Praetor chose not to acknowledge the small lump of cloth to her side. Slaves to the Arena, especially new ones, all needed to come to certain truths on their own. His training would only open the path. It would be her continued survival that would signify her walking it. A few steps towards the cell fully revealed him to her to be rather a rather handsome, well dressed man. He’d begun to speak to her, ignoring introduction and other such matters concerning manners. Her conduct in the Arena needed to be addressed while those tears of hers were fresh. Her pain and torment would become another piece of the lesson.<br/><br/>“You hesitated, slave. You hesitated, and almost got yourself killed before you were any use to me. I find that quite frustrating, but not nearly as much as the smokescreen you helped put up later. It may have been a cheeky enough move to win you victory, but it did no favors with the crowd. Your kills must be as beautiful as yourself, or they must at least be heavily contrasted against said beauty by being completely cruel and bloody. The other slave seemed to have that particular market cornered however…heart-ripping. Always a classic.”<br/><br/>He had begun to pace slowly while he spoke, almost as if he were address a formation instead of one puffy-eyed slave. Finally, as if pulling back, he stood in front of her and spoke. His manner and stance left no doubt that his fully focus was on her, and his eyes had softened as if his heart went out to her “You survived because your opponent had lost their will to live. You must understand that, because the next time you’re out there, you may not be so lucky. You must<strong>want</strong>to live, with every fiber of your being, or you will lose, and whatever reason you’ve shed those tears would have gone as well. Only the living get to cry, my pretty flightless bird. Only the living can feel pity, or remorse. Remember that well.”<br/>