[H2][centre]Aureus Deus Bellator[/centre][/h2]

A sound, not a war-cry but a chuckle. It drifted lazily down the slope, smug and strange. Aureus turned his head. There, not high upon the battlements, not rooted in the glory of combat, but seated like a lounging noble. Draped in odd garb, with posture unbecoming of a warrior, he reclined atop a creature of wool and gold. A sheep. A throne of fleece.

He was tossing a stone in one hand, as if weighing the idea of mischief. The other hand idly stroked the beast’s back like a cherished pet. And then, without so much as a battle stance, the man threw. Not one, but two. They spiralled outward. Trick-pitched arcs that curved opposite each other in the air, crafted to slip around a typical guard. Not brute force, but mastery.

Aureus didn't flinch, he didn't braced, but he moved, stepping forward. A single stride, measured and poised, right between the diverging rocks, slipping through the narrow window before the arcs split wide. The wind of their passing swept behind him, rustling his cloak. They had missed him, not by luck or lack of skill, but by judgment. He turned his head slightly, watching the path they took as they screamed past and decimated the ground behind him. His lips curled in derision.

[color=D4AF37]“Truly? Stones, not steel?”[/color] he said, brushing the fleck of dust from his leg, slow and disdainful. [color=D4AF37]“Are you mason or child?”[/color] The crowd had gone silent, listening. The Arena, ever unseen but ever present, hung in the breath between provocation and performance. Not yet stirred, but watching. 

And somewhere beyond the haze of sunlight and dust, another gaze joined the silence. Unseen by most, unfelt by many, but not by Aureus. He had fought for kings, for slaves, for gods, and above all, the crowds. Let them watch. Let them weigh his glory against their own. All battles deserved spectators.

He turned to face Rider fully, the low sun framing his golden armor in an unforgiving glare. [color=D4AF37]“You ride wool and throw stones… is this what passes for glory in your land? And still, you dare think to challenge me? Or shall I name it plain? That the mount is stronger than the man? That the sheep leads the shepherd?”[/color]

He stepped forward. His boots struck with weight, with rhythm, as though answering the unseen drums that beat faintly behind the veil of reality. [color=D4AF37]“I do not know your name, O rider of sheep,”[/color] he continued, his tone silk-wrapped steel. His arms spread, not in threat, but like a conductor summoning the next act. He halted. [color=D4AF37]“I am the arena. And this… This is not a performance,”[/color] He gestured toward him, [color=D4AF37]“This is farce. Return to your flock; I waste no bronze on sheep in lion’s hide. But if you claim the right to battle, then descend. Meet me not with tricks, but with bronze and steel. Show me not your flock, but your fangs.”[/color]

[@SSW] [@Double D] [@GOATplumber]