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Marietta hated conflict of any kind. It terrified her. She was a shy girl, one that would hide behind her sisters or parents if confronted by any issue. She even loathed fighting with her sisters. (Though she would still do it, that was beside the point.) Conflict was unwanted and absolutely horrifying. It was the thing of nightmares.
So the golden question was why Marietta of Antonis made her way to the stadium, where gladiatorial fights were to be held. Why on earth would she step foot in a place that thrived off violence? That profited off the blood of others? The very thought made her sick to the stomach. Blood especially made Marietta very squeamish, so much so that she may faint.
And yet the young lady made her way to the stadium despite every step wanting to turn back. What if she saw someone with a big ugly gash down their arm? Or a leg was broken and twisted to the side? Oh gods, Marietta was not prepared for the horrors which she might see. She should have remained in her room, where there was no chance of violence, and she wouldn’t have to see anything that would make her feel squeamish.
But muse called to her. She had a vision of a gladiator fighting, the taste of victory near, and the might of Ares in his grasp. Each time Marietta had tried to paint this image, she stared at nothing. Her paint remained on its pallet, unable to produce the dream she had in her head. Art is meant to be experienced, and for a girl who abhorred violence with every fiber of her being, she had no way to paint the story of the glorious gladiator.
So as she drew near, Marietta pushed her anxieties down and tried to calm the beating of her heart. She would listen to the stories of those who fight, and perhaps even watch a battle herself. Oh gods, she should have at least asked Sofia to join her. Sofia would be able to describe the combat without Marietta having to watch it. This was a mistake… she should have come another day.
But then Marietta saw him. A strong man, who bore markings of a true warrior. He was quite handsome, all things considered. Marietta had a thing for older men with experience, not that she would ever deign to act on it. The very thought of acting on these impulses brought a blush to her face. No, no she would have a simple conversation, see if he would model for her painting, and be on her way.
Alright, Marietta. One foot in front of the other. The nervous girl approached the strong man who was just outside the stadium, perhaps leaving or entering for the day. “You… there.” Marietta said nervously. She hated talking, but it was not often she felt nervous when approaching who was not of noble blood. This man was gigantic though, (Not so much in height, but certainly in muscle) and enough to set the small girl on edge. “Are you a fighter, erm, sir?”
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Marietta hated conflict of any kind. It terrified her. She was a shy girl, one that would hide behind her sisters or parents if confronted by any issue. She even loathed fighting with her sisters. (Though she would still do it, that was beside the point.) Conflict was unwanted and absolutely horrifying. It was the thing of nightmares.
So the golden question was why Marietta of Antonis made her way to the stadium, where gladiatorial fights were to be held. Why on earth would she step foot in a place that thrived off violence? That profited off the blood of others? The very thought made her sick to the stomach. Blood especially made Marietta very squeamish, so much so that she may faint.
And yet the young lady made her way to the stadium despite every step wanting to turn back. What if she saw someone with a big ugly gash down their arm? Or a leg was broken and twisted to the side? Oh gods, Marietta was not prepared for the horrors which she might see. She should have remained in her room, where there was no chance of violence, and she wouldn’t have to see anything that would make her feel squeamish.
But muse called to her. She had a vision of a gladiator fighting, the taste of victory near, and the might of Ares in his grasp. Each time Marietta had tried to paint this image, she stared at nothing. Her paint remained on its pallet, unable to produce the dream she had in her head. Art is meant to be experienced, and for a girl who abhorred violence with every fiber of her being, she had no way to paint the story of the glorious gladiator.
So as she drew near, Marietta pushed her anxieties down and tried to calm the beating of her heart. She would listen to the stories of those who fight, and perhaps even watch a battle herself. Oh gods, she should have at least asked Sofia to join her. Sofia would be able to describe the combat without Marietta having to watch it. This was a mistake… she should have come another day.
But then Marietta saw him. A strong man, who bore markings of a true warrior. He was quite handsome, all things considered. Marietta had a thing for older men with experience, not that she would ever deign to act on it. The very thought of acting on these impulses brought a blush to her face. No, no she would have a simple conversation, see if he would model for her painting, and be on her way.
Alright, Marietta. One foot in front of the other. The nervous girl approached the strong man who was just outside the stadium, perhaps leaving or entering for the day. “You… there.” Marietta said nervously. She hated talking, but it was not often she felt nervous when approaching who was not of noble blood. This man was gigantic though, (Not so much in height, but certainly in muscle) and enough to set the small girl on edge. “Are you a fighter, erm, sir?”
Marietta hated conflict of any kind. It terrified her. She was a shy girl, one that would hide behind her sisters or parents if confronted by any issue. She even loathed fighting with her sisters. (Though she would still do it, that was beside the point.) Conflict was unwanted and absolutely horrifying. It was the thing of nightmares.
So the golden question was why Marietta of Antonis made her way to the stadium, where gladiatorial fights were to be held. Why on earth would she step foot in a place that thrived off violence? That profited off the blood of others? The very thought made her sick to the stomach. Blood especially made Marietta very squeamish, so much so that she may faint.
And yet the young lady made her way to the stadium despite every step wanting to turn back. What if she saw someone with a big ugly gash down their arm? Or a leg was broken and twisted to the side? Oh gods, Marietta was not prepared for the horrors which she might see. She should have remained in her room, where there was no chance of violence, and she wouldn’t have to see anything that would make her feel squeamish.
But muse called to her. She had a vision of a gladiator fighting, the taste of victory near, and the might of Ares in his grasp. Each time Marietta had tried to paint this image, she stared at nothing. Her paint remained on its pallet, unable to produce the dream she had in her head. Art is meant to be experienced, and for a girl who abhorred violence with every fiber of her being, she had no way to paint the story of the glorious gladiator.
So as she drew near, Marietta pushed her anxieties down and tried to calm the beating of her heart. She would listen to the stories of those who fight, and perhaps even watch a battle herself. Oh gods, she should have at least asked Sofia to join her. Sofia would be able to describe the combat without Marietta having to watch it. This was a mistake… she should have come another day.
But then Marietta saw him. A strong man, who bore markings of a true warrior. He was quite handsome, all things considered. Marietta had a thing for older men with experience, not that she would ever deign to act on it. The very thought of acting on these impulses brought a blush to her face. No, no she would have a simple conversation, see if he would model for her painting, and be on her way.
Alright, Marietta. One foot in front of the other. The nervous girl approached the strong man who was just outside the stadium, perhaps leaving or entering for the day. “You… there.” Marietta said nervously. She hated talking, but it was not often she felt nervous when approaching who was not of noble blood. This man was gigantic though, (Not so much in height, but certainly in muscle) and enough to set the small girl on edge. “Are you a fighter, erm, sir?”
The quiet man who'd just stepped outside didn't think of himself as being intimidating - except when he was trying - and his brows drew together in concern as the extraordinarily nervous girl addressed him.
"I am," he replied evenly, and leaned himself cautiously back against the doorpost. "Though retiring sounds like a good plan at the moment." He raised his opium pipe to his mouth and drew in another lungful of the fragrant smoke. He hadn't stepped out to smoke, precisely - Lesley didn't think smoking was an outdoor activity any more than he thought drinking was, no matter what his mother's opinions on the subject might be - he'd just wanted a few minutes where he could stop pretending not to be in pain without getting teased for it. He knew his friends were sympathetic under the teasing - they'd all been there and knew what it felt like - but a man could only take so many comments about his advancing age before he lost his patience.
"How can I help you?"
Girl or not, some instinct sized her up in a glance. Nice clothes, soft hands, careful cosmetics, no servants in sight... Skinny; her curves doubtless saved her from that label from most, but Lesley noticed her arms rather than her chest. Not gaunt though; the smooth curve of her cheek showed she ate often enough, though probably not as much as most nobles. Even a rich merchant's daughter would probably have someone with her, either sister or servant, to go somewhere she felt nervous, and no courtesan who could afford that dress would be remotely that shy or awkward. Some noble's servant? Who she was was less important than obvious physical inability to pose a serious threat to a cat, which conclusion left the gladiator leaning contentedly against the wall, gradually relaxing under the painkilling effects of the drug.
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The quiet man who'd just stepped outside didn't think of himself as being intimidating - except when he was trying - and his brows drew together in concern as the extraordinarily nervous girl addressed him.
"I am," he replied evenly, and leaned himself cautiously back against the doorpost. "Though retiring sounds like a good plan at the moment." He raised his opium pipe to his mouth and drew in another lungful of the fragrant smoke. He hadn't stepped out to smoke, precisely - Lesley didn't think smoking was an outdoor activity any more than he thought drinking was, no matter what his mother's opinions on the subject might be - he'd just wanted a few minutes where he could stop pretending not to be in pain without getting teased for it. He knew his friends were sympathetic under the teasing - they'd all been there and knew what it felt like - but a man could only take so many comments about his advancing age before he lost his patience.
"How can I help you?"
Girl or not, some instinct sized her up in a glance. Nice clothes, soft hands, careful cosmetics, no servants in sight... Skinny; her curves doubtless saved her from that label from most, but Lesley noticed her arms rather than her chest. Not gaunt though; the smooth curve of her cheek showed she ate often enough, though probably not as much as most nobles. Even a rich merchant's daughter would probably have someone with her, either sister or servant, to go somewhere she felt nervous, and no courtesan who could afford that dress would be remotely that shy or awkward. Some noble's servant? Who she was was less important than obvious physical inability to pose a serious threat to a cat, which conclusion left the gladiator leaning contentedly against the wall, gradually relaxing under the painkilling effects of the drug.
The quiet man who'd just stepped outside didn't think of himself as being intimidating - except when he was trying - and his brows drew together in concern as the extraordinarily nervous girl addressed him.
"I am," he replied evenly, and leaned himself cautiously back against the doorpost. "Though retiring sounds like a good plan at the moment." He raised his opium pipe to his mouth and drew in another lungful of the fragrant smoke. He hadn't stepped out to smoke, precisely - Lesley didn't think smoking was an outdoor activity any more than he thought drinking was, no matter what his mother's opinions on the subject might be - he'd just wanted a few minutes where he could stop pretending not to be in pain without getting teased for it. He knew his friends were sympathetic under the teasing - they'd all been there and knew what it felt like - but a man could only take so many comments about his advancing age before he lost his patience.
"How can I help you?"
Girl or not, some instinct sized her up in a glance. Nice clothes, soft hands, careful cosmetics, no servants in sight... Skinny; her curves doubtless saved her from that label from most, but Lesley noticed her arms rather than her chest. Not gaunt though; the smooth curve of her cheek showed she ate often enough, though probably not as much as most nobles. Even a rich merchant's daughter would probably have someone with her, either sister or servant, to go somewhere she felt nervous, and no courtesan who could afford that dress would be remotely that shy or awkward. Some noble's servant? Who she was was less important than obvious physical inability to pose a serious threat to a cat, which conclusion left the gladiator leaning contentedly against the wall, gradually relaxing under the painkilling effects of the drug.
The awkward girl just grew more uncomfortable watching him raise his opium pipe to his lips. This was a situation that Marietta had never imagined herself to be in a million years. Sofia should have come with me. She thought to herself for the millionth time. Sofia would have loved a trip to the coliseum. She would have wanted to watch the fights and would have loved the chance to speak with a gladiator. She would be asking for stories and having a grand old time while Marietta just hung back and painted. Why, oh why did she not think of this sooner?
And he spoke so gruffly. He didn’t even address her- Oh, right. “Excuse me, I forgot my manners,” Marietta said quickly. “I’m Lady Marietta of Antonis. Right…” She trailed off. Use your words, Etta.
But words were so often very hard for the girl to find. Words were complicated. Words were… well, things of which you use to have a conversation. And conversations were just terrifying. Especially with strangers. This was too much. She should just have turned around and gone home. Marietta could feel her heart begin to race and a blush rise to her cheeks.
Control yourself! Oh this was humiliating. How could she not speak even to a commoner? Why on earth was she shy with everyone she came across? “Excuse me,” She mumbled. “I... “ Words, just use your words. “I’m a painter.” And a musician, but he didn’t care about that. “And… and I had an inspiration for a… painting.”
Right, she was making progress. Despite finally being able to speak her face was only getting redder. She could just imagine the man laughing at her. He probably would tell her to stop wasting his time. Why was a little girl being such a coward when he risked his life in the arena? He was probably stifling a laugh and was going to tell all his gladiator friends just how much of a coward the Antonis girl is. And she would be a laughing stock of all of Greece. Marietta could already see it now.
But she had gotten halfway through, she might as well blurt out all the words so he could reject her cruelly and send her home wishing she could crawl under a rock and never be seen from again. “I had the inspiration for a gladiatorial painting to be specific. The problem is… I don’t really watch the fights. They make me… ill,” Just the thought of seeing blood was already making her stomach curl. “But I still wanted to do the painting. And I was hoping I could… use you as a model. Perhaps hear your stories.”
Marietta cringed as soon as the request came out of her mouth. This was stupid. She was stupid for even asking. This whole situation was, well, stupid. “If you don’t have the time it’s fine. I-I realize this is an odd request and you… are probably very busy and... and…” Her face was flaming now. Marietta’s eyes cast to the floor. “N-Nevermind…” she whispered, barely audible.
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The awkward girl just grew more uncomfortable watching him raise his opium pipe to his lips. This was a situation that Marietta had never imagined herself to be in a million years. Sofia should have come with me. She thought to herself for the millionth time. Sofia would have loved a trip to the coliseum. She would have wanted to watch the fights and would have loved the chance to speak with a gladiator. She would be asking for stories and having a grand old time while Marietta just hung back and painted. Why, oh why did she not think of this sooner?
And he spoke so gruffly. He didn’t even address her- Oh, right. “Excuse me, I forgot my manners,” Marietta said quickly. “I’m Lady Marietta of Antonis. Right…” She trailed off. Use your words, Etta.
But words were so often very hard for the girl to find. Words were complicated. Words were… well, things of which you use to have a conversation. And conversations were just terrifying. Especially with strangers. This was too much. She should just have turned around and gone home. Marietta could feel her heart begin to race and a blush rise to her cheeks.
Control yourself! Oh this was humiliating. How could she not speak even to a commoner? Why on earth was she shy with everyone she came across? “Excuse me,” She mumbled. “I... “ Words, just use your words. “I’m a painter.” And a musician, but he didn’t care about that. “And… and I had an inspiration for a… painting.”
Right, she was making progress. Despite finally being able to speak her face was only getting redder. She could just imagine the man laughing at her. He probably would tell her to stop wasting his time. Why was a little girl being such a coward when he risked his life in the arena? He was probably stifling a laugh and was going to tell all his gladiator friends just how much of a coward the Antonis girl is. And she would be a laughing stock of all of Greece. Marietta could already see it now.
But she had gotten halfway through, she might as well blurt out all the words so he could reject her cruelly and send her home wishing she could crawl under a rock and never be seen from again. “I had the inspiration for a gladiatorial painting to be specific. The problem is… I don’t really watch the fights. They make me… ill,” Just the thought of seeing blood was already making her stomach curl. “But I still wanted to do the painting. And I was hoping I could… use you as a model. Perhaps hear your stories.”
Marietta cringed as soon as the request came out of her mouth. This was stupid. She was stupid for even asking. This whole situation was, well, stupid. “If you don’t have the time it’s fine. I-I realize this is an odd request and you… are probably very busy and... and…” Her face was flaming now. Marietta’s eyes cast to the floor. “N-Nevermind…” she whispered, barely audible.
The awkward girl just grew more uncomfortable watching him raise his opium pipe to his lips. This was a situation that Marietta had never imagined herself to be in a million years. Sofia should have come with me. She thought to herself for the millionth time. Sofia would have loved a trip to the coliseum. She would have wanted to watch the fights and would have loved the chance to speak with a gladiator. She would be asking for stories and having a grand old time while Marietta just hung back and painted. Why, oh why did she not think of this sooner?
And he spoke so gruffly. He didn’t even address her- Oh, right. “Excuse me, I forgot my manners,” Marietta said quickly. “I’m Lady Marietta of Antonis. Right…” She trailed off. Use your words, Etta.
But words were so often very hard for the girl to find. Words were complicated. Words were… well, things of which you use to have a conversation. And conversations were just terrifying. Especially with strangers. This was too much. She should just have turned around and gone home. Marietta could feel her heart begin to race and a blush rise to her cheeks.
Control yourself! Oh this was humiliating. How could she not speak even to a commoner? Why on earth was she shy with everyone she came across? “Excuse me,” She mumbled. “I... “ Words, just use your words. “I’m a painter.” And a musician, but he didn’t care about that. “And… and I had an inspiration for a… painting.”
Right, she was making progress. Despite finally being able to speak her face was only getting redder. She could just imagine the man laughing at her. He probably would tell her to stop wasting his time. Why was a little girl being such a coward when he risked his life in the arena? He was probably stifling a laugh and was going to tell all his gladiator friends just how much of a coward the Antonis girl is. And she would be a laughing stock of all of Greece. Marietta could already see it now.
But she had gotten halfway through, she might as well blurt out all the words so he could reject her cruelly and send her home wishing she could crawl under a rock and never be seen from again. “I had the inspiration for a gladiatorial painting to be specific. The problem is… I don’t really watch the fights. They make me… ill,” Just the thought of seeing blood was already making her stomach curl. “But I still wanted to do the painting. And I was hoping I could… use you as a model. Perhaps hear your stories.”
Marietta cringed as soon as the request came out of her mouth. This was stupid. She was stupid for even asking. This whole situation was, well, stupid. “If you don’t have the time it’s fine. I-I realize this is an odd request and you… are probably very busy and... and…” Her face was flaming now. Marietta’s eyes cast to the floor. “N-Nevermind…” she whispered, barely audible.
In this case, the lady's anxiety-riddled instincts were entirely correct - the gladiator was in fact holding back laughter. He was, in fact, so amused at her blushing and stuttering that he didn't manage to ask the first question that occurred to him at her introduction until she finished, so preoccupied was he at ensuring he didn't laugh at her out loud. He couldn't completely hide his amusement, though.
"Where is your escort, Lady Antonis?" He sounded kind. Not concerned, exactly - it wasn't his problem, and it wasn't like she was a child who needed a nanny, but certainly, there was neither mockery nor accusation in his tone. "I'm Lesley," he offered, since she obviously hadn't recognized him. "And in fact, I'm not busy. I got myself hacked up pretty badly my last fight, so I'm out of work until I heal." He gave her a considering look. Would she get the hint she ought to pay him, or was she one of the brainlessly entitled nobles? Too heavy of a hint could interfere with her ability to feel 'generous' for offering him money in exchange for his time... it wasn't a conscious train of thought, he would never have consciously considered to sucking up to delicate noble feelings. "So I guess that leaves me looking for another gig that doesn't involve being on my feet all day." He turned his head to politely blow his smoke away from her, a consideration he wouldn't have given to another man, and added sardonically, "I'd probably make a believable enough corpse."
He wouldn't, actually. Corpses were perfectly content to sprawl in all sorts of uncomfortably twisted positions, whereas he was feeling decidedly stiff in his right hip and knee and still didn't dare raise his left arm. Platos was heavy, damnit. Not to mention he had too much colour for a dead man. When they'd first dragged his idiot ass from the arena, maybe.
A dry chuckle revealed thoughts had turned slightly morbid, but he was comfortable with his own mortality. It would have been a good death.
Oh, well.
He dragged his attention back to the nervous girl in front of him. "S'pose you've never seen the weapons up close either?"
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In this case, the lady's anxiety-riddled instincts were entirely correct - the gladiator was in fact holding back laughter. He was, in fact, so amused at her blushing and stuttering that he didn't manage to ask the first question that occurred to him at her introduction until she finished, so preoccupied was he at ensuring he didn't laugh at her out loud. He couldn't completely hide his amusement, though.
"Where is your escort, Lady Antonis?" He sounded kind. Not concerned, exactly - it wasn't his problem, and it wasn't like she was a child who needed a nanny, but certainly, there was neither mockery nor accusation in his tone. "I'm Lesley," he offered, since she obviously hadn't recognized him. "And in fact, I'm not busy. I got myself hacked up pretty badly my last fight, so I'm out of work until I heal." He gave her a considering look. Would she get the hint she ought to pay him, or was she one of the brainlessly entitled nobles? Too heavy of a hint could interfere with her ability to feel 'generous' for offering him money in exchange for his time... it wasn't a conscious train of thought, he would never have consciously considered to sucking up to delicate noble feelings. "So I guess that leaves me looking for another gig that doesn't involve being on my feet all day." He turned his head to politely blow his smoke away from her, a consideration he wouldn't have given to another man, and added sardonically, "I'd probably make a believable enough corpse."
He wouldn't, actually. Corpses were perfectly content to sprawl in all sorts of uncomfortably twisted positions, whereas he was feeling decidedly stiff in his right hip and knee and still didn't dare raise his left arm. Platos was heavy, damnit. Not to mention he had too much colour for a dead man. When they'd first dragged his idiot ass from the arena, maybe.
A dry chuckle revealed thoughts had turned slightly morbid, but he was comfortable with his own mortality. It would have been a good death.
Oh, well.
He dragged his attention back to the nervous girl in front of him. "S'pose you've never seen the weapons up close either?"
In this case, the lady's anxiety-riddled instincts were entirely correct - the gladiator was in fact holding back laughter. He was, in fact, so amused at her blushing and stuttering that he didn't manage to ask the first question that occurred to him at her introduction until she finished, so preoccupied was he at ensuring he didn't laugh at her out loud. He couldn't completely hide his amusement, though.
"Where is your escort, Lady Antonis?" He sounded kind. Not concerned, exactly - it wasn't his problem, and it wasn't like she was a child who needed a nanny, but certainly, there was neither mockery nor accusation in his tone. "I'm Lesley," he offered, since she obviously hadn't recognized him. "And in fact, I'm not busy. I got myself hacked up pretty badly my last fight, so I'm out of work until I heal." He gave her a considering look. Would she get the hint she ought to pay him, or was she one of the brainlessly entitled nobles? Too heavy of a hint could interfere with her ability to feel 'generous' for offering him money in exchange for his time... it wasn't a conscious train of thought, he would never have consciously considered to sucking up to delicate noble feelings. "So I guess that leaves me looking for another gig that doesn't involve being on my feet all day." He turned his head to politely blow his smoke away from her, a consideration he wouldn't have given to another man, and added sardonically, "I'd probably make a believable enough corpse."
He wouldn't, actually. Corpses were perfectly content to sprawl in all sorts of uncomfortably twisted positions, whereas he was feeling decidedly stiff in his right hip and knee and still didn't dare raise his left arm. Platos was heavy, damnit. Not to mention he had too much colour for a dead man. When they'd first dragged his idiot ass from the arena, maybe.
A dry chuckle revealed thoughts had turned slightly morbid, but he was comfortable with his own mortality. It would have been a good death.
Oh, well.
He dragged his attention back to the nervous girl in front of him. "S'pose you've never seen the weapons up close either?"
Where’s her escort? That was… a good question. Marietta hated people so much so that she would rather be alone than walk with guards or ladies. Servants and slaves bother Marietta less, but there wasn’t much reason to bring them with her. “I… prefer solitude.” She said quietly, answering his first question.
But he just kept talking. Clearly words were much easier for him than it was for Marietta. She was slightly concerned. He was injured? What happened when a gladiator got injured? What do they do? It’s not as if they would be compensated for their time off. How do they eat? Poors were an entire population Marietta did not understand too well. Food was easy for her to come by, but many others had to work to have a meal. Marietta had a closet of clothes for every season, meanwhile, there are many she sees walking around in attire that looked so worn she questioned if they owned it for years.
Should I offer compensation? Marietta did not offer hire people. What was fair compensation to ask someone for their stories and model for her portrait? Marietta presumed she should know this, should she ever marry into a family where she would be the Lady of the House. But… until now it was not something that she concerned herself with. Trivial things like the hiring of staff and payment of services were handled by people much more knowledgable than Marietta. The girl only cared about caring for her sisters, painting, and music. Mundane maintenance such as these never once crossed her mind as being pertinent to learn.
“I can… offer compensation.” Marietta said slowly. She would allow him to negotiate the price. Surely he wouldn’t be unfair? Marietta would at least be able to gauge something exorbitantly high. Right?
He continued asking a question and Marietta lit up. “I’ve seen weapons but never the weapons you use in gladiatorial fights.” The Antonis family was highly militaristic, her uncle Lacadies being the general of the Athenian army and her cousins Mateos, Stelios, and Patros also being well trained, ranked members of the army. She had been exposed to them running drills and sparring. Personally, Marietta always cheered Patros on, enjoying to root for the underdog.
But what was the difference between the weapons used in practice and at war and the weapons used by gladiators? Furthermore, was there a difference between fighting styles? Her family always looked so practiced and strict, their movements quick and fluid but with a lot of power hidden behind them. That was exciting for Marietta, especially knowing that they weren’t truly going to injure themselves so she wasn’t near as afraid as watching a fight in the colosseum. But surely gladiators fight differently, knowing that at any moment their life could be gone.
She pursed her lips. “I would love to see the weapons. And… and if you could maybe tell some stories I would… really be interested in hearing them. Your experiences would do wonders for my art.” Maybe she’ll even make a song out of it too.
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Where’s her escort? That was… a good question. Marietta hated people so much so that she would rather be alone than walk with guards or ladies. Servants and slaves bother Marietta less, but there wasn’t much reason to bring them with her. “I… prefer solitude.” She said quietly, answering his first question.
But he just kept talking. Clearly words were much easier for him than it was for Marietta. She was slightly concerned. He was injured? What happened when a gladiator got injured? What do they do? It’s not as if they would be compensated for their time off. How do they eat? Poors were an entire population Marietta did not understand too well. Food was easy for her to come by, but many others had to work to have a meal. Marietta had a closet of clothes for every season, meanwhile, there are many she sees walking around in attire that looked so worn she questioned if they owned it for years.
Should I offer compensation? Marietta did not offer hire people. What was fair compensation to ask someone for their stories and model for her portrait? Marietta presumed she should know this, should she ever marry into a family where she would be the Lady of the House. But… until now it was not something that she concerned herself with. Trivial things like the hiring of staff and payment of services were handled by people much more knowledgable than Marietta. The girl only cared about caring for her sisters, painting, and music. Mundane maintenance such as these never once crossed her mind as being pertinent to learn.
“I can… offer compensation.” Marietta said slowly. She would allow him to negotiate the price. Surely he wouldn’t be unfair? Marietta would at least be able to gauge something exorbitantly high. Right?
He continued asking a question and Marietta lit up. “I’ve seen weapons but never the weapons you use in gladiatorial fights.” The Antonis family was highly militaristic, her uncle Lacadies being the general of the Athenian army and her cousins Mateos, Stelios, and Patros also being well trained, ranked members of the army. She had been exposed to them running drills and sparring. Personally, Marietta always cheered Patros on, enjoying to root for the underdog.
But what was the difference between the weapons used in practice and at war and the weapons used by gladiators? Furthermore, was there a difference between fighting styles? Her family always looked so practiced and strict, their movements quick and fluid but with a lot of power hidden behind them. That was exciting for Marietta, especially knowing that they weren’t truly going to injure themselves so she wasn’t near as afraid as watching a fight in the colosseum. But surely gladiators fight differently, knowing that at any moment their life could be gone.
She pursed her lips. “I would love to see the weapons. And… and if you could maybe tell some stories I would… really be interested in hearing them. Your experiences would do wonders for my art.” Maybe she’ll even make a song out of it too.
Where’s her escort? That was… a good question. Marietta hated people so much so that she would rather be alone than walk with guards or ladies. Servants and slaves bother Marietta less, but there wasn’t much reason to bring them with her. “I… prefer solitude.” She said quietly, answering his first question.
But he just kept talking. Clearly words were much easier for him than it was for Marietta. She was slightly concerned. He was injured? What happened when a gladiator got injured? What do they do? It’s not as if they would be compensated for their time off. How do they eat? Poors were an entire population Marietta did not understand too well. Food was easy for her to come by, but many others had to work to have a meal. Marietta had a closet of clothes for every season, meanwhile, there are many she sees walking around in attire that looked so worn she questioned if they owned it for years.
Should I offer compensation? Marietta did not offer hire people. What was fair compensation to ask someone for their stories and model for her portrait? Marietta presumed she should know this, should she ever marry into a family where she would be the Lady of the House. But… until now it was not something that she concerned herself with. Trivial things like the hiring of staff and payment of services were handled by people much more knowledgable than Marietta. The girl only cared about caring for her sisters, painting, and music. Mundane maintenance such as these never once crossed her mind as being pertinent to learn.
“I can… offer compensation.” Marietta said slowly. She would allow him to negotiate the price. Surely he wouldn’t be unfair? Marietta would at least be able to gauge something exorbitantly high. Right?
He continued asking a question and Marietta lit up. “I’ve seen weapons but never the weapons you use in gladiatorial fights.” The Antonis family was highly militaristic, her uncle Lacadies being the general of the Athenian army and her cousins Mateos, Stelios, and Patros also being well trained, ranked members of the army. She had been exposed to them running drills and sparring. Personally, Marietta always cheered Patros on, enjoying to root for the underdog.
But what was the difference between the weapons used in practice and at war and the weapons used by gladiators? Furthermore, was there a difference between fighting styles? Her family always looked so practiced and strict, their movements quick and fluid but with a lot of power hidden behind them. That was exciting for Marietta, especially knowing that they weren’t truly going to injure themselves so she wasn’t near as afraid as watching a fight in the colosseum. But surely gladiators fight differently, knowing that at any moment their life could be gone.
She pursed her lips. “I would love to see the weapons. And… and if you could maybe tell some stories I would… really be interested in hearing them. Your experiences would do wonders for my art.” Maybe she’ll even make a song out of it too.
The uncertain offer of payment was good enough for the moment, without needing a number. Putting her on the spot might be amusing, but Lesley sensibly decided that the pragmatic approach of simply claiming a common labourer's wage from the Antonis servant in charge of such things was, in the longer term, better than annoying the Lord Antonis by ripping off his daughter.
"Come in, then." He beckoned and led the way into the cool stone building. The sounds of men grunting in effort and shouting cheerful obscenities at each other came from just outside another door while Lesley rummaged through the armoury for some of the more unique gladiatorial weapons. "We use the same weapons as soldiers, too," he told the artist, "but these are more iconic. This way."
Past a wooden door that could be barred from the outside were the gladiators' individual rooms, little more than cells. Les brushed a curtain aside - not all the gladiators had even that minimum of privacy, and this one showed relative wealth in being both dyed a deep reddish-brown and heavy enough to block drafts as well as vision. The grill-door had been removed, but with no effort to hide that it had once been there, hinges still standing proud of the stone.
The windowless room was no bigger than the others, but Lesley had made it his own. Paint covered the walls; one side held a proper full-size mural that had never been completed, the rest a collection of smaller, independent images, some just a sketch, some a finished, colored painting, some random doodles or bits of geometric pattern. A few were in a strange, distorted style that looked nothing like most Greek art. A splash of shapeless color showed where he had used the wall itself as a palette to mix his paints. None of it was good art, exactly, but some of it wasn't bad. The room also held two chests, one the right size for a couple changes of clothes and a blanket, and the other smaller. Both had designs carefully carved into them, as well as scars from the same knife being used to vent frustration or anger out onto the surface of the wood.
He gestured to the smaller box as he opened the larger. "There's sketching things in there, if you like. I can't leave with anything I don't own myself - well, maybe you could borrow something." The box in question didn't contain anything so wasteful as paper, but a stick of lead and a large pottery tile did just fine for a temporary doodle or working out a new design. He had wrapped charcoal in there, too, for layout lines on the walls, a few remnants of dried pigments, a bag of mixed nuts and dried dates, and the paraphernalia of an opium habit. Lesley didn't indulge for anything other than it's painkilling properties - wine was a much cheaper way of getting reality to go away for a bit, but there was a point at which wine couldn't numb any more pain when he didn't want that secondary effect. The ever-present amphora was sitting on the floor at the head of his bed, patiently waiting to help knock him out for the night with a cup inverted over the mouth.
"If you want my story," Lesley mused, as he pulled a pair of swords out of the larger chest, "Start here." He turned and claimed the staff leaning against the corner, then sat down on the floor facing her and laid all three between them crosswise.
"This," as he drew the single-edged, inward curving blade and set it back atop it's sheath, "Is the first weapon I carried into the arena. I killed a man named Metrophanes; he was new, too, and we had started to become friends." The heavy iron kopis was a cruel looking weapon, nothing a soldier would wear - more often a tool for slaughtering and butchering animals. The symbolism had not been lost on the young gladiators at the time. Lesley's voice was even, stating facts with no trace of regret or guilt, but his eyes stayed on the long knife, rather than rising to Marietta's face.
"This," he touched the wooden Xiphos next, "I earned twelve years later." Oiled and polished olive wood, this was obviously no simple practice blade. The diamond-profile leaf-shaped blade too closely mimicked a real sword; the thin wood edge would chip if ever used in earnest. It was higher quality than many rudiarius were given, but Lesley had earned it, and while the crowd's opinions didn't change what happened behind closed doors, it had a solid affect on what was shown to the public in the arcus. No story came immediately with the introduction of the second blade, instead his fingers immediately moved to brush the staff.
"The staff is usually only carried by the rudis, I don't know of any other gladiator who fights with one. The first time was about two years in - I was refereeing a melee. They were down to three, and all hesitating, and there was no lorarius that day so I was told to get the fight moving again - so I just stepped in." He shrugged. "The crowd decided they loved it. That's when they started calling me Wildcard."
He raised his gaze to meet her eyes. "My slavery, my freedom, and my fame."
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The uncertain offer of payment was good enough for the moment, without needing a number. Putting her on the spot might be amusing, but Lesley sensibly decided that the pragmatic approach of simply claiming a common labourer's wage from the Antonis servant in charge of such things was, in the longer term, better than annoying the Lord Antonis by ripping off his daughter.
"Come in, then." He beckoned and led the way into the cool stone building. The sounds of men grunting in effort and shouting cheerful obscenities at each other came from just outside another door while Lesley rummaged through the armoury for some of the more unique gladiatorial weapons. "We use the same weapons as soldiers, too," he told the artist, "but these are more iconic. This way."
Past a wooden door that could be barred from the outside were the gladiators' individual rooms, little more than cells. Les brushed a curtain aside - not all the gladiators had even that minimum of privacy, and this one showed relative wealth in being both dyed a deep reddish-brown and heavy enough to block drafts as well as vision. The grill-door had been removed, but with no effort to hide that it had once been there, hinges still standing proud of the stone.
The windowless room was no bigger than the others, but Lesley had made it his own. Paint covered the walls; one side held a proper full-size mural that had never been completed, the rest a collection of smaller, independent images, some just a sketch, some a finished, colored painting, some random doodles or bits of geometric pattern. A few were in a strange, distorted style that looked nothing like most Greek art. A splash of shapeless color showed where he had used the wall itself as a palette to mix his paints. None of it was good art, exactly, but some of it wasn't bad. The room also held two chests, one the right size for a couple changes of clothes and a blanket, and the other smaller. Both had designs carefully carved into them, as well as scars from the same knife being used to vent frustration or anger out onto the surface of the wood.
He gestured to the smaller box as he opened the larger. "There's sketching things in there, if you like. I can't leave with anything I don't own myself - well, maybe you could borrow something." The box in question didn't contain anything so wasteful as paper, but a stick of lead and a large pottery tile did just fine for a temporary doodle or working out a new design. He had wrapped charcoal in there, too, for layout lines on the walls, a few remnants of dried pigments, a bag of mixed nuts and dried dates, and the paraphernalia of an opium habit. Lesley didn't indulge for anything other than it's painkilling properties - wine was a much cheaper way of getting reality to go away for a bit, but there was a point at which wine couldn't numb any more pain when he didn't want that secondary effect. The ever-present amphora was sitting on the floor at the head of his bed, patiently waiting to help knock him out for the night with a cup inverted over the mouth.
"If you want my story," Lesley mused, as he pulled a pair of swords out of the larger chest, "Start here." He turned and claimed the staff leaning against the corner, then sat down on the floor facing her and laid all three between them crosswise.
"This," as he drew the single-edged, inward curving blade and set it back atop it's sheath, "Is the first weapon I carried into the arena. I killed a man named Metrophanes; he was new, too, and we had started to become friends." The heavy iron kopis was a cruel looking weapon, nothing a soldier would wear - more often a tool for slaughtering and butchering animals. The symbolism had not been lost on the young gladiators at the time. Lesley's voice was even, stating facts with no trace of regret or guilt, but his eyes stayed on the long knife, rather than rising to Marietta's face.
"This," he touched the wooden Xiphos next, "I earned twelve years later." Oiled and polished olive wood, this was obviously no simple practice blade. The diamond-profile leaf-shaped blade too closely mimicked a real sword; the thin wood edge would chip if ever used in earnest. It was higher quality than many rudiarius were given, but Lesley had earned it, and while the crowd's opinions didn't change what happened behind closed doors, it had a solid affect on what was shown to the public in the arcus. No story came immediately with the introduction of the second blade, instead his fingers immediately moved to brush the staff.
"The staff is usually only carried by the rudis, I don't know of any other gladiator who fights with one. The first time was about two years in - I was refereeing a melee. They were down to three, and all hesitating, and there was no lorarius that day so I was told to get the fight moving again - so I just stepped in." He shrugged. "The crowd decided they loved it. That's when they started calling me Wildcard."
He raised his gaze to meet her eyes. "My slavery, my freedom, and my fame."
The uncertain offer of payment was good enough for the moment, without needing a number. Putting her on the spot might be amusing, but Lesley sensibly decided that the pragmatic approach of simply claiming a common labourer's wage from the Antonis servant in charge of such things was, in the longer term, better than annoying the Lord Antonis by ripping off his daughter.
"Come in, then." He beckoned and led the way into the cool stone building. The sounds of men grunting in effort and shouting cheerful obscenities at each other came from just outside another door while Lesley rummaged through the armoury for some of the more unique gladiatorial weapons. "We use the same weapons as soldiers, too," he told the artist, "but these are more iconic. This way."
Past a wooden door that could be barred from the outside were the gladiators' individual rooms, little more than cells. Les brushed a curtain aside - not all the gladiators had even that minimum of privacy, and this one showed relative wealth in being both dyed a deep reddish-brown and heavy enough to block drafts as well as vision. The grill-door had been removed, but with no effort to hide that it had once been there, hinges still standing proud of the stone.
The windowless room was no bigger than the others, but Lesley had made it his own. Paint covered the walls; one side held a proper full-size mural that had never been completed, the rest a collection of smaller, independent images, some just a sketch, some a finished, colored painting, some random doodles or bits of geometric pattern. A few were in a strange, distorted style that looked nothing like most Greek art. A splash of shapeless color showed where he had used the wall itself as a palette to mix his paints. None of it was good art, exactly, but some of it wasn't bad. The room also held two chests, one the right size for a couple changes of clothes and a blanket, and the other smaller. Both had designs carefully carved into them, as well as scars from the same knife being used to vent frustration or anger out onto the surface of the wood.
He gestured to the smaller box as he opened the larger. "There's sketching things in there, if you like. I can't leave with anything I don't own myself - well, maybe you could borrow something." The box in question didn't contain anything so wasteful as paper, but a stick of lead and a large pottery tile did just fine for a temporary doodle or working out a new design. He had wrapped charcoal in there, too, for layout lines on the walls, a few remnants of dried pigments, a bag of mixed nuts and dried dates, and the paraphernalia of an opium habit. Lesley didn't indulge for anything other than it's painkilling properties - wine was a much cheaper way of getting reality to go away for a bit, but there was a point at which wine couldn't numb any more pain when he didn't want that secondary effect. The ever-present amphora was sitting on the floor at the head of his bed, patiently waiting to help knock him out for the night with a cup inverted over the mouth.
"If you want my story," Lesley mused, as he pulled a pair of swords out of the larger chest, "Start here." He turned and claimed the staff leaning against the corner, then sat down on the floor facing her and laid all three between them crosswise.
"This," as he drew the single-edged, inward curving blade and set it back atop it's sheath, "Is the first weapon I carried into the arena. I killed a man named Metrophanes; he was new, too, and we had started to become friends." The heavy iron kopis was a cruel looking weapon, nothing a soldier would wear - more often a tool for slaughtering and butchering animals. The symbolism had not been lost on the young gladiators at the time. Lesley's voice was even, stating facts with no trace of regret or guilt, but his eyes stayed on the long knife, rather than rising to Marietta's face.
"This," he touched the wooden Xiphos next, "I earned twelve years later." Oiled and polished olive wood, this was obviously no simple practice blade. The diamond-profile leaf-shaped blade too closely mimicked a real sword; the thin wood edge would chip if ever used in earnest. It was higher quality than many rudiarius were given, but Lesley had earned it, and while the crowd's opinions didn't change what happened behind closed doors, it had a solid affect on what was shown to the public in the arcus. No story came immediately with the introduction of the second blade, instead his fingers immediately moved to brush the staff.
"The staff is usually only carried by the rudis, I don't know of any other gladiator who fights with one. The first time was about two years in - I was refereeing a melee. They were down to three, and all hesitating, and there was no lorarius that day so I was told to get the fight moving again - so I just stepped in." He shrugged. "The crowd decided they loved it. That's when they started calling me Wildcard."
He raised his gaze to meet her eyes. "My slavery, my freedom, and my fame."
Gladiators were fighters. Gladiators lived in the glory of battle. Gladiators relished in the cheers of the crowd as they fought, and survived, to see another day. They were men filled with adrenaline and drive to conquer yet another foe on their path to victory.
Gladiators were slaves.
Marietta knew this, but it was still… a different experience walking through this area and listening to his stories. The walls and furniture looked pitiful. Evident of a tortured soul that, if life had treated him any different, could have been an artist. None of the paintings were good necessarily, but they showed promise. They showed the potential that was squandered by life in an arena. The Antonis treated their slaves well. But they were just that, slaves. So was this man. Marietta knew she should not pity him. This was his destiny. And if the goal for man was to live a life of leisure, of course, it would be on the backs of slaves. Yet walking through this area made the young Lady uncomfortable. It was… depressing seeing mortals living in such conditions. And this was what she wanted to paint. Not the glory of battle, but resilience of slaves to continue their role no matter how bleak their destiny truly is. That, in itself, was a more fascinating story to tell.
Her eyes moved to the weapons. They were all very interesting. Did her cousins have stories such as this man? She did not think they have killed friends, only enemies. Is it murder if you liked the person you killed? Or is it still duty?
But it sounded to Marietta that he gets rewards for carrying out these killings. Surely, then, it is a duty. But then what constitutes a murder? A slaying of an innocent? Were slaves guilty then? Were they innocent?
Were they anything?
The more Marietta thought the more she had the desire to paint. What was it called with nothing died by the hand of nothing? Is it murder? Is it simply death? Why did people cheer one gladiator for his victory, while the other lay in a mess on the ground? Where was the glory of the sport? And what did those who fight in it think of it?
“How did you become a slave?” Marietta asked hesitatingly. “What led you to the arena?” To better understand his mind she should understand his origins. Never would the girl truly be able to see through his eyes. She did not wish to do that either. But should her painting at least have some perspective of a gladiator, then she should do her due diligence to understand this… Wildcard in front of her.
Marietta did not wish to create a work that lectured the people on slavery or gladiators. Slavery and arena fights were natural, and Marietta had no desire to go against what had always existed. But she did wish now to depict what made these people so strong. What made them want to fight for survival when there was every reason to lay down and accept the inevitable death that would come?
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Gladiators were fighters. Gladiators lived in the glory of battle. Gladiators relished in the cheers of the crowd as they fought, and survived, to see another day. They were men filled with adrenaline and drive to conquer yet another foe on their path to victory.
Gladiators were slaves.
Marietta knew this, but it was still… a different experience walking through this area and listening to his stories. The walls and furniture looked pitiful. Evident of a tortured soul that, if life had treated him any different, could have been an artist. None of the paintings were good necessarily, but they showed promise. They showed the potential that was squandered by life in an arena. The Antonis treated their slaves well. But they were just that, slaves. So was this man. Marietta knew she should not pity him. This was his destiny. And if the goal for man was to live a life of leisure, of course, it would be on the backs of slaves. Yet walking through this area made the young Lady uncomfortable. It was… depressing seeing mortals living in such conditions. And this was what she wanted to paint. Not the glory of battle, but resilience of slaves to continue their role no matter how bleak their destiny truly is. That, in itself, was a more fascinating story to tell.
Her eyes moved to the weapons. They were all very interesting. Did her cousins have stories such as this man? She did not think they have killed friends, only enemies. Is it murder if you liked the person you killed? Or is it still duty?
But it sounded to Marietta that he gets rewards for carrying out these killings. Surely, then, it is a duty. But then what constitutes a murder? A slaying of an innocent? Were slaves guilty then? Were they innocent?
Were they anything?
The more Marietta thought the more she had the desire to paint. What was it called with nothing died by the hand of nothing? Is it murder? Is it simply death? Why did people cheer one gladiator for his victory, while the other lay in a mess on the ground? Where was the glory of the sport? And what did those who fight in it think of it?
“How did you become a slave?” Marietta asked hesitatingly. “What led you to the arena?” To better understand his mind she should understand his origins. Never would the girl truly be able to see through his eyes. She did not wish to do that either. But should her painting at least have some perspective of a gladiator, then she should do her due diligence to understand this… Wildcard in front of her.
Marietta did not wish to create a work that lectured the people on slavery or gladiators. Slavery and arena fights were natural, and Marietta had no desire to go against what had always existed. But she did wish now to depict what made these people so strong. What made them want to fight for survival when there was every reason to lay down and accept the inevitable death that would come?
Gladiators were fighters. Gladiators lived in the glory of battle. Gladiators relished in the cheers of the crowd as they fought, and survived, to see another day. They were men filled with adrenaline and drive to conquer yet another foe on their path to victory.
Gladiators were slaves.
Marietta knew this, but it was still… a different experience walking through this area and listening to his stories. The walls and furniture looked pitiful. Evident of a tortured soul that, if life had treated him any different, could have been an artist. None of the paintings were good necessarily, but they showed promise. They showed the potential that was squandered by life in an arena. The Antonis treated their slaves well. But they were just that, slaves. So was this man. Marietta knew she should not pity him. This was his destiny. And if the goal for man was to live a life of leisure, of course, it would be on the backs of slaves. Yet walking through this area made the young Lady uncomfortable. It was… depressing seeing mortals living in such conditions. And this was what she wanted to paint. Not the glory of battle, but resilience of slaves to continue their role no matter how bleak their destiny truly is. That, in itself, was a more fascinating story to tell.
Her eyes moved to the weapons. They were all very interesting. Did her cousins have stories such as this man? She did not think they have killed friends, only enemies. Is it murder if you liked the person you killed? Or is it still duty?
But it sounded to Marietta that he gets rewards for carrying out these killings. Surely, then, it is a duty. But then what constitutes a murder? A slaying of an innocent? Were slaves guilty then? Were they innocent?
Were they anything?
The more Marietta thought the more she had the desire to paint. What was it called with nothing died by the hand of nothing? Is it murder? Is it simply death? Why did people cheer one gladiator for his victory, while the other lay in a mess on the ground? Where was the glory of the sport? And what did those who fight in it think of it?
“How did you become a slave?” Marietta asked hesitatingly. “What led you to the arena?” To better understand his mind she should understand his origins. Never would the girl truly be able to see through his eyes. She did not wish to do that either. But should her painting at least have some perspective of a gladiator, then she should do her due diligence to understand this… Wildcard in front of her.
Marietta did not wish to create a work that lectured the people on slavery or gladiators. Slavery and arena fights were natural, and Marietta had no desire to go against what had always existed. But she did wish now to depict what made these people so strong. What made them want to fight for survival when there was every reason to lay down and accept the inevitable death that would come?
Lesley waited, and then hesitated. There were a few things his friends knew: that he'd used the money from selling himself to set his mother up with her own shop; that he had gotten an education, somewhere, but was as comfortable with hard living and bland food as any pauper; that he'd made the deliberate choice to come here rather than sell himself somewhere he might have had an easier life. Usually, when he told people he'd sold himself, it was so that they would respect him as a free-born man who chose his own fate rather than suffering the dismissive not-quite-pity people tended to bestow on slaves covered in scars. He wasn't used to curiosity.
"That is a different story," he said after a long moment. "Not painful," he added quickly, "But complicated and not well-suited to starting at the beginning." Yet, it tied in, didn't it? He reached down and brushed his fingers against the hilt of the kopis. "Sometimes in life you come to a place where there are no good choices," he said finally. "I could have enlisted, I suppose; harder work, longer hours, less-frequent risk of death. I could have spent my life scrambling from one coin to the next, which was likely to be no more enjoyable as an adult than as a child. Or," he shrugged, "I could sell my life - my death - to buy something better for my mother. Frankly, I might have ended up here anyway, or I would hope so. It suits me here."
He picked up the blade and re-sheathed it. "I was eighteen. I knew how to use a sword and a spear, and I was a good wrestler. I was impulsive, disrespectful, fearless, cunning, and generally worthless. All but one of which are excellent qualities in a gladiator," a flash of amusement crossed his face, "And a bad attitude doesn't make much difference either way. Unlike for other slaves." He'd gotten in plenty of trouble, early on - but being thrown into fights he wasn't expected to win hadn't had the expected outcome, going extra hard on him during training had made him a better fighter but not taught him to mind his mouth, and what he'd felt was the worst punishment - isolation - would be far preferable to many slaves elsewhere than what they frequently endured, so he felt he couldn't legitimately complain about it.
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Lesley waited, and then hesitated. There were a few things his friends knew: that he'd used the money from selling himself to set his mother up with her own shop; that he had gotten an education, somewhere, but was as comfortable with hard living and bland food as any pauper; that he'd made the deliberate choice to come here rather than sell himself somewhere he might have had an easier life. Usually, when he told people he'd sold himself, it was so that they would respect him as a free-born man who chose his own fate rather than suffering the dismissive not-quite-pity people tended to bestow on slaves covered in scars. He wasn't used to curiosity.
"That is a different story," he said after a long moment. "Not painful," he added quickly, "But complicated and not well-suited to starting at the beginning." Yet, it tied in, didn't it? He reached down and brushed his fingers against the hilt of the kopis. "Sometimes in life you come to a place where there are no good choices," he said finally. "I could have enlisted, I suppose; harder work, longer hours, less-frequent risk of death. I could have spent my life scrambling from one coin to the next, which was likely to be no more enjoyable as an adult than as a child. Or," he shrugged, "I could sell my life - my death - to buy something better for my mother. Frankly, I might have ended up here anyway, or I would hope so. It suits me here."
He picked up the blade and re-sheathed it. "I was eighteen. I knew how to use a sword and a spear, and I was a good wrestler. I was impulsive, disrespectful, fearless, cunning, and generally worthless. All but one of which are excellent qualities in a gladiator," a flash of amusement crossed his face, "And a bad attitude doesn't make much difference either way. Unlike for other slaves." He'd gotten in plenty of trouble, early on - but being thrown into fights he wasn't expected to win hadn't had the expected outcome, going extra hard on him during training had made him a better fighter but not taught him to mind his mouth, and what he'd felt was the worst punishment - isolation - would be far preferable to many slaves elsewhere than what they frequently endured, so he felt he couldn't legitimately complain about it.
Lesley waited, and then hesitated. There were a few things his friends knew: that he'd used the money from selling himself to set his mother up with her own shop; that he had gotten an education, somewhere, but was as comfortable with hard living and bland food as any pauper; that he'd made the deliberate choice to come here rather than sell himself somewhere he might have had an easier life. Usually, when he told people he'd sold himself, it was so that they would respect him as a free-born man who chose his own fate rather than suffering the dismissive not-quite-pity people tended to bestow on slaves covered in scars. He wasn't used to curiosity.
"That is a different story," he said after a long moment. "Not painful," he added quickly, "But complicated and not well-suited to starting at the beginning." Yet, it tied in, didn't it? He reached down and brushed his fingers against the hilt of the kopis. "Sometimes in life you come to a place where there are no good choices," he said finally. "I could have enlisted, I suppose; harder work, longer hours, less-frequent risk of death. I could have spent my life scrambling from one coin to the next, which was likely to be no more enjoyable as an adult than as a child. Or," he shrugged, "I could sell my life - my death - to buy something better for my mother. Frankly, I might have ended up here anyway, or I would hope so. It suits me here."
He picked up the blade and re-sheathed it. "I was eighteen. I knew how to use a sword and a spear, and I was a good wrestler. I was impulsive, disrespectful, fearless, cunning, and generally worthless. All but one of which are excellent qualities in a gladiator," a flash of amusement crossed his face, "And a bad attitude doesn't make much difference either way. Unlike for other slaves." He'd gotten in plenty of trouble, early on - but being thrown into fights he wasn't expected to win hadn't had the expected outcome, going extra hard on him during training had made him a better fighter but not taught him to mind his mouth, and what he'd felt was the worst punishment - isolation - would be far preferable to many slaves elsewhere than what they frequently endured, so he felt he couldn't legitimately complain about it.
Marietta was not an idiot, but she didn’t quite understand poor people and why they chose the life they chose. She understood work was necessary to live. They got paid by working hard, and that payment was used so they could buy food and the clothes on their back. But who sells their life to slavery? Just for a bit of coin? Was it truly worth it? Enlisting was nobler and should the fighter prove good, and clearly this man was, an opportunity to climb the ranks. Who knows, he could have been captain should he gone the military route, and provide for his mother that way.
Was it that poors were just impatient? They needed money immediately so they sold whatever they had in order to get it. And what was a life worth if you sell it away? Why do you need money if you have no life to live?
This explanation made no sense to Marietta, and the more it turned in her mind the less clarity she had. This seemed like a foolish, brash decision. That’s all that she could chalk it up to. The man was not all there in the head. Which was… understandable. He did not have the means nobles and royals had. He lacked education and had to rely on instinct to survive.
This would be a hard task. To make a painting in the eyes of someone who was so drastically different to Marietta. She supposed that was why experience was necessary in art. She lacked much of it in her position as a Lady of Antonis. She wasn’t able to adventure, to see the world, to live beyond her lot in life. Even without her name, Marietta would likely never had anyway due to her crippling fear of just about… everything.
“So you sold yourself…” She spoke slowly, tasting the words on her tongue before releasing them to the world. “But why? What was so drastic that you couldn’t work for coin? There are many people who work that don’t resort to selling themselves. What was so dire you needed to buy for your mother?” Furthermore, what mother would allow her son to do that? Marietta’s own mother would do whatever she could to protect her and her children, even if it meant laying down her life. Why would his mother not do the same? Even some of the other more intimidating royal mothers in Athenia would do whatever it takes for their children.
Marietta bit her lip. She couldn’t necessarily voice those thoughts, it was rude. But she wanted some clarity. “How do you feel working here now?” This was perhaps a better question. Instead of trying to understand his past, she would try to understand his present. Then at least the painting would have some perspective of the fighter it was originally based on. For surely he does not see glory in the fights like the viewers imagine given his decrepit living situation. He must see this as torture, right?
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Marietta was not an idiot, but she didn’t quite understand poor people and why they chose the life they chose. She understood work was necessary to live. They got paid by working hard, and that payment was used so they could buy food and the clothes on their back. But who sells their life to slavery? Just for a bit of coin? Was it truly worth it? Enlisting was nobler and should the fighter prove good, and clearly this man was, an opportunity to climb the ranks. Who knows, he could have been captain should he gone the military route, and provide for his mother that way.
Was it that poors were just impatient? They needed money immediately so they sold whatever they had in order to get it. And what was a life worth if you sell it away? Why do you need money if you have no life to live?
This explanation made no sense to Marietta, and the more it turned in her mind the less clarity she had. This seemed like a foolish, brash decision. That’s all that she could chalk it up to. The man was not all there in the head. Which was… understandable. He did not have the means nobles and royals had. He lacked education and had to rely on instinct to survive.
This would be a hard task. To make a painting in the eyes of someone who was so drastically different to Marietta. She supposed that was why experience was necessary in art. She lacked much of it in her position as a Lady of Antonis. She wasn’t able to adventure, to see the world, to live beyond her lot in life. Even without her name, Marietta would likely never had anyway due to her crippling fear of just about… everything.
“So you sold yourself…” She spoke slowly, tasting the words on her tongue before releasing them to the world. “But why? What was so drastic that you couldn’t work for coin? There are many people who work that don’t resort to selling themselves. What was so dire you needed to buy for your mother?” Furthermore, what mother would allow her son to do that? Marietta’s own mother would do whatever she could to protect her and her children, even if it meant laying down her life. Why would his mother not do the same? Even some of the other more intimidating royal mothers in Athenia would do whatever it takes for their children.
Marietta bit her lip. She couldn’t necessarily voice those thoughts, it was rude. But she wanted some clarity. “How do you feel working here now?” This was perhaps a better question. Instead of trying to understand his past, she would try to understand his present. Then at least the painting would have some perspective of the fighter it was originally based on. For surely he does not see glory in the fights like the viewers imagine given his decrepit living situation. He must see this as torture, right?
Marietta was not an idiot, but she didn’t quite understand poor people and why they chose the life they chose. She understood work was necessary to live. They got paid by working hard, and that payment was used so they could buy food and the clothes on their back. But who sells their life to slavery? Just for a bit of coin? Was it truly worth it? Enlisting was nobler and should the fighter prove good, and clearly this man was, an opportunity to climb the ranks. Who knows, he could have been captain should he gone the military route, and provide for his mother that way.
Was it that poors were just impatient? They needed money immediately so they sold whatever they had in order to get it. And what was a life worth if you sell it away? Why do you need money if you have no life to live?
This explanation made no sense to Marietta, and the more it turned in her mind the less clarity she had. This seemed like a foolish, brash decision. That’s all that she could chalk it up to. The man was not all there in the head. Which was… understandable. He did not have the means nobles and royals had. He lacked education and had to rely on instinct to survive.
This would be a hard task. To make a painting in the eyes of someone who was so drastically different to Marietta. She supposed that was why experience was necessary in art. She lacked much of it in her position as a Lady of Antonis. She wasn’t able to adventure, to see the world, to live beyond her lot in life. Even without her name, Marietta would likely never had anyway due to her crippling fear of just about… everything.
“So you sold yourself…” She spoke slowly, tasting the words on her tongue before releasing them to the world. “But why? What was so drastic that you couldn’t work for coin? There are many people who work that don’t resort to selling themselves. What was so dire you needed to buy for your mother?” Furthermore, what mother would allow her son to do that? Marietta’s own mother would do whatever she could to protect her and her children, even if it meant laying down her life. Why would his mother not do the same? Even some of the other more intimidating royal mothers in Athenia would do whatever it takes for their children.
Marietta bit her lip. She couldn’t necessarily voice those thoughts, it was rude. But she wanted some clarity. “How do you feel working here now?” This was perhaps a better question. Instead of trying to understand his past, she would try to understand his present. Then at least the painting would have some perspective of the fighter it was originally based on. For surely he does not see glory in the fights like the viewers imagine given his decrepit living situation. He must see this as torture, right?
Lesley could tell she didn't understand, and it didn't entirely surprise him. He could see it in her eyes, the moment she gave up on understanding his decision, and simply decided he had made a bad one, rather than wrestling further with it. Nobles understood slavery - they dealt with slaves daily. They understood skilled workers - cooks and horse trainers and scribes and physicians and others who got paid for their time and effort, for they hired those people as well. They did not, by and large, understand poor people, truly poor, beggars and scroungers and street whores, all those who lived in the cracks of society, free in name but with no more security or value in their life than a slave. He considered asking her when was the last time she'd been a week straight with no food, or whether she thought one could get paying work simply by wandering over to the nearest wealthy man and demanding it, but he thought it probably wouldn't do any good. And, as he'd already suggested, he didn't really want to talk about that.
She seemed to get the silent hint, and changed the subject, but he'd actually found an answer that, while perhaps not precisely correct by the technicalities of the law, was the simplest explanation of the true essence of his decision. "Her freedom." He quickly shook his head and took the subject change with a smile. "I do enjoy it," he confirmed. "When I was freed, I found other work for a while, but, I'm not terribly good at anything else. And I missed it. Fighting is... satisfying. Exciting. When I step into the ring to face someone who is going to try to kill me - nothing else matters. There's no... worrying about family, or embarrassment over something said the night before, or uncertainty about tomorrow. There's just..." He struggled to put it into words, but the gleam in his eyes and the eager tone threading into his voice spoke volumes.
"You have no control over your life," he said bluntly. "You have no say in who your parents are, how you are treated, who your tutors are or who you are apprenticed to, or whether you even have that. You have no control over what gifts you are given, by men or by the gods. Women have no say in who they marry, or whether they bear sons or daughters; soldiers have to follow orders, no less than a slave, or a sailor, or a rich man's servants. Even those men who lead others and give orders did not command themselves into such positions; it was given to them by the gods, or by the command of another man. Yet in that moment, in the arena, a gladiator is in utter command of his own fate. His own skill, that he trained for, his own cunning, his own determination and courage... In that moment, and no other, is there true freedom."
And then he grinned, a broad, happy smile that lit up his whole face. "Besides, it's fun."
He reached for his pipe again. "Bah. Pain makes me philosophical, it seems." He took a lungful of smoke, and added, "Honestly, if left to my own devices, I just end up in fights anyway. Better to get paid for it than hauled up before a jury for it, and why would I turn down the chance to have an entire stadium shouting my name?"
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Lesley could tell she didn't understand, and it didn't entirely surprise him. He could see it in her eyes, the moment she gave up on understanding his decision, and simply decided he had made a bad one, rather than wrestling further with it. Nobles understood slavery - they dealt with slaves daily. They understood skilled workers - cooks and horse trainers and scribes and physicians and others who got paid for their time and effort, for they hired those people as well. They did not, by and large, understand poor people, truly poor, beggars and scroungers and street whores, all those who lived in the cracks of society, free in name but with no more security or value in their life than a slave. He considered asking her when was the last time she'd been a week straight with no food, or whether she thought one could get paying work simply by wandering over to the nearest wealthy man and demanding it, but he thought it probably wouldn't do any good. And, as he'd already suggested, he didn't really want to talk about that.
She seemed to get the silent hint, and changed the subject, but he'd actually found an answer that, while perhaps not precisely correct by the technicalities of the law, was the simplest explanation of the true essence of his decision. "Her freedom." He quickly shook his head and took the subject change with a smile. "I do enjoy it," he confirmed. "When I was freed, I found other work for a while, but, I'm not terribly good at anything else. And I missed it. Fighting is... satisfying. Exciting. When I step into the ring to face someone who is going to try to kill me - nothing else matters. There's no... worrying about family, or embarrassment over something said the night before, or uncertainty about tomorrow. There's just..." He struggled to put it into words, but the gleam in his eyes and the eager tone threading into his voice spoke volumes.
"You have no control over your life," he said bluntly. "You have no say in who your parents are, how you are treated, who your tutors are or who you are apprenticed to, or whether you even have that. You have no control over what gifts you are given, by men or by the gods. Women have no say in who they marry, or whether they bear sons or daughters; soldiers have to follow orders, no less than a slave, or a sailor, or a rich man's servants. Even those men who lead others and give orders did not command themselves into such positions; it was given to them by the gods, or by the command of another man. Yet in that moment, in the arena, a gladiator is in utter command of his own fate. His own skill, that he trained for, his own cunning, his own determination and courage... In that moment, and no other, is there true freedom."
And then he grinned, a broad, happy smile that lit up his whole face. "Besides, it's fun."
He reached for his pipe again. "Bah. Pain makes me philosophical, it seems." He took a lungful of smoke, and added, "Honestly, if left to my own devices, I just end up in fights anyway. Better to get paid for it than hauled up before a jury for it, and why would I turn down the chance to have an entire stadium shouting my name?"
Lesley could tell she didn't understand, and it didn't entirely surprise him. He could see it in her eyes, the moment she gave up on understanding his decision, and simply decided he had made a bad one, rather than wrestling further with it. Nobles understood slavery - they dealt with slaves daily. They understood skilled workers - cooks and horse trainers and scribes and physicians and others who got paid for their time and effort, for they hired those people as well. They did not, by and large, understand poor people, truly poor, beggars and scroungers and street whores, all those who lived in the cracks of society, free in name but with no more security or value in their life than a slave. He considered asking her when was the last time she'd been a week straight with no food, or whether she thought one could get paying work simply by wandering over to the nearest wealthy man and demanding it, but he thought it probably wouldn't do any good. And, as he'd already suggested, he didn't really want to talk about that.
She seemed to get the silent hint, and changed the subject, but he'd actually found an answer that, while perhaps not precisely correct by the technicalities of the law, was the simplest explanation of the true essence of his decision. "Her freedom." He quickly shook his head and took the subject change with a smile. "I do enjoy it," he confirmed. "When I was freed, I found other work for a while, but, I'm not terribly good at anything else. And I missed it. Fighting is... satisfying. Exciting. When I step into the ring to face someone who is going to try to kill me - nothing else matters. There's no... worrying about family, or embarrassment over something said the night before, or uncertainty about tomorrow. There's just..." He struggled to put it into words, but the gleam in his eyes and the eager tone threading into his voice spoke volumes.
"You have no control over your life," he said bluntly. "You have no say in who your parents are, how you are treated, who your tutors are or who you are apprenticed to, or whether you even have that. You have no control over what gifts you are given, by men or by the gods. Women have no say in who they marry, or whether they bear sons or daughters; soldiers have to follow orders, no less than a slave, or a sailor, or a rich man's servants. Even those men who lead others and give orders did not command themselves into such positions; it was given to them by the gods, or by the command of another man. Yet in that moment, in the arena, a gladiator is in utter command of his own fate. His own skill, that he trained for, his own cunning, his own determination and courage... In that moment, and no other, is there true freedom."
And then he grinned, a broad, happy smile that lit up his whole face. "Besides, it's fun."
He reached for his pipe again. "Bah. Pain makes me philosophical, it seems." He took a lungful of smoke, and added, "Honestly, if left to my own devices, I just end up in fights anyway. Better to get paid for it than hauled up before a jury for it, and why would I turn down the chance to have an entire stadium shouting my name?"
He wasn’t wrong about the lack of control. But it felt… odd saying it out loud. It simply was how it was. Marietta never would be able to choose her husband. She never would be able to go out and adventure. She didn’t get to choose her future, or even her present. Marietta was at the whims of the gods and her parents, and that’s all she ever will be. And what was so wrong with that? The gods knew best. They created all that is and all that will be. They blessed mortals and cursed them. Marietta had full faith in the gods. And while she could not directly communicate with them, she could communicate with her parents. They, too, had her trust. Her father had never led her astray and her mother helped raise Marietta into who she was today.
While freedom may have crossed her mind, it was also lonely. Marietta knew one day her mother and father would leave her to go to cross the river of Styx, but never will the gods not be there. But to be utterly free of both them and family was a cold, dark existence. It was… scary, really. Marietta, one who feared so much, perhaps feared that most of all. To be completely reliant on one’s self, to have no guidance from the divine, nor that of those wiser than her, sounded like an impossible task. That was not to insult the girl’s intelligence. She was well-read and well studied, and fairly responsible. She grew up taking care of her two younger siblings (and her two older friends at times.) And yet… to be so bold as to do something without the gods’ guidance…
Marietta didn’t know whether to be impressed or horrified. She hadn’t had time to choose before he finished his little speech. Marietta shifted. She didn’t see the fun in any of this at all. It seemed… brutal and sad. “Aren’t you lonely?” She finally asked. In a cell like this with only a curtain to give privacy one would think not, but seeing how the rest of the areas were fashioned seemed to give an almost… distance to Marietta. There was no privacy and yet people were separated. And the thought of not knowing whether you or your friend would live to see another day was… tragic. Especially if either died by the other’s hand.
This was a life Marietta would never want. Conflict aside, killing and death was too brutal for the young girl. She found no excitement in the sport, only disgust. And the stories of conquest and victory seemed sullied seeing the world behind the scenes. She understood the necessity of gladiators, and knew they would always exist. But never will she be able to understand the choice of living this life, even if the alternative was death. Death at least was an end, where this living seemed to be an eternity of sadness and despair. It was a dark world, empty despite the thousands cheering your name.
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He wasn’t wrong about the lack of control. But it felt… odd saying it out loud. It simply was how it was. Marietta never would be able to choose her husband. She never would be able to go out and adventure. She didn’t get to choose her future, or even her present. Marietta was at the whims of the gods and her parents, and that’s all she ever will be. And what was so wrong with that? The gods knew best. They created all that is and all that will be. They blessed mortals and cursed them. Marietta had full faith in the gods. And while she could not directly communicate with them, she could communicate with her parents. They, too, had her trust. Her father had never led her astray and her mother helped raise Marietta into who she was today.
While freedom may have crossed her mind, it was also lonely. Marietta knew one day her mother and father would leave her to go to cross the river of Styx, but never will the gods not be there. But to be utterly free of both them and family was a cold, dark existence. It was… scary, really. Marietta, one who feared so much, perhaps feared that most of all. To be completely reliant on one’s self, to have no guidance from the divine, nor that of those wiser than her, sounded like an impossible task. That was not to insult the girl’s intelligence. She was well-read and well studied, and fairly responsible. She grew up taking care of her two younger siblings (and her two older friends at times.) And yet… to be so bold as to do something without the gods’ guidance…
Marietta didn’t know whether to be impressed or horrified. She hadn’t had time to choose before he finished his little speech. Marietta shifted. She didn’t see the fun in any of this at all. It seemed… brutal and sad. “Aren’t you lonely?” She finally asked. In a cell like this with only a curtain to give privacy one would think not, but seeing how the rest of the areas were fashioned seemed to give an almost… distance to Marietta. There was no privacy and yet people were separated. And the thought of not knowing whether you or your friend would live to see another day was… tragic. Especially if either died by the other’s hand.
This was a life Marietta would never want. Conflict aside, killing and death was too brutal for the young girl. She found no excitement in the sport, only disgust. And the stories of conquest and victory seemed sullied seeing the world behind the scenes. She understood the necessity of gladiators, and knew they would always exist. But never will she be able to understand the choice of living this life, even if the alternative was death. Death at least was an end, where this living seemed to be an eternity of sadness and despair. It was a dark world, empty despite the thousands cheering your name.
He wasn’t wrong about the lack of control. But it felt… odd saying it out loud. It simply was how it was. Marietta never would be able to choose her husband. She never would be able to go out and adventure. She didn’t get to choose her future, or even her present. Marietta was at the whims of the gods and her parents, and that’s all she ever will be. And what was so wrong with that? The gods knew best. They created all that is and all that will be. They blessed mortals and cursed them. Marietta had full faith in the gods. And while she could not directly communicate with them, she could communicate with her parents. They, too, had her trust. Her father had never led her astray and her mother helped raise Marietta into who she was today.
While freedom may have crossed her mind, it was also lonely. Marietta knew one day her mother and father would leave her to go to cross the river of Styx, but never will the gods not be there. But to be utterly free of both them and family was a cold, dark existence. It was… scary, really. Marietta, one who feared so much, perhaps feared that most of all. To be completely reliant on one’s self, to have no guidance from the divine, nor that of those wiser than her, sounded like an impossible task. That was not to insult the girl’s intelligence. She was well-read and well studied, and fairly responsible. She grew up taking care of her two younger siblings (and her two older friends at times.) And yet… to be so bold as to do something without the gods’ guidance…
Marietta didn’t know whether to be impressed or horrified. She hadn’t had time to choose before he finished his little speech. Marietta shifted. She didn’t see the fun in any of this at all. It seemed… brutal and sad. “Aren’t you lonely?” She finally asked. In a cell like this with only a curtain to give privacy one would think not, but seeing how the rest of the areas were fashioned seemed to give an almost… distance to Marietta. There was no privacy and yet people were separated. And the thought of not knowing whether you or your friend would live to see another day was… tragic. Especially if either died by the other’s hand.
This was a life Marietta would never want. Conflict aside, killing and death was too brutal for the young girl. She found no excitement in the sport, only disgust. And the stories of conquest and victory seemed sullied seeing the world behind the scenes. She understood the necessity of gladiators, and knew they would always exist. But never will she be able to understand the choice of living this life, even if the alternative was death. Death at least was an end, where this living seemed to be an eternity of sadness and despair. It was a dark world, empty despite the thousands cheering your name.
Lonely? "No. Why would you think that?" He'd lost friends, over his life, but so did anyone, and he'd made new ones just as easily as the old. There was something vaguely ironic about a woman who'd claimed she preferred solitude asking him if he was lonely. "If you are looking for reasons to pity me, Lady Marietta, I am going to have to disappoint you."
"Here - you wanted to see the weapons, I think." He made the mistake of twisting to reach for one, and hissed suddenly in pain. "Dammit." He breathed out slowly and deliberately, then completed the task more slowly than his initial movement. "This is a scissors. Most ridiculous weapon ever, if you ask me. Studs or spikes on a boxing glove are brilliant. This thing... you can't block with it, it's too big to get close in with, it's not maneuverable enough to go against a swordsman with - honestly I usually recommend just closing in and punching with your shield if you get stuck with it." He set down the armoured sleeve punch dagger thing and hefted the next item. "Trident. This is a pretty short one, but they come as long as a spear, too. The head is exactly the same on those, just a longer shaft. The short one is sometimes an off-hand weapon, sometimes a primary weapon, with a shield. The long one is usually used with a net in the left hand, rather than a shield. You'd think that would be an ineffective combination, but when someone's good with it... oof. Getting tangled up is basically just, you've lost, right there. Usually."
He puffed out a short breath, silently scolding his body for being an ass about the whole injuries thing, and paused to see if she had further questions.
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Lonely? "No. Why would you think that?" He'd lost friends, over his life, but so did anyone, and he'd made new ones just as easily as the old. There was something vaguely ironic about a woman who'd claimed she preferred solitude asking him if he was lonely. "If you are looking for reasons to pity me, Lady Marietta, I am going to have to disappoint you."
"Here - you wanted to see the weapons, I think." He made the mistake of twisting to reach for one, and hissed suddenly in pain. "Dammit." He breathed out slowly and deliberately, then completed the task more slowly than his initial movement. "This is a scissors. Most ridiculous weapon ever, if you ask me. Studs or spikes on a boxing glove are brilliant. This thing... you can't block with it, it's too big to get close in with, it's not maneuverable enough to go against a swordsman with - honestly I usually recommend just closing in and punching with your shield if you get stuck with it." He set down the armoured sleeve punch dagger thing and hefted the next item. "Trident. This is a pretty short one, but they come as long as a spear, too. The head is exactly the same on those, just a longer shaft. The short one is sometimes an off-hand weapon, sometimes a primary weapon, with a shield. The long one is usually used with a net in the left hand, rather than a shield. You'd think that would be an ineffective combination, but when someone's good with it... oof. Getting tangled up is basically just, you've lost, right there. Usually."
He puffed out a short breath, silently scolding his body for being an ass about the whole injuries thing, and paused to see if she had further questions.
Lonely? "No. Why would you think that?" He'd lost friends, over his life, but so did anyone, and he'd made new ones just as easily as the old. There was something vaguely ironic about a woman who'd claimed she preferred solitude asking him if he was lonely. "If you are looking for reasons to pity me, Lady Marietta, I am going to have to disappoint you."
"Here - you wanted to see the weapons, I think." He made the mistake of twisting to reach for one, and hissed suddenly in pain. "Dammit." He breathed out slowly and deliberately, then completed the task more slowly than his initial movement. "This is a scissors. Most ridiculous weapon ever, if you ask me. Studs or spikes on a boxing glove are brilliant. This thing... you can't block with it, it's too big to get close in with, it's not maneuverable enough to go against a swordsman with - honestly I usually recommend just closing in and punching with your shield if you get stuck with it." He set down the armoured sleeve punch dagger thing and hefted the next item. "Trident. This is a pretty short one, but they come as long as a spear, too. The head is exactly the same on those, just a longer shaft. The short one is sometimes an off-hand weapon, sometimes a primary weapon, with a shield. The long one is usually used with a net in the left hand, rather than a shield. You'd think that would be an ineffective combination, but when someone's good with it... oof. Getting tangled up is basically just, you've lost, right there. Usually."
He puffed out a short breath, silently scolding his body for being an ass about the whole injuries thing, and paused to see if she had further questions.
Marietta hadn’t come here to pity gladiators. But she couldn’t help it. Maybe commoners didn’t feel the same way nobles did, but this was… unusual. They were people too weren’t they? Killing for sport didn’t seem much fun, especially if you were close to the person. Living in this… filth didn’t seem like something Marietta would necessarily want. For your life to constantly be on the line, never knowing if this was the last day you had to live was not a life that she assumed most people wanted. Sure, in the stories there was excitement in that. But those were stories. This was a reality. No one would remember you if you died. No one would be singing your songs and telling your tales. So why would you want this?
Marietta couldn’t find the logic. This was lonely. This was sad. And for the man to be so desensitized by it was a little scary. Marietta knew that the two were vastly different in station. She was a noble lady who had everything she desired handed to her. She was expected to act in a certain decorum, and would one day marry in a way that helps her family and continued on the same proper legacy that she was born in.
This man sold himself to an arena and fought his friends just to live another day. They couldn’t be more different. And that was likely the difference in mindset. And yet weren’t they both made of flesh and had blood running through their veins? Were they both not people with emotions?
No, perhaps not… Marietta answered the question before it could even be asked. For there was one fundamental difference between commoners and those of royal blood. The gods favored one group more than the other. Even though Marietta never wished to voice it, those of noble birth had always been more significant than those of lesser birth. And so with the significance that came with their position, and the pure difference in their lifestyle, logic would dictate that they would think differently. Perhaps commoners think more of the present. The man is alive, and thus he is happy. He is not currently killing his friends, so he isn’t lonely. Where those of noble and royal birth think more complexly. They have the means to, through a lifetime of tutors and then riches to put them through university. They have a responsibility to. Yes, maybe this wasn’t lonely, nor something worth pitying. The two were different.
As he continued on to talk about weapons, Marietta raised an eyebrow. “How is it that you’ve come to learn how to wield so many weapons?” Marietta asked curiously. “A sword differs from a staff which differs from a bow. Does the arena have you use everything but master nothing?” Maybe it was to keep an edge on the contenders. If no one was a true master of a singular type of weapon, they’d always have a weakness that could lead to their demise. Maybe? “It feels like so much to just expect people to pick up and learn.”
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Marietta hadn’t come here to pity gladiators. But she couldn’t help it. Maybe commoners didn’t feel the same way nobles did, but this was… unusual. They were people too weren’t they? Killing for sport didn’t seem much fun, especially if you were close to the person. Living in this… filth didn’t seem like something Marietta would necessarily want. For your life to constantly be on the line, never knowing if this was the last day you had to live was not a life that she assumed most people wanted. Sure, in the stories there was excitement in that. But those were stories. This was a reality. No one would remember you if you died. No one would be singing your songs and telling your tales. So why would you want this?
Marietta couldn’t find the logic. This was lonely. This was sad. And for the man to be so desensitized by it was a little scary. Marietta knew that the two were vastly different in station. She was a noble lady who had everything she desired handed to her. She was expected to act in a certain decorum, and would one day marry in a way that helps her family and continued on the same proper legacy that she was born in.
This man sold himself to an arena and fought his friends just to live another day. They couldn’t be more different. And that was likely the difference in mindset. And yet weren’t they both made of flesh and had blood running through their veins? Were they both not people with emotions?
No, perhaps not… Marietta answered the question before it could even be asked. For there was one fundamental difference between commoners and those of royal blood. The gods favored one group more than the other. Even though Marietta never wished to voice it, those of noble birth had always been more significant than those of lesser birth. And so with the significance that came with their position, and the pure difference in their lifestyle, logic would dictate that they would think differently. Perhaps commoners think more of the present. The man is alive, and thus he is happy. He is not currently killing his friends, so he isn’t lonely. Where those of noble and royal birth think more complexly. They have the means to, through a lifetime of tutors and then riches to put them through university. They have a responsibility to. Yes, maybe this wasn’t lonely, nor something worth pitying. The two were different.
As he continued on to talk about weapons, Marietta raised an eyebrow. “How is it that you’ve come to learn how to wield so many weapons?” Marietta asked curiously. “A sword differs from a staff which differs from a bow. Does the arena have you use everything but master nothing?” Maybe it was to keep an edge on the contenders. If no one was a true master of a singular type of weapon, they’d always have a weakness that could lead to their demise. Maybe? “It feels like so much to just expect people to pick up and learn.”
Marietta hadn’t come here to pity gladiators. But she couldn’t help it. Maybe commoners didn’t feel the same way nobles did, but this was… unusual. They were people too weren’t they? Killing for sport didn’t seem much fun, especially if you were close to the person. Living in this… filth didn’t seem like something Marietta would necessarily want. For your life to constantly be on the line, never knowing if this was the last day you had to live was not a life that she assumed most people wanted. Sure, in the stories there was excitement in that. But those were stories. This was a reality. No one would remember you if you died. No one would be singing your songs and telling your tales. So why would you want this?
Marietta couldn’t find the logic. This was lonely. This was sad. And for the man to be so desensitized by it was a little scary. Marietta knew that the two were vastly different in station. She was a noble lady who had everything she desired handed to her. She was expected to act in a certain decorum, and would one day marry in a way that helps her family and continued on the same proper legacy that she was born in.
This man sold himself to an arena and fought his friends just to live another day. They couldn’t be more different. And that was likely the difference in mindset. And yet weren’t they both made of flesh and had blood running through their veins? Were they both not people with emotions?
No, perhaps not… Marietta answered the question before it could even be asked. For there was one fundamental difference between commoners and those of royal blood. The gods favored one group more than the other. Even though Marietta never wished to voice it, those of noble birth had always been more significant than those of lesser birth. And so with the significance that came with their position, and the pure difference in their lifestyle, logic would dictate that they would think differently. Perhaps commoners think more of the present. The man is alive, and thus he is happy. He is not currently killing his friends, so he isn’t lonely. Where those of noble and royal birth think more complexly. They have the means to, through a lifetime of tutors and then riches to put them through university. They have a responsibility to. Yes, maybe this wasn’t lonely, nor something worth pitying. The two were different.
As he continued on to talk about weapons, Marietta raised an eyebrow. “How is it that you’ve come to learn how to wield so many weapons?” Marietta asked curiously. “A sword differs from a staff which differs from a bow. Does the arena have you use everything but master nothing?” Maybe it was to keep an edge on the contenders. If no one was a true master of a singular type of weapon, they’d always have a weakness that could lead to their demise. Maybe? “It feels like so much to just expect people to pick up and learn.”
"Most fighters specialize," Lesley agreed. "I've had a lot longer than most to learn, and I've more natural talent than most, too." Not bragging, just stating a fact. The brag, if there was one, came next, with a wry smile, "I've had several people suggest the gods favour me, but that does not seem a safe assumption to depend on." He chuckled dryly. "Perhaps the first son of Cronos has decided I am too much trouble, and does not want to deal with me yet."
He shrugged, leaving aside the vagaries of the gods. For all that he sometimes played at philosophy, the exact motivations of the divine did not seem to have much direct effect on his life. "Staff, xiphos, kopis, spear and hoplon, and boxing are my main events; I can manage trident and shield, but I'm not particularly good with a net, my aim with a javelin is supremely lacking despite the fact you put a rock in my hand and I can hit a cat at over twenty paces, and I'm the worst archer I've ever met. I can teach everything except archery, because I've gone up against everything enough that I can definitely tell when anyone else is making a mistake."
He gave the noblewoman an assessing look. "You're still pitying me," he informed her. "Did Homer not tell us that everything in beautiful because we are doomed? I have earned my kleos; I have heard my name shouted to the heavens loud enough even the gods must hear it. What more should a man want?" He shook his head with another smile. No doubt many men wanted other things, but he did not. Fighting, drinking, and friends to do both with; whatever glory he could snatch, regardless of how fleeting it might be without a son to carry it on, and a death he could be proud of - he did not feel drawn to desire a woman and children, nor ease and luxury... well, perhaps a bit of luxury now and then would be nice, but he wouldn't sacrifice the rest of it for it.
"Anyway, you wanted a model, will I do? Or do I need to take my tunic off for you to be sure?" Was he teasing? Hard to tell. It was an honest question, though, whether or not he was prepared to be amused by her answer.
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"Most fighters specialize," Lesley agreed. "I've had a lot longer than most to learn, and I've more natural talent than most, too." Not bragging, just stating a fact. The brag, if there was one, came next, with a wry smile, "I've had several people suggest the gods favour me, but that does not seem a safe assumption to depend on." He chuckled dryly. "Perhaps the first son of Cronos has decided I am too much trouble, and does not want to deal with me yet."
He shrugged, leaving aside the vagaries of the gods. For all that he sometimes played at philosophy, the exact motivations of the divine did not seem to have much direct effect on his life. "Staff, xiphos, kopis, spear and hoplon, and boxing are my main events; I can manage trident and shield, but I'm not particularly good with a net, my aim with a javelin is supremely lacking despite the fact you put a rock in my hand and I can hit a cat at over twenty paces, and I'm the worst archer I've ever met. I can teach everything except archery, because I've gone up against everything enough that I can definitely tell when anyone else is making a mistake."
He gave the noblewoman an assessing look. "You're still pitying me," he informed her. "Did Homer not tell us that everything in beautiful because we are doomed? I have earned my kleos; I have heard my name shouted to the heavens loud enough even the gods must hear it. What more should a man want?" He shook his head with another smile. No doubt many men wanted other things, but he did not. Fighting, drinking, and friends to do both with; whatever glory he could snatch, regardless of how fleeting it might be without a son to carry it on, and a death he could be proud of - he did not feel drawn to desire a woman and children, nor ease and luxury... well, perhaps a bit of luxury now and then would be nice, but he wouldn't sacrifice the rest of it for it.
"Anyway, you wanted a model, will I do? Or do I need to take my tunic off for you to be sure?" Was he teasing? Hard to tell. It was an honest question, though, whether or not he was prepared to be amused by her answer.
"Most fighters specialize," Lesley agreed. "I've had a lot longer than most to learn, and I've more natural talent than most, too." Not bragging, just stating a fact. The brag, if there was one, came next, with a wry smile, "I've had several people suggest the gods favour me, but that does not seem a safe assumption to depend on." He chuckled dryly. "Perhaps the first son of Cronos has decided I am too much trouble, and does not want to deal with me yet."
He shrugged, leaving aside the vagaries of the gods. For all that he sometimes played at philosophy, the exact motivations of the divine did not seem to have much direct effect on his life. "Staff, xiphos, kopis, spear and hoplon, and boxing are my main events; I can manage trident and shield, but I'm not particularly good with a net, my aim with a javelin is supremely lacking despite the fact you put a rock in my hand and I can hit a cat at over twenty paces, and I'm the worst archer I've ever met. I can teach everything except archery, because I've gone up against everything enough that I can definitely tell when anyone else is making a mistake."
He gave the noblewoman an assessing look. "You're still pitying me," he informed her. "Did Homer not tell us that everything in beautiful because we are doomed? I have earned my kleos; I have heard my name shouted to the heavens loud enough even the gods must hear it. What more should a man want?" He shook his head with another smile. No doubt many men wanted other things, but he did not. Fighting, drinking, and friends to do both with; whatever glory he could snatch, regardless of how fleeting it might be without a son to carry it on, and a death he could be proud of - he did not feel drawn to desire a woman and children, nor ease and luxury... well, perhaps a bit of luxury now and then would be nice, but he wouldn't sacrifice the rest of it for it.
"Anyway, you wanted a model, will I do? Or do I need to take my tunic off for you to be sure?" Was he teasing? Hard to tell. It was an honest question, though, whether or not he was prepared to be amused by her answer.
Marietta raised a brow but kept her mouth shut at Homer being quoted at her. Where did a slave to the arena learn Homer? That felt distinctively out of place here. Did slaves learn how to read? No, why would tutors come here? Maybe someone told him about Homer? Or read it to him?
That didn’t matter. The out of place line was distracting her from the bigger picture What more should a man want? A good home, perhaps? Family? To not kill their friends? A future, instead of fear that every day could be their last?
Marietta wasn’t able to understand the gladiator, and perhaps she never will. But his next question caught her completely off guard. Her face grew a bright red and for a moment she struggled to produce words. Or do I need to take my tunic off for you to be sure? What kind of artist did he think she was? Marietta did not need, nor want, to see a nude man before her. She was a Lady. How improper! Her father would have him sent to the fylaki if he heard of such a scandal.
“N-No. No. That’s fine. I,” she cleared her throat, trying to recollect herself. Her hand fanned her burning face. “I think you would make a fine model. I can return with my proper paints and we can get started at the next morning’s light?”
Right now she just wanted to get out of there. Marietta’s innocence was painfully evident, and she had much to think and mull over before she could return again with a proper plan. She saw many weapons, one more unusual than the next, but instead of a gladiator in glory she was instead faced with the large gap between those of noble blood and those without. The man seemed happy, and despite the words he quoted, she still could not make sense of his mindset. Her mind would need to settle before the previous morning, lest her painting show the confusion that now plagued her.
Unless that was a new subject she could go with. Maybe her muse was not with her understanding but her lackthereof. There would always be a wall between nobility and commoners, and what better way to show it than a painting made by one of royal blood about a gladiator in an arena. The difference could not be greater. Instead of a man in glory, she could paint a man proud and satisfied with what he has, but with the ambiguity of why painted within the scene. An artwork is not simply something beautiful to look at, but a reflection of society meant to draw questions from it’s audience.
“Right,” Marietta cleared her throat. “Until… we meet again. Oh, and I’ll be sure to bring your payment.” Marietta then retreated, mind whirling and inspiration finally pushing her toward the right direction.
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Marietta raised a brow but kept her mouth shut at Homer being quoted at her. Where did a slave to the arena learn Homer? That felt distinctively out of place here. Did slaves learn how to read? No, why would tutors come here? Maybe someone told him about Homer? Or read it to him?
That didn’t matter. The out of place line was distracting her from the bigger picture What more should a man want? A good home, perhaps? Family? To not kill their friends? A future, instead of fear that every day could be their last?
Marietta wasn’t able to understand the gladiator, and perhaps she never will. But his next question caught her completely off guard. Her face grew a bright red and for a moment she struggled to produce words. Or do I need to take my tunic off for you to be sure? What kind of artist did he think she was? Marietta did not need, nor want, to see a nude man before her. She was a Lady. How improper! Her father would have him sent to the fylaki if he heard of such a scandal.
“N-No. No. That’s fine. I,” she cleared her throat, trying to recollect herself. Her hand fanned her burning face. “I think you would make a fine model. I can return with my proper paints and we can get started at the next morning’s light?”
Right now she just wanted to get out of there. Marietta’s innocence was painfully evident, and she had much to think and mull over before she could return again with a proper plan. She saw many weapons, one more unusual than the next, but instead of a gladiator in glory she was instead faced with the large gap between those of noble blood and those without. The man seemed happy, and despite the words he quoted, she still could not make sense of his mindset. Her mind would need to settle before the previous morning, lest her painting show the confusion that now plagued her.
Unless that was a new subject she could go with. Maybe her muse was not with her understanding but her lackthereof. There would always be a wall between nobility and commoners, and what better way to show it than a painting made by one of royal blood about a gladiator in an arena. The difference could not be greater. Instead of a man in glory, she could paint a man proud and satisfied with what he has, but with the ambiguity of why painted within the scene. An artwork is not simply something beautiful to look at, but a reflection of society meant to draw questions from it’s audience.
“Right,” Marietta cleared her throat. “Until… we meet again. Oh, and I’ll be sure to bring your payment.” Marietta then retreated, mind whirling and inspiration finally pushing her toward the right direction.
Marietta raised a brow but kept her mouth shut at Homer being quoted at her. Where did a slave to the arena learn Homer? That felt distinctively out of place here. Did slaves learn how to read? No, why would tutors come here? Maybe someone told him about Homer? Or read it to him?
That didn’t matter. The out of place line was distracting her from the bigger picture What more should a man want? A good home, perhaps? Family? To not kill their friends? A future, instead of fear that every day could be their last?
Marietta wasn’t able to understand the gladiator, and perhaps she never will. But his next question caught her completely off guard. Her face grew a bright red and for a moment she struggled to produce words. Or do I need to take my tunic off for you to be sure? What kind of artist did he think she was? Marietta did not need, nor want, to see a nude man before her. She was a Lady. How improper! Her father would have him sent to the fylaki if he heard of such a scandal.
“N-No. No. That’s fine. I,” she cleared her throat, trying to recollect herself. Her hand fanned her burning face. “I think you would make a fine model. I can return with my proper paints and we can get started at the next morning’s light?”
Right now she just wanted to get out of there. Marietta’s innocence was painfully evident, and she had much to think and mull over before she could return again with a proper plan. She saw many weapons, one more unusual than the next, but instead of a gladiator in glory she was instead faced with the large gap between those of noble blood and those without. The man seemed happy, and despite the words he quoted, she still could not make sense of his mindset. Her mind would need to settle before the previous morning, lest her painting show the confusion that now plagued her.
Unless that was a new subject she could go with. Maybe her muse was not with her understanding but her lackthereof. There would always be a wall between nobility and commoners, and what better way to show it than a painting made by one of royal blood about a gladiator in an arena. The difference could not be greater. Instead of a man in glory, she could paint a man proud and satisfied with what he has, but with the ambiguity of why painted within the scene. An artwork is not simply something beautiful to look at, but a reflection of society meant to draw questions from it’s audience.
“Right,” Marietta cleared her throat. “Until… we meet again. Oh, and I’ll be sure to bring your payment.” Marietta then retreated, mind whirling and inspiration finally pushing her toward the right direction.