dior / 380 / high elvhen gladiator

Hands on the railing, she leans forward, closing her eyes against the wind. A soft sign escapes her, another shrug following as she arranges her features into a rueful smile. 

“You are not to blame for anything that happened,” she reminds him, kindness sitting on her tongue as poisoned honey. “There is no need to apologize for their actions, but I appreciate it nonetheless.”

“Do you have anyone out there? Family? Friends? Someone who might be looking for you?” He looked away then, toward the horizon. He was sure Kesor was burning anything in her path to find him.

"When you try to sell something do ensure that you're trying to upsell something of value," despite his biting words and normally sour face, Ryu laughed, hearty and emulative of a pirate who had his own fair share of gold hidden around Caribella. "Those on the sea don't give half a damn about the championing gladiator of Lysara's signature," Ryu studied Dior, bruised yet hardly shaken from his experience - at least on the outside - the noble elvhen still grinning madly at Ryu. "Though they'd much prefer your head. You keep grinning like a foolish madman I might have to tell your sister any deal to get you back to Avalon is off." She seemed rather insistent that her brother was to return to Avalon for noble duti-- blah, blah Ryu had stopped listening when it came to their noble responsibilities.

“Ah, so all of this is an inheritance,” Dior said, a brow arching as he studied the pirate more carefully now. “Something you and my sister have in common. I thank the gods everyday I was born second."

Now genuinely interested, Dior motions around him. "So how does one take over a pirate fleet? In my career, I'm a rare case in that I was able to retire while still breathing and something tells me the odds of that happening are just as uncommon for pirates."

CHARLES MELTON

Theon tried not to sneer at the transactional reminder from Falon; through any teasing lilt or glaring sarcasm, it'd indeed always been just business but the incubus still could not deny the almost mirror feeling when looking at the changeling. How Napoleon emulated how Alcides once was and Falon was the aftermath once the Vanguard had destroyed his family and tore the kingdom down to rebuild it in their own vainglorious imagery.

His shoulder jostled against Falon's as Dior squeezed tighter and Theon tried not to roll his eyes in further petulance as Dior vocalized how horrid both were when reciprocating any genuine affection or gratefulness towards survival.

"Unless there's a change of plans I'm unsure as to why this sounds like a contract settled," he'd been eyeing Falon carefully, one eye situated on the changeling as Dior broke the embrace and beckoned them elsewhere. There was mild relief to shift gears but as much as Theon could appreciate the grating and shrouded personality of Falon, since it much reflected his own, there was obvious frustration that he could not outright read and translate his thoughts into something tangible.

Desires were easy, it spoke to the true inner core of a person; but even Falon's were well buried and impossible to obtain through this unreadable expression he often donned. "And I'm sure the pirate just got lucky that you were swimming by in the moment," stated suspiciously, the name of the Leviathan was familiar, but Theon often did not concern himself with the likes of pirates. He had to wonder what Kesor had offered or provoked to have tempted even a pirate to pluck Lysara's most favored gladiator from the sea instead of letting him rot amongst the wrasses.

Falon's dark eyes flit with finality over the exposed expanses of skin, considering something - but only briefly. "Welcome home," reiterated now for the second time, "I'll leave you to it." He'd come this far only to turn away in the final hour - classic - though with a pivot Napoleon stood where Falon did previously. The changeling was saying something through the mirror but Napoleon was already tearing his way toward the gladiator.

"Dior!" Napoleon exclaimed, throwing his arms around the formerly-missing gladiator immediately, clattering - fully clothed - into the bath to do so. He'd felt fear many times at the hands of his father, then never again until he'd met this handsome fool. "You can't leave me again," Napoleon pleaded, hands fixed firmly on Dior's chest before he moved to cradle the gladiator's face between his palms, "I forbid it."

“But I know what you taste like,” he offered, voice lower, a touch of heat curling behind the joke. A wink followed before he softened. “And I’m not the prying type, Theon. If I learn more, it’ll be because you want me to. That’s the only way I want it.”

Dior groaned dramatically as Falon excused himself, lifting an arm in a lazy wave. “You can’t say ‘welcome home' twice and then disappear it starts to feel performative. And I would know!" But there was no real irritation in his voice, just a kind of knowing amusement. Falon would always leave just before things got warm. Dior had no illusions about that, and strangely, he didn’t mind. It just meant he had to burn hotter.

The moment of warmth was abruptly drowned in a splash as Napoleon—glorious, dramatic, still fully clothed—crashed into the bath.

Dior blinked. Then laughed. A loud, startled, incredulous laugh that rocked through his chest despite the pain. “Finally!” he wheezed, arms going around Napoleon immediately. “A normal response to someone you care about showing up alive.”

He groaned as the other’s body landed against bruised ribs, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he kissed him, deep and slow and grounding, before resting their foreheads together. “You beautiful, ridiculous man. I’m here. I’m alive. And I’m not going anywhere for a long, long time.”

He let the moment stretch. Then, reluctantly, he pulled back, grabbed a towel, and rose from the water with only minor winces, water sliding down sun-kissed skin. He dried off with practiced ease, then sauntered to the chaise where Theon still sat and casually dropped down beside him, looping one arm around the assassin’s shoulders and tugging Napoleon into his lap like it was his throne. “Alright. So, how exactly do you two know each other?”

The stark, briny miasma of the sea greeted him, mostly from Dior's still water-logged boots that sat at the foot of his bed, though the miasma grew as Dior stood and limped over to them. The scent was more of a twisted comfort than anything; how many false leads he'd drifted towards, or pure lack of information there was to offer when it came to the Kossith dreadnought nearly drove the incubus mad.

Theon didn't care about people, he wouldn't, often he told himself he couldn't any longer; but here was two people so indelibly woven into his life, ruthless feelings which snuck up on the assassin. To say he cared, felt like an uppercut to the chin, but what wounded deeper was when Dior stepped in and curled his arms around the two of them. Theon liked to believe he was this unflinching, hollow creature marred by contempt, but as Dior sunk into the embrace, squeezing them as though they'd both disappear if he didn't cling firmly enough, Theon indeed flinched.

In some way of steeling himself, he simmered for some time, arm wrapping around the weight of Dior, fingers splayed along the small of the elvhen's warm back in some small victory of acceptance.

And yet, he could not.

Instead, Falon remained rigid, straight-backed, and observant as he took in the candor between the two. Naturally, he had some idea, but this would be the first time seeing it himself. Physical forms of affection were trying, but at Dior's gesture he managed to gently pat the other on the back. There there, was left unsaid.

"You survived, that's more than some can claim." While he and Theon had no real part in Dior's salvation, a debt was still owed. "Payment will be arranged for your efforts, Theon, inform the guild of any costs you accrued and I'll see them settled."

He grinned against Theon’s shoulder, a breath of laughter shaking in his chest as he leaned into it just a little more, dragging them in tighter like a particularly clingy octopus. “Mm,” he sighed contentedly, “you’re both so bad at this. It’s adorable.”

Still limping, he turned away and waved a hand for them to follow. He led the way down the hall of the manor, barefoot and still limping. One grand carved door swung open to reveal the bath chamber. An opulent space of polished marble and warm steam, the bath more a pool than a tub, the room scented faintly with bergamot and juniper. Dior gestured loosely toward the silk-curtained chaise near the edge. “Sit. Judge. Flirt. I don’t care. I did the best I could on the Leviathan but I need my expensive soaps.”

He began to strip with practiced ease, wincing now and then when the bandages or bruises pulled too tight. The water steamed gently as he stepped into it, lowering himself in with a grateful groan. Some would say he was putting on a performance but to Dior, life is always a performance.

Thinking back to Falon's words to Theon, a grin crept on his face as he glanced toward Theon. “Don’t tell me Falon hired the Writer’s Guild to aid in my rescue. That’s a plot twist I never saw coming.”

where: we're on a boat (the leviathan to be exact) !

when: current timeline

note: as discussed tee hee

There had been little incentive for Ryu to retrieve Dior, and though the pirate captain was often never swayed by demands from anyone, there was that unspeakable familiarity within Kesor that drove Ryu to accept this missive. It'd be a long sail back to shore, and thankfully the elder of the Thalasir's had taken to skulking quietly at the other end of the massive ship. The younger of the two had been taken to be assessed of his injuries, which was fair to note that their medic on board was likely a sorry excuse for the title, but one which fit the bill all the same.

When Ryu entered, Dior caught the pirate's subtle nod and grinned faintly. As the 'medic' withdrew with a pout, Dior winked after them. Then he turned his attention fully to Ryu, expression sharpening into that familiar cocky grin, even if it cost him a wince to sit straighter.

“Even in retirement, I’ve got enough coin to fund whatever this hobby of yours is," He let that hang in the air a beat, eyes glinting. “Assuming you’re a fan—and really, who isn’t—I’ll even throw in a gift. A sword forged from my personal metal, signature across the hilt and my face on the base.”

All was well that ended.

"Everyone dies." Was the only response given before the depth and the dark of Falon's eyes sat heavily on the gladiator. No worse for wear, it seemed - barring a few injuries - the other had looked worse after Napoleon's birthday celebration. "Welcome home."

Dior cracked an eye open, then groaned as he shifted and sat up, wincing as his ribs objected to the movement. “Only the pretty ones don’t stay dead,” he rasped, voice still rough from smoke and sea water. He didn’t bother with shoes. He stood slowly, limping just slightly, and padded barefoot toward the voices until he reached the doorway where Theon and Falon lingered.

And then, without warning, he stepped in and wrapped both of them into a tight, crushing hug—one arm slung over each shoulder, drawing them close like they might disappear if he didn’t hold on hard enough. His fingers curled into the back of Falon’s collar, his cheek briefly pressing against Theon’s shoulder. Dior let out a shaky breath—softer than any of his jokes, quieter than any of his grins. He didn’t say it aloud, but it was written in the tension that bled out of his shoulders and the sigh that left his lungs.

He’d survived. But this—this made it real. This made it safe.

“Gods, I thought retirement was supposed to be more relaxing."

He brandished dual daggers, watching Dior do what all blades did – dance. The other Elvhen cut down the Kossith, pinning it to the wall as the ship rocked. They would have their revenge.

–––––––

The riots quelled, the prisoners freed, and the Kossith were still running the show. The self-destruct mechanism was being looked at, but the entire situation was reminiscent of another prison. Ikaros had been quiet, his sight returned to him in the way it was meant to be used, but his mind was still weary. All the things pulled from him, his memories so shattered he'd had to piece them together and only vaguely remember who he'd been. The metallic taste of blood one that he held on to.

The steady presence of Dior was one that he held onto, glancing over his shoulder as he looked at the other, "Have you had your fill, my friend?"

He turned back to Ikaros.

“You know, for a while there, I thought I’d rot in that cell.” His voice was low, calm. “You were the one who broke me out. Gave me back my freedom, my powers, even if it was only for a moment.” He smiled—honest this time, not sharp, not theatrical. Just Dior. “So if this is the end… I just want to say there is no greater man to stand beside, my prince.”

And then—Everything went white.

The blast consumed the sky. Dior felt the force before he saw it, a thunderous eruption that hurled them like dolls through fire and smoke and shrapnel. Somewhere in the chaos, he felt Ikaros reach for him—and he did the same, both fighting to shield the other.

But the ocean doesn’t care for sentiment. The waves swallowed them, the current tearing them apart.

Dior hit the water like a meteor, breath ripped from his lungs. His body screamed, wounds screaming louder—but he was from Sylaise’s Shore. The sea was in his blood. He forced himself to move, to swim, despite the weight dragging him down.

Finding a change of clothes after weeks of being dressed on the stench of her filth and suffering it’s a relief. It is not quite like getting the bath she so desperately needs, but at the very least she has wiped off most of the grime behind closed doors and now she has a relatively fresh outlook to life. Getting more sleep than she had in weeks only further helps the cause. 

All in all, Belladona is almost cheerful as she climbs the stairs to the deck of the ship. The breeze of the ocean and the sight do nothing to sour the mood, and despite the hanging threat of death (not, altogether, all that new for her), she takes a moment to stand next to the railing to take in the scene. She almost doesn’t notice the elvhen joining her as she watches the horizon. 

Almost. 

“Your defiance was delightful,” she comments lightly, nodding at the gladiator. “I suppose you have gained a fan on me after it.”

She does enjoy witnessing people rebel against their own fate, after all. 

His gaze drifted back out to sea.

They’d done all they could. And it wasn’t enough.

After a quiet beat, he added more softly, “Sorry you got dragged into this. Someone like you shouldn’t have been anywhere near a place like that arena. You were innocent.” He meant it—at least by comparison to the rest of them. She didn’t look like a fighter, didn’t move like someone who should’ve survived that hell. But she had.

She had been working with Juneau to try and disarm said device, even met a woman named freydis who was going to try and see if the captain could be convinced while they searched. Her head whipped around at the sound of Dior's voice. “Just muscle? We are never just muscle Dior. You have eyes and that is what we need. You can help me and Juneau look. Keep and eye out for magic runes, wires, anything that you even think might look like a way to detonate an explosion.” 

Bare feet thudding against the scorched floor, Dior started scanning the room, dragging his gaze along the walls and ceiling, around piping, panels, corners—anything that might scream bomb here. But it was all etched in harsh, jagged Kossith script, and he squinted at it like it might rearrange itself into Elvhen if he stared long enough.

“Not gonna lie, I don’t speak ‘Guttural Threatening Snarl,’” he muttered, letting out a loud sigh before he crouched beside a tangle of wires and squinted at them. “This feels like a deeply undignified way to die. Vaporized in a ship full of corpses and bad lighting. No flair, no drama. Very anti-climactic.”

He cleared his throat, stood a little straighter, and gave his best smug showman’s grin.

“‘Ever considered making your enemies beg for mercy with nothing but a glare? Trade the warzone for the ring—same violence, better lighting. Plus a reward in not just gold, but forever glory.’” He pointed both fingers like crossbows, adding a mock wink. “I know. Genius. The part where they knocked me unconscious and slapped a collar on me was clearly just them playing hard to get.

He grinned again when she mentioned the brothel. “You know, that might actually work. Scylla adores Hestia’s Cove. Last time she visited we had to buy an extra cart filled with all her new silk blankets. Plus she’s seen worse things at my parties than anything your girls could cook up, so she wouldn't judge. At least, more than she already does.”

Juneau averted her eyes from Dior. Dying wasn’t the worst–she’d done it before. Then again, so had he. But it was different. He maintained possession of his soul, and she didn’t. And as far as she knew, he didn’t have one of those horrid rings either. It made more sense that he should survive over her, but another thought struck her. “I don’t think who lives and dies is going to be a privilege we have the choice of making anyway,” she muttered, figuring it was the truth and a pretty good way to avoid the back and forth the topic might otherwise inspire. She stared at the floor in front of her when he mentioned Julian, who she had left with a few answers that probably inspired more questions than they provided explanations. “If something happens to me, you’ll tell him, right? I’d do the same for you.”

He tilted his head, brow arched at her next comment. “Yeah, I got that impression too. Tried to recruit one of them once, actually—only reason I came back to Aventia in the first place.” His grin curled wolfish. “Got a collar slapped on me before I even finished my opening line. It was a good one too, I hired someone to come up with it.”

The humor faded at her next words.

He didn’t speak right away. Just nodded—quietly, once—when she mentioned Julian. There was no tease, no flash of mischief, just a shared understanding carved out in the wake of too many near-deaths.

“I will honor that, Strange Girl Juneau,” Dior said after a pause, voice gentler than before, “Make sure Scylla gets to my parents if I don't make it. Or to Napoleon, if he’s willing. She won’t tolerate anything less than silk cushions, fresh game, and at least two sunlit balconies. Anything short of that and she’ll screech all hours of the night—and I don’t want that kind of guilt on my ghost.”

“Thank you." it was perhaps the first time she had appreciated another's condolences that wasn't Celaya. It was like Dior knew what exactly she had lost. "I'd very much like that." maybe she was evolving? before she wouldn't have accepted such, would have seen it as an insult to her capabilities but now... now she would be grateful to such company on a deadly mission.

But the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He let it fade with a quiet breath, one warrior to another, and let silence settle between them again—for once, not uncomfortable.

Some time later...

The halls of the ship reeked of blood and fire. Dior stepped over a corpse, dragging his blade behind him like a broken banner. The rebellion had been quick, brutal, and complete. The Kossith were dead—every last one. But victory came with a catch.

They were still trapped.

He found Ingrid near the helm, her expression as unreadable as ever. “So,” he said, half a grin returning, “do you have any brilliant ideas for how we get off this suicide barge, or are you just the muscle too?”

Her brows furrowed at him when she spoke again. Had he really still not figured out her name? It seemed to be the only thing she still possessed at this point, so Dior might as well use it. “Juneau,” she reminded him. But a brow lifted a moment later. “Dior, I really hate to be the one to break this to you, because I think you’re going to take it worse than the whole captivity thing… I really don’t think the Kossith care about the gladiator games or how famous you are because of them,” she pointed out, perhaps missing hsi meaning. 

But then her expression darkened. “Don’t do that. If one of us gets out of here, better you than me.” Dior was a good person, one who was perhaps a little vain and materialistic, but that sort of flaw in character was a better presence in the world than her corrupted soul. She worried that the Kossith with withhold the monthly demand of the Dark One and forfeit her tenuous hold on her sanity and soul, but she worried even more how they might leverage her as a Vuldak under their control, and the price of life it would come at the expense of if they could not control it with more ease than she could.

But then her tone shifted, and so did his.

Dior shook his head. The amusement in his eyes dimmed, but didn’t die. Instead, it settled into something steadier. Quieter.

“No,” he said simply. “The world has need of you yet, Strange Girl Juneau. One day you’ll realize that. Besides, Julian would never forgive me."

The a'dam around the other's neck fell alongside Ikaros', Dior's magic and will restored. "Telanadas, Dior." Nothing is inevitable. Ikaros put his hand on the other's neck, touching their foreheads for a brief moment in a small act of comfort. Releasing the other, he held the bloodied dagger in his hand, "We free as many as we can, and spare no mercy." Ikaros' tone was final, the prince held little regret in his mind. He knew Dior would feel the same.

"Bring your magic forth. You'll arm them." With one slam of the dagger, the lock broke on another cage, the person within standing as they were freed from their a'dam. "Watch the staircase. Another Kossith is on its way."

“Ma serannas,” he breathed, voice quiet as his forehead pressed to Ikaros’s, eyes shut. Thank you.

When the prince stepped away, Dior didn’t hesitate. Short swords. Falchions. A war fan, twin daggers as sharp as truth. Each one slid across the floor with precision, reaching the hands of the newly freed.

At Ikaros’s warning, Dior looked up toward the staircase. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t brace. “Let them come,” he said.

And then, without fanfare, he turned toward the broken collar on the floor, the hated a’dam that had tried to silence him. With a single breath, he reshaped it—his shatterstar metal twisting it into a single greatblade taller than he was, jagged and brilliant.

The Kossith rounded the corner just in time to see it leave Dior’s hand. One breath later, the creature was dead—pinned to the ship’s wall by a blade that still trembled with force.

Dior exhaled. “Can you see a way off this ship?”