Rule the World

Rule the World

Basileios & Azcasu

Set several years into the past.

Basileios

It was a dreary fall afternoon; the clouds overhead were dark and heavy with rain, the scent of weather on the breeze, and a chill to the air. Leaves floated through the streets with each gust, playing at their changes against the gutters. Some would get swept up in the runoff from the previous day’s rain, while others lived to see another moment to jossle down the cobblestone.

The streets were mostly empty, for if this storm was anything like the day before, it would not be one to get caught out in. There were few who chose to take their chances, and one was arguably making decisions under the influence of alcohol rather than good sense. With a bottle of wine in one hand, and his servant, Calix, trailing close to the other, Basileios Veres ventured through a stormy Faline for the first time that week.

He had not been able to stand a single more second under his own roof, the dark corners of his room depressing and his mother’s shrill voice even moreso. Even drinking was not enough to keep him tamed, and it was not long before he was calling for Calix and his coat and the pair hit the streets. He was grateful for his coat, now, as he pulled it tighter around his torso with a gust of wind. 

It was clear that the man had been drinking, but that was no surprise to the people of Faline. His spiral was the talk of the town, and whispers followed him everywhere they went. He learned how to hold his alcohol well, though, only leaning on his cane as each click against the cobblestone was more forceful than usual. Otherwise, as long as he kept his mouth shut, none would be the wiser if they didn’t look to the bottle in his hand.

“We might wanta find somewhere t’stop if we don’t wan’ get stuck in the rain.” Calix said, reaching for his hat before the wind managed to pluck it from his shaggy blond hair. He looked to the clouds as if he could read them.

Basileios merely hummed in response, for he knew exactly where they were going. There had been chatter down the grapevine about fights- fights that were… less than legal, at best, but perhaps that was what made them so exciting. The Black Jug, he had heard, though it technically had not been news for his own ears. Calix had come home muttering about it once, and the name stuck in his head for days such as this.

Bleak weather? Bored as hell? Caution thrown to the mercy of his drink? He could think of nothing better for them to do.

A small smirk found his lips as they approached the splintery doors to the tavern, earning a groan from Calix, as the lad knew he regretted telling him of this place. As he pulled the double doors open, warmth washed over the pair, inviting them with open arms out from the brewing weather.

Basileios dug into his pockets and pulled out a handful of coins, dumping them into his servant’s gasp with a little wiggle of his fingers. “Go make friends.” He prompted, his words softly slurring, before putting his wine bottle to his lips, taking a sip as he scanned the innards of the house. 

Well, certainly he had dressed the part. Many eyes turned to him, the gazes of regulars who looked as though they were up to no good. He mimicked their style, with his vest buttons undone and shirt untucked and existential dread on his scarred face. He shrugged his coat from his shoulders, hanging it by the door as he watched Calix wander off with his coin. If anyone looked out of place, it was the boy, and he was only half hoping that this place would eat him alive.

And as Basileios himself made his way to the bar, he could practically hear the bartender hastily cleaning a glass. “You can’t walk in here with your own drink and expect to enjoy our hospitality for free.” His voice was rough, challenging, but quiet, nodding the bottle of wine in his hand.

Basileios leaned up against the counter, setting his wine bottle down on the wood with a heavy thud as he tucked his cane in the crook of his arm. His lips pulled into a thin line as he crossed his feet, brow pinching as he studied the bar keep for a moment or two, allowing an uncomfortable silence to fall between them. And, finally, just as the bartender was about to speak again, he sighed in defeat and pulled a few more coins out of his pocket and tossed them lazily onto the counter. Some rolled to the floor with a clatter.

“I’ll pay you to leave me and my drink alone.” He said with a hiss. Tapping his fingers on the counter top, he then picked up his gaze and turned his gaze away. And a little louder this time, “who owns this place anyways?” for he was not here to make angry eyes at the bartender all night. In fact, he considered himself to be in an awfully rare good mood.

(871)

Azcasu

The bartender watched him with narrowed eyes, beard bristling, but a moment later he shrugged, his suspicious expression smoothing out into a more shrewd one. “Well, alright,” he said, and swept the pile of coins into the pocket of his stained apron before returning to the half-wiped glass. “You want somethin’ to pour it in, at least?” he grumbled, but didn’t really seem to expect any answer to that.

At the stranger’s question, he let out a short laugh. “Azcasu’s the boss around here,” he replied, wiping his hands on the cloth, then made a few half-hearted sweeps with it over the countertop. “She owns the place. And speak of the devil… there she is.” He nodded towards the end of the bar, where a well-worn staircase to the second floor met the main room. 

A pair of heavy leather boots were making their way down the steps, and soon the rest followed: Azcasu was a tall woman, broad-shouldered and lean; of fairly dark complexion and with piercing, blue eyes, clearly marked by magic. Her linen shirt was unbuttoned one too many buttons to be entirely decent, showing a glimpse of a heavily tattooed chest, and the pushed up sleeves showed similarly marked skin on her arms. Golden jewelry around her neck and wrists flashed in the light from the oil lamps and candles along the walls.

She wore a faintly murderous expression, and was wiping her hands on a cloth that at this point was stained more red than white. At the last step of the stairs, she stopped, letting her gaze sweep over the room, and a moment later she very decidedly went towards the bar.

“Gába!” she said, barely having to raise her voice to be heard through the buzz of the room. It was a hoarse, low voice, with a hint of steel in it, used to being obeyed, and the bartender immediately turned his head.

“Give me something to drink, and don’t let it be that diluted piss water this time,” she said, throwing the bloodied cloth on the counter before rubbing the bridge of her nose. Then, as if suddenly noticing him, she turned to the stranger at the bar.

For a moment, she stared, her piercing blue gaze raking over his somewhat disheveled appearance, but also taking note of the high quality materials used, and the glint of gold on his cane. And deeper ‒ her heartsight overlaid like a mirage over his features, revealing a myriad of things: a wrenching loss of magic, a deep-set need to keep proving oneself; rebellion against an oppressive upbringing. A companion, somewhere close by, tasked with spying and snooping.

Judging by the latest talk in town, whispers and gossip and rumours, this could only be one person: Basileios Veres, the golden child fallen from high society’s grace… currently somewhat drunk, looking for trouble in her tavern, with a bottle of wine he certainly didn’t buy. How very interesting.

Gába scooted a glass of whisky towards her. She glanced at him, nodding her thanks ‒ noting in passing the ghostly outline of coins in his pocket ‒ downed half of the glass in one go, exhaled deeply, closed her eyes for a moment, then opened her eyes again, turning to Basileios. (544)

Basileios

If he was pleased that the man took the offer of his coin, Basileios didn't show it. A smile on his lips was rare these days, and even if he did manage to fight one out, it was coupled with narrowed eyes and the edge of his bottle against his lips. But he gave a huff of approval anyways, as the coins slid into the man's pocket, and turned to follow his nod.

The woman that approached him was certainly one he would expect to own a tavern such as this, and he leaned back against the bar's counter as he watched her stride down the worn staircase. Idly swirling his bottle in his hand, he was not shy about the way he regarded her without much more than an arch of his brow, for even her murderous expression could not intimidate him. In fact, a part of him wished she would take him out back and let that stare slice his throat. Perhaps he would finally find some peace.

He would have no such luck, though, and he picked up his gaze from the blood-stained cloth to her rather intriguing eye. He didn't like the way she stared at him, though not an ounce of such discomfort could be seen in his face. With his gaze set hard, he stared back, his fingers lazily drumming on the wooden countertop. Little did he know that she was easily dissecting him, soaking in every ounce of his misfortunes as if she was reading the weekend paper. His gaze lingered on her eye, a striking blue, and he absently wondered what exactly she could see with such a thing.

Perhaps it was best if he didn't know. He didn't care to know, truly, but there was no mistaking the way simply being near a mage made his blood churn. Clearly, he still held grudges.

Still, he remained silent as she downed her whiskey in one go, offering but a huff and a quirk of a smirk, though his steely gaze made it seem more like a scowl. Unfortunately, his good moods were still terribly bitter. The silence that fell over them was not necessarily comfortable, but not pressing either, as they both took to studying one another for a second time, as if no stone could go unturned. He took a drink from his bottle too, though not quite as aggressively. He had to make this one last all night, and gods, was he just getting started.

Finally, as he set it back down on the counter, but not letting his fingers stray too far from its glass, he forced a smile onto his lips, a mere glimpse of what used to be his charming nature.

"I do love playing the game of stares and glares to see who's head will burst first, but unfortunately I feel as though I'm at a disadvantage with your-" he waved his hand absently, a grimace wrinkling his face, as he hinted at her strange eye. "-well, whatever that does." A sigh, then, perhaps a little more exasperated than he felt. 

He looked to the bloody cloth, a certain glint in his eye that was akin to dangerous curiosity. "But I do happen to notice that there is an awful amount of blood on that rag and yet not a scratch on you."He arched his brow as he looked back to her, his chin tipping up with a venomous smirk. It seemed as though he was in the perfect place for a little trouble. (589)

Azcasu

“I’m just that good,” she quipped back, taking another, slower, sip of her drink, glancing at the cloth. It had left a smear on the wood. Well, that would be Gába’s problem. She turned back to him, leaned on the counter as she gave him another look, and this time her smile was knowing, and deadly, and utterly confident ‒ she was that good. Mercenary work wasn’t her main source of income anymore, but she made sure to keep her skills as sharp as ever. “You need anyone taken care of?”

Then her demeanour seemed to shift, from tense and predatory to something more relaxed, languid, and she laughed, a short sharp sound. “Actually, the more mundane explanation is that head wounds bleed an awful lot,” she continued. “A… friend…of mine got into a spot of trouble, and I had to clean ‘em up.” She smiled thinly, though the expression didn’t reach her eyes. “Just a bit of first aid, that’s all.” While it sounded like a bad lie, it was actually the truth ‒ though whether he believed her or not, she didn’t care.

The Vatuh agent that was currently hidden away in her office had been badly wounded, not just on the head. They had been lucky they were so close to the Jug, Azcasu thought, but the mission had, according to the agent, been a success. Her skill with healing magic was minor, nothing compared to a proper healer’s, but at least they wouldn’t bleed out on the floor.

Then she tilted her head a fraction, looking at him again. “A disadvantage? This,” she said, gesturing at her right eye, “does nothing. Blind, actually. Can’t see shit.” A truth and a lie. She was blind in her right eye, that was true, but her heartsight took the place of normal vision; she could see a great deal of other things, but she was not in the habit of telling strangers that.

“Never seen you here before, though. Enjoying the atmosphere, here at the Jug?” A shade of irony behind her words, and she glanced towards the rain-spattered windows before continuing. “Or, maybe more likely, you heard a whisper of something, and now you’ve come here to look for it.” She gave him a pointed look and a smirk before turning her attention to her drink again. “We’ve got plenty of entertainment here.” From what she had perceived of him, she wouldn’t be surprised if this man was considering a career in the pits. Or perhaps he just wanted to watch on the sidelines ‒ all the excitement, none of the risks… except for the damage to one’s wallet, if there was gambling involved. (446)

Basileios

His brow quirked at her little offer, a hint of danger and abilities far beyond his own for handling someone who may be a little too pesky for their own good. This thought was enough to draw a smile to his lips, though it was small and curling and dripped with venom. Whether she meant it or not, he would certainly tuck those words into his pocket for later.

"I might." He mused back quietly, east to miss, but simply left it at that as suddenly the woman's steely demeanour was chased away by a laugh. 

With his elbow propped against the countertop, he found his chin resting in his hand as she rattled off about a head wound, of all things, his gaze narrowing ever so slightly. She was telling the truth about one thing: head wounds certainly did bleed like a bitch, but that was as far as he trusted that story. First aid for a friend? She hardly looked like someone with many friends. He would know, for degenerates had a way of sniffing each other out.

And he did nothing but huff at the fib that followed too.

"I am, though I expected it to be… bigger." He replied rather plainly, picking himself up from his lazy posture and turning his back to the counter, leaning against it again with a cross of his feet. He let his gaze drift over the tavern with content interest, from the walls to the other patrons and to poor, poor Calix who was trying his best to win at a small game of cards that he had been sucked into in the corner. The frustration on the lad's face told Basileios that his best was not enough.

A smirk pricked at his lips again. 

Entertainment.

His arms crossed loosely over his chest, though his fingers itched to pick up his wine bottle again. Though, with the buzz that tickled his mind, he contained such an urge for he certainly wanted his wits about him in a place like this.

"Yes, whispers have a terrible habit of finding me, and I tend to follow them." He replied cooly, fingers idly picking at his sleeve. "Entertainment is just what I need, but I've grown bored of drunken conversations and rigged card games, you see, I require a little more…" His face twisted into one of dark thought, and he leaned in closer to her with an arch of his brow. "Risk." 

With that, he finally gave his nerves what they wanted and reached back for his bottle, giving it a little swirl before taking a sip. Red dripped from its lip and tickled his fingertips, which he let trail down his skin.

"I hear that is your specialty." (457)

Azcasu

“It’s not the size that matters, it’s how you use it,” she replied, the corner of her mouth curling up into a half-grin. “What a tired, old joke. Too easy to pass up, though.” She put her glass down on the counter, glanced out over the room. It was a fairly calm evening, but in the basement, the air would ring with the sounds of fighting, shouts and hits echoing off the dry stone walls.

“Risk, hm.” She tilted her head, eyes narrowed, her gaze meeting his. “I guess you could say that… Do you prefer to watch people get hurt, or would you rather get it done yourself?” It was hard to tell, really; she’d pin him as either. Maybe both. 

“Whichever you prefer… I’m sure you could find some entertainment here.” She nodded towards the end of the bar, where an anonymous staircase seemed to lead down into a basement. She idly wondered if his recent misfortune extended to the contents of his wallet ‒ nobles always seemed to have a way of leaking coins, but she wasn’t sure about this one. 

“It’s free to participate, but you gotta pay to watch.” She smirked, leaned on the counter. “I could give you a tour, though. First-time visitors get an evening free of charge.” A rule she had made up on the spot; she could see that he was interested, but it never hurt to spice things up further.

She pushed herself up and away from the bar, dusted off some imaginary debris from her hands. There was still blood caked under her claw-like fingernails. “Anyway, I’m going down there, gotta keep an eye on things.” She glanced at him, then at the bottle. “Feel free to bring that.” (290)

Basileios

He let out a soft laugh at her question. An honest laugh; perhaps the first one in ages. “Do I look like someone who gets his own hands dirty?” He asked, though there was a light tease to his tone. Perhaps he did, with his disheveled appearance and scarred skin. His face was only what could be seen. His hands and shoulders and back told a story of a war against magic that he had certainly lost. “No, I will let other men bloody their suits and I will have the joy of watching them behind the comfort of my coin.”

And it was with that retort that he pulled more coins out of his pocket, more than enough to cover the door fee and even a little extra, as he was forever generous. “Please,”He insisted as he placed them on the counter with a chime of gold, “nothing in this life is free.” He slid them across the counter, for he was sure the bartender would care for it if they were to go down into the depths of the basement with millions of sticky fingers.

“Besides, nothing would please me more than to have my family’s money go towards bloodshed.” He echoed the woman’s smirk, waiting for her invitation before he, too, pushed himself from the bar’s counter. His fingers drummed on the neck of his bottle as he gave her a nod, his gaze flickering from her to Calix (who was looking awfully concerned that Basileios was about to leave him) and then to the staircase that she had nodded to prior.

“Lead the way.” He said with a sweeping gesture of his free hand and another sip of his wine. (285)

Azcasu

Her gaze lingered for a moment on his gloved hands. No, this man looked like he let other people do the dirty work for him; like someone pulling strings and favours, working behind the scenes… but who could perhaps, if the situation called for it, employ a more hands-on approach. 

“I’ve learned to not judge a book by its cover,” she said with a simple shrug. There were more than a few nobles who attended the pit disguised, she knew. Some of them were even pretty good. 

At his offer of coins, she laughed, but didn’t protest, and let Gába take care of them. “Spoken like someone who truly knows the world,” she said, grinning. “Appreciated, thank you kindly.” 

“Well then, let’s go…” With brisk steps, she led him towards the staircase. It was a fairly anonymous thing, narrow, with a few squeaky steps; at the bottom was a door, painted bright green. If you didn’t know where it led, it could have been assumed to be a simple storage room.

It wasn’t locked, and opened on well-oiled, soundless hinges; behind it was a fairly small room, perhaps big enough for ten people to stand in comfortably. The stone walls were dry, and it had a smell of dried foodstuffs ‒ peas, apples, ham ‒ something dry and dusty, and a hint of alcohol as well as something metallic. Crates were stacked in a corner, and it was lit by oil lamps hung on the walls. On the opposite end of the room was an arched doorway, wide open, and beyond it was another staircase, spiraling downwards. It was lit up as well, and there were noises coming from below. Muffled, faint yells, raucous laughs, and a buzz of people.

Azcasu continued down the stair, and when it eventually ended, a large passage opened up, with closed doors along the walls. “Storage rooms,” she commented, making a vague gesture. “Useful for all sorts of things.” The noise was clearer now, louder, and seemed to be coming from somewhere in front of them.

A bald, bulky man passed them by, sporting a bleeding nose and a blooming bruise across his eyebrow, holding his arm tight against his body. He gave a quick grin at Azcasu before hurrying along, back towards the tavern. “One of the regulars,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sure he’ll be back.”

At the end of the passage, a cavernous room opened up. It was surprisingly large ‒ the whole taproom of the Jug, and more, could have fit inside it. Large oil lamps hung from the ceiling, the flickering flames enlarged by glass lenses, providing a fairly bright light.

There was a sort of ledge, almost a balcony, going around the whole thing, and on the floor below was a crowd of people, milling about around two structures that vaguely looked like small cattle pens, though they were somewhat sunken into the floor. Inside each, there was a fight going on. The air smelled of blood, sweat, and alcohol; of old stale air coming from somewhere, and the noise echoed along the bare stone walls.

Az peered down at the spectacle for a moment, then turned to the man. “Fisticuffs in one, knife fight in the other,” she said. “Take your pick. No mage fights today, though we have those as well, sometimes. They just require a bit more planning.” (564)

Basileios

He followed her with a lingering pace, uninterested in being in a hurry. His fingers drummed on the glass of his wine, his cane knocking familiarly against the ground in front of each odd step. He took his time taking in the sights around him; noting even every crack on the wall. The bright green door was basically a beacon, beckoning him forward as she led him down creaking steps. 

It led them both into the embrace of stone walls, which held a lovely scent of dried fruits and alcohols. He turned slowly, his gaze sweeping the crates and oil lamps. There was something else too, entirely familiar. So familiar that even the hint of it made him grin. 

Blood.

His heart beat to the sound of the muffled shouts and laughter, and he turned on ungraceful toes to catch up to Azcasu as she brought him to another set of stairs.

The shouts grew louder as they went, reverberating in his chest and off the walls. He itched to peer into each closed door, but held back, his fingers curling over the golden hilt of his cane. Storage. He wondered how much of such things were legal.

His steps slowed as a rather large man passed them, blood dripping from his nose and a bruise crawling up his face. That little hint of a metallic scent was strong on this one, and Basileios mirrored the grin that the brute offered to Azcasu.

“I sure hope so.” He breathed before turning back to follow again, but he was met with yet another development. His steps slowed as the passage opened to a wide room, the balcony looming over people and fighters alike beneath his toes. He paused to lean over the edge, both hands gripping his cane as he pushed his weight into it, as if it could save him from such a long fall.

Fisticuffs and knife fights were interesting as they were, but mage fights- his brow quirked as he looked to her with a thoughtful flicker in his gaze. 

“Mage fights?” He prompted, quickly looking back to the fights. “Seems as though I’ve come on the wrong day.” His feet moved carefully on the edge of the balcony, his eye trained on the pen of fist fighters, his fingers tightening their grip as one last punch flattened one of the fighters in the dirt. He nearly bristled with the uproar from the crowd.

“Don’t get me wrong, I do love watching the mating dance of men with sharp objects, but that-” he nodded with a low chuckle. “That is a true fight.” Raw power and grit, with no weapons to enhance their ability. Perhaps that was just his brother and his boxing career speaking through him.

He stepped away from the ledge and took in a breath, the scent of blood and sweat heavy in the air. “Thank you, Azcasu.” He mused, glancing at the woman out of the corner of his eye. “Do not be surprised if you find me lurking quite often. I’m sure you’ll see an influx of fighters, too, as I have many… friends who would love this.” Or, rather, he would love to see them beat to a pulp, but it was all the same. Regardless, he would never be bored. 

He grinned, itching to be in the middle of it. “Now, how do we get down there?” (566)

Azcasu

She looked out over the room, following his gaze. “Mm. It’s something I’ve been interested in for a while, but it requires a bit of… precaution, and planning. Can’t just put two mages in there willy nilly and expect things to work out.” It required quite a bit of knowledge about people’s abilities, as well, and as a result, she had gathered up quite a bit of information about those who signed up to fight with their magic. An unforeseen, but interesting, side effect ‒ perhaps useful one day.

A wide grin at his comment. “You are a man of taste, I see,” she said, nodding slowly, absently fingering one of her necklaces. “I certainly appreciate a bloody knife skirmish, but there is something captivating about a brutal fistfight.” Down in the pit, the fallen fighter had been carried out; the winner was bowing to the crowd, a little unsteady on his feet as he made his exit.

“Also, less to clean up.” She smiled, the expression crooked. Ever pragmatic.

She turned to him when he thanked her, clasping her hands behind her back. “You are most welcome,” she almost purred, “as is anyone you would like to bring. Friend or not.” Her gaze flicked to the right side of the ledge. A bit further off a handful of rough-looking men lingered, and behind them was a staircase leading downwards.

“This way,” she said, and it seemed that her face was well-known among the crowd here, as the men ‒ and one burly woman ‒ respectfully stepped aside for them.

The stair circled around the room, ending at the bottom, almost at the opposite end of where they entered. From down here the room looked bigger, and there were more arched doorways along the walls ‒ some closed, others open, with passageways leading into darkness. The floor was made of uneven cobblestone and packed dirt.

Down there, the crowd was thick, especially around the pits. Mostly men, but a fair amount of women as well, with most people looking fairly rough ‒ but with a good eye, and with some knowledge of the upper society, one could likely recognise a few noble faces too. Az knew of at least a handful that came here in various disguises.

At one side of the room, a bunch of wooden crates and boxes had been turned into an impromptu stage, and someone had brought, and was playing, a shabby-looking fiddle. Its melancholy tones floated out over the mass of people, echoing towards the vaulted brick ceiling high above. 

Azcasu easily made her way through the crowd, steering towards the fistfight pit. A new pair of fighters had taken the ring: one was a tall, dark-skinned man with blonde hair in a messy bun and a face scarred into a permanent scowl, the other was a shorter, but stockier, pale man with tattoos all over his back and arms. They were both bare chested, with their arms and hands carefully wrapped, and were carefully studying each other.

“Hm,” Azcasu said, making her way all the way to the front, leaning on the stone railing around the ring, turning towards Basileios. “This might be an interesting one. The tall one there ‒ '' she gestured at him, “‒ is one of the Jug house fighters. The other is a newcomer, though.” (555)

Basileios

Friend or not, he smirked at her comment, for it must have been obvious that friends were not his strong suit. He followed her, though, his gaze sweeping over the people that stepped aside as they passed. He felt…something with that reaction, his head held high as the click of his cane drowned out in the sounds of the crowd. It had been quite a while since the waves parted for him, for any reason other than him bashing his cane into the shins of people who were too close.

And he knew it was only because he was trailing after Azcasu, though he would allow his ego to have its moment. It had been so long since it had crawled out of the dark corners of his mind.

As they traveled down the winding steps and into the crowd, his gaze swept the faces that gathered. There were some that he recognized, and many that recognized him. He could tell by the way their faces tightened with uncertainty, but the understanding was clear. Secrets were to be kept here.

He glanced at the fiddle player as they passed, but his attention was turned quickly to the fight as Azcasu brought them to the front and pointed out the fighters. He, too, leaned against the stone, propping his cane to his side to keep anyone from crowding too close to him at the risk of getting tripped. He may be weaseling his way into the underworld bit by bit every day, but he would be damned if anyone got close enough to wrinkle his suit. 

“And these fighters,” he prompted, his gaze barely flickering as the tall one made the first swing, but was intercepted by the other and received a punch to the face. Blood trickled from where his tooth busted into his lip. “Do you test them, or do you just throw them to the ring and hope for the best?” Either option seemed enticing, he mused, and he chuckled as the taller fighter rebounded easily and socked the newcomer right in the jaw. The other man seemed dazed, as if he hadn’t expected such a strike from a large man. (364)

Azcasu

“Hmm,” she replied, watching as the fight continued. “Depends. I’ve got a handful of fighters in my employment, and they’re tested beforehand, of course. They earn their wages whether or not they win. Then we have the luck seekers that come here to challenge themselves, or someone else, or to earn a bit of coin… We usually don’t test them, unless there is something more serious going on. Tournaments, of sorts, or events… ” she trailed off, sounding thoughtful. The fight ring was still in its early development; kinks to iron out, problems to solve. Not long ago, it was only fistfighting in the courtyard; she still had plans and ideas to execute.

In the ring, the fight continued, rolling back and forth between the stone walls, grunts and hard breathing interspersed with the dull thuds of blows landing. For a time, it seemed like luck was on the tall one’s side, the shorter one with the tattoos having a hard time landing any hits. He was good at blocking, though, and suddenly, with a movement that was almost hard to see, he stretched out a leg, tripping the tall one, who fell with a surprised yelp, cut short as his head hit the stone floor.

A referee, standing on a handful of upturned wooden crates, started yelling out the result. “Newcomer Tyleri of the Red Hand manages to down veteran Jug fighter Balyh, after an exciting match…” and the rest was drowned in the excitement of the crowd. Someone booed, more people cheered.

Azcasu shook her head, a fleeting look of disappointment passing her face. “Well, that’s that. Nice job from the short one, though ‒” It seemed like she was going to say something else, halfway turning to Basileios, but from somewhere on the other side of the ring, her name was called, a note of urgency in the sound.

“Aight, I’ve got to go.” Perhaps a vague hint of regret in her tone, there, but she gave him a wide grin, and a bow of her head. “I hope you’ll find the Jug to your liking, and that we can provide some entertainment… or opportunities.” In the crowds, there were always deals to be made, secrets and gossip to be heard… or spread. 

A casual salute in his direction, and then she disappeared into the crowd with decisive strides, the throng of people parting before her and slowly filling the gap in her wake. (406)

Basileios

He listened to her explain the fights, nodding along, but finding no reason to interject. Instead, his attention remained on the fighters, leaning against his cane like a steadfast boulder against the raging waves of the crowd. People around him taunted and sneered and shouted, but he remained silent. 

It seemed as though luck changed for the newcomer, and Basileios watched as he used rolling momentum to knock the larger man down with a graceful sweep of his leg. The sickening thud from the taller man’s head meeting the stone floor made him wince, but with an amused smirk, his gaze flickering to the ring leader as he immediately started to shout out the results. His head turned to glance at the booer- a younger man that stood behind him- but everyone else was pleased. He assumed it didn’t matter who won, as long as they got their bloodshed.

He turned back to Azcasu as she started to speak, but his gaze flickered in the direction of her name as it was called out, muffled by the excitement of the crowd. He gave her a nod as she announced her leave, his fingers curling over the top of his cane in thought.

“Perhaps it is best if I go too.” He said with a sigh, glancing to the steps that had led them down into the pits earlier. He could only imagine what kind of trouble Calix was in upstairs, and he might as well go rescue the lad. “I can assure you, I will be back.” 

And as she turned to leave, he ducked away in the opposite direction, flicking his cane at people’s feet to get them to step out of his way. Already, his mind was spinning over all the opportunities he could find her, a grin on his lips as he took another sip from the forgotten wine bottle in his grasp. (316)

-fin-