WHAT TIME WAS IT?! Somehow, time literally got away recently. Must be this case of allergies. Pray for autumn's frosts and dropping temperatures to brutally destroy whatever caused her this misery. What she wouldn't give for a good night's sleep where she wasn't awake half the night, tossing and turning to find a position that she could breathe properly. Wrapping up in her coolest weather gear, the theron scooted out the door with hardly a thought of how she looked right now. There was a fight for the pit, and if the letter made it sound that way, this was the final round. About damn time.
The pit's tournaments were growing rather... stale for her. Against the labs-made powerhouse beasts, a brown sarane barely stood an inkling of a chance. Even with wind power. It hurt to think of it that way, but if Caiman wanted to fight any more, she would need to find a way to satiate that need of his. Probably why she still let him stay on that long since quieted farm of her friend. It was territory, and Caiman could fly. He could get around, and even return to the kennel if he wanted. The others were either flightless or too young or only capable of gliding.
((This needs to be read in a bad allergy voice))
"Am I too late?" she asks, skidding to a halt at the forefront of the stables to the pit. "My sarane is fighting the tournament." The guard appeared to be hard of hearing because they stepped back a pace or two when she came forward, a mess of snot and tear tracks and gritted eyes. The horror image of bad allergies.
"y-ycan't come in m'am. The animals w'll catch their death off you." they stammer.
A snarling roar echoed through the stables. She knew that pissed off roar of her drake. And how he managed to learn what was spilling from his maw was something she'd bother with later.
"My drake is very short tempered. I suggest letting me in. right now." she tells the guard, angling her head a bit towards the interior, the roar tapering off then starting again. The guard panicked, and fearing for their own health, fled.
[ I don't want to know how you learned that kind of language.] she told the drake, finding her way indoors to find the drake on his feet and spitting mad. His anger was already wearing him out, for some reason. [Are you ill?]
His maw split apart with a snarl of {BEFORE YOU VANISH AGAIN, LET ME FIGHT. I WANT TOF IGHT.} Was it her imagination, or did he sound a mite bit desperate? Forget that his charge looked like hell; smelled it too. The drake's mind had twisted itself up into a wad of angry, worried (heaven forbid) and stress. Three forfeits. He couldn't do the no-fight thing. He just couldn't do it. If the drake couldn't fight SOMETHING, the tension spring wound up inside his mind would snap and he'd go literally nuts.
The gate opened? And out into the sands Caiman ran, shrieking hell murder on whatever came to be in his way. He'd fight anything, anyone at this point.
"You sent a forfeit letter of forthhence. Are you sure you want to let your creature fight?" the guard to the owners area asked, also scared of his health. This person did look very much like hell, and sounded it too. She inhaled a horrible stuffy noise.
"Yes, let him fight. Last one."
"No m'am. I'm sorry. You sent a forfeit letter. Of forthhence. That overrides any last minute show ups." Waddling their way forth from beside the guard, the portly human who ran the pit solely for the money (or so that could be assumed by his higher class wears) said. "We take forfeits very seriously here, and you have missed three-" he holds up three pudgy fingers to her "Three matches. I don't believe you should be letting your beast fight this fight." He holds up a hand at her when she tries to answer. "I do not care if your opponent fails to show up. It is YOU that is showing up after you send a forfeit letter, and miss three rounds worth. By rule of the committee, we are going to have you forfeit the final round."
"You cant' do that!" Ridelys told him quite loudly. "Caiman needs to fight. He's going stir crazy here." She gets in the man's face, which isn't hard. "If you don't let him fight something, he'll go crazy. I'm sure of it."
"We have our ways of taking care of wild drakes." the man snaps his fingers, and the keepers head for a bright red cabinet with a danger symbol, a universal sign here in Pethia, on it. "Don't you worry about that. You're not physically up for a fight either, and I can see that myself, madam snot." She saw the bamboo dart gun as the man finished his sentences.
"You are going to dart my drake." she realized.
"your eyes appear functional at least." The man nods to the keepers, who are venturing out. "Its sleeping darts, don't worry. Perfectly har-accgh" The theron has a very tight grip on his collar, her sharp features very close to his face. From this distance, he can see the very light lining of scale on her skin here and there.
"I know damn well that's vespa venom in those darts. I take it you don't know the side effects of vespa venom. It drives dragonoids insane." Her features are twisted with anger. "Just let him fight, and this will very smooth sailing. I won't set any foot in your establishment for as long as I decide to live in this city once the fight is over." Clearly this man didn't recognize a pit veteran from a deranged wild brown. Gauntlet had been over for a LONG time.
The loudspeaker went off then, and recognized her forfeit, no matter what she said or did. The man simply smirked at her. Committee rules, he mouthed.
The spectators had already been barred entry from the stands earlier in the day so nobody had to see the drake be darted into submission when the gate never opened for him. He'd be somehow transported home after the tournament ended, the results announced and a solitary shadow outside of "never again."
-I am forfeiting-