At last they emerged into a long room, dominated by a table that ran its length, with gladiators of all races sitting, drinking, eating and talking all down its length. A hushed silence fell over the room as they noted that they had a visitor, but talking nigh instantly resumed when they saw who it was – Roghr was a common site in the complex, and well liked by many of its inhabitants. One gladiator, a dark haired man of no great age, went so far as to slide down the bench and open up a spot for Roghr, whom he called over.
Smiling, Roghr led Halldór over and Halldór’s great size and apparent strength soon drew attention to him. The hour was late, and the ale had been flowing for many hours now, so the greetings were rowdy and loud – to Halldór’s evident surprise, none were unwelcoming, either. When they arrived at the seat, Roghr motioned for Halldór to take it, and he had half a dozen mugs of ale and more than a few plates of meat shoved in his direction, coupled with greetings coming at him with multiple accents, and, he noted with slight amusement, in more than one language. He drank heavily from one of the mugs, draining it in two gulps before returning greetings, including to a few other Fremenniks in his own language. He noted with amusement the extreme level of intoxication demonstrated by many of the gladiators, a fact which Roghr noted with uncanny understanding. "For many of them, relief, and a break from the life they lead, exists in the bottom of a tankard."
"It won’t happen to me,” Halldór claimed with such conviction Roghr could not doubt him.
“It happens to few Fremenniks,” Roghr said with a smile. Halldór grinned, then turned his attention back to the gladiators around him. As he did, he reflected on the bold claim he had just made. Truly would it be easy from him to escape into a goblet of ale, he knew, but there was no advantage to it.
27-May-2008 21:13:37
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