SRP in ancient Rome...

[PhoenixPrime01]

Duplicate post. Lit stuttered. *L

 

[Marie Lavallois]

Count me in, I'll be Marpessa Fortula, haughty daughter of a Roman Senator who needs to get taken down a peg.

 

[PhoenixPrime01]

And I'll bet that they'll be several 'pegs' willing to take ya down too ya haughty bitch. *L

 

[katalynn]

Vanyssa Tantras daughter of a noble and arranged marriage to another. I have became quite interested.... no.. fanatic to the games. All those men killing, ripping into eachother like animals locked in cages, always got me wet. After each game my husband never knew what hit him. Although he was begining to enjoy it.

My favorite of all were the tall ones, many scars to prove their victories they have fought. The long hair were the best, not always my biggest turn on, it just helped a lot.

 

[PhoenixPrime01]

An update ... 4 female writers and 2 males so far, with me possibly taking on two roles that's up to Poganin.

Can use another male or two and a female or two unless this is going to be a small private orgy.

 

[PhoenixPrime01]

An update ... 4 female writers and 2 males so far, with me possibly taking on two roles that's up to Poganin.

Can use another male or two and a female or two unless this is going to be a small and intimate private orgy. Do remember at times husbands and wives attended together then moved on to others.

 

[stalwartone]

How about an emissary from Sparta, one of Greece's historical enemies? (And part of the source of our love of the marathon..)

S.

 

[PhoenixPrime01]

As Pagonin is in bed by now living in the UK, let me welcome the Greek envoy to the story. *S*

"Carrying your shield or on it." *s

 

[Poganin]

Not Pagonin but Poganin and not UK but Poland. There are more countries in Europe than just UK, you know.

Secondly, the setting will be Rome and not Greece and I might wrong here as my history classes were taking place quite a few years ago: either by the time Rome was established Sparta had already been gone having attained a Pyrrhic Victory over Greek forces or there really wasn't any contact between Sparta and Rome. But I don't mind. Remember however that this is Rome, NOT Athens.

Answering your PM, PP01, I asked to cut down on BDSM stuff because I already know how this would end had it been introduced (I took a look at some of the threads here) and so instead of a story we'd get "lie down, you bitch, and spread your legs more", "oh, I'll tame you, you senator fuckslut" or "that's right, yes, obey your master, you nasty cocksucker". Sorry for generalising, but I find that boring and repetitive and effectively it would kill the mood of Rome I would like to attain. If some of you are disappointed by this, I'm sorry, I'd rather keep it straight. If you can't keep it like that that then I'm sorry to have lost you from this story.

 

[PhoenixPrime01]

Mixed you up with another writer from the UK I'd been PM'ing with at about the same time. Sorry and I do know that there's a lot more to Europe then just the UK I assure you.

As for the PM was just a suggestion and makes no difference to me either way, he was just going to bring those wishing to be slaves as 'party favors' for the guests to enjoy.

 

[stalwartone]

OOC-Oh, crud, I should have gotten my histories straight there. My apologies. Too much time spent reading about the affairs of the Delian League, not enough time sorting out proper historical lines.

Okay, how about one of the city prelates then? I'm sure there could be plenty of reasons for a peace officer to be out and about.

S.

 

[Poganin]

Umm, don't you mean a "legate"? A "prelate" is an ecclesiastic of superior rank (like a bishop or an abbot). Nevermind the name, you are welcome. I see we have amassed a group and are ready to begin.

I shall define the setting clearly and start the story this evening.

 

[stalwartone]

OOC- Actually, now that I look back, I meant prefect. Serves me right for trying to post when I'm dog tired.

S.

 

[Poganin]

Quintus Cassius Cerranus

OOC: The Praetorian is a huge man, 6'7'', very strong and a well-trained warrior. His is the post at the door leading to the Caesar's chamber. The Cerranus family had long been in service to the everchanging Caesars with their firstborn son always training to join the Praetorian guard to protect the emperor. Quintus's visage is very noble, his face always clean shaven, his eyes brown and his hair black as raven's feathers. Among his peers and fellow Praetorians he is known as man of rashness, quick temper, quick reflexes and a berserker's strength. Definitely not a man to antagonise.

IC:
It was in the late evening that a servant from the palace approached the Cerranus mansion in the central part of Rome, a short running distance from the gates of the Emperor's Palace. The servant knew that hundreds of others had been sent to various parts of the city to invite senators, centurions, politicians and other important figures to the feast sponsored by the Caesar himself. In his hand the man held one such invitation destined for Quintus, the captain of the Praetorian guard in the palace. A huge African slave easily swung the heavy gate open and seeing the Emperor's sigil around the man's neck he bowed and let the runner in, pointing with his finger to a brightly lit garden whence sounds of music and laugher reached his ears.

Slowly he crossed the courtyard, marvelling at the riches that surrounded him. This certainly was no soldiers' quarters as gold and pieces of foreign art could be seen everywhere. The runner wondered why the Cerranus weren't afraid of burglars. He approached the garden and saw captain Quintus drinking wine, eating grapes and absentmindedly listening to calm music. His left hand casually playing with another African slave's, female this time, breast.

A servant approached him and in hushed tones the runner quickly explained the point of his visit and handed the servant the invitation. In return he was given a small coin and sent away. The servant came closer to the captain and waited for the music to finish and the man's steady gaze to come up.

"What is it?" he barked a question.

"Master, a servant came from the Caesar. He asked to give you this invitation."

"Very well, let me see... hmmm... yes. Excellent. Prepare my best garment, also have a bath prepared. You, N'Abitha," he pointed at yet another African slave who waited patiently with an amphora to pour wine "You prepare yourself as well. You will go with me to attend me at the Caesar's table. I don't trust his servants, they will always either mess up my clothes or spill wine on my hair. Who knows, maybe you'll have some fun yourself later." His booming laughter pierced the night.

N'Abitha only bowed, put the vessel away and silently slipped to the servants' quarters to prepare herself. An hour and a half later Quintus was ready, his body clean and rubbed with expensive oils, wearing an expensive black tunic with a red stripe at the rim of the skirt he presented himself gloriously indeed, a gold encrusted parade gladius at his side. N'Abitha had already been patiently and silently waiting for her master to emerge from his rooms, wearing a simple white chiton gathered by a silk scarf at the waist, the bright material contrasting sharply with her dark skin, accentuating her exotic beauty.

"Let's go, girl" Quintus ordered and the girl fell to a trot after the man. After a short walk they reached the outer gate of the Caesar's private feast hall. Already a crowd of guests had gathered at the entrance, shouting and pushing each other. Some were already drunk. Quintus and N'Abitha waited for their turn to be called an show their invitation but a shout form the gate reached them.

"Captain Cerranus, please, come foward. No use standing with the rest of those..." the rest of the sentence was smothered by Quintus's level gaze at the caller, a member of the Praetorian guard himself. "Khm, er, yes. You have your invitation I presume, captain. No no, you don't have to show it. Please, go on in."

"I thank you, Maximus. But watch your tongue in the future. The spies are everywhere... Oh yes, you are relieved of tomorrow's guard duty... I hear your wife is about to go into labour, no?"

"Oh yes, thank you, captain. You, stop shoving!" Maximus cried at someone in the gathered crowd but Quintus had already passed the gate, accompanied by his servant.

Inside the garden some of the guests had already made themselves comfortable, sipping wine and pretending to be chatting in a friendly manner. "Bring me some wine, girl" he murmured to N'Abitha and looked around, looking for known faces.

 

[PhoenixPrime01]

The Vandal or Barbarian:

He stands silent and watchful in one of the shadowed alcoves surrounding the hall of the palace where the fete was in progress.

He'd never given a name to his captors all those years ago when he'd been felled by a blow from behind so was now known simply as either the Vandal or the Barbarian. He was in attendance at Caesar's request, one the owner of the gladiatorial school, Marcus by name, was happy to oblige for it added to his and the school's status within the city and with his peers.

The Vandal's skin was naturally darker than most Roman's and his constant training in the nude has tanned it a far darker shade than is normal in Rome. His hair is cut to shoulder length and tied back by a leather thong with a gold school emblem in the center of his forehead between his eyebrows. The dark blonde beard and moustache have been trimmed and groomed and his skin glows from the scented oils that have been rubbed into it.

He's garbed in a jet black kilt and a gold colored leather chest harness that sets off his impressively powerful physique. Gold washed bracers and greaves that gleam in the lights from the scented oil lamps and accent his tanned skin. The long, grueling hours of exercise and training in under the hot sun have left him with virtually no body fat just hard muscle and bone. Many scars decorate his body from the years fighting Rome, other tribes and now from the Arena. .

He watches the arrival of the Praetorian Officer and his black Nubian slave and smiles to himself as he watches the only one present thus far near his height and stature. The smile of a warrior recognizing another warrior and not a parade ground dandy. He also wonders how the officer bringing his own slave to attend him, rather than accepting the service of one of Caesar's slaves will be accepted, but that's not his concern just a passing thought..

He's here as a representative of the school and one of the favorites of the citizens, many nobles and, rumor has it, of Caesar himself.

He's no longer a true slave, but a quasi freeman with many of, but not all of the rights a citizen would have and as such is allowed to bear arms and is armed at the express request of Caesar with a pair of fighting knives nearly the length of short swords in tooled scabbards on either hip.
The fact that he wears two shows his ability to use either hand with equal skill.

When the Praetorian's glance meets his he bows slightly, while never taking his eyes from the officer, in acknowledgment of the man's status within the guard, his stature and his apparent abilities as a warrior. A bow acknowledging fighting equals rather than the submissive and deferential bow of a slave to a master.

Then his eyes continue there ceaseless travels watching the growing ranks of revelers as he sips from a goblet of chilled fruit juices.

 

[Destiny]

Cassandra Aetius

OOC: Standing at a mere 5'6" Cassandra was a beautiful woman in a voluptous package. Her hair was raven's wing black with blue highlights. Her eyes were a piercing blue. A oval shaped face, not the pixie heart of the young but a regal elegant look that drew many the eye to her beauteous looks. Full lips that were red as a berries graced her face. She was a classic beauty whose looks would never fade and even when she was old would still hold a quality not matched by many. She was usually dressed in dark blues and golds the colors of her husband's household and she wore the colors well.


IC:

Cassandra was sitting in the garden of her husband's palatial manse some ways apart form most of the other senator's homes. She liked the quietness of his house. But he preferred the raucous nature of his home closer to the palace. A runner arrived from her husband stating that Ceasar was throwing a festival and I was to attend. I waved the man away and called to a girl nearer to me. "Keinira run make my bathe ready and bring out the gold silk with the blue underlay gown. I want to look my best tonight it has been awhile since I hunted a lover and tonight may as well be fun." I laughed gently to myself as a red haired slave ran from the garden. I lazily stood to my feet and began to make my way to my apartments.

My father had been a rich man a senator like my husband and had pampered me as a girl, my husband did so now. He had his pleasures be they young girls of barely pubscent age, or boys he didnt' care. He paid well for each of them and when they were all used up sent away to the slavers. He rarely called for me to attend these functions I preferred the solitude of the country as opposed to the city with it's fetid air hanging about in the lower regions of the city. Crime rampid, But still it might be fun.

Finally gaining my rooms I disrobed and was prepared as I sunk into the tub to begin the ritual of cleaning my already pristine body. As I was cleaned I was also stimulated, Kienira knew well how to pleasure her Mistress and I was in the mood to be played with. Finally after about 45 minutes or so I arrived from the bath to be dressed. I was perfumed with jasmine oils and my hair was dressed in blue and gold ribbones a fat curl left to dangle over my shoulder and along the cleavage of my breasts. A blue under gown was wraped around my body and a gold filigreed silk was drapped along my shoulders and left to drag along the floor behind me. I was ready for the party and I left for the city.

Finally arriving some 30 or so minutes later I sighed at the long line of carts waiting to get near the Palace. I tapped my invitation annoyedly along my hand and finally a Praetorian gaurd called out," My Lady Aetius, so sorry it took my so long to find you. YOu have to follow me you are to arrive at the back of the palace and avoid this long wait." He lead my litter through the streets and I arrived at the side entrance to the palace and was admitted with little fanfare. My husband's influence no doubt he knew I hated waiting and being a close friend to Ceasar pulled some string to get me in quickly. I arrived into the courtyard and the party was already in full swing. I stood and waited a servant brought me a goblet of wine and departed post haste. As I moved through the throng no one grabbed or spoke to me. I always found it fascinating how little I was paid attention to, I was once told that most men found me cold. I wasn't though I was merely choosey and most of the men weren't worth choosing.

So I walked along barely noticing any of the hands groping up skirt or down blouses.

 

[Poganin]

OOC: I'd like to remind that this story has started already and all who expressed interest are welcome to introduce their characters and join the feast. We can't begin without the whole staff.

 

[stalwartone]

OOC- Cassius Meridius, Prefect. An olive skinned man of good grooming, but shows occasional lapses in decorum. Keeps his black hair neatly trimmed, as well as the spadelike goatee. Always makes his first "luxury" purchases in the area of his uniform, keeping it as immaculate as possible.

Meridius was born into a labor class family, his father one of the various workers at the seaport. (A dreadful job, since the loose soil of the area was constantly eroding into the sea, and the port had to be redredged and rebuilt on an almost yearly basis.) Meridius chose to enlist in the military, and was trained as a slinger for the legion. His career with the VIIIth Felix was cut short when a poorly maintained ballista self-destructed in mid-fire, and he was struck by fragments of the siege engine. A competent horseleech helped him to recover, but the injury forced him out of the military.

Taking his "pension", he bought a position in the city's prefecture, working initially in the slum areas of the city, maintaining order and dealing with disasters. He managed promotions over the years, working his way up through better neighborhoods and other positions in the peace officers corps. His latest assignment puts him in the manor and villa district of the city, which he hopes to use to garner a private benefactor, rather than continue for an indefinite number of years in the city service.

IC - Prefect Meridius finished inspecting his men on the small parade field. This assignment could be what he was looking for, and he meant to make the most of it. Many of the city's elite would be there tonight, and he hoped to catch a wealthy noble's eye, preferably one that could provide him with a position in a private regalia. Failing that, he hoped to have no incidents whatsoever, since a quiet night could mean a private honorarium to the unit.

His group of men were as presentable as he could make them. Two had been sent to a barber with orders to be properly groomed, although Meridius feared that they might choose to spend the money he gave them on libations. No matter. If they failed to follow orders, they could always be returned to the prison detail. The two supply twains were loaded, one with torches, blankets, bandages and tools, the other with large barrels of water and multiple buckets of sand. These were covered with rich blue cloths, so as to not seem out of place. No use alarming the guests. Luckily, the orders he had recieved had specified that a small garrison of the military forces would be present, and his own people would likely have no need of weapons.

His own appearance was carefully checked. His sandals were cleaned and tightly wrapped with new cords. His uniform was brushed and free of rents or tears. His cloak flowed properly, covering the small pouch that rode on the back of his belt. The pouch contained tools of the trade - a small water bottle, a bandage roll, leather cords, a naptha bottle (heavily stoppered), flint and tinder, a sling and pouch of stones, and a small weighted sap. A knife was set on his belt, but this was more garb of station than forthright weapon. Not for the last time he gave thanks to the gods that he no longer had to wear the full kit of a legionnaire. Armor, shield, spear, blade, and back pack had been all right when he had been younger, but many had noted that there were few older men in the general rank and file, especially in units that had to actually march serious distances. His only bit of armor was the gold helmet with it's shock of colored horsehair, and this too was a symbol of the department, not an indication of combat intent.

The group arrived in parade formation, and a house servant offered a quick tour of the grounds. Meridius arranged his men, assigned a duty rotation, then took up a roving watch of the house and grounds. He was watching his own people as much as the guests and any potential troublemakers.

There were many famous faces, as well as several lesser known ones. The military was definitely there, most in full uniform. He noted a thickly muscled barbar from the arena, or, more correctly, the weapons worn by him. He wouldn't have been allowed the weapons if he wasn't to be trusted, so Meridius only gave him passing interest.

He also had the women under scrutiny. Trouble wasn't limited to one gender, although most of these women seemed to be interested in pressing the bounds of scandal. Perhaps, if there was time permitting...

 

[PhoenixPrime01]

The Vandal:

A comely serving wench passed and his thick arm barred her progress as his low voice rumbled, "Little one are you on a specific task for a reveler?"

She looked up and up at him then lowered her head and murmured, "No great warrior. I was on my way to fetch more carafes of wine for the others to serve."

"Fine. Before you do that would you refill my cup with chilled fruit juices comely little one?" he asked with a small smile.

"Oh yes. It would be my pleasure to serve you," she said and took the vessel and with a smile scurried off to do as asked, "And far more nicely than many of the nobility would have asked at that," she though to herself.

The arrival of the Prefect and his band didn't go unnoticed and when their gazes met he nodded, warrior to warrior again for the scars, while not obvious, were apparent as the work of a field churgion of some type which meant military service in his past.

 

[~*fairywings*~]

The gift - Eliana

OOC: Eliana is a beautiful young slave from Greece. She stands at a mere 5'2, is of small build, yet she has beautiful round full breasts for her frame. She has jet black sleek hair and deep chocolate brown eyes. She has been a slave for her entire life, and her Master has decided to give this pretty virgin as a gift to the victorious gladiator.

IC: Eliana glanced up on occassion to see the highest members of Roman society entering. She dressed in simple white cotton robes that clung to the curves of her small body. The material was flowing and nearly sheer, simple, yet it made her look more elegant than half of the perfumed and made up women at the feast. On her feet were delicate woven sandals with gold cording tying them to her legs. Around her wrists and ankles were metal shackles, signs of her enslaved status.

At the moment Eliana was kneeling in the garden, chained beside an beautiful fountain with a carafe of water at her side, as well as one of wine. She was to refill the glass of any passerby who asked, keeping her eyes downcast at all times. Eliana was nervous as she knew that tonight she would be given to the victorious gladiator as a gift. She would be torn from the Master she had grown to respect, obey and even love.

 

[katalynn]

OOC~ sooo sorry I haven't been posting as of late. Been pretty busy with that little annoying thing called Real Life.. It's the voices I tell ya, really it is.. Must obey the voices....Anyway. I've decided to take the role of Praetorian slave girl N'Abitha. I just couldn't really think. Go fig...

Anyhow here she is.

N'Abitha a very quiet girl, been raised to be a slave all her life. It is the only life she has known. Not being with to masters, Praetorian being the 3rd, always been treated well and takened care of. Standing tall at 6ft even, raven black hair down to her knees, very shining and very well kept. Green eyes that will peirce your soul, if she was to look up that is, long nails that rip through the skin of passion and lust. Not as dark as the black people, though had some resemblence of one. A mixed breed as the traders called it. I was a very expensive and of top quality.

Praetorian has bought me three years ago as of today. Though I doubt he would remember such dates as I did. It did not matter. He treated me above all others, sometimes not like a slave at all. Yet those few times were rare, even if he didn't treat me like his other slaves. I always went with him when going on these events. I wasn't suposed to watch the fights, he was always into them that I don't think he has ever noticed me watching. If he has hes never said anything.

I always had a thing for the big men, that's alot of why I liked Praetorian as a master. I had to wonder if I was secretly in love with him, never once would I say such things. I may be as pretty and fit for a royal, but I was just a slave and knew it was impractical for him to love me.
Once he told me to go change and prepare for the festival, for he really did not like other servants touching his food or spilling the drinks. When I came out, had my hair braided with gold ribbon into it, the white chiton gathered by a red and black, silk scarf at the waist. Always had at least one thing that would match him, to let everyone know who I belonged to. This white one was always his favorite. It outlined me just perfectly, tight along the perfect curves, just above my knees, daring to show the well toned thighs and beyond. Sleeveless with stripes just huging the rim of my shoulders.

I quickly followed him, keeping my head down the whole time. I very rarely spoke, never needed to. As long as I did what I was told in a orderly fashion and time everything was fine. After a few moments of roaming the areana, we settled in and I went to fetch some drink for him, coming back just as quickly as I left. Kneeling down beside him waiting for his next command or to allow me to drink. I was excited to be here, even more so, being here with my master. I couldn't wait to watch the fights, see all those scarred men, ripping and shredding into eachother. It always aroused me, at times more than I can handle. No matter I would always behave.

 

[Armphid]

OOC

I love the idea here folks. I thought I'd throw another gladiator into the mix, an up-and-coming sensation rather than an established one.

Ardal is a slave to the glory of Rome. Given as tribute to the governor of Londinium by his clan, the young Celt caught the eye of a visiting gladiator trainer. Recognizing raw talent and inner fire, he bought the surly young slave cheaply and took Ardal from the islands he was born in. Arriving in Rome after years of training throughout the Empire, he has become a rising star in the Games. Ardal has yet to let the fame get to his head, knowing that is the sure way to death. His as yet unspoiled handsome face has garnered him a share of female admirers, as has his mane of red gold hair. Beng given the surname Invictis by his master, he was lived up to it so far, overcoming superior odds and more experienced fighters time and again. Ardal's master hopes to parley his slave's fame into further contacts within Roman society and has brought him to the party to show off. Plus if any of the ladies decide to show Ardal thier favor, well, all the better for the owner of the Celt.

Ardal stands at 5' 9", though his carriage and confidence make him seem taller. His build is much thicker than that of the average Roman man, solid, whipcord muscle that could move with deceptive agility for his apparent bulk. Even with the sun of the Arena, his skin has ony slightly darkened from the pale white of his homeland. His most noticible feature is the copper colored hair that flows to the small of his back in a wild mane. His eyes are the color of the sea after a storm, deep and dangereous. A well-made but simple pale green mantle declared his slave status to all who did not yet know the gladiator by sight or description, his only decoration a silver torque that ended in stylized wolf's heads.

IC

Ardal Invictis would have preferred the clash of blades in the arena to this. The warrior born recognized that this was a place of battle every bit as much as the sands he usualy stood upon, but here the fights were with words and glances, rumor and blackmail. His master had already wandered into the fray, his frame aquiver at the delights awaiting him.

The massive Celt barely surpressed a sneer as he watched the party unfold. The glory of Rome...fat, soft, men drinking and wenching while legions died thousands of miles away inthe name of a city they had never seen. Still...perhaps there was something to it, the women were fair if nothing else. But likely as soft as the men...so far the only people with any spirit he had met in Rome had not been Romans.

He shook his head, the flowing locks of his red gold hair waving in the air as he did so. Just remember to keep those thoughts to yourself. You are a gladiator, and a known one, but you are a slave. Best not to even think such thoughts, lest something slip and death come here than in honorable battle. For the first time he looked at the celebration and truly looked, perhaps there was someone or something here worth his time. If he was going to be here, he might as well enjoy it.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Olokun

OOC:
She simply goes by “Nubian”, although her given name is Olokun. She is fairly short, only about 5 feet, but the slenderness of her figure makes her seem taller. Her skin is the color of rich mahogany, and her eyes solid pieces of obsidian. She hails from what the Romans call “Akebulan” - later known as Africa. She is an acrobat, a dancer, of few words and of amazing skill. Using the Roman thought of her race being savages, little more than playthings, she seeks to exploit the upper class by gaining as much money as she possibly can from them. If it means donning a zebra skin and dancing wildly to a drum beat, so be it. As long as they don’t know what she’s actually thinking….
__________________________________________

The little African was stretching in a secluded courtyard. She had been given the same sort of glances from the same sort of people, and she regarded them with the same sort of boredom. Silly pale-faces. Skin like fresh milk and quick to turn red under the sun, like raw meat. All they thought of was war and death. There had been fights against other tribes, but more often than not, the only time the spear was lifted was to fend off a lion. Even those noble beasts had been thinning in number - brought here in cartloads only to be given the most undignified of deaths.

As she straightened up, her arms swung slowly by her side. Glancing up to the sky, she sighed, and murmured something in the song language of her own tribe. It seemed like they were so far away…passed off from the lighter Egyptians and their vanities to this class of people. Well - at least she could boast she was of pure blood. Her form slipping into a backbend, she followed through with a graceful flip. She had heard tales from the elders that such stunts were why she was so short, but it was too late to stop now. And besides, it was fun. She’d been doing such things ever since she was little, however unlady-like as they may be.

And so far from the customs of her own people. The two varieties of dance were completely different. Here she had to bow to their stiff way of dancing. Nothing like the joyous celebrations with shouting and singing that marked her home. Certainly nothing pertaining to flips. Fingers ran over the tawny fur of the lion’s pelt draped over her shoulders. Beneath it, she wore a simple red cloth, twisted about one of her shoulders to keep it up, and slashed appropriately to allow her legs the moment needed. However, her torso was bare - the lion pelt served only as further protection from the sun, as well as a sort of trophy…From her loosely braided hair hung glass beads. The braids about her face, though, were more like dreadlocks - reddened with ochre. From the twisting of this red hair stood the treasures of treasure, a cowrie shell. It was akin to…let’s say, someone having a dollar in their hair. It still was a form of currency among her people…About both ankles were several brass bracelets, fused together into a single coil as not to get too tangled in her clothing or get in the way. Copies of such coils were on both of her upper arms. The metal was coolly warm on the tops of her dusty bare feet, and lulled her thoughts on.

Either way, her own opinions aside, this man was paying her well. Almost too well for just dancing….Full lips were drawn in as she closed her eyes. There was still much she had to do before she could dance. Jumping back lightly, she did another back flip, settling into a hand-stand. Her arms shook slightly, but held steady.

The distant rattling of a chain. The smell of smoked meats. Tart wine.

Bending her elbows, she dropped into a front roll, and got to her feet, dusting her knees off. Time to go crush the ochre….

 

[Destiny]

Cassandra

She paused near a pillar, a hand raised to a passing greeting her smile never reaching her eyes. She was already bored. The goblet she held was brought to her lips and she drank from the cup slowly. Her eyes continuing to wander along the crowd. Turning a bit she reasts her shoulderblade against a pillar and idly pondered her half empty cup. Pouting slightly she looked at the various slaves wondering around and snagged one to refill her glass.

That done, her eyes began to search the crowd again, no husband about. She shighed somewhat heavily and gritted her teeth a bit her eyes flashing slightly, why had he invited her if he wasn't even going to show up to at least make the appearance that he still cared for her. Lifting her glass again she took a long healthy drink of the wine. She watched men groping the slaves and them giggling and running about, or lying there and letting the men fondle them. Some of these orgies would go on for days. The time of out lives was upon us and we were the glory of Rome.

A small smile played along her lips as she watched paricularly unglorious man stumble and not make it to the pot he was aiming for, some glorious man he was. His slave rushing to attend him as Cassandra began to walk by. Her attention continued to roam over various slaves and men in general. It wasn't like she needed a new slave, but the last one had been sold off by her husband in a jealous pique. She paused near another pillar and watched gladiators and slaves of the arena, they were well built and strong looking. The men of Britania were indeed a delicious looking specimen of man.

 

[Armphid]

Ardal

The red maned gladiator leaned against one of the low walls, watching the other arean slaves as they eyes one another and looked with ill disguised longing at where the debauchery was in full swing. His master had not told him if there would be matches tonight, blood to go with the wine and sex the Romans drowned themselves in. If so...most of these would be no concern, they were distracted, listening to the sounds of the mounting orgy, watching for the few glimpses of bare flesh thye could catch. If fighting came, they would not be focused. The young Celt had seen The Vandal as he came in. That would be difficult...he had seent he older gladiator fight. The thought of testing himself against such a man was enough to stir his blood, but the outcome of such a contest would be in great doubt. Better if he just had to deal with a few of these weakligs instead. Ardal growled under his breath, chastising himself. No one was to be underestimated. These men wre here, out of the cells for a reason. They were deemed worthy to provide private entertaiment, and that meant skill. Arrogance lead only to a quick death.

He felt eyes upon him, and moved away from the wall, striding out into the torchlight. His stormy eyes fell upon a raven haired woman in rich clothes of blue and gold. Her. She stood alone, no man with her, a cup of wine held easily in one delicate hand. She was looking over at all the assembled gladiators, but her gave had lngered on him. He wondered who she was, he'd never seen one of the Roman women with enough courage to walk by herself, without even a slave. Ardal caught and held the woman's gaze, her eyes widening as she realized that the muscular Celt was staring back at her. He held it there for a moment, curiosity and a slight challenge in his gaze and a thin smile on his face, before he dropped his eyes to the ground...as a good slave would do. A good slave though, would never have dared to look into the face of a free Roman. He wondered why he had done it...she was almost sure to raise a commotion that would get him whipped. Well, that would at least break the boredom of listening to the cries of the Romans and their pleasure slaves...he hated to be bored, and this would hopefully make things intersting.