Sarathiel eyed the contours of her new cage with curious apprehension, blocking out the distracting boisterous presence of the rowdy spectators. Her sight trailed beyond her prison, to the individual fighting circles spaced about the cavernous arena. So, she and her newly acquired slave peers weren't going to be made to fight each other as she suspected, but a personal monstrous opponent. Good. She might have been the furthest thing in heavenly creation from Zehair and his fellow soldiers, but even she could strap on a shield and carry a sword when called upon - and if she were made to fight an adversary, let it be a demonic one: vile, putrid, beyond sympathy or reckoning...<br/><br/>Her calculating mind stalled as she turned to face an azure spectacle of a bird, eyeing her as she did him. Her pale flesh had been washed clean of the lowly gray muck that had clung traveled with her after having been snatched from the dank refuse of Hell's lowly levels, but she remained in bare feet and scrappy robes of cloth so worn they appeared as if they would crumble at touch. Her round shield and short sword were of simple, unremarkable design and appeared far too heavy for a normal woman of her stature to wield. And so, when the creature shifted and made his rather unfavorable assessment of her, she was none too surprised.<br/><br/>It was her turn to assume the role of inspector as she intently watched his muscle, bones and sinew for signs of future movement- though the dizzying array of ever moving cobalt irises proved to be a sizable distraction in this effort. Her ocular opponent was, once more, far from her original expectations. He professed a lack of desire to fight and only wanted to engaged in this match so that he could go off and<em>read</em>. Wandering eyes and vanity aside, the man seemed a perfectly reasonable creature, far from the loathsome beast of her anticipations. She was near inclined to toss down her arms and concede. After all, she harbored absolutely no desire whatsoever to prove herself worthy of becoming the plaything of some deranged  princeling.<br/><br/>But how could she forget the alternative - to be handed out and consumed by the legions like some empty pleasure vessel, used over and again until broken? Neither seemed a particularly appealing option, but at least the process of training and fighting would delay the awful inevitable. Sarathiel's jaw squared as her shoulder rolled under the imposing weight of her shield.<br/><br/>"Perhaps we can expedite this ugly affair, as I have no desire to engage you either." She offered in low tones meant only for her opponent. "We<em> could</em>spend grizzly hours on end with my evading and shielding your blows until one of us collapses from exhaustion,<em>or</em>we put on a little show for the hungered masses, climaxing in your feigning unconsciousness. I would be spared bloodying my hands as well as the life of a legion whore and you could return to your studies post haste." Her voice dropped another register before adding. "I would also consider myself in your debt."<br/><br/>Sarathiel knew all to well the dangers of drafting bargains in Hell, and the flimsy value of promises, but still, the gesture had to be made. She readied herself for a rejection.