Fifth Feather
The arena stunk with sweat and the iron scent of blood. Many of the injured could have been soldiers mewled and cried with agony as they were hastily carried off to the infirmary.
Iason sat blank faced and stiffly on his shiny iron table, judging every single person within his sight with a sharp gaze. Nothing too new about that, Raoul Am thought.
He heaved a big sigh at the number of applicants gathered. He wagered that, this wasn't going to be over at least until nightfall. And here he hoped to go back early and check on his 'Rose plant' experiment, and see if the blood he had been pouring to the plants instead of water religiously for a month had any effect yet. The blood he extracted from the dead had been very precious, after all. He would be very disappointed if it didn't get him some results.
Many of the competitors ('potential soldiers' to the monitors division heads and the general) were still fighting on. Problematically, the north raiding had to be postponed for this very reason.
The weather wasn't at the least merciful to the lot attending. Humid air and a bunch of malnourished and dehydrated humans weren't exactly the best mix.
Raoul really sighed this time when their newest applicant was thrown off balance and tackled down. The boy lost. But he had some usable strength. Raoul confirmed it and wrote his opinions down.
He looked up to the next entering applicant. Razi Simms..was it? Raoul wagered him to be from the north border; with that striking black hair and similar colored eyes and all. He was slightly disturbed by the boys choice of clothing. Navy turtleneck? In the middle of a hot day? Was he an idiot?
But that wasn't any of relevance to the current situation, he got ready to watch another boring fight.
They boys opponent was twice his size. Muscles like slithering snakes and undefinable lumps under dark skin.
The fight went short and furiously with the boy scoring a perfect first class. Curiously, his opponent didn't look too displeased. There were, of course, some signs of displeasure but they were fabricated. He shot a glance at Iason. They gaze the man was sporting alarmed him.
It was the look of a predator about to corner his prey. He had seen it on the man before, yes, when they bunked their when they were young. Or when when the man had cornered a teacher on when she had made a mistake, or when capturing an enemy successfully with his strategy. But why was it that it made him uncomfortable only now? What was this ominous feeling coiling in the pit of his stomach?