Shambling Arena [Eisner Cerei & Tatine]

[Tatine]

The roar of both the undead and the wild crowd of the arena filled the air with its breathless energy as a sole man prepared himself for battle in a small alcove given to him as a result of his good showing on the ring lately. He was a tall and muscular man, with skin as pale as chalk from his nocturnal life and with grey eyes and blond hair nearly just as pale despite the wild look he possessed. He leaned against the stone rim of the small water fountain before him, looking deeply into the reflective surface of the pool before him before cupping his worn and calloused hand and gathering some of the cool water he had fought to the death for. It was relatively clean, and drinkable, and for one such as he, being able to bath and drink as he leased was a blessing of the Gods.

Splashing his dirty face with the water in his hands, the upcoming gladiator proceeded to scrub his naked body of blood and dirt, using bandages provided to him to bind the few wounds that needed it, pleased that tonight had not been a bloody one for him, and that he had managed to kill without making too much of a mess in a spectacular enough fashion to keep his head on his broad shoulders. Tonight he was the one to test the new bloods, and through most died by his hands, a few managed to prove worthy enough to earn a pass from his gladius and fists. He was Margrave the Keeper, and his ability to make or break new gladiators was legendary, and he was proud of that. Yet he yearned for more glory, for enough spectacle to earn back his bloodline's right to become soldiers, generals even.

He was a man of action, and a gladiator was a good start, yet a soldier he wanted to be, a leader of men he craved to become, and he would not ret until he was adulated by the whole nation, of that, he swore his very life and soul upon. He had to, for his young children, he had to, for his ancestors. For a sole mistake would not break the Gates bloodline, he would make sure of it.

 

[Ty Lee]

Strapping his gauntlets on, the male known as Semus was preparing for the next round within the Colosseum, a literal death trap for those unprepared and untrained. The muscular warrior was just about ready to take on the terrors that lurked within, but first, he had to wait for a companion to show, for these terrors could not be felled by a single man, at least, not a normal one anyways. Semus glided the whetstone down the length of his zweihander, the edge gleaming and ready for action.

His last battle had been fairly easy, not a single scratch upon his toned body. The way that he moved with such a large and heavy sword was unseen within the ranks of the gladiators, earning him the title of Swift. His blue eyes gazed at the gate which would inevitably open, and while he looked calm on the surface, underneath was where all of his thoughts resided.

The way the announcer had declared the next match seemed to have put him off. A whole horde of terrors, rather than merely three or four, was frightening to those who knew what said terrors were capable of. Semus knew he had to bottle those feelings within, fear now would crush his dream of escaping alive, else he'd be subject to a fate arguably worse than death.