Pathei Mathos

Trials of New Rome - TEMPORARY HIATUS

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▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ 𝙲𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚂𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝙼𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚑𝚢 ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ L O C A T I O N ☬ C O L O S S E U M A R E N A The Colosseum of New Rome thrummed like a living heart — each cheer a pulse that rattled the sand beneath Cassian’s boots. He could feel the weight of the eyes on him: Legionnaires, veterans, recruits, instructors — all watching their Praetor step into the ring. And higher up, in the shade of the Praetor’s box, Marlowe lounged against the marble railing, dark eyes gleaming like oil on water. She gave him a lazy two-fingered salute. Cassian exhaled through his nose. 'Focus,' he thought to himself. Across from him, Madalyne Crane stood with her gladius angled low and her Parma raised high, sunlight glinting off the silver filigree along its rim. Her expression was steady, but he knew that look — the tight set of her jaw, the way her thumb brushed the edge of her grip. Determination, trying to bury nerves. They’d fought a dozen times before. Trained together. Bled together. But this — the official arena, the watching crowd, the name “Praetor” echoing above them — made it different. The horn sounded. Cassian didn’t move. He let her come to him. Madalyne obliged, charging forward with a shout that drew roars from the stands. Her gladius struck his shield in a sharp, clean ring. He deflected it with minimal effort, letting her momentum carry her past. She pivoted, sharp as ever, and came back with a diagonal slash meant for his shoulder. Cassian parried — once, twice — and tapped the rim of his Parma against her sword hand, just enough to throw her rhythm. “Too tight on the grip,” he said, voice calm, almost amused. She bared her teeth. “And you’re still talking too much, Praetor.” He smiled — barely — and lunged. Their shields collided with a deep thunk. Her breath hitched, but she held her ground. Good. She’d gotten stronger. He tested her again with a flurry of shallow cuts, not meant to strike — meant to teach. She blocked most, ducked one, missed another by a breath. A shallow line of blood opened across her upper arm. The crowd cheered. Cassian straightened, lowering his blade slightly. “You yield?” Madalyne’s eyes flashed. “Not a chance.” And then she was on him again — harder, faster, with the kind of reckless fury that didn’t belong in drills. Their swords rang like hammer and anvil, sparks leaping where steel met steel. She drove him back a step, then another, until sand shifted under his boots. A line of crimson appeared on his cheek. Just a graze, but it burned like insult. Cassian’s expression cooled. The playfulness vanished. He inhaled once, shoulders squaring, and when he moved again, it was with that fluid, mechanical precision that made him worthy of his position. The next blow crashed against her shield and sent her staggering. His gladius darted out — not to wound, but to correct. She blocked; he pivoted. The pommel of his sword connected with her ribs. The air left her lungs in a gasp. “Better,” he said softly. “But predictable.” She tried to retort, lifting her shield — too slow. He caught it with his own and drove forward, the sound of metal and muscle colliding echoing through the arena. Her shield went wide, and his blade tapped her collarbone, the tip just enough to draw a bead of blood. He could’ve stopped there. He should’ve. But she came again. Pure heart. Pure defiance. A swing at his head — wild, desperate. He ducked, turned his shield, and with a precise step to her blind side, swept her legs. She hit the sand hard. The crowd erupted — half in awe, half in sympathy. Cassian planted a boot lightly against her shield, sword at her throat — not pressing, but final. “Yield,” he said. For a moment, she just stared up at him — chest heaving, blood on her arm, pride flickering in her eyes. Then her grip loosened, the tip of her sword falling into the sand. “You really can’t help showing off, can you?” she muttered. He smiled, faintly. “Someone has to make it look good for the First.” He stepped back and offered her his hand. She took it. He pulled her to her feet, steady and sure, and when she met his eyes, she saw not arrogance — but the quiet respect of a commander who expected her to rise higher. The horn blew again. Victory confirmed. As the noise swelled around them, Cassian looked once more toward the Praetor’s box. Marlowe was still watching — chin propped on her hand, smirk curved like a secret she wouldn’t share. She lifted a single eyebrow in approval. Cassian exhaled, rolled his shoulders, and turned back to Madalyne, who was wiping sand from her cheek and smiling through the sting. “Next time,” she said. He chuckled low. “Next time, Mads — you might even make me bleed on purpose.” ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ L O C A T I O N ☬ B E N E A T H C O L O S S E U M → P R A E T O R ' S B O X The sand had barely settled before Cassian was turning away from a defeated Rikki and Alex, and the center of the arena, the echo of the crowd fading behind him like a tide pulling back to sea. Victory always felt loud in the moment — the roar, the horn, the heat of adrenaline — but afterward, there was only the familiar stillness. The clarity. The weight of the Praetor title settled against his shoulders like a cloak he could never take off. He lifted his chin as he exited the ring, acknowledging the salutes thrown his way. Legionnaires slapped fists to their chests. Recruits whispered excitedly as he passed. Cassian returned none of it directly; formality demanded restraint, even when pride hummed quietly beneath his ribs. At the mouth of the shaded corridor, a figure waited — arms folded, expression unreadable except for the warmth fighting to creep through. His uncle Hayden. Cassian felt something loosen in his chest. His uncle didn’t speak at first. He simply looked him over, eyes flicking to the thin cut along Cassian’s cheek, the dust on his armor, the lingering tension in his stance. Then he exhaled through his nose, amusement softening the stern line of his mouth. “Second win of the night,” Hayden said, voice low and gruff with approval. “You’re making the rest of us look bad.” Cassian huffed a quiet breath, half a laugh. “And here I thought you’d pretend to be unimpressed.” Hayden stepped forward, placing a firm hand on his nephew’s shoulder — the kind of grounding touch that didn’t ask permission because it didn’t need to. “If I pretend to be unimpressed now, you’ll stop trying to impress me.” His smile was brief but real. “Not that you've ever needed to try.” Cassian shook his head, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. The praise settled deeper than he’d openly admit, though his eyes shone with all the unspoken appreciation. “I should have stepped in, given Rikki a chance,” he murmured. “Maybe,” Hayden allowed. “But you carried yourself like a Praetor. Honorable. And that matters more than the rest of it. You are who you are for being who you are.” Cassian swallowed, the words hitting their mark with quiet, steady force. He nodded once — a promise, a thank-you, both unspoken. Instead, he spoke up on the other thoughts still present at the front of his mind. "I should go see if Rikki is alright, he can ta—" Hayden cut him off. "Rikki is in more-than-capable hands and is being taken care of." His uncle gave his shoulder one last squeeze before stepping back. “Go on. Your guest is waiting.” The young man rolled his eyes with a shadow of a smirk pulling at the edges of his lips. Hayden was no fool. There was no point in trying to dismiss his subtle innuendo, and instead chose to move past it. Cassian cleared his throat, straightened his purple cloak, gave Hayden a simple nod, and began the ascent toward the Praetor’s box. Each step lifted him farther from the sand and deeper into the marble-shadowed upper tier reserved only for Rome’s highest command. Even here, the crowd felt distant, like a storm heard through thick stone. At the entrance of the box, he paused for only a heartbeat — recollecting composure he already knew would evaporate the moment he saw her. Then he stepped inside. Marlowe was right where he’d left her: reclining with merciless ease, posture relaxed in a way that always unnerved him because she never seemed to try. The light caught on the edge of her smirk — subtle, knowing, sharp enough to cut. Cassian forced his shoulders square, inhaling like he was about to deliver a tactical report instead of sit beside the one person who could rattle him without lifting a finger. “Hope you remembered to behave yourself while I was gone,” he said, keeping his tone dry, measured — almost bored, if not for the warmth threading beneath it. He settled into the seat beside her, posture impeccable, expression composed. Mostly. His pulse, unfortunately, had no such discipline. ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

Trials of New Rome - TEMPORARY HIATUS

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▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ 𝙺𝚢𝚛𝚘𝚜 "𝙺𝚢" 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚗 ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ 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. ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

Trials of New Rome - TEMPORARY HIATUS

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Trials of New Rome - TEMPORARY HIATUS

Haley - Octavia
Me - Proud older brother, Bellamy, watching her pave the way to wreck all these bitches an amazing comeback after a long hiatus.

Word association Game!

Elder