Divale, Il'ian


Blood sport at its finest draws the rougher crowds… with Il'ian and Divale among them.

Violence and blood


It is afternoon of the nineteenth day of the second month of the twelfth turn of the 12th pass.


The Pit, Igen Weyr

OOC Date 06 Oct 2017 04:00




The Pit

One does not enter The Pit so much as descend into it. Why else the name? The Steen ancestors paid for their square footage with sweat, excavating the area and building curved walls up around it. Wide, smooth steps descend into a large entry area that overlooks the pit and galleries. Floors, ceilings and walls have been whitewashed with limestone paste, increasing the amount of light reflected back from the numerous glow baskets hung on the walls. A rounded doorway to the right leads one into the business' "office", which is furnished in spartan style: cushions for kneeling or sitting upon, a desk that's low to the ground constructed of the same whitewashed stone as the rest of the building, and niches carved out of the walls themselves for decorative pieces. Here is a small sculpture of men wrestling, there is a wooden carving of a champion with a foot upon his vanquished foe.

Continuing on through the lobby brings one to another set of six stairs that descend into the galleries surrounding the sand-filled pits. A low wall separates audience from combatants, but even at its highest point, those in the galleries are never more than twenty feet away from the action. The sand is raked daily, with fresh sand added whenever the blood to soil ratio becomes too great.

Il'ian has battered his way through the crowds teeming the pit to a choice spot — crowded for sure, but choice enough in viewing. Blonde hair mats his head despite the chill outside. Human bodies warm the pit enough to break out sweat that immediately chills the flesh. His hands - devoid of gloves - grip the edge peering down into the pit. A rusted length of metal that does little to bar the masses hanging over it. Two men fight. The sands soak in blood and one has lost an eye. Sunset looms, but it's not here yet so the sun illuminates the carnage below. "Come on y'big'lout!" A burly fucker next to Il'ian shouts, but the bronzerider has no words to give. Instead his eyes lay fixed on the fight below. Crowds throng and the scent of smoking meat war with the stench of unwashed bodies and ball sweat. A man raises his arm and the acrid smell of armpit musk fills the air. Vicious, down at the bottom rows, they aren't keen on the comforts of life over the blood of money.

Another snakes their way through the crowds to find a better vantage point in which to view the grisly fight below. Certainly not for the faint hearted! And no swooning damsel is she. Divale ghosts her way down and down, until by chance (and much jostling by the crowd), she ends up beside Il’ian. A darted look up confirms recognition and he is given a vague, but dark smirk. She’s dressed in her usual androgynous tastes, but wears nothing to make her stand out as Parhelion. Some may recognize her, but for the most part she’s blended herself in as much as a woman can. “I’ve missed the best parts, I see?” she remarks dryly, her shadowed gaze falling to the pit below as the men fight and more blood is likely spilled. That burly fucker, who shouted before. is given a glared look of warning to ‘mind his damn business’ when the man pauses too long in his revelry to peer at her.

Likewise, Il'ian wears nothing to mark himself as a dragonrider, much less a bronzerider, much less a member of Parhelion. He looks at home in the bazaar folk, his body cleaving to remembered muscle patterns. Down below, a tooth flies from the mouth of the man who destroyed the eye of his opponent. It flies, glossy and white, like an ivory bullet onto the sands nearest Divale and Il'ian. "He's going to lose," the man states, swinging his toothpick 'round to the other side of his mouth, settling it in the corner. "And then I will grab him." And take him to the brig. His pretty boy face serves him well in most cases, but beneath it is layered steel.

Oh look! A little souvenir. Which Divale may have one of her firelizards snare later if it isn’t lost to the shifting sands or the hands of another who collects such odd, incredibly morbid items. She won’t, however, show interest in such things with a crowd around and Il’ian right there. Too many hard, difficult questions to that. “Eyeless there? I’d imagine so.” Cold, blunt observation there. His claim to grabbing the downed fighter will draw her attention sidelong to him. “Is that so?” He won’t mind if she drifts closer, will he? It’s partially due to the crush of the crowds but it gives her the advantage to add in a lower, gruff murmur. “Why oh why does he garner your interest?”

If Il'ian notices Divale eyeballing the souvenir, he doesn't comment. In reality, he's too focused on the fight to pay attention to where her attention might stray. "It is," his comment is thrown back, though he doesn't sway away when she drifts closer. He lets her question linger, perhaps letting her wonder if it was lost in the scuffle of the crowd. Instead, when the little man loses another tooth, he slants her an unreadable expression. "He took what he shouldn't have." Clear as mud? "Bazaar justice." A charming grin brings his face to life — in all it's boyish delight. "He took something from my mother. Something she can't get back." The bronzerider shrugs, brows drawing together briefly. "I'll make sure he gets to the brig in one piece." He doesn't promise he won't be broken.

Well, well. Bazaar justice, is it? That tidbit certainly has Divale’s focused interest. If Bazaar justice is anything parallel to Underground justice than the young brownrider is definitely wanting to stick around. The fight draws her attention away again and there will be nothing but the crush of the crowd around them, the roar of voices and the stench of sweat and meat that in the building heat is becoming rather unpleasant. When the chaos dies down for a beat, Divale never takes her eyes off the fight below; one that is rapidly coming to a close. Second tooth and another good hit that draws a collective wince from the crowd. “Care for some assistance in his… escort?” Cryptic for: does Il’ian want a lookout?

The man losing teeth makes a last ditch effort, while the bigger man with the lost eye is rapidly losing strength. It could be a draw, but Il'ian is a good judge of a fight in most times. The bigger man slams into the smaller, and with a sickening pop kicks the knee out from the other man's leg. His face is a ruined visage of gore, the eye socket bleeding enough to cause him blood-loss wooziness. The man screams and goes down. It is a frenzy of madness as the crowd goes wild, hungry for blood. Before the man could end the fight — for good no less — he's pulled off and declared the winner. Eyeless, he is lead off the arena while the screaming loser is dragged away. "I'm after the big one. It'll be a while to patch them up. The winner has one more fight." In other words, there's no rush. He eyes Divale, their time together in Parhelion invaluable to her strengths. "You can come." His lips quirk, a dangerous light lit.

In the chaos of the fight winner being declared, surely no one will notice the pale form of one brown firelizard on the sands and out of the way? Good. Divale’s mouth twitches into a grimace, but there’s a flickering to her eyes that betray something akin to morbid curiosity than she let’s on. “Ahh, it’s that type of match tonight, is it? I wonder how many more rounds he will last,” she muses, voice pitched as low as possible to Il’ian and yet not lost among the crush of voices around them. “You may end up having him torn to pieces before you can… collect him. Or does it matter if he’s breathing?” Brash is her statement, but the brownrider figures here, of all places, she can toe the line a bit. Lips curve to a wry hint of a grin when he accepts her offer, catching that dangerous light to his eyes and all the more intrigued for it. “I will wait on your lead, then.” Done deal.

"Not long. He will falter in his next," Il'ian says, shooting Divale a look. "And we will be ready." The big man is pushed out onto the arena once again. This time his opponent is a mountain of a man. Something odd lingers in the new opponent's shape. Something not quite right, but it's hard to put a finger on it. Is it in the shape? Maybe. In the essence? Perhaps. He is no less crazed than the others. With a roar, he charges the one-eyed man (now patched) as soon as the sounds are given. "If so, then it is the way it's meant to be." A grin is flashed Divale's way and he jerks his chin. "Come on. Let's be his welcoming party when he loses. We will take him where he needs to go and give him to the brig." So simple. And yet so much left unsaid. With a jerk, he pushes away and into the crowd. A frenzy roars. People scream. No one notices Il'ian's departure. Soon, Divale will be indoctrinated in what he means — and it won't be pretty, but at the end the man will be gifted to the brig. Tied up, literally, with a blood-red bow.

“You know these fights well,” Divale almost sounds impressed by the slight inflection to her otherwise low, gruff spoken tone. That mountain of a man is eyed and frowned at, but he’s not the important factor here (or is he?). Il’ian is marking their target to fall in this round and the brownrider is readying instead to follow in the bronzerider’s wake. “You’ll be doing most of the honors,” she reminds him with a twisted smirk and a strange light to her otherwise dark coloured eyes. “I am better served to be sure that you’re meeting with him to see him to the brig is done so post-haste.” Undisturbed by those who shouldn’t come across what is to unfold. Divale will make sure her departure remains unnoticed as well. As for being indoctrinated? Wouldn’t be the first blood-soaked and dark themed indoctrination she’s been witness and subjected to. No terrible surprise there, right? And once the ‘gift’ has been settled properly in the brig, Divale will part ways with the bronzerider; likely with far more knowledge now and a silent promise for future endeavours should their paths cross again.

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