Descent to the Underworld

[Batiatus]

When one ventured into the Pits, it was best to come with sword in hand or you might not come out alive. The Gladiators that came with Batiatus were his swords in that sense. His father might not have used his men in such a protective way, but Batiatus clearly was not his father. He would now cow tow to those whom claimed to be above him in society and be content with the scraps that they offered, his scheming however had brought its own drawbacks. It was not so long ago since coming here with Spartacus that he nearly had head severed from neck. It was an experience that he had learned well from. One man like Barca had clearly not been enough to ensure the protection of the Dominus of House Batiatus.

The stench of shit, blood, and piss filled the air. The screams and the roar of the mob was a symphony onto itself. A cacophony of violence and death that Batiatus found himself both disgusted and enticed by. The Depths of the Underworld beckoned and Batiatus found himself glad to step into the familiar world that was far too dishonorable for even the Arena. A grin split those features as he watched a slave begin pounding his fists into the face of a rival as the two grappled. If Quintus was to guess he would say the bare fisted man was a Scythian and his opponent armed with a club a Dacian. It didn't take long to see who was the better and stronger barbarian. The Scythian skillfully avoided a clumsy blow from the club. Smashing his feet into the Dacian's throat, the pop of bone and windpipe audible over the delighted lusty screams of the crowd. The Scythian dropped to his knees, his fists punching and punching until the Dacian's face was reduced to bloody pulp.

'' Now I am fucking entertained. '' Batiatus said with a grin, clapping his hands together as he began stalking through the crowd and to the lower levels of the Pitts that was reserved for those exclusively who were looking to buy. His father had once scoured this place and he had emerged with a man like Doctore. The Dominus himself hoped to find such raw talent.

[Oenomaus]

"Set your minds to purpose. One mistake here and we'll all see breath removed from chest."

Words could only do so much to reflect the harsh reality of the situation presented, vigilant oculars surveying a far too familiar location. Cowl pulled over dark flesh cast shadow upon hardened features, doing well to hide the look of concern etched across his facade. The reality of this hellish atmosphere was known too well to the Doctore, his blood having graced dishonored sand on several occasions. Experiences from youth infiltrated his mind as stagnant air drew breath, causing an inadvertent sneer to break his tiers. He dared not stray far from the side of Batiatus, the previous attempt on his life in this very location sharpening senses.

Calculating eyes would shift to contest, a Scythian engaged in brutal display opposite a Dacian. It was clear why the combat here remained far removed from the arena, skill and tactics replaced by primal instinct. The Scythian's fist driving into unprotected skull had brought the patrons to a frenzy, the Doctore's hands straying toward waistline where the comfort of steel awaited to alleviate nerve. Though the thought of being reduced to a mere bodyguard may have been perceived as beneath his standing, the Doctore would show no lapse in judgement. His movement would trail a safe distance behind Batiatus, shielding his right side from aggressive intent.

A trailing glance was directed to the collection of gladiators in attendance, a slight cant of his head instructing them to position. His silence maintained, discussion deemed unnecessary under current circumstance. He could only hope for a short lived stay, and an even shorter return to the Ludis. Though until Batiatus had desire filled, he would act in accordance to prior instruction. Occasionally glancing to the display of combat, his primary concern remained those lurking amongst them...

[Ragnar Yggrhildolfr]

While the dark skinned man called Oenomaus, a name he would not even attempt to pronounce, flanked the far right of the Dominus, he had taken the close left, for fear that being to far away would keep him unable to act in his charge to defend this man. Why had he been chosen for such a task was unknown to him, indeed this question ravaged his mind ever sense leaving the compound atop the hill. Why him when so many others where all ready broken in and loyal? Why test the metal of the new flesh, and one who could barely speak a word of the Roman tongue? It made no sense to him. All that he could figure was it was indeed a test of loyalty, to see if he was indeed broken yet. After all he had not risked coming with just him, which was surely a choice unwise. He had Oenomaus with him in case he failed. This being the case, he made damn sure not to.

Pale skin had started to take tone from the time spent in these southern lands, as did garb change to fit that of the land, a knee length tunic of white with wrapped leather sandals up over dark haired legs. Hanging from an iron ring upon his belt was a hefty war axe, shaft bound in layered leathers, hand resting upon the heavy steel head of the weapon as he strode along side the Dominus. Cleaned from his travels of capture still so fresh in his mind, lengthy hair and beard of dark and dirty blond where both braided and kept tied back and out of the way, draped down his chest and back over his shoulders, no longer matted and knotted.

His first visit to the pits, Ragnar had, up until this point, been rather aloof and inattentive, traveling through the city with a sense of ease and carelessness. However upon entrance to this place his mind set changed. The very air its self held a tension and aura of savage violence, of desperation and primal drive. It put him onto a sharp edge and axe was drawn, as if expecting to use it at any moment for indeed he surely was. Glacier blue, almost white eyes scanned the crowd, looking for those who seemed to meet his gaze, letting him know just who and how many had their eyes upon them. The brawl was more or less ignored, for he had little concern for the violence of others. Indeed in times past he would have, though not for the level of lethality they showed. How he longed for the days when he could wrestle and tumble about his fathers hall with his brothers…