“Aighrit, arm up. You two, back to your food,” Aevaur neither smiled nor snarled in response either to the girl curling her lip at him in distaste nor toward not having been chosen. His expression shifted between a general grumpiness and blowing absently at his mop of hair as he picked up his clothing from off the ground and began walking back to his seat. Revhinult had frowned, however, but whether that was because he had been denied the chance to show off or because he had legitimately thought she would pick him was not clear, before following after Aevaur with his own clothes picked absently off the ground in his hands. Aighrit was still smiling, though his face did not waver from his straight ahead gaze. He drew his own practice blade into his left hand, and crossed it over his chest before giving a low nod and slight forward leaning bend at the waist. Rags likely would not have understood the significance, but it was meant as a show of respect for one’s opponent and was usually relegated to fights between already trained combatants rather than as something meant for a newcomer straight from the wastes. He stood at attention once more after the other two had made way, and only then looked toward Rags. 

There was a purpose to this ceremony, however seemingly pointless it might be. It was the behavior and reflected the mindset required to appease the Imperials who paid for the professional bouts that they would attend and gamble upon, a cut of which went to the schools participating. It was something that must be done in order for the camp to eat, and was hammered in with sharp and immediate disciplinary action from the first day of one’s training at Australos. It would be hammered into Rags as well, should she stick around after the bout had run its course. None of the potential choices the girl could have made would have shocked Aibhilin, after all she had laid them out for her for a reason. It did tell her that the girl wanted to win more than she wanted the glory of a fight against a stronger opponent, and that she was aware her chances would be greatest against the most physically inferior opponent. Aibhilin had never had much trouble with the bigger opponents herself, she was almost always smaller than any she faced in the arena despite her considerable height and weight. It was usually the ones who were the most experienced and dedicated to their training who presented the obstacles and hidden dangers which would get you killed. 

Everyone within a thirty foot radius of Aighrit had cleared out of the way of the fight, less concerned about being in the way as interested in making sure no happenstance blows were to break their bowls and spill their food onto the ground. This included Aibhilin, Devlin, and the rest of the staff, all having taken a seat outside of the makeshift fighting pit measured more by eye and practice then by any physical barrier or obstacle, and set at the task of eating while watching the entertainment. It was time, and whether or not Rags was ready for it Aighrit would be. Blade in hand, opponent before him, he had been through this all before. He smiled at the girl, made a concerted effort to catch her gaze. He expressed neither pity nor remorse with his gaze and features, however, and neither did he seem to be enjoying this with any kind of vicious or brutal nature. His smile seemed more to suggest a peaceful ease of his nature and passively happy character. He neither looked down on the newcomer, nor felt bad about what he intended to do to her, neither was he going to enjoy the experience. Win or lose they would fight. It was a part of life here. 

More realistically it was life here, but he had known worse ways to live. He hadn’t always been all smiles, but long ago he had come to understand a fundamental part of nature and his place in it which had brought forth the ease with which he carried himself despite the pain and the unsavory nature of the pit fighter lifestyle. He could neither change the past, nor in wishful desperation hope to change the future. All he could do was persevere and survive, causing as little pain to others in between cycles of day and night in the meantime. It wasn’t an unhappy state to be in, not for him. Every day above ground was a good one, and one that he had no guarantee to have again. Why be an Aevaur and be down about it? “Fight well, friend!” he called out merrily to the girl, genuine grin plastered to his face in a way that probably made him look stupid but felt right. He did want her to fight well, and he had no animosity nor grievance with her, or much of anyone else. He would do as the Doctora asked of him, though it would be unpleasant. It was always unpleasant one way or the other. It was also necessary. 

The boy wouldn’t have understood the necessity in the way his Doctora did, she concerned with the girl’s long term survival as a professional arena champion and he with her short term health, happiness, and the superior nutrition she would have here rather than in the village across the mountain, but he did recognize that if he did not swallow the knot forming in his throat at the prospect of hurting another person with whom he had no qualm then she would be forced to do the same to him and would be made to face down another, likely Revhinult who would not share his concern. It wasn’t just this barbarian girl he uniquely didn’t want to hurt. He didn’t like hurting anyone, perhaps because all are special and yet the same. Neither would he hold back, for the both of their sakes toward another day of breath above ground, as happy, healthy and well fed as they could be. He extended his legs to his sides, facing her dead on and with his shoulders and head low in a half sit over thin air. His right hand was held a few inches out and to the right of his face, his left gripping the practice blade pointed straight toward Rags and held at his mid-torso. 

If she advanced to strike at him he wouldn’t do anything to stop or slow her advance, waiting until she had come to within his own striking distance to move or react whatsoever. Should she not move to strike at him and either remain where she stood or move backwards or to walk a circle about him as the cave lions do before leaping upon their opponent he would instead break his stance and charge toward her, left hand and the blade held by it kept straight at his mid-torso height and pointed directly at her. He would not attempt to tackle her however, and would stop before covering the distance entirely to begin to deliver a high poking jab with his blade toward her face and, should he not be stopped or intercepted by the girl cut low by bending at the right knee towards his own right side, thrusting his left hip forward while leaning right and downward with his left shoulder, his left arm making a slash across his body with a whiplike chain reaction sending the blade traveling from a foot or two in front of her face forward and down toward her right leg unless stopped or blocked by her. 

Should she instead charge toward him as he charged toward her he would attempt to spin off course in whichever direction her sword was not being held in and deliver the same high jab feint, low leg slash as before while she either stopped to cross blades or continued to move forward, assuming she would either block or move past him but simply to test the waters without committing to a more aggressive strategy right out of the gate. It wouldn’t do either of them any good for him to go and commit to a particularly heavy or difficult strike only to be parried and knocked to the sand on his backside in the first exchange of the contest.