Just Lyca Lady

Chapter 1 : The Arena

Just Lyca Lady © Copyrighted

Torches mounted on moss covered stone walls danced with flames, giving a dull glow to the stands circling the arena. The wooden ceiling moaned with each stumble of the patrons in the tavern above, dust raining down from the old planks and faint rays of light just managing to leak through thin cracks. Smoke hazed the incline from top-row to ring-side.

"This is no place for a young woman, Lady Annalise."

"For what reason? Such a brute entertainment will harm my fragile mind and heart?" I spared him a glance as I started down the chipped, ash-gray stairs, keeping the grace worked into me since birth despite the lacking of class of my company. "The Romans flocked to their Colosseum: women, children, and men alike--do you suggest me too ladylike to honor the tradition of combat as a sport to be watched and enjoyed?" 

Knowing how to support with logic was like plating rubbish with gold; words gained worth, weight, and sense. No doubt this was one of the key perks to being well educated.

Hearty laughter rumbled from deep within the scruffy throats of men, and painfully high cackles came from women I assumed were taken from the brothel based on their promiscuity. Dresses that showed knees, lacy white stockings with tears from wear running up calves, and bosoms near popping from corsets far too small--yes, they were harlots.

Slowing my pace, I watched as an overfed man leaned to an unruly blonde and whispered against the woman's ear. A grin I would be called a whore for wearing strung over the girl's face. Those who mingled in the higher-status world would feel nothing but distaste from the sight, but a twinge of jealousy tugged at my sleeve.

It was beneath my stature, everyone said, to behave like that woman. If it was so awful to be like the whores, why did they look like they were enjoying themselves so greatly? They were not ill to their stomachs when a brawny hand coated in sweat and soil eased under their skirt, no. Blissful was what they were.

"I believe you know well what I was implying," Andrew said, frown deepening when he saw my brow furrow as I watched the hussy. "Ah, and this is quite an example of my implications."

Cutting my gaze to the squire, my thin lips dipped at the edges. "Dramatics befit you. Have you ever considered that raising arms was not your calling? The theatre, perhaps?" When logic failed, snide was a good fallback. 

Continuing down the steps, the dome cage began to tower over me. Torches lit the area well. Coated in rust that flaked off in places, the metal used to construct the dome was old--the arena was old. However, it still managed its purpose. It kept the onlookers safe and from interfering as well as kept the fighters from fleeing.

It was rash to willingly sign one's well-being over, and that was what those who were to engage in combat tonight were doing essentially. Yet, there was courage in warriors; to pick up a sword and clash with another, while Death overlooked each movement made, it was brave. Foolishly brave, I supposed.

The dirt floor of the ring was a three foot drop from where I stood. No one was paying mind, seeing as there was nothing to watch. Instead, they kept to their loud conversations. It was odd, not a soul was attempting to talk with me. Being the daughter of the Lord of Dimwick, I was accustomed to people approaching me. My tan cloak was doing its duty in hiding my face, or these rugged folk simply didn't care who I was. Regardless, solitary was what I preferred. Constant conversation, having to watch words like hawks did their prey, it grew tiresome and tedious.

The task at hand was far more barbaric and preemptive than that of word play. The mechanics of war, I understood, but the training taking place at my family's homestead was not combat. There was rarely bloodshed of any sort. True fighting, that was what I wished to see; it was the curiosity which needed to be fed.