"You're staying here." "No," Much whined, looking pleadingly up at Maethor. *I hate children.* "For the at least eighteenth time, no!" her green eyes snapped under the hood and her tone was dangerously low. "The Dýrslast ain't for children." "I'm not a-" "You're..." Maethor folded her arms, looking mercilessly down at him, "Eight turns of the seasons?" "I..." the human looked down, his cheeks reddening under their usual coating of grime, and he nervously fidgeted with the hem of his dirty beige tunic, "As far as count goes, I'm TEN!" "Hardly better." scoffed the feyrie, "I'm thirty-nine." "No, you're not!" "I'm more than you think." Maethor turned quietly away, raising a hand to Worth and climbing down the ladder that led to the street. Much's indignant retort fell on deaf ears. She pressed herself against the wall, closing her eyes, listening intently for sounds of any other life. Nothing. The thief relaxed slightly, edging through the shadows as little more than one of them. The thief was in her element. She wove her way through several streets, following the dim sound of cheering in the distance. Dust City had two parts: the extremely dubious district, and the slightly less dubious district. Maethor edged her way into the slightly less district, where the wealthier inhabitants of Dust City lived in slightly less squalor than the others. Compared to the others, they were practically millionaires. The wealthier residents were scornfully referred to as 'toffs'. The mud buildings were taller (two or three stories instead of just the one), and the streets were cobblestoned and muddy, instead of just muddy. The stink of sewer was slightly less as well, and Maethor wrinkled her nose. *You can practically smell the toffs from here.* She followed the sounds of cheering until they led her to a building slightly longer and wider than the others, with a rather oval shape. It resembled a stadium, its huge doors opening. If she had been more attentive, Maethor would've heard the stealthy pattering of bare feet behind her. If she had not been distracted by the raucous cheering of the crowd around her, she would've heard the soft breathing of a human boy.
Much followed Maethor, with difficulty, barely able to keep up with her. A slow grin spread across his sharp, hunger-worn features as he followed her to the large building, wondering absently what everyone was cheering for. What lay behind the doors took his breath away. There were no floors to this house. It was round, a stadium, each of the four hundred seats cushioned with velvet. His eyes, used to squalor, did not notice that the velvet was torn. The center of the floor, a ring covered with sawdust, was completely (some might say ominously) empty. A fence separated the seats from the arena. Much had never seen such splendor before. Over seven-eighths of the seats were filled with people who were not wearing shabby clothes, their clothes were (to his eyes) almost new. He even saw a couple of them with jewels on their fat hands and around their necks. “Oy! Boy!” a well dressed, pompous man hurried up to him, and began to drag him towards the seats, “Take a seat! The Dýrslast is about to begin!” Much pulled his arm out of the man’s grasp and hurried forward. The crowd shifted slightly away from him, the grubby urchin boy, and he had to search for some five minutes for a seat. Finally, an incredibly tall, well-built man in a red cloak shifted aside, patting the seat beside him. “Thank you,” Much said, surprised, smiling frankly up at the man. His benefactor was wearing a mask much like Maethor’s, only brown instead of black, and his sharp green eyes smiled kindly down at the boy. His long, brown hair was pulled sharply back in a ponytail, covering his ears. “You are very welcome.” the man's voice was a warm tenor. They were silent for a moment, listening to the roar of the crowd around them ebb and flow like waves in the ocean. The crowd’s chant turned to a word Much didn’t understand and spread, until the single word reverberated off the dull white walls. It sounded something like, “Orrusta!” Much tugged on the man’s sleeve. “What’s orrusta mean?” The man turned, anger flashing in his green eyes for a second before being replaced by kindliness, “It means ‘begin’. It’s an Errilyian word from the Old Days when feyries and humans mingled freely, if those days ever existed.” “What do they want to begin?” Surprise touched the man’s voice. “The Dýrslast, of course. The fight.” The word ‘fight’ reminded Much of Panther, and that was the moment that he realized he had lost her.
