“If you were that desperate to see people fighting we could have stayed home and you could have seen me lay Cehn’to out on his back again!” Mahao’li retorted as he elbowed his way through the crowd behind Hrevna’a, only pausing when they reached the steps down to their seats.

While the front row tickets had been originally a gift for Qana’to from Nanamo Ul Namo herself, his distaste for Warcraft meant that his more combative colleagues got to go in his place. And what a gift they were; a pair of seats directly above the combatants gate, before which a miqo’te already stood, waiving cockily to the crowd. 

Rhaq'a would be lying if he were to say that the arena did not bring him joy - somewhat, at least. He enjoyed the adoration, the pressure - even if most of the matches were fixed. He was int he arena now, clad in the usual - not much, a few strategic armour plates, and, his oiled muscles flexing, hefting an axe that was about the same size as him, the hefty, jagged head stained with - what exaclty? Could be dried blood, but little did the spectators know that it was old beet juice. Rha grinned, turning around, and waving at everyone. He was not - a good - shonjate, by any measurements, but hardly a pushover, either.

"Oh, hello, pretty boy," Hrevna'a said to himself, craning his neck and watching as he and Mahao'li barreled toward their seats. "You look fresher than our guest. I guess Qana'to and Lho'sae will be happy about the moony pushover rep for Keeper-kind but there's no way he's winning anything more than a hug."

"....wow! who are you calling fresh, with nary a scar on your face, hmm?" Mahao'li retorts as he elbows past his companion, taking his place and leaning against the bannister, peering down at the keeper. "If nothing else, at least he knows how to wield his axe; The number of combatants I've seen hurt themselves with their weapon is too high."

"Yeah, because I learned how to wield a spear before attempting to use it in a fight. Rhaefi'a has a scar, too, big guy; they aren't special." Hrevna'a is having more fun goading his companion than watching the preamble. "I had the good sense to keep incoming weaponry away from my face."

It's diffcult for him to see any of the audience - they become a blur of faces, wide open mouths and wild eyes and he shuts them out - That axe moves, from where it had been resting head-down besides him, until it was perched up on his shoulder - its weight is nothing to him, the strenght of his upper body easily dealing with the weapon. Staring at the other gate, he slowly watches it open, and his opponent - a highlander man by the name of Geoff - step out, complete with sword and shield. He'd fought Geoff before - twice - and, deep down, Rhaq'a knows that hte only thing this aged fighter has over him is height, but this wasn't a real match, and, unlike as to what he would have preferred, he had been told to make sure Geoff won.

Bringing that axe into a more agressive position, and with the bell ringing, the bout has begun.

As the minutes pass the opponents move from circling one another, to exchanging testing blows - Rhaq'a makes sure that none of his go anywhere near his opponent, and within ten minutes they're at it - first with weapons, and then without, wrestling and boxing in the dirt of the arena - It is not what the shonjate would refer to as exciting, and before long he 'slips up' with the other getting him in a chokehold out of which - dutifully - he taps out within five seconds. Sitting on the floor, panting, the audience cheering the winner, his amber eyes fill with tears - of anger - for just a moment, but then he staggers to his feet, tossing sand in his face as an excuse for looking like he's about to cry, and he staggers off towards the gladiator's quarters.

"Well, that was kind of crap, wasn't it? I know I said he looked fresh, but I didn't think they'd have him just keel over like a wilted beansprout." He gestures downwards with two fingers in exasperation. It was the only common hunter sign he really knew: flaccid, sterile, empty, useless. "Really glad they don't let me wager on these things, even as a matter of cultural pride."

Reaching his quarters, the gladiator tossed the axe haphazardly against the wall - he was angry. It wasn't the first time he'd been forced to fold against opponents he would've ordinarily easily bested - and it wasn't the first time he ended up upset afterwards. Sitting down on one of the benches, he rubbed the sand out of his face - sticking out his tongue and spitting on the floor to get rid of what was between his teeth. The big man was sweaty - dusty from the arena floor - and he felt a light bruise on his shoulder, propably from where he'd dropped himself into the sand. He put his head between his hands, and then sighed - It would all be more bearable if he had someone in here - to stroke, possibly lean against, and then maybe go drinking with but while his colleagues were largely a lively bunch, his afffection was rarely welcome. 

Mahao'li shook his head, frowning down at the door where the Keeper warrior had disappeared. "That was a shameful display; It has to have been rigged; no warrior worth his salt would have keeled over that quickly or shamefully." He frowns down into the ring as the next bout starts, watching quietly with his lips pursed before standing abruptly. Motioning to his companion to stay seated, he drifted into the crowd, a determined look on his face. by the time the next bell had tolled, he had returned, a look of triumph on his face.

"Let me know when you're done with these mock fights; I've got our next activity planned."

"I've been done since before you left; I only really came here to see a Keeper fight, honestly. What's up?"

"The only thing better than watching Keeper fights is participating in them!" He shoots back with a grin, eyes flashing. "I pulled some strings, we're on in 15; 3 way fight with that Keeper flop"

Rha doesn't get to mope about in his quarters for long - a dust-yourself-up-and-get-ready order comes in pretty quickly and he spends the next ten minutes cleaning off most of hte dust and reapplying the body oil for extra shine. His motivation is peak, but this is his job, and he'll eat good and sleep well by the end of it - having finished his ministrations he once again picks up that axe, making sure the balance was still fine before he lifts it onto his back, fastening it and then exiting his quarters to see if he can go find his - hithertho unknown - opponents. So far nobody from the gladiator school had turned up to tell him which way the coin should fall, which gave him some hope. A real fight, perhaps?

"Seriously? How did you—" he stops himself and shakes his head. "Better not to tell me. I'll be tempted to try the same trick later. The guy was probably more popular here than they'd expected, and they want to put him in again." He stands up and trails after Mahao'li, still looking mostly confused.

Mahao'li beams at his friend over his shoulder as they make their way to the fighters wing, the slightest bounce in his step. While there were many aspects of shrine life he had gotten use to, after so long surviving in the wilderness, the lack of true combative energy outlets did leave him pent up at time, and he was excited that such a great opportunity had presented itself. 

"Called in a favour. General Raubahn is a former associate of sorts, and he owed me one. Quick word with the usher was all it took. Doubt I can replicate the trick, though, so put your best foot forward and all that."

"I hope we get equipment, at least. I'm not above spearing the both of you if we're in this to the death."

 "Well. I guess I'd feel somewhat bad about it, anyway."

the big shonjate slowly moves along the corridors of the coliseum - his eyes scanning the immediate vincinity, eventually coming to rest on two - were they? Rhaq'a's eyes narrow - fellow keeper men! He stops for a moment and raises his hand in a greeting. "Hey!" he says - light south-shroud accent on his voice as he tries to make eye contact. "Are you two my opponents?" 

“So I’m told. Do me a favor and look like less of a pushover this time, eh? We have a reputation as feral forest monsters to uphold!”

Mahao’li chuckles at his companions banter, choosing instead to size up the warrior before them. He was big, his axe balanced casually on his shoulder where he stood. Mahao’li grinned at him, nodding. “That we are; we were just making our way to the armoury. Gotta make sure we’re equipped to put on an actual show, instead of the farce we just witnessed.”

Rha frowns at the others - He tilts his head, and then, his tone shifting, he falls easily into his native language. "I do not see myself as a feral forest monster." he says, eyes shifting from one to the other. This way - even if they were overheard - people propably wouldn't understand them either way. "You cannot blame me for - what you just saw." he shrugs, his massive frame shifting just a little. "There are rules, even here." but then he smiles - a little less strained. "What are your names? I'm Rhaq'a Burwani." before motioning towards the armoury indicating he'd join them picking weapons.

Mahao’li’s small drops ever so slightly as he makes the switch to his second tongue, his words becoming more stilted and structured as he picks the language from the aether. His West-Shroud Eorzean accent clings tightly to the words, betraying his lack of familiarity with his people’s mother tongue.

“Forgive my friend. He’s Gridanian. Bad stock.” He playfully elbow’s Hrevna’a as they start walking, continuing in the same stilted manner. “Rules yes, but still mockery of battle.” The next sentence flows more easily; much more practiced and familiar - “I am Mahao’li of the Moui, and this is Hrevna’a of the Dakhwil. We meet you in Menphina’s grace”

"Yeah, uh, this ain't my native language," he says, half-irritably, half-apologetically. "But by Mahao'li's smirk I'm guessing he insulted me, so he can enjoy getting beat in the ring alongside you coming up." He scowls for a while at Mahao'li before grinning. "And yes, we could tell the match was fixed. This one isn't, though."

Rhaq'a's eyebrows go up - curious at their accents - perhaps even suprised a little, but he shrugs it off, before pushing open the door to the armoury. The axe is swung with ease from those shoulders - the massive man handles it still as if it weighted nothing. He leans it against the wall and then leans foward to pick up a pair of batons, swirling them in his hands, before tucking them into his belt. "Alright" he says, and then grins. "I'm settled."

Mahao'li beams back at his companion, feigning innocence as the swaps back into the more comfortable Eorzean. "Me, insult the only keeper I can get to take sparing seriously? Never." He wanders over to the weapon rack himself, eying the collection of lances on offer before settling on a sturdy glaive. He picks it up, twirling it experimentally, before humming in satisfaction and sliding it onto the hook on his back. "I was apologizing for you calling him a feral beast."

“Well, that’s that Gridanian stereotype! We’re supposed to be ferocious and brilliant fighters! And I’d hate to disappoint them on that front.

“Then again, we’re also supposed to be loners and tricksters. We can disappoint them that way.”