<div style="text-align: left;">(http://i232.photobucket.com/albums/ee48/Gevaden/barbarian_warrior-1.jpg)</div><br/><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 12pt;">Ríoghan</span></div><br/><div style="text-align: left;">Ríoghan Mac Carthaigh was one of the younger Gladiators at just twenty-two years old, he also has less victories in the Arena then most others, the victories he had, <em>such victories</em>. When he saw his own blood hit the sands of the arena <em>something</em> took over. A desire to live and see the sweet, green rolling hills of his home. He was a warrior of quite some ability, but it was a primal thing, an instinct that took over that had seen him through each win. Skills perfected by requirement.</div><br/><br/><div style="text-align: right;">Killer instincts were neither here nor there at the moment however, for Ríoghan was at his daily training. Wooden utensils in hand he sparred with a partner, a Gaul with three years arena experience over the child of Hibernia, as the Romans called his home. There was little spirit in their training at the moment however, it had slipped into a series of motions that kept repeating each other. Step, swing high, parry left, parry right, low swing, step back, shield and repeat. The Celt, as they had come to call him, noticed this lax and took it upon himself to shake up what was happening, where normally he'd make his first parry with his wooden sword, The Celt brought up his shield to forcibly batter the Gaul's sword arm down, before bringing up his foot and booting his sparring partner to the floor. He'd have let out a heart laugh normally (being such a modest fellow) but knew it was better to keep his head low in this place. His pride would only be internal. Somewhere...somewhen, he had become quite good at the techniques they taught at these "Lanistas," the word was so strange, so alien to someone used to speaking a very different language.</div><br/><br/><div style="text-align: left;">The sun, in these lands was extremely harsh. He had never thought he'd say it, not in all of his life. But he missed the rain. He had remembered once, when he was a boy, he had a dream that it stopped raining. Now, his chest was exposed to a sun that had <em>changed the colour of his skin</em>. He was darker, he had seen it in his reflection in the water. Being here had taught him many things, he could trash and lash out like the "savage" they thought he was, like a wild beast, that would get him killed though and his brothers back home would never know what happened to him. If he kept his head down, won in the arena and practiced to perfect on these sands....one day he would be free. It might not be soon, but one day. When he would return home, it would be glorious.</div><br/><br/><div style="text-align: right;">The daughter was here, on her balcony with one of her slaves. Being a slave warrior had taught him something else....when offered something, take it. They scraps they fed on were not sufficient for a warrior, so when something went well in the house and celebrations trickled down to the slaves, <em>take everything</em>. Wine....real meat....cheese (he didn't actually like cheese, but these days he ate as much as he could)....fish and of course, the young lasses. There were several women he considered desirable, certainly worth many cattle to a father. There was one who must have spent a very long time in these lands indeed, for her skin was darker then anything he had ever seen!</div>