Her stinging words were standard Kaustir street talk, and Lut did not pay much attention to it. The only reason that he asked her to accompany him was, ironically, that he respected the fact that a woman would pluck hair and
keep it. The motive was obvious.
They stopped at the front of the arena. Apparently, he was being introduced. Despite K'Larr's gang's promise, he still felt slightly disgusted by the entire affair.
He turned towards the woman, suddenly formal.
"I will need your blood. It is a forgotten tradition, but I was taught long ago how to respect blood-givers. You do not have a choice, but at least ... " he flowed forward. One hand to pin her arms behind her back. The other to cover her eyes and the thumb to plug her nose, to dull the senses. One long breath over the skin, to open the veins underneath. Three passes of the tongue on the skin, to clean. Three mouthfuls, for respect. One last pass of the tongue, to seal the wound.
His eyelids were half-mast, lost in the thrill of drinking. As he released her and stood up straight, the open sores on his face were fusing shut, and though some of his skin lay in the sun, it did not split open as before, but merely reddened. Lut removed the imperial seal from his chest pocket and passed his tongue over it in one long swipe, saliva and blood clinging to it in tendrils. He reached forward and lifted the clothing just underneath her breasts, pressing the seal firmly and leaving a coagulating stamp in between.
"Collect this blood debt from me before the seal fades." Hopefully she would understand through the post-drink glow.
A very loud Draken shouted something. It might have been his name.
He strode into a dark side entrance, hand outstretched to grab a mask and a heavy black cloak, swirling it above and around in one smooth stroke. Despite him being a career-official, a man who existed solely to excel at his assigned job, he was excited. Maybe it was the blood, thick and hot in his stomach. There was a difference between someone trained to kill, and someone who learnt it by luck on the streets. It was time to show them the difference.
---
Baren roared, the blades swinging in as a criss-cross. The crowded roared in return.
And then ... silence. His blades shivered, stuck on the back of a black blob. It whirled, blowing the blades back, and Baren was thrown aside, a single deep gash carved from shoulder to hip. The serrated edge of a sword stuck through the cuts in the cloak.
"Your sword," Takeda paced the training floor, "is an extension of your arm - but also of your body." He slung the sword over his shoulder, back of the blade flat against his back, and leaned forward to parry a strike. He pressed the blade against his chest, swinging his entire body downwards to slash. "When against larger opponents, use your body to accomplish what your arm alone can not."
How do the Nocturne fight in the sun? Like this. The cloak was heavy, silk sewn into chain mail, the mask lacquered wood, to shield against the sun. There was a reason this outfit stunned the audience into silence - no one had ever seen it before. This was something Nocturnes in the Kaustir army only wore when they had to fight in the sun, at an utmost disadvantage.
In the sun, all battles had to be finished fast. The cloaked figure slammed into Baren and slid down against the gladiator's body. Where the cloak pressed against the gladiator's flesh, metal met metal met skin met bone. He fell to the ground, another rut running along the opposite shoulder.
"Friends!" The cloaked Nocturne spun, flinging the blood from his blade. Lut's voice was not very loud, but it carried well.
A hand spilled from the inner folds of the cloak, clutching an antique tablet.
"The three nations may be pressing against each other, but we have an advantage they don't! For an expedition into the Deep Sands has returned something that will allow us to move as we please ... "
"The location of a Divine Weapon!" He unsealed the mask from his face with a flourish, radiant in victory.