Owen Prologue: The Wishing Well

Necessities fully secured and ready to face the day Owen would make it downstairs with little company but the creaky floorboards. The rooms in the Crimson Coin were tightly packed, their thin hallways all eventually winding down into the main floor of the Inn. The floor itself was in the process of preparations; every inch of space was being filled with chairs and longtables, the sounds and smells of meals being prepared in the kitchen flowing through the building with every stiff breeze. The Pit - the Pit that Owen knew very well at this point - was the main attraction as usual. It was being scrubbed down and resanded by a few of Torlel's workers, and every effort was being made to provide a clear view of the action no matter where one would choose to sit when the Inn opened up in the evening.

Asides the workers getting the place ready - a collection of day-hires and scruffy old hands at the Crimson Coin who spent their days getting the blood off the tables - the only other souls on the floor were a few of Owen's fellow fighters, Torlel herself, and a couple of her loyal lady gladiators who'd been kept out of the Irorium today for whatever reason. The half-dozen assemblage of scrappy souls who'd been chosen to entertain from the Pit for Foundation day's night crowd were likely folk that Owen knew well, and had roughed with, a good many times before. Chalseem had always been about as good as Owen, somehwere in his early thirties he'd never posessed a great deal of ambition - mostly just wanting a place to sleep off the bruises. Larl was more the sort you'd expect of a pit fighter - he started off in the Irorium but could never quite make it there himself, always a hairs breath from dying - he eventually settled for the relative saftey of the brawlers pit, taking great joy from being a bear-sized bully. Scevre was one of the slighter ones there, only Anki had a smaller build - but she was a wolverine, scrappy and generally ill tempered she hailed from somewhere north of here and usually cleaned up any fight she found herself in, including her few fights with Owen. Anki, a still-active gladiator, had a mixed record and played a risky game - making her a crowd favorite - every one of her bouts was an open call, it could unfold in any concievable direction; she tried to use the crowd, and the relative size of her opponents, to her favor. Donkir was a young Dwarf Brewer, from one of the big brewer families in the Foreign Quarter - though he didn't need the cash he spent a lot of his free time in the Pits for the kicks, fucker just liked violence. Finally there was Mirrah the current 'champion' of the Pit and a recent protegee of Torlel, Owen'd never had a chance to fight her but it was easy to see she was very goood, a trained fistfighter - there was plenty speculation as to why she stuck to the Pit and didn't try the Irorium but for whatever reason Mirrah seemed very happy with being a lesser lord rather than a greater challenger.

Torlel sat at the head of the long table, she always held herself with the grace and decorum of a noble - perhaps a rebellion against her old position of Irorium slave. She was flanked by two of her gladiators who were jotting down little note and running too and fro, ferrying Torlel's words where they needed to go. The fighters sat along the edges of the table, with Mirrahand Larl closest to Torlel, followed by Anki and Donkir, and then finally Chalseem and Scevre. The table was sparse except for a white cloth and some utensils - Torlel's notably being a few shades fancier than those provided to the fighters.

"Ah, there you are Owen," Stated Torlel, directing the eyes of all the other fighters to their greying compatriot with a deliberate wave, "I was just getting to the particulars of tonight's fights - please be seated." Torlel's expression was always on the pleasant side of neutral, but muscle and sinew coiled out of her fine silk clothing and she projected absolute authority - only so much fancy linens could do to disguise the monster that dominated the Irorium for decades.

Chalseem gave a tired smirk, putting weight against the table. Anki chuckled, rubbing at her shoulder. Mirrah gave a slight wave. Larl looked impatient and bored. Donkir clenched his fists and scowled. Scevre didn't seem to do much at all. Essential microcosms of their personalities - there was space to sit near or in between anyone Owen pleased. It was just a matter of who he cared to sit near. Though, of course, he could choose to stand or even leave - not sure how long he'd have a place to sleep though if he did that.