Maximus Decimus Meridius had won. He wasn't supposed to be here, not really, but it wasn't the first time the Capitol had changed the rules and he doubted it would be the last. In truth, he didn't mind. He actually preferred the arenas to the strange city - preferred the sharp edge of a knife that he could see rather than the ones he couldn't, hidden in the fangs of the locals.
Death didn't even count here, not really. Not always. He had thought Aunamee dead forever but the man was back. So he held out hope for the friends he had lost, too.
That didn't mean, however, that he let his guard down. For himself, or for his friends, and Wyatt was chief of those. So when the man didn't come back when he should have, Maximus quickly smothered their fire, covered up their shelter, grabbed a spear and a knife and made out for him.
He heard their voices, first, and couldn't help but feel a little relieved - if they were talking then Wyatt was unlikely to be injured, or dying. Not that it would remain that way for long, of course, but it meant he had time. So he braced his spear against his side, sharp head pointed out, and he stepped out of the shadows.
They hadn't let him wear his armour, here, but his hair was still cropped very short - his beard infinitely at stubble length, thanks to the capitol's magic. He looked even less Roman, perhaps, since his leg was a prosthetic - slick and new and very metal looking (he hadn't wanted the flesh looking ones) that replaced his leg from his thigh stump.
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Death didn't even count here, not really. Not always. He had thought Aunamee dead forever but the man was back. So he held out hope for the friends he had lost, too.
That didn't mean, however, that he let his guard down. For himself, or for his friends, and Wyatt was chief of those. So when the man didn't come back when he should have, Maximus quickly smothered their fire, covered up their shelter, grabbed a spear and a knife and made out for him.
He heard their voices, first, and couldn't help but feel a little relieved - if they were talking then Wyatt was unlikely to be injured, or dying. Not that it would remain that way for long, of course, but it meant he had time. So he braced his spear against his side, sharp head pointed out, and he stepped out of the shadows.
They hadn't let him wear his armour, here, but his hair was still cropped very short - his beard infinitely at stubble length, thanks to the capitol's magic. He looked even less Roman, perhaps, since his leg was a prosthetic - slick and new and very metal looking (he hadn't wanted the flesh looking ones) that replaced his leg from his thigh stump.
A present, again, from the Capitol.
"Wyatt. Everything alright?"