It was his third trial in Quacia and already the city disgusted him. Bellator seemed to find something... admirable(?) about the city, though he couldn't discern what. He didn't understand why, but Alistair also seemed unhappy here too. Perhaps it was the creep? The hostility of the people here? Why the noble hadn't just returned home to Gauthrel in that arc and a half, he didn't know. The entire atmosphere of this land reeked of decay to him, it was... wrong, unnatural. Some sort of taint infected the life here and made living difficult. Without wood, fruits, vegetables, natural fibers and various meats, every trial felt... so dull.
The people here stared at him too; the stocky, seven-foot-four Lothar, who wore nothing but animal hides. His thick brown hair was wild, almost unkempt if not for the ties that held it back in a ponytail, out of his eyes. The beard on his chin was also tied into two short 'ropes', a sort of nordic style, typical to those from the plains. Atypical to the majority of his kin, he was clad in markings from head to toe. Each scar told a different story or a different struggle, another time that he'd had to fight for his life or take the life of something else. All along his arms were gnarly scars, acid burns, lacerations, clean cuts and deep punctures that had either occurred from arrows, stabs or animal bites, talons, claws... All over his chest and gut were multiple old stab wounds and slashes, some from the maws of giant animals that couldn't quite rend him in half after one bite, other from brawls with more... 'accepted members of society'. For every animal he'd killed, they'd tried to kill him with just as much vigor. He had the scars to prove that he'd come out on top time and time again.
For his hands to be dry and rough was almost an abnormality. So many times he'd looked to his own palms, only to find the rich, crimson life force of some other living thing pooling in his hands, dripping from his knuckles and running down his arms. Prior to his revelation, he often pondered stories his mother had told him while she still breathed. Stories of monsters that prowled the plains in search of prey, anything to sink their teeth into and fill their bellies. For that reason, he'd started to see himself as something of a monster... Some evil, destructive force that sank its claws it anything that moved in his vicinity, even Alistair... Now though, he didn't believe in monsters. There were predators and there were prey. Eat or be eaten. Kill or be killed. That was the chaotic balance of nature, of life. An endless struggle to put one's own life before the lives of everything else, long enough to pass along one's own genetics.
Only... It wasn't so simple. There was safety in numbers, which lead to the formations of packs, tribes, clans... Communities and the like among more social animals. For that reason, he needed to broaden his horizons. No longer could he rely on just Alistair as his sole source of company, he needed his own pack, his own clan... Alistair had done just that, after all.
There he stood, alone, before the slave auction house. All sorts of odd shapes and sizes were sold here, from various criminals that had been enslaved for their wrong doings to Ithecal captured in distant lands and brought here as extra labor or personal exotic slaves. Most of the criminals suffering punishment were more likely to find themselves bought into hard labor and condemned to quarries and mines for the length of their sentence, allowing a few exceptions of course... the ithecal were more divided by subspecies, or so it seemed. The larger Thiussum and Paltharnum would more than likely be sold into slave labor while the smaller Wyvarnth could complete more intricate tasks. He wouldn't necessarily be buying anyone totrial, but it might have been a nice place to start his search.
With a sigh, the lothar tested the binding of his pelt, which hung neatly over his shoulders, then pushed the door open. Inside were rows of chairs with various different rich-looking Quacians sat around, talking, laughing before a stage. No cages in sight... Perhaps around the back? Did they walk them onto the stage with cuffs and leashes? He had little time to ponder before he caught the staring blue eyes of a woman stood near the entrance. He only made eye contact for a glance before looking away again. That was all he could manage without feeling the need to break her neck. Only one thing made him more angry than being stared at, and that was eye contact. She started speaking in some language that he didn't understand. She was speaking at him with what sounded like a stutter, but he couldn't be sure. "Common?" He asked without looking her in the eye. "O-oh, sorry sir!" She cleared her throat. "You need to wear.. um... clothes, here..." She spoke unsure. Her uncertainty was either from her lack of confidence in her tongue or the fact that Fridgar had to duck beneath the doorway and looked strong enough to make a bigger doorway if he so wished. Whatever the reason she was uncertain, he could use it to his advantage.
He reached to the string of his loincloth to take a pouch of nel that he'd carried with him on this occasion, then shook it to jingle the coins inside. "My money is good. Do you want it or not?" he asked forwardly. She'd probably been hoping that the Lothar would just accept her authority on the matter and leave... Which might explain the look of a sunken heart on her face. "...N-no can do sir, you will have to leave..." She spoke with wavering firmness. "Are you really about to deprive your master of this coin? Over a few pieces of cloth?" He asked, looking in her eyes for another few trills. He could feel it creeping up on him, the spark's anger, it's unbridled ferocity... until she looked away. Perfect. "...I'll only sit through a few showings... And you master will be richer from it, I'm sure they'll thank you when this is over..." He pushed for diplomacy again. With a sigh, she gave in and handed him some sort of sign with a handle and a number painted on. "...Just please sit in the back?" She asked. "No one will see me." He assured with a smile as he took the sign, then took his seat in the back. He knew full well that she'd probably just not wanted to have to deal with his imposing nature, but that was good enough for him.
So far, he'd kept to his word, not one of these... pompous wastes of space had noticed him yet. All of them were too caught up in their own conversations and flexing to notice the stranger sitting int he back, no matter how little clothing he was wearing. All he had to do now was wait and browse the slaves as they were displayed... Whenever the show would begin, that was.