[center][b]Ennis[/b][/center] The ambassador had joined the spectating members of the Prince’s party late, making some lame excuse to the curious Sentinels as to why he had been delayed. Truth be told, the man had no stomach for watching people disembowel one another just to feed the ravenous maw of the uncivilized masses. If not for the curious stares of the Arena’s guards, Ennis would have spent the day wandering the halls studying the architecture of the nomad’s one real building. However, as an oversized brute with a nasty looking weapon began making his way towards the ambassador all hopes of spending a rather peaceful afternoon alone were dashed. So he made his way to his group, knowing that they wouldn’t question him if he was surrounded by the Prince’s men. The man watched the fight mostly with his ears as his eyes drifted between his shoes and the ceiling, rarely glimpsing the melee below. However, Ennis still got a fairly decent idea of what was happening between the uproarious reaction of the crowd and Diane’s filtered explanation to Ayano. His mind’s eye painted in the rest. If Diane said someone was struck and there was a mild reaction from the audience then Ennis knew it was likely just a fleshwound. If Diane said someone else was hit and the crowd howled like rabid beasts then Ennis knew that somebody had probably just lost a limb or two. Once or twice he tried making a side conversation with some of the Sentinels, but they were too focused on watching their leader fight to really offer anything that’d serve as a distraction from the violent noise. Ennis knew well enough that it was probably best to the Paladin alone, and besides— [i]—something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.[/i] A loud whine began to fill the Arena. He doubled over, hand clutching his gut. The ambassador felt an ache in his stomach he had not felt since his days in H’kela; his vision blurring white with pain as his head spun . He heard himself groan in pain, but the sound was muffled and distant like he was trapped under ice. Ennis tried standing to his feet, his knees buckling as he made his way towards the exit. He didn’t know what was happening exactly, but he knew that he shouldn’t not be there—despite the nagging curiosity in the back of his brain. His stomach tightened again. It felt like he had swallowed glass. “This is too barbaric for me,” he muttered under his breath as cover as he half-bolted to the exit. He barely made it through the threshold before he collapsed to his knees as the whine of Mizra’s attack ended in an explosion. Coughing violently, Ennis felt the ground tremor around him the stone shifted and fell. He kept hacking up his lungs as he slid himself further and further away from the Arena, the shifting earth of his uncontrolled spells being absorbed into his essence as he pushed on. The ambassador gave up right before the entrance back into the hall, refusing to create a scene by falling out through the doors on all fours. Instead, he tried to stand himself up by pushing against the wall—only to fall back down to his knees, his face wet with tears from the pain. And then, with another thunder of applause and hoots, the pain was gone. [center][b]Vesta[/b][/center] Somehow, they had won. Good. She would have been furious if she had pushed herself so hard just for the others to fail to pull through, but instead she allowed herself to smile. Later she would hear details about what had happened between Christopher and Mizra, and later she would once again be weighed down by distrust and doubt. Now, however, now she relaxed for what felt like the first time in years. She let herself slump to the ground near the man who had crippled her years ago. She wouldn’t be walking anymore today, and she had too much pride to hop around on one leg. Vesta wiped the blood from her nose once more and leaned back on her hands, letting her head droop back as she propped up her one good knee. Deep down, she knew that she missed fighting—not necessarily in the Arena, but just in general. It had felt good to use her sword again. She chuckled, her mind drifting back to the days before she had ever been picked to serve on the King’s guard. Usually when she thought about her youth the woman grew bitter, hating how she always ended up pitying herself for no longer being able to fight like she once had. For the moment, though, it was just nice to think about how even after all of the years and all of the injuries she could still make a difference with her blade if the need arose. “Enjoyed yourself, Vesta?” Cade. As much as Vesta despised the H’kelan, even his presence was unable to ruin her moment of euphoria. She looked up at him with a softer glare than usual. The ambassador was giving her a friendly smile, appearing just as put together and prim as usual. There were no signs on his body of his earlier troubles. “It was single-handedly the worst experience in my entire life, and I regretted every single moment of it,” she said, dryly. A confused look appeared on the ambassador’s face. “Oh. I thought I saw you…” he trailed off. The look of confusion warped into one of stunned amazement as the man realized that Vesta had actually tried to make a joke. “Mm, of course. Then it must’ve truly been awful.” She knew that Ennis was trying to play off of her, although the negative implications to what he said were both rather in poor taste and rather extremely true. But she’d forgive the ambassador for his blunder just today, offering him a half-smile as some form of acceptance. “Would you like help getting up?” he asked. “I think I’ll lie here a little longer,” she said. “Should I have Diane come over? I need my bodyguard to be in good health. Not very effective otherwise.” “I think I’ll wait to go last,” she said, wrinkling her nose. She nodded at the man to hint that it was time for him to leave her alone, “Ennis.” “Vesta.” [center][b]Ennis[/b][/center] He left the woman on the ground as he made his way towards Cyril, adjusting his collar and nodding acknowledgments as he passed by the others. He felt his stomach flip as he spied the darkened pool of blood on the Arena floor, but the fleeting feeling passed as he looked away. Ennis decided that he would ignore what had happened earlier. For all he knew, perhaps he had just gone too long without feeding magic to his curse. With all of the riding from the past day leaving him exhausted it was quite possible that he had slipped up. Besides, for the most part he felt better now. And there were more pressing things to worry about. Like celebrating. “Maybe things are different in Barcea, but in the Kirun we try to look a little bit happier when we’re victorious, Cyril,” said Ennis. “Seeing a leader so glum is usually a hit to the men’s morale. Unless, of course, the men despise the leader—and judging by the way your men were shouting during the fight, I think it’s pretty safe to say that is not the case. So, you know, feel free to smile?” Ennis gave him a half-smile that was either encouraging or mocking. “But I’m pretty sure you already know that, and it’s not why I came over to bother you all,” he said, eyeing the Chiefs. “I’m not going to claim to be a native of this land, but isn’t it a typical tradition to throw a banquet in honor of the champions? Food, wine, music, all those nonsense. Now, I know that perhaps that may not have been part of the agreed upon deal—not that we really had much of a say about the terms of things—but I believe it would be an acceptable apology for whatever that,” he waved his hands towards where Mizra’s body should have been, “was all about.” He turned to Cyril. “Don’t you agree, Your Royal Highness? While I’m sure Diane can make all of us fit for the road again, wouldn’t it be best for your men if we have some relaxation before the long road ahead?” He put his hands up. “But it’s just a suggestion. I really have no say; I’ll agree with whatever decision you make.”