[@Sanity43217] - Asset Goal - ? [@CorvianMERCDB] - Asset Goal - ? [center]Neco-Arc[/center] [center][img]https://ik.imagekit.io/maxxo/La%20Creatura%202.png?updatedAt=1757860630511[/img][/center] The cat’s ears flick. [b]“First blood? Oh no, that is not what this crowd wants, nya.”[/b] One stubby paw lifts, index wagging left and right. [b]“Death is a seasoning, not the stew. If someone dies it will be because the fight demands it, or because the Imperial game maker wants it. Do not pick fights with the sky seats. If they decide your foe needs finishing, you finish. Capisce, nya?”[/b] Neco-Arc pivots to Varius, eyes huge and shining. [b]“Fame, glory, money, and admirers, both men and women, by the armful, nya. Win pretty and the city remembers your name. Win ugly and they still pay, just less.”[/b] Tiny fists pump. [b]“Time.”[/b] The little terror scoots behind the pair and shoves. The handlers at the arch catch the handoff. A guard drags a brush over your breastplates, red paint in a rough stripe that drips as it sets. Red Team marked. The portcullis rattles up. Light punches in, hot and bright. The roar of Otenzel pours through the gate like surf. Sand takes your first steps. Heat lifts sweet and harsh smells. Wine. Oil. Trampled straw. Old iron. Above, rings of stone packed with bodies, slaves standing behind silk cushions, cheap benches heaving, shaded boxes calm as ponds. In one such box a man in black cuirass and red cloak rises, laurel bright against dark hair. The Praetorian Prefect Magnus Salinator rests both hands on the rail. He does not smile. He does not need to. Two boxes over, a foreign lord in brocade and fur edging lifts his staff and gives the crowd a genial nod. Grand Mayor Maffeo di Albrisis enjoys the show like a man inspecting a fine ship. Flags ripple behind him, colors you do not see in local fleets. A brass horn blares. The Announcer’s voice rides the whole bowl. [b]“Good people of the Imperial Capital, welcome to the Grand Coliseum.”[/b] The cheer peaks, then holds. [b]“Today, we are honored by the Praetorian Prefect, Magnus Salinator, the hand that shapes the games.”[/b] [center]Magnus Salinator[/center] [center][img]https://ik.imagekit.io/maxxo/Praetorian%20Prefect.png?updatedAt=1758493979183[/img][/center] Salinator lifts a palm. His voice is iron and gravel. [b]“Fight clean. Fight hard. Obey the marshals. Impress me.”[/b] [b]“And we are joined by a guest of the sea. The Grand Mayor Maffeo di Albrisis.”[/b] The elderly dignitary rises, smiles, and gives a small wave with the staff’s finial. The noble boxes applaud in a warm ripple. [center]Maffeo di Albrisis[/center] [center][img]https://ik.imagekit.io/maxxo/Foreign%20noble.png?updatedAt=1758494062318[/img][/center] The Announcer cuts the air with his next line. [b]“For our first event, we bring you action. We bring you blood. Rookies of the Red Team against rookies of the Green.”[/b] Across the sand the Green gate yawns and three figures slouch out to the drum. [i]A dockside bruiser, bare chest roped with old scars, a salt-stiff fishing net looped over one shoulder and a boat hook sanded to a mean point. A green rag is knotted at his wrist. He flicks the net once and lets it puddle at his feet. A shield thug, squat and bull-necked, with a dented round board painted a sloppy green and a weighted cudgel in his free hand. He thumps the shield rim twice and grins through a chipped tooth. A knife runner, lean and jittery, twin knives reversed in his hands, patchwork leather strapped over a tunic that has seen too many alleys. A smear of green chalk slashes his chest. He draws a lazy zigzag in the sand with one blade and bounces on his toes.[/i] Green scraps tie their arms and chalk streaks mark their chests. A marshal strides between teams, checks the spacing, then steps back. Nets and shield edges rasp. A gull cries over the awnings. Somewhere a child laughs, then hushes when the crowd leans in. [b]“Let the battle commence.”[/b] The gong answers. The gate locks behind you with a clean bite of metal. Whatever happens next is in your hands.