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Realistic or Modern A Fight in the Arena and a Fight for Love


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This story is created by TheCutestBookmark and Robatansky. If you are neither of these authors, please do not reply to any post.

You are more than welcome and invited to read our story if you are interested <3

NOW, let's get this party started!​

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Fighters and lovers profile

Meaning: Savage woman
Nickname: Fer (pronounced fay-er)

145 lbs
Tracking. Archery. Move silently. Blend with shadows. Fast. Patience.
Loyal. Secretive. Tough. Vengeful. Sassy. Mischievous (she loved playing a good prank). Untrusting of strangers. Protector. Patient. Quick to learn. Thirsty for knowledge.
Fericana lives in a tribe. The tribe is settled in the forest in Amyklai, which is roughly 1 mile from Sparta. The common building is made of stone while the homes were made from animal hides. There was a large fire in the center of their tribe. Children ran around without a care in the world. Men and women worked. Every person was responsible for making sure the children stayed safe. Horses roamed free because they were trained since birth to come with a whistle. Each person had their own whistle that called their own horse. It would be chaos if all the horses responded with one whistle.

Her father is the chief. Her mother passed a month after she was born. It was told to her that she passed because she gave her strength and life energy to Fericana so that she may become a better leader and protector. Fericana was also born a month and a half early, making her the smallest member of the tribe. Her grandmother is the wise woman and her best friend is the medicine woman. Her best friend could heal any wound, heal any bone and soothe any pain. She was constantly finding new plants and testing them to see what new things she could learn from them. Fericana loved her dearly.

The chief was a fair and just man, all people were respected, listened to and accepted. Only out of sight of the people would he take his anger out on Fericana. She quickly learned how to fight back and by 10 he was no longer able to lay a hand on her. She was faster than his large form and had learned where the body's weaknesses were. The tendon just above the heel, behind the knee and so on. She used those to her advantage. She learned and excelled at the bow. She very much enjoyed killing her enemy at a distance. Too much could go wrong when they got in close. To hide from the chief's ire she learned how to move without sound. This helped her in her hunting skills. When she was attacked by a Jaguar at night because it saw her before she saw him, she learned how to blend into the shadows. It was a hard learned skill, one which gave her scars to show for it, but a useful one.

There were talks of a marriage between her and another tribe but she refused it and him. She would not be second to a man. She would also not leave her people, if she were to marry and give birth it would be with her people and in her own home. Not some distant place that was not hers.

She was able to stop the warring because of the rejection by creating a neutral place where all neighboring tribes could come once a month to trade their wares. It was an uneasy truce, much like predators and prey at a watering hole, but for now it benefited all tribes.

They had peace. Until ‘civilized’ people came to the tribes to kill, plunder and steal the people.

: Of nectar (of the gods)

200lbs, most of it muscles
Sword. Metal working. Fighting. Strategizing. Adapting. Leading. Listening.
Stubborn. Loyal. Has a sense of humor. Know when to lead and when to follow. Listens to those around him. Kindness. Will jump in and stop injustice if he’s around (like a man beating a woman, etc…). Though not romantic, he tries. That’s where adapting comes in.
Nektarios was born to his parents who loved each other. It was not a common place thing between a man and woman. His father was a solider and blacksmith. He learned his love of working with metal from his father. He didn’t stop at swords or horseshoes. He made anything and everything he could with metal. Some claimed he was strange and some claimed in genius. He didn’t really care what they called him, he just enjoyed the work.

He was sent to a war. He didn’t ask which or why. It wasn’t his place to ask. He fought, he killed and was wounded. He was given gifts and awards, which he tucked into a forgotten chest. He didn’t want to be awarded for killing people. He wasn’t quite like all the other Spartans. He killed when asked and was good at it, he just didn’t enjoy it like most others do.

He fell in love with a woman from his town. She was strong, stubborn and made short work of the suitors that have come for her. He loved her spirit, how she knew who she was and what she wanted. Or what she didn’t want. He has made his intentions known but she turned him away every time. Her mom urged him on, to do his best to woo her but he would not push her. She would either come to her on her own or she wouldn’t, he would not force her. He wasn’t going to give up though. Everyone thought she was stubborn? She might have met her match with him.

Nektarios has many scars on his body. There isn’t a part of him that doesn’t have a scar. He doesn’t flaunt them but he doesn’t hide from them either. They are from war, fights on the streets and protecting the people around him. The tattoo on his upper body is added to every time he came home from battle alive. It started on his stomach and works its way to the right shoulder then curve to the left side of his back. As long as he was alive it would never be complete. It was his painful reminder that war costs everyone.

He will stand for the stronger to beat on the weaker. He doesn’t actively hunt along the streets with the people, but he has never turned a blind eye. Sparta and the people were his home, he would do anything to defend it. And that means protecting the weakest of Sparta from the strongest of Sparta.

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“Put the rest of them in the slaver cart.”
“We have a runner! Don’t worry, the hounds will get her.”
“Kill that man. No, not that one, the other one. Yeah him. I don’t like how he’s looking at us.”

The words were hitting Fericana like a whip. Each word slicing into her skin to expose everything underneath. Every time she looked down she thought she would see blood, but there was never any there. She felt cheated. If it was going to hurt this bad then there should be some evidence, something to show the agony she was in.

“Keep moving, savage.” The guard growled as he tightened his grip on her left elbow and jerked her forward. They had her hands shackled behind her back, only 3 links between the bands giving her no room to move. They were tight and rubbed her wrists raw with every step she was forced to take.

It’s ironic that he would call her a savage. They were not the ones partaking in such an evil act. She was not the one who went to their homes, killed their people, stole what they wanted and burned the rest. Though her name meant savage woman, she was not the savage one this day.

Fericana vowed to herself to remember these mens faces. She would remember and wait. She might not remember all them but she would remember enough. When she was free, and she would be, she would hunt them down and take her revenge for her people. The ones she killed, she would get to tell her where the others were before they left this world. When pain was involved men crumbled like walls made of sand. Weak creatures.

As the guard dragged her to the slaver cart ‘much too pretty to go to waste lopping your head off’ she fought the urge to fight back. She wouldn’t accomplish anything but to piss them off and maybe earn herself a death sentence. She can’t avenge her people if she’s dead. But every crying child, every mothers scream for her babe, every man cursing revenge and every sob made her warrior soul hard to contain. This day would haunt her nightmares until all the men here were slain.

…. Slave market 1 day later ….
Fericana glared at all the people who were standing in the crowd, judging, assessing and lusting. If her hands and feet were not bound she would gauge their eyes out and spit into the empty holes. She had fought one too many times against her captors that they knew better than to give her an inch.

“How much for the small one.” Yes she was a little smaller than most of her tribe people, but she wasn’t that small. It wasn’t her fault that these people were tall and shaped funny.

Fericana stared at the man who approached the slaver. He was looking to buy her. Wearing a plain white Chiton, he was relatively forgettable. There was nothing much to him that would help someone pick him out of a crowd. Rounded belly (as the wealthy typically have), brown hair and brown eyes. If this man thought that she would warm his bed, it would be a deadly mistake.
The price was agreed upon and money exchanged hands. “Have her and the rest delivered to my home before nightfall.” And with that the man left.

Guards came and manhandled her away. They threw her, one other woman and two men into a cart and took off. They were brought to a large mansion where they were roughly pulled out and thrown in to a large pool of water. The water was in an enclosed room, the tiles on the floor sparkling and the floor recessed into the ground to create the space for the water. She didn’t know what this was called but thought it convenient to have water this big in your home. Would save her and her people from the trek to the river every day.

Once they were as clean as they were going to get, their native clothes were ripped from them and tossed into the fire. They were dressed in brown Chiton and given sandals. She didn’t put the sandals on. She preferred being barefoot. One guard saw her act of rebellion, walked over, backhanded her face then forced the sandals on her feet as she lay on the ground dazed from the hit.

Their ‘master’ came out and introduced himself as some pompous name. She didn’t deign to remember it. He explained that they were now gladiators and would fight under his name. If they were to win so many games for so many years they would be released. She didn’t believe that for a second but her heart sped up all the same. She was terrified. Fight in an arena with others trying to survive like she was? How long could she last like that? She was a hunter, sure, but hunting animals or fighting off large predators was different from fighting another human for the right to survive.

They were then shoved into the carts again and dragged away from the mansion. Once at the arena, more guards came and hauled them off. The men in one direction, her and the other woman in another. None had talked in the cart and all looked hollow. She didn’t blame them. If she didn’t have the fury of a thousand suns coursing through her veins she probably would feel the same.

Down a long hallway, down a flight of stairs, down a short hallway then down another flight of stairs. Once on the lowest level the air became desperate, dank, sour and smelled of human filth. The feel of the air alone made it feel like she had hundreds of spiders crawling on her skin. Not to mention she didn’t do well behind walls. She lived her whole life in the woods with just leather hides to keep her from the wild.

One guard opened a metal door, the door screeching as he did so, then threw Fericana in. She stumbled on the dirty straw and threw her hands out in front of her to stop the fall. She winced when the rough stone cut into her skin. Growling softly, all the more angry, she sat up and looked around. Rows and rows of metal rooms. People of all sorts in them. Men, women and even children. No more than 2 to a room.

Fericana grabbed hold of the fury inside herself and held on with all she had. She feared that if she let it go, let the fury turn into a simmer, she will let the fear take hold. And she was afraid. For herself, her people and the people in this room. She didn’t know what would become of her, how she would survive or if she would ever be able to get out.

She did know that she had to fight. And fight she will until her last breath was forced from her.
Her mother was a gnat—always hovering, always whining in her ear… A wave of the hand might send her away, but she would always return. That morning, she returned with a vengeance. ‘What of your duty as a woman of Sparta?’ she cried out. She could feel the woman’s shadow as it settled on the back of her peplos, clinging to her like a swarm of insects. ‘You must marry eventually, Sostrate! Nektarios would make a fine husband! Besides, is he not utterly besotted with you? Why must you deny him?’

Because, she wished to snap, if you are a gnat, Nektarios is a carnivorous flower.

But Sostrate could not say that. Instead, she rose from her curved klismos chair and looked upon her mother with all the might that she could muster. ‘He may desire me,’ she declared, ‘but that does not mean that he is entitled to have me. I want for many things that I am not entitled to, as you will remind me... but it is my right to refuse him. You cannot change that—nor can he!'

‘Stupid girl,’ her mother hissed as she beat the parched morning air with her wing-like arms. ‘You do not know how fortunate you are! Athenian women have no such rights. Tell me, do you intent to become a spinster?’

Better a spinster than a short-haired wife, she thought with a flush of shame, for long hair was the mark of a free woman. If she were to wed, she would be forced to cut and cover it forever. She bit her lip as she averted her gaze, for she could hardly stand to look at her mother’s shorn head.

‘No,’ she eventually uttered. ‘I just... do not wish to marry yet... Is that so wrong?’

. . .

“Sostrate...!” her sister called from the river’s edge. “Please, come back...! You love to dance, and I do not wish to dance alone...!”

Clawing aside a thick rope of dripping black hair, the woman paused to catch her breath as she leaned against the current. She liked the way her lungs burned as she breathed—how the bougainvillea’s shadow chilled the water and stung her skin. She liked these things that made other people grimace, and she liked them more than dancing. Poor Xanthippe, she thought as she admired the girl’s crocus yellow hair. I love you, but in this moment, I love Eurotas more.

“You will not be alone!” she called back eventually. “Arete will be with you, as will Elpis and Photine, and you will be glad that I am not, for I am in a foul mood, and I cannot dance when I feel the way I do!”

For a time, the girl merely stared at her, and her disappointment was like a skipping stone, thrown in her direction. Guilt bruised her conscience, but she did not make for the shore. She ducked beneath the water, and when she surfaced, Xanthippe was gone.

“She is in a foul mood,” she heard her say. “Turn back now, while you still can.”
coding by robatansky
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His name was Kallias, and his past was not important. He was a retiarius, equipped with a hemp-rope net, a three-pronged trident, and a leaf-shaped dagger. He wore a manica and galerus, and when the people tired of counting the bleeding numerals on his back, he was fitted a tunic. He was the killer of one man—a secutor named Drusus—and was not expected to kill another. He was twenty-four years old, but in this dark and moldering place, he was ancient.

At night, he abandoned his body, and watched as it became one with the shadows and the stone. If he slept, he did not notice, but the sound of metal roused him, and he opened his patina-colored eyes to the gloom in which he felt himself suspended. Something was stirring in darkness. Was it Drusus, come from the underworld in search of his head? Was it the biting rat that sentenced the murmillo, Caeso, to death? His body twitched and sprung from its bed of blackened straw. Slowly, the twilight of his mind began to lighten.

It was a woman. Although he could not make out her features, he knew this to be true as he leaned against the row of bars between them. “You there,” he whispered in his tentative Latin. "Are you alright?”

She must have fallen. Many moons ago, Caeso made a similar sound when the rat sank its teeth into his finger. It was an awful thing, watching the surgeons cut away his blackened flesh—even worse was the silence that followed in his final days.

“I pray you have not hurt yourself,” he said as he rested his weary head against the bars. “This is no place to nurse a wound, believe you me.”
coding by robatansky
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Fericana sat up and moved her legs under her. She was thankful that they had taken off all the manacles, giving her a chance to move freely. Well, as freely as one can when locked up like an animal. But then again, that's all she was to these people. A feral animal. Never before seen. Amusement for the 'civilized' as they say.

Moving over to the cot, she slowly sat down on the edge and looked at her hand. One cut, a bruise and scraped skin. Though she had worse, she had never been in a place like this before. If she could get some plants, herbs or anything else nature based she could make a salve for it. Doubt that will ever happen.

Putting the wound to her mouth, she gently sucked on it, then spit. It was poison but her mouth was cleaner than the floor. Maybe if she was were able suck out the contaminates, it wouldn't be so bad. As she did so Fericana heard a voice. A mans voice. The common tongue. Her stomach clenched as she slowly lifted her eyes in the direction of the voice. She had not said a word since her home was destroyed and her people taken.

It was dark here, she couldn't see details well but she could see enough of him. He didn't seem to be a very large man but that didn't mean he wasn't just as dangerous. He asked if she was alright and then said he prayed she had not. She wasn't sure what 'nursing a wound' meant. She can assume though, since it seemed to be along the line of being hurt.

"I will survive this." She answered softly, more a growl than anything if she was honest. "I am not so weak." Her accent was thick but her words were clear. Not all her people could speak the common tongue, believing it was a disgrace and a betrayal to do so. She had learned because as the next Chief, she needed to be able to communicate with outsiders, should they arrive at their home.

Once she felt the wound was as clean as she could make it in these conditions, she stood up. He was not so far away, and even though they were separated by bars, she was not trusting. Trust no one. Trust got you killed. But she was curious. He might have answers for her. Knowledge would keep her alive.

"What is this place?" She asked the man. Her eyes ever moving. She didn't want to be caught unaware. It happened once. It's what got them here. So she walked a little closer to where he stood, holding her hand away from anything that could potentially get in to it.
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Nektarios grabbed the upper armband he had made for Sostrate. The silver metal started out as a feather that slowly turned into a snakes body. Strength and freedom. Both pertaining to her. She was one of the strongest women he had ever met. It's what first drew him to her. The feather was his way of letting her know that he would never try to trap her. She would be as free as she wanted to be if she were to be with him. He didn't want to cage her, to dull the light that was uniquely hers.

Walking over to his wooden work bench, he set the armband down. He had no idea if she would like it but she was on his mind when he created it. All things he makes with his metal are unique, he didn't like making the same thing twice. Even if it were close, there was always something different than the last one.

Walking over to the kiln he grabbed the clay vase he had sculpted and moved it carefully over to the table next to the armband. While he let the vase cools he started to get his metal ready. There was an idea he had, he wanted to try, and if it worked like he hoped then Sostrate would be the only woman on this planet to have one. Would be the only person on this planet to ever have one. He wanted to give her all the good, beautiful and unique because that's who she was to him.

Nektarios worked the metal into thin delicate lines. He then twisted the metal carefully onto the ceramic. It was tedious work but he loved it. Lost himself in it. This was his time to empty his mind and let his soul take over.

Once the metal was on he stepped back to look at it and smiled. It was delicate work, the first real delicate work he'd ever done. "Wow son, I can't say I have ever seen it's equal." Looking over his left shoulder to the door of his forge. There stood his father. His father was an older man now, they had Nektarios a little later in life. Now he stood slightly bent, thin with a mass of wiry white hair on top his head and on his face.

Wiping the sweat off his forehead with his forearm -leading him to smear oil on his skin- and gave a shrug. "Because this is the first and only of it's kind." His father chuckled. "Is this for the lady that refuses you every time?" Nektarios grunted as he flinched slightly. His parents, even his best friend, have been trying to convince him to find another. That Sostrate wasn't interested, might not ever be, and there were others that would love to have him. In fact, there have been a few women that have come to their house, even to his forge, trying to catch his eye. He didn't ignore them because he wanted to be mean, he honestly didn't see them because to him, Sostrate was the only one worth looking at.

"Yes, it's for her. I am not giving it to her to make my claim. I made it for her because the idea came to me with her name attached to it. I couldn't help but think of her while I did so. So I will give them to her because they belong to her. No obligation attached." To that his father shook his head.

"I hope one day, for your sake and ours, that you learn to get her out of your head. At this rate you will die a single man, no family to call his own." Nektarios took off the heavy leather work apron and placed it on the hook. This is an argument that they have had many times. Every time his father steps in to the forge.

"She is not just in my mind but in my soul. There is no just getting her out. I am also not having this conversation with you again father." He walked over to the old man and kissed the top of his head. Then he turned, grabbed the items he had made and walked out the door. "I am off to gift her these. I will be back before dinner. Let mother know so she doesn't worry." His father sighed and nodded his head.

Nektarios walked passed his house and down the road. Sostrate didn't live far, so it wouldn't take long to get there. Taking a detour he walked over to the well, set the gifts down, then pulled up water with the bucket. He was covered in sweat, ashes, oil and metal shavings. He didn't want to show up at her house like this. Though this was his work and he was proud, didn't mean he had to show up a mess to her. Grabbing the water he scrubbed it down his arms, over his face and neck then over his hair.

Feeling cleaner than before, he grabbed the gifts once more and headed to her house.

Once at her house, he took a deep breath and knocked on the door. She wasn't always here when he got here, so he gave it to her mother. The mother always asked if he wanted to stay or if he wanted her to tell Sostrate something but he always declined. He didn't want to put pressure on Sostrate or force himself on to her, so he would leave. He knew her mother would let her know who they were from. Though it wouldn't be hard to know since he was one of the very few to work with metal.

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