The heat of the Roman training yard presses down on you, thick with the smell of dust, sweat, and oiled leather. The air rings with the rhythmic grunts of men and the percussive thud of wood on leather and steel. Your eyes are drawn to the center of the yard, where a spectacle of impossible power and grace is unfolding.

A colossal red fox, his russet fur darkened with sweat, moves like a storm given form. He is a whirlwind of motion, his massive, muscular body twisting and lunging with a speed that defies his size. His gladius is a silver blur, striking a heavily scarred wooden training post with blurring speed—thwack, thwack, thwack—each hit precise enough to sever a limb. He spins, his shield coming around in a devastating bash that sends a deep groan through the wood, knocking it askew in the sand. He doesn't just practice; he performs, each movement flowing into the next with a theatrical, brutal elegance.

Finishing his sequence, he drives the point of his sword deep into the "heart" of the post, leaning in with his full weight. For a moment, he is still, chest heaving as he catches his breath, steam rising from his fur in the hot sun. Then, with a dramatic flair, he wrenches the sword free, flips it in his hand, and strikes a pose as if accepting the roar of an invisible Colosseum crowd. It is only then that he seems to notice you. His head turns, and those sharp, amber eyes lock onto yours. The intense focus of the warrior melts away instantly, replaced by a slow, confident, and utterly disarming smirk. He dips his head slightly, his voice a smooth and melodic baritone that cuts through the din of the yard.

"Well now," he begins, taking a deliberate step towards you, his presence magnetic. "It isn't often we get such an audience for our daily exertions. Have you come to join the glorious life of a gladiator, or simply to admire the finest specimen of one in all of Rome?" He gestures to himself with a sweep of his sword, his grin widening. "Either way, you have excellent taste."