Fridlok

5th of Saun 717

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Alistair
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Joined: Thu Apr 21, 2016 6:12 pm
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Fridlok

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5th of Saun, Arc 717

The cheering, announcing, mangling and roaring from the center of the city was quiet this trial. It was not a day of competition - instead, Fejrlok was all but unoccupied, save for by the animal handlers that managed the beasts in the fringes of the area. This season they were preparing a Western Gauthrel demonstration, with Roggelond and other creatures of the Bog in store. Until they had gotten their fighters, spectators and commentators assembled however, Fejrlok was not currently showing.

Instead, it was currently usable by the public as a form of amphitheater, with the seats covered with beds of grass and long, bent, gnarled trees curling around the arena. They had transformed the look of Fejrlok to that of Western Gauthrel, even creating a basin near the center of the arena that mimicked the pools of a marsh. The mage wondered just how the architects of Fejrlok had managed to reconfigure it so quickly for this showing, and whether or not they would be forced to reconstruct it at the end of Saun.

It didn't matter, he supposed. This was a conundrum for the proprietors of the arena.

Totrial, the public venue was largely occupied by wandering food peddlers and Lotharen men sitting upon the beds of potted grass, chatting up a storm whilst drinking thick alcohol and feasting upon sold meats and jerky. Within the center of the arena, watched by those sitting on the stands, a collection of men sang of the glory of Shatir - Thetros' lost animal companion - and her long life. Some of the city's prolific figures sat in the commentator's balcony, clapping or booing for the performers as they cycled through, a song leading into a poem, a poem leading into an acrobatic performance, an acrobatic performance leading into some ridiculous feat of strength.

Men of all kinds attempted to make their talents known to the watchful eyes of the crowd, which included mostly the city's bourgeois, with little else to do but view the performances of others and dole out largely arbitrary judgment. Many men and women were having their lives decided in these singular moments, seeking patronage by the wealthy elite sitting in the balcony above.

Alistair, from the stands, curled his lips. What if his gift for Fridgar this season was nothing other than recognition? For his strength, his greatness? What if Fridgar could be known for the man he was - a warrior of no equal, surely as talented as that of Mudra, who leaned into the balcony at this very instant?

The noble, after scoping out Fejrlok as a possible place of celebration, had begun to weave plans to glorify his havendal.

...several of which were absolutely mad, but alas he didn't quite care for the risks, as he didn't see any posed to him. Alistair staked out the arena for the opportunity of a lifetime, his minions infiltrating the caged fringes of Fejrlok, as he invited Fridgar to view the happenings below from the seats of the upper coliseum.

Finally the two of them arrived together, Fridgar promised a great experience by his lover, who had strongly urged him to consider attending for his day of birth.

The mage sat by his lover, viewing the prattling of some man below, seeking entry into some sort of mercenary band led by one of the spectators within the balcony. Exhaling, he looked to Fridgar and stared him directly in the eyes. "Fridgar, you want to be Jackal, right?" he questioned.

"I think you're strong enough, and brave enough. But you're a newcomer, really. No one here knows you - you're barely more popular than I am," he stated, shaking his head. "My gift to you is recognition, Fridgar. But you have to trust me. Something insane is about to happen, and I need you to trust your instincts when it does. Will you?"
word count: 655
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Varthakh
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Fridlok

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The arena. Fridgar hadn't been here yet, though he really should have by now. Imagine all the brawls he could have devoted to Ilaren, gaining more and more of her favour. Alas, he'd always had something going on. Hunting totems, getting hunted by totems, killing animals, getting killed by animals, casual trials in the life of the Lothar. This trial, however, was not casual.

No, totrial was the trial of his birth, twenty-four arcs ago. If he hadn't accidentally slipped it to Alistair he'd have stayed at home and drank. Instead, being as human as he was, Alistair insisted on celebrating. So, they were in the Arena. They would get to watch things get killed and kill things. As spectacular as such events were in Fridgar's life, he couldn't help but be put off by the idea. The dance of the graces was getting worse by the trial and he was starting to feel it's effects. Fridgar sat with his fingers pressed into his eye, rubbing away the fatigue.

His other hand was over the shoulders of his beloved Alistair, who sat beside him as they overlooked the arena and it's aesthetics. "It kinda looks like western Gauthrel," Fridgar speculated. It was the boggy basin that gave most of the swampy atmosphere, for him. It reminded the Lothar of the trial he went to the West with Halden. It was nice, natural, almost pleasing in a weird way. "I kinda like it, they did a good job," the tired looking Lothar sighed, shifting to find a comfortable spot in the hard seating provided.

When his Kindal turned to him and asked of his aspirations, Fridgar nodded with a look of suspicion about his features, "I do, yeah." He listened with intent, a question like that was no casual conversation topic. What was his beloved planning? To start his explanation, Fridgar was complimented on his bravery and strength, forcing a curl of his lips in a flattered smile. "My love," the Lothar mused, flattered. But unfortunately, he was right. Fridgar wasn't very well known in Gauthrel, maybe among his pack and a few other Jeger, but he wasn't quite as popular as he needed to be.

"You're popular, my rose. Everyone knows how strong and sexy you are," he grinned, kissing the human on the cheek. This was true, there had been too many times that Fridgar caught a stray Lothar eyeing up his Kindal's butt. In fact, looking to their right, he saw a Lothar quickly look away from their direction, probably caught red handed making googly eyes at his mate. Fridgar lifted his upper lip in a light snarl as he stared down the lesser Lothar, trying to burn holes in his skull. But that was off topic, his arm simply squeezed tighter around the human, bringing him closer as he continued.

Alistair was gifting him... recognition? How? Worse yet, he wouldn't say how he would manage such a feat. His warnings and advice were creepy and cryptic, almost frightening. Things were going to get insane? By their standards or by the public's standards? Those were two totally different levels of insanity. Somehow, Alistair's warnings alone got his heart beating faster, pumping adrenaline around his body. This was exciting. The thought of adversity put his body to work and managed to dull his symptoms a little as the Lothar grew agitated, excited.

"I trust you and I trust my instincts. Of course I trust you, Alistair!" He came to life, energy in his eyes. FUCK, he was so ready for this! Fridgar fidgeted, sitting forward in his seat, visibly ready to proceed with whatever crazy shit Alistair had planned.
word count: 626
Whenever one finds oneself inclined to bitterness, it is a sign of emotional failure.
-- Bertrand Russell
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