[open] If thou wouldst drink of my life

[snaketrap]

Who: Loki and YOU???
What: So, Loki kills the guy who comes to release him from the room and he immediately gets branded and black bagged. Dragged back to The Spire, he's shoved in a sensory deprivation chamber of some sort for possibly a week or maybe two.
Where: The Arena; Griss Twist
When: Weeks after his arrival
Notes: Nothing yet.
Warnings: Possible violence / terribleness; who knows!

 

He did not know how long he had been there. A familiar feeling, truth be told, that after the panic and anger subsided and the bruised ego finally came to terms with itself, recovered, Loki had come to find a sense of peace there. In the darkness. Where nothing and nowhere enveloped you to it's breast and you say nothing, hear nothing, feet nothing, smell nothing, and taste nothing. Was he still alive? Was he still breathing, was he still here, was he still functioning?

He was nothing. This was going to be his home until death: nowhere. Not here, not there, everywhere and nowhere. Of no home; of no family; of no name but Loki.
 

Upon his release, terms read -- You have been branded as a violent criminal. To release the brand from your flesh you must work for it in bloodsport. -- his mind flitted to the question, 'what would happen to Thor if these mortals (or otherwise) are so strict' He had little care. He did not anticipate turning a new leaf, it was not in his nature, it benefited him none, and most importantly it was not exciting, expanding, or fun.

So here he was.
 

Something more at work here indeed. Those men who came for him, scarred him with something so searing hot he couldn't breathe and put him in this blackness were a power beyond what he'd known and he knew to fear. Though he'd meet it snake-grinning and proud-chested, he knew to fear. Loki was beyond that, now. Beyond the aching pain of sight again, the pasting need for hydration, the agonizing hunger, the ringing of his ears to once again hear. From nothing to everything. All at once it surrounds him. Footsteps, chatter, bells ringing, doors slamming, food cooking, dogs barking -- and the stigma one would expect.

Made him smirk. Monster. A criminal. Yes, he was, wasn't he? The thing that people feared.

He looked unwell; but his dress was clean and unique compared to the others about, alien, and something that stood out clear from those surrounding him. He cared none, basked in the difference if anything because he was different, and moved forward. Curiosity managed to grab his attention at the 'blood money' he was to pay -- this gladiator fighting, and this was where he would be. At the top edge of that Colosseum.

A green serpent knot glowed right through the layers, right through the armor on his chest. Runes were worked in to it for those who read it. Simply it read, 'violent'. Shame, truly. To get off on such a poor start.

 

 

Comments

[meanwhileback]

As if this world weren't surreal enough, some number of hours after Loki's release a mechanical buzzing-ring sound abruptly begins to emanate from somewhere about his person. That sound is coming from what turns out to be the little object that was in the arrival room with him, the one that the idiotic propaganda-steeped pamphlet identified as a CiD.

Someone's getting a call.

Displayed on the video screen is a young woman seated at a table or desk of some kind, pale-skinned and dark featured, pretty, in an angry sort of way, smoking a cigarette and staring, unimpressed, directly at him. How exactly she got his contact information is anybody's guess.

"Where the fuck have you been," she deadpans, and flicks her cigarette ash in the only thing (besides, presumably, her own CiD) on the desk, a black enameled ashtray. The rest of the environment around her is too dark to be visible, but she's definitely indoors. Not many clues to her identity for someone who'd just arrived and gone straight to the Arena-- but anyone else would've seen at least one of her billboards by now. Meet Penelope Lane: She's Kind Of A Big Deal.

[regicidium]

Loki will come to know some regular faces around these parts. Men and women and monsters that train and fight side by side, or never meet until the clash on the pressed dirt of the Arena's floor, for the same reasons branded into the demigod's skin, or for reasons that manifest in one Jaime Lannister. (Which happens to be a senseless absence of reason.)

He doesn't immediately notice the very noticeable new face -- someone makes a remark, probably a jibe about armour and having things in common, because he's sort of developed a character, but it's really that telltale mark that snags Jaime's attention and has him breaking away from his usual companions. He is not one to fade into the woodwork either -- 6'2", lantern-jawed and golden-haired, Jaime also wears his armour as if he's worn it almost all his life, which would probably be true. It is silver and red, a lionesque image set into his breastplate, a skirt of scale mail almost down to the knee, and a heavy looking sword set at his hip. In contrast, his weaponry and defence is heavy and old-fashioned, medieval, whereas the god he's approaching isn't wearing anything he's ever seen.

Probably, Jaime is to fight later. He doesn't look like he came here to watch.

"Intimidating, isn't it," he suggests, by way of greeting. "The crowds. They can be, the first time."