[IC] Trials of New Rome - TEMPORARY HIATUS

[Sugar and Spite]

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Time & Date: June 21st - Summer Solstice Location: New Rome; The Forum, Coliseum, Farmers Market, Shops, Etc. Summer was a more relaxed time for Camp Jupiter; Campers were still expected to keep up with their assigned duties, but with the warmer months came the much-welcome additional free time to journey to New Rome more frequently. With the days getting hotter and longer, demigods were looking forward to the festivals and activities to come with the season. Today was one of these opportunities. It was the evening of June twenty-first, and spirits were high within the boundaries of Camp Jupiter and New Rome. Campers and Veterans buzzed about the sanctuary town, celebrating this year's Summer Solstice the same way New Rome always had - with splendor, a bit of drunkenness, glory, and a splash of debauchery. The air grew hotter still as the sun reached its highest peak for the day, showering all of New Rome in golden rays of splendor. The pillars around town had been draped with large pieces of silk in the colors of Camp Jupiter, making the statues and fountains somehow even more beautiful. The air was thick with the heat of the summer, smells coming from the various eateries mixing with the ever-present scents of the Farmers Market. People were spread about buying wares, eating, drinking, laughing, and just overall having a good time. Jeremy Grover had been nice enough to supply alcoholic beverages in the Farmers Market this afternoon, while Paradiso was having pizza specials. Places like Huskers were selling the heck out of their half-priced wings and cheap draft beers. Booths of all varieties were being set up in the Farmers Market and Forum with various wares from clothing and jewelry to more food. Betting booths were set up throughout the forum with the help of Grover and Avery Pierce, allowing both campers and veterans to make a quick buck off of today's festivities. The Coliseum had been a hot spot for activity today. This morning, campers and veterans had sparred off in a series of tiered battles, leading up to this evening's main sparring event between our champions from this morning's battles. In the meantime, people were enjoying the reenacting of The Siege of Carthas whilst Fauns did their best to make a quick buck by selling snacks in the cavea. When five in the afternoon rolled around, a large bonfire was lit in the Forum. Children began to dance around the flames, while an impromptu group started playing music nearby. In just a couple short hours, the main event in the Coliseum would be taking place, leading to more anticipation and excitement in the air. All in all, today was shaping up to be a day of good food, good grub, and good vibes.

[SalemFlame]

_{Location: Coliseum}

Rikki would always pick summer over winter. There was something about the way Camp Jupiter eased into the warmer months that made the whole place feel lighter. The training fields still rang with the sound of sparring blades, and the watch rotations never stopped, but there was a looseness in the air. Legionaries lingered at the mess hall tables. Some sat around playing dice games in the shade. It was as if the entire camp exhaled after enduring another brutal winter.

Winter had always meant stricter routines, longer drills, and a relentless drive to sharpen every edge. It was good for discipline, yes, but it felt like being crushed under the weight of endless expectations. Rikki tolerated it, but they never thrived in it. Summer, on the other hand, allowed them to breathe.

That breath did not last long. Rikki had been voluntold to represent the Second Cohort in the solstice duels. Nobody had sat them down to say so directly, but the order arrived all the same. Rikki suspected Kyros. It felt like something they would do — a quiet push to grow, wrapped in the form of a challenge. Or maybe it was revenge for the bathroom incidents. Portal-locking the doors had become Rikki’s favourite privacy trick, but it left more than a few legionaries stranded in towels and sandals in the middle of the mess hall. Privacy solved. Dignity not included.

The announcement of the duelling brackets came in the coliseum. The air buzzed with chatter, coins exchanged hands in advance bets, and the names of competitors echoed against stone. Rikki listened, caught their own, and felt a knot form in their stomach. Luka. Not Kyros. Not Cassian. Luka.

Was that better or worse? Hard to say. Luka was a centurion, a living example of Roman heroism, and one of the best fighters in camp. It was like being asked to outshine the sun. Rikki usually amused themselves by peeking at the betting odds, even wagering a coin or two. This time they looked away. Better to not see just how badly the world expected them to fall.

Their match opened the day. First up. Rikki figured it was merciful scheduling. The crowd could laugh, enjoy the warm-up, then get on with the serious duels. They walked into the arena braced for humiliation.

And yet, somehow, they won.

It was not graceful. It was not clean. Kyros and Cassian would have pages of notes if they had been watching closely. But it was victory. Rikki slid backward into portals, looping behind Luka, striking once, then stepping back in before Luka could fully turn. The tactic bought precious seconds. When Luka began adapting, Rikki’s precognition sparked to life. A glimpse. A whisper of the attack that was coming. That single warning was enough. They shifted their footing, redirected the strike, and forced the surrender.

For those few minutes, Rikki felt unstoppable. They felt whole. There was no hesitation, no gnawing doubt, only the rhythm of movement and decision flowing one into the other. The crowd roared. They stood tall. And for a heartbeat, Rikki believed they belonged.

The second fight shattered that illusion.

Decision paralysis was always hardest to explain to others. It was as though the world split into too many paths, and every one of them demanded consideration. Block or slip left. Slip right or jump. Portal or intercept. Slide or stand. The options stacked until movement died. Rikki froze. Against Alex and Cassian, that was fatal. They never even mounted a counterattack.

Elimination stung. Rikki drifted outside the coliseum, the sound of cheers muffled by stone. They leaned against the wall, chest tight, tears stinging. Twelve years of service, yet their record of quests paled beside veterans like Luka and Kyros. Too unreliable. Too prone to failure. Had they earned their place in the Second Cohort at all, or had they been promoted out of pity, a reward for longevity rather than merit?

The thoughts clawed at their chest. They gripped the fabric of their tunic and tried to steady their breath. Tears welled. Anxiety pressed in, suffocating. For a moment they wanted to let it spill out.

But they did not.

“Legionaries do not cry” they whispered, pressing the storm down into themselves, forcing their spine straight. They wiped their eyes with the back of their hand, turned, and walked back through the gates.

The rest of the day passed in the stands. They watched Cassian claim the legionnaires’ duel, then the veterans take the field. Watching them fight was strange. Rikki could retire this year if they wished. On paper that put them at the same level. Yet as Avery, Rex, Gigi, and Noah traded blows, the idea of standing among them felt absurd. They were titans. Rikki was not ready.

After the veteran bracket was concluded, Rikki stayed around for the renactment. Rikki was hoping maybe they could learn something about tactics. However the real reason that they stayed in the coliseum was to avoid Kyros and the chance of possibly getting chewed out in some way for not winning, even though they had scored higher in the bracket than Kyros.

[xAlter]

Ashton Ignatius White

Location: Coliseum
Mentions: N/A

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It had all started with a half-throwaway joke between him and his half-sister, Noah. A remark about Noah's laziness, and Ashton's need to do something, to move. It had devolved into a familial arguement that was more routine than actual animosity. Both of them, children of Vulcan fighting for glory sounded absurd. He didn't know what it was that bet; Ashton couldn't be bothered to remember. Ashton had just laughed it off, but the idea, planted in jest, had taken root. Ashton compromised, forcing himself into the bracket only if Noah herself did too. And so, he found himself on the sand-dusted arena floor, Vesuvius, his Stygian iron gladius, held in a low guard while his other hand loosely gripped the handle of his smith’s hammer.

The roar of the Coliseum was a familiar, distant thunder in Ashton’s ears. The veteran sparring bracket was less about life-or-death stakes and more about pride and glory, but for Ashton, it was a familiar rhythm—a test of efficiency. His combat style was famously economic, stripped of all flourish and pageantry. He didn't fight to entertain; he fought to end the fight. Each opponent in the early rounds faced the same brutal calculus. Glimpses of the near future, a gift from his ancestor Trivia, flickered at the edge of his vision—a lunge six seconds from now, a desperate shield bash in eight. He never reacted; he simply moved to where his opponent was going to be. A sudden, concussive blast of heat from his heel would send him skittering sideways, dodging a spear thrust that hadn't even begun. Another burst from his palm would add impossible momentum to his hammer, turning a simple swing into a blow that shattered shields and buckled armor. He was a machine of cause and effect, his movements precise, deadly, and utterly devoid of wasted energy.

His advance through the bracket was met with a mixture of awe and frustration from the crowd. Fights that should have been drawn-out spectacles were over in moments. Ashton saw the openings before they existed and exploited them with cold finality. A feint was met with a pre-emptive strike. A charge was sidestepped with a fiery lurch, followed by the chilling bite of his Stygian blade as the opponent stumbled past. But as the day wore on, a familiar weariness began to set in, one that had nothing to do with physical exertion. The ghosts of old nightmares, remnants of a failed quest and a life spent in penance, had clung to him since he’d woken. The weight of it settled in his bones, making the cheers of the crowd sound hollow and distant.

As he advanced through the bracket, Ashton somehow made it to the Top 8 of the veteran's side. He didn't know how, not that he thought he deserved it. Then, his next opponent was announced: Georgina Russo. He looked across the arena at her, and the precognitive flashes began. He saw the next eight seconds unfold. The opening bell, her opening charge, the clang of Stygian Iron against Stygian Iron, the blistering speed of her counterattack. He saw the entire fight spooling out in a dozen different permutations, each one a grueling, drawn-out battle of attrition. He saw himself losing, inevitably. He was good, but she was different. Second Cohort versus Third Cohort. She was just better in his head.

And in that moment, something inside him simply… gave way. The thought of enduring that fight, of pushing his body and mind through that meat grinder while his soul was already raw and bleeding from the night's phantoms. It felt like an impossible price to pay for a moment of fleeting glory. It wasn't about winning or losing. It was about the cost of the struggle itself. The nightmares had taken too much from him already. With a quiet exhale, even before the signal to begin had sounded, Ashton lowered Vesuvius and drove its point into the sand. He gave Gigi a small, tired nod of concession. "I yield." A confused murmur rippled through the stands, but he ignored it. He felt no shame, only a profound sense of relief, as if he had just sidestepped a blow far more damaging than any sword or spear could deliver.

Later, as the festivities began and the victors were celebrated, Ashton remained on the periphery. He leaned against a cool marble column, watching acquantainces and other legionnaires laugh, drink, and share stories under the warm glow of the torches. A faint, genuine smile touched his lips. There was no bitterness in his heart, no regret over the surrendered match. He felt a quiet, second-hand joy in their happiness, a warmth that settled pleasantly in his chest. It was a happy melancholy, the feeling of being part of a world he was no longer fighting to conquer. He had fought his battles, both in the arena and in the desolate landscape of his own mind. For tonight, choosing not to fight was its own kind of victory, and watching the joy of others from his quiet corner was more than enough.

[Thayr]

Centurion Bolea, Luka Matthias, 3rd Cohort
June 21st
New Rome, Coliseum

Happiness. Pride. Joy.

Would only the words actually fit into the shapes they were meant to be, supposed to be. He’d volunteered for the spars, like anyone ought who enjoyed the blade in hand, the shield, the focus. There was something good about it, even if the trophy was altogether meaningless, something good about the process, about the mere act. Sparring was training, and training was good…even if the training against one-another lent itself to a different idea of fighting than ever could be found fighting a monster, a creature, a real foe who really wanted you dead.

He’d sparred against Mercator of the Second, a Messenger.

It hadn’t gone well. They had set him in with sword and shield against two swords, something…something Luka had grown unused to. He’d grown accustomed to the bow or dart, accustomed to the pelting as he closed that distance. He’d grown fat. He’d grown lazy. The wind set about as he had tried to close that distance, thundering in, before the Messenger began his own methods.

It hadn’t gone well. There was something fascinating about Mercator’s method, his dancing about, his portals, his sight. Luka should have closed quicker, or instead of trying to break the Messenger’s ankles with the rim of his shield done something…something else. Anything else. Mercator was of Janus, foresight, and the plan itself was that problem. He felt stupid for not considering it more before. Luka’d thought it was something more vague, more nebulous, more of a feeling than a true prediction. He should have given Mercator more issues, things to choose, or perhaps have eschewed the whole of the swordplay entirely. Perhaps the real answer would have been using his shield as a great big club and tried to break the air out of his lungs.

It hadn’t gone well. Perhaps the real answer wasn’t the real answer because it all depended on things that could never be measured. Maybe Mercator had gotten lucky this time, or Luka would get lucky next time, and all the changes in tactics wasn’t the deciding factor at all. Was there a tactic to the Messenger’s method? He could see it initially, true, but the second fight he witnessed with Mercator against the Praetor, it all fell apart.

Well, that was it. There was something there, but it fell apart under the pressure. It needed growth or help or some other thing. Luka knew he should’ve been happy for the Messenger, that he did something and did it well, knew he should feel some bit of pride that another Legionary was doing well for themselves, that they had some potential to be more and better, and he knew that he should feel some sense of duty to needing to make that Messenger realize their potential, and yet…and yet that seemed to all fall away. It seemed to fall away into a sense that Luka could have done better, that he should have done better, that there was a right and need for him to have done better. He shook it away. It wasn’t right for a Centurion to feel so entitled, to rest so easily on an idea of laurels, not even the laurels themselves. It wasn’t right for a son of Heroes to feel he is that simply by blood. No, that’s not how it all worked.

His hand wrapped around that vitis, feeling the ironwood and lead heft. There was still the Reenactment of Carthage to get on to and Luka wouldn’t miss that.

[Kuro]

Location — Coliseum, New Rome

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Rauni never had any intention to go to the festival. She had skipped it the year prior, and had planned to do the same this summer solstice. And yet, against her conscience, Rauni had found her way there. Perhaps it was a spell of loneliness. A desperate call for human touch and conversation. Either way, Rauni hadn't known, nor did she particularly care. All that she had known for certain was that she needed to get out of the house. To be away. Away from everything.

Her gaze had met the towering walls of the coliseum. Loud cheering echoed from within the stadium, signaling that the sparring matches must've already began. Rauni had known that some of her old comrades from the Legion had been set to partake in the day's event. Some from the third, others from the second. They were among the names that everyone knew; those of particular rank or status such as Sabina and Cassian, to name a few.

Regardless of who they were, however, she wanted to cheer them all on like she had done so before countless times in the past. Before her molliculus caseus had been stripped from her and slaughtered like a common animal.

But when Rauni stood at the coliseum gates, she hesitated. The memories flooded back. Felix had loved the coliseum. He was, after all, a son of Mars. Warfare called to him like wind and snow to Rauni. She could remember each and every time she joined him just to watch the occasional duel. They weren't something that Rauni particularly was interested in, but Felix—he loved the spectacle. And for Rauni, his happiness was what truly mattered.

She wanted to turn back. Her gut pleaded, and her heart begged to run away. Standing on those worn, stone steps no longer felt right. Not without Felix by her side. But it was the same back home. The quaint home they had hoped for was devoid of laughter and love. Staying there any longer and Rauni would've gone stir-crazy.

And so, Rauni forced herself to take a step. Then another. And one more. Before she knew it, she had made her way into the coliseum, and sat among hundreds if not thousands of spectators eager to watch the ongoing fight.

It was a start. Rauni didn't know how helpful it'd be, if at all. But regardless, today was a start, be it for the better or worse.

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_{Interacting With — N/A}

[Kuro]

Location — City Streets, New Rome

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A chorus of festivities echoed throughout the streets of New Rome. Laughter, music and lavish scents wafted through the atmosphere, drifting through the packed alleyways and paths of the city center. Countless merchant booths decorated the streetside, each vendor peddling their own goods to onlookers and spectators. The day's spirits proved high, and by all appearances, had no intention to wane as the hours passed on.

Many had questioned Shiori. A distinguished veteran, and a former centurion no less, surely would've joined the games. Cassian, Sabina, Kyros, Luka, even Rex—all names that carried significant weight. They all had chosen to join in the day's spectacle: a sparring match within the grand coliseum. It was practically expected that Shiori would follow in their footsteps.

And yet, she did not. Her days in the Legion had long since past. Shiori had found herself in the sidelines; a spectator from the shadows. She preferred it that way. The calm. The peace and quiet. It had enthralled Shiori like a siren's song, drawing her away from the spotlight. Fifteen long years. No longer did the heat of battle scar her skin. No longer did the fate of many rest in her hands. She could finally beat her sword into a ploughshare—to partake in the quaint aquarian life she had once cherished as a child many, many years ago.

Instead, she found herself wandering the paved stone streets of New Rome. Some whispered, as if it had been peer pressure for her refusal to spar. Others simply stared, wide-eyed and gawked. Shiori paid them no heed, ignoring the occasional onlooker as she browsed the festival. It was how she found herself in front of the Paradiso, the Italian-American brainchild of fellow centurion Avery Pierce. She could go for some food, Shiori figured, as she entered the bistro.

"One slice to go," Shiori asked at the counter, "Please."

"Coming right up." The server replied, grabbing a slice and wrapping it in paper. "That'd be one denari."

Shiori reached into her pocket and pulled out the exact change needed to pay for the slice. Handing the server the money, she bid them farewell. Now with food in hand, she pondered her next course of action. The reenactment sounded worthwhile, and so she set out to watch it. Perhaps the youngsters could finally put out a decent show this year, she wondered.

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_{Interacting With — N/A}

[Pumpkin Jackdaw]

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𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪 𝘯𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦𝘵𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴. 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘣𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶

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_{Location - Streets of New Rome
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“Can I tell you something?” Victor heard in a whisper, hushed under the covers. If he listened intently, he could make out the soft, intermittent breathing of those legionnaires closest to them. The words almost blended into the gentle raucous but it still turned his head, eyes already adjusted to the moonless dark.

“Why would you need to ask?” Victor whispered back. His eyebrows knit, making out the blonde hairs sticking to Nathaniels’ forehead.

In the shadows, he could see Nathaniel’s eye roll. He didn’t need to look down to see the gentle smile tugging his lips. “Humor me?”

“I think you know the answer.”

“Huuuu-mor. Me.”

“Okay. Yes. You may tell me something.”

A pause hung between them—scant space that there was. If Victor leaned forward, just an inch, maybe even a centimeter, he’d feel the softness of Nathaniel’s lips. The subtle part, the sticky pull of humid, lingering sweat. His eyes flicked downward, watching the twitch of Nathaniel’s mouth before he felt the rustle of his partner moving until he caught the sudden fall of Nathaniel’s face in the shadows. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Victor,” Nathaniel mumbled, a glint of something in his eyes, “Gods, demigods, monsters, endless training, sparring, training. What’s at the end of it all? What if I don’t even get to experience all that I’m fighting for?”

Not for once, Victor didn’t know what to say. So he didn’t. He moved closer, didn’t pause when Nathaniel’s head twitched back to stare at him, until he could feel the other man—the other teen fall into his neck. They lay there until Victor could feel the steadying in Nathaniel’s breath. Until the birds called to the bleeding sky.

Until the birds keened beyond his window, shadows dancing in the sliver of light slipping past the curtain. Victor laid there, skin hot in the summer air, staring at the dancing light on his ceiling. He rose. He blazed through his morning routine: work out, garden tending, shower, coffee, attempted breakfast, plant watering, ignore dad’s letter, pen to paper, stand by Nate’s grave, out the door.

That morning and subsequent afternoon remained uneventful. Victor milled about the streets of New Rome, unsure of where his feet took him. Summers always felt the hardest without endless essays to grade, classes to prep for, book club books to skim through. Just lengthy days too hot to care for, waiting for festivities and events to draw him out, begrudging typically but still present.

Yet, Victor still wandered listless in the myriad crowds of familiar and passing faces. A few would glance his way, but they’d see a blur in his face, a fleeting curiosity dropped to the ether and Victor would simply move on. He’d stop by the stalls first, then Paradiso, then Huskers, never going in, simply pausing to contemplate the thought. Each time a nagging feeling would wriggle at the back of his mind:

‘He’d get the pizza with every possible meat topping he could fit,’ or, ‘He’d probably start chatting at the bar the second I looked away,’ or, ‘He’d stop by each stall and ask for something... and I’d cave each time.’

Nine years. Nine years, Victor. He paused against a wall, shut his eyes closed to the burning heat that stung his eyes. He could laugh about him one day, make dark jokes about his passing to others, reminisce with Rex even. Then he’d have days like this. Where he’d see a ghost of him everywhere, smiling, waving him onward, pointing and gawking at things they’d have seen or done numerous times before. But they hadn’t. They hadn’t. They hadn’t.

Victor pushed off the stone and ran a hand through his hair as he made his way through the crowds. Maybe he’d catch the last of the sparring or the tail end of the event. Maybe he’d stop hearing the whispers in his ear or the rasp of his laughter in the cacophony. The day couldn’t get worse, could it?

_{Interactions: N/A}

[Apoalo]

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Location: New Rome Bazaar, and Coliseum

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The Summer Solstice made New Rome shimmer.

By late afternoon, the whole city felt drenched in gold, streets glinting beneath the sun, marble facades glowing as if they themselves had been blessed. From her perch at the Forum’s edge, Camilla Julia Asper watched it all unfold with the faint smile of someone who knew both the beauty and the burden of what she saw. Below, the avenues thrummed with life: music spilling from every corner, laughter rippling over the chatter of markets and the cry of vendors, a thousand small moments of joy woven into one brilliant day.

It was strange, sometimes, to see Camp Jupiter like this, unguarded. For all its discipline and order, the legion still had heart, and on the solstice that heart beat wild and free. Camilla let her gaze wander across the crowd: the dancing children encircling the bonfire, the fauns weaving through the forum with wine jugs and mischief, the veterans swapping stories under the silk-draped columns. Every scent and sound spoke of summer, roasting meat, citrus wine, the hum of life at peace.

She rested her hands along the cool marble railing, her posture statuesque yet unpretentious. A low vibration stirred beneath her fingertips, subtle but familiar. Her father’s presence, as constant as breath. Jupiter often spoke to her directly, but today his guidance came in silence, in intuition, in the electric weight that settled in her bones when storms gathered. And as she closed her eyes, the air itself seemed to hum in acknowledgment.

You’re watching, aren’t you? she thought, tilting her face toward the light. The faintest breeze brushed against her cheek, and the corner of her mouth curved. She took it as an answer. You can literally speak in my head and you're going to use the weather to communicate. So dramatic on the solstice.

“Praetor Asper!” a young legionnaire called from behind, breaking her reverie.

Camilla turned, braid swaying across her shoulder, the sunlight glinting off the golden clasp at its end. “Report.”

“The final duel is nearly ready to begin, ma’am. The crowd’s already gathering.”

“Good,” she said evenly. “Ensure the perimeter is secure and the vendors stay within the lower Forum. No incidents like last year’s firecracker debacle.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The legionnaire saluted and hurried off.

Camilla lingered for a moment longer, taking in the sight of her people, laughing, careless, alive. She had learned long ago that joy was as necessary to order as discipline. The legion could not survive on duty alone; it needed days like this, bursts of celebration to remind them what they fought to protect.

Still, she never let herself relax too fully. Her eyes moved constantly, sweeping the crowd for disturbances even as she descended the steps toward the Coliseum. The familiar click of her boots echoed against the stone as she passed through streets lined with purple and gold silks. Every few paces, someone called her name, “Praetor Asper!”, to offer a toast, a greeting, a salute. She returned each one with measured warmth, the kind that carried both authority and affection.

By the time she reached the Coliseum, the air was thick with anticipation. The great arena pulsed with life, torches lit along the stands, fauns selling roasted nuts and wine, and the thunderous cheers of demigods waiting for the evening’s final bout. Camilla made her way to the praetorial dais, high above the sand, her purple cloak catching the last light of day.

The match was already underway: Cassian Murphy, her co-Praetor, stood in the ring against one of the morning’s champions, Alex Rhea, both armored and gleaming beneath the setting sun. Cassian was everything the crowd loved, charismatic, loud, fearless. His laughter echoed across the arena as he deflected a strike and countered with a sweep that sent his opponent sprawling. Camilla watched, expression unreadable, though there was an unmistakable glint of pride in her eyes.

They had long ago made their unspoken pact: she would lead from the shadows, the strategist, the judge, the lightning in reserve, and Cassian would be the visible face of power, the sun that rallied their people. It was balance, like day and storm. They had a close relationship, some would say they should end up together but Camilla had never had time for true relationships and besides, Cassian was far closer than that, a brother. They spent many hours meeting about the Legion, sparring, or just talking and he was one of three that Camilla could actually count on.

As the final exchange rang out, Cassian’s blade disarming his opponent with a clang that reverberated off the stone, the crowd erupted. Applause thundered through the arena, and the setting sun split through the arches, casting both Praetors in molten gold.

Camilla rose as the victor saluted her. Cassian’s grin was wide, sweat streaking his face, triumph lighting his eyes. She inclined her head in return, a silent acknowledgment between equals, between friends.

“Well fought,” she murmured under her breath, her voice barely audible over the din.

Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance.

The day’s last light caught her hair like fire as she turned from the arena, cloak brushing the marble steps. Around her, the festival continued, laughter, song, life. And overhead, the sky began to deepen from gold to indigo, a thousand unseen stars waiting to burn through.

The Solstice belonged to light and to victory. But tomorrow, she knew, the storms would return, and when they did, she would meet them head-on.

For now, though, Camilla let herself smile as the crowd chanted Cassian’s name. Balance was kept. Order held. And the daughter of Jupiter stood at the heart of it all, the calm within the tempest.

[Apoalo]

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Location: Medical Station, and Coliseum

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The scent of sunlight and smoke hung thick over New Rome.

By the time the final duels began, the Solstice Festival had reached its golden peak, laughter spilling from the Forum, strings and flutes winding together into a melody that carried all the way to the Coliseum’s open gates. Lucius Cassius Crassus stood just beyond them, sleeves rolled to his forearms, hands already stained faintly with the shimmer of divine gold. The battlefield he might be retired from, but the work, the quiet, unending work of mending others, never left him.

“Hold still,” he murmured, voice low and even as his fingers brushed across a legionnaire’s bruised shoulder. A warm pulse of light followed his touch, flowing from palm to skin like liquid dawn. The soldier exhaled, the kind of breath that trembled with relief. Lucius caught a glimpse and held back a wince, a newer Legionnaire, just a child, with the insignia of the second cohort on his armor. “Better?” Lucius asked, and the 'boy' nodded, wonder and gratitude flickering in his eyes.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me,” Lucius replied, wiping his hand on a cloth as the glow faded. “Thank your training. You held your stance even when your arm gave out, that saved you more than I did.”

He said it with a faint smile, the kind that hinted at warmth beneath restraint. His tone was clipped but kind, steady as the hum of the earth beneath the city’s marble bones. Around him, the medics’ alcove buzzed with soft chaos, healers moving briskly between cots, pitchers of nectar clinking, the smell of crushed herbs and burnt ozone from spent ambrosia wafers.

Lucius moved through it all like a conductor among strings, efficient, deliberate, carrying the calm of someone who’d seen far too much of war and had learned to master his pulse against it.

It should have been easy, this, healing, tending, advising. The life of a retired soldier turned physician. Chandler Sumpter’s hospital had given him peace, purpose. The steady rhythm of the ward, the bright laughter of his younger half-siblings echoing through the courtyard, the absence of blood-soaked sand under his boots.

And yet...

His gaze drifted toward the arena’s bright mouth, where cheers erupted in a fresh surge. The air was electric, the kind of energy that made the hairs on his arms rise. The Coliseum sang with the heartbeat of battle.

He remembered that sound. The way it used to vibrate through his chest when he stood in the sand, bow drawn, eyes locked on the enemy line. The precision of it. The clarity.

Lucius tightened the strap on his bracer, an old habit, then sighed and reached for another vial of nectar. The movement was practical, but his thoughts lingered.

The Legion was trying to call him back, his men constantly asking if he'd come back and run the second with Lucius' own protégé. They would again, ceaseless in their efforts. He could already feel the whisper of it at the edge of the festival’s laughter, the sense that peace, for someone like him, was only ever borrowed.

“Lucius.”

He looked up as Camilla approached, her silhouette sharp against the torchlight, cloak gleaming violet in the dusk. Even without her armor, she carried the weight of command like a mantle carved into her very bones.

“Praetor.” His tone softened slightly, though habit still bent it toward formality. “You’re missing your celebration.”

She glanced toward the healers’ alcove, toward the row of patched-up fighters and the faint smell of burned ambrosia. “Someone has to make sure they live to see the next one.”

Lucius’s mouth curved. “And you thought I’d forgotten how to do that?”

“I thought you might need reminding,” she said simply, and there was humor in it, quiet, but familiar.

For a moment, they stood in silence, the noise of the arena a distant roar. Camilla’s gaze lingered on him, the steady hands, the worn bracers, the eyes that had seen too much to be at ease for long.

“You’re thinking about coming back,” she said finally, though it wasn’t a question.

Lucius didn’t answer right away. He poured the last of the nectar into a fresh cup and set it beside the cot of a sleeping recruit. The faint light from the liquid reflected in his eyes, gold threaded with shadow.

“I’m thinking,” he said at last, “about whether I’m still the kind of man who belongs on a battlefield.”

Camilla regarded him quietly, then inclined her head, not in command, but understanding. “The battlefield remembers you, Lucius. Whether you remember it or not. Your men loved, and continue to love you, and I can see your soul still longs for the Legion. You've simply stopped listening to your heart and are instead thinking with your head. It's something you Minerva Legacies have in common, and while it served you well in training, you have to master yourself Lucius Crassus. Consider this my permission to rejoin if you decide to re-enlist.”

Then she turned, the folds of her cloak whispering across the marble as she strode back toward the light.

Lucius watched her go, the noise of the crowd swelling as Cassian’s victory was announced, the cheer of a thousand voices calling a name that once might have been his. He knew there were other bouts left but Lucius sighed and went to look into the sky.

The sky above the city burned gold and crimson, and the first stars began to spark through.

Lucius stood there a moment longer, surrounded by the scent of ozone, herbs, and the faint metallic tang of healing, caught between the life he’d built and the one that refused to release him.

[Altered Tundra]

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______________________________________	______________________________________________________________________________________ ⚚ LOCATION ⚚ Colosseum → Colosseum Cavea (seating area) ⚚ OUTFIT ⚚ Armor ⚚ INTERACTING WITH ⚚ Nobody (summary of his fights @Sugar and Spite; Lucius mentioned and Approaches Eden @Moon Child ______________________________________________________________________________________

^{______________________________________________________________________________________}

There was a crisp, crackling feeling in the air. Rex could sense it. That protruding sense of bloodlust -- all competitive, sure -- but it couldn’t be denied. Rex could always sense it and whenever displays of strength, cunning, and the culmination of years of service and training came together, there was an abundance of it. It climbed up Rex’s defined, chiseled spine, tickled him in ways that nobody could ever achieve. Not even his beloved, Eden Ashford could replicate it.

No, this came directly as a side-effect of the genes he got from his father, Mars. A sixth sense, in a way, to be able to sense everyone’s desire for violence. Even those who claimed to be pacifists like Jeremy Grover were in attendance for the spectacle that was about to take place.

And why wouldn’t they? It wasn’t often the best fighters Camp Jupiter and New Rome had to offer would come together in randomly selected pairings and participate in some good ole fashioned sparring. Now this sparring was full contact, weapons and armor included, but it wouldn’t be fun if it wasn’t.

Rex had bore witness to some of the matchups for the Legionnaires. He heard Luka was outsmarted by Rikki. Not expected but not unwelcomed. Rex was able to take some pride in knowing Luka wouldn’t be gloating about that. He stayed aware until the second round of their fights, as he had to mentally prepare for his, but not before he heard one of the Praetor’s, Cassian, was able to win his match. Pride swelled in Rex’s heart. He had no doubt and that seemed to be a match not evenly matched.

As the festivities went down further, Rex, who was already watching from a vantage point in the back, he would watch Cassian take his dub, as he rightly deserved.

And then it was his turn. The first of the Veteran matches and it was a showstopper. Sabine, that ever chaotic daughter of Pluto, was to be his first fight. A worthy foe. Rex would never think of disrespecting her by underestimating her. They have sparred many times in the past, so he knew about her abilities as a warrior first hand but that would not make it easy for him. War and violence was as natural to Rex as breathing underwater for a child of Neptune was, yet as the match went underway, it became clear that Sabine wasn’t taking it seriously…not at first, anyway.

Rex came with his warhammer. The same one Noah had forged based off of the schematics given to him by Thor. The same hammer that was, in normal cases and for normal people, a two-handed weapon. Someone like Ashton would need two hands, but for the Son of Mars, he could swing it wildly with one hand. He had power, precision, and speed at his back. But Sabine was a warrior among warriors. A true testament of the big three. Her handling with her spear was genius. A true Roman. But as good as she was and as evenly matched they were, Rex’s power was something that not even Sabine Kiskova could match. The deciding blow came with a clashing of hammer against spear and Rex twisted his body to the side, Sabine going forward and Rex, with as much force that wouldn’t kill her, threw a right into her gut.

The match was called when Sabine fell.

The next series of matches passed with Ashton giving up against his fight against Gigi Russo, not even bothering to give the girl a shot against him. She wasn’t happy and Rex was only disappointed. “You pussy!” Rex shouted at Ashton. Gigi seemed to feel the same because she shouted the same at him.

After that, Noah would win against Delaney and then the match against Avery and Aeris, the fight that would decide who Rex would face. So he watched it intently, studying everything but also enjoying the fight. Avery was a magician on the battlefield. Her experience always showed in her grace and it clearly paid off because it seemed as though her fight against Aeris went as quickly as it began.

Which meant Rex had his hands full. There weren’t many Rex truly admired. Okay, that’s a lie. There were plenty of worthy Romans among them. Many with creeds worthy of their prestige, but Avery was different. She and him had been as tight as two people platonically can be ever since Rex came to Camp Jupiter. She is the closest thing he would have to an older sister, but more importantly than that, someone whom he respected more than anyone else.

And their fight was legendary. A true testament of their skill and positions as Senators. At times, it seemed like she was a few steps ahead of him. Rex had power and he had timing but Avery was just a step ahead of him, pivoting to the side, parrying his blows, sparing no wasted time. Her skills with that gladius was as masterful as his own skills with his hammer was. She caught him a few times in the abdomen, which effected his mobility, but Rex had powered through it. He got her with a few rights but still she wouldn’t give.

And then the deciding blow came, but it was not one with a blade or a hammer or a series of fists, but rather an admission of a truth that threw Rex off his game and about his beloved, no less. It wasn't just the unveiling that Eden and Avery shared a moment together. The shock got Rex but it wasn't what did him in. It was the repeated mention of Eden's body: her boobs, her ass, her curves - every mention of in-between strikes and counters and parries were what distracted the usually focused Son of War. This one admission allowed Avery to snag the victory with a well-placed series of strikes in his abdomen, then in his face, breaking his jaw in several places.

Brain beat braun.

How could Rex be mad at that? No seriously, how could he? Wisdom was her forte and Avery used it in such an unconventional way. Even as he laid on the ground, pondering how he couldn’t see it coming, Rex just smiled. It hurt to do so and within minutes he was seen with Lucius with an emergency healing. Nothing major. Rex didn’t need much. He had a few bruised ribs but nothing time couldn’t heal. Or a visit with Lucius later, but he just needed his jaw fixed. When that was done, Rex shook it off and joined the only person who could heal the rest of his ailments (none of which were physical).

He took a seat that overlooked the rest of everyone. Not that it was a position to celebrate importance but it just happened to be where she was. Rex took his beloved into his arms and kissed her sweetly. His jaw still tingled and he was tender all over, so the usual primal kiss he blessed on her lips would have to wait until later. “I almost had her too,” Rex said, releasing Eden from his hold, though he still held onto her hand, leaning against her shoulder in a display of shocking vulnerability. “She’s a crafty one, alright. Hope you’ve been enjoying the show regardless, Mein Ein und Alles.”

[SalemFlame]

_{Location: Moonwoven > Coliseum > Nearby Hill}

Aeris had woken up this morning in a somewhat good mood. Given the current state of lunar affairs was actually a rarity. That good mood crashed quickly when she remembered what day it was. The festival. She had been roped into taking part in the veterans tournament, something that she can't quite remember how it came about. Either way, Aeris couldn't back out now. Not without seeming like a coward. And despite her reservations, she wasn't a coward. Her morning routine stayed the same: She had her coffee and light breakfast, usually toast, and spent the first hour working on clothes. She had several commissions at the moment, and this morning a pair of suit trousers was occupying her mind.

After finishing off her work, she finally decided to leave Moonwoven. Well, not at least before she spent thirty minutes cleaning the shop to perfection. Something she normally did at night, but it became clear to herself that she was stalling going to the coliseum. She knew she couldn't delay forever and thus left the shop, locking it up and making her away across New Rome.

At the tournament itself Aeris signed in and looked at who she was up against and then let out a small sigh when she saw Avery’s name there. ‘This was going to go great’ Aeris sarcastically told herself. She knew it wasn't going to be great, but she didn't really expect for how bad it was going to be. With the matches taking place near noon, Aeris might as well have been fighting with one hand behind her back. In fact, why not give her a blindfold? Might actually make it easier. Aeris and her powers were linked to both the night cycle and lunar cycle. Her powers were strong in the darkness and weak in the sunlight. Combine that with the lunar cycle also amplifying her powers and you had a recipe for destruction. But that wasn't today. It was noon the night after a new moon. Possibly the weakest Aeris could possibly be. If it was midnight on a full moon… she would wipe the floor with Avery and have enough left to bitch slap the senate.

But there was no point fantasising about that. The battle came and went. Aeris tried to summon her lunar spear at the start of the battle. The spear made of pure moonlight turned solid. She gripped it, only for it to flicker and then shatter like glass before disappearing. With a frustrated sigh, she took her physical spear off her back and used that instead. Fighting Avery with no powers was just difficult and frustrating. Avery always seemed to be in the right place at the right time. Also, trying to use a spear in close combat against a shortsword was a difficult proposition. To win, one needed to control the distance. If your opponent got under your reach, it can be hard to block and reposition. Suffice to say, Avery knew exactly where to stand, and the fight didn't last too long until Aeris was defeated and the fight was over. Aeris gave a pissed off but graceful surrender, and made a point to leave the coliseum.

Aeris found herself on a nearby hill, slightly away from the festivities, but close enough that she could still watch and see everything going on. Sitting on the grass, she pulled out some yarn and two needles and began to knit. She wasn't quite sure what she was making, if anything at all, but she would spend the rest of the afternoon taking in the smells and sights of the festivities. Her hand movements bought her peace, and helped centre herself after her defeat. In all honesty her mood was quite low. Her mood was also tied to lunar cycles and at the new moon, she always felt the most lonely and depressed at this point. Still, the knitting kept her mind off things as the evening drew in.

[Moon Child]

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______________________________________	______________________________________________________________________________________ 🌺 LOCATION 🌺 Colosseum Cavea (seating area) 🌺 INTERACTING WITH 🌺 Derex @Altered Tundra 🌺 MENTIONS 🌺 Avery @Sugar and Spite ______________________________________________________________________________________

^{______________________________________________________________________________________}

When Eden Ashford set her sights on Derex Steiner, she was aware that having him would come at a high price. There were many reasons why the daughter of Aphrodite had been instantly smitten with the well-known son of Mars. His bravery, fearlessness, brute strength, protective instincts and selfless way in which he looked out for others before himself were some of the items on the never-ending list of reasons she had to love him as deeply as she did. But the same qualities that made her swoon were also the root causes of her frequent, constant, underlying state of anxiety.

Every time Derex agreed to a sparring match, demonstration or exhibition, Eden smiled and nodded in support while physically fighting back the urge to cry. As much as she knew Rex could hold his own better than anyone else she knew, her mind couldn’t help but focus on all the things that could go catastrophically wrong. One miscalculation or incorrect step, and her dearly beloved could be permanently injured, disabled or even deceased. But what else could she do? Warfare and battle were not just a part of his identity: they were in his blood, and embedded into every fiber of his being. So rather than sit around at home worried to the point of physical sickness about what could be happening, Eden would do as she had done since the beginning of their relationship: taking a deep breath, squaring her shoulders and being there for her boyfriend.

This year’s summer solstice was no different. With how much he missed being in the center of the action, Rex being one of the first people to volunteer for the veterans’ sparring bracket came to nobody’s surprise. If the blonde didn’t know any better, she would’ve said that Rex’s name was on the list before it even made it to the public. From her carefully selected vantage point in the colosseum’s cavea, Eden watched with a mixture of pride, admiration and apprehension as the love of her life proudly entered the battle arena he loved so much. Cheers and applause filled the air as the behemoth of a man made his way in, eventually standing tall right in the middle of space with his signature hammer in hand. It wasn’t long until his first opponent made her own entrance, and shortly after that, their battle began.

What followed was a tense Eden bearing witness to each of Derex’s matches with bated breath-- grimacing, gasping and wincing at every punch, kick, blow or strike her boyfriend received. The calming tea Lilith had made her earlier could only do so much to soothe her distress, and the daughter of Aphrodite often had to stop herself from digging her nails into her skin hard enough to draw blood. That familiar feeling of an invisible hand tightly squeezing her chest-- the one that warned her about a loved one being in imminent danger-- refused to abandon her all throughout. Momentary relief was offered after Rex won his first match and the other veterans took center stage. But by the time his second match began, this time with the beautiful and equally powerful Avery Pierce, the effects of the tea had all but disappeared.

Sharing a soultie with the two veterans actively trying to incapacitate each other meant that Eden’s “spidey” senses were in overdrive. She’d spend the majority of that match with her eyes tightly squinted shut, purposely looking away but still keeping out a listening ear to follow the occurrences of the match in her own way. The agony of not knowing exactly what was happening was nauseating, but it was still better than watching her soulmate get hurt and being unable to do anything to stop it. After what felt like an eternity, a collective gasp echoed across the colosseum, and Eden’s eyelids flew open just in time to watch Derex fall to the ground with a smile on his face. Instinctively, the daughter of Aphrodite jumped up from her seat and raced to the arena as the event’s medical crew carried her boyfriend away, pushing away any person that got in her way. She was stopped at the gates by the veterans assigned to be security detail, who had to both physically restrain the surprisingly strong blonde and reassure her that Rex’s injuries were not fatal and he’d be reunited with her shortly. Still not convinced but unable to do anything other than wait, the defeated woman returned to her seat, anxiously tapping her foot and watching her surroundings like a hawk for any sign of her beloved.

When Derex finally made his way over to her, took her in his arms and kissed her, Eden allowed herself to relax. She fought back against the overwhelming impulse to collapse into sobs of relief-- the last thing she wanted was to make things about herself or put a damper on her boyfriend’s good mood with overreactions or oversensitivity. Instead, she shifted her attention to the fearless warrior who had returned to her mostly in one piece, albeit with some new bruises, and broken bones to add to his never-ending list of injuries.

“I almost had her too,” Eden heard Rex say as he leaned against her shoulder. “Hope you’ve been enjoying the show regardless, Mein Ein und Alles.”

Eden let out a panicked, shaky laugh at his remark, ignoring the red, crescent-shaped marks in her arms and the way her muscles were aching from the prolonged period of tension. “I’m just glad you’re okay,” she replied with that tell-tale tremble her voice always took on after witnessing him being in the throes of combat, kissing his head and resting her head against his.

[Sugar and Spite]

_{Location — Her Home ->
Streets of New Rome ->
The Coliseum}

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Summer Solstice had arrived much faster that Lilith had anticipated.

The young woman had been preoccupied with so many things as of late, that she didn't even have time to realize how quickly the festivities had approached. Forever working on new products for the Apothecary, divinating for people when needed, divinating for the Camp just for GP, keeping up with training, maintaining friendships, and just trying to take care of herself among countless other things - it was an understatement to say that Lilith Montgomery could use a breather.

Having already woken up a bit late, Lilith flew through her morning routine before getting dressed.

The truth was, Lilith had always looked forward to festivities in New Rome. With her gift of prophecy and foresight, it was easy for Lil to make a quick buck on days like these. It wasn't like she was cheating at the beating pool; it was nearly impossible to keep herself from seeing the outcomes of things that she questioned. Even still, she caught glimpses of certain results, making sure to scratch them down in her journal so she wouldn't forget on her journey into the city. Lil only bet on the fights she had had visions of, in a strange way of trying to keep things fair. If she went to go bet on another fight, it was likely that it would trigger a vision and show her the result anyway, thus resulting in Lilith gaining even more money from her winnings. Some people would call it cheating - Lilith simply seen it as using her gifts in the fairest way possible.

Once she had thrown everything thing she could possible think that she would need for the day in her bag, Lilith scratched Mavis behind the ears while trying to calm an overexcited Nala who was practically banging down the door in her impatience. It seemed as if all creatures in New Rome were excited to celebrate the day.

The daughter of Trivia enjoyed her walk in to town, the rising sun warming her skin. Lilith reminded herself quietly to let all of her senses see the beauty around her. She stopped to smell flowers, wave to the children, and smile at passing neighbors and campers alike. Even still, there was a small, growing pit in her stomach that had been there since she had opened her eyes this morning. With the gift of foresight and emotions, Lil often struggled with figuring out if feelings like these belonged to herself or the collective. She quietly determined that the metaphorical pit was just the result of feeling everything. Even with the power of her necklace doing it's best to keep everything at bay, Lilith could still feel the overall feeling of such large groups. Thankfully, the town seemed to be buzzing with excitement today.

The brunette made her first stops at the betting booths, saving her merch shopping for this evening when she would collect her winnings. Lilith buzzed around the Forum like the social chameleon she had always been, taking her time to gather a pizza from Paradiso and the largest soda she could score from Huskers. Even with all of the good vibes in the air, Lilith still felt herself being pulled towards something. A feeling of uncertainty, nostalgia, sadness and... she would swear that last part was guilt.

Picking up the pace as she now walked through the stands of the Coliseum, Lilith found her empathy and intuition pulling her towards Rauni. A polite look of sympathy crossed Lilith's face as she felt the full weight of the other young womans emotions. Like some others Lilith was close with, she could feel Rauni's emotions with greater intensity than that of a passerby. In full honesty, Rauni hadn't stopped screaming since Felix's death. During the early days, it was literal screaming. Now, it was more of a metaphorical thing - something that snuck up from behind you and stabbed you with a cold, rusty blade in the heart. Lilith pulled herself together before taking a seat beside Rauni in the stands, placing the pizza in between the two of them as to offer the other girl some and also not to invade her space.

"So who's your money on," Lil asked, already spotting the familiar back of someone's head. While waiting for Rauni to answer, Lil briefly dug around in her bag for a spare pen that she didn't care about. Once secured, Lilith proceeded to toss it at the back of Rikki's head - or well, what she thought was the back of Rikki's head. Once the young man turned around with a confused scowl on his face, Lilith grinned from ear to ear, waving to him to join her and Rauni.

_{Interacting With — Rauni @Kuro
Rikki @SalemFlame}

[Pathei Mathos]

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▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ L O C A T I O N ↂ C O L O S S E U M The sun hung high above New Rome’s Colosseum, turning the pale sand into a sheet of white fire. The clang of steel and the chant of onlookers rolled across the tiers as two figures stepped into the ring — both bare-armed beneath their lorica, both already scarred by old victories. Kyros, Centurion of the Second Cohort, son of Neptune, stood calm as the tide before a storm. His gladius gleamed dull in the heat, and the small, round scutum at his arm bore salt stains from the morning drills. Across from him, Alexander, once of the Second but now of the proud First Cohort, rolled his shoulders loose, the twin Imperial Gold knives at his belt flashing like sunlight caught on water. His own gladius hung low in his grip, relaxed, confident — a duelist’s stance. They saluted with their swords, then the horn sounded. Kyros struck first — a blur of efficiency. Sand exploded beneath his heel as he closed the distance, gladius slashing in a tight arc toward Alex’s midsection. Alex pivoted, shield catching the blow with a ringing crack, and answered with a short, brutal jab of his pommel. Kyros twisted aside, feeling the air stir against his jaw. The crowd roared approval. Alex advanced, his movements light, almost graceful — Venus’s charm turned to lethal rhythm. He feinted high, then low, blades flickering like gold serpents. Kyros caught the first with his shield, parried the second with a metallic snarl, and countered — a textbook naval thrust, water-quick and deep. The edge grazed Alex’s thigh, drawing a thin, red line. Alex hissed between his teeth and grinned. “Took you long enough, Theron.” Kyros didn’t answer. He stepped back, rolling his shoulder, eyes narrowing as the scent of iron hit the air. The sea called in his veins; a ripple of moisture shimmered along the blade, beads of condensation forming like dew. The crowd gasped as droplets spun from the steel, tracing arcs in the sunlight. Alex only laughed — half admiration, half challenge — and launched himself forward. Their blades clashed in a flurry. Steel sang; sand leapt; the rhythm was chaos contained. Alex’s twin knives struck like punctuation — quick, puncturing stabs meant to probe, not kill. Kyros used his shield to drive Alex back, shoving with controlled fury, but the son of Venus adapted with dancer’s grace. A twist. A slide. He hooked one knife behind Kyros’s guard and wrenched. The Centurion’s gladius went wide, opening his flank. Kyros reacted instantly — his free hand flashing downward as he drew a throwing knife from his belt. It left his fingers with Neptune’s precision, slicing through the hot air straight for Alex’s shoulder. Alex ducked — too late. The blade kissed his pauldron, biting deep enough to draw blood and tear leather. But the distraction was all he needed. He rolled beneath Kyros’s next strike, came up inside his guard, and slammed the edge of his shield into Kyros’s ribs. The impact cracked like thunder. Kyros staggered back, the breath torn from him. Alex pressed, switching to his gladius, driving forward with a relentless rhythm of cuts and thrusts that forced Kyros toward the wall of the arena. Each strike was perfect — not furious, but elegant — the measured beauty of Venus’s favored. Kyros’s shield splintered under the assault, his stance faltering. The crowd screamed his name, urging him to rise, to pull the tide again. He did.. one final surge, water calling to water. The moisture on his blade burst into a mist that blinded the air between them, and he lunged through it, driving straight for Alex’s chest. But Alex had learned from him; he felt the movement before he saw it. The son of Venus pivoted on one heel, sidestepped, and caught Kyros’s wrist with a twist that was half embrace, half execution. The Centurion’s sword tumbled from his hand. In the same motion, Alex’s gladius rose to Kyros’s throat. Silence. Then, a thunderous applause. Both men were heaving for breath — blood streaked across bronze, sweat darkening their tunics. Alex stepped back, lowering his sword. “Still too slow on the recovery,” he said softly, though there was no malice in it.. only respect. Kyros smirked through the ache. “Still too pretty to take a hit.” They clasped forearms, the gesture rough but sincere, and the arena’s roar swelled again. Blood had been spilled, but honor held — and in New Rome’s sand, that was victory enough for them both. ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ After taking the time to get checked over, though refusing help from the medics to heal his wounds.. Ky retreated back to his place among the crowd - head held high with a refusal to show just how deeply he'd taken the loss in the ring. As was his way. Kyros, son of Neptune, never let those around him see him vulnerable. Injured? Sure. But never allowing anyone to see him truly weak. The very few - and I mean, literally, the one or two people - who he'd allowed behind his towering inner walls would know.. but the rest? All the onlookers, his Cohort? They'd see a young man who simply brushed off the loss as if it was simply due to him "clearly not being on his game" today. A firm hand clapped over his shoulder while another thrust a dark ale into his hands, the generous fellow's words lost in the uproar of the surrounding crowd. The beer was gone by the time Kyros reached his seat to watch the remainder of the games - though for a time his eyes stared through the foam left in his glass mug, disassociating, thinking back on how he could have done better in the ring. His overconfidence was the reason he hadn't moved up into the First Cohort. Kyros would sit in the stands long enough to watch the rest of the Legionnaire and Veteran fights till Rex's loss to Avery, to which he would take up his empty cup and his hurt ego and make his way back to the barracks to turn in for the night. ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

[Kuro]

Location — Coliseum, New Rome

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Rauni glanced to her side. A recognizable face sat beside her, placing a pizza between the two women.

"I..." She began, hesitance in her voice. "I'm afraid it has been too long for me to make any kind of bets."

The daughter of Aquilo offered Lilith a soft smile. Indeed, it had been long since Rauni had been in the loop. She hadn't paid much heed to anyone since her retirement. Though the spar included faces Rauni had long since known during her tour of service, it felt like staring at empty pages. There was much she had surely missed out on throughout her self-isolation. People. Events. Life and death. Much had changed where Rauni had not.

"I suppose I couldn't cheat off your divinations." She jokingly teased Lilith, watching the woman chuck a pen at someone in the crowd and beckon them to join the two. "You could make the two of us rich."

It had been long since she had cracked a joke. Each word she spoke carried joy yet stung all the same. Her gut twisted where her chest rose in quiet laughter. Happiness felt both wrong and right. And yet, Rauni endured the pain for her own sake. She had fought her conscience to be here today. The old memories within the cracked stone haunted her at every corner. They blamed her for her failures. It tore and ate away, but she wouldn't let them break her this day.

Pressing on, Rauni smiled through the pain. Her gaze now met the pen-smacked man, who had since turned back in confusion. It had been a familiar face, one that Rauni had only known for a short stint during her time in the Second Cohort—Rikki Mercator, a former messenger for the Twelfth Legion.

"Though, I wouldn't be quick to make any assumptions. Rumor has it that a certain someone managed to outsmart Luka."

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_{Interacting With — @Sugar and Spite | Lilith & @SalemFlame | Rikki}

[Moon Child]

Location — Colosseum, New Rome

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When Noah Hayes made her way down to the colosseum to witness the sparring matches as she had done for the last thirteen years, she was in a hell of a good mood. The solstice festival was always a fun time, and the exposure it provided to her smithing business meant booked schedules and a nice boost of money in her pocket. She’d started off that morning with a joint of her favorite peach herbal indulgence from her bestie Grover's ganja store, followed by the largest cup of caramel iced latte that was sold in downtown New Rome. Thoroughly content, the young woman pranced to the colosseum, making a mental note of all the bets she would place to hopefully get even more money in her pockets. She decided to check the roster one last time to double-check her choices… And noticed her name listed under the veterans sparring bracket.

“Goddamn it…”

During one of Noah’s and big brother Ashton’s many collaborative smithing sessions in her workshop, the topic of participating in this year’s solstice tournament had come up. As to be expected, the redhead immediately roared with laughter at the thought. When she retired from legionnaire life, she had also shut the door on anything involving voluntary combat. Ten forced years of being a soldier under someone else’s command, being forced to do drill after drill after drill rain or shine, pushing her body to its physical limits each and every time, participating in quests that very much put her and her people’s lives on the line… She wouldn’t dream of doing something like that again. The last time she’d been in that arena was to celebrate the culmination of her mandatory service, and she had vowed to never step foot in it once more. But unfortunately for Noah, the idea had fully burrowed into Ashton’s brain. She had protested and tried her hardest to convince him against it, but the best she could do was come to a happy medium: they would both join the tournament together.

Gritting her teeth and mentally cursing herself, the daughter of Vulcan made her way to the colosseum’s “locker rooms”. She made sure to shoot a few death glares at Ashton while they waited their turn, but wished him good luck all the same. Eventually, it was her turn, and she trudged to the arena with her axe in hand and body in full Minerva-gifted armor.

She didn't know whether this year's participants weren't as skilled as other years, or maybe she wasn't anywhere near as bad as she thought she was. But even with the disadvantage of being high on weed, full of coffee and completely out of practice, Noah somehow found herself claiming a spot in the top 8 of the veterans bracket. As reluctant as she'd been to participate in the first place, the redhead had to admit that watching the pride in Ashton and Derex's faces and listening to their cheers brought her the same warm, comforting feeling she got when her smithing work was praised. That fuzzy feeling soon evaporated, though, when she watched her brother forfeit the match against Gigi Russo, thus making her the next one in line to fight the daughter of Pluto.

“Yo, what the fuck?!” Noah yelled at her brother, watching in disbelief as the young man bowed to his opponent and left the arena without another word. That wasn’t part of the plan! If she had known that forfeiting was an option, she wouldn’t have even bothered to go through these matches like a damn show pony at the Kentucky Derby– ‘pride, honor and glory’ be damned.

Now, she was faced with two options. One: she could do the same thing Ashton had done by forfeiting the match and going back to her regularly scheduled, strictly spectator activities. Or two: she could go forward with the match and win the bet, leaving herself open to potential injuries in the process.

As much as she wanted to cop out and choose the first option, Noah went with the second one instead. She might have been known for being lazy, but never for backing out of a challenge she’d started or leaving things unfinished. She had already gotten this far, right? Might as well just see the damn thing through.

Contrary to Derex losing to Avery Pierce, the Hayes girl’s defeat came to nobody’s surprise. She put on a valiant display of talent and skill, unexpectedly giving Gigi a bit of a challenge in the beginning. Ultimately, it was the daughter of Pluto who came out victorious, thus marking the conclusion of Noah’s participation in the tournament. She might not have won the competition, but she’d won her bet against Ashton and survived the whole thing with minimal injuries. All in all, it was a pretty successful outcome.

After a quick visit to the medical tent to heal her wounds and get clearance from Lucius, Noah set off in the direction of the cavea. She’d been planning to buy a beer and finish watching the rest of the matches when the familiar figure of a towering, dark-haired man caught her attention.

“Hey Lulu,” Noah called out to him, closing the distance between them. The daughter of Vulcan took up position right beside Luka Bolea, probably looking amusingly childish standing next to him and his twelve inches of height advantage over her. Centurion Bolea, as he preferred to be referred to (though Noah only called him that to tease him), was as strict with himself as he was with the legionnaires under his command. He didn’t accept laziness or excuses, nor was he ever satisfied with people giving anything less than their 100%. To him, losing meant failure: that he hadn't given his all and was being punished for it. If she knew him as well as she did (and she hoped she did, considering the many hours they'd spent together having heart-to-hearts behind closed doors), Noah guessed that Luka was beating himself up for the loss. “You holding up okay?”

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_{Interacting With — Ashton @xAlter, Luka @Thayr}

_{Mentions — Grover, Derex, Delaney, Gigi, Lucius}

[xAlter]

Alexander Rhea

Location: Coliseum
Mentions: @Pathei Mathos@SalemFlame

---

He stood in the staging area beneath the Colosseum, the stone cool against his back despite the oppressive California heat filtering down through the grated ceiling. His fingers moved on autopilot, checking the familiar weight of Sumarr and Vetr at his belt, then the gladius at his hip. The twin knives felt right—gifts from Skadi, earned through survival, not handed down like some pretty trinket from a goddess who valued aesthetics over action. The gladius was standard Legion issue, but he'd sharpened it himself until the edge sang.

Alexander's first opponent was already in the arena, and he could hear the crowd's murmur shift as his own name was called. Kyros Theron. Son of Neptune. Second Cohort Centurion. Alexander had trained with him before his promotion to First, knew the way the son of Neptune fought with that irritating calm, like the ocean had no reason to hurry. The stereotype there was different, powerful, commanding, natural-born leaders of the sea. Nobody looked at Kyros and saw weakness.

Nobody looked at Alexander without seeing his mother first.

He rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar restlessness coil in his chest. This wasn't just about winning. It was about how he won. No charm, no diplomacy, no subconscious influence that might make Kyros hesitate or like him too much to strike true. Just skill. Just steel. Just the parts of himself he'd carved out in the Alaskan wilderness, the parts that had nothing to do with Venus and everything to do with survival.

Kyros stood across from him, gladius ready, that round shield already positioned to deflect. The Centurion's expression was focused but not hostile, the kind of professional assessment one warrior gave another. Alexander returned it with a slight smirk, the closest he'd come to a genuine smile all morning. At least Kyros wouldn't pity him or go easy on him because of who his mother was.

They saluted. The horn blew.

Their exchange set the rhythm: brutal, efficient, testing. The fight escalated into controlled chaos, steel singing and sand leaping with each strike. Alexander's movements flowed with a grace he refused to acknowledge, each step precise and deadly. When Kyros's blade finally went wide, Alexander was there, inside his guard. The gladius came up to Kyros's throat a heartbeat later.

Victory.

They clasped forearms afterward, mutual respect in the gesture. "Still too slow on the recovery," Alexander said, low enough that only Kyros could hear.

"Still too pretty to take a hit," Kyros shot back with a pained smirk.

Alexander's jaw tightened involuntarily, but he forced the irritation down. Not here. Not now.

His final fight came after a brief respite, barely enough time to catch his breath and rebandage the shallow cuts Kyros had managed to land. Alexander stood in the staging area again, but this time the restless energy felt different. It was sharper, more volatile. Cassian Murphy. Current Praetor. Legacy of both Ares and Hephaestus, war and craft combined into something that had led the Twelfth Legion through crisis after crisis. And Rikki Mercator, son of Janus, a member of the respected Second Cohort.

This was it. This was the fight that would cement Alexander's name. Not as a son of Venus. Not as someone who won through charm or beauty or divine favor. As a warrior. As someone who earned glory through skill and determination alone. He felt his pulse quicken, felt the familiar hunger uncoil in his chest like a serpent waking from sleep. "This is it. This is what matters."

His father's voice echoed in his mind, calm and steady as snow: "Observe. Adapt. Strike when they're committed." Good advice for hunting wolves in the Alaskan wilderness. Would it hold here, against demigods who carried the blood of war and doorways in their veins?

He knew, distantly, that he should be more cautious. Cassian was Praetor for a reason, had decades more experience, had divine blood from two sources that actually meant something in combat. But the hunger in Alexander's chest had become a roar, drowning out the small voice that suggested strategy, patience, careful assessment. He checked his weapons one final time. Sumarr and Vetr felt perfect in his hands. The gladius was sharp enough to split reality. He was ready.

He wanted to win. Gods, he needed to win. Not just to advance, not just for glory—though he craved that like a man starved—but to prove that Alexander Rhea was more than his divine parentage. That Skadi's grandson could stand against Rome's finest and emerge victorious through strength and skill alone.

But Cassian...

The Praetor was surveying both opponents with the calm assessment of a man who'd led the legion through actual war. There was no arrogance in his stance, no grandstanding. Just competence. Just experience. Alexander felt a flicker of something he refused to call doubt. Cassian had earned his position. Had proven himself in ways Alexander was still chasing.

"So take it from him."

The thought came sharp and immediate. If Alexander could eliminate the Praetor here, in front of the entire camp, it would be a statement louder than any amount of battlefield victories. It would be undeniable proof that he belonged among Rome's elite, that he'd earned his place in the First Cohort through merit, not through some accident of birth.

The horn's blast shattered his thoughts.

For a heartbeat, all three fighters were still, a triangle of tension drawn in blood-stained sand. Then Rikki moved, or tried to. He lunged toward Cassian with his right-hand blade while simultaneously pivoting toward Alexander with his left, attempting to keep both opponents engaged, to control two fronts at once.

It was impressive. It was also a mistake.

Alexander was already in motion, his relaxed demeanor evaporating into focused violence. He closed the distance to Rikki in three explosive strides, Sumarr flashing up to catch the left-hand gladius in a shower of sparks. The impact jarred his arm but he'd expected it, had braced for it. His own gladius came around low and fast, forcing Rikki to abandon his attack on Cassian and bring his other blade down to parry.

"Commitments, Mercator," Alexander said, his voice carrying a sardonic edge even as his muscles screamed with effort. "Choose a door and walk through it."

Rikki's eyes widened—both sets of futures he'd been planning suddenly collapsing into the single, brutal reality of Alexander's assault. He backpedaled, blades moving in a desperate figure-eight pattern, but Alexander pressed forward with the relentless efficiency his father had beaten into him. Strike high, force the parry, pivot left, drive Vetr toward the ribs. He flipped the blade at the last second, jabbing Vetr's pommel roughly into his side. Sumarr flashed, striking Rikki across the forehead as well. Rikki went down.

Alexander turned to Cassian, his last standing opponent. The Praetor hadn't moved. He stood like a monument to war, his gladius, Cauterix, held steady. The air around its edge seemed to waver with latent heat.

Driven by a surge of reckless pride, Alexander charged. He moved with the deadly grace his mother had given him, his knives a flickering web of Imperial Gold aimed at every opening. But Cassian was a wall of seasoned experience. He met the storm with brutal simplicity, his shield absorbing the rapid strikes, his footwork perfect. For every three blows Alexander landed, Cassian answered with one deliberate, powerful counter.

And his counter found its mark.

The edge of the gladius slid across Alexander’s left forearm. A searing, unnatural heat exploded through him, a pain far beyond a simple cut. The wound didn’t bleed so much as it sizzled, the flesh turning an angry, scorched red. The fiery agony stole his breath and made his arm feel like a useless weight. His speed faltered.

Cassian pressed his advantage instantly. He slammed his shield into Alexander’s chest, knocking the air from his lungs and sending him stumbling backward. Before Alexander could regain his footing, Cassian’s blade moved in a blur, knocking Sumarr and then Vetr from his nerveless grasp. The fight ended with the burning tip of Cauterix resting lightly against Alexander’s throat. The Praetor stood unmoved, his victory absolute. Alexander, burned and disarmed, had been decisively defeated.

[Thayr]

Centurion Bolea, Luka Matthias, 3rd Cohort
June 21st
New Rome, Coliseum

“Hey Lulu.”

Lulu. If there was anyone who called Luka anything other than Bolea, Centurion, or a combination of the two, it was Noah, but that wasn’t at all why he knew it was her. No, it was her voice, that sing-song, that sway in the tone with the little smile of a nickname at the corners, that was how he knew it was her. A half-turn of the head, armor shifting with the movement, to see her walking up. A thin smile touched his lips at the sight.

He hadn’t connected to many people - for the most part, he’d only connected to those no longer in the Legion. Noah had been one of them, someone he’d talked to as she apprenticed alongside him during that year of pause. They were bittersweet memories, but the little moments where he had forgotten all the stress, all the worry, all the wonder at what might make him feel alive melted away…those were as pure as could be, as good as Luka could see. Those memories were nearly always with Noah. The little things that kept one sane, that’s how it had gone, as she walked up beside him. It was almost comical, in a way, considering how tall she was compared to him. No, it was comical.

“You holding up okay?”

How are you. How was Bolea, that he’d gotten beaten by…the second-guesser, the door-maker, the boundryman. How was Bolea, mighty Bolea, that it had all gone to hell with the first fight he got to be in? Was that the question they were all asking? Was that the wonder they all had, and that some would be making those assumptions to their own? The wonder hit the Centurion quietly, though it still hit him. They would say that Luka was angry, or sad, or frustrated that he had lost with so little. They would say that he thought he could do better. Fucking Steiner. Luka could already hear the bastard. They knew him well, though, because it was mostly all true no matter what he should feel about it as a Centurion. Mercator had done well, and he should feel glad about that, but Luka had done poorly. He should have done better. He knew he should have.

A few breaths was all the length of the thought, though, as Luka pursed his lips and frowned just a bit. ”He did well. I should have done better.” The frown continued as they walked along, the guy running one hand through his helmet-hair. He thought on it a bit more, just over it all. What if Luka had won? Would him beating Mercator prove anything by that expected outcome, did idea that a Centurion would clearly always overcome the ranks beneath them simply because they were a Centurion hold any water? It didn’t seem to. It couldn’t. If it did, then the Centurion would continue on until old age overtook them, until they were dust and bone, and no young Legionnaire would show their skill well. No, it couldn’t. It was just…something that might happen every now and again in the whole of it. ”If Legionnaires lost all the time, never winning, I think we’d need to redo our training. But I could have done better.” The words bit against him just a little bit though, even if he reasoned through the whole thing that it should be this way. Pride, pride, pride.

He swallowed, wanting to turn the conversation away quickly. ”And you? Russo had to have been…interesting.”

---

Michael “Mike” Withers
June 21st
New Rome, Forum

”Look man - chili dogs are superior. It’s really just that simple.”

How do you have a conversation with a dog? Well, shit man, guess you just start talking and see if he wants to say something back. There was Mike, sat up on the little steps to...he looks up and around to see what the hell the place was. Warehouse? Storehouse? Somebody’s outhouse? Might be one of the above, though he could smell fermentation in the air from…something or another, wine, old school classic fish sauce, a bunch of things. But there was Mike, sat up on the little steps, chili dog in one hand, and a plate of chow on a plate with a little audience of friends.

Yeah, sure, said Pluto - Mickey’s dog, not the god - but he added that there was something great about just regular hot dogs with mustard and ketchup. Yeah, yeah, there was something good there, but Pluto hadn’t ever had a real chili dog. At least, that was the great thought. Mike combed through his beard as he thought through exactly how the heck he’d break off a piece from his own without the whole thing going to hell, eyes glancing up at a bit of movement in the corner of ‘em.

Herodotus - full name of Herodotus of San Francisco - looked on from one of the alcoves above. One of the strays - Mike didn’t normally use the term, since honestly that just sounded like they didn’t have a family and he knew for sure they did. ‘Free peoples’ sounds like he was quoting…fuck what was that show…Conan? No. Not Conan. Anyways, ol Herry was a great lil guy. Big guy. He was a big guy. Cool big guy that Mike let crash on the couch for a while…still does, really. The Maine Coon looked down with that lazy little glance before making himself comfortable. How the hell did he get up there?

But Pluto said that there was something to it with rabbits. They’d gone and found rabbits before, and it had been a good time, but there had been something with the rabbits that had given him aches. Ah, that was never a good thing. Mike looked down to consider his chili dog again. ”See, that’s not good. Can’t be eating bad rabbit. Hey, gimme a sec.” With that, he took the chili dog and tried to pinch off the end between thumb and forefinger, detonating chili over his shirt.

”Fuck,” was the absentminded thing, as he leaned forward to let Pluto eat the pinched bit…as well as the chili off his hand. Man, that’s pretty good, said Pluto. Well. At least there was that. ”I told you, man. Chili dogs are great.”

[Altered Tundra]

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______________________________________	______________________________________________________________________________________ 🍇 LOCATION 🍇 Colosseum Rafters 🍇 OUTFIT 🍇 peak style 🍇 INTERACTING WITH 🍇 Open interaction! ______________________________________________________________________________________

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“Oh, what lovely festivities!
Beckon to our carnal desires
Displaying the power of empire!”

Jeremy Grover swooned over the perfect display of the Camp Jupiter/New Rome demigods and demigoddesses, the perfect display of absolute power, cunning and skill, and the basic instinct to survive round to round. Some fights were glorious displays of brute strength, some were fights of strategy and some, as he observed during Gigi Russo and Ashton White’s fight, simply a case of disinterest.

But above everything else, it was bringing together a community.

How amazing it was to see. How fulfilling it was to bear witness to not only the fighters on the ground floor of the colosseum but the people in the rafters, cheering on each fight. How they would wince whens someone caught a nasty blow to their head, yet cheer not a second later when that same fighter bounced back. He would see triumph and despair as each round revealed a winner and then a loser. He wanted to cry each time someone lost but he also wanted to cheer each time someone won.

And as each round came to an end and one tournament transitioned into the other, he couldn’t help but let out a muffled chuckle at his oldest friend, Eden Ashford, each time her beloved took a hit. Derex Steiner, the beacon of fortitude — and, for eden, the beacon of fornication — always rose to the occasion…in more ways than one. He kept going, going from his fight with Sabine, which was the most sublime, meat-pounding Grover had ever seen. And he should know. He knows a lot about meat pounding.

In this case, it wasn’t the kind that would leave a rear sore but rather, left a Daughter of Pluto on the ground, a loser but also a winner. Then it came for Rex to take on someone who, as Grover had witnessed a few times, someone who was far out of his league. Avery Pierce, that crafty daughter of Minerva, she had shown time after time that she has a brilliant mind. Grover had seen it not in just the tournament but a few times when he’d seen her spar. And what a close match between them it would be, only for Rex to come up short.

And god, what a nasty business his face was. Almost made you not think he wasn’t a smoldering hunk underneath. Almost.

“Cheers, Ferdinand! You almost had her. Now go to your beloved for some sweet, sweet loving…or healing.” He raised his chalice, brimming to the rim with a deep purple wine.

Grover truly loved events like these. He wasn’t a fighter by any means. He’d probably get clobbered worse than Luka. He might even have greater shame than Ashton did in his own fight, on account of giving up before the fight even started (poor Gigi was seething after that). No, he was at last simply a spectator. And why would he be anything else? Grover could provide the refreshments, insightful commentary, and most of all, anyone near him would have the pleasure of his company.

What else could the Prince of Madness desire?

[Sugar and Spite]

_{Location — The Coliseum}

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Avery Pierce was about as close to a socialite that New Rome had - if socialites were relatively down to earth and had no problem participating in actual community activities. She considered herself a role model to some, teacher to others, maternal figure to few, and sister or aunt to those in between. Some would even go so far as to say she was a pillar of the community; business owner, teacher, friend, former Centurion, current Veteran. It would have almost been a crime if Avery hadn't participated in the Veterans Spar.

So that's what she did.

She woke early enough that morning to make sure everything was in check at both home and Paradiso before traveling to the Coliseum. Signing her name on the roster, Avery then made her way to the apodyterium. The young woman took the time to sharpen her weapons, waiting to see who came in after her in a small effort to try and size up potential competition. There were a lot of familiar faces - but then again, who wasn't familiar to Avery.

When the pairings were announced, Avery had mixed feelings. She had nothing against Aeris as a person. While thankful that Avery knew she could advance, she also felt a little sorry for Aeris, briefly wondering how the other woman had wound up in this position today. Avery couldn't see Aeris willingly putting herself in a position to spar where her powers didn't work - but then again, Avery didn't really know Aeris that well.

Taking it easy on Aeris for the first few minutes of their spar, Avery couldn't help but find the whole charade painful. The daughter of Luna knew where to swing, but she lacked the spirit that was fueling Avery today. If anyone were to ask, that would be why Avery would think she had won her first fight.

The second win was due to sheer buffoonery in the daughter of wisdoms eyes.

Rex and Avery shared a long history, and an equally as long laugh upon learning that they were paired on this fine day. She was okay with this outcome, but ultimately knew that whoever won today would have bragging rights for a lifetime, along with one of the greatest stories to tell on holidays. Avery had to make sure she could win that honor as well as the honor of New Rome. Unable to knock Rex off of his feet literally, Avery chose to make her moves in a more strategic battle of the mind.

She admitted to him her and Eden's past relationship. A brief explanation, but one long enough to distract his mind. Avery took these brief moments of Rex's confusion as her golden opportunity. Effectively disarming the son of Mars, Avery chuckled as she extended her free hand to her opponent, helping him stand after the winner was announced.

"A pleasure as always, my good friend," she yelled to him over the roar of the crowd.

Making her way into the healing bay, Avery received minor treatments for the bruises and scrapes she had accumulated over the day. Once cleared, she made her way back to the Coliseum, finding a seat in the lowest spot she could while awaiting to see who her final opponent would be.

_{Interacting With — N/A ((Mentions of Aeris @SalemFlame & Rex @Altered Tundra))}