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By the time he arrived in Baron Elias's own province, Lesley was regretting his blase assertion that it had been a while, but of course he could ride well. It had been a couple of decades, in point of fact, and he was glad he had scorned a saddle and rode only with a blanket to keep his mount's sweat off his thighs. Elias might be rich enough to not even consider one unusual or a luxury, but Lesley had sensibly opted to ride in the manner he'd learned, to give the least strain on old muscle memory. Both the warmth of the horse and the easy feeling of muscles bunching and moving beneath him kept his hips loose, and he was certain that if he'd opted to sit his ass on a cushion, no matter if it would have been more comfortable at the start of the ride, he'd have stiffened up long since.
The self-declared Lord Regent had been not terribly forthcoming about what they would be doing out here, but something about the way the man had suggested he was needing someone of the gladiator's skills and reputation, suggested that possibly it was some sort of bloodthirsty work. Or perhaps he was just along for the intimidation factor. That was fine, too. It was somewhat exciting just being out of Athenia, and if the little thrill of anticipation running down his spine proved misplaced, it was still unlikely to be a terrible trip.
The Stravos lord certainly hadn't objected to him bringing along an entire arsenal, quite the opposite, and Lesely considered that an excellent sign. He had both the good bronze sword he carried as a member of the palati guard and the symbolic wooden one on his left hip, and a wickedly curved knife on the right, as well as his eating dagger - honed far more sharply than would ever be needed for that task - hanging with his coin purse. His shield hung easily from his arm, he'd gotten used to ignoring that weight in the last month, and both his guard's spear and his own personal quarterstaff were slung diagonally across his back from the same simple leather thong a cavalryman would use for his javelin. No javelin for Lesley, though; he'd never been more than passable with one from the ground, and he wasn't even going to try throwing one mounted. He'd look as much a klutz as the silly girl he spent his days minding.
He hoped he'd get the chance to wreak some havok. It hadn't been long enough that he'd reached that mood where he needed to cut loose and break someone, but Her Highness was cute, and he oddly liked her, and the more regularly he had outlets for his more violent urges the less likely he was to snap at something unexpected and scare her.
Fresh air away from the city and a cool sea-breeze to offset the bright, warm sun, the quiet sound of hooves on the stone road and the rustle of the trees, anticipation of a bit of fun - all served to put an otherwise tightly-coiled man of explosive violence at surprising ease. He pushed his hair out of his face - not that it was long enough to fall into his eyes yet - and nudged his horse onto the path that led down to the docks rather than up to the kalospíti, following the instructions he'd been given. Elias was already waiting for him, and Lesley gave him a considering look as he drew up to him. Elias of Stravos was too pretty by half, and Lesley's previous experiences with prideful, pretty noblemen was not exactly positive. At least with this one, there wasn't a lifetime of scorn adding pressure behind the urge to run his mouth, and Elias hadn't thrown a fit on those few occasions the gladiator had been more honest than well-mannered. 'Not as bad as Rafael of Merikas,' however, was not a difficult bar to clear.
The gladiator didn't apologize for being late, just swung off his mount with the natural grace of a born athlete. "Am I allowed some satisfaction for my curiosity yet, my lord?" There was a hint of humour in the tone, and the matching smile, though he didn't realize it, would likely have made the young princess swoon. He was aware, in an absent way, that any number of women found him attractive, but since he never went out of his way to try to elicit that reaction, he had no idea what exactly caused it, nor that he bequeathed men the exact same looks as well. He wasn't trying to flirt, so of course he behaved the same around both sexes.
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By the time he arrived in Baron Elias's own province, Lesley was regretting his blase assertion that it had been a while, but of course he could ride well. It had been a couple of decades, in point of fact, and he was glad he had scorned a saddle and rode only with a blanket to keep his mount's sweat off his thighs. Elias might be rich enough to not even consider one unusual or a luxury, but Lesley had sensibly opted to ride in the manner he'd learned, to give the least strain on old muscle memory. Both the warmth of the horse and the easy feeling of muscles bunching and moving beneath him kept his hips loose, and he was certain that if he'd opted to sit his ass on a cushion, no matter if it would have been more comfortable at the start of the ride, he'd have stiffened up long since.
The self-declared Lord Regent had been not terribly forthcoming about what they would be doing out here, but something about the way the man had suggested he was needing someone of the gladiator's skills and reputation, suggested that possibly it was some sort of bloodthirsty work. Or perhaps he was just along for the intimidation factor. That was fine, too. It was somewhat exciting just being out of Athenia, and if the little thrill of anticipation running down his spine proved misplaced, it was still unlikely to be a terrible trip.
The Stravos lord certainly hadn't objected to him bringing along an entire arsenal, quite the opposite, and Lesely considered that an excellent sign. He had both the good bronze sword he carried as a member of the palati guard and the symbolic wooden one on his left hip, and a wickedly curved knife on the right, as well as his eating dagger - honed far more sharply than would ever be needed for that task - hanging with his coin purse. His shield hung easily from his arm, he'd gotten used to ignoring that weight in the last month, and both his guard's spear and his own personal quarterstaff were slung diagonally across his back from the same simple leather thong a cavalryman would use for his javelin. No javelin for Lesley, though; he'd never been more than passable with one from the ground, and he wasn't even going to try throwing one mounted. He'd look as much a klutz as the silly girl he spent his days minding.
He hoped he'd get the chance to wreak some havok. It hadn't been long enough that he'd reached that mood where he needed to cut loose and break someone, but Her Highness was cute, and he oddly liked her, and the more regularly he had outlets for his more violent urges the less likely he was to snap at something unexpected and scare her.
Fresh air away from the city and a cool sea-breeze to offset the bright, warm sun, the quiet sound of hooves on the stone road and the rustle of the trees, anticipation of a bit of fun - all served to put an otherwise tightly-coiled man of explosive violence at surprising ease. He pushed his hair out of his face - not that it was long enough to fall into his eyes yet - and nudged his horse onto the path that led down to the docks rather than up to the kalospíti, following the instructions he'd been given. Elias was already waiting for him, and Lesley gave him a considering look as he drew up to him. Elias of Stravos was too pretty by half, and Lesley's previous experiences with prideful, pretty noblemen was not exactly positive. At least with this one, there wasn't a lifetime of scorn adding pressure behind the urge to run his mouth, and Elias hadn't thrown a fit on those few occasions the gladiator had been more honest than well-mannered. 'Not as bad as Rafael of Merikas,' however, was not a difficult bar to clear.
The gladiator didn't apologize for being late, just swung off his mount with the natural grace of a born athlete. "Am I allowed some satisfaction for my curiosity yet, my lord?" There was a hint of humour in the tone, and the matching smile, though he didn't realize it, would likely have made the young princess swoon. He was aware, in an absent way, that any number of women found him attractive, but since he never went out of his way to try to elicit that reaction, he had no idea what exactly caused it, nor that he bequeathed men the exact same looks as well. He wasn't trying to flirt, so of course he behaved the same around both sexes.
By the time he arrived in Baron Elias's own province, Lesley was regretting his blase assertion that it had been a while, but of course he could ride well. It had been a couple of decades, in point of fact, and he was glad he had scorned a saddle and rode only with a blanket to keep his mount's sweat off his thighs. Elias might be rich enough to not even consider one unusual or a luxury, but Lesley had sensibly opted to ride in the manner he'd learned, to give the least strain on old muscle memory. Both the warmth of the horse and the easy feeling of muscles bunching and moving beneath him kept his hips loose, and he was certain that if he'd opted to sit his ass on a cushion, no matter if it would have been more comfortable at the start of the ride, he'd have stiffened up long since.
The self-declared Lord Regent had been not terribly forthcoming about what they would be doing out here, but something about the way the man had suggested he was needing someone of the gladiator's skills and reputation, suggested that possibly it was some sort of bloodthirsty work. Or perhaps he was just along for the intimidation factor. That was fine, too. It was somewhat exciting just being out of Athenia, and if the little thrill of anticipation running down his spine proved misplaced, it was still unlikely to be a terrible trip.
The Stravos lord certainly hadn't objected to him bringing along an entire arsenal, quite the opposite, and Lesely considered that an excellent sign. He had both the good bronze sword he carried as a member of the palati guard and the symbolic wooden one on his left hip, and a wickedly curved knife on the right, as well as his eating dagger - honed far more sharply than would ever be needed for that task - hanging with his coin purse. His shield hung easily from his arm, he'd gotten used to ignoring that weight in the last month, and both his guard's spear and his own personal quarterstaff were slung diagonally across his back from the same simple leather thong a cavalryman would use for his javelin. No javelin for Lesley, though; he'd never been more than passable with one from the ground, and he wasn't even going to try throwing one mounted. He'd look as much a klutz as the silly girl he spent his days minding.
He hoped he'd get the chance to wreak some havok. It hadn't been long enough that he'd reached that mood where he needed to cut loose and break someone, but Her Highness was cute, and he oddly liked her, and the more regularly he had outlets for his more violent urges the less likely he was to snap at something unexpected and scare her.
Fresh air away from the city and a cool sea-breeze to offset the bright, warm sun, the quiet sound of hooves on the stone road and the rustle of the trees, anticipation of a bit of fun - all served to put an otherwise tightly-coiled man of explosive violence at surprising ease. He pushed his hair out of his face - not that it was long enough to fall into his eyes yet - and nudged his horse onto the path that led down to the docks rather than up to the kalospíti, following the instructions he'd been given. Elias was already waiting for him, and Lesley gave him a considering look as he drew up to him. Elias of Stravos was too pretty by half, and Lesley's previous experiences with prideful, pretty noblemen was not exactly positive. At least with this one, there wasn't a lifetime of scorn adding pressure behind the urge to run his mouth, and Elias hadn't thrown a fit on those few occasions the gladiator had been more honest than well-mannered. 'Not as bad as Rafael of Merikas,' however, was not a difficult bar to clear.
The gladiator didn't apologize for being late, just swung off his mount with the natural grace of a born athlete. "Am I allowed some satisfaction for my curiosity yet, my lord?" There was a hint of humour in the tone, and the matching smile, though he didn't realize it, would likely have made the young princess swoon. He was aware, in an absent way, that any number of women found him attractive, but since he never went out of his way to try to elicit that reaction, he had no idea what exactly caused it, nor that he bequeathed men the exact same looks as well. He wasn't trying to flirt, so of course he behaved the same around both sexes.
Rage was a fire that dwelt within the soul. Some called it unhealthy to contain it within them, to allow the hammering within one's chest or the beads of sweat that arose within flesh. It bloomed within him as a searing heat as he discovered the treachery that had fallen within his own province. Lyncestia was Elias of Stravos' bastion of power, his citadel with which he could leverage all of Athenia in the balance. The docks within Lyncestia when he'd arrived were non-existent, empty cliff space overlooking the ocean. The people of Lyncestia were trivial and forgotten before he'd made them essential. Boat after boat, all military or trade vessels were moored within his docks, but never could be people be satisfied.
No, they required food to fill their meager mouths. They required comforts, imported goods that could swell their perception of self worth. The people of Lyncestia were not starving like the rest of Athenia, but they were rationed, the food carefully rationed and it seemed that the greedy and opulent among the peasants required more. If these wretches could rise above their meager earnings they could get more. If these fools were industrious enough to forge their own path as merchants or as soldiers then they could be offered more. No, Elias paid his workers currently in nominal wages and food both, keeping them alive with promises for more. But, he'd had enough. A message needed to be shown.
There were such voices within the docks that required quelling and Elias of Stravos figured there could be none better than the mighty Lesley, a warrior cultivated within the gladiator arena and rendered a fearsome sight by which none of the younger souls wished to die. He was pulled into service, both guarding the crown princess Emilia and serving Elias' mother Circenia in ways she hadn't yet made him aware of. The flicker of thought that his mother might be using this wretch to satisfy herself made bile raise within his throat, but he cast it aside altogether. He hoped that relationship was professional and nothing else, and he'd trust his mother at that.
Instead, the Stravos had other matters to consider. When at last Lesley arrived within Lyncestia, he was informed immediately. The warrior rode in alone on a horse, their pace slow enough for the Stravos to demand the readying of a ship with the assets that his compatriot needed to... encourage. When at last Lesley arrived, Elias of Stravos couldn't help but chuckle aloud. Lesley had armed himself to the teeth as he'd mentioned, with his knife, shield, dagger, quarterstaff and he'd hoped to see a sword but perhaps he'd missed it. However, the Stravos hardly considered the weapons necessary. They were for show and he'd have Lesley bring them along. But, he wanted the renowned vicious gladiator to get blood on his fists this day. Every droplet of blood that fell to the floor because of Lesley was a testament to Stravos.
The Stravos, when at last put in front of Lesley, could hear the humor in his tone. There was a smile cast upon his lips, a sort of roguish expression that gained no traction with the lord. He did, however, wonder for a moment if Lesley was a homosexual, and made sure to take a step away from the man lest they get the wrong impression from one another. He crossed his arms, motioning to the regal looking boat on the harbor. It was a grand ship, with a deck that spread wider than most vessels. It was a trade ship, with a tall mast that sought to pull as much wind as it possibly could. Not necessarily for speed, but to coax as much of the wind into its sails as possible, to fight through weak weather if they could.
"Yes. Come with me," he began, taking a step past Lesley with every intention of dodging making any sort of contact with the man. It was easy for men and women alike to be enthralled by the exquisitely divine beauty that was Elias, but he had no mind for such things at the moment. There were hells to pay and he'd ensure that Lesley kept his eye on the prize. Elias brought them onto the deck, swinging open the door to the underneath. Wider than most ships, the single room held within it two men tied to chairs, blindfolded and void of struggle. They'd either fallen asleep or lost the will to scream out. The docks were cleared by the baron's request. No one would hear them. However, steps resounded above them, the echoes of a captain pulling them off from their place in the docks. Elias of Stravos ordered them seabound before a stone dropped and they were kept, anchored to the placement. The captain dare not invade their privacy and Elias of Stravos looked to Lesley before he said,
"You wretches have one final opportunity to obe--"
"NEVER!"
A smirk caught upon Elias' lips as his gaze remained glued to Lesley's for one, knowing moment between them.
"Fine. I need one of these men alive, but I'd rather keep both," he lied, knowing full well these wretches were not to survive their night with the baron of Lyncestia. At last, it seemed, they'd gained their audience with him.
"Loosen their tongues for me, Lesley," he commanded.
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Rage was a fire that dwelt within the soul. Some called it unhealthy to contain it within them, to allow the hammering within one's chest or the beads of sweat that arose within flesh. It bloomed within him as a searing heat as he discovered the treachery that had fallen within his own province. Lyncestia was Elias of Stravos' bastion of power, his citadel with which he could leverage all of Athenia in the balance. The docks within Lyncestia when he'd arrived were non-existent, empty cliff space overlooking the ocean. The people of Lyncestia were trivial and forgotten before he'd made them essential. Boat after boat, all military or trade vessels were moored within his docks, but never could be people be satisfied.
No, they required food to fill their meager mouths. They required comforts, imported goods that could swell their perception of self worth. The people of Lyncestia were not starving like the rest of Athenia, but they were rationed, the food carefully rationed and it seemed that the greedy and opulent among the peasants required more. If these wretches could rise above their meager earnings they could get more. If these fools were industrious enough to forge their own path as merchants or as soldiers then they could be offered more. No, Elias paid his workers currently in nominal wages and food both, keeping them alive with promises for more. But, he'd had enough. A message needed to be shown.
There were such voices within the docks that required quelling and Elias of Stravos figured there could be none better than the mighty Lesley, a warrior cultivated within the gladiator arena and rendered a fearsome sight by which none of the younger souls wished to die. He was pulled into service, both guarding the crown princess Emilia and serving Elias' mother Circenia in ways she hadn't yet made him aware of. The flicker of thought that his mother might be using this wretch to satisfy herself made bile raise within his throat, but he cast it aside altogether. He hoped that relationship was professional and nothing else, and he'd trust his mother at that.
Instead, the Stravos had other matters to consider. When at last Lesley arrived within Lyncestia, he was informed immediately. The warrior rode in alone on a horse, their pace slow enough for the Stravos to demand the readying of a ship with the assets that his compatriot needed to... encourage. When at last Lesley arrived, Elias of Stravos couldn't help but chuckle aloud. Lesley had armed himself to the teeth as he'd mentioned, with his knife, shield, dagger, quarterstaff and he'd hoped to see a sword but perhaps he'd missed it. However, the Stravos hardly considered the weapons necessary. They were for show and he'd have Lesley bring them along. But, he wanted the renowned vicious gladiator to get blood on his fists this day. Every droplet of blood that fell to the floor because of Lesley was a testament to Stravos.
The Stravos, when at last put in front of Lesley, could hear the humor in his tone. There was a smile cast upon his lips, a sort of roguish expression that gained no traction with the lord. He did, however, wonder for a moment if Lesley was a homosexual, and made sure to take a step away from the man lest they get the wrong impression from one another. He crossed his arms, motioning to the regal looking boat on the harbor. It was a grand ship, with a deck that spread wider than most vessels. It was a trade ship, with a tall mast that sought to pull as much wind as it possibly could. Not necessarily for speed, but to coax as much of the wind into its sails as possible, to fight through weak weather if they could.
"Yes. Come with me," he began, taking a step past Lesley with every intention of dodging making any sort of contact with the man. It was easy for men and women alike to be enthralled by the exquisitely divine beauty that was Elias, but he had no mind for such things at the moment. There were hells to pay and he'd ensure that Lesley kept his eye on the prize. Elias brought them onto the deck, swinging open the door to the underneath. Wider than most ships, the single room held within it two men tied to chairs, blindfolded and void of struggle. They'd either fallen asleep or lost the will to scream out. The docks were cleared by the baron's request. No one would hear them. However, steps resounded above them, the echoes of a captain pulling them off from their place in the docks. Elias of Stravos ordered them seabound before a stone dropped and they were kept, anchored to the placement. The captain dare not invade their privacy and Elias of Stravos looked to Lesley before he said,
"You wretches have one final opportunity to obe--"
"NEVER!"
A smirk caught upon Elias' lips as his gaze remained glued to Lesley's for one, knowing moment between them.
"Fine. I need one of these men alive, but I'd rather keep both," he lied, knowing full well these wretches were not to survive their night with the baron of Lyncestia. At last, it seemed, they'd gained their audience with him.
"Loosen their tongues for me, Lesley," he commanded.
Rage was a fire that dwelt within the soul. Some called it unhealthy to contain it within them, to allow the hammering within one's chest or the beads of sweat that arose within flesh. It bloomed within him as a searing heat as he discovered the treachery that had fallen within his own province. Lyncestia was Elias of Stravos' bastion of power, his citadel with which he could leverage all of Athenia in the balance. The docks within Lyncestia when he'd arrived were non-existent, empty cliff space overlooking the ocean. The people of Lyncestia were trivial and forgotten before he'd made them essential. Boat after boat, all military or trade vessels were moored within his docks, but never could be people be satisfied.
No, they required food to fill their meager mouths. They required comforts, imported goods that could swell their perception of self worth. The people of Lyncestia were not starving like the rest of Athenia, but they were rationed, the food carefully rationed and it seemed that the greedy and opulent among the peasants required more. If these wretches could rise above their meager earnings they could get more. If these fools were industrious enough to forge their own path as merchants or as soldiers then they could be offered more. No, Elias paid his workers currently in nominal wages and food both, keeping them alive with promises for more. But, he'd had enough. A message needed to be shown.
There were such voices within the docks that required quelling and Elias of Stravos figured there could be none better than the mighty Lesley, a warrior cultivated within the gladiator arena and rendered a fearsome sight by which none of the younger souls wished to die. He was pulled into service, both guarding the crown princess Emilia and serving Elias' mother Circenia in ways she hadn't yet made him aware of. The flicker of thought that his mother might be using this wretch to satisfy herself made bile raise within his throat, but he cast it aside altogether. He hoped that relationship was professional and nothing else, and he'd trust his mother at that.
Instead, the Stravos had other matters to consider. When at last Lesley arrived within Lyncestia, he was informed immediately. The warrior rode in alone on a horse, their pace slow enough for the Stravos to demand the readying of a ship with the assets that his compatriot needed to... encourage. When at last Lesley arrived, Elias of Stravos couldn't help but chuckle aloud. Lesley had armed himself to the teeth as he'd mentioned, with his knife, shield, dagger, quarterstaff and he'd hoped to see a sword but perhaps he'd missed it. However, the Stravos hardly considered the weapons necessary. They were for show and he'd have Lesley bring them along. But, he wanted the renowned vicious gladiator to get blood on his fists this day. Every droplet of blood that fell to the floor because of Lesley was a testament to Stravos.
The Stravos, when at last put in front of Lesley, could hear the humor in his tone. There was a smile cast upon his lips, a sort of roguish expression that gained no traction with the lord. He did, however, wonder for a moment if Lesley was a homosexual, and made sure to take a step away from the man lest they get the wrong impression from one another. He crossed his arms, motioning to the regal looking boat on the harbor. It was a grand ship, with a deck that spread wider than most vessels. It was a trade ship, with a tall mast that sought to pull as much wind as it possibly could. Not necessarily for speed, but to coax as much of the wind into its sails as possible, to fight through weak weather if they could.
"Yes. Come with me," he began, taking a step past Lesley with every intention of dodging making any sort of contact with the man. It was easy for men and women alike to be enthralled by the exquisitely divine beauty that was Elias, but he had no mind for such things at the moment. There were hells to pay and he'd ensure that Lesley kept his eye on the prize. Elias brought them onto the deck, swinging open the door to the underneath. Wider than most ships, the single room held within it two men tied to chairs, blindfolded and void of struggle. They'd either fallen asleep or lost the will to scream out. The docks were cleared by the baron's request. No one would hear them. However, steps resounded above them, the echoes of a captain pulling them off from their place in the docks. Elias of Stravos ordered them seabound before a stone dropped and they were kept, anchored to the placement. The captain dare not invade their privacy and Elias of Stravos looked to Lesley before he said,
"You wretches have one final opportunity to obe--"
"NEVER!"
A smirk caught upon Elias' lips as his gaze remained glued to Lesley's for one, knowing moment between them.
"Fine. I need one of these men alive, but I'd rather keep both," he lied, knowing full well these wretches were not to survive their night with the baron of Lyncestia. At last, it seemed, they'd gained their audience with him.
"Loosen their tongues for me, Lesley," he commanded.
Lesley chuckled quietly, and almost soundless scoff deep in his throat, as Elias was slightly too obvious about not wanting to get within arm's reach. Not that he'd be the first. After all, the gladiator was a killer, and had a reputation as being both unpredictable and unintimidated by rank. Which was only slightly exaggerated. He had nearly killed a man in a street or bar brawl more than once, and he had recently sucker-punched Stelios of Antonis in the face. In his sole defense, he hadn't known who it was, but he hadn't cared, either.
Lesley handed off his horse to someone who seemed to be one of Elias's servants with no more thought or care whether that was actually the man's job than if he'd been noble himself, and obediently followed the Baron on board the ship. Belowdecks was not as crowded nor as closed-in as he'd expected, but then, he'd never been on a ship before, so what did he know? The motion of the ship as they pulled away from the dock was only slightly disconcerting. Calm seas, though he had no way to judge it; enough motion that he'd need to use caution in a fight and think about his footing, but not enough to be worrying.
He grunted again, this time in acknowledgement, when Elias gave his order. He gave the two trussed up fellows an assessing look, then moved to the far corner and stripped himself of the majority of his weapons. Shield, spear, staff, sword, and the heavy knife were set aside, then he removed the tiny pins that formed the edges of his tunic into sleeves and dropped them carefully into his pouch. With the scars and ink liberally spread up and down his arms on full display, he picked up his quarterstaff again, and headed back over towards the nervously waiting men. "Hmm. I assume you don't care about how much blood gets on the decks?" He poked one of the men in the temple. "Are the blindfolds entirely necessary?" At Elias giving his permission, he yanked it off, then stepped back suddenly and thrust the butt of his staff square into the man's chest, knocking the chair over and skittering back a couple feet across the deck. "Need some room to work, if y'don't mind there, boy."
He contemplated the other man for a moment. "Boring," he decided. He drew his knife as he stepped behind him, and quickly cut him free of his restraints, then grabbed the chair and physically dumped him out of it while the poor sod was still trying to figure out whether he should be moving or yanking off his blindfold first. Lesley's staff caught him hard behind the knees, then across the back, then on his wrist... he was only aiming in an absent way, habit and instinct drawing the staff towards the most vulnerable parts of his body, and hitting him plenty hard enough to drive him back to the floor every time he even started to push himself back up. Such blows were also strong enough to crack bone, and soon a smashed cheek and several cracked ribs joined the broken wrist, each one eliciting a loud cry of pain between the quieter grunts of simply having the wind knocked out of him.
Lesley licked his lips and grinned. This wasn't his usual sort of pastime; it lacked the thrill, and he would always love the arena... but it was definitely fun. This time he let the battered man stumble to his feet, he was holding his good hand out and saying something, but Lesley stopped listening after Please. He'd take orders from the Stravos lord paying him, but he wasn't the one who cared what they had to say, so any begging really needed to be directed at a different audience. Instead, he snapped his staff into the side of a knee hard enough to shatter the joint, and the unfortunate man went down hard, landing on his broken wrist and giving a proper, full-throated scream. This time he didn't even think about getting up, just curled into something fairly close to a ball, given that one knee no longer worked, and a few gods' names made their way into his gasping pleas for mercy.
He glanced over at a slight scrape of a chair against the deck, and saw the other man caught between equally strong urges to try to see what was happening, and to look anywhere except at the gladiator and his victim. He wasn't making any effort - or at least no progress - towards escaping, so Les ignored him and turned back to his current target with a happy smile.
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Lesley chuckled quietly, and almost soundless scoff deep in his throat, as Elias was slightly too obvious about not wanting to get within arm's reach. Not that he'd be the first. After all, the gladiator was a killer, and had a reputation as being both unpredictable and unintimidated by rank. Which was only slightly exaggerated. He had nearly killed a man in a street or bar brawl more than once, and he had recently sucker-punched Stelios of Antonis in the face. In his sole defense, he hadn't known who it was, but he hadn't cared, either.
Lesley handed off his horse to someone who seemed to be one of Elias's servants with no more thought or care whether that was actually the man's job than if he'd been noble himself, and obediently followed the Baron on board the ship. Belowdecks was not as crowded nor as closed-in as he'd expected, but then, he'd never been on a ship before, so what did he know? The motion of the ship as they pulled away from the dock was only slightly disconcerting. Calm seas, though he had no way to judge it; enough motion that he'd need to use caution in a fight and think about his footing, but not enough to be worrying.
He grunted again, this time in acknowledgement, when Elias gave his order. He gave the two trussed up fellows an assessing look, then moved to the far corner and stripped himself of the majority of his weapons. Shield, spear, staff, sword, and the heavy knife were set aside, then he removed the tiny pins that formed the edges of his tunic into sleeves and dropped them carefully into his pouch. With the scars and ink liberally spread up and down his arms on full display, he picked up his quarterstaff again, and headed back over towards the nervously waiting men. "Hmm. I assume you don't care about how much blood gets on the decks?" He poked one of the men in the temple. "Are the blindfolds entirely necessary?" At Elias giving his permission, he yanked it off, then stepped back suddenly and thrust the butt of his staff square into the man's chest, knocking the chair over and skittering back a couple feet across the deck. "Need some room to work, if y'don't mind there, boy."
He contemplated the other man for a moment. "Boring," he decided. He drew his knife as he stepped behind him, and quickly cut him free of his restraints, then grabbed the chair and physically dumped him out of it while the poor sod was still trying to figure out whether he should be moving or yanking off his blindfold first. Lesley's staff caught him hard behind the knees, then across the back, then on his wrist... he was only aiming in an absent way, habit and instinct drawing the staff towards the most vulnerable parts of his body, and hitting him plenty hard enough to drive him back to the floor every time he even started to push himself back up. Such blows were also strong enough to crack bone, and soon a smashed cheek and several cracked ribs joined the broken wrist, each one eliciting a loud cry of pain between the quieter grunts of simply having the wind knocked out of him.
Lesley licked his lips and grinned. This wasn't his usual sort of pastime; it lacked the thrill, and he would always love the arena... but it was definitely fun. This time he let the battered man stumble to his feet, he was holding his good hand out and saying something, but Lesley stopped listening after Please. He'd take orders from the Stravos lord paying him, but he wasn't the one who cared what they had to say, so any begging really needed to be directed at a different audience. Instead, he snapped his staff into the side of a knee hard enough to shatter the joint, and the unfortunate man went down hard, landing on his broken wrist and giving a proper, full-throated scream. This time he didn't even think about getting up, just curled into something fairly close to a ball, given that one knee no longer worked, and a few gods' names made their way into his gasping pleas for mercy.
He glanced over at a slight scrape of a chair against the deck, and saw the other man caught between equally strong urges to try to see what was happening, and to look anywhere except at the gladiator and his victim. He wasn't making any effort - or at least no progress - towards escaping, so Les ignored him and turned back to his current target with a happy smile.
Lesley chuckled quietly, and almost soundless scoff deep in his throat, as Elias was slightly too obvious about not wanting to get within arm's reach. Not that he'd be the first. After all, the gladiator was a killer, and had a reputation as being both unpredictable and unintimidated by rank. Which was only slightly exaggerated. He had nearly killed a man in a street or bar brawl more than once, and he had recently sucker-punched Stelios of Antonis in the face. In his sole defense, he hadn't known who it was, but he hadn't cared, either.
Lesley handed off his horse to someone who seemed to be one of Elias's servants with no more thought or care whether that was actually the man's job than if he'd been noble himself, and obediently followed the Baron on board the ship. Belowdecks was not as crowded nor as closed-in as he'd expected, but then, he'd never been on a ship before, so what did he know? The motion of the ship as they pulled away from the dock was only slightly disconcerting. Calm seas, though he had no way to judge it; enough motion that he'd need to use caution in a fight and think about his footing, but not enough to be worrying.
He grunted again, this time in acknowledgement, when Elias gave his order. He gave the two trussed up fellows an assessing look, then moved to the far corner and stripped himself of the majority of his weapons. Shield, spear, staff, sword, and the heavy knife were set aside, then he removed the tiny pins that formed the edges of his tunic into sleeves and dropped them carefully into his pouch. With the scars and ink liberally spread up and down his arms on full display, he picked up his quarterstaff again, and headed back over towards the nervously waiting men. "Hmm. I assume you don't care about how much blood gets on the decks?" He poked one of the men in the temple. "Are the blindfolds entirely necessary?" At Elias giving his permission, he yanked it off, then stepped back suddenly and thrust the butt of his staff square into the man's chest, knocking the chair over and skittering back a couple feet across the deck. "Need some room to work, if y'don't mind there, boy."
He contemplated the other man for a moment. "Boring," he decided. He drew his knife as he stepped behind him, and quickly cut him free of his restraints, then grabbed the chair and physically dumped him out of it while the poor sod was still trying to figure out whether he should be moving or yanking off his blindfold first. Lesley's staff caught him hard behind the knees, then across the back, then on his wrist... he was only aiming in an absent way, habit and instinct drawing the staff towards the most vulnerable parts of his body, and hitting him plenty hard enough to drive him back to the floor every time he even started to push himself back up. Such blows were also strong enough to crack bone, and soon a smashed cheek and several cracked ribs joined the broken wrist, each one eliciting a loud cry of pain between the quieter grunts of simply having the wind knocked out of him.
Lesley licked his lips and grinned. This wasn't his usual sort of pastime; it lacked the thrill, and he would always love the arena... but it was definitely fun. This time he let the battered man stumble to his feet, he was holding his good hand out and saying something, but Lesley stopped listening after Please. He'd take orders from the Stravos lord paying him, but he wasn't the one who cared what they had to say, so any begging really needed to be directed at a different audience. Instead, he snapped his staff into the side of a knee hard enough to shatter the joint, and the unfortunate man went down hard, landing on his broken wrist and giving a proper, full-throated scream. This time he didn't even think about getting up, just curled into something fairly close to a ball, given that one knee no longer worked, and a few gods' names made their way into his gasping pleas for mercy.
He glanced over at a slight scrape of a chair against the deck, and saw the other man caught between equally strong urges to try to see what was happening, and to look anywhere except at the gladiator and his victim. He wasn't making any effort - or at least no progress - towards escaping, so Les ignored him and turned back to his current target with a happy smile.
It looked to Elias that he'd made the correct decision in bringing Lesley with him. The Hydra's Men were competent, but their training was not spent on torture tactics. They were thugs and assassins, indoctrinated into his service for the express purpose of bringing glory to Stravos. What was to happen here in the lower deck of this boat had nothing to do with glory. No, Elias of Stravos left his Hydra's Men to collect these men, to steep themselves into the shadows of Lyncestia and surveil. Lyncestia was his territory to control, just as all of Athenia would be in the coming weeks. He knew that the queen, Persephone of Xanthos yet lived, languishing outside of the confines of the palace, hiding like an insect from the boot that was the divine retribution worthy of her.
It is unlikely that the witch will stay out of Athenia. She will rise up again to ensnare us all.
Did Elias of Stravos truly believe Persephone capable of sorcery? It was tough to say, for even in the midst of his unparalleled hatred for her there was a flicker of attraction that he considered most dangerous. Elias allowed himself to ruminate on the fallen queen for a moment longer before he turned his attentions to the present and the province he was in. Lyncestia need remain entirely within his grasp, a utopia in the midst of famine-infested lands. After all, wouldn't it be perfect for the world to see Lyncestia's continued propserity even in the most trying of times? Elias looked towards Lesley when at last the gladiator decided to speak. A chuckle escaped his lips, his shoulders giving a rise and fall before he answered,
"Have at it. The planks that soak with their blood are replaceable. The blindfolds are past their use. There is no significance in their blindness. After all, the hand of Hades is upon them," he noted. It was a high praise coming from Elias of Stravos, to consider anyone such a thing, but there was a time when even the wretches of the world did something right. He waved his hand, and leaned back against the hull of the ship. His arms crossed over his chest as he watched as he heard the crack of bone that was the poor wretch's chest-plate succumbing to the rigid force of the quarterstaff crushing the wind from his lungs. It was fascinating to see the brutal efficiency with which Lesley worked. Not only were his motions fluid and marked with the experience of decades of battle. They were also so very obviously filled with the sheer enjoyment of it. Again and again the quarterstaff made contact with vital points. Of course, without lacerations to spill blood from their bodies, they weren't in danger of death.
Yet.
Elias' gaze flickered over to Lesley next. There was sheer glee upon the gladiator's visage as that Please squeezed past his lips. Already, it seemed that blood had risen up with bile from the beating. It spilled out from the wretch's mouth, staining the floorboards just as Elias had predicted. Amusement coursed through the Stravos' body, a shiver of pleasure at the enactment of his righteous justice. Of course, Elias of Stravos couldn't do this himself. Not only was he uneducated in just how to inflict such horrific pain, he was also concerned for his hands. Such a strong grip on the quarter staff might ruin the flesh of his palms, unsullied for years by the grip of a weapon. Blood spilling against his skin might yet cause undue wrinkles to form upon his flesh. Exquisite and immaculate the Stravos lord needed to remain, for it was difficult to argue against one's claim to a mortal throne when that person held the utterly flawless visage reputed of the Gods themselves.
"Keep going, Lesley. I have no intention of questioning that one. Have your fun. This one is mine," he assured the gladiator. There was always two. It wasn't for the purpose of having multiple heads with which to gather the whole of a story. No, one person was enough to interrogate. The reason for bringing the second was for them to watch as their compatriot died. Elias of Stravos wished to see the horror in the wretch's gaze as everything that the pair stood for was laid to waste, with more and more blood spilling onto the floor with each moment of silence.
Elias stepped forward, shifting the blindfold from the other man's eyes before his fingers twisted themselves into the wretch's hair. He pulled his head down, intent on having him watch with rapt attention.
"You two are not the sole conspirators in this wretched plot to discredit me. You have allies. You have backing of some sort. If not financial, then your numbers are greater still. Tell me everything, cur, and I promise to your friend the proper passage to Tartarus. And to you, I promise passage out of Lyncestia to the land of your choosing."
Lies. All lies. Elias of Stravos didn't care if they knew the truth of it all. Surely, the torture the gladiator was putting them thought was sufficient.
"I... there is no one else."
Elias let out a low laughter, shaking his head as he mentally consigned these wretched souls to the depths of the Underworld.
"Lesley, I'd like you to ask that poor sod if he's willing to speak on his own behalf. I've made no plans for this evening."
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It looked to Elias that he'd made the correct decision in bringing Lesley with him. The Hydra's Men were competent, but their training was not spent on torture tactics. They were thugs and assassins, indoctrinated into his service for the express purpose of bringing glory to Stravos. What was to happen here in the lower deck of this boat had nothing to do with glory. No, Elias of Stravos left his Hydra's Men to collect these men, to steep themselves into the shadows of Lyncestia and surveil. Lyncestia was his territory to control, just as all of Athenia would be in the coming weeks. He knew that the queen, Persephone of Xanthos yet lived, languishing outside of the confines of the palace, hiding like an insect from the boot that was the divine retribution worthy of her.
It is unlikely that the witch will stay out of Athenia. She will rise up again to ensnare us all.
Did Elias of Stravos truly believe Persephone capable of sorcery? It was tough to say, for even in the midst of his unparalleled hatred for her there was a flicker of attraction that he considered most dangerous. Elias allowed himself to ruminate on the fallen queen for a moment longer before he turned his attentions to the present and the province he was in. Lyncestia need remain entirely within his grasp, a utopia in the midst of famine-infested lands. After all, wouldn't it be perfect for the world to see Lyncestia's continued propserity even in the most trying of times? Elias looked towards Lesley when at last the gladiator decided to speak. A chuckle escaped his lips, his shoulders giving a rise and fall before he answered,
"Have at it. The planks that soak with their blood are replaceable. The blindfolds are past their use. There is no significance in their blindness. After all, the hand of Hades is upon them," he noted. It was a high praise coming from Elias of Stravos, to consider anyone such a thing, but there was a time when even the wretches of the world did something right. He waved his hand, and leaned back against the hull of the ship. His arms crossed over his chest as he watched as he heard the crack of bone that was the poor wretch's chest-plate succumbing to the rigid force of the quarterstaff crushing the wind from his lungs. It was fascinating to see the brutal efficiency with which Lesley worked. Not only were his motions fluid and marked with the experience of decades of battle. They were also so very obviously filled with the sheer enjoyment of it. Again and again the quarterstaff made contact with vital points. Of course, without lacerations to spill blood from their bodies, they weren't in danger of death.
Yet.
Elias' gaze flickered over to Lesley next. There was sheer glee upon the gladiator's visage as that Please squeezed past his lips. Already, it seemed that blood had risen up with bile from the beating. It spilled out from the wretch's mouth, staining the floorboards just as Elias had predicted. Amusement coursed through the Stravos' body, a shiver of pleasure at the enactment of his righteous justice. Of course, Elias of Stravos couldn't do this himself. Not only was he uneducated in just how to inflict such horrific pain, he was also concerned for his hands. Such a strong grip on the quarter staff might ruin the flesh of his palms, unsullied for years by the grip of a weapon. Blood spilling against his skin might yet cause undue wrinkles to form upon his flesh. Exquisite and immaculate the Stravos lord needed to remain, for it was difficult to argue against one's claim to a mortal throne when that person held the utterly flawless visage reputed of the Gods themselves.
"Keep going, Lesley. I have no intention of questioning that one. Have your fun. This one is mine," he assured the gladiator. There was always two. It wasn't for the purpose of having multiple heads with which to gather the whole of a story. No, one person was enough to interrogate. The reason for bringing the second was for them to watch as their compatriot died. Elias of Stravos wished to see the horror in the wretch's gaze as everything that the pair stood for was laid to waste, with more and more blood spilling onto the floor with each moment of silence.
Elias stepped forward, shifting the blindfold from the other man's eyes before his fingers twisted themselves into the wretch's hair. He pulled his head down, intent on having him watch with rapt attention.
"You two are not the sole conspirators in this wretched plot to discredit me. You have allies. You have backing of some sort. If not financial, then your numbers are greater still. Tell me everything, cur, and I promise to your friend the proper passage to Tartarus. And to you, I promise passage out of Lyncestia to the land of your choosing."
Lies. All lies. Elias of Stravos didn't care if they knew the truth of it all. Surely, the torture the gladiator was putting them thought was sufficient.
"I... there is no one else."
Elias let out a low laughter, shaking his head as he mentally consigned these wretched souls to the depths of the Underworld.
"Lesley, I'd like you to ask that poor sod if he's willing to speak on his own behalf. I've made no plans for this evening."
It looked to Elias that he'd made the correct decision in bringing Lesley with him. The Hydra's Men were competent, but their training was not spent on torture tactics. They were thugs and assassins, indoctrinated into his service for the express purpose of bringing glory to Stravos. What was to happen here in the lower deck of this boat had nothing to do with glory. No, Elias of Stravos left his Hydra's Men to collect these men, to steep themselves into the shadows of Lyncestia and surveil. Lyncestia was his territory to control, just as all of Athenia would be in the coming weeks. He knew that the queen, Persephone of Xanthos yet lived, languishing outside of the confines of the palace, hiding like an insect from the boot that was the divine retribution worthy of her.
It is unlikely that the witch will stay out of Athenia. She will rise up again to ensnare us all.
Did Elias of Stravos truly believe Persephone capable of sorcery? It was tough to say, for even in the midst of his unparalleled hatred for her there was a flicker of attraction that he considered most dangerous. Elias allowed himself to ruminate on the fallen queen for a moment longer before he turned his attentions to the present and the province he was in. Lyncestia need remain entirely within his grasp, a utopia in the midst of famine-infested lands. After all, wouldn't it be perfect for the world to see Lyncestia's continued propserity even in the most trying of times? Elias looked towards Lesley when at last the gladiator decided to speak. A chuckle escaped his lips, his shoulders giving a rise and fall before he answered,
"Have at it. The planks that soak with their blood are replaceable. The blindfolds are past their use. There is no significance in their blindness. After all, the hand of Hades is upon them," he noted. It was a high praise coming from Elias of Stravos, to consider anyone such a thing, but there was a time when even the wretches of the world did something right. He waved his hand, and leaned back against the hull of the ship. His arms crossed over his chest as he watched as he heard the crack of bone that was the poor wretch's chest-plate succumbing to the rigid force of the quarterstaff crushing the wind from his lungs. It was fascinating to see the brutal efficiency with which Lesley worked. Not only were his motions fluid and marked with the experience of decades of battle. They were also so very obviously filled with the sheer enjoyment of it. Again and again the quarterstaff made contact with vital points. Of course, without lacerations to spill blood from their bodies, they weren't in danger of death.
Yet.
Elias' gaze flickered over to Lesley next. There was sheer glee upon the gladiator's visage as that Please squeezed past his lips. Already, it seemed that blood had risen up with bile from the beating. It spilled out from the wretch's mouth, staining the floorboards just as Elias had predicted. Amusement coursed through the Stravos' body, a shiver of pleasure at the enactment of his righteous justice. Of course, Elias of Stravos couldn't do this himself. Not only was he uneducated in just how to inflict such horrific pain, he was also concerned for his hands. Such a strong grip on the quarter staff might ruin the flesh of his palms, unsullied for years by the grip of a weapon. Blood spilling against his skin might yet cause undue wrinkles to form upon his flesh. Exquisite and immaculate the Stravos lord needed to remain, for it was difficult to argue against one's claim to a mortal throne when that person held the utterly flawless visage reputed of the Gods themselves.
"Keep going, Lesley. I have no intention of questioning that one. Have your fun. This one is mine," he assured the gladiator. There was always two. It wasn't for the purpose of having multiple heads with which to gather the whole of a story. No, one person was enough to interrogate. The reason for bringing the second was for them to watch as their compatriot died. Elias of Stravos wished to see the horror in the wretch's gaze as everything that the pair stood for was laid to waste, with more and more blood spilling onto the floor with each moment of silence.
Elias stepped forward, shifting the blindfold from the other man's eyes before his fingers twisted themselves into the wretch's hair. He pulled his head down, intent on having him watch with rapt attention.
"You two are not the sole conspirators in this wretched plot to discredit me. You have allies. You have backing of some sort. If not financial, then your numbers are greater still. Tell me everything, cur, and I promise to your friend the proper passage to Tartarus. And to you, I promise passage out of Lyncestia to the land of your choosing."
Lies. All lies. Elias of Stravos didn't care if they knew the truth of it all. Surely, the torture the gladiator was putting them thought was sufficient.
"I... there is no one else."
Elias let out a low laughter, shaking his head as he mentally consigned these wretched souls to the depths of the Underworld.
"Lesley, I'd like you to ask that poor sod if he's willing to speak on his own behalf. I've made no plans for this evening."
Have fun was such a permissive phrase. Not that 'fun' was exactly the right term. Sparring was fun, gambling, drinking and sassing his friends... even, some days, when he knew he wasn't fighting for his life, spilling blood in the arena before the screaming crowds... This was deeper, darker, than merely fun.
'Satisfying' was closer, perhaps, though there was no challenge to this, no risk, no adrenaline. Lesley licked his lips, his smile broadening as he tossed the staff to his left hand and leaned on it as he leaned down to haul his victim more or less to his feet. Reeling and disoriented, the unfortunate stumbled, unable to keep his footing on the gently swaying deck, and Lesley punched him not quite square in the chest, his full weight and power landing directly onto the bruise left by his staff. This was a man who thought a half hour run, a few rounds of handball with a weighted ball, and an afternoon of hauling sandbags and reorganizing the rest of the gladiator's training equipment was a relaxing day off from training - he heard as well as felt the cracked rib give the rest of the way as the sheer force of it flung the owner of said rib back to the floor, skidding and spluttering.
Satisfaction, pleasure... call it what you will. The sheer rush of the violence that he kept leashed so much of the time, given an outlet and free rein - oh, Lesley was more than happy to play the avenging hand of Hades and make as much of an example of this one as Elias could ever have wanted.
"Hmm?"
The gladiator turned at his name, unconscious habit making him step back and to the side as he did, so that the man on the floor was still in his peripheral vision.
"Sorry, m'lord, I thought you said you didn't need him." The gladiator was far too pleased by the tears and blood and quiet sounds of pain to sound truly remoresful. He prodded his new punching bag with a toe. "What say you? Can you manage to talk while I take a bit of a break?"
The poor sod coughed, blood bubbling out past his lips as the attempt to answer pulled a cry of pain from him instead. Whimpering quietly, he just nodded.
"Hmph." Les looked skeptical, then shrugged philosophically and stepped away. "All yours. I didn't hit him in the head any, so he should be able to remember all the right answers." He chuckled quietly to himself as he walked over to lay the blood-smeared quarterstaff in the corner beside his spear and shield, and picked up his heavy bronze knife. Testing the edge with a thumb, he absently hummed a few notes to himself as he contemplated the two conspirators and considered what else to do with them once the Lord gave him leave again.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Have fun was such a permissive phrase. Not that 'fun' was exactly the right term. Sparring was fun, gambling, drinking and sassing his friends... even, some days, when he knew he wasn't fighting for his life, spilling blood in the arena before the screaming crowds... This was deeper, darker, than merely fun.
'Satisfying' was closer, perhaps, though there was no challenge to this, no risk, no adrenaline. Lesley licked his lips, his smile broadening as he tossed the staff to his left hand and leaned on it as he leaned down to haul his victim more or less to his feet. Reeling and disoriented, the unfortunate stumbled, unable to keep his footing on the gently swaying deck, and Lesley punched him not quite square in the chest, his full weight and power landing directly onto the bruise left by his staff. This was a man who thought a half hour run, a few rounds of handball with a weighted ball, and an afternoon of hauling sandbags and reorganizing the rest of the gladiator's training equipment was a relaxing day off from training - he heard as well as felt the cracked rib give the rest of the way as the sheer force of it flung the owner of said rib back to the floor, skidding and spluttering.
Satisfaction, pleasure... call it what you will. The sheer rush of the violence that he kept leashed so much of the time, given an outlet and free rein - oh, Lesley was more than happy to play the avenging hand of Hades and make as much of an example of this one as Elias could ever have wanted.
"Hmm?"
The gladiator turned at his name, unconscious habit making him step back and to the side as he did, so that the man on the floor was still in his peripheral vision.
"Sorry, m'lord, I thought you said you didn't need him." The gladiator was far too pleased by the tears and blood and quiet sounds of pain to sound truly remoresful. He prodded his new punching bag with a toe. "What say you? Can you manage to talk while I take a bit of a break?"
The poor sod coughed, blood bubbling out past his lips as the attempt to answer pulled a cry of pain from him instead. Whimpering quietly, he just nodded.
"Hmph." Les looked skeptical, then shrugged philosophically and stepped away. "All yours. I didn't hit him in the head any, so he should be able to remember all the right answers." He chuckled quietly to himself as he walked over to lay the blood-smeared quarterstaff in the corner beside his spear and shield, and picked up his heavy bronze knife. Testing the edge with a thumb, he absently hummed a few notes to himself as he contemplated the two conspirators and considered what else to do with them once the Lord gave him leave again.
Have fun was such a permissive phrase. Not that 'fun' was exactly the right term. Sparring was fun, gambling, drinking and sassing his friends... even, some days, when he knew he wasn't fighting for his life, spilling blood in the arena before the screaming crowds... This was deeper, darker, than merely fun.
'Satisfying' was closer, perhaps, though there was no challenge to this, no risk, no adrenaline. Lesley licked his lips, his smile broadening as he tossed the staff to his left hand and leaned on it as he leaned down to haul his victim more or less to his feet. Reeling and disoriented, the unfortunate stumbled, unable to keep his footing on the gently swaying deck, and Lesley punched him not quite square in the chest, his full weight and power landing directly onto the bruise left by his staff. This was a man who thought a half hour run, a few rounds of handball with a weighted ball, and an afternoon of hauling sandbags and reorganizing the rest of the gladiator's training equipment was a relaxing day off from training - he heard as well as felt the cracked rib give the rest of the way as the sheer force of it flung the owner of said rib back to the floor, skidding and spluttering.
Satisfaction, pleasure... call it what you will. The sheer rush of the violence that he kept leashed so much of the time, given an outlet and free rein - oh, Lesley was more than happy to play the avenging hand of Hades and make as much of an example of this one as Elias could ever have wanted.
"Hmm?"
The gladiator turned at his name, unconscious habit making him step back and to the side as he did, so that the man on the floor was still in his peripheral vision.
"Sorry, m'lord, I thought you said you didn't need him." The gladiator was far too pleased by the tears and blood and quiet sounds of pain to sound truly remoresful. He prodded his new punching bag with a toe. "What say you? Can you manage to talk while I take a bit of a break?"
The poor sod coughed, blood bubbling out past his lips as the attempt to answer pulled a cry of pain from him instead. Whimpering quietly, he just nodded.
"Hmph." Les looked skeptical, then shrugged philosophically and stepped away. "All yours. I didn't hit him in the head any, so he should be able to remember all the right answers." He chuckled quietly to himself as he walked over to lay the blood-smeared quarterstaff in the corner beside his spear and shield, and picked up his heavy bronze knife. Testing the edge with a thumb, he absently hummed a few notes to himself as he contemplated the two conspirators and considered what else to do with them once the Lord gave him leave again.