[ Despite the slow intensification of his Discord over the month, Set remains stable enough to attend to his own "work". The Coliseum pays him for his presence, to strut and preen and issue derisive challenges to the face-type heroes that inhabit the battlefield as well. Despite the theatrics of his particular role, the fights are real. Blood scatters across the ground when the old veteran backhands him with her broken hand, managing to rake the fullness of her blow from his ear to his nose, leaving him wobbling on his toes for the longest time. His nose bleeds, a gout of blood that paints his mouth crimson and runs down the length of his chin and throat, thinning the further down it tumbles.
( She has been trying to take revenge upon him since the day he arrived, the story goes. An excited fan cheers with Quetzalcoatl at every meaty blow, excitedly explaining her reasons for rooting for the heel-type and how the story is one she always favors: a retired veteran, rising from the ashes to take vengeance upon the new, villainous arrival for the way he had humiliated and crippled her favorite disciple. Whether there was really a disciple or not doesn't matter, for Set had laid waste to many a body months back.
Some people had been severely injured, but that was what it was like in the Coliseum. Sanctioned bloodsport, in the end. )
— while the veteran fighter advances on Set, he runs his fingers through the blood on his chin, smearing it down along the line of his jaw and throat like warpaint. Where it has touched the Coliseum's sand-slick floor, there is a brief spark and something grows in loops and dripping intensity. Extreme heat turns the sand glassy, and a spark of lightning forces it into little clumps of fused debris. In between the showmanship, Set loses his temper. Explosive, he lunges for the larger woman and sinks claws into her bad knee, hooking his arm into the crook of her inner thigh to lift her up, over his head in a swift display of strength —
to the tune of the woman in the crowd screaming to snap her back,
and he considers it,
before wielding her like a club against the Coliseum floor itself, bouncing her back and shoulders and head against the ground below once. Lifting her, for a second battering that finally lays her out cold, bleeding from her own nose — and perhaps not in the healthiest way, as the announcer calls for a win to Set, the Coliseum's own god of violent revelry! and summons medical to scrape the old veteran off the floor. It leaves the redhead to turn towards the new voice, the loud one with violence beautifully writ into her tone, and take one step, two. Leaping from the Coliseum ground into the stands, to alight before her with a twisted expression.
Like he can't believe what his nose is smelling. The distant scent of divinity. ]
COLLIDES WITH PROMPT III but wildcardy
( She has been trying to take revenge upon him since the day he arrived, the story goes. An excited fan cheers with Quetzalcoatl at every meaty blow, excitedly explaining her reasons for rooting for the heel-type and how the story is one she always favors: a retired veteran, rising from the ashes to take vengeance upon the new, villainous arrival for the way he had humiliated and crippled her favorite disciple. Whether there was really a disciple or not doesn't matter, for Set had laid waste to many a body months back.
Some people had been severely injured, but that was what it was like in the Coliseum. Sanctioned bloodsport, in the end. )
— while the veteran fighter advances on Set, he runs his fingers through the blood on his chin, smearing it down along the line of his jaw and throat like warpaint. Where it has touched the Coliseum's sand-slick floor, there is a brief spark and something grows in loops and dripping intensity. Extreme heat turns the sand glassy, and a spark of lightning forces it into little clumps of fused debris. In between the showmanship, Set loses his temper. Explosive, he lunges for the larger woman and sinks claws into her bad knee, hooking his arm into the crook of her inner thigh to lift her up, over his head in a swift display of strength —
to the tune of the woman in the crowd screaming to snap her back,
and he considers it,
before wielding her like a club against the Coliseum floor itself, bouncing her back and shoulders and head against the ground below once. Lifting her, for a second battering that finally lays her out cold, bleeding from her own nose — and perhaps not in the healthiest way, as the announcer calls for a win to Set, the Coliseum's own god of violent revelry! and summons medical to scrape the old veteran off the floor. It leaves the redhead to turn towards the new voice, the loud one with violence beautifully writ into her tone, and take one step, two. Leaping from the Coliseum ground into the stands, to alight before her with a twisted expression.
Like he can't believe what his nose is smelling. The distant scent of divinity. ]
— don't give anyone else the time. Pick me.
[ Fight HIM. ]