Praetor watched the battle unfold with rapt attention. It seemed that Sarathiel had drawn herself an interesting contest, and even he couldn’t figure out the outcome in advance. There remained only a crooked smile as he watched the fallen angel locked in mortal combat. His eyes, however, darted from one move to the next. His mind furiously listed his own options, then hers, and finally her opponent’s. Though he could have made quick honest work of such a grotesque display of power from Argus, it seemed the lovely Sarathiel was taken by surprise.<br/><br/>Almost as if she wasn’t quite up to the task yet…<br/><br/>He could tell that those watching her battle were starting to have their attention pulled to the more…visceral fights after she escaped her brush with blue-hued incineration. Her later dodging, though tactically sound, were becoming a crowd killer. Their attention spans were too limited to see the set-up that Sarathiel had worked for, but then the dust cloud she’d managed to build with sparky’s help had hidden the remainder of the fight altogether. Victory would be gained, but the showmanship would be utterly lost. In other words, a waste of a good fight.<br/><br/>He supposed that was why he was around. Someone needed to knock a sense of style and service into such lofty-minded slaves. His shoulders shrugged slightly as Argus’ body fell. In the very end, he knew victory was victory, but he couldn’t help but turn an eye to the Arena Master. How would he react? Would he have to cash in a favor so soon to prevent a promising slave’s early exit despite her win? The crowd’s cheer answered the question for him, and he nodded to himself. Like a bottle to a babe, the fresh flow of blood was the way to soothe an angry crowd.<br/><br/>He heard another roar rise through the crowd as another combatant had fallen in a crumpled mass. Apparently the Angels were quite formidable, even with their limiters. He couldn’t help but be impressed. Then again, they were always impressive in the beginning, weren’t they? So full of God’s love, despite their current location and status. So convinced that they were being tested, and would soon return to his Grace. He scoffed as he looked again over the clearing dust of Sarathiel’s battle. He’d have to tear that faith down a thread at a time. It was a task whose difficulty was only matched by the quality of slave properly stripped and made in<strong>his</strong>own image.<br/><br/>As the Arena Master worked the crowd and those in the luxury boxes, he made his move toward the cells. Those that managed to live long enough to know who he was simply gave him a curt nod as he passed. A few slaves, for reasons they couldn’t explain, stood straight as he passed. Praetor hardly gave them a moment’s notice, used to their reactions more as a matter of course than any real allegiance. Soon, he stood in front of Sarathiel’s cage, a stark contrast to the grime of his surroundings and a shining beacon of order and control. He was just in time to hear her venomous words to Ashakiel and see the battle’s effect on her heart. Tears in Hell? Wouldn’t be the first time.<br/><br/>He elected to simply watch for a moment to read the moment between slaves. One never knew where inspiration could be gleamed, did they?<br/>