Heat of the Moment
- Colosseum District, Noon
A damp, cold, overcast day doesn't subvert the hustle and bustle of the Colosseum District. The chilly air makes for an electric atmosphere for tournaments, as contestants face another layer of challenge atop martial prowess. Hence, the line to gather into the Colosseum spills out into the streets. Vendors hark their wares: greasy food, team flags, large masks of famous coaches and contestants.
At one of the stalls serving none other than greasy meat-on-a-stick is two amongst the swath of crowd. A grey skinned woman with a black cloak wrapped around her frame, a calloused hand harboring three of the sticks while one is being uncouthly torn to shreds. Beside her is a lucht woman with bushy brown hair, and a sheathed needle-thin sword clacking softly against the stool as she kicks her legs impatiently, twirling an empty stick between her fingers. "So... Why are we out here, Coach?"
The cloaked figure holds up a finger, wipes her hand off on her pants, and gestures simply. "You and I may be small, but there's no fucking way we're getting to the locker rooms in that bullshit." <Handspeech/Tongues>
The lucht doesn't accept that. "Or, you're just waffling on picking people," she tuts.
Coach shakes her head. "I've made up my mind a while ago." <Handspeech/Tongues>
The fencer blinks, before suddenly hopping up on her stool yanking at the coach's cloak, shaking her. "Well?! Spit it out then!"
Said coach passively monches down on another stick, bemused. And witholding.
The Gobbo walks along happy, having found a meat-on-a-stick vendor, and purchased several. Simony is greedily chomping through them, hardly stopping to chew.
She walks past Aryia several steps, before stopping, and backing up, where she grins toothily, offering a finger-wiggle wave.
Her free hand begins to sign. "Hi Aryia, how have you been? How's the new coaching position going?" <Handspeech>
The festive atmosphere had attracted one ruddy sith-makar to crawl out from his hibernation to try and attend to the spectacle. Unfortunately for him, so it did for everyone else in the city, it seemed. Clicking his teeth in frustration at the long line, the draconian leans against his glaive in annoyance.
Until he sees a familiar face slipping into one of the stalls. Walking over, the Dragoon looms over Simony with a flash of his teeth. "Canvas." Then towards Aryia, "Stranger," And to the fencer. "Stranger." His tail sways behind him. "Also come to see the tournament?"
'The Mystery Meat on a Stick' vendor is not the only popular one, and the very conspicuous crowd on the street has drawn a fair amount of attention. In addition to slowing or all but halting entrance to the Colosseum, proper, at the moment. Another cloaked mul emerges from those at one of the souvenir stands, carrying a recently-acquired mask.
Aya then navigates through, and perhaps takes advantage of, the crowd to make her way to Aryia and her student. A flick of arm brings the mask up before her own face: it is not so disimilar, save for the scarring... and the fact that it is perhaps twice or thrice the size of the source visage. Now she and Aryia could be twins.
"I see that they crafted your head with proper proportions to contain your wisdom, sister. And ego, perhaps?"
Aryia was busy being shaken about by the smaller woman, but spying Simony, she gives a little wave hello from the hip. "Doing well on both fronts. Busy finalizing some things-" <Handspeech/Tongues>
"Finalize them already!" the Lucht huffs loudly, releasing the coach.
"Patience, Claria," Aryia assuages before looking over and up to Aelwyn. She squints vaguely. "... I remember you. You're the cocky fucker in the Resurrectionist's meeting," she bluntly gestures, those of which the gist came across despite any language barrier. "See? In a sense."
It seems she has more to say, but that hand slowly drops to the side as she spies the enlarged version of her visage plastered and bobbing about. Said scarred sourced visage reddens as she's aghast. "Oh /fuck/ you...!" she gestures crudely before smacking her own face with a palm. "I haven't even gotten into tournaments yet and they're /already/ making those of me?!" <Handspeech/Tongues>
Claria busts out laughing.
The Goblin eyes the Lucht a moment, before her fingers sign once more. "Ah, choosing your team. I can see how that could be a difficult decision, especially if you have a good selection of decent candidates." Her head tilts towards the small woman at Aryia's side. "Is she on your team? Fast with the rapier?" Simony offers a wave to Claria, "Hello, I am called Simony. Nice to meet you!"
She turns to nod at Aelwyn. "Yes, I did not expect quite so big a crowd, with the weather being so chilly. But I suppose people are happy it's not snowing, or Gods forbid, raining. I take it y..."
Like the Lucht woman, the Gobbo begins laughing at the "life size" mask of Aryia's face.
Aelwyn looks on the gesturing with curiosity - but he twists his lips as Aryia begins to gesture in more direct fashion at him. "This one does not understand." He didn't seem to be too bothered by it - except he leans over Simony and asks, "What is she saying and why does she seem so angry at this one?"
The sith-makar bows his head towards Claria and Aryia as well, "Aelwyn, a Dragoon." He introduces himself - and then catches the sight of the mask wearing Aya. "Tch." He flashes his teeth. "This one was not aware he was standing next to giants of the tournament."
Aelwyn looks on the curiosity - but he twists his lips as Aryia begins to gesture in more direct fashion at him. "This one supposes he can come off as confident, but why would this one not be?" He flashes his teeth. "This one is still standing." The sith-makar bows his head towards Claria and Aryia as well, "Aelwyn, a Dragoon." He introduces himself - before turning his head towards Simony.
"Hmm, the cold is still too much-" The draconian begins, before he catches the sight of the mask wearing Aya. "Tch." He flashes his teeth. "This one was not aware he was standing next to giants of the tournament.
Aya lowers the large Aryia face to reveal a (very) bemused smile. "The crafters know rising celebrities when they seem them, I expect. It is good for their business, afterall." It could not possibly be that they are also more than willing to accept custom orders (which is also good for business). Her smile then turns to Aelwyn. "You are, indeed," she affirms as she dips her head in a sidelong nod to Aryia and the Lucht.
Claria doesn't seem to fully understand the goblin's Handspeech, but she's getting bits and pieces of it. Enough to /stare/ into the side of Aryia's skull at the question. The mute shrugs, and takes another bite. The fencer groans, turning to Simony and Aelwyn. "Claria. Pleasure. We'd be giants if someone would actually /assemble the team/ and enter." Seemingly used to, resigned, or immune to Aryia's crassness, she glares daggers at the mute.
Another crunch, ignoring the prodding. Which the crimson in her face only grows further from others laughing. "Still standing, but you look crispier than last time I remember. I can get that," the embarrassed coach gestures to him, pushing through the emotion. Aryia cuts a glare at Aya, but it softens at the revealed smile. "At least they got it to look right," she signs, resigned to her fate of a blown up caricature. <Handspeech/Tongues>
The crowd ebbs and flows, others gathering at the entrance of the Colloseum, and backing the line up further.
"A watched pot never boils.", Simony offers up to Claria. "Are you hoping to be on the team yourself, or are you just helping with organization and training?" She eyes Aryia for a moment. "That is a question, though. What's got you holding off on a decision until the very last moment, Aryia? If uhm that's not too nosy to ask about?"
The Gobbo eyes Aelwyn a moment, "Well, there's a reason why softskin wear clothing, especially in Winter. It's worth it to give up some mobility and agility for warmth, you know. I mean, you can do your own thing, but you running around practically naked in Winter is as silly as me bundling on winter jackets for a trip into Am'shere."
"I wonder though, where are the Aya masks, hmm?"
Aelwyn clicks his teeth in surprise as Aya lowers the mask, and then after a moment, bows his head. "Silverbraid." The comments about the sith-makar's way darker shade of scales makes the draconian pause - and idly run his hand under his cloak - before he flashes his teeth. "Confidence does not mean one is infallible." He looks down at the leather strips that were still wrapped around his waist. Then he shrugs it off.
"This one is wearing a cloak - now why would this one strangle himself with even more clothing?" The draconian protests, before letting out a tch. "This one would be warmer in the center of the Colosseum." He turns to look towards Claria and Aryia then. "Last minute team seems like a bold move." There's a very slow widening of his teeth. "Cocksure, even."
Aya tucks her keepsake mask away for safekeeping, her smile fading as her sister points out Aelwyn's more-cooked-than-usual status. Some mirth returns at Simony's comment, though, and earns a light snort. "If any were made of myself, they would be for burning or destruction in spite, not for adoration," she opines to the gobber.
She then turns to more practical and perhaps pleasant matters when she suggests to Aelwyn, "Magic. You can keep yourself warm, or cool, with minimal wear that is properly enchanted. Run about throught the snows in barely more than skin or scales, if you wished."
"On the team!" Claria quickly answers. "I wouldn't be doing all this preliminary matches and training just to push paper!"
Aryia shakes her head at Aelwyn, amused. "I sure as shit understand that. I fuck up all the time," she signs to him, mildly curious about Aya merchandise before others pile on the same question. She holds up a hand. "Like I told Claria earlier. I've made my decision a while ago. In fact," Aryia looks to Claria, biting down on another greasy stick of beef. "I've already submitted the paperwork, names and all." <Handspeech/Tongues>
"You...--! what in the Iron Hells am I sitting here for?!" Claria scrabbles off the chair and vanishes into the crowd.
The mute picks her teeth with a stick, following the Lucht until they vanish into the throng of the crowd. "I posted the results with the other coaches," she waves to the line. "Just wanted to treat as means of congratulating her before she learns." <Handspeech/Tongues>
"One can push paper and punch skull in, I mean, one can do both at the same time.", the Goblin says. "Well, maybe not at the exact same time but.." Simony lifts a hand as the Lucht runs off. "Well, one could see how that might be taken poorly, Aryia. Not everyone is as patient as you can be." She chuckles and shakes her head. "Congratulations once more. How many are on your team, then?"
"Hah, confidence means one feels as though they /are/ infallible, though." Simony snorts at the Sith. "You said that just to say the word cock, didn't you?" Simony turns to Aya, "I'd definitely wear one to the colosseum, just so people could feel their impending doooooom."
Today is not Dolan's favorite kind of day, but it helps to get out and about, and fires can only do so much. So, his restless feet have taken him across the city and down towards the Colosseum, with a vague idea to maybe see if Andie's training down there today. The festive crowd and atmosphere, though, requires some pushing through, and the sketchy snacks end up getting ignored.
There are faces he knows in this area, though, and his eyes settle almost at once on Aya.
Aya arches a brow at Simony. It may take her a moment to determine whether what the gobber would wear to the Colosseum is related to the prior comment on masks or the comment just made to Aelwyn. She seems to presume the former and shakes her head. "I prefer you did not. My appearance has caused more than enough terror in this city. All the more reason I am departing it."
Aelwyn gestures towards Aya. "If this were a magic user, everything would be so easy, it seems. Yet the thought scavenges more merit the more this white falls from the sky." The draconian tilts his head up at the sky, letting out a click in frustration.
The ruddy sith-makar's tail moves to make a motion at Simony's ankles, twapping them lightly. "And what is Canvas going to do, if this one did?" He flashes his teeth with a wiggle of his tongue. The draconion eyes Claria running off, letting out a light rumble. "This one believes Fingers is also being unnecessarily cruel."
Aryia shrugs at Simony, a light smirk tossed the albino's way. The answer to the question is met with four raised digits. "Doesn't seem like a lot, but I want quality, not quantity."
The mute takes in the banter between the three, her offering a sympathetic smile to her sister before chuckling at Aelwyn. She shakes her head. "Cruel? No. Fucking with her? Just a little bit." Her attention drifts off of the sith to the man with a half-scarred face. Glances are given to Aya and Dolan before she elbows her sister and points him out.
"Dolan. I would say brighest of days, but it's fucking cloudy as shit," she signs to him, mildly amused. <Handspeech/Tongues>
Simony is just about to say something, and glances at Aryia. "It's like saying good morning, Aryia. It's not necessarily a good day, but hte greet is wishing one has a good day." Looking to Dolan, she waves and offers a smile, "Brightest of days, Dolan!'
Glancing back to Aryia, she nods. "Quality is good to have in a team. What are your other fighters good at? All fast weapons, any heavy hitters?"
Aya's comment has Simony raising her eyebrows, "Leaving? So soon?" The tapping at her ankles has the Goblin attempting to trap the tailtip with her foot. "I'd tell you to put some clothes on, you silly goober, and if I had to, I'd drag you off to get that done."
"I noticed." Dolan, who is wholly dressed for the weather in layers of sheepskin and wool, and carrying only the longsword, scowls at both Aryia and Aya, then chases it off with a cheeky grin. "I can still wish you better weather, though. Brightest of days to the both of you, and you, too, Simony." Aelwyn gets a polite nod as well, a remote recognition.
"Fighters? Are you a marshal or something, now?" he asks amusedly, the grin remaining.
"Brighest of days, Dolan," Aya returns the greeting in defiance of the current weather. "How fare you?" She then nods to Simony's question in the interim before glancing to Aryia. "Marshal... I may need to start recording all your titles lest I omit one, sister. Admiral. Coach. Marshal. I may have already forgotten a few..."
"Tch, one can always try Canvas, but she won't surely succeed." The draconian rumbles, before Aelwyn catches the sight of Dolan. Slowly, he straightens to more of a stance and leans more forward onto his toes. When the man starts to walk closer, so does the quite-scorched-looking sith-makar walk closer towards him.
Orange eyes staring. Glaring at the man.
"Gemeye." He 'greets', or rather slices off the word in a short hiss.
"And to you," Aryia gestures back to Dolan before ripping into the last meat-on-a-stick. One hand answers the lone human and gobber, "Coach for the Colosseum. Have a team. Some are green, others are grizzled. They all hit heavy in their own way, Simony. All of them have potential, and all of them cocky as shit. Tournaments are coming up, preliminaries are done."
The fact of Aya leaving isn't addressed by the coach, save for her just nodding along with Aya about it. But, she does end up staring at her sister. A quiet sound leaves her, perhaps interpreted as a groan as her face was pained from it. "Please don't," she tries to plea with her sister.
Such threats are set aside for the time as the fiery sith was now glaring down the Corona. A brow quirks, her taking one of the sticks to clean her teeth once more. Observing. <Handspeech/Tongues>
"Huh. I'm all right, Aya, and you?" Interest colors Dolan's tone, but he doesn't get a chance to ask more, keenly aware of the orange eyes boring holes in him. Slowly, he turns to face the sith-makar, directing the entire harlequin stare at him. Not in anger - the scarred half remains an expressionless mask, but the mobile half registers surprise and bemusement. "I piss in your porridge or something?"
The Goblin steps forward to offer up one of her meat-on-a-stick treats to Dolan, this one cooked chunks of beef with assorted roasted vegetables sandwiched between the portions of meat. "Shishkebob?", she offers. "Very good." While she awaits his answer, she quickly downs two others, while looking between Dolan and Aelwyn. "I get the feeling I've missed some event here, of note. Are you two on opposite sides of some issue?"
She gazes at Aelwyn for a moment, and offers him one of her meat-on-a-sticks as well. "Pork and pineapple, very good. And uhm, if you want to see yourself get lifted and hauled off by someone half your size and a third your weight, just say so, Aelwyn."
Giggling, she looks to Aya and sighs. "Well, perhaps you will take your time in deciding to do that and when."
To Aryia, the Goblin nods. "Excellent. Well, I shall place bets on your team. Perhaps I can make coin while cheering you on."
Strangely enough, Aelwyn suddenly wasn't that interested in the meat-on-a-stick. His orange slit pupils narrow and his jaw obviously stiffens. The -smaller- sith-makar takes a step forward. He rumbles with a short snick of his teeth, at Simony, "Yes, we are."
He lifts up a pair of fingers and attempts to shove them at Dolan's chest. "My family."
"I legally cannot tell you to avoid or place bets on my team," Aryia gestures neutrally to Simony. Yet a little smile flickers across her lips. "But I appreciate the support nonetheless."
The shift of conversation and tension is noted, Aryia tossing the wooden sticks into a nearby trash barrel. Wiping her hands off on her pants, she shifts on her stool to plant both boots on the ground. Still watching. <Handspeech/Tongues>
GAME: Dolan rolls intelligence: (7)+3: 10
The Goblin's forehead creases as a worried expression settles onto her face. "Erm, I would ask you both to remain civil, hmm? Would one of you like to go first and explain things? Perhaps we can settle this peaceably?" Simony moves to interpose herself between the two, which is a little awkward. She nudges at Aelwyn gently.
Dolan reaches out to take the meat on a stick, but before he can bite into it, he's got clawed sith-makar fingers shoved into his chest, fingers that encounter a light chain mail beneath the winter clothing. He stares down at the finger, then at Aelwyn. "Your family? The fuck is this exactly about?" Clearly, the inquisitor has no idea what Aelwyn's beef with him is - some connection has not yet been made. "Get off me and explain yourself."
"We are being civil, Canvas." Aelwyn continues to stare at Dolan - and then slowly he pushes at the man, giving him a light shove with his fingers. "Forgot already?" He clicks his teeth at the man, sharp teeth displayed as he shies his lips away. "It was just another day for you, was it?"
The orange glare seems to pick up more fire, as the draconian clenches his grip around his glaive. "_You_ and yours is the reason this one has to ask for a _fucking permission_ to see this one's kin."
Being the silent observer to the developing frustration, Aryia's gaze drifts from the mediator, the unsure accused, landing on the steaming alleged wronged. She was out of the loop, sure, but enough context laid out to at least piece together something out of it.
She slips off the stool and meanders beside both the men, hands folded in front of her with her thumbs resting in her belt.
"And it is my hope that you remain so, Aelwyn." Simony eyes Aryia a moment as the monk moves to stand closer, before glancing back at the Sith.
"If I have things right, you're upset that your erm brother? is being held? Given the situation of the day, your brother, and yourself, are lucky to be alive. Dolan's not the Watch, nor is he the warden, nor a magistrate. He is not the one deciding things about your kin."
_Oh._
_Now_ it crystallizes. The mobile half of Dolan's features fairly blossoms with understanding, quickly followed by exasperation, and annoyance, and the brow eye narrows. "So, let me get this straight. You're pissed at me because your brother is in jail for fiend summoning." Every ounce of his usual easy good humor is gone, and he straightens up to his own full height, the lone brown eye snapping.
"You're a fucking idiot," he declares. "Let me put this in words your pea brain can understand. Your _brother_ and the rest of his troupe summoned a devil to this plane. If your brother's plot had succeeded, do you think that the devil would have left quietly? No. He would have _started_ by killing every single soul in that tent, and then hidden himself to cause even more havoc. That was a devil beyond the strength of _any_ of us to throw down, and we'd have had a time banishing it if it had succeeded. Your brother and your troupe nearly got hundreds or thousands of people killed or worse, out of a stupid desire for revenge against you. They're in that cell so they don't take it into their heads to do something _else_!"
By now, his voice is just about a growl. "This ain't about you, hotshot. Your brother is so fucking stupid and revenge-driven that he's a danger to every single soul in this city. No. Simony's right. I don't have the authority to keep him there. That ain't my decision. But your brother pulled something incredibly stupid, that the guard is super fucking sensitive about. It ever occur to you that the ward is there to stop summoning? No, probably not. Those people present that day - Simony. Aya. Harkashan. Rune. Those people saved your bacon, your brother's, and that of every single living soul in this city, and you're _whining_ because there are _consequences_ for what your brother did?"
"Get out of my face."
Aelwyn continued to stand there. Unflinching, his intense stare not dying down one iota. In fact, it seemed to get worse every passing word and insult Dolan spews at him. The demon. Stupid. Idiot. Troupe. Brother. The gaze only widens slightly when Simony, Aya and the others are mentioned - but they quickly fill with narrowed fire. In many practical terms, Dolan was not wrong. Yet that wasn't what Aelwyn was thinking about.
He was thinking about his brother, buried in the deepest recesses of the Arcanist's Guild. His brother's sad eyes, when he said he was going to die there.
Alone, with nothing but deranged voices for company. All because of that one decision Aelwyn made.
The Dragoon's nostrils flare, and he takes a slow step forward, only held partly back by Simony's presence. Slowly, his tongue roils in his mouth - before he lets out a fleck of spit at Dolan. "I would, if there was one, half-face." Then he bares his teeth. "You do not know my brother, what he had to do to survive. You do not know _one fucking thing_." He straightens up his chest, looming upwards. "Any more words coming out of that hole?"
-Paused-