[center]Vesta[/center]

It had been years since the woman had been to the Homestead. Back in those days Vesta, Joy then, was something else. She had made a name for herself fighting in the Arena as a gladiator; her steel had left a countless number of men and women maimed or dead. Things were simpler, easier back then; the woman fought to live and lived to drink. Sometimes she fought while she was drinking, and sometimes she fought in the Arena when she was drunk. That was the case in her last fight. She was completely hammered going into the fight and came out of the fight after getting hammered by a maul the size of her head. It was followed by bedridden weeks of getting hammered to ease the pain.

Vesta could feel her knee shattering all over again as the Arena came into view. She moved her flask away from her chapping lips; the pain effectively killing the buzz she no longer seemed interested in maintaining. Vesta slipped behind the rest of the group as they aimlessly entered the Arena. She doubted anybody would recognize her unless she drew her blade and flashed it through some poor sap, although it wouldn’t have been an issue anyway. With Cyril’s haphazard way of recruiting anybody he saw, able or otherwise, he knew that she wouldn’t have been turned away for being a gladiator. Hell, she would even let herself be convinced that the man would wait until after they had completed their mission to throw her away if he had found out about her banditry. 

Still, being in this place filled her with unease, and the feeling doubled as she met eyes with the Direwolf. They had been contemporaries back in the days of Olain, although he was more often by the King’s side than she; even then Vesta had often wondered why Olain had made her Captain instead of the Direwolf. After the failed campaign West, the nights that did not end in a blackout were filled with endless tossing and turning as she thought more and more how Olain might have been saved from himself if the Direwolf was there instead of her. In her head, she could hear him blaming her. Whatever form of comradery that she had for the man was gone, replaced by just a lingering sour taste in her mouth. She lifted her hood over her head and leaned against the wall, trying to disappear.

[center]Ennis[/center]

The ambassador was practically bouncing up and down as they walked through the halls of the Arena. Whatever aches that had been holding him down from that morning were now gone, healed by boyish enthusiasm and a few secret spells to keep his peculiarity at bay. As Cyril explained the situation to the Chiefs, Ennis nodded along approvingly. It was good to hear that disdain for Gartian had spread to Gurata. With their allegiance they could quickly dispose of Gartian and put a more suitable, levelheaded individual on the throne. H’kela had more important things to focus on than fighting a disastrous war, like—[i]Wait, why did that gray woman say no?[/i] thought Ennis.

“If I may—” started the ambassador softly. Too softly; he was cut off. He tried again.

“I think that—” Again, interrupted.

“If we took a se—”

“I call for Decision by Combat!”

Ennis hung his head. “Oh, great, yes, let’s go ahead and not try to talk through things peacefully,” muttered the ambassador. He rapped his knuckles against his head. “Glad to see those years of taking blows to the skull have done none of us any questionable damage.” 

He heard Vesta snort at the suggestion that many of them seemed like good fighters. The ambassador shrunk back away from the group and quietly put his fist in his mouth, chewing on his knuckle to keep himself from speaking out any further. He knew that the Guratans had a sort of backwards way of government, but just because they chose to be barbaric did not mean that more sensible people had to step down to their level. [i]Damn it, Cyril.[/i] Pain shot through Ennis’s hand as he bit harder; he let out a soft yelp and shook his hand wildly.

He quickly straightened himself out in fear that perhaps the noise would be taken as some kind of volunteering gesture. Ennis wasn’t made for fighting. It made him sweaty, ruined his clothes, and he had to be extra careful when it came to dealing with mages; not to mention that the man could barely use a sword any better than a five-year-old playing soldier with a twig. No, these sorts of things were much better suited for the son of a bloodthirsty king, a talented wizard with a fine taste in animals and poor tolerance towards alcohol ([i]He was drunk yesterday, yes?[/i] thought Ennis), the Paladin’s protege, and—

“A pirate,” said Vesta with a hoot, shaking her head and smiling knowingly. 

—a pirate. Ennis couldn’t help but think how the man was far from any seas, let alone the southern ones. Then again, since he had chosen a career of piracy the ambassador couldn’t really hold it to the man to always pick the right path to follow. Still, he did appreciate the pirate for offering to take the spot for one of them. He mulled over the best way to capitalize on this prospect as even Lora volunteered her services. 

“As eager as I am to help, I would not be able to live with myself if I knew that I prevented a man from repaying a debt, nor would I want any of the Sentinels to feel left out of the opportunity to prove themselves to their Prince any further. You may have my spot, Dalious,” said Ennis as if he was doing the man a favor. “I will try and find out what I can about our opponents, and you will all have my unbridled support from the stands.”

“Nobody expected or wanted you to fight anyway, Cade, but at least you had the decency of waiting for some sacrificial lamb to step forward instead of throwing your own onto the chopping block like Damon,” said Vesta, picking herself up off of the wall. He shot her an annoyed look that she seemed to ignore as she pushed her way towards Cyril. To Ennis’s surprise, she walked right by him. He could barely make out her words, her shoulders slumping as she sighed.

“I guess one person who can actually fight will have to join you tomorrow if you want to win this,” she said. “I’ll see you at noon.”