20th Ashan 717
Following a whole trial of brawling and stomping on chumps with Loque cheering for him from the stands, Fridgar had found himself laying awake in his bed, itching for more. So, he sneaked out in the dead of night, got himself wasted on whiskey and ale then returned to the fighting pit. Being marked by Ilaren, he had an affinity for both speed and brutish raw strength depending on how drunk or sober he was. He'd spent the whole day a sober unstoppable force and won every fight. Now was his time to try his luck as a drunken immovable object. The bouncer at the front, who recognized him, stepped aside to make way for him. Fridgar hit his head on the door frame as he tried to enter, then adjusted with a duck and tried again. "Again you fight?" the old woman asked at the desk. Fridgar simply nodded and waved his hand to dismiss her. "Read rules. Night-" Was all he heard as he disappeared down the hallway that lead to the waiting area for the fighters.
He'd read the rules earlier, he didn't need to read them again. Don't kill anyone, don't use Magic and don't team fight. Easy enough, right? Only, the night rules were different as the woman had tried to explain. Magic was allowed after the sun had set and he hadn't brought his totems. The large, drunk Lothar was quite the fearsome sight despite the stumble in his walk. He stood at seven foot four inches and weighed in at near enough to five hundred pounds of dense bone and thick muscle. Dozens of scars littered his body from all origins, acid burns, talon and claw marks, animal bites and various slashes and punctures from all sorts of weapons. His hair was a mess right then, not even tied back out of his eyes as it usually was. His shoulder-length brown locks lay against his back, which for once, was void of the animal skin that he normally wore everywhere. He still had his Loincloth secured around his waist, thankfully. And on his hands and wrists, he wore his masterwork terrendyte gauntlets, which grasped a half empty bottle filled with rolling amber-brown fluid; the rest of whatever spirit he was drinking.
When at last he reached the holding room, he found it empty save for the one armored guard. What? Did he have to wait for a challenger? So be it. With a shrug, the Lothar took his place opposite the gate and sat, then knocked back the bottle to take a swig of the throat-burning malt whiskey. He swallowed, then offered the bottle to the guard. "Are you seriously going into the arena drunk?" The guard asked, looking down on him in disgust. Finally, a Quacian that spoke what sounded like perfect common. The Lothar shrugged with a clank of his armored hands "I fight be'er shit..faced..." He explained, holding his liquor enough to not slur his words too badly. The guard laughed a little and shook his head. "Let's hope that's true against mages, as well as slaves." He offered with a nod. Fridgar stared at him in return, then blinked slowly. "...Mages?" He asked with a squint. "Magic is against'a rules..?" The guard laughed in return to his observation. "Those are daytime rules, this is night and it's when the mages come by to fight."
"Bogs." The Lothar spat, then took another swig of his whiskey. The guard passed him a disapproving scowl, but wouldn't further pester him about spitting on the floor, it seemed. "...I left m'totems at home..." He explained as he rose to his feet and looked to the contents of his bottle. It was true, his totems often tried to force themselves over his form and it made so many situations awkward. He loved each and every one of them, but they were often times a nuisance... For those reasons, he couldn't take them places around the city or indoors... Which proved a massive inconvenience. As he reached the doorway, another Lothar appeared from the dark. He was shorter than himself, standing perhaps 6'8" with an athletic build, only... They were old, grey, wrinkled. What was an old man doing in the arena?
Following a whole trial of brawling and stomping on chumps with Loque cheering for him from the stands, Fridgar had found himself laying awake in his bed, itching for more. So, he sneaked out in the dead of night, got himself wasted on whiskey and ale then returned to the fighting pit. Being marked by Ilaren, he had an affinity for both speed and brutish raw strength depending on how drunk or sober he was. He'd spent the whole day a sober unstoppable force and won every fight. Now was his time to try his luck as a drunken immovable object. The bouncer at the front, who recognized him, stepped aside to make way for him. Fridgar hit his head on the door frame as he tried to enter, then adjusted with a duck and tried again. "Again you fight?" the old woman asked at the desk. Fridgar simply nodded and waved his hand to dismiss her. "Read rules. Night-" Was all he heard as he disappeared down the hallway that lead to the waiting area for the fighters.
He'd read the rules earlier, he didn't need to read them again. Don't kill anyone, don't use Magic and don't team fight. Easy enough, right? Only, the night rules were different as the woman had tried to explain. Magic was allowed after the sun had set and he hadn't brought his totems. The large, drunk Lothar was quite the fearsome sight despite the stumble in his walk. He stood at seven foot four inches and weighed in at near enough to five hundred pounds of dense bone and thick muscle. Dozens of scars littered his body from all origins, acid burns, talon and claw marks, animal bites and various slashes and punctures from all sorts of weapons. His hair was a mess right then, not even tied back out of his eyes as it usually was. His shoulder-length brown locks lay against his back, which for once, was void of the animal skin that he normally wore everywhere. He still had his Loincloth secured around his waist, thankfully. And on his hands and wrists, he wore his masterwork terrendyte gauntlets, which grasped a half empty bottle filled with rolling amber-brown fluid; the rest of whatever spirit he was drinking.
When at last he reached the holding room, he found it empty save for the one armored guard. What? Did he have to wait for a challenger? So be it. With a shrug, the Lothar took his place opposite the gate and sat, then knocked back the bottle to take a swig of the throat-burning malt whiskey. He swallowed, then offered the bottle to the guard. "Are you seriously going into the arena drunk?" The guard asked, looking down on him in disgust. Finally, a Quacian that spoke what sounded like perfect common. The Lothar shrugged with a clank of his armored hands "I fight be'er shit..faced..." He explained, holding his liquor enough to not slur his words too badly. The guard laughed a little and shook his head. "Let's hope that's true against mages, as well as slaves." He offered with a nod. Fridgar stared at him in return, then blinked slowly. "...Mages?" He asked with a squint. "Magic is against'a rules..?" The guard laughed in return to his observation. "Those are daytime rules, this is night and it's when the mages come by to fight."
"Bogs." The Lothar spat, then took another swig of his whiskey. The guard passed him a disapproving scowl, but wouldn't further pester him about spitting on the floor, it seemed. "...I left m'totems at home..." He explained as he rose to his feet and looked to the contents of his bottle. It was true, his totems often tried to force themselves over his form and it made so many situations awkward. He loved each and every one of them, but they were often times a nuisance... For those reasons, he couldn't take them places around the city or indoors... Which proved a massive inconvenience. As he reached the doorway, another Lothar appeared from the dark. He was shorter than himself, standing perhaps 6'8" with an athletic build, only... They were old, grey, wrinkled. What was an old man doing in the arena?
