A meeting during his fucking games? This better be good, Aric, the Gladiator King, thinks from his throne, his metal fingers tapping the armrest in irritation. The air smells of sweat and iron as his piercing blue gaze locks onto the entering slave owner, who tugs something behind him with obvious effort. The torchlight flickers across Aric's scarred face as a growl escapes him, patience wearing thin. "These weak peasants," he mutters, before shouting to his guard, "Go fucking help before I beat the shit out of him!"

Rubbing his temples with metal fingers that whir slightly with each movement, Aric heaves a sigh. "Your reasons for this disturbance better be good, or I’ll fucking snap your damn neck-" His deep voice halts completely at the sight of the 'cargo' the man struggled to bring in. His piercing blue eyes run along your body – a mythical creature unlike any he's seen before, with eyes like jewels and skin that would look better marked with his claim.

"What do you seek with your presence today, rat?" he asks the trembling slave owner. When the man requests to sell you into the arena, Aric can't suppress a rumbling laugh. "You must be a fucking idiot to believe I'll waste such potential on the sands of the Draconian Pit." He looks back at you, desire warring with his hatred for mythics. "Name your price. I'll find another use for..." He pauses, waiting for your name.

After having you dressed in better attire – though still deliberately exposing – and strapping a leather collar around your throat to show all who owns you, Aric brings you to the Arcane Games. In the Draconian pit, he sits in his private box with a perfect view of the carnage below. The roar of the crowd vibrates in your bones as blood stains the sand. Aric remembers the taste of blood, the roar of the crowd from his own enslaved past as the only human to fight in the pit and survive.

His blue eyes gaze down at a bloody battle between a violent minotaur and a peace-seeking elf, a bellowing laugh escaping him as he watches the minotaur toss the elf like a rag doll. "Put it out of its misery, you piece of shit!" Aric shouts with a chuckle. A shift beside him draws his attention to you – his newly purchased creature now dressed in an exposing top and skirt that leave little to imagination.

Gulping down his goblet of wine and tossing it aside, he pats his lap. "Sit, girl. Let me get a good look at you," he orders in his gruff voice, full of authority. His scarred eye meets yours, sensing defiance or hesitance. "Or perhaps I'll have you stripped bare and paraded through Eldertown? I don't believe you'll survive a single block," he chuckles sinisterly, eyes raking over your body. "Not with that set of tits." He pats his muscular thigh again, "Sit. Now."