( it’s the sound of waves that provide impetus enough to jar him from sleep; they’re incongruent with his dreams, confusing—and the place he last remembers falling asleep was decidedly nowhere near the ocean.

it’s not that he’s never woken up alongside a near-stranger before, but it’s become far less common for him and he especially hasn’t had the opportunity (or, really, the mind) for it of late. spending one’s only free time getting their ass kicked in martial training to become a marrowknight does that to a guy.

he stirs, sitting up; his normally-impassive face is marred with cautious confusion and a clenched jaw. he glances around, taking in the ornate room, the wide-open window, the immense bed, and the other person inhabiting it with him. nope. none of this is familiar. and this certainly isn’t l’occhio. )

Um, ( he gruffly clears his throat, a seam of faint social discomfort going across his face as he either rouses or addresses the other, ) Stupid question. But I don’t happen to know you, do I?

( he supposes weirder stuff has happened. is his head getting fucked with again? and this isn’t even addressing the odd markings he hasn’t even noticed upon his skin yet, hidden only in places by thin, gauzy robes—silvery and sharp, the designs form stylized clusters of eyes, slashes of sharp-toothed maws, shards of bone, angular clumps of fur, and lattices not unlike muscle fiber. )

( lycas is in agony.

not physical agony, of course. there’s that gnawing, unending hunger, of course, but weirdly enough, he’s used to that (just from a very different source). to tell the truth, he’s never been treated this good. he’d been personally escorted to the banquet hall and sat at a place of honor (a throne, more like, he’d noted with discomfort), served anything he wanted, asked constantly if there was anything else they could provide for him… the werefolk is a simple man, characteristically not one prone to giving a shit about luxuries or any other kind of materialistic garbage. but the adoration and conscientiousness he’s being constantly shown is a social trap to him; he just can’t quite convince himself to just make break for it. occasionally acquiescing or refusing those requests and offers with polite restraint will only get him so far—he’s starting to get to a point of “fight or flight,” and as picking “fight” would probably make a mess of the better part of this lavish hall, he tries to err towards “flight” instead. )

You there.

( he figures he just has to lean into it, if he’s gonna use it as his first step out of this mess. he indicates someone in the crowd around the feast table, be they servant, royal, or, hell, he’ll even call out another of the wildcard “gods” if he has to. ) Come here.

( once obeyed, he leans forward ponderously on the intricately-carved chair, his demeanor imperious and his expression severe—up until the second they’re close enough that he feels he can speak frankly, voice lowered enough that even those lingering on the fringes couldn’t pick it up. )

Please tell me you’ll help get me get the hell outta here. ( his chartreuse eyes look desperate. ) Help me out, and I’ll pay you back. I’ll give you my word. ( and to him, that promise is as good as gold. )

( alright. enough of this horseshit.

lycas silences his nebulous halo of servants and sycophants with a positively venomous glare before striding forward through the yawning entryway into the arena. he walks past the racks of different weaponry adorning the walls, waving off an attendant or two who jog up and try to offer breastplates of iron or leather armor. no, when he stalks forward beneath the glaring lights and dozens upon dozens of eyes, the tall man wears nothing but the layered robes that he has felt almost forcibly festooned with; there are no weapons in his hands but those hands themselves.

of course, those hands have been all the weapon he’s needed for all the years of his life, and if he wanted an actual weapon, he wouldn’t need to take one offered by another. but that’s besides the point.

for lycas, fighting has never been about glory or pageantry. as a wild and somewhat outcast youth, it had been a tool employed to establish a pecking order among the other kids—or, rather, just to define the rule, “don’t fuck with me,” to any bright-eyed upstarts in his clan that might want to earn brownie points with those in power that had taken umbrage with him before he’d even had the wherewithal to understand why. after that, whether it was guarding caravans or delving into vaults, strength of arms had only ever been a means to an end: for survival, for keeping the hapless, fragile little eggheads around him safe (whether they liked it or not). with all that in mind, fighting for sport or pleasure had always seemed a little distasteful to him… but he’s spent the better part of the last few days aggrieved and chagrined to the extreme (this coming from a guy who hates attention, let alone veneration), so at this point he’s willing to relax those principles. )

I’ll warn you, ( he addresses his opponent in the center of the arena in a voice oddly low and soft for his tall, strapping form; there’s a hint of an elongated canine teeth as he curls his lip, ) I’m here to work some irritation out.

( and then he rolls his shoulders, and a curious ripple runs across his body—bars and plates of bone push through the skin beneath the robes, forming an organic set of armor; his fingers arch into sharp, serrated osseous claws. he lowers his head and emits a low growl, seemingly ready to let his opponent make the first move. )

( i’m open for any other prompts you might be interested in, including the wildcard auction and the other games in the casino, (unhappily) being forced into the role of judge in many of the other contests, attacking statues to help folks, etc.! feel free to PM me if you have any questions.

lycas is an oc from a homebrewed d&d campaign; there’s a small blurb about him and his setting on this journal. he’s around 30 years old, and i’m setting no strict preferences for age or gender, though smut will probably depend on how the thread goes. )