@Sanity43217 - Asset Goal - ?
@CorvianMERCDB - Asset Goal - Grand Coliseum Participant F
The finish comes fast and loud.
Don scoops the fallen board, plants, and rips his shoulders. The round shield leaves his hand like a thrown door. The dockside bruiser flinches a fraction, boat hook twitching to meet it. The rim hammers his guard and pops his chin. In the same breath Varius threads the lane the impact opens and drives the gladius straight and true. Throat, then sand. The roar hits like weather.
For a heartbeat the whole bowl breathes as one, then breaks into chants and stamps and a rain of cheap wreaths. The Announcer rides the wave.
“Otenzel. Your rookies of the Red Team stand. Green Team is finished.”High in his box the Praetorian Prefect inclines his head the smallest degree and lifts two fingers. Marshals move. The gong falls once, deep and final. Two handlers in crimson sashes gesture you toward the tunnel.
As you clear the light, the world cools to stone and shade and the ragged echo of your own steps. Water skins pass down the line. A chirurgeon with quick hands gives Varius’s side a glance and a linen press. A second crewman checks Don’s breathing with a hand on the ribs and a quick nod.
Steel-shod boots approach that are not Imperial. Cloaks in sea-blue and foam-white. Breastplates chased with waves and a lighthouse device in gold. Curved boarding sabers at the hip. Hooked gauntlets for climbing line. The guards move like sailors who have never stumbled on a wet deck.
Between them comes the elder with the staff and the easy smile, the Grand Mayor you saw above. Up close, the salt is in his cuffs and the sun is in his skin. He looks the pair of you over with the frankness of a man buying a ship.
“Signori,” he says, voice warm and thick with a lilt you have not heard on these streets.
“Molto bene. You fight with cuore. With the… how you say… the good storm inside.” He taps the staff once.
“You will come visit my homeland, si. The Serenissima Thalassocracy of Albrisia. Porto Aureo. We have work for brave hands, and good coin, and views that make the gods jealous.” He smiles again, then adds in a quieter tone,
“I speak your Common, but the sea keeps my tongue. You understand me… just.” Both of you understand him, but only just. The accent is heavy.
Behind him, one of the sea-guards steps once and the line of them settles like a tide that found the right shore.
Neco-Arc
From the tunnel lip, something jingles. Neco Arc is juggling a coin pouch, then two, then three, eyes glittering with pure mischief.
“Coach is very proud, nya. Coach bet on the right horses. Look at that payout, shake shake shake.” The cat slings a pouch up, catches it on a single claw, and winks.
“Buns in, fangs out, do not lick the wound, drink the water, and when you get stronger you come back to coach. Coach will make you legends or at least excellent posters, nya.”Far above, the Announcer lets the last cheer wash through the stone.
“Take your bow, Red Team. The sand remembers your names tonight.”The handlers hold the line a moment longer, not rushing you, giving the corridor its little pocket of quiet before the next thunder. You have a beat to say a word, take a breath, or trade a look before the work of bandages and signatures and sponsors begins.
