With several fights underway in the various arenas, those watching note that there are several entertainers tacking up new fliers around the bar and stands.


In a repeat of the last time, a corner of the bar is taken over by a pair of brightly dressed women taking signups and handing out fliers with more information. And, in one of the lesser used arenas it's obvious that the necessary construction work has begun. This time the display of exotic creatures to be used in the upcoming events is even larger and more impressive.

Up in the stands a man who had been lounging with his back against a large canvas sack that took up the seat behind his leaned forward to stare at the hordes of vermin in the arena below.  It was the first time he'd moved since an hour before the match, though a few snores had escaped from under the wide hat of lacquered straw tipped over his face.  He wore a high collared robe of dark blue silk brocade chased with whorling arabesques of yellow, white and lighter blue calligraphy that resembled knotwork.  But the fine garment was obscured in a layer of trail dust, and charred little plugs of flayleaf littered the floor around him.  With his exotic dress and dapper dreadlocks threaded through rings of metal, wood and glass the man looked like another of the hundreds of travelers who flocked to the City every year, younger sons of minor human nobles from faraway lands no one had ever heard of who went straight from the gate to the Arena to make wastrels of themselves at its betting windows and bars.  Eventually, through bravado or poverty, many would make themselves fodder for its bloodsports.

   The man rubbed sleep from his eyes and squinted again at the gob and its swarm of bugs.  He muttered jealously, "How the Pit does he train them?!  Mine never do that."   He swigged from a flask, then lurched to his feet and shouldered the pack.  "Come on, let's go get signed up.  Maybe we'll find out. No one answered or followed, but as he padded down the steps he laughed and said, "Doubtful.  But they resurrect you for free after, so.  Something to look forward to."
This message was last edited by the player at 01:09, Sun 09 Nov 2014.

Commoner #136: "Did that druid just turn into a dragon and body slam the wizard?"

Commoner #135: "Yeah, not a dragon but some sort of bat-bird...thing. And yeah...I think he just did."

Commoner #136: "..."

Commoner #136: "I love this place."

*two spectators bang mugs of ale together and drink in celebration and cheer for the stone-skinned druid*

The arena was alive and well and the matches were getting ever less predictable. Something the wardens kept a careful eye on. As long as none of the gladiators become too popular or too powerful, the wheels of the great arena would keep turning and the competition for the powerful artifact of the arena would continue to circle around endlessly...just as the Gladiator King foretold...
This message was last edited by the GM at 06:16, Fri 30 Jan 2015.

Maelstrom finally walked out of the bathroom to the deafening roar of the crowd. As he walked down the hallway the roar of the crowd stirred his curiosity. He slid in between a couple of commoners and peered into the arena just in time to see Josep fall from Lispro’s mouth. From what Maelstrom could tell it was an incredible fight. They both fought well. He nodded in respect. Then the irony of the situation fell upon him. “Do you mean the ice wizard couldn’t beat the dinosaur?” Maelstrom barked a laugh and continued to walk down the hallway.

Latro watches calmly from the shadows, observing more than anything. He was not ready to return to the arena. Not just yet. but soon he would make his comeback and strike at Hiro with all his power. The belt would be his one way or another.

The crowd gawked as they watched the poor rogue, last of his small squad left, get mauled to death by the giant orcish barbarian. The crazed warrior had survived lava baths and monstrous behemoths in the arena, so the bets had been in his favor against three new gladiators. Not that it made the victory any less gruesome. Some cheered in hearty blood-lust while the rest simply winced at the horrific sight. Sure, the arena's regenerative field made competitors temporarily immortal while inside the barriers, but that didn't make it hurt any less...

As the bodies slowly regenerate and are hauled off by the cleaning crew, the crowd gives Ugrim a cheer. A long-time veteran, but rarely a victor. Everybody loves an underdog...

Ugrim raises his arms and accepts the cheering of the crowd. Looking to the Guild Master Box, Ugrim gives a nod and departs the arena with little more celebration.

Meanwhile within the Guild Master Box, Latro sits alone, observing the fights at hand and taking note of his lackeys accomplishments. Madam Opal was being too ambitions, challenging Hiro like that. Even with the help of two other magic users, it was almost certain that she, like the rest of them would fall within moments.

But perhaps, just perhaps, the orc would prove to be Hiro's undoing. With his might, the belt very well could be, at the very least, in the possession of Shadow's Caress and at this point, that was good enough. Latro motioned to Ugrim as he celebrated his hardly worthy victory. Ugrim gave a nod and departed.

"Let us see how you fair against my Orc then, Hiro. Your power may be great, but will it stand to the full might of Ugrim Lavabathed? My fingers tingle with excitement just thinking about it."

Latro's eyes widened as he watched the Match between Hiro and the three spellcasters turn in their favor. hiro was suddenly brought down by the Ice' Mage's powerful rays, an experience he himself had felt. Latro almost felt sorry for the monk but but compassion had no place in his darkened heart.

Grabbing his scythe from the wall, Latro marched from the Guildmaster's booth before Hiro cold make it back. It was time to seek new opponents.
This message was last updated by the player at 03:58, Tue 10 Mar 2015.

The crowd cheered, the crowd booed, the crowd roared so loud it could be heard with thunderous echoes across the city. The champion had been bested in a 3v1 match. Though not an official championship match, watching the champion get bested threw the crowd into a frenzy.

Hiro haters and Hiro lovers throwing food and drink at each other. Soon the crowd began rioting with actual blows and weapons and the arena guards and wards were soon corralling the crowd out of the stands. The riot was short and easily dispatched, but for nearly an hour the arena saw chaos outside of the ring...

For a brief moment the gladiators could see where their power truly lies...in the eyes of their audience...their people...their worshipers...
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:14, Tue 10 Mar 2015.

Kazan entered on the sidelines. He was still dizzy from his last match, hungry, thirsty, tired and all in all just just a tad irritable.

When he came up, he saw all the confusion and the riot coming for the spectators and sighed heavily.

He went to get something to eat and drink, to cheer himself up. When coming back with his plates a flying boot came in his direction a knocked his platter off his hands, spilling it all on himself.

Kazan sighed again. The arena life would not be as glamorous as he had hoped. At least almost no one recognized him yet, since all the attention was on Hiro's match. He went back to get himself some food and drink, sat in the quietest plate he could find and got ready to enjoy his meal.

The bulletin board had become so crowded with useless fliers that the call to arms present by Latro had been obscured by the filth.

Grasping at foolish posters like "Buy 3 flagons, get your 4th free" and "Discount dragon eggs," Latro shred through the monotony of advertisements until his own flier of his guild was once more present upon the wall.

Shadow's Caress is now recruiting all practitioners of darkness and chaos into it's ranks to take the Arena by storm. Any and all who bask in the unholy light of dark forces or who toss the lawmaker's rules to the wind are invited to take up ranks with us.
MONKS NEED NOT APPLY! EVER!!!!
If your hunger for the downfall of all good and lawful knows no bounds, or you simply love killing things, and let be real, that's why your in the arena in the first place, speak with your local conduit of darkness, Latro Dectus, about becoming a harbinger of evil and/or chaos.

OOC: If you'd like to join my guild and do some cool guild like things, just tell the GM's in your next sheet work request. Dues to join are 100 gp x your HD or 1 hero point and you must also be of the Neutral Evil, Chaotic Neutral, or Chaotic Evil alignment type. You can even change your alignment type at no cost upon joining if your alignment does not fall in that frame. Hope to see all you antiheros soon! :D

 Josep returned to the sidelines, a little bruised from the punch Hiro had launched him. He ordered the strongest spirit available and brought it to satisfying temperature (well below 0) with a simple cantrip before sipping from the ice-rimmed cup.

 Busy as the place was, he found a quiet table with room to stretch his legs. Since his last few fights, the wizard had a tendency to create a vacuum around him, a satisfying perk.

 He wished he had taken time to share a drink with Lispro and Madam Opal, but the two had previous engagements...

 He was just in time to watch the juggernaut fight of Ugrim Lava-bathed... was the legendary barbarian over his head? Probably. Soon they would have one thing in common ; hatred for the magi. Mixing swordsmanship and the One art, how dared they?

Krumm was furious.

Not only had to failed to secure a victory, but he was thoroughly humiliated in the Arena by Haran Madar. He was still not strong enough, fast enough, or clever enough to win. Even with the glorious powers of his blood, he has yet to prove worthy. But he was not ready to give in.

He took to the sidelines to observe the other fighters in their duels in order to learn how to best combat them. He watched keenly and remained quietly as he done so, as his boisterousness only seems to have gotten him killed.

The crowd roars as the druidic dinosaur chomps down on his final victim.

Meanwhile the new bloods could walk in while seeing all the chaos and bloodshed in the ring.

Several more battle royals were scheduled that day and all promised not to disappoint...

Edward emerges from the arena, having changed out of his armor into some very stylish, and also expensive, clothes.  His first battle had been a great success!  The barbarian's tactic had been unexpected, but ultimately futile, as the tactics of unthinking brutes generally were.

He sat down to watch the matches currently in progress, wondering who he would fight next.

Chicchuan steps onto the sidelines, very clearly in a foul mood after being so thoroughly humiliated in his first ever appearance in the arena. He stands for a time, muttering angrily to himself as he looks for a place to sit. Despite not being in combat, the Lizardman still bears his armor, although his sword and shield are noticeably absent.

The gladiators in the sidelines, bruised, burnt and beaten, can hear the cheers of the crowd as more gladiators face a brutal fate. Though their wounds healed gradually with the magic of the sidelines granting a speedy recovery to all who rest within its borders, the shame of defeat or ambitious sting of second place could not mend.

It was clear the arena was full of surprises and that more than brute strength or raw magic power was needed to snatch victory from it.

 After his Battle Royale was properly finished --meaning everyone was reduced to a frozen statue of themselves-- Josep headed back to the Sidelines. Once again, it was not hard finding a comfortable spot. He wondered whether the boys from Shadow's Caress would show up that night...

 Instead Lispro appeared --the only gladiator who could claim to have tamed the ice wizard so far.
 Surprisingly, Josep seemed to hold no grudge. Quite the contrary, he welcomed him to his table and the two of them spent a long time talking, Josep sipping colder and colder beverages until he was just crunching ice. After a while, one could overhear at their table:
"The Thaumaturgical Alliance... I like it. We'll need to discuss details, but you can count me in.
 We should talk to the other magic-users... I'm thinking Haran... Krumm...
 And then there's the question of Magi... as much as I hate the style, I see no legitimate reason to refuse them entry...
 What about alchemists though?" he eyed the armoured half-orc at the bar. "I think he'd be good material, but does alchemy qualify as magic?"

 He ordered some more frozen vodka, looked around and told the druid:
"I'm telling you, I was growing tired with those Shadow's Caress nimrods... we should shut them up for good, in the Arena."

"Careful what you say, ice mage." Opal says from across the way, hiding in the shadows with Svog by her side. "You never know who could be listening."

She cackles maniacally as she seeps into the shadows, her familiar, Svog, hissing at Josep and lispro as it follows.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:06, Sun 26 Apr 2015.

Lispro enters the sidelines with ease. Not that his muscular frame couldn't push the crowd, but such brute force is simply not needed. The combination of his stern demeanor, fearsome size, and the recent carnage he inflicted in the Battle Royale serves to part the crowd in front him without any effort.

For his part, he ignores the faceless mass. They scream and chant, wail and wager, but they do not fight. They press close to the walls to give themselves the illusion of being IN the arena, but that wall is everything. It separates the raptors from the cattle.

His expression is flat as he stoically examines the sideline area and observes the match progress. Then he sees Josep. Surprisingly, his expression softens. A smile is even rumored to have surfaced as he sat.

The two stay for some time discussing this idea that Lispro has of an Alliance of gladiators. Josep does most of the talking, of course. Leave it to the wizards to fill the cup of conversation. Still, Lispro appears to enjoy himself. The ice wizard is no cattle. That much is certain. Their battle was glorious, and even in the confident glow of victory the druid knows that his victory had been balanced on a razor's edge.

The ice wizard has earned his respect, and that is why he begins the Alliance with him.

He nods, pleased for the most part, and occasionally adds a thought or counter, "...Alchemy pulls its power from the earth mother through the plants and rocks, but always the vessel must harness the power and channel it...."

When the witch enters the conversation - uninvited, it should be noted - the druid sours somewhat. He has been both partner and foe of the ratfolk, but he cannot help but find her distasteful.

Literally. She had tasted awful as he had chewed on her in their last match.

"If you ever seek a more worthy master, little dinosaur, come find me," he says to Svog. "Until then, tell your mistress to add some seasoning to you before our next match. With some sage and thyme you make an excellent appetizer," he calls after the departing pair. Then he laughs. The sound is like gravel scraping down a hill, but the mirth cannot be missed.

He turns back to the ice wizard, "I like this place."
This message was last edited by the player at 19:06, Mon 27 Apr 2015.

Now somewhat calmer after watching a few bouts, Chicchuan stands up and sets about walking around the sidelines, looking for anyone worth talking to... As he passed by the Oread and heard his remark about seasoning, the Lizardman could not keep himself from chuckling. Turning to the stony humanoid, he remarks, "I myself prefer some garlic and pepper on my meat... Maybe you should give that a try..."

Lispro looks over the lizard man for several long seconds before he answers. This one has not yet proven himself, but he fights. That is good. And he comes of strong stock. This assessment ends with a smile. "A fine suggestion. Let us meet in the arena, and I shall, as you say, 'give it a try.'" The smile remains evenly in place.

While one Oread banters back and forth with Josep, Opal the Witch, and Chicchuan, another drinks lazily by the bar. This Oread, the one called Master Shu, seems intent on acquiring as much praise as possible for his recent runner-up performance in the Battle Royale. He openly solicits fans to buy him another round and offer him their attention.

Meanwhile, another man enters the sidelines. This one is tanned and fit, but not powerful. His bone structure suggest an elven heritage, but otherwise he appears human. He wears a simple robe, and in most ways he is dressed exactly as the one called Master Shu. This half-elf walks in and looks around carefully. Behind him are two arena guards menacing all with their silence.

The half-elf's eye lock onto the monk who is boasting about his felling of Ankou. The Oread has his back turned as the stranger and the guards approach him. "Imposter!" the half-elf accuses while pointing at the drunk gladiator. The guards move forward with unnatural swiftness, and each clamps a hand onto a broad shoulder.

The Oread is surprised and drunk, and he barely registers what is occurring before his hands are manacled behind his back. The bonds seem to have some mystical power, for the strength flows from the his limbs. The half-elf watches, rigid with anger, but he speaks in an even tone to the now-shackled man.

"I have tracked you over 3 cities and across the desert. You, who have stolen my name and brought shame to my house. Did you think I wouldn't catch you?!?! Did you think you could pose as Master Shu and not be discovered?!? Your time here is ended. In fact, you shall be lucky to leave the dungeons with your life.

I, the one and true Master Shu, am now here. I shall undo your wrong, and I will fight to prove the proper worth of my name. Go, and be seen no more!"

As Master Shu confronts his imposter, a hooded Vanara very poorly stifles a laugh behind his hands.

"This is exceptionally entertaining."

He makes his way to a seat where he could get a very clear view of the spectacle.

After yet another defeat, Krumm seethed with a barely-concealed rage. Frost so cold that it burned poured forth from his nostrils. The Sorcerer watched the matches in action and slowly begin to pound his fist against the wall keeping the observers from the Arena.

"No more... No more... No MORE!!"