Gladiatrix

This is a conversation between Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP] and yourself, Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past].
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: //Nice bit of English trivia! Thank you for teaching me the female usage of Gladiator. :)
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: ((Of course friend))
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: //Would you care for an RP?
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: ((Sure! How well do you think our characters can mix, though?))
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: //Well enough. She might stab 'im, or he might coop't, or somethin' else.
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: ((What is coop't?))
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: //Cooperate
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: ((Ohhh, okay))
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: ((Well, Gladiators, female or not, are not supposed to be "roaming"))
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: ((Maybe he gets sent after the runaway prizefighter, being a merc and all?))
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: //Aye, sounds good. Skip is unexperienced with putting people in a bag whilst they're ALIVE, so it could enlongate the struggle.
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: ((Hm. So, what about the "excellent marksman" bit? Are you here on Fantasy, or Modern?))
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: //No. I'm just here for a good time.
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: //Skippy's original story (written by your truly) is mostly Surrealist, Sci-Fi, or Alternate History if you want a genre.
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: //Regardless I am an adaptive creature, sapient and flexible, and this carries into my writing :)
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: ((Oh heck))
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: ((Would you mind Classical Era, then?))
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: //Yea, sounds good
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: //More like Romani classical around 300 BC or more like Euro-Classical around 1700?
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: ((The former of course, haha))
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: //THE GLADIATOR PITS, right next door to 'Nice Music by French Guys Inc.'
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: //I will start unless you've a good concept of where you would like to. :)
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: ((My current concept wouldn't work well unless they were fixing to fight one another))
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: ((I'll let you go ahead, thanks ;)
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: ((I mean, like, it wouldn't work unless they were squaring off in an arena))
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: The sunrise was vainglorious, a beautiful speckling of blue rising into the last of night's embrace, followed by this arc of red, bleeding into a magenta that became cheerful yellow over the course of an hour. Skippy was right underneath it, heading up a mountainside, and he didn't even glance. It warmed his back as he stomped through the high, misty grasses and tread over the unforgiving stones. His feet were bare, the only protection across his body a thin-woven cyan-milk colored kilt, tied tight by a leather belt. On one side of the belt, a gladius, and on the other a thick-woven cowskin braid quiver with a tied cap. Over his muscly, wiry torso hung a longbow, about five heads end to end. The drawstring was thicker than a child's finger, complimenting the robust wooden instrument well. There was only one pair of tracks this far north into the wildlands- and he followed it with diligence, tenacity, and a big ol' doggone smile. That prizefighter'd fall sooner than soon.
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: Irene was not moving quickly. Not quickly at all. In fact, across the flat top of the mountain, she took time to allow each of her toes to feel the embrace of the damp grass between them before moving on tot he next step. Physical escape from those who would seek to capture her was not but an afterthought in her mind, as it was a pipedream. They'd come for her, and she would fight them, but she would not win. Until then, her mind was consumed with the glorious view over the mountain's edge. The sun was so much bigger than she thought it was - when peering up through the riveted holes of her bronze faceplate, the sun would look like nothing but a coin-sized orb that mocked the mortals below as they fell one after the other, coating the sandy pit in reverent crimson.

But now, with her helm cast away long ago in a ravine at the mountain's base, she could see the life-giving ball of fire in its entirety, and it was more than she ever dreamed. It was freedom. Away from masters, away from the roar of lions and blood-thirsty onlookers. It was just her, awaiting her death as the dew coated her feet.
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: Then, a grunt. It was low, and deep, and not at all something you'd hear of the local fauna. A ridge twelve yards off was grasped by one enormous hand, and it's pairmatch came moments after. With jovial haste and a quick bit of effort. He jogged it up, facing her as casual as one might a merchant in his stall, or a flower in a field. His accent was foriegn. He muddled the language of her captors so incredibly that it was even worse than hearing it from distant-bound sailormen on a port. "Bon'm partyaceps dee!" Rumbled Skippy, laughing quietly as he grew near. "Vult's par-umper...Pugnato! E- Fugit ol. Vidaus?"
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: In all the young Saxon's years as a prisoner of war and, later, a slave, she had never been able to learn the language of her captors. She went where she was pointed or prodded to go, and fought whoever was not her in the pits. She hated the sound of it, though, and all that did was bolster pride and resolve as she turned to face the approaching man. She had to look up a fair bit to meet his eyes, even with him as far as he was. For the last few days, she had escaped the nightly shaves. Her head had almost a half-inch of coarse, blond hair festering atop her scalp. Her acidic-green eyes met the hulking man's like it had met so many others like his - ready to kill or die. The pride came from knowing that no matter who lost the fight, she would win. She took steps backward as he approached, and her hand grasped the kopis that was tucked into her short, cloth skirt.
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: Skip paused, mirth falling away, replaced by a more sinister sort of glad. He watched the kukri-cut meat-peeler pig-stick dagger, big teeth gleaming and grinding against one another. Another few steps, his labour-toned chest bristling with machismo. No guard. Feet in front of his shoulders as he reclined, swaggering forwards. Her face was familiar- so much like his mother's. Again he tried speaking, his voice rapcallious and deep like thunder, full of happy times and revelry despite the situation at hand- so lethal and removed from any peaceable experience. "Wir kön'n hemmat toul. Du bist derhau, 'as?"
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: ((OFF to GOOGLE translate!))
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: //If you're not familiar with proto-germanic or latin I can just use modern English :)
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: //I don't think you'll get result as I'm using both a phonetic drawl and a dead dialect.
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: //Saxxon-V.
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: ((You're so cool))
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: //thank :)
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: ((Hold on, what did he say though?))
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: //He said, in good English-talkin': "Methinks we share a homeland. Anyhow, you're the one?" 'The one' referring to "Fugit ol" or 'The fugitive'.
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: Backing away further, her smile widened. There was no way she was gonna kill this one. This was it. Grass displaced as her heels drove into the ground, and she drew the kopis pommel-forwards until she flipped it into a proper grip instead of ice-pick style. In the grass behind laid her scutum, arm-greeve, and pair of cestus. It was as customary for gladiators to fight bare-chested as it was for gladiatrices. The only protection she possessed was what was afforded to her by the wide shield of wooden sheets and canvas, after she popped it up from the ground with her toe, snagging it and raising it between her and the mercenary, her back towards the mountain's edge.
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: Skip wasn't too good with the swords and soforth, but since his arrival in this odd southern land he'd really, truly taken a liking to pankration. Thereby with incredible swiftness and no warning or tell, his foot sprang up until his knee was on his chest, and still in perfect balance, he jabbed the center of her shield with a powerful straight-out horsekick.
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: The reverb numbed her arm, and she felt a stone scrape the back of her bare heel, but in her perfected stance she was only knocked back about a step and a half. Before the buzz could subside in her bones, the shield raised up to about her ribcage, so her weapon could jab out from her hip-level, aiming to stick her final vigil's calf.
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: With a stark, sudden turn, he swung another kick up into her blade, bashing it with his shin harder than most men would be willing to hit their opponents. The cut was about an inch deep, and his face drew tight, but it wouldn't bleed much. In the same motion his opposite arm came down, swinging a broad hammerfisted strike at her open swinging shoulder.
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: Her wrist craned inwards at the bash against her weapon, and the same shoulder caved beneath his great fist. The scutum fell onto the ground, discarded so the operational arm could instead grasp the kopis. With one arm out of commission, she could taste what was coming like a cyst beneath her tongue. She inched backward - always backward - and spun the dagger about her palm so the glare would hit both their eyes.
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: Skip took a step back, and then another, blood seeping down his ankle. He had his hands no longer in their apish, grasping positions. He seemed to examine her shoulder before nodding to himself, rolling his immense shoulders and assuming a horse stance once more, fists low and resting on either thigh. She wasn't any good to him crippled at the bottom of a cliffside.
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: When he backed off, even for a bit, so did she. Irene switched to an ice-pick grip, favoring penetrative power rather than reach. She could feel the wind at her back, coursing through the hair on her head that she'd forgotten about.
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: He kept backing away, hands high, palms visible. His deep, provoking voice was oddly somber. "...Tret'von der kan zuruck." Another momentary gesture, beckoning.
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: Irene would have never died in an arena. The mercenary's kick wouldn't have even shocked her nerves if she were wearing her cestus, and his fist would've taken a few scales off of her pauldron, but her shoulder would still be intact. Her master had forced her to wear linens behind her shield, padding in her sandals and helmet, and a plume in her helm that would detach if someone were to try and handle her with it - all the dirty tricks to ensure that she did not die, that she could not escape the arena by becoming useless to them.

But out here, with the waves crashing against the stones at the base of the cliff, she knew that escape was near. She fought for years to never die in the arena, to die a slave. But now, she could die hating her captors, miles away from the nearest ratway or pit of sand, hating her captors. That was freedom. She flipped the kopis over to point the pommel at Skippy, the blade tip against her stomach as the retched it into her solar plexus. Her face contorted and her face turned absolutely yellow, and she fell backward off of the cliffside.
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: [weeeeeeeee]
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: ((gOd I'm tired))
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: Out of reflex, Skip scrambled to the edge, and leapt after. He cared for his job, and in a way was admirable in each duty. Still, it was impossible to save the poor lifelong slave after such a definitive wound. She was drug from the frigid waters, breathed unto, prayed for- Nary success.

Two days following, Skip had dug a centus-high trovel in the dirt, placed her within, and boarded over it with a small enclosure of interweaving branches. On went the torch. He frowned, head cocked, watching her resting face as it was consumed by the pyre.
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: ((Thank~))
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: //Got bles u was fun
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: //Have a truly fantastical dream.
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: ((You too))
Irene [Roaming Gladiatrix, Literate RP]: ((I'm saving this also))
Skippy [Mercenary, 298 lbs, 7'5", shaggy hair, bushy beard, IQ of 68, excellent marksman, odd past]: // <3 bye