#ffxiv queue

The fighters eyed each other cautiously, seemingly scoping one another out. Both of them were frail in frame, even famished looking. Clothes were tattered, scarce, and ripped at whatever edges they had to boast; The female fighter on the left even scratched nervously at her wrists, and the solemn women in the crowd gathered that she was likely shaking should she be able to draw any closer. Neither fighter wanted to be here. 

“Excuse me,” A warm voice said, breaking the sea of indulgent buoyancy around her. “Those two are not Gladiators. What are they?” She asked flat, eyes never flickering from the pit-fighters for a moment.  A man in long, crimson cloak blinked as he turned his head, grayed hair and eyebrows setting back curiously as he observed the woman for a moment. Bursting out in laughter, he’d slap his knee and lean over the railing, confounding himself so that he nearly lost his footing before he settled back into his cushioned feet, shaking his head as he wiped at his forehead. “Pah!” He laughed, sighing. “Are you not here on invitation?! They’re fighting for their freedom!” Freedom. The word crashed into her like a tsunami. The hair on the back of her neck stood up straight as her fingers gripped the railing she held onto with immense strength, burning eyes watching cautiously as the two feeble figures approached each other slowly right before her. They did not want to swipe at one another. They did not want to be here.  “Their freedom?” She bit back, small fangs digging into her tongue so as not to give away any sense of her demeanor. “Are they not here by their own free will?” “Are you stupid?” The man roared back, his jeering laughter becoming so unconstrained that the woman was worried he’d consume himself alive. “They’re slaves! Whichever one wins will be free!” He spat, slamming palm to the railing three times as if cheering them on. “SO GET GOING ALREADY!”  The corners of her vision blurred slightly, a vignette appearing in her line of sight. No. That couldn’t be true. This was the Coliseum, and rumors were rumors. There was no way men paid to watch slaves and criminals fight to the death for freedom - Those were rumors. That is what the Sworn were for. They served and protected this city and the people who fought, lived, and traveled in it. Those were rumors. Those were rumors. Those were rumors. Finally, one of the flimsy fighters broke the lavish men’s screams and chants, charging forward and barreling her head into the opposing chest. He hadn’t been expecting it, knocked clear onto his arse, wind fully taken from his pipes; These were not fighters. These were slaves. These people needed help.  Things were getting black. Emerald eyes closed for a moment as her breathing grew heavy, head dropping slightly as her back lifted up and down. Her mind raced at a velocity she did not know how to keep up with, half-open mouth panting as though she was going to pass out at any moment. But the Masked Fighter was not going to pass out. No; She didn’t know what this feeling was. Things were getting blacker.  “The fuck is wrong with ye?” Another opulent man to her left poked, kicking at her calf just so. “‘Yer gonna miss the fuckin’ fight with ‘yer head down like that!” Shoulders shook. Slowly, a small frame rose to her full height as the emerald-eyed woman gave up on attempting her composure, cruel and angry laughs slipping past the mask that hid her face. They were crazed, as though something had taunted her to the point of insanity. As she stood there laughing, the Masked Fighter exhaled one slow, final exhale. Things went black. - It happened faster than she could account for. The jeering man on her left was on the ground in a puddle of thick, wet, coagulant blood, though not dead. The crimson-coated man to her right was in the pit, screaming about one bone or the other since he’d unfortunately survived the devastating fall, one bone in his kneecap piercing the skin as a finger twisted and contorted in a way a limb should not know how to contort. The two skin-and-bone figures scattered into the caves in which they’d come from, safe from the Mask’s wrath - Though a spattering of onlookers behind her were incapacitated on the ground, holding one limb and crying out in aching, mocking pain or completely knocked out cold. No man could call himself dead in the encounter, but as emerald eyes stepped over frame after dropped frame, she could not contain further laughter. “Fight for your freedom now,” A calm voice would quip from behind the mask. “Or die here. You have so bravely made the enslaved fight for theirs, hm? This is what you find entertaining, is it not?” A sharp turn of the heel would be matched with the raising of her voice, small fingers quipping over the hilt of her crimson-tinged weapon. “THIS IS WHAT YOU FIND ENTERTAINING, IS IT NOT?” “Do not ever write the boundaries of somebody’s freedom again, you bearers of chains. Do not ever write the bounds of other’s forgiveness for them, you bringers of shackles  - For what you have done today will not be forgiven. Not in the eyes of the Gods or anybody you deem smile upon you,” Her voice would growl, axe bearing down into the stone beneath her with a loud clang.  “Now fight,” She’d bark.  “Fight for your freedom.