Civility's Wrinkle (Brandi)

[Kit Rowan]

Day 53, Season of Fall, 513 AV

Ravok had built a seeming of civilization, of order and rightness that its citizens bought hook line and sinker. Its crimes and violences were not blatant and devastating but subtle and insidious. Ravok did not do evil to people and laugh over their bodies; it made them do evil to one other, and thank each other for the privilege. This was the way it was, but there was only so much unrest, so much dysfunction hidden beneath the surface that needed to be expressed somehow. Ravok was like a man who loved his wife and kids and did his work diligently and flayed a girl he didn't know in an alley before going home and kissing his daughter goodnight.

The Pit was like that flayed girl, where the violence and nastiness that was Ravok boiled to the surface like pus from an open wound.

She would have expected to find this place in the far corners of the docks, or the house of immortal pleasures alongside the slave market, but no! It was right in the noble district. This made running there easy enough, as Kit tucked the scroll she had been given behind her belt, slipped off her shoes and took off down the street in a solid, steady jog, keeping her breathing even, not feeling any particular urge to risk herself climbing roofs and trapezing ropes when the place she needed going to was so close.

But it was still too long to simply run all the way! Eventually effort forced her to stop, walk. She kept a system, ran for two chimes, walked for three. Ran for two chimes, walked for three. Her legs began to age, her feet complained at the stress of being made to run on hard ground with no support but Kit gritted her teeth and ignored it.

The sooner this was done the better, after all.

Then she was at the Pit proper. Kit leaned over, rested her hands on her knees and breathed in, out, in, out. She unhooked her shoes from her belt and slipped them on, wriggling her fingers inside before stepping into the Pit. The streets might have been cleaned by slaves, but a street could only be 'cleaned' so much, and she doubted her feet, mired black by a combination of dirt and grime and other nastiness, would be unwelcome in the Pit.

"Ten chimes. Ten chimes!" A voice called as Kit stepped into the arena. "The afternoon match is about to begin. Place your bets!" Kit looked over the crowds. It seemed . . . Strange. Not quite so refined a place as she would expect in the noble district, a cage of iron mesh surrounding the ring, with raised wooden benches all around to get the best view. Kit thought she could see bloodstains on the stage here, there . . .

She swallowed, and turned back toward the crowd. Kit found her mark talking seriously with a person scribbling something down on a small black board with chalk nodding. Kit pulled the note from her belt, approached the man. "Hey! You've mail. . . . Hey?"

"Later," he said. Kit looked from him to the arena, decided to press her luck for a quicker delivery. She grabbed hold of his sleeve, and he turned to face her. His eyes were dark and narrow and serious. "Release me." He said, pointing his nose in the air.

There was no arguing with these guys. She released him, stepped back. "You may deliver your message after the fight." He said, and then turned back to place his bets, as though Kit had never been there at all. She muttered something incompressible under her breath, kicked the floor and marched back. She climbed, hesitant, aboard the benches and shrugged past everyone until she reached the top, as far from the action as possible.

She crossed her arms and looked everywhere but the ring.

[Brandi]

The early morning return to the main city had been a welcoming one. For bells he had been stuck on the little row boat, his things stored beneath his seat out of the way. His knees were forced up to his chin, his back arching over and to the side whilst some other man with more coin than sense sat next to him. And all the while, the boy kept his eyes focused upon the rippling lake water as if willing some deep dark creature from its depths to reach up and rip the foreigner from his seat. It never came of course, and the boy was left with a sour mood as he reached the docks with a hasty escape in mind. But the mood did not lift, even as he returned to his lodgings and so the lad cast himself out into the world looking the best he possibly could. There was only one cure in mind, one answer to his somewhat sour mind set. It called him as a whisper, and his feet were what dragged him that way. It was the smell of sweat and blood that caused the young lad’s senses to bubble. The distinct sound of struggling grunts, the hard smacks of fist filling the air whilst the crowd cheered and jeered those who entered the ring. Perhaps it was wrong for such a boy of his age to be interested in watching such actions, and many would blame the lacking guiding hand for many of his manners. But he himself was – for the most part – fine to the observation and partaking of fists. Anything above that generally caused the tight hold of doubt to come racing in and strike at his core. So, he subjected himself to become more resilient to such sights, to force himself not to flinch as two beings battled it out below with all they had to hand. Fascinating, in a sense, to see how desperate one can become when faced with no other option than to fight. Brandi gave a scrutinizing look as he studied the betting’s board, his blue orbs turning beady as he did. Arms were folded, his shirt pulled into some semblance of order for a change. He looked down, checking for his pouch and then smoothing out the crease that had formed in his vest. He had to at least try to look presentable here, it was where the nobles treaded after all. Upon the call for ten chimes however, the boy halted his thought on placing a bet and hurried up the stands to find an empty seat. He used a hand to guide his way through the bodies. He gave a bow of the head, a murmur of “Thank you,” and, “Excuse me,” as he passed others by. He squeezed his way through, sliding round until he finally got to the top and saw the space next to a girl. His brow gave a knit and then looked to the space, then back to her. “’Scuse… little lady? Is the space taken?” he gave a pause, brushing his hair back sheepishly, “I mean, you don’t mind if I take it up if it isn’t being used. Do you?”

[Kit Rowan]

The bets finished up rather quickly. She allowed herself a glance at the arena. A quartet of slaves were escorted into the arena, fists wrapped in bandages. They were male, all of them, bare from the waist up, their face a ruined mess of slapdash corrections that could not hide the crookedness of the nose there, the missing finger here, and the scars. How many fights had they seen here? Dozens? More? She leaned forward, clasped her hands close together and knitted her brows together.

She could not help but find her eyes drawn to the marks on their hands, the black sun, engraved plain into their flesh. She rubbed at her own hand, grateful in panic she had convinced the slavers an acrobat with a branded hand might be impeded. The way her shirt rubbed against the mark on her back was almost an afterthought now, a part of her as much as the scar from her initiation. It was a strange feeling.

Kit had gotten caught, snared, dragged away, so she deserved to be enslaved. She had got away under her own power, with her own strength, and so she deserved to be free. It should have been as simple as that, but the memory of her captivity hung over her like a heavy cloud with the mere sight of those marks in the streets, in the Nitrozian Estate. Everywhere.

She couldn't take her eyes away, now, as the slavers took their places in the corners of the ring. "Two chimes! Two chimes! Bets are closing, find a seat!"

A voice from the side. Kit turned sharply, saw a ruffled-looking boy . . . She knew this kid. He'd thrown a dagger into the Spot roof, dulled her blade and made her pay a fee to avoid getting kick out on her ass. She narrowed her eyes a moment, studied him up and down. "Nah," she said, turning back toward the stage, solemn at a judge's statue. "It's open."

[Brandi]

Brandi gave a blink, his brow creasing as he looked upon the girl. He was certain he had seen her before, though from where was a mystery at present. There was a brief glance back to the pit, his chin rising as he looked down his nose to those who were partaking. Rugged, ruined, some still barely patched up from previous fights. The weaker seemed to almost stagger, whilst the obviously more confident and dominant ones stood taller with their marks on show. Medals almost in combat. His lips gave a twist, his back straightening as he slid his way past and into the empty space. The lad himself knew little on the subject of slaves, other than the fact they had to belong to someone with enough power and coin to keep them. Other than that they were a natural sight in Ravok – if you knew where to look. He gave a thanking nod, shoulders drooping slightly as he stopped and prepared himself for the bout. But there was still this nagging feeling over the one he was positioned next to. His head cocked as he gave a stare to her, a true focus of thought spreading across his face. Or at least until the image of blunted blades and knife throwing came into his head. He gave a flinch, eyes averting quickly to the ground, “Are you…? I mean, have we met before?” The lad shook his head, fingers and hands grasping together tightly as he tried to create a polite conversation between his stutters and mumbles. “Sa, busy here, right? Must be a big match on,” there was a pause, “You got any bets on anyone little lady? Or are you just here to see who can beat the snot out of someone first?” There was a stupid grin a tuft of hair rising and standing as he spoke, “actually why is a little lady such as yourself here in the first place? If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t look like the sort ta be inta this kind of sport,” and then there was a flinch, “Ah, right, manners! Name’s Brandi by the way,” he offered a hand to shake with his brow lifting. He was trying to be friendly, though even he had doubts that it was coming across that way.

[Kit Rowan]

She glanced sideways, found the scraggly boy staring at her, a puzzled expression on his face, like a kid looking for the last piece of a puzzle to slide into its proper place in their mind. "Yeah," Kit allowed, turning back toward the arena. "We've met." More clarification than that Kit did not provide.

The slaves were in proper combat, now. She could read the strain their faces, see the way sweat streamed down their sides. One slammed his fist into another face, and it came away bloody at the knuckles when another took him in the back of the head, sending him sprawling while another fell on his assailant. The audience cheered, cursed, called and threatened the objects of their bets. The slaves had gotten caught, and could not find a way to get out themselves. That meant they deserved it. Right?

One fell to his knees, bleeding from the mouth onto the floor. Another kicked his jaw, propelling him back and upward with a sound of something cracking and landing on his back. The crowd roared. Kit's stomached lurched. She closed her eyes. "No," she said, fists clenching, hackles rising. "I haven't made any bets." How could he act like this was okay? It was brutal, without beauty, cleverness or joy at all. Violence for its own bloody sake!

"I've a delivery to make to someone, and they won't accept it till this match is done." Kit said. She turned and met Brandi's eye for a moment, let his hand hang there for a long tick before she took it in hers, tried to make her grip firm and strong. "Brandi," she tasted the name on her tongue. "It's good to know the name of the boy who had me spending a quarter of a bell sharpening a dulled knife."

[Brandi]

Her squeezing did not go unnoticed, so he simply clapped his over her and firmly shook it. There was a firm grin on his face, “Ah, you’re that little lady Shy aren’t you?” Brandi looked down to the pit, a brief recoil almost in surprise. His hands released hers, and then without a second thought his lip curled, his eyes turning down to the muscles and the movements made. They did not look to the blood, nor did he rise up to cheer and shout. There was something else he was much more interested in. The boy narrowed his eyes, head cocking to one side as he tried to slow down the movement of the punches. Fingers gave a twitch, his weight shifting slightly as he thought through the motions. “I haven’t put down a bet either,” there was a pause, “Haven’t got any luck on the gambling front. Just is a waste.” The brow furrowed further as he leaned back, looking down the bridge of his nose to the ring. This was a different situation now; he did not need to play a fool in order to entertain. He scratched at his neck, lips forming into a line as one of the slaves was beaten to the floor with a firm kick and a crack. There was a heavy sigh followed by an awkward glance. Twiddling his thumbs the boy spoke once more, “Look, sorry about your knife. But I did warn you that I was bad with it. Just… well…” he gave a shrug, “Be glad I didn’t break the thing in half. Did that once, made the stable master right mad.” For a tick his lip rose as if he was going to say something, finger raised as if to make a point before he withdrew and hung his head, “You know, if you don’t like watching this sort of thing, then why do you wait in here? I mean couldn’t you just wait outside until it’s finished? Or am I just sprouting nonsense? Wait, most likely am. Neve’ mind.”

[Kit Rowan]

"There you go," Kit said, sparing a glance in Brandi's direction and raising an eyebrow. "You can remember if you try."

It was a curious thing. Brandi reacted more to what he saw in the ring than Kit did. She could not imagine that he was more offended by what was happening in the ring than she was, so what did that make him? Squeamish? Ravok's citizens never ceased to surprise Kit; Rhysol sheltered them from the harm in the world, left them pliable as babes. A little blood . . .

"Throwing knives in the stables?" Kit said, the corner of her mouth turning up slightly, deliberately misunderstanding. "I think you might just be doing your job a bit wrong." She looked back at the ring. A slave shoved an elbow in another's face, sent him careening backward, clutching his nose. He was out. There were three left. "Wasn't too big a deal. It's already plenty sharp again."

"You are," Kit said, in response to his last interrogation. "It's all cool breezes and boredom outside." She felt no special need to leave this place, no sickness welling up in her belly . . . She couldn't look away. it was like someone had rolled up their sleeve to show where an animal had mauled them; Kit could help but take a closer look.

Kit tried to find her focus, traced a little inverted triangle over her heart and felt her vision shudder as it found the aura of one of the fighters. It had come alive with color and energy, leaping and jumping about. The stress and pressure ran so strong in his aura that even she could pick it up, like she could feel his heart thumpthudthudthumping through her eyes. The details were lost on her; Kit felt a fear almost like it was her own, and a terrible tension. Kit breathed out through her nose, blinked the spell out of her eyes after a few ticks . . . Already she felt a little tired. "Whatever went on in here, I figured it'd be better to do than waiting about, watching nothing happen."

[Brandi]

“No! No! It wasn’t like that! Honest! Swear it!” Brandi protested with a horrified expression creeping up and over him. His back straightened, the thick brow knitting together as he fumbled over his words, “I, we were, I mean, it was a-“ He threw his hands to the sky, surrendering when she agreed he was just sprouting nonsense. And immediately returned to pressing his hand into his chin. What was the point in talking if he was just going to be taken for a fool? So, the boy looked away from the fight, almost disenchanted by the ideas of combat and blood sport – or the attempt to kill his ever quelling frustrations and boredom. So, he stuck to his silence, occasionally glancing up to the fight that was going on before them. There was a distinct crack, a loud hiss from the on looking crowd as one of the slaves spiralled away from a punch. They hit the ground with a thud, and then proceeded to work on scrambling away from the opponent. Not that they seemed to succeed – for quickly they were set upon. Brandi, gave a wince, watching for a moment as the dulled beat of flesh striking flesh sounded out. Cold, blunt and merciless. But that was what the Ravokian’s liked? To a degree, and when they were in the mood. Brandi himself could already feel himself wilting and becoming more disinterested than actually drawn in. Eyes watched the movement, the recoiling of fists and legs, squinting slightly to see clearer. Or at least not until he let out a muffled yawn. He could never quite understand how people managed to get into such situations. On how they had to fight for their lives and fight to entertain the masses. And although he felt no remorse as such – they had fallen into slavery in their own special way – he could not exactly help himself and question ‘how’? Brandi did not respond to her last comment, he had decided it better to hold his tongue. Of course, the lad wanted to speak, it was something he enjoyed. But the present company seeming to seethe the moment he opened his mouth. Hands wrung as he gave a squirm in his seat, shifting away slightly. Lip curled, followed by a heavy sigh as he forced himself once more to watch, or at least until his eyes caught something.