<span style="font-style: italic">Thwack. Thunk. Thud.</span><br/><br/>This is the music of the training ground. From spears and arrows sinking into targets, blades slicing into wooden posts, to men beating each other with their fists or wooden sticks are the instruments that produce these sounds, accompanied with the chorus of the men grunting with exertion and pain. The overseer acts as a conductor, using his whip to improve the sounds and work in those areas he finds lacking. The overseer carefully watches the gladiators, left hand shading his eyes from the hot and overbearing sun, bright eyes scanning the assortment of warrior slaves, the brief thought of a possible uprising coming to his mind. He smirks, then shakes his head, knowing that these spineless men would never go against their master.<br/><br/>One gladiator pauses in his routine, leaving his blade stuck in a wooden post in order to wipe some sweat from his forehead. His right hand brushes his long brown hair from his face, the tiny trinkets and beads woven into the strands clinking together, as he contemplates his next battle. The gladiator takes a deep, heaving breath and raises his head to the sky, emerald eyes glaring at the clouds, muscles in his back tightening as he feels eyes on him.<span style="font-style: italic">She is staring again.</span>He thinks, lowering his head back down to the wooden post.<span style="font-style: italic">Why does she keep watching me? Does she not have duties to attend to? House slave.</span>He mentally scoffs and reaches for the blade. His fingers tighten around the leather handle and, with a quick jerk, he pulls the blade from the post. The blade weighs heavily in the fighter’s hand, the point slowly going to the ground, pressing into the sand. He turns his head to look at the Dominuses and the house slave watching them, the charms and trinkets in both his hair and long beard clinking together.<br/><br/>Faolan, for that is the Gaelic warrior’s name, lifts his upper lip slightly in disgust.<span style="font-style: italic">Whores. Sleeping with every man that gives them a second look. Well, maybe not the slave. But definitely the two free women.</span>He tosses the blade into the leather belt around his waist and his head is shaken, disgust plainly evident. His judgmental gaze is lowered as he walks over to the well located right outside the training pit. The muscles under his scarred skin flex as h stretches out his tired torso and arms, trying to remove the lethargy that has suddenly set up camp within him.<span style="font-style: italic">This damnable sun. How does anyone get anything done? Why can’t it be colder? This truly is hell.</span>As he reaches the well, his gaze is again drawn up to the women watching, happy now that their gaze has left him and are now focusing on some other gladiators. His left hand grabs the rope hanging down the well and starts to pull, in order to pull up the water filled bucket while his right hand grabs one of the wooden cups in the ground beside the stone well. Faolan grabs the bucket and pours some water in the cup, watching the liquid flow and wishing that it was a river he was getting water from, wishing he were free again. His head shakes, to rid himself of painful memories, and he raises the scarred cup to his lips to drink.