stone under your feet. Single file, you and your companions were led through tunnels; cooler, damper, sparingly lit by the flicker of pitch-fueled torches, the dim violet light of the yard and outside world swallowed behind you. Still shacked at the wrists, you shuffle beneath the ludus' shadowy arches into a warren of dark corridors; blocky wooden doors that open and shut with flat, final thuds denoting different chambers, along with the faint sound of voices, brief laughter and curses cut short when the doctore passes through. Somewhere in that blur a house-scribe with ink-stained fingers checks your teeth, your scars, the places where pig-iron has gnawed on your limbs, before moving on without ever asking your name. Your restraints come off sometime after that. Keys rattle; shackles rubbing, biting, grinding one last time before they loosen. You rub your joints warily, swaying as blood floods back into numb flesh in hot, prickling waves. A handler coils the freed restraints and short coins with careful hands, like a man putting coin in a purse. Iron is dear here, reserved for the tools that bind, bound and signal control in a city ruled by power, dominance and separation. What replaces it is lighter, but a weight no less certain. A wide band of boiled leather, dark and stiff as bark, is cinched around your throat until you swallow against it. At the front, a plate of pale bone carries House Varro’s mark; at the back, a bone catch clicks home where your fingers will never reach. They collar you one by one, tugging each band to feel it bite. When they jerk yours, pressure grinds into the pulse under your jaw and sends a dull ache up behind your eyes. [[After that, there's waiting.|chp3_ludus_collar1]]

They herd you and the others into a long, low room somewhere in the ludus’ belly. No bars, only close-cut stone and a single high window spilling a strip of light onto packed earth. The door shuts with a wooden thud and the drop of a bar on the far side, and the world narrows to four walls, four bodies, leather tight at your throat. You sit with your back to the stone; Renkar settles beside you, Voss takes the bench opposite, and Rilash claims the patch beneath the window. Water comes once in a clay jug, passed from hand to hand until it's empty. No one wastes breath on talk. This is a different type of anticipation from what you felt in the wagon. Arriving was the easy part. Now the beast is ready to test you, taste you, chew and digest you. Time loses its edges. You measure it only by the way the light crawls across the floor; from a thin, pale blade to a thicker, reddish-amber smear climbing the far wall as afternoon deepens. Hunger curls in under your ribs and settles. The ludus breathes around you: boots overhead, a faint roar from the yard as some other group is put through its paces, the distant crack of a whip punctuating orders you can't hear. When the horn finally sounds, it reverberates through the stone like a struck bell. A second call follows, higher and sharper, chased by the quick clatter of boots in the hallway. Shadows pass across the window-slit. The door’s bar lifts with a scrape; hinges complain as it swings inward and cooler air brushes your face. ''"On your feet. Now."'' [[The whip cracks once, close enough that you feel the sound on your skin.|chp3_ludus_collar2]]

You're already moving before the echo fades. Renkar hauls himself upright with a grunt; Voss stumbles, catching the wall with one hand, while Rilash flows to his feet in a single, uncoiled motion of feline finesse, collar catching the warm light from the high window. The leather bites your throat when you swallow, but for a heartbeat the room is only breath and the scrape of worn soles on stone. Handlers fill the doorway, bone bludgeons on their belts and boredom in their beady eyes. They gesture with short, efficient motions before you and the others file out past them into the corridor, back into the narrow, torchlit vein that runs through the ludus’ body. You're already getting used to the air here, thin and used; the reek of oil, bodies and sweaty leather. You follow the doctore’s broad back, braided whip coiled in his big fist like a sleeping snake. The passage slopes upward by degrees; you feel it in the pull on your calves, in the way the light ahead brightens from torch-glow to something harder. The distant roar you heard in the holding-room resolves into shouts, the heavy thud of bodies hitting sand, the wooden clack of training weapons meeting and parting again. [[Then the corridor opens.|chp3_ludus_collar3]]

It feels different stepping into the yard from within its shadow, rather than rolling into it shackled and chained on a wagon. It's closer, higher, more enclosed than you initially felt. The oval of sand lies at your feet, churned and trodden, pale surface stamped with boot-prints and the faint, dark ghosts of older stains. The stone lip that rings it rises to your knee; beyond that, the pillared walkways climb in tiers, crowded with doorways and arches that lead deeper into the compound. Above those, the city falls away in a tumble of roofs and walls; above that, the constant of the Colosseum cuts the sky like a second horizon, arches darkly patient. There are already men on the sand. Two ranks move through paired drills near the centre around the fountain, bodies slick with sweat, dulled wooden blades flashing in practiced arcs. A trainer’s call snaps across the yard; half the line drops to a knee, the others sweep their weapons in a mirrored, horizontal cut that would have opened bellies if bronze were in their hands instead of wood. Sand sprays in a low, scattered mist before settling, only to be thrown up once more as the drill resumes. Your little knot of new arrivals is driven along the inner wall until you stand shoulder to shoulder against the stone, faces turned toward the heart of the yard. Renkar’s shoulder brushes yours, solid and warm; Voss hovers at the edge of your vision, eyes wide and hungry. Rilash stands very still, pupils narrowed, tail-tip twitching once against the ground. The doctore strides out onto the sand and the sound of the yard bends around him. The trainer’s voice cuts off mid-command; the men in formation finish their motion, hold it for a beat, then straighten and turn to face him. Along the walkways above, a few off-duty fighters drift to the rail, looking down. You feel their stares like extra weights on your collar. [[The hobgoblin doesn't shout.|chp3_ludus_collar4]]

He lets the silence gather, only to break it with a single command. ''"Faces front."'' Every gaze in the yard settles on you and the other fresh collars if they weren't already. A slow, appraising sweep, like butchers measuring carcasses on a hook. ''"These men belong to House Varro now,"'' the doctore says, voice scraping over stone and skin alike, ''"You know that much. You know the Duke, the Duchess. And most of you know the price that she or others paid for your necks, your hearts, your goddamned souls."'' His pale eyes move along the line, pausing on you for a heartbeat, on the bone plate at your throat. ''"What you do not know yet, newbloods, is exactly where you fit in here."'' He lifts the whip, letting the leather tail uncoils and kiss the sand at his sandaled feet once more. ''"In this yard there are three kinds of men,"'' he continues, nostrils flaring, ''"Fodder who feed the sand. Fighters who survive long enough to learn the tools of the trade. And the fool who thinks he's above them both."'' His mouth creases, something that might be humour if there were any warmth in it. ''"Every so often one of those fools is lucky, stubborn, or gifted enough that the House starts calling him Champion. The rest fuel the crowd's bloodlust."'' A low murmur runs through the assembled gladiators, quickly smothered. Somewhere to your right, someone spits quietly into the dust. ''"You will learn which one you are,"'' the doctore states. ''"Most of you sooner than you like."'' [[Slowly, the doctore folds his arms.|chp3_ludus_collar5]]

With a throaty grunt, he jerks his chin toward a scarred human standing a step behind him, close enough to be shadow but not quite equal. ''"Cassian keeps order when I'm busy,"'' the hobgoblin rasps, ''"You listen when he speaks. He survived long enough in the sand to earn that right."'' The man is broad-shouldered and thick through the chest, sun-browned in the rare way of someone who has spent more life training in the open yard under sky than cloistered away in shadow. His dusty hair is cut close to the skull, dark as old oak; his jaw is square, squat nose broken once and set a touch crooked. Old scars ladder his forearms and hands in pale ropes, the knuckles of his sword hand swollen and hard from a lifetime of impact. He gives you and the others a brief, flat look. Not hostile, not welcoming; just weighing, as if counting how many of you will still be standing at season’s end and how many will be bloodied stains scrubbed out of the sand before the next year's Crathal. ''"If you have questions about the yard,"'' the doctore adds, ''"You ask him first."'' The words hang in the hot air for a heartbeat, Cassian silently inclining his stubbled head before the hobgoblin turns away, stern attention rolling back to the mass of fighters like a tide changing. ''"Champion,"'' he calls, not raising his voice so much as sharpening it. ''"Step out."'' The murmur that follows has a different flavour from the earlier one. Not the restless scrape of men amused or annoyed, but something tighter; anticipation, a little pride, a little resentment. Lines shift. A gap opens in the nearest rank as if pushed from within. [[A figure steps forward into it.|chp3_ludus_collar6]]

He steps silently astride long, flowing limbs. Never would one call him the biggest man in the yard, but he captures gazes; lean and limber rather than massive, all smooth whipcord muscle and readily displayed athleticism. His skin is honed a cool dusk-shade that marks him as elf-blood. Crowning a handsome, still-youthful face is a cascading, curling wreath of near pure-white hair, falling past the curve of his taut jaw and nearly obscuring the pitch-black, jade-kissed collar adorning the proud run of his throat. For all that, there is nothing soft about him. Scars whisper pale stories along one cheek and across the ribs visible between straps; the way he moves speaks of a man who has been hit many times and learned exactly how not to be hit again. The yard’s attention tightens on him like a noose. A few of the veterans touch fists briefly to their collars in a gesture halfway between salute and habit. Someone near the back breathes, almost too quietly to catch, ''"Sereth Val."'' Another voice answers, just as softly as though paying homage, ''"Velvet Blade."'' The dark elf lets the names pass over him like heat, crimson gaze traveling once along the line of new collars until it settles on you; not quite a stare, nor a challenge. Merely taking your measure as one might study a new weapon on a rack. Clinical, curious, not necessarily unkind, yet weighing your potential in silence. Whatever he sees there draws the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth, gone almost before it appears. He stops at the doctore’s shoulder, close enough to share his shadow, and waits without a word, relaxed but coiled, as if the entire yard is just another drill. [[Dark elves are rarely seen in collars.|chp3_ludus_collar7]]

You’ve only ever heard of their kind in whispers and gutter-rumour; knives in the Labyrinth, clan-signs scratched bloody into alley walls, a dusk-skinned silhouette watching from a ruined balcony before vanishing back into the deepest cracks of the Third. They’re the ones people blame when a man vanishes between one street and the next; killers, smugglers, sadists. Scarred fanatics who turn grudges into religion, carving every oath into their own flesh. Every scar is a vow. Every knife, a prayer. Fredrick once drew their history for you on a tavern wall with a stump of chalk; a crooked wave like teeth. Every few decades, he said, one of their clans clawed its way up out of the gutters and bought a place near the Gentry as "security" or "advisors." Some would even end up in Noble Houses as maids, liaisons, lovers. For a while they were praised for efficiency, for loyalty. Then some vendetta spilled too far into the light - a rival house turned up carved like a prayer-board, or a noble’s heir vanished between one heartbeat and the next. The Legion would inevitably go in with squads and torches, driving the Dark Elves back underground again, leaving only ashen rumors behind. You were a child the last time that wave crested. But even during their lows, they're a race that doesn't bow, nor break. They don't stand in the open for other people's amusement; most would rather cut their own throats. So the sight of one standing calm in the sand, leather collar locked firm around his throat, makes something in the yard bristle. Sereth Val moves with the easy precision of those alley tales, yet he stands where his kind are never meant to stand; not behind a lord, but as the showpiece under their seal. It feels strange, wrong, like some sort of sick ploy. A few of the older fighters flick their eyes from Sereth to the doctore and back again, still as men watching a chained storm, wary with the sort of lingering respect men give a knife that somehow ended up sharpened on their master's table instead of under it. ''"Champion,"'' the doctore rasps at last, voice rough and even, ''"Show the new meat what they are not."'' [[He's a predator, and a strangely handsome one at that.|chp3_ludus_collar8]]

Sereth inclines his head the barest fraction. He crosses to the rack without hurry, selecting a pair of blunted gladius' before testing their weight with a small roll of his wrists. The doctore’s whip-butt taps the chest of a veteran near the front rank; a solid man with a shaved scalp and a nose spread flat from too many breaks. The veteran steps out with a grunt, accepting his own practice blade without complaint. They face one another in the centre of the yard, a strip of space opening around them. No helmets, no shields, only battered wood and the eyes of every man present. For a heartbeat nothing moves. Then the veteran comes in first, cautious but committed, guard tight, feet set. He’s no fool; he's surely stood in this ring many times and lived. His opening cut is neat, angled to test without overreaching. Sereth is already gone from where the blow was meant to touch. A small shift of weight, a subtle twist at the hip; the gladius skims harmlessly past his ribs. His reply is a slash that would have opened the man from navel to nipple if the edge were true, pulled a hand-span short at the last instant, close enough that the veteran’s tunic flutters in the air it carves. They circle. The veteran presses again, then again, each attack sharper, more desperate to land the first clean touch. Sereth gives ground with the lazy patience of a cat, letting the other man spend himself. Then he changes. One feint, a half-stumble that invites overcommitment. The veteran takes it, stepping in to punish. Sereth’s eyes brighten with barely subdued delight; his blade drops, turns, hooks. In the space of a breath he has knocked his opponent’s weapon aside, pivoted inside his guard and driven a knee up into the man’s thigh. The veteran staggers; Sereth’s elbow crashes into his jaw with a dull crack that you feel in your own teeth. The man reels but does not fall. He tries to bring his sword up for a desperate, blind cut. [[Sereth’s gladius flashes once.|chp3_ludus_collar9]]

The blunted edge stops a finger’s-width from the other man’s throat, just above the collar, point aimed up under the angle of the jaw. The veteran lays still, lifting a pair of calloused digits, his chest heaving and blood beading at the corner of his split lip. ''"Enough,"'' the doctore declares. Sereth holds the pose for a heartbeat longer, then steps back and lets his arm fall. The veteran lowers his gaze and taps a clenched fist to his collar stiffly in acknowledgement. A few fighters in the watching ranks murmur their approval at the display. ''"You see the difference,"'' The hobgoblin rasps, turning his head just enough that his pale eyes cut across you and the other new collars. ''"Between a man who can fight and a man the House calls Champion. No wasted motion. One mistake will kill you here."'' The veteran wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist, gives Sereth a grim, respectful nod, then trudges back to his place in the rank. The dark elf offers him a small, precise gesture in return, more courtesy than warmth; posture loose, expression polite and unreadable, as if the brutal little display had been no more taxing than a stretch. [[You feel his gaze for an instant, before it's gone.|chp3_ludus_collar10]]

''"Not convinced?"'' The doctore’s voice lingers over the yard like an omnipresent weight. A few of the veterans huff amusement, and one chuckles outright until the hobgoblin’s murky gaze trims it short. They seem to know what's coming your way. ''"Then we run an experiment."'' His whip-butt lifts, the leather tail tracing a small, lazy circle in the sand before he jabs it toward your line. ''"You."'' It lands on your chest as surely as a spear-point. You can feel Renkar's grunt beneath his breath, and Voss' eyes lingering over you, full of quiet anticipation. Rilash is silent, his tail giving one slow, languid flick. The hobgoblin turns his head a fraction toward the ranks. ''"$name,"'' he announces, voice carrying without effort, ''"Is our new ogre-slayer. $arena_nickname, they called him in the pit."'' The words roll through the yard like a thrown stone through still water. Laughter, jeers, a few doubtful snorts. Someone near the back calls something you don’t quite catch, the tone clear enough: luck, not skill. Sereth doesn't laugh. The dark elf studies you with that same cool, clinical interest as before; a man weighing a fresh blade, wondering how many cuts it will take before the edge curls. There is no amusement nor malice. He's curious about you. ''"You may come to find,"'' the doctore continues, ''"That Cradle’s crowds are easily pleased. Their favour can be won and lost in a single breath. One match can define a man’s name; it says less about his craft than any of you like to believe."'' His attention clicks back to you. ''"Let's see what remains when the shouting is gone."'' Finally, he jerks his chin in a decisive, unhurried way towards the practice rack flanking the fountain. ''"Step out, arm yourself. The Champion will humor you."'' Cassian, the trusted veteran, shifts his weight as he watches with that flat, measuring stare; a few of the nearer gladiators press forward, eager for the promise of blood. Sand shifts under your feet as you leave the line and cross the open circle toward the rack, every eye in the yard crawling after you. The wood-and-bone stand waits under the violet light, crowded with training tools: blunted blades, shields with their paint half-scrubbed away, a few scarred spears and hook-ended poles. Your fingers hover over them, the ghost-memory of the ogre’s roar prickling up your arms. These weapons are a dull echo of the real instruments that await you. You choose: <<set $ludus_collar_weapon to null>> <<set $ludus_collar_defense to null>> [[A wooden gladius and worn shield; tried tools for a disciplined guard.|chp3_ludus_collar_shield]] [[A heavy two-handed practice blade; raw strength and reach.|chp3_ludus_collar_heavy]] [[A pair of lighter blades; trust your hands and feet.|chp3_ludus_collar_dual]] [[A blunted spear from the back of the rack; keep him at length.|chp3_ludus_collar_spear]]

You reach for a battered hardwood gladius and the round shield hanging beside it. The blade’s edges are dark with sweat and oil, its bone-capped tip blunted from a hundred impacts; the shield is hide-stretched over a wooden frame, its old paint scuffed to ghosts of colour. <<if $might is 2>> It settles into your hand with the comfort of a familiar argument. Weight you trust; tools made for closing distance and breaking through guards. You might not be the most nimble with such a blade, but if you make contact, you're confident that you'll cleave through. <<elseif $mobility is 2>> The shield feels like a wall tied to your arm; you can already feel how it will drag at your footwork, how you’ll have to work twice as hard to stay light. Maybe you'll regret this choice, but you feel that you'll need the shield to ward off Sereth. <<elseif $mind is 2>> You picked it because it makes sense. Simple, proven geometry; blade, board and angles, less to remember when your heart is hammering. You need the defense of the shield and a reliable way to strike back. <<elseif $might is 1 and $mobility is 1>> The combination feels like a compromise between muscle and movement; enough weight to bully with, enough room around you to still slip and pivot. Perfect for your method of fighting, leveraging your strength and mobility all at once. <<elseif $might is 1 and $mind is 1>> You feel the drag of the shield and the promise of its cover both; this is a choice about surviving the first rush, not winning in one stroke. Defending yourself comes first, and hopefully you'll retain enough strength to strike back when it counts. <<elseif $mobility is 1 and $mind is 1>> The shield is heavier than you like but the logic is sound; you’ll just have to make it move like an extra limb rather than a chained door. This is your best chance at survival, whether you like it or not. <</if>> The leather grip creaks as your fingers tighten. Across the way, a few veterans nod, approving the conservative pick; others smirk as if they’d hoped to see something more foolish. Cassian’s gaze flicks from your shield to your feet, reading how you carry it, filing that away for the coming days of relentless training and live spars. Sereth watches without comment, head tilted a fraction, crimson eyes hooded. Whether he finds your choice dull, sensible or amusing, his face does not show it. You roll your shoulders once, feeling the collar bite when you lift your chin, then turn back toward the centre of the sand, toward the Champion waiting there. [[He simply greets you with an accepting nod.|chp3_ludus_collar_spar]] <<set $ludus_collar_weapon to "shield">>

You bypass the safer choices and wrap both hands around the haft of a heavy practice blade. It is little more than a length of dense, dark-stained wood shaved into the suggestion of a greatsword; its tip is blunted, its grip bound in layered hide, the weight of it dragging pleasantly at your arms. <<if $might is 2>> Your dense shoulders welcome the pull. This is honest labour; swing hard, plant your feet, let mass and momentum do the arguing for you. You might not be the most nimble, but you'll cleave through him given the chance. <<elseif $mobility is 2>> The first lift tells you exactly how much it will cost you to change direction with this in your hands; every step will have to be deliberate, or it will drag you where it wants to go. You don't have time to second guess your choice. <<elseif $mind is 2>> You know it is a statement as much as a weapon; you chose it anyway. If you cannot match the Champion’s grace, you can at least make the yard see that you're not afraid to trade weight for spectacle. You were already at a disadvantage, anyway. <<elseif $might is 1 and $mobility is 1>> The heft bites into your palms and shoulders; you can handle it, but only if you make every stride count and never let your stance go soft. Move, bide your time, and strike with strength. Nothing is guaranteed here, but you've always been inclined towards taking risks. <<elseif $might is 1 and $mind is 1>> It feels almost too big, but that is part of why you took it; fear dressed as bravado, turned into something the crowd might remember. You know that you're not faster than Sereth, but if you can time on blow just right, maybe you'll put on a show after all. <<elseif $mobility is 1 and $mind is 1>> You feel the way it threatens to pull you off balance, and you are already mapping routes in your head; lines where the blade moves first and your feet simply follow. You're at a disadvantage physically, you know that. But there's no time to second guess your choice. <</if>> A ripple moves through the nearest ranks. Some of the gladiators grin, baring teeth; others exchange looks that say they have seen this before and know exactly how it ends. Cassian’s brows lift by the barest fraction; whether in respect or annoyance, you can't tell. Sereth’s mouth curves a hair wider, not quite a smile, nor a sneer. He watches the way you test the swing, the way your elbows and back take the strain, as if he can already feel how the weight will slow you when you are tired and bleeding. You draw a breath, adjust your grip, and turn back toward the centre of the yard, the great length of wood resting in your palms and against the lay of your shoulder for now. [[He simply greets you with an accepting nod.|chp3_ludus_collar_spar]] <<set $ludus_collar_weapon to "heavy">>

You ignore the shields and long stocks, fingers closing instead around a pair of slimmer practice blades. They are carved from pale hardwood and faced with thin bone along the edges; light, quick things, more like extensions of your hands than tools meant to batter through armour. <<if $might is 2>> They feel almost insubstantial after your warm welcome to the arena, in the shape of a lumbering orge and his gnashing maw. Part of you misses the comfort of something that hits like a falling stone. But even these small blades will pack a punch if you can find your target. <<elseif $mobility is 2>> This is closer to what your body remembers. Wrists loose, feet itching to move, every inch of you ready to slip, cut and vanish before the reply lands. You don't know if you're faster than an elf, but this is your best bet at standing toe-to-toe with Sereth. <<elseif $mind is 2>> You chose them because they give you options. Angles, feints, paths to open flesh without having to meet the Champion’s strength head-on. But with might and likely mobility on his side, you can't help but whether you're doomed regardless of your choice in arsenal. <<elseif $might is 1 and $mobility is 1>> The lightness suits your legs more than your shoulders. But if you manage to leverage both your strength and your speed, maybe you can tilt the odds of this engagement in your favor. They'll have to work in unison, and these blades may be your best bet. <<elseif $might is 1 and $mind is 1>> You feel a little under-armed and a little clever for it at the same time; two blades, twice as many places to point the danger, if you can keep your head clear and manage at least one substantial opportunity to strike. <<elseif $mobility is 1 and $mind is 1>> They fit your hands well enough, and your mind is already assembling little chains of motion; step, cut, turn, let the emptiness between each strike be as sharp as the edges. You're smart and nimble, so maybe the right opportunity will open up if you're patient. <</if>> A murmur rises from the ring, sharper than before. A few men whistle under their breath, while others just shake their heads, amused at the ambition. Cassian’s gaze narrows, following the way you test each grip, the way your shoulders stay loose. Across the sand, the Velvet Blade’s eyes brighten with something that might almost be interest. Twin weapons recognise their kin; Sereth tilts his head a fraction, as if acknowledging the echo. You roll your wrists once, feeling the collared hilts of leather and polished bone slide over your palms, then step back from the rack and face the centre of the yard, both practice blades hanging ready at your sides. This is your shot. [[He greets you with a light nod.|chp3_ludus_collar_spar]] <<set $ludus_collar_weapon to "dual">>

You reach past the swords and procure a blunted spear from where it leans at the back of the rack. The shaft is ash-dark and smooth from years of handlinb, tip wrapped tight in layered hide over a core of bone, rounded enough not to punch clean through a man but solid enough to hurt like a hammer-blow. Hard lessons leave you bloodied and bruised here. <<if $might is 2>> The length feels light compared to the weight you’re used to. You know you can drive it hard and turn reach into something ugly if you plant your feet and commit. The question is whether you'll be able to track the elf's movement and stop him from getting within your guard before it's too late. <<elseif $mobility is 2>> It sings to your sense of distance; a line you can write on the sand between yourself and the Champion, a way to make him cross your timing instead of his own. You're not familiar with the weapon, as it's not like you've had time to practice in the confines of the narrows, but you think it gives you a good shot. <<elseif $mind is 2>> You chose it with the same care you’d pick a path through a crowded street. Control the space, control the fight. Spears kill men long before blades ever touch them. You've never used one, but you think you can figure it out. The question is whether it'll really make a different against Sereth. <<elseif $might is 1 and $mobility is 1>> You feel the promise in it. Enough weight to matter when it lands, and enough reach that your legs and arms can share the labour. Sure, you could say the same for most weapons. The question is whether it'll really give you the best chance against Sereth. You're going to find out one way or another. <<elseif $might is 1 and $mind is 1>> The haft sits well in your grip. You can already picture using it as lever as much as lance, turning Sereth’s speed back on him if you time the catches right. But one slip and he'll be within your guard. It's a dangerous gamble and you don't plan on letting the opportunity get away from you. <<elseif $mobility is 1 and $mind is 1>> You respect the distance it offers, and you intend to use every finger-width of it. No heroic charges, just careful steps and sharp, ugly jabs. This weapon gives you the best chance of catching Sereth before he closes in and wipes the floor with you. Granted, that may very well happen regardless. <</if>> The reaction from the yard is mixed. Some of the veterans grunt, recognising a soldier’s weapon rather than a showman’s. Others mutter that spears are for line-fodder, not for dancing with the Champion. Cassian’s eyes track your hands on the haft, noting whether you hold it like a man who has used one before or like someone playing at it. Sereth’s gaze tips down the length of the spear, then back up to your face. There is no mockery there, only a quiet recalculation, as if he's already setting himself the problem of cutting inside that reach. You shift your grip to the place that feels right; yet the rasp of wood under your palms is unfamiliar all the same. You turn back toward the open circle at the yard’s heart where he waits. [[He greets you with a light nod.|chp3_ludus_collar_spar]] <<set $ludus_collar_weapon to "spear">>

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp3_sereth.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> The yard tightens around you like a collar until it's nothing but an oval of trampled sand and the man standing across from it. Sereth Val waits in the centre, back to the fountain, as if this were simply another drill in a long day of drills. His feet are set shoulder-width apart, weight resting light on the balls of his feet; his shoulders are loose, long, supple arms easy at his sides. Cool dusk-violet skin gleams under the noon light, whipcord muscle drawing clean lines along his chest and abdomen. The near-white mane frames his face and brushes the proud run of his throat; the pitch-black, jade-kissed collar at its base catching the slight tilt of his chin, a dark ring against the pale fall of hair. Crimson eyes regard you without hurry. There's no glee in them, nor overt cruelty; only a calm, sharpened curiosity, the look of an experienced man appraising a new opponent and deciding how much energy to expend. The yard’s noise fades to a low murmur at the edges of your hearing, the drip of the fountain and the rasp of distant drills smearing into a single, waiting hush. He lifts one blade in a small, almost polite acknowledgement. ''"Come on, then, $name,"'' he says, voice smooth and unforced, ''"Let's give them a show, shall we?"'' A few of the veterans chuckle under their breath, while others fall very still. Cassian’s gaze moves between the two of you, mapping the distance, the footing, the angles, as if he already sees every way this can end. Meanwhile, the doctore steps to the edge of the circle, whip coiled in his fist. The hobgoblin's pale eyes scrape over you like gravel. ''"You, boy. Give everything you think you have, or you're wasting both our time."'' The collar feels tighter when you swallow, sand giving away beneath the worn soles of your boots. The air tastes of dust, old sweat, and the tang of coming pain. ''"Begin,"'' he rasps. For a heartbeat, no one moves. <<if $ludus_collar_weapon is "heavy">> You lift the two-handed practice blade into guard, feeling its drag across your shoulders and down your arms. The length of it draws a rough line between you and the Champion, blunt wood and bone standing in for a sharpened edge. Around the ring, some men bare their teeth in hungry grins. Others shake their heads, as if they've seen too many eager backs bowed under too much weight. Sereth lets his gaze travel down the span of the weapon and back up to your face. Something brightens in his eyes, small and sharp. Not mockery, and not quite respect, but more like a man's happy to compete against someone willing to put up a fight. He shifts his front foot by the width of a thumb and the distance between you already feels shorter. It's time to move. [[Drive straight in and smash through his guard at the first opening.|chp3_ludus_spar_charge_heavy]] <<ci stat>> [[Circle him, testing his feet and your reach, looking for an angle.|chp3_ludus_spar_circle_heavy]] <<ci stat>> [[Hold, blade high, watching for his first move before you commit.|chp3_ludus_spar_hold_heavy]] <<ci stat>> <<elseif $ludus_collar_weapon is "dual">> The paired practice blades sit light in your hands. One forward, one held a little back, tips turned toward Sereth’s chest and throat. Your wrists feel loose, ready to turn and cut, the sand beneath you suddenly, seemingly, full of paths; lines you might walk if you can keep your feet under you and your fear out of your way as you descend towards your target. A few of the watching fighters whistle low at the sight. Ambitious, their looks say, half impressed and half amused. Cassian’s eyes linger on your heels, on the way your weight shifts from foot to foot. Sereth’s gaze catches on the twin blades with a quiet spark of interest. He rolls one shoulder, an easy, minimal motion, like a dancer setting himself, and the corners of his mouth tilt as if to say, show me. And thus it begins, two blades crossing the sands. [[Close fast and try to drown him in a flurry before he can settle.|chp3_ludus_spar_charge_dual]] <<ci stat>> [[Circle just outside his reach, probing with feints to draw out his tells.|chp3_ludus_spar_circle_dual]] <<ci stat>> [[Set a tight guard and let him come, watch for the moment his rhythm stutters.|chp3_ludus_spar_hold_dual]] <<ci stat>> <<elseif $ludus_collar_weapon is "spear">> You brace the spear, rear hand firm, front hand light, point leveled at the centre of his chest. The shaft is smooth under your fingers; worn by other grips, other days in this same ring under the same violet glow. The reach of it stretches the space between you into something thin and fragile. You feel every inch of that distance as a little more time to live, or to make a move. A murmur runs through the ranks. Some men grunt approval at the reach and the sense. Others snort, remembering how fast a quick opponent can slip under a straight line. Cassian’s attention rests on your back foot, on how deep you set it. Sereth’s eyes follow the spear from tip to hand, then come back to yours. His stance narrows, a quiet adjustment, a hunter choosing where he wants you to miss. [[Drive forward and try to skewer him before he can close.|chp3_ludus_spar_charge_spear]] <<ci stat>> [[Work the edge of his range, testing him with jabs and small retreats.|chp3_ludus_spar_circle_spear]] <<ci stat>> [[Plant yourself, waiting for him to commit and catch him on the way in.|chp3_ludus_spar_hold_spear]] <<ci stat>> <<else>> The round shield bites into your forearm as you raise it, the strap pulling at muscle and skin. The hardwood gladius in your other hand feels plain and honest, a straight answer to a straight question. Together they turn your outline into something broader, harder to cut cleanly. A small wall that moves when you move and stops where you plant it. The reaction from the yard is quieter. This is a soldier’s pairing. Familiar, proven. A few men nod as if to say you are not a fool. A few look faintly disappointed that you did not reach for a showpiece. Cassian’s gaze weighs the height of your shield and the set of your elbow. Sereth’s eyes flick over your gear with no trace of scorn. If anything, there is a brief, slight dip of his chin, as though he respects a man who does not dress fear in fancy arms. Yet, battle and conflict come for you all the same. [[Crash forward behind the shield and batter him off stance.|chp3_ludus_spar_charge_shield]] <<ci stat>> [[Work around him, defending while you look for a counter.|chp3_ludus_spar_circle_shield]] <<ci stat>> [[Stand firm, shield high, and answer only when you have seen his intent.|chp3_ludus_spar_hold_shield]] <<ci stat>> <</if>>

You draw in a tight breath, feeling the weight of the thick practice blade through your shoulders and straightened spine before you drive forward. Fuck it! Sand sprays under your heels, the weight of the sword's haft biting into your palms as you leverage your weight forward. For a heartbeat there's nothing in front of you but the narrow target of Sereth's chest and the rough, nearly blinding promise of a violent impact. The ring of men around you blurs into colour and heat; through it all, you hear someone bark a short laugh, while another man curses softly as you fully commit. <<if $might is 2 or ($might is 1 and $mind is 1)>> You don't stumble. The weight that drags lesser men off their line settles into you like an old habit. Your first step lands clean, steady, and your second plants deep, turning your hip as in the great length of wood comes down in a hard, honest arc that would've broken both shields and ribs if it were heavier, sharper. Sereth’s crimson eyes flicker in recognition. He shifts his stance, no longer quite as casual, bringing both of his practice blades up to catch yours. The impact cracks through the yard, the sudden shock racing up through your taut, muscular arms and into the grind of your teeth. He's strong, stronger than his lean frame looks; he gives a finger's width of ground, boots grinding a deep furrow in the sand as your leveraged weight threatens to throw him back. A few of the watching fighters grunt, not unpleased. You've forced the Champion to meet you square, spending effort on the first pass instead of simply brushing you aside like a drunk through a tavern door. Sereth lets the bind hang for the span of one breath. Then his grip loosens a fraction. In an instant, his weight rolls from his back foot to his front. The bright look in his eyes turns intentional, vivid, violent. The next motion will be his. <<elseif $mobility is 2 or ($might is 1 and $mobility is 1)>> You come in fast, faster than the heft of the blade promises. Your feet remember how to run even if your shoulders complain. The first stride lands true, the second stretches a little, the sand trying to steal your balance. You haul the great length of wood up and around in a rough, eager cut that has more heart than craft. Sereth doesn't stay where you meant him to be. He's there for a moment, and the next he is not. A small slide of his leading foot, a bend at the waist that seems almost lazy, and your swing sails close enough to tug at his hair yet finds only air. The blade drags you a step past him: you feel the pull in your back, the complaint of your tensed grip and straining digits, the sand shifting treacherous under your weight. He has to move, though. He can't simply stand and let you fall on your face. One of his practice blades bites down on the haft as it passes, robbing it of some speed as he guides it away from his ribs. It's not a block, not quite, more a deft hand on the back of a stumbling drunk as he turns your fall. There's a murmur from the watching ring. Not laughter, not yet. A few men sound faintly surprised you got that close. Sereth turns with you as you overextend, his feet finding the sand as if he were born from it. The second blade stays low and ready. His shoulders settle, light and sure. The next step will be his. <<else>> The first stride lands well enough. The second finds softer sand than you expected. The weight of the practice blade pulls a little sooner than you planned. You feel your shoulders get ahead of your hips, the haft biting into your fingers as you try to wrench it up and across in something that might pass for a killing blow if it were not so slow. Sereth's already moving. He watches you come with the patient look of a man who has seen this many times. Your swing carves an ugly path through the air where he was standing a moment before. He has stepped off the line by the width of his own body, turning side-on so that the blade passes close enough to tug at the white fall of his hair and nothing more. The miss drags you further, your rear foot scrabbling for purchase. For an instant your back is open, your ribs bare, your grip clumsy with the sudden knowledge that you've given him exactly what he wanted. Laughter sparks in the ring; short, sharp sounds. Cassian’s face doesn't change, yet his eyes narrow as if he just marked down where your feet failed you. Sereth’s expression neither hardens or softens. He simply steps in as gravity takes you, both practice blades hanging in the low, ready line of a butcher choosing where to place the cut. <</if>> The world seems to tighten around that small shift in his weight. Whatever ground you thought you had taken is gone. You see his hips turn, the set of his shoulders, the slightest flare of his nostrils as he draws in breath. His next move will not be a test. It will be the answer. ''"Move,"'' the doctore rasps hard from somewhere at the edge of your hearing. Your body tries to meet what comes almost before the thought has finished. <<if $might is 1 and $mind is 1>>[[Try to meet the blow, catch it and turn it aside.|chp3_ludus_spar_parry]]<<elseif $mind lt 1>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You don't have the technique to pull this off.">Try to meet the blow, catch it and turn it aside. </span><<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You know your arms would fail.">Try to meet the blow, catch it and turn it aside. </span><</if>> <<if $mobility is 1 and $might is 1>>[[Try to slip clear before he strikes.|chp3_ludus_spar_dodge]]<<elseif $might lt 1>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="The heavy blade will slow you down.">Try to slip clear before it lands. </span><<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="Your feet won't be fast enough.">Try to slip clear before it lands. </span><</if>> <<if $might is 2>>[[Tank it for the chance to hit back.|chp3_ludus_spar_tank]]<<else>> <span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You know it would break you.">Tank it for the chance to hit back.</span><</if>> [[He's simply too fast...|chp3_ludus_spar_toofast]]

You don't rush straight in. Instead, you let the weight of the thick practice blade settle along your spine and move sideways, boots smoothing over sand as you trace a slow arc around Sereth. He humors you for a time, not dashing in immediately, letting each step test two things at once; his feet and your reach. The blade rides your shoulder like a patient, heavy animal waiting to be unleashed. You feel the eyes of the yard track your path, some of the men following your circuits with the faint lift of their chins, others already judging how long before the weight drags you out of line. They're waiting for you to inevitably make a fool out of yourself. <<if ($might is 1 and $mobility is 1) or ($might is 1 and $mind is 1)>> But you find a rhythm. The sand gives yet doesn't steal your momentum away, your feet gradually learning where it's teacherous and where it holds. The long blade rises and falls with your breath, never quite over-committed, always a little beyond his reach, an unfinished threat that keeps his stance honest. Sereth turns with you, never crossing his feet nor overstepping. It's a subtle cue that stirs you to action. When his weight settles a little too much on his rear leg, when his gaze flicks past you for a heartbeat toward the ring, you move. You cut across, shortening the distance in two hard strides. The heavy blade comes off your shoulder and around in a rough, honest arc aimed at the line between his neck and shoulder. It's not pretty, nor a drilled stroke, but there's strength and violent intention behind it. Sereth has to respect it. Crimson eyes sharpen. Both of his practice blades come up together and meet yours with a crack that turns head and shoulders in the watching ring. The impact runs through your arms, sings along your clenched teeth. He gives a step, boots grinding a shallow furrow in the sand, pure-white mane lashing behind his movement like a ghost. There's a low sound from the men on the edges. Not laughter. Not yet. Cassian’s mouth moves at one corner, almost a smile, almost a wince. You have forced the Champion to set his feet and work, if only for a heartbeat. Sereth doesn't let the bind linger long. His grip loosens a fraction. He rolls his wrists and lets your heavy blade slide down one of his, stealing its weight. The other drops away, already turning, already drawing a new line toward the soft places you have just opened. The bright look in his eyes turns intentional, vivid, violent. The next motion will be his. <<elseif $mobility is 2 or ($mobility is 1 and $mind is 1)>> You circle, but the heavy blade makes its opinion known in every step. You keep it high and ready, yet the length wants to drag wide, to turn each shift of your feet into a half-commitment. You watch Sereth, observing the set of his shoulders, the line of his knees, trying to read where he wants you to go and where he fears you might end up. He moves with you, always a little looser, gifted in his stride. His feet sketch smaller patterns in the sand while yours carve broader arcs. Once, you think you see his weight settle a touch too far onto his rear leg and you start to raise the blade for a probing cut, but he has already eased out of it, as if he heard the thought forming in your head and changed it. But when you finally think you see it, you cut across. Two quick steps, quick on your feet. The blade comes down off your shoulder in a sharp, chopping stroke meant more to test, catch, than to kill. It's fast for its size, yet the heft drags a little at the end, the point wandering half a hand from where you wanted it to land. Sereth meets it with lazy neatness. One practice blade rises, catching yours near the tip, nudging it away from his neck by the space of a thumb. The other taps the flat of your weapon as it passes, turning what might have been a hard hit into a glancing touch that bites nothing. You keep your stance, boots digging in, keeping yourself from pitching over into the sand. But you feel in your bones how lightly he answered you. The yard gives off a scatter of noises: a few short grunts of respect that you tried, some murmurs, scattered laughs. Cassian’s gaze stays on your feet. Sereth rolls his shoulders once, small and loose. He has your measure now. He knows how the weight drags at you and how long it takes you to commit. When he moves again, it won't be to test you. It'll be to punish the space you can't quite close. The next step will be his. <<elseif $might is 2>> You begin to circle and the heavy blade settles into your grip like it was made for your hands. The weight does not trouble your shoulders. You carry it high, ready to come crashing down the moment you see daylight. Each step grinds a little deeper into the sand. You can feel how hard you could hit him if he would just stand still and let you close. He never does. Sereth watches you come around with the calm patience of a man who has seen this shape before. When you finally cut across your own line, you do it with your whole body, hips and back and arms all dragging the blade down in a brutal, honest swing meant to break shield and bone alike. It would turn most men to meat. It turns Sereth into air. He is already gone from where the cut would have landed, feet carrying him a step inside the arc. One practice blade snaps out and cracks against the haft near your hands, jarring your grip. The other raps you hard between shoulder and neck, a sharp smack that sends heat flooding down your arm. Laughter pops up around the ring. Short, pleased sounds from men who have seen a bull hit nothing but the post too many times. You hold your feet by sheer stubbornness, jaw clenched, shoulder singing. Cassian’s eyes narrow a fraction, as if writing a quiet note about what happens when you swing before you think. Sereth glides back out of reach, both blades low and loose, leaving you with a throbbing limb and the sick knowledge that raw power is not enough to catch him. What's worse is that the next motion belongs to him, too. <<else>> The idea of circling makes perfect sense in your head. You watch his stance, the angle of his front foot, the small shifts in his shoulders. You mark where his weight sits, where his eyes go when the ring murmurs. You can see little paths through him as clearly as chalk lines. The problem comes when you try to move, react and make him pay. The long blade is never where you need it to be when you need it. Your hands are a breath late, your shoulders a heartbeat behind your thoughts. When you cut across your own circle to test him, it is with a stroke that starts right in theory and dies in practice, the point wandering, the edge heavy and slow. Sereth sees it all. He watches you as a man might watch a bright child working out a puzzle, and then he steps in and ruins it. One practice blade bites down on the haft near your grip and shoves it aside with contemptuous ease. The other flicks out and taps you under the ribs, just hard enough to drive the air from your lungs. You stagger, vision tightening at the edges for a moment as your chest spasms. A few of the veterans laugh in low, knowing bursts. Others only shake their heads. Cassian’s gaze lingers on you a little longer, not unkind, but measuring how far the gap is between what you see and what your body can make real. Sereth retreats a single pace, blades hanging easy again, leaving you gasping and painfully aware that he is playing in a field your flesh has not yet earned. What's worse is that the next motion belongs to him, too. <</if>> The world seems to tighten around that small shift in his weight. Whatever advantage you thought you could carve from distance and angle is gone. You see his hips turn, the set of his shoulders, the slight drawing in of breath that comes before the cut. ''"Move,"'' the doctore rasps hard from somewhere at the edge of your hearing. Your body tries to meet what comes almost before the thought has finished. <<if $might is 1 and $mind is 1>>[[Try to meet the blow, catch it and turn it aside.|chp3_ludus_spar_parry]]<<elseif $mind lt 1>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You don't have the technique to pull this off.">Try to meet the blow, catch it and turn it aside. </span><<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You know your arms would fail.">Try to meet the blow, catch it and turn it aside. </span><</if>> <<if $mobility is 1 and $might is 1>>[[Try to slip clear before he strikes.|chp3_ludus_spar_dodge]]<<elseif $might lt 1>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="The heavy blade will slow you down.">Try to slip clear before it lands. </span><<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="Your feet won't be fast enough.">Try to slip clear before it lands.</span><</if>> <<if $might is 2>>[[Tank it for the chance to hit back.|chp3_ludus_spar_tank]]<<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You know it would break you.">Tank it for the chance to hit back.</span><</if>> [[He's simply too fast...|chp3_ludus_spar_toofast]]

You don't circle and you don't rush. You plant your feet in the sand, set the long practice blade across your body, and let the weight of it settle into your shoulders and spine. The haft is rough under your palms. Your breath sounds loud in your own ears. Across from you, Sereth tilts his head a fraction, studying the line of your guard, the way your elbows sit, the height of your blade. The yard seems to lean in a little. It's either a different kind of courage found in standing still and inviting the first cut, or the hesitation of a coward. Cassian’s gaze rests on your stance, on whether your back heel digs or skates. The Champion rolls his wrists once, loose and easy. Then he begins to move. <<if $might is 1 and $mind is 1>> He does not come in with a wild swing. His first step is small, a half-glide across the sand, testing how your eyes and arms track him. One practice blade rises, not too high; just enough to hint at a cut toward your neck. The second hangs low, alive in his off hand. You watch his hips, not his weapons. When the high blade flickers, you feel the weight shift in his legs instead of biting on the feint. Your own shoulders turn. The heavy sword comes up and across in time to meet his practiced blades with a hard, clean smack that jars your grip yet does not rip it free. The blow shudders through you. You ride it into the ground, knees bending, taking some of the force away instead of letting it crush your arms. His eyes narrow, just a little. There's no smile, but there is a brief brightening, as if you've answered a question to his satisfaction. He rolls off the bind, letting your greater weight carry your blade an inch too far. His other practice sword whispers up at your ribs, a probing bite that you just manage to smother with a twist of your wrists and a drag of the haft. The sounds from the ring change. A few men grunt low approval. No cheers, but less laughter than before. You have not outmatched him, not even close, yet you didn't shatter under his first test. For a heartbeat, you're still on your feet, your guard not entirely broken. Sereth adjusts his stance, light and close, and you can feel in your bones that he will not probe a second time. The next cut will mean something. <<elseif $mind is 2 or ($mobility is 1 and $mind is 1)>> You watch him come like a problem being written out in front of you. The first step, the angle of his lead foot, the subtle slack and tightening in his shoulders. You see the shape of where he wants his blade to land, and you move to meet it, even if your body doesn't entirely love the weight it carries. His first cut is a neat, testing stroke toward your collarbone. You bring the heavy blade up and across. It's not perfect, not fast, yet it's there. His cuts meets wood and bone with a dull crack. The shock runs up your arms and makes your teeth ache. Your guard wobbles, but it doesn't collapse. The second practice blade comes in lower, a sharp smack against the flat near your hands that tries to lever your sword away. You feel what he's doing, and you hang on despite it; feet digging into sand, mind three breaths ahead of where your muscles can reach. He slides out of the bind with the ease of long practice. Your tip droops a little, not from fear but from simple strain. You're already fatigued, and he notes it. His gaze flicks once from your blade to your face, weighing how much more your arms can take. Around you, the ring mutters. Some men sound faintly impressed you caught anything at all. Others are already wagering how many strokes you can stand before the weapon wins your joints. Cassian’s expression is sober, almost thoughtful. You've proven that you can read danger and get wood between it and your ribs, even if you can't yet turn that into a true counter. Sereth settles his weight a little differently now, lower and closer. You can feel that he's done taking your measure. The next motion will not be another probe. It will be the real thing. <<elseif $might is 2>> You hold your ground because it's what your body understands. Feet planted, blade high, ready to meet whatever comes with strength. The heavy sword feels right in your hands. It lulls you into thinking that might and right is enough. Sereth doesn't so much attack as slip into the space you leave for him. His first cut comes in low; not toward your guard, but at your lead knee. You drop the blade to catch it on instinct and he's already changing the line. The practice sword snaps up at the last instant, biting against the flat near your grip. The impact is sharp and mean. Your fingers flare with pain. The point of your own weapon dives a hand’s width toward the sand. Before you can drag it back, his other blade taps you hard under the ribs, a quick, ugly thrust that would have opened you if it were edged. Your breath leaves you in a grunt. You stay upright through stubbornness, more than training, chest burning, arms slow to answer. Laughter tails through the ring - not cruel, but confident. They've seen strong men trust their weight and lose to speed too many times. Cassian’s eyes narrow, a small line forming between his brows as if he has seen this story before. Sereth steps back out of striking distance with a single relaxed stride, blades lowering again. He's found where your guard cracks when pressure comes. There's no reason for him to test that same spot twice. Next time he'll go straight through. <<else>> You try to stand ready, but the weapon never quite belongs to you. The heavy blade drags at your shoulders while you're still, and when you try to adjust your guard, the tip wanders. Your feet know how to move, yet each shift of weight sends the great length lagging a little behind, as if your arms are working in water while the rest of you stands on dry land. Sereth sees it at once. His approach is patient, almost gentle. His first stroke is a small, sharp cut toward your wrist. You flinch the blade up to meet it, a fraction slow. He doesn't even have to change lines. The practice sword kisses your fingers instead of your forearm. Pain spikes along your hand. The haft jolts. You feel your grip loosen, just enough. His other blade is already in motion. It smacks the broadside of your weapon near the tip, turning the big sword away from your body with almost no effort. The momentum yanks at your shoulder. Your stance opens without your consent. You taste the knowledge that, if he wished, he could have buried that same simple motion in your throat instead. The ring reacts with a handful of short laughs and a few sharp intakes of breath. Some of the men wince in sympathy at the way your fingers spasm. Cassian watches you with a level, measuring look, as if calculating how many years of work would be needed to mend this mismatch between your thoughts and your tools. Sereth has already slid back to a comfortable distance, both blades low. He has learned what he wanted. He will not need long to use it. <</if>> The yard seems to narrow around the two of you. Whatever hope you placed in waiting and reading is spent. You see his hips turn, the set of his shoulders, the small drawing in of breath that comes before a true cut. His answer is coming with violent intent. ''"Move,"'' the doctore rasps from somewhere at the edge of your hearing. Your body tries to meet what comes almost before the thought has finished. <<if $might is 1 and $mind is 1>>[[Try to meet the blow, catch it and turn it aside.|chp3_ludus_spar_parry]]<<elseif $mind lt 1>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You don't have the technique to pull this off.">Try to meet the blow, catch it and turn it aside. </span><<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You know your arms would fail.">Try to meet the blow, catch it and turn it aside. </span><</if>> <<if $mobility is 1 and $might is 1>>[[Try to slip clear before he strikes.|chp3_ludus_spar_dodge]]<<elseif $might lt 1>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="The heavy blade will slow you down.">Try to slip clear before it lands. </span><<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="Your feet won't be fast enough.">Try to slip clear before it lands.</span><</if>> <<if $might is 2>>[[Tank it for the chance to hit back.|chp3_ludus_spar_tank]]<<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You know it would break you.">Tank it for the chance to hit back.</span><</if>> [[He's simply too fast...|chp3_ludus_spar_toofast]]

You draw both practice blades in tight, feeling the lightness of them along your forearms, the balance sitting neat in your hands. One point tracks the centre of Sereth’s chest, the other a little lower, ready to rise or cut wherever his guard opens. For a heartbeat you simply breathe, letting the rhythm settle in your shoulders, in your heels, in the thin line between fear and hunger. Then you go. Sand spits back from under your boots as you close the distance in a rush. The circle of men around you smears into colour and heat; a few voices lift in sharp barks of surprise, others in low laughter at your nerve. Sereth grows in your vision with each stride, lean frame and dusk-violet flesh filling the world, twin blades held loose and ready, eyes bright as if he's been waiting all morning for this exact foolishness. <<if $mobility is 2 or ($might is 1 and $mobility is 1)>> You hit the edge of his range in a clean, snapping rhythm. The first blade flicks out toward his leading shoulder, more a hard question than a killing stroke, and the second comes a breath behind it, angling for the line between ribs and hip. Your feet keep time with your hands, weight rolling smooth from heel to ball; each step keeps you just close enough to threaten, just far enough not to crash into him like a drunk. Sereth’s expression sharpens. Both of his practice blades rise to meet your storm, every movement small, efficient, ugly in a way that only well-practiced skill can be. Wood cracks against wood in a flurry, the impacts running through your wrists and up your arms, yet he gives a finger’s width of ground all the same, boots smearing a shallow track in the sand. A few of the veterans grunt, not unpleased. Cassian’s mouth twitches at one corner, almost a smile. You've forced the Champion to work from the first exchange, to use both hands and eyes to keep you from finding flesh. Yet, Sereth doesn't let that continue for long. He feels the pattern of your strikes in the space of a single breath. On the next beat his wrists soften, letting one of your blades slide away, and his weight rolls forward, hips turning, shoulders settling. The bright look in his eyes turns intentional, vivid, violent. Now, the next motion will be his. <<elseif $mobility is 1 and $mind is 1>> Your rush is not elegant, but it's honest. The first blade cuts out toward his guard, a probing slash that forces him to acknowledge the line; the second follows close behind, angling low for his hip. You try to keep your steps matched to your hands, mind counting distance even as your lungs burn, searching for that small stutter, that tiny mistake you can punish. Sereth reads the pattern as you throw it. His blades move in tight, economical arcs, meeting your first cut on the outside and your second on the flat. The clash is not thunderous, yet it is decisive, each parry turning your force back into you. His feet draw smaller shapes in the sand than yours, letting you spend yourself over a wider patch while he anchors the centre. The men on the edge of the ring murmur among themselves. A couple of them sound faintly surprised you didn't fold on the first pass. Cassian’s gaze narrows, charting the angles you chose, the ones you missed. You've not embarrassed yourself, but you haven't unseated anything in him either. Sereth feels that, too. The moment he's measured what you bring, his stance loosens again. One blade drops, ready to spoil your next flurry before it starts, while the other waits, almost lazy, for the opening your own aggression will hand him. The brightness in his eyes hardens into something more focused, more hungry. Now, the next motion will be his. <<else>> The charge comes apart almost as soon as it begins. Your first stride lands too long, the second too short; the twin blades in your hands feel suddenly less like extensions of your arms and more like separate, quarrelling things. One point leaps ahead of the other, your shoulders turning before your hips have caught up, your weight dragging behind the intent. Sereth watches you come with a look a man might give a dog that has slipped its leash. His first blade meets your leading strike with a neat, contemptuous tap, not even a full block, just enough to send it scraping wide of his chest. The second cut never quite arrives. His off-hand blade snaps up and across, biting into your wrist with a sharp smack that jars your fingers open for a heartbeat and steals the sting from the blow. You overrun the line he chose to stand on. Sand shifts treacherous under your heel as you try to correct. For a moment your flank is bare, one arm stretched, the other dragged out of position by the scattered rhythm of your own attack. Laughter cracks from a few throats around the ring, short and knowing. Cassian’s eyes take you in without flinching, as if he has seen this same mis-timed rush a hundred times in a hundred yards. Sereth has no need to gloat. He simply drifts with you, feet finding easy purchase, both practice blades settling into a low, patient guard that feels far more dangerous than anything you've thrown so far. The next motion will be his. <</if>> The world seems to draw in around that shift in his weight. Whatever rush you thought might carry you through is spent. You see the set of his shoulders, the turn of his hips, the faint widening of his stance as he prepares to answer you at last. ''"Move,"'' the doctore rasps hard from somewhere at the edge of your hearing. Your body tries to meet what comes almost before the thought has finished. <<if $mobility is 1 and $mind is 1>>[[Meet the first cut, catch it on one blade and turn it aside with the other.|chp3_ludus_spar_parry]]<<elseif $mobility lt 1>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You don't have the technique or speed to pull this off.">Try to meet the blow, catch it and turn it aside.</span><<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You can't read both blades well enough to meet them.">Meet the first cut, catch it on one blade and turn it aside with the other.</span><</if>> <<if $mobility is 2>>[[Throw yourself sideways, trusting your speed.|chp3_ludus_spar_dodge]]<<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="Your feet won't carry you clear in time.">Throw yourself sideways, trusting your speed.</span><</if>> <span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You can't simply stand and take twin blades.">Tank it for the chance to hit back.</span> [[He's simply too fast...|chp3_ludus_spar_toofast]]

You let the twin blades settle into your hands, one forward, one a little back, and begin to move in a wide arc, boots smoothing over the sand. The circle between you and Sereth stretches thin and long, a line you mean to write around him rather than straight through. Each step tests how he turns. You watch the angle of his front foot, the way his shoulders sit, the small slack and tightening in the muscles of his arms. The blades feel light along your forearms, ready to dart in at the slightest hitch. Around the ring the men track your path with their eyes, some of them quiet, some already weighing whether you are hunting or stalling the inevitable. <<if $mobility is 2 or ($mobility is 1 and $mind is 1)>> You find his rhythm quickly. His feet are neat, yes, his stance balanced, but his body is still a body and not yet a god. When he settles a touch too long on his rear leg and his gaze flicks to the side to track a murmur in the ring, you cut across your own line. You step in on a sharp angle, not straight at his chest but toward the space just off his lead shoulder. The first blade snaps out toward his neck, a hard, bright stroke that would lay a man open if it landed. The second follows in the same breath, turned low for the soft meat above his hip. Your legs keep time with your hands, weight rolling clean, every stride leaving you just close enough to threaten, just far enough not to sprawl. Sereth has to work for it. Both of his practice blades come up at once. One meets your high cut in a tight, ugly parry that jars your wrist. The other flicks down to spoil the low line before it can bite. For a heartbeat he gives ground, boots smearing a shallow track as he angles away from your follow-through rather than standing to take it full on. The noise from the ring changes. A few men grunt low approval. Someone lets out a short, surprised laugh. Cassian’s mouth moves at one corner, not quite a smile. You've made the Champion put in some honest effort, treating your strikes as something more than a minor nuisance. Yet, Sereth rolls off the bind with the ease of long practice. Your blades slide away from his, your momentum bleeding into the turn. His stance loosens even as his eyes sharpen. Now he knows the speed of your feet and the shape of your cuts. When he moves again, it will not be to measure you. It will be to answer you. <<elseif $might is 1 and $mobility is 1>> You move well enough to keep from tying your own feet together. The sand shifts, but your heels and toes remember how to ride it. You circle in a steady, patient arc, blades humming at the edge of his reach, looking for the moment when his stance sags, when his guard leaves a seam you can thread. It almost comes. You see him ease his weight a little too far onto his front leg, the slightest slackness in one shoulder. You cut across your line and step in, one blade darting for his wrist, the other dipping low for his ribs. It's fast for what you are, yet a breath slower than what it needs to be. Sereth meets you without hurry. The nearer of his blades snaps down to tap your wrist, hard enough to knock your point aside, not hard enough to deaden your hand. The other rises to catch your low cut on the flat. He turns with the impact, letting your strength skid past his hip rather than stopping it dead. To the men watching it looks neat, almost simple. To you it feels like trying to carve meat off a stone. There's a scattered murmur from the ring. No roar of laughter, no real praise either. Cassian’s gaze stays on your feet, counting how many steps you needed to close what he could have taken in two. You have shown that you can move, that you aren't completely blind, yet you haven't forced anything real out of the Champion. Sereth eases back out of range by the space of a single stride. His shoulders loosen, arms hanging easy, blades low. He knows now that you can threaten him if he drifts, so he simply stops drifting. The brightness in his eyes hardens, less amused, more intent. The next shift in distance will belong to him. His moves with sudden violence, a predator going for the kill. <<else>> The circle frays almost as soon as you begin it. The twin blades feel light to your hands but your feet don't match their lightness or precision. One stride lands too long, the next too short. You try to watch his shoulders and hips while still keeping track of both points and end up giving all three only part of your attention. Sereth follows your arc with an ease that makes your own movement feel clumsy. His blades hang loose, stance barely seeming to change. When you finally cut across your own line and step in, it's with a lunge that is a thought too late and a half-step too deep; one blade shooting for his shoulder, the other lagging behind, your weight dragging after both. He punishes it with almost lazy precision. His nearer practice sword twitches up and bites across the flat of your leading blade, turning it away from his body with a sharp, stinging crack. The second taps you on the knuckles of your off hand, quick and mean, a kiss of pain that jolts your grip and makes your fingers tense. Laughter snaps around the ring in short, familiar bursts. Not the cruelest they could give, but enough to paint heat in your face. You hold your feet by spite more than skill, twin blades suddenly feeling like too many sharp edges for hands that do not yet know what to do with them. Cassian’s eyes rest on you longer than the others, not unkind, but weighing the gap between the weapons you chose and the body you have. Sereth has already slipped back out of reach. His stance settles, narrow and poised. He has seen how your timing frays when you try to close with both blades at once. He won't give you another easy try. No, his next move is poised with violent intent. <</if>> The yard seems to narrow around the two of you. Whatever advantage you hoped to steal from distance and angle is spent. You see his hips turn, the set of his shoulders, the small drawing in of breath that comes before a true cut. His answering flourish is already in motion. ''"Move,"'' the doctore rasps from somewhere at the edge of your hearing. Your body tries to meet what comes almost before the thought has finished. <<if $mobility is 1 and $mind is 1>>[[Meet the first cut, catch it on one blade and turn it aside with the other.|chp3_ludus_spar_parry]]<<elseif $mobility lt 1>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You don't have the technique or speed to pull this off.">Try to meet the blow, catch it and turn it aside.</span><<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You can't read both blades well enough to meet them.">Meet the first cut, catch it on one blade and turn it aside with the other.</span><</if>> <<if $mobility is 2>>[[Throw yourself sideways, trusting your speed.|chp3_ludus_spar_dodge]]<<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="Your feet won't carry you clear in time.">Throw yourself sideways, trusting your speed.</span><</if>> <span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You can't simply stand and take twin blades.">Tank it for the chance to hit back.</span> [[He's simply too fast...|chp3_ludus_spar_toofast]]

You don't circle and you don't rush. You set your feet in the sand, bring both practice blades up into a tight, ugly guard, and wait. One point hovers near your chest, the other angled out toward Sereth’s eyes. Your wrists feel loose, ready. Your shoulders burn a little under the tension, yet you hold it, breathing slow. Across from you, the Champion tilts his head, taking in the stance, the way you keep your elbows close, the set of your weight over your heels. The men on the edge of the ring murmur among themselves. Holding ground with twin blades is a gambler’s choice. It can make a man look clever or foolish with very little space between the two. Sereth starts forward. <<if $mobility is 1 and $mind is 1>> He doesn't come in wild. His first step is small, a half-glide that barely disturbs the sand. One practice blade lifts in a faint threat toward your face, the other hangs low, ready to punish your ribs if you bite at the wrong moment. You feel the urge to flinch at the high line, to swat it away, but you keep your eyes on his hips and the coil of his shoulders. When the high blade twitches, you move your feet instead of your fear. You shift half a step to your right, opening your guard by a sliver, and he takes it. His cut comes in for that seam, sharp and neat. Your lead blade snaps across to meet it, bone cracking against wood, and in the same breath your off-hand sword darts for the inside of his arm, a thin, wicked line that would lay his bicep open if it was sharp and sliced clean. It almost does. He has to work to deny it, crimson eyes sharpening. His wrist turns and your counter skates along the inside of his forearm instead of biting. You feel how close it was in the way his muscles tense under the contact and in the short, quiet breath he takes as he pulls back out of that angle to readjust. A few of the watching men grunt low approval. Someone laughs once, sharp and pleased. Cassian’s mouth moves at one corner, not quite a smile. You've baited the Champion into a real exchange and drawn out his effort for a heartbeat rather than being brushed aside as an inconvenience. Sereth rolls his shoulders, loosening them, as if shaking off the ghost of that near cut. His stance sinks a little lower, feet setting surer in the sand. Whatever patience he was giving you is gone. When he comes again, it will be without half-measures. And he's not wasting time. <<elseif $mobility is 2>> You're quick, and the sand doesn't own your feet, yet standing still feels like wearing someone else’s skin. The guard holds because you force it to, twin blades making a narrow cage in front of your chest. You watch him come, eyes flicking between shoulders and hands, trying to read the story there, but for a heartbeat you feel too stationary. His first step is soft. The first cut is softer. A testing stroke toward your forearm rather than your throat, meant to see whether you panic or think. You manage something in between. Your lead blade jerks out to meet it, a fraction too far, a fraction too fast, turning a neat parry into a messy slap that still keeps the wood off your flesh. Your off hand tightens around the second sword, yet the counter never quite comes. The opening is there for a blink, then gone. Sereth feels it. He lets the bind slide away, taking your spent motion and giving nothing back. His next angle comes from the other side, a quick twist of his hips and a short, sharp strike toward your ribs. You get your blade in the way again, but just barely, catching the blow near the tip instead of on the shaft. The shock rattles up your arm, reminding you that speed without a plan is just another way to get tired. Around the ring, the murmurs are mixed. Some men nod, seeing that you can at least keep blades between yourself and harm. Others shake their heads, hearing all the missed chances in the rhythm of your guard. Cassian’s gaze stays on your feet, on how you twitch instead of step when he attacks. Sereth eases back out of the pocket with a light push off his rear foot. His shoulders loosen, no longer testing, no longer kind. He's learned that you can block, that you can twitch away, and that you can't yet turn either into something that hurts him. The next time he closes, it won't be to ask more questions. <<else>> The stance feels wrong almost from the first breath. Twin blades want motion; lines, angles and sudden leaps in and out of range. Standing still with them makes your shoulders knot and your hands restless. Your feet can't decide how wide they should be, whether to brace for a hit or coil for escape, so they end up doing neither well. Sereth sees all of that as he comes. His first cut is a simple one, a neat little stroke toward your lead wrist. You jerk your sword out to meet it too late and too far. He doesn't even have to change planes; his practice blade kisses the inside of your forearm instead of the edge, a stinging smack that numbs your fingers and throws your point wide. Before you can drag the other blade into place, his off-hand sword flicks up and taps you under the chin, hard enough to rattle your teeth, soft enough not to break anything. Your guard tears open for a heartbeat, both points in the wrong places, your weight stuck between heels and toes. Laughter cracks from a few throats around the yard, short and familiar sounds. Not the worst they could give, but enough to burn hot in your face. You hold your feet through pride more than skill, jaw clenched, hands buzzing, painfully aware of how foolish twin blades look when held like a shield. Cassian’s eyes rest on you, not unkind, yet measuring the distance between what you thought this stance would be and what it is. Sereth has already slid back a pace, blades hanging low and loose again. He's taken what he needs from this little experiment. Next time he closes, he will not bother to slap your hands first. <</if>> The yard seems to narrow around the two of you. Whatever hope you placed in waiting and reading is spent. You see his hips turn, the set of his shoulders, the faint drawing in of breath that comes before a true cut. The next motion will not be a test. It will be the answer. ''"Move,"'' the doctore rasps hard from somewhere at the edge of your hearing. Your body tries to meet what comes almost before the thought has finished. <<if $mobility is 1 and $mind is 1>>[[Meet the first cut, catch it on one blade and turn it aside with the other.|chp3_ludus_spar_parry]]<<elseif $mobility lt 1>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You don't have the technique or speed to pull this off.">Try to meet the blow, catch it and turn it aside.</span><<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You can't read both blades well enough to meet them.">Meet the first cut, catch it on one blade and turn it aside with the other.</span><</if>> <<if $mobility is 2>>[[Throw yourself sideways, trusting your speed.|chp3_ludus_spar_dodge]]<<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="Your feet won't carry you clear in time.">Throw yourself sideways, trusting your speed.</span><</if>> <span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You can't simply stand and take twin blades.">Tank it for the chance to hit back.</span> [[He's simply too fast...|chp3_ludus_spar_toofast]]

You suck in a breath and drive off your back foot, spear point fixed on the hollow at the base of Sereth’s throat. The shaft flexes under your grip as you commit, each stride eating the sand between you in a straight, hungry line. The ring tightens at the edge of your vision; someone laughs once in disbelief, while others hiss through their teeth as you stake everything on reaching him before he can slip inside your guard. It's a hell of a gamble. <<if ($mobility is 1 and $mind is 1) or ($mobility is 2)>> You come in faster and cleaner than the weapon deserves, feet remembering the line you set a moment ago; heel to toe, spear staying mostly level, point hardly wavering as you close. The first jab snaps out for his chest, hard and honest, the second already coiling behind it, ready to drive deeper if the first lands. Sereth’s eyes sharpen immediately. He has to treat it as real. One practice blade twitches up and across, biting at the shaft just behind the spearhead, knocking the point off centreline before it can crash into his ribs. The other dips low, ready to punish your overreach if you lose the handle. For the length of a breath he even gives a sliver of ground, boots smearing a thin track in the sand as he angles his body away instead of simply walking through your rush. The noise from the ring shifts. A few men grunt low approval, and someone lets out a short, surprised chuckle. Cassian’s mouth twitches at one corner, not quite a smile, but close. Against all common sense and stacked odds, you made the Champion move his feet and blades, forcing him to work to keep that spearhead from finding anything soft. Yet the weapon betrays you all the same. The long shaft wants more room than you have. As he rolls off the bind your own momentum drags the point past his shoulder, leaving you a half-step too deep, hips committed, arms stretched. The spear feels long and clumsy at this distance, exactly where a man like him wants you. And now he wants to make you pay. <<else>> The first stride lands well enough. The second finds softer sand than you expected. Your shoulders get ahead of your hips, the spearpoint bobbing as you try to drag it back onto the line of his chest. What was meant to be a clean, driving thrust becomes an ugly, overlong lunge, all intent and not enough craft or honed precision. Sereth doesn't retreat. He watches you come with the calm interest of a butcher eyeing a nervous animal. At the last instant he slips a half-step off the line, turning side-on so the spear passes close enough to tug at the fall of his hair and nothing more. One practice blade bites down on the shaft near the head, shoving it past his ribs with contemptuous ease; the other hand comes in behind your grip, palm braced, helping the motion carry you further than you meant to go. You overrun him. Sand slides treacherous under your heel as you try to haul the weapon back. For a heartbeat your hands are stretched, chest open, the long shaft pinned between his blade and your own panicked fingers. He is suddenly very close, inside the length where a spear is a king. His shoulder crowds yours, weight bullying your stance narrower without needing so much as a true strike. Laughter cracks from a few throats around the ring, short and knowing. Others only wince, having seen this exact mistake before. Cassian’s gaze stays on your feet, watching how many steps it took you to lose the distance you thought would save you. Sereth doesn’t grin, doesn’t gloat. He simply lets the spear slide free and resets his blades, light and ready, now standing comfortably inside the reach you tried to rule him with. This is where he makes you pay. <</if>> The circle of sand between you seems to snap down to the span of his arms and yours. Whatever advantage you hoped to steal from reach is gone; all that’s left is the narrow, ugly space where his twin blades can work and your spear feels too long by half. You see the turn of his hips, the slight drop of his shoulders, the controlled breath that comes before a true cut. ''"Move,"'' the doctore rasps hard from somewhere at the edge of your hearing. Your body tries to answer before the thought has fully formed. <<if ($mobility is 1 and $mind is 1) or ($mind is 2)>>[[Set the butt of the spear, catch his cut on the shaft and turn it aside.|chp3_ludus_spar_parry]]<<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You can't read his blades well enough to catch them on the shaft.">Set the butt of the spear, catch his first cut on the shaft and turn it aside.</span><</if>> <<if $mobility is 2>>[[Throw yourself sideways, trusting your feet more than your point.|chp3_ludus_spar_dodge]]<<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="Your feet won't carry you clear in time.">Throw yourself sideways, trusting your feet more than your point.</span><</if>> <span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You can't simply stand and take twin blades.">Tank it for the chance to hit back.</span> [[He's simply too fast for you...|chp3_ludus_spar_toofast]]

You don't rush straight in. Instead, you let the spear decide the distance. The shaft sits light in your lead hand, butt close to your hip, point leveled somewhere between his throat and his heart as you begin to drift sideways. Each step smoothes a pale crescent through the sand, drawing a slow, deliberate ring around the Champion. Sereth turns with you. He doesn’t chase, nor does he overstep. His blades rest easy at his sides, tips lowered as if this were simply another movement in a long day of drills. Only the faint narrowing of his crimson eyes gives away that he’s measuring you against the length of the weapon, testing how much space you think it can buy you. The circle tightens, a little at a time. <<if ($mobility is 1 and $mind is 1) or ($mobility is 2)>> Thankfully, you find the rhythm first. Heel, toe, drag. The sand gives under your boots but doesn’t steal your balance. The spearpoint stays mostly where you mean it to be, tracking the line of his sternum as you move. When his weight shifts forward, and when his shoulders start to dip as if to close, you snap the point out in a sharp jab for his chest. He slips his head just off the line and one practice blade flicks up, kissing the shaft a handspan behind the point, knocking your thrust aside with neat contempt. But he has to move to do it. His footwork changes, stride shortening, hips turning a fraction away. When he tries to come in off that angle you’re already giving ground, the butt of the spear biting a groove in the sand as you retreat and prod again at his ribs. The next jab goes low for his thigh. He ghosts his leg back. Another rakes high for his shoulder and he rolls his weight under it, the point whispering past pure-white hair instead of flesh. He reads every thrust and makes you miss them all; but each time he tries to answer, the spear’s length is there, an honest, ugly length of wood that refuses to let him simply walk straight through you. The noise from the ring shifts. A few of the watching men grunt approval at the sight of the Champion forced to treat your weapon as real and respect the line it draws. Cassian’s dark gaze follows the spearpoint and your feet, and though his jaw stays hard there’s no disappointment in it just yet. For all his calm, Sereth’s first approach never quite lands. The distance isn't his for free. He’ll have to take it. And that's exactly what he's trying to do. <<elseif ($mind is 2) or ($might is 1 and $mobility is 1)>> You move. Not beautifully, nor like the envisioned perfect, poised plan in your head, but enough. Your boots bite shallow tracks into the sand as you circle, keeping the Champion at an angle instead of square in front of you. The spear’s weight feels a little wrong in your hands, the point wandering half a hand from where you want it, but when Sereth’s shoulders start to lean in, you jab. It’s not clean. The thrust goes more for the middle of him than any cunning target. One of his blades rises, letting your point slap flat against the length of wood and bleached bone instead of biting at his chest. The sound is a dull thock instead of a satisfying crack, but it is still something between his flesh and yours. He tests you. A step here, a half-lunge there, a little extra pressure as if to see how quickly you’ll panic and throw the spear away. Each time you give ground, awkward but just fast enough, the butt skidding trenches behind you as you backpedal and stab out in short, ugly prods that he has to acknowledge with a twist of his hips or a lazy parry. You don’t feel like you’re driving him. You aren’t. Your counters don’t threaten him so much as remind him that the long shaft exists. But for now, in this narrow slice of the exchange, the distance holds. He hasn’t simply bullied his way inside your reach immediately, even if he knows he could. You can feel, as his eyes narrow and his shoulders loosen, that he’s done toying with that distance. What comes next will be his. <<else>> The idea makes sense in your head: circle him, use the spear to keep him out, make him pay when he steps in. Maybe you'll land a solid blow to his rib, maybe his knees, or knock him out of the bout if you get lucky. But when you try to put thought into motion, it all unravels. Your feet don’t quite agree on where they ought to be. One drags, the other oversteps, your hips twisting a half-beat late so that the spearpoint never sits where you want it. It bobs and wavers, tracing nervous little shapes in the air instead of a clean, firm line between his body and yours. Sereth sees it immediately. Of course he does. His gaze flicks from your weapon to your feet and back again, and whatever faint question was in his expression a moment ago smooths into calm understanding. You are not a spear fighter. Not yet. When he chooses to close, it feels less like an attack and more like a simple correction. A diagonal step cuts across the line of your circle, angling him toward your open side. You try to jab for his chest but the point comes late, high and too hard. One practice blade drops and knocks the shaft aside near the midpoint, turning your prod into a helpless scrape past his ribs. You attempt to recover, to wrench the spear back between you, but he's already there. A second, sharper beat of footwork eats the space you thought you had, and suddenly the weapon feels a size too long, trapped between his reach and yours with nowhere useful to go. You find yourself backing almost straight away, spear dragging, the butt catching in the sand and jerking your hands. A few of the veterans laugh, low and knowing. Others simply wince, recognizing a body that hasn’t yet learned to turn length into safety. Sereth doesn’t bother to punish you with a real strike. He doesn’t have to. The way he stands; a little closer than comfortable, blades loose and ready inside the line of your point, says enough. The next motion belongs to him, and he knows it. <</if>> The world seems to tighten around the small shift in his weight. You see the turn of his hips, the slight drop of his shoulders, the controlled drawing in of breath that comes before he truly commits. ''"Move,"'' the doctore rasps hard from somewhere at the edge of your hearing. Your body tries to answer before the thought has fully formed. <<if ($mobility is 1 and $mind is 1) or ($mind is 2)>>[[Set the butt of the spear, catch his cut on the shaft and turn it aside.|chp3_ludus_spar_parry]]<<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You can't read his blades well enough to catch them on the shaft.">Set the butt of the spear, catch his first cut on the shaft and turn it aside.</span><</if>> <<if $mobility is 2>>[[Throw yourself sideways, trusting your feet more than your point.|chp3_ludus_spar_dodge]]<<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="Your feet won't carry you clear in time.">Throw yourself sideways, trusting your feet more than your point.</span><</if>> <span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You can't simply stand and take twin blades.">Tank it for the chance to hit back.</span> [[He's simply too fast for you...|chp3_ludus_spar_toofast]]

Whatever happens, you don't plan on running. You set your feet in the sand; not too wide, not too narrow, feeling for the place where your weight settles and stays. The butt of the spear bites a shallow divot behind your heel, the shaft angled forward, point leveled just beneath Sereth’s collarbone. Your hands close around the wood until the grain prints itself into your palms. If he wants you, he can come through this. Sereth slows as he sees your choice. No more circling, no more drifting; his eyes trace the line from your rear foot up through your hips to the spearpoint and back again, weighing it. His blades hang loose at his sides, but they aren't resting. They're waiting. Around you, the ring quiets by a fraction. Men recognize the posture: a held line, a dare. <<if ($mind is 2) or ($mind is 1 and $might is 1)>> You let your breathing settle and your eyes soften, not focusing on the flick of his blades so much as the whole shape of him. Where his weight sits and how his shoulders hang. The rhythm of his steps as he begins to close. He doesn’t rush. The Champion has no need to prove he can cover a few paces of sand. He prowls instead, inching into that ugly middle distance where your spear is almost but not quite at its best, testing for nerves in the tremor of your point. There is a feint; a little drop of his front shoulder, a suggestion that he’ll cut low for your thigh. You feel your hands want to dip and you do not let them. The point stays on his chest. You don't answer the lie. The real attempt comes half a breath later, off the other side. His lead foot chews a diagonal step, hips turning, blades beginning to rise in a pattern that would carry him inside your reach if you were slow. But you aren't, not at first. You drive off your back foot and let the spear go the way it’s already pointing. The thrust is short and mean, nothing pretty, just a straight, hungry line for the meat of his sternum. The butt digs into the sand behind you and the wood hums with the force of it. Sereth’s eyes flare a fraction wider. One blade snaps up and across the line, hard enough that the impact jars your arms and rings in your teeth, but it has to snap. For an instant the full weight of him is checked on the length of your shaft instead of on your body. His forward step cuts shorter than he meant it to, shoulder stopping shy of the space he wanted to steal. There's a little sound from the ring at that. Not a roar, but a ripple; the noise men make when they see something that wasn’t a foregone conclusion. Cassian’s attention sharpens, following the way your rear foot held, the way your hands recovered without fumbling. Sereth eases back a half-step, resetting his stance, blades settling into a truer guard. His approach didn't fail, but it didn't simply take what it wanted. The line you drew with the spear was real enough that he had to respect it, at least initially. He won't test it the same way twice. <<elseif ($mobility is 1 and $mind is 1) or ($mobility is 2)>> You brace because it feels right: weight down, hands firm, point level. The spear settles into something like a proper guard, even if the details aren’t perfect. Your feet dig shallow grooves, anchoring you in place as Sereth begins to close. He doesn’t break into a charge. He advances in small, careful pieces, adjusting his angle a sliver at a time. Each little shift makes your grip tighten, your shoulders wanting to follow. The point wanders half a handspan left, then right, as you try to track both the weapons and the man behind them. When he gets close enough that his blades feel too near, you thrust. It isn’t a beautiful stop-cut, only a hard shove of wood and bone for the middle of his chest. One practice sword flashes up and turns it aside, letting the point scrape along the flat in a shower of sand-grit rather than stuffing into anything soft. The impact stings your palms and leaves the spear a little off-line. But he did have to answer it. His forward step shortens. His hips don’t quite cross the space they meant to in that beat. For a moment you can feel that he's thinking about the length of the shaft, about where your next shove might come from. You don’t feel in control. You're reacting more than you are reading, jabbing when your nerves can’t stand the closeness. Your stance isn’t perfect; the butt skids and slips, your heel digging furrows as you adjust. Yet each time he starts to crowd, the spear gets between you again. Clumsy, late, but solid enough that he doesn’t simply walk through it. Around the ring, a few of the men watch with that particular stillness they reserve for seeing if a novice will fold. Cassian’s jaw stays hard, but he doesn’t bark for you to move yet. You haven’t disgraced the weapon. You just haven’t made it sing. Sereth’s eyes narrow a fraction. He’s done testing your first idea of a line. The next attempt will be sharper, and it won't leave you so much room to fumble the thrust. <<else>> You plant your feet because you don’t know what else to do. The butt of the spear digs into the sand behind you, but your weight isn’t really settled over it. Your knees are either too straight or too bent, your shoulders hunched a little high, the point of the weapon tracing restless, nervous little circles in the air as Sereth begins to close. He sees it all. The Champion’s gaze walks from your hands to your hips to your heels and back again, reading each misplaced piece. There's no malice in his expression, only the calm understanding of a man who knows exactly what this stance can and can't do. His first steps toward you are easy, almost lazy. A small feint with his shoulder makes your point dip toward his thigh; you follow it, overreacting, the spearhead dragging down and out of the centerline. By the time you realize you’ve bitten on nothing, he’s already shifted. A sharper step eats the distance. One of his blades loops low and knocks the shaft aside near the middle, nowhere near the braced butt, turning your weapon from a wall into a door he’s already halfway through. The force of it yanks your front hand across your body. Your rear foot slips in the sand as you scramble to recover. He’s inside before you can. You end up half-turned, spear dragged out of line, the long shaft now trapped at an angle between you. His shoulder is close enough to brush yours if he wanted to; his blades hang in the narrow space where they can reach anything, and your point can reach nothing. The laughter that runs around the ring is not cruel so much as familiar. They’ve all seen this before: a body trying to make a weapon do something its nerves and training can’t quite support. Cassian’s face hardens, and you can feel his disappointment more than you can see it. Sereth doesn’t need to strike to prove his advantage. The way he stands: balanced, patient, unthreatened, says everything. The line you tried to hold was never really there. <</if>> The space between you shrinks to the span of a few breaths and a few inches of flesh. You see the subtle turn of his hips, the slight drop of his shoulders, the measured breath that comes before he truly commits to the next exchange. ''"Move,"'' the doctore rasps hard from somewhere at the edge of your hearing. Your body tries to answer before the thought has fully formed. <<if ($mobility is 1 and $mind is 1) or ($mind is 2)>>[[Set the butt of the spear, catch his cut on the shaft and turn it aside.|chp3_ludus_spar_parry]]<<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You can't read his blades well enough to catch them on the shaft.">Set the butt of the spear, catch his first cut on the shaft and turn it aside.</span><</if>> <<if $mobility is 2>>[[Throw yourself sideways, trusting your feet more than your point.|chp3_ludus_spar_dodge]]<<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="Your feet won't carry you clear in time.">Throw yourself sideways, trusting your feet more than your point.</span><</if>> <span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You can't simply stand and take twin blades.">Tank it for the chance to hit back.</span> [[He's simply too fast for you...|chp3_ludus_spar_toofast]]

You roll your wrist once to feel the weight of the round shield, then bring it up and in. The rim frames the Champion’s chest, the boss hovering in front of your heart, knuckles tightening against the leather grip. The practice gladius sits low behind it in your other hand, half-hidden, waiting. It's one of the more honest approaches that you could've taken. No tricks, no flourish; just a small wall you can move, with a short, ugly blade tucked behind it, only sure to work once you're close. It's not glamorous, but it might give you your best shot of actually staying on your feet and working into Sereth's guard. His crimson eyes flick over the choice with no trace of scorn. If anything, there’s a faint, distant glimmer of approval. The yard’s reaction is quiet: a few men grunt, others nod, one or two look faintly disappointed you didn’t reach for something more dramatic. Cassian only watches, hard and intent. You draw one breath behind the shield, then drive. Sand spits from under your boots as you crash forward, hiding behind the curve of polished wood and bleached bone, gladius tucked in close to your hip. The shield leads your body by a handspan, edge ready to bite, boss ready to slam. For a heartbeat, all you can see of Sereth is the line of him above the rim. <<if ($might is 1 and $mind is 1) or ($might is 1 and $mobility is 1)>> Your feet and shoulders work together in steady unison. The first step is short and sharp, the second longer, your weight rolling cleanly from heel to toe as you close. The shield doesn’t waggle or wander; it stays welded in front of you, a hard circle that eats his sightline as much as he eats yours. The gladius trails a heartbeat behind, ready to snake out from the shadow you’re carrying. Sereth’s stance tightens as you hit the edge of his range. One of his practice blades rises, the other drifting to guard the line where your short sword will come from. He doesn’t get to pick the terms of the first contact, you do. At least that's the plan. You slam the shield in, not wildly but with all the ugly, disciplined force you can muster. The boss meets his blades with a teeth-rattling crack. The impact doesn’t send him flying; that’s a story told by drunks, not fighters - but it does bite his arm back and steal the smoothness from his next step. His lead foot has to shift, dragging a deeper groove in the sand than he meant to. Your gladius flashes from the shadow at the same time, a short, mean thrust angling for his ribs. He turns it on the flat of one blade with a tight little motion, but he has to turn it. For the space of a breath, his posture narrows. His arms are busy. His choices are fewer than they were a heartbeat ago. There’s a murmur from the watching men at that. Not loud, but pleased; they’ve seen a lot of boys crumple when they meet the Champion’s guard. Cassian’s gaze narrows on the way you kept your feet under the hit, how your rear heel dug and held instead of skidding. Sereth yields a half-step to bleed off the force, boots smearing the sand, then settles again, shoulders loosening, blades resetting to a more dangerous line. You didn't break him, but he didn't simply make you vanish on contact. Yet, the next move will be his. <<elseif ($might is 2) or ($mobility is 2)>> The charge holds together, more or less. Your first strides are eager, the shield bobbing a little as you try to weld your courage and your feet into one thing. It doesn’t quite happen, but it doesn’t fall apart either. The rim still gets out in front, the gladius riding close behind, even if the spacing feels off by a hand or two. Sereth doesn’t wait for you to hit him square. As you reach the edge of his range, he shifts a half-step to the side, cutting your line from a straight lane into a shallow angle. One of his blades rises to meet the shield, the other watching the dark hole where your sword lives. You crash into him anyway. The boss thumps his guard, jarring your arm all the way up into your shoulder. The hit skids more than it bites; instead of jolting him back, it slides off and drags your own shield a little wide. Your follow-up thrust comes, but it’s late, the point scraping more at the air in front of his ribs rather than the ribs themselves. He has to work, though. There’s no contemptuous dismissal, no easy walk-through. His upper body shifts with each contact, blades turning, rolling, keeping the shield off anything that matters. He gives ground in small, controlled pieces, boots writing short lines through the sand as he edges into a stance he likes better. From the ring, the reaction is measured. No laughter, no cheers. Just the quiet attention of men deciding if you’re worth betting their sweat and better yet coin on. Cassian’s expression doesn’t soften, but he doesn’t look away. You haven’t unseated the Champion, but you haven’t been humiliated on the first crash, either. He’s measured you now. His eyes sharpen, hunger sliding in under the calm. The next move will be his. <<else>> The shield feels heavier with every step. You start too high, the rim drifting up until it almost blocks your own sight more than his. Your weight lurches forward before your feet are ready, boots skidding in the sand as you try to turn raw intent into a proper driving line. The gladius hangs somewhere behind the curve, unsure if it’s meant to stab or cling. Sereth watches you come the way a man watches a cart he knows has a broken wheel. At the edge of his range he doesn't meet you square. He takes a single, efficient diagonal step that slides your straight line past him, then lets one practice blade catch the side of your shield as you blunder through. It doesn’t take much; just a sharp, well-timed shove on the rim. The circle of wood yaws. Your own momentum drags it wider, opening a sudden, ugly gap between the shield and your body. Your front foot hits bad sand, heel slipping, and you have to throw your weight sideways to keep from going down. The gladius never gets out of its hole; you’re too busy not eating the dirt. A ripple of laughter runs around the yard, not cruel but knowing. They’ve seen this rush before, more times than they can count. Cassian’s jaw tightens, and you can feel the weight of his disappointment even with your eyes on the sand. Sereth doesn’t bother to punish you with a full, theatrical blow. He just turns with you, calm as a man stepping out of a doorway, and lets your stumble leave you half-turned and off-balance. By the time you wrench the shield back in front of you, he’s already settled where he wants to be: just off the angle of your guard, both blades loose and ready. The next move will be his. <</if>> The world seems to narrow to the span of your shield and his twin blades. You see the small turn of his hips, the slight lowering of his shoulders, the quiet drawing-in of breath that says this will not be another test. ''"Move,"'' the doctore rasps hard from somewhere at the edge of your hearing. Your body tries to answer before the thought has fully formed. <<if $mind is 1 and $mobility is 1>>[[Catch his first cut on the shield rim and turn it for a short stab.|chp3_ludus_spar_parry]]<<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You can't read his blades well enough to place the shield.">Catch his first cut on the shield rim and turn it for a short stab.</span><</if>> <<if $mobility is 2>>[[Slip to the side, shield leading, and make him whiff past you.|chp3_ludus_spar_dodge]]<<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="Your feet won't carry you clear in time.">Slip to the side, shield leading, and make him whiff past you.</span><</if>> <<if $might is 2 or ($might is 1 and $mind is 1) or ($might is 1 and $mobility is 1)>>[[Brace behind the shield and take the hit, betting on wood and bone.|chp3_ludus_spar_tank]]<<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You know the impact would batter straight through you.">Brace behind the shield and take the hit, betting on wood and bone.</span><</if>> [[He's simply too fast for you...|chp3_ludus_spar_toofast]]

You don't rush straight in. Instead, you let the shield take the lead and start to move around him; small, edged steps that grind shallow grooves into the sand. The round of polished wood and bleached bone tracks his chest, rising and falling with your breath, the practice gladius tucked close behind it like a secret. It's one of the more honest approaches that you could've taken. No tricks, no flourish; just a small wall you can move, with a short, ugly blade tucked behind it, only sure to work once you're close. It's not glamorous, but it might give you your best shot of actually staying on your feet and working into Sereth's guard. His crimson eyes flick over the choice with no trace of scorn. If anything, there’s a faint, distant glimmer of approval. The yard’s reaction is quiet: a few men grunt, others nod, one or two look faintly disappointed you didn’t reach for something more dramatic. Cassian only watches, hard and intent. Sereth turns with you, loose at the shoulders, weight light on the balls of his feet. His twin blades hang low for now, but their points never drift far from the gaps your stance might open. <<if ($might is 1 and $mind is 1) or ($might is 1 and $mobility is 1)>> You find a pattern almost without meaning to. The shield sits high enough to smother his chest, low enough that you can still see his hips and feet. Your boots bite and drag, keeping your weight under you as you circle, never letting him square up cleanly. When he eases a step closer, you answer with a sharp shove of the rim or a little shift of angle that keeps his line crooked. His first test comes in the form of a small, sharp advance and a twitch of his right blade toward the gap above your shield. You see the shoulder before you see the shift of his blunted blade. The rim comes up to meet it with a solid, ugly clack that shudders down your arm. The stab doesn’t bite flesh; it bites old wood instead. Your gladius snakes out from behind the curve in the same breath, a short, mean thrust for the side of his ribs. He turns it on one sword with a tight, economical motion, but he has to turn it. For the span of a heartbeat, both his hands are occupied with what you're doing, not what he wants to do to you. A low sound ripples from the watching men. Not cheers, not yet, but the kind of grunt men make when something lands harder than they expected. Cassian’s gaze sharpens, tracking the way your rear foot stayed dug in, how your shoulders didn’t flinch from the contact. Sereth gives ground in a controlled half-step, boots writing a short hook in the sand as he rolls the shield off his blades and resets to a new angle. His eyes are a shade brighter now, less politely distant. You haven't trapped him, but you have denied him the easy dominance that comes when a novice shows him their back on the first hard exchange. Yet, the next attempt he makes to close will have teeth. <<elseif $mobility is 2 or ($mobility is 1 and $mind is 1)>> You work the edge of his reach, if not beautifully then at least honestly. The shield rides a little high, then a little low, your arms adjusting more than they should as you circle. The gladius feels cramped behind it, the hilt nudging your ribs when you turn. But your boots keep moving. You don’t let him take the center and pin you there; you keep him turning, if only a little. When he edges in, testing the distance, your first instinct is to flinch. You force yourself to shove the rim forward instead. The boss clips one of his blades with a dull, jarring thud that doesn’t stop him but does knock the cut off clean line. The follow-up stab you throw from behind the shield scrapes more along his guard than anywhere dangerous. It’s not especially clever, but it’s not nothing. Sereth’s shoulders roll with each contact, blades turning, tapping, guiding the shield away from anything that might truly inconvenience him. He gives ground in small pieces; not because he has to, but because there's no need to overcommit when your counters are easy enough to read and file away. From the edge of the ring, the reactions are muted. No mocking laughter, nor impressed shouts. Just that steady, weighing silence of men trying to decide what you might be with more time and better beatings. Cassian’s jaw stays tight, but he doesn’t look away. You aren't outclassing the Champion. You aren't even truly bothering him. But you haven’t given him the first clean, humiliating opening he could have taken if you’d simply panicked or folded. For now, you are still in it. His expression smooths again as he feels he’s taken your measure. The next step he takes toward you will be to test something more specific than your nerve. <<elseif $might is 2>> You don’t so much glide around him as grind a track into the sand. Each step is solid, heel digging a little trench before you roll your weight forward. The shield rides a touch heavier in your hand than it ought to, but it stays where it matters—between your chest and his blades. The gladius feels cramped behind it, yet there’s comfort in the thickness of wood and bone. Whatever else happens, he’ll have to work to get through that. Sereth tests you without hurry. A small advance here, a little drift of his hips there, the faintest suggestion of a cut toward your shoulder to see if you’ll overreact. You don’t. When he gets close enough that instinct screams, you answer with the simplest thing you have: you shove. The rim bites into one of his practice swords with a heavy, meaty clack. The impact isn’t clever. It doesn’t turn his edge or open a pretty angle: it just drives straight into his guard and makes his arm give ground whether it wants to or not. He has to shorten his step, boots smearing a deeper groove in the sand as he rolls his shoulder with the blow to bleed it off. Your follow-up stab isn’t quick, but it's committed. The gladius punches out from behind the curve in a short, brutal line for his midsection. He knocks it aside on the flat of his other blade, but there’s no dismissive flick to it; he has to set his wrists and meet the force. The sound that goes around the ring at that isn’t laughter. It’s low and approving, the noise of men who understand simple weight applied in the right place. Cassian’s gaze tightens on your footing, noting how your rear heel stayed dug, how you didn’t bounce off your own effort. Sereth eases back a half-step, eyes a little brighter now, re-angling to a line he prefers. He’s read enough to know you won’t dance with him. You’ll try to walk through him instead. He adjusts accordingly. <<else>> The idea is simple enough: move, defend, look for a counter. Your body makes it look harder than it should be. The shield wobbles from high to low as you try to watch his blades and his feet at once. Your boots scuff and drag, sometimes crossing a little too close, sometimes planting too far apart so that each change of direction feels like hauling yourself out of a pit. Sereth sees all of it. His eyes flick from your heels to your hips to the edge of the shield like he’s reading a diagram. He doesn’t need to rush. As you circle, he inches closer to the center, letting your own arc widen, the space you have to cover with each step slowly stretching you thin. When he finally chooses to test you, it’s almost gentle. A short advance, a quick flick of his lead blade toward the edge of your shield. You bring the rim up late, catching the blow but letting it glance and twist the whole thing sideways. The impact jolts your arm hard enough that your fingers loosen on the grip. The gladius stays glued to your hip, never quite finding the nerve to leave cover. In that moment of scramble, he shifts again. A neat little sidestep turns your attempt to keep him in front of you into a stumble that exposes your flank. You jerk the shield around, but it’s chasing rather than denying, the arc wide and slow. Laughter runs around the ring in short, knowing bursts. They’ve seen this dance: a body trying to do three things at once with hands that have only ever done one. Cassian’s face sets like stone. You don’t need to see him to feel it. Sereth doesn’t cut you down. He doesn’t need to. By the time you haul the shield back into something like a guard, he’s already standing a little off your angle, both blades relaxed and ready, as if to prove how easily he can find the places your defense doesn’t quite reach. The next motion will be his, and you both know it. <</if>> The world seems to narrow to the small circle of your shield and the span of his twin blades. You see the subtle shift of his hips, the slight lowering of his shoulders, the measured breath that comes before he truly commits. ''"Move,"'' the doctore rasps hard from somewhere at the edge of your hearing. Your body tries to answer before the thought has fully formed. <<if $mind is 1 and $mobility is 1>>[[Catch his first cut on the shield rim and turn it for a short stab.|chp3_ludus_spar_parry]]<<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You can't read his blades well enough to place the shield.">Catch his first cut on the shield rim and turn it for a short stab.</span><</if>> <<if $mobility is 2>>[[Slip to the side, shield leading, and make him whiff past you.|chp3_ludus_spar_dodge]]<<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="Your feet won't carry you clear in time.">Slip to the side, shield leading, and make him whiff past you.</span><</if>> <<if $might is 2 or ($might is 1 and $mind is 1) or ($might is 1 and $mobility is 1)>>[[Brace behind the shield and take the hit, betting on wood and bone.|chp3_ludus_spar_tank]]<<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You know the impact would batter straight through you.">Brace behind the shield and take the hit, betting on wood and bone.</span><</if>> [[He's simply too fast for you...|chp3_ludus_spar_toofast]]

You don't rush in or start to circle. No, you set yourself in the sand. Your worn boots grind down until you feel the grit lock around your soles. The round shield comes up and in, boss hovering in front of your heart, rim angled to catch whatever wants to bite. The practice gladius waits low at your hip, tucked behind the curve like a hidden tooth. It's one of the more honest approaches that you could've taken. No tricks, no flourish; just a small wall that he'll be forced to try and breach, with a short, ugly blade tucked behind it. It's not glamorous, but it might give you your best shot of actually staying on your feet and working into Sereth's guard once he comes. Sereth slows as he reads your choice. His twin blades relax a little, points dipping, not out of contempt but out of calm certainty. He’s seen this before in a hundred yards under a hundred suns. He starts to close in small, patient steps, watching how much you flinch just from the idea of him. <<if ($might is 2) or ($might is 1 and $mind is 1)>> But you don’t flinch. His approach tightens the world down to the circle of your shield and the span of his shoulders, but it doesn’t squeeze the air out of your chest. Your weight sits low and honest over your hips, rear heel dug, front knee bent enough that you can shove when the moment comes. The wood doesn’t feel like a prop. It feels like something you could bury in a man and keep on walking. He tests that feeling with a small, sharp step and a lazy-looking cut toward your rim. You see the shoulder before the blunted blade. The shield rolls to meet it, not with a panicked twitch but with a heavy, deliberate turn of your torso. Wood smacks wood in a flat, nasty crack that shudders down your arm. He expects you to give ground off that first impact. You don’t - you shove back. The boss bites into his guard, into the solid line of his arms, and for a heartbeat his weight has to accept yours. His lead foot slides half a hand’s breadth in the sand, smearing a deeper trench than he meant to make. The next breath, his second sword comes up to manage your follow-through. And that’s when the gladius comes. You snap it out from behind the rim in a brutal little thrust for his ribs. It’s not clever, but it's committed, driven with the same ugly certainty you used on the shield. He turns it on the flat of one blade, but the deflection costs him more space. He has to roll his whole upper body with it, shoulders twisting, guard narrowing. The sound from the ring at that is low and pleased. Men grunt, exhale, shift their stance like they felt the weight of the exchange in their own bones. Cassian’s attention sharpens, eyes finishing their slow climb from your planted heel to the way your shoulders didn’t shy from the clash. Sereth eases back a short step, resetting, blades lifting into a truer threat. His eyes are brighter now, the calm edged with something hungrier. You didn’t break him. But you didn't fold. You met him and gave him something he couldn’t just sweep aside. The next time he comes, it'll be to bite into you and see what bleeds out behind. <<elseif (($might is 1 and $mobility is 1) or ($mind is 1 and $mobility is 1))>> You hold because you have to. The circle would only tire you faster. The stance isn’t perfect, but it’s there. Weight mostly where it should be, shield mostly where it matters. Your boots dig enough of a groove that you won’t be blown over by the first good hit, even if you might slide after the third. Sereth drifts closer in quiet, measured pieces. A little angle here, a half-step there. Each time he shifts, your shield twitches to follow, a fraction late but still answering. You keep the boss pointed at his middle, the rim hovering between his blades and anything soft. His first test is light; a probing cut toward the edge. You roll the shield toward it, catching his blunted blade on the rim with a jar that stings your knuckles. The impact threatens to drag the whole thing out of line, but you wrestle it back in front of you before the gap can truly open. Your gladius jerks halfway out of hiding, but you thinks better of it, and settle back, unsure. He feels your hesitation. The next probe is sharper. A thrust nudges at the top of the shield; you answer late, wood scraping under wood and bone as you hunch behind it. His other sword taps at the bottom edge, looking for how much he has to bother with your legs. Each contact takes a little more from your arms, from your balance. You don’t break, but you feel yourself being measured like a beam under too much weight. From the edge of the yard, the men watch in that same weighing silence. No one laughs; you’re not making a fool of yourself. You’re just not stopping him. Cassian’s jaw is tight, eyes flicking between how often your shield moves and how much ground you yield each time it does. You can keep the line from collapsing outright, but you can’t make it bite. As Sereth’s probes grow a shade more insistent, you can feel that he’s found the edge of what your guard can take before it starts to fray. The next push will be harder. He’s coming to see whether you bend or break. <<else>> You tell yourself that standing still will make the shield simpler to use. It doesn’t. The moment you set your feet, everything else starts to feel wrong. Your weight sits in the wrong places, heavy on your heels when it should be coiled under your hips. The shield wobbles between too high and too low, blocking your sight one breath and leaving your ribs naked the next. The gladius doesn’t feel like a hidden tooth; it feels like a lump of wood you’re afraid to drop. Sereth sees the truth of it from the first few steps. He glides into range with the calm of a man approaching a familiar door. A small feint toward your shoulder makes you jerk the rim up; you overcorrect, and the lower half of your body feels suddenly exposed. Before you can fix it, he changes the line. A neat little cut taps the bottom edge instead, snapping your arm in the opposite direction. The shield bucks in your grip. You tighten your hand, but your stance is all wrong now: knees too straight, back too stiff, weight all in the places where you can’t use it. The next probing strike doesn’t even have to be fast; it just has to arrive while you’re still wrestling the plank and your own balance. Wood kisses wood again, a sharp, precise smack on the rim that wrenches it sideways. Your front boot skids in the sand as you scramble to keep your feet. The gladius stays welded to your hip, useless, your fingers too busy clinging to the shield strap to even think about countering. Laughter crackles from a few throats around the ring, short and knowing. They’ve all seen this: a body trying to turn a shield into safety and only finding more ways to be trapped behind it. Cassian’s face tightens, and you can feel his disappointment like a hand between your shoulder blades. Sereth doesn’t bother with a showy blow. He just steps with you, smooth and patient, until you’re half-turned, half-stumbled, the shield at a bad angle and your guard full of holes. By the time you wrench it back in front of you, he’s already found his place just off-center, both blades relaxed and ready in the gap your inexperience keeps opening. Standing still didn’t make you safer. It only made it easier for him to take you apart in pieces. <</if>> The space between you shrinks to the span of your shield and his twin blades. You see the slight roll of his shoulders, the subtle shift of his hips, the measured breath he draws before the next exchange. ''"Move,"'' the doctore rasps hard from somewhere at the edge of your hearing. Your body tries to answer before the thought has fully formed. <<if $mind is 1 and $mobility is 1>>[[Catch his first cut on the shield rim and turn it for a short stab.|chp3_ludus_spar_parry]]<<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You can't read his blades well enough to place the shield.">Catch his first cut on the shield rim and turn it for a short stab.</span><</if>> <<if $mobility is 2>>[[Slip to the side, shield leading, and make him whiff past you.|chp3_ludus_spar_dodge]]<<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="Your feet won't carry you clear in time.">Slip to the side, shield leading, and make him whiff past you.</span><</if>> <<if $might is 2 or ($might is 1 and $mind is 1) or ($might is 1 and $mobility is 1)>>[[Brace behind the shield and take the hit, betting on wood and bone.|chp3_ludus_spar_tank]]<<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You know the impact would batter straight through you.">Brace behind the shield and take the hit, betting on wood and bone.</span><</if>> [[He's simply too fast for you...|chp3_ludus_spar_toofast]]

The moment stretches thin as wire. <<set $ludus_collar_defense to "parry">> Sereth’s weight rolls forward, subtle and complete. His stance sinks by the barest fraction, supple shoulders tightening around the twin blades as if he were drawing the whole yard into his hands. You don't see a wild charge or some grand, telegraphed swing; it's a simple, merciless line cuting straight through the space where you're standing, and you nearly realize it too late. Your body moves because it must. There's no time left for thought; instinct drives you, maybe luck. The sound in the yard blurs to a low, hungry roar at your back as you set your feet, bring what wood and bone you carry to meet his, and trust that whatever you're about to do will be enough. <<if $ludus_collar_weapon is "heavy">> The thick practice blade drags at your shoulders as you haul it up into the line of his cut. You plant your rear foot deep, teeth grinding, jaw clenched, and turn your hips into the meeting. His first sword comes in low toward your ribs, quick and efficient, the kind of blow that ends men without flourish. You catch it. The impact cracks up your arms and into your skull, reverberating hard through your taut musculature. For a heartbeat the world is nothing but jarring force and the rough rasp of wood on wood. Your hands hold. By sheer stubborn will, your elbows don't buckle. The weight that was meant to split you rides up the long span of your blade and away, deflected by bone and bruised muscle. A few of the men on the rail bark short, surprised laughs. Someone grunts, not displeased. You feel the Champion’s strength on the other side of the bind, and the taut line of him through the haft like a live wire. His head tilts by a hair, crimson eyes narrowing with a small, bright interest that was not there before. Then he shifts. The second blade you knew he carried but almost forgot bites in, not at your weapon but at your hands. A sharp rap against your knuckles, precise as a craftsman’s chisel, shocks your grip open by instinct. The great practice sword jerks a finger’s width out of line. It's enough. Sereth rolls his wrist, slides off your parry and, in the same breath, brings his first blade back around toward softer meat. <<elseif $ludus_collar_weapon is "dual">> The first cut comes in high toward your shoulder. Your lead sword rises to meet it, angled just right, and the wood jars as you turn his strike aside. Sparks of pain jump through your fingers but you ride the force, bleeding it away along your arm. At the same instant your off-hand blade snaps in like a striking adder, a short, vicious thrust aimed for the opening beneath his guard. He has to respect it. For a heartbeat you see his eyes widen, the slightest curl of his lip as he twists his torso, letting your point skim across the hard plane of his abdomen instead of bite. It's damn close, closer than he expected. The yard catches its breath. You feel the hot flare of almost there burn through your chest. Then his tempo changes. Your two blades are still extended when he rolls his wrists and turns the bind against you. One of his practice swords hooks under your lead weapon and drags it down, while the other slides along the flat of your second like a snake, knocking it wide. In an instant both of your hands are out of position, chest and throat open, your balance committed forward as he stands already resetting, already answering. <<elseif $ludus_collar_weapon is "spear">> You drop your weight into the rear foot and set the butt of the spear, angling the shaft across your body. His first cut comes for your flank, fast and low, meant to gut a man who trusted too much in reach. The wood jars as his practice blade bites in near the midpoint. For once, the line is yours. You feel the cut travel up the length of the shaft and you turn with it, guiding it away from your flesh. Sand grinds under your heel as you pivot, letting his strength slide past instead of through you. The Champion’s sword skims off toward the dirt, deflected by the simple geometry of wood, angle and timing. A few of the watching fighters grunt, the sound rough with a hint of approval. <<if $mind is 2>> You knew exactly where that strike would land; your thoughts were there long before your body. Every twitch of his shoulder, every small turn of his hip laid the path bare in your mind. Your muscles barely managed to follow the script you wrote in the space of a heartbeat, tendons screaming in protest as the shock of the parry climbs up your arms. The form is almost perfect, but it leaves you shaking, breath stolen for a moment by the sheer strain of keeping pace with him. <<else>> You ride him by feel as much as sight, instincts and quick thought knotting together in a single, clean decision. Your hands adjust along the shaft almost without conscious command, sliding to catch the force where does the least harm. The parry is rough around the edges but honest, the kind earned by watching too many men die making the wrong choice. <</if>> You even try to answer. The butt-end of the spear snaps in toward his thigh or hip in a quick, hopeful jab, more reflex than plan. Sereth ghosts back a half-step, just enough that the strike bites only air, his expression smoothing into something like genuine interest as he eyes the line of your weapon. Then he steps inside it: quicker, faster. One of his blades chops down at the shaft near your leading hand, pinning it for a heartbeat to your own leg. The other slips along the outside, seeking the unarmoured seam of your side. All at once your reach becomes a hindrance, the long, honest length of wood turned into a lever against you by hands that have done this a hundred times. <<elseif $ludus_collar_weapon is "shield">> You bring the shield up and into the line of his cut, not in panic, but by lightning-fast choice. Your forearm burns as you drive the rounded face to meet his first strike. The blow lands with a dull, meaty crack. The force of it shivers through the strap and into muscle, rattling your teeth, yet the angle is right. His practice blade glances off the curve instead of biting in, sliding away toward the sand. The yard hears that sound. A few men bark short, satisfied grunts. This is soldier’s work; this they understand. You feel a tight, fierce spark in your chest as you step through the impact, trying to answer with a short stab of the gladius past the rim or a hard shove of the shield’s boss toward his chest. Sereth yields that ground by the width of a breath. Your wood rim misses his ribs, blade point skimming empty air where his throat was an instant before. He isn't laughing. There's a small, intent light in his eyes now, as if some line in his head has moved you from one column to another. Then he stops playing on your front. His off-hand blade drops low and hooks the underside of your shield, dragging it down and out. At the same time his lead foot stamps in hard to your exposed side, shifting your stance. With your protection wrenched aside, the next strike comes for flesh, not wood; a clean, merciless answer to the one moment you dared to stand in his way. <</if>> Pain blooms a heartbeat later. The practice blade bites into you where the opening truly was; ribs, hip, shoulder, thigh, wherever his eye chose as he broke your guard. The edge is blunted, but there's weight behind it and intent, enough to steal your breath and turn the world into a hard white flare. Your knees buckle, sand leaping up to meet you, coarse grains scraping skin as the circle of red-violet sky tilts above. You hear the yard respond in a single breath: a roar, a few laughs, one or two low, appreciative grunts at the exchange. Somewhere above it, the doctore’s voice cuts through like gravel. ''"Enough."'' The pressure of the blade leaves your body. Sereth steps back at once, not lingering nor gloating. When your vision clears you catch a last glimpse of him through the veil of pain; posture loose, breathing steady, crimson eyes on you with that same, sharpened curiosity, as if he is comparing whatever he felt in the bind to the stories he heard from your initial showing in the arena. The sand is cooler now under your palm as you brace and try to rise. The collar bites your throat when you swallow, reminding you who owns every bruise you've just earned. [[The yard doesn't forget first impressions, or first blood.|chp3_ludus_spar_aftermath]]

The moment splinters into angles. <<set $ludus_collar_defense to "dodge">> Sereth’s weight comes on without hurry, yet there's nothing gentle in his intent. The Champion's stance narrows, blades hanging loose and low, the point of him aimed straight through your center as if you were already marked. You don't see a great sweeping blow, no wild bellowing charge, only a precise and poised posture that gives you little time to react. Your body chooses the only answer it trusts. Not to meet him head on, nor to root and wait, but to move. The yard blurs at the edges of your sight, a ring of contorted faces, constricting collars and watchful eyes. Sand shifts under your soles as you throw everything you have into one simple truth; if you aren't where his cut lands, you might buy yourself the breath it takes to live, strike, fight another moment in this exchange. Gods know, you need it. <<if $ludus_collar_weapon is "heavy">> The thick practice blade wants to keep you where you are. It drags at your shoulders as you twist, its weight trying to pin your hips to the line of his attack. You wrench free of it with a grunt, hauling the long span of wood across your body as you drive off your rear foot and cut to the side. For an instant you feel the air of his strike on your skin, but not the edge. His first blade scythes past where your ribs were a heartbeat ago, close enough that the wake of it tugs at your tunic. You stumble into new ground, boots ploughing a furrow in the sand, lungs burning with the sharp joy of not being opened from hip to spine. The cost comes with the next heartbeat. The heavy weapon is still dragging you out of line, momentum pulling your shoulders ahead of your feet. Sereth turns with you, light as a cat. One of his swords follows your motion, not the space you left. He lets your own weight finish the dodge, then angles in toward where you're going to be, not where you were, crimson eyes bright with quiet focus as he closes the gap that your escape just drew out for him. <<elseif $ludus_collar_weapon is "dual">> You don't try to beat his blades with yours. You let them lead. The instant you see his hips turn you're already moving, a sharp sidestep that pulls you off the line, twin practice swords riding high and close to your body as if you mean to sheathe yourself in them. His first cut whistles past your shoulder, so close the hair on your arm prickles. You feel the bite that should have been there as a ghost instead, a cold track along the place his edge meant to slice. For a heartbeat you're nothing but speed and narrow spaces; a slim thread of you sliding between him and the killing stroke. The thread is too fine to hold. Your footing lands a fraction wider than you wanted, one blade flaring out as you try to turn the dodge into a counter. Sereth reads it in an instant. He shortens his swing, pivots on the ball of his foot and comes after you, not overreaching but folding into your path. One sword angles down to crowd your hands, the other rising with patient inevitability toward the strip of flesh your own movement laid bare. <<elseif $ludus_collar_weapon is "spear">> You trust your feet more than your point. The long shaft wants to stay between you and him, yet you rip it back, heel digging deep as you throw yourself sideways, almost backward, boots scraping a rough crescent in the sand. The spear’s butt bites into the ground for a heartbeat as you pass, helping you drag your body clear. His first blade cuts through empty air where your belly was, the sound of it a low hiss rather than a crunch of wood and bone. The crowd feels the near miss and answers with a ripple of breath, some of the veterans snorting softly as if to admit that, for one sliver of a moment, you weren't where Sereth thought you would be. These moments make all the difference. Yet, you pay for that stolen space immediately. The spear is long, your arms extended, balance stretched thin over the distance you just fled. Sereth doesn't chase the line of the point; he slips inside it. A quick shuffle of his feet, a small turn of his shoulders, and the length that should have kept him away becomes your leash. One sword dips to drag or pin the shaft out of position, the other drawing back with calm certainty toward the new angle your retreat has offered him. <<elseif $ludus_collar_weapon is "shield">> You move with the shield as if it were a door you mean to slam in his face. The rounded face stays between you and his blades while your feet carry you sideways; quick, choppy steps that keep your hips underneath you. The collar bites at your throat as your shoulders twist, a hot reminder of whose name will be cheered if you fall. The first cut finds nothing but wood and absence. You feel the jolt of it through the straps, yet only along the edge where his sword skims, dragged off course by the angle of your movement. His blade scrapes along the rim and away, biting nothing more than a thin line in the leather binding. A few men in the ring grunt their rough approval; they know good shield work when they see it. Yet, there's no time to savor that small grace. As you try to turn the dodge into a short, vicious shove or a snap of your gladius past the rim, Sereth is already shifting. He doesn't keep fighting your front. A sharp step and a twist of his hips carry him past the edge of the shield, along its curve, into the blind side your own motion has opened. One practice sword rides low, ready to hook your protection farther out of line, while the other draws a neat path toward the strip of unguarded flesh you left behind. <</if>> Pain blooms a heartbeat later. The practice blade bites into you where the opening truly was; ribs, hip, shoulder, thigh, wherever his eye chose as he broke your escape. The edge is blunted, yet there's weight and will behind it, enough to steal your breath and turn the world into a hard white flare. Your knees falter, sand leaping up to meet you, coarse grains scraping skin as the ring of red-violet sky tilts above. You hear the yard respond in a single breath: a roar, a few laughs, one or two low, appreciative grunts at the exchange. Somewhere above it, the doctore’s voice cuts through like gravel. ''"Enough."'' The pressure of the blade leaves your body. Sereth steps back at once, not lingering nor gloating. When your vision clears you catch a last glimpse of him through the veil of pain; posture loose, breathing steady, crimson eyes on you with that same sharpened curiosity, as if he's weighing whatever he just felt against the stories of your first showing in the arena. The sand is cooler now under your palm as you brace and try to rise. The collar bites your throat when you swallow, reminding you who owns every bruise you've just earned. [[The yard doesn't forget first impressions, or first blood.|chp3_ludus_spar_aftermath]]

The moment hardens in an instant, your skull screaming. <<set $ludus_collar_defense to "tank">> Sereth comes on like a closing door. No wild roar, nor wasted momentum; only a clean, murderous line that means to take you apart where you stand. You feel the weight of his intent like a hand on your chest, trying to push you backward through sheer violent intent before the blade even falls. You decide you won't go back. Your feet dig into the sand. You suck in breath, set your shoulders, and choose to meet what's coming with bone, wood and whatever stubbornness lives under your skin. Better to be broken on your own terms than snatched running from your opponent. <<if $ludus_collar_weapon is "heavy">> The big practice blade feels right in your grip. Ugly, blunt, heavy as a length of chained iron. You snarl and suddenly drag it up between you and the oncoming cut, every taut muscle fiber along your back and dense shoulders singing as you lock your wrists and drop your weight. His sword slams into yours with a crack that seems to knock the breath out of the yard. The impact rips through your arms, into your ribs and down your spine. For a heartbeat your legs want to fold. Yet you refuse, roaring something wordless through clenched teeth and shove back harder, letting the force run through you instead of away. The world narrows to the bind. His blade is there, pressing, cold intent behind it. Yours is there, holding, hot pain behind it. You feel him test your guard with his inhuman strength, looking for the give, and you do the one thing he doesn't expect. You take a step in. The long practice sword drags his blunted blade aside by a finger’s width, just enough, and your shoulder crashes in under his guard. You turn that step into a savage, short swing, a hacked bastardly arc that has no grace at all yet still finds him. The wood thumps against the meat of his upper arm, just shy of his shoulder, close enough that another inch and it would have cracked bone. The yard explodes. Shouts, laughter, a few voices barking in disbelief. You have laid wood on the Champion. Not deep, not clean, but real. Sereth’s face tightens in something that's not quite a smile, but not quite anger either. His eyes blaze bright for a heartbeat, as if this is the first time today he has truly woken up. Then he moves. He lets your hit carry you past the point of balance, rolling his blade off yours, turning his shoulders. In the space between one breath and the next you're no longer inside his guard but hanging half out of it, chest open, ribs screaming, arms slow from the shock. His off-hand sword comes around in a short, vicious line you can't stop. The blunted edge bites into your side, just above the hip, a starburst of pain and utter precision that rips your legs out from under you. <<elseif $ludus_collar_weapon is "shield">><<if $might is 2>> You raise the shield like a wall. Legs set wide, heels biting deep, you drag the rim up into the line of his cut and hunker down behind it, trusting in thick wood and your own raw frame to soak whatever he decides to throw. When it comes, it comes like a hammer. His sword crashes into the face of the shield and through it, the sound booming in your bones. Your arm jolts back toward your teeth, shoulder screaming, but the board holds. You grunt, more animal than man, and shove into the blow instead of away. For a heartbeat you feel it give. His weight shifts. The line he chose buckles against your stand. You drive forward off that crack in the world. The shield punches out, turning your brace into a battering ram aimed for his chest, your legs hurling the mass of you into him. Somewhere behind the wood your gladius stabs past the rim, a blind, brutal little thrust that would punch straight into his gut if he were anyone else. He yields a step with the shove, letting the force wash past him, not through him. Your sword finds only air and the scrape of leather as he twists just enough that the killing angle disappears. The yard roars anyway, thrilled by the sight of a collar-slave hammering at a Champion like that. You don't have time to enjoy it. As your momentum drags you forward, Sereth slides along the edge of the shield, the way water slides around stone. One of his blades hooks at the rim, turning the board just far enough that your own weight tears it wider. The other dips low and snakes in under your guard, slamming into your thigh just above the knee. Pain detonates up your leg. The sand vanishes from under your foot and you drop.<<elseif $might is 1 and $mind is 1>> You know you can't match his strength, so you bet on where the blow will land instead. You angle the shield a hand’s width off-center, not flat, letting the rim rise to meet the path his shoulders and hips have already written. Legs bent, arm locked, you brace for the way the force will want to slide. The hit comes and your guess is right. His sword meets the board not square but at the slant you chose. The impact is still monstrous. Your arm goes numb from fingers to neck, a prickling rush of pain and cold. The shield snarls against your chest as it's driven back, yet the angle turns some of that killing line away, bleeding force off into the air instead of straight down your bones. You nearly go to a knee. Only stubborn pride and the memory of better men keep you up. Through the ringing in your ears you see a narrow seam open where his arm overextends by a hair. You answer it with a short, sharp jab of your gladius; not wild, measured, exactly where it ought to go. He respects it enough to move. A small twist of his torso and the thrust skates along leather rather than sinking. It's still enough to steal him half a step of clean follow-through, to remind the yard this isn't the beating of a child but a contest, however lopsided. Sereth takes that note and closes the book. As you try to reset your stance on a half-dead arm, he rolls his wrist free of the shield edge and lets his blade drop. The next cut comes from an angle you can no longer answer, snapping in around the rim and chopping into the meat below your collarbone. The board is still between you and most of him, but not between you and that.<<elseif $might is 1 and $mobility is 1>> You don't plant like a statue. You move into the hit; a low, ugly half-step forward, shield coming up at the last breath, trying to crash your weight and his together in a way that steals some of the clean edge from his swing. His sword meets the board a fraction earlier than he meant it to. The cut is not as long, not as free. It still feels like being kicked by a horse. The shock of it runs through your arm and shoulder, down into the bend of your spine. Yet because you are already moving, already driving in, the blow shoves you off your line instead of straight back. You twist with it, turning what should be a collapse into a lurching, sideways shove. The shield scrapes along his blade, then slams toward his chest. Your gladius hacks past the rim in a rough, spiteful swing that looks more like a street-fight than any clean drill, but it still has enough bite that, if it were sharp and he stood in front of it, it would open him. He doesn't stand there. He rides your surge, stepping around the worst of it, letting your own momentum drag you past the point where you can stop. A flick of his wrist strips his sword free of the shield’s edge. Your swing cuts only air. In the same breath his off-hand blade comes in low and hard, smashing into the meat of your ribs or the soft place just above your hip. The hit tears the rest of the balance out of you. Your feet tangle with each other, the sand treacherous under boots that no longer know which way to push. You go down sideways, shield and sword and breath all knocked loose at once. <</if>> <</if>> The sand catches you like a rough hand. Grain grinds into your palms, your shoulder, the side of your face. Pain blooms in hot, jagged waves from wherever his practice blade struck, spreading out until all of you seems to throb in time with your heartbeat. For a few breaths there is only that, and the taste of iron and dust on your tongue. Around you the yard answers what it has just seen. Some men laugh, short and cruel. Others grunt, not displeased, at the stubbornness, at the hit you almost made or the one you did. It's all one sound in the end, a single hungry animal made of many lungs. ''"Enough."'' The doctore’s voice cuts through the noise like a thrown stone through glass. The pressure of performance begins to lift from you. Sereth is already stepping back, breathing steady, blades lowering. He doesn't crow over you. He only looks down for a heartbeat with that same measuring gaze, as if filing away what it felt like when you stood up to him instead of running. You draw breath again in a ragged pull, the collar biting your throat as your chest lifts. The pain is still there, bright and insistent, but underneath it something else has settled; the exact shape of the gulf between you and the Champion, traced in bruises and in one brief, impossible touch of your blade against his. [[The yard will remember how you fell, and what you dared to take.|chp3_ludus_spar_aftermath]]

The moment comes and goes, snapping through time before you can truly process it. <<set $ludus_collar_defense to "toofast">> You think you can see the moment of decision before it comes. There's no roar, no mighty flourish; only a small narrowing around his elven eyes and a subtle shift of his weight that tells you the measuring is over. Your body wants to do a dozen things at once; take a step, raise your weapon, turn, flinch... run. All of them arrive together and slow each other into nothing. You know you should move, but you don't. The thought rises like a cold stone in your throat. He's simply too fast. <<if $ludus_collar_weapon is "heavy">> You try to drag the big practice blade into a guard, yet it feels nailed to the yard. Your hands close tighter around the grip in anticipation, shoulders straining, but the weapon comes up thick and late, as if you were lifting it through mud. His first cut is already there. The blunted edge cracks across your forearm before the sword climbs even halfway. Pain flares, fingers jolting open. The weight of the blade wrenches itself from your grip and drops, point digging into the sand like a dead thing. Your arm hangs numb and useless at your side. You have enough time to see the second sword coming. Just enough to understand you have nothing left between it and the soft parts of you. Sereth steps in on that empty line, cool as a man taking a drink, and the next blow slams into your ribs. All the air leaves you in a rough, helpless bark. Your legs forget how to be legs. <<elseif $ludus_collar_weapon is "dual">> Both blades twitch in your hands at once. One wants to rise, the other wants to cut, but neither finishes choosing. Blades flashes in your periphery as your arms cross and uncross in a tangle of half-born ideas. Sereth slices through the tangle. The first practice sword taps the inside of your nearer wrist with a sharp, precise sting. Your fingers spasm and that blade flies wide, the point whirling out into empty air. Before you can even look for it, the second of his swords has already slipped into the gap your own motion opened. The blow catches you under the ribs or along the side of your chest, a brutal, snapping line that folds you over. The remaining weapon in your hand jerks uselessly toward where he was a heartbeat ago. By the time the thought of a counter reaches your muscles, he's already past you, his blades no more troubled by your twin points than by tall grass. <<elseif $ludus_collar_weapon is "spear">> The spear is too many things at once. You think of setting the butt, of lunging, of stepping back to keep the point between you, and your hands start three different motions that never become one. The shaft wobbles, neither fully guarded nor fully extended. His first blade doesn't even treat it as a weapon. The flat smacks along the wood with a sharp crack, knocking the haft aside as if he were batting away a curtain. The point of the spear slews away from his body and suddenly you're holding nothing but a length of useless timber between angles that make no sense. You try to recover, to pull the butt back under you or bring the tip in line again, but your feet are wrong and your weight is nowhere good. Sereth is already inside the circle the spear was meant to rule. His off-hand sword comes in low and mean, biting into the meat of your hip or thigh. Your leg buckles. The long shaft drags you off balance as you fall, betraying you with every inch you chose instead of timing. <<elseif $ludus_collar_weapon is "shield">> You remember the shield a breath too late. It hangs down by your side while your eyes track his shoulders, your mind still trying to decide whether to plant or to move. By the time your arm jerks up to raise the board, Sereth is already on you. His first cut snaps in above the rim, catching your exposed bicep or the top of your shoulder before the shield can close the gap. The jolt tears the straps across your forearm. Pain lances down into your fingers and the board lurches higher than you meant it to, opening a wider slice of your body rather than sealing it. For an absurd instant you are more covered and less protected than you were a moment ago. He doesn't hesitate, on you like a predator. The second sword slides into the space your own panic made, driving in under the lifted rim or around its edge. The impact thuds into your ribs or stomach with sickening force. The shield suddenly feels like dead weight dragging you down, not armor keeping you safe. <</if>> The world turns into nothing but pain and sand. Your knees hit first, or maybe your side, the ground coming up in a rush that scours skin from whatever it finds. Sound reaches you in a single blur. Laughter, a few rough cries, the low roll of men who have seen this exact thing more times than they can count. Somewhere in the roar you can hear the shape of it; they aren't surprised. This is how it goes when a novice faces the Champion. ''"Enough."'' The doctore’s word snaps across the yard. The pressure leaves your body as Sereth steps away. When your vision clears enough to find him again, he's already a pace off, blades lowered, breath steady. He doesn't taunt you, but he doesn't offer a hand or linger to check on you either. One cool glance, nothing more. As if he has just confirmed something he already knew. You drag in a ragged breath. Every part of you throbs, but the worst ache is the knowledge of how little you managed to do. You came into the ring with an idea of yourself; now you carry his instead, written in bruises. [[The yard remembers first impressions. Especially when they draw blood.|chp3_ludus_spar_aftermath]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp3_cassian.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> For a while, the world shrinks to the sound of your own breathing, the sting of sand in your teeth and the throbbing bloom of every bruise. It's as if your body has only now been given permission to hurt, the adrenaline seeping from your very pores. You prop yourself up on your elbows, then your knees, still bowed over when you feel the vibration of boots scuffing through the sand close by. A shadow leans over you, blocking out the dim violet-light. ''“Come on, $name. On your feet.”'' His hands appears in front of your wavering gaze: broad, steady, scarred. Cassian. You're still getting used to his voice, his face. You hesitate only long enough to resent how much you need it before your fingers close around his. The veteran hauls you up in a single, economical pull, leveraging his own size and strength as if you weigh almost nothing. Your knees wobble, but his other hand finds your elbow, steadying you until the ground stops rolling. ''“You lived,”'' he goes on, giving you a quick once-over. ''“That's a good start.”'' [[You realize that the ring of gladiators has yet to disperse.|chp3_ludus_spar_aftermath1]]

You realize that the ring of gladiators has yet to disperse. They stand in their rough circle, collars, scars and old eyes turned in toward you, the Champion, the scuffed patch of sand where you fell. The yard has gone back to breathing, yet there's still a tightness in the air. <<if $ludus_collar_weapon is "heavy" and $ludus_collar_defense is "tank">> There's the hum of amusement from the circle, something akin to excitement. Approval might be a stretch too far, but men who've seen too many 'first days' to still care seem to have gotten quite the kick out of your initial showing. Gruff voices trade short, sharp comments; you hear your arena nickname and the word "hit" in the same breath. A few of the younger fighters laugh, not cruelly but with the bright edge of men who have just watched someone drag a miracle out of the dirt - a newly collared-slave driving a blunt practice blade hard enough to make the Champion shift his feet and truly react. Renkar's bulk looms at the edge of your sight, jaw clenched, a flicker of something like respect softening his lined face. Voss is all eyes and teeth, words tumbling out beneath his breath, ''"You caught him, you caught him, I saw it,"'' as if speaking it aloud will set it in stone. Rilash’s tail-tip twitches once behind his leg; he studies you with that narrow, thoughtful gaze of his and murmurs, almost to himself, ''"He did not like that,"'' as if he has been measuring Sereth as much as you. Sereth stands a little apart from you now, practice blades hanging loose at his sides. He rolls the shoulder you clipped, fingers brushing the place where the blunt edge bit in, eyes half-lidded as if he is taking inventory of the pain. When he looks back at you the gaze is no longer the idle, distant weighing from before; there is a thin, bright thread of simmering interest there now, a new line written in whatever quiet ledger he keeps in his head, before he turns away and begins to walk. <<elseif ($ludus_collar_weapon is "shield") and ($might is 2) and ($ludus_collar_defense is "tank")>> The ring has the sound of men who've seen something they didn't expect and will tell the story later over wine and chipped teeth. A few bark out rough, satisfied grunts at the memory of your shield driving forward, that ugly, honest crash when Sereth had to give ground or be cracked in the ribs. Others shake their heads, not in contempt but in disbelief, muttering that a new collar has no business battering at a Champion like that on his first day and still standing afterwards. Renkar’s hand tightens once on the rim of his own shield as he watches you, something soldier-true in his gaze, as if he knows exactly what it costs to plant your feet and refuse to move. ''"Good stand,"'' he says under his breath, the praise as spare and solid as a ration of hard bread. Voss can't keep his voice down at all, words coming quick and breathless, ''"You almost tipped him, gods, he stepped, you saw that,"'' the boy’s excitement flaring against the ache in your bones. Rilash only nods once, slow and intent, golden eyes flicking from your board to Sereth’s retreating form, storing both away. Sereth has already taken a few steps when he pauses, the practice blade in his hand tilting slightly as he rolls his wrist and then his neck, as if feeling for where your shove unsettled his balance. He doesn't rub at the spot or make a show of discomfort; instead he glances back over his shoulder, eyes narrow, measuring you from shield-rim to bruised stance. There's no smile, no frown, only that small adjustment in his regard, the sense that he's moved you from one column in his mind to another. Then he turns fully, moving off toward his own lane of late afternoon drills. <<elseif $ludus_collar_defense is "tank">> The watching fighters answer your stand with a quieter kind of recognition. No roar of acclaim, nor shocked laughter, just the low murmur of men who have seen bodies fold under less and note simply that yours did not. A few nod to themselves at the memory of your shield catching the worst of the blow, at the way you stayed on your feet instead of dropping like a sack when the practice blade hammered home. It's not glory, but it is the sort of thing a yard remembers when deciding who is worth investing in. Renkar's gaze lingers on your stance, on the stubborn set of your shoulders, and he gives you a short, approving grunt, as if to say that not all courage is pretty. Voss winces when he looks at the bruises already blooming on your side, yet there's admiration behind the grimace, the kind a boy has for someone who has walked through fire and not entirely burnt. Rilash tilts his head, ears pricking, voice low, ''"You stood standing longer than they expected. Good."' Sereth doesn't bother to massage any ache you gave him, mainly because you didn't truly give him one, yet he doesn't ignore you entirely either. His eyes rest on you for the span of a breath, taking in the fact that you chose to meet him instead of flee, that you are still upright in the sand. Then he lets his attention slip away, turning his back without hurry, practice blades settling against his thighs as he walks, as if to say that whatever you showed today was worth noting but not worth dwelling on. <<elseif $ludus_collar_defense is "parry">> There's a particular sound the yard makes when two weapons meet properly, even if both of them are scarred practice blades, and you hear the echo of it in the way the men murmur among themselves. They remember the moment when your guard caught his first cut, when the bind held for an instant and the killing line bent away from your throat. A few of the veterans snort in rough approval - not swept away, but acknowledging that there was real defense there, actual thought and timing, not just panic and dumb luck. Renkar gives you a thoughtful look, as if comparing that instant of contact with a hundred he's seen before in tighter yards and warmer mornings. ''"You read him for a heartbeat,"'' he says, which for a man like him might be the highest praise you get today. Voss all but vibrates, miming the catch with his own empty hands, ''"You turned him, I saw it, you turned him,"'' his voice tripping over the memory. Rilash’s eyes gleam faintly; he seems almost pleased, ''"You chose well,"'' he murmurs, ''"Better to bend a blade than let it taste you,"'' already taking apart the exchange in his head. Sereth’s gaze meets yours once more before he goes, a faint crease at the corner of his eye as if he's replaying the way your weapon met his. There's no anger in it; only a cool, slight adjustment to whatever measure he had taken of you earlier, the way a craftsman might note a tool that did not quite break under strain. Then he lets his lids lower and turns away, practice blades settling against his shoulders as he walks back toward the waiting drills. <<elseif $ludus_collar_defense is "dodge">> The reaction from the ring is mixed, a murmur that runs somewhere between approval and derision. Some of the older fighters nod once, knowing the value of feet that can cheat a killing line by a finger’s width, while others chuckle into their teeth at the memory of you slipping away only to be run down a breath later. They've seen men live long off quick movement and others die quick because they never learned to do anything else. Voss is plainly in the first camp; he all but beams at you, eyes bright, ''"You were out of there before he finished the cut,"'' he says, almost proud, as if he had done it himself. Renkar, by contrast, gives a small, rough snort, not unkind, ''"Feet bought you a moment,"'' he says, ''"Next time, make it count,"'' the words heavy with field wisdom. Rilash studies the line your body took, tracing it in the sand with his eyes. ''"You saw the right space,"'' he notes quietly, ''"Now you must learn what to leave in it."'' Sereth’s attention brushes you only briefly. He's seen quick ones before, men who made him move his blades a little farther than usual and still fell in the end. His eyes rest on you for a heartbeat, acknowledging that you read his weight well enough to slip the first bite of the practice edge, then slide away, already more interested in the next problem the yard will throw at him. He turns and walks, posture loose, blades carried with idle ease, as if you were one of many swift shapes that have flickered in and out of his path. <<else>> The ring exhales as one, the rough sound of men who have seen exactly what they expected to see. A few laugh outright at how cleanly Sereth cut through you, at the way the practice blade found its mark before your body had even decided what to try, yet there's no great malice in it, only the weary humor of fighters watching the world behave the way it usually does. Others barely react at all, already turning their thoughts back to their own drills, filing you away under the long, crowded list of new collars the yard has watched crumple. Voss looks stricken on your behalf, jaw tight, words coming out in a rush, ''"He's the Champion, nobody stands the first time. You'll get another go, $name,"'' as if afraid that this single fall has already written your reputation in the sand for good. Renkar’s gaze is steady, not pitying, just honest. ''"You froze,"'' He says, the verdict simple, ''"It happens. Once."'' There's a hard promise coiled beneath the last word. Rilash's eyes flick from you to the mark Sereth left on your body, then back again; he gives a small nod, more to himself than to you, as if slotting this failure into a longer story he hasn't finished watching. Most hunts don't finish in a single night. Sereth scarcely seems marked by the exchange. He gives you one last look that's almost impersonal, as if confirming that you're still breathing and that the matter is otherwise settled, then his attention moves on. The practice blades rest light in his hands; his steps carry him smoothly back toward his accustomed place in the yard, where men of real rank and proven scars are already waiting for him. To him, you were a moment, nothing more, and that knowledge settles cold in your chest as his pale hair and crimson eyes recede into the press of bodies. <</if>> Cassian hasn't gone far, standing at the edge of the ring, arms folded as he watches the circle of fighters loosen and bleed back into the ludus yard. When your eyes find him, he steps in close again, that same measuring calm in his face. ''"You'll hurt worse tomorrow,"'' Cassian says with a casual severity to his sun-worn visage. ''"That means the work is starting to take. You'll get used to it."'' He claps your shoulder once, brief and heavy, a reminder that all the aches you feel now are only the beginning. Then he turns away, voice rising as he calls for men to break ranks, fetch water and return to their drills if they haven't already. [[You glance one last time toward Sereth as his presence recedes.|chp3_ludus_spar_aftermath2]]

A handler’s voice rips through the din. ''"New collars! With me!"'' The circle around you is already fraying; now it tears. Hands thump shoulders, blades are racked, men peel away toward their lanes. The handler’s shout drags Renkar, Voss and Rilash like meat on a hook. Renkar answers with a short grunt and falls in behind the man without argument, the old soldier's shoulders squaring as the handler jerks a thumb toward a knot of grizzled veterans by the wall. Their shields are stacked in a biting row, scarred rims glinting dull in the violet light. You see one of them slap a board into Renkar’s hands, and he slips into their line like a stone settling into an old gutter. Voss hesitates just long enough to throw you one last look, all bright eyes, split lip and youthful fire, before another handler plants a palm between his shoulder blades and shoves him toward the far end of the yard. There waits a brutal little station of weights and sandbags, a dragged sled half-buried in churned grit. You catch the first few moments: Voss roped to the thing like a beast, legs straining, trainers laying into his back with cords whenever he falters. His curses carry faintly, sharp and stubborn. Rilash is taken in the other direction, toward a strip of cleaner sand by the fountain where painted posts mark out a narrow lane. A lean instructor with cat-lean grace of his own waits there, spear in hand. Rilash is handed a staff and set to mirroring the man’s footwork, quick little steps and cuts that seem to leave no prints at all. Even at a distance you see the beastkin’s body ease into the pattern, something in him answering that rhythm as if it were a familiar song. He has former training, you think. The handlers don't call your name, but they don't need to. [[Someone already awaits you.|chp3_ludus_spar_aftermath3]]

Across the yard, by the fountain’s low lip, the doctore stands with his whip coiled in his fist. The pale brute’s eyes are already on you, greenish-yellow and flat as old coins, the rest of his face carved in the same patient sterness as when you first crawled out of the wagon. He lifts two fingers and crooks them once. It's not a request. You pick your way through the thinning ring, every step reminding you where the Champion’s practice blades found you. The fountain’s water trickles a slow, lazy pooled circle behind him in the violet light. Up close you can smell old sand baked into his leather, the sour, clean stink of a greenskin who lives in sweat and oil and has forgotten any other perfume. He lets his gaze travel from your collar to your feet, taking in every flinch, every smear of blood, as if you were a beast he was thinking of buying. ''"You're still standing,"'' he rasps at last. His voice is the same deep scrape, stone on stone. ''"Some of them don't manage that their first day."'' For a moment that almost sounds like praise. Then his lip curls, just enough to show the ragged line of an old scar at the corner of his mouth. ''"Don't mistake that for being anything special. The Champion understands discretion. We aren't here to break each other any more than what's necessary."'' He shifts the whip lazily from one hand to the other, the lacquered handle resting against his palm. The coiled leather trails along the sand at his feet, drawing a slow, shallow line. ''"Cradle is full of men with one good story,"'' he says. ''"One lucky kill. One brawl they won. One day they cheated death. The pits eat those stories and the crowd quickly forgets them."'' His eyes hold yours, unblinking. ''"You're here to learn, fight, train, grow. Die if necessary."'' You feel the bone-and-bark latch at your throat as he says it, the weight of it a little heavier than before. ''"You eat when I tell you to eat. You sleep when I say you sleep. You bleed when the sand, or the Duke and Duchess, asks it of you."'' His words are the same as after the wagon, but closer now, more intimate, like a litany being driven in a little deeper. ''"In this yard, my word is law. You belong to House Varro, to the Duchess, and to me. Nothing else matters - for now."'' He lets that hang between you for a few heartbeats, the sounds of drills and shouted counts beating at your back. ''"Today you met my Champion,"'' the hobgoblin says. ''"You saw what the yard does to a man who lives long enough to matter. All those scars, all that calm. That is not talent. That's time, work and pain piled on top of one another until nothing soft is left."'' His gaze flicks briefly toward where Sereth has already folded back into his own training, the dark elf’s pale hair a small banner in the shifting crowd, before returning to you. ''"You're at the other end of that road,"'' he says quietly. ''"The very beginning. A raw thing, all nerves and useless meat. If you live, we'll scrape away the fat and harden what remains. Maybe one day you'll be worth the sand it takes to bury you."'' The whip creaks as his fingers tighten around the handle. ''"Most aren't."'' [[You can see the old collar-marks around his neck, pale and raised.|chp3_ludus_spar_aftermath4]]

He takes a small step closer. You can see the old collar-marks around his neck now, pale and raised against his murky green hide, the thin white seam of a wound that once opened his throat and somehow failed to finish the work. ''"Listen to me, $name,"'' he says. He uses your name like a blunt tool. ''"You aren't special. Not your blood, your tricks, your story about an ogre dying under your hands."'' His nostrils flare once, as if scenting doubt. ''"If there's anything in you worth keeping, the yard will find it. If there's nothing, the yard will kill you. That is all."'' He leans back a fraction, the moment of closeness passing. ''"Tomorrow, you join the drills,"'' he continues. ''"Morning until the early light grows tired of looking at us. Weapons in the heat, bodies in the sand. You will run, you will fall, you'll learn to raise your guard or suffer the bruises that come in place."'' His gaze flicks once more to your wounds, to the way you are holding yourself. ''"It'll hurt,"'' he says. ''"You hurt now. But it will always get worse. You can bet on that. That's the price of walking in here alive."'' The whip’s tail curls again as he coils it tighter around his fist. ''"Don't time by dying like fodder,"'' he finishes. ''"If you must die, die as something I'm not ashamed to have trained. Otherwise I'll jump in after you and skull-fuck your useless corpse. Got it?"'' He jerks his chin toward the tunnel mouths that lead back into the belly of the ludus. ''"Off the sand,"'' he orders. ''"Find water. Find your bunk. Tomorrow, the real work begins for you."'' The doctore is already turning away as he says it, attention shifting to another knot of fighters, another problem to be solved with his whip and will. The fountain murmurs behind him; the yard roars on. You're left at the edge of it all, collar hot against your throat, the weight of his words settling over you like another chain. [[Your evening is a quiet blur of exhausted energy.|chp3_ludus_timelapse]]

The yard spills away behind you in a wash of noise and violet light. The doctore’s words ride your shoulders like another weight as you cross beneath the inner arch, the world narrowing to stone, torch-smoke, and the warm sweat-sour air of the tunnels. The descent feels steeper this time. You know now what waits at the bottom of these ramps and shadows; the memory of the Champion’s practice blades rides every step, the way they found you, the way the sand swallowed your breath and gave it back full of dust. The sounds of the yard follow you down in fragments, the bark of orders, the clack of wood on wood, only to be swallowed by the closer churn of feet and voices in the belly of the ludus. Handlers steer you with curt gestures and a shove when you slow, funneling you along a corridor that smells of old straw and boiled grain. The stone here is damp and patient, worn smooth by generations of collared fighters shouldering along the same path. Lanterns hang in bone rings, flickering light thin and yellow, unable to chase the shadows all the way into the dark recessed corners. The mess isn't much more than a long hall cut from the rock, with a low ceiling and rickety wooden benches. A line of men moves past a serving hatch where kitchen slaves ladle out the evening’s meal with a workman's speed. When your turn comes you're handed a wooden bowl with a chunk of dark bread, the crust hard as bark and the crumb dense with cracked grain. The stew within the bowl is thin and murky, flecked with oats and limp shreds of something that might once have been meat, but it's hot and smells of salt and marrow. You eat because there's nothing else to do. Around you the murmur of the slaves is low and contained; mostly men bent over their bowls, shoulders touching, eyes gone distant. Nobody wastes much talk; words are hoarded like coin in a place like this. The benches creak, spoons scrape, someone coughs broth down the wrong pipe and swears, and the world feels for a little while like it's always been this narrow. Afterwards you're herded again, empty bowl taken from your hands, the bread-grease still on your fingers as you're shown your sleeping quarters. The rooms are short, dark stone-hewn sections with their own stale weather. Bunk frames are fixed in tiers along each wall, bone and timber fused together with age. Thin mattresses sag in the middle, smelling of straw, sweat and old smoke. Blankets lie folded at their ends, grey and rough to the touch. Men are already claiming spaces, throwing the few belongings they have at the foot of bunks, tying small bags to the stained rails. At the end of the day, when you finally lie back, your mattress scratches at your skin through the thin fabric of your tunic, the blanket’s weight a rough, unfamiliar comfort. The bruises Sereth left on you bloom with every breath, radiating from ribs and shoulder, from the place where you hit the sand. You can still taste the stew on your tongue, still feel the leather of the doctore’s eyes resting on you like a second collar. Sleep doesn't come quickly. It comes in pieces, dragged over you like the blanket, pulled up and tugged down again by the coughs, the snores, the creak of bunks. Somewhere above, the yard breathes on without you. Down here, in the stone belly of House Varro's ludus, you close your eyes and let the dark take you for as long as it's willing. [[After that, the days begin to smear together.|chp3_ludus_timelapse1]]

Time in the ludus doesn't pass so much as grind away. Morning comes with the horn, a long daunting note that drags you out of whatever sleep you managed to steal. The barracks heaves and groans as men roll from bunks, feet slapping stone, blankets thrown back and folded with weary habit. You learn quickly to move with them, to be upright before the handlers come in with their cords and studded boots, because the yard doesn't wait on stragglers. Bread and broth, then the tunnels, then the yawning dawn light. The yard receives you each day with the same indifferent sky, violet, half-shrouded and thin above the high stone of the colosseum. Sand crunches underfoot, still somewhat cool in the first light, already holding the memory of yesterday’s heat. Cassian's whistle cuts the air; he stalks the ranks like a shepherd with a squad of wolves, shuffling bodies into place with barked names and short, sharp gestures. Lines form and reform. Today you're on the end, tomorrow in the middle. Your world narrows to the man in front of you, the man beside you, the man who'll hit you, punish you, if your guard drops. Drills are the bones of the day. Guard up. Step in. Cut. Recover. Again. Shields lifted until shoulders burn and tremble. Practice blades raised and lowered until your grip blurs into one long ache from wrist to elbow. When you falter, Cassian's whistle shrills, his voice cuts through the dust, and you're thrown back into the pattern until your body learns without your consent. Some instincts are learned, not borne within you. [[The doctore watches.|chp3_ludus_timelapse2]]

The doctore watches. He doesn't always pace the lines like Cassian does. He stands by the fountain or along the ludus' wall, whip coiled in his fist, eyes moving with slow, predatory patience. You feel his gaze land on you now and then, a weight between your shoulder blades, a reminder that you're not just another body in the heat but an investment he means to see tested. When a man drops his guard too slow, or someone forgets a command and hesitates, the whip speaks, a flat crack that bites the air and the sweat-slick flesh beneath it. The yard always listens. Afternoons are heavier. The sun climbs, the deep-violet light thickens, shadows rattling along the crumbling walls. Weapon lanes open: shields in one quarter, spears and staves in another, paired blades and strange tools in between. You're pushed wherever they want you. Sometimes you find yourself under the board, shield in hand, feeling your arm numb as you absorb strike after strike. Sometimes you're handed the weight of the heavy practice blade, told to move it until your lungs feel raw and each swing comes slower than the last. Renkar endures it all with the grim steadiness of a man who has marched too many roads to complain about one more; he plants his feet in the shield lanes and lets the veterans slam into him until the whole row shudders, then resets without a word. Voss is thrown at anything that promises to make him harder, dragged between sleds and sandbags, made to run the perimeter until his breath comes in ragged barks, his face gone pale beneath the dust. Rilash spends more and more time in the narrow strips of sand marked for footwork, his Beastkin body weaving between painted posts and stabbing at invisible throats with quick, precise jabs. Evenings aren't rest so much as a different kind of labor. [[At the end of the day, time moves like a slow haze.|chp3_ludus_timelapse3]]

After the last horn the yard empties by degrees. There's water to haul, leather to oil, bruises to rub with whatever salves the ludus grudges you. You learn to scrub sand from your skin before it eats you raw under your clothes, to stretch aching limbs in the cramped spaces between bunks, to sleep when sleep permits. The mess hall becomes familiar; the bread doesn't grow softer, but your stomach grow more willing. The stew changes from grey to brown to a suspicious green and back again, yet it's always thin and hot. Sometimes, as you're walking back from the troughs or sitting on the low wall with a bowl in your hands, you see Sereth. Not the Champion in the full theatre of the yard, but the man the yard has made of him. He drills alone beneath a sliver of sky, twin practice blades cutting slow shapes in the air, or stands in the centre of a ring of veterans, parrying three blows for every one he throws, feet light and expression cool, calm, collected. No whip cracks for him. No handler shouts. The work has sunk too deep for that. The days smear. The bruises change shape and colour, some fading, others laid fresh over the old. Your body begins to understand the yard in ways your mind hasn't yet caught up to; you wake already sore, you sleep already tired. The fear you brought with you doesn't vanish, but it learns to share space with something harder, a thin edge of intent that wasn't there before. [[It's incredible what conditions man will adapt to in the span of a few nights.|chp3_ludus_timelapse4]]

By the end of the first week you know the pattern well enough to see the gaps within it. There are small moments between the horns and the drills when Cassian’s eye is elsewhere, or when the handlers are busy with other men, and when your body isn't yet destroyed for the day. The doctore’s words linger. If there's anything in you worth keeping, the yard will find it. In those stolen breaths, in those narrow slivers of time, you begin to ask yourself what you'll offer it. Whether you will throw yourself at heavier work until your muscles scream, chase speed until the sand barely notices your weight, or stand aside and watch, learning the rhythms of men, blades and bellowed command until you can feel them in your bones. The horn hasn't yet blown. The yard waits. What do you throw yourself into when the work begins in earnest? <<set $chp3_ludus_stat = null>> <<if $might lt 2>>[[You fight to cultivate raw strength, hungry to harden muscle and bone.|chp3_ludus_train_might]]<<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You won't be able to pack on much more size or strength in such a short time.">You fight to cultivate raw strength, hungry to harden muscle and bone.</span><</if>> <<if $mobility lt 2>>[[You chase speed and balance, teaching your body to move before thought.|chp3_ludus_train_mobility]]<<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You already possess more finesse than the majority of your fellow trainees.">You chase speed and balance, teaching your body to move before thought.</span><</if>> <<if $mind lt 2>>[[You watch, listen, and learn, honing your mind on every daily drill.|chp3_ludus_train_mind]]<<else>><span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You caught on quickly. It's your body that suffers most.">You watch, listen, and learn, honing your mind on every daily drill.</span><</if>>

There's a point where the ache in your body stops feeling like an injury, or some type of internal warning to stop, pause, rest. It becomes something else, like a lingering background weather that lives in your bones. A slow drum in the meat of your body, muscles, flesh that never quite goes silent. You've been walking toward that point ever since you awoke caged atop the wagon, since you were thrown in to face the ogre, since the auction block: this first week in House Varro's ludus only drives you further into that state, solidifying it. Morning after morning, you set yourself with stubborn dedication to the work that bites the deepest. When Cassian calls for men to take the heavy sled, to shoulder stones, to stand at the end of the shield line where the impact hits hardest, you step forward before the thought can sour in your mind. Your arms are wrung out with board-work, shield-rims slamming against shield-rims until your bones hum. Your back screams from pushing into ranks of veterans who have no reason to yield you an inch. The heavy practice blade drags at your hands and arms until your fingers lose the strength to close properly, and still Cassian’s whistle cuts the air, his count driving you on further, his patience reserved for the ones who refuse to step out when their muscles beg. [[The pain follows you everywhere.|chp3_ludus_train_might1]]

There comes a point where you stop thinking of yourself as heavy. You used to feel every bruise as a weight, each new stress another stone hung on your frame. The collar, the chains of servitude and duty, the judging eyes on you from the walls, they all pressed downward until it seemed like the whole ludus meant to drive you into the sand and keep you there. Somewhere in this first week, under horn, whistle and the doctore’s gaze, that begins to change. You still hurt. You hurt everywhere, but it no longer feels like something pinning you in place. It feels like something you're learning to move with and carry more swiftly. You start volunteering for the lanes that ask more of your feet than your arms. When Cassian calls for runners to take the perimeter, for men to work the ladder-lines scratched into the sand, for bodies willing to be chased, cornered and made to slip free, you step forward. The yard becomes a circuit. At first you're simply running, trying to keep your lungs from tearing as you circle the outer wall with a handful of other fighters, the violet sky hanging distant above you. Then, as days stack, your attention shifts. You begin to notice how the ground changes, where the sand is packed hard by many feet, where it's loose and treacherous, where someone spilled water and turned the grit to sucking mud. Your steps adjust: shorter here, longer there, bending your line around rough patches before you've fully seen them. When the perimeter's done, Cassian drags you into tighter work. Ladders carved into the sand with quick knife-cuts, where you're made to dance in and out of them, toes landing in narrow boxes, the rhythm relentless. Posts are driven in to mark a twisting lane. You thread between them with a dull practice blade in hand while a bigger man tries to swat you with his own, your only task to avoid the blows. At first you're always a heartbeat late, your shoulder, hip, back taking the welt. Then, slowly, your body learns to move a breath earlier than your mind. The pain is different from the weight-lanes. Your chest burns, calves knot, the muscles along your ribs feel like strong hands are wringing them out. You go to sleep with a tight band around your lungs and wake with it still there. It's not just the training doing this, but the fact that you're someone’s property now, that there's no step you can take that doesn't happen under another’s command. Some part of you refuses to let that mean you're trapped. If they are going to own your body, you decide, then at least you'll learn how to make it hard to catch. [[Rilash becomes a familiar presence at your edge.|chp3_ludus_train_mobility1]]

There's a point where you stop feeling like the yard is happening to you. The first days, everything came as one hard blur; horns and whips, shouted counts, the thud of bodies, Sereth’ memory riding your nerves like a ghost. Thought lagged behind, always a step late, always reacting to what had already struck. Somewhere in this first week, under the same noise and the same leash, that begins to change. You still sweat, bleed, sag under the weight of persistent drills; but a part of you starts to stand a little apart from it, watching. Observing. Studying. While the others collapse into the rhythm of repetition, you begin to watch how the pattern is made. Cassian's whistle isn't random; it comes on certain beats, at certain failures. When shields drop below a line he has in his head, a rank drifts too wide, or a man forgets to call his guard. You track where he places the weakest fighters, who he pairs with Sereth's veterans, how often he shifts you between lines. The doctore doesn't strike at a whim. His whip answers particular sins: laziness, hesitation, defiance. You learn the difference quickly. You study bodies as much as you study their blades. Renkar’s guard never drops far, even when he's half-dead on his feet. That tells you something about the years behind him. Voss always overcommits on his first step, as if he's trying to outrun his own fear. You start to see the exact instant he will slip or fall. Rilash’s eyes move more than his feet do. He watches openings bloom before they're fully born, then slides into them with a grace that looks like luck to anyone who's not paying attention. [[But you notice.|chp3_ludus_train_mind1]]

<center><img src="images/might_stat.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> From the yard to the mess, mess to the barracks, from your bunk into whatever shallow sleep the collar allows. It used to come with panic, a sense that something was breaking; now it comes like proof that you've not yet been broken. You lie in the dark, listening to the snores and muffled curses of the other slaves, and you feel the day sitting in you; in your knees and wrists, in the line of your spine, a bodily map of where the yard has struck and where you didn't yield. It's not just the drills that are doing it to you. It's the knowledge that your body is not yours anymore, not in any way that matters to the city above. The duchess owns the meat of you, the doctore owns the hours of you, the whip owns whatever softness you have left. Under that pressure something in you refuses to fold. Renkar takes his place beside you in the shield lanes most days, his bulk a familiar wall at your flank. You feel the thud of blows travelling through his board into your shoulder when you miss the timing, hear his rough grunt when you finally meet a charge without skidding back a step. Voss staggers past dragging some new weight, face gone grey with effort, and still finds breath to spit out, ''"Madman,"'' at you when he sees the stone you've chosen to carry. Rilash watches from the narrower lanes, silent, eyes following the way you set your feet before impact. The doctore doesn't praise you. He doesn't need to. His eyes rest on you a little longer when you don't drop your guard after the third, the fifth, the tenth strike. The whip doesn't touch you as often as it touches the men who try to hide in the middle of the line. That absence is its own kind of subtle recognition. Sometimes, in the violet hush after drills, you catch sight of Sereth across the yard. The Champion working with weights of his own; chains, stones and scarred boards, his smooth body moving under burdens you can't yet imagine bearing with such nimble ease. There's no magic to him. Just history written in tendon and scar. The gap between you is a long road of mornings like this Night after night, stretched out on the thin mattress with your shoulders throbbing and your hands buzzing, you feel something slow and stubborn taking shape beneath the bruises. The fear of being crushed by this place doesn't vanish, but it has to share space now with a harder thought... that there might come a day when you're the one doing the crushing. <<if $bastard > $knight and $bastard > $cowboy>> You don't chase strength to survive. You chase it to tower above the rest. Every time another man drops his stone before you do, something dark in you sharpens. Every time Cassian’s gaze pauses on you instead of sliding past, it feeds that part that wants to loom over this yard, to make a mockery of the idea that you were ever fodder. Pain is just the tax you pay for that future. <<elseif $knight > $bastard and $knight > $cowboy>> You bear the weight like a penance. Each repetition feels like a small, rough prayer; each ache a line in a vow you haven't yet put words to. You don't dream of trampling men into the sand so much as of becoming the one who doesn't move when others are driven back, the body that holds when someone has to. <<elseif $cowboy > $bastard and $cowboy > $knight>> You stop naming what hurts. The collar, the drills, the bruises. They're just part of the job now. You show up when the horn blows, you shoulder what's put in front of you, and you let the work strip away whatever's soft enough to complain. Strength starts to feel less like a dream and more like a simple tool, something you can rely on when everything else in your life belongs to someone else. <</if>> //Your ''Might'' hardens beneath the strain.// <<if !$chp3_ludus_statGained>><<set $might += 1>><<set $chp3_ludus_statGained = true>><</if>><<set $chp3_ludus_stat = "might">> [[The yard finally grants you a sliver of freedom.|chp3_ludus_freeroam]]

The next day, afternoon drills die slower than they begin. Counts fall away by degrees, the whistles coming further apart. The sand's scored with the day’s work, footprints, rough gouges and darker patches where men spat blood or spilled water. Your arms buzz, your legs tremble, sweat tracing lukewarm lines down your ribs as the violet light above the walls turns a shade darker, deeper, kissed with reddish blooms by the blood moon. Cassian paces the lanes one last time, studded boots whispering through grit, checking guards, stances, faces. You see him speak to the doctore by the fountain and the hobgoblin listens, whip coiled in his fist, green-yellow eyes sweeping the yard like he's measuring how much use has been worked out of it today. Whatever Cassian says earns only a short nod. Then the whistle shrills, long and low, a blade laid flat instead of thrust. ''"That’s enough,"'' Cassian calls, voice carrying across the sand. ''"Lines, break."'' The command ripples through the collars. Men drop from guard, shoulders sagging, blades and boards dipping toward the ground. A few stretch aching backs; others simply stand where they are, breathing hard, grateful to still be upright. The handlers are slower to move, as if they don't quite trust the idea that the day’s grind might loosen its teeth. Cassian finds you and the other newbloods with his eyes, then with his steps. Renkar, Voss and Rilash drift toward you almost without thinking, drawn by the habit of the last week; four collars sharing the same patch of scarred sand, the same tired, sweat-scented air. The veteran stops a few paces away, hands on his hips, broad chest rising and falling with his own fatigue. Dust clings to the sweat on his neck; his hair is damp, perspiration beading up along his ridged browline. He looks you over as a group, not as scattered pieces; his gaze moves from Renkar's set jaw to Voss's restless energy to Rilash's watchful feline face, then settles on you last. [[The first week's done.|chp3_ludus_freeroam1]]

<center><img src="images/mobility_stat.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> The Beastkin moves through his own footwork drills at the far lane, a staff in his hands, tail describing slow arcs as he works. Instructors bark at him and at you, driving your separate patterns harder, then sometimes bring you together. You mirror each other’s steps, trade places in narrow alleys of sand, learn how to share space without colliding. You'll never be as light as he is, as quiet, but you start to learn how to borrow the idea of it and translate it into your own bones. Renkar shakes his head at your choices, calling you half-mad for chasing work that doesn't thicken the arms, yet there's no contempt in it. Only the grudging respect of a man who knows what it means to hurt on purpose. Voss watches you with something closer to envy; he's dragged often into the same lanes, stumbling, laughing and cursing as he tries to keep up, the boy’s recklessness finding a new outlet in tight turns and sudden lunges. The doctore’s eyes find you in these moments as well. He notes when you slip cleanly out of a bigger man’s reach, when you pick the right angle and the cord meant for your back finds another’s instead. He doesn't stop the drills to speak, but you feel the weight of his attention as surely as you would feel the bite of his whip; it drives you to move sharper, to make each sidestep something he cannot dismiss as mere luck. Sometimes, in the violet hush between stations, you see Sereth. Not the blur you faced on the first day, but the man in practice. His feet painting quiet circles in the sand, nimble weight sliding from heel to toe with no wasted motion. You watch the way he turns around an incoming strike, not simply away from it; the way his whole body flows in one line instead of a collection of panicked parts. You try to steal a piece of that rhythm, to feel the shift before it happens, to turn your own stumbles into pivots like his. Night finds you in the barracks with your legs singing, the skin around your knees hot and tight, ankles throbbing. The old fear of being hunted in this place hasn't gone away; it simply changed shape. You lie awake and think of all the walls closing in on you... the stone, barbed whips, the auction blocks, and the stretched, bellowing mouths above. Then you recall the moments from the day when you slipped someone’s grasp, when you spun a hair’s breadth out of range, and something quiet inside you refuses to believe that every trap must close. <<if $bastard > $knight and $bastard > $cowboy>> You want to be untouchable. The knife in the night, the dagger at their back, the spearpoint pressed to their throat. Your plan isn't to flee, but to make speed and quickness a greater advantage in your own pursuits. You chase finesse so you can dictate where the hurt lands. Let others swing themselves empty while you snatch angles out from under their feet. Let them think they have you pinned, only to find you at their side, at their back, where their eyes are not. Every stolen step feels like you're reclaiming a little power back from the collar itself. <<elseif $knight > $bastard and $knight > $cowboy>> You move because you can't stand the idea of being late when it matters. Somewhere ahead there will be a moment when you need to reach someone, or need be standing in a place nobody else can hold. You want your body to answer that call without hesitation. Each run, each turn, every fall-and-rise becomes a small oath that you won't let slowness be the reason you fail. You'll stay on your feet, strike true and keep in the fight for as long as you can. <<elseif $cowboy > $bastard and $cowboy > $knight>> Staying in motion brings a rough kind of peace of mind. When you're circling the yard or threading posts, the noise of the colosseum falls away. There's only breath, grit under your soles, and the next place your foot will land. You don't name it freedom, not with walls this high around you. Yet moving well, moving cleanly, makes the chains feel a little looser for as long as your pace holds. Life is simpler when you only focus on your next footfall, your next aimed strike, when foreign eyes have a harder time tracking your intent. <</if>> //Your ''Mobility'' is honed with every measured step.// <<if !$chp3_ludus_statGained>><<set $mobility += 1>><<set $chp3_ludus_statGained = true>><</if>><<set $chp3_ludus_stat = "mobility">> [[The yard finally grants you a sliver of freedom.|chp3_ludus_freeroam]]

<center><img src="images/mind_stat.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Bruises become notes. The welt across your ribs isn't simply pain anymore; it's the memory of a man whose shoulders twitched before he swung, whose breath hitched before the feint. The dull ache in your forearm is proof that you raised your guard a half-heartbeat too slow when the whistle blew. Each mark is a line in some rough ledger your mind is keeping, a tally of mistakes that you refuse to make twice. The yard isn't teaching you gently; it's carving lessons into you with chipped wood, tough leather and the constant threat of worse. It's not only training that sharpens you like this, but your position. You don't have the luxury of thinking of yourself as a student, or an apprentice, or a guest. You're property, thrown into a machine that eats the ignorant and the slow. If you let your thoughts drift back to whatever life you had before, the next cut will find you. So they don't drift. You live intentionally, learning this place instead: its moods, appetites, the way your fellow fighters sound when they're pleased, the way handlers go quiet when someone important is watching from the arches above. You begin to test what you've gathered. In the morning drills you start moving a fraction before the call, raising your guard as Cassian draws breath, already stepping into the line he's about to demand. In the weapon lanes you angle your guard to catch the swing you know is coming; you watch a partner’s hip turn and already you're slipping your weight before his blade leaves the ground. The hits hurt less when you see their birth, their origin, their meaning. Sereth and the doctore sit at the centre of all this, two fixed points your thoughts circle like crows. You watch when the Champion's sent into the ring, who he's pitted against, how quickly the doctore stops a bout when it outgrows its' usefulness. You take note of the rare moments when Sereth looks almost interested, the way his shoulders settle when he faces someone worthy of more than routine. You study the hobgoblin’s face when he watches you, trying to understand what he values in a gladiator; endurance, obedience, viciousness, grace. You don't have all the answers yet, but you're building something like a map. Nights in the barracks are no longer only about pain and exhaustion. You lie on the thin mattress, eyes on the black-grey stone above, and run the day again in your head. Not to torment yourself, but to sort through it. Where did you falter? When did you anticipate? Why did you see something nobody else seemed to notice? The old fear of dying badly in this place is still there, but it has been joined by something quieter, more dangerous: a thin, growing clarity about how this world works and where, within it, you might carve a smaller, sharper fate. <<if $bastard > $knight and $bastard > $cowboy>> You don't sharpen your mind to be calm. You're no dwarven priest, no heretic, no cultic orator. You sharpen it to get ahead, to outmanuever, outplay. Every pattern you recognize is another lever, another edge. The yard thinks of you as another body to be thrown at the sand. Here, you're already learning how to read its moods, its masters, its hidden rules. One day, if you live, that knowledge will be worth more than any muscle you build. The mind is the first and the last blade. You mean to keep yours honed. <<elseif $knight > $bastard and $knight > $cowboy>> You treat this new clarity with a kind of reverence. It gives you a purpose beyond the pain, hardship, welts and bruises. The more you see of the yard’s chaos, the more you understand how badly men need someone who can stay steady within it. Not just for their own sake, their own sanity, but for those around him. You're not hoarding information to lord it over anyone. You're trying to become the sort of person who can stand in the middle of panic and see the line that leads out. That sort of clarity is rare, sacred. Understanding feels like another kind of armour against this life's terrifying odds. <<elseif $cowboy > $bastard and $cowboy > $knight>> You didn't expect to like thinking about things this much. Yet there's a strange comfort in it. When you map the drills in your head, when you replay the way a fight unfolded, the world feels a little less random, a little less cruel. You aren't trying to outwit everyone; you just want fewer surprises, fewer blows you never saw coming. Watching, listening, putting the pieces together, it makes the collar sit a fraction lighter on your neck. If you understand the past and learn from the present, the future becomes a little less daunting. <</if>> //Your ''Mind'' sharpens under the grind of the yard.// <<if !$chp3_ludus_statGained>><<set $mind += 1>><<set $chp3_ludus_statGained = true>><</if>><<set $chp3_ludus_stat = "mind">> [[The yard finally grants you a sliver of freedom.|chp3_ludus_freeroam]]

<<set $chp3_ludus_allDone = $chp3_ludus_yard and $chp3_ludus_baths and $chp3_ludus_gate and $chp3_ludus_balcony_raven>>\ <<if $chp3_ludus_allDone>><<goto "chp3_ludus_freeroam_finale">><</if>>\ <<mapstage "images/ludus_bg.png" "The ludus at dusk, seen from above">> <<pin "chp3_ludus_freeroam_yard" 32 82 "Ludus Yard" "images/ludus_icon_yard.png" visited $chp3_ludus_yard>> <<pin "chp3_ludus_freeroam_baths" 73 38 "The Baths" "images/ludus_icon_baths.png" visited $chp3_ludus_baths>> <<pin "chp3_ludus_freeroam_gate" 47 55 "Gatehouse" "images/ludus_icon_gate.png" visited $chp3_ludus_gate>> <<pin "chp3_ludus_freeroam_balcony" 93 53 "Overlooking Balcony" "images/ludus_icon_balcony.png" visited $chp3_ludus_balcony spent $chp3_ludus_balcony_raven spentlabel "The balcony is quiet now.">> <</mapstage>>

''"First week’s done,"'' Cassian says. The words land heavier than they are. A week. It feels like longer and like less at the same time. He lets the statement sit for a breath, then allows the barest curl at one corner of his mouth. ''"Enjoy a longer evening than usual, newbloods,"'' he goes on. ''"You’ve earned one that doesn’t end with you puking into the sand."'' A few of the nearest veterans snort at that, the sound not entirely unkind. ''"Try not to piss anyone off, eh?"'' he adds. Voss raises his hand half in jest, half in genuine question, and drops it again when Cassian’s eyes cut to him. ''"Be where you’re meant to be for curfew,"'' the veteran finishes. ''"Horn blows at last light. If you’re not in your bunk, the doctore will come looking. You don't want him to come looking."'' As if to underline the point, your gaze is drawn past Cassian’s shoulder. The doctore stands by the fountain, whip still resting in his fist, talking low to a pair of handlers. The hobgoblin doesn't glance your way, yet you have no doubt he knows exactly where every new collar in this yard will choose to stand once the leash goes a little slack. Cassian claps Renkar on the arm, a solid, wordless thump, gives Voss a look that promises trouble if the boy makes mischief, and inclines his head a fraction to Rilash. When his eyes return to you there is that same dry, measuring calm you're coming to know. After a beat he turns away, whistle raised, already calling older fighters into whatever work the yard still demands of them. The great machine grinds on in the background: veterans pairing off for their own bouts, handlers dragging practice gear back toward racks, a few slaves hurrying water-skins to those who're staying on the sand. Around you, space opens. The lanes that were strict and narrow an hour ago now feel wider, edges blurred. The fountain’s murmur carries more clearly without counts and curses to drown it. You can see the stone mouths of the tunnels that lead back toward the barracks and mess; the low wall where some men sit to wrap their hands or gossip; the shadowed arch that opens toward the baths; the stretch of inner parapet where a few fighters lean to look up at the slice of sky and the silent colosseum seats beyond. Renkar rolls his shoulders once, the joints popping like old timber, then nods toward one of the shield racks and drifts that way, as if even his rest must be spent near familiar weight. Voss wipes sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand, already talking about food, about water, about seeing more of the place that owns him now. Rilash lingers a moment, feline eyes narrowing as he studies the flow of bodies, then slips away toward the shadier edges of the yard. For the first time since the collar closed around your throat, nobody is telling you where to stand. This freedom feels fragile; a small, bright shard of glass in a fistful of grit. ''For a short while, the ludus is yours to walk.'' [[You consider how to spend your time...|chp3_ludus_freeroam_map]]

<<if !$chp3_ludus_yard>><center><img class="scene" src="images/chp3_renkar.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> The yard has thinned, but it hasn't gone quiet. Veterans move in smaller knots now, stripped of the tight order Cassian keeps during drills; a pair of spearmen work slow patterns by the far wall, their points conveying pale arcs in the violet light, while a handful of brawnier men run a short shield line against the weighted ram, shoulders jolting with each impact. The sand is scored and churned, darkened here and there where water or sweat or something thicker soaked in and dried. Renkar's where you half-expected to find him, near one of the inner walls, shield on his burly arm, feet set in a familiar stance. He's alone, working through a slow form that looks older than the ludus itself, board rising and falling in measured rhythm, his practice blade darting out to meet invisible blows. He moves like a man who's done this in mud, slush, gutted alleys and city streets alike, long before the arena swallowed him. You watch for a few breaths before he notices you. His eyes flick over, narrow, then ease by a fraction. He finishes the sequence he's in before letting the shield drop to his side, briefly wiping his brow with the back of a gnarled wrist before addressing you. ''"Could have fooled me,"'' He snorts, voice rough with dust and perpetual weariness, ''"The evenin' off, only one week in. Thought they'd have us running in circles until dark."'' [[Take it as it comes. Work's work.|chp3_ludus_yard_cowboy]] <<ci archetype>> [[They'll need more than a week to break us.|chp3_ludus_yard_bastard]] <<ci archetype>> [[If they're easing off, it's only to test us in some other way.|chp3_ludus_yard_knight]] <<ci archetype>> <<else>> The yard has settled back into its usual rhythm; no tight circle around a Champion, no first-week spectacle. Just men and sand and the patient grind of work. Spearmen trace thin arcs by the far wall, shields rise and fall in time with a veterans’s low count, and somewhere a sled drags a slow, stubborn furrow through the grit. The air smells of sweat and leather and old dust, the sky above a deeper violet than when drills began. You catch sight of Renkar only in passing; a broad back folded into a shield line, or a silhouette resting on the low wall, sharing a waterskin with men who have their own stories to gnaw on. There’s no space for another long talk tonight, and that’s all right. It’s enough to know he’s still there, Shouldering his share of the yard’s weight while you shoulder yours. [[You drift away from the training lanes, the ludus still open before you.|chp3_ludus_freeroam_map]] <</if>>

<<if !$chp3_ludus_gate>>The closer you get to the inner wall, the thinner the noise of the yard becomes. There are still men on the sand behind you. The dull thud of boards, occasional bark of a handler, and the slow trickle of the fountain are proof enough of that. The compound rises high on either side, dark, dusty and pitted, patched where old cracks were pinned and filled. The air smells less of sweat and more of dust and old mortar, with a faint undercurrent of the city beyond; smoke, boiled grain, and the wet warmth that permeates most of the lower quarters. The gate itself is a tall thing of bone and obsidian, set into the stone like a tooth in a jaw. Its bars are thick and stained with age, wrapped in old gouges where something once tried to cut through and failed. Tonight, it stands half-shuttered, only a narrow mouth at the bottom open to the bailey beyond. Two House Varro guards flank it, black and jade armour dull under the violet light. They lean on spears more than they stand at attention, helmets tipped back a little, talking under their breath. One smokes something that smells sour and sharp, the ember a dim orange bead in the shadows of his hand. Now and then their eyes skim over the yard behind you to count bodies. Beyond the gate, through that narrow mouth, you can see a sliver of the world you don't belong to anymore. At least, not in the same way as when you were free to roam the Third Quarter. That freedom is gone, if you would've ever called it that. Cobblestones instead of sand, the edge of a cart with one wheel propped on a stone, a stable-block’s dark mouth, warm animal smell just making it through. Farther still, past a second inner wall, rooftops jostling at uneven heights, their tiles patched with whatever the Quarter denizens could find; tar, boards, scavenged wood, brick and carapace. Smoke curls up from half a dozen chimneys, smearing the sky. Somewhere a bell is being rung, not for you; a thin, hurried chiming that the stone carries strangely. [[Rilash is already there, just off to the side of the gate.|chp3_ludus_gate]] <<else>> The inner wall greets you much the same as before; tall stone, tired guards, the dark mouth of the gate cracked just wide enough to show a sliver of cobbled world beyond. A cart rattles past that narrow gap, a blur of wheel and hoof, then it's gone. Smoke and faint street-noise drift in and thin against the yard’s dust; for a moment the city feels close enough to touch, then the smell of sweat and sand takes it back. Rilash is where he was, shoulder to stone, arms folded, tail curled tight around his ankles. His eyes cut toward you once, a brief, pale flicker of recognition, then return to the gate as if you were only another shadow against the wall. You stand with him in that thin silence for a while, sharing the stolen view of rooftops and smoke, until the weight of the collar reminds you that the world that matters for now is behind you, not beyond the bars. [[You leave the inner wall behind, the evening in the ludus narrowing once more.|chp3_ludus_freeroam_map]] <</if>>

The stairs that take you up are too fine for men like you. You know it from the way that the stone changes from rough, churned sand, chalk and sweat-stained brick to smoothly laid ceramic tile and polished marble. The corridors up here don't remember bare soles or blood like the yard. No, the steps here are worn only by softer shoes, by years of silk hems and polished boots. You climb anyway, one hand trailing the cool inner wall, stairway curling tighter as it rises and cuts into the inner curve of the ludus rotunda. It smells differently here; fine incense, a thread of expensive perfume and the faint green breath of some hidden courtyard where House Varro must tame plants behind the high stone. Some feeling drew you this high, but you can't quite put a name on it. Maybe it's unconscious, some hidden inclination to push the boundaries of your confinement. Or perhaps it's as simple as wanting a breath of clearer, fresher air high above the ludus yard and cells below. Whatever it is, you can't stop now, your trek driving you closer to the precipice of the compound's highest reaches. The light changes here, too. Torch-gold gives way to something stranger: a washed-out, bruised glow that seeps down from above, neither day nor full night, the color of Dosmera’s reflection on old scars. It finds the edges of the stair, the curve of your wrist, and paints your knuckles in ghost-violet as you round the last turn. At the top waits an archway cut into the rotunda’s skin. No door ;ust a spill of that sky-sick light across the tiles like a warning or an invitation. You pause on the threshold, listening. No shout comes, and no hand seizes your shoulder from the shadows to drag you back into the depths of the ludus. The House hasn't yet noticed its animal has slipped the leash. You step through, and Cradle opens before you like a wound. [[A beautiful, blooming bruise on a forgotten planet.|chp3_ludus_balcony]]

<<if !$chp3_ludus_baths>>The way down to the baths is a slow uncoiling. Stone corridors turn away from the yard, swallowing the last of the shouts and the ring of wood on wood. The air grows thicker as you walk; less dust, more damp warmth, a faint breath of old soap and something herbal that can't quite hide the smell of bodies. Water sounds ahead of you, a low, steady slosh, the drip and trickle of it moving from one place to another. You duck under a low arch and the room opens out around you. The bath hall is a single, broad basin sunk into the floor, its edges worn smooth by years of hands and heels. Steam hangs under the vaulted ceiling, softening the lantern-light into a hazy glow; braziers burn along the walls, their coals muttering. The water is cloudy from bodies and cheap oils, hot enough that your skin prickles just from breathing the air above it. Men soak, scattered along the stone lip and in the pool itself. A pair of veterans sit chest-deep near one corner, trading quiet complaints about old wounds. Farther along, a scarred orc scrubs at his arms with rough cloth as if the day has stained him and won't quite come off. Slaves move between them with buckets and ladles, eyes down, topping up heat where it ebbs. Voss has already staked out a spot along the far edge. The youth is sunk to his ribs in the water, arms spread along the slick stone, freckled face damp and bright with heat. His hair clings in dark curls to his forehead, every line of him loose in a way you haven't seen all week. He glances up when he hears your steps, thin mouth twitching. ''"Look at this,"'' he says, voice dry as parchment, ''"Sand in the teeth and eyes all day, but at least we've got a bath to scrub them in. House Varro really knows how to spoil a man, huh? Almost better than what we've got in the Third."'' [[You decide to join him.|chp3_ludus_freeroam_baths1]] <<else>> The baths are much the same as before. Steam hanging low under the stone vaults, lantern-light smeared soft across damp walls, bodies sunk in cloudy water like discarded armour. Voices drift over the splash and drip; tired jokes, low curses as someone eases a bruise into the heat, the brief crack of laughter that dies as soon as it's born. You think you spot Voss at one curve of the pool, freckled face half-hidden in the fog, arguing quietly with another young fighter about which drills are worst. Farther along, a broad, scarred back turns in the water, gone before you can say whether it belongs to Sereth or some other veteran. For a little while you let the heat leach the day from your bones, then climb out again, skin humming, collar cold and clean against your throat. [[You leave the heat of the baths behind once more.|chp3_ludus_freeroam_map]] <</if>>

You roll one shoulder up in a half-hearted shrug, feeling the day in every joint. ''"Cassian decided not to,"'' you answer. ''"Said we’d earned a longer evening."'' Renkar snorts, a sound somewhere between agreement and disbelief. He plants the shield edge in the sand and leans on it, the leather and old wood creaking under his weight. ''"Enjoy it while it lasts,"'' he mutters. ''"They like breaking new collars quick. Make sure we know what’s what before the crowds get a taste."'' You look past him at the yard: spearmen tracing slow circles, men running that short, stubborn shield line against the weighted ram. The place feels less like a stage without Cassian barking counts or the doctore's overwhelming presence, and more like a yard behind some hard little ranch, the kind where chores don't end just because the sun's going down. ''"Work’s work,"'' You reason without bothering to complicate the thought. ''"Horn blows, we show up. They want to run us in circles again tomorrow, we run."'' Renkar huffs a small, dry chuckle. ''"Spoken like a man who's done his share of ugly jobs,"'' he says. ''"Quarter’s full of those, huh? Someone has to stand the door, drag the drunks, haul the bodies. Some think the Ludus pays better, that’s all. If not in coin, then in glory."'' You let that sit a while. Truth is, the week hasn't felt that different from other bad stretches of your life; just louder, hotter, more eyes on the way you carry it. You're still a body being put to use by someone else, still measuring each day by whether you're standing when it ends. <<if $chp3_ludus_stat is "might">> Renkar’s glance travels over your shoulders, the line of your arms, the way you're unconsciously braced even now, ankles dug into the churned sand. ''"I've seen you in the weight-lanes, lad."'' He rumbles, ''"Stones loaded on your back, shield in your hands. Haulin' sandbags like your life depends on it. I didn't take you for the ambitious type."'' ''"I'm not sure it's ambition,"'' You reply, jaw working back and forth, ''"Figured if this is the kinda work they're throwing us into, I might as well get good at it. You know, without bitching. Muscle's a tool here, same as a good knife or a sound pair of boots."'' He nods at that, approval clear. ''"Nothing wrong with being the one they reach for when something heavy needs moving,"'' he says. ''"Folk remember the man who does the lifting. Especially in this trade."'' His mouth quirks a little as he continues, ''"Just make sure you're the one deciding how that strength gets spent. If ya let other people make a beast of burden out of you, you'll carry their world on your shoulders until you drop."'' <<elseif $chp3_ludus_stat is "mobility">> Renkar's eyes flick to your boots, to the marks laddered across the sand where you spent half the week threading posts and chasing the yard’s edges. ''"Seen you running the wall,"'' He rumbles, ''"Chasing air and shadows while the rest of us hit things. Cassian's trying to make you slippery."'' ''"That's fine by me,"'' You reply, jaw working back and forth, ''"There are worse things than learning how to avoid trouble and stay on your feet. I've walked enough bad streets to know that standing still in the wrong place is how you end up in the gutters."'' He grunts, amused though his approval is clear, ''"The Third eats statues faster than it eats ghosts, don't it?"'' Renkar mutters, ''"Men who plant their feet in one spot, thinkin' it makes them strong. Sometimes it's just a death sentence. Gotta know how to play your cards, kid."'' The old man taps the shield’s rim with a thick knuckle, ''"Even in a line, you still move,”"'' he goes on. ''"Shift, angle, give just enough that the hit slides past. Folk think walls don't travel, but they do. Inch here, inch there, that's the difference between taking a blade in the ribs or letting it skate off the board."'' <<elseif $chp3_ludus_stat is "mind">> Renkar squints at you for a moment, as if weighing something other than your shoulders or your stance. ''"Seen you watching more than talking this past week,"'' He rumbles, ''"Moving on the whistle before Cassian finishes the word, ducking out of the way before the spar really starts. You counting beats in that head of yours?"'' ''"Have been,"'' You admit, jaw working back and forth as you contemplate, ''"I'm tired of surprises. It feels nice knowin' the shape of each drill. When the whip cracks, when a fighter is losin' his temper. Helps in a place like this, you know?"'' Renkar nods, slow with approval. ''"Nothing wrong with keeping your eyes open,"'' he says. ''"The Third's kinder to folk who look around than to the ones staring at their own boots, aye? You learn the habits of a street, the way a bar fills, which corner the knifemen favour, you live longer. Yard's just another street with tighter walls."'' His mouth twists in something like approval, ''"Most men down here only think about the next hit,"'' He adds. ''"If you're thinking about the one after that, then you're already ahead, kid.''' <</if>> You tilt your head at him. ''"Sounds like you’re talking from experience,"'' You murmur, curious for a moment about your fellow fighter. You're both new to the yard, but bring difference experience to your new profession. Renkar's gaze drifts past you, past the yard, towards stone you can't see through. ''"Third Quarter will teach you or eat you,"'' He says. Then, almost as an afterthought, ''"Got a girl out there. Just a lil' thing. Lives near the old wells. If she climbs high enough, she might see the top of these walls when she squints."'' He says it lightly, as if the thought amuses him more than it hurts. The sound in his throat is close to a chuckle. But you can tell there's more behind it. [[Your silence is sign enough for him to continue.|chp3_ludus_yard_cowboy1]]

You let a thin, humourless smile tug at one corner of your mouth, the kind that never quite reaches your eyes. ''"They'll need more than a week to break us."'' You murmur, to which Renkar can only snort, a low sound like gravel under a boot. He plants the shield edge in the sand and leans on it, the leather and old wood creaking under his weight. ''"They'll try,"'' he says. ''"That's the thing about houses like this. They don't run out of ways."'' You glance past him at the rest of the yard: spearmen tracing slow circles, men running that short, stubborn shield line against the weighted ram. The place looks less like a stage without Cassian barking counts or the doctore prowling the edge, and more like some meat-grinder's back lot, a factory for turning bodies into stories for other people to tell. ''"But they showed their hand a little this week,"'' You reason beneath a hot breath. ''"We know how the blades swing now. Where the whip likes to land. That counts for something."'' Renkar eyes you sideways, weighing the tone more than the words. ''"Careful with that thinking,"'' He mutters, ''"Men who start believing they're ahead of the house usually end up feeding it."'' You roll both of your shoulders up in a faint shrug, ''"Maybe. But if I'm gonna get fed to something, it won't be without a damn good fight. Let a place like this stamp out your spirit and you might as well be dead already."'' That earns you half a smile, gone almost as soon as it appears. <<if $chp3_ludus_stat is "might">> His milky gaze roams over your frame, taking in the subtle new thickness at your shoulders and the way you're still standing square even with the day’s work clinging to you like a second skin. ''"I've seen you in the weight-lanes,"'' he rumbles. ''"Stone on your back, shield in your hands, haulin' sandbags like the gods promised you somethin' for every blister. Most lads dodge that work when they can."'' ''"I'm not most lads,"'' You say. ''"If this place wants to use me like an ox, I'd rather pick the yoke myself. Better to be the bastard who can shove back than the one who gets shoved into the pit."'' Renkar's mouth twitches with stubborn approval. ''"Folk think brawn makes you stupid,"'' he says. ''"Truth is, a strong man with his wits about him scares trouble off before it starts. Door guard with arms like yours and eyes that don't wander? Knifemen go lookin' for softer doors."'' He taps the shield's rim with a knuckle. ''"Just don't let 'em convince you you're only the arms,"'' he adds. ''"You start thinkin' like a beast of burden, they'll load you until your knees give out. Keep some strength set aside for when you want to use it for yourself."'' <<elseif $chp3_ludus_stat is "mobility">> Renkar's eyes drop to your boots, then to the faint ladder of lines scratched into the sand where you spent half the week threading posts instead of standing still. ''"Seen you chasin' the edges,"'' he says. ''"Outer wall, post lanes, takin' the paths nobody else wants because there's no glory in runnin'. Cassian's tryin' to turn you into a ghost."'' You tilt your head, nodding a bit before you say, ''"Better a livin' ghost than a dead one. I'd rather slip around a blade than see how honest it feels in my gut. Let the other lads stand pretty in the centre."'' He grunts, vaguely amused. ''"The Third's alleyways are full of boys who thought bein' unmovin' made 'em hard,"'' Renkar mutters. ''"They died facin' the wrong direction. Quick men with mean heads? They're the ones you watch. They're the ones who turn up three streets over when the shouting starts."'' He taps the shield with a thick knuckle. ''"Even a line has give in it,"'' he goes on. ''"Shift, angle, let the hit slide past and catch the man next to you instead. Folk call that cowardice until they're the ones still breathin'."'' <<elseif $chp3_ludus_stat is "mind">> Renkar squints at you, like he's trying to see past sweat and bruises into whatever's ticking behind your eyes. ''"I've watched you in the drills,"'' he says. ''"You move before Cassian finishes the call. Duck before the swing's fully born. Don't look surprised when the whip cracks. You countin' in there, eh?"'' ''"Luck's never carried me far,"'' You reply. ''"I watch, listen. Helps to stay ahead of the games that they play here. To know the rhyme and reason for every drill."'' Renkar nods, slow and grudging. ''"Nothing wrong with gettin' ahead of the hurt,"'' he says. ''"Third taught me that. You learn the mood of a street, the way a tavern swells before a fight, which faces get twitchy when the guard's near – you can be halfway out the door before the trouble remembers your name."'' His mouth twists in a half-smile. ''"Most men down here only think about the next hit,"'' he adds. ''"If you're already thinkin' about what happens after it lands, you've got a chance to be the bastard still on his feet."'' <</if>> You tilt your head at him, studying the set of his jaw. ''"Sounds like you've seen a lot of men fed to the streets,"'' you murmur. Renkar's gaze drifts past you, past the yard, towards stone you can't see through. ''"Third Quarter will teach you or eat you,"'' he mutters. Then, almost like he regrets saying anything at all, ''"Got a girl out there. Just a lil' thing. Lives near the old wells. If she climbs high enough, she might see the top of these walls when she squints."'' He says it lightly, like the idea amuses him more than it hurts. The sound in his throat is close to a chuckle. But you can feel the weight behind it, the way the words sit heavy in the air between you. [[You give him room to talk, neither pressing nor pitying him.|chp3_ludus_yard_bastard1]]

You meet his weariness with a steadier look, squaring your shoulders in spite of the ache. ''"Feels more like a test than a kindness,"'' You reason, ''"If they're easing off this early, it's because they expect more of us later."'' Renkar snorts, a low sound like gravel under a boot. He plants the shield edge in the sand and leans on it, the leather and old wood creaking under his weight. ''"That's the thing about houses like this,"'' he says. ''"They don't give nothin' for free. They pull back with one hand so you don't see the other one comin'."'' You glance past him at the rest of the yard: spearmen tracing slow circles, men running that short, stubborn shield line against the weighted ram. Without Cassian barking counts or the doctore prowling the edge, it looks less like a stage and more like a forge that never cools. A place where bodies are perpetually hammered into whatever shape the house needs. ''"Then we treat it like part of the campaign,"'' you murmur. ''"Day's done early, so we walk the ground, catch our breath, mend what we can before they start hammerin' again. No reason to waste it feeling grateful. Rest is for recovery."'' That earns you half a smile, gone almost as soon as it appears. <<if $chp3_ludus_stat is "might">> His milky gaze roams over your frame, taking in the new thickness at your shoulders and the way you're still standing square even with the day’s work clinging to you like a second skin. ''"I've seen you in the weight-lanes,"'' he rumbles. ''"Stone on your back, shield in your hands, holdin' the end of the line where the hit lands hardest. Most lads dodge that work when they can."'' ''"Somebody has to be there,"'' you reply. ''"If the line breaks, men behind you bleed for it. I'd rather be the one taking the first hit and keepin' them on their feet."'' Renkar's mouth twitches with a different kind of approval. ''"Folk think only fools stand in the worst part of a wall,"'' he says. ''"But doors don't guard themselves. Streets don't hold unless someone plants their boots and says 'no further'."'' He taps the shield's rim with a knuckle. ''"Just remember you don't owe that to everyone,"'' he adds. ''"Pick who you stand for. Otherwise you'll waste your back on folk who'd sell you for a handful of coin soon as the shouting stops."'' <<elseif $chp3_ludus_stat is "mobility">> Renkar's eyes drop to your boots, then to the faint ladder of lines scratched into the sand where you spent half the week threading posts instead of standing still. ''"Seen you on the outer lanes,"'' he says. ''"Runnin' the wall, cuttin' corners, movin' before the rest of the line even knows it's supposed to turn. Cassian's tryin' to make you quick on more than just your feet."'' You give a faint nod. ''"If the line breaks, someone has to get there first,"'' you say. ''"Doesn't matter how strong a man is if he's three heartbeats too slow. I'd rather be where I'm needed than planted somewhere just to look solid."'' He grunts, thoughtful for a beat, ''"In the Third, runners kept whole streets from burnin',"'' Renkar says. ''"Boys who could slip through a crowd, warn a door, grab a child out from under a falling cart. Folks remember the big lads with the clubs, but it's the quick ones that stitch a place together."'' He taps the shield’s rim with a thick knuckle. ''"Even in a line, someone has to move,"'' he goes on. ''"Shift, cover, plug the gap before it opens wide. Men who can do that on purpose, not by accident? Captains build plans around 'em."'' <<elseif $chp3_ludus_stat is "mind">> Renkar squints at you, like he's trying to see past sweat and bruises into whatever's ticking behind your eyes. ''"I've watched you in the drills,"'' he says. ''"You move before Cassian finishes the call. Guard's up before the swing's fully born. You don't look surprised when the whip cracks. You keepin' count, or just cursed with a clear head?"'' ''"Clear as the yard allows,"'' you reply. ''"Someone has to see more than the next hit. If we understand how they work us, we waste fewer bodies on stupid mistakes. That matters once they start throwin' us in front of crowds."'' Renkar nods, slow and grudging. ''"Most folk down here don't think past their own skin,"'' he says. ''"Third's full of men who never saw further than the drink in their hand. Streets ate 'em quick."'' His mouth twists in a half-smile. ''"You start seein' patterns,"'' he adds. ''"Where the house puts its coin, where the whip falls, which lads they save and which they spend… you might just keep a few more fools alive than this place deserves."'' <</if>> You tilt your head at him, studying the lines time has cut into his face. ''"You talk about the Quarter like you're still standin' post there,"'' you murmur. Renkar's gaze drifts past you, past the yard, towards stone you can't see through. ''"Third Quarter will teach you or eat you,"'' he mutters. Then, almost like he regrets saying anything at all, ''"Got a girl out there. Just a lil' thing. Lives near the old wells. If she climbs high enough, she might see the top of these walls when she squints."'' He says it lightly, like the idea amuses him more than it hurts. The sound in his throat is close to a chuckle. But you can feel the weight behind it, the way the words sit heavy in the air between you. [[You give him quiet, the kind that doesn't flinch from what he's saying.|chp3_ludus_yard_knight1]]

Renkar shifts his grip on the shield as though considering whether to close himself back up behind it or not. For once, he lets it rest a while longer, the rim digging a shallow groove into the sand. ''"Her name's Ressa. Ten, maybe. Hard to keep track once they start running."'' He says it with a crooked sort of fondness that lingers on his gruff face. ''"Her ma and me kept a door in the Third,"'' he goes on. ''"Little flat with old stone stairs, two rooms above a brewer's. Work and went. Sometimes I stood in the doorways for men with bigger purses. Sometimes I hauled crates, or walked home with folk who could pay for the protection."'' ''"Long as there was enough coin for bread and a little soup,"'' He remembers, scratching at the line of his jaw with a scarred thumb, ''"We got by. Life's as complicated as you make it, $name."'' ''"Ressa never cared much for staying inside,"'' he says. ''"Soon as she could walk she was climbing... tables, carts, rooflines. Thought she’d break her neck before the city ever got a fair swing at her."'' There's a hint of pride there, thin but real. ''"She knows you're here?"'' you ask. Renkar rolls one shoulder, leather creaking. ''"Knows I got taken. The boys that came for the bounty pulled me off a job near the wells. Folk saw. Quarter’s not full of fools; they see a man in chains headin' toward the colosseum, they can put it together.”'' Another low, dry chuckle. ''"Maybe she thinks I am dead,"'' he mutters, ''"Or maybe she thinks they made me some kind of proper soldier in red and gold. One of 'em Penal Legions, y'know?"'' <<if ($chp3_ludus_stat is "mind") or ($mind gte 2)>> You notice the places his eyes don't go. How they keep skipping the stretch of wall that most directly faces the Third Quarter, and how his gnarled fingers flex once on the shield’s grip and then go still. He doesn't want to picture her too clearly. Not here, not with these collars on his neck and yours. <</if>> ''"Either way, nothing I can do about it from in here,"'' He says at last. ''"City’s a beast with its own hunger. You feed it what you must an' hope it spits back the one you care about instead of swallowing them. All I can do is stay alive long enough for it to matter."'' You offer a faint nod in response. Growing up in the Third, even Undertown, you know that he means well enough. Streets, houses, districts, professions and places that chew through people without meaning anything by it. No great malice nor high design. Just the way that teeth meet and things play out. ''"Girl with legs and hands like that... Climbin' roofs, finding higher ground,"'' You say, voice easy, low and meandering, ''"City'll have to work for its meal. That's more than what most can say."'' He huffs, and this time the sound is closer to a real laugh. ''"You're right about that."'' Yet he shakes his head, like the thought has a loosened a memory in his mind, in his face; the lines around his milky eyes soften, and the set of his mouth grows less harsh for a moment. ''"I'm sure she's up there right now. Clingin' to a chimney above her ma's room. She always liked the views... Maybe wondering where her old man is."'' ''"Yeah,"'' You grunt after a few moments of lingering silence, ''"I'm sure she is."'' That earns you another small laugh. He straightens a little, rolling his shoulders, the moment closing but not vanishing. ''"Enough soft talk,"'' he says, though there's no real bite to it. ''"If the handlers see me leaning on this board much longer, they'll find me a broom."'' He lifts the shield back onto his arm, settling the weight like something he's worn all his life. ''"See you on the line tomorrow, kid,"'' he says. With a huff, he turns back to his slow, measured form, board rising and falling, blade cutting old, invisible paths through the violet air. Whatever passed between you sits there in the sand, small and stubborn, like a seed waiting for the right weather. <<set $chp3_ludus_yard to true>> [[You drift away from the training lanes, the ludus still open before you.|chp3_ludus_freeroam_map]] <<gainCowboy>>

You don't rush to fill the silence. Men like Renkar don't open up because you drag the words out of them. They open up because you don't scare them off with softness. After a moment, he shifts his grip on the shield; letting it rest a while longer, the rim digging a shallow groove into the sand. ''"Her name's Ressa,"'' he says. ''"Ten, maybe. Hard to keep track once they start runnin'."'' He says it with a crooked sort of fondness that doesn't match the rest of him. A gruff man built for holding lines, talking about a child like she's some stray cat that decided to share his roof. ''"Her ma and me kept a door in the Third,"'' he goes on. ''"Little flat up crooked stone stairs, two rooms above a brewer's. Work came and went. Sometimes I stood in doorways for men with bigger purses. Sometimes I hauled crates. Sometimes I walked folk home who could afford protection."'' His jaw works, the memory sitting there behind his teeth. ''"Long as there was enough coin for bread and a little soup, we got by,"'' he says. ''"Life's only as complicated as you let it be, $name."'' ''"Ressa never did care much for stayin' inside,"'' he continues with a sniffle, and this time there is a real ghost of a smile. ''"Soon as she could walk she was climbin'… tables, carts, rooflines. Thought she'd break her neck before the city ever got a fair swing at her."'' There's pride in it, thin and stubborn. ''"She knows you're here?"'' You ask. Renkar rolls one shoulder, leather creaking. ''"Knows I got taken,"'' he says. ''"Boys that came for the bounty pulled me off a job near the wells. Folk saw. Quarter's not full of fools; they see a man in chains headin' toward the colosseum, they can put it together."'' Another low, dry chuckle. ''"Maybe she thinks I'm dead,"'' he mutters. ''"Or maybe she thinks they made me some kind of proper soldier in red and gold. One of those penal legion bastards."'' <<if ($chp3_ludus_stat is "mind") or ($mind gte 2)>> You notice the places his eyes don't go. How they keep skipping the stretch of wall that most directly faces the Third, and how his gnarled fingers flex once on the shield's grip and then go still. He doesn't want to picture her too clearly. Not here, not with these collars on his neck and yours. <</if>> ''"Either way, nothing I can do about it from in here,"'' He says at last, ''"City's a beast with its own hunger. You feed it what you must and hope it spits back the one you care about instead of swallowin' 'em whole."'' You huff softly through your nose. ''"Beasts choke sometimes,"'' You say, ''"Places like these? They can spit folk out meaner, sharper, harder to swallow the second time around."'' He gives you a small look at that, like you've just named a hope he wasn't planning to admit to. ''"Anyway, a girl like that – hands and feet on every rooftop, won't stay where she's put,"'' You go on, voice easy. ''"City'll have to earn her. That's more than most can say."'' He huffs, and this time the sound is closer to a real laugh. ''"You're not wrong,"'' he says. ''"I'm sure she's up there right now, clingin' to some chimney above her ma's room. She always liked the views. Maybe she's lookin' this way, cursin' my name for not comin' home."'' ''"Good,"'' You say. ''"Let her curse. Better that than forget."'' He snorts, something like approval under the sound. ''"You're a cold little bastard,"'' he says. There's no heat in it. If anything, it's the closest thing to a compliment you've had all week. ''"Takes one to recognize one,"'' You answer. He straightens a little, rolling his shoulders, the moment closing but not vanishing. ''"Enough jaw jackin',"'' he says, though there's no real bite. ''"If the handlers see me leanin' on this board much longer, they'll find me a broom."'' He hefts the shield back onto his arm, settling the weight like something he's worn all his life. ''"See ya on the line tomorrow, kid,"'' he says, finally turning back to his slow, measured form, board rising and falling, blade cutting old, invisible paths through the violet air. Whatever passed between you sits there in the sand, small and stubborn, like a seed in bad soil that means to live anyway. <<set $chp3_ludus_yard to true>> [[You drift away from the training lanes, the ludus still open before you.|chp3_ludus_freeroam_map]] <<gainBastard>>

You don't rush to fill the silence. Men like Renkar don't open up because you jab at the sore places; they open up because you stand there and let them be what they are. He shifts his grip on the shield before then finally deciding to let it rest a while longer, the rim digging a shallow groove into the sand. ''"Her name's Ressa,"'' he says. ''"Ten, maybe. Hard to keep track once they start runnin'."'' He says it with a crooked sort of fondness that doesn't match the rest of him. A gruff man built for holding lines, talking about a child like she's some stray cat that decided to share his roof. ''"Her ma and me kept a door in the Third,"'' he goes on. ''"Little flat up crooked stone stairs, two rooms above a brewer's. Work came and went. Sometimes I stood in doorways for men with bigger purses. Sometimes I hauled crates. Sometimes I walked folk home who could afford not to die in an alley that night."'' His jaw works, the memory sitting there behind his teeth. ''"Long as there was enough coin for bread and a little soup, we got by,"'' he murmurs. ''"Life's only as complicated as you let it be, $name."'' ''"Ressa never did care much for stayin' inside,"'' he continues, and this time there's a real ghost of a smile. ''"Soon as she could walk she was climbin'... tables, carts, rooflines. Thought she'd break her neck before the city ever got a fair swing at her."'' There's pride in it, thin and stubborn. ''"She knows you're here?"'' you wonder aloud. Renkar rolls one shoulder, leather creaking. ''"Knows I got taken,"'' he says. ''"Boys that came for the bounty pulled me off a job near the wells. Folk saw. Quarter's not full of fools; they see a man in chains headin' toward the colosseum, they can put it together."'' Another low, dry chuckle. ''"Maybe she thinks I'm dead,"'' he mutters. ''"Or maybe she thinks they made me some kind of proper soldier in red and gold. One of those penal legion bastards."'' <<if ($chp3_ludus_stat is "mind") or ($mind >= 2)>> You notice the places his eyes don't go. How they keep skipping the stretch of wall that most directly faces the Third, and how his gnarled fingers flex once on the shield's grip and then go still. He doesn't want to picture her too clearly. Not here, not with these collars on his neck and yours. <</if>> ''"Either way, nothing I can do about it from in here,"'' he says at last. ''"City's a beast with its own hunger. You feed it what you must and hope it spits back the one you care about instead of swallowin' 'em whole."'' You breathe out slowly. ''"Beasts can be steered, sometimes,"'' you say. ''"If she’s got your stubbornness and her ma’s sense, she’ll know which streets to avoid. Which roofs to climb. Not every mouth that opens gets fed."'' He gives you a small look at that, like you've just named a hope he wasn't planning to admit to. ''"Anyway,"'' you go on, quieter, ''"A girl who loves the high ground, watches the city from above? She'll see trouble before it reaches her door. You and her ma taught her enough to buy time. That's more than most get."'' He huffs, and this time the sound is closer to a real laugh. ''"You're not wrong,"'' he says. ''"I'm sure she's up there right now, clingin' to some chimney above her ma's room. She always liked the views. Maybe she's lookin' this way, cursin' my name for not comin' home."'' You shake your head. ''"Let her curse,"'' you say, your gaze finding his. ''"Means she's still waitin'. Better that than no word or memory at all."'' Renkar snorts, but there is something softer under it. ''"You talk like some green captain who hasn't had his whole squad buried yet,"'' he says. There's no mockery in it; if anything, it's the closest thing to a blessing you've had all week. ''"I'd rather talk like a man who plans on seein' his people again,"'' you answer. He straightens a little, rolling his shoulders, the moment closing but not vanishing. ''"Alright. Enough jaw jackin',"'' he says, though there's no real bite. ''"If the handlers see me leanin' on this board much longer, they'll find me a broom."'' He hefts the shield back onto his arm, settling the weight like something he's worn all his life. ''"See ya on the line tomorrow, $name,"'' he says at last, turning back to his slow, measured form, board rising and falling, blade cutting old, invisible paths through the violet air. Whatever passed between you sits there in the sand, small and stubborn, like a seed in bad soil that means to live anyway. <<set $chp3_ludus_yard to true>> [[You drift away from the training lanes, the ludus still open before you.|chp3_ludus_freeroam_map]] <<gainKnight>>

The Beastkin leans one furred shoulder against the wall, paws tucked under his arms, tail curled close around his ankles. In the half-light his eyes look like two pale coins set in a narrow face, catching whatever glow they can. He has no shield, no staff; just the collar at his throat and the loose, restless set of a creature not built for pens. He watches the slit of city with the stillness of something that has spent a long time waiting in tight places. He must notice you, but he doesn't straight or turn his head. ''"Good view for a cage, no?"'' Rilash purrs, voice low and rough, the words rolling off his wide tongue like stones along a riverbed. You come to stand a pace or two away, careful not to crowd him. ''"Better than staring at the ceiling in the bunks,"'' you murmur with a heft of your shoulders, ''"Helps to know the city's still out there."'' Rilash’s whiskers twitch once. ''"City is always out there,"'' he replies, ''"Streets don’t vanish just because four collars ride a wagon into a yard."'' His gaze slides along the narrow slice of world beyond the outer walls, following a wagon you can only half see as it rattles past. ''"The stones hardly miss us."'' For a moment you both simply look. A child darts across your field of view, a pale blur between two adults; you hear the sharp snap of a rebuke, the child’s laughter cutting off as they're yanked back by the shoulder. A dog trots behind the cart and disappears. Somewhere farther off, someone is shouting about prices you can't afford anymore. ''"You count doors?"'' you ask, quietly. ''"Watch for weak spots?"'' He huffs, faint and amused. ''"This one counts,"'' he says. ''“Doors, towers, steps, eyes. Old habit. But here?”'' He lifts his chin toward the gate. ''"Between this gate and a street you’d know, there are many mouths. All of them hungry. All of them fed by another hand."'' His pupils thin as he looks up along the wall to the watch-walk you can’t quite see from here. ''"A good hunter knows when a trail is closed,"'' he adds. ''"Else he ends up in someone else’s snare."'' You glance sideways at him, ''"So you just watch?"'' [[He gives an agitated breath.|chp3_ludus_gate1]]

''"Watching is not 'just',"'' Rilash answers with a rasp. ''"Out there, road only ever goes forward. In here, it circles."'' His tail gives a small, lazy flick around his ankles. ''"When the city coughs, this yard feels it. Food thins. Games swell. Guards drink harder."'' ''"If you see it early, you are not standing still when the hammer falls."'' A gust of wind threads through the gate, carrying with it the brief tang of coal-smoke and frying fat, a snatch of distant laughter. Then it's gone again, swallowed by stone. ''"You want to go back,"'' You state the obvious. Rilash’s ears angle back for a heartbeat, then settle. ''"Want is easy,"'' he says. ''"Everyone wants something beyond the bars. Freedom, coin, faces they lost."'' His eyes narrow. ''"What matters is what the chain allows. Until then, this one learns the yard. The men. Which way they break when they’re scared."'' He finally looks at you fully, amber gaze weighing, then gives the smallest nod. ''"You should do the same, $name,"'' he says. ''"Dreaming of streets does not keep your blood in your body."'' You let your hand rest a moment on the lukewarm stone by the gate, feeling the grit under your fingers. Through the narrow gap the cart has gone, but the street keeps moving without it; another shadow crosses, a dog or a child, gone too quickly to name. Smoke smears the sky above the rooftops. Whatever lives out there doesn't pause for the collared lives in here. The feline's eyes turn back to the slit of Cradle beyond, the rest of you dismissed with no malice the way a hunter dismisses a tree once he’s sure it won’t move. Tail curled neat around his ankles, he settles deeper into his lean against the wall, as if he has the whole night to stand here and measure the world he can't quite touch. You stay beside him a while longer in silence, both of you watching that thin slice of streets and smoke. Eventually the collar at your throat feels heavier again, its weight tugging your thoughts back toward sand, drills and tunnels that lead down into the ludus belly. You push away from the wall. Rilash doesn't turn. Only one ear tilts in your direction, catching your steps. You leave him there, a narrow shadow at the gate, eyes on a city that might've already forgotten your name. <<set $chp3_ludus_gate = true>> [[You turn your back on the wall and drift toward the yard once more.|chp3_ludus_freeroam_map]]

The door at the far end opens and the room tightens around the sound without quite knowing why. Cooler air threads in, clipping the steam for a heartbeat. A tall, lean shape steps through, skin the colour of dusk-dark stone, wet light sliding along it in soft, oily bands. Sereth moves with the same unhurried certainty he carried on the sand, but here there's no roar, no circle of bodies. Only the quiet greed of men’s eyes as they steal looks at the dark elf who wears their hopes and deaths like another layer of skin. He sheds his linen at the edge of the pool and steps down into the water. The Champion is not bigger than most; no giant, nor a hulking brute raised on meat and rage, that must is clear. His strength lies in the long, limber lines of him, the coiled ease of a body made for sudden violence. Scars cross his shoulders and ribs in pale, deliberate strokes; some thin and clean as knife-kisses, others broader, with the look of oaths carved and healed, the old dark elf habit of letting the blade keep count where words might fail. Men make room without a word. A pair of veterans shift along the stone lip so he can take the curve of the basin’s far side. As he sinks to his chest the water hems him in with a faint halo of disturbed steam, muscles smoothing under the surface. Someone near him murmurs a greeting, and Sereth’s mouth quirks. He answers low, a brief exchange that draws a couple of quiet smiles, a soft laugh from one battered throat. Whatever else he is, he's not a ghost or a god to these men, but something more dangerous: an elevated comrade they have chosen to believe in and yield to in the yard. For a while he simply exists there, shoulders resting against the stone, hands moving in small, economical gestures as he sluices water over his arms, his throat, the fine, pointed line of one ear. The bath’s dim light clings to him; to the hard planes of his face, to the narrow eyes that seem older than his frame should allow. He looks, for one strange moment, almost at peace, like any other fighter letting the heat leach the day’s bruises out of his bones. [[Then his gaze begins to travel.|chp3_ludus_baths_sereth1]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp3_tanae_back.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Stone columns ring the outer curve of the rotunda, their faces pale and pitted, wrapped in old ivy that clings to the flanks of House Varro's ludus like dried veins. Between them runs the balustrade: waist-high, a white rib of carved stone bleached by wicked winds, the last clean line before the drop. Beyond it, the city spills down the inner wall of the crater in tiers and ledges, a chaos of roofs, chimneys and hanging bridges. The evening sky above is a heavy bruise of violet and deepening blue, Dosmera’s far fire bleeding through the misty clouds, turning the world to wine and ashes. The Third Quarter crouches below like a banked fire; streets and alleys smoldering in pockets of orange, lanterns swinging on crooked hooks, smoke leaking up from nine thousand stoves. If you look like enough into the dark, the lamps smolder like embers scattered int the eternal abyss. Above that, sealed behind their own ringwall, the terraces of the Second glow steadier and colder: tamed light behind good glass, ordered rows of manses with their own little gardens clinging to the rock. You can trace the pale scar of the cliff road that runs from the ludus out toward the great arena opposite, a white thread stitched along the crater’s lip, waiting for the day they haul you back out into it. From up here the ludus itself looks small and orderly. The training yard is a shallow bowl of shadow and sand, ringed with galleries and obsidian-toothed gates, the roofs of barracks and pens huddled close like a kennel for dangerous dogs. The noise of it comes thin and distant, just a low, constant grind under the broader hush of the sprawling city. She stands at the railing, framed by the view, As much a part of the scene as the stone below and the sky above. Her back is to you, long and clean, the open line of her spine catching just enough light to make it a blade of moon-pale against the dark lace that clings to her. The bodysuit she wears is a net of black florals and shadow, opaque in curling swathes, treacherously sheer between. Her stance is all controlled softness: weight settled into one hip, shoulders loose, the subtle S-curve of her body both invitation and warning. Her skin reads cool as poured moonlight in this light, but where the dying sky catches her: the ridge of a shoulder, the angle of her collarbone, the edge of her jaw. it warms to faint violet and ember-pink, as if someone had brushed color into the hollows by hand. Strappy sandals ground the long lines of her legs, lace clinging to toned thigh and calf. Her hair is a severe, jet-black bob cut blunt at the jaw, a dark, glossy curtain that frames her neck and ears. It moves as one piece when the breeze from the edge stirs it, inky blackness swaying. Her left hand rests on the stone, fingers long and relaxed, more gesture than grip; the right cradles a stemmed glass of wine that glows in her palm like dark blood caught in glass. For a moment she is only silhouette and suggestion; a courtesan carved out of night and glass, drinking alone above the kennel that feeds the Duchess's games, staring out over Cradle as if taking stock of all the lives it's devoured. <<if $raven_submissive>> Even from behind, you recognize her. Of course you would. You remember the hush of the banquet alcove, velvet pressing against your back, her gentle, warm weight on your chest, the way she guided your hands and breathing both. In the low light, she'd been the one soft harbor, all slow heat and patient rhythm, teaching you how to be something other than an animal for a little while. Seeing her now, alone with her wine and the city laid at her feet, that impossible gentleness stirs in you again. An ache under the bruises, a memory of being held instead of displayed. <<elseif $raven_dominant>> Even from behind, you recognize her. It's almost enough to make you hard. Memory surges up, hot and insistent: her sprawled beneath you in the banquet’s perfumed dark, lace biting into her as your grip and your hips drove her down into the cushions. The way her calm, painted mouth had broken open around your name when you forced a shuddering surrender from her; the shock in her dark eyes when she realized you weren't as tame as they’d hoped to sell. Now she stands high above the yard in a black net, every line of her a promise, and your body remembering the heat and tightness of her around you far more vividly than it remembers Sereth’s blade. <<else>> You vaguely recall her from your past, even without a name or a face. The raven-haired courtesan from Livia's banquet is one to remember, the boldest of the flock that had circled you that fateful day, dark gaze lingering a heartbeat too long. You saw her again after the auction, half-hidden among the Duchess's retinue as Varro’s servants led you away in chains, her gaze following you like a fingertip along a scar. Now she leans at the railing as if born at this height, a jeweled shadow drinking in the city, unaware that the beast she once observed from below has climbed far enough to regard her in turn. <</if>> [[Announce yourself to her.|chp3_ludus_balcony_announce]] [[Slip closer quietly.|chp3_ludus_balcony_slip]] [[Linger silently, watching a while longer.|chp3_ludus_balcony_watch]]

You let the silence hold a heartbeat longer, just enough to taste the trespass before you step forward into the open where the rotunda’s bruised light can find you. The wind off the crater combs cooly against your visage as you move closer yet to the edge. <<set $chp3_ludus_balcony_approach = "announce">> She doesn't move at first. Raven hair, lace and bead, the slow lift of her glass as she watches the city simmer in tiers. For a moment she could be a statue set here to adorn the view, a pretty ward of subtle warmth against ugliness beyond. Your throat tightens around the first word. It’s strange, hearing the idea of your own voice up here where men like you are meant to breathe and bleed, not speak. <<if $char_voice is "low_gravel">> Your voice comes from deep within your chest, low and gravelled, like stone dragged over stone... or like something caged that has learned how to talk without asking for permission. <<elseif $char_voice is "steady_control">> When you speak, it’s steady and controlled. Quiet enough to keep the yard below from hearing, yet clean enough that it carries. A measured voice, like a weapon that you keep clean, polished and sheathed until the moment it matters. <<elseif $char_voice is "warm_rough">> When your voice leaves you, it’s warm and rough, a human sound made harsher by hunger and sand. Not pleading, nor polite, just alive with heat. <<else>> When you speak, it’s quiet, deliberate, careful not to spill too much of yourself into the open air or beyond the reaches of the balcony into the yard below.<</if>><<if $bastard > $knight && $bastard > $cowboy>> ''"Feels different... hell, it feels //nice//,"'' You murmur, continuing slowly, ''"Standing above the cage instead of inside of it. The air's nice up here."'' <<elseif $knight > $bastard && $knight > $cowboy>> ''"I shouldn’t be up here,”'' You admit, ''"But the yard has hardly any air left in it. I think you had the right idea, this evening."'' <<elseif $cowboy > $bastard && $cowboy > $knight>> ''"Hell of a view,"'' You drawl, eyes flicking from her to the city beyond once more, ''"Almost makes a man forget where he's standing."'' <<else>> ''"I won’t pretend that I'm lost,"'' you say. ''"I just wanted to see the city from this high."''<</if>> The glass pauses halfway to her mouth. Then, slowly, she turns, wine-dark eyes catching the last violet light as she takes you in from battered boots to bruised ribs and the hard set of your jaw. [[Meet her gaze.|chp3_ludus_balcony_firstcontact]]

You don’t announce yourself. The rotunda has its own music; wind threading the columns, the distant hush of Cradle below. You fold your footsteps into it like a blade into a sheath, moving along the inner curve where the columns break the sightlines and where ivy shadows soften stone into pockets of dark. <<set $chp3_ludus_balcony_approach = "slip">> She remains at the balustrade, unaware, her silhouette cut clean against the city's bruise-colored glow. The wine in her glass catches Dosmera's far glow and turns almost black. The bottle sits within reach, a quiet companion. There's something unguarded in the way she stands, weight settled into one hip, shoulders loose yet nothing careless. Even from behind, she carries herself like someone who's learned that beauty is a kind of armor and that armor can still be pried apart. <<if $mobility gte 2 || $chp3_ludus_stat is "mobility">> You close the distance without a sound, carefully choosing the moment you'll be known. One more step, another breath, and then you let the slightest scrape of leather betray you on purpose. The effect is subtle: her spine tightens a fraction, hand stilling upon the stone, even her wine sitting motionless in its glass. Then she turns as if she'd always intended to, dark eyes sliding toward you with a glint of subtle amusement, rosy lips parting in a soundless, almost-laughing reprimand. <<else>> You make it three steps closer before something in her shifts; a feminine instinct surely older than perfume and silk. Her fingers curl against the stone, and she turns before you’re ready, wine-dark gaze cutting straight through the columns to find you. There's no fear in her face, not quite. It’s the quick, cool calculation of someone who’s survived long enough to sense danger before it speaks. <</if>> [[You can see her fully now.|chp3_ludus_balcony_firstcontact]]

You stay back in the shadow of the archway and let the balcony have you for a moment without your hands in it. Let it be what the House built it to be: a high place for soft people to look down on hard lives. The rotunda’s columns stand like the bars of a cage around you, ivy clinging in dark ropes, and beyond them Cradle sprawls in its crater like a living bruise. <<set $chp3_ludus_balcony_approach = "watch">> She drinks slowly, as if counting sips. The bottle on the railing isn't celebratory. It’s something you take when the day has left grit in your teeth and you need to rinse the taste out with something sweet but bitter. The wind toys with her raven bob, lifting it clean and blade-sharp along her jaw. Beads and sheer lace tremble with each breath she takes, the whole outfit both exquisite and indecent, like the promise of freedom. <<if $mind gte 2 || $chp3_ludus_stat is "mind">> And watching her, you notice the tells that most men would miss: the way her thumb worries the stem of the glass when the yard noise swells below; the faint pause when her eyes drift toward the Second Quarter’s walls, lingering there as if measuring distance, as if imagining the shape of a different life. You see it in the set of her shoulders, too. How she keeps herself composed not for vanity, but because composure's what keeps a person from being crushed in a House like this. Her sips? Measured, private, as if the wine is medicine. <</if>> At last, without looking back, she lifts her glass and stops mid-motion, as though the air itself has shifted. The hairs along your arms prickle. She exhales once, slow, and then turns with the calm certainty of someone who's learned to feel eyes. Her gaze lands on you and holds, wine-dark and unreadable, the city burning behind her like a crown of ash. [[Step out of the shadow.|chp3_ludus_balcony_firstcontact]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp3_tanae_front.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> When she turns fully, the balcony's distance collapses. She isn't a silhouette anymore, nor an ornament pinned to a skyline. Her face is striking in a calm, deliberate way: an oval that narrows delicately toward the chin, high cheekbones catching the bruised violet light, a smooth jawline that refuses to harden into angles. It's a beauty built for rooms where people watch each other carefully. Her eyes are the focal point: large, slightly elongated, heavy-lidded in a way that reads as confidence rather than fatigue. The irises look dark and bold, amplified by the shadowed framing of lashes and liner, giving her gaze a warm, direct clarity, like glass held up to a flame. Dark brows sit tidy and precise above them, arched with the faint suggestion that she's always half-aware of how she's being watched and enjoys it. Her nose is straight and refined, while beneath it her rosy lips are full without exaggeration, softly glossy, often held on the edge of a knowing smile. Even when her mouth is still, there's an implied amusement at the corners, like she's entertaining a thought that she hasn't yet fully revealed. A simple cord necklace lies just past the splay of her collarbones, nestled below her throat; the pendant is warm, shaped like a leaf, or perhaps the wings of some delicate insect. It feels intimate, almost provincial, made precious by being the only part of her outfit that doesn't feel catered by House Varro. And her outfit... up close you see the cruelty in its elegance. The deep V of dark lace bites into the ripe swell of her breasts where it strains to hold them, beads along the edge digging into softness like a delicate set of shackles restraining something fuller beneath. At her waist, thin beaded bands arc and cross, framing the narrow taper there before spilling down to the feminine flare of her hips. Every small shift of breath makes the lace over her ribs tremble; bead, strap and sheer panel alike giving that barest hint of how close she is to spilling free of the careful cage that contains her radiant and supple flesh. <<if $raven_submissive>> And then her gaze finds you, and it isn’t the city you feel anymore. It’s the memory of a quieter dark again. Velvet warmth and her gentle weight during a time when you needed it most. Up on the balcony, with the yard's violence still humming faint below, that softness returns like a raw ache that you'd nearly forgotten. You wonder - briefly, dangerously - if she remembers it the same way as you, or if she’s trained herself to fold tenderness away the moment it's been spent. <<elseif $raven_dominant>> Her eyes settle on you and the world sharpens at the edges. The lace, the beads, the soft sheen of her mouth. It's not a gentle memory, but one that that grips at you, all stunned breath of when you gave her your strength and made her understand you weren't something simply made to pet and parade. No, you held the rhythm, controlled it, and made her follow. Now she stands above the kennel with a net of sheer shadow clinging to her feminine curves, and the memory hits with a fierce, animal clarity. So vivid it feels like it could rise between you both and speak. You keep your face still anyway. In this House, desire is never just desire. It’s leverage. <<else>> You recognize her properly now, no longer just "raven hair" and a courtesan's silhouette from the banquet, no longer only that brief flash of her among the Duchess’s retinue after the auction. Up close she looks younger than the House's finery suggests, and cleverer too: built of composure and small, private decisions. She watches you the way a person watches a blade. Appreciating the shape, respecting the edge, measuring how close it is. And for a heartbeat, you realize she's not merely serving House Varro tonight. She's taking something for herself; air, height, wine, and a view that belongs to no one. Then you appear, and her freedom narrows to the width of a single gaze. <</if>> [[Break the silence.|chp3_ludus_balcony_firstwords]]

For a moment neither of you speaks. With her turned toward you, the House’s finery looks less like celebration and more like a harness, lace and glitter meant to guide the eye and make men forget that a body can be owned as easily as a sword.<<if $chp3_ludus_balcony_approach is "slip">><<if $mobility gte 2 || $chp3_ludus_stat is "mobility">> ''"You nearly scared me,"'' She murmurs softly with a small curve at the corner of her mouth like she hates herself for enjoying it. The words aren't accusatory. They simply acknowledge your near-silent arrival and now your lingering presence.<<else>> ''"Mm, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were trying to sneak up on me."'' She murmurs softly, dark eyes narrowing a fraction - not with anger, but only a certain sharpness, like a feline gauging a potential threat. The longer the rebuke ligers, the lighter it feels. Playful. She noticed you because she has to notice everything in her world.<</if>><<elseif $chp3_ludus_balcony_approach is "watch">> ''"If you're going to watch,"'' she says at last, ''"At least step into the light. I'm not in the habit of entertaining ghosts."'' Her voice is smooth, practiced, but there's something real under it, a faint edge that says she doesn't like being surprised. Not tonight<<else>> ''"Oh? Speaking like you belong above the cage, are you?"'' Her taunt is soft, a playful lilt to her feminine voice. Her tone makes it hard to tell if she's at all impressed or simply entertained and toying with you a little now.<</if>> The space between you holds, a narrow bridge made of breath and the unspoken fact that you're not supposed to be here. Her eyes flick once, quick and involuntary, to the marks on your body, the bruises and fresh welts half-hidden by your leathers. Then the mask settles back into place, and she looks at you as if you're a question she's considering answering.<<if $raven_submissive or $raven_dominant>> She shouldn't know you, not truly. Not in the way the yard knows you. The sound you make when you hit the ground, the shape and scent of your blood when it runs. Yet there's history between you, however scant, that doesn't quite belong to House Varro; a secret pressed into velvet and candlelight. Standing here with her now, you feel that old transgression hum again, quiet and intimate, like a knife kept warm under a cloak. Her gaze lingers on your mouth, then on your hands, as if remembering what they did, where they were. She doesn't step back, holding her ground at the rail, her stillness a kind of permission or wordless agreement that neither of you will pretend that the banquet never happened. You're both here now, after all.<</if>><<if $raven_submissive>> ''"You look tired,"'' She says, and it's the first thing she offers that sounds almost unguarded. Her eyes soften by a fraction, the way they did in the dark, when the world was far away and you were allowed to breathe. ''"They've started in on you already, haven't they?"''<<elseif $raven_dominant>> ''"So,"'' She murmurs, eyes sliding over you with slow deliberation, ''"The House is keeping you alive."'' The faint amusement returns, sharper now, as if she's tasting the memory on her tongue. ''"I did wonder whether you'd venture where you shouldn't."'' The words are a challenge disguised as conversation, and for a moment the air between you feels tight with it, like the first pull of a bowstring.<<else>> She studies you the way a careful woman studies a dangerous animal, with appreciation and caution braided together. Whatever she remembers of you is secondhand. A glance at the banquet, a rumor after the auction, the mere knowledge that you were a new purchase. Certainly there have been plenty of new dogs dragged into the Duchess' kennel that she took interest with. She keeps her shoulders relaxed, mouth faintly amused, but her eyes never stop measuring. ''"You're not meant to be up here,"'' She says, not as a warning but as a statement of the House’s design, ''"If someone sees you, it won't be a fun lesson."'' She lets that hang, then adds, quieter, ''"Or they'll decide you were invited, and that can be worse."''<</if>> She turns back toward the city, just enough to give you the choice without offering it outright. The space beside her at the railing is empty, a strip of pale stone washed in violet light. You can stand where nobles stand, look where they look, pretend for a breath that you're not a body meant for sport in the sands. The view up close is almost obscene. The Third Quarter burns and murmurs, a living sprawl of smoke and lanterns, bridges strung between crooked roofs like scars stitched shut. Higher up, the First Quarter sits quieter behind its walls in calmer light. Her glass tilts, catching a smear of Dosmera’s glow, and she finally drinks once more. Then she reaches low to lift the bottle by its neck and offers it without ceremony, as if sharing it's the easiest thing in the world. ''"Wine?"'' One word, quiet. A small kindness, or a test. <<link "Grab the bottle and take a deep swig.">><<set $chp3_ludus_balcony_wine = "deep">><<goto "chp3_ludus_balcony_view">><</link>> <<link "Take a careful sip.">><<set $chp3_ludus_balcony_wine = "sip">><<goto "chp3_ludus_balcony_view">><</link>> <<link "Refuse, keeping your edge.">><<set $chp3_ludus_balcony_wine = "refuse">><<goto "chp3_ludus_balcony_view">><</link>>

<<if $chp3_ludus_balcony_wine is "deep">>You tip the bottle back and drink like a man who's earned bitterness. The wine is dark, heavy, warmer than it should be, burning down your throat in a way that feels refreshingly honest. When you lower it, she's still watching, the faint smile at the corner of her mouth almost approving, as if she can relate. She takes the bottle back with a gentle grip, careful not to let her fingers brush yours for too long, and lifts her glass again as if to balance the moment. <<elseif $chp3_ludus_balcony_wine is "sip">>You take a careful sip. The taste is rich, sharp, costly: the kind of thing the Third Quarter never drinks unless it's stolen. She notices your restraint, and something in her expression shifts, subtle as a thread pulled tight, as though she expected you to be rougher, thirstier, and now she's recalculating, considering. She lifts her glass to her lips, drinks, then lowers it as if she's decided she likes the way you hold yourself. <<else>>You shake your head, deciding to keep your edge. Some of the men in the yard dull themselves into a stupor as often as they can, and it's not a habit that you've grown attracted to. Outside of that, you don't trust anything offered by House Varro, not even wine in a beautiful woman’s hand. She doesn't mock you for it, dipping a faint nod as if restraint is a language she understands, setting the bottle down on stone with small click. <</if>> She turns toward the balustrade again and lets the view do the talking for the both of you. There's room beside her, a strip of pale stone washed in bruised violet light, where she neither invites nor denies you. She simply stands as before. If you want the view, you'll have to take it, Like everything else in this city, this world, this life. <<if $raven_submissive or $raven_dominant>> She stands close enough that you can feel the faint warmth of her through lace and air. It's not the closeness of the banquet’s dark, but it's close enough to remind you of it. The world up here feels narrower; two bodies, one bottle and an all-encompassing sky, shared with a silence that feels a bit like a secret. Her eyes flick down once, again, to the way your chest rises and falls, and the bruises and perpetual wear-and-tear visible on your exposed arms, wrists, hands. The motion is quick, almost accidental, but you understand it anyway. She's not surprised by pain, but she can't help but take inventory in the way a person does when they've learned that all good things, including existence, come with a cost. <<else>> She keeps a casual distance, close enough that you share the rail, far enough that you don't share breath. Her posture stays loose, mouth faintly amused, and yet her attention is razor-steady. She gives you the view like a gift that can be revoked at any second. <</if>> Eventually, she raises her chin toward the lights of the First Quarter. ''"Up there,"'' She says softly, as if speaking too loud might summon someone, ''"They pretend the crater is a world they chose to conquer. They plant gardens, raise banners, erect statues, trade in silk."'' There's no bite to her tone. If anything, there's a subtle amusement. Her gaze drifts down toward the Third for a moment, where the sea of distant lights seem to tremble in the dark haze. ''"Down there, people don't pretend as much. They just live until they can't any longer."'' She looks at you again, not quite smiling, though her glossy lips are curved and there's a gleam in her dark gaze, ''"So,"'' She murmurs, quieter now, ''"What do you see when you look at it?"'' <<link "The Third Quarter. Home, sweet home.">> <<set $chp3_ludus_balcony_topic = "third">> <<goto "chp3_ludus_balcony_truthtrade">><</link>> <<link "The First Quarter. I'm curious about it.">> <<set $chp3_ludus_balcony_topic = "first">> <<goto "chp3_ludus_balcony_truthtrade">><</link>> <<link "The road to the arena, waiting for me.">> <<set $chp3_ludus_balcony_topic = "arena">> <<goto "chp3_ludus_balcony_truthtrade">><</link>>

<<if $chp3_ludus_balcony_topic is "third">>You let your gaze drop to the Third Quarter, some parts nearer and more visible than others. Undertown and Fredrick are far away, out of sight, lost to the darkness and perpetual fog of late evening. The crooked bridges, hole-ridden streets and tight, pitch-black alleyways are only a memory. Near, yet distant all at once. ''"Home, sweet home,"'' You murmur, gaze lingering on the distant depths of Cradle, ''"Where the city hides forgotten teeth, and where the lowly and hungry lay."'' ''"Didn't know you were so soft,"'' She teases gently, a low murmur of amusement and agreement too, ''"We always remember the place that we're from, don't we? Even if it's bittersweet."'' <<elseif $chp3_ludus_balcony_topic is "first">> You look to the First Quarter and the high terraces, lamped streets clinging to newly laid stone behind the imposing ringwall. The silhouette of the Imperial Highway runs through it, like the arms of the Sorcerer-King stretching into the very depths of Cradle itself from the heavens high above. ''"I'd like to lay eyes on it myself,"'' You admit, gaze lingering on the distant, high curve of the city's upper reaches. You've never had a better view of it before, ''"Nothing wrong with trying to make this life a little more beautiful. Not as long as you don't forget what it's really like at the lowest depths."'' ''"If they'd forgotten,"'' She teases gently, a low murmur of amusement and agreement too, ''"Their walls wouldn't be built so high, and their gates so securely barred."'' <<else>> Your eyes find the silhoouette of the Imperial Highway and follow until it disappears toward the arena's ominpresent shadow on the horizon, ''"I can't help but think about my future,"'' You admit, gaze lingering as you image the distant sands, ''"And where it might end."'' ''"It won't end tonight,"'' She teases gently, a low murmur of amusement but perhaps encouragement in the reminder, too, ''"But when it does, it could be with a collar around your throat... or not. Maybe you'll surprise yourself."'' <</if>> She turns her glass slowly in her hand, wine clinging to the bowl, dark and patient. When she speaks again, her voice is playful and exploratory, painting a picture of what is and what could be. ''"You're only starting your journey now,"'' She says with a thoughtful sigh, ''"But one day they'll chant your name. The stands will be full, the city drunk on the sight of you."'' ''"If you had a say, what would you want them to be cheering for?"'' <<link "For me. My body, my skill, my journey.">> <<set $raven_mc_mask = "me">> <<goto "chp3_ludus_balcony_truthtrade1">><</link>> <<link "The next Champion.">> <<set $raven_mc_mask = "champion">> <<goto "chp3_ludus_balcony_truthtrade1">><</link>> <<link "Death, blood, battle.">> <<set $raven_mc_mask = "death">> <<goto "chp3_ludus_balcony_truthtrade1">><</link>>

<<if $raven_mc_mask is "me">> The words leave you raw, stripped of artifice in a way that the yard never permits. ''"For me,"'' You state, and the simplicity of it sits heavy between you. ''"My body. My skill. The path I walked to get there. I'd show them the entire journey. From my hovel in the Third to my cell in the catacombs."'' ''"That's almost romantic,"'' She murmurs, the lingering curve of her glossy lips sharpening once more into something playful, ''"Crazy romantic. Or maybe just crazy, I haven't decided yet. You're distracting me from this view."'' She leans a fraction closer, dark eyes bright with mischief, ''"I want to see if you still speak with such passion after your first real match, and they're just howling for red. Will you believe your own words then?"''<<elseif $raven_mc_mask is "champion">> ''"The next Champion,"'' You state, and you mean it. Not as boast but as statement of intent, the way a man announces the direction he's certain to walk before the road reveals itself fully. The lingering curve of her glossy lips hitches wider, a sharp breath coming through her nose. Almost a laugh, but not quite, ''"Listen to you. The next Champion. Anything less would be dying a slow death for you, mm?"'' Her gaze slides toward you, appraising as she takes a slow, comfortable sip of wine. ''"Do you actually want it, though? Or is it just the only door they've left unlocked?"'' Her eyes flick back up to yours, dark and curious.<<else>> Her brows lift, and she gives you a look that is pure, delighted disbelief. ''"Death, blood, battle."'' She repeats it softly, like she’s trying it on. ''"You say that like you’ve practiced."'' She taps her glass lightly against the stone, ''"I've met men who loved the killing, and I've met men who needed to convince themselves they did."'' Her voice drops, intimate and careful. ''"The ones who convinced themselves didn't last as long as they thought they would."''<</if>> She glances out over the dark descent of the Third Quarter, and for a heartbeat her face looks younger, less arranged, like she's remembering something that belonged to her before House Varro's red wine and dark lace. ''"Okay,"'' She breathes, lips gently curved, ''"My turn, since you've been so brave. Something real to convince you that I'm more than just a pretty mask."'' [[Her hand lifts to the cord at her throat.|chp3_ludus_balcony_truthtrade2]]

Her fingers brush the pendant at her throat, lingering. ''"Tanae."'' Her eyes flick to you, measuring, before she smiles again, as if daring you to do something stupid with it. ''"My name is Tanae, even if the Duchess loves to call me her little dark-eyed raven. Don't be so pleased with yourself for receiving this sacred knowledge, hmm? And take good care of it."'' She teases you a moment longer before turning her chin towards the emberlight and smoke below, ''"I grew up down there, too."'' It's a casual admittance, like it's the most ordinary thing in the world. Most denizens of Cradle originate in the Third, but you imagine that not everyone who ends up in a noblewoman's court is content to readily admit it. ''"My grandfather spent most of his life in the Second, though. A clerk. He really had a way with letters and ink. Would always come home smelling like paper, telling my father that honest, reliable work would save the family."'' ''"I was still young when my father went and tried to be a hero in the Legions. After he got hurt, he became a very... angry man,"'' She breathes out a breathy sigh, lips still curled faintly over the brim of her wine glass, ''"So angry, and proud. But that's how the debt started. So no, I wasn't always a slave. We have that in common."'' There's a short beat after, where she takes a longer swig of wine and rubs her glossy lips together, ''"Yippee, huh?"'' She rolls her dark eyes at you, ''"Not the happiest of tales, I know. But now we can go back to poking fun at each other's misery."'' <<if $raven_dominant>> ''"Or maybe something more exciting,"'' She says lightly, her warm, wine-dark gaze lingering on you. ''"You still look like trouble. The kind that pretends it's just passing through."'' Her eyes flick to your mouth, then away, like she’s amused at herself. ''"That’s what you were like at the banquet. Acted like you just wanted a taste, but stayed for the whole feast."'' <<elseif $raven_submissive>> ''"I'm proud of you, $name,"'' She says lightly, her warm, wine-dark gaze lingering on you. ''"You're still in one piece, still breathing. Breaking the rules, too. Just like at the banquet."'' Her words are teasing, but the warmth under them is real. <<else>> She watches your face for a reaction, still playful and composed, but there’s something honest in the way she holds the moment. Like she’s offering a piece of herself and pretending it’s nothing, because that’s safer than asking you to handle it gently. <</if>> She sets her glass down on the stone beside the bottle, casual, but the air changes the moment her hands are empty. Her lace trembles with a slow breath, bead and strap shifting as if the garment is always one careless movement away from failing. Tanae turns toward you fully, and the city behind her blurs into something distant and unimportant. Bruised violet light catches the curve of her collarbone, the swell of her plush breasts straining against dark lace, the soft line of her throat. Her wine-dark eyes hold yours, direct and unflinching, a wordless question already in them. ''"So,"'' She murmurs, voice dropped to something quieter, more intimate, ''"What do you think of the view now?"'' The wind threads between the columns, stirring ivy and the edge of her hair. Somewhere far below, the ludus grinds on, indifferent. Up here, it's just bated breath and choice hanging in the air like Dosmera's glow through murky clouds. [[Keep your distance.|chp3_ludus_balcony_distance]] [[Move closer.|chp3_ludus_balcony_closer]]

You don’t step into the empty strip of light beside her. Not because you don’t want to, nor because the view suddenly bores you, but because you're still learning the shape of traps in Cradle. You don't want to put yourself in a situation that you might regret, even if it's wrapped in perfume and soft lace, a woman's mouth gently curving as if the world is kinder than it really is. You stay where you are, close enough to feel the heat of her presence in the air, but far enough to keep your hands from doing something reckless. Tanae's lips press together, amused at you for a heartbeat. Yet, not long after, a sound reaches you. Faint under the wind, leather against stone, the soft click of a heel, or what might be a murmur in the corridor beyond. Not the yard’s noise, but perhaps someone walking the upper levels of the ludus who might actually belong here. Tanae’s dark eyes flick to yours, and now her voice drops into something smoother, more professional, like she’s slipping a different dress over her thoughts. ''"Mm. That’s your cue, hero."'' The words are light, but her gaze isn’t. A beat, then the corner of her mouth lifts again, daring you to smile. ''"Go on. Be a good little rulebreaker and vanish before it's both of our asses."'' You move, simply folding yourself back into the rotunda’s dark. As the footsteps draw nearer, Tanae turns back toward the city and lifts her glass like she’s been alone the entire time, a pretty bird on a high ledge, drinking wine and watching Cradle stew. <<set $chp3_ludus_balcony_raven to true>> [[Your feet take you down back into the sands.|chp3_ludus_freeroam_map]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp3_tanae_close.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> You move closer, slow and deliberate. The space beside her isn’t wide, but it feels charged, like the edge of a fight where nobody’s thrown the first strike yet. Up close, her perfume is warmer than the stone and sharper than the wine, sweet at first, then darkening, like a joke that turns into a dare. Tanae tracks you with her eyes: playful, unafraid, naturally deep and sultry but just cautious enough to stay interesting. She doesn’t retreat. Instead she angles her body a fraction, shoulder brushing the balustrade, giving you the full, close-range view of her face, and the small, unreadable things that you can’t see from across a room. Her glossy mouth that always looks halfway to a smile. The heavy-lidded confidence that says she’s watched a thousand men stare and none of them ever earned the right to make her nervous. <<if $raven_dominant>> Her gaze drops to your hands, then lifts again like she’s remembering exactly what they're capable of. There’s a quick flash of heat in her expression before she smooths it away with a little breathy laugh and a crinkle of her eyes, as if she’s peeved at herself for enjoying the memory so thoroughly. <<elseif $raven_submissive>> Her gaze softens when you’re close, and for a heartbeat she looks almost proud of you, like she’s counting your bruises and finding relief in the fact that you’re still standing here to bother her on an otherwise quiet, lonely night. <<else>> She studies you like you’re a new problem that might also be fun, the kind of trouble she didn't necessarily plan for on a quiet night like this, but might choose anyway. <</if>> ''"Careful,"'' she murmurs, all teasing breath now, chin lifting as if she’s inviting you to prove you’re game. ''"Stand that close and someone might think I wanted you here."'' [[Tell her she’s beautiful.|chp3_ludus_balcony_beautiful]] [[Wrap your arms around her.|chp3_ludus_balcony_embrace]] [[Playfully fix her hair.|chp3_ludus_balcony_hair]]

You let your eyes enjoy the sight of her again, taking in her essence: not like a crowd, or a buyer, not even a man trying to win. Just close and honest, tracing the fine glitter of lace shadowing her supple skin and the way her pendant warms the hollow of her throat in the dim red-violet light. Her mouth holds that constant near-smile as if she's always two seconds from laughing or teasing you. ''"You’re beautiful,"'' You say quietly, like it belongs here, to her, in this moment. Tanae's brows lift, and for a heartbeat she looks like she didn't expect to hear that out of you. It quickly melts into amusement, ''"Mm,"'' She hums gently, the sound soft and pleased, ''"That's a dangerous word here, gladiator."'' Her eyes flick down your chest and back up, certainly not in a rush, ''"You shouldn't use it so lightly."'' She shifts her weight, beadwork whispering as it moves, and the deep V of her lace bites into the swell it's so desperately trying to contain. The motion is small, but it does something cruel to the air between you. Her gaze holds yours, playful, sultry, perfectly in control, and still you can see the little flare of heat that answer sparked, like she hates that it worked but loves what it did to her. ''"Say it again,"'' she murmurs, teasing. [[Claim her lips in a kiss.|chp3_ludus_balcony_kiss]]

You don't wait any longer. Your worn hands find her waist, one settling along the curve of her hip where lace meets skin, while the other slides around to the small of her back, pulling her securely against you in one smooth motion that leaves no space for second-guessing. She comes willingly, a soft, amused gasp escaping her lips as her body meets yours. The lace of her bodysuit is rough under your palms, beads biting into your fingers, but beneath it she's all warmth and yielding softness. Her hands come up instinctively, one bracing against your chest, the other gripping your shoulder like she needs the anchor. ''"Look who decided to be bold tonight,"'' She breathes, voice lower and rougher now. She leans right into you, her forehead dropping to rest against your jaw where you can feel the rise and fall of her breathing, faster now, matching the thunder of your own pulse. The wine on her breath mingles with that faint floral scent, and when she tilts her head back to look at you, her wine-dark eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide in the bruised violet light. Her body fits against yours like it was made for it; soft curves pressed to hard muscle, the swell of her breasts against your chest, her hips canted just slightly toward yours. One of your hands slides higher, fingers splaying across the bare skin of her back where the lace doesn't reach, and she shivers at the contact, eyelids fluttering. ''"You know,"'' She murmurs, lips curving even as her breath catches, ''"If we get caught like this, they won't just drag you back to the yard. They'll make an example of us both."'' But the warning has no teeth. Her fingers are already curling into the leather at your shoulder, nails digging in just enough to sting, and when she shifts her weight it's not away but closer, one of her legs sliding between yours until there's no part of her that isn't pressed tight against you. When her face tilts back, she's watching you, chin tilted and lips slightly parted. [[Claim her lips in a kiss.|chp3_ludus_balcony_kiss]]

Her hair is cut sharp and neat, a raven blade at her jaw, but the wind off the crater keeps worrying at it, lifting strands loose and daring them to misbehave. You raise a hand slowly, giving her every chance to stop you. When she doesn’t, you tuck the stray lock back where it belongs, knuckles brushing her cheek. The contact is brief, barely anything, but it lands like a spark. She goes still while you watch her mouth tilt into that gentle, knowing almost-smile. ''"That’s bold,"'' she murmurs, eyes half-lidded now, playful and sultry at once. ''"Fixing me up like I'm your doll, hmm?"'' She glances at your hand, then back to your face. ''"Don't make a habit of treating me so gently."'' Your fingers linger a fraction longer than they need to, feeling the fine tremor of her breath under her composure. The pendant at her throat dangles against the hollow of her throat as she turns, something oddly intimate about it. She's looking at you now, half-expectant, chin tilted and lips slightly parted. [[Claim her lips in a kiss.|chp3_ludus_balcony_kiss]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp3_tanae_close.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Your lips claim the last distance remaining between you. Tanae doesn't flinch, lifting her chin to reciprocate your approach, as if daring you to prove that you didn't climb all this way just to talk and get tipsy. Her heavy-lidded eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up to your eyes, the playful confidence in her face telling you that she's already decided how this ends. ''"Careful,"'' she whispers low, and there’s laughter in it. But you kiss her anyway. Her lips warm and soft, mouth carrying the taste of wine and something darker, smokier, like the spice of Third Quarter nights. For a heartbeat, she meets with pure, effortless ease, right before she starts to press back, just enough to turn it into a choice that she's making and furthering too. Her hand finds your wrist, anchoring her touch there, feeling your pulse as though to remind you, or herself, that this is real. <<if $raven_submissive>> She softens into it, a quiet exhale against your lips, and the kiss becomes almost tender for a breath, like the world hasn't earned the right to be cruel yet. Her fingers tighten once, gentle, as if asking you not to turn it into a fight. <<elseif $raven_dominant>> She kisses you back with a sharp little confidence, like she’s pleased you finally did something honest. Her nails graze your skin, light and deliberate, and the contact feels like a dare, wordlessly telling you that you took long enough. <<else>> There’s a half-beat where she decides, then she commits. When she does it’s smooth, practiced, still wickedly sincere, like she knows exactly what a kiss does to a man and enjoys watching it, feeling it, happen. <</if>> When she pulls back, it's barely an inch, just enough to look at you. Her eyes are lidded and dark, mouth parted, her breathing a touch slower and more lucid than before. ''"Oh,"'' She murmurs, amused, ''"So this is what we're doing."'' [[Keep it slow and sweet, not going any further.|chp3_balcony_uncut_basic]] [[Let it become something deeper, hotter.|chp3_balcony_uncut_full]] <<ci adult>>

You don’t take more than she offers, and whenever you try to apply more pressure, she eases back. It's a subtle game of mouths, lips, your advances always feeling like little thefts, not a full claim. Your hands stay light enough to pretend you could stop whenever you wanted, even if your pulse says otherwise. Tanae stays close anyway, humoring you, her fingers sliding up along your collar to hold you there, like she's testing how much you'll obey without being told. When you kiss her again it’s slower, just a little deeper, which she answers with a soft, throaty sound of approval. Her wine-sweet breath lingers between you, the lace of her swollen chest rising with each inhale, as though trying to keep pace with the heat you've flamed. Her kisses are exploratory, tasting you like she's curious what kind of man you are when nobody's watching. The curiosity is warm and whimsical - when she finally pulls back, she's smiling like she's already filed you away under something dangerous and fun. Yet in that moment, somewhere below, stone answers stone. A door, a boot, the faint scrape of a ring of keys, carries up the rotunda like a late omen. Tanae stills, head tilting, her sultry gaze sharpening toward the dark archway behind you. ''"Mm,"'' she murmurs, amused even now, voice a whisper against your mouth. ''"I like you. But I like not getting lashed even more... for now."'' Her hand presses lightly to your chest, not pushing you away so much as guiding you, steering you back into shadow. ''"Go,"'' she adds, softer, playful again, ''"Before I have to pretend I’m offended."'' You slip back the way you came, quiet as breath, and when you glance over your shoulder she’s already turned to the view again, wine in hand, the perfect picture of a woman alone with the city. <<set $chp3_ludus_balcony_raven to true>> <<set $chp3_tanae_intimacy to "basic">> [[Leave her to the night.|chp3_ludus_freeroam_map]]

<center><a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText" target="_blank"> <img src="images/chp3_tanae_stop.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></a> ''Orphan'' hangs off this balcony thanks to the ''faith'' and ''fire'' of my Patrons. 🔒 ''This path is locked.'' It is exclusive to the ''Patron-only / Uncut'' version of ''Orphan''. 🔒 Beyond this point, the raven-haired courtesan stops playing safe. The scene opens into expanded dialogue, intimacy, and hidden variations shaped by your choices and temperament in the ludus. If you’d like to unlock this sequence and support the continued evolution of ''Orphan'', You can join the ''Exalted Text'' kült here: <div class="uncut-cta"><a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText?utm_source=orphan_ingame&utm_medium=gate&utm_campaign=tanae_balcony&utm_content=uncut_button" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Unlock the Balcony 🖤</a></div> The ''$6 Gladiator Tier'' grants access to all exclusive content and helps keep the arena lights burning; more images, more forbidden scenes, and faster updates as the story unfolds. Already a patron? Download the latest Uncut build from Patreon to enjoy this scene in full. [[You keep it slow and sweet, not going any further.|chp3_balcony_uncut_basic]] </center>

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp3_voss_night.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> By the time you make it back to the barracks, the day has collapsed into aches. <<bgm "the-wanderer" 0.6 6>> The corridor down here feels narrower than it did this morning, walls sweating a little with trapped heat, the air thick with the smell of straw, damp stone and men who've stopped pretending they're anything but tired. Bunks line the room in two tight rows, wooden frames and thin pallets, blankets already claimed by the shapes slumped beneath them. A few low murmurs drift through the dark – gambling whispers, a quiet cough, the dry rasp of someone turning over. Voss is in his bunk when you reach yours. He’s on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, bare feet sticking out the end of the blanket. His freckles look darker in the lantern haze, scattered across his nose and cheeks like someone flicked mud at his face and forgot to wipe it away. He lowers his arm as you pass, eyes catching the last of the light. ''"Word in the baths is Duchess Livia’s throwin’ a feast,"'' He mutters. ''"Few days from now. Out in the main house. Big one. Nobles, coin, all the trimmings."'' The youth's mouth twists. ''"Suppose they’ll want their new toys shined up by then."'' You sit on the edge of your pallet, straw crackling, blankets smelling faintly of old sweat and lye. A feast. You picture long tables, metal and jewels you aren't allowed to touch, wine you aren't allowed to drink. Livia’s pale hands closing on the rim of a cup, the glint of her red eyes above it as she weighs the worth of everything she owns. Gladiators paraded as ornaments and weapons both; the same men who bled in the yard by day made into stories for her guests by night. You imagine yourself among them, collar against your throat, skin scrubbed, bruises yellowing like old fruit. Voss rolls onto his side, already withdrawing into his own thoughts, ''"Sleep while you can, $name,"'' He murmurs, voice muffled by the thin pillow. ''"They’ll want us lively when the lady starts showin’ off her menagerie."'' You lie back and stare at the underside of the bunk above, counting the cracks in the boards until the numbers lose their edges. Somewhere above you in the main house, rooms are being prepared, wine laid out, lamps polished. You turn the word feast over in your head until it no longer sounds like a celebration, only another kind of trial. Sleep comes slowly, when it comes at last, dragging you down into darkness with thoughts of the Duchess, the sand... And the weight of all the eyes that'll soon be watching. [[Thoughts fade into dreams as time passes.|chp3_housevarrofeast_day1]]

You step out of your rough things, set in a neat heap where you can see them, and slip into the pool beside him. The heat bites at first, then seeps in; bruises don't stop hurting, but they change shape, spreading into a dull, heavy ache beneath the surface. ''"Been needing a good rinse since we got here,"'' you sigh. ''"That's the truth,"'' Voss answers, scooping handfuls of water down over his curls. <<if $chp3_ludus_stat is "might">> He eyes your shoulders as you sink lower, noting the new weight there, the way the muscles along your arms bunch even at rest. ''"Smell like a cart-yak even in hot water,"'' he remarks. ''"All that stone you've been carrying on your back, and all that shield work... Cassian must think you’re a gift from the gods."'' ''"Someone has to hold the line,"'' You retort, ''"Might as well haul the weight."'' Voss huffs a quiet breath through his nose. ''"Better you than me,"'' he says. ''"I like my ribs unbroken and my spine inside my back."'' <<elseif $chp3_ludus_stat is "mobility">> His gaze drops to the pale lines on your shins where the ladder drills bit into you, then back up with a crooked twist of his mouth. ''"You've been hauling ass lately around the walls, $name. A fast pace for the first week, ain't it?"'' ''"I don't want to be dyin' for breath in the sands,"'' you say, ''"Or tripping over my own two feet. That'd be a hell of a way to die, don't you think?"'' ''"Mm."'' Voss flicks a little water at your arm, ''"Yeah, I suppose you'll give Rilash a run for his money if you keep it up. Just make sure to leave enough of a print that the crowd keeps noticing you, right? It'd be a shame to die quietly."'' <<elseif $chp3_ludus_stat is "mind">> He watches the way your eyes take in the room before you settle. Who's sitting where, which men are too tired to talk, how many scars belong to old survivors. ''"There you go again,"'' he says, mouth quirking. ''"The yard's done for the day and you're still keep counting, huh? You mapping exits?"'' ''"It's hard to stop now,"'' You admit, ''"Better to know where you stand. Being too relaxed and unsure is what got me into this mess."'' ''"Really?"'' Voss murmurs, tipping his head back against the stone, eyes half-lidded, ''"Suppose if anybody's walking out of here with all their bits intact, it'll be someone like you, $name."'' <</if>> For a while you both let the heat work. Water murmurs against the basin’s sides; men shift, groan softly as some old knot loosens. Somewhere at the far end of the pool a veteran laughs once, short and sharp, then lapses back into low talk. Voss’s shoulders sink another inch, the sharpness in him dulled, but not gone. The men not in the bath busy themselves with oil and strigils, slowly scraping their flesh smooth of any grit, dirt, grime. ''"Feels wrong,"'' Voss says eventually, voice gone quiet. ''"Hot water, soft light. Like we stole a piece of someone else’s night."'' ''"We paid for it,"'' you murmur. ''"Day’s work bought the steam."'' Voss snorts, but falls silent after that, lips pressed thin, freckles standing out stark against the ruddy brown of his face. The steam wraps around you both, blurring edges, turning collars into vague bands of shadow rather than stiff leather and bone. Then, slowly, the room changes. It's not much at first. A lull in someone’s sentence. The way splashing quiets, laughter cutting off mid-breath. Even the slaves with their buckets move with a touch more care, as if some old instinct has taught them not to clatter. You feel it a heartbeat before you understand it, The way a flock feels a hawk before it ever sees the wings. [[You sink a little deeper into the water as the door opens.|chp3_ludus_baths_sereth]]

It moves along the pool with the same steady patience as his blade work. Taking in faces, weighing them, filing them away. <<if $ludus_collar_weapon is "heavy" and $ludus_collar_defense is "tank">> When his eyes reach you, they stop. The world doesn't change. No one else seems to notice, but there's a small, unmistakable sharpening there. You feel him recalling, in that silent measure, the way your fury found its mark through a seam in his guard. The moment lasts a heartbeat, no more, then he lets you go, gaze sliding on as if you were only one more entry in a long, private ledger.<<elseif ($ludus_collar_weapon is "shield") and ($might is 2) and ($ludus_collar_defense is "tank")>> His attention brushes you and catches, just for a breath. Something in the set of his mouth tightens, subtle as a pulled stitch; a memory of weight driving back against him, of a shield that didn't buckle when it should have. It's not anger, nor surprise. Only silent acknowledgement, the quiet notation of a man who keeps track of every hand that's ever moved him from where he chose to stand. Then the line of his gaze moves on, the tally kept to himself.<<else>> His eyes pass over you the way they do every other collar in the pool; brief, impersonal, the soft click of an unseen scale measuring and finding nothing that needs to be remembered. Whatever judgement he made in the yard, your memory doesn't linger here.<</if>> Beside you, Voss shifts his shoulders under the water, his earlier chatter gone thin. ''"Hard to remember he bleeds,"'' He mutters. ''"Just like you or me, if you can believe it."'' You watch the Champion a little longer. The way he folds himself into the room without ever quite becoming part of it, the way the currents of men bend around him while pretending not to. Then you drag yourself up out of the basin at last, skin flushed, muscles heavy, leaving Sereth where he sits at the far curve of the pool; a dark, scarred figure half-swallowed by mist, holding a quiet gravity that the whole ludus seems built around. <<set $chp3_ludus_baths to true>> [[You leave the heat of the baths behind, cleaner now.|chp3_ludus_freeroam_map]]

<<nobr>> <p>The lakewood cabinet creaks like it resents being woken. Inside: your spare clothes, folded the way Fredrick taught you; clean enough to pass, worn enough to belong. You dress by muscle memory, the kind you earn when you’ve had to be ready fast.</p> <<if $char_hairstyle is "long_maintained">> <p>You gather your hair back with both hands and tame it into something deliberate. Even down here, even in a room that smells of damp stone and old tobacco, you refuse to look entirely claimed by poverty. The lengths fall where you tell them to and for a moment, you almost look like someone with time.</p> <<elseif $char_hairstyle is "short_messy">> <p>You scrub a hand through the short mess and make it worse before it gets better. The strands never obey for long, spiking and settling at random like you’ve been in a fight with your bedding and lost. You settle for presentable.</p> <<elseif $char_hairstyle is "shaggy_medium">> <p>Your hair hangs in your eyes until you push it back, and it falls forward again the second you stop. It’s the sort of shag that makes you look younger than you are, until someone hears the way you speak, or sees the way you watch doors. You let it be; Undertown has no patience for vanity, only for function.</p> <<elseif $char_hairstyle is "skullshorn">> <p>There’s nothing to fix; that’s the point. Close-cropped and honest, hair shorn down to discipline and necessity, a look that says you don’t give anyone an easy grip. When you run your palm over your scalp, you feel the faint grain of stubble.</p> <</if>> <<if $might is 2>> <p>You've always been useful in the simplest way. Hands that can haul, shoulders that don’t fold, a body that learns pain and keeps going anyway. In Undertown, strength becomes employment; you're a lever, a visible warning, a door that doesn't open.</p> <p>Some boys grow up chasing coin; you grew up chasing compliance. A lifted chin, a step too close, the quiet moment where the other man realizes you aren't bluffing. Fredrick never really asks what kind of jobs you take when you aren't in the workshop. But every so often, he'll offer you advice.</p> <p>How to guard your face, throw an elbow, where to grab when tossing an opponent.</p> <<elseif $mobility is 2>> <p>Your life has been movement, the kind that keeps you alive. Slip through crowds, vanish at corners, climb where the street can’t follow. In Undertown, speed is a form of mercy; it lets you leave trouble behind before it decides to become permanent.</p> <p>You learned early that the city has rhythms, and if you match them, you can pass unseen. A messenger, a runner, a ghost between tenements; sometimes you carried notes, sometimes you carried things no one wanted seen. Fredrick gave you a place to stop, and stopping still feels strange.</p> <<elseif $mind is 2>> <p>You've always been awake in ways that others aren’t. You notice patterns; you count without meaning to; you remember faces, voices, and the soft lies people tell when they think nobody is listening. In Undertown, a sharp mind is both a lantern and a target.</p> <p>You can't read, but that isn't the only kind of learning in his world. Little scraps of instruction are there to witness in every act. Each day full of lessons for you to remember, recall, resolve. Fredrick’s workshop is quieter than most places, and quiet gives you room to think; sometimes that is a gift, sometimes it is a trap.</p> <<elseif ($might is 1) and ($mobility is 1)>> <p>You were built to endure and move. Not the strongest, not the fastest, but stubbornly capable in both directions. The city taught you to keep your feet under you and your fists ready, because sometimes running fails and at other times, fighting does.</p> <p>You learned what it means to be hunted in small ways, by hunger, by older boys, by men with questions and bad tempers. You survived by reading the moment, by choosing when to slip away and when to bare your teeth. Fredrick never really asks what kind of jobs you take when you aren't in the workshop. But every so often, he'll offer you advice.</p> <p>How to guard your face, throw an elbow, where to grab when tossing an opponent.</p> <<elseif ($might is 1) and ($mind is 1)>> <p>You have strength enough to be dangerous, and sense enough to know when to hide it. Undertown breeds blunt men; you learned to be something sharper, a hand that can hurt and a mind that can choose the right hour for it.</p> <p>You grew up around deals that sounded clean until you stood too close. The black market has its own priests, its own liturgy, and it always asks for payment. Fredrick’s trade is honest by comparison; thread, leather and bone, work you can point to, work that doesn't whisper your name to strangers.</p> <<elseif ($mind is 1) and ($mobility is 1)>> <p>You’ve lived by being quick in two ways. Hands fast enough to take what isn’t guarded, eyes sharp enough to see what is, and a mind that never stops measuring risk. The city is a crowded altar, and coin falls from the inattentive like offerings.</p> <p>You learned how to walk like you belong, and how to leave before anyone decides you don’t. Some days you told yourself it was skill; other days it felt like desperation wearing a clever mask. Fredrick’s roof is thin, but it’s still a roof, and you’ve grown used to the sound of safety.</p> <<else>> <p>You don’t fit neatly into any one story, and that might be the truest thing about you. In Undertown, people want labels, they want simple answers; it makes it easier to decide who is prey.</p> <p>Whatever you were, whatever you did, you are here now, dressing in borrowed quiet, in clothes that pass and hands that know work.</p> <</if>> <p>A few baubles sit on the top shelf. Nothing worth stealing, which is why they’re still yours. A cracked token, a handful of bent nails, that scrap of cloth you can’t throw away even though it doesn’t match anything you own.</p> <p>For a moment you remember the Orphanage without seeing it. <br> The past does that, settling in your bones whether you ask it to or not.</p> [[Back.|intro_myroom1]] <</nobr>> <<set $introcount += 1>> <<set $intro_cabinet = true>>

<<nobr>> <p>A shoddy lakewood cabinet occupies one corner of the room, your sparse collection of clothing stuffed inside, with various baubles and trinkets that you've hung onto over the years strewn atop. Beside it, a dingy, half-shattered standing mirror leans against the stone. The glass is webbed with old cracks, and whatever you see in it arrives in pieces.</p> <p>Stepping closer, you let the room’s dim gray light do its worst. The boy in the mirror looks back with the same tired patience, the same habitual watchfulness, a life shaped by narrow beds and narrower chances; so many fleeting moments outside of your control.</p> <p> <<if $char_hairstyle is "long_maintained">> Your hair falls in kept lengths, deliberate even in a place like this. You tame it with your fingers until it obeys, until you look less like a stray and more like someone who chose his face, his head, his style. <<elseif $char_hairstyle is "short_messy">> Your hair sits short and unruly, a stubborn mess that never quite settles. You shake your fingers back and forth through it, letting it form into something that looks half-presentable. Good enough. <<elseif $char_hairstyle is "shaggy_medium">> Your hair hangs shaggy at a middling length, forever in your eyes. You push it aside, and it drifts back, softening you at first glance, then failing to hide the hardness behind it. <<elseif $char_hairstyle is "skullshorn">> Your scalp is shorn close, honest stubble under your palm. You like it this way; no fuss, and perhaps more importantly, no easy grip for anyone that might try and get their hands on you. <</if>> </p> <p> <<if $char_height is "tall">> Even crouched in a poor man’s room, you look too big for it, shoulders crowding the space as if the stone resents you for taking up air. You have to shift to view yourself in your entirety through the shattered glass panes. <<elseif $char_height is "short">> You look compact, contained, built for slipping through gaps and vanishing into the press of bodies outside; the kind of frame the city forgets until it’s too late. <<else>> You look ordinary in height, and that is its own kind of armor; the world slides past you, failing to notice the threat of a man who blends in. It's fitting, you feel, as your life hasn't felt especially exceptional up to this point. <</if>> </p> <p> <<if $char_build is "powerful_dense">> There's a visible weight to you, thick muscle stretched taut beneath your skin. It conveys the suggestion of labor and violence in reserve; a youthful body that learned early how to make itself useful. It draws eyes, for better or for worse, and Fredrick always said a strong body is a boon in this life; predators go first for the weakest prey. <<elseif $char_build is "lean_athletic">> You've always been lean, drawn tight, all tendons and readiness, built to move and endure in quiet ways; the kind of strength that doesn't announce itself until it's already gone and in motion. Functional, fast, fresh and ready for a fight. <<elseif $char_build is "scrawny_wiry">> Hard angles and unspoken hunger make up your wiry, spare frame. It's the sort of build that survives by refusing to die, by living on less than anyone should; you've never had much of an appetite for food, muscle, physicality, and it shows. <</if>> </p> <p> <<if $char_scar is "brow">> A scar cuts near your brow, a pale line that makes your stare look meaner than it feels. A not-so subtle reminder that you don't always duck in time. <<elseif $char_scar is "cheek">> A mark along your cheek catches the morning light and makes the mirror’s boy look half-claimed; proof that faces are easy targets when you live among desperate hands. <<elseif $char_scar is "whip">> Old whip-scars lie where cloth will hide them, but the mirror knows; thin rivers across your skin, each one a lesson learnt. <<elseif $char_scar is "knuckles">> Your knuckles wear their history openly, split and thickened. The kind of scars you earn from walls, teeth, and bad decisions made with good conviction. <</if>> </p> <p> <<if $char_tattoo is "moon">> Ink marks you with a moon, dark and quiet; a small omen you carry under your skin, as if you dared the night to remember your name. <<elseif $char_tattoo is "dagger">> The dagger inked into your forearm is a promise in simple lines; not subtle, not sacred, just honest about what the world expects you to become. A weapon. You don't plan on disappointing them. <<elseif $char_tattoo is "serpent">> A serpent spirals in black ink along your shoulder, patient and watching. <br> It suits Undertown, where everything that lives learns to wait, coil tight, <br> Then launch and strike fast, efficiently, viciously, when finally cornered. <</if>> </p> <p>You don't know why, but it feels strange lingering so long beneath your own gaze. A sort of intimacy that borders on uncomfortable, as though you'd rather your own actions define you than the face that they belong to.</p> <p>Yet for better or for worse, the two are inseparable.</p> <p>In Cradle, lingering too long over anything you own is how you invite the world to take it. You hold the mirror's broken gaze a moment longer, before finally looking away.</p> [[Your gaze wanders lower towards your loins.|intro_mirror_endowment]] <<ci adult>><br> [[Back.|intro_myroom1]] <<set $introcount +=1>> <<set $intro_mirror to true>> <</nobr>>

<<nobr>> <p>Warm air oozes in past bone bars, damp and stale, carrying the breath of Undertown; old smoke, wet stone, sour refuse, the faint metallic tang of somewhere blood has dried. The slit is too narrow to be called a window, more a reminder that there's a world outside this room, and that it doesn't care whether you’re ready for it.</p> <p> <<if $char_height is "tall">> You have no issue at all seeing through it, though you have to bend slightly, shoulders angled and neck bent as if the hovel's testing how much of you can be made small. <<elseif $char_height is "short">> You rise onto your toes to steal the view, careful, quiet, the way you learned to be when space was always borrowed. Like with everything, there are certain pros and cons, your height counted amongst them. <<else>> You lean in and settle your weight without thinking, familiar with the posture of watching without being seen. <</if>> Beyond the glassless frame lies an alley that never quite dries. A woman drags a bucket through sludge while somewhere behind her a child laughs, then stops abruptly as if remembering where he lives. </p> <p> Far above, the Cradle stacks itself into cleaner layers, pale stone catching light you never touch, balconies and bridges like veins leading upward, toward quarters where doors close softly and men pretend they have better, brighter choices.</p> <p> <<if $mind is 2>> Your eyes pick out the order beneath the grime. The same faces at the corner, the same pace of foot traffic, the places where shadows linger longer than they should. Even half-awake, you start counting without meaning to, measuring the day before it can ambush you. <<elseif $mobility is 2>> You see routes before you see people. The slant of a roof, the distance between a crate and a ledge, the gaps where a body can slip through if it has to. Undertown is a maze, but you’ve always trusted your feet more than your luck. <<elseif $might is 2>> You notice the men who stand like they own the alley, the set of their shoulders, the lazy way they hold their hands. You can tell who's hungry for coin, hungry for trouble, and who would try his chances if he thought you looked easy enough. <<elseif ($mind is 1) and ($mobility is 1)>> You take it in fast, and you take it in smart. You mark the exits, the apparent risks, already deciding what you’d do if the day turns wrong, because in this city it often does, with or without your consent. <<elseif ($might is 1) and ($mobility is 1)>> You gauge distance and consequence in the same breath. How quickly you could move, how hard you could hit, whether it would be enough. Undertown respects speed and violence, often demanding both. <<elseif ($might is 1) and ($mind is 1)>> You read the alley like a threat and a bargain at once. Faces, posture, timing... You can almost hear the quiet negotiations people make with danger, and the lies they tell themselves when they accept the price. <<else>> You watch until the details blur into a single truth: this is Undertown, and it'll always take what it can, with or without your consent. <</if>> You let the shutter fall closed again. It’s a small ritual, a private reminder that what waits outside is real, and that you're still here to meet it.</p> [[Back.|intro_myroom1]] <</nobr>> <<set $introcount +=1>> <<set $intro_window = true>>

<<nobr>> <p>The workbench squats beneath the wall like a tired animal. <br><br> A warped plank, a few crude drawers that never slide cleanly, and the familiar scatter of tools you’ve kept alive through stubbornness; awl, needle, thread, an old bone knife whose handle has been polished smooth by years of hands that didn’t have better options. Leather scraps lie folded and curled, some still smelling faintly of oil, some stinking of old sweat and street rain.</p> <p> <<if $mind is 2>> Your eyes go to the details first, the places where the stitch wants to drift, where a seam will fail if you rush. You don’t need words to understand craft; patterns speak a language of their own, and you’ve always listened. <<elseif $mobility is 2>> Your fingers move before you decide to move them, quick and practiced, nimble enough to knot and thread without looking. In Undertown, speed is survival, and it bleeds into everything you do. <<elseif $might is 2>> You test the weight of the knife in your palm, feeling the honest heft of it. Strength makes work simpler, but it also makes it louder; you’ve learned control, because breaking things is easy, keeping them intact is skill. <<else>> You hover a moment, hands close but not yet touching. The bench has a way of pulling you into routine, and routine has a way of making the day feel less like a threat. For such a simple space, it's comforting. <</if>> If you lean in close you can still smell yesterday’s clove on the wood, sweet and sharp, a small indulgence in a world that rarely permits them.</p> <p>A tight roll of clove tobacco sits near the edge, tucked beside the thread like it belongs there. You don’t need it. You just like what it does to the morning, how it turns the first minutes of waking into something you chose.</p> [[Roll a clove and take a slow drag. (Smoke)|intro_workbench_smoke]]<br> [[Leave it. Clear-headed is safer.|intro_myroom1]] <</nobr>> <<set $introcount +=1>> <<set $intro_workbench = true>>

<<nobr>> <p>You pinch out a thin line of tobacco and roll it tight, tighter than it deserves, using spit and patience to make cheap leaf behave. The paper crinkles, then settles; you seal it with your thumb, and for a moment the small act feels like competence and control.</p> <p> <<if $char_scar is "knuckles">> Your scarred knuckles flex as you bring it to your lips, split skin gone thick with history. You’ve bled for less than this, and you will again. <<elseif $char_scar is "whip">> The memory of old lash marks stirs without permission, the body recalling lessons the mind would rather forget. You breathe anyway, and the past stays where it belongs. <<elseif $char_scar is "brow">> The pale line near your brow catches in the mirror-light, giving your face that familiar edge. It suits the clove, the way sweetness and bite share the same breath. <</if>> The smoke comes warm and spiced, soft at first, then sharp in the back of your throat. It tastes like pretending, like ceremony, like a few stolen seconds where Undertown can't reach.</p> <p> <<if $char_voice is "steady_control">> When you exhale, it leaves you measured and quiet, as if your body remembers how to hold itself in check. <<elseif $char_voice is "low_gravel">> The breath out scratches your throat, low and rough, and you swallow it back down before it becomes a cough. <<elseif $char_voice is "warm_rough">> You let it out slow, warmth on your tongue, a small comfort you’d deny out loud but take anyway. <</if>> You stub the clove against the wood and watch the ember die. Not because you’re finished; you’ve learned not to linger too long over anything you enjoy.</p> [[You never know when it'll be taken from you.|intro_myroom1]] <<set $intro_smoked = true>> <<sfx "smoking" 0.5>> <</nobr>>

Home, sweet home. You sit up atop your sleeping pad and peer over your room, bleary-eyed. Everything seems to be in order, not that there's much to manage. You'd still take it over the Orphanage anyday, and for that, you're forever grateful. A shoddy lakewood cabinet occupies one corner of the room, your sparse collection of clothing stuffed inside, with various baubles and trinkets that you've hung onto over the years strewn atop. Beside it, a dingy, half-shattered standing mirror leans against the stone. A warped plank laid across several upturned bricks serves as a makeshift workbench, and a busted crate rests beside it as your seat. You've whittled away at many personal projects here, mostly hand carving blocks of scrap wood or rolling your own clove cigarettes. Anything to pass the time. It's a space full of simple memories. <<nobr>> <<if !$intro_mirror>>[[Examine yourself in the mirror.|intro_mirror]]<br><</if>> <<if !$intro_cabinet>>[[Dig through your cabinet.|intro_cabinet]]<br><</if>> <<if !$intro_window>>[[Linger by the window.|intro_window]]<br><</if>> <<if !$intro_workbench>>[[Take a seat at your workbench.|intro_workbench]]<br><</if>> <<if $introcount gte 2>> [[Check on Fredrick. (Continue)|intro_checkonfredrick]] <</if>> <</nobr>>

<<nobr>> <p>Your eyes drop before you can decide whether you meant them to.</p> <p>The mirror offers you the lower half in broken panes, your body made into a puzzle. You take stock with the same sober attention you give to hunger, weather, threats, or perhaps the way a man might assess his tools, his weapon.</p> <<if $char_cock is "short_sleek">> <p>Modest, neat, nothing exaggerated; the kind of endowment that doesn’t invite stories. You’ve never trusted boastful men anyway, and you’ve learned that skill matters more than spectacle. What you carry feels private, almost easy to hide, which in this city can be its own relief.</p> <<elseif $char_cock is "balanced">> <p>Average in a way that feels almost unfair. Neither blessed nor cursed, just… there, as if the gods looked at you and shrugged. You’ve always had a complicated relationship with “ordinary,” but there's comfort in knowing you won’t be marked for it, not at first glance.</p> <p>You’ve heard it said that a man needs to come to terms with the mundane. That the highest point at which human life and art meet is in the ordinary; that to look down on the ordinary is to despise what you can’t have. ''“Show me a man who fears being ordinary,”'' The saying goes, ''“And I’ll show you a man who is not yet a man.”''</p> <p>Maybe that’s wisdom.</p> <p>Or maybe it’s a sermon meant to pacify boys who were never meant to be kings. You don’t know yet. You only know the mirror gives you a body that doesn’t scream for attention, and a mind that still bristles at being told to kneel before the word enough.</p> <<elseif $char_cock is "long_thick">> <p>The bulge is a visceral weight; thick, heavy, uncut. The fabric stretches taut over a prominent ridge, shadowed folds hinting at girth that strains the seams. When you move, the head’s flare catches the dim light, a primal silhouette against rough-spun cloth.</p> <p>More than most. It sits heavy with implication, the kind of trait that turns into rumor the moment someone notices. Down here, anything that draws eyes can become leverage.</p> <<else>> <p>You take the measure of yourself without labels or ceremony. Whatever it is, it’s yours, and that has to be enough.</p> <</if>> <p> <<if $char_build is "powerful_dense">> On a body like yours, it reads as one more statement, another fact the world might try to interpret. <<elseif $char_build is "lean_athletic">> On your lean frame, it feels like a secret kept tight, like something meant to be discovered rather than displayed. <<elseif $char_build is "scrawny_wiry">> On your spare body, it looks almost incongruous, as if hunger left at least one part of you untouched. <</if>> You exhale softly and step back from the glass. Intimacy with yourself is still intimacy, and you’re not used to it. Not sober, not in daylight.</p> [[Back.|intro_myroom1]] <</nobr>>

The next day, the ludus yard's damp with the morning's condensation and yesterday's old blood. Training begins as if nothing has shifted, yet the shape of it's different. Cassian conducts spars with less full contact and less of that eager savagery that's meant to prove each man can endure pain. More form, more flow, more of that persistent conditioning that makes you sweat without marks. The doctore stalks the yard's edges with that same cold patience, but you catch the way his stern eyes move; counting shoulders, symmetry and how quickly each man recovers his breath. <<nobr>> <p> <<if $chp3_ludus_stat is "might">> Something in you still feels newly forged. When you drive into a stance, you feel the weight settle cleaner through your bones. The new strength that you noticed building last week is hammering a stronger hinge into your body. <<elseif $chp3_ludus_stat is "mobility">> Your body still carries that new, restless sharpness. You shift and reset without thinking, finding angles in the sand like your feet have learned a language recently that your mouth never spoke. <<else>> Your thoughts still don’t sit still. Even in the simplest drill, you catch yourself cataloging, comparing, predicting. The shard you earned last week didn't make you calmer, it only made you aware. A blessing and a curse in every environment. <</if>> </p> <</nobr>> Cassian watches all of it, and gives nothing away. His corrections come quiet and exact, fingers tapping your hip, your shoulder, your jaw. He wants you to look like a weapon that belongs in a noble hand, not a starving mutt that learned how to bite. Renkar notices too, spitting in the sand only to wipe his mouth with the back of a meaty mitt, ''"Dogs,"'' He mutters haggardly, ''"That's what we are. Being brought into the house to dance."'' For the old soldier, it's like he's been a hound his whole life, only now being asked to wag for strangers. Meanwhile, Voss tries harder than usual. You can hear it in his breathing, see it in how he squares his stance when Cassian passes. He hates the idea of being judged by silks and soft hands. Or maybe he hates how much he doesn't want to disappoint them. In Cradle, fear and hunger often share the same throat. Rilash bides his time, relishing the slower pace of drills to wait, watch, listen. The feline’s ears track footsteps you can't quite hear, eyes making a map of the yard that lives behind his face; where the gates are, where the shadows fall, where the veterans stand when they think no one is watching. He's certainly patient. <<nobr>> <p> <<if ($might is 2) and ($mobility is 1)>> You endure the new drills with a brute patience that still wants to become motion. When Cassian asks for control, you give him control, but there's speed behind it. A promise that the moment you're unleashed, you'll hit like a ram and recover like a knife. <<elseif ($might is 2) and ($mind is 1)>> You treat every correction like a tool. Strength is simple, but you're learning how to aim it. You store Cassian’s words away, and imagine where you'll place that strength when someone thinks you're only decoration. <<elseif ($mobility is 2) and ($might is 1)>> The drills feel built for you. You slip through them with quick feet and clean turns, and when Cassian pushes you into contact you answer with a sharp, hard finish. Enough force to remind him you're not a dancer, but a fighter. <<elseif ($mobility is 2) and ($mind is 1)>> You move like you already know the rhythm of the House. Timing, distance, restraint. You watch Cassian’s gaze as much as his hands, and adjust before he tells you to, a silent way of stealing a fraction of control back within the ludus. <<elseif ($mind is 2) and ($might is 1)>> You notice patterns others miss and endure like the rest. Which veterans Cassian corrects, which ones he lets slide, where the doctore lingers, and when a servant pauses at the gate. You do the drill, and you also do the math. <<elseif ($mind is 2) and ($mobility is 1)>> You read the yard like a board game. You pick your moments, conserve breath, conserve attention. When you move, it's deliberate. And when you stop, it's because you chose to stop. <<else>> You feel balanced in a way that makes you wary. Strong enough, quick enough, sharp enough to survive, but not so extreme that anyone can neatly label you. The House will try anyway, but you'll adapt. <</if>> </p> <</nobr>> Between sessions, House Varro reveals itself in small leaks. A servant passes the inner gate carrying folded cloth the color of clean bone. The smell of lye drifts down into the yard and vanishes, replaced by smoke from braziers you can’t see. Somewhere above, a stringed instrument is plucked again and again. The same notes, corrected, repeated, practice for ears beyond these stained sands. Tanae is absent. You think you glimpse her once, and only once: a flash of raven hair at a far archway, the pale curve of a shoulder, the quick turn of her head as if she felt your eyes like fingers. Then she's gone again, swallowed by smoother stone and greater privilege. <<nobr>> <p> <<if $chp3_tanae_intimacy is "full">> <<if $chp3_tanae_mood is "rough">> Memory hits like a hand around the jaw. Wine on her breath, teeth grazing, the blunt certainty of taking something that felt like hunger and power both. You wake with your fist clenched in the straw, furious at how easily your body remembers and always wants for more so soon after being fed. <<elseif $chp3_tanae_mood is "tender_dom">> You remember her warmth and the taste of wine on her breath. She was fun, gentle in a way that you aren't exactly used to. That close contact, her forbidden touch, it leaves you waking with a persistent heat under your skin. <<else>> You remember warmth without cruelty. A closeness that didn't ask you to pretend you were fearless. It makes the barracks feel closer, more confined, when you open your eyes. You wonder whether to be ashamed for already wanting more. <</if>> <<elseif $chp3_tanae_intimacy is "basic">> You remember a kiss that felt like a stolen coin, small and warm and dangerous. You tell yourself that it meant nothing, but the memory of her lips against yours and the way she tasted refuses to believe you. <<else>> She's only a shape at the edge of your thoughts. A raven on a parapet, a curiosity that smiles like a blade. You wonder if she's real, or something that the House invented to test you, tempt you, and make you softer. <</if>> </p> <</nobr>> Two more days until the House shows you off. [[Yet, each day is longer than you'd like.|chp3_housevarrofeast_day2]]

By the second day, the air itself feels different. The stone corridors sweat more, servants hauling water buckets that smell faintly of herbs and soap instead of grit. Men who used to be ignored are suddenly told to hold still, to turn, to lift their chins as if their bodies are being inventoried. A handler you’ve never seen before walks the line after drills with a slate and a stub of charcoal. He makes marks without speaking, pausing at wrists, shoulders, teeth. When he stops in front of you, he smells of clean soap and something floral that makes your stomach tighten. Perfume, not sweat. He tilts your face toward the light like he’s checking fruit for bruises. ''"You,"'' he says at last. ''"No fresh marks. Keep it that way."'' Cassian stands off to the side with his arms folded, watching the handler more than he watches you. When the handler moves on, the veteran steps close enough that you feel the heat of him. His voice is low, meant for your ears only. ''"Don’t get wounded now,"'' he says simply. It's not mercy, nor encouragement. It's an order conveyed by the House. You're only valuable here so long as you can be used, and for the coming night your worth will be in catered appearances, not action earned through strength. Training stays less full-contact. The veterans grumble, but even they comply. There's a rhythm to it all that they must be used to. The exercises continue, taking on a different type of pain. Endurance. Sprints until your lungs burn. Holds until your arms tremble. Drills until your legs forget how to be legs and become tools. When your body isn't suffering, they beat repetition into you. Form. Flow. Discipline. Renkar hates it. You see him clench his jaw during the slowest drills, like the lack of impact offends him more than pain ever did. At one point he leans close while Cassian’s back is turned. ''"They don’t want fighters,"'' He growls, ''"They want statues and stories that they can buy, trade, fuck."'' Voss pretends not to hear, but his eyes flicker. He glances toward the inner gate whenever it opens, like a man listening for his own sentence being read aloud. Rilash says nothing. He watches the handler’s slate; what gets marked, who gets called away by the doctore, who returns with bandages. <<nobr>> <p> <<if ($mind gte 2)>> It's hard not to see it now. A feast is not a meal, but a ledger. The House is deciding what each of you will cost, and what each of you might return. The question is what kind of show they want to put on. <<elseif ($mobility gte 2)>> You feel the choreography tightening. Where men stand, when they move, how they're meant to look when they stop. Even fear is being taught to hold its posture. <<elseif ($might gte 2)>> Your body wants to answer this with violence. Not because you plan to, not yet, but because your muscles don't understand being weighed like meat without wanting to size the hand and bite the throat. <<else>> You feel it from every angle, all at once. The House is shaping you, and you're trying to decide which shape will still let you breathe. You might not understand every aspect, but you plan to adapt, survive, and thrive regardless. <</if>> </p> <</nobr>> The House leaks its preparations again. You smell roasting meat somewhere above. Not thin stew, but real fat and spice. You catch a glimpse of polished bronze carried through a side passage, cups and plates and a tray that flashes like a captured sun. You hear echoes of laughter you've never heard in the ludus. It comes from upper halls where your feet have never been allowed. After drills, a slave is sent with a cloth and a small bowl of oil. He kneels at your feet without looking up and wipes the sweat from your ankles, your calves, your knees. Careful, quick, practiced, a type of maintenance. The oil smells of citrus, bright and unusual, and when it spreads over your skin it makes you shine as if you belong to a different world. The scent is simply wrong. Too bright, too clean. It feels like a warning painted on your skin. Late that evening as you walk through the ludus corridors, you hear a voice echo from the nearest stairs, ''"Tomorrow we'll see which of 'em cleans up."'' And for the first time, you understand that even dirt can be a kind of armor. [[It's only from the exhaustion that you manage to sleep that night.|chp3_housevarrofeast_day3]]

On the last night, the barracks is a mouth holding its breath. Men lie on straw in the dark with eyes open, most of them trying to sleep, others pretending. The usual noises, crude jokes, soft arguments over space, whispered prayers, come and go in thin waves, never growing bold enough to become comfort. You can feel the House above you like a persistent weight. Not just stone, weight and the fatigue of your regiment, but the intentions that they have for you beyond the sands. The slow, looming appetite of greed. Some veterans are calm in the way of men who have already been paraded once, who have already felt silk eyes on their skin and survived it. They tend to be the ones sleeping, or quietly preparing in their own ways. Others are restless. One newblood paces until Cassian’s shadow appears at the doorway, and the man drops to his straw like a struck animal. A small scuffle starts over nothing; an elbow, a muttered insult, and dies as soon as it is born. No one wants bruises on the eve of display. <<nobr>> <p> <<if ($mind is 2) and ($mobility is 1)>> You find yourself mapping the coming display. Where the doors are, how many footsteps pass the barracks and stairs before the keys jingle again. What the timing might be if a man had to move quick, quiet, fast. Or if a man had to run... <<elseif ($mind is 2) and ($might is 1)>> You imagine the moment a hand touches you wrong. You imagine what it would take to break that hand, and how quickly the House would break you back. You keep your face still in the dark, gauging what you might be willing to undergo. <<elseif ($mobility is 2) and ($mind is 1)>> You listen for gaps. Not courage, not heroism, just gaps. A place where attention slips. A place where the House forgets its animals for one heartbeat too long. You know most doorways, stairs, handholds along the walls. The question is which routes you think are worthwhile. <<elseif ($mobility is 2) and ($might is 1)>> Your legs want to move. Your fists want to finish things. You force both to wait, because waiting is a skill too, and tonight might be the only night it matters. Will you take the first opportunity presented to you? Or bide your time? <<elseif ($might is 2) and ($mobility is 1)>> You feel caged strength and the itch of motion both, like your body knows it's being polished for someone else’s hand. The feeling is invigorating in a way that's hard to describe. You aren't sure whether to hate it, or embrace it. <<elseif ($might is 2) and ($mind is 1)>> You don't sleep. You rehearse. Not the parade, not the bow, but the idea that one day you won't be standing where they tell you to stand. Whether an opportunity presents itself tonight, tomorrow, or a year from now, you'll be ready. <<else>> You lie there feeling every part of yourself. Strong enough to hurt, quick enough to flee, sharp enough to know why neither is simple. The House loves simple. You're not sure it will forgive you for being this complicated. <</if>> </p> <p> <<if $chp3_tanae_intimacy is "full">> Sometimes, your thoughts drift, and you think of raven hair, wine-dark eyes, and the way danger can wear softness like perfume. You wonder if she'll be there tomorrow, watching. You wonder if she'll look at you like a shared secret. <<elseif $chp3_tanae_intimacy is "basic">> You can't help but think of Tanae at times, and your shared kiss. Did it mean anything to you? To her? Maybe it was nothing but a moment of shared warmth and simple pleasure. Yet, you wonder what it could've carried... <</if>> </p> <</nobr>> Somewhere beyond the barracks, a bell rings. A servant’s bell, thin and bright, the sound sliding down the stone like a distant promise. Tables are being set, you think. Fires stoked, food prepared, fountains filled. In the corridor, footsteps pass, then return and pass again. Finally, keys jingle. A lantern’s light leaks under the door in a thin blade, cutting the dark into two. [[The door opens.|chp3_housevarrofeast_selection]]

<<sfx "door-open-close" 0.6>> The door opens. Lantern light cuts across collars and faces, across straw and bare feet, across the men who entered, looking more like servants than guards. Staff, hands, functions, one carrying folded cloth while another carries a wooden box that smells of crushed herbs. The handler at their front points without ceremony, selecting bodies the way a craftsman selects tools, or a gladiator picks his weapon from a rack. Cassian is already there, waiting in the corridor like he never slept, a bold, sturdy shape in the dank half-light. He gathers you, Renkar, Voss, Rilash, and a pair of veterans whose names you still don't know well enough to trust. He doesn't soften his voice for the hour. ''“Tonight,”'' he says. ''“You’re decoration.”'' He doesn't let the words hang long, delivering them like simple instruction. ''“Speak when spoken to. Eat when told. Don’t drink like a Legionary on furlough. Remember who you belong to and who you represent.”'' Then, you walk. The ludus changes as you move deeper. The air becomes cleaner, sharper, laced with lye and boiled herbs, while the stone underfoot grows smoother, less scuffed by sandals and blood. Behind an inner gate you glimpse servants in pale linen moving with practiced speed, trays, jars and folded cloth passing from hand to hand like a quiet prayer. Voss keeps his eyes forward. He holds his shoulders too stiff, as if trying to preempt judgment by force of posture alone. Renkar mutters once, low, a sound like grinding teeth, and then says nothing, saving his anger. Rilash watches everything, ears pricked and eyes peeled, keeping a quiet, low profile amongst the procession. [[The air grows warmer, moister, as you approach the baths.|chp3_housevarrofeast_selection1]]

You've tread this route to the bathhouse before, but it feels different now. Your purpose isn't rest, recovery, realignment, but to cleanse yourself before entering another world. Heat blooms off dark stone, water running somewhere out of sight, a slow, constant trickle, the sound almost obscene, indulgent, in a place built on thirst. Slaves kneel by basins with cloths in their hands, many of whom you recognize now after more than a week in the ludus. Bowls of oil sit open on a low table, dark and glossy under the glow of lanterns and flickering torches. They strip you quickly. Tunics pulled away, sandals taken, cloth gathered and stacked. Only your collars remain as you're guided into the steam and set before the basin like animals being readied for market. Only then do you recognize at the far curve of the central pool, half-swallowed by steam, Sereth Val. He must've been prepared for earlier than the rest of you, dark and composed, his long pale hair still-damp at the ends, crimson eyes steady as blades held at rest. His gaze moves along the pool with the same patient precision you saw in the yard. Faces, shoulders, collars. A private ledger kept without ink. <<nobr>> <p> <<if $ludus_collar_weapon is "heavy" and $ludus_collar_defense is "tank">> When his eyes reach you, they pause. It’s nothing you could point to afterward. Just a faint quirk at the corner of his mouth, as if he’s remembered the one instant you made him move for real. Then the expression smooths away and his gaze drifts on, cold and complete. <<elseif ($ludus_collar_weapon is "shield") and ($might is 2) and ($ludus_collar_defense is "tank")>> His attention brushes you and catches, just for a breath. The corner of his mouth tightens, almost a smile and not quite, a private acknowledgement of weight that did not give. Then it’s gone, the line of his lips returning to stillness as his eyes move on. <<else>> His eyes pass over you the way they pass over every other collar in the steam. Brief. Impersonal. As if he’s weighing and finding nothing worth carrying forward. Whatever judgment he makes does not linger. <</if>> </p> <</nobr>> Beside you, Voss shifts under the steam, his earlier chatter gone thin. He keeps glancing toward the Champion and then away again, like a man checking whether a storm has noticed him. Renkar endures the first scrubbing with his jaw set hard, cloth dragging over old scars, lye stinging places that never fully healed. Rilash endures the steam with narrowed eyes, as if the air itself has offended him. When the first basin of water touches his fur his ears pin back and his tail goes rigid, all patience gone into a damp, simmering outrage. He stands there dripping and glowering, a half-drowned feline forced to pretend this isn't beneath him. For a moment, it occurs to you why so many of his kind may prefer to brave the crater beyond Cradle, or the Overlands above, as opposed to the damp, steamy slums of most of the Third Quarter. You surrender yourself to the ritual procession for now, while the courtesans and servants shift nearby, making room for one of their own. [[Then you see her.|chp3_housevarrofeast_selection2]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp3_tanae_bathhouse.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Tanae moves through the steam with a towel on one arm and a jar of oil in her hand, dark-raven hair pinned back, pale linen clinging at the shoulder, a practiced ease in the way she threads between bodies and basins. She looks composed, yes, but not stiff. When her eyes find you, there’s the faintest lift at the corner of her mouth, like she’s caught you in a familiar embarrassment. She stops close enough that you catch her scent under the lye: clean skin, somethinf floral, and a trace of wine that should be impossible down here. Her dark gaze drops to your collar, then rises again, amused by the fact that the House insists on leaving only that truth visible for the time being. <<nobr>> <p> <<if $chp3_tanae_intimacy is "full">> ''“Look at you,”'' She murmurs, voice light, almost a joke. ''“All scrubbed and quiet. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they’d replaced you with a better-mannered twin.”'' <p> She reaches for a cloth and pretends she’s only checking the water, doing her work, but her gleaming eyes keep flicking back to you. ''“They’ll paint you,”'' she says. ''“Oil you up until you shine. Excited?"'' Her glossy lips curve a breath wider. </p> <<if $chp3_tanae_mood is "rough">> Then her voice lowers, breathy and private, ''“Try not to look so angry about it, you brute. Or do, if you want them nervous.”'' Her gaze lingers for a heartbeat at your throat, at the stiff collar. ''“Just remember, you don’t get to put your hands wherever you please tonight. Not unless you feel like starting a new sort of sport.”'' <p> She can't seem to hide her smirk, ''"Hard, I know. Very, very hard."'' </p> <p> Sighing a little, amused breath, Tanae bites her glossy bottom lip as she tips a little oil into her palm from the jar, smoothing it across your shoulder in a single practiced pass, all business to anyone watching. </p> <p> Her sultry eyes linger anyway, dark and amused. ''“There,”'' she says. <br> ''“Presentable. Dangerous. Not that you need any dressing to live that life."'' </p> <p> A slight laugh escapes her as she rubs the oil deeper into your shoulders, traps and upper arms, taking her time, hands lingering, before you're forced to continue through the procession of oils, paints, glitter and shine. </p> <<elseif $chp3_tanae_mood is "tender_dom">> Then her expression warms, quick and restrained, like she’s letting herself enjoy your nearby presence for half a breath. <p> ''“Try not to look so serious,”'' She murmurs, voice breathy and private, ''"You’ll scare the servants, if not the nobles."'' After half a beat, she ventures, ''"Well, maybe that's what they want. To feel a certain way... Excited, tense, curious... Horny."'' </p> <p> She huffs a little amused breath, biting her glossy bottom lip as she tips a little oil into her palm from the jar, smoothing it across your shoulder in a single practiced pass, all business to anyone watching. </p> <p> Her sultry eyes linger anyway, dark and amused. ''“There,”'' she says. ''“Presentable. Dangerous. Everyone’s favorite kind of lie. But especially mine. You play the role well, $name."'' </p> <p> A slight laugh escapes her as she rubs the oil deeper into your shoulders, traps and upper arms, taking her time before you're forced to continue through the procession of oils, paints, glitter and shine. ''"Keep an eye open for me,"'' Tanae murmurs. </p> <<else>>  Then her expression warms, not sharp like a joke, but quietly pleased, like she’s relieved to find you still yourself beneath the steam and stone. <p> ''“Hey,”'' Tanae murmurs, voice low and light, meant only for you. ''“Still breathing, hmm? See, nothing to worry about...”'' She glances aside as a servant passes, then back again, eyes cast low over you but still bright. </p> <p> She tips a little oil into her palm and smooths it over your shoulder with a gentle, practiced pass, more soothing than claiming. Her fingers linger only a moment, respectful of the room, and then she gives you a small, conspiratorial smile. ''“There,”'' she says. ''“Presentable. Dangerous. And still… you.”'' After a beat, she adds, teasing but soft, ''“Try not to glare too hard. It ruins the shine.”'' </p> <p> As she steps back into her duties, she lets her eyes meet yours one last time. ''“Keep an eye open,”'' She murmurs, almost casual, ''“I know I will be.”'' </p> <</if>>  <<elseif $chp3_tanae_intimacy is "basic">>  ''“Mm,”'' she hums, dark eyes sliding over you like she’s judging a painting. ''“This is what happens when you kiss a woman in this House. Next thing you know, you’re being scrubbed like someone important.”'' <p> She sets the towel down, and the smile that follows is quick and bright, gone again before it can look like too much. ''“Relax. I’m not going to say anything,”'' she adds, and her tone makes it obvious she knows exactly what you’re thinking. </p> <p> Her gaze flicks to your collar, then back to your face. ''“Are you dreading the hall,”'' she asks, lightly, ''“Or are you secretly pleased they’re trying so hard to make you pretty?”'' </p> <p> But she doesn't let you answer, breathing a soft laugh before she steps away, letting you continue through the procession of hands, towels and oil, ''"Good luck out there."'' </p> <<else>>  ''“Well, well,”'' She says, and there’s real amusement in it. ''“You again... The careful one. Still keeping your distance, hm?”'' <p> The raven-haired courtesan glances aside as a servant passes, then returns her eyes to you, playful and measuring at once. ''“I won’t bite,”'' she adds, as if the joke is for her alone. ''“Not unless you ask nicely.”'' </p> <p> Lips curved, her dark, sultry gaze flicks to your stiff collar, then back to your face. ''“Are you dreading the hall,”'' she asks, lightly, ''“Or are you secretly pleased they’re trying so hard to make you pretty?”'' </p> <p> But she doesn't let you answer, breathing a soft laugh before she steps away, letting you continue through the procession of hands, towels and oil, ''"Have fun."'' </p> <</if>> </p> <</nobr>> A slave presses a cloth into your hands and gestures toward the basin. Another waits with oil, jar open, palms ready. The bathhouse keeps moving around you, bodies turned, rinsed and rubbed down, steam swallowing the minutes away. Cassian’s warning sits in the air like smoke. Decoration. The House wants you to shine. The question is how much you cooperate with the story they’re trying to write on your skin. [[Keep it spare.|chp3_housevarrofeast_selection_minimal][$chp3_feast_adornment="minimal"]] <<ci archetype>> [[Let them do what they do.|chp3_housevarrofeast_selection_standard][$chp3_feast_adornment="standard"]] <<ci archetype>> [[Go all out.|chp3_housevarrofeast_selection_excess][$chp3_feast_adornment="excess"]] <<ci archetype>>

You give them as little as you can without making a scene of it. The bathwater is hot enough to redden skin. Lye stings where your body is cracked, cloth dragging over your shoulders, ribs, the back of your neck. You learn to keep your face still and flinching minimal, hidden underneath the taut poise of your body. They rinse you with careful pours from a brass pitcher, water sheeting down your chest and pooling at your feet before vanishing into grooves cut in the stone. They clean your nails with a thin bone pick, and offer a razor for your face with the calm inevitability of the House. You let them take what they must and no more. <<nobr>> <p> <<if $char_hairstyle is "skullshorn">> On your scalp, there’s nothing to tame, and that’s the point. A damp cloth passes over your scalp, quick and cold, and the stubble stands up like grit. You look the way the barracks made you: honest, unadorned, hard to romanticize. <<elseif $char_hairstyle is "short_messy">> A slave slicks your hair down with wet fingers, and it only behaves for the length of a breath. It wants to spring back into its usual stubborn angle. They settle for “clean,” not “beautiful,” and you let them. <<elseif $char_hairstyle is "shaggy_medium">> Your hair keeps falling into your eyes, even after they comb it. You push it back, and it returns again, like it enjoys defying small orders. No ribbon, no binding, just a rough correction and a quiet impatience. <<else>> They gather your long hair and smooth it once, carefully, like handling a thing that might matter to you. Then they leave it simple, tied back with plain cord. It keeps you presentable without turning you into someone’s ornament. <</if>> </p> <p> <<if $char_scar is "brow">> Meanwhile, a cloth drags over the line near your brow, the scar flashing pale under the steam-softened skin. Clean doesn't erase it, and neither has time. Not yet. If anything, it makes the mark look sharper, like a reminder you carry on purpose. <<elseif $char_scar is "cheek">> Water runs along the scar at your cheek, the groove catching light for a heartbeat. It makes your face look cut from something harder than flesh. No one comments, they just scrub around it, as if even scars are inventory tonight. <</if>> </p> <</nobr>> Around you, men are turned and tended. Voss remains silent through it all, though the anxiety is visible in his eyes, swallowing panic in measured gulps. Not far away, old Renkar manages a laugh, his stiff, burly body damp and softened by oil and more scrubbing than he has likely endured in months. ''"Could actually get used to this, lads. A deep clean if I've ever seen one."'' Rilash looks utterly miserable, standing still, drenched and dripping. He watches the hands of slaves' and the edges of the room, his only respite as the ritualized cleaning ceremony drags on for him. Across the steam, Sereth is being prepared too, though no one handles him the way they handle you. A courtesan oils his arms with quick, practiced strokes, and he accepts it without looking at her, like a king accepting tribute. There's paint laid out near him, darker pigments, finer gold, a pattern fit for a Champion. When the oil comes to you, you allow enough to keep your skin from looking dull, nothing more. The shine is subtle, the kind nobles read as discipline rather than invitation. When paint is offered, you stop them with a look. No gold dust pressed into pores. No jeweled band hung beside your iron. You allow a small House mark at the shoulder, a thin red trace that can be washed away tomorrow. Something that says you obeyed, without letting them turn you into theater. Clean doesn't make you free. It only makes you more visible here. [[You've made your choice.|chp3_housevarrofeast_entrance]]

You let the House dress you the way it prefers because you understand what tonight is. The bathwater is scalding, and lye finds every small cut you forgot you had. Hands move with practiced speed, scrubbing sweat from places the barracks never truly cleans, turning your body like a thing being prepared for eyes. A brass pitcher pours rinse water over you until steam rises in sheets and your skin glows raw and fresh. Servants scrape nails clean. A razor drags careful lines along jaw and throat. Oil is rubbed into shoulders and arms, into chest and back, the shine is unmistakable. Not obscene, not coy, simply polished. <<nobr>> <p> <<if $char_hairstyle is "skullshorn">> They oil your scalp lightly, just enough to make it catch the hall’s candlelight without looking obscene. Your head looks deliberate, disciplined, made for a helmet above your collared throat. Even cleaned, you keep that brutal simplicity. <<elseif $char_hairstyle is "short_messy">> They comb your short hair into something that almost resembles order, then smooth it down with a touch of oil. The mess returns at the edges anyway, the wash returning some of that youthful vitality to your trained frame. <<elseif $char_hairstyle is "shaggy_medium">> A slave draws your shaggy hair back from your face and binds it with plain cord, firm but not tight. You feel the tug at the roots, a small control you didn’t grant. At least you can see clearly now, and that matters more to you than vanity, tonight. <<else>> They gather your long hair and tie it back neatly, running oil through the lengths so it lies in a clean line. It looks cared for, almost noble, almost undeserved. <</if>> </p> <p> <<if $char_build is "scrawny_wiry">> Cleaned and oiled, you look all tendon and hunger, the sort of body that survives by refusing to be held. The shine doesn’t soften you, it just makes the angles obvious. The hall will read you as quick, and dangerous in the way a knife is dangerous. <<elseif $char_build is "lean_athletic">> The oil makes your frame read as function made elegant. Shoulder, rib, forearm, everything where it should be. You look like the House is proud of you, a weapon straight from the ludus sands. <<else>> Oil catches along your thick, muscular bulk like candlelight on carved stone. You look harder to move, harder to break, and the room will understand that without being told. Even dressed up, you carry the promise of force, striations glistening. <</if>> </p> <</nobr>> Around you, men are turned and tended. Voss remains silent through it all, though the anxiety is visible in his eyes, swallowing panic in measured gulps. Not far away, old Renkar manages a laugh, his stiff, burly body damp and softened by oil and more scrubbing than he has likely endured in months. ''"Could actually get used to this, lads. A deep clean if I've ever seen one."'' Rilash looks utterly miserable, standing still, drenched and dripping. He watches the hands of slaves' and the edges of the room, his only respite as the ritualized cleaning ceremony drags on for him. Across the pool, Sereth is marked with darker paint, patterns that pull the eye in. Gold catches on his collarbones like candlelight trapped under skin. He looks less like a man being decorated and more like a weapon being sanctified. When paint comes to you, you allow the House motif, clean lines at shoulder and collarbone. A small dusting of gold is pressed into it, enough to catch candlelight later, enough to make you look costly. You don't fight it the process. They wrap you in linen, loose and pale, the cloth feeling wrong on you, too soft for a man in chains. Yet they've prepared you for the night ahead all the same. [[You've made your choice.|chp3_housevarrofeast_entrance]]

You decide that if they want spectacle, they'll get it. Not because you're grateful, nor are you fooled, but because you understand how eyes work, and you understand how to weaponize them. If you must be shown, you'll be shown on the sharpest edge you can manage with a collar at your throat. The bath becomes a stripping down that goes past cloth. Lye scrubs at you until your skin feels new and defenseless. Hot water is poured again and again, rinsing away sweat, rinsing away the barracks, rinsing away the small protections filth gives. They smooth your hands as if roughness is an insult to the hall above. A servant with a thin bone pick finds your nails, cleaning them out with neat precision. Then a razor follows, clearing your jaw, your throat, and for a moment you look like a different man, one who has never been dragged through blood and sand. Oil comes heavier, richer. <<nobr>> <p> <<if $char_hairstyle is "skullshorn">> They polish your bare scalp until it gleams, then dust a faint trace of gold along the crown. It's absurd, but it works. You look like a weapon sanctified, like the House decided even simplicity should glitter. <<elseif $char_hairstyle is "short_messy">> They tame your short, messy work, oil worked in until the strands lay down, then a touch of glitter pressed near the temples. The mess becomes style by force. <<elseif $char_hairstyle is "shaggy_medium">> They pull your shaggy hair back and bind it clean, then thread a thin ribbon through it that matches House Varro’s colors. It’s subtle enough to pass as “taste,” bold enough to mark you. Every time you move, you feel it tug, a reminder that even your head has been claimed for the night. <<else>> They gather your long hair into something almost ceremonial, smoothed, bound, oiled, then dusted so it catches candlelight when you turn. A servant’s hands linger, admiring the work like a craft. It makes you look like a shining prize for noble eyes. <</if>> </p> <p> <<if $char_scar is "brow">> They don’t hide the scar at your brow; they frame it. A fine line of paint is drawn close enough to make it look intentional, and a kiss of gold makes the pale mark flash. You become a story someone can point at, danger made decorative. <<elseif $char_scar is "cheek">> The scar at your cheek is traced, not covered, as if the House wants proof you’ve been used. Under the paint it looks sharper, almost deliberate. You can feel eyes already, even before you step into the hall. <</if>> </p> <</nobr>> More is massaged into shoulders and arms, into chest and back, into your thighs where cloth will cling later. The shine turns you into something candlelight can’t ignore. Hands move over you with practiced distance. Then the paint arrives in earnest. Gold dust is stirred into oil until it becomes a thin paste, spread across your collarbones, down shoulders and sternum, along the hard lines of your abdomen. Red pigment follows, a House motif traced along muscle and tendon, a pattern meant to guide the gaze like a map. They hang a jeweled band at your neck alongside the stiff leather, not replacing the collar, only framing it, turning the chain into centerpiece. Around you, men are turned and tended. Voss remains silent through it all, though the anxiety is visible in his eyes, swallowing panic in measured gulps. Not far away, old Renkar manages a laugh, his stiff, burly body damp and softened by oil and more scrubbing than he has likely endured in months. ''"Could actually get used to this, lads. A deep clean if I've ever seen one."'' Rilash looks utterly miserable, standing still, drenched and dripping. He watches the hands of slaves' and the edges of the room, his only respite as the ritualized cleaning ceremony drags on for him. Across the pool, Sereth is already an icon in paint and shadow, dark lines and restrained gold, a Champion made into a symbol. For a moment you understand that the House is not only decorating you, but telling a dozen different stories. If tonight is theater, then you have already been placed on the stage. [[You made your choice.|chp3_housevarrofeast_entrance]]

When they finally lead you out of steam and sweetness back into the bones of the ludus, the damp air cools fast against your oil-slick skin. The clean scent of lye falls away behind you, replaced by damp stone, old sweat, and the faint metallic ghost of the yard's bloodied sands. Your skin still gleams under the linen, holding a catered warmth the way a wound holds pain. With every step, the new feeling of soft cloth shifts and whispers against you, too fine for a collared throat. Cassian doesn't speak much, his presence a quiet, steady command over the procession as you follow him down corridors you've already learned by sound, the echo of boots, and by the way that torchlight bends around corners. Tonight, even those corridors feel different. A watchful anticipation pervades the edges, servants moving to the side, eyes lingering, hands full of folded fabric and small jars that catch the light when they tilt. Then Cassian turns, and the route changes. A narrow stairwell waits behind a sturdy, reinforced door you've never been led through before. Gladiators rarely climb here. The steps are steep, worn in the center, slick with a damp that never fully leaves this place. The sound of your procession thickens in the confined stone, chain, footfall and bated breath. Voss swallows too loudly. Renkar mutters once under his breath, not words you can make out. The feline moves behind you with a low, contained irritation, fur still slightly uneven from the baths, like water itself is a humiliation he intends to remember. Halfway up, the air begins to shift. It's subtle, like crossing a threshold you can’t see, but you feel it in your lungs. The damp smell becomes cleaner, colder. The stone under your feet changes, too. Cobble gives way to cut steps. Rough mortar becomes smooth seams. A place where coin has been spent to make the world feel more permanent. At the top of the stair, Cassian stops before a pair of armed Varro guards. [[The pause doesn't last long.|chp3_housevarrofeast_entrance1]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp3_doctore_feast.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> They aren't ludus men. Their armor is fitted, maintained, carrying the posture of the House, not the yard. They consent to your group's passage, and between them emerges the doctore, the hobgoblin who has watched you sweat, bleed and stumble through your first weeks. Tonight, he looks almost ceremonial. Black leathers, clean and tight, edged with jade and crimson trim that catches torchlight in sharp little bites. Even his gnarled hands look scrubbed, though you know what they still belong to the whip. He gives you a slow appraisal; not cruel, not kind, just controlled and precise. His pale gaze lingers on paint, on your posture, on the way you hold your head above the collar. Cassian exchanges a few low words with him, but you don't catch any of them. You only see the faint dip of the doctore's chin, a faint approval, before he turns and the guards open the next door into the world beyond the ludus. It's a hall, wide and high, paved with polished tile that reflects torchlight in soft ripples. Granite pillars rise along the walls, while marble panels break the stone in pale slabs, cool and smooth, carved with simple geometry and House symbols you don’t yet know how to read. The air carries spice, wax, and wine, faint at first, then stronger as you advance. You move as a group, guided down the center like a display being walked to market. Cassian keeps you tight. No drifting or gawking, yet your eyes can't help but wander, catching glimpses. Between stretches of wall there are open portions, shallow arches that look out into distance. You step past one, and for a heartbeat the interior heat falls away from your skin. Night air touches your face, a reminder of that late evening on the high balcony. Far off, beyond the layered roofs and terraces of Cradle, you glimpse the pale ribs of the Colosseum rising in the dark, curved stone catching faint torchlight like bone beneath a purple bruise. Smoke drifts above it in thin ribbons. Even farther above, the sky is dark, but not truly black. Dosmera’s vast violet glow always stains the clouds, the misty vapors, and somewhere within it, one of the blood moons hangs like a watching eye. Then the hall turns again and the view vanishes. The sound of the feast begins to reach you as a pressure of muffled laughter, clink of cups, lilting music that feels too refined for men of your ilk. The air warms and the stone brightens with the flicker of light; the House lays ahead, living and breathing. Ahead, you see the looming entrance to what must be the main hall. The doors are tall, heavy, carved and banded in gleaming, bronzed metal. They lay splayed half-open, warmth spilling from their seams like a near promise. Cassian stops and pauses. He looks down the line once, a final check, like a man inspecting weapons before they're handed to nobles. ''“Remember,”'' he says, quiet enough to make you lean in without meaning to. “We're decoration. Nothing stupid, nothing rash. It's not worth your life."'' Then, he moves to pry the heavy doors open. [[The feast opens to you.|chp3_housevarrofeast_entrance2]]

The warmth envelops you first, entirely different from the damp heat of the ludus' underbelly or the swelteirng alleys of the Third Quarter. It rolls out of the main hall in a slow wave, scented with roasted meat, spiced wine, candle wax, perfume, and something sweet. Light follows, dozens and dozens of flames, flickering torches in sconces, oil-damp lanterns in hidden alcoves, wax candles clustered on tables and hanging in what must be copper chandeliers. After the stairwell and the polished corridor, it still feels unreal, like stepping into someone else's story. The cresting sound is the second wave. Laughter, low and high, men and women both. The scrape of chairs, clatter of plates, music threading through it all, string and drum, keeping a pulse worthy of slow indulgence. You realize with a small, sour certainty that the feast is already underway. You're late by design, being brought in now because the House wants to refresh the room and please its guests. Cassian leads you across the threshold at a calm pace, though everything still feels like a blur of color and noise, more stimulation than you've experienced since first being brought into the ludus. The hall is enormous, wide enough that voices don’t fill it so much as float within it. The ceiling rises in high beams, solid walls are dressed in jade banners, each marked with a three-pointed red V, the House Varro sigil repeating like a chant. The cloth hangs heavy and still, absorbing heat and candlelight, turning the whole chamber into a warm, green-and-red shadowed mouth. There are tables everywhere, tiers of them, arranged to create lanes for servants to move through. Noble patrons recline and sit in clusters, draped in colored fabric and jewelry that catches firelight with every small gesture. Guards stand in measured positions along the walls, not watching the feast so much as watching the people inside it. Servants and entertainers thread between tables like fish in a crowded river, carrying trays, pouring wine, singing softly, laughing when laughter is expected. Some heads turn the moment you enter. Some pretend they don’t, which is its own kind of attention. You feel eyes slide over your adornments and oil. You feel them pause at your collar, at your shoulders, at the way your linen clings and then loosens again as you breathe. You aren't a guest, but an object brought in to sharpen their appetite. <<nobr>> <p> <<if $chp3_feast_adornment is "minimal">> Your shine is disciplined, controlled. A small mark, a faint sheen, nothing that begs for attention. You look like a man preserved for use, not dressed for worship. It's likely that you don't stick out next to some of your painted companions or the Champion, Sereth Val, but that's by design. <<elseif $chp3_feast_adornment is "standard">> Gold catches at the lines the House chose to emphasize. You look costly in the way they prefer, polished enough to be admired, restrained enough to be taken seriously, matching many of your companions by design. <<else>> You feel candlelight follow you like hands. Gold rides your skin, red lines guiding the gaze, and the jeweled band at your throat frames the collar so that it becomes a centerpiece, not shame. You don't look free, but even your servitude in celebrated, much like the champion Sereth Val and his dark, gilded flesh. <</if>> </p> <</nobr>> Cassian guides the procession down a broad lane between tables, where nobles lean to whisper. A silk-laden broad laughs too brightly when Rilash passes by, a dozen other eyes watching nearby as the room continues to feast, talk, gossip. But there's a slow, subtle shift, a gradual gathering of attention towards the center of the hall. [[That's when you finally spot them.|chp3_housevarrofeast_entrance3]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp3_feast_dias.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> <<bgm "bad-era" 0.6 9>> Duchess Livia stands on a raised dais near the heart of the hall, elevated just enough that she doesn't need to strain to be seen. Tonight, she wants to be visible. Candlelight warms her skin and sets a pale glow in her red eyes. She wears green that looks like deep water under torchlight, fabric cut to flatter and to distract, to remind the room that power can be beautiful and that beauty can be cruel. Her posture is easy, confident, a woman at home in the act of being watched. She looks like someone who collects dangerous things, and right now, she's more or less pleased with her collection. You have a feeling that could change. Beside her stands a man in crimson robes. Late-middle-aged, slightly balding, lined forehead, expression set into a careful austerity as if he's trained himself not to show hunger in front of otherse. His clothes are neat, expensive without extra flair or play. When he moves his hands, you notice the details that matter. Fingers faintly stained from ink, callused in places that speak of past battles; a man who once wore command and now wears wealth, deciding that both can be used to reach the same end. You realize that this must be Duke Lucius Varro. They're in conversation when you enter the hall. A contained, private partnership that knows the shape of its own theatre. That conversation pauses as Cassian’s line approaches. Lucius’s gaze settles on the procession like a ledger being opened. Livia’s gaze settles like a smile that might become a bite. Then, Livia murmurs something to a pair of courtesans near the dais. They move at once: practiced, bright, gliding into the flow of the feast as if they're part of the music. One lifts a small bell from a servant’s tray, while another gestures to the musicians, a subtle motion that shifts the prevalent rhythm. A clear note rings out, then another. The sound cuts through laughter without needing to fight it. Heads turn, voices soften, cups pausing halfway to parted lips. The hall begins to gather itself, attention drawn toward the dais the way moths find flame. Livia turns her body slightly, letting the room see her regal face; the curve of her red lips, the glow of her eyes, the calm authority and poise in her posture. She looks at the line of gladiators as if she's been waiting for this moment all night. Then she inhales, small and deliberate, as though she's about to speak. [[You listen. Everyone does.|chp3_housevarrofeast_presentation]]

The bell’s bright notes fade into a hush that isn't silence, but attention gathered and held. Duchess Livia lets the room settle. She doesn't raise her voice because she doesn't have to. The hall leans toward her as if it knows she's about to feed it something worth tasting. Her eyes crease, drifting across the guests, banners and a torch-lit lanes. Her husband steps forward first. Lucius looks sober beside her, draped in crimson like a man trying to remember what command once felt like. His voice was trained once for orders and assembly yards. It has weakened since then, yet it carries with clean , clipped edges, cutting through the last murmurs and clinking cups as he addresses those gathered. ''“My friends,”'' he says, measured, austere. ''“House Varro thanks you for your presence, and for your patronage. You honor our tables, our games and our gladiators. With Crathal looming over us, our beloved Cradle hungers for spectacle."'' He gestures, hand splayed open, toward the line of gladiators. Slowly, he gestures over you and your companions. ''“Not parlor tricks,”'' Lucius continues. ''“Not dancing dogs. But warriors of blood and bone. Hard-fought discipline. Men who have learned to fight in chains, collars, in the harshest conditions and still keep their heads. Men who bleed, and return victorious.”'' ''"In life,"'' He intones calmly, ''"And death."'' There's approval in the room, the kind that prefers violence when it's spoken of like virtue. Then Livia leans in as if to correct a dull tutor. ''"Our fighters have big appetites,"'' She adds, warm as wine, her pert-red lips curved sharply, ''"For blood. Food. Women."'' A ripple of laughter spreads, a gleam of white teeth showing past her lips, ''“If the House must be honest about their appetites. These are rare men from every street of Cradle and beyond."'' Her eyes are bright under the candelight. ''"What my husband means is that you have paid for something special. Not merely skill or men willing to die. Any soldier or Legionnaire could say the same. But you've paid for wild men of grit and determination. Men barely kept under collar, whom you have the pleasure of watching. Troubled souls that decide, again and again, whether to bend or break."'' She lets her gaze drift down the line of collars as if she's choosing which of you might be the most entertaining to test. ''"Isn't that exciting?"'' Livia concludes, her grin widening to the warm murmurs and applause of the feastgoers. Lucius makes a small sound through his nose, as though unmoved by the threatre of it all with the entire hall as their witness. Your witness. Cassian lifts his chin at an unseen cue. The procession tightens. [[The first collar is brought forward.|chp3_housevarrofeast_presentation1]]

Naturally, Sereth Val steps forward before the crowd. Even before his name is spoken, the room knows him. The Dark Elf Champion moves with the ease of a man who has been seen too many times to feel shame about it. His paint is darker than yours, the lines finer, the gold restrained and deliberate, meant to catch light only when he chooses to turn. Lucius speaks his name like an offering. ''“Sereth Val,”'' he announces, ''“The Champion of House Varro. The blade you've all heard of. The one who has made the arena remember him.”'' There are murmurs, both eager and familiar. Some guests smile as if they own a piece of the story. Sereth gives them what they came for, but he gives it like a professional. A subtle smile, no more than a quirk of the lips. A bow of his head that's almost respectful. A polite pause that lets the candlelight find the sharp angles of his face. Livia watches him like she's pleased with her own taste. ''“He does not disappoint,”'' She says candidly, as if confiding in the crowd, ''“He rarely breaks a sweat. At least, within the arena. Although I certainly enjoy it when he does...”'' More of the crowd laughs, louder this time, a few faces flushed behind their sweating cups and spilled wine. Sereth's smile doesn't widen, but it doesn't need to. He maintains his composure and elegant poise before what must be hundreds of eyes. He turns, just slightly, and the trim muscles at his shoulder and long back catch the light. It's not a crude flex, but a subtle stretch and reminder of both brawn and beauty. The room responds positively, as though viewing a rare, well-trained beast. Then he steps back into line as if returning to his place on a wall. Lucius continues, steady, building the rhythm of the presentation. He showcases several veterans next, names spoken with clipped pride, men who have survived enough bouts to be worthy of investment. Each steps forward, then returns to their place with bows, nods, lingering glances and elaborate poses of their own. Some are comfortable with it, even hungry for the attention. Others do it the way they do everything now, because refusing would cost more than it's worth. Cassian is brought forward, too, spoken of like a pillar of the House. ''“Cassian,”'' Lucius intones, ''“My lanista. The hand that shapes what you enjoy.”'' He stands with that same stoic, contained authority that has haunted your training days. The veteran greets the watching crowd with a bow of his head, though his eyes don't linger long over the guests. Soon enough, he's stepping back to return to the line. Livia gives him a glance that might be approval, or perhaps amusement. She certainly seemed more interested in Sereth than the rest, but now her voice brightens once more. ''“And now, we come to the part I find most delightful.”'' Lucius’s mouth tightens, the faintest tension in his jaw, but he lifts his hand again as if to direct an army. ''“The newcomers,”'' He announces, the hall seeming to learn forward. At least you feel the shift in the air, hunger changing shape. [[More predatory, curious if not outright hungry.|chp3_housevarrofeast_presentation2]]

The hall has seen its icons. Now it wants fresh blood, the promise of a story just beginning, yet to settle into pattern or predictability. Lucius steps closer to the edge of the dais, hands loosely clasped, fingers ink-stained in the candlelight. ''“House Varro has acquired new stock,”'' He announces, and the word stock drawing a few quiet laughs. He doesn't smile at them. ''“Some of them will die quickly. But some of them will learn. In this business, we aren't sentimental about the difference. But as always, you are welcome to be.”'' Livia’s eyes brighten as if he has offered her a toy. ''“Oh, don’t be cruel,”'' she says lightly, and the hall laughs again because they know she's not truly scolding him. This is certainly part of their act, playful banter exchanged between husband and wife with more coin than most. ''“They might surprise us. I adore surprises, Lucius.”'' Renkar is brought forward first, grizzled, jaw set hard, wearing his paint like an insult. Lucius speaks a brief line, something about endurance, debt and the kind of strength that comes from surviving too long. Livia appraises him with an almost fond curiosity, as if she's wondering how many more scars it'll take to break him. Then Voss, the young lad stiff as a staff. Lucius calls him promising, disciplined, perhaps even teachable, which is the closest thing this House offers to praise to someone like him. Livia’s smile turns knowing. She says something about pretty boys learning hard lessons, and the laughter that follows is half amused and half predatory, from noblewomen and old men alike. Rilash steps forward with dark, striped-fur smoothed and ears slightly back, looking offended that he's been made presentable for human eyes. Someone at a table nearer the front makes a delighted sound, and another guest makes a joke you can’t quite hear. Livia’s gaze lingers, entertained. Lucius’s tone turns practical again, speaking of agility and instinct, the value of Beastkin that can slip through a man’s guard like whispers. [[And then Cassian’s hand shifts, small and precise.|chp3_housevarrofeast_presentation3]]

Most of the pause is given to you. The hall seems to notice the way the procession slows around your collar. It notices the way eyes turn and the way Lucius’s attention settles in quiet, yet open appraisal. Livia’s attention is different, more charged, like a selection. The Duke speaks first, using the name that the arena gave you. <<nobr>> <<if $arena_nickname is "Bloodied">> <p> ''“$name the Bloodied,”'' Lucius announces, the title carrying cleanly across the tables. ''“New to our sands, but already well-acquainted with what Cradle demands.”'' </p> <p> The memory rips through you like a ragged gash. </p> <p> The chaos of the arena, the defeaning cries cascading down from every direction. The carnage that the ogre wrought before you managed to rally the other prisoners and fight for your lives. In the end, you had spilt more blood than you could've ever imagined. </p> <p> Yet, there's a ripple of amusement and open chatter at that, the kind that enjoys the idea of suffering as a rite and blood as ritual. Lucius’s gaze tracks the line of your shoulders, the set of your stance, the way you keep your breathing controlled under firelight. ''“A fighter who doesn't yet know what he is, but knows he won't go softly,”'' He adds, voice flat with judgment. </p> <<elseif $arena_nickname is "Ascender">> <p> ''“$name the Ascender,”'' Lucius announces, and the hall responds with a different flavor of open interest. The word implies ambition, hunger, a climb. It makes people curious. </p> <p> The memory hits you like an avalanche.</p> <p> The overwhelming noise and chaos of the arena, the impending threat of the ogre tumbling across the sands, weighing down on you, a heavy, suffocating fear that nearly drowned you. But you managed to rally the other prisoners, fight for your lives, and overthrow dangerous odds. </p> <p> For that, you're a dangerous oddity. </p> <p> Lucius lets the name hang for a beat, as if to see whether it suits you when spoken aloud. ''“One who rises,”'' he continues, ''“Or one who is raised. House Varro intends to find out which, and you're welcome to witness the lesson.”'' </p> <<elseif $arena_nickname is "Centurion">> <p> ''“$name the Centurion,”'' Lucius announces, bringing a sharper attention to the hall, a faint tightening. The name tastes of the Legion, of command, of men who believe they can impose order on chaos. </p> <p> The violent memory nearly overwhelms your senses. Death loomed like an omnipresent threat, closer than you've ever felt before. The weight of the ogre, the smell, the bright red splashes of blood and rot of forgotten bodies. </p> <p> Yet, you managed to rally the other prisoners and fight for your lives. Somehow, you presented yourself as someone who could be followed. It was through sheer, desperate will and control under pressure that you and your companions managed to survive. </p> <p> Lucius’s mouth barely moves as he speaks again. ''“A title that suggests discipline, and discipline is expensive. If he has it, House Varro will profit. If he does not, the sands will make a fool out of him yet.”'' </p> <<else>> <p> ''“$name the Huntsman,”'' Lucius announces, and a few guests laugh softly, pleased by the image. The name suggests pursuit, patience, the quiet cruelty of tracking something that can't escape forever. </p> <p> The mere memory spikes your adrenaline. The overwhelming sound and sensation of the arena floor, surrounded by hungry eyes. Death loomed, that hulking ogre tracking you and your fellow prisoners across the corpse-ridden sands. </p> <p> Yet, you managed to stick together and cooperate as survivors, fighters, comrades. You stayed patient, strategized, and hunted that ugly beast with determination. Through sheer, desperate will and teamwork, you managed to win. </p> <p> In the present, Lucius lifts a hand toward you as if presenting a tool. ''“A predator in training,”'' He adds, ''“The kind that learns quickly, or dies confused. Let us hope that his coming hunts prove bountiful."'' </p> <</if>> <<if $chp3_feast_adornment is "minimal">> <p> Under the hall’s candlelight, your paint reads as restraint. A single House mark, a disciplined sheen, nothing that begs for applause. The guests look anyway, but their eyes slide off faster, as if you've denied them an easy story beyond your name. </p> <p> Regardless, Livia’s smile deepens, subtle approval or curiosity, it's hard to tell. ''“How serious,”'' She murmurs, the amusement in her voice making the room laugh without knowing why. </p> <<elseif $chp3_feast_adornment is "standard">> <p> You gleam the way a Varro gladiator is meant to gleam. Gold catches where it was pressed, oil making your skin read as costly, the House motif sitting clean at shoulder and collarbone. You look like you belong in the procession, which is its own kind of violence. </p> <p> Livia tilts her head, eyes bright. ''“Dutiful and dangerous,”'' She says, as if tasting the words. ''“I do enjoy a man of promise. He has adapted quickly to the ludus, if not his first bout in the arena.”'' </p> <<else>> <p> You shine like the House decided to gamble on you. Gold rides your collarbones, red lines guiding the gaze, jeweled band frame your throat. Eyes linger longer, cups paused along the curve of lips. You feel attention settle on you like hands. </p> <p> Livia’s laughter is soft, delighted, her eyes bright. ''“Oh,”'' She says, warm as wine. ''“He learns quickly, doesn't he? A man of promise who doesn't mind being seen. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he's after our hearts... and coin."'' </p> <</if>> <<if ($might is 2) and ($mind is 1)>> <p> Lucius’s gaze tracks your shoulders and forearms with an old soldier’s habit, then lingers at your eyes as if to confirm there’s a mind behind the mass. ''“Strength,”'' he says, ''“With enough sense not to waste it.”'' </p> <p> A few guests nod as if they’ve already decided what sort of deaths you’ll cause, and what sort of mistakes you won’t. Some of them might see you as a gamble worth taking, regardless of your initial performance. </p> <<elseif ($might is 2) and ($mobility is 1)>> <p> The Duke appraises you the way a commander appraises a battering ram that can still move when ordered. ''“Strength,”'' Lucius says, ''“And the feet to deliver it.”'' </p> <p> It earns a low murmur, the crowd imagining impact, sand, and the simple relief of a fight that ends cleanly. </p> <<elseif ($mind is 2) and ($might is 1)>> <p> Lucius’s eyes narrow a fraction, not with admiration, but with calculation. ''“Clever,”'' he says at last, ''“And not completely helpless.”'' </p> <p> The line lands like a verdict. The hall likes brains most when they are attached to a body that can still bleed for them. </p> <<elseif ($mind is 2) and ($mobility is 1)>> <p> The Duke's attention slides over you slower, as if trying to catch the angle you’ll use before you choose it. ''“Clever,”'' Lucius says, ''“And quick enough to act on it.”'' </p> <p> Somewhere in the tables a guest laughs softly, pleased by the thought of a man who survives on wit and timing rather than brute force. </p> <<elseif ($mobility is 2) and ($might is 1)>> <p> Lucius watches your balance, the quiet readiness in your stance, the way your weight sits like it can move in any direction. ''“Speed,”'' he says, ''“With just enough bite.”'' </p> <p> The hall leans forward in small ways, already craving the kind of fight where the crowd has to keep up or miss the moment. You're an exciting prospect to many of them. </p> <<elseif ($mobility is 2) and ($mind is 1)>> <p> The Duke studies your feet first, then your face, as if measuring reflex against intent. ''“Speed,”'' Lucius says, ''“And a mind that sees the opening.”'' </p> <p> It draws an approving murmur, the promise of a fighter who makes the arena feel like a hunt, not a brawl. Some of the more invested betters are excited by you, even regardless of your initial showing. </p> <<else>> <p> Lucius holds his gaze on you longer, as if your danger isn't obvious in one glance, but accumulates when you look twice. ''“Balanced,”'' He says, yet the word isn't disappointed. He's too old and shrewd for that. </p> <p> Then Livia’s soft laugh cuts through it, amused and interested. ''“Which means he may last long enough to become troublesome.”'' That's one way to put it. </p> <</if>> <<if $auction_winner is "Livia">> <p> Livia steps forward a fraction, and the room feels it. Not because she raises her voice, but because the hall has learned to listen when she moves. Her smile is warm and wicked at once, the kind that makes men laugh while guarding their throats. </p> <p> ''“And this one,”'' She purrs, letting her red-hot gaze rake you with open ownership, ''"Belongs to me. A direct purchase."'' </p> <p> The words draws a soft, collective sound from the tables, half amusement, half envy, a few glances sharpening toward the dais as if measuring what it means to be claimed so publicly. Livia lets it linger. She lifts her cup in a small salute, as if sealing a purchase in wine rather than ink. ''“Do try to behave,”'' she adds almost fondly, as if chiding you publicly, though the laughter that follows is given freely and brighter than it should be. </p> <<elseif $auction_winner is "Sibylla">> <p> Livia’s gaze slides away from you and toward some deeper portion of the hall, past banners and torchlight, as if her “dear friend” prefers shadows to spectacle. She doesn’t point or beckon but the Duchess smiles softly in an intimate way that suggests a private joke shared without permission. </p> <p> ''“Countess Sibylla Cyrasse,”'' Livia says, voice sweet with ceremony, ''“Has claimed this one for her own purposes.”'' </p> <p> A polite ripple moves through the guests, courteous and careful, the sort of sound Cradle makes for women with teeth. Livia keeps smiling anyway, as if affection is a weapon she insists on using. ''“She always chooses so thoughtfully,”'' she adds lightly, the hall chuckling because it can’t tell whether her words are praise or playful bait. </p> <<elseif $auction_winner is "Alesia">> <p> Livia turns her head as if expecting someone to stroll in at the last possible moment, full of confidence and perfume. Her eyes flick across the entry lanes, then she gives a small, theatrical sigh that makes several guests grin in anticipation. </p> <p> ''“Lady Alesia Cosmas,”'' she says, the name landing like gossip. ''“Has, of course, made her selection in purchasing $name. Stolen from right under my nose, no less.”'' </p> <p> A few laughs break loose, and Livia lifts her brows as if sharing a secret with the whole room. ''“She's simply late, though we shouldn't be surprised,”'' she adds, tone playful, almost indulgent. ''“As if the night might wait for her appetite.”'' </p> <p> The hall warms to it, murmurs and knowing smiles traded behind cups. Livia doesn’t look for Alesia again. She doesn’t need to. Everyone here understands that some people arrive exactly when they mean to. </p> <<else>> <p> Livia’s eyes don't search the tables. Instead, she lets the name drift out as if it's nothing more than an inconvient detail, or a quiet fact spoken aloud. </p> <p> ''“Lady Novia Segune has acquired this one,”'' she says, and her tone is almost gentle with amusement. ''“A careful purchase by the young heiress. A rare thing in this city.”'' </p> <p> The guests respond in a softer way, smiles behind cups, whispers that don’t quite become laughter. Thoughtful can be a compliment, or it can be a joke, and the uncertainty makes it sweeter. </p> <p> Livia’s smile holds steady as if she enjoys the ambiguity more than either answer. ''“We shall see what she does with him,”'' She adds, lightly, and the hall hums with interest because Livia has not offered them a face to watch. </p> <</if>> <</nobr>> Lucius’s hand lowers. The presentation, for your part, is complete. You're returned to the line with your collar still at your throat and new eyes on you that may've not been there before. Above you, Livia’s gaze lingers a moment longer than Lucius’s did, as if she is filing you away among her dangerous things. Somewhere nearby, Sereth stands in his paint and quiet confidence, where you can now feel the difference between being a symbol and being a possibility. The feast exhales. Laughter returns in pockets, the music swelling to fill the space again. You're still standing in the hall, still shining, still owned. [[And now the night can begin in earnest.|chp3_housevarrofeast_smalltalk]]

The feast exhales and resumes itself in pockets, as if the hall had only paused to taste you and now lays eager to swallow the moment whole. Servants slip between tables, swift and quiet, cleaning spills and topping off cups and glasses before thirst can become a complaint. Torchlight and candlelight make a warm haze beneath the high beams, jade banners drinking the light and turning every shadow deep and green. The arena’s hunger had a roar to it, but this is softer, more intimate, a thousand small appetites disguised as manners. It reminds you of the smaller banquet before the auction, but even grander now. Yet, you aren't left to roam, not yet. At the dais, Lucius Varro lifts two fingers. It's nothing, almost, a gesture you could've missed if you were allowed to be anyone else. Cassian catches it at once. The lanista’s gaze finds you like a hook finds flesh, understanding the order that has already been given. You're being called closer, not for the room, but for them. The veteran comes without hurry, placing a hand at the back of your upper arm. It's firm enough to guide you, and light enough to pretend that it's your choice. ''"With me, $name,"'' He says, low and relaxed, ''"Should be interesting. Just don't be stupid."'' [[And so you step forward with Cassian.|chp3_housevarrofeast_smalltalk1]]

The path to the dais is a lane cut through wealth. Perfumed bodies lean back to let you pass, metal pieces and gemmed jewelry glittering, flashing, gleaming beneath the torchlight. Soft fabrics whisper, limbs outstretched, silk-laden legs and sleeved arms. Out of the corner of your eye, a man with jewel-clawed fingers takes a slow sip, eyes following you over the rim as if measuring whether you look worthy of coin. You can feel your own body more sharply as you walk, linen clinging in places, sliding in others, oil still warm beneath it. The heat of nearby braziers is a constant, low, warm pressure that sits on your exposed skin, paint dried tight along the lines that House Varro chose to emphasize. Cassian guides you to the foot of the dais steps and stops with you there, a respectful distance that's still close enough to be examined. He retreats half a pace, neither leaving you alone nor crowding you, the perfect posture of a man trained to make ownership look like ceremony. Gradually, the space around you changes. Two Varro guards stand apart, simply existing as reminders on the periphery. Meanwhile, a pair of gilded courtesans hover near the steps with idle grace, lips a near-constant curve, shifting their flowing skirts in small arcs that keep wandering eyes and open ears from settling too cleanly on this spot. Servants pass and repass with trays held steady, movements a constant veil of sound, wax, spice and clinking glass, a gentle blur that makes private words easier to hide in plain sight. Even in the middle of this ground hall, the Duke and Duchess have organized an impressive throne of their own while the feast continues all around. But here, in front of the dais, the air feels thinner, focus dimming just to the pair above you. Lucius turns his attention fully to you, while Livia's red gaze follows a heartbeat later, landing like a hand choosing where to rest. [[You stand still before them.|chp3_housevarrofeast_smalltalk2]]

Up close, the Duke looks less like a myth and more like a man shaped by his own disappointment. Lucius' light-brown hair is thinning, combed with care that can't fully disguise its retreat. His brow is lined, not only by age, but by the habit of squinting into dim days and worse outcomes. He wears crimson with an austere taste, as if ornament is an admission he won't grant. When his hands shift, you notice smaller details. A faint stain of ink near the nails, faded callouses in the places a pen don't make, but that a sword might. You remember stories of the failed Legate... Lucius studies you as if confirming a purchase, open and exact. He takes in your paint, the sheen of oil, the way you stand with the collar at your throat. Livia stands beside him like the reason the room is warm, an obvious contrast in their character. Candlelight makes her red eyes look deeper, less like blood and more like wine held up to flame. She wears the House’s colors as if they were invented for her, green that draws the gaze and refuses to return it. Her smile is easy, playful at the edges, yet it never feels harmless. You're as wary of her as her husband, if not more. [[You can feel the line between them even in their stillness.|chp3_housevarrofeast_smalltalk3]]

Lucius speaks to the hall when it suits him. Livia owns the hall without speaking at all. <<set $chp3_feast_gant_visit = false>> A courtesan drifts close with a fresh cup, offering it to Livia with a bright little smile before gliding away again. Another servant passes behind you, close enough that the spice of roasted meat and sharp sweetness of wine briefly cut through the perfume. The movement is constant, polite, noisy enough to swallow the edges of conversation. Lucius turns his cup once in his hand, as if he’s checking the weight of it. Maybe he's just considering his words, gaze slowly returning to you. ''“Welcome to House Varro, $name,”'' he says, mild, business-like, a man greeting a new tool as if it might be profitable. ''“I’ve heard much about you.”'' <<nobr>> <p> <<if $auction_winner is "Livia">> ''“It isn’t often my wife spends so much coin on a gladiator,”'' Lucius adds, the corner of his mouth tightening as if the thought still surprises him. ''“You managed to catch her attention. That alone is… uncommon. She's a woman of eclectric taste.”'' <<else>> ''“I heard you fetched a substantial price at auction,”'' he continues, tone casual, almost amused, the corner of his mouth slack. ''“Even my wife had intentions on bidding after you, for a moment. It seems you’ve made a habit of being discussed. Even by women of expensive and eclectic taste.”'' <</if>> </p> <</nobr>> Lucius’s gaze stays on you, steady, appraising, as if he’s already counting what you might return on investment. ''“I’ve heard your introduction to the ludus has gone well,”'' he says. ''“No tantrums. No sudden deaths. Cassian tells me you’ve learned quickly enough to keep breathing and gain a real footing here. Good.”'' Livia’s mouth curves, entertained. ''“Oh, don’t flatter him, Lucius,”'' She murmurs, voice light and scolding but not far from a joke. ''“He’ll start to think you’re proud. Get your interrogation over, why don't you?”'' A few nearby smiles flicker behind cups, the kind that belong to people who know how to pretend that they heard nothing. The music swells just slightly, as if someone decided the air should be noisier right here. Lucius’s eyes stay on you, steady, practical, the way a man looks at something he means to use. ''“My wife collects dangerous things,”'' he admits, half-bemused, as if the line has been used before and still intrigues him. ''“Are you dangerous… or are you just pretty?”'' Livia’s smile sharpens. She lifts her cup a fraction, amused by the trap he’s setting and the fact that he’s setting it at all. ''“Why not both?”'' The Duchess murmurs, but Lucius draws another pace forward, voice dropping, quieter now. ''“Do you know the difference,”'' he asks, ''“Between being owned… and being useful?”'' [[Pretty is paint. Dangerous is what’s underneath.|chp3_housevarrofeast_questions][$chp3_lucius_q1="cowboy"]] <<ci cowboy archetype>> [[Owned is what you tell the room. Useful is what I decide to be.|chp3_housevarrofeast_questions][$chp3_lucius_q1="bastard"]] <<ci bastard archetype>> [[Owned is circumstance. Useful is duty. Give me a task and you’ll see which I am.|chp3_housevarrofeast_questions][$chp3_lucius_q1="knight"]] <<ci knight archetype>>

<<nobr>> <<if $chp3_lucius_q1 is "cowboy">> <p> ''“Pretty is paint. Dangerous is what’s underneath.”'' </p> <p> Lucius watches you as if your words have a weight that he's testing in his palm. His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes narrows, like a private caution that doesn't get voiced. Not yet at least. </p> <p> Yet, Livia’s laugh from beside him is soft and bright, a sound that belongs in low candlelight. ''“Oh, I like that,”'' she murmurs, the delight in her voice far from subtle. She glances at Lucius, lips curved, ''“He hasn’t even found his corner yet in all of this, dear. Let him wander a little before you nail him to the wall.”'' </p> <<elseif $chp3_lucius_q1 is "knight">> <p> ''“Owned is circumstance. Useful is duty. Give me a task and you’ll see which I am.”'' </p> <p> Lucius’s mouth shifts, almost a smile, but not quite. He gives one small nod, as if a page in his mind has turned cleanly. ''“That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard tonight,”'' He says, dry with approval. </p> <p> His voice stays low, business-like. ''“Fulfill your duty. Train hard. Stay clean. Don’t embarrass anyone here with foolishness.”'' He looks you over once more, before continuing,''“You may find fighting is a more honest trade than some men like to admit.”'' </p> <p> Livia’s brows lift, amused. ''“Listen to you,”'' she says, tone bemused and faintly sardonic. ''“I didn’t imagine you two would get along so cheerily.”'' Her smile lingers on you like a coin flipped in the air. ''“Careful, Lucius. You’ll start collecting them too.”'' </p> <<else>> <p> ''“Owned is what you tell the room. Useful is what I become when I decide to be.”'' </p> <p> Lucius’s gaze holds yours, and the stillness of his worn face turns sharper. ''“Careful,”'' he says at last. The word is quiet, but it carries threat in its calm. ''“Men who talk like that tend to believe it, right up until they meet a door that doesn’t open.”'' </p> <p> Livia’s smile widens, delighted in a way that is almost indecent. She turns her cup slightly, watching Lucius as if she’s enjoying the tension more than the wine. ''“Oh, Lucius,”'' she murmurs, teasing him openly now. ''“Are you already threatened? By a young gladiator, no less?”'' </p> <</if>> <</nobr>> For a breath, the bubble holds. Servants glide past with trays and laughter placed carefully in the air. Somewhere behind you, a noble’s voice rises too loud before being pulled back down by a companion’s hand. The music continues, bright and steady, like it's been instructed not to falter near the dais or for the crowd. Lucius turns his cup once, slow, as if closing a ledger. ''“Listen,”'' he says, and the word lands without heat, only authority. ''“In a House like this, roles exist for a reason. The doctore enforces. A lanista trains. Guards keep watch, defend, while servants everything around them working. A courtesan smiles to brighten each day, and a gladiator fights to survive, win, inspire.”'' His eyes stay on you as he speaks, but the speech is larger than you. It's the Varro dynasty speaking through him, explaining itself the way a priest speaks of the Universe. ''“When everyone performs their duties exactly as expected, it operates smoothly. Men eat. Men sleep. Men wake and do it again. Profit is made, and blood is spent so that songs may be sung of it.”'' He pauses, letting the feast behind you provide its own soft proof of what “smooth” looks like. ''“When one part fails, everyone and everything suffers for it.”'' Lucius continues, calm as a knife laid flat on a table. His gaze flicks briefly toward the tables, toward wealth, gossip and soft mouths that talk too freely. ''“That is why punishment exists.”'' He declares, ''“That is why Cradle is built on caste, chains, codes. Why should the House pay for one man's pride? Likewise, why should Cradle suffer a thousand injustices? We keep it simple. A criminal gets the collar,"'' Lucius' gaze flicks towards your throat for half a second, ''"Or the sword."'' His hand goes to his belt, the hilt of a sheathed gladius barely visible beneath the draw of his crimson robes. Livia’s smile doesn't soften, but her eyes brighten as if she enjoys the harshness of it. She leans in slightly, almost affectionate, as if she likes the sound of her husband pretending this is only about discipline and not about control. The Duke returns his full attention to you. ''“Tell me, $name. Will you shame this House?”'' Then he leans a fraction closer, and the question tightens. ''“Do you follow orders?”'' [[I’m here to take care of myself. I won’t shame you, but I won’t die for your pride either.|chp3_housevarrofeast_questions1][$chp3_lucius_q2="cowboy"]] [[I’ll do the House proud. Give the order and I’ll carry it out.|chp3_housevarrofeast_questions1][$chp3_lucius_q2="knight"]] [[If I shame a man of your position, it’s because you let me. I obey what benefits me.|chp3_housevarrofeast_questions1][$chp3_lucius_q2="bastard"]]

<<nobr>> <<if $chp3_lucius_q2 is "cowboy">> <p> ''“I’m here to take care of myself. I won’t shame you, but I won’t die for your pride either.”'' </p> <p> Lucius studies you as if you’ve just named a price that isn’t written down anywhere. The faintest crease forms between his brows, not anger, but a stubborn assessment. ''“That's what every man tells himself,”'' he says, calm and dry. ''“Even the loyal ones. But it tends to be the foolish ones that say it aloud to a man who can dictate otherwise..”'' </p> <p> Livia’s smile curls wider, amused by the honesty and the edge in it. ''“At least he’s not pretending,”'' she murmurs, almost approving. Her eyes linger on you like a hand on a blade’s handle. ''“Self-care can look an awful lot like survival, Lucius. I do prefer the ones who survive.”'' </p> <<elseif $chp3_lucius_q2 is "knight">> <p> ''“I’ll do the House proud. Give the order and I’ll carry it out.”'' Your words come clean, almost formal. Your chin lifts a fraction, not defiant, but certain. ''"If I fail, punish me. I understand how you run the House, my lord."'' </p> <p> Lucius holds your gaze, and for the first time there's something more akin to relief in his restraint, the faintest easing, as if a hinge has been oiled properly. ''“Good,”'' he says. ''“Then you understand what most men refuse to learn until they’re broken and bleeding.”'' He nods once over the surrounding hall. ''“This is not the yard. Here, obedience isn't only discipline. It’s a type currency, $name.”'' </p> <p> His voice stays low, almost conversational. ''“You'll be watched for mistakes that have nothing to do with combat. A wrong look, the wrong drink. An ill-timed laugh at the wrong table. Some men are better built for it than others."'' </p> <p> ''"But if you're true to your word, $name, then our House will be better off for it."'' </p> <p> Livia’s smile turns sly. ''“How tidy,”'' she murmurs, as if tasting the neatness of it. ''“You sound like you were born to be managed.”'' Her gaze glides over you, amused and faintly predatory. ''“Careful, $name. Men like my husband adore virtue. It makes such a convenient leash.”'' Lucius peers at her for a moment, lips pursed and brow set. But he doesn't argue. </p> <<else>> <p> ''"How could I shame a man in your position, my lord?"'' Your lips quirk as you regard the man standing before you, above you, gaze leveled with his despite the difference in height, ''"If I shame you, certainly it's because you allowed me to."'' </p> <p> You keep your tone level, but they can feel the edge in it, the little flare of bravado that the feast will happily turn into a story if your response got out from beyond this protected and carefully catered bubble. ''“I’ll do what’s expected when it makes sense. If you want more than that, make it worth my while.”'' </p> <p> Lucius goes still. Not startled, not offended in the way lesser men get offended, only colder, as if a door has closed somewhere inside him. ''“You’re in a collar,”'' he says quietly. ''“Do not speak like you’re negotiating from a throne.”'' He lets the words hang, then continues, voice measured and clinical. ''“If you shame this House, you won’t be clever, you’ll be punished. Publicly, so the lesson spreads faster than the mistake.”'' </p> <p> Livia’s laughter is soft, delighted, and it makes the nearest listeners smile without knowing why. ''“Oh,”'' she murmurs, leaning a fraction closer, eyes bright. ''“He’s got teeth.”'' Then she glances toward Lucius, pleased to see the irritation he’s trying not to show. ''“Don’t look so grim, husband. It’s almost flattering. A young man in chains pretending he can still bite. Let us humor him until we have better reason not to.”'' </p> <</if>> <</nobr>> Lucius turns his cup once in his hand, slow, as if closing a page. ''“Roles exist for a reason,”'' he says, voice returning to that quiet, administrative calm. ''“A House runs smoothly when everyone performs what is expected of them. When one part fails, it spreads. One idiot’s bravado becomes everyone’s punishment. That is why discipline exists. Not for cruelty, but for function.”'' His gaze settles on you again, and the line of his mouth hardens into something like finality. ''“We’ll see if you live up to your answers, $name.”'' <<nobr>> <<if $auction_winner is "Livia">> <p> Livia’s smile turns intimate, almost lazy, as if she’s already bored of the formalities and eager for the private part of the evening. ''“And I’ll find you later, dear,”'' she says, soft enough that it feels meant only for you. ''“Don’t get lost in the hall. It’s full of hands that like to borrow what they didn’t buy.”'' </p> <p> Her eyes flick to your collar and back to your face. ''“Besides,”'' she adds, breathy and amused with a pleasant tilt to her voice, ''“I hate when my things wander too far.”'' </p> <<elseif $auction_winner is "Sibylla">> <p> Livia’s gaze drifts away from you, toward some deeper portion of the hall that your eyes can't quite claim from here. ''“As for your Countess,”'' she says sweetly, the sweetness its own kind of pressure, ''“Sibylla prefers to watch before she speaks. She’s here. Quietly. I'm sure you'll see her eventually.”'' </p> <p> A soft laugh touches her words. ''“Don’t mistake that distance for disinterest,”'' Livia murmurs, ''“My dear friend simply enjoys letting people underestimate her. It makes their surprises all the more satisfying.”'' </p> <<elseif $auction_winner is "Alesia">> <p> Livia’s brows lift as she glances toward the lanes near the hall’s entrance, as if expecting a storm to sweep in wearing perfume. ''“Lady Alesia,”'' she says, half-amused, ''“Will arrive when she decides the room has missed her enough.”'' </p> <p> Her smile sharpens, red gaze flicking back onto you. ''“Try not to stare when she does,”'' Livia adds lightly. ''“It encourages her. You should see her when she's in one of her... moods. Mmph.”'' </p> <<else>> <p> ''“That girl who bought you should be here somewhere,”'' Livia says, eyes drifting lazily over the hall without truly looking for her. A soft laugh touches the words. ''“The only reason she came tonight is you, you know.”'' She tips her head, smile turning intimate, teasing. ''“You’re quite the investment for her, dear. Don’t disappoint her, hmm?”'' </p> <p> She gives you a quick wink, or perhaps it’s only the candlelight catching the curve of her eye, and then her mouth quirks again as if she’s already imagining what Novia will do with her purchase once the hall grows bored. </p> <</if>> <</nobr>> Cassian steps forward at once, not by chance, but because Lucius beckons him with a small motion of two fingers, the same effortless command that once called you in. ''“That will be all. Mind the feast, now.”'' Lucius says, tone mild, final. Livia’s smile lingers like a fingertip at your throat. But Cassian’s hand finds your arm, firm and guiding. You turn from the dais and follow him away, moving back into the bulk of the feast where heat, music, and a hundred watching eyes swallow you again. [[Yet, you feel just as lost in it all as before.|chp3_housevarrofeast_questions2]]

You catch flashes of your companions as Cassian spreads you like pieces across a board. Renkar is steered toward a table where men with heavy rings grin as if they’ve already decided what story they want him to be. Voss is placed nearer the center, where eyes can rake over him cleanly. Rilash slips a step too far from a servant and earns a soft, corrective hiss, tail flicking once in irritation before he composes himself. Cassian stops you at the edge of the room, where the banners cast deeper shadows and a side alcove opens like a private mouth. A few couches sit there, half-hidden by hanging cloth and the drift of bodies. It's quieter, but not safe, a place where people watch from the edges without being watched back. ''“Stand there if you don’t know what else to do,”'' Cassian murmurs. He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, only at the room, reading it much the way he reads a yard. ''“The servants will keep you presentable. Oil you. Repaint you. Fix anything that slips.”'' His gaze flicks to your collar and returns to your face, flat and warning. ''“If you strike up conversations,”'' he says, ''“Mind your manners, $name. House Varro has no shortage of whip and chain if you do something stupid.”'' A servant drifts close at once, carrying a small jar of oil and a cloth. She smiles as if she’s offering comfort, but her eyes keep checking Cassian’s posture for permission. Behind her, the alcove breathes with soft voices and private laughter. Then near the far corner of the alcove, you swear that you spot a familiar face, half reclined among cushions and candelight, dressed in something ridiculous and expensive. A gemmed collar glitters at his throat like a joke made in stone. Gant. And beside him, framed by silk and shadow, a mature noblewoman with soft weight and confident posture laughs with a sound that makes people turn their heads. You could keep your place, let the servants fuss over you, and survive the night by being decoration. Or you could pay a visit toward the only familiar thing in this room. [[Approach Gant.|chp3_housevarrofeast_gant]] [[Remain where Cassian placed you.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch]]

You move toward the alcove as though you're approaching a mirage that might break the moment you get too close. From the edge of the feast, Gant is only a vague shape among silk and candlelight, half reclined like a man who's found his own pocket of comfort in a room full of polished teeth. Each step makes him sharper, more real, the gemmed collar at his throat as gaudy as a crown. He's cleaner than you remember, shaggy hair oiled and combed back. Skin washed, scrubbed and well-tended, his posture is loose, almost lazy. You're instantly reminded that this is the man that's as home in a sweaty stone cell as wherever else fortune may bring him. And yet there's still that ragged quality to him, the wolfish thing he carries no matter what cloth you hang on his shoulders. The set of his jaw, the restless alertness behind the ease, like a stray that’s learned a warm hearth can still turn on you if you move too fast. He’s stroking a wolfhound at his knee. The beast is large, dark-coated and broad-chested, with wet jowls that glisten in the candlelight. It pants slow and content, tongue lolling, drool shining on its lip as it leans into Gant’s hand like it owns him. When the hound lifts its head, you catch the eyes and you almost laugh, because there's something familiar there. The same blunt, watchful stare and shameless appetite. Even the damned hair looks like his in the wrong light, coarse, shaggy and unruly. It’s a ridiculous thought, but it lands anyway. <<set $chp3_feast_gant_visit = true>> [[Why does the wolfhound kind of look like him?|chp3_housevarrofeast_gant1]]

Cassian leaves you at the edge of the room like a piece placed on a board, not meant to move unless moved. A servant appears almost immediately, as if she’d been waiting for the signal. She carries a shallow dish of oil and a cloth, and her smile is careful, rehearsed, the kind that asks permission without using words. She doesn’t meet your eyes for long. Her hands do the work instead. A quick pass across your shoulder where the paint has dulled, a touch at your jaw where sweat has begun to steal the shine. She rubs the oil in with practiced speed, smoothing you into something the hall can enjoy. Another comes behind her and checks the lines of your adornment as if you’re a display that might disappoint. She tucks a loosened strap, pinches cloth into place, dusts glitter back onto the parts that catch light best. She dabs at a smear on your collarbone, then pauses a heartbeat, as if noticing the heat of you, the simple fact of breath, and quickly pretends she didn’t. ''“Still,”'' one of them murmurs, not unkind, and you obey because the word is wrapped in the soft tone of someone who's learned what happens to those who don’t. The feast rolls on around you, warm and cruel in its comfort. From here, you can watch the hall in slices. A nobleman leans too close to a courtesan and laughs at his own joke, pleased with himself. Two guards trade a glance when a drunk guest grows loud, the look that says, not yet, let him embarrass himself a little more. A woman in jade jewelry lifts her cup and watches the dais as if she’s measuring the distance between herself and power. You catch your companions where Cassian scattered them. Renkar stands nearer a table of older men with hard hands and soft sleeves, the kind who talk like they’ve earned everything and never admit what they’ve stolen. He wears his patience like a bruise, nodding and grunting when spoken to, barely managing a crooked smirk to try and sell the act. You can feel his hatred from across the room, steady as a pulse. Voss has been placed where the light falls cleaner, closer to the center. He holds himself rigidly, as if his posture can keep him from being read. He looks like a man trying to become invisible by being perfect, the hall’s attention sliding toward him anyway, curious about what might crack first. Rilash lingers near a cluster of servants and hanging cloth, damp-furred and offended by the whole idea of being groomed and displayed. His ears twitch at every sudden sound, his tail flicking often, sharp and irritated, only stilling when he realizes how closely he’s being watched. You can only imagine that the Beastkin's memorizing doors, windows, routes out of the hall. And Cassian moves between them all, quiet as a blade carried low. He speaks little, correcting those less experienced with a touch, a look, words that don't need to rise above the music. He belongs here in the way a jailer belongs to a cell, not because he enjoys it, but because it's his function. The servants finish their work and retreat a step, hovering close enough to fix you again when the night starts to wear you down. The oil on your skin catches torchlight. The paint makes you look less like a man and more like a story someone paid to hear. From this edge, you can simply watch. Learn the rhythm of the hall, the faces that matter, the ones that pretend they don’t. Or you can let your thoughts drift to the other rhythm beneath it, The quiet math of exits, lapses, the brief moments when the feast forgets its own locks. [[Soak in the evening, watch the court.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch1][$chp3_feast_edgewatch="soak"]] [[Your mind wanders towards the idea of escape.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape][$chp3_feast_edgewatch="escape"]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp3_gant_feast.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Gant is meant to be ashamed, you think. He’s meant to be sitting stiff with a lowered gaze, a man trying not to be seen. That’s what you expect. Instead, he looks like he belongs there. Beside him, the noblewoman throws her head back mid-laugh, full-bodied and warm, her amusement spilling into the alcove as if she paid extra to have the air sweeter. She's soft in the way wealth makes people soft, draped in fine cloth, rings bright on her fingers, cheeks flushed from wine and comfort. There’s confidence in her, easy as breathing. She gestures as she speaks, relaxed, and the people around her lean in because she’s enjoyable to be around. You draw nearer and she glances your way, smile still on her mouth, curious rather than alarmed. The hound’s ears twitch. Its nose lifts, sniffing the air like it’s weighing you. Gant doesn’t notice you at first. He’s listening to her, laughing at something she said, one hand on the wolfhound’s neck, fingers sunk into thick fur. The dog drools on his boot and Gant doesn’t even flinch, like that too has become a new normal. Then his eyes flick, finally catching you. For half a heartbeat, he stares as if his brain refuses to accept what his eyes are sending it. Then his brows jump and his mouth splits in a grin that is purely him; wolfish, unguarded, too loud and unruly for a room like this. ''“No fuckin’ way,”'' he says, and the words come out before he can dress them up. He leans forward, squinting like you might be a trick of the light. ''“Is that $name that I fuckin’ see? In the flesh, no less."'' [[The wolfhound shifts, head turning with him, as if it shares his surprise.|chp3_housevarrofeast_gant2]]

Gant’s laugh bursts out, bright, ugly and real. ''“By the Gods,”'' he says, voice rough with it, ''“It’s been a while since I’ve seen your ugly mug, mate.”'' He reaches for a cup as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to offer a gladiator wine at a noble’s elbow. The gesture is immediate, human, all old habit and no caution. He thrusts it toward you readily, grin still wide. ''“Here,”'' he says, already making room on the cushions with his knee. ''“Come on. Don’t just stand there lookin’ like a painted statue. Not really your style anyway, mate.”'' The noblewoman’s eyes flick from him to you, still smiling, faint confusion slipping in around the edges, but she doesn’t stiffen. She looks amused that something unscripted has wandered into her little corner of the room. Gant's still half laughing when her hand reaches out, not harsh, not even hurried, just a light correction placed with practiced ease. A fingertip brushes his wrist, a reminder rather than a slap. ''“Now,”'' she says warmly, like she’s indulging him, ''“Manners, darling.”'' Gant pauses, breath caught between laughter and sense, the unruly grin never leaving his face. But you see the shift, the smallest of adjustments in him. The wolfhound’s tail thumps once against the floor, slow and pleased, as if it approves of everyone staying exactly where they belong. [[And so you remain standing for the time being.|chp3_housevarrofeast_gant3]]

Gant’s grin falters for half a breath, the way a dog’s grin falters when it remembers the hand that holds the leash. His eyes flick to Rosamunde’s fingers on his wrist, and you see the little recalibration, the quick pivot from old alley manners to whatever rules keep him comfortable here. He lets out a short laugh, rubbing at his own face like he’s wiping away his first impulse. ''“Ah, fuck me,”'' he says, openly amused with himself, as if the mistake is a joke he’s allowed to make once. ''“How could I forget.”'' He sits up a touch, shoulders squaring in a parody of formality that still doesn’t quite fit him, then gestures at the noblewoman with a flourish that would look dignified on a better trained dog. ''“$name,”'' Gant says, voice loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to draw the wrong kind of attention, ''“This is Madame Rosamunde Blumberg. The wealthiest and bustiest, I mean, beautiful-est woman that I’ve ever had the pleasure of… uh, serving.”'' His wolfish grin returns, unrepentant, and his eyes speak for him, all mischief and the faint thrill of getting away with it. The wolfhound huffs and leans harder into his hand, as if the beast approves of flattery, or at least enjoys the sound of its master being bold. Rosamunde’s laughter comes easy. It isn’t a brittle noble laugh, it has warmth in it, a real sound that fills the alcove. ''“Rosa,”'' she says, waving away her own title like it’s a cloak she’s tired of wearing indoors. ''“Please. If you call me Madame again I’ll start feeling ancient, and then I’ll have to start biting people.”'' Her eyes settle on you, bright and curious; no fear or disgust, only that practiced confidence that comes from never having been helpless. She looks you over the way she might look over a new horse, or a new gown, and you feel the weight of it without knowing what to do with it. ''“Don’t let me get in the way,”'' Rosa adds, still smiling. ''“You two catch up. I’m content to listen and enjoy the show.”'' [[She listens, seeming all the happier for it.|chp3_housevarrofeast_gant4]]

Gant makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat, as if granted permission to be himself again. He pats the cushion beside him, then immediately thinks better of it and pats it again, slower, as if it’s an invitation rather than an order. ''“So,”'' he says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping into something more familiar, “''You’re a proper gladiator now, mate, ain’t that right. How the hell have you been surviving.”'' He says it like he’s asking about weather, but his eyes are sharp, watching for the crack in you. <<nobr>> <p> <<if $chp3_ludus_stat is "might">> You shrug, because shrugging is easier than confessing how often you’ve wanted to vomit from exhaustion. ''“You get tough,”'' you say. ''“You learn how to take it, and keep breathing.”'' <p> ''“They grind you down until the pain stops being new,”'' you add, quiet, honest. ''“Then they hit you again, and you discover what’s under that.”'' </p> <<elseif $chp3_ludus_stat is "mobility">> You shift your weight without thinking, the habit already in your body. ''“You stay on your toes,”'' you say. ''“You learn to move before the blow is there.”'' <p> ''“They teach you that hesitation is a bruise,”'' you add. ''“Adapt, or get folded.”'' </p> <<elseif $chp3_ludus_stat is "mind">> You glance past him for a heartbeat, taking in the alcove, the exits, the watching eyes, the rhythm of servants. ''“You watch,”'' you say. ''“You learn.”'' <p> ''“You stay alert,”'' you add, voice low. ''“You figure out what people want from you before they say it.”'' </p> <</if>> <</nobr>> Gant lets out a breath that might be relief, might be admiration, might be both. ''“Aye,”'' he says, and his grin softens into something almost proud. ''“That sounds about right.”'' You look at him again, really look, and the words come before you can temper them. ''“You look… great, Gant.”'' It’s not flattery, but surprise. Gant barks a laugh, loud enough that the wolfhound’s tail thumps once against the floor. ''“Aye,”'' he says, and there’s a swagger in it that would have gotten him punched in another life. ''“You would’ve thought everythin’ would fall into place like this.”'' He spreads his hands as if presenting his own existence. ''“Met my dream gal, I sleep in a real bed, eat better than ever before.”'' His grin turns wicked. ''“Hell, I ain’t lived this good my entire life.”'' Rosa’s expression warms in a way that is almost indecently kind. ''“You deserve this, sweetheart,”'' she says, and when she says it, She means it, like a verdict she has the full authority to grant. She reaches for a plate piled with sweet and savory, little pastries glossy with glaze beside slices of meat and fruit. She takes her time choosing, as if indulgence is a right, not a sin. Then her gaze slips to you again, casual, assessing. ''“And you, $name,”'' Rosa says lightly, ''“Are they feeding you properly, dear?”'' [[“Enough, my lady.”|chp3_housevarrofeast_gant5][$chp3_rosa_feeding="polite"]] [[“Depends what you call feeding.”|chp3_housevarrofeast_gant5][$chp3_rosa_feeding="wry"]] [[“I’m still standing, aren’t I.”|chp3_housevarrofeast_gant5][$chp3_rosa_feeding="guarded"]]

<<nobr>> <<if $chp3_rosa_feeding is "polite">> <p> ''“Enough, my lady.”'' You keep your tone respectful, steady. ''“They feed us. Bread, stew, meat when it’s earned. Better than the wagons.”'' </p> <p> Rosa hums as if you’ve answered a question about linens or candle-wax. ''“Enough is such an ugly word,”'' she says, still smiling. ''“It’s what people say when they’ve been taught not to ask for more.”'' </p> <p> She turns her head slightly toward a passing servant, not raising her voice, not needing to. ''“Bring him something warm,”'' Rosa says. ''“Something that doesn’t taste like punishment.”'' </p> <<elseif $chp3_rosa_feeding is "wry">> <p> ''“Depends what you call feeding.”'' Your mouth quirks before you can stop it. ''“Some nights it’s broth and hard bread. Some nights it’s better. Depends who’s pleased.”'' </p> <p> Rosa’s laugh comes quick and genuine. ''“Honest,”'' she says, delighted, as if you’ve given her a fine little story to keep. ''“I do appreciate honest.”'' </p> <p> She gestures toward her own plate, casual as sunlight. ''“Then take something that tastes like a person made it,”'' Rosa says. ''“Before I start feeling guilty, and I hate that mood.”'' </p> <<else>> <p> ''“I’m still standing, aren’t I.”'' You keep it short. You don’t bare your throat more than you have to. </p> <p> Rosa’s brows lift, amused, not offended. ''“Ah,”'' she says softly, ''“So we have pride.”'' Her smile doesn’t falter, but it sharpens at the edges. ''“Careful, dear. Pride makes men hungry in ways food can’t fix.”'' </p> <p> Then she waves a hand, as if dismissing the sting she just placed. ''“Still,”'' Rosa adds, warm again, ''“standing is a good start. Let’s improve the rest.”'' </p> <</if>> <</nobr>> A servant arrives as if the air itself produced her, tray balanced on her palms. Warm bread. Slices of meat glazed dark. A small cup of wine and another of water. She keeps her eyes lowered, smile ready, waiting for permission to exist. Gant takes the tray straight off her hands like it’s his due, already grinning, already talking. But Rosa clicks her tongue, gentle as a hand on a shoulder. ''“Say thank you, darling,”'' she murmurs. ''“I taught you better manners than that.”'' Gant freezes for a half breath, then he’s all contrition and charm, exaggerated enough to be funny. He turns back to the servant and dips his head with a flourish that belongs on a stage. ''“Thank you,”'' he says, sweet as syrup and twice as shameless. ''“You’re a saint.”'' The servant’s smile widens, not because she’s pleased, but because Rosa is. Gant waits until the servant’s eyes flick away, then gives you a slow, conspiratorial roll of his eyes that says everything without needing words. See what I deal with. Rosa notices anyway. Of course she does. She laughs, warm and bright, and taps the rim of her cup with one ringed finger. ''“He forgets himself when he’s excited,”'' Rosa tells you, as if you’re both sharing the same private joke. Then she turns that smile on the servant too, including her like a prop. ''“Can’t help himself. But that’s part of why I cherish him.”'' The servant lets out a small laugh on cue. The kind of laugh that keeps a roof over your head. Meanwhile, Gant takes a bite, chewing like a happy animal, the wolfhound at his knee watching the food with mild interest and wet patience. The beast drools once, thick and lazy, Gant wiping it absently with the back of his hand as if this, too, is part of the evening’s comfort. Rosa rises with a smoothness that makes her softness look like power, adjusting her dress with the ease of someone who never has to hurry. ''“I’m going to the little lady’s room,”'' she announces, as if the words themselves are a joke. Her gaze slides to Gant. ''“Be good.”'' Then to you, amused. ''“And don’t poison him while I’m gone. I’d hate to have to replace him.”'' She laughs softly and glides away into the moving warmth of the feast, leaving perfume and candlelight behind her like a curtain closing. The alcove already feels quieter without her. [[Gant swallows, wipes his mouth.|chp3_housevarrofeast_gant6]]

Rosa disappears into the feast’s moving body, swallowed by candlelight and silk as if she was never there at all. Gant waits two heartbeats, just long enough to be sure she’s out of earshot, then the performance slips off him like a cloak. He leans over the tray and starts eating with real hunger, tearing at bread and meat as if he’s been pretending not to be starving this whole time. He slurps from the wine with a vulgar satisfaction, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, grin returning between bites. He splays one hand toward you, palm up, generous as a thief with a full purse. ''“Help yourself, mate,”'' he says around a mouthful. ''“Plenty t’go around.”'' The wolfhound noses closer at once, jowls wet, eyes fixed on the tray. Gant laughs under his breath and flicks scraps down to it, a piece of meat, a torn corner of bread. The beast takes it delicately for something so big, chewing slow, tail thumping once in contentment. For a moment they look like two dogs at the same bowl, one in silk, one in fur, both of them pleased. You don’t reach for the food right away. You let your eyes roam. The alcove feels like a pocket cut into the feast, quieter, half-hidden by drapes and bodies, yet still porous. Servants drift in and out with trays, heads bowed, smiles painted on. They move in patterns, not random, like water finding the easiest channel. Two of them pass close enough that you catch a whisper and a quick glance, then the glance snaps away as if burned. Behind the hanging cloth, you notice a seam in the room. A servant door, narrow and practical, half-concealed by drapes that are meant to look decorative. Every so often a figure slips through it and vanishes, carrying something that never reaches the tables. Wine. Linen. Messages. The artery behind the skin. And there’s the guard rotation, too. You see it once you know to look. Two Varro guards stationed near the alcove’s mouth, then one is pulled away by a nod from a superior, leaving a brief gap. A lull. A stretch of time where the eyes are elsewhere, attention pulled toward the dais, toward laughter, toward wealth. Sparsely watched. The kind of sparsely watched that lasts only a few minutes, and then closes again. Gant follows your gaze for a moment, cheeks full, but there's no indication of awareness there. Just the contentment of a fed man, wiping his mouth as he finally leans back into the cushions, wine in hand. [[Keep it light. You could use a moment to relax.|chp3_housevarrofeast_gant_light]] [[Conspire with Gant.|chp3_housevarrofeast_gant_conspire]]

<<nobr>> <<if $chp3_gant_conspire is "abort">> <p> ''“Forget I said anything,”'' you murmur, voice low enough to drown in the music. </p> <p> Gant holds your gaze a heartbeat longer, the idea still flickering behind his eyes like a candle you’ve just snuffed with wet fingers. Intrigued. Tempted. Then he exhales, the moment folding back into comfort. </p> <p> ''“Alright, mate,”'' he says softly, like he’s letting you put the knife away without comment. He takes a long pull from the jug and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ''“Just talkin’, eh.”'' </p> <<elseif $chp3_gant_plot is "forfeit">> <p> ''“Forget I said anything,”'' you murmur. ''“I don’t want to rope you into trouble.”'' </p> <p> Gant’s grin twitches and dies, replaced by something more honest, more wary. For a moment he looks like the man you remember from before the collars, the one who could smell danger and still walk toward it. Then he shakes his head once, quick. </p> <p> ''“Sorry, mate,”'' he whispers, and the apology isn’t for refusing. It’s for knowing you might be right. ''“Just… don’t want you to get yourself got, y’know.”'' He forces the grin back on, exaggerated and bright, like a mask he can wear until it becomes true. ''“This place eats people. Even the pretty ones.”'' </p> <</if>> <</nobr>> Gant shifts on the cushions as if he can shake the heaviness out of the air. He picks up a strip of meat and tears into it, then offers you the platter with a rude generosity. ''“Here,”'' he says, ''“If you’re gonna brood, at least do it with a full mouth.”'' The wolfhound watches the food with a steady stare, drool shining at the lip. Gant flicks it a scrap without looking. The beast catches it and chews slow, pleased as a hearth, tail thumping once. Gant’s eyes slide over your collar, your paint, the way the feast has tried to turn you into something ornamental. His grin goes crooked. ''“Look at you,”'' he murmurs, half impressed, half laughing. ''“All polished up. Proper House Varro property.”'' He leans in just a touch, voice dropping into something conspiratorial but harmless. ''“They done puttin’ glitter on your balls too, or do you get that later.”'' Before you can answer, he snorts at his own joke, shoulders shaking. It’s stupid. It’s relief. It’s the closest thing to normal you’ve had in days. A shadow falls across the alcove and perfume follows it like a banner. Rosa returns, cheeks faintly flushed, looking pleased with herself in the way of someone who has never had to ask permission for anything, even a moment of privacy. She pauses beside the cushions, smile warm as wine. ''“There you are,”'' she says, and there’s amusement in it, as if she expected to come back to trouble and is delighted to find you both still intact. Her gaze settles on you. ''“It was nice to meet you, dear.”'' She taps Gant lightly, affectionate and corrective in one motion. ''“And you,”'' she adds, ''“Try not to drink the whole jug while I’m gone. I would like to keep you upright.”'' Gant grins up at her, shameless. ''“Yes, Rosa.”'' Rosa’s eyes return to you, bright and comfortable. ''“I do enjoy Duchess Varro’s little festivities,”'' she says, as if the hall belongs to Livia the way weather belongs to the sky. ''“Which means you and I, and you and Gant, will keep seeing each other often enough.”'' Her smile sharpens into playful certainty. ''“Cradle is a small place when powerful people decide it is.”'' Somewhere out in the hall, a new swell of laughter rises, and the music shifts. The feast moves on, hungry for its next diversion. Rosa gestures lightly, a dismissal dressed as kindness. ''“Now,”'' she says, ''“Go on. Before someone decides you’ve been hiding from your duties.”'' [[You part from your companion and his new owner with a wave.|chp3_housevarrofeast_gant_return]]

You lean a fraction closer, not enough to look like plotting, just enough to make your words disappear into the common noise. ''“You ever thought about…”'' You murmur, eyes drifting past him as if you’re only watching the room, ''“.., finding a way out of here, Gant?”'' Gant keeps chewing. For a moment he chews like he didn’t hear you, jaw working slow, mouth full, a string of meat hanging at the corner of his lips. Then he swallows, and the movement in his throat looks suddenly exposed beneath that jeweled collar. His green eyes widen a touch, wolfish and bright, and the grin he wore a second ago doesn’t quite know where to go. ''“Out of here?”'' he whispers back, too quick, too rough. His hand rises and he hooks a finger under the collar as if to prove to himself it’s real. ''“Y’mean… outta these.”'' You barely nod. You don’t give the thought more air than it needs. Your gaze flicks past the drapes again, past the narrow servant door that opens and closes like a mouth, past the guards who drift in their rotation and leave this edge thin for a handful of breaths. Gant curses under his breath, soft and vicious, like the word is aimed at you and at himself. ''“Fuck,”'' he says. ''“You really thinkin’ that way. Should've figured.”'' Then he does what he always does when fear shows up. He turns it into a joke and pretends it’s not fear at all. He snorts, shakes his head, and leans back with false ease. ''“I mean, makes sense,”'' He mutters. ''“I wouldn’t wanna walk around all sweaty, bruised, an’ naked with a bunch of other jacked blokes.”'' His eyes narrow at you, suddenly intent. ''“None of them have touched ya, have they, $name?”'' ''“What?”'' you whisper, caught between laughter and anger. ''“No.”'' Gant stares at you a heartbeat longer, searching your face for the truth beneath the answer. The wolfhound lifts its head as if it can feel the change in the air, then settles again, drool shining, patient. Your next words decide whether this stays a stupid thought, or becomes a knife you both have to hold. [[I get if you want to stay. Our situations are different. But I want to be free, Gant.|chp3_housevarrofeast_gant_conspire1][$chp3_gant_conspire="free"]] [[We weren’t born to be slaves, Gant. There’s no dignity in this life.|chp3_housevarrofeast_gant_conspire1][$chp3_gant_conspire="dignity"]] [[Forget I said anything.|chp3_housevarrofeast_gant_light][$chp3_gant_conspire="abort"]]

<<nobr>> <<if $chp3_gant_conspire is "free">> <p> Gant quiets. The grin fades into something more careful, more practical. He isn’t only weighing his own comfort, you can see it. He’s weighing you, too. Your collar. Your bruises. The fact that you’re still breathing. </p> <p> ''“Fuck, $name,”'' he whispers, and there’s a rough admiration in it, half curse and half confession. ''“Why you gotta make so much sense?”'' </p> <p> He drags his thumb once along the edge of his jeweled collar as if testing whether it can be broken by will alone. His eyes flick toward the drapes, the servant door, the shifting guards, then back to you. </p> <p> ''“Out there is the Third,”'' he murmurs. ''“Or worse. Where would we even go?”'' His voice drops further. ''“Can you rough it out a few more weeks while we make a plan, $name. Proper plan. Not a mad dash that gets us gutted in some alley.”'' </p> <p> The wolfhound huffs at his knee, a wet breath, then settles again, as if it has no opinion on freedom so long as someone keeps feeding it. </p> <p> Gant’s gaze stays fixed on you. The fear in him is plain now, but so is the temptation. He’s waiting for you to decide what kind of foolishness this is. </p> <<elseif $chp3_gant_conspire is "dignity">> <p> Gant’s first reaction is a snort, reflexive and defensive, like you’ve insulted him more than you’ve insulted the House. He shifts on the cushions, shoulders squaring as if he’s back in the yard and you’ve called him weak. </p> <p> ''“Dignity,”'' he mutters, tasting the word like it’s something he doesn’t trust. ''“What’s that got to do with anything?”'' He gestures at Rosa’s cushions, the food, the wine, the warmth. ''“I got a beautiful woman at my side, more food than I can eat, a great bed.”'' His eyes narrow, almost pleading with you to understand. ''“I ain’t the brightest, $name, but I’d be a jackass to throw that all away an’ go back to the Third, don’t ya think?”'' </p> <p> You keep your voice low. ''“And yet we’ll always be someone’s lesser with these collars around our throats.”'' </p> <p> Gant’s jaw works. He looks away for a heartbeat, then back, stubborn, but not untouched. ''“They can think what they want,”'' he whispers. ''“As long as I’m comfortable with a full belly.”'' </p> <p> The words are hard, but there’s honesty under them, and fear too. He’s telling you what he can bear. He’s telling you what he can’t. </p> <</if>> <</nobr>> The alcove hums softly around you, candlelight and muffled laughter, servants moving like ghosts beyond the drapes. Somewhere out in the hall, a bell rings and a cheer rises, then fades again. Gant watches you, waiting. The choice isn’t only about escape. It’s about what kind of men you're allowed to be. <<nobr>> <p> <<if $chp3_gant_conspire is "free">> [[We go now. There might not be another opportunity like this.|chp3_housevarrofeast_gant_escape][$chp3_gant_plot="now"]] <<ci lore>> <br> [[We can come up with a plan. There’s no reason to throw our lives away.|chp3_housevarrofeast_conspire2][$chp3_gant_plot="long"]] <<ci lore>> <br> [[You're right. I don’t want to rope you into this.|chp3_housevarrofeast_gant_light][$chp3_gant_plot="forfeit"]] <<else>> [[Pigs and cattle have full bellies, Gant. We’re men. Free men.|chp3_housevarrofeast_gant_escape][$chp3_gant_plot="now"]] <<ci lore>> <br> [[There’s more to life than simple pleasures. We have to plan for the future.|chp3_housevarrofeast_conspire2][$chp3_gant_plot="long"]] <<ci lore>> <br> [[We feel differently, then. I won’t rope you into this.|chp3_housevarrofeast_gant_light][$chp3_gant_plot="forfeit"]] <</if>> </p> <</nobr>>

<<nobr>> <<if $chp3_gant_conspire is "free">> <p> Gant stares at you like you’ve put a knife in his hand and asked him whether he remembers how to use it. His throat bobs once beneath the jeweled collar, and his eyes flick past your shoulder to the drapes, the servant door hidden there, the thin gaps in the guard rotation you’ve been counting like prayers. </p> <p> ''“Fuck, $name,”'' he mutters, almost reverent, almost angry. ''“You really do mean it.”'' </p> <<else>> <p> Gant’s jaw works, stubborn as ever, like he’s trying to chew down your words and spit them out. The defiance is still there, the comfort too, and you can see the two of them wrestling in the space behind his eyes. </p> <p> ''“Fuck, $name,”'' he mutters anyway, because even he can feel the door crack open in the world. His fingers hook under the collar for a heartbeat, then drop as if the touch burns. </p> <</if>> <</nobr>> He doesn’t laugh it off this time. He doesn’t wave it away with another crude joke. The thought has weight now, and you can see it settling on him, bending him toward something he hasn’t dared to want. He starts scarfing down food and drink anyway, not like he’s running this second, but like a man trying to store courage in his belly. Meat torn in greedy bites. Bread swallowed too fast. Wine slurped straight from the jug until it beads on his lower lip. He tosses scraps to the wolfhound, too, quick and practiced, feeding it with the same absent affection he’s been feeding it all night. The hound chews and drools and watches you with wet patience, as if it can smell change the way it smells blood. Gant wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and tries to laugh, but it comes out rough. ''“I can’t let ya do this alone, mate,”'' he whispers, and there’s something almost boyish in the confession. He leans closer, voice thick with wine and fear. ''“Once fuck-brothers, always fuck-brothers.”'' It’s a stupid line. It’s a real one. It lands in your chest like a hand closing. You don’t have time to savor it. He glances toward the drapes, then away, then back again. His eyes are bright with fear and calculation. ''“But not like this,”'' he adds, quickly, like he’s afraid you’ll bolt the moment he shows hesitation. ''“Not straight out the door like some drunken dare.”'' He swallows. ''“I got Rosa. I got… freedom of movement in this place you don’t have. I can look around. I can see which doors open, which ones lead to guards, which ones lead to kitchens, which ones lead to holes.”'' You keep your gaze steady on the alcove’s edge, on the way the servants move like water, on the way the drapes barely stir when someone slips through. You point with your chin, not your hand. ''“That door,”'' you murmur. ''“Behind the cloth.”'' ''“Aye,”'' Gant breathes. ''“I see it.”'' He nods once, slower now, forcing the courage to stay in his body. ''“But we do this smart.”'' His mouth twists. ''“Come back later. Before the feast ends. When they’re drunker. When the guards are bored an’ the servants are tired.”'' ''“And if there’s no later?”'' you whisper. Gant’s eyes harden, just for a breath. ''“Then I’ll make later,”'' he says, and the stubbornness in him becomes something you can actually use. He hooks a finger under his collar again, not testing it, but promising it. ''“You come find me. Same alcove. I’ll have somethin’. A route. A key. A lie that works.”'' The noise of the hall swells and shifts, laughter rising, music changing. A nearby cheer rolls like thunder and fades. For a handful of breaths the alcove is neglected, watched only by habit. You feel it. The thinness in the air. The House blinking. Gant takes one last pull from the jug, then sets it down with a carefulness that looks almost holy. He leans close again, and his voice turns rough, urgent. ''“Just… don’t do anythin’ stupid while you're gone,”'' he murmurs. ''“Don’t go playin’ hero. Don’t go gettin’ yourself killed for pride.”'' He tries to grin, but it doesn’t quite form. ''“I’ll help you,”'' he says again, quieter. ''“I swear it. Just give me a little time to do it right.”'' The drapes hang there, heavy and innocent, hiding a mouth that leads into the bones of the House. Tonight. Soon enough that you can already taste the cold air of the Third on your tongue. [[You trust in your friend, and the plan.|chp3_housevarrofeast_gant_return][$chp3_gant_plot="tonight"]]

Gant stares at you for a beat too long, chewing on the thought the way he chews on meat, slow and stubborn, as if he can break it down into something safe. Then he exhales. ''“Thank the Gods,”'' he mutters, and the relief in it is almost ugly, ''“Thought you meant like… tonight.”'' He shakes his head once, hard, as if he’s shaking off the image of sprinting through corridors with knives at your back. His hand finds the jeweled collar again, thumb rubbing beneath it, not tender, just habitual. ''“I still got food to eat,”'' he adds, half laughing now, half scolding you for being reckless. ''“Gotta pack on the pounds if we’re ever gonna be back down the Third again, yeah.”'' His grin turns wolfish again, but it’s thinner than before. ''“Can’t be runnin’ the alleys lookin’ like some half-starved saint.”'' He leans in, emboldened by the safer shape the plan has taken, and his voice drops into that familiar gutter confidence. ''“Plus the sex, man,”'' he says, eyes bright with crude delight. ''“Lemme tell ya. She might not look like it, but--”'' A shadow crosses the alcove. Perfume follows it. Gant’s mouth snaps shut so fast you can almost hear his teeth click. He sits up a fraction, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and smooths his expression into something presentable. The wolfhound’s ears twitch, then it settles again, tail thumping once as if it approves of good behavior. Rosa returns, cheeks faintly flushed, looking pleased with herself and amused by whatever she assumes she interrupted. ''“There you are,”'' she says warmly, as if she’s returning to her own sitting room. Her eyes find you, smile still easy. ''“It was nice to meet you, dear.”'' Gant nods, dutiful now, and you catch the tension in his shoulders, the practiced shift into obedience. ''“Rosa,”'' he says, bright and proper, as if he hasn’t just been talking like a dockside lout. Rosa’s fingers brush his hair once, affectionate and possessive all at once. ''“And you,”'' she tells him, ''“Try not to drink the whole jug while I’m gone. I would like to keep you upright.”'' ''“Yes, Rosa,”'' Gant says, grinning, all innocence. Her gaze returns to you. ''“I do enjoy Duchess Varro’s little festivities,”'' Rosa continues, as if the hall belongs to Livia in the same way weather belongs to the sky. ''“Which means you and I, and you and Gant, will keep seeing each other often enough.”'' She tilts her head. ''“Cradle is a small place when powerful people decide it is.”'' You nod, polite. But your eyes flick once, quick, to Gant. And his flick back is just as quick. Nothing is said. Nothing that could be repeated. Yet the glance carries weight, a quiet agreement smuggled between you like a coin slipped into a palm. Not tonight. Not stupidly. But not forever either. Rosa smiles as if she sees nothing and everything. ''“Now,”'' she says lightly, gesturing with two fingers, ''“Go on. Before someone decides you’ve been hiding from your duties.”'' Gant’s grin stays in place, but his eyes linger on you as you rise, sharp and strangely steady now, like a man who's remembered there is a world beyond cushions and collars. [[Onward.|chp3_housevarrofeast_gant_return]]

You leave the alcove with the taste of wine and old familiarity still on your tongue. The warmth of the feast swallows you again. Smoke, spice, the oily sweetness of perfume and cooked fat. Candles gutter in their bowls and are replaced, one after another, by hands that seem to appear out of nowhere and vanish just as quickly. You move through bodies the way a blade moves through cloth, with resistance and heat and the constant sense that someone is watching the cut. A servant catches you near the edge and fusses over you as if you are part of the decor that might slip out of place. A dab of oil along your collarbone. A quick smoothing of paint where sweat has begun to thin it. Fingers that do not ask permission, only do their work, then withdraw before you can decide whether to flinch. The feast keeps changing without ever stopping. Time passes in small signs. Cups empty faster. Laughter grows louder, more careless, and some of it has teeth in it now. Plates turn to bones and slick grease. A song ends and another begins, louder than the last, and the floor feels a touch softer underfoot from spilled wine. Entertainers rotate through the hall like bright birds, and the banners of House Varro hang above it all, jade cloth heavy with that three-pointed red V, as if the House is reminding everyone where the night belongs. [[You catch glimpses of your companions when the crowd parts for a heartbeat.|chp3_housevarrofeast_gant_return1]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp3_owner_livia.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> The screened chamber is not truly private. It's only quieter, a pocket cut from the feast by velvet and wood, where the noise dulls and the air is neither too warm nor too cool. A hearth burns a good distance behind Livia, turning the stonework a deep, living red. The fire makes her eyes look brighter, as if they're reflecting something hungry and deeply destructive. She lounges as though the seat was built for her spine alone, silk drapes falling in heavy folds. A bottle stands open on a low table, two cups waiting, one already touched. When you step into the pocket of space, the room slowly seems to tighten around you both. Even the servants move differently here; slower, careful not to interrupt whatever is about to happen. Livia watches you approach the way a collector watches a prize being carried across a room. Her gaze doesn't wander far. It takes you in piece by piece, paint and oil and collar, all the work the House put into making you presentable. When you stop a respectful distance away, she doesn’t tell you to kneel. She doesn’t need to. The silence does the work for her. A small smile touches her mouth, private and pleased. ''“So,”'' she says at last, soft enough that the word feels like a hand at your throat. ''“Lucius has asked his questions. He thinks in duty and punishment, in neat little roles that keep a House running.”'' Her eyes flick once, as if she can still see him beyond the screen, then return to you. ''“I think in other things.”'' She leans forward, the candlelight catching the curve of her throat, the dark gleam of her choker. ''“Come here, $name,”'' Livia murmurs, and the invitation lands like a command wrapped in velvet. ''“Perhaps I have my own questions for you.”'' [[The feast feels far from over.|gladiator_teaser]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp3_owner_sibylla.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> The messenger leads you through a quieter seam of the feast, a place where most people simply don't linger. A corner claimed by drape and shadow, where the noise thins and the air hangs a breath cooler. A few nobles glance over as you pass, though not many looks linger, polite and uninterested in interfering. Near the back of the alcove, privacy belongs to the woman who prefers her thoughts and feelings unshared. Countess Sibylla sits at a small table set slightly apart, looking as if she's been there the entire night, watching without seeming to. Her dark hair lay arranged in intricate, careful braids above the pale of her gown. A fan rests in her hand, half-open, not for heat but for the simple pleasure of holding something that can hide a smile... or a frown. She looks up and the look lands cleanly, a measured weight, the sort that makes a man remember he's wearing a collar. Her posture is composed without stiffness, no guards hovering nor circle of admirers pressing close like other noblewomen you know. The space around her feels intentional, She dismisses the messenger with a small gesture. Then her eyes return to you, not softening quite yet. ''“Come closer, $name,”'' Sibylla says, her voice quiet, though it carries the way certainty does. ''"Have you forgotten who you belong to?"'' [[Her lips curve the barest hint, a touch of humor that you didn't expect.|gladiator_teaser]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp3_owner_alesia.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Alesia doesn’t need a herald. The hall announces her anyway. Laughter jumps, glasses tilt, conversations turn their heads like dogs catching scent. Even the torches seem to look steadier when she passes, as if the fire itself wants to be noticed in her presence. She's exactly as the whispers always promise. Bold, beautiful, dressed like a dangerous dare. Black leather catching candlelight, rings at her throat like a trophy-chain, a smile that suggests she's already decided how this night should go. She walks as if the stone belongs beneath her boots. The crowd parts without being asked. Her eyes find you and the glance holds, deliberate, amused. It isn’t the gaze of a woman seeking confirmation. It’s the gaze of a woman choosing. A servant tries to intercept her with a nervous murmur, but Alesia only tilts her head, listening for half a breath before drifting on. She stops near a low table by the window where Dosmera’s violet glow stains the city outside, claiming a low couch where she sits back as if she's been there all along. One boot hooks over the edge, then the other, heels up, posture shamelessly relaxed. It's not sloppiness, just comfortable ownership. ''“There you are,”'' she says, loud enough to be heard, but pitched like a private line anyway. ''“I was starting to worry you’d done something entertaining. Stabbed a guard. Thrown a cup at Lucius. Ended up in a dungeon before I even got to see what I bought.”'' Her smile sharpens, playful and predatory. ''“You haven’t, have you? Not yet.”'' She lifts her cup in a lazy toast. ''“Come closer, $name.”'' The words are sweet, but they aren’t a request. ''“I paid good coin for you. I want to see if you’re a bargain, or a disaster.”'' Her eyes flick once over the oil and paint, then settle on your face. ''“And don’t bother lying. I can tell when a man is pretending to be harmless.”'' [[You have a feeling that the feast is far from over.|gladiator_teaser]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp3_owner_novia.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Novia Segune has found a corner the feast keeps forgetting to claim. Just slightly out of the way, where the stone turns darker and the air tastes less of perfume, a small table sits under the purple wash of Dosmera’s distant glow. It's crowded with simple comforts: a bowl of grapes, a half-filled cup, clay jugs that look more practical than luxurious. She sits with her chin in her palm, hair down for once, black waves slipping free around her shoulders. For a moment she looks younger than the title they put on her, caught in a private thought while the hall roars on without needing her. She doesn’t notice you at first. But when she does, her eyes lift and settle, curious and a bit guarded, before the shift happens in her face, recognition settling in. The caution doesn’t vanish, but it softens. Warmth arrives slowly, like a lantern being uncovered. Novia straightens, almost too quickly, as if remembering what she's supposed to be. An heiress, an owner, a noble. Someone who spent coin and expects to be obeyed. The performance lasts a heartbeat before it breaks, replaced by something quieter and more honest. Her fingers tighten once around the stem of her cup, and when she speaks her voice is low enough that it feels meant for you alone. ''“It’s been too long,”'' Novia murmurs. Her eyes flick to your collar, then back to your face, and there's a faint strain in her expression, the look of someone who chose a door and is only now realizing what was behind it. ''“I’m sorry, $name.”'' A pause, careful. ''“I didn’t exactly know what I was getting myself into… when I bought you.”'' Her mouth quirks, not quite a smile, not quite regret. ''“Though I think you have the harder part of the deal.”'' She tips her head toward the empty space beside her, an invitation that is also a request. ''“Come. Sit. Just for a moment.”'' [[For a moment, you almost feel normal.|gladiator_teaser]]

The servants drift back into their orbit, far enough to pretend you're alone. You stand where Cassian placed you and let your eyes do what your hands cannot. The hall is a living thing. It breathes, forgets, then remembers again. A guard shifts his stance near a pillar, bored for half a heartbeat, then alert when a laugh spikes too loud. A servant slips through a knot of bodies with a tray held high, and for a moment the people part for her like water. Somewhere deeper in the room, a noble’s fingers close around a goblet and linger on the stem as if it were a throat. Somewhere else, two courtesans trade places without anyone noticing, the kind of movement that exists to keep the world smooth. You begin to see the seams. A side passage half-hidden behind hanging cloth, where the torchlight thins and the noise changes. An alcove that leads to a service door, watched casually, not guarded like a vault. The kitchens must be close, as you can smell roasted fat and spice beneath the perfume. The servants come from somewhere and return somewhere, each return a path of it's own. Your gaze skims the belts of guards. Sheathed blades and half-hidden daggers. A truncheon that could crack bone without drawing blood. Even the carving station at one of the tables, where a man in clean sleeves draws a knife through meat, smiling as if the act is only hospitality. You feel your collar, not with fingers, but with thought. The ring of it, the weight. The promise. A flicker of movement draws your eye and you catch Sereth in the distance, calm as a priest, head inclined as he speaks to a cluster of nobles. He looks effortless, composed, as if the hall's simply another arena and he's already learned its rules. You watch him and think, briefly, of how much of survival is learning your battlefield and how to maneuver it. Then the thought comes again, low and persistent. Not tonight. Not like this. Not without a plan. And yet the seed is there now, and it won't stop growing. If you chose to act, it would have to be quick. It would have to be brutal, or invisible. It would have to be a single clean moment, taken from the feast’s heartbeat. You keep your face still, your posture as Cassian would expect it. But inside, the math continues. What is the chance for freedom truly worth to you? [[Look at belts, blades, the hands that carry them. A violent thought, a violent chance.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_fight][$chp3_edgewatch_escape="fight"]] <<ci lethal>> [[Watch the servants. Gaps, curtains, and thin-lit corridors will be your path to salvation.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_sneak][$chp3_edgewatch_escape="sneak"]] <<ci lethal>> [[Bide your time. Learn the House. Let the idea live, but don't indulge it recklessly.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch1][$chp3_edgewatch_escape="bide"]] <<ci lore>>

<<nobr>> <<if $chp3_edgewatch_escape is "bide">> <p> You do nothing. That's the decision, and it has a weight of it's own. </p> <<else>> <p> You let the evening take you, not like a friend, but like weather. </p> <</if>> <</nobr>> Time passes in small thefts. The servants return whenever the shine dulls, quick hands smoothing oil back into your skin, a thumb erasing sweat like it’s an insult. You keep your posture as Cassian taught. A pleasant statue at the edge of a warm room. Your eyes do the work instead, cutting the hall into pieces you can understand. You begin to notice patterns. Who drinks too fast. Who never drinks at all. Who laughs with their throat and who laughs with their eyes. Who touches a collar like it’s a joke, and who touches one like it’s a prayer. Then your attention snags on Sereth Val. He holds court as if he was born into it. Calmly charming a small orbit of nobles with the same ease he carries into the yard. A quirk of the mouth. A brief bow of his head. Precise compliments that feel tailor-made, as if he’s been watching them longer than they realize. He laughs at the right moments, not loud, not needy, just enough to make them feel clever in his presence. It isn’t fawning. It’s control wearing velvet. A noblewoman leans closer to hear him. A man with a heavy ring gestures mid-story and Sereth nods like a patient priest. For a heartbeat the candlelight catches his eyes, and you see that familiar red, the hint of something predatory and old behind the charm. You watch him, and you understand something simple. The arena is not the only place where men bleed. [[You decide to see if Gant is actually here after all.|chp3_housevarrofeast_gant]] [[Stay where you are, watching and waiting. (Continue)|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch2]]

<center><img src="images/chp3_feast_sereth.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> The feast keeps moving, even when you don’t. You watch Sereth Val a while longer. He smiles at the right moments, never too much. He nods like a man granting permission for others to feel clever. He offers compliments that land cleanly, like coins set into a palm, and the nobles around him lean closer as if warmth can be stolen from his composure. He looks effortless, but you can see the discipline in it. The same discipline as the yard, only dressed in velvet. A servant passes with a tray and laughs too brightly. A guard’s attention snaps toward a disturbance and then relaxes again when it proves harmless. Wine flows faster. The room grows louder in little increments, as if the night is being fed. Then the night tilts. <<nobr>> <<if $auction_winner is "Livia">> <p> A servant in Varro colors approaches you with eyes lowered and hands folded, a trained gentleness masking steel. She doesn’t touch you. She doesn’t need to. “The Duchess requests you,” she murmurs, as if she’s offering comfort rather than command. The words settle on your skin like oil. </p> <p> Ahead, you see the opening in the crowd, a small pocket of space near a screened side chamber where torchlight turns red against polished stone. Livia sits there as if she has been waiting all along, red eyes bright in candlelight, smile slow and private. Her gaze catches you and holds, and you understand at once that this is not a summons for conversation. It is a claim renewed. </p> [[Onward.|chp3_housevarrofeast_hook_livia]] <<elseif $auction_winner is "Sibylla">> <p> You don’t notice the messenger at first. That’s the point. A woman in dark finery drifts close, quiet as a shadow, and speaks without raising her chin. “Come,” she says simply. No title. No flourish. Just certainty. </p> <p> The path she leads you through feels different from the rest of the feast. Quieter. Colder. Nobles step aside without looking as if they’ve already been trained. You catch a glimpse of a table set slightly apart in a dimmer pocket of the hall, half veiled by hanging cloth. Someone sits there out of your sight line, and yet you feel her presence like weight on the air. Sibylla does not announce herself. She allows the room to arrange itself around her silence. </p> [[Onward.|chp3_housevarrofeast_hook_sibylla]] <<elseif $auction_winner is "Alesia">> <p> You hear her before you see her. A ripple in the laughter, the kind that spreads too quickly to be ordinary. Heads turn. A few men straighten as if remembering their posture matters. A servant hurries past you with a panicked sort of excitement in her eyes. “She’s arrived,” someone whispers, like it’s news and warning in the same breath. </p> <p> Then the crowd parts and you glimpse her through bodies and flame, bright as a blade drawn in torchlight. Alesia moves with the confidence of a woman who expects the world to make room, and it does. She does not send for you, not yet. She doesn’t have to. Her gaze sweeps the hall and finds you anyway, and the moment it lands you feel it like a hand at the back of your neck. Her mouth curves, amused, almost possessive, as if she’s decided your presence is an accessory she intends to try on. </p> [[Onward.|chp3_housevarrofeast_hook_alesia]] <<else>> <p> No servant comes for you. No guard clears a path. You only notice the shift because the air around a certain corner of the hall becomes… cautious. Less loud. Less careless. A small knot of nobles stands near a side alcove and their laughter keeps dropping, as if they’re not sure what tone is safe. </p> <p> You follow the current of attention and see her at last, half hidden by bodies, not elevated, not performing. Novia Segune looks like she could disappear if she wanted to, and the fact that she hasn’t is its own kind of courage. She is watching the hall with a steadiness that doesn’t match her place in it, and when her eyes find you there is a flicker of something that might be nerves, might be resolve. The only reason she came is you. The thought returns with a strange weight. An investment. A risk. A choice she made with her own coin. </p> [[Onward.|chp3_housevarrofeast_hook_novia]] <</if>> <</nobr>>

You wait until the hall forgets you. It happens in the small ways. A burst of laughter that pulls heads toward a table. A servant dropping a tray and the quick chorus of sympathetic noise that follows. A musician leaning into a flourish, bright enough to make the room look the other way for a heartbeat. Then you move. Not like a man crossing a room, but a shadow changing shape. A line of servants drifts toward the hanging cloth that marks an alcove’s boundary, carrying empty platters and fresh pitchers, their faces set in that pleasant, careful neutrality that keeps them safe. You fall in behind them at the right distance, close enough to be part of the cluster, far enough not to be noticed as a new weight. You lower your gaze, angle your shoulders, soften your stride. You let the servant in front of you become your mask. <<nobr>> <p> <<if $mobility is 2>> Your body already knows how to disappear. You match their pace without thinking, stepping where they step, stopping when they stop, blending with the cadence of work as if you’ve done it a hundred times. <<elseif $mind is 2>> You watch the pattern and imitate it. Where they look, you look. When they pause to let a noble pass, you pause too. You don’t hide with speed, you hide with correctness. <<elseif $might is 2>> Your size is the problem, and you feel it. You make yourself smaller anyway, shoulders angled, breath quiet, the discipline of the yard turned toward something stranger. <<else>> You keep your face still and your movements simple. Not too fast, not too slow, the kind of ordinary that slides through a crowd and leaves no impression. <</if>> </p> <</nobr>> The curtain is heavier than it looks, thick cloth meant to soften sound and conceal the back-of-house. A servant’s hand parts it and you slip through in the same motion, letting the fold fall behind you like water closing. The change is immediate. The warmth dulls, music becoming a muffled throb, distant and confused, like a heartbeat heard through stone. The air smells different too. Not perfume and wine, but lye, damp cloth, old smoke, and the honest grease of kitchens. Torchlight thins into a simpler, harsher orange. Shadows gather in corners that the feast never needs to see. For a moment you think you’ve done it. That you’re out. Then a voice behind you says, soft and sharp, ''“You.”'' Your blood tightens. A young servant girl stands with her arms full of linen, eyes on your collar and oiled body, not your face. Her mouth is slightly open as if she wasn’t meant to catch anyone, only meant to carry things from one place to another. The corridor around her is narrow, practical, built for movement, not conversation. If she calls out, the sound will carry. If she runs, you'll have to choose between speed and silence. You hold still. You let your breath settle. You let your expression become the same pleasant emptiness you’ve been watching all night. A heartbeat passes. She swallows. Her gaze flicks once down the corridor, toward where guards might be, then back to you. She makes a small motion with her chin, not quite a nod, not quite a warning. ''“Not here,”'' she whispers, as if speaking to herself. As if trying to keep the world smooth. Then she steps past you, hugging the linen to her chest, and continues on, faster now. You don’t follow her. You choose a different seam. Ahead, the corridor forks. One way glows warmer, kitchen-scented. The other way darkens, colder, more like the stone corridors you know. Either could lead to a door. Either could lead to a dead end. And behind the curtain, the feast continues, Unaware that one of its ornaments has begun to walk away. [[Keep moving into the servantways.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_sneak1]] [[Turn back before the House notices the missing piece.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_return]]

The thought has stopped being a thought. Slowly, it begins to metamorphize into action. You feel it first in your chest, beating like a second heart; loud, dumb and alive. Oil warms your skin, the paint tightening as you breathe deeper. Somewhere behind you a noble laughs too hard, the room answering him with more laughter, as if the noise can drown out anything that matters. You keep your face still and posture obedient. But inside, your blood is already moving. You feel far more alive than you have in a long, long time. <<nobr>> <<if $might gte 2>> <p> Your body feels heavier than it should, dense with readiness. You can almost taste the moment of violent impact: the shape of a man’s balance, the way it breaks when you take it from him, the simple truth that meat yields when you make it. </p> <<elseif $mobility gte 2>> <p> You don’t think of strength first. You think of timing. You watch the rhythm of the hall and see the half-beats where attention slips, where a guard relaxes, where a tray of wine becomes a moving wall. You're quick enough to seize the advantage. </p> <<elseif $mind gte 2>> <p> You watch the room like a puzzle with missing pieces. Who's watching you, who's pretending not to, where the sightlines knot and where they fray. You catalogue exits, servants, habits. You look for the seam only a blade would finish. </p> <<else>> <p> You feel all of it at once. The weight in your limbs, the timing in the noise, the cold counting in your head. It's not quite courage as you hear in children's tale, but the animal-like certainty that if you wait too long, you won't move at all. </p> <</if>> <</nobr>> Two chances present themselves, flickering bright in your periphery. A Varro guard stands near the edge of the dais-lane closest to you, posture disciplined but not rigid. His gladius hangs at his hip, solid and real, the grip worn to a darker hue by sweat and use. He's looking toward a disturbance at a table; a drunk voice rising, a companion trying to hush it. For a handful of breaths, his attention is not fully yours. And then there's the carving station of the nearest table. A slab of reddish meat on a board, steaming under lanternlight. A servant with clean sleeves draws a blade through it with practiced ease, slicing portions for men who never touch blood unless it comes already cooked. The knife is long enough to matter, sharp enough to cut, slice, hew. The station is watched, but lazily, because no one expects the certain desperation coursing through a man like you, with nothing to lose except their collared throat. Not many men are as drawn to freedom as you. You can feel the risk in both. Real, ready, final. The guard’s gladius is a promise of true violence, a way to break a line if you can win the first two seconds. It's a bell you ring with your own hands, the scream of bone, blood and battle that'll bring the whole House down on you if you can't cut your way through quickly enough. The carving knife is smaller theater, a quieter sin. You could take it and move before anyone understands what you've taken. The possibilities race through your mind. Take a hostage? Try and slip out with it stowed away beneath your garb? Go for blood, and make everyone remember you? Your pulse hammers. Your throat tightens, and your mouth tastes like copper. Somewhere in the room, Cassian’s presence moves like a shadow you can't see, but can feel. If you do this, you do it now. [[Slowly approach the guard. Take the gladius, or die trying.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_guard][$chp3_edgewatch_escape_blade="gladius"]] [[Drift toward the carving station. Take the knife like it was always yours.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_carving][$chp3_edgewatch_escape_blade="carving"]] [[Hold. Don’t move. This is too dangerous.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch2][$chp3_edgewatch_escape="bide1"]]

You drift toward the carving station as if you were summoned there. Not hurried. Not creeping. Just a collar doing what collars do, moving when the room makes space for them. You keep your shoulders loose and your eyes lazy, half-lidded in the torchlight, letting the servants’ bodies and trays become cover. A laugh swells somewhere behind you and the hall tilts with it. For a breath, everyone looks the same direction. Your heart does not. It kicks at your ribs like it wants out. Your pulse beats loud in your ear. You feel more alive than you ever have, not because you’re safe, but because you’re balanced on the lip of something. One wrong inch and you are finished. One clean motion and you are not the same man who stood at the edge of the hall five breaths ago. The carving station is a small altar of plenty. Steam, fat, spice. A servant in clean sleeves leans in, smiling, slicing meat for people who do not know the price of blades. The knife flashes in candlelight as it works. Real steel. Real edge. Your hand lowers as if you mean to steady the board. As if you mean to help. As if you’ve done this all your life. <<nobr>> <<if ($mobility gte 2) or (($mobility gte 1) and ($mind gte 2))>> <p> You take the knife in the same motion the servant turns to reach for a platter. A simple exchange the room fails to notice, a blink of metal swallowed by cloth. Your fingers close around the handle, warm from work, slick with juice and grease, and then it is gone. </p> <p> You tuck it away without looking down. Under a fold of fabric. Against the line of your waist. Hidden where oil-slick skin and paint make everything shine, where nobody expects a weapon to live. You keep walking, calm as a man sent on an errand, even as your blood roars loud enough to drown the music. </p> <p> You cannot linger. You feel it immediately. The wrongness of your new weight. The fact of it. You are out of place now, holding something you shouldn’t have, and every second you spend pretending otherwise is a second the House has to notice the seam you’ve torn. </p> [[Take a hostage.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_hostage][$chp3_feast_escape_followup="hostage"]] [[Go for blood. Duke Lucius Varro’s throat.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_lucius][$chp3_feast_escape_followup="lucius"]] [[Try to slip out of the hall, unexposed.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_sneak][$chp3_feast_escape_followup="carving"]] <<else>> <p> Your fingers close on the handle and for a heartbeat it feels easy. It feels like destiny. It feels like you have already won. </p> <p> Then the world catches. </p> <p> The servant’s eyes snap to your hand. Another servant beside the station goes still, mouth parting in a small sound that isn’t quite a gasp and isn’t quite a scream. The nearest guard perks up at once, head turning as if yanked by a chain. </p> <p> ''“The fuck you think you’re doing?”'' he says, and he’s already walking toward you. </p> <p> Regret hits you like cold water. Your mind races. Who to grab. Where to run. Which direction has less steel. Your eyes go wild, hunting for a door that isn’t watching you back. </p> <p> The guard lunges. The carving knife is an insult against batons and real blades. Your arm rises anyway. Instinct. Panic. You slash once, feel nothing but air and cloth, and then the first blow lands hard enough to make the hall tilt. </p> <p> Hands. Boots. The crack of wood on bone. A flash of metal. You get hit from angles you cannot track, pain blooming everywhere at once. You stumble, try to find your feet, try to keep the knife, try to keep anything. </p> <p> You tumble down onto marble. The world goes red. </p> <<set $chp3_escape_fail = "carving">> [[Then it darkens further, to black.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_guardfail]] <</if>> <</nobr>>

You begin to walk. Not fast or too hungry. Just another collar drifting at the edge of the feast, oiled and painted, completely harmless. You let your shoulders stay loose, eyes looking past the guard instead of at him, as if you’re only watching a table, a torch, a laugh. Inside you, something runs like a trapped animal. Your heart thunders against your ribs. Each beat is loud enough to feel in your teeth. Your pulse keeps time in your ear, more alive than you've ever been, more awake than the yard ever made you. The feast blurs into heat, perfume, sound, and then it becomes simple. A belt. A sheath. A hand resting near it. You angle your path so the guard sees you late, and from the side, taking the long way around a pillar. You pass behind a servant with a tray, breathing through your nose like a man who has nothing to hide. The guard’s gladius hangs at his hip, dark leather, worn grip, real weight. Torchlight wavers on the metal fittings and makes the whole thing look unreal, like a story someone told you as a boy. One more step. <<nobr>> <<if $might gte 2>> <p> You go for the sheath. </p> <p> Your hand closes around it and the world tightens. The guard reacts by instinct, reaching down and clamping down on your wrist like a vise. For half a heartbeat you're caught, collar and all, and you feel the room’s breath shift, the way a crowd senses a wrong note before it becomes music. </p> <p> Then you move like a man determined. </p> <p> You wrench your arm down and in, not away, stepping into him with your shoulder hard, while your other hand shoots up to trap his forearm. The guard tries to square his stance, but you take it from him. A twist and brutal turn. His elbow goes the wrong way and his balance follows it as he drops with a muffled sound, armor scraping tile. Your fingers rip the sheath free before he hits the floor. </p> <p> You tear the gladius from its mouth. </p> <p> For a moment it feels clean. The blade clears leather with a dry hiss and the torchlight hits the metal, bright enough to sting. The weight settles into your hand like it belongs there. Like you were always meant to hold something that can decide a man’s fate. </p> <p> Then the hall notices. </p> <p> Chairs scrape, a cup shatters. Someone yells. Two Varro guards surge toward you from the dais-lane, hands already on their own weapons. An armed retainer from another House steps in with a short blade, face tight with the eager certainty of a man who thinks he’s about to earn favor. Behind them, bodies recoil and press together, nobles backing away as if violence might splash. </p> <p> The guard you dropped tries to rise, one hand clawing at your ankle, eyes wide with pain and fury, but you kick free without looking down, heart beating steady. </p> <p> You have the gladius and maybe three heartbeats before the House closes around you. </p> [[Cut through them. Victory or Death!|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_guard_cut][$chp3_escape_guard_path="cut"]] <br> [[Go on the defensive, working your way toward the nearest exit.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_guard_exit][$chp3_escape_guard_path="exit"]] <<else>> <p> You go for the sheath. </p> <p> Your hand closes and the guard’s hand closes over yours at the same instant. Not startled. Not slow. Pure drilled instinct. His fingers bite down on your wrist and for half a heartbeat you’re pinned to his hip like a mistake caught mid-motion. </p> <p> You try to wrench free. The guard steps into you, shoulder driving, and the two of you lock up hard. The sheath jerks. The gladius stays put. He hooks his forearm across you and drags you close, using your collar and your momentum like leverage. It becomes a grappling match, ugly and tight, bodies pressed together while the feast turns its head. </p> <p> You feel the first blow before you see who threw it. A fist or a baton cracks across your ribs. Another impact lands high on your shoulder. Someone’s boot drives into the back of your thigh. The room fills with shouts, boots, iron. </p> <p> Hands pile onto you. Arms wrench behind your back. The guard snarls something you can’t hear, and then pain blooms from every direction at once. A hard strike to the side of your head turns the torches into spinning suns. The floor rises to meet you. </p> <p> More blows. Less air. A roar in your ears that swallows the music whole. </p> [[Then blackness.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_guardfail][$chp3_escape_guard_path="fail"]] <</if>> <</nobr>>

<<if $mobility gte 1>> The first time you hold metal, it tastes like blood before it even bites flesh. Bronze in your fist, real weight with a cold edge. Not bone, stone, or some sharpened imitation meant to keep you humble. The gladius catches torchlight, throwing it back in a hard, bright line, and for a breath, you understand why Cradle is built on blades that sing of more. The eager retainer meets you first, eyes alight with imagined glory. He comes in fast, short blade forward, but you step into him with the full weight of your body crashing forward. Your gladius knocks his weapon aside with a ringing clash that bites through the music, and your next cut is simple, sheer, savage. You take his arm off at the elbow, a butcher's cleave. It goes with a wet snap, too easy, shearing through muscle, tendon and a thick snap of bone. For a split second, you see it hanging by a rope of bloody sinew, spraying arterial crimson in a pulsing arc, his face already changing, mouth gaping in horror as if his mind can’t agree with what his body has become in a single stroke. He screams, high and raw, before tumbling away atop the tile like a puppet that lost its string. The guards are already on you, swarming. One thrusts, another swings, and you move like thunder rolling through a narrow street. You parry once, hard enough to rattle your bones, and duck under the next, shoulder grazing a sleeve; heat, perfume and panic all mashed together in the moment. The second guard swings high, a decapitation stroke. The blade whistles over your head, close enough to shear hair, his momentum betraying him. You pivot hard, gladius a warm copper bur that opens him from hip to navel, folding him in half. Your world shrinks to the dance of bodies and blades. Another guard lunges, your blades locking. The shriek of metal on metal is a bell tolling death. You twist, leverage your weight, and feel the sickening give as your gladius punches through boiled leather and into the soft meat below the ribs. You shove deeper, a grinding slice down towards spine, twisting savagely as you rip it free. Blood sprays warm across your naked skin. It slicks your ribs and stomach and thighs. It’s salty, thick, real, slicking your grip, turning the hilt treacherous in your fist. A hand grabs your shoulder. You drive your elbow back, crunching cartilage and feeling the hot burst of blood from a ruined nose. A blade flashes at your temple, but you jerk back at the last moment. The edge kisses your cheekbone, scraping paint and skin, leaving a burning line. Your reply is instinct: a backhand slash that opens a throat, the guard dropping silently, hands fluttering like dying birds, dark blood pumping rhythmically onto the mosaic tiles. The crowd is screaming now, chairs scraping back as nobles shove away from you like you’re the plague, or an escaped beast, trampling silk and spilling wine. But you don't look at them, because you don't have time. You cut a path through the first ring of bodies and the feast finally understands it's not watching a performance, but a breach that's spiraling out-of-control. Somewhere behind you, more boots hammer tile, more blades being drawn. Cassian’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp and commanding. The House has marked you for extermination. There. The seam you were looking for earlier, heavy drapes concealing a shadowed corridor. A service lane where the air is colder, cooler, free. Your sanctuary. Your lungs are fire. Your skin is a canvas of blood—yours, theirs, indistinguishable. The coppery tang fills your nostrils. One breath. That’s all you have before the jaws snap shut and the next wave hits. [[Keep moving. Vanish into the back halls before the House closes its fist.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_guard_corridor]] <<else>> Bronze in your hand, and your mind tries to make it orderly. The gladius feels like a living thing in your fist, cold and hungry, vibrating with the promise of slaughter. You realize that metal is chaos given form. The retainer, eyes wide with the arrogance of the untested seeking vainglory, lunges. You read his first step, see the angle of his blade, predicting his strike before it lands. For a heartbeat, it feels like you're above the moment, watching from a safe place. You parry not with finesse, but with a brutal, bone-jarring slam that knocks his blade wide. Your counter-thrust isn't aimed at the shoulder. It’s a piston-driven punch through his throat. His scream dies in a wet, bubbling choke, collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut, blood painting the polished marble slick and dark crimson in the torchlight. The guards are on you before you can turn the first hurt into a gap, hitting you like a wall. They move like trained men, not eager to throw their lives away. One presses you from the front, shield-line discipline without a shield. Another angles to your flank. You slash hard and find only air, because they don’t meet your blade where you expect them to. They make you swing, buying time, intent on draining you. One drives forward low, a spatha aimed for your guts. You deflect, the impact jarring your teeth. Another, to your flank, doesn't swing for your blade. He swings for your leg. The edge bites deep into the meat of your thigh, just above the knee. A white-hot lance of agony sears up your spine. You feel tendon part. Your leg buckles, knee hitting the gore-slicked floor. The gladius feels like an anvil in your suddenly nerveless fingers. You roar, swinging wildly. The blade whistles through air; they’re already shifting, stepping back, letting you waste strength. A hammer-blow from a weighted club crunches into your ribs from behind. You feel bones grate. Torchlight explodes into blinding stars. You gasp, but no air comes. Only the hot, metallic taste of your own blood flooding your mouth. Another strike – a short, brutal chop – lands on your sword arm. A sickening crack echoes in your skull. You thrust, you slash, you try to parry again. A blunt blow bends your forearm unnaturally. The gladius clatters away, lost in the spreading pool of the retainer's lifeblood. You've been boxed in, overwhelmed. Not by sheer courage, but by numbers, geometry, men who know how to close space without throwing away their lives. Every time you turn, there's another body and blade waiting. Hands, iron-hard, clamp onto your shoulders. A baton smashes down onto your broken forearm. Agony, white and absolute, obliterates thought. Your fingers spasm uselessly. Someone drives a knee into your spine with the force of a battering ram. The floor rushes up, your face slamming into the blood-slick The coppery stench of your own life fills your nostrils, the world shrinking to a tunnel of agony, the roaring in your ears, the wet crunch of your own body breaking. Each breath is a ragged, bloody gasp, choked by the pooling fluid in your throat. You try to draw air, but there’s only liquid fire. Then, mercifully, the roaring fades. The pain recedes into numb distance. The torchlight winks out. Blackness. Thick. Absolute. Silent. [[...|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_guardfail]]<</if>>

The gladius feels alive in your fist, lukewarm bronze humming with stolen power, hungry with potential. You explode forward like a rabid wolf through a sheepfold, intent on escape before they can surround you and corral you back into your cage. Bodies blur: silk-clad nobles shrieking, guards lunging with polished blades of their own. Your shoulder slams into the first retainer's chest, throttling them back into the nearest table, glass shattering and chairs crunching beneath rushing bodies. Before he can recover, your gladius punches upward under his chin, the tip skimming bone and tearing through cartilage, the wet thunk barely audible beneath the din of the panicked feast. A Varro guard lunges soon after, barely twisting fast enough to meet him blade-on-blade with a harsh crack that jars up through your muscular arms. You don't overcommit, letting the clash sell the lie that you're about to stand and fight. Then you slip sideways instead, ducking into an adjacent lane of traffic between tables where the crowd has already recoiled away. More chairs tip, wine spilling like blood, the hall itself becoming a moving wall that threatens to block your retreat. <<nobr>> <<if $mind gte 1>> <p> For an instant, you steady your gaze, the room becoming a diagram. </p> <p> Your feet aren’t the fastest, but your mind is quick enough. Even with the chaos closing in, you can see patterns in the ebb and flow of feast. Where bodies knot and sightlines break, where a guard won't be able to swing without hitting silk and screaming nobility. You swivel on heel and ward off the men closest to you with short, ugly motions, knocking away speartips, batons and gnarled bladetips, not trying to win, only trying to buy yourself another breath to ride the crashing motion around you. </p> <p> You move through it like a man slipping between waves. A servant with a tray freezes, eyes wide, and you use her hesitation as cover, cutting behind her for a moment of respite. Another guard tries to cut you off, but you shove a table edge with your hip, sending platters sliding, crashing, shattering, forcing him to hesitate or trample his betters. That's all you need. </p> <p> Torchlight thins ahead. Hanging cloth above a service gap where the noise changes, the air colder, darker, just beyond. You hear boots behind you, close, and a voice barking orders. You don’t look back. There's no time to waste breath on fear. You slip under the curtain like you were always meant to be part of the back-of-house. </p> <p> For one heartbeat, the feast is finally behind you. </p> [[Keep moving. Vanish into the back halls before the House closes its fist.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_guard_corridor]] <<else>> <p> You're fast enough that your body chooses before your mind does. </p> <p> You're quick, quicker than you should be in oil and paint, and you bolt on instinct, cutting towards the first gap you see. It feels right until it doesn’t. The hall shifts, bodies parting in one place and closing in another. Guards are behind you, in front of you, the feast a chaotic maze that rearranges itself before you can plot a path out of it. </p> <p> Another gap vanishes as panicked nobles surge like frightened cattle, blocking your path. Before you can reroute, a thrown goblet explodes against your temple, spraying wine that mingles with sweat and blood and stings your eyes. </p> <p> In the blur, you can only roar, a deep, gutteral sound as you hack wildly at the press of bodies nearby. Your blade bites deep into a nobleman's shoulder, shearing through velvet and flesh down to the bone. He screams, high and girlish, collapsing into a writhing heap as you parry blades above him. You spin, seeking another path in your state of disarray, but a heavy wooden shield rimmed with hard bone smashes into your flank before you can propel yourself forward. </p> <p> Agony explodes, stealing your breath as you stagger, nearly losing your grip on the gladius. Still, your vision swims beneath the flare of torchlight, painting the terrified, blood-splattered faces of the nobility and guards in garish, hellish hues. Roast peacocks and spilled wine litter the marble floor, making it slick around you.</p> <p> You're no closer to an exit, momentum dead, the House's circle tightening like a noose around you. In the panic, a blade kisses your side, opening it with not a thrust, but a vicious, sawing pull. It feels like ice and fire both, numbing warmth flooding over your belly, your hip, your thighs, soaking your oil-slick flesh and tattered cloth alike. </p> <p> You gasp, the sound wet and ragged, throwing up one arm to deflect a slash that bites down into your open palm. With your other hand, you desperately thrust out with the gladius. No finesse at this point, just brute force, driving through the boiled leather gorget of your foe. It sinks deep against his throaty gurgles, eyes blown wide open with shock, his hot blood joining your own as you twist the blade free. </p> <p> His body collapses, tripping the guard behind him, but it doesn't buy you any time. You're completely surrounded. ''"Take him alive!"'' One of them bellows, a boot kicking out the back of your knee, the joint buckling. </p> <p> The world tilts, that glorious bronze gladius slipping from your now nerveless fingers and clattering onto the gore and wine-streaked floors. More boots slam into you; ribs, kidneys, ass. Gloved fists pummel your head as you try to shove up, grabbing onto someone's trousers to yank and pull, seeking leverage with stars exploding behind your eyes. </p> <p> Hands like iron manacles wrench your arms behind your back, the screams of the crowd surrounding you, though it's all slowly fdading into a high-pitched ringing. You're suffocating, velvet blackness swallowing your face as you collapse once more against the hot, sticky marble. </p> <p> The last thing you smell is blood, bodies and sweet wine. </p> [[Finally the darkness swallows you whole.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_guardfail]] <</if>> <</nobr>>

It's wet. That dank warmth seeps into your bones first, that familiar weeping perspiration that pervades so much of Cradle's ruined stonework. Down here, it feels less like temperature and more like a tomb's first kiss pressed against your cheek. Your eyes peel open, gummed with dried blood and pus. Vision swims, fractured. Darkness isn’t empty here; it’s thick. Suffocating. The air reeks of gangrene, rat piss, and the coppery tang of old blood. That relentless ''drip… drip… drip'' hammers against your skull. A countdown to nothing. You try to suck in air. White-hot agony detonates in your ribs, shattered bone grinding with every shallow gasp. Your throat’s a raw, scorched tunnel. Your tongue probes the ruins of your mouth: split lip, two teeth gone, one dangling by a nerve. Swallowing is glass shards and bile. Rusted pig-iron bites. Not just shackles, *manacles*. Cold, crude bands of black iron clamped so tight around your wrists they’ve split the skin. Swollen flesh pulses purple-black beneath the metal. Chains yank your arms taut overhead, crucified against the weeping wall. Every tremor sends lightning up ruined tendons. Dried blood cakes you. Your own, mixed with the guards and nobles you butchered. The gladius’s bronze sheen is a phantom memory on your fingers. They *scrubbed* you. Not to clean, but to debase. Buckets of warm slop water, coarse brushes scraping oil and paint and pride from your skin until you were raw, pink, *naked*. Only the collar remains against your jugular. A brand. A mockery. You are still theirs. Your left shoulder hangs wrong: dislocated, maybe torn. Your side is a furnace of pain where blades sawed through muscle. Your right thigh throbs, hot and swollen, infection brewing. You’re a broken puppet strung up in the dark. ''A scream.'' Not yours. Somewhere down the black corridor. High. Desperate. Then— ''silence''. Sudden. Final. ''Footsteps.'' Deliberate. Heavy. Leather on stone. No urgency. Torchlight bleeds through the bars, painting stripes of hellish orange across the filth. A shadow fills the doorway. Helmeted. Faceless. ''"He’s awake."'' The voice is grated iron. A second shadow steps forward. Taller. Broader. No helmet. A face like knotted rope, scarred from temple to jaw. He holds a leather roll, unbound. Inside, the glint of bone and iron: hooked blades, pincers, a slender bone saw. His eyes, flat and pitiless, scan your broken body. A slow, wet smile spreads across his face. ''"Good."'' He taps a blackened fingernail against the longest blade. It sings a high, cruel note. ''"Let him feel every second of it."'' The key scrapes in the lock. The sound grates down your spine. The door doesn’t open. Not yet. They let the silence stretch. Let the torchlight flicker over the tools. Let you *see* what’s coming. No feasthall mercy. No quick death. House Varro paid for a show. And you’re the star. <<set $chp3_alt_ending = "dungeon_slow">> [[And somewhere high above, crystal glasses chime to a forgotten toast.|chp3_feast_dungeonend]] <<script>> $("body").append('<div id="fadeBlack"></div>'); $("#fadeBlack").css({ position: "fixed", top: 0, left: 0, width: "100%", height: "100%", background: "black", opacity: 1, "z-index": 9999, cursor: "pointer" // optional: makes skip feel intuitive }); // allow skip by double-clicking anywhere on the overlay $("#fadeBlack").on("dblclick", function() { $(this).stop(true, true).fadeOut(300, function() { $(this).remove(); }); }); // hold black, then fade out slowly setTimeout(() => { $("#fadeBlack").animate( { opacity: 0 }, { duration: 5000, // fade duration easing: "swing", complete: function() { $(this).remove(); } } ); }, 1500); <</script>>

The curtain swallows you, the feast disappearing as if it was never real, yet the sound follows you. Screams, shattered glass and dying strings, the heavy thud of footfalls, studded boots, silk slippers and painted feet alike. Some coming towards you, but most away. The air changes first, perfume dropping away, wine and roasted fat fading into lye, wet stone and old smoke. The torchlight's thinner here, stretched along narrow walls that sweat in places. Your bare feet slap tile that turns to roughened cobble, then back to tile again, as if the House can’t decide what it is back here: villa or fortress, pleasure or cage. Your breath comes hard, skin slick with blood, some of it drying in tacky streaks where the paint has already cracked. The gladius drags weight through your arm, the bronze a heavy but unfamiliar weight, enough to make your shoulder burn. Behind you, the pursuit gathers. Boots, shouted orders, the sound of armed men moving with purpose and subdued panic. Somewhere close, metal rings against stone. Somewhere farther, a door slams and the echo travels down the dim corridors like a shouted warning. You take a turn you didn't plan, because you can’t plan, you couldn't. You can only follow whatever seam looks like it might open, letting fate lead you into another passage , through another hanging cloth, down a stairwell that drops into darker air. You catch a glimpse of something that might be an outer lane, a sliver of colder light ahead, your body surging toward it. [[Then the House gives you its answer.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_guard_corridor1]]

Up ahead, a figure steps into the corridor’s mouth ahead, arriving without hurry, a dark, calm silhouette under torchlight, as if it belongs to the stone itself. He holds a weapon that's different from his usual training blade, something that must've been taken from the scramble. A short sword, real steel, the kind meant to end a problem fast. <<bgm "elgothic" 0.7 6>> Sereth Val stands before you. The Champion tilts his head slightly, and you see the faint quirk of his mouth. <<nobr>> <<if $arena_nickname is "Bloodied">> <p> ''“$name,”'' he calls, voice carrying cleanly down the passage. ''“You’ve made quite a mess for a first night. Living up to your title, I suppose.”'' </p> <<elseif $arena_nickname is "Ascender">> <p> ''“Ascender,”'' Sereth calls, and the word sounds like a joke he’s letting you hear. ''“Is this the part where you rise.”'' </p> <<elseif $arena_nickname is "Centurion">> <p> ''“Centurion,”'' he says, almost polite, almost amused. ''“You should know how this ends.”'' </p> <<else>> <p> ''“Huntsman,”'' Sereth calls softly, and there is something sharp beneath it. ''“You ran into the wrong woods.”'' </p> <</if>> <</nobr>> He takes one slow step closer, breathing even, footing sure. The dark elf looks at you like he's already measured the distance, the timing, the fatigue in your shoulder and the tremor of your grip. Behind you, the other boots are closing. Sereth’s eyes flick once to the gladius in your hand, then back to your face, as if acknowledging the first time you’ve ever held metal and the trouble it has already made for you and others. ''“Stop,”'' he says simply, quieter now, as if speaking to something smaller than a man. ''“Face me, die cleanly. Or keep running and die tired.”'' The corridor narrows your choices into two simple shapes. [[Turn and face Sereth.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape__guard_corridor1_sereth]] [[Run. You choose freedom.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_guard_corridor1_breakfree]]

You don't turn. The thought of Sereth’s calm, waiting stance flashes once in your mind like a blade held near flame, and you let it go. You've already tested your life and luck enough tonight. You've already pushed the feast into screaming. You feel the House awake fully now, the whole machine shifting to hunt you, promising to choke you, suffocate you, snuff you out. You run. Your bare feet slap wet stone, oil and blood making the floor treacherous, but you move fast anyway, shoulders tight and gladius angled low in your grip. The corridors fold and fork. Hanging cloth becomes doorways, doorways become narrow throats of brick, torchlight stuttering past you in bright streaks. Every breath burns and tastes of iron. Behind you, boots hammer closer, then farther, then closer again as men split at turns and try to get ahead of you. A shouted order echoes, swallowed by stone. A door slams somewhere ahead, and farther away a horn sounds once, ugly and long, the noise crawling up your spine. You take a stair down into warmer, darker air and come out into a service lane where the walls sweat and the smell of lye sits heavy. A servant freezes in your path, eyes wide, mouth open to scream. You don’t have time to beg for silence, sending her stumbling and tray clattering as you shoulder past. Nearby, a bell is rung. You hear pursuit surge harder, tighter, closer. Ahead, a narrow passage opens toward something darker, a place where torchlight thins. You angle for it, and the House answers by placing bodies there, two Varro guards appearing at the mouth of the corridor, moving fast, weapons already drawn. They aren't surprised or hesitant, ready for you, send to close the gate. [[But you hit them like a flash of bad weather.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_guard_corridor1_breakfree1]]

You turn. Not because you think you’ll win, nor because you’re proud, but because something in you refuses to be herded forever. You’ve already crossed the line, and the only way back now is in chains or in blood. Sereth waits in the corridor’s mouth, torchlight cutting clean edges into his face. He holds his weapon as if it's part of his arm. No flourish, no haste. Just readiness, patient and complete. You lift the gladius. Bronze. Heavy. Honest. The first real metal you have ever held, and it feels like a confession in your hands. You can feel how crude it is compared to him. How it wants force, not finesse. Sereth’s mouth quirks, but something colder. <<nobr>> <<if $arena_nickname is "Ascender">> <p> ''“Come on, then,”'' he says softly. ''“Rise.”'' </p> <<elseif $arena_nickname is "Centurion">> <p> ''“Show me,”'' he says, almost polite. ''“Centurion.”'' </p> <<else>> <p> ''“All right,”'' he says. ''“Make it worth the trouble.”'' </p> <</if>> <</nobr>> You go first. You have to, as you can’t afford patience. You close the distance in three hard steps and swing with everything you are, a savage cut meant to take him in half. Sereth slides away like smoke, your blade kissing stone, sparks jumping. The impact rattles up your arms and leaves your hands stinging. He answers with a short, precise strike that would have opened your throat if you were slower by a fraction. You flinch back, feeling air move where skin should have been, pulse is a drum in your ears. You come again, harder, sharper. This time you don’t swing wide. You drive in, shouldering him with your weight, using the simple truth that bodies move when you make them. Sereth’s boots scrape, he gives ground, and for a heartbeat you feel it. His strength is real, but yours is a wall of muscle and flesh. You slam him into the stone and your gladius snaps up, brutal and close, bronze biting flesh. A line opens across his forearm, dark and clean, blood beading up and running freely. Sereth blinks once, as if surprised by nothing at all, and then his eyes sharpen with something like interest. He exhales, calm, then stops meeting you head-on. Sereth begins to make you miss. He angles his body so your strength has nowhere to land. He draws you forward into empty space, and every time you commit, he is already gone, already in a better place, already cutting you for the price of your effort. A slice across your ribs that burns hot and wet. A nick at your thigh that steals balance. A tap of steel against your wrist that makes your grip ache. You swing anyway, again and again, until your shoulders burn and your lungs feel too small. You force him to retreat twice, you force him to parry hard enough that the sound rings like a bell down the corridor. You catch him again, a shallow cut at his shoulder, and he hisses a single breath through his teeth, the closest thing to pain he gives you. You're bleeding now, more than you want to admit. Your skin is slick. Your feet slip once and you recover on instinct, but Sereth sees it. He sees everything. His blade flashes low and finds the side of your leg. The cut isn't deep, but it's exact. Your knee buckles for half a heartbeat and the world tilts. Sereth steps in. He moves like a man who's done this a hundred times, a thousand. Not savage, not frantic. Efficient. He feints high and you lift your gladius to meet it, and that's the moment you lose. His real strike comes in under your guard. A hard impact against your forearm that numbs your hand, your fingers loosening without permission. Bronze drops and clatters on stone, bright as a fallen tooth. You reach for him anyway. You grab cloth, you squeeze flesh. You try to pull him into you and make it ugly, make it close, make it something your strength can own. For a second, you almost do. You drive him back a step, pin him, feel his breath against you, feel the tension in his shoulders as he resists the pull. You think, wildly, that you might still break him if you can just keep him here. You're desperate. Sereth’s face is inches from yours. His eyes are steady, almost gentle in their certainty. ''“Too slow,”'' he murmurs. Then he turns. Not away, but through you, slipping out of your grasp with a small twist that steals your leverage. His blade rises in the same motion. You feel it enter under your ribs, deep and final, and for a moment your body doesn't understand. It tries to keep fighting. It tries to breathe around the steel. Warmth floods your stomach. Your legs falter. Your hands scrabble at him, at nothing, and Sereth holds you upright for a heartbeat as if he’s granting you the dignity of not collapsing like an animal. He leans close enough that only you can hear. ''“Thank you,”'' he says quietly. ''“For dying beautifully.”'' Sereth pulls the blade free. You fall, the stone rushing up behind you. Torchlight smears into gold and the corridor narrows to a single point of sound; distant boots, the faint roar of the feast still living, still screaming somewhere behind all this stone. As your vision dims, you see Sereth standing over you, breathing measured, blood on his arm like a ribbon. You realize that you're dying, and for a moment you want to scream, panic, flail, as though you can keep gripping onto life. But something in you bites back the feeling. You lived, you fought, you died. Like a million men before you, some of them stronger, faster, brighter. Yet you bled and burned away like all of them. In Sereth's eyes, you see yourself reflected back. Every memory, every hurt, forgotten pain, fallen tear. All dread, misery, anxiety formed into one, then gone, a sigh that leaves you finally still, calm, almost content. Everything all at once, then more, heart beating in your ears. You remember every waking morning, every bright laugh, intriguing thought, beautiful sight. Breathtaking women, the warm throb of arousal, attraction, love. You recall vividly when you were a young boy and Fredrick's big hand settled in your hair after a long day. For a moment, you think you remember your mother, a blissful comfort that you yearn for once more. <<set $chp3_alt_ending = "sereth">> [[Then the dark takes you.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_deathend]]

You move before you can lose the nerve. Not a sprint or a lunge that announces itself. It's a slow drift into the traffic of bodies like you're just another servant, one ornament among many, shifting positions for someone else’s comfort. A tray passes, laughter swells, a shoulder turns. For half a breath the hall is busy watching itself. That's all the time you need. He's close, and he's easy. A minor noble with glittering rings on every finger, face warm with wine, eyes bright with the kind of confidence that comes from never being truly threatened. He’s arguing cheerfully with a companion, words slurring into a joke. He doesn’t see you until your arm is already around him and the knife is already up. The blade kisses skin. You pull him back into your chest. Rings scrape against your forearm as he flails, sudden panic turning him heavy and awkward. His breath bursts out in a wet little sound. The perfume on him is expensive and sickening up close, layered over wine and roast meat and fear. The hall reacts like a body pricked by a needle. Sound drops. Conversation stutters. Then it returns in a different form, a hiss of whispers, chairs scraping, servants retreating fast with their eyes down. Guards start moving, not running, not shouting, only re-forming. A half-circle. A line of steel. You see Lucius at the dais, face drawn tight. Not frightened, not pleading. Simply measuring the damage to his evening. And you see Livia. Her expression is wrong in a way that makes your stomach tighten. Pissed, openly so, and it makes her look even more alive. A flash of anger, a flash of excitement beneath it. She expected you to be bold. She did not expect you to be suicidal. Her hands tighten at her cup as if she wants to throw it. Her eyes lock on you like hooks. Cassian appears as if he has always been there. He stops at a respectful distance, palms open, posture loose. Behind him, guards settle their feet like they’re bracing for a weight they’ve carried before. You drag the noble a fraction closer and lift the knife higher, so everyone can see the edge. ''“Open a door,”'' you say, and your voice sounds steadier than you feel. ''“Now. Give me a way out.”'' The noble makes a strangled noise. His rings glitter as his hands shake. Cassian’s tone doesn’t change. ''“No.”'' You swallow, feeling your pulse in your jaw. The room waits. Cassian speaks like a man explaining a rule to a child. ''“The House doesn’t bargain with slaves,”'' he says. ''“Drop the blade and you’ll live. Don’t, and you’ll die.”'' [[Surrender.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_hostage_surrender]] [[Demand louder. Spill blood if they draw close.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_hostage_demand]]

You don’t look at the knife. You feel it. A wrong weight at your waist, a stolen truth pressed against oil-slick skin. Every step you take with it is an accusation, and yet the hall keeps breathing as if nothing has changed. Music. Laughter. Warm light licking marble. The world continuing, unbothered. Lucius is still on the dais, still the center of a thousand polite angles. A man in crimson robes with thinning hair and a life that wants to be something else. He speaks when it suits him, and the room listens because it is trained to. You move. Not straight at him, not like a madman charging a wall. You angle through the feast as if you belong to it. You let bodies become cover. You let servants and trays and hanging cloth become moving curtains. Your pulse pounds in your ears and your mouth tastes like copper. Every part of you is screaming that this is too much. Then you see the moment. <<nobr>> <<if $mind is 2>> <p> You read the hall the way you read a blade, you look for the half-beat where attention shifts away from the dais. A toast somewhere. A laugh that swells. A servant stepping between Lucius and the nearest guard for the space of a breath. The room blinks, and you decide to become the thing inside the blink. </p> <<else>> <p> You don’t think it through like a scholar. You feel the rhythm and step into it. You slip behind a pair of courtesans as they turn, you pass a pillar as a guard’s head tilts toward a disturbance, you move when the crowd moves, and for an instant you are simply another shadow drifting toward the raised steps. </p> <</if>> <</nobr>> You reach the foot of the dais. Close enough that you can smell Lucius’s wine, the spice on his breath, the clean starch of his robes. Close enough to see the ink stains on his fingers, the faint tremor of age in a knuckle when he lifts his cup. Close enough to make the world small. You draw the knife. It flashes once in torchlight, quick as thought. [[And you go for his throat.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_lucius1]]

For a moment you hate him for how calm he is. You hate the certainty. You hate the way everyone knows he's right. Your hand trembles once. The noble in your grasp is trying not to sob, but failing miserably. He smells like fear, sharp and sour. You lower the knife. The blade slips from your fingers and clatters onto marble, loud as a bell. The guards rush in anyway. Not to kill you, but to punish you. Hands hit you from both sides. Someone drives a baton into your ribs and you fold, breath leaving you in a choked cough. Your knees strike stone. Your cheek hits the floor, warm and slick with spilled wine. Above you, the feast resumes its breath. Someone laughs too loudly, relieved. Someone else murmurs a prayer for the noble and then forgets to mean it. Cassian’s voice is close, almost kind in its flatness. ''“Good,”'' he says. ''“You chose to live.”'' The rings on the noble’s hand flash as he’s pulled away. He won’t look at you. He can’t. You're hauled up by the arms and dragged into the corridors, out of warmth and music, back into stone. [[The days that follow are far from kind.|chp3_housevarrofeast_dungeon_wake]]

Your grip tightens. The noble chokes, and the sound is enough to make the nearest onlookers flinch. You press the knife harder against his throat, just enough to promise what comes next. His rings scrape uselessly against your arm as he claws at you, trying to pry himself free. ''“Back up,”'' you snap, louder this time. ''“Open the door. I’m not dying here.”'' A ripple runs through the hall. Servants freeze. Someone drops a cup and it shatters, the sound bright and stupid in the silence. Cassian doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t need to. ''“Last warning,”'' He says, still calm, ''“Drop it.”'' You glance toward the dais. Lucius’s face is hard, almost bored with you already. Livia’s eyes burn. Anger, yes, but not only anger. There’s a thrill there too, the way someone watches a beast break its chain. She looks furious that you’re wasting yourself, and delighted that you’re proving her right about what you are. You lift the blade a fraction and the noble whimpers. You think, for one breath, that you can force this. That you can make them afraid. <<nobr>> <<if $mind is 2>> <p> Your grip shifts by a hair as you calculate, as you try to read Cassian’s line, the guards’ angles, the hidden hands that might reach for you. The world becomes geometry for a heartbeat, and that heartbeat costs you everything. </p> <<else>> <p> Your focus slips for a heartbeat as a guard moves at the edge of your vision, as bodies tighten and the ring of steel seems to breathe. You track the motion without meaning to, and that tiny turn of attention costs you everything. </p> <</if>> <</nobr>> The bolt hits your neck with a sound you don’t understand at first. It's not pain, not immediately. It's impact, shock, the sudden hot flood of something that should not be leaving you. Your fingers go slack. The knife drops. The noble tears free and falls forward, gagging, stumbling away on shaking legs. Your mouth opens. A wet, bubbling sound comes out instead of words. You try to breathe and the breath turns into blood. Warm, thick, spilling down your chest, ruining the paint, ruining the shine. Your hands go to your throat, stupidly, as if you can plug a wound that deep with willpower. The hall has already started moving again. Guards are on you, not to save you, but to make sure you finish dying where you fell. Your knees hit marble, vision flickering. Somewhere above you, Livia’s face is still bright with fury, and something that brushes both regret and satisfaction. The look of a woman who wanted danger, and got tragedy instead. The ceiling tilts. The lanternlight smears. Your last breath gurgles out of you like a secret. <<set $chp3_escape_fail="hostage">> [[Finally, darkness. embraces you.|chp3_housevarrofeast_deathend]]

It's wet. That dank warmth seeps into your bones first, that familiar weeping perspiration that pervades so much of Cradle's ruined stonework. Down here, it feels less like temperature and more like a tomb's first kiss pressed against your cheek. Then the tastes hits. Thick iron, sour bile, and the sickly-sweet tang of old blood crusted in the corner of your mouth. The ache comes last, a deep, pulsing throb radiating from shattered ribs, a dislocated shoulder screaming against the stone floor, and raw, weeping flesh circling your wrists where the manacles ground skin to pulp. Your body feels like a sack of broken pottery – heavy, jagged, useless. A shallow breath scrapes like gravel in your lungs. You choke back a groan, swallowing copper and pain. Your left eye is gummed shut, the lid swollen and hot. Slowly, you can't help but tongue a ragged split on the inside of your lip, tasting fresh blood. You're alive. For now. Part of you wonders whether a quick death would've been better. Blinking the good eye clear reveals the cell’s bleak geometry: low, sweating cobblestone walls slick with greenish slime. A single torch sputters fitfully down the corridor, its greasy light barely reaching the filthy straw pallet in the corner – stained dark with the piss, shit, and despair of its previous, vanished occupants. And there, hammered crudely into the weeping stone at shoulder height: a thick pig-iron ring, its surface pitted and scarred. A hook for meat. Then you feel it. The cold, unyielding pressure encircling your throat. The collar. You couldn't quite shake it, could you? It’s still there. That’s the blade that cuts deepest, sharper than any gladius or spearpoint. They beat you senseless, dragged you through filth, treated you like offal… and they *left it on*. Not an oversight. A calculated cruelty. A brand. A reminder carved into your very skin that you *belong*. Its weight, its constriction, is the first true taste of your failure. Humiliation burns hotter than the cracked ribs. You flex your fingers. Agony lances up your arms from the mangled wrists, but the digits twitch. Functional. *It could be worse.* The thought slithers into your mind, cold and treacherous. They could have shattered your kneecaps. Gouged out an eye. Crushed a hand under a bootheel. Left a permanent, screaming reminder that your body, like your life, is *theirs* to break. This? Bruises, breaks, blood? Temporary. A reprieve. A pause before the main event. ''Drip… drip… drip…'' Water falls in the distance, a maddening metronome measuring out your borrowed time. Faintly, impossibly, the ghost of music drifts through tons of stone – a lute’s bright trill, a snatch of drunken song from the feast hall far above. The world feasts and fucks while you rot in the dark. Or is it just the echo of memory, your mind trying to soften the jagged edges of your reality? The scent of roasted meat and spiced wine is replaced by the reek of mold, excrement, and your own sour sweat. Shifting your weight sends the world spinning. Bile rises, acrid and hot, before you force it down. A second heartbeat pounds at the base of your skull, relentless. Phantom sensations crawl over your skin: the vise-grip on your collar wrenching your neck, the dull *thud* of a truncheon cracking against your temple, the heavy, jarring impact of a boot heel slamming into your kidney when you were already down. The chilling efficiency of it all. House Varro moved like a single, indifferent beast. Your struggle, your defiance, your spilled blood – just another chore before bedtime. You fix your good eye on the rust-pitted bars until the cell steadies. House Varro does not forgive. You didn't just fail. You *insulted* them. Forced them to dirty their hands. The footsteps aren't hurried. They echo with deliberate, unhurried certainty down the stone corridor. The jangle of keys is a cruel melody. Lantern light blooms through the grate, harsh and yellow, sweeping across the filthy floor like a predator’s gaze. [[The lock turns.|chp3_feast_dungeonend]] <<script>> $("body").append('<div id="fadeBlack"></div>'); $("#fadeBlack").css({ position: "fixed", top: 0, left: 0, width: "100%", height: "100%", background: "black", opacity: 1, "z-index": 9999, cursor: "pointer" // optional: makes skip feel intuitive }); // allow skip by double-clicking anywhere on the overlay $("#fadeBlack").on("dblclick", function() { $(this).stop(true, true).fadeOut(300, function() { $(this).remove(); }); }); // hold black, then fade out slowly setTimeout(() => { $("#fadeBlack").animate( { opacity: 0 }, { duration: 5000, // fade duration easing: "swing", complete: function() { $(this).remove(); } } ); }, 1500); <</script>>

The blade finds cloth first. Crimson robe. Collar. The edge bites and skates, and for a heartbeat you think you’ve failed completely, then blood appears anyway, a hot bright line at the base of Lucius’s throat. Not enough. Never enough. A shallow cut that still manages to make the dais erupt into motion. Lucius recoils hard, eyes wide, and then his face changes. Shock drains out of him and something colder moves in. Something administrative. He stumbles back a step, one hand clapping to his neck, fingers coming away slick. His mouth opens, not to beg, but to speak an order. Livia’s reaction hits you like a slap. She is on her feet. Her eyes burn with fury, and beneath it a vicious excitement, the kind that comes when a wager pays out in the ugliest coin. She looks like she wants to scream at you for wasting yourself, and kiss you for proving her right, and tear the room apart for letting you get this close. ''“Idiot,”'' she breathes, and it is not a whisper of fear. It is anger. It is almost grief. You try to press in again, but you don't get the chance. A baton crashes into your forearm and your hand opens. The knife clatters on polished tile, while another blow takes your knee, leg folding beneath you. You lurch, catching yourself on the dais step, and then iron hands seize you from behind, jerking you backward like a dog yanked off prey. You twist, wild, reaching for anything, for someone, for a throat that matters. The House answers with practiced brutality. A spearhead punches into your side. You feel it enter, hot and wrong, breath leaving you in a harsh sound. Someone drives you down, marble meeting your cheek in an instant as lanternlight smears your blurred surroundings. Lucius stands above you, one hand still at his neck, blood staining his fingers like ink. He looks at you as if you're a tally mark. ''“Kill him,”'' he says, flat and definitive. You hear boots and feel the final shift of weight. A blade’s whisper close to your ear, close enough that you smell oil and metal. Then the world goes away. <<set $chp3_escape_fail="lucius">> [[Finally, darkness embraces you.|chp3_housevarrofeast_deathend]]

You listen. Footsteps come and go in distant pockets. A door opens somewhere and closes again. Water runs, then stops. Voices drift, clipped and functional, the language of people who can be punished for lingering. Ahead, the servantway forks. To the left, the corridor darkens and cools. The stone sweats, torchlight sparse and tired, set wide apart, leaving long stretches of shadow between pools of orange. It looks less traveled, less watched, but also less forgiving. The kind of place where you can vanish, or get lost, or bump into a guard. To the right, the air warms and the smell changes. Grease, spice, onion-skin, boiling water. The soft clatter of pans, the hush of hurried feet. More servants, more movement, more chances to blend, and more chances to be seen by someone who will remember you. <<nobr>> <p> <<if $mobility is 2>> Your nimble body wants the dark. Quiet corners. Longer shadows. Places where a clean step matters more than a convincing face. <<elseif $mind is 2>> Your mind wants the busy way. Work has rules. Kitchens have hierarchies. A man can hide inside “correctness” if he knows what it looks like. <<elseif $might is 2>> Both paths feel too narrow. Too close. If you’re caught, you’ll be caught within arm’s reach, and you’ll have to decide what kind of violence you’re willing to become. <<else>> Both ways look possible, and that is the danger. You can’t afford to choose wrong twice. <</if>> </p> <</nobr>> Somewhere behind you, the feast laughs again. A swell of sound that has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with why you’re here. You exhale slowly and pick a seam. [[Go left, into the cold dark.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_left][$chp3_sneak_route="left"]] [[Go right, toward the kitchens and the servants.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_right][$chp3_sneak_route="right"]]

<nobr> <<if $chp3_feast_escape_followup is "carving">> <p> The carving knife feels wrong in your hand now. Too honest. Too simple. You keep it hidden as you slip back through the servant curtain, then, at the first chance, you let it go. A crock of greasy water sits beneath a sideboard, meant for rags and scraps. You drop the blade into it without a splash, just a muted clink swallowed by cloth and fat. You don’t look back. You don’t carry proof of the thought. </p> <<else>> <p> You return with empty hands, the way a good ornament should. Whatever you imagined in the servantways stays there, tucked into dark corridors and lye-smell, like a sin you haven’t committed yet. </p> <</if>> </nobr> You wait for the right noise to cover you. A laugh that swells. A cup that shatters somewhere deeper in the hall. The soft rush of bodies shifting as a courtesan glides through a knot of guests and parts them with her smile. Then you slip back under the curtain. Warmth hits you first. Perfume, wine, roasted meat, the easy cruelty of comfort. The music sharpens into something whole again, and the torches make everything look gilded, even the collars. You don’t rush. You don’t freeze. You cross the few steps like you were always meant to be crossing them, like this is simply where Cassian placed you and where you have remained. A servant’s eyes flick to you and away. Another drifts closer with oil already on her palms, ready to restore the shine. She does not ask where you went. She does not want to know. She smooths the paint where it has dulled, presses cloth to your shoulder as if erasing a small mistake, and leaves you presentable again. You find the exact edge of your position. The same angle. The same posture. A pleasant statue at the rim of the feast, breathing quietly, learning. [[Onward.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch1]]

<center><a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText" target="_blank"><img src="images/chp3_knife_end.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></a> This life draws to a close. In the end, you fought for your freedom. Not cleanly. Dirty, desperate, dangerously, Risking everything, and losing it all in one stroke. Still. There's value in that. [[Or is that only wishful thinking?|gladiator_teaser]] </center> <<bgmstop 15>><<script>>$("body").append('<div id="fadeBlack"></div>'); $("#fadeBlack").css({ position: "fixed", top: 0, left: 0, width: "100%", height: "100%", background: "black", opacity: 1, "z-index": 9999, cursor: "pointer" // optional: makes skip feel intuitive }); // allow skip by double-clicking anywhere on the overlay $("#fadeBlack").on("dblclick", function() { $(this).stop(true, true).fadeOut(300, function() { $(this).remove(); }); }); // hold black, then fade out slowly setTimeout(() => { $("#fadeBlack").animate( { opacity: 0 }, { duration: 5000, // fade duration easing: "swing", complete: function() { $(this).remove(); } } ); }, 1500);<</script>>

You take the right fork. The corridor warms in slow steps, like you’re walking toward a living furnace. The smell hits first, thick and real. Grease, spice, onion-skin, boiling water. The soft clatter of pans and the scrape of wood on stone. Voices too, brisk, functional speech, the language of people who can be struck for pausing. Then the servantway opens into the back of the kitchens. It's chaos with rules. Bodies move in practiced lanes. A boy runs with a stack of plates held high, eyes forward, trusting that everyone else will make space because that's how the system survives. A woman stirs something steaming and never looks up, while a pair of men haul a barrel that smells of wine and vinegar. No one has time to admire anything, not even you. And that's your one mercy. You're half-naked, oiled, painted. A gladiator dressed to be looked at, not to work. In the feast hall you're an ornament. Here, you're a problem. Not because you’re dangerous, but because you don’t belong in this pattern. A cook glances at you once, quick as a knife, and then looks away. Not kindness. Calculation. If she can pretend you’re not her responsibility, she will. You need a mask. Not cloth alone. Purpose. Something that makes your body fit the motion of the room. Something that tells every hurried eye, ''busy,'' and nothing more. <<nobr>> <<if $mind gte 2>> <p> You see the hierarchy in a heartbeat. Who gives orders, who moves aside, and who nobody dares to touch. If you copy the right posture, you can borrow their invisibility. </p> <<elseif $mobility gte 2>> <p> You don’t need to own the room. You only need to slip through it. Between carts. under elbows, past eyes that are already tired. </p> <<else>> <p> You feel how wrong you look here. How bright, how clean, shaped for an entirely different kind of gaze. One hard stare from the wrong person and the House will close around you. </p> <</if>> <</nobr>> A rack of aprons hangs near a wash basin, stained and stiff with use. Beside it, a tray of empty cups waits to be carried back out. Flour dust lies in a pale drift near a kneading table. A laundry cart sits half-full with damp linen, the kind that smells of soap and sweat and someone else’s body. Pick a lie. Wear it. [[Steal an apron and a tray. Become a pair of hands with a task.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_right_apron][$chp3_kitchen_mask="apron"]] [[Smear yourself with flour and ash. Dull the shine. Ruin the pretty.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_right_ash][$chp3_kitchen_mask="ash"]] [[Climb into the laundry cart and become cargo.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_right_linen][$chp3_kitchen_mask="linen"]]

You take the left fork. The warmth dies behind you in a few steps. The air thins and cools, and the smell changes from grease and spice to damp stone, old smoke, and something sour that clings to corridors that have seen too many bodies pass through. The torchlight is sparse here. Wide gaps between flames. Long stretches of shadow where your eyes have to do the work torches won’t. The servantway narrows into something older and meaner, a spine of crude stone and mortar that doesn’t bother pretending it was built for comfort. Bone rings are set into the walls at shoulder height, old fixtures, old habits. The floor slopes almost imperceptibly downward, as if the House is gently guiding everything unwanted into its deeper places. You keep your breathing shallow. Every sound feels loud. A swallow. The soft scrape of your own foot when you don’t place it perfectly. Somewhere water drips, steady, patient. The feast behind you is only a muffled pulse now, like a heartbeat heard through flesh. You reach a corner where the torch ahead gutters low, struggling. Past it, the corridor splits again into a narrow cross passage, and you hear it. Boots. Not many. Not a patrol marching with purpose. Just two sets of steps, unhurried, moving in and out of your hearing as if someone is pacing, or turning, or talking quietly. A soft clink accompanies it, metal against leather, the idle language of armed men who don’t think they’re in danger. You press yourself back into the shadow before the torch can paint you. <<nobr>> <p> <<if $mind is 2>> You listen for rhythm. Guards have patterns even when they think they don’t. A pause on the turn. A shift of weight. The moment where conversation makes them careless. <<elseif $mobility is 2>> Your body reads the space immediately. The wall’s roughness. The angle of the corner. Where your feet can land without grit. You can pass if you choose the right breath. <<elseif $might is 2>> Your shoulders feel too wide for this corridor. Too much man in too little space. If you’re seen, you’ll have to decide fast whether you run or ruin someone. <<else>> You hold still and let the darkness do what it does best. You become a shape that doesn't matter. <</if>> </p> <</nobr>> A thin seam in the stone to your left catches your eye. Not a real door, more like a service panel, a maintenance slit, half-hidden by hanging cloth and grime. It might fit a man if he turns sideways and doesn’t mind scraping skin. Beyond it, the air is even colder. Ahead, the torch’s light wavers, and with it the promise of being seen. The boots stop. A voice murmurs, low, bored. Another answers. Then a laugh, small and ugly, and the steps resume. They're close now. Close enough that if you move wrong, the sound will betray you. You have a handful of heartbeats to choose what you are. [[Wait in the shadow and let them pass. Patience first, then movement.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_left_wait]] [[Move when the torch gutters. Trust your feet.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_left_cross]]<<if ( ($mobility gte 2) and ($mind gte 1) ) or ( ($mobility gte 1) and ( ($char_height is "short") or ($char_build is "scrawny_wiry") ) )>> [[Slip into the narrow service seam and hide your body.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_left_seam]]<<else>> <span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You aren't short or skinny enough. You'll never fit.">Slip into the narrow service seam and hide your body.</span> <</if>>

You press yourself into the shadow before the torch can betray you. The stone is cold through the thin layer of oil and paint. You hold your breath until it becomes quiet enough to forget, until your chest stops insisting on being alive. The boots keep coming, unhurried, and the voices drift closer with them, low and bored, as if nothing in this corridor will surprise them. A laugh, ugly and small, before one of them mutters. The other answers with a soft clink of metal, shifting his belt, and you feel how close they are by how the sound fills the space. <<nobr>> <<if ($mind gte 2) or (($mobility gte 2) and ($mind gte 1))>> <p> You don’t move. You don’t flinch. You let the moment pass the way you let pain pass, by refusing to feed it. </p> <p> Their torchlight slides along the corridor like a searching hand. It touches the corner you’re hiding in and finds nothing because you have made yourself nothing. You watch their boots cross the open stretch ahead, watch the sway of their shadows, and you count the beats between steps. One guard pauses to scratch at his jaw. The other leans in to say something quieter, and the sound of it is swallowed by the stone. </p> <p> Then they're past you. The clink fades. The voices grow dull, then distant, and the corridor returns to its steady drip and hush. You wait one breath longer, not because you need to, but because you have learned that haste is what gets men taken. </p> <p> When you finally move, it’s smooth and small. A single step. Another. You let the torch ahead gutter and steady again before you cross into the next pocket of shadow. The House does not notice the missing ornament. The feast keeps laughing on the other side of cloth and stone. </p> <p> You slip deeper into the servantways. </p> [[Onward.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_left_deeper]] <<else>> <p> You try to become stone, but the corridor is too mean, the torch too fickle, your breath too real. </p> <p> A boot slows. The voices stop mid-sentence. The torchlight wavers, then steadies, and you feel it settle nearer the corner where you’re pressed, as if the flame itself has turned its head. </p> <p> ''“Hold on,”'' one of them murmurs, and you can hear it in their breath. </p> <p> You have a heartbeat. Maybe two. Then the next step comes, and the House will see you. </p> <</if>> [[Make a run for it.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_left_run]] <br> <<if $chp3_feast_escape_followup is "carving">> <p> [[Stay still. Use your knife when they get close.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_left_shank]] </p> <</if>> <</nobr>>

You don’t wait for them to pass. You wait for the torch. The flame ahead gutters, coughing on its own smoke, and for a breath the corridor changes its face. The light thins. Shadows deepen. The open stretch becomes less like a stage and more like a gap in a memory. That's your moment. You push off the wall and glide into the dark as the torch falters, not running, not creeping, just moving with the same quiet certainty you used in the yard when you learned to step without announcing yourself. The stone underfoot is uneven. Grit where boots have chewed it down. A damp patch that would catch you if you land wrong. You place your feet anyway. <<if ($mobility gte 2) and ($mind gte 1)>> Your timing is clean. You cross the open stretch while their attention is still tied to their own conversation, their own boredom. When the torch steadies again, it paints only empty corridor behind you. You slide around the next bend and press into the deeper shadow there, letting your breath settle before it can become a sound. The guards continue on, boots clinking away in the opposite direction, ignorant of the small theft you’ve made from their patrol. Only then do you allow yourself a single thought that feels like hope. [[Onward.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_left_deeper]] <<else>> You move on instinct, but instinct isn’t always enough. Your foot finds grit and skates a fraction. It isn’t a fall, not even close, but the sound is wrong in a corridor like this. A small scrape that says someone is here who shouldn’t be. The voices stop. The torch steadies, the light turning toward you as if the flame itself has been told to look. A boot shifts, metal clinks, the corridor tightening around your ribs. ''“Hold,”'' one of them murmurs, and you can hear it in their breath. You have a heartbeat. Maybe two. [[Make a run for it.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_left_run]] <<nobr>> <<if $chp3_feast_escape_followup is "carving">> [[Stay still. Use your knife when they get close.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_left_shank]] <</if>> <</nobr>> <</if>>

The seam is tighter than it should be. A flaw in the House, half-forgotten, half-deliberate, like someone once needed a place to hide something that mattered. You turn sideways and slide in. Stone scrapes at your shoulder. The cloth snagging the slit drags across your oiled skin, stealing paint and leaving you raw beneath it. You keep your breath shallow, chest barely moving, ribs pressed against cold rock. There is no room to be a man here. Only room to be a shape. The corridor outside holds its hush for a moment, then the boots come again. Torchlight spills across the floor in a low sweep, searching. It brushes the hanging cloth and makes it glow dull and innocent. The guards talk as they walk, bored and unafraid, and you can hear the wet little sounds of their armor shifting, the lazy clink of metal that doesn’t expect trouble. One of them stops close enough that you feel the heat of the torch through the cloth. ''“Smells like lye,”'' he mutters. ''“Everything smells like lye,”'' the other answers. ''“Move.”'' The torch lifts. The light swings away. Their boots recede, and the corridor swallows them again. You count to five anyway. Then ten. You wait until the House forgets you a second time. When you ease yourself out, it’s slow and ugly, stone biting where it can. Your skin stings in thin lines. Your paint is scuffed. But you aren't caught. You slip forward into the darker vein of corridor beyond, deeper into places the feast will never see. [[Onward.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_left_deeper]]

When the guards are gone, the corridor feels emptier than it should. The torchlight steadies again, indifferent, while the slow drip resumes. The damp stone returns to being only stone, still and steady beneath you, around you, not carrying the breath of a man who might yet catch you. However, you shouldn't be so sure. Not yet. You move deeper. The servantways here are older than the feast, older than the polite lies of silk and plucked music. This part of House Varro doesn’t care how it looks. It was built to carry weight, hide labor, to swallow unpleasant noise. The walls sweat in places as the floor slopes, changing levels in slow, patient angles, guiding runoff and bodies the same way. You pass old, bone rings set into chipped mortar, long-used and long-forgotten. You pass a niche where a broken latern has been left to decay, as if even light was once a tool down here that got worn out. The air changes in thin layers. At first it carries the faint, sharp bite of lye. Slowly it becomes damper, smokier, older. Then, deeper still, something mineral and stale, like stagnant cistern water that's forgotten the sun. You catch the scent of grain in a sealed storeroom, and then the sourness of old cloth piled somewhere out of sight. Behind one low door you hear breathing, slow and steady, but you keep walking without even looking. The House has rooms for things down here that aren't meant to be seen. Above you, the feast is only a muffled pulse now, a far-off throb that could be your own heart if you let it. It's strange to know that the room of candles and laughter is still turning, still feeding itself, while you thread through this narrow dark like a thought the House doesn’t want to have. Your paint is scuffed, the oil on your skin having picked up grit and muck. Where stone scraped you, it stings in thin, jagged lines, filling you with the urge to touch the marks just to prove you're still here, whole, breathing and alive. You don’t. For now, you keep your hands empty. This isn't a time for indulgence. Ahead, the corridor tightens into a long stretch where the torches are set even farther apart, and in the gaps between their flames you begin to sense something else. A distant draft. Not the musty warmth from kitchens, nor the breath of bodies, but dryer, colder air slipping through stone, carrying the faintest taste of the outside world. It raises fine hairs along your arms and makes you even more aware of how long it's been since you stood under open sky. The morning fills like an eternity ago now. You follow it like a starving man follows the smell of bread. The servantway bends, then narrows again, and you find a place where the stonework changes. Newer blocks fitted against older ones. An old, pig-iron grate set low, half-hidden behind stacked crates. Beyond it, darkness that looks different than corridor-dark. The draft is stronger here, and with it comes a distant sound: not music, not voices, but the far hush of Cradle itself, the city breathing in its sleep. This isn't freedom yet, but it's the edge of something close. You lower yourself nearer the grate, listening. Somewhere deeper behind you, another set of boots touches stone, far away, but real. The House still has eyes in its belly, even here. You've come too far to hesitate now. [[Do it. You can nearly taste your freedom.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_left_threshold]]

You stay still. You let the torchlight sweep. You let the boots close the distance. You let them think the corridor is empty except for damp stone and old smells. The knife is already in your hand. It is a kitchen tool, meant for meat and rind, meant for harmless work. In your grip it becomes something else, not noble, not clean. A secret held close to your thigh, blade turned inward so it won’t catch light. The guard’s shadow reaches you first. Then the man. He steps nearer, lantern angled down, posture loose with boredom. He is close enough now that you can hear him breathe. Close enough that you can smell wine on him, faint and sour. Close enough that his collar chain clinks softly when he shifts his weight. You move. Fast, low, ugly. The blade drives in beneath his ribs, where the armor is weakest, where the body is soft and full of breath. It meets resistance, then gives. Heat spills over your knuckles. The guard’s face changes in an instant from boredom to pure animal shock. He makes a sound that is not a word. It's a scream dragged out of him like a rope. The lantern jerks, light flailing across the corridor walls. The scream becomes louder, higher, and then it breaks into wet, choking gasps. He claws at you with one hand, the other fumbling for his belt, for a baton, for anything. You try to pull away, but he doesn't let you. He crashes into you, hard as a falling door, and you both slam into the stone. The knife twists in your hand, trapped between bodies. The guard’s blood makes everything slick. Your shoulder hits a corner and sparks pain down your arm. The guard keeps screaming, half in fury, half in terror, and the sound runs through the servantways like a bell. Footsteps answer immediately. Not one pair. Many. ''“HERE.”'' ''“DOWN.”'' The corridor fills with light and boots and shouted command. You get the knife free at last and try to rise, try to finish it, try to make the scream stop. A baton cracks across your forearm. The knife flies from your hand and clatters into the dark. Another blow catches you in the jaw. Your teeth snap together hard enough to make your vision flash. You stumble back and someone kicks your legs out from under you. You hit the floor on your side, breath punched out of you, and the stone feels like it wants to keep you. You fight anyway. It's instinct, rage, the last stupid insistence that your body belongs to you. A boot stamps down on your wrist. Bone grinds. Pain rises so fast it’s almost clean. A second baton lands across your ribs, then another, precise and practiced. The House does not beat like a man. It beats like a system. Hands seize your collar chain and haul your head back, forcing your throat open. A forearm crushes down over your face. Someone’s knee pins your spine. Your arms are wrenched behind you and bound with something that bites. The guard you stabbed is still making noise, a wet, bubbling insistence that he is not dying quietly enough. ''“You stupid bastard,”'' a voice says close to your ear, not angry, just disgusted. ''“Stupid.”'' You try to spit. You taste blood. They drag you. Torchlight swims. Boots thud around you. The corridor becomes a tunnel of moving legs and iron and stone. The feast’s distant music returns like a cruel rumor, muffled laughter leaking through walls while you are hauled deeper into the House’s belly. A cloth presses over your mouth. Sweet. Sharp. Wrong. You twist your head away, but fingers clamp your jaw and force you to breathe. Your lungs betray you. The world tilts. The torches stretch into long, soft smears. The last thing you feel is your collar pulled tight, as if the House wants to remind you who you belong to. <<set $chp3_escape_outcome = "captured">> [[Finally, darkness takes you.|chp3_housevarrofeast_dungeon_wake]]

You run. Not bravely, not cleanly. You tear yourself out of the shadow like an animal bolts from a trap, and the corridor answers at once with sound. A shout, boots striking stone, torchlight flaring as someone swings the flame toward you. ''“HEY.”'' The word cracks through the servantways, and you feel the House wake up. You don’t look back. You don’t let yourself think about distance or odds. You just go, feet finding purchase where they can, shoulder grazing rough wall, paint smearing where stone steals it. The oil on your skin turns traitor, slick against stone, and the corridor narrows and widens in quick, ugly rhythms, like the House is changing its throat around you. <<nobr>> <<if $mobility is 2>> <p> Your body takes over. You cut corners tight, step light where the floor is grit, and when the passage forks you choose without hesitation, reading the angle of torchlight, the direction of sound. For a breath, you're faster than the shout behind you. </p> <p> You glimpse it. Not freedom, not truly, but the suggestion of it. A draft that tastes like cold air. A darker stairwell. An iron-banded door ahead with a seam of night along its edge. </p> <p> Then the House closes its hand. </p> <<else>> <p> You’re quick, but not quick enough. The corridor turns and turns again, and each turn costs you a fraction of certainty. Your foot skids once. Your breath catches. The oil and paint make you shine for the torch behind you, a bright, stupid target in a narrow world. </p> <p> The shout becomes footsteps, and the footsteps become close enough that you can hear the breath of the men chasing you. </p> <</if>> <</nobr>> Something hard hits the back of your leg. Pain blooms white-hot, and you stumble, catching yourself on the wall. A second impact follows, higher, a club or a mailed fist that drives the air from your lungs. You try to twist away, but the corridor is too tight, and hands are already on you. Someone yanks you down, gloved fingers against your collar, hands, head. You fight for a moment, ugly and desperate, and it only earns you more hands, more weight. A knee digs into your spine, a forearm crushes your throat just enough to remind you how easily breath can be taken. ''“Fool,”'' a voice mutters near your ear. The torchlight swims as a cloth is shoved over your mouth, reeking of something sweet and sharp. You try to turn your head away, but fingers clamp your jaw and force you to breathe it in. The world tilts. The stone under you becomes soft, then distant, then gone. And the feast keeps laughing on the other side of the walls. [[Darkness comes for you.|chp3_housevarrofeast_dungeon_wake][$chp3_escape_outcome="captured"]]

The draft is stronger here. It threads through the rusted grate low in the wall and brushes your face with cold that tastes like stone and darker distances. Beyond it, the shadows carry a different weight, a low hush, a faraway sound of the city's underbelly that's so faint it feels like childhood memory. You crouch behind the stacked crates and study what the House has given you. The grate is old iron, bolted into newer stonework that doesn’t quite match the older blocks around it. A service mouth, or more realistically, a waste sluice. A place built for runoff and scraps, not men like you. The bars are close enough to bite skin and the opening beyond looks tight, low, cruel. You can already feel the scrape of it on ribs and shoulders. Behind you, deeper in the belly of the House, boots touch stone again. Not the bored pacing from before. These steps have purpose. They come in a straight line, as if someone has decided where you're likely to be. You bring your hands to the bolts, testing them. They don't want to turn, or move. <<nobr>> <<if $chp3_feast_escape_followup is "carving">> <p> The carving knife is a poor tool for heroics, but it's honest metal. You wedge its tip under the edge of the grate where iron meets stone, searching for the smallest weakness. Your fingers tighten and the blade flexes, the metal giving a thin, protesting sound that makes your teeth ache. You twist again, slow and controlled, the knife becoming something more than a weapon. A lever. Something shifts. Not much. A fraction. Enough to matter. You feel the tang strain, feel it begin to die in your hand, but you don't stop. If it breaks, it breaks. You can’t carry proof of this anyway. </p> <</if>> <</nobr>> You listen as you work. The boots behind you are closer now, and a torch’s glow starts to pulse faintly along the stone, the warm promise of being found. This is the threshold. A man can hesitate forever and still end up back in chains. You set your shoulder, brace your feet, and commit. <<if ( ($mobility gte 2) and ($mind gte 1) ) or ( ($mobility gte 1) and ( ($char_height is "short") or ($char_build is "scrawny_wiry") ) ) or ($chp3_feast_escape_followup is "carving") >> The grate gives with a muted grind, more felt than heard. A bar shifts. A bolt loosens. Your fingers find purchase and you pull it just wide enough to hate yourself for thinking it was impossible. It could be your mind playing tricks, but you feel it. Cold air rushes in. You slide into the opening and the stone takes its payment immediately. Your shoulders scrape, more paint smearing away. The oil on your skin turns to grit, and the metal bites along your ribs as you squeeze through like a thief through a throat. For a moment you're stuck, lungs compressed, heart hammering against iron, and then suddenly with a desperate tug and twist of your body, you're past it. You drop into darkness below; hard, wet, the shock of filth and cold stealing breath from your chest. Water splashes, your hands finding slick stone. You crawl without dignity, without direction, only away, only onward. Behind you, the torchlight flares. Voices shout. The grate rattles. But the House is suddenly too large to hold you in one hand. <<set $chp3_escape_outcome = "escaped_hurt">> [[You aren't safe yet.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_left_end]] <<else>> The iron refuses you. You pull and the grate only answers with a sharp clink that feels like betrayal. Too loud. Too clean. The sound runs down the corridor like water, and the footsteps behind you change at once. Quicker. Certain. Torchlight spills across the floor, then climbs the crates, then finds your crouched shape behind them as if it was always meant to. ''“For the love of the House,”'' a voice mutters, but there's no surprise in it. Only contempt, like you're a familiar kind of stupidity. Hands close on you. Hard. Efficient. A chain snaps taut against your collar, and you're hauled backward into the light. <<set $chp3_escape_outcome = "captured">> [[So close, freedom slipping between your fingers.|chp3_housevarrofeast_dungeon_wake]] <</if>>

You hit the runoff hard enough to see stars that aren’t there. Cold water climbs you in an instant, up calves, up thighs, biting like teeth. The splash feels impossibly loud in the narrow dark, and you freeze with your hands splayed on slick stone, listening for the House to answer. No bell. No shout. No thunder of boots. Only the drip, and the slow breathing of the culvert, and the far-off warmth of the feast sealed behind walls you can’t see anymore. You pull yourself forward. The underway is built for waste, not men. The ceiling is low and mean. The stone is furred with slime. Your shoulders drag, and every scrape burns where the grate took its payment. Paint smears off you in ugly streaks, leaving bare skin that stings with cold, and the oil that once made you shine now gathers grit and turns to paste. You crawl anyway. You move in small, hateful increments. Hand, knee, elbow, hand again. Your breath comes shallow because there isn’t room to fill your chest without rubbing yourself raw. The collar at your throat catches once on a jag of iron, and panic flashes up hot and stupid, the old animal certainty that you’re about to be hauled backward into light. You exhale until your ribs feel smaller. You twist, sliding free with a wet scrape so that you can keep going. The House doesn't deserve the sound of you dying down here. You've come too far. The culvert bends, the air changing in thin layers. Damp becomes stale, stale becomes mineral. You smell moss, then old smoke, then something sour that might be a rat nest or a dead dog or nothing at all. You don’t try to name it. Naming is for people who aren’t trapped in stone. You move like an animal. At times you hear the city above you, not clearly, but as pressure. A distant creak of wood. The faint clatter of something dropped. Once, a far-off shout that might be a drunken argument in the street or might be someone calling your arena name, and you feel your body tense like a whipped horse, ready to bolt, ready to be caught. Nothing follows. You crawl until your arms shake, and you learn a simple truth. Freedom, in Cradle, does not come with clean air. It comes with filth and bruises and the ache of knowing you're still owned by something. If not by House Varro, then by the city itself. Ahead, there is a darker dark. A mouth that breathes colder air. You push toward it until your hands find brickwork instead of dressed stone. Rougher. Older. Someone’s attempt to patch the world long ago. A bent grate sits half-loose in mortar, iron warped as if something once forced its way through. You press your shoulder against it. It grinds, resists, then gives a fraction. Your skin catches on iron and tears, the sting sharp and immediate, though you're used to these pains by now. Blood warms your wrist for half a breath, then the cold takes it away. You brace your feet, drag your body through, and the world changes in a single, ugly moment. You spill out into a narrow recess between buildings where refuse collects and no one bothers to sweep. Wet brick presses your cheek. The air is colder here, open enough to taste the night, but still trapped, still stale with the city’s rot. Somewhere nearby, water trickles down a gutter. Somewhere farther off, lanterns shift like slow insects along an alley mouth. You lie still and listen. House Varro is behind you. It does not roar. It does not chase in a straight line. It simply exists, vast and patient, and for a moment you understand how little your escape matters to it, the way a rich man can afford to lose a coin and still sleep well. That thought should comfort you, but it doesn't. The city doesn't sleep well. Cradle waits. The streets have their own teeth. The quarters have their own hunger. Even the night wind feels like it belongs to someone else. You push yourself up. Your hands are black with slime, paint gone in places, smeared in others. Your skin's scraped and burning, the collar still sitting heavy at your throat like a promise the world will try to keep. You taste copper when you swallow. Somewhere above the roofs, the sky is a bruise. Dosmera’s faint glow stains the clouds violet, and for a heartbeat you think you can feel the distant pull of the Colosseum, the pale ribs of it out there in the dark, waiting for blood whether you return or not. You're out. Not safe. Not clean. Not saved. [[Just out.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_success_tbc]]

Somewhere, something goes wrong. It isn’t a single mistake you can name with certainty. It’s smaller than that. A wrong turn taken a half-step too wide. A breath drawn at the wrong time. The faint clink of a cup against a tray. Linen shifting when it should have stayed dead. A steward’s eye catching on the shine of your collar for a heartbeat longer than politeness allows. Maybe it’s the way you move. A hand grabs your arm. You twist away on instinct, but another hand catches your collar, and the iron bites hard at your throat. The pain flashes bright, and the world narrows to breath and pressure and the sudden understanding that you have stepped into a net you did not see. A guard’s lantern swings toward you, turning flour and ash and damp cloth into a cheap costume. Your apron looks ridiculous now. Your tray looks like proof. Your hiding place looks like a child’s game. Faces stare and then look away again, relieved it is not their problem. And then the House arrives properly. Boots. Chain. Command. They move with the ease of men who have done this before. One hooks an arm behind your neck and drags you down into a bow you did not choose. Another wrenches your wrists behind you and binds them fast, not with rope, but with something that bites, something meant for collars and dogs. Someone mutters a curse at you, not angry, just tired. A steward’s voice cuts through it all, brisk and satisfied. ''“Take him.”'' You fight for a moment, because your body cannot accept surrender cleanly. It only earns you a knee in the ribs, a forearm across your throat, the crushing reminder that you are not in the yard with rules and witnesses. You are in the servantways, where the House can do what it likes. They haul you through corridors that twist back toward the heart of Varro. The warmth of the kitchens falls away. The air grows damp again. The torchlight steadies. The sound of the feast returns in distant pulses, laughter and music muffled through stone like a dream you are being pulled away from. At some point a cloth is pressed to your mouth, smelling of something sweet and sharp. You turn your head, but fingers clamp your jaw and force you to breathe. The world tilts. Your legs go heavy. The corridors smear into darkness. You will always wonder, later, where exactly it was that fate denied you. The truth is simpler. <<set $chp3_escape_outcome = "captured">> [[House Varro was never built to let you go.|chp3_housevarrofeast_dungeon_wake]]

You take an apron off the rack like you’ve been ordered to. The cloth is stiff with old stains, and it smells of boiled fat and smoke. You loop it around your waist, fingers working fast, then snatch a tray of empty cups and a few scraps of silver that need returning. You load your hands until you look inconvenienced by work, and then you step into the flow. No one in the kitchens wants a conversation. They want the line to keep moving. You angle your shoulders, lower your gaze, and carry the tray like it owns you. A scullion brushes past you with wet plates and doesn’t even look up. A cook snaps at someone else. For a breath, you are just another pair of hands with a task, another body that belongs to motion. <<nobr>> <<if ( ($mind gte 2) or ( ($mobility gte 2) and ($mind gte 1) ) ) and ($chp3_feast_adornment is not "excess")>> <p> It works because you don’t hesitate. You move with mild irritation, as if you’ve been sent somewhere you don’t want to go, and that irritation reads as familiarity. A guard by the service lane glances once at your tray and then away, more interested in his own boredom than your face. The apron becomes your name. </p> [[Onward.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_right_apron1]] <<else>> <p> You can feel it, the way you still shine wrong. Too clean in the wrong places. Too painted. Too deliberate. If your adornment is excessive, it catches torchlight like a whispered announcement. A kitchen steward’s eyes narrow as you pass, and his mouth tightens, not with anger, but with the pleasure of finding something out of place. </p> <p> ''“Oi,”'' he calls, sharp and certain, ''“You. Where're you taking that?”'' </p> [[You've been found out.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_right_spotted]] <</if>> <</nobr>>

You ruin the pretty. You drag your hands through flour and ash near the kneading table, smearing it over your chest and shoulders until the oil’s sheen turns dull and ugly. You scuff your paint with the heel of your palm, grinding the glitter down into sweat and grime. The point isn't to disappear into darkness. The point is to look like you belong to labor, the back-of-house where no one is meant to be admired. A cook behind you barks, ''“Move,”'' and you move. A boy with a bucket squeezes past you and never once checks your face. You keep your eyes forward and your posture irritated, the posture of someone who's been yelled at all night and expects more yelling. For a moment, the kitchens accept you because you've made yourself believable enough for now. <<nobr>> <<if ($mind gte 2) or ( ($chp3_feast_adornment is "minimal") and ( ($might gte 1) or ($mobility gte 1) ) )>> <p> It works because you commit to the lie. Servants slide around you like water around stone. You catch the edge of a service lane beyond the ovens, and the air there's cooler, threaded with drafts that don't belong to kitchens. This might be your one chance. </p> [[You gravitate towards it.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_right_ash1]] <<else>> <p> You smear ash, but you still move like a man trying not to be seen. That is what gives you away. A scullion boy stares too long, eyes snagging on your collar, on the wrongness of you in this place. Fear hardens his face into something decisive. </p> <p> He turns and calls for someone older, louder. The kitchen’s noise shifts, attention pivoting toward you like a blade finding bone. </p> [[You've been found out.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_right_spotted]] <</if>> <</nobr>>

You choose the laundry cart because it does not ask you to perform. It sits half-full with damp linen that smells of soap and sweat and other bodies. You slip behind it, then climb in among the folds, pulling a sheet over yourself until the world becomes muffled cloth and rattling wood. You fold your limbs tight. You make yourself cargo. The cart is not a hiding place for men. That is why it works, when it works. The cart shifts as someone grabs the handle. Wheels rattle over stone. Voices drift above you, clipped and tired. Linen presses against your mouth and you breathe through it, slow and shallow, listening for the moment someone stops, listens, decides. A hand pats the top layer once, checking for corners, checking for neatness, not checking for life. <<nobr>> <<if ($mobility gte 2) or ( ($mind gte 2) and ($mobility gte 1) ) or ( ($mobility gte 1) and ( ($char_height is "short") or ($char_build is "scrawny_wiry") ) ) or ($chp3_feast_escape_followup is "carving")>> <p> You stay still when the cart jolts. You keep your breath locked behind your ribs. If you have the knife, you use it like a tool, not a threat, cutting a snagged cord before it can yank cloth and expose you. The cart keeps rolling, and the kitchens pass by in fragments of sound. You ride deeper into the House’s working arteries, toward cooler air and narrower lanes. </p> [[Is it actually working?|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_right_linen1]] <<else>> <p> The cart hits a rough patch and you can’t stop the small shift of your weight. Linen slides. A fold catches on your shoulder and pulls, and suddenly you are not a neat bundle anymore. You are something that moved. </p> <p> The pushing stops. A voice says, ''“What was that?”'' and the silence that follows is worse than shouting. </p> [[Your chance at freedom dissolves in an instant.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_right_spotted]] <</if>> <</nobr>>

The kitchens spit you out into a narrower vein of corridor, where the heat fades and the noise thins into something sharper. Here the air tastes of stone and cold drafts, and the light is steadier, set in iron sconces that do not gutter like the torches in the deep. The floor is cleaner too, worn smooth by traffic, not by chains. A service lane. A place where the House moves its food and wine and linens without letting the feast see the labor. Ahead, an iron-banded door stands half-open beneath a lintel stained by years of smoke. A brass bell hangs on a hook beside it, silent for the moment. Beyond the door, you catch a different darkness and a whisper of outside air. Not open sky, not freedom, but the edge of the House. The place where deliveries come in. The place where waste goes out. The problem is the man posted there. A steward in plain crimson stands with a ledger tucked under his arm, hair slicked back, eyes quick and tired. Beside him, a guard with a lantern watches the lane with the blank patience of someone paid to be bored. The steward speaks without looking up, calling names, counting bundles, snapping small corrections at servants who move too slowly. He's not the sort of man you fight. He's the sort of man you're handed back to. A cluster of servants approaches the door carrying covered platters, their heads down, their pace brisk. The steward checks them off with a flick of his quill and waves them through. He does not smile. He does not need to. You feel the weight of your tray in your hands, the apron tight at your waist, the grime of the kitchens still clinging to you in places. You can almost believe the lie yourself. Almost. Behind you, the corridor holds its hush, but you know the House is not asleep. You have bought a moment, nothing more. The longer you linger here, the more likely the wrong eyes will turn, the more likely someone will ask a question that requires a real answer. The servants reach the threshold. The steward’s quill scratches. The guard shifts his grip on the lantern. This is the pass door. This is the last clean seam you'll see tonight. [[Fall in with the next cluster and go through like you belong.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_right_success][$chp3_escape_outcome="escaped_hurt"]] [[Let the tray slip. Make them look away, then move.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_right_success][$chp3_escape_outcome="escaped_hurt"]] [[Wait for a better moment.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_right_spotted][$chp3_escape_outcome="captured"]] <<nobr>> <<if $chp3_feast_escape_followup is "carving">> <p> [[Use the knife. Wedge the latch, widen the gap, slip through.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_right_success][$chp3_escape_outcome="escaped_hurt"]] </p> <</if>> <</nobr>>

The grime buys you distance, but it doesn't buy you mercy. You leave the oven heat behind and follow the wet sound of work. The corridor tightens, then drops into a low, tiled run where water gathers in shallow channels along the edges. The air's cooler here, sharp with lye, sour with old wine, and underneath it all the stagnant stink of drains. The scullery mouth opens ahead. It's not a room meant for the eyes of nobles, not even the bored eyes of guards. It is a place of rinsing, scraping, wringing. A place where servants clean what the feast dirties, and where the House hides the evidence of how much it consumes. Men and women work with their sleeves rolled high, hands red, faces blank with fatigue. They don't look up unless something breaks. And something is about to break, if you have anything to say about it. At the far end, half-shadowed by stacked buckets and hanging rags, a low archway descends into a refuse run. A waste sluice, a sunken throat that leads away from the scullery and into the underways of Cradle, carrying water, scraps, and whatever else the House decides to forget. A wooden hatch sits over it, swollen and damp. Bone bands clamp it down, yet a thin draft slips up through. Beyond that hatch isn't just freedom. Beyond it is filth, darkness, and the city’s belly. A washerwoman pauses and glances your way, eyes snagging for a heartbeat on your collar, then sliding off again as if she's learned not to see certain things. She turns back to her basin, while a boy drags a bucket past, sloshing gray water onto the tiles, never once looking at your face. They don't want to know what you are. They only want the work to continue closer to an end. Somewhere behind you, in the direction of the kitchens, a voice calls out a name. A correction. A small anger. The sound is ordinary, but your body hears it as time running out. Back here, noise is common, but questions are lethal. You step closer to the hatch and feel the boards flex under your hand. Damp wood. Old iron. A mouth that does not want to open for men. This is the scullery’s truth. If you want to live, you'll have to crawl where only waste belongs. [[Lift the hatch and go down into the sluice. |chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_right_success][$chp3_escape_route="ash"]] [[Wait for a spill, a shouted order, a moment of confusion, then slip through.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_right_success][$chp3_escape_route="ash"]] [[Wait, look around. There has to be a better way.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_right_spotted][$chp3_escape_route="ash"]] <<nobr>> <<if $chp3_feast_escape_followup is "carving">> <p> [[Use the knife like a tool. Pry the bands just enough to disappear into the hatch.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_right_success][$chp3_escape_route="ash"]] </p> <</if>> <</nobr>>

The cart rolls on. Wheels rattle over stone. Linen shifts above your face with each seam in the floor, damp cloth pressing against your mouth and cheeks, tasting of soap and sweat and other bodies. The sounds of the kitchens fade behind you, replaced by cooler air and the hollow acoustics of service lanes that run nearer the House’s outer skin. A door opens and night spills in. Not clean night, nor open sky. The air tastes of smoke and wet stone, and it carries the distant hush of Cradle, the city breathing in its sleep. You feel it on the parts of you that aren’t covered, a dank kiss finding the heat you stole from the ovens and taking it back. The cart bumps down a shallow step and stops. Voices. A man speaks with the bored authority of someone posted to a gate. Another answers, short and obedient. Lanternlight flares through the cracks in the linen, turning the cloth red-gold for a heartbeat, then dim again as the light shifts. You're in a service yard. You can tell by the sounds alone. The scrape of crates. The clink of a chain being unhooked. The soft stamp of hooves from somewhere nearby. Somewhere out there, a dog huffs and snorts, nose working the air like it’s reading a story written in sweat. A hound. The wheelbarrow squeals. A servant curses under his breath. The guard laughs once, a small sound, then tells him to move faster. The cart jolts again as someone grabs the handle. It begins to roll toward the yard gate. You can feel the space opening as the air changes. More draft. Less warmth. The smell of the House thinning, replaced by the colder language of stone streets and drains. If you could see, you would see the gate, the threshold, the moment where Varro’s walls stop being walls and become the city’s problem. The hound sniffs closer. A wet nose presses into the edge of linen. You freeze so hard you feel your ribs lock. The dog’s breath steams through cloth. It pauses, listening for the sound of life beneath the sheets. A voice murmurs, amused. ''“Just laundry.”'' The cart keeps rolling. This is the yard gate. This is the moment that decides whether you leave as cargo or return as property. [[Stay still until the cart clears the gate, then roll out into the shadows.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_right_success][$chp3_escape_route="linen"]] [[Bolt now. Throw the linen off and sprint for the shadows.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_right_spotted][$chp3_escape_route="linen"]] [[Do nothing. Let the cart be taken where it's taken.|chp3_housevarrofeast_edgewatch_escape_right_spotted][$chp3_escape_route="linen"]] <<nobr>> <<if $chp3_feast_escape_followup is "carving">> <p> [[Use the knife like a tool. Cut a snagged strap before it jerks the linen.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_right_success][$chp3_escape_route="linen"]] </p> <</if>> <</nobr>>

<<nobr>> <<if $chp3_escape_route is "ash">> <p> The hatch gives with a wet groan, and the scullery’s stink rises to meet you like a hand. You drop into cool, almost lukewarm runoff that bites like teeth, sludge swallowing your feet, and for a moment you aren't a man but a thing in a gutter, crawling where only waste belongs. Above, the scullery keeps working and the House keeps eating. The board settles back into place, the light becomes a thin, dirty seam behind you. </p> <<elseif $chp3_escape_route is "linen">> <p> The cart clears the service gate and the night air changes everything. You roll out low and fast, linen tearing free in a damp heap, the stone slamming your shoulder hard enough to make your eyes flash white. Somewhere behind you a hound huffs in sudden confusion, and you hear a voice laugh once, then sharpen. You don’t wait for the shout. You move on bruised limbs and borrowed seconds, hugging the yard’s blind edges where lanternlight stutters and dies. This isn't the city, not yet. Only the outer service bailey, where sheds, walls and locked doors lie. You find a low postern half-hidden behind stacked crates, the kind that servants use when they don't want to be seen, and slip through before a latern swings your way. </p> <<else>> <p> You pass the door with the others and let the corridor swallow you like you were always meant to be there. The steward’s quill scratches, the guard’s lantern turns away. You keep your gaze down, tray steady, apron tight at your waist, and the lie holds long enough to become real distance. When the door closes behind you, the sound is soft, and it feels like a verdict. You're past the kitchen's warm heart now, past most of the eyes and the noise. But you're not out yet. The House is only stone again, cold and impersonal, yet you can feel how much of it still lies between you and Cradle's open air. </p> <</if>> <</nobr>> You don't sprint. You can't announce yourself with panic. You move the way Cassian taught you to move in the yard, when he wanted your body to obey before your mind had time to argue. Quiet steps, tight turns, breath kept small. You keep to the edges where the House forgets to look, where servants carry burdens and guards stand bored at posts that have never been tested. The oil on your skin has turned tacky with grit, golden paint scraped away in ugly streaks. Your collar feels heavier now that you’re not being watched by a hundred hungry eyes, but it's still there. It still means something. If someone catches a clean look at it, the night ends. So you don't give anyone a clean look. Stone corridors bleed into outer lanes that smell of damp mortar and old smoke. The ceiling lowers in places, and you have to duck under beams slick with condensation. A drain channel runs along one wall, shallow and slow, carrying gray water toward somewhere deeper. You follow it because it feels like a vein that leads away from the heart. There are moments when you hear the feast again, far behind you, muffled through layers of stone. A pulse of laughter, a burst of music. The delicate noise of people pretending they're immortal. It's strange how quickly that world becomes small. Part of you wonders whether it was real, and whether you'll ever brush with it again, not that you would want to. You turn a corner and find a stretch of exterior walkway where the House opens its ribs to the night. Cold air comes in hard, and you taste the city. Cradle’s breath is not sweet. It carries the sour tang of refuse, the mineral bite of wet stone, the distant smoke of cookfires that never go out. In the dark beyond the walls, lanterns move like slow insects through narrow streets. Somewhere farther still, the pale curve of the Colosseum rises, ribs against the sky, and for half a heartbeat you almost believe you can hear it waiting. You keep your head low and your body close to the wall. A guard stands at the far end of the walkway, lantern hung on a hook, posture loose with boredom. He's not looking for you. No, he must be thinking about his feet, about his stomach, about the late hour. You watch him shift his weight and the lantern sway. You wait until his gaze drifts toward a noise that isn’t you, and then you move. It's not heroism, it's all timing. You slip into the next shadow pocket, then another, and you find the place the drain channel disappears. A culvert mouth, half-hidden by stacked crates and a sagging curtain of old cloth. The opening is low and mean. Iron bars cross it, but one has been bent out of shape long ago, and the gap is just wide enough for a man to hate himself and still try. Cold air breathes out of it in steady pulses, smelling of moss and wet stone and things that have lived too long in darkness. This isn't a door, it's what the House throws away. You kneel. Your knee sinks into slime. The cold soaks through skin and into bone. You reach in and feel the rough iron. You test the gap with your shoulder, then your ribs. It scrapes. It takes. It makes you pay in skin. For a moment you're stuck again, half in, half out, the collar catching on iron like a hand closing around your throat. Panic rises fast, hot and stupid. You swallow it. You twist your body and exhale until your chest is smaller, until you can slide forward by force of will alone. The iron lets you through with a final scrape that feels like teeth. Darkness takes you whole. You fall into shallow water, cold enough to steal your breath, and the sound of the splash seems impossibly loud down here. You freeze, listening. Above, the House does not answer. No shout. No bell. Only the distant, muffled life of stone and servants and the feast continuing without you. You crawl anyway. The culvert is narrow. The ceiling is low. Your shoulders drag. Your hands find slick rock and broken brick and the sharp edges of rubble. You move in small, hateful increments, leaving paint and blood behind you. The water chills your legs. The air tastes stale. It feels like being swallowed by the city itself. Then, far ahead, you see a darker dark that is not the same as this one. A breath of colder air. A sound that is not drip and echo. The faint hush of open streets. You press forward until your hands find another bend of iron, another warped grate, and you force yourself out like something being born wrong. Your palms skid on wet stone. Your chest burns. Your throat tastes like copper. You end up in a narrow recess between buildings, a place where refuse collects and no one bothers to sweep. You lie there for a moment, cheek against cold brick, and listen for the House. House Varro is behind you now, and it's still alive. It does not roar. It doesn't chase in a straight line. It simply exists, vast and patient, and you understand in a clean, quiet way that a house like that can afford to lose one slave and still sleep well. You push yourself upright and feel the night bite every scrape you earned. Your breath comes in ragged pulls. Your skin stings where iron and brick kissed it. Your collar sits heavy at your throat like a promise the world will try to keep. You are out. Not safe. Not clean. Not saved. [[Just out.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_success_tbc]]

<center><a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText" target="_blank"><img src="images/chp3_sneak_success.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></a> And behind you, a bell begins to toll. Yet, you aren't worried. No, now... You've stolen a second chance at life. [[You don't intend on wasting it.|gladiator_teaser]] </center> <<script>>$("body").append('<div id="fadeBlack"></div>'); $("#fadeBlack").css({ position: "fixed", top: 0, left: 0, width: "100%", height: "100%", background: "black", opacity: 1, "z-index": 9999, cursor: "pointer" // optional: makes skip feel intuitive }); // allow skip by double-clicking anywhere on the overlay $("#fadeBlack").on("dblclick", function() { $(this).stop(true, true).fadeOut(300, function() { $(this).remove(); }); }); // hold black, then fade out slowly setTimeout(() => { $("#fadeBlack").animate( { opacity: 0 }, { duration: 5000, // fade duration easing: "swing", complete: function() { $(this).remove(); } } ); }, 1500);<</script>>

<center><a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText" target="_blank"><img src="images/chp3_gladius_end.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></a> This life draws to a close. You seized the blade, took a risk, and stood by your skill. Even when it wasn't enough, you died better than most. In this world? That's worth something. [[Now, make the next breath count.|gladiator_teaser]] </center> <<script>>$("body").append('<div id="fadeBlack"></div>'); $("#fadeBlack").css({ position: "fixed", top: 0, left: 0, width: "100%", height: "100%", background: "black", opacity: 1, "z-index": 9999, cursor: "pointer" // optional: makes skip feel intuitive }); // allow skip by double-clicking anywhere on the overlay $("#fadeBlack").on("dblclick", function() { $(this).stop(true, true).fadeOut(300, function() { $(this).remove(); }); }); // hold black, then fade out slowly setTimeout(() => { $("#fadeBlack").animate( { opacity: 0 }, { duration: 5000, // fade duration easing: "swing", complete: function() { $(this).remove(); } } ); }, 1500);<</script>>

The first guard thrusts hard, and you knock the blade aside with a fierce, ringing parry. Bronze meets bronze, your taut arms jolting with it. You step in and cut, not pretty, nor practiced, just grim and brutal, the gladius bites into his shoulder and neck. It's a meaty hack, the man dropping, choking on his own shock. The second guard is smarter. He doesn’t give you a clean line, driving you back with a wide swing, forcing you to spend space you don't quite have. His blade scrapes your ribs, a hot kiss that opens your flesh. Pain flares bright and immediate. You grunt, catching him across the forearm in a quick swing. He snarls as his grip weakens, while you shove forward, the corridor suddenly too small for the both of you. He staggers, giving you the opportunity to shove past while he tries to recover his stance. His blade catches you again, close and low at the hip, warmth pouring down your thigh. Your leg stuffers for half a step, then keeps moving out of sheer refusal. You're through, and that's all you needed. You run until the walls change, until the stone becomes older and rougher, until the air begins to taste like night. You find a door half-latched, a service door that should be locked but isn’t, and you slam into it with all of your weight. It gives with a groan and you spill into a narrow stairwell that climbs higher. The gladius drags at you now like an anchor. You can feel how it slows you and makes you loud in the narrow corridors, your body wounded, heavy with hurt and exertion. At the top of the stair the passage tightens into a maintenance crawl, a gap in the old masonry where pipes run and the House’s bones show through. It's simply too narrow to climb with a sword in hand, but you try anyway for one desperate heartbeat, your bronze blade catching on the stone. [[You stop, sucking in a warm, haggard breath.|chp3_housevarrofeast_escape_guard_corridor1_breakfree2]]

This metal is the first real thing you ever stole from them. The first real weapon that gave you a true taste of power that wasn't borrowed, but seized. Yet, you must let it go if you truly desire freedom. Your fingers loosen and the gladius drops, clattering down into the dark, a sound that hurts more than it should, and then it's gone, swallowed by the House like it was never really yours at all. You climb with both hands, palms scraped raw by brick, wounds leaking readily, slicking your skin. As quick as you can, you pull yourself through the choke point, shoulder screaming when it catches on debris. You bite down hard enough to taste blood, but force yourself through it anyway. A shout rises below you. Boots on the stairs, hands grabbing at stone. The House is right there. Then you haul yourself further and your head breaks into open air. Cold wind hits your face like a slap. The sky is vast and dark, Dosmera hanging above it all, a bruised violet god behind thin, wispy clouds. Somewhere in the distance the pale ribs of the colosseum loom, half-seen, like a gigantic carcass. You spill out onto a narrow exterior ledge and drop down into a yard of broken crates and wet cobble. You hit hard, roll, biting back a scream. Your thigh buckles, but you haul yourself upright anyway, limping into shadow, moving on the last thin thread of adrenaline. Shouts bloom behind you. Torches appear at the ledge. Someone points, another calling for gates, for hounds, for lanterns. You find a gap in a fence, squeezing through and tearing your side on a nail. You stumble into an alley that stinks of old piss, damp straw and smoke, and for the first time tonight you aren't surrounded by silk and laughter. You're surrounded by Cradle, the city that you remember. The city’s night swallows you whole. Not safe or free, just loose. You stagger until your legs finally quit, collapsing behind a stack of barrels, shaking, breath coming in ragged pulls. Your skin is cooling fast. Your blood makes dark pools on stone. Above you, somewhere far behind, House Varro’s lights burn on, steady and cruel, as if nothing happened. But you know they're looking for you. You close your eyes for one heartbeat. And in that heartbeat you understand the truth. If you live, it won't be because you won. It'll be because you kept running. <<set $chp3_alt_ending = "breakfree">> [[Freedom.|chp3_housevarrofeast_breakfree3]]

<center><img src="images/chp3_gladius_tbc.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"> You seized the blade and fought for your freedom in this life. The only question is... What's next? [[The web of fate is woven.|gladiator_teaser]]</center> <<script>>$("body").append('<div id="fadeBlack"></div>'); $("#fadeBlack").css({ position: "fixed", top: 0, left: 0, width: "100%", height: "100%", background: "black", opacity: 1, "z-index": 9999, cursor: "pointer" // optional: makes skip feel intuitive }); // allow skip by double-clicking anywhere on the overlay $("#fadeBlack").on("dblclick", function() { $(this).stop(true, true).fadeOut(300, function() { $(this).remove(); }); }); // hold black, then fade out slowly setTimeout(() => { $("#fadeBlack").animate( { opacity: 0 }, { duration: 5000, // fade duration easing: "swing", complete: function() { $(this).remove(); } } ); }, 1500);<</script>>

<center><a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText" target="_blank"><img src="images/chp3_dungeon_end.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></a> This life draws to a close soon. The suffering? That too, thankfully, will end. In your last few moments, body broken, You can only wonder whether things could've gone differently. [[Another choice. Another risk. Another life.|gladiator_teaser]]</center>

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp3_feast_sereth.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Renkar stands where he has been placed, expression set like stone, letting men with rings and soft hands study him as if they’re pricing livestock. Voss holds himself too upright, too careful, making politeness into armor. Rilash keeps to shadows and perches, eyes narrow, tail flicking once in irritation whenever a servant drifts too close. Cassian moves through it all with the calm of a man who has seen every version of this and expects nothing good from any of them. Across the hall, Sereth is still exactly where he wants to be, a dark blade in velvet conversation, collecting attention without lifting his voice. He holds court as if he was born into it. Calmly charming a small orbit of nobles with the same ease he carries into the yard. A quirk of the mouth. A brief bow of his head. Precise compliments that feel tailor-made, as if he’s been watching them longer than they realize. He laughs at the right moments, not loud, not needy, just enough to make them feel clever in his presence. It isn’t fawning. It’s control wearing velvet. A noblewoman leans closer to hear him. A man with a heavy ring gestures mid-story and Sereth nods like a patient priest. For a heartbeat the candlelight catches his eyes, and you see that familiar red, the hint of something predatory and old behind the charm. You watch him, and you understand something simple. The arena is not the only place where men bleed. Then the night tilts. <<nobr>> <<if $auction_winner is "Livia">> <p> A servant in Varro colors approaches you with eyes lowered and hands folded, a trained gentleness masking steel. She doesn’t touch you. She doesn’t need to. “The Duchess requests you,” she murmurs, as if she’s offering comfort rather than command. The words settle on your skin like oil. </p> <p> Ahead, you see the opening in the crowd, a small pocket of space near a screened side chamber where torchlight turns red against polished stone. Livia sits there as if she has been waiting all along, red eyes bright in candlelight, smile slow and private. Her gaze catches you and holds, and you understand at once that this is not a summons for conversation. It is a claim renewed. </p> [[Onward.|chp3_housevarrofeast_hook_livia]] <<elseif $auction_winner is "Sibylla">> <p> You don’t notice the messenger at first. That’s the point. A woman in dark finery drifts close, quiet as a shadow, and speaks without raising her chin. “Come,” she says simply. No title. No flourish. Just certainty. </p> <p> The path she leads you through feels different from the rest of the feast. Quieter. Colder. Nobles step aside without looking as if they’ve already been trained. You catch a glimpse of a table set slightly apart in a dimmer pocket of the hall, half veiled by hanging cloth. Someone sits there out of your sight line, and yet you feel her presence like weight on the air. Sibylla doesn't announce herself. She allows the room to arrange itself around her silence. </p> [[Onward.|chp3_housevarrofeast_hook_sibylla]] <<elseif $auction_winner is "Alesia">> <p> You hear her before you see her. A ripple in the laughter, the kind that spreads too quickly to be ordinary. Heads turn. A few men straighten as if remembering their posture matters. A servant hurries past you with a panicked sort of excitement in her eyes. “She’s arrived,” someone whispers, like it’s news and warning in the same breath. </p> <p> Then the crowd parts and you glimpse her through bodies and flame, bright as a blade drawn in torchlight. Alesia moves with the confidence of a woman who expects the world to make room, and it does. She does not send for you, not yet. She doesn’t have to. Her gaze sweeps the hall and finds you anyway, and the moment it lands you feel it like a hand at the back of your neck. Her mouth curves, amused, almost possessive, as if she’s decided your presence is an accessory she intends to try on. </p> [[Onward.|chp3_housevarrofeast_hook_alesia]] <<else>> <p> No servant comes for you. No guard clears a path. You only notice the shift because the air around a certain corner of the hall becomes… cautious. Less loud. Less careless. A small knot of nobles stands near a side alcove and their laughter keeps dropping, as if they’re not sure what tone is safe. </p> <p> You follow the current of attention and see her at last, half hidden by bodies, not elevated, not performing. Novia Segune looks like she could disappear if she wanted to, and the fact that she hasn’t is its own kind of courage. She is watching the hall with a steadiness that doesn’t match her place in it, and when her eyes find you there is a flicker of something that might be nerves, might be resolve. The only reason she came is you. The thought returns with a strange weight. An investment. A risk. A choice she made with her own coin. </p> [[Onward.|chp3_housevarrofeast_hook_novia]] <</if>> <</nobr>>

<<nobr>> <<run $('body') .removeClass('harrow-time-early harrow-time-mid harrow-time-late') .addClass('harrow-time-' + $harrowing_time)>> <div id="harrowHubRoot">  <div class="harrowHUD harrowHUD--left-col">  <div class="harrowHUD harrowHUD--resourcemeters"> <div class="hudTitle">STATUS</div> <<HarrowResourceHUD>> </div>  <<if $harrowing_unlock_spells>> <div class="harrowHUD harrowHUD--spellbars"> <div class="hudTitle">WIZARDRY</div> <<HarrowSpellHUD>> </div> <</if>> </div>  <<if $harrowing_bell gte 1>> <div class="harrowHUD harrowHUD--belltimer"> <div class="bellTracker__frame"> <img class="bellTracker__img" @src="'images/gothic_' + $harrowing_bell + '.webp'" alt="Bell $harrowing_bell"> </div> </div> <</if>>  <div class="harrowHub"> <div class="harrowCellText"> <span class="cellTitle">THE CELL</span><br> <<HarrowCellText>> </div> <<if $harrowing_last_result>> <div id="harrowResult"> <em><<= $harrowing_last_result>></em> </div> <</if>> <div id="harrowActionPanel"> <<if $harrowing_action_count gte 3>> <div class="harrowActions"> <div class="harrowAction--continue"> <<link "Continue">> <<set $harrowing_action_count = 0>> <<set $harrowing_time = "early">> <<set $harrowing_bell += 1>> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "">> <<goto "HarrowingBell">> <</link>> </div> </div> <<else>> <<HarrowMenuMain>> <</if>> </div> </div> </div> <</nobr>>

<center> <a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText" target="_blank"> <img src="images/supportorphan.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></a> \ This concludes the current installment of ''Orphan: Chapter 3.4'' for the Academy Route. ''Orphan'' couldn’t exist without the faith of my Patrons. In ancient Rome, a *patronus* was an individual of wealth and influence who supported their *cliens* and in return: loyalty, action, and glory flowed upward. Patronage wasn’t charity. It was a bond. A pact. We’re entering a new age where this ancient truth matters again. If you believe in ''Orphan''; player-driven storytelling, dangerous choices, and tales of Men who defy the impossible, then cast your vote. Support me. The world needs more anabolic tales and High Thumos adventures. We still need stories that sharpen the will and stir the blood. Your support fuels this work: not slop, but something worthy of your name and memory. Together, we can soak in the glory of Dosmera. I'll do my best to make the journey worthwhile. In December, we successfully published two major chapters: ''Chapter 3.31 — First Contact (Dec 13, 2025)'' 🩸 +60k new words • 🖼️ 14 new images • 🗺️ Interactive Ludus Map ⚔️ Spar the Champion • 🖤 Tanae “Raven” Balcony Scene (Uncut+) ''Chapter 3.32 — The Price of Freedom (Dec 31, 2025)'' 🗝️ +50k new words • 🎭 10+ new images • 🔀 Alternative Endings 🗡️ Action-packed escape attempts (multiple routes, multiple outcomes) ⛓️ Consequences: capture, dungeon, death & escape variations ''Like what you've seen? Then lend me your support!'' <center><<link "Enter the Credits →" "credits">><</link>></center> <<bgmstop 6>> \

Lowering his voice further, Lyco breathes, ''"Don't say much in here."'' His eyes tilt, almost imperceptibly, toward the hallway door, ''"Just walk with me."'' You have questions you want to push him towards: where the prefects are, whether he heard something, why his shoulders are set like that, but his tone is the kind that doesn’t invite interrogation, and you're too tired to argue. You follow him toward the door. The second-years at the back table don’t look up, but you feel their awareness brush you anyway, like a draft slipping under a threshold. Lyco pauses at the frame, one hand resting lightly against the wood as if he expects it to move on its own. ''“You see a prefect tonight?”'' he murmurs, and the question lands heavier than it should. ''“Not once,”'' You admit, like a small confession. Lyco’s jaw tightens. ''“Mm. Right.”'' He pulls the door open. Warm light and low murmurs spill out for a heartbeat, and then you’re stepping across the threshold into the main hallway where the air is colder. The door shuts behind you with a soft, final weight. The common room becomes a muffled glow at your back, reduced to nothing but a seam of light beneath the door. Ahead, the corridor stretches long and straight, torches burning low enough that the shadows seem to gather courage. Stone arches repeat into distance. The Academy feels asleep, but not peaceful; more like an iron lung holding its breath. There are no prefects in sight. Only the long, torchlit throat of the hall, and the sense that something in it is waiting to be noticed. [[Why are you even out here?|chp3_nightwatch_closer2]]

Lyco doesn’t lead like someone chasing trouble. His pace is steady, quiet and controlled, walking like someone trying to confirm it exists, unwilling to let the night go unanswered. ''"Did you hear that earlier?"'' He murmurs as you step into the corridor air. The hall answers with nothing at first. Just the thin crackle of torches and the soft, deadened hush of stone swallowing sound. Your own footsteps come back sharper out here, stripped of warmth. The Academy's silence isn’t peaceful; it’s deliberate, as if the building is listening with you. Lyco keeps his voice low. ''"Footsteps. Out here."'' He glances down the long stretch of corridor and then toward the intersection ahead, where the torchlight thins. ''"Didn't sound like prefects, either. But it's hard to tell. Didn’t like it."'' The watch is almost over. That’s what makes it feel worse. You've got one foot in the watch, carrying out your duty, and one already wandering back upstairs to your bunk. It's hard to care about what tomorrow might bring when the promise of sleep is already so close, calling to you after your upper-floor forays. ''"If it’s nothing,"'' Lyco adds, ''“We end it clean. If it’s something... better we see it before we go back inside. You never know what we could get pinned with without even knowing..”'' He pauses, just long enough for you to decide. [[I'm with you, Lyco.|chp3_nightwatch_closer_knight]] [[Whatever, let's take a peek.|chp3_nightwatch_closer_cowboy]] [[Fuck this, I'm going to sleep.|chp3_nightwatch_closer_bastard]]

''"Come on. I'm with you."'' You answer without ceremony. Not brave nor loud, just a quiet certainty as you step in beside Lyco as if the hallway itself has demanded it; as if there's some unseen ledger where the Academy marks who stood with whom in the dark. Lyco gives the smallest nod. His shoulders don't loosen, but the hard set of his jaw shifts a little, as though he had expected to go alone and already prepared himself for it. He turns, and you turn with him, your pace matching his, both of your breaths matching the quiet. The corridor draws itself out ahead, a long throat of stone and dim torchlight. The flames burn low and close, as though afraid of their own reach and what they might reveal. Wax has run down the sconces in thick tears, the smoke laying a dark varnish along the intricate arches. Your own footsteps come back at you, sharp and stripped, each one sounding too much like a confession. Lyco listens as he walks, watching the seams between doors, the thin gaps under thresholds, places where light might leak or sound might slip. His hand hangs loose at his side, empty but readied all the same. You feel yourself adopting the same quiet readiness, a calm that's not calm at all, only discipline in a better coat. You pass a side stairwell where the shadows deepen, pooled like old water. The air is colder there, and it carries the faint mineral smell of stone that has never seen sun. Somewhere above, a board settles, a soft creak like a throat clearing, and Lyco pauses half a breath. He only listens a moment, and then keeps moving. The watch is almost over, and that should be a mercy. Instead it feels like a thin promise that could be revoked at any moment. You think again of the prefects, of how their absence makes the corridor feel less governed, less witnessed. A night without witnesses is a night where the rules belong to whoever wants them most. Lyco murmurs, ''“Stay close.”'' Shoulder to shoulder, you move toward the intersection where the torchlight thins and the hall opens into a darker artery of the Academy. The stone seems to drink sound there, yet you catch a faint scuff of movement; the softest press of cloth, then nothing again. Lyco slows at the corner. You slow with him. He leans just enough to look, and you look beside him. A nearby door is settling shut, closed with a careful hand. Two figures stand beneath the next torch, as if they've just stepped out from private shadow into public flame. One of them lifts his head first and smiles, easy and amused. The other lingers half a step behind, a narrow strip of blood-dark cloth marking his sleeve, hand tucked inside his robe as though resting on something he doesn't need to show. They see you and they don't slow or move aside. No, they start toward you at a pace that's neither hurried nor slow. [[Like two predators prowling even closer.|chp3_nightwatch_closer3]] <<set $chpt_nightwatch_closer = "knight">> <<gainKnight>>

''"Alright,"'' You mutter, as if you're granting Lyco a favor, as if the corridor is not already pulling at your attention like a hook in cloth. ''"One quick look. Then we’re done."'' Lyco doesn't argue. He only turns and starts walking; steady, quiet and controlled. You follow, but you don't place yourself right beside him. You drift a half step behind, letting him take the front of the corridor, your eyes working the angles while his ears work the silence. You tell yourself it's nothing, only habit, just a way to see more. The hall feels longer than it did a moment ago. The common room’s warmth is gone behind the door, reduced to a thin seam of light under wood. Out here, the air is colder, older, full of wax-smoke and damp stone. The torches crackle like insects trapped in flame. Your footsteps ring back at you, and you hate how clearly the Academy returns your presence in such an uncanny, persistent sort of way. You let out a breath that's almost a laugh, almost a curse. ''"If it’s a rat, I’m blaming you."'' Lyco’s head tilts slightly, but he doesn't smile. ''"If it’s a rat,"'' he says, low, ''"Then you should know exactly what to do."'' The joke dies between you, swallowed by the corridor. You find yourself listening harder than you want to. It's not fear, you tell yourself, but awareness. That's what you call it when you don't want to admit the other word. You pass a row of doors, each one shut, holding its own little pocket of sleep. The bone latches catch the torchlight, dull and worn smooth. You glance at the seams beneath them, looking for shadows that move, for light where there should be none. Lyco keeps to the center of the hall, as if the walls might hide hands. A faint sound comes and goes, too small to name. Maybe cloth against stone, or a foot shifting weight. Your pulse answers it anyway, a soft quickening that makes you feel annoyed with yourself. You roll your shoulders, as though to shake the night off. Lyco slows at the intersection ahead. You slow too, but you linger that half step behind, letting him take the corner first. He leans in, listening, then turns. You follow into the thinner torchlight, into the longer stretch beyond. A door nearby is closing, not loudly, not with sleep-drunken clumsiness, but with care. Two figures stand beneath the next torch as if they've just stepped out of that door’s shadow. One is loose-shouldered, relaxed, his face already forming a grin when he sees you. The other stands a fraction behind him, sleeve marked with a narrow strip of blood-dark red, one hand hidden in the fold of his robe. They take you in, calmly, like men who have decided the corridor belongs to them for the moment. Then they start walking toward you, unhurried, deliberate, as if time itself is theirs to spend. [[Two predators on the prowl, taking their sweet time.|chp3_nightwatch_closer3]] <<set $chpt_nightwatch_closer = "cowboy">> <<gainCowboy>>

You stare down the corridor and feel the weight of your bones, the dull ache of the past couple hours spent walking stone halls that don't care whether you live or die. The watch is almost over. Your bunk is close enough to taste. You've done what they asked, and you're done giving the Academy extra pieces of yourself for free. ''"Fuck this,"'' you say, keeping your voice low. ''"I’m going to sleep."'' Lyco’s eyes flick to you. For a moment you expect irritation, a hissed reprimand, some appeal to duty. You get none of it. He only nods once, small and clipped, as if he had already measured the cost of arguing with you and found it too high. ''"Fine,"'' He murmurs, ''"Go then."'' He turns away from the dorm door and walks into the hall alone. That should be the end of it. You should step inside, shut the wood behind you, let the warmth and muffled voices swallow you. You put a hand to the doorframe. The common room’s light leaks against your knuckles, pale gold and tired. Then the corridor gives you a sound. Not the creak of timber high above, not the torch’s thin crackle, but something closer. A soft press of footsteps, careful, measured. A murmur of voices, low and intimate, the kind people use when they believe the night belongs to them. And beneath it, the delicate click of a latch catching, a door being closed with control. You freeze with your hand still on the frame. Your stomach tightens, sour and hot. You tell yourself it's not your problem and that Lyco chose this for himself. You won't get pinned with whatever happens because you weren't even there. But the Academy's a place where absence doesn't always save you. It's a place where stories travel faster than truth, blame is a currency and witnesses can be invented. You imagine the morning after, the prefects finally appearing, the questions asked with cool faces. You imagine Lyco saying your name, not to accuse you, but because he's honest. You curse under your breath, sharp and bitter. Sleep can wait. You step back out into the hall, letting the dorm door settle behind you. The corridor seems colder now, as if it's noticed your hesitation and decided to punish it. You move fast at first, then slower, forcing yourself to quiet down, to listen like Lyco listens. He's ahead of you near the intersection, a dark figure under low torchlight. He doesn't turn, but you see the angle of his head, the way he holds himself. He heard it too. The murmur fades, then returns, like a tide pulling back into shadow. You close the distance reluctantly, each step a surrender to the fact that you're a part of this now. Lyco glances back once when you reach him. There's no gratitude in his face, no triumph. Only that same controlled attention, and something faintly grim beneath it. He leans toward the corner. You hear it again, close now, the soft whisper of movement, the careful hush of cloth. Lyco turns, and you turn with him, the corridor opening up before you both. Two figures stand beneath the next torch as if they've just stepped out from a side hall or a nearby room. One of them looks up and smiles, amused, already entertained by what he sees. The other lingers a fraction behind, sleeve marked with a narrow strip of blood-dark red, a hand tucked inside his robe like it rests on something familiar. They see Lyco. They see you behind him, newly arrived, caught mid-decision. Then they start walking toward you, unhurried, deliberate, as if the night has been waiting for this exact meeting. [[Two predators on the prowl, drawing even closer.|chp3_nightwatch_closer3]] <<set $chpt_nightwatch_closer = "bastard">> <<gainBastard>>

They come without haste, two dark figures walking as if the hour belongs to them still. Torchlight gathers along their shoulders and breaks across their faces in harsh, uneven bands, turning a smile into something sharper, and calm eyes into something coldly reflective. The corridor behind them is a long, empty throat, and the door that had shut a moment ago sits quiet, innocent, as if it was never opened at all. Lyco shifts a half step forward, placing himself half-poised where a line would be drawn if only it still mattered. His stance is controlled, the kind of neutrality that refuses to offer either weakness or provocation. You feel your breath slow, not because you're calm, but because you need to be. The one without a stripe is the first to speak. His voice is soft, almost companionable, as if he's met you in daylight and expects the same courtesy back. ''"Late for the little ones, isn't it?"'' He says, ''"Or is this part of your duties now, patrolling the main halls like proper men?"'' His lips curve, gaze sliding over you and back again, measuring. Not your names, not even your faces but for a moment, but mostly the cut of your first-year robes, the set of your shoulders beneath, and the tension and fatigue that lay gathered. He smiles like he's found something amusing, as though Highrock has delivered him a small treat. Rather straightforward as always, Lyco answers without giving him more than he needs. ''"Nightwatch,"'' Lyco says. ''"Passing through."'' ''"Nightwatch,"'' the second-year echoes, savoring the word. His hands remain open and empty at his sides, manner easy, almost relaxed. It's an ease that feels practiced, a way of being relaxed while holding the room. ''"Where are your prefects, then? Shouldn't they be sweeping you up and tucking you back into bed?"'' The question hangs there with a quiet cruelty. It points at the emptiness of the hall, at the absence of witnesses, at the way the Academy can become lawless in the narrow space between doctrine and sleep. Lyco doesn't bite, not really. ''"We haven't seen any,"'' is all he says. The talkative one makes a small sound; half laugh, half pity. ''"Hm. That's strange."'' He turns his head slightly, as if listening for them. There's nothing to hear except the torches and the dull hush of stone swallowing sound. ''"Or maybe it isn't strange at all."'' Behind him, the blood-strip second-year says nothing. He stands a fraction back, shoulders loose, pale-brown eyes steady. The narrow strip of blood-dark cloth at his sleeve looks almost black in the torchlight, like dried stains. One hand stays inside the fold of his robe, motionless, as if resting on a familiar object. He watches Lyco the way a man watches a door that might open. The talker steps closer by inches, testing the distance. He doesn't cross the invisible line Lyco has made, but he leans toward it, like someone sniffing the edge of a blade. ''"You know what's coming,"'' he murmurs, and his tone lowers, conspiratorial. ''"Everyone does. The Academy gets quiet like this right before it asks for blood."'' Lyco's eyes don't leave him. ''"We aren't looking for trouble,"'' Lyco says. ''"No,"'' the second-year agrees, smiling wider, ''"Highrock doesn't require you to look for it."'' He glances at you again, and there's something in his gaze that wants to see you react. Wants to see fear, wants to see anger, wants to see the small involuntary movements that betray the shape of a person. ''"Newphies get pinned for all sorts of things,"'' he goes on, soft and almost sympathetic. ''"A missing ledger. A broken latch. A door left open. A rumor that grows teeth by morning."'' Lyco's jaw tightens. The corridor feels narrower than it should, the torchlight thinning, the shadows gaining confidence. You can feel how close your bunk is, and how far. The talker lifts his hands again, palms empty, as if to show you how harmless he is. ''"But don't worry,"'' he says. ''"We aren't here to hurt you. We're just... reminding you. The night has its own rules."'' For a heartbeat, it almost feels like it might end there, with words, smiles and nothing more. Like a lecture delivered in passing. That’s when the blood-strip second-year shifts, almost before you can react. [[Quick, calm, like a passing breath.|chp3_nightwatch_closer_dagger]]

<center><img src="images/chp3_nightwatch_dagger.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center>It's not a dramatic, hasty or startled motion. It's a calm shift of shoulder and concealed wrist beneath the smooth flow of his robe's cloth; a controlled adjustment that makes the torchlight catch a faint, brief glimmer of it. Something sharp whispers against fabric, the sound so small you might've imagined it. But you didn't. A dagger appears in his hand with the same unhurried certainty as a tool laid on a table. He doesn't raise it, or point it. He simply holds it low, blade angled down, grip sure and casual, as if it belongs there, as if it's always belonged there, and the only strange thing is that you didn't see it sooner. The talkative second-year watches your eyes flick to the blade and lets out a quiet chuckle, pleased in a way that feels intimate and ugly. ''"See?"'' He murmurs, almost gently, ''"That's all it takes. No threats. No shouting. Just a reminder that some people carry answers in their sleeves."'' The blood-strip second-year remains silent. His face is calm, unreadable, the sort of mask that doesn't need to declare itself. He stands with the dagger resting in his hand, letting it exist in the space between you and them like a persistent possibility, or a defining weight. Lyco doesn't step back. He holds his ground, but you feel his breathing change, the slight tightening in his chest. It's a silent restraint, the line still drawn, thin and stubborn. The Academy feels like it's leaning down your shoulders to see what you'll do with it. The talker tilts his head, studying Lyco with open amusement. ''"You're trying to look like an officer already,"'' he says. ''"Like you've got authority out here."'' He turns his gaze to you, and his smile softens into something almost kind. ''"Watch yourself, newphies,"'' he says. ''"Never know what kind of danger you'll find in the dark."'' The blood-strip second-year finally moves again, and this time it's only to end the lesson. He tucks the dagger away with the same care he drew it, robe swallowing it, cloth settling smooth. No flourish nor hurry. His eyes don't linger on you when the weapon disappears, as if the point has already been made and there's nothing left to prove. The talker steps aside as though granting you passage, magnanimous. He laughs under his breath, a warm sound that doesn't belong in this cold corridor. ''"Come on,"'' he says to his companion, still smiling, ''"We've done our good deed."'' They pass you without brushing shoulders, and yet you feel their presence as they go, like smoke that clings to fabric. Their footsteps fade down the hall: soft, controlled, unbothered. The door behind them remains shut, quiet and innocent. Only when they're gone does Lyco exhale, slow and deliberate. He looks down the corridor a long moment, as if expecting the prefects to appear now that the danger has passed, as if the Academy might finally remember its own rules. The watch feels finished now, but not clean. The interaction already feels like an imperfect stain on your night. You can already imagine the morning, the way your mind will replay the torchlight on sharpened edge, the way sleep will come thin and broken. Another warning for what awaits you, close on the horizon. Lyco turns back toward the dorm door. ''"Come on,"'' he says. ''"Before something else decides to find us."'' [[Return to your dorm.|chp3_nightwatch_endofwatch]]

You don't run, but you don't linger either. You walk with the quiet speed of men who know that fleeing would make it worse, that it would turn the corridor into a chase in your own mind. The torches hiss low behind you, and the stone seems to keep the warmth of their passing like a low, lingering bruise. Lyco says nothing until the dorm's common room door is close, and the seam of light beneath it appears again, thin and tired. His hand finds the latch and lifts it with care, as if the Academy might be listening for carelessness more than sin. Inside, the common room hasn't changed. The two second-years at the back table still whisper over their ledger, quill scratching like a patient insect. Lyco closes the door softly behind you both, the latch catching with a small, subtle sound, though it's as final as a sentence in your head. Warmth gathers around you, stale and human. It's not quite a comfort. It only reminds you how thin the hallway’s cruelty was. Lyco keeps his voice low. ''"Let's not talk about it in here,"'' he says. [[You climb, one step at a time.|chp3_nightwatch_endofwatch1]]

The stairs creak beneath your weight like old ribs. After climbing them so many times, you'd think you've grown used the trip, but sometimes that long journey up takes on a new weight, especially tonight. Between the fatigue in your limbs, your tired mind and that new looming memory of your latest encounter, each step feels heavier than usual. You count floors without meaning to. Seven. Nine. Eleven. Thirteen. When you finally reach your hall, the corridor is completely quiet. Your own door waits in the dim, the wood looks darker at this hour, the grain like old scars. Lyco touches the frame as if checking it for heat, then wedges it open without complaint. Your dorm room is a low cave of your two bunks and blankets. Hugo and Gerwin are there, faces half lost in shadow, their breathing rising and falling in uneven tides. Lyco moves to his bunk and sits, shoulders hunched for a moment as if the night has finally been allowed to settle on him. He rubs his hands once, slow, as though trying to wipe the corridor off his skin. You climb into your bunk, your blanket smelling of old sweat and stone dust. You pull it up, and for a moment you almost believe you can vanish beneath it, become nothing more than another shape in the room. You hear Lyco lie back in the dark, breathing taking on a careful steadiness, as if he's forcing his body into sleep by will alone. But after tonight, between everything that happened... Even with how tired you are, will you get any sleep? [[When you close your eyes, the corridor returns.|chp3_nightwatch_endofwatch2]]

<center><img src="images/chp3_nightwatch_dagger1.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center>The torchlight, low and hungry. The unmarked second-year’s smile, warm as rot. The blood-strip’s calm, the way his hand stayed hidden until it wasn't. You replay it and replay it. You don't want to, but the memory's already been carved into you. You listen for footsteps in the hall outside the dorm, your own heartbeat always answering first beneath the creaking, slow shifting, of ancient timber and cold-hewn stone. Somewhere far away, a door closes. It's a small sound, but it lands in you like a thrown pebble in a stagnant pool of water, ripples waking within. Sleep doesn't come cleanly. It comes in false starts, in little drifts that break apart the moment you begin to fall. Each time you start to sink, you catch yourself again, as if the night has hooked a finger your peace, your calm, your spirit. And then there's the hunger. Not the hunger of an empty stomach, not the simple ache that bread could solve. It's a hollow wanting that feels older than you, a craving for certainty, for a rule that holds, for a palace that's governed. A phrase surfaces in your mind, uninvited, Spoken in the voice of a man you've never met. //You may leave.// //You may die.// [[Or you may ascend.|chp3_nightwatch_endofwatch3]]

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp1_thief_cc1.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> You search her eyes, hunting for even a flicker of hesitation, but there is none. Only that wild gleam, a defiant smirk on her lips, daring you to cross the line she's already drawn for you. The stench of the alley; rot, sweat, smoke, fades beneath the pounding of blood in your ears. In the commotion, her cloak has unfurled. Purple lace, the curves of her breast. Shifting your weight, it's easy to feel the way her body shivers beneath yours, how her legs spread wider by inches even as she pretends to squirm free and contend against your power still. A performance: for you, for herself, for the damnable world that made both of you. Her skirt is torn, barely clinging to the heavy curve of her ass, and it would take nothing, absolutely nothing, to tear it away entirely. Your grip eases for half a second, enough to catch the glint in her eyes, wild and bright, all but begging you to rise to the bait. ''"Go on,"'' she hisses, twisting her hips again, grinding herself against your thigh. ''"Ain't like I don't know the game."'' And you lean down in return, close enough to feel her breath against your chin, hot and ragged. ''"You asked for it,"'' you rasp, voice rough with the strain of holding back no longer. The last tether of civility inside you snaps. Whatever honor you were taught, whatever restraint the highborn whisper of, none of it means a damned thing down here in the gutters. There’s only heat, need. Power. Two creatures locked in a spiral of survival, lust and pride, clawing for dominance in the filth. She laughs, a breathless sound, and it only stokes the fire in your loins until it rages out of control. Enough teasing, enough restraint. No words now, only action. [[You reach down, fingers finding the tattered hem of her cloak.|intro_claimher_look]]

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp1_thief_cc_full.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> You push and pull, shoving her cloak completely aside, revealing more murky green flesh. Her flat tummy and the worn purple lace of her bra, stretched taut over the modest swell of her breasts. She doesn't flinch. Instead, she rolls her eyes so hard it's a miracle they don’t get stuck in the back of her head. ''"You're taking your sweet time, aren't you?"'' She scoffs, her voice a gravelly mix of impatience and derision. Her hips give an involuntary little jerk beneath your weight, a betraying tremor that says her bravado is just a thin shell over a raw, pulsing nerve. ''"What's the matter? Never seen a goblin before? We ain't that different where it counts, you know."'' Your free hand, the one not pinning her wrists, slides from her hip to the warm, soft plane of her stomach, feeling the muscles there jump and tense under your touch. Her thighs squeezed back together while you were shifting your weight, but you use a knee to nudge them wider apart once more. Her skirt lifts higher up, baring more of her thick thighs. You can almost glimpse the dark shadow of her panties. [[Tug her skirt up.|intro_claimher_look1]]

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp1_thief_cc_full1.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> The thin, ratty fabric of her skirt offers no real resistance. You grab a handful of the coarse material and yank it upward, bunching it around her waist. The motion is rough, utilitarian, and she lets out a grunt of protest that’s half-genuine annoyance, half-performance. Now there’s no missing the sight of her purple lace panties, a stark, almost absurdly delicate contrast against the murky green of her powerful thighs and the gritty cobblestones below. ''"Fuck"'' you mutter, ''"You're full of surprises."'' Your thumb finds the edge of the lace, tracing the dampening fabric where it disappears between her legs. She shudders, a full-body tremor she can't suppress, and her knees try to snap shut again, a reflexive act of modesty that your body easily prevents. ''"Bet you say that to all the girls you ambush in back alleys,"'' She retorts, but the bite is gone from her words, replaced by a breathless tension. Her golden eyes are fixed low, watching your every move. Enough of this. You want more. You want all of her. With a grunt of effort, you shift your weight, pulling her up slightly by her still-pinned wrists before shoving her forward, turning her in your grasp. She lets out a yelp of surprise as her face is pressed into the rough ground, her ass now raised and presented to you. The ruined skirt and those tantalizing purple panties are on full display, framing the thick, rounded curves of her backside. [[Her breath comes as a half-moaned hiss.|intro_right_instinct_claimher_doggy]]

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp1_succubus2.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> And in that single heartbeat of darkness, the world shifts. When your eyes open again, the dark silk and heavy lace have transformed. She now wears only the most delicate, almost transparent lace—scant, gossamer-thin strips that veil almost nothing. The sheer fabric clings to every curve like mist, revealing the full, breathtaking glory of her long, lissome, seductive form. Violet skin glows with an inner light; the heavy, perky swell of her breasts strains against the delicate material, perfectly pert nipples clearly visible beneath tiny golden accents. The lace drapes low across her hips, offering teasing glimpses of smooth thighs and the shadowed promise between them. She oozes raw sexuality, emanates erotic power so thick it coils around you like incense smoke. ''"Better? Or am I still wearing too much for your taste, $name?"'' She smiles, wicked and delighted, and leans in just a fraction. Her voice drips with mocking affection, the words sliding straight between your legs and lingering deep in your loins. ''"Oh, you greedy, greedy boy."'' [[You blink again...|intro_nightdream4]] <<script>> $("body").append('<div id="fadeBlack"></div>'); $("#fadeBlack").css({ position: "fixed", top: 0, left: 0, width: "100%", height: "100%", background: "black", opacity: 1, "z-index": 9999, cursor: "pointer" // optional: makes skip feel intuitive }); // hold black, then fade out slowly setTimeout(() => { $("#fadeBlack").animate( { opacity: 0 }, { duration: 200, // fade duration easing: "swing", complete: function() { $(this).remove(); } } ); }, 150); <</script>>

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp1_succubus_full.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> When your eyes open again, every last scrap of lace has vanished. She stands before you fully, utterly, gloriously nude. Circular, golden-plated nipple tassels are the only adornment left; tiny, gleaming discs that sway from her stiff, aching peaks. Her breasts are magnificent: full, heavy, and impossibly perky, rising and falling with each slow, deliberate breath, the golden discs catching the violet light like forbidden coins. Below, her waist narrows to an elegant hourglass before flaring into wide, fertile hips that scream to be gripped. Her stomach is smooth and taut, a perfect plane of shimmering violet skin leading down to the bare, glistening slit of her sex. Long, powerful thighs are folded beneath her in a deliberately provocative pose. The thick violet flesh presses together before parting just enough at the apex to reveal everything. The delicate outer lips are already swollen and parted just enough to reveal the slick, rosy inner folds, wet and shining with her own arousal, a single glistening strand of nectar trailing down one perfect inner thigh. She is no longer merely seductive; she is raw, divine temptation given flesh, the living embodiment of every dark fantasy that has ever haunted mortal dreams, every lethal curve and glistening detail on shameless display. [[Even her voice is sensual, caressing your waiting ears.|intro_nightdream5]] <<script>> $("body").append('<div id="fadeBlack"></div>'); $("#fadeBlack").css({ position: "fixed", top: 0, left: 0, width: "100%", height: "100%", background: "black", opacity: 1, "z-index": 9999, cursor: "pointer" // optional: makes skip feel intuitive }); // hold black, then fade out slowly setTimeout(() => { $("#fadeBlack").animate( { opacity: 0 }, { duration: 200, // fade duration easing: "swing", complete: function() { $(this).remove(); } } ); }, 150); <</script>>

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp1_succubus3.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> ''"Down onto your knees for me, love. //Give// yourself to me."'' Her black eyes never leave yours, lingering, devouring, promising pleasures that could shatter your soul and remake it in her image. Despite your lack of response, she begins to draw closer. Just a single, graceful step, then another, slowly closing the distance. You can feel her power radiating outward from her very being, warm, insistent, and hungry, already sliding invisible fingers along your thoughts, your desires, your will. Up close her smile is pure sin; full lips curved, sharp teeth glinting behind the softness. The golden tassels sway hypnotically from her perfect nipples with every breath, the polished discs flashing as they brush her smooth violet skin. ''"Completely. Utterly. I know everything you want, $name."'' Will you succumb to the dream… Or try to resist the goddess who wears it like skin? [[Succumb to her seduction|intro_nightdream2_comply]] <<ci lore>> [[Attempt to resist|intro_nightdream_resist]] <<ci archetype>>

/* Loop state */ <<set $harrowing_bell = 0>> <<set $harrowing_action_count = 0>> <<set $harrowing_time = "early">> <<set $harrowing_last_result = "">> <<set $harrowing_listen_count = 0>> /* Resources — hunger and rest start at full */ <<set $harrowing_hunger_current = 20>> <<set $harrowing_hunger_max = 20>> <<set $harrowing_rest_current = 20>> <<set $harrowing_rest_max = 20>> <<set $harrowing_focus_current = 0>> <<set $harrowing_focus_max = 10>> <<set $harrowing_energy_current = 0>> <<set $harrowing_energy_max = 0>> /* Stat-based max adjustments */ /* Might bonuses stack: Might 1 = +2 both; Might 2 = +5 both total */ <<if $might gte 2>> <<set $harrowing_rest_max += 3>> <<set $harrowing_hunger_max += 3>> <</if>> <<if $might gte 1>> <<set $harrowing_rest_max += 2>> <<set $harrowing_hunger_max += 2>> <</if>> <<if $mind gte 2>> <<set $harrowing_focus_max += 3>> <</if>> <<if $mind gte 1>> <<set $harrowing_focus_max += 2>> <</if>> /* Set current to match adjusted max */ <<set $harrowing_rest_current = $harrowing_rest_max>> <<set $harrowing_hunger_current = $harrowing_hunger_max>> /* Spells */ <<set $harrowing_spell_food = 0>> <<set $harrowing_spell_spark = 0>> <<set $harrowing_spell_ward = 0>> /* Tracks Spark casts that fired at Journeyman+ with an artifact. Used for encounter bonus beyond Apprentice — raw cast count covers Novice/Apprentice (+2/+4), this covers Journeyman+ (+6/+8/+10). */ <<set $harrowing_spark_effective_casts = 0>> <<set $harrowing_ward_active = false>> <<set $harrowing_ward_remaining = 0>> <<set $harrowing_ward_bonus = 0>> /* Awareness — expendable pool; gates Search */ <<set $harrowing_awareness_current = 0>> <<set $harrowing_awareness_max = 5>> /* Artifacts */ <<set $harrowing_artifacts = { shard: 0, charbone: 0, thread: 0 }>> <<set $harrowing_artifact_choice_pending = false>> /* Search encounter state */ <<set $harrowing_encounter_pending = false>> <<set $harrowing_encounter_sub = "">> <<set $harrowing_search_hunger_gain = 0>> <<set $harrowing_search_art_choice = false>> <<set $harrowing_search_find_desc = "">> <<set $harrowing_enc_type = "">> /* "classmate" | "rat" — set by HarrowAct search */ <<set $harrowing_encounter_forced = false>> /* true = forced encounter; false = optional */ <<set $harrowing_enc_preroll = 0>> /* JS writes erFinal here before wikifying HarrowEncounterResolve; 0 = roll normally */ /* Action unlocks */ <<set $harrowing_unlock_meditate = false>> <<set $harrowing_unlock_search = false>> <<set $harrowing_unlock_spells = false>> /* Sorcery */ <<set $harrowing_sorcery_manifested = false>> <<set $harrowing_exposure = 0>> <<set $harrowing_sorcery_mode = "">> <<set $harrowing_stain = 0>> /* Relationships */ <<set $harrowing_rel_hugo = 0>> <<set $harrowing_rel_gerwin = 0>> <<if $lyco_stance is "victory" or $lyco_stance is "evenmatch" or $lyco_stance is "understanding">> <<set $harrowing_rel_lyco = 1>> <<else>> <<set $harrowing_rel_lyco = 0>> <</if>> /* Outcome */ <<set $harrow_outcome = "">> <<goto "HarrowingBell_0">>

<<switch $harrowing_bell>> <<case 1>> <<goto "HarrowingBell_1">> <<case 2>> <<goto "HarrowingBell_2">> <<case 3>> <<goto "HarrowingBell_3">> <<case 4>> <<goto "HarrowingBell_4">> <<case 5>> <<goto "HarrowingBell_5">> <<case 6>> <<goto "HarrowingBell_6">> <<case 7>> <<goto "HarrowingBell_7">> <<case 8>> <<goto "HarrowingBell_8">> <<case 9>> <<goto "HarrowingBell_9">> <<case 10>> <<goto "HarrowingBell_10">> <<case 11>> <<goto "HarrowingBell_11">> <<case 12>> <<goto "HarrowingBell_12">> <<case 13>> <<goto "HarrowingBell_13">> <<case 14>> <<goto "HarrowingBell_14">> <<case 15>> <<goto "HarrowingBell_15">> <<case 16>> <<goto "HarrowingBell_16">> <<default>> <<goto "HarrowingHub">> <</switch>>

Time passes slowly, and the light changes by degrees. Lyco's face stays buried in the book that you can't read. No food comes, no water, no instruction. If this is part of the Harrowing, then the first lesson is absence. Patience. Slow suffering. Sometimes you stand, pace, stretch. Then you're lying down again, staring up at the darkened stone ceiling. It's low enough to feel intentional, high enough that you can't touch it. A sad compromise between shelter and burial, compared to your high dormitory perch. By the evening, you're both settled into the dark with the awkwardness of animals placed in the same cage. Not exactly enemies, nor companions. Not yet. Just two bodies breathing in a room that belongs to neither of you, waiting for whatever comes next. At some point, your thoughts begin to loosen. They drift from the tunnel, to the antechamber, to Fredrick's boots in the stone trough, to Mearesdes in his hidden room, to the title of the book Lyco read and didn't bother to explain. The Book of Runes. The words follow you down. Not into sleep exactly. [[Into something close enough.|HarrowingBell_1a]]

Narrative Purpose: This is the Bell where the Harrowing reveals one of its cruel logics: You're being starved, and then taught how to become useful enough to feed yourself. Required Beats: Vael introduces spellwork as discipline under deprivation. Summon Food is taught in a way that feels humiliating and miraculous at once. The food produced should not feel generous. It should feel like proof of function. Lyco handles the lesson too cleanly or too privately. Hugo reacts with obvious relief or hunger. Gerwin tries to intellectualize the process. Tarn watches who fails. Image Priorities: Cruel Instructor (not Vael) teaching in a cold underground chamber. First conjured food: severe, pale, insufficient, strange. Candidates staring too hard at food that should not matter this much. bell 2 [[continue|HarrowingHub]] <<set $harrowing_unlock_spells to true>>

Mechanical Purpose: Unlock Search. Introduce Awareness as practical tunnel-readiness. Open the Harrowing beyond the cell without relieving claustrophobia. Narrative Purpose The tunnels should feel like freedom only for half a breath. Then they should feel worse than the cell. Required Beats: Access to deeper tunnel movement is granted or explained. The candidates learn that the Harrowing complex is larger than their cell block. Search becomes available. The first corridor/tunnel atmosphere is established. A minor encounter, sound, or trace suggests danger without full escalation. Lyco returns with more knowledge than he should have. Key Principle: Search isn't “exploration mode.” Search is risk. It should promise: supplies; information; strange artifacts; contact with other candidates; possible violence; disorientation. Image Priorities: Tunnel branching into dark side-passages. Old stone different from Academy architecture. Candidate silhouettes under low torch or violet ward-light. bell 3 [[continue|HarrowingHub]] <<set $harrowing_unlock_search to true>>

Bell 4 — Social Fracture / Relationship Pressure Mechanical Purpose No major new system required. Let existing systems breathe. Begin differentiating relationship variables. Narrative Purpose: Bell 4 should be the first Bell where the Harrowing’s social effects become obvious. Not everyone is suffering the same way. Not everyone responds to suffering the same way. Required Beats: Hugo still warm, but warmth costs more. Gerwin’s composure begins to show strain. Lyco becomes more opaque, not less. Tarn’s interest sharpens around weakness, hunger, fear, or competence. The MC may get a small relationship opportunity. Possible Scene Structure Bell summons candidates. They leave/linger together after class. Corridor movement reveals small social changes. Instruction or task puts candidates under pressure. A brief Hugo/Gerwin/Tarn moment. Return to cell with Lyco. Optional relationship-inflected closing sentence Relationship Checks: $harrowing_rel_hugo $harrowing_rel_gerwin $harrowing_rel_lyco $chp2_victory $chp2_lyco_dmg $dominant Image Priorities: Hugo/Gerwin together under strain. Tarn in peripheral composition rather than center-frame villainy. Corridor candidate cluster after several cycles underground. bell 4 [[continue|HarrowingHub]]

Bell 5 — Tunnel Dangers / Candidate Aggression Mechanical Purpose: Explain tunnel danger. Motivate Spark investment before Bell 8. Make Search feel meaningfully risky. Narrative Purpose: Bell 5 is the first clear warning that the Harrowing does not only test against hunger, fatigue, and magic. It tests candidates against each other. Required Beats: Vael or proctor addresses tunnel danger directly. Candidate aggression is acknowledged without being morally condemned. The institution treats violence as part of the filter. Spark becomes desirable not just as power, but as protection. Tarn’s relevance increases. Tone: The lesson should not say, “Do not hurt each other.” It should imply: If you cannot survive what the others become, you were never going to survive the Overland. Spark Foreshadowing Do not turn Spark into a superhero button. Spark is: ugly, hot. practica;; frightening in confined spaces; something that changes how others measure the MC. Image Priorities: Vael lecturing in an instruction chamber with wounded/marked candidates visible. Evidence of tunnel violence: blood on stone, broken ration vessel, torn grey cloth. Candidate aggression implied rather than over-actionized. bell 5 [[continue|HarrowingHub]]

Bell 6 — Deepening / Pre-Crucible Threshold Mechanical Purpose: No full manifestation. No Bell 8 payoff. Consolidate the systems introduced in Bells 1–5. Push the player toward sharper choices in the next release. Narrative Purpose: Bell 6 is Chapter 3.6’s Harrowing endpoint. It must feel satisfying without resolving the arc. The player should leave Bell 6 thinking: Something is forming here. In me, in Lyco, in Tarn, in the room itself. But I am not far enough in to name it. Required Beats: The MC has now endured enough cycles that the early shock has become pattern. Resource state should matter visibly. Lyco’s hidden progress should feel impossible to ignore. Hugo/Gerwin should show early deterioration/strain. Tarn should feel closer to becoming a real threat. The tunnels should feel like they have a memory of the MC now. End with a strong return-to-Hub or TBC-adjacent beat. Recommended Ending Texture: Do not end with a giant cliffhanger. End with dreadful momentum: a sound through the wall; Lyco awake when he should not be; Tarn’s roommate silent too long; a Spark aftertaste in the MC’s body; the cell feeling subtly changed; the next Bell implied as worse. Image Priorities: MC alone or nearly alone in the cell, visibly changed by the Harrowing. Lyco awake in darkness. A tunnel threshold that feels like it has become personal. bell 6 [[continue|HarrowingHub]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp3_harrowing_prologue_lyco1.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> He's enveloped by the tome in his hands, half-bent over as he settles onto the edge of his bed. You watch him for a while, half-curious, the other half unsure of whether to be jealous or weary of the knowledge that he may uncovering without you. ''"What is it?"'' You intone, almost below your breath, yet the cell is well-silent enough for him to hear. Still, it takes him a few moments to respond, gaze tilted down onto the tome. ''"It's called... The Book of Runes."'' For a moment, the words do very little. Runes. You think of the marks near the bed. The shallow cuts in stone. The old tally lines, or numbers, or whatever else they might be. You think of the book tucked away in the dark, waiting there before either of you arrived. ''"Do you know what that means?"'' You can see him pause in his reading once more, considering your question for two beats before he raises his gaze, meeting yours directly. ''"Not yet. But they left this book here for a reason. Let me focus on it, and in turn, if I discover anything useful, I'll tell you."'' <<if $mind gte 2>> You saw the pause, the two breaths of hesitation. Lyco's thoughtful, careful, precise. But that was a choice he made. A choice of whether to share or conceal information. Whether that information pertains to his knowledge of Runes, or whether he'll honestly share his findings with you, you can't be one hundred percent sure. Regardless of your familiarity with Lyco, you have a feeling that the circumstances of Harrowing will either bring the best or the worst out of others. Regardless, there's little you can gain from pressing Lyco on it further now. <<else>> That's the most you've heard Lyco say in a long while. He's being direct, which seems par the course for him. Or maybe he just wants you to shut up. Regardless, it's not like you have much say in the matter. As far as you can tell, you won't be able to read it. Either Lyco will enlighten you, or you'll have to figure out some other way to get ahead. You have a feeling that there's going to be a lot more to the Harrowing than a book. <</if>> ''"Fair enough,"'' You say, turning over on your cot. The pale light from above the cell has turned warm since you first arrived here. Your mind wanders... when's the first class? How is there daylight reaching all the way down here? Where exactly are you, below Highrock? It felt like you walked a long while. <<bgmstop>> [[Your thoughts are all you have.|HarrowingHub]]

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp2_mearesdes.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Seated at a table just yonder, in a corner of the room beneath the dim glow of a torch, you notice a face. Deep-etched, narrow, framed by a thin goatee and half-swallowed by the shadow of a dark hood. At first it barely registers among the dozens of strangers scattered through the tavern. But something about it catches, oddly familiar, unsettling even, as though you've fallen for a moment into another waking dream. Your gaze lingers a moment longer than it should, your mind turning slowly through the memory of another place… another conversation… another pair of eyes watching you far too closely. The hood shifts slightly as the torchlight flickers. You try to see more of the face beneath it, but the shadow clings stubbornly to the upper half. Only the mouth and the line of the jaw remain clear in the dim light. Then their eyes find you. They glow faintly in the torchlight; yellow, sharp, almost luminous. Pools of venom reflecting flame, already fixed squarely upon you. Mearesdes. ''"$name!"'' <<bgm "please-calm-my-mind" 0.6 3>> [[You spin around, chest tight.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_descent2]]

<center><img class = "scene" src="images/chp2_mearesdes_gone.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> You swivel at the sound of your name. To your surprise, it's Rayner working his way through the crowd towards you, broad shoulders parting bodies as he approaches. Distractedly, you glance back to the corner— Already, the table is empty. You blink. Just a moment ago the sorcerer had been sitting there, hood drawn low beneath the wavering torchlight. Now there's nothing. Only an abandoned chair and a half-drained cup sitting alone at the edge of the table. A quick survey of the surrounding tables and crowd doesn't reveal anything suspicious. No hooded figure, no yellow eyes. Nothing. ''"I've been looking for you, kid."'' Rayner's right at your shoulder now, voice level and measured. He turns a quick look over you, lips tilted in a curious look, ''"You alright, $name? Where've you been anyway?"'' You suck in a breath, your gaze lingering on that now-empty table before you turn towards your companion, ''"Sorry, yeah. I thought I saw someone. I met an elf that works here, they showed me around."'' ''"You have a good time?"'' He asks, to which you give the easiest response that you can, ''"You could say that."'' At the moment, your mind is spinning, lost on the fact that you may or may not have just seen the magician from yesterday. Part of you still isn't sure whether he was... real, or a figment of your imagination, similar to the dreams that have been haunting your sleep. But their recurrent nature has you concerned, to say the least. Add to that the fact that you aren't entirely sure how much you can trust Rayner and you aren't exactly in the mood to talk about your meeting with Leoris. He's going to be your Instructor after all, and while you'll need allies at Highrock, you aren't sure that opening up to Rayner would be the best decision for the time being. He doesn't seem to mind all that much. You follow up his question with one of your own, ''"How about your business?"'' ''"About the same. Good and handled. Now let's go, eh? The day won't last forever and the eclipse ended a few minutes ago."'' You bob a quick nod of your head and step after Rayner, though you can't help but turn one last gaze over that empty table where you thought you spotted Mearesdes, ''"... I'm right behind you."'' [[You leave the Uneven Queen behind and start your ascent up the Imperial Highway.|chp2_highwaytohighrock]]

bell 7 [[continue|HarrowingHub]]

bell 8 [[continue|HarrowingHub]]

bell 9 [[continue|HarrowingHub]]

bell 10 [[continue|HarrowingHub]]

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bell 16 [[continue|HarrowingHub]]

<center><img src="images/chp3_harrowing_prologue_entrance.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center>''"All of you have been at Highrock long enough to receive your first instruction. You've embarked upon the long process of learning the shape of this institution. Some more earnestly than others,"'' Thorne intones evenly. His voice isn't loud, but it doesn't need to be. It carries through the courtyard with a dry, almost intimate precision, as though each word has been set carefully in its place long before this morning and is only now being lifted into the air. A pause. Then he says, almost mercifully, ''"What follows is voluntary."'' The word settles strangely in you. //Voluntary.// As if any of this has ever felt like the clean possession of your own will. As if a door placed before a man and a precipice placed behind him amount to a choice worth naming. Thorne's gaze passes over the first-years. It's not the look of a man seeking faces, but of a master taking inventory. Calm, methodical, untroubled by whatever he finds. ''"Highrock produces two kinds of graduates,"'' he says. ''"The first kind comprises the majority. Officers. Magistrates. Administrators. Civil functionaries of rank and use. Men and women fit to carry the city's burdens. Cradle requires them in large number and the High-King rewards them adequately. This is considered a successful outcome."'' His head inclines by the barest fraction. ''"Those among you who decline the Harrowing will continue here in the ordinary course. Your instruction will resume normally. Your studies in imperial law, internal discipline, administration, command and the higher functions of service within Cradle will proceed as intended. If you work diligently enough, you'll leave these halls by the road most do."'' You can feel the words passing through the courtyard and settling differently in different bodies. Some receive them like pardon, some like insult. Some, perhaps, like the first honest thing they've heard all year; a quiet, welcome relief. [["The second kind of graduate is rarer."|harrowing_prologue_address1]]

No bell marks it. No final word is given. One moment the courtyard is open behind you, pale with cold mist and distant morning light, the next you're passing beneath the shadow of the door's marbled archways, your steps taking you where others have tread before you with the same fear surging through them. Hundreds, thousands of students, all much like yourself. They bring you into an antechamber first. It's a low, unremarkable room carved from the same pale stone as Highrock's eastern face, though older in feeling, stripped of plasterwork, of banners, of any concession to the building sitting above it. Just ancient stone, two bronze braziers simmering low and a line of proctors standing at intervals along the far wall with the patient stillness of people who've done this the exact same way, many times before. A few remaining candidates start to trickle in behind you without speaking, while the rest are already arranged in a line just as quietly. Silently, you find a place among them. ''"Everything you're carrying,"'' says one of the proctors, in a tone that's neither unkind nor particularly concerned with your feelings on the matter. ''"Everything you're wearing. Leave it in the provided vessels."'' There's a moment of stillness before a portion of students begin to undress. Inevitably, without much thought behind it, you join them. Nakedness is simple enough, one of the first facts of life. But there's something particular in standing unclothed among people you've eaten beside, studied beside, slept a few feet away from for the better part of a year. It has nothing to do with modesty. It feels more like watching a room full of people reduced all at once, every layer of posture and presentation stripped away until what remains is only the body, honest and colder than it felt before. The vessels are stone troughs set along the near wall. The gray robe that marked you as a first-year, gone. The boots Fredrick made, worn through and already resoled once, gone. The small accumulated weight of being a person with things, with habits, with the little proofs of a life in-motion, gone. You feel the stone beneath your feet, the rough, tactile sensation grounding you in the moment. You raise your gaze for a moment in the dark, peering at some of the faces around you. It almost feels intrusive; most gazes are averted. You can't pin Lyco, or Gerwin, Maybe you glimpse Hugo, but it's hard to tell. It's dark, naked flesh gleaming in the low light. When it's done, other proctors step forward carrying folded garments over their arms. Not the gray robes of first-years, but rough tunics of undyed wool, belted with plain cord. When they pass by, you take what's handed to you. The fabric is cool from the stone. Coarse, rough enough that you feel every place it touches when you pull it over your head. It smells faintly of dust and lye. By the time the cord's tied at your waist, the boy who stood in the courtyard in first-year gray feels farther away than he should. Perhaps that's the point. <<if $bloodglass_bead>> [[As your fingers work the cord into place, your mind goes to the night before.|harrowing_prologue_bead]] <<else>> <<set $bead_concealed = false>> [[Wait with the others.|harrowing_prologue_descent]]<</if>>

The doors that swing open back towards the dorms are surprisingly light. <<sfx "door-open-close" 0.7>> <<bgmstop>> You don't know exactly what you expected. Maybe that they'd resist, like some sort of physical acknowledgement of what you were doing. Instead it swivels on well-oiled hinges and closes behind you without any extraordinary sound, the courtyard already behind you, the decision already made and fading away. The corridor beyond smells of lamp oil and old stone. A pair of second-years pass without looking at you. And somewhere high above, a bell is rung, long and distant, marking the morning's first class period. Life, continuing. It always does. In the common room, a woman in an administrative sash finds you before you've made it to the stairs. She has the manner of someone doing a job that exists specifically for this occasion, which, you realize, it probably does. ''"Name?"'' she asks, tablet open. ''"$name,"'' you respond, throat tight. She makes a mark. ''"Your non-participation has been recorded. You'll return to your normal assigned classes this afternoon."'' //That's it,// you think. //That's the whole thing.// She moves on without waiting for acknowledgment, and you're left standing alone with the strange weightless feeling of someone who has just stepped aside from something enormous and found no one much interested in the fact. [[The opportunity came and went. Life goes on.|harrowing_prologue_refusal1]]

The dormitory on the thirteenth floor is half-empty. <<bgm "please-calm-my-mind" 0.6 3>> You spot a few of your classmates as you amble up towards your room, but a great number of them are still in the courtyard or already descending below. The second-years who passed you in the corridor were heading off to close, leaving you with the feeling that only you and your fellow non-participants are the only ones in Highrock right now with nowhere required to be. A part of you is immensely relieved, and another part feels... empty. Your bunk is as you left it this morning, blanket folded with the institutional precision you spent three weeks learning. In the small dresser at the foot of it sits the things that are yours. Not many. You came here with less and acquired a little more, but none of it adds up to much. <<if $intro_tome>> The tome is there. Still unreadable. You understood early that whatever it contains won't open itself to you through patience or desire. Perhaps you haven't invested enough energy into it. You're not yet the kind of person who can read it, and you're not sure if you'll ever be. You keep it stowed away, anyway. It's yours ever since you stole it away with you from the Narrows and that dark wizard Mearedes, and you plan on keeping it with you until the time comes that you can harness it fully.<</if>> <<if $bloodglass_bead>> That little bead is where you left it last night. Red glass, veined, warm in your palm when you pick it up, warmer than the room temperature warrants, as it always is, as it has always been, as if it's waiting for something that has just failed to occur. You hold it for a moment. Then you wrap it in a scrap of cloth and put it in the bottom of your pack. It's a small thing to carry.<</if>> For a while, you try to lay down, close your eyes, rest. But sleep doesn't come. You lay awake a long while, thinking of the Third Quarter and the quiet days in the workshop with Fredrick; learning how to cobble, trips to the market, scampering through alleys with friends and foe alike. The more time passes, you aren't sure whether you miss it, or hate it. [[Time makes everything so unclear.|harrowing_prologue_refusal2]]

The months after are quiet. You return to your classes. The schedule resumes as Thorne described it would: Imperial law, command theory, administrative practice, logistics, principles of mind and body. The instructors treat you with the same neutrality they always have. You're a student, you're present, and you're doing the work. The world doesn't collapse around you. No, it continues along in an increasingly familiar way. What changes is the texture of the days. There are fewer of you now. The corridors feel wider. At meals, gaps appear in the rows where first-years used to sit, and the remaining students cluster toward the center of the tables in the unthinking way living things close around an absence, or scabs over a wound. Nobody says the word //Harrowing// out loud. It's simply the thing happening below the building, and up here life continues. You don't know how far down they are. You don't know how the days are measured for them. But you keep counting your own, as you always have. You sleep. You study. You do the work required. Slowly, through extra tutelage, you begin to learn to read and write. You are, by any institutional measure, doing fine. [[Life continues.|harrowing_prologue_refusal3]]

You wait with the others in coarse undyed wool, the rough cloth itching at your skin, the stone still cold beneath your bare feet. No one speaks. Then another figure enters through the far door. The man is older, narrow-shouldered beneath a dark robe, his expression composed and severe. He doesn't raise his voice, yet you can hear him clearly through the dark mass of bodies. ''"Attend."'' The single word stills what little movement remained. His gaze passes over the line of you, searching the faces in an unhurried, clean appraisal. Then in a measured tone, he speaks once more. ''"You will remain silent as you proceed below. You will keep the pace set for you. You will not separate yourselves from the line unless directed. If you fail to understand an instruction, you will continue until you do."'' A pause. ''"Follow."'' He turns before anyone can think to look at the others for reassurance. At the rear of the chamber, a darker door is opened. Not the one you entered through. Not the old iron-bound threshold from the courtyard. This one is smaller, plainer, fitted deeper into the stone, as if it had been cut later or found and uncovered, some seam in the rock opened and made useful by hands long dead. Beyond it there's only dark, then a weak wash of yellow light somewhere farther in. [[The line begins to move.|harrowing_prologue_descent1]]

You stand assembled with the other first-years in rows of gray. There's forty, perhaps fifty of you. Few faces are familiar enough to name. Yet, for the past weeks, these bodies have moved through the same corridors as you, carried by similar struggles and fears, sleeping beneath the same stone. Lyco is somewhere to your left and a little behind you. You know it without looking. By now, you've learned the shape of his presence, the particular stillness of it, alert and contained, as if the air itself changes around him. He hasn't spoken to you this morning, and you're not sure what you would have said if he had. Hugo stands nearer the front. Even in this light, his big, ponderous frame is easy to pick out. This is the one of those rare moments where you see him without that easy brightness on his face, and its absence always unsettles you more than you expect. Gerwin's close beside him, peering through the taller bodies to try and see the morning unfold. <<notify "The Morning Before" "So the day has finally arrived..." "warn" "scroll" 15000>> [[At the far end of the courtyard stands the entrance.|harrowing_prologue3]]

<<if $dominant is "cowboy">>A cold weight hits you. Not surprise exactly, but more like the grim recognition of a terrible, aching thing finally said aloud and let to settle into the pit of your stomach.<<elseif $dominant is "bastard">>Something in you tightens against the words at once. A hard inward recoil, part anger and part refusal that sharpens and twists deep in your guts. That's a possibility that you're unable to accept. That won't be you; it //can't// be you.<<else>>The line lands cleanly and terribly. For a moment you feel the fragile fact of every body in the courtyard, your own among them. Even here in the highest reaches of the First Quarter, the threat of death confronts you so readily.<</if>> ''"Any first-year who does not wish to undertake the Harrowing may leave now."'' He lifts one hand and indicates the plain door at the far side of the courtyard, set apart from the older iron-banded entrance that waits in the rock behind him. The gesture is brief, almost indifferent. ''"You'll return to your normal assigned classes this afternoon after a short intermission. There's nothing further required of you this morning."'' Then the High Magister lowers his hand and falls silent. He doesn't press or persuade. He simply waits, as though this is part of the ritual. For a moment, no one moves. In that pause, you become sharply aware of your own breathing. Of the cold in your teeth, the emptiness in your stomach, the strange and childish part of you that expects the whole courtyard to remain fixed forever. Fifty gray bodies held between one door and another, As if stillness alone might spare you all from choosing. [[Then someone steps out.|harrowing_prologue_address3]]

You brought it with you. <<set $bead_concealed = true>> Small, hidden, faintly warm. A thing of your own choosing in a moment where the institution seeks to strip everything familiar away from you. Maybe it'll matter. Maybe it won't. But if there's even the faintest chance that the bead might lend you some advantage, some edge, some unseen thread to hold it in the dark, then leaving it behind would've felt like entering that place empty-handed by choice. That's not in your nature. You choose strength, power, opportunity. Even when it comes touched with a moment of risk... Especially then. So you kept it. The rough tunic scratches at your skin. Beneath it, deeper and hidden, the bead keeps its small unnatural warmth. You feel it and say nothing, your own little secret. For now, that's enough. [[Wait with the others.|harrowing_prologue_descent]]

Now, it's on the shelf above your bunk. <<set $bead_concealed = false>> You held it in the dark for a long while before setting it down, feeling that small familiar warmth against your palm, knowing that once morning came the choice would be made and there would be no taking it back. Now the rough tunic sits cool against your skin, and the absence of that little hidden warmth feels clearer than you expected. Not like loss exactly, but like the shape of a choice that you never wanted to make, held to. Whatever Mearesdes is doing through it, whatever he can see or feel or know through that small red anchor, the Harrowing is yours. You'll go into it cleanly, without the weight of something watching that you never quite chose. You chose Highrock. You chose to stay this morning when the door was open. This, too, is a choice you are making. For now, that's enough. [[Wait with the others.|harrowing_prologue_descent]]

You see, for the briefest moment, an iron-bound door in a place that isn't this dorm, a door set into dark stone that drinks light. You see a narrow room beyond it, a cell that feels less like confinement and more like an altar. Your eyes snap open. The dorm is still dark, the other boys around you sleeping. But your body doesn't believe the night is over. You lie there with your blanket pulled to your chin, staring into shadow, listening to the Academy breathe, and you understand with a cold, quiet clarity that the watch has ended, and the Harrowing has already begun. [[Let the darkness take you.|harrowing_prologue]]

And still, part of you thinks it might be a kinder thing than this. Maybe that's the weaker side of your mind still yearning for familiarity. There's a simple mercy in knowing the shape of your confinement. In knowing the walls around you... Where misery begins and ends. Highrock offers no such mercy. It opens upward instead, into distance and cold, cruel uncertainty. Into some vast and yawning future that seems to wait for you with all the patience of a catered grave. You've been thrust into a much more complicated path. And before you can continue your climb upward, you'll have descend yet again into another kind of trial. Not the open terror of the Overlands, but something tighter, closer, narrower. Confinement. Constraint. Crucible. You don't know which one frightens you most. <<bgm "the-wanderer" 0.6 3>> [[The Harrowing.|harrowing_prologue2]]

<center><img src="images/chp3_harrowing_prologue_door.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center>You've passed it before without letting yourself look at it directly, the way you stop yourself from pressing at a bruise. A low doorway set into the crater rock at the base of Highrock's eastern face, banded in what could only be blackened iron, still bearing a dull metallic sheen despite it's age; older than the Academy above it has any right to be. The stone around it is darker, and the air around it feels wrong, simply different in a way your body notices before your mind can even name it. //I've seen that door,// you think, somewhere other than in waking. Then you stop yourself there, because the thought offers nothing. At the head of the courtyard, upon the raised platform that serves as his dais, High Magister Thorne stands motionless. In the gray light he looks gaunt, almost spectral, his violet-and-gold robes the only color in the assembly. He's not looking at anyone in particular. Just waiting. It's possible, you think, that he's simply the sort of man who understands that silence held long enough becomes a form of speech. The first-years have learned that much from him already. No one moves. No one coughs. The cold presses in from every side. The courtyard seems to breathe, and hold that breath, and wait. [[Then, Thorne finally begins to speak.|harrowing_prologue_address]]

''"The path beneath this building is different."'' His robes stir faintly in the cold. Violet and gold, the only rich color in the whole gray assembly. The sigils worked into the cloth catch what little light there is and give it back dully, like old metal buried too long beneath the earth. ''"The Ascender path requires that a candidate submit themselves to the Harrowing. Deliberate deprivation. Restricted instruction. No guarantee of favorable result."'' The words are plain. He offers them without ornament, without any attempt to clothe the process in grandeur. That, more than anything, lets the shape of it emerge; the trials that you've yet to face beneath this building. Not upward, then. Not yet. First downward into the cold stone, into whatever waits below like a second foundation no one speaks of until the hour comes. Only whispered rumors, fantastical stories and the students left behind. ''"Those who undertake the Harrowing will be removed from the ordinary course for its duration. You will not return to your peers until the process has rendered its answer."'' A hard wind comes skimming over the courtyard, then fades. You feel it along your face and at the edge of your robes, before Thorne's voice dominates your attention once more, ''"Those who endure the full measure of the Harrowing emerge altered,"'' He states definitely, ''"Some will complete it, but few still Ascend. A great number of you will surrender before the process is complete."'' For the first time, something in you almost shifts. ''"And some of you may not emerge at all."'' [[Silence falls over you.|harrowing_prologue_address2]]

A boy from the left flank, and another beside him. You know them both by sight, sons of some family in the Second Quarter: well-fed, broad-shouldered, clean-handed. One says something low to the other as they cross toward the door. The other answers without looking back, their pace unhurried. There's no shame in it, nor visible relief, just a decision made. The door opens and closes. By then, more bodies are already moving. A girl from one of the law seminars goes next. You remember her because she always spoke up in class, asking better questions than most, carrying herself with the quiet intensity of building an intentional future line by line inside her own mind. She steps from the row, drawing her gray robe tighter against the cold as she goes. Others follow in singles and pairs, each departure small enough to seem ordinary. A footstep, a robe shifting, wood opening and shutting again. And yet the courtyard changes with every one of them. The number grows thinner, the silence sharper. The shape of those who remain begins to alter around the absences, like water closing around stones removed from its bed. You watch them leave without meaning to. You wonder, briefly, whether they're the wiser sort. Whether this is the last clean moment any of them will have for the rest of their lives... Whether they'll wake next week in some brighter chamber with a commission waiting, food in their bellies - assignments, titles, certainty. You can't help but wonder whether they'll think of this morning at all, or whether the thing they have escaped will haunt them precisely because they escaped it. When the last of the footsteps fade, Thorne lets the silence stretch a little longer, as if the counting must finish in its own time. Then his gaze moves again across those still standing. The courtyard feels smaller now. Smaller, not safer. You become aware that your shoulders have drawn tight. Those around you stand a little more rigidly than before. Once all those who meant to leave are gone, those who remain seem marked by it, though not one of you have yet descended a single step. A thought rises in you without permission. //You may leave.// //You may die.// //Or you may ascend.// You force the premonition back down, trying to keep your face still. You look only at the High Magister and the stone behind him and the black mouth of the old door that waits below the Academy like an opened vein. [[Embark upon the Harrowing.|harrowing_prologue_stripping]] [[Refuse the trials. I choose the Legion.|harrowing_prologue_refusal]]

The day the Harrowing ends, you know it before anyone announces it. Something in the building changes. A quality of attention, maybe, or a shift in how the staff move, purposeful rather than routine, all of it oriented toward the eastern face. You're in a study room on the third floor when the door to the courtyard opens somewhere below, and you hear footsteps coming and going. You don't go to look. Your body freezes in forced stillness. Instead, you read the same page three times through. Later, at dinner, you finally see them. Not all of them. Some will have gone straight to the infirmary, or to private rooms, or to whatever the institution provides for the ones who need more than a meal and a night's sleep. But some are there, in the hall, and the sight of them stops something in your chest before you can name what exactly it is. They look, more or less, like themselves. But something very distinct has changed. Not a single one of them are the same as when they left. The eyes are different. Something in the set of the shoulders, in the way they carry the air around them. They've been through something beyond your knowledge, beyond your senses, beyond what this building has shared with you. That much is evident. [[Lyco is among them.|harrowing_prologue_refusal4]]

No one says it that first night. The absence is there in the space between people at the table, acknowledged the way these things are acknowledged in places like Highrock; not named, not mourned publicly nor honored, simply present as a new fact about the world that everyone has decided to locate behind the eyes and mind. By the end of the week, it's simply known that a portion of them never returned. You think about his face without the easy brightness on it, the last time you saw him in the courtyard. The way that absence had already been there, in some early form, even before he went down. You don't have the language for how or what you feel about it. You file it away, out-of-sight, which is where you hide away most things. Gerwin is quieter, too. That's the only way to put it. He was never loud. Composed, watchful, precise, more like. But the precision had always felt like an act of will, the result of someone consistently bringing himself to order. Now it's something else. Automatic, maybe, or simply what remains after having been taken apart. You sit near him at a study table once, near the end of the term. He reads for a long time without moving. At some point he looks up, becomes aware of you, and gives you a nod, brief, with nothing in it except recognition. Then he goes back to the page. //He's all right,// you think. //More or less.// You're not certain that's true, but it's all that you have. [[Life continues.|harrowing_prologue_refusal6]]

The second year is easier, in the way things are once you've given up expecting them to be something else. You're good at this. That surprises you, or it would have once, the way competence accumulates without drama if you simply keep doing the work. The attention that tracked the Third Quarter orphan in the first year... the calculation, the skepticism, the particular quality of being watched for signs of failure, has redistributed itself. There are things to look at now that are louder than you. Lyco, on the Ascender track, selected from the Harrowing cohort as a candidate. Second-years speak his name in corridors the way they speak names that have acquired real weight. You're not part of that story, and surprisingly, you find that you have no desire to be. You become, quietly, someone who is good at the work and asks for very little. There are worse things to be... like dead, or cursed with too much false weight. You made that choice when you refused the Harrowing. You wanted something simpler. By that second spring, the placement process begins. A notice appears on the board outside the administrative office. Your name is on it alongside eighteen others, first-years who declined and completed, //non-Harrowing graduates//, the official designation. You read the list just once. A week later, you're shown into a room on the second floor, And a placement officer is waiting for you. [[His name is Vosch.|harrowing_prologue_refusal7]]

Or possibly Voss. You don't catch it clearly and this has never been the kind of place where you ask others to repeat themselves. He has the build of a former soldier and the affect of someone who's spent a decade doing paperwork about soldiers, which turns out to require a different kind of man entirely. He reads your file without looking up. ''"Two years, full academic track, non-Harrowing completion. Third Quarter origin. No family affiliation. Initial recommendation for admission made by Ascendant Instructor Caius Rayner. No further patronage on record."'' He pauses at something, going quiet for a moment. <<if $might >= 2 && $mobility >= 1>> ''"Combat drill assessments... top third of your intake year."'' He says this to the file, not to you. ''"Physical conditioning strong and consistent across both years. You placed twice in the advanced application exercises. Scored well in close contact drilling."'' He turns the page. He looks up, briefly, with the expression of someone confirming what they already calculated. ''"$name. You're what we might have expected from a candidate with your profile. Physicality, persistence, a low tolerance for being outworked. The old Legions were built on men like that."'' He turns another page. ''"The type of commissions that we're handing out nowadays require more than a strong body and a stubborn mind. Where you're going, only time and experience will set you apart."'' <<elseif $might >= 2 && $mind >= 1>> ''"Combat scores and command theory, both in the upper range."'' He turns the page. ''"Unusual combination for a non-completion. Candidates who score well in both tend to attempt the Harrowing. The ones who don't are generally either very certain of their futures or very uncertain of their lives."'' He does look up then, ''"$name. You're strong and smart enough to pick your targets. That's more useful than skill alone. The question is whether you have the patience for command and the tact to stand the test of time out in the field. Where you're going, you'll need it."'' <<elseif $mobility >= 2 && $might >= 1>> ''"Field movement assessments."'' He reads the page again, as if to verify it against itself. ''"Whoever ran your evaluations flagged you twice, first year and second. Mobile, adaptable, above average consitution."'' He turns the page. ''"$name. That's an assessment that we might expect from someone with experience in the alleys. A survivor. And it just might prove a useful apptitude to have where you're going. But you'll be responsible for more than just your own ass out there."'' He holds your gaze for a moment longer than the rest of this conversation has warranted. ''"The Reach will suit you better than you might expect."'' <<elseif $mobility >= 2 && $mind >= 1>> ''"Survey aptitude and field movement, both marked."'' He turns a page. ''"The Overland Corps puts in requests for this type of profile. However, they don't often receive non-completions. Their candidates usually have a patron behind them."'' He sets the page down and studies you in the flat way of someone weighing a thing against its listed price. ''"$name. Mobile, adaptable, able to quickly read and assess situations. Men who can read the ground tend to live longer than men who cannot, which at the posting I have for you is the only currency that compounds."'' ''"Survival,"'' He states plainly. <<elseif $mind >= 2 && $might >= 1>> ''"Command theory, Imperial law, top marks in both."'' He turns the page and pauses. Then, he closes the file halfway. ''"An academic mind and enough physical capability to function in the field. You have potential, $name. Unfortunately, without patronage or manifestation, it'll require prolonged exposure and experience in the line of duty before it opens any doors."'' <<elseif $mind >= 2 && $mobility >= 1>> ''"Academic cohort, non-Harrowing track, near the top of the list for two years running."'' He says this without looking up, confirming it for his own records. ''"Field assessment also notable, better than the academic profile would suggest, which suggests you're not merely someone who performs well inside a room."'' He sets the page aside. ''"Your file reads better than your circumstances had any reason to produce. Unfortunately, without patronage or manifestation, it'll require prolonged exposure and experience in the line of duty before it opens any doors for you."'' <<else>> ''"Even spread, above average results in most subjects,"'' he says, not quite to himself, not quite to you. ''"Command theory, field assessment, academic marks. Nothing that calls out from the page, nothing that necessarily disappoints either."'' He looks up, ''"In this line of work, $name, that means you get placed where we need you. And maybe you'll have a better assortment of skills than most to keep your ass above ground."'' <</if>> Vosch sets your file down and folds his hands. ''"The honest assessment is that you're qualified for posting as a Centurion, but not much else. You'll go where we need bodies. Third Legion. They've had attrition at every level and they'll take a Highrock partial before they take someone from the city militia track."'' He lifts another sheet without ceremony. ''"You're being assigned to the Seventh Cohort. You'll command a Penal Century. Frontier deployment, long rotations. The men you'll be leading are serving sentences. They're criminals, forced conscripts, former slaves. People the city had no better use for."'' ''"You'll have something in common with them,"'' He states plainly. ''"Black Ork pressure from the Overlands has been consistent along the Reach recently. They're spilling in from the crater's eastern gradient, even moreso than usual. The work is unglamorous and the attrition among penal officers is..."'' He pauses. ''"Non-trivial."'' ''"If you survive two rotations, you will have your choice of reassignment."'' The room is quiet. Outside, somewhere, the Academy goes about its morning. Vosch makes a final note and closes the file with the manner of a man completing a transaction. ''"Report to the Third Legion intake at the Second Quarter barracks in ten days. Bring the letter. Don't be late. You don't want to find out where the worse assignments are."'' He stands, which is how you know the meeting is over. You take the letter, leave the office, and that's the day your life at Highrock ends. [[They stuck you at the bottom...|harrowing_prologue_refusal_seventh]]

Three weeks later, you march with your century through the gates at first light. Sixty-one conscripts and yourself, none of it resembling the ordered columns you studied in command theory. The men carry their kit the way men carry things they didn't choose: badly, awkwardly, at odd angles with the specific resentment of people who've learned that the world intends to keep finding uses for them regardless of their preferences. A Legion quartermaster at the outer bailey looks at the letter containing your orders, then looks at the men, his muted expression doing all of the work. The Highway holds for a while. Past the checkpoint, past the shadow of Cradle's walls, pulling back behind you as the road opens outward, past the last terraced fields climbing the crater's sloped face and the labor crews bent over the paddies in the dim, gray morning light. Past the Imperial outpost at the thermal lake where the road officially ends, the men ahead of you slowing briefly to watch steam exhale from sulfur-stained water in long, patient columns. Then the paving stones give way to packed rubble, Then to raised timber causeways bridging wet ground. There's a muddy track through the Mire, maintained by use rather than intention, Running east through the low Basin toward the far crater wall. It's your first time outside of Cradle's confines, And in the back of your head, a nagging thought: [[You can't help but wonder whether you'll ever return.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_seventh1]]

<center><img src="images/chp3_refusal_lyco.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center>He has a stripe on his robe that wasn't there before, a thin line of color at the cuff and collar; a stripe of purple against the flat-gray of his first-year attire. You don't see that same color on anyone else. There's plenty of silver, even red, but purple... he stands alone. He doesn't look for you, and you don't go to him. There's nothing wrong with that. You were never close in any way that required acknowledgment, and what he's come back carrying isn't yours to ask about. Still, you find that you're glad for him in a way that has no convenient place to sit. [[Hugo doesn't come back.|harrowing_prologue_refusal5]]

The Mire begins where the causeway ends, the rotted timber planking running out beneath your feet, the ground going soft all at once. The first step off the boards sinks your boots to the ankles in pale gray mud that closes around them with the slow, sucking sound of something being swallowed whole. The track continues east as a suggestion rather than a road, a line of slightly firmer ground through the wet, marked at intervals by Legion-driven stakes. The mud here isn't the dark of Undertown's alleys or the silted banks below the Third Quarter's drainage runs. It's pale, almost bleached, gray-white and dense, the color of old ash or exhausted, ground bone. It smells of standing water and something mineral underneath, stagnant sulfur or weathered salt, the specific rot of ground that hasn't drained in a very long time. The column moves slowly. A century in good order doesn't move quickly through terrain like this. But a penal century goes even slower still, the middle of the column bunching when the men ahead slow, the entire line often compressing and stretching like a damaged lung. Your boots and trousers accumulate weight as you go, an entire layer of ashen muck building like thick camoflague. The men stop pulling their feet up cleanly and start dragging them instead, the shucking mud reluctant to release each step. Throughout the vast swathes of mudland, there's distant signs of habitation, if you know how to read them. Smoke rising from the far scrub where there's no indicated settlement... The occasional shape of a structure half-sunk into the wet ground, too deliberate to be a natural formation, too ruined to have been recently occupied. Warped faces at distances that make them impossible to resolve, with sunken, chalky features, watching the column pass with the flat attention of resignation. You've always heard rumors of the communities outside the walls that learned to exist in the gaps and uncivilized crevices. [[The column moves through. No one follows for long.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_seventh2]]

By late afternoon, the mud begins to stiffen. The pale gray shades toward something drier and denser, wet muck giving way to cracked flats, all chalk and powder, the smell shifting from rot to mineral dust. The crater wall has been slowly pulling away to the north and south as the basin opens, the sky above it wider than it was when you left the city. You do not notice the transition exactly. You simply become aware at some point that the ground is no longer trying to keep your boots, and that the air smells different, and that what is ahead of you isn't the Mire anymore. You make camp as the light fails, in the open ground just inside the Mire's eastern edge where the soil is firm enough to stake a palisade and level enough to sleep on. Six fires, sentries posted in rotation, the men sharing tents by squad. The warmth down here at the basin floor is a different warmth than Cradle's, not the compressed heat of the lower quarters but something looser, ambient, dry and hot but carried by the wind through the crater's wide open depths, not collecting so much warm moisture and holding it like Cradle's sweaty alleys, porous buildings and stacked, weeping walls. Above, the wind howls along the rim's edge, a sound that carries down without the force behind it, the crater's walls breaking its spine before it reaches you. You lie awake listening to it and to the sounds of sixty men sleeping on unfamiliar ground, and to your sentries moving quietly between watchposts in the dark, each fire gradually burning down and being rebuilt, warding off the enormous indifference of the Basin just beyond. You sleep, eventually. When you wake the city is invisible behind you, And there's nothing in any direction that looks like anything you've ever known. [[The day's march has not yet begun.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_seventh3]]

Every day that follows is a haze of movement. The wet mudlands of the mire transitions into bright, chalky flatlands and eventually the crumbling, rocky badlands known to you and your men as the Basin. You learned about this place while at Highrock; via long lessons lecturing you on Cradle's geography, within and without the walls. These lands mark the widest and warmest section of the crater. Not the compressed heat of the lower quarters within the city, but something looser, ambient and dry, hot air carried up from the very earth through each and every crack, like heated coals simmering low, leftovers of a much greater, dying fire. Less moisture collects here, most of it inevitably carried away by sinking winds across vast swathes of open land, differentiating the basin from Cradle's cramped, leaky alleyways, sweating tenements and stacked, weeping walls. The century's quartermaster carefully rations water, each man carrying two days worth, with the rest stowed away in a pair of wooden ox-drawn carts. The heat weighs down on you, along with the burden of your equipment and supplies. [[Your trek continues.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_seventh4]]

<center><img src="images/chp3_refusal_arrival.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center>By the end of the week, the far Reach of the crater announces itself. You smell it at first. Not the wet of the Mire behind you, nor the dry mineral heat of the Basin, but something older, organic. Green and shut-in. A whiff of something foreign and strange to you. Wet bark, rot under shade and sky. Sap. A living dampness that seems impossible after so many days of dust and open sky. It's almost reminiscent of Cradle, but different. Wilder, stranger, reckless. The men notice it too. The century doesn't speak much by now. The march has worn most loose conversation out of them, leaving only coughs, muttered curses, the clink of kit, the occasional barked correction when the line begins to drift. But you feel the change pass through them all the same, that small collective stiffening of men who understand without needing it explained that they're nearing the place they've been marching towards this entire time. Their fate. The treeline gives way to firelight. Not many at first. Just a few pinpricks in the distance, low and steady where the land begins to darken. Then more. A line of them. Fixed, ordered, an almost all-too-human against the dark primordial canopy that lay just beyond. The outpost sits at the Reach's edge where the last open ground still holds. After a week of marker posts, sinking tracks and the slow disappearance of Cradle's logic into distance, the sight of real Legion work strikes you with a force that's almost embarrassing in your relief. Palisade walls, ditches and sharpened stakes. Watchtowers rise above the timber line, smoke from cookfires lifting in disciplined columns. The whole ugly, practical geometry of a place built to remain standing. It isn't beautiful, but it's organized in a stark, familiar kind of way. [[The gates open at your approach.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_reach1]]

All it takes is a shouted exchange between the forward sergeant and the watch. Your century enters beneath rough-hewn timbers darkened by pitch and weather, and at once the noise changes around you. Hammer on wood. Oxen lowing somewhere behind the supply sheds. Men arguing over rations. A far-off burst of laughter that dies quickly. Not peace. Just a working military post, which is a different thing entirely. No one here gawks at your men. That may be the first bad sign. A clerk in Legion red takes your transfer letter, breaks the seal, scans it once, then gestures for you to wait. Your century is led toward a holding yard inside the palisade, a bare packed enclosure bounded by two long barracks and a fenced cart lane. Some of the prisoners glance around with the dull wariness of men measuring a cage for weaknesses. Others simply sink where they're told, too tired to perform resentment. You remain standing. After a time, a Tribune comes to find you. [[You meet him with a salute.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_reach2]]

<center><img src="images/chp3_refusal_tribune.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center>He's older than most of the officers you've seen up close, broad through the shoulders with the compact heaviness of a man who's gone a little to stone rather than fat. One cheek is marked by an old pale seam running down from the eye. His cuirass is clean bronze without, polished for reason other than vanity, with a look that isn't overtly hostile, only measuring you in the flat, economical way of someone who's had to assess too many men for too many years. His gaze passes over your shoulders to the century beyond, then returns to you. ''"Centurion,"'' he says, and the title lands in his mouth as a matter of paperwork rather than conviction. ''"Highrock sends us interesting things."'' You hold his gaze. He unfolds your transfer letter once more, though it's clear he already knows what's in it. ''"Seventh Cohort. Penal Century. Frontier rotation. No field term. No Reach service. Academic completion only."'' He lowers the page. ''"You've come a long way to be thrown somewhere unpleasant."'' The words are casual. The dismissal inside them isn't. [[You don't have to sound so pleased about it.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_reach_bastard]] [[I'd rather understand my duty clearly.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_reach_knight]] [[Where do you need the century, Tribune?|harrowing_prologue_refusal_reach_cowboy]]

''"You don't have to sound so pleased about it."'' The Tribune studies you for a moment, not offended, not amused either. Just looking. ''"Pleased?"'' he replies. ''"No. But I prefer officers who understand the shape of their posting before it begins chewing on them. Saves time."'' One corner of his mouth shifts, not quite a smile. ''"Still. Better a little teeth than none at all."'' <<gainBastard>> [[Listen.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_reach3]]

''"If there's a duty here to be done, I'd rather understand it clearly."'' The Tribune's eyes narrow a fraction, not in suspicion, more in recalculation. ''"Then you're already thinking more usefully than the last two they sent me."'' He folds the letter and tucks it beneath one arm. ''"You'll get clarity. Whether you'll get anything else is another matter."'' It's not warmth, but the contempt eases slightly. <<gainKnight>> [[Listen.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_reach3]]

''"Where do you need the century, Tribune?"'' For the first time, the man's expression alters in any noticeable way. Approval would be too generous a word for it. Less irritation, maybe. Recognition. ''"There it is,"'' he says. ''"A useful instinct."'' He glances once toward the holding yard where your men sit in the dirt, then back to you. <<gainCowboy>> [[Listen.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_reach3]]

''"The reality is simple,"'' the Tribune says. ''"Your century is rotating forward tomorrow at first light. You're here to relieve an outgoing century that's held a treeline section longer than was healthy for them. Routine pressure. Raids, probes, small contact. Nothing grand enough to be called a battle, which means the attrition has been slow and consistent."'' He says this the way another officer might discuss weather. ''"Black Ork movement has been steady for months. Not concentrated, not yet. Enough to keep the line hungry."'' His eyes drift past you toward the dark wall of forest beyond the palisade. From inside the outpost the Reach looks almost passive, just an immense band of old growth drinking the evening light, but even at this distance it carries a shut, watchful quality, as if the trees are not growing so much as waiting. ''"Your prisoners will work, patrol, fill weak points and die in places I would rather not spend trained men. Your task is to keep enough of them in place, moving in the right direction that the line remains where it is."'' There is no speech about honor or grandeur in it. No ceremony, only the Legion's trained and trusted utility. ''"You may have learned command at Highrock,"'' he continues, ''"But this isn't the Academy. Out there, a man's obedience lasts exactly as long as fear, hunger and exhaustion allow it. Longer, if you know what you're doing. Shorter, if you don't."'' Before you can answer, another figure passes through the yard behind him, a centurion by the look of the harness and sash, dust-stained and lean as old rope. The Tribune glances over one shoulder. ''"There. Your counterpart."'' [[The outgoing officer is already leaving.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_reach4]]

The man who approaches looks like he has been gradually pared down by the Reach to only those parts of him still strictly necessary. His face is burned dark across the nose and cheeks. One hand is wrapped in old linen gone gray with use. There's dried mud on his boots, clear to the knee, and something in the way he walks tells you that he's been sleeping in armor often enough that his body no longer expects comfort. He gives the Tribune the sort of salute shared between men who have done business in bad places. Then his attention settles on you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. He looks young enough that under other circumstances you might have imagined him only a few years your elder. Here, beneath the Reach's edge and the outpost firelight, that impression doesn't hold. Service has a way of changing a face faster than time does. He gives you his name, and you give him yours. The rest goes unspoken. ''"They're worse at dusk,"'' he says at last, glancing toward the black line of trees beyond the palisade. ''"Braver, closer, more bold and dangerous."'' His voice is dry, almost toneless, as if the Reach has worn inflection out of him too. ''"On patrols, keep your men from bunching when the trees close in. Don't chase noises that you don't understand. If the forest goes quiet all at once, stop moving. Your strength out there is organization and awareness; without it, you're fucked."'' He shifts his wrapped hand, flexing the fingers once. ''"If the front rank loses sight of the rear, halt and dress the line. If the rear starts shouting, don't run men backward in dribs and drabs. Turn the whole section or hold it still. Half-measures are how you feed them."'' You wait, sensing there's something more. ''"They'll test your edges first. Flanks, stragglers, wounded men, anyone stupid enough to break formation because he heard something in the brush. They like fear. They like confusion. Most of all, they like impatience."'' He studies you then, properly, not your sash or rank-mark but your face, as if deciding whether another sentence would be wasted on you. Then, he relents. ''"So when contact comes, don't chase them. You'll want to, every new officer does. That's when the others come in from the side and start pulling the men apart. Limb by limb. They're different from the greenskins in the city."'' Then he's gone. Not ceremonially. He simply turns, salutes the Tribune, and keeps walking toward the rear barracks where a unit bound west is already gathering by the carts. You watch him go longer than you mean to, while the Tribune lets the silence sit a while. ''"You'll have his section by dawn,"'' He says finally, ''"Eat. Rest your line. See to whatever authority you mean to establish before morning. They won't give you long to pretend you're not responsible for them."'' He starts to turn away, then pauses. ''"One more thing, Centurion."'' You meet his gaze. ''"The Reach doesn't care what Highrock called you."'' Then he leaves you there with your penal century, the outpost noise swelling up around you again, and the old forest breathing somewhere just beyond the walls. [[Morning comes quickly here.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_deployment]]

You wake before dawn to the sound of wet wood taking flame. The outpost is all motion in the dark. Men pissing against the ditch line, harness being checked, a cookfire smoking low beside a stone griddle. Above it all hangs the Reach itself, dark shadow mostly unseen beyond the palisade, a wall of black that seems to drink what little light the world offers before morning. You eat standing up. A heel of ration bread, a strip of meat, watered-down ale. No one wastes words. Even the men who've spent the crossing whining or muttering at each new hardship are quieter and more sullen now. Some watch the eastern gate while they chew, while others don't look at all. When the gate opens, the smell comes in stronger than before. Wet leafmold. Bark split open by damp, rot deep under living growth. The scent of a place that has had a very long time to become itself without human permission or the precision of civilization, however corrupt. It's not long before your century files out under the watchtower and into the growth beyond. The change is felt immediately. For a little while there's still open ground, low scrub, churned earth, old stumps silvered by weather. Then the trees begin in earnest and the sky breaks apart above you into fragments. The wide Basin light disappears and what remains comes down in narrow shafts, dim green-red wash, never enough of either to trust fully. Sightlines collapse almost at once. Thirty feet in places, less in others. The men feel it. The column wants to bunch, because that's what bodies do when the world narrows around them. But you remember the departing Centurion's warning, and keep them moving with as much spacing as the trails allow, each man trapped inside the little circle of world his own senses can still command. There are trail marks if you know how to read them. Notches in bark, twine faded by weather. Small Legion cuts laid into roots and stones at the edge of the path. Without them, the forest would look the same in every direction. Yet, it almost does anyway. [[The work of the day is dull enough to insult the imagination.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_deployment1]]

The entire day, you perform circuits of the line. A rotten stretch of brush cut back from the trail. One old post reset where the ground had gone soft beneath it. A stagnant water channel checked for signs of passage. Men posted, men counted, men cursed at, men counted again. No charge comes shrieking out of the dark. No black mass of Orks descends from the trees to test your nerve. Only the slow pressure of the forest and the mounting strain of staying ready for something that never quite happens. By the time you return to the outpost at dusk, your shoulders ache from the tension. The prisoners, your men, slump as soon as they're permitted to. One vomits beside the ditch from bad water or nerves. Another laughs at nothing for a little too long, then goes quiet when no one joins him. You sleep poorly that night. Not because anything happened, But because nothing did. [[And then the days begin to pass.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_deployment2]]

A few days settle over you in that same pattern, Each one similar enough to blur against the next. Before dawn, rations and orders. Then out through the gate and into the brush, where every section of trail begins to resemble every other, and the work becomes a miserable education in repetition. Patrol the line, check the markers, clear the undergrowth back where it crowds the path too closely. Watch the tree line, count heads. Halt, dress the formation, move again. If you're lucky, and so far you are, return at dusk with wet boots, a dry mouth, and the sense that the forest has spent the day studying you in silence. You begin, slowly, to learn the ropes of it. It's a feeling more than a thought; how far a man can drift before the line starts to feel wrong, and how quickly voices die under the canopy. Sound behaves differently here, swallowed in one direction and carried strangely in another. Your men move after the first few patrols, less like a mob with weapons and more like something that can, under pressure and repetition, almost pass for a military unit. Almost. Sleep remains poor. The tents are cramped, damp and full of other men's breathing. At night the Reach continues just beyond the line, patient as ever, and the outpost never fully rests. Somewhere there's always a sentry shifting his stance, a cough from the watchtower, a muttered challenge at the gate, the low and restless sound of oxen in their pens. Once, in the middle of the night, something lets out a cry from the trees so deep and ragged that half the century wakes at once, lying and staring into the dark without speaking. The men complain less because they have less energy to waste on it. A few begin to watch you with that flat penal attention that means they're trying to decide what kind of officer you are; whether you'll panic, whether you'll posture, whether you'll get them killed for pride. Others stop watching altogether and merely follow orders. You find yourself giving commands with less thought than before. Spacing, halt, dress the line, move. The words begin to live in the mouth instead of the mind. And because the routine has begun to take shape, because nothing decisive has yet happened, because each day ends with the gate still opening to admit you back inside, some small part of you starts to believe that perhaps this is all that the Reach will be for you. An ugly posting. A long rotation. Bad sleep, damp air, and the constant threat of violence held just far enough away to remain a threat and not yet an event, just a nightmare. Then comes another morning, Seemingly no different than the others. [[The patrol goes out as usual.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_deployment3]]

The light is poor from the start. Not storm-dark, not even especially dim, just a flat red-green-violet morning beneath the canopy, the sort that makes the whole forest seem half-awake. Your section moves east along a line you've already walked twice before, boots finding the same roots, the same shallow cuts in the earth, the same old marks on the bark where Legion knives and hatchets have fought the trail. Nothing about it feels remarkable. But that's what makes it dangerous. The men are quieter now than they were on the first day. Less jumpy, maybe. Or simply more tired. One of the prisoners in the rear has tied a scrap of red cloth around the shaft of his spear so he can find it faster if it slips in the mud. Another chews something bitter and spits at intervals into the leaves. Ahead of you, the line bends around an old fallen trunk black with moss and shelf-fungus, then straightens again. You check the spacing almost without thinking. Count heads, move on. The Reach has begun to teach your body its habits. A stand of brush to the left where sight closes too tightly. A shallow rise ahead where the roots knot underfoot. A patch of old churned mud where someone, man or beast, crossed the wet trail. Ordinary things. The kind a man stops respecting if he sees them often enough. It happens subtly. First the sense of being watched, which is nothing new. Then the quiet, which is. The insects that had been rasping unseen through the undergrowth vanish from the edges of your hearing. The little background life of the place, the creak and murmur and hidden skitter of it, all of it drops away so gradually that for a moment you only register the shape of the silence after it has already formed around you. A man near the rear says, too loudly, ''"Did you hear—"'' Something moves in the brush off the line. Fast. Close. Wrongly low to the ground for a man, too controlled to be an animal. And on this day of all days, this dull green morning that had seemed content to be one more patrol among many, the Reach finally decides to speak. [[All hell breaks loose.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_deployment_react]]

<center><img src="images/chp3_refusal_ork.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center>The first blow crashes into the left flank without warning. <<sfx "warrior-roar" 0.5>> <<bgm "prepare-to-die" 0.6 3>> A savage eruption of violence bursts from the undergrowth where the trail squeezes too close against tangled roots and pressing brush, a guttural scream tearing through the morning air raw and desperate. Before you can pivot, another, shorter one chokes off wetly as one of the prisoners is yanked sideways into the foliage with brutal force so sudden and powerful that his feet leave the ground entirely. Red-green leaves explode outward like a stormy gust while something hot and dark splashes across the trunk of a nearby tree in thick ropes. At the edge of your vision, a second man pitches forward with a strangled grunt, a blur of ruddy flesh and torn leather, his spear spinning away uselessly into the mud as bright blood pumps in meaty, wet spurts from the ragged stumps of his severed fingers. Then you see the first of them clearly at last. A massive Black Ork tumbles through the brush in a spray of shredded leaves and black earth, enormous through the chest and broad shoulders, dark and gleaming, gray-green hide slick with swamp sweat and fresh blood, tusked maw split wide in a roar so deep and primal it vibrates through your ribs before the sound fully registers. A hooked axe rises high in one terrible fist, the beast festooned with filthy bone and leather tropies, its small, hot eyes locked on your line with an almost animal delight. And it doesn't come alone. Two more break through behind it, then a third and fourth shape further back between the trunks, moving low and fast with savage, hooked blades, gnarled clubs and jagged axes, all hungry for meat. The left side of your formation recoils at once, men stumbling inward toward the center in the exact panicked crush and self-preserving instinct you've spent days trying to hammer out of them. Someone shouts to fall back, while another man's already turning tail, abandoning his position entirely. The line starts to fold. That's the true danger that your lessons beat into you. It isn't the first wound, not even the first death, but the moment the century ceases to be a line and becomes a frightened knot of bodies, the Reach has you. You have one heartbeat, perhaps two, in which to impose your will before the whole section goes ragged. You can lock them down where they stand, force the formation back into shape, face the pressure and deny the Orks any wider opening. Or you can drive hard at the breach before panic finishes spreading, slam your weight into the first surge and try to seize the moment back through sheer organized violence. [[Dress the line, face outward, and hold.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_hold]] [[Rally forward and crush the breach!|harrowing_prologue_refusal_push]]

You refuse to give ground. ''"HOLD THE LINE! Dress it! Face outward!"'' The command rips raw and urgent from your throat before fear can twist itself into caution, your voice cutting through the rising panic loud enough to reach the part of your men that still remembers how to obey. You shove toward the collapsing left flank with your gladius half-raised, boots slipping in the churned wet earth as another Black Ork smashes through the brush in a fresh spray of leaves and mud. Everything narrows at once. A prisoner stumbles backward into you, wild-eyed, his mouth working around some half-born plea. You slam him aside with your shoulder and stab forward with the blade, ''"There, dress on him. Shields out. UP AND OUT!"'' The world dissolves into fragments of filth and fury. A hooked axe crashes down onto a Legion shield hard enough to split the rim. A man’s fingers slide slick with blood from his spearshaft. Tusks flash, hot breath stinks of rot and meat, and the wet animal reek of the Orks rolls thick over the sharp copper-salt tang of opened flesh and spilled guts. Another of the beasts explodes from the left with a roar that shakes your chest. It slams square into one of your men, driving him backward into the others and nearly spilling three more into the widening gap. The line buckles dangerously once more. You force yourself into the crush, desperate, seizing a wavering prisoner by the back of his hauberk as you hurl him bodily into place, ''"Stand, you bastard."'' Then you wheel and catch the next man by the shield rim, dragging him shoulder-to-shoulder with the others before the breach can swallow them all. For one heartbeat, the whole century teeters there on the edge of total collapse. <<if ($might >= 2 and $mind >= 1) or ($mind >= 2 and $might >= 1) or ($mind >= 2 and $mobility >= 1) or ($might >= 1 and $mobility >= 1 and $mind >= 1 and ($dominant is "knight" or $dominant is "cowboy"))>> But it holds. Not cleanly, or beautifully, only just enough through raw fear and the contagious pressure of bodies jammed back into rank. One prisoner drops screaming as half his face is laid open to the bone by a jagged plunge and rake of hard, gnarled tusks. Another takes an axe deep in the collar, folding straight down into the roots with a wet gurgle. Yet the rest, whether by terror, instinct, or the simple brutal force of your example, stop shirking inward. Shields turn, spears level outwards, and the line remembers what it is. The first Black Ork slams into that ragged hedge of braced bodies a second time, and now the century meets it head-on. A spear punches deep into the meat beneath its ribs while another glances off thick bone. You see the creature rear back, bellowing, black saliva and blood stringing from its tusks, and you level enough courage to lunge in at the same instant, jamming your own blade forward into the opening before it can close. The fighting turns close and filthy. No heroic duels or clean exchanges, only the hideous crush of bodies in mud and brush. A shield shatters under repeated blows. Someone's dragged down screaming beneath stamping boots and thrashing limbs. One of the Orks takes three men to bring low and even then it keeps hacking from one knee, splitting a prisoner’s thigh open to the white bone in a bright sheet of blood before a spear finally punches through its throat and pins the thrashing brute against a gnarled tree-root. But the line doesn't break. That becomes the only thing that matters. Your men are panting, grunting, screaming, cursing. Some are sobbing without realizing it, one desperately trying to hold his guts in plac with both hands while bracing his shoulder against the man beside him. Yet the century remains a century, ragged, bleeding and terrified, but still a line, and so the Reach is denied its meal. The remaining Orks sense it before you do. The rush loses its savage shape, the pressure shifts and falters. One of the beasts gives a harsh barking command and vanishes back between the trunks with shocking speed, leaving the dead and dying where they fell. Another follows, then another, the forest swallowing them almost greedily until only the wounded, the churned ground, and the thick coppery stink of slaughter remain. Silence doesn't return all at once. It seeps back in around the moans and groans. You stand there, chest heaving, every part of you shaking with the aftermath, staring at the trembling brush where the attack began and dissolved. Men lie scattered. Some will never rise again. Others are bleeding so badly that you already know the march back will finish what the Orks began. But you're still standing. And so is enough of the line. [[You survived the first rush.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_survival]] <<else>> It doesn't hold. For one terrible instant, the line almost does; shields half-turning, spearpoints wavering toward the gap, and you think you have them, that raw fear and command in your voice having clawed them back from the edge. Then the first body drops wrong. A prisoner in the front rank takes a hooked axe straight across the collarbone with a wet crunch of bone and meat, the blade shearing deep enough to split clavicle and ribs in a single stroke, and he collapses shrieking into the knees of the men beside him. They recoil, one stumbling backward, another twisting his whole body instead of bracing his shield. The opening widens, not by much, but enough, just enough for a Black Ork to drive itself through with a roar of triumph and sheer hideous muscle. After that, the line's finished. It knots and crumples fast. Men pile inward in a blind crush. A prisoner breaks and runs, while someone else collides hard into your back so your teeth crack together. A spear thrust meant for the beast beside the trunk glances wild through the press and punches deep into a human side instead, the man folding around the shaft with a wet cough of blood. The undergrowth explodes with more dark shapes, tusks flashing, hooked bone and huge arms slick with sweat and gore suddenly inside your formation all at once. Death is a sudden visitor. You didn't expect him this morning, nor even a minute ago. Not even now, you still haven't accepted it. The collapse isn't dramatic or noble. Just bodies too close together with nowhere left to move. You hack at something enormous and roaring in front of you, feel your blade bite deep into meat, but another impact slams into your ribs before you can recover, the force lifting you clean off your feet. You go down hard among bulbous roots, churned mud and legs that are no longer standing in line but kicking, stumbling, collapsing over one another in blind animal terror. Someone falls across you, twitching, hot blood pouring down your throat and chest in thick pulsing sheets. You try to rise, a boot crushes your wrist into the mud. Then a shadow blots out the violet sky and you look straight up into a tusked face slick with crimson. The axe comes down. You see the blur of it. The chipped black edge. A spray of red across green. Then nothing holds together long enough to matter. [[But you don't die quickly.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_death]]<</if>>

You surge forward into the breach. Not backward, not inward, not collapsing into the frightened human instinct to close ranks and pray the world grows smaller, but forward, hard and reckless before the panic can fully take root, before the left flank finishes collapsing and the Black Orks an turn that single ragged tear into a route and a slaughter. ''"Forward!"'' you roar, voice cracking raw through the brush-choked air, ''"On me! Kill the gap! KILL IT."'' The command rips out of you with more force than polish. It doesn't need to be pretty. Not here, not now. It only needs to strike something deep enough in the men around you that their bodies move before their fear can lock them in place. You shove past the first wavering prisoner and drive straight toward the point of rupture like a spearpoint honed and poised to strike. Just like that, the world contracts and collapses into a blur of sheer violent impact. A Black Ork explodes through the leaves in a spray of black mud and shredded greenery, vast and massive through the shoulders, tusked jaw dripping with spit and blood, hooked blade already scything toward the line. You don't wait for it. You crash into the beast at the exact same instant it reaches the line, gladius thrusting forward violently, shoulder lowered to leverage all of your strength, weight and speed, boots gouging deeply into the slick earth while the men behind you curse and stumble and begin, half by raw instinct and half by contagion, to follow. For one bright, hideous moment everything becomes noise and fury. A shield taking a blow hard enough to split like old timber. A man choking wetly on his own scream. The Ork's roar, so deep it seems to pass through your ribs before it reaches your ears. The thick reek of opened guts, wet soil, old rot, hot, pulsing blood. You force yourself deeper into the meat of it. There's no time to think; only to strike, shove, shout, and keep moving, driving forward, thrusting and shoving, reacting on instinct and drilled skill. If the line pauses here, it dies here. If it recoils, it knots. If it knots, the Reach feasts on you. You hack savagely at the first Ork’s weapon arm and feel the heavy jolt of bone through your blade. The creature bellows and turns on you, but one of your prisoners, some nameless half-starved criminal, drives a spear hard into its flank up to the shaft. It doesn’t kill the beast, but it staggers it badly, and that's enough. ''"Again!"'' you snarl. ''"Push, you bastards, push!"'' The left flank surges with you. Not smoothly, or cleanly. Not like drilled Legionnaires on parade. But like desperate men being taught in one bloody second that standing still will get them butchered faster than moving. Another prisoner crashes shoulder-first into the melee. Someone else jabs wildly over his back. An axe comes down and bites into a forearm instead of a skull because your sudden forward rush has ruined the angle of the blow. For a heartbeat, the breach stops widening. <<if ($might >= 2 and $mobility >= 1) or ($mobility >= 2 and $might >= 1) or ($mobility >= 2 and $mind >= 1) or ($might >= 1 and $mobility >= 1 and $mind >= 1 and ($dominant is "bastard" or $dominant is "cowboy"))>> Then the momentum breaks the other way. Your charge hits the first Ork before the rest can fully spill through. Momentum takes hold, ugly and immediate. The prisoners nearest you, panicked a moment ago, find a direction for that panic and pour it forward as violence. Shields slam. Spearpoints jab low through brush and thigh. One man goes down with his throat opened and another steps into the place he leaves before the blood has finished spraying. A second Black Ork comes driving in, catching a spear under the ribs, but keeps coming anyway, roaring so loud you see spittle fly from between its tusks. You press in close before it can recover, too close for the full arc of its axe, and ram your weapon into the meat of its throat. Hot blood splashes your wrist and chest. The creature stumbles backward, choking on its own red froth, your men crashing into it in a wild snarling press of sharpened bone, reinforced wood, curses and fear. You don't give the others time to settle. ''"Through them!"'' you bellow, the order felt more than heard. For three terrible breaths the century becomes a brutal wedge. Not disciplined, not elegant, but sudden and savage enough to hammer the first wave backward into the trees. One Ork goes down under a frenzy of thrusts and hacking blows, still trying to rise while prisoners scream and stab and scream again. Another takes a spear through the belly, rips the shaft free in a spray of gore, and buries its axe in a man’s face with a wet crunch before a second strike dents in the side of its skull like wet Reach timber splitting. It's a slaughter at arm's length. Mud churns red underfoot. A dying man clutches your calf and nearly drags you down with him. Someone loses two fingers to a hooked blade and keeps shrieking as he kicks backward through the roots. The brush itself seems to thrash and convulse around you with the force of bodies crashing, slipping, tearing loose from one another. But the Orks lose the moment, and that's all you needed. Their rush had relied on shock and awe, human fear collapsing the line inward. Instead your century has turned that fear into a forward crush of bodies and blades, just organized and brutal enough to make the first wave pay in blood for every step. The remaining Black Orks feel the shift and fall back with ugly speed, snarling and barking to one another as they dissipate back into the deeper brush beyond the sightlines of the Legion line. You nearly follow them. For one blazing, reckless heartbeat the urge to keep driving forward surges through you, to run them down while their retreat is still ragged and half-formed. Then the departing centurion’s warning flashes through your mind like a slap and you wrench the century to a violent halt with a raw scream of command before triumph can curdle into overreach and disaster. ''"Back! Back to the line. Dress it. NOW!"'' The men obey raggedly, panting and shaking, half-mad with the violence and adrenaline of what just passed, but enough of them obey for the formation to shift and recede. The forest doesn't go quiet all at once. It seeps back in around the moans and wet gurgling. Men are down, some of them twitching among the roots never to rise again. Some lie spilling their insides between the ferns. One prisoner sits in the mud staring blankly at the ragged stump of his hand, while another tries to drag a dead comrade upright. You stand over the torn ground, the same spot where the first breach occurred and then finally receded, chest heaving, blood hot on your arms and face, before you finally realize the attack is over. Not the posting, not the Reach. Only the first attack. But you're... still alive. And enough of your line is still standing that the century remains a century. [[You survived the first rush.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_survival]] <<else>> The charge carries you too far, too fast. For one brief, vicious instant it feels right. Better than right. Necessary. Your voice catches men by the spine and hurls them forward with you. The first Ork checks on the sudden rush. One of your prisoners drives a spear into its side. Another smashes a shield-rim into its tusked mouth. You feel momentum gather under your feet like the start of something terrible and glorious. Then it outruns the rest of the line behind it, And that's all it takes. You and the handful of men closest to you slam into the breach before the century has truly followed. The ground is a nightmare of roots, slick mud, and broken brush. Bodies bunch and tangle. A man falls. Another tries to leap over him. Shouts rip through the air, some screaming that you’re through, others that the rear is breaking. You cannot tell which voice belongs to which disaster because they are already becoming the same thing. The closest Black Orks give ground only one step, Then the rest come pouring in from the sides. One crashes in low and fast, hooked blade flashing up under a shield to rip into a man’s groin in a bright spray of blood. Another explodes from the brush to your right, huge and silent until the last instant, caving in a prisoner’s back with a heavy club of knotted wood and bone. The first beast, the one you had almost checked, recovers and drives straight into the heart of the confusion with a roar that empties the air of whatever thought remained. Your forward rush curdles into a fatal pileup. Men behind you can't see, and the ones beside you can't hear. The century, instead of following your strike as one body, tears along the seam you've opened. Half the left flank surges. Half hesitates, and the middle recoils. So this is death. Not one noble failure, not a single clean mistake, just the awful geometry of a line that has ceased to understand where its edges are. You hack at a dark shape in front of you and feel your blade bite deep into hide. Then something massive smashes into your shoulder, spinning you half around. A prisoner’s body staggers into your chest, opened from neck to sternum, hot blood soaking you in a heavy sheet. You shove him off and try to shout another order, but the sound vanishes under the thunder of the melee. The Orks are inside the formation now. One of your men is dragged down screaming into the brush by both ankles. Another disappears beneath the collapse of three panicked bodies and never comes back up. A spear thrust meant for an Ork punches instead through a human throat, and the dying man falls clawing at the shaft while everyone around him stumbles over his legs and makes the knot tighter, tighter, tighter. You understand then that there will be no recovery. Only the shape of the killing. You lunge at the nearest Black Ork, slipping to the knee in mud gone slick with blood, and the creature turns toward you with a tusked grin so quick and hateful it looks almost human for the worst possible reason. Its axe rises. By instinct and pure terror alone, you try to surge up inside its arc, one last desperate attempt to continue living. Too slow. The blow lands like a gate swung shut. At first, you don't understand what part of you it's broken. Only that the world tilts violently and the ground is suddenly close and hot, filled with roots pressing into your cheek like earthen veins. Men are still screaming. Something heavy crashes across your legs. A second impact, maybe a boot, maybe another body or axe, drives the air from your chest and leaves you open and flat in the red mud. A shadow blots out the violet sky. You look straight up into a tusked face slick with crimson. The axe rises again. You see the blur of it. The chipped black edge. A spray of red across green. Then nothing holds together long enough to matter. [[But you don't die quickly.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_death]]<</if>>

That night, beneath bad torchlight and the crude-built shelter of your field camp, you count the living. Men groan in the dark. Others bite down on leather while torn flesh is washed and bound with whatever strips can be spared. <<bgm "shallows" 0.7 3>> You are bloodied to the elbows, though not all of it is yours. Mud has dried stiff across your shins and cuirass. Something in your shoulder or ribs aches every time you reach too far, but the pain is still the manageable kind, which means it belongs to the living. A boy from the rear rank, not more than seventeen, screams when they cauterize his leg. The sound goes on and on until it breaks into a hoarse animal moaning that seems to hum in the roots beneath you. No one tells him to be quiet. Nearby, the bodies of the dead lie in a row, Beneath cloaks and torn canvas, not all of them whole. A few of the prisoners keep glancing toward the black wall of the Reach beyond the firelight, as though expecting the Orks to come back and finish the work properly now that they've had time to smell how much blood remains. You can't blame them. Every shadow beyond the ring of light seems occupied by the possibility of teeth. In the end, you send a messenger back to the outpost. A runner, lean and quick, with enough sense left in him to move fast and keep quiet. You give him the count; dead, wounded, missing. First contact. Black Orks in number. The line bloodied, but not broken. Position held for now. Request for instruction, supply, and relief if any can be spared. He leaves with a torch hooded low and vanishes west through the trail markers, swallowed by darkness almost at once. The answer comes back deep in the middle of the night. The reply is short. //Remain in position. Hold the section.// //Report further contact at dawn.// You read it once in the firelight, then fold it and tuck it into your belt. The men understand the shape of the world well enough by now. If the Legion could spare comfort, it would not have sent your century here in the first place. So the night continues. A wounded man dies just before morning, very quietly after making such terrible noise for hours that the silence feels almost indecent when it finally comes. Another loses his leg and lives. Another wakes from shock long enough to ask for water, then for his mother, then for nothing at all. When dawn arrives, your eyes burn and your body's stiff. [[The days continue.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_survival1]]

<<script>> $("body").append('<div id="fadeBlack"></div>'); $("#fadeBlack").css({ position: "fixed", top: 0, left: 0, width: "100%", height: "100%", background: "black", opacity: 1, "z-index": 9999, cursor: "pointer" // optional: makes skip feel intuitive }); // allow skip by double-clicking anywhere on the overlay $("#fadeBlack").on("dblclick", function() { $(this).stop(true, true).fadeOut(300, function() { $(this).remove(); }); }); // hold black, then fade out slowly setTimeout(() => { $("#fadeBlack").animate( { opacity: 0 }, { duration: 5000, // fade duration easing: "swing", complete: function() { $(this).remove(); } } ); }, 1500); <</script>>When you wake again, it's dark. <<bgm "mysterious-music-box" 0.6 3>> You're on your back among the roots and churned mud, catching the last few violet-red rays of Dosmera's haze bleeding weakly through the shadowed canopy above in bruised, sickly pulses. Night has come, and you're dying. Pain lives everywhere, thick, wet and grinding. Something in your side and chest is wrong beyond remedy, all cracked bone and cleaved meat where axe and blade shared deep. Each breath comes shallow, ragged, with a bubbling thickness behind it. You can feel warmth leaking out of you in sluggish pulses. A great deal of it, more than any man can spare for long. Your legs are dead weight, pinned beneath a former comrade. Not that you would be able to get up, anyway. Every attempt to shift sends fresh fire lancing through your torso so viciously that a low, animal sound tears from your throat. The forest breathes with you. All around the low, wet chorus of dying men drifts through the brush, low moans and gurgling breaths, the occasional broken sob. Someone not far to your left keeps whispering the same name over and over until it dissolves into a coughing fit that ends in silence. Another weeps quietly, the sound small and childlike and utterly alone. These are the remnants of your century, the condemned men entrusted to your command. Further down the line, deeper among the trees, you hear the Orks still at their work. Heavy footsteps in the mud, guttural voices barking to one another, the wet thunk of axe or club into meat, a short scream or grunt cut off mid-breath. They pick through the dead with casual brutality, some of collecting scraps to claim as trophies, their sounds remaining distant, and perhaps even growing further and further away. They haven't reached you yet, or perhaps they just aren't that thorough. Maybe they simply don't care enough to check every broken body leaking its life into the roots. You lie there unable to do anything but listen and bleed, unsure whether to curse a slow death or be thankful. Maybe the outpost will send a retrieval detail. Maybe some of the line held elsewhere. Maybe men will walk this trail again before dusk. But after a while of thinking, of hoping, you begin to understand that no one is coming in time. And gradually, a strange calm comes with it, reluctantly at first, but thin and final when it settles. You think of Highrock, absurdly enough. The courtyard beneath the howling wind. Thorne's voice carrying over gray robes and held breath. The plain door for those who wished to leave. The old dark entrance for those who went below. You had believed, not in safety exactly, but in avoidance. In a narrower life, something simpler and better understood. [[Instead, the world only changed the shape of the blade.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_death1]]

Your vision blurs, clears, blurs again. For a moment you see Fredrick's workshop as if through bad glass. The cramped comfort of it. Leather, damp stone and glue. Bent light through dirty panes and narrow windows. The old man at his bench, saying little, big, warm hands moving with the patient economy of someone who understands that most of life is only work continued long enough to become a kind of love. Then just when you're becoming familiar with it, that too slips. The mud beneath you has gone warm, Or maybe you've gone cold. It becomes hard to tell. Your eyes drift half-shut, the canopy a blur above you, Still different from Undertown; a strange, unfamiliar sky. Your life comes back to you in pieces. Undertown. Little, familiar things. The slick shine of the wet alleys at night. The warmth of a hand-wrapped loaf against your chest on the walk back from market. The way lamplight used to spill across shattered stone and make the worst streets look, for a heartbeat, almost gentle. Then Fredrick again. His voice, rough and sparing. The way he would grunt instead of answer when words seemed wasteful. The smell of him when he leaned past you at the workbench, leather dust in his clothes, old sweat, the faint smoke that always seemed worked into his skin. You remember his hands most clearly. Scarred, broad, heavy hands, always gentler than they looked. A strange thought comes to you then. That you should have stayed. Turned down his offer. Or perhaps that you couldn't have, even if you wanted to. That the world had already been moving under your feet long before you understood it. Highrock, the Reach, this mud, this blood, all of it perhaps only the long end of something that began the first day an old cobbler looked at a child who wasn't his and made room anyway. For a moment, your chest hurts. You think of High Magister Thorne's words in the courtyard that day. //You may leave.// //You may die.// //Or you may ascend.// You think, vaguely, that you should keep your eyes open. That if you close them now, one of those things in the brush might come for you. That you ought to remain awake, ought to witness the end properly, ought to meet it like a man and not like some wounded animal, scared and dying, laid out in the roots. But the thought has no real force behind it. It arrives weakly and passes. You're tired. Not only from the march, or the fighting, or the pain. Tired in some older place than that. Tired the way children get tired after crying too long, when the world has gone soft and dim around them and there is nothing left to do but sleep. You think of your room back home in the hovel. Small, dim, a perfect home for the warm, dim thought of rest. Maybe, you think, you'll close your eyes for a little while. Just long enough for the pain to lessen. Just long enough to gather yourself. Just long enough to sleep. Your lashes lower. The moans nearby sound farther away now. The brush, the Orks, the smell of blood and opened bodies, all of it recedes as if the forest itself has taken a step back from you. You breathe in once, shallow and trembling, then out. Again, but with less of yourself in it, your body loosening. And in the last dim shape of your thought, before even memory slips its hold, you have the odd and childlike certainty that if you sleep now, when you wake it will be to warmth. To a new day, like every day before it, bright and new and golden, perhaps even to leather and glue, the familiar comfort of Fredrick's shop and the sound of his hands at work. So you let yourself believe it. You close your eyes. And at last, you rest. [[Sleep now.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_death_ending]]

There are more patrols. More probes. More stretches of dull waiting so prolonged they begin to feel like the real work, until violence rips through them and reminds you what the waiting was for. You bury some men. You burn others when burial is impractical. You learn which prisoners can be trusted to hold a flank, which must be watched, which become brave only when terror pins them in place and strips them of every other option. A few begin to obey you properly. Not out of respect at first, but because enough of them were there on the day the first breach opened and closed again, and whatever else they think of you, they know now that you don't freeze and let them die. Weeks pass in that hard fashion. Your line improves, then frays, then improves again. Replacements come thinly and never in the right number. Wounds crust over. Others replace them. The prisoners stop testing you so openly. Some because they've decided you know what you're doing. Others because they're dead. Names that seemed temporary at first acquire weight through repetition; then vanish just as quickly when the men carrying them are cut down in brush, dragged off screaming, or found later opened from groin to throat in some fern-choked depression beyond the line. Sleep remains poor, but you grow used to it. Your body hardens in unfamiliar ways. Leaner, more efficient, always tired. The Reach pares away the softer parts of you by simple repetition. The Academy feels impossibly distant now, as if Highrock belonged not to your life but to some story you were once told and half believed. Even Cradle begins to shift in memory. The city is still there, you know it is, but it no longer feels central. Undertown, the Highway, the cold marble heights of the First Quarter, all of it recedes behind the daily facts of this place. Trail markers, rotting posts, wet bark. The smell that comes before contact, and the silence of the forest. The number of men who left the outpost with you in the morning, and the number who return by dusk. Your body and mind learn this world of roots, signals, instinct. You begin to understand why the old centurion looked the way he did. Why the Tribune spoke as though attrition were weather. Why relief had sounded so close to shame. Survival here is the only victory. [[More than once you think of the Harrowing.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_survival2]]

Not romantically, nor with regret sharpened into fantasy, but only as one shape among others that your life might've taken. Somewhere below Highrock, another kind of testing had once awaited you. You turned aside from it. You had chosen a narrower road, a plainer service, a life that seemed at least a little less touched by the monstrous. Instead, the world only moved the trial elsewhere. It gave you trees instead of stone, mud instead of chains. Black Orks instead of whispered bells and unknown power in the dark. It gave you this. One morning, not so different from the morning of your first patrol and yet different in every way that matters, you stand again at the outpost gate with the line drawn up before you. Not the same line, there's too many to pretend that. But there's enough of them, all stubborn life and hardened limb. The men shift under their kit. One spits into the dirt, while another adjusts his shield strap. A third glances toward the trees with the dull resignation of someone who's made peace with nothing and merely learned to continue on. Beyond the palisade the Reach waits, green and shut-in and old, withholding nothing except mercy. The gate creaks open. Murky warm, wet air comes in carrying the smell of leafmold, bark, and the long patient hunger of the forest. No speech rises to mark the moment. There's only the trail, the line, the work, and the fact that morning has come again and found you still among the living. A phrase returns to you then, not as prophecy now, only as a wicked little, almost nostalic memory of High Magister Thorne. //You may leave.// //You may die.// //Or you may ascend.// You left. You didn't die, not yet. And the third thing never came. ''"Forward,"'' you bark, and your men move. The trees open to take you in once more. [[You lead the way.|harrowing_prologue_refusal_survival_ending]]

<center><a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText" target="_blank"><img src="images/chp3_dungeon_end.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></a> You've discovered one of several alternative endings. ''Orphan: Chapter 3.6'' extends further for the Gladiator Route. It couldn't exist without the faith of my Patrons. Did you enjoy this playthrough? Then try another route, too. More content will arrive in the next update. ''Thank you for reading!'' In ancient Rome, a *patronus* was an individual of wealth and influence who supported their *cliens* and in return: loyalty, action, and glory flowed upward. Patronage wasn’t charity. It was a bond. A pact. We’re entering a new age where this ancient truth matters again. If you believe in ''Orphan''; player-driven storytelling, dangerous choices, and tales of Men who defy the impossible, then cast your vote. Support me. The world needs more anabolic tales and High Thumos adventures. We still need stories that sharpen the will and stir the blood. Your support fuels this work: not slop, but something worthy of your name and memory. Together, we can soak in the glory of Dosmera. I'll do my best to make the journey worthwhile. In December, we successfully published two major chapters: ''Chapter 3.31 — First Contact (Dec 13, 2025)'' 🩸 +60k new words • 🖼️ 14 new images • 🗺️ Interactive Ludus Map ⚔️ Spar the Champion • 🖤 Tanae “Raven” Balcony Scene (Uncut+) ''Chapter 3.32 — The Price of Freedom (Dec 31, 2025)'' 🗝️ +50k new words • 🎭 10+ new images • 🔀 Alternative Endings 🗡️ Action-packed escape attempts (multiple routes, multiple outcomes) ⛓️ Consequences: capture, dungeon, death & escape variations ''Like what you've seen? Then lend me your support!'' <center><<link "Enter the Credits →" "credits">><</link>></center>

In the long dark hours after the dorm had gone quiet and the breathing of your roommates had settled into sleep, you lay awake thinking about it, not for the first time. It's small. Red glass, veined like wine left to clot, light enough that you often forget it's there until the warmth reminds you. It's not always warm, only periodically so, the persistent heat of something being attended to by something beyond your understanding. You gave up questioning it sometime in your first month at Highrock. You filed it alongside the other things you understand the function of without understanding the mechanism, that list having grown considerably since you left the Third. But the Harrowing is different from Highrock. Going down means going somewhere sealed, beyond outside reach. You don't know what that means exactly for the bead. It's your only potential connection to the wizard Mearesdes, even if the exact machinations are beyond your understanding. It's the first time you've felt truly concerned to have it on your person. Would it carry any significance at all beneath the eye of a proctor or a Highrock instructor? What you do know is this... You had the whole dark night to decide, the particular quality of your own nature for risk, and whether this was one such worthwhile opportunity. <<if $intro_lie or $intro_tome or $dominant is "bastard">> What did you decide? [[You brought it with you.|harrowing_prologue_bead_yes]] [[You left it on the shelf.|harrowing_prologue_bead_no]] <<else>> Alas, you decided not to jeopardize everything. It's sitting on the shelf above your bunk right now. You set it there in the dark without much ceremony, felt the subtle, pulsing warmth leave your palm, and lay back staring at the ceiling until morning came for you. The Harrowing is yours. Whatever it asks of you, you'll answer it of your own accord without anything watching over your shoulder that you didn't invite. <<set $bead_concealed = false>> [[Wait with the others.|harrowing_prologue_descent]] <</if>>

<center><img src="images/chp3_harrowing_prologue_descent.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center>The first stretch slopes downward almost at once. Stone steps, shallow and worn, their middles hollowed by the passage of too many feet over too many years. The air changes quickly. The faint breath of the upper world is gone, the cold here already deeper, drier, older, as though rising from the stone itself. The light is poor. Whispering lamps hang at far, sparse intervals ahead, each one leaving more shadow than it cures. Their glow catches on the rougher grain of the tunnel stone, and for the first time since coming to Highrock you feel, not merely that you're beneath it, but that you're entering something that existed before the Academy itself. The line winds lower, steeper, deeper into the buried rock. Your feet rub across rough, cold stone. Cloth shifts, the coarse wool rubbing against your most sensitive areas. Somewhere ahead, someone stumbles and corrects themselves before the sound can become anything worth noticing. For a moment, as the passage bends, you hear it. Faintly. So faintly you almost think you imagined it. Something from above. A distant bell in a different register. Footsteps perhaps. The muffled continuation of ordinary life, high overhead and already impossibly far away. Then the tunnel turns again and even that is gone. [[Go on.|harrowing_prologue_descent2]]

The descent doesn't continue in one clean line. The tunnel broadens, narrows, forks, opening briefly into small junctions where other passages join it, then bending again before the eye can make sense of the whole. The line of candidates stretches and compresses with each turn. A body glimpsed ahead is lost. Another appears closer than you imagined. The lamps come at irregular intervals now, and in the spaces between them the dark feels oppressive. You keep moving. At one bend you catch what might be Hugo's shape farther ahead, broad in the shoulders even in this low light, then lose him when the line turns. A little later you think you see Gerwin's profile, quick and intent, glancing once into a side passage before the stone takes him too. Candidates begin to disappear, peeled away in silence. Not all at once. Quietly. A proctor's hand at an elbow, a murmur too low to carry. Two figures turned down one corridor, then another pair taken at the next branching. No explanation is given, and none is asked for. The line gradually thins, no longer a unified, bodied column so much as a sequence of fragments, brief silhouettes ahead of you, and the suggestion of movement deeper on. You hadn't meant to fall behind, but it happens by degrees. A glance held too long into one black opening. A turn taken a half-breath slower than the others. A narrowing passage that forces the file thinner than it had been before. By the time you understand what is happening, the group you had been following has already become smaller, quieter, farther away. Now the proctor in front of you is only a dark shape in the murk. Another student behind him, little more than a moving blur in the weak yellow-hazed light. You lengthen your stride as the tunnel bends sharply. By the time you round it, the space ahead has opened into a fork. For one clean, dreadful instant, your whole body goes cold. The shape ahead has already disappeared. Left or right? [[Left.|harrowing_prologue_descent_turn1]] [[Right.|harrowing_prologue_descent_turn1]]

You turn too quickly, bare feet whispering over stone, breath shallow as you strain to hear any potential sounds or movement up ahead, one hand half-raised as if balance might matter more than panic. The passage narrows at once, the air growing colder. The light worsens and you swear that the floor starts to dip. Somewhere ahead you hear the faint scuff of steps, or think you do, but the sound does not tell you enough. Then the tunnel forks again. <<sfx "runningbreath" 0.7>> Left or right? [[Left.|harrowing_prologue_descent_turn2]] [[Right.|harrowing_prologue_descent_turn2]]

You turn and keep going. The passage narrows almost at once. In places your shoulders come close enough to the wall that your arms rub, the lamplight behind you already thinned to a weak blur. The one ahead is no better, casting the seemingly vast space between them into a long, cold darkness. Your breath sounds wrong down here. Too loud, too near, as though your senses are distorted, the tunnel taking it from your mouth and giving it back to your ears smaller, meaner, no longer fully your own. You listen for footsteps, and you think you hear them. A faint disturbance ahead or the proctor's footpads, wool brushing stone, the low shifting murmur of bodies moving where you can't fully see them. Then the sound breaks apart and becomes only echo, even as you press onward. The floor slopes lower. Your hand finds the wall without meaning to, slick in one spot and then rough in the next. Then, abruptly, the tunnel parts again. Left or right? [[Left.|harrowing_prologue_descent_turn3]] [[Right.|harrowing_prologue_descent_turn3]]

You choose and go, picking up the pace. There's no longer any means or method to your decision-making. The passage bends, straightens, then seems to drop. The lamp ahead vanishes, only reappearing moments later as a smear of yellow somewhere farther on. Your steps quicken, your feet already starting to be rubbed raw on the stone below. You hate this, how easily your wits are already disappearing down here in the dark. For one moment the tunnel runs straight enough for your eye to carry. Movement. Far ahead, or not so far. One shape, then another, the faint flutter of what might be a robe or the edge of a wooled shoulder. A human outline against sedentary rock and the cool, shifting dark. Relief rises in you too quickly to trust, so you dash onward, running now. The passage hooks sharply one last time. [[Then, suddenly, the distance is gone.|harrowing_prologue_descent_turn4]]

The proctor's walking directly in front of you, another dark shape, a student, trailing behind him, barely four paces ahead of you as you turn the corner. At the far end of the passage beyond, there's more movement, other bodies, another group of candidates and a proctor moving in orderly fashion, disappearing into the deeper dark beyond. But the proctor just ahead of you stops, lifting a hand; not enough to touch you, but enough to redirect you and the other student towards a dark opening in the wall. ''"Don't leave on your own,"'' He says, voice low, the faint annoyance in it quieter still, a thin and practiced thing that he seems tired of delivering, ''"You will be summoned."'' The other student's already disappearing into the opening, the dark still a heavy shroud over your vision. Still, you detect the slight turn of the proctor's wrist, impatiently waiting for you to follow into the opening. [[You enter.|harrowing_prologue_cell]]

<center><img src="images/chp3_harrowing_prologue_lyco.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center>You step through the doorway. <<bgmstop>> The stillness is abrupt. Going from the breathless dark and bleary motion of the tunnels, convinced that you were lost, doomed to continually glimpse figures shifting in the shadow ahead, to... this. A room, dimly lit by a funnel of morning light from above, The sound of your own breathing returning you, And... Lyco. He's already inside, shifting a look back towards you. For a moment he is only a pale suggestion in the dimness, hair catching the light before the rest of him does. Then your eyes settle fully and there he is, still as ever, watching with that same contained, unreadable attention that immediately reminds you of your first meeting high above Highrock in your dorm on the 13th floor. Weeks have passed since then, and so has the context of your meeting. Yet, the situation between you two still feels as complicated as ever before. <<timed 3s>> <<sfx "door-close" 0.7>> <<bgm "lonely-darkness" 0.6 3>> <</timed>> Of course it'd be him. [[The door shuts behind you.|harrowing_prologue_cell1]]

So this is it. For a moment, neither of you speaks. <<if $chp2_victory is true>> <<set $lyco_stance = "victory">> Lyco looks at you for a moment longer than he needs to. There's no surprise in it, nor resentment. At least, none that he lets you see. Only recognition, clean and quiet, like a mark made in ink. He's already seen what you can do when you get pressure applied. That knowledge sits between you before either of you speaks. <<elseif $chp2_evenmatch is true>> <<set $lyco_stance = "evenmatch">> Lyco's eyes settle on you, and something old from that first night returns with them. Not exactly hostility, but far from friendship too. A reluctant, practical truce made after your initial disagreement led to blows. You found yourselves evently matched and put into a stalement. Despite sharing a dormroom, and a Nightwatch, the two of you have been able to keep enough distance to more or less pretend that nothing ever happened. Now the two of you are here, and the room is too small to pretend. Yet, maybe your familiarity will prove to be an advantage. <<elseif $chp2_understanding is true>> <<set $lyco_stance = "understanding">> Of all the faces they could have put in this room, he's not the worst. That thought comes before comfort can. You and Lyco found something like an understanding on that first night, thin but real, the kind made by two people deciding not to become enemies when the world gave them an easy excuse to. Still, you're not exactly friends, even if you've shared a dorm and a Nightwatch. But maybe he's someone you'll come to value, given what you're both about to undergo together.... <<elseif $chp2_blackeye is true and $chp2_fight_dmg gt 0>> <<set $lyco_stance = "lost">> The sight of him brings back the first night with a bodily clarity you dislike. That unexpected blow, and the answer you gave. The brief, ugly struggle after, when pride carried you farther than advantage did. You fought him, and for all that it mattered, he was still the one standing over the moment when it ended. Lyco hasn't been the type to hold that night over you, but that doesn't make the memory any better. You've managed to tolerate each other since that night, but you can't help but wonder whether what follows will bring you closer together, or pit you against one another for the last time... <<elseif $chp2_blackeye is true>> <<set $lyco_stance = "blackeye">> For a moment, your face remembers him before the rest of you does. The old ache is gone now, the bruise faded, but the fact of it remains. Lyco hit you once, clean and sudden, and whatever else passed between you afterward, that was the shape your first night took. If he remembers, he gives you no sign. You've managed to tolerate each other since that night, but you can't help but wonder whether what follows will bring you closer together, or pit you against one another for the last time... <<else>> <<set $lyco_stance = "neutral">> You know him, but you couldn't consider him a friend or ally. That may be worse. Lyco has been a shape in the same rooms as you, a voice at meals, a body moving through the same year of discipline and exhaustion. Near enough to be familiar, but not near enough to make this easy. You wonder whether what follows will force you to confront this disparity. Will it bring you closer together as allies... or pit you against one another? <</if>> You both remain silent, recognizing that you're here now... in a cell, in the long dark beneath Highrock. It's the first true chamber of whatever this place means to make of you. You examine the room. Two flat slabs sit against opposite walls, little more than stone shelves with thin bedding strewn over them. A shallow channel runs along the floor near the door, dry for now, darkened by old use, with a chamberpot sat in the corner beside it. High above, a shaft in the cell admits a funnel of pale morning light, though it's already weakened by the time it reaches you, falling in a colorless strip across the floor. You realize that someone has occupied this room before you. Many someones, most likely. You notice marks... Small scratches near the edge of one cot. A few shallow lines carved into the stone. Tally marks, or letters. Your thoughts are too full to settle cleanly on any one thing. They turn back toward the antechamber, toward the rough wool against your skin, toward the things left behind in the troughs, toward the boy that you'll be sharing this cell with. [[Across the room, he moves.|harrowing_prologue_cell2]]

Half-obscured by shadow and covered by a thin film of dust, a small stone shelf sits built into the wall itself. A single tome lay there atop it, the book's brim barely visible at first, not especially thick or eye-catching. Lyco carefully slides it free, turning the dusty leather-bound thing over in his hands before slowly flipping the cover aside. He's silent for a while, standing there reading through it, back half-turned to you. After a while of standing, searching, pacing, you eventually yourself onto the edge of the stone slab on the left side of the room. It's just as hard as it looks, sparse bedding aside, but it's not terribly different from what you were used to back home. That's one advantage that you have on the Highrock kids. You're used to sleeping against stone, in a tiny, dim-lit room, far, far below the sections of the city that they call home. You're from the dark depths that their parents always warned them of. There's always somewhere darker and more deadly, isn't there? The thought's almost enough to make you smile. You're far from comfortable here, and you still only have a vague idea of what you've gotten yourself into. Trials and tribulations, sure, but the very nature of them seems... nebulous. Something beyond your understanding, Like when you first encountered Mearesdes in his lair, Led there by a force that you still haven't reckoned with. [[Finally, Lyco settles down, too.|HarrowingInit]]

Candidates are moved or summoned into a first instruction/assembly space. Vael or a proctor introduces meditation as discipline, not comfort. First social contact with Hugo/Gerwin/Tarn in Harrowing context. Return to the cell with Meditate unlocked. Tarn should be present but not overtly villainous. He notices weakness. That is enough. Image Priorities: First Harrowing instruction chamber. bell 1 [[continue|HarrowingHub]] <<set $harrowing_unlock_meditate to true>>

The knock wakes you. <<sfx "door-knock-deep" 0.4>> <<bgmstop>> Three hard strikes against the door. <<timed 5s>><<sfx "heavy-door-open" 0.5>><</timed>> For a moment, you don't know where you are. The body reaches for older mornings first. The little room in Fredrick's shop. The dull ache of work waiting. The smell of leather, oil, dust, old thread. Then the stone returns. The cell, the rough wool, the cold slab. Lyco's already sitting upright across from you, pale-eyed in the gray half-light, as though sleep released him before it released you. Or as though he never really gave himself to it in the first place. The door swings open, and you sit up, heart moving faster than your body. A proctor stands in the corridor outside, dark-robed and narrow in the dim light, his expression carrying none of the weight of what this moment means to you. Behind him, the passage waits in long, cold silence. ''"Up. Follow."'' And then he turns and disappears past your doorway before you can even stand. [[Get up.|harrowing_teaser]]

<center>This concludes the current installment of ''Orphan: Chapter 3.6'' for the Academy Route. More content will arrive in the next update. Thank you for reading! <img src="images/supportorphan.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"> ''Orphan'' couldn't exist without the faith of my Patrons. In ancient Rome, a *patronus* was an individual of wealth and influence who supported their *cliens* and in return: loyalty, action, and glory flowed upward. Patronage wasn't charity. It was a bond. A pact. We're entering a new age where this ancient truth matters again. If you believe in ''Orphan''; player-driven storytelling, dangerous choices, and tales of Men who defy the impossible, then cast your vote. Support me. The world needs more anabolic tales and High Thumos adventures. We still need stories that sharpen the will and stir the blood. Your support fuels this work: not slop, but something worthy of your name and memory. Together, we can soak in the glory of Dosmera. I'll do my best to make the journey worthwhile. And know this — what you've played isn't the whole of it. You've seen the doors that didn't open. The ''Uncut Edition'' restores them — every adult scene, every intimate moment certain paths lead into, every encounter that ''Orphan'' was written to deliver in full. Plus a handful of customization options to shape the MC into your own. This is ''Orphan'' as it was meant to be experienced. If Cradle has its hooks in you, the rest of it is waiting. <div class="uncut-cta"><a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText?utm_source=orphan_ingame&utm_medium=cta&utm_campaign=chapter_35_free&utm_content=uncut_button" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Unlock the Uncut Edition</a></div> //And for those who would walk deeper into the work...// //A quieter door stands open beyond it.// These wait for those who join the ''Kültist'' tier — the inner circle. <img src="images/cheat_preview.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"> //A hidden Cheat Menu. Every stat, every archetype, every path you didn't take — laid open.// <img src="images/vv_pitch.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"> //''Velvet Visions'' — lewd image packs that drop monthly. Visions that don't belong in the main story.// <nobr> <div class="kultist-cta"><a href="https://www.patreon.com/posts/kultist-w-cheat-158092704?utm_source=orphan_ingame&utm_medium=cta&utm_campaign=chapter_35_free&utm_content=kultist_button" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Join the Inner Circle</a></div> </nobr> ''Thank you for keeping Orphan alive.'' 🩸 ''Onward.'' <<bgm "elgothic" 0.6 3>> <<sfx "dreamy-laugh" 0.5>> [[Enter the Credits. |credits]]</center> <<script>>$("body").append('<div id="fadeBlack"></div>'); $("#fadeBlack").css({ position: "fixed", top: 0, left: 0, width: "100%", height: "100%", background: "black", opacity: 1, "z-index": 9999, cursor: "pointer" // optional: makes skip feel intuitive }); // allow skip by double-clicking anywhere on the overlay $("#fadeBlack").on("dblclick", function() { $(this).stop(true, true).fadeOut(300, function() { $(this).remove(); }); }); // hold black, then fade out slowly setTimeout(() => { $("#fadeBlack").animate( { opacity: 0 }, { duration: 2500, // fade duration easing: "swing", complete: function() { $(this).remove(); } } ); }, 1500); <</script>>

<center>This concludes the current installment of ''Orphan: Chapter 3.6'' for the Gladiator Route. More content will arrive in the next update. Thank you for reading! <img src="images/supportorphan.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"> ''Orphan'' couldn't exist without the faith of my Patrons. In ancient Rome, a *patronus* was an individual of wealth and influence who supported their *cliens* and in return: loyalty, action, and glory flowed upward. Patronage wasn't charity. It was a bond. A pact. We're entering a new age where this ancient truth matters again. If you believe in ''Orphan''; player-driven storytelling, dangerous choices, and tales of Men who defy the impossible, then cast your vote. Support me. The world needs more anabolic tales and High Thumos adventures. We still need stories that sharpen the will and stir the blood. Your support fuels this work: not slop, but something worthy of your name and memory. Together, we can soak in the glory of Dosmera. I'll do my best to make the journey worthwhile. And know this — what you've played isn't the whole of it. You've seen the doors that didn't open. The ''Uncut Edition'' restores them — every adult scene, every intimate moment certain paths lead into, every encounter that ''Orphan'' was written to deliver in full. Plus a handful of customization options to shape the MC into your own. This is ''Orphan'' as it was meant to be experienced. If Cradle has its hooks in you, the rest of it is waiting. <div class="uncut-cta"><a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText?utm_source=orphan_ingame&utm_medium=cta&utm_campaign=chapter_35_free&utm_content=uncut_button" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Unlock the Uncut Edition</a></div> //And for those who would walk deeper into the work...// //A quieter door stands open beyond it.// These wait for those who join the ''Kültist'' tier — the inner circle. <img src="images/cheat_preview.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"> //A hidden Cheat Menu. Every stat, every archetype, every path you didn't take — laid open.// <img src="images/vv_pitch.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"> //''Velvet Visions'' — lewd image packs that drop monthly. Visions that don't belong in the main story.// <nobr> <div class="kultist-cta"><a href="https://www.patreon.com/posts/kultist-w-cheat-158092704?utm_source=orphan_ingame&utm_medium=cta&utm_campaign=chapter_35_free&utm_content=kultist_button" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Join the Inner Circle</a></div> </nobr> ''Thank you for keeping Orphan alive.'' 🩸 ''Onward.'' <<bgm "elgothic" 0.6 3>> <<sfx "dreamy-laugh" 0.5>> [[Enter the Credits →|credits]]</center> <<script>>$("body").append('<div id="fadeBlack"></div>'); $("#fadeBlack").css({ position: "fixed", top: 0, left: 0, width: "100%", height: "100%", background: "black", opacity: 1, "z-index": 9999, cursor: "pointer" // optional: makes skip feel intuitive }); // allow skip by double-clicking anywhere on the overlay $("#fadeBlack").on("dblclick", function() { $(this).stop(true, true).fadeOut(300, function() { $(this).remove(); }); }); // hold black, then fade out slowly setTimeout(() => { $("#fadeBlack").animate( { opacity: 0 }, { duration: 2500, // fade duration easing: "swing", complete: function() { $(this).remove(); } } ); }, 1500); <</script>>

<center><p class="vp-gate-title">Awakened in the Uncut Edition</p> The dream moves. You only see it still. This vision of Dosmera's daughters plays in full animated motion in the Uncut and Kültist editions. The free edition holds the entire story, but the full heat belongs to those who keep the fire lit. <a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText?utm_source=game&utm_medium=videogate&utm_campaign=dosmera_dream" class="vp-gate-cta" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Unlock the Uncut Edition</a></center>

<center>//''MIGHT''// : strength, power, virility A reflection of your ability to exercise physical force upon friend or foe, as well as your ability to withstand external damage that may be inflicted unto you. Some weapons require a certain level of Might to wield effectively. Without a weapon, you may need to rely upon your raw brawn to survive another day.</center>

<center>//''MOBILITY''// : speed, finesse, subtlety A reflection of your overall athleticism, or how fast and nimble you move. How cleanly do you slip a blade between ribs, or a body through shadow? It's the surety of foot on wet stone and the quiet breath for a leap, as well as your skill & dexterity with weapons, from small-blades to ranged armaments such as slings, shurikens, bows.</center>

<center>//''MIND''// : mental acuity, force of will, intuition A reflection of your mind's ability to focus, understand, manipulate. In such an unforgiving ecosystem, wit can be a weapon sharper than steel. The sense that notices what others miss, and the spirit that does not bend when something unseen whispers in the dark; whether malicious mindworms, parasitic psionicists, or even darker forces from beyond the void.</center>

image: chp3_btd_upper

chp3_btd_lower

<<paMapInit>>\ <<if $pa_map.finished>>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_exit">>\ <<else>>\ <<mapstage "images/chp2_privateaudience_middle.webp" "House Varro banquet: the marble audience court" pinsize 7 nopulse>> <<pin "chp2_privateaudience_livia" 58 22 "Livia and her courtiers" "images/pa_icon_livia.png" visited $pa_map.livia spent $pa_map.livia spentlabel "Livia — complete">> <<pin "chp2_privateaudience_door" 21 34 "Investigate the exit" "images/pa_icon_door.png" visited $pa_map.door spent $pa_map.door spentlabel "Door — complete">> <<if $pa_map.livia is true>> <<pin "chp2_privateaudience_suyen" 51 39 "The richly tanned courtier seems to have a task for you" "images/pa_icon_suyen.png" visited $pa_map.suyen spent $pa_map.suyen spentlabel "Suyen — complete">> <</if>> <<pin "chp2_privateaudience_alesia" 77 78 "Alesia and her detractors" "images/pa_icon_alesia.png" visited $pa_map.alesia spent $pa_map.alesia spentlabel "Alesia — complete">> <<if setup.paMap.count() >= 5>> <<pin "chp2_privateaudience_novia" 37 30 "An alcove that you hadn't noticed before calls to you..." "images/pa_icon_novia.png" visited $pa_map.novia spent $pa_map.novia spentlabel "Novia — complete">> <</if>> <<paMapUI "middle">> <</mapstage>>\ <</if>>\

<<if $chp2_slave_escort_choice is "cowboy">> \ The idea of a life spent at work doesn't sound terrible to you. You'd rather avoid death for as long as you can, having not quite come to terms with your own mortality. Or maybe you have, in your own little way, but you'd rather see more of the world and take it all in before shedding your mortal coil. Death comes for us all, does it not? People may speak your name after a grand death in the arena, but even that seems unlikely. So many people die, and as the days go by, memories fade, folks go on living their lives. Your bones would be stacked down into the catacombs with so many countless others, soaked in sweat and steeped in steam. It's not that complex or difficult to grasp, you reason, the desire to live your life in security, peace, comfort. Even something as grueling as service on a labor crew could have a sort of... simple satisfaction to it. Something about finishing a long, hard day's work; you've experienced that many a week while apprenticing for Fredrick. Hell, being a cobbler was never going to be a glamorous life, But you had accepted that it might have been your path forward. It wasn't a terrible life. Working in the fields wouldn't be either. Besides, you've always wanted to see outside the walls of Cradle. All you've ever known is life in the city; a dark, dreary and often cramped existence. It may not be easier elsewhere, like Fredrick told you, but it could certainly be... different. And different can be good. Different can be preferable, even. //Preferable to death.// [[But you don't have a choice. Where are they taking you?|chp2_slave_escort4]] \ <<elseif $chp2_slave_escort_choice is "bastard">> \ You don't have any problem with the concept of being used for your body. No, none at all. Gant was definitely onto something. Come ride the cock carousel, ladies. Any noble heiress or merchant woman from this side of the crater can get a piece of your peen. You're not opposed to hard labor if that labor involves hammering your hips down into something soft, squeezing, satisfying. Hell, even death doesn't seem so terrible when combined with the act of rutting; fucking beautiful babes until your raging heart gives out, or your balls are utterly emptied. What's the purpose of life but to enjoy the most immediate pleasures? Good food, free-flowing drinks and copious amounts of sex, that's what you yearn for, especially with this sack over your head. You can't help but wonder how many men truly exist as pleasure slaves in Cradle. You know they exist, and you know that when it comes to looks and that piece of meat between your legs, you could compete with the very best. Maybe your chances aren't so slim after all, the more that you think about it. Rub the right shoulders and make the right moves, $name, and maybe you have a shot at an enjoyable life in what seems to you to otherwise be a rather miserable hellscape. Play to your strengths and perhaps, possibly enough, you can avoid an untimely death or a life of grueling labor. All you need is the right chance, and Highlord knows, you're certainly looking for it. Give me a fucking chance, you think, and I'll take it. [[But where the hell are they taking you?|chp2_slave_escort4]] \ <<elseif $chp2_slave_escort_choice is "knight">> \ You realized early on in life that nothing comes free, and nothing worthwhile is easy. Everything is part of a greater struggle, a grand competition in which every living soul, every human being, is unconsciously engaged whether they realize it or not. You strive to not merely wander through life, but to be active, to compete. To roll the dice, exercise your will upon the world and seize the prizes offered to only those who are worthy, aware, or simply lucky enough to obtain them. It's not fair, you know that, and it's a relief not having to pretend otherwise. How are you supposed to help others or change the world without any power of your own? In the arena, you're unlikely to change anything at all, outside of your own fate. But isn't that how it's always been? Everyone tries to avoid danger, to make money through work, labor, business and other underhanded means. They think wealth will change their life, that education and status will pave the way to something greater. But any man ought to realize that with a will, there is a way, and that violence has always offered opportunity to the victor. If slavery is one potential fate, then let us face it with courage, honor, discipline. Let your own actions speak volumes. Let me determine my own fate in the arena, you reason, and I'll show the world my worth or die trying. You gave them a small taste of what you're capable of yesterday and you're prepared to do it all over again. Your heart beats solidly in your chest, and the fear that lingered within you has dissipated. It's a new day, and it's yours for the taking. [[But where are they taking you?|chp2_slave_escort4]] \ <</if>>

''"Straight. Keep going."'' Your boots scrape against stone, adjusting to the pattern of movement at first. One guard walks somewhere behind you, the other staying close, taking you by the arm as you walk. Behind, the cell door groans shut and the lock catches. Without sight, every little sound acquires shape. The click of your manacles, three steps of footsteps with different weight, water dripping somewhere far away along the stone, muffled coughs and distant voices. You're starting to know these corridors. Maybe not the route, but the place: the catacombs beneath and about the arena, with their long passages and countless myriad of cells carved into old stone and shattered bones. How many are occupied, you couldn't say. Dozens, maybe hundreds. You wonder how many of the people behind those doors stood beside you yesterday. For a few furious minutes on the sands, circumstance made comrades of all of you. Men and women who didn't know one another's names fought shoulder to shoulder because the alternative was being eaten alive. Now the arena is over. Whatever brotherhood existed out there has been divided back into individual cells, constrictive chains and separate fates. Yesterday, you were all champions for just one moment in time. Today? Another fight, perhaps. An interrogation. Maybe a work gang. Or perhaps Khalika was right about the auction. For all you know, they could be marching you toward something worse than the day prior. Strangely, you're still glad to be moving. After hours locked inside that miserable cell, Even uncertainty feels a little like it's own kind of relief. <<if $dominant is "cowboy">>\ Whatever happens when the sack comes off, you'll deal with it then. There's no sense in fighting tomorrow before you've even reached it. You can breathe, you're alive, and you're going somewhere that isn't a locked cell. Hopefully. Could be worse. <<elseif $dominant is "bastard">>\ At least you're moving. Sitting in that cell waiting for somebody else to decide when your life starts again was beginning to crawl beneath your skin. You still don't know where these bastards are taking you, but you'd rather meet whatever they've got planned standing up than rot quietly behind a locked door. Let it come. <<elseif $dominant is "knight">>\ You're not sure whether to take the change as a good sign. Still, anything is better than lying alone in the dark, inventing answers you don't have. Your comrades are somewhere down here, too. You keep them in mind as you shuffle along, hoping that whatever comes, they get a fair shot. Whatever waits ahead, at least you have a chance to face it awake and on your feet. <<else>>\ There's no sense pretending you know what's coming. For now, being led somewhere feels preferable to being left behind to wonder. So you keep walking. <</if>> ''"Left."'' The hand at your arm steers you around the corner, the sound changing almost immediately. More footsteps, murmured conversation, the occasional scrape of something heavy being dragged across stone. You've entered a wider passage. One busy enough that your escorts draw you closer between them, And a dozen paces later, you notice something else. Your calves are beginning to tighten. Each step asks slightly more of you than the last. The ground is rising beneath your feet. [[You're moving... higher.|chp2_slave_escort2]]

''"Step forward, handsome."'' Her instruction draws some low, tittering laughter and eager whispers from the crowd. <<if $dominant is "bastard">> \ Every instinct tells you exactly what these people think you are: something dragged from a cell for their inspection. Fine. If they want to stare, let them stare. You step away from the others without waiting to be guided, shoulders loose, chin raised, meeting the redhead's crimson eyes with enough directness to make it clear that while they may've had you in chains, they haven't frightened the defiance out of you. <<elseif $dominant is "knight">> \ You dislike the laughter more than the attention itself, but showing resentment would accomplish little. Taking a measured breath, you step forward and straighten beneath their scrutiny, meeting the redhead's eyes without challenge or submission. Whatever judgment these people intend to make, they won't mistake captivity for cowardice. <<elseif $dominant is "cowboy">> \ There's probably no graceful way to be inspected by a room full of strangers, so you don't waste much effort searching for one. You step forward when asked, settle your weight comfortably beneath you and meet the redhead's gaze. They're going to look regardless. <<else>> \ Your heart pounds in your chest as you realize that her eyes are resting directly upon yours. Even if your instincts scream for you to run, to fight, you know that you have to play their game for the time being. Chin raised high, gaze leveled down to lock with hers, you draw forward a step and let the crowd soak in the sight of you. <</if>> \ <<if $char_height is "tall" && $char_build is "powerful_dense">> \ Standing apart from the line only makes your size more obvious. You're tall even amongst grown men, imposing even, your broad shoulders and strong, rippling musculature on full display under the flickering candlelight. Your thick chest, heavy arms and thighs look made for force, filling out the rough clothing they left you in. It's not often that you get to strut your stuff, not like this, bursting with vitality, virility. The reception earns a more immediate response than the laughter did. Conversations soften while Alesia's gaze travels over you without the slightest attempt at discretion, an appreciative curve slowly taking one corner of her mouth. Sibylla says nothing, her pale blue eyes calmly passing over you once before returning to your face. Livia takes considerably longer, reclining against the couch as though she has all evening to reach a conclusion. ''"Now that's an impressive piece of merchandise,"'' she finally observes, crimson gaze rising back to yours. ''"A beast of a man. But brute force alone can be as much a curse as a blessing. I wonder whether he wields it efficiently."'' The redhead's brilliant orbs sparkle with a mixture of mirth and admiration. Her gaze wavers between the sweep of your chiseled physique and your visage, masculine and trained upon her steadily still. ''"Strength like his could command armies... or unite those desperate and damned. We've seen that much, have we not?"'' She muses aloud, releasing a breathy sigh as she flicks a look aside at her auburn-haired companion. <<elseif $char_height is "short" && $char_build is "powerful_dense">> \ You don't tower over anyone. Quite the opposite, yet what your frame lacks in height seems determined to make up for everywhere else. You're compact and remarkably thick through the shoulders, chest and legs, muscle packed tightly onto a body with little wasted length. Looking at you, it's easy enough to imagine a great deal of force compressed into a small space. Alesia's eyebrows rise as she takes you in, visibly entertained by the proportions. ''"Dense little thing, aren't you? He might give a dwarf a run for their money in the pits."'' There's more appreciation than insult in the observation, her smile widening as she looks you over again. Sibylla offers nothing aloud, though you catch a brief downward flick of her eyes before she looks aside. Livia studies you more clinically, eyes tracing the breadth of your shoulders before settling upon your face. ''"Compact,"'' she decides, faint amusement touching her lips. ''"There're worse qualities in something bred for close quarters. Less reach, perhaps, but plenty of body behind him."'' <<elseif $char_build is "powerful_dense">> \ You're neither unusually tall nor noticeably short, but there's little ordinary about the amount of mass carried across your frame. Broad shoulders taper into a thick waist and powerful-looking legs, muscular arms bulging, your body clearly built more heavily than the vast majority of the slaves standing behind you. Alesia makes no effort to hide her approval. She looks you over with the easy familiarity of someone accustomed to judging bodies for sport, pleasure, or both. ''"That one looks expensive, especially after his performance yesterday."'' Livia gives a quiet laugh, ''"We shall discover whether the market agrees."'' Her inspection is slower than Alesia's, less openly hungry and somehow more invasive for it. Sibylla watches the exchange rather than joining it, her attention lingering primarily on the way you endure being discussed in front of you. <<elseif $char_height is "tall" && $char_build is "lean_athletic">> \ Your height catches the eye first, but the body beneath it is lean rather than massive. Long limbs, a narrow waist and defined muscle give you a balanced, athletic silhouette beneath the candlelight. More lightly built than some of the gladiators nearby, but considerably better shaped than the average laboring slave. Alesia tilts her head as she looks you over with a faintly approving curl of her lips. ''"Pretty proportions. Competent, competitive. I think I like him."'' ''"He does,"'' Livia agrees lazily, her gaze traveling the length of your frame and back again. ''"Long reach, light enough on his feet, if appearances tell the truth. Speed and distance are formidable advantages."'' She lets the thought hang for a moment. ''"Right until someone stronger manages to catch you."'' Sibylla's mouth threatens the faintest smile, but she offers no comment. <<elseif $char_build is "lean_athletic">> \ You aren't especially large, but standing apart from the others leaves the shape of your body plain enough: a narrow waist, defined shoulders and limbs carrying lean muscle without much excess bulk. Healthy, youthful and well conditioned, you look fit and capable without appearing particularly imposing. Livia regards you with measured approval and utters a simple, ''"Pleasant."'' Alesia laughs softly, ''"Damning praise from you, Livia."'' ''"Hardly."'' The Duchess lets her gaze remain on you another moment. ''"But he looks competent, no? Fast. Not everything worthwhile needs to fill a doorway."'' Sibylla glances toward Alesia at that, seemingly more amused by the exchange than by your inspection. <<elseif $char_height is "tall">> \ Your height promises more mass than your body delivers. You're long through the limbs and narrow across the torso, with a wiry sort of definition showing beneath the rough cloth rather than the heavier muscle carried by some of the fighters behind you. Rangy is perhaps the kinder word for it, though many would just call you scrawny. Alesia's eyes climb the length of you before returning downward, her expression caught somewhere between curiosity and amusement. ''"Someone stretched this one."'' Sibylla gives her a cool sideways look. Nothing more, but Livia's smile deepens. ''"And yet he survived yesterday."'' Her attention returns to you. ''"Appearances are useful, Alesia. But the truth of a man isn't always so simple."'' <<else>> \ At a glance, there's little about your physique that competes with some of the more imposing specimens gathered behind you. You're wiry and lightly built, without unusual height or the kind of sculpted mass that immediately draws a noble's eye. Standing alone beneath the candlelight makes that plain enough. The response is correspondingly restrained. Alesia gives you an appraising once-over, then raises one eyebrow as though waiting for something less obvious to reveal itself. Sibylla barely reacts at all, her attention remaining calmly upon your face. Livia, however, doesn't dismiss you. ''"Curious."'' She turns her cup slightly between her fingers. ''"Of all the bodies that entered those sands yesterday, this is the one that walked back out at the head of them. Perhaps there is more here than immediately meets the eye."'' <</if>> \ \ Whatever conclusion Livia has reached about the rest of you, Alesia's interest has already begun drifting somewhere considerably less subtle. She waits until the Duchess has finished before speaking, her dark eyes lowering with a slow, smoldering smile. ''"All very interesting, my love. But the only weapon I'm wondering whether he can wield effectively is the one hanging holstered between his thighs."'' Her gaze remains there for another deliberate moment. ''"Is a look too much to ask?"'' Livia lets out a lavish laugh, joined by a handful of spectators in the surrounding crowd. Murmurs of agreement rise among them, enough that for a moment you're not entirely certain whether the proposition is serious. The Duchess soon makes that plain. ''"Let him have his dignity and choose, my dear Alesia."'' She looks back to you, amusement still warming her expression. ''"What do you say, gladiator? Do you care to give us a show, or are there some secrets better left unseen?"'' [[Sure, give them a peek. (18+)|chp2_privateaudience1a_sure]] <<ci cowboy social adult>> [[If they want dick, it's dick they get. (18+)|chp2_privateaudience1a_fuckyeah]] <<ci bastard social adult>> [[I'd prefer not.|chp2_privateaudience1a_refuse]] <<ci knight social>>

<<paMapInit>>\ <<if $pa_map.finished>>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_exit">>\ <<else>>\ <<mapstage "images/chp2_privateaudience_left.webp" "Private Audience banquet: the curtained entertainment hall" pinsize 8 nopulse>> <<pin "chp2_privateaudience_sibylla" 50 70 "Sibylla stands deeper in the hall" "images/pa_icon_sibylla.png" visited $pa_map.sibylla spent $pa_map.sibylla spentlabel "Sibylla — complete">> <<pin "chp2_privateaudience_khalika" 10 20 "Khalika lingers near the curtains" "images/pa_icon_khalika.png" visited $pa_map.khalika spent $pa_map.khalika spentlabel "Khalika — complete">> <<pin "chp2_privateaudience_dancers" 80 25 "Dancers gather in the grand alcove" "images/pa_icon_dancers.png" visited $pa_map.dancers spent $pa_map.dancers spentlabel "Bellydancers — complete">> <<paMapUI "left">> <</mapstage>>\ <</if>>\

<<paMapInit>>\ <<if $pa_map.finished>>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_exit">>\ <<else>>\ <<mapstage "images/chp2_privateaudience_right.webp" "House Varro banquet: the lower hall beneath the colosseum" pinsize 8 nopulse>> <<pin "chp2_privateaudience_gant" 91 42 "Gant is stuffing his face" "images/pa_icon_gant.png" visited $pa_map.gant spent $pa_map.gant spentlabel "Gant — complete">> <<pin "chp2_privateaudience_stavrick" 52 62 "A gladiator's watching you..." "images/pa_icon_stavrick.png" visited $pa_map.stavrick spent $pa_map.stavrick spentlabel "Stavrick — complete">> <<pin "chp2_privateaudience_gambling" 23.5 33 "They're taking bets" "images/pa_icon_gambling.png" visited $pa_map.gambling spent $pa_map.gambling spentlabel "Gambling — complete">> <<paMapUI "right">> <</mapstage>>\ <</if>>\

You work your way deeper into the audience court without making your interest too obvious, drifting past knots of conversation and servants bearing half-emptied trays. The farther you move from the center of the banquet, the thinner the crowd becomes. Near the tall windows at the far side of the chamber, another passage opens through the pale stonework. It isn't grand enough to be a ceremonial entrance, nor discreet enough to be hidden; a broad arch leading into a cooler, dimmer corridor beyond. Servants pass through it with wine, linens and emptied platters. Occasionally, a few finely dressed guests disappear that way as well, returning minutes later or not at all. The guards are impossible to miss once you start looking for them. Two stand nearest the opening, positioned casually enough that they might almost be mistaken for decoration, while another pair linger farther along the wall with a clear view of the approach. None of them seem particularly tense. Their hands stay away from their weapons because everyone around them already seems to understand where they're permitted to go. You linger at a distance, watching long enough to satisfy your curiosity without giving anyone a reason to wonder why a slave has become so interested in the architecture. <<if $mind <= 0>> \ You watch servants come and go, but no useful pattern presents itself. Some are waved through without a word. Others slow long enough to exchange a few quiet words with the guards before continuing. Nobles barely seem to register at all. Maybe there's a system to it. Maybe the guards simply recognize the people who belong here. Either way, the important part is obvious enough: there are too many armed men between you and whatever waits beyond that arch, and no reason to think the corridors outside would be any kinder. <<elseif $mind is 1>> \ After a while, you begin to understand the filter and flow. House servants move with the confidence of people following familiar routes, and the guards recognize most of them on sight. Empty trays pass one way, fresh wine the other. The system isn't airtight, but getting through it would require more than simply waiting for someone to turn their head so that you could slip through. <<else>> \ The longer you watch, the clearer the mechanism becomes. A servant carrying wine and walking with purpose passes almost invisibly. Another pauses, hesitates over some instruction, and immediately draws a question. The guards know faces, clothing, duties, the rhythm of their own household. There are moments when several people pass at once and moments when attention momentarily splits. Those are openings in the narrowest sense. You could imagine getting across the threshold under the right circumstances. What you can't imagine is what comes afterward. You don't know where the corridor leads, how many turns separate this room from the street, where the other guards are posted, or what a man dressed like you is supposed to be doing once he gets there. Slipping past the first pair would only trade one kind of confinement in a space you don't yet understand. <</if>> \ \ <<if $pa_map.khalika>> \ Khalika was right. The route toward the windows is guarded, and whatever lies beyond it offers no opportunity that you could use cleanly tonight and hope to survive. Not yet. <</if>>\ \ For all the freedom you've been given to wander this evening, the boundaries are still there. They simply don't need iron bars to make themselves understood. The banquet lets you cross a room, speak when spoken to, even choose whose company to seek. But it's far from any true semblance of freedom. You let your attention drift elsewhere before one of the guards decides you've been staring too long, turning back toward the noise, heat and colored light of the audience. <<paMapReturn "door">>

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp2_privateaudience_gambling.webp"></center> The sound reaches you before the game itself does. Somewhere beyond the lower hall's mingling guests comes the hollow rattle of something hard inside a wooden cup, followed by the sharper clatter of bone against polished timber. A burst of laughter rises immediately afterward—not the restrained, carefully measured amusement you've heard from most of the nobility this morning, but something louder and considerably less dignified. Another cup rattles. Someone curses. A woman's voice replies with cool satisfaction, and the laughter starts all over again. Curiosity draws you toward it. The game has gathered around a low table near the edge of the hall, far enough from the audience's more dignified center that nobody seems especially concerned with appearances. Several chairs have been dragged together without much care for symmetry, accompanied by a small side-table crowded with wine, empty cups and a scattering of silver coins. Three ivory-colored bones rest beside an overturned throwing cup, their dark pips worn smooth at the edges from repeated use. What catches your attention more than the gambling itself is the company keeping it. A finely dressed nobleman occupies the largest chair as though he's spent the morning slowly conquering it. He sits crookedly beneath a coat of expensive dark cloth, one leg thrown over the other, a half-filled cup hanging lazily from two fingers. Metal flashes from one hand whenever he gestures. His clothes, his jewelry and the easy way servants replenish his wine all mark him as a man of considerable means, though nothing about his posture suggests he feels particularly burdened by the dignity of it. Across from him sits a woman whose wealth is no less evident, only more tightly reined. Her gown of deep plum and cream has been chosen with care, fitted cleanly through the torso and draped in rich folds that stop just short of ostentation. Pale jewelry circles her throat and hangs from her ears, each piece substantial without seeming decorative for decoration’s sake. A narrow purse rests beside her elbow, and the coins before her have already been arranged into neat little stacks by value, a subtle display of her prowess. She sits straight without looking stiff, one elbow resting lightly against the arm of her chair as she studies the table. Nothing about her suggests the nervous excitement of someone gambling beyond her means. If anything, she looks faintly bored. A broad-shouldered house retainer occupies another seat, dressed plainly beside the other two. His sword has been removed but the empty frog still hangs from his belt, and the weathered skin along his knuckles tells you he earned his place in House Varro's service with something other than bookkeeping. He keeps his wine well away from the dice. <<if $pa_map.gant>> \ The final seat has somehow been claimed by Gant. For a moment, you simply stare. When you last left him, he was still entrenched beside the buffet table, stuffing cured meat and frosted cake into his mouth while insisting that his gluttony constituted some form of reconnaissance. Evidently the operation has expanded. A plate piled with food now rests beside his elbow, and judging by the scattering of crumbs across the tabletop, he's been gambling without ever ending his feast. He notices you looking and immediately raises two fingers in greeting. ''"Mate."'' The retainer glances toward him. ''"You know him?"'' Gant swallows whatever he's chewing, gesturing toward you haphazardly with half a sausage link, ''"He saved my fuckin' life yesterday. Good man. Terrible luck, probably."'' ''"You haven't won a hand yet,"'' the woman across from him remarks without looking up. He pauses, burps, and then mutters: ''"Still gathering information."'' <<else>> \ The fourth player appears to be one of the household's senior servants, an older man in a simple but impeccably maintained tunic bearing House Varro's colors along the collar. The silver beginning to gather through his beard and the complete absence of nervousness in the company of his betters suggest that he's been serving this household long enough to know precisely which rules can occasionally be bent. He has a small pile of coins before him. Noticeably smaller than the woman's. The nobleman's pile seems to have disappeared entirely. <</if>> \ \ Another throw finishes as you approach. The cups lift almost together, revealing several pale bones scattered across the dark wood. ''"Twelve,"'' the retainer announces. The merchant woman studies the result, then lifts her own cup. ''"Thirteen."'' A low groan circles the table. She reaches forward without celebration, draws the wager toward herself and adds it carefully to one of her existing stacks. The nobleman looks delighted all the while. ''"Gods, you're unbearable when you're winning."'' ''"You say that as though you've seen me losing."'' ''"Once."'' ''"You were drunk."'' ''"I usually am. That doesn't make the memory invalid."'' His attention wanders away from her while he speaks, passing briefly over the room before settling upon you. The change in his expression is nearly immediate. ''"Oh, excellent."'' Several faces turn your way. The merchant follows their attention last, assessing you with a brief movement of her eyes from your face to the banquet clothes you've been given and back again. There's no recognition in the look, nor any particular awe at finding one of yesterday's arena victors standing beside the table. You might as easily be another opponent waiting to sit down. ''"The gladiator,"'' the nobleman continues, straightening slightly, ''"Come here."'' You glance once toward the surrounding hall. ''"Me?"'' ''"Unless they've brought in another enormous half-dressed slave while I wasn't looking."'' <<if $chp3_privateaudience_dik > 0>> \ The retainer chokes quietly into his cup, while the merchant's expression doesn't change. <</if>> \ The nobleman hooks a boot around the leg of an empty chair and drags it away from the table with an ugly scrape against the floor. ''"Come, sit. Stay a while, won't you?"'' The merchant looks toward him plainly. ''"Does he have money?"'' ''"Of course not."'' ''"Then he isn't gambling."'' The nobleman considers this objection for perhaps half a second before reaching into his coat. A silver coin appears between his fingers and skips once across the tabletop, spinning brightly before coming to rest in front of the vacant chair. ''"Now he is."'' The woman's gaze drops to the coin. ''"That was your money."'' ''"Not anymore."'' Something faint moves at the corner of her mouth. Not quite a smile, but close enough to tell you she has endured this man's reasoning before and often accommodates it. You step nearer. ''"I don't know the game."'' This earns more interest from her than your arrival did. ''"Three Bones?"'' You shake your head. The nobleman lifts his wine in her direction. ''"Wonderful. Teach him."'' ''"You invited him."'' ''"Yes, but you're so much better at explaining rules. I'm better at violating them."'' The retainer gives a quiet grunt that might be agreement. The merchant looks from the nobleman to you, then finally gestures toward the empty chair, ''"Watch one hand first."'' ''"After that, if you still want to sit down, you'll understand what you're losing."'' The nobleman laughs softly into his wine. ''"That's the spirit!"'' [[Watch the next hand.|chp2_privateaudience_gambling1]]

The music changes as you wander farther into the Entertainment Hall. The sharper strings and measured rhythms carrying through the main chamber soften beneath a deeper pulse of hand-drums, bells and something breathier like a reed instrument winding lazily between them. Following it leads you beyond one of the broad marble arches and into the grand alcove you noticed from across the room, where the banquet seems to loosen its collar and surrender whatever restraint it still pretended to possess. Heavy curtains of crimson, violet and burnt gold divide the alcove into loose pockets of privacy, their silken lengths gathered around carved pillars and allowed to spill across the floor. Low couches and heaps of embroidered cushions replace the rigid-backed chairs favored elsewhere, arranged around small tables crowded with wine, fruit and shallow brass dishes breathing sweet coils of incense into the air. Lanterns hang lower here, their warm light caught in strings of glass beads and polished ornaments suspended overhead, turning every movement beneath them into flashes of gold and color. Musicians sit cross-legged along one wall with drums braced between their knees, while painted acrobats stretch beside them between performances. A pair of silk-clad servants laugh quietly as they pour wine for a reclining noble couple; elsewhere, two performers with jeweled collars trade places before an appreciative knot of guests, one leaving the cushions flushed and breathless as another steps forward to take her place. Deeper within the alcove, a small crowd has gathered around an open space cleared between the cushions. Bare feet move across the rugs beyond the shoulders of the spectators, accompanied by the bright chatter of ankle-bells and the measured beat of the drums. Through shifting gaps in the crowd you catch flashes of silk, exposed midriffs, jeweled hips and long dark hair turning beneath the lanternlight. Whatever performance has drawn them here is already underway and judging by the attention it commands, you've arrived at just the right moment. [[Move closer and watch.|chp2_privateaudience_dancers0]] <<ci adult>>

Whatever faint humor remained in Livia's expression disappears. ''"Lucius wanted a victory people would remember. He had officers beneath him with more experience, men who warned him that they were pushing too deep, too quickly, into territory they didn't understand. He ignored them."'' Her fingers tighten slightly around the stem of her glass. ''"They were slaughtered. Not all at once; that might've been kinder. His legion was broken apart in unfamiliar ground, attacked from places they hadn't prepared for, forced into a retreat that became something closer to a rout. Men died because Lucius wanted his triumph badly enough to gamble with lives that weren't his own."'' She takes a slow drink, though the movement does little to hide the bitterness in her face. ''"He came back alive. His career and the majority of his men did not. Neither did the Varro name, for a time. His friends became scarce. His patrons stopped returning letters. Every rival he had ever slighted suddenly discovered a great interest in discussing his failures."'' Livia glances down at the wine in her hand. ''"I was eighteen."'' The admission is quieter than everything that came before it. ''"Eighteen years old, married to a man who had nearly ruined his family chasing glory, and old enough to understand that no one was going to repair the damage for us. If House Varro was going to survive, someone had to start making better decisions. So I did."'' Her eyes rise to meet yours again. <<if $dominant is "bastard">>\ You can understand her contempt. Lucius had been born with wealth, a name and command already within reach, then squandered all of it trying to prove he deserved what had been handed to him. Men in Undertown destroyed themselves for less, but they rarely had an entire legion standing beneath them when they did it. <<elseif $dominant is "knight">>\ The story leaves a bitter taste. A commander can be wrong; any man can. What matters is whether he values the lives entrusted to him enough to listen before pride turns a mistake into a graveyard. Whatever Lucius believed he was proving, other men paid for it. <<elseif $dominant is "cowboy">>\ You've known the sort before: a man so eager to prove himself that everyone around him winds up paying for it. The difference is that most fools don't get handed soldiers, a famous name and enough authority to turn one bad decision into a disaster. <</if>>\ \ ''"You don't think very highly of him,"'' you say. Livia gives you a thin smile. ''"No, I don't."'' She settles back against the lounge, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. ''"Lucius taught me something useful, though. A good name can open doors. Money can keep them open. Neither makes the person walking through them competent. I've learned to judge people by what they do when things stop going their way."'' There's enough weight behind the remark that you suspect she's no longer speaking only about her husband. Whatever you thought you might learn from this line of questioning, her response far exceeded your expectations. ''"Does that answer your question?"'' You incline your head. ''"It does. Thank you for telling me."'' Livia lifts her glass again. ''"You're welcome, $name."'' [[You let the subject rest and consider what else you want to know.|chp2_privateaudience_livia_discussion]] <<set $pa_livia_asked_husband = true>> \

''"Are you considering purchasing me?"'' ''"Perhaps."'' The word is deliberately unhelpful, and she knows it. ''"I haven't decided whether owning you would be the most interesting outcome."'' Your brow shifts slightly. Livia notices. ''"Ownership is only one way to take an interest in someone, $name. I could bid. I could encourage someone else to. I could decide that you're better placed with a household I trust, or simply make certain the right people understand what they're looking at when your turn comes. Influence can be considerably cheaper than ownership."'' For a moment, she watches to see what you make of that, her smile deepening. ''"So if you're asking whether your fate is already decided, no. Not yet."'' Livia tips her glass faintly toward the room beyond you. ''"Pay attention tonight. Notice who watches you, who speaks to you, and who suddenly becomes interested once someone important does. Let them see whatever you want them remembering when your name is called."'' Her crimson eyes return fully to yours. ''"You may not control the bidding, dear, but that doesn't mean you have no influence over what is being bid on. Enjoy the control that you do have, hmm?"'' [[You consider her words before continuing.|chp2_privateaudience_livia_discussion]] <<set $pa_livia_asked_auction = true>> \

A poor man answers to hunger. A debtor answers to whoever owns his coin. A soldier answers to officers, a servant to his household, a tradesman to whoever can afford his work. Even the nobles surrounding you seem caught inside their own web of expectations, alliances, obligations and rivalries. Livia herself possesses more wealth and influence than almost anyone you've ever met, yet much of what made her powerful seems to have been forced upon her by the failure of a husband and the survival of a family name. Perhaps freedom isn't the absence of chains so much as the ability to choose which chains you tolerate, and which of them serves you best. The thought sits uneasily with you. It'd be comforting to believe that the world divides cleanly into masters and servants, oppressors and the oppressed, free men and slaves. Yet, power seems to move unevenly through every street and household. A man may possess authority in one room and become helpless the moment he enters another. Even before anyone called you a slave, you knew what it was to have little money, little influence, and very few choices beyond those that your might, mobility and mind could carve out for you. You've already spent much of your life competing for small pieces of control. Food. Work. Respect. Safety. The ability to decide where you sleep tomorrow. Perhaps freedom is only the most easily understood for the same struggle. <<if $dominant is "bastard">>\ The conclusion doesn't offend you nearly as much as it probably should. If the world insists on arranging itself into those who command and those who obey, then the obvious answer is not to complain about the existence of the ladder. It is to climb until fewer people can stand above you. Livia may call that ambition; others might call it greed, arrogance or something uglier, but names matter less than where you end up when the struggle is finished. <<elseif $dominant is "knight">>\ Still, something in Livia's argument troubles you. The fact that strength and ability can win a man greater freedom does not mean those without such gifts deserve whatever suffering falls upon them. A weak man is still a man, and a world that only grants dignity to those capable of forcing others to acknowledge it seems dangerously close to excusing every cruelty committed by the powerful. <<elseif $dominant is "cowboy">>\ You aren't sure the question needs an answer grand enough to explain all of Cradle. Perhaps freedom changes depending on where a man stands and what he needs next. Today, it might mean surviving the auction with some part of yourself intact. Tomorrow, it might mean choosing your own battles. For now, the practical truth is enough: the more capable you become, the more choices you're likely to have. <<else>>\ You can't decide whether Livia's view is wisdom or merely the philosophy of someone fortunate and capable enough to survive by it. Perhaps both can be true at once. Cradle certainly offers little evidence that deserving freedom and possessing it are the same thing. <</if>>\ \ ''"You make it sound as though everything comes down to power,"'' you say. Livia's lips curve. ''"Not everything. But considerably more than polite people like admitting."'' She finally takes a sip of wine, considering you over the rim before lowering it again. Her expression softens slightly as she settles back into the lounge. ''"Power isn't only gold or soldiers, dear. Reputation is power. Skill is power. Loyalty can be power. Being loved by thousands of people who pay to watch you fight is certainly power. A successful gladiator may begin beneath everyone in this room and still find himself courted by people who once would've refused to acknowledge his existence."'' Livia's gaze rests upon you, openly appraising but no longer merely physical. ''"So yes. You have a chance at freedom. Perhaps even more than that."'' A trace of amusement returns to her eyes. ''"But don't sit around waiting for someone to decide you've earned it."'' For a moment, neither of you speaks. The words are harsher than reassurance, but somehow more useful for it. [[You sit with the thought before deciding what else you want to ask.|chp2_privateaudience_livia_discussion]] <<set $pa_livia_asked_freedom = true>>\

<<if $pa_livia_outlook is "cowboy">>\ You let your attention wander across the banquet before answering. A few hours ago, rooms like this belonged to another world entirely, somewhere high above the streets and workshops you understood. Now you're standing in the middle of it, surrounded by people with higher titles who discuss lives over wine, trade favors between courses and treat tomorrow's auction as another piece of entertainment. ''"It's a lot to adjust to,"'' You admit, ''"Yesterday I knew what my life was. Wasn't much of one, maybe, but I understood it. Now I've got an auction ahead of me, and half the people in this room seem to know more about what's going to happen to me than I do."'' You glance toward the surrounding tables again, taking in all that wealth, laughter and practiced ease without quite sharing in it as the newly blooded outsider at the lowest rung of the totem pole and still unsure of whether you're meant to survive or start climbing it. ''"I suppose there are worse things than finding out the world is bigger than you thought. I'm here now. Might as well learn how it works instead of wasting time wishing I wasn't."'' Livia watches you with a small, thoughtful smile, seeming to appreciate the answer precisely because you make no effort to dress it up. She might like you for it, or perhaps you're merely a sort of passing novelty keeping her amused in the moment. ''"Practical,"'' she says. ''"A useful quality. Men exhaust themselves fighting realities they cannot change, then have nothing left when an opportunity finally appears."'' Her eyes narrow faintly with amusement. ''"Keep your feet beneath you, $name. Learn before you decide what deserves resisting. You may find this world less impossible than it currently appears."'' <<elseif $pa_livia_outlook is "bastard">>\ A broad, almost disbelieving grin spreads across your face as you look across the banquet hall, taking in the velvet, gold, wine and beautiful people moving beneath the torchlight. You've spent most of your life seeing places like this from somewhere far below, imagining the men and women inside them as creatures inhabiting another world. Now you're standing amongst them. ''"Fuckin' love it."'' Livia's brows rise. ''"Do you?"'' ''"Why wouldn't I?"'' Your gaze moves slowly around the chamber before returning to her. ''"Look at this place. Money, power, glory, everyone trying to get something while pretending they're only here for the wine. I've spent my whole life scraping through the dirt beneath people like this. Now I'm standing right in the middle."'' Something fierce stirs beneath the satisfaction. The arena, the inspection, tomorrow's auction; none of it feels small, but neither does it feel impossibly large anymore. These people bleed, lust, boast, envy and make mistakes like anyone else. Their silks are finer and their names older, but standing amongst them now, you find yourself struck by one intoxicating certainty above all others. None of it looks untouchable. ''"They can put whatever price they want on me tomorrow,"'' You continue, the grin never leaving your face. ''"Let them measure me, argue over me, tell themselves they know exactly what they're buying. Doesn't change what I know I'm worth."'' Livia studies you in silence, something unmistakably pleased gathering in her expression. ''"Careful, dear."'' Her velvety voice carries equal measures of warning and amusement, ''"Ambition is intoxicating when someone discovers it for the first time."'' ''"I've always had ambition. Wouldn't matter where I'm standing."'' You meet her crimson gaze without hesitation, ''"I've spent enough time surviving on scraps. If this is the world I've been thrown into, then I intend to see just how much of it I can get my hands on."'' Her smile deepens. ''"Now you've been given somewhere dangerous to point it. But such ambition has destroyed better men than you, $name. Trust me, I would know."'' Your expression barely changes. ''"Then they weren't better."'' For a moment, Livia simply stares. Then she laughs, rich and genuinely delighted, raising her glass toward you. ''"Gods. Perhaps not."'' Her eyes remain fixed upon yours as she drinks. ''"I think I shall enjoy seeing how far you get." <<elseif $pa_livia_outlook is "knight">>\ Your attention leaves Livia and travels across the banquet hall. Nobles drink and laugh beneath warm torchlight while servants pass silently between them. Gladiators eat from silver plates tonight knowing that tomorrow many of these same smiling faces may gather to place prices upon their lives. There's beauty here, undeniably, but the longer you look at it, the harder it becomes to ignore what that beauty has been built around. ''"It disgusts me."'' Livia doesn't recoil from the answer. If anything, her attention seems to sharpen. ''"They can fill the room with wine and music, dress everyone in silk and call tomorrow an occasion, but I'm still going to be sold. So are the men and women who came here with me. A prettier cage doesn't stop being a cage because someone bothered dressing it up."'' The anger is real, but you keep it measured. There's no value in shouting at Livia merely because she represents a world you have every reason to want to overturn. ''"But I'm no fool either. I heard what you said. About the auction, about gladiators earning influence, about learning how people like this think. I can hate the game and still understand that refusing to play won't make it disappear."'' Your gaze passes over the hall once more. Some men would look upon all this wealth and dream only of possessing it themselves. Others would drown willingly in the wine, flesh and comfort so long denied them. Perhaps enough luxury can make almost any cage pleasant to someone willing to forget what its bars are made of. Something in you refuses. Livia's expression becomes difficult to read. There's amusement there, certainly, but something closer to respect sits beneath it. She turns the wine slowly within her glass. ''"There has to be more to a man than whatever he wants in the moment,"'' You say at last. ''"More than hunger and fear. More than doing whatever the people above him expect because it's easier than standing for anything of his own."'' You look back to Livia. ''"Maybe that sounds foolish to people here. I don't much care. I've met enough men who let the world tell them what they are. I don't intend to become one of them, even here."'' For once, Livia's smile fades almost entirely. She simply studies you. ''"You think yourself different."'' ''"I think a man should try to be. They should demand more from themselves."'' Something subtle changes behind her crimson eyes. ''"Be careful with ideals, $name. They can become another sort of pride if a man begins believing they make him immune to weakness."'' You incline your head slightly, accepting the warning without surrendering the conviction behind your answer. Livia watches you for another moment before the faintest smile returns. ''"Still... I'd rather meet a man who expects too much of himself than one who expects nothing at all. So many men surrender themselves to their circumstances."'' She's right. How many people drift through life without higher ideals, without purpose, without a great dream to bring to fruition? What guides them from one day to the next beyond their lowest, basest, most animalistic instincts and desires? It's one thing to accept human nature, and it's another thing to reach beyond it. How many men seek to uplift themselves, to elevate humanity, to another, greater plane of existence? First, they have to break away from what chains them. From what tames them. And that's where the vast majority fail without having ever gotten started. Without having ever reached a state of awareness. But you're well aware of the pitfalls of the world, of the evil that persists, and the obstacles that stand in your way. You see them now clearly. ''"You're honest, $name. And bold... There aren't many men like you."'' ''"No, no there aren't Duchess. Unfortunately."'' She tilts her head slightly, unable to stop smiling as she watches you a few moments longer. ''"Unfortunately,"'' she murmurs, ''"We'll see if you live up to your convictions. Men are fickle and easily swayed. Perhaps you //are// different."'' <</if>>\ \ For a little while after your answer, Livia simply watches you. The amusement that so often plays around her lips remains, but the appraisal feels different now from the one that greeted you earlier. She has seen your body, watched how you conduct yourself beneath attention and temptation, answered your questions and finally heard what you make of the world waiting beyond this banquet. Whatever conclusion she reaches, she keeps it to herself. ''"Well,"'' she says at last, settling her glass against one thigh, ''"I certainly don't think you'll be boring."'' A quiet laugh follows as she lifts one hand in a graceful gesture of dismissal. ''"Go. Enjoy what remains of the evening while you still can."'' You incline your head. ''"Thank you for your time, Duchess."'' ''"And thank you for mine, $name."'' Her crimson eyes follow you as you step away from the lounge. ''"Until next time."'' <<link "You leave the Duchess to her banquet.">>\ <<set $pa_map.livia = true>>\ <<set $pa_map.zone = "middle">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_middle">>\ <</link>>

<img class="scene" src="images/chp2_privateaudience_suyen.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"> Duchess Livia's little court has already begun to reform around her. The raven-haired courtesan in silver has reclaimed her place near the lounge, joined once again by jeweled noblewomen, cups of wine and the low flutter of conversation. Whatever private interest Livia showed you just before has been folded neatly back into the rhythm of the evening, her laughter rising occasionally above the surrounding voices. The richly tanned woman is no longer sitting beside her. You spot her several paces away near one of the service arches, speaking quietly with an overburdened servant beside a squat lacquered chest banded in dark metal. Whatever has gone wrong appears thoroughly uninteresting compared with the rest of the banquet, which may explain why she's the only person paying attention to it. ''"You survived."'' She notices you before you can decide whether to keep walking. Her eyes settle on you with immediate recognition, the mildness of her expression making it difficult to tell whether she means your conversation with Livia or the women who came before it. Before you can answer, she glances down at the chest. ''"Good. Then you're still useful."'' There's no cruelty in the remark. If anything, she delivers it with the same matter-of-fact ease someone might use when noticing an empty chair. The servant beside her looks apologetically between the two of you. The young woman sighs through her nose, then gestures toward the chest with two fingers, her tone practical and pointed. ''"This was supposed to be taken to the west service gallery ten minutes ago. Apparently everyone capable of lifting it has discovered an urgent need to carry wine instead."'' Her gaze travels briefly over your shoulders and arms before returning to your face. ''"You look unoccupied."'' <<if $dominant is "bastard">> \ You glance toward the chest, then back at her. There's something almost refreshing about the bluntness of it. No coy smiles, no discussion of your body beyond whether it can accomplish the task in front of her, and no attempt to pretend she isn't asking because you happen to be standing nearby and look capable. Still, you can't help but push back. ''"That's your pitch?"'' A faint curve touches her mouth. ''"Would you prefer flattery?"'' <<elseif $dominant is "cowboy">> \ You look from her to the chest and suppress a small smile. After everything you've been subjected to tonight, being asked to move something from one side of a room to another feels almost reassuringly ordinary. ''"Suppose I am."'' ''"Excellent. I was hoping you could tell."'' <<elseif $dominant is "knight">> \ You study her for a moment, half-expecting some second meaning behind the request. None immediately presents itself. She simply has a problem, you're capable of helping, and she's apparently decided those two facts are sufficient reason to speak with you. There's something unexpectedly disarming about that. ''"Where does it need to go?"'' Her expression warms by the smallest degree. ''"Now we're making progress."'' <<else>> \ You glance down at the chest before looking back to her. ''"You want my help?"'' ''"I want the chest moved. You appear capable of moving it. It seemed an efficient arrangement. Now for the fun part, if you will - it's not going too far."'' <</if>>\ \ She steps aside and gives you room. Up close, the chest looks modest enough, though the dark metal banding and the way it sits heavily against the floor suggests that whatever's packed inside has been packed densely. You crouch, find your grip beneath the reinforced edges, and lift. <<if $might is 2>>\ <<if $char_build is "powerful_dense">>\ The weight settles into your arms exactly as expected. Heavy, certainly, but hardly enough to trouble you. You straighten in one smooth motion, adjusting the chest comfortably against your body before looking back toward her. Her eyes move from the chest to you without much surprise. Considering the breadth of your shoulders and the dense muscle packed across your frame, anything less might have been more noteworthy. ''"Good,"'' she says, apparently satisfied with her judgment. ''"You looked useful."'' <<else>>\ The chest is heavier than its size suggests, but that hardly matters. You straighten smoothly beneath it, bringing the weight against your body with enough ease that the woman beside you pauses before turning away. Her eyes move once across your frame, reassessing. ''"Hm."'' A faint hint of amusement touches her expression. ''"Stronger than you look."'' There is no exaggerated admiration in it, only the quiet acknowledgment of someone pleased to discover that her improvised solution has worked even better than expected. <</if>>\ <<elseif $might gte 1>>\ <<if $char_build is "powerful_dense" || $char_build is "lean_athletic">>\ The chest proves genuinely heavy once you get it off the floor, its contents packed tightly enough that very little shifts inside. Still, the weight is manageable. You brace it properly against yourself, straighten, and find a comfortable enough grip for carrying. The woman watches the motion with mild approval, apparently finding nothing particularly surprising in the fact that your physique is capable of handling the task. ''"That should do."'' Her attention has already begun shifting toward the route ahead. <<else>>\ The chest has more weight to it than you expected, but once you find the balance it comes up cleanly enough. Your wiry frame gives little indication of the strength required to hold it securely, and the woman notices the discrepancy almost immediately. One eyebrow lifts. ''"Not bad."'' Her gaze lingers for another moment before returning to your face. ''"I wasn't completely certain that would work."'' <</if>>\ <<else>>\ <<if $char_build is "scrawny_wiry">>\ The chest resists you immediately. It is dense, awkward and considerably heavier than it appeared sitting on the floor. You manage to wrestle it upward after shifting your grip, the strain settling through your arms and back as you finally bring it securely against yourself. The woman watches without mockery, seeming more concerned with whether you've actually found a stable hold than with how graceful the attempt looked. ''"Heavier than it looks,"'' she says. You adjust the chest again. ''"A little."'' ''"I noticed."'' <<else>>\ The weight catches you off guard. With your build, you had expected the thing to come up more cleanly than it does, but the chest seems determined to remain exactly where it was placed. You reset your footing, brace more carefully and haul it upward, eventually getting it settled against yourself with considerably more effort than appearances might have suggested. The woman's eyes narrow slightly as she watches, some quiet expectation being revised behind them, yet she doesn't laugh or show any real outward reaction. ''"They packed that absurdly tight,"'' She says instead, stepping closer long enough to indicate a better place to brace one corner. ''"Hold it there. It'll carry easier."'' The adjustment helps. Whether she's sparing your pride or simply solving the problem in front of her, she gives no indication, not that the difference particularly matters here. <</if>>\ <</if>>\ \ Once she's satisfied that neither you nor the chest is about to topple over, she turns toward the service archway and starts to lead the way. ''"Come on. It isn't far."'' [[You follow her away from the center of the banquet.|chp2_privateaudience_suyen1]]

She leads you through the service arch without looking back to make certain you're following, apparently confident that the combination of a heavy chest in your arms and her brisk pace will keep you sufficiently motivated. The character of the banquet gradually changes beyond the decorated threshold. Music and laughter still drift through the open arches behind you, but here they become muffled beneath the more practical sounds of the day: servants calling quietly to one another, crockery being sorted, the clatter of trays returning empty. The floors are plain stone rather than polished marble, the torchlight dimmer, and no one seems particularly interested in stopping to admire the gladiator carrying someone else's cargo. After the spectacle you've endured thus far, the lack of attention is almost refreshing. The dark-haired woman threads easily through the activity, occasionally stepping aside for a servant or exchanging a few quiet words with someone who recognizes her. There's an easy familiarity in the way she moves through the banquet, the confidence of someone accustomed to knowing where things belong and how to manage it all too. Only after you've crossed another corridor does she seem to remember something. ''"Suyen Septara."'' She looks back over one shoulder, mild expression unchanged. ''"My name. I thought I should probably give it to you after making you carry things for me through half the hall. Even if it doesn't make the load any lighter."'' ''"$name."'' A faint curve touches her lips. ''"I know."'' Suyen slows enough for you to draw nearer as the passage narrows, skirts brushing softly around her thick legs while she guides you around a pair of servants hauling an empty wine cask in the opposite direction. ''"You caused enough discussion tonight that forgetting would've taken effort."'' ''"Earlier, you were sitting with Duchess Varro,"'' you begin to venture aloud. [[Are you one of her courtiers?|chp2_privateaudience_suyen2]]

''"Are you one of her courtiers?"'' That earns the faintest shift in her expression, not quite amusement and certainly not offense. Suyen glances toward you as though weighing whether the distinction is worth explaining while the two of you continue through the narrower service passage. ''"No. I'm her Stewardess."'' She says it plainly, without the flourish you might expect from someone announcing a position of importance, ''"I oversee part of the household on Livia's behalf. Staff, supplies, correspondence, arrangements like tonight. When something arrives late, disappears or gets sent to the wrong room, it tends to become my problem shortly afterward."'' Her eyes dip briefly toward the chest in your arms. ''"As you may have noticed."'' The role explains more than the title alone. Servants seem to recognize her as she passes, making room without the nervous scrambling they reserve for the highest nobles. A few offer short acknowledgments; others simply wait for her direction before continuing with whatever they were doing. She belongs here in a way that has little to do with silken ornament or gilded ceremony, like so many other of Livia's entourage. ''"So you work for House Varro."'' ''"Very observant."'' The dryness comes naturally enough that you suspect she enjoys giving obvious questions obvious answers, though a slight smile softens it. That pulls a quiet laugh from you. ''"Yes. Officially, before you ask. Livia employs me. I'm not an honored guest who became bored and started reorganizing her servants for entertainment."'' The corridor opens into a broader service gallery ahead, shelves and narrow worktables lining the stone walls while servants pass between several adjoining storerooms. One of them spots Suyen approaching and straightens immediately, stepping away from a stack of folded linens to address her as you both approach. ''"Lady Septara."'' Suyen acknowledges him with a small tilt of her chin, already angling toward one of the doors along the western wall. The servant hesitates a beat before continuing. ''"My lady, the west stores are full."'' That stops her, but not for long. Suyen looks toward the door, then briefly toward the chest in your arms, her expression tightening with the mild irritation of someone who has just discovered that a simple task has acquired another step. ''"Full?"'' ''"The last delivery filled the remaining floor space. We haven't had time to clear it yet."'' Suyen exhales softly through her nose, gaze shifting toward the stairwell descending at the far end of the gallery. You can almost see the calculation taking place behind her eyes. ''"Then don't force anything else in there. Move the loose linens out of the lower storeroom and bring them up here. That should clear enough space below for this."'' The servant nods immediately. ''"Yes, Lady Septara."'' ''"And tell the others not to stack anything in front of the lower shelves again. If I have to climb over someone else's idea of organization tomorrow, I'll start throwing things into the corridor myself."'' ''"Of course."'' Only then does Suyen turn back toward you, Her eyes drop briefly toward the chest, then toward the stairs. ''"Change of plans."'' The irritation has already begun to fade from her expression, replaced by the composed practicality you've come to associate with her. ''"We're taking it below."'' You glance toward the stairwell. ''"We?"'' A faint smile touches her mouth. ''"You didn't think I was going to abandon you halfway through, did you?"'' She starts toward the stairs, then slows just enough for you to fall in beside her. The servant behind you returns to his work, but the title he used lingers in your mind. ''"Lady Septara? You're a noblewoman, then?"'' That earns a more visible smile. ''"Depends who you ask."'' She continues toward the stairwell, seemingly in no hurry to elaborate at first. ''"My family has land, money, and a name people recognize. No old title attached to it, if that's what you're asking. Some people call me Lady Septara because it feels appropriate. Others prefer Mistress Septara. The distinction matters to some."'' There's no embarrassment in the explanation, nor any particular pride. She speaks of it as casually as she might explain which district she grew up in. ''"Does it bother you?"'' ''"Not particularly. I still wake up as the same woman either way."'' Her gaze drops toward the chest again. There's a little more humor in her eyes now. ''"Still feeling useful?"'' The chest is heavy enough that another flight of stairs isn't especially appealing, but something about the sheer ordinariness of the problem makes it difficult to resent. Suyen encountered an obstacle, changed the plan, gave clear instructions and kept moving. After the morning you've had thus far, there's something unexpectedly refreshing about it. [[You follow Suyen toward the lower stores.|chp2_privateaudience_suyen3]]

The stairway carries you beneath the brighter reaches of the estate, and within only a few turns the banquet feels considerably farther away than it really is. Music still filters faintly through the stone above, softened now into little more than a distant rhythm beneath the scrape of boots and the occasional murmur of servants moving through the lower halls. The air is just a touch cooler here, ventilated unlike the humid basements of Undertown, and full of the dry smells of timber, cloth and packed goods rather than perfume and hot food, while the torchlight burns lower along walls built for use rather than display. Suyen keeps an easy pace beside you, slowing whenever the stair narrows and reaching ahead to push open a heavy storeroom door before you arrive. Inside, two servants are already shifting bundles of linen toward the wall just as she instructed, leaving a broad enough space beneath the rear shelves for the chest. She points you toward it with a small motion of her hand. ''"There. Against the wall, if you can."'' You carry the chest across the room and lower it carefully into place. The weight leaves your arms with a dull wooden thud, followed by the immediate relief of straightening without several dozen pounds of someone else's belongings pressed against you. Suyen gives the placement a quick once-over before nodding. ''"Perfect."'' One of the servants starts toward her, prepared to ask something, but she gestures toward the linens instead. ''"Finish clearing the shelf first. I'll be back through later."'' He nods and returns to work; the problem seems to have vanished almost as quickly as it appeared. You flex your hands once, working the stiffness from your fingers. ''"So that's it?"'' ''"That's it."'' Suyen turns toward you, but makes no immediate move for the door. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The servants continue working behind her, quiet enough that the pause doesn't feel especially awkward. If anything, Suyen seems to be studying you with the same mild consideration she wore beside Livia earlier, though now there's no circle of noblewomen around her to obscure where her attention rests. ''"You know, the chest wasn't the only reason I asked you."'' You raise an eyebrow. ''"No?"'' ''"You were nearby. You looked capable. Those were the important reasons."'' One corner of her mouth lifts. Her expression remains composed, though the humor in her eyes deepens slightly. ''"But you also looked like you might appreciate an excuse to get away."'' That earns a quiet breath of amusement from you. ''"You noticed that?"'' ''"It was difficult not to."'' Her gaze lingers for a moment. <<if $pa_livia_court_response is "control">>\ ''"I thought they'd get more out of you."'' You study her. ''"Disappointed?"'' ''"Hardly."'' Suyen folds her hands loosely before herself, considering the question more seriously than the answer probably deserves. ''"They kept touching, teasing, waiting for you to give them something they could turn into another joke. You knew exactly what they were trying to do, and you still managed to stand there as though the decision belonged to you rather than them."'' A faint smile touches her lips. ''"That was more interesting than watching you lose your temper would've been."'' <<elseif $pa_livia_court_response is "fuckit">>\ ''"I thought you were going to keep ignoring them."'' You study her. ''"Disappointed?"'' ''"Hardly."'' Suyen's mouth curves slightly as she remembers it. ''"You knew exactly what they were trying to do. That was obvious enough. Then at some point you simply decided you were finished pretending not to enjoy yourself and gave them the reaction they'd been fishing for."'' Her gaze sharpens by the smallest degree. ''"What interested me was that it still looked like a decision."'' <</if>>\ \ She glances briefly toward the servants behind her before lowering her voice. ''"People spend a surprising amount of time trying to steer one another without admitting that's what they're doing. Flattery. Embarrassment. Desire. Insults, when the first three fail. Most don't realize they're being maneuvered until afterward."'' Her eyes return to yours. There's no accusation in the observation. If anything, she seems genuinely curious what you'll make of it. <<if $pa_livia_court_response is "control">>\ \ <<link "Sometimes it's easier to let people tire themselves out.">>\ <<set $pa_suyen_first_impression = "cowboy">>\ <<gainCowboy>>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_suyen4">>\ <</link>> <<ci cowboy archetype>> <<link "They wanted me to lose control. That made me want to keep it.">>\ <<set $pa_suyen_first_impression = "bastard">>\ <<gainBastard>>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_suyen4">>\ <</link>> <<ci bastard archetype>> <<link "Wanting something doesn't mean I have to obey it.">>\ <<set $pa_suyen_first_impression = "knight">>\ <<gainKnight>>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_suyen4">>\ <</link>> <<ci knight archetype>> \ <<elseif $pa_livia_court_response is "fuckit">>\ \ <<link "I was curious where it would go.">>\ <<set $pa_suyen_first_impression = "cowboy">>\ <<gainCowboy>>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_suyen4">>\ <</link>> <<ci cowboy archetype>> <<link "They kept asking for teeth. I decided to give them some.">>\ <<set $pa_suyen_first_impression = "bastard">>\ <<gainBastard>>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_suyen4">>\ <</link>> <<ci bastard archetype>> <<link "I chose it. That's different from being made to.">>\ <<set $pa_suyen_first_impression = "knight">>\ <<gainKnight>>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_suyen4">>\ <</link>> <<ci knight archetype>> <</if>>\

<<if $pa_livia_court_response is "control" && $pa_suyen_first_impression is "cowboy">>\ ''"Sometimes it's easier to let people tire themselves out."'' Suyen's brows lift slightly. ''"That was your strategy?"'' ''"Didn't see much reason to make it more complicated than that. They wanted a reaction. I wasn't in any hurry to give them one."'' She considers you for a moment, then gives a small nod. ''"Probably wise. People become surprisingly careless when they think they're the only ones playing a game."'' The answer seems to satisfy her, though the slight curve remaining at the corner of her mouth suggests she finds your refusal to make a grand principle out of the matter almost as interesting as the restraint itself. ''"You make it sound very simple."'' ''"Usually is, once you stop trying to win every little contest someone puts in front of you."'' That earns a quiet breath of laughter. ''"I'll remember that."'' <<elseif $pa_livia_court_response is "control" && $pa_suyen_first_impression is "bastard">>\ ''"They wanted me to lose control. That made me want to keep it."'' Suyen studies you for a heartbeat before an unmistakable smile begins to form. ''"Spite, then."'' ''"Principle."'' ''"Of course."'' There's enough dryness in the response to make it clear she doesn't believe you for a moment. You fold your arms loosely. ''"If someone's waiting around hoping I'll make a fool of myself, I don't see why I should make their evening easier."'' ''"No. I suppose you wouldn't."'' Her gaze settles on you with renewed interest, as though some piece of the behavior she witnessed upstairs has finally arranged itself into a shape she understands. ''"That could be a useful instinct, provided you learn the difference between refusing to be pushed and refusing simply because someone pushed."'' You give her a look. ''"You always give advice this quickly?"'' ''"Only when people make it easy."'' The smile she gives you afterward is small but entirely unapologetic. <<elseif $pa_livia_court_response is "control" && $pa_suyen_first_impression is "knight">>\ ''"Wanting something doesn't mean I have to obey it."'' Whatever teasing answer Suyen might have been preparing never comes. Her expression settles instead, mild amusement giving way to something more thoughtful as she looks at you. ''"No,"'' she says after a moment. ''"It doesn't."'' The simplicity of the agreement surprises you more than an argument might have. ''"Plenty of people spend their whole lives confusing desire with permission. Wealth only makes it easier. If they want something badly enough, they assume that must mean they're entitled to have it."'' Her gaze flicks briefly toward the ceiling, as though the banquet above provides enough examples to save her the trouble of naming any. ''"So yes. I noticed."'' You incline your head slightly. ''"Didn't expect approval."'' ''"I didn't say I approved."'' A faint smile returns. ''"I said I noticed. Don't become greedy."'' <<elseif $pa_livia_court_response is "fuckit" && $pa_suyen_first_impression is "cowboy">>\ ''"I was curious where it would go."'' Suyen stares at you for half a heartbeat. Then she laughs, genuinely enough that the sound catches you by surprise. ''"That's all?"'' ''"Seemed like reason enough at the time."'' She shakes her head, amusement still warm in her expression. ''"And? Was your curiosity satisfied?"'' You consider the question. ''"Got interesting for a minute."'' ''"I saw."'' The answer comes quickly enough that you both smile. Suyen looks away first, though there's nothing embarrassed about it. If anything, she seems entertained by the fact that you can describe an increasingly heated encounter with half of Livia's court as though you'd wandered down an unfamiliar street simply to see where it led. ''"You have an unusually relaxed relationship with consequences."'' ''"Hasn't killed me yet."'' ''"A compelling endorsement."'' <<elseif $pa_livia_court_response is "fuckit" && $pa_suyen_first_impression is "bastard">>\ ''"They kept asking for teeth. I decided to give them some."'' For a moment, Suyen simply looks at you. Then the corner of her mouth twitches. ''"I noticed."'' ''"Hard to miss."'' ''"That appeared to be the idea."'' There's no embarrassment in her reply, nor much interest in pretending she didn't watch. What seems to occupy her instead is the change itself: the moment you stopped enduring the game and chose to push back into it. ''"You enjoyed surprising them."'' It isn't really a question. ''"Maybe I enjoyed reminding them they weren't the only ones allowed to play."'' Suyen's gaze sharpens faintly. ''"That sounds more like you."'' ''"You've known me for ten minutes."'' ''"And you've spent most of them making yourself fairly easy to notice."'' A grin threatens at the edge of your mouth. ''"Careful. Starting to sound impressed."'' ''"Don't ruin it."'' <<elseif $pa_livia_court_response is "fuckit" && $pa_suyen_first_impression is "knight">>\ ''"I chose it. That's different from being made to."'' Suyen's expression stills. The humor doesn't disappear entirely, but something in your answer makes her take it more seriously than you expected. ''"Yes,"'' she says. ''"It is."'' You watch her, waiting. ''"People like pretending those things are the same whenever it benefits them. If you wanted the woman, enjoyed the attention and decided to answer it, that's your decision. It doesn't suddenly become someone else's simply because they hoped you'd make it."'' Her gaze remains steadily upon yours. ''"The important part is knowing which is which."'' You hadn't expected the distinction to matter much to her. ''"You sound like you've given that some thought."'' ''"I've spent enough time around powerful people."'' The answer is light, but not entirely joking. Then she adds, with a faint return of that dry smile: ''"Besides, I was there. It would've been difficult to mistake enthusiasm for coercion by the end."'' That draws an unwilling laugh from you. <</if>>\ \ For a few moments, the conversation settles into an unexpectedly comfortable silence. The work of the lower storeroom continues around you, but most of the immediate bustle has already moved elsewhere. The servants who cleared the space have begun carrying the last bundles of linen upstairs, leaving the two of you amongst shelves of sealed jars, bundled cloth and wooden crates stamped with marks you don't recognize. Somewhere overhead, the banquet continues without either of you. Your attention returns to Suyen. [[Can I ask you something?|chp2_privateaudience_suyen5]]

''"Can I ask you something?"'' ''"You've managed several questions already without permission."'' ''"Then I suppose I'm getting good at it."'' Her mouth curves. ''"Go on."'' You glance toward the doorway the servants disappeared through. ''"Your family has land. Wealth. Enough of a name that people can't decide whether to call you Lady or Mistress. So why are you working as Livia's Stewardess?"'' Suyen doesn't seem offended. If anything, the question appears to amuse her. ''"Fair."'' She shifts to rest one hand lightly against the edge of the shelf beside her, posture relaxing now that there is no immediate task demanding her attention. ''"My family is comfortable. More than comfortable, depending on whose standards we're using. But we aren't one of Cradle's old houses. There wasn't some ancient Septara estate waiting for us with portraits of dead senators and loyal servants."'' There's no resentment in the description; just a plain, matter-of-fact observation. ''"What we have was built. Land bought, contracts won. People proved themselves useful to the right men, and eventually enough of them started remembering our name."'' She pauses. ''"My father has very little patience for children who believe a family's success means they've personally accomplished something. That's how I grew up."'' There it is again: her father, mentioned with such casual familiarity. ''"Sounds demanding."'' Suyen thinks about that. ''"He is."'' A moment later, warmth slips into the answer. ''"Usually more than is reasonable. Unfortunately, he's also right often enough to make complaining about it difficult. He's not the type of man that you argue with and win."'' You smile. ''"So he sent you to House Varro?"'' ''"No."'' The response comes quickly, with the easy certainty of a decision settled long ago. ''"I came here because I wanted to. Livia has influence, a complicated household and very little tolerance for incompetence. Working for her means dealing with merchants, servants, noble families, contracts, correspondence, supply problems, guests who believe arriving unannounced somehow makes them more important..."'' Her eyes flick briefly toward the chest. ''"...and boxes that refuse to remain where they're supposed to."'' ''"Sounds glamorous."'' ''"You should see the ledgers."'' The answer is so immediate that you laugh again. Suyen does too, quieter this time. ''"It isn't glamorous. That's part of why I like it. Things either get done or they don't. If I make a bad decision, somebody notices. If I solve a problem, something works better afterward. I learn more here than I would sitting comfortably on my family's land while everyone congratulated me for being born into it."'' For someone surrounded all evening by people eager to advertise their rank, wealth and importance, she speaks about her own position with remarkably little ceremony. ''"Livia trusts you, then."'' ''"With quite a lot."'' There's a trace of pride in that answer, like it's something earned. ''"And I trust her to tell me when I've done something badly. It's a useful arrangement."'' You glance toward the chest now sitting exactly where she wanted it. ''"Doesn't look like you need to hear that very often."'' Suyen's eyes return to yours. For the first time since the errand began, the look lingers. ''"Careful."'' ''"What?"'' ''"That almost sounded like flattery."'' ''"Would you prefer honesty?"'' The words leave your mouth before you quite realize you're returning her earlier challenge. Suyen notices, her smile slowly widening. ''"Maybe."'' The answer hangs between you for a beat longer than either of you seems to expect. Then footsteps sound somewhere beyond the storeroom, followed by a servant calling Suyen's name from farther up the corridor. The moment breaks naturally rather than awkwardly. She straightens away from the shelf and glances toward the door with a sigh. ''"And there it is."'' ''"Another problem?"'' ''"Almost certainly."'' She starts toward the doorway, then stops after only a couple of steps and looks back. The chest has been delivered. Whatever obligation brought you down here ended several minutes ago. Suyen seems perfectly aware of that. ''"I'm headed back upstairs."'' A small pause. ''"You can walk with me, if you'd like."'' [[You fall into step beside her.|chp2_privateaudience_suyen6]]

<img class="scene" src="images/chp2_privateaudience_suyen1.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"> The walk back is easier without the chest between your arms, and considerably quieter than the journey down. Suyen doesn't seem compelled to fill every stretch of silence, nor does the quiet between you feel uncomfortable. The distant sounds of the banquet gradually return as you climb: music first, then laughter, then the warmer spill of torchlight reaching down through the upper corridors. By the time you reach the service gallery again, the household has already swallowed whatever small crisis called her away. A servant approaches almost immediately, speaking quickly about something involving the kitchens and one of the evening's deliveries. Suyen listens without interrupting, asks two short questions, then gives an answer that sends him moving off in the opposite direction. You wait. Then, she looks back toward you. ''"See?"'' ''"Another problem."'' ''"They breed when I'm not looking."'' That earns a smile from you. Beyond the next archway, the banquet opens up again in all its color and noise. Nobles drift between tables beneath gold and crimson light, servants move carefully through the crowd, and somewhere in the distance you can hear another burst of laughter from the direction of Livia's lounge. Suyen pauses before stepping back into it. ''"Thank you for the help, $name."'' ''"With the chest?"'' Her eyes settle on yours. ''"Mostly."'' There's just enough humor in the answer to make you wait for the rest. Suyen lets you, before the faintest smile appears. ''"You weren't bad company either."'' <<if $pa_suyen_first_impression is "bastard">>\ ''"Careful,"'' you say. ''"You're starting to sound impressed."'' Suyen gives you a long-suffering look. ''"And there it goes."'' <<elseif $pa_suyen_first_impression is "cowboy">>\ ''"High praise."'' ''"Don't become ambitious."'' <<elseif $pa_suyen_first_impression is "knight">>\ ''"I'll take that as a compliment."'' ''"You may. I don't give them accidentally."'' <</if>>\ \ A voice calls for her somewhere beyond the arch. Suyen glances toward it, then back at you once more. ''"I should go before someone finds another chest."'' She starts away, but turns slightly after only a few steps. ''"Next time, perhaps I'll find a better excuse."'' Before you can decide whether she meant to say that quite as plainly as she did, she's already disappeared back into the movement of the household, dark hair and warm bronze skin swallowed amongst servants, silk and torchlight. You're left standing at the edge of the banquet again. Only now, Suyen Septara no longer feels like merely another woman who happened to be sitting beside Duchess Varro. <<set $pa_map.suyen = true>>\ <<set $pa_map.zone = "middle">>\ \ [[You return to the banquet.|chp2_privateaudience_middle]]

<<if $pa_khalika_response is "cell_exposed_cowboy">> \ ''"Were you impressed?"'' You retort with a slight cant of your head, unable to hide the faint smirk forming across your face. But that response doesn't seem to suffice for Khalika, whose fingers suddenly tighten around you, hard enough to make you rise on your toes. ''"You're avoiding my question."'' ''"Easy,"'' you hiss, catching her wrist. Khalika relieves most of the pressure on her own after only a moment, though her hand remains planted squarely against your crotch. ''"I'm only trying to play my cards right. If I have to scratch a few palms and sweetly murmur the right words, so be it. These nobles hold our lives in their hands."'' ''"I understand."'' The half-orc's grip softens. Her fingers move more tenderly against you through your trousers, almost as though making amends for the roughness with which she'd handled you. Then her lips twitch, observant eyes following you all the while. ''"I did like what I saw, after all."'' You raise a brow. ''"I liked it even more last night, when I had it all to myself."'' You can't help the low laugh that slips from your throat. ''"It was a mouthful, hm?"'' ''"Mhm."'' Her eyes narrow playfully. ''"And I don't like sharing."'' The words are teasing enough to invite a smile, but there's something underneath them that wasn't there yesterday. Whether it's simple lust, jealousy, or some half-formed attachment neither of you has had the time to understand, you're not sure. Khalika finally loosens her hold, though her fingertips linger against you for another moment before withdrawing. ''"Still..."'' she murmurs, casting another look across the room. ''"You were looking too. Don't pretend you weren't."'' ''"Was I?"'' ''"Don't play stupid now, $name."'' Her tusked lips curl. ''"Which one caught your eye?"'' <<elseif $pa_khalika_response is "cell_exposed_bastard">> \ ''"Let them look."'' The answer comes easily enough that Khalika's brows lift. ''"Oh?''" ''"They wanted a show. They got one."'' You glance toward the scattered nobility without much concern. ''"I'm not going to start blushing now because a few rich women liked what they saw."'' For a moment, she simply stares at you. Then Khalika gives a short, husky laugh. ''"I think your friend Gant has rubbed off on you."'' ''"Mmph,"'' your lips crease into a grin as her hand shifts against you again. ''"I think you're rubbing off on me right now."'' ''"Ha-ha."'' She squeezes. Hard. Your grin contorts as you rise onto your toes. ''"Easy."'' You catch her wrist, but Khalika seems more amused than apologetic. The pressure eases slowly beneath your grip. ''"So you liked it,"'' she says. ''"Being admired?"'' You roll one shoulder. ''"I've endured worse."'' ''"That's not what I asked."'' Her hand remains on you, stroking more gently now through the thin cloth. ''"Did you want to impress them? Earn yourself some noble lover?"'' ''"Maybe I wanted them to remember me."'' That answer quiets her for a beat. It's true enough. You don't control the auction. You don't control who bids, what they intend to do with you, or where you'll wake once the hammer falls. But if these women are already measuring you like livestock, there's no sense pretending you don't understand the game. If attention is leverage, you'll use it. Khalika seems to understand that much. ''"Fine,"'' she murmurs. ''"Let them look."'' Then her amber gaze lowers meaningfully toward her own hand. ''"Just remember who had you first."'' You give her a crooked smile. ''"Possessive, aren't you?"'' ''"Maybe."'' She doesn't look embarrassed by the accusation. If anything, she looks pleased with herself. ''"But now I'm curious."'' Her eyes flick toward the noblewomen drifting throughout the chamber. ''"Which one is your favorite?"'' <<elseif $pa_khalika_response is "cell_exposed_knight">> \ ''"They don't compare to you, Khalika."'' Her hand stills. For once, the half-orc doesn't seem to have an answer waiting. Her amber eyes search yours, the playful severity in them giving way to something quieter. ''"Are you just saying what you think I want to hear, $name?"'' ''"No."'' The answer comes without a grin to soften it. Khalika watches you carefully. ''"I know what I was doing in there,"'' you continue, keeping your voice low. ''"They wanted to look. I let them. If making an impression helps me survive what comes next, I'll do it."'' Your gaze settles back upon hers. ''"That doesn't mean they compare to you."'' Something changes in her expression. Not dramatically. Khalika doesn't suddenly melt into your arms or look away like some blushing maiden. She's still herself—hard-eyed, tusked, strong enough to hurt you with one hand if she chose. But the fingers around your cock loosen. Her other hand rises instead, settling briefly against your chest. ''"You have a dangerous way with words,"'' she murmurs. ''"I'm being honest."'' ''"That's what makes them dangerous."'' A faint flush colors her cheeks beneath the green of her skin. Then her mouth curves again. ''"Still, don't think you're getting away that easily."'' ''"Getting away with what?"'' ''"Looking."'' Her fingers give you one last, deliberate squeeze before finally withdrawing. ''"I saw where your eyes went earlier. So tell me..."'' Her head tilts slightly. ''"Which one caught your attention?"'' <<elseif $pa_khalika_response is "cell_private_cowboy">> \ ''"We need to focus on what happens now."'' The words dampen some of the heat between you. Khalika studies your face for a moment, her hand still situated squarely atop your crotch. If she's disappointed, she hides it well. Then she gives a subtle nod. ''"You're right."'' Her fingers loosen and finally withdraw. Regardless of what happened between you last night, or what either of you might want to happen again, you still barely know one another. Yesterday you were strangers fighting for your lives in the same stretch of blood-soaked sand. Last night you were voices divided by stone until lust, fear and relief made the barrier seem suddenly insignificant. Now, in only a few hours, you'll both be back in shackles, put on auction and sold to the highest bidder. There's no telling whether you'll ever see Khalika again. Or whether either of you will still be alive a week from now... ''"Doesn't mean I regret it,"'' you add after a moment. Her eyes flick back toward you. ''"No?"'' ''"No. Just means I'd rather survive long enough to make more bad decisions later."'' That pulls a genuine smile from her. ''"There you are."'' She folds her arms beneath her chest again and peers out across the chamber, composure restored. Her voice lowers. ''"Then survive tonight first. Talk to them. Listen. Find out what they're offering, what they want, what they think they're buying. You're the man of the hour, apparently."'' ''"Lucky me."'' ''"Just like yesterday,"'' she continues, ignoring the remark. ''"Take advantage of every opening."'' You nod. ''"I'll see what I can make happen."'' [[Focus on the banquet.|chp2_privateaudience_khalika2]] <<elseif $pa_khalika_response is "cell_private_bastard">> \ ''"I want more."'' Your response comes beneath a hot breath, murmured low but firm for her ears alone. Khalika's gaze instantly locks with yours. Those big amber eyes begin to lid beneath your stare, the teasing challenge in them deepening into something more plainly hungry. Her hand remains fixed against the bulge of your crotch. You don't bother pretending indifference. Your hands find her hips. Large palms settle against the supple strength of her body, gripping through the rough cloth before sliding lower, fingers curling against the firm swell beneath. Yesterday you'd watched this woman kill beside you. Last night you'd listened to her breathe through stone while her mouth worked you in the dark. Now she's standing within reach again. You want her, simple as that. ''"Greedy,"'' Khalika murmurs. ''"You started it."'' ''"And?"'' Your grip tightens. ''"And I didn't say I wanted you to stop."'' Her lips curve, then she's against you again. The kiss is hard and immediate, nothing tentative about it. Her tusks brush your mouth; her fingers squeeze you through the fabric while your hands pull her closer. For a few reckless seconds, the noblewomen, guards and servants surrounding you cease to matter. You'd take her here if you thought you could get away with it. Judging by the tension running through Khalika's body, you're not convinced she'd stop you. But then she breaks away. Not far, her lips just a breath from yours as her attention cuts sharply past your shoulder. ''"We're being watched."'' You follow the angle of her gaze. At least one pair of eyes lingers on the two of you from within the ebb and flow of the banquet crowd. It's hardly surprising. You've spent the evening being inspected, discussed and appraised. You're an object of interest now, and in only a few hours you'll be sold to whoever finds that interest worth the most coin. ''"Mmph."'' You look back to Khalika. ''"Let them watch."'' A pleased sound escapes her throat. ''"Tempting."'' Her fingers finally release you. ''"But not here."'' ''"Later, then."'' Khalika's expression flickers. For the first time, that word carries weight. Later. Neither of you knows whether there will be one. ''"If we're lucky,"'' she says. You hold her gaze. ''"Then we'd better be lucky."'' [[Focus on the banquet.|chp2_privateaudience_khalika2]] <<elseif $pa_khalika_response is "cell_private_knight">> \ ''"Then I'm glad it happened."'' There isn't much consideration behind your response, only the truth murmured low enough for Khalika alone. Her eyes lock with yours, the playfulness in them quieting. Her hand remains pressed against you, but the touch changes; the rough squeeze loosens, her fingers resting there now more intimately than provocatively. You smile. For all the violence that brought you together, neither of you seems particularly eager to speak plainly about what happened afterward. It all moved too quickly. Yesterday, you trusted one another because an ogre would have killed you if you hadn't. Last night, separated by stone and iron with death still fresh in your blood, that trust became something hotter and considerably less sensible. It wasn't courtship, or was a promise. But it was something, and you're holding onto it. Khalika's free hand settles against your chest. Her face draws closer until the warmth of her breath touches your lips. Then she kisses you. This time there is less desperation in it. Heat, hunger and something gentler threaded underneath the plush of her tusked lips. ''"I'm glad too,"'' she breathes when your mouths part. Before you can answer, her attention shifts aside. ''"But... it seems we have an audience."'' You follow her gaze and find at least one pair of noble eyes lingering upon you from across the chamber. Of course they are; you're merchandise tonight. The whole banquet has deemed you worth watching. ''"Mmph,"'' you murmur. Khalika's thumb brushes once against your chest before she withdraws. ''"We should focus."'' ''"That we should."'' She recovers quickly, though the warmth in her expression doesn't entirely disappear. ''"Talk to anyone who seems interested. Listen to what they say. Find out what kind of opportunities they offer you. Just like yesterday - take advantage of every opening."'' ''"I'll see what I can make happen."'' [[Focus on the banquet.|chp2_privateaudience_khalika2]] <<elseif $pa_khalika_response is "nocell_exposed_cowboy">> \ ''"I'm just playing the room."'' You explain it with a low roll of your shoulder, turning your attention back toward the half-orc. ''"These nobles hold our lives in their hands. If scratching the right palms and whispering the right words helps me land somewhere better, I'll do it."'' Khalika considers that, giving a faint incline of her chin. ''"I understand."'' Her eyes drift toward the surrounding nobility. ''"And you're right to think that way. Attention can be useful."'' ''"Exactly."'' ''"Useful isn't the same thing as safe."'' There's no teasing in that part. Khalika's supple, green-toned arms shift beneath the rise of her chest as she studies the room again, wary and observant as ever. ''"You don't know who you can trust here, $name. If any of them."'' ''"Neither do you."'' ''"No."'' Her tusked lips purse. ''"Which is why I'm watching."'' A moment passes, then the corner of her mouth curls again. ''"And I saw you watching too."'' You sigh faintly, ''"We're back to that?"'' ''"We never left it."'' Her amber eyes settle upon you. ''"Which one is your favorite?"'' <<elseif $pa_khalika_response is "nocell_exposed_bastard">> \ ''"Let them look."'' Khalika raises a brow. ''"That's your answer?"'' You glance lazily toward the surrounding crowd. ''"Why shouldn't it be? They stripped me in front of half the room already. I'm not going to pretend modesty now because some noblewoman liked what she saw."'' For a moment Khalika says nothing, but then a low laugh escapes her. ''"You enjoyed it."'' ''"I've endured worse kinds of attention."'' ''"That's not a denial."'' ''"Didn't mean it as one."'' That seems to amuse her more. She shakes her head, tusked lips curled as she looks you over with an expression halfway between disbelief and approval. ''"You really are shameless."'' ''"Hasn't killed me yet."'' ''"Give it time."'' The humor fades slightly as Khalika glances toward the nobles again. ''"Still, don't mistake hunger for kindness. They can want you and still ruin you."'' ''"I know."'' ''"Good."'' Her gaze returns to you. ''"Then indulge me."'' ''"In what?"'' ''"You know exactly what."'' She inclines her chin toward the women elsewhere in the room. ''"Which one did you like?"'' <<elseif $pa_khalika_response is "nocell_exposed_knight">> \ ''"Interest doesn't mean I trust them."'' That draws some of the humor from Khalika's expression. She watches you more seriously now. ''"No,"'' she agrees. ''"It doesn't."'' Your gaze drifts across the room. ''"They can smile at me, flatter me, stare as much as they want. At the end of tonight, we're still the ones going back into chains."'' Khalika's jaw tightens slightly. ''"Exactly."'' ''"So I'll listen. I'll talk. If there's an opportunity, I'll take it."'' You look back to her. ''"But I'm not confusing attention with friendship."'' Something like approval settles over her. ''"Good."'' ''"You sound relieved."'' Khalika snorts. ''"I'd hate to see you survive the arena only to walk smiling into the hands of some wicked woman because she called you handsome."'' A smile tugs at your mouth. ''"Are you worried about me?"'' ''"Don't flatter yourself."'' She pauses. ''"Maybe a little."'' It's the closest thing to an admission you're likely to get. Her gaze shifts again toward the chamber. ''"But being careful doesn't make you blind."'' ''"Meaning?"'' The playful edge returns to her lips. ''"Meaning I still saw where you were looking."'' She meets your eyes. ''"Which one caught your attention?"'' <</if>> \ <<if $pa_khalika_response is "cell_exposed_cowboy" || $pa_khalika_response is "cell_exposed_bastard" || $pa_khalika_response is "cell_exposed_knight" || $pa_khalika_response is "nocell_exposed_cowboy" || $pa_khalika_response is "nocell_exposed_bastard" || $pa_khalika_response is "nocell_exposed_knight">> \ <a class="pa-choice-livia" data-passage="chp2_privateaudience_khalika2" data-setter="$pa_khalika_favorite = 'livia'"> Livia. She owns the room. </a> <a class="pa-choice-alesia" data-passage="chp2_privateaudience_khalika2" data-setter="$pa_khalika_favorite = 'alesia'"> Alesia. I wouldn't mind getting burned. </a> <a class="pa-choice-sibylla" data-passage="chp2_privateaudience_khalika2" data-setter="$pa_khalika_favorite = 'sibylla'"> Sibylla. She's hard to read. </a> <a class="pa-choice-none" data-passage="chp2_privateaudience_khalika2" data-setter="$pa_khalika_favorite = 'none'"> None of them. Should I say you? </a> <</if>>

<<if $pa_khalika_favorite is "sibylla">> \ ''"Sibylla,"'' you answer. ''"She's hard to read."'' ''"I see."'' Khalika's expression turns thoughtful as she looks past you, searching the banquet until she finds the dark-haired noblewoman somewhere among the surrounding crowd. ''"She does seem interesting. Calm. Calculated. Separate from the rest."'' Her amber eyes narrow slightly. ''"Don't underestimate her, $name."'' ''"Why? Are you worried about me?"'' <<if $khalikacell>> \ Khalika snorts softly, though there's a knowing curve to her tusked lips as she looks back up at you. ''"I'm protective of what's mine,"'' she murmurs. ''"And I already told you - I don't like sharing."'' ''"What's yours, hm?"'' ''"Don't make me prove the point again."'' Her gaze dips meaningfully toward your trousers before returning to your face. You can't help the faint smile that follows. <<else>> \ Khalika snorts, tusked lips curving as she looks back up into your eyes. ''"It would be a shame to see you go from the arena straight to your death at the hands of some wicked woman. That is all."'' You consider the response with a slight tilt of your lips. ''"Very touching."'' ''"Don't get used to it."'' <</if>> \ \ <<elseif $pa_khalika_favorite is "livia">> \ ''"Livia,"'' you answer. ''"She owns the room."'' ''"Oh, interesting."'' Khalika's gaze drifts toward the center of the audience chamber just yonder, where the Duchess seems to command attention whether she's speaking or not. ''"The Duchess Varro."'' There's no mockery in the way she says the title. Whatever Khalika thinks of the woman personally, she's perceptive enough to recognize power when she sees it. ''"She's dangerous in a different way,"'' Khalika continues. ''"She's a powerful woman, that much is clear. You should stay on her good side, $name."'' ''"Are you worried about me?"'' <<if $khalikacell>> \ ''"I'm protective of what's mine,"'' Khalika replies, the faintest trace of amusement warming her eyes. ''"And I don't like sharing."'' ''"You keep saying that."'' ''"Maybe you keep giving me reasons."'' Her lips curve as she studies you, apparently pleased by whatever reaction the answer earns. <<else>> \ Khalika gives a quiet snort. ''"I'd hate to see you survive an ogre just to get eaten alive by a Duchess."'' ''"That's concern if I've ever heard it."'' ''"Call it good sense."'' Her gaze shifts toward Livia once more. ''"Women like her don't need chains in their hands to keep someone exactly where they want them."'' <</if>> \ \ <<elseif $pa_khalika_favorite is "alesia">> \ ''"Alesia,"'' you answer. ''"I wouldn't mind getting burned."'' Khalika's eyebrows climb. ''"Wouldn't you?"'' ''"She's your favorite? Interesting."'' The word carries just enough skepticism to make you wonder whether you've chosen incorrectly by some private standard of Khalika's. ''"She seems... dangerous,"'' the half-orc continues. ''"The kind of woman who keeps her friends close and her enemies closer. Maybe closer still if she finds them attractive."'' You give her a sideways look. ''"You got all that from watching her?"'' ''"I watch people."'' Khalika folds her arms again. ''"It's kept me alive."'' Then her lips twitch. ''"So be careful around her, $name. Fire's pleasant enough until you're the thing burning."'' ''"Are you worried about me?"'' <<if $khalikacell>> \ Khalika's smile broadens. ''"I'm protective of what's mine."'' ''"There it is again."'' ''"And I don't like sharing."'' The challenge in her stare is unmistakable, though by now you're beginning to recognize the humor beneath it. ''"I'll keep that in mind."'' ''"You should."'' <<else>> \ She snorts, though her expression remains watchful. ''"It would be a shame to see you go from the arena straight to your death at the hands of a wicked woman. That's all."'' ''"Nothing else?"'' ''"Don't push your luck."'' The slight curve of her lips suggests that perhaps there is something else, But Khalika clearly has no intention of helping you identify it. <</if>> \ \ <<elseif $pa_khalika_favorite is "none">> \ ''"None of them,"'' you answer after a moment. Then, because the look on Khalika's face practically invites trouble, you can't help but add, ''"Should I say you?"'' For a heartbeat she simply stares. Then, her tusked lips slowly curl. <<if $khalikacell>> \ ''"That depends."'' ''"On?"'' ''"Whether you're saying it because it's true, or because you're worried about what I might do to your cock if you answer badly."'' A laugh escapes you. ''"Can't it be both?"'' Khalika shakes her head, though the flush returning faintly to her cheeks betrays how well the answer landed. Her fingers brush once against your forearm, far more restrained than where they'd been a few moments earlier. ''"You're learning. Still... probably the safest answer you've given me tonight."'' <<else>> \ A quiet laugh escapes her. ''"Flattery now?"'' ''"You asked."'' ''"I asked which noblewoman caught your eye."'' ''"And I answered."'' Khalika rolls her eyes, but the smile remains. ''"I'm not a noblewoman."'' ''"That's part of the appeal."'' That earns you a longer look than expected. ''"Careful, $name,"'' she murmurs, folding her arms beneath her chest again. ''"Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you mean it."'' <</if>> \ <</if>> \ \ <<if $pa_khalika_favorite !== "">> \ The humor between you fades only gradually. Beyond your little corner of the chamber, the banquet continues unabated: wine poured, quiet laughter shared, slaves and servants moving wherever they're directed at the beck and call of their betters. Soon enough, all of this ends and the illusion of freedom ends with it. <<if $khalikacell>> \ ''"I'm only teasing,"'' she says at last, though the possessive edge in her expression doesn't disappear entirely. ''"Mostly."'' Her voice lowers. ''"But seriously, be careful. You don't know who you can trust here, if any of them. They'll use you and discard you without a second thought if you let them, $name."'' ''"You're right. I'll be careful."'' <<else>> \ ''"Hopefully you know what you're doing,"'' Khalika murmurs. Then her expression firms. ''"But seriously, be careful. You don't know who you can trust here, if any of them. They'll use you and discard you without a second thought if you let them, $name."'' ''"You're not wrong about that."'' <</if>> \ \ ''"Good. Then go; you're the man of the hour, after all. Talk to anyone who seems interested. See what kind of opportunities you can find. Just like yesterday. Take advantage of every opening."'' A faint smile touches her tusked lips. ''"I'll see what I can make happen."'' <<elseif $pa_khalika_response is "cell_private_bastard">> \ The heat between you doesn't disappear simply because you've stepped apart. If anything, being forced to leave it unfinished makes you more aware of it. Khalika notices. Of course she does. ''"You should go,"'' she says, recovering some of her usual composure. ''"You're the man of the hour, after all. Talk to anyone who seems interested and see what kind of opportunities you can find."'' Her amber gaze drops over you once, lingering with deliberate insolence before rising again. ''"Just like yesterday. Take advantage of every opening."'' ''"Every opening?"'' The way you say it earns a sharp little smile. ''"Don't start."'' ''"You started it."'' ''"And I'll finish it later if we're lucky."'' The humor fades slightly with those final words. Khalika reaches out and catches your hand for a moment before releasing it. ''"Be careful, $name. You don't know who you can trust here. They'll use you and discard you without a second thought if you let them."'' ''"I'll remember."'' <<elseif $pa_khalika_response is "cell_private_cowboy" || $pa_khalika_response is "cell_private_knight">> \ For a few moments neither of you moves. Whatever warmth had surfaced between you remains, but the banquet is already reclaiming your attention: the surrounding voices, the noble eyes, the guards standing where they need to stand. Before you turn away, Khalika speaks again. ''"And $name?"'' You glance back. Her expression has grown serious. ''"Be careful. You don't know who you can trust here, if any of them. They'll use you and discard you without a second thought if you let them."'' ''"You're not wrong about that."'' A small nod. That's enough. <<elseif $pa_khalika_response is "nocell_private">> \ There's nothing more either of you needs to say. Khalika returns her attention to the banquet, arms folded once more, amber eyes already tracking the movement of guards and nobles throughout the chamber. Within seconds she looks much as she did when you first approached her—wary, composed, difficult to surprise. Only the faint curve lingering at one corner of her mouth suggests the conversation happened at all. You exchange one final look. <</if>> \ [[Return to the Entertainment Hall.|chp2_privateaudience_left][$pa_map.khalika = true]]

<<set $pa_alesia_first_impression = "cowboy">>\ <<gainCowboy>>\ ''"Looks like the sort of quarrel a man keeps clear of."'' You give the answer with a faint shrug, neither defending the women who just left nor volunteering yourself as Alesia's newest partisan. Whatever truth hides beneath their accusations belongs to people with estates, family names and enough coin to make their grudges everyone else's problem. You've spent enough of your life learning when trouble is worth meeting head-on and when the wiser move is simply to keep clear of it. Alesia studies you for a moment, then breaks into a low laugh. There's no offense in it. Quite the opposite; something about your refusal to leap eagerly onto either side seems to amuse her more than easy flattery would have. ''"Sensibly spoken,"'' she murmurs. ''"How terribly disappointing."'' She pushes away from the column and drifts a little closer, close enough that you catch the warm trace of perfume beneath the banquet's incense. Her eyes remain fixed upon yours, searching not for agreement so much as whatever lives behind it. <<if $dominant is "cowboy">>\ ''"That suits you. Always leaving yourself a little room to step sideways. Everyone else is so desperate to choose a banner before they've even seen who's holding the knife."'' <<elseif $dominant is "bastard">>\ Her smile turns knowing. ''"Interesting. I expected something bloodier from you."'' One dark brow rises. ''"Perhaps you've learned that showing every tooth at once makes a man terribly easy to read."'' <<elseif $dominant is "knight">>\ ''"Practical,''" she says, drawing the word out as though trying its taste. ''"Coming from you, almost suspiciously so. I would have expected a declaration about fairness, virtue, perhaps the sacred dignity of women who travel in packs."'' <<else>>\ ''"Careful,"'' she says. ''"Keep speaking like that and someone might mistake you for a man with good sense."'' <</if>> \ <<if $pa_livia_court_response is "control">>\ Her gaze narrows with fresh amusement. ''"First you let Livia's little court exhaust itself against your patience, and now you refuse to climb into my quarrel. You do enjoy making people work for a reaction."'' <<elseif $pa_livia_court_response is "fuckit">>\ Alesia's lips twitch. ''"Though I heard you were rather less cautious around Livia's court. So perhaps you don't avoid trouble at all. Perhaps you're merely selective."'' <</if>> \ \ ''"Still,"'' she continues, settling one hand against her hip, ''"There's a difference between staying clear of someone else's fire and being afraid of heat. I haven't decided which applies to you yet."'' Her eyes drift once over you, not lingering enough to become another inspection, but with enough appreciation to make the intention plain before returning to your face. ''"That's not an insult, by the way."'' ''"Men who rush toward every open flame tend to become very brief acquaintances."'' There's something almost approving in that last observation. Alesia doesn't seem to require that you agree with her, nor even that you admire her. If anything, the absence of either appears to have made her more interested. She glances toward the place where the noblewomen disappeared, then back to you. ''"But you //were// listening. And now you're wondering how much of what they said was true."'' Her smile slowly returns. ''"Go on, then. Ask."'' [["What exactly were they accusing House Cosmas of?"|chp2_privateaudience_alesia_cosmas]] <<ci lore>> [["Why do they call you the Firestarter?"|chp2_privateaudience_alesia_firestarter]] <<ci dialogue>> [["How do you know Duchess Livia?"|chp2_privateaudience_alesia_livia]] <<ci dialogue>>

<<set $pa_alesia_first_impression = "bastard">>\ <<gainBastard>>\ ''"Sounds like they're afraid of you."'' You don't bother disguising the conclusion. Whatever indignation those women carried into the exchange, fear had been there beneath it; not the wide-eyed panic of someone facing a blade, but the quieter instinct of people accustomed to power who have encountered something they cannot comfortably control. Their anger sharpened whenever Alesia smiled, and their courage lasted precisely as long as there were three of them standing together. Alesia's expression changes by degrees. The amusement remains, but her eyes sharpen upon you with a more deliberate interest. ''"Mmph. There you are."'' She closes some of the distance between you, slow and utterly at ease, the black lace at her hips shifting softly with each step. ''"Most men in your position would tell me what they thought I wanted to hear. Beautiful woman, wealthy family, dangerous reputation..."'' Her lips curl. ''"They'd call those women jealous and hope I rewarded them for discovering my obvious superiority."'' Alesia gives a small roll of one shoulder. ''"Boring."'' <<if $dominant is "bastard">>\ ''"You, at least, understand the useful part."'' Her gaze holds yours. ''"Fear is information. So is envy. So is the moment someone begins speaking more loudly because they no longer trust what will happen if the room goes quiet."'' <<elseif $dominant is "cowboy">>\ ''"That's a sharper answer than I expected from you,"'' she says. ''"Usually you look at trouble as though you're already calculating the nearest door. Perhaps you notice more on the way out than people give you credit for."'' <<elseif $dominant is "knight">>\ ''"Careful, love."'' Her smile becomes almost wicked. ''"That sounded dangerously close to approval. I'd hate to discover all that stern principle merely needed the right villainess to corrupt it."'' <<else>>\ ''"At least you were watching the right thing,"'' she says. ''"Words are cheap. Watch who loses their nerve."'' <</if>> \ <<if $pa_exposure_reaction is "praise">>\ Her eyes travel briefly over you, recalling another kind of appraisal. ''"You handled being looked at rather well earlier. Now I see you know how to look back. That's rarer."'' <<elseif $pa_exposure_reaction is "tease">>\ A quiet laugh slips from her. ''"And here I thought our teasing earlier might have bruised your pride. Apparently not. Good. A fragile ego is such an exhausting thing to own."'' <</if>> \ You feel the implication in that final word, whether she intended to sharpen it or not. Around you, the banquet continues in polished fragments: cups touching, fabric whispering across marble, guards standing rigid while wealthy people laugh beneath painted ceilings. Alesia seems perfectly at home within all of it, but there is something in the way she watches the room that makes her feel less like one of its ornaments and more like someone assessing where the walls are weakest. ''"They're right to be afraid of some things,"'' she says after a moment. ''"Probably wrong about others. People become terribly creative when they cannot prove what they want to believe."'' You raise a brow. ''"That's not much of a denial."'' ''"I didn't offer one."'' The response comes instantly. Her grin widens at the look it draws from you. ''"Besides, denials are wasted on people who arrived hoping to be scandalized. If I swore House Cosmas had never dirtied its hands, they'd call me a liar. If I confessed to half the things whispered about us, they'd call me a monster.''" She leans slightly closer, lowering her voice. ''"Much more entertaining to let them wonder."'' The confidence in it is difficult to separate from provocation. Perhaps that is deliberate. ''"You look as though you're wondering too,"'' she adds. ''"So ask me something worth answering."'' [["What exactly were they accusing House Cosmas of?"|chp2_privateaudience_alesia_cosmas]] <<ci lore>> [["Why do they call you the Firestarter?"|chp2_privateaudience_alesia_firestarter]] <<ci dialogue>> [["How do you know Duchess Livia?"|chp2_privateaudience_alesia_livia]] <<ci dialogue>>

<<set $pa_alesia_first_impression = "knight">>\ <<gainKnight>>\ ''"Three against one doesn't make them right."'' The words leave you plainly. You know nothing of House Cosmas beyond rumors, appearances and the woman standing before you now; certainly not enough to declare her innocent. But you've known enough crowds, gangs and frightened men to understand that agreement grows cheap when everyone involved wants the same person condemned. For the first time since calling you over, Alesia goes almost still. Then her mouth bends into a slow smile: ''"Oh, that's interesting."'' She turns slightly, resting one shoulder against the marble column as she considers you. Her posture loosens, but the attention behind those dark eyes only deepens. ''"Not //I'm innocent.// Not //they're jealous.// You don't even know whether I deserve defending."'' ''"I don't."'' Alesia laughs softly. ''"Good. I might have had to think less of you."'' <<if $dominant is "knight">>\ ''"There it is,"'' she murmurs, almost to herself. ''"That little line you keep drawing through everything. Right. Wrong. Earned. Unearned. I wonder how many times Cradle can step across it before you stop redrawing it."'' <<elseif $dominant is "bastard">>\ Her eyes narrow with playful suspicion. ''"Now //that// I didn't expect from you. Don't tell me there's a magistrate hiding underneath all those sharper instincts. It would ruin the mystery."'' <<elseif $dominant is "cowboy">>\ ''"And here I thought you'd wisely declare the whole thing none of your concern."'' Her smile flickers. ''"Perhaps even a drifter picks a side when the odds offend him enough."'' <<else>>\ ''"Principled,"'' she says. ''"Or stubborn. The difference usually depends on who survives long enough to write the account."'' <</if>> \ <<if $pa_exposure_reaction is "tease">>\ Her gaze drops briefly toward your chest, then rises again with a flash of remembered mischief. ''"Still standing up straight after being laughed at earlier too. Good. I was worried we might have wounded you."'' <<elseif $pa_exposure_reaction is "praise">>\ Alesia's expression warms with open appreciation. ''"So the impressive package came with convictions. Dangerous combination."'' <</if>> \ She uncrosses her ankles and steps away from the column. ''"But tell me this, $name. If every accusation they made were true, if House Cosmas had bought silence, broken debtors, moved goods beneath closed gates and buried more than one inconvenient problem... would the three of them become right merely because I was guilty?"'' The question is delivered lightly, but there is a hook beneath it. You can feel her testing the shape of your answer before you've given one. ''"They'd be right about what happened,"'' you say. ''"Not because there were three of them saying it."'' Something flashes behind her eyes. Approval, perhaps, though with Alesia it carries the dangerous quality of a predator discovering that the animal opposite her has not fled. ''"Very good."'' She lets the words settle between you before glancing toward the vanished noblewomen. ''"You'd be amazed how few people in rooms like this understand the distinction. Truth becomes whatever enough important mouths agree to repeat, and innocence becomes whatever enough coin can afford to defend."'' Her tone contains no outrage. If anything, she sounds entertained by the arrangement. ''"House Cosmas has survived because we don't confuse reputation with virtue—or accusations with proof. Sometimes our enemies lie. Sometimes they don't.''" Her dark-red hair slides over one shoulder as she looks back at you. ''"The useful question is usually why they're talking now."'' There's substantially more beneath that statement than she intends to give away for free. Alesia notices you considering it and smiles. ''"Go on,"'' she says. ''"You didn't defend me. You defended the argument. That earns you one question before I decide whether you're terribly admirable or terribly irritating."'' [["What exactly were they accusing House Cosmas of?"|chp2_privateaudience_alesia_cosmas]] <<ci lore>> [["Why do they call you the Firestarter?"|chp2_privateaudience_alesia_firestarter]] <<ci dialogue>> [["How do you know Duchess Livia?"|chp2_privateaudience_alesia_livia]] <<ci dialogue>>

<<set $pa_alesia_asked_cosmas = true>>\ ''"What exactly were they accusing House Cosmas of?"'' Alesia's smile shifts almost imperceptibly. Not wider exactly, but more genuine, as though you've finally chosen a subject worth the breath required to answer it. She glances toward the court where her three detractors disappeared into the greater banquet, then settles more comfortably against the marble column beside you. ''"Spice, mostly."'' The answer comes so simply that you almost expect something more elaborate to follow immediately. Instead she watches your face, apparently entertained by the possibility that the single word might mean little to you. Of course you've heard of spice. Everyone in the Third Quarter has. The name covers half a hundred powders, resins, dried leaves, oils and crystallized extracts; some swallowed, some smoked and snorted, some steeped into drink or rubbed beneath the tongue. One might keep a dockworker awake through a second shift, another deaden pain, another loosen the limbs and thoughts alike until music becomes something you can almost touch. There are spices sold openly from respectable apothecaries and others passed beneath tavern tables in paper twists no larger than a fingernail. What you've never had reason to know is how much of it climbs upward. ''"People speak of the spice trade as though it's one thing,"'' Alesia continues. ''"It isn't. Some varieties are barely more scandalous than strong wine. Others have been forbidden badly enough to get a Third Quarter peddler flogged for carrying a pouch of them.''" Her eyes brighten. ''"The amusing part is that the law tends to become much more philosophical once the same pouch reaches a nobleman's supper table."'' <<if $dominant is "cowboy">>\ That sounds familiar enough. The city has always had two sets of rules: the ones written down, and the ones you learn by watching who actually gets punished. You give a small shrug. ''"So it was illegal until someone rich wanted it."'' Alesia points one lacquered nail at you as though you've solved a particularly charming riddle. ''"See? You understand commerce already."'' <<elseif $dominant is "bastard">>\ You give a faint snort. ''"So the poor get dragged off for selling it, while the rich get to call it an acquired taste."'' ''"More or less."'' Alesia's grin sharpens. ''"Though if the poor become rich enough, everyone very graciously forgets which side of the exchange they began on."'' <<elseif $dominant is "knight">>\ Your mouth tightens. ''"Then the law isn't much of a law."'' ''"Oh, it is,''" Alesia replies. ''"It simply knows who paid to have it written."'' There is no bitterness in her voice, only the effortless certainty of someone describing gravity. ''"You keep expecting hypocrisy to embarrass people, love. That's going to make the First Quarter endlessly educational."'' <</if>> \ She turns her goblet slowly between two fingers, though you don't remember seeing her acquire one. ''"House Cosmas was dealing in spice long before the magistrates decided which varieties respectable people were permitted to enjoy. We already had the bones of the trade when other houses decided it was fashionable to pretend they had discovered it."'' The way she says //we// catches your attention. There's none of the detached ignorance you've come to expect from people born above the streets they profit from. Alesia may not have lifted crates herself, but she knows where they move. ''"When restrictions tightened, demand didn't vanish. Goods rarely become less desirable because some clerk stamps a prohibition on parchment. Usually they become more expensive."'' Her lips curl. ''"So our ships continued sailing. Our warehouses continued filling and emptying. Certain manifests became less elaborate about their contents. Select officials developed very generous interpretations of inspection law."'' ''"Smuggling,"'' you say. Alesia tilts her head. ''"Such an ugly word."'' ''"Is it wrong?"'' ''"Sometimes."'' She takes an unhurried sip. ''"A crate is perfectly legal when it leaves one dock, questionable when it crosses another, and fashionable again by the time it reaches a salon. If you'd like me to apologize for failing to respect every magistrate's temporary opinion on dried flowers and powdered roots, you'll be waiting a very long time."'' Her amusement fades only slightly as she continues. ''"The market has opened considerably in recent years. Restrictions eased. Licenses multiplied. Noble physicians suddenly remembered medicinal uses they'd somehow forgotten during the years everyone was buying the same substances discreetly.''" She gives another tiny shrug. ''"Very fortunate for House Cosmas. We already owned the ships, the warehouses, the contacts and the routes."'' For a moment, that sounds almost mundane. Profitable, certainly, and crooked around the edges, but hardly enough to explain the way those women looked at Alesia. Ships and warehouses don't make debtors vanish. Relaxed trade laws don't leave people whispering a family's name beneath jeweled fans... You study her for another moment. Alesia notices. ''"What?"'' she asks, already smiling as though she knows exactly what remains unsaid. [["That explains the spice. It doesn't explain the disappearances."|chp2_privateaudience_alesia_cosmas1]] <<ci dialogue>>

<<set $pa_alesia_asked_firestarter = true>>\ ''"Why do they call you the Firestarter?"'' Alesia's brows rise, and for a moment she looks genuinely delighted by the question. She lowers her goblet from her lips, turning it lazily between her fingers as though considering whether to give you the respectable answer or the one she'd rather tell. ''"You think I burn things?"'' ''"The thought crossed my mind."'' Her laugh comes low and warm. ''"Not often enough to earn a title from it."'' She shifts against the marble column, crossing one ankle over the other. The movement looks idle, but her attention remains fixed upon you. ''"No. Firestarter came later. Though I admit I've grown rather fond of it."'' <<if $dominant is "cowboy">>\ You glance toward the court where her earlier audience scattered. ''"Let me guess. You have a habit of making peaceful rooms less peaceful."'' Alesia gives you an approving little look. ''"See? You're learning me already."'' ''"Wasn't exactly hidden."'' ''"Neither are most things once someone bothers looking."'' <<elseif $dominant is "bastard">>\ You study the pleased curve of her mouth. ''"You start fights."'' ''"Sometimes. Though 'start' gives everyone else far too much innocence."'' ''"So you just give them permission?"'' ''"Oh, I like that better."'' <<elseif $dominant is "knight">>\ Your gaze lingers on her. ''"You provoke people."'' ''"Such an ugly way to say it."'' ''"Is it wrong?"'' That earns you a grin. ''"Annoyingly? No."'' <</if>>\ She lets the goblet rest against her thigh. ''"People spend an extraordinary amount of effort pretending nothing is wrong. Husbands smile beside wives they despise. Merchants drink with men they're trying to ruin. Noble houses sign agreements while each waits for the other to stumble. They tolerate uneasy peace, too complacent and weak to take action."'' Her expression grows thoughtful without losing its amusement. ''"I've never had much patience for that sort of mundane living."'' Alesia lifts one hand between you, pinching her thumb and forefinger together as though holding something very small. ''"Sometimes all it takes is this much. One question asked where everyone can hear it. A rumor repeated to the person it was actually about. A bold wager, or a truth spoken half a cup earlier than good manners would advise."'' Her fingers separate. ''"Then suddenly everyone is being honest."'' <<if $dominant is "cowboy">>\ You give a faint shake of your head. ''"Sounds like an excellent way to make a lot of enemies."'' ''"Enemies are wonderfully clarifying."'' Alesia doesn't hesitate. ''"Friends can lie to you for years. An enemy usually tells you exactly where you stand."'' <<elseif $dominant is "bastard">>\ ''"And while everyone's angry, you find out what they actually want,"'' you say. Alesia's eyes brighten. ''"Exactly."'' She points toward you with the rim of her goblet. ''"Pressure makes people wonderfully simple. Greed. Fear. Pride. Lust. Strip away the manners and there usually isn't much mystery left."'' <<elseif $dominant is "knight">>\ ''"You could also leave them alone,"'' you say. ''"Let people settle their own quarrels."'' ''"And deprive them of such valuable self-knowledge?"'' Alesia presses a hand lightly to her chest in mock offense before her smile softens. ''"Besides, if a single question can destroy the peace between two people, love, there wasn't much peace there to begin with."'' <</if>>\ The surrounding banquet seems almost designed to prove her point. Everywhere you look, wealth has polished conflict until it gleams: smiles over old grudges, embraces between competitors, servants carrying wine between people who would happily bankrupt one another by morning. Alesia watches it all without the reverence people here seem to expect from someone born among them. ''"That's the part they never forgive me for,"'' she says. ''"People like blaming the spark. It's easier than asking why the whole room was soaked in oil."'' There's enough satisfaction in her voice that you suspect she has used the phrase before. ''"So that's all it is?"'' you ask. ''"You expose people?"'' ''"Oh, don't make me sound virtuous."'' The answer comes quickly enough to pull a laugh from you. Alesia grins. ''"Sometimes I do it because something needs exposing. Sometimes because someone deserves the trouble. Sometimes because I want to see what happens."'' She gives an unapologetic shrug. ''"Curiosity is one of my less respectable appetites."'' <<if $pa_alesia_first_impression is "cowboy">>\ Her eyes narrow playfully upon you. ''"That's why your answer earlier interested me. You saw the fire and immediately started looking for somewhere else to stand. Sensible men are fun to tempt precisely because they know better."'' <<elseif $pa_alesia_first_impression is "bastard">>\ Her gaze lingers on you with obvious amusement. ''"That's why your answer earlier interested me. You didn't care whether they liked me or hated me."'' ''"You noticed they were afraid. Fear is wonderfully honest. People can dress spite in silk and call it dignity, but fear usually points straight at whatever matters."'' <<elseif $pa_alesia_first_impression is "knight">>\ She tilts her head. ''"And you... you looked at three women accusing one and decided the numbers didn't settle the truth. That makes me wonder how long your principles survive once the truth becomes inconvenient."'' <</if>>\ There's something almost experimental in the way she says it. Not cruel, exactly. Alesia doesn't seem interested in breaking things simply to watch them suffer. She wants to know what they contain once the seams split and their core is exposed. ''"People are most interesting when something pushes them out of the shape they've chosen for themselves,"'' she continues. ''"A coward discovers courage. A loyal man discovers his price. A saint discovers an appetite.''" Her dark eyes settle fully upon yours. ''"Sometimes you don't know what a person is until the comfortable answer stops being an option."'' The words sit differently coming from her. Less like philosophy and more like experience. You glance toward the vanished noblewomen. ''"And them?"'' Alesia follows your gaze, her smile returning. ''"Them?''" She takes another sip. ''"They already knew what they were."'' You snort despite yourself. ''"So,''" she says, lowering the goblet again, ''"That's your answer. I don't wander Cradle setting fire to curtains. I just have a talent for noticing when everyone is standing in a room full of kindling."'' Her gaze returns to you, lingering with unmistakable interest. ''"And every now and then, I strike a match."'' For a moment, the metaphor feels pointed in a way you can't quite place. Alesia seems perfectly content to let you wonder. ''"What else are you curious about?"'' [[You turn the conversation elsewhere.|chp2_privateaudience_alesia_hub]] <<ci onward>>

<<set $pa_alesia_asked_livia = true>>\ ''"How do you know Duchess Livia?"'' Alesia's expression softens in a way the previous subjects never quite managed. It isn't dramatic; the mischief remains in her eyes and the corner of her mouth still threatens a smile, but some of the performance falls away. She follows your glance toward the deeper reaches of the Audience Court, where House Varro's colors hang above marble and silk and half the room seems to orbit the Duchess whether she acknowledges it or not. <<if $pa_map.livia is true>>\ You've already stood before Livia yourself, close enough to learn that her languor is deceptive. She rarely moves quickly, rarely raises her voice, and somehow leaves everyone around her doing twice the work, as might be expected. <<else>>\ You've seen enough of Livia from across the banquet to understand that the room belongs to her in more ways than ownership of the estate. She barely seems to exert herself, yet conversations bend around her, servants anticipate her attention, and nobles keep one eye trained in her direction even while pretending otherwise. <</if>> \ ''"Our families have known one another for years,"'' Alesia says. ''"Longer than Livia and I have been old enough to make trouble with the introduction."'' She takes another small drink, considering the memory with visible amusement. ''"Varro has influence, land, clients, soldiers, old names attached to older doors. Cosmas has ships, warehouses, merchants, and a habit of finding whatever road still works after everyone else has declared the journey impossible. You can imagine why our houses occasionally find reasons to share a table."'' ''"Business, then."'' ''"Originally.''" The speed of the answer draws your attention back to her. Alesia smiles. ''"Don't look so disappointed. Nobles are allowed friends, $name. We simply inherit the introductions first and decide whether we actually like one another afterward."'' <<if $dominant is "cowboy">>\ You glance again toward Livia's court. ''"And you decided you did?"'' ''"Eventually."'' Alesia's smile turns fondly exasperated. ''"She's infuriatingly difficult to rattle. Do you know how tedious it is to provoke someone who finds the attempt entertaining?"'' ''"Sounds exhausting."'' ''"For me, perhaps. Livia barely has to move."'' <<elseif $dominant is "bastard">>\ ''"So Varro opens doors and Cosmas knows what to move through them,"'' you say. Alesia gives you an amused sideways look. ''"You do enjoy reducing people to leverage."'' ''"Am I wrong?"'' ''"Not entirely. Which is why it's irritating."'' She rolls the goblet between her fingers. ''"But if it were only business, I wouldn't still drink with her when there was nothing to gain."'' <<elseif $dominant is "knight">>\ ''"You trust her?"'' you ask. Alesia pauses just long enough to suggest she takes the question seriously. ''"As much as I trust anyone powerful enough to ruin me elegantly."'' Her grin returns before the answer can become too solemn. ''"Which, coming from me, is practically devotion."'' <</if>>\ She looks toward Livia again. ''"The thing about her is that she doesn't bore easily, but she //does// bore deeply. There's a difference."'' Alesia traces one nail around the lip of her cup. ''"Most people with that much money and authority surround themselves with agreement. They pay for admiration until they can no longer tell whether anyone in the room has an original thought."'' Her eyes flick back to you. ''"Livia collects the opposite."'' That word catches. ''"Collects?"'' ''"People, stories, talents. Problems, occasionally.''" Alesia's smile grows. ''"Anything that reacts in a way she didn't predict. She already owns more beautiful things than anyone could appreciate properly, so beauty alone doesn't hold her attention for long."'' ''"Surprise her, though...''" She lets the thought trail away, and from the way she studies you afterward, you suspect the unfinished sentence isn't entirely about Livia. <<if $pa_livia_court_response is "control">>\ ''"You understood that rather quickly, actually,"'' she adds. ''"You stood in front of her little court and kept yourself measured while everyone waited to see what they'd pull out of you. Livia notices restraint when it costs something."'' <<elseif $pa_livia_court_response is "fuckit">>\ Alesia's mouth curls. ''"You gave her something to enjoy earlier, by the way. Most slaves brought before a Duchess discover humility with astonishing speed. You decided to test how much room there was instead."'' She gives a quiet laugh, watching you. ''"Livia likes discovering the edges of things."'' <</if>>\ \ ''"And you?"'' you ask. ''"What does she like about you?"'' Alesia laughs outright. ''"My restraint."'' You stare at her. She manages to hold the lie for perhaps two heartbeats before breaking into another laugh. ''"Gods, your face."'' Alesia composes herself, though the pleasure never fully leaves her expression. ''"No. Livia understands me. That's rarer than liking me. She knows I enjoy pushing things until they move, and she doesn't mistake that for stupidity. I know she enjoys control, and I don't mistake that for caution."'' Her gaze drifts once more toward the Duchess's distant court. ''"We disagree often. We've competed before. Our families have wanted different things, and I'm certain they will again. None of that requires pretending the affection isn't real."'' She gives a slight shrug. ''"People in rooms like this become so frightened of mixed motives. They want everything to be love or business, loyalty or self-interest, friendship or convenience. Usually it's all of them at once."'' There's a bluntness to the observation that sounds very much like her. ''"Besides,''" she adds, ''"Livia knows how to host a proper banquet, keeps excellent wine, and has never once asked me to become more respectable. That covers a remarkable number of sins."'' You glance toward the Duchess, then back to Alesia. ''"So you're friends."'' ''"Yes."'' For once, she leaves the answer uncomplicated. Then the familiar spark returns to her eyes. ''"Though if you ever repeat how sweetly I said that, I'll deny the entire conversation and have someone throw you in a canal."'' <<if $dominant is "cowboy">>\ ''"Didn't hear a thing."'' ''"See? This is why I like practical men."'' <<elseif $dominant is "bastard">>\ ''"I'd charge you for my silence."'' Alesia grins. ''"Careful. Keep talking like a Cosmas and somebody might put you to work."'' <<elseif $dominant is "knight">>\ ''"Your secret is safe, Countess."'' ''"How gallant."'' Her eyes narrow with playful suspicion. ''"Now I'm definitely worried."'' <</if>>\ She raises the goblet again, lingering over you for another moment before taking a sip. ''"What else are you curious about?"'' [[You turn the conversation elsewhere.|chp2_privateaudience_alesia_hub]] <<ci onward>>

The conversation settles easily back into the noise of the Audience Court. Around you, servants weave between marble columns with trays balanced at shoulder height while nobles drift from one whispered exchange to another, every smile concealing some private calculation. Alesia seems in no hurry to rejoin any of it. She remains beside you with one hip resting lightly against the column, attention fixed upon you with evident ease. <<if $pa_alesia_asked_cosmas && $pa_alesia_asked_firestarter && $pa_alesia_asked_livia>>\ By now you've worked your way through the obvious questions: the rumors clinging to House Cosmas, the name people have given her, even the nature of her place beside Duchess Livia. Alesia appears perfectly aware of it. Her dark eyes linger on yours while the faint curl at one corner of her mouth suggests she is waiting to see where your curiosity goes once there is nowhere safer left to direct it. ''"Well?"'' she murmurs. ''"You've been very interested in everyone around me. My family, reputation, friends."'' Her gaze slips slowly over your face before settling there again. ''"Surely you're not finished."'' [["Why are you so interested in me?"|chp2_privateaudience_alesia1]] <<ci dialogue>> <<else>>\ Alesia lets the last answer hang for a moment before lifting one shoulder in a languid little shrug. There is none of Livia's measured patience in her manner; she seems less like a noblewoman granting an audience than someone genuinely curious to see what you dare ask next. The distinction is slight, but you feel it. ''"Go on, then,"'' she says, amusement warming her voice. ''"You still look curious."'' <<if not $pa_alesia_asked_cosmas>>\ [["What exactly were they accusing House Cosmas of?"|chp2_privateaudience_alesia_cosmas]] <<ci lore>> <</if>>\ <<if not $pa_alesia_asked_firestarter>>\ [["Why do they call you the Firestarter?"|chp2_privateaudience_alesia_firestarter]] <<ci dialogue>> <</if>>\ <<if not $pa_alesia_asked_livia>>\ [["How do you know Duchess Livia?"|chp2_privateaudience_alesia_livia]] <<ci dialogue>> <</if>> <</if>>

''"Why are you so interested in me?"'' For the first time since you began questioning her, Alesia doesn't answer immediately. The change is subtle. Her smile remains, but the easy amusement behind it settles into something quieter as she studies you over the rim of her goblet. You've asked about her family, her reputation, even the woman whose hall surrounds you, circling every subject except the one standing directly between the two of you. Now that you've finally put words to it, she seems almost pleased that you made her wait. ''"There it is,"'' she murmurs. She lowers the cup and pushes away from the column, closing some of the space between you. ''"I was wondering how long you'd spend asking about everyone else before curiosity finally became vanity."'' <<if $dominant is "cowboy">>\ You give her a dry look. ''"Could still be curiosity."'' ''"Of course.''" Her mouth curls. ''"And I'm sure the distinction is very important to you."'' <<elseif $dominant is "bastard">>\ ''"Took you long enough to admit it,"'' you say. Alesia laughs softly. ''"There. That's more like you."'' <<elseif $dominant is "knight">>\ ''"It's a fair question."'' ''"Mmph. You would make attraction sound like a point of law."'' Her eyes brighten. ''"Fine, counselor. I'll answer."'' <</if>>\ Her gaze moves over you openly now, without the slightest attempt at courtesy. It begins at your face, follows the line of your shoulders and chest, then returns with deliberate leisure to meet your eyes. ''"Let's dispose of the obvious answer first. I like looking at you."'' <<if $pa_exposure_reaction is "praise">>\ The memory of the inspection hangs between you without needing explanation. Alesia had made little effort to disguise her approval then, and she seems even less interested in doing so now. ''"I thought I'd been fairly clear about that already,"'' she adds. <<elseif $pa_exposure_reaction is "tease">>\ A mischievous glint enters her eyes. ''"Even when you made it terribly easy to tease you earlier."'' Her lips twitch. ''"Especially then, perhaps. A handsome man who survives being laughed at is much more useful than one who needs applause every time he undresses."'' <<else>>\ ''"You survived inspection without becoming nearly as interesting as some of the women hoped,"'' she says. ''"Fortunately, you've improved considerably since opening your mouth."'' <</if>>\ She steps nearer still, close enough now that her perfume cuts cleanly through the incense and wine of the banquet. One long-nailed finger rises and traces, without quite touching, the line where your shoulder meets your chest. ''"But beautiful bodies aren't rare in rooms like this. Expensive ones certainly aren't."'' Her eyes lift back to yours. ''"Livia could fill this hall with perfect faces before supper and be bored of half of them by eclipse."'' The nail finally makes contact, light against the fabric covering your chest. ''"What interests me is everything underneath.''" <<if $pa_alesia_first_impression is "cowboy">>\ ''"You saw a quarrel full of rank, rumors and wounded pride and decided the clever thing was keeping your hands out of it. That's sensible.''" Her finger makes a small, idle circle against you. ''"But you didn't leave. You watched. You listened. Men who know when not to step into a fight tend to notice when the right one comes along."'' <<elseif $pa_alesia_first_impression is "bastard">>\ ''"You watched three noblewomen spit venom at me and noticed the fear before anything else. Not the dresses, not the insults, not whether I deserved them.''" Her smile sharpens. ''"That's the sort of instinct people either learn very young or pay dearly to acquire later."'' <<elseif $pa_alesia_first_impression is "knight">>\ ''"You refused to call me innocent just because three women behaved badly. You cared about whether their judgment was earned.''" Alesia tilts her head. ''"Principles are common when they're convenient, $name. I become interested when a man insists on carrying his after they've started costing him something."'' <</if>>\ You hold her gaze. ''"So I'm interesting."'' ''"At the moment."'' The answer is immediate enough to make you almost laugh. Alesia's grin widens. ''"Don't look wounded. Interest that has to be promised forever is just another form of politeness, and we've established how little patience I have for that."'' Her finger drifts slowly downward before stopping near the center of your chest. ''"You fought in the arena. You stood naked before people deciding what you were worth. You've been inspected, mocked, praised, threatened with ownership, and somehow you still speak as though your thoughts belong to you."'' For once, her teasing fades almost entirely. ''"That's interesting."'' <<if $dominant is "cowboy">>\ ''"Most men in chains begin looking for someone else to tell them what freedom ought to look like. You don't.''" Her eyes narrow slightly. ''"You keep searching for space."'' <<elseif $dominant is "bastard">>\ ''"Most men deprived of power become desperate to please whoever has it. You keep measuring where you might take some back.''" Her smile returns, faint and dangerous. ''"I respect appetite when it has teeth."'' <<elseif $dominant is "knight">>\ ''"Most men discover principles after they're safe enough to afford them. You seem stubborn enough to carry yours into places where they'll get you hurt.''" Alesia's voice lowers. ''"I haven't decided whether that's admirable or foolish. Perhaps both."'' <</if>>\ Around you, the banquet continues without noticing that the exchange has changed. Servants pass with lowered heads. Somewhere behind the drapery, laughter rises and dies. The Duchess's court carries on beneath its banners while Alesia stands close enough that the rest of it begins to feel peripheral. ''"And then there's the final reason,"'' she says. You raise a brow. Alesia's thumb joins the finger resting against your chest, lightly catching the fabric between them. ''"I think you might be useful."'' The frankness of it is so perfectly her that it almost feels more intimate than flattery. ''"Useful how?"'' ''"There you go again."'' Her laugh is quieter now. ''"Always wanting the second answer before you've finished enjoying the first."'' She releases your shirt, though she doesn't retreat. ''"House Cosmas has enough men who can carry boxes, frighten shopkeepers and swing clubs on command. Those aren't difficult to find."'' Her gaze travels over you once more, slower this time. ''"A man who can be looked at and underestimated in the same breath? A man with enough presence to attract attention and enough sense to understand what everyone else is doing while they stare?''" Her lips curl. ''"That can be considerably harder."'' Something in the wording catches at you. ''"You already have something in mind."'' Alesia smiles; neither confirmation, nor denial. Just that same infuriating pleasure she takes whenever you discover another edge of the game before she intended to show it. ''"Maybe."'' She leans closer, her voice lowering into something meant for you alone. ''"But we've spent enough time talking about why I find you interesting."'' Her eyes slip briefly toward your mouth before returning to yours. ''"I think I'd rather find out whether the feeling is mutual."'' <<if $dominant is "cowboy" or $pa_alesia_first_impression is "cowboy">>\ [["You want a reaction? You'll have to work harder than that."|chp2_privateaudience_alesia1_cowboy]] <<ci cowboy archetype>> <<else>>\ <span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="That kind of cool detachment doesn't come naturally to you.">"You want a reaction? You'll have to work harder than that."</span> <<ci cowboy archetype>> <</if>>\ <<if $dominant is "bastard" or $pa_alesia_first_impression is "bastard">>\ [["If you're going to tempt me, don't stop halfway."|chp2_privateaudience_alesia1_bastard]] <<ci bastard archetype>> <<else>>\ <span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="You haven't shown her that kind of hunger.">"If you're going to tempt me, don't stop halfway."</span> <<ci bastard archetype>> <</if>>\ <<if $dominant is "knight" or $pa_alesia_first_impression is "knight">>\ [["Wanting you doesn't mean you get to steer me."|chp2_privateaudience_alesia1_knight]] <<ci knight archetype>> <<else>>\ <span class="option-locked" data-tooltip="That kind of principled restraint doesn't fit the man she's seen so far.">"Wanting you doesn't mean you get to steer me."</span> <<ci knight archetype>> <</if>>

There's pride in that, though not the ceremonial pride you've heard from nobles discussing bloodlines and ancestors. Hers is closer to satisfaction in a machine that kept turning while other people argued over whether it should exist in the first place. ''"The problem,''" she says, ''"is that Cradle doesn't stop at the Second Quarter."'' Her gaze drifts beyond you, toward the servants passing silently through the hall. ''"A merchant can sell expensive spice to a physician, a salon, a pleasure house, a minor lord. That part is tidy. Ledgers, seals, couriers who wash their hands.''" Her fingers make a small walking motion against the stem of her cup. ''"But there are tens of thousands of mouths below them, and they want the same things. Something to dull pain. Something to keep them awake. Something to make an ugly night beautiful for a few hours."'' You know that world considerably better. ''"House Cosmas doesn't keep silk-clad cousins standing on alley corners in Undertown,"'' she says, catching the thought before you voice it. ''"There are brokers. Smaller merchants. Tavern keepers, street sellers. And beneath those, gangs with enough territory and muscle to move goods where respectable merchants would lose the shipment and their shoes."'' <<if $dominant is "cowboy">>\ You picture familiar alleys, back rooms, men who never seem to own anything yet always know exactly who owes what. Suddenly the distance between this marble court and Undertown feels smaller than it did a moment ago. <<elseif $dominant is "bastard">>\ That part of the arrangement makes immediate sense. The noble house keeps its name several hands away from the street while everyone beneath takes a cut large enough to remain loyal. Power descending in layers, coin climbing back up. <<elseif $dominant is "knight">>\ Your expression hardens slightly. You know what happens when wealthy people conduct business through men whose authority begins and ends with fear. Alesia notices, but does not look away. <</if>> \ ''"And that's where things become less pretty,"'' she admits. The words are casual, but for once she doesn't dress them in a joke. ''"Spice is profitable because people want it. It becomes dangerous because people often want more than they can afford. A pleasure-house proprietor buys on credit. A soldier promises payment after wages. A minor lord decides his name should be collateral enough. A gang loses three bundles and insists they were stolen rather than sold.''" Her fingers tighten once around the goblet. ''"Eventually someone has to explain that a debt does not stop existing simply because the person who owes it has become uncomfortable."'' ''"And Cosmas explains it."'' ''"Sometimes."'' That answer is noticeably more careful. ''"Sometimes a broker handles it. Sometimes a distributor handles it. Sometimes a gang that understands perfectly well what happens if its territory becomes unreliable handles it before anyone from my family has even heard there was a problem.''" She watches you closely. ''"And sometimes people do stupid, ugly things while claiming they did them for someone richer. That's useful too. It gives everyone a name to blame."'' The accusations from moments ago return to you: vanished debtors, missing factors, altered records, convenient accidents. ''"So men do disappear."'' Alesia gives you a look of exaggerated innocence. ''"Men disappear every day in Cradle."'' ''"That's not an answer."'' ''"Correct."'' Her smile returns. <<if $pa_alesia_first_impression is "bastard">>\ ''"You looked at those women and saw fear,''" she says. ''"This is why. They don't know exactly where the respectable business ends and the ugly business begins. Neither do most of the people working inside it."'' <<elseif $pa_alesia_first_impression is "cowboy">>\ ''"You were right to want clear of their quarrel,''" she adds. ''"Rumors like these are how powerful people invite strangers into fights without ever admitting there is one."'' <<elseif $pa_alesia_first_impression is "knight">>\ ''"And before you ask—no, their uncertainty doesn't make House Cosmas innocent,''" she says. ''"It merely means accusation and truth remain two different things. You seemed rather particular about that distinction."'' <</if>> \ She straightens from the column and moves nearer, enough that her lowered voice becomes something intended only for you. ''"My family does business where other families prefer not to be seen. We move things people want, store them and sell them. We find new roads when official roads close; sometimes those roads pass through people with dirty hands.''" Her expression is surprisingly matter-of-fact. ''"Then the same noble houses that sneered at us during the prohibitions arrive the moment the law changes and ask whether we might graciously supply their next banquet."'' Alesia's eyes flick meaningfully around the lavish chamber. ''"Everyone loves clean hands, $name. That's why people like my family are paid so well to dirty ours. I'm not afraid of a little mess."'' For perhaps half a heartbeat the statement hangs heavier than anything else she has said. Then her mouth curls again, irreverence returning like a flame catching dry tinder. ''"Besides,"'' she murmurs, lifting the goblet toward her lips, ''"Spice stains terribly."'' You can't help the faint reaction that escapes you, whether amusement or disbelief. Alesia notices either way and looks pleased with herself. ''"There. Now you know enough about House Cosmas to be dangerous at a dinner party.''" She takes another drink, dark eyes remaining on you over the rim. ''"What else are you curious about?"'' [[You turn the conversation elsewhere.|chp2_privateaudience_alesia_hub]] <<ci onward>>

<<set $pa_alesia_stavrick_offer = true>>\ <center><img class="scene" src="images/chp2_privateaudience_alesia1.webp"></center> Alesia studies you for another moment, dark eyes lingering on the expression you've made no effort to hide. Whatever answer she finds there seems to please her. ''"Don't stop halfway,"'' she repeats softly. One hand rises to the sheer black fabric crossing her chest. Unlike before, there's nothing playful about the pause. She knows you're watching. You know she knows. Then her fingers draw the material aside, baring herself with such shameless ease that for a heartbeat the surrounding banquet might as well cease to exist. Your gaze drops openly. Alesia smiles. ''"Better?"'' ''"Much."'' You don't look away immediately. There seems little point pretending at modesty when she has gone to such deliberate effort to provoke the opposite, and Alesia appears to enjoy being looked at almost as much as she enjoys catching you doing it. She steps closer instead of covering herself. ''"That's what I like about you,"'' she murmurs. ''"Very little wasted pretending."'' Your eyes rise to hers. ''"You'd be disappointed if I pretended."'' ''"Terribly."'' Her free hand settles against your chest, nails dragging lightly over the cloth as she closes what little distance remains between you. Heat radiates from her skin beneath perfume, wine and incense; close enough now that the wicked little smile on her mouth feels less like an expression and more like an invitation. You let one hand settle at her waist. Alesia's brows lift, not with surprise but blatant approval. ''"Careful,"'' she whispers. ''"You started it."'' ''"Did I?"'' Her smile sharpens as your fingers tighten slightly against her side. ''"I thought we'd established that 'start' gives everyone else far too much innocence."'' The callback earns a quiet laugh from you. Alesia seems pleased that you remember. For several breaths neither of you makes much effort to restore the distance. She leaves herself exposed, watching your attention move between her eyes and the body she's deliberately offered to it. There's challenge in the display as much as invitation: no blush, no coy retreat, no demand that you tell her how beautiful she is. She already knows. Then, Alesia catches the fabric between two fingers and lets it fall back into place. ''"There,"'' she says. ''"Now that we've satisfied one appetite..."'' Her hand remains against your chest, though her gaze shifts past your shoulder. ''"...I have another game for you."'' You follow her eyes. <<if $pa_map.stavrick or $privateaudience_stavrick>>\ Across the greater hall stands Stavrick, unmistakable now that she has directed your attention toward him. The former Decanus looms among the banquet crowd with the same heavy, scarred presence you noticed when you spoke with him earlier. You've heard enough already to know he isn't some pampered arena ornament; he's an old soldier with a temper, a body built for violence, and at least one dead legionnaire somewhere in his recent past. Alesia feels you recognize him. ''"You've met."'' ''"Enough."'' ''"Good."'' Her fingers curl idly against your chest. ''"Then you already know he'll make this interesting."'' <<else>>\ Across the greater hall stands a gladiator you've noticed only in passing: thick-necked, broad through the shoulders, his shaved head crossed by pale scars. He has the stillness of an old soldier rather than a reveler, watching more than he speaks while wine and laughter move around him. Alesia indicates him with the slightest movement of her chin. ''"Stavrick. Former Legion Decanus. Dangerous enough that people watch him."'' You study the man as Alesia's smile presses close against your ear. ''"And proud enough to hit back."'' <</if>>\ Her meaning arrives before she has to explain much more. ''"You want a fight."'' ''"I want everyone's attention in the same place for a little while."'' Alesia turns her face toward yours again, close enough that her breath warms your cheek. ''"Before the auction, the fighters will be gathered together. Guards, handlers, buyers. Everyone watching everyone else.''" Her thumb traces once over your chest. ''"Give Stavrick a reason to hit you, and suddenly they'll all be watching the two of you."'' You glance toward him again. ''"While you're doing something else."'' Alesia's lips curl. ''"Maybe."'' That's all you get. No elaborate confession, no explanation of what Cosmas intends to move while guards are distracted, whose pocket needs searching, which door needs opening or what quiet transaction requires thirty seconds of noise. After everything she told you about her family, you can imagine enough possibilities. ''"How far?"'' you ask. ''"Far enough that nobody thinks you're pretending."'' There's something almost hungry in the way she says it. Alesia finally withdraws her hand from your chest, but only so she can trail one finger upward beneath your chin. ''"You wanted me to stop teasing around the edges."'' Her eyes flick once toward Stavrick before returning to yours. ''"So I'm giving you something with teeth."'' Your smile answers hers. ''"And if I don't feel like bleeding for House Cosmas?"'' ''"Then don't."'' The answer comes without hesitation. Alesia's finger slipping away. ''"Take the opening or leave it alone. I'm not buying your obedience."'' She takes one measured step backward, putting just enough space between you for the banquet to begin intruding again. ''"I'd much rather see what you choose when nobody is holding the leash."'' Something about the wording hangs between you. Perhaps that's the real proposition, and Stavrick is only caught in part of it. Alesia appears in no hurry to clarify. Instead, she takes another lingering look over you, satisfaction returning to her face as though the entire exchange, from exposed skin to promised violence, belongs to the same private joke. ''"Try not to disappoint me, $name."'' ''"You'd survive."'' ''"I'm remarkably resilient."'' Then she's gone. She slips around you and back into the banquet before the conversation can become another negotiation, black silk and auburn hair disappearing between servants, nobles and shifting candlelight. For a moment, you remain where she left you. Your skin still remembers the pressure of her hand, but the proposition outlasts the heat. Stavrick isn't the prize. He isn't even the point. He's something loud enough, dangerous enough and proud enough to drag every nearby eye in one direction while something quieter happens elsewhere. Alesia has handed you the match. Whether you strike it is another matter. <<paMapReturn "alesia">>

<<set $pa_alesia_stavrick_offer = true>>\ <center><img class="scene" src="images/chp2_privateaudience_alesia1.webp"></center> Alesia studies you for another moment, looking altogether too pleased with the distinction you've drawn between wanting something and letting it steer you. ''"You really do make everything sound terribly principled."'' ''"Someone has to."'' ''"Mmh."'' Her smile deepens. ''"Let's see how tiring that becomes."'' One hand rises to the sheer black fabric across her chest. There is no coyness in what follows. She simply pulls it aside and bares herself to you, watching with open amusement as your eyes betray the obvious before returning to hers. Alesia's brows lift. ''"You looked."'' ''"You wanted me to."'' ''"Very much."'' She makes no attempt to cover herself immediately. The display is brazen and deliberate enough that pretending not to appreciate it would feel more dishonest than disciplined. ''"And?"'' she asks. ''"You're beautiful."'' The straightforward answer seems to please her more than embarrassment would have. ''"Gods, you're difficult.''" Alesia lets the fabric fall back into place. ''"Not because you don't want things. That would be boring. You simply insist on choosing what happens after."'' ''"Is that a problem?"'' ''"No."'' Her grin returns. ''"Just inconvenient when I'm trying to misbehave with you."'' The admission hangs between you for only a moment before her attention shifts across the banquet. ''"Fortunately, I have another idea."'' You follow her gaze. <<if $pa_map.stavrick or $privateaudience_stavrick>>\ Across the greater hall, Stavrick is easy to recognize now that she's directed your attention toward him. The former Decanus stands among the other gladiators with the same scarred, heavy presence you noticed when you spoke with him earlier—a veteran soldier who has survived long enough in the arena to make violence look less like a possibility than an old habit. Alesia notices the recognition. ''"You've met Stavrick."'' ''"I have."'' ''"Then you already know I haven't chosen him because he's harmless."'' <<else>>\ Across the greater hall stands a gladiator you've noticed only in passing: broad through the shoulders, thick-necked, his shaved head crossed by old scars. He carries himself differently from the revelers around him, with the contained stillness of someone accustomed to violence rather than spectacle. Alesia indicates him with a slight tilt of her head. ''"Stavrick. Former legionnaire. Decanus, once. Experienced, dangerous and proud enough to answer an insult rather than swallow it."'' You glance back at her. <</if>>\ ''"Before the auction, they'll gather the fighters together. Guards, handlers, buyers, everyone crowded into one place and pretending the evening has suddenly become respectable.''" Her eyes flick toward Stavrick. ''"I want you to give him a reason to hit you."'' Your expression hardens. She sees it coming and smiles before you even speak. ''"No, he hasn't offended me. No, I'm not asking you to punish him. And no, I haven't suddenly developed a passion for watching two men beat each other bloody."'' You raise a brow. ''"The last one isn't entirely true,"'' she concedes. Despite yourself, you almost smile. ''"You want a distraction."'' ''"Very good."'' ''"For what?"'' ''"Something that doesn't require you to know the answer."'' There's no coyness to that response either. You look toward Stavrick again. ''"And if I refuse?"'' Alesia gives the smallest shrug. ''"Then you refuse."'' That seems almost too easy, and she reads the thought on your face. ''"What? Did you expect me to threaten you?''" Her mouth curls. ''"You'd only become righteous about it, and then we'd both be exhausted."'' ''"You think you know me rather well."'' ''"I'm developing theories."'' Alesia's gaze follows yours back toward the scarred gladiator. ''"All I'm offering is an opportunity. Make enough trouble with Stavrick that everyone nearby turns their head. What happens after that is your affair."'' She begins to move past you, then pauses close beside your shoulder. ''"For what it's worth, I don't think you'll enjoy starting the fight."'' Her voice drops, warm with amusement. ''"I'm much more curious whether you'll decide it needs starting anyway."'' Before you can answer, she's already walking away. No demand for a promise, No attempt to coax agreement out of you while her body and perfume are still close enough to cloud the question. Alesia simply disappears back into the banquet as though she has placed the matter where it belongs and trusts you to make of it what you will. You remain there for a moment, watching Stavrick across the hall. Whatever Alesia intends, he isn't the purpose. He's noise. A dangerous man struck in exactly the right place so that guards, handlers and buyers turn toward the impact while something quieter happens beyond their notice. She expects you to object to being used. More irritatingly, she appears to have expected that before she asked. Then the banquet closes around you again, leaving the proposition unanswered for now. <<paMapReturn "alesia">>

<<set $pa_alesia_stavrick_offer = true>>\ <center><img class="scene" src="images/chp2_privateaudience_alesia1.webp"></center> Alesia studies you for another moment, apparently deciding what to make of your refusal to give her quite as much as she wants. Then something changes behind her eyes. The smile doesn't disappear, but it gains that familiar spark you've learned to distrust. ''"Still making me work for it,"'' she murmurs. Before you can ask what she means, one hand rises to the sheer black fabric crossing her chest. There's no hesitation in the movement, no furtive glance to see who might be watching. She simply draws it aside and bares herself to you with the same casual confidence another woman might use to show off a new necklace. Your eyes drop. Of course they do. Alesia catches it immediately. ''"There."'' Satisfaction warms her voice. ''"I knew there was a man in there somewhere."'' You let your gaze linger just long enough to make it clear that you're neither embarrassed nor pretending indifference, then look back into her eyes. ''"You wanted me to look."'' ''"I did."'' ''"So we're both satisfied."'' For a heartbeat she seems almost offended by how easily you reduce the victory. Then laughter slips out of her, low enough to remain between the two of you as she lets the fabric settle back into place. ''"That's all I get?"'' ''"What were you expecting? Applause?"'' ''"A little loss of composure would have been flattering."'' ''"You showed me something worth looking at. I looked.''" You give one shoulder a small shrug. ''"Don't see why either of us needs to make it complicated."'' Alesia's eyes narrow with playful accusation. ''"You have an irritating habit of making everything sound incidental."'' ''"Maybe you keep trying to make things more important than they are."'' That lands. You can see it in the slight pause before her smile returns, softer this time. ''"Or maybe,''" she says, ''"I've been pushing from the wrong direction."'' Her attention drifts away from you. You follow it. <<if $pa_map.stavrick or $privateaudience_stavrick>>\ Across the greater hall, you recognize the hulking gladiator almost immediately. Stavrick stands apart from a nearby knot of fighters, broad shoulders unmistakable beneath the banquet light, pale scars scattered across his shaved head and weathered skin. You've already spoken with him tonight. Former Decanus of the Legion, arena survivor, and a man who once drunkenly ran one of his own soldiers through with a sword. Not exactly the sort you'd choose for a harmless disagreement. Alesia notices the recognition. ''"Ah. You've met Stavrick."'' ''"Briefly."'' ''"Then I don't need to explain why everyone would notice if the two of you suddenly decided you hated each other."'' <<else>>\ Across the greater hall stands a gladiator you've noticed only in passing: thick-necked, broad through the shoulders, his shaved head crossed by pale seams of scar tissue. He keeps mostly to the edges of the celebration, drinking with the self-contained stillness of a man who looks more comfortable waiting for violence than making conversation. Alesia points him out with the smallest tilt of her goblet. ''"Stavrick. Former legionnaire. Decanus, once upon a time."'' You study the scarred man again. ''"And you're telling me this because...?"'' ''"Because he's difficult to ignore."'' <</if>>\ You turn back toward her. ''"What do you want?"'' Alesia's smile widens, pleased by the simplicity of the question. ''"Before the auction, they'll gather the fighters together. Handlers, guards, buyers nearby, everyone pretending the next few minutes are a dignified commercial proceeding rather than livestock changing hands.''" She swirls what remains in her goblet. ''"When that happens, I want you to start something with him."'' You look from her to Stavrick and back again. ''"A fight."'' ''"A disturbance."'' ''"With him."'' ''"Preferably."'' The distinction appears to amuse her far more than it does you. ''"Why Stavrick?"'' ''"Because he'll hit back."'' Your stare remains flat. Alesia laughs. ''"Think about it, $name. Shove a servant and the nearest guard puts you on the floor. Trade insults with another slave and perhaps three people glance over. But two gladiators about to be sold, one of them tonight's celebrated little champion, suddenly trying to knock pieces off each other?''" She gestures lightly toward the banquet around you. ''"Everyone watches."'' There it is. Not the whole answer, but just enough of one. ''"You need them looking somewhere else."'' Alesia's expression brightens. ''"See? This is why I like talking to you."'' You glance toward Stavrick again. Even from here, there's nothing about the man that suggests an easy performance. He carries too much weight through the shoulders, too many scars across visible flesh. If Alesia chose him because she expects an convincing argument, she's chosen well. ''"You asking me to win?"'' ''"I'm asking you to make people turn their heads."'' Her tone becomes more practical now, stripped of most of its flirtation. ''"What happens after he takes the invitation personally is between you and Stavrick. I'm not asking you to kill him."'' You fold your arms. ''"And what do I get?"'' That draws a slow smile from her. ''"When the time comes, you'll have an opening. Take it or don't.''" She steps past you, close enough for her shoulder to brush your arm. ''"I suspect I'll learn something either way."'' You turn slightly as she goes. ''"And if I decide I don't like being someone's distraction?"'' She glances back over one bare shoulder. ''"Then don't be."'' No threat follows it. No promise of punishment. Just another faint smile before she turns away and disappears into the movement of the banquet hall, dark auburn hair and black silk swallowed gradually by marble, candlelight and passing bodies. For several seconds you remain where she left you. The heat of the exchange fades faster than the proposition does. Whatever Alesia intends, Stavrick isn't the objective. He's the spark. Two dangerous men making enough noise that guards, handlers and buyers all turn toward the same patch of ground, while somewhere beyond them House Cosmas takes advantage of a few stolen moments. Then the banquet closes around you again. Music, conversation and the clink of glass fill the space Alesia occupied moments before, leaving you with nothing but the memory of her grin and a choice that won't need making until later. <<paMapReturn "alesia">>

<<if $pa_stavrick_approach is "cowboy">>\ <<gainCowboy>>\ You cross the space between you without hurry, answering his raised glass with a low nod of your own. Up close, the scars are worse than they looked from across the room: pale ridges cut through one eyebrow, disappear along his scalp and gather thickly near the hinge of his jaw. Whatever put them there had to work more than once. ''"No reason we need to make enemies,"'' you say. The man's dark eyes move over you again, slower this time. ''"Didn't say there was."'' ''"You were staring."'' ''"So were you."'' The corner of his mouth twitches, seeming to approve of the answer before you've even given one. ''"Figured I'd see what all the noise was about. Man walks out the arena after killin' an ogre and everyone starts whispering his name... worth a look."'' There is neither apology nor challenge in the words, Just the blunt curiosity of one survivor regarding another. <<elseif $pa_stavrick_approach is "bastard">>\ <<gainBastard>>\ You don't bother easing your way into the encounter. His stare has been sitting on you long enough, and if the man means something by it, you'd rather hear him say it. You walk straight toward him and stop comfortably within speaking distance. ''"If you've got something to say, say it."'' The scarred man's expression barely changes. He rolls the little glass once between his fingers, looking you over as though deciding. ''"Was wondering if the stories made you taller."'' A humorless grin touches your mouth. ''"Disappointed?"'' ''"Not yet."'' That almost earns a laugh. Whatever you expected from him, bluster wasn't it. He doesn't step closer, puff himself up or reach for the easy confrontation you've offered. Instead he raises the glass slightly. ''"Saw enough of your fight to know you ain't all decoration."'' ''"Rallyin' that rabble against an ogre was good work."'' Praise delivered like an assessment. Somehow it carries more weight that way. <<elseif $pa_stavrick_approach is "knight">>\ <<gainKnight>>\ You approach at a measured pace, eyes lingering less on the scars than on everything beneath them: the balanced stance, the squared shoulders, the unconscious readiness in the way he occupies the wall. ''"You carry yourself like a soldier."'' That earns the first real change in his expression. His eyes narrow slightly. ''"That obvious?"'' ''"To someone looking."'' He studies you for another moment before inclining his glass. There's something closer to recognition in the gesture now, one fighting man acknowledging another without pretending anyone's rank or vocation still means what it once did. ''"Used to be people noticed the stripes before the scars,"'' he mutters. ''"Suppose that's what the arena does to a man."'' His gaze moves over you again. ''"Heard about your fight. Impressive. Gettin' an untrained mob to stand against something that big isn't easy."'' <</if>>\ \ ''"I'm $name,"'' you say. The man gives a low grunt. ''"I heard."'' His voice is deep and coarse, worn rough enough that every word seems dragged through gravel before it reaches you. He knocks back the remainder of whatever dark liquor fills his glass, swallows without flinching, then drags a thick wrist across his mouth. ''"Stavrick."'' ''"You fought before tonight?"'' A faint crease forms between his brows, as though the question has dredged up something he doesn't particularly enjoy remembering. Instead, he examines the glass in his hand. ''"Fought before I ever saw an arena. I was a Decanus in the Legion."'' That catches your attention. A Decanus wasn't some fresh recruit handed a spear and pointed toward the enemy. Stavrick had commanded soldiers: men who marched when he ordered them forward, stopped when he ordered them still, and trusted him to understand what waited beyond. Whatever brought him from there to a slave banquet clearly wasn't a minor fall. Stavrick seems to read the question before you ask it. ''"Got drunk one night,"'' he says. ''"An officer above me wouldn't shut his mouth. Kept pushin'. I had more liquor in me than sense, too. Ran him through with my gladius."'' His jaw works once as he simply gives you the facts, no pride nor plea in his confession. ''"Killed him?"'' ''"Wouldn't be here if I hadn't."'' His thumb brushes slowly around the rim of the empty glass. ''"Should've been executed. Probably would've been if we weren't already headed toward Crathal. Someone figured it'd be more entertaining to chain me up for a couple weeks and let the arena do the job."'' <<if $pa_map.alesia>>\ Alesia's choice of target becomes a little clearer. Not merely a large man, nor an experienced gladiator. A former officer who once killed one of his own in a drunken rage, then somehow survived the punishment meant to finish him. She certainly hadn't chosen Stavrick because she expected restraint. <</if>>\ ''"Yet here you are."'' Stavrick glances toward you. ''"Here I am."'' There's something darkly dissatisfied in the answer, as though survival itself has become another obligation he never expected or asked to carry forward. ''"They put us into the arena during a sandstorm. Never seen anything like it.''" His eyes drift somewhere beyond the banquet hall. ''"Could barely see a few strides ahead. Sand in your mouth, your eyes, inside your armor. Couldn't tell which direction a man was coming from until he was already close enough to kill you."'' His fingers close around the little glass. ''"Had to be magick. Whole arena swallowed up. No formations, no sides worth speakin' of. Just shapes movin' through the dust and men deciding whether to strike first."'' You can almost picture it: thousands of spectators reduced to distant noise beyond a wall of sand, fighters stumbling blind through a battlefield where every footstep might belong to the next man trying to kill them. ''"Free-for-all?"'' ''"Near enough."'' ''"And you won."'' Stavrick's mouth pulls crookedly. ''"Survived."'' ''"Strangled one poor bastard with the strap off his own shield. Broke another one's neck when we went down together. Don't remember much after that.''" He gives a small shrug that does nothing to soften the image. ''"Storm cleared eventually. I was still standin'."'' For the first time, something almost like amusement enters his expression. ''"No one talks much about that one."'' His dark eyes settle on you again. ''"Not like yours."'' There it is. Stavrick looks you over with the detached consideration of a man inspecting an unfamiliar weapon. It's not quite resentment, nor jealousy; you have a hard time placing it. ''"Suppose I don't have your pretty face."'' You raise a brow. ''"Stranglin' a few clueless bastards in a sandstorm doesn't make much of a song. You get half a mob behind you, lead 'em against a man-eatin' ogre...''" His lips twitch. ''"That's a story people know how to tell."'' ''"Doesn't matter much anyway. Arena don't care what story they tell afterward."'' He looks down at the empty glass, then back toward you. ''"Legion taught me that long before I got chained up."'' His voice loses some of its rough humor. ''"As a soldier, you don't pick the war. Most days you don't even pick the battle. Somebody higher up points, and you march.''" His gaze travels across the banquet—toward nobles deciding prices, handlers watching slaves, gladiators waiting to learn whose property they'll become before the day is out. ''"Arena ain't much different."'' For a few moments neither of you says anything. Then Stavrick fixes you with the same steady stare that first pulled your attention across the room. ''"Men like us don't choose our fates, $name."'' He turns the empty glass once between his fingers. ''"Only thing you get to choose is how you face it."'' You open your mouth to answer, but Stavrick is already turning away. ''"Was good meetin' you, $name. Need another drink."'' He takes a few heavy steps into the crowd before glancing back over one shoulder. ''"Good luck."'' Then he's gone, swallowed into the shifting mass of fighters, servants and nobles. <<if $pa_map.alesia>>\ You watch him disappear with Alesia's proposition sitting heavier in your thoughts than before. She hadn't chosen some loudmouthed brute likely to swing at the first insult. Stavrick is a former officer, a murderer, and a man who survived an arena meant to kill him. If you decide to start something with him later, whatever happens after the first blow may not belong to either of you. Perhaps that's exactly why Alesia chose him. <</if>>\ <<paMapReturn "stavrick">>

You settle into the empty chair while the merchant gathers the pale bones into one hand. Up close, you can see that they aren't ivory but actual pieces of polished bone, their corners rounded from years of rattling beneath cups like these. ''"Three Bones,"'' she explains, dropping two beneath a wooden cup. ''"Two to start. Thirteen is perfect. Anything below it still stands; anything above it is a bust. After you see your first two, you either hold or throw the third."'' She rolls the cup once beneath her palm. ''"When both players are finished, the cups come up together. Highest hand without crossing thirteen wins."'' ''"Simple,"'' the nobleman says, reaching for his own cup. The merchant gives him a level look. ''"You always say that before doing something stupid."'' He grins and shakes two bones beneath the wood. Across from him, she does the same, both players peering privately beneath their cups before covering the results again. ''"Hold,"'' she tells him, ''"You have eleven."'' You glance between them. ''"You can tell?"'' ''"He always smiles like that when he has ten or eleven,"'' she replies. ''"Twelve usually shuts him up entirely."'' The nobleman reaches for the third bone anyway, drawing groans. <<if $pa_map.gant>> \ Gant leans eagerly over the table, forgetting whatever he's chewing. ''"Do it, mate."'' The merchant turns her eyes toward him. ''"You haven't won a hand yet."'' He slowly, stubbornly, settles back into his chair. ''"Still know courage when I see it."'' <</if>> \ \ The nobleman shakes the third bone theatrically beside his ear. ''"That's right! Fortune adores conviction."'' ''"Fortune adores idiots,"'' the merchant replies. ''"They're how the rest of us get paid."'' The bone disappears beneath his cup. A few rattling knocks follow before everything goes still. He looks beneath it, grin barely faltering. When the cup rises, the three bones show five, six and four. ''"Fifteen,"'' he announces. ''"Bust."'' ''"Still an excellent number."'' The retainer laughs while the merchant lifts her own cup to reveal a ten. Without celebration, she draws the nobleman's wager toward herself and adds it neatly to the silver already stacked at her elbow, accumulating the lion's share of winnings thus far. ''"That's why you don't throw simply because there's another bone available,"'' she tells you. The nobleman reclines into his chair, apparently far less troubled by losing than by the sight of another coin joining her growing pile. ''"Money is becoming tedious."'' ''"Only to men who've never had to earn it."'' His attention travels from the merchant to you, and something mischievous takes shape behind his eyes. ''"Precisely. So let's wager something worth losing."'' The retainer's expression suggests he already knows where this is going. The merchant does too. ''"No."'' ''"I haven't said anything."'' ''"You were going to suggest clothing."'' The nobleman smiles broadly. ''"Three losses. Three pieces. First one stripped of the agreed stake loses the match."'' Rather than blush or protest, the merchant simply looks you over. Her gaze moves from your laced shirt to your trousers, appraising your clothing with much the same detached attention she'd given the coins. ''"His wardrobe and mine are hardly equivalent."'' ''"Yours is more expensive."'' ''"Exactly."'' ''"Then victory will mean more to him."'' Her mouth twitches faintly. ''"You really can justify anything."'' <<if $chp3_privateaudience_dik > 0>> \ ''"There's another problem. Half the room has already seen his final stake."'' The nobleman nearly laughs into his wine. You lean back slightly. ''"Then you already know what it's worth."'' For the first time, the merchant's composure cracks just enough to show genuine amusement as her eyes settle upon you once more. ''"Fair enough."'' <<else>> \ She considers you for another moment before looking back to the nobleman. ''"Three pieces, chosen before the first hand. No inventing ribbons, jewelry or scraps of trim once someone starts losing."'' ''"You wound me."'' ''"I've played with you before."'' <</if>> \ The merchant reaches for the bones. Whatever social curiosity remained in her expression fades as soon as the terms are settled. You're no longer the arena victor being indulged at a wealthy man's table. You're simply the opponent sitting across from her. She slides the empty throwing cup toward your hand. ''"Two bones first. Thirteen without crossing it."'' The nobleman lifts his wine in anticipation. ''"Now we have a game."'' <<run setup.gamble.init()>> \ [[Take up the cup.|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_deal]]

<<run setup.gamble.draw()>>\ <<sfx "dice-rattle">>\ <<gambleImg "banner">>\ <<gambleScore>>\ <<if $pa_gamble.sudden>>\ The bones come down beneath the cups for what everyone knows will be the last time. Even the nobleman has stopped drinking, goblet resting tipped and forgotten against the arm of his chair while the merchant settles one hand over her cup, expression flat and watchful. Whatever has already been lost no longer matters; this hand settles everything. \ <<elseif setup.gamble.isReplay()>>\ The void hand is swept aside as the merchant gathers the bones again, the hollow clatter starting once more with a brisk shake as though the last throw never even happened. \ <<elseif $pa_gamble.hand is 1>>\ You close your hand around the cup and shake, bones striking wood, quicker and louder than they seemed outside the table, before you bring the cup down and trap them beneath. Gradually, you lift one edge just far enough to see what fortune has given you. \ <<elseif $pa_gamble.mer > $pa_gamble.mc>>\ The match's momentum has begun to show. You're visibly ahead, the glances that follow each new rattle of the bones lingering increasingly upon the merchant's side of the table. Her eyes remain on the cup, determined not to notice. \ <<elseif $pa_gamble.mc > $pa_gamble.mer>>\ The advantage belongs to her now, which only seems to please the nobleman. ''"Careful, gladiator,"'' he says, looking pointedly toward your diminishing stake. ''"There are only so many victories a man can undress his way through. I would know."'' \ <<else>>\ What began as an amusing wager has settled into something closer to a proper contest, with every fresh rattle of the cups drawing the table's attention back between you. The merchant meets your eyes across the wood before looking down at her hand. <</if>>\ <<gambleTray "deal">>\ <<set _bust to setup.gamble.bustFaces()>>\ <<if $mind >= 1>>\ <<if _bust is 0>>\ There isn't a face on the third bone that can carry you past thirteen. <<elseif $mind >= 2>>\ A quick count tells you that _bust of the six possible faces would carry you past thirteen. <<elseif _bust <= 2>>\ You can't put an exact figure to it, but the odds seem to favor taking another bone. <<else>>\ Right now, another bone looks more likely to ruin the hand than improve it. <</if>>\ <</if>>\ <<if $pa_gamble.cur.raiseOpen>>\ [[Hold.|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_settle][$pa_gamble.cur.threw to false]] [[Throw the third bone.|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_settle][$pa_gamble.cur.threw to true]] <<else>>\ [[Hold.|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_resolve][$pa_gamble.cur.threw to false]] [[Throw the third bone.|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_resolve][$pa_gamble.cur.threw to true]] <</if>>

<<if $pa_gamble.cur.threw>><<sfx "dice-land">><</if>>\ <<gambleImg "banner">> <<gambleScore>> <<if not $pa_gamble.raiseTaught>>\ <<set $pa_gamble.raiseTaught to true>>\ The nobleman leans forward before either of you can reach for the cups. ''"You know what would improve this?"'' The merchant doesn't look at him. ''"Almost certainly nothing."'' ''"Two."'' He raises two fingers. ''"Say it before the cups come up and the hand costs two pieces instead of one. I'll cover the difference to make it more interesting."'' Her eyes finally lift from the table. ''"You're wagering my clothes with your money."'' ''"Exactly."'' She studies him for a long moment, then turns back toward you with a quiet exhale. <</if>>\ <<if $pa_gamble.cur.herThrew>>\ Across from you, the merchant reaches for the third bone. She gives it one short shake beneath the cup before letting it fall among the others, her palm settling flat after. <<else>>\ The merchant makes no move toward the final bone. One hand remains lightly around her cup while she waits for you to finish deciding what to do with yours.<<if $mind >= 2>> If she's willing to stand where she is, she probably has ten or better.<</if>> <</if>>\ <<gambleTray "settle">> [[Lift the cups.|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_resolve]] [[“Two.”|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_resolve][$pa_gamble.cur.raised to true]] <<ci dialogue>>

<<run setup.gamble.resolve()>>\ <<set _r to $pa_gamble.last>>\ <<if not _r.fold>><<sfx "dice-land">><</if>>\ <<gambleImg "banner">>\ <<gambleScore>>\ <<if _r.raised and not _r.fold>>\ The merchant's eyes flick once toward you. ''"Two, then."'' There's no hesitation in it. She places two fingers against the edge of her cup and waits. <</if>>\ <<gambleTray "resolve">> <<switch _r.event>>\ <<case "fold">>\ The merchant looks at you for several seconds, then turns her cup over without lifting it. ''"No."'' The nobleman makes a wounded sound. ''"You don't even want to see?"'' ''"I want to keep what I'm wearing."'' She pays the single piece without ceremony, sliding it across the table while your own bones remain hidden beneath the cup. Whatever she had, she keeps it to herself. <<case "called_won">>\ The cups come up. Her eyes move from your bones to her own, then back again as though checking the arithmetic despite already knowing what it means. The nobleman breaks into delighted laughter, eyes bright as he surveys the table and declares merrily, ''"Two!"'' She gives him a flat look before beginning to pay the doubled stake. ''"Yes, I know."'' <<case "called_lost">>\ The cups rise, and the result is immediately obvious. The merchant's gaze settles on your hand for only a moment before something faintly satisfied touches the corner of her mouth. ''"Two."'' The nobleman lifts his goblet toward you in mock sympathy. ''"A brave loss."'' She reaches for what she's won before he can make anything more of it. <<case "tie">>\ The cups rise to matching hands. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then the merchant gives the bones a disinterested glance and reaches for them. ''"Void."'' The nobleman sighs as though personally cheated. ''"All that suspense for nothing."'' <<case "double_bust">>\ The cups come up to reveal two ruined hands. A beat of silence passes before the nobleman starts laughing, joined a moment later by the retainer. Even the merchant's mouth pulls briefly to one side as she gathers the useless bones back toward the center. ''"Void,"'' she says. ''"A magnificent waste of everyone's time,"'' the nobleman replies. <<case "mc_bust">>\ The third bone leaves you with too much. The merchant takes one look at the total and leans back, knowing the hand is hers. <<if $pa_map.gant>>\ Gant snorts around a mouthful of food. ''"Arena instincts, mate."'' <<else>>\ The older servant studies the bones, then you. ''"Bold,"'' he says dryly. ''"Not the same thing as wise."'' <</if>>\ <<case "her_bust">>\ The merchant lifts her cup and goes still for half a heartbeat. The nobleman sees the total a moment later and laughs loudly enough to draw a few glances from the surrounding hall. She ignores him, gathers the offending third bone between two fingers, and deposits it back beside the cup. ''"Yes,"'' she says before he can speak. ''"I can count."'' <<case "mc_thirteen">>\ The cups rise - thirteen. The nobleman lets out an appreciative whistle while the merchant's eyes remain on your bones for a moment longer than usual. ''"Perfect,"'' she says, nothing too dismissive in it. <<case "her_thirteen">>\ Her cup rises over thirteen exactly. The nobleman groans before you can say anything, while the merchant permits herself the faintest hint of satisfaction, lips curved just so. ''"That's the number you were looking for."'' <<case "narrow_win">>\ The difference between you is almost nothing, but just enough. The merchant studies the bones, then gives the smallest tilt of her head. ''"By one."'' ''"Still counts,"'' the nobleman says brightly. ''"I know how numbers work."'' <<case "narrow_loss">>\ For half a heartbeat, the two hands look close enough to argue over. Then the merchant taps one finger beside her bones. ''"One."'' The nobleman winces theatrically on your behalf. She doesn't. ''"Close doesn't pay."'' <<case "blowout_win">>\ There's no suspense once the cups are up. The merchant looks from her hand to yours, leaning back a fraction in her chair. ''"Well."'' The nobleman grins into his goblet. ''"Convincing."'' <<case "blowout_loss">>\ The cups rise, and whatever hope you had for the hand disappears with them. The merchant's eyes flick across the bones and settle back on you. ''"That wasn't close."'' The nobleman laughs. ''"No need to make him feel worse."'' <<case "win">>\ Your hand takes the win. The merchant gives the bones one brief look, accepting the result without complaint. <<default>>\ Her hand is better. She simply draws the result toward herself with the same calm certainty. <</switch>> <<if _r.caught>>\ As she reaches for the bones, the merchant pauses, eyes lifting to meet yours. ''"Careful. You've done that once already."'' The nobleman glances between the two of you, suddenly interested again. She says nothing more, but the look she gives you makes it clear that whatever trick passed the first time has now been entered into whatever private ledger she keeps behind those cool eyes. <</if>> <<if $pa_gamble.sudden and _r.winner is "her">> [[Continue.|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_end]] <<elseif _r.winner is "">> [[Deal again.|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_deal]] <<else>> [[Continue.|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_strip]] <</if>>

<<set _res to $pa_gamble.result>>\ <<gambleImg "table">>\ <<switch _res>>\ <<case "won">>\ For a few seconds, the merchant simply sits across from you with the remains of the game scattered between you. Then she looks at the bones, at the clothing piled beside her chair. Finally, her gaze returns to rest upon you. ''"You won."'' There's no excuse attached to it. No complaint about luck, no reminder of the nobleman's meddling, no attempt to salvage dignity from a wager she already paid in full. The nobleman, naturally, has considerably more to say. ''"Beautiful,"'' he declares, raising his goblet toward you. ''"Absolutely beautiful. I invite a penniless gladiator to sit and within minutes he's stripped the richest woman at my table."'' The merchant gives him a flat look. ''"He beat me at Three Bones."'' Her attention returns to you. ''"Try not to let it go to your head."'' <<case "sudden">>\ For a moment, nobody seems quite sure whether to laugh. The match had been over and you'd already lost everything. Then the nobleman's silver hit the table, one final hand was dealt, and somehow the whole thing reversed itself. He's the first to recover, rising halfway from his chair, goblet lifted triumphantly as he beams a grin at everyone, ''"There! You see? Precisely as intended."'' The merchant stares at him. ''"You lost every hand you played."'' ''"Irrelevant. My contribution was strategic."'' ''"Your contribution was money."'' ''"The purest form of strategy."'' She exhales through her nose before looking back to you, then down at the last of what her lost finally surrendered. ''"A win is a win,"'' she says at last. ''"Even an irritating one."'' <<case "lost">>\ The merchant looks over the table once the final payment is made. ''"Three."'' Her tone is the same one she used when counting her own losses: simple arithmetic, nothing more. The match is finished, and this time there's nothing left on your side of the wager to argue about. The nobleman studies you with open amusement. ''"Well,"'' he says, taking another drink. ''"Nobody can accuse you of lacking commitment."'' <<if $pa_gamble.suddenUsed>>\ The silver he threw into the final hand still rests on the merchant's side of the table. She gathers it into a neat stack and draws it toward the rest of her winnings. ''"And profitable commitment,"'' she adds. The nobleman points at the coins with his goblet. ''"That was supposed to inspire him."'' ''"It inspired me."'' <</if>>\ <<default>>\ <<if $pa_gamble.mer > $pa_gamble.mc>>\ You look at what remains of the wager and decide you've seen enough. The merchant notices before anyone else does. Her gaze drops briefly to the score between you, then returns to your face as you slowly push back from the table. ''"You're leaving while you're ahead."'' You shrug. Something approving touches the corner of her mouth. ''"Sensible."'' The nobleman makes a disgusted sound. ''"What a miserable quality in a gambler."'' ''"That's usually what losing men call it,"'' she replies. <<else>> You push your chair back before another hand can be dealt. The nobleman looks immediately offended. ''"That's it?"'' His eyes move between you and the merchant, taking stock of what each of you has already surrendered. ''"You're going to retreat now?"'' The merchant begins gathering the bones. ''"Apparently."'' ''"No nerve."'' ''"No debt either,"'' she says. The nobleman considers this, frowns, and drinks instead. <</if>>\ <</switch>>\ The little world around the table begins to come apart almost immediately afterward. \ <<if $pa_gamble.mc > 0>>\ You recover what the game took from you, taking your belongings. Whatever attention your undressing attracted proves less interested in watching the process reversed. <</if>>\ <<if $pa_gamble.mer > 0>>\ Across from you, the merchant dresses with the same measured efficiency she stripped with. Skirt, sandals, corset, cowl—whatever the game claimed is restored piece by piece, fastenings checked and rich fabric smoothed until little remains to suggest how much of her composure the table spent the last several hands trying to disturb. <</if>>\ The nobleman's already calling for more wine. The retainer settles back into his chair, while <<if $pa_map.gant>>Gant returns with suspicious enthusiasm to whatever remains on his plate still.<<else>>the older servant begins gathering the cups and stray coins into something resembling order.<</if>> Around you, the wider hall closes in again: music, conversation, servants threading between guests, the distant murmur of Cradle's wealthy amusing themselves beneath House Varro's roof. The bones rattle once more behind you as you step away. <<run setup.gamble.close()>>\ <<paMapReturn "gambling">>

<<run setup.gamble.apply()>>\ <<set _st to $pa_gamble.strip>>\ <<sfx "cloth-rustle">>\ <<gambleScore>>\ <<if _st and _st.who is "mer">>\ <<for _stage range setup.gamble.stages()>>\ <<switch _stage>>\ <<case 1>>\ ''"One,"'' the merchant says, as though she were marking a figure in a ledger. Her hands rise to the fastening of the plum cowl at her shoulders. She slips it loose without hurry, drawing the loose fabric down her arms and gathering it into her lap before folding it with almost irritating care. Without the outer layer, the fitted gold-and-plum corset beneath becomes much more apparent, and the nobleman gives an appreciative little hum into his goblet. The retainer's mouth twitches before he hides it. <<if $pa_map.gant>>''"Very professional,"'' Gant decides, leaning sideways for a better look, ''"Losing, I mean."'' <</if>> \ \ She lays the folded cowl beside her chair and smooths one palm across it. Whatever embarrassment the table hoped to purchase from her, it gets very little; only the faint tightening at the corners of her mouth suggests that she has noticed their attention at all. <<gambleImg "full" 1>>\ <<case 2>>\ ''"Two,"'' she says, with considerably less warmth than before. She reaches beneath the table first, working the straps of her sandals loose by touch and slipping them from her feet one after the other. The skirt takes more effort. She gathers its rich fabric at her hips, frees the fastening, and draws it away while remaining seated, folding it away neatly before placing it atop the cowl. By the time she settles back, the corset and the scant layer beneath it are all that remain of the careful outfit she brought to the table. The nobleman's grin widens openly now, and even the retainer makes the mistake of looking twice. <<if $pa_map.gant>>Gant studies the growing pile beside her chair, then the merchant herself. ''"Keep fuckin' going, $name."'' <</if>>\ \ This time, she catches the attention around her. Her eyes travel once around the table, cool and level, until several gazes suddenly discover more interesting places to rest. She adjusts the lower edge of her corset with deliberate precision, then folds her hands. <<gambleImg "full" 2>>\ <<case 3>>\ ''"Three,"'' the merchant says, the words coming out flat. For the first time, she pauses before paying what she owes. Then her fingers find the lacing at the front of the corset and begin to work it loose, one measured pull after another, the garment that held her shape all afternoon starting to give. It slackens in stages, boned panels eased apart, the gold thread falling limp between them, and when she draws the last of the lacing free, the whole structure sags away. She has to lean forward to be rid of it entirely. That's the view that the table gets: the brief, unglamorous moment where she bends over the edge of the table, works the corset down past her ribs and draws her soft arms out of it, full breasts coming free of the garment in the lamplight before she sits back up. She doesn't hurry or bother covering herself up, squaring the corset down against her knee and folding it in half, before setting it neatly atop the rest of her garments. The effect on the table is immediate: the nobleman lowers his goblet altogether, his amusement sharpening into unabashed satisfaction over what this has all led to, while the retainer clears his throat and looks away several moments too late. <<if $pa_map.gant>>\ Gant goes conspicuously silent for several seconds before murmuring. ''"See? This is why I love gambling."'' <</if>>\ \ Bare to the waist, she looks exactly as composed as she did in the cowl. The lamplight finds the red lines the boning has pressed into her skin, and without the garment holding her in, you can see her breathing change; deeper, slower, a flush finally reaching her face. She sits straighter rather than shrinking, and fixes the table with a steady, expectant look that challenges anyone present to mistake losing the wager for losing her composure. <<gambleImg "full" 3>>\ <</switch>>\ <</for>>\ <<else>>\ <<gambleImg "banner">>\ <<for _stage range setup.gamble.stages()>>\ <<switch _stage>>\ <<case 1>>\ You hook one heel against the other and work your boots loose beneath the table, tugging them off one at a time before nudging them aside with your bare feet. It leaves you a little less dressed for a noble banquet, though with your shirt and trousers still in place, the loss feels considerably more inconvenient than indecent. The nobleman peers beneath the edge of the table. ''"A cautious beginning."'' The merchant is already gathering the bones. ''"They usually are."'' <<case 2>>\ You catch the hem of your shirt and pull it up over your head, freeing your arms and chest before dropping the garment across the back of your chair. A few nearby eyes wander toward the table now that the wager has become considerably easier to understand. The nobleman gives you an appraising look. ''"There. Now you're participating properly."'' Across from you, the merchant's gaze passes over your chest once. ''"Deal."'' <<case 3>>\ <<if $chp3_privateaudience_dik > 0>>\ You rise just enough to work the fastening loose and push your trousers down, surrendering the last piece of the wager without much ceremony. There's less mystery in it this time, enough of the hall having watched the earlier inspection that several faces around the table already know precisely what the cloth is hiding. <<if $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ Even so, familiarity does little to make the sight less conspicuous. Your cock flops heavily free as the trousers clear your hips, long and thick enough to hang with an undeniable weight between your thighs with the head already flush against your bare leg. The nobleman gives an appreciative laugh. ''"Still impressive."'' The merchant's gaze drops once, measuring rather than marveling, before casually returning the bones to the table. ''"It hasn't changed since earlier, has it?"'' <<if $pa_map.gant>>\ Gant leans on an elbow. ''"Still a lot of cock, mate."'' <<else>>\ The older servant glances down, then back to his wine. ''"Memory was accurate."'' <</if>>\ <<elseif $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ What emerges is considerably less dramatic: short, sleek and easy enough to overlook beneath the rest of you. Nobody at the table is surprised, and the nobleman's brief glance carries more amusement than admiration. ''"Ah, yes,"'' he says. ''"I remember now."'' The merchant reaches for her glass. ''"Then you've saved yourself the trouble of staring."'' <<else>>\ You step free of the trousers and stand bare, a balanced, respectable length hanging proudly between your thighs, neither remarkable enough to dominate the moment nor modest enough to invite much mockery. The nobleman looks once and lifts his goblet. ''"Perfectly serviceable."'' ''"A stirring endorsement,"'' the merchant replies, already reaching for the bones. <<if $pa_map.gant>>\ ''"Looks the same as it did this morning,"'' Gant says chirpily.<</if>>\ <</if>>\ \ <<else>>\ You rise from the chair and loosen the fastening of your trousers. By now the rest of your stake lies scattered beside you; boots beneath the table, shirt over the chair, every eye nearby understanding what the final payment means. Conversation around the table thins as you push the cloth from your hips and let the last barrier fall. <<if $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ Your cock flops free with enough weight to make the reveal impossible to ignore: long, thick and substantial, hanging prominently between your thighs as you step out of the trousers, the head resting full against your bare leg. The nobleman's brows rise before his grin spreads wide. ''"Gods. There was considerably more at stake than I realized. A stake worth losing after all!"'' Even the retainer looks before remembering himself. <<if $pa_map.gant>>Gant stares openly for a beat, then gives a low whistle. ''"Fuck me, mate."''<</if>> Across from you, the merchant's eyes travel downward and remain there just a fraction longer than they have any excuse to. When they return to your face, her composure has recovered, though the flush at her throat has deepened. ''"Sit down,"'' she says, and almost makes it sound like instruction. <<elseif $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ What the trousers reveal is modest: a short, sleek cock hanging neatly beneath you, with little of the spectacle the table's mounting anticipation might have suggested. The nobleman considers it for a second, then takes another drink. ''"Well. Not every wager ends dramatically."'' <<if $pa_map.gant>>Gant glances from your face to your crotch and back again. ''"Could've been worse, mate."'' ''"Helpful,"'' the merchant says. <<else>>\ The retainer clears his throat and very carefully finds somewhere else to look. <</if>>\ \ The merchant herself gives you one brief, practical appraisal before reaching for the bones. Whatever judgment she makes, she keeps it to herself. <<else>>\ Your trousers drop away to reveal a solid, balanced cock hanging proudly between your thighs: neither extravagant nor slight, simply proportioned well enough to look entirely at home on you. The nobleman takes the measure of it with open interest before lifting his goblet. ''"Respectable."'' <<if $pa_map.gant>>\ Gant nods as though some private question has just been answered. ''"Can't complain about that."'' <<else>>\ The retainer's mouth twitches, though whether from amusement or discomfort is difficult to tell. <</if>>\ \ The merchant considers you the way she considers a hand that isn't a bust and isn't thirteen. A small tilt of her head, unhurried and unabashed. ''"It'll do."'' <</if>>\ <</if>>\ <</switch>>\ <</for>>\ <</if>>\ <<if $pa_gamble.mer >= 3>>\ [[(Let your gaze move lower.)|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_linger][$pa_gamble.peeked to 3]] <<ci adult>> [[(Press her for more.)|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_press][$pa_gamble.pressed to true]] <<ci adult>> [[Continue.|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_end]] <<elseif $pa_gamble.mc >= 3 and not $pa_gamble.suddenUsed>>\ The nobleman looks from the heap of clothing beside your chair to your bare body, then across the table to what the merchant still has left to lose. ''"No. Absolutely not."'' You glance toward him. ''"What?"'' ''"You don't get to end it there."'' He reaches into his coat and produces a small handful of silver, spilling the coins onto the table with enough force to scatter them between the cups. ''"One more hand. Everything she has left against this."'' The merchant looks at the silver before looking at him. ''"He has nothing left to wager."'' ''"Then I'm wagering for him."'' ''"And if he loses?"'' The nobleman smiles, already pleased with the elegance of his own solution. ''"You keep the silver. You keep your victory. He keeps standing there exactly as he is."'' Her eyes move once over the coins, then to you. ''"And if he wins?"'' ''"Everything."'' A short silence follows, before she draws the silver toward her side of the table. ''"Deal. Now it's up to him."'' [[One hand for everything.|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_deal][setup.gamble.startSudden()]] [[Concede.|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_end][$pa_gamble.result to "lost"]] <<elseif $pa_gamble.mc >= 3>>\ [[Continue.|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_end][$pa_gamble.result to "lost"]] <<else>>\ <<if setup.gamble.peekOpen()>>\ [[(Look under the table.)|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_peek][$pa_gamble.peeked to $pa_gamble.strip.to]] <<ci adult>> <</if>>\ [[Another hand.|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_deal]] [[Walk away.|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_end][$pa_gamble.result to "walked"]] <</if>>

<<if $pa_sibylla_approach is "subtle">>\ You don't need to challenge the man. You only need to give Sibylla somewhere else to be. Measured steps carry you toward the alcove, your approach neither hurried nor timid. Sibylla notices you before Harkis does; those bright blue eyes settle upon you for the briefest moment, and you answer with a small inclination of your chin before slipping neatly into the edge of their conversation. ''"Forgive the interruption, Countess,"'' you say, voice low enough that the exchange needn't become anyone else's business. ''"But I believe you requested my presence."'' Harkis turns toward you with a faint crease between his brows. He isn't fooled, exactly. Perhaps nobody raised in rooms like this survives long without learning to recognize a convenient fiction when one is placed in front of him. ''"Did she?"'' he asks, the cordiality in his voice thinning as his gaze travels over the collar at your throat. ''"The Countess and I were in the middle of a conversation."'' For the first time since you began watching her, something close to amusement touches Sibylla's expression. ''"We were,"'' she agrees, smoothly enough that Harkis almost seems relieved—until she turns fully toward you. ''"And now I remember that I was expected elsewhere. Thank you for reminding me, $name."'' The nobleman's mouth tightens. Whatever objection occurs to him never quite reaches his tongue. Sibylla has accepted the excuse, and contradicting her would require admitting aloud that both of you have just maneuvered him out of her company. ''"Of course, Countess Cyrasse,"'' he says after a moment, lifting his cup toward her with a smile that doesn't quite survive into his eyes. ''"Another time, perhaps."'' ''"Perhaps."'' Sibylla doesn't wait for him to leave first. She steps from the alcove and you fall easily alongside her, the two of you disappearing several paces into the movement of the hall before she finally looks your way again. Only then does the faint curve at one corner of her mouth become unmistakable. ''"A remarkably convenient summons."'' ''"You looked busy."'' ''"I was occupied,"'' she corrects dryly. ''"There is a difference."'' \ <<elseif $pa_sibylla_approach is "bold">>\ The longer you listen, the less reason you see to play along with the man's performance. Whatever rules govern these people, disinterest looks much the same in the First Quarter as it does in Undertown. You cross the remaining distance without hesitation, cutting directly into the edge of their conversation. Harkis notices you only when you are already there; Sibylla somewhat sooner. Her gaze lifts toward you, cool and attentive, but she neither welcomes nor discourages the intrusion. ''"The Countess doesn't seem interested,"'' you say, looking directly at Harkis. There is no ornament to it, no borrowed noble courtesy you couldn't hope to imitate convincingly anyway. ''"I suggest you move along."'' For several seconds the nobleman simply stares at you. The anger that follows is quieter than you expected, and somehow more dangerous for it. His jeweled cup lowers slowly to his side. ''"You have an extraordinary amount of confidence for a man wearing someone else's collar,"'' he says. ''"In another house, gladiator, speaking to a lord that way might cost you a considerable amount of skin."'' ''"And in this house,"'' Sibylla interjects, her voice scarcely louder than his, ''"a guest should know when a conversation has reached its conclusion."'' Harkis goes still. His eyes leave you at last and settle upon her, searching for some sign that she's joking. He finds none. Whatever status the man possesses, Sibylla's calm seems to outweigh it here; after a moment he straightens the front of his silks and offers her a shallow bow. ''"Of course, Countess Cyrasse. I had no intention of overstaying my welcome."'' His gaze cuts back toward you as he turns away. Not hatred, perhaps, but memory. You get the feeling Lord Harkis is the sort of man who keeps careful accounts of embarrassment, even when circumstances prevent immediate collection. Then he's swallowed by the crowd, taking his cup and his wounded dignity with him. Sibylla watches him go before turning those pale blue eyes back upon you. There is a trace of disbelief there now, mingled with something harder to place. ''"You do realize,"'' she says quietly, ''"That men like Lord Harkis can be dangerous even when they are ridiculous."'' ''"He was irritating you."'' ''"He was,"'' she admits. A pause. ''"That is not quite the same thing as being harmless."'' \ <<else>>\ You decide that Sibylla doesn't need another man deciding what she wants. Instead of approaching the alcove, you move through the neighboring crowd until you find a place where she can see you clearly without Harkis immediately noticing the intrusion. It isn't difficult. Undertown taught you long ago how to position yourself in a crowd—where to stand when you want to watch without seeming to watch, how to catch someone's attention without waving your arms like a fool. For a little while, you simply wait. Sibylla's gaze moves across the hall once, passing over servants, revelers and clustered nobility before finding you. This time it stops. You hold her eyes from several paces away, making no gesture beyond the faintest lift of your chin. No demand. No presumption. Only an offer: //if you want another reason to end this conversation, here one stands.// Something shifts behind her expression. ''"Lord Harkis,"'' Sibylla says, cutting gently across whatever story he has begun telling now. ''"I'm afraid I must leave you for the moment."'' The nobleman blinks. ''"Leave? I thought perhaps we might—"'' ''"Another matter requires my attention."'' Her tone remains perfectly courteous, but the finality beneath it is unmistakable. Harkis follows the direction of her eyes and discovers you waiting beyond him. For an instant his expression tightens, curiosity shading toward irritation, though he has too much pride to ask why a slave has suddenly become more deserving of the Countess' time than he is. ''"Naturally,"'' he says instead, collecting himself behind a thin smile. ''"I wouldn't dream of keeping you."'' ''"How considerate."'' He bows and withdraws into the banquet with considerably more dignity than enthusiasm. Sibylla waits until he's gone before returning her attention to you, then curls two fingers toward herself in a restrained summons. You cross the distance between you. By the time you reach her, the severe line of her mouth has softened almost imperceptibly. ''"You waited,"'' she observes. ''"Seemed like your decision to make."'' For a moment she says nothing. Then one corner of her mouth lifts. ''"Yes,"'' she murmurs. ''"It was."'' <</if>> \ The noise of the hall closes around the space Harkis vacated, music and conversation rushing back into the silence he leaves behind. Sibylla studies you without any apparent hurry now, her gaze moving over your face with the same careful attention you've seen the nobles give everything tonight—except there is little of the earlier crude appraisal in it. She seems less interested in what you look like than in deciding what to make of you. <<if $pa_sibylla_approach is "subtle">>\ ''"You read the situation quickly,"'' she says at last. ''"And more importantly, you understood that embarrassing him wasn't necessary. That is a useful instinct."'' Her eyes flick briefly toward the place where Harkis disappeared. ''"Shockingly uncommon among people who spend their lives insisting upon their refinement."'' <<elseif $pa_sibylla_approach is "bold">>\ ''"That was reckless,"'' she says at last, though the faint amusement in her voice keeps it from sounding entirely like a reprimand. ''"Effective, apparently, but reckless. You should learn the difference between a man who cannot hurt you and one who merely chooses not to do so in public."'' She pauses, studying your reaction. ''"Still... I can't pretend that I disliked watching someone speak plainly to him."'' <<else>>\ ''"Most men who see an opportunity rush to seize it before someone else can,"'' she says at last. ''"You managed the rarer thing. You made yourself available and allowed me to decide whether I wanted the interruption at all."'' Her gaze lingers upon you another moment before she adds, almost reluctantly, ''"I appreciated that."'' <</if>> \ You glance through the crowd in the direction Harkis vanished. ''"He can't be your only admirer."'' A quiet breath escapes Sibylla's nose, not quite laughter. ''"He is not. Unfortunately."'' Her eyes drift past you, surveying the banquet with a detached familiarity that suggests she could point several more out without effort. ''"I call them vultures. They have been circling for years now, some more patiently than others. Lord Harkis is merely less gifted at disguising the appetite."'' ''"Since your husband died?"'' The question draws her attention sharply back to you, though whatever pain it touches has long since learned how to hide itself. ''"Yes. Though you needn't offer condolences. He has been dead for years."'' Her voice remains low and measured, but a trace of bitterness enters. ''"Long enough for old friends to become prospective husbands. Long enough for former allies to decide that my household, property and name might all be better managed with their hand attached to mine."'' She turns the stem of her cup slowly between two fingers, watching the wine climb and fall along the inner rim. ''"Some of them desire me, I'm sure. Others desire House Cyrasse. Most are clever enough to convince themselves there is no meaningful distinction."'' The admission seems to irritate her more than sadden her, and when she looks at you again the composure has already settled back into place. ''"Opportunists and sycophants, for the most part. Harkis is simply an especially persistent specimen."'' For a moment you aren't sure whether you've been invited to answer. Sibylla appears to realize it too, her expression tightening faintly at how much she's allowed herself to say. ''"Forgive me. Venting about First Quarter courtship to a man who just survived the arena and who's been in chains for the last day is probably poor taste."'' ''"I've heard worse complaints."'' That earns the smallest hint of a smile. ''"I imagine you have."'' She straightens slightly and inclines her head, some measure of formality returning to her bearing. ''"And after allowing you to rid me of unwanted company, I've neglected even the basic courtesy of a proper introduction."'' ''"Sibylla Cyrasse. Countess of House Cyrasse."'' ''"$name."'' ''"That much I know."'' Her blue eyes remain fixed upon yours, calm and searching. ''"What I don't know is where a man like you comes from."'' [[So you tell her.|chp2_privateaudience_sibylla2]]

''"Undertown,"'' you answer. ''"Third Quarter."'' Sibylla's expression doesn't change much, though there is a small shift in her attention, the look of someone placing a name upon a mental map. ''"I've heard of it."'' ''"Most people up here probably have."'' The thought draws your own attention somewhere far beyond the banquet hall. Undertown already feels strangely distant, though only a couple days separate you from it: cramped streets disappearing beneath hanging laundry and crooked roofs, damp stone beneath your boots, smoke and steam gathering where the alleys narrow. Fredrick's workshop seems to belong to another life entirely now. The old stools, the smell of leather and glue, half-finished shoes lined against the walls; a place so ordinary that you never imagined you'd have reason to miss it until someone dragged you away. Here, everything is marble, silk and candlelight. Women worth more coin than you've ever seen debate whether you might be worth purchasing. Men you've never met know your face because they watched you spill blood in the arena. Sibylla studies you through the silence. ''"And what did you do there?"'' ''"I was a cobbler's apprentice."'' That finally produces a visible reaction. Her gaze travels over you again, more thoughtfully than before, as if attempting to reconcile the answer with the man standing in front of her. ''"A cobbler."'' ''"Apprentice,"'' you correct. A faint curve touches her mouth. ''"My apologies. I wouldn't want to diminish your station."'' There's dryness in it rather than mockery, and for the first time you get the impression that Sibylla might possess a sense of humor she usually keeps buried beneath better manners. ''"You don't look like one,"'' she continues after a moment. ''"Not anymore, at least."'' Her eyes dip briefly toward your shoulders and arms before returning to your face. ''"Perhaps that's an unfair thing to say. I imagine most cobblers aren't given the opportunity to discover how well they fare against armed men in an arena."'' ''"Most of them probably have better sense."'' ''"Or worse luck."'' The answer comes easily, but the quiet that follows carries more weight. Around you, the banquet continues without concern: laughter rolls out from somewhere near the center of the hall, glass touches glass, musicians slip from one melody into another. Sibylla's attention doesn't wander with any of it. ''"I've been searching for a bodyguard,"'' she says at last. You take a moment before answering. ''"Have you?"'' ''"For some time."'' She turns her cup slowly between her fingers, considering the wine without drinking it. ''"We live in dangerous times, $name, though I suppose someone from Undertown hardly requires a Countess to explain that. Wealth protects a person from certain dangers and attracts others. Position does much the same."'' Her gaze passes briefly through the room, perhaps toward Harkis, perhaps toward someone else entirely. ''"There are guards I can hire. Capable men who will stand outside a door because they're told to stand there.''" Her attention settles back upon you. ''"What is considerably harder to purchase is someone who knows when something is wrong before he's ordered to react."'' That sounds less like an idle observation after what just happened. Sibylla seems aware of the connection herself. ''"You saw a situation from across the room and understood enough of it to act. How you chose to act was... revealing.''" <<if $pa_sibylla_approach is "subtle">>\ Her mouth quirks faintly. ''"You found a solution without turning it into a contest. There are men twice your age who never learn that skill, unfortunately."'' <<elseif $pa_sibylla_approach is "bold">>\ Her eyes narrow by the smallest degree. ''"Whether charging directly into every problem is a quality I would want beside me remains an open question. Still, hesitation clearly isn't among your weaknesses."'' <<else>>\ Something quieter enters her expression. ''"And you understood that being useful doesn't always require making yourself the center of what happens. That particular instinct is rare."'' <</if>> \ She allows the observation to sit between you before continuing. ''"Perhaps nothing comes of it. You aren't mine to employ, after all, and tonight is hardly the place for contracts."'' The reminder of what waits beyond the banquet: the auction, the block, whatever household eventually claims you, hanging unpleasantly beneath the words. Sibylla doesn't pretend otherwise. ''"But circumstances change. If they changed in the appropriate direction, I could imagine having use for a man with your talents."'' It's the first time she's spoken about your future as something other than an abstraction. Not freedom, exactly. Not even an offer. But a position, a purpose. Something more specific than being bought because someone enjoyed the look of you under torchlight. How you answer seems important. <<link "Depends what you'd expect from your bodyguard.">>\ <<set $pa_sibylla_offer = "pragmatic">>\ <<gainCowboy>>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_sibylla3">>\ <</link>> <<ci cowboy archetype>> <<link "I'm capable of far more than standing beside a door.">>\ <<set $pa_sibylla_offer = "ambitious">>\ <<gainBastard>>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_sibylla3">>\ <</link>> <<ci bastard archetype>> <<link "If I gave you my word, I'd keep it.">>\ <<set $pa_sibylla_offer = "oath">>\ <<gainKnight>>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_sibylla3">>\ <</link>> <<ci knight archetype>>

<<if $pa_sibylla_offer is "pragmatic">>\ ''"Depends what you'd expect from your bodyguard."'' Sibylla's brows lift slightly, as though the answer interests her more than immediate agreement might have. ''"Good,"'' she murmurs. ''"You ask what the position requires before deciding whether you want it. That already places you above a surprising number of men."'' She shifts her cup into one hand, the other resting loosely against her waist. ''"I don't need someone to loom beside a doorway and frighten servants. Coin can purchase that easily enough. I need someone observant. Discreet. Someone capable of recognizing when a room has changed before everyone inside it begins reaching for a blade."'' Her pale eyes settle upon you with quiet significance. ''"Someone who understands that protecting a person occasionally means allowing them to make their own decisions."'' You don't miss the reference to Harkis. ''"Sounds less like a bodyguard and more like someone you trust."'' That gives her pause. Not discomfort, exactly, but consideration. ''"Trust is a considerably more expensive thing."'' The faintest humor touches her expression. ''"Which is why I would never be foolish enough to offer it during a first conversation."'' ''"Fair enough."'' ''"And yet you understand the distinction."'' <<set $audience_sibylla_subtle_danger = true>>\ \ <<elseif $pa_sibylla_offer is "ambitious">>\ ''"I'm capable of far more than standing beside a door."'' The words don't seem to surprise her. If anything, Sibylla looks as though she'd been waiting to discover whether you would say something like them. Her eyes move over you slowly; not with the appetite you've grown accustomed to elsewhere tonight, but with the reserved scrutiny of someone reconsidering the possible uses of a weapon. ''"I don't doubt it,"'' she says. ''"Men content with standing quietly where they're placed rarely interrupt lords in crowded banquet halls or survive arenas long enough for anyone to remember their names."'' ''"Then you understand me."'' ''"I understand that you're ambitious. Forceful. Those aren't the same thing."'' Sibylla turns her cup once between her fingers, considering you above its rim. ''"Ambition can be useful. It can also make a man very easy to control. Promise him enough glory, enough recognition, enough power, and eventually someone discovers the price required to purchase him."'' Her gaze sharpens almost imperceptibly. ''"If you're truly capable of more, $name, then be careful who you allow to define what //more// means."'' You meet her stare without looking away. ''"I intend to define it myself."'' That earns a small, genuine curve of her mouth. ''"There. That answer I believe."'' <<set $audience_sibylla_subtle_danger = true>>\ \ <<else>>\ ''"If I gave you my word, I'd keep it."'' For the first time since the conversation began, Sibylla doesn't answer immediately. Her eyes remain on yours, pale blue and perfectly still, while the banquet moves around you in a blur of silk, candlelight and distant music. It doesn't feel as though she's deciding whether she believes you. Rather, she's considering what believing you would mean. ''"Don't offer words like that too freely,"'' she says at last. Her voice has lost what little amusement it carried. ''"Particularly not to people like me."'' You raise a brow. ''"People like you?"'' ''"Highborn."'' Her expression tightens faintly. ''"We speak endlessly of duty, honor and ancient obligation, yet everything around us has a price. Property. Allegiance. Marriage. Lives, when necessary. Oathbreakers are abundant, $name. Loyalty is highly sought after and very rarely rewarded in equal measure."'' The warning isn't cynical enough to sound rehearsed. If anything, there's something personal beneath it. ''"That doesn't make the word worth less."'' Sibylla studies you for several quiet seconds. ''"No,"'' she says eventually. ''"I suppose it doesn't."'' Her gaze drifts away then, finding something distant beyond your shoulder. For an instant the banquet seems to disappear from her attention entirely. ''"My husband thought much the same way. He was strong, intelligent... stubbornly certain that duty meant something simply because he had chosen to believe it did. When he gave his word, he kept it."'' Her fingers tighten almost invisibly around the stem of her cup. ''"It cost him his life."'' There's nothing dramatic in the admission. Sibylla doesn't lower her voice for effect or search your expression for sympathy. She simply states it, then looks back to you with that same composed distance gradually returning to her features. ''"So forgive me if I find your answer both admirable and somewhat troubling."'' ''"You don't have to forgive anything."'' A faint smile threatens the corner of her mouth. ''"Another dangerous answer."'' <<if $pa_sibylla_approach is "subtle">>\ <<set $audience_sibylla_subtle_honor = true>>\ <<else>>\ <<set $audience_sibylla_bold_honor = true>>\ <</if>>\ <</if>> \ \ For a little while neither of you says anything. Sibylla seems comfortable with silence in a way few people here are, and you find yourself equally unwilling to fill it merely for the sake of hearing your own voice. Around you, servants continue their practiced circuits through the hall, musicians play somewhere beyond the curtains, and the evening carries on unperturbed. Eventually, Sibylla glances toward the wider banquet. ''"In any case, we're discussing employment that neither of us presently has the power to arrange. By this afternoon, someone else may own the right to decide where you stand and sleep."'' There's no softness in the reminder, but neither is there cruelty. Sibylla simply refuses to disguise the truth because it might be unpleasant. ''"Are you planning to bid?"'' you ask. She gives you a sidelong look. ''"Perhaps."'' ''"That's not much of an answer."'' ''"It wasn't intended to be."'' The reply comes dry enough to draw the beginnings of a smile from you, and Sibylla notices. Her own expression warms by only a fraction. <<if $pa_sibylla_approach is "subtle">>\ ''"You've demonstrated a useful talent for finding ways around unnecessary conflict,"'' she continues. ''"If nothing else, remember that quality. Men who insist upon meeting every obstacle head-on rarely remain interesting for very long."'' <<elseif $pa_sibylla_approach is "bold">>\ ''"And perhaps remember that confidence and invulnerability are different things,"'' she adds. ''"Lord Harkis was an irritation tonight. Another man, another room, and the same interruption might carry a considerably steeper price."'' <<else>>\ ''"And keep that patience of yours,"'' she adds after a moment. ''"Knowing when //not// to seize control of a situation may prove more valuable than any weapon they eventually put in your hand."'' <</if>> \ You incline your head. ''"I'll keep it in mind."'' ''"See that you do."'' Her eyes linger upon you a final moment, thoughtful rather than appraising. ''"I've enjoyed our conversation, $name. More than I expected to."'' ''"I enjoyed it too, Countess Sibylla."'' ''"Then we can call the interruption mutually profitable."'' The slightest smirk returns to her lips before she turns her attention toward the hall once more. ''"Enjoy what remains of the banquet. I'll be interested to see what becomes of you this afternoon."'' You leave her in the alcove with considerably more questions than you had when you approached it. Whatever happens at the auction, Countess Sibylla Cyrasse no longer feels like another distant noblewoman studying you from across the hall. Judging by the thoughtful look she gives you before you disappear into the crowd, you suspect the feeling may be mutual. At the very least, a seed has been planted. <<set $pa_map.sibylla = true>>\ <<set $pa_map.zone = "left">>\ \ <<paMapReturn "sibylla">>

<img class="scene" src="images/chp2_privateaudience_novia.webp"> She's waiting for you. A young woman sits alone beyond the curtain, reclining beside a low table scarcely large enough for two. One slender hand curls around the stem of a wineglass, turning it slowly against the wood while a single candle trembles between you. Its light catches in the dark waves of her hair, along the freckles dusting her cheeks and bare shoulders, and across the intricate blood-red gown fitted closely to her slight frame. She is younger than you expected. Perhaps your own age, or near enough that the difference hardly matters. There's none of Livia's seasoned authority in her face. Yet she sits with the posture of someone taught from childhood how much can be communicated by the angle of a chin, the placement of a hand, the exact moment at which one's eyes are permitted to linger. And hers have been lingering on you for some time. ''"You've come."'' The words are quiet. Almost relieved. For a moment, neither of you moves. Her dark-lashed eyes travel over you with an attention that feels different from the open appraisal you've endured throughout the evening; not less interested, perhaps, but less entitled to its conclusions. She seems to be searching for something she hasn't quite decided how to name. Then the corner of her mouth lifts. ''"I was beginning to wonder whether you'd notice."'' Her voice carries the polished softness expected of a woman raised behind noble walls, each word measured and clean. The performance is convincing until you notice the faint twitch of her fingers against the glass. She catches herself doing it, stills them, and takes a slow sip as though the movement had been deliberate all along. Behind you, the crimson curtain slips from your hand. It falls closed with a heavy whisper. The banquet doesn't disappear, but the fabric smothers it into something distant: muted laughter, dulled music, the occasional sharp clink of glass from another world only a few feet away. Inside the alcove there is only the candle, the wine, the young woman in red and the peculiar intimacy of being somewhere neither of you can easily be watched. Her gaze flickers briefly toward the curtain before returning to you. ''"Do you hesitate,"'' she asks, a trace of amusement finally warming her expression, ''"Because you think this is a trap? Or am I truly that intimidating?"'' She lets the question hang for a moment, studying you over the rim of her glass. You don't answer immediately. A quiet laugh escapes her, breathy and surprisingly girlish, puncturing something in the carefully arranged scene. For an instant she looks less like whatever noblewoman she's been taught to become and more like someone who has gotten away with doing something she perhaps wasn't supposed to do. She sets the glass down with a soft clink. Then, she lifts two fingers and gestures toward the cushion opposite her. ''"Sit, please. I'd like to speak with you."'' [[You take the seat across from her.|chp2_privateaudience_novia2]]

You lower yourself onto the cushion opposite her. The table leaves little room between you. Close enough to see the faint stain of wine upon her lower lip, the tiny imperfections beneath the powder along her cheeks, the rise and fall of her breathing when the silence stretches a little longer than she intended. Beyond the curtain, someone erupts into laughter. In here, neither of you seems inclined to join them. The young woman turns her glass once between her fingers, her dark eyes lifting to yours. ''"I watched you in the arena."'' There's no embarrassment in the admission. If anything, she seems relieved to finally say aloud what she has been carrying around all evening. ''"Everyone did, of course. It would be difficult not to."'' A faint smile touches her lips. ''"But most of them were watching to see whether you would bleed. Whether you'd kill."'' Her expression tightens almost imperceptibly. ''"I found myself watching for something else."'' The candle gutters between you. For a moment, its flame bends low enough to pull half her face into darkness. Her gaze passes over you again in the half-light, slower now; not inspecting your body so much as measuring the person inside of it. ''"You didn't stand there waiting for someone to decide what happened to you."'' You lean back slightly. ''"That impressed you?"'' ''"It was... refreshing."'' A faint flush warms her freckled cheeks. She reaches for her wine, seems to reconsider, and leaves the glass where it is. Her eyes drop briefly toward the candle before returning to you, curiosity winning out over whatever caution had held her back. ''"Tell me something, $name."'' She leans forward now, elbows resting atop the low table, elegant chin propped up in one hand like a girl entertaining a secret. ''“Tell me, if you'd like,”'' she says, her voice quieter, more openly curious than she allowed herself before, ''“What do you really want?”'' <<link "To walk on my own terms. No collar, no leash." "chp2_privateaudience_novia3">> <<set $pa_novia_approach = "cowboy">> <<gainCowboy>> <</link>> <<ci cowboy archetype>> <<link "To be remembered. Even if they curse my name." "chp2_privateaudience_novia3">> <<set $pa_novia_approach = "bastard">> <<gainBastard>> <</link>> <<ci bastard archetype>> <<link "To stand for something right and true." "chp2_privateaudience_novia3">> <<set $pa_novia_approach = "knight">> <<gainKnight>> <</link>> <<ci knight archetype>>

<<if $pa_novia_approach is "cowboy">> \ \ ''"To walk on my own terms. No collar, no leash."'' Her eyes remain fixed on yours, searching for the qualification that never comes, the little concession that might make the answer easier to dismiss. When she fails to find one, a breath slips from her lips; not quite laughter, but something startled and genuine. ''"Gods... you really mean that."'' You purse your lips and give a faint nod, ''"Wouldn't have said it otherwise."'' ''"Mmph, I'm learning that about you. Speaking of freedom like it's a simple thing."'' She runs a finger tenderly along the lip-kissed rim of her wineglass. ''“Do you know how rare it is, hearing someone say that and mean it?”'' ''"Didn't say it was simple."'' Your gaze drifts toward the crimson curtain, where the banquet carries on beyond silken and velvet fabric. ''"Just said it's what I want."'' Her eyes follow yours, listening to the muffled laughter outside: noble voices rising over music, silver touching crystal, people with more wealth than Undertown could swallow in a lifetime competing for another scrap of one another's attention. ''"Everyone here is leashed,"'' she murmurs. ''"Some just wear prettier chains."'' There's something almost resentful beneath the observation, as though your words spurred on something deep and unquiet inside. Her fingers shift, and for the first time the blood-red silk around her seems less like finery than another thing chosen for her. ''"Most of them would sell their mother for a better seat at the table,"'' she continues, glancing back at you. ''"You strike me as the sort who'd rather kick the table over and sleep beneath the stars."'' A crooked smile pulls at your mouth. ''"At least the stars don't lie to you."'' She laughs then; quiet, sudden, alive enough that she immediately seems conscious of having done it. The sound fades into an easier silence, her dark eyes lingering on you with noticeably less caution than before. ''"I was taught that honesty is a tool. Something to be rationed and used carefully when it profits you."'' Her mouth twists faintly. ''"I've never been very good at believing that."'' You look over the expensive gown, the practiced posture, the little slips in composure she keeps trying to gather back together. ''"You're not very good at looking like you believe half the things they taught you, either."'' For a heartbeat, she only stares. ''"That may be the first honest insult anyone has given me all evening."'' Her smile lingers as she settles back across from you. ''"I think I prefer it. Thank you."'' <<elseif $pa_novia_approach is "bastard">> \ \ ''"To be remembered. Even if they curse my name."'' Something changes in her face. Not fear, but something than that like calculation. You didn't hesitate when you said it, and you don't scramble to soften the words afterward. The truth sits between you without apology, ugly enough that neither of you can pretend you meant something kinder. Her lips part like she wants to reply, but no words come. You watch her, really watch her in the flickering light. Freckled cheeks, a dress cut for sleek seduction, fitted close around a body that's never gone hungry because somebody stronger decided it should. The softness of a girl trying to play at danger. Her voice has edge, but her hands are too clean. No scars. She's curious about dangerous men, but that doesn't mean she's ready for one. You could have lied. It would've been easy enough. A few murmured words about freedom, broken chains, sleeping beneath honest stars; whatever pretty little rebellion someone like her wants to imagine when the banquet becomes dull. It might've earned you something warm. A favor, maybe even a chance to breathe easier. But there's no future in shaping yourself around someone else's comfort. Whatever else the girl might be, she still looks at the world like fairness is something that can be found if you dig deeply enough. Young, sheltered, idealistic enough to ask a slave what he //really wants// and expect the answer to fit neatly inside the life she understands. She isn't stupid, though. The warmth slowly leaves her eyes. ''"That's a dangerous answer,"'' she says at last, her voice is quieter now, the almost-girlish amusement from moments earlier carefully gathered away. ''"You want to be remembered badly enough that you wouldn't care if they hated you for it?"'' You meet her stare across the candle. ''"Hate lasts."'' Your mouth curls faintly. ''"Sometimes longer than love."'' Her brow tightens. ''"Even if getting what you want costs you everything?"'' You barely need to consider it. ''"Especially if it does."'' She reclines slightly, creating another inch of distance without seeming conscious of the movement. Her fingers play along the stem of her goblet, but she doesn't drink from it. Whatever fascination brought you through the curtain is still there, just more cautious. ''"Men like you rise quickly,"'' she murmurs. ''"And fall harder."'' For a moment, you think she might laugh. Instead she looks down into her wine. ''“Legacy is a tempting thing,”'' she says. ''“It whispers to us, promises we’ll matter. That the world will bend to remember us, even if we make it bleed.”'' She tilts her head, studying your face like it’s a map she’s only beginning to decipher. She turns the glass slowly between her fingers, bitterness beneath her words now. ''"My father believes his wealth will make him immortal. Half the men outside that curtain believe the same thing about their houses, their titles, their victories."'' Her mouth tightens. ''"My brother believed service would do it. He joined the Legion."'' Something in the way she says the last word catches your attention. ''"He fought with the Sorcerer-King's name on his lips and died with a sword in his hand."'' She lifts her gaze again, steady despite the hardness creeping into it. ''"They called him a hero and told us his name would live longer after the rest of us were dust, $name."'' A small, humorless smile curls her mouth like curdled milk. ''"Do you know what they gave him?"'' You don't answer. ''"A street. In the shadow of sewage canals."'' A soft, breathless laugh. ''"People piss on it every day."'' You watch her: cool-eyed, steady-voiced. Maybe you underestimated her. She’s not as soft as you thought, but she still hasn’t swayed you. You're tired of sermons, even the honest ones. ''"Then he chose the wrong legacy."'' Her eyes harden. ''"Is that what you think?"'' ''"I think he gave everything to men who decided what his sacrifice meant after he was already dead."'' You lean back slightly, letting your gaze drift toward the curtain before returning to her. ''"I'd rather decide for myself what I'm climbing toward."'' She goes very still. The candlelight trembles across her face while she studies you, and slowly, reluctantly, something like understanding takes shape behind her eyes. ''"You're not only trying to escape."'' Her voice is almost absent now, the conclusion spoken more to herself than to you. ''"You're a climber."'' You don't deny it. ''"Someone who would tear down the ladder behind him if it meant reaching the top."'' Her fingers finally leave the untouched wineglass. ''"Whatever it is you're climbing toward, $name... I hope when you reach it, you can still remember why you started."'' <<elseif $pa_novia_approach is "knight">> \ \ ''"To stand for something right and true."'' The answer leaves a hush behind it. She watches you across the candle as though the final words have caught somewhere inside her, her brow drawing faintly together before she repeats them under her breath. ''"Right and true."'' She doesn't sound skeptical. If anything, she sounds as though she's trying to remember the last time she heard someone use the words without irony in Cradle. ''"My father says truth belongs to whoever has enough power to enforce it,"'' she says. ''"My tutors prefer prettier language. Perspective. Interpretation. Context."'' Her fingers tighten faintly around the stem of her glass. ''"Eventually it all seems to mean the same thing."'' You shake your head. ''"No."'' Her eyes lift sharply. ''"Power can make people repeat a lie. Doesn't make it true."'' You settle your forearms against your knees, leaning slightly toward the candle between you. ''"A man still decides what he stands for. What he'll do and what he won't. They can take plenty from him... his life, his liberty... but not that, not unless he chooses to hand it over."'' She looks at the collar around your throat. You notice, and so does she. For a moment, neither of you acknowledges it. ''"And what did you stand for yesterday?"'' she asks eventually. ''"In the arena?"'' The question draws the sand back beneath your feet for a heartbeat: screaming from the tiers, bodies crashing together, blood darkening beneath the heat. You can almost feel the ache in your arms and the pounding deep inside your chest. ''"Living."'' Your gaze remains on hers. ''"Mine, if I could manage it. The others too."'' You drag your thumb absently across one bruised knuckle. ''"At the time, fighting was the answer. So I fought. Doesn't mean fighting is always the answer."'' Your jaw tightens faintly. ''"But if I'm going to die eventually, I'd rather know I didn't crawl through the years before it as something I despised."'' Novia's expression softens. ''"Dignity."'' ''"Something like that."'' That finally draws a smile from her; not the amused little curve she's used to hide uncertainty, but something quieter and more sincere. ''"That's a very inconvenient way to live."'' ''"So I'm learning."'' Her laugh is soft, but the look she gives you afterward lingers. There's admiration there now, though not the childish sort that mistakes conviction for goodness. She seems instead to be wondering whether a man can truly live by such rules once the world begins charging him for them, one burden at a time, like weight stacked upon a bending body. <</if>> \ \ The candle has burned lower while you spoke, a small lake of wax gathering around the blackened wick. Outside the curtain, the banquet continues without either of you, its music and conversation reduced to a dull pulse beyond the cloth. The young woman studies you in the quieter aftermath of your answer. Something has changed in the way she looks at you. Whether warmer, warier, or simply more certain, there is less speculation in it now. She asked what sort of man was sitting across from her, and for better or worse, you've given her something resembling an answer. Her gaze falls to her own hand. A faint crease forms between her brows, as if she has only just realized how much she has asked of you while offering almost nothing of herself. ''"I've been terribly unfair."'' Her thumb brushes absently over one of the rings around her fingers. When she looks back up, some of the practiced mystery has gone from her expression. ''"I should have started with this."'' [[A silver ring glints in the dim candlelight.|chp2_privateaudience_novia4]]

<img class="scene" src="images/segunering.webp"> The young woman studies you for another moment before her eyes drop toward the table. ''"I should have started with this."'' There's something faintly sheepish in the admission now, as though the thought has only just occurred to her that she has spent the better part of this conversation asking you to bare pieces of yourself while offering almost nothing in return. ''"My name is Novia Segune."'' Her eyes lower to the stem of her glass, slender fingers wrapped loosely about it, and that's when you notice it. Slid upon one of her fingers, lay a silver ring, glinting in the dim candlelight. With a shallow breath, she places the ring atop the table and gives it a little spin, letting it twirl with a clear, metallic twang. You follow it, watching the engraved ''//S//'' on the front. ''"Heir of House Segune, which I suppose makes me worth something in this place."'' Her fingertip catches the silver before it can fall flat. ''"At least, that's what my father would tell you. House. Blood. Land. Contracts."'' A small smile pulls at one side of her mouth. ''"All the things people are supposed to care about."'' She looks back up. ''"Tonight, I think I'd rather be known for my curiosity."'' For a moment, the girl from earlier returns; the one beneath the careful posture and measured voice, young enough to find something thrilling in pulling a stranger behind a curtain simply because she wanted to understand him. Then her expression grows quieter, more serious. Novia keeps one finger resting against the Segune ring. ''"They're deciding your price even now."'' The words change the air between you. The banquet beyond the curtain seems to press closer again: muted laughter, music, glass touching glass. Somewhere beyond that thin barrier, men and women are discussing coin, contracts, ownership. Discussing you. That much has been made clear. ''"Names are being whispered. Arrangements made."'' Her eyes remain on yours. ''"Before long, someone in that room is going to decide how much you're worth to them."'' Your gaze drops briefly toward the silver ring. Novia notices. ''"It could be me."'' She says it softly. Neither a threat, nor quite as an offer. For the first time since you entered the alcove, there's uncertainty in her face that she makes no attempt to hide. The practiced noblewoman has disappeared almost entirely now. What's left is simply Novia, watching you across a dying candle and waiting to discover whether the thought means the same thing to you that it apparently does to her. Her fingertips curl slowly around the ring. ''"Would you want that?"'' <<if $pa_novia_approach is "cowboy">>\ <<link "If it has to be someone... I could live with it being you.">>\ <<set $pa_novia_response = "accept">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_novia4_cowboy">>\ <</link>> <<ci cowboy relation>> <<link "Better you than most. But a collar is still a collar.">>\ <<set $pa_novia_response = "guarded">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_novia4_cowboy">>\ <</link>> <<ci cowboy>> <<link "That's your decision. I don't get one.">>\ <<set $pa_novia_response = "reject">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_novia4_cowboy">>\ <</link>> <<ci cowboy>> <<elseif $pa_novia_approach is "bastard">>\ <<link "Then bet on me.">>\ <<set $pa_novia_response = "bet">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_novia4_bastard">>\ <</link>> <<ci bastard relation>> <<link "If you want me, you'll have to decide what I'm worth.">>\ <<set $pa_novia_response = "challenge">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_novia4_bastard">>\ <</link>> <<ci bastard>> <<link "No. You'd regret it.">>\ <<set $pa_novia_response = "reject">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_novia4_bastard">>\ <</link>> <<ci bastard>> <<elseif $pa_novia_approach is "knight">>\ <<link "Buying me wouldn't buy my loyalty. But you could earn it.">>\ <<set $pa_novia_response = "loyalty">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_novia4_knight">>\ <</link>> <<ci knight relation>> <<link "Treat me justly, and I'll give you the same in return.">>\ <<set $pa_novia_response = "trust">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_novia4_knight">>\ <</link>> <<ci knight>> <<link "I don't think either of us should make promises tonight.">>\ <<set $pa_novia_response = "guarded">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_novia4_knight">>\ <</link>> <<ci knight>> <</if>> \

<<if $pa_novia_response is "bet">> \ <<set $pa_novia_impression = "positive">> \ ''"Then bet on me."'' For the first time since revealing her name, Novia looks genuinely caught off guard. Her fingers remain curled around the silver Segune ring, but everything else goes still: the faint movement of her shoulders, the careful composure of her mouth, even the restless attention that has followed you since you first stepped through the curtain. She had asked whether you wanted her to buy you. Perhaps she expected gratitude. Maybe resentment. You give her a wager. A slow smirk begins somewhere at the corner of your mouth. ''"You came looking for something different, didn't you?"'' Your gaze drops briefly toward the ring between her fingers, then rises again. ''"Something the rest of them haven't noticed yet."'' Novia's brow tightens, though she doesn't look away. ''"That's rather confident."'' ''"Has to be."'' You settle deeper against the cushion, the movement unhurried despite the collar around your throat. There's something almost absurd about the situation: a man who owns nothing telling an heiress how to spend her family's silver. Yet, she's listening for now. ''"Everyone outside that curtain is trying to decide what I'm worth right now. Most of them will look at yesterday. The arena. How much blood I can spill before somebody spills mine."'' Your eyes hold hers. ''"You wanted to know what comes after."'' Novia's thumb moves once across the face of the ring. ''"And you think you know?"'' ''"I know I'm not staying what I am."'' The answer comes without hesitation. Not because you possess some grand vision of the years ahead. You don't. The future remains a dark road disappearing somewhere beyond Cradle's walls and towers, filled with people stronger, richer, crueler and better connected than you. But there is one thing you know with the stubborn certainty of hunger. You're going upward - somehow. ''"Maybe tomorrow I die in the sands,"'' you continue. ''"Maybe your father decides I'm not worth the coin. Maybe someone richer spends the next year trying to beat the ambition out of me. But if you're asking whether there's something here worthwhile..."'' You lean forward, the smirk sharpening into something dangerous. ''"Bet on me."'' The candle flickers between you. Novia studies your face with the same expression she might give a set of dice that has somehow landed on its edge. There's wariness there; plenty of it. You haven't made yourself safer in her eyes. If anything, you've confirmed the opposite. But you've made yourself interesting. ''"You really believe you're going somewhere."'' ''"I know I am."'' A breath escapes her, caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. ''"Gods, you're arrogant."'' ''"Someone should be."'' That finally breaks her. Novia laughs, quieter than the banquet beyond the curtain but far more genuine. She lowers her gaze for a moment, shaking her head as though reconsidering every sensible instinct that brought her here. When she looks up again, the caution remains, but so does the spark beneath it. ''"You realize,"'' she says, ''"That if I actually listen to you tomorrow and this goes terribly, I will despise you."'' Your grin widens. ''"Then at least you'll remember me."'' The answer earns another helpless little laugh, followed by a look that lingers longer than either of you acknowledges. ''"You're impossible."'' ''"Not yet."'' <<elseif $pa_novia_response is "challenge">> \ <<set $pa_novia_impression = "mixed">> \ ''"If you want me, you'll have to decide what I'm worth."'' The words leave Novia silent. You watch the faint warmth drain from her expression as she turns them over, not offended so much as newly wary. A few moments ago she had tried to make the question personal; whether you would want //her// among the people capable of buying you. You hand the transaction back to her, and perhaps that's where it belongs. Your gaze falls toward the Segune ring resting beneath her fingers. ''"That's what tomorrow is, isn't it?"'' you continue. ''"Everyone in that room deciding how much they want something, and how much they're willing to lose to get it."'' Novia's eyes narrow slightly. ''"You make yourself sound like a horse."'' ''"They're selling me like one."'' Her lips press together, and for a moment neither of you speaks. The banquet beyond the curtain becomes audible again in the silence: laughter, music, the distant clink of somebody replenishing a glass worth more than most men earn in months. ''"I was trying not to speak to you like merchandise,"'' she says eventually. ''"I noticed."'' Your tone isn't mocking, which only seems to bother her more. You straighten slightly, looking at the young heiress across the low table. Whatever curiosity drew her here, whatever fantasies she carries about seeing the man beneath the chains, reality won't simply disappear because she's kinder about it. Tomorrow, if she raises her hand, she will still be bidding. ''"Maybe you mean well,"'' you tell her. ''"Maybe you'd treat me better than the others. But if you're asking whether I want you to spend your money on me, I don't know enough about you to answer that.''" You tap one finger against the table. ''"So decide what I'm worth to you."'' Novia studies you for several long seconds. ''"And if I decide you're worth quite a lot?"'' A faint curl touches your mouth. ''"Then I'd wonder what you expect in return."'' Her eyes sharpen at the question neither of you can quite avoid. There are no gifts in Cradle without expectations attached, no great displays of generosity without somebody quietly counting what is owed afterward. Perhaps Novia is different. You've survived too long to wager your life on //perhaps//. ''"You don't trust me."'' ''"I barely know you."'' Her gaze falls toward the ring. ''"Mmph... fair."'' There's disappointment in the word, but also reluctant respect. You haven't given her what she hoped to hear, and you haven't deliberately wounded her either. You've simply refused to pretend that a pleasant conversation has somehow erased the arrangement. ''"You're very difficult to impress."'' ''"I'm easy to impress."'' You glance around the little alcove, then toward the curtain. ''"Harder to convince."'' A small, reluctant smile returns despite herself. ''"I suppose I'll remember that."'' <<elseif $pa_novia_response is "reject">> \ <<set $pa_novia_impression = "poor">> \ ''"No. You'd regret it."'' Novia's face stills. Some part of her must have understood that the question could end here the moment she asked it. But she had allowed herself to hope otherwise, and for one brief instant you can see the disappointment before breeding and practice conceal it. ''"You seem very certain."'' ''"I am."'' The answer comes easily. You study her across the guttering candle: the careful red dress, the freckled skin, the dark eyes that followed you from the arena into this strange little sanctuary. She is cleverer than you first assumed. Less fragile, too. But that doesn't mean she knows what she's inviting into her house. ''"You watched me fight once,"'' you say. ''"We spoke for a few minutes behind a curtain. That's enough to make you curious. It isn't enough to make you understand me."'' Her expression hardens by a fraction. ''"Perhaps I'd like the opportunity."'' ''"That's the problem."'' You lean forward, forearms settling against your knees. ''"You think I'm something you can study. Maybe something you can help. Give me a room instead of a cell, better food, fewer chains, and wait to see what happens."'' Your mouth twists faintly. ''"Eventually you'd find out."'' ''"Find out what?"'' You hold her gaze. ''"That I don't want a kinder master."'' Novia looks down at her ring, rolling the silver slowly beneath her thumb. ''"You think I'd try to control you."'' ''"Everyone does eventually."'' ''"And if I didn't?"'' A short breath escapes through your nose. ''"Then someone above you would."'' Her gaze snaps back to yours. For all her title, for all the wealth stitched into the fabric against her skin, you've seen enough already to understand that Novia doesn't sit at the top of her own world. There is a father somewhere behind House Segune. Expectations, contracts, alliances. Older people making decisions and calling them tradition. Different chains. Prettier ones. But unlike yours, hers still leave room to breathe. ''"You said people like me rise fast and fall harder,"'' you remind her. ''"Maybe you're right."'' The edge of your mouth turns upward without warmth. ''"So don't stand underneath me when I fall."'' Novia stares at you for a long moment. Still, she doesn't look angry. ''"I think,"'' she says quietly, ''"You've spent so long expecting every hand to close around your throat that you wouldn't recognize one reaching toward you."'' The observation finds somewhere unpleasant to land. You don't give her the satisfaction of seeing it. ''"Maybe. It's safer that way."'' Novia's mouth tightens. ''"Perhaps."'' Neither of you believes her. <</if>>\ \ The candle has nearly drowned in its own wax by the time the silence settles. Novia reaches for the Segune ring and slides it back onto her finger. Silver settles against pale skin, and with it something of the heiress returns: shoulders straightening, expression smoothing, the brief uncertainty of the girl behind the curtain folding itself beneath manners learned long before tonight. Whatever passed between you here, House Segune still waits outside. So does the auction. Novia rises first, blood-red silk whispering around her legs as she crosses the few steps toward the curtain, but her hand stops before drawing it aside. ''"You know,"'' she says without turning, ''"When I watched you yesterday, I thought the dangerous part was that you refused to stay down."'' Her fingers curl faintly against the crimson fabric. ''"I'm beginning to think I misunderstood."'' You lift your gaze toward her. ''"What's the dangerous part?"'' Novia glances back over one shoulder. There is something unreadable in the look she gives you—curiosity surviving beside caution, attraction perhaps, though no longer the uncomplicated kind. ''"You don't seem to believe there's anywhere you're supposed to stop."'' For a moment, you simply look at one another. Then your mouth curls. ''"Maybe you're learning, heiress."'' A shake of her head follows, almost fond despite herself, before she pulls the curtain open. Sound floods back into the alcove. Music, conversation, clattering glass; the whole gilded machinery of the banquet rushing in to reclaim the space you borrowed from it. Novia steps through first, red silk vanishing among the moving bodies beyond. Before long, you'll know whether she took your warning seriously. Or whether she decides to gamble anyway. <<paMapReturn "novia">>

<<if $pa_novia_response is "accept">> \ <<set $pa_novia_impression = "strong">> \ ''"If it has to be someone... I could live with it being you."'' The answer seems to reach her more deeply than you intended. Her fingers still against the silver ring, and whatever carefully measured reply she might have prepared never arrives. Instead, a faint warmth rises beneath the freckles across her cheeks, subtle enough that the candlelight nearly hides it. ''"That's almost flattering."'' There's a smile in her voice now. ''"Almost?"'' ''"You did begin with //if it has to be someone//."'' You give a small shrug. ''"Would you rather I lied?"'' That earns a quiet laugh. ''"No. I know that buying you wouldn't make any of this right."'' The admission catches you slightly off guard. Novia runs one thumb slowly across the engraved face of her ring, as though suddenly conscious of the weight behind it. ''"Earlier, I said everyone here was leashed. Some with prettier chains."'' Her mouth tightens. ''"That wasn't fair to you."'' You wait. ''"My father can tell me who to dine with. What dresses are appropriate, which invitations matter, what sort of woman House Segune expects me to become."'' Her dark eyes flick once more toward your collar. ''"But no one has carried me off to market."'' For a few seconds, the banquet beyond the curtain becomes little more than distant noise. ''"No,"'' you say. ''"They haven't."'' She nods, accepting the correction without trying to defend herself. ''"So when I ask whether you'd want me..."'' She hesitates over the words, then gives a faint, self-conscious shake of her head. ''"Gods, even saying it sounds awful."'' A crooked smile pulls at your mouth. ''"Could phrase it worse."'' ''"I'm certain the auctioneer will manage."'' That gets a breath of laughter from you both. The heaviness doesn't disappear, but something loosens around it. You glance toward the curtain, toward the room full of people waiting to decide where you'll wake tomorrow. ''"I'm not saying I'd be happy about being owned."'' ''"I know."'' ''"But,"'' you continue, eyes returning to hers, ''"if the choice is between waking under your roof and waking under most of theirs..."'' You let your gaze drift briefly toward the curtain. ''"I'd rather see where your road goes."'' Novia's expression softens into something almost unguarded. ''"And I'd like to see where yours goes."'' Neither of you mistakes that for true freedom. But for the first time since the chains closed around your wrists, the road ahead doesn't feel entirely chosen by someone else. <<elseif $pa_novia_response is "guarded">> \ <<set $pa_novia_impression = "positive">> \ ''"Better you than most. But a collar is still a collar."'' The faint hope in Novia's expression dims, but it doesn't disappear. Instead, she looks down toward the silver ring beneath her fingers, turning it slowly against the wood as though your answer has forced her to see it differently. A few moments ago, the piece of metal had been proof of her name and authority. Now it sits opposite the collar at your throat. ''"I suppose that's fair."'' Her voice is quieter. You lean back slightly against the cushion. ''"Fair doesn't have much to do with it."'' '"No... It doesn't."'' For once, she doesn't try to soften the truth with something clever. Outside the curtain, laughter swells and falls again. ''"When I said everyone here was leashed..."'' she begins. You glance back to her, catching the faint tightening of her mouth. ''"I wasn't comparing us. Not really."'' Her fingers close around the ring. ''"I know whatever expectations my family puts on me aren't the same as this."'' ''"Still,"'' she says after a moment, ''"If I bought you... I would try to give you room."'' A faint smile touches your mouth. ''"Room isn't freedom."'' ''"No."'' She answers immediately this time. That makes you look at her more carefully. There's no argument waiting behind her expression. No wounded noble pride demanding gratitude because she intends to be kinder than whoever else might purchase you. ''"But sometimes,"'' Novia continues, ''"Room is where people begin figuring out how to reach the door."'' You study her across the dying candle. The statement could be bait. Perhaps anything spoken by someone who might own you tomorrow deserves suspicion. Yet, she doesn't look triumphant after saying it. If anything, she appears nervous that she has said too much. ''"Careful,"'' you murmur. ''"That almost sounds like encouragement."'' Her lips curve. ''"I have no idea what you're talking about."'' The smile lingers between you, but neither of you lets it erase the truth underneath. If Novia buys you tomorrow, she'll still be the one with the ring. You'll still be the one with the collar, but perhaps there are worse places to begin. <<elseif $pa_novia_response is "reject">> \ <<set $pa_novia_impression = "mixed">> \ ''"That's your decision. I don't get one."'' The words take the warmth out of the room, but not because you spoke them cruelly. There's no bitterness sharpened for the sake of hurting her, nor any satisfaction in watching the small flicker of disappointment across her face. You're simply telling her the truth. Her question asked what you wanted. Tomorrow, nobody will. ''"I suppose not,"'' she says. The silver ring turns beneath her fingertip. For several breaths she avoids your gaze, and you begin to wonder whether the conversation has finally reached the place where good intentions stop being enough. ''"I thought..."'' Novia trails off, and she gives a faint shake of her head. ''"Never mind."'' ''"No. Say it."'' Her eyes return to yours, less of the heirness in them now. Just a girl. ''"I thought asking might matter."'' You lean forward, forearms settling against your knees. ''"It does matter."'' She searches your face, ''"Just not enough to make it a choice."'' You gesture faintly toward the curtain. ''"If you bid tomorrow, you're deciding whether you want me. Maybe you'll treat me well. Maybe you'll give me more freedom than anyone else in that room would.''" Your gaze returns to her. ''"But I still don't get to stand up afterward and say I'd rather leave."'' Novia looks down. ''"No... You wouldn't."'' You settle back. ''"That's all I'm saying."'' The silence that follows is uncomfortable, but not hostile. In another room, with another woman, perhaps honesty like this would have ended the conversation. A noble insulted. A slave punished for failing to perform gratitude. Novia only sits with it. Eventually, she breathes out through her nose. ''"You're very difficult to offer anything to."'' A dry smile touches your mouth. ''"Try offering me the door."'' For a heartbeat, she stares. But a small laugh slips out despite herself. It doesn't erase the sadness behind it. ''"If only it were that easy."'' ''"Never said it was."'' Something changes after that. Novia no longer looks at you as though there might be some perfect arrangement that could make tomorrow feel merciful. And you no longer quite see her as another noble trying to convince herself that a gentler hand makes the cage disappear. Maybe that's enough for tonight. <</if>>\ \ The candle has burned low enough that its flame barely clears the rim of melted wax. Novia retrieves the silver Segune ring and slides it back onto her finger. The motion seems to restore some invisible architecture around her: shoulders straightening, expression settling, the young woman behind the curtain becoming once again the young heiress. She rises, blood-red fabric whispering over the floor as she crosses toward the curtain, but before opening it, she pauses. ''"When I saw you in the arena,"'' she says, fingers resting against the crimson cloth, ''"I thought you were fighting because you were afraid to die."'' You look up at her, catching the dark shine of her eyes. ''"I don't think that anymore."'' A faint crease forms between your brows. ''"What do you think?"'' Her eyes linger on you. ''"I think you hate being cornered more than you fear what waits outside the corner."'' The observation sits strangely well as you rise from the cushion. ''"Maybe."'' Novia's mouth curves slightly. ''"That sounds like you."'' Then she draws the curtain aside, the banquet rushing back in: music, heat, perfume, voices layered one over another until the private little world behind you feels almost imagined. Novia steps through first. For a moment, the blood-red of her gown remains visible among the crowd. Then someone crosses between you, and she disappears. You linger at the curtain's edge. Tomorrow, perhaps she'll raise her hand. Or maybe she won't. Either way, the road remains yours to fight for. <<paMapReturn "novia">>

<<if $pa_novia_response is "loyalty">> \ <<set $pa_novia_impression = "strong">> \ ''"Buying me wouldn't buy my loyalty. But you could earn it."'' Her fingers remain curled around the silver ring upon the table, but the tension in them gradually eases. You've given her a boundary. A promise of nothing except the possibility that one day, by her own conduct, she might deserve something more. Strangely, that seems to please her. ''"Earn it,"'' she repeats, almost beneath her breath. A faint smile touches her lips as her eyes return to yours. ''"Most people in my position would probably consider that an insult."'' You settle back against the cushion, watching the candlelight run along the edge of the Segune silver. ''"Most people in your position seem to think buying a man and earning his respect are the same thing."'' Novia's smile fades into something more thoughtful. She turns the ring beneath her fingertips, considering not only your answer, but apparently herself within it. ''"They're not."'' The certainty in her voice surprises you. ''"A contract could make you mine. It could decide where you sleep, whose colors you wear, where you're sent when someone gives the order."'' Her gaze flickers briefly toward the iron at your throat before lifting again. ''"But if I had to purchase every honest word you gave me afterward, I don't think I'd have gained very much."'' There's something almost vulnerable in the admission. Not softness exactly, but the unease of someone raised around power beginning to understand how little of what surrounds her can actually be commanded. You lean forward slightly. ''"Then don't ask me to pretend."'' ''"I wouldn't."'' Novia answers quickly enough that you believe her. Then she catches herself, the certainty giving way to a quieter expression. ''"Or... I'd like to think I wouldn't."'' That earns the faintest curve from your mouth. ''"Better answer."'' She laughs softly, and this time there's no embarrassment afterward. Her dark eyes hold yours across the candle with an openness that wasn't there when you first entered, the heiress and the slave momentarily stripped of everything except the strange terms they've just laid between themselves. ''"Then I suppose,"'' she says, slowly sliding the ring back toward herself, ''"If tomorrow places you in my keeping... I'll have something to prove."'' You give a small nod. ''"So will I."'' <<elseif $pa_novia_response is "trust">> \ <<set $pa_novia_impression = "positive">> \ ''"Treat me justly, and I'll give you the same in return."'' Novia's expression changes at the word //justly//. Not dramatically. Her gaze simply lowers for a moment, settling upon the collar around your throat before moving to the Segune ring resting between you. Silver and iron. Two little circles of metal carrying very different kinds of power. ''"Justice,"'' she murmurs. ''"That's a strange thing to ask of someone considering whether to buy you."'' ''"Doesn't make it less worth asking."'' Her eyes return to yours. There is no accusation in your voice, but neither is there any effort to spare her from what the situation is. Whatever warmth has grown inside this alcove does not change the banquet outside it. It does not change the auction waiting beyond tonight, nor the fact that Novia may soon raise a hand and name a price for another human life. She seems to understand that. ''"No,"'' she agrees after a while. ''"I suppose it doesn't."'' Novia draws a slow breath, one thumb moving absently across the engraved face of her ring. ''"And what would justice look like to you? If I did buy you?"'' You consider the question instead of reaching for an answer that sounds noble. ''"Don't mistake obedience for respect. Don't ask me to call cruelty kindness because it came from your hand. If I give you my word, believe it—and if you give me yours, keep it."'' Her attention sharpens with every sentence. ''"That sounds less like justice and more like terms."'' ''"Maybe that's where justice starts."'' The thought catches her. You see it in the stillness that follows, in the way her eyes drift toward the curtain and the world waiting beyond it. Cradle is built on terms imposed by the stronger upon the weaker. Perhaps what you've offered her is not some shining alternative, only the possibility that two people trapped on opposite sides of that arrangement might still choose how they conduct themselves within it. When she looks back, the practiced mystery in her face has softened. ''"I can try to give you that."'' She does not say //I promise//. You respect her more for it. ''"Then I'd try to give you the same."'' Novia dips her chin, accepting the bargain for precisely what it is. Not loyalty. Not affection. Something smaller, perhaps, but real enough to build upon. <<elseif $pa_novia_response is "guarded">>\ <<set $pa_novia_impression = "mixed">>\ ''"I don't think either of us should make promises tonight."'' A small disappointment passes through Novia's face before she can conceal it. It isn't wounded pride. She doesn't stiffen or retreat behind her title. Instead, her gaze falls toward the ring between you, and she turns it once beneath her fingertip, sending the silver through half a revolution before catching it again. ''"I didn't ask you for a promise,"'' she says eventually. ''"No."'' You watch her across the candle. ''"But we're getting close to making some."'' That earns a quieter look. You can feel how easily the moment might be pushed into something more than it is. A young heiress hidden behind a curtain, speaking as though she might rescue you from whatever waits beyond it. A slave with every reason to grasp at the first gentle hand extended his way. All it would take is a few convenient words from either of you, and uncertainty could become something prettier. You have no desire to build anything important on words neither of you has earned yet. ''"I don't know you, Novia."'' Your tone is not cold, but neither do you soften the truth. ''"You don't know me. Tonight went better than either of us probably expected. That doesn't mean we should start pretending we know what comes next."'' Her dark eyes remain fixed upon you. ''"You said you wanted to stand for something right and true."'' ''"I do."'' You glance toward the crimson curtain, where the banquet murmurs faintly beyond. ''"That includes not promising things just because they sound good in the moment."'' For several breaths, she seems uncertain what to make of you. Then the disappointment in her expression gives way to reluctant understanding. ''"That's frustratingly consistent."'' A slight smile finds you. ''"I'll take that as praise."'' ''"You shouldn't."'' Her own mouth curves despite herself. But the warmth has returned, faintly. Not enough to erase the distance between you. Perhaps nothing ever could. Yet she looks at you now without the hopeful expectation that you might become whatever she imagined when she first watched you in the arena. Instead, she seems to accept that if she wants to know you, she'll have to do it slower. <</if>>\ \ The candle has burned almost to its base. Novia finally lifts the silver ring from the table and slides it back onto her finger. The change is small, but somehow the gesture restores something of the woman who first waited behind the curtain: posture straightening, chin rising, House Segune settling invisibly back around her shoulders. Outside, the banquet has grown louder again. Music swells somewhere beyond the crimson fabric, followed by a burst of laughter and the brittle clatter of glass. Whatever privacy this alcove offered was always temporary. Novia rises with a soft rustle of blood-red silk. ''"We should go back."'' There's no urgency in her voice. Just recognition that the day's moving forward whether either of you is ready for it or not. Soon, there will be ledgers and bids, names called across the block, hands raised by people wealthy enough to decide where another person wakes tomorrow. She reaches the curtain first, but pauses before drawing it aside. ''"Whatever happens at the auction..."'' Her fingers rest against the heavy fabric as she glances back over her shoulder. For once, she does not seem interested in finding the cleverest way to phrase what she means. ''"I'm glad you came."'' The words are simple enough that you believe them. Then the curtain opens; warmth, perfume and noise rushing into the alcove all at once. Novia slips back into the banquet ahead of you, the red of her gown disappearing quickly among richer silks and moving bodies. A moment later she's only another noble figure beyond the curtain; an heiress carrying a famous name, a silver ring upon her hand, and knowledge of you that she didn't possess before this private exchange. You remain in the cooler darkness for another breath. Soon enough, you'll discover what that knowledge is worth. <<paMapReturn "novia">>

The match is over, and nobody has moved. She hasn't covered herself. What the wager took is still piled beside her chair; cowl, sandals, the folded skirt and corset, leaving her seated in the last layer beneath. Her hands rest on the arms of her chair as if the table were a ledger she's already closed, making no move yet to draw anything back across her lap, dim lamplight doing the rest. The nobleman has forgotten the goblet against his knee, gaze lingering amused, while his retainer has taken to studying the far wall with more care than the stone truly deserves. <<if $pa_map.gant>>\ Gant has gone quiet, a crumb clinging to the corner of his mouth as he stares. <</if>>\ \ You let your gaze go under the table. <<if $dominant is "bastard">>\ There's no point in hurrying. The wood hides your face from the hall and very little else, not bothering with pretending that the look's an accident. Everyone already knows. <<else>>\ You do it quick the way a man checks a count he already knows. One lowering of the eyes, held but not announced. Whether it shows on your face is a problem for after. <</if>>\ <<gambleImg "peek" 3>>\ Below the edge of the wood, her knees have settled a little apart for you. Her thick thighs are no longer held in the line that the skirt used to enforce, bare feet resting flat on the stone, toes loose. You trace the pale lace of her panties with your eyes; the soft crease where thigh meets hip and the darker suggestion at the center. Her cunt's covered but not exactly hidden, knees staying splayed open, unflinching under your below-table observation. She must've worked out some time ago that you were going to look again and accepted what was surely to follow, whether she likes it or not. When you come back up, the flush has reached her throat and stopped there. Her mouth is tight at the corners, plainly irritated, yet her eyes are steady on yours in the particular way of a woman who has decided that being seen is the cost of her loss. ''"Happy now?"'' The nobleman makes a small, delighted sound into the silence. [[(Press her for more.)|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_press][$pa_gamble.pressed to true]] <<ci adult>> [[Continue.|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_end]]

<<if $dominant is "bastard">>\ You don't lower your voice. ''"Put them together."'' Her eyes come up. You hold them. ''"Your tits. I want to see them pressed."'' <<else>>\ It comes out blunter than you meant, and louder. ''"Press them together."'' The sentence sits on the table between the bones and the wine. You half expect her to laugh you out of the chair for it. <</if>>\ \ She doesn't laugh, answering you plainly, ''"No."'' One word, the same weight she gives a bust. Her hands stay on the arms of the chair. Bare to the waist, the red lines of the boning still fading on her skin, she looks at you as if you had proposed a change to a contract already settled. ''"The match is over. That wasn't the stake."'' The coin hits the wood before she can finish closing the matter. The nobleman doesn't flick it this time. He sets it down in front of her, silver, and then a second beside it, then leans back with the air of a man doing someone else a kindness. ''"Let him have the look. He's earned a better end than a folded skirt."'' His eyes never reach you. They stay on her chest, openly, the goblet forgotten again against his knee. Whatever he's buying, he clearly wants a share in it, lips curved. <<if $pa_map.gant>>\ Gant swallows. ''"That's a fair price,"'' he says, to no one who asked. <</if>>\ \ The retainer finds the wall again, clearing his throat. She looks at the two coins the way she has looked at every other wager tonight. ''"Once,"'' she says. ''"And then I'm dressing."'' She doesn't wait for agreement. Her hands come up under her breasts, reluctant in the set of her shoulders and nowhere else. She lifts them and presses them together, arms in, the soft weight meeting at the center, nipple to nipple for as long as the money covers and not a moment of performance beyond it, her face staying flat and unimpressed as she meets your gaze all the while. \ /* PAID BUILD ships the <video>. For Public, remove the <video> line and add data-gate="gate_video_dancers" to the wrapper div. */ \ <div class="video-player" data-gate="gate_video_dosmera">> \ <img class="vp-poster" src="images/chp2_privateaudience_gambling_press.webp" alt=""> <button class="vp-btn" type="button">▶</button> </div> \ It ends the instant it's paid for. Her hands drop, already reaching for the corset, casually squaring it against her knee the way she squared the cowl, already reverting back into the poised woman who sat down at this table and explained the rules. The marks of the boning are still on her, the nobleman watching her dress with the same satisfaction he wore while she was bare. [[The game finally comes to an end.|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_end]]

<<if $pa_gamble.peeked is 1>> You shift slightly in your chair and duck your head beneath the edge of the table. For all the secrecy of the maneuver, there isn't much waiting for you. Her skirt still falls neatly over her knees, plum fabric gathering around her calves before giving way to the straps of her sandals. Whatever the wager may eventually reveal, the table's still hiding it. ''"Lose something?"'' You look up, the nobleman grinning into his wine. The merchant hasn't moved, hands neatly folded beside the cup. <<gambleImg "peek" 1>> <<else>> This time, the view beneath the table has changed considerably. Her sandals are gone. So is the linen skirt that hid almost everything below the waist, leaving her bare feet against the boards and more of her fair legs exposed beneath the edge of the table. The scant layer covering her hips seems considerably less substantial. <<if $dominant is "bastard">>\ You don't hurry. If you're going to stoop beneath the table for a look, there seems little point pretending otherwise. Your gaze travels slowly upward along her bare legs before settling where the remains of her wager disappear between them, lingering long enough that anyone watching could have little doubt what you're doing. <<else>>\ You let yourself have one quick look: bare feet, exposed legs, the narrow strip of fabric still preserving what little the wager hasn't taken yet. Then you're upright again, attention returning to the bones before anyone can make too much of where your eyes have been. <</if>>\ \ The merchant doesn't bother looking beneath the table. ''"Finished?"'' There's no embarrassment in the question. Only a dry edge of irritation and the distinct impression that she knew exactly where your attention had gone the entire time. <<gambleImg "peek" 2>> <</if>> [[Another hand.|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_deal]] [[Walk away.|chp2_privateaudience_gambling_end][$pa_gamble.result to "walked"]]

/* PAID BUILD ships the <video>. For Public, remove the <video> line and add data-gate="gate_video_dancers" to the wrapper div. */ \ <div class="video-player" data-gate="gate_video_dosmera">> \ <img class="vp-poster" src="images/chp2_privateaudience_dancers.webp" alt=""> <button class="vp-btn" type="button">▶</button> </div> <<set $pa_dancers = { one: false, two: false, three: false }>>\ You work your way closer until the shoulders of the gathered spectators no longer obscure the center of the alcove. Three women occupy the open floor, barefoot upon rugs scattered with crimson petals, with nothing between their bodies and the warm lanternlight but jewelry, leather and the occasional whisper of silk. They move to a slow, heavy rhythm beaten out somewhere behind you, hips rolling with every measured strike of the drums while the softer chatter of bells follows at their ankles. The woman on the left is dark-skinned and long-limbed, her braided hair threaded with beads that flick and shimmer whenever she turns her head. A small hand-drum rides above one shoulder, lifted high as she arches beneath it, striking out the rhythm herself between sweeping turns of her body. Gold bands circle her arms and wrists, bright against the deep sheen of her skin, and she carries herself with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where every eye in the alcove has settled. Beside her moves another woman with long black hair and a softer, fuller figure, turning slowly beneath the fall of rose petals until her back faces the watching crowd. Where the first dancer is all extension and rhythm, this one seems to favor pauses—the deliberate set of a hip, the slow turn of her shoulders, the momentary stillness that makes the next movement feel more pronounced. A fine chain rests low around her waist, swinging against her with every shift of her body. When she glances back over one shoulder, several of the reclining guests around the alcove answer with raised cups and approving laughter. The third performer is impossible to overlook. An ork woman, short yet thickly muscled through her shoulders and thighs, green skin marked faintly with darker patterns beneath the torchlight. Small tusks show whenever her mouth opens into a broad, wicked grin. She moves with less polished delicacy than the other two and no less control for it, lowering into deep bends that would strain a smaller body before rising behind the black-haired dancer with a rolling sway of her hips. Leather cuffs bind her wrists, heavy braids spill across her shoulders, and the contrast between her raw physicality and the smoother movements of the women beside her seems entirely intentional. There's little separation between the three performances for long. They orbit one another, trading places to the drumbeat, until individual dances become something more intimate and entangled. The dark-skinned woman lowers her drum as she closes in from one side; the ork slides nearer from the other. Hands settle briefly at waists and hips before slipping away again, bodies press together for a few slow beats, then separate just enough to begin the game anew. Every near-embrace draws another ripple of appreciation from the couches around them, and the performers know precisely how long to linger before denying the room whatever it expects next. The decadence of the alcove settles over the whole display. Nobles lounge barefoot against piles of cushions with wine balanced loosely between their fingers. Servants replenish cups without interrupting anyone's view. Petals stick to damp skin and crushed fruit perfumes the air alongside incense, sweat and hot wax. Whatever distinction the rest of the banquet maintains between highborn dignity and common appetite has become considerably less important in here. You find a place near the edge of the cleared floor and watch. For a time, you're simply another pair of eyes among many. Then the black-haired dancer turns through another slow rotation and catches yours without immediately moving on. The next few measures subtly change. She drifts closer to your side of the circle when the dance carries her forward, and the other two seem to notice without needing to exchange a word. The dark-skinned performer follows a moment later, drum held against one hip now rather than above her head, while the ork hangs back with that broad, knowing grin. Another turn brings the three together almost directly in front of you. The black-haired woman eases backward between her companions, the ork's hands settling briefly against her waist while the drummer leans close enough that their shoulders brush. Her eyes remain upon you through all of it. A slow smile appears, less invitation than acknowledgement: //yes, we noticed you gladiator.// The distance between spectator and entertainment has suddenly become very small. [[The tanned dancer.|chp2_privateaudience_dancers1][$pa_dancers.one to true]] [[The thick ork.|chp2_privateaudience_dancers2][$pa_dancers.two to true]] [[The ebony drummer.|chp2_privateaudience_dancers3][$pa_dancers.three to true]]

<<set $khalika_cell_kiss = true>>\ You don't leave the distance between you open for long. Khalika's still framed by the missing block when you lean back toward her, amber eyes following the movement with the faintest hint of amusement. This time there's no uncertainty in the approach, no need to determine whether either of you intends to follow through. Her fingers slip through the gap first, settling against the side of your neck. ''"Again?"'' she murmurs beneath a husky breath, mouths meeting before you can answer. The wall still makes even something as simple as a kiss strangely difficult; several inches of grimy stone keep your shoulders apart, forcing your face into the narrow opening until your cheek nearly scrapes and settles against its rough, dewy edge. You can barely tilt your head, and every small adjustment brings your nose against hers or leaves one pale tusk brushing the corner of your mouth. Yet the inconvenience has its own intimacy. There's nowhere else to look, nowhere else to move, just Khalika. The first few kisses come quick and testing, more playful than gentle. She catches you once when you try to withdraw, fingers tightening behind your neck until your lips meet again, and the quiet laugh that escapes you disappears against her mouth. Khalika answers with a pleased little sound of her own, barely audible beneath the distant shuffle of guards. ''"Thought you wanted to strangle me."'' Her eyes open, close enough that you can see tiny darker flecks surrounding the amber. ''"Still deciding."'' <div id="khalika-kiss-beats"></div>\ <div id="khalika-kiss-prompt" class="microbeat-prompt">For the moment, neither of you seems interested in being the first to pull away.</div>\ <div id="khalika-kiss-microbeats" class="microbeats no-plates">\ <div id="mb-kiss-lips" class="microbeat microbeat--lips">\ <span class="microbeat-icon" aria-hidden="true">\ <svg viewBox="0 0 24 24">\ <path d="M3.5 12c2.7-3.5 5.3-4.6 8.5-2.1 3.2-2.5 5.8-1.4 8.5 2.1-2.8 3.4-5.6 4.4-8.5 4.4S6.3 15.4 3.5 12Z"/>\ <path d="M4.5 12h15"/>\ </svg>\ </span>\ <<link "Linger over her lips.">>\ <<append "#khalika-kiss-beats">>\ \ You slow the next kiss on purpose, refusing to let it become hurried. Instead, you take Khalika's mouth a piece at a time, lingering over the shape of her lips, the warmth of them, the way they soften under measured attention even while the rest of her remains so characteristically composed. The broken stone leaves room for little besides careful pressure and brief withdrawals, but that only heightens the sensation. Every pause lets her breath brush across your mouth before you claim hers again. There's something almost maddening about how little of her you can reach. Your hand remains caught between stone and shadow, your shoulder pressed awkwardly to the wall, and still her lips are enough to hold your focus entirely. You suck lightly at her lower lip, then again, longer this time, enjoying the faint change in her breathing and the way she follows when you begin to pull away, as though irritated by the idea of being denied. Khalika stays close, her mouth still only a breath from yours, eyes studying you with that unreadable half-lidded intensity of hers. If she thinks the attention excessive, she doesn't say so. The slight flush warming her face through the opening suggests otherwise. <</append>>\ <<remove "#mb-kiss-lips">>\ <<if $("#khalika-kiss-microbeats .microbeat").length === 0>>\ <<remove "#khalika-kiss-prompt">>\ <<remove "#khalika-kiss-microbeats">>\ <<run $("#khalika-kiss-complete").show()>>\ <</if>>\ <</link>>\ <span class="microbeat-plus" aria-hidden="true">+</span>\ </div>\ <div id="mb-kiss-deep" class="microbeat microbeat--tongue">\ <span class="microbeat-icon" aria-hidden="true">\ <svg viewBox="0 0 24 24">\ <path d="M5 8.5c2.1 1.2 4.4 1.8 7 1.8s4.9-.6 7-1.8"/>\ <path d="M8.5 10.1v4.1c0 3.5 1.4 5.3 3.5 5.3s3.5-1.8 3.5-5.3v-4.1"/>\ <path d="M12 13v6.2"/>\ </svg>\ </span>\ <<link "Go deeper and meet her tongue.">>\ <<append "#khalika-kiss-beats">>\ \ The next time you kiss her, gentleness gives way to appetite. Whatever patience lingered in the earlier teasing dissolves as your mouths meet more fully, and the narrow opening in the wall becomes less a frustration than something to work around. Khalika understands the change immediately. Her fingers tighten at the back of your neck, holding you close while the kiss deepens, heat building quickly as lips part and the contact turns wetter, slower, then more insistent. Her tongue meets yours with none of the hesitation you might have expected from someone so guarded in every other respect. The sensation is warm and slick, the exchange turning the already intimate awkwardness of the wall into something far more consuming. What begins clumsy lasts only a moment before instinct takes over. <</append>>\ <<remove "#mb-kiss-deep">>\ <<if $("#khalika-kiss-microbeats .microbeat").length === 0>>\ <<remove "#khalika-kiss-prompt">>\ <<remove "#khalika-kiss-microbeats">>\ <<run $("#khalika-kiss-complete").show()>>\ <</if>>\ <</link>>\ <span class="microbeat-plus" aria-hidden="true">+</span>\ </div>\ <div id="mb-kiss-tusks" class="microbeat microbeat--tusk">\ <span class="microbeat-icon" aria-hidden="true">\ <svg viewBox="0 0 24 24">\ <path d="M5.2 18.2c4.7-.7 8.2-4.6 10.2-11.6"/>\ <path d="M15.4 6.6c.7 4.8-.4 9-3.3 11.6-1.9 1.7-4.4 1.4-6.9 0"/>\ </svg>\ </span>\ <<link "Explore the strange shape of her tusks.">>\ <<append "#khalika-kiss-beats">>\ \ Sooner or later, your curiosity settles upon the feature that has been complicating every kiss between you. Khalika's tusks are impossible to ignore at such close range: pale, smooth, and curving upward from her lower jaw with a shape that remains foreign even after several kisses. When your mouth returns to hers, you let the contact drift wider, exploring not just her lips but the strange, firm interruption of ivory against softness. One tusk grazes the inside of your lower lip, then the corner of your mouth, and the unfamiliar sensation sends a quiet thrill through you. The next kiss is slower still. You angle your mouth differently, learning the shape of her by feel alone; warm lips, damp breath, then the smooth hardness of tusk where no human woman would have one. It should disrupt the moment, yet somehow it deepens it instead, making every brush of her mouth feel more distinctly like Khalika and no one else. When your tongue traces the edge of one tusk in passing, she gives the smallest reaction: not a recoil, not embarrassment, but a tightening awareness, as if she knows exactly what part of her has captured your attention and is choosing, for now, to allow it. Her hand eventually catches at your wrist again, not to stop you, but to steady you, holding you close to the opening while you continue learning the shape of her in this new way. By the time the kiss fades, the tusks no longer feel like an obstacle at all. They have become part of the pleasure—another detail that makes this closeness between you feel rougher, stranger, and more intimate than any ordinary kiss could have been. ''"Never kissed an orc before?"'' ''"Half-orc."'' That earns you a small, unmistakably approving smile. ''"Quick learner."'' She lets you explore for another moment before catching your wrist. Rather than pushing you away, Khalika guides your hand upward until your palm settles against her cheek, then turns her face into it just enough for the gesture to register. ''"They're not handles,"'' she adds. You grin. ''"Useful warning."'' ''"For you, maybe."'' <</append>>\ <<remove "#mb-kiss-tusks">>\ <<if $("#khalika-kiss-microbeats .microbeat").length === 0>>\ <<remove "#khalika-kiss-prompt">>\ <<remove "#khalika-kiss-microbeats">>\ <<run $("#khalika-kiss-complete").show()>>\ <</if>>\ <</link>>\ <span class="microbeat-plus" aria-hidden="true">+</span>\ </div>\ </div>\ <div id="khalika-kiss-complete" style="display:none;">\ \ Eventually even Khalika seems forced to admit that you've exhausted what little room the opening gives you. She remains close when the last kiss breaks, forehead nearly resting against the stone, breathing deeper than when this began. The wall still separates everything beyond your faces and wandering hands, but now the barrier feels less absolute than merely inconvenient now that you've claimed it. ''"Satisfied?"'' she asks. You look through the opening at her. ''"Not really."'' Khalika's answering smile comes slow. ''"Good."'' </div>\ \ <<if !$khalika_cell_him>>\ [[Drop your trousers and show Khalika what you think of her.|chp2_khalikacell_him]] <<ci adult>>\ <</if>>\ <<if !$khalika_cell_her>>\ [[Reach through the opening and put your hands to better use.|chp2_khalikacell_her]] <<ci adult>>\ <</if>>\ <<if $khalika_cell_him>>\ [[Let Khalika finish what she started.|chp2_khalikacell_climax]] <<ci adult>>\ <</if>>

<<set $khalika_cell_her = true>>\ Getting an arm through the broken section of wall proves just as difficult as getting your face through it for proper, sustained contact. You turn sideways and work your shoulder toward the opening, sliding and scraping your forearm along damp stone until you finally manage to thread most of your limb through. Khalika watches the entire process from the other side with the patient amusement of someone observing a particularly stubborn animal defeat an obstruction, although her visage is soon hidden from view, the entire narrow passage occupied by your efforts. ''"What are you doing?"'' You stretch farther, fingertips just managing to find the side of her waist. ''"I wanna feel you."'' One dark brow rises. ''"You have an entire wall in the way."'' ''"Working on it."'' Khalika steps closer before you can ask her to, closing what little distance remains until your palm settles properly against the warm skin at her side. The movement is deliberate enough that neither of you needs to pretend this is accidental. You both have a good idea of what comes next. <div id="khalika-her-beats"></div>\ <div id="khalika-her-prompt" class="microbeat-prompt">With one arm through the wall, you take what little freedom the opening gives you.</div>\ <div id="khalika-her-microbeats" class="microbeats no-plates">\ <div id="mb-her-curves" class="microbeat microbeat--curves">\ <span class="microbeat-icon" aria-hidden="true">\ <svg viewBox="0 0 24 24">\ <path d="M9 3.5c1.8 2.3 2.4 4.7 1.8 7.2-.7 2.8-2.4 5.4-5.1 7.8"/>\ <path d="M15 3.5c-1.8 2.3-2.4 4.7-1.8 7.2.7 2.8 2.4 5.4 5.1 7.8"/>\ </svg>\ </span>\ <<link "Trace the shape of her curves.">>\ <<append "#khalika-her-beats">>\ \ You let your hand wander downward, following the taper of Khalika's waist until it widens beneath your palm. For all the hardness you know waits beneath her skin, there's nothing angular about the shape of her hips; they flare broad and solid beneath your touch, carrying the same physical confidence as everything else about her. The limited reach forces you to take your time, but she turns without being asked, your palm traveling over the outside of one hip. With a spread of your fingers, you find the fuller curve behind it, palms filling with her glossy dark-green flesh. You squeeze, slow and subtle at first, feeling softness over muscle, warm and yielding. You squeeze again with more force, feeling the weight of her through your hand. A low sound escapes her as you drag your entire hand across one cheek, then the other, mapping the split of her and the broad undercurve where ass meets thigh. You get greedy, fingers sinking in harder, holding and gripping her there, spreading her ass just enough that the warm, wet air of the cell finds the svelte heat between. ''"Thorough."'' ''"Trying to be."'' Khalika turns another fraction toward your hand. You can't see her, but you can imagine her amber eyes half-lidded and unashamed as she settles more of her weight into you. ''"I noticed."'' <</append>>\ <<remove "#mb-her-curves">>\ <<if $("#khalika-her-microbeats .microbeat").length === 0>>\ <<remove "#khalika-her-prompt">>\ <<remove "#khalika-her-microbeats">>\ <<run $("#khalika-her-complete").show()>>\ <</if>>\ <</link>>\ <span class="microbeat-plus" aria-hidden="true">+</span>\ </div>\ <div id="mb-her-strength" class="microbeat microbeat--strength">\ <span class="microbeat-icon" aria-hidden="true">\ <svg viewBox="0 0 24 24">\ <path d="M7 13c1.2-3.9 2.8-6.2 5-6.2s3.8 2.3 5 6.2"/>\ <path d="M5.5 13c1.1 4.5 3.2 7 6.5 7s5.4-2.5 6.5-7"/>\ <path d="M9.2 10.3 7.5 6.5"/>\ <path d="M14.8 10.3 16.5 6.5"/>\ </svg>\ </span>\ <<link "Feel the strength beneath her skin.">>\ <<append "#khalika-her-beats">>\ \ Your hand travels upward. Khalika's stomach is hard beneath your palm, packed muscle that tightens the instant your fingers drag across it, a natural reflex that she has no intention of hiding. You trace every ridge and taut line slowly, following the run of her from navel to the lower edge of her ribs. It's the body of someone who has spent years staying dangerous enough to stay alive. Heat lives under the tightness, each breath and muscle jumping against your touch. Gradually, you follow the shape higher, feeling the transition from hard-earned muscle into softer curves. Her breasts are thick and heavy for how tight the rest of her is, pert enough that they lift into your palm the moment you cup one. The weight of it fills your hand; warm skin, the tight peak of a nipple already stiff before you find it. You roll it under your thumb, Khalika's breath cut short. Your thumb traces idly along her side. ''"You're built like a fortress."'' Khalika's mouth twists, her nipple still caught between your fingers. ''"A compliment?"'' ''"Definitely."'' ''"Good."'' She doesn't move away, only pushing forward until your palm is full of her. <</append>>\ <<remove "#mb-her-strength">>\ <<if $("#khalika-her-microbeats .microbeat").length === 0>>\ <<remove "#khalika-her-prompt">>\ <<remove "#khalika-her-microbeats">>\ <<run $("#khalika-her-complete").show()>>\ <</if>>\ <</link>>\ <span class="microbeat-plus" aria-hidden="true">+</span>\ </div>\ <div id="mb-her-pleasure" class="microbeat microbeat--pleasure">\ <span class="microbeat-icon" aria-hidden="true">\ <svg viewBox="0 0 24 24">\ <path d="M12 20c-4.5-3.2-7.5-6.2-7.5-10A4 4 0 0 1 12 7.8 4 4 0 0 1 19.5 10c0 3.8-3 6.8-7.5 10Z"/>\ <path d="M12 10.5v5"/>\ </svg>\ </span>\ <<link "Focus on pleasuring her.">>\ <<append "#khalika-her-beats">>\ \ Exploration eventually gives way to intention. Your hand slips down between her thighs, and Khalika understands the change before you have to explain it. Her posture shifts subtly, one foot moving farther from the other as she settles closer to the wall. The heat of her finds your fingers first, wet already, slick against the pads when your digits first brush the tight line of her pussy. The lips are soft, slightly swollen, warm and wet enough that the cell's damp stone feels like a distant insult. You drag two fingers along her slit, slow, parting her just enough to feel how ready she is. The wetness coats your knuckles as you spread her open and hold her that way, thumb resting against the tight peak of her clit. Khalika's hand clamps the edge of the opening, thick thighs tensed. Then, you work a finger into her heat and the pace changes. She takes it easy in a single hot, clutching, slick pull that draws you in to the knuckle. You immediately start to work her in a tight, unhurried stroke, adding a second finger when her hips start to chase the first. The wet sound of it is obscene in the quiet between the cells. You curl against the spot that makes her breath fracture, then fuck her on your hand in short, focused thrusts, as much as the wall will allow, palm grinding her clit on every pass. ''"Fuck—"'' You hear the first crack in her voice, her posture, small and immediate. She cuts it off, and you can almost feel her glare from behind the wall, like the sound was all your fault, even as she rolls her hips down and forward to keep your fingers buried. <<if $dominant is "bastard">>\ You grin, her pussy clenching around your digits, wet and greedy. You know what you're doing, and you don't intend on wasting the angle. Two fingers stay buried in her, slick to the knuckle, and you start to work her like you mean to finish it. Persistent pressure. A tight circle of your palm against her clit while you fuck her on your hand in tight, vigorous strokes. Each thrust makes a wet sound, and each withdrawal almost loses you; she is that soaked, that open, your fingers slipping and sliding before you drive them back in as she drips down your wrist. Khalika shifts, forehead tipping toward the stone as you feel her stance widen further. You change the rhythm without warning; a flick across her clit, a press that stays, a curl inside her that hunts the spot you've found, staying on it. You're experienced and mean with it. You feel her thighs start to shake against your wrist without easing off, only circling faster, tighter, the same motion over and over until it becomes a demand. ''"There,"'' she says, almost a snarl. ''"Don't- yes, there."'' You keep it harder, her pussy clutching, fluttering, trying to keep you and push you out all at once. Wetness runs down your palm and forearm, dripping off the edge of the broken stone. You grind the heel of your hand against her clit and pump her through it, relentless, until the fight goes out of her jaw and her mouth opens on a sound she can't cut off. With a jolt, she comes on your fingers. It takes her in waves. A hard clamp, a shudder she tries to lock down in her shoulders, then another pulse that wrings a raw breath out of her and leaves her hips jerking against your hand. You work her through it, not stopping until the clench turns oversensitive. Suddenly, her hand slaps the stone beside the opening. ''"Enough."'' You ease the last stroke out of her slow, feeling how she twitches around you, how wet she still is. When you finally still, she's breathing like she just finished an arena bout, forehead against the wall, eyes half-shut. She laughs once, low and wrecked. ''"Bastard."'' <<elseif $dominant is "cowboy">>\ You can't see what you're doing, so you stay inside and slow down, working with what you have: the heat of her, the way she clenches, the slick that tells you more than her face will. Your fingers move in long, searching strokes, learning her from the inside. How deep she wants it, where the muscle jumps, the exact angle that makes her breath catch and hold. Your palm settles over her clit and stays there, applying persistent pressure, feeling the tight peak swell under the wet. You adjust by what she gives you. A hitch, the roll of her hips, the sudden give when you curl just so. You don't rush, using a humb and two fingers, a patient rhythm that builds. Her pussy answers you with a hot squeeze around your fingers, another wash of wetness over your knuckles. You use it, spreading her a little wider with the next stroke, your palm dragging across her clit on the way in, then again, then again, the same slow circuit until her stance starts to fail and she has to brace both hands on the stone. You feel her getting close, the tension stacking, thighs tightening on your wrist, that fine shake she can't quite hide. You keep the pace even, neither chasing nor slowing. ''"Oh—"'' She bites it off, but you stay right there, palm working her in small, determined circles now, fingers stroking through the tight, pulsing clench until she finally breaks. Khalika comes quietly at first. A locked breath, a hard flutter around you, then not so subtle at all, hips pushing onto your hand like she can take more of you through the wall if she just leans hard enough. You hold her through it with your palm, riding the pulses, keeping her clit under steady pressure until the last shiver runs out of her. You leave your soaked digits in her a moment longer, still feeling the aftershocks. She swallows. ''"…Fine,"'' she says. ''"Persistent, aren't you?"'' <</if>>\ <</append>>\ <<remove "#mb-her-pleasure">>\ <<if $("#khalika-her-microbeats .microbeat").length === 0>>\ <<remove "#khalika-her-prompt">>\ <<remove "#khalika-her-microbeats">>\ <<run $("#khalika-her-complete").show()>>\ <</if>>\ <</link>>\ <span class="microbeat-plus" aria-hidden="true">+</span>\ </div>\ </div>\ <div id="khalika-her-complete" style="display:none;">\ \ Eventually your shoulder begins to complain about the angle. Khalika remains close while you reluctantly begin drawing your arm back through the opening. Before you can escape, her hand closes on your wrist. She holds you there, guiding your palm back against her side as though unwilling to let the contact disappear. ''"Done?"'' she asks with a heated rasp. ''"For now."'' ''"What a shame."'' Only then does she let go. </div>\ \ <<if !$khalika_cell_kiss>>\ [[Steal another kiss through the broken stone.|chp2_khalikacell_kiss]] <<ci adult>>\ <</if>>\ <<if !$khalika_cell_him>>\ [[Drop your trousers and show Khalika what you think of her.|chp2_khalikacell_him]] <<ci adult>>\ <</if>>\ <<if $khalika_cell_him>>\ [[Let Khalika finish what she started.|chp2_khalikacell_climax]] <<ci adult>>\ <</if>>

<<set $khalika_cell_him = true>>\ You shift closer to the missing block and begin working at your trousers, making no particular effort to disguise what you have in mind. Cloth loosens beneath your fingers, rough material dragged down over your hips until damp cell finds skin that's been waiting for it since the sands, your loins finally fully exposed. Khalika's attention drops, fitted through the opening with one dark brow lifted with a subtle tilt of amusement touching her expression first, before quickly sharpening into something more openly interested. ''"What do you think you're doing?"'' ''"What it looks like."'' The missing cobblestone had seemed generous when all you wanted was Khalika's face or an arm through the gap. From this angle, it feels considerably less accommodating. You have to stand flush against the damp masonry, hips crowded close and smushed tight to the opening, adjusting yourself until the position becomes less awkward and grating. You can't see Khalika any longer, but you can hear the faint sound of her movement on the opposite side. Your own body has stolen most of the narrow window. What remains comes to you through other senses instead: the nearby warmth, the quiet alteration in her breathing, the knowledge that she's only inches away and studying you intently. <<if $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ You don't slip through so much as claim the opening length first, the thick, slowly swelling shaft pushing past the far face of the wall until a frankly indecent measure of you hangs in her space, heavy and darkening with blood. You can feel the head already beginning to gloss. The stone catches at you, forcing you to change your angle and shift your stance, a patient working-through that makes the whole thing feel dirtier. She goes quiet, the silence lasting long enough to make you well aware of it. ''"Fuck. I see now where your strength comes from. Hung like a warrior,"'' she murmurs at last, recognition warming the words. ''"Big and proud, aren't you $name?"'' <<elseif $char_cock is "short_sleek">> \ You don't project far beyond the opposite face of the stone. What you offer her sits close to the opening; sleek, flushed, already thickening in the cooler air. The geometry asks her to come in rather than reach, and she does, all at once. Her presence fills the gap until you can feel the damp heat of her breath along you, the nearness of her mouth before she has used it, the faint click of a tusk against stone as she settles. ''"Hnh."'' She's close enough that the wall might as well have stopped mattering. ''"Fits,"'' she murmurs, something almost fond in how practical she makes it sound. ''"I won't have to hunt for you, mmh?"'' <<else>> \ Enough of you clears the far side for her to work without contortion: a good, honest stretch of shaft and the swelling head of you, presented through broken stone like an invitation you didn't bother dressing up. Not a spectacle, not a problem. Khalika's attention lands first on the audacity; that you actually did this, with hay still underfoot and death still drying on your skin, and only then on the heat of what you've given her. A short, rough breath. Almost a laugh. ''"You really just stuck it through. Shameless, $name."'' Her voice drops. ''"Come closer."'' <</if>> \ \ Her hand rises on her side of the opening, fingertips finding you first — warm, slightly rough, the pads of a woman who has held weapons longer than she has held lovers, and close with a willingness so plain it makes your stomach pull tight. No eye contact; your pelvis has stolen the only window. She leans in anyway until you can feel the plush give of her mouth's nearness, the heat of her, the decision already made. ''"All right,"'' she murmurs, breath moving against your skin. ''"Let's see what you've got."'' <div id="khalika-him-beats"></div>\ <div id="khalika-him-prompt" class="microbeat-prompt">Khalika seems more than willing to investigate what you've pushed through the wall.</div>\ <div id="khalika-him-microbeats" class="microbeats no-plates">\ <div id="mb-him-hand" class="microbeat microbeat--hand">\ <span class="microbeat-icon" aria-hidden="true">\ <svg viewBox="0 0 24 24">\ <path d="M8.5 20c-1.9-2-2.8-4.2-2.8-6.6V8.8c0-.8.5-1.3 1.2-1.3s1.2.5 1.2 1.3V12"/>\ <path d="M8.1 11V6.6c0-.8.5-1.3 1.2-1.3s1.2.5 1.2 1.3v4.1"/>\ <path d="M10.5 10.7V5.8c0-.8.5-1.3 1.2-1.3s1.2.5 1.2 1.3v4.9"/>\ <path d="M12.9 10.8V7c0-.8.5-1.3 1.2-1.3s1.2.5 1.2 1.3v5.2l1.2-1.5c.5-.6 1.3-.7 1.8-.2.5.4.6 1.1.2 1.7l-2.9 4.6c-.9 1.5-2.2 2.5-3.8 3.2"/>\ </svg>\ </span>\ <<link "Let her get her hands on you.">>\ <<append "#khalika-him-beats">>\ \ She begins by simply touching, slowly learning the shape of you. Her fingers travel with a patience that's almost indecent given how little patience the rest of the day left either of you. She feels the heat first, then the pulse gathering under the skin, the particular shape of you swelling into her palm as blood pools and excitement gathers. You're pressed awkwardly to the wall, one hip grinding a ridge of mortar, cock offered through ruined stone like something stolen. There's nothing elegant in the posture, only the raw fact of her hand closing around you between cells that were never meant to hold this kind of quiet, heated exchange. She treats even this the way she treats an opponent: observant, economical, silent adjustments. <<if $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ There's so much of you on her side of the wall that her hand has room to travel. She wraps you as fully as her fingers will allow, unable to quite close around the thickest swell of your shaft: a practical problem that she solves without ceremony. Two hands for a moment, stacked and sure, working you in long, dragging pulls from the stone outward once she's found the angle that she likes and milks without restraint. Each stroke is heavy, the thickness of you turning the motion into sustained pressure, her fist sliding over hot skin that's already beginning to shine where she has touched and spred it. She twists her wrist on the upstroke and feels you kick in her grasp, a helpless little surge, drawing a low sound of hot approval from deep within her throat. When her thumb finds the wetness starting to bead at the head and smears it down the flushed crown, the slickness makes the next pull filthy in a way dry skin never could. ''"There,"'' she says, feeling the way you thicken for her. ''"That's the rhythm, isn't it?"'' <<elseif $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ She works right against the opening, knuckles brushing stone as she handles you, every motion tight and complete, her fist fitting you as if the hole had been left for this exact purpose. You can feel the warmth of her wrist, the faint damp of her palm, the way she can command nearly everything you've given her without hunting for slack. She strokes you in short, thorough pulls that cover the whole of what she can reach, the pad of her thumb sweeping the sensitive head on every pass because there's nowhere for the attention to wander. The stone keeps her near, each movement happening in a space no wider than a hand, The intimacy of that — her grip, the wall, the wet sound starting as she works the first slickness out of you, enough to make your thighs go tight. ''"Easy to hold,"'' she murmurs, heat in her voice, ''"I can feel all of you at once."'' <<else>>\ She closes her hand around you with comfortable certainty, no negotiation with the wall required, and the first few strokes are almost thoughtful; learning the weight, the heat, the place along the underside that makes your hips try to push through stone that won't yield. Then she finds a rhythm and commits to it, fist sliding the length of what you've offered her in even, hungry pulls that grow wetter as your body answers. A tighter squeeze just beneath the head, a slower drag down that makes you feel every inch of her palm, the particular pressure that pulls a sound out of you before you can stop it. She uses all of it, filing your reactions the way she would file an opponent's tell, breathing deepening on her side of the wall as if your pleasure were a heat she could feel. ''"There you are,"'' she whispers. <</if>>\ \ Your reaction tells her she has it. Heat gathers low and stupid and glorious, a thick pulse climbing the shaft in her hand, pressing harder into the opening as if more of you might fit if you only insisted. The wall doesn't care, but Khalika does. She feels the way you swell, the way your breathing frays, the way your hips keep offering themselves. Abruptly, she eases off on purpose. The last stroke lingers, thumb circling the wet head once, twice, filthy and fond, and then her hand is only warmth near you, not on you. You're left standing there flushed and aching, cock shining faintly in the broken light, the cell suddenly much too quiet. ''"Greedy,"'' she chides, able to hear her smirk through stone, ''"I'm not finished with you."'' <</append>>\ <<remove "#mb-him-hand">>\ <<if $("#khalika-him-microbeats .microbeat").length === 0>>\ <<remove "#khalika-him-prompt">>\ <<remove "#khalika-him-microbeats">>\ <<run $("#khalika-him-complete").show()>>\ <</if>>\ <</link>>\ <span class="microbeat-plus" aria-hidden="true">+</span>\ </div>\ <div id="mb-him-tease" class="microbeat microbeat--mouth">\ <span class="microbeat-icon" aria-hidden="true">\ <svg viewBox="0 0 24 24">\ <path d="M3.5 12c2.7-3.5 5.3-4.6 8.5-2.1 3.2-2.5 5.8-1.4 8.5 2.1-2.8 3.4-5.6 4.4-8.5 4.4S6.3 15.4 3.5 12Z"/>\ <path d="M4.5 12h15"/>\ <path d="M12 13.2c.2 1.4.1 2.7-.4 3.8"/>\ </svg>\ </span>\ <<link "Let her explore you with her mouth.">>\ <<append "#khalika-him-beats">>\ \ Her hand leaves you. What replaces it is worse, and all the better for it. You feel her breath first; damp, hot, close enough that the skin of you tightens under it, and then the careful turning of her face. Tusks. She angles her mouth around them with a practiced, unshowy adjustment, the points sliding past rather than against you. Only then does she close the last of the distance, lips finding you. They're exactly as you remember from the kiss through the stone: fleshy, thick, warm. She places a heavy kiss against the head of your cock, lingering there, drawing in the scent of you as if musk were a language she intended to read slowly. The kiss stays, slowly softening as it becomes the faintest suck, just the crown of you held in wet heat. Then she pulls away and lets the air of the cell rush in where her mouth had been, wet and warm. She knows exactly what she's doing, taking her time and leaving you wanting more. <<if $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ There's so much of you hanging in her cell that she doesn't have to take you deep to make a feast of the teasing. She kisses along the exposed shaft, those meaty lips dragging over hot skin, tongue following in a slow, glistening stripe that finds the thick vein on the underside and stays with it. Your thickness makes her experiment; a tilt of the head, a wider stretch of plush red lips, the brief huff of someone amused by the practical problem and entirely willing to put her mouth to it again and again. She moves between the length and the tip as if both belonged to her. A wet circle around the flushed crown, tongue gathering the first bead of pre as it wells up, the taste of you drawn in with a small, pleased sound. Then a shallow, testing take that stretches her lips wide around the swollen head and goes no further, spit shining on you when she draws back, a thread of it catching the light between her mouth and your cock before it breaks. ''"Mm."'' The word vibrates against you. ''"That's a mouthful even without trying."'' <<elseif $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ Her face stays against the wall because the geometry demands it, every lick happening in a space so close and tight that you can feel the warmth of her cheek near the stone, the click of her tusks against cobble each time she settles at the deepest point, the damp heat of her breath trapped in the close gap between you. There's no long travel for her mouth to perform. There's only concentration: lips, tongue, the wet seal of her kissing you as she learns the entire, short, sleek length of you. She licks a slow stripe and then takes you in; easy, the entire whole of what you've pushed through, the sudden enclosure so complete it wrenches a sound out of your throat. She holds you there for a heartbeat, tongue working the underside, tusks carefully angled, before letting you slip free just to hear the wet sound and the helpless way you lean in. ''"Convenient,"'' she whispers against the flushed head, lips brushing on every syllable. <<else>>\ Enough of you projects through for her mouth to play without contortion, and she uses the room the way a cat uses a patch of sun. She kisses the head, slow and wet. Licks a gleaming line down the shaft and back up again, lingering where you are most sensitive until your hips twitch toward a mouth that isn't there anymore. Pauses. Comes back. Does it again with more confidence, as if your reactions were a map she was enjoying unfolding. A brief, filthy seal around the crown; her plump lips stretching, tongue pressing the slit, a hint of suction that makes your knees forget their job, and then the sudden retreat, her breath laughing and low against skin gone wet with her. You can feel her smiling. <</if>>\ \ You wait for her to commit, but she doesn't just yet. Khalika pulls away while you're still leaning into the hole like a manwanting more, cock shining with spit, desire so thick in you that it has it's own temperature. She leaves a cooling slickness behind and the ghost of her mouth, absence it's own form of torture. ''"Not yet,"'' she says, and the words land on you as surely as another kiss would have. It isn't a question. <</append>>\ <<remove "#mb-him-tease">>\ <<if $("#khalika-him-microbeats .microbeat").length === 0>>\ <<remove "#khalika-him-prompt">>\ <<remove "#khalika-him-microbeats">>\ <<run $("#khalika-him-complete").show()>>\ <</if>>\ <</link>>\ <span class="microbeat-plus" aria-hidden="true">+</span>\ </div>\ <div id="mb-him-mouth" class="microbeat microbeat--oral">\ <span class="microbeat-icon" aria-hidden="true">\ <svg viewBox="0 0 24 24">\ <path d="M4 10.5c2.5-2 5.1-3 8-3s5.5 1 8 3c-2.3 2.4-5 3.6-8 3.6s-5.7-1.2-8-3.6Z"/>\ <path d="M8.2 13c.5 3.3 1.8 5.3 3.8 5.3s3.3-2 3.8-5.3"/>\ </svg>\ </span>\ <<link "Let her take you properly.">>\ <<append "#khalika-him-beats">>\ \ The teasing finally ends the way a held breath does. Khalika's mouth suddenly settles over you and stays; heat, wetness, the plush seal of thick lips stretching around the head of your cock and sliding down until you're sheathed in the close, slick dark of her. She makes a small hungry sound around you, , the vibration running the length of what she's taken. One hand comes up to brace against the stone beside the opening, or around whatever of you her mouth isn't currently claiming. Your hips have nowhere to thrust, all of it happening in the span of a missing block. Her side, yours, and the wet, obscene music of her working you travels through the gap as if the cell itself had leaned in to listen. You press your body taut against the grimy cobblestone, doing everything in your power to give her every inch the hole will allow, the adrenaline of the arena transmuted now into something lower and hotter, an animal need. <<if $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ She can't take all of you, and she doesn't insult either of you by pretending otherwise. What her mouth can manage, she takes with a deliberate, hungry competence; thick, meaty lips stretched wide around the thickness, tusks kept carefully out, head working in a controlled bob that grows wetter with every lewd descent. Spit gathers and runs, the rest of your length grasped tight in her fist, stroked tightly in the same cadence so that the wet heat around your flared crown and the slick, determined pull along the base of your shaft becomes one long problem that you're simply not going to last against for long. Each time she comes down, she takes a little more of you. Each time you knock the back of her mouth, feeling the tightness of her throat, she eases, breathes through her nose, and comes down again at a pace she can sustain, coating you in herself until the shaft shines and the air smells like spit, sex and stone. ''"Do you like it?"'' You question, only wishing that you could watch her all the while. Her response isn't voiced, only delivered through action, as she drags the persistent wet heat of her broad tongue along your substantial length and laps at the head, licking up any pre that beads up at the fat, flushed tip as she eagerly services and sucks you. No magic, just an orkish gladiatrix putting her mouth to a thing and refusing to do it badly. The suction firms, her tongue working the underside with a persistence that makes your vision narrow. You can feel your balls drawing up, heavy and tight. Her hand goes from the base of your long, thick cock to the two heavy, hanging orbs below, her slender fingers sensually squeezing your sack as though trying to coax more seed up through your length and to the surface. You see them wedged through the gap, her fingers, a glimmer of dark, glossy green as you feel yourself edging closer to release. <<elseif $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ She stays so close to the wall that her face lives in the opening with you. She can take all of what you've given her, and she does; a compact, complete rhythm, her mouth sliding to the stone and back in wet, even strokes that have nowhere to wander and therefore nowhere to hide. Every pass is the whole of you in the heat of her wet, clutching mouth. Every retreat is short enough that no inch of you misses her for long. When you glance down you catch what the hole will show: the dark line of a brow, the wet shine of her lip stretched around you, a tusk catching the poor light before she sinks again and your view becomes only the bob of her and the gleam of spit through the narrow, damp opening. Her hand steadies you at the base against the masonry, keeping you where she wants you, and the control of it is its own intimacy. No wasted motion, no performance. Just the persistent, silken pull of her mouth and the soft filthy sound of it, over and over, until the heat at the root of you starts to gather with a seriousness you can no longer joke away. <<else>>\ She uses both mouth and hand as if they'd always been meant to work together through a hole in a prison wall. Her lips travel the head and the first good stretch of shaft in a wet, steady bob; her fist handles the rest in the same cadence, spit-slick now, the two sensations braided so tightly you stop being able to tell where one ends. Tusks angled, hot breath through her nose, the even, hungry sound of a woman who has decided to do a thing properly and enjoys the entire process, from base to tip. She finds the pace that makes your stomach go tight and keeps you there, suction deepening on the upstroke, tongue pressing the spot beneath the head that makes your hands fist against the stone. You grind your hipbone into mortar that doesn't care. She doesn't stop, the wetness of her mouth running down to her green knuckles. The cell fills with the smell of it, of you, of the two of you refusing to die quietly. <</if>>\ \ You get close. Not finished — close. The specific, narrowing heat that means a little more of this wet, devoted work will finish you, seed boiling up, thighs shaking against stone, breath torn ragged against the wall. Your hands find the masonry and stay there. Khalika feels it, rhythm slowing without quite stopping, that last devastating suck lingering around the head of you, tongue pressed flat to the slit as if she were tasting how near you are. Then she eases off before you tip, letting you slip from the tight seal of her mouth with a wet sound that's almost a sort of cruelty of its own. She stays close. You can still feel her breath on the spit-shining length of you, still feel the ghost of that suction like a mouth that hasn't entirely left. The want doesn't recede. It sits in you, thick, furious and unfinished, cock twitching in the damp air as if it hasn't accepted the truth. ''"That look,"'' she says, voice low and wrecked with satisfaction, lips still close enough to brush and kiss you when she speaks while gripping her pulsing length. ''"I know that look."'' She doesn't finish you yet. <</append>>\ <<remove "#mb-him-mouth">>\ <<if $("#khalika-him-microbeats .microbeat").length === 0>>\ <<remove "#khalika-him-prompt">>\ <<remove "#khalika-him-microbeats">>\ <<run $("#khalika-him-complete").show()>>\ <</if>>\ <</link>>\ <span class="microbeat-plus" aria-hidden="true">+</span>\ </div>\ </div>\ <div id="khalika-him-complete" style="display:none;">\ \ You're still against the wall, obscenely hard, spit-slick and palm-warmed by your orc companion just on the other side, stone edges printed into your hips like a brand. Wound tight enough to ache, cock heavy and shining in the broken light, she stays exactly where she is, a warm presence with the unfinished act hanging between you as surely as you're hanging through the gap between you both. ''"You're close."'' ''"Khalika—"'' ''"I know."'' Satisfaction lives in it, warm and a little cruel. ''"I said I wasn't finished. I didn't say I was done."'' The cell's quiet except for your breathing and the faint wet sound of you still wanting her. ''"Well?"'' she asks, able to hear the smile even if the wall has stolen her eyes. ''"Are you going to let me finish what I started, $name?"'' </div>\ \ <<if !$khalika_cell_kiss>>\ [[Steal another kiss through the broken stone.|chp2_khalikacell_kiss]] <<ci adult>>\ <</if>>\ <<if !$khalika_cell_her>>\ [[Reach through the gap and explore her body.|chp2_khalikacell_her]] <<ci adult>>\ <</if>>\ [[Let Khalika finish what she started.|chp2_khalikacell_climax]] <<ci adult>>

<<set $khalika_cell_climax = true>>\ Whatever game she had been playing with you ends in the space of a breath. The pauses, the smirk you could hear and feel, the mouth that learned you and then left you aching in the hole, all the kissing and stroking. Khalika comes back to the opening as if a decision has settled in her body rather than her mouth. You feel it before you understand it: the warmth of her closing in, the faint click of a tusk finding its angle against the stone, the wet heat of her breath along the spit-shined length of you. Then her lips, but not a kiss this time; a full, fleshy envelopment as she takes you whole. Those thick, fleshy lips stretch around the head of your cock and slide down with a slow, claiming suction that says, plain as speech, that she's going to finish this thoroughly. One hand braces beside the broken cobble. The other finds you, steady, keeping what you offered through the wall like something she's decided not to give back until she's done. You press your hipbones into the grimy stone because there's nowhere else to go, and the leftover fire of the arena; the sand still imagined on your skin, the knowledge that tomorrow may sell you, all funneling down into the single wet point of her mouth. She makes a sound around you, low and satisfied, The vibration running the whole of what she has already taken. ''"Give it to me when it comes,"'' she murmurs, the words spilling hot against your shaft before she sinks down again. ''"Don't you dare waste it on the wall, $name."'' <<if $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ She can't bury all of you, but she doesn't try for a miracle. What her mouth can hold, she holds with a hungry competence that makes the limitation feel like heat instead of lack. Lips stretched wide around the thick swell of the crown and as much shaft as the angle will allow, spit gathering at the corners of her mouth and running down to the fist that works the rest of your impressive, meaty length in the same slick, rolling cadence. Each descent coats more. Each retreat leaves you shining, a thread of saliva catching the poor light between her lip and the flushed head before she comes down again and breaks it. The stone catches at the thickest of you when your hips forget themselves and shove; she answers by tightening her hand, by taking you deeper on the next stroke until you knock the back of her mouth and she has to breathe through her nose, tusks carefully out. The wet sound of it fills both cells, a gladiatrix putting her mouth to a warrior's cock through ruined masonry and refusing to do it halfway. Her fist slides the exposed length in long, slick pulls timed to the suction, thumb smearing what leaks from you back over the crown whenever she rises, the two sensations braiding until you can't tell where her hand ends and her throat begins, a familiar apex rising within your loins once more. <<elseif $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ She stays so close to the wall that her face lives in the opening with you. There's not a long road of shaft for her to travel, and she turns that into a seal; mouth sliding to the stone and back in compact, complete strokes, taking all of what you've pushed through, the plush heat of her enclosing you so fully that every pass feels like the whole of the act. You catch what the hole will show when she rises: the wet shine of her lip stretched around you, a tusk glinting, the dark concentration of her brow. Then she sinks and there is only warmth, only the soft filthy music of a mouth working in a space no wider than a hand. Her tongue presses the underside with a persistence that has nowhere to wander. Her hand stays at the base against the masonry, not because she needs the length, but because she wants you pinned where she can have you and finish you fully. Spit runs, the air in the gap goes thick with musk and her breath. Each time she takes you to the stone you feel the faint bump of her lip against rock, a reminder that she is doing this with a wall in her way, thorough, unshowy and devastatingly close. <<else>>\ She uses mouth and hand together as if the hole had been waiting for exactly this arrangement. Her lips travel the head and the first good stretch of shaft in a wet, steady bob; her fist works the rest in the same cadence, spit-slick now, the two of them speaking one language. Tusks angled, hot breath comes through her nose. It's the even, hungry sound of a woman who has stopped teasing and started finishing. She finds the pace that makes your stomach draw tight and keeps you there. Suction deepens on the upstroke, her tongue flattening under the crown, then flicking, before settling into that same mercilness attention that made you shake before. Only now, she doesn't leave. Saliva runs down to her knuckles as she works you. You grind your hipbone into mortar that doesn't care. The cell fills with the smell of it: stone, straw, the salt of her mouth, the heat of a man who is not going to last. <</if>>\ \ You get there the way a body gets there after too much denial: sudden and inevitable, heat stacking at the root of you, your balls drawing up tight, the pulse in the shaft turning from pleasure into a warning she can surely taste. Your hands fist against the masonry and your breath tears. Through the broken block you have nothing of her face but the fact of her work in it's entirety, and that's more than enough for you to go off of. She feels the change and doesn't dare retreat from the building pressure. If anything, she settles into it, as if bracing for the last of the bout about to begin. <<if $dominant is "bastard">>\ ''"Now,"'' you get out, voice gone raw against the stone. ''"Take it now."'' Your hips shove into the opening as far as the wall will allow, a helpless, claiming thrust that has nowhere to go except deeper into the heat of her. Both hands find the edge of the grimy broken cobble, holding there hard. She growls around you, a vibration that wrenches the last of your control out by the root, the sound permission enough. You spend like a man staking a mark. The first thick pulse hits the back of her mouth hard enough that she has to swallow around it or drown in it. The next follows, and the next, hot ropes of it pouring over her tongue while you lock against the stone and give her everything the day has left in you. You keep her on you through it, shuddering, cursing once under your breath, the pleasure so sharp it borders on violence. She takes it like this is exactly what she wanted. <<elseif $dominant is "cowboy">>\ You can't see her, the wall stole that from the start. So you feel it coming the way you have felt everything else today: by heat, by the way her mouth changes when you swell against her tongue, by the fine shake starting in your own thighs. ''"Khalika—"'' Her name is all the warning you have. You don't try to run the moment. You don't try to pretty it. You let her keep the pace she built, let her mouth decide how this ends, your brow dropping to the stone as the gathering breaks deep inside of you. She makes a small, fierce sound and stays. You spend into her with a groan you can't swallow, pulse after pulse rolling out of you while she holds still and drinks you down, her hand steady at the base so you don't lose the opening at the worst possible second. The pleasure comes in long, helpless waves, and she rides every one with that same practical patience she used to learn your length. <<else>>\ You try, briefly, to give her the choice — a tightening of your stance, a breath that might have become *wait* — and she answers by taking you deeper, by sealing those thick lips around you and making the choice for both of you. ''"Give it,"'' she says, the words more breath than voice around the head of your cock. You do. The climax takes you in a thick, shaking rush, seed pumping over her tongue while she holds still to keep it, your pelvis stirring uselessly against immovable stone, your breath hot and harsh in a cell that was never meant to hear this. She doesn't pull off of you. <</if>>\ \ She stays until the last pulse is only a twitch. You're oversensitive and still half-hard and shining with her. Then those meaty lips draw back, slipping over the swell of the head the way this whole thing began with a fat, lingering kiss at the tip, as if to close an intimate circle that you drew together. You feel her swallow once more, thorough, unshowy, a fighter finishing what she started. Your forehead rests against the wall, hearing nearly deafened by the beating deep within your chest. On the other side of the missing block, she's breathing like she just left the sand, and when she speaks it's low enough that it might've been meant only for your cock. ''"Now I can sleep with a full stomach."'' You huff something that wants to be a laugh and comes out wrecked instead. For a moment, nothing matters except the wet heat cooling on your skin, and the knowledge that she took everything you had through a hole in the prison wall without wasting a drop. ''"You're a menace,"'' you manage through labored breath. ''"You're welcome."'' Her fingers brush you against once more, almost kind, Then the contact is only air and the memory of her mouth. [[Sometime later, you have a serious discussion.|chp2_arena_finale3]]

<<mapstage "images/chp2_privateaudience_closing.png" "Khalika, Gant, and the raven-haired courtesan await you as the banquet draws to a close." nopulse>> <div class="pa-closing-ui" data-active="" role="group" aria-label="Choose who to spend the final moments of the banquet with"> <div class="pa-closing-shade" aria-hidden="true"></div> <img class="pa-closing-highlight pa-closing-highlight--khalika" src="images/chp2_privateaudience_closing.png" alt="" aria-hidden="true" data-nozoom > <img class="pa-closing-highlight pa-closing-highlight--gant" src="images/chp2_privateaudience_closing.png" alt="" aria-hidden="true" data-nozoom > <img class="pa-closing-highlight pa-closing-highlight--raven" src="images/chp2_privateaudience_closing.png" alt="" aria-hidden="true" data-nozoom > <button type="button" class="pa-closing-choice pa-closing-choice--khalika" data-choice="khalika" data-target="chp2_privateaudience_closer_khalika" aria-label="Spend the end of the banquet with Khalika"> <span class="pa-closing-label"> <span class="pa-closing-name">Khalika</span> <span class="pa-closing-desc">One warrior to another.</span> </span> </button> <button type="button" class="pa-closing-choice pa-closing-choice--gant" data-choice="gant" data-target="chp2_privateaudience_closer_gant" aria-label="Spend the end of the banquet with Gant"> <span class="pa-closing-label"> <span class="pa-closing-name">Gant</span> <span class="pa-closing-desc">Share one last drink with a friend.</span> </span> </button> <button type="button" class="pa-closing-choice pa-closing-choice--raven" data-choice="raven" data-target="chp2_privateaudience_closer_raven" aria-label="Spend the end of the banquet with the raven-haired courtesan"> <span class="pa-closing-label"> <span class="pa-closing-name">The Raven-Haired Courtesan</span> <span class="pa-closing-desc">Follow her into the dying night.</span> </span> </button> </div> <</mapstage>>

The banquet is dying by the time you find Gant. Most of the musicians have stopped playing, leaving the lower hall to the scrape of chairs, the clatter of dishes and the low murmur of conversations already halfway toward their conclusions. Servants move through the remains of the feast with renewed purpose, stripping tables of abandoned cups and half-picked platters while nobles drift toward the exits in twos and threes. Without the crowd packed so tightly around them, the long tables suddenly look excessive; too much polished wood, too much wasted food, too many silver dishes holding scraps that would draw a crowd in Undertown and be gone by the hour. Gant has apparently taken this as a personal challenge. You find him near the far end of the buffet where the feast has been reduced to its bones. A picked-over haunch lies on one platter beside several abandoned crusts of bread, scattered fruit skins and the greasy remains of whatever Gant managed to reach before the servants began reclaiming it. Your companion sits sideways upon a low bench with one boot stretched beneath the table, looking considerably more comfortable than any enslaved man awaiting auction has a right to look, which seems only fitting. He isn't eating with the same frantic determination as before. A strip of roasted meat disappears between his teeth while he watches a servant clear the opposite end of the table, chewing slowly enough that you almost feel inclined to congratulate him on discovering the concept. Beside his elbow rests a squat clay pitcher that someone evidently forgot to collect, accompanied by two shallow cups. Gant notices you somewhere between bites, dark green eyes brightening immediately. ''"There he is. The man of the fuckin' hour."'' He lifts the meat toward you in greeting. ''"Thought we'd lost you, mate."'' ''"Lost me?"'' ''"Mm."'' Gant swallows, wipes his fingers against the side of his trousers and peers theatrically past you into the dwindling crowd. ''"Figured one of these rich women would've dragged you off by now."'' His gaze travels farther across the chamber. ''"Or the green one."'' Gant scratches thoughtfully at his jaw, suddenly amused by the thought. ''"Actually, yeah. Especially the green one."'' His mouth twists into a grin. ''"Woman looks like she could throw you over one shoulder and carry you off whether you agreed or not."'' ''"You spend a lot of time thinking about that?"'' ''"About women carrying me places? More than you'd think."'' You shake your head, Gant's grin only broadening, clearly pleased that the final hours before being sold have done nothing to improve your opinion of him. His eyes flick briefly toward the curtained entertainment hall, then toward the distant reaches of Duchess Varro's court where the raven-haired courtesan had spent much of the evening. He looks back at you. ''"You actually came over here?"'' ''"Looks that way."'' ''"On purpose?"'' ''"Gant."'' ''"I'm just makin' sure, mate."'' He holds up both hands, laughing beneath his breath. ''"You've had options tonight. Proper options. Women with tits, money, titles..."'' His eyes narrow thoughtfully. ''"...sometimes all three."'' ''"Impressive counting."'' ''"Thank you."'' He reaches for the clay pitcher. Only then do you notice that the second cup beside him isn't empty. A dark mouthful of wine already sits within it. Gant follows your gaze. ''"Didn't know if you'd come back."'' The explanation arrives casually, his attention already returning to the pitcher as he tops off his own cup. ''"Wasn't gonna let good wine go to waste if you didn't."'' He nudges the waiting cup toward the empty stretch of bench beside him. ''"Still."'' Gant leans back, studying you with that same crooked amusement. ''"You realize there's probably a very attractive woman somewhere in this building wondering why you're drinking with me instead of doing something more interesting."'' ''"Only one?"'' ''"That's the spirit."'' You come to a stop beside the bench. Beyond him, servants continue dismantling the feast one platter at a time. Nearer the main hall, several guards have begun gathering in quiet conversation. You don't need to hear them to guess what they're preparing for. Soon enough, the freedom Duchess Varro allowed you will be collected along with everything else, back into chains. ''"So?"'' he asks, waiting with a hand wrapped loosely around his cup, the other resting beside the one he poured for you, ''"What's going on in that head of yours, mate?"'' <<link "I needed one last drink without someone trying to get something from me.">> <<set $pa_gant_closer_approach = "cowboy">> <<gainCowboy>> <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_gant1">> <</link>> <<ci cowboy archetype>> <<link "Women can wait. Figured I'd drink with my brother while I still could.">> <<set $pa_gant_closer_approach = "bastard">> <<gainBastard>> <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_gant1">> <</link>> <<ci bastard archetype>> <<link "We've been in this together since the beginning.">> <<set $pa_gant_closer_approach = "knight">> <<gainKnight>> <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_gant1">> <</link>> <<ci knight archetype>>

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp2_privateaudience_khalika.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> You find her where the torchlight begins to weaken against the old stone. One shoulder resting against a column, she watches the dying banquet with the same patient suspicion she brought into the arena. There's weariness beneath the set of her body now, though little softness; glossy dark-green skin still marked by yesterday's violence, strong arms folded beneath her chest, amber eyes moving from noble to servant to guard as though she means to remember every face that might matter later. She looks less like a guest enjoying the last of a feast than a warrior waiting for someone to finally admit what happens next. Her attention finds you well before you reach her. Something changes in Khalika's expression. It's small enough that anyone else might miss it, little more than the easing of her jaw and the faint upward pull of one corner of her tusked mouth, but you've spent enough time studying her now to recognize the welcome. Her eyes travel briefly past you toward the chamber behind, perhaps expecting someone else to have followed, before settling upon you again. ''"There you are, $name."'' ''"Were you looking for me?"'' ''"No."'' Khalika answers too quickly, then pushes away from the column with a quiet snort. ''"I was wondering where you'd end up."'' There were plenty of answers available to that question. Gant remains somewhere among the remnants of the feast, still finding ways to extract value from food and wine that belong to someone richer than he is. The raven-haired courtesan has been an unmistakable presence throughout the evening, and half the nobles in the chamber seem to have spent some portion of it deciding whether you might be useful or entertaining. Yet, when the room began to close and there was time enough left for one final choice, your feet carried you here. Khalika seems to understand that without needing it explained. <<if $pa_khalika_favorite is "livia">>\ ''"What happened to the Duchess Varro?"'' she asks, those big, bold amber eyes narrowing with quiet amusement. ''"Thought she owned the room."'' You glance toward the distant center of the chamber, then back to Khalika. ''"She does."'' ''"And yet here you are."'' ''"Looks that way."'' Her tusked smile grows by the smallest degree. ''"Interesting."'' <<elseif $pa_khalika_favorite is "alesia">>\ ''"Surprised to see you,"'' Khalika murmurs. ''"I thought you were looking to get burned."'' It takes you a moment to place the remark before Alesia returns to mind and you give her a crooked look. ''"You remembered that?"'' ''"I remember most things that might get someone killed."'' Her gaze lingers upon you pointedly. ''"Apparently I include you in that category now."'' ''"Touching."'' ''"Don't ruin it."'' <<elseif $pa_khalika_favorite is "sibylla">>\ ''"Hmm."'' Khalika studies you for a moment longer. ''"I thought you'd still be trying to figure out Sibylla."'' ''"Maybe I gave up."'' ''"Smartest thing you've done all evening."'' You laugh beneath your breath, and the severity in her face breaks just enough for a small tusked smile to escape. ''"Or maybe I found something less complicated."'' <<elseif $pa_khalika_favorite is "none">>\ Khalika's mouth slowly curls. ''"So."'' She folds her arms a little tighter. ''"None of them?"'' You remember the question immediately. The noblewomen spread throughout the banquet, her pointed curiosity, and the answer that made color rise faintly beneath the dark green of her cheeks. ''"I told you who I might pick."'' ''"You asked whether you //should// say me."'' Khalika's eyes narrow, pleased despite her effort to look unimpressed. ''"That's not the same thing."'' You gesture lightly between the two of you. ''"I'm here, aren't I?"'' For once, she has no immediate answer. The pause lasts only a heartbeat before she looks away with a quiet huff, though the smile she turns toward the failing torchlight is impossible to hide. <<elseif $khalikacell>>\ ''"Thought you'd be busier,"'' Khalika remarks. ''"Doing what?"'' ''"Taking advantage of every opening."'' The words arrive perfectly straight-faced, but the gleam in her amber eyes betrays her before the corner of her mouth can. A laugh escapes you. ''"You really need another phrase for that."'' ''"You really need a cleaner mind."'' ''"Bit late for that."'' ''"I noticed."'' <<else>>\ ''"Thought you'd have found somewhere more interesting to spend what's left of the evening,"'' Khalika says. You come to rest beside her, shoulder near the same stretch of cool stone. ''"I did."'' Her gaze shifts toward you. For a moment, she simply watches, apparently deciding whether the answer deserves mockery. Whatever verdict she reaches stays private, but the beginnings of a smile remain upon her mouth when she looks back across the chamber. <</if>>\ The levity doesn't quite survive the sight waiting beyond you. Another pair of guards has entered since you crossed the room, speaking quietly with the servants as the last occupied tables are cleared. One of them carries a ring of manacles at his hip. Khalika sees them too, and whatever warmth had reached her expression settles back beneath something harder. ''"Won't be long now,"'' she murmurs. You follow her gaze. ''"No."'' For a while you stand together at the edge of the dwindling feast, close enough that neither of you needs to raise your voice above the few conversations still clinging to the room. The arena lies behind you, the cells beneath you now. Whatever waits on the auction block is close enough now to feel like a presence of its own, patiently approaching while coin changes hands somewhere beyond these walls, beyond your control. Khalika turns her head toward you again. ''"Come on, then,"'' she says, shifting just enough to leave room beside her against the stone. ''"You came all the way over here. Might as well tell me what's on your mind."'' [[Stay with Khalika.|chp2_privateaudience_closer_khalika1]]

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp2_privateaudience_tanae.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> By the time you find her, the day's banquet has begun to show its bones. The musicians have stopped playing somewhere deeper in the hall, leaving behind only the quieter music of a feast being dismantled: cups collected from tabletops, wooden legs scraping over stone, servants murmuring to one another as they gather abandoned plates and half-emptied pitchers. Great clusters of nobles have broken apart into smaller knots around the exits, reluctant stragglers stretching their final conversations across the last mouthfuls of wine while guards drift more visibly into the spaces they leave behind. The raven-haired courtesan stands near one of them. She's escaped Duchess Varro's immediate orbit for the moment, lingering beside the mouth of a curtained alcove with a shallow glass balanced loosely between jeweled fingers. Silver still catches wherever the remaining light touches her: the close-fitted corset, the little stones at her throat and wrists, the delicate ornamentation worked into an outfit designed to make looking away considerably harder than good sense recommends. Her pale skirt falls into the dimness beneath, while glossy raven hair frames a face that has spent most of the evening arranged somewhere between amusement and invitation. Even at rest, she looks composed. Her attention is moving with the room; following servants, listening to nearby conversation without appearing to, occasionally raising the wine to her lips while those deep, dark eyes continue taking inventory of whatever House Varro has put before them. And before you've crossed half the remaining distance, those obsidian-dark eyes find you. <<if $pa_livia_test is "fuckit">>\ It begins at one corner of her mouth, a smile, spreading expectantly as she watches you approach. Her gaze moves down you once; not the broad appraisal you've endured from half the hall tonight, but a smaller, more private sweep. Earlier, surrounded by Livia's laughing courtiers, you finally stopped letting them decide the rules of their little game. Your arm had closed around this woman's waist and drawn her against you, close enough to feel the warmth beneath all that silver and perfume. You had tested how far the invitation reached. She had tested you right back, leaning into the moment until your wandering hand finally found the boundary she chose to enforce. She hadn't looked frightened, only pleased that she'd gotten something out of you. ''"Careful,"'' she murmurs as you reach her, lowering the wine again. ''"Keep following your curiosity around like this and someone might start thinking you have poor judgment."'' You stop a comfortable step away. ''"You don't sound surprised."'' ''"Should I be?"'' Her eyes dip toward your hand, implication obvious enough that you nearly laugh. ''"You were considerably less mysterious when that was around my waist."'' Her gaze lifts, amusement warming rather than sharpening it. ''"I was beginning to wonder how long you'd pretend that was enough."'' ''"Maybe it was."'' That earns a breathy little laugh. ''"Mm."'' She studies you over the rim of her glass. ''"And yet here you are."'' <<elseif $pa_livia_test is "control">>\ Her eyes settle upon you and remain there as you approach, that half-smile slowly threatening at her lips but never quite becoming the smug satisfaction you might've expected. If anything, she looks intrigued, as though you've just walked into the final step of some problem she's been turning over since earlier in the day. She waits until you're almost within arm's reach, taking an unhurried sip of wine. ''"Well, that's interesting."'' ''"Me walking across a room?"'' ''"You walking across a room toward //me//."'' Earlier, she'd spent the better part of several minutes pressed against your side beneath Duchess Varro's entertained gaze, jeweled fingers wandering, warm body leaning closer, every little look and touch searching for a reaction. You'd given her desire because there was no use pretending you felt none, but not the satisfaction of control. When she eventually departed, she'd left with a single word hanging behind her. //Shame.// Now, dark eyes search your face again with much the same attention. ''"I spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to decide whether you were actually that disciplined,"'' she admits, rolling the stem of her glass lightly between two fingers, ''"Or whether I simply wasn't doing a very good job."'' You raise a brow. ''"Embarrassing?"'' ''"Professionally."'' Her mouth twitches. ''"I do have standards."'' ''"And what did you decide?"'' She lets the question breathe, gaze wandering briefly over your form. ''"I hadn't."'' The admission comes more easily than you expect, a little smile finally winning her over. ''"But I suppose curiosity got the better of one of us eventually."'' ''"You're very sure it was mine."'' ''"You crossed the room,"'' she retorts with a faint lift of one dusky shoulder. <</if>>\ \ The difference is small enough that you almost miss it. She'd shown very little hesitation around your body earlier, whether teasing beside Livia or watching from amongst the Duchess's little court, but here she simply lets you stand with her. Wine in one hand, the other resting loosely along the silver line of her corset. No fingers searching for a reaction or circle of laughing women encouraging her onward. Just that dark, attentive gaze. Up close, her perfume has changed with the night. Or perhaps you've simply gotten near enough to notice what exists beneath the sweetness: warm flowers at first, then something darker and faintly spiced underneath, mixed now with wine, skin and the last traces of smoke drifting through the chamber. It suits her better than the expensive silver does. She catches you studying her. ''"There it is again. That look."'' ''"You've spent most of the evening looking at me."'' ''"Occupational hazard."'' You glance toward the remnants of Livia's court, most of them now scattered or departing. ''"Is that what all of this was?"'' The courtesan follows your gaze, saying nothing for several seconds. ''"Some of it."'' She turns her glass slowly, watching the last dark mouthful of wine crawl along its inner edge. ''"Everyone wanted something different from you tonight. Livia wanted to know whether you could keep your head. Alesia wanted entertainment. Half those girls wanted a story they could repeat tomorrow over breakfast."'' Her lips curl. ''"The other half probably wanted the same story with fewer clothes involved."'' ''"And you?"'' Her eyes return to yours, some humor lingering there. ''"I was curious about you."'' She lifts her glass again but discovers it nearly empty. For a moment, she peers down into it as though the wine has personally disappointed her, then finishes what remains and sets the glass upon the edge of a nearby table already waiting to be cleared. When she turns back, both hands are empty. ''"Funny thing about tonight,"'' she says. ''"Everyone keeps deciding what sort of man you are before you've finished opening your mouth. Dangerous. Clever. Proud. Obedient. Difficult. Useful."'' Her eyes drift over you thoughtfully. ''"Whatever answer suits them."'' ''"You've got a better method?"'' That almost-smile returns as she takes one small step nearer. ''"Ask better questions."'' The last of the banquet moves around you. Somewhere beyond the columns a servant drops several pieces of silverware onto a tray with a metallic clatter. A pair of nobles pass nearby without giving either of you more than a glance, already deep in some drunken disagreement that will probably matter considerably less tomorrow. Beyond them, guards have begun gathering near the main exits. Time's thinning along with the crowd Her gaze searches yours for another moment before her head tips slightly to one side, dark hair shifting across her cheek. ''"So tell me something then, gladiator."'' There's teasing in the title, but less than before. ''"What exactly were you curious about?"'' <<link "I wanted to see what you're like when nobody else is watching.">>\ <<set $pa_raven_approach = "cowboy">>\ <<gainCowboy>>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_raven1">>\ <</link>> <<ci cowboy archetype>> <<link "You. I wanted you earlier, and I still do.">>\ <<set $pa_raven_approach = "bastard">>\ <<gainBastard>>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_raven1">>\ <</link>> <<ci bastard archetype>> <<link "You kept looking at me like there was something you weren't saying.">>\ <<set $pa_raven_approach = "knight">>\ <<gainKnight>>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_raven1">>\ <</link>> <<ci knight archetype>>

For a time, nothing comes to mind that feels worth saying. Khalika seems content with the silence. She has always been good at that; letting a thought sit until it either proves useful or dies on its own. Her attention remains fixed upon the guards for another few breaths before she finally speaks. ''"They're getting ready for the auction."'' ''"Looks like it."'' Khalika rolls one shoulder against the stone, amber eyes settling on you. ''"Think they'll sell us together?"'' The question catches you strangely. Not because you haven't considered it, but because hearing her say it makes the possibility of the opposite suddenly harder to ignore. ''"I doubt they'll care."'' ''"No."'' Her mouth tightens. ''"They won't."'' She looks across the chamber again. Gant is somewhere beyond the thinning crowd. The nobles who spent the evening studying you are beginning to disappear through guarded doors, carrying whatever conclusions they reached with them. Somewhere beyond these walls there's already an auction block waiting to turn all three of you into numbers. ''"Could be different houses. Different districts. Different arenas."'' You glance toward her. ''"Could be the same arena."'' This time she looks back. The thought doesn't need explaining either. Gladiators are matched for spectacle, not sentiment, and masters have little reason to care who once bled beside whom. Today Khalika is the woman who stood at your side against something larger and stronger than either of you. Given enough coin and sufficiently cruel circumstance, another day might put a weapon in her hand and place her across the sand instead. For several seconds, Khalika simply studies you. ''"If they put us against each other?"'' You breathe slowly through your nose. ''"I'd rather they didn't."'' ''"That's not what I asked."'' There's no accusation in her expression, only the blunt practicality you've come to expect from her. Khalika doesn't ask questions because she wants comforting answers. Whatever exists between you, she seems unwilling to protect it with lies. ''"If it came down to you or me,"'' she continues quietly, ''"I'd fight."'' You hold her gaze. ''"I know."'' Her brows rise slightly. ''"That bother you?"'' ''"Wouldn't believe you if you said anything else."'' A breath escapes her that might almost be a laugh. ''"Good."'' <<if $khalikacell>>\ It's difficult not to think of how different the distance between you felt in the cells. Then, several inches of miserable stone had been the only thing separating two people who had just survived the arena together, and even that eventually proved insufficient. Whatever happened through that broken wall was impulsive, physical and perhaps foolish, but it was chosen. Neither masters nor nobles nor cheering crowds had anything to do with it. ''"Funny,"'' she murmurs, tusked mouth twitching, ''"Yesterday, we couldn't get through a wall fast enough. Now they might send us to opposite ends of the city."'' <<else>>\ Yesterday, you barely knew her name when the arena forced the two of you together. There hadn't been any reason to trust one another beyond necessity and no guarantee either of you would survive long enough for that trust to matter afterward. Yet, she's still here and so are you. And when the banquet finally ran cold, she was the person you chose to find. <</if>>\ \ ''"That's the part I hate,"'' Khalika continues, her voice quieter now. You turn toward her, but she keeps her eyes upon the chamber. ''"Not knowing?"'' ''"Having no say."'' Her jaw shifts. ''"Fight me, sell me, chain me, fine. At least then I know what's in front of me. This? Standing around while somebody decides where I wake up tomorrow?"'' She exhales sharply through her nose. ''"I hate waiting."'' That, more than anything else, sounds like Khalika. ''"Can't imagine you're very good at it."'' ''"I'm excellent at waiting."'' You glance toward her. ''"You just said—"'' ''"I said I hate it. Keep up."'' A laugh escapes you despite yourself. Khalika's mouth curls with satisfaction, and for a fleeting moment the auction, the guards and the uncertainty beyond the walls retreat behind something simpler. Then her eyes settle upon you, the look lasting longer. ''"You've spent half the evening being stared at, tested, propositioned, and gods know what else."'' Khalika's gaze flicks briefly toward the banquet behind you before returning. ''"You could've finished the night anywhere in this room."'' She leaves the rest unsaid. //You came here.// <<if $pa_khalika_response is "cell_exposed_cowboy">>\ Earlier, when Khalika caught you beneath the lingering attention of the banquet, you answered her teasing with a question of your own. //Were you impressed?// She never gave you quite as direct an answer as you wanted. The way her amber eyes settle upon you now makes you wonder whether she intends to or not. <<elseif $pa_khalika_response is "cell_exposed_bastard">>\ Earlier, when Khalika tested what you made of all those wandering noble eyes, you hadn't bothered pretending to be embarrassed. //Absolutely. Let them look.// She had seemed to appreciate the answer. Judging by the slow appraisal she gives you now, Khalika hasn't become any more inclined toward modesty since you last left her. <<elseif $pa_khalika_response is "cell_exposed_knight">>\ Earlier, surrounded by curious noble eyes, you gave Khalika an answer that cut through the entire room. //They don't compare to you.// She had heard you then. She certainly remembers it now. <<elseif $pa_khalika_response is "cell_private_cowboy">>\ Earlier, when the heat between you threatened to become another distraction, you told her that you needed to focus on what happened next. Well, next has arrived. <<elseif $pa_khalika_response is "cell_private_bastard">>\ Earlier, when Khalika asked what you made of the night before, you gave her the simplest answer you could. //I want more.// From the way her amber eyes linger upon you now, she hasn't forgotten. <<elseif $pa_khalika_response is "cell_private_knight">>\ Earlier, you told her you were glad the night in the cells happened. The answer had seemed simple then. It feels heavier now, with the possibility that there may be no convenient opportunity to repeat it. <</if>>\ \ Khalika unfolds her arms. ''"What do you want, $name?"'' There's nothing coy in the question. She asks it the same way she might ask which direction you're taking through hostile ground: directly, expecting an answer. The room around you continues emptying. Whatever your answer is, there may not be much time left to act upon it. <<set _khalikaCloserCowboy = ($cowboy > 0 && $cowboy >= $bastard && $cowboy >= $knight) || $khalika_cell_approach is "cowboy" || $pa_khalika_response is "cell_exposed_cowboy" || $pa_khalika_response is "cell_private_cowboy" || $pa_khalika_response is "nocell_exposed_cowboy">>\ <<set _khalikaCloserBastard = ($bastard > 0 && $bastard >= $cowboy && $bastard >= $knight) || $khalika_cell_approach is "bastard" || $pa_khalika_response is "cell_exposed_bastard" || $pa_khalika_response is "cell_private_bastard" || $pa_khalika_response is "nocell_exposed_bastard">>\ <<set _khalikaCloserKnight = ($knight > 0 && $knight >= $cowboy && $knight >= $bastard) || $pa_khalika_response is "cell_exposed_knight" || $pa_khalika_response is "cell_private_knight" || $pa_khalika_response is "nocell_exposed_knight">>\ <<if _khalikaCloserCowboy>>\ <<link "No promises. I just don't want to waste whatever time we've got.">>\ <<gainCowboy>>\ <<set $khalika_banquet = "cowboy">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_khalika2">>\ <</link>> <<ci cowboy archetype>> <</if>>\ <<if _khalikaCloserBastard>>\ <<link "You. While there's still time.">>\ <<gainBastard>>\ <<set $khalika_banquet = "bastard">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_khalika2">>\ <</link>> <<ci bastard archetype>> <</if>>\ <<if _khalikaCloserKnight>>\ <<link "Whatever happens after this, I'm not pretending you mean nothing to me.">>\ <<gainKnight>>\ <<set $khalika_banquet = "knight">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_khalika2">>\ <</link>> <<ci knight archetype>> <</if>> <<link "Nothing from you. I just wanted to see you before they take us away.">>\ <<set $khalika_banquet = "none">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_khalika_farewell">>\ <</link>>

<<if $khalika_banquet is "cowboy">>\ Khalika watches you for a moment after the answer leaves your mouth. ''"No promises?"'' ''"Didn't think you'd want one."'' That earns a quiet snort. ''"Good."'' She looks away again, attention drifting toward the thinning banquet as another servant carries off a tray of abandoned cups. There's something approving in the set of her mouth, as though you've managed to avoid stepping into some trap she never wanted to set. ''"People like promises when they're afraid,"'' Khalika says after a while, eyes moving still, ''"Makes them feel like they've tied tomorrow down before it gets a chance to move."'' ''"And you?"'' ''"I prefer knowing what I have in front of me."'' Her shoulder presses lightly against yours. ''"Right now, that's you."'' There's no grand confession hidden beneath it. That might be what makes the words land as heavily as they do. Neither of you knows where you'll sleep once the bidding is finished, who will own the keys to your chains, or whether you'll ever find your way back into the same room again. Khalika seems unwilling to pretend otherwise. <<if $khalika_cell_approach is "cowboy">>\ It reminds you of the cells in its own way. The same refusal to plan too far beyond the next opening, the next breath, the next thing worth stealing before someone notices. Khalika seems to remember it too; her amber eyes dip briefly toward your mouth before returning to your own. ''"You always this good at living five minutes at a time?"'' ''"Usually gets me through the first four."'' Her tusked grin appears in full. ''"Idiot."'' <<elseif $khalikacell>>\ There'd been something similar in the cells, even if the route that carried you there had been different. Neither of you asked what it meant before acting upon it. You were alive, she was alive, and that seemed reason enough. Perhaps it still is. <</if>>\ \ ''"So what happens when those minutes run out?"'' Khalika asks. You glance toward the gathering guards. ''"Ask me then."'' A low laugh escapes her. ''"Fair enough."'' She pushes away from the wall, but doesn't step away from you. Instead she turns, close enough now that her folded arms nearly brush your chest. ''"Then if we're not making promises..."'' Her gaze searches your face, amused and intent. ''"...we should probably stop wasting time."'' <<elseif $khalika_banquet is "bastard">>\ For several seconds, Khalika simply stares at you, her tusked mouth slowly curling. ''"You asked."'' ''"I did."'' Her amber eyes travel over you without any attempt at subtlety, taking their time before returning to your face. Khalika has never seemed embarrassed by appetite, hers or yours. If anything, the straightforwardness appears to settle something inside her. ''"Better answer than half the nonsense I've heard tonight."'' ''"High praise."'' ''"Don't get used to it."'' You shift closer, and she doesn't dare move. The space between you contracts until the heat of her body becomes easier to notice than the cooling banquet air. There's challenge in the way Khalika holds your gaze, but no uncertainty. She heard what you said and knows exactly just what you meant by it. <<if $khalika_cell_approach is "bastard">>\ That look is familiar. You saw something close to it through broken stone yesterday, when teasing became challenge and challenge became something neither of you felt much need to apologize for afterward. Khalika recognizes the memory in your expression, giving a shake of her head. ''"There it is."'' ''"What?"'' ''"That look you get right before you become a problem."'' ''"You complained last time too."'' ''"Did I?"'' The question arrives with enough amusement to answer itself. <<elseif $khalikacell>>\ Whatever began in the cells has changed shape since then, but not disappeared. If anything, being able to stand this close without stone between you makes the old tension seem almost absurd in retrospect. Khalika apparently reaches the same conclusion. ''"Much better without the wall."'' <<else>>\ This is different from everything that came before. The arena gave you necessity. The banquet gave you conversation. This is the first moment between the two of you where neither circumstance nor survival is providing an excuse. You chose her anyway. Khalika seems acutely aware of it. <</if>>\ \ ''"So that's it?"'' she murmurs. ''"You want me because the clock's running out?"'' ''"I want you because I want you."'' Her expression sharpens with satisfaction. ''"Good."'' One of her hands catches lightly against the front of your clothes, not pulling yet, simply resting there as if testing whether you'll flinch from your own answer. ''"Then don't start dressing it up now,"'' she says. ''"We've both heard enough pretty words for one evening."'' <<elseif $khalika_banquet is "knight">>\ Khalika's expression changes slowly. You've learned better than to mistake every quiet moment for softness. It's closer to attention stripped of humor, the guarded calculation in her bold eyes giving way to something more deliberate as she weighs what you've told her. ''"You mean that."'' ''"I wouldn't have said it otherwise."'' ''"Plenty of people say things they don't mean."'' ''"I'm not plenty of people."'' A faint curve touches one corner of her tusked mouth. ''"No. You're certainly not."'' The silence that follows carries none of the uncertainty from before. You haven't promised to rescue her. You haven't sworn that fate will bend because the two of you would prefer it that way. Neither of you is foolish enough to pretend that saying something matters will keep a bidder from chaining you in opposite ends of the city. ''"You know saying that doesn't change what happens next,"'' she says plainly. ''"I know."'' ''"Could still end with you across an arena from me someday."'' ''"I know that too."'' Khalika exhales through her nose. ''"Annoying man."'' ''"You've mentioned that."'' <<if $pa_khalika_response is "cell_exposed_knight" || $pa_khalika_response is "cell_private_knight">>\ The answer seems to carry an echo from earlier in the evening. You'd already given her something similar then, whether by telling her that the women surrounding you didn't compare or simply admitting that you were glad the moment in the cells had happened. This time there's nowhere for either of you to hide behind banter. Khalika remembers, and so do you. <<elseif $khalikacell>>\ Whatever happened in the cells was never accompanied by declarations. It didn't need them. But refusing to cheapen a thing after the fact is different from pretending it meant nothing at all. Khalika seems to understand the distinction. <<else>>\ There's no previous intimacy waiting behind the words. Only the arena, the strange trust that followed, and the fact that when given one final choice tonight, you came back to her. That by itself means something. <</if>>\ \ ''"I don't need you promising that we'll find each other again,"'' Khalika says quietly. ''"Wasn't going to."'' ''"Good."'' Her hand closes around your forearm, firm and warm. ''"Promise you'd try."'' You hold her gaze. ''"That I can do."'' For the first time since you approached her, Khalika looks away before you do. A small breath passes between her tusks, something almost embarrassed beneath the rough amusement that returns a moment later. ''"Gods. Listen to us."'' ''"Your fault. You asked what I wanted."'' ''"Starting to regret that."'' But she hasn't released your arm. <</if>>\ \ A metallic clatter cuts through the thinning murmur of the banquet. Near the far doors, one of the guards has begun distributing restraints to the others. Heavy iron cuffs pass from hand to hand beneath the torchlight, accompanied by low instructions you can't quite make out from here. Khalika's voice releases you. ''"That's our warning."'' ''"How long?"'' She studies the guards, then the servants, then the last few nobles still taking their time over wine that no longer belongs to the evening before her gaze returns to you. ''"Not long enough."'' There's an idea behind it now. <<if $khalikacell>>\ You recognize the look before she says anything. You've seen Khalika weighing a weakness in a wall, a man, a situation; measuring whether the opening is wide enough to exploit. This time, fortunately, neither of you appears interested in escaping. <<else>>\ You've seen that expression before in the arena: the instant when watching becomes deciding. Whatever decision Khalika has reached now, it has very little to do with the guards. <</if>>\ \ She glances behind the heavy, crimson drapery nearby into a recently abandoned alcove, the nobles and servants having long filtered out, creating a darker, private edge of the hall still lit by a lingering hearth; the perfect opportunity for what you both have in mind. You follow her gaze, unable to contain the beginnings of a faint smirk. ''"You spend a lot of time looking for hiding places."'' ''"Usually looking for exits."'' ''"And now?"'' Khalika's eyes return to yours, tusked smile answering before she does. ''"Now I have a better use for one."'' She pushes away from the wall and begins toward the shadows, pausing after only a step. ''"Coming?"'' [[Follow Khalika into the alcove. (18+)|chp2_privateaudience_closer_khalika_intimate]] <<ci social adult>>

''"Nothing from you, I just wanted to see you before they take us away."'' For once, Khalika doesn't answer immediately. Her amber eyes remain fixed upon you while the last sounds of the banquet continue thinning around the edges of the hall: servants gathering cups, boots crossing stone, a distant burst of laughter that dies almost as soon as it begins. Whatever she expected when you came looking for her, it apparently wasn't this. Then one tusked corner of her mouth lifts. ''"All this way just to say goodbye?"'' ''"Seemed rude not to."'' Khalika snorts. ''"You're strange."'' ''"I've heard worse."'' ''"Mostly from me."'' That earns a laugh from you, quieter than the ones that came earlier in the banquet. For a few seconds, the conversation becomes easy again. There's no need to dress the moment up into something larger than it is. No promise that either of you will somehow defeat whatever happens next, no oath that you'll find one another again after the auction, as if wanting something badly enough can make Cradle rearrange itself around you both. You simply stand beside her. <<if $khalikacell>>\ The simplicity of it feels almost stranger because of what happened in the cells. Broken stone between you, blood still fresh from the arena, both of you acting on instinct while the future remained too uncertain to deserve much thought. Whatever it was, neither of you seems interested in pretending it didn't happen. But neither does it demand anything now. Khalika glances toward you. ''"You regret it?"'' ''"No."'' The answer comes easily enough that she seems to believe it. ''"Good."'' <<else>>\ Whatever has grown between you never needed to become more complicated than this. You fought together. Trusted one another when there was very little reason to trust anyone. Found each other again afterward when circumstance could just as easily have scattered you among strangers. For now, that's enough. <</if>>\ \ The guards at the far side of the hall begin moving again. One of them calls something to another, and the ring of iron carried at his hip answers with a dull metallic clatter. Khalika hears it too, her gaze shifting toward the sound and remaining there for several seconds. ''"Suppose that's us."'' ''"Looks like it."'' She straightens away from the wall. For a moment, it seems as though that will be the end of it. A nod, perhaps. A few final words. Then Khalika reaches out and catches your forearm in a warrior's grip, her hand closing firmly just beneath your elbow. You return it. There's nothing delicate about the gesture, which is probably why it feels right. The distance between you returns almost immediately, but it no longer feels unfinished. Whatever happens after this belongs to masters, bidders, guards and whoever has enough coin to decide where the two of you wake tomorrow. This much, at least, belonged to you. Khalika starts toward the center of the hall, then pauses, shooting a look over. ''"Don't die, $name."'' You give her a faint smile. ''"You either, Khalika."'' Her answer is a small tusked smirk before she turns away. [[You follow a heartbeat later into the dying banquet.|chp2_privateaudience_end]]

/* PAID BUILD ships the <video>. For Public, remove the <video> line and add data-gate="gate_video_dancers" to the wrapper div. */ \ <div class="video-player" data-gate="gate_video_dosmera">> \ <img class="vp-poster" src="images/chp2_privateaudience_khalika1.webp" alt=""> <button class="vp-btn" type="button">▶</button> </div> Khalika hooks one finger toward you and disappears behind the heavy crimson drapery. You follow. The banquet seems to fall away the moment the curtain settles behind your shoulders. What remains of the noise outside reaches you only as a softened murmur through layers of cloth and stone: the scrape of chairs, an occasional burst of laughter, the distant clink of metal as servants and guards finish dismantling the evening. The alcove itself has already been abandoned. Several squat wooden tables sit crooked where their occupants left them, littered with emptied cups, greasy plates and scattered silverware, while a pitcher lies on its side near the edge of one bench with the last of its wine dried dark. A stone hearth burns along the far wall. Its flames have sunk low, but the coals still breathe enough heat into the chamber to make the air warmer than the hall outside. Orange light rolls unevenly across the stonework, catching along the folds of the crimson drapery and flashing amber across Khalika's eyes as she turns to face you. There's something strangely intimate about finding the room in this state, as though the nobles who occupied it simply vanished between one breath and the next, leaving behind a pocket of warmth and disorder for the two of you to steal. Khalika takes one slow look around. Her gaze passes over the empty tables, the dark corners beside the hearth, the curtain behind you. Only when she appears satisfied that no servant has been forgotten beneath a bench does her attention settle completely upon you. ''"Good enough."'' ''"Comforting standard."'' ''"We're slaves hiding behind a curtain before somebody puts a price on us."'' Her tusked lips curve, bold amber eyes resting entirely upon you. ''"You want luxury too?"'' ''"Wouldn't say no."'' ''"Greedy."'' ''"You brought me here."'' That earns the reaction you were hoping for. Khalika's smile widens, slow and unmistakable, and for several seconds neither of you bothers pretending this excursion has anything to do with escaping. The distance between you is already smaller than it was outside. Without the banquet pressing around you, without noble eyes wandering across the room or armed men stationed within easy sight, the awareness of her becomes almost immediate: the sheen of warmth along her dark green skin, the rise and fall of her chest, the faint scent of sweat and smoke still clinging. She steps closer. ''"You're staring again."'' ''"You keep noticing."'' ''"Hard not to.''" Her hand finds the front of your clothes, fingers curling loosely into the fabric rather than pulling. The touch is almost casual, but Khalika's eyes are fixed upon yours with too much attention for either of you to mistake what comes next. <<if $khalika_cell_kiss>>\ There is none of yesterday's uncertainty when she draws you toward her. You've already learned some of the awkward little realities of kissing a woman with tusks; where to tilt your head, how close is too close, how Khalika tends to smile a heartbeat before doing something deliberately difficult. She seems equally familiar with you now. Her other hand slides along your jaw as your mouths meet, guiding rather than searching, and the kiss settles into place with the ease of something resumed rather than begun. Even so, it feels different without several inches of broken stone between you. Khalika gives a quiet sound of amusement against your mouth when your hands find her tight waist and wide-splayed hips properly for the first time. ''"Better, hmm?"'' You draw back only far enough to breathe. ''"The room?"'' ''"No wall."'' <<else>>\ For a heartbeat, the two of you simply stand there. You've been close before. Close enough to bleed beside one another, close enough to trade quiet words while surrounded by people who might own you before the day is finished. But this is different. Nothing's forcing either of you together now. Her fingers tighten in your clothes and she pulls you the final few inches. The first kiss is less hesitant than unfamiliar. Her tusks force a slight angle between you, and she adjusts almost immediately, one hand coming up along the side of your neck as though irritation with the inconvenience matters more than any uncertainty about whether she wants this. You answer in kind, hands settling against her tight waist and wide-splayed hips while the heat of the hearth gathers between your bodies. When you finally separate, Khalika remains close enough that her breath still touches your mouth. ''"Took you long enough."'' ''"Was waiting for an invitation."'' She glances pointedly toward the curtain behind you. ''"What did you think this was?"'' <</if>>\ \ Khalika closes the distance again, slower this time, and what began as a stolen kiss settles into something less hurried. Outside, the banquet continues dying by degrees. Somewhere beyond the curtain, another table scrapes across stone and a man's voice calls instructions you cannot make out. The sounds should probably remind you how little time remains. Instead, they make the alcove feel more private. Your hands begin to wander without either of you needing to discuss it. Khalika seems content to let the moment unfold on its own terms, alternating between brief kisses and the occasional assessing look as though she's still studying what kind of man followed her. The hearth crackles behind her. For the first time since entering the banquet, there's nowhere else you need to be. [[Stay with her.|chp2_privateaudience_closer_khalika_intimate1]] <<ci adult>>

<center><img class="scene" src="images/chp2_khalika_table.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Khalika holds the next kiss for several slow breaths before something playful enters it. You feel the beginnings of her smile against your mouth a moment before one palm settles against your chest and firmly pushes. There's enough strength behind the gesture to send you back half a step, leaving the both of you flushed, parted, but wanting more. ''"What?"'' She backs toward the nearest table without saying a word, amber eyes fixed upon you all the while. The abandoned meal scattered across its surface receives little consideration. One hand plants beside a forgotten wooden platter, the other sweeps an empty cup and several pieces of silverware aside with a noisy clatter, and then she lifts herself onto the tabletop with the same effortless economy you've watched her use moving through a fight. The fire behind her throws a shifting orange glow across the scene. Khalika settles back upon her elbows amid the remains of someone else's feast, one leg hanging loosely over the table's edge while the other bends enough to disturb another plate. Crimson drapery hangs in heavy folds behind you, the hearth burning beyond her shoulders. Somewhere outside, servants continue dismantling the banquet, oblivious or indifferent to the small corner that the two of you have claimed for yourselves. She tilts her head back, long dark hair awash as she waits expectantly. ''"Well?"'' The beginnings of your own smile answer hers. <div id="khalika-intimate-beats"></div>\ <div id="khalika-intimate-prompt" class="microbeat-prompt">Khalika waits upon the table, watching you with a low, simmering hunger.</div>\ <div id="khalika-intimate-stage1" class="microbeats no-plates">\ <div id="mb-khalika-intimate-her" class="microbeat microbeat--curves">\ <span class="microbeat-icon" aria-hidden="true">\ <svg viewBox="0 0 24 24">\ <path d="M9 3.5c1.8 2.3 2.4 4.7 1.8 7.2-.7 2.8-2.4 5.4-5.1 7.8"/>\ <path d="M15 3.5c-1.8 2.3-2.4 4.7-1.8 7.2.7 2.8 2.4 5.4 5.1 7.8"/>\ </svg>\ </span>\ <<link "Feel her body and strip away what remains between you.">>\ <<append "#khalika-intimate-beats">>\ \ You close the distance until the table's edge meets your thighs, The warm heat of the hearth on your face as well as hers. Khalika doesn't lie back and offer herself like a course. She watches you come, one brow tipped, the red cloth at her chest rising with a breath she doesn't bother to hide. Your hands find her waist first; warm through the wrap, the muscle there jumping under your palms the way it did when she kissed you before they slide lower over the flare of her hips, the heavy give of her thighs where one hangs off the wood. The torc at her throat catches the fire, a cup tinking against a platter when she shifts to let you nearer. <<if $khalika_cell_her>> \ You know this body. You learned it through a hole in a prison wall, one arm and whatever the broken stone would allow, the memory of that limited reach making the freedom of both hands feel almost indecent. No stone, no angles, just Khalika, close enough to hold. <<else>> \ This is the first time nothing has stood between your hands and her. The strength is there, packed into stomach and thigh, but so is the rest of it; the weight of her womanly hips, the soft places a fight never gets to show, the heat of dark-green skin that has been waiting under red cloth since the sands that linger vividly in recent memory. <</if>>\ \ Your fingers find the edge of the bandeau. She lets you work for it a moment, shoulders settling back, a smirk in the corner of her mouth, and then she arches just enough that the cloth gives. You drag it down, barely suppressing a low groan. Her breasts spill free into the firelight, thick and heavy, the peaks already tight in the cooler air away from the hearth, filling your hands with them just because you can. She makes a low sound when your thumbs find her pert nipples. ''"Took you long enough,"'' she murmurs. The wrap is next. It sits low on her hips, red over green, and she doesn't lift for you until you've fought for the position, digits hooked under so that you can tug it down. Then she does a small, economical rise of her plush ass off the wood, one knee bending higher, silverware chiming as the table complains — and you draw the cloth down her thighs, letting it fall somewhere among the abandoned cups. What the wrap was hiding meets the firelight: the toned line of her stomach, the breadth of her hips, the dark heat between her legs, already flushed and a little slick when your palm passes, her muscular legs remaining splayed open for you all the while, all glossy green flesh and ripe curves. <<if $khalika_banquet is "cowboy">>\ Neither of you dresses the moment up. She hooks a heel behind your thigh and pulls you in against the table like this is a corner you both happened to find, and the grin she gives you is the same one she wore when she asked if you'd earned a last hurrah. <<elseif $khalika_banquet is "bastard">>\ She meets your stare while your hand stays between her legs, unashamed of how wet your fingers come away. ''"Well?"'' she says again, lower. ''"You wanted a look. You've got one."'' <<elseif $khalika_banquet is "knight">>\ You don't rush the next touch. Your palm rests on the inside of her thigh, and she lets it, amber eyes on yours in the shifting light, the banquet and the auction still out there and neither of you naming them. No promises. Just this. <</if>>\ \ She settles back on her elbows, bare now except for the gold, hair spilling toward the floor at the table's end, and waits to see what you'll do with the rest of your clothes. <</append>>\ <<remove "#khalika-intimate-stage1">>\ <<replace "#khalika-intimate-prompt">>Khalika's bared before the hearth, her attention resting expectantly upon you.<</replace>>\ <<run $("#khalika-intimate-stage2").show()>>\ <</link>>\ <span class="microbeat-plus" aria-hidden="true">+</span>\ </div>\ </div>\ <div id="khalika-intimate-stage2" class="microbeats no-plates" style="display:none;">\ <div id="mb-khalika-intimate-him" class="microbeat microbeat--reveal">\ <span class="microbeat-icon" aria-hidden="true">\ <svg viewBox="0 0 24 24">\ <path d="M6 6.5h12"/>\ <path d="M8 6.5v11"/>\ <path d="M16 6.5v11"/>\ <path d="M8 11.5h8"/>\ </svg>\ </span>\ <<link "Drop your trousers and give Khalika a proper look.">>\ <<append "#khalika-intimate-beats">>\ \ You don't make her ask twice. Shirt, trousers, the drag of cloth over your hips. You stand at the table's edge with the hearth at your back and the fire painting both of you, freeing yourself where she can see all of it. No hole in the wall or wet stone stealing her eyes. Khalika's gaze drops, open and unsentimental, staying there while you slowly stiffen under the heat of her attention. <<if $khalika_cell_him>>\ She has had her hands, tongue and mouth on you once before. The recognition is in the way she doesn't startle, only tips her head, tusks catching the light as if confirming that the man she finished through a broken cobble is the same man standing in front of her. <<else>>\ This is the first proper look she's had. No gap, no awkward angle, no cock offered through masonry. Just you, hard in the firelight, Khalika taking the measure of it the way she takes the measure of a fight. <</if>>\ \ <<if $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ What hangs in front of her is heavy even before it finishes filling — long, thick, the head darkening as the blood decides this is happening, the shaft already flushed and starting to lift toward her. She watches it swell with that same practical attention she gave you in worse light, and something like appetite moves readily through her face. Her eyes come back up, amber hot and mildly amused, ''"You look even bigger here."'' ''"The hearth's doing you favors, $name."'' <<elseif $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ You don't project like a boast. What you've freed sits close and clean against you, sleek, flushed, thickening in the open air with nothing to hide behind. Khalika's mouth curves. Not a slight. but the same interest she had when she didn't have to hunt for you. ''"There you are,"'' she murmurs. ''"Easier to get a look at you like this."'' Her gaze lingers on the way you fill, on the shine already starting at the tip. ''"Better this time. I won't have to work around a wall to reach you."'' <<else>>\ Enough of you to fill her attention without turning the moment into a measurement. You harden in front of her, honest and heavy, the fire picking out the vein along the underside, a bead of wetness gathering at the head while she watches it happen. She huffs, low and pleased, her knee shifts wider on the wood. ''"Good. Someone's ready and willing."'' <</if>>\ \ She doesn't reach yet. She lets you stand there, looked at and appraised, the abandoned feast glinting around her bare hips, the want in the room only growing more apparent. <</append>>\ <<remove "#khalika-intimate-stage2">>\ <<replace "#khalika-intimate-prompt">>There is very little left to misunderstand between you.<</replace>>\ <<run $("#khalika-intimate-stage3").show()>>\ <</link>>\ <span class="microbeat-plus" aria-hidden="true">+</span>\ </div>\ </div>\ <div id="khalika-intimate-stage3" class="microbeats no-plates" style="display:none;">\ <div id="mb-khalika-intimate-join" class="microbeat microbeat--close">\ <span class="microbeat-icon" aria-hidden="true">\ <svg viewBox="0 0 24 24">\ <path d="M7 5.5c2.8 1.8 4.5 4 5 6.5"/>\ <path d="M17 5.5c-2.8 1.8-4.5 4-5 6.5"/>\ <path d="M6 18.5c2.2-3 4.2-4.5 6-4.5s3.8 1.5 6 4.5"/>\ </svg>\ </span>\ <<link "Join her on the table.">>\ <<set $khalika_closer_intimate = true>>\ <<set $khalika_closer_position = "missionary">>\ <<append "#khalika-intimate-beats">>\ \ You step in between her thighs, Khalika meeting you there. One heel hooks behind your hip; her calloused hands find your shoulders, your arms, and she pulls rather than waiting to be arranged, drawing you into the heat of her until the head of your cock drags along her thin, hot slit and comes away slick. She's wet, open, the table rocking under the shift of her weight. A cup tips, a knife sliding off a plate and clanking against wood. Behind her the hearth pops, orange light moving over her breasts, her lean stomach, the place where you're notched against her. ''"Come on,"'' she says, more of a heated demand than a plea. You push in. The first stretch takes her breath and gives it back as a rough sound against your mouth. Tight, hot, clutching, her body drawing you deeper with a greed that has nothing to do with the nobles somewhere beyond the drapery. You sink until your hips meet hers, the table answering with a dull knock against the stone floor. For a moment you just stay there buried, legs hooked around you, the abandoned feast shivering at her shoulders. Then you move. The rhythm finds itself in the wood. Long strokes at first, the wet sound of you leaving her and coming back, her breasts shifting with each thrust, gold at her throat jumping in the firelight. She rolls her hips up to meet you instead of taking it, fighter's muscle under the softness, and a platter finally gives up and clatters to the floor. Neither of you looks. <<if $khalika_banquet is "cowboy">>\ She laughs once, breathless, when a fork skitters away, and uses the moment to change the angle — heel digging into the small of your back, pulling you in on a stroke you hadn't planned. ''"We're stealing this,"'' she gets out, grinning against your jaw. ''"Might as well steal it properly."'' You don't argue. You fuck her like the hour is borrowed, loose and hungry, her hand fisted in your hair whenever you threaten to get too careful. <<elseif $khalika_banquet is "bastard">>\ She doesn't yield the pace just because you're the one standing. When you drive in harder she drives back, nails at your shoulders, a flash of tusk against your lip that's almost a bite. ''"That all?"'' she manages, and the challenge lands hot. You answer with your hips, and she answers with hers. It stops being a question of who is taking whom and becomes the simpler fact of two people who liked using each other and aren't pretending otherwise, hips locked tight, a full persistent taking. <<elseif $khalika_banquet is "knight">>\ The fire's in her eyes and on the sweat at her throat, and every thrust feels like something you're choosing with the auction still waiting outside the drapes. She holds your gaze, terse even now, unsentimental, but her hand stays at the back of your neck as if letting go would cost her something she hasn't agreed to name. No promises. You don't offer one. You just stay inside her, deep and measured, and she doesn't tell you to stop. <</if>>\ \ Heat stacks readily, her breath fraying. The table has walked a little farther from the hearth from the force of it, dishware reduced to whatever hasn't already jumped, her hair stuck to her cheek, cock soaked with her. You feel her getting close in the clutch around you, and you're not far behind. An intense heat at the root builds, the kind that means a little more of this will finish it. Khalika presses a hand to your chest, not to end anything, just to break the rhythm for a breath. She's flushed, shining, still full of you, one knee hooked high, the other foot braced on the table. The fire paints her in a room that smells of wine, smoke, and now sex. There's still time to change how this ends. Or not. \ <</append>>\ <<remove "#khalika-intimate-stage3">>\ <<remove "#khalika-intimate-prompt">>\ <<run $("#khalika-intimate-complete").show()>>\ <</link>>\ <span class="microbeat-plus" aria-hidden="true">+</span>\ </div>\ </div>\ <div id="khalika-intimate-complete" style="display:none;">\ \ <<if $khalika_banquet is "bastard" || ($khalika_banquet is "knight" && $khalika_cell_approach is "bastard")>>\ \ <<link "Change the position and take the lead.">>\ <<set $khalika_closer_position = "doggy">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_khalika_bastard">>\ <</link>> <<ci bastard adult>> <<link "Stay with her like this and finish inside of her.">>\ <<set $khalika_closer_position = "missionary">>\ <<set $khalika_closer_finish = "inside">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_khalika_finish">>\ <</link>> <<ci adult>> <<link "Stay with her like this, then pull out before you finish.">>\ <<set $khalika_closer_position = "missionary">>\ <<set $khalika_closer_finish = "outside">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_khalika_finish">>\ <</link>> <<ci adult>> <<elseif $khalika_banquet is "cowboy" || ($khalika_banquet is "knight" && $khalika_cell_approach is "cowboy")>>\ \ <<link "Let Khalika turn the tables on you.">>\ <<set $khalika_closer_position = "cowgirl">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_khalika_cowboy">>\ <</link>> <<ci cowboy adult>> <<link "Stay with her like this and finish inside of her.">>\ <<set $khalika_closer_position = "missionary">>\ <<set $khalika_closer_finish = "inside">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_khalika_finish">>\ <</link>> <<ci adult>> <<link "Stay with her like this, then pull out before you finish.">>\ <<set $khalika_closer_position = "missionary">>\ <<set $khalika_closer_finish = "outside">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_khalika_finish">>\ <</link>> <<ci adult>> <<else>>\ \ <<link "Stay with her like this and finish inside of her.">>\ <<set $khalika_closer_position = "missionary">>\ <<set $khalika_closer_finish = "inside">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_khalika_finish">>\ <</link>> <<ci adult>> <<link "Stay with her like this, then pull out before you finish.">>\ <<set $khalika_closer_position = "missionary">>\ <<set $khalika_closer_finish = "outside">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_khalika_finish">>\ <</link>> <<ci adult>> <</if>>\ </div>

/* PAID BUILD ships the <video>. For Public, remove the <video> line and add data-gate="gate_video_dancers" to the wrapper div. */ \ <div class="video-player" data-gate="gate_video_dosmera">> \ <img class="vp-poster" src="images/chp2_khalika_doggy.webp" alt=""> <button class="vp-btn" type="button">▶</button> </div> <<set $khalika_closer_position = "doggy">>\ You don't just stay where you are. Khalika feels the shift in your hands before you have to say it, the grip at her hip changing from holding her open to turning her, going with it instead of staying put. A knee comes up, a ceramic plate that somewhat survived the last bout dying under her palm. She twists on the wood, dark glossy hair swinging, gold at her throat flashing in the hearthlight, getting her hands under her with the same grace she uses to reset in a fight. By the time you've stepped back half a pace, she's on her hands and knees atop the table, back arched, thick plush ass presented to you in the fire, green skin shining with sweat, the red wrap long gone with nothing left between you and the wet gleam of her parted lips. She looks back over her shoulder; curved tusks, wide amber, never yielding. ''"Well?"'' she says. ''"You wanted this."'' You take it, both hands finding her. Wide hips first, then the heavy give of her ass, palms sinking in, fingers digging into the softness over the muscle until the flesh spills between them. You spread her. The hearth paints the cleft, the flushed lips of her pussy, the shine you've already fucked into her. She pushes back into the grip instead of waiting, a deliberate roll of her hips that drags her against the head of your cock and leaves you wetter and warmer than you were. <<if $khalika_banquet is "bastard">>\ You bring one hand off her and bring it back, the smacking landing full across one meaty cheek, a sharp crack in the little, abandoned room. Her flesh jumps and jiggles under your palm, an impressive amount of give considering the muscle. Khalika's breath leaves her in a laugh that is half a snarl. ''"That supposed to impress me?"'' You do it again harder on the other side, watching the handprint rise on green skin. She rocks back into you, offering her ass as though daring you to make it all mean something. <<elseif $khalika_banquet is "knight">>\ The want is the same, hands already full of her, the old edge from the cell still living in how you hold her. Your grip speaks for you; spreading her and never looking away when she looks back. She holds your eyes a moment, then braces and shoves back. <<else>>\ Your fingers stay buried in her plush ass cheeks, spreading her wide, owning the angle without needing to announce it. She answers by setting her knees wider on the wood. <</if>>\ \ <<if $khalika_cell_approach is "bastard">>\ This edge isn't new. The cell already taught you both what it feels like when neither of you pretends to be gentle, and her body remembers it; the way she meets force with force, and the way a challenge only makes her wetter and even more heated. <</if>>\ \ You line yourself up and sink back into her. The angle is immediately different. Deeper in the hips, ruder, her big ass cushioning every thrust as you find a rhythm that uses the table instead of fighting it. She braces on her hands, shoulders set taut, and fucks back onto you in short hungry rolls, the wet sound of it louder now that nothing's between your hips and the plush of her. A cup walks itself off the far edge and breaks, but neither of you bother to turn or break the building rhythm. <<if $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ You don't hilt her on every stroke, but you don't have to. Long, thick drives fill her to a depth that makes her sleek arms lock and her breath catch, your heavy shaft spreading her around you, heavy ass jumping each time you bottom as far as your hot, velvety insides will allow. When you do sink the whole of it, hips flush to the soft give of her, buried to the room — she can only curse into the wood. ''"Too— fuck, too big—"'' It doesn't slow her. It feeds her. She shoves back onto the next one as if the stretch were a bout she intends to win, groaning when you hold her there and grind, pussy clutching the thickness, slick running down onto your balls. You grip her ass harder and give her another, deep and unhurried, the curse turning into a throaty sound of pure participation. <<elseif $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ The position steals some of the depth. You feel it at once, but you refuse the loss. Both of your hands lock onto her waist and haul her back onto you again and again, burying every able inch of you until your hips meet the plush of her thick ass and there's nothing left to give. Sleekness becomes speed, hammering into her fast and close. The sound is filthy, rhythmic, a wet 'plap plap plap' of flesh on flesh every time you yank her back into you. Khalika drops to her elbows, hair in her face, pushing back so that you don't have to chase. ''"There,"'' she gets out, wrecked and pleased. ''"Keep me there. Don't stop."'' You don't. The pace stays mean and tight, her velvety warm pussy taking all of you on every stroke, the clap of your hips against her ass filling the corner the banquet forgot. <<else>>\ The position suits you, allowing her to take all of you without any negotiation. A full, honest hilt every time your hips meet the soft weight of her ass, velvety pussy gripping your length and giving it back slicker, hotter, well-used. You stand there and use her fully, hands sunk into her cheeks, spreading her weight so that you can watch yourself disappear and reappear, firelight catching the wet shine, time and time again. She groans when you settle into that pace, her hips and ass rocking back to meet you so that the next stroke lands just as deep as the last. You melt into the steady, filthy fact of her taking you to the base while the table knocks a slow complaint against the stone. <</if>>\ \ You fuck her like that until the brink is no longer a rumor between you. Her arms shake, ass red where your fingers have been holding, dug into her curves, body pushing pushing back with increasingly less control and more need. The clutch of her has gone tight and fluttering, close enough that each thrust threatens to take her over. You're there with her; heat stacked at the root, balls drawn up, the warning pulse in the shaft that means you're about to spend whether the nobles outside cares or not. The hearth snaps, sweating running the line of her spine and pooling at the small of her back. You're buried in her, or as buried as the angle allows, the next choice the only one left. <<link "Stay buried in her, releasing everything inside.">>\ <<set $khalika_closer_finish = "inside">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_khalika_finish">>\ <</link>> <<ci adult>> <<link "Pull away before the end and paint her ass.">>\ <<set $khalika_closer_finish = "outside">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_khalika_finish">>\ <</link>> <<ci adult>>

/* PAID BUILD ships the <video>. For Public, remove the <video> line and add data-gate="gate_video_dancers" to the wrapper div. */ \ <div class="video-player" data-gate="gate_video_dosmera">> \ <img class="vp-poster" src="images/chp2_khalika_doggy.webp" alt=""> <button class="vp-btn" type="button">▶</button> </div> <<set $khalika_closer_position = "cowgirl">>\ One moment you're buried in her heat at the table's edge. The next, her hands are on your chest with her weight following as she shoves you strong enough to pivot the position and put you on your back atop the table. The wood is a wreck, cups and feast platters going with it. She's right behind you, swinging a knee over your hip, then the other, settling astride you before you're finished finding the grain. Thick thighs bracket you when the plush weight of her ass comes down atop your pelvis, hot and heavy. Your cock, still slick and hard from her, lay trapped between her weight and your stomach until she reaches down and fits you back where you belong. She sinks onto you in one unhurried drop. The hearth is behind her now, firelight in her hair, gold at her throat, amber eyes half-lidded and pleased with herself. She braces a palm on your chest and rolls her hips once atop you, testing the seat, the table below you both answering with a dull knock. ''"There,"'' she murmurs throatily, ''"My turn now."'' <<if $khalika_banquet is "cowboy">>\ You let her have it without putting up a fight, hands already finding her waist, then downward into the heavy spread of her thighs. You grin up at her like this is exactly the kind of theft the hour was for. She smirks back, tusks catching the light as she starts to move as if the banquet outside has already ended, milking every moment left. <<elseif $khalika_banquet is "knight">>\ You let her have it without looking away. The want is the same loose heat, her weight a fact on your hips, but underneath it sits the other thing — the auction still waiting, the sense that this may be the last time you get to be under her. No promises. Your hands stay at her waist. She doesn't ask you to make one. She just rides. <<else>>\ Your hands settle at her hips and stay there, answering the roll of her without trying to take the pace back, intent on milking every moment left to the both of you. <</if>>\ \ <<if $khalika_cell_approach is "cowboy">>\ It feels like the cell, in the only way that close confines could have taught you this: neither of you planning it, both of you finding the angle that works and keeping it. Improvised then. Improvised now. She seems to know it, her smirk saying so. <</if>>\ \ She rides you properly after that. A working rhythm, fighter's balance in the way she stays over you and dominates the scene, strong thighs doing the lifting, ass settling flush to your pelvis every time she comes down. You grip her tight waist and feel the muscle shift under your palms. You reach lower, filling your hands with the thick plush of her ass, spreading her a little as she drops, fingers sinking deeper into green give while she uses you. Her meaty breasts move with it, firelight on sweat, a soft wet sound every time she takes you back to the root. She watches your face when a stroke lands right, filing it away and doing it again. <<if $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ She doesn't have to rise far to feel all of you. The thickness keeps her full even in the shallow roll, stuffed, her pussy stretched around the heavy shaft, a low curse catching in her throat when she settles her weight and you reach her deepest depths. When she does rise; slow, deliberate, the long slick length of you shows between her thighs, shining with her, stiff and obscene in the hearthlight, before she drops back down and takes it all. ''"Fuck— too big—"'' Her throaty groan comes out wrecked, but that doesn't stop her. She rides all the harder for it, grinding when she's seated, chasing the stretch, hands braced on your chest so she can put more of her weight on the hilt. You grip her ass and hold her there for a thrust of your own, the curse breaking into a moan she doesn't bother to hide. <<elseif $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ The angle tries to steal you. Every time she rises you feel the risk of slipping free, sleek length not built for a long withdrawal, yet you refuse it. Your hips drive up to close the gap. Your hands lock on her big ass and haul her down, pressing that plush weight tight to your pelvis so you stay buried. Khalika feels the problem and takes control. She stops lifting so high, grinding down instead in close, mean, tilt circles to keep you completely hilted, rolling her clit against your pelvis while her pussy holds every inch you'll give. ''"Stay in,"'' she groans, half a laugh, half an order, bearing down harder. ''"I've got you."'' You fuck up into her anyway, short and fast, the wet clap of her ass meeting you whenever you meet in the middle. Between the two of you there's no gap left to lose. <<else>>\ She takes all of you on the way down and leaves none of it lonely on the way up. A clean claim, again and again, her pussy gripping the length and giving it back slick, the angle kind enough that you can lie in it and still feel every inch. You grip her hips and let her ride, then reach back to fill your hands with her ass when the rhythm gets greedier, spreading her so the next drop lands flush, hot, and even wetter yet. Khalika groans when you thrust up to meet her, not because she needs the help, but because she likes it. The pace stays hers, every inch of enjoyment shared. Firelight, sweat, the steady filthy sound of her claiming your cock and not getting tired of the claim. <</if>>\ \ You get there together, or near enough that the difference stops mattering. Her rhythm frays into something needier, thighs shaking around your ribs, the clutch of her gone tight and fluttering, ass grinding down as if she means to finish on you whether the table holds or not. You're just as close; heat stacked, balls drawn up, the warning pulse that means the next few strokes will spend you inside her if nobody changes the pace. Your hands are still on her, and she's still on you. The hearth snaps. Somewhere a last piece of silverware gives up, the table shaking, clattering, giving it's own strained groans. She looks down, flushed, wrecked, waiting to see what you'll do with the end. <<link "Keep her on you and finish inside.">>\ <<set $khalika_closer_finish = "inside">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_khalika_finish">>\ <</link>> <<ci adult>> <<link "Tell her you're close and pull out.">>\ <<set $khalika_closer_finish = "outside">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_khalika_finish">>\ <</link>> <<ci adult>>

<<if $khalika_closer_finish is "inside">>\ <<if $khalika_closer_position is "missionary">>\ You stay in her. The warning breaks with her legs locked around your hips and the table knocking stone, and there's nowhere for it to go except deep. She feels you swell and pulls you in harder, heels digging, pussy already clutching like she means to wring it out of you. <<if $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ Your balls draw up tight and heavy, a thick ache at the root, and then you spend like the size of you promised. The first pulse is a hot, copious rope driven against the deepest point you can reach, flooding her so suddenly she curses into your mouth, stuffed, stretched around the shaft while you keep hilting through it. Another follows, and another, heavy spurts pumping into her until the heat of your own seed feeds back around you and the excess has nowhere left to stay but force out and around your length. Balmy white leaks around the thick join of you and runs down the cleft of her ass onto the wooden tabletop, filthy and hot. You grind deeper through it, hips flush, big balls tight against her, giving her the rest of your spend in shorter, meaner pulses until you're finally emptied and still utterly buried in the mess that you've both made of one another. She shakes under you, pussy jumping, squeezing and contracting throughout, milking what it can hold and failing to hold the rest. You stay there, hilted, feeling the warmth tightness of her velvety insides and the slick, obscene wetness between your bodies. <<elseif $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ You cum hard through the pleasure, sharp pulses and a helpless drive of your hips against hers, seed spilling into her in quick, hot bursts while she holds you there through it with her heels. She refuses to let the rhyhm die until you're both done, grinding into you throughout. Your climax takes you fast and completely, a tight clench of pleasure that blanks the room down to her heat and the wet, fleshy sounds of finishing inside. When the last twitch leaves you, you slip free almost at once, sleek length softening spent against her thigh as a thin shine of seed follows you out. It leaks down over her pussy and onto the wooden tabletop. She feels the loss, huffs, wrecked and not unpleased, looking down into the mess that you couldn't keep inside of her once you've gone soft. <<else>>\ You bury yourself and let it happen, a full honest spend against the end of her, pulse after pulse, enough to fill and then some. She takes it with a rough sound against your throat, legs tight, pussy milking each spurt as it lands, the utter heat of it spreading between you as her insides contract, feeling the overflow starting where you still join. When you finally still, you're half-hard inside of her, the excess warm leaking only a little around the shaft. It's enough to leave the outside of her mound and thick thighs sticky as she stays wrapped around you, breathing hard through the aftershocks, unwilling to let you out until the shaking seems to settle between the both of you. <</if>>\ \ She holds you there while it runs out of both of you, breathless. <<elseif $khalika_closer_position is "doggy">>\ You stay buried, making no move to pull out. Both hands locked in the plush of her ass, her back arched, the hearth painting the place you disappear into her. She shoves back onto you at the exact moment it breaks. <<if $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ Your heavy balls draw up and you empty them as deep as the angle allows, copious and hot, the first thick pulse hitting the furthest point of her while her big ass cushions the helpless thrust that follows. She groans, almost a snarl, pushed forward on her hands and then driving back to take the rest, stuffed full of you, cursing when you hilt and hold and keep spending. It floods her, too much of it, overflowing around your thick length. White leaks out around your long, engorged shaft and stripes the glossy green of her, dripping off her split pussy onto the table in fat, obscene drops. You keep giving it until the pulses turn thin and you're still buried in the mess you've made of her, fingers having only sunk deeper into her fat cheeks. She's shaking, pussy contracting, taking all of it, the wet sound of seed and slick louder than the crackle of the nearby hearth. <<elseif $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ You haul her back onto you and cum hard in short, fast pulses, every inch that you can manage buried while you spend into the tight clutch of her velvety insides. She drops to her elbows and takes it, pushing back so that you don't slip, a rough sound leaving her every time another burst lands. It's quick, mean and utterly complete. The moment it ends, you can't help but soften and slip free. Your sleek cock slides out of her, spent, a glossy thread of seed following and breaking against her thick thigh, more of it leaking from her pussy now that nothing's there to hold it. She looks back, flushed, amber eyes on the shine of you without bothering to close her legs. <<else>>\ You hilt her a final time and finish there, a steady spend pumped into her velvety insides while your hips stay flush to the give of her fat ass. She pushes back through it, greedy for the last of each pulse, pussy gripping you in fluttering pulls, and the heat of it fills the join until a little of it starts to leak around your cock and run down her. When you still, you're still inside, half-hard, seed warm and only just escaping in a steady trickle onto the creaking tabletop below. Your hands stay spread on her ass, holding her cheeks as she breathes through it, neither of you ready to separate the mess. <</if>>\ \ Then, the room's nothing but breath and the wet sound of you coming apart. <<elseif $khalika_closer_position is "cowgirl">>\ You don't pull her off. She feels you swell under her and bears down instead of rising, weight settled on your pelvis, thick ass flush to you, and you spend up into her while she grinds to keep the seal. <<if $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ Your big balls draw up tight and the first heavy pulse hits the deepest point of her pussy, then another, copious and thick, flooding her velvety insides while she curses and rides the load anyway. Too big, too much, but she keeps her entire weight seated down atop it, stuffed, grinding down so that you can't slip away halfway through the climax. The excess forces out around your thick, throbbing shaft in hot, white leaking lines that slick her thick thighs and stripe the glossy green of her where your hips meet flush. You grip her ass hard and hold on you through the rest, shorter spurts still pumping into her already full cunt until you're completely drained and she's grinding down into the mess. Khalika rolls her hips once, then twice, slowly feeling how much of you is still inside of her and how much has already escaped, warm and balmy, groaning a sound of wrecked satisfaction as she starts down at you utterly breathless and full of your pleasure. <<elseif $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ You drive up into her and cum hard, sharp pulses, her grind keeping you sealed so the first of it isn't wasted. She takes it with a rough little laugh that breaks into a groan, bearing down, milking the short length for every spurt of hot, balmly seed. The climax hits fast and leaves you shaking and utterly breathless under her. Despite the pleasure and constant contact, it doesn't take you long to soften and slip out from within her almost all at once. Sleek and spent, your seed follows in a thin leak onto your stomach, more of it smearing over her pussy when she settles her weight back down into the mess as though chasing your withdrawal to sustain the contact. She looks at the loss, palms pressing down atop your chest, still satisfied. <<else>>\ She keeps you inside for the entirety of it, rolling through the spend, a full measure pumped up into her while her pussy clutches down on each meaty pulse. You feel every spurt as she continues to grind down atop you, the overflow growing warm between her thick thighs and yours, a glossy leak already starting where you're joined. She stays seated, breathing hard, sweat in the firelight, not in any hurry to climb off what she just took. One hand stays on your chest, the other braced hard on the wooden tabletop as her cum-slick pussy contracts around your spent, half-hard, finished length. <</if>>\ \ For a few breaths, neither of you move. <</if>>\ \ <<elseif $khalika_closer_finish is "outside">>\ <<if $khalika_closer_position is "missionary">>\ You pull out at the last possible moment. The loss of her heat is its own shock. She's still open under you, flushed and wet, before you're suddenly spending across her flesh instead of into her, hips guiding where it lands. <<if $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ Your heavy balls draw up and the first spurt lands high; thick, hot, a long rope over her stomach and the underside of her breasts, balmy white against wet glossy green. The next follows before the first has finished running, heavier, striping her from navel to the gold at her throat, catching in the crease of her thick thigh, painting the meaty mound of her pussy where you just were. You keep stroking it out of yourself. Copious, visceral, spurt after spurt pulsing from the flushed, swollen head until she's completely glazed with it, warm streaks cooling on her skin, a fat pool starting in the line of her stomach. She watches it happen, amber eyes half-lidded with pleasure, chest rising under the mess without wiping any of it away. A last, weak pulse drips onto her mound as you stroke it out until you're finally emptied and she's utterly plastered by your pleasure. <<elseif $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ You cum hard even out of her, sharp pulses striping her lower stomach and the slick lips of her pussy, white on green, hot enough that she hisses. It takes you fast, a tight finish in your fist, seed landing in short bright streaks across the place you pulled out of. Despite the lingering pleasure, you soften almost as fast, sleek length flagging against her thigh as the last weak spill drips rather than shoots, a smaller shine of you smeared over her. She huffs, a smirk in the ruin, although she doesn't seem to find it lacking. <<else>>\ You paint her stomach in steady spurts, hot and honest, enough to glaze the sleek muscle and pool a little in her navel, the contrast of it bright on her skin in the firelight. Another lands lower, across her meaty mound, mixing with how wet she already was. Khalika breathes through it, one calloused hand resting on your hip, and lets you finish on her, watching the last of it pulse out and settle with narrowed amber eyes. When you finally still, she's shining with you, and the table under her is certainly no cleaner for it. <</if>>\ \ She stays open, covered in cum and breathless, while you come down over her. <<elseif $khalika_closer_position is "doggy">>\ You suddenly pull free at the last moment before your climax takes you. One hand stays fisted in the plush of her ass, spreading her, green skin shiny with sweat and her own slick, spending across her fleshy bottom instead of inside of her. <<if $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ Your big balls draw up tight, the first thick rope striping her from the cleft of her ass up the shine of her spine, hot and copious, washed white on dark glossy green. Another follows, heavier, painting her cheeks, dripping onto the meaty pussy you just left, a fat streak that runs and breaks before the next one lands across her lower back. You keep stroking through it in long spurts, too many of them. They land wherver your pleasure wills; the swell of her ass, the small of her back, a rope that reaches her shoulder and slides until you're utterly emptied and she's a complete mess in the hearthlight, seed plastered, pooling and marking slow lines down dark green curves and sleek muscle. She looks back at it, dark hair wet across her face, unable to contain a low, wreckled sound that's far from a complaint. Your fist is still around yourself, hard as though you could go a second round, flushed crown dripping more seed onto her in the messy aftermath. <<elseif $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ You cum hard against her, short sharp pulses striping the curve of her fat ass and the slick lips you just pulled out of, washed white catching on glossy green, hot little streaks that don't travel far, but they don't need to. She glances back to watch it happen, dark hair in her face, her expression pleased and practical in the way she stares. Despite the pleasure, it ends quickly, sleek length beginning to soften in your fist almost at once. The last of your seed drips onto her rather than reaching, a smaller shine across her pussy and the inside of one thigh. She stays still, letting you see what you did. <<else>>\ You paint the plush of her ass in steady spurts, hot streaks over green skin, some of it running down toward her pussy, some of it sitting where your hips were a moment ago. She pushes back once, useless and greedy, and then stills under it, breathing hard as she lets you finish on her presented rear, glossy green curves wet with sweat and seed. When the pulses shorten, you're still close enough that the last of it drips into her cleft. She makes a rough, throaty sound of pleasure, your hand staying spread across her cheek, holding there open despite the mess, white already starting to cool on the heat of her. <</if>>\ \ Seed shines on her, neither of you moving just yet to wipe any of it off. <<elseif $khalika_closer_position is "cowgirl">>\ Your hands tell her what your voice can't quite manage. A grip at her hips, a lift, and she rises off you at the last possible second. <<if $char_cock is "long_thick">>\ Your heavy balls draw up and the first spurt hits the underside of her, thick and hot, then ropes up over her taut stomach and meaty breasts as she stays kneeling over you. Pale, washed white against dark, glossy green. Your seed is copious enoguh to stripe her from the narrow slit of her mound to the pert underside of her breasts. It runs down her stomach and navel, more following, still coming, striping her thick thighs and glazing her exterior. You keep pulsing under her, emptied in long, visceral ropes until the spurts thin to a dribble. She's covered in it, and you are too, cum trickling down to pool at your waist, chest, in the crease where she was sitting on you just moments ago.. She watches it leave you, mouth parted and breathless, amber eyes narrowed with pleasure as she grinds down against the mess as if to feel the proof of your shared act. A last drip dribbles down your flushed cockhead onto her pussy, but she doesn't dare move. <<elseif $char_cock is "short_sleek">>\ You cum hard the moment you're out of her, sharp pulses catching her pussy and the inside of her thick thighs, washed white on glossy green, some of it falling back on your stomach. She stays kneeling over you and watches, a rough laugh breaking. It doesn't last long. You soften under her almost at once, sleek and spent, the last drip smeared between you when she settles her weight back down onto the mess as though chasing the closeness that suddenly slipped away. She looks at your mess, snorting. <<else>>\ You stripe her taut stomach and the crease of her thick thighs in honest spurts, hot enough that she hisses and groans, more than enough to shine on her without drowning the moment. Another thick spurt lands across her mound, mixing with her wet. She stays over you while you finish, palms set hard atop your chest, letting the last of your spend drip and trickle across her dark, glossy green skin. When your hips finally still, her loins are painted, and you're spent under, half-hard in the shared, sticky mess. <</if>>\ \ She doesn't climb off yet; neither of you move, breath wrecked. <</if>>\ <</if>>\ By the time you're finished, heat still clings to the stone alcove, though the fire has settled into a red-orange bed of coals that throws more shadow than light now. The table beneath you looks nothing like it did when Khalika first climbed onto it; cups have rolled against the wall, silverware lies scattered across the floor, and one abandoned plate hangs precariously from the edge as though the slightest touch might finally send it down. Beyond the crimson curtain, the banquet has nearly vanished. There are no longer enough voices to disguise the scrape of furniture being dragged back into place or the hard cadence of boots moving through the hall. Somewhere outside, iron knocks against iron with the unmistakable weight of restraints being gathered. ''"That's probably for us."'' You glance toward the curtain without moving. ''"Probably."'' ''"You always this eager to get back into chains?"'' ''"I was hoping they'd forget."'' A rough laugh leaves her. ''"Optimist."'' Eventually, necessity wins. You separate and begin collecting yourselves from the wreckage of the alcove, finding discarded clothing where it landed and restoring enough order to pass beneath the curtain without advertising exactly how the last few minutes were spent. Khalika's quicker about it than you are; by the time you've finished fastening your trousers, she's upright beside the table, dragging dark hair back from her face and looking irritatingly composed for someone who helped leave half the room in disarray. Her eyes fall upon the tabletop, the floor, and then you. ''"Subtle."'' You follow her gaze across the mess. ''"Could blame the nobles."'' ''"Could."'' Khalika's tusked mouth curls. ''"They wouldn't believe you."'' <<if $khalika_banquet is "cowboy">>\ There's something satisfying about that. No vows were made in this room. No impossible future was negotiated between breaths, and neither of you tried to turn a few stolen minutes into something sturdy enough to survive whatever waits beyond the curtain. You took the time because it existed, because it belonged to you for once, and because soon enough someone with a heavier purse will. ''"Worth it?"'' She asks, seeming to understand the arrangement without explanation. You look at the ruined table. ''"Ask me again when somebody else has to clean this up."'' Her laugh comes easier this time. ''"Idiot."'' <<elseif $khalika_banquet is "bastard">>\ Shortly after, she catches you looking and lifts one brow. ''"What?"'' ''"Thinking."'' ''"Dangerous habit."'' You step closer, enough that the old tension rises again. ''"Thinking I'd do that again."'' Her expression sharpens instantly, amused and approving in equal measure. ''"Then survive the auction."'' ''"That's all?"'' ''"Survive long enough to find me again."'' Her eyes move over you once, openly, before returning to your face. ''"Then we'll see who's still making demands."'' There's no promise in it, exactly. It's more of a challenge, which suits both of you better. <<elseif $khalika_banquet is "knight">>\ For a moment, Khalika says nothing. The easy humor fades from her expression, leaving something quieter behind. Neither of you knows whether this was the beginning of anything or the end of it. The auction may scatter you across Cradle before the day is finished. Another master may put leagues between you. Another arena may one day put bone, stone or iron in your hands and order you to stand on opposite sides of the sand. None of that changes what happened here. Khalika studies you as though testing whether you understand the distinction. ''"Still mean what you said?"'' ''"Yeah."'' She nods once. ''"Good."'' That's all she gives the thought, and somehow it's more than enough. <</if>>\ \ The metallic clatter outside comes again, closer now. Khalika turns toward the curtain. For a few seconds, she stands there with the hearth behind her, broad shoulders outlined in the last warm light, one hand resting near the fold of crimson cloth. The sight fixes itself somewhere in you before you can decide whether you want it to. Then she looks back. ''"We should go."'' ''"Yeah."'' But neither of you moves immediately. Khalika closes the distance first. Her hand catches your forearm in the same hard warrior's grip she gave you before, firm enough to mean something without asking either of you to explain what. You return it. For one brief moment, the banquet, the auction and every pair of waiting chains remain on the other side of the curtain. Her amber eyes hold yours. ''"Don't die, $name."'' A faint smile touches your mouth. ''"You either, Khalika."'' ''"Obviously."'' Khalika pulls the crimson drapery aside and steps back into the dying banquet. [[You follow a heartbeat later, returning to the dying banquet.|chp2_privateaudience_end]]

<<if $pa_raven_approach is "cowboy">>\ ''"I wanted to see what you're like when nobody else is watching."'' A quiet laugh slips from her before she can quite decide whether to suppress it, her eyes closing for half a heartbeat as she tips her head toward the floor. When she looks up again, the smile has changed. It's less carefully placed now, crooked at one corner and carrying the faintest suggestion that she's annoyed with herself for enjoying your answer. ''"That's terribly unfair. Just look where I live."'' Servants drift through the hall collecting evidence of other people's pleasures beneath the gaze of guards standing under House Varro banners. The final guests are still lingering near the exits glance wherever habit, appetite or gossip directs them, more than one set of eyes having passed over the two of you since you began speaking. The courtesan lifts her brows. ''"When, exactly, do you imagine nobody is watching?"'' ''"Fewer people, then."'' ''"Ah."'' Her smile returns. ''"Much more achievable."'' You can't help the faint grin that answers hers. ''"Besides, you looked like you were having more fun than most of them."'' That catches her somewhere between amusement and consideration. Her gaze slips past you toward the remnants of the banquet: wealthy men finishing other men's wine, jeweled women trading whispers on their way toward the doors, servants stooping to retrieve whatever has fallen beneath the tables. You watch her watch them, and for the first time tonight the expression upon her face seems less designed for the benefit of whoever happens to be looking. ''"Did I?"'' ''"You tell me."'' She exhales through her nose, softly amused. ''"Dangerous answer."'' ''"Why?"'' ''"Because now I'm tempted to find out whether you're right."'' <<elseif $pa_raven_approach is "bastard">>\ ''"You."'' the answer comes without ceremony, ''"I wanted you earlier, and I still do."'' For once, you actually manage to interrupt her. The raven-haired courtesan's lips part around whatever clever response had already been waiting there, yet nothing immediately follows. Her dark eyes remain fixed upon yours. Then one corner of her mouth begins to rise, slowly and helplessly, until she turns her face aside and releases a low breath that might almost be a laugh. ''"You really don't like making things difficult for yourself, do you?"'' ''"That sounded pretty simple to me."'' ''"Exactly."'' Her eyes return to you. There's heat in them now, unmistakable and unhidden, but the interesting part is the amusement surrounding it. She seems pleased by the bluntness in spite of herself; perhaps because half the evening has consisted of people dressing hunger in prettier words. ''"Most men in this room would've spent five minutes explaining how captivating they find me without admitting they want the same thing."'' ''"Seems wasteful."'' A smaller smile. ''"They enjoy hearing themselves earn it."'' ''"And you?"'' That makes her brow lift. ''"Do I enjoy hearing them?"'' ''"Do you like being wanted?"'' The question lands more seriously than the one you answered. For a heartbeat, she studies you as though considering how much honesty your frankness has actually purchased. ''"Sometimes."'' No coy smile follows it. Then, almost immediately, she seems to notice the change. ''"There. Look what you've done."'' Her mouth curls again, faintly self-mocking. ''"One vulgar answer and suddenly I'm being sincere. Terrible influence."'' ''"You can recover."'' Her gaze travels over you once, slow enough to make the promise behind those words considerably less reassuring, ''"I intend to. But perhaps not immediately..."'' <<elseif $pa_raven_approach is "knight">>\ ''"You kept looking at me like there was something you weren't saying."'' The teasing expression doesn't vanish. It simply stops moving. The raven-haired courtesan holds your gaze for a long moment, and in that stillness you realize you've finally managed what all your earlier restraint couldn't: you surprised her. ''"Did I?"'' ''"You know you did."'' She looks away. It's the first retreat you've seen from her all evening. Her attention wanders toward the emptying room while one hand settles lightly against her opposite wrist, thumb turning an ornamental bracelet around and around as she considers the nobles disappearing through the distant arches. ''"Careful,"'' she murmurs. ''"That's a troublesome habit."'' ''"What is?"'' ''"Noticing things people haven't offered you."'' A faint smile touches her mouth again, warmer this time. ''"I'd hate to discover you were insufferable as well as observant."'' ''"So I was right."'' ''"I didn't say that either."'' ''"You didn't have to."'' She laughs softly at that, shaking her head. For another moment, she studies you, but it no longer feels quite like the practiced appraisal she gave you beneath Livia's gaze. There's caution in it now. Curiosity too, certainly, but something more deliberate, as though she's deciding whether whatever answer exists behind her eyes should belong to you. ''"You were being looked at all night,"'' she finally says. You glance around the remnants of the hall. ''"Hard not to notice."'' ''"No.''" Her voice softens slightly. ''"I mean really looked at. Measured. Discussed. Touched whenever somebody decided they wanted to. I started wondering whether you could tell the difference between people looking //at// you and people actually seeing you."'' Then, she gives an almost embarrassed little shrug. ''"Which was terribly philosophical of me. I blame the wine."'' <</if>>\ \ The raven-haired woman turns slightly toward the banquet again, though not enough to end the conversation. Without the glass in her hand, without Livia reclining nearby and half a dozen women laughing around her, you become more aware of all the little things that had disappeared beneath the performance earlier: the faint imprint left where one jeweled strap has rested too long against her shoulder; the small exhale she gives when another party of guests finally leaves; the way her posture loosens by fractions whenever nobody important is passing close enough to require her attention. House Varro's silver still clings beautifully to her. For the first time, you wonder how much else does. ''"Most of tonight was decided before you ever walked into this room,"'' she says. You look at her, but she doesn't immediately explain. Instead, her fingertips drift along the edge of the nearby table, tracing an idle path through a faint ring of spilled wine. ''"Where I sat. Who I kept company. Which conversations I was expected to rescue when they became boring. Which important people needed laughing at, and which ones needed flattering enough to believe they were funny in the first place."'' A little crinkle touches her eyes. ''"A demanding profession. Very dangerous. You'd be amazed how many men become violent when confronted with an insufficiently enthusiastic laugh."'' There's humor in the remark, but not enough to hide what sits beneath it. You think back to the way she occupied the space beside Livia earlier. How naturally she moved among wealthier women. How easily she touched when touching entertained them, laughed when laughter kept the mood light, withdrew the moment the Duchess decided. ''"So you were told to bother me?"'' Her smile widens. ''"Bother you?"'' ''"Touch me. Stare at me. Try to get a reaction."'' She finally turns fully toward you. ''"Nobody told me to keep looking after the game was finished."'' No grand confession accompanies it. She simply lets the statement exist between you, her expression still carrying enough amusement to offer both of you somewhere to hide. Naturally, she is the first to take advantage of it. ''"There."'' A quiet sigh, ''"More professional indiscretion."'' ''"You're having a bad night."'' ''"Catastrophic."'' You laugh and so does she. The sound blends strangely well with the final noises of the banquet collapsing around you, two people amused by something that belongs only to them. For just a few breaths, you aren't the gladiator everyone has been examining and she isn't the beautiful woman assigned to make House Varro's evenings pleasant and even more scandulous. Movement near the far doors catches her attention, several guards gathered there now. Earlier they were ornament and precaution, men posted unobtrusively beneath banners while the nobility enjoyed itself. Now, they're watching the room with purpose. One speaks quietly to another. A third looks toward you before turning away again. ''"They're almost ready for you."'' The reminder drops heavily into the warmth between you. When she looks back, the playfulness has returned, but not completely. Something quieter remains beneath it, made more obvious now that you've seen it once. ''"Pity."'' ''"You sound disappointed."'' ''"Don't become arrogant.''" Her eyes narrow with mock severity. ''"I've only just established that you're interesting. I'd prefer a little more evidence before I ruin my reputation."'' ''"How much more?"'' Her eyes drift toward the heavy curtain hanging a few steps away. You've passed a dozen such little spaces during the evening: alcoves carved into the edges of the great hall where cushions, lamps and low couches allow private conversations to exist just barely beyond public view. This one lies mostly abandoned now, its violet curtain half drawn and the candlelight behind it reduced to a faint amber pulse. When her gaze returns, the decision has already been made. ''"We don't have long."'' ''"Then we'd better not waste it."'' A smile spreads slowly across her face. ''"See?"'' she murmurs, stepping toward the curtain. ''"Terrible influence."'' She catches the hanging velvet with two fingers and draws it aside just far enough to reveal the warm darkness beyond. Then she looks back at you. ''"Still curious?"'' <<link "Follow her behind the curtain.">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_raven_alcove">>\ <</link>> <<ci adult>>

The curtain settles behind you with a soft, heavy sigh. What lies beyond it is hardly a room, only one of the shallow alcoves carved into the outer edge of the Audience Court and dressed extravagantly enough to make privacy feel expensive. Velvet hangs across the stone in overlapping folds of violet and deep red, softening the walls and swallowing much of the noise beyond. A narrow couch stretches beneath a scatter of embroidered cushions, while a low table holds the remains of someone else's evening: two empty cups, a bowl of bruised fruit and a little silver lamp burning low. She lets the curtain fall from her fingers and pauses with her back toward you, one hand rising to free a loose strand of black hair caught against the damp skin near her neck. Without the wider hall surrounding her, the silver of her clothing seems less brilliant but no less striking; the close-fitted corset catches the lamplight along its jeweled edges, pale skirt falling around her legs as she turns and finds you already looking. Her mouth curves. ''"Enjoying the view?"'' <<if $pa_raven_approach is "cowboy">>\ ''"I said I wanted to know what you're like when fewer people are watching."'' ''"And?"'' You let your gaze travel over her again, deliberately enough that she notices. ''"So far? About the same. Maybe slightly less well behaved."'' That earns a low laugh. She leans one hip against the table, evidently pleased. ''"Good,"'' she says. ''"I'd hate to disappoint you now."'' <<elseif $pa_raven_approach is "bastard">>\ ''"You already know what I think."'' Her smile widens. ''"Mm. You wanted me."'' She takes that in without embarrassment, letting her eyes drag slowly over you in return before settling upon your face again. ''"At least you're consistent."'' ''"You complaining?"'' ''"Not even slightly."'' <<elseif $pa_raven_approach is "knight">>\ You study her for another moment before answering. ''"You look more comfortable back here."'' ''"I am."'' There's no dramatic confession in the answer. She simply glances around the little alcove, then back at you with a faint, knowing smile. ''"Fewer people to entertain."'' ''"And me?"'' Her brows lift. ''"You came willingly. That makes you considerably easier.''" <</if>>\ \ The alcove's small enough that the distance between you begins to feel artificial almost immediately. She seems to reach the same conclusion, pushing away from the table and crossing toward you with the same easy confidence she carried beneath Livia's gaze, though there's less theater in it now. Her perfume reaches you first, warm flowers and something darker underneath, spiced and softened by wine and heated skin followed by the quiet rustle of her skirt close enough that the silver along her corset touches you. She looks at you, taking her time. ''"You know, I spent a good while wondering what it'd take to get you alone."'' ''"Could've asked."'' ''"Where's the fun in that?"'' Her hand settles against your chest as she speaks, palm warm through the cloth. Unlike earlier, there's no audience waiting for the gesture to become entertaining, and she makes no effort to exaggerate it for anyone else's benefit. Her fingers simply travel upward, brushing the base of your neck and the rough edge of your jaw before drifting back. You catch her wrist lightly, causing her to glance down at your hand, then back up at you. ''"Careful."'' ''"Thought you wanted me curious."'' ''"I do.''" Her smile deepens. ''"Just making sure you're paying attention."'' She slips easily free of your grip, only to catch your wrist in return. With none of the hesitation you might have expected, she guides your hand to the narrow line of her waist and leaves it there, silver cool beneath your palm, her body warm and pliant underneath. Your fingers tighten naturally. <<if $pa_livia_test is "fuckit">>\ ''"Better,"'' she murmurs. You remember your hand in nearly the same place earlier, pulling her against you beneath Livia's amused gaze before she finally stopped your wandering fingers and redirected them with that same infuriating smile. ''"Last time you stopped me."'' Her eyes flick toward your mouth. ''"Different circumstances.''" <<elseif $pa_livia_test is "control">>\ A satisfied little smile appears when you finally take hold of her. ''"You were very committed to making me work for it."'' ''"Maybe I enjoyed watching you try."'' She laughs softly. ''"Cruel man.''" The words carry considerably more approval than complaint. <</if>>\ \ There's nothing uncertain about what happens next. She moves closer because she wants to, the front of her corset finally brushing against you as her other hand comes to rest along your shoulder. Your grip settles more firmly around her waist, feeling the shape of her beneath the stiff silver fabric, and she responds by angling her body into yours until the remaining space becomes little more than warm breath. She studies your face from there, dark eyes moving between your eyes and mouth. ''"You stare a lot.''" ''"You noticed.''" ''"Occupational hazard.''" ''"Still working?"'' That makes her smile. ''"Not right now.''" You lift your free hand to her face, thumb brushing along the warm curve of her cheek before settling near the corner of her mouth. She follows the touch with her eyes for a moment, then looks back at you and tilts her chin upward, the invitation plain as day. You lean in, and she meets you halfway. The first kiss soft and slow only because neither of you has learned the other's rhythm just yet. Her lips are warm and faintly sweet with wine, pressing back almost immediately as her fingers slide around the back of your neck. You draw her closer at the waist, whatever restraint existed between you lasting only long enough to make the second kiss better. She opens to you more readily this time, mouth parting as your bodies settle together. The silver corset is stiff beneath your palm, but everything around it is warm; the softness of her waist where your fingers spread, the press of her pert chest, the heat of her breath when the kiss breaks just long enough for both of you to swallow and inhale. A quiet laugh escapes her against your mouth. ''"What?"'' ''"Nothing.''" ''"You're laughing at me.''" ''"I'm enjoying myself.''" She kisses you again before you can answer, slower now but deeper, one hand still curled behind your neck while the other travels over your shoulder and down your arm as though she finally has time to touch you without anybody else deciding what the gesture is supposed to mean. You answer in kind, your palm sliding along the curve of her waist and hip while the kiss gathers heat naturally instead of rushing toward it. When she pulls away, her lips are darker and her breathing has lost some of its rhythm. She glances toward the couch with dark eyes, then back at you. ''"We don't have much time.''" Your hand remains at her hip. ''"Then stop talking.''" <<link "She catches your wrist and draws you with her toward the couch.">>\ <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_closer_raven_intimate">>\ <</link>> <<ci adult>>

<center><a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText" target="_blank"><img src="images/gladiator_ty.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></a> ''Orphan'' fuels the feast thanks to the ''faith'' and ''fire'' of my Patrons. 🔒 ''This path is locked''. It is exclusive to the ''Patron-only'' version of Orphan. 🔒 Beyond this point, the courtesan stops playing the part the banquet expects of her. The scene opens into expanded dialogue, branching intimacy, and hidden variations — a deeper look into the seductive, dangerous games played behind the curtain. If you'd like to unlock this scene and support the continued evolution of ''Orphan'', you can join the ''Exalted Text'' kült here: <div class="uncut-cta"><a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText?utm_source=orphan_ingame&utm_medium=gate&utm_campaign=banquet_courtesan&utm_content=uncut_button" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Unlock the Courtesan 🖤</a></div> The ''$6 Gladiator Tier'' grants access to every gated scene in ''Orphan'' and helps keep the fire burning beneath this world. More images, more forbidden scenes, and faster updates as the story unfolds. Already a patron? Download the latest Uncut build from Patreon to enjoy this scene in full. [[Return to the banquet.|chp2_privateaudience_exit]]</center>

<<include "Utils—FavorEngine">>\ <<set $auction_presentation = "search">>\ <<run $auction_presentation_target = resolveAuctionPresentationTarget()>>\ The handler's hand falls away from your shoulder, and for once you make no effort to give the crowd what it expects. You simply lift your eyes and look back, studying them. From the rickety block the tiers seem steeper than they did from below, ranks of silk and polished leather rising beneath awnings and battered stone: nobles beneath household colors, lesser gentry crowded shoulder to shoulder, armed retainers standing behind them, scribes hunched over tablets, slavers and factors whispering figures into attentive ears. For most of the last two days, other people have decided when and how to look at you. Inspectors have measured you, crowds have watched you bleed, noblewomen have asked questions as though testing the edge of a purchased blade yet to be fully honed. Now, however briefly, the direction of that attention reverses. Your gaze travels slowly across the tiers, passing over signet rings and jeweled fans, soldiers with folded arms, servants slipping between benches with wine, strangers whose names you'll never learn. Familiar shapes begin to emerge among them: people encountered beneath banquet lamps, people who spoke to you when today's sale was something that could be ignored. And somewhere among all of them, your attention catches. <<if $auction_presentation_target is "novia">>\ Your eyes find Novia before you quite realize that they've been searching for her. She sits among the layered wealth of the tiers without seeming entirely part of it, framed by silk, stone and strangers whose attention remains fixed upon the merchandise below. Hers does too, at first. Then your gaze catches hers and something changes. The scrutiny falls away. For a heartbeat, she's no longer just another prospective buyer weighing you. <<if $pa_novia_impression is "strong">>\ Recognition comes almost at once. Her expression softens before she can quite prevent it, the guarded composure she wears for the rest of the crowd yielding to the smallest curve at the corner of her mouth. It is not enough for anyone beside her to notice. You do. The memory of the banquet seems to narrow the distance between you: words exchanged without an audience, the strange intimacy of having spoken honestly beneath all that silk and ceremony. Out of every face gathered here, hers is suddenly the only one that feels familiar in the way that matters. <<else>>\ For an instant, she looks surprised. Not that you have seen her, but that you were looking for her at all. The surprise passes quickly, replaced by something quieter. Her shoulders ease by a fraction and the severity in her gaze softens into recognition, as though the conversation you shared beneath the banquet lamps has returned to her all at once. It wasn't a promise, perhaps, nor anything so grand. But it was real enough that neither of you mistakes this moment for chance. <</if>>\ \ Neither of you gives the other some grand gesture to feed the watching tiers. She doesn't aise a cup or wave a hand, and you don't smile for her benefit. You simply hold one another's gaze across the distance. Around her, retainers shift and nobles murmur and clerks prepare to put prices to bodies, but she doesn't look away. For a few quiet seconds, the auction becomes something happening around the two of you. Among hundreds of people waiting to decide what becomes of you, you found the one face you wanted to see. <<elseif $auction_presentation_target is "sibylla">>\ Your attention settles on Lady Sibylla. She sits almost motionless among her attendants, pale silks and dark curls rendered strangely still against the movement around her. Cups are lifted, wagers murmured, servants slip between benches, yet she seems untouched by the restless current of the auction. Even now, with your name and measurements being carried through the tiers like the dimensions of some useful object, she watches with the same careful reserve she wore hours before. And with the sight of her, the memory returns. Not the banquet itself so much as the words spoken within it; the weight you placed behind them, and the answer she gave in return. An oath made beneath lamplight is easy enough to remember when the wine is warm and tomorrow still feels distant. Sibylla's hand stills around the stem of her cup when she realizes your gaze has found her. Her chin inclines by the smallest degree, too restrained to resemble greeting and too deliberate to be accidental. The people beside her continue talking without noticing. But you do. There's no smile between you, no reassurance that either of you knows what happens once the bidding begins. Only recognition. You gave her your word, and whatever power anyone in this place might soon purchase over you, that much remains yours to honor or betray. Her eyes hold yours without softness, but not without meaning, and for a few breaths the promise made before feels less like conversation and more like something quietly entered into account. <<elseif $auction_presentation_target is "alesia">>\ She's already watching you. The Countess lounges against the rail of her tier with none of Sibylla's reserve or Novia's careful composure, one arm stretched lazily along the stone as though the entire auction were a private entertainment arranged for her benefit. When your eyes finally reach hers, recognition flashes instantly between you. There is no question what she remembers. Yesterday, she watched you step into violence and come out the other side standing. <<if $chp3_stavrick_outcome is "brutalbastard">>\ What happened with Stavrick had gone beyond simply winning, and both of you know it. She saw the moment restraint gave way and saw what you were willing to do once hurting the man ceased to be merely incidental to defeating him. The memory seems to sharpen her expression now: dark eyes narrowing, the corner of her mouth drawing slowly upward until the smile shows just a little too much tooth. There's nothing uncertain in her reaction. Whatever ugliness others might have found in that display, Alesia found something worth remembering. For a heartbeat, the distance between the block and her tier feels less like separation than invitation. She looks at you as though daring you to pretend you don't understand the appetite behind that smile. But you do, and you like it. <<else>>\ She watched you deliver when violence was demanded of you, and that seems to be enough. Whatever precise shape the contest took, the result was the same. You were tested in front of them and proved dangerous enough to justify the stories. Alesia's approval is immediate and undisguised. Her gaze travels over you once, openly, before returning to your face, the faint curve of her mouth deepening as if she's comparing the man on the auction block to the fighter she watched in the sand. There's satisfaction in it. You made a promise with your posture and your reputation, and when finally given the chance, you proved the threat was real. <</if>>\ \ She lifts her goblet a fraction in something akin to a toast, too deliberate to mistake for anything else. Her brow rises with it, a small, private challenge passed across the tiers. You hold her gaze, no warmth moving between you, no reassurance, no solemn promise. Only recognition: you remember what you did, she remembers how much she enjoyed watching it, and neither of you sees much reason to pretend otherwise. <<else>>\ There are familiar faces among the tiers now, but none arrests you completely. A conversation remembered here, a figure recognized there; fragments of the previous evening scattered through a crowd already returning to business. Your attention continues inward until, almost inevitably, it reaches the woman seated nearest the center of it all. Duchess Livia Varro is already watching you. Courtesans gather around her in bright folds of silk, retainers and household servants arranged with the quiet precision of people accustomed to occupying important space. Others lean toward companions, whisper to stewards, calculate prices. Livia seems to require none of it. She sits with her cup resting loosely in one hand, composed amid the noise, studying the block with the patience of someone who expects the world to reveal its value if she simply waits long enough. Your eyes meet hers, and this time you don't immediately move on. There is nothing private in the exchange. No promise made the night before, no shared confession, no memory of blood that belongs uniquely to the two of you. She is measuring you because that is what she does; strength, judgment, temperament, usefulness, perhaps whatever else an experienced buyer learns to see after enough men have stood where you stand now. So you return the favor. You study the stillness behind the jeweled cup, the people orbiting her without ever quite obscuring her, the confidence of a woman who seems less interested in proving her importance than in watching everyone else behave as though it were already understood. Something in her expression shifts when she realizes you have chosen to hold the gaze. The cup pauses before reaching her lips. Her head tilts by the slightest degree, neither invitation nor approval so much as acknowledgment: an appraiser noticing that the merchandise has begun appraising her in return. You don't smile. Neither does she. For a few measured breaths, the two of you simply take one another's measure across the tiers, each apparently content to let the other wonder what conclusions are being reached. <</if>>\ \ Whatever passes between you lasts only a few breaths. The auction has no patience for private moments. The auctioneer's voice rises again beneath you, dragging names, measurements and accomplishments back into the language of sale, while one of the handlers steps closer as though to remind you that the block isn't only yours. The wider crowd closes around that single familiar face once more: hundreds of eyes, hundreds of appetites, the restless murmur of wealth waiting to be spent on flesh. Still, for that brief interval, they weren't the only ones choosing. The tiers looked at you and wondered what sort of man they might purchase. You looked back and chose, however quietly, whose face among them mattered enough to find before the end. [[Hold the stance and let fate decide.|chp3_auction_theauction]]

<<if $pa_gant_closer_approach is "cowboy">>\ ''"Huh."'' Gant scratches thoughtfully at the stubble along his jaw before glancing across the thinning banquet. A pair of noblemen linger near one of the columns, speaking behind half-raised cups, while a jeweled woman farther beyond them watches the remaining slaves with the idle consideration of someone inspecting horses before the impending market. ''"Fair point."'' Gant snorts. ''"Whole fuckin' room's been sizing us up all night. Suppose it's nice drinking with someone who already knows you're an arsehole. I get that!"'' He nudges the waiting cup another inch toward you. <<elseif $pa_gant_closer_approach is "bastard">>\ Gant's grin remains in place for another heartbeat before subtly changing, the mockery draining out of it until something warmer remains beneath. ''"Brother, eh?"'' He rolls the clay cup between his palms. <<if $pa_gant_response is "exposed_knight">>\ ''"Thought we settled on fuck-brothers."'' You just stare at him. Gant manages to hold the expression for several seconds before a laugh escapes through his nose. ''"What? That's legally binding where I come from."'' The joke passes, but the warmth behind it doesn't quite disappear. <<else>>\ ''"Careful with words like that, mate."'' A faint smirk pulls at his mouth. ''"Man might start thinkin' that you're finally warming up to him."'' <</if>>\ \ He lifts the pitcher and adds another splash to the cup waiting for you. ''"Still."'' His eyes flick briefly toward yours. ''"Could've picked worse family."'' <<elseif $pa_gant_closer_approach is "knight">>\ Gant's expression stills. ''"Yeah... since the beginning, huh?"'' He repeats the words without humor, as though testing their weight. For a moment his attention seems to drift somewhere far beyond Duchess Varro's banquet hall—to the cells, the wagons, the stink of fear and sweat before the arena, and all the strange little moments since captivity began that have already started blurring together into one long stretch. <<if $pa_gant_response is "exposed_knight">>\ His mouth twists faintly. ''"Suppose that's true. Been enslaved, nearly killed, paraded around with our cocks out..."'' He considers the list. ''"Beautiful friendship, really."'' There's no mistaking the fondness beneath it. <<else>>\ ''"Yeah."'' The word is strangely plain coming from him. Gant looks down into his wine and gives a small nod. ''"We have, haven't we?"'' <</if>>\ \ The seriousness threatens to linger, and naturally Gant can't allow that. ''"And after all that, you still haven't learned to stay away from me."'' <</if>>\ \ You take the waiting cup and settle onto the bench beside him. The wine is better than anything you've tasted since your capture; dark and sharp with a sweetness lingering beneath it, the sort of vintage someone in this room might complain about if the harvest had come a week too early. Today, after everything else, it tastes good enough. For a while, neither of you says much. The banquet continues collapsing around you with all the quiet efficiency of a stage being dismantled after the audience has gone home. Servants gather abandoned cups and scrape half-finished meals back onto platters; stained cloth disappears beneath practiced hands; cushions are carried away from benches that had seemed permanent only an hour before. With each departing guest, more of the palace begins to show through the spectacle. Gant watches it all over the rim of his cup. Then, when one of the servants turns away, he reaches beneath the table and quietly produces half a loaf of bread wrapped around two thick slices of cold roast. You look at him, clearing your throat. ''"What?"'' ''"... nothing."'' He tucks the bundle inside his tunic with the satisfaction of a man completing an important piece of business, as though he'll already preparing for after the auction. ''"Planning for breakfast?"'' ''"Planning for whenever some bastard decides feeding us stops bein' fashionable."'' He pats the hidden food once. ''"Could be breakfast. Could be three days from now. Always gotta be prepared, mate. Haven't I taught you anything?"'' You take another drink and watch him settle back beside you. There's a part of Gant that his appetite and crude jokes make easy to overlook. He's spent the afternoon eating like a man intent on avenging every hungry night of his life, but even surrounded by more food than either of you could finish, some quieter instinct had never stopped counting portions or watching doors like a wizened alley dog. Gant enjoys a reprieve when one is offered to him, perhaps better than anyone you've ever known, but he never mistakes one for safety. Your eyes drift toward the far end of the hall, where Varro guards have begun gathering in small groups. ''"Think they'll sell us together?"'' Gant follows your gaze. His answer comes without hesitation. ''"Probably not."'' He drinks before continuing, his attention fixed upon the men waiting near the exits. ''"Different buyers want different things. You killed an ogre, so half these bastards probably think you're some kind of prize stallion.''" His mouth twitches. ''"Me, I've mostly distinguished myself by eating their dinner."'' ''"A remarkable achievement."'' ''"Thank you."'' His humor lingers for another moment before fading into a small shrug. ''"Could get the same ludus. Same household. Could end up opposite ends of Cradle.''" Gant turns his cup slowly between his hands, "''Might end up somewhere neither of us has ever fuckin' heard of. No sense guessing. Just enjoy the ride, mate."'' The words are careless, but the look in his eyes isn't. You've seen that trick often enough to recognize it now. Gant treats uncertainty much the way he treats fear: something unpleasant that becomes marginally easier to swallow once mocked, cursed at, or drowned beneath whatever drink happens to be available. By the time the pitcher runs dry, the hall has emptied considerably. Where nobles once crowded every alcove, armed men have begun taking their place, speaking quietly with stewards as they prepare to gather the remaining slaves. Somewhere behind you, metal shifts against metal—a chain being lifted, then the faint answering clink of another. His eyes remain on the last mouthful of wine in his cup, before he raises it toward you. ''"To not dying yesterday."'' You glance at him. ''"That's the toast?"'' ''"Got us this far."'' There's very little you can argue with in that. Your cups meet with a dull knock, and together you finish what remains. Gant lowers his first. By then the nearest guards are already beginning to move in your direction, their presence slowly reclaiming the space that Duchess Varro's hospitality had allowed you to forget was borrowed. He rolls the empty cup between his palms once. ''"If they split us up—"'' ''"You've said that already."'' Gant turns toward you, brows drawing together. ''"Have I?"'' ''"Before the arena."'' Recognition arrives slowly, followed by a crooked little grin. ''"Huh."'' He looks toward the approaching guards, then back at you. ''"Worked last time."'' Gant plants his hands against his knees and rises as the guards reach the edge of the table. For one final moment, neither of you moves to meet them. The empty pitcher sits between the remains of the feast, stolen breakfast hidden beneath his tunic, the two overturned cups all that remain of the little corner of the banquet you managed to claim. Then, Gant gives you a light thump against the shoulder. ''"Give 'em hell, mate."'' <<link "Face the end of the night together.">> <<goto "chp2_privateaudience_end">> <</link>>

The handlers take you from the block before the applause have completely died. For a while, the auction follows you anyway. Voices bleed through the stone behind you; another burst of laughter, the auctioneer calling for order, the scrape of benches as wealthy men and women begin gathering themselves to leave. Your own sale repeats louder than any of it. Bids thrown across the tiers, numbers climbing, the crack of the gavel and a single name declared above the crowd while your heart beat loud. Then a door shuts, and the spectacle becomes vivid memory alone. The corridors beneath the colosseum churn with the less glamorous business of ownership. Clerks carrying waxed tablets squeeze past chained slaves and sweating handlers. Stewards argue over seals, receipts and lot numbers beneath smoky lamps. Somewhere nearby a man protests that a shipment has been entered beneath the wrong household name; farther down the passage, someone is counting shackles into a wooden crate. Men and women worth fortunes upstairs are reduced here to entries scratched into ledgers, bodies directed through different doors according to whichever hand rose highest. Your handlers eventually deliver you to a narrow holding cell cut into the old stone beneath the arena. There's barely enough room for a low bench, a clay cup and an old iron ring fixed into one wall. The door closes behind you with a sound much smaller than the auctioneer's gavel, but somehow more final now that nobody's looking at you. Slowly at first, you sit. It takes a while for your body and mind to understand that nothing else is required of you, pulse still running more quickly than you'd like, muscles taut after standing beneath the tiers in anticipation. Every distant shout makes some part of you expect another order, another inspection, another pair of hands turning you toward an audience. When you lift the cup, you notice the faint tremor in your fingers and will yourself to calm. The water inside tastes vaguely of clay, but you drink until there is nothing left. Time moves strangely after that. An hour might've passed, perhaps two. The traffic beyond the door slowly thins as the auction winds down and the colosseum empties above you. Boots become less frequent. Voices soften. Somewhere along the corridor a lamp is extinguished, leaving only a thin amber seam beneath your door. What little daylight reaches these depths fades from purple-gray toward black. Without the noise, there's finally room to think about what happened. You were bought. The thought shouldn't be surprising. Everyone told you what the auction meant. Still, knowledge is different when spoken in advance. Now there's a name and household attached to it. A woman whose hand, through voice and coin, silenced everyone else. For all the ceremony surrounding the sale, your life doesn't feel dramatically different while you sit there. Yet somewhere beyond this door, documents have changed hands and decisions are being made that you simply aren't privy to. Where you sleep, who trains you, when you fight next and who may summon you, expectant upon your arrival. Perhaps that's what ownership feels like at first. Not chains tightening, but fewer things belonging to your decision. Eventually, footsteps return, stopping outside your cell. Bone scraps as a key turns it the lock, and the door swings inward beneath the glow of a guard's lamp. He looks different from the handlers who hauled you off the block earlier: cleaner, less hurried, the frantic machinery of the auction apparently finished. His eyes settle upon you. ''"On your feet."'' You rise from the bench, the guard stepping aside, already turning to the corridor. ''"Your owner wants a word before they put you away for the night."'' <<if $auction_winner is "Livia">> [[You follow him into the late evening.|chp3_auction_livia]] <<elseif $auction_winner is "Alesia">> [[You follow him into the late evening.|chp3_auction_alesia]] <<elseif $auction_winner is "Novia">> [[You follow him into the late evening.|chp3_auction_novia]] <<elseif $auction_winner is "Sibylla">> [[You follow him into the late evening.|chp3_auction_sibylla]] <</if>>

<center><a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText" target="_blank"><img src="images/kultist_ty.webp" style="max-width: 100%;"></a> Highrock only affords thick goblin maids thanks to the ''faith'' and ''fire'' of my Patrons. 🔒 ''This path is locked''. 🔒 You can currently experience it in the ''UNCUT'' version of Orphan. Beyond this point, the goblin maid stops minding her station. The scene opens into expanded intimacy, branching variations, and outcomes shaped by your choices and the temperament you've shown. If you'd like to unlock the full, original scene and support the continued evolution of ''Orphan'', you can join the ''Exalted Text'' kült here: <div class="uncut-cta"><a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText?utm_source=orphan_ingame&utm_medium=gate&utm_campaign=goblin_maid&utm_content=uncut_button" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Unlock the Maid 🖤</a></div> The ''$6 Gladiator Tier'' grants access to every gated scene in ''Orphan'' and helps keep the fire burning beneath this world. More images, more forbidden scenes, and faster updates as the story unfolds. Already a patron? Download the latest Uncut build from Patreon to enjoy this scene in full. [[Sometime after the fun...|chp3_goblin_benefits_after]]</center>

She slumps forward against the trunk, sweat dampening the frills of her uniform, thighs slick with a mix of your cum and her own. Her chest heaves, crooked grin tugging weakly at the corners of her mouth even as her body trembles from the pounding you gave her. For all her bravado, she looks well-used, skirt hiked high, hair plastered to her flushed face. You step back, cock still twitching, breath ragged. Satisfaction leaves your limbs heavy, the sharp ache of release dragging you down into a haze of exhaustion. For a moment, the room is quiet save for the creak of the trunk and the drip of sweat onto the floorboards. ''“You know I’ll be keeping an eye on you now,”'' you murmur, amusement curling in your voice. She laughs low, husky, dragging the back of her hand across her mouth as she straightens her apron. ''“If I don’t see you first,”'' she fires back, eyes glinting with mischief even through her weariness. Then, with a sway of her hips that’s half-tease, half-limp, she slips past you and vanishes down the corridor, leaving only the scent of musk and stolen perfume in her wake. [[Back to your patrol.|chp3_nightwatch_servant]]