D U N E
- ☾ -
D
une wakes from a deep sleep with a slice of midday sun burning hot on his cheek.He can’t remember the last time he had a day off. The last time he slept in past sunrise. In fact he had fallen into such a deep slumber that when he wakes it takes a moment to remember not just where he is but what and who.
He clings tightly to that brief sense of oblivion, that blissful clean slate, as the consciousness returns with all its baggage. For a moment he feels good.
Until he takes a step forward to get some water, and a sharp pain blooms in his left shoulder. He staggers forward and yelps loudly, spooking a black cat snoozing in the window who arches into wakefulness with a dirty glare at the stallion. “Oh yes,” he remembers. “Last I was brutally beaten. Nearly eaten alive by that maniac. Which means...” He glances at the sun’s place in the sky, feeling rapidly more awake by the second. “She’ll be fighting again soon.”
He grabs the small coin pouch on the table which holds half of his tournament consolation prize (the other half was carefully squirreled away in one of a dozen hidey holes he has across the city) and he hustles to the colosseum as quickly as his wounded shoulder allows.
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It’s hot and dusty by the time he gets close to the arena, but that’s nothing new. The undercard match is just finishing up and the crowd is hungry for the main fight; the ground trembles with stomping hooves as the loser stumbles out of the ring and the winner parades around. They’re both colts, Solterran by the look of it, and Dune wonders if they’ve been taken in by the underground. It would make them as good as slaves, indebted to their fightmaster until they won an egregious amount of fights, or too broken to continue. It wasn’t the worst arrangement... they would at least always have food and shelter, and the hope of freedom. But it wasn't one Dune was ever much tempted by, even in the very depths of his desperation.
The bay makes his way over to the crowded line of tables that conveniently serves as both bar and an official voting booth. There are, of course, underground betting rings, but too much success there and you were more likely to get a knife in the skull than your winnings. In some cases it was better to pay some outlandish solterran tax than risk an angry mobster. He had decided this was one of those cases.
When Dune reaches the bartender, he pours the contents of his pouch on the table. He leans in and speaks quietly, still self-conscious of being heard in Solterra after a lifetime of muteness. “An ale, and the rest of it on the mare.” He waits patiently as the mare darts off with his coin and fills a cup with something that looks tepid and watery. Ambidextrous, while she filling the cup she tosses to him a small clay token with the amount of his bet scratched into its surface. He flips it over to see on the other side the stamp of a sandwyrm about to strike-- Amaunet’s symbol for this fight.
With drink in metaphorical hand, Dune wanders to the back of the very full stadium. He can’t even see the ring from here, but he’ll be able to tell what’s going on from the shouts of the crowd. Despite having a wonderful sleep last night, he's tired again. He's been mercilessly tired ever since his mediocre showing in the tournament. As he sips the uninspiring ale he finds himself swaying tiredly back and forth in the beautiful Solterran heat. Somewhere through the haze of fatigue he distantly recognizes a wet feeling in his shoulder-- the wound is beginning to bleed again, slowly soaking the bandage haphazardly applied a few days ago. A nuisance, but not a particular concern. At least not for now; he'll take care of it later, after Amaunet wins and his pockets are full.
we look almost happy out in the sun, while we bleed to death from wounds we don't
know about
