✓ | POOR JUDGMENT (A.FORRESTER)

Meereen. Chapter Twenty Six.

The city was crowded into back ally's and untidy streets littered with baskets and crates that had recently been smashed into rubble, still left lining the dirty, sand paths. Bodies strewn back ally's too, all previous masters presumably that had been cut down when the slaves had been set free and let off their leashes to do as they please - which hadn't ended in the favour of the masters, evidently. Cynthia would've felt sick with the amount of blood and sliced up corpses that lay waste at her feet, but by now she was quite demoralised to the sight of gore and death that it didn't bother her, in the slightest, to step over a detached limb or severed head. Crimson paint slithered down the walls like rain drops, smearing paths of scarlet in its wake and painting the city red in the harsh eastern sunlight. The place was dirty too, but that hadn't been a problem before, now dirty didn't even begin to cover it. Sound surged from within buildings and along main streets where slaves rang out in joy and freedom, and people celebrated by hunting down those who'd managed to hide when the massacre began.

Cynthia was kept at Asher's side, throughout their time in Meereen, by the harsh grip he kept around her forearm, which dragged her along at his speed and within arms reach at all times. Cynthia didn't mind staying close to him, judging by all those that had been set free, it wouldn't have been safe for her to be wondering about at a distance from someone like Asher, or even Beskha, who could protect her - and she'd never had an issue with being so close to him, with Beskha walking on the other side of her, she was practically hugging his arm, which she nor him had any qualms about. Their relationship was strange; it was as though he knew they weren't just close friends, but neither of them said anything about it, and, considering what, Cynthia presumed, was still a strong love for Gwyn Whitehill, Asher seemed unusually fond of Cynthia over these last few days, but had not said anything about it, and neither had she. It was confusing but she didn't have the mind to protest as this was the closest to any sort of further relationship she'd managed to have with the man she'd loved for some time, and she was not prepared to let that end because of her interrogation on the matter.

After leaving the camp earlier that day, and taking the surprisingly long trek across the vast space of desert to the city, and the tiring venture between streets and buildings that they'd walked for some time, the group of 3 finally reached their destination. It was a typical sandstone building on the edge of a backstreet, with a red tiled roof and boarded windows. The stone around the doorway itself had fine blue and golden etchings, which created patterns that crawled up and across the walls at the front of the building. "This looks like the place." Asher sniggered, examining the building with Cynthia stood behind him. "This is definitely the place." Beskha replied humorously, her too staring up at the building but in a more reminiscing way than Asher could. "So, who are we dealing with exactly?" Cynthia inquired as the three looked between themselves, Beskha didn't seem overly thrilled to hear the Glover talk, but then Cynthia felt the same about her; they were at a common ground on that one. "Pit fighters," Beskha snarled, pronouncing the 'P' harshly to emphasise her distaste of the topic, "Two to in. One comes out. Day after day. No rules but 'Kill'. Anyone who can survive that is capable of anything." That logic was debatable, but Cynthia chose not to persist and instead listened carefully to Beskha's words, hoping she was wrong when she predicted what would happen when they got inside. "They're crazed savages. But one pitfighter is worth any ten sellswords. If you can convince them to fight for you. That's not going to be easy." Beskha climbed the steps leading up to the wooden double doors, which had a trail of blood in rogue smears leading from beneath it out onto the street in an unruly fashion, which would have made any normal Westerosi quiver in their boots. Asher was not far behind her, one hand on the hilt of his sword, and the other wrapped around Cynthia's wrist for security; his grip tightened the closer to the doors they got.

"I've got enough gold to buy them all." Asher said with misguided confidence, a trait that probably would fail to pay off in an area such as this. "Hmm, I'd be careful flaunting it." Beskha mused, before reaching for the handles of the doors and swinging them apart, revealing what lay beyond.