Citrio

The afternoon sun beats down on the training grounds of the Ludus Tuditani, one of the many gladiatorial schools scattered throughout the provincial cities around capital. Dust still hangs in the air from the presentation match that concluded mere minutes ago. It was a chaotic group skirmish designed to showcase the school's most promising young fighters to visiting promoters.

In the barracks, a long stone building with rows of simple cots and wooden pegs for equipment, a dozen young trainees work through their post-fight routine. Some scrub blood from leather armor and skin, others just stand naked, while cleaning the wounds. The smell of sweat and iron lingers. Citrio sits on a low bench near the far wall, methodically unbuckling his black leather harness. His black hair is mussed and unruly, catching the light from the high windows. Sweat glistens on his olive skin as he works at a stubborn buckle. His grey eyes remain fixed on his task. At fifteen, his body shows the results of years of training. Toned shoulders, sharp clavicles, a taut stomach, but he's still bearing the slight awkwardness in his slender limbs.

Tertius: A freckled boy named Tertius leans against the wall nearby, gesturing wildly. Did you see when Gavia went down? Took a shield right to her knee! He slaps his thigh. The crowd went crazy!

Seren: Another trainee, a wiry elf named Seren with cropped auburn hair, snorts while wrapping cloth around her knuckles. What crowd? There were maybe thirty people up there. Rich folk sipping wine.

Tertius: Still counts. Still a real fight! He turns toward Citrio. Oi, Black Menace, you were something else out there. That spin you did when the twins came at you? How do you even-

Citrio: Citrio fumbles with his buckle and nearly drops the entire harness. I, uh- it was just- He catches the leather before it hits the floor. Training. Just. Just training.

Tertius grins at the contrast - the terrifying fighter who had systematically dismantled three opponents now struggling with basic small talk. Several other trainees chuckle, though not unkindly. They are used to this.

The heavy door at the barracks entrance swings open. A man in his late thirties strides in, his toga crisp and white, a brass pin marking him as household staff of Master Tuditanus. Albinus Caelius surveys the room with visible distaste, his thin nose wrinkling at the smell.

Albinus: His voice cuts through the chatter. Citrio. With me. Now. The room falls quiet.

--- Message break ---

Citrio: Citrio stands abruptly, knocking his shin against the bench. Ow- yes. Yes, sir. He winces, rubbing his leg. Should I- do I need my-

Albinus: You need your legs and your mouth, nothing else. He turns on his heel. Follow.

Citrio hurries after him just in the black leather skirt, his feet bare on the stone floor. The other trainees watch him go with curious expressions. Albinus leads him through a narrow corridor connecting the barracks to the main Arena. His pace is brisk, almost punishing.

Albinus: Someone wishes to purchase your contract. He says this the way one might announce spoiled grain. I have been sent to fetch you like some common errand boy, so do try not to embarrass the school.

Citrio: Purchase? Me? He trips on an uneven stone, but pulls himself fast. Who- I mean, which promoter-

Albinus: He sighs heavily. I neither know nor care. What I do know is that you will speak only when spoken to. You will address them as Dominus or Domina. You will not stammer. You will not stumble. You will present yourself as the fighter the school promises, not whatever this- He gestures vaguely at Citrio's hunched posture. -is. When asked about your skills, be direct. When asked about your history, defer to Master Tuditanus. Do not volunteer information. Do not ask questions.

They emerge into the open air at the edge of the arena - a modest oval of packed sand surrounded by tiered wooden seating. The afternoon light casts long shadows across the fighting ground. At the far end, near a gate reserved for gladiators, two figures stand in conversation. One is Master Citro Tuditanus himself - a stocky man in his fifties with a neatly trimmed grey beard and the bearing of a former soldier. He gestures as he speaks, his deep voice carrying but not his words. The other figure is unfamiliar.

Albinus: He clears his throat as they approach. Master Tuditanus. Your prospect, as requested.

Tuditanus: Tuditanus turns, his weathered face breaking into a practiced smile. Ah, excellent. He waves Citrio forward. Come, boy. Present yourself.

Citrio: Citrio steps forward from behind Albinus. His posture is rigid and stiff. He plants his feet in the sand, assumes the stance drilled into him since childhood, and speaks out. He's shaking. I- I am Citrio. A beat. The, the... Black Menace. His gaze shifts to the unfamiliar figure. Dominus.

The room is sparse and utilitarian. Stone walls bear the marks of age, small cracks running along the mortar between blocks. A wooden table sits in the center, its surface worn smooth from years of use. Two oil lamps flicker on iron brackets, casting uneven shadows across the floor. A single window allows afternoon light to cut through dust motes hanging in the air. An older man with a braided grey beard stands near the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. This is Grennick, the school master who has overseen Citrio's training for years. He gestures with a thick-fingered hand toward the boy standing before the new promoter.

Grennick: Here he is. The Black Menace himself. He chuckles, stroking his beard. Undefeated in thirty-two bouts. Not a single loss since he started at ten.

Citrio stands in the center of the room. He wears simple grey tunic and sandals. His black hair falls in unruly waves, catching the lamplight. His grey eyes hold an unusual depth. His olive skin is smooth and unblemished save for faint scars on his forearms. For fifteen, he carries himself with the physical discipline of someone who has trained since childhood. Yet the moment Grennick finishes speaking, Citrio's posture shifts. His disciplined stance falters. He shuffles his feet and accidentally kicks the table leg.

Citrio: Ah- sorry. He clears his throat, looking down at his sandals before forcing his gaze upward. I am, um. I am Citrio. The- well, they call me The Black Menace. In the arena. Not- not normally. He attempts a slight bow awkwardly. He catches himself, straightening too quickly. Um. I can fight. That part I am good at. A pause. His brow furrows as he searches for words. I-I- will do my best for you. If you- if you take me. I know how the arenas work. The rules, the circuits, the... the good matchmakers and the bad ones. I can tell you about those. If you want.

Grennick sighs through his nose but says nothing, clearly accustomed to this contrast between the fearsome fighter and the awkward boy before them.

Citrio: Is there- should I say more? I do not know what else to say. He rubs the back of his neck, his other hand hanging uselessly at his side. Sorry.