Post by ThreeDawg on Oct 9, 2014 8:59:00 GMT -5
"Scipia! Scipia! Scipia!"
The crowd chanted, like the drone of bees in harvest they were deafening. Deafening, drowning, thrilling. The heart pumped to the chime of the word bore upon a sea of lips. Faster and faster, a river of blood running within and without, trailing lines across skin that burned with action.
Arms outstretched the man soaked in the roaring crowd, took in their adoration, adored the feel of warm life dripping down his muscles from the cold steel within his hand. The gladius in his firm grip shined bright sunlight across the sandy floor, simultaneously illuminating the cooling scaled corpse of an Argonian at his feet and blinding the crowd in its bloody splendor.
The man, this Scipia as the crowd called his name, arched his back and curled his arms to the sky. With a bloody roar he let his voice match those of the crowds around him, speaking to the stone walls and wooden rafters as much as all those assembled "I am your gladiator! I am your victor!"
With a well practised sword-stroke, the man flicked all but the most stubborn traces of blood from his blade - spattering the hungry sand with the offering of life. He turned, fist still raised to the cry of the crowd, through a metal gate that raised from the stone floor behind him. Down, down into a spiral of stairs to the bloody Underbelly. Blood coated these rough-hewn stairs, the blood of the vanquished left by the victors. The blood left here for him, by him, by those who had slain before and he in turn has felled.
A stout man, his dark colour betraying his Redguard heritage, launched a jingling purse through the air. The Imperial, Scipia, rose a hand to catch the bag in flight. "You fought well, today." The Redguard called out over the din of swords striking metal and the ever present, yet dimmed by the thick stone above, roar of the Arena's crowd. "But don't let it get to your head, their love is fickle and they'd so easily scream the name of your killer as much as your own."
The Imperial gave the Redguard a grim grin, a sight made all the more fearsome by the blood splattered across his features. "So long as they scream my name loudest before I die, I would be a proud corpse. Hopefully a worthy trophy to add to the title of my foe, 'The Scipia Slayer'." With the care of a father to his newborn babe he returned his sword to its sheath, reluctant to release his grip on the weapon that bore his name upon its blade.
"Killer of Wild Dogs, more like." grunted out the Redguard, "Go clean yourself up, you look like you were present at an Ogre birth."
"I didn't know your mother was in town." laughed the Imperial, who quickly backed away to the washroom before the Redguard could bite at his bait. The trough of water lay out before him, the water still clean as his match had been one of the first of the day. His hand extended outwards, the thick Argonian blood leaving tendrils as it dispersed into the clear liquid. His hand came back up, and he begun the long process of cleaning his body, including the leather and plate tunic that protected his torso, of the trophies of battle.
The cleanliness wasn't merely for aesthetics, part of the gladiator's regime was to take pride in his hygiene. After all, even the smallest wound left dirty would fester and kill. He had seen many a Gladiator taken down by a wound they'd left bloody. This time the fight with the Argonian had gone well, while the battle had been long, Scipia had danced his way around the lizard's spear. Two small nicks had broken the skin above his right gauntlet and a thin gash had been carved along his left forearm. Nothing some clean water and rest wouldn't close.
With his cleaned tunic slung over his arm Scipia weaved his way through the training room, eyes lingering on the fresh 'Pit Dog' gladiators that sparred against each other. In times passed the Pit Dogs would've been thrown against each other to die on the sands, either in single combat or elaborate group battles. Now, after the Auralian Reforms death was either accidental or one of the increasingly uncommon '3rd Era-style' death matches. The crowds had lost their bloodlust for death after the Great War, but the occasional show still brought in the crowds that respected the old ways. These were showy events and were an honour to be chosen for, because it shown some appreciation for the skills of the combatants taking part. It was many a Pit Dog's dream of being chosen to kill on the sands. The fame, as fleeting as it was, made you a bar-room name throughout the city. Ale flowed, meat was cheap and women of all races fell on your lap. Or so the Pit Dogs thought. In truth the fame got you only a few discounts, not many friends amongst those who bet against you at least the Septims weren't half bad.
With a grunt the Imperial dropped to the floor on his sleeping mat. One of a dozen spread out on the cold floor in a small side-room. He produced a keychain from his tunic and used it to unlock a short footlocker at the base of his mat. A number of miscellaneous memorabilia and small velvet bags greeted him, each pouch full of small coins that glinted in the torchlight. To the small pile he added his new winnings, a not-so-tiny sum of one thousand three hundred Septims if his counts were accurate. With a smile to himself he grabbed a whetstone from the locker and replaced the lid and the lock, turning back to face the rest of the room. From his pile of armour he pulled free his metal scabbard, followed by his steel sword from that. The art of sharpening ones sword was more than preparing the weapon for combat, after years of work Scipia found that it honed him too. Caught in the pattern of gliding the stone down the edge until it become more than perfect, Scipia could lose himself and prepare his mind too. A keen mind was far more dangerous than a keen blade.
Hours passed by sharpening his sword as Scipia thought upon his next opponent, a Breton Spellsword. He would have gone on for almost another one, but was pulled back to reality by the sound of his name being called.
"Scipia, are you listening?" The Redguard Master stood over him, he was too stealthy for such an old coot, too agile. Scipia hoped he'd still have such a strong aura when he reached that age.
Scipia put the whetstone down, yet kept his blade spread across his lap. The Redguard made to repeat himself, although his words were quiet as the severity of the situation escalated. "Your next fight's been pulled forward, that Khajiit brawl had to be canceled. Legion marched in to their quarters and dragged three off for charges of Thalmor affiliation."
"So I get to be the filler material." Scipia sighed his words out, idly running a finger over the engraved words on his blade.
"You an that Breton. You're set for combat in an hour, get yourself prepared and, oh, a word of advice: Dodge the spell work, this may not be a death match but Mages tend to leave cripples in their wake." Scipia's lips curled into a tight smile at the Redguard's warning. It was no new news to him, but the continued advice from the old Redguard made it seem like he had a soft spot for Scipia. Or he wanted to keep his better gladiators so he didn't have to rely on the fresh blood all the time.
Scipia didn't reply, merely nodding as the Redguard stalked off to see to the Pit Dog's training. It gave Scipia some time to reflect on his training against Mages. They were hard fights, like fighting a warrior with a sword the entire length of the arena. Archers were easy, close the distance and run them through. Mages were archers that could set fire to you as soon as you were in hands reach.
For a good twenty minutes Scipia sat there contemplating the fight, he did this almost every time. Yet spell users called for far more planning. Eventually, as time grew shorter, it came time to don his armour. His leather and plate tunic, so similar to the attire of a Legionnaire yet bareing the tell-tale marks of the Arena, slid comfortably over his head. The straps fastened quickly, tightly, followed by steel gauntlets and boots. Scipia fought without pauldrons, the plate skirting of his armour afforded protection to his more delicate sections yet allowed him great freedom and mobility. It also looked good, which was part of the call of the arena. He wore no helmet. Once dressed, he set out warming his body up for the coming combat. His sword swings were controlled and light, not wanting to tire his muscles with the mock combat. He added a shield to his free arm, and practised with that too. A shield could do wonders against a Mage, cold steel would deflect fire and ice for a limited time.
Scipia's exercises stopped when an Orc came tumbling down the steps from the arena. His body more red than green, he stumbled passed the Arena Master without picking his payment. One hand gripped his side - or what used to be his side, for in its place was a lump of battered flesh that was barely held in place by thick Orcish fingers. The roar of the crowd above silenced the Orc's cries for aid as he fell into the infirmary. It seemed the crowd wasn't sated by the offering of Orc blood.
Scipia rose towards the arena, step after step got his boots muddy with the Orc gladiator's blood. The great wooden door creaked heavily as he pushed against it. The bright sunlight of the Arena suddenly flooded his vision, the noise of the crowds overwhelmed his hearing and the haze of fresh blood in the air assaulted his sense of smell. Sword in hand and shield ready by his side, Scipia approached the grand iron gates that separated him from the sandy arena floor. To the far left of the arena, two men dragged a corpse off the floor. A trail of blood followed closely behind the body and led to a series of deep crimson scars upon the sands, the Orc had truly had a bloody match out here. In the far distance, in the opposite side of the arena, Scipia caught a glimpse of his foe. The Breton was small by his guess, not too muscled and she bore light armour and a short sword - as he'd guessed. The fact she was female didn't put him off at all, in fact it made her all that more dangerous. Combined with her light build, armour and weaponry; the Breton must be a truly great spell caster to have risen so high in the arena. At least this day when she would fall at his feet she would not be as cold as the grave.
The commentator roared over the crowds, magic amplifying his voice to echo over the din of cheers, whoops and whistles. Scipia paid it no mind, eyes firmly locked on the Breton through the bars. Her name must have been called out, for with a waste of Magicka she roared into life fire and ice, that whirled about her waiting area in a show of force. It did not intimidate Scipia, but it surely wowed the crowds. The shout of his name brought him back to the Arena and it echoed around the stands as the crowd carried his name in a chant. With a great crash he brought his sword against his shield, before spreading his arms wide to embrace the crowd. With a flick of his sword he brought it to point at the Breton - an open threat that made the crowd wild with anticipation.
Seconds slid by as hours to the Imperial as he stared down his foe. A sharp grating of metal was his only indication as the gates begun to lower. Suddenly they dropped with the all too familiar sharp crash as the metal hit deep into the arena floor. A roar tore free of his throat as he sprinted out to the cry of the crowd and the blazing afternoon sun. His noise did not falter the Breton, who stepped from her waiting area with whispered words that made her flesh glow white for a short second. The roar did, however, get the crowd roaring with him.
A blur of fire shot across the arena, a ball roughly the size of a house cat crashed not into the flesh it sought but the stone walls below the crowd. With a shriek, a cry and a laugh the crowd shrank back from the splash of heat only to return hungry for more. Scipia had dropped into a roll to avoid the spell work, angling himself left while continuing his sprint towards the Breton. He came to a stop behind one of the four large stone pillars that were sunk into the floor. Time and battle had worked it's toll on the pillars, which had fallen many times just to be raised back up. To spend too long behind the pillar would make him look a coward, but the sense of security and ability to plan that it granted was well worth the the scant few seconds he spent behind it.
Heat wrapped around the pillar in an almost loving embrace. Tendrils of invisible fire sought out the body in the other side and Scipia was forced out of his place of respite. He raised his shield, using it as cover against stream of fire that erupted from the Mage's fingers. It was weak at this distance, but the heat would still burn and singe. Abruptly the heat subsided as the Mage readied another spell and Scipia hazarded a look over the edge of his shield.
Half a distance across the arena the Breton stood, her hair whipping back as she whispered into life another fire spell. Scipia closed the gap quickly, great strides taking him the distance he needed. But the fire gathering within her hands erupted into a stream of molten fury. Scipia raised his shield, but every second the shield bought... The grip beneath his gauntlet became sweaty as heat filled the shield, soon it would become unbearable to hold - the heat already scorched his brow. His right arm swung around, releasing the grip on his steel sword as it swung forward towards the Mage. His arm scorched a little, the hair singed to a crisp. But the fire stopped, and his shield begun to cool. Lowering his shield he continued the sprint, only to find a great sheet of ice blocking his path. The wall was just shoulder height, yet his blade was embedded deeply. The Mage ran on the opposite side, using the ice wall to gain some distance as she prepared yet another spell.
With free hand on the sword and a boot in the wall, he pulled and pushed. A great crack formed in the ice and the sword came free. Yet as Scipia rounded the magical wall, the Mage had finally stopped. She had made it to the opposite side of the arena, and in a great flurry of white wind and ice shards licked around her form. Scipia had little time to react, falling into a sprint straight for the Mage. The Breton released her spell, a whirlwind of ice and snow broke free of her grip. Sand came up with it, creating a shifting wall that raced towards him. The sand hit him first, forcing his head down behind the shield. Like whips it struck his exposed skin, forcing a wince of pain that was obscured from the crowd as the unnatural blizzard fell upon him. His form blurred then disappeared completely as the winds picked up sand and ice. Scipia pushed through the wall of pain, eyes closed and shield close to his head. The blizzard didn't relent, attempting to push him back as sand and shards of ice cut across his skin like highly sharpened razors.
With great effort and a greater shout, the Imperial pushed through the magic. His eyes opened quickly - a painful effort in itself due to the cold that had stolen his body during the blizzard. His legs were slower than he would have liked to respond as he started a final charge at the Mage. Shield ready at his side to deflect the magic, Scipia dug deep into the disturbed sand as he bounded the distance.
White filled his vision, not the cool white of ice but the pure white of the blind. It lasted but a second before his eyes were forced shut, his body fell to its knees as a great hand seemed to force him down. Pain arched through his very being as lightning continuously rocked through his body. A cry of pain broke his lips, the response of the crowd was deafened to his ears by the thunderous crack of the spell that struck him. As if attempting to break free of the spell, his body jerked and spasmed in his prostrated position. The sword fell free of his grasp.
His eyes forced open, looking at the Mage as she continued to pour her all into the spell. She would have looked beautiful in the light had her face not bore a grim grin at the pain she was inflicting upon the Imperial before her. Scipia searched for some way to stop the spell, stop the pain. Some muscle that would respond to his call and free him from the woman's death grip. With a twitch he found just what he was looking for. Swinging his left arm around he managed to release the grip on his shield. Like a saw blade it span from his grip towards the Mage. Scipia's head bowed forward as the ethereal hand upon his body released it's grip. Right hand gripped steel. Left hand pushed against sand. Boots lifted the sore body off the hard ground below.
His eyes met hers, green and bright. Her face was bloodied, a large rent on her cheek had formed and leaked blood across her body. Her body which lay flat against the sand. She scrambled, bleeding her magic across the sands below as the warrior bounded the distance. A boot met her side, sending her spinning onto her back. Scipia was on top of her before she could even think to open her eyes. His left arm moved for her neck, but with her own she managed to stop him dead in his tracks. From her left palm came a dagger of ice, which embedded itself in his side. With a grunt Scipia buried his sword in the sand and gripped her delicate throat with his right. She tried to fight, her left hand returning several times with the dagger of ice. Yet Scipia did not relent, and eventually a great noise sounds across the Arena. Much like an explosion, or a loud popping sound, or a bell. Scipia released his grip and crashed down next to the gasping woman.
To lie on the ground was a show of weakness, but any warrior who had gone against such a foe was allowed even a small respite. His hand moved to his side, and only then did he realise the extent of the damage the Mage had caused. A bloody wound had formed, not one that wouldn't heal but one that would need a trip to the infirmary. The cost of the magic would come straight out of his winnings, but would save him weeks of rest. Yet as he rose from the sands, he could see that every part of exposed skin was nicked, bruised or openly cut. Everything ached, each movement bringing sharp pain and ushering blood from his skin. But he was a gladiator, this was his price for glory and Septim's. He grabbed his sword from the dirt, an act that was made all the more painful by the gash in his side. He raised his arms, specifically the sword, although the act was slow and laboured. No roar tore from his lips, but the crowd picked it up anyway. His arm dropped to the Mage, an invite to help her rise that was left open and not taken. He looked down to her and, for a moment, thought her dead. But the gentle rise and fall of her chest indicated that, fortunately, she had merely slipped into unconsciousness. A peaceful rest that she deserved, that he deserved.
Scipia lowered his sword arm, he didn't grab at his wounded side - too much weakness would lose him the favour of the crowd. But as soon as he made his way down the stairs, as soon as he was out of the crowd's sight, a limp formed and his hand dropped to the gash in his side. His blood dropped, the warmth of his body joining with the arena. Onwards he walked, down again into the bowels of the building where his blood mixed with those of gladiator's passed. Victor's who had felt the touch of cold steel, or in Scipia's case magic. Soon he would find out how the Orc fared from his wounds, soon he would be joining him under a Mage's tender care.
"Gabriel Scipia..." But not quiet yet, it seemed. Scipia looked up, pain mixed with shock before he even saw the voice that used his given name. The common congratulations of the Redguard Arena Master had been replaced with a voice that oozed venom, bore a contempt for those beneath it like an Altmer on high gazing down over Goblins. The voice belonged to a man, a man in full Imperial regalia - the helm and marks of high ranking official at that. However he was a young man, not much unlike Scipia in that he was Imperial and roughly the same age. But the similarities ended there, for this Imperial was of far nobler stock. His very face seemed carved from stone, marble perhaps and chiseled lovingly into sharp features. Too-sharp, thought Scipia. He had only seen features like that...
"Martin Auventus, you served under my father." Martin, as he was called, all but spat the last words out. Scipia knew his father, of course. He had served under him in the Legion, from Hammerfall to Morrowind and the border with Anequina. Scipia would have followed the man to Akavir and back - until he decided he wouldn't anymore. Martin continued, although his chiseled eagle-like features darkened with a hint of disgust, or was it hatred? "You see, Gabriel, the Legion has need of your services once more."
A frown crossed across Scipia's brow. He grunted his displeasure and nodded his head towards the wound on his side. "I'm not quite in the mood for talking." Scipia shoved passed the Legionnaire - using his good shoulder to shove him away.
"I will come back for you Gabriel. The Legion demands your presence." So full of himself, so full of his station. But he was right, when the Legion called... You had to answer, there was no refusing them.
But Martin didn't need reminding of that just yet. "Later. Maybe. Right now, Martin, I'm of no use to anyone." The Legionnaire bristled, raising his voice to start but stopped as Scipia raised a hand. And the gladiator that was Scipia left the Legionnaire that was an echo of past behind - at least for one more night.
Morning light was so beautiful, yet so painful. It was the crack of a new dawn yet Scipia's body pulled away from the tug of consciousness. Few words could describe the aches and pains of the day after battle, but Scipia's mind knew that his body would pull through. It just needed a push towards the light. With a heavy grunt, both arms pushed his body up off the soft bed he found himself on. The healers had taken him to one of the apartments surrounding the arena, this one had been bought out by the Arena Masters and filled with apothecaries, surgeons and magi or priests trained in Restoration magics. Here, on these soft beds, Gladiators who could afford the treatment were cared for and well rested. Scipia was no exception, it would cost half his winnings in Septims but he would heal. Quickly.
Sat up in the bed, Scipia managed a glance at the room he had been put in. The Magi had put him into a trance, a type of comatose state, back at the Arena - it made the efforts of the infirmary team easier. It also made him unaware of what had happened in that time. The room was rather bare, much like one would expect from anything associated with the arena. It was quite small, too, big enough to fit the single occupant bed Scipia found himself on and an adjacent cupboard. The cupboard had a glass front and was full of common poultices, linen bandages and ointments. He felt his side, the source of much of his suffering to find a bandage running across his bare chest from end to end. A large padding covered the wound that was, and his hands came away sticky and smelling of some foul substance meant to aid his recovery.
From his sitting position he could just see out of the window, it had been left slightly ajar. Thin white curtains shifted in the slight morning breeze. The apartment had a brilliant view of the Arena, although like almost every other structure in the city (bar the White-Gold and the Grand Temple of the Eight) the Arena simply dwarfed this one. Great pillars held up arches that, on the other side, bore stands for the adoring crowds. It was a completely different world outside of the Arena, with bright banners and flags that flashed the emblems of the various arena teams or invited passers by in. Scipia had never watched, he wouldn't while he still fought upon the sands. He didn't even know if he'd want to afterwards.
Scipia was alerted by a gentle knock on the door and used the light bedding to cover up his lower half. The knocker didn't wait to be asked to enter as the door slid open a few seconds after the noise. A young woman, her darker skin reflecting the light of morning back at Scipia, stepped through with a small tray of food and a basket of linens. She wore a long burgundy linen dress supported her frame, it was a simple affair and Scipia couldn't help thinking the colour was intended to disguise blood. Her voice was gentle and soft, just the remedy for a morning of aches and pains, "You're finally awake, Scipia. Or should I call you Gabriel?"
The man cringed at the name, although he waved the woman's question away with smile and a gesture of his hand. "Scipia will do just fine." He was shocked by the hoarseness of his voice, his mouth was as dry with disuse as if it had not been used for a week. "Are these bandages your handiwork?" He asked as he eyed up the food upon his lap, shifting into a more sitting position. He didn't wince from the pain in his side, of course, not with company in the room.
"Yes, you had quite the wound. Although the Priest managed to heal it very well, the bandage was simply to keep the ointment in place." She reached around behind him, shifting the hard pillow behind him to support him more. She smelt like lavender and jazbay, a strange mix of sweet and tang. Scipia couldn't complain.
"I usually get asked first before a wan lays her hands on me." He joked, issuing a small smile from the Redguard - although she no doubt heard such day in day out. Scipia's attention went back to the food plate he had been brough, two slices of cold pork and some bread. A wine skin had been delivered too, although the contents smelt nothing of wine and more like a soup of some kind. A delicious soup at that. "My thanks to the cook, it's a shame I won't have company with this meal."
The Redguard took his bait, and looked away shyly - disguising it as checking the linen bandage on his side. Something she had done twice already. "Oh but, you'll have company. It just won't be mine." Her smile was sly, and Scipia was taken aback by it. He had visitors so early in the day? "There's a shirt in the basket, nice and clean. Pants too. I'm sure you can dress yourself now, Scipia."
Scipia grinned, leaning back with a mock shrug. "If I must." The Redguard returned his smile, shaking her head playfully as she left the room. Scipia afforded a laugh to himself, it was a shame he wasn't going to be in the infirmary longer. He decided now was a good time to slip the cloth shirt on, before his visitor arrived. It was soft and fit just right, which was a nice bonus. He took a long drink of the soup, leek and corn with some other seasonal vegetables. It was delicious, not quite a meat broth but getting there. The bread was good too, even if it was hard with age, and the pork accompanied the meal nicely. Overall the food was hearty and filling, and no doubt a carefully chosen meal to aid his recovery. It certainly felt like it was helping.
"I'm not disturbing your meal I hope." Scipia looked up, and couldn't help a frown at the sight of the Legionnaire, Martin, from the day before.
"You don't waste time, do you." Grumbled Scipia, taking another drink of his soup afterwards.
"Of course not, our enemies don't rest and neither should we." 'Our enemies', Martin had said. They weren't Scipia's enemies any longer, he didn't like them but he had left that war behind him long ago. Clearly not long enough, for it's ghost still lingered and this Martin wished to summon it forth. "You don't look like you require more time either Gabriel. I assume you've come to a decision about my offer."
Offer? There had been no offer, merely a veiled demand that he return to duty or otherwise provide some aid to the Legion, to the Empire. "I assumed I had no choice." Scipia admitted, looking Martin straight in the eyes.
The Legionnaire smiled slyly, "You're right." With a cock-sure motion he sat himself down upon Scipia's bed, just beyond where his feet lay. His hand reached over and plucked a chunk from the bread upon Scipia's lap, "The Legion isn't easily refused." then brought it to his mouth. Scipia flared his nose at the act, this type of corrupt battle-weak noble-son was the reason the Legion almost lost the Great aware. Nord's called them Milk-Drinkers. Scipia had called them his commanders. Reluctantly.
Martin continued after he had indulged himself on Scipia's meal. "The Legion requests your aid, a mission of utmost import to the sanctity of the Empire."
Scipia rolled his eyes, he'd heard that line before. "If it was so important you'd be sending the Penitus Oculatus."
Martin laughed a little, then shook his head. "No Scipia, some times the Oculatus are too much for a job. Too easily spotted, too stuck in their firm ways to get jobs done. Some times, a paid hand is better at a job. Especially a paid hand that despises those you act against." Scipia could understand this, often mercenary bands performed better at certain acts than a Legion Cohort. They were paid more, and only after they succeeded. They were also far more inconspicuous, as Martin said. Mercenaries were everywhere.
"But why does the Legion want me?" Scipia thought aloud, turning it into a question for Martin. "Are there not more than enough mercenaries with a grudge against the Dominion? I'm not even a mercenary, my fight is in the arena not the field."
"Gabriel, for some reason the Legion has requested you for this. They believe your intimate knowledge and experience with Anequina would be useful. Combined with your Legion experience and..." The word he spoke next came out viciously, like a ruffian wielding a club in a Riften alleyway, "Healthy... Respect for the Empire. If it were my choice I would leave you here to rot in your self-made grave. However my superiors have asked me to seek out you first, to give you some command over this mission."
"You will be paid, of course. Healthily, more than your Legion commission and more than enough to leave this sandy hole behind. The Legion has already afforded payment for your, delicate, treatment here. Including paying that fine young Yoku to care to your wounds. I wanted an old hag to do it instead." He grinned at his insultive joke, although Scipia more cared for the fact the Legion had paid his due here. A kind act, yet the Legion was rarely so kind without reason: they wanted him up and ready quickly.
"As you hinted, I have no choice. If the pay is as good as you say I could afford lending my aid to the Empire that so, so, desperately needs me." His sarcasm was clear, but even Scipia didn't know the purpose of it, was it that the Empire didn't need but a single man or that the Empire was too far gone to fix? Both, in a sense.
"I won't tell you the details, just know that you report to me. You'll be doing it through a handler, of course. She'll take care of everything you need to know and act as your second throughout. I'll set up a meeting for you, at sunset tonight she will be waiting for you at the docks. Look for a Breton, short, red cape with black backing. Lovely braided hair."
Do I have a choice?
The crowd chanted, like the drone of bees in harvest they were deafening. Deafening, drowning, thrilling. The heart pumped to the chime of the word bore upon a sea of lips. Faster and faster, a river of blood running within and without, trailing lines across skin that burned with action.
Arms outstretched the man soaked in the roaring crowd, took in their adoration, adored the feel of warm life dripping down his muscles from the cold steel within his hand. The gladius in his firm grip shined bright sunlight across the sandy floor, simultaneously illuminating the cooling scaled corpse of an Argonian at his feet and blinding the crowd in its bloody splendor.
The man, this Scipia as the crowd called his name, arched his back and curled his arms to the sky. With a bloody roar he let his voice match those of the crowds around him, speaking to the stone walls and wooden rafters as much as all those assembled "I am your gladiator! I am your victor!"
With a well practised sword-stroke, the man flicked all but the most stubborn traces of blood from his blade - spattering the hungry sand with the offering of life. He turned, fist still raised to the cry of the crowd, through a metal gate that raised from the stone floor behind him. Down, down into a spiral of stairs to the bloody Underbelly. Blood coated these rough-hewn stairs, the blood of the vanquished left by the victors. The blood left here for him, by him, by those who had slain before and he in turn has felled.
A stout man, his dark colour betraying his Redguard heritage, launched a jingling purse through the air. The Imperial, Scipia, rose a hand to catch the bag in flight. "You fought well, today." The Redguard called out over the din of swords striking metal and the ever present, yet dimmed by the thick stone above, roar of the Arena's crowd. "But don't let it get to your head, their love is fickle and they'd so easily scream the name of your killer as much as your own."
The Imperial gave the Redguard a grim grin, a sight made all the more fearsome by the blood splattered across his features. "So long as they scream my name loudest before I die, I would be a proud corpse. Hopefully a worthy trophy to add to the title of my foe, 'The Scipia Slayer'." With the care of a father to his newborn babe he returned his sword to its sheath, reluctant to release his grip on the weapon that bore his name upon its blade.
"Killer of Wild Dogs, more like." grunted out the Redguard, "Go clean yourself up, you look like you were present at an Ogre birth."
"I didn't know your mother was in town." laughed the Imperial, who quickly backed away to the washroom before the Redguard could bite at his bait. The trough of water lay out before him, the water still clean as his match had been one of the first of the day. His hand extended outwards, the thick Argonian blood leaving tendrils as it dispersed into the clear liquid. His hand came back up, and he begun the long process of cleaning his body, including the leather and plate tunic that protected his torso, of the trophies of battle.
The cleanliness wasn't merely for aesthetics, part of the gladiator's regime was to take pride in his hygiene. After all, even the smallest wound left dirty would fester and kill. He had seen many a Gladiator taken down by a wound they'd left bloody. This time the fight with the Argonian had gone well, while the battle had been long, Scipia had danced his way around the lizard's spear. Two small nicks had broken the skin above his right gauntlet and a thin gash had been carved along his left forearm. Nothing some clean water and rest wouldn't close.
With his cleaned tunic slung over his arm Scipia weaved his way through the training room, eyes lingering on the fresh 'Pit Dog' gladiators that sparred against each other. In times passed the Pit Dogs would've been thrown against each other to die on the sands, either in single combat or elaborate group battles. Now, after the Auralian Reforms death was either accidental or one of the increasingly uncommon '3rd Era-style' death matches. The crowds had lost their bloodlust for death after the Great War, but the occasional show still brought in the crowds that respected the old ways. These were showy events and were an honour to be chosen for, because it shown some appreciation for the skills of the combatants taking part. It was many a Pit Dog's dream of being chosen to kill on the sands. The fame, as fleeting as it was, made you a bar-room name throughout the city. Ale flowed, meat was cheap and women of all races fell on your lap. Or so the Pit Dogs thought. In truth the fame got you only a few discounts, not many friends amongst those who bet against you at least the Septims weren't half bad.
With a grunt the Imperial dropped to the floor on his sleeping mat. One of a dozen spread out on the cold floor in a small side-room. He produced a keychain from his tunic and used it to unlock a short footlocker at the base of his mat. A number of miscellaneous memorabilia and small velvet bags greeted him, each pouch full of small coins that glinted in the torchlight. To the small pile he added his new winnings, a not-so-tiny sum of one thousand three hundred Septims if his counts were accurate. With a smile to himself he grabbed a whetstone from the locker and replaced the lid and the lock, turning back to face the rest of the room. From his pile of armour he pulled free his metal scabbard, followed by his steel sword from that. The art of sharpening ones sword was more than preparing the weapon for combat, after years of work Scipia found that it honed him too. Caught in the pattern of gliding the stone down the edge until it become more than perfect, Scipia could lose himself and prepare his mind too. A keen mind was far more dangerous than a keen blade.
Hours passed by sharpening his sword as Scipia thought upon his next opponent, a Breton Spellsword. He would have gone on for almost another one, but was pulled back to reality by the sound of his name being called.
"Scipia, are you listening?" The Redguard Master stood over him, he was too stealthy for such an old coot, too agile. Scipia hoped he'd still have such a strong aura when he reached that age.
Scipia put the whetstone down, yet kept his blade spread across his lap. The Redguard made to repeat himself, although his words were quiet as the severity of the situation escalated. "Your next fight's been pulled forward, that Khajiit brawl had to be canceled. Legion marched in to their quarters and dragged three off for charges of Thalmor affiliation."
"So I get to be the filler material." Scipia sighed his words out, idly running a finger over the engraved words on his blade.
"You an that Breton. You're set for combat in an hour, get yourself prepared and, oh, a word of advice: Dodge the spell work, this may not be a death match but Mages tend to leave cripples in their wake." Scipia's lips curled into a tight smile at the Redguard's warning. It was no new news to him, but the continued advice from the old Redguard made it seem like he had a soft spot for Scipia. Or he wanted to keep his better gladiators so he didn't have to rely on the fresh blood all the time.
Scipia didn't reply, merely nodding as the Redguard stalked off to see to the Pit Dog's training. It gave Scipia some time to reflect on his training against Mages. They were hard fights, like fighting a warrior with a sword the entire length of the arena. Archers were easy, close the distance and run them through. Mages were archers that could set fire to you as soon as you were in hands reach.
For a good twenty minutes Scipia sat there contemplating the fight, he did this almost every time. Yet spell users called for far more planning. Eventually, as time grew shorter, it came time to don his armour. His leather and plate tunic, so similar to the attire of a Legionnaire yet bareing the tell-tale marks of the Arena, slid comfortably over his head. The straps fastened quickly, tightly, followed by steel gauntlets and boots. Scipia fought without pauldrons, the plate skirting of his armour afforded protection to his more delicate sections yet allowed him great freedom and mobility. It also looked good, which was part of the call of the arena. He wore no helmet. Once dressed, he set out warming his body up for the coming combat. His sword swings were controlled and light, not wanting to tire his muscles with the mock combat. He added a shield to his free arm, and practised with that too. A shield could do wonders against a Mage, cold steel would deflect fire and ice for a limited time.
Scipia's exercises stopped when an Orc came tumbling down the steps from the arena. His body more red than green, he stumbled passed the Arena Master without picking his payment. One hand gripped his side - or what used to be his side, for in its place was a lump of battered flesh that was barely held in place by thick Orcish fingers. The roar of the crowd above silenced the Orc's cries for aid as he fell into the infirmary. It seemed the crowd wasn't sated by the offering of Orc blood.
Scipia rose towards the arena, step after step got his boots muddy with the Orc gladiator's blood. The great wooden door creaked heavily as he pushed against it. The bright sunlight of the Arena suddenly flooded his vision, the noise of the crowds overwhelmed his hearing and the haze of fresh blood in the air assaulted his sense of smell. Sword in hand and shield ready by his side, Scipia approached the grand iron gates that separated him from the sandy arena floor. To the far left of the arena, two men dragged a corpse off the floor. A trail of blood followed closely behind the body and led to a series of deep crimson scars upon the sands, the Orc had truly had a bloody match out here. In the far distance, in the opposite side of the arena, Scipia caught a glimpse of his foe. The Breton was small by his guess, not too muscled and she bore light armour and a short sword - as he'd guessed. The fact she was female didn't put him off at all, in fact it made her all that more dangerous. Combined with her light build, armour and weaponry; the Breton must be a truly great spell caster to have risen so high in the arena. At least this day when she would fall at his feet she would not be as cold as the grave.
The commentator roared over the crowds, magic amplifying his voice to echo over the din of cheers, whoops and whistles. Scipia paid it no mind, eyes firmly locked on the Breton through the bars. Her name must have been called out, for with a waste of Magicka she roared into life fire and ice, that whirled about her waiting area in a show of force. It did not intimidate Scipia, but it surely wowed the crowds. The shout of his name brought him back to the Arena and it echoed around the stands as the crowd carried his name in a chant. With a great crash he brought his sword against his shield, before spreading his arms wide to embrace the crowd. With a flick of his sword he brought it to point at the Breton - an open threat that made the crowd wild with anticipation.
Seconds slid by as hours to the Imperial as he stared down his foe. A sharp grating of metal was his only indication as the gates begun to lower. Suddenly they dropped with the all too familiar sharp crash as the metal hit deep into the arena floor. A roar tore free of his throat as he sprinted out to the cry of the crowd and the blazing afternoon sun. His noise did not falter the Breton, who stepped from her waiting area with whispered words that made her flesh glow white for a short second. The roar did, however, get the crowd roaring with him.
A blur of fire shot across the arena, a ball roughly the size of a house cat crashed not into the flesh it sought but the stone walls below the crowd. With a shriek, a cry and a laugh the crowd shrank back from the splash of heat only to return hungry for more. Scipia had dropped into a roll to avoid the spell work, angling himself left while continuing his sprint towards the Breton. He came to a stop behind one of the four large stone pillars that were sunk into the floor. Time and battle had worked it's toll on the pillars, which had fallen many times just to be raised back up. To spend too long behind the pillar would make him look a coward, but the sense of security and ability to plan that it granted was well worth the the scant few seconds he spent behind it.
Heat wrapped around the pillar in an almost loving embrace. Tendrils of invisible fire sought out the body in the other side and Scipia was forced out of his place of respite. He raised his shield, using it as cover against stream of fire that erupted from the Mage's fingers. It was weak at this distance, but the heat would still burn and singe. Abruptly the heat subsided as the Mage readied another spell and Scipia hazarded a look over the edge of his shield.
Half a distance across the arena the Breton stood, her hair whipping back as she whispered into life another fire spell. Scipia closed the gap quickly, great strides taking him the distance he needed. But the fire gathering within her hands erupted into a stream of molten fury. Scipia raised his shield, but every second the shield bought... The grip beneath his gauntlet became sweaty as heat filled the shield, soon it would become unbearable to hold - the heat already scorched his brow. His right arm swung around, releasing the grip on his steel sword as it swung forward towards the Mage. His arm scorched a little, the hair singed to a crisp. But the fire stopped, and his shield begun to cool. Lowering his shield he continued the sprint, only to find a great sheet of ice blocking his path. The wall was just shoulder height, yet his blade was embedded deeply. The Mage ran on the opposite side, using the ice wall to gain some distance as she prepared yet another spell.
With free hand on the sword and a boot in the wall, he pulled and pushed. A great crack formed in the ice and the sword came free. Yet as Scipia rounded the magical wall, the Mage had finally stopped. She had made it to the opposite side of the arena, and in a great flurry of white wind and ice shards licked around her form. Scipia had little time to react, falling into a sprint straight for the Mage. The Breton released her spell, a whirlwind of ice and snow broke free of her grip. Sand came up with it, creating a shifting wall that raced towards him. The sand hit him first, forcing his head down behind the shield. Like whips it struck his exposed skin, forcing a wince of pain that was obscured from the crowd as the unnatural blizzard fell upon him. His form blurred then disappeared completely as the winds picked up sand and ice. Scipia pushed through the wall of pain, eyes closed and shield close to his head. The blizzard didn't relent, attempting to push him back as sand and shards of ice cut across his skin like highly sharpened razors.
With great effort and a greater shout, the Imperial pushed through the magic. His eyes opened quickly - a painful effort in itself due to the cold that had stolen his body during the blizzard. His legs were slower than he would have liked to respond as he started a final charge at the Mage. Shield ready at his side to deflect the magic, Scipia dug deep into the disturbed sand as he bounded the distance.
White filled his vision, not the cool white of ice but the pure white of the blind. It lasted but a second before his eyes were forced shut, his body fell to its knees as a great hand seemed to force him down. Pain arched through his very being as lightning continuously rocked through his body. A cry of pain broke his lips, the response of the crowd was deafened to his ears by the thunderous crack of the spell that struck him. As if attempting to break free of the spell, his body jerked and spasmed in his prostrated position. The sword fell free of his grasp.
His eyes forced open, looking at the Mage as she continued to pour her all into the spell. She would have looked beautiful in the light had her face not bore a grim grin at the pain she was inflicting upon the Imperial before her. Scipia searched for some way to stop the spell, stop the pain. Some muscle that would respond to his call and free him from the woman's death grip. With a twitch he found just what he was looking for. Swinging his left arm around he managed to release the grip on his shield. Like a saw blade it span from his grip towards the Mage. Scipia's head bowed forward as the ethereal hand upon his body released it's grip. Right hand gripped steel. Left hand pushed against sand. Boots lifted the sore body off the hard ground below.
His eyes met hers, green and bright. Her face was bloodied, a large rent on her cheek had formed and leaked blood across her body. Her body which lay flat against the sand. She scrambled, bleeding her magic across the sands below as the warrior bounded the distance. A boot met her side, sending her spinning onto her back. Scipia was on top of her before she could even think to open her eyes. His left arm moved for her neck, but with her own she managed to stop him dead in his tracks. From her left palm came a dagger of ice, which embedded itself in his side. With a grunt Scipia buried his sword in the sand and gripped her delicate throat with his right. She tried to fight, her left hand returning several times with the dagger of ice. Yet Scipia did not relent, and eventually a great noise sounds across the Arena. Much like an explosion, or a loud popping sound, or a bell. Scipia released his grip and crashed down next to the gasping woman.
To lie on the ground was a show of weakness, but any warrior who had gone against such a foe was allowed even a small respite. His hand moved to his side, and only then did he realise the extent of the damage the Mage had caused. A bloody wound had formed, not one that wouldn't heal but one that would need a trip to the infirmary. The cost of the magic would come straight out of his winnings, but would save him weeks of rest. Yet as he rose from the sands, he could see that every part of exposed skin was nicked, bruised or openly cut. Everything ached, each movement bringing sharp pain and ushering blood from his skin. But he was a gladiator, this was his price for glory and Septim's. He grabbed his sword from the dirt, an act that was made all the more painful by the gash in his side. He raised his arms, specifically the sword, although the act was slow and laboured. No roar tore from his lips, but the crowd picked it up anyway. His arm dropped to the Mage, an invite to help her rise that was left open and not taken. He looked down to her and, for a moment, thought her dead. But the gentle rise and fall of her chest indicated that, fortunately, she had merely slipped into unconsciousness. A peaceful rest that she deserved, that he deserved.
Scipia lowered his sword arm, he didn't grab at his wounded side - too much weakness would lose him the favour of the crowd. But as soon as he made his way down the stairs, as soon as he was out of the crowd's sight, a limp formed and his hand dropped to the gash in his side. His blood dropped, the warmth of his body joining with the arena. Onwards he walked, down again into the bowels of the building where his blood mixed with those of gladiator's passed. Victor's who had felt the touch of cold steel, or in Scipia's case magic. Soon he would find out how the Orc fared from his wounds, soon he would be joining him under a Mage's tender care.
"Gabriel Scipia..." But not quiet yet, it seemed. Scipia looked up, pain mixed with shock before he even saw the voice that used his given name. The common congratulations of the Redguard Arena Master had been replaced with a voice that oozed venom, bore a contempt for those beneath it like an Altmer on high gazing down over Goblins. The voice belonged to a man, a man in full Imperial regalia - the helm and marks of high ranking official at that. However he was a young man, not much unlike Scipia in that he was Imperial and roughly the same age. But the similarities ended there, for this Imperial was of far nobler stock. His very face seemed carved from stone, marble perhaps and chiseled lovingly into sharp features. Too-sharp, thought Scipia. He had only seen features like that...
"Martin Auventus, you served under my father." Martin, as he was called, all but spat the last words out. Scipia knew his father, of course. He had served under him in the Legion, from Hammerfall to Morrowind and the border with Anequina. Scipia would have followed the man to Akavir and back - until he decided he wouldn't anymore. Martin continued, although his chiseled eagle-like features darkened with a hint of disgust, or was it hatred? "You see, Gabriel, the Legion has need of your services once more."
A frown crossed across Scipia's brow. He grunted his displeasure and nodded his head towards the wound on his side. "I'm not quite in the mood for talking." Scipia shoved passed the Legionnaire - using his good shoulder to shove him away.
"I will come back for you Gabriel. The Legion demands your presence." So full of himself, so full of his station. But he was right, when the Legion called... You had to answer, there was no refusing them.
But Martin didn't need reminding of that just yet. "Later. Maybe. Right now, Martin, I'm of no use to anyone." The Legionnaire bristled, raising his voice to start but stopped as Scipia raised a hand. And the gladiator that was Scipia left the Legionnaire that was an echo of past behind - at least for one more night.
Morning light was so beautiful, yet so painful. It was the crack of a new dawn yet Scipia's body pulled away from the tug of consciousness. Few words could describe the aches and pains of the day after battle, but Scipia's mind knew that his body would pull through. It just needed a push towards the light. With a heavy grunt, both arms pushed his body up off the soft bed he found himself on. The healers had taken him to one of the apartments surrounding the arena, this one had been bought out by the Arena Masters and filled with apothecaries, surgeons and magi or priests trained in Restoration magics. Here, on these soft beds, Gladiators who could afford the treatment were cared for and well rested. Scipia was no exception, it would cost half his winnings in Septims but he would heal. Quickly.
Sat up in the bed, Scipia managed a glance at the room he had been put in. The Magi had put him into a trance, a type of comatose state, back at the Arena - it made the efforts of the infirmary team easier. It also made him unaware of what had happened in that time. The room was rather bare, much like one would expect from anything associated with the arena. It was quite small, too, big enough to fit the single occupant bed Scipia found himself on and an adjacent cupboard. The cupboard had a glass front and was full of common poultices, linen bandages and ointments. He felt his side, the source of much of his suffering to find a bandage running across his bare chest from end to end. A large padding covered the wound that was, and his hands came away sticky and smelling of some foul substance meant to aid his recovery.
From his sitting position he could just see out of the window, it had been left slightly ajar. Thin white curtains shifted in the slight morning breeze. The apartment had a brilliant view of the Arena, although like almost every other structure in the city (bar the White-Gold and the Grand Temple of the Eight) the Arena simply dwarfed this one. Great pillars held up arches that, on the other side, bore stands for the adoring crowds. It was a completely different world outside of the Arena, with bright banners and flags that flashed the emblems of the various arena teams or invited passers by in. Scipia had never watched, he wouldn't while he still fought upon the sands. He didn't even know if he'd want to afterwards.
Scipia was alerted by a gentle knock on the door and used the light bedding to cover up his lower half. The knocker didn't wait to be asked to enter as the door slid open a few seconds after the noise. A young woman, her darker skin reflecting the light of morning back at Scipia, stepped through with a small tray of food and a basket of linens. She wore a long burgundy linen dress supported her frame, it was a simple affair and Scipia couldn't help thinking the colour was intended to disguise blood. Her voice was gentle and soft, just the remedy for a morning of aches and pains, "You're finally awake, Scipia. Or should I call you Gabriel?"
The man cringed at the name, although he waved the woman's question away with smile and a gesture of his hand. "Scipia will do just fine." He was shocked by the hoarseness of his voice, his mouth was as dry with disuse as if it had not been used for a week. "Are these bandages your handiwork?" He asked as he eyed up the food upon his lap, shifting into a more sitting position. He didn't wince from the pain in his side, of course, not with company in the room.
"Yes, you had quite the wound. Although the Priest managed to heal it very well, the bandage was simply to keep the ointment in place." She reached around behind him, shifting the hard pillow behind him to support him more. She smelt like lavender and jazbay, a strange mix of sweet and tang. Scipia couldn't complain.
"I usually get asked first before a wan lays her hands on me." He joked, issuing a small smile from the Redguard - although she no doubt heard such day in day out. Scipia's attention went back to the food plate he had been brough, two slices of cold pork and some bread. A wine skin had been delivered too, although the contents smelt nothing of wine and more like a soup of some kind. A delicious soup at that. "My thanks to the cook, it's a shame I won't have company with this meal."
The Redguard took his bait, and looked away shyly - disguising it as checking the linen bandage on his side. Something she had done twice already. "Oh but, you'll have company. It just won't be mine." Her smile was sly, and Scipia was taken aback by it. He had visitors so early in the day? "There's a shirt in the basket, nice and clean. Pants too. I'm sure you can dress yourself now, Scipia."
Scipia grinned, leaning back with a mock shrug. "If I must." The Redguard returned his smile, shaking her head playfully as she left the room. Scipia afforded a laugh to himself, it was a shame he wasn't going to be in the infirmary longer. He decided now was a good time to slip the cloth shirt on, before his visitor arrived. It was soft and fit just right, which was a nice bonus. He took a long drink of the soup, leek and corn with some other seasonal vegetables. It was delicious, not quite a meat broth but getting there. The bread was good too, even if it was hard with age, and the pork accompanied the meal nicely. Overall the food was hearty and filling, and no doubt a carefully chosen meal to aid his recovery. It certainly felt like it was helping.
"I'm not disturbing your meal I hope." Scipia looked up, and couldn't help a frown at the sight of the Legionnaire, Martin, from the day before.
"You don't waste time, do you." Grumbled Scipia, taking another drink of his soup afterwards.
"Of course not, our enemies don't rest and neither should we." 'Our enemies', Martin had said. They weren't Scipia's enemies any longer, he didn't like them but he had left that war behind him long ago. Clearly not long enough, for it's ghost still lingered and this Martin wished to summon it forth. "You don't look like you require more time either Gabriel. I assume you've come to a decision about my offer."
Offer? There had been no offer, merely a veiled demand that he return to duty or otherwise provide some aid to the Legion, to the Empire. "I assumed I had no choice." Scipia admitted, looking Martin straight in the eyes.
The Legionnaire smiled slyly, "You're right." With a cock-sure motion he sat himself down upon Scipia's bed, just beyond where his feet lay. His hand reached over and plucked a chunk from the bread upon Scipia's lap, "The Legion isn't easily refused." then brought it to his mouth. Scipia flared his nose at the act, this type of corrupt battle-weak noble-son was the reason the Legion almost lost the Great aware. Nord's called them Milk-Drinkers. Scipia had called them his commanders. Reluctantly.
Martin continued after he had indulged himself on Scipia's meal. "The Legion requests your aid, a mission of utmost import to the sanctity of the Empire."
Scipia rolled his eyes, he'd heard that line before. "If it was so important you'd be sending the Penitus Oculatus."
Martin laughed a little, then shook his head. "No Scipia, some times the Oculatus are too much for a job. Too easily spotted, too stuck in their firm ways to get jobs done. Some times, a paid hand is better at a job. Especially a paid hand that despises those you act against." Scipia could understand this, often mercenary bands performed better at certain acts than a Legion Cohort. They were paid more, and only after they succeeded. They were also far more inconspicuous, as Martin said. Mercenaries were everywhere.
"But why does the Legion want me?" Scipia thought aloud, turning it into a question for Martin. "Are there not more than enough mercenaries with a grudge against the Dominion? I'm not even a mercenary, my fight is in the arena not the field."
"Gabriel, for some reason the Legion has requested you for this. They believe your intimate knowledge and experience with Anequina would be useful. Combined with your Legion experience and..." The word he spoke next came out viciously, like a ruffian wielding a club in a Riften alleyway, "Healthy... Respect for the Empire. If it were my choice I would leave you here to rot in your self-made grave. However my superiors have asked me to seek out you first, to give you some command over this mission."
"You will be paid, of course. Healthily, more than your Legion commission and more than enough to leave this sandy hole behind. The Legion has already afforded payment for your, delicate, treatment here. Including paying that fine young Yoku to care to your wounds. I wanted an old hag to do it instead." He grinned at his insultive joke, although Scipia more cared for the fact the Legion had paid his due here. A kind act, yet the Legion was rarely so kind without reason: they wanted him up and ready quickly.
"As you hinted, I have no choice. If the pay is as good as you say I could afford lending my aid to the Empire that so, so, desperately needs me." His sarcasm was clear, but even Scipia didn't know the purpose of it, was it that the Empire didn't need but a single man or that the Empire was too far gone to fix? Both, in a sense.
"I won't tell you the details, just know that you report to me. You'll be doing it through a handler, of course. She'll take care of everything you need to know and act as your second throughout. I'll set up a meeting for you, at sunset tonight she will be waiting for you at the docks. Look for a Breton, short, red cape with black backing. Lovely braided hair."
Do I have a choice?
