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Sarae watched Sventar do battle with the daemon. While one part of her worried, the other part told her that the creature wasn't the problem. The summoner himself was the problem. Looking around for the wretched spellcaster, she saw him down in the arena, watching the battle unfold with a smile on his face. Moving down through the empty stands, she dropped down into the arena. In the midafternoon light, the symbol of Sarenrae shone like fire. Drawing her scimitar, the holy cleric advanced.
"Ah, so, you choose to challenge me as well? Hmph. No matter. I'll deal with this fool first-" The spellcaster turned around, purple lightning sprouting from his fingertips. Following its path, Sarae watched as it slammed straight into Sventar's head. He dropped like a sack of bricks. "Yes, well. Now that that difficulty has been dealt with, I can-"
The man stopped, only a gurgle coming from his mouth. Secure in his victory, he hadn't even thought to take care of the Cleric first. His mistake. The sword protruding from his gut slid out with a wet splortch. A second slash and he grabbed at his neck. Falling into the dust of the arena, he slowly died.
"There is no room in the Light for one such as you." Leaving him to bleed, Sarae ran over to her companion's side. Blood soaked the arena sands, horrific wounds gushing his lifeblood. Gritting her teeth, she called once more on the magical power within her body. She had used most of it today, helping others before the match, but left just a little. Now she was glad she'd made that decision. Hands glowing a soft gold, healing energy flowed from her into him.  With the little power she had left to spend, it was far beyond her ability to completely heal. Fixing what she could here, Sarae hauled him onto her shoulder, dragging him back to the place they'd been staying. Treating wounds in the middle of an arena didn't appeal to her at all.
Regardless of Sventar's massive weight on her shoulders, the much smaller cleric managed to drag him back to their shared room. Lowering his still-comatose form to the floor, she left to gather her healing things. Thread, salves and disinfectants. Other things. Prayers to prevent demonic corruption. For the next few hours, she carefully attended to each of her friend's wounds.

"... Blasted greenskins found another path through the hills..." muttered out Sventar in his unconsciousness. His face twisted rapidly into a snarl of battle, then to a scowl under his unconsciousness, and briefly his hand clenched to a fist. Then he seemed to lose what little consciousness he had and fell into a still doze again.

Furrowing her brow, Sarae tried to make sense of the statement. Passing it off as the ramblings of those not-quite-there, the cleric finished tending to the last of his wounds. Taking hold of his hand, she began her hour of silent meditation, hoping to regain some of her lost magic.

Gaius Maximus, Consul of the Rosenbridge Gladiatorial Arena, stepped into the inn that he had heard so much about, and up a set of stairs and into a well-lived-in room to see his Champion, mauled and unconscious with horrific yet patched wounds, and the Cleric that stayed with him, white-gold head bowed in prayer. He attempted to look as authoritive as possible as he could, as though he could make an impact on the two figures, one with her fingers intertwined through the paw of the other. He cleared his throat, to which the only one conscious ignored him.
"Madam, I ask you to step away from the Champion. He belongs to the Arena and the Arena is where he shall stay. Hand him over." he said in a lazy drawl, assured that the woman would succumb and back down from his power and his authority.

Without so much as looking up from her prayers, her answer seemed calm. "No." As if she'd never stopped, her voice switched back to Celestial, quietly singing praises of the Light.
"I ask you now peacefully. Move away from my Champion of my Arena or you will suffer the consequences." Said the Consul, showing his corrupt colours immediately. He was tired of playing around. "Guards! Seize him!" he called, and while the Guards moved forward and though they indeed lock shields and get in front of their boss, it was with downcast and despairing faces, and the murmur of the inn's patrons downstairs was louder than the noise their shields made when locking alongside one another. They may have been ordered by their employer, but they weren't ones to willingly go around harassing Clerics of the Light, whichever god they worshipped.
Still without moving or opening her eyes, the Cleric told them exactly what she thought of their actions. "You cannot have him, he belongs to the Light. You do not want to fight me." Her voice still held no edge, no threat. Her voice remained just as calm and kind as ever.
"What are you waiting for, Guards? Seize her as well! You may have your pleasures later with the whore." With those words, the two guards made no sound, but nevertheless they visibly winced. What he had implied of them was just barbaric. The Guard on the left was openly shaking his helmeted head, shield dropped to barely a half-raised position, with his sword barely raised. His comrade was staring at him slightly, wondering whether or not to do the same.
The cleric, to her credit, remained motionless. Her face paled a bit, and her brow scrunched. "I have been tasked with killing my own kin, and it is a task I will complete without mercy. If you think that your ephemeral ideas of poer protect you from my holy wrath, you are mistaken. Advance as you are, and I will kill you." Still, her voice held no edge. Still, she stated everything as if it were fact.
The two guards were on a razorblade of either dying, or turning on their own employer. They looked at each other, then to their employer, then to the Cleric before them. And that was when their Champion woke up with a groan.
Sventar opened bleary eyes, and slowly he focused on the wooden roof. And he saw a splash of white and gold at the edge of his vision... He turned his head to see his Liegelady sitting, facing him and... it seemed like she was slightly pale. The Warrior grunted in pain as the first of the ache hit him, and he sat up on the bed slowly.
"You... I had a dream about you..." he said, and before he knew what he was doing he raised a half-asleep arm and squeezed her in a one-armed hug. He glanced up, and saw three blurry figures. He blinked and they sharpened, turning themselves into two black-and-red-armoured figures and the red-robed figure of the Consul. Immediately his eyes narrowed.
"What... What are they doing here?" he asked, releasing her from his hug once his arm obeyed again and leant back, swinging his legs around and sitting up to sit against the wall.
"Ah, Champion. You are coming with us. You belong to the Arena, therefore you are coming with us." The Consul said, to his own Champion and while he was in this state.

"...No." Sventar hauled himself up, and walked around the sitting Cleric before standing in between her and them. "I... am Sventar. Warrior and Guardian of my Liegelady Sarae. I am the property of her and her church. Not your Arena." he said, the strength of his voice rising by the second. By the end, the Guards had completely turned around, and with a loud crash they faced their corrupt former employer and defended their Champion.
In an effort to put an end to the strange conflict, the cleric shot a glance to Sventar. "Sit down, or you're just going to make your wounds worse." Waiting a moment for her mild-mannered demand to sink in, she turned to face the Consul. "I gave you an opprotunity to leave. Never say I did not." Calling once more upon the magic she regained from her silent meditation, she lashed out. The invisible blow met the Consul silently, stilling his heart and tearing his lungs, searing his insides with unimaginably powerful white light. The corrupt man fell to the floor heavily. "If you so wish to continue living, I ask that you leave. My day has been long enough."
The two guards bowed to the Cleric and with smiles on their faces, being free from their corrupt former employer. They gave a salute to Sventar, their Champion, and walked away and down to the bar, but not before grabbing their ex-employers coin purse. There would be a lot of drinking gone on by the Arena Guards.
Sventar groaned in pain and lay down again. Then he recalled that the Cleric had asked him to lie down. He gave a smirk at the notion that he was indeed following his lady's orders.
Getting up and making certain the door was locked this time, Sarae returned to the bedside. Sitting just on the edge, she once more grabbed Sventar's hand, bowing her head in prayer. A small, short silence passed as she asked for forgiveness from Sarenrae for the killing of one who may have served the Light, if given long enough. "Sventar? You said you dreamed. Of what?"
He smirked and snorted a little, the pain in his damaged body incrementing with each shudder of his lungs. "Well... I said I dreamed... well... I dreamed of you." he said, breaking off to do a combination of coughing and laughing.
"I... I heard you. Singing. I could understand you... If I may say so, you were brilliant. Excellent performance." he said, staring contently at the maiden by his bedside.
Sarae leaned over, giving Sventar a light hug, trying to be mindful of his still-fresh wounds. "I'd hate to try and match it, only to disappoint. I'd probably never do as well as your imagination." After a while, she simply lay down, head to his chest. The sound of his heartbeat lulled her into a more relaxed sort of meditation. Suddenly, too-hot tears streaked down her cheeks. Crawling further up, Sarae's green eyes held a watery stare, the edges of her mouth just turned down. "You can't..." she paused, closing her eyes over more tears. Gathering her will together, her words came out in a tumble, "You can't keep doing this! You're going to get yourself killed, Sventar. And I don't think... I don't..." she trailed off into a soft sob.
"But I did not die. And then, even in death I would serve the Light and the Godess, if not you." he spoke, wrapping the sobbing woman in a hug as best he could. "You are what keeps me here. Why do you think I never stopped fighting?" murmured the Warrior into the Cleric's forehead.
"Don't worry about me, madame. I shall keep on fighting. And if you deem my service to be not over, then you may bring me back to fighting strength. In the meantime, I shall do my best to stay in the fight." he spoke, with some measure of truth.
She helped others by assisting them. He helped others by slaughtering all that threatened them. She was a Savior. He was a Destroyer. And if it was his heaven-given duty to defend her and those she helped, so be it. If that cost him his death... So be it, thought the Warrior over her head.
Tears still carving wet trails down the Cleric's face, she watched Sventar for a moment. No words in any language she knew could properly describe her feelings. Wrapping an arm around the bigger man's shoulder, Sarae lowered her head. Her lips met the warrior's softly, salty with her sorrow. Within that contact, she put all of those wordless emotions. And then some. Fear that Sventar would get himself killed. Anxiety impossible to place. The boundless love she felt for him, strange as it was.
He lay there, mind not working. There was his Liegelady, just to the side of his injured body, and she was right on top of him, pressing down with her lips locked to his. After a while, she pulled away, buring her face into his shoulder. Meanwhile, he simply closed his eyes, leaving the Cleric still wrapped in his arms. With the sobbing woman in his arms, he drifted off to deep, soothing and comfortable sleep.

He awoke to sunlight streaming in through the small window, right into his face. He put a hand over the shaft of sunlight blearily, and moved his head a little. The action caused him to crick his neck, and for some reason or another it hurt far more than it usually did. He attempted to crick his neck again the other way, and the pain soon dissipated. And it was then that the Warrior found something wrong.
First, he had a blanket. Second, his Liegelady Sarae had, to his knowledge, fallen asleep in his bed at his side. Yet she was gone now. He arched his back, clicking his backbone, and put up hands behind his head. His injuries were still in the state where if he did anything major, they would likely open up again. Instead, he opened the bedside drawer idly. Inside was an inkpot, quill and some paper. He thought. And he took the paper, thoughts buzzing in his head like sandflies. Putting them down for later, he put the pen and paper back into the drawer, closed his eyes and slept some more. No point waiting around for his Liege, twiddling his thumbs all day long.
Fortunately, only a few minutes later, Sarae reentered the room. Hauling an armful of medical supplies, she placed them in a chair, sorting them all out. Plucking a few vials filled with a teal coloured liquid, she poked Sventar with her free hand. "This might hurt a little." Uncovering his wounds, not bothering to check if he had heard her, or was even awake, she unplugged the bottles. Pouring the viscious fliud from the containers, it dripped down into the warrior's wounds slowly. The healing fluid would burn away any lingering daemon-taint, as well as accelerate Sventar's natural healing. The downside being how painful it would feel.
Sventar awoke again, and this time at tremendous pain. He jerked up out of sleep, then grunted out at the cold, biting pain that ate downwards at his wounds. He glanced down, seeing the concoction setting to a jelly-like state, and the pain increased by no less than a thousandfold. The Warrior screamed out in pain, inhaling the powder blue smoke that started to rise from the liquid, then choking on the gas. Hacking, wheezing and coughing himself into stillness was his plan before his Liegelady smacked him across the face.
"Stop whining." she said, a little uncharacteristically. "It's made to remove demonic corruption from the wounds and patch you up properly."
With those words and a clenching of his jaw, the Warrior shut up and put up with it. Sarae moved away and around the room, and out of his line of sight. Eventually her boots clacked away off into the rest of the upper section of the inn. He was left with nothing but pain to accompany him.
When she returned, the object in her hands looked even more menacing than anything else. The eerie black and red marbled mixture bubbled in its clear container, sloshing about with each step. Grey smoke wafted from the mouth of this second vial, falling apart quickly in the room's draft. Squinting at the evil-looking liquid, Sarae seemed to think about it for a moment. Turning to Sventar, she shot him a look that plainly told him to stay still. Shutting one eye, she carefully guided the toxic-looking concoction into Sventar's wounds. It ate through the stinging blue gel with a soft hiss.
Sventar leant his head back, sensing the most odd combination of pain, and a gentle soothing sensation as the red and blue mixtures equalised each other. Then he breathed deep, and scarred but now-healed flesh moved along with his lungs. He kept looking up, and stared up into the ceiling as the deep but comfortable chilliness set over his body. Slowly, the Warrior became tired. And woozy. He drifted downwards, looking up at the armoured and white-gold-haired form of his Liege.

"Madam... If I may be honoured to deserve it... can-" he broke off to shudder, and then cough as a bout of deep and racking one befell him. Briefly, the blankets twisted and turned under his coughing fit.
"Madame... If you think me deserving of such a thing, will you sing? Your voice is... amazing, if I may say so." he said, lying back to a comfortable position.
Fingers laced together tightly, the cleric inclined her head, thinking on the request. Eyes shut, she cleared her throat quietly. The words that slid from between her lips were nothing like her usual Celestial. Flying high in volume and pitch, sinking low with slowing rhythm. Every sound twined with another, running together in a continuous ebb and flow of sound. Each moment, some new twist of soft sound issued forth, singing a praise few would understand. When she finished, she stayed just as still as before, head still bowed.
In reality, the product of his dreaming was utterly incomparable to the tones that were issuing from his Liegelady. In those moments of time, there was nothing. Nothing save the light that descended and cascaded off her armour, bringing it to a sheen which gave the figure at his side a celestial glow, and nothing save the tones sounding from the Cleric. Even her hair gave off a golden sheen, and closed eyes and slightly uplifted eyebrows gave her the look of a Living Saint, among the likes of Ballador or Jorn the Redeemer.
Eventually the maiden finished, and he briefly hesitated, waiting for the supposed next chorus. When she did not, he blinked, and then it seemed that a coldness sunk into him in the abscence of her song.
"Madam... that was amazing. Simply amazing." he said, with a slight smile on his face. "Words fail me."
Reaching over, the cleric grasped Sventar's hand once more. She had no way to react to that. A silence stretched between them. Finally standing up and transferring her seat to the edge of the bed, Sarae changed the subject. Her voice came out as barely a whisper, "I'm sorry I slapped you."
"You do not need to apologise, milady. I have already forgiven you. And besides, I was being a fool anyway." he said with a small smile, arching his back a little. He did not know of the precise condition of his wounds, but he doubted they would fall apart if he merely stood up. He would have tried to pull himself to a sitting position, but he was stopped by the small hand of his Liegelady. Sventar glanced down at her small, neat hand and then to the woman at his side. Who had a small, catike smile on her face.
Her weight shifted and Sarae draped her chest over the warrior's. "You're not going anywhere." A glint in her eyes dared him to argue. After a moment, her expression changed to something more thoughtful. Leaning even further down, she planted her lips firmly against Sventar's.
The warrior again was surprised. Again, his Liegelady was on top of him with her lips locked to his own. He wondered what was this turn of events that led them back here. Then wrapping an arm around her and pulling the woman a little closer to him, and deepened the union at their lips.
The two continued in their embrace for a slow while, but eventually they had to part. Sarae buried her face in the man's muscled chest and soon, she fell asleep atop the man who had given himself to her.  Sventar himself lay awake a little while longer, arms still holding his Liegelady Sarae in a hug. Briefly, he wondered. Was this the right way to treat one's Liege? After a few musings along similar lines, he dismissed the notion. If she wanted him, he would dedicate himself to her.
The two fell asleep in each other's embrace.

The next day, when Sarae awoke from her deep slumber, her gaze drifted towards the window. Afternoon light, diffused by clouds shone through, lighting up the room they had taken residence in. A contented smile cast her features even more serene than usual, half-lidded eyes blinking languidly. Never before had she felt so... complete. Appetites sated, she sat up and stretched, yawning loud enough to wake her companion.
Sventar was awoken from a light slumber by a yawn, as ironic as that was. He opened his eyes and saw his Liegelady Sarae, with his arms still around her waist, and she was up and stretching her arms, the blanket pushed back, so her midsection was bared, and it was with a content smile that she looked back down at him. He grabbed her hips just as she leant down, and with a small moan from her, they separated. She plopped down on him, chin resting on his chest, and they looked at one another with very satisfied and content eyes.
"Milady, do you think we should get up? I am in need of getting back to an action-worthy state." he said to his Liegelady.
"We should. It doesn't mean we're going to." Her smile grew ever-wider. "But I suppose you are right... Sven." With a sigh, the cleric lifted herself back up and rolled out of the bed. Wobbling slightly, she picked up her clothing and redressed, carefully replacing her armour as well.  If they were going to start doing things again, she fully meant to be prepared.
He slowly got up after his Liegelady, and after a series of stretches that left him warmed up and ready for action, he began locating his clothing, aside from his undergarments. She called him, pointing at a bundle, and he went to see that it was the underclothes he wore. He raised an eyebrow, before slipping them on and moving to fix his armour on. The heavy brass chestplate, greaves, leggings, boots, gauntlets, cuirass and the shoulderplates were affixed on, and he gingerly tried moving about with the heavy spiked armour. Like it was before, it barely hindered his movement.
"Where to first, milady?" he asked, hefting up his shield and sheathing his sword as he did. By the end, he was ready for battle.
She scratched her head, hair fluffing about. In reality, she wasn't entirely sure what to do. All her leads had gone dry, and her current mission had been to destroy Daral. Eventually, she shrugged. "Wherever the Light guides us." Considering that dealt with, Sarae exited the room.
Sventar followed his Liegelady out of the room, down creaking stairs and into the bustling inn interior. It was pleasantly full, nicely cleaned and a waitress was walking in between the tables, where many people were sitting and giving her their orders. He followed his Liegelady outside, and into the sunlight.
As he walked with his helmet under his arm, many people pointed and stared, seeing their Champion walk along behind the cleric. He simpy looked into the crowd's faces, watching them part and turn away as Sarae walked forward, and he followed.
The sheer amount of attention drawn their way made the Cleric's skin crawl. Her ability to pass through cities mostly unnoticed had always made her happy. Enter, help those she could, then leave. Shoulders drawing inwards, she slowed down, turned to Sventar, and whispered to him, "Can you walk in front of me?"
"Very well, milady. Where must I go?" he asked, looking down to the slump-shouldered cleric, who was rubbing her shoulder a little, glancing side to side at the crowds, some of whom were starting to cheer for their Champion.
She shrugged a little, and muttered 'The Arena'. He nodded, and started to walk down the road. "Try to keep pace, milady." he said, starting to walk forward at his usual speed. For every step he took, the crowds parted, and a few of the people openly cheered. He ignored this, simply continuing to walk down the road. For some reason or another, it only spurred the audiences to greater levels of frenzy.
Eyes shifting from left to right, Sarae felt eyes burning into her back. Some people on the sidelines shot her envious gazes. Shrinking further into herself, she did her best to quietly keep pace with Sventar. The Arena loomed up in the distance, and the crowd seemed to only draw more fuel the closer the two of them came to it. It suddenly didn't look like such a good idea to go there. Sarae knew it wasn't open, but the people gathered didn't seem to care.

There were gladiators in brazen armour guarding the entrance, and beside them were nearly a whole platoon of the Rosenbridge Guard. The two walked up, and through the empty space that separated the milling crowds from the disciplined black Rosenbridge Guard line. One with a silver epaulette on his right shoulder walked forward.
"Sventar, Champion of the Arena?" he asked. The warrior nodded. The man sprung to attention and saluted.
"Second Lieutenant Arkeus of the Guard. The authorities of the city are inside, they want to speak with you. Oh, and..." he paused, to smile a little. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Open the door!" he told his subordinates, who unlocked a small door within the heavy Iron portcullis. The two figures walked through the small passageway, and as they entered the Coliseum properly, they came out into a small courtyard, with a small fountain and a tree overshadowing well-worn benches and seats.
There were more guards inside, they gave small nods and the odd salute sprung up here and there among the soldiers. The officers more or less ignored the two. But an escort of four soldiers arrived, and telling them that they were going to see the City's Council members meant that the warrior and the cleric didn't argue, and it was with an escort that they were taken into the 'Exquisite Suites' of the Coliseum.
They entered the guarded room, and before them were the Council of Rosenbridge. Not much to look at, thought the Warrior. Ugly, fat-bound people that tried to look good by ladening themselves with masses of silk and in some cases velvet, and dozens upon dozens of small golden pieces of jewelery. They had been talking amongst themselves when they turned, and like large, fat frogs they turned on him, baring smiles like fat, bloated leeches.
"Ah, Champion Sevetus." said one with glittering gem-encrusted rings on his fingers. Sventar raised an eyebrow, and Sarae was about to speak up to correct them on the warrior's name, they continued as though she didn't even have the right to speak.
"We face a small problem. The old Consul of this dump is dead. Someone needs to lead it." he said, looking down his brows at Sventar, who stood there the whole time with an 'Oh really?' expression on his face. Then a simpering pink-wearing Councilwoman gave a unusual-sounding giggle before clearing her throat.
"You're now the Consul of this place. It's yours to run, and you must give a minimum of ten thousand gold measures per month. Our business is done." she said in a low, droning tone, and inspected her hand as a serf did some work on her nails.
Sventar stroked his stubble idly with one mailed and gauntleted hand, and pondered. On one hand, he could probably run the coliseum if he put his mind to it. He could probably run the entire Coliseum, if he put his mind to it. But...
"Thank you for the title, but I feel that this place would be better used in the hands of those more competent. Which is why as Consul of this Coliseum, I hereby resign and hand the title and the power over to my Liegelady Sarae, Cleric of Sarenrae." said Sventar slowly, for the ease of a scribe to translate the Celestial into Common for the benefit of them, ignoring their stunned looks and turning to the enarmoured woman beside him, and stepping back to kneel before her.
"The Coliseum is yours, my Lady Consul. As am I and my brothers." he said, referring to the other professional gladiators that fought for a living. They were no cheap rabble that came into the Weekly Games like he did. On the subject, he had to meet them. He bowed his head, and awaited his Lady's judgement.

The Council burst into a flurry of protests, wheedling voices rising against each other in a cacophany of sound. Ignoring them as inconsequential, the Cleric made her decision. As Consul of the Arena, she could possibly put it, and its gains to better use than the corrupt man that bore the title before her. Turning to stare at the Council, her gaze never wavered. Clearing her throat a few times, she locked them within her stare. One by one, they fell silent, cowed by Sarae's intense glare.
"I accept your offer, Champion Sventar." The first Councilman who'd spoken visibly winced, acutely aware of his mistake. "I will be Consul of this Arena, taking the place of the corrupt man that I killed. From this moment forward, this Arena is dedicated to the Pantheon of Light." Sarae's voice held a frosty edge that brooked no argument.
Sventar rose, taking a step backward from his Liegelady and letting their attention shift from him to her. Some had scowls on their faces, and those that didn't utterly could not care less. He stood flanking his Liegelady against the Councilmembers. Most were glaring at her in rage, until they broke off by meekly and nervously turning away from the cold stare that Sventar gave them. The collective mass of the Council soon made sounds of general acknowledgement, until one of the uncaring ones called for quiet.
"Reinstatement of Rosenbridge Arena Consul to Lady Sarae, and the dedication of this Coliseum to the Pantheon of Light. All in favor?" he spoke, and seven out of the eight raised their hands. The one that did not was asleep. His neighbor nudged him awake, and the green velvet-suited Councilman was given a quick rundown on what had transpired. One glance at Sarae, who was very much in control of the situation, and his decision was made. All the eight members of the Council agreed to this. Now, Sarae would have total and unrestrained authority over what presided within the Coliseum's walls. A servant hurried forward, and set up a writing station for the aged scribe that would write the Bill which would declare Sarae Consul of Rosenbridge Arena.
Soon afterward, once all parties were satisfied with the terms and conditions of the Bill, the aged scribe began to write. His calligraphy was more akin to artwork than the simple writings of a legal document, and though he wrote at a somewhat slow speed, the lettering was flawless, and soon the Council members, and the Lady Consul had one amazingly crafted Bill of Consulship before them. Another scribe affixed seals of purple for the house Donovan, the ruling family of the city, a seal of blue for the Lord of the Realm, and the golden crest of the Pantheon affixed to the bottom. Sarae signed it in her finest signature, and Sventar made his own mark underneath them all.
The Bill was laid in its frame, and handed to Sarae. Then, with generic Council parting words, the Council members eventually left, taking the Rosenbridge Guard with them. Eventually Sarae and Sventar were left alone in the Coliseum. Sventar placed an arm around her and she returned the action, the two eventually ending up hugging one another as best they could in their bulky armour. A gentle touching of foreheads served in place of the kiss she wanted to give, and the two went on to return to the central area outside the main Arena, yet also behind the walls that separated the Arena from the City.

"We may need to go and pacify the crowds. I believe today is supposed to be the day where I would take up arms in the Arena." he said. She shuddered at the brutality of the bloody slaughter in that ring, and anger born of worry stirred within her. But he was right. They went onwards, and Sventar pushed open the large swinging doors which separated the interior of the walls, and the small space in between the Iron portcullis and the crowds outside, who were drawing ever closer to the armoured gladiators that were trying to hold them from assaulting the portcullis.
Sventar drew his blade and walked forward, and as Sarae unlocked the gate he strode forward, backing away the crowds with tower shield raised and enchanted blade aflame. Sarae made a few attempts to speak over the mob, until one of the gladiators, one with a blue toga over his armour, roared "QUIET!", and the noise of the crowd dropped from a roar to a confused muttering. Sventar held the line, staring down all the civilians that tried to encroach on the Coliseum gate. The other Gladiators, heartened by his actions, drew their own blades and moved to flank him. Little by little the crowd inched back, and silence fell as Sarae cleared her throat and spoke to the hundreds of people blocking the road.
"There has been a change in Coliseum affairs. There shall be no weekly match today. Return to your homes." she said in a loud, carrying voice that reached even the furthest of them. As one, they made a huge sound of discontent. As one, all of the armoured gladiators, Sventar included, dropped to ready positions and crashed their weapons against their shields.
"U'less yeh be wantin' tah make a fight, there ain't gonna be one today! Now git lost!" one of the other gladiators in a thick accent. The crowds muttered a little before turning and moving generally away from them. Sventar stood once more and turned to face Sarae.
"All right, men. Get inside and meet me in half an hour, at the front courtyard. You'll be informed of new arrangements then. Sventar, with me." she said, and the group as one moved inside the Portcullis, the last of them locking the sturdy door behind them.
Soon, Sventar and Sarae made their way up to the room adjacent to the Exquisite Suite. They were now in a bit of a rut. Sarae couldn't possibly handle a Coliseum on her own, and Sventar was rather inexperienced in dealing with others. Neither could singly take the role of the overall commander of the Arena. He was, however a quick thinker. That quick thinking had allowed him to live, back in the days of him being a mute. But that thinking was being applied now. And it was with this that later, to an audience of his Lady Consul and his fellow gladiators that he laid out his vision, in words transated by the cleric beside him.

The whole Gladiatorial games would be restructured and rebuilt from the ground up; Instead of the mindless slaughter that the previous free-for-all matches were, he would have more organisation, and some system of efficiency would be implemented. Sventar and his brothers - the four gladiators present were most surprised when he referred them as that - would be the central elite, trained fighters of the Coliseum. When he was asked who the enemies would be, Sventar got a big smile across his face. Silently one of his 'brothers' gulped.
The enemy of the Coliseum's gladiators would be scum; bandits, murderers and the like. They would be given weapons and armour in very bad condition - "No, not even that! It would simply be dumped throughout the Arena, and they'll have to scavenge for it!" as Sventar had described it. - and they would be up against trained, elite, well equipped and healthy troops. The Gladiators of Rosenburg.
And as one of the gladiators voiced his opinion on the matter respectfully, he had called Sventar the Champion of the Arena. That brought the warrior's attention to something else entirely. He denounced that title once the man had finished. "There could be many Champions." he went on to say. "We could all be Champions. But I shall be the one who organises us. I shall be the Grand Master." he had said. Effectively, Sventar had just proposed himself to be the leader of the Gladiators. To the small group of people, this was met with unanimous approval.
All in all, it was a rather brilliant move for the man's part. As Sarae finished translating, the other fighters seemed to consider. Then the four others reached a general tone of agreement, and looked to their Consul and their Grand Master for further orders. Sventar dismissed them, and soon the two were alone. "What do you think? Did I do well?" he asked of Sarae with a joking tone.
Almost as if she hadn't heard the joke, the cleric carefully considered the question. All in all, it seemed like a much better arrangement than before. This way, only those who would be sentenced to death anyway would die. The people would get their blood sports, and those otherwise innocent in the Light would no longer be killed for no reason. "I think it's a fine plan. Much better than the way this Arena used to work. I was trying to figure out a better way to use this place, so I'm glad you came up with the idea."
"Thank you, milady. Now, I need to see just what this place has. Last I checked, it had all sorts of things in its Armoury." said the new Grand Master of the Coliseum, and he bowed to his Liegelady and Consul before taking his leave and walking off through a door and into the side-building.
While she really would rather follow Sventar, Sarae knew she had other things to do. With a short sigh, she did her best to locate an exit from the Arena other than the massive gates up front. Finding one after a few minutes of searching, the cleric looked for the abbey. She'd only been there a few times before, having spent most of her time making sure Sventar came back with all his body parts attached.

Following the vaguely familiar path to the hallowed building. People on both sides of the rough-cobbled street went about their business with a dull air of repressed citizenry. The few that recognized her quickly looked away, scurrying off to places unknown. It saddened the cleric to see such behaviour. She missed the warm, open feeling of the northern towns.
At last, she came upon the abbey. The small, wooden building squatted between two larger, stone buildings. The foundation needed work, and the roof sagged in places, but Sarae could feel the bright presence of the Light from within. She'd always avoided the larger churches of the Light in this town, preferring to worship here. When she entered the old structure, tension left her, and she relaxed her guard. Kneeling in front of a statue of Sarenrae, the cleric began to pray.
The aged Bishop and a few trusted clergymen walked out to the shrine in which the armoured woman was kneeling down and praying on her knees, head bowed to the statue of the robed godess who wielded a sword in the right, and her statue held a shape which was metal cast as flame. Her silent words fell, and the Bishop and his loyal followers walked up to the Idol and the Cleric. And it was in bigoted self-righteousness that he drew himself up and began to speak to the woman in tones which would send the common people of his Church cowering in fear.
"Sarae. You may be the new Consul of the Arena- Yes! Don't think we don't know." The Bishop said, in tones of anger. "But you still owe your loyalty to this faith! Do not think you can simply walk in here and think you can pray at this good church without giving at least some compensation to the poor, starving masses! Give now and begin your repentance!"
Turning to look at the clergyman, Sarae studied his face. It tugged at the edges of her mind, reminding her of days long past. After a few, unnerving moments of silence, she began speaking. "Ah, it is you. Frederick." Brushing her hair back with a hand, she stood up. Her armoured form provided an intimidating target. "I have nothing to repent. The poor do their begging, and those who follow the Light are well cared for. Or at least, they should." She took a long look at the Bishop's robes. "But I have the feeling your donations go to other places. Before assaulting those who leave the comfort of the cities to serve the Light, perhaps you should first look at yourself."
The clergymen behind the Bishop paused, and when they saw him burst out into splutters and ramblings about how she was blasphemying against the church and the Light, they seemed to take a step back in shock, almost. There was their Bishop, a master in all things vocal, and he was rambling like an insane elderly and spluttering like a kettle. And it was now, that they saw the cleric Sarae, a true paragon of purity and light, that they could see past the Bishop Frederick's excuses for his own failings. The clergymen began to shake their heads and walk away, dispersing from the scene. Bishop Frederick turned, and seeing his supporters disperse, he turned as red as an apple.
"You have disillusioned these people and broken the faith of my clergy! You are a blasphemer and are no longer welcome in this church!" he hollered, and with a sweep and a jerking of his robes, he turned and walked away with the back of his neck as red as an apple.
"If you wish. I hope you can take the words of your faith to heart, instead of whatever you wish service to the Light meant." Politely inclining her head to the embarassed bishop's back, the Cleric left the small abbey. It seemed power could do the worst of things to those who were not yet prepared for it. Sending a silent prayer to her Goddess, Sarae asked that she watch over her more errant children.
Deciding that she should go check back on Sventar's progress, Sarae retraced her steps to the Arena.

Description
Sarae watched Sventar do battle with the daemon. While one part of her worried, the other part told her that the creature wasn't the problem. The summoner himself was the problem. Looking around for the wretched spellcaster, she saw him down in the arena, watching the battle unfold with a smile on his face. Moving down through the empty stands, she dropped down into the arena. In the midafternoon light, the symbol of Sarenrae shone like fire. Drawing her scimitar, the holy cleric advanced.
"Ah, so, you choose to challenge me as well? Hmph. No matter. I'll deal with this fool first-" The spellcaster turned around, purple lightning sprouting from his fingertips. Following its path, Sarae watched as it slammed straight into Sventar's head. He dropped like a sack of bricks. "Yes, well. Now that that difficulty has been dealt with, I can-"
The man stopped, only a gurgle coming from his mouth. Secure in his victory, he hadn't even thought to take care of the Cleric first. His mistake. The sword protruding from his gut slid out with a wet splortch. A second slash and he grabbed at his neck. Falling into the dust of the arena, he slowly died.
"There is no room in the Light for one such as you." Leaving him to bleed, Sarae ran over to her companion's side. Blood soaked the arena sands, horrific wounds gushing his lifeblood. Gritting her teeth, she called once more on the magical power within her body. She had used most of it today, helping others before the match, but left just a little. Now she was glad she'd made that decision. Hands glowing a soft gold, healing energy flowed from her into him.  With the little power she had left to spend, it was far beyond her ability to completely heal. Fixing what she could here, Sarae hauled him onto her shoulder, dragging him back to the place they'd been staying. Treating wounds in the middle of an arena didn't appeal to her at all.
Regardless of Sventar's massive weight on her shoulders, the much smaller cleric managed to drag him back to their shared room. Lowering his still-comatose form to the floor, she left to gather her healing things. Thread, salves and disinfectants. Other things. Prayers to prevent demonic corruption. For the next few hours, she carefully attended to each of her friend's wounds.

"... Blasted greenskins found another path through the hills..." muttered out Sventar in his unconsciousness. His face twisted rapidly into a snarl of battle, then to a scowl under his unconsciousness, and briefly his hand clenched to a fist. Then he seemed to lose what little consciousness he had and fell into a still doze again.

Furrowing her brow, Sarae tried to make sense of the statement. Passing it off as the ramblings of those not-quite-there, the cleric finished tending to the last of his wounds. Taking hold of his hand, she began her hour of silent meditation, hoping to regain some of her lost magic.

Gaius Maximus, Consul of the Rosenbridge Gladiatorial Arena, stepped into the inn that he had heard so much about, and up a set of stairs and into a well-lived-in room to see his Champion, mauled and unconscious with horrific yet patched wounds, and the Cleric that stayed with him, white-gold head bowed in prayer. He attempted to look as authoritive as possible as he could, as though he could make an impact on the two figures, one with her fingers intertwined through the paw of the other. He cleared his throat, to which the only one conscious ignored him.
"Madam, I ask you to step away from the Champion. He belongs to the Arena and the Arena is where he shall stay. Hand him over." he said in a lazy drawl, assured that the woman would succumb and back down from his power and his authority.

Without so much as looking up from her prayers, her answer seemed calm. "No." As if she'd never stopped, her voice switched back to Celestial, quietly singing praises of the Light.
"I ask you now peacefully. Move away from my Champion of my Arena or you will suffer the consequences." Said the Consul, showing his corrupt colours immediately. He was tired of playing around. "Guards! Seize him!" he called, and while the Guards moved forward and though they indeed lock shields and get in front of their boss, it was with downcast and despairing faces, and the murmur of the inn's patrons downstairs was louder than the noise their shields made when locking alongside one another. They may have been ordered by their employer, but they weren't ones to willingly go around harassing Clerics of the Light, whichever god they worshipped.
Still without moving or opening her eyes, the Cleric told them exactly what she thought of their actions. "You cannot have him, he belongs to the Light. You do not want to fight me." Her voice still held no edge, no threat. Her voice remained just as calm and kind as ever.
"What are you waiting for, Guards? Seize her as well! You may have your pleasures later with the whore." With those words, the two guards made no sound, but nevertheless they visibly winced. What he had implied of them was just barbaric. The Guard on the left was openly shaking his helmeted head, shield dropped to barely a half-raised position, with his sword barely raised. His comrade was staring at him slightly, wondering whether or not to do the same.
The cleric, to her credit, remained motionless. Her face paled a bit, and her brow scrunched. "I have been tasked with killing my own kin, and it is a task I will complete without mercy. If you think that your ephemeral ideas of poer protect you from my holy wrath, you are mistaken. Advance as you are, and I will kill you." Still, her voice held no edge. Still, she stated everything as if it were fact.
The two guards were on a razorblade of either dying, or turning on their own employer. They looked at each other, then to their employer, then to the Cleric before them. And that was when their Champion woke up with a groan.
Sventar opened bleary eyes, and slowly he focused on the wooden roof. And he saw a splash of white and gold at the edge of his vision... He turned his head to see his Liegelady sitting, facing him and... it seemed like she was slightly pale. The Warrior grunted in pain as the first of the ache hit him, and he sat up on the bed slowly.
"You... I had a dream about you..." he said, and before he knew what he was doing he raised a half-asleep arm and squeezed her in a one-armed hug. He glanced up, and saw three blurry figures. He blinked and they sharpened, turning themselves into two black-and-red-armoured figures and the red-robed figure of the Consul. Immediately his eyes narrowed.
"What... What are they doing here?" he asked, releasing her from his hug once his arm obeyed again and leant back, swinging his legs around and sitting up to sit against the wall.
"Ah, Champion. You are coming with us. You belong to the Arena, therefore you are coming with us." The Consul said, to his own Champion and while he was in this state.

"...No." Sventar hauled himself up, and walked around the sitting Cleric before standing in between her and them. "I... am Sventar. Warrior and Guardian of my Liegelady Sarae. I am the property of her and her church. Not your Arena." he said, the strength of his voice rising by the second. By the end, the Guards had completely turned around, and with a loud crash they faced their corrupt former employer and defended their Champion.
In an effort to put an end to the strange conflict, the cleric shot a glance to Sventar. "Sit down, or you're just going to make your wounds worse." Waiting a moment for her mild-mannered demand to sink in, she turned to face the Consul. "I gave you an opprotunity to leave. Never say I did not." Calling once more upon the magic she regained from her silent meditation, she lashed out. The invisible blow met the Consul silently, stilling his heart and tearing his lungs, searing his insides with unimaginably powerful white light. The corrupt man fell to the floor heavily. "If you so wish to continue living, I ask that you leave. My day has been long enough."
The two guards bowed to the Cleric and with smiles on their faces, being free from their corrupt former employer. They gave a salute to Sventar, their Champion, and walked away and down to the bar, but not before grabbing their ex-employers coin purse. There would be a lot of drinking gone on by the Arena Guards.
Sventar groaned in pain and lay down again. Then he recalled that the Cleric had asked him to lie down. He gave a smirk at the notion that he was indeed following his lady's orders.
Getting up and making certain the door was locked this time, Sarae returned to the bedside. Sitting just on the edge, she once more grabbed Sventar's hand, bowing her head in prayer. A small, short silence passed as she asked for forgiveness from Sarenrae for the killing of one who may have served the Light, if given long enough. "Sventar? You said you dreamed. Of what?"
He smirked and snorted a little, the pain in his damaged body incrementing with each shudder of his lungs. "Well... I said I dreamed... well... I dreamed of you." he said, breaking off to do a combination of coughing and laughing.
"I... I heard you. Singing. I could understand you... If I may say so, you were brilliant. Excellent performance." he said, staring contently at the maiden by his bedside.
Sarae leaned over, giving Sventar a light hug, trying to be mindful of his still-fresh wounds. "I'd hate to try and match it, only to disappoint. I'd probably never do as well as your imagination." After a while, she simply lay down, head to his chest. The sound of his heartbeat lulled her into a more relaxed sort of meditation. Suddenly, too-hot tears streaked down her cheeks. Crawling further up, Sarae's green eyes held a watery stare, the edges of her mouth just turned down. "You can't..." she paused, closing her eyes over more tears. Gathering her will together, her words came out in a tumble, "You can't keep doing this! You're going to get yourself killed, Sventar. And I don't think... I don't..." she trailed off into a soft sob.
"But I did not die. And then, even in death I would serve the Light and the Godess, if not you." he spoke, wrapping the sobbing woman in a hug as best he could. "You are what keeps me here. Why do you think I never stopped fighting?" murmured the Warrior into the Cleric's forehead.
"Don't worry about me, madame. I shall keep on fighting. And if you deem my service to be not over, then you may bring me back to fighting strength. In the meantime, I shall do my best to stay in the fight." he spoke, with some measure of truth.
She helped others by assisting them. He helped others by slaughtering all that threatened them. She was a Savior. He was a Destroyer. And if it was his heaven-given duty to defend her and those she helped, so be it. If that cost him his death... So be it, thought the Warrior over her head.
Tears still carving wet trails down the Cleric's face, she watched Sventar for a moment. No words in any language she knew could properly describe her feelings. Wrapping an arm around the bigger man's shoulder, Sarae lowered her head. Her lips met the warrior's softly, salty with her sorrow. Within that contact, she put all of those wordless emotions. And then some. Fear that Sventar would get himself killed. Anxiety impossible to place. The boundless love she felt for him, strange as it was.
He lay there, mind not working. There was his Liegelady, just to the side of his injured body, and she was right on top of him, pressing down with her lips locked to his. After a while, she pulled away, buring her face into his shoulder. Meanwhile, he simply closed his eyes, leaving the Cleric still wrapped in his arms. With the sobbing woman in his arms, he drifted off to deep, soothing and comfortable sleep.

He awoke to sunlight streaming in through the small window, right into his face. He put a hand over the shaft of sunlight blearily, and moved his head a little. The action caused him to crick his neck, and for some reason or another it hurt far more than it usually did. He attempted to crick his neck again the other way, and the pain soon dissipated. And it was then that the Warrior found something wrong.
First, he had a blanket. Second, his Liegelady Sarae had, to his knowledge, fallen asleep in his bed at his side. Yet she was gone now. He arched his back, clicking his backbone, and put up hands behind his head. His injuries were still in the state where if he did anything major, they would likely open up again. Instead, he opened the bedside drawer idly. Inside was an inkpot, quill and some paper. He thought. And he took the paper, thoughts buzzing in his head like sandflies. Putting them down for later, he put the pen and paper back into the drawer, closed his eyes and slept some more. No point waiting around for his Liege, twiddling his thumbs all day long.
Fortunately, only a few minutes later, Sarae reentered the room. Hauling an armful of medical supplies, she placed them in a chair, sorting them all out. Plucking a few vials filled with a teal coloured liquid, she poked Sventar with her free hand. "This might hurt a little." Uncovering his wounds, not bothering to check if he had heard her, or was even awake, she unplugged the bottles. Pouring the viscious fliud from the containers, it dripped down into the warrior's wounds slowly. The healing fluid would burn away any lingering daemon-taint, as well as accelerate Sventar's natural healing. The downside being how painful it would feel.
Sventar awoke again, and this time at tremendous pain. He jerked up out of sleep, then grunted out at the cold, biting pain that ate downwards at his wounds. He glanced down, seeing the concoction setting to a jelly-like state, and the pain increased by no less than a thousandfold. The Warrior screamed out in pain, inhaling the powder blue smoke that started to rise from the liquid, then choking on the gas. Hacking, wheezing and coughing himself into stillness was his plan before his Liegelady smacked him across the face.
"Stop whining." she said, a little uncharacteristically. "It's made to remove demonic corruption from the wounds and patch you up properly."
With those words and a clenching of his jaw, the Warrior shut up and put up with it. Sarae moved away and around the room, and out of his line of sight. Eventually her boots clacked away off into the rest of the upper section of the inn. He was left with nothing but pain to accompany him.
When she returned, the object in her hands looked even more menacing than anything else. The eerie black and red marbled mixture bubbled in its clear container, sloshing about with each step. Grey smoke wafted from the mouth of this second vial, falling apart quickly in the room's draft. Squinting at the evil-looking liquid, Sarae seemed to think about it for a moment. Turning to Sventar, she shot him a look that plainly told him to stay still. Shutting one eye, she carefully guided the toxic-looking concoction into Sventar's wounds. It ate through the stinging blue gel with a soft hiss.
Sventar leant his head back, sensing the most odd combination of pain, and a gentle soothing sensation as the red and blue mixtures equalised each other. Then he breathed deep, and scarred but now-healed flesh moved along with his lungs. He kept looking up, and stared up into the ceiling as the deep but comfortable chilliness set over his body. Slowly, the Warrior became tired. And woozy. He drifted downwards, looking up at the armoured and white-gold-haired form of his Liege.

"Madam... If I may be honoured to deserve it... can-" he broke off to shudder, and then cough as a bout of deep and racking one befell him. Briefly, the blankets twisted and turned under his coughing fit.
"Madame... If you think me deserving of such a thing, will you sing? Your voice is... amazing, if I may say so." he said, lying back to a comfortable position.
Fingers laced together tightly, the cleric inclined her head, thinking on the request. Eyes shut, she cleared her throat quietly. The words that slid from between her lips were nothing like her usual Celestial. Flying high in volume and pitch, sinking low with slowing rhythm. Every sound twined with another, running together in a continuous ebb and flow of sound. Each moment, some new twist of soft sound issued forth, singing a praise few would understand. When she finished, she stayed just as still as before, head still bowed.
In reality, the product of his dreaming was utterly incomparable to the tones that were issuing from his Liegelady. In those moments of time, there was nothing. Nothing save the light that descended and cascaded off her armour, bringing it to a sheen which gave the figure at his side a celestial glow, and nothing save the tones sounding from the Cleric. Even her hair gave off a golden sheen, and closed eyes and slightly uplifted eyebrows gave her the look of a Living Saint, among the likes of Ballador or Jorn the Redeemer.
Eventually the maiden finished, and he briefly hesitated, waiting for the supposed next chorus. When she did not, he blinked, and then it seemed that a coldness sunk into him in the abscence of her song.
"Madam... that was amazing. Simply amazing." he said, with a slight smile on his face. "Words fail me."
Reaching over, the cleric grasped Sventar's hand once more. She had no way to react to that. A silence stretched between them. Finally standing up and transferring her seat to the edge of the bed, Sarae changed the subject. Her voice came out as barely a whisper, "I'm sorry I slapped you."
"You do not need to apologise, milady. I have already forgiven you. And besides, I was being a fool anyway." he said with a small smile, arching his back a little. He did not know of the precise condition of his wounds, but he doubted they would fall apart if he merely stood up. He would have tried to pull himself to a sitting position, but he was stopped by the small hand of his Liegelady. Sventar glanced down at her small, neat hand and then to the woman at his side. Who had a small, catike smile on her face.
Her weight shifted and Sarae draped her chest over the warrior's. "You're not going anywhere." A glint in her eyes dared him to argue. After a moment, her expression changed to something more thoughtful. Leaning even further down, she planted her lips firmly against Sventar's.
The warrior again was surprised. Again, his Liegelady was on top of him with her lips locked to his own. He wondered what was this turn of events that led them back here. Then wrapping an arm around her and pulling the woman a little closer to him, and deepened the union at their lips.
The two continued in their embrace for a slow while, but eventually they had to part. Sarae buried her face in the man's muscled chest and soon, she fell asleep atop the man who had given himself to her.  Sventar himself lay awake a little while longer, arms still holding his Liegelady Sarae in a hug. Briefly, he wondered. Was this the right way to treat one's Liege? After a few musings along similar lines, he dismissed the notion. If she wanted him, he would dedicate himself to her.
The two fell asleep in each other's embrace.

The next day, when Sarae awoke from her deep slumber, her gaze drifted towards the window. Afternoon light, diffused by clouds shone through, lighting up the room they had taken residence in. A contented smile cast her features even more serene than usual, half-lidded eyes blinking languidly. Never before had she felt so... complete. Appetites sated, she sat up and stretched, yawning loud enough to wake her companion.
Sventar was awoken from a light slumber by a yawn, as ironic as that was. He opened his eyes and saw his Liegelady Sarae, with his arms still around her waist, and she was up and stretching her arms, the blanket pushed back, so her midsection was bared, and it was with a content smile that she looked back down at him. He grabbed her hips just as she leant down, and with a small moan from her, they separated. She plopped down on him, chin resting on his chest, and they looked at one another with very satisfied and content eyes.
"Milady, do you think we should get up? I am in need of getting back to an action-worthy state." he said to his Liegelady.
"We should. It doesn't mean we're going to." Her smile grew ever-wider. "But I suppose you are right... Sven." With a sigh, the cleric lifted herself back up and rolled out of the bed. Wobbling slightly, she picked up her clothing and redressed, carefully replacing her armour as well.  If they were going to start doing things again, she fully meant to be prepared.
He slowly got up after his Liegelady, and after a series of stretches that left him warmed up and ready for action, he began locating his clothing, aside from his undergarments. She called him, pointing at a bundle, and he went to see that it was the underclothes he wore. He raised an eyebrow, before slipping them on and moving to fix his armour on. The heavy brass chestplate, greaves, leggings, boots, gauntlets, cuirass and the shoulderplates were affixed on, and he gingerly tried moving about with the heavy spiked armour. Like it was before, it barely hindered his movement.
"Where to first, milady?" he asked, hefting up his shield and sheathing his sword as he did. By the end, he was ready for battle.
She scratched her head, hair fluffing about. In reality, she wasn't entirely sure what to do. All her leads had gone dry, and her current mission had been to destroy Daral. Eventually, she shrugged. "Wherever the Light guides us." Considering that dealt with, Sarae exited the room.
Sventar followed his Liegelady out of the room, down creaking stairs and into the bustling inn interior. It was pleasantly full, nicely cleaned and a waitress was walking in between the tables, where many people were sitting and giving her their orders. He followed his Liegelady outside, and into the sunlight.
As he walked with his helmet under his arm, many people pointed and stared, seeing their Champion walk along behind the cleric. He simpy looked into the crowd's faces, watching them part and turn away as Sarae walked forward, and he followed.
The sheer amount of attention drawn their way made the Cleric's skin crawl. Her ability to pass through cities mostly unnoticed had always made her happy. Enter, help those she could, then leave. Shoulders drawing inwards, she slowed down, turned to Sventar, and whispered to him, "Can you walk in front of me?"
"Very well, milady. Where must I go?" he asked, looking down to the slump-shouldered cleric, who was rubbing her shoulder a little, glancing side to side at the crowds, some of whom were starting to cheer for their Champion.
She shrugged a little, and muttered 'The Arena'. He nodded, and started to walk down the road. "Try to keep pace, milady." he said, starting to walk forward at his usual speed. For every step he took, the crowds parted, and a few of the people openly cheered. He ignored this, simply continuing to walk down the road. For some reason or another, it only spurred the audiences to greater levels of frenzy.
Eyes shifting from left to right, Sarae felt eyes burning into her back. Some people on the sidelines shot her envious gazes. Shrinking further into herself, she did her best to quietly keep pace with Sventar. The Arena loomed up in the distance, and the crowd seemed to only draw more fuel the closer the two of them came to it. It suddenly didn't look like such a good idea to go there. Sarae knew it wasn't open, but the people gathered didn't seem to care.

There were gladiators in brazen armour guarding the entrance, and beside them were nearly a whole platoon of the Rosenbridge Guard. The two walked up, and through the empty space that separated the milling crowds from the disciplined black Rosenbridge Guard line. One with a silver epaulette on his right shoulder walked forward.
"Sventar, Champion of the Arena?" he asked. The warrior nodded. The man sprung to attention and saluted.
"Second Lieutenant Arkeus of the Guard. The authorities of the city are inside, they want to speak with you. Oh, and..." he paused, to smile a little. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Open the door!" he told his subordinates, who unlocked a small door within the heavy Iron portcullis. The two figures walked through the small passageway, and as they entered the Coliseum properly, they came out into a small courtyard, with a small fountain and a tree overshadowing well-worn benches and seats.
There were more guards inside, they gave small nods and the odd salute sprung up here and there among the soldiers. The officers more or less ignored the two. But an escort of four soldiers arrived, and telling them that they were going to see the City's Council members meant that the warrior and the cleric didn't argue, and it was with an escort that they were taken into the 'Exquisite Suites' of the Coliseum.
They entered the guarded room, and before them were the Council of Rosenbridge. Not much to look at, thought the Warrior. Ugly, fat-bound people that tried to look good by ladening themselves with masses of silk and in some cases velvet, and dozens upon dozens of small golden pieces of jewelery. They had been talking amongst themselves when they turned, and like large, fat frogs they turned on him, baring smiles like fat, bloated leeches.
"Ah, Champion Sevetus." said one with glittering gem-encrusted rings on his fingers. Sventar raised an eyebrow, and Sarae was about to speak up to correct them on the warrior's name, they continued as though she didn't even have the right to speak.
"We face a small problem. The old Consul of this dump is dead. Someone needs to lead it." he said, looking down his brows at Sventar, who stood there the whole time with an 'Oh really?' expression on his face. Then a simpering pink-wearing Councilwoman gave a unusual-sounding giggle before clearing her throat.
"You're now the Consul of this place. It's yours to run, and you must give a minimum of ten thousand gold measures per month. Our business is done." she said in a low, droning tone, and inspected her hand as a serf did some work on her nails.
Sventar stroked his stubble idly with one mailed and gauntleted hand, and pondered. On one hand, he could probably run the coliseum if he put his mind to it. He could probably run the entire Coliseum, if he put his mind to it. But...
"Thank you for the title, but I feel that this place would be better used in the hands of those more competent. Which is why as Consul of this Coliseum, I hereby resign and hand the title and the power over to my Liegelady Sarae, Cleric of Sarenrae." said Sventar slowly, for the ease of a scribe to translate the Celestial into Common for the benefit of them, ignoring their stunned looks and turning to the enarmoured woman beside him, and stepping back to kneel before her.
"The Coliseum is yours, my Lady Consul. As am I and my brothers." he said, referring to the other professional gladiators that fought for a living. They were no cheap rabble that came into the Weekly Games like he did. On the subject, he had to meet them. He bowed his head, and awaited his Lady's judgement.

The Council burst into a flurry of protests, wheedling voices rising against each other in a cacophany of sound. Ignoring them as inconsequential, the Cleric made her decision. As Consul of the Arena, she could possibly put it, and its gains to better use than the corrupt man that bore the title before her. Turning to stare at the Council, her gaze never wavered. Clearing her throat a few times, she locked them within her stare. One by one, they fell silent, cowed by Sarae's intense glare.
"I accept your offer, Champion Sventar." The first Councilman who'd spoken visibly winced, acutely aware of his mistake. "I will be Consul of this Arena, taking the place of the corrupt man that I killed. From this moment forward, this Arena is dedicated to the Pantheon of Light." Sarae's voice held a frosty edge that brooked no argument.
Sventar rose, taking a step backward from his Liegelady and letting their attention shift from him to her. Some had scowls on their faces, and those that didn't utterly could not care less. He stood flanking his Liegelady against the Councilmembers. Most were glaring at her in rage, until they broke off by meekly and nervously turning away from the cold stare that Sventar gave them. The collective mass of the Council soon made sounds of general acknowledgement, until one of the uncaring ones called for quiet.
"Reinstatement of Rosenbridge Arena Consul to Lady Sarae, and the dedication of this Coliseum to the Pantheon of Light. All in favor?" he spoke, and seven out of the eight raised their hands. The one that did not was asleep. His neighbor nudged him awake, and the green velvet-suited Councilman was given a quick rundown on what had transpired. One glance at Sarae, who was very much in control of the situation, and his decision was made. All the eight members of the Council agreed to this. Now, Sarae would have total and unrestrained authority over what presided within the Coliseum's walls. A servant hurried forward, and set up a writing station for the aged scribe that would write the Bill which would declare Sarae Consul of Rosenbridge Arena.
Soon afterward, once all parties were satisfied with the terms and conditions of the Bill, the aged scribe began to write. His calligraphy was more akin to artwork than the simple writings of a legal document, and though he wrote at a somewhat slow speed, the lettering was flawless, and soon the Council members, and the Lady Consul had one amazingly crafted Bill of Consulship before them. Another scribe affixed seals of purple for the house Donovan, the ruling family of the city, a seal of blue for the Lord of the Realm, and the golden crest of the Pantheon affixed to the bottom. Sarae signed it in her finest signature, and Sventar made his own mark underneath them all.
The Bill was laid in its frame, and handed to Sarae. Then, with generic Council parting words, the Council members eventually left, taking the Rosenbridge Guard with them. Eventually Sarae and Sventar were left alone in the Coliseum. Sventar placed an arm around her and she returned the action, the two eventually ending up hugging one another as best they could in their bulky armour. A gentle touching of foreheads served in place of the kiss she wanted to give, and the two went on to return to the central area outside the main Arena, yet also behind the walls that separated the Arena from the City.

"We may need to go and pacify the crowds. I believe today is supposed to be the day where I would take up arms in the Arena." he said. She shuddered at the brutality of the bloody slaughter in that ring, and anger born of worry stirred within her. But he was right. They went onwards, and Sventar pushed open the large swinging doors which separated the interior of the walls, and the small space in between the Iron portcullis and the crowds outside, who were drawing ever closer to the armoured gladiators that were trying to hold them from assaulting the portcullis.
Sventar drew his blade and walked forward, and as Sarae unlocked the gate he strode forward, backing away the crowds with tower shield raised and enchanted blade aflame. Sarae made a few attempts to speak over the mob, until one of the gladiators, one with a blue toga over his armour, roared "QUIET!", and the noise of the crowd dropped from a roar to a confused muttering. Sventar held the line, staring down all the civilians that tried to encroach on the Coliseum gate. The other Gladiators, heartened by his actions, drew their own blades and moved to flank him. Little by little the crowd inched back, and silence fell as Sarae cleared her throat and spoke to the hundreds of people blocking the road.
"There has been a change in Coliseum affairs. There shall be no weekly match today. Return to your homes." she said in a loud, carrying voice that reached even the furthest of them. As one, they made a huge sound of discontent. As one, all of the armoured gladiators, Sventar included, dropped to ready positions and crashed their weapons against their shields.
"U'less yeh be wantin' tah make a fight, there ain't gonna be one today! Now git lost!" one of the other gladiators in a thick accent. The crowds muttered a little before turning and moving generally away from them. Sventar stood once more and turned to face Sarae.
"All right, men. Get inside and meet me in half an hour, at the front courtyard. You'll be informed of new arrangements then. Sventar, with me." she said, and the group as one moved inside the Portcullis, the last of them locking the sturdy door behind them.
Soon, Sventar and Sarae made their way up to the room adjacent to the Exquisite Suite. They were now in a bit of a rut. Sarae couldn't possibly handle a Coliseum on her own, and Sventar was rather inexperienced in dealing with others. Neither could singly take the role of the overall commander of the Arena. He was, however a quick thinker. That quick thinking had allowed him to live, back in the days of him being a mute. But that thinking was being applied now. And it was with this that later, to an audience of his Lady Consul and his fellow gladiators that he laid out his vision, in words transated by the cleric beside him.

The whole Gladiatorial games would be restructured and rebuilt from the ground up; Instead of the mindless slaughter that the previous free-for-all matches were, he would have more organisation, and some system of efficiency would be implemented. Sventar and his brothers - the four gladiators present were most surprised when he referred them as that - would be the central elite, trained fighters of the Coliseum. When he was asked who the enemies would be, Sventar got a big smile across his face. Silently one of his 'brothers' gulped.
The enemy of the Coliseum's gladiators would be scum; bandits, murderers and the like. They would be given weapons and armour in very bad condition - "No, not even that! It would simply be dumped throughout the Arena, and they'll have to scavenge for it!" as Sventar had described it. - and they would be up against trained, elite, well equipped and healthy troops. The Gladiators of Rosenburg.
And as one of the gladiators voiced his opinion on the matter respectfully, he had called Sventar the Champion of the Arena. That brought the warrior's attention to something else entirely. He denounced that title once the man had finished. "There could be many Champions." he went on to say. "We could all be Champions. But I shall be the one who organises us. I shall be the Grand Master." he had said. Effectively, Sventar had just proposed himself to be the leader of the Gladiators. To the small group of people, this was met with unanimous approval.
All in all, it was a rather brilliant move for the man's part. As Sarae finished translating, the other fighters seemed to consider. Then the four others reached a general tone of agreement, and looked to their Consul and their Grand Master for further orders. Sventar dismissed them, and soon the two were alone. "What do you think? Did I do well?" he asked of Sarae with a joking tone.
Almost as if she hadn't heard the joke, the cleric carefully considered the question. All in all, it seemed like a much better arrangement than before. This way, only those who would be sentenced to death anyway would die. The people would get their blood sports, and those otherwise innocent in the Light would no longer be killed for no reason. "I think it's a fine plan. Much better than the way this Arena used to work. I was trying to figure out a better way to use this place, so I'm glad you came up with the idea."
"Thank you, milady. Now, I need to see just what this place has. Last I checked, it had all sorts of things in its Armoury." said the new Grand Master of the Coliseum, and he bowed to his Liegelady and Consul before taking his leave and walking off through a door and into the side-building.
While she really would rather follow Sventar, Sarae knew she had other things to do. With a short sigh, she did her best to locate an exit from the Arena other than the massive gates up front. Finding one after a few minutes of searching, the cleric looked for the abbey. She'd only been there a few times before, having spent most of her time making sure Sventar came back with all his body parts attached.

Following the vaguely familiar path to the hallowed building. People on both sides of the rough-cobbled street went about their business with a dull air of repressed citizenry. The few that recognized her quickly looked away, scurrying off to places unknown. It saddened the cleric to see such behaviour. She missed the warm, open feeling of the northern towns.
At last, she came upon the abbey. The small, wooden building squatted between two larger, stone buildings. The foundation needed work, and the roof sagged in places, but Sarae could feel the bright presence of the Light from within. She'd always avoided the larger churches of the Light in this town, preferring to worship here. When she entered the old structure, tension left her, and she relaxed her guard. Kneeling in front of a statue of Sarenrae, the cleric began to pray.
The aged Bishop and a few trusted clergymen walked out to the shrine in which the armoured woman was kneeling down and praying on her knees, head bowed to the statue of the robed godess who wielded a sword in the right, and her statue held a shape which was metal cast as flame. Her silent words fell, and the Bishop and his loyal followers walked up to the Idol and the Cleric. And it was in bigoted self-righteousness that he drew himself up and began to speak to the woman in tones which would send the common people of his Church cowering in fear.
"Sarae. You may be the new Consul of the Arena- Yes! Don't think we don't know." The Bishop said, in tones of anger. "But you still owe your loyalty to this faith! Do not think you can simply walk in here and think you can pray at this good church without giving at least some compensation to the poor, starving masses! Give now and begin your repentance!"
Turning to look at the clergyman, Sarae studied his face. It tugged at the edges of her mind, reminding her of days long past. After a few, unnerving moments of silence, she began speaking. "Ah, it is you. Frederick." Brushing her hair back with a hand, she stood up. Her armoured form provided an intimidating target. "I have nothing to repent. The poor do their begging, and those who follow the Light are well cared for. Or at least, they should." She took a long look at the Bishop's robes. "But I have the feeling your donations go to other places. Before assaulting those who leave the comfort of the cities to serve the Light, perhaps you should first look at yourself."
The clergymen behind the Bishop paused, and when they saw him burst out into splutters and ramblings about how she was blasphemying against the church and the Light, they seemed to take a step back in shock, almost. There was their Bishop, a master in all things vocal, and he was rambling like an insane elderly and spluttering like a kettle. And it was now, that they saw the cleric Sarae, a true paragon of purity and light, that they could see past the Bishop Frederick's excuses for his own failings. The clergymen began to shake their heads and walk away, dispersing from the scene. Bishop Frederick turned, and seeing his supporters disperse, he turned as red as an apple.
"You have disillusioned these people and broken the faith of my clergy! You are a blasphemer and are no longer welcome in this church!" he hollered, and with a sweep and a jerking of his robes, he turned and walked away with the back of his neck as red as an apple.
"If you wish. I hope you can take the words of your faith to heart, instead of whatever you wish service to the Light meant." Politely inclining her head to the embarassed bishop's back, the Cleric left the small abbey. It seemed power could do the worst of things to those who were not yet prepared for it. Sending a silent prayer to her Goddess, Sarae asked that she watch over her more errant children.
Deciding that she should go check back on Sventar's progress, Sarae retraced her steps to the Arena.