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?"
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?"