Sarathiel<br/>-----------<br/><br/>Wherever she landed, it was cold, hard and wet. Dense gray putrid fog rolled up from the slick stony ground.  As soon as a shrill scream died in the distance, another rose in bitter chorus to take its place. Their wretched song was the only reminder that she wasn't alone in the rise and recession of the pitch black and frigid nights. She sat, unmoving, for what felt like ages with her knees held to her chest, and eyes boring into the shifting curtain of impenetrable mist.<br/><br/>When they'd stolen her away in the dark, and prodded at her with vicious interrogations for her name, she had responded with a vacant listless smile, and a voice as smooth as coils of rising smoke: "Sara". It seemed appropriate to abandon her former title in the muck of the lowly hell where she captured and collared. Her enslavement marked the end of her hopes to return home. Now, as she paced impatiently about her cell, she could only hope for an end.<br/><br/>Fear was an unfamiliar and heady drug. Rather then chase it from the depths of her narrow chest, Sara allowed it to grow and fester - to take root and firmly plant both it and herself in the surreal moment. New sensations flooded her wiry limbs and crept along the curve of her spine down her toned legs to her small bare feet. It was as being newly awoken. Every detail of the Colosseum registered in exaggerated  detail: the enthralled cries of the spectators, the scent of dried blood and decay, the grit of the bars against the soft palms of her hands, and the blistering heat playing at her flesh. The new inductee to the demon world and even newer slave gripped at her cage, smiling faintly at the glimpses of chaos above.<br/><br/>After withering for what felt like an eternity in the dank lower reaches of Hell, the change of scenery, albeit as grizzly and repulsive as it was, was welcome. Sara expected to be given a short reprieve from her stay in Hell in death - either in the arena or at the hands of some sadist demon master with a predictably fiendish blood lust. So be it. She was tired. Tired of hiding. Tired of waiting. Tired of drowning in waves of self loathing. She'd slipped into a numbed slumber, but the promise of a brief release, even in a fleeting demise, had returned an unearthly smile to her lips.<br/><br/>She was a peculiar sight - petite and porcelain, but exploring the limits of her cell like a caged lion. Her creamy skin was streaked with the odd smear or dirt and dried blood. And her once white cloth wrappings were grayed and stained just the same. Golden curls, though disheveled, were pinned atop her head, exposing the lengths of her elegant neck bearing the collar that marked her new status.<br/><br/>When she heard a familiar voice from the next cell address an adjacent slave, her smile took on another character entirely. Even through the throws of his taint, she recognized her former ally. "Zehair." She beamed, as if their meeting was an entirely happy occasion. She shifted to their shared bars and gripped them, still grinning. "Brother, I do believe I must you to credit with my presence here. I think they hope for me to follow in your infamous footsteps, and take up the mantle of fallen champion. A tidy sum was made upon the sale of my head with such aspirations." Her good spirits went entirely unexplained until she leaned closer, dropping her voice a few registers.<br/><br/>"If I am to meet my end today, let it be by your hand." The light drained from her features as her expression became near imploring. It wasn't a request she made lightly, but one for which she'd be truly grateful if honored. The Arena Master's announcement had stolen away some of her former peace, but she tempered her fear with long steady breaths as she eased away from the bars and toward her<em> debut</em>.